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non-stop-imagines · 6 months

Text

Mírame

From this request!💖 And a little help from this too 😚

Word Count: ~10.1k words w/ smau

Pairing: Carlos Sainz Jr. x Black Rapper!Reader ( JT face claim)

Warning: Smut, p in v, fingering, forced eye contact, a little bit of an innocence kink made its way in there, Twitter Environment, rude comments, mention of food Minors DNI!!! 18+

A/N: AH HA! ITS DONE AND IM SO HAPPY! I have said this so many times and I mean it everytime, thank you, thank you, thank you so much to my 🌶️ anon. For trusting me with this request, for checking in on me, and most of all for being so patient. I hope you are doing well and I hope you enjoy this. 💖 I hope you all enjoy this. I am trying to work my way to reopening my requests because I truly find pure joy in reading the ideas that you guys have. Love you all!!💖💛💖💛💖

A/N 2: All of the pictures used for the smau portions are all from pinterest and are not my own product.

Masterlist

___________

You and Carlos stroll back over to his car, parked a block away from the park that Carlos took you to, Jardins Saint-Martin, just on the outskirts of Monaco. Since Carlos decided to ask you on this date at the last minute (it was about 11:00pm on Saturday, Monaco grand prix weekend), it was either this or his boat that probably was surrounded by fans in some fashion. Taking you to this park, and finding a place still open to buy ice cream before coming here, was Carlos' best shot at being alone with you.

"Sorry the date seemed so…basic. I wish I could've taken you somewhere fancier, but I was so nervous about asking you on a date that I didn't do it until late." He's been wanting to do this since he met you at the Miami Grand Prix. When he first saw you peeking into the Ferrari garage as a celebrity guest at the race, he had never plotted so quickly to get someone's number. You were…different. In a good way. You were dressed sexy yet classy, obviously comfortable in your own skin, and you weren't afraid to be expressive when talking with anyone. Heck, when you first talked to him, he could tell you were nervous, but it still did little to dull the fire in your conversation.

"So, this is yours, huh?" Carlos had led you into the open garage while everyone else focused on a different celebrity that had made their way over.

"Sí. Not what you expected, huh?" He smiles and watches you closely observe the race car, your eyes tracing its curves while Carlos' traced yours.

"To be honest, I don't know what I expected. I mean it tried to learn as much as I could about the sport once I learned I was invited, but I didn't really focus on the cars. Mainly teams, drivers, less technical stuff." You were rambling. You knew you were rambling, it always happened when you were around someone you found attractive. "But I do know that this does not look like any Ferrari I've seen." Mental facepalm. Of course not, it's a goddamn race car. You could feel your chest squeezing, scared that your awkward remark wouldn't elicit a response from the driver, but instead the faint sound of an exhaled chuckle shocks you.

"I know. It's smaller. And seems a bit less safe, but what do I know?" Your tension melts a bit as Carlos makes a joke just as terrible as yours. You continue observing the car, walking around and tilting your head, hair falling gently around your face.

"Sorry, I'm being so quiet. I just think it's so cool seeing one of these up close." You saunter back over to Carlos, eyes still on the car, not to observe it, but for the purpose of avoiding the intense eye contact that he was trying to initiate, mentally urging you to look at him.

"So, uh, you make music, no?" This gets you looking at him for a moment, only to answer the vague question.

"Uh, yeah. I'm a rapper. You probably haven't listened to my stuff, though. Probably not your speed." You flash a small smile then look away again, observing the car one last time before turning your attention to the rest of the garage. Little did you know, that smile knocked Carlos off his feet, and he wanted it to happen again.

"Maybe I have, maybe I haven't, but I would like to. Here." This brought your attention to his face then his phone that was unlocked and open for you to go to your music. "You can just add yourself."

"You know you could've done this yourself…" You smile to yourself as you search your name.

"I know, but now you can put your number in, too." You stopped what you were doing to look up at him, squinting and grinning.

"Ah, smooth. I see where the nickname comes from." You chuckle and go to do as told, adding your number to his contacts.

"Thank you. I'm glad you said it because if I said it, it would have been too cheesy." He exhales a laugh, searching your face for amusement, which he finds once you go to hand his phone back.

"You know, I would've given you my number if you just asked." You didn't know what to do with your hands. If you were bold, you would have allowed your hand to run along his toned arm, but you settled on just letting your hands be expressive as you spoke, lazily pointing an acrylic clad finger.

"Maybe, but this is more fun." Carlos smiled, a smile that accentuated his bottom lip, making you instinctively and stealthily dart your tongue out onto yours.

After the brief moment of the poorest example of attraction projecting body language imaginable, it was soon time for you to continue on to God knows where because you weren't paying attention before, and for Carlos to start Friday practice prep, even though he definitely wouldn't be paying attention. He would be thinking about how he was going to text you, call you, something.

It took him 3 days to text "Hi" and you 5 seconds to respond

Okay, so fire was an exaggeration, but you didn't know any better.

"I thought the date was nice!" You hesitantly reach out for his hand. The motion was initially instinctive, your hand acting on its own, and once you realized what you were doing, you began to pull back, but it was stopped and encased by Carlos' before it was fully retracted, and he continued the conversation like nothing happened.

"No, no. It could have been nicer. I just didn't give myself enough time." Your heart was racing, and this was when you realized you were still looking at entwined hands and not the man speaking to you, so you quickly refocused yourself.

"Really, I wouldn't know the difference anyway, I have nothing to compare it to." Carlos tilts his head quizzically at your implication so you continue to explain, chuckling. "I've never been on a date before."

"Wait, no? Haven't you had a boyfriend or something?" His thumb starts to move over your fingers and your brain short circuits, your eyes cutting back to your hand.

"Uh, no. No, I haven't. So I definitely don't know what I'm doing and I wouldn't know better as to whether or not this was the worst date a person could've ever had." You finally got your brain to work again and smiled nervously as you spoke, watching a look of disdain settle into Carlos' face.

"Well, I wouldn't say all of that, but…wow, I can not believe you've never had a boyfriend." You were greatly enjoying Carlos' shock, but you go on to explain a little.

"I've been focusing on my music career since I was 16, so someone would literally have had to hold a sign up in my face and shout that they like me for me to even consider the possibility of them wanting to go on a date with me." You giggle nervously, the disdain on his face shifting to curiosity as his eyes traced every part of your face over and over again.

"So would that be necessary now?" A grin tugs at the right side of his mouth and it seems like he keeps having to pull his eyes from your lips.

"No, that won't be necessary. Just a simple 'I like you' would be fine." Your laugh was looser this time, and you finally let loose a full smile, displaying shallow dimples and accentuating your lips. Carlos looked at you like a shooting star that had just whizzed by, disappearing into the horizon all mysterious and sparkly.

"Well, I like you, a lot. And I want to take you on more dates, and be whatever other first I can be for you." His grin slowly fades but it doesn't take away the sincerity in his eyes and his words, now unabashedly staring at your lips.

"Oh. Well i- I've, um, never, uh, kissed anyone before." There was obvious hesitation in your statement, knowing it was a bold move for you, slightly surprised at the smile that landed on Carlos' lips.

"I am so glad you said that." You knew what was coming, especially once you felt him pull you closer with your hand, beginning to lean in, but for some reason you failed to take any steps to reciprocate the action, eyes wide open, watching him lean in for the kiss but stop centimeters away. "It's better if you close your eyes, I promise." Carlos chuckles at the shocked face you looked at him with, his eyes still trained on your plump parted lips.

"Yeah, I know. I don't know why I didn't…let's-uh-try again." You pinched the bridge of your nose in embarrassment, resetting your brain to try the moment again. Eventually you gaze back up at him, first taking a moment to admire the man in front of you, failing at hiding a laughing grin while you got lost in his eyes.

Carlos, on the other hand, his mind was going berserk. The eyes you looked at him with were so innocent and trusting, even further indicated by how you, unprompted, fluttered your eyes closed prepared to try your first over kiss again. He had to indulge his own self for a moment, testing the waters to see if he could prove his theory, even the slightest bit, so he unnecessarily lifts your chin and tilts your head to your right, each move smooth and gentle, and with both moves you allowed yourself to follow the modification unhesitatingly, keeping your eyes closed. "Perfect." He finally leans down to kiss you, first just the soft press of each other's lips, you getting used to the foreign, intimate feeling, but after that moment Carlos slots his lips between yours and you try your best to keep up, mimicking his lip movements to the best of your ability. Carlos was considerate of the situation though and held off on the tongue, instead opting for manually lifting and wrapping your arms around his neck and then circling his own around your waist to make the kiss deeper. Your lips were glossy and pupils were dilated upon pulling away from the kiss, chest heaving with slow deep inhales.

"How was that?" The look you gave him seeked approval, or at least constructive criticism, on your kissing ability. Carlos just like that his opinion mattered so much to you.

"I feel like I should be asking you that, no?" He keeps a tight grip on you with one hand as he uses the other to gently rake through your hair, fingers going just deep enough to manipulate the top layer.

"Oh, well you've done this before. I'm the one that needs pointers." You move your arms to wrap them around Carlos' torso, giving your shoulders a rest

"You need no pointers." He leans down to give you another lip slotted kiss.

"Oh, thank you. I-uh- you're not too bad yourself." Carlos just chuckles at your awkward comment and leans in for more kisses, testing the waters more and more to see how deep he could make them, how much more tongue you would allow, and smiling at how you didn't know what to do with the small introduction to the appendage. It was you who had to break up the moment, wedging your arms between you two. "Don't you have a curfew or something? The race is tomorrow right?"

Carlos wasn't going to lie, he completely forgot it was a race weekend. He was so enamored by you just being here, how when you were with him you exuded a, now more understood, innocence that is hidden behind the nature of your fame. "Not if I pretend I don't." He shines a devious grin at you, and you have to reboot your brain to remember what you were going to say.

“No, I’m not gonna be the reason you break curfew or whatever.” You try and wave away his eyes that were trained on your face, but his lips approaching your neck, and the reflexive tilt of your head to give him more surface area, shut you right up.

“Fine, I guess you’re right." He says with his lips brushing deliciously against your ear, then pulls his face away and extends his arm past its previous home if your waist to open the car door for you. He has to move his face into your line of sight, which was off in the distance just past his left shoulder as you contemplated your situation, and use his eyes to motion you into the car.

"Thank you again, for tonight. I had a nice time." You spoke as you buckled your seatbelt, realizing that was something you did often when you were able to, occupying yourself with something else to avoid having to look Carlos in the eye. He wasn't going to stand for that though, so once he was in and the car was started, he turned his body to you and tilted your chin up so you would look at him.

"That's good to hear." He brings you forward for a kiss, again testing your response to the addition of his tongue to the equation, liking the effort that you put into following his lead. He didn't worry, though. He knew he had time with you. "When you get to the paddock tomorrow, go to the Ferrari building. I'll make sure they have a garage pass for you." You just nod, eyes dazed and trained on his lips before flicking up to his own deep brown irises, and he couldn't help leaning in for another brief make out session. After kissing you the first time, your first time, he became immediately obsessed with it, trying to teach you and get you to follow his lead each time, and loving that you were a fast learner.

After some driving, more kissing, and stealthily making it back to the hotel room, "Good nights" and confirmation for tomorrow's plans were made and, eventually (because Carlos wouldn't leave unless you looked at him while talking to him) you both were in your assigned rooms, wondering what would come of that night.

yn_music

Liked by carlossainz55 and 351,079 others

yn_music Red on me like Ferrari 💋🌶️🏎️

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user1 New music soon? 👀♥️

>yn_music We workin, don't you worry boo💋

>user1 I literally screamed and threw my phone

>yn_music Hope your phone's okay 😬

normani It's giving 90s dream girl 📷♥️

>yn_music 💋

user2 Uhhhh, Carlos, whatchu doin here blud?

>user3 Apparently they seemed pretty close during the Miami GP

>user2 She was at the Miami GP!?!?

>user3 Yeah! And there were seen in the garage Thursday talking and possibly exchanging numbers 😶

>user2 This is the best possible wag announcement I've ever experienced

user4 I refuse to believe that Carlos Sainz is seeing someone that makes music like hers 🤷🏽‍♀️

>user2 why are you even here

"I'm sorry. Can you just explain to me one more time why you stopped me?" You let your fingers just barely run through the top of your hair, taking a deep breath and glaring at the man standing in front of you.

"We have received a couple of complaints regarding your attire and so we have to ask you to cover up." The man in the bright yellow security jacket looked just as done as you did, but you didn't care.

"Okay, I'm not trying to be difficult or anything, but I have seen outfits much worse than mine and yet I'm the one that gets stopped? I just don't…" Your response may have been directed to the security guard, but it was more for your own sanity trying to keep yourself calm. "Respirar" You repeat the Spanish word taught to you by Carlos for whenever you felt anxious or overwhelmed, inhaling as you say it and then releasing a long exhale. "Let me just-Do you think we could go over to the Ferrari motorhome? Carlos was the one who invited me and maybe he would be able to help…”

“Ma’am, please. We don’t need to get anyone else involved. Just cover up or else I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” The guy reaches out to guide you by your arm but you pull back from his reach, taking a singular step back.

"First of all, do not touch me. I did not give you permission to touch me. Secondly, I am not going to cover up because there is nothing wrong with my outfit, and it is entirely too hot to do so. Please can we just-I texted him, hopefully he's by-oh!" You felt a hand touch your lower back ever so lightly, making you jump and a flash of anger come over you very briefly before looking to your right and seeing Carlos flash a grin at you. The more severe part of your frustration melted away with the presence of the man beside you, softening your demeanor and allowing him to press a kiss to the top of your head and subsequently fix any bit of hair that came out of place due to the action.

“Hello.” He still had that grin on, but you could tell it got brighter the longer he looked at you, the more his eyes wandered around your appearance.

“Hi.” All you could muster was a tired grin to reciprocate, drained from the previous encounter, which made Carlos even more adamant to squash whatever problem you frenziedly and vaguely texted him about. So, after protectively wrapping his arm around your waist, he turns to the man that was previously hounding you about your outfit.

“So, what’s the problem?” The glare Carlos gave the man could have set the guy’s hair on fire if Carlos willed it. He was messing with his girl, and he wasn’t going to stand for it.

“Oh, s-she is a guest of yours…” The man started fidgeting with his jacket, pulling at the bottom hem and scrunching up the sleeves before finally just settling on crossing his arms.

“Yes. My girlfriend if you want to be specific. So, what is the problem you are having with my girlfriend?” Silence. That is all that followed the question, and it caused the world to just fade away, leaving just you three. Carlos, silent and waiting for an answer. The man, silent and feeling like an ass as he racked his brain for a way to talk himself out of the situation. You , silent and waiting for something to unfold, and then finally registering Carlos’ words but too nervous to say anything. When enough time passed to irritate him, Carlos turned to you for an answer. “What happened?”

“Um, uh..” Your first instinct was to look away, anything for you to not have to endure the intenseness of Carlos’ frustrated stare. You click your long, decorated nails together, trying to find your words again, surprised by the gentle finger that guides your eyes to his.

“Mírame. You can tell me.” His glare softened when he turned to you, willing you with his eyes to speak and trying to telepathically convey that it was a safe space to tell him the full story.

“He told me that there have been people complaining about my outfit and that I can either cover up or leave.” Even though it was hard to initiate eye contact with Carlos, maintaining it was a piece of cake. Getting lost in the dark irises of a gaze that could go from playfully wide to sultry squint was effortless for you, and you eyes seemed to follow the motion of his as he checked out your entire outfit, oversized and low buttoned white dress shirt and blue jean mini skirt down to the gold accented thigh high boots, a sexy elegant look which was one of the many looks he loved to see on you, and definitely did not see a problem with.

“You must not have been doing this for long because I have seen much worse outfits walking through the paddock.” His hand slid from your waist to your hand as he mildly pointed a finger at the man before turning to you. “You look great today, by the way.” Since a true response would make you dip into having to initiate eye contact again, all you could do was bashfully grin at the ground. “Now, we have somewhere to be, and I think you should go take a break, and just not come back, so you don’t disturb anyone else, okay?” He checks to ensure he had a firm grip on your hand before hastily walking away toward the Ferrari motorhome, but when you guys get close instead of going to the building you two turn toward the garage entrance, stopping along the wall just as you turn down the long walkway. It was only at that moment that you realized Carlos was dressed in his race attire, only haphazardly with the suit pulled up onto his shoulders but mostly unzipped, and your eyes couldn’t help but follow his hands as the quickly performed that task. “That was stupid, I don’t know why…” He mumbled that to himself as he finished strapping himself into his race suit. “I’m sorry about that girlfriend thing. I-”

“Don't be sorry.” You answered quickly and made sure your eyes met his. When Carlos said that in his haste to defend you, sure you heard an inflected emphasis on the word "girlfriend", that was a pleasant pillow that you were able to rest on while he handled the situation.

“What, you want to be my girlfriend?” His smirk acted as your reminder that you were holding eye contact, making you want to shrink back down in embarrassment, but you didn’t allow yourself to, and you knew Carlos wouldn’t allow it either.

“If you don’t mind being my first boyfriend.” You shrug timidly, and smile just as wide as Carlos does after your answer. You could tell Carlos was racking his brain for his next steps with how quick his eyes flashed over you, finally landing on your lips as his hand rested on your shoulders to pull you in for a kiss, quick but still held the happiness he wanted to convey.

“I told you I want to be all of your firsts. Even though I wanted this to be a bit more special. Flowers and everything.” He pushes your hair behind your ear and finds his eyes moving back and forth between yours again.

“Yeah, I remember.” Your eyes reluctantly peeled themselves away from his and traveled down to his race suit, pulling you back to the present as your hands act on their own to turn him toward his garage. “Go, please I’ve held you up long enough. What is this anyway? Practice?” Since landing in Britain that morning, you have been non-stop trying to get to the track, so you haven’t kept track of the schedule for the day.

“Eh, no. Qualifying.” This only made your eyes widen and caused you to put more force into pushing him into the garage.

“What the fuck!? You could’ve told me! Go, go, I probably completely ruined your concentration.” You continue to push but the action is interrupted by Carlos delicately pulling you around to his front and pulling you close to him wrapping your arms around his waist. His hands found their home on the sides of your shoulders, steadying you for another kiss, meant to calm your worries but also because he found your concern endearing.

"I'm more than prepared. Trust me. I'll see you later, cariño." He jogs off to his side of the garage, having to leave you at the entrance, but you eventually make your way in, standing behind the barrier separating the guests from the rest of the garage, pulling on headphones and waving at his cousin before finally turning your attention to the main event.

__________

"Okay, hold on one more moment, cariño. Keep your eyes closed.” You’re walked out of the bathroom that you were very quickly whisked into when you arrived at Carlos' room. Though your eyes were closed, they could still sense the soft glow of what could possibly be candle light, and the lack of sight didn't stop your nose from breathing in the fresh perfume of flowers, though you were unsure what kind. You waited patiently, jumping ever so slightly at the feeling of Carlos' hands over your closed eyes and the faint touch of his breath on the back of your neck. "Alright, open."

You open your eyes to, as you suspected, the dim, warm lights of several candles around his hotel room, a bouquet of roses on the bed that was sprinkled with rose petals. "Oh, Carlos…" You could've cried. Just a few months ago, you weren't even thinking about being in a relationship, let alone being in one with someone like Carlos, but here you are, with this man who thinks the world of you, and shows it not only in his words but in his actions.

"I wanted to get more balloons, but this is what I could get in such short notice." He had his arms wrapped around your torso and his chin rested on your shoulder as you looked at the beautifully decorated room, but you wanted to look at him instead, so you turned around in his arms to hook yours around his neck.

"You're too much." You slowly lean in for a peck, smiling with each one that follows.

"I know." You both chuckle as you go to playfully hit his chest. "You deserve this all, I hope you know that."

"I'm trying too, but still, thank you, Carlos." You go to rest your head on his chest, but you're startled by a sudden exclamation of mild disdain from him.

"Aye, Carlos is too formal." You eyebrows furrow briefly at him and shift your jaw as you think.

"Okay, so, um, what then?" Your eyes were wide and surprisingly innocent compared to the usual sultry look you had.

"Papí. I think that would have a nice ring coming from you." He couldn't help but lean in for another kiss from you. Your lips were his favorite part of you and the feeling of them on his own was his favorite feeling in the world, you embracing him second for the time being.

"Okay. Thank you, Papí." You place another peck in his waiting lips, liking how the nickname rolled off your tongue.

"You deserve it, mí amor." A kiss to your cheek begins to trail down your neck, reaching a tender spot that elicits a moan that shocks you but pleases him.

"Oh. I don't know wh-" Your automatic apology was interrupted and excited Carlos.

"Let's see if we can do that again." The kisses continued, making it the first time anyone has ever explored the erogenous points on your body.

Well, he was at least able to get around to anything above the shoulders.

yn_music

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yn_music 🌹🥀🌹🥀

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carlossainz55 Amor ♥️

user5 This is the hardest soft launch I've ever seen

user6 My happiness depends on these two making it so just everyone be quiet and let them live

>landonorris I agree with them ☝🏼

kaliuchis Mamí ‼️‼️‼️🥵🥵🥵

user7 I'm gonna need pointers because I still don't know how you snatched Carlos Sainz 🧐

>yn_music Be awkward as fuck in the Ferrari garage 🧍🏿‍♀️

user8 This is not gonna last I'm calling it rn 🫥

>user9 She probably whined and cried for him to do that for her 🙄

>carlossainz55 Try again. This time pull your head out of your ass so you can think clearer

You were in the zone, posing as music played in the studio. That was truly the only way you could even begin this shoot as the only things covering your upper body were fake butterflies, but as you got well into the shoot those nerves melted away and you were just vibing to the music. After a couple more shots, the photographer called you over to take a look at what they had gotten and while you were studying each shot you received a tap on the shoulder.

