#but look i'm still so soft over this even a month and a half later

[norrisradio]

TRUE LOVE OF MINE

LINE BY LINE ᝰ.ᐟ "You with the dark curls, you with the watercolor eyes / You who bares all your teeth in every smile" - Lady Lamb, Dear Arkansas Daughter

ᝰ PAIRING: lando norris x reader | ᝰ WC: 5.5K ᝰ GENRE: best friends to lovers (we cheered!), reader = ex karting driver + med student, you have loved lando since the day you met etc etc etc ᝰ INCOMING RADIO: fun fact - the colors used in the title/headings on this post are actually the colors of lando's eyes from this post // this was a behemoth of a fic to write and i'm still nto entirely pleased, but the people yearn for lando norris ꨄ requested by anon!

send me an ask for my line by line event.ᐟ

The first time you see Lando Norris, he’s face-down in the mud, crying because someone called him a posh baby in the paddock, and you think he’s the most beautiful boy you’ve ever seen.

There’s mud crusted on his cheek like it belongs there, curls pressed damp to his forehead, and his whole face is crumpled like paper in a storm. He’s got one sock half off and a fresh scab on his shin, and still, somehow, he looks like he belongs in a painting. The messy kind. Watercolor, probably. Something soft and bleeding at the edges, impossible to frame.

He’s eight and you’re eight and a half, which means you get to say things like “it’s okay, babies cry,” even though you don’t really mean it. He wipes his face on his sleeve and looks up at you with blotchy cheeks and kaleidoscope eyes, like someone spilled a little too much green into blue, and says, “I’m not a baby.” You believe him.

You sit next to him on the curb, knees knocking together, watching his kart like it’s some sacred thing. The sky is gray, threatening rain, and he’s all flushed skin and scraped palms and frustration. 

“They’re just jealous,” you mutter. He doesn’t look at you. “Of what? That I cry like a baby?” “No,” you say. “That your eyelashes are stupid long and you drive like the kart owes you money.”

That gets a huff out of him. Half-sob, half-laugh.

You offer him your juice box. He doesn’t smile, but he bares his teeth when he takes it, all crooked and endearing and real. That’s the thing about Lando. He’s always been real.

He holds out a sticky, dirt-streaked hand.

“I’m Lando.” “I know,” you say. “Everyone knows.”

You shake his hand anyway.

A month later, you beg your parents to sign you up for the junior karting class — not because you like cars (you don’t, really), but because you like him. Or maybe just the way he lights up when he talks about apexes and engine sounds like they’re things that breathe.

You come home smelling like oil. Your knuckles blister from gripping the wheel too hard. You cry once when you spin out and hit the barriers; but he’s there, pulling your helmet off like you’re made of glass, telling you, “You looked cool, though. Like, action movie cool.”

He makes you want to win. So you start trying.

When you’re eleven, he wins a race with his hair slicked back by sweat and wind, curls flattened into chaos. He leaps from the kart like he’s weightless, helmet swinging from one hand like a trophy of its own, and the grin he throws at you — all teeth, no restraint — nearly knocks you over.

“Did you see that?” he shouts, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Did you see?”

You did. Every lap. Every line. You saw the way his hands tightened before the last corner, the way his shoulders settled like he’d already decided to win.

You hand him his water bottle.

“You were okay.”

He gasps. “Just okay?”

“You’ll be cooler when you stop smiling like you’re showing your teeth to the dentist.”

He grins wider. Shoves you lightly with the back of his hand.

“Admit it. I looked sick.”

He did. He always does. Even like this, eyes stormy and pale all at once, flushed with the kind of joy that doesn’t need to be explained. He’s not handsome yet, not in the way the magazines will call him later. But there’s something about the way he holds a moment. The way you can’t look away when he’s in it.

Later that summer, you win.

It’s not a big race. Junior category, barely a crowd —but he’s there. Leans so far over the barrier during your final lap the marshal tells him to get down before he falls in.

You don’t hear the cheering. You don’t even feel the medal when they hang it around your neck. All you feel is Lando barreling toward you at the speed of light, helmet in one hand, arms wide, like you’re the one who gave him wings.

“You were flying,” he breathes, practically vibrating. “You were magic.”

You pretend to scoff. “Guess I’m not just here to hand you water bottles.”

He pulls you into a hug anyway. No hesitation. Just heat and sweat and the faint scent of petrol and whatever soap he uses. His heart’s pounding against your shoulder like he’s the one who just won.

Later, when you look at the photos, you don’t care about the trophy in your hands. You care about the boy behind you — curls wild, smiling so hard it looks like it hurts.

At fifteen, you start noticing the way other girls notice him.

It starts in Italy, or maybe Spain. Somewhere with sunburnt afternoons and the scent of burnt rubber curling off the asphalt like smoke. The girls linger after his heats now. They lean too close and laugh too loudly. Twisting their hair, asking if he’s going to the after-party, the lake, the whatever.

You stand beside him in the hoodie he gave you two summers ago: faded navy, sleeves chewed at the cuffs. It smells like sunscreen and old fabric and something unnameable that has always just been him. You pick at the hem while they talk, eyes on his profile.

The same boy you’ve known since he was sobbing on a curb with gravel in his socks has started to shimmer, like something just out of reach. Something made of light and speed.

His hair’s longer now, curling wild at the edges of his helmet. His smile’s the same, though. All teeth, all instinct. It still takes up half his face like he hasn’t learned how to hide anything yet.

But he doesn’t smile at them. He never does.

He looks at you. “You’re quiet,” he says, tugging at the drawstring of your hoodie. You shrug. “I’m always quiet.” “Not with me.”

He says it like a secret. Like he likes that about you — that there’s a version of yourself reserved just for him. You don’t say anything back, because you're not sure your voice would work even if you tried.

That night, you find yourselves walking the hotel parking lot, drinking vending machine soda that tastes faintly like metal and sugar. The sky's a navy bruise, and everything hums: the street lamps, the asphalt, your pulse.

“You’re kind of becoming a big deal,” you say, finally.

He laughs, low and a little shy, like you’ve caught him off-guard. “Don’t say that,” he says. “I’ll get cocky.”

“You already are.” You bump his arm with yours. It’s too dark to see his face clearly, but you know he’s smiling wide, teeth and all, like he’s baring it just for you.

And maybe he is.

Because even now, even with sponsors circling and flights booked across Europe, even with interviews and mechanics and the way his name sounds over loudspeakers, he still comes to your races.

He’ll show up between practice sessions with a baseball cap pulled low and sunglasses that don’t do much to hide him. You’ll spot him first, sitting on the pit wall like he’s always belonged there, one leg swinging like a kid with too much energy.

“Why do you still come?” you ask him once, after you’d placed second and felt like it wasn’t enough.

He shrugged. “Because I like watching you win.”

You think about that now, under the flicker of a buzzing lamp, watching the way his lashes cast soft shadows on his cheeks when he looks at you. His eyes are still that strange in-between — not quite blue, not quite grey, always shifting like skies about to storm.

Like watercolor left out in the rain.

You look away first.

You always do.

At sixteen, you run until your lungs burn. You don’t stop until your fists hit his front door, nails bitten down to nothing and eyes already stinging. He opens it in a hoodie three sizes too big, and the second he sees your face, he doesn’t ask.

He just pulls you in.

You’re crying too hard to speak at first, shoulders shaking, throat raw. He closes the door behind you and guides you to the stairs like it’s muscle memory, like this has happened before, and maybe it has, in smaller ways. Skinned knees. Lost heats. Bad days.

But this is different.

“They’re making me quit,” you finally get out. “They said— they said I have to focus on school. On real life.”

You say it like a curse. Like “real life” is something you never asked for.

Lando’s quiet for a moment. His hand curls around your wrist, thumb brushing a soothing rhythm over your pulse. His eyes — moss green in the dark — watch you without blinking. Always watching. Always knowing.

“Come on,” he says.

You frown. “Where?”

“Just— trust me.”

He doesn’t wait for you to agree. He just grabs his keys and your hand and pulls you out into the night. The wind has teeth. The sky hangs low, indigo and velvet. When you realize where you’re going, your heart breaks all over again.

The track sits behind the hill, silent and sleeping.

Lando hops the gate first, then turns and offers you his hand. You take it, fingers cold in his. He pulls you over like it’s nothing.

The lights are off, but the moon’s enough. It glints off the asphalt, pale and silver, the same way the sun used to gleam on your helmet when you’d throw it off at the end of a race, breathless and laughing. Back when your name had a number next to it and your dreams had engines.

Lando walks the edge of the track, then steps aside, gestures toward the start line like he’s offering you a crown.

“One more,” he says. “For old time’s sake.”

You laugh, watery and shaking. “There’s no kart, idiot.”

He shrugs. “Run it.”

So you do.

You take off, sneakers slapping the track, heart thudding like it’s trying to break through your ribs. Your hair whips behind you, tangled and wild, and you run like you used to race: reckless, full tilt, like the only thing that’s ever made sense is forward.

The wind hits your face and the tears dry on your cheeks and the world blurs around the edges. You run with everything you are; for every lap you’ll never finish, every podium you won’t stand on, every flame they’re trying to snuff out of you.

When you make it back to him, gasping and breathless, Lando is watching like he always does, with something quiet and fierce behind his eyes. Like he sees not just you, but the version of you the world won’t let exist anymore.

You collapse next to him, panting. He says nothing for a long time. Just sits beside you on the track, knees pulled to his chest, hoodie sleeves swallowed over his hands.

“You’ll come back to it,” he says eventually, soft like the curve of a turn. “I know you will.”

You don’t answer. You can’t.

He glances over, and for a moment, he looks like a boy again: the same boy with curls damp from rain, whose smile could split the sky. A boy who’s watched you win, lose, burn, rebuild. A boy who’s carried your dreams in the quiet way he carries everything.

“Besides,” he says, nudging your knee, “I’m still gonna win stuff. Someone’s gotta keep me humble.”

You laugh, finally — a real one. It cracks through the ache like sunlight through smoke.

“Always with the fast mouth,” you murmur. “And an ego the size of an engine.”

He grins. All teeth. Unashamed. Something ancient flutters in your chest, something that’s always been there but has never had the nerve to speak.

You don’t say you are the most beautiful boy I’ve ever seen, but you think it. You don’t say I’ve loved you since I was eight and a half, but maybe he knows.

Maybe he always has.

By eighteen, Lando’s face is in magazines. He’s a headline now, a profile shot under stadium lights, a name that doesn’t need explaining anymore. He smiles with his whole face — wide and unguarded — and sometimes you see a photo that feels so much like him you have to close the tab and sit with your hands in your lap, breathing slowly.

You still see the boy who once spilled chocolate milk all down his overalls at Silverstone and sobbed so hard he hiccupped for twenty minutes. The one who used to braid daisy chains into the laces of your boots between heats. But now there are articles that say things like rising star and British darling, and he fits in their glossy pages better than he should.

He FaceTimes you after qualifying P1 for the first time. It’s late, past midnight, and you’re still in the library, alone but for the hum of the vending machine and the ache behind your eyes. You almost don’t pick up.

But then you see his name flash on the screen — 🚦LAN-DON’T CRASH🚦 — and your stomach flips like it used to before lights out.

He’s still in his race suit, curls a mess of damp ringlets, cheeks flushed like he’s been running. There’s something in his eyes, too: watercolor green, vivid and blurred around the edges, like adrenaline and disbelief have soaked into his skin.

His smile breaks the second you answer. Wide and wild and so familiar it stings.

“Did you watch?” he says, already breathless.

“Obviously,” you say, tipping your phone back so he can see the chemistry notes scattered across the desk. “Had it up on mute during organic synthesis. You’re lucky I didn’t scream when you took the final sector.”

“You think I was okay?”

“You were sick.”

He pumps a fist and flops back onto some impossibly white hotel bed, still grinning like a kid who’s snuck past curfew. The camera wobbles, then steadies on his face again: flushed and freckled, sweat still clinging to his jaw. He looks happy.

You used to know that feeling. That kind of high. The kind that only came with rubber and gasoline and the blur of corners taken clean.

Your helmet lives in the back of your closet now, tucked behind winter coats and forgotten notebooks. You’ve traded it for lab goggles and timed exams, for ink-stained hands and the quiet sort of excellence no one applauds. Your medals sit in a shoebox beneath your bed, and you haven’t opened it in over a year. You tell people you’re pre-med now. That it’s what you’ve always wanted.

Two years have dulled the ache. Sandpapered it down from a blade to something you can live with. Sometimes you still dream of the track, of the smell of rubber and the scream of engines, but you wake up and make coffee and keep studying until the want quiets again.

Lando watches you for a second. He sees things other people don’t — always has.

“You good?” he asks, voice soft now, like it used to be when he’d sneak out to meet you by the tire stacks after dark.

You nod, a little too fast. “Yeah. Just tired.”

He raises an eyebrow, not buying it. “What are you working on?”

You sigh and flip your notebook toward the screen. “Chemical compounds. I’ve got a practical on Monday. Enantiomers, ketones, the whole gang.”

He makes a face. “Nerd.”

“National treasure,” you correct, dryly. “And future doctor, maybe.”

He lights up at that. “Sick. You can be my medic when I crash.”

You roll your eyes. “So I’ll see you, what, every weekend?”

“Exactly,” he says, smug. “We’re soulmates, remember?”

You want to say, you with the stupid grin, you with the disaster curls, you with the heartbeat I could always find in the noise.But instead, you shake your head and say, “God help your insurance.”

He laughs, throws his head back, bares every tooth like he always does. There’s a soft curve in the center of his front two that never straightened out, even after braces. You used to tell him he looked like a Labrador when he smiled like that. You still think it now, but it feels like something tender and sacred, like a memory you keep pressed between pages.

“I miss you,” he says, quieter now.

You don’t say I miss the version of me that only exists around you.You just whisper, “Yeah. I know.”

The call ends eventually. It always does. But you sit there for a while after, your notebook untouched, watching the ghost of his smile in your screen’s reflection.

You’re twenty-one and a half when Lando sneaks into your college graduation. You don’t see him at first. You’re too busy sweating in your robe, clutching your diploma like it might disappear, wondering if your cap looks stupid in photos. Your parents wave from the stands, your friends cheer, and you try to hold still long enough to soak it in — but it never lands quite right. Everything feels too big, too loud, too fast.

Until he finds you.

Until he hugs you from behind and says, low in your ear, “Told you you’d look cool in a cape.”

You twist around, and there he is, in a hoodie pulled low over those unmistakable curls, sunglasses at night like the world’s worst disguise. His smile is crooked, tired. Familiar.

“What the fuck,” you whisper. “Aren’t you supposed to be—”

He grins wider. “I skipped media day.”

Your jaw drops.

“Shhh,” he adds, holding a finger to your lips. “I’ll get yelled at later. Worth it.”

You don’t know whether to laugh or hit him. So you do both —thump his arm, then drag him into a hug, still warm from the sun and whatever it means to grow up.

He stays through the party, tucked into the background, stealing finger food and smiling like he’s always belonged. He doesn’t pull attention the way he does on track. Here, he just… exists beside you. Quietly. Constantly. Every time you turn around, he’s already looking.

Later, long after the music dies and your parents have gone to bed, the two of you end up on the grass in your front yard, barefoot, robes ditched, diplomas crumpled somewhere behind you. The stars are blurry, a little from distance, a little from everything else.

He lies flat on his back, arms spread like a kid making snow angels, and says, “I’ve got a flight in two hours.”

You hum. “FP1?”

He nods.

You both fall quiet. The silence between you has never been uncomfortable. It stretches like elastic, worn in with years of knowing — from tire stacks and afterschool karting, from night tracks and vending machines, from every version of growing up that had the other curled into its corner.

“I’m scared,” you admit, finally. “For med school.”

Lando turns his head to look at you. You’re lying close, your hair fanned out against the grass, fingers plucking gently at the blades. You don’t meet his eyes, but you feel them on you. The color of seafoam, soft in the dark. The kind that still knocks the breath out of you when you're not bracing for it.

“You’ll be great.”

You scoff. “You don’t know that.”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Why?”

There’s a rustle of denim and hoodie fabric, and then he’s sitting up, pulling something from his pocket. A worn-out square of photo paper, crumpled and soft at the edges. He presses it into your hand.

You blink. It’s a picture of the two of you, age nine, arms thrown around each other in the pit lane. His curls are messy and stuck to his forehead, flushed cheeks stretched in a grin so big you can count every tooth. You’re buried in his side, beaming up at him like he hung the sky. Lando’s holding a trophy, but even then, he’s not looking at it. He’s looking at you.

“You gave me your gummy worms right after that,” he says. “Said I earned it.”

You run your thumb over the crease down the middle. The image is faded now, but you remember the moment like it’s stitched into you.

He says it like it’s obvious. Like gravity. “Because we’re soulmates. And I feel it in my bones.”

You don’t answer right away. You can’t.

The stars above you scatter like sugar across navy velvet. Your eyes sting.

“You know,” you say after a while, voice low, “If you crash, I’ll be the one stitching you back together.”

He grins. Not his media-trained one — not the sharp, rehearsed smile he wears under paddock lights — but the real one. The one that splits across his face without warning. That bares all his teeth like he’s never learned to hold anything back. That’s lived on every page of your memory since you were old enough to chase him across a track.

“That’s hot,” he teases.

You roll your eyes. “You’re a nightmare.”

“But I’m your nightmare.”

And that’s the thing, isn’t it?

It’s always been him. Him with eyes that shift with the light, that catch everything, that still find you first.

You with your goggles and your notebooks. Him with his fireproof gloves and nowhere to land.

You, who traded circuits for classrooms.

Him, who never stopped circling back to you.

He looks at you like he always has, like you’re the only thing that’s ever made sense. You think maybe you believe him.

That you’ll be okay.

Because he said so. Because he always shows up. Because he’s flying across the world in an hour, but somehow, you’ve never felt more grounded.

At twenty-three, he invites you to Monaco.

You’re dead on your feet when he calls. It’s nearly midnight and you’re cramming for your pathology exam, cross-eyed from the fluorescent lighting in your apartment. You don’t even remember what you said exactly; something like “med school is killing me and I swear to God I haven’t seen the sun in four days.” Laughed it off with the tired grin he knows too well.

You forgot it by morning.

He didn’t.

Now, a week later, you’re barefoot on his balcony, letting the gold-tinged air sink into your skin as the sun sets over the Riviera. The track lies sprawled beneath you like a secret. The sea beyond it glints like something ancient, something wild.

Your breath hitches without meaning to.

“I used to dream about racing this track,” you say, barely above a whisper. “When I was fifteen, I’d watch the onboard cams on my laptop and try to memorize every corner. I knew the lines like poetry.”

Beside you, Lando is quiet. But when you glance over, there’s a glint in his eye, the one that always spelled trouble. Or magic. Or both. His curls are pushed back haphazardly, like he ran a hand through them too many times on the flight, but there’s still that boyishness, untamed and familiar.

“What?” you ask warily.

He doesn’t answer. Just grabs your wrist. “C’mon.” “Lando—” “No time. Let’s go.”

You barely have time to yank on your sneakers before he’s dragging you out the door, past the sleepy concierge and down the quiet streets like he’s done it a thousand times. He takes sharp turns with muscle memory, his fingers tight around yours.

Only when the city’s noise has thinned and the streetlights spill onto the famous asphalt do you realize where you are.

“Lando,” you whisper. “We can’t—” “We’re not driving,” he grins. “Just running it. Like when we were kids, remember?" “FIA—” “Would fine me until my hair turns gray.” He pauses. “Still worth it.”

Your heart kicks against your ribs, but your legs are already moving.

You run.

Past Sainte Devote, hair flying behind you. Past the casino, your laughter ricocheting off elegant facades. You’re breathless by the tunnel, aching by the chicane, but he’s still pulling you like he did when you were kids and he insisted you could make it to the top of that hill if you just didn’t stop.

The air smells like salt and speed.

By the time you reach the harbor, your lungs are burning and your face is flushed and he’s glowing, cheeks pink, smile wide, teeth bared like he’s daring the night to find a brighter joy than this. He looks every bit like the boy you fell in love with fifteen years ago.

The one with grass stains on his overalls. The one whose curls never obeyed a comb. The one who grinned like mischief itself. The one whose eyes — not blue, not quite green — shimmered like someone had taken watercolors and washed them into something soft and stupidly beautiful.

You stop, breathless. He does too.

And for a second, it feels like everything’s still. Like the world just pressed pause.

Later, you sit at the edge of the marina, legs swinging over the water. Your shoes are abandoned on the dock. The air is heavy with the scent of engine oil and sea spray. The waves slap gently against the boats, like applause winding down after a show.

Beside you, Lando says nothing. But you feel him watching. And when you turn, he’s looking at you like he’s never seen you before.

But of course he has. He’s seen you in worse light: that post-rain haze in your old garage, your hair frizzed to hell and braces catching on your lower lip, oil on your jeans and mud on your ankles. He’s seen you bleary-eyed on FaceTime at 3AM. He’s seen you panicking over exams, crying in the paddock, snorting over bad pizza and better jokes.

Still, he looks at you now like he forgot the color of your laugh until this exact moment brought it back. His hair hangs loose over his forehead, still damp from the run, and the way his mouth twitches — almost a grin, almost not — makes your stomach turn over.

He bumps your knee with his.

“You okay?” he asks.

You nod. “Better than okay.” “You looked happy back there.” “I was happy back there.” “Good.” He’s quiet for a beat. Then: “I miss that.”

You glance at him, surprised.

“Miss what?”

“You. Like that.” He exhales, eyes trained on the moon's reflection on the water. “Laughing. Running. Being ridiculous with me.”

You don’t say anything.

He does.

“I miss you all the time,” he says, voice low. “Even when I’m with you.”

Your breath catches.

“You’re always somewhere else now. In your books. In your head. In hospitals I can’t pronounce.”

Your heart tugs at the edges. He doesn’t sound bitter. Just tired. Honest.

“I get it,” he adds. “It’s important. It matters. But sometimes I think about that summer when we were fifteen, and you stole my hoodie, and we made fake pit passes just to sneak into the garage.”

You laugh, quiet. “We were so stupid.”

“We were so happy.”

The silence after that isn’t awkward. It’s full. Like the city’s holding its breath.

You look over at him. Really look.

His lashes are darker now. His jaw’s sharper. A lock of hair curls against his temple, untamed. But he’s still him. Still the boy in the mud, the boy who taught you how to drift on your cousin’s farm, who shared his Capri-Sun at the track because you forgot yours, again. Still the one who taped your wrist when you wiped out in the rain and told you you’d make it to Monaco someday.

And here you are.

“Lando,” you murmur. “Yeah?” “I missed you too.”

He doesn’t wait this time.

He kisses you like he’s been waiting years to remember how.

And maybe he has. Maybe you both have.

The world blurs for a moment: the moon climbing higher, the boats bobbing gently below, the buzz of the city dissolving behind you, and all that’s left is him.

All sun-warmed skin and trembling fingers and eyes the color of every good memory — soft-washed, warm, like light bleeding through a window at golden hour.

He pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, breath mingling with yours.

“I didn’t think you’d let me do that,” he whispers.

“I didn’t think you’d actually do it.”

You both laugh. Just a little. Just enough.

You’re twenty-five when you catch him watching you from across a hotel room in Japan. There’s a storm outside, low thunder rolling through the glass, and Lando’s shirt is damp from the run to the lobby. His curls are still wet, clinging to his forehead in loose, chaotic swirls. He should be tired — hell, you’re tired — but he’s watching you like you’re something new.

It’s not the first time he’s looked at you like this. Not by a long shot.

He’s never been subtle about it, not when he warms your hands in his pockets on cold walks back from the paddock, not when he lights up the second your name shows up on his phone. He’s the kind of boy who leaves his heart in plain sight, who grins with his whole body, who never learned how to want quietly.

You feel his gaze before you meet it. The kind that makes your chest go a little soft, like the edges of a photograph curling with time.

“You’re staring,” you say, without looking up from your textbook.

“I’m allowed to,” he replies. “I’m in love with you.”

You blink. Not because you didn’t know — he’s never been subtle — but because of how easily he says it. No drama. No orchestra. Just him. Lando, who once stuck gum in your hair during a twelve-hour drive to Wales. Lando, who whispered you’ve got me into your hair the night your grandmother died. Lando, who still trips over his own shoes in hotel corridors and grins like a child when room service arrives.

You toss a pillow at him. “Say it prettier.”

He catches it one-handed, kaleidoscope eyes glinting in the dim light. Smirks. “You make me want to write poetry, but all I know how to do is drive.”

That shuts you up.

His eyes crinkle at the corners, a blue-green haze in the lightning glow, and he grins wider, like he knows he’s just won something. Like he’d lose a thousand races and still call this the prize.

“Told you,” he murmurs.

There are races, years, chapters.

Seasons where you barely see each other, where you wake up to hotel ceilings and unfamiliar time zones and forget what city you’re in until he kisses your shoulder and mumbles something in a sleep-heavy voice like, It’s Thursday. We’re in Austin. His curls are flattened from sleep, his voice rough at the edges, and his arms still warm from whatever dream he was having.

Sometimes he wins. Sometimes he doesn’t. You never love him any more or less.

He still gets grumpy when he’s hungry, still laughs at memes from 2014, still buys you the weird flavored gum at petrol stations because you used to love this stuff, remember? Still leans into your space like gravity’s something personal. Still has a grin that cracks through your worst moods like sunlight.

There are cameras. Headlines. Speculations. But you’ve always known who he was.

You know the versions of him that never make it to the press: the quiet frustration of a red flag, the way he presses his tongue to the inside of his cheek when he’s nervous, the silence he sinks into after a loss. The way his curls flop over his forehead when he finally takes off his helmet. The way he says your name when he’s scared. The way he finds you in every crowd like it’s instinct. How his eyes — storm-colored, sometimes soft, sometimes sharp — flick to you the second anything starts to feel too loud.

And you’ve always let him. You always will.

He’s thirty-one when you find an old photo in a drawer: the two of you, muddy and grinning, barely ten years old. His curls are a mess, more fluff than form. You’re wearing his jacket, sleeves bunched up to your elbows. Neither of you have front teeth. You’re both sun-drenched and ridiculous.

“God,” you mutter, holding it up to the light. “We were a disaster.”

From the kitchen, he says, “Still are.”

You hear the clink of a spoon against ceramic. The rustle of his socks on the tile.

“You still love me?” you call, teasing, but not really.

He appears in the doorway, hoodie half-on, spoon in his mouth. He’s older now — jaw more carved, eyes a little softer around the edges — but the grin he gives you is the same one from every memory that matters. That lopsided, toothy thing like he’s always one second from bursting into laughter. A single curl falls against his temple, and for a moment, it’s hard to tell what year it is.

He swallows and says, “I’ll love you even when we’re bones.”

You believe him.

You always have.

[eraserbread]

Whats on my mind… oh nothing 😞 just uhhh reverse cowgirl mirror sex where Nanami forces you to watch yourself 😔

"do you trust me?"

you nod slowly in the bathroom, pressed against the counter with your husband at your back. it's date night, your favorite and a pain in the ass for kento. you two have a standing agreement - twice a month. he plans everything, never asking for further input, because loving you was not your responsibility, it's his.

the night went off without a hitch -- expensive dinner in the city, shimmering diamond boxes, and your sweet smile wrapped up in a modest dress.

six hours outside of the comfort of his home has him treasuring the twenty minutes back. now, he's watching you pick your jewelry off in the bathroom mirror, smiling shyly at him every few seconds when you feel his eyes linger.

you're playing your stupid sad music, and he's dealing with it for so long, because you just look so beautiful. so pristine and stoic when you're coming undone. almost... edible.

"look at you," he mutters, thick fingers finding the hidden zipper on your dress. in the large front-facing mirror, you give him a passing side-eye, swallowing back a giggle. "beautiful."

"stop," you tease, placing your bracelet upon your pile of gold to filter through later. "I'm not even doing anything."

"you don't have to constantly perform to be beautiful to me," he reassures, kissing over your bare shoulder before pulling the zipper to your waistline. the fabric bunches around your figure, loose and welcoming. kento's lips meet the middle of your back, just under your neck. it tickles, you draw a half-smile.

and you know it's coming, but you still gasp. he presses a hand to the small of your back, forcing you into a perfect ninety-degree over the cool porcelain.

your dress comes undone around you, falling from your body and hanging on like a vice. nanami tugs it from your skin and tosses it away. all you're left in, blinking up to see him through the mirror, is your underwear. no bra, no slip, no cover—just you and your flesh-colored decency.

