#I just like the idea there already was some tension in the group even before Mari's death

[endofthelinegang]

what we leave behind

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠ˏˋ°•*⁀➷  matt murdock x ex wife!fem!reader

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲ˏˋ°•*⁀➷  after the Thunderbolts' latest mission, a quiet drink turns into something else when she feels a pull—familiar, ancient, aching. Matt Murdock is standing in the rain on a rooftop that remembers too much. years after their marriage fell apart, grief may bring them back together 

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬ˏˋ°•*⁀➷  Deep grief, emotional trauma, mention of past loss, unresolved feelings, heavy introspection

Yelena leaned back in her chair, kicking her feet up onto the table, her bottle of vodka dangling between her fingers. “You know, we should do this more often. Just sit and... not be heroes for a change.” She took a swig, a smirk curling at the edges of her lips. “You know, like normal people.”

“Normal people?” Bucky chuckled, glancing at her. “We’re anything but normal, kid.”

“You say that like it's a bad thing," Yelena shot back with a wink. "I'm just saying, it would be nice to feel like we’re not always on the clock. Maybe not every day, but... some days. Let’s go get pizza or something.”

Bucky shook his head, but the amusement was clear in his expression. “You really want pizza after everything that just happened?”

“Absolutely,” she replied, unapologetic. “If anyone deserves pizza, it’s us.”

John Walker leaned back in his chair, sipping his whiskey with a contemplative look on his face. “I get what you mean, but I think the world’s gonna want more than pizza from us now. We're not just some secret team anymore. We’re front and center now. This isn’t just about cleaning up messes anymore—it’s about being a mess.”

“Ah, c’mon,” Yelena said, waving a hand. “I think people will like us. I mean, who doesn’t love a good redemption story?” She shot a pointed glance at Walker.

He narrowed his eyes but then shrugged. “Maybe. But the thing is... they’ll never trust us the way they trust those other guys.”

A quiet lull fell over the group as everyone exchanged glances, each of them thinking about the old team—the Avengers. The ones everyone loved. The ones they’d been asked to follow in the footsteps of.

“We’ll prove ourselves,” Bucky broke the silence, his voice steady. “Just like we always do.”

“I think we’ve already proven ourselves,” Walker muttered, toasting his glass to no one in particular. “But hey, I’m up for proving it again.”

You sat back in your seat, listening to the back-and-forth, trying to get a feel for how everyone was adjusting to the weight of what had just happened. The idea of the world seeing you now, of being thrust into the limelight. It felt strange, but not wrong. You didn’t need to say much—you let them talk it out, the way they always did. Even if the topics felt too big to fully wrap your mind around. After a few moments, you let your gaze drift away from the conversation. The rain had let up outside, but the streets were still wet, the night soaked in shadow and glow from the city lights. The hum of the bar and its chatter seemed far away, until...

A strange pull tugged at your senses.

It was almost imperceptible, like a faint pulse under your skin. The faintest of whispers against your mind, something familiar—and the kind of presence you couldn’t shake if you tried. It was the magic, low and insistent, buzzing faintly beneath your ribs. The air had shifted, a thin thread of something you knew too well.

You weren’t sure if anyone else felt it. But you did. Your chest tightened slightly, a knot of recognition. Matt. He was close.

The world around you seemed to slow, just for a moment, as the magic hummed louder. The tension in your body sharpened with the knowledge—he was near. You didn’t need to see him, didn’t need to hear anything. You felt it in the very rhythm of the city itself. A quiet warning.

The memories flooded in, as they always did when you sensed him—tender flashes of a time long past, before everything had fallen apart. You could still feel his touch when you closed your eyes—the way he’d curl his fingers through your hair when he was lost in thought, those moments late at night when he’d pull you close, and the world would disappear. You’d get lost in his smell, that mix of leather, rain, and the faintest hint of something metallic—his blood, his very essence, always so close to danger. It was as much a part of him as the city itself.

And then there was the sound of his voice. Soft and hesitant, yet steady. “Don’t go. I’m here.” His voice had always been a quiet reassurance. But it never lasted, did it? The space between you two had always been a battlefield of silence and unsaid words, a silence that only grew after the divorce, after you both realized that even love wasn’t enough to keep everything from falling apart. The way he'd say your name, the way you'd say his. It had carried the weight of so many years. Too many years. You had gone back to his bed many times after that, you had even tried to be friends. But every single time without fail it fell apart.

But tonight, it was different. The pull of his presence was stronger than ever, a beacon you couldn’t ignore, no matter how much time had passed.

You remember the last time you'd been on a rooftop with him seeing him standing on one in that very moment made you think of it, the two of you looking out over Hell’s Kitchen. The city was lit up below, and you both had been trying to pretend that things were okay, but everything had been unraveling. He’d held your hand tightly, his thumb brushing over the back of your knuckles absentmindedly as he spoke about a case—about something that didn’t even matter to you in that moment. The feel of his skin against yours, the warmth of him beside you, had made everything feel like it was still possible.

There was another memory, one of the times he'd dragged you to his favorite diner, where the food was terrible but the coffee was always hot, and you laughed over shared plates of pancakes and too much whipped cream. You had been so sure of each other back then. So full of hope that even in a world that had always been out to break him, he would be okay because you would be with him.

Your hand instinctively touched the space near your neck where a necklace once rested—one Matt had given you years ago. It was small, simple, and silver. But the way his hands had trembled when he put it around your neck, as though offering you something precious, something irreplaceable, flooded back like it was yesterday.

And then the moment in the hallway of his apartment, when he pulled you close and whispered, "I don’t want you to leave.” He had been so desperate, so raw in that one moment. But it wasn’t enough to stop the inevitable. You could still hear the sound of the door closing behind you, leaving him on the other side, as the reality of everything set in.

Tonight, the pull was too strong to deny.

You knew deep down—this wouldn’t be the last time you'd feel it.

As you stood up from the table and excused yourself, the group barely noticed, lost in their own thoughts and banter. You didn’t need to look back. You didn’t need to hear any more of their chatter.

You could already feel it pulling you forward—closer.

Matt was near, and that feeling, the magic that bound you to him, was only growing stronger. It was like the strings of fate had tugged you back to him, and you couldn’t resist the call.

The rain danced in the streets beneath you, but the world around you felt distant. The memory of Matt’s warm, calloused hand holding yours under a streetlamp years ago flickered in your mind like a ghost. The way his lips had quirked in a smile when you'd caught him sneaking up behind you, the way you’d laugh at his stubbornness, but you'd always be there for him, just as he'd been there for you, even when he couldn’t feel the world the way you did. It had always been the two of you against it all.

And then there was the last night you'd seen him, in that cold, sterile room. The last time you tried to speak to him, but the words just wouldn't come. The silence, like a weight between you both, hung in the air—unspoken truths, unhealed wounds. It had been the end. For both of you.

Now off you went, away from your new colleagues and towards someone you were supposed to forget. 

The rain had been falling since morning. Not the kind of summer storm that roared and passed through like a tantrum, but the slow, relentless kind—the kind that settles in and refuses to leave. The sky hung heavy, thick with clouds, a deep gray that made the city feel smaller, more suffocating. The sky seemed to swallow everything beneath it, as if even the heavens had given up on trying to make sense of the world. It was as if Hell’s Kitchen itself had become a place caught between worlds: too dark for comfort, too bright for rest.

Matt didn’t use an umbrella. He never had. Something about it felt like a surrender. Like it was an admission that he still cared, still needed to protect himself from the world he fought against every night. But that wasn’t him—not anymore. The rain, the cold, the way it seeped into his bones, only made it clearer. You’re still here. The world still touches you. And that, for better or worse, was something he couldn’t escape. He stood alone on the rooftop of a building that Foggy had once loved.

It wasn’t anything special. Just a crumbling four-story walk-up a few blocks from Josie’s. The roof had a view of the skyline—small and confined by taller, more aggressive buildings, but open enough to feel the city breathe. Foggy had always liked it here. He used to come up after long days, beers clinking in a plastic bag, and talk until the sun slipped away, leaving the city lights to take over. They’d talk about cases, about Matt’s questionable choices, about what could have been.

Matt hadn’t been back here since the funeral. Not really. He hadn’t meant to come tonight. But, as always, his feet led him to places that remembered him. And Foggy’s ghost had been louder than usual lately—nagging, insistent, like a soft echo in the back of his mind that he couldn’t silence.

The air was thick with the scent of wet concrete, of burning metal, of something old, like a thousand forgotten stories clinging to the bricks below. Cars hissed through puddles far below, their tires hissing like whispers. The rain pattered softly on the broken gravel, the bent AC units, the rusted rails. But Matt didn’t move. He stood still, his soaked black suit sticking to his skin, the fabric heavy with the weight of a life he didn’t know how to carry anymore. The cold didn't bother him—not really. Not compared to the cold inside.

He tried to picture Foggy’s voice. The way it would catch in a laugh, the way he would joke about Matt’s 'questionable decision-making,' or how he'd say "Murdock" like it was both a tease and a challenge.

But tonight, even the rain felt quieter. Even the wind held its breath. Matt inhaled deeply, trying to shove the tightness in his chest away. He hadn’t cried at the funeral. It felt like something inside him had broken so cleanly, so suddenly, that it left no room for tears. No room for grief. Just an absence. A chasm too wide to cross.

He was supposed to be the strong one. The protector. The one who carried the burden. But the world had taken Foggy anyway. And Matt had let it. Behind him, the door creaked. Quiet. Controlled. But not so subtle that Matt missed it. He didn’t turn. Didn’t need to.

The footsteps followed—soft, measured, familiar in a way that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. They weren’t the clumsy steps of a stranger, but neither were they the confident, casual pace of someone Matt knew like the back of his hand. They were deliberate. Cautious, almost. Calculating. He spoke before the figure could cross the threshold into the dim light of the rooftop. His voice was raw, cutting through the silence like the first drop of a storm.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

A pause. Then, a voice he hadn’t heard in years. Your voice.

It cut through the rain, like the sound of glass breaking, but softened by the weight of memory. "I could say the same to you."

Matt didn’t flinch, but his heart did—just for a beat, just long enough to remind him that the world hadn’t quite moved on, no matter how hard he tried to pretend it had. He knew you were alive. Somewhere. The flicker of your presence, a shadow in the corners of a dozen cases, had never really faded. He’d felt you before—out of the corner of his mind, tucked in the spaces where reality bled into the things he couldn’t understand. The whispers had turned to reports, and the Thunderbolts had your name now, or something close to it. But even then, he'd never seen you. Not since… that night.

He turned his head slightly, just enough to listen to the way your heart was nice and slow. The way you stunk of blood and alcohol mixed somehow the smell of a clean sweet perfume leaked through it all. He could hear the way you weren’t trying to hide your presence by the way your boots smacked onto a puddle on the hard roof top. 

 “You tracked me,” he said, flat, almost accusing.

You shrugged, but there was something unspoken in the way your eyes lingered on him. "I wasn’t looking for you."

“But you found me anyway.” He was now fully facing you, and fuck did he look bad. His entire body just looked beyond exhausted and even though he was standing straight it looked like it was taking a hell of a lot to keep him even standing. 

You didn’t deny his comment. Didn’t need to. Matt’s voice lowered, like he was trying to keep any sort of decency between the two of you. “Still working with the heroes? Or did you finally go full Castle on someone?.”

You took a step closer, the sound of your magic rolling in with the rain. It was wild—untamed, like something ancient buried beneath the skin that you couldn’t sense but he could. He always did. It wasn’t flashy. It didn’t burn or crackle in the air. But it hummed underneath everything, a constant thread that never quite let go of Matthew.

“I came because of Foggy,” you lied, and there was something steady in your voice, but it didn’t reach your eyes. You had learned how to lie to Matt, not that he cared enough to really look into what you had to say. 

Matt’s throat tightened, the sting of loss sharper than any rain. “He didn’t even know you were alive.”

“I know.” There was something heavy in your words. Something you didn’t want to say out loud. You had been good friends with him, but more often than not the two of you spent countless conversations trying to figure out Matt or moreover what you could do to help Matt. So you never really got to know Foggy, but you did know how much he loved and cared for Matt. Even when you walked away you knew that with him in tow he would be okay. That was all gone.  The silence that hung between you two felt like it was going to swallow the whole night. You could feel it—the pressure of it, the way the world shifted, the weight of a thousand unspoken things sitting between you, pressing down on you both.

Matt nodded at you.  His face was slick with rain, but his eyes—those eyes—were distant. Lost in the nothingness. It had always been that way between you two—close, and yet always a few steps too far apart. You saw the pain in his face, but it wasn’t just grief. There was something else too, something deeper, as if he had been unraveling long before Foggy’s death. You held his gaze, feeling that tug inside you—a reminder of what you had once been to each other. Something old, something raw, buried deep in the ache of it all. And that’s when it hit you—the moment.

You could still see it. That night. That last night. The night he had stood on the edge of a dark decision, teetering between life and something darker. You had tried to stop him, tried to pull him back from the edge. But in the end, you hadn’t been able to save him from himself.

And now, you couldn’t save him from this.

“I didn’t get to say goodbye,” you whispered, that was no lie, and you didn’t just mean Foggy. You meant all of it, all of them, everything. 

Matt blinked. Just once. The briefest of cracks in the armor. But it was enough. Enough for you to see the truth, the rawness that he had buried so deep, even the rain couldn’t wash it away. Neither of you said the one thing that hung heavy in the space between you. None of us did. But my god did the look of his state bring back a haunting memory,

The apartment was too quiet. The sound of Matt’s breathing—raspy and labored—was the only thing you could hear, the hum of the city faint beneath the heavy weight of what had just happened. You had come home to him, once again, lost in the dark. You had warned him before, begged him to talk, to open up, but that night… that night was different.

The sharp smell of whiskey still lingered in the air, clinging to the walls like a stain. You found him, sitting on the edge of their bed, looking out of the window into the street below. His back was hunched, his shoulders tense with the weight of the world—too many ghosts, too many scars.

You knew, even before you spoke, that something was wrong. That Matt was never one to drown his demons with alcohol unless something serious has finally got him.

“Matt,” you whispered, your voice shaking just a little, afraid that any louder you'd shatter the fragile silence. “Matt, talk to me. Please.”

He didn’t look at you. His hands were shaking slightly as he held the bottle of scotch. You could hear it clink as he set it down, the liquid inside sloshing, too full for comfort. There was a dangerous stillness in him now, a hollowness that made your heart race.

"Do you ever wonder what it would be like?" he asked suddenly, his voice distant and dark, like a man lost in his own thoughts, “If it would just… stop? All of it. The pain. The endless cycle of being this guy, this devil, when all I want is just... peace.”

Your stomach twisted, your eyes almost popped out of your head at his sudden expression of pain. You took a step closer to him, trying to keep the tremor in your voice under control. "Matt… please don’t say that. Don't say things like that."

But he wouldn’t turn to you. He kept his eyes on the window, his expression unreadable. It was almost worse this way—the cold, silent version of him that you’d never quite been able to reach. He could feel how fast your body was trying not to succumb to the brutal panic that was threatening to rid you of your senses and collapse you into the floor.

"You don't understand," he muttered bitterly. "You can’t. You’re not in this. You don’t have to fight every day.” He was wrong, so very wrong, you did have to fight every single day whether it be with Matt or in your own private way for a hunt you were put on. 

You took a deep breath, swallowing the fear that was rising in your throat. "Matt, don’t you dare. Don’t you dare think that I wouldn’t understand. You think I don’t see the way you carry this all by yourself? I see it, Matt. Every day. But that doesn't mean you have to face it alone."

It was there—the breaking point. It had been building for months, the quiet rage, the withdrawal. But this was different. This was the breaking point where all the careful walls he had built around himself, the walls he never let anyone breach, finally began to crack. Suddenly, his hand shot out, knocking the bottle of scotch from the table, the glass shattering as it hit the floor. The violent sound echoed in the small apartment, the sharp noise punctuating the unbearable tension between you two.

He stood up abruptly, his movements jerky and erratic, his chest rising and falling with quick, shallow breaths. “I am alone,” he spat, eyes blazing with a fire that didn’t belong to him, "I’m always alone. And I’m tired of pretending I’m not."

"Matt," you said, stepping toward him, reaching out. But he backed away, putting distance between you, his hands shaking with emotion. "Don’t push me away," you pleaded, "Please, just talk to me. We’ll figure this out together. We always do."

But he shook his head. The way his body was moving, the way he was pivoting clearly injured, his mind was distant, like he was a million miles away. "I don’t need anyone," he said, voice dangerously calm, “I can do this alone.”

You took another step forward, your voice thick with emotion, heart aching for the man you loved. “No, Matt,” you said, firm despite the tremble in your chest, “You’re not alone. Not anymore. You can’t keep doing this to yourself.”

The silence that followed was suffocating. And then, before you could stop it, you blurted out the words you had been holding back for months. “I’m not going to sit here and watch you throw your life away, Matt. I’m not going to watch you destroy yourself.”

His expression darkened, a sharp edge to his features. “You think I’m destroying myself?” he laughed bitterly, but there was no humor in it. “You’re the one who’s trying to save me. You don’t even see what this has become. You’re not even real in this anymore. I’m just—just—this thing that you need to fix.”

You flinched as though he’d slapped you, the sting of his words cutting deeper than you’d ever admit. But before you could respond, he took a step backward and grabbed the edge of the window sill. You saw his fists clench. You knew what was happening before he did.

“Matt, no,” you whispered, your heart pounding in your chest. “Please, don’t do this. Don’t walk away from me.”

But he was already turning, already walking to the window. You reached out to him, grabbing his arm in a desperate attempt to stop him, but his hand was already reaching for the latch.

You were too late.

“Matt, please—”

But the world seemed to tilt in that moment. The next thing you knew, you were both tumbling into the cold, unforgiving night. He didn’t look back, didn’t give you a chance to stop him. He was that close, just a few inches from taking the final step. The night air seemed to freeze in place, and you felt the coldness in your chest as the distance between you and him grew.

You had never felt so powerless. So small.

The memory of that night—of your first real fight, the first time he had pushed you away so violently, so completely—came crashing back like it was yesterday. You could still hear his words in your ears, still feel the sting of his rejection. The rain continued its quiet assault, but it wasn't the storm that held them. It was the way the water seemed to slow time itself, the way each droplet against the cracked pavement felt like a reminder. A reminder of what they'd lost. What they'd been too afraid to fight for.

The city stretched out in front of them, a blur of dark silhouettes and faint lights, and yet in this small corner of Hell's Kitchen, it felt as though the world was holding its breath. Matt stood motionless, he was thinking of all the same things if not worse, it was your voice that was killing him. The quiet, the scared little voice that peeped out to tell him you didn’t get to say goodbye. You weren’t a ghost, not anymore. You were flesh, you were real, you were still here. And God, the way you stood there, just inches from him, made the space between them feel infinite.

The soft sound of your breath. The slick shiver of your coat against your skin. The rain dampening your hair, your skin—drenched in the same grief, the same unspoken pain.

And then, those words. His voice, breaking. "I’m sorry for everything."

He shot you right back, that man knew how to kill and tonight he was choosing to. Matt was always sorry, but you hadn’t heard him say it in so long it felt new all over again. It was a confession, but also an admission of what both of them had known deep down for far too long: there was nothing left to say except the truth. Your heart ached with that truth. Matt had spent years hiding in shadows, pulling away from the very thing that could’ve saved him. You had, too.

"Matt..." You whispered it again, barely audible over the rain. And he did the thing he always did. He turned. He pulled away. It was his reflex. The instinct to protect you by keeping you at arm’s length.

Except you weren’t having it this time. You advanced toward him as quickly as you had run toward his presence. As quickly as you had run to him the night you had been married. Just as quickly as the night he had first entered through the bedroom window shattering the glass needing help. 

"No, Matt. No more," you said, shaking your head, each word like a weight lifting from your chest. You were getting louder as you moved forward, the wind whipped around but it was not strong enough to even make you falter, nothing in the world, not even nature was going to keep you from this, "You can’t do this to me anymore."

Matt stiffened at the force of your voice, but you saw the way his jaw tightened. The way his fists clenched at his sides. His entire body is a coil of tension, wrapped up in some desperate need to push you away and pull you closer at the same time. His eyes flashed with something wild. Something desperate. You were now standing toe to toe with him and he couldn’t move, you had now taken away another sense of his, he couldn’t feel a damn thing. 

"Why didn’t you fight for us?" Your voice broke the silence like a thunderclap, you were screaming in his face sharp and raw. "You say you love me, but why the hell did you let me walk away? Why didn’t you tell me that you needed me? Why didn’t you... fight?"

His expression faltered. There was a flicker of shame—regret—and then, an unraveling that was so subtle, yet so violent, that it sent a chill down your spine. He was letting you assault him in the only way you ever could. 

"I couldn’t." The words came out strangled, as if they had to fight their way through his chest. He took his glasses off, and you saw it: vulnerability, raw and unguarded, like the soft skin beneath his armor. "I didn’t think I deserved you. I didn’t think I deserved anything... good."

A painful silence stretched between you. And in that silence, you both felt it—the undeniable pull. The space between you and him was so small, but the distance  was even smaller between your hearts. The words of the past had been cut with a blade so sharp, so final, but this moment felt different. You wanted to scream more, to just lose your shit, but the flame in your heart was fizzing out. It had been lit for so long, the anger fueled it, but maybe that was all you needed to yell for. One last spark to fly before it all went out. You were both scared, weren’t you? Scared of this love that had been tested by time, by loss, by mistakes too big to ignore. Scared of the future you didn’t know how to face. But here, now, in the middle of the storm, you both knew that the walls, the defenses—everything that had kept you apart—had fallen.

He stepped closer, the two of you were practically touching. The familiar scent of his cologne mingled with the damp air. His heartbeat, steady but fragile, rang out in the silence. The way he reached for you—hesitant at first, like he wasn’t sure if he should. You didn’t give him the chance to question himself. You stepped forward, closing the last of the space between you, your hands reaching for him—just to touch. To remind him that you were here, still. You wanted to fucking cry, so bad but you knew he would sense it and this would all be different, he needed this more than you did. 

His arms wrapped around you like a promise, he was so warm for someone who had been standing in the cold, his jacket felt like fleece blanket against your face. His hands were solid against your back, one of them moving up and down his fingertips getting lightly caught on the suit you wore to protect yourself. "I can't live without you," he murmured into your hair, his voice thick with emotion, you could feel him taking in deep breaths the air from his body making cool spots in your hair momentarily. 

You closed your eyes, feeling the weight of everything, of years spent apart, of love twisted into knots, of the aching hope that maybe—just maybe—you could find a way back to each other. You put your hands to his back and felt the muscles, the ones so prominent from his fighting completely relax. Though still solid they felt almost smoother. Holding onto him again was like trying nicotine for the first time all over again, and with that same type of headache kicking in you whispered back "I can’t either.”

For a moment, there was nothing else. No past. No guilt. No regret. Just the rain. Just the two of you, standing there in the quiet, the world outside forgotten. If only it were snow, then it would have been a full circle moment to the first date you ever shared. But no, it was teetering on a full blown storm, neither of you cared. 

Matt pulled back, just enough to take a hand from your back and cup your face. Tears welled up, he would blame it on the rain if you planned to say a thing about it. But he rolled his thumb under your eye as if you were the one crying. "You’re all I’ve got. You know that, right?"

The words hit you hard, but not in a painful way. In a way that felt like a lifeline.You had just started a new life again, but this, you needed this more. One more time for the hell of it. No. Twelve more times. The rest of your life. It was never going to be done. You nodded. "I know. I’m not going anywhere. Not again."

And then, just as it had always been, the distance between you was no longer a barrier. You got up on your tip toes and grabbed his face with a tight grip,  kissed him, your teeth practically clacked together at the force. He reciprocated the same urgency grabbing the back of your head, tightening a hand in your hair. He could feel the small knots and tangles in the strands of hair that the  wind and whatever you had been up to previously had created. The rain felt harder, touching him like this was crashing reality down. The droplets felt like sweat bees as they pricked at your exposed skin. The world had otherwise faded into the background—gone, erased. All that mattered was the promise in his arms, the feeling of his lips against yours, and the surety that, no matter what the future held, you were in this together. 

When you pulled away, he smiled softly, releasing your hair and touching across the back of your neck, the first time in a long while that it wasn’t forced, you were his favorite sin. There was nothing better or more tempting than the shit you pulled with one another, "We’re going to try, right?"

You smiled back, breathless but certain his lips were slightly redder than before and all puffed out from your initial assault. But the added color made him look better than when you had first seen him that day. You could’ve ran away, just said I’m sorry the way he always did and left him there on that rooftop. But instead you spoke with conviction. "Together. Always."

And for the first time in years, Matt Murdock didn't feel so alone.

And neither did you.

[woodchipp]

I think that Sunny and Aubrey's relationship would've been a lot more interesting had the game established she was envious of how rich his family is. Obviously I wouldn't expect any competent commentary on class relations from a game that has the plot of the route named after the main protag be pushed along by every other character except the main protag, but something like that would've helped to make Aubrey feel more believable (or "human") as a character and shown the friend group's past in general wasn't as implausibly great as Sunny's dreams and the photo album would like you to think.

It'd be a gradual process, ofc. She wouldn't think much of it at first (or would even be ashamed of daring to be jealous of her friend like this), but it'd build up with each stay at Sunny's house. And then, after Mari kills herself, Aubrey latches on to the envy since she has nothing else. She allows it to color her perception of Sunny as a person - maybe he was always a stuck-up scumbag who laughed at her behind her back, actually!

Why did he get to live in such a big and tidy house with all the newest toys and caring parents when she has to live surrounded by garbage? It's not fair. It's not fair!

[xoxojisu]

"LALALALA"

synopsis: yapper reader x listener katsuki. in which you finally get to see katsuki!

notes: grumpy x sunshine also. basically just yap yap yap reader and bro stfu katsuki. based on some prompt i remember seeing forever ago. deviating from my usual 'reader and katsuki childhood friends go to ua tg' bc this is such a cute idea

the field is buzzing, students from different hero schools gathering in small groups and instructors calling out over the noise generating quite the racket. there’s tension, excitement, and a bit of rivalry in the air. class 1-a stands off to the side, eyes scanning the new arrivals. bakugo stands isolated from the group with his arms crossed, mouth already in a deep scowl.

he hates group exercises. hates surprise training simulations. hates-

“katsuki!!”

and then it happens.

a blur comes flying in from the other side of the field. he hears it before he sees it, and by the time he turns his head, it’s too late. you launch yourself at him from behind, tackling him in a full-body hug that actually makes him take a step forward. his body tenses immediately, hands twitching instinctively like he might throw you off-

but he doesn’t. he would never.

“kats! kats!” you giggle, climbing halfway up his back like he’s your personal jungle gym. you hook your chin over his shoulder, big goofy grin stretching across your face as you hug him tight. “hi!!”

there’s a long pause. bakugo doesn’t move. doesn’t shout. doesn’t blow anything up. the whole world stills in suspense.

eventually, he sighs, a hint of a not-angry expression present on his face. "hi."

“uh… are we… seeing this?” kirishima says under his breath, eyes wide.

“kats, i swear, it feels like it’s been forever since i’ve seen you! i mean, seriously, how is it that we’re both doing this hero thing and still barely getting any time to hang out? it’s like the universe just hates us or something. i’ve been stuck in this crazy hellfire intensity training like all week, and it’s not even the fun kind, it’s just endless drills and lectures and like ugh ohmygod, i’m so over it. anyway, i missed you kats!! how are you? healthy? well? making friends? wait, who am i kidding. youre definitely healthy because youre like a health-conscious old man, and definitely no friends."

you’re talking so fast he doesn’t have time to respond to anything. he just stares down at you, not saying a word or moving an inch.

eventually, he reaches out, drops a heavy hand onto your head, and mutters, “shut up.”

you beam like he just handed you flowers. “there he is,” you giggle, grabbing his arm and hugging it to your chest. “so grumpy. so cute. i miiiissed you!”

he grumbles something pissy under his breath, but makes no move to pull away.

aizawa’s voice cuts through the air. “pair off.”

despite you already hanging on him, bakugo grabs you immediately. “we’re teaming up.”

“wait, what?” mina says from behind him. “you’re not gonna work with us?”

“we’re teaming up,” he snaps again, louder this time, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“but you always-”

“shut up. all of you. shut. the fuck. up.”

you’re already bouncing beside him, eyes bright. “oh my god, kats, i have so many ideas. okay, okay—what if you blow a hole in the wall and you know how i texted you last week about that new feature on my costume? i could use that to- wait! or we could climb over the roof and-”

“you talk too much,” he mutters, dragging you along gently despite his annoyed expression.