"Papí!" You turn around and fling your arms around your boyfriend’s neck, his warm woodsy scent, a slightly sweet tinge at the end, swirling around your head. When you pull away, he hands you the robe that you left in the make-up area, aware of the qualm you had about being too exposed for long periods of time, and you graciously and quickly accept it before hanging your arms around his neck again while he brings you closer to him by your hips.

“Te ves hermosa, cariño. That color is perfect on you.” You looked at him with a dopey gaze, poking out your lips to accept the kiss he was leaning in for.

“Gracias, Papi.” You guys make your way toward the make up area, which in a large open area such as the studio this was taking place, is a small portion of the large room partitioned off, a clothing rack and a vanity in the vicinity. "What are you doing here?" You sit in the chair facing the vanity, your hand in the unwavering grasp of your boyfriend who walks around to stand in front of you.

"What, I can't come see my girlfriend?" His eyes wandered around your intricate makeup, while he spoke and you could feel your face heat up and your heart begin to race as he placed you under his adoring gaze.

"Well, I mean, it's just unexpected for you to be in L.A. when you're supposed to be in Singapore by tomorrow. Wouldn't this fuck up your sleep schedule?" You bring your other hand up to accompany the one already in Carlos' grasp, swinging his arm, eventually turning your attention to the group of hands.

"Eh, maybe. Maybe not. I guess we will see." He shrugs and then uses his free hand to tilt your head up. "I couldn't pass on a chance to see mi cariño."

"Oh." He removes his finger and your eyes go back to your guys' hands, to his dismay. But his ears perked when you voluntarily looked back up at him. "I am really happy to see you.”

It was simple what you said, but it was how you said it that made the moment a sticky-sweet one. “I’m happy to see you too, amor.” He bent in to press a kiss to your lips and then examined your eyes. “Have you eaten? Are you hungry?”

“Oh, no. I’m fine. They provided food." You tilt your head to the table off to the side, and Carlos' eyes are assaulted with the sight of boring looking sandwiches and various fruits and vegetables. He knew you well enough to know that you would only eat what was over there if you had to. But he was there, so you didn't have to.

"Are you sure you don't want me to get you something, mí corazon?" Corazon. The nickname that you loved and feared the most for the sheer fact it is a sign that you had to be vulnerable. If he called you by that, it meant that he could see through whatever front you were putting up and that you had no choice but to voice whatever was on your mind. A complaint, your feelings on something, an idea you have. He was there to listen, and you were trying to remember that.

"Well, um, there is this taco place, I think it’s about a block away, they have these amazing carne asada fries with queso, guacamole, pico, sour cream…” Your stomach growls at your descriptive request, and you look up innocently at your boyfriend, who grinned at you like you were a precious jewel.

“Got it. I think I saw it on my way here. Uh, what about coffee? You seem a little tired.” He reaches to your hair, a feather light touch barley even altering the already perfectly set hair.

“No, I-uh…” You stop your refusal, feeling Carlos’ intense gaze on you, just waiting for you to lie so he could say something, so you conceded and told him the truth. "Yes, a coffee would be nice." You give him a worn grin and lean into the forehead kiss that he gently guides you into by the back of your head.

"Okay, mí amor. Iced Macchiato, extra espresso shot, sweet cream cold foam…do you want extra caramel this time?" You look up and slowly nod at him, leaning in for one last peck on the lips. "Okay, I'll be back. You keep being sexy."

"I'll try." This was preceded with a girlish giggle, and you were reluctant to let go of his hand, holding on until his arm was extended to its fullest extent. "Love you."

Carlos stops in his tracks. Sure, this wasn't the first "love you" shared between you too, but he was sure this was the first time you've said it first. "I love you too, mí cariño." He backtracks to kiss you again, soft and slow, before you finally let him leave.

He came back with the food and coffee about 30 minutes later and stayed for the entire rest of the shoot, his presence a comfort you didn't know you needed until he was there. He left for the race early the next morning, even though he knew he would be arriving halfway through the media day, it was worth being with you those extra few hours.

yn_music

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yn_music Look who decided to visit 🦋😚

No Bars out now, y'all‼️ If you haven't listened, where tf y'all been at? 🤨😒😘

tagged carlossainz55

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carlossainz55 Sexy as always 🥵 Pre-race weekend time well spent cariño ♥️😘

>landonorris Why do I feel like there is some deeper meaning behind this 🤨

>yn_music Don't look to deep into it, it's not for young eyes 👶🏼

>landonorris You're literally a year older than me???

saweetie Y'all don't fuck wit her 🤞🏿💖🤞🏿💖

>yn_music ♥️

>saweetie I've got a shoot next week, you think your man can come bring me some food?

>carlossainz55 She has told me that since you and are her friends I am obligated to. Just tell me when and where 🫡

user10 A lewk❗ Ate left no crumbs❗ Slay hunty to the boots down❗Serving cunt❗

>yn_music You just using them all, huh? 😭

>user10 I just love you so much 🥲

>yn_music ♥️

user11 So we're praising her being basically nude...got it ✔️

>user10 You just wish you looked that good basically nude 💁🏾‍♀️

comment liked by carlossainz55

carmenmmundt Can't wait to see you this weekend, lovely ☺️

>yn_music I say the moment I see you we flake on our boyfriends and go get some drinks

>carmenmmundt Deal 🤝

>user12 Hmmm? You two are besties and no one decided to tell us?? Surprises around each corner this season

"Amor, can you grab the salad de la navera, por favor?" Reyes instructs as you two move around the kitchen to grab the finishing touches on the dinner that was happening out on the patio of the large Madrid home. It was only you two in the kitchen, as desired by Carlos' mom, while he, his sisters and various other family members stayed out on the patio while Carlos Sr. grilled.

"Okay, here we are." You set the bowl on the counter and then turn to lean against it as you watch her put finishing touches on various other fragrant side dishes.

"Gracias, amor." When she gets done turning off the burners of the stove and wiping her hands clean, she whirls around to look at you, a soft content grin on her face as she eyed you up and down, meeting your eyes when she's done. "You are such a lovely girl. And not just beautiful, pero tu aura, how comfortable you are with yourself and how it naturally makes other people more comfortable around you. That's a gift."

"Thank you, Miss Reyes. You don't understand how nice that is to hear. With so many people talking about my relationship with Carlos, thinking they know what's going on…it's just nice to hear. Especially from you." Your heart fluttered at the compliment. You weren't one to be phased by online comments, but there was a small morsel of your mind that was worried the comments would influence those close to Carlos, convince them that you weren't good for him, but that has been far from the case. They all loved you, and that was an understatement. His mom and sisters would always steal you away from him the moment you guys walked through the door, and his father treated you like his own.

"And Carlito, he-I have never seen him so in love with someone. When he calls me, two things he talks about, driving and you." You had to do something with your hands as you felt Reyes' adoring eyes focus hard on you, making you mildly nervous.

“I’m sure my friends would say a similar thing about me. All I do is focus on my music and talk about Carlos.” You chuckle and bring your hand to your hair to shake it out and push some of it backwards. “I always feel like a lovesick teenager when I talk about him. I get giddy about the stupidest stuff.”

“As you should, mi amor. He always talks about how proud he is of you. How you’ve allowed yourself to be vulnerable. How you've been learning to voice your needs. And, eh, this last one coming from my own hopes, but I hope he is showing you what a good relationship is supposed to be. Even if he is not your only one, I hope he is a good one.” She takes a step towards you and lays a soft hand on your cheek, and you naturally lean into the motherly touch, your lips twitching into a grin.

“He’s been a great one. He’ll be a tough act to follow, if it comes to that of course.” You two share a quiet moment after that, like a mother watching her daughter fall blissfully in love and being comforted in the fact that she is being loved back two fold.

“Bueno. Now, let’s talk about that new song of yours while we bring the rest of this food out.” She nods her head at the salad bowl and plate of rosquillas sitting on the island behind you and turns around to grab the dishes behind her and leads the way to the patio where the rest of the family was.

“Oh, that. I-” You follow quickly behind her, preparing an answer to explain the content of the song but the answer you get before you’re able to finish is one that you should’ve expected.

“I love it. It’s on my workout playlist.” She turns to the side to walk through the door to ensure that nothing hits the door frame, watching her step as she does so, and you follow her lead, dumbfounded by her confession. “You never need to worry about your music with me amor. I love everything you make because it��s you. You need to take some advice from your own song. Aye,¿cuál era la línea? Ah, ‘I’m that bitch, give a fuck who don’t like me.’” Reyes’ recitation of the lyric invites a playful, riot-like response, a jumble of "Mamí!" and "Tía!" erupting from the group on the patio.

"Thank you, Miss Reyes. I'm very happy you enjoy the song." You say this through intermittent chuckles as you walk over to the other side of the table, to where you're greeted by your boyfriend trying to take the bowl of salad and plate of dessert from you because he never lets you do any labor if you don't have to, while a similar gesture unknowingly happened in the same moment with his mom and dad. The difference in the moment is, that while Reyes allowed the gesture to happen, used to Carlos Sr.’s impromptu help, you kept the serving dishes in your grasp, telling Carlos that you had it and giving him a short kiss on the way by.

You two had an audience for that entire interaction, you walking by, Carlos' eyes watching you the entire, and the bright, eye crinkling smile he gave you once you turned to him after placing the dishes down, bringing you into his arms and giving you a deep kiss. He then plops into the chair he was previously sat in, bringing you down onto his lap, eliciting a giggle from you in the process. "So, what did you and my mom talk about in there?"

"Oh you know, the usual. Food, music…how you're absolutely obsessed with me and can't live without me." You calmly comb your fingers through his hair as you spoke, slowly getting more focused on actually fixing the tousled look of his hair, until his right index finger tilts your head down slightly so you were looking in his eyes.

"Todo es verdad, mí cariño." You lean down to receive the kiss his partially puckered lips offered, the only thing your brain could register doing is allowing your eyes to travel the hills of his face and lean your head into the light touch his fingers gave the back of your ear following his gentle modification of how your hair fell in front of your face. "Oh!" His sudden exclamation made you flinch slightly and perk you head toward him, eyes widened in surprise, silently waiting for him to continue. "Move your stuff into my room tonight, please. I do not know why you slept in a different room last night, anyway." His index finger continued to lightly scratch at the back of your ear.

"Oh, yeah. I was so tired last night after traveling, and it was, like, instinct to go to another room at your parents house because that's what I did the last time we came here. But, um, I will. I did miss you last night."

"I missed you too. You have no idea how much I missed you." His eyes traipse around your body suggestively, before silently coaxing your eyes to his. Your head follows the guide of Carlos' hand to meet his lips in a couple of light, languid kisses, that is until you hear a low grunt and turn around to see his cousin playfully rolling his eyes at the precious interaction.

"Consigue una habitación." This was whispered under Oñoro's breath, and a cheesy smile plastered its way onto his face when Carlos' hand briefly leaves your hip to swat at his cousin, a flurry of giggles coming from all parties.

"Sólo estás celoso." His arm wraps back around your waist and hand gravitates back to your hip, clasping his other hand that has now settled in the same location, hugging your body closer to him.

"No, he's just mad that I beat him at Padel last time we were here and I could probably beat his ass again." Carlos brings his head adding a curiously raised eyebrow to his amused visage. "He still doesn't understand how I did it with the long nails." You click your, now moderate length (moderate compared to the usual length you get), nails as a subconscious supplement to your coy answer, a complete contrast to the response that comes from the man seated next to you two.

"You shouldn't have even been able to hold the racquet with those things." Though loud, the tone of his answer was more comical, a chuckle laced throughout his words.

"Aye, don't be a sore loser." They childishly swat at each other for a couple of seconds before Carlos' attention abruptly moves back to you. "You move to my room tonight, bueno?"

"Bueno, papí." You press a gentle kiss to his nose and then a few slow exaggerated ones to his lips. Nothing too deep, not in the company of family, only lips were involved, but there was a conscious effort on your part to put most of your attention on his bottom lip, sucking and kissing it.

Soon it was time to eat and you had to move to your own chair, much to Carlos' dismay.

________

Three slow knocks to his bedroom door made Carlos rise from his bed and slowly stalk over and swing it open, slowly pulling your tiresome frame into his arms.

"You moved my stuff already." You mumble into his chest, the scent wafting from him swirling around you, making you realize exactly how much you missed him last night. How perfect he would have been to cuddle up next to, be wrapped in his warm embrace…

"Cariño? You there?" He makes a knocking noise while pretending to knock your head to grab your attention. You didn't realize how tired you were.

"Yeah, yeah. I, um…" Your response acted as go-ahead for Carlos to press slow kisses up your neck and behind your ear, a location that he would pepper with his lips when he wanted to mess with you, make you mewl quietly and immerse yourself fully in the sensation. He loved it, watching your face show a level of eros that would rarely reveal itself. He always wanted more, wanted to move further down your body, explore areas that are always tortuously covered in clothes, but he was adamant in not doing so until you were absolutely sure. Until you yourself initiated something.

"You must be so tired, amor. Can't think straight." He pushes his hands beneath the baggy long sleeve you wore, fingernails grazing the skin of your back, one hand leaving its post for a fleeting moment to push closed the bedroom door, your lips held captive by his.

"Mmm…no. No. I, uh, I just gotta go do something real quick. I'll be back." It took a moment for you to escape Carlos' hold, you practically wearing him like a backpack until you disappeared behind the bathroom door. He slowly saunters over to the bed, stopping momentarily when he hears you screech out "You even organized my stuff in the bathroom!"

After about 15 minutes, you emerged from the bathroom and laggardly made your way toward the bed, where Carlos was engrossed with something on his phone. That is, until he could see you approaching him in his peripheral, making him intuitively set the device down and accept you crawling into bed with him. He noted your change in attire, tight shorts and a baggy shirt, a change from the long sleeve and sweatpants you had on moments before. He also noted your hesitancy in climbing onto the bed, as if you played out an entire scenario while standing at the side before just climbing in and laying to the left of him, turning to your side to wrap your arms around his left arm and to drape a leg over his hip.

Originally, you both just layed there, intertwined, Carlos ready to go to sleep with you finally there beside him, but that when he felt soft, timid kisses being placed up his neck. He couldn't help but smile endearingly at your attempt to set a mood, working diligently to hold in a chuckle with each unsure kiss you pressed with your pillowy soft lips. It was similar to a doe taking a chance to walk up to you, one wrong move and they'll retreat for good. "Hey, hold on." He says this quietly, and he could tell from your still hooded eyes that you were only stopping to follow whatever brief instruction he had for you, but instead of instruction, he just shifts his body up the bed so he was sitting up against the headboard, taking you with him and ultimately pulling you over his body so you were sitting on his lap eye level with him. The abrupt change in position is what broke your trance and caused you to stare at him in the eyes, unsure of what to do next. "Just keep doing what you were before, cariño." You stare at him for a second longer, just until he gives you the slightest of nods, in which you reluctantly go back to placing gentle kisses along his jaw. "Get closer, amor. Why are you so far away?" He presses his hands to your lower back to bring your lower body up his legs, your core dangerously close to the bulge growing in his shorts.

There's a quiet hum from you that follows the adjustment. It basically had the same purpose as a warning alarm when starting up machinery, because after that soft hum came the unskilled movement of your hips over his, movement that surprised Carlos and cause him to bring his hands to your hips on instinct, immediately pressing you down onto his crotch and helping you with the movement. You pull away from your previous occupation of your lips to his jaw to allow your brain to comprehend the, not quite new, but definitely enhanced sensation, eyes failing to meet his and instead settling on his lips. He didn't allow that though, as one of his hands came up to grip your chin and manually place your eyes on his. "Mírame, mi cariño. I want to see how good I make you feel."

Boy did he get his wish. You did as told and held the eye contact, mouth falling open as you continued to rut your hips into his. This is all the stimulation you ever tried to get from Carlos, so he wasn't surprised to see you pupils already blow out in lust, but it was the knotting of your eyebrows that hinted that this time was different. That you wanted more and just didn't know how to ask, but Carlos was patient. But he also knew he would have to force it out of you, eventually. And so his grip on your hips got firmer and you could feel that your body had been pressed further down onto your boyfriend, creating delicious friction that was working to bring you to that high you so desperately craved. You bit down on the inside of your lip and began to move your hips faster, but the even further furrowed eyebrows caused him to put the hand breaks on your hips. You whimper in protest, only wanting to make yourself feel good as you've had time and time again, but your eyes are met with wide ones trying to asses your thoughts, trying to make you answer an unasked question. When no answer comes he is forced to verbalize it.

"Do you want more, mi cariño? You've got to use your words." You nod, voice trapped in your throat from your earlier shyness, but you somehow manage to rasp out the words you needed to.

"I need you, Papí." You buried your head into his neck as you said this, starting your hips up again but you're quickly stopped again and Carlos' fingers lace through your hair, gently tugging back, knowing the delicate handling needed by the style, so you were looking him in his eyes again.

"Eyes on me, cariño." You nod at the instruction and he releases his grip on your hair letting his hand fall to your cheek. "We'll go slow, okay?" Another nod from your lustful but slightly concerned face has Carlos guiding you into a kiss. Starting off simple, like your first kiss in the park in Monaco, lips pressing gently together. You feel Carlos actively work his lips between yours and you knew to open your mouth slightly, and follow along with the movement of his tongue. Your arms move from being wrapped around his neck to his chest, your fingers just now realizing he was shirtless and causing a stifled moan that came out more like a short, pained exhale. It was like the new level of salaciousness you were experiencing caused you to slip in and out of consciousness because it wasn't until your shirt was halfway up your raised arms that you realized Carlos was removing your shirt, exposing the red lace trimmed bra you were wearing. "Eres tan hermosa, mí cariño." He tore his eyes away from your breast to look you in your eyes, eyelids relaxed and mouth slightly agape, showing your teeth a bit when you smile at the compliment.

"Gracias, papí. It's all yours." It was Carlos' turn to break eye contact now, bring his hands to run over your breasts, his first real look at them, and boy was it a treat. This moment was fleeting, eyes returning to yours and lips crashing back into each other, going back to the sloppy work they were doing before. You pressed your body as close to his as you possibly could, hands combing their way through Carlos' thick, dark locks until you just couldn't hold off anymore. You lift your body from his laps and begin to pull at his athletic shorts, eyes focused on the obvious bulge that you were craving to see the source of.

"Wait a moment, cariño." He holds your wrists in a firm grip and silently urges you to look at him, and when you do he gives you a domestic grin. One that you reciprocate before giving him a simple kiss, going back to basics. You sit back and wait, mind finally coming back to the situation at hand, how exposed you both were, what all of it was leading to. Your instincts told you to pull away from the hands that were now wrapped around your torso to undo your bra, but your brain quickly overrode that thought, reminding you that this is the man you love who loves you twice as much and you have been wanting this for a while now. So you let it happen. Let your bra be flung off to the side and kisses be pressed into the valley between. Let his kiss swollen lips mark a slick path to your nipple, your head tipping to the side when he takes it in his mouth. Let innocent mewls drip from your mouth at the new sensation and feel your core get warm and slick in anticipation.

When Carlos had his fill of your chest for the time being, he pulled back again to look in your eyes but you could feel his hands venturing down to your shorts but not yet inside. He flicked his eyes down to his hand and then back to your face. "Is this okay?" You nod and brace yourself for the sensation, having never been touched in such a way, but when it didn't come, you put your attention back in Carlos' face, stern with an inquisitive eyebrow up. "You need to use your words, amor."

"Oh, uh, yeah. Th-that's fine." You look back down at Carlos' hand that remains still until a sudden grip on your cheeks from Carlos' other hand brings you gaze back to his, only then did his statuesque appendage dip into your shorts and lightly graze your clit, your body jolting at the feeling.

"Mírame, mi corazon. Don't look away, please. I want to see what faces you make. Faces that only I have had the opportunity to get from you, mí inocente cariño." Carlos coos before moving his hand again, rubbing a full circle on your clit this time. You let out a lewd whine and squirm your hips, feeling yourself clench around non-existent stimulation. "You want a finger, amor? Does my pretty girl want to feel Papí's fingers inside of her?" Carlos drug his middle finger along your entrance, surprised at how wet you were already, eager to know what sounds and faces you would make being fucked by his fingers, but he waited for your verbal response.

"Mmm, yes, please." You spoke with a needy whine and bucked your hips against his hand, getting sticky juices up to his wrist. He flashes an maniacal smile and pulls your face to his for a messy kiss you were very much not ready for, finding your impatience darling. He then had to stifle a cruel chuckle when you let out a shocked and slightly uncomfortable whimper when he finally does stick a finger inside of you. He removes it and goes back to rubbing your clit for a moment, giving you light kisses along your jaw.

"You okay?" There was the slightest remanence of that chuckle in his voice, but not enough for you to notice or care because you just go on to answer his question so he is able to continue.

"Your fingers are much thicker than mine." You whimper, your pouted lips the perfect target for Carlos' as he presses his finger back inside of you, dragging along your soft walls and his palm pressing against your clit as he moves his finger.

