#bearded composer

[mollywog]

the concept of Haymitch being into camp is so funny when he's been known as Mister Dour Grumpy Frowny Pants for decades (for good reason. very much not disparaging him for that)

but in my head the clues were there all along; he is drawn to irony and light-hearted jokesters and weirdos*, and his brief/very reluctant stint with school theater laid more groundwork than he thought

*Chaff and Peeta and his girlfriend

Bahahahhaha I love it!

Inspired by this

(Second to last is inspiring vampire Haymitch thoughts)

Fashion was actually his talent back in the day

I also like the idea that he just doesn’t notice or care? He’s in the mentoring room and it’s cold and someone (jokingly) offers him a cardigan or fur stole and, fuck it, it’ll get the job done.

Then post-was his laundry gets mixed in with someone else’s and he ends up pulling on a crop top, and well, Peeta will get a kick out of this, so he tramps halfway across the district turning heads for the joke.

[sesamenom]

some ideas from an au where maglor just keeps living in britain (/himring?)

especially in the earlier eras he had to put a lot more effort into styling/dyeing his hair to cover his ears & the blueness/Elf Sparkle. he also wore glasses for a while to dim the Treelight Eyes (because even as badly faded as he is, it's still really obvious with how old he is).

[a-personiftranslator]

the fact that my entire way of life depends on me being able to go “well a nuclear mushroom cloud could basically be a gnome beard if i tried hard enough” is humbling sometimes

[mephistovalse]

Brahms statues (& grave) around vienna <3

[lovcrss]

crawling into joel’s lap after a long day.

cw: light smut, needy joel, nicknames (baby), teasing flirty banter

he’s sitting on his chair on the porch, legs spread and head relaxed on the headrest, finally relieving tension built up from the day. the feeling is almost perfect, only one thing’s missing.

that thing steps out of the house, moving easily in light, short but comfy sleeping clothes. you set yourself down on his lap and drape your legs over his, your ankles on the armrest, looking at him with a cheeky expression.

joel can’t help but let his lips curve upwards, hand immediately running over your leg to your hip, placing it there. “what have we here, hm?”

with a smirk, you kiss his cheek, his beard scraping your face slightly. “a tired grump in need of a drink,” you joke with your head on his chest.

“i got what i need right in front o’me,” he mumbles into your ear, nuzzling his face into your hair, the thick sharp beard itching the side of your face again.

cold night air grazes your exposed skin, causing you to shift in his lap to which he reacts by holding you tighter against him, his hand on your hip firmer and his other hand supporting your back and a grunt.

you hum with a smile on your face, playing with the buttons of his flannel. “really? what, your cigarettes?” the ones that laid on the table next to you in their box.

“‘course,” he huffs sarcastically, trying his best to sound serious. “the hell else would I be talking about?”

“alright,” rolling your eyes, you push his face away from your hair to the other side while he laughs, only to return with his lips attacking your neck. “what’s the matter, baby?”

your fingers attach to his gray hair while he explores up from your neck to your chest. he caresses gently the soft skin of your thighs with his rough fingers, sending shivers over your body.

his gentleness makes you melt, the way his fingers skim over your inner thighs have you gasping his name.

“you’re adorable when you squirm,” he rasps, making sure there isn’t an inch of skin left unkissed.

“stop embarrassing me,” you chuckle, moving while his big hands stay steady over your body.

joel looks up at you with his dog-like eyes. “you want me to stop?” he asks, the hand on your hip snaking upwards, slowly dragging the tips of his fingers over your sides until they reach the curve of you breast.

the way he touches you has your head spinning, needing to compose yourself. changing position, you stand up and place your legs on the sides of his so you’re straddling him. “no,” you say with a hint of a whine in your tone, placing your palms on his chest. “not done with you.”

the sight of you on top of him like this had his jeans tightening around his crotch. one hand slipped under your top again while the other cradled your jaw. “look at you,” he mumbles before connecting your lips in a hungry but slow kiss, almost unconsciously rocking his hips into yours.

the action causes you to let out a whimper into the kiss, only leading him to hold you even passionately. he pulls away to catch his breath. “baby, if you keep making those sounds…”

surprising him, you grind your hips against his already hard cock and let out a small sound again to provoke him, kissing him as a distraction. “what then?”

he shakes his head, “then we’re not sleepin’ tonight.”

suddenly, joel picks you up with your legs around his hips and you squeal, his big hard-on under his jeans digging into your core. he carries you inside with his face in your neck and keeps his word.

[blank-potato]

my kid's better than your kid

Pairing: John Walker x Reader

Summary:

“Listen here, Captain Suburbia,” you sneer. “Anyone with two functioning eyes could see your kid bodychecked mine like it was hockey practice.” “Well, the ref didn’t see it that way. So move on,” he snaps back without missing a beat. “Absolutely not! This is about accountability.” “There’s no need to give my kid a red card just because your kid—” John starts, hands gesturing like he's trying to explain away a traffic ticket. “Don’t even finish that sentence,” you fire back, jabbing a finger at his chest. “If you even imply that she was overreacting, I swear I’ll—” He holds up his hands, that smug look never leaving his face. “Hey, relax. Just saying, maybe things wouldn’t get so dramatic if you stayed on your side of the field.” You narrow your eyes. “Funny, I was just thinking the same about you.” Or You and John's kids are in the same soccer league, and after you get into an argument on the field over your kids, you start seeing him everywhere. It's hate at first sight.

Tags/Warnings: 18+ Explicit Content, hair pulling, mirror sex, oral sex (female receiving), p in v sex, breeding kink, sexual overstimulation, John Walker is a biter, No Superhero AU!, slow burn, enemies to lovers, dead spouse (I killed off his wife oop), John being a good dad, Ava Starr cameo

WC: 12.0k

A/N: I feel like John would be one of those dads who's coaching from the sidelines at their kids' game, so I wrote this. I'm also obsessed with him right now so expect more fics

ᯓ⚽︎ ᯓ⚽︎ ᯓ⚽︎

Some might call you intense or insane.

A little crazy, definitely.

There’s a fire in you, always has been, and when it comes to your daughter, you didn’t play around. Every aspect of her life was important to you, especially her Saturday morning soccer games.

Though you didn’t know what intense was until you saw that dickhead across the field. Blonde hair, a trimmed beard, built like he probably hits the gym four times a week. His biceps flexed under his white shirt every time he threw his arms up at the ref, which, to be fair, was often.

If he weren’t so obnoxious, you might even find him hot, but you totally don’t find him hot. He was pumped up, red in the face, and just as invested in the game as you were. Pacing like a coach who got fired but still showed up anyway. He was shouting directions, clapping like his kid was about to be scouted, and cheering like it was the World Cup and not just a rec league game on a patchy field behind a middle school.

He was showing you up, so you started cheering louder for your kid. Because if this is a competition, you're damn well not losing it.

“That’s it, Lily! Give ‘em hell!” You shout, your daughter just smiles at you and goes back to playing, used to your competitive nature.

The man takes notice of you and looks at you like he isn’t also acting like a lunatic before cheering even louder. That rubbed you the wrong way. What gave him the right to look at you like you were the problem?

Then it happens.

You watch as your daughter gets slide-tackled for no reason.

And the ref? Doing fuck all about it.

“What was that call, ref?” you shout, already on your feet.

“I—” the ref starts, backing up as you approach. 

You trudge towards him, angry but trying to maintain a look of composed fury, like you weren't two seconds from setting the field on fire. 

The ref was used to your antics, and now every time he saw you storming towards him, he’d be sure that he’d be going home with a headache.

“No yellow or red card? She got slide-tackled,” you bark.

“It’s—”

“She didn’t even have the ball!” you snap, the words ripping out of you like they’ve been waiting. You’re so fired up, so high on rage and love and disbelief, you swear you could take flight.

“It was an accident, so there’s no need for that,” a voice cuts in, calm and condescending in the worst possible way.

You turn, and it’s him, the guy from across the field. The look on his face, the matter-of-fact tone, the casual smugness oozing off him like cologne. You hate him instantly. It was that easy.

“I’m guessing that was your son that ran over my daughter,” you say, each word clipped like you’re trying not to launch them at his face.

“Ran over?” he snorts. “Talk about an exaggeration.”

“It’s soccer, these things happen. You don’t have to throw a tantrum just because your kid's team is down two,” he adds, smirking like he thinks this is witty banter and not a declaration of war.

You scoff, hands on hips, already stepping into his space. The ref backs off like a man realising he’s standing between two charging bulls. This wasn’t a sideline spat; this was two planets colliding, and he wanted no part of the fallout.

“Listen here, Captain Suburbia,” you sneer. “Anyone with two functioning eyes could see your kid bodychecked mine like it was hockey practice.”

“Well, the ref didn’t see it that way. So move on,” he snaps back without missing a beat.

“Absolutely not! This is about accountability.”

“There’s no need to give my kid a red card just because your kid—” John starts, hands gesturing like he's trying to explain away a traffic ticket.

“Don’t even finish that sentence,” you fire back, jabbing a finger at his chest. “If you even imply that she was overreacting, I swear I’ll—”

He holds up his hands, that smug look never leaving his face. “Hey, relax. Just saying, maybe things wouldn’t get so dramatic if you stayed on your side of the field.”

You narrow your eyes. “Funny, I was just thinking the same about you.”

“That’s it! Take this off the field,” the ref finally blurts, hands up, voice cracking. “The kids have a match to play!”

You exhale sharply and hard through your nose, fists clenched at your sides. You try to calm yourself down, jaw tight, heart pounding. You sit and look out at your daughter, brushing grass off her knees and already back in position. 

She's tougher than you give her credit, but that didn’t change the fact that you wanted to put that guy’s head in the ground. 

After the game, her team, the Honeybees, lost after a few missed goals and lots of questionable calls, but your daughter was still laughing with her friends, unfazed in the way only kids can be.

You, however, were still stewing in quiet indignation when you spotted the world’s biggest jackass, in your humble, entirely accurate opinion, making his way toward you.

“Oh. It’s you,” you say, arms crossed automatically.

“I just wanted to congratulate you on your loss,” he says, all fake sincerity, like he wasn’t two seconds away from being shoved into a juice box cooler.

“How mature.”

“I try,” he replies with that same maddening, self-satisfied grin.

You narrow your eyes, ready for whatever condescending nonsense he might say next. If he says “good effort”, you’re swinging. Choosing not to let him fuck with you, you tell him what’s what. 

“Your team only won because of the ref’s bad calls,” you say, arms still crossed, tone sharp enough to slice fruit.

“Oh really?” he replies, lifting an eyebrow like he’s genuinely amused. Like this is his idea of foreplay.

“Yeah. My kid was dynamite out there.”

“So was mine,” he says back instantly.

“I mean, sure, but my kid has the most assists on her team,” you say, trying to keep your cool, even as your voice edges higher.

“Assists,” he echoes, nodding slowly. “Not goals.”

You blink at him. “Are we seriously doing this?”

“I’m not doing anything,” he says with mock innocence, hands raised like he’s never been petty in his life.

You press your lips together, biting your tongue so hard it might bruise. You didn’t want to, you really didn’t want to, but it slips out anyway.

“My kid can out-pass, out-hustle, and outplay any other kid on that field.”

He grins like he’s been waiting for this.

“Well, my kid can run circles around your kid while tying his cleats.”

Your jaw drops slightly. “Alright then, my kid was able to run a full field drill without missing a pass when she was five.”

“Well, mine could do cone drills backwards while coaching his teammate through theirs.”

Your eye twitches at that and he delights in seeing you so bothered.

“Lily has a killer left foot and once scored a hat trick with a stomach bug.”

“And Tommy is a human wall on defence.”

“Oh, please. Lily once did a bicycle kick and landed on her feet. What’s Tommy got?” You say, crossing your arms. 

“Perfect attendance and a clean penalty record.”

You wanted to roll your eyes at ‘clean penalty record’ but you keep it moving.

“Lily brings orange slices for the whole team.”

“Tommy brings strategy diagrams and pep talks.”

You pause, blinking. “Are we… bragging about how nice our kids are now?”

“Seems like it.”

You both go quiet for a beat, then he adds with a smirk, “Still doesn’t mean your kid’s better. I think you should admit to defeat.”

You step forward, just enough to make a point. “I’ll admit defeat when the Honeybees start losing because of their own mistakes, not because your future linebacker throws elbows like he’s in a bar fight.”

He actually laughs, and it’s a little too charming for your liking. Before you can wrestle with what that means, you hear a voice. 

“Dad!” his son calls from across the field, waving dramatically. “Hurry up, you promised we’d get ice cream!”

He glances over his shoulder, then looks back at you with that same smug glint in his eye.

“Again, enjoy your loss,” he says, already turning. “And get used to it. The season’s still young.”

You narrow your eyes. “Until next time, Captain Suburbia.”

He chuckles and starts to walk away, but pauses, turns back with a smirk plastered on his face.

“John,” he says. “My name is John.”

ᯓ⚽︎ ᯓ⚽︎ ᯓ⚽︎

“Uh, what are you doing?” 

“Hiding.”

“From?” Your friend, Ava, says as she looks around for the apparent danger. 

“John.”

Ever since that day, you were livid with the dickhead you knew as John Walker. You had never hated someone so much from just one meeting. You never wanted to see him again, but you did while shopping.

Ava takes a peek, “Oh, the hot soccer dad? Which one is he?”

You never described him as hot but Ava figured from the way you were losing your mind over him, you thought he was. 

“Blonde, beard, tall and wearing a blue shirt.”

Ava sees him in the fruit and veg aisle and hums in approval, “Is he single? He’s right up your alley, no?”

You nudge her arm. “I don’t know. I mean, I didn't see him with anyone at the game…” You say your voice drifting off before you're back to your senses. “Whether or not he's single is irrelevant! He’s a complete asshole.”

“Just because he's an asshole doesn’t mean he’s not good in bed.”

The death glare you give her is intense and could be considered lethal, but she laughs it off. 

“Let’s be honest, if you weren’t attracted to him, you wouldn’t be so riled up.”

“Oh, please, I’m not into evil blonde men.”

Is he hot? Yes. But his evilness outweighs the hotness. 

“Well, the evil blonde man is coming your way.”

You look towards the end of the aisle to see that Ava was right, so you immediately duck down behind a tower of soup cans. 

“Please come out from over there,” Ava whispers but you protest, hoping you can camouflage yourself and become one with the cans.

Ten seconds pass, and you hear your name in that familiar voice and know you’ve been caught.

“Oh. Hi.”

Your attempt at being nonchalant is honestly pitiful, but not more pitiful than him knowing you were hiding from him.

“Don’t mind me, go back to whatever this is,” He says, gesturing to your hunched-over, goblin-like stance. He reaches over you and grabs a can off the shelf, walking off without another word. 

“See? No need to panic. He was perfectly civil,” Ava chimes in.

“Only because he caught me in a state of weakness. He has the upper hand, and he’s already plotting against me. I can feel it.”

“He’s a soccer dad, not a supervillain,” Ava sighs, helping you off the floor, concerned about the effect he was having on you, but then again, she was always concerned about you. You regularly lose your mind at your daughter’s soccer games so she has just cause. 

“I need to grab the wine, I’ll meet you at the checkout,” Ava says, and you nod, letting her walk off. 

You had to circle back around to get the limited edition coffee you had become obsessed with anyway. You get to the aisle and your eyes widen when you realise that there’s only one left. Your hand flies to grab it, you can already imagine it in your trolley, and it looks good. It looks happy, like it's ready to be at home in your pantry.

But at the same time, another hand wraps around it, the hand belonging to John, because fate was still playing in your face. 

“You.”

You thought you were done with him for the day. Clearly, the universe had other plans.

John raises an eyebrow, not letting go. “Come on. Be a gentleman and give it to me,” You say, trying to force a smile. 

Your grip tightens, so does his.

“I don’t think so,” he says smoothly, as if he weren’t just on the verge of sparking a full-blown aisle standoff. “It’s the last one.”

“I know.”

“I’ll have to go across town for another,” You say, your eyebrows knitting together. 

“Cry about it.”

You tug on it a little, but he doesn’t budge. The item wobbles dangerously between your hands.

“Are you even trying?” he asks. He was so good at being a smug bastard, you wonder if he was born like this or if he honed this craft. You open your mouth to really let him have it, but you don’t even get the chance. 

Without another word, he snatches it clean from your hand in one smooth move, drops it into his trolley like he just won Olympic gold, and starts walking away, whistling.

You stand there, mildly offended but mostly impressed.

“Oh no, you did not just—” you march after him.

“Too slow, sweetheart,” he calls over his shoulder without turning around. “Better luck next time.”

“I hope it’s expired!” you shout after him.

You stop walking and watch as he struts off with your coffee like he was the King of Aisle Seven, you were planning his downfall in at least three different ways.

And two of them involved shopping carts.

After the grocery store incident, you were looking forward to having a reprieve from John Walker. But it was like fate or something more evil was forcing the two of you together. You have a PTA meeting the next night, and who do you see there but John, who was now becoming a permanent fixture in your life. 

You sigh and sit in the only empty seat, which was next to him.

“Let’s not even speak,” You suggest you say as soon as your butt hits the seat.

“Fine with me,” John replies as he crosses his arms, looking away from you. 

You sit there tapping your foot. It was almost painful being silent when everyone else was having conversations. Especially when you were next to a thief. You didn’t even get the opportunity to yell at him properly for swiping your coffee.

You finally break, “What you did yesterday was shitty.”

“And I thought we weren’t going to speak.”

“I’ll be sick if I don’t call out injustice when I see it.”

John laughs, and you want to strangle him. “You’re still thinking about that? I’m constantly on your mind, aren’t I?”

You shift in your seat, feeling the heat climbing up the back of your neck. How dare he even suggest that? Yes, you were thinking about him, but only about all the ways you wanted to destroy him.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you snap under your breath.

The meeting starts before he can muster up a comeback. You catch yourself zoning out as the agenda drags on, filled with tedious updates about the bake sale and a desperate plea for chaperones for the 3rd-grade trip to Lake Maribelle.

You swing your leg absentmindedly and accidentally bump his shin. It’s genuinely an accident.

“Did you just kick me?” he whispers.

“Well, maybe if you weren’t taking up half the space with your big—”

“You’re unbelievable—” He interrupts, turning his body to face you.

“—gangly legs, then you wouldn’t have gotten hit,” You whisper your sentence over his.

Your whispered bickering is only interrupted by the teacher at the front calling both your names.

“You’ll help chaperone the trip to Lake Maribelle?”

With all those expectant eyes on you, how could either of you say no?

“Yeah…”

“Of course…”

You both reply sheepishly at the same time.

“Great, I’ll sign the two of you up.”

ᯓ⚽︎ ᯓ⚽︎ ᯓ⚽︎

Stepping onto the bus, you watch as Lily disappears to go sit with her friend, leaving you with a slight pang of loneliness. You head to the front and slump into your seat, next to who else but John, because you can’t even be surprised. You really needed to start arriving at places earlier to avoid sitting next to him, but here you were.

It’s a four-hour ride, and you can already feel your exhaustion creeping in. You try to keep yourself alert, but your eyes are heavy. Before you know it, your head tilts to the side, falling onto his shoulder.

