#i want a girl in a short skirt and a long jacket | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

evansbby · 6 months

Text

𝐃𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐘𝐨𝐮'𝐫𝐞 𝐃𝐢𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐭

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: Pete Brenner x reader 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: smut, SH in the workplace, heavy drug mention, sleazy Pete, heavy misogyny, I can't believe I wrote this, a lot of sex, yeah idek, 18+ minors dni. 𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚��𝐲: Pete Brenner hires a new assistant. 𝐀/𝐍: I cannot believe I wrote this. For him. Ew. Brb gonna go take a shower. This is pretty bad as well, like the pacing is wack and the reader's personality changes halfway through the fic?? Idek, I did this thing where I changed the scene every time I felt bored. Enjoy, I guess???

“Just so we’re clear, I’m only hiring you because you’re hot.”

He bends down over his desk, sniffing harshly. You stand there nervously watching him as he straightens up, his nose twitching. You catch a glimpse of white beneath he clears his throat and wipes it off. His eyes – a pretty blue – have an almost wild, excited look about them. But the rest of his face is a contradiction… he looks both calculated and amused as he licks his lips and makes his way over to you.

“That means I want to see you in short skirts, dress, that kind of shit, okay? And some pretty makeup.” His eyes dance over your body, taking in your curves. You’d worn a knee-length pencil skirt and white blouse for the interview with him – nothing too scandalous but it did hug your body nicely. Pete seemed to think so, at least, as his gaze remained glued on your cleavage, “Basically, I want you all dolled up because I sure as fuck know there’s no brain up there in your head. I have a real assistant, but you’ll be my other assistant.”

Other assistant. You knew what that meant.

You also know to remain quiet as he leers at you, coming closer till you have to crane your neck to look up at him. His jaw twitches, and his eyes are still glued to your chest. He reaches out, casually unbuttoning the top few buttons of your blouse with just his one hand. The view down your top makes him smirk.

“Tomorrow’s your first day, make sure to wear something sluttier than this. Even the office’s eye candy’s gotta put a little work in, huh, sweetheart?” He gives you a wink as he pats your cheek condescendingly.

You take a deep breath and try to remain calm. You needed this job. You needed the money…

“Yes, Mr. Brenner.”

“Good girl,” he maintains eye contact with you, and it’s hard to look away when his pupils are so blown out. And despite his leery demeanour, he’s got a handsome face, you had to admit. Pretty eyes framed with long lashes, a nice bone structure and strong jawline. His jet-black hair was styled messily – either on purpose or because he kept running his hands through it. He was also tall, his tailored jacket tight around his biceps.

He gives your ass a slap as you leave the room, and you yelp in surprise but continue walking steadily lest you fall over in your high heels.

“See you bright and early tomorrow, sweetheart! I know we’re gonna love working together.”

***

“Ah, fuck yeah, keep going. Mm, just like that. God fucking dammit, you’re such a good little cocksucker, huh?”

Pete’s got one hand firmly carded through your hair, gripping it tightly as he bobs your head up and down on his cock. It’s uncomfortable under his desk, especially with your bare knees rubbing against the hard ground.

You’d showed up to your first day of work today bright and early, in an inappropriately short dress as per your new boss’s request. And Pete had licked his lips hungrily when he’d seen you, dragging you into his office and giving you your first task of the day. Sucking his dick while he sat behind his desk.

“Yeah, that’s right, you little slut, take it. Take my fat daddy dick down your little throat. Fuck yeah,” Pete murmurs. You’d quickly come to realise that Pete was every bit as filthy as you’d assumed he was going to be, spewing out a string of curses every time his mouth opened. He was also rougher than you’d expected, fucking your face relentlessly in a way that had you breathless, your hair a complete mess and your face glistening with sweat.

“Mm, tell me you’re a little cockslut,” He peers down at you with a wolfish grin, taking his dick out of your mouth and tapping your cheek with it not-so-gently.

“ ‘m a cockslut,” you pant, and he slaps you with his cock once more before shoving himself back in your mouth.

“That’s right, just look at those pretty lips wrapped around my cock, I can’t believe–” his voice trails off, and you glance up to see his eyes narrow as he looks out the window of his office and into the hallway. “Ah, shit. My wife’s here. Keep sucking, baby, but be quiet about it.”

He had a wife? You don’t even have time to feel shocked and disgusted with yourself, all you can do is keep bobbing your head up and down as he keeps a firm hold on you.

“PETEY!” A chirpy voice sounds, and you cringe as you hear the door close. She was in this office, while you were giving her husband a blowjob.

“Hey, babe, how’s it hanging?” Pete says casually, his hand leaving your hair as he cracks his knuckles and leans back on his chair. You pray to God his wife doesn’t come any closer, lest you be found out.

She giggles, “Well, come on, silly. You made us lunch reservations at the Rustica Bistro, remember? I got my nails done and everything!”

You hear Pete grimace from above you, either from what his wife has just said or the fact that you’re still blowing him like your life depends on it.

“Ahh, babe, I gotta take a raincheck. You know how it is…” He gestures vaguely at his computer in front of him, “I’ve got a shit ton of work to do, fuck…” He swears under his breath, thrusting his hips upwardly subtly to stuff more of his cock in your mouth.

“Aww, but Pete–”

“No buts, sweetheart. You know I gotta provide for you and the baby, and that means making a few sacrifices here and there,” Pete runs a hand through his hair, and you can see the sweat forming on his brow as you continue to suck him off, trying not to gasp out loud at the fact that he just said he had a baby. “But don’t let those reservations go to waste, sweetie. Why not take what’s-her-name? That broad from accounting?”

“Sally?”

“Yeah, take Sally. Go on, sweetheart, daddy’s busy. I’ll see you at home.”

You’re in awe at how he dismisses his wife, but you inwardly sigh in relief when you hear the clickity clack of her heels followed by the door opening and closing. Pete barks out a laugh, pulling you off his dick as he begins to pump it around his fist.

“That was a close one, huh?”

“Y-You never mentioned that you had a wife! And a child!”

He snorts, cupping your face and angling it so that he’s jacking off over it, a nonchalant look on his face.

“And you accepted a job as the office slut, so I guess we’re both lacking in the morals department, huh, sweetheart?”

***

Being Pete Brenner’s other assistant did have a few perks. Like free reign with his credit card (a separate one that his wife didn’t know about) as well as some nice gifts here and there. Diamond earrings when he was feeling nice; a designer dress when he wanted to be giving. A pearl-encrusted collar when he was on a particularly high power trip.

But the perks came with a lot of degradation. But it’s not like he hadn’t made that clear when he’d offered you the job.

“Now, sweetheart, all you gotta do is refill everyone’s water while us men talk business, alright?”

You nod, straightening out your tight, navy dress while Pete barks out more instructions as he paces around his office. Today was an important meeting about something or the other. You didn’t really understand what it was that Pete did, but you knew it was something to do with pharmaceuticals. You weren’t sure that all their business was legal, but you thought it was best to turn your head the other way when it came to all that.

You stand in the corner of the conference room during the meeting, watching as Pete sits at the head of the table and talks business with a bunch of colleagues. He looks at you and nods slightly, and that’s your cue to walk around and refill everyone’s water with the glass jug in your hand. It’s an easy enough task, but you’re still nervous in your sky-high heels and too-short dress, acutely aware of the way all these middle-aged men leer at you like you’re a piece of candy or an office decoration.

You set the jug down on the table after you’ve finished topping up Pete’s glass, but before you can quietly scurry back to your corner of the room, his large hand wraps around your waist, pulling you into his lap. You almost yelp in surprise, but catch your tongue just in time. You go with the flow, not wanting to cause a scene as Pete casually settles you down on his knee.

You really feel like a decoration now.

“That’s a fine-looking piece of ass you’ve got workin’ for ya, Brenner.” A seedy looking man at the other end of the table grins.

Pete smirks, his hand firmly resting on your bare thigh as you quiver in his lap at the multiple pairs of eyes now staring straight at you. His other hand twirls a bit of your hair round his finger, as if you’re his little doll that he’s finding amusement in showing off and toying with. “She’s a looker, alright. That’s why I hired her, isn’t that right, baby?”

You have no choice but to nod, heat spreading across your cheeks as the whole room erupts in laughter. Pete holds you firmly in his lap throughout the meeting. You try to zone out, since their business and pharmaceutical jargon makes no sense to you, but you keep getting jolted back to reality as Pete continues to fondle you brazenly in front of everyone.

“Don’t think I’d get any work done if I had a broad like her walking around in my office.” A greasy looking man sitting adjacent from you and Pete pipes up.

Pete grins wolfishly, his hand creeping up the hem of your dress while the other one strokes your arm sensually. “Quite the opposite, actually,” he glances at you and winks, “with her around, I get to relieve all my pent-up tension, which makes work a lot easier.”

“Say, Brenner, you look like you gotta relieve some tension right now!” Another guy quips.

Pete smirks, standing up and yanking you up with him, “You’re right, Davidson. I think I do. You gentlemen mind if we take a recess on this meeting?”

His request is met with a chorus of cheerful affirmations, and he drags you off to a small door to the side of the room. The bathroom.

“Th-They’ll all be able to hear us!” You protest as he bends you over the sink, lifting your dress up and giving your bare ass a hard slap.

“That’s the point, sweetheart. It’s hotter with an audience.” He shoves his hand between your legs, pushing your panties aside and slipping two fingers inside you, smirking when he pulls them out to see them glistening, “clearly you find it hot too.”

Pete fucks you in the bathroom while the men cheer him on from the next room. And you scrunch your eyes shut and focus on trying not to moan (because he fucked you so good after all). His balls slap against your skin as he thrusts into you over again, alongside a string of curses (he was always very vocal during sex, no matter where you were).

He’s got a smug look on his face when he’s done. The smugness of a man who made a whole roomful of men hear your screams of pleasure. (You’d had to be vocal in the end, you couldn’t help it. Not when he was rubbing your clit and whispering dirty words in your ear, making your cunt squeeze around him as you came all over his cock).

He takes you straight back into the conference room, setting you down on his lap and continuing the meeting as if nothing even happened.

***

“Look at me, sweetheart.”

You do, only for him to cup your cheeks and blow smoke right into your face. You sputter, trying to turn away but Pete’s got other plans. He presses his lips against yours, giving you the headiest kiss you’ve ever experienced, making you feel light-headed.

He laughs, “You fall for it every time.”

You scowl at him, “One day I’m gonna quit working for you.”

He snorts, taking another drag of his cigarette, “Oh yeah, sweetheart? And then what’re you gonna do?”

“Make a name for myself.”

He seems to find that hilarious, throwing his head back and laughing as if you’ve just cracked the funniest joke in the world. You huff, shrugging away from him and going to stand on the other end of the balcony. It was attached to his office and Pete liked to hang out there sometimes, claimed he appreciated the fresh air. As if he didn’t have a cigarette hanging out of his mouth 24/7.

You look out into the city, admiring the bright lights that made the streets come to life at night. The sound of traffic and the mindless buzz of nightlife that had a knack of making people wonder what they were doing with their life. That’s when you feel something hard pressing against your lower back.

“You know, I always wanted to fuck a girl out here.” Pete pushes your hair to one side, kissing the exposed nape of your neck.

“I’d bet a thousand dollars you’d already have done that.”

He chuckles, his hands slipping up and down your body, feeling you up and fondling you in his specifically sleazy way except it turns you on anyways. “After tonight I will have.”

“It’s late. Shouldn’t you be at home with your wife? Or at least your baby?”

He pushes your dress up till he’s got it bunched around your waist, before hooking his fingers on the elastic of your panties and snapping it against your skin. “What, you think you’re gonna peptalk me into having some kind of moral breakthrough or something?” He tugs your panties down your legs and gives your ass a squeeze, “Sweetheart, you know the kind of man I am. And I know exactly the kind of girl you are.”

The kind that lets her boss fuck her outside on his balcony overlooking the city.

“Fuck yeah, shake that fucking ass on my daddy dick. Make daddy cum, fuck!” Pete grips your hair and yanks your head back, biting and sucking at your neck as he fucks you. You grip the iron railing hard, your mind wiped of everything except the pleasure he was administering to you right now.

“Mm, fuck, daddy! Harder, please!” You moan, grinding back against his dick, feeling the pure, delicious agony of him breaking you in two from the inside out.

He releases inside you with a guttural roar in your ear, and you sigh, following suit as you milk him through his orgasm. Your cunt pulsates with your pleasure, and he holds you tight before bringing his cigarette up to your mouth so you can take a drag. You do, before craning your neck and grabbing his face, blowing the smoke straight past his lips as you kiss him.

***

“The fuck do you mean you’re knocked up? Were you not on the motherfucking pill?”

You sigh. You’d been fucking Pete for half a year now, and in that time you’d had the pleasure of getting to know him on a very personal level. His likes, dislikes, his temperament. You knew him well enough to know that he got extremely melodramatic when he was high. Which is why it maybe wasn’t the best decision on your part to break the news to him when he was coked out, but you’d had no choice… Pete’s sober moments were very few and far between these days.

“I don’t know what to tell you, Pete. I’m pregnant. I took three tests.”

“God-fucking-dammit!” He slams his fist down on his desk repeatedly, before the pain proves too much and that’s when he straightens up, running a hand through his already messy black hair. “I already got my hands full with one brat.”

He loved his son, really. You’d seen him enough times with the kid to know that Pete did indeed have a heart when it came to a child of his own flesh and blood.

“Well, congratulations, daddy. In about nine months, you’ll have another one.”

He narrows his eyes, stumbling over to you and grabbing you by the neck. He pushes back, high off his mind yet still much stronger than you. His lips curled and brows furrowed almost accusatorily, he backs you up against the wall, his face inches from yours.

“You,” he sneers, “When did you get so cynical, huh? Where’s the bright-eyed, naïve girl I hired six months ago?”

You roll your eyes, “I don’t know, Pete, maybe your sleaziness and depravity killed her off.”

He glares at you, and you glare back. It’s an intense stare-down that lasts a handful of seconds before you’re on top of each other. Kissing and ripping each other’s clothes off, not caring that the glass windows of his office aren’t covered with the blinds. The receptionist would get a show, but it was nothing she hadn’t seen before. Pete had no shame, and now, neither did you.

“I find pregnant broads sexy as hell,” he tells you, carrying you over to his desk. He sits down on his chair with you on top of him, “so that’s one thing to look forward to.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“So the fuck are you.”

He shoves his dick into you from below, his fingers gripping your hips so tightly you know he’ll leave bruises. He bounces you up and down on his dick like it’s your job – which, well, it is.

“Your tits will get even bigger, that’s another thing to look forward to,” he whispers in your ear, ripping the top of your dress in half and pushing the cups of your bra down. Your breasts spill out and he goes to town on them, burying his face between them, licking, nipping, biting like you’re his drug of choice for the evening.

You’re confused, scared, even. But that won’t stop you from answering back to him, and so, despite the pleasure he’s making you feel, you shoot him a look of disdain.

“Who says I’m gonna stick around long enough for you to see me like that?”

He yanks you forward by your hair, giving you a rough and almost possessive kiss.

“Sweetheart, don’t kid yourself. I intend on keeping your fine ass around, and besides, it’s not like you have anywhere else to go.”

***

“I do.”

Pete’s wife had left him. Something about running away with a hot Australian lifeguard who happened to also have a hefty trust fund. The divorce was settled quickly (Pete had more money than his now ex-wife was even aware of, so she happily took what she thought was an equal half). Pete had one condition, though. His son had to stay with him.

And then six months later, you found yourself walking down the aisle in a dress of ivory lace, saying “I do” to the man who only a year ago had just been your boss. Now you were the new Mrs. Brenner, a mother to be and a stepmother to a two-year-old to boot.

It was a good thing you liked kids.

“You’re lucky, you know that? Fucked your way to the very top.” Pete says, his hand stroking your very pregnant belly.

You giggle, spreading out on the satin sheets below you. They’re soft and white and expensive, covered in rose petals. Pete had gone all out and booked the honeymoon suite at the Four Seasons, which was the least he could do to make you comfortable after you’d gone through that whole wedding ceremony and reception, all pregnant and uncomfortable and all.

“Not the very top,” you muse, “I could leave you just like your first wife did. Leave you for a richer man.”

Pete scoffs, shrugging his jacket off before rejoining you on the bed, “Honey, if you knew how much money I had in my bank account right now, you’d be licking the bottom of my shoe for the foreseeable future.”

You don’t say anything, instead turning your attention to your ring. You hold up your hand so it catches the light, the hefty diamond sparkling expensively. Just a year ago, you couldn’t even fathom having fifty dollars to your name… And now?

You grow distracted by his hand as it sneaks between your legs. Biting your lip, you suppress a moan when his fingers find your clit. All he has to do is circle your bundle of nerves with his pointer finger and you cum, grabbing his bicep and squealing his name, humping your cunt up against his palm like a wanton whore. All while he grins wolfishly at how easily he can make you come undone.

“It’s just ‘cause I’m pregnant,” you say once you’ve caught your breath, causing his expression to sour.

“Please, Mrs. Brenner. You’ve never had anyone as good as your husband. And you never will, ‘cause it’s all me from now on, you got that?”

“Yes, daddy.”

***

“Oh my gosh, you really shouldn’t have!” You squeal, running over to your new candy pink convertible. Pete stands by the hood, looking extremely pleased with himself.

“Only the best for my wife. Now you can do the day-care runs in style.”

You jump into his arms, wrapping your legs around his waist and pressing a million kisses on his face. “Thank you, daddy! I love it so much.”

He grins, spinning you around a few times before putting you down, “Happy birthday, babe.”

Your four-year-old son and two-year-old daughter come toddling down the front steps of your mansion, squealing and ooh-ing and aah-ing at your new pink car. Pete looks positively beside himself with glee, scooping both his kids up in his arms so they can get a better look at it.

It only took a few months into being married to you for Pete to realise that he liked the family man lifestyle. And you could tell he liked being a provider, liked showering his family with gifts and spending money on you and the babies more than blowing it all on drugs and strip clubs. It was a shame that it took him two marriages and two different baby mamas to realise that, but at least his ex was living it up in Australia, so there was no love lost there.

“We need to come up with a story when people ask us how we met,” you say one evening as the two of you get ready for bed. You’re sitting in front of your vanity, applying cold cream to your face and neck while Pete does God knows what in the background.

“Easy. My gold-digger assistant got herself knocked up and trapped my ass, and now here we are.” Pete smirks, coming up behind you and pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

“Shut up, you jerk. More like, I took advantage of and sexually harassed my poor, innocent assistant, and the least I could do was marry her after I got her pregnant.” You smile, letting him grab your hand and drag you to the bed.

“Okay, poor, innocent assistant. Why don’t you let daddy put another baby inside you tonight?” He asks, pushing you down on the bed and climbing on top of you, his voice thick with lust as he runs a hand through his messy, black hair.

“So you can accuse me of getting knocked up again?”

“Yeah,” He rips your nightie in half, making you squeal, “That’ll ensure I’m trapped with you for another two years at least.”

“Fuck you.”

“You’ve got the dirtiest mouth, Mrs. Brenner. Maybe that’s why I’m in love with you.”

SFJHKASGD THE END!

If you made it till here... thank you! I think I got possessed last night and today so I wrote this. Sorry besties, but please do let me know what you think! Feedback means everything to me!! I love you guys and now back to our regularly scheduled programming of ARI and STEVE!

#pete brenner #pete brenner x reader #pain hustlers #chris evans #steve rogers #chris evans x reader #steve rogers x reader #ari levinson x reader #ari levinson

2K notes · View notes

miguelhugger2099 · 2 months

Note

Hello sweetie, hoping you're doing well! What about bully punk Miguel and nerd pastel girl reader at college? (Miguel with 23 and reader with 21) Like reader was ugly and will have a glow up thanks to MJ and now Miguel tries to have her attention, they have a date and sweet and fluff smut!! (reader is virgin uwu) I'll let to you the creativity

Impurities

hello sweetheart you absolute DARLING i genuinely could be better but i hope ur doing great. i want to apologize for taking so long but i want u to know when i saw this i just about melted bc punk miguel is one of my guilty pleasures i adore him so much. this ask made me want to evolve it into a series i had like several different ways to make this but ahhhh i hope it's alright

Punk!Miguel x Pastel!Reader, Fluff and Smut, Word Count: 8,875 Art by: beawoodward on artstation !

