#especially his because hes so damn tall

[nanamisgirly]

feed back and reblogs are always appreciated my girliees <333

part.2 part.3 part.4

virgin!nerdjo who pulled a total certified baddie in college by being…himself.

awkward, dorky, too tall for his own good, always pushing up those stupid glasses with ink-stained fingers— it was him. somehow, you wanted him. he doesn't understand how he got so lucky, but he's not about to question it. 

virgin!nerdjo got one mission : being good to you. especially in bed. because when you kissed him for the first time, straddling his lap, grinding that perfect little body against him, he nearly came in his pants. he gripped your waist a little too tight to keep you from moving too much. it's humiliating how quickly he was about to fold, how his cock throbs desperately just from the heat of you.

virgin!nerdjo isn't completely clueless—he's read about sex, heard about it, he's not that innocent. but knowing and doing are two completely different things. and he realized it the second you grinded on him. he damn near whimpered. bit down hard on his lip to swallow it back.

virgin!nerdjo needs to learn. he thinks porn might help—big mistake. it's all so…aggressive. male-centered. nothing about it feels right. he watches a few clips, cringing the entire time, then slams his laptop shut and scrubs a hand down his face. he should have listened when geto used to go on and on about his exploits. should have paid attention instead of rolling his eyes and tuning him out.

so he does what he does best. he researches. virgin!nerdjo orders a book called ‘The Art of Female Pleasure.’ and the moment it arrives, he's on it. glasses slipping down his nose, hunched over the pages, absorbing every word like it's the most important text he's ever studied. he dedicates days to this. nights. rereads passages, highlights sections. he doesn't just want to be good. he wants to be perfect. because you're a baddie—a pro— and he's so fucking lucky. what if you jump on him any time soon and he's still not ready? that idea terrifies him.

virgin!nerdjo gets so into it that he even starts to scroll through forums. he reads firsthand experiences, studying anatomy diagrams until his face is burning and his cock is achingly hard beneath the sheets. because it's not just learning, it's imagining.

virgin!nerdjo who imagines you underneath him, pretty lips parted in gasps, legs spread as he slides his fingers over you just like the book describes. he imagines how wet you'd get if he did everything right. if he took his time, kissed his way down your body, licked into you like he's read—slow, deep, deliberate. he wonders if you'd tug on his hair, if you'd cry out his name, if you'd shake when you come, thighs squeezing around his head—

fuck. horny thoughts took over him as he bucks up into nothing. he wants it. so bad. 

and the next time you're kissing, you instantly notice how his hands get bolder, slipping under your shirt, trailing fire down your spine. how he suddenly knows excatly where to touch, where to squeeze, when to roll his hips just right—letting you feel the size of him, the hard, thick heat pressing up against you. you break the kiss, breathless. “since when do you do all that?”

virgin!nerdjo swallows thickly, ears burning red. “…i've been studying.”

૮꒰⸝⸝> - <⸝⸝꒱ა☆⋆。

for @miscellaneous-misty

[tonycries]

AITA For F*cking My Sugar Daddy's Son?! - G.S.

Synopsis. When your sugar daddy just isn’t paying attention to you, can you really be blamed for fúcking his son? Especially when his son is absolutely obsessed with you.

Pairing. Rich boy! Gojo Satoru x Sugar baby! Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, unprotected, jealous Satoru, créampie, dirty talk, manhandling, marking, Satoru’s dad is not really present, oral (female receiving), overstim, másturbation (male), thigh riding, cúmplay, Satoru is really really down bad and filthy for you, CEO’s son! Gojo,  pet names, swearing.

Word count. 8.1k

A/N. Will proofread later, lowkey scared to post this, but I just wanted it out of my mind. And in my mind, Satoru’s dad is FINE asl so-

The first time you meet Gojo Satoru is when you’re all dolled up for his father. 

Designer dress just a bit too tight, running on a few too many shots of tequila, wanting to be anywhere but at this stuffy gala. Everything was too bright - too polished.

And it really didn’t help that no matter how many scathing looks or whispers that followed you, you just had to be here - it was in your contract, after all. Because luckily for you, you just so happened to be the infamous little plaything hanging off the arm of the head of Gojo Corporations.

Well, usually. Right now your sugar daddy was too busy entertaining his business partners, leaving you off to the side, praying for something - anything - to save you from this-

“Damn if I’d come to these shitty galas a lot more often if it meant I’d get to see a beauty like you.”

You jolt out of your bored little reverie, eyes immediately snapping up to meet the tall man suddenly in front of you. When did he even get so close? 

You can’t help but drink him in from head to toe, from the overpriced, slightly-disheveled suit to the tiny dimple at the end of his mischievous grin. Strangely familiar white locks fell effortlessly to curtain his eyes. Eyes that were a startling blue - the kind of blue that had your cheeks flaring and knowing exactly who this was. 

Oh.

At your silence, he tilts his head with the air of someone that owns this entire venue and everything in it because, well, he did. Twinkling gaze searing into your skin as it roams appreciatively all over your body, plowing on, “Though, you look like you’re on the verge of an aneurysm around these old coots.”

You sigh, pinching your nose at the curious glances around you. Not even able to find it in yourself to put on that plastic smile anymore, “Oh y’know, just soaking up my popularity with the masses after being stranded here.”

“Oh? Here with anyone?”

“Yeah.” you blurt out, “Your father.”

You watch in amusement as Satoru’s mouth falls into a delicate oh! eyes flickering over his shades between you and the handsome man on the other end of the venue, oblivious and fully enjoying himself in the company of his secretary. A bit too much without you. 

“Y’know…” he starts, shaky and sounding only half the insufferable heir he was before, “I would say that’s a hilarious version of a ‘your mom’ joke but you’re actually serious, aren’t you?”

“Mhm. Though it would make a good punchline, huh?” You huff out a laugh at the way he was suddenly less of a smooth-talking playboy and more of a lost puppy. The gears turning in his head as he processes that oh shit you were the sweet lil’ thing his dad’s been suddenly rushing off to meet straight after work. And the reason why all those old fossils here were clutching their pearls in scandal.

He just didn’t expect you to be this…gorgeous. And for the first time in forever, he’s suddenly so intrigued.

Because ah, you should’ve known better than to think that this little hiccup would deter the infamous Gojo Satoru. No, in fact that million-dollar smirk only makes its way back onto his unfairly pretty face, like he’s about to spill the juiciest gossip of the century.  

“So you’re the latest armcandy my ol’ man has picked up, huh? I hafta say, dear old dad has good taste.” he muses, stepping in close enough that his expensive cologne makes your head spin. “Why don’t you and I ah-” You follow Satoru’s gaze to where he was staring at the way his father was now making a beeline through the crowd. Straight for the two of you. 

“Gotta run before I get my share of the company revoked.” he flashes you a quick smile, fulling intent on saving his father’s delicate ego. But not before leaning down to whisper in your ear, “But jus’ saying,” voice a pretty little purr, “I wouldn’t ever leave you standing here so alone and gorgeous, princess.”

You can only stand there, reeling from the sheer audacity as he darts into the crowd with a wink, not caring if he stepped on a few too many overpriced coattails than necessary. Wondering whether this was some bizarre dream induced by too much tequila and not enough common sense.

“Hi, sweetheart. Investors held me up, you know how it is. Having fun, huh?” A toned arm wraps around your waist as your sugar daddy finally arrives by your side. And as he went on about his latest business branch, only two thoughts ring through your mind - 1. You were seriously reconsidering this arrangement. And 2. This was going to be interesting. 

And oh was it interesting. 

Because Satoru always managed to find you, wherever you were. No matter if it was another droning function or a chance meeting at the sprawling Gojo Estate, Satoru always swooped in whenever his father was too busy for you. Which, fortunately for Satoru, happened to be a lot.  

Hell, he seemed to find you even when you least wanted him to. Like that time he had to drag you away mid-argument with a particularly rude one of his snobby aunts. That was not a fun family reunion. 

All unabashed confidence and pretty smiles where his father was cold, cold calculation. Ready with a smart mouth to bicker with you and bright eyes that seemed to linger on you a bit too long. But you didn’t mind - why would you? Because all things considered, Satoru was a very attractive man. Sure, his father was extremely handsome, too - in a clean-cut, DILF-y way, in fact. But his son was dangerously attractive.

So much so that sometimes when he swept you away from insufferable galas to talk, some strange little part of you wished it was him that you came here with instead. Just for a second. 

“So, what do you see in my father anyway? His company?” Satoru asked you one day. Draping himself over his cool office desk, so comically out of place in the stiff corporate room. Legs kicking in the air as he waits for your response.

You tear your eyes away from the way his biceps were straining so deliciously against his snug button-up to deadpan, “I mean, I am his sugar baby after all, Satoru.”

“But think about it,” he whines, batting those long lashes at you. Fully intent on driving you as dangerously close to a stroke as possible before his father finishes up an important business meeting. One that he missed - whoops. “There’s close to nothing redeemable about the man. His idea of a family bonding activity is a PowerPoint presentation on quarterly earnings.”

“Satoru.”   

“And either way- I’m getting the company in a few years, would ya be my sugar baby then, princess?”

Ah, there it was. 

It’s been a few weeks of knowing Satoru, and those little comments still made your head spin. Second-guessing the nature of this strange little…friendship? You didn’t even know anymore. Because yeah there might’ve been a few, stupid little lingering touches - like a trace on your hips, or your hand firmly in his as he led your (temporary) escape from another lonely gala. But those meant nothing, right?

“Nah, I’d poison you and take over the company instead.”

“Hey!”

Well, whatever, he was just your sugar daddy’s son. His sharp-mouthed, dangerously handsome son that just couldn’t seem to leave you alone. Not that you were complaining, really. Your relationship with his father was not exactly exclusive - you already knew that secretary of his was a bit suspiciously close - but that’s all he’ll ever be. Right?

Or, well, that’s what you stupidly thought. 

It wasn’t until one night late in the Gojo Estate, cursing those ridiculously long hallways, that you get an inkling of exactly how wrong you were. 

“Ugh, fucking rich people.” you mutter under your breath, wandering around trying to find whether the fuck the bathroom was. Because it doesn’t matter how many companies and businesses Gojo senior ran, the man still sucked at directions. You hiss, rubbing the tiny bruise on your neck - and aftercare too, clearly, even though that was in that damn contract. Something about an urgent business call with his secretary. Ugh. 

After three wrong doors, a trip around the in-home planetarium (seriously, who even needed that?), and chugging a full water bottle from the third kitchen in exhaustion, you finally find yourself walking towards what hopefully looked like the bathroom.

Hand reaching for the doorknob to swing it open. Ah, this better be the one or so help you-

Now, Satoru thinks he’s died and gone to heaven. And you - hair mussed, and dazed, standing there in nothing but a large button-up, falling just below your panties - looked like a sinfully beautiful lil’ demon here to lure him into hell. And oh how gladly he’d go if it means he got to see this ethereal view more often. 

“Ah! Wha- Sato-” 

You don’t even know if you want to scream or not - torn between taking in the sculpted chest smushed against your face and not wanting to alert security downstairs. Reeling backward you drink in the sight before you and God how you wish you didn’t - it wasn’t too good for your heart. 

Satoru’s hair was tousled, droplets of water glistening on his hair like diamonds. Skin soft and damp and smelling so delicious. Bathroom light bouncing off his rippling muscles, pecs flexing, as his strong arms reach out to steady you as you reel backwards. 

Traitorously, your eyes snake across his sculpted body. Dipping below once. Twice. Cheeks flaring as a pang of disappointment hits you at the damp towel wrapped around that slutty torso. Wondering what’s underneath-

“Y’should take a picture, it lasts longer.” Satoru grins, like the shameless bastard he is. Though he wasn’t in any better state - eyes flickering between you and any sliver of exposed skin his eyes could reach. 

“I should be saying the same to you.” you mutter, caught red-handed, shuffling your feet in embarrassment. 

Satoru lets out a low chuckle as he pulls you closer minutely, presence practically enveloping you. “Oh, me?” he says, voice dropping to a husky murmur. Thumb tracing that little spot on your neck, “S’hard not to when y’look so appetizing.”

And you don’t even try to pull away because fuck this is Satoru and he looks so good - so warm under your fingertips, even when you jolt at the realization of what exactly he was talking about. Your hand coming up to cover that tiny mark left on your skin from not-too-long ago. A shameful little reminder that this was his son. 

You grapple for some - any - sense of normalcy. Warning, “Flattery won’t get you anywhere, Satoru.”

He leans down impossibly, quirking an eyebrow. Both amusement and something unreadable flashing across his face. “Oh, but it’s got my father somewhere?”

“Why? Jealous?”

“Yes.”

You startle, taken aback by the blunt confession. So direct and something so Satoru. The word hands in the hair’s breadth between you two now, sending your mind reeling. And you can’t help but repeat, “Jealous?”

“Fucking yes.” There it was again. 

But this time, Satoru plows on, voice barely above a whisper but ringing in the thick air. “Jealous he gets to have you all to himself but still doesn’t kiss you like you should be.”

“What do you-”

“Your lipstick.” he interrupts, swiping a thumb over your bottom lip, “Why’s it as perfect as since you came in?” And, indeed, you realize with a jolt that no you really haven’t been kissed the way you wanted - not enough to leave your make-up so sinfully ruined. 

Minty breath fanning your face so dangerously now, and you barely even realize that you’re leaning into it, “If it were up to me, princess, I’d ruin that pretty lil’ lipstick of yours every chance I got.”

A delicious little shiver runs down your spine, head spinning at Satoru and his words and Satoru- And it’s all you can do to get out a shaky, “So why don’t you?”

And then he’s kissing you. And you’re kissing him - like neither of you had the strength nor the will to stop. 

Satoru tasted just like candy, such an intoxicating sweetness that had you gasping as his soft tongue licked at the seam of your lips. Intertwining with yours as he breathes you in desperately. So sloppy. Such a sinful little mix of saliva and teeth and pure need.

His chest is soft under your greedy hands, lips searing against yours, and you could feel his hands wandering across every inch of skin they could find. Kissing you like he’ll never be able to again because fuck he knows that he might just not. 

Long fingers dance delicately underneath that shirt to feel- oh fuck, you weren’t even wearing panties. Such a pretty lil’ slut and by God was he a goner. 

Groaning into the kiss, he lets you loop your arms around his neck, hardened nipples rubbing against his abs as you tug on his damp hair. Honestly, fuck that thin shirt, Satoru thinks he might just pass out right here right now.

“S-Satoru.” you whisper against his lips, legs hiking up to grind your bare cunt against the throbbing erection straining against his towel. Already so wet from water or precum, you had absolutely no idea. You couldn’t give less of a fuck in fact, needing to see if Satoru’s cock was as pretty as the rest of him right now. Hands urgently dipping below the hem, starting to tug and-

“Hey, sweetheart. Did you find the bathroom?”

Shit. Fuck. Wonderful - perfect, in fact.

You would’ve thought Satoru burned you with how quickly you pushed him away. Cheeks burning, breath coming in short, ragged gasps. Almost slipping on the tile as you try to compose yourself at a safe distance - one that wouldn’t end up with you jumping his bones again. 