“you love it,” you sing, completely unbothered.

he doesn’t answer.

but the tiniest corner of his mouth tugs up.

masterlist

[cloudyluun]

Easy Money | sugar daddy!harry

Summary: What started as a simple transaction—a way to make some quick cash—turns into something far more complicated when Harry refuses to keep things strictly business. He spoils you, adores you, falls for you. But when he finally confesses his feelings, you remind him this was never supposed to be real. The only problem? Somewhere along the way, it became exactly that.

Wordt Count: 8k

A/N: This was a very special request from one of my absolute favourite readers (you know who you are 😉). I had way too much fun writing this, so if you find yourself blushing, looking away from your screen, or needing a cold shower—just know, that was entirely the goal. Enjoy, you little troublemakers. 

Warnings: 

Smut (and a lot of it)

Sugar daddy arrangement turning very real

Power struggles in bed (both of them want control and it gets heated)

Dom!Harry / Bratty!Reader dynamics

Lots of teasing, dirty talk, and tension so thick you could choke on it

Angst & emotional turmoil (Harry catches feelings first and it hurts)

Over-the-top romance (he spoils her, worships her, and claims her)

Explicit language

Mentions of financial struggles

Soft, clingy aftercare that will make you feel things

Read responsibly. Or don’t. Just don’t blame me when Harry Styles takes over your brain. 

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

Your phone buzzes with another notification from your bank. You already know what it says before you even look, but the sinking feeling in your stomach urges you to check anyway.

LOW BALANCE ALERT

You sigh, thumb hovering over the notification before swiping it away. As if ignoring it will make the problem disappear.

It doesn’t.

Bills are due. Rent is due. Your student loans are a monster looming over your shoulder, their presence suffocating no matter how much you try to ignore them. Every paycheck disappears the second it hits your account, and no matter how many shifts you pick up or how much you cut back, it’s never enough. The math simply doesn’t math.

You’ve tried everything.

Taking extra hours at work? Done. You’re already stretched thin, running on caffeine and sheer willpower.

Side hustles? Tried. You’ve scoured every "easy ways to make money" list on the internet. You’ve filled out mind-numbing surveys for pennies, signed up for focus groups that never picked you, even considered selling pictures of your feet, only to chicken out the second you realized you had no idea where to even start.

Asking your parents for help? Not an option. The thought alone makes your stomach twist with shame. You’re an adult. You should be able to handle this.

But you’re drowning.

And tonight, after another long shift, after tipping your last few dollars to the bartender in a desperate attempt to pretend you have your life together, you lie in bed, scrolling through your phone, searching for something. A solution. A miracle. A quick fix that doesn’t exist.

Your searches grow more desperate. How to make money fast. How to pay rent when you’re broke. How to get a sugar daddy—

You pause.

The words stare back at you from the search bar, your heart skipping a beat as you realize you actually typed it. You weren’t even thinking. Just letting your thoughts spill out onto the screen, every insane idea passing through your exhausted brain.

But now the idea is there.

And worse—it isn’t immediately repulsive.

It’s not like you don’t know what a sugar baby is. You’ve heard the stories, seen the jokes. Older, rich men paying younger women just to be in their presence. Some arrangements are physical, sure, but plenty aren’t.

And it’s not like you’d actually do it.

…Right?

Your finger hovers over the search results, heartbeat picking up. You tell yourself you’re just curious. Just looking.

Twenty minutes later, you’re staring at the App Store. A bright pink logo sits on your screen, the words SUGAR DADDY APP – FIND YOUR ARRANGEMENT TODAY! flashing below it.

You chew on your lip, pulse thrumming in your ears.

This is insane.

This is absolutely insane.

But what if—

What if it’s just casual meetups? Just talking. Just dinner. Some of these girls are getting their rent paid just for going on dates. What if that could be you? What if this is the answer?

What’s the harm in looking?

Before you can second-guess yourself, your thumb presses download.

The next few minutes pass in a blur. The app opens, welcoming you with a sleek, luxurious design; gold accents, elegant fonts, a promise of “mutually beneficial arrangements.” The signup process is shockingly easy. You pick a username, upload a picture (nothing scandalous, just a cute selfie), and fill out your bio.

“Young, fun, and a great conversationalist. Looking for someone who appreciates good company. Nothing serious.”

That should do.

Messages start coming in immediately.

And it’s exactly what you expected.

Older men with awkward, borderline sleazy messages. Some are direct, offering money in exchange for explicit favors. Others try to be charming but still give off a transactional vibe. None of them make you feel… good.

You sigh, already regretting this. Maybe this was a stupid idea. Maybe you should just—

MATCH!

A notification pops up at the top of your screen. You glance at it, ready to roll your eyes, until you see the name.

Harry.

You blink. That’s… different.

You click on his profile, expecting the same thing you’ve seen all night. But your breath catches.

He’s young. Well—not young, but younger than the rest. Late thirties, maybe early fourties. Sharp jawline, green eyes, a dimple that softens his otherwise serious expression. Dressed in a crisp, expensive-looking suit, but his tattoos peek out from beneath the sleeves, a contradiction that instantly intrigues you.

He doesn’t look like he belongs here.

But then again… neither do you.

Your pulse quickens as you stare at his profile, your fingers hesitating over the keyboard.

What do you even say to someone like him?

Your fingers hover over the keyboard, hesitation creeping in. A simple hi feels too basic. A joke might come off as trying too hard. But before you can overthink yourself into oblivion, a new notification pops up.

Harry sent you a message.

Your stomach flips. You exhale, steadying yourself before clicking to open it.

"Didn’t expect to find someone like you on here."

You blink. That’s… not what you expected. There’s no awkward proposition, no sleazy opener, no immediate offer of money in exchange for something degrading. It’s casual, almost intrigued. He follows up before you can reply.

"Not complaining, though. You look like you have good taste in wine."

A laugh escapes you before you can stop it. It’s charming. Simple. Not overdone. And weirdly enough it works.

Your eyes flicker back to his profile. It really is almost too good to be true. His pictures look professional, but not in the this was stolen from someone else’s Instagram way. They’re polished but natural. He’s sitting in a sleek black car in one, leaning against a marble bar in another. His bio is short, to the point.

“Successful entrepreneur. Generous. Looking for good company, good conversation, and good wine.”

There’s no cringey flexing. No desperate attempt to lure someone in. Just confidence. And it makes you nervous.

Still, you answer.

"I do. But I don’t let just anyone buy me a glass."

A beat. Then:

"Let me take you to dinner and prove I’m worth it."

Your stomach knots. You tell yourself you should be skeptical, that this is exactly how people end up in shady situations, but… there’s something different about him. He doesn’t reek of desperation. He’s not trying to corner you into anything. If anything, he almost seems amused.

Still, you’re cautious.

"That depends on the restaurant."

His response is instant.

"Le Jardin."

Your breath catches. That’s not just a restaurant. That’s the restaurant. The kind of place that has a six-month waitlist and a menu with no prices because if you have to ask, you can’t afford it.

Before you can even process it, another message pops up.

"I’ll pay you $3,000 just to show up."

You sit up so fast your vision tilts.

Three. Thousand. Dollars.

For dinner? For a couple of hours of your time?

Your heart pounds. Your rent is barely half of that. That kind of money would give you breathing room, let you live for a moment instead of just surviving.

Your fingers tighten around your phone. Your brain is screaming at you to say yes. But a small part of you hesitates.

You’re not stupid. You know nothing comes for free.

"And what do you expect in return?" you finally ask.

His reply is simple.

"Dinner. Conversation. That’s all."

You swallow. You want to believe him. And against your better judgment… you do.

Your fingers shake slightly as you type out your answer.

"Alright. I’m in."

You set the phone down, staring at the screen as the reality of what you just agreed to sinks in.

You tell yourself it’s just transactional.

No expectations.

No strings attached.

So why does it already feel like something else?

You shove that thought aside as you get ready.

You’ve never been to a place like Le Jardin, never even been within walking distance of it, but you know what kind of people dine there. The rich, the powerful, the ones who don’t check price tags or worry about overdraft fees. You’re not one of them, and it makes your stomach twist as you stand in front of your closet, trying to figure out what to wear.

You settle on a sleek black dress—nothing too extravagant, but elegant enough to blend in. You keep your makeup simple, your jewelry minimal, but when you step in front of the mirror, something about your reflection feels different. Almost like you belong in this world. Like you could make someone believe it, even if only for one night.

The car Harry sends for you pulls up right on time. The driver is professional, dressed in a crisp suit, and doesn’t say much beyond a polite, “Miss?” as he opens the door. The ride is smooth, the city lights blurring past the tinted windows, and the entire time, your fingers twitch in your lap.

You tell yourself this is just a dinner. Just a business transaction. Just easy money.

But then you step into the restaurant, and your breath catches.

Le Jardin is breathtaking. Soft golden lighting, high ceilings, waiters gliding between tables like they’re floating. Everything about it screams exclusivity, like you’ve just stepped into a world not meant for people like you.

And then you see him.

Harry.

He stands as soon as he spots you, and for a second, the air shifts.

You were prepared for him to be attractive—you’ve seen his pictures, you knew what to expect—but this? This is something else entirely.

He’s tall, broad, the tailored lines of his suit clinging to him in a way that makes your mouth dry. Dark curls, sharp jaw, green eyes that flicker with something unreadable as he watches you cross the room.

And then he smiles.

Not a smirk, not a cocky I-have-you-right-where-I-want-you grin, but something softer. Something that makes his dimple crease and his eyes warm.

It’s almost disarming.

He pulls out your chair before you can even reach for it. “You look stunning,” he murmurs, his voice a low hum that slides down your spine.

You blink at him, thrown off. You expected arrogance, maybe a smooth line or two, but instead, he sounds almost… genuine.

You let him push in your chair, smoothing your hands over your dress as you settle in. “I try.”

He chuckles, a quiet thing, and as he takes his seat across from you, you realize he hasn’t stopped looking at you.

Not in the way the other men on the app did, like they were already calculating what they’d get out of you. No, this is different. It’s like he’s trying to figure you out, like he’s curious.

The waiter appears, offering an expensive bottle of wine without asking if you’d like to see the menu first. You don’t even know how to pronounce the name, but Harry just nods, thanking the server before turning back to you.

“So,” he says, resting his elbows on the table, fingers laced together. “Tell me something about you.”

You tilt your head. “Like what?”

“Anything.” He shrugs. “Something that’s not in your profile.”

You hesitate. You could give him something basic, something easy. But for some reason, you don’t want to.

“I hate tomatoes,” you say, watching for his reaction.

He blinks. Then laughs. A real, full laugh, his head tipping back slightly.

“Alright,” he says, still smiling. “Not what I expected, but I respect it.”

The conversation flows effortlessly after that. He asks questions—genuine ones—not just about you, but your thoughts, your opinions, things that have nothing to do with the arrangement. And he listens. Really listens. Holding eye contact like he’s hanging onto every word.

The food arrives—meals you can’t even begin to describe, flavors so rich you feel out of place eating them. But Harry makes it easy, never letting the moment feel intimidating.

At one point, he cuts a bite of his dish and lifts it toward you.

“Try this.”

You don’t even think twice. You just let him. Let him feed you, his fingers brushing the corner of your lips as you take the bite.

It doesn’t faze you.

But him?

He’s gone.

It’s subtle—the way his jaw tightens slightly, the way his gaze drops to your mouth for half a second longer than necessary—but you catch it. And for some reason, it makes you smile.

Dessert comes, and he reaches across the table, taking your hand in his. His thumb brushes over your knuckles, a soft, absentminded motion, like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

“Can I see you again?” he asks.

The look in his eyes is something you can’t quite place.

You don’t hesitate.

You nod, lips curling slightly.

You’re getting paid, after all.

That’s what you tell yourself when the gifts start rolling in.

At first, they’re subtle. A bottle of perfume left on your doorstep, the kind you’d never splurge on for yourself. The packaging alone screams luxury, sleek and weighty in your hands. You hesitate before opening the attached note, curiosity bubbling in your chest.

“Reminded me of you. - H”

You roll your eyes, but a small smile tugs at your lips. You spritz a little onto your wrist, inhaling. It’s warm, sensual—notes of vanilla and something darker, richer. Expensive.

And then it doesn’t stop.

A few days later, a box arrives. Big this time. Too big for just perfume. You tear through the pristine wrapping to find a designer handbag nestled inside, the leather buttery soft beneath your fingertips.

Your first thought is: What the fuck?

Your second thought is: How much did this cost?

You barely have time to process before your phone buzzes.

Harry: Saw this and thought of you. Hope you like it.

You blink down at the message, at the bag, then back again.

Is this normal? you wonder. Is this what this arrangement is supposed to look like?

You send back a single text.

You: You’re insane.

His response is immediate.

Harry: I like spoiling you.

You don’t know what to do with that, so you just… let it happen.

At first, it’s funny. It feels like playing a role, stepping into a world you don’t belong in. You make jokes to yourself every time another absurdly expensive thing lands in your lap.

Then come the texts.

They start out simple, routine check-ins that could easily be brushed off.

“Morning, love. Hope today isn’t too stressful.”

“Made it home safe?”

“Sleep well?”

But then they start happening like clockwork.

Every morning, without fail—

“Good morning, darling.”

Every night—

“Sleep tight. Dream of me.”

You laugh when you read that one, shaking your head. It’s charming. Ridiculous.

And then there are the touches.

He kisses your forehead when he greets you, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. When he hands you a drink, his fingers brush yours, lingering a fraction longer than necessary. When you walk into a room together, his hand finds the small of your back, warm and steady, like he’s guiding you, claiming you.

The thing is… you don’t encourage it.

But you also don’t stop it.

Because—if you’re being honest?—it’s kind of cute.

And, really, what’s the harm?

You meet up with him again. And again. It becomes a pattern, slipping into your life with alarming ease. Lavish dinners, expensive outings, stolen moments where he looks at you like you’re something rare, something fragile.

Then, one night, it happens.

You’re seated across from him at a dimly lit restaurant, the hum of soft jazz filling the air. Your wine glass is half-full, your plate mostly cleared, and he’s been watching you all night—watching in that way he does, like he’s memorizing you.

And then, almost absentmindedly, he stirs his drink and murmurs, “Didn’t like being away from you today.”

You barely register his words at first, too focused on the way he swirls the amber liquid in his glass.

But then he looks up.

And there’s something there.

Something warm, something vulnerable.

“Missed you,” he says, like it’s obvious. Like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

You snort, reaching out without thinking, patting his cheek lightly. “That’s adorable.”

He huffs out a laugh, but he leans into your touch like a man starved, like it means something to him.

And that’s when it hits you.

Like a freight train, like a sucker punch to the ribs.

You’re in it for the money.

He’s in it for love.

You know it now. You’ve known it for a while, haven’t you? If you really take a second to think about it, you’d realize that every expensive gift, every lingering touch, every look of pure, devoted affection was leading up to this.

You should’ve seen it coming.

Maybe you did, but you ignored it. You chose to believe that this was just fun for him the same way it was fun for you. That he was playing along with the fantasy, indulging in the illusion of something deeper—just because he could.

Because it was easy. Because it was nice.

Because it meant neither of you had to be alone.

But Harry?

Harry was never playing.

And tonight proves it.

The restaurant is unlike anything you’ve ever seen before. You knew it would be.

With Harry, everything is excessive. He likes to spoil you, to spend absurd amounts of money just to watch your reaction. It’s fun for him, you think.

But this is different.

This isn’t just extravagant. This is romantic.

The entire penthouse-level dining room is bathed in golden candlelight, the glow flickering off the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the entire city. The table is set for two, an elaborate spread of silverware and delicate wine glasses that you already know you’ll be too nervous to touch. The scent of fresh roses lingers in the air, overwhelming but intentional.

It’s the kind of setup someone arranges when they’re about to propose.

The thought makes something uneasy curl in your stomach.

Harry has been off all evening. Not in an obvious way—no, he’s still charming, still soft-spoken, still perfectly polite.

But he’s quiet.

More than usual.

His touches have been different tonight, too. Deliberate. Lingering. When he pulled out your chair for you, his hands skimmed over your shoulders, his fingers trailing against your skin like he was memorizing the feeling. When he handed you your wine glass, he let his fingertips brush over yours, his touch slow, like he needed it. When you made a joke about the ridiculous amount of forks in front of you, he didn’t just laugh—he looked at you like you’d just hung the moon.

And the way he’s looking at you now?

Like he’s about to say something you won’t be able to take back.

You should stop this.

You should.

But you don’t.

Because you’ve spent so long pretending that this—whatever this is—can exist in some untouchable space. That as long as you don’t acknowledge the shift, as long as you don’t name it, it will stay the same.

But you were wrong.

And Harry?

Harry is about to prove it.

The room is quiet except for the soft hum of music in the background, the flicker of candlelight making shadows dance across his face.

And then—

“I think I’m in love with you.”

Your entire body locks up.

The words don’t register at first, like your brain is physically rejecting them.

Because, no.

No, that’s not what this is.

That’s not what this was ever supposed to be.

You feel your heart hammering against your ribs, something hot crawling up your spine, your throat suddenly too tight, your hands suddenly too still.

You blink.

He’s still looking at you.

Still waiting.

Like this is the moment everything changes. Like this is the moment he’s been waiting for.

Like this is the moment he gets you.

But he doesn’t.

He won’t.

You inhale sharply, your pulse roaring in your ears, the weight of his confession settling onto your chest like a ton of bricks.

His fingers tighten ever so slightly around yours, the warmth of his skin grounding you, holding you there like an anchor. Like he can sense that you’re about to run.

You swallow hard.

“Harry…”

The smile on his lips falters. Barely.

But you notice it.

You notice everything.

The way his fingers twitch. The way his eyes search yours, desperate. The way his jaw clenches, like he already knows.

You have to do this.

You have to say it.

Even if it feels like you’re about to carve him open.

Even if it feels like you’re about to carve yourself open.

You take a breath.

“This isn’t real.”

It’s quiet. A whisper. A tiny, fragile thing.

But it shatters him all the same.

You see it.

The way his entire body stills. The way the warmth drains from his face, his hands slipping away from yours so slowly, so painfully, like he’s forcing himself to let go.

Like he doesn’t want to.

But he has to.

His throat bobs.

His eyes flicker, something shifting in them—something soft breaking, something hopeful dying.

“Not real?” His voice is quiet, hoarse, like it physically hurts him to ask.

You open your mouth.

But nothing comes out.

Because what do you even say?

What could you possibly say to fix this?

To fix him?

To fix the way he’s looking at you like you just ripped the ground out from beneath him?

You weren’t supposed to mean this much to him.

But you do.

And that’s the problem.

The problem isn’t that he loves you.

The problem isn’t that he confessed.

The problem isn’t even that you saw it coming and did nothing to stop it.

The problem is that when he looks at you like this—like this—you don’t want to stop it.

His hands are still cradling your face, his thumbs ghosting over your cheekbones like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go. Like if he just holds you tightly enough, he can will you into feeling the same way he does.

And maybe he can.

Because something about the way he’s looking at you now makes something deep in your chest ache. Makes something warm coil low in your stomach, makes your fingers tremble against the tablecloth.

You shouldn’t be here.

You shouldn’t still be sitting in this candlelit penthouse with him.

You should say something sharp and final, put an end to whatever this is before it gets worse. Before he gets hurt. Before you get hurt.

But you don’t.

You can’t.

Because his eyes are flickering over your face like he’s memorizing you. Because his lips are parted, his breath shallow, his chest rising and falling unevenly.

Because when he speaks, his voice is hoarse, wrecked.

“It is for me.”

It knocks the air right out of you.

It’s not pleading. It’s not even a question.

It’s just fact.

And you feel it—God, you feel it.

He has never been playing.

Not once.

Not for a second.

This was always real for him.

And now?

Now, it’s real for you, too.

You should pull away.

You should.

You should tell him you’re sorry, that you never meant to let it get this far, that you never meant to make him fall for you.

But instead—

You tilt your chin up, let your gaze lock with his, let the tension between you thicken and twist until there’s only one way this ends.

“Then make me believe it.”

It’s barely a whisper. But he hears it.

You know he hears it.

Because his entire body reacts—his grip on your face tightening, his lips parting, his chest rising with a sharp inhale.

And then, before you can think, before you can breathe, before you can stop yourself—

His mouth crashes onto yours.

It’s not soft. It’s not careful.

It’s desperate.

It’s months of lingering touches, of stolen glances, of suppressed feelings exploding all at once.

His hands slide from your face to your jaw, tilting your head up, angling you the way he wants, the way he needs. His lips move against yours with a hunger you’ve never felt from him before, all-consuming, his body leaning forward until you have no choice but to grab onto his shirt, fisting the fabric in your hands to keep yourself steady.

You gasp against his mouth, and he groans, deep and guttural, swallowing the sound like it belongs to him. Like you belong to him.

And maybe you do.

His hands are everywhere now—sliding down your neck, tracing your collarbone, curling around your waist as he yanks you toward him. The chair scrapes against the floor as he stands, pulling you up with him, pressing your body flush against his.

It’s too much.

It’s not enough.

Your fingers slip into his hair, tugging, and he growls, his teeth grazing your bottom lip, his hands gripping your hips so tightly you know you’ll feel it tomorrow.

You don’t care.

You don’t care about any of it anymore.

Not the arrangement.

Not the money.

Not the way you told yourself this wasn’t real.

Because right now, with his lips hot and insistent against yours, his body pressed against you like he needs you to breathe—

It is.

It is real.

And you want more.

“Harry,” you murmur against his mouth, your fingers tugging at his shirt, nails scraping down his back.

He groans, his forehead dropping to yours, his breath ragged. “Say it again.”

You shiver.

His voice is different now. Lower. Rougher.

More possessive.

You lick your lips, tilting your head, letting your nose brush against his. “Harry.”

It’s all he needs.

He moves fast. One second, you’re standing by the table, and the next, he’s walking you backward, his grip firm but gentle, like he’s guiding you, like he’s making sure you want this.

And you do.

God, you do.

The backs of your legs hit something soft—one of the long velvet couches lining the floor-to-ceiling windows—and then he’s pushing you down, following you without hesitation, his hands bracketing your hips, his body pressing you into the cushions.

His lips move from your mouth to your jaw, then lower, kissing, nipping, claiming.

“You have no fucking idea,” he rasps against your skin, “how long I’ve wanted this.”

You arch beneath him, your breath stuttering.

“How long I’ve waited for you,” he murmurs, his hands slipping beneath the hem of your dress, fingers dragging over bare skin.

Your nails dig into his back.

This is different.

This isn’t just sex.

This isn’t just fulfilling an arrangement.

This is him showing you what he means.

This is you finally admitting what you want.

“Then show me,” you breathe.

He does.

Harry doesn’t hesitate.

He surges forward, claiming your lips again, this time slower, deeper—like he’s savoring you, like he’s tasting something he knows he’ll never get enough of. His hands tighten on your body, strong fingers splaying against your ribs, dragging up, up, up, until his thumbs are teasing along the sides of your breasts, just enough to make you arch into him.

A low groan rumbles from his chest, vibrating against your skin as he kisses you harder, as his tongue sweeps against yours in a kiss so deep it steals the breath right out of your lungs.

And then he’s moving, lifting you effortlessly from the couch like you weigh nothing, like you belong in his arms. His grip is strong—possessive—one hand on your thigh, the other curled around your back as he carries you across the room.

His lips never leave yours.

His kisses are slow now, teasing, dragging, pulling soft whimpers from your throat that he swallows like they belong to him.

He walks you straight to the bed, laying you down like you’re something precious, something breakable.

But you’re not breakable.

And when he starts to pull away, you don’t let him.

You grip his shirt, fisting the fabric, yanking him back down until he’s hovering over you, his body caging yours in. His breath is heavy, uneven, his eyes blown wide and desperate.

“You want to take your time?” you murmur, fingers toying with the buttons of his shirt, sliding them through the fabric one by one, teasing.

His jaw clenches.

“I’ve been waiting,” he says, voice low, rough. “For months.”

Your lips curl.

“So why are you still dressed?”

Something snaps.

Harry growls, yanking his shirt off in one swift motion before his hands are back on you, slipping under your dress, pushing the fabric up, exposing skin he’s been dying to touch.

“You think you’re in charge?” he mutters, mouth against your throat, kissing, nipping, dragging his tongue over the spot that makes you shiver.

A smirk plays at your lips.

“I know I am.”

His fingers tighten on your hips. “Not tonight.”

You don’t get the chance to respond before he’s got you flat on your back, hands gripping your wrists, pinning them above your head as he stares down at you, chest heaving.

And fuck, he’s beautiful like this.

Eyes dark, lips swollen, hair falling into his face, body hard and tense against yours.

“You drive me fucking crazy,” he murmurs, voice thick with need, his fingers tracing over the pulse point in your wrist.

“Good,” you whisper back.

His lips crash against yours again, hungrier this time, rougher.

He’s not just kissing you—he’s devouring you.

And you let him.

You moan into his mouth, rolling your hips up, grinding against the hardness pressing between your legs, and he hisses, his grip tightening.

“You’re fucking dangerous,” he groans, dropping his forehead against yours, his breath hot and ragged. “D’you have any idea what you do to me?”

You smile, slow and teasing, tilting your head, lips brushing against his jaw.

“Show me.”

He does.

His hands are everywhere—gripping, caressing, exploring.

He strips you slow, torturous, dragging the straps of your dress down your shoulders, pressing soft, lingering kisses to every inch of exposed skin.

“You’re perfect,” he breathes, his lips brushing over your collarbone, his hands palming your breasts, rolling your nipples between his fingers, making you gasp.

“Harry,” you whimper, arching into his touch, nails dragging down his back.

He groans, sucking a mark onto your skin, his tongue flicking over it, soothing, before he starts moving lower.

His mouth trails over your ribs, your stomach, his fingers sliding under the waistband of your panties, tugging them down slow, too slow.

“Tell me what you want,” he murmurs, lips brushing over the inside of your thigh.

You squirm beneath him, breath hitching. “You.”

His teeth graze your skin. “Be specific.”

You bite your lip, staring down at him, the way he’s kneeling between your legs, eyes dark and hungry, waiting.

You reach down, threading your fingers into his hair, tugging lightly. “I want your mouth.”

A smirk tugs at his lips.

“Good girl.”

And then his mouth is on you.

You gasp, head falling back against the pillows, fingers tightening in his hair as he licks, sucks, devours you like he’s starved.

It’s overwhelming.

It’s too much and not enough all at once.

His tongue moves slow, deliberate, teasing, and when you let out a breathy moan, he groans against you, gripping your thighs, holding you in place as he eats you like he’s trying to ruin you.

Like he’s claiming you.

Your thighs tremble around his head, pleasure building too fast, too strong, and he knows, because he presses his tongue against your clit, flicking, sucking, driving you insane.

“Harry—fuck—”

“Come for me,” he rasps against your skin, voice rough and commanding, his fingers digging into your thighs. “Come on, baby. Let me feel it.”

And you do.

You unravel beneath him, your body arching, pleasure washing over you in waves as you cry out his name, your fingers tight in his hair.

He works you through it, his mouth never leaving you, softening the strokes of his tongue until you’re panting, trembling beneath him.

Then he’s moving, crawling back up your body, kissing you deep, letting you taste yourself on his tongue as he pushes his hips against yours.

He’s hard, straining against his pants, and you reach down, palming him through the fabric, making him groan.

“Your turn,” you murmur, eyes dark, wicked.

His breath hitches.

You flip him over, straddling his hips, pinning his wrists to the bed, watching as his pupils dilate, his breath stuttering.

“You like that?” you tease, rolling your hips against him.

His jaw clenches. “You have no idea.”

You smirk. “Then let me show you.”

And you do.

You roll your hips against him, slow and deliberate, feeling the thick press of him still trapped beneath layers of fabric. His breath shudders, his fingers twitch where you’ve got them pinned, but you don’t let up. You grind down again, watching his jaw clench, the way his body tenses beneath you, all muscle and restraint.

“You like being underneath me?” you tease, dragging your nails lightly down his chest, tracing the hard lines of muscle, feeling the way his abs tense at your touch.

His eyes darken. “Don’t push me, love.”

You lean down, just enough for your lips to ghost over his, barely brushing, teasing, taunting. “Or what?”

His breath hitches. Then he growls.

A low, dangerous sound that sends heat pooling between your thighs.

He bucks his hips, trying to shift the power, but you press down harder, hands splaying over his chest, keeping him pinned.

“Fucking hell,” he grits out, head tipping back against the pillows. “You’re a tease.”