"You've been using your fingers?" He wondered if you realized what you admitted to when he inquired this, but the answer was obviously no when you go on to mindlessly answer his question.

"Mhmm. Did last night." You nod, face still being held by the large hand of your boyfriend, eyes still forced to look into his as they being to display a touch of overwhelm.

"Were you wishing they were mine?" Carlos' finger held a slow steady pace, a second one coming to join the first, adding to the already full sensation. The spongy texture of your g-spot acted as a target that he put more focus into hitting, which caused you to move your hands to grip his wrist.

"N-no, I-not your fingers. You…" You didn't want to be looking at him when you hinted to imagining him fucking you with wild abandon, but your face was still in his grasp, eyes having only the options to look him in the eyes or the mocking smile on his lips.

"You were wishing I was there to fuck you! Oh, cariño, that's cute. How about I help that wish come true, hmm?" He slips his fingers from you and removes his hand from your shorts, his index and ring finger glistening obscenely with your juices and your mind has to reboot after watching him suck said juices off said fingers. He finally removes his other hand from your face and reaches over to his night stand to reach into the drawer to grab a condom, the shiny wrapped object being held briefly between his lips so he could close the drawer again. As he went to pull down his shorts, he stopped to take a look at you vacuously watching his movements. "Here. You take them off." He takes your wrists in his hands and brings your hands to his waistband.

"Oh, okay." You accept the task with a high-pitched whisper and lightly grasp the waistband of his shorts and underwear, taking a deep breath and then slowly pulling down. You watched as the bulge at his crotch was revealed, his dick springing out, slowly falling onto his stomach, the tip glossy from precum. The crinkle and tearing open of the condom brings your eyes back to Carlos', noticing that they seemed darker and his pupils were obviously blown out.

"You know how to do this?" He hands you the condom when you begin to nod slowly, watching as your warily remove the object from its wrapping and place it on his tip, shaky hands having trouble starting to roll it over him. He brings one of his hands to wrap around yours, guiding your fingers in rolling the edge of the condom around his tip and then moving that hand to your hair when you're able to finish the task yourself, trying his best not to thrust up into your hand, which looks absolutely adorable wrapped around his dick. You make this a bit harder for him, intrusive thoughts taking over and making you start to stroke him over the condom, hand moving easily due to the lube that came on the object. Carlos had to stop you before it went too far, taking your hand and using it to guide you in flipping your positions, you now laying on your back with Carlos between your legs. He hooks his fingers to the waistband of your shorts and pulls them off with your underwear, a string of slick going with them for a second before he flings them off in the direction that your bra went earlier. Finally there you two were. Naked. Exposed. Ready to engage in the most intimate moment of your relationship to date. But Carlos had to have some fun with it. "If only all those people saw you now. Mi pequeña inocente, fucking herself with her fingers, wishing it was my dick. Maybe they'd shut up about you being dominant. You being the one 'wearing the pants'. But I'll let them believe that. As long as I get this. You waiting for me to fuck you stupid."

"Papí, please…" You whine out, reaching up to grip what you could of his hair so you could bring him down for a desperate kiss, pulling away to look at him with wide doe eyes. He takes the obvious cue and lines himself up with your core, eyeing you up and down before leaning over you, placing a hand by your head and using the other hand to toss one of your legs over his waist.

"Okay, okay amor. I'll take it slow. Just know that it'll feel…different." You nod and look down at the gap between you two, waiting for your hips to connect and for the pressure and possible pain to follow. Instead came the gentle tip of your chin upward so you were looking at Carlos. "Mírame, okay?" You nod, now slightly nervous, but another short kiss, this time given to you by Carlos before he checks again to make sure he was lined up with your entrance then pushed in, slow as humanly possible. He paused when you let out a wail that you tried and failed at stifling.

"Oh, oh. I'm sorry, I'm sorry…" Your incessant apologies are quelled by gentle kisses that trail to your lips, and a thumb coming up to your cheek to wipe a tear that you didn't know was there.

"Shh, shh cariño. It's okay. We're on the complete other side of the house. You can be as loud as you need." You nod and wipe some more tears that you were now aware of. "Are you okay? Do you want to stop?"

"No. No. I just need a moment…" You take a few breaths and try to adjust your body, trying to familiarize yourself with the pressure, trying to distract yourself from the initial feeling of being split in half that caused such a vocal reaction. He definitely felt thicker than he looked, and the visual you did get of his dick beforehand was nothing to sneeze at. But after a few more deep breaths and adjustments, you felt it was okay for him to push again, stopping intermittently when you indicated a need to stop until he bottoms out fully.

"Everything okay?" Carlos does his best at gauging where you were at, eyes flicking over your face rapidly, searching for any sign of extreme discomfort. Instead, a soft grin appears and one of your hands reaches for his face, a gesture to which he responds to by leaning down and placing two slow, tongue involved kisses.

"I love you, Papí. So much." There's a unique amount of emphasis that these words flowing from your mouth put on your lips, still swollen and parted as you gave him the "OK" to move. So, his hips hitch back, and as his dick drags deliciously against your walls as he pulls out, it's surface area touching every sensitive spot inside of you on the way out, and then they press forward again, dragging along the same spots, pressure between your hips reapplied but felt to a lesser extent, a gentle press all the way to your cervix, all for him to retract and do it all again. Your head tips down again, watching the agonizingly slow movement of Carlos' hips, watching him disappear and reappear from you, wondering how this was at all possible and how it felt so fucking good. Carlos allowed it this time. He was enjoying watching you, your face, confused and overwhelmed, because fuck, did you looked adorable on his dick.

Your arms autonomously drape over his shoulders, inadvertently bringing him down so that your foreheads were pressed together, nails just gently grazing his skin for the moment. "You're taking me so well, cariño. I could fuck you forever." Carlos was becoming more unhinged, hips starting to move ever so slightly faster, even with the tight grip your pussy had on his cock. His mind was traveling elsewhere. He loved you. He loved everything about you. This was no secret to anyone. But there was also a part of him that loved the challenge you presented. Your innocence and inexperience. Your reputation in the world that held no merit. Yeah, you were badass and didn't give a fuck about what people thought, but you weren't the unprofessional, hypersexual person people thought you were. And to be honest, he was glad that he was the only one who knew this you. The you currently bemused by the sights and feelings of having sex for the first time. "Mírame, amor, and tell me something…"

"Mhmm?" His hand was gripping your face again, guiding your gaze and starving you of the hypnotic sight of his hips crashing into yours, dick plunging in and out, the shine on the condom from your juices increasing. But instead you were subjected only to the site of dark amorous eyes peering down at you.

"Did you cum when you used your little fingers?" As he asked his question, he moved himself closer to you, changing the angle of your hips, lifting them up slightly which allowed his dick to push deeper.

"I-i don't know. I don't t-think so. I stopped when I got too sensitive." You pouted, remembering the intense feeling that you unwillingly had to ride out.

"Aw, mi pobre pequeño. Let me try. You are going to have to relax, though." In that moment, Carlos seems to change the motion of his hips, rolling them more, causing his pubic bone ever so lightly graze your clit with each thrust. You attempt to protest, worried about what would come with the unknown experience, but a strangled whine instead erupts from your chest in response to Carlos' calloused fingers starting to rub circles on your clit, using your juices as lubricant to make the action more fluid.

So, with one of Carlos' hand making its rounds on your clit and the other forcing you to look into his eyes as you make each ridiculous pleasure filled face, enjoying a bit too much the extreme reaction he has been able to elicit from you, your legs were left to wrap around his hips unattended. While it would have made sense for them to fall from his waist, they seem to actually tighten as you begin to near your climax. "Mmm…Papí…I ca-, I don't- I-" You weren't unfamiliar with what you were feeling, senses heightened, sensitivity in every nerve ending in your pussy amplified by a thousand. It was whatever came afterward that concerned you.

"Let go, cariño. It's okay. I'm here. It'll make you feel so good." So you listen to the instructions cooed down at you and let yourself fall over that pleasure threshold, allow all nerve endings reach a peak sensitivity, your body to stiffen and your back to arch. The walls of your pussy fluttered around Carlos' dick as he continued to hitch his hips into you.

"Carlos…" A whiny sob bubbles from your chest as he continues to thrust, unintentionally overstimulating you as he was too focused on how adorable you were all whiney and tired, pussy still spasming, squeezing him and producing more of it's own lubrication making the obscene sounds of him fucking you senseless louder with each thrust until he finally finishes in the condom, whispering about how in love with you he was in an intoxicating mixture of English and Spanish. Once you both came down from your highs and cleaned yourselves up to the best of your tired ability, you two fell asleep immediately, only to wake up close to noon the next day and, once you both were presentable, make your way to the kitchen greeted by the knowing look of his mom.

yn_music

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yn_music ✨Do not Disturb✨

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latto777 An icon 🌟🌟🛥️

carlossainz55 I thought we agreed the bikini photos was for me only, amor?

>yn_music Lo siento, Papí. But I looked too cute not to share ☺️😘

>carlossainz55 Fine. We have more that's just for us anyway ♥️

user13 I see so many people commenting about how they seem so happy together but does anyone else notice that they are only together on expensive looking getaways

>yn_music We were actually in Madrid to see his family, but thank you for showing such concern for my boyfriend 😚

user14 I need you two to stay together forever for my sanity, okay?

>carlossainz55 We will try 😁

>user14 Thank you 🧎🏻‍♀️

carlossainz55

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carlossainz55 Mí cariño hermosa 😍

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yn_music 🥰😚🥰😚🥰

>yn_music Even though you're determined to make me look like the most chaotic person on the planet

>carlossainz55 It's because I like these pictures of you (and the people deserve to know the truth 😶‍🌫️)

>carlossainz55 And not all the good pictures of you I have are appropriate 😘

landonorris Hi Mom! 👋🏻

>yn_music Boy if you don't stop calling me Mom 😤

>yn_music Jk hey baby! 👋🏿😘

user15 AHHHH! THE HEADSHOTS! THATS SO FREAKING ADORABLE

>carlossainz55 I think you'll be even happier to know that she got those taken just to give to me as a birthday present

>user15 I am 🥲

user16 It took some work and emotional damage, but I'm glad to see that Carlos and Yn are unapologetically in love 💕

#formula 1 #black reader #f1 imagines #formula 1 x black!reader #f1 x black!reader #request #carlos sainz x black!reader #carlos sainz x reader #carlos sainz #carlos sainz jr #f1 smut #f1 fic #f1 imagine #f1 x reader #f1 scenario

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matthewtkachuk · 3 months

Text

bad at love

Breaking your brother's only unspoken rule—don't date his teammates—has never been an issue in your adult life. Until now.

pairing: jt compher x reader

warnings: angstttt, smut, a minor car accident with mentions of injury (broken bone/concussion), and the usual (alcohol, swearing, etc. etc.)

word count: 4.9k

a/n: hiiiiii @comphy-and-cozy i'm your super secret fic exchange writer! sorry this is a day late and a dollar short. one of these days @wyattjohnston is going to perma-ban me from participating in exchanges. until that date she remains my ever loyal editor. mad thanks to @thomasschabot for reading it first and telling me they loved it even though they're contractually obligated to do so and for physically being there when the fic idea popped into my head <3

It’s not the first time you’ve shown up at your big brother’s house with a face full of tears and a couple bags full of all your worldly possessions. Despite your best efforts and well intentions—if you had to guess—it likely won’t be the last.

It is the first time you’ve done so with him being a married man, and so it’s your sister-in-law whose comfort you really seek and are expecting to pop up behind the slowly opening door in front of you.

Unfortunately for you, and for the poor soul you really don’t know that well, it’s not Kenzy who opens the door but the over-the-summer pick-up from Colorado.

If it had been any of the other, more tenured of your brother's teammates, you might have been waved inside with nothing more than a sympathetic glance and an unspoken ‘again?’.

Instead, JT’s look of utter confusion has quickly evolved into something more akin to a quiet rage, and you’re reminded that he is a big brother himself. The look is familiar to you, having inspired a similar one on Dylan’s face more times than you can count.

It’s been a really fucking long day, and you don’t have the emotional bandwidth to have any sort of reckoning with some guy you barely know in your brothers drive way.

JT’s in the middle of some sort of sentence that begins and also ends with “What—” as you none too gently push past him in order to finally gain entry to the house.

The mix of sympathy and feigned disinterest that greets you on the faces of your brothers teammates who occupy the large sitting room has your stomach rolling uncomfortably. It seemed like the entirety of the Detroit Red Wings were always around to witness your spectacular failures. What must they think, watching you disappear with the next great love of your life, only to reappear once again with bags packed in a manner of months?

You could hazard a guess at what your brother thinks, the variants of ‘I told you so’ that live and die on his tongue without ever leaving his lips. He wraps you up in an infamous Larkin hug that serves to fix a tiny crack of your broken heart, and so you revel in it like you used to revel in the comfort when the pain you felt was because of falling off the monkey bars when you were a kid.

But, he has a house full of hockey players to entertain and Kenzy has a glass of wine with your name on it. Dylan returns to the living room and you slide out to the back porch with your sister-in-law, briefly catching the eye of the one who let you in. You don’t see the telltale signs of judgment reflecting back at you, but maybe something else entirely.

Outside you pour your soul alongside the Malbec. Curled up on the wicker chair under a blanket you tell Kenzy about Owen and the promises he failed to keep. She oohs and ahs at the appropriate times, commiserating without belittling you.

By the end of the night your heart—and the bottle of wine—feels a little lighter. There’s a little less shame as you make yourself at home in the spare bedroom that might as well permanently be yours.

Owen visits you in your sleep, breaking your heart again and again until his face morphs into one with a ginger beard and kind eyes.

Those kind eyes become a fixture in your post breakup life. If he’s not hanging around your brother's house, he’s bumping into you at the local coffee shop you frequent when you’re in Detroit. If he’s at neither, he’s obviously at the games you attend in support of Dylan alongside Kenzy.

At Dylan’s, you barely speak to his teammates and friends beyond simple pleasantries. At your coffee shop, it starts at small talk but grows to be considerable conversations that dip just below surface level.

It’s at Little Caesars Arena where he really endears himself to you though. Warm ups are arguably your favorite part of the games you attend. You like to look out at the signs, from the heartwarming to the obscene—picking out your favorites and giggling about the latter with your sister in law.

Dylan’s always been really good about tossing kids pucks, and his big bleeding heart only grew larger when he got the red C strapped to his chest. Some of the other guys, even some of the so-called vets are less good about it.

JT’s just like Dylan, maybe even a little kinder hearted. He takes the time to read the signs that are meant for him, never turns down a trade for a puck and even gives a stick to a kid whose sign says he came all the way from Denver to watch him, his favorite player, play in Detroit.

It warms your heart.

So much so you don’t even notice you’re staring until Dylan’s slamming himself into the boards in front of you to startle his wife. She rolls her eyes and calls him a name not worth repeating while you try to pretend like you weren’t just fixated on his teammate.

The thing is Dylan has never outright said his teammates are off limits. Not since you were a teenager making eyes at his USNTDP teammates anyway.

The memory keeps you from looking JT’s way the rest of the warmups, but once the puck drops your eyes can’t help but wander.

Wandering appears to be your specialty, considering you’ve gotten yourself lost in the underbelly of the arena.

Your first mistake was leaving Ken’s side—she was your ferryman, guiding you down the River Styx, and without her, you were lost in Hell.

Were you overdramatic? Maybe. Were you lost with no hope of getting out? Still overdramatic, but definitely a possibility.

The walls begin to look the same, and you’re half worried you’ve accidentally fallen into a back room or something stupid when you stumble upon the one who caught your eye earlier.

‘Stumble upon’ is a gracious way of saying you absolutely smack into him and fall on your ass.

He hauls you up effortlessly with one hand and your skin burns beneath his grasp.

“What are you doing?” you both say in near unison before he laughs.

“I was getting my shoulder checked out, what are you doing all the way over here? Are you lost?”

Regardless of what he was doing, JT obviously has more of a reason to be found wandering the halls of the arena. And he’s right, you’re most definitely lost but you play it off like he’s crazy.

“Me? Lost? No, I know exactly where we are,” you bluff.

JT’s eyebrows raise and he nods slowly. “Which is…?”

Well, he’s called your bluff but he also gave you a key context clue. “Near the athletic trainer, obviously.”

He laughs again and it has your cheeks feeling hot.

“Okay fine, maybe I’m a little bit lost and maybe I was contemplating how I’d be trapped down here forever before you knocked me over.”

“I’m sorry, but you ran into me.” You roll your eyes and begin to argue, but he doesn’t let that happen. “Doesn’t matter, I can help you find your way out.”

You swoon dramatically, only half joking as you reply “My hero.”

Now that you’re no longer focused on navigating your way out of Pan’s Labyrinth, you’re free to focus on your close proximity to JT. Based on the way his eyes dart between meeting your own and staring at your lips, you assume he’s just as aware.

Is this not what you’ve been wanting since you knocked on Dylan’s door? But that’s part of the problem, and you’re sure JT is thinking the same. Not only is your brother his teammate—and you’ve always been off limits to your brother's teammates to your chagrin growing up—but he’s JT’s captain, too. There’s a million ways this thing could go wrong and blow up in both of your faces.

You could get caught, and be forced to sit with Dyl’s disappointment. You could hurt the one person in your life who consistently showed up for you and loved you and cared for you.

Not to mention you could risk it all for nothing—could crash and burn spectacularly as you were wont to do. Could fuck it all up with not only your brother, but JT too and be left with nothing. It wouldn’t be the first time you’d gone behind your brother’s back, but you had a sneaking suspicion things would be worse than they were when you were 15 to his 16.

Ultimately you decide fuck it, because what’s life without a little risk?

Tentatively, you slide your hand over the rough beard covering his jaw. When he doesn’t flinch or move away from you, you lean in closer.

He’s not pulling away, but he’s also not moving closer, letting you make the first move.

It’s probably a terrible fucking idea, but you’ve never been accused of being someone who makes good decisions when it comes to romantic partners.

The first press of your lips to his is cautious, barely a brushing of your mouths, just to get a taste. Quickly you become a woman obsessed. Unable to get enough, the kisses turn frenetic, bordering on sloppy.

He reciprocates in kind, his mouth hot and heavy on yours while his hands grasp and pull and hold. His very essence consumes you, taking over all of your five senses and pulling noises from you that you didn’t know existed.

If your arm burned from his grasp earlier, your entire body has caught fire.

You’re unaware or probably more accurately uncaring of your public nature, despite your earlier hesitance. Now you just want more and more and more of JT, as much as he is willing to give and maybe even a little more.

He seems to be on the same page, entire body wrapping around you and pulling you deeper and deeper.

Unconsciously your hands begin to pull at the waistband of his pants and it’s then that the two of you finally separate.

You’re worried you’re going to find regret in his eyes and excuses on his tongue, but he’s just looking at you intently.

“Not like this,” he says. “Not here.”

“I don’t want to wait,” you protest, but he shushes you with his mouth.

“It’ll be worth the wait.”

And worth the wait it is.

It's sexy at first. Clandestine meetings in dark hallways, sneaking in and out of JT’s apartment that’s on the same floor as Jake Walman’s, covert texts and quiet phone calls where you get off on the sound of each other's voices.

It doesn’t take long for you to want more, though. To fantasize about not just what his calloused hands can do to your body, but what it would be like to hold one in your own while walking down the street. To show up at a home game and have everyone know you were there to support not only your brother, but JT too.

It’s a fantasy that is only stoked by the comfort you feel walking around JT’s apartment in just his t-shirt with his number on the shoulder. By nights spent together at his dinner table, on his couch, in his bed. By sweet texts and stupid memes and random photos of things that made him think of you.

You don’t dare speak your desires out loud though. For fear of JT not wanting the same thing or for fear that he would, you’re not quite sure.

It’s a tough situation to be in. One where you’re worried you're heading to a fork in the road that has JT on one side and your brother on the other.

You have no delusions about the two paths eventually forging back together again, know that you’ve come dangerously close to that intersection marked with a big fat caution sign.

Probably you should speak to JT, get on the same page about where you’ve been and where you’re going. Following that, assuming he secretly yearns for the same thing you do, you should probably then come clean to Dylan.

Probably you should do a lot of things, but unfortunately what is done in the dark always comes to the light and sometimes it happens quicker than you can make your mind up.

A road win presumably has JT in a good mood. He’s texted you letting you know he’ll be home before midnight, requesting your presence in his bed.

It’s an easy yes, considering you’re already in the aforementioned bed. It’s nice to get out of Dylan’s house, of the suffocating feeling that you’re intruding in someone else’s home, on someone else’s life.

There’s really nothing particularly sexy about the way he finds you, but his eyes darken upon finding you curled up in his bed just the same. You’re not attempting to recreate a sexy pose from a boudoir photo shoot, and one of JT’s shirts and a pair of boy shorts aren’t exactly fancy lingerie.

That doesn’t stop him from dropping his bag dramatically and stripping from his dress shirt and pants.

“Awfully presumptuous,” you say as if the very fact that you’re in his bed in not much more clothing than he is.

He shrugs, “Not presuming anything. I’m fine if you just want to sleep, but I’m sure as shit not going to sleep in those dress pants. Bad enough I had to sit through a plane ride like that.”

His tone is teasing, but the implication that he would be just as fine falling asleep beside you as anything else pretty well takes all the fight out of you.

“C’mere,” you say instead of a catchy comeback, lifting the covers and inviting him into his own bed.

