#Sports romance | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

nancy-reads · 1 year ago

Text

you belong with me

pairing: fred weasley x reader

summary: fred wakes up after a wild night with his team to his phone buzzing nonstop after his latest tweet. Turns out he accidentally invited his old chemistry partner (and long-time crush) to the second game of the season. pining and fluff ensue.

warnings: a tiny little bit of spice at the end (it's really not that much i just want to warn you guys)

authors note: i promise the sequal to am i the one you think about will come out, i just got a bunch of inspiration to write this all of the sudden and wanted to share it with you guys!!

CROSSPOSTED TO AO3

As soon as Fred woke up, he regretted everything. His head was pounding, his throat was dry, and his muscles ached. Every part of him wanted to lie back down and never get up again.

His memories of last night were fuzzy at best. He was hanging with some of the boys from his team, celebrating after their first game of the season. Many beers were passed around, and for some reason, Fred had a vague memory of the team shouting at him over and over to do it.

Strange. They probably wanted him to take a bunch of shots or something. Usually, he’d be down, but not during football season. He had games to win, and Superbowls to play at.

Fred opened his eyes and blinked sleepily. As the world came into focus, he realized that his phone was buzzing, and had been for a while. He rolled over, chugged a glass of water, and grabbed his phone.

His jaw dropped as he saw the flood of notifications.

Fred Weasley’s Secret Crush?

Fred Weasley Invites Mystery Girl to Sunday’s Game Over Twitter

Football Hearthrobb Fred Weasley Has a Girlfriend?!

Holy shit.

There was only one person this could be about, and he might just die from embarrassment if he was right. You had probably completely forgotten about him, while he still liked all of your Instagram photos on his private account.

Fred scrolled through his notifications to see what looked like a million from Twitter alone, and a text from nearly everyone he knew.

Taking a deep breath, he tapped the Twitter app and clicked on his profile.

Fred Weasley @thebetterweasley

never would have gotten to the nfl without my college chem partner @ynln… tickets to the next game on me?

Fred’s eyes widened as he reread his tweet over and over again. He could feel his entire body heating up as he fought the urge to bury his head in his hands.

He just blew it. Entirely. You would never be interested in him now. You’d just think he wanted the attention, or worse, just for a quick fling.

Fred couldn’t imagine ever only wanting a fling from you. You and your gorgeous hair, beautiful eyes, and the way you talk way just mesmerizing. He could never focus during Intro To Chemistry because you’d be sat right next to him, eyes sparkling and pen flying as you took notes.

And he saw your grades. You were basically a genius, acing every test and perfecting every project. You were probably in grad school right now or in some sort of job for brilliant people who are saving the world.

You probably had no idea who he was.

After an embarrassingly long time spent moping, Fred got out of bed and reluctantly headed to the gym to work out. In between reps, he responded to the thousands of texts that he received, either congratulating him or calling him an idiot.

He definitely knew which ones were right.

His tweet had millions of likes by now, so there was no chance that you’d missed it. He’d been contacted by loads of news outlets, asking for a quote or an interview or anything about you, and he’d denied all of them. The passive-aggressive text from his manager, Alicia, was enough to make him want to delete every social media account he owned.

Fred had just finished his last stretch routine and was headed toward the showers when he got a notification.

Y/N L/N @ynln

maybe i’ll swing by…see if we still have chemistry

Fred could feel the heat spread from his neck all the way to his hairline. He wanted to giggle and kick his feet like a lovesick teenager. Maybe he didn’t ruin everything after all?

You tweeted it a minute ago..would it be weird for him to like it immediately?

Yes. Yes, it would.

That didn’t make him want to do it any less.

As Fred headed to the shower, a massive smile adorning his face, he immediately hit the call button because he had to tell someone about this. You responded to his tweet. He wanted to jump around and squeal like a kid with a crush.

Which was pretty accurate, to be quite honest.

“George,”

“Freddie, I just finished my workout, is this really that imp-”

“She responded to my tweet!!” Fred nearly shouted. He was bouncing on the balls of his feet, eyes shining with excitement. He didn’t recognize himself as he looked in the mirror. His smile was too big for his face, and his ears were bright red.

“It did have more than a million likes, Fred. I think she kind of had to.”

“Don’t ruin this for me George. I’ve liked her for so long, what do I even do now?”

Fred could hear George’s exasperated smile from miles away. “First, you are going to take a deep breath. You are a cool NFL football player, not a horny teenager. “

“Right. Yes.”

He took a deep breath, but his heart was still racing and the butterflies in his stomach would not go away. Come on Fred, you are gonna be normal about this. You can do it.

“You got that Fred?” George asked. Fred murmured an affirmative. “Okay, now you are gonna get tickets to the VIP booth, four of them.”

“Four? Why-”

“Because one of them is for Mum, as you know she will get there somehow if you’ve invited a girl.”

“That’s fair, actually.”

“Also, the public loves her so I assume that your girl will want to meet her too.” Fred pointedly ignored how his heart raced at the words “your girl.” George continued, “You’re also not going to be the asshole who makes her go alone, so give her a couple tickets for her friends.”

“When did you get so smart with girls?”