You smirk, rolling your hips again, slower this time. “And you love it.”

His hands flex against the sheets, his muscles straining beneath you like he’s dying to grab you, flip you, take back control. But he doesn’t. He lets you have it—for now.

“That’s it,” you murmur, leaning down, trailing soft, open-mouthed kisses over his throat, nipping lightly at his pulse point. “Be good for me.”

He groans, his fingers twitching, desperate to touch.

But you don’t let him.

You grab his wrists again, pressing them firmly into the mattress, locking him in place as you start moving properly, rocking against him, dragging the thick outline of his cock right against your soaked panties.

His breath shudders.

“Jesus fuck,” he rasps, eyes fluttering shut for a second, chest rising and falling with heavy, uneven breaths.

You roll your hips harder, the friction sending pleasure shooting through you, and when he lets out a strangled moan, you smile.

“Poor baby,” you coo, running your tongue along the shell of his ear. “Does it feel good?”

His jaw clenches so hard you think it might break.

“Y’think you’re in charge, hmm?” His voice is thick, rough, dangerous.

Your lips curl as you grind down again, harder this time. “I know I am.”

Something snaps.

In a blink, Harry moves.

One second, you’re in control—the next, you’re not.

With a low, feral growl, he rips his wrists free, grabbing your waist and flipping you onto your back so fast your breath catches. Before you can even react, he’s on you, pressing you into the mattress, his body heavy, his hands rough.

“You think you can tease me like that?” he murmurs, eyes dark and dangerous as he grabs your wrists, pinning them above your head.

You inhale sharply, shivering at the sudden shift, at the way he’s towering over you, at the raw hunger in his eyes.

“Maybe I wanted you to break,” you whisper, testing, teasing, pushing.

His grip tightens.

“Fucking hell, you’re a brat.”

You smirk. “And you love it.”

His lips crash against yours.

It’s rough, desperate, all tongue and teeth, like he’s punishing you, like he’s claiming you. You moan into his mouth, arching up, pressing your body to his, feeling the hard lines of him against your softness.

His hands are everywhere—gripping your waist, sliding down to your thighs, spreading you open beneath him as he grinds against you, letting you feel how much he wants this.

“Fuck,” he groans against your lips, rolling his hips harder, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through you. “You feel that, baby? Feel what you do to me?”

You whimper, nodding, your head spinning, body thrumming with heat.

“Use your words,” he murmurs, kissing down your neck, sucking hard at your pulse point, leaving marks. Claiming you.

“Yes,” you breathe, hands clutching at his back, nails digging in. “I feel it.”

“Yeah?” He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes dark, dangerous. “You ready to stop playing, then?”

Your breath hitches.

You smirk. “Make me.”

His eyes flash.

“Oh, baby,” he murmurs, voice low, threatening. “You’re gonna regret that.”

His hand suddenly fists in your hair, tilting your head up just enough for his lips to hover over yours, breaths mingling, tension thick and electric.

“As much as I love watching you think you’re in charge,” he murmurs, his voice thick, deep, commanding, “I need to fuck you. Now.”

A shiver racks through you, but before you can respond, he moves.

In one swift motion, he flips you onto your stomach, pressing you down into the mattress, his hands everywhere—gripping your hips, running up your sides, ghosting over your ribs like he’s savoring every inch of you.

“My turn,” he breathes, dragging your wrists above your head, holding you still as his mouth finds your shoulder, pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss to your heated skin.

You try to shift beneath him, to gain some control back, but his grip tightens, fingers wrapping around your wrists, pinning you down completely.

“Be good for me,” he murmurs against your skin, lips trailing down your back, teeth grazing over already-sensitive spots.

You whimper, squirming, desperate for more, but he takes his time, teasing, torturing, his touch featherlight as he drags his fingers down the curve of your spine, over the swell of your ass.

“You’re too fucking pretty like this,” he mutters, mostly to himself, squeezing your hips, dragging you back against him so you can feel exactly how hard he is. “Fuck, I’ve been waiting for this.”

Your breath stutters, body burning, every nerve alight with anticipation.

“Harry,” you whimper, rolling your hips back, silently begging. “Please.”

He groans, low and dark, his restraint snapping.

“Yeah?” he taunts, lips ghosting over your ear as he presses his chest to your back. “You ready for me, baby?”

You nod frantically, arching against him, needing, aching—

But he still makes you wait.

Dragging his hand between your thighs, he strokes you with maddening slowness, gathering your wetness on his fingers, groaning at how ready you are.

“Fuck,” he grits out. “Dripping for me already?”

You whimper, nodding. “Harry, please—”

Finally, finally, he aligns himself with you, pressing the thick head of his cock against your entrance, teasing, waiting—

“Look at me.”

His voice is commanding, leaving no room for argument.

You turn your head just enough to meet his gaze, your breath catching at the intensity in his eyes—dark, hungry, wild.

He watches you, waiting, holding you there in the moment, making sure you feel it before he gives you what you want.

And then—

He thrusts in.

A strangled moan rips from your throat as he fills you completely, stretching you open, deep and overwhelming.

A guttural groan rumbles from his chest as he buries himself inside you, his grip bruising on your hips, like he’s afraid you’ll slip away.

“Fuck. Fuck,” he grits out, his voice rough, ragged, vibrating against your skin. His head falls forward, his forehead resting against the nape of your neck, breath hot and uneven. “You’re so—shit, you’re so tight.”

You arch beneath him, back bowing, body tightening around him in response, overwhelmed by the stretch, the fullness of him inside you. It’s almost too much, the way he splits you apart, the way he holds you still, like he’s savoring the feeling, savoring you.

Your hands fist in the sheets, knuckles white as you try to ground yourself, try to keep from losing yourself completely.

He must sense it, the way your body trembles, because his grip softens, fingers splaying over your stomach as he kisses your shoulder, slow and tender.

“Breathe, baby,” he murmurs, voice strained but gentle. He noses along your skin, pressing his lips to the curve where your neck meets your shoulder. “I’ve got you.”

His free hand finds yours, threading his fingers through yours against the mattress, grounding you, anchoring you to him.

He stays there for a moment, letting you adjust, letting you feel every inch of him before he moves.

And then—

Then he ruins you.

The first thrust is slow, deliberate, pushing deep, making your breath hitch, making your fingers tighten around his.

Then another. And another. Each movement calculated, precise, dragging against every nerve ending inside you, pulling you closer to the edge with every roll of his hips.

His rhythm starts slow, deep—like he’s savoring the feeling of being buried inside you. Like he wants to take his time, to make you feel him, make you remember this.

But it doesn’t last.

The control snaps, his patience evaporating like steam off your overheated skin.

He growls, the sound primal, desperate, as his hands shift—one gripping your hip, the other pressing against the small of your back, keeping you in place as he pounds into you.

The bed shakes beneath you, every thrust sending ripples through your body, pleasure licking up your spine like fire.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” he groans against your mouth, his forehead pressing to yours, lips brushing but never quite kissing, too lost in the moment, too consumed by the way your body wraps around him.

You can barely breathe, barely think, all logic drowned out by the feeling of him inside you, stretching you, filling you, wrecking you.

You meet every thrust, grinding back against him, chasing your high, needing, aching—

He notices, because of course he does.

“Yeah?” he pants, voice rough, strained. “You want it, baby? Want me to fuck you like this?”

You nod frantically, gasping, moaning his name, nails digging into his forearm, marking him, branding him.

He growls at the sting, his hand tightening on your hip, holding you still as he drives into you, faster, harder, the sound of skin meeting skin echoing through the dimly lit room.

And then—

Then he shifts, pulling out just enough before slamming back in at a new angle, hitting deeper, stroking against that one spot that makes you see stars.

You cry out, arching, body tightening around him, pleasure slamming into you like a tidal wave.

His hand moves from your hip to your thigh, gripping, hitching it up, opening you wider, letting him sink in even deeper, making you feel every inch of him.

“That’s it,” he pants, lips brushing against your temple, damp with sweat. “That’s it, baby. Let go for me.”

His hand slides between your bodies, fingers finding your clit, rubbing in tight, desperate circles.

It’s too much. The pressure, the stretch, the overwhelming intensity of it all.

Your body locks up, toes curling, back arching as your orgasm hits, crashing over you in violent, shattering waves.

You tremble beneath him, gasping his name, clenching around him so tight that he lets out a broken moan, his movements stuttering, losing rhythm.

“Fuck, fuck—”

And then he’s gone, head tilting back, mouth falling open as he lets go, spilling into you with a guttural groan, his entire body tensing before he collapses on top of you.

The only sound in the room is your combined panting, heavy and uneven, the sheets tangled beneath you, bodies still pressed together, skin damp with sweat.

His lips ghost over your shoulder, pressing one last, lingering kiss there before he whispers, voice hoarse and spent—

“Mine.”

The word settles between you like a slow-burning flame, flickering, catching, spreading.

His breath is still uneven, chest rising and falling against yours, his weight a comforting anchor rather than something pressing you down. His arms stay locked around you, like he doesn’t want to let go, doesn’t plan to.

And for the first time, you don’t want him to.

You don’t move. You can’t move.

His fingers start tracing slow, lazy patterns along your spine, light and absentminded, like he’s memorizing the shape of you.

His touch isn’t just post-bliss reflex. It’s deliberate.

It’s different.

And you feel it.

You feel it in the way his body stays molded against yours, in the way his lips linger at your temple instead of pulling away, in the way he wants to stay close—like he’s afraid that if he lets go, you’ll disappear.

This was supposed to be an arrangement. A job. A transaction.

But the way he’s looking at you now?

It’s anything but.

You shift slightly beneath him, just enough to see his face, to meet those green eyes that are softer than they should be, searching yours, waiting.

And he knows.

Of course, he knows.

Harry’s always been able to read you better than you’d like.

His fingers drift up to your cheek, thumb brushing against the curve of your jaw, his touch gentle—so unfairly gentle for someone who just ruined you minutes ago.

You should get up.

You should remind him of the rules, of the terms, of the fact that this was never supposed to mean anything.

But the words won’t come.

Because the truth is—

You don’t want to leave.

You don’t want to pull away.

And that realization knocks the breath out of you faster than anything else ever could.

Harry’s eyes flicker down to your lips, back up to your eyes, something vulnerable creeping into his expression before he speaks.

"Tell me you feel it too."

His voice is low, careful, but there’s an edge of uncertainty underneath. Like he’s terrified of your answer.

Like he needs it.

You open your mouth, hesitate—because this is the moment. The moment where everything changes. The moment where you either run, or you jump.

And you jump.

You don’t answer him with words. You don’t have to.

Instead, you reach up, threading your fingers into his hair, pulling him down.

And you kiss him.

Not because you’re supposed to. Not because it’s part of the act.

But because you want to.

Because you don’t want this to be about the money anymore.

Because it isn’t.

Not anymore.

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

Thank you so much for reading! I appreciate any support so remember to comment, reblog, & like ❤️‍🔥

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[farfromharry]

back together and it feels so good

Summary: You and Lando broke up because of his gruelling schedule, but at a friend’s birthday one night the two of you are brought together again and feelings are spilled. Were you always meant to be together?

w/c 3026

Lando Norris x Reader

a/n clearly i cant write small blurbs anymore lol, reblogs are everything <3

━━━━━━━━━♡♥♡━━━━━━━━━

Your breakup with Lando was mutual… sorta. Clashing schedules meant you rarely got time to be together and too many rumours surrounding him were making you paranoid. Lonely and fearful were no way to be in a relationship. So you ended things and promised to stay friends. He understood. His lifestyle was… different than most. He couldn’t expect you to wait for him all the time. It wasn’t fair. There was no bad blood. There was certainly awkward tension though.

You were in the same friend group, so it was no surprise when you had to see each other all the time. The last thing you expected was to still feel that flutter in your chest when you saw him.

Max’s birthday party was the next event coming up and you were dreading it. He had the whole thing planned out. A fancy dinner with the group of you, followed by a night out at one of London’s most prestigious clubs. You didn’t think you, alcohol and a confined space were going to mix well with the ex you were trying to get over.

Obviously you still loved Lando, you were reminded of that every time you saw his face or someone mentioned his name. He was Lando, he was hard not to love. How were you ever supposed to get over him if all you did was spend time with him?

So, your plan was to try and get out of going to Max’s party. It was a shitty thing to do as a friend and he would probably see through you right away, but it was worth a try.

You tried to play the sick card. The morning of the party you called him, preparing yourself to perform the best acting of your life.

He picked up on the 3rd ring. “Hello?”

You sniffled. “Max, hi. Look, bad news.” Cough. Cough. “I’m really ill, I don’t think I’m going to be able to come tonight.”

There was silence on the other end. For a minute you thought he’d hung up on you. You even pulled your phone away from your ear just to check the call was still connected. When you saw his name still staring at you from the screen, your brow furrowed.

“Max?”

He scoffed. “That’s bullshit. You have to get over this fear of seeing him, Y/N. You’re both acting like children.” He was sick and tired of dealing with both of you. Lando was exactly the same, making excuses to try and get out of any event that would include seeing you. He needed you both to get over whatever this was and realise you were hopelessly in love with each other. Being just friends was never going to work. “You were friends before, you can be friends after. Stop being so selfish.”

It was like a slap to the face. You couldn’t be angry that he was talking to you like this because he was right. You sighed. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

“Thank you. So you’re gonna be there?”

“I’ll be there.”

As soon as the call was over she tossed her phone onto her bed and screamed into her pillow. Tonight was going to be painful. It was mid-scream that Max’s words echoed in her head. You’re both acting like children. Had he already spoken to Lando? Was he saying the same thing? The idea that he might be avoiding you hurt your feelings, even if technically you were doing the same thing. God your love life was so fucked up.

Your heart was in your throat walking into the restaurant. You hoped he hadn’t arrived yet so you could have some liquid courage before he got here.

A table full of your friends was easy to spot, especially considering all the balloons decorating the table, probably there just to embarrass Max.

To your joy, the table was Lando-less for now.

Max grinned at the sight of you. You gave him a quick hug and handed off his present, nothing special. “Glad you could make it.” There was a teasing tone to his voice that made you swat his arm when you stepped back.

“Shut up.”

After saying your hellos to all your other friends that had arrived, you took a seat at the opposite side of the table to the birthday boy. And when the waiter came around you ordered the biggest glass of wine they had. Hopefully by the time your ex arrived you’d be tipsy enough to stand it.

When Lando entered, albeit late like normal, your friends cheered, shouting out things relating to his terrible timekeeping. He rolled his eyes, waving them off and moving to say hello to the birthday boy, offering up his gift also. The two hugged and then the younger man scanned the table for an empty chair. Unfortunately for you, it just so happened to be next to you.

You froze, body tensing and eyes darting to Max as if silently asking if this was his doing. He expertly avoided your gaze but the smirk on his face told you everything you needed to know.

Clearly Lando was having the same reaction. He had no idea how he was supposed to spend the entire dinner sitting by your side without making a fool of himself.

He awkwardly cleared his throat, pulling out the chair and taking the seat with a greeting nod to you. “How have you been, Y/N?” That was probably the first time he’d actually spoken your name in months. He liked to avoid the topic of you wherever possible.

You smiled. “Good. You?”

“Yeah, good.”

Things went silent after that. Awkward. Everyone else around you was already stuck in conversation with someone, probably another one of Max’s doings. So your options were to sit in silence or make uncomfortable conversation with your ex. Weirdly, you chose the latter.

“How’s racing going?” You didn’t need him to tell you. You had watched every race since you broke up, like you always did, but you wouldn’t admit that. It was you who broke up with him, because of racing, you couldn’t let him know that you still took an interest in him.

He frowned, but quickly tried to cover it up with a tight-lipped smile. “It’s okay. Won the first race of the season, doing pretty well.”

“That’s really good.”

Conversation used to flow so easily between you and now everything you said was a dead end. You hated it. It was strange how you can go from being so compatible with someone to not even knowing what to talk about in such a short amount of time. This was your fault. You had messed this whole thing up with him. And sitting here now, you regretted it.

Then the drinks started flowing.

Turns out all it took was a bit of alcohol and you and Lando were back to your old ways. The stories were nostalgic and the inside jokes came back naturally. You couldn’t remember the last time you laughed this hard. Why had you ever given this up?

You were so lost in your giggling with him that you didn’t notice your friends packing up with plans to head to the club next.

“You lovebirds coming?” Max teased.

Lando gave him a middle finger and you simply rolled your eyes. At any other time his comment would have made you angry, but right now you were too joyous (from the alcohol) to care about what he was saying. “We’re coming.”

At some point in the club his hand settled on your lower back, just how it used to, and didn’t move for the rest of the night. He wanted you close, to be touching you. When might he ever get this chance again? He spent the whole night glued to your side.

Around 2am you were officially ready to tap out for the night. Drunk, happy and practically overheating, you decided you were ready for bed.

Rather than calling an Uber you made a beeline for Lando, like you used to. He had been on water for a while, a warning from his trainer when he’d mentioned his best friend’s birthday; don’t get too drunk, was the advice he’d been given. The last thing he wanted was a punishment in the form of extra training, so he would respect Jon’s wishes.

Your arms wrapped around his neck when you were close enough. Logically he should have pushed you away. You weren’t together and you were drunk, he was basically taking advantage. But having your arms around him again felt so nice. He had been longing for it ever since the day you broke up. And you were smiling at him, the kind of smile that made his heart race.

“You having fun?” he asked, smiling right back at you as his hands moved to settle on your waist.

He barely heard you hum, but you did. “Tired. Will you take me home?”

There was no way he would have ever been able to resist the puppy eyes you aimed his way. For a second he could have convinced himself that the 2 of you were still together. It was just like old times.

“Of course.”

In your drunken state you had forgotten to consider that he might have wanted to stay longer, that you were ending his night prematurely. But he hadn’t even hesitated. He didn’t think about himself once.

It was only in the car, with you drunkenly mumbling at his side, that he started to think this might have been a bad idea. He was so in love with you and he was somehow supposed to keep that to himself.

You should have known it was a bad idea letting him take you home, but by that point you’d had far too much to drink to care. You wanted someone comfortable to be with you and that’s exactly what he was. Of course being in a confined space with him was going to bring up feelings you were trying so hard to bury.

You found yourself watching him as he drove, something you used to do a lot when you were together. He was handsome like that, pretty. You couldn’t help admiring him.

He had 4 buttons undone on his shirt and the skin looked enticing. His arms were straining the material and his jaw was clenched, probably to keep himself from saying anything stupid in your presence. It was taking everything in him not to make a love confession right now. With the way you looked tonight, the way you tossed your head back when you laughed, how you swayed to the music in the club, he was surprised he hadn’t done it already.

When he parked the car outside your flat it felt all too soon. This was the most time you had spent together one on one in months, even if you were sitting in silence. You didn’t want it to end yet.

“Do you want to come in for a drink?”

He didn’t look at you, he knew if he did there was no way he would be able to say no. He was trying to find the words to say no, but he didn’t want to.

So he didn’t say anything. He switched off the car, silently giving you the answer you craved so much. You smiled.

The pair of you made the walk up to your apartment like you’d done a thousand times. He couldn’t have possibly forgotten the way, it was basically ingrained in his brain. He used to stay here more than his own flat when he was back in London. He always claimed it was more homey— really he just wanted to spend as much time with you as possible before he had to get back to work.

It wasn’t necessary to ask him what he wanted to drink. You already knew.

You poured yourself and him a drink and then set them on the coffee table wordlessly. For a second you hesitated before sitting down. How close was too close? You didn’t want to get in his space or overstep any unspoken boundaries, but where else were you supposed to go?

“You can sit, Y/N. I’m not gonna bite.”

Your face burned. You were being silly. It was just Lando, the same one you had always known.

Sitting next to him in such close proximity, in a quieter environment just sent your brain haywire. It was barely even a conscious decision to launch yourself into his lap and lock your lips with his.

He was caught off guard but he did briefly kiss you back. Until he realised it was breaking his heart to do it. He pulled back, dropping his head. “We should talk about this,” he sighed. He didn’t want to push you away, but he also wasn’t willing to get his heart broken again. He didn’t have it in him to just be here when you wanted him, he needed you to want him all the time. If he couldn’t have you back 100% then he didn’t want you back. He was doing it to save his own feelings.

The look on your face was one of complete rejection. It made his chest ache. But it had to be done. You cleared your throat, awkwardly climbing out of his lap and sitting beside him again.

Your voice was quiet when you spoke. “Why don’t you want to kiss me?”

The dark haired man sighed. “It’s not that. It’s just… I can’t stop loving you,” he confessed, his voice wavering like he was just a breath away from breaking down. “I’m hung up on you, Y/N, and I can’t let you play around with my feelings because you’re drunk and bored.”

The implication that you may be playing with his feelings stung. You hadn’t meant to intentionally hurt him, not tonight anyway. “I’m not.”

He frowned. “You might not think you are, but-“ He ran his hands over his face in exasperation. This wasn’t a conversation either of you should be having when it was late and you were intoxicated. “What happens after tonight? Do we go back to avoiding each other at social gatherings, or keep having awkward conversations once every 3 months that we both want to escape from?”

It was true. He was making all fair points. All things you hadn’t thought about. “I didn’t mean to.” Your voice was so small and you were practically folding in on yourself to make your stature smaller too. “I just wanted to kiss you. Missed you.”

He smiled sadly. “I know. That’s the worst part.”

You were both silent for a little bit. He was worried that he’d upset you and you were thinking over his words. He had been honest with you and you appreciated that, but now you didn’t know what to do. Your thoughts and your feelings were all over the place.

“Do you ever think about if we didn’t break up?” The words spilled out of your mouth without you even thinking. Of course he would have. He was sitting here telling you this was painful for him and yet you were wondering if he thought about you.

He laughed, but there was no amusement in it. “Every day.” There was a longing look in his eyes when he turned his head your way. He needed you to know he meant every word he was saying. “You’re it for me. I don’t know who I am without you. The day you ended it, I, I didn’t know what to do with myself.”

His words hit you like a ton of bricks. Maybe you had been selfish, too hasty in your decision to end things. You knew what you were signing up for when you agreed to be his girlfriend and yet you acted as though you couldn’t handle it. Lots of people managed to have successful relationships with his fellow drivers or past drivers, things worked for them. Surely there was a way to make it work, something he had begged you to try before you ended it. The longing that had been building in your chest all these months was only growing stronger as you stood here with him.

When you didn’t say anything but grew visibly emotional, he leaned forward. He waited for any sign of rejection before he took a chance and cupped your face with his large hands. He felt it as you leaned into his touch.

“I love you. I don’t want to keep pretending that I don’t.” He was pouring his heart out to you. How were you ever supposed to just walk away?

“Maybe we shouldn’t be friends anymore.”

His face fell. It felt like his heart was being stomped on. “What?” He didn’t truly believe that you could have just stopped loving him that easily. What you had back then was real, wasn’t it? Or was this just your way of ending things before you got too involved again.

“Lando, I think we should try again.”

By the look on his face he was finding it hard to believe the words that had just left your mouth. “Y/N.” If this was a joke, it sure would be an evil one. He didn’t think you were that cruel.

One of your hands came up to settle over his. “I mean it. I was selfish and you probably deserve better than me after ending things like that.” It was true, but he didn’t think that. He wouldn’t want anyone else. “I love you and I will spend however long it takes to make it up to you.”

That sounded like a pretty good plan to him. He probably shouldn’t give in so easily considering the emotions he’d been going through for the past few months, but how was he ever supposed to say no to you? He never could and he probably never would. He finally cracked a smile. “I’m expecting a hell of a lot of grovelling I’ll have you know.”

Your heart fluttered. “No problem.”

Max was totally gonna take credit for this.

━━━━━━━━━♡♥♡━━━━━━━━━

[lvrclerc]

✶ STEAL YOUR HEART, TONIGHT!

summary: after the united states grand prix, the drivers decide to immerse themselves in the true american experience by going to the most infamous coyote ugly in austin to celebrate ─ needless to say, max is in for a culture shock, and maybe a little heart attack when one of the coyotes seems to take a fancy to him.

F1 MASTERLIST | MV33 MASTERLIST

pairing: max verstappen x coyote!f!reader

wc: 7.6k

cw: reader is implied to be southern/has a southern accent, reader smokes, alcohol, english is not my first language, sexual/romantic tension, i know next to nothing about coyote ugly this is based on vibes and vibes alone, use of y/n, bittersweet towards the end.

note: the idea of max verstappen just stepping in a coyote ugly is so funny to me. here's to lei @cntappen who wanted to see a max fic!

WARNING!

You may get wet

You may lose your tie

You may lose your bra

No men on the bar

No touching the girls on the bar - even if it’s your own girlfriend, do that at home!

We don’t serve free water

If you pick a bad song on the jukebox, you may get skipped

If you are easily offended, this isn’t the bar for you

Be nice and have fun!

YOU WILL GET DRUNK, YOU WILL GET UGLY!

What did Max get into?

The words were written hastily on a board in front of the bar with a black marker, making him wonder how it successfully stood the test of time. The night was dark around the slightly weathered wooden structure, but the obnoxious neon red sign made each detail of the street clear as day: COYOTE UGLY.

It looked like something out of a bad, anachronic Western film ─ scratched paint, flickering lights, the low hum of American dad rock vibrating through the walls. Still, there was a line out of the door and people littering the front porch ─ girls in jean shorts and cowboy hats yelling to each other above the music, guys already stumbling out with their shirts unbuttoned too far.

Daniel was the one who insisted.

He flew in to watch the United States Grand Prix, as it would be the only one he’d be free enough to attend and it had been a little while since he caught up with some of the drivers ─ including Max, Max who had been the happy winner of the aforementioned Grand Prix. “Come on Maxie,” he’d said that afternoon wearing a cowboy hat he definitely didn’t pack. “After-parties are always the same. Fake VIP tables, same music, same people. We need something different for tonight! Something fun!”

Max had muttered that he was fine drinking in a familiar place and that nobody really went partying after Austin anyway ─ it was just another win, and they had a day to pack for Mexico. That was without knowing Daniel, obviously, who had already sent a group text. Much to Max's surprise ─ note the sarcasm ─ most of the drivers had declined due to exhaustion and the general reputation of Coyote Ugly. He thought that would be the end of it, until Lando, Carlos, Pierre and surprisingly Charles had all jumped at the idea like it was the goddamn social event of the season.

Mostly because Daniel had the talent to sell a bad idea to someone like a lawyer. And that─ that explained why Max was there.

Carlos was already walking ahead of them, sunglasses on despite the fact it was nearly midnight, yelling something to a drunkard behind him in fast Spanish. Charles trailed behind, squinting at the building like he was trying to figure out if the neon sign was ironic or a warning ─ Max concluded he didn’t look up what a Coyote Ugly was before tagging along. Lando was busy taking a selfie with a wannabe cowboy and cowgirl who stopped him, already in his element.

And now Max stood between Daniel and Pierre, outside this absurdly American fever dream of a bar, and he was pretty sure people were getting murdered inside. He wondered if Daniel had finally lost his mind.

“You’re going to thank me for this,” the latter declared, hands out like he was presenting a five-star resort instead of a glorified wooden box.

Max raised a brow. “No. I’m already regretting this.”

“I love it personally,” interjected Pierre. “Smells like tequila and questionable decisions.”

Daniel threw an arm around Max’s shoulders. “See? That’s the spirit. Come on, Max. Live a little. You just won a Grand Prix, you should be dancing somewhere.”

“I’m a driver, not a dancer. Especially not that type of dancer,” he deadpanned.

Pierre smirked. “You might not have a choice. I saw a line dance when I passed by the window, and someone getting body shots done on the bar.”

“You’re fucking kidding.” Max could feel himself blanching.

Daniel grinned like the devil himself, and Max wondered why he wasn’t in his hotel room. “Oh it’s real, mate. You’re in America─ home of deep-fried butter and girls with fire hoses full of Jack Daniels.”

Lando, who had finally rejoined them, snorted. “You sound wayyy too excited about this.”

“I am! This is culture,” Daniel insisted. “This is history. This is─”

He was cut off as someone inside screamed, followed by the unmistakable sound of a whip cracking. Max stared at the entrance, eyes narrowing at the figure of a woman sliding across the bar and before he could catch another glimpse─ the blur of the people inside blocked his view.

“... Is that even legal?” He asked.

Daniel just patted his back in fake reassurance. “Too late to back out now, champ.”

He ran to catch up with Carlos in front of them, leaving Max stranded in his own hesitation. Was he really going to…?

Pierre laughed, following suit. Well, he guessed it was indeed too late to back out, and Max never left things unfinished, after all.

The door slammed behind him like a final warning.