He wastes no time sliding in beside you and curling up around your body. “Hi.”

You snort and hide your face in his neck. “Corny.”

“I’ll show you corny,” he says, but you shush him by pulling his face closer to yours until your lips brush.

“Thought I was presumptuous,” he says upon breaking the kiss.

You roll your eyes—“Shut up.”—and kiss him again.

He doesn’t manage to keep his mouth shut, but at least this time it’s to slip his tongue into your mouth.

The temperature of the room rapidly increases—between the weight of his body covering your own and your body’s reaction to his fervid kiss, you feel the need to lose at least one item of clothing.

“I need—“

Luckily he quickly understands what you’re trying to accomplish by pulling at the hem of your shirt, lifting off of you long enough to assist in removing it from your body.

He makes a noise of appreciation at the bare skin revealed to him before diving back into your lips, this time with one hand cupping your right breast.

Appreciative noises of your own build in your throat when that hand slides down your body to dip into your underwear. It’s teasing touches at first, until you reciprocate by cupping him through his boxer-briefs.

Finally you both shed that last remaining layer, uncaring of where they end up in the bedroom. There’s a brief pause while he rolls on a condom and then he’s entering your body like it was made for him and him alone.

There’s no rush about his pace, just gentle thrusts and soft moans and sweet praises.

Sex with JT is so good, better than with anyone else you’ve ever been with. He’s the very opposite of a lazy, selfish lover. It’s like your needs and your pleasure come first, and you certainly do too.

The positioning of your bodies is so intimate, bodies close, mouths slotted over each other with intermingling breaths.

You worry you’re getting too caught up in that intimacy, possibly running in a direction not quite warranted and so you seek to depersonalize it a touch.

“Let me,” you say softly while gently pressing a hand against his shoulder, indicating you want him to lay on his back. He moves willingly, even helping you climb atop him.

It feels just as good with you on top, and the bit of distance between your upper halves means you can breathe a bit better.

It’s easy to get lost in the feeling, to tilt your head back and focus on your movements and the feel of his bruising grip on your hips.

Feeling the pressure build in your stomach, you slide a hand down your abdomen to where your bodies meet while the other grasps your breast just for something to hold on to. The added friction to your clit is pulling you closer and closer as you move on top of him.

He’s staring up at you with lust filled eyes, mouth open in a mix of awe and pleasure. A look of almost disbelief on his face. His hands are still on your hips, now helping the movement of your body on his when your body lights up like the fourth of July with your orgasm.

It’s hard to keep moving while in the throes of pleasure, but it’s like JT can read your mind, gripping your hips and thrusting up into you until he finishes too.

Your whole body tingles as you collapse on top of him, relishing in the feel of his arms wrapping around your body. Leisurely you kiss for a minute, until your heart rate returns to normal and you feel like you’re not likely to fall over when going to the bathroom to clean up.

When you return, you’ve slipped on one of his shirts once again. There's a soft look on his face as you crawl into bed beside him. It only cracks when you quietly whisper, “should we order pizza?”

“I think you’re the girl of my dreams,” he laughs.

The room is quiet, filled with only the sounds of your breathing and occasional kissing as you wait for the delivery.

Finally the doorbell rings. “I got it,” you tell JT and pull on a pair of discarded sweatpants before pulling the drawstring so they don’t fall.

You don’t bother to check the peephole, certain it’s your food which turns out to be a giant mistake.

Not only is it not your pizza, it’s also the last person you want to catch you with sex hair in oversized clothing that obviously belongs to the guy you’ve just had sex with.

Dylan’s mouth has dropped so far down it would be comical if it wasn’t also horrifying.

“Dylan I–” you start to explain yourself but pause midway through. How could you even begin to explain?

“I can’t believe this.” He shakes his head, hands curling at his side. “Actually no, I can’t believe this from JT, I can definitely believe this from you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you snap.

Your brother laughs sardonically, “Well you’re not exactly known for making the right decisions when it comes to relationships.”

JT exits his room, no doubt lured by the loud voices and the lack of food. “Hey man, come on, let's talk about this like adults.”

“Like adults?” Dylan is incensed in a way you’ve never seen before. “Now you want to talk about things like adults? The time to talk was before you started sleeping with my sister behind my back.”

“I’m sorry you found out like this–” JT continues to try to defend himself, defend you while you stand there speechless.

Dylan interrupts, “Sorry I found out or sorry you got caught?”

JT goes to respond but Dylan cuts him off again. “I trusted you dude. I told you she was off limits, and not only did you ignore me, you went behind my back.” He then turns to you. “And you? My teammate? Seriously? You couldn’t have chosen literally any other douchebag to treat you wrong?”

That snaps you out of your stupor. “JT doesn’t treat me bad!”

A different kind of look crosses your older brother's face then. “Well when he does, don’t come running back to my house and crying to me.”

Dylan slams the door and you sit in the quiet of the room for a minute with your ears ringing.

The reality of the situation hits you.

“I can’t stay there, God not only am I a fuck up but I’m homeless too.”

“You can always stay here,” JT offers and it really bothers you that you can’t tell if he wants you to, or if he’s just offering because of his hand in the most recent blow up of your life.

“I’m pretty sure his baby sister shacking up with his teammate he doesn’t want her with isn’t exactly going to win me any favors with Dyl,” you reply.

“Well I’m pretty sure he’d rather you be here than living on the street.”

Ordinarily you think that would probably be true but the look on his face when you opened JT’s door is seared into your mind. “I wouldn’t be so sure.”

In the end you do move your things into JT’s apartment. Kenzy is the accomplice to your crime, helping you pack your things while the team has practice, wrapping you in her arms and telling you that he just needs some time.

“He loves you,” she says.

You’re not so sure.

That’s probably overdramatic. You’re sure he loves you, and you sure hope he forgives you. You’re just worried that this time you’ve both done and said things you can’t take back and you’re not sure how things will move forward from here.

It’s not all bad though.

Living with JT is surprisingly easy, even right one might say. You fit directly into each other's lives like perfect puzzle pieces. His strict routines of practices and morning skates and games—both home and away—allow you the space to complete your own work on your own time. Cooking pregame meals together and curling up beside him when he takes his pregame naps quickly become some of your favorite activities.

You dance around the feelings talk, never quite broaching the subject. But it can’t feel this right if it’s all one sided, all in your head, right?

He’s even kind enough to let you drive his SUV even though the price tag makes you nervous every time you’re behind the wheel. You’re not a bad driver, as evidenced by the fact JT lets you drive the Audi, but you are possibly on this side of over cautious as a result of a bad car accident in high school.

Three home games after your fight with Dylan and approximately zero words or text messages exchanged between the two of you, you find yourself in the passenger seat.

“I could have taken the bus,” you protest weakly, almost knowing exactly what JT’s response will be.

“Over my dead body,” he laughs, eyes flickering over to you before focusing on the traffic in front of him. “Just pick me up after practice or text me if you’re still out and I’ll find a ride.”

“I’m not gonna leave you stranded at the arena, of course I’ll be there after you’re done.”

It’s oddly domestic, kissing JT across the console and then sliding into the driver’s seat that he vacates. You wait as he grabs his gear and walks away, you do really love watching him walk away.

The moment is cut short by catching a glimpse of your brother's vehicle. He’s not in it, obviously already inside the arena, but the sight of it makes your stomach clench all the same.

Thoughts of Dylan and his disappointment and worry that he’ll never forgive you flood your mind the entire drive. So much so that when the next light turns green, you let off the gas without realizing that there is a larger SUV running the red.

It all happens so fast. The screeching of tires, the crunching of metal, the pop of airbags going off and then a blinding pain in your wrist.

In the end, you’re pushed into the wrong lane of traffic, the other vehicle damn near in the passenger seat you occupied only fifteen minutes ago. There’s a distinct ringing in your ears and you offhandedly wonder if this is what it feels like to get boarded.

“Are you okay? I’m calling 911.” The words sound like they’re underwater, and it takes you several seconds to realize they’re being spoken to you. Turning your head to the side, you try to get the words out to say you’re fine, but you’re blocked by the airbag that has gone off near your head.

Emergency services come quickly, a perk of living in Detroit you suppose. Embarrassingly, it takes the jaws of life to peel off the driver's side door to get you out. A cop takes your statement and then you end up in the back of an ambulance. Despite your assurances that you’re fine, one raised eyebrow from the female paramedic and the idea that you’ve probably broken your wrist has you agreeing to the ER visit.

It’s then that someone asks you if there’s anyone you want to call. Heartbreakingly, your first thought is Dylan and your second thought is you’re not sure he’ll pick up.

Your third thought is JT and his SUV that you’ve probably totaled.

One of the paramedics helps you dial the equipment manager’s number, the one you were instructed to only ever use in case of emergencies. If ever there was a reason…

When he picks up the phone, you have to explain that you’ve gotten into a tiny fender bender and if you could please speak with JT and yes I mean JT not Dylan.

“Are you okay?” JT all but demands when he picks up the phone.

“I’m totally fine,” you fib, and then concede based on that same female paramedic once again raising an eyebrow. “Okay so I might have broken my wrist but–”

“Which hospital are you going to?” he interrupts.

You tell him, but try to say, “It’s okay you don’t have to–”

He interrupts again, “I’ll be right there.”

He hangs up quicker than you can ask how he’s going to get there without the car that you’ve wrecked.

True to his word, he’s sitting on a chair in your hospital room when you return from getting an x-ray. He stands abruptly upon your entrance and takes the three strides to stand in front of you before hesitating, like you’re made of glass.

You take matters into your own hands and slide your good arm around his back, careful to not jostle your injured wrist. There's a slight tremor to his body that you feel run through yours.

“I’m okay,” you say comfortingly, rubbing your good hand along his back before pausing. “Your car though….”

The tears are already starting to pool in your waterline as he pulls back.

His hands slide to cup your jaw as he speaks seriously, “I don’t give a damn about the car. It can be replaced, you can’t.” A tear slips out before you can stop it and he brushes it away with his thumb before kissing you softly. “I care about you. So much. And that phone call scared the shit out of me.”

Despite the less than stellar background and circumstances, his words have your heart leaping in your chest. “I really care about you too,” you whisper and kiss him again.

“Where is she?” you hear coming down the hall and it occurs to you that your brother is still your emergency contact.

“Did you tell him?” you ask JT who promptly shakes his head.

You don’t even have time to step back from JT’s embrace before Dylan comes crashing into the room. JT wisely pulls away and gives Dylan the space to place his hands on your shoulders and scan for any signs of injury.

“I’m okay,” you reassure him but the words feel hollow considering they’re the first you’ve said to him in more than a week. “Broken wrist they’re gonna cast and probably a concussion. Can’t say the same for the car.”

Eerily similar to JT, Dylan replies, “Cars can be replaced–”

“But I can’t,” you say in unison with him. “I know, JT said the same thing.”

It’s like Dylan remembers his teammate then, eyes sliding over to where JT stands and then back down to your slowly purpling wrist.

The room is silent except for the sounds of medical equipment and the faint sounds occurring outside the door.

“I’m sorry,” you say in unison with your brother again.

“No, I'm sorry,” he says first. “I’m your big brother and I’ve seen you get your heart broken too many times. I’m always going to worry about you but I was out of line.”

“I’m sorry we went behind your backs and I’m sorry you found out that way. We should have just talked to you, I should have just talked to you.”

“Truce?” he asks, like you’re 10 and 11 again, fighting over something silly and trivial.

“Truce,” you confirm, hissing when you knock your broken wrist as you pull him in for a hug.

Later, when you’ve gotten over the guilt of totaling JT’s barely used Audi and the cast on your wrist is long gone, it’ll be a fun story to tell at parties. About how it took an idiot running a red light for you to define your relationship with JT and to reconcile with your brother.

#nhl fic #nhl imagine #nhl imagines #nhl fanfiction #nhl fanfic #nhl x reader #jt compher fic #shelb writes

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gemini-sensei · 1 month

Text

After high school, Hawk takes a gap year to figure out what he wants to do with his life. He has a lot of options and doesn't want to hastily make a decision only to rethink everything, change his major in college, and start from the beginning again. A gap year seems like a great idea.

Everyone thought he might travel, see some sights, whatever, but he actually stays in the Valley. He gets a job working at Miyagi-Do as a co-sensei and realizes he likes working with kids. Not just that but he likes teaching kids and a whole new path opens up for him in the grand scheme of things. He's happy right where he's at but knows that it won't be sustainable in the long run.

So after a year of teaching young kids karate, Hawk goes to university to be a teacher. His major is technically physical education but his minor is in early childhood development. He doesn't just want to teach karate, he wants to instill it in kids in a good way, well mannered, helpful, all the things he didn't know in the beginning. Mindfulness and power and balance. He wants to apply it all to helping kids grow and be strong mentally and physically.

He likes to study at the university library. Sometimes Miguel joins him but most times he's alone. He spends long hours reading about early childhood development because he already knows a lot about teaching and his pedagogy.

After a while, he starts to notice Reader is there. She's never alone. Her newborn baby is always in a wrap strapped to her chest. Her baby's always asleep while they sit in a comfy chair and she's reading her books. Whatever she's studying, she's engrossed in the book. She turns the page occasionally but for the most part her free hand is on her baby's back. The baby never wakes up and he thinks Reader has picked the best place to come for her baby to nap. The library is quiet, meaning no one is loud and that means the baby won't be awoken.

Hawk can't help watching them though. He watches them from afar, eventually getting little studying done. He acts like he's studying but he's not as subtle as he thinks he is. Reader knows.

At first she thought he was a little weird, staring at the lady with a baby, but then noticed how admiring his eye is. She watches him when he thinks he's being slick. She hides her giggles when she catches him and darts his eyes down at his book that she knows he hasn't gotten far in. It's kind of cute of him. She lets him be, thinking that jts harmless. He's not really bothering her or her child, so why mess with him? She goes back to reading and studying peacefully.

That is until one day Hawk finally approaches her.

He sits in the chair opposite of her, a little table between there where her bag and all her books sit. He smiles at her and she smiles back. They know of each other, so it isn't so awkward.

"Hi," he starts. "I'm Hawk."

"Hi," she says. "I'm Reader. This is Daisy."

"She's adorable," he says, making Reader smile wider.

Her little ones remains asleep as they talk quietly. She rubs her back and kisses her head from time to time, little assurances to the baby. However, all she really needs is her mama's heartbeat. It's so rhythmic and comforting, she stays asleep.

"How old is she?" Hawk asks when the conversation circles back to Daisy. After talking about their coursework and what their majors are, he can't help but bring it back to the cutest baby he's ever seen.

Reader looks down at Daisy and smiles. "Four months."

"Wow, so big already," he says.

Reader giggles. "She was a pretty big newborn. She weighed nine and a half pounds."

"That's big, huh. Means she's strong, right?"

"Well, you're the one taking child development, you tell me," she teases.

He laughs. "I'll say so.

At about that time, Daisy yawns and blinks. Her little fist comes to rub her eyes and Hawk is the first thing she sees when she opens her eyes. She stares at him for a long time, calm. He sees that she's awake and smiles at her.

"Well, hello there, sleep pants," he says, voice soft and gentle.

Reader looks down at her and grins. "Hey, Daisy baby. How was your nap?"

Daisy looks up at her mama and grabs onto her shirt, grinning upon seeing her face. She squeals and Reader can't help laughing as she shushes her.

"Baby, we're at the library," she tells her. She giggles. "As if you know what that means."

A few people glare her way, disrupted, but Hawk sees them and shoots them a deadly glare. They quickly look away when they notice the death stare he's giving back. He drops it before Reader can notice, smiling at her and Daisy. He hasn't known them long but he won't anyone bother them.

"Well," Reader says, catching his attention. She had stopped studying a while ago but never put any of her books away, which she's starting to do now. "It's lunch time for this little lady. And me too, so I should get going."

"Oh, yeah, lunch is cool," he tells her, wondering where that awkward moment came from. He licked his lips and sighed. "Uh, would you want to get lunch together? I haven't eaten since this morning."

She smiles at him. "Is this your way of finally asking me out?"

He feels his cheeks begin to burn. "Maybe... of that's okay with you, of course."

She laughs and stands up, then grabs her bag, which is just a diaper bag that also has her books in it. "I've been waiting for you to make a move."

"You have?" He asks, standing too. She starts walking to the exit and he follows her.

"Oh yeah," she tells him over her shoulder. "For a few weeks now actually."

"Really," he says, a little disappointed in himself for not walking up to her sooner. He smiles nevertheless. "Well, what would you like for lunch?"

"Hmm," she thinks as they walk to the door. He opens the door for her and she nods in thanks. "Tacos?"

"I love tacos," he tells her.

#single mom reader #sensei!hawk #cobra kai #cobra kai headcanons #cobra kai x reader #cobra kai x chubby reader #cobra kai x plus size reader #chubby reader #plus size reader #eli hawk moskowitz #eli moskowitz x reader #eli moskowitz #hawk moskowitz x chubby reader #hawk moskowitz x reader #hawk moskowitz #baby headcanons #gemini sensei

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comphy-and-cozy · 3 months

Text

the guy on the team - jt compher

Pairing: JT Compher x Reader (f) - A Dream Come True universe

Word Count: 4.2K

Author’s Note: rediscovered the three paragraphs of filth i wrote after seeing this dude play (and score) in his first ever home game as a detroit red wing, then went buck wild writing about it. that's all you really need to know. 🎶 karma is the guy on the wings coming straight home to me... 🎶

Warnings: Smut (18+ ONLY). Unprotected sex, oral sex (f + m receiving), fingering (f receiving), brief masturbation (f), very minor spanking, creampie, me being a huge fucking simp series masterlist

October 2024

The goal horn—restored from the glory days at Joe Louis Arena, reminiscent of legends and lore and well-decorated history—blares through the arena, the sound nearly swallowed by the roar of the crowd. Don’t Stop Believing plays over the speakers, the “born and raised in South Detroit” chant almost deafening as 19,000 of Hockeytown’s finest pay a proud homage to the city.

The energy is palpable, infectious, and your eyes fall to the sea of red jerseys at center ice, sticks raised in appreciation and celebration of their first win and first home game of the season. They’re smiling, a few of them clapping each other on the back or tapping padded knees with their stick, circling around as they soak in the joy and promises of a strong season.

The 37 on his back stands out proudly, the bright white stark against the rich red. He offered to get you a jersey, identical to the one he’s wearing right now, but you’d declined and opted for an old sweatshirt from 2002; wearing his name still felt a little too cheeky. Your eyes follow his movements, almost subconsciously, and your gaze slides to the winged wheel embroidered on his chest when he circles around.

There’s a burn in your cheeks as you shamelessly check him out, anonymous in the sea of fans who are starting to make their way out of the arena. No one there knows you from any other admirer, that you know what he looks like beneath his pads and his gear, underneath the delicious slate gray suit that the Red Wings’ socials posted.

You’ve barely made it to your front door when the text buzzes your phone in your pocket.

[JT:] You free tonight? [JT:] Feel like celebrating [You:] Why, did something happen?

You don’t have to see his face to know he’s smirking at your comment. The text bubble pops back up, and you do your best to summon the chill, cool girl and not squeal when you see the response.

[JT:] You want to come over later?

Despite the effort, you can’t help the smile that emerges on your face. His next text informs you that he’s out getting post-game drinks and dinner with his family who came to town to see his debut in Detroit. You’re not offended that you didn’t receive an invite—just excited to have received a text. The status of your relationship is still up in the air, floating somewhere between casually dating and something with benefits. Meeting his family is far from your bucket list. At this point, anyway.

Though your makeup was already done for the game, you decide to reset in the shower. You exfoliate, shave, and take your time moisturizing until you’re squeaky clean and your skin is smooth. Your pre-dick appointment ritual is practiced, having perfected it in the last six weeks that you’ve been involved with JT Compher. He doesn’t expect perfection, has told you on multiple occasions in so many words, but the routine makes you feel like you’re worth his time, his affection, his attention—that’s something you’ll deal with in therapy, though.

After the body prep comes a quick blow dry, a light layer of fresh makeup (you learned your lesson with too much makeup after JT made sure that the entire sultry eye you’d worked so hard on ended up smeared all over the sheets), and then the undergarment selection. By no means do you have an expansive luxury lingerie collection, but you’ve found yourself glancing at the intimate wear section when you’re out, anticipating the reaction of a certain redhead as you run your fingers over the various pieces on display.

Tonight does feel special, you admit, with plenty to celebrate: a debut, a win, and two points for JT. The lacy red bralette feels fitting, perfect for a little ‘wow’ factor without feeling like you’re trying too hard—and, of course, a nod to his (and your) team. Cheeky red panties finish your look, hidden by a pair of yoga pants and a cropped zip-up hoodie: the quintessential dick appointment outfit.

By the time you’re spritzing on your perfume, the come over text comes through. Slinging a small overnight bag over your shoulder with a few essentials, you lock up your apartment and head on your way. Nerves flutter in your chest the way they always do, anticipation building as you pull into the parking lot of his apartment complex.

JT hasn’t changed out of his pregame suit, the takeout box sitting on the counter an indicator he hasn’t been home for long. Your heart flutters at the realization that he must’ve texted you before he’d even left dinner, that he was thinking of you even while sitting and celebrating with his family.

After closing the door behind you, he moves in to greet you with a kiss, and once his lips touch yours, it’s like the floodgates of desire have opened up and you lose all self control. Without warning, your hands tug at his neck to kiss him fervently, quickly pressing your body against his and sighing at the warmth.