But all rational thoughts of that and your sugar daddy - Satoru’s father - almost go out the window once you take in the heavenly sight before you. 

Satoru’s lips swollen, hair disheveled, towel hanging slightly too low off his hips. Giving you such a pretty peak of those tufts of snowy white hair at the bottom. 

“W-we shouldn’t…” you trail off, as the footsteps get louder and louder. Something prickly and uncomfortable pooling in your stomach with each beat. 

Luckily for you, Satoru probably catches on to how you looked like you wanted the ground to swallow you whole right now. Voice low and control as he agrees, “Yeah, we probably shouldn’t.” No care in the world for his steadily approaching father as he lazily adjusts his towel, a gesture so nonchalant yet distracting. 

You swallow hard as he moves to walk past you, thinking that if this just so happened to be a dream then by God was it a good one. But of course - when has Satoru ever let you have it easy?

Because he stops abruptly in his tracks, fingers only ghosting the doorknob. Immediately turning back to walk to you with two, big steps, eyes gleaming, dimple flashing. And before you even know what’s happening, his lips are on yours. Featherlight and fleeting. But so so addictive. Nipping at your bottom lip, savoring you on his tongue.

It’s over before you know it, and a pathetic little disappointed whine leaves you as he pulls away. A smirk playing at the corners of his lips as he mutters lowly into yours, “Y’look prettier like this.”

Ah, you weren’t happy to see him leave but how you loved watching him go. Bathroom light so pretty against all the dips and curves of his figure as he walked away. White hair reflecting the warm hue, muscles flexing, hips slightly swaying with such a slutty little confidence that only Satoru could have. 

As you watch him disappear around the door, you almost forget the unwelcome visitor hot on your heels any second now and - wait - what was it that he’d said? “Prettier like this”?

Turning to the mirror and- 

Oh. Shit. 

You better have brought your make-up remover.

God, Satoru’s never ran to his room as fast as this since that time he was caught using his father’s elite golf clubs to play pool with Suguru.

Because as soon as that goddamn door is shut, he’s ripping his towel off. Letting it drop to the floor in a damp pile God-knows-where as he immediately fists his swollen cock.

With a groan, he leans against the shut door.  Eyes scrunching in such sinful ecstasy as he squeezes the base, pulsing and so achingly hard for you. A warning and a reprimand. Shit, how the fuck did he get this hard just from kissing your pretty lil’ lips?

Ah, whatever, right now he doesn’t have the patience nor the sanity to think too hard about it. Smearing the precum beading at his weeping tip, wetting his palm so sloppily. 

Neat little crescents searing into his skin where you’d grabbed him before, only thing on his mind - how would you do it?

Would you ease him into it? Or would you start up a hasty, desperate little pace like he was doing right now? Shallow, quick tugs on his thick cock like you wanted to milk him deliciously. 

Satoru’s hand was cold on his angry, hot cock. And with how many times he’s slipped his into yours, he knew yours would feel better around him. Both hands wrapped around his cock but still not covering all of it. So soft and warm, your nails scraping gently across his throbbing veins. 

“Shit. Hngh-” he breathes out, voice almost-pathetic, “J-jus’ like that, princess.” 

And what would you say? Tell him to shut up and just take it? Would you whisper into his ear as you let him fuck himself into your pretty fists? “So hard n’ big all f’me?” Satoru’s knees buckle at the thought, hand speeding up. “Y’look so pretty like this, y’know.”

Slam! Palm slamming against the poor drawer beside him hard enough to make its legs tremble, desperately trying to keep himself from collapsing. 

But oh his fist doesn’t stop. No, he doubts he ever will - not that strong of a man to keep himself from getting off so filthily to the image of you standing at the doorway of the bathroom. You looked so ethereal - Satoru couldn’t help but imagine how even more sinful you’d look if he was the one done with you. Shit, you wouldn’t even be able to stand if he had his way. 

“F-fuck, princess. M’gonna ruin you, gonna fuck you till you don’t know anything but m’name.”

He grips tighter on the base, thumbing under his slit in a way he knows your devious little hands would do. Fucked-out little grunts leaving his swollen lips each time his fingers meet his flushed tip.

“Ah- Ngh, fuck.” he mutters hoarsely, letting out a low, broken little call of your name. “More. Need more, princess.” He wanted you so badly that it hurt.

What the fuck did that sleazy old man have that he didn’t? And that little bite? That would be nothing compared to what Satoru would do if he got his hands on you. Yeah, he thinks, body shuddering violently, he’d mark you up till everyone knows you’re his. Leave bites that peak out from your collar, all the way down to your pretty thighs.

“Y’belong with me pretty, could fuck you so much better.” Sweat drips from his brow, splashing onto his erratic fist. Thighs quivering, heart pounding wildly in his chest. 

Satoru would almost be embarrassed by how desperate he was acting if he was in any better state of mind. Head only filled with you, and your hand and you-

And fuck for the sake of his sanity he can’t even begin to imagine how it would feel inside your pretty lil’ cunt. All he can think of is the way you’d keen so prettily, mewling out a little, “Oh s’too big.” 

Would you take him all in one go? Look up at him with those beautiful, teary eyes as you milk his cock? Or would he have to ram his dick into you, because shit as much as he loves that  bitchy mouth, it would look so much better gasping and stuttering as he fucks you dumb. 

“Oh yeah.” he groans, eyes rolling to the back of his head. “Such a good lil’ slut f’me. Taking m’so well.” 

God his hand was so sloppy on his dick that he didn’t even know what he was doing anymore. Just wanting to fuck you and have you do this f’him. 

Ah, your plushy walls would suck him in so nicely. One hand speeds up on his cock, while the other reaches down to cradle his balls. Tugging and pulling at the same jerky rhythm they would smack your ass while he stuffs you full. 

So much better than any other sugar daddy ever could. Oh how Satoru would love to mess up your pretty pussy and your lipstick. He’d fucking tattoo your lipstick stains on if he could.

And you’d be able to do nothing but gasp and whimper into his lips, cockdrunk and dazed, “Shit shit shit- Toru m’gonna - Hah- Wanna cum. Please wan’ cum-” Oh how he’d burn down this entire fucking world to hear you call him that. 

“Fuck,” he curses, bucking into his fist, tight balls twitching so sensitively. “Fuck...fuck fuck fuck. M’gonna cum- shit- gonna cum, princess.”

“Cum f’me, Toru. Fill me up with y’cum- wanna take all of it.”

And then he’s cumming. 

A ragged, raw moan of your name leaving his lips. Thick, hot ropes of cum that should be painting your pussy white - but, alas, he’s spilling into his fist so shamefully. And amongst the stars behind his eyes he’s sees you - you you you-

You, fucking your cunt deeper onto his cock to take every drop of his cum. You, whispering sweet little praises as his seed gushes down your thigh, telling him that oh he’s doing so well, and he’s the best boyfriend ever and you already want more-

You, at the arm of his father.

Shit, he needs to shower. Again. 

---

Ever since that little incident that night, everything changed. 

At this point, you didn’t even feel that usual little bitterness whenever your sugar daddy canceled for some urgent business. And, well, it made you blush to admit but you found yourself heading over to the Gojo Estate more and more frequently, often just to catch a glimpse of Gojo - or a quick kiss in the stuffy broom closet. Whichever left you more time to run away from looming security and his father. 

But that was exactly the problem. 

Because no matter how thick the tension lingering in the air between you two was, nothing had gone past heated kisses and touches. Either you were brought back to reality with the possibility of being arrested for indecent exposure at those galas, or someone just had to interrupt. Seriously, with how many times Satoru has had to pay off his poor personal assistant, you’ve been wondering whether he actively seeks you two out. 

And it really didn’t help that Satoru always tasted so goddamn delicious. Fingers searing on your skin, cologne heavy in the heady air, it was hard to keep your hands to yourself. 

But, hey, desperate times bring devious measures.

Which is why you were here right now - sinking into the plushiest bed at the Gojo Estate, clad in your delicate light blue lingerie. One that was custom-made in this specific shade of blue. Because while your sugar daddy preferred you in red, you’re sure he wouldn’t mind you using his credit card for other ulterior motives, right? 

You just hoped that Satoru would just so happen to get a peak when you sneak out to use the bathroom later. What would he say? Would he like it? Would his eyes roam over your body, fingers twiddling with the flimsy lace?

But more importantly - would it be enough to make him break? Even if just a little bit?

Knock! Knock! Knock!

You’re startled out of your little whirlwind thoughts by knocking on the door. Steady, and matching your racing heart. Ah, Satoru’s father, you hastily get up to fix your hair.

“Yo, princess, are you naked or can I come in? Or can I come in when you’re naked?”

That wasn’t your sugar daddy. 

Not even thinking of your current outfit anymore, you rush to throw the heavy wooden doors open to see that, yes, it really was Satoru standing at the door. All bright grins and flushed cheeks as he drinks you in. Brows raising as his eyes move down from your face once. Twice. Thrice. 

Success. 

“What’re you doing here, Satoru?” you bat your lashes deceivingly innocently. Trying to hold back the smirk threatening to curl your lips at the way he gulps.

“Uh- My father’s off to some urgent b-business.” he murmurs, scratching the back of his neck. “Told me to tell you he’s sorry and wishes you the breas- best.”

Oh. 

Well, it wouldn’t be the first time Satoru’s father has canceled on you. But it would be the first time that he’s canceled on you so conveniently enough to leave you alone with his unfairly hot son. Now, you couldn’t let the opportunity go to waste, right?

You lean slightly against the door, body ghosting Satoru’s, teasing him, “Well, when is my dear sugar daddy coming back from his business? Tell him I miss him.”

It’s a joke - and both of you probably know it. But that doesn’t stop Satoru’s brows furrowing ever-so-slightly, suddenly a different man from the flustered one he was just a few seconds ago as he mutters, “I don’t think he’ll be back tonight.”

“Aww, must be some important business.” 

He clenches his jaw aggressively at that, gritting out a clipped little, “You do know that ‘business’ of his is his secretary right?”

“I know. What a shame, right? Guess I’ll just have to go home n’ wait for him then?” you mockingly sigh - God, someone give you an Oscar. Moving to close the door in Satoru’s face, only to be stopped by a large hard smacking into the doorframe - as you knew it would. 

“You’re fucking crazy if you think I’m gonna let you come out looking like that and let you go home without tearing it to shreds.”

And that’s all that is said before his lips are on yours.

The door is slamming shut before you know it, and you’re shoved against it. Satoru’s lips such a sloppy mix of teeth and spit. Hands just everywhere - cradling your cheek, teasing your nipples through your bra, running down to squeeze and grope your ass. He just couldn’t get enough of you. 

Fuck twiddling with the lace, Satoru seemed well and fully intent to rip it off of you. And you’d let him. Just like he was letting you shove his overpriced button-up down his toned shoulders. Soft little rips sounding in the heady air at the urgency but neither of you could give less of a fuck. 

All you could think of is the way Satoru was so pretty and muscled. Drinking in all the dips and curves of pale skin underneath your fingertips. 

“Fuck, princess. Chose this color on purpose, huh?” his fingers dive under the hem of your bra, “Wanted to drive me crazy, mm?”

“Y-yes, Satoru.” you gasp into his mouth, and he takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss. “Wanted you to look at it. Got it custom-made all f’you.” words muffled as he sucks on your tongue. Satoru was always such a messy kisser, licking at the seam of your lips and intertwining his tongue with yours with no shame or shyness. A delicate trail of drool already starting at the corner of your mouth. 

Ah, it was too much for him. Satoru almost thinks he could cum in his pants right now at your sinful little admission. 

Which is why he pulls away to press hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck, letting out a broken little hum of appreciation into your skin. “Thought so.”

And then your bra’s hitting the floor, tits spilling out into the cold bedroom air. But only for a split-second because Satoru’s immediately groping each and every inch of skin he can find. 

“Look so fucking beautiful like this.” Rolling your swollen nipples between two fingers as he mutters - more to himself than you, “Was gonna let him see you in this slutty lil’ thing, too?” leaning down to tongue lazily little circles on one nipple. Words muffled as he wraps his lips so prettily around your tit - tugging, just grazing with his teeth, “Matching my eyes, huh? Fuckin’ gonna be the death of me shit-”

Satoru was insatiable. Wanting all of you all at the same time. And you follow his line of sight to see him locked on your dripping cunt - soaking through the thin fabric of your panties. Clenching around nothing as his pretty pink lips fall into a soft oh! at the sight. 

Like a madman, he immediately drops to his knees. But you don’t think he even feels the pain as he bites down on the hem of your wet panties. Looking up at you with dazed eyes - miles away. 

Breath ghosting your quivering cunt, tugging lightly with his teeth, “Next time, I’m gonna be the one buying you these.”

Then he’s pulling - tearing your drenched panties to shreds. Grinning so devilishly around it as he gets his first sight of your pretty pussy.  Oh you were so perfect for him. So mouthwateringly wet. 

“Shit, princess. Can’t believe you were fucking holdin’ out on me.”  he muses in wonder, eyes wide at the way your sloppy pussy was glistening in the dim lighting. 

“You were the one that-”

And usually, Satoru loves hearing you run your mouth, but this time he’s shutting you up by diving face-first into your dripping cunt. Cute little mewls leaving you as he presses so shamefully deep that his nose was against your throbbing clit, rubbing languidly as he licks a thick stripe up your swollen folds. 

And then it was like something snapped. 

Because one taste of you and Satoru’s going wild. Throwing a leg over his shoulder to lick more desperately all all over your cunt, lapping up all the juices that gush out of you. Already so addicted because shit you were so much sweeter than in his dreams. 

“Ah! Hngh- please.” you mewl, as he wraps his glossy lips around your swollen clit. All you get is a feral little grunt, his jaw parted, eyes looking like he’s on cloud nine as starts to suck harshly. Filthy little squelches filling the air as Satoru rolls his tongue across your clit. “Feels, s’good, Satoru.”

But your cute little whines turn into one of disappointment as Satoru pulls away ever-so-slightly. “Call m’Toru.” he slurs.

And he doesn’t waste any more time, tongue swishing in his mouth to spit on you once. Twice. Missing ever so slightly, and splattering on your thigh. You flinch, gasping out a breathless little, “Toru!”

“Oh shit, princess. Yeah- say m’name jus’ like that” he groans, ragged and raw. The last thing out of his mouth before he’s squeezing his soft tongue into your snug cunt. Dipping into your sloppy hole in and out in and out in and-

“He ever made you feel this good?” he moans into your cunt, the vibrations making you fuck yourself deeper into his unrelenting tongue. 

“W-what?”

“He ever made you feel this good? Cum so hard you see stars?”

You gasp out a pathetic little sob, “N-no. Want to- Wan’ you to make me cum, Toru. Make me cum around your tongue.”

And, well, what his girl wants - then she’s going to get. Because Satoru’s lapping at your cunt even more greedily than before. 

Stretching you out, breathing you in, looking up at your cute expression through his long lashes. Already so fucked-out for him. 