The heat of the bar hit Max like a punch. Everything was sweaty, loud, alive, sticking to his skin and prickling it. The floor vibrated beneath his feet from the raucous movements of the crowd, barely walkable, and the scent of whiskey and cheap perfume hung in the air. People were everywhere ─ dancing, shouting, laughing, adding to the bass escaping from the humongous, vintage jukebox in the back of the room.

Someone threw a bra across the room and no one even flinched. Carlos cheered.

It was lawless. Much more than what Max was used to.

“Welcome to America, baby!” Daniel hollered over the music, arms spread around him like he’d just stepped into a holy place.

Max shot him a look, dread comfortably installed in the pit of his stomach. He brushed someone’s feather boa off his arm with a scoff. “Is that what you call fun?”

“A little different from Monaco bottle service, huh?” Daniel grinned.

“Right now I’m just doubting your taste in bars.”

“Eh…,” the Australian clapped him on the back. “It builds character.”

Why would someone want to get literally hosed down with whiskey to build character, Max didn’t know ─ and it’s not like he pulled the example out of his ass: a guy was taking a whiskey shower in the middle of the room, given by a girl in very tight clothing and run-down chaps standing on the bar.

He squinted. “How is this even sanctioned?”

“Man, you ask yourself way too many questions, just enjoy! Look at the others, at least they’re already having fun.”

Carlos was already gone, swallowed up by a pack of cowboy boots and red lipstick, while Lando and Charles were making their way toward the bar with wide eyes and the kind of expression Max hadn’t seen since their karting days. Pierre vanished. Someone bumped into his shoulder so hard it almost knocked the wind out of him.

In the end, he just sighed. He wouldn’t win that fight. “If I get anything poured on me, I’m leaving.”

Daniel laughed. “Don’t worry, they’ll only do it if you ask. Or not. Anyways, let’s get a drink!”

Max started walking toward the bar, following in Lando and Charles’ footsteps before Daniel could even finish his sentence. If he wanted to survive the evening ─ hell, even just the ambiance ─ he needed something to keep him going. Preferably cold. Preferably strong. Preferably now.

But that’s when the music shifted, the lights dimmed ever so slightly, and suddenly ─ everything changed.

A warm glow from old projectors cut through the red haze, casting gold across the surface of the bar like a spotlight, and just like that, the crowd moved. Turned their heads toward the long wooden structure like it was a stage and not the stickiest surface in Texas. Someone behind Max let out a whoop so loud it nearly startled him, “Hell yeah, that’s what I’m talking about!” 

In the shuffles of bodies and beer, Max lost sight of Daniel completely.

He would have cared in any other circumstances, and maybe a part of him did at the moment, but he was only human ─ his gaze caught on the bar as well. More specifically, his gaze caught on you as you stepped into the light.

Crimson red cowboy boots first, planted strongly on the bar top, followed by the curve of your legs and the ripped, distressed hem of your shorts, the glint of a belt buckle looking like it carried multiple stories. Your tank top clung to your skin in the heat, and you were probably drenched in something ─ what, Max wouldn’t want to guess. Your hair was catching on the light, wildfire-like, almost matching the red neons. One of your hands lifted in the air, claiming the moment, and the other held a mic ─ beat up, wrapped up in tape, completely yours.

You didn’t ask for the attention of the people in front of you, no. You commanded it.

“LET’S WAKE THIS DAMN CITY UP!” You shouted into the mic, voice hoarse and tone ecstatic, and the whole room erupted.

And the music kicked in again, louder this time ─ an unapologetic, southern rock anthem beating against the wall. You dropped low, hips rolling to the beat while your hands gripped the metal bar above you to keep you on your feet. You popped back up with a loud, teasing laugh, and, mid spin, someone handed you a bottle. You poured the liquor straight into a row of open mouths, feeding the fire you started.

Max couldn’t get himself to look away.

If all the other bartenders, or coyotes as Lando affectionately corrected earlier in the night, looked like they performed the overt confidence, you didn’t: you looked in your element, basking in the spotlight, the attention and the smell of burnt wood. And it wasn’t just the way you moved, no ─ it was the way you owned it. Unbothered, untouchable. Like the bar was yours. The music, the night? Yours too.

And then for a second, just one ─ you looked at him. Dead in the eyes, over the crowd. Over the sweat and light and noise, and you threw him a grin. 

You caught him staring.

It should have been meaningless, the moment barely lasted enough to make note of it, but Max’s breath still hitched. The beat of the music wasn’t the only thing making his heart stutter off rhythm.

The chaos dulled, the music softened and just like that, you were gone. Lost behind the bar in the sea of bodies crawling in front of it. Max blinked. He wondered if he hallucinated you. 

He shook his head to get rid of the haze his mind settled into. Before he could have time to think about anything else, or even try, an arm dropped around his shoulders and a cowboy hat was on his head. Daniel had reappeared. “What a show, huh?” He said.

“Where’d you go?” Max asked, rearranging the hat on his head. He knew that if he took it off now, Daniel would be quick to put it back on.

“Went to fetch you this. Stole it from someone puking in the corner,” Max's nose scrunched at the mental image. “Come on, let’s finally get that drink. Maybe the Coyote you’ve been ogling during the whole perf’ will serve you.”

He protested. “I wasn’t ogling.” Because he wasn’t. I mean ─ what else was he supposed to do? Look at the ground while you danced? But Daniel was already on his way toward the bar and this time, Max followed him without much of a complaint. Mainly because he had been eyeing the spot you disappeared behind for the entire conversation.

People crowded around the wooden counter like it was a lifeboat. Arms waving, voices raised, someone yelling for shots and someone else already halfway to a table with three beers in each hand. The bartenders, sorry, Coyotes, moved like machines ─ fast, efficient, ruthless. Max tucked himself between Daniel and Pierre, who had reappeared as well, with difficulty.

And then, he spotted you again.

It was more like flashes of you, really. A hand catching a bottle mid-air. A flash of glitter on your cheek. A bandana tied around your wrist. Your voice cut through the air like smoke, low and teasing and just loud enough to carry. That’s what made Max’s head snap ─ it was unsettlingly recognizable, even after hearing so little of it.

“That’s your third tequila, cowboy. You aiming to dance or blackout first?”

Someone laughed ─ a rough, lovesick sound ─ and you grinned without looking up as you slid another shot glass across the bar. Through their drunk delusions, everyone around the table probably assumed they were in love with you, Max thought.

He stepped up, hands braced against the edge of the counter, waiting. That was when you turned and for the second time tonight, you looked right at him, as if feeling his presence before he could even call for another bartender.

Jesus fuck─ up close, you were something else entirely. Sun-warmed and sun-kissed skin, your cheeks were flushed from the heat along with your sweat-slicked collarbones. Your lips were pulled into the kind of smirk he’s sure could cause car crashes, and your eyes sparkled under the bar lights ─ like you knew exactly what he was searching for.

If you did, spare the poor soul and tell him, because Max wasn’t sure he wanted that drink anymore.

“You lost?” You asked. Your tone was smooth, a southern accent dripping from every word. God, that was dangerous.

Max blinked. Oh, he was gaping. “No,” he affirmed, a little too harshly.

Your eyes, intense, dragged over him, twinkling a little brighter than before. “You look lost.”

Max suddenly felt very conscious of how much he had to be sticking out. He had no outfits or items of clothing that fit this type of place ─ the light-washed jeans, the tennis shoes, and the black, short-sleeved shirt with his Formula One number in the back was as casual as he could do without looking homeless. The cowboy hat had to add some more ridiculousness to it, he realized.

He cleared his throat, frowning slightly. He usually wasn’t one to really care about outfits. “Just a drink, please.”

You leaned in, close enough that Max could smell your perfume. Warm, sugary, intoxicating. “Name your poison, pretty boy.”

Pretty boy. He gulped. For fuck’s sake, where did the confidence he had a few hours earlier go, when he was brandishing the Austin trophy?

“Whatever’s strongest.” God knows he needs it right now.

You just gave him a look ─ just the faintest eyebrow raise, clearly amused. Grabbing a bottle from behind you with practiced ease, you poured without measuring, slid a glass toward him with one hand, and propped the other on your hip, where Max’s eyes lingered a little too long.

“Try that,” you said. “If it doesn’t knock the edge off, I’ll give you a second round for free.”

He reached for the glass. You looked too smug, challenging him like he was no one to you, which he probably was. But Max liked a challenge, he was known for never backing out after all. He handled stronger for sure and America wasn’t the place that was about to teach him alcohol. He threw the whole glass back.

It burned.

His eyes watered, and Max coughed so hard he thought fire was about to spill out from his esophagus. You, on the other hand, looked delighted, grinning widely at his misery.

“You hate it.”

“I didn’t say that.”

You laughed, and the sound echoed in Max’s chest like cathedral bells, so violently he froze. Must be the alcohol.

Noticing his lack of retort, you leaned your elbows onto the bar, eyes dancing. “Aww, ain’t you too pretty to be looking this miserable?”

You were going to be the death of him. The corner of your mouth curled as if you’d just lit up a fuse. Max swallowed, slowly recovering from the short circuit your voice alone had triggered. “Is that how you greet all of your customers─ uh…” He choked out, searching for your name on your shirt.

“Y/N.” The name sounded good sliding off your tongue. Max felt the need to know how it felt sliding off his. “And only the ones who look like they took a wrong turn at a country club,” you commented, chin propped in your hand, eyes still locked on his. Touché. “You got that look─ y’know, European.” You whispered that as if it was a bad word. “Quiet, repressed. Secretly judging everyone.”

“That’s harsh.” He raised an eyebrow. “I’m not judging.” He was. He just wasn’t judging you.

“Sure you’re not, Verstappen.”

Oh. Your tone was casual, tossed off like nothing ─ but the sound of his name in your mouth made something flicker in his chest. Not how you said it, even though the accent and the inflections played a part in it, but the fact you said it at all.

You knew who he was, and clearly ─ you didn’t give two shits.

“Anyways,” you kept on going, oblivious or choosing not to care about the semi-amused grin that slipped on Max’s face. “The drink in your hand says otherwise.”

He glanced down. He threw the glass back, yes, but the liquid was so strong he couldn’t even get half of it down before choking on it. “I’m drinking it.”

“Barely.”

Max straightened a bit. “Okay. Fine.” Again, his tone was harsher than he actually meant it to be. He just didn’t know how to handle whatever was happening there ─ your smiles, your presence. “What should I be drinking then?”

You didn’t answer right away ─ just tilted your head, eyes sweeping over him slowly, deliberately, like you were appraising a new kind of game. It sent shivers down his spine, and he was deeply ashamed to say he was enjoying it. “You trust me, pretty boy?”

There was the nickname again. “I don’t not trust you,” which was as far as he could go after knowing you for a dance and a drink. Maybe he needed more. Just to make sure you wouldn’t poison him.

“That’s a whole lotta syllables for yes!” You laughed, already moving, pulling down bottles Max could barely recognize, tossing ice into a shaker with a rhythm that matched the beat of the song playing overhead. Your hands moved fast, confident, dancing between ingredients as if you were born behind this bar.

Max was fast, yes, but not in the way you were ─ intricate, careful. Just like that, he was hypnotized again, eyes tracing your every movement.

It broke when you slid another drink toward him. Something golden, fizzing at the top, smelling like citrus and vanilla. Like you. “Go on, drink.”

He eyed the glass. “What’s in it?”

“You said you trusted me.”

“You put the words in my mouth.”

You barked out a surprised laugh. “Either drink or I’m telling your lil’ blond friend with the camera you can’t handle your liquor,” you nodded behind Max with a sharp grin. “Wonder how that’ll go down.”

He glanced over his shoulder, and Lando had his camera zeroed on him in a way that may have tried to be discreet but miserably failed. Max muttered a curse. First, because Lando had the bad habit of filming everything and for it to get leaked the day after ─ so if their little outing wasn’t public information already, it would be by tomorrow morning. Second, based on his first point, he couldn’t possibly be dragged through the dirt for going to a Coyote Ugly and have the reputation of a lightweight. His Dutch heritage would look like a joke. Max brought the glass to his lips.

It tasted like heat, honey, whiskey, and something floral he couldn’t name. “That’s… actually good.”

“Told you you should trust me,” you said, pleased. “Don’t worry your pretty little head, I taste-test all the cocktails before I serve them. I’m not that much of a degenerate.”

You wet your lips, and Max’s eyes caught onto them for a split second. He wouldn’t let himself acknowledge the thought that almost formed in his head.

Instead, he blinked. “Are you always like this?”

“Like what?”

“So… intense.” It was a genuine question. He met people with fire, he worked with them daily, and he could consider himself one in a way ─ however, it was the contained kind. The one that was shaped to work toward a goal. You were a forest fire, spreading, in constant reach of something. Max was sure your fingerprints could burn themselves on his skin if you let them linger long enough. 

You laughed ─ loud and shameless. “Apparently. Tends to flare up when I’m bored.”

And maybe it was the alcohol, or the raucous crowd ignoring you both entirely, making it seem like you had your own, private sphere, but Max leaned forward, just enough to make your eyes imperceptibly widen by the action. It made his stomach lurch with a strange kind of pride. “And are you bored right now?”

You looked at him, gaze heavy with meaning. “Not anymore.”

Max felt something stir low in his chest ─ heat, curiosity, the burn of your drink still coating his throat. He wished he could have lingered on it, maybe make sense of it but you took it from him, leaning back and breaking the tension with a sly glint in your eyes. A reminder you were in control of the room.

“You ever poured a shot before, pretty boy?” You asked.

That was a change of topic. “Uh─ no?”

“Well, that’s about to change.”

Before he could argue, or even ask what you meant, your fingers stroked his wrist and he forgot about everything he was going to say. That’s when you tugged him forward, He didn’t resist, more out of shock than anything else, but next thing he knew he was behind the bar, ducking under the pass-through from which Coyotes went and left. Pushing him into your world.

The heat was much worse with the change of scenery ─ the lights brighter, the music louder, you right next to him.

“Are we─ Am I even allowed back there?” Max asked, stumbling slightly as he knocked into a pack of plastic cups.

“Nope,” you answered cheerfully. Just as on cue, one of your colleagues piped up, something about ‘no men on the bar’ and the wooden board of warnings at the front of the bar flashed in Max’s mind. You flipped her off lightheartedly, saying something along the line that, technically, he wasn’t on the bar. Just behind it.

From under the counter, you took out a bottle of something probably lethal and a metal shaker. “Alright, Verstappen. Time to earn your keep ─ didn’t think those drinks were for free, were you?” So that’s what it was all about. “You’re gonna help me make a round of Flaming Coyotes.”

“No way in hell that’s a real drink,” Max frowned.

“Unfortunately yes,” you said, cracking ice into a tin. “And you’re gonna light it.”

Your fingers wrapped around his hand, and Max’s heart stuttered at how your whole palm could wrap around one of his fingers. You guided it to the matchbox you set on the bar. “Relax, I’m not gonna let you burn your eyebrows off… unless you’re chicken?” You gasped, mocking.

“You really want me to set something on fire? With no… prior experience?”

“Only a little.”

You’re insane, he thought. You’re insane and he was never going to leave this bar. But Max was not sure he wanted to leave as badly as he did earlier, that’s why he lit the match.

The crowd erupted when the flame caught on the shot glasses. In front of him, Pierre, Daniel, and Charles cheered and whooped as loudly as he could, and somehow Max forgot all about them in these 20 minutes. He looked up, breathless, adrenaline buzzing through his veins like engine oil. You were watching him carefully, looking like you’d just found something very interesting in me. “Look at you,” you said, tone playful. “Didn’t think you had it in you.”

And Max smiled ─ actually smiled, for the first time since this night started. Wide, boyish, and wrecked by it all, and fucking hell did he look good, you allowed yourself to think. His chest swelled with something as you smiled back. And maybe it was the fire, maybe it was the cheers. Or maybe it was you.

The following hours were spent in a blur.

Not the kind of blur Max was used to ─ it wasn’t the sharp edges of a race weekend or the post-win daze of podiums and press conferences. This was so much more different. Warm, messy in a way that curled around his senses and dimmed the seconds together until the clock disappeared.

Shots kept appearing in his hand like magic, and he went from behind to the front of the bar as he pleased ─ most of the bartenders called him an ‘Honorable Coyote’, which shouldn’t have been as funny as it was at the time. The jukebox never stopped switching music, keeping him on his toes. Lando and Pierre had stolen a mic at some point, or maybe you gave it to them for the hell of it, and slurred She’s Country by Jason Aldean so off-key some of the girls threatened to cut them off, splashing them with ice-cold water. Daniel had tried to climb on the bar twice, failing miserably because rules were rules, Charles was attempting to dance with a girl in a cowboy hat three sizes to big for her head, and Carlos was desperately explaining race strategies to a group of drunken Texan who clearly didn’t know what Formula One was.

And then there was you.

Always moving. Always glowing, whether it be from the sheen of your efforts or the loud, obnoxious ambiance that sublimed your features. You’d disappear back into the rhythm of the bar and the beat of the dance, your natural habitat, flinging bottles in the air, laughing as someone tried to kiss your hand and you sent them waltzing away, yelling over the crowd without care. And now Max was convinced people there didn’t simply think they were in love with you. They undoubtedly were ─ six steps in and all that. And he would have been bothered in any other circumstances.

But whenever Max looked up, he caught you looking at him. Every time, you smiled like you knew exactly what you were doing.

Max didn’t know how much time had passed by that point, only that his throat was dry, his cheeks flushed bright red and hurting from how much he laughed, the back of his neck scorching from something stronger than just alcohol. Somewhere along the way, the night had stopped being about celebrating a win and started being about you.

Maybe that’s how he got roped in a messy attempt at a line dance.

He tried to resist at first. Truly. Max still stood by what he said at the beginning of the night: he was a driver, not a dancer. But when you shouted to ask if everyone wanted to see an F1 World Champion do ‘a little two steps’ and everyone cheered, including his friends and colleagues, the traitors, he couldn’t bring himself to say no. Not when you stood so close to him.

You’re Easy On The Eyes by Terri Clark twanged through the jukebox, loud enough to rattle the shelves and the floorboards, while Max tried to follow your explanations. His hands were on his hips, knees knocking together as he mimicked you except he was two steps behind and overthinking it. You were outwardly mocking him by now. “Your coordination’s better in a car, huh?” You teased.

Max huffed. “You call this coordination?”

“Aw, don’t pout, baby. You’re trying.” He rolled his eyes and you stuck your tongue at him. Daniel was somewhere in the back, filming, but Max had tuned the world out. 

Somehow, in the whirl of bodies, he caught you again, his hands instinctively flying to your waist to steady himself so he wouldn’t faceplant ─ that would be the highlight of his night. Before he could process it, and you always a step ahead of him, you grabbed the cowboy hat off his head and in one slick movement, settled it on yours with a wink. The crowd roared in approval. Someone let out a sharp whistle. Max wasn’t fluent enough in Southern to know what that meant, but the half-lidded look you gave him translated across every barrier.

Game on.

You roped him into much more after that. Max followed blindly, always rising to the challenge, stuck in the daze of you. In the decadence of Coyote Ugly. In the secrecy of the nighttime, where everything felt allowed and nothing had to make sense in the morning.

By the time he was able to breathe, he’d long dismissed the idea to try and find out where his friends had scattered to. The only thing he could feel was the warmth of your hand wrapped around his wrist, tugging him past the old, swinging saloon-style door and out in the thick, velvet air of the Texan night.

The back of the bar was quieter. The hum of crickets, the soft hum of the neon signs bleeding through ancient wooden slats, and the echo of music and laughter still pulsing behind closed doors. Cardboard boxes were lying around, swallowed by the wild, uncut grass. The sky was wide and open above him, seemingly endless, stars barely cutting through the heat haze but present nonetheless. Nobody was there apart from the two of you.

Back against the structure of the bar, Max quietly watched as you lit a cigarette next to him. It didn’t surprise him in the slightest. Wordlessly, you offered him your open back with a raised eyebrow.

“I don’t smoke.” He waved it off.

You shrugged, blowing a grey cloud out to the night. He didn’t mind it ─ driving every day of your life, you get used to the smell. “I don’t really like smoking either. It just gives my hands something to do.”

Max chuckled. That didn’t surprise him either, he already figured out life moved with you and not the contrary. 

It seemed like you didn’t appreciate it when conversations stilled because you were quick to speak up again. “Didn’t think I’d see the day a world champion let a girl make a fool outta him in public,” you said, leaning against the wall. Your shoulder brushed his. The number of times you touched him tonight was too numerous to count, but this one felt different. Innocent.

Max threw a smile at you, eyes darting to his feet for a second, still a little glassy. “I’m not the type to mind.”

And that, for some reason, made you look at him. Actually look at him. The type of look stripping away the chaos, the teasing, the fire-breathing version of yourself you wore so proudly behind the bar. You looked at him and Max was faced with the fact that you were just ─ you. Still half-wild, still sharp, but a little less guarded under the moonlight.

He liked it. A lot.

“D’you always enjoy losing control that much, then?” You asked with a small smile.

Max’s lips parted to answer─ pausing.

He thought about it. How rare this was, to be in a place he didn’t understand perfectly, being in Formula One for 10 years, you get used to the pattern of events, and you know what to target when things don’t go your way to make them bend to your will. Right now, he was tangled in things whose sense escaped him, and did not want to run from it.

His voice was quieter when he finally answered. “Only tonight.”

You took that in with a nod and brought the cigarette back to your lips.

“I’m glad you came tonight, then.”

That was it. No confessions, no fireworks, but Max felt his chest tighten just the same. You were just two people, sharing the silence, letting the sticky Texas air settle into your skins, wondering what the hell would happen when tonight fades. He wasn’t ready to find out the answer yet.

So, Max asked, “What led you to this?”

“To what? Coyote Ugly?” You raised an eyebrow, blowing out a slow stream of smoke and watching it curl around the humidity.

“Yeah. Why do you do it?”

“That’s two different questions, pretty boy.”

“Guess I want an answer to both.”

You hesitated, not because you didn’t want to answer, but because no one ever asked. Not your friends, not your colleagues, much less your family who was less than understanding about your life choices.

You shifted your weight, eyes flicking toward the parking lot in the distance. “Well, I came in looking for a job, obviously.” Your voice was softer now. There was still a bit of tease around the commas, but not nearly as much. “Needed rent money. Didn’t want a desk.”

Max hummed. “Makes sense.”

You tapped the ash off the cigarette. “And then I stayed ‘cause… I dunno. You ever walk into a place and, as crazy as it sounds, even if it’s a mess, I mean like pure chaos, and wild and loud you think ─ yeah. This might be the only place I make sense? I get to perform. I get to be myself. Take up space. Alive, not rotting in place like I was scared to. I wasn’t allowed to… do all that before.”

“I get it.” He nodded.

“Didn’t think you would.”

“I race cars for a living. I get messy.”

It was meant to be a light answer, something thrown back with a crooked smile and a shrug ─ but as the words settled in the small space between you, something shifted.

Max looked out in the dark, the flicker of neon reflecting faintly off the metal of a rusted old pickup nearby. He let himself sink into the silence for a second, and you waited until he was ready to speak up again. And he did, in a whisper, more to himself than to you. “Everything’s always so… calculated. In racing. It’s controlled and measured, even the mess, you know? It’s still part of the plan, of what’s expected, somewhat.”

You turned toward him slightly, hip still leaning against the wall, cigarette flickering between your fingers.

“You’re serious,” you said. Not accusatory ─ just curious. “Like, really serious.”

He glanced at you. “And you’re not.”

“Oh, I can be. I know when not to be, which just happens to be most of the time. And I like it like that, honestly,” you shrugged. “I don’t want to be stuck in something that’ll bury me before my time, and I couldn’t see myself anywhere else now, not when I get to be unashamed like that.” Your last words were just above a whisper. “Free.”

The term stagnates for a while.

Until Max lets out a soft laugh, barely even there. “I don’t think I’ve ever been allowed to be anything else but serious.”

The words surprised him. Not because he never thought about them, but because he never said them out loud. He didn’t think he meant them. Now, they felt unescapable, slightly suffocating ─ and the way you looked at him, patient, didn’t help in the slightest. He exhaled slowly, rubbing the back of his neck.

“It’s always about being perfect. Image, numbers, control. If I mess up, people lose money. I lose standing. Teams fall apart. Media goes insane. There’s no room to just.. exist? I guess?” His voice dips lower.

Max wasn’t about to say anything more. He sobered up too much to spill his guts further to a little more than a stranger. Yet, the way you looked at him ─ meeting his gaze with something softer than you’d shown him all night ─ and what you’ve told him, you didn’t feel like a stranger at all. You, who wore fire like perfume and laughed like a dare, stripped down to ashes.

You voiced what he was thinking. “So we’re not that different. I mean, we both perform. In our ways.”

He couldn’t figure you out, no matter how much he tried, no matter how much you’ve shown and hidden tonight but God, Max could have spent hours and hours trying to puzzle you back until you’d finally make sense.

Instead, he just dipped his head in agreement, which made you smile gently. You nudged him with your shoulder. “Alright, Verstappen. Guess you’re not just a pretty face, huh?”

Max choked on a laugh, and he couldn’t help himself. “You are, though. And a lot more.”

You rolled your eyes at his sad attempt at flirting, snorting, but the grin spreading your lips lingered for longer than it should have. Max shuffled a bit closer to you ─ subtle enough that it could’ve been the heat dragging him in ─ but not so subtle that he missed the way you shifted too, gravity pulling you both toward something unspoken.

Quiet still, you spoke up again, voice barely above the hum of the night. “It’s nice, though. People like us don’t get a lot of moments like this.” You gestured around, the empty half-alley, half-garden bathed in neon spill, the distant sounds of cricket, the sounds of the music and the people inside like a faraway dream. This. The in-between.

Max’s voice came back low, warm. “Then we should make them count.”

You turned to look at him, slower this time. And Max ─ he didn’t dare move. Just watched.

The way the light caught on your dewy skin. The glint of sweat at your temple. Your pupils blown wide, not just from the dark but from interest, curiosity. That sharp, electric pull that had lived between you all night, was finally quiet enough to be noticed.

Your eyes dropped to his lips, just for a moment. It was so fast that he thought he might have imagined it. His heart twisted anyway.

“And how are you planning on making it count, Max?”

His name, swirling around your tongue for the first time tonight ─ sweet, sharp, honey on a blade. It hit him square in the chest.

Something in his chest stammers, tires hitting gravel at full speed, and all reason is thrown aside after that. He doesn’t even know how it came to it ─ your back flush against the wall, his hands on your waist, your eyes boring into his and your cigarette half-smoked, forgotten on the gravel. He could feel your body heat as if it was his, your breath quickening at the contact. He could feel you and he wondered if you felt him just as intensely.

His eyes traced the curves of your lips and Max wondered what you tasted like. Smoke, citrus, spice. He wanted to memorize the taste, throw it into a drink he could get drunk on every night, threatening his health to grasp the memory of you again and again.

That was until─

“MAX?!” A shout echoed down the parking lot. Slurred, and unmistakably Daniel-sounding.

More followed.

“Mate, where did he fuck off to?”

“We’re leaving in ten, HURRY UP!”

It was muffled by the distance, but he knew you heard it as well. The half-smile on your face betrayed you.

“So, you gonna kiss me, pretty boy?” You asked.

It would’ve happened.

Max would’ve leaned in and would’ve chased the heat grasping his ribs whenever you looked at him. He would have mapped your mouth, the curve of your waist beneath his palms, would’ve swallowed every sound you made as he was starved for it. He would’ve kissed you and let you burn him alive, gladly, but─

The voices grew smaller. Daniel’s laugh, Pierre’s yell, Charles’ confusion. Reality bleeding back in. Max’s jaw tensed. If he waited a minute longer, he’d miss his ride. Miss the world contained in his hotel room that would stop spinning if he missed a minute off the clock.

He simply told the truth. 

“If I start,” Max murmured, “I don’t know if I’d be able to stop.”

That earned him a look. It wasn’t surprised, or angry ─ it was something a lot like expectancy, and in some way, it hurt a lot more.

You stepped forward, hand gently rising to meet his chest. The contact was light but the weight of it hit him like a crash and when you pushed, just a fraction, just enough, it wasn’t playful or teasing. It felt like goodbye dressed like mercy. You took the cowboy hat you stole from him earlier in the night and put it back on his head.

“Then don’t start something you can’t finish,” you whispered.

You gave him one last look ─ one he’d replay for days, conflicting emotions dimmed down to the flicker of a lighter in your eyes ─ and turned toward the door.

And Max felt awfully selfish when he asked the shadow of your figure, “Are you still going to be there next time?”