You knew you weren’t the most appealing girl out there. You weren’t about to delude yourself otherwise. You knew what people said about you, how they looked at you. Your face could’ve been worse. Maybe some bushy eyebrows? You dressed…maybe a little different than most people. While the world was covered in grays and black, you opted out by showering yourself in the cutest pastel colors. You didn’t keep up with the trends and instead followed whatever you thought looked alright. It often led to some mismatching and awkward outfits but you didn’t think so! You entered campus with a light blue and pink striped pants with a pink belt and a baby blue sweater. Two low braids tied with white ribbons at the end and your white framed glasses on the bridge of your nose. Skincare was confusing to you so all you really did was wash your face with a harsh cleanser and hoped for the best which gave you some acne instead–making you pop them and leave some scars. You tried makeup but it just looked cakey so you settled with a messy and often uneven eyeliner. Regardless of your outfit, whether in a skirt or in pants, you were always decked out in some bright pastel colors and hair done in the same two braids. You held yourself close while walking around the halls, already used to people staring and calling you names from high school. College was a little more merciful, the whispers being just as loud but at least they’d never bully you to your face. You win some, you lose some. Your self-esteem had been damaged to the point of no return anyway, so any attempts of trying to prove you’re worth something would just be a pipe dream in your eyes. That’s why you push your glasses up and cling to your shoulder bag tightly in your fist as you pass by the usual group of boys to get to the front seat of your class. Your human biology class door was opened at the back so you’d have to pass the back seats to sit at the front. As usual, the group of boys were basically monochrome except for the little specks of red or blue if they ever decided to add color. But what was most noticeable about them was the so-called leader of said group. Unofficial–official– leader Miguel O’Hara, the senior who decided to take general education classes in his last year before graduating. His usual confident and toothy grin was on display, silver spider bites that his, also pierced, tongue would often play with. His big and heavy platform boots would rest on the chair beside him while his left elbow rested on the table, his hand combing through his long brown hair–shaved at the sides, mind you. He made sure to push his fringe back so everyone could see his double eyebrow and nostril piercing. Miguel’s hands were decorated with rings, big and small and his nails were short and painted black with some of it chipping off. His usual leather jacket with pins and patches, stretched and tight from his muscular build, was accompanied by a low red tank top with a spider symbol on the front. Black skinny jeans and a spiked belt that did little to actually keep his pants in place since the black and red band of his boxers were showing.

He listened mindlessly to his group of friends as they talked with each other, his fingers switching between playing with the dangling earring on his earlobe to his industrial bar. His crimson eyes glanced up when he saw you in your uncomfortably bright and awkward fashion sense. His friend tapped his shoulder and jutted his chin out to you before whispering something in Miguel’s ear that made him shove him away with a smile. Then they both laughed as quietly as possible, chuckling at what you decided to wear today: light blue overall shorts and a pastel yellow undershirt with white knee high stockings and white sneakers, your usual white ribbons at the end of your braids.

You usually sat alone at the front, placing your earbuds in to listen to music while you waited for the professor. Despite being at the front, you could still hear some faint chuckling and words being whispered from Miguel's group.

Still, you held your head up, taking out your notebook and expensive textbook. Clicking your pen, you began some light note taking before class started.

You sighed as you entered back in your dorm, dumping your bag at the door and kicking off your shoes. You faceplated down onto your bed while your roommate MJ looked over at you sympathetically.

You turn your head, cheek squished against the mattress. “I know that beauty is subjective and I'm not supposed to earn validation from anybody else but…” You sit up and rest on your legs, hands wringing in your hands with furrowed eyebrows.

“But…I want to feel pretty.” You admit softly, ashamed since you felt like you were betraying yourself.

MJ's smile grows and she eagerly jumps from her bed to kneel at your bedside. She takes your hands in hers and squeezes them reassuringly.

“You are pretty,” She insists. “But if you really want help, I can.” MJ tilts your head to look at her, a soft smile on her face.

You nod. “I do. I just want to know how to look like you.”

MJ shakes her head. “No. No, you already have your own beauty.” She places a hand on her chest. “I meant that I can help enhance it. No change to your core is necessary.” She pokes at your chest playfully and you both giggle together.

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

You take a moment to look at her. MJ really was perfect–shiny straight red hair, clear skin that was painted with freckles and a winning white smile. You hoped she could work some magic on you.

“Okay.”

Your transformation didn't happen overnight. It took at least a few weeks for it all to come together.

MJ had dragged you to salons to get your hair properly taken care of. Gotten your eyebrows plucked, eyelashes lifted, an effective skincare routine–that you struggled to drill into your regular schedule–and a new wardrobe that still held your pastel look, just a little more flattering. She even helped you get some contact lenses so you wouldn’t need your glasses all the time! To tie it all together, you two spent nights practicing how to do your makeup that wouldn't look so wobbly and uneven. Each day, you improved yourself. Your tacky overalls changed into fitted jeans or flowy skirts. Your baggy shirts were now cute tops that hugged each curve. Tennis shoes into heels or cute sneakers and your hair came to life with a beautiful shine; your white ribbon still in your hair.

One day, you entered class like normal. Except there were very few whispers this time, almost nonexistent. Still, you don’t let it get to you and continue like normal–walking to the front of the class and sitting in your usual spot. What wasn’t normal was a figure coming up beside you and pulling out the chair next to you. Miguel slipped beside you in front of the class, tilting his head as he stared at your side profile. You tried not to react but you subconsciously glanced at him from the corner of your eye.

“Hey.” He smirked, his eyebrow raising and his lips curling.

“Hello.” You murmured back, opening your notebook to the next blank page.

“New look?” He asked, using his hand to brush your hair back off your shoulder and you stiffened. He noticed you still had the white ribbon at the back of your head. Miguel’s eyes glanced back down at your body. Nicely fitted flare baby blue jeans, a cute pastel green heart belt with a crop top white sweater.

“Looks good.” He purred. You held your blue bunny pen in your hand tightly, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. You didn’t understand why he was speaking to you. He hadn’t before–other than laugh at you–so what gives?

“Thanks.” You say curtly. Miguel places a hand over her heart in feign hurt.

“Don’t be like that, nena. You look so cute, I didn’t expect you to be so cold.” He teased. He crossed his arms and rested his head on them to look up at you while you wrote the rest of your notes down before class started. Miguel watched as your false eyelashes fluttered, making your eyes look bigger. The subtle blush on your cheeks and the concealer that hid most of your past acne. He could still see some of the scars which makes him huff a small laugh at how cute it kinda looks. Your lips were more plump than he remembered–a soft pink to them. He lifts his arm up to rest his cheek on his fist, his eyes still on you. “How about I take you out?” Your pen slips and leaves a slash right down your notes. “What?” “A date. Does that sound good?” You don’t look up, instead focusing on your task at hand. “No. Can you please just leave me alone?” Miguel doesn’t say anything else but you hear the chair he sat on scrape across the floor as he gets up abruptly. You hear the laughter of his friends behind you and Miguel snapping at them. Your shoulders hunch over–the natural instinct to hide from embarrassment overcoming you again.

Every week, in the same class, Miguel would try again and again and again to ask you out. Each time, you would decline. It had gotten bad enough where he changed his seat to move beside you, offering his help when he saw you were confused and overall just trying to get on your good side. You wanted to be strong, truly you did, but it was becoming too much. When Miguel had asked again, you sighed loudly and faced him. “If I say yes will you leave me alone?” Miguel broke into a wide smile. Once you finally agreed to a date with him, you truly weren’t expecting anything good. So you stood by the place Miguel wanted you to meet him at: a local diner that was pleasantly pretty looking from the outside. Still, due to your past experiences of being ghosted and stood up, you watched the time on your phone. You decided that you wouldn’t wait more than fifteen minutes max.

To your surprise, you didn’t have to wait at all. You heard Miguel call your name from your left, his lips curled into a confident smile. Subconsciously, you eyed him up and down. He had baggy black cargo pants, accompanied with chains on his right side. A DIY-ed t-shirt that was sprayed painted over many many times. Of course, his iconic leather jacket was littered with various pins and patches. When he was close enough, you saw just a bit of eyeliner surrounding his eyes; and a new septum piercing. For the people passing by, it was quite a sight to see. Compared to Miguel’s dark but proud aura, you emanated a more sweet and bright vibe. MJ had helped you pick out an outfit, excited that you approached her with the dilemma of going on a date. You wore a sheer baby blue crop top cardigan with a simple white tank top underneath. A slightly darker blue pleated skirt with white thigh high stockings and ankle strap baby blue platform pumps. You held a small purse in your hands and looked up at him through your lashes. Your hair was pinned in a half up and half down hairstyle; your white ribbon at the back of your head. You thought it was a bit much, but MJ assured you that it was just enough. “Te ves muy hermosa.” Miguel speaks up, a grin on his lips. “All for me?” He teases with a tilt of his head. A piece of his fringe falling over his forehead. “Oh, please.” You look off to the side, ignoring the flutter in your chest when called beautiful. Miguel doesn’t take it to heart, instead going past you to open the door of the diner. He dramatically takes a bow, his arm ushering you inside. The theatrics make the corner of your lips quirk up and you enter inside, nodding to Miguel. You turn your head around to see the inside, wooden chairs and tables, a jukebox at the back with a shiny bar. “This way.” You stiffen when you feel Miguel’s breath by your ear. Before you could turn, he places his hand on your lower back and leads you to a booth by the window. He sits across from you, menus at the ready on the table. “You know, I used to come to this place all the time.” Miguel says, his eyes scanning the different options. “Used to be a hangout spot for me and the others in high school. College took up my time so it’s a pain in the ass not being able to visit more.” You glance up at him, shuffling in your seat. It felt a little weird to have him speak to you like this, as if he wasn’t teasing you a few months ago.

Luckily, a waitress comes up before you two with a notepad in hand. “Oh! A pretty girl! Didn’t know you were back in the dating scene.” She cackles to herself and pushes her glasses up. Miguel groans and rolls his eyes. “I thought you didn’t work Fridays, Lyla.” “Margo couldn’t make it, I needed extra hours–and now a bonus– I get to embarrass you. Everybody wins! Except you maybe. Waddaya want?” Lyla rests on one foot, her grin plastered on her face. Miguel’s smile was long gone, now snapping his order at his friend. You watched with an amused smile. They bantered like siblings. But what she said piqued your interest. He hadn’t gone around dating? You were snapped out of your thoughts when you heard Miguel call your name. His eyes were uncharacteristically soft. “Do you need another minute?” He asks. You stumble over your words and feel your cheeks burn. “No-no, uhm…” You look down at your menu and pick the first thing you see. “The, uh, chicken fajitas, please?” Lyla meets you with a smile and collects your menu. “Of course, darling.” She turns to take Miguel’s menu. “Couldn’t you have taken her to a nicer place? She’s all dolled up.” Lyla sticks her tongue out at him and walks away while Miguel’s cheeks burn red. Instead of facing you, he looks down at his hands and he picks at his black nail polish.

For once, Miguel had stayed silent. If you didn’t know any better, you would think he looked a little ashamed? Embarrassed? You could see him moving his spider bites nervously as he stares at anything besides you, his cheeks still tinged red. You pat your skirt awkwardly and clear your throat. “The…I like the diner. It’s got one of those retro vibes to it. It’s cool.” You give a small encouraging smile. For some strange reason, you thought his quietness didn’t suit him. Miguel’s eyes dart to yours and then at the window. “You think?” His hand reaches up to play with his dangling earring. It was almost cute. Just a bit. You chuckle softly. “Yeah, I mean. It’s like being in one of those time machines.” Miguel smiles. “Time machines? I think a time machine would look cooler than this dump.” You playfully smack his hand across the table. “Didn’t you say you used to come here years ago? Don’t call it a dump.” You fold your arms on your chest. You didn’t know this, but Miguel in that moment felt the tension he didn’t realize he had fell off his shoulders. “Eh, it’s a little bit of a dump.” He leans back and stretches his arm on the backseat. “But it’s like you said: a little retro.” Lyla returns with two glasses of water. “One for the cutie,” she places one on your side, giving you a wink. “And then Miguel.” She unenthusiastically hands Miguel the cup.

Miguel frowns at Lyla, a familiar bubble of jealousy brewing in his chest. “Lyla.” He warns. “What?” She stretches out the word. “Just being a good hostess.” She huffs with a pout and walks away. You giggle to yourself and Miguel notices. He’s quick to speak. “Ignore her. She’s always trying to be annoying.” He didn’t like the way Lyla was buttering you up, even if it was just a joke. He wanted you to smile at him like that. “It’s funny. I never thought I’d see you looking so bothered. How do you know her?” You smile and take a sip from your water. Miguel scratches the back of his head. “Middle school. We were in the robotics club.” You blink. “Robotics club? Really?” “Why’re you so surprised? What? A guy like me can’t be into things like that?” He smirks, placing his arms on the table and his pins rattle as he moves. “Well…kind of?” You smile weakly and laugh when Miguel pretends to be hit. “No, but seriously, robotics isn’t what I expected from you.” “Well, it was middle school. I’ve grown up into a man. This time I’ve taken an interest in being a geneticist.” He rests his head on his hand. “Don’t judge a book by its cover, nena.” He teases but you pause. That phrase is a little ironic for him to say, you thought to yourself. Shaking off that feeling, you continued to chat with Miguel. Talking about your interests, past, future and current studies. All while Miguel would try to sneak little touches, whether it be his boot tapping your heel or his hand brushing against yours when handing you a bottle of ketchup. After spending enough time at the diner, the sun was beginning to set. Before you left, Lyla convinced you to convince Miguel to give her a big tip and told you she hopes to see you again in different circumstances. Miguel holds the door open for you again and the bell dings your departure from the diner. His fingertips gently brush against yours, catching your attention.

“There’s…there’s this other place I wanna show you.” He bites his lip, peeling off the skin. His index finger loosely wraps around your pinky. “Sure…” You say hesitantly. He notices your hesitance. “It’s nearby. Just for a little bit and I’ll take you home.” The wind breezes through, giving you a glimpse of the cool air that will befall once nighttime arrives. You shiver and tuck into yourself to hide from the wind. Miguel takes off his jacket and slips it around you. Feeling the heavy material on your shoulders, you look up at him and feel the warmth go around your torso. Miguel’s eyes are focused on making sure it’s snug as it can be. It’s so large that it ends around your midthigh. He takes your little purse and pops the collar of his jacket up. “Put your arms through the sleeves so it doesn’t fall.” You blink and do as he says with a flustered expression. While shuffling your arms through the holes, you try not to glance over at him. His t-shirt was cut at the sleeves that showed off his toned arms. Despite the cold approaching, he seemed to be relaxed as he watched you, making sure you stayed warm. “Good?” He asked. Your fingers barely poked out, his jacket covering most of your outfit. And it was warm. It smelled like him.

With a satisfied smile, he slyly takes your hand in his and leads you away. You try not to focus too hard on the way his hand engulfs yours. After following Miguel in twists and turns, you eventually walk up a hill and at the very top stood a single bench with a view of the entirety of Nueva York. Your eyes widened and you let go of his hand to approach near the ledge, placing your hands on the railing. The lights of the city illuminated the night sky and acted as stars. You saw them twinkle along with hover cars that zoomed past you. “This is…” “Where I planned to take you another day. But Lyla pissed me off and I wanted to prove that I could take you somewhere nice.” He comes behind you and slings an arm around your waist. You look up at him with an amused smile. “Did you really take that to heart?” Miguel pouts his lips, his eyes looking off to the side. “I couldn’t let her make me look stupid in front of you.” You laugh, using the sleeves of his jacket to cover your smile. Miguel sees and he has a faint smile of his own on his face. He leads you back to the bench where you two sit in quiet comfortable silence after an afternoon of learning about one another. As you look over at the city with him, you couldn’t help but notice the nagging feeling in your chest. This was a date. A date that only happened because you changed yourself. A date with the person who laughed at you.

“Hey, Miguel?” You speak up quietly. He hums and looks over at you. “I…I don’t want you to be nice to me just because I got a little…prettier.” Miguel looks down at you with a frown. He stuffs his hands in his pockets while he looks back at the skyline. He says your name softly to grab your attention. “I’m not being nice just because you’re pretty.” You scrunch your eyebrows and scoff. “Yeah, I’m sure all those times you laughed at me was just you being a charmer.” “Laugh at you?” He raises his eyebrows and you look away. “Nena, I wasn’t laughing at you.” “Don’t lie to me, Miguel. I’m used to it. No use in sparing my feelings.” You sigh. “But I wasn’t,” He insists. He wants to reach for your hand, to touch you but he stops himself. “Really, I was…admiring you.” You roll your eyes. “Now you’re really being a jerk. There was nothing to admire when I looked…stupid and ugly.” “You did not.” He turned you to face him by turning your chin softly. “So you’re saying the way I looked before wasn’t stupid?” You glare at him but Miguel can’t find it in him to take it badly. “You were cute. The way you dressed and looked, it was awkward–sure–but it was adorable.” He chuckles but your frown deepens, feeling the tears bubble up in your eyes as you turn away from him. Miguel calls your name again. “I’m the last person to judge anyone for how they dress. Look at me.” Miguel flicks his multiple ear piercings, pulls on his snake bites, stretches his tattered and ruined t-shirt and slams his dirty platform boots to the ground. “A freak. You were just a cuter version.” “Then why did you talk to me now?” You murmur.

“Because you suddenly changed. I wanted to know what was up.” “And…the sudden date?” “Your transformation gave me the courage to speak to you. It was my chance–an excuse to talk to you.” Miguel says softly. “Though you did reject me twelve times. I was starting to lose hope.” “It was not twelve times.” “It felt like twelve times.” “...You have to admit that I’m…much more appealing now than I was before.” Miguel sighs. “Nena, the only thing different about you is clear skin and some clothes. Everything else is still you. You were pretty underneath, you just enhanced it. At your core, you’re still you. Bright and colorful.” He bumps your shoulder. You smile shyly and look in your lap. “MJ said something similar.” “MJ?” “My roommate. She helped me with, y’know, everything.” It was still hard to believe. Over two decades of being told otherwise was not going to go away by a single conversation but it still warmed your heart to hear something positive about you for once. You don’t say anything else and Miguel takes his chance to wrap his arm around you, bringing you to his chest. With flushed cheeks, you look out into the open where the skyline is feeling at peace and just a little pretty.

You two had arrived at your dorm and you faced Miguel shyly. Your eyes looked at the ground as you felt your cheeks heat up. “This is my place.” You state and Miguel chuckles, the sound of it sending your heart pumping. “I see that.” He says, taking a step toward you which makes you take a step back. “I had fun.” You whisper softly, your eyes landing on his chest. You see Miguel’s hand lift up to your chin and make you look into his eyes. Your cheeks burn since he keeps his hand on your chin to make sure you wouldn’t look away. “Me too.” He murmured, his red eyes looking like they turned a darker shade when he glanced at your lips. He takes another step towards you and you take another step back. You feel your head hit the door and realize you’re now trapped between it and him.