George chuckled. “Oh this is all Angelina. I don’t know anything.”

“Yeah, that makes a lot more sense, Georgie.”

“Hey!”

Fred hung up as he orders four VIP tickets for the game. He immediately sends one to his mum, but he pauses before sending it to you.

see you at the game! you better be wearing red and gold…

Fred added a winky face, then immediately deleted it. He didn’t want to seem too juvenile or worse, weird. His thumb hovered over the blue send button, rereading the DM over and over. At last, he admitted defeat and sent a screenshot to Geoge.

F: does this sound okay?

G: yes. stop worrying.

F: you act as if you were not the same way when you asked angelica to the yule ball

G: shut up

Fred snorted as he switched back to Twitter. He took a deep breath, steeled himself, and pressed send.

For the rest of the week, Fred practiced harder than ever. All eyes were gonna be on him this week, and he needed a win. More importantly, you were gonna be at this game, and he knew who he wanted to dedicate his touchdown to.

He’d been thinking about it since that freshman year chemistry class when he was nothing but a rookie tight end, and the NFL was nothing but a dream. The crowd goes wild, but the only person he’s looking at is you.

Christ, when did he become such a romantic?

He felt a smile split across his face when his phone buzzed during a break.

Y: i looked through my closet and i don’t know if i have any red and gold…might have to steal something of yours

F: stay after the game and maybe we’ll see

The two of you didn’t text often, maybe a couple of times a day, but it was always a highlight. Locker room talk had devolved into just making fun of Fred’s puppy dog eyes and lovesick smile whenever he opened his phone.

Someone from the press got a picture of him smiling at his phone, and the internet exploded even more.

Fred Weasley Caught Blushing At His Phone During Practice

Fred Weasley’s Smile Has the Internet Swooning

Fred Weasley’s Mystery Girl: Who Is She?

Part of him wanted to feel embarrassed with all the attention, but he was too grateful that you had finally given him the time of day to really think about it. He was laser-focused on every play and worked extra hard at the gym. They would win the game this week, even if it was purely by his will.

Fred had never been this nervous for a game before. Every single playoff game, championship, or even the Superbowl hadn’t prepared him for this feeling.

His girl was up there, and he had to impress you today.

The crowd screamed louder than ever as he ran onto the field with his team. There were signs everywhere, asking if you were here and making jokes about Fred being a loverboy. He couldn’t stop the smile from spreading across his face as he looked around the stadium, taking it all in.

There was nothing he loved more than football, and having other people love him for it was even more special.

Still, Fred tried to catch your eye in the VIP booth, and his smile widened when he saw you talking to his mum. Embarrassing as it was, everyone loved her, so she was probably the quickest way to your heart. Eventually, though, his mum took pity on him and pointed him out to you.

And shit, your smile when Fred finally looked into your eyes. The two of you were far away, so it was hard to tell, but he already knew it was beautiful. He stared at you, probably for longer than was considered normal until the whistle blew and he was forced to follow his team.

This was probably the best game his team had ever played. Everyone was in sync, and the plays they’d worked on all summer were gaining them yards across the field. Everyone could feel the energy in the stadium as people cheered his name.

The only problem, Fred hadn’t yet scored a touchdown. Halftime had just ended, and the team was up thirty-one points. He could feel the coaches wanting to pull him out and let the best people rest while they had such a great lead, however, he silently begged them to let him stay in.

Just one good play and I’ve got this.

And his chance finally came halfway through the third quarter. They were only a few yards away from the endzone, and Fred knew that this was his chance as Oliver called the play.

The whistle blew, and Fred didn’t even see the other players as he sprinted into the endzone, dodging anyone who attempted to get in his way. He and Oliver were in perfect sync as he threw the ball straight into Fred’s hands, securing another six points for the team.

The crowd screamed as the touchdown was announced, and Fred couldn’t stop himself from doing a little victory dance. His eyes found your booth as he headed to the sideline, and he blushed from head to toe at your reaction. You were jumping around and screaming with joy (he hoped) and you looked adorable.

In a moment of confidence, he caught your eye, placed his hand on his chest, and held out half a heart, mouthing “This one is for you.”

Part of him wondered if he was coming on too strong, but the other part was enamored with you as you clasped your hand over your beautiful smile and held half a heart back.

The crowd let out an “aww” as you showed up on the screen beside him, and he couldn’t stop himself from beaming at the nearby camera. He could feel people tapping away at their phones to post on social media, but he didn’t care. You were cheering for him.

The game continued, and Fred was mostly put on the sidelines to give some of the rookies a chance to play, as it was looking pretty good for his team. He couldn’t stop himself from stealing glances at your booth, so much so that the team was beginning to notice.

“Fred, loverboy, the game is this way,” Lee Jordan teased.

“Staring at your mom, Weasley?” Andrew Sloper asked.

Even Oliver, who usually had a stick up his ass, joined in on the fun. “God, Fred, you’d think Taylor Swift was here or something.”

Fred was happy to laugh with them. He hadn’t remembered feeling this giddy in a long time, and he couldn’t push the smile from his face. Part of him was eager for the game to be over, so he could go see you.