John glances down at you, noticing how tired you look. He’s always been perceptive like that. He doesn’t say anything at first, just shifts slightly to give you more space. But when he feels you drift further, he gently shifts, adjusting his posture. His shoulder feels like a small slice of comfort amidst the exhaustion.

He lets you use his shoulder the whole ride. You looked quite peaceful when you weren’t trying to rip his head off, quite beautiful too. John catches the thought and tosses it out. He couldn’t be caught slipping, you were his mortal enemy after all.

The bus reaches the camp, and suddenly, it jerks to a stop. Your head flies forward, but before you can react, John’s hand shoots out, catching your forehead in the palm of his hand just in time.

“Thanks,” you mumble, a little embarrassed but too tired to really care.

He just hums in response, his fingers lightly grazing your skin for just a second longer than necessary. “Quick reflexes.”

Hoping off the bus, you notice the camp leaders waiting to greet the kids. You stand off to the side ensuring everyone gets off the bus when you notice one of the teachers, Miss. Lucas, sidling up next to John, laughing a little too loudly at something he barely said. Your eyes narrow without even realising it, and your fist subconsciously tightens. It’s like a sudden surge of irritation hits you.

The worst part is that you don’t even know why you're so bothered. You’re pretty sure it's just your general distaste for him as a person, and anything he does seems to irritate you. That felt like the easiest explanation. No need to dig deeper into that nagging feeling in your chest, like someone’s poking it with a stick. You shake it off, willing yourself to focus on something else, anything else.

After you get the kids all settled in for the first activity, though, it hits you like a ton of bricks. The exhaustion. You’re winded in a way you don’t remember being before. You try to shake it off, but it’s clear that you’ve reached your limit for the day. This trip wasn’t as easy as you thought it would be, and now, even a simple walk feels like you’ve run a marathon.

You take a deep breath, looking around for a moment to regain your composure. There's no need to make a bigger deal out of it. Just power through, you tell yourself. But it’s harder than you expected, and you can’t help but wonder if it’s more than just the physical exhaustion that's weighing on you.

But at least John was out of sight. You didn’t have to see him on the nature walk or the obstacle course, but you’d have to supervise the canoeing together. You make it out there first, sitting on the dock as the kids are getting in the canoes with the instructors. A smile tugs at your lips as you see how excited Lily is, her face lighting up as she waits for her turn, then spotting you in the crowd. She waves enthusiastically, and you wave back, your heart swelling just a little at the sight of her so happy.

“Nice day out,” John says, looking out at the water. You’re shaken to your core. Not just because you didn’t hear him walk up, but because of what he said. What was this? A normal conversation starter?

You open your mouth to respond, but you're cut off by Miss. Lucas' syrupy voice slicing through the moment like a dull butter knife.

“It really is, and John, you really should wear sunglasses. With how blue your eyes are, the way the sun hits them is just distracting,” she purrs, twirling a lock of her overly straightened hair.

It’s laced with flirtation and just enough condescension to make your skin crawl.

You roll your eyes — hard.

John notices.

“What? You don’t like the sun?” he asks, amused now, that sharp gaze flicking to you like he already knows he’s poking the bear.

“I like the sun,” you answer evenly.

“Then what were you rolling your eyes at, huh?”

You’re so tempted to say exactly what’s on your mind. To call out Miss. Lucas’s thinly veiled thirst trap of a compliment, but you catch yourself. The last thing you need is her holding some petty grudge against Lily over adult nonsense.

So instead, you force a too-sweet smile and say, “None of your business.”

He chuckles, clearly entertained.

Miss. Lucas doesn’t seem to notice any of it. She’s still lingering like a wasp at a picnic.

John tilts his head, a grin still playing at his lips. “Touchy.”

Stepping into your space, he does that thing, that infuriating thing, where he leans in just enough to make your breath hitch but not enough to break any rules.

You guys just couldn’t seem to be near each other without someone stepping over the invisible line.

“And you’re observant,” you shoot back, voice low. “Someone might think you’re a little obsessed.”

His brow lifts. “Is that right?”

“You know what? I’m sorry, I'm being rude. Let me ask you this,” you say, your voice sweet and dangerous all at once, “Do you like water?”

“What kind of question is—?”

Splash.

He never finishes.

You shove him clean off the dock, and he crashes into the freezing lake with a satisfying crash. A few heads turn at the sound, followed by laughter, mostly from the kids.

John surfaces, sputtering, slicking his hair back with both hands as he glares up at you like a betrayed golden retriever.

“It’s freezing!” he shouts.

“Oh no,” you gasp dramatically, hand to your chest. “Is it? I had no idea.”

He blinks the water from his eyes, slow and deliberate, before gripping the edge of the dock with both hands and pulling himself up in one smooth, effortless motion.

It’s… a problem.

You might hate the man, scratch that, you definitely hate the man, but God help you, he had the audacity to look good doing literally anything. The sunlight caught the drops of water rolling down his arms, his shirt plastered to the ridges of his abs and the degenerate part of your brain wanting to see them with his shirt off. 

His hair dripped, tousled and messy in a way that looked too perfect to be accidental. It was like watching someone climb out of a cologne commercial.

You bite your lip instinctively, then immediately cover it up with a cough and a scowl.

He strides toward you, soaking wet, every squelching footstep a declaration of petty war. You’re forced to crane your neck to meet his eyes as he stops in front of you.

“You’re lucky,” he says, water still dripping from his sleeves, “that one of us knows how to act like an adult.”

You raise your eyebrows, lips twitching despite yourself. “You sure it’s you?”

He huffs a humourless laugh, then turns and walks down the dock toward the cabins, leaving behind a trail of wet footprints and a hundred silent thoughts you’re too proud to say out loud.

You watch him go and tell yourself it’s because you want to see if there’s the off chance he falls in. 

Definitely not because of the view.

You’re watching your back the rest of the day, fully expecting some form of petty revenge. A frog in your shoe, a cold fish under your pillow, maybe even your toothbrush mysteriously tasting like lake water. But nothing happens.

No pranks. No payback.

You’re in the clear.

Now, sitting by the campfire, the sky a hazy lavender above the treeline, things feel… calm. The kids are running wild around the open field, fireflies blinking to life as marshmallows roast and someone strums a guitar softly in the distance.

“Hi,” a small voice says beside you.

You turn and see Tommy, John’s son, standing there with a hesitant smile.

“Hey, having fun?” you ask, shifting to make room.

He nods and sits next to you, pulling his knees up to his chest. “The nature walk was pretty cool, and me and my friends loved  the obstacle course. And the canoeing was fun too… even though you pushed my dad in the lake.”

You groan lightly, a hand going to your face. “Yeah, about that…”

The guilt hits, a pang of embarrassment. You knew your behaviour was juvenile. Funny, sure, but maybe not your finest moment, especially in front of the kids.

You laugh under your breath and shake your head. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

“It was pretty funny,” Tommy admits, “And I know you and my dad have problems.”

You feel even more ashamed that it was bleeding into your kids' lives too.

“My dad can be a lot,” he says, kicking a pebble with the toe of his shoe. “But he’s just… I don’t know. He tries really hard. Especially for me.”

It helped you understand John a little better. The bluster, the sarcasm, the stubborn streak a mile wide… It wasn’t just pride or ego. It was effort. The kind that comes from someone trying to do right, even if it comes out messy. You could appreciate that because you were the same way.

And if he’d raised such a polite kid, then he couldn’t be all bad. Not even close.

“Have you seen him, by the way?” Tommy asks.

“Not lately,” you say, then gesture toward the table behind you. “But you can have some marshmallows while you wait, if you want.”

“Sure!” he says, lighting up as he grabs a stick and starts roasting.

John comes back to see something he wasn't expecting. The bane of his existence, laughing with his son and roasting marshmallows. Tommy didn’t warm up to most people that easily, so when he sees him lighting up with you, his opinion of you shifts. Maybe you weren’t an evil witch. 

You still got a bucket of freezing lake water poured over you the next morning, though. 

ᯓ⚽︎ ᯓ⚽︎ ᯓ⚽︎

You’re out running errands, finally—blissfully—alone. Lily’s spending the weekend at your parents' place, which meant you had time to catch your breath, clean without stepping on glitter, and maybe finally recover from the whirlwind that was the school trip.

You understood John better. You still thought he was annoyingly smug, sure, but maybe not completely irredeemable.

But you weren’t getting ahead of yourself. He was still the same cocky asshole you met yelling across a soccer field... right?

Just as you’re mulling that over, tongue in cheek, deciding if you’d imagined all the softness, you feel your car begin to slow down.

“What the—?”

You frown, tapping the gas. Nothing. A few panicked beeps. Then a sputter.

You manage to pull off to the side of the road just as the engine completely gives out, your car coasting to a reluctant stop.

“No, no, no!” you shout, slamming your palms against the steering wheel.

This couldn’t be happening. Not today. Not when you finally had a few hours of peace and you were this close to getting Thai food and going home to binge terrible reality TV.

With a heavy sigh, you get out and open the bonnet, even though you have no idea what you’re looking for. Wires? Steam? A glowing red light labeled you’re screwed?

You’re standing there, staring blankly into the guts of your car, when you hear it, a car slowing down behind you and parking behind you. 

You barely glance back, already waving them off. “Thanks, I’m good—”

But then you hear a too-familiar voice say, “Well, that doesn’t look promising.”

Of course.

You turn around slowly.

And there he is.

John Walker, ladies and gentlemen. 

“Need a hand?” he asks, already strolling over like he’s been waiting his whole life to rescue you.

“I uh…” You start becasure you’re so tempted to say “I got this” but the moment your eyes look back at whatever the fuck is going on in your car, you sigh.

“Do you have a toolbox?” he’d asked.

“Yeah, it’s in the boot,” you’d said, thinking nothing of it.

Then he came back, popped the hood, and casually peeled his shirt off with a warning: “Don’t read into anything. I just don’t want grease on my shirt.”

“I didn’t say anything,” you replied, a little too quickly.

You didn’t say anything, but that sure as hell didn’t stop you from watching. Because damn. The man was all broad shoulders, and strong arms that had no business looking that good twisting bolts.

You could’ve watched him work all day.

“Try starting it,” he called, interrupting your horny thoughts.

You slid back into the driver’s seat, turned the key, and the engine roared to life. It’s a miracle.

“Thank you, seriously.”

He leaned over the hood, smug smile fully loaded. “No problem. That should get you moving, but you definitely need to take this to a garage. I can come with you, if you want.”

Seeing the way your face contorts, he follows up with an explanation before you start berating him again. 

“You’ll need a ride home after, won’t you?”

“Oh, true… I guess I’ll take you up on your offer. I mean as long as I'm not keeping you from Tommy, am I?” You say as you watch him put his shirt back on.

“No, he's at his grandparents’ place.”

“Oh same with Lily,” You admit.

“Guess we have some errands to run together then.”

ᯓ⚽︎ ᯓ⚽︎ ᯓ⚽︎

You arrive back home in his car and say “Home sweet home,” because you didn’t know what the fuck you were talking about. Ever since you watched him fix your car, haggle down the price of your repair with the mechanic and drive you home, you’d been in a bit of a daze. A ‘John Walker is the perfect man’ daze to be exact.

“Do you ... wanna come in?” You say, the words escaping you, but what you didn’t expect was his reply.

“Sure.”

You welcome him in, trying to ignore the flutter in your chest as John casually walks around your house. 

It was clean, for once and cosy too, filled with little signs of your life with Lily. Pictures lined the walls: school plays, messy birthday parties, soccer games. Her drawings were stuck to the fridge with mismatched magnets.

“This you?” John asks, voice tinged with amusement.

You turn to see him holding a framed photo from the shelf, a younger you, maybe around Lily’s age, standing proudly in a baseball uniform, cap askew and a dirt-smudged grin on your face.

You roll your eyes but smile. “Yeah. I peaked in Little League.”

He chuckles, eyes still on the photo. “You look like you were about to take someone out at home plate.”

“I probably did.”

He glances over at you, that familiar smirk on his face. “Not much has changed then.”

You snort. “Are you calling me aggressive?”

“I’m saying I’d definitely want you on my team,” he replies, setting the photo down gently. “You were a force to be reckoned with, no doubt,” he says with a chuckle.

“Always.”

“Are there more?” he asks, leaning a little closer with that annoyingly charming glint in his eye.

You cross your arms, sitting back a little as you narrow your eyes. “Nuh uh. We are not going through my baby pictures.”

“Yes, we are.”

And five minutes later, you were both on the couch with a photo album spread across your lap.

“You even look like a soccer ball in this one,” he teases, pointing to a photo of you in a puffy striped onesie.

“I bet you were an ugly baby,” you fire back, sticking your tongue out at him.

“I’ll have you know I was adorable. Practically a Gerber baby.”

He flips a page and pauses. “Is this you or Lily?”

“That’s Lily,” you say, your smile softening.

“She looks just like you.”

“I like to call her my twin,” you laugh. “And she hates it.”

Time ticks by, and you barely even notice it. The room has dimmed with the setting sun, shadows creeping in, and a warmth building low in your stomach. You’ve been flipping through photo albums for what must’ve been hours, laughing and teasing each other like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Then you hear it, John’s stomach growling, loud and unmistakable. You glance at him, and he’s already giving you a sheepish smile. Clearly, you’re both thinking the same thing.

“I was going to order Thai,” you say casually. “If you wanted to stay for dinner.”

He hesitates for only a second. “I’d like that.”

Later, the two of you are curled up on the couch, takeout containers spread between you, Real Housewives playing in the background. The chaotic drama on screen contrasts with the quiet ease between you.

It had been so long since you’d just relaxed like this with someone—someone who wasn’t Ava or Lily. And it felt good. Easy. Right.

“I have a suggestion, feel free to say no.”

“Hit me,” John says, leaning back against the couch, one arm draped over the cushion behind you.

You bite back a grin. “I have a bottle of whiskey that’s begging to be opened. Wanna throw on some music and help me put it out of its misery?”

He lifts an eyebrow, a slow smile creeping onto his face. “Why not?”

ᯓ⚽︎ ᯓ⚽︎ ᯓ⚽︎

You shouldn’t drink around him. At this point, you were touchy and honestly just saying shit for the sake of saying shit. You’re not too drunk but definitely tipsy enough to say whatever comes to your mind. 

“I haven’t seen Tommy’s mom around. Did you guys split up?” you blurt out, half-curious, half-dreading the answer. You feel a drop in the atmosphere as his hands seem to tighten on the glass. 

“Sorry, you don’t need to answer. That was weird of me to ask…” You're trying to backtrack as quickly as possible.

“Oh no, it’s okay, she uh,” he says quietly. “She passed a few years ago.”

You pause, your posture softening. “I’m so sorry…”

“It’s alright,” he says, voice low but steady. “Still tough without her, but we manage.”

He glances down, like he’s trying to ground himself before continuing.

“I’d like to say I was a good husband, but I was always away in the army. I could’ve been better before she…” He trails off, eyes now solely focused on the liquid swirling in his glass. 

You stay quiet, wanting to listen rather than rush in. 

“When I came back from my last tour, she was already sick. But for a while, we were okay. We were happy. Then she got worse. It was hard seeing her like that when she was so full of life before I left. I felt like I had missed so much, and when she…” He pauses again, his voice catching in his throat like he was being choked. 

“Tommy’s the only thing that kept me going after. I’m always scared I’ll mess things up with him and miss the important stuff. That I already am.”

He exhales sharply, almost laughing at himself. “Shit. Sorry. I’m rambling.”

“Not at all,” you say gently, shaking your head. “And I can tell you’re a good dad. Anyone can. He's such a sweet kid and he adores you.”

He looks at you then, and for once, there’s no smirk, no one-liner. Just quiet gratitude.

“Thanks,” he says. “That means more than you know.”

You both take another drink, the burn lingering in your throat like something you don’t mind holding onto for a while.

“What about you? I noticed there aren’t any pictures of Lily’s dad around,” he asks, voice softer now, like he’s not just making conversation anymore.

“We got divorced ages ago. He was a total disaster.”

You let out a dry laugh, one that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

 “We got married too young, had Lily, got divorced two years in and… I honestly can’t even remember the last time he showed up for her. No birthday messages, no calls. Nothing.”

You pause, trying not to let the anger twist your words.

“It’s a shame because she’s so amazing,” you add, staring into your glass. “And her dad doesn't give her the time of day and never has. She deserves so much better than that, and I wish I could be everything for her, but I…”

John’s quiet, listening. Really listening, giving you the space that you gave him. 

“It’s hard doing it on your own,” you say, looking up at him. “I know you get that.”

He nods slowly, then offers a small, warm smile. “It’s his loss. She’s a kick-ass kid with a pretty kick-ass mom.”

You laugh, the real kind this time.

“I genuinely thought you were about to fight me the day we met,” he says, that familiar smirk tugging at his lips.

You grin. “I was about to fight you.”

“Very hot.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling and, for the first time in a long time, it doesn’t feel exhausting to let someone in.

“Okay, Mr. Tight-White-Shirt,” you tease, raising an eyebrow.

He smirks instantly. “Ah, so you were ogling me that day.”

Damn. You walked right into that one.

“A woman can’t appreciate the male form?” you say, all mock innocence.

John laughs, shaking his head as he takes another drink. The music shifts, a different song now, low and smooth, some classic jazz number that’s always sounded like warmth and memory and late nights.

You perk up instantly. “John, we have to dance.”

He blinks. “What?”

“C’mon!”

Before he can argue, you’re already pulling him to his feet drunkenly. He hesitates for half a second, then relents because, of course, he does. His hands find your waist, cautious at first, and you wrap your arms around his neck as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“I can’t remember the last time I slow danced,” you murmur against his chest.

“Same,” John says quietly. “In all honesty, it was… probably my wedding.”

 “Damn, me too,” You let out a low laugh. “Did you go all out?”

“We tried,” he nods. “We had lessons and everything. I remember practising in our tiny apartment, knocking over chairs and swearing a ton.”

She grins. “I bet you were shit.”

John, very much in ‘John’ fashion, gasps. “Correction, I was the shit.”

“Oh really?”

“Yeah, and I’m gonna show you. Get ready to be dipped.”

Your eyes widen as you look up at him, suspicion written all over your face. “No way. You’ll drop me.”

He smirks. “I won’t. Trust me. I’m strong and very capable.”

Before you can protest again, he spins you, just fast enough to make your stomach flip. And you squeal, laughing as you come back into his arms.

“See?” he says, proud as hell. “Didn’t hurt a hair on your pretty head.”

You’re still laughing, slightly breathless, heart thudding in your chest for reasons that have very little to do with the dancing.

“I hate to say it,” you murmur, “but that was quite smooth.”

“Careful. Keep talking like that, and I might think you like me.”

You look up at him and realise, you’ve never been this close to him, unless you count getting in his face at a soccer match, but this was different. It was a whole new type of tension. 

“Whatever…” you say, but it comes out with no bite. Not even close.

Maybe because you’re tipsy, but under the dim lighting of your living room, with the jazz still murmuring in the background and that stupid, crooked smile on his face.

You reach up, fingers brushing his cheek before you even fully realise what you're doing.

“I like your beard,” you blurt out, your thumb lightly grazing the line of it.

He blinks, surprised, not because of what you said, but because of how gently you said it.

“Yeah?” he says, voice a little quieter now.