"you always know the right things to say." you reply, voice muffled as you rest your chin on crossed arms. behind you, he's pulling open his shirt, smiling so fast that you could blink and miss it.

making love is muscle memory, now. kento's always and easily hard for you -- you're always welcoming with slickness and beauty. if you were counting, surely it'd be the fourteen-hundredth time he's slid your panties to the side and dragged his beautiful flushing tip between your cunt, sending a steady stream of air between his teeth.

he closes both big hands over your waist, guiding you back to slide against his cock. you're coating him thoroughly in all of your arousal, whining stupidly in your skin, begging for more.

"please, baby." you bite, furrowing your head deeper into your arms as his cock just eases right in that perfect little dip of your entrance before popping free.

breathless already, kento nods. "look at me, doll. can i see your face?"

"put... put it in." you ignored him, so kento ignores you. instead, he wraps his hand around the front of your neck, pulling you flush to his clothed chest. you're bare, blushing, and completely at his visual mercy. the soft hum of background music covers your little whines enough that you weren't as embarrassed.

"look at me." he tries again, peeking his head in the crook of your shoulder. he leans down, kissing your dewy jawline and licking over your neck. he's humping over you from behind, tight hips focused and precise as he hits the promise of penetration every time. "nanami, open those eyes."

"so embarrassing," you shake your head, brave enough right now to defy him without second thought. you could open your eyes to study his flushed, serious face bright against your skin, but that means you'd also have to see your flushed, horny skin and smudged makeup.

"what is embarrassing? i don't understand. it took you nearly two hours to do your makeup in this same mirror tonight."

"that's different-

"no, it's not." he cuts you off, tone dipping into that familiar authoritative way that makes your knees buckle.

your nanami is strong enough to lift anything. with or without his curse, so it's nothing for him to lean down, sliding his hands behind your knees. you're not sure what you're expecting, but it's not for him to hoist you up.

jarred, your hands fly up for some kind of stability. you end up with one curled around the back of his neck, the other digging into the muscle of his arm that's holding you up.

"what are yo-

"hm," he answers for you, taking a step closer to the edge. he guides your dangling heels down into the counter, kissing all over the back of your neck. he drags one hand free from holding you up, taking it down to his cock to position it just right for gravity to sink you down half an inch. it's enough to pull a reaction out of you, just to knock you breathless.

"ohmygod, can't-

"you will." he's demanding you with a dark edge to his careful tone, pushing his hips far enough for the angle to give his cock the perfect shot at that spongy, sweet spot inside of you.

you're tossing your head to the side, warding off his dark stare over your shoulder. then, he's taking a big step back, leaving your toes grasping for friction and your body loose enough to slide all the way down his thick length.

the intrusion sucks a deep cry from your lungs, eyelashes fluttering as your eyes squeeze shut. "f-fu, kentooo!"

in the mirror, nanami's eyes are hooked onto the slick intrusion, obsessed with the way his cock disappears inside of you. your thighs are trembling in your reflection, warm pussy blooming deep red from the stretch. he has to swallow down anxious gobs of want just so he doesn't loose control and fuck you in the way he knows he shouldn't

But it's hard—impossible, really. you're whining so pretty, clawing at him so needily, saying his name like it's your gospel. he's obsessed with it—with you and how you take him like it's the first time, every single time.

he thinks all of these sinful thoughts as you gather your bearings, eventually blinking open your eyes for an intense blush to coat your naked body.

the reflection you find yourself staring into is lewd but personal and beautiful in a way only you and kento could achieve. he's so tall behind you, big and caring as his hips rock upward, fucking you so gently and loving. he's kissing all over you, but only where he can still blink up and watch your needy, perfect cunt swallow him up like a pill.

smudged makeup runs down your face as tears spring to the surface. you're so off balance, that you let yourself fall back on him, and he doesn't even falter. kento holds you tighter, completely pressing your thighs into your chest and running his tongue across your shoulder.

"watch it, dear. look how you're taking me," he bites out, tongue running over his top lip. thick lines of arousal drip and squelch against his cock and it's so filthy to watch, but you do. you're a good listener, and nanami loves how embarrassed you get when he steers too lewd. "it's my favorite view. just wanted you to see this time."

"st-stop, it's too muchhhh -- fuck!"

"it's okay, you're okay, i know."

"mmh, i'm gonna..!"

"yeah? keep those eyes open." kento's whispering in your ear and his voice is so sinful and graceful, laced with so much beauty and love. "ah - open'em."

for the first time in forever, ken cums before you. he's biting into your shoulder, keeping his eyes open and staring into your stretched cunt. like a gentleman, he fucks you through it, staccato grunts growing more desperate with each dragging thrust.

this time, you're caught staring as the seed coating his length forms a sticky, white rim against the base. it's so unapologetically sinful that it drives you crazy and fuels your heart and mind in so many beautiful love-licked ways.

his familiar face is stoic, yet ever-changing as he pants and kisses your ear. thoughtful to the core, kento doesn't stop until you're crying his name and gushing warmth all over his stained cock, begging him for more he's already given, but would give you ten times over.

you two have found it—that perfect semblance of give and take that makes every emotion and touch light fires you didn't even know existed. kento is so gentle when he puts you back down on your feet, chasing kisses when you turn around that you give, and he takes.

it's a lifetime thing. an unsaid thing.

a beautiful thing.

[avatar-anna]

Never Really Over

a little bit of divorced!harry for your consideration

"I just wanna see him."

Y/n gave her ex a long look, not betraying the warring emotions swirling in her belly. Harry rarely showed up this late. He rarely showed up unannounced, for that matter. It made things easier—seeing him when she could prepare herself for the encounter. Now he was here on her doorstep, hair messy and eyes all pleading and sad.

"I just put him to bed, H," Y/n sighed. It wasn't that she didn't want to keep Harry from their son, but it was way too late, and it wasn't his week.

It had nothing to do with the fact that Y/n had been feeling particularly lonely lately and seeing her ex husband be all sweet with their son would make her think traitorous thoughts.

"I know, I know, I've just... I've had a long day, and I just want to see him. I won't even wake him up, I swear. I just want to sit with him."

Despite the divorce, Y/n still knew Harry struggled with the demise of their relationship, and she did too, even if she was the one who ultimately filed. They were five months in, but she felt like no time had passed at all. She floated between half expecting Harry to walk through the door like he used to and frustrated by the way their relationship turned so tumultuous by the end. It was all too complicated, which was why she preferred Harry's visits to be planned. It helped her to compartmentalize.

But she saw the look in his eyes and couldn't help but empathize with her ex-husband.

He looked tired and lost and maybe even at his wits end a little. She knew that look well, she recognized it every time she looked in the mirror on the days Harry had their son. She knew what it was like to have a bad day and want nothing more than to hold their little bub and let him wash away every bit of stress and frustration. Y/n did everything she could to not go completely out of her mind when it was Harry's week with their son, and she imagined that her ex felt similarly.

"Twenty minutes," she said, opening the door further and stepping to the side.

Harry's shoulders sagged with relief. He stepped toward Y/n as if he was going to hug her, then seemed to think better of it and went straight inside.

Y/n stayed downstairs while Harry went up, letting him have a private moment with their son. She cleaned up in the meantime, putting away stray toys and books and fluffing couch cushions and refolding blankets. Anything to not think of Harry with her son, or the soft look he always got when he gazed down at their little boy. It had always been her kryptonite, and she wasn't sure she'd gotten over it yet.

A little while later, Harry came back downstairs. Having organized and straightened up everything she possibly could, Y/n settled on the couch with the glass of wine she'd promised herself earlier that day. She'd wanted to have it in her bed with her book, but she settled for scrolling on her phone until her ex eventually left.

"Thank you," Harry said, his voice soft, careful not to wake the five year old upstairs. "You didn't have to do that, but I appreciate it."

"Don't worry about it," Y/n said, trying to appear like seeing him didn't have an effect on her the way it used to.

"Really, Y/n, I owe you."

"Let's not go and make promises you can't keep again," she muttered.

Y/n felt guilty as soon as she said it. They were having a civil moment, a rarity since the whirlwind of their divorce. She hadn't meant to pick at old wounds and make them bleed again. Her response was a reflex more than anything, one that she couldn't keep in check when she was tired.

"I'm not the one who filed for divorce, Y/n," Harry said, a dark cloud of emotion overtaking his face. "If anyone broke promises, it was you."

"Those vows were broken long before we got divorced, and you know it," Y/n said, that old fire that was more of a dull ember these days rising to the surface.

Harry and Y/n fell in love hard and fast, both loving each other fiercely and with everything cell in their body. Their relationship had been full of passion and intensity and so much love it was almost suffocating. But it also meant that they fought just as hard. Their arguments often blazed and burned bright, then fizzled out until they were in each other's arms again as if nothing had happened.

Until the arguments got bigger.

And longer.

And Y/n just couldn't take it anymore.

Y/n could tell that the anger simmering in Harry's eyes was more for show. She could see the sadness, perhaps even loneliness, in those lovely green eyes of his. And maybe her anger was a little more bravado than genuine hurt too. Maybe it was easier to slip into familiar habits and poke at old wounds than admit the truth.

She missed him.

"Don't make me the villain here. You—"

"I don't want to fight with you," she said before Harry could volley anything back. "I shouldn't have said what I said. I'm sorry. It's been a long day for me, and I'm assuming yours wasn't a walk in the park either."

Harry didn't say anything, or do anything, for a moment. Then, he let his head drop, his shoulders slumping a little. Feeling more than a little bad for kicking him while he was down, Y/n stood up from the couch and fetched another glass before pouring some wine in it for her ex. "Here," she said. "A peace offering. You look like you could use it."

With a laugh that held no humor in it, he took it and raised the glass to his mouth, and Y/n tried hard not to stare at his lips. Or the column of his throat as it bobbed when he took a sip. Or—

"Is this one of mine?"

Y/n willed her cheeks not to flush. "I might've snagged a few bottles from your collection before we sold the house. Most of them went untouched anyways."

"They were aging," Harry said, a little of that humor and charm she fell in love with sparking in his eyes, the lines of his face. "You're supposed to let the bottles rest for a few years until they're at their peak, and then you drink them."

Y/n shrugged. "If you wait too long it goes bad and you miss out on a perfectly good bottle altogether, and then you do all that waiting for nothing."

She didn't mean anything by it, but both of them recognized the subtle truth in regards to their own relationship. Y/n wondered if they would ever be over this part. The stumbling through conversations and trying to avoid dangerous subjects that were littered between them like a minefield.

"Are you saying that's what happened with us?" Harry asked after taking another sip. "That I waited too long to appreciate what was right in front of me? What was perfect in every way the whole time?"

"I was talking about wine, not us."

"You've always been perfect in my eyes, Y/n," Harry said. "You and that perfect angel upstairs. Both of you are my entire world."

"Don't," Y/n said, taking a step back when she realized how close together they were.

"I miss you," Harry said, his voice hitching in his throat. "I miss waking up to our baby snuggled between us. I miss holding your hand while we watch him play at the park. I miss building pillow forts and playing pretend. I miss you, Y/n. I miss being loved by you. I hate that we're divorced. I hate that I signed those stupid papers and let you walk away."

Her throat suddenly felt dry, her heart pumping in her chest so hard she worried he might hear it. Blinking, Y/n tried to maintain the thread of composure holding her together. "You've had a long day. I can tell you need rest—"

"Don't patronize me," he said, stepping closer and closing the small distance between them once more. When Y/n didn't try to widen it again, Harry continued. "If you don't miss me, if you don't still feel what I feel, then say that. But if you do..."

Harry took Y/n's glass and set it down on the coffee table along with his own. He straightened up, one free hand lightly caressing your face, his thumb grazing across her cheek with a touch so delicate she barely felt it. It was agonizing. To have him right there, just the way she used to, and only get a phantom touch. It was maddening.

So maddening, that when he leaned in, Y/n didn't stop him.

She might have whimpered, and her knees might have slightly buckled, and she might have clutched her shirt between her fingers in a desperate, iron grip as Harry slid his mouth against hers, but she would deny it if he said anything about it later.

His kiss was all-consuming, he'd been a ghost in her new life for months, and suddenly he was everywhere—on her tongue, in her hands, against her chest. And she nearly forgot how explosive kissing him was. How it was almost like a dance that they'd mastered but were always learning new and exciting steps to. The softness of her ex's lips were as familiar as ever, but the stubble on his cheeks was new. She didn't recognize the shirt he wore, but she knew the body beneath it almost as well as her own. And his hands—

"We can't—We're not—Harry—"

Over the years, Y/n had grown used to the feeling of Harry's wedding band against her skin. When he held her hand, when he cupped her cheek, when he was spreading her open or landing a firm slap to her ass. It was familiar, a part of him that just seemed intrinsic after they got married.

But now, as she placed her hand over the one that held the side of her face as he kissed along her throat, it wasn't there. The band was gone, they weren't married anymore, and they certainly shouldn't be kissing like they still were.

"Just this once," Harry murmured, pressing the words along the curve of her jaw. "It's been so long, baby. I just want to feel you again. We can still be divorced after. Like last time."

Flames licked Y/n's core as she remembered the night in question. It had been the night the divorce had been finalized. Harry and Y/n signed and initialed every dotted line, the lawyers shook hands and left, then Harry and Y/n went their separate ways

Harry still insisted that her late-night message about a few of his possessions that got mixed in with her things was meant to have some kind of subtext, and Y/n would swear until she was blue in the face that her text was innocent, even if the activities that followed Harry coming over to "pick up" said items were anything but. It was a final goodbye. It was closing a chapter on a book neither of them ever really believed would end.

"Last time was supposed to be the last time," Y/n said, her voice shallow and not at all convincing.

"Tell me you don't want me right now," Harry said, his hand creeping beneath the waistband of her pajama pants. Y/n's mouth opened in a strangled gasp, too aroused and too in love with him still to push him away. "Tell me not to set you down on the kitchen counter and let me love on that pussy the way I used to. Tell me not to haul you upstairs and fuck you hard for breaking us up when we could've had this every. Single. Day."

Harry's last words were punctuated by the thrust of his fingers inside Y/n, each one making her curl around him tight. He lifted her into his arms and set her on the couch, the closest surface in the vicinity that wasn't hardwood flooring. His fingers still moving inside her, pumping slowly, he pressed a bruising kiss to her lips.

"Tell me not to love you anymore," he said, his teeth nipping at her bottom lip. "Tell me how to fall out of love with you. Tell me how to not dream of you. Tell me how to not want you anymore."

Y/n, who had succumbed to this moment, this lapse in...whatever it was, could only grip her ex's hair as he worked her over with his fingers, each word he spoke a balm to the loneliness these last months brought. She wasn't ready to start seeing someone else after the divorce, but now she worried no one would ever measure up to Harry. He ruined her for any other man who might try to sweep her off her feet in the future.

"Tell me, Y/n, and I'll let you come."

Y/n was a mess. She could hear it as Harry's fingers slid in and out of her quickly and harshly, then slowing down before she could finish. He used to do it all the time, knowing how worked up it made her, and now he knew nothing had changed.

"I—" she gasped. She was so close she could barely think straight. Harry's desperate words and the way his fingers curled inside her had her seeing stars. But if she knew her ex, he would stay there and edge her until she gave him what he wanted. "I don't know. I don't know how to make it stop. Please let me come."

Having thought she'd given him what he wanted, Y/n prepared herself for an earth-shattering orgasm. She surrendered herself to tonight, to him, even if she regretted it in the morning. Even if secretly she didn't, which would make her feel even worse.

But instead of pushing her over the edge, Harry removed his fingers from her altogether. The whine Y/n let out at the loss was perhaps a little undignified, but she couldn't think straight with the thick cloud of lust looming over her.

"Wh—"

"We're going to do this properly," he said, scooping her up into his arms and heading back upstairs, taking a left toward her bedroom. Their little angel boy was down the hall on the right side, but Y/n knew they still had to be quiet.

Once behind the closed door of her bedroom, they were both quick to shed each other of their clothes. Stitching ripped, a button or two flew, socks tossed carelessly to corners of the room they'd probably forget about later until there wasn't an ounce of fabric between them.

There wasn't time to stand and appreciate. This wasn't a romantic moment. It was desperate, a little angry, and intense in the way it always has been between them. Y/n kissed her ex-husband hard, her teeth sinking into his bottom lip and soothing the ache with her tongue until he eventually flipped her over onto her stomach.

"You can't be here by the time he wakes up tomorrow," Y/n managed to say. "I don't want to confuse him."

"I know," Harry said, lining himself up with her entrance. "But wouldn't it be so nice if I did?"

"Harry—"

"Relax, baby, I'll abide by your rules," he said, his voice a soft caress. "Just let me have you tonight, and then I'll be gone."

Harry slid in with one smooth thrust, Y/n's mouth dropping open in response. She hadn't been stretched this way in months, and the feel of him inside her again as if nothing had changed...

"Fuck, Harry. I'm—I'm so close," she moaned, unable to say much more than that.

His movements were torturously slow, prolonging the climax he'd been teasing out of her on the couch. Then he leaned over her, his body pressing deliciously against hers.

"We may be separated, but you're still mine," he said, his words accented by his own pleasure. "These hips? Mine. Your tits? Mine. This little cunt? Well, she already knows. Absolutely drenching me. And tonight, I'm going to make sure you remember that."

Y/n could only whimper and wait to take whatever her ex-husband was willing to give her.

*.*

Y/n was having the best dream.

Sun streamed through the small crack in her bedroom curtains as she snuggled under the weight of the warmest, coziest blanket. She held onto it, wrapping it tighter around her, hoping to get a couple more minutes of sleep before her son eventually barged in and demanded they start their day.

She had a million things to do, but none of it seemed to matter while she slept. She felt relaxed in a way she hadn't in a long time.

Then the dream seemed to change. The cozy blanket became an arm draped over her, a leg tangled between her own, and a firm body pressed against her back. The unknown form wrapped around her began to kiss along her bare back, the arm tightening its grip around her waist. Her stomach flipped as a hand began to play with her breast.

She hadn't had one of those dreams in a long time, either.

Before the dream could go any further, Y/n regrettably began to feel the pinpricks of consciousness. But as she blinked her eyes open, she still felt that weight of another body next to hers, of someone other than herself occupying her bed.

It was then that last night made an appearance in her mind, recalling every dirty detail of how she'd given into her ex-husband.

"Good morning."

Harry's voice was low and gruff as if he'd only just woken up himself. The puffs of his breaths dusted over Y/n's skin and sent goosebumps all over. She didn't understand how her body, even while it was still waking up, was so responsive to him.

As casually as possible, she said, "You weren't supposed to stay over."

"Honestly, I don't even remember falling asleep," Harry admitted, though he made no move to leave her Y/n's bed.

"You have to go before he wakes up," she insisted, even if her body was completely against that idea. "He can't find you here. If he does, he'll have questions, and—"

Before Y/n could even finish, she heard the soft patter of feet against soft carpet. Then her door creaked open, and the light of her life appeared.

"Daddy!"

Y/n rested her hands over her face, but not before seeing Harry's broad grin out of the corner of her eye, one that was nearly identical to the little boy at the foot of the bed.

"Hey, buddy," Harry said, his voice less husky than it was just moments ago. "What are you doing up so early, huh?"

"Why are you in bed with Mommy?" the boy asked, climbing into bed with his parents and wriggling around until he was snuggled between them.

Wasn't that the question, Y/n thought, though she was in no rush to help Harry.

"Mummy and Daddy decided to have a sleepover," Harry explained.

"Oh. Well, why didn't you invite me?"

"Because..." Y/n felt Harry's gaze on her, but she was not inclined to dig him out of this hole. Their night was over. It was a new day, which meant everything was back to the way it was before Harry came over last night. "Because I wanted to surprise you this morning. We're all going to spend the day together. Just the three of us."

"Yay!"

"What?"

Y/n glared over the top of her son's head as he half-hugged half-tackled Harry from sheer excitement. This was definitely not reverting back to their normal routine of co-parenting and seeing each other only when it was necessary. Harry, who looked thoroughly pleased with himself, slid out of bed with their boy still latched into him.

Thankfully, he was wearing underwear, but that didn't help Y/n much. She couldn't help but stare at his muscles flexing as he stood and stretched while he held their son. At all the tattoos that littered his body and the mess of curls on his head. He had no right to look this good in the morning, especially when Y/n knew for a fact that she always looked haggard no matter what when she first woke up.

Not that her appearance in front of her ex mattered to her.

"Come on, let's start with making your mum some breakfast. I'm thinking...waffles?"

"Do not make a mess of my kitchen, Harry," Y/n warned, not even bothering to protest the idea in its entirety. She wouldn't have been able to tell her son no even if he tried. Not with how excited he looked at the prospect of spending the day with his dad.

"We'll clean up after ourselves, I promise," Harry said with a wink in your direction. "You stay there and rest. I know you had a...long night."

Y/n threw a pillow at Harry's retreating form before flopping back into her bed. She had half a mind to strut right over to him and prove him wrong, but, well, the dull ache between her legs was starting to make itself known, and the damage of her son seeing Harry in her bed was already done. She might as well stay in bed and take the morning off if Harry was offering.

Sighing, Y/n ran a tired hand over her face as one realization after another made themselves known.

Everything about last night and this morning was messy and would no doubt bring about consequences and difficult conversations she wasn't inclined to have. There were questions she didn't want to ask or know the answer to, but one thing was abundantly clear:

She was well and truly fucked.

[alchemistc]

Inspired by Lou mentioning that we're getting B**** f*********

"Tell me about your old captain," Bobby says. It's not a question. It's not a suggestion - or if it is, Tommy doesn't have the ability to view it as anything but a demand.

Bobby's eyes catch the bob of his throat as he swallows.

They're in Bobby's office. Tommy's pretty sure he's been in this office twice since Bobby took over - he doesn't do things in any sort of official capacity, seems to hate the four walls and the door like a man with experience stuck in tight spaces.

"Off the record, of course."

Tommy's a grown ass man who's been through more Captains and Sergeants and other miscellaneous authority figures than Bobby can count on fingers and toes.

There's just something about Bobby that makes him feel wrong-footed. Like he's simultaneously the most comfortable he's ever been and the most terrified he'll ever be. Like he has to get this right.

"Sir?"

Bobby tosses a balled up piece of paper at Tommy's forehead. That's fair. That's absolutely fair. Tommy blinks, and the nerves sort of just... fall away.

"He was a homophobic, racist, misogynist prick and I still hate that I followed along like a little duckling."

Bobby purses his lips. Widens his eyes with brows raised.

The silence and the eye contact stretches.

Eventually, Bobby steeples his fingers, leans his chin on them. Stares. "We can circle back to the second part in a moment. I'm asking because I sent in your transfer papers last week."

There's that fear crawling right back in. He'd never even fucking tried it, under Gerrard. Too afraid to watch him crush that dream, too afraid to make a move for himself.

He'd mentioned flying offhand, a month and a half ago, a second serving of roast melting on his tongue while Howie stole potatoes off his plate.

Two days later Bobby'd pulled him aside and told Tommy he'd reached out to Harbor - that Harbor had an opening in air ops and he'd asked them to hold the position internally for an extra day or two. In case Tommy wanted it.

("I saw the way you look when you're talking about flying, kid. If I overstepped, tell me to shove it, but the 217 could use a man like you."

Tommy's had the words 'man like you' running on a loop in his head ever since.)

"Did they fill the spot?"

He hasn't let himself get excited about it. Hasn't told a soul other than Bobby that he's even thinking about it. He never would have done it without that push, and he's already gearing up to make himself not resent Bobby for even putting the thought in his head.

Bobby smiles. "They did."

Tommy would love it if the floor would open up and swallow him whole.

"Their newest pilot is going to be Thomas Kinard. Pending my approval, of course."

His heart does something strange in his chest. A squeeze, a jump, a flurry. He's gonna be in the air again. Going to have to use whatever's left of his mind to learn new birds, to teach someone else, one day. That's not as daunting a task as it would have been, a year ago.

Tommy squints, because Bobby looks entirely too pleased with himself for nearly giving Tommy a fucking heart attack. "What does that have to do with Gerrard?"

Bobby tips his head side to side, fidgets with a pen. Tommy never knows if that's a nervous habit or if he's so committed to the "fucking with you" bit that he's adopted a bunch of other people's tics.

"He tried to block it," Bobby tells him, a little solemn, finally. Tommy can feel his teeth clenching. His body tightening. His arms are crossed over his chest and he doesn't remember the act of raising them from the armrests. "I told him, respectfully, where he could stick it."

Bobby has this insane ability to ease a thousand worries with just a turn of phrase, a tone of voice. Tommy can feel the ire melting right off. "You already did it?"

Bobby huffs a soft laugh. "Professional disagreement. We don't see eye to eye on your talents. Harbor was fairly easily convinced, once I started listing them."

The lump in his throat makes it a little difficult to forge ahead. "Why'd you ask about him, then?"

Bobby's soft grin turns to a full on smirk. "Because I thought, given that this is your last week here, you might want to get it off your chest, Firefighter Pilot Kinard."