You hold your breath and can only feel the pounding of your heart in your chest and Miguel’s calloused fingers holding you still. Miguel then uses his other hand to hold your hip, his thumb trying to slide under your tank top. Your hands raise up to hold onto his biceps, shivering when your skin meets his. He was warm. “I…kind of don’t want this to end.” You admit softly. Miguel’s grin grows wider, his tongue poking the inside of his cheek which makes you weak in the knees. “Then it doesn’t have to, muñequita.” His hand leaves your chin to cup your cheek. He glances up above your head. “Your roommate home?” He asks. Your eyes never leave his face, your pupils dilating and a weird feeling starting to brew in your stomach. “No,” You squeak out and he looks back down at you. “She’s–She’s, um, out with her boyfriend.” Miguel hums, another glance to your lips. “Then…will you invite me inside?” He asks, leaning down so his lips just barely graze yours. Not quite a kiss yet. Your breath hitches and you nod a few times before speaking. “Mhm, okay.” You reach your hand behind you to grab the doorknob and twist it open. You stumble backwards but Miguel quickly wraps his arm that was on your hip around your waist. He then makes you walk backwards while he could shut the door behind him. You had your arms around his neck and looked up with wide eyes and a fast paced heartbeat. Miguel huffs out a chuckle. “You okay?” “Mhm!” You squeak. He squints down at you in playful suspicion but brushes it off. He bends down to where his lips brush yours again and finally dips low enough to kiss you. Your first shared kiss. You stumble with how to kiss, especially when the other person has piercings, but with someone like Miguel, you quickly learn and get the hang of it. Soft kissing noises sound between the small space of you two and he gradually moves from your lips to your cheek and down your neck. His arms around your waist tug you closer, bending you back and he moves you further back to where your calves hit the mattress of your bed. One hand rises up to pull his leather jacket off your shoulder, gently nibbling across your skin before reverting back to your throat. With his lips on your neck, Miguel could feel your pulse going wild, heartbeat going crazy each second. He decides to check in. “You okay?” he murmurs with a smile, his lips finding yours again for quick kisses. “Yeah, yeah, I’ve just–” kiss “Just–” kiss “Y’know, never–” kiss, kiss “Done this before.” He pauses, stiffening before he pulls back. “Wait. Are you saying this would be your first time…having sex?” Your heart sinks. That was bad wasn’t it? “No, it’s not bad.” Miguel shakes his head. You didn’t realize you voiced your concerns. “I’m just surprised, is all. Usually people have done it already.” You look away from him, visibly uncomfortable that he’s lowkey making fun of you. Miguel realizes the damage and quickly tries to fix it. “But there’s nothing wrong with it, nena! I didn’t mean–” He sighs, scratching the back of his neck. He looks around your dorm room. Your side is filled with cute things like plushies and fluffy blankets–a strawberry duvet all in the same hue of pastels.

“Look. We don’t have to do anything. I don’t…want to make it seem like I’m only here for that.” He shrugs his leather jacket back on your shoulder. “Because I do like you, nena. I’m willing to wait or if you never want it then it’s whatever. I just would really like a second date at least. Maybe at a nicer place like what Lyla said. Maybe I could clean myself up.” He gives you a weary smile. You stare at his hands that hold onto the zipper part of his leather jacket. For a while, you don’t say anything. “What if I don’t want to wait.” You mumble. You look up with some determination on your face. “I…I want to. With you.” Miguel takes his hands off you. “Wh–Are…are you sure?” You slip his jacket off you and let it fall to the side, stripping off the first piece of clothing from yourself. Your mouth is tight, heart hammering in your chest and cheeks feeling that familiar prick of heat up your neck but you’re sure of yourself. You want this. Miguel rakes his eyes up and down your body as you stand before him. “Alright.” He breathes out, undeniably attracted to you at this moment. “But this will all be at your pace, okay? I’ll make you feel good.” He purrs resting his hands at your hips and your facade crumbles slowly and you get shy again. He sits you down on your bed and he kneels before you, his hands on your thighs. He takes your right foot in his hands and carefully unbuckles the ankle strap of your pumps and slides it off. You cover your mouth, heart pounding at the intimate yet innocent act of him taking off your heels. He does the same with your other heel and sets it to the side.

Miguel then looks up at you from his lashes, his confident ones meeting your bashful ones. Taking your right leg again, he slips your thigh high stocking off you and does the same for your other leg. He places his hands on your knees and slowly spreads your legs apart to give you time to stop him. You don’t. “Come closer, mami.” He murmurs, sliding his hands up to grip the flesh of your thighs. You let out a weak mewl and scoot closer to the edge of your bed. Miguel bunches your skirt up, groaning and feeling his cock twitch in his pants when his eyes land on your pastel pink panties, a sweet little bow in the middle like you were a present for him. “Tan bella,” He murmurs, unable to hide the utter desire he has for you. You cover your face in embarrassment as he spreads your legs wider. His lips graze over your thighs, pressing kisses as he makes his way up. You feel your heart skip a beat everytime you feel his warm breath. Your hands clutch your strawberry sheets and he notices.

“You can hold onto me, mami.” He purrs and you swallow the lump in your throat.

“Wha…how do I..?” You feel stupid, your hands raising up and unsure of where exactly to put them. Miguel takes your hands and places him in his hair. His fingers curl around yours so you could grip onto his strands.

Feeling your face burn, the sight of you holding onto him while his eyes bore into yours. You instinctively clench your fists, his hair being tugged on in the process which makes him groan and close in his eyes. He likes a bit of pain, it seems

Miguel's hands return to your thighs, wrapping his arms underneath to tug you closer to his awaiting mouth and to keep your legs apart. “Hips up, mama.” He purrs and you do as he says, making him slip your panties off.

He discards them off to the side and delves between your thighs. His nose nudges your nub and you gasp, pursing your lips and gripping tighter on his hair.

“Miguel!” You whimper and he hums in response. You feel the metal ball of his tongue piercing curl inside you–it was strangely pleasurable. You didn’t expect it to feel so good. You rest on one hand behind you, the other still planted in his hair as you bucked forward on his tongue. Miguel the munch that he is, grins against your folds and licks a long stripe up before spitting and devouring your sweet nectar again. You felt the sudden slimy wetness hit your nerves and you yelped in surprise. Just as quick, you fall into submission when his skilled tongue swirled in little number eights. Your eyes were closed shut, your hand pulling Miguel closer to which he obliged. He then surprises you by sticking one of his thick fingers inside you. “Oh my…god.” You moan, your body growing hot and sweaty underneath all your clothing. “Miguel…” Miguel’s mouth moves in rhythm, his lips kissing your pussy as he drinks whatever your sweet cunt offers him. He could stay like this forever, cleaning your mess up and licking you for all eternity. His rings nudge your folds, the metal a stark contrast from his rough fingers. He pumps a second finger inside and it’s a bit of a stretch that feels good enough for you to thrust harder. “Mmm, yes…oh, I’m so close…” You mumble to yourself, chest heaving as you come closer and closer to climax. Unexpectedly, Miguel pulls away from between your legs. The pleasure being ripped from you and you struggle to lift your head as he pulls off you. The look in his eyes is different. More lustful, more hungry.

“If you’re gonna cum, I want you cumming around my cock.” He groans and wipes his lips with the back of his hand. Miguel stands up and gets into bed with you, shoving his platform shoes and pants off. While he gets on top, you rest back into your bed and your eyes become big and wide–darting between his face and between his legs. “Is it–will it hurt?” You bring your hands to your chest, clutching the fabric of your tank top. Miguel lifts your chin up to him. His eyes are kind and soft. “It’s not supposed to. I’ll make sure it won’t.” He grabs the waistband of your skirt and tugs it off your legs, throwing it with the other forgotten clothes. His hands make his way up your body, helping you remove the sheer cardigan and sliding your tank top up and over your head. Miguel chuckles at the heart patterned bra you wore. He leans over to kiss your neck and you sigh. The feeling of his lips sucking and tongue licking you was surprisingly pleasurable. Instinctively, your reach around his shoulders to hold onto him, your back arching to be chest to chest with him. Miguel’s hands go under your back, holding you up while he quickly unclasps the bra. Feeling the loss of your support, you whine but Miguel kisses you before you become louder. He places you back down on your back and finally removes the last piece of clothing. Miguel admires you from above, his hands at your waist, rubbing up and down your sides as he feels your curves. “Perfecta. Eres mucha mujer.” He whispers while trailing his lips along your collarbone. You whimper, feeling your cheeks burn and grow hot to the touch. His breath ghosts over your breasts and he stares up at you maintaining eye contact. Miguel notices something in your hair; your white ribbon, still tied in your messy hair. His heart swells and smiles, reaching up to brush your hair away.

He kisses down the valley of your breasts and around your nipple. He glances up at you every so often to make sure you’re not feeling any sort of discomfort. He can feel your heart pounding underneath his palm. Miguel wraps his lips around your nipple and sucks softly. You gasp and hold your breath for a moment while his cold tongue piercing swirled around your nipple, his spider bites and nose piercing pressed against the softness of your tits. You stare up at the ceiling as the warmth in your body flooded down to your core. “Oh! M..Miguel…” You whined, your hands curling in his hair where you felt most comfortable. Miguel flicks his finger around your other nipple, pulling and bullying it until it becomes erect and perky. Even then, he twists it and gropes your tit in time with his sucking and biting. Your hips buck up, feeling your pussy throbbing uncomfortably. When you hit his bulge, Miguel moaned and grinded himself to your soaked pussy in soft circles. Your juices left a stain on his boxers in your desperate attempts at relief. He lets go of your tits–leaving a small bite mark– and continues to kiss down your body. “Gracias a Dios por mandarme esta belleza.” He murmurs, digging his hands into the plush of your hips when he raises your thighs up. Suddenly, he stops and lets go of you. “Shit, shit, fuck–hold on.” He mumbles and gets off you. You feel cold and watch as he gets off the bed and picks up his pants from the floor and searches through his pockets. “Did I…do something?” You ask, worried you might’ve done something that made Miguel regret touching you. He shakes his head. “No, no–just–ah, there it is…” He chuckles to himself after finding his wallet and pulling out a small square packet. He pushes his fringe back with one hand as he gets back into bed. Miguel shuffles down his boxers after putting the packet between his teeth. “I’ll get you pregnant some other time.” “What?” “What?” You close your mouth and hear ringing in your ears. You were sure that steam would be coming out of your head at this point–your mind felt like mush with how easily flustered he made you. Miguel looks down at you and huffs a small laugh, letting you know he was joking. Maybe. Hopefully.

His cock springs free once his boxers are off and he groans when it slaps his stomach, leaving a bead of his precum on his tip. Your eyes shamelessly stare at him. You were by no means an expert when it came to sex but you grew both worried and aroused at how massive he was. “There is…no way it’s gonna fit.” Miguel rips the plastic with his teeth and rolls the condom on his dick to the base. For a moment, you’re disappointed that he added protection. Just for a moment, though. He breathes out and gives soft strokes to his shaft while looking at you from beneath him. He feels his cock pulse and throb, growing harder by the second just by the sight of your perfectly sculpted naked body. He thought you were divine. Placing his hands on either side of your head, he leans down to kiss you as if trying to ease your worries. “It’ll fit, I promise. It’ll feel so good, too.” He whispers, his lips brushing against yours. “I’ll go slow.” He takes one hand to lift your thigh up just enough to give him space to rub his cock between your wet folds. “Miguel…!” You gasp while you feel just how hard he was. He shushes you. “I know, nena. Look what you do to me. Feel what you did to me.” He buries himself in your neck, nipping at your skin and you tilt your head back. More of your arousal soaks his cock, creating wet sounds while you grind on each other and Miguel shudders. He bites into your shoulder and fights against his instinct to shove his cock inside and fuck you into your own mattress. Miguel kisses the spot he bit, his breathing labored and heavy. “Tell me if it hurts, mama, okay?” You nod, your eyes screwed shut. “Uh-huh…” Slowly, Miguel looks down and makes sure his tip splits your folds apart as he enters inside you. Your breath hitches and you tighten your arms around his neck. “Miguel!” You whine while he penetrates you. He kisses your temple and stops when only his tip is inside you.

“You’re doing great, nena. No te preocupes, lo estás haciendo bien.” He reassures you with a shaky voice. It’s clear he’s holding back. You whimper apologies and Miguel kisses across your cheeks to try and return your focus on him instead of the new stretch you’re feeling. He praises you in a mix of Spanish and English–ones you can barely hear. He moves his hand down between your legs and gently rubs your clit with your thumb in hopes of loosening you up. With the added stimulation, you moan and hide in his neck with your eyes shut. You weakly thrust up, feeling a bit of relief and allowing Miguel to push further in. “Good, good,” He purrs. “Just like that, mama. Just let me in.” He groans and hisses when you clench around him. Miguel’s thumb switches between a fast and slow pace, sliding in his cock easily until you cry out and dig your nails into his skin, leaving small crescent shapes. “Stop, stop–” You whimper. “I’ll pull out–It’s okay–” “No!” You keep him close to you. “No, I just–I need a minute.” You sniffle, your body slowly adjusting around his girth. Miguel nods and pulls back enough to meet your eyes. “Okay. Okay, whatever you need. At your pace, remember?” He rests his forehead against yours. You open your eyes to see his cheeks flushed, a bit of sweat running down his temple and he shakes with every breath. Despite his current state of desire, he’s putting you first–he’s putting your comfort first. “Thank you.” You whine softly. Miguel huffs, leaning down to kiss the corner of your eyes. “Don’t thank me for that, nena. Never.” Miguel continues to pamper you with kisses, murmuring about how beautiful you are, how well you’re taking him, how he can’t get enough of you. He nuzzles into your neck, rolling lazily over your clit and does gentle thrusts of whatever you were able to handle. After a few moments, you grab his attention by running your hands through his hair, fingernails scratching over his shaved parts. “Okay…more, please.” He lifts himself up and holds your hips with both his hands. His thumbs caress your hip bones as he pushes himself deeper. You moan and tilt your head back, biting your lip as the combination of pain and pleasure hits your stomach and through every nerve in your body. It felt like forever until he reached the hilt, the light smack of his balls hitting your pussy. Miguel smiles. “Good girl,” he licks his lips. “Mirame.” Your head tilts back down to see both of you finally connected. “Holy shit…” You whisper, the sight making you clench. Miguel moans and grips your hips tighter, his head falling forward as he takes a deep breath. “Fuck, don’t tighten around me like that.” “Sorry!” You squeak and he chuckles. He raises his head back up, hair falling in front of his face and a lazy smile on his face that shows his fangs–his piercings glinting in the dim moonlight. “Don’t be. It’s just, you feel so fucking good–you’ll make me cum.”

You cover your face and resist the urge to scream. The heat emanating from your face made you sweaty. Miguel takes your wrists and pins them to the side of your head. He cocks a pierced eyebrow up with a smirk. It softens when he sees just how flushed your expression is. “‘m gonna move, okay?” You gulp and give him the green light. Miguel looks down and slowly pulls out, watching your slick drench his condom covered cock. “Jesus…” He groans under his breath. He looks back up to see if there’s any sign of discomfort on your end but he’s met with your eyes glued between your legs as well. Your eyebrows are scrunched up in pleasure, mouth agape with shallow breaths while you watch him slowly ease out of you. Miguel’s eyes darken with lust and he pushes back in once his tip was kissing your heat. He watches as you roll your head back, your eyes rolling behind your skull when you felt his cock filling you up again. “Oh my God…” You moan. “Miguel…” Miguel’s heart jumps and his hands tighten around your wrists. Still, he’s careful. For a few minutes, Miguel continues his slow thrusting. He pulls out sweet moans and whimpers from you, getting you used to his massive size and stretching your cunt out to the shape of him. His tip nudges against your cervix and you jump which makes him grin. After those few minutes, you began writhing underneath him. The pain had subsided and now this soft stroking was sweet but it wasn’t doing anything for you anymore. Your hands clenched and unclenched into fists.

“Miguel, Mig–more,” You begged. “Faster.” “You sure?” He slows to a stop and you furrow your eyebrows in annoyance which he doesn’t notice. He’s about to ask again after your lack of response when you lock your ankles around his waist, shoving him back inside you. You and Miguel moan in unison, Miguel nearly falling on top of you if he didn’t catch himself by resting on his elbows by your head. His breath fanned your face and he looked down into your eyes with a heavy blush. “More.” You moan and Miguel quickly goes to work. He leans on one elbow and places his other hand down to your hip to start picking up his pace. Miguel attaches his lips to your chest, biting the plump flesh of your tits before taking your nipple in his mouth once again. Your hands go around his back, your nails raking down his spine that leave red streaks. He pushes himself further against you, folding you in half while he increases his speed, abusing your pussy by slamming his cock in and out of you. Your squealing and moaning becomes music to Miguel’s ears. He groans and licks his tongue around your nipple, lapping it back in his mouth to suck on it. His nails dig into your waist while the sound of skin slapping signaling just how desperate he is to fill you with his cock. “Atta girl,” He moans after moving up to your neck with wet open mouthed kisses. “Knew you could take all of me. Knew you would sound so pretty crying all over my cock.” He smirks, looking up to see your eyes rolled back, tears brimming your eyes in ecstasy instead of pain this time. Your pussy spasms around him as you whimper.

“Mig–Mig–” You babble mindlessly. The only thing on your mind is Miguel, Miguel and Miguel. “So–so good…” You slur, vision going hazy while the lust clouded your mind. Miguel’s ego inflates, his dick twitching inside you. Even with a condom he could still feel your pussy contract around him, your warm walls sucking him in deeper. Your hips wiggle and buck weakly to match his thrusts but ultimately Miguel does all the work, sending your mind spinning while he practically fucks all your thoughts, fears, and insecurities from your brain—turning you into a dumb cock-drunk mess. Through the haze, you can hear your juices sloppily smacking between you and Miguel–an erotic sound of wet plaps, his balls becoming slick and sticky with your arousal. “God, you feel so good,” He moans, hips stuttering. “It’s like your cunt is just begging for my cum. You want it? Huh? This tight little pussy gonna milk me dry?” He quickened his pace, humping against you in fast short thrusts. You scratch his back, multiple lines of red marking his skin while your toes curl. “Yes, please, please, please–I wanna,” You babble through gasps. “It’s so good–I wanna cum–Don’t stop…!” Your voice becomes high pitched, your hips lifting to grind yourself on him. The both of you fucking one another exactly like horny college kids. Miguel growls, nipping at your neck to add more hickeys to your body. “Never. Holy shit–you’re so fucking sexy,” He cuts himself off with a groan, his sweaty forehead falling to your shoulder while he humps you. “Never letting you go. This pussy is mine.” His thumb finds your clit again, his fingers slowly being drenched with your messy juices that had spread all around your labia, smearing around your pussy with the help of Miguel’s unstable thrusting. His cold rings bumped against your hot skin, the difference in temperature becoming another factor in your raw lust. Your screams of pleasure bounced off the walls. “C’mon pretty girl. Cum for me. I know you’re close.” He pants in your ear.

“Mig–gy!” You choke out, eyes squinted in ecstasy as Miguel helps you reach your climax. It wasn’t anything you’ve experienced before. White hot numbing pleasure waving through your body as you spasmed. Your orgasm shook your entire body and you clutched onto him tightly, your legs keeping him near, nails finding purchase in his back and arching your breasts up to his chest, nipples sensitive to the touch. Miguel followed right after: rubbing your clit faster and his balls ached with a tightness before releasing his seed into the condom, his cock twitching as it spurts out his cum. He moans loudly, his body shivering and shaking along with you but he still helps you come down from the high, pumping weakly as he empties himself. Your body falls limp, head lolled back while Miguel breaths heavily. He pulls out as gently as you can but your virgin cunt wasn’t used to such stimulation, each inch back caressed your sensitive nerves up until he finally left with a pop. Miguel’s hands shook as he took off the condom, body now covered in cold sweat now that the heat of the momentum was gone. He stumbled off your bed and tied the condom shut then dumped it in the small bin in your dorm room. He slipped back in your bed beside you, smiling to himself when you took deep breaths with your eyes closed. “Hey, you alright?” He asks with a soft wheeze. “Huh?” You barely heard him over the heartbeat pounding in your head. The blood flow goes through your body normally once again. “Hm? Oh. Mhm. Yeah.” Miguel chuckles, resting on one elbow with his cheek in his palm and brushes your sweaty hair back from your face. “Yeah? You were amazing.”