You didn’t even look back at him, but he saw your shoulders shake in a bittersweet sort of laugh, now out of his reach. “In a year, you mean? When the Grand Prix calls you back to Texas? I don’t wait, Max. My life isn’t drawn for me. I take my chances.”

You disappeared.

Max didn’t follow. He just stood there, the imprint of your touch still warm over his heart, wondering if this night would feel like a dream come morning. If you ever existed ─ or if Coyote Ugly had simply conjured you from the smoke and the music to remind him what wanting felt like.

He hadn’t kissed you, but he would never forget almost doing it.

When he climbed in the back of Daniel’s car, he evaded all the questions, the friendly mockery, the knowing glances, the snickering about the cowboy hat he still held in his hand like it was something breakable. Max just sat there, humming along to the comments Carlos made about the night, fidgeting with the brim and rubbing his thumb along the worn fabric like it might give him answers. Maybe it had caught something of you ─ your perfume, your voice, your laugh, the heat of your skin ─ and would let it slip back to him if he held on it long enough.

But it didn’t.

Later, Max crawled into bed with the weight of the night hanging around his ankles like shackles, dragging the air from his lungs. He didn’t sleep much. He didn’t want to.

He woke up with the sun, far too bright for the early morning, streaming through the blinds he forgot to close. He could feel his brain pulsing behind his eyes, his bloodshot eyes struggling to stay open, the remaining, chalky taste of whiskey sticking to his palate like cement. The evening flashed before him, a fever dream he wished he had the strength to push away ─ the obnoxious music, the sweat, the alcohol, and your smile.

Almost.

Max groaned, sitting up with difficulty on his bed. Every single one of his muscles ached, a sore reminder of the failed attempts at dancing and bartending he made last night ─ some spots hurt more than others, and in some measure, they felt like the shape of your hands.

The cowboy hat he had tossed last night, in the desperate attempt to stop anguishing about the brush of your breath across his lips, laid in front of him, miserable. Max couldn’t help himself and he reached for it out of instinct.

It felt cheaper than it did before, most imperfect underneath the daylight. He’d already memorized the texture and shape of the memento, obsessively tracing it, and yet it didn’t feel sufficient. He supposed it never would, and he’d have to live with this reality.

Max was about to put it back on his nightstand. To swallow down an Ibuprofen, chase it with an ice-cold shower, and carry on with his life like always. Another plane, another race, hopefully another win.

But something made him pause. He turned the hat in his hands again, just like he did a few hours before sleep took him by surprise.

And there it was. Tucked just inside the brim, where the lining met the crown ─ scrawled in smudged black ink he’d bet his life was eyeliner, barely visible unless you were compulsively looking for it─

if you dare.

A little heart, and a phone number scribbled right beside it.

Max blinked, mouth parting just slightly, heart mistaking the rhythm of his breathing for the first few notes of a country song. He read it again, and again until it stopped feeling like a trick of the light and started feeling like a choice.

He left thinking you were supposed to be one moment. One night. A blur of burn and guitar chords ─ but you’d left a door open.

And it was seemingly Max’s turn to take his chance.

©LVRCLERC 2025 ━ do not copy, steal, post somewhere else or translate my work without my permission.

[scarluna]

Thoughts of You

Y/N starts work as a client agent at a big corporate company. There, she meets Jungkook, a man who confuses the hell out of her.

Pairing: Jungkook x Fem!Reader

Genre/Tags: plus sized reader, fuckboy jungkook, insecurities, smoking

Chapter available: 1 | 3 | 4 | 5

Chapters: 2 / 5

Chapter Warnings: mature language, a little sexual tension

A/N: In sake of this fic, some things are added, others are a little changed, but the overall story is true. I AM AS CONFUSED AS Y/N OK? OK.

A week had passed, and Y/N found herself standing in front of her mirror, dreading the idea of stepping out. The past few days had been a relentless battle between her self-doubt and the need to push herself beyond her comfort zone. She hated the way she looked—how big she felt in her own skin. Every outfit she tried on made her feel worse, her reflection in the mirror only reinforcing the insecurities gnawing at her.

Sighing, she settled on oversized clothes, ones that concealed rather than accentuated, offering her a semblance of security. Her hair was curled loosely, cascading down her shoulders, a contrast to the chaos in her mind. A touch of makeup—just enough to make her feel like she had put in some effort, yet not enough to draw attention—completed her look.

Her dog whined at her feet, sensing her reluctance, but Y/N gave the pup a small smile before grabbing her bag and stepping out the door. The fresh air hit her face, yet it did little to ease the weight in her chest. The car ride was silent, save for the occasional deep breath she took to steel herself.

Arriving at the meetup spot, she saw her colleagues already gathered, laughter filling the air. They greeted her warmly, joking about the upcoming night, their energy so effortlessly light compared to the storm within her. For a fleeting moment, she managed a small smile, allowing herself to feel a bit of ease in their presence.

Then came the loud roar of an engine, bass-heavy music thumping through the air. The group turned, already knowing who it was before they even saw the sleek car roll up beside them. Jungkook. His presence was impossible to ignore, commanding attention the moment he stepped out.

Y/N swallowed as she caught sight of him. The disheveled hair, the relaxed posture, and—what made her stomach churn—the faint but unmistakable hickeys littering his neck.

Her heart sank, her mood plummeting instantly. She had been struggling to even step out of her house, to feel like she belonged among them, while he... he had been out, living effortlessly, having fun, and clearly enjoying the company of someone else.

She shifted her gaze away, forcing herself to maintain composure as their friends greeted him with teasing remarks. She wanted to disappear, to retreat into the comfort of her home, where she could be alone with her dog and her thoughts.

But she was here now, and she had to endure it. Even if it hurt.

The teasing began almost instantly.

“Damn, Jungkook,” one of their colleagues smirked, nudging him playfully. “Rough night?”

Another chimed in, laughing. “Or should I say, rough nights? You’ve got enough hickeys to last the week.”

Jungkook, ever the cocky one, simply grinned, running a hand through his already messy hair. “What can I say?” he shrugged, his voice dripping with amusement. “Gotta keep life interesting.”

The group erupted into laughter, the energy high and unbothered. Y/N, on the other hand, remained quiet, staring ahead as if their conversation didn’t concern her. She pulled a cigarette from her pocket, lighting it with steady hands, despite the storm raging inside her. Taking a slow, deep drag, she let the smoke swirl around her, masking the bitter taste of disappointment that sat heavy on her tongue.

She had no right to feel this way. She knew that. He wasn’t hers—never was, never would be. But for even a second, she had allowed herself to believe there was something. A fleeting glance, a moment of warmth, a shared silence that had meant nothing to him but had kept her awake at night, foolishly hoping.

Stupid. She was so, so stupid.

“Hey, you good?” One of her colleagues leaned toward her, their voice laced with concern.

Y/N forced a lazy smile, exhaling the smoke as she waved them off. “Yeah, just too sleepy to function.” A lie, but an easy one.

They seemed satisfied with her answer, turning back to the conversation as Jungkook smirked at another crude joke thrown his way. Y/N, meanwhile, sat in silence, the cigarette burning between her fingers as she fought the cruel thoughts in her head.

She needed to stop. Stop pretending. Stop romanticizing. Stop letting herself fall into this ridiculous fairytale where she was ever anything more than just another face in his orbit.

Jungkook would never see her the way she wished he would.

And it was time she stopped seeing him that way too.

The break room was lively, filled with the usual chatter and laughter as everyone settled in for their lunch break. Some were sprawled out on the couches, others engaged in a casual game of football, while a few gathered around the vending machines debating over snacks. Y/N sat at the table in front of Jungkook, absentmindedly picking at her food, her mind drifting elsewhere as the conversation carried on around her.

Jungkook, spinning lazily in his chair, suddenly spoke up, dragging everyone’s attention back to him. “You know,” he mused, stretching his arms behind his head, “I think I should date an older woman. Maybe even a MILF.”

A chorus of laughter erupted around the room. “Oh yeah?” One of the guys smirked. “Thinking of settling down already?”

Jungkook grinned, shaking his head. “Nah, just think it could be fun. Older women have their shit together, know what they want, plus…” He trailed off as he turned slightly in his chair, catching movement outside the window. His gaze locked onto a woman walking past the building, pushing a baby stroller. She was effortlessly beautiful—dressed casually yet put together, her confidence apparent in the way she carried herself.

“Damn,” he murmured, tilting his head. “Now she’s hot.”

Some of the guys turned to look, chuckling at his sudden distraction. “She’s got a baby, dude.”

Jungkook shrugged, still watching her. “So? Doesn’t mean she’s taken.” He smirked, clearly entertained by his own train of thought. “Think I should ask if she’s single?”

Y/N felt her stomach twist in disgust. She had spent the last week trying to fight off the stupid storm of feelings and confusion she had toward him, trying to remind herself that this was the reality and no matter how his words were gathered, he was still a fuckboy and probably did not mean anything he had told her so far about him being loyal. Here he was, proving her right without even realizing it.

She didn’t think. She just moved.

Pushing her chair back abruptly, she stood up and walked straight out of the break room, her face blank, her heart pounding with frustration. She didn’t even care how obvious it looked—she just needed to get out of there.

As the door swung shut behind her, Jungkook’s amused voice carried through the room. “Oh, no, Y/N is tired of my shit!” he joked, shaking his head as the others laughed.

But for the first time, something about her reaction made him pause.

-

Y/N had made it a habit to slip away during breaks, finding solace in the quiet outside. The crisp air, the burn of the cigarette between her fingers—it was the only thing that seemed to ground her these days. She avoided the break room, avoided the easy laughter and meaningless conversations, and most importantly, she avoided him.

Jungkook.

But of course, he found her anyway.

She barely had time to take another drag when she heard the door creak open behind her. She knew it was him before he even spoke.

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

Y/N exhaled slowly, watching the smoke dissipate in the air before she turned her gaze to him. “No, I haven’t.”

Jungkook let out a low chuckle, stepping closer, his presence too overwhelming, too intoxicating. “Liar.” His tone was teasing, but there was something else beneath it—curiosity, maybe even concern. “You barely look at me. You don’t sit with us anymore.”

She shrugged, taking another drag, feigning indifference. “I’m just tired.”

Jungkook didn’t look convinced. His dark eyes scanned her face, as if searching for something beneath her guarded expression. The silence between them was heavy, charged. Y/N could feel the heat of his gaze, the way he was studying her, trying to read between the lines of her simple excuse.

“You sure that’s all?” His voice was lower now, softer, and it made her stomach tighten in a way she hated.

Before she could answer, his phone buzzed loudly in his pocket, breaking whatever unspoken thing had been building between them. Jungkook sighed, pulling it out and glancing at the screen. He didn’t answer immediately, but whatever he saw on the display made him smirk slightly before he finally picked up.

“Yo,” he answered casually, his voice shifting into something more playful. A few short words, and then he hung up.

Moments later, Y/N heard heels clicking against the pavement. She didn’t have to turn around to know who it was—she could already picture the kind of girl Jungkook surrounded himself with. And when she did look, her stomach twisted.

The girl was thin, almost unnaturally so, her long hair spilling down in artificially perfect waves. Everything about her was polished—the exaggerated lashes, the overly plumped lips, the body sculpted to perfection.

“Hey, you,” she greeted Jungkook with a slow, knowing smile, her voice dripping with familiarity.

They were close. Too close. The way she looked at him, the way he smirked at her—it didn’t take much to guess what kind of history they had.

Y/N felt something ugly crawl up her throat, but she swallowed it down. She refused to let it show. Instead, she forced a weak smile, one that probably looked as fake as the girl’s hair extensions.

“I’ll leave you two to it,” she murmured, flicking her cigarette away as she immediately slipped back into the building without giving Jungkook time to respond. This entire thing kept running in her mind, it was as if this was all she could think of the month she has been here. Y/N had to get a fucking grip and get over this, all of the men she had met in her past were the same, men who were one in words yet did the opposite. She shouldn’t have been surprised about this, it was as if Universe sent a huge middle finger her way for being so closed off. -

Y/N sat across from her close friend at their usual café, the scent of fresh coffee filling the air. She stirred her drink absentmindedly, sighing as she recounted everything—Jungkook, the break room incident, the fake-looking girl, and the way she had walked away, feeling small and ridiculous for even being affected.

Her friend had a a knack for reading people far too well, listened attentively, nodding along as Y/N spoke. When she was finished, her friend leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand.

“You know what I think?” she said thoughtfully.

Y/N groaned. “Here we go.”

“I think you’re stuck.”

Y/N frowned. “Stuck how?”

“You’ve been in your comfort zone for too long, Y/N,” her friend said seriously. “You’re always playing it safe, always hiding. And I get it—you like your space, your quiet world. But growth doesn’t happen in places that are comfortable. If you want to move on, if you want to feel better about yourself, you need to push yourself.”

Y/N arched a brow. “And how do you suggest I do that?”

“Easy. Start by doing things you wouldn’t normally do. Wear something different, change up your makeup, say yes to things instead of immediately retreating.” Her friend smiled. “Do it for yourself. Not for Jungkook, not for anyone else. Just you.”

Y/N hesitated, biting her lip. It sounded simple enough, but it wasn’t. She had built her world around comfort and control, and stepping outside of that felt terrifying. But at the same time, a part of her knew her friend was right.

And so, the next morning, she did just that.

For once, she didn’t reach for her oversized clothes. Instead, she slid into a pair of skinny jeans, ones that hugged her figure in a way she wasn’t used to but didn’t hate. She paired it with a soft, slightly low-cut blouse—work-appropriate yet subtly flattering. Her makeup was a little more refined, enhancing rather than hiding. She stared at herself in the mirror, unsure at first. But the longer she looked, the more she felt… okay. Not completely confident, but okay.

And that was a start.

When Y/N arrived at the office, the reaction was immediate.

“Damn, Y/N, look at you!” one of her colleagues grinned.

“You look amazing!” another chimed in, eyes flickering over her in genuine appreciation.

She offered them a small, almost shy smile, mumbling a quiet “Thanks” as she made her way to her desk. It felt strange, the attention, but it wasn’t bad. For once, she wasn’t trying to disappear into the background.

The door opened, and in walked Jungkook.

She held her breath, but he barely reacted. He walked past her, barely sparing a glance before offering a casual, “Hey,” before settling into his place.

That was it.

Y/N exhaled, realizing something.

She hadn’t done this for him. And that meant his reaction—or lack of it—didn’t matter.

And for the first time in a long while, she felt something close to free.

The afternoon sun hung lazily in the sky as Y/N stepped outside for a quick smoke break. The air was thick with casual conversation and laughter as a few colleagues gathered, all taking a moment to unwind. She leaned against the railing, taking a slow drag from her cigarette, exhaling as she listened to the chatter around her.

“Y/N, you look different lately,” a voice piped up beside her. She turned to see one of her colleagues, a guy who had always been a little too flirty, watching her with an interested smirk. “In a good way,” he added, his eyes running over her outfit.

She gave him a polite smile, shrugging. “Just trying something new.”

“Well, it suits you,” he said, stepping a little closer. “We should celebrate the new you. Maybe grab some drinks after work? My place, maybe even watch a movie?” His voice had a certain implication to it, and Y/N felt her stomach twist.

She chuckled lightly, shaking her head. “Thanks, but I’ll have to pass.”

“Oh, come on,” he pressed, his tone playful but persistent. “It’ll be fun. Just a casual hangout.”

Y/N stiffened slightly, the forced smile on her lips faltering. “I said no,” she replied, firmer this time, but he didn’t seem to take the hint, leaning in just a little too much.

Before she could react, another voice cut through the air.

“Is there a problem here?”

The mood shifted instantly.

Jungkook had been standing nearby, leaning against the wall with his own cigarette in hand, casually listening in. But now, his entire posture had changed—his jaw tight, his expression unreadable as he stared at the guy with an intensity that made everyone else go quiet.

The colleague blinked, caught off guard. “Nah, man. Just talking.”

Jungkook didn’t break eye contact. “Didn’t sound like just talking.” His voice was low, calm, but there was something sharp in it. Something warning.

The guy let out a small, awkward laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Relax, dude. Just asking her out.”

“She said no,” Jungkook stated plainly.

Silence stretched between them, tension thick enough to cut through. Y/N glanced between the two, her heart beating a little faster, not expecting Jungkook to step in like this.

The colleague raised his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright. No harm done.” He took a step back, throwing Y/N one last glance before mumbling something under his breath and walking off.

Jungkook took a slow drag from his cigarette before flicking his gaze toward Y/N. “You good?”

She exhaled, nodding. “Yeah. Thanks.”

He didn’t say anything right away, just studied her for a moment before finally nodding back, looking away as he took another drag.

But even as the conversation around them resumed, Y/N could still feel his presence beside her, solid and unwavering. And for some reason, that alone made her feel a little lighter.

-

The workday finally came to an end, and the office slowly emptied as people grabbed their bags, exchanging casual goodbyes. Y/N slung her purse over her shoulder, taking a deep breath as she stepped out into the cool evening air.

She made her way toward the bus stop, the day’s events still sitting heavy in her mind. Just as she was about to put in her headphones to drown out her thoughts, she heard the familiar sound of an engine purring beside her.

Jungkook’s sleek car rolled up, the passenger window sliding down effortlessly. “Where you headed?” he asked casually, one hand resting on the wheel.

Y/N blinked, shifting her bag on her shoulder. “Uh… home?”

Jungkook smirked. “Get in. I’ll drive you.”

She hesitated.

This was unexpected. It wasn’t like they were close. Sure, they shared breaks, exchanged words, but this? This felt like something else.

“I’m fine, the bus is—”

“Slow. And uncomfortable,” he cut in smoothly. “Come on, it’s a thirty-minute ride. You’d rather sit in a crowded bus when I’m right here?” His gaze flickered toward her, something teasing yet unreadable behind those dark eyes.

Y/N bit her lip, the refusal sitting on the tip of her tongue. But then she remembered her friend’s words—step out of your comfort zone.

Maybe this was one of those moments.

With a small sigh, she relented. “Fine.”

Sliding into the passenger seat, she was instantly engulfed in warmth, the subtle hum of the car’s engine vibrating beneath her. And the scent—God, his scent—wrapped around her, all masculine spice and something distinctly him. She forced herself to focus on buckling her seatbelt rather than the fact that she was sitting next to Jungkook in a confined space, inhaling his cologne like it was some kind of drug.

He pulled onto the road, one hand lazily gripping the wheel, the other resting near the gearshift.

“So,” he mused after a moment, glancing at her. “What’s your deal?”

Y/N frowned. “My deal?”

“Yeah. You don’t talk much. You keep to yourself. And yet…” He trailed off, a smirk playing on his lips. “You’ve been looking different lately. Acting different too.”

She scoffed, shaking her head. “So I put on better clothes and now I’m a mystery?”

Jungkook chuckled, the deep sound vibrating through the car. “You were already a mystery. This just makes you more interesting.”

Y/N rolled her eyes but felt the heat creeping up her neck. The conversation flowed easier than she expected, light banter mixed with moments of silence that weren’t uncomfortable. The drive went by quicker than she thought, and before she knew it, Jungkook was pulling up in front of her apartment building, shifting the car into park.

She turned to thank him, but the words caught in her throat.

The air between them shifted.

The low hum of the engine did nothing to mask the way the tension suddenly thickened, heavy and lingering. The dim glow of the streetlights outside barely illuminated the inside of the car, casting soft shadows across Jungkook’s sharp features.

His gaze settled on her, slow and deliberate.

Y/N swallowed, her fingers tightening slightly around her purse.

He tilted his head slightly, eyes flickering down to her lips before meeting her gaze again. “You’re hard to read, you know that?” His voice was lower now, smoother.

She let out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding, forcing a small smile. “Maybe I like it that way.”

Jungkook’s smirk deepened, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. “Yeah?”

She nodded, gripping the handle of the door before things could spiral into something she wasn’t sure she was ready for. “Thanks for the ride, Jungkook.”

He didn’t stop her. Didn’t say anything else. Just watched as she slipped out of the car and made her way to her building.

But she could feel his gaze on her, lingering, burning, until she finally disappeared inside—her heart hammering against her ribs the entire way up to her apartment.

[starskq]

I STILL HATE YOU / J.W

Pairing ◊ bratty!fem!reader x brattamer!wooyoung (ft. '99 line)

Genre ◊ SMUT, angst, ennemies to ???

Warnings ◊ SMUT (MINORS DNI), reader is a brat, harddom!wooyoung, they hate each other, fingering, rough, degradation, petnames (good girl, sweetheart...), oral (fem receiving), lots of angst

Word count ◊ 4,6k

Summary ◊ : You and Wooyoung hated each other, but your friends thought it would be a good idea to lock wooyoung's room to "sort things out"

a/n: just a sucker for dom Wooyoung 😵‍💫 enjoy! (not proofread)

You were part of this tight-knit friend group with Wooyoung, Yunho, San, Mingi, and Yeosang. Usually, you would have considered yourself lucky to be surrounded by such a cool bunch of people, but there was one glaring exception: Wooyoung. From the moment you met, you and Wooyoung clashed like fire and ice. You were both cocky, always trying to outdo each other with snarky comments and sarcastic remarks.

It wasn’t even like you had any reason to hate each other; it just happened. Maybe it was how Wooyoung always seemed so smug, with that infuriating smirk plastered on his face. Or maybe it was how he would always find some way to one-up you, no matter what. Either way, the tension between you two was almost palpable, and it was clear to everyone around.

The others in the group seemed to take it in stride. Yunho and San would roll their eyes and laugh it off, while Mingi would try to play peacemaker, often unsuccessfully. Yeosang, on the other hand, seemed to find your constant bickering somewhat amusing, though he rarely got involved. Despite the tension, the group managed to stick together, probably because your mutual animosity oddly balanced the dynamic.

One Friday night, you were all hanging out at their place, lounging on his beat-up couch, debating over what movie to watch. Wooyoung, as usual, had a different opinion from you. He wanted to watch some action flick while you were in the mood for a horror movie. The debate quickly turned into a full-blown argument, with you and Wooyoung standing face-to-face, jabbing at each other with pointed insults, as usual.

“Why don’t you just admit your taste in movies sucks?” Wooyoung sneered, crossing his arms.

“Oh please, like you even understand what makes a good movie,” you shot back, your tone dripping with sarcasm.

Yunho sighed loudly, standing between you two. “Alright, can we just decide already? It’s just a movie.”

San laughed, shaking his head. “You two are hopeless. Can’t even pick a movie without turning it into World War Three.”

The argument over which movie to watch was reaching a boiling point, and everyone in the room could sense it. You and Wooyoung were standing toe-to-toe, practically shouting over each other.

“I’m telling you, action movies are way more entertaining,” Wooyoung argued, his voice filled with exasperation.

“And I’m telling you, horror movies have way better plots,” you shot back, not willing to back down.

Yunho exchanged a knowing glance with San and Mingi. They’d had enough of the constant bickering and had been joking for weeks about taking drastic measures to put an end to it.

“Alright, that’s it,” Yunho said suddenly, standing up. “I can’t take this anymore. We need a break from your constant fighting.”

Before you could react, Yunho grabbed you by the arm while San and Mingi grabbed Wooyoung. You struggled, demanding to be let go, but they were determined.

“Hey! What the hell are you doing?” you yelled, trying to shake off Yunho’s grip.

“Let go of me! I’m not done here!” Wooyoung protested, struggling against San and Mingi.

Yeosang, who had been quietly watching the whole scene unfold, opened Wooyoung’s bedroom door. “In you go,” he said calmly, stepping aside.

Yunho and San practically shoved you both into the room and quickly shut the door behind you. You heard the click of the lock, and the realization set in.

“Are you guys serious?” you shouted, pounding on the door. “This is so immature!”

“Yeah, open the door! We don’t need this!” Wooyoung added, equally furious.

From the other side of the door, Yunho’s voice came through, sounding uncharacteristically stern. “You two need to sort this out. We’re not letting you out until you do.”

“You can’t be serious,” you groaned, leaning against the door in frustration.

“Oh, we’re very serious,” San replied, his tone leaving no room for argument. “You’re both our friends, and we’re tired of the constant fighting. So figure it out.”

Inside the room, you turned to face Wooyoung, who was glaring at you with just as much annoyance as you felt. You crossed your arms, refusing to be the first to speak.

“This is ridiculous,” Wooyoung muttered, pacing back and forth. “Like locking us in here is going to make us get along.”

“Well, maybe if you weren’t such a jerk all the time, we wouldn’t be in this situation,” you retorted, not missing a beat.

Wooyoung stopped pacing and turned to face you, his eyes flashing with irritation. “Me? A jerk? You’re the one who’s always acting like you’re better than everyone else!”

“Oh, please,” you scoffed, rolling your eyes. “I only act like that because you always have to be the center of attention!”

Outside, you could hear your friends laughing and chatting, clearly unconcerned about the drama unfolding inside the room.

“Can’t believe they did this,” you muttered under your breath.

“Same,” he replied, sitting down on his bed with a huff. “This is all your fault.���

“My fault? How is this my fault?” you demanded, sitting down on the floor opposite him.

“You’re the one who always has to argue with me,” he said, gripping his hair in frustration. “You just can’t let anything go.”

“Because you’re always wrong!” you shot back, the argument feeling strangely familiar, yet different with no audience to play to.

You exchanged a heated glance with Wooyoung, who looked ready to explode. “This is all your fault,” he said, his voice low and accusing.

“My fault? You’ve got to be kidding me,” you shot back, crossing your arms. “If you weren’t such a pain in the ass, we wouldn’t be here.”

“Oh, please,” Wooyoung sneered, getting up from the bed and stepping closer. “You’re the one who’s always picking fights.”

“Because you’re always so damn infuriating!” you retorted, matching his step forward until you were face to face.

The tension between you was palpable, and for a moment, it felt like something would snap. Instead, you both turned away with a huff, deciding that silence might be the best strategy. Maybe if you stopped engaging, your friends would see how pointless this was and let you out.

The silence stretched on, heavy and uncomfortable. You sat on the floor, leaning against the bed, while Wooyoung sat on the edge of it, staring at the wall. The minutes ticked by slowly, each second filled with unspoken words and unresolved tension. You could feel his presence, every movement and breath, making it impossible to fully relax.

After what felt like an eternity, the silence became too much to bear. You shifted, the slight noise breaking the uneasy peace. Wooyoung glanced at you, his expression unreadable.

“What?” you snapped, unable to hold back.

“Nothing,” he muttered, looking away again.

The frustration boiled over. “You always do this,” you said, your voice rising. “Acting like you’re so much better than everyone else.”

Wooyoung’s head whipped around, his eyes flashing with anger. “Better than everyone else? You’re the one who’s always acting like you have something to prove!”

“I wouldn’t have to if you didn’t constantly try to undermine me!” you shouted, standing up.

“You’re unbelievable,” he said, standing up to face you. “You think you’re the only one who’s frustrated? You make everything so damn difficult!”

“Me? You’re the one who—”

The argument escalated quickly, voices rising, insults flying. The room seemed to shrink around you as the anger and frustration spilled over. You were both shouting now, words tumbling out without thought.

“You’re so arrogant!” you yelled, stepping closer to him.

“And you’re so damn stubborn!” Wooyoung shot back, closing the distance between you even more.

The space between you was electric, charged with anger and something else you couldn’t quite identify. The fight became more heated, the words more cutting.

“You think you’re so smart, don’t you?” you said, your voice shaking with anger. “But you’re just a coward, hiding behind that smug attitude!”

Wooyoung’s eyes blazed with fury. “You don’t know anything about me!”

“Maybe because you never let anyone in!” you screamed, pushing him back. He stumbled slightly, then came back, his face inches from yours.

“Maybe because you never tried to understand!” he shouted, his breath hot on your face.

You felt a surge of anger and recklessness take over. “Why would I want to understand someone as pathetic as you?” you shot back, your words sharp and cutting.

Wooyoung’s eyes flashed dangerously. “Shut up,” he said, his voice low and filled with warning.

You met his gaze with a challenging look, the anger and adrenaline making you bold. “Make me,” you replied, your voice steady despite the wild beating of your heart.

For a moment, everything seemed to freeze. Then, before you could react, Wooyoung grabbed your shoulders and pulled you toward him, crashing his lips against yours in a rough, almost desperate kiss. The suddenness of it stole your breath, and for a split second, you were too stunned to respond.

But then you felt a surge of heat, a mix of anger and something much deeper. You kissed him back just as fiercely, your hands moving to tangle in his hair as you tried to pull him even closer. It was a battle, not a kiss—each of you trying to dominate, to claim the upper hand.