He’s not able to get another word out before you’re kissing him, soft and tender. His hands cup your face as he kisses you like there’s a magnet pulling you to him. Your hands roaming over each other’s bodies, hands desperate to touch skin. He lifts you off the floor, your lips not breaking contact. You wrap your legs around his waist and his hands cup your ass as he walks you over to a wall. Pressing you against it and kissing your neck like he’s trying to consume you. “Oh, John…”

Breathing heavily and looking into each other’s eyes.“Upstairs, first door on the right.”

Your back hits the wall again, but gently this time, his lips brushing over yours before pulling back just enough to ask, “You sure?”

You nod, breathless. “Go.”

He carries you like it’s effortless, one hand steady beneath your thigh, the other gripping the bannister as he takes the stairs two at a time.

Reaching the top, he kicks the door open with his foot. The room is dim, the late evening light bleeding through the curtains, but neither of you cares. You pull his shirt over his head and toss it aside. His mouth is on yours again before it hits the ground.

You fall into the bed together, tangled and wild and urgent, but with something else beneath it all. Something tender. Like every kiss and touch is catching up on lost time you didn’t even know you missed.

“Mind if I leave marks?”

“You can,” You gasp out and he goes to work, biting and sucking your skin. In all honesty, your drunk brain needed a memento, a way to remind sober-you that this wasn’t some sex dream. 

You feel his strong hands wrap around your wrists, and he squeezes them. Not enough to hurt, but enough for you to feel his presence. 

“I want you,” John breathes and it sounds so good hearing it. Like you had both finally done away with pretense and given in to what you wanted to do since you met which was rip your clothes off and fuck eachother senseless. 

He starts kissing his way down your body, taking  his sweet time in making you feel good. Reveling in the way you react to him.

When he reaches your panties, he doesn’t hesitate to tug them off his teeth and the sight of him doing that nearly kills you. 

He starts eating you out like a man possessed, his beard tickling your inner thighs. He needs your pussy on his face and he needs it now. As he licks and sucks, driving you insane, your legs start slowly closing, trying to shy away from how good it felt. He catches them, prying them back open. 

“Keep them open for me.”

You nod but he wants more than that.

“Tell me.”

“I’ll keep my legs open for you,” You say and you think you’d do the splits on his face if he wanted. 

“Good girl,” he smirks before going back to ruining you. It had been too long since you felt like this, but even then, you had never felt like this. You were feverish and sensitive, fighting to keep yourself sane. You never recall feeling like you were dying of happiness when anyone else had gone down on you. Must be the John Walker effect.

The more you struggle and shake, the more pressure he applies. His hand rests on your stomach to hold you in place as he sucks on your clit.

Feeling the pleasure growing, you instantly try to muffle your moans with your fist. He moves his mouth away from your aching core and reaches up with one of his hands, moving your fist away. You look at him with reverence and surprise.

“You don’t need to hide…” He says, his other hand still moving inside you, “I want to hear you.”

You don’t speak right away. You just look at him, this man who had once driven you absolutely insane, who now felt like the only person who could see through all the armour.

“I’m not used to being seen,” you finally whisper.

“I know,” John says, brushing your knuckles with his thumb. “But I see you.”

He moves back into position between your legs, and you let him have every moan you have. 

“John!” 

You finish, back arching, legs trembling and clenching down on his head with your thighs so hard you’re scared you might kill him. 

But he doesn't stop, instead going faster. “H-hey!” You moan out as you kick your legs around, which he clearly takes as a challenge.

Wrangling your legs and pinning them over your head, your body now in the shape of a backwards C.

“You’re lucky I’m not tying you up,” John comments and you shiver at how good that sounds. 

He gets up on his knees, continuing to lick at your trembling folds as he fingers you even faster, adding a third finger that had you moaning in desperation.

It's like he's set your whole body on fire, the feeling of your lost orgasm threatening to push you straight into another one.

“John, it’s so…” You croak, your eyes focusing and unfocusing. “Think I’m gonna cum again.”

At this point, your voice is hoarse, each touch he’s giving you making you scream and cry out like you’ve never done before. 

“Yeah? You wanna be a good girl and cum for me?”

You nod, your eyes gassy with tears, “Wanna be your…your good girl.”

You could feel something coming, as he goes back to sucking on your clit, his fingers massaging your G-spot. 

It only takes a few moments before you're letting your body relax and squirt all over his fingers, the pleasure washing over you in waves. You’re too undone to make a noise, breathing heavily and choking on air. There are a few seconds where you think you’ve died.

He unfolds you, and you lie back down on the bed, needing him instantly. 

“John,” You whine, reaching out for him, and he’s right there, pulling you into his arms and taking care of you.

“What about you?” You ask. He had just about taken you to heaven and believe me you wanted to return the favour.

“Next time.”

Your heart flutters with the thought of a ‘next time’.

“Okay,” You snuggle against him and fall asleep together in pure bliss.  

You wake up in the morning, expecting to feel John’s arms around you. But there's no one there. You sit up and look around, but find nothing. No note explaining where he was and his car's no longer in the driveway.

You came to the conclusion, he woke up, saw you and decided that it was a mistake. It was disappointing but you’re used to being disappointed.

So much for ‘I see you’. 

So much for ‘next time’.

ᯓ⚽︎ ᯓ⚽︎ ᯓ⚽︎

The next couple of days are a blur, it’s back to business as usual. Soccer practice, laundry, answering emails with a fake sense of urgency. To anyone else, it seemed like nothing had changed, but not to your daughter.

“I saw Tommy yesterday,” she says casually as she sets her backpack down.

“Oh? How is he?” you ask, trying to sound neutral.

“Great, but his dad didn’t look too happy…”

Your ears perk up at that. He was also miserable? Good. It was his fault anyway… wasn’t it?

“You don’t look happy either.”

You flinch at how blunt she is. You should’ve known, there was no hiding anything from her. She might only be a kid, but she could read you like a book.

“Lily…” you start, but she cuts you off with the maturity of someone far beyond her years.

“Just be adults and talk to him…”

“It's not that simple,” Your voice is shaky with uncertainty. You're not even sure you'd be able to speak if you were face-to-face with him again.

“Well you need to especially since I’m going over to Tommy’s today.”

“You what?” you say, nearly falling out of your chair.

“You said I could,” she adds quickly. “Last week, before… whatever this is.”

Damn it. She was right. You had completely blanked on that. It was before the whole thing with John went bust.

You were conflicted with how you felt about John, but you wouldn’t let your issues affect her. 

“Fine, go get your stuff. We leave in five.”

You drive over to his place, your heart dropping lower and lower as you get closer to his house. Your fingers grip your steering wheel like it’s your lifeline. 

“You’re not coming in to say hi?” Lily asks almost incredulously.

“I think it’s best I don’t. I’ll be here at 6 to pick you up. Have fun!”

Lily doesn’t say anything at first; she just looks at you, brows raised, lips pursed like she’s debating whether or not to push. Was that what it was like to be on the receiving end of one of your judging looks? You didn't like it one bit. 

But in the end, she sighs, unbuckles her seatbelt, and grabs her bag. “You two are so dramatic.”

He sees her first, ruffles her hair, then his gaze shifts past her, locking with yours through the windshield. It only lasts a second, but it’s enough. You look away first.

Then you drive off, trying not to think about him. 

Hours pass, John is very much on your mind the entire time, and before you know it, you’re back at his house to pick up Lily. Walking your way up the driveway, you feel your nerves creeping in. You hesitate a second before ringing the doorbell.

“Hey,” John greets you, opening the door—and he looks just as good as the last time you saw him, maybe even better.

“Hey yourself,” you reply awkwardly, shifting your weight from one foot to the other.

There's the sound of footsteps thundering down the stairs, and then Tommy appears, greeting you with a wide grin.

“It’s time to go already?” Lily calls from behind him, voice dripping with faux innocence. She was laying it on thick.

Before you can answer, Tommy jumps in. “Can you and Lily stay for dinner?”

“I don’t know…” You start, unsure how to say no politely.

“Dad, convince her. We’re having your famous spagbol,” Tommy adds, eyes hopeful.

You catch the look on his face—so earnest, so excited—and then turn to John. An easy smile creeps onto your face despite yourself. 

“Famous, huh?”

John smirks. “It’s pretty good, if I do say so myself.”

ᯓ⚽︎ ᯓ⚽︎ ᯓ⚽︎

By the time dinner is ready, it feels easy with him, dangerously easy. You sit around the table with him and the kids, laughing between bites of spaghetti, the kind of domestic quiet that used to feel foreign now curling around you like a blanket. It felt so right. But still, there’s that persistent whisper in the back of your mind — If he wanted this, really wanted this, he would’ve stayed that night.

Before you can spiral too deep into your own thoughts, Tommy pipes up brightly, “Can Lily and I have a sleepover?”

You glance at John, caught off guard. “Lily and I should really get going, plus Lily doesn’t have anything to change into.”

“I brought clothes and my toothbrush,” Lily says far too quickly.

You narrow your eyes. “And why did you do that if you were just supposed to stay for the afternoon?”

Lily and Tommy exchange a look — a guilty, sheepish look that screams we planned this.

John chuckles under his breath, clearly catching on. “I wouldn’t mind,” he says, glancing at you. “I could set up a spot for Lily in Tommy’s room.”

“You should stay too!” Tommy adds enthusiastically, eyes shining with innocent matchmaking energy.

“I don’t have any pyjamas to sleep in, Tom,” you say, raising an eyebrow.

“You can borrow my dad’s!” he says like it’s the simplest solution in the world.

You blink. These kids were really committing to the bit.

“I wouldn’t want to intrude…” You begin, your voice a little quieter, your gaze flicking to John.

“You wouldn’t be,” he says, meeting your eyes. “I have a guest room. It’s yours if you want it.”

His voice is calm, but there’s something soft in it. An invitation. Like he wanted you to stay. 

“It’s decided then,” Your daughter interjects before you can try to squirm out of it.

You had been tricked by two 9-year-olds; this was a new low. 

The hours drifted by as you sat in the living room, all watching a movie together.

Your eyes were fixed on the screen, but all you could think about was John. The fact that sitting just a few feet away, but still felt so far away. 

Though if you had turned your head to look at him, you would’ve seen him looking back at you. His gaze would tell you everything you wanted to hear, but alas, that isn’t fate’s plan. 

The movie ends, and the kids groan when John tells them it’s time for bed. It’s a whirlwind, as they rush around tuckering themselves out. Entering Tommy’s room, you go over to Lily, who’s already in bed, ready for you to tuck her in. You pull the blanket up to Lily’s chin, smoothing her hair like you do most nights, your voice soft in the dim glow of the bedside lamp.

“Remember, be an adult,” Lily says, reminding you not to be a coward, essentially. 

“Goodnight, Lil,” You reply before kissing her forehead. Maybe, just maybe, you’d consider her words. 

“Goodnight, Mom,” she murmurs, already half-dreaming.

You stand slowly, and as you turn to leave, you notice Tommy looking at you. His eyes are peeking out from under his blanket, lids heavy but alert.

You pause. “Do you want me to tuck you in, too?”

He hesitates, then gives the smallest nod, like he’s not quite sure he should, but wants to anyway.

You gently and carefully tuck him into his covers like you had with Lily. “There,” you whisper. “Comfy?”

“Yeah,” he mumbles, rubbing one eye. “Thanks, Mom.”

You’re shocked hearing him call you ‘Mom’. You glance down at him, already drifting off, lashes fluttering against his cheeks, completely unaware of the weight his words carried.

You swallow and manage a quiet, “Goodnight,” brushing his hair back gently before slipping out of the room. What you don’t know is that on the other side of the hallway, just out of sight, John is standing perfectly still.

He’d heard it too.

He didn’t know how to respond to it either, wasn’t sure what it meant or what came next, but for now, he was just… happy. Happy that his son felt safe with you. 

Later that night, you lie flat on your back, staring at the ceiling of the guest room, your thoughts louder than the quiet hum of the house. The shadows shift with the streetlight outside, but your mind stays frozen. You were wearing his shirt, and he was on your mind. It smelled like him, and you could imagine his arms around you. You bury your face in it, wishing that he was with you and not in a room down the hallway. 

You needed to confront what happened that night. You hadn’t talked about it since. It lingered like static between you, unspoken but never forgotten. And you couldn’t keep pretending it didn’t matter, not when it meant everything. 

You needed to know if he wanted you when you’re both sober.

So, gathering every ounce of courage, you throw off the blanket, slide quietly out of bed, and make your way down the hall to his room. The floor feels colder than you expected. Or maybe that’s just your nerves.

You stop in front of his door.

Raise your fist.

And then… freeze.

You stand there for what feels like forever, five minutes, at least, your knuckles hovering midair. Your heart pounds loud enough to fill the silence, your thoughts racing. What if he didn’t feel the same? What if that night was just a mistake?

Suddenly, the door swings open, and it startles the living hell out of you — your fist, already midair, connects squarely with his face.

“Oh fuck,” you whisper-shout, eyes wide as John stumbles back, one hand instantly flying to his nose.

“Shit,” he groans, squinting in pain and trying to blink away the surprise. “You can throw quite a punch.”

“Oh my god, John. Holy fuck. I am so, so sorry,” you ramble, panic surging through you as you hover uselessly in front of him. “Let me get ice, I’ll fix it… just, don’t die.”

You spin around and scuttle off toward the kitchen, trying to keep your footsteps light even though your heart’s thudding like a drum solo. The freezer is a disaster. No ice trays. Who doesn’t have ice trays?

You spot something. Grab it.

Moments later, you return with a sheepish expression and a frozen bag clutched in your hand.

“I couldn’t find an ice tray,” you mutter, pressing the bag gently to his face, “so I got peas.”

You sit down with him on the bed, holding the bag of peas to his nose. “That won’t bruise or anything, right?”

“No, I’ll be okay. Worried about my handsome face, are you?” John jokes, and you’re just glad he has a sense of humour about it. 

You groan and drop your forehead onto his shoulder, mortified. “This was not how I pictured this going.”

His hand gently touches the small of your back. “You were coming to talk to me, right? About… us?”

You nod against him. “Yeah. Before I assaulted you.”

“Let’s start there,” he says, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes with a crooked smile. “Because I was kinda hoping we’d finally talk about it too.”

“Really? It didn’t feel like that since you ran,” you say, voice low. You were trying not to sound hurt, but you were. He weighs like the weight of the world is on his shoulders and moves his bag of peas off his face to look at you.

“You’re right to be mad. I just… I panicked when I woke up next to you.”

“You were regretful,” you say, attempting to finish his sentence. His eyes widen, and his mouth parts like he’s about to protest.

“No, no—that’s not it at all. I was scared. That if you saw me when you woke up, you’d think it was a mistake.”

He takes a breath, shuffling closer. “You’re unlike anyone I’ve ever met. You’re such a pain in the ass, always calling me out and keeping me on my toes. But also kind, and funny, and you make me feel so… alive.”

His hand lifts gently, your cheek resting against his palm. It feels perfect, like this is what fate had in store all along.

“I'm an idiot for running but I do like you. I’m falling for you,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper.

You smile, heart racing. “I’m falling for you, too, John Walker.”

Pulling him in, your hands still cold and wet from holding the bag of peas, but he doesn’t care. You kiss him like it’s the only thing keeping you upright—like if you stop, everything might collapse around you. 

The two of you pull your clothes off each other's bodies but there's no rush. Each layer that comes off brings you that much closer together.

Now completely naked you sit in front of him and you can see why he has all that confidence. His fingers tangle in your hair and he's about to kiss you when you stop him.

“Will they hear?”

“There's a couple rooms between us, they won't hear as long as you're not too loud.”

“We both know that's going to be a challenge,”You say, recalling the way you were hollering when he ate you out. You're surprised that none of your neighbours issued a noise complaint.

“You need to try or I'll have to find something to gag you with,” John suggests, his voice low and sultry.

“Don't threaten me with a good time.”

He pressures you back into the bed and bites your neck hard enough to leave a big mark.

“You better hope no one asks about that.”

“Let them ask, you can explain to them exactly what I did to you.”

The marks don't stop there. By the time he's done you look like you've been attacked by a wild animal. Hickeys and love bites littered all over your skin, each one a testament of John's desire for you.

“Need you inside me,” You pant out already guiding him towards you with your legs. 

He looks down at you with hooded eyes the anticipation eating you alive before he wraps his arms around you and carries you off the bed.

“Where are we—?” You start but don't finish as you notice he's plopped you down right in front of a mirror.

It's the perfect solution for when someone wants to fuck you from behind and see you fall apart of their cock. Thank everything for whoever invented mirrors.

He lightly kicks your feet apart, hands gliding up your body before resting on your boobs.

You getting back against him, trying to feel him and needing him to fuck the daylights out of you. It had been long enough and you were tired of waiting. 

“Impatient, aren't you?”

“I just need you. Don't make me suffer,” You pout, the mirror capturing the needy look in your eyes. 

“Well, who am I to say no to you?” He says before lining himself up with your entrance and pushing in.

Anticipating the screen you were about to let out, he covers your mouth with his hand.  Only the sound of his hips slapping against your ass echoing in the room. 

“Look at yourself, look at how quickly you feel apart for me,” John whispers against your ear. And he was right. You were a complete mess after only a few thrusts, eyes watery as your neck arches into him.

“So good,” You manage to get out without screaming. He grabs you by the hair, exposing your neck too him as he gives you a few more hickeys for good measure. Rocking your hips into you as he paints your neck with his lips.

Suddenly, your hips are being lifted into the air as he wraps his arms around you as if getting ready to suplex you. The way he starts fucking you is just as disorientating as a suplex would be. He's hitting your sensitive spot dead on turning your legs to jelly as they dangle in the air.

He's manhandling like you're a doll and you love it, especially when you can see it all happening in the mirror. The way his veins on his arms were popping with effort as he milks his cock with your pussy like you're a fleshlight.

“That's it, breed me, John.”

Hearing you say that only made him double his efforts.

“Is that what you want? Want me to get you pregnant?” John says, his fingers gripping your hips, clearly excited at the prospect. You nod desperately like you need to have it or you'll die.

You gasp, whimper, cry and reaching out for anything to keep you quiet.

“N-need you to fill me up,” You stutter out, “Need your cum in me.”

Then you're given a brief break when he pulls you back from the mirror, tossing you back into the bed. But two seconds don't even pass before he's feeding his cock back into your needy hole.

“J-john!”

You squeal a little too loudly and never you know it his hand is on your chin guiding your own panties in your mouth. 

“Such a pretty sight,” John says as he cages you, fingers intertwining as he pins you against the bed.

 You know you won't be able to keep going much longer. Wrecked doesn't even begin to describe what you were and your orgasm was about to knock you into a whole new dimension.

Feeling his cock twitch, you lock your legs around his waist and he finishes deep inside of you which triggers your own orgasm. His hot cum fills you up, painting your fluttering walls as he effectively breeds you.

The both of you lay there catching your breath as your orgasms pulse through you. This was what life was about; having sex with hot single dads. 

You come back to your senses, just barely and have an evil idea.

Seeing the opportunity fate had presented you for payback, you flip your positions climbing on top of him and riding him into overstimulation. A strangled cry that was supposed to be your name falling from his lips. 

“Baby…” John whimpers as his body tenses up, abs contracting like he's already about to cum again.