Nose rubbing purposefully in small circles on your clit. Fucking you with his tongue the way he wants to with his cock and he didn’t give a fuck if he suffocated in-between your thighs - he fucking loved it. 

“Hngh- shit shit shit yes!” your nails are digging into Satoru’s scalp at this point. The only thing steadying yourself to prevent you from collapsing onto the ground. And you really can’t help but angle his head just right so that his tongue curls against that one spot inside your plushy walls. 

Thankfully, he gets the memo. Because Satoru’s letting out a strangled little grunt at being so used by you as you drag your cunt across his pretty mouth. Body jerking into his as he hits that spot over and over-

“T-Toru- hah!” thighs quivering, Satoru’s grip bruising as he holds you up. “M’m gonna-” Your plushy walls sucking him up, thighs squeezing around his face. 

“Mhm?”

“Cum! M’gonna cum- ah- fuck fuck fuck-”

He groans huskily into your cunt. Throwing his head back ever-so-slightly to let your slick slide down his throat - greedily waiting for more that was to come. “Then show me how you cum, m’girl. Cum all over my tongue.”

And then you are - all over Satoru’s pretty face. And fuck he doesn’t think you’ve ever looked prettier. Holding his head in place as you rock your hips into his waiting mouth, letting him drink you in so greedily. Clamping down on his tongue like you were trying to milk him. 

And if you were in any better state of mind, you’d notice the delirious little heart eyes that Satoru was giving you, your cunt firm on his face and swollen lips letting out such pretty whines of his name. Toru Toru Toru - like a prayer as you fucking use him for your high. 

Ah, he could stay like this forever, he thinks. But no, an empty house and you all wet n’ pretty for him means there’s too much more to do. 

Which is why he’s pulling away, your slick decorating his lips so prettily. Smeared across the bottom half of his face and dripping onto the hardwood floor in a maddening little drip! drip! drip! 

And Satoru knows, with the way you watch him so intensely, mouth parted, eyes glossy. Which is why he runs a thumb along his mouth, pooling your juices on his fingers and popping them into his mouth. One by one. 

Your jaw drops a little in disbelief as Satoru licks his fingers clean, eyes rolling to the back of his head at your addictive taste. Oh he was ruining you without even touching you. 

“Not enough, princess.” he chuckles. “C’mon, gimme a kiss.”

And, really, how could you ever say no to that face? Because you’re pulling him to you as soon as Satoru stands to his full height. Capturing his lips in such a sloppy, filthy kiss - forcing you to taste yourself and you half-lucidly wonder whether Satoru loved the taste almost as much as you because it was so him.

Bodies so close that your dripping cunt was seeping into his unfairly tight shirt. Forming a lewd little dark patch when Satoru lifts you effortlessly to guide you to the bed. Tongue still entwining obscenely with yours as he splays you out on the soft mattress for him. Drinking in that adorable lil’ shock on your face as you bounce on the bed, so drunk off of him that you didn’t even realize he was taking you to the bed. 

“Shit, y’look the prettiest like this, princess. S’a wonder m’not fucking passing out right now.” he hisses into your lips.

“Toru-” you whine, and shit the way his cock jumps at the mere sound of your voice makes you think that this will be a little trick you’re using more often. “Wan’ your cock s’bad. Wanna-”

You don’t even have the patience to finish the sentence before you’re fumbling with his belt. Something hefty and overpriced but you can’t possibly think about that right now because fuck you get the first sliver of milky skin. 

Satoru’s thighs were so sculpted and thick. It made your mouth absolutely water to wonder what it would feel like to ride them to insanity.

“Y’wanna ride my thighs? Fuck princess, you really are driving me crazy.” 

Shit had you said that out loud? 

Ah, well, it doesn’t matter because Satoru’s pulling his boxers down - so tight with his swollen cock, a dark patch right where his weeping head was. And you almost pout at losing the opportunity to take them off but oh how you’re distracted by the sinful sight before you. 

Satoru was massive - so long and flushed your favorite shade of pretty pink. Shit, you were going to have to get a lingerie set in this color one of these days. He was achingly hard and throbbing, springing up to smear precum all over his abs. 

And before you can even react, Satoru’s pulling you to him. Manhandling your pretty self so easily to straddle one, large thigh. 

“Oh- hngh, Toru.” you look up at him all doe-eyed and teary as he doesn’t even wait for you to register what’s all happening. Grip bruising on your hips as he rocks your hips so sluttily on his leg. “F-feels s’good. Ah-”

“Yeah? Y’like it? Like getting yourself off like a lil’ slut on my thigh?” he groans into your ear, low and husky with need. 

You nod wildly, sloppy pussy dripping all over his thigh, seeping into his skin as you grind your hips to meet his movements. “Like it s’much- ah-”

“Mhm? Better than anything he could ever do?”

“Yes yes yes, Toru-” you sob, cheeks burning as you realize that you’re humping him like a bitch in heat - but oh judging by the carnal little glint in his eyes, he liked it. Loved it, even. Because Satoru could feel the way your swollen folds spread to grind against him, clit pulsing so maddeningly against his skin. So filthy and messy as you used him to get yourself off. “S’much better- the best-”

He just didn’t expect to feel a soft hand wrapping around his cock. Eyes flying open to see you - all glassy-eyed, and fucking yourself on his thigh - wrap a hand around his cock. Starting to move in shallow, unsteady little motions up and down his throbbing cock to get him off at the same time as you.

“Wan’ you to cum, too, Toru.”

“Oh fuck.” he grunts, letting his hips fuck up into your fist in mindless little motions. “Y’don’t know what you’re doing to me.”

And with that his fingers were digging into the skin of your hips, forcing you to hold on for dear life as he drags your dripping cunt faster and faster across his thick. Movements erratic and frenzied now. 

Of course, you were not one to be out-done. 

Satoru’s precum spilling down your hand, your wrist now aching and wet, becoming so, so sloppy trying to get both yourselves off. But you still tighten your fist around his pulsing cock, desperately flying up and down his length. Pulling in quick, jerky motions to milk him for all he’s worth again and again and-

“You’re so oh- good f’me, princess.” he hums. “Your hngh- hands are so p-pretty wrapped around my cock. So perfect for me.” Bucking his hips wildly to meet your hand now, fucking your fist with no shame. Pulling you harsher on his thigh. “S’such a shame you had to hah fuck- meet my father first. I’d have been so much better.”

“Toru!” you squeal as one hand moves deftly from your hips to draw quick, hasty little circles on your throbbing clit. The friction from his thigh and fingers too much to handle. 

“I’d make you happier.” Your body is shaking now, hands messy and trembling around his swollen cock. “I’d make you laugh more and give you all m’time.” You can’t even look at him at this point, eyes scrunched close in ecstasy as Satoru whispers these maddening little phrases into your open mouth. 

“I’d make you cum harder.”

Oh and then you are - tears in your eyes, body convulsing into his as you cum. And of course he’s smirking smugly as he watches you ride your high out on his thigh, brows furrowed and bottom lip bitten in concentration as he holds off cumming. Not now. Not yet. 

“So, better than him or not?”

But shit was it hard. 

Especially when you raise your pretty, barely-lucid eyes to meet his, whimpering out a soft little, “I don’ know yet, Toru. Gonna hafta stuff me full of your cock if you wanna know.”

And perhaps for the first time since you walked in on him after the shower that night, the great Gojo Satoru is taken aback. Eyes widening in surprise, kiss-bitten lips falling into a soft oh! of disbelief. But not for long - never for long - because a devilish little grin breaks out across his face immediately afterwards. 

“Shit, y’really are perfect f’me, princess.”

With a low growl, Satoru is easily pulling your body - limp and boneless in his hands - to straddle his toned hips. 

You let out a yelp at the feeling of his fat tip just kissing your swollen folds, dragging teasingly along them, collecting the slick beading out of your sloppy cunt. Back and forth-

“Who’s got you feeling this way?”

“You, Toru.”

And then he’s pushing in, swollen cock bullying into your snug pussy. Thumbs drawing steady little circles on your hips - yes to reassure you but also to fight off that feral little part of himself that just wants to stuff your pretty lil’ pussy full until his heavy balls smack your ass. Not even waiting for you to adjust. 

But no. No, it was so much better when you were the one desperately trying to suck up his cock. Gasping and moaning out strangled little whimpers of his name as you sink yourself down on his throbbing dick. Inch by fucking inch. 

“S’too big- Hngh! I-is it even halfway in?” you whimper out, and Satoru could almost laugh humorlessly as he tilts his head to glance downwards and shit- he was barely a quarter in. 

“No.” 

“F-fuck” cute little tears streaking down your face now, thighs trembling, “Toru, I-I don’t think I can-”

“You can. And you will.” Fucking up into you in short, rapid little jabs to squeeze himself deeper into your tight pussy. Shit, it was such a squeeze, you were milking the ever-loving soul out of him. And it only made him impossibly harder inside you, making you whine and grind down - torn between chasing the feeling of being so deliciously full and the sheer pressure. “Shit, love when your pussy’s sucking me up so good.” 

One hand is on your hip, sliding you farther and farther down his cock, the other drawing urgent, quick patterns on your clit. Not even circles anymore because shit Satoru doesn’t have the patience nor the sanity for that. Throbbing veins rubbing so sinfully against that one spot in your dripping cunt, splitting you apart to the same rhythm as the pulsing. 

And as soon as your ass meets his heavy balls - already so wet with precum and slick - Satoru doesn’t even know if he’s on planet Earth anymore. Mind spinning, he doesn’t waste any time at all. 

“Fuck yes.” Satoru hisses, throwing his head back. “Fucking finally.” He pulls his hips back, far enough that his angry, red tip is just kissing your sloppy entrance, surging forward, forward, forward- “Y’don’t know how fucking long I’ve wanted this, princess. Needed this s’bad, so so bad you don’t understand. Shit.”

And, hey, his girl deserved to be fucked dumb, right?

“Needed this ever since I saw you at that goddamn gala.” he whispers into your lips, ragged and so fucked-out. Each word punctuated by a harsh, heavy thrust. Ones that have you keening and grasping Satoru’s broad back for support. Nails raking down his shoulders as his pace gets faster. More purposeful.

And you can do nothing but take it, barely even able to form any coherent sentences. So prettily sat on Satoru’s lap as he fucks into you, babbling sweet little nonsenses made for your ears only. “Ever since I saw that murderous little glare you threw at those snobby guests.”

His balls smacking against your ass over and over. A quick, steady little tempo that you were losing your mind to. “Ever since you let me take your hand and drag you away to that secret bar to take shots instead of champagne.”

You don’t know whether you’re even crying at this point - all you know is that your cheeks are wet and your voice is broken as your let out a little, “F-fuck, Satoru- but your fa-”

“Fuck that.” he whines, and you could almost laugh at the adorable pout that makes its way onto his face. And at that you can feel him jolt so deliciously, head snapping up to meet yours. “I’m the better one.”

And as if he’s trying to prove it to your cunt, he’s drilling into you faster. Harder. Hips burning now as he fucks you like some animal. Hitting that sweet spot over and over. “I’m the one with the personality and the looks.” Long fingers almost a blur on your clit as he matches his place. Cock hot, and throbbing inside you. 

“I’m the heir, I get the company, too, if that’s what you like.” He’s bouncing you on his cock animalistically now. Hungry gaze taking in the way you’re sucking him up so well. “And I’m funnier one, I’m the one that should be by your side.”

You see stars behind your eyes at both the pleasure and sheer overstimulation as Satoru starts fucking your cunt as best he could without fucking breaking you  - but, honestly, he didn’t give a shit if you cried. He just wanted to stuff you full and have you cum harder than you ever have in your life. 

“Fuck- fuck yes m’gonna cum Toru- hngh.” You pull him closer to you, allowing him to bury his face in the crook of your neck. “M-make ah! Make me cum, fill me up please, Toru.”

You feel him shudder inside you, balls squeezing so painfully. Hips sloppy and absolutely soaked with precum and slick. “Sh-shit, you’re not too good for m’heart. Ngh, f-fuck- I should be the one to make you cum. Over and over until you don’t know what it feels like to not.”

“Toru!” your eyes fly open, “Yes yes yes- it’s you. Only you-”

Oh, like something snapped then Satoru’s surging forward to bite down on the crook of your neck. Hard. You’d almost think he was out to draw blood. And then with a low groan, and one, harsh little thrust, Satoru’s cumming and cumming inside your pretty pussy. And you are too - back arching as you milk his cock through his high. 

Fingers digging into your skin as he holds your hips to his, letting your cunt be filled up so sloppily. Pumping thick, hot ropes of seed that dribbled out of you each time he pumped his hips into yours. Fucking it deeper and deeper inside you. 

And then you’re both collapsing, the exhaustion suddenly hitting the both of you as Satoru moves you both to lay on the mattress. Fuck, Satoru watches in wonder as his cum gushes out of you and forms a wet little pool on the expensive sheets as he starts to pull out. One round might just not be enough. 

Yet not yet - he can feel his eyes drooping, muscles aching as he pulls your sticky body closer to his. And Satoru knows he should get up and wipe you both down. But right now, he’s too drunk off the heat of your body and that angry little bite on your neck. Distracted by the cute lil’ expression on your face, so tired and thoroughly fucked out. Fingers playing with his hair, looking at him with an expression so fond - just like in his dreams. 

Nothing more is said. And all is quiet in your strange little heaven. 

That is, until - “So, princess. Wouldn’t ya wanna be an heiress instead of a sugar baby?”

A/N. How we feeling???

Plagiarism not authorized.

[somnoir]

My father's secretary

Danny Fenton did not expect to be secretary material but after 7 years of being a hero and having Jazz as his elder sister, he was damn good at it. He needed a job, he knew that, and Wayne Enterprises was willing to hire a 21 year old taking online college classes for aerospace engineering.

And he was fucking thankful for that cause Mr. Wayne was pretty neat and bought him good food and coffee whenever he looked out of it. Half his family were already in Gotham with only his parents in Amity. They were finally reformed and now their research finally advocated for the rights of ghosts and spread awareness on their culture. Good for them.

Jazz and Dante were in Arkham working as a psychologist and guard. Elle was still in school, enrolled into Gotham Academy once Vlad insisted on paying her tuition. To be fair, he was paying for Danny's tuition too.

But back to his secretary duties. His boss was Bruce Wayne, yes, but he did often work with the man's son and the current CEO. Tim was nice and had the same caffeine addiction as him. (Jazz highly discouraged this friendship in case they both made a monstrosity of coffee and energy drinks.)

But Mr. Wayne was the best. He was rather clumsy and a bit airheaded but he was the best fucking boss he could ever ask for. The man's paternal instincts were on point and Danny was almost intimidated when the man started handing him extra cash whenever Danny came to the office looking more tired than usual. When that failed, Mr. Wayne resorted to giving him more material things.

Now, he doesn't want to take advantage of this ridiculously kind man with a lack of self preservation (God, was this what Jazz felt about him?). But Mr. Wayne had given him this amazing coffee maker and then proceeded to give Danny the best toaster ever. And Danny has always been known to resolutely be against Billionaires adopting him. But Mr. Wayne?