Still, his hands shook and butterflies erupted from his stomach when he thought about heading up to your booth. Would conversation flow? Would you even like him in person after all these years? Did you only come for free tickets or for internet clout?

That wasn’t it, he knew. You were too kind, too good to do that when it was obvious how head over heels he was for you. Still, part of him worried.

Fred was sure his team was sick of him by now. He’d been agonizing over his hair for the past thirty minutes as he prepared to leave the locker room and finally see you. He’d blown you a kiss as he left the field, and he was wondering if he’d come on too strong, and clearly if his hair was wrong it would ruin everything.

Maybe he was panicking a little bit. He’d texted you a few minutes ago, giving you instructions on how to get to the family and friends area outside the locker room. He hoped his mum would guide you there, as the last thing he wanted was for you to get lost and attacked by rabid football fans. You didn’t deserve that.

After a few more minutes, he realized that his hair was hopeless (it looked fine) and decided he would rather not leave you waiting. With a last look in the mirror and a deep breath, he headed out of the locker room.

The area was crowded; full of girlfriends, wives, children, and all sorts of family and friends of the team. There was a buzz in the room of people talking, laughing, and generally celebrating the win. The sounds got even louder as he entered, and Fred could see people acting like they weren’t staring at him.

Still, he wasn’t paying attention to anything but you as you locked eyes across the room. You gave him a shy smile, and he couldn’t stop himself from beaming as he headed straight for you.

“Hey,” you said. Your eyes were piercing, and very distracting. He couldn’t seem to form a thought as he stared into them.

“Hey,” he said back, stupidly. He hesitated for a moment as the butterflies felt more like stampeding wildebeest in his stomach. “Did you enjoy the game?”

There was a teasing lilt to your voice as you responded. “I don’t know. It was alright, I suppose.”

“Alright?” Fred asked in mock annoyance. He placed a light hand on your back as he guided you out of the family area. “I guess next time I’ll give my free VIP tickets to someone else.”

You snorted. “As if you have someone else to give them to.”

“Hey! I have plenty of people to give tickets to.”

“Like who?” you asked. “Your mom?”

Fred smiled and placed a dramatic hand on his chest. “You dare insult Mother Weasley?”

You smiled and stared at the ground as you shook your head. “Never. We had a great time hanging out tonight.”

He gave you a soft smile. “I’m glad. I have a feeling that you’re going to be her new favorite.”

As the two of you neared the press area, Fred straightened and pressed his hand slightly closer to your back. He didn’t want to be too forward, however, he knew how aggressive the press could be. “For this next part, just be careful of the reporters. Our security is really good, and honestly,” he chuckled a bit, “I could take most of them, but I don’t want anyone making you uncomfortable.”

You nodded and pressed a bit closer to him, making him blush even harder.

It was a small hallway, and the press was kept behind some silver barriers that allowed the two of you some space to walk. Cameras flashed and videos recorded Fred and you walking past. You had the prettiest smile in the world, and Fred couldn’t stop looking at you as you gave an especially beautiful one to the cameras.

He’d have to find that photo later.

Fred was desperate to grab your hand as the two of you walked toward his convertible, but his hands were sweaty and shook at the thought. You looked gorgeous in the moonlight, and he couldn’t stop his eyes from dropping to your lips.

As the two of you sped off, you looked at him and raised an eyebrow. “I believe I was promised a jersey after the game.”

He smirked. “I’m pretty sure I said we’ll see.”

“So you don’t want to see me in your jersey next game?”

“Who said you were getting invited to my next game?”

“Seemed like someone enjoyed having me there tonight,” you said, looking away from him, a teasing smile on your face.

Fred smiled. “When did you get so confident? I remember it took forever for us to actually talk when we met.”

“I know it may surprise you Freddie, but some of us grew up a bit after college.”

“Really?” he gasped, dropping his jaw. “That's crazy.”

“And,” you added, “some of us have learned how to tell when someone is flirting with us.”

That's when Fred’s jaw dropped for real, and red spread all the way to his ears. He turned back to the road, focusing on driving as hard as he could. Letting you see the giddy beam on his face was not an option. Your hand moved toward the center console, right next to his, and every part of him itched to hold it.

He cleared his throat. “So, uh…how have you been?”

He listened to you describe your life and your job as if he had not been stalking you on Instagram since he met you. It seemed like you had thrived since college, and Fred felt his heart soar when he heard how happy you were. You deserved everything, and Fred silently hoped he would be there to see you get it.

As the two of you pulled into the parking lot, Fred caught you staring at him, biting your lip as he backed into the spot. He smiled to himself as he got out of the car and opened the door for you.

“Dinner?”

Dinner was perfect. Fred couldn’t stop laughing and smiling in your presence, and it seemed like you were having a great time as well. Every so often the conversation would lull, and he would catch you staring at him as the two of you enjoyed your meal.

He did his share of staring as well, but he hoped that he was less obvious about it.

(He wasn’t.)

Fred finally found the courage to grab your hand as the two of you were leaving the restaurant, with your head thrown back in a laugh that rocked his world. You just looked so adorable that he had to hold you, even if it was just your hand.