[heirofnight]

meddling

azriel x reader drabble

word count: 2k - longest drabble ever, i'm so sorry

summary: reader just escaped a horrific past that has left her closed off and in need of isolation. she takes up residence at the house of wind, finding solace in the private library. she's content to keep to herself, but a meddling house and a stray little shadow have other plans.

a/n: i wrote this very quickly, this is more like a stream of consciousness than a well-planned piece of writing lol. also my first time posting so pls be kind 😭 i just felt like writing and then ... this happened. ok enjoy!

azriel was a silent, watchful protector of yours when you initially arrived at the night court. studying you, observing you from afar. you spend most of your time on the third level of the house of wind - shy and in need of isolation. your past was something you were desperate to forget. but, even after your relocation to velaris, your mind was murky. you'd tried sorting through thoughts and emotions that you'd pushed deep down in order to survive, but it all felt akin to wading through waist-deep mud in heavy, laced-up boots. you'd found solace in the private library on the third floor, only doors down from your own chambers. many mornings you awoke, dressed, and shuffled to the warm library that was lit with beams of light from dawn's glow. you'd curl into your favorite chair that overlooked velaris and the glistening sidra far down below, taking in a centering breath. it felt like muscle memory, and the house had learned of your routine. a warm teacup waited for you, right beside your well-loved armchair. your tea was the perfect temperature: the house had learned that too. and every morning, a sly, stray tendril of shadow wove its way through the half-opened library doors. it noted your presence, your general state of well-being, before darting away playfully to relay this information back to its master. yes, rhys had asked azriel to watch over you, but even az knew that this level of attentiveness was overkill - even for him. you'd peek up at the tiny shadow each morning, expecting it now. at first, shortly after arriving at the house, you'd blink up at it - not having the mental energy to delve into its motive. now, a couple of months later, you'd felt more settled. more relaxed. and you almost considered this lone shadow to be a sweet little companion, the only being that dared approach you this frequently. you'd give it a soft grin each morning, and it would swirl happily, lazily, before departing as quickly as it came.

you were always cold. try as you might, you often only felt true, comfortable warmth when bundled beneath the layered blankets that adorned your oversized bed. you knew you shared this hallway with azriel, but rarely ever saw him. you'd hear him arrive late at night every now and then - assuming that he'd just returned from some sort of mission. what you didn't know, however, was that azriel had tried his hardest to silence the thump of his boots against the stone floor every single time he approached the arched door of your room. before, when he only shared this hallway with cassian, he'd make noise on purpose upon arriving home. his own way of letting his brother know that he was home and safe, without having to strike up any sort of conversation. he was drained after most missions, had enough of speaking. but with you occupying the room next to his own now, he wouldn't dare disturb your well-deserved, peaceful slumber. az assumed with the past you'd endured, that you'd trained yourself to sleep light. not a sound, don't fuck this up, he'd think to himself, willing his shadows to silence his footsteps entirely. even with the suppressed steps, he still tightened every single muscle. stepping so slowly, he knew he must look ridiculous. if cassian ever saw this, saw him, he would never live it down. on several occasions, your heavy wooden door had unlatched on its own during the night, leaving just enough of a space between the frame and the door that azriel could see the beige drapes that fluttered lightly against your windows through it. your sweet shadow companion would leave az's silent side to dart through the crack, and return just as quickly to whisper cold, shivering against his master's ear. to deter the draft from chilling your bones any further, azriel would reach a scarred hand out to the doorknob, closing it as silently as possible - making sure to pull until he heard the slight click of the latch.

you'd often opted to eat your meals either in the library or in your room - the house setting out a plate and silverware for you wherever you'd decided to spend your time that evening. you didn't allow yourself to wonder what the members of rhysand's family must have thought of you - a secluded, timid female that went out of her way to avoid the members of a family that had tried so hard to give her a home, a place to heal. you'd always quickly push those thoughts to the back of your mind, wanting to focus on taking care of yourself, and not others for once.

tonight, you'd chosen the library. you'd recently begun a trio of books that you'd found on one of the overflowing shelves, and you were unable to put them down once you'd started. you didn't notice the time, didn't notice the mid-afternoon sun become dusk, making the sidra glow like wildfire. you did, however, notice the grumble of your stomach once it became evening. the light of day was gone - the library now filled with the warm glow of faelights, dim candles sitting in golden candelabras, and a crackling fire within the hearth across from you. you frowned to yourself, noticing now that the house hadn't placed dinner on the mahogany coffee table that sat in front of the fire. you glanced around, the thought of verbally speaking to the house itself feeling a bit silly. you briefly told yourself that asking the house may offend it - that was even more laughable. could you offend a house? while silently mulling over these questions, that sly, sleek little tendril of shadow slowly approached you from the door of the library. it curled and twisted its way to you, stopping at your right hand to weave its way around your wrist. you looked down at it curiously - it had never touched you before, had never gotten this close. you'd deduced at this point that it was one of az's shadows - figured that it was just curious about the new presence in the house. however, it began to twirl, trying its best to get your attention. "yes?," you whispered aloud. speaking of silly interactions, you thought briefly. it weaved through your fingers, as if it were trying to hold your hand, before darting towards the door and stopping in the doorway. it was waiting for you; wanted you to follow. you cocked a curious eyebrow, slowly closing your book to set it on the table before you. gathering your linen dress in your hands, you stood, hesitantly walking towards it. "where are we going, little one?," you whispered towards it. the shadow responded immediately by darting down the hall and to the left, towards the stairs. you quickened your steps to catch up to it, only to find it waiting on the landing of the staircase for you. once you spotted it, it darted away again, down one level. peering over the railing, you noticed it twirling towards the doorway of the dining hall. family dinner was taking place, and judging by the various muffled voices and laughter you were able to hear from the staircase, everyone was present.

you tiptoed quietly down the stairs, which you realized was probably pointless. you were sure at least one of them had already picked up on your approaching scent by now. the patient shadow still waited by the door for you, swirling and twirling happily. inviting you inside to dine with its master and his family. you took a deep breath, watching as the shadow darted back to azriel's shoulder, whispering something against the shell of his ear. immediately, az's head snapped towards the doorway, meeting your own nervous gaze before you had the chance to escape without being noticed. his presence felt grounding - it had since the first time you met him. he didn't speak much, but neither did you. he felt familiar, safe, and you wondered briefly if it was due to the affection you'd grown towards his shadow that checked on you dutifully since your arrival - an act that you assumed was azriel's doing.

your hands were clasped in front of you as you nervously played with your fingers. you surveyed the room, taking everything in: the relaxed family, the spread of delicious food on the table. azriel continued to watch you with a calm, yet indiscernible expression on his face. the corner of his lips turned up just slightly, trying to convey that it was okay, you could come in. rhysand noticed you next - he followed azriel's distracted gaze to the threshold of the door, finding your small frame standing there. "well, look who it is," rhys drawled politely, loud enough to quiet the rest of the family sitting around the table. everyone's gaze found you at once, and you swallowed thickly. your eyes darted back to azriel's in a silent plead, his hazel eyes feeling like a lifeline. az nodded once, gaze soft and kind. "why don't you sit down and join us? we were hoping you would," rhys stated sincerely, gesturing a sweeping hand out over the spread of food. “help yourself, y/n. if you don’t see something you’d like, the house will prepare a more suitable meal," he smiled warmly. as if on cue, a goblet of wine, plates, and silverware appeared in front of an empty chair - courtesy of said house itself. you smiled softly, at the high lord, at the house's display of affection towards you. "thank you," you spoke warmly, perhaps the first time most of them had ever heard you speak at all.

the empty seat that was now prepared for you was right next to azriel, and you slowly made your way towards it. you felt the prying gaze of everyone at the massive dinner table, and silence still encompassed the room. your eyes flitted around nervously, and azriel tracked the movement immediately. he cleared his throat once, a silent, stoic glare tossed to his family. they got the hint, and all fell back into comfortable conversation amongst each other - attention no longer all on you. you took your place next to him, staring down at your empty plate. your hands fell into your lap, your fingers fiddling together once more. azriel watched you from his peripheral, not wanting you to feel balked at.

he leaned over finally, speaking so only you could hear, "would you like to try the potatoes?", his tone was warm and soft - comforting. you darted your gaze over to him, only meeting his eyes for a moment. he was much more intimidating up close, and you were far too shy.

"they're my personal favorite," he continued on, the corners of his mouth curled upward. you let out a small breath of a laugh, playing with a stray thread on your gown. "yes, please," you whispered to him, eyes raking over the large elaborate plates and dishes set in the middle of the table, searching for the potatoes he spoke of. before you could reach towards the gold serving spoon that sat within the buttery dish, his hand had already grasped it, bringing a heaping serving right over to your plate.

"i've got it," he spoke softly, dishing your meal. you nodded once, cheeks heating at the action. it continued this way, azriel asking if you'd like to try each entrée and side, one by one. he'd offer his own personal opinions on each one, and you'd both laughed at the way he'd described the asparagus - "absolutely abysmal," he'd report, nose scrunching dramatically.

after your plate was adequately filled, az went back to his own food. you began to poke at yours. "thank you," you whispered over to him after a moment. he glanced over at you and replied with a friendly smile, and over his shoulder appeared a small tendril of a shadow - your meddling little companion that had also apparently conspired to bring you closer to its master. it twirled your way happily, looping through your fingers and up your arm. you laughed softly, meeting azriel's sparkling hazel eyes. he smiled fondly at his shadow, "i'm sorry, sometimes it feels like they have a mind of their own," he paused for a moment, watching the smoky tendril weave through your hair. "they like you," he whispered, meeting your eyes with a grin.

"don't apologize," you replied softly. "i like them too. i think they knew i needed company," you said pointedly, not dropping his gaze for the first time all evening. he nodded in understanding, plopping another bread roll onto your plate.

"well, welcome to the family, y/n," his words were soft, but the weight you felt in your chest was overwhelming. warmth, true warmth, spread through your limbs, snuffing out the chill that had left you constantly shivering.

[missmaymay13]

i accidentally fell in love with you - w.smith

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

w.smith x fem! oc | 7.2k

summary: will smith is getting tired of the teams constant teasing about his love life, so, he starts a fake relationship with the athletic therapist intern, Elizabeth Brooke. the only problem? she has no clue she had been roped in to dating him.

masterlist

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

Elizabeth Brooke loved her job.

Even on the days when the locker room smelled like sweat and sports drink, and she had to politely dodge flying tape balls and chirps from players who still hadn't fully grasped what "I'm working" meant.

Still, working as an athletic therapy intern with the San Jose Sharks for the second season in a row was a dream. She was gaining hands-on experience, earning school credit, and learning from some of the best in the league.

And most of the guys were great—loud, chaotic, but respectful. She was "Ellie" to everyone, or sometimes "Brooke," and every now and then "kiddo" when they felt particularly big-brotherly.

She mostly kept her head down, made her friends at the university nearby, and avoided any unnecessary attention at work.

Which is why she completely missed that she'd been fake-dating Will Smith without knowing it.

—

"Bro, just admit you're lonely," Macklin teased from across the locker room, taping his stick lazily. "You've been here three months and haven't gone on a single date."

Will rolled his eyes, lacing up his skates. "I'm not lonely."

"Then who's the mystery girl you're always texting?" someone else chimed in. "Or are you just playing Candy Crush?"

Will, flustered and unbothered at the same time, shrugged. "I'm uh- dating someone."

That shut them up for half a second.

Mack squinted. "You're what now?"

"Dating someone," Will repeated casually, hoping it would blow over.

It didn't.

"No way," Mack said, grinning like a shark (the metaphorical kind). "Who?"

Will panicked.

"She, uh... " he said, thinking fast. "Dark hair, brown eyes, quiet. Like—super sweet. You probably don't know her."

He thought that would be vague enough.

Unfortunately, it wasn't.

Mack's eyes lit up. "Noooo. You're dating Ellie?"

Will froze. "...What?"

"You literally just described her. Brown eyes? Quiet? You mean Elizabeth Brooke?"

"I—" Will started, but Mack cut him off.

"No way. She's way too nice to date you. That's, like, morally illegal."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Will asked, offended on behalf of himself and his imaginary girlfriend.

Right on cue, Ellie walked past the locker room, clipboard in hand, her soft smile aimed at the group like it always was—polite, sweet, almost shy. She gave a small wave.

The guys waved back.

"Dude, she's, like, adorable," one of them said. "You are not dating her."

Will, now far too committed to back out, stood up with unnecessary confidence. "Bet?"

Before anyone could respond, he jogged after her.

Ellie didn't flinch when he matched her pace down the hallway. She glanced up and smiled, recognizing him instantly.

"Hey," she said. "Need something?"

Will casually slung an arm over her shoulder. "Just walking my favourite AT to work."

She laughed, confused but not uncomfortable. "That right?"

It wasn't totally weird. The guys teased her like this all the time. She was the "little sister" of the staff, the one they all claimed to protect while also making fun of her coffee order and stealing her snacks.

So she didn't think much of it when Will walked her all the way to the recovery room, arm still resting lazily around her shoulder, chatting like they did this every day.

When they reached the door, he dropped his arm and flashed her a grin. "Catch you later, Brookie."

And with that, he turned on his heel and walked straight back toward the locker room.

Back at her station, Allan, one of the athletic therapists, raised a brow as she passed.

"What was that about?"

Ellie blinked. "What?"

"With Will."

"Oh. I dunno. He's just being nice?"

Allan gave her a look but didn't press it.

Ellie shrugged it off and returned to the charts, not knowing that Will had just created a very real problem for himself.

Because now, officially, everyone on the team thought Elizabeth Brooke was his girl.

And she had no clue about it.

⸻

Will should've let it die.

He should've said he was kidding, or made up a name, or pulled a full "you wouldn't know her, she goes to another team."

Instead, he watched Ellie from far away, calm and clueless, and turned back to the guys like he hadn't just made the worst spontaneous decision of his rookie season.

Mack raised an eyebrow. "So, she's your girlfriend."

Will crossed his arms. "Yep."

"She doesn't act like your girlfriend."

"She's private."

"She didn't even blink when you walked up to her outta nowhere and slung your arm around her like you were in a movie."

Will shrugged. "That's just how we are."

The guys all gave him the same look: We do not believe you, rookie.

"Alright," Mack said, grinning like this was the best entertainment he'd had all month. "Guess we'll keep an eye out. See how you two lovebirds act around each other."

Will blinked. "Why?"

"Just curious," Mack said. "Always fun to watch young love bloom."

Will gritted his teeth. He was so screwed.

Over the next week, things got... complicated.

He started getting asked way too many questions.

"Did you and Ellie meet here or before camp?"

"Does she like sushi or burgers better?"

"Wait, so are you guys, like, exclusive-exclusive?"

And worst of all: "When's she coming to dinner with the team?"

Will dodged. He weaved. He deflected with the skill of a man who had watched every season of Survivor and thought he could make it on the island.

But then there was Ellie—existing peacefully in her little bubble, smiling at him in the hallways, complimenting him on his stickhandling during practice, handing him water bottles like she wasn't accidentally the co-star in his elaborate charade.

She was the worst fake girlfriend.

Not because she was bad at it. She was great at it actually.

But because she didn't know she was one.

—

"You've been acting weird," she said one afternoon, handing him a compression wrap.

Will choked. "Weird? Me? I'm literally the least weird person in this room."

"There's only two of us."

"Exactly."

She narrowed her eyes, amused. "You're deflecting."

He fumbled. "I'm mysterious."

"You're twitchy."

"Hey, how's school going?!"

Ellie blinked at the hard subject change but let it slide, going off about her upcoming exams and a group project she was 99% sure would be the death of her.

Will nodded, listening but also sweating internally because why was she so nice? And why did pretending to date her feel so weirdly natural?

He needed a plan.

He needed to keep the lie alive long enough for the team to drop it—and definitely without Ellie figuring it out.

Which would be easy.

Right?

Right.

⸻

Will knew the guys were watching.

It started subtly—Macklin Celebrini lingering a bit too long by the gym entrance, pretending to scroll through his phone. Then William Eklund conveniently choosing the treadmill with the perfect vantage point of the therapy room. Even Tyler Toffoli, usually indifferent to locker room gossip, seemed to find reasons to be nearby whenever Ellie was around.

The pressure was mounting. Every time Will caught one of them glancing over, he felt the need to up his game.

During a routine stretching session, Ellie was demonstrating a new technique. Will leaned in closer than necessary, nodding intently, his arm casually brushing against hers. He could almost feel Macklin's gaze burning into his back.

"You're really getting the hang of this," Ellie said, her voice warm and encouraging.

Will smiled, resisting the urge to glance over his shoulder. "Well, I have a great teacher."

Ellie laughed softly, a sound that always managed to ease his nerves. She was so genuine, so effortlessly kind, and completely unaware of the silent battle Will was waging.

As the days went on, Will found himself seeking her out more frequently. Not just to keep up appearances, but because, truthfully, he enjoyed her company. They'd share lunch breaks, discussing everything from her university classes to his rookie experiences. He'd offer to help her carry equipment, their fingers brushing occasionally, sending unexpected jolts up his arm.

One afternoon, as they were organizing therapy bands, Ellie tilted her head, studying him with those deep brown eyes.

"I've noticed you've been around more lately," she said, a hint of curiosity in her tone.

Will's mind raced. He couldn't exactly tell her the truth—that he'd accidentally started a rumor about them dating and was now trapped in his own web of lies.

He flashed his most disarming smile. "Just love seeing my favorite girl!"

Ellie chuckled, a light blush coloring her cheeks. "You're such a goof, Will."

She returned to her task, leaving Will both relieved and increasingly aware of the warmth spreading in his chest whenever he was around her.

After a week of subtle surveillance, Macklin decided it was time to confront the situation head-on.

During a lull between practice drills, he approached Ellie, who was organizing medical supplies on the sidelines.

"Hey, Ellie," Macklin began, his tone casual but his eyes sharp with curiosity.

She looked up, offering her usual friendly smile. "Hey, Macklin. What's up?"

He leaned against the table, arms crossed. "So, the team's got a reservation this weekend at that new steakhouse downtown. Are you and Will coming together?"

Ellie's brow furrowed slightly, clearly puzzled. "Will and I? Together?"

Macklin nodded, watching her closely.

She hesitated, searching for the right words. "Oh, um, Will and I haven't really discussed plans yet. But if he's going, I'm sure we'll figure something out."

Macklin studied her for a moment longer before offering a satisfied nod. "Alright, just checking. See you there."

As he walked away, Ellie shook her head slightly, muttering to herself, "That was odd."

Unbeknownst to her, Will had been within earshot, heart pounding as he listened to the exchange. Ellie's innocent response had, miraculously, managed to maintain the facade without her even realizing it.

He exhaled a silent sigh of relief, mentally thanking Ellie for being her sweet, oblivious self. For now, his secret was safe.

⸻

"Hey," Ellie said casually, poking her head into the workout room where Will was finishing post-practice stretches. "Macklin said you and I were going to that steakhouse dinner together?"

Will's entire body froze mid-stretch like he'd been caught committing tax fraud.

"Uh—what?" he asked, voice suspiciously high-pitched.

Ellie raised a brow, laughing a little. "You good? You look like I asked you to do my calculus homework."

Will scrambled for a response. "Uhhh... I mean, yeah, yeah. We're going together. I—I think I said that because we live close to each other? So like... rideshare logic?"

Ellie blinked. Then smiled. "Oh! Yeah, I guess that makes sense."

Will let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. Crisis averted.

"So," she added, tilting her head, "what time are you picking me up?"

Will's brain short-circuited again, but he somehow managed a grin. "Seven work?"

"Perfect!" she chirped, then turned to leave with a little wave.

He collapsed back onto the mat, hands over his face. "I am in so deep," he muttered to himself.

That Night – 7:25 PM

The Sharks were already seated inside the sleek, dimly lit steakhouse, tucked into a long table with just enough elbow room for their egos. Players and WAGs alike had shown out—suits, dresses, full glam. The waiters were clearly a little overwhelmed by the sheer size of the reservation.

Macklin Celebrini sat at the far end, nursing a soda and keeping a suspicious eye on the entrance. William Eklund beside him leaned back just far enough to peek into the lobby. They were both very ready to witness Will Smith's downfall.

Then the front doors opened.

And there they were.

Will, in a crisp navy button-up, hair actually brushed for once. And Ellie, in a soft yellow dress that made her look like literal sunshine, paired with wedges and a tiny purse. Her hair was pulled half-up, and she looked so perfect it physically pained Will.

What really caught the boys' attention, though, was the parking lot performance.

From their seats, they had the perfect view of Will jogging around to open the car door for her. They watched as she stepped out, a little hesitant in her wedges, arms wrapped tightly around herself against the San Jose chill.

Then—the move.

Will noticed instantly, rubbing the back of his neck before casually slinging an arm around her shoulders, pulling her into his side as they walked.

They couldn't hear what he said—but her head tilted up, cheeks pink, and she let out a giggle so soft and pretty it made half the table blink in unison.

Inside, Will leaned in. "Sorry, I'd give you my jacket if I had one, but I don't think the restaurant would be thrilled if I showed up shirtless. So... this'll have to do."

Ellie giggled again. "You're ridiculous. Thank you."

When they finally made it to the table, the group greeted them with a flurry of side-eyes and smirks.

Will, clueless, helped Ellie into her chair and pulled his in beside her like it was no big deal. Ellie greeted everyone like she always did—smiling, polite, a little shy.

Most of the guys exchanged a glance like, Oh. This is real.

Except Macklin, who squinted across the table like a man on a mission.

And Eklund, who whispered, "They're either dating or he's really good at improv."

"Something's off," Macklin muttered.

Will clinked water glasses with Ellie like he hadn't been spiraling all week and very much was about to choke on his Caesar salad.

He shot a glance at her, still laughing at something Toffoli had said, and smiled despite himself.

Fake girlfriend? Maybe. Unintentional real feelings? ...Yeah, possibly.

But for tonight?

He'd take the win.

⸻

Will was going to combust.

He'd made it thirty minutes into the dinner without incident, which was practically an Olympic-level achievement considering Macklin and Eklund were sitting directly across from him, analyzing his every breath like it was game tape.

Ellie, for her part, was just being... Ellie. Sunshine in a yellow dress, sipping water with two lemon slices like always, laughing at all the right moments, completely unaware that she was currently the centerpiece of Will's accidental soap opera.

She hadn't noticed the extra chair pulled just a little closer to his. Or the way he'd kept an arm draped over the back of hers like it was no big deal. Or the way he kept glancing at her like she was a live wire and he had no business being this close to it.

And then—it happened.

In the middle of the meal, with conversation buzzing and forks clinking against plates, Ellie reached over without looking and gently wiped a smudge of sauce from the corner of Will's mouth with her thumb.

Just. Like. That.

Not a second of hesitation. Like it was the most casual thing in the world.

Will practically short-circuited.

"Uhh—" he choked, blinking rapidly as she returned to her conversation with Henry Thrun like nothing had happened.

His eyes darted across the table. Macklin was staring at him with a raised brow and suspiciously slow sip of water. Eklund looked like he was watching an interrogation scene from a crime show.

Will swallowed. Kept his cool. Pretended he didn't just die a little inside.

Ellie leaned toward him a moment later, brushing her arm against his, and without thinking, Will rested his arm casually along the back of her chair again. This time, it wasn't even a strategic move—it was grounding. He needed it to survive.

Then Cat Toffoli, looking stunning as always in some sleek blazer-dress situation, smiled from a few seats down.

"Aww," she said sweetly, "you guys are so cute."

Both Will and Ellie froze.

Will felt his entire soul detach from his body.

Ellie blinked. "Oh... um. Thanks!"

And then—nothing. She just turned back to her food like someone hadn't just complimented her on her nonexistent relationship.

Will internally screamed.

Macklin's head tilted, slow and thoughtful like he was watching live footage of a wildlife documentary.

Eklund narrowed his eyes. "She's either the best actress I've ever seen... or she really doesn't know."

Will met their stares across the table and smiled tightly. He was losing control fast.

But then Ellie glanced up at him, catching his eye, and smiled that sweet little smile that always made his stomach twist.

And Will realized something terrifying.

He didn't want to stop pretending anymore.

⸻

After the dinner, Will dropped Ellie off at her place with a grin that he swore didn't tremble. She thanked him like she always did—sweet, soft, a little shy—and then gave a small wave as she walked through her front door.

He waited until the door shut behind her before fully exhaling, like he'd been holding his breath all night before walking back to his car.

Then he slumped back into the driver's seat of his car and let the silence wrap around him like a weighted blanket of doom.

What the hell am I doing?

This wasn't supposed to be a thing. It was supposed to be a fake relationship to get the guys off his back. A little white lie to preserve the dignity of a guy who definitely wasn't secretly terrified of girls.

Because Will Smith might've looked like he had it all together—confident, flirty, always saying the right thing. But deep down?

He was a mess.

The reason he'd never had a girlfriend? He was shy. So painfully shy when it came to feelings that he once ghosted a girl for trying to hold his hand on a Ferris wheel.

But with Ellie?

It was different. Too easy. She was sunshine in human form. The kind of girl who made everything brighter just by walking into the room. She laughed with her whole chest, leaned into people when she talked, and made everyone feel like the most important person in the world—even when she was just handing them a water bottle.

Will groaned, dragging his hands through his hair.

He was in trouble.

He didn't know when it happened. Maybe it was when she giggled at his dumb joke during warmups. Or when she'd wiped barbecue sauce off his face at the steakhouse like it was nothing.

Or maybe it was the way she looked at him sometimes. Like really looked at him. Her eyes soft, a little curious, like she was trying to figure him out.

He thumped his forehead gently against the steering wheel.

Honk.

A loud beep pierced the night, his horn setting off a chain reaction of startled honks from neighboring cars.

"Great," he muttered, covering his face. "Just great."

He was spiraling.

Actually, genuinely spiraling.

Hands in his hair, stomach in knots, brain screaming you are fake dating the girl you like and she doesn't even know!

Then—

Buzz.

His phone lit up in the cup holder.

Ellie: You okay?

Will blinked. Turned slowly.

She was standing at her front door again, wrapped in a blanket, phone in one hand, amusement written all over her face. She waved once, eyebrow raised.

He groaned, letting his head drop back on the seat.

She saw the whole thing.

Of course she did.

And of course, she probably thought nothing of it. Just Will being a goof. Her friend. Her coworker.

Not the idiot who was definitely falling for her one fake moment at a time.

Will texted back.

Will: All good. Just fighting for my life.

Her laugh echoed in his head even through the screen.

Yup.

He was in deep.

And this? This was going to be a problem.

⸻

Practice had wrapped, and most of the guys had cleared out, but Ellie was still in the hallway reorganizing a few treatment plans when Macklin Celebrini and William Eklund casually strolled over—just a little too casual.

"Hey, Brooke," Mack said, leaning on the wall next to her.

Ellie glanced up with a smile. "Hey guys. You need something?"

"Nope," Eklund said quickly. "Just hanging out. Long day, huh?"

"Always is," Ellie hummed, flipping a page on her clipboard. "Will was limping again. I told him to stretch more but he's stubborn."

Eklund exchanged a loaded look with Macklin, but kept his tone neutral. "Yeah? You two carpool today?"

"Mhmm," Ellie nodded without looking up. "We usually do after morning skates. I hate driving and he lets me control the aux."

Mack grinned. "What's your go-to playlist?"

"Oh, I've got a rotation. Depends on the vibe. But I always throw in a couple songs Will secretly likes but pretends to hate. He groans every time but doesn't skip them."

Eklund raised a brow. "What, like guilty pleasure music?"

"Exactly," she said, finally glancing up with a sweet, knowing smile. "He has a weird soft spot for Taylor Swift. But I won't tell anyone that."

Mack bit back a grin. "His favorite song?"

Ellie paused. "Okay, this is gonna sound fake, but he loves 'Wildest Dreams.' Like... screams the bridge in the car."

Eklund blinked. "Seriously?"

She giggled. "Dead serious. It's actually kind of impressive."

The two Sharks exchanged a look. This was going sideways.

Mack tried a new angle. "So, like... if Will gets hangry, what's the move?"

"Easy. Chicken tenders and a nap," she said, not missing a beat. "And keep conversation to a minimum until he's eaten. He's dramatic about it."

Eklund looked visibly thrown. "That's... oddly specific."

"I know," Ellie said brightly. "He's kind of a walking tantrum when he's hungry."

The boys were stumped. These were real answers. Couple-level answers.

And yet... Ellie seemed so chill about it. Not gushing. Not flustered. Just... Ellie.

"You ever get in fights with him?" Mack asked carefully.

Ellie scrunched her nose. "Not really. I mean, he gets pouty when I beat him at Mario Kart, but that's on him. I warned him I was good."

"So... no drama?" Eklund asked.

She smiled. "We're pretty easy together, honestly. It's fun."

It was fun.

Too fun.

Macklin and Eklund watched her walk off a minute later, still humming as she disappeared down the hallway.

"...Dude," Eklund said finally. "I think they're actually dating."

"No way," Mack whispered. "Will's been acting like a man on the edge for weeks."

"I don't know, man. She knows his favorite comfort food and his guilty pleasure song."

"She also just called him a tantrum in the body of a hockey player."

"...Fair."

Later that afternoon, the boys watched from afar as Ellie received a bouquet of flowers.

She smiled down at the card with that glowing, delighted look only she could pull off, and Will was standing right next to her.

Mack jabbed Eklund in the ribs. "He got her flowers."

"I'm seeing it," Eklund muttered. "This is insane."

(They did not know the flowers were from Ellie's parents congratulating her on finishing finals.)

Then there was the car ride home. Again.

Then the lunch they ate together in the corner of the lounge, shoulders bumping as they laughed at something on Will's phone.

Then the hallway.

They found them—alone, mid-conversation, completely unaware of their silent audience. Will was leaned against the wall, looking down at her with that look—the kind of look that belonged in a Nicholas Sparks movie.

Ellie was smiling up at him, cheeks pink, hands lightly clasped in front of her. Will leaned in slightly, said something that made her duck her head with a giggle. She bumped his arm, he nudged her back.

No one else was around.

No audience. No act.

And yet... it felt like something real.

The silence between Macklin and Eklund stretched.

Then—

"Okay," Macklin admitted. "Maybe we were wrong."

Eklund sighed. "Or Will's playing the longest con of all time and she's just the best partner in crime?"

They both kept watching.

And somehow, they weren't even mad about it.

They were just... curious.

And very invested.

—

Ellie rarely traveled with the team. She was usually tied up with classes back at the university, so most of the road trips came and went without her presence.

But this time?

Spring break aligned perfectly. No labs, no lectures. Just a brief window of time and an open seat on the team flight. So Ellie packed her essentials and joined the Sharks for their road trip to Colorado.

Will didn't hesitate to claim the seat next to her. Of course he didn't.

The moment they boarded the plane, he threw his backpack in the overhead bin, turned to her with a grin, and said, "Window or aisle, your call."

Ellie laughed softly. "Window. I like the clouds."

Macklin Celebrini and William Eklund were seated directly in front of them.

And they were ready.

Armed with subtle glances and perfectly angled earbuds that weren't even playing music, they listened in shamelessly—because this whole thing? This mystery situationship between Will and Ellie had become their full-time investigation.

And the second the plane started to taxi, the cuteness hit the fan.

"Do you have my headphones in your bag?" Ellie asked, nudging Will's knee with hers.

Will reached down, unzipped a pouch, and handed them to her without a word.

Macklin blinked.