Danny had honed his back talking skills to perfection to talk down arrogant elites that kept demanding for his boss. He mastered his customer service voice and that condescending look he saw the receptionists give people like they were tantruming toddlers. Danny was ready to fight for that man (Vlad was choking somewhere as the Fentons worriedly look at him).

Jason has heard about Danny Fenton a couple of times. Tim, Dick, and Bruce had mentioned him a lot. Bruce's new secretary that looked like he'd woken up from a coma and was comparable to a grumpy cat on his best days. He's seen the guy a couple times, noticed how he was almost as tall as Jason. Honestly, he kinda looked like a twig (but then that was because of Danny's suit that he made sure didn't completely fit him).

Seriously. Danny was willing to fucking fight anyone and everyone for Bruce Wayne.

The guy was strange. Very strange. Especially when the pits seemed to either become frantic or calm whenever he was around. It depended on the situation really, but mostly the pits grew calmer around Fenton. Like a cat that finally saw its favorite person. It was so weird.

He was drawn to Fenton, sometimes finding himself walking towards the man before he snaps out of it.

It's on this day where Danny was by Bruce's side, a stylus and tablet in hand. He was furiously tapping away at his phone, cursing under his breath about bothersome and stuck up cialiteses.

"Jason!" Bruce happily greets, "Don't mind Danny for a bit. He's telling of some investors for trying to meddle with the company. Tim is too sleep deprived to handle it."

"Where is Tim?"

"Danny threatened to throw the company's coffee maker out the window if he doesn't take a nap." Bruce chuckles, glancing fondly at his fiesty secretary. "Danny?"

"Give me a minute, Mr. Wayne. Some people are trying to squeeze into your schedule when I specifically told them that they can't." Danny says, clearly irritated but looks at Bruce with an apologetic gaze. "No—Mr. Luthor, neither Mr. Drake nor Mr. Wayne are available on that day—"

And it dissolved into Danny telling of what Jason assumes was Lex Luthor to stop his attempts. In other words, corporate for Fuck off.

"He's good, isn't he?" Jason humms as he follows Bruce down the hall, glancing at the tired employees that looked utterly exhausted and horrifically motivated. "Looks like adoption bait."

"Unfortunately, Danny is a very much against Billionaires adopting him. His godfather is one and has attempted multiple times." Bruce sighs, feigning a sorrowful look as he sends Danny a small pout. "What did you do when he tried the fifth time again?"

"I blew up his car, Mr. Wayne." Danny nonchalantly says, "But that only made him want to adopt me more."

Jason blinks, baffled before he's laughing at the utter absurdity of the situation.

"That sounds similar to—"

Gunshots tore through the air as people immediately screamed. At the entrance of the building was the Joker in all his insanity, guns blazing. Jason froze, sucking in a deep breath as he took one step back. They weren't in costume, they weren't the Red Hood and Batman in that moment.

"Nightwing, Robin, and Spoiler are on their way." Oracle says through the comms but that doesn't comfort him in the slightest.

It's chaos in moments and people are ducking their heads to avoid the bullets. Jason and Bruce look right at each other, taking cover as bullets ruin the walls and furniture. But Bruce is dragged from his spot, pulled towards the Joker who laughs maniacally as he pressed a gun against Bruce's head.

"Mr. Wayne!" Many people yell as they all stared in horror as the Joker threatens Gotham's beloved prince.

Jason immediately remembers an explosion and a crowbar.

(Reminder, Danny Fenton was very much ready to go to war for Bruce Wayne).

A tablet and a stylus was suddenly shoved into his arms. Jason blinks, turning to Danny who tugs at his tie and rummages through the counter for something. The Joker sees this, clearly irritated.

"You! Eyes on me!" The Joker practically demands, hysterical that not everyone was paying attention.

Danny apparently doesn't give a damn before looking the Joker straight in the eye.

"Eyes in me." Danny repeats.

A second later something was thrown and a cutter was cutting through the Joker's eye.

Jason gaped at the seemingly harmless secretary, unable to comprehend that this man had just thrown a fucking cutter into the Joker's eye.

Bruce is set free.

Everyone is frozen in place.

Everyone watched as Bruce Wayne's tired and overworked secretary beats the shit out of the Joker, saying something about how he wasn't going to lose a good boss.

No one particularly knows what to do once Danny pulls out the cutter with the Jokers blood and... Fucking shit, was that his eyeball?!

Dick and Damian arrived at some point, also too shocked to do anything. When Danny was done and satisfied, with the Joker still alive, groaning and whimpering from the pain that Danny inflicted.

As if he hadn't almost killed the Joker, Danny turns to them with a tired smile.

"Mr. Wayne, I implore you not to die. I can't lose the best boss that I've had." He plainly says and takes the tablet and stylus back from Jason.

Jason thinks he might just marry this feral man.

Yeah.

Yeah, he was definitely going to marry Danny Fenton.

Part 2 | Masterpost

[lovcrss]

short ‘n whiskey | joel miller

summary: joel comes home and finds you with a drink in your hand and a tempting outfit

warnings: smut, kitchen sex, slightly rough but still sweet, oral (f!recieving), piv, teasing, unspecified age gap

a/n: need this man to ruin me, have so many ideas for him so if you wanna request fics for this man feel free!! (freaky and fluffy)

Joel’s boots thumping against the floor late at night broke the silence in your apartment. He stumbled into the dark shelter of yours, the only light coming from the kitchen.

For a few months now, it had been only you and Joel being each other’s survival partners and helping each other stay alive, taking shelter in a decaying building you found for yourselves. Joel was always very protective, even though he was still Joel. Distant, grumpy but still protective over you, especially because of your age.

As he sets down his bag and his rifle, the sound of a bottle clinking caused his guard to rise. The knife that was tucked away in his pocket was already pulled out as he quietly approached the room where the sound came from.

Once he spots a familiar figure standing by the sink Joel sighs in relief, putting away the knife again. “What’re you doin’ out here?” he grumbles.

You turn to face him, caught by surprise even though you heard his boots when he came in. A glass of booze rested on your lips as you went for a sip before he interrupted. You stood there with only a tank top and short sleeping shorts on, most of your skin exposed.

“Just… hanging out, I guess,” you shrug, face heating up partially because of the drink but also because of the way he freezes when he takes a closer look at you.

His eyes linger on your exposed body, scanning you up and down before looking away to regain his focus. “At this hour?” he raises an eyebrow, crossing his arms as he steps out of the hallway.

You catch him staring which boosts your confidence a little, mixing with the whiskey you had earlier. “Am I not allowed?”

He rolls his eyes and shakes his head lightly, your half naked body calling his name. “No,” he glares, trying hard to keep his stare averted and look you in the eye. “But what if something got in and you’re out here…” he gestures to your outfit. “Like this.”

You bite the inside of your cheek. “You weren’t supposed to see,” you mumble as you take another sip of your drink.

Joel shakes his head, looking up at the ceiling to stop himself from letting his gaze drop down where it shouldn’t. “Well I did,” he sighs, clueless about what do next. He knew he should just retreat, let you do what you want. However something kept him drawn to you like a moth to a flame.

When he spots you starting to chug down the whiskey, he curses under his breath as he starts approaching you. “Put that down,” he demands, taking the glass from your hands and setting it down on the counter behind you. “Easy, damn…”

You stood, clasped between him and the counter, almost pinned down by his tall body. The air starts getting thicker, the proximity allowing you to feel the heat from his body.

You look up at him through your lashes, slightly tipsy but gaining confidence from the way he’s looking at you.

“You got an early day tomorrow, should be sleeping…” he starts, but you stop listening to him halfway.

“You’re not my daddy,” you tease, crossing your arms so your breasts can squeeze under your light tank top. “I can handle myself.”

He freezes, glaring daggers into you, opening his mouth to say something but the words struggle to come out. “You…” His eyes start to wander again. “Have no idea what the hell you’re doin’. ”

You look down, your bodies and inch away from touching. “I do so,” you reply, determined to make him go insane.

His breath hitches, feeling his jeans tighten as you cross your bare legs, your thighs rubbing together. “Go to sleep,” his low voice echoes through the room.

The sound goes straight to your core, pushing yourself off the counter and feeling his breath down your face as you’re now almost pressed against each other. “And leave you hanging,” you look up at him doe eyed, “like this, now?” You carefully fix the collar of his flannel, your fingers brushing his neck.

His hands balled into fists on his sides, looking down at you in disbelief but also with deep desire to make you behave. “Stop it.” His breathing was heavier, your doe eyes burning holes into his face.

Your gaze softens, slipping past him. The shorts you wore rode up slightly, exposing your ass a little further as you took a few steps forward. Joel watches you go, fighting back a groan at the sight, wishing to grab you and pull you back again.

Almost as if you read his mind, you turn around suddenly. “I’m still thirsty.”

He huffs as he grabs the bottle off the counter. “Too bad.” He takes a sip of the whiskey before closing it and putting it out of your reach.

“No fair,” you whine.

“You had enough already,” he raises his eyebrows, stepping closer to you. “Keep it up and I’m gonna have to carry ya to your bed.”

You smirk, tilting your head. “Wouldn’t mind that at all.”

Joel's jaw clenches at your teasing. “I ain’t gonna repeat myself, kid. This ain't no joke.”

The state you were in right now was unlike anything he saw of you before and Joel had no clue how to make you listen. All he knew was that he had to run like hell before you had the chance to see his growing erection.

“We’re re both gonna regret this come mornin’, ” he warns. “So go to bed.” He turns around to put the glass away after you.

You didn’t move at first. Just watched him—broad shoulders tense, back turned, like maybe if he didn’t see you, it’d be easier to pretend none of this was happening. But you weren’t going to let him walk away from this. From you.

“Joel,” you said, quietly, voice stripped of the teasing. “I’m not drunk.”

He didn’t answer, but his head dipped—like your words landed heavier than he wanted to admit.

“I know what I’m doing. And I know what I want.” You took a step toward him, careful, like approaching a wounded animal. “I think you know too.”

When he speaks and turns to face you, his voice is hoarse and almost broken. “I don’t get to have this no more.”

Gently, you pressed a hand to his chest. “You do. You just don’t let yourself.” Joel took in your words, still carefully watching your moves. You lean in closer. “Let me help you,” you coo softly.

Joel’s hand came up to your wrist, at first thinking about pulling it away but now to hold it there, grounding himself in your touch. His eyes flicked from your mouth to your eyes, like he was still trying to talk himself out of it.

In a moment you thought he was gonna shove you away — but then he gave in.

He leaned in slow, as if giving you or himself every chance to back away. The hesitation was hard to get rid of, pulling back slightly but not all the way. “This ain’t right.”

You scoff at his uncertainty and hesitation, tired of dancing around each other. “Shut up.”

Your lips come crashing together in a heated, passionate kiss. Joel’s hands grip your hips possessively, tasting whiskey when his tongue demands entrance into your mouth. You wrap your arms around his neck, chest pressing into him.

He slows down at first, wanting to take it easy on you, gentle and careful like protecting a glass figure but when he feels your breasts squeeze against him and your fingers tugging at his belt, something inside of him unleashes.

Joel picks you up with ease, placing you on his waist and grabbing your ass eagerly. The kiss deepens as he slams you down on the counter, the sounds you both made mixing together.

After finally pulling away, breathless, Joel’s hand slides under your tank top, his rough fingers inching higher over your soft skin. They finally reach your breast, gently kneading it. His thumb brushes over your nipple, making it pebble.

With a mewl, your legs wrap around him tighter. You hold yourself up with your palms on the counter, letting him explore you all he wants.

Joel's mouth descends to your collarbone, sucking and biting gently as his other hand reaches down, fingers hooking under the edges of your panties. They find your slick heat and he teases your entrance, circling it slowly. “So wet…”

You whine, trying hard not to move against his hand and let him toy with you his way. “Joel…” Your mouth is parted, thighs already trembling with desire.

He observes you for reactions as his thumb rolls your clit. “What, baby?”

“N-Need you… Please,” you whimper as the tip of his finger enters your hole.

The corner of his mouth twitches at your begging. “Since you asked so nicely.” He pushes a finger inside you, groaning at how tight and hot you are. His thumb rubs firm circles over your clit as he starts to pump his finger in and out. The sounds you make to encourage him makes his groin stir, increasing his speed and spreads your legs wider, parting your folds with his other hands for better access.

The way his fingers work you has you arching your back, saying his name like a prayer. Joel adds another finger, scissoring them to stretch you further as he picks up the pace. His thumb continues its relentless stimulation of your clit, whispering praises into your ear. He leans in to capture your mouth in a searing kiss, tongue delving deep to tangle with yours. The taste of whiskey mingles with your sweetness as he devours you. His lips move down your neck, nipping at the soft skin, travelling down to your tits and assaulting the sensitive buds with his mouth.

“Oh my God,” you moan, the pleasure felt otherworldly. You hold onto him, tangling your fingers in his hair. His fingers curl in a way that has you seeing stars. “F-yes… fuck!”

Your responses, your parted lips and furrowed eyebrows had his desire to devour you grow into a wildfire. The pent up tension made it all worth as long as he had the chance to take care of you but also ruin you as well.

Joel's eyes lock onto yours, dark with lust and intensity as he watches you unravel. “Come on, baby girl.” He pinches your clit hard as his fingers keep hitting your sweet spot, sending you plummeting over the edge. Your walls clench tightly around his fingers as you cry out, waves of pleasure crashing over you. “Joel!”

Watching your climax hit had Joel’s own arousal rise and your head spinning as the last drop spills onto his hand. Trying to catch your breath, you hold onto him while you recover and he whispers reassurances in your ear with his head nuzzling into your neck.

The feeling of emptiness disturbs your daze when he pulls out his fingers and takes a step back. You whine in protest, grabbing his hand and pulling him back.

He huffs out a laugh, giving you a confused look. “What? Wanna get you cleaned up.”

You shake your head, tugging at his belt, fully aware of the erection he must have even though his jeans slightly hid it. “Not tired yet,” your voice pleads. “Still…”

There was no need to finish the sentence, his grip already on your thighs again. “Wasn’t done with you anyway,” he rasps, hungrily stroking your inner thighs. “You’re sure tough, gotta give you that.”

You chuckle and bite your lip, pulling off his belt with great speed. He follows after, tugging down your shorts and unzipping his jeans, letting them drop to the floor. You work the buttons of his flannel, not wasting a second.

“Easy baby, I ain’t goin’ nowhere,” he jokes at the intensity you moved with, deciding to make it easier for you. He pulls you to the edge of the counter and wraps your legs around him. “Wanna take my time with you ‘n maybe you’ll listen.” Effortlessly, he picks you up and leads you to the bedroom, kissing you like he needs it to save his life.

Once you reach the modest old bed, he plops you down on the mattress and slides your tank top over your head. A low, approving growl rumbles in his chest at the renewed heat he can feel building between your thighs. His calloused hands skim reverently over the soft skin of your sides and stomach, mapping out every dip and curve.