Wooyoung’s hands tightened on your shoulders, his grip almost bruising as he pushed you back against the wall. You gasped, but it only made the kiss more intense. Your hands slipped from his hair to his back, clutching at his shirt as if it was the only thing keeping you grounded.

The kiss was messy, all teeth and tongues and raw need. You could feel the anger in it, the frustration and the years of unspoken tension. But there was something else, too—a desperate desire, a need to finally break through the barriers you’d both put up.

You fought back, your hands tangling in his hair, pulling hard enough to make him grunt. He responded by pressing you harder against the wall, his grip on your shoulders almost bruising. His lips moved against yours with a fierce intensity, his teeth nipping at your lower lip, demanding submission.

“Is that all you’ve got?” you taunted, your voice breathless but defiant.

Wooyoung growled, one hand moving to grip your jaw, tilting your head back forcefully. “You really don’t know when to shut up, do you?” he muttered against your lips before biting down harshly on your lower lip, drawing a gasp from you, almost drawing blood.

You retaliated by digging your nails into his back through his shirt, trying to assert some control. But Wooyoung was relentless. He grabbed your wrists and pinned them above your head with one hand, his body pressing against yours, leaving you no room to move.

“Pathetic,” he whispered, his breath hot against your ear. “You’re always so desperate to prove yourself.”

“Better than being a smug asshole,” you shot back, twisting in his grip but finding no escape.

Wooyoung’s laugh was dark and mocking. “You like this, don’t you? Being put in your place.” His free hand trailed down your side, gripping your hip hard enough to leave marks.

“Shut up,” you spat, trying to ignore the heat pooling in your stomach.

“Make me,” he countered, echoing your earlier challenge. His lips found yours again, even rougher this time, his tongue forcing its way into your mouth, dominating every movement.

You bit down on his tongue, earning a growl from him as he pulled back slightly, only to return with even more force. His kiss was punishing, each movement designed to remind you who was in control. You couldn’t help but respond, your body betraying you as you arched against him.

“You’re such a brat,” he hissed, his lips moving down to your neck, biting and sucking hard enough to leave marks. “Always trying to fight me, but you’re just as desperate for this as I am.”

‘’Fuck you,” you repeated, though the words lacked conviction as a moan escaped your lips.

“Admit it,” he demanded, his hand slipping under your shirt, fingers digging into your skin. “Admit that you want this.”

“Never,” you gasped, tugging against his hold on your wrists.

He yanked your hands down, pinning them behind your back with one hand while his other hand slipped under your shirt, trailing down your stomach with rough, possessive movements.

“Let go of me,” you demanded, but your voice wavered, betraying your conflicting emotions.

“Oh, I don’t think so,” he said, a cruel smile playing on his lips. “Not until you learn to keep that mouth of yours shut.” His fingers found the waistband of your pants, slipping inside with a determined, almost punishing force.

You gasped as his fingers brushed against your core, the sensation both shocking and electrifying. “You’re such an ass,” you hissed, trying to ignore the heat pooling in your stomach.

“Such a dirty little mouth,” he taunted, his fingers moving with a rough precision that made it impossible to think clearly. He found your clit quickly, starting to circle it roughly. “Maybe I should teach you a lesson.’’

Before you could respond, his fingers pushed inside you, the intrusion rough and unyielding. You bit back a moan, refusing to give him the satisfaction, but it was impossible to ignore the intensity of his touch.

“You like that, don’t you?” he whispered in your ear, his breath hot and taunting. “You act all tough, but deep down, you’re just a needy little slut.”

“Shut up,” you managed to gasp, your body betraying you as you arched against his hand.

His fingers moved faster, rougher, each movement designed to break down your resistance. “Fuck. You’re so wet for me. Just admit it.”

You clenched your jaw, refusing to give in. “I hate you,” you spat, though the words lacked conviction.

“Oh, I know you do,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “But your body says otherwise.” He added another finger, stretching you, making you gasp. “Look at you, so desperate and needy. It’s pathetic.”

You wanted to retort, to throw another insult his way, but the sensation was overwhelming. His fingers moved with a brutal efficiency, hitting just the right spots to make you squirm. The anger and hatred mixed with the undeniable physical attraction, creating a storm of conflicting emotions.

“Say it,” he demanded, his voice rough and commanding. “Admit that you want this.”

“Never,” you gasped, though the word came out more like a moan.

Wooyoung’s eyes narrowed, and he thrust his fingers harder, making you cry out despite yourself. “Say it,” he repeated, his tone leaving no room for argument.

“I… I want it,” you finally admitted, the words torn from you unwillingly.

“Good girl,” he murmured, a mocking smile on his lips. “Was that so hard?” He continued his rough ministrations, his fingers moving in a relentless rhythm that left you trembling.

The words were degrading, but they pushed you over the edge. Your body convulsed around his fingers, pleasure crashing through you in waves. You cried out, unable to hold back, your hands gripping his arms for support.

Wooyoung watched you with a satisfied smirk, his fingers continuing to move inside you, drawing out every last bit of your orgasm. "That's it, sweetheart,’’ he murmured, his voice softening just a fraction.

You tried to catch your breath to regain some semblance of control, but Wooyoung was already kneeling in front of you, his hands roughly pushing your pants and underwear down to your ankles.

“Wh-what are you doing?” you stammered, though your body betrayed you with a shiver of anticipation.

“You think I’m done with you?” he growled, his hands gripping your thighs hard enough to leave marks. “I’m going to show you what happens when you push me too far.”

Before you could respond, he leaned in, his tongue flicking against your clit with a precision that made your knees buckle. You gasped, one hand flying to his hair, the other bracing against the wall for support.

“Wooyoung, stop—” you started, but your words dissolved into a moan as he sucked hard on your clit, his tongue working you over with relentless, rough strokes.

“You’re going to scream for me,” he muttered against you, his voice vibrating through your core. “Let your friends hear how much you need this.”

“Fuck—no,” you managed to gasp, though your voice wavered.

Wooyoung laughed, the sound dark and cruel. “We’ll see about that.” He intensified his movements, his tongue moving in ruthless circles while his fingers dug into your thighs, holding you in place.

You bit your lip, trying to stifle the sounds threatening to escape, but it was no use. The combination of his rough touch and skilled tongue was too much. Your hips bucked against his mouth, and a cry slipped out before you could stop it.

“Louder,” he demanded, pulling back just enough to speak, his breath hot against your sensitive skin. “I want them to hear how much you love this.”

“Fuck you,” you spat, but the defiance was slipping away with every flick of his tongue.

He chuckled, the sound sending shivers down your spine. “Maybe later,” he said, diving back in with renewed intensity. His tongue moved faster, harder, and you could feel the pressure building again, even more overwhelming than before.

Your resolve crumbled, and you let out a loud moan, unable to hold back. Wooyoung smirked against you, his satisfaction evident as he continued to push you closer to the edge.

“That’s it,” he murmured between strokes. “Scream for me like the needy little slut you are.”

You tried to resist, to stay bratty and defiant, but it was impossible. The pleasure was too intense, his dominance too overwhelming. With a final, desperate cry, you came, your body trembling as the orgasm crashed over you.

He didn’t let up, his tongue working you through the aftershocks, drawing out every last bit of pleasure until you were a shaking, gasping mess. Only then did he pull back, his lips glistening with your arousal, a satisfied smirk on his face.

He stood up from his knees, his eyes dark with a mix of triumph and raw lust. You barely had time to catch your breath before he was on you again, his hands rough as they grabbed your wrists and pulled you toward the desk beside you.

“You think we’re done?” he growled, his voice filled with cruel amusement. “Not even close.”

You tried to muster some defiance, but the intensity of the situation left you breathless. “You’re such an asshole,” you managed to say, though your voice was shaky.

“And you’re about to learn just how much of an asshole I can be,” he replied, pushing you forward so that your upper body was bent over the desk. His hands were on your hips.

Wooyoung didn’t waste any time. You heard the rustle of his clothes as he freed himself, and then you felt the blunt pressure of his cock against your entrance. He didn’t bother with gentleness; he thrust into you in one brutal motion, making you cry out.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he groaned, his grip on your hips bruising as he started to move, setting a punishing pace. “Bet you love being fucked like this, don’t you?”

You tried to hold onto some semblance of control, to maintain your defiance. “Go to hell,” you spat, though the words were weak, almost drowned out by the sounds of his relentless thrusts.

Wooyoung laughed, a dark, mocking sound. “Already there, sweetheart,” he replied, his hips snapping against yours with a brutal rhythm. “And you’re fucking coming with me.”

Each thrust was rough and demanding, pushing you closer to the edge with a ruthless efficiency. You could feel the desk digging into your skin, but the pleasure was overwhelming, making it hard to focus on anything else.

“Such a dirty little slut,” he murmured, leaning over you so that his breath was hot against your ear. “Can’t even form a proper sentence, can you?”

You tried to respond, but all that came out was a broken moan. Wooyoung’s pace quickened, his thrusts growing even more forceful, and you felt the pressure building again, a coil tightening inside you. Wooyoung felt your tight walls pulsing around his cock. 

“You’re going to come for me again, aren’t you?” he taunted, his voice low and rough. “Say it.”

“I—” you gasped, trying to fight the pleasure, but it was useless. “I’m going to—”

“That’s right,” he cut you off, his tone filled with dark satisfaction. “Come for me, you filthy brat.”

The words pushed you over the edge, and you came with a loud cry, your body trembling as the orgasm ripped through you. Wooyoung didn’t let up, his thrusts relentless as he chased his own release.

“Look at you,” he said, his voice filled with contempt and desire. “So desperate and needy. Pathetic.”

He pulled out suddenly, leaving you empty and aching. Before you could process the loss, he was moving you again, his hands rough as he pushed you toward the bed. You stumbled, falling onto the mattress, and he was on you in an instant, flipping you onto your back.

“Think you can handle more?” he asked, his eyes dark and challenging.

You nodded, too breathless to speak, your body already craving the next wave of pleasure.

“Good,” he said, positioning himself between your legs. 

He entered you again, the angle different but no less brutal. Your hands clutched at the sheets, trying to anchor yourself as he pounded into you, each thrust pushing you closer to the edge once more. He took your thigh and pressed it against your chest, thrusting deeper. 

“Fuck, you feel so good,” he groaned, his grip on your thigh hard enough to leave marks. “Such a perfect little slut for me.”

The pleasure was overwhelming, turning your mind into a hazy blur. You could barely form coherent thoughts, let alone words, as he fucked you with a relentless intensity, pouring all the rage from earlier into it. 

“Can’t even talk, can you?” he mocked, his voice filled with cruel amusement. “Too dumb from getting fucked by my cock.”

You tried to respond, but all that came out was a series of incoherent moans. Wooyoung’s thrusts grew even more forceful, and you felt the pressure building again, another orgasm threatening to crash over you.

“You’re going to come again,” he said, his tone commanding. “And you’re going to scream my name when you do.”

You shook your head, trying to hold onto some shred of defiance, but it was useless. The pleasure was too much, too overwhelming. With a final, brutal thrust, you came, your body arching off the bed as the orgasm tore through you, as you screamed his name. 

“Good girl,” he murmured, his voice rough with satisfaction. He continued to move, his pace never faltering, pushing you through the aftershocks and into another wave of pleasure.

By the time he finally came, his release hot and overwhelming inside you, you were a trembling, incoherent mess. He pulled out slowly, leaving you breathless and spent on the bed.

“See?” he said, his voice filled with mocking satisfaction. “All you needed was to be put in your place.”

You glared at him weakly, the fire of your anger not completely extinguished despite the overwhelming pleasure. “I still hate you,” you managed to say, though your voice was weak, more breathless.

“And I still hate you too,” he replied, his expression hard. “But at least now you know what happens when you push me too far.”

The room was filled with the tension of your unresolved hatred, the physical release doing nothing to ease the animosity between you. As you lay there, trying to catch your breath and regain some sense of composure, one thing was clear: the war between you and Wooyoung was far from over, but for now, you had been thoroughly defeated.

————————

Outside Wooyoung’s room, Yunho, San, Mingi, and Yeosang were still gathered, exchanging knowing glances and quiet laughter as they waited for the inevitable explosion of another argument. However, when the first loud moan echoed through the door, their expressions changed from amusement to shock.

“Did you just hear that?” San asked, eyes wide, looking at the others for confirmation.

“Yeah, I definitely heard something,” Yunho replied, raising an eyebrow. “That didn’t sound like an argument.”

Mingi covered his mouth, trying to stifle a laugh. “I think they’re… uh… working things out in a different way.”

Yeosang’s eyes widened as another, louder moan filtered through the door, followed by a string of incoherent words. “Oh my god, they’re really going at it,” he said, looking both amused and slightly horrified.

Yunho shook his head, a grin spreading across his face. “Well, this is unexpected.”

San smirked, nudging Yunho. “Guess our plan worked a little too well.”

Mingi couldn’t contain his laughter anymore. “Should we just… leave them to it?”

Yeosang nodded vigorously. “Yeah, I don’t think they need an audience for this.”

Yunho stood up, clapping his hands together. “Alright, everyone. Let’s give them some privacy. I think they’ve got enough to handle without us hanging around.”

San stretched, yawning dramatically. “Yeah, I could use a break from all the drama anyway.”

As they gathered their things, another particularly loud moan resonated through the door, making them all wince and then burst into laughter.

“Okay, that’s our cue to leave,” Mingi said, heading towards the front door.

“Maybe we should go get some ice cream or something,” Yeosang suggested. “Give them plenty of time to… sort things out.”

Yunho nodded, opening the door. “Good idea. I think we all need a break from this craziness.”

As they left the house, the moans and muffled sounds of pleasure faded into the background, replaced by the summer evening's quiet hum.

“You know, I always thought they’d kill each other before anything like this happened,” San said, shaking his head in disbelief.

“Guess there’s a fine line between love and hate,” Yunho chuckled.

“Or in their case, a very loud, very thin line,” Mingi added, laughing.

As they headed down the street, leaving Wooyoung and you to your privacy, the group couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of the situation. It seemed that locking you two up together had definitely brought some unexpected results.

[d1xonss]

Hi there! I was wondering if i could get some straight Daryl Dixon smut where fem!reader is asking him to choke her for the first time? If not it’s totally okay! love your writing! <3

Something New

✧ Pairing : Daryl Dixon x Reader

✧ Era : Season 2

✧ Pronouns : she/her

✧ Genre : ⚠️ Smut (18+)

✧ Word Count : 1.6k

AN ~ Oooh I don’t think I’ve ever done any kind of smut like this before, but I’m happy to try! And let’s preface this first before anything else; no I don’t think Daryl would realistically feel comfortable choking someone. He strikes me as the type of man that doesn’t want to harm you in any way during something so intimate, even if you asked for it. However, I think early seasons Daryl would definitely be a little rougher during sex which is why I planned for the season 2 era. But the moral of the story is this is just for fun, and I tried to keep it as accurate as possible.

Hope you enjoy! xoxox

It had been a rough couple of days. Between getting stranded on the highway, losing Sophia, and Carl getting shot, it was safe to say that the group had seen better days. The recent events had taken a toll on all of you, the stress beginning to build up to the point of no return. And it was no surprise to you seeing Daryl was the one who was taking it the hardest. 

He was constantly tense and rigid, a permanent scowl on his face while nothing seemed to be going the way it was supposed to. Though luckily for him, you knew just the way to relieve some of that…tension.

Your gasps and moans could be heard by no one near as Daryl had taken it upon himself to move your shared tent far away from the others to get some distance. At first you were weary of the idea, but now you thought it just might’ve been the best one he’s ever had. Considering the filthy sounds he was pulling from you, it would be mortifying to face the others the following morning.

The small tent was pitch black, the only thing you were able to see were the soft outlines of the different shapes around you, along with feeling Daryl’s hot pants on the back of your neck as he continuously pounded into you. The sound of your wetness with every thrust filled the small space, almost suffocating as the sleeping bag beneath you was providing little to no comfort from the harsh ground beneath you. But with your legs tangled together and the feel of his dick hitting your hilt over and over again, the feel of tiny rocks below was far from your mind.

“Oh, fuck.” you whimpered, desperately grabbing and gripping at his arms that were wrapped around you as his pace was rough and determined. Your pussy was throbbing, the feel of his hips slapping against your ass was growing more urgent as you felt your wetness begin to run down your leg.

He grunted from behind you, feeling your walls clench around him, “That’s right, fuckin take it.” he growled into your ear, the next thing you felt were his teeth teasingly biting the shell.

You threw your head back in ecstasy, your toes curling all while trying to patch his pace with your own movements. But let’s face it, you were growing tired. And he had more stamina than the two of you combined. He could’ve kept this up all night if he wanted to just to torture you a bit more than he already was, having slowed down multiple times right when he felt you were about to come.

His large, rough hands then moved from your hips up to your breasts, giving them a generous squeeze before teasing your nipples just enough to get you to squirm even more. Gently pinching and pulling them to hear more of those delicious sounds. You cried out almost in agony with how much he was teasing you, the feeling both pleasurable and miserable. But Daryl couldn’t lie, he loved it. Hearing you like this, so aching and hungry for him drove him absolutely crazy.

Your bodies were sheen in a thin layer of sweat, the desire and lust growing even thicker with every plunge of his hips or bites at your skin. You wanted to feel him everywhere. Which is why your hand impulsively reached for his, tugging it toward your throat in a sex drunk kind of state. Though Daryl however quickly snapped out of it when his mind processed your actions, his movements stopping completely which only caused you to whine a bit in protest as you thought he only did it to tease you again. But what you couldn’t see was his expression was quite serious. Never in a million years had he even considered what you had silently asked him to do.

“What the hell are ya doin?” he asked, his tone rough with desire yet still somehow soft when it came to speaking to you.

His words brought you out of your daze, your eyes widening a little at what you had unconsciously done in a fit of impatience and longing. You had never outright admitted that you had a kind of kink, a fantasy perhaps of him wrapping his strong hands around your throat. But now that your secret was basically exposed, you felt extremely embarrassed, silently thankful that the tent was dark enough to where you couldn’t see his face. Although you could sense the tension resurfacing, the tension you so desperately tried to take away from him, was suddenly back within an instant.

“Sorry…” you huffed quietly as you tried to catch your breath, “Heat of the moment.”

Daryl was silent for what seemed like ages, leaving you thinking you had ruined the entire moment as you didn’t have a clue at what was going on in his head. But surprisingly enough, it wasn't what you had anticipated.

The idea of choking, spanking, or any kind of harmful thing really had never before crossed his mind despite how rough he could be at times. He never wished to intentionally hurt you, especially after the trust you had built up over the weeks of knowing one another. You were important to him, even though he had never been brave enough to admit that out loud, you were still quite literally the only person that mattered to him now. But seeing as clearly you weren’t opposed to the idea of exploring something new, he figured...maybe he could get behind it. 

His face leaned down toward your ear again from behind, “You tell me if it’s too much…ya hear me?” he said almost sternly to show you how serious he was about this.

Your brows furrowed in confusion, opening your mouth to question him, but you didn’t get the chance before his hand came up to gently squeeze at your neck. Your eyes widened, a surprised whimper escaping your lungs while his hips slowly began to buck up into you again, picking up right where he had left off.

The tightness he held around your throat immediately sent you back to that blissful haze, feeling your limbs begin to tingle as he continued to send shockwaves of pleasure up your spine. You moaned loudly when he squeezed a bit tighter, testing the waters with how much you could take. But it didn’t hurt at all surprisingly, like he somehow knew exactly what he was doing though he had never tried this before in his life. It was almost concerningly perfect, and you were in heaven.

“God, you sound so pretty.” he breathed, his pace increasing as he began to manhandle you, “You really like this, don’t you?” he asked almost teasingly.

But you couldn’t bring yourself to hear the tone of his voice, only managing to focus on how good it felt as you nodded your head frantically. Silently begging him to let you finish this time.

He choked you a bit harder when you didn’t respond, “Come on girl…tell me how good it feels.” he groaned.

You panted heavily while simultaneously swallowing to try and lubricate your dry throat, “Feels good- feels so good.” you stuttered pathetically.

Daryl hummed in approval as he heard your response, leaning his head down to kiss and lick at the skin of your shoulder while his free hand moved down to rub circles on your clit. A sharp gasp was pulled from you as you arched your back into him, your vision growing almost spotty at the amount of sensations he was giving you. Your legs began to twitch and he could feel your walls clenching around him even more intensely as you neared your orgasm again. But instead of slowing down, he finally continued to draw it out.

Your moans and whines grew louder and louder as you felt the knot in your stomach tighten, his hand over your throat only making your brain feel more fuzzy. You almost couldn’t control the sounds you were making anymore as you finally came, crying out his name in the state of bliss you had craved so much. It was like for a moment you saw stars, feeling as if your soul left your body for a moment as his fingers continued to work on your sensitive clit. The feeling of your tight walls consuming him left him not far behind as he quickly managed to pull out of you, before spilling himself onto your back with a low groan of pleasure.

It took minutes for the two of you to finally come down from your high, catching your ragged breaths while your bodies felt almost too limp to even attempt to move. But eventually, his hand retracted back from your neck as he slowly sat up a bit, leaving a tender kiss on the back of your head to express what he couldn’t with words.

“We…we need to do that again.” you breathed quietly, slumping onto your back from exhaustion.

He couldn’t help but chuckle at your silent request, shaking his head though you couldn’t see, “Let’s wait a few hours at least…don’t wanna kill ya.” he said lightheartedly.

You huffed softly, “I think you already did. I feel like I can’t move my legs.”

His eyes glanced down, his hand coming up to run along your hip before traveling down your thigh, “How bout a massage then, hm?”

It’s funny, you thought. One minute he was saying the dirtiest things, fucking you until you forgot your own name. And then the next, he was sweetly suggesting a massage after his own doings. But then again, you would never complain. Perhaps after this, he would be more keen to trying new things…

~ Thanks for reading!

[asha-mage]

Because I am coping with current world events in a completely normal manner I've been thinking a lot about how one of the tensions that underpins the whole of Wheel of Time is Robert Jordan as 'person who likes history' vs Robert Jordan as 'person who had to live through the Cold War.'

Something that can be really hard for people born after the Cold War (like myself) to grasp is that for a long time history was the ultimate reassurance against existential dread. Civilizations could rise and fall, empires could crumble, disasters could wipe out a hell of a lot of people, but human beings as a species, where never in any real danger of dying out. New countries would eventually rise out of the ashes of old ones, societies would change to be unrecognizable but they would still be there, religions, cultures ideologies etc might all die out but the people would still be around. History provided the ultimate comfort: whatever happened in our brief finite lives human beings as an group would eventually be fine.

But that changed after World War 2 and the invention of a little something called the atomic bomb. Suddenly human beings had the potential to destroy not just ourselves but all life on earth if things went wrong enough. For the first time in history their was no real guarantee that human beings as a species would make it, and in fact their was a whole lot of reason to believe based on the patterns of history that eventually that power would get used and human kind would destroy itself. That was the Cold War- two nuclear states who really really wanted to start blasting each other to pieces but couldn't without risking the end of life as we know it.

The tension between these two realities- the assurance of history that life will go on and the reality that human beings could in theory actually end the fucking world, is built into the core of Wheel of Time. The first lines assure us: time is cyclical. It's all happened before. It's all going to happen again. Human being will live out the same stories in endless variation, the same patterns will always reemerge. And the world has already survived one apocalyptic event: the Breaking, and come out the other side not doing fantastically, but still around. The world has been reshaped forever and whole eras of progress have been undone, but humanity remains.

But at the same time doomsday weapons with the potential to wipe out the species are everywhere. The Choden Kal can crack the planet open like an egg. Balefire burns apart time itself. A plague of madness is waiting for any old schmo to wander into it's den and carry it back outside so it can infect and destroy everyone. Their are all kinds of different big glowing red 'destroy humanity' buttons laying around in WoT just begging to get pressed. And in a way the Dark One is the ultimate version of that because that button has already been pressed. The Bore has been opened. Left alone humanity is fucked and everyone knows it. It can be delayed and pushed back, but never truly stopped, except by the intervention of destiny- the intervention of the Dragon. That's the core conflict of the series. Rand is struggling to stop a missile that's already been launched, prevent an end everyone can see coming. It's not just 'I need to defeat the big bad evil overlord or everything will be bad forever', it's 'I need to stop the Dark One or that's the end of human beings as an idea'.

What's especially interesting is that Jordan isn't even framing the Wheel/Pattern as uniformly good, because it's history and history is messy and complicated and full of contradictions and no easy answers. The Wheel, the Pattern, is not some force for righteousness. It's a neutral fact of existence. Not what's best or what's ideal- those are subjective and grounded in human understanding of the world- but what's necessary and what's true. To want to break free from history, to break the Wheel, is to want to break free of being human. That's what the Forsaken all truly want (as I have talked about before): to leave behind their humanity, and their willing to sacrifice whatever it takes to do it. What that looks like and what motivates that desire is different for each of them but their united in that common goal, and they all either disregard the consequences of what it will mean or don't understand them.

The story of history is one of incredible suffering and amazing triumph: it's full of heartache and joy in equal measure. It's not fair or just or simple to understand, but it is a reflection of who we all are collectively. The fight to preserve the Wheel isn't a fight to preserve what is good or ideal, it is a fight to preserve what is human. Because as long as the story can keep going, we can have hope for tomorrow.

And Jordan promises right from the offing that their will always be a tomorrow. No beginnings. No endings. Just whatever comes next.

As we enter a period of history that is the most uncertain it's ever been in my lifetime, I can't help but I think of the incredible courage and strength it must have taken be staring down the barrel of nuclear armageddon and stubbornly insist that there would be a tomorrow. The man wrote eleven of the best books ever made exploring this exact struggle- about never giving in to despair or pain, never buying into the belief that things are hopeless, that humanity sucks and we're all doomed.

And remembering that...I don't know. It makes a little easier to breath and keep walking towards tomorrow myself.

[maelancoli]

Adding Tension After the Ship Happens

i feel a lot of slow burn ships lose steam after the characters finally get together, whether it's just from sleeping together or them actually engaging in a relationship, so here are some ideas for how to maintain steam.

their problems are not solved now that they've crossed the thresh hold

first things first, the plot itself i'm sure has other details than just their relationship. even the most fluffy of fluff has other things going on than kisses and giggles. don't abandon these details once the relationship truly begins. and if there was any kind of unresolved tension point or previously mentioned ex/trauma/insecurity/fear bring it back! bring things back around that might put a strain on a new, tender relationship. this can either make them have problems or be a way to develop their bonds and *show* it in action. any of these foreshadowing/resurrected points can be added in edits if you didn't start out with them or with retconning if you're writing rp/fanfic. all the writers do it. we see it in tv everyday it's ok if u gotta pull a rabbit from a hat.

their relationship will not be suddenly smooth and solid as if they have been married 20 years

okay they kissed/fucked/agreed to be together. now what? what circumstances kept them from getting there sooner? are those circumstances still present and how will they deal with it as a team? you also don't have to have characters officially together once they've done something physical. there is still discussion to be had and boundaries/expectations to establish. those conversations could be interesting to explore. and, even more-so, this is the perfect point for plot to happen and keep them from being able to have those conversations when they should. you can add angst, you can add miscommunication, you can add anything that tickles your fancy. especially a perfect time to have an ex return to cause some tension and uncertainty if they haven't made it official. they don't know what they are yet and that uncertainty is a delicious point to write it and really give the characters a hard time

utilize the main plot's tension

again, if you're writing more than just a contemporary fluffy romance, the romance should enrich the main plot. the romance as a subplot should be a component which merges with the main storyline and does not take away from it. if you don't want to milk the will-they-won't-they anymore than you already have it's time to build the relationship up in the midst of OUTSIDE conflict. let them disagree about how to resolve problems. let them butt heads. let them be scared and do and say stupid shit because they're scared. let them be worried or angry or frustrated and have to figure out how to balance their newfound vulnerability with who they are and were before that point. let them hurt each other a little so they can come back together stronger.

utilize the characters around them

if it is a plot which is mainly romance filled, then think about the tension from the lives around them. think about their loved ones and how their own issues could influence the plot points the characters have to face together. this could be a time for them to be introduced to loved ones. you could throw in a group trip with silly mishaps and shenanigans. you could even have loved ones try to break them up or doubt the love interest. navigating new relationships while also dealing with friends and family can be a source of plot and tension in and of itself. this can be a point to let love interests reassure each other and prove their salt. it can help them grow closer. it can be the heroic moment for one of them to stick up for the other or prove they're there for them no matter what.

overall if you're struggling with what to do after the slow burn feels like it's sizzling out it's time to zoom out. make sure you are not losing the whole picture of their environment or steamrolling past the real development of new relationships.