You could get used to having him at your mercy, bottom lip trembling as he tries to keep it together. 

“I like seeing you like this. So desperate for me and only me.” You pulling him to your lips by his hair. He groans but he's into it, he'd let you have your way with him just as much as you let him have his way with you.

“Only you,” He replies and you believe it. 

Your hand away from his hair, letting John's head hit the mattress, before going in and leaving your own string of love bites. He bites his lip, all but writhing under your soft touch. 

“Someone might see those.”

“Then you can explain to them what I did,” You say throwing his words back in his face.

You keep fucking until you tire yourselves out, your bodies sticky and heaving. It was as good as you imagined it would be and you're kicking yourself for not giving in earlier.

John's hand rests on your thigh tracing little patterns as you play with his hair when he asks a very pertinent question.

“Are you on birth control?”

Your eyes widen when you realise you are in fact not on birth control. With the downright sad lack of sex you were having before John walked into your life there was no reason to be on it.

“No”, You gulp,“We'll talk about it in the morning?”

John hums in agreement and holds you against his chest in a vice grip that screams “You're mine.”

In the morning, you’re happy to feel John’s arms still wrapped around you, his face pressed against your shoulder, his breath slow and even. Peaceful.

“Who wants pancakes?” you call out, later in the kitchen, sliding a golden stack onto the table with a grin.

You have a slow, sweet morning breakfast—the kind where everyone’s still in pyjamas, laughing over spilt flour and slightly burnt edges.

“Oh! Let me go get the syrup. Can you show me where it is, Tommy?” you ask.

Tommy nods enthusiastically, hopping up and heading toward the pantry with you, eager to help you find it.

Back at the table, Lily narrows her eyes at John, clearly sizing him up. Then, dead serious, she delivers:

“If you hurt my mom, you die. Understood?”

John blinks, caught off guard for a second, but then a slow smile tugs at his lips. He knew exactly where she got that intensity from.

“Understood.”

“Good,” Lily says, her expression finally softening. “You make great spagbol so I'd hate to have to kill you.”

ᯓ⚽︎ ᯓ⚽︎ ᯓ⚽︎

It’s been a few months since you and John started dating — the kind of comfortable, lived-in months where you had keys to each other's places, regularly took the kids out together, and fell asleep on the couch on each other. 

Unlocking the door, John and Tommy step inside, and they’re immediately hit with the scent of burnt toast, a low hum of music, and the unmistakable energy of mild chaos. They were here to pick you and Lily up to carpool to the Saturday morning game, but it looked like they’d walked into a warzone, and at least it smelled like pancakes.

“Morning!” Tommy calls out as he looks around, hoping to catch a glimpse of you. 

“Oh hi, guys,” you pant out from somewhere in the kitchen, out of breath and flustered. He doesn’t need to be able to see you to know you’re going through it.

Lily’s sitting at the dining room table, calmly sipping orange juice like she’s been through this before. Tommy runs over and sits beside Lily, swiping a pancake off her plate.

“Mom’s having a meltdown,” she says, totally unbothered. “It’s pretty intense. She yelled at the coffee machine.”

John raises an eyebrow and walks to the kitchen, and there you are, wearing one sock and a hoodie that you actually stole from John, batter on your cheek, surrounded by open containers and the remnants of pancake making.

“It’s so good to see you,” You cry as you practically jump into his arms. You let go of him so you can continue your spiral when he stops you. 

“Honey, you’re running around like a headless chicken. Let me help,” John offers.

You hesitate, then sigh and reach into the mess on the counter and pull out a hairbrush. “Can you finish braiding Lil’s hair for me? She’s lost her lucky cleats, and I need to find them before we leave.”

“On it.”

He kisses your forehead, warm and steady, before heading into the kitchen.

Lily watches him approach with guarded suspicion. “Please don’t mess this up.”

John grins. “Don’t worry, I’m a professional.”

He ruffles her hair on purpose, just to rile her up, and she bats his hand away with a huff and a laugh. 

Meanwhile, you’re darting around the house in full-on panic mom mode — lifting couch cushions, checking under the bed, even inside the fridge for some reason (you never know), until finally, you spot the missing shoes. Inside her toy chest, naturally, buried under a plastic tiara and two mismatched Barbie legs.

You walk back into the dining room to the sound of laughter, Tommy’s head thrown back as John tells some ridiculous story, funny voices and all. Lily’s giggling along too as he finishes tying off the braid with surprising skill.

You lean against the doorframe, heart swelling. It’s loud, it’s messy, but it’s yours. And in that moment, it hits you: this is what happy looks like.

“Found it,” you say, holding the shoes up triumphantly.

John looks up, grinning. “See? I told you everything would come together.”

You smile at him. This is perfect; he’s perfect.

“Are we ready to go?” you call out, grabbing your bag and keys.

They respond in a chorus of “Yeah!” and “Almost!” as shoes squeak across the floor.

Clambering into the car like a small tornado, Tommy buckles in and grins over at Lily. “Losing team’s parent buys ice cream,” he declares.

“Ohhh, bold move,” you say, raising your eyebrows in the rearview mirror.

“Looks like you’re buying ice cream,” John says smugly, sliding into the driver's seat, glancing at you like he already knows today’s outcome.

“In your dreams,” you shoot back, smirking as you start the engine.

This was the kind of happiness that sneaks up on you when you’re not paying attention—and all it took was yelling at a hot dad at a soccer game.

Masterlist

[abbotjack]

Booked for One

pairing : Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x fem!resident!reader

summary : A black-tie charity gala in Chicago. One bed. Months of tension. And a storm that forces both of you to stop pretending.

warnings/content : 18+ content, explicit sexual material (fingering, penetrative sex, condom use), strong language, emotionally repressed characters, unresolved sexual tension (resolved), jealousy, mutual pining, power dynamics (attending x resident), one bed trope, clothing sharing (his hoodie/boxers)

word count : 4,850

18+ ONLY MDNI, not beta read. Please read responsibly.

a/n : This is me projecting every inch of tension into one hotel room and letting it burn. Robby is so done pretending he doesn’t want her. She’s so done pretending it doesn’t wreck her. No further questions.

The Chicago skyline glittered beyond the ballroom windows like something out of a dream, but the room itself was thick with too much perfume and performative laughter to feel romantic. Somewhere between the crystal chandeliers and the overpriced floral centerpieces, you remembered: this was a charity gala, not a fairy tale. Not that you’d expected it to be one.

Your heels clicked confidently across the marble as you stepped into the crowd, the sound sharp and unapologetic. The red dress did exactly what it was meant to do—stop conversations mid-sentence. Backless, sculpted, slit high enough to make someone drop their champagne. Almost inappropriate. Almost. But cut with just enough class to keep mouths shut and eyes glued. You didn’t stumble into this look—you chose it. Every inch of it said exactly what you needed it to.

And beside you—silent, composed, unreadable—walked Dr. Michael Robinavitch.

Not behind. Not trailing. Beside. Step for step, shoulder to shoulder. Close enough that your perfume reached him, close enough that his silence pressed against your skin like static. The air between you practically hummed. No words were exchanged, but you felt his presence—intentional, sharp, heavy. Not accidental. Never accidental. He wore that tux like a threat and walked like he already regretted coming.

You didn’t blame him. He’d hated the idea of this from the moment the assignment hit both your inboxes. He spent most of the flight to Chicago muttering about schmoozing donors and dressing up for people who’d never seen what a ruptured spleen looked like in real life. Said if AGH wanted charm, they should’ve sent a PR team—not a trauma attending and a second-year resident.

But for all his complaining, he showed up anyway.

Beard neatly trimmed, jaw tight, suit tailored to the exact width of his frustration. He hadn’t bothered with a tie—left the top button undone and rolled his sleeves up in the car, like he couldn’t stand the performance of it all but still dared anyone to question whether he belonged.

Classic Robby.

All precision. All control. Except, maybe, for the way his eyes kept drifting back to you like he hadn’t meant to.

You’d felt it before you even got here.

The moment you stepped out of your hotel room earlier that evening, still adjusting the strap of your dress, you felt the air shift. His gaze had dragged down your spine like heat—slow, reluctant, and absolutely devastating. He hadn’t said a word. No compliment. Not even a grunt. Just stood there in the hallway, watching you like a problem he didn’t know how to solve.

Then you got into the car.

And now, here you were. Walking beside him like none of that tension had happened—like it wasn’t still buzzing under your skin.

He said nothing.

So, you flirted.

You’d barely handed off your coat when a man caught up to you. Mid-thirties, polished, expensive suit, and the kind of grin that usually came with a boarding group upgrade and a trust fund. His eyes dragged over you—slow, practiced—and landed on your badge.

“Emergency?” he asked, matching your stride.

You didn’t break pace. “That a problem?”

“No,” he said, trailing beside you now. “Just wasn’t expecting it. Not in that dress.”

“Guess I don’t dress for your expectations.”

He laughed under his breath, clearly intrigued. “Wasn’t trying to offend. You just... don’t look like you’ve pulled a chest tube.”

You glanced at him, expression unreadable. “You don’t look like someone who’s coded a patient without crying, but I’m not holding it against you.”

He blinked, thrown for half a second—then smiled, slower this time, like the game had just gotten interesting.

“Alright,” he said. “I deserved that.”

You gave a noncommittal shrug. “Probably.”

He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. “Should I try again?”

You didn’t answer right away. You just looked at him—cool, steady, unreadable. Not interested, but not walking away either.

“If you want,” you said finally.

And then you turned, letting him follow you into the crowd. He kept close, too close, like he wasn’t used to being dismissed.

“I’m Lucas, by the way,” he said, offering it like a favor.

“Of course you are.”

He laughed under his breath, clearly not sure if it was a compliment. Robby was across the ballroom, watching it all.

You watched him back. The way his jaw clenched every time you touched Lucas’s arm, the way he barely blinked when Lucas leaned too close.

"You here alone?" Lucas asked.

"That depends," you said, voice light.

"On what?"

You looked past him. Past the buffet table. Past the sea of donors and old-money medicine. Straight into Robby’s eyes. And you smiled.

“On whether he comes over here or not.”

Lucas turned, confused. “Who?”

You just tipped your glass toward Robby.

Robby didn’t move. He just stared back—still, unreadable, drink untouched in his hand like he wanted to throw it at something.

You turned back to Lucas. “Nevermind.”

You ended up pressed against the gold-veined marble counter in the bathroom ten minutes later, Lucas’s mouth hot and insistent on yours, his hands already on your hips like he’d earned the right. The chill of the marble cut against the warmth pooling low in your body, but you didn’t stop him.

Outside, rain had started to streak across the windows—steady now, soft at first and building. You barely registered it. All you felt was Lucas’s palm dragging slowly up your thigh, slipping beneath the slit of your dress, fingers skimming skin like he expected you to beg for it.

He kissed like a man used to being told yes. Confident. Greedy. A little too practiced. His teeth grazed your lip, tongue sweeping into your mouth with a low hum as he pushed closer, like he couldn’t get enough of the way you tasted.

You let his hand slide higher. Let him mouth at your neck, at the soft line beneath your jaw. Let him tug the strap of your dress down far enough for the fabric to slide off your shoulder.

Your lipstick smeared between you. Your breath came faster than it should’ve. And all you could think about—even now—was how Robby hadn’t said a single goddamn thing about the dress.

Lucas tasted like champagne and ego. His hands were good. His mouth was eager. His knee pushed between yours and your back hit the mirror with a dull, aching thud.

“You’re unreal,” he muttered against your collarbone, breath hot, hand skimming the edge of your breast now. “Jesus.”

You tilted your head back and closed your eyes.

Pretending it was enough.

Pretending it didn’t burn.

Then, gently—too gently—you pressed your palm against his chest.

“I should go.”

Lucas blinked. “Seriously?”

You didn’t answer at first. You just looked at him, steady, breath catching, lips swollen from someone you didn’t want.

Then: “Yeah. Seriously.”

Not cold. Just done.

You slipped out before he could say anything else, smoothing your dress and swiping your thumb across your mouth.

Outside, rain ticked louder against the glass.

And just a few feet down the corridor, exactly where you didn’t want him to be—was Robby. Like he'd positioned himself there on purpose. Like he knew exactly where you’d be. His eyes tracked you the second you stepped back into the ballroom—sharp, steady, and unmistakably furious.

“Was that worth it?” Robby’s voice cut through the hum of the ballroom, low and sharp like a scalpel slipping beneath skin.

You froze mid-step, spine straightening. “What?”

He pushed off the column, slow and measured, like he’d been holding himself still for too long. “Lucas. From Hopkins, right? He’s been at a few of these things.” Robby’s voice was low, sharper than it had any right to be. “In the bathroom. That's how you planned to go about your night?”

You crossed your arms. “Careful. You’re starting to sound jealous.”

“I’m not jealous,” he said, stepping in closer. “I’m pissed.”

You lifted your chin. “Why? Because he touched me, or because I let him?”

His jaw flexed. “You really want me to answer that?”

“You’ve been watching me all night, Robby. If you had something to say, you could’ve said it before I walked away.”

“I didn’t think you’d let someone else touch you first.”

You laughed once, dry and humorless. “That’s on you.”

“Don’t twist this.”

You held his stare. “Don’t try to control something you keep pretending you don’t want.”

He stepped closer, voice rough. “You think I don’t want you?”

“I think you want me when it’s convenient. I think you want me more when someone else does.”

His eyes darkened. “You don’t get it.”

“Then explain it.”

He shook his head. “You walked out of that bathroom looking wrecked—and all I could think was, I should’ve been the one to ruin your lipstick.”

Your breath caught.

“I mean it,” he said, voice lower now, almost ragged. “I stood here like a fucking statue while he got to touch you. Got to taste you.”

“Then do something about it,” you snapped, the air between you flaring hot.

“I can’t,” he said, jaw tight. “Not here. Not when I’m still trying to be the version of me that’s good for you.”

Thunder rumbled outside, closer now. A gust of wind rattled the balcony doors, and someone across the room shut one with a sharp bang that turned a few heads. Staff began to move like shadows between tables, and the string quartet shifted into something slow.

“Why not?” you whispered.

“Because the second I touch you,” he said, “I won’t stop.”

A waiter brushed past with a tray, and the spell broke—the quiet clatter of silver on porcelain snapping the air between you.

You stepped back like it burned. “We should go.”

Neither of you said another word.

Minutes later, you sat stiff in the back seat of the Uber, arms crossed tight, trying not to look like your heart was still somewhere back in the ballroom. Robby stared straight ahead, one hand flexing on his knee, the other resting uselessly between you. The driver didn’t ask questions. Neither of you offered answers.

By the time you stepped back into the hotel, the lobby was chaos—umbrellas dripping onto the tile, soaked coats draped over chairs, luggage leaving wet trails across the marble.

You were halfway to the elevators when the concierge spotted you.

“Miss?” she called out gently. “Room 124?”

You turned, already bracing.

“There’s been a situation,” she said. “A pipe burst on the first floor. Maintenance was able to shut it off, but your room was affected.”

Your chest tightened. “Affected how?”

“Flooded,” she admitted. “We pulled what we could from your room and sent everything to the laundry department for evaluation.”

You blinked. “Evaluation?”

She hesitated. “Some items were soaked. Our team is assessing what’s salvageable.”

You didn’t need her to spell it out. You could picture it already.

Your suitcase—soaked through from the bottom up, clothes clinging to the lining like wet leaves. The silk sleep set you packed on a whim, twisted and ruined. Your toiletry bag overturned, mascara tubes and tampons and a busted travel-size mouthwash bobbing in shallow water. Your heels wrapped in white hotel towels like they’d been injured. Your charger? Fried. The paperback you'd half-finished on the plane? Warped and curling at the edges like a dried flower.

You didn’t want it assessed. You wanted it not to have happened.

“We’re also fully booked due to the weather,” she added, almost apologetic now. “We’ve had cancellations, stranded travelers, local walk-ins. There’s a waitlist, but we can’t guarantee anything for tonight.”

Of course not.

You stared past her, toward the barricaded hallway at the far end of the lobby. Caution tape. Industrial fans. A sign printed in sharpie: FLOOR CLOSED FOR CLEANUP—1st. You could hear the low, constant roar of air pushing moisture out of drywall.

“Fine,” you muttered, reaching for your phone. “I’ll find another hotel.”

You had barely tapped the screen when Robby spoke.

“She’s with me.”

You turned your head slowly. “You don’t get to decide that.”

“You don’t have a room,” he said, measured. “You don’t have clothes. You’re not getting another hotel this late.”

“I didn’t ask for help.”

“I’m not offering help.” He looked at you then���just once, jaw locked, eyes hard. “I’m not letting you walk around Chicago at midnight with a dead phone especially during a thunderstorm.”

That shut you up. Not because he was angry.

Because he was worried. And trying not to show it.

The concierge handed over a second keycard.

Robby took it before you could say anything.

Just like that.

Final. No discussion.

He didn’t even look at you as he turned toward the elevators.

You followed him.

The click of your heels echoed against the tile, sharp and precise. Rain streaked the windows behind the lobby seating area, lightning flashing faintly across the marble floor. Neither of you spoke.

“I don’t have anything to sleep in,” you said finally, your voice clipped.

“I’ve got boxers and a hoodie,” he answered without looking back.

You stopped. Right there in the middle of the lobby.

“Oh, perfect. I’ll just wear your hoodie like this is totally normal and not weird at all,” you said, tone sharp.

He turned—slow, deliberate. Shoulders tense, jaw tight.

“What’s your move, then? Wander around downtown at midnight in heels that are cutting off your circulation, soaked through, no phone, no plan?”

You didn’t answer fast enough.

His jaw ticked. “It’s a hoodie and boxers, not a wedding dress. Don’t flatter yourself.”

You blinked, slow. “Oh, I’m not. I just prefer not to sleep in something that smells like you’re still wearing it.”

He stepped in—closer than necessary. “You didn’t seem so bothered by that smell earlier. In the elevator. Or at the event.”

Your pulse jumped. You hated that it did.

You crossed your arms. “I’d rather not spend the night with someone who can’t stand to look at me.”

His eyes didn’t move from yours. “You’re not upset about me glaring.”

“Oh no?”

“No,” he said. “You’re upset because the wrong man undressed you with his eyes—and made a move before the one you wanted ever did.”

Your stomach dropped.

You opened your mouth. Nothing came out.

He didn’t move. He didn’t smirk. He just let the words sit there between you, heavy and sharp and so goddamn true you wanted to slap him for it.

“Wow,” you breathed. “You’re a dick.”

“And you’re still standing here,” he said.

The elevator dinged.

You turned and walked in first.

He followed.

The doors slid shut behind you with a hush that felt like it should’ve echoed.

You stood a little too close to the mirrored wall. He stayed behind you, angled slightly off to the side. You watched him through the reflection. He wasn’t watching you, but he wasn’t relaxed either. His jaw was locked. His hands were in his pockets, knuckles tight enough to show through the fabric.

His chest rose slow. Measured. Controlled.

The air between you wasn’t just tense—it was alive. Like it had heard every word back in the lobby and didn’t believe either of you were done.

The elevator climbed.

At floor ten, your arms were crossed so tightly your shoulders ached.

At floor eleven, your pulse jumped just from the space between your hands and his body.

At floor twelve, he looked at you in the reflection—just a flick of his gaze—and your breath caught.