Then Ellie leaned back, brows knitting. "Wait—did you remember to turn the oven off before we left?"

Will groaned dramatically. "You were supposed to check it after I made that frozen pizza."

She gasped. "You left it on?!"

He smirked. "Relax. I turned it off. I just wanted to see you panic."

"Rude," she muttered, smacking his arm.

Eklund tilted his head. "Are they married?"

Then Will added, "Don't forget to call your mom when we land."

"Oh yeah, speaking of parents," Ellie said, suddenly brightening, "how did your dad like that movie I recommended?"

Will grinned. "He loved it. Said he wants to rewatch it with you over FaceTime because he has questions and thinks you're smarter than me."

Ellie beamed, flattered. "He has great taste."

In front of them, Macklin was having a quiet meltdown.

"They're so real," he whispered.

"They're either actually dating," Eklund whispered back, "or we're living in a simulation and none of this is real."

Eventually, the conversation quieted. Will pulled out his laptop, propped it between them, and opened their current binge show—something light and funny that they both always watched together but swore they weren't watching without each other.

They didn't say much after that. Just quiet laughs, small comments, Ellie leaning a little closer as she got comfortable.

Then silence.

Macklin turned around to say something dumb—probably a chirp about their show—and stopped mid-breath.

He nudged Eklund urgently.

They both turned slowly.

And what they saw nearly sent them into cardiac arrest.

Will had shifted into the corner of the seat by the window, legs stretched out across the row. One arm was draped lazily but securely around Ellie, who was curled against him, practically on top of him, her head tucked into his chest, his hand resting on her arm.

Her arm was wrapped around his waist.

The laptop was dark. The episode long finished.

They were both fast asleep.

Macklin sat back in stunned silence.

Eklund stared blankly ahead.

"Okay," Mack finally whispered. "I think they might actually be in love."

"Yeah," Eklund agreed quietly. "We've lost."

And for once... neither of them minded.

⸻

It had been a smooth road trip. No injuries, no drama, just a few wins and a lot of good vibes.

Until Ellie got pulled aside in the hallway by Coach.

Not Will. Not one of the guys. Coach.

Coach gave her a polite nod, crossing his arms. "I've been informed that you're dating Will."

Ellie blinked. "I'm sorry... what?"

"I don't have an issue with it," he added quickly, "you're both adults. Just make sure you keep things professional when you're in the building."

Ellie just stared at him. Brain buffering. "Wait. Dating?"

He raised an eyebrow. "That's what I heard."

"Who told you that?"

"I think it started with Celebrini."

Of course it did.

Ellie nodded slowly, like maybe if she gave herself enough time, the moment would start to make sense. It didn't. She walked away in a daze, grabbing her stuff and heading out to where Will was already waiting in the car to drive her home.

When she got in, Will gave her the usual lazy smile. "Hey. Ready?"

She buckled her seatbelt slowly. "Are we dating?"

The car jerked slightly as Will's foot nearly missed the gas.

"I—what?"

"Coach said we're dating," she said calmly, like she wasn't possibly re-evaluating every moment of her life. "And Mack apparently told him?"

Will froze. Completely.

"Oh my god," he whispered.

Ellie stared. "Are we?"

Silence.

Then—

"I didn't mean for it to go this far!" Will blurted, hands flying off the wheel at a stoplight. "I swear! The guys kept teasing me about being single and I panicked, and I just... said I had a girlfriend! And then they wanted to know who, and I kinda... randomly described you. Because I had a crush on you, like, a huge one, and you were literally right there and—"

Ellie stared, eyes wide.

"—and it made sense because you're always nice to me and everyone adores you, and I thought it would die after a week, but then they didn't believe me so I had to prove it, and you just—kept being you, and I couldn't stop it."

Will looked like he was fighting for air.

"And then I didn't tell you, and it just got worse, and I didn't want you to hate me for lying, and I really didn't mean to fake-date you, it's just now it's not fake because I have very real, very tragic, very permanent feelings for you, and I know I ruined everything and you probably want to punch me in the face but—"

"Will," she said softly, her cheeks fully flushed.

"—and I'm freaking out, and I think I need to call my sister or move to another country or maybe both—"

"Will."

He whipped his head toward her, wide-eyed. "Please say something. Oh my god, did I just mess this all up? I'm so stupid. This is so bad—"

She cut him off.

With a kiss.

Will froze for a second—completely stunned—but then he melted into it, arms loosening, hand finding hers between the seats. Her lips were warm and soft and it was better than every fantasy he'd ever had.

One hand found her jaw, the other tangled in her sleeve, and she melted into him, laughing softly against his lips as they pulled apart.

"I would've said yes," she said breathlessly, cheeks pink, eyes bright. "You know. If you had just asked me out like a normal person."

Will was dazed. "You... you would've?"

She giggled. "Will, I've always thought you were cute. You just never asked."

"I literally faked a relationship because I didn't think you'd say yes."

"And you thought I was the oblivious one," she teased.

Will groaned and dropped his forehead to the steering wheel.

Honk.

She snorted as he flailed. "You've got to stop doing that."

"I can't think straight when you're here," he mumbled into the wheel. "Oh my god, I'm in love with you."

"I'm starting to notice."

—

Unbeknownst to them, across the parking lot, Macklin Celebrini sat in his car, slurping a smoothie and watching the scene unfold through his windshield.

He hadn't heard the words.

But he didn't need to.

He saw the kiss.

He saw the smile on Will's face after.

He saw Ellie laughing, looking at Will like he was the sunshine for once.

Macklin nodded to himself.

"Alright. It's real."

Then he picked up his phone.

Macklin: ur not gonna believe this but it's actually real. like, REALLY real. they kissed. in the parking lot. right now.

Eklund: send pics

Macklin: dude i'm not a creep

Eklund: that's news to me

—

Will was freaking out.

He was pacing the sidewalk in front of her house, pulling at the collar of his sweater, double-checking the dinner reservation under "Smith, party of two," and obsessively checking his hair in his phone camera.

Then, like any reasonable man in distress, he called his sister.

"Grace. SOS."

She picked up on the first ring. "Please tell me you didn't forget deodorant."

"I brought flowers," he said instead, holding the bouquet in one hand like it might suddenly explode. "Is that too much? Is it weird? We've basically been 'dating' for like, two months. This is somehow more stressful."

"It's not too much," Grace said, laughing. "It's perfect. You're nervous because it's real now."

Will groaned. "Yeah, well, real makes me want to throw up."

"Then it's working."

—

Ellie opened her door in a soft sage green sundress and her favorite pair of heeled sandals, hair curled loosely and cheeks already blushing before she even saw him.

Then she did see him—leaning against his car, freshly showered, holding a bouquet of daisies.

Her stomach flipped.

"Oh," she said quietly, smiling like the sun. "You brought me flowers?"

Will froze for half a second, then handed them over with an awkward little shrug. "Thought you deserved some. You've been dating me for months without actually being asked out."

She laughed, soft and sweet. "I didn't mind."

"Well," he said, his voice low and suddenly serious, "I do."

And just like that, Ellie was nervous too.

—

They went to a cozy, hip little restaurant downtown—intimate lighting, trendy cocktails, tiny candles on every table. Definitely a date-night spot. Will held every door open, let her choose the booth, and complimented her three times before they even ordered drinks.

Conversation flowed like it always did—easy, natural, full of low laughter and little looks that lasted longer than they used to. They didn't check their phones. They didn't rush. They stayed long after the plates were cleared, just sipping and talking, the city glowing outside the window behind them.

It was perfect.

Then—

"Oh my god," Ellie whispered suddenly, leaning across the table. "Don't look now, but I swear that's Cat Toffoli."

Will turned immediately.

"Will!" she hissed, laughing.

Sure enough, Cat and Tyler were strolling past their table on their way out. Cat caught sight of them first and lit up like a Christmas tree.

"Ellie! Will! Look at you two!"

Will stood up and gave Tyler a side hug while Ellie leaned in for a hug from Cat.

"You guys look adorable," she whispered into Ellie's ear before pulling away with a knowing grin.

Tyler clapped Will on the shoulder. "Try the tiramisu. Trust me. Split it."

Then they disappeared into the night, leaving Will and Ellie smiling stupidly across the table.

"Tiramisu?" Ellie asked.

Will flagged down their server.

—

Will had barely made it to his stall before Tyler Toffoli, who conveniently sat between Will and Macklin, turned to him with a smirk.

"So?" Tyler asked, casually taping his stick. "How was the tiramisu?"

Will grinned, tugging off his sweatshirt. "Delicious. You were right."

Macklin's head snapped around. "What tiramisu? What restaurant? You went out without me?"

Will shrugged like it was no big deal. "I took Ellie out. Like on a date."

Tyler chimed in, totally unbothered. "Saw them at this cute downtown spot with Cat. They looked so cute all dressed up. I had to say something."

Macklin stared at Will. "You really took her on a date?"

Will smirked, still high off last night. "Yup. Proper one. Flowers and everything."

Mack slumped against his stall, looking betrayed. "Unbelievable."

"You'll get over it," Will said, tugging on his jersey.

But the whole time, he was smiling to himself.

Because this time?

It wasn't fake.

⸻

A year and a half into dating, and Will and Ellie were still the couple that made people's teeth hurt.

They were that couple—matching hoodies, forehead kisses at the rink, inside jokes that made no sense, and a suspiciously high number of shared playlists. Will still lit up every time she walked into a room. Ellie still blushed when he kissed her cheek, even if it happened thirty times a day.

Tonight, most of the Sharks were crammed into Mario Ferraro's house for a lowkey night of pizza, video games, and yelling at the TV.

Ellie and Will? They were in the kitchen.

Bickering.

Loudly.

"I told you not to watch it without me," Ellie huffed, hands on her hips, wearing one of Will's hoodies and looking so betrayed. "That was our show."

Will, leaning dramatically against the fridge, groaned. "It was one episode! One! I was on the road and bored!"

"It was our show, Will! That's basically emotional cheating!"

"You were asleep by nine that night!"

"I was exhausted because someone dragged me to an early morning skate!"

"You insisted on making pancakes afterward!"

"I thought it would be romantic!" she gasped, hand flying to her chest.

Will raised an eyebrow. "So this isn't romantic?"

They glared. It was heated. Petty. A little ridiculous.

And then—

"You never would've done that while you were dating me without my knowledge!"

Silence.

Utter. Silence.

The living room went quiet. Like dead silent. No chewing. No breathing.

Ellie froze, eyes wide. "Oh... shoot."

Will turned bright red. Like stop-sign red.

She winced. "I wasn't supposed to say that, was I?"

He lunged toward her instantly, wrapping her in a suffocating bear hug, smothering her against his chest. "You're so dead. You're so dead."

From the other room came a chorus of gasps and groans.

And then—two familiar heads slowly peeked around the kitchen corner.

Macklin Celebrini, smugger than ever. William Eklund, arms crossed and grinning like a cat who finally caught the canary.

"So," Mack said slowly. "It was fake?"

Will groaned into Ellie's shoulder.

Ellie peeked around him, cheeks pink but grinning. "For a good 3 months, yeah. I was as clueless as you guys."

Eklund pointed at Will. "We knew something was off. The way it came out of nowhere? The way Will was acting? Come on."

Will let his forehead fall dramatically onto Ellie's shoulder. "I hate everything."

"You faked a relationship," Mack said, "and then fell in love for real? That's some Hallmark-level stuff."

"I panicked!" Will shouted into the void. "And then she was just... her. And I couldn't not like her! Have you met her?"

"She's literally the nicest person alive," Eklund agreed, nodding solemnly. "Honestly, we're impressed."

From the couch, Cat Toffoli yelled, "Called it!"

Tyler shouted, "It all makes sense now!"

And from then on, no matter what Will did, the boys never let him forget it.

Anytime Ellie walked into the locker room? "Careful, boys. Will might be fake-dating her again."

Every anniversary? "Happy Fakeiversary!"

" Did you count all the months you were fake dating? Or only the months you were actually dating."

Every time he so much as looked at her with heart eyes? "Wow. That fake girlfriend really got to you, huh?"

And Will?

He took it. Because, yeah.

She really did.

[mischievousmoony]

I’m blushing so hard at frat boy James!! What about the first time she comes over and meets the guys outside a party

hope i've done your idea justice! ty for requesting

𝚏𝚛𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚎

⟢ frat boy!james potter x fem!reader ⊹ 1.9k ⟢ warnings/tags: references to drinking, technically american!james potter and american!marauders

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

"It'll just take a minute," James promises. "We'll be in and out."

With his hand in yours, he leads you through the door, passing under the large Greek letters as you cross the threshold.

You have been seeing James for a month and a half. You never thought you'd be interested in a frat guy—you've never even step foot in one of their houses until now—but James has proven to be the opposite of what you thought a frat guy would be like.

James is a total sweetheart. Possibly the most thoughtful and genuine guy you've ever dated. He makes you feel special, always remembering the little things like your favorite flower or your drink orders at all your favorite places. He's attentive without ever being overbearing. But honestly, you don't think you could see him that way if you tried, always loving every bit of attention he gives you.

Today, he's taking you on a study date. He remembered that you were complaining about an upcoming exam in a class he's already taken, so he's grabbing his old notes and sitting you down in a quiet corner of the library so that he can help you study.

James would already have you set up in the library on the coziest chair with your favorite hot drink from the cafe if he didn't forget his old notebook in his room—which he felt rather sheepish about leaving behind.

So, here you are. James asked if you wanted to wait in the car, but you were curious to see the inside of one of these things. You half expected to see solo cups littering the floor, a pong table in place of a coffee table, and maybe even a few hungover frat guys strewn about the living room still sobering up from last nights antics.

You were a little surprised to find out that it was rather clean. You know from James that there was indeed a party here last night, but apparently they clean up nicely.

Although, you’re right about there being a pong table. But it is folded up and leaning against a wall for future use.

James guides you towards the stairs, but before he can even mount the first step someone appears in the foyer from a hall that you can see leads to the kitchen.

"Jamesie! Back so soon?" the boy cheers when his eyes land on his friend first. His eyes dart to you a second later, and something like recognition flashes in his expression. "Is this who I think it is?"

The boy has long, black hair that cascades just to his shoulders in soft waves, the kind that look effortless but too perfect to not be styled in some way. He stares at you with piercing blue eyes, making you feel oddly self-conscious, which might also have to do with the big smirk on his lips.

James squeezes your hand, sensing your nerves, but he'd bet money that they pale in comparison to his own. He's been nervous about bringing you around here. It doesn't have anything to do with you, or them (well, maybe he's a little worried they'll scare you off). You're really important to him, and so are they, and he's been putting a lot of pressure on introducing you to them. So, this unplanned visit has his palms sweating, which he's hoping you haven't noticed.

"Sirius," James greets his friend. "Yeah, this is Y/N."

Your eyes widen a fraction when Sirius immediately steps forward, taking your free hand to press a kiss to the back of your knuckles. "Hi, sweetheart, I've heard a lot about you. Truly, a lot. James has talked my ear off about you so I really feel like I'm meeting an old friend. I'm Sirius."

You feel heat rise to your cheeks but you're not alone, as James' own face turns rosy as he mutters a scolding "dude!" at his friend.

"Don't tell me you were just gonna sneak in without so much as a proper introduction." Sirius places a hand over his heart, a dramatic look of utter disbelief painting his face.

"We're just stopping by to get my notes. We have a very important study sesh to get to, didn't want to delay us too much," James explains, rocking back and forth on his heels.

"I promise it'll only be a short detour then. Pete and Remus are the only ones here anyway," Sirius says. His eyes dart to you again, something mischievous swimming within them. "We've all been dying to meet the girl that has our James so smitten. I mean, he's been going on and on and on. It's nice to finally have a pretty face to the name."

At Sirius’ words, you can’t help but crack a smirk as you peer up at James.

“Don’t look at me like that,” James murmurs, now rubbing his thumb across your knuckles the way he does when he gets anxious. James is sure the tips of his ears are bright red. Sirius will go to no end to embarrass him, but despite the fact that his heart might jump out of his chest at any second, James really only cares how you feel about the situation. James tilts his head toward you, lowering his voice to ask, "Are you up for meeting some of the guys?"

"Yeah," you say with a warm smile. "I'd love to meet your friends." And you really would. James talks a lot about them, too. Always reciting some story about all the shenanigans they've gotten into over the years.

You've been able to tell he's been overthinking bringing you to meet them. You get it—you're secure in James' feelings for you, so you know it's nothing personal. Plus, you were really nervous when James met your friends. To be honest, even though they were jokes, you're friends have made digs at frat guys before because of the stigma. You really wanted James and your friends to like each other, and thankfully, they really do and you had nothing to be worried about.

You hope that meeting his friends will have the same outcome and ease some of James' worries.

Sirius provides a generous introduction as you enter the kitchen. "Boys, it seems we have a very special guest in our midst this morning."

There are two guys sitting on kitchen stools who swivel around to greet you.

There's a lanky boy with mousy brown hair whose eyes dart back and forth between you and James before he directs a kind smile in your direction.

The other boy spins around mid-spoonful of a bowl of cereal. He abandons the utensil in his mouth to wave at you, his other hand occupied by the bowl resting in his palm.

Your eyes trail around the kitchen as James introduces you to them. It's rather large, as it would have to be to accommodate the large number of guys you assume live here.

You've also discovered the mess you thought you'd be stepping into. It seems that all of the discarded solo cups and beer cans have already been shoveled into a few trash bags, which are just about ready to burst at the seams as they wait by the back door to be taken out.

"I'm Peter," the boy with the cereal pipes up after returning his spoon to his bowl.

"Remus," the tall one introduces himself. "It's nice to meet you."

"You too," you say. "You know, I've never been in a frat house before. I take it you all live here?"

Remus is the only one who shakes his head. "Not a brother," he clarifies. "Just unlucky enough to have them as my best friends."

"Oh, you know you'd be lost without us," Sirius says, rolling his eyes playfully. "And it's not a frat house, it's a frat home," Sirius says very earnestly. Too add to his dramatics, he pulls Peter into a hug (which nearly makes him fall off his stool) and raps his fist against his back as he pretends to get emotional.

Peter's laughing as he shoves, Sirius off. "Alright, man," he says, swatting Sirius' hand away as he ruffles his hair.

"Sirius had beer for breakfast," Remus informs you to excuse Sirius' behavior.

"Hey, I only had two and I know you're not suggesting I'm a lightweight," Sirius points at Remus accusingly. "Anyway, I was just telling Y/N how often Jamesie muses about her."

Remus clicks his tongue, shaking his head. "Don't tease him too badly, Sirius.”

"It's not like it's not true," Peter shrugs, earning himself a glare from James.

You look up at James. His cheeks have deepened a few shades now as he glowers at Peter. You give his hand a squeeze to attract his attention, the expression on his face immediately softening when he looks at you.

“I think it’s sweet,” you say, encouraging a smile onto James’ lips. He drops your hand, only to wrap his arm around your shoulder and pull you into his side. You nuzzle your nose against his shoulder, looking at him with expectant eyes. He knows what you’re asking for, and would rather hand his friends more ammo to tease him with than deny you, so he gladly plants a tender kiss to the top of your head.

“You two are sickening.” Sirius leans over the counter, propping his chin up with his hand as he sighs dramatically. “It’s adorable,” he adds.

“Wrapped around her finger, are ya?” Peter joins in on the teasing.

James keeps his eyes on you as he responds. “You bet I am.”

You tear your eyes away from James’ sweet gaze to address his smirking friends. “You know, I've heard a lot about you guys too," you say.

Sirius lights up with intrigue. "Oh, do tell."

"Well, Peter must be the guy to go to if you want to have a laugh. Every time James asks ‘Wanna hear a story Peter told me’ I know I’m gonna have to sit through several fits of laughter before he gets to the end of it," you say, nudging James with your elbow who nods along to confirm your story.

Peter puffs up his chest, proud to be known as the funny one.

"Remus," you continue, "I should've known you weren't a brother. James always tells me about how they drag you into things that you have to get them out of. If he hasn't told you before, he's very thankful for you. And Sirius. I think I've heard the most interesting stories about you."

"This should be good," Sirius says, a cocky grin on his face. "I've given James a whole catalog of legendary stories to tell about me."

"My favorite is the one that started with you trying to impress a girl by jumping into the pool from the roof and ended with you in the bushes after you tripped on the gutter,” you say, an air of sweetness in your tone and a smile on your lips.

The confident smirk drops from Sirius’ face and James snorts a laugh beside you. Peter cracks up, and even Remus snickers at the look on Sirius’ face.

"I think you’ve just won over Sirius," Remus says, watching as his grin returns.

“You got me, I can appreciate that,” Sirius says. “Why have you been hiding her from us for so long, James? I like her.”

"Yeah, I like her too,” James replies, squeezing you a little closer into his side. He doesn't bother trying to hide the broad grin overtaking his features. As he looks down at your giggling face, he can't remember what he was so nervous about.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

[mountainsandmayhem]

BDSMaid - Chapter 9

Series Summary: In order to save money for law school, you accept a job working as a maid for high end clients. You aren’t supposed to know whose home you’re cleaning, but your curiosity is peaked by your first client, and when the two of you have a shocking and surprising run in more than just your curiosity peaks.  Word Count: 5k CW: see small red lettering below the cut AN: I'm going to miss them!! I'm absolutely heartbroken that I'm done, but so fucking proud of myself for what I've created. Thank you to @lotusbxtch for being my beta from pretty much the very beginning. I am so grateful to you and so honoured (yes, with a u because I'm Canadian lol) to call you my friend. Also little shoutouts to @for-a-longlongtime, @alltheirdamn, @mermaidgirl30 and @littlevenicebitch69 for listening to me go on about them for 80% of 2024. As always, graphics and dividers by @saradika-graphics

My Masterlist || Series Masterlist

TW: unprotected p in v, one spank, multiple orgasms and Overstim hinted at, pining, heartbreak

Eight Months Later

Joel

“I got yelled at by a feisty brunette last night at that gala,” Tommy says as the two of them sip whiskey at the bar of the club. 

“Probably deserved it.” Joel deadpans and closes the folder of invoices he’s looking over.

He should be doing this in his fancy, and newly renovated, office across the street. He was in the large office for all of three minutes the day after you left when he could only see the ghost of you. From the chair you sat in when you first asked him to teach you how to be a sub, to the door he pinned you against and confessed how out of his mind he was over you, everything was you, and it had to go if he had any chance of following what you needed from him. Joel hasn’t even been in his room at the club out of the fear of what it would do to him. Would I still be able to smell the lavender of her shampoo in there? Still be able to hear her beautiful cries of pleasure and pain bouncing off the walls?

“She thought I was you,” Tommy says, glancing over at his brother and interrupting Joel’s impending spiral.

Joel sighs, slipping his reading glasses from his face before taking a long pull of the amber liquor from his crystal glass. Tommy looks straight ahead as he continues.

“She’s doing great, by the way. Or at least that’s what her friend said when she was scolding me.”

 Joel winces at his words, “Of course she is, Tommy.” Even though it's been almost a year since you left, just the mention of you rips his barely-mended heart back in half. It doesn’t seem to matter how much time passes, he still feels like he did in his kitchen. 

The very fibers of his being ache just as hard for you now as they did then. He longs to see you and touch you, to feel your warm, soft skin under his hands again. Anyone before you was always, ‘Yes, Mister Miller,’ even when they weren’t in a scene; but not you. You weren’t afraid to be curious and unapologetically yourself. He hasn’t laughed as hard with anyone, including Tiffany, as he did with you. But the part that he misses the most is the way you look at him the first time you see him. Your eyes soften, velvety pink lips parting slightly before they curl into a smile that makes his heart hammer behind his ribs. Then, he watches your shoulders relax and it makes him feel like he hung the moon and stars for you, and if he could have, he would have.  

He clears his throat and then rasps, “She’s too smart to not be doing well.”

Tommy stands, bringing his hands to rub at Joel's shoulders. He squeezes his tense deltoid muscles and with a hint of mischief in his voice he says, “Lots of pretty girls here tonight if you feel like moving on.”

Joel shakes his head and pulls away from Tommy’s grasp with a grunt. “Never gonna happen. Get outta here before you get yelled at two nights in a row.”

“Just too bad for me that you aren’t a hot brunette,” Tommy says with a laugh.

“I have brown hair,” Joel replies defensively, running his fingers through the grown out curls. 

“Not to kick you when you’re down, but it’s mostly grey at this point.”

Joel holds up a single finger at Tommy over his shoulder as he laughs and walks away. 

Two and a half years later

You

You’ve been up to your eyeballs in studying as you prepare for your finals. These last few years in California have been the hardest yet most fulfilling time of your life. Two nights in a row now, you’ve fallen asleep in the library, only waking when your Spotify would switch from the white noise playlist you use to help you focus, to your “getting ready” playlist. After dragging yourself to your dorm room in the dead of the night, you’d get a few restless hours of sleep before heading right back to your favourite studying spot. You can’t believe that in just a few short weeks you’ll be graduating and stepping into the life you’ve always envisioned for yourself.

The unmistakable FaceTime jingle fills your AirPods. Jamie’s name is splayed across the screen of your phone, along with a photo of the two of you at Albany Beach when she visited this past Christmas break. You put your highlighter down and slide the answer toggle over. 

“Hey!” She says, her warm smile shining up at you. You squint, trying to place where she is. You don’t often let yourself think of Joel, but the cracks across your screen make FaceTiming difficult, and the selfish side of you always wishes you had grabbed that new phone before you left. Your head cocks to the side; broken screen or not, you don’t recognize the background.

“Where are you?” You ask.

“Oh, I’m good, thanks. How are you?” She jests with a mocking eye roll.  “I’m at a cabin.”

“What cabin?” You say, glaring at her jokingly. A deep laugh comes from the otherside of the phone and your eyes widen. “Who’s that?”

The man's voice comes from offscreen, “I can’t believe you thought she wouldn’t ask where you were. She’s going to be a lawyer, for god's sake.”

“Jamie, who is that? What is going on here? Blink twice if you need rescuing!” You joke. 

Jamie blushes, looking over the phone at whoever that voice is coming from. “I just wanted to call to see how the studying is going, and to let you know that I got the graduation tickets.”

A glass of white wine appears in front of Jamie and she smiles before puckering her lips in a kissing motion towards the man in the room with her. “Ok, seriously, who the fuck is that and where are you?”

“I was also calling to let you know that Laren can’t make it anymore and Odette is in New York,” she takes a small sip of her wine.

“Oh, well that’s ok,” you say, trying to squash the disappointment and hoping it doesn’t show in your voice or face. You wished that at least two of your three best friends would be there for you. “It can just be me and you, baby!” 

“Well…I’m wondering if I could maybe bring my boyfriend? Might be a good opportunity for you two to meet.”

“What? What boyfriend?” You say, officially abandoning all study materials until you get some answers. Jamie raises a perfectly manicured finger and calls the mystery man over. 

You swallow hard as Tommy Miller appears beside her. 

Jamie glances up at him, her bright green eyes full of admiration, his mirroring hers. The starry look in their eyes tells you everything you need to know; they’re so far gone for that even a search and rescue team wouldn’t be able to save them. She looks back at you. “Meet again, I guess.”

You try to push for answers, but either of them give in, claiming you need to focus on finals. Before you hang up, Jamie promises to tell you the entire story when you see each other next. You’re happy for your friend, especially seeing the way Tommy looked back at her. Even through your cracked screen you could see the love, but as you try to go back to studying you have a hollow feeling in your stomach.

Graduation Day

You

The late afternoon sun fills your dorm room, boxes of your belongings stacked haphazardly around you. After walking the stage tonight, you are going out to dinner with Jamie and Tommy, and then he has paid for a hotel suite so the two of you can have a girls’ night. You can’t wait to hear how Tommy went from, in Jamie’s previous words, “my dad’s new asshole friend” to her boyfriend. 

You step in front of your floor length mirror, zipping up the black graduation gown over your knee length, form fitting, deep emerald velvet dress. The California sun has been good to you, your tanned legs and sunkissed nose and cheeks are glowing. You place your blue and yellow Berkeley Law stole over your head and then grab your cap, ensuring the ‘Class of ‘28’ tassel is secure. You fluff your curls one last time as a light knock comes from your door. 

“Ready to graduate, gorgeous?” Ronan smiles at you, eyes trailing down your gown. He’s the type of handsome that’s almost painful to look at, but more importantly - you wouldn’t have made it through these last three years without him. You met the first day - the lock on your door wasn’t working, and he waltzed in on you half naked when he mistook your room as his. 