[gh0stsp1d3r]

I love your idea of Nerdy!Rafe! Could I pretty please ask for a request? Kind of makes me think of Andrew Garfield as Peter. Kind of that vibe of ‘’first love’’ cuteness and wholesomeness you experience, Rafe’s had a crush on her from a distance. Maybe Reader is not the most outgoing and introverted, maybe she does photography for the school sport teams. They get paired up for a project, and there is lingering tension and he is super nervous, and she catches him staring in awe at her several times. Perhaps as the class wraps up, they walk out together. Sarah is outside to give him her keys or something, and she sells him out by spilling ‘’Oh this is the girl you are always looking at, at your computer 😉 ’’ leaving them and he gets super embarrassed/shy

- PAIRS OF TWO

a/n: I adore this sm

warnings: he’s nervous ash, and lowkey a bit of a stalker but it’s okay..

Rafe Cameron had always felt like he’d never find love.

His whole life, he’s had girlfriends come and go, his self esteem getting crushed each time it happened. Not even Ward, his own father, seemed to like him. He favored Sarah over him each time, no matter how good his grades were or how prestigious the college he went to was.

Now, Rafe felt even more pathetic as he stared at you from afar, almost stuck in a dream-like trance. The words the professor spoke went in to one ear and out the other, it’s not like he didn’t already know this.

He was snapped out of his daze when his professor unexpectedly called on him, everyone turning to him.

Right… the worst part about being the professors top student, was that she knew his name off the top of her head. Your eyes were on him, catching him just as he looked away from you. His cheeks turned a shade of pink, looking at the board and thinking of an answer in his head.

Fucking Econ. It’s not like he wanted to even be working for a business degree, but whatever his father wanted, he got.

“Uhm…” he began to explain the answer, his voice rather quiet. He adjusted his glasses when he was done answering, looking up at the teacher.

She nodded with a smile, “Correct. Thank you, Rafe.”

He looked back to you, to find you looking at the teacher again, a distant look in your eyes while you scribbled down some notes.

He found himself looking at the camera that was hung around your neck. He found himself wondering what you would be doing after this, knowing you, probably taking pictures for their football team at the game later. Or maybe even-

He found himself drifting off in his thoughts again, that he didn’t even notice the way you glanced back at him, noticing his staring, before turning around.

“Now, for the project, I’ve already assigned you guys into random pairs of two,”

This got his attention now. He turned to the teacher now, intrigued. He looked at the long list of names on the teachers screen, narrowing his eyes.

No way.

Group 6, Y/N L/N and Rafe Cameron.

Holy shit. Holy shit.

He looked at you and you looked back at him, you offering him a small smile.

“I don’t wanna hear shit about how you don’t like your partners or whatever- deal with it. And I suggest that you get to know them over the weekend, because you’ll be working with them a lot on this project. Class dismissed.” She spoke, everyone gathering their things, him practically rushing to.

He shoved everything into his backpack, glancing up at you to see you already walking away.

His hopes diminished, a small part of him hoping that he would get to talk to you. It’s okay, he thought, you’d get to talk to her next week.

Wait, the game. You always were at them, taking photos for the team.

Meanwhile, you were walking to your dorm, a small smile on your face, looking down at the camera you had around your neck.

Rafe didn’t know a single thing about football. If anyone asked him for the name of a single player, he would not be able to come up with an answer.

Sports was never his thing, he did baseball when he was young, sure, wrestling was always his dad’s favorite sport, but he could not seem to get into it at all.

His roommate couldn’t even believe it when he heard it.

“No fucking way! Rafe Cameron is going to a football game?”

“Yeah…” he mumbled, rolling his eyes when he chuckled in his face out of disbelief.

“Wait, I bet this is about that one girl.” He said in a sing-song voice, teasing the boy. Rafe shoved him, his cheeks turning beet red out of embarrassment. He couldn’t be more right.

“It is!” He laughed. “I knew it. Hey, don’t worry, I’ll go with you.”

That was not what he wanted, but it seemed like he didn’t have a choice in the matter.

You were on the field when he got there, his roommate sitting next to him.

He looked entirely out of place, his light blue shirt, his khakis and his glasses sticking out in the crowd like a sore thumb. Maybe he should have worn school color.

His eyes were not set on the game like everyone’s else’s were, no, his eyes were set on you. The entire time, he watched you snap photos of the team, as well as some of the crowd. When you turned around to look into the crowd, he found the corners of his lips subconsciously curling up into a smile.

On Monday, the professor gave directions for you all to sit with your partners.

He had been working himself up for this exact moment for what felt like months, as well as giving himself a little pep talk in the mirror that his roommate unfortunately heard.

You sat next to him, turning to him with a small smile before facing forward again, listening to the teacher ramble on.

Finally, after minutes of explaining where to find everything, she stopped talking. Rafe pulled open his computer, you opening yours up as well.

“I’m Rafe, by the way.” He spoke, turning to look at you, his hands nervously fidgeting in his lap. Really? That’s the best I could do? He thought to himself.

He was cute, you thought.

“Y/n. It’s nice to meet you, Rafe.” You gave him that sweet smile, him returning a smile.

His name sounded heavenly coming from your mouth, and he thinks he’d remember it for the rest of his life.

“So, uhm… what’s your major?” You asked him, just for small conversation.

“Business. What about- what about you?” He replied.

“Marketing and design. But… I really wanna become a photographer. Marketing and designs supposed to be a good major for that.” You nodded.

“That’s- that’s really nice… I just- you know, I’m probably gonna have to take over my dad’s company one day, so… not as interesting.” He said with a nervous chuckle, his hands grabbing the nape of his neck now.

“No, no, that’s nice. That’s… cool. What does-what does he do?”

“He’s uhm- you know, like- like real estate development… kinda boring, but..” He shrugged his shoulders, you smiling.

“I think it’s cool.”

“Uhm- yeah- yeah, thank you.” He laughed, oh god, his palms were so sweaty, his cheeks were so warm and his leg was nervously bouncing up and down. Fuck, he was a mess.

You turned back to you computer, clicking on the app. “Uhm… so I was thinking-“

You were so smart too, he realized when you both started the project. It was like you couldn’t get more perfect.

After an hour, it was time to leave, much to his annoyance. You stood up, and he expected you to leave for a moment, but instead, you did something he’s only dreamed of.

You waited for him. Holy shit. He packed his stuff up quicker, standing next to you, the both of you beginning to walk out the door.

“You’re uhm…” he began, you turning to him now with your head tilted to the side. “You’re really smart.”

You laughed, “Thanks.”

“No- I- I mean it.”

“You are too. More smart than me.” You told him, and he was going to reply when he spotted a familiar face.

“Hey, Rafe.” Sarah stopped him, holding out a key for him. You stopped in your tracks as well, standing next to him.

“Hi.” He murmured, you looking between the two with confusion in your eyes.

“Dad told me to drop this off to you. Said something about coming home this weekend.”

He sighed, taking the keys from her hands. He expected her to leave, but instead, she looked to you.

“Oh! Is this the girl you’re always looking at on your computer?” She held out her hand for you to shake, which you did, with a rather confused look on your face.

“W-Sarah!” He groaned in annoyance. You quirked an eyebrow, she raised her hands in self defense.

“See you.” She spoke, walking away, leaving the two of you.

He couldn’t even look at you, glancing down at his feet, you looking at him with pure confusion on your face.

“You know- I- I dont even know what she’s talking about. She’s like- yeah, no, she’s... crazy. You know..? I’m just gonna… go-“

“Wait, Rafe-“ you grabbed his wrist when he began to walk away, your touch almost causing his soul to fly out of his skin. He looked back with wide eyes, you pulling out your phone.

“Uhm… can I get your number? Just so we can, like, make plans and stuff…” you quickly explained, “You know… finish the project.”

He had to be dreaming.

He nodded, grabbing your phone and putting his number in. “Course. I’ll uh… I’ll… see you around?”

“See you, Rafe.” You gave him a small smile and wave, walking the opposite way.

Taglist:

@moonssyrup @koibleufish @anamiad00msday @wearemadeofstardust0

[emakataken]

Controlled Burn

Idea: Buck tries to keep his fellow academy recruits from disrespecting a sacred firefighter bar and catches the attention of Tommy Kinard, an off-duty Air Ops pilot... I also can't get Navy Seal Evan Buckley out of my head. So.. yeah.

…

The bar’s quiet, just past the dinner rush. Warm light spills over old brick and burnished wood. Firehouse patches cover nearly every inch of wall space, layered like battle scars some faded, others framed in reverence. The air smells like beer, sweat, and stories too heavy to tell sober.

Tommy’s nursing the second half of his pint near the end of the bar, half-listening to some guy from Station 42 complain about budget cuts.

When the door swings open loud, careless and his head lifts automatically.

A group of recruits spills in. Too clean, too loud, all baby faces and swagger. Academy shirts still creased down the middle, like they haven’t been broken in yet. Tommy exhales through his nose.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, more to his glass than anyone else. “Again?”

But something’s off.

One of them the youngest-looking, sharp-jawed, sun-bleached hair isn’t strutting. He’s trailing after the group, clearly mid-argument.

“Guys, come on,” he says. “This isn’t some college bar crawl. You can’t just walk in here like you belong.” His tone isn’t loud, but it’s tight. Controlled. Like he’s used to being listened to, even when he’s not in charge.

The others ignore him. One’s already circling the pool table like a shark. Another punches buttons on the jukebox with the kind of intensity usually reserved for defusing bombs.

Tommy watches the kid, Buck, based on the half-yelled name someone throws over their shoulder follow reluctantly, jaw tight. He’s not scared, Tommy realizes. He’s watching. Clocking exits. Reading the room like someone expecting this to end badly.

There’s a tension in the way he moves. Coiled, but quiet. Like he’s halfway between fight and freeze and doesn’t trust either.

He’s younger than the rest. Brown hair lighted by the sun, skin still raw with that too-clean edge of someone trying too hard to look like they don’t care. But his blue eyes, they’re older. Watchful.

Tommy doesn’t peg him as a follower. Not with that jaw. Not with the way he keeps scanning the room, subtly placing himself between his group and the memorial wall like he’s already accepted what he’ll need to do if someone crosses a line.

And then someone does.

The tallest of them, all broad shoulders and zero sense reaches toward a framed patch in the center of the memorial. Fingers lifted, joking with the guy beside him, clearly not reading the tone of the place.

Tommy’s breath catches. He’s already pushing his glass away when it happens.

Tommy's moving to stand when Buck’s voice cuts through the bar. “Don’t touch the memorial wall,” he snaps. Sharp. Clear. “McDaniel,” Buck adds, lower now, voice a warning. “Don’t even breathe near it.”

His buddy pauses mid-reach, startled. Looks at him like he just got scolded by an instructor. “Dude, chill,” he mutters, hand dropping immediately.

Tommy watches as Buck’s shoulders stay tense, eyes still fixed on the wall. Not the guy. Not the group. Just the wall, the names and patches and stories nailed into it like bones. His hands are clenched into loose fists at his sides, and there’s something in his gaze, reverent, maybe protective.

Like he’s stood guard before.

Like he’s already lost people.

Tommy leans back in his stool. Something cold prickles down his arms, chased by the burn of curiosity curling in his gut. “You always the designated conscience?” Tommy asks, voice low, amused.

Buck blinks, startled. “What?”

“You’re not drinking. You’re not letting your guys be idiots. You’re either the best friend ever… or the guy who’s gonna get blamed when they get tossed out on their asses.”

Buck shifts, straightening a little. “I’m just trying to make sure nobody gets kicked out of the academy for acting like a dumbass their first weekend off.”

“That’s noble.” Tommy tilts his head. “Also, pointless."

“I know,” Buck mutters, glancing over his shoulder at the others. “But I figured someone should at least try.”

There’s a beat. The jukebox blares something too loud for the room, too fast for the mood. Buck winces.

Tommy offers a hand. “Kinard. Air Ops.”

Buck takes it, his grip firm. “Buckley. Academy Class 312.”

Tommy nods toward the door. “You wanna keep them out of trouble?”

“I’m trying.”

“Then buy them one round and get them out of here in thirty. That way they feel like they won, and the regulars don’t feel disrespected.”

Buck studies him, eyes narrowing just slightly. “You come up with that yourself?”

Tommy grins. “Nah. I was your idiot once.”

Buck huffs a quiet laugh, low and unguarded. Tommy feels it hit somewhere low in his gut. He hadn’t expected that sound to mean anything but there it is. And now he wants to hear it again.

Tommy watches him herd them. Buck was the kind of man you don’t want to underestimate. The kind that lingers in your head long after the conversation ends.

Buck disappears down the hallway toward the bathrooms, and Tommy’s on his feet before he makes the conscious choice to follow. His boots move before his brain does. Something under his ribs says go. He slips down the hall, casual, unhurried, until the bathroom door swings open under his hand.

Buck’s at the sink, hands braced on the edge, head bowed like he’s catching his breath. He sees Tommy’s reflection in the mirror and freezes.

Neither of them speaks.

Tommy steps forward slowly.

Buck turns to face him.

And then they crash

Mouths collide, no soft lead-up, no hesitation, just heat and need and the sudden crack of control breaking. Tommy pushes him back into the stall, the metal door banging behind them, and Buck’s hands are already at his collar, dragging him down like this is the first inhale after surfacing from too long underwater.

Tommy grunts, low in his chest, as Buck kisses like he’s desperate not to feel alone. It’s all teeth and breath, mouths opening against each other, hungry, almost reckless.

They don’t say anything. They don’t have to.

Tommy presses Buck against the wall, hands sliding up under the edge of his academy-issued t-shirt, dragging fingers over warm skin. Buck gasps into his mouth, fingers curling in the collar of Tommy’s jacket like he needs something solid to hold onto.

And Tommy is solid, all heat and weight and intent, pressing in like he can read the fault lines in Buck’s bones and wants to learn them by feel.

Their hips grind together, and they break apart just enough to breathe.

Buck’s panting, pupils blown wide, jaw tight.

Tommy leans his forehead against Buck’s. “You okay?” he asks, voice rough but steady.

Buck nods and swallows as Tommy undoes his pants. “Yeah. Just don’t stop.”

Tommy doesn’t.

Later, when their hands finally slow and Buck’s shirt is mostly back in place, he exhales hard and slumps against the wall like it’s holding him up.

Tommy lingers in the quiet, watching the way Buck doesn’t move to leave. Doesn’t laugh it off. Doesn’t bolt. He pulls out his phone, taps the screen, and holds it out.

“Your number.”

Buck hesitates for a half-second, then takes it. His fingers fly over the screen, entering digits, then pause just long enough to type: Evan.

No last name. Just Evan.

He hands the phone back.

Tommy taps out a single word: Hey.

Buck’s phone vibrates in his pocket a moment later. He doesn’t look at it.

But he knows what it means.

He meets Tommy’s gaze, and for a second, neither of them smiles. They pause in the hallway.

Tommy jerks his chin toward the door. “There’s a place two blocks down. Daley’s. Still lets recruits feel cool, but it doesn’t have a wall honoring fallen firefighters, so it’s a little harder to piss people off.”

Buck shifts, glancing toward the main room where one of the guys is now doing an exaggerated dance to the beat of some early 2000s throwback.

“Go,” Tommy adds, brushing his fingers lightly against Buck’s wrist before stepping back. “Get them out before the bartender call and you’re all scrubbing engines for the next three weeks.”

Buck turns back to him, eyes a little softer now. “You always this helpful?”

Tommy lifts an eyebrow. “Only when someone’s trying hard not to be an asshole.”

Buck considers that, then gives a small, sharp nod, like he’s tucking Tommy away in the same place Tommy’s already filed him. “Thanks,” he says.

Buck steps back into the main room, jaw set, spine straight. His crew is halfway through another round of terrible decisions when he puts himself in their orbit.

“I swear to fuck, none of you have any goddamn life experience whatsoever,” he mutters, more to himself than anyone but loud enough for the older firefighter sitting at a booth next to them to look up.

Buck catches his eye. “My apologies.”

The man just grunts, “You’re a goddamn infant.”

Buck laughs surprised by it, a little breathless from everything and that earns him a second glance. A slower one. Assessing.

“But you’ll make the cut,” the man says finally, like a verdict. “Now get outta here, kid.”

Buck nods, still smiling, then turns to his crew and claps his hands once. Loud. Sharp. “Alright, dumbasses. That round was it. There’s another place two blocks down that doesn’t require me to beg forgiveness from half the LAFD.”

Groans follow by they all head on out.

Tommy watches from the hall, just out of sight. Buck lead his classmates out the door. The way he pauses on the threshold, looks back just once, gaze flicking toward the hallway.

Just for a second.

Then he’s gone.

Part 2

[damiansgoodgirll]

Hii! Can I request one from Finn Bálor where he betrayed User (something like the storyline of Rhea, Damian and the New Judgement Day)

I love your writing! 🤍

the judgment day x reader (platonic) / finn balor x reader (romantic)

likes, comments and reblogs are always appreciated!

‼️angst, comfort but angst‼️

OUR LOVE FADES TO BLACK

you were one of the first original members of the judgment day. way before rhea joined it was just you, edge and damian. way before dominik, jd and carlito joined. even way before your boyfriend finn joined. that’s how you actually grew closer. from simple greetings backstage to spending most of your time together, you grew an incredible strong bond and you both ended up falling in love with each other.

you definitely wasn’t expecting to fall in love, especially with a co worker. you knew how complicated things could get and you liked keeping your private life separated from your work life. but love is blind - as people say - and you ended up falling for the irish man - hard.

he loved you. he swore it to you.

“you are the one i want to build my future with” he used to whisper right after you made love. and you believed it.

yet something unpredictable and unexpected happened. something changed and you didn’t expect the end to feel like this.

but maybe you should’ve known the second he avoided your eyes in the hallway after the mess the group just made at summerslam.

it was the night after the fatal event. the night everything cracked — damian betrayed by finn, dom turning on rhea, the whole foundation of judgment day shaken to its core. your only family cracked from the inside.

you saw him right there a couple of hours after he made sure damian lost his title.

“can we talk?” you asked, voice low but steady. you didn’t want to cause a scene. not yet. crew was backstage and even if you noticed some eyes looking to your own direction, you pretended everything was okay.

finn didn’t stop walking, just gave you a shrug “later, maybe.”

“no. now finn” you stepped in front of him, searching his face “what the hell happened out there? you turned on damian, on us…” and the look on his face already told you everything you needed to know.

“don’t start” he muttered “you wouldn’t understand.”

“then make me understand!” you snapped, your voice cracking at the end “you’re my partner, both in the ring and…” you lowered your voice, softer now, more vulnerable than you meant to be “and outside of it.”

he hesitated. for a second, you thought you saw regret flicker in his eyes but it was gone just as fast.

“things change” he said simply, brushing past you without another word.

you stood frozen, chest tight, fists clenched. you didn’t follow him. maybe you should have. maybe you would’ve seen it coming.

monday night raw came fast, but the tension didn’t ease. he didn’t call you during the day nor did texted you.

you told yourself he’d explain eventually. maybe he just needed time. you’d been through worse together. you’d stood shoulder-to-shoulder in wars inside that ring. lovers, teammates, champions. what you had wasn’t just storyline —it was real.

you believed that.

until it shattered.

it was supposed to be a routine match — you vs. liv morgan. nothing you couldn’t handle. you were scheduled to have revenge fight for rhea and you loved the idea. and it was going your way, until the music hit. until he walked out.

finn.

you paused, confused. but then he smiled — smirked — and that’s when your stomach dropped.

he distracted the ref just long enough to let liv hit you and pin you down. you kicked out a second too late.

1, 2, 3.

the bell rang and your name wasn’t the one announced.

did finn? no, he couldn’t.

you sat up in disbelief, eyes wide, heart in your throat. finn slid into the ring, lifting liv’s arm in victory like he had just won the damn match. the crowd erupted, part cheers, mostly boos, but all you could hear was the way your heart cracked open.

you stood, slow and shaky, and walked toward him.

“what the hell was that?” you asked, voice low, hoarse with rage and heartbreak “finn?”

he didn’t even look at you instead he turned his back and walked out of the ring with liv morgan at his side while dom was waiting for her too.

you didn’t cry in front of the cameras. not there. not where the world could see but backstage, once the door shut behind you, tears fell from your eyes. angry broken tears.

the man who swore he loved you had just turned his back on you. used you.

and for what? you didn’t even know why.

then came the knock.

“go away…” you muttered, wiping your face with the back of your hand, not even caring who was from the other side of the door.

but the door opened anyway. of course it did. damian never listened.

he stepped inside, followed closely by rhea. both of them looked like hell — like everything they believed in had collapsed beneath their feet.

maybe it had.

you didn’t say anything. just looked at them, lips trembling, unable to form a sentence. damian walked over slowly, arms wide open. you didn’t even try to resist when he pulled you in.

“he did it to you too” rhea said quietly, voice tight with fury “you didn’t deserve that.”

rhea couldn’t understand why. neither could damian. they knew that man loved you. he worshipped the ground you walked. rhea understood why dom did what he did to her. damian understood why finn made him lose. but they couldn’t understand why would finn hurt you this bad.

you shook your head against damian’s chest trying to keep it together “you know…he said he loved me.”

“then he lied” damian growled, his voice protective in a way that broke your heart even more.

“i should’ve known after summerslam. i just… i thought maybe it was about the storyline itself…not” your voice faltered “not me.”

rhea sat beside you on the bench, her hand firm on your knee “he made his choice and he’s gonna regret it.”

you didn’t respond. you just let yourself sink into the comfort of the only two people who hadn’t turned their backs.

judgment day was falling apart.

but damian and rhea were still with you and somehow, in the middle of all the chaos, that was enough to hold on to.

“what do we do now?” you asked as tears kept rolling down your cheeks, staining damian’s t-shirt too.

“we fight. we make them pay” rhea said with a very pissed tone.

she made you crack a smile.

“i just…i can’t understand, i don’t understand…” he was naked underneath you just a couple of nights ago telling you how much he loved you. his hands on your hips as you were on his lap “…i truly can’t understand…” you never felt betrayed as now.

memories playing in your mind. from the way he held you and touched you. you just felt used now.

“i know love…” rhea said trying to comfort you but she knew that no matter what she was going to say, it wasn’t going to change the fact that you felt betrayed by the person you loved the most. “hey…listen y/n, you are not alone” rhea whispered, her voice fierce, like she was daring the world to try and take anything else from you “he might’ve walked away, but we’re not going anywhere. you hear me?”

you nodded into damian’s chest, fingers curling into his shirt like it was the only thing keeping you from falling apart completely.

“he’s gonna regret this” damian murmured, low and dangerous. “not because you’re part of judgment day. not because he screwed over the team. but because he let go of you and you’re the best damn thing he ever had.”

it was too soon to believe it. too soon to breathe without it hurting but having them there — not as teammates, not as stablemates, but as your family — it made the pain a little more bearable.

“we’ll rebuild…” rhea said, her voice full of fire “without him. without dom. without jd and carlito…we’ll come back stronger and you? you’re not done. you’re just getting started.”

you weren’t ready to stand yet. not tonight. maybe not tomorrow, either.

but you would. not for finn. not for revenge.

for you and for the two people who stayed.

[yourmomsawh0r3]

cowboy hat rule

pairing: tyler owens x f! reader

warnings: NSFW, 18+

Tyler had no plans to go out that night. He was perfectly content to spend the evening at home, maybe watch a game or catch up on some sleep. But his friends had other ideas. They dragged him out to a bar in town, claiming he needed a night out, and after some reluctant agreement, he found himself nursing a beer at the bar, feeling slightly out of place.

That was until he saw “her”

She was standing near the end of the bar, laughing at something her sister said, a mischievous glint in her eyes. Tyler couldn’t take his eyes off her. There was something about the way she carried herself confidence mixed with a playful edge that intrigued him.

His friends were still talking about something in the background, but he wasn’t paying attention. All he could focus on was her. The way she moved, the way she smiled it was like she was teasing the entire room just by existing.

Tyler knew he had to talk to her. He wasn’t normally one to make the first move, but something about her made him bold. He excused himself from his group and made his way over to where she stood, leaning casually against the bar.

“Can I buy you a drink?” he asked, his voice low and smooth.

She turned to look at him, her eyes sparkling with amusement. “Depends,” she said, her voice equally teasing. “You think you can keep up with me?”

Tyler raised an eyebrow, a slow grin spreading across his face. “I think I’m up for the challenge.”

She tilted her head, studying him for a moment before nodding. “Alright, cowboy. I’m Y/N. And this is my sister, but don’t worry she’s already spoken for.”

Tyler chuckled, tipping his hat slightly. “Tyler. Nice to meet you, Y/N.”

She accepted the drink he ordered for her, taking a sip while maintaining eye contact with him. There was a tension in the air, something simmering just beneath the surface, and Tyler could tell she was enjoying every second of it.

“So, Tyler,” she said, leaning in closer, “how about we play a game?”

“What kind of game?” he asked, intrigued.

“Twenty-one questions,” she replied with a smirk. “I ask you a question, you ask me one. And no lying.”

Tyler grinned. “You’re on.”

They went back and forth, asking each other everything from favorite movies to the wildest thing they’d ever done. Each question was a chance to flirt, to push the boundaries just a little further. Tyler found himself getting more and more drawn to her with every answer she gave, her wit and charm only adding to her allure.

As the night went on, the tension between them grew. Tyler could feel it the way her eyes lingered on him a little too long, the way she bit her lip when he said something that made her blush. He was getting hot under the collar, and it was clear she was feeling the same.

Eventually, she leaned over and, with a sly grin, plucked his cowboy hat off his head and placed it on her own. Tyler froze, his eyes narrowing playfully as he watched her.

“I wouldn’t do that unless you know the cowboy hat rule,” he warned, his voice taking on a husky tone.

Y/N tilted the hat down slightly, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Oh, I know the rule, alright,” she teased. “But I’m not one to follow the rules.”

Tyler’s heart pounded in his chest as he leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “You know how to ride?”

She leaned in as well, her lips almost brushing against his as she whispered back, “Oh, sugar, I’ll give you the best ride of your life.”

Tyler felt the temperature in the room spike. His skin tingled, his pulse raced, and for a moment, he forgot where they were, lost in the heat between them. She was a challenge, no doubt about it, and Tyler was more than ready to see where this night would take them.

But before anything else could happen, she pulled back slightly, a coy smile playing on her lips as she adjusted his hat on her head. “Guess you’ll just have to wait and see, cowboy.”

Tyler grinned, shaking his head in amusement. He was hooked, and he had a feeling she knew it. Whatever happened next, one thing was for sure he wasn’t letting her out of his sight.

Tyler watched as Y/N adjusted his hat one last time, her mischievous grin sending a rush of heat through him. She held his gaze for a moment longer before turning on her heel and sauntering over to where her sister was sitting.

His eyes followed the sway of her hips, each step drawing him in deeper. The way she moved was hypnotic, effortlessly seductive, and Tyler couldn’t help but be captivated by her confidence.

She leaned down to whisper something in her sister’s ear, her voice too low for him to hear. Whatever she said made her sister’s eyes widen before they both broke into knowing smiles.

Tyler leaned back against the bar, a satisfied grin on his face as he watched her. He was in no rush to leave, content to take in every last detail of her before the night was through. And from the way she glanced back at him over her shoulder, he knew the feeling was mutual.

This wasn’t over not by a long shot.

When the bar closed, Tyler asked, "Can I walk you home, Y/N?"

She looked at him, her eyes reflecting the dim bar lights. "I'd like that, Tyler. But I have a feeling walking might not be the only thing we do."

Tyler felt a spark of anticipation. He offered her his arm, and they strolled out into the cool Texas night, the stars above them twinkling like a private audience to their burgeoning romance.

They barely made it to Y/N's apartment door before Tyler's self-control snapped. He pressed her against the door, his hands cupping her face, his lips finding hers in a passionate, hungry kiss. Y/N moaned, her hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. Tyler's hands traced the curve of her body, his touch igniting sparks wherever it landed.

"Tyler," Y/N gasped, breaking the kiss. "Inside. Now."

Tyler grinned, his eyes never leaving hers as he reached behind her and opened the door. They stumbled inside, their lips locked, their hands exploring. Tyler kicked the door closed behind them, his hands finding the zipper of Y/N's dress. He slowly pulled it down, his knuckles grazing her spine, sending shivers down her body.

Y/N's dress fell to the floor, leaving her in a lacy bra and matching panties. Tyler took a step back, his eyes drinking her in. "Damn, darlin', you're beautiful."

Y/N smiled, her hands going to the buttons of Tyler's shirt. "You're not so bad yourself, cowboy."