“We’re both adults,” he said.

Your voice barely made it out. “Barely.”

The elevator doors opened, and you stepped out before he could say anything.

His footsteps followed—steady, patient. The hall was quiet except for the distant hum of the rain hitting the windows at the end. The carpet muffled everything but your heartbeat.

He unlocked the door with one swipe of the keycard, then held it open. You didn’t look at him as you walked in.

You flicked the lights on.

And there it was.

One bed. Big. White. Obvious.

Robby walked in behind you, shutting the door with a soft click. He shrugged off his jacket and hung it neatly, like this was any other night.

You stared at the bed, then at him. Your voice was dry.

“Of course it’s one.”

He didn’t flinch. “Wasn’t expecting company when I booked it.”

You crossed your arms. “But when you offered to share—”

“I knew,” he cut in, voice smooth, unreadable. “Yes.”

“And you didn’t think to mention that part?”

He turned to face you fully, one brow lifting just slightly. “I had a single room. Why would it have two beds?”

You blinked at him, but he kept going, tone low and infuriatingly rational.

“Sorry, I forgot to ask the hotel for the ‘in case my coworker gets drenched and stranded’ package.”

You scoffed. “A heads-up would’ve been nice.”

He tilted his head, eyes skimming over you. “Right. And if I’d said, ‘It’s one bed,’ you’d have said what? ‘No thanks, I’ll sleep in a puddle’?”

You didn't answer.

He smirked. “Exactly.”

The silence stretched. Long enough to make the storm outside feel closer. You peeled your clutch from under your arm and set it on the dresser like it gave you something to do.

He crossed to his bag. Pulled out a hoodie and a pair of boxers, both folded with the kind of care you recognized in him—practical, precise. He set them down at the end of the bed.

“They’re clean,” he said. “Bathroom’s yours.”

You didn’t move yet. Just looked at the bed again. Then at him.

He hadn’t looked away once.

You took the clothes in one hand.

“So,” you said slowly. “We’re just gonna sleep next to each other like none of this ever happened?”

His voice didn’t waver. “Is that a problem?”

You raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know. Can you keep your hands to yourself?”

“Yeah.”

“Even if I wear this?” You lifted the hoodie an inch.

His gaze dropped for a single second. Just one. Then back up.

“Especially if you wear that.”

You stared at him.

He didn’t blink.

The moment hovered—thick and heavy with something neither of you wanted to name.

Then you turned toward the bathroom without responding.

The door clicked shut behind you, and you swore you could still hear the sound of him exhaling—low and rough, like he was trying not to want something he didn’t have permission to reach for.

The bathroom was quiet except for the faint hum of the fan and the thunder outside.

You reached behind you, fingers brushing the zipper. It slid down with a soft sigh, the dress loosening around your frame. The straps slipped off your shoulders, and the fabric followed, slow and heavy, like it didn’t want to let go.

It fell in a hush against the tile—crimson and careless at your feet.

You stepped out of it without hesitation.

His hoodie came next. It was oversized and warm. The sleeves hung past your hands, the hem grazing your thighs. You pulled on the boxers last. Loose, low, unfamiliar. You kept one hand on the waistband, like that might anchor you.

In the mirror, you didn’t look like the girl who’d worn that dress. You looked like someone else entirely—bare legs, messy mascara, lips still parted from things unsaid.

Like someone who’d made a choice.

Even if you hadn’t figured out what it meant yet.

When you opened the door, the lights in the room had dimmed. Only one lamp was still on, casting a warm glow over the bed and wall. The storm outside had deepened to a constant rhythm—rain tapping like fingers against glass, thunder slow and low in the distance.

Robby had moved. He was no longer standing.

Now he was sitting in the chair by the window, already in his pajamas. But the second you stepped out, he looked.

And stayed looking.

His gaze dragged from your legs to the oversized hoodie, to the hand resting at your hip like you didn’t quite trust the boxers not to fall. Then to your face.

He didn’t say a word.

He didn’t have to.

The air in the room changed. Tightened. Coiled.

You walked past him in silence, slid into the bed slowly—like you weren’t listening for the hitch in his breath, even though you were. The sheets were cold. Your skin prickled beneath the fabric, awareness spreading like a pulse.

You heard him stand.

Not right away. Not fast.

Just... eventually.

The creak of the chair. The soft thud of his steps against the carpet. The flicker of the switch. Then the dip of the mattress behind you.

He pulled the blanket up slowly. Settled on his back. Close, but not touching.

You stared at the ceiling. Felt the heat of him beside you—close, steady, impossible to ignore. Six inches of space. Maybe less.

And then you moved.

Not much. Just enough for the blanket to pull tighter across your hips, for the edge of your thigh to graze his under the sheets. It was barely contact.

But it felt like heat.

You knew he felt it too—because he stilled.

His breath caught, just slightly, like his lungs had registered something his mouth hadn’t been cleared to speak on. You could feel the way he was holding himself back. The way every inch of him had been still and disciplined until now, and now… now he wasn’t.

"Robby," you whispered.

He turned his head toward you.

Just a glance. But in it—everything. The tension. The ache. The silent plea for permission. Or for you to stop him before he crossed a line he couldn’t walk back from.

You didn’t.

Instead, you reached out—slow, careful—and let your hand find his forearm beneath the blanket. Warm skin. Solid muscle. He tensed at your touch, but didn’t move.

So you let your hand drift down, sliding along the inside of his wrist until your fingers brushed his.

He hesitated.

Then laced them through yours like he couldn’t help it.

That was all it took.

His fingers slipped free again, and his hand moved—up your arm, slow and deliberate. Not over the fabric. Under it. He pushed the hoodie up just enough to touch your bare skin, his palm dragging heat along the dip of your waist, the soft slope of your stomach. He moved closer, his leg brushing yours beneath the blanket, chest barely grazing your shoulder.

Your breath caught.

He heard it.

He hovered above you now, weight on one elbow, eyes locked on yours in the dark.

You reached up and found the side of his neck. Warm, tense, familiar.

That was enough.

He kissed you—deep, slow, but hungry. Not rushed. Just built-up control finally cracking. His hand slid higher beneath the hoodie, fingers spreading across your bare ribs, then rising to cup your breast—skin to skin. His thumb brushed over your nipple, and you gasped, the sound catching between your mouths.

He pulled back a breath’s distance, just enough to look down at you.

“You knew,” he said roughly.

Your lashes fluttered. “Knew what?”

His eyes dragged over your face. “That I wouldn’t stop if I touched you.”

You didn’t answer. You just arched into him, hips tilting, hand reaching for the hem of his shirt. Your fingers found the edge and pushed up, knuckles brushing his stomach.

He moved to help, lifting his arms, letting you tug the shirt over his head and toss it aside. Then he leaned back, one hand tugging the blanket down from both your bodies, eyes never leaving yours.

His chest rose and fell—slow, deliberate, barely in control. And he was still watching you like he hadn’t even started.

His hand slipped beneath the waistband of the boxers.

You gasped—quiet, sharp—and he froze.

“Okay?” he asked, voice hoarse against your throat.

“Yes,” you said. “Don’t stop.”

He groaned—quiet, guttural—and kissed you again, his fingers sliding through you slowly, then sinking deep. One, then two.

The hoodie stayed on.

But everything underneath it was his now too.

“You have no idea,” he whispered, “how long I’ve wanted to do this.”

“I think I do,” you said, breathless.

He kissed you again, but this time deeper—tongue sliding against yours with the kind of hunger that tasted like restraint finally breaking. His mouth moved from your lips to your jaw, then your neck, slow and deliberate, as if he was testing how far you’d let him go.

You didn’t stop him.

You tipped your chin up and gave him more.

“You’re soaked,” he said, voice dark. “Jesus.”

“Yeah,” you breathed. “I’ve been like that all night.”

His hand moved in slow circles over your clit. You arched into him.

“Robby—”

“Fuck, you feel—” He cut himself off with another kiss. His forehead rested against yours, breaths coming fast now. “Don’t rush me.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re shaking.”

“You’re making me.”

He added another finger. Your hips jerked, and he caught them with his other hand, holding you still while he fucked you slow with his fingers—deep, steady, curling in all the right ways. You whimpered into his mouth.

“Look at me,” he said roughly.

You did.

His pupils were blown wide. His jaw tight. His fingers still moving, still coaxing, still building the ache that had started the second he offered you this bed.

“Tell me when.”

Your breath broke. “Almost—don’t stop.”

His thumb pressed against your clit, just enough pressure to push you over. You came with a gasp—hips trembling, body curling into his. He kissed you through it, slow and open-mouthed, like he was breathing you in.

When your body stopped trembling, you reached for his waistband and pulled it down. He was hard. Thick. Heavy in your hand.

You stroked him once, twice—slow, just to feel the way his body jerked under your touch. His eyes fluttered shut, jaw clenching hard as your thumb teased the underside of his cock.

“Condom?” you asked, voice low.

“Top drawer,” he said. “I checked earlier.”

You arched an eyebrow. “Hopeful?”

“Prepared.” he muttered.

You fished it out and handed it to him. He rolled it on with shaky hands, then settled between your legs again—his hips aligned with yours, one hand braced beside your head, the other curling under your thigh.

He paused. “Last chance.”

You locked your eyes on his. “Shut up and fuck me.”

He pushed in with one slow, smooth thrust—stretching you open inch by inch, until your back arched and your nails dug into his shoulders.

“Jesus,” he gritted out, forehead dropping to yours. “You feel like—”

“Move.”

He did.

Long, deep strokes that built slow—his body pressed against yours, breath hot against your cheek, the bed shifting beneath you. His hips rolled just right, his rhythm steady but desperate, each thrust dragging a sound out of your throat you couldn’t have silenced if you tried.

You wrapped your legs around him, ankles hooking behind his back, dragging him deeper. His hand slid under the hoodie, found your breast, thumb brushing your nipple until you cried out.

“That’s it,” he whispered. “Come again.”

He angled his hips and thrust again—harder now, rougher, the sound of skin meeting skin echoing through the room. You moaned into his mouth, fingers clawing at his back as your body built again, tighter, hotter.

Then you broke.

Your climax hit fast—sharp, shattering. You buried your face in his neck and held on as he fucked you through it, thrusts stuttering, voice breaking on a groan.

“Fuck—I’m—”

He followed you over the edge with one last deep thrust, his body shaking above you, hips grinding into yours as he spilled into the condom with a low, guttural noise that sounded like surrender.

When it was over, he collapsed half on top of you, chest heaving, skin slick with sweat.

Neither of you spoke.

You lay there tangled in each other, his hoodie bunched around your waist, your breathing slowly syncing with his. His hand rested on your thigh—still, warm, unhurried. Gentle in a way that felt unfamiliar for both of you.

The storm outside had quieted to a hush, rain tapping a soft rhythm against the windows like it was trying not to interrupt.

Minutes passed.

Then, quietly—like it had been sitting on his tongue all night—he said, “You looked really beautiful in that dress.”

Your heart stuttered.

You turned your head just enough to look at him. “You didn’t say anything.”

“I know,” he murmured. “Didn’t think I should.”

You didn’t answer right away. You just watched him, his features softer now in the dim light, his usual armor cracked wide open.

After a moment, you whispered, “I waited for you to.”

His fingers flexed lightly on your thigh, like the weight of your words hit somewhere deep.

“I know,” he said again, barely audible. “I’m sorry.”

You didn’t forgive him out loud. You didn’t need to.

You just shifted closer, let your leg hook over his, and finally let yourself exhale.

Not everything had to be said right now.

But for the first time in a long time, it felt like something had changed.

And neither of you reached to undo it.

[cinnxmxngxrl]

“Camden’s sin”

Pairing: Alfie Solomons x Shelby!Reader

Check Alfie’s Masterlist here to see the next parts

Summary: You were a Shelby working in your family’s business. You tried to convince yourself that it was just that, business. But Alfie Solomons wasn’t just business, not when he had you bent over his desk.

WC: 2.3k

Warnings: intense smut, minors DNI, unprotected piv, filthy language, oral(f!receiving), rough sex, creampie, reader is Tommy Shelby’s sister.

A/N: Again, english is not my first language, so sorry if any mistakes throw you off. I’m planing to do several more parts of this (please tell me if you have any request, this is my second time writing).

Your brother trusted you. For some reason, you were good with numbers—that was a fact. And you were good with people, probably because they all saw you as the innocent and youngest Shelby sister, but you were smarter than any man in the room. They underestimated you. That’s why you got sent to Camden Town almost every week. That, and because Alfie Solomons was utterly obsessed with you. Tommy found it convenient, really, since it always gave you the upper hand in every deal. Alfie simply couldn’t resist you.

You never thought anything of it. Yes, Alfie flirted with you—crude and blunt, filthy sometimes—but you were sure of his intentions. Just a game to piss your brother off. So you dismissed his banter.

The morning air was thick in Camden. It always was. You walked through the bakery like you owned the place, weaving through the towering barrels and busy working men until you reached his office. You didn’t even get a chance to knock. His voice came through the door, rough and immediate.

“Get in.”

You pushed the door open and stepped inside. The air reeked of rum and cigars. He was there, of course—seated at his desk, leaning back in the chair. Sleeves rolled up, revealing strong, tattooed forearms. His beard was thick and wild as ever.

“Well, bloody hell. The Shelbys sent me an angel today, eh?”

“You knew it was me coming, Alfie.”

“That I did. Every week, like a sharp clock, you are,” he grinned. “Lookin’ like fuckin’ sin, you do.”

You sighed. You knew all his lines by now. He’d used them a thousand times already.

“Let’s talk business, yeah?”

“What? No hello? No how’ve you been, Alfie? No I’ve missed seeing your face?”

He twitched his jaw when you stayed silent, completely ignoring his advances once again.

You tried your best to talk numbers, to finalize the new distribution routes. But it was almost impossible with the way his eyes were trailing over your body—lazy, deliberate, like he was undressing you with every glance.

“Are you even listening to what I’m saying?” You were pissed now.

“Well, forgive me, yeah? It’s fuckin’ hard to focus when you’re lookin’ like that.” He leaned forward, elbows resting on the desk, smirking. “You do it on purpose, you do. That dress, that mouth painted red like bloody temptation itself.”

“This isn’t a bloody game, Alfie.” You warned him, trying to stay cool and composed—even while he was practically eye-fucking you across the desk.

“Course it’s not a fuckin’ game,” he said, voice low. “I want you. And yeah, yeah, before you say it again—I know you’re Tommy’s sister. I don’t give a fuck whose sister you are, right?”

“You’re crossing the line. Stop it.” You were trying hard not to flinch, not to blush. Trying to seem unimpressed.

“Oh, am I crossing the line?” His eyes dropped to your legs. “I’ll stop it when you stop sittin’ there with those… those fuckin’ legs crossed tighter than a nun. Pressing your thighs together since the moment you got here. Probably the same way you press them every night thinkin’ of my mouth.”

He smirked, proud of the reaction he managed to pull from you.

He had you now. He bloody well did. And it pissed you off that he was so damn observant, that he noticed everything.

“Fuck you.”

“God, please.”

Your cheeks burned—with anger, yes, but with something deeper than that. Something dangerous. Something like desire.

“You’ve mistaken my tolerance for interest, Alfie. If you want to keep doing business with the Shelbys, then you fucking behave,” you hissed.

“Business?” he scoffed. “Treacle, the only thing I’m gettin’ from business with the Shelbys is fuckin’ blue balls. Havin’ to stare at you every fuckin’ week without being able to touch you the way I want.”

“Are you done? Done saying all the… filth that’s inside your mind? You’re a pig.”

“Done? I’m nowhere near done.” He leaned back, eyes gleaming. “Next time you come here, I’ll tell you what I want to do to you—page by page—like a fuckin’ scripture.”

You stood up, turned away without another word, and walked straight out of his office. Just like that. Gone. Leaving Alfie cursing under his breath.

The truth is, you should’ve told Tommy. Should’ve told him that Alfie crossed a line, so he’d send someone else. But you didn’t.

No matter how hard you tried to stay away from that man, there was an invisible string pulling you toward him.

You wore black that day. High-necked. Buttoned all the way up. But when you walked into Alfie’s office, the first thing you saw was him—waiting for you with a little old leather notebook in his hands.

He didn’t say hello. Didn’t greet you like most days. He just opened the notebook and looked at you.

“I made you a promise, right? And I’m a man of my word.” He tapped the cover with a grin. “Fuckin’ poetry I wrote for you.”

“You think I came here to hear your filth?” you said, sitting across from him, arms and legs crossed.

He ignored you completely. Cleared his throat. Adjusted his glasses. And began to read from the first page.

“You come here all proper, all buttoned up, pretendin’ to be holy. But I’d get you against my desk anyway, with my hand under your tight little skirt, as you moan my name like a fuckin’ prayer.”

He turned the page.

“You’d tell me to fuck off—’cause you love to pretend you don’t want me. But when I feel your thighs squeeze around my fingers, I know it’s all lies.”

Another page turned.

“I’d put my mouth between your legs, eat you until you can’t remember your fuckin’ name. Make you scream so loud your brother in Small Heath would hear you.”

“And I’d fuck you from behind, right on this desk we’ve signed a hundred papers on. You’d beg me not to stop. In fact, you’d beg me to go harder, ’cause—”

“Stop.” You cut him off. Your voice soft, but sharp.

You felt the heat pooling low in your stomach. Felt your undergarments dampen. But you didn’t show it. You stood up, hands trembling, legs unsteady.

“You think you’re clever? Think I’ll melt because you wrote all your filth in a book like some fucked-up priest?”

He stood too, walking around the desk toward you with slow, measured steps. “Maybe. Tell me—is it workin’?”

“You should be locked up.” You should’ve slapped him. Should’ve run. But you didn’t. You stayed. You listened to every word.

“Maybe,” he whispered, closing in. “But I’d find a way out. Just to find you.”

He was towering over you now. So close you could smell him—cigars and rum and sin.

“I should take what I want right now,” he murmured, voice rough. “Should bend you over my desk and do every fuckin’ thing I wrote in that notebook. Everything you’ve been denyin’ me.”

Your knees buckled. Your breath hitched.

“But I won’t, treacle. And you wanna know why?” His voice dropped to a growl. “Because when I do—yeah?—you won’t be walkin’ straight for a fuckin’ week. And it’s gonna be your choice.”

“My choice?” you whispered, your voice barely there, feeling his eyes devour you.

“Yours. You’ll come back here tomorrow. Not for business. Not like a Shelby. You come back for me.”

Somehow, your legs carried you out of his office. Out of the distillery. Back to the car waiting for you outside.

The moment you stepped inside Alfie’s distillery the next day, you knew it—this would be the last time you ever walked out of here untouched.

You made your way into his office, and like always, he was already expecting you. Leaning back against his desk, arms folded, eyes on you like he’d been waiting all fucking day. He looked as irresistible as ever.

“You’re late,” he said.

You checked your watch. “No, I’m not.”

“Yeah, you’re about twenty fucking meetings late for what I really want.” His voice was low, husky. “Lock the door.”

You obeyed without thinking. As you stepped closer, his thumb grazed your throat—rough, calloused fingers surprisingly gentle.

“You want to hear it again? Page by page? ’Cause I’ve written a thousand more.”

“No,” you breathed, “I want you to show me.”