“Really?” You try to look up at him through the exhaustion in your eyes. Who knew sex could take all your energy? Miguel grabs your folded fuzzy blanket and unravels it to drape it on top of you two. “Really. I’m honored to be your first.” You blush at the reminder that you hadn’t had sex before and the reminder that you were no longer a virgin. You stare at his face while his hands caress your cheeks, his thumb rubbing the side of your neck right under your jawline. “Do you really like me?” You find yourself asking him. Miguel’s hand stops moving and he looks surprised. “Yeah,” He confirms gently. “I wouldn’t fuck you if I didn’t. I don’t have sex with just anyone.” He pulls your cheek. You frown and pout at him. “I'm serious!” Miguel chuckles. “I know, I know.” He tilts your chin up with his index finger and leans down to kiss you sweetly for a quick peck. He knows what’s really on your mind. “My pretty girl.” He hums as he stares down at you to admire the afterglow of your orgasm. “All mine. My pretty girl.” He dunks his head down to your chest, wrapping his arms around you to pull you in his embrace and snuggles you.

Your heart flutters. Pretty. It hits you then that Miguel really does think you’re pretty. You feel his ear piercings against your chest and the rings on his fingers running up and down the curve of your spine. His fingers find your white ribbon, crumpled under you and he twirls it around his ring finger. You struggle to hold back your smile as you hug him back, nuzzling your nose in his hair and falling asleep with the comfort of knowing someone genuinely finds you beautiful, inside and out.

a/n: im sorry i wasnt normal i just love a good trope and punk miguel i cant help but make him cute

#miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x y/n #miguel x reader #miguel o'hara x you #atsv miguel #miguel o'hara #miguel spiderman #miguel spiderverse #miguel ohara #spiderman 2099 #miguel o'hara smut #miguel o'hara imagine #spiderman 2099 x you #spiderman 2099 x reader #nonie requests ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

787 notes · View notes

ao-fc · 2 years

Photo

Umji

#Umji #gfriend #I want a girl with a short skirt and a long jacket

0 notes

moonstruckme · 19 days

Note

Hellooo, could you do something like protective!sirius??

Thanks for requesting!

Sirius Black x fem!reader ♡ 547 words

Sirius takes off his helmet, leaving his motorcycle idling beneath him when he hears your front door open. But when he turns and sees you, he switches off the ignition.

“You’re not getting on here in that,” he says as the rumbling dies out.

You pout like you were prepared for the argument. Sirius is willing to bet you were. “Come on, I like this outfit!”

“Me too, baby.” He cradles his helmet in one hand, reaching for you. You come warily, as eager for a kiss as he is but unwilling to show it. “You look really cute.”

And it’s the truth. You’re kind of driving him crazy. Your tight top hugs your figure, cropped to tease just a sliver of skin above the waistband of your miniskirt. The skirt itself is short enough that the material piles on Sirius’ jeans as you kiss him, and he trails a devilish hand along your backslide, slipping beneath the hem to grab a handful of asscheek. Your squeak turns into a giggle as he pecks you on the lips.

“But we’re gonna have to walk if you want to wear that,” he says. “You know the rules with the bike.” Your sour expression renews, and Sirius kisses you again in hopes of dissipating it. It works, if only slightly. “You can wear my jacket to cover your arms, but you’re gonna need some pants, sweetness.”

“It’s hot,” you complain. “And it’s not like it’s a long ride. Just don’t crash.”

“I never crash.”

“Exactly!”

“But I’d feel like shit if this was the time I did.” Sirius grips you tighter, willing you to look at him and making his expression extra sincere when you do. “C’mon, baby. We can walk if you want to, but I’m not gonna be responsible for flaying the world’s prettiest girl. Think of what the papers would do to me.”

You huff and turn around, and Sirius gives your ass a parting smack as you go back inside. When you emerge a minute later, you’re sulky. You ignore his helping hand, straddling the bike by yourself. Sirius doesn’t feel this is strictly his fault, but he makes a mental note to buy you one of those cookies you like from the shop downtown anyway.

He passes his leather jacket back to you, but when he tries to do the same with his helmet no hands grab it.

“Hey.” He waves it around a bit. “Are you ready to go?”

“Keep it. I don’t want to ruin my hair.”

Sirius scoffs. “Impossible. You look gorgeous no matter what, but if you want me to fix it once we get there I can do that.” He’s never going to turn down a chance to play with your hair. “You need the helmet.”

“I’m fine. You should use it.”

Sirius rolls his eyes. He twists around and takes your jaw in his hand.

“Pest,” he says lovingly, kisses you on the lips, and plants the helmet on your head.

He can hear you grumbling behind him, but you wrap your arms around his middle, pressing close to his back like he taught you.

“Love you too,” Sirius says, and gives your hands a squeeze as the engine roars back to life. “I’ll try not to crash.”

741 notes · View notes

heich0e · 9 months

Text

“Didn’t expect to see you out here.”

Your head pops up as the unexpected voice makes itself known, twisting your face towards the sound only to see a figure standing at the end of the alley. He’s silhouetted where he stands—a shape more than a person. You can tell he’s tall, broad, and has a knot of hair tied up loosely at his crown.

Geto Suguru steps into the light where you can see him better, though it makes his sudden appearance no less surprising.

“Did you drink too much?” he asks, treading a few steps closer as he eyes you worriedly. You pull yourself up from where you’d been crouching on the ground.

“No, no. Just getting some air,” you reply with a stiff smile, dipping in a bow and quickly adjusting your pencil skirt once you’re back upright.

He has his tie loosened over his shirt with the top button undone, and his suit jacket is nowhere to be seen. He considers you for a moment, and his attention makes you want to fidget but you fight the urge.

You watch as he pulls packet of cigarettes from the breast pocket of his shirt and offers it out to you. “Do you smoke?”

“No, thank you,” you say with a quick shake of your head, smoothing your hands along the front of your skirt and then moving to step past him back towards the entrance of the restaurant. “I should go.”

He angles his body in your way before you can.

“No need to leave on my account,” he says, peering down at you. His face is partially in shadow because of how he’s standing, angled between you and the mouth of the alleyway that leads back to the busy street, caught in a small dark patch between the streetlights and the light affixed to the grungy brick wall. He tips his face up and the light touches his features once more, catching in his brown eyes as he waits in anticipation of your response.

“I should get back inside.” It’s strangely difficult to meet his gaze, so instead you look past him towards the street as an unwelcome heat surges up your throat to flood your face. A car passes quickly by the alley, and you watch as the headlights come and go in a flash.

“Why?” the man before you asks, placing the cigarette he’d fished out of the pack to his lips. He uses his teeth to keep it there while he fumbles through his pockets for a lighter. “You’re clearly having a terrible time in there.”

Your eyes snap up to meet his in shock.

“No I’m not,” your reply is notably indignant, even though his accusation is valid.

How would he know anyway?

“The smiley, nice-girl bit’s gotta be getting old, isn’t it? Pouring everyones drinks. Cleaning up everyones messes.” He laughs, though it’s only to himself, before clicking his lighter to life and holding it to the tip of his cigarette until it catches. The cherry burns red and bright on an inhale, and smoke slips from his lips as he adds, “You don’t have to lie to me, I’m not your boss.”

“I’m not lying,” you insist, but your performance isn’t particularly convincing.

Truthfully, the very last thing you wanted to do after a ten-hour work day—capping off a fifty-hour work week—was come out drinking with your colleagues. You’ve never really liked these kinds of gatherings, even if the company is the one footing the bill. They always get a bit too rowdy for your liking. Always drag on a bit too long. And you know that you’ll inevitably be the one stuck forcing your plastered boss into a taxi in the wee hours of the morning, while the rest of your equally-sloshed coworkers find their own ways home.

But the department chair, the very same one you’re sure will be singing karaoke with his tie around his forehead in only a few short hours, had been adamant that everyone in marketing attend the gathering since the sales section was joining in too.

Hence the sales employee standing toe-to-toe with you, blocking your path.

You know Geto Suguru, but only indirectly. The sales and marketing departments are separated by a single floor in your company’s office building, and often work on projects together. Geto is a section lead in sales, with a long, illustrious history behind him before he worked his way up to that role. He’s made a lot of money for the company, and a lot of friends along the way—what with his easy charm, silver tongue, and undeniable good looks. His reputation precedes him—in both good ways and bad.

The fact that he’s here talking to you—a fresh-faced, relatively new-to-role nobody in comparison to his lengthy history with the business—is what you have a hard time wrapping your head around.

“Sure, sure.” Geto waves his hand dismissively, ash fluttering off in tiny specks from the end of his lit cigarette. “I’m sure you just love making all those copies, remembering coffee orders, and running that section lead of yours’s errands too. Oh, and don’t forget when he takes credit for your ideas.”

Your stomach drops.

He keeps going.

“This upcoming brand collaboration is exciting,”—he takes a puff of his cigarette, his eyes sparkling as he looks at you—“too bad no one knows it was you who came up with it, huh?”

Your fists clench tightly at your sides, your lips pressing together in a thin line.

Geto blows the last of the smoke in his lungs from the corner of his pursed lips, away from you.

“That’s the first honest expression I’ve seen on your face all night,” he says with a sly smile tugging at his lips.

Your hands are shaking.

“Why are you doing this?” you ask him weakly.

He tilts his head to the side, like your question confounds him.

“I’m not doing anything,” he says, and he sounds like he genuinely means it. “Have I said anything that isn’t true?”

You bite your lip, staring down at your pretty, professional pumps as you stand on the craggy pavement of the alley.

“You’re allowed to be angry, but don’t direct it at me for pointing out the people who keep screwing you over,” Geto says, and the way his voice sounds a bit nearer and the smell of his cigarette gets stronger tells you that he’s dipped down closer to you even though you don’t watch him do it. “No one’s gonna hand anything to you if you don’t fight for it.”

You glance up at him, your expression and your tone equally flat. “And what if I’m not a fighter?”

“Oh, I don’t believe that,” he says, chuckling a bit as he backs away from you.

You watch him as he watches you—contemplates you, like he’s sizing you up. He drops cigarette suddenly to the ground, still only half-burned, and crushes it with the toe of his shoe. You hold your breath as he takes another step towards you.

He leans forward.

“Hit me.”

“Pardon me?” The bewildered question rushes out of you all in one gasping breath, and you take a loping step back in shock.

“Come on, just one,” the man goads you further, rapping against his jaw with the knuckle of his index finger as a smile twists his lips up at the corners.

“You’re drunk,” you spit out incredulously, shaking your head and quickly moving to step past him.

“I’m not.” He sidles smoothly into your path once more before you get the chance to flee, like he’s half-a-step ahead of you at all times.

It’s infuriating.

“Alright, then you’re just insane,” you offer instead.

You knew the sales department had a reputation for being a bit wild, but this is beyond all your expectations. This is nothing like the charming, easy going Geto that you’ve heard all your female colleague gossiping about in the break room.

His smile falls, and he crosses his arms over his chest. You try not to pay too much attention to the way his forearms look with his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows.

“I’m still your senior, y’know,” he says, and his voice is a little bit colder now. More admonishing.

You’re very acutely aware of that fact without him saying it.

You huff out a frustrated little breath through your nose, crossing your own arms over your chest in a mirror of his stance.

“I’m not hitting you.”

Geto’s brow quirks curiously.

“Why not?”

You can’t believe you’re having this conversation.

“Because that’s assault,” you counter his question shortly.

“It’s only assault if I press charges—which I won’t.” You know he’s telling the truth but it doesn’t make it any more convincing. He tilts his head to the side again, and a silky strand of his dark hair slips into his eyes. “Haven’t you ever hit anyone before? It’s cathartic.”

Your lips part in an expression of astonishment. “Of course I haven’t.”

The man in front of you looks mildly surprised at your answer.

“Do I look like someone who goes around fighting people?” you ask him incredulously.

“You look like you’ve got some repressed rage in you,” he says with a smirk, and the expression only worsens when he sees the way you react to it.

He taps his cheek again before tucking both his hands behind his back and leaning in close to you, like a man offering himself up to the executioner’s block. He shuts his eyes.

“C’mon, just a little one.”

“I won’t.”

“You should.”

“I won’t.”

“How come?”

You take his face in your hands suddenly, tilting it up to meet your gaze.

“Geto-san,” you say quietly, your tone bordering on desperate. “I’m not going to hit you, so please stop asking.”

He opens his eyes slowly, his dark lashes fluttering as he blinks up at you. After a moment he smiles, and his eyes curve into narrow crescents as he leans subtly into your touch.

It’s quiet in the alley, but your heartbeat is quick underneath your skin.

“Can you blame a guy for trying?” he asks you coyly.

You’re still cupping his cheeks in your hands.

They’re warm.

“You really are crazy,” you reply softly to his question, though it’s not much of a reply at all.

He hums, turning his face so his nose drags across your wrist. His lips brush against your palm as he speaks once more. “I’ve been called worse.”

You don’t doubt he’s telling the truth.

Slowly, the dark haired man picks himself up to his usual height. He’s closer to you now than he’s ever been—and thanks to the little cat and mouse game that the two of you have been playing, you’re very nearly pressed against the alley wall. You can’t even see the street anymore beyond the expanse of his wide shoulders.

Everywhere you look, you only see him.

The realization sits hot and heavy in the pit of your stomach.

“I know you’re a good girl, but what are we gonna do about all that stuff you’ve got pent up in there?” Geto lifts his hand and presses a featherlight touch to your sternum over your diaphragm, his fingertips trailing delicately against the smooth plane where the arch of your ribs ends. Your breath hitches painfully as you stare up at him, a sticky knot at the back of your throat preventing you from forming any response—not that you can think of anything to say.

Geto smiles down at you, his expression soft.

You see the faintest flash of sharp teeth behind his pink lips.

“Don’t you want me to help you let it out?”

#geto x reader #geto suguru x reader #suguru geto x reader #jjk drabble #jjk writing #writing #f!reader

2K notes · View notes

skzdarlings · 3 months

Text

verisimilitude ; hyunjin x reader ; one-shot

masterlist.

( READ ON AO3. )

You are a self-identified no-nonsense curmudgeon. Your best friend is an eccentric pretty boy. You accidentally send him an explicit video of yourself. What's the worst that can happen?

pairing: hwang hyunjin/reader content info: romantic comedy. best friends to lovers. curly-haired reader because mood. accidental sexting. accidental voyeurism. sexual tension. resolved sexual tension. very explicit sexual content. not so much dom/sub but hyunjin explicitly prefer control. sexual discovery. very horny leads lol. (word count: 19500 words.)

You look like Hyunjin’s lawyer again.

Your best friend has gravitated to a somewhat more punk persona in recent years. You say somewhat because you are not sure it runs deeper than aesthetic, though he would probably be forgiven on account of his perfect face. His good looks combined with his natural charisma lets him get away with most things.

His vibrant red hair catches the sunlight like a painted flame, a perfect stroke of red against the beige canvas of the art gallery’s exterior. He is slouching against the wall, hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, squinting in the light. He looks like a rather put upon a vampire given the dark garb and eyeliner.

Then he turns his head and sees you. You are wearing one of your usual blazers and modest skirts, your untameable mess of curls twisted into an updo that is fighting (and losing) against the wind. You try not to feel too preposterous, peeling bits of hair out of your mouth as you approach him.

He smiles. Some people think his smiles look a bit smarmy and you suppose they are not wrong, his lips perpetually quirked like a punchline just occurred to him, but you know your best friend well. Despite the intimidating ring of dark eye-make up, his eyes are alight with a great deal of affection. If you were prone to sentimentality, you might concede a heart flutter.

You clear your throat and march ahead. He saunters up the path to you. You meet halfway.

“Hi, pretty girl,” he says.

He is the only person allowed to call you that.

“Hello, Hyunjin,” you say. You lack his playful charm so you do not have a nickname to return. You are more comfortable around Hyunjin than anyone else on earth, and you are still awkward around him. “Thank you for the invitation,” you say. “I appreciate you might have otherwise wanted the time to yourself, so I hope I am not imposing by accepting.”

He laughs. When all you do is blink at him, stone-faced, he covers his mouth with a delicate touch of his long fingers, still smirking behind them.

“Sorry, why wouldn’t I want you to say yes?” he asks. “We always go to the new exhibitions together.”

You tuck back an errant curl only for another to whip across your brow.

“Well,” you say, tucking that one back too. “Since I am temporarily living with you, I thought my company might grow wearisome in a way it usually does not. Familiarity breeding contempt and all that.”

Though you state this observation with your usual pragmatic detachment, you are very insecure about it. You gave this risk a great deal of consideration prior to moving in with Hyunjin. You are only staying in his apartment’s spare bedroom for a few months while your disaster of a townhouse undergoes repairs (the upstairs bathroom flooded again), but you have never lived with Hyunjin before. You are aware of your short-comings and you were very worried that your best friend was going to tire of you within a week.

It has been a month now and he has shown no signs of despising your existence, but it is still best to brace oneself for every eventuality.

He just smiles and puts both hands in his pockets.

“Are you getting sick of me?” he asks.

Another ringlet whips across your face.

“Good grief,” you say, frantically pushing it aside. “Of course not! How could anyone ever get sick of you?” What a preposterous thought. Hyunjin just has to wink for the universe to re-arrange itself. People adore him. He is handsome and funny and charming and talented and intelligent. You have known him for most of your life and you are still unearthing his many intricate layers. As if you could ever grow tired of him. “I think that’s the most foolish thing you’ve ever said,” you say with complete sincerity.

He laughs some more, tossing his head back so all that red hair flutters behind him. The wind co-operates with his hair, of course, working in tandem with the sunlight to flatter him.

“Are you sure? I’ve said a lot of foolish things,” he says.

You sputter when a curl flies into your mouth. You push it away.

“Yes, well,” you say. “That much is true too.”

He looks at you for a moment. You can’t imagine why. The sunlight is beaming right in your eyes and the wind is beating you to a pulp. Maybe you look so hideous that he is contemplating a means of escape.

Then one hand lifts out of his pocket, long fingers reaching for you. It is very unexpected. You stare into his face, a stoic mask concealing your confusion. His eyes do not meet yours, his gaze on a loose curl. He is gentle in the way he scoops it up and smoothly tucks it behind your ear. A shiver erupts under the brush of his fingertips, that heart flutter loosing itself when his touch lingers.

Then he smiles and puts his hand back in his pocket.

“Sweet?” he asks.

“Excuse me?”

“Do you want a sweet?” He whips an open bag of gummies out of his pocket.

“Oh.” You look at the bag. “Um. No.”

“Are you sure?” He shakes the bag. “It’s your favourite.”

“Oh.” Your attention went awry with the race of your heart but you do observe the candy is one you enjoy. “Okay. Thank you.” You take a few and pop them in your mouth.

He upturns the bag over his mouth, finishing off the sugar. You hope your eyes don’t widen at the flick of his tongue. Oh, it really is cumbersome when your nether region gets an idea about Hyunjin. You try to ignore the heat down there.

“Come on, pretty girl,” he says, already striding away. The man is at least 80% per cent leg so it puts him ahead rather quickly.

You are too refined to scamper-and-scurry, but you might pitter-and-patter to catch up.

You are able to lose yourself in the art exhibition. You and Hyunjin share a meal afterward, discussing everything at length. Hyunjin is a little quieter than usual so you apologize for speaking too much. He is gazing at you, his chin is propped in his hand. Surprise flickers in his expression when you apologize, but he recovers, waving his hand like it’s no matter.

You return to his home and separate for the evening. You to your studies, him to his evening work-out.

You are in the apartment’s quaint living room when Hyunjin gets back from the gym. He is an absolute sight, bare-faced, his red hair yanked into a half-ponytail. There is a subtle, rolling musculature to his arms, proudly displayed in his sleeveless shirt, and he is glistening with sweat from top to bottom. It should be gross. You pride yourself on cleanliness.

But good grief. He is gorgeous.

You are sitting cross-legged on the couch, comfortably dressed down in a sweatshirt and pyjama pants. You peek at him over the top of your book only to find him already staring at you. He is rubbing the back of his neck with a towel, his arm flexed. When he catches you looking, his lips pull into a lazy smile.

You duck behind your book again. It is a poor shield, or maybe he is a cunning adversary, because your heart keeps racing anyway.

“Whatcha reading?” he asks. You can hear his slow approach. The towel is tossed somewhere.

“A book,” you say.

“Funny,” he says. He is in front of you now. You have no time to strategize before he plucks the book out of your hand and holds it over his head.

“Hyunjin!” You muster all the indignant attitude you can. “That’s not funny. We’re not children anymore. Return my book at once.”