He knew it was the right choice when you immediately squeezed his hand. He squeezed back, which caused you to do it again, beginning an all-out hand-squeezing war that only ended when the two of you were laughing too hard to continue.

Christ, your laugh was just so beautiful. You looked so free and so happy when you simply threw your head back and laughed, letting your joy overtake your entire body. Fred could feel himself staring, but he didn’t care. He just wanted to be a part of your sunshine.

Too soon, you stopped laughing and just stared back at him. He held your gaze for a moment, letting his eyes flick to your lips every so often. He stepped closer to you. Close enough to touch you. Close enough to lean in…

Close enough to kiss you.

You’re eyes slid shut as Fred leaned in and placed a hand under your chin to tilt your face up to meet his. Slowly, so terribly slowly, he leaned in and pressed his lips to yours.

Your lips were soft, and they seemed to meld with his perfectly. Fred could feel his pulse racing as you tugged on the lapels of his jacket to get closer. Christ, he just wanted to be closer to you, closer, and closer.

You opened your mouth slightly, and Fred took that opportunity to part your lips and deepen the kiss. He felt you inhale sharply and panicked for a moment until he heard your small moan at the movements of his tongue. All Fred knew was that he wanted to hear that sound again, and again, and again until you couldn’t make it anymore, until you were tired and sick with pleasure-

You gasped as you pulled away from him. Your lips were raw and red, matching the blush that colored your cheeks. It was silent for a moment as the two of you gazed at each other.

Fred smirked. “So…do you think we still have chemistry?”

#this isn't inspired by recent events at all #nope #not me #fred weasley x reader #fred weasely x yn #fred weasley #harry potter #fanfic #xreader #writing #sports romance

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holy-puckslibrary · 9 months ago

Text

━ 𝐁𝐋𝐔𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐖𝐀𝐈𝐈𝐀𝐍.

main masterlist

pairing(s) — MITCH MARNER x reader (est. relationship) wc — 4.5k synopsis — think hilary duff’s balcony engagement circa 2007

note — this belongs to the i don't remember this bar collection

specific content warnings below the cut.

cw — profanity and other vulgar language, taking the lord’s name in vain + other religious-ish imagery, oral sex (m receiving), unprotected PIV intercourse (multiple) + creampie/breeding kink, discussion/thoughts of cum play, outdoor sex and mention of previous exhibitionism, mention of previous choking + breath play (f!reader receiving), pain kink situation (both), one line of blood play (f!reader receiving), justified violence (not directed at reader!!!), slight d/s dynamics, and possessive!mitch being a domestic little horndog

“Before we talk about that beautiful, game-tying goal in the tail-end of the second and your overall command of the offensive zone throughout tonight’s game, I first want to congratulate you on some major life news. A few weeks belated; my apologies.

For those who don’t know, you came back from the All-Star break with more than just a tan; you came back with—and as—a fiancé.”

Mitch does nothing to dim his megawatt smile or to dull the sparkle in his eyes. The mere mention of you coaxes out an impossibly giddier version of himself, unencumbered by the stress and pressure of a waning season. It’s always been that way.

It's difficult to remember a time before you. He doesn't want to.

Despite of meeting on arguably one of the worst nights of his life, somehow, all he feels when the memory rises to the surface of his mind is joy.

He remembers your laughter, warm and buoyant, and the way the low light painted flattering shadows across your kind face as you spoke animatedly about your passions and dreams. He remembers being treated like a person before anything else, not some character in a video game or a pawn in someone else’s fantasy league, and he recalls your fervent, genuine interest in his off-ice hobbies. Not once did you ask anything invasive or demand he share more than he was willing.

Nor did you fish for tickets.

For Mitch, privacy was paramount, and the sentiment echoed throughout your lengthy relationship. It was your through-line, and it should’ve blanketed the intimate proposal in safety.

He gets hot under the collar just thinking about it.

Mitch will entertain the host’s questions to an extent. Because, despite his insistence on privacy, he will never pass up an opportunity to sing your praises or brag about his luck.

“Did you bring anything else back? Any special souvenir to commemorate such a momentous occasion?”

Mitch is instantly hard, his pale cheeks ablaze, eternally grateful that the camera is filming from the chest up.

Carried in on a warm evening breeze, the evocation is so palpable he can taste the blue curaçao on his tongue and feel its muted burn in the back of his throat. The air smells of pineapple and your fragrant shampoo, a comforting scent that clings to him like a second skin. The phantom of your touch sends a shiver down the expanse of his sore, sweat-drenched back.

“—holy fuck.”

The crinkled, two-word curse tumbles from Mitch’s mouth with little effort.

Every modicum of tact was either battling against the warm rum coursing through his body or fighting to keep his guttural, damning moans at bay.

They are getting hot and heavy on a patio, after all.

Mitch knows this isn’t smart. He knows he should’ve moved the celebration indoors, that he should've waited until you were curtained in safety to give in to his desire and your wandering hands.

He knows, he knows, he knows.

The problem is he just doesn’t care.

Mitch wasn’t about to delay the appreciative mouth of the woman he was going to make his wife, not even for a second.

Even if she dropped to her knees with only a hedge to play look-out. A line of decorative foliage is their first and final defense, the leaves carelessly swaying between them and the rest of the luxury resort he booked for All-Star weekend.