He ducks his head, capturing one pert nipple between his lips and suckling gently, his tongue swirling around the sensitive mound. His hand drifts lower, fingers ghosting teasingly over your slick folds, ready and wet for him again, your clit aching against his thumb.

“Please,” you whimper, squirming impatiently.

Unable to contain himself any longer, he takes off his underwear and you feel his thick, angry tip tease your entrance. He groans, your wetness already getting him sensitive. “Wanna hear you,” he croons, his Southern drawl full of desire.

Notching the broad head of his cock at her entrance, he starts to push forward, breaching her slowly. Her slick walls stretch deliciously around him as he sinks in inch by thick inch, letting her adjust to his size.

You moan, the stretch making your world spin. His hands caress your sides and hips soothingly as he lets you adjust, his own breathing ragged with restraint. Finally, when he feels you start to relax around him, he begins to move. He sets a deep, rolling rhythm, pulling out nearly to the tip before sliding back in, hitting that special spot inside you with every thrust.

Feeling his restraint to fully slam into you, you sink down on him slightly even more on your own. “N-Need more,” you pant, hands holding onto his forearms.

Joel didn’t need to be told twice. “Oh yeah?” he challenges, pulling out almost entirely, his tip still halfway in. Before you could protest, he rams into you in a way that makes your back arch and both of you moan. “Fuck!” you cry out desperately.

Your cries and increasingly loud moans spur him on, his hips snapping forward with growing urgency. He changes the angle slightly, lifting your ass up into his hands, determined to hit that perfect spot inside her with every deep thrust. “That’s it baby girl, take it.”

The obscene slap of skin on skin fills the room, mixing with her keening cries and his own guttural groans. He guides your hands to your own heat, placing your fingers on your clit. “Touch yourself for me.”

Obeying him, you start rubbing yourself in firm motions, circling around it. With every thrust your moans get louder, your tits bounce harder and his cock hits the places you didn’t know could be reached. He watches your tits move along the force of his hips, grasping onto one of them while cupping the other slightly gentler.

The pleasure is almost too much for you, the combinations having your eyes roll back. “Joel, fuck!”

Determined to bring you with him, he targets his thrusts, angling to hit that special spot inside you with every deep plunge, the force rocking your entire body. “Oh my God!” you moan at the pace he keept up. He groans, feeling her walls flutter and clench around his pistoning length, making him dangerously close to the edge. “Fuck, I-” he pants, his moves getting sloppier. “I’m close…”

“Me- nghh… too,” you whimper, holding onto him tighter as his hand replaces yours over your clit.

You clenching around him with an almost animalistic cry as you come undone beneath him is the final push he needs. With a roar of completion, he hilts himself deep inside your spasming sheath, his cock pulsing as he starts to empty himself in thick, hot spurts directly against your cervix.

"Jesus," he snarls, grinding against you as he rides out the intense waves of his orgasm. Each twitch and throb of his shaft sends another load of his seed painting your insides, marking you as his.

Through it all, his hands roam your body possessively, caressing and kneading every curve as if committing it to memory. He peppers your face with kisses between harsh breaths, murmuring praise and adoration against your skin. "So good... so fucking perfect."

Your boneless frame settles on the mattress in his embrace, tangling your fingers in his hair. A contented sigh escapes him as he listens to your gentle panting, your heartbeat gradually slowing to match his own and everything calms down. “That tire you out?” he teases, laying down next to you and keeping you steady in his arms.

“A little,” you sigh, even though your eyes were struggling to stay open as you rest your head on his chest.

He laughs lightly, attempting to get up and clean you up but you didn’t let him, deciding to hold him while you still had him. “Stay,” you sleepily murmur.

“ ‘S okay, baby,” he mumbles, pressing a kiss onto your forehead softly, like he’s kissing the most precious thing in the world. “I got you.”

send rq, the freakier the better 😭🙏 and fluff and angst too cause they’re the best

ALSO NO JOEL IS OKAY YALL ABBY DIDNT PLAY GOLF WITH HIM IN MY HEAD PLS 💔

[lupinqs]

THE TONIGHT SHOW ━━ paige bueckers x actress!reader

☆ ━ summary: a talk show, an after party, and far too much champagne leads paige bueckers straight to you.

☆ ━ word count: 9.5K

☆ ━ warnings: smut (scissoring, oral, fingering)

☆ ━ links: my masterlist

☆ ━ author’s note: shameless timmy chalamet cameo because i love him…. anyways that pic with p and the champagne single-handedly revived my writing

THE DRESSING ROOM is loud, but in a muted way—voices murmuring over each other, flat irons hissing like snakes, the faint thump of bass through the walls as the Tonight Show band rehearses. You’re sitting in a high-backed chair, eyes half-lidded, a stylist brushing highlighter onto your cheekbone while someone else carefully curls the ends of your hair. You’re barely paying attention, letting yourself be fussed over like a human Barbie. You’re used to it by now.

Timothée’s sprawled on the little velvet couch behind you, legs hanging over the arm like a spider that’s given up. He’s buzzing, as usual, knee bouncing, fingers drumming against his thigh. You love him, but he never seems to run out of energy. You glance at him in the mirror as he tosses a piece of popcorn in the air and catches it with his mouth. Barely.

“Missed,” you mutter.

He gasps like you insulted his lineage. “Just untruthful.”

You grin, but your attention shifts. Something itches in your brain—some piece of information you forgot to check.

“What’s the lineup tonight?” you ask, voice pitched slightly above the hum around you.

The girl doing your hair, her name’s Rachel you think, nods absently as she wraps another section around the curling iron. “Rami Malek’s first, then you two. Oh, and I think Paige Bueckers has a little cameo. She’s crashing the monologue but doesn’t have an interview.”

Timothée sits up like he’s just heard his name. “Ohhh, because they won the natty, right?”

Rachel nods, unfazed. “Yeah. She’s just doing a little bit with Jimmy to start the show. Real quick thing.”

“Damn,” Timothée whistles low, like he’s genuinely impressed. “She a hooper, for real. I wanna meet her.”

You roll your eyes playfully but don’t say anything right away. Of course you know who Paige Bueckers is. Everyone does right now.

A few days ago, you watched her team win the national championship. You weren’t at home or anything sentimental—just curled up in your trailer between night shoots, a bowl of cereal in your lap and your assistant’s login for ESPN on your phone. But you’d watched her. The way she moved. The way she led.

You’re not a basketball diehard by any means, but the big stuff? You pay attention. And Paige is big. A name on the rise. A face that teenage girls across America are scribbling in the margins of their notebooks, reposting edits of on TikTok, screaming about like she’s Harry Styles during prime One Direction days. The girl’s got motion.

You don’t know what it is about her. Maybe it’s the way she smiles when she’s caught off guard or how she carries herself like she doesn’t care at all what anyone thinks. Or maybe it’s just the fact that she’s hot and tall and athletic and entirely too marketable.

Timothée tosses another piece of popcorn into his mouth. “What do you think she’s like?”

You laugh, rolling your eyes a little. Your co-star loves sports and Paige has been the biggest name in them this week. “I don’t know. Cool, probably.”

He nods along, chewing his popcorn. “Well, duh. She’s an athlete. They’re all cool.” (Case in point.)

You nod slowly, lips parting but not quite moving yet. You’ve been in rooms with world-famous people, with actors who have Oscars and musicians who have egos the size of planets. But there’s something about athletes—especially ones who just won something. There’s a heat to them, a freshness. Like they’re alive in a way everyone else is pretending to be.

“D’you think she’ll still be here after the show?” Timothée asks curiously. “Maybe at the after-thing?”

You hum, noncommittal.

But secretly, you hope so too.

Not that you’re planning anything. Not that it matters. You’re just curious.

That’s all.

And then—it’s time for rehearsal. Nothing new. You and Timothée are ushered through narrow hallways that smell faintly of hairspray and cold brew, past stagehands with headsets and clipboards. Jimmy’s warm-up guy gives you a quick wave. Someone hands you a printout with a few of the pre-cleared talking points: talk about the shoot in Italy, Timothée’s improv moment in the cafe scene, your character’s breakdown, funny story about the crying scene.

The usual fluff.

You barely glance at it. You and Timmy have done this song and dance enough times to know that the real magic happens when you ignore the cards and just talk.

Still, you sit side by side on the little couch in the green room, tossing lines back and forth as if you’re already on air.

“Okay,” Timmy says, clearing his throat in an exaggerated newscaster voice. “Tell me, what was it like doing another film where all you do is cry?”

You snort. “Life-changing. I mean, I think I’ve really got it down now. You, on the other hand…”

“Hey!” he clutches his chest dramatically. “I cried some beautiful tears.”

“Uh-huh.”

You’re both still laughing as the stage manager pokes her head in. “We’re about to get to your segment. Paige just finished her bit.”

At the mention of her name, something flickers in your chest—quick and sharp, like a spark. You don’t know why. You don’t even know her. You just saw her on TV a few days ago, limbs outstretched and screaming at the buzzer with the rest of her team swarming her like bees to honey.

Now she’s here, in the building. Probably just down the hall.

Timothée, of course, notices your shift. “You nervous?” he teases, nudging your shoulder.

You shake your head. “Nah.”

You don’t elaborate.

The rest of it happens fast.

They mic you up, fluff your hair one last time, and lead you through the wings toward the main stage. Jimmy’s voice floats through the air as he wraps up a bit with the band. The audience laughs, and the floor vibrates faintly with applause.

“Alright,” Jimmy grins, turning toward the camera. “Coming up next, two of my favorite people!” He calls your name and then Timothée’s, ushering you both onto the stage.

The applause swells like a wave. The music kicks in. You walk out with Timmy beside you, the lights hitting hard and hot, but you don’t flinch. You smile. You wave. You hug Jimmy and sit down on the couch, legs crossed, posture perfect. Timmy hams it up immediately, pointing at the crowd and then at you like, can you believe this woman? The audience eats it up.

It’s easy. Familiar. You talk about the movie. Timmy tells the story of how the gelato stand you filmed at got mobbed by fans. You talk about a scene that took eight takes because the wind kept flipping your hair into your mouth. Jimmy laughs too hard. The audience claps on cue.

And somewhere, offstage—maybe leaning against a wall or scrolling through her phone—Paige Bueckers is watching.

Maybe.

Not that it, like, matters.

PAIGE ISN’T USED to feeling like this.

She’s good with people. Always has been. Her dad used to say she could talk to a brick wall and get it to smile. She knows how to work a room, can flip the switch between lowkey and charismatic like it’s nothing. And normally, this kind of party would be her sweet spot—music pulsing, champagne in hand, famous people milling around.

But she’s been a little overwhelmed—and who can blame her? The last few days have been a whirlwind—interviews, flights, appearances, more interviews. Since the natty win, her world’s been spinning faster than usual, and not even her extroversion can keep up with the pace forever.

She’s grateful that Azzi and Kaitlyn are here with her. They’re posted up by the bar, all of them sipping champagne and trying to stay nonchalant, even though they just met Alicia Keys and Azzi legitimately had to walk away before she burst into tears.

“She said she watched the game,” Kaitlyn says, shaking her head in disbelief and swirling her glass.

“She said she loved my jumper,” Paige deadpans.

Paige lets the conversation blur around her, her eyes scanning the room over the rim of her glass. It’s crowded with beautiful, wildly successful people. She recognizes singers, actors, athletes. Everyone smells expensive and looks like they floated in from a campaign shoot.

Then she sees you.

You’re wearing a black dress that makes her blink twice. It clings in all the right places, dips a little lower than should be legal, and your hair is tucked behind one ear like you’re unaware of how gorgeous you look. Or maybe you are aware. Maybe that’s the point.

You’re deep in conversation with Kylie Jenner, who’s leaning in close, sipping on something pink and fizzy. Timothée Chalamet is perched beside you, laughing at something Kylie says, his hand tapping against her hip.

You look… perfect. Fuckable. Edible. Paige knows that it’s probably disrespectful to think of you like that when she’s never even spoken to you, but—damn—she can’t help herself.

Of course, she recognizes you instantly. She’s seen all your movies. Follows you on Instagram. Knows which photo you posted after the Venice premiere because she may or may not have saved it. She’s watched interviews you’ve done, including the one tonight with Jimmy Fallon and Timothée.

“You should go talk to her,” Azzi says beside her, like she’s been waiting for the moment Paige would finally catch up.

Paige startles slightly. “What?”

“You’ve been staring. Go rub your hands together and rizz her up or something,” Kaitlyn adds, laughing a little at the end. Azzi does, too.

“I haven’t—” Paige scoffs. “Fine, maybe a lil.”

Azzi nudges her with her elbow. “She’s right there. Just go say hi.”

“Yeah, because that won’t be weird. ‘Hi, I’m Paige, I’m a fan, please marry me.’” The blonde gives her best friend a look.

Kaitlyn grins. “You’ve said worse to girls you weren’t obsessed with.”

“I’m not obsessed with her.”

Azzi lifts a brow.

“… I’m just aware of her existence,” Paige mutters into her champagne.

She turns back toward you just in time to catch you laughing at something Kylie says. It’s a real laugh—head tilted back slightly, hand brushing your collarbone. You’re flushed with happiness or alcohol or both. Timothée leans toward you to whisper something in your ear, and you swat him away like a brother, grinning the whole time.

You look like a dream Paige isn’t sure she’s allowed to have.

Azzi nudges her again. “Go.”

“I’m waiting til she’s not surrounded.”

“She’s never not gonna be surrounded. That’s the point of people like her. They orbit.”

Paige sips her drink, hesitating. You glance up—just for a second—and Paige swears you catch her watching. Your gaze flits past, then back again, like you’re registering her face. There’s a pause, something unreadable in your expression, and then Kylie tugs at your wrist and you look away.

Paige exhales. She takes a sip of her champagne. She’s going to stay nonchalant. If she gets the opportunity to talk to you—later, maybe—then she will. But not right now.

Or, well, actually, maybe right now.

Because when she turns her head to look back at where you were previously standing, all she sees is Timothée Chalamet is walking toward the bar.

And you’re by his side.

You’re a few feet away, pausing just short of the counter to place a drink order. You laugh at something Timothée says, one hand resting loosely on the curve of your hip, the other reaching for a cocktail menu you probably won’t read. Paige’s eyes catch on the way your dress rides up just slightly as you lean forward, the way your hair falls over your shoulder, and it’s almost enough to knock the air out of her chest and send heat to her stomach.

She forces herself to look cool, calm. Like she belongs here. Like she’s not actively freaking out about the fact that the actress she might, sort of, maybe be lowkey obsessed with is now ten feet away ordering a drink.

And then it happens.

Timothée glances across the bar, eyes scanning lazily—until they land on her.

His whole face lights up. Like, visibly. Like they’re old friends or something.

“Yoooo! Paige!” he says, grinning, like he’s been waiting all night to spot her.

Paige blinks, actually looks behind her to make sure he means her.

“You’re Paige Bueckers, right?” he continues, already stepping closer. “Yo, I watched the championship game. You’re nasty. Ate them gamecocks up.”

Paige lets out a short laugh, genuinely caught off guard. “You watched?”