“I want a hug first,” he says, his full lips in a silly pout.

“Out of the question.” You hope you do not sound as flustered as you feel. “You’re disgusting. Look at the state of you.”

“Please?” He blinks his long lashes at you.

You stand up and try to look imposing, hands on your hips. His smile does not diminish. He waves the book in the air.

You lunge, diving at the book and failing spectacularly. He holds it out of reach, laughing, then he tries to wrap you up in a hug. He smells like sweat and exertion and it makes you think of sex. This is sufficiently startling enough to cause a fumble. You spill backwards, a frantic hand thoughtlessly grasping for an anchor. Your fingers hook in the neck of his shirt which has the predictable outcome of dragging him with you onto the couch.

His more athletic reflexes kick in, just enough that he drops the book and catches himself with his hands. He successively suspends his weight above you, which is nice, but you still thump your head on the arm of the couch, which is less nice.

“Are you okay?” he asks when you hiss and grab your head. The laughter has left his voice, replaced with genuine concern.

“No,” you say, petulantly. “A horrible sweaty man stole my book and beat me up.”

He laughs, a twinkling sound that enchants you despite everything.

“Poor baby,” he says. “That sounds so disgusting. Will a hug help…?”

“Don’t you dare—hmmf!” He lowers himself and squishes you. You can’t help the laughter that bubbles out of you, partially because he swipes his nose on your neck and it tickles, largely because his laughter is infectious. “Oh,” you say, pushing his face away. “You are a horrible person.”

He giggles with boyish mirth. It is at odds with the man he is, all hard planes and sturdy lines, an unfamiliar twinkle in his dark eyes. You look back at him, at a loss for words. Even if you were the sort of person to confess attraction, you would surely seem strange for finding his dishevelled appearance so desirable.

Finally, you push him, diverting your gaze with an eye roll.

“All right,” you say. “That’s quite enough now. There’s a shower at your disposal and I recommend you make use of it sooner than later. Go on, get.”

He obliges, but not without a cheeky kiss to your forehead. It flusters you more than a chaste kiss should.

He just winks, because of course the charmer is unaffected by such an innocent touch. Hyunjin is too gushy and romantic to womanize, but he is certainly liberal with his sexual appetite. You had the displeasure of running into a one-night stand your first weekend here. Hyunjin left for work and let her sleep, assuming she would show herself out. She was a pretty chatterbox and she bounded into the kitchen to strike up a very one-sided conversation with you in your bathrobe.

He did apologize for that. He knows you do not like unexpected visitors at the best of times, never mind first thing in the morning, and certainly never mind ones he knew intimately. Fortunately, it was the first and last time you made scrambled eggs for his hook-up.

You are not in the habit of hook-ups, to say the very least, preferring a serving of scrambled eggs for one. You had one boyfriend a few years ago but he was not the sort of man to tackle you onto the couch in a sweaty, flirtatious tangle. You would have bopped him on the nose for trying, in fact. Hyunjin really does get away with everything.

Your nethers are getting ideas again. The territory below your belt is usually well-behaved but unfortunately it lacks any sense when it comes to Hyunjin. More time spent in proximity appears to be worsening its condition.

You assume a blank face in the hopes of concealing any trace of arousal, watching Hyunjin amble his sweaty way to the bathroom.

Oh dear. You are very wound up. Something will have to be done or you will never sleep tonight.

You are blessedly granted an opportunity to satisfy your baser urges when Hyunjin emerges fully dressed for an evening out. Some friends are at a bar down the street and they invited Hyunjin to join them. Hyunjin tries to cajole you into joining him, promising it’s just a few drinks and teasing that your book won’t go anywhere, but your book is not how you intend to pass the time alone so his encouragement does not tempt you.

“I’ll be back soon,” he says, shrugging on a leather vest. His back is to you so you openly admire his form, his arms on display, his long legs, his ringed fingers as they gather his hair to tie in a knot. He turns around before leaving, giving you one last finger-wiggle wave and a bounce of his eyebrows.

He looks sinfully good. You hope you look casual. Innocently awaiting a quiet evening.

Fifteen minutes later you are sitting in front of the full-length bedroom mirror, admiring yourself in a white satin babydoll. Flaws like frizzy curls or unflattering shapes seem insignificant in the soft lighting and lingerie. Your curls seem curlier, your face lovelier, your body more tempting than ever.

Though the idea of pursuing a real fling is mortifying, you lament the lack of company in an abstract way. You feel pretty and ready and wound up. When such a fancy strikes, the best form of satisfaction is found in self-appreciation.

The taboo of filming yourself always triples your arousal. Even if there is no real audience, you can’t help but feel regarded.

Eyes closed, phone camera filming, you imagine a certain pair of dark eyes on you. You make the vaguest attempt to think of something else, peripherally aware that you shouldn’t fantasize about your best friend like this, but the attempt is useless. It will always be Hyunjin. Hyunjin with his fiery red hair, his smirks, his expressive brows and dark eyes. Hyunjin’s hands, his fluid hips, his athleticism. Hyunjin in black and leather, so contrary to your modest simplicity. Hyunjin sweaty and raw and determined, pinning you under him.

Hyunjin, the person you know and like and love more than anything.

You lift the babydoll and twist, filming yourself through the mirror, showing where a thick toy disappears inside of you. You rock a little, so wet you can hear it, every nerve tingling as you become someone else in your reflection. With the apartment to yourself, you don’t restrain any noises, especially when you sit back and fuck yourself with the toy. You stop filming because you need that hand to finish, but you are so close that it only takes a few touches to climax.

You slump back, satisfied for a while, then a little embarrassed. You have a quick shower then climb into bed where you can’t help but watch your video. You imagine a particular someone else watching it and it winds you up all over again. You are still wet and sensitive, your fingers slipping smoothly into your shorts. Your put the phone down and think of Hyunjin’s long fingers, his breath on your neck and his lips grazing your skin as he works his lovely hand inside you.

When you are finished, truly finished, you feel momentarily miserable in your loneliness. You try to imagine a version of yourself that went with Hyunjin to the bar, but even that fantasy only gets you so far. Nothing would have happened. Nothing has ever happened.

Hyunjin interrupts your wallowing stream of self-pity. He texts you a rather exasperated-looking selfie, captioning it with, I miss you, I’d rather be at home.

It makes you smile. It is probably foolish, but suppressing it is useless so you surrender to the warm glow in your chest.

You text back a heart. He replies, you never told me what you were reading. He must be truly bored if he is texting about your books, but you dutifully reply like there is nothing unusual about the question. He sends back a smiling emoji and a string of hearts.

You fall asleep after that. You wake in the morning to a slew of missed text messages, Hyunjin insisting that he is having the worst night of his life because you didn’t come with him. This is nonsense, of course, but he attacks you with an arsenal of teary-eyed emojis so you send an obligatory heart his way. You are too sleepy to formulate a rejoinder, much less type one, so it will have to suffice.

You click through your phone to wake up, still foggy after exhausting all notifications. You open your photo album and find your video from last night. You click on it just as a message alert swings down. You instinctively swipe it away, but your clumsy finger opens the messenger. You click around a little haphazardly, finger flying everywhere.

After a bit of sleepy swiping, you close everything then check the message. The text you just swiped was from Hyunjin, some goofy good morning remark with a squinty-eyed selfie under it. Hyunjin does his make-up so severely these days so you like his softer, bare-faced selfies, especially because you know he sends them to no one else. He will post elaborate photos all over his social media, but the simple stuff is for you.

But you have no time to enjoy the selfie, because you are distracted by your own unwitting reply.

Oh no.

You snap up so quickly that it nearly causes whiplash. You are wide awake now, staring at the paused video of you in a white satin babydoll.

You slap a hand over your mouth. For a long moment, all you can do is stare. Your head feels fuzzy, a radiating aura of fantastical insanity clouding your periphery. Then you realize it is actually just your hair, because you fell asleep so suddenly and didn’t put on your bonnet.

You look in the mirror. You look like someone electrocuted you. Fitting, because that’s what you feel like.

Your phone buzzes. In your silent but sublime mania, you dropped your phone facedown on the blanket. You are tempted to hurl the demonic device across the room but that will solve nothing.

You pick up the phone. This is probably what execution feels like.

Hyunjin, perpetually artistic in every capacity, even the literary, summarizes the exchange with one poetic text:

You fling yourself facedown on the bed and kick your legs like a petulant child. The sky does not open, you are not struck by lightning, and the earth does not gobble you up, so you roll over and shakily type a reply.

That was an accident, you write. Surprisingly, once you start typing, it is hard to stop. You continue:

Oh my good gracious, Hyunjin.

Hyunjin, I am so sorry. I cannot apologize to you enough.

I assure you that was a complete accident.

I would never accost you so unsuspectingly with unprovoked licentious content.

An ellipses appears in the corner, Hyunjin typing a reply. It feels like your stomach has folded in on itself. You lay there with your hand cupped over it, willing yourself to explode. But no, it would be very rude to explode in Hyunjin’s spare bedroom. Bad enough you have attacked him with your inappropriate spank fodder, it would be uncouth to make him clean your spattered guts off the wall.

Hyunjin finally replies, that makes sense… you aren’t the unprovoked licentious content type usually…

I assure you I am not, you reply. I keep these videos to myself. I would never intentionally spring them on you.

There’s more than one?? he replies, and you are mortified all over again. Maybe you should just explode after all.

I assure you I will keep those where they are, you reply. I cannot apologize enough. If you want me to leave, I will pack my things immediately. You are not one for extreme emotion, but you feel an unfamiliar stabbing in your eyes. You realize with horror that it is the threat of tears as you imagine Hyunjin banishing you from his life forever. Other people come and go but there is only one Hyunjin. He is irreplaceable in your esteem, even if he dresses like a goth Las Vegas showgirl.

His replies come flying in, one after the other:

Whoa whoa

it’s okay

calm down

pretty girl hey hey hey

I don’t want you going anywhere

You take a breath and calm yourself. You do Hyunjin a great disservice by thinking he would destroy your friendship over an accident. You blame your embarrassment for your poor rationality.

I should be apologizing to you, he says. He continues swiftly:

I kinda clicked on it…?

I didn’t know what it was. But I stopped once I did

I feel really bad

See baby now we’re both embarrassed idiots <3

You can’t help but laugh, just a little, the entire mishap suddenly comically preposterous. You smile fondly at your phone. The unexpected address of baby gives you a heart flutter, but then the rest of it makes you pause. A different embarrassment creeps into the corner of your brain, something gross and mean that interprets his words ungenerously. Stopping would be the gentlemanly thing to do, so you should commend his restraint. Still, some half-insane part of you is offended that the only emotion it invoked in him was “bad”.

It made him feel bad. Goodness. Talk about an ego blow.

The least you can do is soothe his conscience. You have already put your foot in your mouth, not to mention toys in unspeakable places, so you figure another penetrative misstep cannot hurt the situation. You write, I don’t mind you watching it. I just feel horrific for sending it in the first place. I really am sorry.

The ellipses appears. Then disappears. Then appears. Then disappears. Then appears. Then disappears.

You start to wonder if you should check on him. He is just one room over, after all. But you would rather explode once and for all than face him right now.

The buzzer goes off in the main room, signalling a visitor outside. Hyunjin finally texts, one sec. Then you hear him clamouring around in the next room. Hyunjin is very graceful when he deigns to apply himself but other times he has the equilibrium of an overgrown gazelle. All those limbs clatter around his bedroom and you think he knocks a lamp over.

It sounds like the visitor is just a package delivery. You leave him to his devices. In the face of chaos, routine is a reliable companion. You get up to dress yourself for the day. Your hair is trying to force its way into a new dimension so it should take a while to fix.

Everything will be fine.

Everything is fine until it is not. Well, Hyunjin’s complexion is red as his hair when you meet face-to-face, but he recovers with an expected degree of poise and equanimity. Despite your own internal chaos, you feign a similar indifference.

Verisimilitude, you tell yourself. Pretend everything is fine and everything will be fine.

You think there might be an undercurrent of awkwardness to your interactions, but your social ineptitude makes it difficult to discern. Your usual frankness fails as deliberately enquiring after Hyunjin’s opinion would consequently highlight the very issue you are striving to ignore. Verisimilitude means nothing if you look him in the eye and ask if your pussy has made the friendship awkward.

After a few days of polite camaraderie, you opt to solve your problems by running away. You inform Hyunjin you will be occupied with a research project and thus mostly absent for the duration of its completion. By the time you emerge from the depths of the university library, hopefully this entire embarrassing situation will be forgotten.

You throw yourself into your academic distraction. A truly comprehensive research project encompasses obstacles, minute quandaries you inevitably resolve, but this time it feels like there are no answers to be found. No resolutions, no conclusions.

Your anxiety is ultimately exacerbated. Even your dreams suffer. You wake multiple nights in a row from nightmares caused by stress. Your usual pragmatic thoughtfulness abandons you in the dark, every shadow just another terror waiting to unleash itself.

You wake from yet another nightmare. Your heart is palpitating and you are too hot under your covers. You kick to freedom and swing out of bed, whipping your silk bonnet onto the floor in a rare display of aggression. You are frustrated with your seemingly inescapable burdens. You want to pick up your phone and text Hyunjin despite the late hour, but that is the one thing you vehemently cannot do right now.

You sigh and leave bed. It is the middle of the night so you cannot start the day, but maybe a glass of water will refresh you.

It seems your friend had the same idea. Hyunjin is puttering around the kitchen when you stumble into the soft golden lamplight.

“Hey,” he says, not unfriendly but maybe a little uncertain.

“Hello,” you duly reply.

You are definitely awake now. Hyunjin is standing there wearing a pair of black boxers and a t-shirt. His red hair is loose around his bare face, unkempt but somehow still charming. He is so effortlessly beautiful. You feel like a mongrel in your baggy shirt and panties, your hair down like a messy lion mane.

You try not to stare at him, meeting his gaze politely only to find him blinking quite wildly, a stuttering breath spilling over his full lips. He clamps his mouth shut and returns your stare, smiling a thin smile that does not reach his eyes.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

It is a thoughtless query, no doubt. The sort of inane question one poses because decorum dictates it is appropriate chatter. Are you okay. Yes, how are you.

But you are looking at the beautiful and completely unattainable man you are so irrevocably in love with, and you feel horrible and disgusting, and you sent an embarrassing video that somehow humiliated him even more than you, and even your reliable books and academic joys are lacking these days.

You can count on one hand the number of times you have cried over the years. It is not something that comes easily to you. You are not made of stone, despite the occasional lambaste at your expense, but your emotions seldom manifest according to the unspoken rules of human conduct. But right now your eyes strain and your throat feels rough. You sniff and shake your head.

“No,” you say. “I’m not okay.”

A single tear falls. From you, that is practically a waterfall.

Hyunjin snaps out of whatever trance had him so enthralled. You cannot see him clearly through your watery eyes, but you feel his hands as they wrap around your arms. Hyunjin is an artist, those long fingers deft and nimble and steady. You shiver when he brushes your hair off your neck, when he cups your face in his hand and strokes your cheek tenderly.

“Hey, hey, pretty girl,” he says. “What’s this? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you say automatically. You hate being a burden. Feelings belong in bottles, not streaming down faces in salty rivulets in the middle of the night when everyone is in their underwear.

But it is too late to spare your dignity. Hyunjin is wiping away your tears and looking at you with abject concern, his expressive dark brows furrowed and his eyes so intensely locked on yours. You heave a sigh.

“A lot of things,” you admit. “I’m sorry, Hyunjin. It’s just stress. My research. You know how it is.”

He does not look satisfied, all that concern still scrawled across his face. He swipes his thumb across your cheek again. Then he is pulling you towards his chest, arms open for an embrace that makes no demands but simply offers. You are usually stiff and awkward when people hug you, but Hyunjin is not just people. You fall into his arms and all but collapse there.

Your next sigh is filled with relief, your head on his shoulder and your hands curled up on his chest. He runs his palm down your hair, soothingly, his other arm secure around you.

You do not know how long you stand there. Long enough he stops catching his pinky on errant curls. Soon he is smoothly running his fingers down your hair, a gentle rhythm that lulls you to drowsiness even while standing on your feet.

“Come on,” Hyunjin says when he sees your drooping eyelids.

You blink to attention, looking at him questioningly. He gives you a quick smile then takes your hand. To your surprise, he leads you to his bedroom. The lights are off but the blinds are open and an ocean of blue moonlight floods the room. It is bright enough you can make your way around his bed without stubbing any toes.

While he folds back the bedcovers, you stop at his desk, brow crinkling at the scraps littering his work space. His canvas depicts something floral, half-painted and oversaturated but clearly a bundle of flowers. The rough sketches scribbled in the margins of his drafts do not depict flowers. They are little portraits, some doodled distractedly with wiggly lines, and others more precisely drawn, painstakingly, almost lovingly.

That’s me, you think, looking at the woman who overwhelms his art. It must be. The unmistakable cascade of curls makes it irrefutable. But the likeness is far too flattering to bear your full resemblance. This girl is extremely pretty, even if she does have your quirky, lopsided smile. Either Hyunjin has met your better looking doppelganger, or… this is simply how he sees you.

“This is your room,” you say instead of that drawing is me. It would be embarrassing if he denied it. It would be even more embarrassing if he confirmed it.

“Ha-ha, yes,” Hyunjin says, none-the-wiser. He is arranging pillows for you. By the time he looks your way, you are facing the bed. He beckons you over. “Come on,” he says. “Like the old days. It’ll make everything better. I promise.”

Your heart is working overtime in its rushing and pounding. You shuffle to the bed, smiling your quirky smile then feeling even more feverish, thinking about him having your smile memorized. Oh dear, why is that so deeply embarrassing? It should be a compliment. Maybe it is because no one else ever looks at you that closely, at least not with such affection.

You are not good with attention. You were bullied for your peculiarities quite badly in childhood. Invisibility became something you sought, because the alternative was always much worse. Attention meant derision. If someone was paying attention to your half-smiles or awkward reactions, it was for the express purpose of mocking them.

When you were ten years old, Hyunjin and his family moved in next door. Those ramshackle houses, long weathered and much loved, leaned towards each other as if magnetized. At the closet joining, the sill of your bedroom window touched his.

An elderly widow previous owned his house. She had a puppy who would scamper up to that window. You were quite devastated to learn a boy would be replacing the dog. Boys and dogs were both slobbery creatures, but at least puppies could fetch.

You were resolved to ignore your new neighbours. You spared a fleeting glance at the moving van then occupied yourself with a book.

A few hours later, your peace was forever disturbed. A toy car flew in your window and landed at your feet. You popped your curly head over the sill to face a dark-haired, dimple-cheeked boy.

“Meet me downstairs,” he said. He did not wait for an answer, dashing away before you could even blink at him.

You picked up the toy car and marched downstairs, determined to return it and explain to this boy, in no uncertain terms, that he was not allowed to throw things in your window, that he could have hit your head or one of your dolls, and unless he was prepared to offer financial compensation he should keep his cars to himself.

The second your feet touched the lawn, he was there. He grabbed your hand and dragged you off, already prattling about where he came from and where he was starting school and his favourite food and – everything. You did not speak for a whole ten minutes.

“My name is Hyunjin,” he finally said, after regaling you with the detailed events of his decade-long life. “What’s yours?”

You told him. You also returned his toy car but you could no longer remember the script for your lecture. He smiled at you, took your hand, and raced off again, towing you behind him.

Hyunjin was very loved, even as a child. It never occurred to him that someone might not like him. He made friends so effortlessly. His confidence was easy, his gravitas electrifying even at that age.

His congeniality was infectious and you found yourself reciprocating his enthusiasm. He was a natural showman and a creative visionary even at that age, coming up with detailed games of pretend with very involved storylines. You ran amok in your yards, dressed in your costumes, and at night you giggled at your windows, close enough that if you stretched out every finger you could clasp hands.

Climbing across that meager gap was an obvious inevitability. When you were teenagers, your parents expressly forbade spending the night unsupervised. The boy-girl dynamic concerned them despite your ardent protestations that it was not like that. It just meant you got good at sneaking around.