It’s difficult to make sound decisions when the hand wrapped around your cock is newly weighed down by five carats.

The dazzling rock shines proudly in the concluding rays of a setting sun. Glittery and perfect, like the woman who wears it.

Mitch hisses when the tip taps the back of your throat for the first time that night. The sensitive skin melts into your tongue like an ice cube, the creamy droplets of anticipation swallowed greedily by your ravenous mouth. He sees stars in the cotton candy sky peeking through the palm trees.

It hasn’t been that long; his day began with your nose nuzzled against his pelvis, his head limp against the cool tile of the shower a few feet away.

When it comes to you, nothing is ever enough to curb his appetite.

Always needy, never satiated—a pair of perverted peas in a pod.

Your tongue repeats the delicious motion it had previously, too, lazily tracing along the underside of his length until he’s whimpering with no regard for anything besides spilling himself down your throat. He feels you smile around his thickness, pleased by the ease of his undoing. You were damn good; you deserved to be proud.

In all honesty, it took very little effort on your part to make him weak in both his knees and in his resolve.

However, there was a special kind of magic in your pretty face, now dusted by a salty sheen, nestled against his taut abdomen, his cock engulfed by the vice-grip of your throat.

Mitch is close already.

White-hot sparks descend through his quads and calves to zap his sandy toes. Electrified, his hips sputter of their own volition, but like the godsend you are, you accommodate every jolt and tilt in stride.

With one hand braced against his hip and the other gently massaging the heavy weight of his balls cradled in your palm, you peer up at him through a fan of fluttering lashes.

He whines—at the mischievous glint in your glassy eyes or the bite of your manicure as you sink your nails into his burnt skin, he can’t be sure.

Some of your fingers curl into the nasty bruise eating up his lower back, the by-product of a gruesome communion with the ice a few days prior. Sharp nails nip at the fragile skin. Mitch doesn’t know if the twinge of pain was intentional on your part, but he loves it either way. Perhaps a little too much, he thinks to himself as he twitches violently in your grasp.

And perhaps you aren't the only one with a masochistic streak. It's clear from the heaviness of your lids the converse applies to you.

His sweetheart's sick and sadistic. He's never been prouder.

“Get off,” he husks. Abruptly, he steps out from your embrace.

In retrospect, Mitch could’ve been nicer about it. At that moment, however, he was far too desperate for chivalry.

Staring down at your wide, despondent eyes—a pup deprived of her favorite bone—your fiancé amends, “Calm down, sweetheart. I’ll give it back soon. There’s no way in hell I’m wasting a load in your mouth when I know how good your pussy feels around my cock.”

Heat scales Mitch’s spine as he spreads you wide open against the chaise. Your folds glow brighter than the jewelry on your left hand.

With the tip of his finger, he tests the waters. Gingerly, at first, like he's still unsure you'll be able to take him. That charade hardly lasts, but tonight, it's barely a blip.

Your body eagerly welcomes the attention, mouthing at him before sucking the touch past the taut, elastic ring of your entrance. Your faint groans elicited by the intrusion harmonize so sweetly, so perfectly, that Mitch’s eyes fall shut in tranquil bliss.

When your hips rock against his palm, they snap open.

Blinking at him hard and fast, your teeth sink into your bottom lip, turning the plushness a sickly shade of pink—of desperation. Tears crowd your lash line but never cascade down your shiny cheeks; they, like you, are impatiently waiting for reprimand.

Mitch almost laughs. You did jump the gun, so he can't fault you for expecting the corresponding punishment. But it's a special occasion—you're celebrating, so it never manifests.

And Mitch wants to do more than just spank you silly. Plenty of time for that later. A lifetime's worth of it.

Instead, with the flick of his wrist, Mitch encourages you to take your pleasure.

The subtle, tantalizing movements, building in speed and ferocity with each pass, beckon him forward until his sunburnt skin is close enough to burn yours. Feeling you beneath him, feeling his weight rest against your body, feels better than heaven, and he’s barely started.

Like before, Mitch is painfully aware he won’t be able to last long. Judging by how silky-slick you are against his palm, you won’t be either.

With his free hand, he catches your jaw and, with little resistance, tilts your head to keep your gaze from straying. Your mouth falls open when he slips another finger inside. Mitch grins down at your lust-blown pupils and the feel of your hot breath against his lips. He leans down and licks into your idle mouth. A third finger causes your bottom lip to tremble between his and your forehead to ease, every little muscle going soft and pliant between the cushion and his chest.

“Atta girl,” Mitch praises. His lips press briefly to your cheek before beginning their descent along your throat. The touch is featherlight and sends a shiver down your spine, coaxing your chest further into his. “—love seeing you like this, all beautiful and open. And all fucking mine.”

Mitch wouldn't necessarily consider himself a territorial person, and he can't recall ever feeling possessive of a partner. Until he met you.

It had nothing to do with trust or a lack thereof; you were his the minute your eyes met through the crowd, and you reassured him of that fact constantly. It was never you that needed a reminder—it was everybody else.