He groaned—and that was it. Restraint fully vanished. He grabbed you and crushed his mouth against yours, desperate, hungry, all tongue and teeth as he yanked your head back and devoured you like a man starving for something only you could give, with the need to own you.

You moaned when he shoved you against the desk, one hand on your throat—holding, not squeezing—while the other dragged your dress up.

No knickers. He swore.

“Fucking hell… You woman… you’re trying to kill me, are you?”

Before you could reply, his hand was already between your thighs, feeling the heat, the wetness.

“Oh, you’re so ready for me, ain’t you? Fucking dripping on my fingers.” He growled—and then dropped to his knees, right there on his office floor. Because there was only one reason Alfie Solomons got on his knees, and that was to eat cunt.

“Alfie—” you began.

“Shut up. Let me read my scripture,” he rasped. Then his mouth was on you—no patience, no mercy.

His thick beard scratched the inside of your thighs, but all you could feel was the way his tongue worked you open. Lazy circles over your clit turned into relentless strokes as he devoured you like you were his first hot meal after the war.

He pulled back for a second, just to look at you.

“Tastes fucking divine.” He gave one long, filthy lick. “Like fucking salvation.”

“Oh God—God—” you whimpered.

“No, treacle, the Lord’s got nothing to do with it. This is all me. So say my fucking name.”

“Alfie… Oh, Alfie…” you moaned, hands buried in his hair, grinding shamelessly against his mouth. He latched on your cunt harder, tongue ruthless going through your slick folds, sucking your clit in the right way. fingers gripping your thighs to keep you from flying apart.

And then—you broke. You came in seconds. Hard. Loud. Messy. Your whole body shook, and you would’ve collapsed on the floor if it weren’t for his strong arms holding you up.

He stood, his beard glistening, soaked in your fluids. Eyes dark as the night, wild. He didn’t wait a second—his hands were already unbuckling his belt.

“You ready for page two?” he growled. “’Cause I’m still fuckin’ hard. And tired of waiting.”

You nodded, It was all you could do, you were speechless, breathless.

He grabbed your body forcefully, turned you around, and bent you over his desk, one hand pressing between your shoulder blades, pinning you down like he’d envisioned a thousand times.

He spit into his hand, stroked himself rough and fast, like the world was about to end. And then—

He slammed into you.

You screamed his name, gripping the desk so hard your knuckles went white. He was huge, and if that wasn’t enough, he was brutal with his unforgiving thrusts that had you seeing stars and the whole fucking galaxy.

He pounded into you so hard you didn’t know if he loved you or hated you, hands bruising your hips, balls slamming against your ass over and over.

“Fuck—fucking—” he choked out, and you realized that this was the first time you’ve ever seen Alfie Solomons struggle to find words. “You trying to kill me? Squeezing my cock like that with this tight little cunt.” He smacked your ass, hard.

All you could do was whimper, pathetic little whimpers that came out of your mouth as he continued to dive into you.

The room was full of it—all of it—the wet slap of skin against skin, the creak of the desk under your body, your muffled cries, his snarling breath mixed with all the filthy words that came out of his mouth.

“Custom-fucking-made for my cock, you were.”

“You feel so good… so wet and hot and tight for me.”

“Look at you, listen to you—moaning like a fucking whore for me.”

He was feral for you. He had turned into a beast like never before. Because even if he had his fair share of women in the past, no woman had ever made him feel like this, not a single one of them had ever felt as good as you did right now, It was all he had ever dreamed of, and more.

And you—you—were taking it, it was all you could do, cause you were built for this. No one ever fucked you like a real man should, no, that was something only Alfie could.

That sharp sting built in your belly and then it snapped—and you came again, harder this time, clenching so tight around his cock he cursed in Yiddish. You didn’t know what he said, but the way he said it made your whole body throb.

“I’m gonna fill you up… so bad it’s gonna fucking drip out of that pretty pussy all over your thighs yeah? You want that?”

“Yes… please, Alfie… fill me up.”

He pulled your hair back, arched your back against his chest, and fucked into you harder. Once. Twice. The third thrust—he buried himself deeper and he came with a guttural growl, spilling himself inside you as he moaned your name into your shoulder.

He stayed there inside you, holding you close, his lips at your throat, whispering things that made you melt, and kissing your shoulder softly, as if trying to comfort after he was the one to wreck you

When he finally pulled out, you felt it—his cum, mixed with your juices, dripping down your thighs. He shoved it all back inside with two fingers, stuffing you full of him again.

“Tell me you’ll come back next week, yeah?” His voice was oddly soft now.

You barely managed a whisper. “Try not to go mad until you see me again.”

He smiled against your skin. “Now that, treacle… that’s a promise I can’t make.”

NEXT PART HERE

‪dividers by: @/saradika-graphics‬

[sweetshuga]

ⓘ content warnings: smut ⋆ +18 ⋆ age gap ⋆ split second of fluff ⋆ sexual tension ⋆ munch!matt ⋆ pussy eating ⋆ pussy drunk!matt ⋆ praise kink ⋆ beard rash ⋆ light angst (unresolved) + more. «prompt»

It was almost the end of the semester and things were hectic to say the least. Exams were right around the corner and everyone was studying—even those who lazed around all semester.

Everyone was busy, and that included the professors and lecturers. Some were busy enough to neglect shaving, not having enough time to do anything more than what was necessary.

Matt Sturniolo—the lecturer you’d been having a physical relationship with—walked into the lecture hall in loose faded jeans, dark blue and white checkered button up and...

A grown out beard.

You immediately had to cross your legs in a futile attempt to get rid of the tension beginning to pool in your panties. You had seen him with a stubble, or a five o’clock shadow, but never a partially grown out beard. His blue eyes seemed to pop out even more in all the blue he wore, making him look more intimidating than usual.

His eyes were dead, expression serious, as he began to talk. The slight dark circles under his eyes paired with the beard and mustache combo had you wanting- no, needing to grind on his face.

You sat in the uni library, studying, trying but failing to erase the image of Matt’s facial hair out of your mind. God, he looked so fucking good. It was almost laughable how much you craved him between your legs.

With a sigh, you forced yourself to focus on your assignment and started to type on your laptop again. It had been two hours since you began working on your assignment and yet you hadn’t gotten much work done.

Suddenly, your phone lit up with a message, reminding you that you forgot to turn it off. You usually turn it off before you study so you wouldn’t get distracted but you somehow forgot to turn it off today. Your mind was too preoccupied with Matt.

«read the text messages»

As embarrassing as it was, you couldn’t help but rush to get there. He had never invited you to come over to his place. Hell, you probably had been there only once before and it was simply to bring a few of your assignments over. Which he initially refused but gave in after your pouty persuasion.

When you arrived at his place, he opened the door in loose grey sweatpants and bright pink t-shirt. His hair was damp and slightly messy like he’d been running his fingers through it after his shower.

Your eyes immediately landed on his face—or well, his facial hair.

Seeing your eyes glued to his beard, Matt couldn’t help his lips from curling up subtly at the corners, his eyes crinkling with amusement.

"See something you like, sweetheart?"

His voice snapped you out of the tiny trance you were in, making you blink at him for a moment before you composed yourself, clearing your throat.

"Your beard... I don’t think I’ve ever seen you grow it out—not this much at least. You always shave." You pointed out, not answering his question but not denying it either.

"Yeah, I haven’t really had the time..." He paused, a hand coming up to scratch his jaw, briefly checking you out before continuing. "You look cute in that."

You glanced down at the simple oversized hoodie and pleated skirt you were wearing, your cheeks heating up despite your attempt to seem as experienced and composed as you made yourself out to be.

"Thanks, it’s nothing special though-"

"And? It looks good on you." He cut you off before you could say anything else.

"You gonna stand there all day, pretty?" He cocked an eyebrow, waiting for your response, and you could hear the teasing in his tone—something about it making your stomach swarm with butterflies.

"Yeah, no. I mean- I just... You know- Sleep deprivation. Right. I’m a bit sleep deprived so I just-" You stammered, rambling nonsense, your face flushing further.

He simply chuckled, the sound slightly deeper than usual.

You felt a shiver run down your spine at the sound of his laughter, goosebumps breaking out on your skin.

Defeated, you quietly walked in when he stepped aside, lips pressed in a thin line, not knowing whether to cry or laugh at yourself.

Matt closed the front door and walked behind you. He was so close—almost pressed up against you. One of his hands slid down to rest on your waist as he leaned down to whisper lowly in your ear.

"My bedroom is the first door to the right. Wait for me there."

He slowly straightened up, his hand lingering on your waist for a moment too long before he lifted the same hand to gently pat your head then made his way to his kitchen—most likely to get something to drink and/or eat.

You watched him disappear into the kitchen, frozen in place, his whispered words still ringing in your ear. You complied with his request—after taking a few seconds to compose yourself—and made your way towards his bedroom.

When you walked inside, you were immediately hit with the smell of his cologne and something floral, probably air freshener.

You moved towards his bed, which had wine red silk sheets and matching pillowcase, paired with white fluffy comforter, quite the mature taste. Sitting down on the edge of his bed, you took in his room—from the little figurines on his bookshelf to the minimalistic decorations.

You couldn’t help your curiosity and stood up from his bed and walked towards the wall facing his bed where a painting—of a lone cabin in a dense forest—was hung.

"Beautiful isn’t it?"

Your head snapped to the side, startled by Matt’s voice. He was holding a few snacks and two cans of soda—not at all what you imagined him to like. A small laugh escaped you before you could stop yourself.

Matt smirked at your laughter, walking towards the bed and setting the snacks and soda down on the nightstand before turning to you with an amused expression.

"May I ask what’s so funny?" He questioned, sitting down on his bed, patting the space beside him, signaling you to come sit.

You obliged without being told twice and sat down beside him, close enough that your thighs were brushing against each other.

"Nothing... It’s just the snacks and soda were nothing l expected."

"What, you thought I’d bring alcohol or something?" He chuckled. "I try to stay away from things like that, but I do drink sometimes—it’s almost inevitable when you’re a working adult."

After some small talk that you usually never had with him, Matt brought up the actual reason you were at his place.

"So, about how you couldn’t orgasm," he began, taking a sip from his can of soda. "I hope you’re ready to change that."

He was acting differently today. Almost sweet. Oddly so.

It started with a slow kiss that Matt initiated but it didn’t take long for his tongue to slip between your parted lips, tangling with yours as he gently pushed you down on his bed, breaking the kiss to trail his lips along your jaw and down your neck before beginning to nip and suck the sensitive skin there.

His hands roamed over your body as if he was worshipping you, making you arch into his touch.

Your breath hitched softly when he tugged at the tiny skirt you wore for him, and you let him take it off without hesitation, letting him see your lace panties that were beginning to have a wet spot forming in the middle.

"Fuuck," he rasped. "Look at you."

His hands smoothed over your thighs, dick throbbing and tenting his sweats obscenely, breathing significantly heavier than before and pupils greatly dilated—making his pretty blue orbs look black in the dim lighting of the night lamp.

He hooked his fingers in the waistband of your panties and pulled them off in one smooth motion, eliciting a surprised giggle from you.

"Prof-"

"Matt." He cut you off. "Call me Matt."

"Matt."

He smiled at your obedience. "Good girl," he purred.

Your breath hitched softly at the praise, his honey-like voice making that fire deep in your gut burn hotter.

You watched with hooded eyes as he kissed down your stomach, making your abdominal muscles tremble and quiver under his soft yet hungry kisses. The further down he went the more ragged your breath became.

Matt could smell your arousal. The scent was making his head spin. It was so intoxicating, so sweet, and it was making him hungry. His mouth watered as he got closer to his destination, resulting in his kisses becoming sloppier and more hurried.

Your breath hitched deep in your throat when Matt placed a soft kiss on your sensitive clit. Swallowing hard, he flattened his tongue and licked a stripe up your soaked folds, as if you were his favorite ice cream.

A soft, shuddering sigh slipped past your lips as Matt’s tongue slowly lapped up your juices, groaning softly in delight as the musky yet sweet taste of your arousal overwhelmed his taste buds, sending sparks of pleasure through him.

"Fuuck... You taste soo good..." Matt murmured as he leaned back slightly to look at your glistening pussy before looking up into your eyes through his lashes.

He looked undone already, panting softly, eyes looking almost glazed over like he was the one experiencing pleasure.

Your heart hammered against your ribcage and you didn’t know if it was because of him looking at you like a hungry beast waiting to feast on his prey or if it was because of the anticipation coursing through you. But one thing was for sure, him between your thighs was a sight you would never get tired of seeing.

Just as you let your guard down and got lost in thought, Matt’s mouth was back on your pussy, licking and sucking on your sensitive flesh as if he couldn’t get enough.

The sounds he was making were incredibly erotic and so fucking dirty. The soft, wet smacks of his lips almost french kissing your folds had your face burning hot in embarrassment.

"That feels so fucking good..." You found yourself moaning, your fingers tangling in his unruly brown locks, urging him to keep going.

Matt groaned against your pussy, the sound raw and filled to the brim with desire. His large hands slid under your ass, gripping the supple flesh, using his strong grip to pull you closer to his face.

He had been careful not to let his beard scratch your inner thighs but the taste of you on his tongue and the pleasure he felt from making you feel good was beginning to mess with his head, hence making him forget about his facial hair.

You felt something coarse rub against your inner thighs and you knew exactly what it was. It didn’t hurt at first, just a slight tickling sensation that had you squirming more than usual. But then Matt wrapped his arms around your thighs in an iron grip, locking you in place and keeping you glued to his face.

Before you could say anything about his facial hair, he wrapped his lips around your clit, sucking gently. The pleasure he was giving you, paired with the slight discomfort of his beard rubbing against your delicate skin, made your mind go numb.

Your fingers tightened its hold on Matt’s hair, unsure if you wanted to push his face away and or pull it closer. Although you felt discomfort, you couldn’t get yourself to tell Matt, fearing he’d get worried and stop. You were getting close after all. You didn’t want him to stop.

Your hips twitched, rocking ever so slightly against his tongue as your orgasm approached slowly but surely. And Matt, ever the observer, noticed the way your body reacted. Every little jolt made him more aware of your impending orgasm.

The anticipation from knowing you weren’t far from coming all over his tongue was making him extremely turned on. The fabric of his sweats stretched taut around his erection and Matt couldn’t help but roll his hips against the mattress.

He’d always enjoyed eating pussy, but he had never unraveled this much during it. It felt as if he was the one on the receiving end with how much pleasure he felt just knowing he was making you feel good.

Your thighs quivered, your breaths coming in shorter gasps and pants. The amount of hitch in your breath was enough for Matt to understand that you were right on the edge, ready to fall.

And who was he to stop you?

His tongue flicked your clit rapidly, his eyelids fluttering. Groans clawed its way out of his throat and vibrated against your pussy as if he was feeling pleasure from munching on you. His jaw and tongue muscles ached from exertion but he had no intention to stop.

He was determined to make you come.

"Fuuck... Matt-- I’m—ahnn—cumming, cumming!" You cried out, body tensing briefly before shuddering uncontrollably. Your release washed over you in strong waves, each one making you whimper softly and roll your hips against his face.

A moan, raw and full of need, rumbled out of his chest as the sweet taste of your release coated his tongue and he eagerly lapped it all up.

"Y’taste fucking incredible, sweetheart-" Matt cut himself off with a groan of pleasure. He wasn’t even lying, you tasted like something he could eat every day and night and every hour in between.

He helped you ride out your high with his tongue, reluctantly pulling his head back when your body went limp, sated. He wanted to feast on you more but with the exhaustion from his busy schedule and the way his jaw ached, he wasn’t sure if he could.

Watching the blatant satisfaction on your face made him feel quite good. His ego skyrocketed when you opened your eyes and gazed at him with those soft, glazed over eyes filled with post-orgasm vulnerability.

He opened his mouth to tease you about how he just helped you come when you were having trouble orgasming on your own.

But then remembered his role in your life. He was your lecturer and you were just his student—someone he couldn’t have. Maybe it was the fear of judgement from others or it was just the discomfort of knowing he was twice your age. Either way, he couldn’t do this again.

With a sigh, Matt wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his gaze already drifting elsewhere—away from your vulnerable figure laying so invitingly on his bed, all sprawled out.

"Go home."

You blinked slowly and sat up. What was he suddenly saying? Wasn’t everything going well? Wasn’t that supposed to lead to an intimate moment?

"What?" You mumbled, your body still buzzing with pleasure.

"My ex-wife is coming over tonight." Matt lied, trying to get you to leave so he wouldn’t have to deal with the complex emotions that appeared whenever you were near.

Your expression fell. His ex-wife? He’s still in contact with her? Why’s she coming over? To do what? Are they reconciling?

Although hundreds of questions swirled inside your head, you couldn’t voice any of them. You felt utterly pathetic.

An uncomfortable silence filled his home at your departure. The taste of you still lingered on his lips, but it felt bitter now that you went back to the dorm, probably upset because of his stupidity.

Matt stared longingly at his closed front door.

He ran his hand through his messy locks, cursing under his breath at himself for pushing you away yet again. His mind began to fill with thoughts he didn’t want to think about. What if you get tired of this cat and mouse game and leave him for good? What if you–

Just then, his phone rang, cutting off his thoughts. It was his ex-wife, and Matt’s expression turned serious when he heard her request. She was asking him to consider getting back together? What was this woman thinking?

✰ english is not my first language! || wc: 2.6k ✰

Isa’s rambling ۶ৎ I immediately thought of lecturer!matt when I saw those delicious pictures of Matt in that photo dump. Also, I’m so so so sorry for delaying this fic sm holy fuck it’s been more than a month since that photo dump 💔

⟢ lecturer!matt taglist: @blahbel668 @ribread03 @sturniologals @annedebeijer @sleazy-1 @m0r94n @sugarraez @lvrsturniolo @iluvnicksturniolo @sturniolosluttt @sophand4n4 @squishybxg @matts-247 @lifecansmd @zokhlyxo @jibitzlesscrocs @oopsiedaisydeer @v33angel @shortnsweetsturnz @sagesturns @corspebridedelrey @anonymouslyachrisgirl @heartsforvin @lvrsturniolo @poolover123 @trustinsturniolos @mattsturnsgirlie @ri444nna @sturnboos @whore4-chrissturniolo @chrismoans @chlosallow @juless-is-elsa @nai2two @natesfavoritehoe @ineedchrisbadly @l0s3rhaha @chrissbabymumma @h3arts4nat @moond0llie @bernardsbendystraws @sorrybirds @devotedlyteenagemusic @httpssturns @mattswrinkleton

[bunnyinvanilla]

sugar daddy bar!owner john price x sugar baby!waitress series

🥀 |warnings: +18, laaargw age gap (reader is 21 and price is in his 40s), fem!reader, sugar daddy/baby relationship mentioned, not smut but suggestive.

price thought a doll like you deserved a grown, strong old man like him to treat you like a princess — spoil you rotten, wrap you up in bubble wrap and take care of you. You didn’t need to work, get your pretty hands sore and tired from pouring drinks all the time. he’d give you all the money you needed to pay off your college and to get all the pink, girly things you liked so much, ribbons and all. You just needed to sit cutely on his lap, to be his, and he’d give you the whole world. He was in his 40’s, you had only recently turned 21, a flower on the prime of her blossoming youth, who could give an old, worn out man like him some sugar.

that’s why he offered you to be his sugar baby. that offer, made you flush on the spot — he was so confident and composed, unfazed by his own words. The moment he saw redness spread over you cheeks, he knew he had you. His mustache twitched, his salt and pepper beard stretched as he wore an amused, lazy smile. you were always so obedient and compliant to him, always chirping a “yes sir” to anything he’d ask or tell you to do, a sweet, young, too young lil thing, eager to earn his praise, to feel those goosebumps trail down your skin when he muttered a gruff, deep “good girl”, you’d be the perfect submissive, you’d have it in you to be trained already, even in your innocence and inexperience..