“‘Course I did, bro!” His grin widens, like it’s insane she didn’t believe. “I’ve been following y’all forever. Y’all are hoopers.”

Kaitlyn is already whispering to Azzi, probably something like what the hell is happening right now, but Paige tries not to pay attention to that. She holds her champagne glass a little tighter and nods coolly.

“Appreciate it, man. That means a lot,” she says, managing to keep her voice steady. “These are my teammates, Azzi and Kaitlyn.”

Paige watches as Timothée daps both of them up, his whole body buzzing—probably with champagne. “Nice to meet you guys. Love both your games, for real.”

And then Paige sees it—the way his eyes flick back to you as the bartender slides your drink across the counter. You’re turning to say thank you, lifting the glass to your lips. And then, without warning, Timothée reaches out, both hands grabbing onto your shoulders.

“Yo, you gotta meet someone,” he says, steering you gently but decisively in their direction. “Come here.”

You glance over, a little curious but not annoyed, your gaze settling on Paige and her friends as you approach. Paige straightens up slightly—not noticeably, she hopes—but she can already feel the warmth rising in her chest.

“This,” Timothée says, pulling you in beside him, “is Paige Bueckers. Bucketssss!” The way he drags out the second word leads Paige to believe he’s had one too many champagnes.

You smile easily, glossy lips pulling up at the corners. “Yeah, I know who she is.”

Paige feels her brain short-circuit for just a second.

Your voice is soft but certain, laced with that familiar confidence she’s seen in your interviews. And now it’s directed at her.

She nods, flashes a small grin. She hopes she seems chill. “Aye, good to know I’m not invisible.”

You laugh, and Paige swears the whole party sound dips out behind it. “Not even close.”

“This is Azzi and Kaitlyn,” Paige adds, gesturing toward her teammates, desperate to keep the conversation moving so she doesn’t drown in her own nerves.

You offer both of them a quick wave, clearly familiar enough with sports to know names, but you’re focused mostly on Paige now. And that’s dangerous.

Because up close, you’re even more stunning. Your dress dips just slightly in the front, and the shape of your cleavage makes Paige want to forget how to speak English. She reminds herself—she’s fine. She’s got game. She’s been in tougher spots than this.

But your eyes flick down her frame briefly—just a flash—and then back to her eyes. You tilt your head a little, smile. And she thinks, maybe she doesn’t.

“You played great in March, by the way. I saw that forty piece.”

Paige raises a brow, impressed. Her forty piece wasn’t in the natty or Final Four—it was in the Sweet Sixteen. So, maybe you weren’t just watching to watch. Maybe. “You watched that game?”

You shrug, taking another sip of your drink. “I dabble in excellence.”

Timothée lets out a loud drunken laugh beside you, “Dabble in excellence—I’m stealing that.”

Paige’s grin widens. “You can’t just dabble in March.”

“Guess I’m a committed fan, then,” you say casually, and God, you really don’t play fair.

Azzi catches Paige’s eye behind your back, giving her the most painfully obvious oh, you’re screwed face. Paige ignores her entirely.

“Well,” Paige says, lifting her glass toward yours, “cheers, then.”

You clink glasses with her, your fingers brushing against hers briefly. “Cheers.”

And it’s not flirty, not exactly—not yet. But there’s something in the way you’re looking at her now. A spark. An open door. Well, shit.

Paige doesn’t know where this is going, but suddenly she doesn’t care how tired she is or how long this week has been—because you’re standing in front of her in that damn dress, and you know her name, and your smile is enough to knock her off balance in the best possible way.

But, the thing about nights like this is that they never really slow down.

One minute, Paige is thinking she might actually be getting somewhere—that you might actually be into talking to her—and the next, someone who looks vaguely famous (blonde, sequined, expensive) is whisking you and Timothée away with a cheerful, “Come on, you have to meet—!”

You shoot Paige an apologetic little smile as you’re tugged off, mouthing something like sorry!, and then you’re gone. Just like that. The crush of bodies swallows you whole.

And Paige… is left standing there, still gripping her champagne glass like it might offer answers.

Azzi bumps her shoulder. “Paige,” she laughs.

“I’m calm,” Paige lies through her teeth, staring at the spot you were just standing in.

“Uh-huh,” Azzi nods, looking entirely unconvinced, biting her lip to fight another laugh from escaping.

Kaitlyn grins, too. “What’re you thinking?”

“I’m thinkin’,” Paige mutters, taking another sip, “that I shoulda said more.”

Azzi snorts. “Nah, you said enough. She was into it.”

Paige gives her a side-eye. “You think?”

“She smiled at you like this.” Azzi does a dramatic, slow-motion head tilt, batting her lashes.

“Stop.” Paige shoves her.

But… yeah, maybe she’s hoping her best friend is a little right about this one thing.

IT’S ALMOST AN HOUR before she sees you again.

In the meantime, she’s made rounds with Azzi and Kaitlyn, posed for some photos, took another flute of champagne, and then promptly lost track of them somewhere around a table filled with sliders and very fancy-looking truffle fries.

She heads to the bathroom just to get a breather, leaning against the marble counter and staring at herself in the mirror for a beat too long.

You’re fine, she tells herself. You’re not twelve. She’s just hot. And famous. And you’re…

She frowns. “Also hot. And famous,” she says out loud, trying to hype herself up. It doesn’t work. She’s never really cared about either of those things.

And, of course, the mirror—as expected—doesn’t respond.

She leaves the bathroom and steps back into the party, only to find that Azzi and Kaitlyn have fully vanished. Not just moved—vanished. Gone without a trace. It’s not that big of a room, but the lights are low, and the music is louder now, and she’s weaving through the crowd like she’s suddenly in a dream sequence.

Then—

“Your teammates ditch you?”

The voice comes from behind, low and familiar, and Paige freezes before she turns.

You.

You’re standing there holding an empty glass, still looking so fucking fine in that damn dress, your weight shifted to one hip and an amused tilt to your head like you might already know the effect you’re having on her.

Paige blinks once. “Uh…”

You stare.

She clears her throat, pulling herself together. “Yeah. Seems like they did.”

You nod, tapping the side of your glass. “It’s okay. I was ditched too.”

She laughs softly, eyes flicking down to the floor and then back to you. “Timothée ditched you?” She doesn’t add the fact that she thinks anyone ditching you might as well be a crime.

You shrug, scrunching your nose just slightly. “Yeah. He and Kylie left. They’re always escaping to go be nasty together.”

And Paige—

Paige blinks, because the first thought that enters her brain is: you and I can go be nasty together.

And the second thought is: Jesus Christ. What is wrong with me.

She manages to keep a straight face, nodding with a mix of mock solemnity and disgust. “Gross.”

“Very,” you agree, leaning a little closer. “But I guess that makes us the abandoned ones. Left to fend for ourselves in this sea of glitter and Botox.”

Paige chuckles. “Could be worse.”

You smile at her, a dimple popping out of your cheek. “Could definitely be worse.”

There’s a beat. A pause, but not an awkward one. The music swells in the background—some mellow pop remix of a song Paige doesn’t recognize—and your eyes haven’t left hers.

But then they do, glancing at her empty glass. “Out of champagne?”

She looks down like she didn’t realize it. “Apparently.”

You hold up yours, empty too. “Same. Let’s fix that?”

Paige nods, heart ticking up a notch. “Let’s.”

You both drift to the bar again, standing shoulder to shoulder while the bartender takes someone else’s overly complicated drink order. You lean in a little as you wait, not quite touching but close enough that Paige can smell the citrusy perfume on your neck.

“Sooo…” you say, dragging the word out, looking at her sideways and smirking a little. “You’re gon’ be the number one pick next week, yeah?”

Paige feels her face flush a little, blood rushing through her cheeks. The draft. Another thing that’s coming head-on. She’s excited. Grateful, of course. Just… also still a little overwhelmed. It’s okay; she’ll be ready come Monday.

She swallows, shrugging a little. “If that’s in God’s plan for me, then I guess so.”

Your eyes seem to soften a bit at that but before you can respond, the bartender finally turns to you both. Paige puts on her normal smile, ordering two more glasses and sliding her card across the counter before you can even reach for your handbag.

You arch a brow. “Really?”

“Mhm,” she hums, not elaborating. She leans against the bar, looks at you. She hopes she seems smoother than she feels.

Your lips twist into something almost flirtatious. “Fine. But only if I get to buy the next round.”

“You planning on stayin’ that long?”

You tilt your head, gaze sharp and playful. “I don’t know. You planning on making it worth my while?”

And there it is—Paige feels it hit her chest, the full-body flush of oh my God, this is happening.

She plays it cool. Leans in just a little. “I might.”

You hold her gaze for a moment. The drinks arrive. You both take a sip, and something simmers in the space between you.

“Okay then,” you say softly. “Show me what you’ve got, PB.”

THE DRINKS GO DOWN easily. Too easily, maybe.

Because—one minute, Paige is flirting with you at the bar, and the next, you’re both in the family restroom.

It’s a nice bathroom. Like, really nice. Too nice for what’s about to happen in it.

There’s a changing table, a comfy little chair in the corner, even a soft-glow light coming from behind the mirror. It smells like eucalyptus.

Paige watches as you push the lock in with a soft click. You move then, stepping right into her space.

She doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t even think.

Her mouth is on yours before either of you says a word.

It’s hot. Messy in the way champagne makes everything feel a little blurred and desperate. Paige’s hands find your waist, pulling you closer and pushing you until your back hits the edge of the sink. You’re kissing her like you’ve been waiting all night to, and Paige is still trying to keep her cool but—God, the way you taste, the way you’re tugging at the open collar of her flannel—it’s a lot.

Paige slips her tongue into your mouth, licking around, tasting. You make a low sound when she sucks lightly on your bottom lip and Paige feels it everywhere.

“Fuck,” you mumble and Paige manages to laugh a little, low and breathless, before tilting your chin up to kiss you deeper.

Paige’s head spins a little.

How did she even get here?

She’s in a family restroom. At a celebrity afterparty. With you. Famous, perfect, actress you, whose Instagram she’s stalked more times than she’ll ever admit. And now you’re as close as possible, your tongue tangled with hers.

This can’t even be real.

And yet—your mouth moves to her jaw, kissing along it in slow, maddening lines, and Paige grips the edge of the sink behind you because if she doesn’t hold onto something, she might just melt into the floor.

You murmur into her neck, “You good?”

She laughs quietly, shakes her head a little. “Yeah,” she mumbles, a little breathless. She reaches for your face again, adding, “C’mere,” pulling you back in.

She kisses you, harder this time, a little reckless. You taste like champagne and mistakes and her own disbelief. And strawberry lip gloss. The same strawberry lip gloss that she’s essentially sucked off.

Your fingers slip beneath the hem of her flannel, lightly tracing the skin above her waistband, and it makes her hips twitch forward before she can stop it. You feel it. Smirk into the kiss.

“Easy, Bueckers,” you tease, lips brushing hers.

Paige swears something explodes behind her ribs. Like a firework. Or a panic attack. Or both.

She groans, kissing you again—if she doesn’t keep doing it, she might lose her mind. Her hands move back to your waist, grabbing you, your dress wrinkling slightly beneath the grip of her palms. You kiss her deeper, mouth open and needy, teeth grazing the blonde’s lip.

Paige’s hands slide lower, palms skimming down the curve of your back, fingers trailing over the fabric of your dress until they land—firmly, confidently—on your ass. She gives a slow squeeze, exhaling lowly at the feeling. You make a soft sound, too, and it nearly sends her spiraling.

Paige feels you press closer to her, your leg nudging between hers slightly. Her pulse picks up like she’s got two seconds left on the shot clock and the ball’s in her hands.

Her hands palm at you again, trying to memorize the shape of you. At the feeling, you pull back just enough to speak, lips kiss-swollen and spit-slick, eyes a little glossy.

“D’you wanna leave?” you ask, voice low and slightly breathless.

Paige’s mouth instinctively moves to your jaw, kissing there, slow and a little greedy. She hums against your skin. “Where would we go?”

You tip your head back slightly, exposing your neck to her in a way that drives her insane. “Back to mine?”

And—fuck.

That snaps something within Paige.

She stills for a half-second. Not pulling away. Just taking a moment. Letting that sentence sit in the air between you two.

Back to yours.

You. Your apartment. You, a little tipsy and flushed and stunning and clearly just as into this as she is.

How in the hell?

This doesn’t happen to her. Sure, she’s fucked a good amount of girls on campus. Sure, she’s got a lot of fans that edit her. But this? You? The girl with the Oscar buzz and the actual fame and that little black dress that’s been driving her out of her mind all night?

All she can think is—thank God for that natty.

She kisses you again, deep and hungry and like that answers the question for her.

You smile into it, pulling back just slightly, lips grazing hers as you ask, “Yeah?”

And Paige—grinning now, breath uneven, hands still resting on your ass, fingers skimming the back of your thighs because your dress is so short—says against your mouth, “Oh, yeah.”

You laugh, and it’s giddy and bright and sounds like bells. Paige wants to hear it again.

But then you’re both moving. You smooth your dress, pulling it down a little, fixing your lipgloss in the mirror with a lazy swipe of your finger. Paige straightens her flannel and tightens her ponytail, trying not to look like she was just seconds away from doing something very vile in a public restroom.

You unlock the door. Step out first.

Paige follows, hand brushing the small of your back before she shoves it in her pocket, like if she doesn’t, she’ll touch you again in front of everyone.

You both re-enter the noise and chaos of the party like nothing happened. Paige sends a quick text to Azzi and Kaitlyn—wherever they are—telling them of where she’s going.

You catch her eye over your shoulder as you lead the way toward the exit. And Paige just follows—completely, hopelessly, happily gone.

YOU TAKE THE SUBWAY.

You could’ve called a car—should’ve, probably—but it just feels easier like this. It’s late, the platform is as quiet as it is all day, and there’s something a little funny about a famous actress and a famous basketball player going home on the subway following a celebrity afterparty. You half expect her to complain or hesitate, but she doesn’t. She stays right beside you the whole time. Close, like she needs to feel the heat from your skin.

You feel the same. It’s almost like your skin might catch fire if she gets any nearer.

You don’t talk much, just a few soft jokes between stations. Stuff like:

“Are the subways usually this dirty?”

“Paige.”

And:

“People are staring.”

“Yeah. At you.”

“Mm. Doubt it.”

“You’re holding the pole like it owes you money, Bueckers. You’re not exactly blending in.”

(Clearly, Paige is not a New Yorker.)

She laughs at that, quietly, and you watch her from the corner of your eye.

You didn’t plan this. At all.

When the girl doing your makeup mentioned Paige Bueckers would be popping into the Tonight Show monologue, you’d barely reacted. Just filled it away. You knew who she was, of course—who doesn’t, at this point? You’re not deep into basketball, more of a casual watcher, but she’s impossible to ignore. A little golden, a little unreal.

You definitely didn’t expect to be on your way home with her a few hours later.

But then Timmy geeked out. Saw her at the bar, dragged you to meet her. Said her name with this over-the-top awe as if he isn’t ten times more famous than her. You’d just laughed and let him, not thinking too much about it—until you got close.