He groans, returning the kiss with equal ardor as his hands find their home on your hips. As you’re turning your attention to his belt, pulling your lips away from him for a moment, he murmurs, “Not that I’m not really, really appreciating this welcome home, but is there a reason for the extra enthusiasm?”

Clink. The belt’s hit the floor, and you waste no time getting your mouth back on his. Your hand slinks up his thigh, palming the half-hard appendage in his slacks eagerly. Involuntarily, you feel a needy throb between your thighs, the low thrum in his chest adding fuel to the fire.

“Really liked you in that jersey,” you purr.

“Oh yeah?”

Your bottom lip slips between your teeth and you nod, glancing up at him. “Yeah.”

JT smirks, allowing his ego to inflate just a bit. He doesn’t say it, but you know it drives him wild how much of an impact he has on you. How little he has to work to have you desperate for him. “Anything else?”

“I really liked it when you scored,” you say, wistfully recalling the way it sounded hearing his name announced over the loudspeaker at Little Caesars Arena. “You should do that some more.”

“How much did you like it?”

With just one sentence, he’s managed to increase the temperature in the room by at least 20 degrees; the words themselves are innocent, but the rumble behind them offers a filthy, sinful promise. His gaze is hot, predatory even, following the movement of your hand as you unzip your hoodie in response to his question. You don’t miss the way his breath hitches at the peek of red lace, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat when you shrug off the fleece.

Tension is thick in the air as you stand before him, heart pulsing in your throat. With a blink, he seemingly regains his composure, though his eyes linger on your cleavage between the lace cups. “That much, huh?”

Another nod, shivering under the heated way he watches you sink to your knees in front of him. Breaking eye contact with him is difficult, but you’re met with an equally pleasing view of his firm length pressed against the rich material of his dress pants.

Your hand works at the zipper of his slacks, the other slipping between the metal teeth to press your palm against him. He’s throbbing under your touch, growing more and more solid as your hand strokes him through his boxer briefs.

Words aren’t necessary—or capable, for that matter—once you finally fish out his length and lap at the tip. The only thing exiting his mouth are strangled curses mingled with the sigh of your name, hand slipping into your hair when he slides further into the hot cavern of your mouth. He’s fully hard now, resting heavy on your tongue as you trace the vein that throbs on the underside of his shaft.

JT grunts, tilting his head down to watch the way his cock slides between your lips. Your hands hold yourself steady against his strong, muscular thighs—one of the more underrated parts of his body, in your opinion—as you bob your head back and forth, wetting every inch of him with your mouth. You wrap your fingers around the base, twisting and setting a cruel rhythm that earns a loud whine from his throat, followed quickly by a long, “Fuuuuuuuck.”

Nails scratch lightly at your scalp, like maybe he’s searching for purchase, his chest starting to heave a little more frantically the more you work him to a state of dizzy bliss. It’s the least you can do, you think, to congratulate him on his first ever home game in Detroit. And, maybe, there’s a little piece of you that wants to reward him, because you still haven’t quite thanked him thoroughly enough for selecting your city as his final destination in free agency. For coming home to you.

A wet, frothy mixture of spit and precum coats your chin when he finally tugs you back with a groan. His eyes are dark pools of umber, arousal seeping out of them as he drinks in the sight of you on your knees, lips shining with the lewd evidence of your worship.

“Bedroom,” he husks, helping you onto your feet and pressing his groin against the swell of your ass as he gently nudges you down the hall toward his room.

Falling forward onto the mattress, you glance at him over your shoulder and catch him admiring the view before his fingers are digging into the hem of your pants and tugging down. The sharp intake of breath tells you he likes your choice of panties, left as a sneaky surprise for him to unwrap as his reward. “Oh, she really likes it when I score goals.”

A wiggle of your hips earns a slap to your ass. Soon enough, you’re flipped onto your back, feeling the weight of him settled between your legs and his mouth slotting over yours. His lips are sure, certain, plush against yours, lazily commandeering control. Kissing him never gets old, not even when his erection is bumping against your lace-shrouded pelvis, silently begging for entry.

One of his hands runs over your neck, down your chest, palming your breast through the bralette. He toys with the scalloped hem, admiring the feel of it beneath his fingers. The low rumble of his hum vibrates against the spot on your jaw that he’s paused to mouth at while his hands explore, hot breath cascading down the sensitive skin of your neck. “Y’look so pretty, I almost don’t want to take it off.”

“You like me in red, too, hm?”

“I like you in anything,” he muses, allowing his tongue to trail along the thin strap that rests on your collarbone. It’s a sweet comment that you don’t have time to dwell on when his attention moves to the swell of your breast, then flicks at your taut nipple through the lace. “But red definitely suits you.”

JT punctuates his statement with a gentle nibble, tracing the floral pattern with the tip of his tongue until the fabric is damp with his saliva and your back is arched off of his sheets. Your fingers are threaded through his hair, knees pressed into his sides when your hips start to roll against his thigh that’s slotted between your legs.

“Can’t decide if I want to taste you or fuck you first,” he murmurs against your breast. A hand slinks down your body, eventually settling on the fabric between your thighs; a pleased hum leaves his throat, presumably at the moisture he finds there. The breath in your throat catches when he brings two fingers to his lips. “A taste can’t hurt, right?”

The sight of JT Compher gazing lustfully at you from between your legs is one you’ll never take for granted, nor is the feeling of his hot breath against the inside of your thighs. Even better than that is the sound of his groan when he tugs the lace panties down your legs, eyes never leaving the dripping heat in front of him.

His hand draws to the apex of your thighs, and you brace yourself to feel a finger slipping past your lips; instead, you only receive the ghost of his touch, drawing up the slick that’s dribbled out of you.

“J,” you whine, hips bucking impatiently. You’re not sure you’ll survive his teasing antics—not tonight.

“Jus’ wanna enjoy my treat,” he says, cheeky, popping the finger in his mouth with a groan. “I love when your pussy drools like this.”

Soft, pillowy lips press against your core, and you aren’t sure who moans louder: you, from the feeling of his mouth finally touching you where you need, or him, at the taste of you on his tongue. He sets to work, devouring your cunt with his usual practiced precision; long laves of his tongue paired perfectly with gentle sucking of your clit. It isn’t until he pauses for just a moment to wrap your legs around his head that you realize he’s grinding himself against the mattress.

“JT, let me—”

“No, baby,” he pants, barely parting his mouth from you, his voice muffled by your skin. “Y’taste way too fucking good.”

You’re in the process of wondering what you did to deserve a man who enjoys eating your pussy more than you do when his hand slips between your legs, joining his tongue to aid in his quest to bring you to climax. He alternates between dipping his finger into your heat and using it to circle your clit while his mouth continues its sinful magic.

“Fuck,” you gasp, spine peeling off the mattress when he curls his finger, striking at the spongy spot inside of you. The pleasure is blinding, radiating from the place where he strokes diligently. “Don’t stop.”

For being a man, JT is good at following instructions, especially when it comes to making you come. It doesn’t take long for your legs to quiver and a loud moan to rip from your throat; he hums in encouragement, fingers pumping relentlessly until you’re spent, slumped back against his pillow. You’re pretty sure your bones have disappeared and your body is now just a floating, ethereal being. You know, status quo with him.

“One for the assist,” he murmurs, pressing a wet kiss to the inside of your thigh. His lips are glistening with your slick and his spit, coating the auburn whiskers of his beard, and you draw him up to taste it.

His contented hum that vibrates against your lips when you kiss him makes your heart warm, like he could kiss you all day and not get sick of it. The feeling is mutual, you think, savoring the way his mouth fits perfectly against yours along with the heady taste of you on his tongue. His hand moves to cup your jaw, thumb rubbing gently as he swallows your sighs and comedown whimpers eagerly.

“You gonna fuck me now?” you ask into his mouth, once you regain the ability to speak. Sometimes, he has a habit of kissing the thoughts straight out of your brain. You love it more each time.

JT’s smile curls up against your lips. “Greedy girl, aren’t you?”

The sense of satisfaction watching his smile falter when your hand reaches between your bodies to stroke his erection is unmatched. Anything to render him speechless, too; the guttural moan is just a bonus. “Been waiting for this since warmups, when I saw you skating around in the winged wheel.”

“That’s a long time,” he says smugly, sitting up with a grunt and urging you to follow. When you turn your back to him, he pushes you down onto your elbows playfully, then offers a slap on your ass. “Your poor, poor pussy. So deprived.”

Turning your head, you watch him discard the rest of his clothes before his fist wraps around his cock, dragging up and down a few times. It’s a struggle to resist the whimper that threatens to bubble up in your throat. He runs the tip through your folds, coating it in your slick with a tsk. “So pretty. Should I give her what she wants?”

Instead of giving in, begging him the way you know he wants you to, you lean forward, ensuring he has an even better view of everything you have to offer. Your hand slithers between your thighs, fingers flattening as they rub at your clit. You part your folds before allowing your finger to dip into your entrance.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans, voice dripping with a mixture of desire and awe. You swear you can feel the heat from where his eyes are burning a hole in you, staring at the way you touch yourself. “You’re so fuckin’ hot.”

Preening under his praise, your marriage joins your middle finger, moaning loudly when the two plunge into your heat. The sound of your slick is audible, harmonizing with your soft sighs and his deep, ragged breathing behind you. You muse, “I’ve always wanted to fuck a Red Wing. Doesn’t really matter who. Just want to say I did, you know?”

JT’s dark chuckle behind you sends shivers down your spine. He probes the head of his dick—still positioned at your entrance, waiting patiently for its turn—against your fingers, teasing you before nudging your hand out of the way. It falls to the mattress, and you return to leaning on both elbows. “You know how much I like making your dreams come true.”

The huffed laughter that falls out of your mouth is quickly usurped by a gasp when he pushes his hips forward. Pausing halfway, he hums at the way you squeeze him tightly before he sheaths himself completely. It’s a feeling you’re not sure you’ll ever get used to; so perfect and satisfying and full. Just the touch of his skin to yours is enough to ignite a flame deeper than you’ve ever experienced with anyone else—the intimate feeling of him inside of you is nothing short of euphoric.

You push yourself back onto him, body acting on its own and greedily taking what it wants. He makes a sound behind you, somewhere between a laugh and a grunt; whatever it is, it’s followed by a firm slap against your ass that has you moaning.

“That’s it, baby,” he murmurs, voice low and raspy. “Fuck yourself on it.”

As if to accentuate his point, his fingertips trail up your spine before his hand fists into the lace strings displayed on your back. Once his hold is firm, he uses the material to drag you back against him and set a rhythmic slapping of your ass against his hips.

JT fucks you until you’re a babbling, sweating mess, only capable of incoherent whimpers and crying out a semblance of his name. He’s steady and consistent, confidence rolling off of him even despite the way his voice falters when he’s murmuring filth in your ear, using your bralette to tug you backwards against his chest.

“You gonna come for me, pretty girl?” he whispers, beard scratching deliciously against the curve of your jaw. You nod, desperate, even your thoughts echoing the rhythm of his length driving in and out of you.

Teeth sink into the meat of your shoulder at the same time the universe explodes. Eyes squeezed shut, legs clenched tight, the air wrenched from your lungs as your body goes rigid in his arms. He hums lowly, working you through it, soft praises whispered against your skin.

“One for the goal,” he says, cheeky. You don’t have the brainpower to even roll your eyes at his hubris. Given the way your legs are still shaking, you’d say he has a right to be cocky.

Strong arms help you back down to your stomach, and you’re thankful for the soft mattress beneath you, no longer needing to hold yourself up; you’re not sure your limbs have the strength to. JT’s hands gently pull your hips back, lifting them up slightly to slide a pillow beneath them before he’s diving in face first with a groan. “Fucking love the way your cunt tastes after it’s been fucked.”

His tongue laps at you, and you squirm under his attention. Grabbing at your ass with both hands, he kneads the globes and offers a hearty smack that earns a squeal from you. “JT!”

“Sorry, baby,” he says, but the nip on your ass tells you he isn’t. You feel him shift before he’s helping to flip you over onto your back, and the sight of him smiling down at you makes your heart flutter. “Can’t help it.”

Something you’ve learned over the last few weeks with JT is that he is a thorough, meticulous lover. He worships at your altar until he’s completely absolved and your thoughts are wiped clean, pulling prayers from your throat with easy, intentional thrusts. With your legs resting in the crook of his elbows, he drives into you, solid, steady, watching the union of your bodies with a hunger that might intimidate you if it wasn’t the same one consuming you entirely.

“Look so good like this,” he murmurs, eyes roving over your body, admiring each curve as if he sculpted them himself. His gaze holds the sway of your breasts, testing the way you respond to different pulses of his hips. “Y’take dick like a fuckin’ pro, sweetheart. You know that?”

You hope the question is rhetorical, for when you go to attempt an answer, all that comes out is a garbled whimper. The praise makes your skin hot, heightens the flutter in your belly, and when he tells you to touch yourself, you blink dumbly at him. It garners a smile on his pretty lips—so fucking handsome—perhaps pleased with the way he’s fucked you stupid on his cock.

“Won’t last much longer,” he purrs. He swallows thickly, and if your brain wasn’t complete mush, you’d be very satisfied that he’s losing control, too. “Make yourself come for me. Jus’ one more, baby, please.”

And when he asks so nicely, how can you disobey?

Your hand snakes its way between your legs, rubbing at your tender clit; the action enhances the delicious, soul-altering feeling of JT’s dick delivering pleasure and promise. His eyes are glued to your movements, but your eyes are watching him.

JT Compher has always been beautiful. Handsome. Exquisite, even. But the sight of him, eyes shut, lashes kissing the tops of his cheeks, mouth open as his head falls back in ecstasy? No words. Truly, indescribable.

It’s enough that you try to stave off your own orgasm just to prolong your view—that is, until the force of it absorbs you and then shatters you, seizing every last cell and filling them with euphoria. When the fuzziness fades from your eyes, JT’s panting body is on top of you, planting kisses along your collarbone. “And finally, one for the win.”

A dreamy smile slides onto your face. Weakly, your arms wrap around him, grazing the skin on his back lightly. He feels good in your arms. Safe. Comfortable. Natural.

“Can I take you to breakfast tomorrow?”

There’s a pause as you try to process what he said, sure that he fucked you so good, your hearing’s gone out, too. He nudges your jaw with his nose.

“B–breakfast?” Your voice comes out way shakier than you intended. You feel the short exhale from his huffed laugh against your skin.

“Don’t want you to think you’re just a booty call,” he says, like it’s obvious, like he’s not still half-hard buried inside of you, his cum seeping out onto the wrinkled sheets beneath you.

“That’s what you’re thinking about right now?”

“Can’t think about anything else about you or I’ll get hard again,” he admits wryly. The confession strokes your ego, something he manages to do without even trying. As you debate if you should, in fact, rouse a round two, your pussy flutters weakly in protest—dick too good. Need break.

JT’s hands never leave your body as he helps you walk to the bathroom, laughing at the way you waddle to avoid spilling cum all over his floor. Once you’re cleaned up, you slip on the t-shirt you packed, joining him at the sink to brush your teeth. He bumps your hip affectionately with his, and the domesticity of it all contrasted with the filthy aura from 5 minutes prior is astonishing—in a good way.

Back in his room, he eyes the bag that you place on the floor. “You can keep some things here, you know. I cleared out a drawer.”

It’s a simple statement, but one that strikes you hard; symbolic and heavy in its meaning: a place carved out for you in his home.

In his life.

JT sees you standing, gaping at him, and closes the gap between you before he’s tilting your jaw upward to look at him. His lips hover over yours, the ghost of his touch lingering in a way that makes your heart stop.

His voice is low, almost a whisper, like he doesn’t want to burst the bubble surrounding you. “If I’m coming on too strong, let me know.”

“You aren’t,” you breathe, surprised that your voice even works. His lips curl into a smile against yours before he presses forward to kiss you. It’s slow, ardent, sweet. Dizzying.

“Let’s go to bed. You can fill the drawer tomorrow.”

Tag list: @somuchf4rstardust @tpwkstiles @smileysvech @senditcolton @robindrake13 @laurenairay

#jt compher fic #hockey fic #hockey imagine #nhl imagine #nhl fic #jt compher x reader #nhl fanfiction #hockey fanfiction #nhl smut #hockey smut

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holy-puckslibrary · 3 months

Text

━ 𝐬𝐰𝐚𝐧 𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐠.

main masterlist

pairing(s) — JT COMPHER x reader (main); TYSON JOST x reader (side); COMPHER x JOST (brief) wc — 14k synopsis — what's a reunion without some groveling?

note — this takes place a few of years after part one, go out with a bang (post-college/college au — tyson and kate are now out-going seniors!) sorry not sorry for the length of this behemoth, i got carried away per usual <3 there are more parts to come, and i would absolutely love to hear any theories/predictions if yall have any!

specific content warnings listed below the cut.

cw — cameos on cameos on cameos, we're at a party so drinking and mention of dr*gs + yacking (no description), drinking games, sorority terms/processes, me getting too invested in multiple subplots and potential background ships, soft!service!dom!JT makes my peabrain go brrrrr, everybodies a bit masochistic because i, registered heathen, am masochistic, reader’s wearing a short skirt for plot reasons, slight compher x josty, oral (reader receiving 2x), unprotected piv (i know, i know, i know i need help), me letting my brat self take the kink reins, praise baby praise, angst AND IM NOT SORRY, + happy fluffy bits... possible cliffhanger???

Staring up at the Alpha Chi house is like stepping back in time.

Like trying on an old pair of shoes you found while deep-cleaning your closet only to find their once-perfect fit gone. Growth is funny that way; you never realize just how far you’ve come until it pinches you.

You’ve outgrown this place, though not from a lack of love or any great tragedy. It occupies a different place in your mind, just as you’re a different person than you were three years ago.

Your younger self would balk at this development, wouldn’t believe it’d one day feel too small. You can’t fault her for that near-sightedness. In college, your whole world existed on one street. You had everything you needed then between two stop signs.

But your world is bigger now, and your needs are different too.

Still, it feels good to try on your past for the night. Even if it's a tad ill-fitting.

The drive between your new life and your old one hadn’t been too bad, but that’s probably because you didn’t do much of said driving. JT got the engine going before you could even make a grab for the keys and, despite spending the last year in the literal trenches of clinical rotations and shelf exams, refused to switch at the halfway mark. Yet, your boyfriend is practically vibrating with excitement as you cross the all-too-familiar threshold hand-in-hand.

“This is so weird,” JT remarks, his lips low to your ear. His musky cologne, warm and woody, does its best to soothe your nerves.

As you survey the crowd, you nod.

He didn’t need to elaborate further for you to understand because you were already thinking the very same thing. Watching students, the vast majority as unfamiliar to you as you are to them, milling around your old haunt stirs an odd, uncanny feeling akin to a surreal dream. You’re well-acquainted with the setting, almost to an uncomfortable degree, and you don’t think you’re all that different, but everything still feels foreign.

All the right pieces are there, and you’re sure you’ve put them in their proper places, but the image won’t behave.

You quickly realize the only thing that’s misplaced is you. Grief hangs from your back like a wet blanket.

“Look what the cat dragged in, boys!”

A burst of riotous laughter shakes much of the gloom from your system.

Gabe Landeskog barrels into your boyfriend like an overgrown puppy. Gray-blue eyes twinkling under the rainbow of LEDs, he embraces you both in a warm hug, not minding that the spontaneous act of affection has just cost him an entire Solo cup.

“Compher and the missus,” the blonde addresses you both with a wide grin and a big palm to a cheek each; he gives JT’s a quick pat but merely cups yours.

His breath still smells of spearmint and something spicy, an imposing combination your eighteen-year-old self could never find comforting. Just another thing that's different now. If you could package the scent for all the little moments of nostalgia, you would.

“I was starting to think we’d have to drag you from the city kicking and screaming, but alas! You've left the cozy, vanilla bubble of your own volition for a weekend of debauchery with your favorite degenerates.”

JT’s affectionate eye-roll is big and dramatic even in your periphery. The levity brings a smile to your face. It grows wider and wider, enduring until your cheeks burn. If anyone deserves some light-heartedness, it's your sleep-deprived, perpetually-stressed boyfriend.

“A night, Landy. We’ve got to be back by tomorrow night to relieve the dog sitter,” your boyfriend amends with a pat to Gabe’s flushed cheek, returning the favor.

The older man groans like the overgrown boy he is and will always be. “Look at you, Mr. Responsible. All domestic and shit. With a fur-baby and everything. I bet it’s as well-trained as your firstborn.”

Your eyes follow the line drawn by Gabe’s strong chin past the entryway through to the room used for table-top drinking games.

Half-kneeling on the rickety table you helped customize a few years back is Tyson Jost, head tilted to the sky as he guzzles down the center cup. More beer spills down his chest than into his mouth, effectively turning his white tee sheer. The crowd is comprised mostly of giddy sorority girls who don't mind a bit.

Free booze and a free show—lucky them!

Once the plastic cup is empty, he crushes it in his palm before sinking the balled plastic into the basketball hoop on the adjacent wall. The converted dining room swells with hoots and hollers so quickly you would’ve thought Tyson emerged from some mythic quagmire, blood-soaked and victorious. But there are no winners in Rage Cage; everybody loses.

Tyson’s loopy grin falters when he registers you and JT on either side of Gabe.