You smile at him in your doorway now; remembering the way you screamed at him that first time, trying to cover your chest, and him scrambling to close the door. His eyes were clamped shut, and he slammed his finger so hard that you had to take him for stitches. Now, several years later, he fills out his graduation gown perfectly with those wide rugby shoulders, a sight you couldn’t even have imagined back then. Whichever angel made him didn’t make a single mistake - he’s tall and insanely broad, with dark sandy blonde hair, and clover green eyes that in the right light are a golden hazel. He’s easily one of the smartest men you’ve ever met and an incredible athlete. The cherry on top, because of course there’s more: he’s an international student and has a panty-melting Irish accent. 

“Beyond ready. Let's become lawyers, babe.”

He steps aside, one arm out in a ‘ladies first’ gesture. Handsome, charming, and thoughtful - a dangerous trifecta. You slide your hand in the crook of his muscle-lined arm and walk across campus together.

Ronan jerks his head towards the coffee cart. “Remember when you spilled your entire coffee on your new puffer jacket?”

You glare up at him, you saved for weeks to buy that jacket. “No, but I remember you throwing up in that trash can after the Halloween party last year.” 

“Well, if Beach Party Barbie had helped Lifeguard Ken with all those shots we wouldn’t have had that problem, would we?” You laugh as Ronan puffs out his chest, but you both know he was more than willing to take your half of the ‘Best Couples Costume' shots. 

Finally, you reach the courtyard where the law students will be walking across a stage that acts as the symbolic bridge to the rest of their lives. I’m a lawyer, you think to yourself and try to force a smile. The magnitude of the day only really starts to sink into your bones as you see the friends and families of your classmates start to take their seats. The excited feeling you had earlier starts to morph. You’re proud of yourself for what you’ve done these last three years, and this was just the first step. You have so much to look forward to, so why do you feel a sense of dread building in the pit of your stomach? 

Ronan walks you to where you need to line up alphabetically, kissing your cheek and then, after leaning in and placing his large hand on your lower back, he whispers a joke about how you better not trip. You glance around the thick crowd for Jamie and Tommy. After realizing it’s hopeless to try and spot them in a group this large, you slip your cap over your hair and get in the procession line. 

You try to soak in every minute of the day, from the speeches to the birds chirping in the background, but something akin to loss flutters at the base of your spine. You’re just as sad to be leaving Berkely as you are excited to carve out your future. Leaving here isn’t what’s causing you to feel this way, however. You try to tell yourself that maybe it’s just nerves; even with all the job offers coming in from your internships, it’s normal to be nervous about what comes next. 

As the student union president gives his toast to the family and friends, you look down at your lap, pushing back the cuticle on your left thumb. Maybe it’s leaving Ronan. He’s been an anchor for you, grounding you almost every day of the last three years and you don’t know how you let yourself become this dependent on anyone, especially a man, again.  

You shake your head at yourself and try to move your focus to the cuticle on your other thumb. Seeing the skin clean from the nail bed eases the tension slightly for you. ‘I’m allowed to be nervous when leaning on people, but not everyone will leave me,’ you recite almost automatically in your mind, the mantra you’ve had these past few years whenever you feel yourself getting this anxious. Just as you finish the thought, a car revs in the distance and the realization of what - or who - you’re actually missing slams through you so hard that you almost feel winded. Your lungs ache, tears pushing behind your eyes as his name rings loudly through your mind.  

Joel.

You kept yourself busy since the minute you left Austin. The busier you were, the less time you had to focus on the void in your heart. During the school year, you didn’t have to find things to stay busy with; law school nearly chewed you up and spit you out. Over the summers, you worked as an intern and visited your friends. There was never a quiet moment, never too much time alone with your thoughts, and it was better this way. You can confidently say that you’d only thought of Joel six times since you walked out of his house that day: when you fell asleep on the beach and were so sunburnt you could barely move for three days; when you failed your first test; when your rusted SUV, that acted as your ticket to freedom at eighteen, died on the freeway in rush hour (from that point on you had to rely on public transportation to get you to the homes you cleaned). When you experienced your first earthquake; when you stayed up for forty-two hours straight after your partner in a group project didn’t have their side of the work done; and, lastly, this past New Year’s Eve when you were in Austin and thought you saw him at a party. 

“Is he here?”, that little box of feelings that you shut away in a vault long ago wonders. “Has anything changed for him in the last three years?” 

The small smile that pulls at your cheeks, and the excited flutter of your heart when you think about the possibility of seeing him again, proves that maybe nothing has changed for you. As the minutes tick by, your mind races with all the possible scenarios for after the ceremony. What if he is here? What will you say? What will he say? How will Ronan react, you know he has strong feelings about what happened between you and Joel. Even worse though, what if he’s not here? But maybe he’s at the hotel where Tommy and Jamie are staying?  

Before you know it, your row is standing and walking single file towards the stage. With each strike of your high-heeled strappy sandals against the concrete, a memory of Joel floods your system. The toast he made you in his kitchen, the kiss in that dimly lit hallway on your birthday, the way he walked you through his club and how calmly he talked about you being in charge before going into the voyeur room. The multitude of orgasms he gave you within the four walls of his private room. Him singing on the small stage of the dive bar you found, followed by him spanking you right there in the bathroom with his hand clamped to your face to keep you quiet. His strong hand grasping your thigh as he drove you to his house. The way he tasted on your tongue. The smell of his skin: all ash and leather, occasionally mixed with whiskey or mint. The feel of his body: hard, broad and hot. His shuddered breaths as he confessed so many things in so few words. 

‘It’s only you, sweet girl.’

‘Just call me Joel.’

‘I know, and I’m so proud of you, sweet girl.’

You carefully walk up the stairs, forcing the thoughts of Joel from your mind, just in time to hear your name announced as a graduate of Berkeley Law. You float across the stage, grabbing the piece of paper that acts as your degree until the real one comes, shaking the hand of the Dean who flips your tassel before you walk to the stairs on the other side; the stairs that symbolize the ending of your time here and the beginning of the rest of your life. 

As you reach the top of the steps, you look out into the audience and see Jamie. She pumps her fist in the air and before you can process the empty seat beside her, you feel it; a strong tug from behind your navel. It takes you less than a heartbeat to find him and the sight before you floods your body with a familiar warmth. Standing under a large tree at the edge of the audience, dressed in all black, and holding his Stetson hat to his heart, is Joel. For the first time in years you feel whole again.

 You keep your gaze on him, worried that if you so much as blink that he’ll be gone. You are supposed to follow your classmates, but you veer left, walking towards Joel. The closer you get, the more at ease you feel. He’s real, you think, he’s here. You stop a foot or so in front of him. 

“Hi, Freckles,” he whispers, his voice cracking slightly. His eyes dance around your face, almost as if he’s trying to memorize this moment. You can’t help but wonder if he’s feeling exactly how you are.   

“Hi, Sweet Cheeks,” you say, the same tremble in your voice, as you try desperately to hold it together. “You’re here.”

He nods and you give him a tight-lipped smile as your mind races. There’s so much you want to say, but now that he’s standing right there in front of you after three years, you don’t know where to start. 

Joel breaks the silence, jutting his chin in the direction of the other graduates as he says, “I saw you come in with your boyfriend. When I saw you kiss, I was going to leave, but I made you a promise.”

You knit your eyebrows together and take a step closer. “Boyfriend?”

“The man you walked over here with,” Joel says, his black Stetson sliding down the chest you so desperately want to touch as he drops his hands to his sides. He’s left no barriers between the two of you except the heartbreak that’s evident on his face. 

You laugh quietly, “No, he’s - that’s Ronan.”

Joel nods. “Okay.”

“He’s my friend,” you clarify, and when Joel’s face stays the same, you add, “And he’s still as gay as the day we first met!”

Joel lets out a whoosh of a breath and closes the distance between the two of you, his free hand comes to one of your curls, twirling the end of it around his thick fingers. Soft and silky meets rough and calloused. “I’m so proud of you, Freckles.”

You don’t miss how he watches your tongue dart between your lips, “Thank you.”

“So? How does it feel?” He gives you a soft crooked smile, his dimple carving into the short facial hair of his salt and pepper beard. Between that smile, and the way his brown eyes wash over you, you’re overcome with affection. He let you go. He did exactly as you asked him. He didn’t chase you or try to convince you to stay. You told him if he really loved you, then he’d do exactly this; and in turn, he did what he said he would. 

He showed up. 

“I love you,” you state and the air between you turns electric, almost like this moment could either set you both aflame or act as a generator for your future together. Joel gives you that look, the one that makes you feel like you’re the center of his universe. He lets the curled end of your hair slip from his fingers, reaching up towards your graduation cap but hesitating.

“May I?” He rasps and swallows hard.

You nod, and knowing exactly what he’s going for, you take the Stetson from his other hand and place it on your head after he removes your cap. The brim of it blocks out everything but the two of you.

“Say that again, sweet girl,” he murmurs.

“I love you,” it’s barely a whisper this time. “Even after three years apart, you are everything to me. I asked you to let me go so I could accomplish this, and you did. You’ve always done what I asked, what I needed. I’m not sorry for what happened between us, but I am sorry that I missed out on getting to spend the last three years with you looking at me how you are now. I love you, Joel Miller.”

He brings his lips within a breath of yours, and your body practically vibrates with the knowledge that if you leaned just a bit forward, you’d finally have his mouth on you again. You can almost taste the mint on his tongue as the familiar fragrance of ash and leather surround you. “I have dreamed of hearing those three words leave your beautiful lips more times than I can count, baby. You’re it for me. I’ll do anything for you, even if it means breaking my own heart, but I’m always going to be here for you, rooting for you and encouraging you. I’m glad you’re not sorry, because I’m not, I’m so fucking proud of you. I love you, too, my sweet girl.”

Finally, he presses his warm, firm lips against yours while pulling you tight to his body. You wrap an arm around his neck, holding the black cowboy hat against your head with your other hand. It doesn’t matter that the ceremony isn’t done, or that there are hundreds of people to your right. For the first time in three years, everything goes quiet. He hums contentedly and you feel yourself melt against him, tilting your head so he can deepen the kiss. He parts his lips, letting you take the first swipe of your tongue against his. Need floods your system, and based on the way he grinds into you, he’s feeling the same. 

He breaks the kiss, but doesn’t go far, resting his forehead against yours. “Take me home,” you practically purr.

“Where do you want home to be? I’ll go anywhere,” Joel rasps, running his nose down the bridge of yours. 

“Austin,” you respond, your breath catching as his lips ghost along the side of your mouth.

“I sold my portion of the club to Tommy and Tess. I don’t have anything holding me in Austin anymore, sweet girl. If you have a job offer you really want, that’s where we’ll go.” You pull back to look at him. You can tell by the set of his jaw that he’s serious. 

“I want to go to Austin. I have a job offer there.”

“Good thing I told Tommy not to touch my room at the club then.”

“That’s a very good thing,” you moan and then pull him in to kiss again. The audience behind you erupts into cheers, celebrating the accomplishments of every student in that crowd. 

You’re a lawyer, and suddenly, the future doesn’t seem so scary.

Joel

Taking you home to Austin that night unfortunately wasn’t an option. After finding Jamie in the crowd, and being formally introduced to Ronan, he called the car to pick up the three of you. You all met Tommy at the restaurant, celebrating with all the expensive homemade pasta and overpriced wine that you wanted; even though seeing you in that curve-hugging velvet dress was slowly killing him. Joel had kept at least one hand on you since seeing you again, and he doesn’t plan on changing that anytime soon. 

He didn’t want to rush you on your big night, so he waited patiently, listening to you tell stories of your last three years, and revelling in the evident joy that you and Jamie share over being together again. When dessert comes around he catches Tommy’s attention and gives him a small smile. It’s fitting that the two brothers, who have been so close their entire lives, would fall in love with best friends. 

Once in his room, he spent two hours stripping you down at an almost painfully slow pace. He kissed every inch of your skin twice over and has pulled five orgasms, and counting, out of you so far. 

Now, Joel is seated in the wide velvet arm chair in the corner of his hotel suite. His cock is buried deep inside of your tight cunt as you straddle him. Your skin feels like butter under his hands as he trails them along your back and the globes of your perfect ass. He’s missed tying you up, but this is what he longed for: the earth shattering intimacy he feels with you in these moments.   

“Please,” you mumble into his neck, desperate to move your hips.

“Not until you answer me,” he demands softly. “How many times was it that you needed me, but were too stubborn to reach out?”

Earlier tonight you told him about the six times you really needed him. He’d kissed you softly after each confession, returning the trust with a time he needed you. After the last one, he’d pulled back to look at you with dark eyes. He’d hated that you needed him and he couldn’t be there. He’d clenched his back molars twice before he said you’d be denied six orgasms the next time you were at the club, but tonight you have permission to come as often as you need to. 

He swats your already reddened ass cheek and your pussy flutters as you cry out. “Mister Miller, stop. Please, just let me move.”

“Do you need to use your safeword?”

“No,” you respond with a pout. 

“How many times?” He says again through gritted teeth, even though already knows the answer. 

“Six,” you sob. 

He tuts and then growls, “That doesn’t sound like my good girl, does it?”

You shake your head against his throat and moan a sound of disagreement.

“Do you want to come for me again?”

“Yes, Mister Miller. Please!”

He trails his fingers up and down your back again, the thin sheen of sweat on your skin makes it easy for him to caress you. He smiles to himself at the shiver that racks through your body at his touch. You react so beautifully to him. “Yeah? You wanna grind your swollen little clit on my piercing, baby girl?”

“Please,” you whine again, stretching out all the vowels in the word.

“Show me. Ride my cock, take what you need.” 

You lift your head from the crook in his neck and pull back slightly, rocking your hips back and forth; a sultry laugh leaves his lips at your eagerness. You look at him with hooded eyes, hair stuck to your forehead. His eyes trail down your neck to the bruises he sucked into your collar bone earlier and then to your breasts; both of which are covered in his marks. He watches the little gold nipple clamps, and the chain that connects them, bounce with each flick of your hips. 

“That’s it, sweet girl. You look like a goddess, my goddess. Who do you belong to?”

“I’m yours, baby,” you say through shallow breaths. He pulls at the chain and you cry out in pain. “S-sorry, Mister Miller.”

“Again, sweet girl. Tell me who you belong to.”

“Oh fuck, y-you, Mist -” his hands come to your face and when he whispers your name the rest of your sentence dies on your tongue.

“Just call me Joel.” The commanding voice of his alter ego is gone as he says it. 

Your hips slow, changing from a frantic back and forth to a sensual swirling motion. “I’m yours, Joel. Forever.”

He kisses you softly, a silent telling of how vulnerable he is at this moment. “Don’t ask me to let you go ever again.”

The smile you give him causes his heart to skip, “I won’t.”

“You might, sweet girl. I won't survive it if you do, so I’m going to remind you of this moment as often as possible for the rest of my life. Remind you how much you’re loved and supported. You’re mine, Freckles.” Your hips swirl and he feels you tighten up around him. “Come for me, my sweet girl.” 

“Fuck, fuck, Joel!” It’s a cry and moan all at once. 

“I’m here, it’s ok, baby.” With that, your body shudders and you fall into him as you shatter. Your pussy clenches and releases rapidly around his length. His cock twitches, and once he can’t hold it anymore he relaxes, letting his orgasm rock through him in time with yours.

“I’m yours, too,” he gasps as he melts into you.

The End

Coming Soon:

Curious how Jamie ended up with her "dads new asshole friend?"

Part 2 of the BDSMaid Trilogy coming mid 2025!

Also, stay tuned for the epilogue for Joel and Sweet Girl.

[leashybebes]

Hi! Love your work so much! I have a very vague prompt and it’s just Tommy being emotionally vulnerable with Buck. Idc what about I just need this man in tears please and thanks.

well this got longer than intended! i've skimmed over it but basically banged it out in fifteen minutes bc turns out i also need this man in tears

When the bubble pops six weeks after Tommy walked out of the loft, it's not at all what Buck was expecting. He'd hoped for an 'I'm sorry', an 'I was wrong', an 'I want you back'. In bitter moments, he'd even hoped for Tommy to say something really dickish so Buck could just hate him and get on with his life. Hell, even a random string of letters that Buck could interpret as an accident or an attempt to open the lines of communication depending on his mood.

What he gets is:

I've been going to therapy

Finally, right?

I hate it

And then radio silence for the better part of an hour. Buck is about to tear his hair out. He drafts and doesn't send half a dozen responses. The loft smells of chocolate cake by the time the next message comes through.

Sorry, call.

Tell me to get lost, it's fine. But I was wondering if we could talk. I owe you an explanation.

Buck reads it twice, takes the cake out of the oven to cool. Scrolls back up to read the messages from the start. Later, once the cake is filled with sharp redcurrant jelly and covered in a perhaps overly generous layer of toffee buttercream, he picks up his phone again.

I owe you an explanation is glaring at him.

Yeah you do, he sends back. Come over when your shift is done.

The reply is almost instant:

Thank you. 2 hrs.

Two hours suddenly feels like both not enough time to prepare, and far too much time to tie himself up in knots. He deep cleans the kitchen, makes a shopping list, checks in with Maddie. He doesn't mention that he's going to see Tommy.

Somehow, two hours pass in the blink of an eye and Buck realizes - he has no idea what he's going to say. He's spent the last month and a half trying with everything in him not to call Tommy, and he's just now realizing he has no idea what he would have said if he'd given into the urge. Maybe he just wanted to hear the guy's voice, and now he's about to, and he has no idea what to do with himself.

The knock at the door makes him jolt, and that's it, there's no more time to think. His first thought when he opens the door is that it's not fair that Tommy looks so good. He has no business looking so good. His hair is freshly trimmed, those greys at his temple that admittedly send Buck a little feral sparkling in the low light of the hall, his favorite blue Henley soft and stretched across the bulk of his chest, his eyes - Buck's whole train of thought derails because he looks again and Tommy looks - scared. Sad. Like he's holding back from flinching by the skin of his teeth.

"Hey, Tommy."

"Hi, Evan."

Evan, he notes. Steps back. Waves Tommy inside. Tries not to notice the way Tommy's face crumples a little as he steps over the threshold.

"Never thought I'd be here again," he says.

"Me either," Buck admits. "Well, after the first couple weeks when I - " When I sat around and waited for you to come back and tell me you made a mistake. He bites his tongue. Much as he wants to be real bitchy about this, Tommy looks like he is on the edge, and nothing in Buck wants to make that worse.

"You want a coffee?"

"Uh. Sure," Tommy says, and it gives Buck the opportunity to turn his back, to breathe. He's achingly aware of Tommy behind him, of the gravity of his presence, the sound of his breathing (a little shaky), the slight creak as he takes a seat. Buck still has the stupid almond milk and the stupid syrup Tommy likes in his stupid candy flavored coffee, has been buying the former on reflex and can't bring himself to use the latter and taste Tommy's kisses without the man himself. He makes the coffee, even cuts Tommy a slice of cake, and dumps them both in front of him.

Tommy blinks down at the cake, up at Buck. "You made that?"

"Yeah," Buck says. "Been getting real into baking since - well, since."

"Oh." Tommy chews on his lip, looks away again.

"Every time I wanna call you, I bake," Buck admits, the words falling into the silence between them with more weight than they deserve given how ridiculous they are, really.

Tommy glances up at him. "Yeah?"

Buck swivels, pulls open the door to his fridge which is still groaning under the weight of saran wrapped loaves and cakes and tupperwares full of cookies.

"That's - that's a lot."

Buck shrugs. "Yeah, well."

The silence is painful. Awkward in a way they've never really been with each other. Buck throws himself down onto the stool opposite Tommy, tries not to think about how this is exactly where they were sitting when - when. From the look on his face, the way Tommy can't meet his eyes, he's thinking the exact same thing. This is - it's the worst, Buck thinks miserably.

"So, therapy, huh?" he blurts out.

Tommy nods, takes a deep breath. "After I left that night, I - I drove to the movie theater."

Buck blinks. That is…not what he was expecting. "Uh…"

"Bought a ticket and everything. Realized on my way in that that's - that's not normal. Nothing I did that night was normal. You - you made me so happy, and I blew that up the second it sounded like maybe you wanted something long-term. That - that's not normal. The way I think about - about relationships, about love, about myself. It's not normal."

Buck feels like he's holding his breath.

"So I went home. Drank a couple of beers. Psyched myself up. Booked an appointment for the next day."

"That's…" Buck doesn't know what to say. "That's quick."

"Yeah. I don't - " Tommy looks away. Buck can't see it, but he can tell that he's bouncing his leg anxiously. "I wanna stop being a fucking - a wrecking ball. I wanna stop hurting people, stop hurting myself, but it feels like it's all I do."

Buck can't bite his tongue quick enough. "You make choices, Tommy."

Tommy nods and shrinks in on himself. "I know that. I do. It doesn't feel like it, but I do. I get scared and I make the worse choice every time because it's easier than being brave, and I tell myself it's the only choice but - it's not. I know that. I do know that. I'm - I'm so fucked up, Evan."

His eyes are swimming with tears and Buck knows he's no better. Everything in him is screaming at him to reach out, but he clenches his hands together under the table to stop himself. This is - this is maybe the most real Tommy's ever been with him, maybe the most real he's seen Tommy be with himself, and Buck doesn't want to interrupt it, even as every part of him wants to gather Tommy up to him and soothe him and promise him everything's okay. Everything's so far from okay. He watches Tommy take a few deep breaths, recognises the pattern and the count from his own therapy sessions.

"My - my dad - you know, he's an asshole. But he wasn't always. He and my mom - they were so in love. I mean, stars in their eyes, to the exclusion of everything and everyone else, they adored each other. Even before she died, I didn't - there wasn't space for me in there. And after - I guess I remind him of what he lost. They loved each other, and it hurt me. Abby loved me, and I hurt her. I loved N - Nick, and he h - hurt me. I - "

Tommy clears his throat wetly and looks away while Buck thinks who the fuck is Nick and how do I break his kneecaps?

"You what, Tommy?" he asks instead, and it comes out gently.

"I love you," Tommy says, and Buck pretends he isn't paying attention to the tense, pretends his heart isn't rabbiting inside his chest. "I love you, and I hurt us both and I'm - I'm poison, Evan, I'm nothing but sharp edges but I swear I'm trying not to be and I know it's too late but I'm so - I'm so sorry, I'm so - "

He's fully crying now, trying to hide his face in his hands and Buck can't hold back anymore, closes the space between them and gets his arms around the bulk of Tommy's shoulders where they're shaking.

"Don't," Tommy begs, his whole body tightening, so tense Buck's worried something is going to snap. "Don't - d - don't - I don't deserve - "

"Shh," Buck says, pressing his face into Tommy's hair and stopping himself from making it a kiss at the last second. "I don't care what you think you deserve, just let me hold you, okay? Just let me."

Tommy cries harder, soaking Buck's shirt, and Buck doesn't know how long it goes on for but suddenly Tommy's holding him too, clinging in a way he never has before, in a way that feels desperate and fierce and heartbroken.

"It's okay," Buck promises in spite of himself. He strokes his fingers over the short cropped hairs on the nape of Tommy's neck. "I've got you, it's okay. Just try to breathe, baby, you're gonna make yourself sick."

Baby slips out without any intention on his part, but Tommy doesn't seem to notice, just heaves in a hitching, gulping breath, then another, and another. He shifts in Buck's arms, pulling away and Buck lets him. He doesn't retreat to his own seat though, doesn't feel right to put any distance between them while Tommy presses the heels of his hands into his eyes like he can force the tears back inside.

"I'm sorry," he says, when he's a little calmer. "I've got no right - "

"Stop, okay. Just - stop being so horrible to yourself."

Tommy nods. "Yeah. Working on that. I know - I know it's too late, and I swear I didn't come here with the intention of - of crying all over you and making you feel bad for me. I just - I wanted you to know that I'm sorry, and I know that I fucked up real bad. I know - like I said, I know it's too little, too late, but I want you to know I'm working on - on being better."

Buck chews on the inside of his lip clearly for a second too long because Tommy gives a sharp little nod.

"That's all I wanted to say," he says, pushing back from the table and starting to stand. "I'll get out of your - "

"Sit your ass down," Buck says, a little rougher than he intended. Tommy does as he's told, blinking rapidly and Buck pushes away from the table, paces across the kitchen and back again.

"Evan…"

"Shut up. If you keep making decisions for me, I'm gonna - I'm gonna start throwing loaves at your head."

Tommy makes a noise that's half laugh, half sob, and Buck fights back the tiny grin that's tugging at his mouth.

"You - you really think you're this irredeemable asshole that doesn't deserve to be happy, don't you?"

Tommy shrugs, looks away. "If the shoe fits…"

Buck whirls around, yanks open the fridge, grabs the first loaf he sees. "This is coffee and walnut. It's dense. Last warning, jackass."

Tommy's laugh is more distinct this time. "Evan. Okay. Yes, I think that. But I'm - I'm working on not."

"Okay. Okay. So - so work on it." He puts the loaf down. "Work on it, and take me on a date."

Tommy looks like he's being rebooted without warning. "You can't be serious."

"Why not?"

"I - "

"Tell me why I can't be serious."

"Because! Because I'm - I'm a mess. I hurt you. I left."

"You came back," Buck counters. "Even if it was only to apologize."

"You deserve better."

"I want you."

"I don't - I don't know when I'll be - better than I am."

"You're better today than the day you left. You're here."

"Evan…"

"Yes or no, Tommy. Take me on a date."

"I - "

"Yes or no."

"Yes. Please, yes."

Buck exhales for what feels like the first time in weeks. "Okay. Okay. That's a start."

He puts the loaf back in the fridge, takes Tommy's coffee away to reheat it, and the whole time he can feel Tommy's eyes on him, watching him like he's something precious.

[lieutenantfloyd]

Do you know the trend where if you have a significant other in the military you say they can’t come into your house but amendment 2 or 3 which say “ no quartering of soldiers without consent”

That with cyclone or Bob

All Shook Up - Bob x Reader

Word Count: 1.0k

Summary: After seeing a trend where military spouses tell their loved ones they aren't allowed inside under the 3rd Amendment, you decide to play a prank on your sweet, returning husband Bob—that is until you get the words out, and he reacts in the only way Bob knows how.

Warnings: fluff, domesticity, husband! Bob, very mild accidental hurt/comfort.

Authors Note: This idea is so funny to me! I'm already working on Beau's version, and I'll definitely be posting that soon.

Read on AO3

The sun had just begun setting when you put your plan into motion. Grinning to yourself as you set dinner to cook in the oven, you check out the kitchen window for any sign of Bob's car. Your husband had been away on a training exercise all week and had just called you thirty minutes ago stating he was close to home.

Minutes later as you spare the driveway another glance, you see Bob climb out of his car, duffle bag slung over his shoulder. You couldn't mask your almost childish excitement as you left the kitchen and trod over to the door. Even after the years you'd been together you never got over just how handsome he was. But today you had other things in mind.

You hear the soft thud of his boots on the porch followed by the jingle of his keys before the door opens.

"Honey I'm home," Bob calls out just as you appear.

His brow furrows when you don't answer, instead just standing and watching him without an ounce of your expected warmth.

"Honey?" He tries again, "Is everything all right?"

You let another long second pass, his brows furrowing, before you answer.

"Oh, yeah," you say casually, "you just can't stay here."

Bob's eyes instantly widen behind his glasses. His gentle gaze fills with a look that is somewhere between confusion and heartbreak.

"I..What?" He questions.

You clear your throat, initial plan shattering but doing your best to follow through with your prank in light of his expression, knowing it'll be easier to explain in the end when you're both—hopefully—laughing. 

"It is my right as an American citizen to exercise whatever rights I have the liberty of holding—including the third amendment of the United States Constitution, no quartering of soldiers and related military personnel without consent," You say, still standing in the entryway opposite Bob and the half open door.

Bob blinks, expression leaning more towards the confused end of things. For a second it looks like he's about to say something, only to remain silent. He glances at his hand still holding the doorknob, then over his shoulder outside before slowly—slowly—backing out and closing the door all without a word.

You let the silence hang for a second before you yourself grow confused. You had expected him to laugh or maybe fight back, or...really anything except actually leave . Yet as you're left standing there, your first instinct is to chase after him.