You sit on his bed now, remembering the many nights you curled up together just like this. You would talk about utter nonsense and you would talk about your deepest thoughts, at least until the sound of your father’s footsteps sent Hyunjin hurtling back towards the window.

There are no interruptions now. You lay down beside him. You squeak when he tugs you across the bed, pulling you closer to him. You find yourself clinging to him, like you are suspended in that blue ocean of moonlight and he is your only life preserver. He does not seem to mind, wrapping his arm around you, fingers tracing circles down your spine.

“Your research will be fine,” he says. “I wish I could help with those things, but I’m not smart like you are. You’ll figure it out, okay, baby?”

You hope he does not notice how the pet name makes you shiver. It really is quite unfair. How is a person meant to maintain verisimilitude if Hwang Hyunjin is calling them baby so nonchalantly?

The flattery brings discomfort so you deflect. “I’m not that smart,” you say. “I’m just pathetic enough to waste my life in a stack of books.”

You concede the self-deprecation is fishing for reassurance. You burrow yourself deeper at his side.

“Hey,” he says sharply, tugging on a lock of hair so you look up at him. He tsks and shakes his head, wisps of red hair appearing dark in the moonlight and falling into his face as he gazes at you. “Don’t talk about my girl like that,” he says with another playful tug. “You know what happens when people do that.”

You find yourself smiling despite yourself. Because, yes, Hyunjin has often defended you. One time, when you were about fifteen, you were at his house with him and his school friends. You were all in the yard and you excused yourself to wash your hands. You returned just in time to see Hyunjin backhand one of the boys. The boy stumbled then swung back. Soon everyone was trying to pull the pair of them apart while they bit and kicked and swung at each other.

When everyone went home, you and Hyunjin sat on his bed. You were cleaning a nasty cut on his cheek, where the other boy’s ring broke skin.

“Stop that now,” you said, because he was dramatically hissing and cringing while you rubbed ointment in his wound. “You brought this on yourself,” you scolded him. “I hope you learned your lesson. There is absolutely no argument worth escalating to that degree of violence, you understand?”

“There is,” he said, pouting.

“No.” You pinched his arm and he yelped. “There isn’t.”

“This time there was,” he said. Your mouth opened with a ready retort, but he interrupted, “It was you.”

There was a moment of silence, your hand still on his cheek. He was pouting into the distance and avoiding your eyes.

“What was me?” you asked after a beat.

“He called you strange,” Hyunjin said. “And other things. I told him to stop and he didn’t. So I made him stop.”

It honestly never occurred to you that someone might stand up for you. You hardly even defended yourself, long since resigned to the reality that some people were just not nice. You were stunned into silence at your friend’s confession. Only when he looked at you, a tentative sideways glance, did you clear your throat and nod.

“Well,” you said. “I am strange. If you’re going to get into a fight, then next time make it about something worthwhile.”

He smiled. You smiled back.

You are quite certain you fell in love that day. Curling up in his arms felt different after that. You felt flustered and feverish, though you hid it very well. You could not bear the thought of losing his friendship and, besides, it was such a cliché. You at your nicest still looked like the before shot of every romance movie makeover and he got stopped by model scouts while lounging in his sweatpants. Cliché indeed. That story never ended well. You could not abide by it. It was better to repress and deny those feelings.

You are laying on his chest now, listening to his heartbeat, yours skipping erratically in your chest. You think your affection has only grown more over the years, despite your effort to quell the brunt of it. Those efforts seem ridiculous in the calming midnight blue, this comfortable little haven with no reality beyond the perimeter of the bed. Your thigh drifts over his naturally, your bodies angled to each other. He continues stroking your back.

“Please don’t say those things again,” he says, his voice gentler in the calming quiet.

“Sorry,” you grumble.

“So many people admire you,” he continues. “I… I do. I know I’m a dumbass and my opinion isn’t worth much… but I think you’re the best. You know that, right?”

“Yes,” you say in a weak voice, feeling watery again. You sniff. “And you’re not a dumbass. Your opinion means a lot.”

His hand slides up and dives under all that hair, then he cups the nape of your neck. You hide your face in his shoulder when he pulls you even closer. Your palm is over his heart. You feel the racing thrum.

“Were you having nightmares?” he asks, because he knows you too well.

“Yes,” you admit. “The usual stress dreams.”

“Poor baby,” he says, massaging your neck. “I wish there was something I could do.”

Keep touching me like that, you almost say, your frankness compelling you to blurt that vulnerable truth. That his touch feels so good it makes you forget all your insecurities and grievances. You will think clearly when he lets go, but right now his deft massage loosens the tension in your neck and shoulders. You feel yourself go lax against him, limbs like jelly, and warmth spreading from somewhere low and deep within you.

Your hand leaves his chest. Dreamy and absent-mindedly, you reach to touch him like he is touching you.

All you do is tuck some hair behind his ear, then trail your fingers ever so lightly down the side of his neck. It is barely a caress.

Despite the lightness of the touch, you feel his reaction. Quick and unquestionable, his breath catches like he is surprised and his whole body jerks toward you. Your leg is still thrown over his middle. You can feel how fast he gets hard.

Men just do that, you think, even while remembering your ex-boyfriend did not react that way, not that fast, and not to that kind of touch. You try to reason with yourself regardless, coming up with a million biological reasons why your best friend is getting turned on. It has absolutely nothing to do with you wrapping around him in bed wearing nothing but a t-shirt and panties and tickling sensitive places on his neck.

No. It must be something else.

Feeling awkward, you lift your head to deflect. You force a smile and a weak laugh.

“You cannot judge me in the morning,” you say. “I am going to look awful. My hair is going to be standing up in ten different directions. You must promise me right now you will be gentlemanly and not deride me for the untameable monstrosity that latches onto my head overnight. Do you promise?”

He replies in a most ungentlemanly manner.

He kisses you.

His hand still cups your nape. He pulls you close. His lips are so full and his mouth so warm. You must seem limp in comparison, so shocked that you just lay there, mouth and eyes wide open. It is considerably more difficult to convince yourself this is not what it seems, that it has nothing to do with you. Unless he is in immediate need of CPR. Perhaps he is seeking resuscitation because he is feeling lightheaded.

That is ridiculous. It is you who is light-headed, eyes closing as you succumb to the dizzying dark. He takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss, opening his mouth against yours.

For all that his kiss is very thorough, it is not overly demanding. He coaxes rather than takes, all slow seduction as his lips take yours, as he sucks your bottom lip then licks at your open mouth. He swallows down your gasp.

It feels like his hands are everywhere. In your hair one moment then around your waist the next. You think you are floating but then you are being pressed into the pillows. When you open your eyes, he is half on top of you, propping himself up on one arm while his other hand tilts your face up.

A stuttering thought dances on your lips, your eyes wide and breath short. Is this real? This cannot be real. Can it?

That bemused thought, tangled in your breath, dissolves into a surprised whine – a pretty, mewling sound that you did not know was inside you. You have never made that noise, not once, not even alone.

Hyunjin draws it out of you, gracefully manoeuvring himself, his thigh pressed between yours. He nudges your legs apart, somehow spreads your thighs with a gentle push of his hips. Your shirt rides up over your belly and you feel so hot and flushed, realizing you are barely clothed. Somehow, before now, it did not truly occur to you. It was a mere observation as you fumbled through your various anxieties.

Now it is all you can think about it, how vulnerable you are, how little there is between you. You gather fistfuls of his t-shirt when he presses against you, when he keeps your thighs open with his own and brings your bodies together. You make a surprised sound, embarrassed because you are so wet and so hot where he is so hard and touching you. A million nerves come to life under his weight, sending sparks shooting to every extremity. It is a lot. It is so much. Too much?

“Hyunjin,” you rasp, clutching his shirt so tightly that your hands are shaking. “Wait.”

He stops immediately, holding himself above you.

He is out of breath, his chest moving as quickly as yours. His hair is as dishevelled for once, though it makes him look ruggedly sexy. There is already a sheen of perspiration on his hairline. His heart is thundering where you touch his chest.

“Okay?” he asks, breathlessly.

You nod, taking a few deep breaths before your voice is under control. “I just… overwhelmed… I think…”

It all happened so fast. One moment you were thinking about how he would never want you that way, and then suddenly he was kissing you like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

Hyunjin is something of a rakish libertine, but his partners are always so enthusiastic and friendly, all his pursuits fully consensual even in their brevity. He would never use and discard someone. He would certainly never use you. But your heart is brimming with emotions and this is causing them to bubble and boil over. You cannot, under any circumstances, be physical with him and just move on. You do not work like that.

You have written papers, won awards for your ability to string sentences together. You cannot find two words to put together right now. Nothing to explain why you have to stop, how you do not want to stop, how desperately you love him, why you want him. Why is it so hard to say? Is it hard for everyone or is this another peculiarity of yours? It is always so hard to tell.

You close your eyes and catch your breath. He gives you space, laying down beside you while catching his own breath. He runs a hand through his hair, smoothing it back.

You look at each other at the same time.

“I still want to sleep here,” you say. You hope the words are enough. You are not upset. You still want his company.

He nods. “Of course,” he says, his voice rough in a way you have never heard before. It sends an electric shock through your body, igniting between your legs. You push your shirt down when his gaze wanders there and he swallows, hard. He lays flat on his back and closes his eyes, his lips moving like he is murmuring to himself. You think he might be counting.

You lay back as well, looking at his handsome profile then up at the ceiling. You are not sure that counting will slow the race of your heart or the muddled mess of your mind. You try anyway, backwards from one-hundred.

You are asleep before fifty.

You wake to a predictable mess of hair. You yawn and stretch and scratch your head.

Then you remember why your hair is a mess. Why your bonnet is on the floor in a different room. That you are in Hyunjin’s bed and last night—

You look at his side of the bed. The shape of his body indents the sheets and the space is still warm. He must have just left. Your heart is already pounding like it wants to leap out of your chest. It does not feel like the healthiest way to the start the day.

You are not sure if you are giddy or terrified. How do other people cope with the sheer inundation of sensation that is wrought by desire for another person? How are you expected to carry it inside of you, all day every day, with absolutely no reprieve? How on earth are you expected to walk into the next room and start a conversation with a man who had his tongue in your mouth last night, especially when that man holds a lifetime of friendship in his hands?

At least the video you sent was an honest accident. Verisimilitude will do you no good here. There will be no pretending it did not transpire.

You should have just exploded when you had the chance.

You slide out of bed and cross the room. You poke your head out the door. The bathroom door is closed and you can hear the shower running. You take the opportunity to scurry across the apartment, back to your temporary room where you close the door then slide down it.

You turn yourself into a boneless lump on the floor. Then you huff and stand.

Something will need to be done. Conversations will need to be had. That is simply the rub of it. If he clarifies it was all a physical reaction, you will politely inform him that such a dynamic will be impossible to pursue. If he claims it was because he likes you the way you like him –

It doesn’t matter. That will not happen. You convince yourself of this, running several scripts through your head as you get yourself dressed for the day. You have a conversation with your reflection in the mirror, making some very good points to the abstract Hyunjin of your imagination. He is very compliant. If only real people could stick to your pre-determined scripts the way their imaginary counterparts do.

You stand in front of the mirror, assessing your appearance one last time. Your hair is neat as possible, the more unruly ringlets pinned back. You are wearing a modest sweater and a long skirt. You slip into your shoes and finally leave your room. You hope Hyunjin is still home. You want to talk to him while the script is fresh in your mind and your appearance is composed.

But then you see Hyunjin, making his morning coffee, also dressed for the day. He is wearing all black, shirt and suit jacket and trousers and boots, with a sparkling slash of a silver necklace. His make-up is breath-taking, severe but beautiful. It leaves you slack-jawed. He looks sleek and sexy, but still this side of rebellious with his vibrant red hair and dark make-up.

You cannot help but stare, thoroughly looking him over before you blurt, “Wow. Why do you look so good today?”

A surprised little laugh bursts out of him, almost like a yelp

“I’m taking some photos today.” His gaze is very intense. Or maybe it is the make-up. It makes your heart palpitate regardless, dark eyes fixed so resolutely on you as he smiles and says, “Thank you. You look lovely, pretty girl.”

“Nonsense,” you say quickly. “I look no different than usual.”

“You always look lovely,” he says without any hesitation.

“Be quiet,” you reply. He is already preposterously off-script.

It makes him laugh again. He covers his mouth politely, shaking his head as he pours his coffee. He offers you some but you decline. You want to speak your piece and be done with this awkward situation once and for all.

Hyunjin takes a sip of his coffee, looking at you over the rim of the cup.

This should be easy. You have the words prepared; all you have to do is say them.

“I have to go,” you say instead, because your good sense flitters into oblivion and takes your words with it.

Hyunjin chokes on his coffee, sputtering while you dash to the door. Your purse is sitting on the shoe rack so you snatch it. Your heart is racing like a prey animal, your predator a red-headed pretty boy wiping coffee off his chin as he stumbles after you. He says your name but you ignore him, fumbling around for your keys.

“I’ll be back after dinner,” you say. “Lots of research. Reading. You know how it is. I might lose track of time. We’ll talk later, yes? Yes. Okay. Goodbye.”

He reaches you when you open the door. You can see he wants to talk. You know you should talk. No good ever comes from prolonging the inevitable. But you suddenly cannot face him.

You know you are being cowardly. You know it is unkind because he might want answers too. But you are not good and open like him. You are shut off and shut down and shutting doors.

You stand in the hallway, the closed door between you. Your heart is still pounding. You take a deep breath then turn to leave. You are halfway down the corridor when you realize you need your work bag. Your purse has basic necessities but no study tools.

You stomp your foot, frustrated with yourself and this stupid emotional tempest. If only you were as cold-hearted as people said. But you feel everything with so much burning intensity that you fear it will burn you down to cinders.

You pace in the hallway for a few minutes. It accomplishes nothing but stalling for time, because you cannot go anywhere without your bag. You don’t even have your parking pass or library card. With a resigned sigh, you glumly unlock the door and step back into the apartment.

Fate has opted to spare you a chagrined return. Hyunjin is in his bedroom and does not hear you come in.

You hurry to your room. If you grab your bag and bolt, he might not even notice you returned at all.

Unfortunately, you are a disaster.

You were so frustrated yesterday, overstimulated and erupting at the slightest provocation. Then your bag strap had the audacity to catch on the doorknob, sending papers flying. In mature retaliation, you dumped all the contents of your bag on the floor. It was a mildly satisfying expulsion of frustration at the time. Now you want to shriek because it will take a few good minutes to organize and pack everything again.

You lean your door closed, leaving it cracked just a sliver. You plan another mental script, despite what little good it did last time, explaining to imaginary Hyunjin that you have deadlines and, yes, it is inconvenient, and, oh, maybe we should order take-out for dinner, yes, because everything is normal between us and no one needs to grapple with the onward progression of time and the subsequent shifting relationship dynamics therein—

You hear a creak. You pause, kneeling by the door, holding a stack of papers. You peer through the sliver to see Hyunjin, sighing to himself as he ambles across the room and plops down on the couch. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, scrolling on his phone.

You find yourself once more arrested by the sight of him. He looks so beautiful but also starkly masculine, sophisticated but dangerous. A gentleman and a bad boy and every other dreamy amalgamation of boy crushes.

He tucks some hair behind his ear and you feel hot, remembering how you touched him just the same, remembering the reaction it garnered.

You fantasize about a braver version of yourself, someone brash and confident enough to approach him. He would look up at you with those smoky eyes, curious but wanting. You would touch him, that same simple touch, and he would rear up and kiss you with abandon once more. You would not even need a conversation because action would speak for itself.

Instead you are peering through cracks in doors, separated thanks to your own cowardice.

He touches his fingers to his chin. Whatever is on his phone is causing a great deal of deliberation. He turns off his screen and lays his phone facedown. His contemplation looks almost painful.

You want to comfort him because he is evidently perturbed by something. But the longer you wait, the more awkward it will be to reveal yourself.

He heaves a great sigh, doubling over, his face in his hands. He shakes his head. He looks truly forlorn, so you finally lay the papers down and try to think of something to say. You watch as he leans back, as he picks up his phone again. He stares down at the screen.

You are still psyching yourself up, preparing yet another useless script.

Then he turns up the volume.

You have rewatched the video you sent him more than once, assessing the details to torture yourself. Maybe, also, secretly, sometimes… imagining him watching it. Then shaking your head and turning it off, because he said himself it made him feel bad and nothing else. So that was impossible.

So why is he watching it now?

Because he is. Unmistakably. You know the sound of your own voice. You know the sounds in that video. You sit there, wide-eyed, staring at him as he stares at you – the you in the video, the you in white satin, the you moaning and touching yourself, fucking yourself while you thought of him.

He puts the phone on his knee, not moving his eyes from the screen as he peels off his jacket and chucks it aside. You can only blink, stupefied. This does not feel real, just like that kiss. Except that kiss was real, this is real, and you are watching Hyunjin as he slouches back and parts his knees and cups his hand between his legs. He touches himself with those long fingers, fingers you imagined while touching yourself in the very video that has him captivated.

He picks up the phone to rewind, all while undoing his pants then reaching inside.

You realize he is about to get his dick out, right here, right in front of you, completely unwittingly, and that snaps you back to reality. Far too quickly, because you make a surprised noise.

He freezes and looks up, first to the front door, then to your bedroom door. You make eye contact very briefly.

Then you slam the door shut.

You do the only logical thing.

You do not go to the library. Hyunjin leaves for his photography session and you pace your bedroom about a dozen times, then you sit down and write. You make a chronological notation of every emotional turning point in your friendship. You chart the data and sketch a few rough diagrams. You arrange all the appropriate paperwork and laminate a few important spreadsheets. Then you clip them all in a binder and pick up your phone and think of how to succinctly summarize three hours worth of deliberation.

The facts fall thusly:

You accidentally sent your best friend a sexually explicit video of yourself.

You granted him permission to watch it.

He watched it.

You caught him in a compromising position with it.

You made a spreadsheet.

Based on your calculations, the probability of Hyunjin returning your feelings seems fairly substantial. But you are not sure how to articulate any verdict based on the facts presented. Your spreadsheets contain data, not a resolution.

Hyunjin is a romantic and soulful creature. You wooed your last boyfriend with a portfolio but he was nothing like Hyunjin. That courtship was an amicable affair and little more. The break-up was cordial and tearless. You shook hands then walked in opposite directions.

A memory comes to mind.

You and Hyunjin. Starting university together. Back when the world first offered itself to your young adult selves.

One day he skipped class and you went to check on him, only to find him curled up in bed in his baggiest sweatshirt, sniffling away. He was blonde then, a burst of starlight in every room he occupied. It was so strange and so wrong seeing him so grey and dejected.

He laid his head in your lap and let you pet his hair. It took some cajoling to get the story out of him. His secondary major was dance studies and he spent months preparing a showcase. Apparently his instructor did not offer him the same thorough critiques he gave other students. You tried to say that was a good thing, but he insisted it was not.

“He doesn’t think I’m worth improving,” he said. “He told me I’ll get by because of my looks. That’s the only thing I have. No one really likes me or thinks I’m worth anything.”

“I know it’s hard because you are a natural drama queen, but don’t be dramatic, Hyunjin,” you said. “Plenty of people like you just fine. They adore you, in fact. And you are very talented. It is not your fault if this one person cannot see past appearances.”

“It’s not just one person,” he said. He sat up to wipe his tears.

You sat awkwardly beside him, hands twitching with the desire to do something helpful but at a complete loss. You never intentionally sought comfort, keeping your feelings to yourself, so you were bad at giving it.

You put a hand on his shaking shoulder. “Hyunjin,” you said, imploringly.

“No,” he said, miserable, his face all scrunched up. “Everyone leaves me when I’m not what they want, and I’m never what they want, because I’m just a worthless face and nothing else.”

It was very strange to hear him express such a sentiment. Hyunjin was always surrounded by doting crowds. But you supposed he had his share of heartbreak as a consequence of knowing so many people. He gave away his heart so easily and it was sometimes returned in pieces. It did not stop him from trying again, which you always commended. You wished you knew how to express that.