You would like to say nothing’s changed between the three of you over the past couple of years. That you’re just as close as you’d been in college, that distance hadn’t done as much damage as it has.

You'd be lying if you did.

You tried your best to keep him in the loop; you really did, but that didn’t end up mattering much.

JT hardly had time to socialize with you most of the time, and you’ve practically lived together since graduation. He, like you, tried, but at some point, his bandwidth could no longer accommodate Tyson’s sporadic texts and calls. Many of which came in the dead of night, when your boyfriend’s head was either buried in a textbook or in the pillow beside yours.

Whenever you could, you invited the forward to spend the weekend in the city with the two of you. You even went so far as to offer to put him up in a hotel between your and JT’s respective apartments, knowing your adult salary could stretch further than the Atomic tips he was splitting with Tyler. He always had something conflicting going on, and it didn't feel like your place to question the authenticity of his reasons, so you just kept extending the invitation, hoping things would align eventually.

After finally taking the leap and signing a lease together, you decorated the guest room with Tyson in mind. He’s yet to see it, still.

Your little Kate, on the other hand, needs a frequent flyer program.

A small part of you felt this shift was inevitable once JT went from best friend-slash-unrequited crush to full-blown, live-in boyfriend. Despite Tyson’s insistence on you finally hooking up and “putting everyone out of their misery,” his smile didn’t meet his eyes when JT broke the news that it wasn’t a one-night thing.

Maybe his “little crush” hadn’t been so little after all.

If that’s the case, you can't blame him for avoiding your slice of grown-up love like the plague. It just would've been nice if he hadn't left you in the dark, wondering where and how you fucked up enough to get iced out.

Tyson responded to every third or so text of yours, so you mostly kept up with him and his life through Kate, who briefly dated him between ill-fated Gunnar stints, and social media. You weren’t sure how often he spoke to JT; after several attempts that ended with your boyfriend clammed up and irritated, you stopped asking.

Judging by how tense he is beside you right now, you have a pretty good guess.

“Yikes,” Gabe drawls. “Trouble in paradise?”

You remain carefully quiet, allowing your boyfriend to decide what, if anything, to share. This—whatever it is —feels like it's more so between them two than Tyson and yourself.

JT clears his throat so hard it cuts through the music blaring through the packed house—some remix you don’t remember learning the words to. “Trouble? Nah, Josty’d have to give us the time of day for that.”

Gabe laughs, but you know JT isn’t trying to be funny. You can taste the undercurrent of bitter resentment. It’s impossible not to without an artificial buzz.

There’s no time to dwell because a flurry of red hair darts through the crowd dispersing out of the dining room and straight into your arms. A fresh, but faintly-candied scent tickles your nose as the cool metal of a bracelet digs into your neck.

Kate.

“Fuckin finally!” The almost-grad squeals directly into your ear.

Definitely drunk. Or high—or both.

“Don’t look at me,” you say, beaming when she pulls back. “I wasn’t driving.”

Kate swats JT’s chest with her open palm. “And this is why we don’t let you drive anywhere, Grandpa.”

The playful jab makes your smile deepen. His driving made her tardy to a ZBZ charity gala one time over a year ago when she made the mistake of hitching a ride with you, and she’s probably brought it up a million times since. Kate pretends to hold a grudge, JT pretends to find it aggravating, and you get to sit back, enjoying the warm camaraderie overfilling your cup.

The pair have been friends almost as long as you've been friends with either of them, but since your graduation, they’ve settled into something more serious and more genuine. Where your connection to Tyson wilted outside the conveniences of college, your relationship with Kate matured and flourished. She’s more than just your chapter-appointed Little Sister to JT now, having become more of a true sister than anything else. Hence the juvenile teasing.

“Well, we’re here now. Alive.”

Your little snatches your hand in hers, tugging you away from JT, who feigns offense.

“And now I’m stealing your girlfriend in retribution for making me wait. Go do… whatever it is you two heathens used to do at parties. We have a pong title to defend.”

“Excellent idea, Madame President,” Gabe declares, hands roughly massaging the male ginger’s shoulders. He tosses a wink in Kate’s direction.

Before the other ginger can drag you away for good, your boyfriend catches your free wrist, pulling you back to him so his lips can find your ear. Breath hot, he drops his voice an octave, “President’s bathroom. One hour. Nod if you understand.”

Your chin dips, quick and subtle confirmation.

“Good girl.”

As your respective keepers separate you, JT shoots you a wink of his own. Then, you lose him in the crowd.

Kate leads you through the sea of party-goers to the living room, her grip on you tight and comforting. Her thumb rubs small circles on the inside of your wrist as you approach the table, almost as if privy to your worry. Kate is incredibly perceptive; she can read someone’s mind without even looking at them. With you, her Spidey senses transcend county lines, so it’s no real surprise she deduced your current condition from no more than your erratic pulse thumping against her palm.

When you reach the bustling folding table commandeered for the BP tournament, Kate does all the talking.

It’s not too hard to get on the bracket despite the late entry with two newly-minted Alpha Chi brothers manning the post. The absolute last thing they want to do is get on the bad side of the president of their sister chapter (Kate) and the girlfriend of a legendary former chapter president (you). The pairs for the current game are only a couple of throws in, so it’s going to be at least ten minutes before it's your turn.

“You, my dear, look thirsty,” Kate declares through a mischievous grin.

You let her pull you towards the kitchen across the hall but have more difficulty than you expect actually getting there. Every few steps, someone stops either you or Kate. Mostly the latter, but she’s quick to show you off to whoever’s trying to seize her attention. Apparently, Kate’s been building quite the mythos of your time on campus, and it’s very… dizzying, to say the least.

“Kit-Kat!”

Kate abandons the poor freshman boy shooting his shot (and missing fantastically) in favor of the feminine voice sliding into the conversation.

In the blue-ish hue washing over the small space, you’re having a hard time placing her, but she seems very keen on making your acquaintance.

“Blake Meyers,” the newcomer announces, extending her hand with a smile.

You take it, giving her your name and a matching expression in return. The flattened vowels are distinct and recognizable, as is the last name.

“Meyers?” you ask, attempting to work it out.

“Ava’s younger sister,” Kate interjects. “And one of our best steals this past recruitment.”

Blake blushes so brightly her freckles disappear.

You remember that feeling. What it was like to have an older member, especially someone as established and accomplished as an outgoing ZBZ president, go out of their way to make you feel special. You have zero doubt Blake will be walking on air for the foreseeable future, any of the common little doubts about whether or not she made the right choice vanishing.

“I was really hoping I’d get to meet you tonight,” the freshman tells you bashfully. “Kate gave the most beautiful speech about you and your legacy on Preference Night, and when she told me you might be coming with your boyfriend, I had to put a face to the name. And Jenny was the one who pref-ed me, so it seemed like—I don’t know, a non-negotiable?”

Jenny is one of the twins Kate took her junior year, and she couldn’t have picked better. It gave you peace of mind knowing your Kate would have good people around her once you couldn’t physically be there for her.

You won’t be surprised if Jenny takes Blake as her little. Kate pref-ed her, and before that, you pref-ed Kate. It’s basically a family tradition.

Not long after you thank Kate for her generous words and Blake for her kindness, Thomas, one of the new initiates in charge of the beer pong table, flags you down for your game. Not ready to end your conversation, invigorated by the breezy, jovial chatter your new life lacks, you tug Blake along with you.

Between exceptionally beautiful throws (if you do say so yourself), you learn more about Blake and her roommate and fellow ZBZ spring initiate, Emory. They pepper you with questions: about your first-year college experience, advice on getting the best room possible on the sophomore floor for mandatory live-in, whether or not you got anything particularly valuable in the various leadership positions you held, and what fraternities to steer clear of. You’re more than happy to answer them all. Kate sprinkles in comments and jokes occasionally, but she mostly defers to you so she can celebrate the end of a smooth second term as president.

Once Kate and you have successfully defended your title, you pass the torch to the future of your chapter. Blake and Emory make quick work of the first challengers and are close to a similar sweep with the second pair when your little remembers her earlier mission: refreshments.

This time, you both keep your heads ducked as you speed through the dancing bodies and make a beeline for the dinged-up lockers propped against the wall. You can’t help but smile when you see her reach for the lock—your old lock.

Every upperclassman (and a few select friends of the chapter, like Alpha Chi Sweethearts such as Kate and, once upon a time, yourself) is assigned a secure, personal locker in the oversized kitchen for quick access to personal items. During parties, they essentially become personal coolers. At your very last formal chapter meeting, you will-ed the hunk of metal down to Kate, along with the more sentimentally valuable items you wanted to leave behind with her.

“Wait, can you even drink?” Kate asks you from where she’s kneeling. Sarcasm scrunches her brows together.

“Hilarious,” you reply with a playful glare. “And before you loudly ask about the non-existent fetus like the devious bitch you love being, don’t. Unless you want to give JT an aneurysm."

Kate fishes out two slim, chilled cans as she grumbles about how boring you two have become in your “old age.” She shoves a ratty sweatshirt—an old favorite of Tyson’s—back into the small locker, quickly refastens the lock, and scrambles the dial. Then, she returns to her full height beside you.

“So, do you want to tell me what that wink from Gabe was about?” you ask, brow cocked.

“Do you want to tell me what your horndog of a boyfriend whispered in your ear?” Kate counters.

“Touché.”

Kate cracks open a Spindrift Spiked and slots it into your waiting palm. She taps the rim with her own, then sighs back against the cluttered kitchen island. She’s going to crack, you know it. Kate, even when she has a secret she wants to keep, never stays quiet for long. Especially not when you’re the one doing the asking.

“Okay, so, d’you remember how Tyson was, like, completely apathetic after we broke up right before Heaven & Hell last Halloween?”

You nod, recalling how irritated she was over FaceTime while you helped her pick a costume out of your box of hand-me-downs. You did your best not to laugh because Kate was clearly distressed, but it was kind of hard not to when she was buried in a heap of red and white feathers, wearing a too-small tutu dotted with rhinestones.

Kate takes a sip of the spiked strawberry lemonade before elaborating, “Well, I was understandably pissed—Don’t give me that look, okay? I know I broke up with him, but he shouldn’t have been that blasé that soon—so, I hatched a plan.”

You shake your head, laughing. Kate and her schemes.

“I wasn’t planning on taking Gabe as my date, but when I ran into him at Atomic the day before… I don’t know; I just couldn’t resist. I mean, Tyson worships the man. If anyone’s getting a reaction, it’s Landy. I had to.”

“And?” you prod.

“And…” she stalls, eyes darting around the kitchen in search of pesky eavesdroppers, cheeks lit up like a Christmas tree. “…we might’ve done it in the backseat of his truck.”

“I’m scared to ask where.”

She buries her face in your shoulder. “The venue’s parking lot.”

Your eyes bulge so hard you, for a split-second, worry they’ll pop out of your head onto the sticky hardwood and land amongst the discarded cans.

“And I didn’t tell you because I was so scared you and JT would hate me,” Kate moans into your skin. She shifts to peer up at you, hesitant. “You don’t, right?”

“I don’t think I’m even capable of hating you, Katie-Kat, let alone for something as silly as banging a hot blonde,” you giggle, and she’s quick to join you. Lowering your voice, “Especially the hottest of hot blondes.”

“I’m so telling JT you said that,” she teases, pulling away.

You shrug and take your first sip. “Go ahead. He’ll agree.”

“And this is why you’re my favorite couple,” she says, bumping her hip against yours. “The worst part is Tyson didn’t even care about that either! At the post-game, when he saw my lipstick smeared all over Gabe’s neck, he high-fived him. Tyson fucking high-fived him for screwing me. His ex-girlfriend! How supremely demented is that?”

“I wish I had an explanation for you, but I don’t. I’m starting to think I didn’t know him as well as I thought I did.”

Kate takes hold of your unoccupied hand and squeezes it three times.

“I’m guessing things haven’t gotten any better?”

You shake your head, eyes downcast like there’s something super interesting between the floorboards. “I know he’s busy, and we’re busy, but he’s acting like our friendship meant nothing.”

“Not to start a therapy session in the middle of a rager, but did you... did you ever actually talk about That Night? I know you said JT whispered, but how positive are you that Josty didn't hear him?"

A few months after That Night, your guilt was on the brink of hemorrhaging. It was only a matter of time before the other shoe dropped; you broke down in the middle of Talladega Nights. Fucking Talladega Nights: The Ballad of Ricky Bobby. All fat tears and snotty, incoherent spiraling, your chest heaved as JT rubbed your back. He was quiet, more concerned than confused, until you calmed down enough to explain what’d been weighing on your conscience.

Then, your boyfriend looked clueless—because he was. JT didn’t remember his heat-of-the-moment pseudo-promise to taint Josty’s image of you.

After a scene or two, you broached the subject you’d both been avoiding since getting together. You wanted to apologize, and not that you needed JT’s permission, but you felt it wasn’t entirely your amends to make. He agreed but was adamantly opposed to operating on assumption alone. If Tyson was truly upset by the pillow talk he overheard, JT reasoned, he was old enough to be frank about it.

You found yourself agreeing, but also not? On the one hand, you could see this being an instance of your anxious mind making a mountain out of a molehill, finding fault where there’s none. But you knew Tyson, and you knew how sensitive he could be.

Something shifted that night. You’d known then, too, even in the hazy afterglow. His despondency wasn’t subtle, and it wasn’t uncommon for his dejected expression—his forced smile dipped in feigned nonchalance—to visit you in therapy sessions or in your nightmares.

But every time you typed and re-typed one remorseful novel after another, every time your gun-shy thumb hovered over his contact, every time you nearly drove out to your alma mater to track him down… You couldn’t get yourself to see it through.

At first, it was the nerves, the fear of hearing his pain and seeing his anger. Then, it was your own temper, stoked by indignation, that rose with every sign of withdrawal. Now, it’s just plain, garden-variety sadness.

It was—is disappointing how cleanly he severed ties. There one day and gone the next, no blow-out fight or melancholic hear-to-heart. Tyson was there; he was within reach, but at the same time, not at all. The casual dismissal is worse than outright rejection; the door ajar but wholly uninviting.

"In the moment, I was certain he didn’t. Now? Fuck, the percentage drops every time I replay it in my head,” you murmur, remorse bogging down your confession. "I know you made a point not to bring it up when you were together, but did he ever, I don’t know, say anything?"

Kate shakes her head. "No, sorry. But it's not like we actually did much talking anyway."

You snort despite your woes.

“Alright, that’s enough doom and gloom for one night. How’s my nephew?” Kate asks, bright smile chasing the blues away with all its might.

It’s a distraction and a good one, too. She listens intently as you prattle on about the bi-weekly training sessions you’re starting next month to help with the leash pulling and the ridiculous pet parents you’ve met at the dog park near your apartment. She inquires about the fluffy lamb she brought over the last time she stayed with you—it lasted all of a day in his over-excited grip—then gushes over another variation she saw last week while getting litter for Salem, her diabolical tuxedo cat.

By the time Kate has your phone in her hand, swiping through the designated album and asking more questions than each picture really warranted, you’re feeling a bit better.

Noticing the clock, you stumble through a totally-not-suspicious excuse to venture upstairs—alone. Kate shoots you a knowing look but doesn’t give you a hard time. To be honest, she’s just glad you came tonight. Instead of a witty jab or half-hearted guilt trip, she slips a gold foil square into your unsuspecting palm and sends you on your way with a supportive swat to the rear.

Access to the second floor during parties is typically mediated by two to three gatekeepers, depending on the scale and projected rowdiness of each gathering. Three’s the magic number tonight: two up-and-coming juniors and an outgoing senior. They grant you passage with little more than a nod of acknowledgment.

“What? No riddle this time?” you tease over your shoulder.

The senior, an engineering major with a penchant for brain teasers, answers with a hoot. Cale Makar shakes his head, both amused and flattered you remembered his signature move. His puppy crush on you is an open secret. “I was given strict instructions to ‘keep the shenanigans’ to a minimum with you, Your Majesty.”

“JT?” you venture a guess, hand paused on the paint-chipped banister. He’s the only one who still sprinkles in the silly nickname these days.

“Landy, actually.”

Well, close enough.

You shouldn’t be surprised. It wouldn’t be the first time the former chapter president enlisted Cale, his little, to assist in your and JT’s more salacious antics.

As soon as Gabe had the defenseman under his wing, he was putting him to work. Not that the younger blonde particularly minded, as his affinity for creative, slightly devious schemes rivaled that of Kate’s. It was Cale, you later found out, who ran interference during Semi Formal… while you were defiled on the balcony.

“Still doing his bidding, I see.”

He counters with that lopsided “Get Out of Jail Free” grin. “What can I say? The man puts up a mean bribe.”

As if cued, Cale’s companions, who you now recognize as Alex Newhook and Bowen Byram, step into view. In Alex’s raised grip is a case of Labatt Blue, and in each of Bowen’s, a bottle of bottom-shelf cabernet. You doubt the trio would notice or mind the subpar quality, though. Between their happy heads, Cale fists a bottle of champagne you know he’ll misplace before he can polish it off.

“Jesus, how drunk is he?” you tease, the follow-up to an exaggerated gasp.

Sure, the quality’s shit, but their haul is far more valuable than your appraisal of their job; it’s a frat house, not Buckingham Palace.

“Not drunk enough to not see you here with us.” Cale’s voice tapers off, his pale eyes tracking someone stalking down the hall before nervously flicking up to the ceiling, “…and not up there with JTC.”

JTC — Talk about a blast from the past.

An anticipatory tingling erupts between your inner thighs just knowing he’s up there right now waiting for you. This is the part of your “homecoming” that excited you most and had been since the moment your boyfriend pinned the invite from the alumni association onto the fridge.

As blissfully domestic as your life together has become, it lacks the spontaneity your college life had been brimming with. Your sex life could never be categorized as mundane or clinical, but you’re finding it difficult to replicate the adrenaline rush stealing secret moments inherently provided.

Sometimes, in your more (admittedly) desperate moments, you’ve caught your fingers moving beneath the sheets to mindlessly chase the thrill of those fleeting intimacies, despite how awful the constant wondering and wallowing felt then or, maybe because of it, pain and pleasure are uniquely human indulgences sought in equal measure. When intertwined, they’ve been known to satiate masochistic cravings the way a sad movie or a sprawling, high-speed rollercoaster might.

However, this time, your risk-spurned euphoria will be at your own hand. The newfound agency—the ability to choose when, how, or if any risk is involved—has you darting up the stairs with a fire under your soles.

Before you round the corner and disappear down the hall, you make sure to call out, “Thank you for your service!” accompanied by a two-finger mock salute. You don’t stick around to catch their responses, though.

As you make your way down the dim corridor, you run smack into a very giggly Sarah Jones, just shy of your destination. Eyes distant and wide, she attempts to apologize for something—Something about sabotaging the Big-Little pairings your senior spring?—but it’s more bubbles than actual words. You nod along, still not quite sure what you’re accepting an apology for but too antsy to forge ahead to play detective. Your purposeful strides went unnoticed in her cloud of intoxication and nostalgia, but Erik Johnson, who’d been JT’s vice president, mercifully ushers his inebriated fiancé out of your path by the shoulders.

You offer him a faint smile of gratitude as they head in the opposite direction.

Over the music, you faintly hear Sarah begin chattering on about something unrelated, your reunion long forgotten already. You can’t help but chuckle a little on behalf of your younger self, who would’ve gawked at snobbish Sarah Jones drunk and voluntarily slumming it in a ramshackle house on Greek Row. And sporting a rock from a Degenerate on Ice (her nickname for your brother fraternity, not yours), too? That would’ve been the icing. But, the older, more mature, once-weekly-therapy iteration of yourself is happy she’s happy.

Thoroughly amused but happy nevertheless.

As you reach for the tarnished doorknob of the president’s suite, the rickety door flings open to reveal your boyfriend, all flushed cheeks and frenzied eyes.

JT pulls you inside, lips easily taking possession of yours, the heel of his lived-in/loved-on sneaker nudging the door shut. The hinges groan in protest to the rough treatment. Still fussy as ever. This house is a goddamn time capsule, you muse. Neither of you has the patience for benevolence. If it jams, it jams. That’s a future-self problem. Diligence now would only slow you down.

And would a prolonged stay on memory lane really be all that bad?

Your boyfriend cages you so close that when he manages more than panted praise between hot-and-heavy touches, the words barely fit in the gap between your mouths. “I was beginning to think you stood me up, sweetheart.”

The light-hearted accusation is semi-whispered, somewhat hoarse, in the way his voice always sounded when he came home from a long shift at the hospital downtown or post-game at the height of his collegiate career. JT isn’t a hard person to read—downright wolfish when he’s homing in on a target—but the low, raspy tone makes his intent glaring.

Your body thrums with anticipation.

“Never,” you croon back. A breathy moan sweetens your voice, courtesy of the calloused hand inching up the back of your bare thigh, bypassing the hem of your skirt with no effort or resistance. Arms looping around his neck, you make an inquiry: “Is there a reason we’re in your old bedroom instead of, I don’t know, the king-sized bed in the honeymoon suite you insisted we spring for?”

Tufts of faint copper tickle your cheek. Your boyfriend lands a kiss on your crowd-warmed forearm. Then, much to your displeasure, he steps out of the tight embrace.

“Y’know, I remembered something earlier when I was downstairs,” JT supplies in an apparent non-answer.