And then, yeah, you understood.

She’s hot.

Like, obviously. She’s tall, strong, stupidly pretty in a way that seems both entirely effortless and at the same time a little intentional. Her posture alone—the confidence in her stature—made you straighten up, and you put on your best perfectly casual acting face for moments when you don’t feel quite as casual as you should.

But it wasn’t just her appearance.

She’s kind. That was clear right away. Not performative or trying too hard. Just nice. And funny, in a dry way. Quick with the side comments. Self-aware. And slightly, slightly nervous around you, which you can’t lie—you like. It’s endearing.

There’s this quiet little tension between you now. A hum under the surface. Every time your knees brush on the subway bench, you feel it spike. She keeps glancing at your legs like she’s trying not to, like she doesn’t realize you’ve already caught her twice.

You don’t say anything. You just sit there and let it build.

The ride doesn’t last long. Your stop comes faster than expected, and Paige follows you off the train without a word.

It’s chilly outside. The city’s quieter than usual, but not silent. It never is. You walk a block to your building, Paige’s steps in rhythm with yours, and when you glance over at her under the streetlight, she looks down and gives you a half-smile. It makes your chest tighten a little. Like something you didn’t know was there is trying to make itself known.

Inside your building, you greet the doorman, who gives you a knowing look that you ignore. Paige nods politely. She’s got that people-pleaser charm—you can tell.

The elevator is slow. Old. You both step in and the doors close with a soft thunk.

You hit the button for your floor. Then, the air shifts.

There’s a pause—quiet but heavy. The kind of silence that makes you feel the other person. Paige stands just a little too close. Not aggressively. Just… aware. The distance between you isn’t quite respectful. Her arm brushes yours, and neither of you move away.

You stare straight ahead, but your eyes flick sideways every few seconds. She’s doing the same. You can feel it. Like heat. Like static. The air between your bodies buzzes like it’s waiting for permission to break.

The elevator dings.

Your floor.

You step out. She follows. And this time, she’s close enough that you feel the warmth of her breath as she exhales.

You swallow and walk to your door, unlocking it quickly, gingers a little clumsy on the key. Your heartbeat’s in your ears now. Loud.

The door swings open, and you step aside to let her in.

Paige walks in slow. She glances around, taking in the space—it’s nice. You know it is. Acting—well, it makes good money. And your apartment is a reflection of that.

You let her look around, setting your keys down and toeing your shoes off. When you glance back up, she’s watching you.

Neither of you says anything.

You walk over to her slowly.

And Paige—still looking at you like she’s not quite sure how this is real—just stands there, letting you close the space between you.

Your fingers find the hem of her flannel, gently.

“You wanna stay a while?” you ask, voice quiet, casual.

She nods.

And this time, it’s her who kisses you.

Its immediate. The fire. The heat. The way her mouth meets yours like it’s something she’s been dying to do all night—maybe longer. Her lips are warm, soft but urgent, and you can barely keep up with the way she kisses you, like she’s been holding herself back and now there’s no reason to anymore.

You make a sound against her mouth, half gasp, half laugh, and she responds with a low hum, hands already gripping your hips like they’re the only thing keeping her tethered to the Earth.

Your fingers slide up to her shoulders, trying to steer, to hold, to anchor—but you’re barely steady yourself. The two of you stumble back a few steps, laughing breathlessly between kisses as she walks you toward the couch, bumping a wall, into the table, not even caring. Her hand is on your lower back, guiding you—no, pushing you—and you let her, let her press you into her, let her kiss you like she knows exactly what she wants and exactly where she wants it.

It’s messy. Hands moving with no direction, your bodies pressing into each other like you’ve already forgotten you’re in your own damn apartment. Her mouth moves from your lips to your neck for half a second and you feel your knees weaken a little. You bite your lip, grab her jaw, kiss her harder. It’s so much, too much—but not enough.

You gasp against her mouth, “Wait—bed,” and she pulls back, just a breath away, eyes wide and dark and already a little wild.

“Yeah,” she says, already reaching for your hand, letting you pull her because she’s not familiar with the space.

You thought maybe you’d end up… here. The couch. The floor. Whatever. But no—you make it to the bedroom, somehow. Still kissing, still giggling in these little gasps when you bump into furniture. Still fumbling. Still grabbing.

Once you’re there, you push her down onto the bed, your palms flat on her chest. She goes easily, grinning up at you as her back hits the mattress. She’s breathing hard. So are you.

You crawl into her lap, settling your thighs on either side of hers, letting her hands immediately go to your waist again—strong, sure now. Her fingers grip you tighter than before. She’s steadier. More confident. And it’s really fucking attractive.

You bend down and kiss her again, slower this time but just as deep, just as desperate. Her hands slide up your back, over your spine, under the hem of your dress, wandering. You don’t stop her. You don’t want to.

And God, the way she moves underneath you. The way she kisses you now—like she’s not nervous anymore. Like she’s got you, and she knows it.

Your lips trace down, slow and hungry, grazing her skin like you want to memorize every part of her. Her jaw. The curve of her throat. The warm spot just beneath her ear. You suck lightly at first, then a little harder when you feel her shift beneath you—when her grip tightens and her breath gets heavier.

She mutters something low and strained, a quiet “Christ,” that sends a pulse right through you.

Her hands slide under your tiny dress. You feel her fingers splay across the back of your thighs before moving your, gripping your ass in a way that’s both firm and reverent. Like she’s still shocked you’re even here, straddling her, touching her. You groan softly against her neck, sinking your teeth gently into her skin there before pulling back with a kiss.

Your focus shifts to her flannel. The sparkly thing that you think probably only she can pull off. You eye it, fingers fumbling a bit as you reach for the buttons. She doesn’t move to help you at first. Just keeps her hands right where they are, thumbs brushing slow, distracting circles as she watches you with this little smirk.

You finally get the last button undone and she shrugs it off, tossing it across the room. She’s left in a black Nike sports bra and cargos and somehow still looks like maybe the hottest person you’ve ever seen in your life—and, seriously, you’ve seen a lot of hot people.

Your hands run up her bare abs, firm beneath your palms, before she pulls you back down like she can’t go another second without your mouth on hers.

This kiss isn’t sweet or exploratory. It’s flat-out hungry. Like now she’s got permission to take her time and take her fill. Her hands are back on you again, sliding lower, gripping tighter, pulling you down into her until your whole body is flush with hers. You can feel the heat of her skin through the fabric between you, the tension that’s been simmering since the moment your eyes met hours ago now boiling over.

You grind into her without even thinking, and the way her breath stutters against your mouth makes your whole body buzz.

You chuckle, soft and breathless, pulling back just enough to look at her. Her lips are kiss-bitten, cheeks flushed, pupils blown wide.

“Okay?” you whisper.

“Mm,” she hums before pulling you back into her quickly like she was offended you pulled away at all in the first place.

You respond immediately, tongue sliding against hers, teeth clashing. Her hands are everywhere. Your hips roll against hers instinctively, your breath catching every time her fingers dig into your skin or slide along your thighs. It’s hot and heavy and dizzying in the best way.

At some point, she pulls back just slightly, lips parted, gaze hungry. She looks down at the way your dress rides yo as you move against her and then back up at you like she’s barely holding it together.

“Can I take it off?” she asks, voice low, almost hoarse. Her hands pull at the fabric a little. “Needa see you.”

There’s this desperate kind of honesty in the way she says it that shoots straight through you. You not without even thinking, already helping her—grabbing at the hem of the dress, pulling it over your head, tossing it blindly across the room.

It lands somewhere near the door. Neither of you cares.

Now, you’re in nothing but your lacy black thong (thank God you decided to wear a sexy pair of underwear today, seriously), straddling her, skin flushed and warm and bare to her, and when Paige looks at you—really looks at you—she groans under her breath. Head falls back for a second like she needs to reset, eyes fluttering before they lock onto you again, darker than before, icy blue mixing with the black of her enlarged pupils.

“Shit,” she mutters, hands sliding up the backs of your thighs to your waist, then higher. “You’re—”

She doesn’t finish the sentence. Doesn’t have to.

She pulls you down to her again, but this time her mouth doesn’t go to your lips. Instead, she kisses across your chest, slow at first, open-mouthed and warm. Her rough palms hold you firm against her, fingers splaying along the swell of your ass as her lips move down. And then her mouth closes around one of your nipples, sucking—lightly at first, just enough to make you twitch in surprise—and then again, a little harder, her breath hot where it fans out.

You exhale shakily, fingers fumbling with her hair tie before undoing it, letting her ponytail fall loose. She looks up at you for just a second, grinning like she knows exactly what she’s doing to you.

And she keeps kissing across your chest and tits, mouth open and warm and purposeful. Her lips drag over the swell of you, her tongue flicking occasionally at your nipples like she’s trying to memorize the way you taste, the way you react. And you do react—your back arches, your hands tighten in her hair, and your hips roll forward against her without even thinking about it.

She hums in response, low and satisfied. The sound vibrates against your skin. Her fingers tighten at your waist, holding you in place, guiding your rhythm.

“Fuck,” she murmurs against you. “Don’t stop doin’ that.”

You don’t.

You move against her with a little more purpose, the friction sending a slow burn through your body. Her hands are hot and strong where they grip you, and her mouth doesn’t let up. She kisses over the curve of one of your tits, up to your collarbone, then back down, her breath shaky now too. She’s unraveling under you, even if she’s trying not to show it.

But you’re unraveling, too. Fast.

You let her mouth linger a little longer, let yourself feel every second of it—and then you’re tugging away from her, chest rising and falling a little too fast. Her eyes flick open, meeting yours, a silent question in them.

“I need…” you trail off, already reaching down.

She gets it. She shifts under you, lifting her hips as you start pulling at her cargo pants. She helps, fumbling a little in the rush to get them off, and her boxers come with—unintentional, but neither of you is complaining.

Paige leans up, kissing you again—a little slower now, a little more sensual. Tongues sliding and tangling languidly. There’s a kind of reverence in it now, like she’s savoring. You’re straddling her still, one knee braced beside her bare thigh, your chest still flushed and wet from her mouth, your breathing uneven. Her hands are at your hips, fingers flexing like she can’t decide whether to hold on tighter or let herself get lost in the feel of you completely.

Her fingers drift along, ghosting along the hem of your thong. She pauses, just barely.

“Can I?” she asks lowly. It’s respectful; you like that.

You nod, already leaning in. “Yeah,” you say softly. “Yeah, Paige.”

She kisses you once more—quick, urgent—before sliding her hands down, easing your underwear over your hips, your thighs. You lift just enough to help her, and she works them off completely, tossing them to join the growing pile of clothes somewhere on the floor.

And then she pulls you down again. Fully. Flush against her.

You gasp quietly at the contact, your bare cunt pressed to hers, the heat and slick between you unmistakable now.

Paige groans quietly, head dropping to your shoulder, arms wrapping tight around your waist as she holds you to her. Her hands splay wide across your lower back, like she needs to ground herself in the feeling of you there. Her lips brush against the curve of your neck, and you feel her smile just barely.

“Fuck, ma, you’re killin’ me here,” she mumbles into your skin.

You laugh, breathless. “Pretty sure you started it.”

Her hand drifts lower, palming your ass, her mouth now back on your jaw. “And I’mma finish it.”

Her words send a jolt through your stomach. And then she’s shifting beneath you, hips twitching up against yours, your slick clits bumping. Her palms guide you, moving you against her with slow, grinding pressure.

It’s instinct more than choreography. Your bodies find the rhythm together, messy and hot and overwhelming.

You let out a sound—something caught between a sigh and a moan—and she tightens her grip like she’s trying to draw more out of you. Her eyes are glazed over, locked on yours, and there’s a kind of quiet desperation in them that makes you grind down against her harder.

“Fuck, that—” you gasp a little as she shifts her angle, her pussy hitting yours just right. “Right there, Paige—”

She groans, pulling you down so your forehead is resting against hers, your lips brushing. You can feel her breath against your mouth, fast and shallow. You can hear the slick, vile sounds of your wetness against hers filling the room.

“Keep going,” she mumbles. “You feel so good, just—don’t stop.”

You nod, can’t even form a real answer, just roll your hips against her again, and again, chasing the way her body feels under yours, the way her mouth keeps finding your throat, your jaw, your shoulder. Her skin is slick with sweat, her hair dampening, sticking to her forehead.

You’re both panting heavily now, bodies moving in sync, heat building between you like it’s alive. The room spins a little around the edges, your heart pounding so loud it feels like the only thing you can hear besides Paige’s voice, the occasional moan, and the rustle of sheets.

She grips your waist and rocks up into you, and the pressure makes your vision blur.

“Shit,” you breathe.

Paige laughs under her breath, low and ragged. “Mm. I—I know.”

Everything begins to sharpen around you and you lean in, kissing Paige as hard as you can—teeth clashing, mouths open and desperate. Every roll of your hips, every sound that escapes either of your lips, every gasp and half-muttered name. Her hands hold you so tight you think she might leave bruises—you don’t care. Your cunts are warm and wet and swollen, sliding messily enough to get each other’s arousal on both of your thighs.

It builds fast. Hot and tight in your chest, in your stomach, in the way you’re grinding against her now—faster, harder, needing more, needing her. She’s right there with you, her mouth pressed to the side of your neck, her voice rough and muffled against your skin.

“God, you’re—” she chokes out, breath stuttering. “You feel—shit, I’mma—”

“Paige,” you mewl.

She nods, biting at your throat a little.

That’s all it takes.

Everything inside you snaps. White heat floods your senses and you fall into it, trembling and moaning against the blonde, your whole body shuddering as you come, pressed tight against her. Paige follows right after, hips stuttering, arms wrapped tight around your waist as she falls apart with you.

You collapse against her—completely boneless, your cheek pressed to the curve of her shoulder. Paige’s arms stay around you, her chest rising and falling in sharp bursts against yours, skin slick with sweat.

For a moment, neither of you says anything. You just breathe. Skin damp, thighs sticky. Hair in your face. Her heartbeat thudding loud under your ear.

Then she rolls, gently shifting you onto your back and settling between your legs again. Her body rests over yours, her nose nudging your jaw before she starts trailing wet kisses along your neck and shoulder.

You hum at the feeling, the pads of your fingers trailing down the side of her arm. “Feels good,” you murmur lazily, eyes half shut.

Paige chuckles against your skin, lips brushing just beneath your jaw. “Yeah?”

You nod slowly, watching as she lifts her head just enough to smirk at you, her eyes heavy-lidded and bright. Then, without breaking eye contact, her hand moves lower—slow, easy. You don’t even realize where it’s going until you feel it between your thighs, her fingers sliding between your slick folds, pressing lightly against your sensitive clit, confident and sure.

Your breath catches.

Paige leans up, her mouth just by your ear. “Can you gimme another?”

You blink at the ceiling for a second, trying to form a coherent thought. She was nervous before, you could tell, and now she’s so damn sure. You turn your head to see her. Her expression is intense—she looks almost like she would devour you if she could. Her fingers stay resting on your clit, unmoving with the slightest bit of pressure. The touch alone makes your skin feel like it’s buzzing.