Crossing the distance and pulling the door open, you see him about to get back in his car.

"Bob!" you call out, earning a hurtfully hopeful glance back over his shoulder from the man, "I'm just messing with you!" you continue.

Bob's gaze drops and a brief flash of regret goes through you. He looks genuinely bewildered, as if he's going back through and cataloging months and years' worth of interactions to figure out where all this was coming from.

With a sigh you close the door behind you and step off the porch, padding softly down the steps until you're close enough to wrap your arm around the waist of your hopelessly sweet husband.

"I promise, It's just a prank, Bob," you reassure his worrying mind, "I thought it'd be funny, not that you'd just…”

You trail off, gesturing vaguely at everything as a brief flash of knowing crosses his eyes.

"Oh," he says after a long pause, brows still furrowed but tone far less tense, "I was so confused."

He returns your embrace, setting his bag on the ground and slinging an arm gently around you.

"I thought maybe something happened I didn't know about."

You can’t help but let out a soft laugh as you look up at him.

"You thought I'd kick you out over something you didn't even know?” You ask incredulously.

"Maybe If I forgot an anniversary or didn't text you goodnight–" He stammers, raising his free hand to rub the back of his neck, "I don't know what you think is worthy of invoking the constitution over, but it felt serious."

By now a soft blush has risen onto his cheeks and you can't help but place a kiss there, his flushed skin warmed under your gentle touch.

"You are too sweet for your own good, honey," you muse with a laugh, "You thought this was it? Really?"

"Well, I...It sounded serious!" He defends again with a bashful smile.

You can't help but laugh again, looking up at him in near warm-hearted wonder.

"You're always welcome to quarter here, or anywhere else I stay, for that matter."

Bob lets out a breath of relief, whatever tension was still held in his body leaving as your words provide the last bit of reassurance he needs.

"I...really didn't want to sleep in the car.”

You pat his back with a laugh and guide him up the steps and back inside before closing the door behind you both.

"Welcome home honey," you try again, a hint of joking still in your tone, "A place you'll always have a bed."

"Good to know," he chuckles softly, "Please, don't scare me like that again."

"I promise," You smile, pulling him in for a proper kiss this time, "I'll make it up to you."

"Yes please," he sighs, only to be distracted by the smell of roasting chicken coming from the kitchen.

"You...made dinner?" He asks gently, always so surprised by the little things even when they're a part of your daily routine.

"Of course I did. Can't have you going hungry, now, can we?"

Bob blinks then nods faintly in agreement.

"Good, go get changed while I finish up down here."

At that Bob practically melts in your arms like he does every time he comes home, never more relaxed than he is in your presence—even if it's your attempt at a prank that shakes him up to begin with.

Taglist: @rosiahills22 @marchingicenotes7 @bayisdying @princessofglitterland @callsignaries @blue-aconite @oliviah-25 @luckyladycreator2 @shakira-sasha @eliseline @xoxabs88xox @lisedanie @alexxavicry @madamemelancholysstuff @dozcan123 @withakindheartx @teti-menchon0604 @sass-masterkittenmama @kmc1989

[rik0shii]

lads guys headcanons

(zayne,sylus,xavier,rafayel,caleb)

warnings :fluff

request: yes

thank you for requesting, I'm new to doing those things so pls tell me if it wasn't to your liking or if it wasn't what you imagined so that I can fix it and get better !

Zayne

• Super punctual—if you have a date set for 1 PM, he’s already outside at 12:50, waiting in his car just so he can call you at the exact time.

• Kids adore him. He has that calm, safe aura that makes even the shyest child want to hold his hand.

• ASMR king—his whispery, soft-spoken voice could put anyone to sleep. If he ever recorded voice memos for you, they’d be the most soothing thing ever.

• After a long mission, he welcomes you with quiet reassurances, hugging you from behind and murmuring, “You did great today. I missed you.”

• Loves holding your hand, whether it’s a quick squeeze of reassurance or intertwining fingers while walking.

• Soft, sleepy smiles—the rare moments when he’s tired but still awake enough to look at you and grin lazily.

• Would totally tuck a blanket around you if you fell asleep on the couch.

Xavier

• Definitely the “I know a spot” guy. And when he shows you? It’s breathtaking—some secret rooftop, a hidden garden, a quiet overlook.

• Hand-holding and forehead kisses in those quiet places where it’s just the two of you.

• If you’re on a mission and he’s not with you, he refuses to sleep. He’ll pace, check his phone, stare at the ceiling—anything but rest.

• CLINGS when you return. Arms wrapped around you, face buried in your neck, and a muffled, “Don’t ever leave me like that again.”

• Skilled with his fingers? Definitely means he can play the piano beautifully. Would learn your favorite song just to surprise you.

• Lowkey romantic in an effortless way. Always the guy to drape his jacket over you if you’re cold or tilt your chin up before a kiss.

Sylus

• Loves stargazing. If you ever go on a late-night drive, he’ll pull over just to sit on the hood of the car with you, pointing out constellations.

• Loves rainy days—the sound, the smell, the way it makes everything feel cozy. If it’s storming outside, he’s making hot drinks and pulling you onto the couch for a movie marathon.

• A big fan of sleepy cuddles. He’ll absentmindedly run his fingers through your hair while half-asleep.

• Writes little notes for you and leaves them in random places—inside books, on your mirror, tucked into your jacket pocket.

• Horrible at remembering dates but amazing at remembering tiny details—like the way you take your coffee or the song you hummed once three months ago.

• Unironically loves stuffed animals. If you ever give him one, he’ll pretend it’s no big deal, but you’ll definitely find it on his bed later.

Caleb

• Super protective but in a quiet way—he’ll walk on the side closest to the street, double-check locks before bed, and always notice when you seem off.

• Really good cook—if you’re having a bad day, expect a homemade meal that somehow tastes exactly like comfort.

• Loves fixing things for you. Broken zipper? He’s on it. Squeaky door? Fixed. Car won’t start? He’s already rolling up his sleeves.

• Acts grumpy but is secretly the softest. If you rest your head on his shoulder, he’ll pretend to sigh but won’t move an inch.

• Always warm. If you’re cold, he’ll just pull you into his side like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

• Reads a lot. Might not admit it, but he totally has a favorite book and will casually reference it in conversation.

• Loves slow dancing in the kitchen. No music, just the sound of your breathing and his steady heartbeat.

Rafayel

• Absolute charmer—he can flirt like it’s second nature, but when it comes to real feelings, he gets a little shy.

• Knows how to dress. If you ever need help picking an outfit, he’ll make sure you look stunning.

• Sends voice memos instead of texts. His voice is too smooth not to be used.

• Great dancer—whether it’s a fancy ballroom-style twirl or a goofy little move in the kitchen, he makes everything feel fun.

• Gives the best compliments—not just about looks, but little things like, “I love how your eyes light up when you talk about something you love.”

• Cuddling expert. His hugs are always just the right amount of firm, warm, and lingering.

• Loves learning about you. Your favorite color? Noted. The way you like your tea? Memorized. A weird fact about something you love? He’ll bring it up just to see you smile.

[mayajadewrites]

deprivation

shota aizawa x reader

characters: shota aizawa, fem! reader

synopsis: the teachers of UA are out at a bar for their weekly happy hour. aizawa is (reluctantly) there, sipping on a beer after a long week of dealing with his students. reader has had a long week dealing with her own classes and other hero work, so she's letting loose tonight.

warnings: alcohol, unprotected sex (wrap it up kids), smut!!!

IM BACK! this is the first thing i've written in months so pls be kind to me :) i've missed u guys!

"Another round, bartender!" Present Mic, Hizashi, slams down his shot glass and smiles at the bartender with his pearly white teeth as he lowers his glasses on his nose.

You feel the warm liquid go down your throat as you throw back yet another shot - courtesy of Hizashi and Nemuri. Your mouth curves into a pout as you feel the burning sensation down your esophagus, shaking your head.

"Fuck, what was that? Acid?" You take a sip of water, shaking your head as you look over at Shota Aizawa, who's leaning lazily on the wall next to the table, his gaze lazily on you.

"Tequila." He speaks up quietly before sipping on his beer. He has his hair half up, half down and his sleeves are rolled up slightly so you can see his forearms. His muscular, manly forearms.

The truth is, you've had feelings for Aizawa for awhile now. You're pretty good at masking them, however you can have to stop yourself from letting your feelings crawl up your throat and out of your mouth.

You've known Aizawa for about 3 years, been friendly and even had some lunches together in the faculty break room.

He's a friend. A coworker. A colleague. And he doesn't do relationships, according to... well, everyone.

Being a teacher and a hero means your schedule is always busy. Almost no time to relax, except the weekly happy hour.

"Well, it's gross." You look up at Aizawa for a moment before turning your attention back to Hizashi and Nemuri.

Aizawa chuckles lightly before shaking his head, going back to being quiet and observing.

Another drink can't hurt.

It must've been a couple hours later, but you've lost most of the control of your limbs and mind. Shot after shot, drink after drink - your mind was hazy.

Your eyes are half lidded as you rest your cheek on your palm, shamelessly staring at Aizawa as you give him a warm, drunk smile.

"You're cut off." He says, putting his beer bottle on the table. You give him an uncharacteristic pout, leaning up slightly.

"You're no fun." You stand up, almost falling as you try to stand up straight. You feel large, warm hands on your hips, catching you before you fall.

When you look up, you're almost hypnotized by the dark eyes that are staring back at you.

"I'm taking you home." Aizawa says, grabbing his jacket, then helping you put yours on.

When you lift your arms, a pout is still on your face as he pulls the sleeves over your arms. He's treating you like a child. "I can put my jacket on myself."

Aizawa looks at you, giving you a knowing look before he rolls his eyes, pulling your sleeves up. He doesn't answer verbally, but you know he's saying some sarcastic remark in his head.

You pull your purse over your shoulder, running your fingers through your hair to try to gain some sort of control. To feel something.

You feel the strands of your hair, taking a breath as you look down. How did you get so drunk? Did the bartender put more liquor in the drinks than usual?

You feel Aizawa's large hand grip your arm, gently pulling you out of the bar. You hear a mess of drunk goodbyes, most of the other teachers probably won't even remember you left.

The cold air hits your skin when you walk outside, immediately crossing your arms over your chest. Aizawa looks down at you, giving you a soft smirk before taking his keys out of his pocket to unlock his car.

Like the gentleman he is, he ushers you into the passenger seat, closing the door softly. You lean your head on the window, closing your eyes as you try to breathe slowly.

"You okay for me to drive?" He looks at you, the keys already in the ignition.

You only nod, your hands on your thighs as your fingers fumble with the rips in your jeans.

"I'm sorry you have to drive me home." You say after a few minutes of silence.

"I'd rather me take you home then you get in some Uber drunk." His eyes are on the road, not looking at you for a second.

Your eyes fall down his arms to his hands, almost mesmerized by them. His hands are big, slightly rough from his years of teaching and hero work, the veins visible.

Fuck.

When he pulls up to your apartment, you sigh as you look at the front of your building. Aizawa looks at you, finally, and huffs softly. "Come on, before you throw up in my car."

Was the apartment clean enough? Did you leave your clothes out that you were picking out before work?

It's too late to give a shit now.

You unlock the front door to the apartment, sighing as you took your shoes off and looked around the room. It's not messy, thank goodness.

Your cat Salem (yes he's an all black cat, how cliche but cute), trots up to the door and rubs his body against your calves, stopping in front of Aizawa. You didn't look, but you could feel the glare Salem was giving him.

When you turn around to look at Aizawa in the doorway, your cheeks flush pink. He's leaning against the doorframe, his broad shoulders on full display as your eyes wander his body.

When you finally look in his eyes, he's already looking into yours.

"Are you okay if I go?" He clears his throat, standing up straight, looking away from you for a moment.

No. Fuck no, it's not okay. You wanted to say.

It might be the liquor talking, but - "N-no. I'm not okay for you to leave."

Aizawa blinks, looking rather confused as he stays leaning against the doorframe. "Why not? Are you gonna be sick or something?"

You close your eyes, pressing your palms to your face as you sigh, shaking your head.

"My quirk isn't mind reading, you know. You have to tell me what you're thinking." He steps into your apartment. Just one step, but a step none the less.

You remove your hands from your face, looking up at him as he steps closer to you. Damn, he's handsome. His hair is wavy, some pieces framing his face, a slight pink in his cheeks from the cold temperature outside.

"I want you to stay here with me." You slur your words slightly, wincing after hearing the way they came out. He gives you a sympathetic look, shaking his head slightly.

"I don't know if-"

"What, you have a girlfriend? A wife? A fuck buddy?" The liquor keeps talking. You're more confident now as you speak, but the liquor in your system has nearly taken over.

"No, I don't. But you're drunk, and -"

"And what!" Your voice is almost a whine when you look up at him. He's looking down at you, a slight - very slight smirk on his lips as he speaks slowly.

"You just need to sleep, okay? I'll help you -" He reaches his hand out to usher you to your bedroom, but you refuse to leave from the spot you stand.

He's still touching your arm, but you're closer to him now. You can smell his cologne, musk with a hint of vanilla. Your fingers gently press to his broad chest, gauging his reaction.

He doesn't move, his eyebrows furrowed as he looks at you. You toy with the button on his shirt, pressing it between your thumb and index finger.

When you look up into his eyes, he's staring into yours again. This time he doesn't look away.

This is it. This is your shot.

You lean in, pressing your palm flat onto his chest as you stand on your tippy toes, your lips hovering in front of his as you close your eyes.

"No." He whispers, his large hand moving to the back of your head to stop you from falling back. "You're drunk."

You huff, opening your eyes and looking at him through your lashes. "So what? I know what I'm doing, Shota."

The man's fingers lace in your hair, caressing your scalp gently as he looks in your eyes, the look on his face far softer than you've seen.

"If I kiss you, I want you to remember it." His tone is so... affectionate. Soft. As if he wants to make sure the words don't hurt.

"Please stay." You look in his eyes again, pleading. "Stay on the couch, please. Just don't leave. Don't leave me."

After a moment, he nods, moving his hand out of your hair and to the small of your back. "Let's get you ready for bed."

Once you had your pajamas on, brushed your teeth and did your skincare, you hand Aizawa a pillow and blanket for the couch, giving him a soft, still intoxicated smile.

"Thank you."

"No need to thank me. Sleep well." He lays down on the couch, pulling his phone out to scroll as he lays the blanket on his body.

You don't remember going to bed, but you do remember the butterflies you felt in your stomach as you closed your door.

The next morning your head is pounding, but apparently your guardian angel left a glass of water on your nightstand along with Advil. You silently thank this angel, taking a sip of the water with the Advil, sitting up on your bed. Salem is curled up next to you in bed - his usually spot.

7AM.

Quietly, you open the door from your bedroom, peering into the living room, looking for Aizawa. The blanket was neatly folded on the couch along with the pillow.

No Aizawa.

You sigh, your hand pressed to the doorframe as you feel the sadness seep through your pores. He really left in the middle of the night?

Of course he did. He owes you nothing. He's just your colleague, coworker.

When you go to the bathroom to brush your teeth and wake yourself up, you hear your front door open.

With your toothbrush in your mouth, you walk out to the living room, eyes widening when you see the figure at the door.

Aizawa. With a bag of bagels and coffees.

"Good morning to you too." He says flatly, putting the breakfast and coffees on the counter as he takes off his shoes.

When Salem heard Aizawa's voice, he hopped off the bed and walked over to him, rubbing along his legs. You raise an eyebrow, watching the interaction.

Coming out from the bathroom after finishing brushing your teeth, you raise an eyebrow. "I thought you left."

"You thought I would leave without saying goodbye?" He presses his palm to his chest, feigning pain. "I'm not that kind of man."

"Well what else was I supposed to think? You took me home, helped my drunk ass get ready for bed, and I even tried to kiss you. I wouldn't blame you for escaping." You look down, sighing as you feel the embarrassment from last night. "I'm so sorry, by the way."

Aizawa didn't respond, only getting plates and napkins from the cabinets, opening a few to see where everything is. "You're awfully organized."

"I know." Slowly, you walk up to the kitchen island, leaning on the counter as you smell the savory aroma of the bagels, grabbing your iced coffee from the drink tray. "You remembered my coffee order? We've only gotten coffee together once."

"Yeah." His back is to you, his reaction unseen as he puts the bagels on plates, your eyes wandering to his broad shoulders, cascading down to his waist.

Breakfast was spent together, talking about the past week of teaching and enjoying each others company. With Aizawa, you can be yourself. Effortlessly.

When you finish your bagel, you lean your palm onto your cheek, letting your eyes wander to his gaze, a soft smile on your lips.

"What?" He his tone is lighter than usual, not as stoic and flat.

"You have cream cheese on your lip." You smile softly, reaching your thumb out, hovering over his lips. "May I?"

He nods, leaning his head towards yours slightly, his dark eyes looking down into yours as your thumb gracefully presses to his bottom lip, wiping off the cream cheese.

Bravely, you bring your thumb to your lips, tongue darting out to taste before pushing it into your mouth, your lips wrapped around your thumb as you keep your eyes on his.

Aizawa's face turned slightly pink, but his expression was still solid.

You stare at him, speaking softer than before as your body leans in slightly closer to his.

His heartbeat slightly increased, his head tilting slightly to the side. "What's going on in that pretty little head of yours?"

Fuck, his voice is like velvet.

"The fact that I'm not drunk right now." You clear your throat, giving him a lazy smile. "And I still want to kiss you."

A noise came from his throat, it sounded almost like a purr. His eyes are hypnotizing, half-lidded as he leans in, bringing his large hand to your cheek.

"Are you sure?" He whispers, letting his thumb gently caress your cheek.

When you nod, he doesn't waste another second.. He presses his plush lips to yours in a soft, slow kiss. His hand slides down to the side of your neck, letting his fingers gently wrap around. His thumb grazed the front column of your neck, earning a soft noise from you.

When he heard the noise, he needed more. You let your hands press to his chest, gripping his shirt between your fingers as you part your lips slightly as your lips move in time with his.

You felt his fingers press gently against your throat, his tongue sliding into your mouth as he takes a sharp breath through his nose, deepening the kiss.

"Sh-Shota." You mumble against his lips, pulling his shirt to get him closer to you.

"Mm?"

"Bed. Please."

Aizawa's hands must have been crafted by the Greek Gods themselves, they fit perfectly on your body as he slid his palms from your neck to your ass, lifting you up as he stands, one of his hands grabbing your thigh to wrap around him. His lips stayed on your skin, kissing your neck, chest, the valley between your breasts - like he was addicted.

Once he opened the door to your bedroom, to your bed that was left unmade, he gently laid you down on your back, his eyes wandering over your figure before crawling on top of you.

You both hear a soft meow - Salem at the door looking for attention.

"Sorry kid, I have to give your mommy some special attention." Aizawa gently shoos him from the door, closing the door gently before turning his gaze back to you. "Where were we?"

Aizawa's lips tasted like black coffee, his natural scent invading your senses. You couldn't keep your hands off of him - from his jawline, across his stubble, his chest, biceps, no part of him was off limits.

Contrary to his stoic appearance, he's a very attentive, caring lover. His hands cascaded down your body, occasionally bringing them to your thick thighs, squeezing the skin as his tongue slips into your mouth.

Your fingers run through his wavy black hair, moaning into his mouth as you grip on the inky strands. You could feel him hardening above you, pressing his pelvis against your thigh.

"Sh-Shota." You let out a soft moan as you wrap your leg arond his waist, his hand instinctively moving to your thigh to assist you.

"Yes, kitten?" He fucking purred, moving slightly back as he looked in your eyes.

You couldn't speak, your mouth just hangs open slightly as you watch him take a hair tie from his pocket and pull his hair back. His front pieces of hair fall around his face before he leans down again, kissing your lips softly before moving his lips to your neck.

"You've always been so shy, kitten." Aizawa mumbles into your neck, biting it after his new nickname for you. "I've been waiting for you to make a move."

You furrow your eyebrows, closing your eyes as you tilt your head to the side slightly to give him more space to assault your neck.

"Why didn't you make a move first then, Eraser?"

"I didn't know if that's what you wanted." He pressed a kiss to your jawline, then your ear, then your lips as he smirked.

"You're the worst." You close your eyes to stop yourself from staring at him, biting at your lower lip to stop a moan from escaping.

"I'm the worst? I don't think you mean that." Aizawa smirks, a dirty smirk - one that you'll never forget. He lowers his body, moving down to your stomach as he pushes your oversized tshirt up, kissing your bare stomach gently as his hands pull your sweatpants down. "Is this okay?"

You nod, not able to get words out as you watch him pull your sweatpants all the way down, throwing them on the floor before his fingers hook on the side of your panties - black lace.

"These are cute." You could hear the smirk on his lips as he kisses the lace.

"The worst." You whine, your fingers pressing into your palms as your eyes roll back.

"Look at me." His voice is muffled against your thigh as he looks up at you. You look down into his beautiful dark eyes and nod, a sharp breath escaping your nostrils. "I want to see your pretty face when you come on my mouth."

He wasted no time pulling down your underwear, discarding them to the side as he pulls one of your legs over his shoulder, nestling between your thighs.

Your hand found it's way to his hair, your fingers digging into his scalp as you feel his lips get closer and closer to where you need him the most. Your hips bucked as you squirmed, his lips planting wet kisses on the inside of your thighs before his nose grazed your slit - a smirk on his lips. The slick covered the tip of his nose, causing you to shudder.

"She's excited to finally meet me."

Fuck you, Shota Aizawa.

He plants a soft kiss near your clit before pressing his tongue flat along your slit, dragging it down before devouring you.

Your fingers gripped his hair as you felt his magical tongue inside you, like you're his last meal. Your hips bucked slightly, causing him to hold onto your hips, keeping you still.

"Eyes on me, baby." He mumbles against you, the vibrations making your toes curl. This man knows how to use his tongue and you envy any other woman that's gotten to experience this.

He wraps his lips around your clit, sucking gently as he plunges two fingers inside you, curling them as he starts pushing them deeper.

"Shota, fuck, please -"

"Please what, kitten. Use your words."

"Don't stop, y-you're perfect." Your eyes roll to the back of your head while Aizawa drinks in every moment.

Your thighs start to shake in a way that makes him squeeze your skin, not breaking eye contact as he sucks on your clit while plunging two digits in and out of you.

He can feel your spongy walls tighten around his fingers, signaling your orgasm approaching.

"That's right, baby. Come for me. Make a mess." He mumbles against you, his fingers moving faster and faster.

You start to see splotches of white in your vision, trying your best to keep your eyes on him as you come, but you're overcome by the pleasure he's giving you.

He never stops sucking, licking, and finger fucking you through your high. "Thats it kitten. You taste so good." His low, sultry voice vibrates through your entire body.

When you finally open your eyes, Aizawa rises up, your slick glistening on his plump, pink lips. You suck in a sharp breath as your chest rises and falls, your eyes never leaving his as he crawls on top of you, his hand moving to his own pants as he palms himself through the fabric.

"Let me-" You reach your hand out to touch him, but he shakes his head.

"Baby, I can't not be inside you any longer." In one swift movement, he slides his pants off, along with his boxer briefs. He takes his length in his hand, letting the tip graze your still sensitive post orgasm pussy. "My girl is still so sensitive, hm?"

You let out a whimper, your hands pressing to his shirt as you pull on the fabric, pulling it over his head. His hair is in a now messy ponytail, thanks to your fingers, and you swear you've never seen anything more beautiful.

"I'm gonna go slow, okay?"

You look down at his length in his hand, and fuck, he's big and girthy. You nod, swallowing some spit that gathered in your mouth.

Shota Aizawa is an attentive, communicative lover. He doesn't speak much outside of the bedroom, but inside - god damn.

He slowly guides himself inside of you, his eyes rolling back as he feels your spongy walls grip him, swallowing him.

"That's it, kitten. You're taking me so well." He used his free hand to run his fingers through your hair, caressing your cheek as he pushes his hips into you, filling you entirely to the hilt.

"Sh-Shota, -" You gasp as you feel him in his entirety as he plants a soft kiss on your parted lips.

"I'm gonna start moving, baby." He grunts, moving his hips to create momentum, his hand still caressing your cheek. "You're fucking perfect."

As he picks up his pace, you get lost in the pleasure. You feel like you're one with him, unlike any other parter you've had.

Aizawa keeps kissing you through this, mumbling affirmations as his own eyes roll back.

"So tight. So perfect."

"She takes me so well, like she was made for me."

"I've dreamt about this pussy."

Next thing you know, he has you in a mating press. Your legs at your head, his thick cock sheathing into you, watching him disappear inside of you.

His pupils are blown as his his jaw hangs open, completely in a trance as his hands wrap around your ankles, pushing them down.

"Sh-Shota -" You're breathless at this point, struggling to make a cohearant thought.

"I know, baby. I-I'm close." His dark eyes roll back as he thrusts become more messy, his hips almost stuttering as he empties himself inside of you.

As he climaxes, his dark brows furrow and his eyes roll back, a truly beautiful sight.

As your insides become coated in white, Aizawa finally slows down, with one last slow, deep thrust inside of you before he pulls out, rolling onto his back. He brings his palm to his forehead, breathing heavily.

"I can't believe I deprived myself for so long." He finally spoke, his red dusted cheeks fading slightly.

When you turn to look at him, he has a love struck, dumb ass look on his face. An uncharacteristic smile on his face as he pulls you closer to him, kissing your temple. "You're perfect."

Your insides truly feel rearranged. After some time, both of you falling asleep but waking back up soon after, he pecks your lips gently.

"I won't be depriving myself anymore." His voice is soft as he nuzzles his face into your neck. Your hand find its way to his hair, letting his ponytail down as a soft hum leaves your lips.

"You better not."

About 15 minutes later, you both hear a soft meow at the door, followed by sounds of claws on the door. You're laid on Aizawa's bare chest as he traces random shapes on your skin.

"Sorry kid, daddy had to take care of mommy." Aizawa smirks, kissing your temple before pulling his underwear on, padding to the door and opening it, letting Salem into the bedroom.

[writing-girlie]

Beside you

Pairing: Jack Abbot x Wife!Reader

Blurb: In the wake of Pittfest you have to prepare to confront your past when you and Jack are called in to help.

WC: 1k

Note: I'm so obsessed with this man. Might write part two!

Evenings like this were a gift. Neither of you are getting ready for a shift or leaving for one, coming home tired or returning to an empty house. 

You’re on the couch together, the warm glow of the living room lamps casting soft light. The remnants of dinner are scattered across the coffee table - empty plates, a half-drunk bottle of wine. The only sound in the room is the quiet hum of the TV, playing something neither of you are really watching.

Your head rests on Jack’s shoulder as you trace shapeless patterns on his thigh. His arm rests around your shoulders, holding you close. 

“I could get used to this” you murmur as your eyes close. 

Jack chuckles softly, his lips brushing the top of your head. “It’s nice, isn’t it?” 

Peace never lasts long cause not even a minute later Jack's ringtone echoes through the room. He picks it up from the side table and answers. 

“Hey Robby, what's up?” As soon as you hear him say Robby your eyes open, and you look at the clock. 5:50pm. He'd still be on shift, and although you can't hear what Robby is saying you can hear the urgency in his tone which makes your stomach knot. You sit up, and your heart begins to race as you watch Jack's face. The conversation is brief, but the change in his body language is enough. He puts the phone down

“It’s PittFest,” Jack says, his voice almost too soft. “There’s an active shooter. They're calling in staff.”

You don't speak at first, you can't. Your legs suddenly feel weighted as you stand up. Jack also stands and his eyes search yours, he cups your cheek providing some comfort. His expression softens just for a moment before he shakes his head. “You don’t have to come. Robby said he understands.”

You turn your head slightly and kiss his palm. “You know I can't do that” You try to hide the shake in your voice. “I can't sit this out when I know what's happening, knowing I can help” His thumb brushes over your cheek, grounding you, but your mind is already slipping elsewhere.

6 months earlier

The first shot barely registers before the second and third ring out in quick succession. Then—screaming. Footsteps pounding in every direction. A rising, frantic noise that doesn’t stop.

Pain flares hot and sudden in your side, sharp enough to steal your breath. You get down to the ground, your hands instinctively pressing to the wound—already slick and warm with blood.

Around you, the chaos doesn’t slow. Bodies blur past. Shouts echo. Sirens wail in the distance, growing louder. You blink hard, forcing yourself to stay conscious. 