..but, you’d initially declined his offer, because “I want to earn that money, sir, and I’d feel bad if you just..gave it to me like that”

oh, how honest, naive, innocent and pure you were. He admired that about you, but you could see it in his eyes, the way he cocked his thick, dark brown brow upward, that he didn’t believe you’d cling onto those words for long. He knew you were just too shy to accept, but you wanted to. You wanted to be his pretty, little girl. and he was right, as always. One particular night, you’d found a moment to lean your arms against the wooden counter and just breath. You’d been studying all morning, head buried in your notes, and when you got to the bar, you found dozens of soon to be drunk men ready to order alcohol and ask you to bring them ashtrays.

you wanted nothing more than go back home, snuggle in your pink, soft blankets and read your so loved books — it had just been a draining day, you enjoyed your job, but to be honest with yourself, the thing you liked the most was feeling john’s attention and eyes on you during your whole shift and maybe you could finally have someone provide for you.

so, that’s how you found yourself in front of his office door, hesitating lightly while millions of tiny butterflies flew around in your chest, your cheeks as red and warm as ripe strawberries under the summer sun.

knock, knock.

he’d recognized that knock. A feeble, light thud against wood. That couldn’t possibly have been Simon, whose hand could make the whole door shatter down with a single knock, nor Soap’s — bloody hell, that man never bothered to knock at all, he’d just break in.

so he wasn’t surprised to see you, standing meekly in front of his large, wooden desk, the hem of your skirt hugging your milky, bare thighs, your fingers fidgeting together and your eyes looking down at his sitting stance, shy and timid.

“what is it, doll? need ol’ price?” his voice was so rough, so husky, you wondered how it would sound from between your thighs, or from behind you, while his large palm pulled your hair to make you arch against him.

you blinked once, gathering courage to ask for what you’d secretly been daydreaming about, your boss, old enough to be your father, aging like the finest wine, showing you things you’d never ever experienced.

“about your offer, sir” your cheeks were burning, flaming up, “if I accept, can I still come here and help you around?”

“if you accepted,” he almost didn’t even let you finish, eyes already darkening at the thought, a wave of desire rushing through his weary, battle scattered heart, “you could do whatever you wanted, angel, you’d just have to say please”

[midnight-shadow-cafe]

I love your work and was hoping to send in a request! What if fem!reader is out with her girlfriends drinking and either calls their cod boy drunk asking to be picked up or comes homes to them all drunk and flirty.

Come Get Your Girl

Pairing: Poly!141 x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Alcohol, drunken behavior, swearing, suggestive teasing, protective 141, cuddling, fluffy domesticity, implied sexual tension, emotional vulnerability, mention of nudity (non-explicit), soft smut vibes

Author's Note: Thanks for inspiring something so warm and fun to write!

Summary: You go out drinking with your girlfriends and end up needing a pickup from your boys. What follows is chaotic affection, sleepy cuddles, and a very revealing morning after.

Masterlist

MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+

The house was unusually quiet.

Johnny had just finished beating Kyle at Mario Kart for the third time, tossing his controller on the couch with a smug grin while Kyle swore under his breath, blaming a "dodgy drift." Price sat in the armchair, sleeves rolled to his forearms, quietly nursing a whiskey. And Simon—well, Simon leaned against the doorframe with his arms crossed, skull hoodie up, watching the others bicker with something close to a smirk.

You weren’t there.

And yeah, they’d all said it was fine. “Go have a girls’ night, love. You’ve earned it.” “We’ll be here when you get back.”

But now, three hours in, the absence of your laughter was echoing louder than the game’s menu music.

“She text you?” Price asked, raising his brow at Johnny.

Johnny unlocked his phone immediately. “Uh… sent me a pic of her drink an hour ago. Looks like radioactive juice.”

Simon grunted. “If she ends up dancing on a table again, I’m not dragging her off it this time.”

“You say that every time,” Kyle shot back. “Then you carry her out like a fuckin’ knight in a hoodie.”

Price chuckled quietly, but his gaze drifted toward the front door, jaw working slowly.

“She’s fine,” Kyle added, softer now. “Just having fun.”

But then Johnny’s phone buzzed.

——

You were three drinks in, riding the wave of tipsy-but-not-gone, laughing with your girlfriends like the world hadn’t been heavy for weeks. You felt hot in your little dress—your boys loved this one—and your lip gloss was still perfect.

Your friends were hyping you up.

“God, you’re so hot,” one of them was saying, fanning herself. “No wonder you’ve got, like, four boyfriends.”

You giggled. “They’re not all officially my boyfriends. Just... y’know. Emotionally. Sexually. Territorially.”

Laughter erupted around the table.

You were leaning over to grab your drink when a man passed by and said something—probably meant to be charming. You didn’t even register it, but one of your friends made a face.

“Creep alert,” she murmured.

That’s when your heart swelled with sudden longing. You missed them. You missed your boys.

You pulled out your phone and hit Kyle Garrick’s contact with zero hesitation.

——

Your voice was loud. Laughing, high-pitched, tipsy.

Kyle’s phone lit up at 11:52 PM with your contact name—“💋Trouble (Ours)”—and he immediately answered.

“Hey, darling.”

“Kyyyyleee!” you sang into the speaker, your voice breathy and giddy. “Kyle, baby, hi—listen, I love you so much. I love all of you so much. You tell Johnny his arms are stupid sexy and Simon needs to loosen up and Price is the king of beards. Okay? Okay. Anyway—I might be a little bit drunk. Like. A little. Just like…a bit. And I’m outside the bar. The girls justttttttt left me. But I have chips. So I’m fine.”

Kyle was already standing.

“She’s drunk,” he said into the air, phone on speaker.

Johnny’s head snapped up from the couch. “How drunk?”

“I think she’s about to start serenading the pigeons.”

“I like pigeons,” you added helpfully.

Simon had already grabbed his keys.

Price, calm and composed, asked, “Where is she?”

You answered before Kyle could.

“I’m outside that place we went that one time, with the nachos! Remember the nachos? They were like, spiritual.”

“Got it,” Price said. “We’re on our way.”

—

You were spinning in a slow circle on the sidewalk when the SUV pulled up.

“Boys!!” you shouted, arms flailing. “MY BOYS.”

You stumbled as you ran toward them, nearly falling before strong arms caught you mid-collapse.

“Oh my god,” Johnny muttered, catching you. “She smells like vodka, perfume, and…is that glitter?”

“It’s always glitter,” Simon deadpanned, closing the car door behind you.

You beamed, flopping across Kyle’s lap in the backseat. “Did you miss me?”

“You were gone for three hours,” he chuckled, brushing glitter off your cheek.

“Long enough,” you whispered, poking his chest. “You’re warm. Like a radiator.”

——

You refused to sit properly. You ended up curled sideways across Simon and Kyle’s laps, legs draped over Johnny’s knees in the front passenger seat.

“You’ve got sharp thighs,” you mumbled, squishing Kyle’s leg.

“Sorry?” he laughed.

“Not sorry. Kinda hot.”

You reached up, booped Simon’s nose. “You need to let me climb you like a jungle gym.”

Simon looked straight ahead. “God help me.”

Price drove in silence for a moment before saying, “You know she’s not gonna remember a thing in the morning.”

“Oh, I will,” you said with conviction. “I’ll remember how Johnny blushed when I said his arms were illegal.”

Johnny blushed harder.

“And how Kyle smells like spice and safety.”

“…I think I’m gonna cry again,” Kyle whispered.

“And how Simon’s thighs are, like, 80% of my fantasies—”

“That’s enough,” Price cut in, his voice gruff but amused.

You pouted and muttered, “Bet you liked it though…”

——

The front door slammed open. You were trying to unzip your dress before your heels were even off.

Johnny panicked. “Hey! No stripping in the foyer, love!”

“You told me this dress made you feral,” you whined. “Now I wanna be naked and snuggled.”

Simon caught your hand and tugged you toward the bedroom. “At least wait until we close the blinds.”

Kyle brought you one of Price’s oversized shirts, which you accepted like a relic of a saint. You pulled it on and immediately sprawled across the bed, limbs akimbo.

“I want a cuddle pile,” you declared. “Right now. Simon on my left. Johnny on my right. Kyle at my feet. John watching over us like a Victorian husband who pretends he doesn’t care but would kill for me.”

You kicked off your heels with dramatic flair. There was a pause.

“...She’s not wrong,” Johnny said.

You mumbled, barely conscious “I am very brave, and very drunk, and you’re all so handsome and I deserve love.”

Price handed you water with a faint smirk. “And you require hydration, apparently.”

You downed it like a shot.

Moments later, you were burrowed on the couch between Kyle and Simon, Johnny curled at your feet, Price sitting in the armchair nearby with a book he’d given up trying to read.

“I love you guys,” you murmured, nearly asleep. “You’re like…my emotional support boyfriends.”

Price choked on his tea.

Johnny turned pink.

Simon’s arm settled around your back, slow and deliberate.

Kyle looked down at you like you were the sun.

“I love you,” you slurred again. “Gonna marry you. All of you. In a field. With sparklers. And pink cake.”

Simon rested his chin on your head. “Drunk or not... I’d say yes.”

Johnny whispered, “Same.”

Kyle kissed your forehead. “Me too.”

You blinked up at Price, hopeful.

He met your eyes and said quietly, “I already bought the ring, sweetheart.”

Your heart nearly burst—but the weight of sleep caught up first.

You faded into warmth, safe and tucked between the men who would, without question, come get you—always.

—

The Next Morning

You woke slowly.

The light was soft. Your face was tucked against Simon’s chest, one of your legs slung over his hip. Kyle was beneath your hand, rising and falling with slow breath. Johnny was curled around your back, and his arm was wrapped over your waist. Warmth pressed against every side.

And in the doorway—there stood John Price. Boxers, mug in hand. Watching.

You blinked at him sleepily. “You’re watching me sleep. Kinda sexy of you.”

“Someone’s awake,” he murmured, smiling.

You stretched lazily. “I feel like I got hit by a love truck.”

Johnny groaned behind you. “She lives.”

You shifted. “I regret nothing. Except maybe not kissing any of you.”

Silence.

Then Kyle said softly, “You just caught us off guard.”

You peered up through sleep-heavy lashes. “I meant what I said last night. I wasn’t just drunk. I love you guys.”

Johnny looked at you like you’d just dropped a bomb. “Even the part where you said you’d marry us all?”

“Especially that part.”

Simon shifted beneath you, voice gravelly. “She’s gonna kill us.”

“You’re all halfway gone over me already,” you teased.

Price raised a brow. “Then kiss me.”

You barely had time to gasp before his mouth was on yours—firm, warm, sure. And when he pulled back, Johnny muttered, “Un-fucking-fair.”

So you kissed Johnny, soft and giddy.

Then Kyle—gentle and lingering.

And then Simon looked at you, one hand still on your thigh.

“You still wanna climb me?” he asked.

You almost choked.

Johnny: “I need a defibrillator.”

Kyle: “She’s blushing.”

You: “I hate all of you.”

Price smirked and handed you water. “You love us.”

“I do.” You sighed happily. “Now. I want pancakes and more kisses.”

“We’ll make you breakfast,” Kyle said.

“We’ll give you kisses,” Johnny added.

Simon just said, “Say please.”

You sat up with your hair wild, wearing one of Price’s old t-shirts, and declared:

“Please feed me and let me love you forever.”

Johnny whispered, “I’m gonna cry again.”

Price took a long sip of coffee. “God help us all.”

Hope you enjoyed! Please consider liking and reposting! -Midnight💜

[davidbeardmusic]

'Hiding behind Clouds - David Beard' - Full score. A powerful orchestral track in a classical style resulted from an excercise breaking away from the constraints of 4/4 eight-bar phrasing and worked intensely to make a flowing piece of work at uncommon time signatures and unequal-length phrases. Bars of 5/4, 6/4 and 7/4 are common throught the piece. Influenced strongly by works of Michael Nyman and John Adams, the intention was to make the harmonic accompaniment "that which is hiding" as interesting and important as the melody itself "the clouds which it's hiding behind". Enjoy x

For media use license here: https://www.pond5.com/royalty-free-music/item/91072922-hiding-behind-clouds

More music at http://www.davidbeardmusic.com

[multi-fandom-imagine]

May I have more of fatherhood oneshot with Odysseus please? 🥺 this man really gave me baby fever

A/n: aha 🤣 same... (I love writing dad fics for him)

The sun had barely crested the cliffs of Ithaca, and the palace was just beginning to stir—except for Odysseus, who was already spiraling into his second existential crisis of the week.

His hair? A mess.

His tunic? Mismatched and inside out.

His eyes? Bloodshot and twitching.

His sandals? Probably on the wrong feet.

And his mood?

Unhinged.

He sprinted through the halls, arms flailing slightly, looking every inch a war-hardened general turned exhausted dad of toddlers.

“THEY’RE GONE AGAIN!” he bellowed.

He burst into the dining room, startling a very calm Telemachus, who was just trying to enjoy his olives.

“What’s gone?” the prince asked, mouth full.

“The twins! They vanished!” Odysseus shouted, patting himself down, checking under furniture, lifting up rugs. “I turned around for one second—ONE!—and poof! Gone like shadows! Curse the gods!”

Telemachus blinked. "...Father.”

Odysseus was now on his knees, looking under a fruit basket.

“Maybe they crawled into the grain stores again—they love grain. Or worse! What if they’re—”

“Father.”

“—in the stables again? Oh gods, the goats! One of them bit me last time—”

“FATHER!”

Odysseus froze.

Telemachus pointed. "Look down.”

Odysseus slowly looked at himself.

And there they were.

One twin strapped snugly to his chest, babbling happily and smacking his face with a sticky palm.

The other fast asleep, head tucked under his chin, drooling on his tunic like a little sponge with limbs.

”…Oh.”

He stared at them.

Then at his son.

Then back at them.

“They were on me the whole time?”

“Yes.”

Odysseus exhaled long and slow, then groaned and flopped face-first onto the floor, the twins giggling wildly at the ride.

Your voice echoed from the hallway“If you wake me up one more time, Odysseus, I will let the toddlers braid your beard while you sleep.” It was a thinly vail threat of someone who was pregnant that did not to be bothered.

Odysseus just lay there on the floor, two babies squirming on his chest, and muttered.

“I conquered Troy for this.”

One of the twins sneezed directly into his mouth.

“…And I’d do it again.”

•Moments Later•

The late afternoon sun slanted through the nursery windows, painting golden beams across the soft rugs and carved wooden toys scattered across the floor. Gentle harp music floated from somewhere down the hall, and in the middle of it all sat Odysseus, half-slumped in a rocking chair, his eyes glazed and one hand twitching as a half-finished lullaby slipped from his lips.

His tunic was stained with something sticky (possibly honey… or ink?), and one twin had managed to wedge themselves into his arm while the other gnawed triumphantly on a leather sandal.

Odysseus hadn’t blinked in ten minutes.

Enter Telemachus, calm, composed, and carrying a cloth bundle of warm bread and honeyed figs.

He took one look at his father, one look at the chaos, and sighed with fond exasperation.

“Father.”

Odysseus blinked slowly. “…Yes?”

“You haven’t slept in… four days.”

“That’s not true. I closed one eye last night.”

“You fell asleep face-first in the soup.”

“It was a tactical nap.”

Telemachus crouched in front of him, gently prying the chewing twin away from the sandal and replacing it with a soft rattle.

“Go sleep, Father. I’ll watch them.”

Odysseus blinked again, as if processing the words in slow motion. “You… you’ll what?”

“Watch the twins. Give you and Mother a break.”

Odysseus leaned forward dramatically, placing both hands on his son’s shoulders. “You… glorious boy. You brave, noble, reckless boy.”

Telemachus smirked. “I trained with Athena and survived the suitors. I think I can handle two half-naked goblins with sticky fingers.”

“They bite.”

“So do I.”

Odysseus laughed weakly, patted him on the cheek, then swayed to his feet like a war-weary general who had finally laid down his sword.

“I will be laying down next to your beautiful mother.”

“Please try to not create anymore children.”

As Odysseus staggered toward his chambers—muttering about “soft pillows” and “blessed silence”—Telemachus scooped both giggling twins into his arms, lifting them effortlessly.

He looked down at them, one drooling on his arm, the other reaching for his braid.

“Alright, you tiny beasts. Let’s find a storybook, some juice, and see who survives until sundown.”

The twins shrieked with joy.

And behind them, down the hall, a door softly closed…

The man finding the bed, And Odysseus, King of Ithaca, finally slept the moment he was in your arms.

[beloveds-embrace]

(dukedom au, but you are gone for a week cue four men yearning)

The estate feels terribly empty without you.

At first, John tells himself it is only because the house is large and his duties are many. It is a fine excuse- an easy one. He can pretend, for a little while, that his mood is not soured by the absence of your voice at breakfast, by the fact that your perfume no longer lingers in the halls, by the cold, empty side of the bed where you normally sleep.

A week. A mere week, and yet John feels as though you have been gone an eternity.

The others are no better.

Johnny, usually so full of mirth, lingers in the kitchen longer than necessary, creating dish after dish that no one eats. He sets out a plate for you at every meal, stares at it as if willing you to appear. Sometimes, in a fit of frustration, he abandons the dining table entirely and takes his meals in the kitchen, where the staff quietly shuffle around him, their own hearts aching for the absence of their beloved duchess.

Kyle keeps himself busy, burying himself in the estate’s affairs. He goes over reports he has already read twice over, polishes the silverware himself when he thinks no one is looking. John finds him in your sitting room one evening, carefully dusting the spines of your books, though that is hardly his duty.

And Simon, ever so composed, ever so unreadable, is perhaps the worst of them all. He disappears for hours at a time, taking long, aimless rides through the countryside, returning only when the moon has risen high in the sky. He never says where he goes, and no one dares ask, but John knows it is longing that chases him from the estate. When he is not riding, he is haunting your parlor, sitting in your chair by the fire, fingers tracing over the embroidery of the cushion you had so painstakingly stitched by hand.

John had thought himself a patient man. He had been patient when you were wed, when you were shy and uncertain in his home. He had been patient when you discovered his lovers, when you had laughed instead of recoiled, when you had slowly, slowly, let yourself be drawn into their warmth.

But this- this absence of you-

John is not patient now.

He receives your letters, of course. Short, sweet things, penned in your careful hand. You speak of your relative’s health, of the weather, of how you miss the estate and the men who reside in it. You ask if Simon is eating properly, if Kyle is getting enough sleep, if Johnny is not overworking himself. And John- you ask of him too.

I dream of you, my love. I think of you often. Of all of you. Do you think of me?

John exhales, rubbing a hand over his beard as he stares at the parchment. He is sitting at his desk, the candlelight flickering, casting long shadows over the room.