“We’re friends, are we not?” you finally asked. “I care for you very dearly.”

“You do?” he asked. Even his voice sounded wet. You grabbed a tissue and shoved it at him.

“Of course I do,” you said. “Though statistically no one can be truly unique in every capacity, and friendships and relationships are often founded by chance and choice, I nonetheless consider your amalgamation of parts to be quite magnificent, and I find your character irreplaceable. You are, indeed, very handsome, but also witty and playful, dramatic to your detriment but nonetheless entertaining, creative and soulful, and you have a defensive streak and natural bite, but a fragile heart beneath that, and I rather admire that. I am afraid I will like you forever, regardless of our proximity or friendship status. Such is the nature of affection. Why are you still crying?”

You were immensely confused when your consolation generated more tears, but you accepted your best friend was an emotional riddle.

Hyunjin has many layers. You have always known this. You told him as much. You have done him a terrible disservice by assuming the worst, that he would be shallow in regards to you. He has always exhibited a fondness for your own depths.

It is more difficult to accept him finding your surface just as attractive. It seems conclusive, though. There is no shortage of sexual content in the world. He could have watched anything. So it is safe to say, touching his dick while watching you fuck yourself might have been a demonstration of a certain level of attraction. Possibly.

You sit on your bed, staring at your phone. You jump when it buzzes with a text alert. You open it, your heart skipping beats when you see it is from Hyunjin.

I’m sorry for this morning, he writes.

I can stay at Felix’s place until you’re comfortable okay.. Please just tell me

i deleted the video now. and the message where you sent it. I should have done that right away

I know you said you didn’t mind but still. I should have just

just done it all differently

The messages come flying in one right after the other. You imagine him a mirror to you, sitting somewhere, slouched over his phone. Hair dishevelled from jamming his fingers through it. A shaky breath on his lips.

You look up, picturing him across from you. You want to reach across the space between you, stretch out every finger, and clasp his hand. You never want to let go.

Your phone buzzes again. You read his words and your heart floods with more than desire. Rich with sentiment, it leaves you more breathless than a kiss.

you mean everything to me.

He is still typing. The ellipses in the corner flashes. You suspect he will send you an endless stream of consciousness if you do not reply soon.

You look at your binder of data, then you look at your phone, then you look at your binder, then you look at your phone. You take a breath. The decent and logical approach would be patience. To study everything you have compiled. To see if he concurs. To communicate the best way to move forward, what that looks like, and how it should happen.

You are not someone who intentionally takes risks. You are not wild and spontaneous. You are not brash or confident. You are not sexy.

Verisimilitude, you remember. Act like it is true, maybe it will be.

You type.

Hello, Hyunjin.

His ellipses disappears.

It is true. I sent that video by accident. But I did grant you permission to watch it.

You open your photo album. There is the video, so inconspicuous, one of a dozen. It is not your most extravagant nor the longest. You were too eager in the moment to prolong anything. You could film it better if you did it again. But it is nonetheless the video that started this whole thing.

Even though you were not trying, the video turned him on. You are hot all over, remembering how he warred with himself before submitting. You remember the amorous look on his face, how desperately he watched you while touching himself. He could not rip his gaze away for even a moment.

You click on the video. You send it with your next message.

This is for you.

You can keep it.

Then you take a chance and write, I want you to keep it.

There is a long moment with no reply. Or maybe it feels longer because you are holding your breath. You exhale with a whoosh and a breathless laugh when he finally replies.

fuck.

are you trying to kill me

You smile, though even that gets you hot, remembering your portrait doodled in the margins of his art. A lightness fills your heart, recalling that, picturing him now. You can imagine his wide, startled eyes, expressive dark brows lifting as he stares at his phone.

No, you write. You are not sure how to respond to a flirtatious overture so you opt for simplicity. You are not one to colour your statements with unnecessary artifice so you state your intentions without colourful obfuscations. To clarify, you write, I fully consent to you masturbating to it. It is only fair. I was thinking of you while I made it.

You wonder if he is still at the photography studio. You can picture him sitting behind the camera, waiting for the next set, his make-up touched up, his black ensemble pristine, and his face humorously contorted.

so you are trying to kill me, he writes.

and i thought you weren’t the unprovoked licentious content type....

You are fairly certain he is playing with you, but texts are even harder to construe than verbal tones. You tilt your head, staring at the message, imagining his voice. The little ellipses flashes in the corner, then you smile when his next message comes through.

I’m just teasing you baby.

He knows you so well. Years of friendship have fortified the affection between you. You were so foolish to ever think otherwise. Of course he can picture you like you can picture him. You feel as if he is holding you in those steady hands, comforting you with that loving touch as the tension leaves your body. You feel safest curled against him and you always have. The only difference now is he calls you baby and your heart does a flip.

I see, you write. Well.

Technically that was not wholly unprovoked. It was very much within the context of our discussion.

This one, however, is entirely unprovoked.

You send another video. This one you filmed a while ago, back in your own bedroom at your townhouse. You are wearing a sweater he bought you. The gift was touching because there was no occasion. He saw it and thought of you so he got it. And he knows your tastes so well, your fit and size and style. He knows you prefer a more modest ensemble in the world.

This video is not modest. You filmed the sweater from every angle then laid down, wearing nothing else. You held a vibrator between your legs and arched your back and filmed yourself, every whimper and sigh and breath. You stopped just before coming, dropping your phone to focus on your orgasm.

You send the video and wait. His ellipses appears and disappears then he finally writes:

fuck.

You flop back on the bed, biting your lip as his rather frantic messages fly in one after the other.

god. pretty girl. you know i'm obsessed with you right?

jesus we did all this backwards. i wanted to be cool when i told you but I’m a stupid mess.

fuck I’m about to have my photo taken

hiding in the bathroom because christ

what are you doing to me

where are you right now??

After all that, you simply answer, In bed. You realize it sounds suggestive only after the fact, but you do not retract it. Nerves gather inside you, blending into adrenaline and anticipation. You know him well but you are not sure what he will say now. This is new territory. It is exhilarating. You do not remember feeling this way with your ex. He was too much like you, so there was nothing to discover between you.

Hyunjin is so different but he fits with you like a puzzle piece, complimentary rather than contradictory. You feel sweltering hot, thinking he must reciprocate those feelings. Maybe he likes your hidden depths. Maybe he likes knowing it is all for him. He is romantic that way. So maybe he likes to see your articulate and intelligent self let go of inhibitions. Maybe you like it too, becoming a body and sharing it with him.

Show me, he writes, echoing that very sentiment.

Be polite, you reply, mostly to buy time while you temper your racing heart. It melts at his next words.

Please.

Show me you want me. want this. want us.

Pretty girl.

My girl.

Please.

Okay, you type. You are quivering but the sensation is not unpleasant. Last night was overwhelming, so much at once, but this you can do. This you want to do. There is a breath of distance, so it is a step rather than a leap. You are no stranger to aiming a camera at yourself.

Before you prepare, you take a breath and write, You show me too.

You get an idea. While he formulates his reply, you jump out of bed and hurry to the front room. He has an array of leather jackets hanging by the door, because of course he does. You rifle through them, looking for the one he wears the most. It smells like him, that rich cologne, a hint of his hair product. If your knees were not already knocking, it would send you swooning. You clutch it to your chest as you make your way back to your room.

You close the door, as if it matters, but this is between you and Hyunjin, the rest of the world insignificant.

You strip down to your underwear then don the jacket. You keep your hair pinned so you do not look like a mess, then you arrange yourself on the bed as neatly as you can. You try not to overthink, even though overthinking is your speciality. You pretend this is a video like any other.

Except the scent of his masculine cologne surrounds you. He is inside your mind, completely and irrevocably.

You open your phone to a new message, a video from him. The lighting is dark in the small studio bathroom, backlit in red. It makes it all the more erotic.

You have never unwittingly clenched. You did not even know you could be so aroused that your body would form a mind of its own. But you are, and it does, pussy very literally throbbing as you watch the video. His artist hand, long fingers curling around the hard curve of his fly. He lowers the zipper and you clench again, making that meek little whimper.

Apparently you like watching videos just as much as making them. You are a mess by the time he gets his dick out.

You turn up the volume to hear his breathing. You know he has to keep his voice down, but it makes his breathy little fuck all the hotter.

Oh Hyunjin, you write. Your vocabulary otherwise fails. There is no other word.

Yes please, he writes.

My pretty girl.

Say my name.

Your next sound is embarrassing and guttural. You are a little glad you were not filming yet.

You clear your throat and position yourself, holding the camera above you. You start recording. With your free hand, you touch the collar of the jacket. You rake your teeth over your bottom lip then lower the camera. The jacket falls open just enough to hint at every curve in contains. You skim down your body. You touch yourself and you are so wet and so ready that you cannot help but make another noise. Unlike him, you are free to be noisy, so you do not restrain yourself.

It feels so different, knowing someone will watch this. You have never been so wet in your life. You cannot even tease yourself, so desperate that you quickly push two fingers inside you. Oh, dear, god, you really sound filthy, ridiculously wet as you fuck yourself with jerky little thrusts.

“Hyunjin,” you murmur, the name that has often perched on your tongue while you do this. It feels so good to say it out loud.

You send him that much, continuing to stroke and fuck yourself while the video sends. You close your eyes and stimulate your clit, rubbing and circling, finding a rhythm. You need it. You need him.

Your phone buzzes and you turn your head. You open the message. You clamp your thighs around your hand, your pussy clenching around your fingers as you read his words.

God I wanted to film it but I just came all over myself

baby you are everything

I wish I was beside you I need to say so many things

god..

pretty girl if I ask so politely will you come for me? will you let me see your pretty face when you come? Please.

You do not type a reply because it is too difficult with one hand, and you will not stop touching yourself, not when you are so close.

It is just a few flicks of your thumb to open the camera again. You frame your face and hit record. You come only seconds later, releasing such a desperate cry as you unravel. It is so much yet not enough. You thoughtlessly shove your own fingers in your mouth, closing your eyes, imaging it is his hand, his wet fingers dragging over your tongue. You want to taste him. You want to choke on him. You just want to feel him so much that the rest of the whole world will fall away. You don’t need to be anyone else. You don’t want anyone else.

You say his name again. Your pussy clenches as if already trained to react to it. You stop filming and send it, breathing hard in the aftermath.

As your adrenaline dwindles, you feel a modicum of embarrassment, but no regrets. Your logical brain does make a grudging return, however. As much as you want him, you know if you rush into things that you will end up balking again. You need a proper conversation. You need spreadsheets. You need to do it his way and your way too.

But for now, you smile, giggling to yourself as you read his replies. Half of his texts are unintelligible gibberish, the other half completely and utterly worshipful.

Nonsense, you finally write.

I’ll come home right now and prove it to you, he says without hesitation.

Except by right now I mean in two hours, because I caught the train out here and it doesn’t leave until then.

Then you’re all mine.

You laugh in spite of yourself, curling up in his jacket. You take in a breath, the scent of him. You type.

I’ve been yours for a long time. I can wait two more hours.

Then… can we talk?

Yes, he answers quickly. Absolutely. I have so much I want to say to you.

Me too, Hyunjin.

He caught the bus to the train station but you offer to pick him up. He enthusiastically agrees, evidently eager to see you again. You find yourself laughing, such a light in your chest that it cannot help but spill out. You are somehow both anxious and excited, but so happy that you do not mind.

When the details are settled, you lower your phone and look at your binder.

You have two hours. That is enough time to laminate a few more spreadsheets.

You tell yourself you will be resilient. You are notoriously stringent and a self-identified no-nonsense curmudgeon at the best of times. Given you have expelled the brunt of your sexual frustration, you figure there will be no problem. You will meet Hyunjin at the train station, you will come home, you will share a meal and have a conversation, and everything will go smoothly from there.

Except Hyunjin changed clothes. It is not anything extravagant by any means. He is in black jeans and a red shirt, his black dress shirt shrugged overtop. The wind tousles his hair just so, and his make-up has been redone, a little less severe but still so sharp. It is more casual than you expected, and somehow that undoes your perseverance.

You are gawking at him, staring through the car window as he strides over. He gets into the passenger seat like nothing is remiss, tossing his bag into the back. He is wearing heavy boots that thunk when he sits. He closes the door and looks over at you with a smile.

“Hi, pretty girl,” he says.

He is so atrocious at keeping to your script. Imaginary Hyunjin is much more accommodating.

“Hello, Hyunjin,” you say.

You sit there for a long time. It is getting dark outside, which makes it easy to forget you are in a parking lot outside a train station.

Then he has the audacity to be sweet, at such odds to his daring appearance. He looks so rebellious and you look so meek. He is all vibrant colours and dark slashes, while you are in a blazer and a long brown skirt. Your shirt is buttoned all the way up to your chin and, despite your best efforts, your hair has come unpinned. The wind has never been your friend.

You are certain you make a funny sight, but he is not laughing at all. His gaze is so affectionate but so warm, burning you up. You gaze back at him, your heart already skipping beats. Then he reaches out and tucks a loose curl behind your ear. You remember him doing that at the art gallery. He was looking at you then like he is looking at you now. You realize you have been such a fool.

You lean in at the same time. This kiss does not even pretend at patience. It is a hungry collision, his hand in your hair and yours on his chest. You make a wanting noise when his fingers hook through the curls at your nape and he tugs just a little, just enough to move your head where he wants it so he can deepen the kiss. He makes a noise too, something low and needy. He licks into your mouth, far too hot and far too dirty for a parking lot kiss.

You remember yourself, vaguely. You break the kiss with a gasp. Your fingers curl on his chest and his grip tightens in your hair. Your foreheads touch. The only sound in the car is your mutual rough breathing.

“Right,” you say, your voice raspier than you expected. “Um. We should. Go.”

He nods. But then he proves he is as evil as he looks, because he tilts your head and exposes your throat. He leans in, presses his full lips on that soft vulnerable skin and kisses it so delicately that your whole body is wracked with a shiver. He exhales, warm breath fluttering over your pulse. Then he finally lets go and leans back.

“Okay,” he says. “Let’s go home.”

Home. You have a discussion on that very subject upon arrival.

Prior to departure, you arranged your papers on the kitchen table. You deposit your take-out boxes alongside it, then sit down to eat and discuss.

He furrows his brow as he holds up a spreadsheet.

“Is this laminated?” he asks. “You brought a laminator with you?”

“Of course I brought a laminator with me,” you say unflinchingly. “What kind of question is that?”

He cracks a smile and nods, then waves you on. He listens diligently to your proposed contingency. You prepared index cards so you would not be distracted and led astray. You are glad you did, because when he finishes eating he just stares at you, and he still looks hungry, but not for sustenance.

You clear your throat and try to disregard this, but it is difficult. You unbutton the top button of your shirt to breathe a little easier and he looks at you with more voracious intensity than a single button warrants. You might as well have stripped down naked.

You suppose you already have, halfway. You swallow hard.

“Look,” you say, lowering your index cards to speak frankly. “The bottom line is this. I desire you greatly. I believe there is some reciprocation in this regard. But we are living under a shared roof temporarily and I fear this may cause us to progress faster than I am ultimately comfortable. I would like some longevity in our blossoming dynamic. You are very important to me, Hyunjin. I want us to succeed. I would feel more comfortable if we waited to sleep together, at least until I am back in my townhouse. That means no sharing a bed too. When I am back home, we can properly date, and see how this grows between us. What are your thoughts?”

“When will your place be ready again?” he asks. He is sitting back in his seat, arms crossed, looking thoughtful. You appreciate he is not grabbing at you or immediately trying to convince you otherwise.

You knew he would not pressure you. Regardless, you cannot help the skip in your bloodstream, the natural nerves that surface when he looks at you. You have known him for years. You wonder if these sensations will ever diminish. Present research dictates no.

“The last estimation was six more weeks,” you say.

He smiles. It soothes your heart. You stare at his hand as it crosses the table, as he gently laces your fingers together and squeezes. You blink up at him.

“If you asked me to wait a year, I would,” he says. “If you told me there were things you never wanted, we would make it work. I’ve waited years for you, baby. Six weeks is nothing.”

Goodness gracious. Exactly how is a person meant to be strict and curmudgeonly with this man? He really is the universal exception to every rule. You have just outlined your rubric and you are already considering breaking it.

“Kisses are okay,” you say, hot under your skin. Writing your flirtations was easier than speaking them. Your tone is brusque because you are bad at this, but it just makes him smile. “Maybe other things when the circumstances arise. But we will wait for the rest.”

He lifts your hand to his mouth and places a soft kiss on your palm, holding your gaze all the while. You are quite certain your insides turn to complete mush.

It occurs to you in bed.

You have long since said good night and retired for the evening. You pick up your phone and sigh. You are already skirting the edge of your rules, fully aware you are about to poke a sleeping beast but unable to resist. The realization plagues you, the subsequent questions burning in your chest.

And you are wet. So, so wet, and so, so needy. Because Hyunjin walked you to your bedroom door like a gentleman. Then he kissed you like a scoundrel. He leaned you against the door, his hand planted beside your head and the other holding your face. He kissed you long and slow, like he wanted to draw it out, like he did not want to say good night. Your hands were clasped together because you did not trust yourself to touch him. If you did, you would have dragged him into the bedroom and regretted it later.

But in the moment, it felt so right. You are certain that no kiss, ever, since the dawn of time, had ever felt as good as that one. He took his time with each gentle press, each touch of his tongue, each shared breath. Your chests rose and fell in tandem, your legs turning to jelly where you stood. He fiddled with that one undone top button. You would not have resisted him tearing them all open.

He did not. He kissed you slowly. He kissed you sweetly. With one last peck, he whispered, “Good night, pretty girl. Sleep well.”

You could not find your voice. You made a weak gurgling noise and nodded frantically. He smiled. You rather suspect he knew his effect on you, the rapscallion.

Now you are in bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking about something he said at dinner. You debate texting him. It will open a floodgate. You lower your phone a few times, but ultimately determine you will not sleep until you have settled your mind.

Hyunjin, you write, if you liked me for years, that means you were already inclined towards affection when I accidentally sent that video. Correct?

Correct, he answers with a little emoji face, one with a quirked eyebrow. Why do you ask…?

I was just wondering…

If when I saw you was your first time watching it.

The ellipses is there for a while. Your heart is pounding in your chest. You are certain this man is going to send you into cardiac arrest one of these days. Then you will finally explode at the most inopportune moment.

You sink into the bedsheets, pressing your legs together when his reply comes through.

Honestly… I watched it more than once. I did stop when you first sent it. even though it got me hard in seconds. then you said i could watch it.. and i honestly thought i was still dreaming.

You cannot help but laugh a little. You turn on your side, smiling as he types some more. Then his message comes through and you swallow, flush with heat.

I tried to answer. I tried to flirt with you. I tried to be funny. It all sounded stupid. Then I got back in bed and tried to think of something to say… but god.

god..

Baby what was I supposed to do? if I resisted that they would have made me a saint.

You laugh again. You marvel at his ability to make you smile and get you hot at the same time.

Did you masturbate to it? you ask. It sounds too frank to be seductive but you are not sure how else to pose the query.

You really don’t pull your punches, he says. You think you can somehow hear a smile in his words.

yeah baby, he writes. I did. More than once.

I see, you reply. Okay, thank you, I was just wondering. Good night.

The ellipses flickers again. You release a torrent of giggles into the blankets when he sends you a very tortured looking emoji.

This is going to be a long six weeks.

He is not wrong. It is simultaneously the longest, most arduous six weeks of your life, but also the fastest, the most lively, and the most fulfilling.

You spend the first week stealing kisses. He is good to you, respecting your boundaries. He never asks to share a bed and he does not initiate anything beyond your established desires. He leaves space for you, his arms always open, but he does not force you.

This is sufficiently more seductive than if he started yanking on your clothes in the corridor.

You are watching a movie one night. He puts an arm across the back of the couch but makes no further demand. You settle under that arm, nestling closer at your own pace. You are not watching the film, all your focus on him. He has a foot propped on the coffee table, his arms spread across the couch, and he bops his head along to the music. Of course, he does that even when the music stops, so you think he not paying attention either.