You don't know how much time passes before you're getting dragged into the back of someone's car along with other wounded and raced to the hospital.

The ride is fast and uneven, the tires screeching around corners. You are then being pulled from the car and sent inside, a pink slap and around your wrist. You try to listen to what the people around you say but you feel disorientated, a pitchy squeal still ringing through your ears.

“Abbot!” 

Robby’s voice cuts through the noise, sharp and urgent. It's enough to get him coming over as fast as he can. 

“What's going on-” He freezes. Just for a second. Long enough for the horror to register.

Then he moves. He’s at your side, hands already reaching, hesitating, afraid to hurt you, but needing to touch. “No, no…” His voice is barely above a whisper. “I’m here, I’ve got you. You’re okay. You’re okay.”

Your throat is so dry and you're in shock that only a squeak comes from your mouth. 

His hand grips yours, thumb sweeping over your knuckles, grounding you. “Stay with me, baby. I’ve got you.”

“Jack,” Robby says behind him, a quiet warning.

Jack closes his eyes for one second. Then he lets go of your hand. He straightens, wipes his face with the back of his glove, and turns to the chaos.

“McKay, get to the red zone. They need hands. Go.” She doesn’t question it—just does it. 

“Robby, you’re with me,” Jack says, voice tighter now, cold and clear.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The hospital is quieter now. People still line the halls but the chaos has died down. The weight of everything lingers in the air. 

After Jake has checked in on others around he circles round to you. His shoulders fall slightly, just enough to show you that he’s been holding himself upright on pure adrenaline.

He leans on the gurney. His fingers run through your hair. “You scared the hell out of me," he admits, his voice barely above a whisper.

You glance at him, a teasing smile tugging at your lips despite the ache in your side. “C’mon, Jack. I think you’ve seen me in worse shape after a night shift.”

He lets out a laugh, short but real. “Yeah, but at least then you're not bleeding out.”

“Well, next time I’ll try to give you a heads-up.”

He shakes his head, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “You're not funny.”

“But you love me?” You murmur, guiding him for a proper kiss.

“I do” He kisses you again. “So damn much” and again.

Now

You don't even have to think, muscle memory kicks in as you both rush to get ready. The drive is fast and quiet. He glances at you briefly. “You okay?”

“No,” you admit. “But we don’t have time not to be.”

When the hospital comes into view, the chaos has already started and your stomach knots. You remember too clearly what it was like arriving in the back of someone’s car, bleeding and barely conscious. Tonight, you walk in on your own two feet.

Jack grabs your wrist as you reach the sliding doors, just for a second.

“You’re not a patient this time.”

You nod. “I know.”

Then the doors open and the noise swallows you both. You gear up and head your different directions. 

“Dr. Abbott,” a nurse calls, breathless. “They need you in Trauma 2.”

“I’m going to triage,” you say, already pulling on gloves.

Jack catches your arm before you disappear. “Don't hesitate to come to me if you need something."

You give him a soft look. “I’m not the one you need to worry about.”

“I’m still gonna,” he says.

“I know” You give him a kiss. “I love you”

“I love you too”

[tacobacoyeet]

George and y/nn broke up after the war because they both wanted to concentrate on their careers. The two see each other again years later at Ginny's and Harry's wedding because y/n and Ginny were very good friends even though she was in Fred and George's year. She was always like a big sister to ginny. George and y/n have never stopped loving each other and getting closer to each other again at the wedding. Then they disappear into the burrow and have hot sex. George is Dom as always. When the two come back Fred and Ginny already look suspiciously at them, because both of them always had to hear from the two how much they miss each other.

as fate promised | george weasley x reader

a/n: happy birthday to the most impactful and long-lasting book crush i've ever had. george weasley will always be the character i could never live without. thank you for all 5 requests i have in my inbox for him, but specifically this one. i took some creative liberties, but i hope i've at least given you a hint of what you were hoping for.

warnings: SMUT 18+, alcohol mention, war mention, pregnancy mention, au in which fred is alive (it's his birthday and i'm not cruel) and harry and ginny have a happy wedding, this isn't exactly accurate but... it's fun, i actually wrote a happy ending for once! yay, hastily proofread

The sunlight in Ginny’s bedroom streamed in slow, golden ribbons, casting a soft spell over everything it touched—the lace veil folded carefully on the dresser, the half-drunk flute of champagne on the windowsill, and the back of your neck, where a loose strand of hair clung to the curve of your skin. You laughed, breathless and fond, as Ginny spun in front of the mirror, the satin of her gown whispering against the wooden floor.

"You look like a painting," you murmured, reaching forward to adjust the fall of Ginny’s hairpins, fingers trembling ever so slightly. "Something out of a dream."

Ginny rolled her eyes with affection. "Don't go getting sentimental on me now. I need you composed, remember? One of us has to be."

But you weren’t listening anymore. Not really. Because the second you lifted your gaze out the crooked-pane window, your heart snagged on the sight of him.

George.

He was standing in the garden in a navy-blue jacket that clung to his shoulders like memory. His hair—still a riot of that unmistakable Weasley red—glowed brighter than the sun itself. He was laughing at something Charlie had said, tossing his head back. He laughed the way he always had, but it sat different now. Like something had broken beneath it. Something quieter rested behind his eyes.

Time.

It sat on both of you.

And just like that, the years folded in on themselves. Hogwarts corridors. Sneaked kisses behind greenhouses. Midnight swims in the Black Lake. Fred yelling, "Oi, get a room, you two!" as you and George tumbled into the Gryffindor common room hand-in-hand. Ginny’s endless teasing, how she would groan every time George sent an enchanted origami bird fluttering into your textbooks.

You remembered the day they fled Hogwarts. He had told you beforehand, of course. It was a painful night. Tears streaming, whispered "I love you"s, promises about the future you two had planned. You watched, soon after, the way the fireworks bloomed across the Great Hall ceiling, the way your chest cracked open watching him disappear through the clouds of rebellion. You had known. Even then. That something had ended.

You stayed. Finished what you started. Buried your heart in textbooks and late-night patrols, every breath a battle not to sneak out of Hogwarts and into the joke shop to throw your arms around him.

You kept your chin up. You trained. You earned your Auror badge like it meant something. Like it could stitch up the gaping space he left behind.

The letters faded. The visits stopped. And in their place—emptiness. Weeks turned to months turned to years, and you both just… let it happen.

It hadn’t been an ugly ending, just an agonizing one. A slow unraveling. A missed goodbye. No fights. Just silence where laughter used to live. Tear-streaked cheeks and clutched hands and whispered promises you were both too proud—and too young—to keep.

You’d never stopped loving him. That was the worst part. The love had never left. It had only settled somewhere quieter. Heavier. Waiting.

You blinked, and he was still there.

He hadn’t seen you yet.

But he would.

And when he did, the whole bloody world would stop. It may as well have, already.

You didn’t know if it was hope or fear blooming in your chest—only that it was alive again.

-----

The wedding was soft and golden, like everything that had come before it.

The garden behind the Burrow had been transformed—lanterns floating overhead like tiny stars, wildflowers blooming in mason jars along each aisle, chairs arranged in a perfect, charmingly crooked arc. It smelled like rosemary and lemon tart, like old wood and fresh beginnings. Someone had enchanted the breeze to stay warm and gentle. You could almost pretend it was magic itself.

You stood with the other bridesmaids, bouquet tight in your hands, your dress the same shade of blush Ginny had insisted on months ago with a wicked grin—“George will faint when he sees you in this.”

You hadn’t thought she meant it literally. But now, you weren’t so sure.

Because he was there.

Groomsman. Just across the aisle. Tense, freckled hands clasped in front of him, boutonnière slightly crooked, smile tight at the corners like he couldn’t quite catch his breath. And then—

His eyes found yours.

Everything else faded.

He stared at you like it hurt. Like it healed. Like you were everything he'd buried and didn’t dare dig up again until this moment. He looked at you like you were the only real thing in a world built from dreams. Like he'd spent every day since the war pretending not to search for you in every crowded street, every silent room.

And there was something else too—grief tucked behind the edges of his smile. As if the war hadn’t just taken his ear and a piece of Hogwarts, but pieces of all of you. The laughter was still there, but it sat deeper in his chest now. Older. Earned.

And you? You stared right back.

Because how could you not?

That was your George. Still him. Still yours. Except not. Not really.

Fred elbowed him sharply, grinning like a devil, and George blinked—smiling back with something startled and sheepish and boyish in a way that gutted you.

You looked away before you could drown in it.

But you would’ve given anything to drown in it.

You had imagined weddings before. Countless nights holed up in the Gryffindor Dormitory with Ginny, Hermione, and all of the other girls you grew up with. Some nights it was their dream wedding. Other nights it was yours. A beautiful venue, a devilishly handsome court-jester of a ginger across from you at the altar. A sting in your eyes, a warmth in your chest, the vows you had planned out hidden deep in your diary.

It wasn’t just a conversation with your friends. It was late nights and early mornings, the Gryffindor common room fire crackling beneath whispers between you and your lover. Your head would rest on his chest, the two of you staring off as you planned every little detail of your life together. The color scheme of your wedding, the names of your future children, who would be on dinner-duty each night. You were convinced it was fated. Prophesied. Y/N Y/L/N and George Weasley were written in the stars.

Today, though, this ceremony blurred around the edges, dipped in candlelight and vows and Molly’s occasional sniffles. You caught flashes—Harry trying not to cry, Ginny radiant like sunlight incarnate, Arthur clutching a handkerchief in both fists. There were enchanted doves, there was a harpist whose strings shivered like glass, there was magic in the air and it wasn’t all from the spells.

But mostly, there was him.

Watching you.

And you, pretending you didn’t keep looking back.

Your pulse raced, hot beneath your collarbone. Your knees trembled inside your heels.

Because you knew it, deep in your bones. The moment the last toast was made, the first chance he got—he was going to come to you.

And when he did, you wouldn’t run.

You weren’t seventeen anymore.

You were still his. Even if you hadn’t said it out loud in years.

---

The sun had dipped behind the trees by the time the reception hit its stride. Candles floated over tables dressed in mismatched linen. Music played low and rich beneath the hum of voices and laughter. Plates clinked. Wine glasses glittered in the fairy light. You danced with Neville, with Luna, with Bill, all with a smile stretched too tight across your face.

Because you could feel him watching.

Every time you turned, George was somewhere near—laughing with Charlie, talking with Lee Jordan, charming someone’s grandmother,  standing in his brother’s personal bubble as he whispered something that made Fred choke on his drink from laughter.

But he hadn’t come to you.

Not yet.

Your skin buzzed like a live wire. Every inch of you attuned to the way he moved, the weight of his gaze when he thought you wouldn’t notice. You were burning with it. Trembling with it.

And then you were gone.

You slipped away from the crowd, quiet as a spell. Past the string lights, past the garden’s edge, past the kitchen window glowing warm with laughter. You found your way to the porch—the one that creaked beneath your heels and smelled like pine and old summers.

You kicked off your shoes. Wrapped your arms around yourself. Breathed.

The door behind you creaked open, then closed.

You didn’t need to turn.

"You always did disappear at parties," he said softly.

You smiled to yourself. "You always did find me."

His footsteps creaked across the boards.

Then he was beside you.

Close enough to touch, but not touching. Close enough that you could feel the warmth of him through the air. You stared ahead, out at the setting sun. Fireflies began to buzz over the garden, and someone—Hermione, probably—had enchanted the pond to shimmer gold.

"Hi," he said.

You looked at him. Slowly. Let your eyes take him in, like your memory had starved for him.

"Hi," you whispered.

He breathed out a laugh. "Didn’t know if you’d actually come."

"I wouldn’t have missed it for the world."

He tilted his head. "Fred was bouncing off the walls. Told me if I didn’t clean up and act right, I’d regret it when you walked through the door."

You smiled. "He’s usually right."

George went quiet. His gaze dropped to the floorboards, then rose again to meet yours.

"You look beautiful," he said, voice low. "I mean—you always do. But tonight…"

Your chest ached. "Don’t."

"Don’t what?"

"Don’t say things like that unless you mean them."

He stepped forward. Close. Close enough that your arms brushed.

"I’ve meant every word I’ve ever said to you," he murmured.

You couldn’t breathe.

He was looking at you like he did in the greenhouses. In the library when you snuck him in after curfew. On the Astronomy Tower with your tie in his hand and the stars in your eyes.

Like he was falling through every single galaxy to end up in your arms once again.

"I missed you," he said.

You didn’t speak. Just stood there, blinking hard, willing the tears to stay where they were.

George shifted closer, voice unsteady. "I didn’t know how to let go of you. I thought I could pour everything into the shop, into laughing until it didn’t hurt anymore—but you never really left."

Your breath caught. "I thought I was doing the right thing. I thought if I kept moving forward, maybe it wouldn’t hurt so much. But it did. It does."

His eyes searched yours, but he didn’t flinch. "Then let’s stop pretending."

You opened your mouth to respond—but he kissed you instead.

It was not polite. Not soft.

It was filth and fire, all teeth and tongue, years of frustration and longing colliding behind lips that had forgotten how to be gentle. Your back hit the porch rail with a thud as he gripped your hips and ground against you like he could make up for everything in one breathless second.

You moaned into his mouth, clawed at his jacket, dragging him impossibly closer. His hands were under your dress, fists bunching the fabric as he palmed your ass with a growl.

"Come with me," he rasped, biting your lower lip just hard enough to make you gasp. "Now."

You didn’t need to be asked twice.

He took your hand and hauled you upstairs like a man starved, the tittering portraits lining the walls hardly audible as your hearts pounded in your ears, barely making it through his bedroom door before he shoved it closed with his foot and pinned you against it. His mouth was on your neck, hot and open and frantic.

"Missed this," he groaned. "Missed you."

You pushed his jacket off his shoulders, yanked his shirt open, buttons pinging off the walls. He didn’t even flinch. Just lifted you, carried you across the room, and dropped you onto the bed like he owned you.

And maybe he did.

You pulled him down with you, mouth on his, legs wrapped tight around his hips. He kissed you like he was trying to brand himself into your bones.

Your dress hit the floor. His trousers followed.

He didn’t wait.

He dropped to his knees at the edge of the bed and dragged your panties off with his teeth, eyes locked on yours. Then he was on you, tongue lapping between your legs, filthy and unrelenting.

You cried out, hips bucking against his face, and he groaned like he was addicted to it. He licked you through it, through your shaking thighs and gasping sobs, until you were trembling and pleading and yanking at his hair.

He rose over you, lips slick, pupils blown wide.

"You taste just as incredible as you used to," he said hoarsely, stroking himself as he crawled back over you. "I’m gonna ruin you."

You grabbed his face, pulled him close, lips clashing. "Please."

And he did.

He slammed into you in one deep, devastating thrust that made your eyes roll back.

You cried out, nails digging into his shoulders. He set a brutal pace, fucking you into his mattress like a man possessed, like every second without you had been agony.

"You’ve always been mine," he growled, hips snapping hard against yours. "Tell me you never stopped."

"Yours," you gasped. "Yours, George, fuck—don’t stop—"

He flipped you onto your stomach, dragged your hips up, and drove into you again from behind, one hand tangled in your hair, the other splayed over your lower back to hold you still.

The sounds—your moans, the slap of skin, the creak of the bed—filled the room, obscene and perfect.

You were gone. Wrecked. Nothing but sensation and him.

He reached around, fingers circling your clit, and you shattered with a scream, clenching around him so tight he cursed loudly, bucked once more, and spilled into you with a groan that sounded like your name and a prayer.

You collapsed into the sheets, limp and breathless. He followed, covering your body with his, panting into your neck.

"Still with me?" he asked, voice wrecked.

You turned your head, kissed the corner of his mouth. "Always."

He chuckled darkly, still catching his breath. "Hope you're not done. I’m not finished with you."

You grinned at him, panting, glowing. “We’ve got a few years to catch up on, you know. Our plans from 6th year said that I was supposed to have a ring and a pregnancy by now,” you tease.

And from the way he was already hardening again against your thigh—you knew he’d make up for lost time. 

He didn’t give you a moment to rest, not until the moon was casting over the backyard, encasing the party still roaring outside in a cool, whispered glow. 

-----

Later, when you finally emerged, flushed and radiant with something more than just exertion, Fred’s eyes caught yours. Ginny’s followed. They didn’t say a word—just exchanged a look, one that spoke of too many shared conversations and the soft satisfaction of being right.

You didn’t let go of George’s hand.

He leaned down, lips brushing the shell of your ear, voice low enough only for you.

“It’ll be ours next.”

You turned to him. "What?"

He didn’t hesitate.

“The wedding. It’ll be us getting married next.”

And this time, you didn’t flinch.

You smiled.

You believed him.

-----

tagging: @jamespotteraliveversion @hanneh69 @glennussy

[palmersluvr]

haunting you

summary: after your friend layla cancels your plans for the night, your “situationship” luigi comes over and you both take things to the next level.

warnings: smut, virginity loss (luigi) breastfeeding (f receiving) fingering (f receiving) pronebone (lol) breeding, some brief fluff at the end

𓂃˖˳·˖ ִֶָ ⋆🌷͙⋆ ִֶָ˖·˳˖𓂃 ִֶָ

you aren't usually into reality shows, usually you'd be spending the precious time you have in your dorm either watching a movie, or doing computer science homework, which usually entails attempting to tackle a programming problem with python.

yet tonight, you find yourself doing what you constantly told yourself you wouldn't do. you're sprawled out on your bed, with your eyes on the first reality show that you'd seen come up on netflix. in your defense, you're only doing it to kill time. you're waiting for your best friend layla to call you, she was meant to be at your dorm 10 minutes ago so you and her could get ready to go to the bar together.

right as the crappy show you're watching began to get half interesting, your phone starts ringing. and when you look over at who's calling, sure enough, it's layla. but when you answer her call, her voice comes through the phone sounding panicky and frustrated.

"okay, PLEASE don't get mad at me...."

you raise an eyebrow. that's never a good start.

"layla? hey girl what's the matter? where are you?" you ask, concerned for your friend.

"i can't come out tonight," she rushes out. "i’m so so so sorry, it's just... you know darren? my ex? he showed up at my dorm and it turned into this whole thing, and well... i just can't tonight."

you exhale, snuggling further into the comfort of your bed. darren's always trouble. him and layla had broken up months ago and he was still hung up over her, when he saw her out on a date with her new boyfriend he decided it would be a good idea to carve the word "SLUT" into her car door.

"layla, it's alright. promise."

you hear her breathe out a sigh of relief on her end. "are you sure? i feel like such an asshole.

you smile. "i swear, it's fine. i wasn't really in the mood to go out tonight anyway."

she groans dramatically. "thank you... i owe you, like, ten drinks."

you laugh, shaking your head even though she can't even see you. "i’m gonna hold you to that."

and then she's gone, the line going dead with a soft beep. you let go of your phone and let it fall onto your bed, staring at the ceiling.

looks like it's just you and god awful tv tonight. and honestly? you don't really mind.

until your phone chimes.

you've gotten a text.

probably from layla, she's probably texting to apologise yet again, something she has a habit of doing whenever anything like that happens between you two.

as you check your phone, your face heats up as you read that it's not from layla, it's from him.

𓂃˖˳·˖ ִֶָ ⋆🌷͙⋆ ִֶָ˖·˳˖𓂃 ִֶָ

luigi: hey :)

your brows lift. he never texts first. this is a surprise.

you quickly type out your reply.

you: hi handsome :) what you up to?

something's clearly up. you're always the one to text first. not luigi.

your phone buzzes.

luigi: nothing much, you still going out with layla tn?

you smirk at the screen, stretching lazily as you write your response. he has no idea that she bailed.

you: no, she cancelled, i'm just in my dorm rn

not even a minute later, you hear another buzz.

luigi: you doing anything?

you pause and bite your lip while you stare at his message, fingers hovering over the keyboard. you know what he means, or at least what he wants it to mean. you could toy with him. make him wait. let him squirm a little. make him work for it. but something about the way he texted you first... something about the way he's asking instead of just assuming... makes your stomach flip.

you let him sit with it for a minute before finally replying.

you: why? you lonely? ;)

three dots appear immediately. and then...

luigi: just asking.

luigi: are you doing anything or no?

you hum, staring at the screen before finally deciding where you want this night to go.

you: come find out.

yet another buzz...

luigi: be there in 10.

your stomach twists as you turn off your phone. but it's not from nerves. it's from anticipation. you sit up, smoothing your shirt, running a hand through your hair. there was absolutely no point in pretending that this wasn't exactly what you wanted.

you've done this dance before, you've made out with him until your lips were sore, dry humped him until he'd made a mess in his pants, marked his neck with hickies, but every time, he pulled back before it could go any further. said he wanted to "take his time." you never pressed him for more, you'd just tease him about it, calling him cute for holding out on you.

it's funny, he's not even yours. officially that is. but it would be a lie to say that you didn't feel your stomach churn with jealously whenever you saw him talking to another girl. just yesterday when you were on your way to go grab lunch, you saw him laughing with one of your classmates from the computer science class you and him shared, and you felt sick. but all you did was smile, say hello, and continue on your way.

your little "arrangement" is a secret. sometimes you wonder what people would think if they knew that you had luigi mangione, the sweet and popular nerd, cum in his pants while he moaned and begged underneath you.

𓂃˖˳·˖ ִֶָ ⋆🌷͙⋆ ִֶָ˖·˳˖𓂃 ִֶָ

you're in the middle of brushing your hair when there's a knock at your door, sharp and deliberate. you put your hairbrush down on the bed and let him wait a second longer than necessary, just to see if he'll knock again.

silence.

when you finally open the door, he's standing there, wearing his adidas hoodie that you always saw him wearing on campus. you also notice that he has his hands in his pockets and that his curls are messy. almost as if he's been running his fingers through them the whole walk over. but it's his face that catches you off guard.

he looks nervous. you knew something was up from the moment he made the rare choice on his part to text you first.

he's not his usual shy but smug, waiting for you to make a move kind of nervous. this is different. his jaw is clenched, his weight shifts, and for the first time since you met him... luigi looks unsure.

"lu?" you raise your brows. "are you alright?"

he exhales sharply. "can i come in?"

you stop and think for a second. he's never asked to come in before. most of the time he just walks in, kicks off his shoes, and throws himself onto your bed like he owns the place. but tonight? he's not his usual self. not by a long shot.

"...yeah," you say slowly, stepping aside to make way for him.

he walks past you but doesn't go to the bed. he just stands there, fists tight in his pockets, shoulders squared like he's bracing himself for something major to occur.

you close the door, arms crossing and brows furrowing. "luigi." you study him, narrowing your eyes. "what's the matter with you? you're acting kinda strange."

he shifts again. he doesn't meet your gaze. he looks like a puppy that just got scolded. you'd be lying if you said that you didn't find that look cute on him.

you sit on your bed and gently pat the spot next to you. it's not until he joins you that you realise just how timid he seems, how red faced he is.

"lu?" you ask softly. you want to be gentle with him. for now anyway.

then, finally...

"i wanna do it."

you're confused. really confused.

"i'm sorry?"

he clenches his jaw again. "it's just... this... us... this whole... arrangement." he exhales sharply, like he's forcing himself to say it. "i know this past month and a half we've always just kissed and done other stuff, but we've never gone further. i've always pulled away and told you i wanna wait. but tonight... i wanna go all the way. i wanna... y'know... fuck you.”

his words hit you like a slap.

wait.

you stare at him, processing what has just come out of his mouth, trying to piece together what he's saying, what he's really saying. if he's just telling you this now... after all this time... then does that mean...

that's when it clicks. that's when you fully realise why hes been holding back the whole time you and him have been messing around.

"...wait." your voice is slower now, careful. testing. "so you're telling me...."

he bows his head. keeping his gaze away from you.

your lips part. "are you.... you're... you're a virgin. aren't you?" luigi tenses. his fists curl even tighter, like he's just waiting for you to laugh at him. for you to ridicule him. but you don't have it in you. you can't do that to him, you won't do that to him, not while he's next to you looking all afraid.

this whole time?

all those nights he let you grind against him until he was a moaning mess, all those times he pulled back right before things got too heated, you thought he was just teasing you, playing hard to get. but no. he was waiting.

everything all of a sudden makes sense to you now.

you crawl into his arms. "you're actually serious? like this isn't a joke?"

he wraps you up in a tight embrace and stays silent. doesn't meet your eyes. and the fact that he's so flustered? it does something to you. because this isn't the luigi you're used to.

this isn't the cocky little shit who you've been spending practically every free period messing around in your dorm with. this isn't the cocky little shit who leans too close, who smirks when he catches you staring, who always makes it seem like he's two steps ahead.

this is something else entirely.

he's looking at you now, almost as if he doesn't know what to do with himself. like he wants this so badly it hurts, but he's terrified of messing it up.

"luigi." you speak his name softly, like you're comforting a toddler who's on the brink of tears. "why didn't you tell me? you know i wouldn't have judged you..." you press a gentle kiss to his cheek to assert your point.

he swallows hard, and caresses the spot that you'd just kissed.

"because i knew you'd look at me like that."

you're confused again. "like what?"

he exhales sharply, resting his chin on your head. "because i thought you'd think that i’d need to be handled carefully... like you'd think i'd need special treatment or some shit."

you close your eyes and breathe him in. special treatment? that's not what you're thinking at all. poor baby. "lu i-"

he groans, rubbing your back. "i guess i was also... scared shitless." he adds quickly. "of... fucking it up. because i've really cherished the moments we've shared together. i kept putting it off because i kept thinking to myself that you'd ghost me afterwards."

your chest tightens and you look up at him. "you thought i'd ghost you after?"

his head snaps down to meet your gaze. "yeah... i kept telling myself that if we did have sex, you'd find me lame in bed and would never speak to me again. and i wouldn't want that because the way I feel about you... it's different. and i didn't wanna just rush into it you know what i mean?" he's speaking in a low, almost shy tone. "i wanted to make sure that when it finally happened, it was right... and tonight, it feels right."

you find yourself blushing at his admission and feel your heart beat faster. he's never been this forward and honest with you before.

"lu..." you tease, your lips curving into a playful smile. "so, you're saying that you've been stalling because you're a virgin and didn't wanna embarrass yourself?"

his goes red again. "yeah..."

you feel his arms tighten around you as you huff out a soft laugh. "you asshole! and here i was thinking you were playing hard to get!"

that gets a chuckle out of him, and the atmosphere shifts, the tension easing.

"yeah?" he smirks, cocky, but there's still something shy in the way he looks down at you.

"yeah," you say, hand dipping under his shirt to rub his abs, going just gently enough to make him shiver. "you had me losing my mind, thinking you were being a dickhead on purpose!"

he bites his lip as if he's trying not to laugh, but then his eyes darken, his expression shifts, and suddenly, whatever held him back before is gone.

"i don't want to keep you waiting anymore," he says, and it's not cocky, it's not teasing, it's authentic. he kisses your forehead, as if he's trying to ground himself. "but right now... i want it. i don't want to keep pretending like I'm not ready when i am."

you nuzzle into his chest and sigh contently. "so why now?"

"because i finally get it," he murmurs. "it's not about whether or not i'm good on the first go." he gives you another forehead kiss, making your cheeks turn scarlet once more. "it's about you. about us. and i don't want to wait anymore."

and with that, you kiss him.

𓂃˖˳·˖ ִֶָ ⋆🌷͙⋆ ִֶָ˖·˳˖𓂃 ִֶָ

the kiss starts soft, familiar, his lips brushing yours with that quiet confidence you've come to know, but there's still a flicker of hesitation beneath it, a reminder that this is still new for him in so many ways. your hands slide up his chest, fingers curling into his shirt as you pull him closer.

even though it's not the first time you've kissed each other like this, this one seems to hold a little more depth, a bit more of him surrendering to the moment. his lips press against yours, firm yet warm, and as he leans into it, you feel the stiffness in his shoulders melt away, settling into the familiar rhythm you've spent the last few months carving out together.

his breathing grows irregular, and the shake in his fingers sparks a thrill through you, another reminder that he's still finding his way with you. lost in the kiss, your balance shifts, and suddenly you're tumbling backward, pulling him with you as you both collapse onto the bed in a tangle of limbs and muffled laughter.