The men who openly leer at you from every corner of Scotiabank Arena. The NHL hopefuls in your Instagram comments shamelessly flirting as if he didn’t exist or wasn’t in the photo, too. The unprofessional commentators who found ways to sneak in a lecherous comment or two under the guise of camaraderie whenever they spoke about his prowess.

You weren’t some object to be won or bought. You made a choice, and he’d make sure they knew and respected it.

Sure, the engagement ring will aid in this up-hill endeavor, but a little due diligence never hurt either.

“Tonight, it's gonna take. I’m making damn sure of that, sweetheart.”

Your walls squeeze his digits in recognition. Mitch chuckles, dark and dry, against your shoulder. You might like the implication more than he does.

You two weren’t trying, but you weren’t not trying either. Seeing you wearing his ring—the one he picked and purchased—kicked him down a perverted spiral. Flipped the last switch, cut the final cord. He wanted to complete the picture. He wanted to give those good-for-nothing losers one more reason to keep their mouths shut and their eyes to themselves.

“You’d love that, wouldn’t you? Love for me to fill you in a way that’ll last? C’mon, sweetheart, tell me what you want. Tell me how badly you want to be stuffed full of me, how much your pussy needs it—how badly you want to be heavy and swollen with my kid."

Mitch tends to your clit, keeping you borderline incoherent as he tickles your ears with more filth before you can reply to the first goading.

Your eventual responses are muffled by a long, primal whine.

When he has you swaying on the brink of collapse, he’s painfully hard against your inner thigh. There's an iridescent river pearling from the weeping head, freely flowing down to pool beneath your ass. It beams in the dim light like a beacon.

Transfixed and desperately in love, Mitch could cum right now. Just like this.

But staining a stupid fucking cushion would be more of a waste than shooting himself your throat. So, much to your chagrin, he, once again, retreats back onto his knees.

“C-come back,” you whimper with a loud hiccup. The choked sound is as pitiful as your attempts to reach for him. “Please, please, please—”

Satisfaction spreads over the bridge of his nose, leaving him rosy from one cheek to the other. He pins you with a heated, half-lid stare as he strokes himself.

His palm doesn’t feel as good as yours, but Mitch is grateful for that. He wants to drag this out. Instead of rutting into you like a teenager in the backseat of a car, or like himself after a long stint away.

That can’t—and won’t—happen if he keeps touching you. He has to back off before he loses his ever-loving mind.

“Stop being a tease,” you chide. Irritation weighs heavily on your voice. “Haven’t I waited long enough?”

“There’s something I want you to see first, you little brat,” he replies, adopting your sharp tone as he brings his open palm down on your inner thigh.

You shriek, but your eyes beg for another. Maybe he shouldn't have cut you any slack earlier...

He grants your silent wish with a matching blow to the other side before guiding his rigid cock to rest over your body.

And it was better than Mitch ever imagined.

He groans at the sight, “Can you see it? Can you, sweetheart?”

Mitch waits patiently for it to click in your mind, but the confusion that swiftly overtook your fucked-out features never dissipates. Eyes rolling, he shifts forward. Hand still wrapped around the base, Mitch leans over until the full length of him sits against your bare stomach.

Your body quivers over the contact, so he has to hold your hips down to keep you from wiggling and ruining everything.

“I know you can feel it, but I want you to see it. I want you to see how deep I get inside of you, sweetheart. All the way up…” Mitch trails off as his hands glide from your outer hips to the center of your abdomen.

His voice is so deep. So hungry. Your whole being—mind and body—goes weak at the foreign richness.

With tender thumbs, he applies pressure beneath his swollen tip. “—here.”

Mitch moves slowly at first, as if he'd just been sheathed inside of you. With each careful thrust, his stones caress your aching clit, all puffy and pouting.

It feels wonderful to be touched again, even if only in short bursts. But it's not enough friction or force to do much more than aggravate you further. Even when he picks up speed, it’s more hurtful than helpful.

Still, you cannot tear your eyes away from the angry, ruddy head dribbling out ropes of arousal or voice a shred of discontent. The opaque beads form a nonsensical pattern, but it's mesmerizing nonetheless.

If you were any less needy, you’d take your time running your fingers through the milky mess. Swirling around in the evidence of Mitch’s desire until you had enough to lick clean.

As if privy to your thoughts, he pins your wrists at your sides again.

Mitch isn’t faring much better than you. His eyes are trained on the shadow bisecting your middle. Locked, laser-focused. This little…exercise was as much for his amusement as it is for your education. He knows how far he can reach inside of you—knows how fucking fantastic it feels to be buried at the root, but seeing just how deeply he can fuck you is something else entirely.

It's enough to make him question why and how he ever stops fucking you. He’s an idiot for depriving himself. For neglecting you. An exercise in frustration as much as his fruitless effort to shun the rose-colored perversions dancing wild in his mind, Mitch has wasted so much time.

Fuck penance and fuck propriety—it would be a sin to do anything other than worship at your altar as a devoted acolyte. Cardinal, even.

His stomach tightens as he considers how empty you must feel in his absence—and how deliciously whole you must feel when he drives home. He wonders how forlorn your folds must look right now as he keeps what you covet just out of bounds. His body obstructs the view, but Mitch knows you’re open and fluttering around nothing, pleading for mercy.