Do you even need to ask?

He folds the letter carefully, setting it atop the others in his drawer. The mere thought of you dreaming of him makes his body ache in ways he cannot put to words, even as he pens a reply for you. He does not mention how empty and lifeless the the estate is without you- you must be worried already by your relative’s health and tired still from the long journey. He can’t put more on your plate.

Though, he hates how the days pass slowly.

By nightfall, John sits alone in the drawing room, a fire crackling low in the hearth, but the seat beside him is empty. Your embroidery frame remains untouched. He glances at it, at the last piece you had been working on- a delicate bloom of violets, only half-finished- and finds himself running a finger over the fine thread.

“Ridiculous.” He mutters under his breath. And yet, he does not move from his place, staring into the fire as if waiting for the sound of your footsteps.

In the kitchen, Johnny kneads dough with more force than necessary, his arms sore from the effort. He does not complain, but his movements are sharp, restless.

Johnny knew he would miss you. He had expected it, had braced for it when he kissed your cheek in parting and told you to travel safely. But knowing it and feeling it are two different things.

The kitchen is too still. He finds himself setting out two teacups in the morning instead of one, expecting to hear your soft voice asking what was for breakfast. He catches himself reaching for the honey you like, only to stop halfway and set it back down with a sigh.

He spends more time than usual baking, filling the kitchen with scents of warm bread, sweet pastries, things you love. The staff enjoy it, of course, but they aren’t you. They don’t smile at him with that particular look in their eyes, don’t sneak tastes of jam off the spoon when they think he isn’t looking.

On the fourth evening without you, Johnny sits at the long dining table, his hands folded in front of him as he stared at the empty chair where you usually sat.

“I should’ve gone with her.” He mutters, drumming his fingers against the polished wood.

“You wouldn’t have been allowed,” Kyle replies, leaning against the doorway with his arms crossed. “She wouldn’t let you drop everything just to follow her like a lost pup.”

Johnny huffs, but he doesn’t argue.

Kyle, ever dutiful, remains composed, but there is an air of unease about him. The routine of the estate is well-kept, yet something is missing. Someone is missing. He finds himself checking the front gates more often than usual, as if expecting your carriage to appear earlier than usual.

Kyle keeps himself busy. He always did, and this week is no exception. The house still needs running, duties still need tending. But even as he works, he feels the weight of your absence like a missing piece of a puzzle.

He notices it in the small things. The way the household staff move, more subdued, missing the warmth you carried into every room. The way the evening routine feels… off. You had a habit of lingering in the hallways after supper, speaking softly with the maids, the footmen, offering a kind word or a knowing glance when someone needed it.

Without you, the house feels colder.

Kyle does not sigh or linger by windows, does not wallow the way Johnny or John do. But on the fifth day, when he enters the library to set fresh candles, he pauses by your reading chair. One of your books lays open, a silk ribbon marking your place. He reaches for it, smoothing a hand over the page before exhaling slowly and setting it back down.

That night, he locked the doors a little later than usual, waiting- just a little longer- for the sound of your return.

Simon, meanwhile, says nothing. He does not pine aloud, nor does he linger like the others. And yet, there is no denying that your absence gnawed at him.

He had been the last to fall for you, the last to let you into his heart. He thought himself made of colder things, of old scars and solitude, yet you had settled into his life as if you had always belonged.

And now, you were gone.

Simon finds himself drawn to your rooms, not stepping inside, but lingering just outside the threshold. He will not enter without you there. But he stands in the hallway sometimes, late at night when even the candles had burned low, and simply… listens.

There is no sound beyond the distant hoot of an owl. No soft breathing, no rustle of your gown as you move through the rooms.

He closes his eyes.

“Come home soon, Duchess.” He murmurs, voice lost to the empty halls.

The estate is not whole without you.

By the seventh day, they are restless.

John stands at the front of the house, hands clasped behind his back as he stares down the road. Johnny hovers in the entrance hall, pacing. Kyle has ensured everything is perfectly arranged for your return. Simon has taken to standing in the courtyard, watching the horizon.

And then- at last- the distant rumble of carriage wheels.

They do not rush, do not appear desperate, but the moment your carriage comes into view, relief ripples through them.

The door opens. You step out, your gaze sweeping over them- soft, surprised at the intensity of their presence. And then you smile, and it is as if the week of longing melts away in an instant.

John steps forward first, taking your gloved hand and kissing it, but his grip lingers. Johnny barely restrains himself from pulling you into an embrace. Kyle exhales, tension easing from his shoulders. Simon says nothing, but the way he looks at you speaks volumes.

“You’re home, Duchess.” John murmurs.

Your smile widens. “I am.”

And at last, the house is warm again.

Dukedom au masterlist

[rqnarok]

LATCH | pervy!old man!logan x fem!reader

summary: you come up at logan at night and he finally gives in to his desires. 

content warnings/tags: smut, mdni! little to no plot. old man!logan. unspecified age gap. soft dom!logan. sub!reader. pervy!logan. pet names (kid, kiddo, little girl, princess, etc). logan calls himself ‘old man’. fingering (f receiving). innocence kink. not proofread. wc: 1,5k

Logan Howlett is not a good man. 

“I’m not a good man, sweets.”

He has not been a good man in years. 

Still, when he scoops your sobbing figure in his arms on that day at the X-Mansion, he feels like a good man. 

“C’mon. Let’s go, kid. I’ll take care of you.”

Ever since then, you look up to him as if he is some kind of savior. A hero. A good man. 

And he starts to believe that. 

At first, it started oh, very casual—innocently. By working himself to death for the sake of your comfort. Earning money so that he could see that smile on your pretty face when he gives you gifts: new dresses, books, food—anything you want, really. He’d give it to you.

You walk up to him one Friday, showing your brand new sundress that you bought using his money, “Logan! It fits me so well, don’t cha think?”

The sight of you twirling around and giggling in front of him is enough to be his bad-day-cure, “Spin one more time, princess. Don’t have my glasses on.” 

He lies. He just wants to catch a glimpse of your cottoned panties in the process. 

Logan perceives himself as a sick fuck when he starts seeing you in that way. But hey, he did say that he is not a good man, right?  

He tried to control it, he really tried. Composing himself and creating some moral values in his head in an attempt to be in charge of his corrupted desires. 

But Logan forgot one simple thing: he can control himself all he wants, but he could never control you. 

You may be content but you are far from stupid.

It takes you months to perfect this mastermind plan—or so you call it. This mischief came into you when you decided that you had enough of Logan and his games. You know he yearns for you and you feel the same way, too. 

He peeks over you so… hungrily and thinks you wouldn’t notice? 

When you confront him about it one morning, he nonchalantly brushes it off by letting out a dry chuckle and mutters something around, “What ya’ talking ‘bout, kiddo? Go ‘head finish your breakfast.”  

But you know! You always catch his yearning gazes and… hear him over the shower one time. Moaning and grunting your name when he thought you were out buying the weekly groceries. It upsets you that he does not give in. 

So then, you concluded that you will determine to bring his temptation up to the surface and break his poor self-control through this little contemplation of yours. 

It takes a while to gain your courage and when you finally creep up into Logan’s room, the clock on the wall ticks at half past two in the morning. 2:30 AM. 

Logan said he’d take care of you, right? Said he’d do anything for you, right? Well, you need him now, “Logan? Logan? It hurts.” You whisper into the chilly air as you shake him up from his deep slumber.

And y’know, he’s a tired old man—so it takes him a while to wake up. He grabs his glasses from the nightstand beside him and slides them right on. When Logan sees you standing sleepily before him in your nightie gown, Good Lord. 

“Hey, hey—what’s goin’ on, princess?” You’re all teared up and your lips are bitten red. You look heavenly in the shaft of moonlight that slips through the window and into Logan’s bedroom. 

Your actions speak for themselves as you make your way onto his lap and nuzzle into his greying beard. “Tell your old man what’s got you so upset. C’mon.” He wants to take a good look at your face but you are so latched to him—snuffling into his broad shoulder all gloomy and wretched. 

“Hurts so bad.” You repeat yourself as your arms make their way around his neck. “Hurts, Logan.” 

“Hm? What hurts?” 

Pure silence as your little fingers wrap around Logan’s wrist and place it on your knee. Then, you’re guiding him up up up and he knows where this is going but he could not stop it. 

Fuck. He curses himself. Should’a know you’d pull some shit like this.

Finally, you stop his large calloused hand on top of your pussy. It’s heating up. Logan can feel the warmth of your cunt through your thin white cotton panties—his middle finger twitches with the urge to palm you. But no. That’s not what a good man should do. He tries to remember all the moral values he has created in his head while he sighs deeply and closes his eyes. 

“Kiddo-”

“Want to cum, please, Logan.” You take his face in your hands in the way that you always do and his hand is still on top of your clothed mound. “Please…! You said you’d help me, take care of me. I’ll be good, promise. Please.” His eyes open and he looks at your big eyes then your lips then your eyes again. That’s when you know you had him. “Hurts.” 

With half-lidded eyes, you watch Logan lose his composure, “Yeah? You’d be good f’me?” His head goes forward as he pampers your face with gentle kisses and you gulp because you don’t know what to do now. 

“Why don’t you lay down and let me take a look?” 

His scent combination of beer, whiskey, and cigars lingers around you as you rest your aching body on his bed. Looking up at him all mesmerized and lust-filled. 

Logan tries to soften his features for you. He thinks the heave of your chest moving up and down, up and down is one of the most beautiful things he has ever seen. He said he’d take care of you and that’s all he’s doin’ now. Taking care of his pretty baby. 

“C’mon. Open up to your old man.” He says, patting the sides of your thighs to part. And you did what you’re told, revealing the wet spot of your panties, and Logan curses. Mutters something under his breath. 

“You’ve been touching yourself here, Little Missy? That’s what got you dripping?” You throw your head back and huff a breathy ‘ah’ at the feel of his big fingers rubbing circles along the slick. Logan wants you to sing for him, “Use your big girl words, c’mon.” 

“Y-yes! Been touching myself…” Your red cheeks heat up at your own answer, suddenly feel so little. Logan hums deeply at your reply, hooking his fingers at one side of your panties and pulling them aside. Oh, he can tell. “Mhm.”

You were in a moment of bliss until he stopped his movement and brought your panties back to its original place, “Show me.” 

“L-Logan…” you respond by shaking your head erratically. Nononono— this isn’t a part of your plan. This becomes humiliating. No way. 

“What d’ya mean no, princess?” Logan grins—he knows you’re playing something and he is not going to lose so easily. “You want me to take care of you, yeah? Gotta show your old man what you were doin’ so he knows what he can do.” 

Well, he is not wrong. You let a huff defeatedly and roll yourself onto your front, shoving one of Logan’s pillows between your plushy thighs. And Logan is bewitched and hypnotized and fuck, so hard. His cock sticks up in his boxers briefs it hurts. 

Through his lens, he attentively watches every move you make: how your nightie gown hikes up to your chest and reveals a glimpse of your breasts, how you roll your hips in circles, how you throw your head back up facing the ceiling. The noises you make—sounds he not-so-accidentally heard when he passes your room at night when he comes home from work. This is what you've been doing? 

“Aight’. I know the problem is, sweets.” You slow down your movements as you gaze at him all doe-eyed. He places his palm on your back to still you. Your head lulls back and forth as you wait for his guidance. 

“You need something inside. Have you had something inside, baby?” He turns you to him oh, so delicately as if you are something fragile. 

You shake your head slightly at his question, suddenly embarrassed. Logan is so hard at this. He can't hold back anymore. “I see. ‘S alright, little girl. Lean on top of me. I’ll show you how it’s done. Y’ just need to trust your old man, yeah?” 

And you do. You always do. You love him. 

He smiles down at you, showing the wrinkles and scars on his face. “I love ya’. Give me some sugar first. Let me kiss ya’.” 

The kiss is more than just a distraction. It’s a repetition of him saying I love ya’ through his actions. What comes next is new to you, his large fingers probing at your entrance as you hiss and whimper and sob. Logan eases you open while kissing your inner thighs, letting you feel his scruffy beard. Raining you with his sweet praises, “Oh, that’s a good girl, alright. My sweet girl.” 

Then it leads you to it. The main purpose of your plan here in the first place. 

The clothes you both had on are thrown all over the floor as he hovers above you, taking off his glasses—placing kisses everywhere he can reach. “Y’want it?” And the tip of his cock finally nudges between your folds in an aching stretch and you mewl.

“Your old man’s gonna take care of you.” 

He always does.

[coolemmasulivan2]

My Champion

Pairing: Pedri Gonzalez x Reader

Summary: A kiss on TV, after Barça’s victory!

Word count: 1335

Kiss me, out of the bearded barley Nightly, beside the green, green grass Swing, swing, swing the spinning step You'll wear those shoes and I will wear that dress

The final whistle blew, and you couldn’t help but jump out of your seat. Barça had just won the Supercopa de España against Real Madrid. The stadium in Jeddah erupted in cheers, and your heart felt like it might burst with pride.

This wasn’t just any match for you. It was the first one you attended as Pedri’s girlfriend. You couldn’t stop smiling as you watched him on the pitch, celebrating with his team. He had played so well, and all you wanted to do was run onto the field and tell him how proud you were.

But that was out of the question. You were here for work, not as Pedri’s girlfriend. As a journalist, it wouldn’t be very professional to run onto the pitch, no matter how much you wanted to.

Still, you couldn’t take your eyes off him. He looked so happy, holding the trophy and grinning with his teammates. You held onto your press badge, reminding yourself to stay focused. Even though you couldn’t celebrate with him right now, you knew you’d get your moment later.

"So, you’re going to interview Raphinha and then maybe Balde, okay?" Your coworker’s voice crackled through the earpiece.

You nodded, even though they couldn’t see you. "Yes. Okay!" You replied, keeping your voice steady.

Everything was set. The mic was firm in your grip, and the camera stood ready in front of you and the buzz of the stadium hummed in the background.

Raphinha stepped forward, his jersey still damp from the match, a wide grin stretched across his face. You held the mic steady and met his gaze with a professional smile.

"¡Raphinha, felicidades por la victoria! How does it feel to take home the Supercopa after such a thrilling match?" (Raphinha, congratulations on the win!)

He laughed, his excitement almost tangible. "It feels incredible! We knew it would be tough, but the team gave everything, and moments like this make it all worth it."

As he spoke, you nodded, keeping your attention on him, but you couldn’t ignore the pull of your peripheral vision. Pedri was standing a few meters away, surrounded by teammates, but you could feel his gaze drifting toward you. Each time you glanced his way—brief, fleeting—he was already looking.

But you stayed composed, your focus fixed on Raphinha. "You mentioned how tough the match was. What do you think made the difference tonight?"

"The second goal, for sure. The penalty!" He said. "After that, it just gave us the energy that we needed. The fans were incredible too. They gave us so much support."

"It was a great performance." You replied with a smile. "Congratulations again!”

"Gracias!" Raphinha said, flashing another grin before heading back toward the group.

As he walked off, Alejandro Balde approached, his wide grin practically mirrored the gleam of the Supercopa trophy behind him. You greeted him with the same warm, professional tone you’d used all night, lifting the mic slightly.

"Alejandro, congratulations on the big win! What does it mean to you to lift this trophy with the team tonight?"

He chuckled, his excitement contagious. "Honestamente, es irreal. I’ve dreamed about moments like this since I was a kid... I’m just so grateful to be part of this team." (Honestly, it’s unreal.)

You nodded, smiling as you prepared your next question, but before you could get the words out, you heard quick footsteps behind you.

"Perdón!" A familiar voice interrupted, and before you could turn fully, Pedri was there, standing between you and Balde. "Un segundo, hermano." Pedri said, glancing apologetically at Balde, who looked surprised but amused, trying not to laugh. (One second, hermano.)

You barely had time to process what was happening before Pedri cupped your face with both hands and kissed you. Right there, in front of the camera, the crowd, and the entire world watching at home.

Gasps rippled through the nearby press and staff, followed by cheers and whistles from his teammates in the background and from the public. For a second, your mind blanked, caught somewhere between shock and the warmth of his lips on yours.

When he pulled back, his eyes locked with yours, his expression soft and unbothered by the scene he’d just caused. "Lo siento, guapa." He said with a small, unapologetic smile. "I couldn’t help it." He said casually, jogging back toward his teammates, who greeted him with cheers and teasing shouts.

Your face burned as you looked back at Balde, who was clearly enjoying every second of the chaos. "Should I still answer, or do we need to cut?" He teased, barely containing his laughter.

Taking a steadying breath, you lifted the mic again, forcing yourself to stay professional. "I--wh--Let’s try that again." You said as the camera was still rolling.

The buzz of the post-match chaos had finally started to die down. Interviews were done, the cameras were off, and the crew was packing up. The Supercopa celebrations, however, were still in full swing on the pitch as players laughed and posed for photos with their families.

You stepped onto the field, the grass soft under your shoes, and scanned the crowd. It didn’t take long to spot him. Pedri was chatting animatedly with his family, his smile was wide and his hair still damp.

As you approached, you couldn’t help but smile. His mom noticed you first, her face lighting up as she waved. "There you are!" She called warmly, as if she’d been waiting for you.

Pedri turned at her voice, his eyes finding yours immediately. His grin softened into something sweeter, and he looked at you like you were the only person on the pitch.

When you reached him, you playfully swatted his arm. "¿De verdad, Pedri?" (Really, Pedri?)

"¿Qué?" He asked, his voice innocent but his expression anything but. (What?)

"You know what!" You shot back, crossing your arms. "What was that back there? You kissed me on national TV! During an interview!"

His family chuckled nearby, clearly amused by the exchange, but Pedri just shrugged, his smile turning sheepish. "I couldn’t help it." He said simply, his voice so soft and genuine that it made your heart skip.

"Couldn’t help it?"

He nodded, stepping a little closer, his free hand brushing yours. "You looked so focused, doing your job... and you were amazing, by the way." His smile grew a little shy as he added: "I don’t know--I just had to."

Before you could retort, his mom spoke up. "Come on, you two, picture time!" She held up her phone, gesturing for both of you to join the family.

"Oh, no, no way." You said, stepping back. "I’ve already had enough attention tonight."

But Pedri reached for your hand, gently tugging you forward. "Come on. They want you in the photo."

"Listen to him!" his mom chimed in, smiling warmly at you. "Eres parte de la familia." (You’re part of the family.)

That made your heart swell, and you couldn’t argue with her sincerity. With a quiet laugh, you let Pedri pull you closer. His mom positioned everyone, and his brother cracked a joke, making you all laugh as the first photo was taken.

Then, just as his mom was about to snap another, Pedri leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to your cheek. You froze, your face warming as the camera clicked, but when you turned to him, he was already grinning.

"Pedri!" You whispered, trying to sound scandalized but unable to hide the laughter in your voice.

"What?" He teased, slipping an arm around your waist. "I’m just making it memorable."

His mom laughed, shaking her head fondly as she looked at the photo. "Perfect." She said, holding up the phone. "This one’s going in a frame."

You shook your head, but the warmth in your chest didn’t fade. Pedri looked at you and squeezed your hand lightly. "¡Te quiero!" He murmured. (I love you!)

And in that moment, surrounded by his family and his quiet confidence, you believed him. "I love you too."