Eventually, you succumb to the butterflies in your belly. They flutter free with an exhale. You touch his cheek and turn his face. He requires little convincing, kissing you without a word.

His foot thumps onto the ground. You find yourself in his lap. You do not know how you lose your head around him. One second, you swear you are on solid ground, the next you are floating. Someone should study this phenomenon. You, yourself, have no idea how to parse its logic.

You straddle his lap, your arms wrapped around his neck. He is dressed in all black again, black jeans and a black t-shirt, his eyes still smudged with black eyeshadow. It makes him look so utterly devastating, his eyes so dark and searching.

It makes you bold, coming to life under the intensity of that gaze. It is like some subliminal message passes to something rooted deep inside you, something primal and animal that he plucks with ease.

You dive in for another kiss, burning too hotly under his gaze. He cups your head with both hands. He tosses little hairpins everywhere, grunting with displeasure when he finds them. When you are completely free, he groans, a deep and ravaging moan as he buries his fingers in your hair and pulls you close.

“Hyunjin,” you say, once more at a loss for any other word.

He cannot even manage that much, nothing but a guttural sound leaving his throat. It makes you melt against him. Your body really has a mind of its own these days. You find yourself rocking against him, making his breath catch.

He tugs your hair a little more viciously, thoughtlessly, so entangled that it cannot be helped. You make another ridiculous mewling sound that will embarrass you later, but in the moment it slips free.

He holds you in place, palm cupping your head, keeping you steady while he rolls his hips under you.

It makes you dizzy. Your mouth opens and your eyes close. You slowly rock back. You dig your nails into his shoulders and you are amazed it does not hurt him. But, then again, he is tugging your hair inadvertently and if that hurts you do not notice. The seam of your own pants presses deliciously against you, the hard line in his jeans grinding against the softest part of you, again and again and again.

“Oh,” you say, or rather sigh. Your shoulders shake and surprise thunders into your racing heart. You realize are going to come like this. “Oh. Ohh.”

“Yes,” he says, and holds you steady, and keeps rolling his hips until you come apart in his arms.

You slump against his chest after, resting your head on his shoulder. You can feel him flicking your hair out of his mouth, but he doesn’t complain. You are breathing hard, clinging to him, still surprised you did what you did.

Eventually you find a modicum of strength in your arms. You somehow push yourself upright. You deposit a single apologetic kiss to his shoulder, which is doubtlessly riddled with crescents from nail bites.

He looks at you with a smile, a little breathless himself but evidently pleased.

“You’re beautiful,” he says, so reverently you actually believe it. Instinct still compels you to argue, but you cannot find your voice to do so. You just make a little noise and look down at your hand on his chest.

His heart races under your palm.

You think you need to see him come too.

You were previously too nervous to strike the endeavour. You sexted again in bed the night before, but leaving him to his devices is different than taking matters into your own hands. Literally. You are not inexperienced, but he is certainly more experienced. It is another reason you cannot rush into things.

He does not rush you. You arrive at the moment in your own time. And in this moment, it stops mattering. His heart beats under your palm and he looks at you with such an outpouring of affection, it makes your own heart stutter. You are tingling with aftershocks, feeling so alive and vibrant with his eyes on you.

You trail your hand down his chest to his belt. His eyelashes flutter, surprise crossing his own face. His hand covers yours and he lifts a questioning brow. You nod and he lets you go.

You get his belt open with a little struggle. You are a prestigious academic decorated with multiple literary awards, but a belt stupefies you.

He lets you work, twisting a curl around his finger, smiling a lazy smile. You pry the belt open and get his fly down, satisfied when some of his cockiness dissipates as your touch overwhelms him. It is a good overwhelming, given the noise he makes as he rests his face on yours. He murmurs your name and presses kisses all over your face as you work him in your hand.

The jeans are thrown into the laundry hamper immediately after.

The second week is mostly comprised of your usual routines. You have both shirked some responsibilities, too busy flirting like horny prepubescents to get any work done. You eventually return to your books and make remarkable progress on your research project. Hyunjin edits the photos from his latest shoot, uploading them to his profiles and collecting his sponsorships.

You go to your favourite café. You accompany him to his favourite bar because it’s a trivia night and you enjoy it more than you anticipated. You return to the art exhibition then rehash your previous opinions over dinner.

Some moments feel like dates, like when he holds you hand or gets the door or you dare to kiss his cheek in public. Some moments feel like the comfortable friendship you have long enjoyed, and for that you are glad. Gaining Hyunjin as a boyfriend would mean little if you lost him as a friend.

But he is still your Hyunjin.

He just puts his tongue in your mouth now.

The couch becomes a site of utter debauchery. It is the apartment’s no man’s land, given the beds have been relegated to solitary confinement. It really is for the best. For now. You will enjoy yourself more when you are truly ready.

Until then, the couch is subject to repeated episodes of defiling.

You and Hyunjin sit down with the intention of reading your own books, but they are both on the floor and you are on your back and Hyunjin is on top of you. It is not unlike a few weeks ago, when he stole your book and pinned you down. It feels like a lifetime since then. You never would have imagined yourself in this situation for real.

But it is real. You know that, because every nerve in your body is alive and shooting sparks. You make little moans, weaving your fingers in his bright red hair as he kisses you deeply. His jeans are blue today. You are in a long skirt. It makes it a little easier for the material to fall on its own, gathering around your thighs as he presses against you.

You take his hand and guide it up your skirt, resting it on your inner thigh. When he squeezes the soft flesh, you arch your back. A shaky please leaves your lips, breathing the word against his own.

He nods quickly, thumb stroking a circle high on your inner thigh. “What do you want, baby?” he asks.

“Hand,” you say, thinking about that video of him unzipping his fly, how many times you have gotten yourself off to his perfect hand sliding into the frame. His deft and nimble fingers, so precise for his artistic crafts. You blink up at him, hoping you do not look so dishevelled that it is ridiculous.

He clearly likes what he sees. He reaches under your skirt to slip your panties down and off, shoving them in his back pocket so they are not lost. His jeans have a long chain on the hip that he pushes out of his way when he kneels upright on the couch. He guides your thighs apart and angles your hips up, your thighs resting on his.

“Sorry,” you say when he touches you, because you are already so wet from just kissing.

“Sorry?” he asks in a rough voice, very lightly touching you, gathering all that desire on his fingertips and making you shudder. “For what?”

“Just… so… ready…”

It sounds ridiculous to say out loud. He must agree because he laughs incredulously. But you do not have time to feel ashamed because he slides two fingers inside you, your body offering no resistance to him. Then he starts curling up and putting pressure on your inner walls in a way that makes your head spin.

“Poor baby,” he says, his other hand sliding up your waist, holding you steady. “What should we do about that?”

You are coming minutes later, your shirt half-off, your breasts mauled with hickeys and your pussy spasming around his fingers. It feels so good, you do it again, and he ends up coming before you even touch him once.

Next time, you are not on the couch, but standing by the front door, preparing to go out. He is fully dressed with his leather jacket and boots, but you are missing a sweater and one shoe. He is standing behind you, your cheek pressed to the door as he works his hand under your skirt. You cant your hips up and back, grinding against him while he finger-fucks you.

You come so hard your knees buckle. Fortunately, he realizes what it is about to happen and catches you. He does not slow down, though, the bastard, and you keep coming, balanced in his arms.

You are halfway to the ground when you are satisfied. He puts you down gently. And maybe it is being half-dressed at his feet, maybe it his boots or his belt or that leather jacket, or maybe it is the way he looks down at you, but your mouth waters and you swallow hard.

“We don’t need to—” he starts, but you interrupt by opening his belt. You are much better at unbuckling it now, hardly wrestling with the leather at all.

You are acutely aware that you are not very good at giving oral. You are sensitive to sensation and it can be a bit much, but you like the noises he makes and the way he grabs your hair. You are certain he has had better, but you would not know from his reactions. He curses and sighs and groans, alternating between looking at you lovingly and ravenously.

He gets down on one knee after and cups your face and kisses you.

And that is just week two.

By week six, an amendment has been made to the bedroom rule. You will not share a bed overnight, but the morning is a different matter entirely. When the sun is up, the day is starting, so there is nothing wrong with climbing into bed together to talk about the day.

To be fair, sometimes you do just talk.

Other times, like now, your shirt is pushed up to your breasts and his face is buried in your pussy. He is wearing boxers and nothing else, his face bare. You like to look at it, his soft eyes glancing up at you as you push his hair back.

Unlike you who still administers oral with something of a polite and fastidious air, he gets messy with it. You are both drenched when you come, your pussy and thighs a mess while he wipes his face on a discarded shirt.

“So,” he says. “About the townhouse?”

When you finally step foot in your townhouse again, it is an abominable mess. You stand in the foyer with your luggage, slack-jawed and already so overstimulated that you nearly start vibrating.

Hyunjin joins you a second later, carrying the rest of your bags. He knows better than to yank you around when you get like this, but he does guide you to the couch to sit you on a clean cushion. He gets you some water and makes you drink. It helps, marginally.

“Oh dear,” you finally say, an understatement.

You made dinner plans, mostly to dissuade you from desecrating the foyer before you had an opportunity to unpack your bags, but those plans are cancelled in light of all the work that needs doing to make the place habitable again. You are immensely glad there is no longer a river of water leaking out of your shower and into the living room, but the contractors were not overly kind regarding dust and debris, to say nothing of plain dust and dirt.

Your poor bookshelves have been so neglected. They are the first thing to get a good dusting.

It is not an impossible task, when all is said and done, but pizza delivery replaces a dinner out. Whatever plans for seduction you might or might not have had, all evaporate, because you are so exhausted from cleaning that you fall asleep on the couch before it even gets dark outside.

You wake with a start in the middle of the night. You dreamed about giant dust bunnies devouring your poor innocent bookshelves. It takes a minute to ground yourself in reality, your surroundings unfamiliar. You have grown so used to the spare bedroom at Hyunjin’s apartment that you forget your own bedroom for a sleepy moment. When you fully come to consciousness, you remember where you are.

Then you remember you fell asleep the couch, a half-finished plate of pizza in your lap. Hyunjin must have gathered you in his arms and put you to bed. The thought is a little touching but also embarrassing, because that was not the plan for tonight. You suppose your provisos merely outlined not sleeping together until you were in your townhouse, not that it was a requisite for moving back in, but you still miss his company.

You search around for your phone. He left it on your bedside table for you. It is not as late as you thought it was, probably because you fell asleep so early. You text him an apology. You assume he went back to his apartment but you are not sure if he is awake or asleep.

You always liked living alone, but you suddenly lament the empty space. You miss the comfort of another person just one room over. No, not just another person, but Hyunjin.

hey it’s okay, he texts back. you were tired. you should go back to sleep it’s late

I am unfortunately wide awake now.

Yeah me too.

Why are you so awake?

Thinking about you.

If you were not already wide awake, that would have done the job of waking you all the way. You sit up in bed, all your attention on your phone now. You type a reply.

Oh? What about me?

You are not sure if his tone is flirtatious or not. You are getting better at verbal cues but it is still impossible to read someone, even Hyunjin, over text. You cannot even read your own tone, uncertain if it comes across as flirtatious or just curious.

That I’m kinda glad you fell asleep.

Don't laugh at me.. but I think I am nervous

About sleeping with you

You expect any number of answers, but not that one. You struggle with a reply for a moment, not sure if he is seeking reassurance or he just wants to speak his mind. When he starts typing again, you decide to wait.

I know it sounds stupid.

We spent all this time waiting

And god I want to. my girl

I’m so scared of messing this up and letting you down.

Hyunjin, you finally type, before he can descend in a spiral. You told me you would wait a year, or that we would work something out for ourselves if it was necessary. Do you not think I would do the same for you?

The ellipses appears and disappears as he contemplates this. His answer comes a moment later, You’re right.

Of course I am, you reply. I always am.

You hear a laugh. It startles you so bad, you drop your phone on the floor. You snatch it up quickly as possibly and frantically type, Please tell me that is you laughing in my living room.

Oh yeah sorry I just slept on your couch.

This man will be the death of you one way or another, that much is for certain.

You frightened me half to death. I thought you left.

Ah sorry baby..

Do you… want me to come upstairs?

That restless heart of yours skips beats for another reason, a different type of fear, one not unlike his own. You are not sure how the night will progress, but you know one thing for certain, one thing that is true and will always be true: you want Hyunjin. You want him with you, and beside you, now and always.

Yes please, you write, then wait.

His footsteps creak on the stairs. The human body really is a peculiar creation, because your fear seems to bleed right into newfound arousal.

You look up as he opens the door, using his phone flashlight as a guiding light. It is facing upward, illuminating him. Your phone screen is on, offering some light over your own features.

You are still wearing the sweater and sweatpants you cleaned in, absolutely not a sexy outfit for a first time sleeping together. You considered ordering special lingerie for the occasion but you are still quite bad about feeling embarrassed about those things. You made yourself nervous and balked every time you pictured walking in the room with them on. You think you will do that one day. You will probably have to make yourself comfortable with it first. Maybe you will send him a video.

You look up at him, your heart pounding just thinking about it. He gazes back at you. He is wearing jeans and a t-shirt, also not an especially fancy outfit to celebrate any firsts.

His face is bare. Your hair is loose. There is something about the shadows and a new room that makes you feel like strangers for a moment. You tell him as much, mostly to fill the silence, because he is staring at you and his gaze is far too amorous to be directed at a silly woman who fell asleep in her cleaning clothes at suppertime.

He tips his head as he looks you. You shiver, as if it is the first time he has ever looked at you, as if he has not made you come a dozen times on his face and hands, as if he has not known you for most of your life.

He turns off his light. The room is plunged into darkness. That ridiculous heart of yours starts leaping around like it has an electric current.

“Hyunjin,” you say, reaching blindly. You gasp when he captures your hand, leading it onto his shoulder. Then you feel his whole body, his hair brushing your face, his hands on you. Your eyes begin to adjust to the darkness and see you him a little better, the muscle definition in his arms, the necklace dangling when he leans down towards you.

“I’d fall in love with you again,” he says. “If we were. Strangers. If I was seeing you now for the first time.” He touches your cheek, brushes his knuckles up your temple then slips his fingers into your unruly hair. “I think I’ve fallen in love with you a hundred different ways. I think I will again.”

“You know I am not good at speaking with poetic embellishment,” you say, swallowing around the lump in your throat, one caused by both sentiment and nerves. “So I will have to speak plainly with you. I love you too, Hyunjin. I always have. If we were meeting for the first time right now, though, I would probably be screaming and throwing things at you.”

He laughs and the sound make you feel like you are glowing. You need no other light. You reach up and touch his face and you see him perfectly, can picture his smile even before you trace your thumb across his bottom lip. You cannot draw like him, but if you could, you would scribble his likeness in the margin of your work as well.

“Good thing we’re not strangers, then,” he says. “Because I’d really rather make love to you.” He swoops down and kisses your forehead. “My friend.” He kisses a sensitive spot below your ear, the place he teases when he wants to rile you up quickly. “Baby.” Then he is tipping your head at the perfect angle to lean down, his lips brushing yours when he says, “My pretty girl.”

“Nonsense,” you say breathlessly, because of course you do.

And of course he kisses you.

He kisses you deeply, holding the back of your head as he gently lays you down. You push the covers away, opening yourself to him completely. You wrap around each other, sinking into the sheets, arching your back to feel more of him.

You gasp when he tugs your hair. He has already found so many ways to make you plaint and needy, to forget your skills of articulation and lose every word but his name.

“That’s it,” he says, hooking your legs around his waist. “Show me what you want, baby.”

You reach between your bodies, cupping where he is already hard in his jeans. Everything about him is so hard against you, you in your soft sweats with your pool of curly hair, losing yourself as his strong hands work their way down your body. He lifts your shirt off and tosses it to the side, then gathers your hands because you always have an instinctive moment of covering yourself. You are modest by nature, but you trust him with everything. It is exhilarating, when he takes your wrists and pins them by your head.

For a moment, you do imagine every version of yourselves. You and him, old friends turning into lovers. You and him, established lovers, finally coming together. Two strangers, finding each other for the first time. There is always something new to discover. You love him again and again.

“Say my name,” he says, working his way down your body. He is still fully clothed when he has you fully naked, writhing under him as he pushes his tongue in you. It is a slow seduction with his mouth on your pussy as he kisses you there as thoroughly as he kissed your mouth. “Say it.”

“Hyunjin,” you say, repeating it as you come, your legs wrapped around his head.

He spares you only seconds before his fingers are inside you. You cling to his arm, making noises that still surprise you, begging him with your eyes and hands and little cries. When he cups your face after, you open your mouth wide, wanting. He fucks your mouth like he fucked your pussy, two fingers gliding across your tongue until you are bucking and pleading, sucking on his fingers and staring at him with wide eyes.

“Fuck,” he says, then whips off his shirt.

He kneels and you help tug his jeans and boxers down to his knees. You curl towards him, situated so he can finger you while you wrap your lips around his cock. You are usually very neat about it, but you cannot think clearly with his fingers inside you. You mostly wet him, barely blowing him, but he still kisses you when you pull back.

When he gets the last of his clothes off, he surprises you by sitting back against the headboard and pulling you into his lap. He surprises you even more by folding your arms behind your back and pinning your wrists at the base of your spine. He holds them there in one hand, the other between you as he helps you settle on top of him.

He does know you well. The second his cock so much as brushes you, there is an instinct to cover up. You hands twitch but he holds you, speaking to you gently, soothingly. He eases you through it, breathing just as hard as you sink down until he is fully inside you. Then you are clenching sporadically around him, almost a mini-orgasm just from the initial thrust. He is still holding your arms behind you, guiding you through it with him completely in control. It seems to be the way he likes it, but you don’t mind at all. You can be a stern stickler everywhere else; here you can be his.

“That’s it, that’s my girl,” he says, free hand on your hip, holding you as he rolls his hips under you. “That good, baby?”

You answer with a mewl, dropping your face to his shoulder and staying there. He laughs, eventually lifting your head. Then he puts you on your back and lifts your leg onto his shoulder, and he fucks you in a way you once could only imagine.

He pushes your knees back, presses his body so close to yours. A sheen of perspiration covers his skin and you are certain you are not faring better. It feels good, it feels free. You wrap your arms around him and hold tight.

“My girl,” he says, with a strong thrust, then another. Sounding as deliriously inarticulate as you when he says, “Mine.” And thrusts again. “Mine.” And again. “Always.” Again.

You seek his hand blindly. He offers it, lacing your fingers like the romantic he instinctively is, but you lead it right to your throat where you want him to hold you. When he does, your body goes completely soft for him, like every worry flees at once. You are always so in your head, to be a body feels good, to share it with him even better. You hum with pleasure, mouth open like a good girl for your dreamy bad boy as he leans down and kisses you, his tongue fucking into your mouth with the same vigour he takes your pussy.

When he rubs his thumb over your clit, you last only seconds, your whole body shaking as you lose complete control. He holds you through it, rocking into you, kissing your face and neck. He pulls out and strokes himself to completion, coming on your thighs and pussy.

You wrap around each other after, rolling into the middle of the bed. You somehow migrated horizontally during your lovemaking. You will need to move eventually, but sleep is finally hitting you. You feel Hyunjin clean you up with his t-shirt, but you only stir when he kisses you. You wrap around him and return a few sleepy kisses down his neck. He slides a hand in your hair, cups the back of your neck, and stays like that.

“What next,” you ask sleepily, not fully conscious of your words.

“Mmm.” He sounds just as sleepy. “Still need our dinner date,” he murmurs. “Can decide in the morning.”

“Okay,” you say. And even though you are half asleep and barely conscious, you add, “I can make a spreadsheet.”

He smiles. You think maybe you should learn to draw just so you can draw that smile after all. Maybe there is an artist and a romantic inside you, or maybe it is just the parts of him so entwined with you, forever embedded in your heart. You are actually excited to learn.

You give him one more sleepy kiss. It is early morning now.

You fall asleep together at the start of a new day.

#hwang hyunjin x reader #hyunjin x reader #skz x reader #hyunjin smut #skz smut

847 notes · View notes