She pushed his shirt off his shoulders, her fingers tracing the muscles of his chest. Tyler groaned, his hands finding her hips, pulling her flush against him. "You feel that, darlin'? That's what you do to me."

Y/N looked up at him, her eyes filled with desire. "I want to feel more, Tyler. All of you."

Tyler growled, his hands cupping her ass, lifting her up. Y/N wrapped her legs around his waist, her arms around his neck. Tyler carried her to the bedroom, his lips never leaving hers. He laid her down on the bed, his body covering hers.

He trailed kisses down her neck, his hands unhooking her bra, freeing her breasts. He took one nipple into his mouth, his tongue swirling around the hardened peak. Y/N arched her back, her hands tangling in his hair, pressing him closer.

"Tyler, please," she gasped, her hips grinding against his.

Tyler chuckled, his hand slipping under the waistband of her panties, finding her wet and ready. "Please what, darlin'? Tell me what you want."

As Tyler settled between Y/N's thighs, his hands gently spreading her legs, he looked up at her with a mischievous grin. "You ready for me, darlin'?"

Y/N nodded, her heart pounding in anticipation. "More than ready, Tyler."

Tyler chuckled, his breath warm on her sensitive flesh. "Good, 'cause I've been dyin' to taste you all night."

He leaned in, his tongue flicking out to tease her clit. Y/N gasped, her hips lifting off the bed. Tyler hummed in approval, his hands gripping her hips to hold her in place as he began to lick and suck, exploring every inch of her pussy.

"Tyler," Y/N moaned, her fingers tangling in his hair. "That feels so good."

Tyler looked up at her, his eyes heated. "You taste fuckin' amazing, darlin'. Like the sweetest candy I've ever had."

He buried his face between her thighs, his tongue delving deep inside her, lapping up her juices. Y/N cried out, her body writhing as Tyler devoured her, his tongue working magic on her clit.

"You're so wet, baby," Tyler growled, his fingers joining his tongue, fucking her slowly. "I could spend all day down here, eat your pussy until you can't take anymore."

Y/N whimpered, her orgasm building with each thrust of Tyler's fingers, each flick of his tongue. "I'm close, Tyler. So close."

Tyler groaned, his tongue circling her clit. "Come for me, Y/N. Come all over my face."

And with a final lick, Y/N tumbled over the edge, her body convulsing as she came, her cries of pleasure filling the room. Tyler continued to lick and suck, drawing out her orgasm until she was a boneless, quivering mess.

As Tyler resurfaced, his face glistening with Y/N's arousal, he grinned up at her, his dimples on full display. "Damn, darlin', you taste even better than I imagined."

Y/N, her cheeks flushed and her chest heaving, looked down at him with hooded eyes. "And you're pretty good with that tongue of yours, cowboy."

Tyler chuckled, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "I aim to please, ma'am.”

Tyler's hand, still slick from Y/N's arousal, grasped his hardening length, stroking it slowly as he looked down at her. "You see what you do to me, darlin'? You make me so hard, I could fucking explode."

Y/N bit her lip, watching him with hooded eyes. "I want you to fuck me, Tyler. Hard and deep. Make me scream your name."

Tyler growled, positioning himself at her entrance. "You sure about that, sweetheart? Once I start, I ain't stopping until I've filled you up with my cum."

Y/N nodded, her breath hitching as Tyler slowly pushed into her. "Yes, Tyler. Fuck me."

Tyler groaned as he sheathed himself fully inside her. "Fuck, you're so tight, darlin'. Like a fucking glove." He started to move, his hips thrusting in a slow, steady rhythm, his cock stretching her with each stroke.

Y/N's hands clutched at his shoulders, her nails digging into his skin as he filled her completely. "More, Tyler. Faster."

Tyler obliged, his pace increasing, his cock slamming into her with more force. "Like that, darlin'? You like it when I fuck you hard?"

Y/N moaned, her body arching to meet his thrusts. "Yes, Tyler. Just like that."

Tyler reached between them, his fingers finding her clit and rubbing in time with his thrusts. "Come for me, Y/N. Come all over my cock."

Y/N's body tightened, her orgasm building. "Tyler, I'm close. So close."

Tyler's thrusts became erratic, his own release building. "Come on, darlin'. Let me feel you milk my cock."

Y/N's body shattered, her orgasm ripping through her as Tyler slammed into her one last time, his cock pulsing as he filled her with his hot cum.

They lay there, Tyler still inside her, their bodies slick with sweat and satisfaction. Tyler looked down at Y/N, his thumb brushing a strand of hair from her face. "You okay, darlin'?"

Y/N smiled up at him, her fingers tracing the lines of his tattoos. "Better than okay, Tyler. That was...incredible."

Tyler chuckled, his cock twitching inside her. "We're just getting started, sweetheart. There's plenty more where that came from."

As they lay there, their bodies cooling and their breaths evening out, Y/N stirred slightly. She propped herself up on one elbow, looking down at Tyler with a soft smile. His eyes fluttered open, meeting hers with a warm gaze.

"Hey, you," he murmured, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.

"Hey," she replied, her smile growing wider. "I was just thinking... are you hungry?"

Tyler chuckled, his stomach rumbling in response. "Now that you mention it, yeah, I could eat."

Y/N laughed, her eyes sparkling. "I thought so. I don't know about you, but all that... exercise always makes me hungry."

Tyler grinned, pulling her down for a quick kiss. "Me too, darlin'. Me too."

She pushed herself up, swinging her legs over the side of the bed.

Before she could leave the room, Tyler called out softly, "Hey, where are you going?" Y/N paused, looking back at him with a smile. "I was going to order us some pizza. My fridge is as bare as my bank account right now," she laughed, leaning against the doorframe.

Tyler grinned, patting the bed beside him. "Come here, let's do that together." Y/N walked back to the bed, crawling in beside him and snuggling close. She picked up her phone, her thumb hovering over the pizza app icon. Tyler, however, noticed something first. "Hey, what's this?" he asked, pointing at the lock screen of her phone.

Y/N looked down, her cheeks flushing slightly as she saw the picture. It was her, grinning widely with her arms wrapped around the neck of a beautiful chestnut horse. "Oh, that's just me and my horse, Clover," she said, as if it was no big deal.

Tyler, however, was intrigued. He pushed away loose strands of her hair, his eyes soft as he looked at her. "You have a horse?" he asked, his voice filled with surprise and something else admiration? "Why didn't you tell me that?"

Y/N shrugged, a small smile playing on her lips. "It never came up, I guess. I've had Clover for years. She's like family to me." She looked back at Tyler, her eyes sparkling with warmth. "But I'll tell you all about her over pizza, if you want."Y/N looked up from her phone, a small frown on her face. Tyler shakes his head. "What do you mean? I was going to pay for it. she says

Tyler shook his head, a playful smile on his lips. "No way, darlin'. I'm paying for dinner."

"But I don't mind paying," Y/N insisted, holding onto her phone.

Tyler reached out, gently prying the phone from her hands. "I know you don't, but I want to. Consider it my way of saying thank you for a great night."

Y/N bit her lip, considering his words. She knew better than to argue with him when he had that determined look in his eyes. "Alright," she finally conceded, "but next time, it's on me."

Tyler grinned, pulling her into his side. "Deal," he said, before leaning down to kiss her. He quickly added his credit card information to the order, pressing 'submit' before Y/N could change her mind. "There," he said, handing the phone back to her, "all taken care of."

Y/N smiled, leaning into his embrace. "You're too sweet, you know that?"

Tyler chuckled, pressing another kiss to her forehead. "Only for you, beautiful."

After devouring their large pizza, which Y/N had insisted they both eat, they collapsed onto the bed, sighs of satisfaction escaping both their lips. "I could eat that every night," Tyler said, smiling up at her.

"Totally agree," Y/N replied, snuggling up close to him.

They talked for a bit more, sharing stories of Y/N's childhood growing up on a farm and about her beloved horse, Clover. Tyler listened intently, his eyes filled with wonder and interest. It was clear he was thoroughly enthralled by the thought of her horse, the way she spoke of her with such love and passion.

As the talk went on, they noticed how late it had become, the room growing dimly lit. "Well, I think it's getting pretty late," Y/N said, her voice a little softer now. “We should probably get to bed."

Tyler nodded in agreement, though he showed no signs of moving away from her. "You're right," he murmured, his arms still wrapped around her. "But I don't really feel like moving right now."

Y/N smiled up at him, her heart filling with warmth. She didn't feel like moving either. So instead, they just sat there, holding each other close, the only sounds their gentle breathing and the creaking of the bed as they shifted against each other.

After a few moments of silence, they both knew it was time to clean up. They went about washing their faces, brushing their teeth, and making their way back into the bedroom. The atmosphere had changed slightly, a hint of intimacy now woven through the air.

Without needing to say a word, they snuggled back into bed, curling up together once more. The room was silent except for the sound of their breathing, the comfortable darkness enveloping them both.

As they drifted off to sleep, Y/N smiled softly, feeling like this was exactly where she belonged in Tyler's arms, surrounded by warmth and comfort.

tyler whispers to her "Now, about that cowboy hat rule..."

Y/N's hands went to his chest, pushing him back slightly. "Oh, I remember. But I have a rule of my own."

Tyler raised an eyebrow. "Oh, yeah? And what's that?"

Y/N smirked, her fingers deftly unbuttoning his shirt. "When I'm on top, you have to keep that hat on."

Tyler laughed, his hands going to her ass, pulling her close. "Deal. But only if you promise to give me the ride of my life, darlin'."

Y/N leaned in, her lips brushing against his ear. "Like I said earlier, honey, I'll give you the best ride of your life."

Tyler groaned, his hands squeezing her ass. "Fuck, Y/N. You keep talking like that, and I won't last."

Y/N pulled back, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Then we'd better get started, hadn't we?"

Tyler quickly shed his shirt, his chest bare and taut. Y/N took a moment to appreciate the sight before him, her eyes trailing over the ridges of his abs and the light smattering of hair that led down to his waistband. She reached out, running her fingers over his skin, feeling the heat of him. Tyler's breath hitched at her touch, his eyes never leaving hers.

"You're playing with fire, darlin'," he warned, his voice low and husky.

Y/N smirked, "Maybe I like the burn," she repolied

Tyler groaned, his eyes dropping to take in the sight. "You're trying to kill me, aren't you?"

Y/N laughed, stepping out of her jeans and pushing him back onto the bed. She climbed onto his lap, straddling him, her hands going to the brim of his hat. "No killing allowed," she said, tipping the hat back so she could see his face. "Just some good old-fashioned fun."

Tyler's hands went to her hips, holding her in place as he lifted his own hips, pressing his erection against her through his jeans. "Fun, huh?" he asked, a wicked gleam in his eyes. "I can do fun."

Y/N gasped, her head falling back as she grinded against him, feeling the friction through their clothes. Tyler took the opportunity to lean forward, capturing one of her nipples through the lace of her bra, sucking and biting gently. Y/N moaned, her fingers tangling in his hair, holding him to her.

Tyler's hands moved to her back, unhooking her bra with ease. He pulled back, allowing the material to fall away, leaving her bare to him. His eyes darkened as he took in the sight of her, his hands reaching up to cup her breasts, his thumbs brushing over her nipples.

"Tyler," Y/N gasped, her hips moving of their own accord, seeking friction. "Please."

"You sure you can handle all this, darlin'?" Tyler asked, his voice laced with amusement.

Y/N licked her lips, her eyes meeting his. "I wouldn't have it any other way," she replied

After a series of kisses and gentle caresses, Y/N climbed on top of Tyler, her hands reaching down to grasp his hips. She rubbed her wetness against his cock, and Tyler moaned, his eyes closing in pleasure. "Mmm, yeah," he breathed, his hands moving up to grasp her hips.

Y/N leaned in closer, whispering in his ear. "I could get used to that sound," she said, her voice low and husky. "It's music to my ears."

Tyler chuckled, his eyes snapping open to look at her. "You're trying to make me come," he accused, his hands tightening on her hips.

Y/N smiled, her hips moving in slow, deliberate strokes. "Maybe I am," she replied, her voice teasing. "Maybe I just want to see you happy."

Tyler's eyes locked onto hers, his expression soft and sincere. "You make me happy," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Y/N's heart skipped a beat at his words, her cheeks flushing with warmth. She leaned in, her lips brushing against his ear. "I want to make you come," she whispered, her voice full of desire. "I want to hear you moan my name."

Tyler's eyes widened, his body tensing beneath hers. "Yeah," he breathed, his hands grasping her hips tighter. "Yeah, do that."

And with that, Y/N leaned in, her lips trailing down the side of Tyler's face, her hands moving down to grasp his cock, her hips moving in time with her hand, the sound of her wetness against his cock filling the air.

Y/N leaned forward, her lips brushing against Tyler's ear. "I'm going to give you the best ride of your life," she whispered, her voice husky with desire.

Tyler moaned, his hands tightening on her hips. "I can already tell you're going to be an amazing girlfriend," he growled, his eyes fixed on her face.

Y/N grinned, her body moving against his. "yeah? ," she teased, her hips slowly sliding backwards, her wetness leaving a trail along his cock.

Tyler moaned again, his eyes falling to her breasts as they bounced with each movement. "You feel so good, Y/N," he muttered, his hands moving to cup her breasts, his thumbs rubbing over her nipples.

Y/N gasped, her body arching as his hands touched her. "I'm ready for you," she panted, her hips lifting and lowering, her body teasing his cock.

"Good girl," Tyler moaned, his hands gripping her hips tighter. "You're such a good girl."

And with that, Y/N finally sank down on him, her body enveloping his cock in a hot, wet embrace. "Ah," Tyler groaned, his eyes closing as he felt her tightness wrapped around him.

Y/N moaned, her hands grasping his shoulders, her body moving up and down on his cock in slow, deliberate strokes. "Mmm, this feels so good," she panted, her breasts bouncing with each movement.

Tyler opened his eyes, his gaze fixed on Y/N's tits as she bounced on his cock. "You look so beautiful," he breathed, his hands moving up to grasp her hips. "Ride me like that, Y/N."

Y/N grinned, her body moving faster, her hips thrusting down harder. "I'm riding you," she panted, her voice full of desire.

Tyler moaned, his hands tightening on her hips. "Keep going, Y/N. Keep riding me."

And with that, Y/N continued to ride Tyler's cock, her body moving faster and harder, her eyes fixed on his face. Here is the revised paragraph:

Tyler's cock throbbed with anticipation as he gazed at Y/N's enticing body, her curves glistening with sweat. He knew he couldn't resist her any longer. "Come here, Y/N," he whispered, his voice husky with desire. "I need you now."

Y/N smiled, her eyes sparkling with anticipation. She slid closer to Tyler, her body gliding across the bed as she reached out to touch his chest. "I'm clean, Tyler," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the sound of their heavy breathing. "I'm on birth control. You can come inside me."

Tyler's eyes locked onto hers, his gaze burning with intensity. He knew this was it, the moment he'd been waiting for. With a low growl, he pushed himself deep inside Y/N, feeling her warm, wet walls envelop him. He began to thrust, his movements powerful and urgent, as Y/N's moans filled the air.

As they moved together, their bodies slick with sweat, Y/N reached down to scoop up their combined juices. She brought her hand to her mouth, moaning as she tasted their mingled essence. Then, she slid her finger back into her entrance, coating it with their shared fluids.

Tyler watched, transfixed, as Y/N brought her finger to his mouth. He sucked it in, feeling the warm, sticky liquid coat his tongue. "Fuck, you're perfect," he whispered, his voice trembling with emotion.

Y/N smiled, her eyes shining with happiness. She knew this was what she'd been waiting for, the moment when they could finally be together, their bodies and hearts entwined. And as they lay there, wrapped in each other's arms, she knew that this was only the beginning of their journey together.

And as they drifted off to sleep, their bodies entwined, they knew this was just the beginning of many more incredible rides to come.

[sectumsempraaa]

Luck & Stardust

Pairing: they’re all in love with you 🤭 x fem!reader (not house-specific)

Featuring: Draco, Theo, Mattheo, Lorenzo

Word count: 2.4k

Based on this request! Thank you :)

TW: none lol welcome to fluff city

Summary: With February 14th quickly approaching, the Slytherin boys fight for your affection in pursuit of being crowned your valentine. Some attempts are better than others, but only one can be the best… and it’s one that you never saw coming.

“Don’t even think about it, Diggory.” Theo snaps, giving the Hufflepuff a look of utter doom.

With Valentine’s Day right around the corner, your favorite group of Slytherins have taken it upon themselves to act as your own personal Queen’s Guard.

Many of the Hogwarts boys are scrambling to make you their valentine, each attempt failing as miserably as the last, not unlike this one. The boys can’t fathom sharing you, and they won’t. It’s them, or no one. Cedric silently backs away with his hands raised in surrender.

Mattheo’s got his eyes buried in a book, keeping his stare down as the next suitor approaches you from behind. His voice is threatening enough, there’s no need for him to make eye contact.

“I wouldn’t, McLaggen, if you’d like to keep your neck straight.” Mattheo says, lethally monotone. Cormac scoffs and opens his mouth to retaliate, but not before Mattheo can interrupt him.

“Neck. Straight.” He spits, absent-mindedly making a fist with his right hand. It’s safe to say McLaggen got the message. Theo and Mattheo share a look, shaking their heads in annoyance.

“Oh for fucks sake.” Draco groans, standing from his position to size up one of the Weasley brothers headed your way. “Try and see how quick I’ll make Fred an only-twin.”

“I am Fred, you filthy snake.” He replies, an uncommon bitterness in his voice. His retort admittedly makes you laugh, no one is usually brave enough to fight back. Draco notices your reaction, a muscle flinching in his jaw.

“I care less about your identity than I do about the slugs you’ll be coughing up if you even entertain the idea of asking her.” Draco says, the tension reaching a high.

They stare at each other for a long moment, performing the standoff of a lifetime. You decide it’s time to interfere.

“Sorry, Fred. Maybe next year?” You say apologetically, giving the boy a sympathetic look.

“Over my dead body.” Draco mutters.

When Fred walks away, you glare at each of the boys, rolling your eyes in irritation. “You know, this is why we don’t get invited to things.”

“The missing out is worth knowing you won’t end up with a bloody Gryffindor.” Draco grunts, his eyebrows furrowed and mouth in a scowl. Theo chimes in, throwing an arm around your shoulder.

“Sorry, amore. This is what happens when you’re under our wing.” He laughs, placing a dramatic kiss on the top of your head. Lorenzo nearly spits out his tea, giving the boys a baffled expression.

“You lot are mental if you think we’re not the ones under her wing.” He exclaims, nudging your arm with his. Theo argues with him, listing off all the instances where they’ve protected you.

“I’m gonna stop you right there, mate. You’re literally wearing a bracelet, that you made because she asked you to, with her name on it.” Lorenzo gives Theo a smug smile and laughs to himself.

You shrug to Theo and stand up to leave, taking your bag with you. Mattheo grabs it from you, always being the one to carry your things. You don’t even think about it anymore, it’s just what he does.

Draco walks you to your next class, stopping you at the doorway and turning to you with a defeated look. You already know what’s bothering him.

“You’ll survive.”

“I can’t stop them when I’m in another room.” He grumbles, glaring at the handful of boys entering the classroom. You take his face in your hands, directing his gaze to yours.

“It will take a lot more than a couple of heart-eyes to be my valentine.” You assure him, pinching his cheek before pushing past him into the classroom.

“Oh, if you only knew what’s coming,” he starts, his words dragging on with satisfaction. You whip your head around in suspicion.

“What’d you say?” you ask.

“Oh nothing, love. Go on.” He sends you off with a small wave and a smirk that tells you trouble is coming.

—

The day has finally arrived and you have long since forgotten Draco’s little quip from that day before class.

You’re all dressed up, your hair styled your favorite way, a glow emitting from your face. You clasp a heart-shaped necklace around your neck, laying it gently on your chest.

Upon entering the Great Hall, you’re immediately swarmed with dozens of boys holding cards and candy, yelling and reaching out to you in desperation. Your eyes widen with panic, your feet staying frozen in place from shock, your books fall to the floor, mixing in with other lost belongings.

Out of the corner of your eye, you spot Mattheo shoving through the small crowd, pulling you into him when he finally gets to you. The rest of the boys go utterly silent at his intimidating presence.

“Go.” A single word, yet you’ve never heard him so threatening before, a look like hell in his stare. His arm snakes around your waist, your heart still coming down from the sudden attention.

Neville throws you a small smile and a subtle wave as he picks up his blue quill and his wand, before he disbands with the rest of the group.

Mattheo turns to you, the bitter glare melting into a nurturing gaze. “I’ll really do it.” he says, you have a feeling you know what he’s implying.

“I don’t doubt that.” You smile up at him, grabbing his hand and letting him lead you to the Slytherin table where Theo, Draco, and Lorenzo have taken place already. They give you your space, creating a seat for you between Draco and Theo.

You look down to the table to discover all your favorite breakfast foods laid out before you, a tiny gasp escaping your mouth. The surprise comes to you pleasantly after the overwhelming ambush. A blushing Theo presents you with a cup of steaming liquid.

“Your favorite meal, and your favorite drink.” He murmurs, carefully placing it in front of you.

“You’re kidding. The coffee we had in Rome?” You asked, your voice coated in disbelief, your eyes still running over every pastry and fruit before you.

“Had it delivered here just for you, bella. And maybe I bribed the house elves to make your breakfast extra special.” He brags. Before you take a bite of your danish, you plant a long, dramatic kiss on his cheek.

“Buon San Valentino, cara mia.” He whispers near your ear, taking in the grin of joy on your face. The other boys start scoffing, making disgusted faces and pretending to be sick as they dig into the treats.

“Let me get this straight- you’re asking our beloved and most precious Y/N to be your valentine by making her scrambled eggs?” Lorenzo jokes, shaking his head in disbelief. Draco’s laugh chimes in, earning a grimace from Theo in return.

“Grazie, love. You’re the best.” You hum, finishing your meal and getting up to leave, Mattheo once again carrying your belongings. You run a hand through Theo’s hair, bidding him a gracious goodbye.

—

“Who on Merlin’s sacred earth…” a student’s voice echoes behind you as you take in the spectacle.

“The only one who can afford it.” You respond, your voice full of knowing and awe. One minute you were in the hallway, sending Seamus Finnigan away with another valentine rejection.

The next, you were in your common room, every inch of which was adorned with white violets, yours and Draco’s mutual favorite flower.

You feel a presence behind you, a pair of arms wrap around your torso, pulling your back against him.

“Draco, how?” you turn your head up at him to ask, his grip on you tightening until you’re snug against his chest.

“I’d make anything happen for you. It doesn’t matter how. Happy Valentine’s, you perfect pretty thing.” He squeezes you extra hard, earning a bout of laughter from you. The satisfaction on his face is evident by a warm expression.

“I think they make me look rather ravishing,” Lorenzo appears, a handful of the white violets tucked into his hair. Draco sighs in frustration, the moment tarnished by his friend. “It’s too bad they’ll all be dead in two days.”

You release yourself from Draco’s hold, his eyes filled with anger and defeat. He takes an aggressive stride towards Lorenzo, teeth gritted.

“Good, I can bury them with you seeing as you’ll be sharing an expiration date.” Draco retorts.

“You think she’s gonna fall into your arms because of some bloody plants?” Lorenzo mocks.

You let the two boys fight it out, throwing empty threats and cheap insults at each other. In the meantime, you sit on the couch, braiding some flower crowns for you and your friends.

When you brought one to Professor Sprout after lunch, it made her entire day.

—

Later, your group is sitting in the courtyard enjoying a rare sunny winter day. The heat gives you chills, your skin basking in every second of sunlight.

The boys sit around you in a circle, facing you while sharing gossip on the day’s blossoming couples. Your ears pick up their conversation.

“Yeah, well not everyone wants a damn teddy bear, Theo. It’s not very original.” Mattheo snickers. You find it quite adorable, the sound of them arguing over what makes a sentimental gift.

“Original, hmm. You mean like this?” Lorenzo straightens up while handing you a gift-wrapped box. “Open it, baby.”

Lorenzo may be sweet, but he loves to cross the line, purely for the personal fulfillment of bothering the others. The nickname earns him an immediate smack on the back of his head from Draco, but he only laughs at the blow.

You open the gift wrap to reveal a moving picture frame, the first photo taken a couple summers ago when he was carrying you on his back into the lake by his family’s estate. The way your head is thrown back, and the way his cheeks are marked with sunburn takes you back to a happy time.

You hear an envious whisper come from behind you, no doubt belonging to Theo. “Fuck, that’s a good idea.”

Draco leans his head over your shoulder, giving him a better vantage point. Then, the photos begin to cycle through a gallery of… well, mostly just Lorenzo.

“How are you this thick, Enz? These are just pictures of your putrid face,” Draco jabs, causing Mattheo to grab hold of the frame. He literally falls over laughing, his hands covering his face.

You turn to Lorenzo, a slight embarrassment hinted in his eyes, but proud, nonetheless. “I will treasure this forever. It really screams… you.” You joke, brushing a thumb over his cheek and giving his arm a squeeze, appreciating the attempt.

He mumbles to himself, swatting at Mattheo. “Foul gits.”

The frame later finds a spot on your bookshelf. You meant what you said.

—

After dinner that evening, Mattheo leads the group out to the pitch bleachers and sits behind you, placing a leg on either side of you. He wraps his robe around you, keeping you warm in the February night, leaning your back on his chest.

A sudden gust of wind blows, knocking over your book bag. Draco scrambles for your stuff, stowing the items away.

A stray piece of crumpled parchment lands next to you, your hand grasping and smoothing it out before it can fly off.

Just as your eyes read the words, an eruption of light explodes in the sky, the colorful shards falling gracefully down. The next few are heart-shaped, reds and pinks illuminating the clouds.

“Are you a firework? Because you make my heart burst.” Mattheo says playfully, nudging his head into the crook of your neck. You scoff at the lame joke, shaking your head.

“You’re the worst and I love you for it.” You poke fun at him before planting a kiss on his temple. “This is really gorgeous, Mattheo. If only my valentine were here to see it.”

“Yeah. Wait, what?!” He exclaims, surprise etched on his every feature.

The others quickly look to you for direction as you beckon them closer. “Look,” you say.

You unfold the piece of paper you found before. “I think my books got mixed with someone else’s when I was flocked this morning.”

Lorenzo grabs the paper, then Draco. He stands up and reads it to himself, his face filled with jealousy and resentment. “It’s got her bloody initials on it.” He states before passing it around, each one reading the passage to themselves:

your heart is cosmic fire

wicked stardust

and I am but pieces of you

“It’s… poetry.” Theo remarks, earning a questioning look from the others, like they’ve never heard of it before. “Romantic poetry. From who?”

“Which one of you did this?!” Mattheo yells, giving each boy dagger eyes.

“It was me, Y/N.” Theo admits, followed by a brief and tense moment of silence.

“With no due respect Nott, you couldn’t even write your own name this nice.” Draco drags. “The handwriting is nearly better than my mum’s. Weird though, quill ink is usually black. This one is blue.”

And then it hits you. The Great Hall. The books on the floor. Everyone’s things getting mixed up from the crowd crush. Mattheo’s rescue, the blue quill, and that soft, endearing glance from…

“Longbottom.” You whisper. The name rolls off your lips, bringing you arguably the biggest smile you’ve worn today. The thing is, the boys know you’re right. Neville the sensitive, Neville the sweet.

“Well that’s just diabolical.” Lorenzo sneers, the group huffing and puffing in defeat.

You read the words again and again, every word imprinting in your memory. He probably didn’t mean for this to get in your hands. In fact, he’s probably off somewhere right now frantically worrying that you found it.

So you won’t tell him. Neville: the unwitting valentine.

You fold the paper up, storing it in your pocket. One by one, you pull each of the boy’s arms towards you, creating a huddle in the bitter cold. Their body heat keeps you warm, their heads all resting on your shoulders and lap.

“I love you guys.” You say, meaning each word as you all continue to watch the fireworks above you. Their collective bitterness was quickly replaced by the desire to be near you.

“And we are very lucky to be loved by you, Y/N.” Draco professes.

As you watch the colorful display, the best memories you have with the boys start to play like a film reel in your head.

All the brawls they’ve gotten in for you, all the times you rescued them from detention, all the pranks you’ve pulled on each other and the countless times they fought over who would marry you… and all the times they promised to keep you safe.

The glow of the fireworks reflects on their faces, unknowing of your loving gaze on each of them. You repeat the sentiment to yourself, the altered phrase hitting closer to home this time.

and I am but pieces of them.

🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