"you alright?" he mumbles, voice all gravelly and soft, a crooked smirk pulling at his lips like he's still half lost in the chaos of the fall. you nod, the warmth of his closeness seeping into you, and before you can answer, he leans down again, pressing a softer kiss to the corner of your mouth less urgent this time, but no less deliberate. it's like he's savoring it now, the rush giving way to a quiet intensity that makes your chest tighten.

you feel his trembling hands snag the edge of your blouse. he tugs it up, slow like he's scared to break something, until it slips off and falls to the floor. he freezes, hands dangling in the air, eyes falling to your now exposed tits.

his breath hitches hard, cheeks blooming red as he stares, totally wrecked, the first time hes ever seen a girl this way.

"holy... shit." he mumbles, voice cracking, barely a whisper, and his fingertips ghost over your skin, shaky but reverent.

his fingertips linger, barely brushing your skin, and the silence stretches out, thick with the sound of his uneven breathing. you tilt your head, catching the way his eyes are still glued to you, wide and unblinking, like he's afraid you'll vanish if he looks away. "lu? what's wrong?" you ask, voice soft.

he blinks, startled, like you've pulled him out of a trance, and his hands jerk back an inch before he catches himself. his cheeks flare even redder, if that's possible, and he swallows hard, throat bobbing. "n-nothing's wrong," he stammers, voice rough and low, cracking on the edges. "it's just... you're the prettiest girl i've ever seen in my whole entire life."

the words spill out, raw and unguarded, and your own cheeks heat up, a flush creeping up your neck. "you don't mean that…” you mumble, looking away for a second, your voice small as the compliment sinks in and leaves you flustered.

he freezes, eyes widening even more, if that's possible, and shakes his head quickly. "no, i-i do!" insists, tripping over the words in his rush to get them out. "i swear, i mean it. you're... unreal." his gaze flickers up to meet yours, holding it for a shaky moment before dropping back down to your tits, locking onto your tits with that same stunned, unblinking gaze.

his voice comes out soft, almost timid. "can i...um... can i suck on 'em?" he pauses, face burning red, and his eyes flick up to yours for a split second before darting back down. "i've... i've always wanted to suck a girl's boobs..." he admits, voice cracking with nerves, and he bites his lip, hands twitching as if he's bracing for rejection.

"please? if that's okay? i just... i wanna make you feel good." the question hangs there, shy and earnest, wrapped in that same reverent, trembling adoration.

you swallow, heart thudding a little faster, and your voice comes out softer than you mean it to. “yeah… okay.” you say. the words slipping out before you can overthink them. your blush deepens, spreading warm across your skin, and you glance away for a second, suddenly hyper aware of the way his gaze is still glued to you.

his eyes snap up to yours, like he can’t believe what he just heard. “o-okay…” he stammers, voice cracking, and a tiny, shaky smile tugs at the corner of his lips, equal parts disbelief and awe. his hands flex, unsure where to go, and he shifts closer, tentative but eager, like he’s afraid to break the spell.

he leans in, slow and worshipful, his breath hot against your bare chest. his lips brush your skin first, tentative, pressing soft, shaky kisses across the swell of your tits, his mouth trembling. his hands rise, hesitant at first, then bolder, cupping your breasts gently. his fingers squeeze, kneading the soft flesh with a mix of curiosity and awe, his thumbs brushing over your nipples as a low, ragged groan escapes him. “fucking gorgeous…” he mutters to himself, voice thick and breaking, completely lost in you.

then, emboldened, he parts his lips and takes one nipple into his mouth, sucking hard. the sudden, firm pull sends a jolt of pleasure through you, sharp and electric, as his tongue flicks over the sensitive bud, warm and slick against your skin.

his teeth graze ever so slightly as he pulls back with a soft, lewd pop before diving back in, sucking greedily. his other hand keeps squeezing, fingers digging in just enough to feel desperate, and his breath comes in hot, uneven bursts between each sloppy, reverent pull of his mouth.

after a moment, his confidence inches up, and he pulls back just enough to speak, lips still brushing your damp skin. his voice is low, almost drowned out by his nerves as he stumbles over his next thought. “could i… um… rub your clit too? while i’m… doing this?” his eyes dart up to yours, wide and pleading, his face somehow redder still.

“i-i read this book about, uh, women’s pleasure,” he blurts, words tripping over each other, “and it said foreplay’s important… like, to get women ready for sex. i just… i wanna make sure i’m doing it right.” his fingers twitch against your sides, restless and waiting, that same nervous, heartfelt devotion shining through every faltering word.

the air hums with a charged stillness, his ragged breaths weaving through the heat of the moment as his lips linger near your damp skin.

“lu.… do you even know where the clit is?” you ask as your blush burns hotter, a shy smile tugging at your lips as you watch him. his eyes widen for a split second, caught off guard, but then something shifts in his expression.

he swallows hard, adams apple bobbing, and his voice comes out low, still shaky but with a thread of assurance. “y-yeah, i do,” he says, nodding quickly as if to convince himself as much as you. “i mean… i read about it, y’know? in that book. it’s… uh… it’s up near the top, right? like, where it’s real sensitive?” his cheeks flare redder, but his gaze holds yours a little longer this time, earnest and unsteady, like he’s clinging to every word he’s memorized. “i-i think i can find it. i just… really wanna try. for you.”

his other hand trembles as it slides lower, fumbling over the edge of your panties. his fingers hook the soaked fabric, knuckles brushing the damp heat of your inner thigh, and he yanks them aside with a shaky jerk.

the cool air hits your slick, pulsing cunt, and his breath chokes off in a sharp gasp. he freezes, eyes dropping to the sight of your bare pussy glistening folds spread open, wet and swollen, your clit peeking out, begging for his touch. “oh fuck…” luigi rasps, voice breaking, a raw, reverent curse as he stares, completely fucking entranced.

his pupils dilate, swallowing the color of his eyes, and his mouth hangs slack, a thin thread of drool pooling at the corner as he takes in every slick, pink detail. “it’s… so fucking pretty.” he mutters, barely audible, like he’s witnessing something divine he’s too small to comprehend.

the words hit you like a punch, and your blush explodes even more than it did before, a fierce, burning heat flooding your cheeks, your neck, even your ears. you feel exposed, vulnerable, and impossibly flattered all at once, the raw awe in his voice making your skin prickle and your breathing irregular.

he’s just drinking you in, thumb hovering an inch from your throbbing clit, trembling like he’s scared to ruin the perfection in front of him. his other hand squeezes your tit harder, fingers sinking into the flesh as a lifeline, while his breath ghosts over your sensitive nipple. then, he snaps out of it, blinking fast, and his thumb presses down, grazing your clit in a clumsy, shaky swipe.

the contact sends a white hot spark up your spine, your hips twitching involuntarily, and he gasps again, eyes darting up to yours. “a-are you alright? am i doing a good job?” he asks, voice thick with panic and adoration, every syllable soaked in that nervous, aching need to please you, even as he’s still half lost in the dripping, mesmerizing sight of your cunt.

you nod fast, heart pounding, and force the words out between gasps. “yeah, you’re… you’re doing so good lu…” you pant, voice fraying as his thumb rubs harder, smearing your slick over your throbbing clit. the sensation is overwhelming, a white hot rush that makes your thighs quake and your pussy clench, a fresh gush of arousal coating his fingers. your head lolls back, a guttural whimper spilling out as your body arches into him, chasing every stroke.

his breath snags at your praise, a shaky huff of relief, and his eyes spark with a mix of awe and hunger. “fuck… really?” he mutters, a trembling grin flashing across his lips.

he dives back to your chest, mouth latching onto your tit with a wet, hungry pull, sucking your nipple deep into his mouth. his tongue lashes over the swollen bud, teeth grazing just enough to send a shiver down your spine, while spit trails from his lips, leaving your skin slick and gleaming. his left hand kneads your breast that his mouth isn’t worshipping, fingers sinking into the soft flesh with rough, desperate squeezes, as he uses his free hand to keep rubbing your clit, each motion dragging you closer to the edge.

“wanna make you feel… so fucking good,” he groans against your tit, voice muffled and raw, the words vibrating through you as your body hums, every nerve alight with the filthy, fervent pleasure he’s wrenching from you.

𓂃˖˳·˖ ִֶָ ⋆🌷͙⋆ ִֶָ˖·˳˖𓂃 ִֶָ

minutes go by, and luigi now has three fingers spearing into your drenched cunt, thick and unforgiving, stretching your tight, quivering walls as he rams them in knuckle deep. the pace is brutal, a wet, obscene slosh echoing with every thrust as your slick floods his hand, running in hot sticky rivers down his fingers and splattering onto the sheets. your pussy grips his digits like a vice, spasming and gushing, the sopping mess of it coating his skin as he pleasures you, wild and unhinged.

how he’s nailing every perfect spot, driving you wild with precision despite being a virgin blows your mind. knowing the nerd that luigi is, you know for sure that he must’ve fucking DEVOURED a stack of books on female pleasure to get this damn good.

your moans claw out, ragged and animalistic, each one a shredded howl as pleasure twists into a vicious, coiling ache in your core. your hips buck hard against his hand, thighs trembling so fiercely they slap together, your body a shuddering, sweat drenched wreck.

but he’s moaning too, deep and primal, the sound tearing from his throat as his hips jerk helplessly, jeans bulging. his face twists, sweat pouring off his brow as he gasps like he’s choking, a fat, wet stain blooming across his crotch where his cock pulses and leaks, soaking through the fabric.

you catch him falling apart flushed, frantic, a trembling mess and rasp, “what’s wrong?” your voice a gravelly wreck, hands digging into his arms as your own edge sharpens.

luigi’s eyes snap open, and he groans, “you’re gonna make me fucking cum in my pants,” the words spilling out in a desperate, fractured whimper, “and you haven’t even touched me.”

his cock is throbbing so hard you can see it twitch through the drenched denim, pre cum oozing in thick, messy streaks.

“no, stop.” you snarl, voice raw and commanding, shoving him back, his fingers ripping free from your sloppy, pulsing cunt with a loud, wet suck. “fuck me instead.”

the words hit him like a slap, and he stalls, hands slick and shaking, jaw slack as he sucks in air. “y-yeah, fuck, alright,” he chokes, voice a ruined mess, clawing at his zipper with slippery, fumbling fingers, racing to unleash his swollen, dripping cock, the air thick with the hot, filthy promise of what’s about to go down.

you’re able to see it for the first time, and your eyes widen.

it’s massive, thick and veiny, flushed dark with need, the tip glistening with a fat bead of pre cum that drips obscenely. shock jolts through you, a fleeting thought of how the fuck is that fitting?

but there’s no time to process it. he’s already moving, hands rough and urgent as he grabs your hips, flipping you over with a grunt.

your stomach hits the surface, breath punching out of you as he manhandles you onto your belly, his slick fingers digging into your flesh, positioning you fast and messy, the raw hunger in his grip promising no pause, no mercy.

he keeps you pinned face down, his trembling hands clamping your hips with a bruising grip, fingernails carving crescent moons into your flesh. his swollen cock, thick and veiny, drags across your ass, leaving a hot, gooey smear of pre cum before he notches the fat, dripping head against your soaked entrance.

he hesitates, chest heaving with wet, shuddering breaths, and rasps, “you ready?” his voice a broken, guttural wreck.

“y-yes lu…” you stammer, voice half smothered against the mattress, your pussy throbbing, arousal pouring out as you tilt your hips toward him, needy but braced. he growls low in his throat, primal and ragged, and then he pushes in slowly, his cock splitting you apart, stretching your drenched cunt wide.

the burning, unrelenting stretch hits you hard, and you scream.

“fuck! i n-need a sec…” your voice trembles as your body quakes, struggling to adjust to the sheer, overwhelming size of him. your hole clenches hard, spasming around him.

while for luigi, it’s the first time he’s ever been inside a pussy, and the feeling slams into him like a tidal wave. “oh my g-god… fuck, fuck!” he whimpers, a high, shattered sound ripping from his chest as your hot, sopping heat wraps him tight, squeezing him in a slick, pulsing chokehold.

you twist your head, breathless, and croak, “you alright?” his hands shake violently on your hips, gripping harder, and he chokes out, “i didn’t know… didn’t know it’d feel this fucking good…” his voice splintering into a near sob, every nerve frying as your cunt hugs him, wet and molten, drowning him in the raw, mind bending bliss of finally being inside you.

he swallows hard, voice a shaky, guttural wreck, and mumbles “are you alright?” the words barely coherent, thick with desperation as he hovers on the edge, waiting for your answer.

you nod weakly. “yeah…” spilling from your lips, voice raw as your cunt throbs around him, caught between pain and a dark, blooming heat. that’s all he needs.

“fuck… i’m gonna start moving.” he groans, the sound splintering from his throat, and he starts to thrust. it’s slow at first, a torturous pull as he eases his thick, veiny shaft back, the swollen head dragging along your tender walls, stretching your dripping hole with a lewd, sucking tug that forces a ragged gasp from your chest.

then he slams back in, deep and merciless, his sheer bulk splitting you wider, profanities tearing from you as he fills you completely, balls slapping against your skin. the stretch bites, then melts into something jagged and electric, your pussy gripping him like a drenched, ravenous fist, slurping noisily.

“holy… shit, it’s too much” he whines, voice cracking into a high, frantic wail, hips jerking forward with rising need, each thrust a sloppy, vicious plunge that stuffs you to the brim. your juices gush out, glazing his cock in a shiny, wet sheen, splashing in hot, messy streaks down your thighs and over his groin as he drives into you, the loud, wet smack of his pounding echoing through the room.

you scream, voice raw and splintered, fingers clawing at the surface beneath you, nails gouging deep as your hips jerk back to meet his thrusts, craving the savage depth even through the sting. his hands grip tighter, nails leaving angry red marks in your skin.

“fuck… feels like heaven…” he moans he rams into you, lost in the tight, dripping grip of your cunt, his first, sucking him in deep, wringing him dry, every thrust setting his nerves ablaze. his rhythm quickens, slow, teasing drags morphing into wild, frantic snaps, his hips slamming into your ass with loud, wet smacks.

suddenly, his hand rears back and lands a sharp, stinging slap across your ass cheek, the crack ringing out as your skin jiggles and a hot, red flush blooms under his palm. you scream again, a sharp “oh shit!" bursting from your lips. your body jolts forward and your pussy clenches tighter around him in reflex, a wild mix of shock and pleasure ripping through you.

“christ... this pussy's insane…" he pants, voice a trembling, slurred wreck, his cock hammering deeper, stretching you to breaking as your cunt squishes and gushes around him.

minutes dissolve into a sweaty, moaning blur, and then he collapses onto your back with a guttural grunt, his weight crushing you flat as he shifts into pronebone. his chest molds to your spine, his hot, panting breaths blasting your neck as he keeps fucking you, faster and harder, his cock slamming deep with every savage thrust.

“can’t… stop…” he whimpers, voice breaking into a sob, arm wrapping around your neck like a steel band, trapping you beneath him as he pounds your cunt into submission, your ass rippling with each violent, wet collision, the overwhelming feel of him… so huge, so deep… shattering any last shred of composure you had.

his lips crash onto your neck, wet, frantic and ravenous. he kisses you there, sloppy and wild, his tongue lashing out to lap at the sweat beading on your flesh, teeth scraping as he groans deep into your skin, and you feel the sound going through your bones. his thrusts never slow, each one a brutal slam, his cock splitting you wide, the swollen head battering your cervix with a force that makes your vision blur.

you’re moaning like a pornstar and your cunt is clenching so tight it’s like you’re trying to milk him dry.

“shit! i’m so close!” he growls against your neck, each word punctuated by a messy kiss, his lips smearing spit across your skin as his hips falter, thrusts turning wilder, even more frantic than before. his cock throbbing violently inside you. “i’m gonna cum-” he grunts, his arm’s grip around your throat tightening, his dick pulsing hot and thick, teetering on the brink.

and you feel it. the hard, rhythmic twitching, the way he swells even bigger inside your wrecked cunt. “cum inside me! please lu…” you sob, voice a hoarse, pleading wail.

your nails claw at the mattress, legs shaking uncontrollably, a high pitched whine escaping as the overstimulation makes your whole body quake. his breath snags, a choked sound ripping from him as he pounds you with frantic, bone rattling thrusts, right on the edge of shattering.

and then you feel it. his hips jam tight against your ass, and his cock pulses hard, flooding your wrecked cunt with a thick, blistering rush of cum. the heat crashes into you, raw and overpowering, his seed pumping in heavy, forceful jets, stuffing you so full it presses against your walls, a surge that makes your pussy clamp down and milk every last drop from him.

he whimpers, his thrusts stuttering to a stop as the final drops empty into you, his body quaking against yours. before you can catch your breath, his shaky hands fumble to your hips, yanking your soaked panties back into place with a hurried, sloppy pull.

the fabric snaps against your skin, locking his cum inside, and almost instantly, you feel the hot, sticky load seeping out, leaking past your swollen, aching lips, soaking the crotch of your underwear in a thick, dripping mess that clings to your thighs. you whimper softly, overwhelmed, your cunt still spasming from the intensity, reeling from the fullness and the filthy, oozing aftermath.

panting heavily, you drag yourself forward on trembling limbs, crawling under the covers and sinking into the soft refuge of the blankets. the bed dips as he follows, slipping in beside you, his warm, sweaty body brushing against yours. you roll over to face him, your breath still uneven, and his arms immediately open, pulling you in tight.

he wraps himself around you, chest pressed to yours, one hand cradling the back of your head as he peppers your forehead with soft, lingering kisses, his lips trembling slightly. his other arm snakes around your waist, holding you like you're his lifeline, his legs tangling with yours in a clumsy, needy knot.

he’s all soft now, an obvious shift from the wild frenzy of before, his face nuzzling into your hair as he lets out a quiet, shaky whimper. “how are you?” he murmurs, voice small and fragile, laced with a tender worry as he pulls back just enough to search your eyes, his own wide and glistening, like a nervous pup checking for approval. he presses his forehead to yours, still clinging tight, as if he’s afraid you’ll slip away.

you catch your breath, a faint smile tugging at your lips as you nod. “i feel great.” you say, voice soft but steady, your hand resting against his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heart.

“that was… intense. you’re wild, you know that?” your tone lightens, teasing, and he blushes hard, ducking his head with a sheepish grin.

“i-i didn’t know it’d be that good…” he stutters, voice barely above a whisper, his fingers tracing shy circles on your back. “i just… i wanted to make you feel good. was it… was i okay?” his eyes flick up, hopeful and uncertain, and you can’t help but giggle, the sound bubbling up soft and warm.

“not bad for a virgin.” you tease, smirking as his blush deepens, spreading across his cheeks like wildfire. he whines, burying his face in the crook of your neck to hide, but you feel the little laugh he lets out, muffled against your skin.

“stop…” he mumbles, half embarrassed, half playful, his arms tightening around you as he nuzzles closer. “i just… read a lot, i guess. wanted to get it right.” his voice softens, earnest now, and he peeks up at you, a shy smile breaking through.

"you're amazing, though. i still can't believe that just happened." he kisses your forehead again, slow and sweet, settling into you with a contented sigh, like a clingy, soft baby who's finally found his safe place.

he pulls back slightly, eyes shining, and whispers, “i love you.” voice steady yet raw.

your heart leaps, a wild surge of joy flooding you, and you grin, breathless. “i love you too.”

𓂃˖˳·˖ ִֶָ ⋆🌷͙⋆ ִֶָ˖·˳˖𓂃 ִֶָ

I SPENT TWO WEEKS WRITING THIS SO U ALL BETTER GOBBLE IT UP NICE AND GOOD.

previous work | masterlist

[venusbyline]

Opposites ࿐ྂ Kinktober. 09, oct.

— pairing: Derek Morgan x petite!reader

— type: smut, Kinktober (Criminal Minds Edition)

— kink: size difference

— summary: Derek asks you out on a date after seeing you just keeping company with your best friend at the gym.

— word count: 1.8k

— tags/warnings: kinktober 9th day, female!reader, gym goer!Morgan, size kink, fingering, oral (female receiving), praise kink, hand & fingers kink, curse words, sub!reader, dom!Morgan, shy!reader, womanizer!Morgan, Spencer Reid mentioned. no use of y/n. english is not my first language.

— tagging list: @thatredlipped-classic @purplehaze206 @ehedrick012110 @hotchsmutrecs @slutcakes00 @emma-e-a @helo1281917

— crossposting: AO3

When you agreed to follow your best friend's workout at the gym, you were not really that interested in watching sweaty muscular people lifting weights back and forth. You spent all six damn days throughout the month focused on using your phone during those hours, only getting distracted when she asked you to help her pick something up or to record her so she could post the videos on her Instagram Stories later.

You were not a person very interested by fitness life, your mind was more focused on reading, working and watching movies. But you still took time out to watch your friend doing boring exercises.

You went to fill her water bottle for the second time in the last two hours, you were startled when a tall and very strong man approached you. "Jesus, I'm so sorry." You laughed embarrassedly, taking the airpods out of your ears. "I was so focused on the song I barely saw you coming."

The guy laughed too, a soft smile and dimples appearing slightly as he looked you from head to toe, seeming to understand that you were not there often. At least not for training. "It's your first day?

He asked and you flinched. You did not know if that was just curiosity or a mocking hint disguised as a question.

You swallowed hard and shook. "I'm just accompanying my friend." You said, turning off the water and looking at him. "What's your name?"

He smirked, stretching his strong arm towards you with a suspicious way, as if he was making a point of showing how hot he was. "Derek Morgan, princess."

The pet name made your cheeks blush and you nodded silently for a while, before seeing him furrowing his eyebrows and crossing his muscular arms. You lingered for a moment at the alluring sight before looking up, realizing the reason for his confused look. "Oh, sorry again." You gave an embarrassed smile, introducing yourself soon after, stretching out your hand for a handshake and watching him let out a little chuckle and uncross his arms again, shaking your hand, his large palm covering yours without any effort.

"A pretty name for a pretty little princess." Derek teased and then pointed to the crowded gym. "So, little princess... Don't you want to join us?"

Derek's question caught you off guard and you denied it, giving a half smile. "It's not my style. But thank you, I really admire those who follow this routine." You told him and he nodded, hoping you would continue saying anything just so he could hear your sweet voice. "The one over there that brought me here." You pointed to your best friend, who was looking at both of you with a prankish and excited look, as if she was noticing the obvious flirting even from a distance.

Morgan nodded, giving your friend a smile and a brief wave before turning back to you. "She seems like a nice girl. She's been training here for a while now." You agreed with his words. In fact, your friend was one of the best people you had ever met. Kind, funny, beautiful and with a perfect gym body. It was impossible not to be interested in her. "And your favorite hobbies?"

That surprised you a little, since you were absolutely sure Derek would stop flirting after you showed him your friend. Maybe this was just a stupid manly trick. "I like reading and watching movies when I'm not at work."

Derek smiled, crossing his arms for the second time. "An avid reader, then. You'd definitely get along great with Reid." You frowned at his joke. "Who's Reid?"

"One of my best friends and co-worker at the BAU." Derek told you and you were silent for a few seconds before you huffed, moving further to the corner so other people could fill up their water bottles at the gym's water fountain if they wanted. "If you have a crush on my best friend and this is just a way to suggest that you two go on a double date with me and your friend Reid, I have to say that's the worst flirting I've ever seen in my whole life."

Your bitter words left him indignant and in complete awkward silence, a loud laugh leaving his full lips when he finally spoke, wiping away the tear that fell from his brown eye. "Do you really think I have a crush on your friend, princess? If I liked her, I would just go up to her and ask for her number, I wouldn't pretend to have a crush on you and plan a double date just so I could have a least chance of talking to her."

You raised an eyebrow, stuttering and your hands shaking to try to hide your embarrassment. "But... You've already known her here at the academy for months..."

Derek nodded, the mocking and funny expression still on his face. "Exactly. I've known her long enough to have asked her out on a date if I was interested. I wouldn't waste time."

Not really knowing what to do, you looked away and scratched the back of your head, feeling like an idiot for not realizing that Morgan was trying to flirt with you. Having someone like into you seemed so surreal that you could hardly believe it was true. It seemed like a silly prank.

"So... How about a pub after my workout? I bet your friend won't mind lending you to me tonight."

You did not have a very good history with relationships or dating in general. You avoided having casual relationships due to some previous disappointments and you certainly would not have accepted Derek Morgan's invitation if he was not so... Perfect.

Agreeing to go with him to the pub after his and your friend's training had already been quite a step. There was a certain fear in drinking with strangers, especially when they were men. But Derek made you feel so comfortable during the date that you laughed more with him than with all the boys you had ever been involved with. He was charming, even if he was a womanizer.

Either way, you did not care. You felt so excited that just some kisses were enough for you to let yourself go to his house.

Both of you were the opposite of what you always looked for in your partners. You were more used to being involved with introvert nerdy boys. Derek was more used to having sex with gym girls or women who looked like supermodels.

And everything felt so right yet.

"You sure you're not virgin?" Morgan teased as he ripped off the gray shirt he was wearing and clinging to his biceps, making you distracted by the beautiful sight of his black skin and his strong body before you focusing on what he had asked.

"Yeah. Absolutely sure." You grumbled, legs still closed since he removed the skirt you were wearing. "I'm just... I'm just..."

"Just shy?" He smirked, gently opening your legs and exposing your pink cotton panties, already damp from the intense kisses you two exchanged along the way. You cursed yourself for not wearing a lace lingerie, the cotton fabric looking so childish for the situation that you could hardly believe Derek was still horny. "Something like that..."

Your begrudging admission made him chuckle, his large hand sliding down to the stain on your panties, where he rubbed a few circles that made you gasp. "You don't need to be so shy, princess." Morgan's finger continued caressing your clit through the cloth and you were no longer able to think straight, so he continued, his free hand going up inside your shirt, also caressing your petite breasts as you finally let out a louder moan. "Holy shit... You're so fucking wet."

Your cheeks turned pinker and you nodded, looking at him with big puppy eyes, desperate for more touch. Your hand went up to his biceps, holding and pulling him closer, so he could kiss you again. A little smirk escaped Morgan's lips while his strong body was on top of yours, covering you completely as he kissed you, his soft mouth tasting yours as his fingers pushed your panties to the side and rubbed your clit without any fabric getting in the way.

His fingers were cold compared to your warm pussy, you could feel it very well when Derek inserted his middle finger into you, fucking you slowly when he saw you holding your breath and widening your eyes. The lack of sex over the past months has made you more sensitive and tight than usual.

"Fuck, princess..." The movements started to get faster and you moaned almost pathetically, your legs shaking and your body trying to move away from his hand reflexively. "Shhh, relax..."

You whimpered, spreading your legs even wider to try and make the process easier. Derek smirked proudly at the sight of your pussy tightening his finger as you worked hard to get him deep, your tight velvety walls becoming softer when he added his ring finger too.

A whining of pain echoed through the room. But not unbearable pain, just the pain of stretching. "Such a tight little pussy..." Morgan growled, fingering you and reaching down to begin trailing wet kisses down your skinny thighs. "Attagirl... You're so hot..."

You smiled at Derek, the shyness remaining but now also feeling proud of yourself at the sight of Derek's cock tight in his gym shorts, desperately wanting to break free and be inside you, fucking you.

Your eyes narrowed when Morgan nibbled the lower part of your thighs until he reached your groin, kissing your clit, so fast and soft that it made you shiver and squeeze his fingers by impulse. "Derek, please..." Your whining might seem stupid, but to Morgan it was the cutest and sexiest thing he had ever heard. He smirked after running his tongue over your wet folds, licking some of your dripping juices.

"You think you can handle one more finger, princess?"

His question made you stop moaning, your vision now focused on his hand, his two fingers still fucking you rough and fast. They were too big, the possibility of one more inside was almost like being ripped in half. Two fingers inside you was what you were used to.

However, you did not care much about the pain. You wanted every inch of Morgan inside you. You wanted to feel him deep down, you wanted every second of that sex to be worth it. You wanted Derek to make you feel so much pleasure to the point that you squirted effortlessly into his hand, until you wet his face and chest.

"Four..." You whispered between moans when he interspersed the fingerfucking with the caresses of your clit caused by his thumb. Morgan looked at you confused, at first not understanding what you were suggesting. "Four fingers, Derek. I need this..."

Derek gave you a dimpled smile, chuckling softly and licking your clit again, the tip of his index finger already ready to enter you. He licked your folds for the third time before teasing you. "What a pretty and greedy little pussy..."

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