He guides you, as understanding rises in your mental periphery, through the barely-lit space toward the Jack-and-Jill bathroom between this room and the next. Then, he flicks on the secondary light, the dimmer of the two, before tugging you over yet another threshold. His fingers twitch at his sides, lascivious.

You stare back at him expectantly, vision tunneling as you wait, wait, wait.

The latch might as well have been a starting pistol; the subtle click ringing in your eardrums like the sonic crack of a live round; his breath a plume of smoke from a charged muzzle well beyond its flash point. Pent-up, needy tension burns hot and burns brighter. Residue from the night prior aflame; you, a moth seduced.

JT drives forward. Stalking, like a cat on a bird, until he’s pinned you to the door. His dash was easy, made short and hasty by the starting block eagerness in your dilated eyes.

Mouth descending on your sensitive neck, hips grinding his want into your squirming form, harsh belt buckle nudging just right with each sharp rut.

“There’s still one thing left on my college bucket list.”

He sinks the candor in with his incisors. Not hard enough to break the skin, but that was never his intention. The sting is a reminder. Of your shared past, of his unwavering desire—of who is in charge.

Message received. Loud and clear.

JT leans away to admire his handiwork. One big hand poised at your jaw, and the other braced beside your head, keeping your shyness from blocking the perfect view; you’ve never been able to hide from him and never will.

His curious thumb deviates from the original objective to caress the skin, now splotched violet and angry. Softly, at first, like he’s committing the damage to memory. Then, emboldened by a sudden piercing hiss forcing itself from your throat, JT pushes down on the tender spot. The cruel, unexpected pressure pulls pitiful bleating cries from your undulating chest.

This is no longer an expedition to gather intel; it’s a primal instinct.

For a few moments, he just holds you like this. A cloistered existence made worthwhile by him occasionally digging deeper into the column of your throat, the pressure taking on a raptorial quality. Your boyfriend wears his herald grin at a rakish angle. It unfurls with refined delicacy, an effective diversion for his next endeavor. Breathe like a precision instrument; the sharp phantom-edge fans across the sucked-raw skin with unhurried ease.

There isn’t enough alcohol in your system to dull the twinge — and you’re glad for it. It’d be a crime to dilute a burn this good, this all-consuming. You crumble between him and the door, your world only this big. His name tumbles out with a pulled-candy moan, completely devoid of dignity.

JT’s chest rumbles beneath your clammy palms. “You gonna be a good girl and help me tie up loose ends?”

His strawberry-blonde crown dips to nuzzle your cheek. Hot tongue tracing an experimental line, JT groaning as it does. The muscle trawls for tears you didn’t realize you shed, humming through the pursuit. The low-pitched moan sends a chill straight down your spine right to your toes.

The hand gripping your jaw lowers so his fingers are able to coil themselves around somewhere more advantageous — your neck. Your eyelids flutter, woozy. His firm squeeze, just enough to make everything spin and keep you still, has become blissfully familiar over time, but your breath still hitches like it’s the first.

“Hm, sweetheart? Don’t be rude. I asked you a question.”

Your lips part, a barbed retort to his condescension on your tongue, but all you can push out is the strangled yelp of a wounded animal.

The hand by your temple no longer rests against the door. In the fog, it snuck up under your skirt; JT never meant to get an answer out of you; he just likes to watch you squirm. Likes to have something to reprimand you for.

His nimble fingers dance over the thin, sodden material pulled taut over your heat. Less touching, more hovering. Small, lazy movements that betray how well he can play your body. They float above the tingling bundle of nerves, further movement pending, contingent upon your obedience.

“P-please,” comes your pouted whimper.

“Focus for me, pretty baby. Tell me what I want to hear. Come on, let me make things easy for you. I can feel how badly you want to — and you aren’t in a position to be difficult, are you?”

You give in, and though the words you babble are largely unintelligible, JT’s ultimately satisfied.

“Such a good listener I’ve got myself. But you’re always to eager to please, aren’t you? You might throw stones from behind that tough girl act, but it’s just that: an act. I have a puddle in my hand to prove it.”

His frankness sears your face.

You’ve acquired a tolerance for his raunchy silver tongue through months of close proximity, but the mechanism is shoddy at best. Stalls and misfires galore. Against all odds (said “odds” being his fingertips toying with the edges of fabric between your thighs), you summon up a tawdry retort from the growing arsenal. “Don’t l-let it go to waste, Compher.”

It's not your best work, but much better than the slurred gurgle that preceded it.

He loves how you manage to be any sort of cheeky with him, even with your head swimming, stuttering and all.

“I don’t think it matters, sweetheart. I know there’s no shortage. Plenty more where it came from.”

With your knee, you nudge his hard-on and supply some honey-tongued snark of your own. “Is that your ego, or are you just excited to see me?”

Your boyfriend chokes out short-lived mirth. Then, with an accompanying smile, his tongue presses to the inside of his cheek. Amused, but by the sting of the remark’s undeniable truth, not your cleverness. The protrusion moves just below his bottom lip as he swipes the muscle over his teeth, a half-second sardonic gesture. It calls attention to your impudence without dignifying it with a verbal reply.

His brow lifts to negate any confusion, feigned or otherwise. “Are you going to keep being a brat, or are you going to let me fuck you with my fingers?”

You gulp down your ready-mixed wisecracks.

“Nothing to say now?” JT taunts. “Funny how that works.”

Fuckin’ wisenheimer. His voice is so haughty you have to bite your lip to keep your foot out of your mouth, unwilling to jeopardize your impending pleasure for short-term gratification.

Your boyfriend’s smugness—and your subsequent annoyance—becomes irrelevant when your panties are roughly pushed to the side, and his thick finger slips past your taut entrance. Tip to knuckle in one succinct trust; your startled gasp drowns out the noise rising up through the floorboards.

Hips bucking forward—you just can’t help yourself—you're in search of some friction to marry with the blinding stretch. He’s made the tensile opening accommodate far more in length and thickness, but not like this. Rarely does he create space where there is barely any, having forgone tenderness. Slowly widening a gap with gentle pressure, not demanding room like it’s already his to occupy.

Your surprise drips down his hand.

The bliss—the relief, is palpable. Your head dips into the crook of his neck, and the gravity of the situation felt for the first time.

Before, you didn’t see any substance in a tipsy frat bathroom hook-up. The older you got, the more pointless it seemed, especially with an established, long-term partner. The novelty wasn’t lost on you, of course, but that’s all you’d written it off as.

Countless collegiate nights were spent imagining one like this one. A moment where your inescapable feelings for him would be matched outright. When the pressure of his stifled emotions would build too fast to keep them from boiling over, too mighty in stature. Suddenly overcome by unrequited feelings of his own, unable to uphold all the ridiculous unspoken platonic conventions with the same authority he commands now.

This is important. For your past and present selves. The significance of this overdone, soapy teen drama scenario cannot be overlooked because it underscores the progress you’ve made together. Years of dancing around one another, the unconventional catalyst and nontraditional timeline, every hushed conversation in the wee hours before responsibilities wake, the sleepless nights and the snooze-filled afternoons—this ostensibly clichéd moment is an amalgamation of it all.

One thought rises above the frenzied rest: Was this here all along?

Is this what was waiting on the other side of the aimless pining and the confusion and the hurt?

The journey might’ve been fucking hell, but the view from here is pretty damn heavenly.

Overwhelmed by your epiphany and his dexterous motions, you moan into his skin far louder than your pride would’ve otherwise allowed outside your shared apartment.

His arrogant laughter grates before it really registers. Venom secretes from your salivary glands when it does, but the melted retribution never makes it past your lips. His second finger robs it of the opportunity, and the third sends all thoughts out your ears. The light circles over your clit cloud your vision, nails digging into his jersey-clad back—I’m feeling nostalgic, he’d said. In more ways than one, apparently.

“S’good—wanted this for so long, Compher—k-kept wishing it was you that night, not Miles.”

JT seethes at the admission, curling his fingers until your knees buckle and you’re entirely reliant on him to keep you off the floor. Even as your mind slips further and further away, your hips manage to move in time with his hand. Meeting each stroke with equal hustle and vigor, a clear end goal on the horizon.

Then his thumb drops away, his hand coming to a halt, and he steps back.

Away.

Frustration pushes the amassed tears waiting in the wings down your cheeks. Emotion runs down your face; a heavy spill indeed.

“I don’t ever want to hear another man’s name outta your mouth when it’s my fingers buried in your pussy.” His jealousy is well-polished. Manicure-smooth, like he’s been maintaining its luster in preparation for this very occasion. "—'specially not the motherfucker that made sure I heard all your pretty sounds through the walls.”

You’d grin if you weren’t so miserable.

That’d been your intention. It wasn’t anything Miles had or did that made him different from the rest of the chapter (who all, at one point or another, tried their luck with JTC’s hot best friend), just simply when he decided to shoot his shot. The only reason you’d been out in the first place was because you reached your breaking point, no longer able to stomach what you felt for JT, and you made sure Miles knew this before you let him call an Uber.

Despite playing for the same team, the pair shared a touch-and-go rivalry. You never knew if the intensity would result in a sweeping victory or an in-house, all-out brawl. If they ever saw eye to eye, you’d of never known. Miles needed no convincing to push JT’s buttons.

There was some heavy petting, nothing more. The only time Miles saw you undress was to change into the pajamas he lent you before knocking out on his futon, leaving you to take the bed. But JT didn’t know that. If sitting in their chapter house’s kitchen at 5 o’clock the next morning didn’t raise suspicion, the non-Compher borrowed t-shirt and ruffled hair certainly did.

Back then, he refused to ask. Even though you could see how badly he wanted to pry. Miles didn’t have anything he worth sharing, so JT was left to fill in the blanks.

You’d tell him the truth later, but right now, you wanted to see what milking his assumptions could get you.

“Did you like what you heard?”

His jaw ticks. Your hips push against his with a knowing simper.

You lean forward, closing the space he forced, lips barely brushing his ear, “Did you get off on it? Fuck your hand picturing yourself in his place… wishing it was my pussy instead?”

You hear the thud before you feel your head against the door or his hand back around your throat, his fingers deep between your walls again. The everywhere-throb makes you laugh. Giggle, really.

He squeezes until you’re no longer capable of mockery. His pace hastens, leveling out only once your thighs have started shaking around his wrist, knees cutting off his circulation elbow-down. Somehow, he keeps going despite the icy tingle. His determination overrides physical discomfort, knowing how close you’re getting. Feeling it in the distinct fluttering around his digits, seeing it in your trembling, swollen bottom lip.

“You’re so full of shit.” His mouth twitches at your throaty moan. A defiant hint of levity circles his pupils; he never stays riled up for long when it’s you yanking his chain. “You’re lucky I love you.”

You kiss him then, messy and crude, love-drunk. He tastes like your chapstick and gin, with a biting citric aftertaste —Grapefruit, maybe?—and you suck it in like you haven’t had a drop of water in days. And, in turn, he drinks down every choked sob and nonsensical half-thought you babble, every drop shooting straight to his loins.

He drives into you with fervor, humming as his tongue slips against yours, iron bulge omnipresent. The hand around your neck loosens but never leaves its post, thumb stroking your pulse point. I know everything about you, his movements whisper. Over and over, in and out. He, just as much as you, gets lost in the repetition.

“Don’t want him, never wanted him. Jus’ you—Always you.” It comes out slurred, mushy like your head, like your heart.

JT’s cock isn’t immune to affirmation and twitches through his too-tight jeans. Groaning, “Go on, sweetheart. Scream my name. I want every single person in this house to know exactly who’s fucking you this good.”

You do just that, writhing on his hand, eventually burying your face into his warm neck when it gets to be too much. He continues fucking you, and you continue crying for him, the pathetic little whimpers muffled now by his body.

JT guides you through the rest of your orgasm, as he always does. He watches your face carefully on the comedown, searching for any sign of regret or discomfort. When he finds none, he cradles your shaking form against his solid chest, the hand that, only moments ago, tore you apart, soothing you back down to earth. Once you’ve settled, he walks you back and away from the door.

A startled yelp falls from your lips when you feel the chilly edge of the countertop. You pull away from your boyfriend, brows furrowing with confusion.

His hand taps the outside of your thigh. "Up."

You’re having a hard time keeping your eyes open, let alone stringing thoughts together, so the command is met with inaction. Impatient as ever, JT wordlessly hoists you where he wants you and sinks down to his knees, big hands cupping yours.

“What’re you doing?” Strained, barely above a whisper.

He stares up at you with dopey, lovestruck eyes. “Come on, Compher. You can gimmie another one, can’t you?”

You aren’t an idiot. Often sleep deprived beyond belief and, more often than not, fucked-out on JT’s… Well, anything—but definitely not an idiot. You knew exactly what that loaded gun of a pet name implied the moment he used it. It first slipped out during a frantic supply closet rendezvous midway through your company’s holiday party, then a few more times in the months after.

It hasn’t lost its sparkle. It does make you more and more impatient each time he flashes it, though.

Fuckin’ tease.

Your fingers burrow in his hair, tugging from the root until his eyelids flutter prettily. “As long as you let me return the favor after—need to taste you so bad.”

“Deal,” he mumbles into your skin a half-second later.

His hands push your already-short skirt up, bunching it atop your hips and out of the way. Your boyfriend takes the time to remove the fabric barrier this time, and you don’t miss the way he tries to slip them into his back pocket without you noticing. Likely because it’d normally be a tease-able offense.

But not tonight, not right now.

Instead, you let a shiver speak for itself. The risqué gesture reminds you of the pair he used as a pocket square when his parents took you two to a celebratory dinner following his white coat ceremony. The rumble of his chuckle tells you his mind went there, too.

JT leans in, big eyes never moving from yours, his warm exhale fanning over your swollen folds. The tooth-marked bruise forming on the side of your throat pricks in tandem response. The action, a repeat of your boyfriend’s earlier antics, naturally yields similar enough results. He catches on, inching forward to—

Something bangs against the door.

His face falls; your heart seizes.

“Occupied!” your boyfriend barks, hands paused but gripping you tightly. He looks like he’s on the verge of exploding.

A full, lilting sound barrels into the door—too-good-to-be-true laughter. His breathy timbre is an unsteady balance of cocksure and skittish; a preference for one side or the other is blurred by the wood in its way. “It’s me, dickhead.”

Then, the curtain is lifted. A pocket of silence ushers in a stillness that cracks like a bolt from the blue.

Shocked doesn’t even begin to cover how you feel right now. You most definitely suffered a concussion somewhere in all JT’s reprimanding; you’re hallucinating right now. That, or the singular seltzer in your system magically turned psychotropic after consumption.

Waiting in the threshold is Tyson Jost. A quarter-drunk fifth of Jack in one hand and that goofy, irrepressible smile plastered on his face. Almost frozen in time—good-humored, untouched. As if nothing’s happened, nothing’s changed. Suave, and standing there like he hasn’t ignored you for months on end, like your and JT’s absence in his life wasn’t felt the way the Tyson-sized void in yours was.

Idle and morose, his eyes are the only defectors to his blasé demeanor. Timid and downturned, akin to a kicked puppy, they beg you and your boyfriend to assuage his guilt. An olive branch, a white flag in the wind. Amid their vulnerability, they still manage to cut into you in a way that feels too intimate, too honest—too much.

The worst part of this charged maelstrom is knowing Tyson isn’t capable of being cruel on purpose, then or now. It's bittersweet.

Careless or callous, it hurts all the same. It’s difficult to sift through the muck and decide which feelings should guide your actions when there’s no easy place to lay blame.

A gnarly, muddy morass of emotion climbs out of your gut and fills your throat, threatening to make an appearance each time you dare to exhale. You’re nervous and confused, elated and optimistic, angry and reproachful. The burn of betrayal rushes up your neck and across the bridge of your nose, but all the words you’ve stockpiled for this rainy day stick to your tongue like tar. Dark, thick, and flammable—your silence is probably for the best.

Bronze eyes, somber beneath the fan of flaxen lashes, adopt a strange aloofness that doesn’t suit his face. Lacquered just so as to protect the gooey softness beneath, the finish does nothing to obstruct or disguise his desirous longing or a brand of blues you’ve never seen in him before.

The intensity of your braided gazes is sanguine at best, duplicitous at worst, but disorienting all the same.

Anxiously, you chew on time; you’re trying your best not to swallow minutes and hours in big gulps. Your attempts to savor their confounding guilty-pleasure flavor are as futile as hoping the animosity would dissipate on its own. Or wishing the distance was just a nightmare you were on the verge of waking up from.

JT’s pulse races against your skin. He’s just as affected, just better at hiding it.

“Took you long enough,” is what JT says in greeting from the floor, dry words flung over his shoulder to curb the growing tension. Blithesome and biting and far more hospitable than you imagined.

All you can do is blink, slack-jawed; there are pieces you’re missing.

JT chuckles at your expression. He pecks your inner thigh to regain your attention. “Fuck now, talk later. Sound good?”

His words crack any and all inhibitions. Like opening the door to a cage, his reassurance grants your mind and heart the permission to succumb to the wave of emotions—lust overtaking the pack with ease.

Eyes still stuck on the ghost in the doorway, you nod your head in agreement. It’s as if you’re afraid your voice might rupture the bubble.

“Figured you’d be a little parched, baby.” Tyson, voice becoming jocular as ever, wags the bottle as he shuts the door behind himself. His tone might be light-hearted, but his gaze is anything but. Starved is the only way you can think to aptly describe the shadow. “And we can’t have that, now can we?”

You barely register JT vacating the prime real estate to accommodate his best friend, and subconsciously, you scoot closer to the edge. You knew you missed him, but you underestimated how needy you’d become if he ever stood before you again.

Both men notice.

Grinning, Tyson takes hold of your jaw. His hand emits a small tremor of unease, hesitant where JT had been demanding. The accidental brush of his fingertips over your boyfriend’s trailed claim rattles free a melancholic whimper. Your eyes glaze over, watering as your neck cranes up at him. He gently tilts your face to the side to assess the damage. You can feel his eyes raking over the marred skin, a sensation akin to your boyfriend’s weaponized breath. Goosebumps rise in their wake.

In reference to the Neanderthal surveying you over his shoulder, Tyson sniggers. “Filthy bastard.”

Charming as ever.

“She deserved it.” JT’s nonchalant shrug is more dismissive than his verbal nod.

Wicked eyes twinkle. “Oh, I don’t doubt that.”

You pinch his side, offended. Nevertheless, you purr at the certitude dripping from his husky vibrato.

He yelps and bats your hand away. “Got you good, didn’t he?”

You nod.

The baby talk-adjacent voice is demeaning, but with your only shield burning a hole in your boyfriend’s back pocket, lying about the effect it's having would be pointless.

Propriety is becoming increasingly moot, as this conversation circling around you carves space for new possibilities.

“Poor thing,” Josty hums, his thumb coasting back and forth over your jaw. His breath is smokey-sweet, honeyed. “M'gonna make it all better. Open up, baby.”

It’s something straight out of an early aughts raunchy teen comedy, the way he holds your mouth open to pour whiskey straight down, doing so without the lip ever touching either one of yours. The thin stream drags slightly as it goes down, but you’d never know watching the pillowy spirit disappear into you. You’re too eager to impress them both to give in and react—to the burn in your throat or the circumstances of this affair. You guzzle the oaky vanilla-clove flavor, smiling dumbly at the toasted aftertaste, all too happy to take anything and everything you’re given.

Still, either by virtue of Tyson’s lingering tipsiness or your inattention, some of the amber liquid escapes over your bottom lip, dribbling over your chin and down in between your cleavage. There isn’t enough time to consider wiping it off; Josty’s mouth is sucking you clean before the bottle even hits the counter beside you.

“Would be a shame…” Tyson starts, briefly interrupting himself with a succession of wet, open-mouthed pecks he’s decided to spoil your décolletage with, “…to let it go to waste.”

JT’s begrudged scoff cuts through the trance. “Jesus, kid. Where’d you learn that? What the fuck have you been doing? Or should I be asking ‘who' you've been doing?"

Tyson flinches at the coarse overtone the questions carry. A blink-and-you’ll-miss-it sort of reaction only you’re close enough to feel. He just laughs into your neck rather than humoring JT or feeding into whatever he’s implying.

You’re too woozy to toss in your two cents in favor of either side.

Cold countertop lapping up your wetness, the burning palm cupping your face to aid the pursuit of sugary lips, the memory of his tongue gliding over your sticky skin—your boyfriend a few paces away, watching. That’s more potent than any liquor, mixed or straight. It doesn’t take long for you to pull away, in a there-but-not state of mind, to slouch against Tyson’s chest. Head heavy, warmed and spinning.

Happy.

“Somethin’ special, aren’t you?” Tyson muses as he kneads the tender spot where your hairline meets your neck. You peck his forearm.

“As sweet as this reunion’s been, you came up here for a reason. Get to it; we don’t have all night. I imagine La Tornade will be wanting his bathroom back eventually.”

You whimper at the sharp edge of his voice, even though you weren’t the intended target.

JT’s dark drawl was laden with protective affection for you, his devotion hardened by a hue of discontent reminiscent of a paternal chide. An outsider looking in might not see beyond the mediator-in-shining-armor ruse, mistakenly pruning away JT’s thorny pain and rotted grief, but you know better. The situation and him. While genuine, his defense of your bruised feelings is a trojan horse for his own. He’s conveying his rage how he can: under the guise of selflessness.

Tyson gulps, eyes downcasted, then nods. He understands as well as you do. When he finally looks up, the shadow’s fallen over his face once more, cloud drooped low overhead.