If he were a cruel man, he’d ignore your begging and continue on like this until his balls were empty and your chest was covered in ivory threads. Lucky for you, your future husband is of the clement variety.

Before you can get another babble, his mouth is back on yours. He keeps your arms tight to your sides, so you��re incentivized to convey your fervent need for more—of anything, really—through your lips and tongue.

Mitch is greedy when he kisses you and needy while lapping up your fire—happily, and without pause. His head pounds like he finished a handle in a single sip, but he doesn’t want it to stop. Ever. It’s disorienting, and yet, he can’t seem to get enough no matter how much of you he drinks down. Mitch wants to spend the rest of his life drunk on your lips.

Begrudgingly, he tears his mouth from yours. Then, tanned chest heaving, he positions himself between your glistening southern lips. Mitch looks down at you, and when your vision finally focuses, his eyes have been shadowed in darkness by his hulking brow.

His prior impatience dwindles ever so slightly even though he's on the precipice of complete satisfaction. Mitch hasn’t gotten a good look at you since your nimble hands relieved him of his shorts some twenty minutes ago, and you are glorious. A celestial nymph with dominion over his heart, devastatingly beautiful and all-consuming in every conceivable way. The hold you have over him is dangerous, verging on obsession. There isn’t a thing he wouldn’t do or say if it appeased you so.

He isn’t fearful. He’s honored. The gratitude he feels knowing that you were, and remain, receptive to his devotion is overwhelming. And now, watching the lucid waters of lust ebb and flow in your glazed eyes, he’s never felt luckier.

Mitch thumbs the gem resting atop your finger, and you shudder as if it were the one tucked between your thighs.

His other hand lingers around your right wrist, though not as tightly as before. With his pulsing head shallow in your heat, he knows you’ll behave. Disrupting him now would only prolong his teasing. A lesson you learned—and were often reminded of—the hard way.

As his fingers trace the metallic band, warmed by the tropical sun and his furnace-like touch, Mitch pushes his hips forward, slow and steady, until he’s fully enveloped by your wanting walls. With your snug, pillowy softness stretching and constricting to accommodate his generous blessing, his grip on reality slips.

“You’re a fucking dream,” your fiancé rasps.

His hands are now splayed wide on either side of your head, effectively caging you beneath him as he builds a faithful rhythm. Teeth clenched, he works diligently to fashion a tribute worthy of your ethereal beauty and power.

“—always so warm and wet for me, just begging to be split open on my thick fuckin' cock. How long have you been this needy, sweetheart? Since I bent you over on the boat? Right over the railing where anyone could’ve seen you?”

You nod, bruised bottom lip pinched between your teeth. Tears well in your eyes.

Your afternoon tryst had been as quick as it’d been rough. Sundress bunched high, the fragile fabric wrinkled between your hips and the cool metal railing as Mitch’s right hand wrapped around your throat. His talented fingers pressed firmly into your sun-kissed skin, relentless in their torment, as he pawed at the pathetic knot struggling to hold your bathing suit in place. His mouth curled into a smirk as it whispered a heady mix of degradation and praise. All while you preened for him, a large crowd just steps away.

That wasn't the first orgasm you were robbed of today.

The hem of the thin material that clung to your anguished body floated demurely above your ankles, landing just shy of the bone. The sullied garment hid the incriminating evidence that inched down your sore thighs with every step you took. The irony was not lost on you as you walked back to your room.

“D’you know how hard it was to stop myself from fucking you in front of all those people? To hold back like that—to not bend you over and take in broad daylight? Of course you do, you sweet, sadistic minx. You always know how to rile me up—and you always find a reason to.”

Mitch grins against your lips before his teeth momentarily replace yours. They nestle into the grooves as if that was the expressed purpose of the faint indentations.

“With the way you’ve been behaving, I’m willing to bet you want a better souvenir than a gift shop tchotchke, hm? Y'gotta be patient for me, though—good girls wait for their rewards. Jus' wait… Oh, I don’t know, nine months? Give or take? Think you can do that for me?"

He’s being cheeky on purpose. He likes the way gentle irritation plays out between your legs—always has and always will.

Mitch releases your lower lip again, but only after he’s nicked it with his canines. A dainty bead of crimson materializes. Covetous, his tongue laps it up without pause. Painted lips kiss from cheek to cheek.

Your back arches. Your hips lift to rock in time with his thrusts.

“God, I can’t wait till we get those fuckin’ keys,” Mitch mumbles, almost absentmindedly.

The lean muscles of his upper body ripple as he sits up to grab ahold of your jaw, a calloused hand on either side. He has an unimpeded view of your dazed, saccharine countenance. His hips slow until they match the thumbs stroking escaped tears into your cheeks.

“—m'gonna take you in every room, against every surface. That way, there won’t be a single thing in our home that—fuck—that doesn’t remind you of me and how well I take care of you—you and your tight cunt.”

With little fanfare, he threads his arms under your dewy legs. Mitch uses the newfound leverage to tug your body even closer.

A shriek rips through the firm seam of your lips as his length traverses an unexplored depth. Your knees snuggle against the pit of his elbows, pleased to be so close in spite of the pain.