“You’re scaring me, Josty.”

This makes him laugh, his mood brightening a tad. “If anyone should be scared, it’s me.”

In your periphery, you catch JT urging him to continue with a stiff glare.

“I-I’ve been such an ass. I—I just care so damn much. About you. About Compher, and our friendship. When you graduated, m-my whole world changed. Like someone gutted my life, scooped out all the good, comfortable stuff and left me with the shell. I felt like I lost my people. Like I was left behind. And then I had to watch you two get closer than ever—without me. It fucking sucked, and I didn’t cope well. Didn’t cope at all, really. Kate’ll tell you, she took the brunt of my tailspin.”

You can’t help but snort despite the thick emotion welling up behind your eyes. The boys smile, too. Things look up.

Tyson takes your hand in a tight squeeze; his pulse jumps into your palm. “But that’s no excuse for what I did—didn’t do. How I treated you. You were trying so hard, and all I did was punish you for it. For constantly reminding me you guys are there and not here. For moving on with your life like you’re supposed to.”

He claims JT’s old spot knelt between your parted knees. “And I’m sorry. So deeply sorry, baby. Please let me make it up to you—let me apologize properly.”

Tears of his own shine up at you from his flushed cheeks. Gently, you take his face in your hands, rubbing away the spilled emotion with the soft pads of your thumbs.

A silent pardon.

The walls throw back the echo of his low, audible content—of relief.

“Is this okay?” His voice is barely a whisper, dwindling to a hush as the question tapers off.

Too determined to quiet his audible fear of rejection—and to have his mouth on you as fast as humanly possible—to bother with words, you nod immediately.

“With how much she’s been dripping onto the counter since you walked in, what do you think?” JT interjects, mood vastly improved.

Your cheeks and neck heat just as he intended.

The younger forward chuckles, hands massaging up and down your sensitive thighs, gripping them as if holding himself back from lunging too soon.

A predator lurking in the brush, lying in wait.

“I wasn’t gonna say anything. Didn’t want to embarrass her.” He winks up at you, confidence rising to the surface once more. You have to fight to maintain eye contact; he’s that stupidly attractive. “ —was try t’be a gentleman.”

You’re a flurry of butterflies, a whimpering mess.

Tyson wants to tease your body; it’s in his nature. But he won’t. Namely, because he can’t. No matter how good some old-fashioned edging would eventually make you feel, he’s already on JT’s shit list as is.

Besides, he’s only been fiending for a taste since you introduced yourself to him. And there's no time like the present...

Your guttural scream—an appropriate, albeit mortifying reaction to his baby pink lips enveloping your swollen clit—pumps his chest full with pride. Tongue flat, he charts the length of your heat with a gentleness you hadn’t thought your collective excitement would allow for. His hands coast over your legs, syncing with his mouth, until he physically cannot wait any longer. One final pass, one so agonizingly slow your greedy hips thoughtlessly vie for more of anything, brings his wistful, fidgeting digits to rest at the apex of your thighs.

“Pause.”

JT’s clipped command is a bucket of ice water.

Your vocal annoyance is matched by Tyson’s, but you both know how delicate a game you’re playing.

With his thumb still lazily swirling to your clit, Tyson’s inquisitive head begins to turn around. Before he gets anywhere worthwhile, it’s swiftly spun back into place by your boyfriend’s firm hand.

You can’t even convey how hot you find JT’s fingers casually twisting in his friend’s curly mop—just the way you love; all you manage is a warbled, mostly airy cry. Your distressed state worsens watching the show unfold between your lax, parted knees: reluctant, fluttery lashes over neon cheeks; a rosy, glistening bottom lip sacrificed to cage mousy whimpers, his ragged breathing betraying all effort toward feigning indifference to JT’s self-assured manhandling.

Your boyfriend snickers at your expression, a fish lingering open-mouthed for a surface sip, an ill-attempt to supplement a natural mode gone inadequate. No matter how much oxygen your widened jaw draws in, it never feels sufficient. A bottomless pit, a balloon with a fatal puncture wound. Gone before your depleted brain could make use of it.

“Have to make sure he does it right, don’t I, sweetheart?” JT’s voice is smooth and low, charring by the second; he’s enjoying the view as much as you are.

Tyson rolls his tawny eyes. Half-hearted annoyance. “Controlling much?”

“I know what my woman needs.”

The look you share with your friend is unequivocally feral.

And the growl JT hurls back, a low-pitched rumble permeating the tight space with little effort on his part, is just plain mean.

His attitude could not be more arrogant. The cavalier persona makes you shiver, and Tyson’s breath hitch. Humming, your boyfriend tugs on his curls until the two’s eyes are locked. Inescapable. The brunette gasps as he tries desperately to hold his eyes open, waiting with bated breath.

JT licks his lips, triumphant. “Open her up for me, will ya?” Mischief catches in the light as quickly as it falls into your boyfriend’s lap. His grip tightens, and Tyson whimpers like a naughty puppy caught red-handed. “Don’t screw around, ‘kay? She needs all the help her tight pussy can get, and we don’t have all night.”

Panting, his nod is the only affirmative he can muster up. And the only one his limited range of motion will allow for. Smug and pleased enough, JT all but throws his friend into your fire, his nose bumping where you’re most sensitive.

You actually yelp.

Holding your torrid gaze, Tyson dips his marriage and middle into you. You groan out what you meant to be his name—But who knows? And who fucking cares?—unable to control yourself while he’s finally touching you like this. Finally back.

Tyson finger-fucks you at an even pace, steadily pushing you up the hill. His satisfaction is tangible when he pulls out and away, so very delighted by your wonton hiss of annoyance. Even more so when the volume hikes up in response to the slippery pads of his fingers circling your clit. Your lewd whines harmonize with your audible arousal as he works it back into your fragile skin, playing with your wetness, utterly fascinated.

“What d’ya think, baby? Think you’re wet enough to take another finger?” JT’s tone is as cocky as his stupid rhetorical question. He, however, made no move to conceal his growing impatience.

“Mhmm,” you murmur, head like a rubber ball hitting the pavement. Still, you remember your manners. “Please—c-can I? Can I have another?”

His smile is pure adoration, dreamlike.

JT’s reverent eyes stay with you, but his words pour down over the eager man on the floor as he coaxes you halfway to heaven. “You heard her, kid. Give the lady what she deserves.”

Kid—Tyson hates when people call him that, but he especially loathes JT's usage. There’s barely an age difference, but with the way everyone acts, it might as well be decades. It seems like no matter what he does to prove himself, he’s still the baby. Every additional candle is like an annual slap in the face, a mockery that won’t end.

He can feel anger and frustration curdling low in his stomach just thinking about all the attempts that fell flat, and he decides to put the grumbling to good use. The vibration is red-hot and deliberate against your responsive, slick center, irritation like lighter fluid.

He gives you more than just three fingers. He splays all three—wide. Even as they stroke your soft inner walls, Tyson keeps you stretched so as to leave no slack. Your boyfriend wants you open? Tyson will fucking tear you apart, happily. (Yes, spite is a factor.)

Highly sensitive and spread to the limit, you ascend far quicker than usual. Fisting a bushel of golden-brown curls, nails digging rapt half-moons, you guide his willing face to the necessary places to see yourself through. Every slight adjustment has your entire body jerking haphazardly as it struggles to process the rocketing shockwaves.

JT’s hand retreats—only slightly—to make way for yours, to give you more leverage to fuck yourself through it. Less than a foot away, your boyfriend’s chest heaves in time with yours, his eyes pits of lust you dive into with clumsy enthusiasm.

During one particular, delicious pass, the tip of Tyson’s tongue catches your strained entrance, and when you unexpectedly gush against his mouth in response, he begins lapping over and around your carnal connection.

“Holy shit — Ty, I-I’m — I’m — “

The denouement of your climax is nothing short of glorious, as rude of a sentence interruptor as it was. Half-mewls and purred praise rain down from your loosened lips, eyes screwed shut.

Tyson melts over the way you take control of your orgasm, so unabashed and authoritative. You go after what you want; he respects that majorly. And getting to feel and taste what makes you tick doesn’t hurt either.

Neither do you and your pretty, throbbing walls cutting off blood flow while your boyfriend tugs his hair from behind.

“Just like that, keep fucking her through it. Did so good—doin’ so good for us.”

JT’s praise sends the brunette’s unoccupied hand right to his bulge.

This is the best he’s felt in months.

There’s the mythical balance of bliss-to-tension to key up his senses, shooting white-hot tingles of want from his head to his feet and flaming between his ribs, affection for you. You forgive him, JT forgives him, and, most importantly, he forgives himself.

He feels buoyant with his face coated in your climax, so much so that it runs down from his chin to his neck, staining the collar of his beer-soaked tee; he hopes you might return his favor later.

Josty’s guilty hand is knocked away by a firm toe.

“Y’haven’t earned it, bud,” his mentor chides.

The delinquent appendage flops lamely at his side for a split second, then lifts beside his nose to join its partner at your slick core. As if remembering there’s work to be done, a goal to attain. Beneath this new asset, your achy, spent clit pulses, egging him on with every thump, thump, thump.

Tempting him to do something, to take it further…

He thinks about it. Fuck, does he think about it—you can see the tape winding in his eyes.

JT can read Tyson’s mind through his skull, apparently. “Don’t even think about it, kid. Her last one’s mine, but you’re more than welcome to watch from right here.” —Your boyfriend points to the remaining space between the sinks, knowing it’ll be close quarters for you both— “Just remember: I only said watch. This is groveling, not a treat.”

And Tyson does. Without question or complaint, he’s just fine sitting next to you, sitting pretty.

He’s always been the perfect teammate. Always willing to do whatever it takes, regardless of the role. The only difference is he no longer wants his anxiety to be the sole motivator behind said selflessness.

Finally ready to play fearless.

JT helps you down; Tyson hops up.

Immediately, your attention fractures. Split between messy brown curls and lust-blown pupils and your own disheveled appearance: smudged makeup, knotted hair, mauled neck, and spit-stained, bruised lips. Thank fuck you’re graduated and gone. Otherwise, you’d never live this down—Kate might treat you to a taste of would-be campus humiliation later if she’s feeling particularly charitable, though.

Your boyfriend’s grip is heavy on your hips. Happy to have you back. You feel one hand coast over your lower back and down to grope your ass as if trying to keep you in the palm of his hand. White-knuckle hold withstanding, JT presses his chest flush to your backside and uses his free hand to yank every remaining hindrance to your navel.

He wants you on display.

Your gasp is rivaled only by Tyson’s pitiful whimper and twitching, touch-happy fingers.

The ginger’s chuckle is molten and deep, mouth barely a breath from your ear, his eyes pinning Tyson still.

Your mind rewound back to when he made this proposition, wondering how the hell you got from there to here.

“Bend over, sweetheart. Arch that back nice and pretty so we can show Josty what a good girl he’s been missing out on—what a filthy thing you’ve turned into.”

As soon as you’ve done just that, your boyfriend drives home. It’s fast and dirty; primal. He knows there’s no need, but JT marks his territory anyway.

You watch Josty’s mouth part like he’s about to ask you something. Staring through his eyes as if ducking into his pesky daydreams and up-too-late musings, all specifics watery and indistinct.

Ultimately, you wind up disappointed by silence. But, with the slow return of your boyfriend’s bare cock between your soft inner walls, it dawns on you; JT had used a condom last time. Even made Tyson retrieve it for him. The depth of your relationship is sinking in; that’s what you’re now watching. He’s mulling over the information, caught somewhere between wanting to swallow his guilt one go and choking on his own assumptions.

JT follows your charged concern, performs a similar triage, and then gives you a concise nod through the fogged-up mirror.

I’ll handle it.

At that, your walls noticeably ease, and he shudders, groaning as even more of him sinks deeper to occupy the newfound space. He gets a few strokes out before Josty slots his body between your palms to lean in. Here, he does something that collapses the simple but effective status quo.

“Fuck, kid. K-Keep doing that.”

Keep rubbing your clit.

Keep playing with you.

Keep being an accessory to his pleasure. To yours.

Be present.

Be here.

“Such a fucking mess, baby. Don’t know how Compher gets anything done with you there, sweet and ripe for the taking.”

The two halves of Tyson’s demeanor are antithetical, and infuriatingly so, a saccharine smile split open by filth. It paints a sordid picture that must stand for itself, as you find it impossible to pluck out of thin air any coherent thoughts.

Be that as it may, your friend did not set out for a reply. At least not one other than the befuddled stuttering you’re doing.

A familiar palm shoots to your raw neck—tender, inside and out—lightning quick. You're yanked up before you can blink. JT mercilessly nips at the gaps in between his tight grip, hips pushed just as firm against the swell of your backside.

Still, he furthers their madcap banter. “I dunno either, Josty. And, believe me, the little vixen sure as hell doesn’t make it any easier. Sometimes I think she’s tryna milk me dry for good.”

If Tyson Jost were ever going to cream his pants—post-pubescence, it would be now.

Like, right fucking now.

The proclamation of your third orgasm is wondrous. Proud. Grateful. One of your hands flies back to catch the nape of JT’s neck to steady yourself as he continues pistoning in and out of you. Tyson's generous touch stays, too.

Your back arches this go around, head rolling against your boyfriend's shoulder before slipping back down towards the counter, free palm absorbing the impact of the abrupt sway. Too much, too much—it’s all too much for your tender muscles and soupy brain to handle. You surrender to the plethora of sensations, each more overwhelming than the last—half-collapsed back against into your boyfriend, half-crumbled forward into his best friend’s damp, tented lap.

“Not gonna last, sweetheart—y’feel too damn good, s’tight and warm, always strangling my cock—know you’re close, too. Gonna give me what you promised, Compher? Please, pretty girl—need to feel your perfect pussy squeezin’ me dry.”

It's refractory; your world goes from washed-out to vivid and back, over and over, as though impatiently flipping between channels.

You’re a tangle of sticky limbs and physical reverie, blanketed by a warm afterglow and cleared air. Body scaffolded by muscular forms on either side, your mind gives your body permission to slacken at last. JT’s arm winds around your midsection when it becomes clear the all-consuming exhaustion is giving way to the relaxation that eluded you for so many months. Tyson massages your arms, your hands still cemented to his knees. Your head drops to his shoulder, too heavy for your bruised neck.

For a long while, no one says a thing. Not intentionally or for fear of disturbing the peace; there’s simply no need. No words exist to shoulder that much weight, none able to capture precisely what emotions swirl between you. Silence says enough—silence says it all.

Banging cuts through your sex-drunk stupor. Again. The abrupt sounds function like metaphorical smelling salts, restoring consciousness and rousing decorum laid dormant. Your mutual, unadulterated bliss circles the drain in the absence of a psychological plug, ripped free, half-baked.

JT reluctantly leaves you empty and dripping, tucks himself away, and cracks open the door—only as wide as is necessary. Behind his imposing physique, you remain hunched over Tyson, waiting for your boyfriend to make the problem go away; you’re too tired to take any initiative.

Golden hair and familiar grey-blue eyes fill the gap, shining in your periphery. Barely a sliver, that’s how much of this your boyfriend’s willing to share with the world. You like that, and judging by his lopsided grin, so does Tyson.

“Paging Mrs. Compher!” Gabe hollers over JT’s head. “Clean up on aisle ‘Kate.’”

Just hearing her name puts you back in action. Damn you, maternal instincts.

You scramble to right twisted fabric and smeared makeup to a soundtrack of expletives. It’s pointless, though, because nothing settles how it should. No amount of smoothing, brushing, or tucking seems to help. Hazy vision and the legs of a newborn fawn don’t exactly lend themselves to effective primping.

And it’s not like you’ve got a hickey-remover magic wand stashed in your purse, either.

Accept your fate, you acquiesce with a sigh.

Tyson does a piss-poor job muffling his laughter, which lands him a crisp swat to the chest.

As you stumble over, you catch the end of your boyfriend’s irritation. “—and you’re sure there isn’t anyone else to hold her hair back? Why can’t you do it?”

The gears in Gabe’s skull clank so loud you can hear them over the audible chaos seeping into your haven—he’s intoxicated, not stupid.

“CupKate wants her mommy.” The blonde winks at you over JT’s shoulder. His tongue gives a knowing click of approval at Tyson’s equally disheveled state. “And what do you care, Compher? Smells like you three already made your express trip to Pound-town, USA. How was it? I hear the weather’s hot and steamy this time of year.”

“Real mature, Landy, real mature,” JT scoffs.

The sound just revs him up. “Says the fucker who’s locked in a frat house bathroom with his girlfriend and his best friend. One of whom, might I add, looks like they got mauled by a hormonal freshman after a high school dance.”

“Can you two go measure your dicks, I don’t know, anywhere but in the way? I have a child to tend to.”

You almost have to laugh. At the situation and at the words coming out of your mouth. At Kate, sick to her stomach like a kid who ate too many sweets on a holiday.

Years have passed, but you’re all still the same.

“Me-yeoh!” Gabe sing-songs while miming what you assume are claws scratching at nothing.

Again, his drink is the sole casualty of his jubilation. A golden wave sloshes over the rim and onto the floor. The spray makes JT’s jaw tick.

The former winger offers a sheepish grin in repentance. “Whoops?”

Your boyfriend steals a glance to check that you’re decent, then side-steps out of your way with an exasperated sigh. His dilated gaze flits over your ruffled appearance, shamelessly drinking in the state of your throat but tripping over the questions dancing in your eyes.

He juts his head in Landy’s direction with a sardonic eye-roll. “Go on. Save your damsel, Mother Hen. I’ll fill you in on in the Uber back to the hotel.”

“Meet you out front?” You ask, and he nods.

You dart back to Tyson, plant a chaste peck on his flushed cheek, and then repeat the gesture with JT and his peeved lips. It’s faint, but they instantly soften for you.

Before they know it, you’re slipping out the door. Gabe gets an affectionate pat on the shoulder as you squeeze by him before you disappear in the direction of the Girls Only bathroom; no significant differences, only marginally cleaner and occasionally stocked with helpful accouterment—chivalry isn’t dead!

Lingering in the wake of your departure, Gabe sways like an inflatable man on the curb of a car dealership. A smirk twists his lips. “Nicely done, boys. Nicely done. Can’t say I thought we’d see the day—or that either of you had it in ya—but I feel like a proud father.” He wipes a phantom tear, the final straw. “Makes you wish you listened to Daddy Landy sooner, huh? Think of all the lost ti—”

JT slams the door in his face. Through the wood, Gabe cackles.

The two men slip back into sync as they wordlessly scrape themselves back together with the time and privacy you were not afforded.

As JT yanks his jeans back into place, his belt clanking around like a bell’s hourly chime, a black velvet box tumbles to the floor, and Tyson’s stomach along with it.

The air shouldn’t, but it turns on a dime. Their progress is seemingly more fragile than expected.

“If—uh, wow.” A crunchy, anxious bark of a laugh cuts his thought in half.

JT doesn’t interrupt; he holds space for the blossoming discomfort.

Tyson rubs the tense knots along the back of his neck as his eyes drill into the floor. “If I’d known this would be our swan song, I would’ve tried to enjoy it more. I don’t know—savored it, I guess?”

“This,” JT says, scooping up the dud he hopes isn’t hanging fire. “— is what I wanted to talk to you about earlier.”

Before they got into it in the garage, before they’d been forcibly separated by Erik and Nate. Before they, punch-drunk and drunk-drunk, teetered between tears and anger in the shadowy, too-quiet backyard.

They spun in circles until they had nowhere to move but on. To make amends, to stumble through chary half-apologies that mean more than they say.

JT’s alleviation was short-lived; his calm trepidation squashed before it could fly. Tyson now understands why.

Tyson balks. “Me?”

Your boyfriend sighs through his nose, pinching the bridge. He’s bidding time. Digging for the right words but knowing there are none.

“I love her—and I know you do, too. I’m not upset; she makes it hard not to fall for her.”

Tyson’s head hangs lower, chagrined.

JT continues, “I’m going to ask her to marry me, but I didn’t want to do it without talking to you. Without making sure you’d be okay. Eventually. The last thing I wanted was for you to be blindsided or to feel even more left out.”

Tyson can’t help but snort at the sheer absurdity. “Left out… God, how pathetic am I? Getting all butt-hurt over a relationship that isn’t even mine.”

“Pathetic was going AWOL.”

Josty winces. He doesn’t argue because he has zero ground to stand on.

“But feeling something? Far from it.”

“I didn't—don’t want to take her from you. You have to know that, Compher.” The hurt’s been hammered from his voice. Left behind is softened sincerity.

JT’s smile is just as downy. “I do, and you’d be wasting time by trying.”

Josty chokes on an unforeseen bubble of laughter.

You love JT Compher so openly and ardently it might as well be a neon sign plastered to your forehead. He’s always been it for you. There’s never been any competition, Tyson Jost included.

“Thank god we got this ironed out before the wedding,” the older forward chuckles as he leans back against the counter.

They’re side-by-side, as they should be.

“Why’s that?”

JT digs into his other pocket and pushes something into the palm of his best friend, whose cheeks flame tout de suite in response. With a bump of his shoulder, your boyfriend tacks on, “Something to remember tonight by.”

Tyson shoves the memento into his own pocket, then raises a quizzical brow.

Your boyfriend grins.

“The best man pining over the bride while giving the groom the cold shoulder would make for an awkward wedding, don’t you think?”

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