Mitch holds your gaze, reveling in your silent screams. He winks, then slowly lowers himself down until your body is folded squarely beneath his. Your muscles burn with the fury of budding resentment, which you’ll surely feel towards him in the morning after this unprompted foray into acrobatics, but the new angle is too good to do more than just... take it.

His hands are glad to have been relieved of their duty and, eager to take advantage of their newfound freedom, palm your chest as his mouth descends on your poor neck. The delicate skin is utterly defenseless against the desire thumping deep within his chest and spilling over his ribs.

Mitch wants to stake his claim—to mark his territory. A stammer of expletives accompanies the vulgar jut of your hips when he rolls your sensitive nipples, swollen and begging for attention, between thumb and forefinger. Bracketed by his forearms, you surrender completely.

Mitch hums at the lewd, sucking sound made by your arousal. Wet squelches ricochet off the adjacent wall with each and every thrust.

“I’ve really made a mess out of you, haven’t I?”

You nod, eyes pinched in concentration.

You’re close. He can feel your body trying to milk him dry. Fortunately, Mitch isn’t far behind. You feel too fucking good to prolong the inevitable.

He brings a hand to your clit, and it moves in messsy circles as he speaks, “Not done yet, though. Gonna flood this pretty cunt—gonna leave you all sticky and hot. I know you want it, but I need you to cum for me first. Go on, sweetheart, I’ve got you.”

You unravel on command, your chin falling to the side in ecstasy. Mitch’s firm hand is quick to wrench it back; he needs to watch your face contort as you crumble like he needs air to breathe. Mitch won't be able to think straight until he reaps the rewards of fucking and rubbing you through it.

The sob that wrecks your body is high-pitched and perforated by little gasps, and the rush of wetness is more pathetic than any noise you could and would make in your lifetime. More than you ever thought your body was capable of, more than your new fiancé expected, more than either of you anticipated.

He's soaked in a matter of seconds—as are you and the cushion dripping onto the concrete.

Mitch's climax comes in quick succession but, unlike yours, without warning. Undoubtedly, his peak was triggered by the gush of your undeniable satisfaction.

Drained dry, Mitch hunches over to capture your lips once more, determined to distract you from the inevitable bodily ache on the come-down. Delicately, he places your trembling legs onto the chaise and nestles into the space they vacated. He feels every little muscle twitch and spasm when he hugs you tightly to his body.

The world is muted, fuzzy around the edges, and drowned out by the aftershocks, so you miss most of his sweet-nothing rambling, but the relief and contentment that flood your spent body is reply enough.

He isn’t sure how long you stay like that—tangled together in paradise. You doze off, dipping in and out of consciousness, and wake just after the buttery sun slips entirely behind the horizon. Through the darkness surrounding your bare bodies, silvery moonlight replaces the golden rays of sunshine, but you—and your ring—shine as if nothing's changed.

You keep up a quiet conversation. Nothing of importance is spoken; it's carried on purely for the enjoyment of one another’s voice. Mitch peppers your skin, sticky from humidity and exertion, with tender lips, and you return the favor tenfold. You’re both smiling so wide, so happily.

And you keep grinning into the night, even when your cheeks begin to ache. It’s only when the light breeze ghosts over your bare skin that either of you consider relocating. In no rush and reluctant to leave your deep warmth, he’s leisurely about moving into the dim suite.

Mitch freezes abruptly. His stomach splatters at his feet when his mind catches up to his instincts. Murmuring. He hears murmuring. Terror races down his spine like an ice-cold chill. It's quiet at first. Almost as if the evening wind picked up a distant conversation yards away and softly settled it in his paranoid eardrums. He can’t make out any particular words—except his last name.

His mood sours beyond repair with the realization that the juvenile whispering is much too close, the giggles muffled only by the permeable wall of greenery bordering the suite’s ground-floor patio.

“We just wanted to be the first to say congratulations!” A teenage voice devoid of tact and respect calls out above a chorus of snorts and giggles.

Mortified, you bury your head into the crook of his neck. His chain is cold in comparison to your shame.

Mitch growls and reaches beside the chaise. He shouts something that would’ve made even the most shameless of shit-talkers blush, then sends a half-empty bottle of Dom Pérignon clear through the leaves. It shatters, and the crisp bubbles spill out on the concrete, sending the herd of inconsiderate assholes scattering like mice.

“I’ll go pick up the glass,” he sighs, knowing you’ll chastise him for the mess. "—later."

Mitch couldn’t be honest with the journalist.

He wouldn’t even if he could.

He shares so much of himself and his life with the world already—a hazard of the flashy, public-facing occupation he chose—and you’ve offered up far more of your world than he’d ever ask of you. He doesn’t mind a photo here or a video there, sometimes a press junket or two in a philanthropic context, but Mitch won’t bring the media into your private moments beyond where they’ve already encroached.

Especially not for a leading question intended to bait him into saying something stupid. Or to prematurely announce the impending arrival of your first child.

So, instead, he simply says, “Towels. But if the Four Seasons—or my future wife—asks, I’m totally joking, and I definitely put them all back.”

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