You swallow. “Mhm. Yeah,” you stumble out.

Paige’s mouth curls into a grin, something between cocky and sweet. “Good girl.”

And then her fingers finally move. She circles your clit—once, twice, three times. Your thighs twitch some, still sensitive from before. Paige reaches down after that, sliding her middle finger inside you. She gives you a moment to adjust before adding a second digit in.

You try to keep it together—you really do—but the way her fingers move in and out, slow and certain, curling just when you need her to… she knows exactly what she’s doing. Her blue eyes flick between where her fingers thrust inside you, covered in your slick, and your face. Her lips are parted, chest rising and falling with the same shallow rhythm as yours. It’s hot in here. You’re sweating. You’re both still breathless, still recovering and already going again.

Your hand tightens your grip on Paige’s bicep as she moves her fingers just a little deeper, her wrist flexing with intention. Your hips twitch up in response, and you catch her smirk as she glances up at you—flushed cheeks, messy blonde hair, a cocky look in her eyes that should be illegal.

“Oh, my God,” you mumble, breath hitching.

She grins, biting her lip as her gaze stays locked on the way your cunt swallows her digits. It’s seems to do something to her because then—quietly, mostly to herself—she murmurs, “Fuck, I gotta taste you.”

You think your breath may stop entirely.

She shifts downward, pressing kisses across your stomach as she goes—soft, almost worshipping. Her fingers never stop moving, scissoring inside you, making it even harder for your lungs to function, and her mouth follows the trail of heat between your thighs.

Her tongue flicks out, swiping between your folds. You shudder at the feeling. Simultaneously, her fingers keep working you open, skilled, like she’s mapping out every reaction she gets. The combination of both is almost too much. You can’t help it—you grip at her hair, threading your fingers through the soft strands and tugging when she does something particularly good—which is often.

And she notices. Of course she does.

Paige hums against you, just enough vibration to make your thighs tremble. Then she glances up at you—barely, eyes hooded, teasing. “Don’t tap out on me yet, ma.”

Your eyes roll back at the nickname and the feeling of her fingers hitting that spongy spot inside you. You let out a breath that’s half a laugh, half a moan. “I—I’m not,” you say, trying to convince both her and yourself.

Her grin flashes, all pride and playfulness, before she dives back in—lips slick, tongue slow and focused. Her mouth wraps around your clit and sucks deliberately while her fingers curl inside you just right. You feel yourself fall deeper into it, into her, one hand pressing to the back of Paige’s head like you don’t want her to go anywhere.

You don’t. You really, really don’t.

She speeds up just a little, coaxing another sound from you, and your hips lift off the bed involuntarily. “God, I—”

That earns you another smirk against your skin, and she doesn’t stop. She’s locked in—and she’s not letting up until she gets everything she wants.

So, she keeps going.

Even when your hips stutter and your lungs stumble. Even when your hands slip from her hair to the pillow, fingers flexing and grasping at anything to hold you down. Even when you whimper something that barely sounds like her name.

Paige doesn’t stop.

Her mouth is certain, her tongue sliding through your folds, up and down across your clit. You feel like you’re melting into the mattress, boneless, trembling, completely at her mercy. Her fingers never lose rhythm, continuing their thrusts, and you vaguely wonder if her hand is cramping yet.

At one point, you hear her murmur something against your cunt, too muffled to catch.

“What?” you gasp, barely managing the word.

She lifts her head slightly, lips shining, and says, “Said you taste really fuckin’ good. Can’t get enough of you.”

And then her mouth is right back on you, her head shaking back and forth as her tongue follows the movement across your swollen clit. You make a sound that isn’t even close to human. It’s almost too much. The way she licks into you with purpose, the way her hand holds your thigh down like you might actually float away, the way her fingers keep coaxing more out of you like it’s her only mission.

“You’re—Paige, fuck, you’re…” You can���t even finish the thought. Can’t form words. Cant think straight. And she loves it. You can tell in the way she groans lowly into you, like you’re the best meal she’s ever had, like she’s the one getting off.

It’s so good. It’s too good.

Her fingers start pumping harder and faster, a white ring forming around them. Paige is unrelenting; she can probably tell that the coil deep in your belly is preparing to snap. She wraps her lips around your bud again, sucking and sucking and sucking.

“Paige—” you gasp, voice breaking. “I—shit—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” she murmurs, low and husky against you. “C’mon, mama, I gotchu.”

She thrusts again. She lays her tongue flat, shaking it.

That does it.

Everything tightens, your whole body curling in on itself for one suspended second—before it all shatters. You cry out, hips stuttering, thighs shaking as the orgasm rips through you like a wave, overwhelming and all-consuming. You can’t even think. All you can do is feel. Her. Her mouth. Her fingers. Her voice.

She works you through it, gentle now, easing you down. Only when you’re twitching and completely spent does she finally pull away.

You’re panting. Drenched in sweat. Barely coherent.

And Paige looks… completely wrecked in the best way. Her lips are swollen and pink, her cheeks bright red, her fingers slick. She licks them slowly, not breaking eye contact, cleaning the cum off.

“Good Lord—taste unreal,” she mutters, voice rough. Then, she leans down, kissing the inside of your thigh before crawling back up your body, lazy and satisfied.

When she finally teaches your face, she’s grinning. She kisses you softly, almost sweetly now, brushing her nose against yours as she whispers, “Told you I needed that.”

You shake your head, smiling a little in disbelief, letting her peck your lips one more time before laying on you. Paige is warm and a little damp with sweat, her breathing now steady. You run your fingers lazily along the slope of her shoulder, and she hums a little at the touch, face buried in the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent.

For a while, it’s silent. You’re not sure if it’s too late or too early, only that the city outside your window sounds far away.

Paige traces circles on your side with thumb. Slow, soft. Barely there.

“Hey,” you say eventually, voice a little raspy.

“Mmm?”

You glance down, and she shifts just enough to look at you. Her eyes have gone a little sleepy—she looks pretty like this. You think she probably looks pretty all the time, though.

“So, like… Dallas, right?” you ask hesitantly, bringing up the WNBA draft on Monday.

She pauses, and you feel her thumb stop its movement. “I mean, yeah,” she says eventually, her voice quiet, almost careful. It’s not set in stone—but everyone knows. She’s going to Texas.

You nod, stare at the ceiling for a second. You’re not sure if you should say what you’re thinking. You just met her tonight. But… fuck, she was good. And she’s hot. And she’s nice. And she’s funny. And—what’s the harm? “I’m filming a movie there all summer.”

There’s a beat of silence. And then you glance down at her and you watch as she stares at you for a long moment before her lips begin to curl up in the softest, most dangerous smile.

And, oh yeah—you already know. You’re both so screwed.

[sammigrll]

Hi! I like your Deadpool as your boyfriend post, can you please do Logan as your boyfriend next? 😄

logan howlett

…as your boyfriend!

description: wolverine, logan howlett as your boyfriend!

pairing: wolverine x you!

|an: my man my man he love me!

- he’s so big and so tall and scruffy and so mmm. that’s your man! and u want everyone to know it

- like i keep mentioning, he is manhandling tf out of you no matter ur size, all the time!

- he thinks it’s soo cute that he can pick you up in his arms with ease and he loves to hear squeal out a “logaaan!” as he throws you on to the bed

- he’s so standoffish and kinda shy when you’re first around each other bc he’s sooo into you and he thinks you’re so cute

- but once he founds out you dig him too ooo girl

- he grows such a big soft spot for you, you’re the only person that ever sees him vulnerable. and he’s such a silly goose.

- he becomes so much more himself, he’s messing with you all the time throwing teasing insults with a smirk on his face just to watch you get all riled up from him.

- he’s also flirting with you 24/7 girl he’s hot and he knows it. sometimes he’s rather crude but you like it. so it’s okay!

“nice shorts you got there little lady” he said with a teasing tone as you walked past him into the kitchen to grab a quick snack.

“god they’re not even that short!” you’d said, pulling them down a bit. they were that short. but hey, they did the job.

and by job, you mean drive logan crazy.

- but once you become his omg…

- you’re his. nobody is touching you and he’ll make sure of that. and it’s pretty hot.

- if anybody even has body language that even slightly seems like they’re into you oh girl….

- they’re becoming a new scratching post!

- not only are you his, but he’s yours. super loyal! and if he can’t get someone off his back, you bet your ass you will!

- you always feel so protected and he always makes you feel so protected because you are! he would do anything for you and to make sure his lover is safe and sound.

- he’s so obsessed with you and he’s not afraid to hide it, he’s not overly affectionate but he is in fact a cuddle monster.

- he’ll hold your hand, or shove a hand in your back pocket, or lend you his jacket to let people know your his, but he saves the good stuff for back at home.

- you’re also his drinking buddy, he isn’t a fan of the tequila like you are, he’ll stick to his whiskey. but he always takes care of you after a night out and makes sure you’re snug as a bug!

- he is the biggest dom ever omg it’s so hard to get him to sub out for you but when he finally does it’s the best night of your life.

- all the noises he makes that you’ve never heard from him are music to your ears.

- a MUNCH. need i say more? thats why he got that damn beard!

- oh and we know those abs are like a pack of buttered up hawaiian rolls and you wanna go for a ride!

- of course he’ll let you! anything for his babygirl, lick em, touch em, fuck em, anything his baby wants. as long as he gets to watch and as long as you feel good.

- he also loves the praise as you ride yourself out on his abs.

- he loves attention and praise, especially when it’s about his figure.

you and logan lie in bed, his figure cradling yours as he slowly felt you slot your head between his craned arm.

“your muscles are so big babe. give me a lil flex.” you stated, holding on to outside of his forearm with your neck between the underside his forearm and bicep.

“you’re crazy bub.” he states, chuckling and lightly flexing his arm, not enough to hurt you but enough to satisfy you and make you giggle as his big muscles squished your cheeks together.

- you’re always touching his muscles, they’re so hot. and hey, he doesn’t work out like that for nothing! he loves it when you cling to his biceps, or run your fingers down his chiseled back.

[kaisentine]

turning your back on itoshi rin even just for a second is the biggest death wish you’ll ever have.

not because his intention is to kill you ( maybe it is, i don’t know ) but because when you turn back to look at him, he’s right behind you—standing tall and looking down at you like a mad man and it scares you so much you feel like you were one more heartbeat away from a heart attack.

especially by how little sound he made creeping up towards you, you didn’t know he was right there until you looked back. honestly, rin is just unnerving in general, from the fact you’ve never seen him cry—like at all—or the way he’s as stiff as a board whenever you try to hug him, or maybe it was because he downs horror related things like water.

. . . but right now, his unfazed expression is going to send you into the gutters of hell. if you could pick a super-power at this very moment, it would be the ability to slide passed these damn floors so you don’t have to deal with this.

“oh, rin . . ! when did you get here . . ?” you’re a nervous wreck who may or may not be sweating balls. “since you turned your back.” he says—okay so he’s been there for like 2 seconds at this point—is that humanely possible? unless he’s some kind of monster who runs a block per second. you slowly nod, looking at his bottom lashes instead of his eyes. “you look nervous.” he blurts out because you’re obviously unsettled—eyes shaky, voice shaky, oh and your body is shaking against his—it’s annoying him.

thanks, mr. obvious. does he really not get that sneaking up behind people is absolutely horrifying? is he trying to star in a horror movie?

this man is a walking jumpscare.

sticky note. hey ya’ll . . . will u be my kaisentines? 🥰

[sobbingscripter]

Tags: [mlw][mdni][childhood friends][semi-public][cowgirl][oral (f! receiving][female orgasm][reunited][he's got anxiety][romantic][raw][fingering][implied facial][suggested creampie, if that's even a tag]

Jason's not the type of man to get giddy.

Not by a longshot.

In fact, he's not even the type of man to look in the direction of a woman, just because he knows that he'd need to find a girl who's big backed enough to carry his emotional baggage and he's not ready to burden someone with that.

Clearing away his thoughts, Jason takes a step into the one part of Gotham he wouldn't deem as a total shitshow.

The public library.

Walls are strewn with red paper hearts on string, tablecloths are changed to heart prints and there's a gigantic, glittery Cupid cutout right above the librarian's desk. And with each breeze, it dangles and Jason can't hide the amusement in his eyes when the flying baby spins, arrow in his direction. And he scoffs under his breath.

Before moving towards the front desk and he feels the way his breath stutters in his chest at the sight of you.

"Where's Beatrice? Old, short lady, curlers, mole with the hair?" He's damn near frantic. He's not prepared for this.

Pretty hair framing your face, a bright red bow in your hair and sparkling eyes that stare up at him, and your pretty, pouty lips curl at the corners.

"Oh, she's out for a few months. She got her hip surgery, so I'm her temporary replacement." You give him the sweetest smile, staring at him from beneath long, luxurious lashes that could almost rival Bruce's and Jason swallows, nodding his head.

"I—uh— I'm...— excuse me."

Jason leaves through the same door he came in, muscular hands braced on his hips and he lets out laboured breaths. If someone were to accuse him of being a blushing mess, he wouldn't even be able to deny it, instead, only being able to empty his Glock.

Because no one accuses the Red Hood of feeling feelings.

Carding muscular fingers through his hair, Jason tries to hype himself up, trying to give a pep talk that doesn't involve internal screaming and a potential panic attack.

He doesn't understand why HIS Selina Kyle needs to be working at the library he frequents. It seems like a sick joke.

Especially because you probably don't even remember him. Because not only was he like, 10, but he was also, masked whenever you two came across each other.

Quite literally, his first everything.

First solo save.

First crush.

First Valentine.

First kiss.

First fantasy.

First boner.

Jason steps back into the library, his boots heavy on the carpeted floorboards and he steps to the front desk, his chest puffed and a purpose in his voice.

"I'm Jason." He introduces. "I read to the kids on Wednesdays and Fridays."

He watches you glance towards the clipboard in front of you, glossy lips pursed before you nod your head, giving him that exact smile that used to be painted on the forefront of his brain for majority of his adolescence.

"Yeah, Beatrice told me about you." Your head tilts, and you give him that sweet, lovely leer you've always had.

"You're 'tall fella'." And you introduce yourself, before handing him the pen to sign in. A pretty fountain pen, patterned with hearts and he signs the notepad, adding the exact time as well. 12:13pm.

Jason passes into the library, immediately met with the excited squeals of kids no higher than his hip, and he glances at the multiple tables, colourful chairs occupied by excitement incarnate.

"Okay, okay." Jason hums, before sitting on his seat. A bright red wingback, although, the back of it is covered in snowy lace, undoubtedly for the occasion and he places his hands on his knees.

"What books are on today's list?"

˚˖𓍢ִִ໋❤️་༘🎀˚˖𓍢ִ🌹˚.

Jason's halfway through his 9th 'happily ever after' before he glances towards the doorway, your form leaning against the doorframe as you listen intently. Although your attention isn't as much on him, as it is on the children scattered in front of him, wide-eyed stares as though they've never heard the fairy tales before.

The softest and most gentle smile remains planted on your lips, cheeks rosy and brows relaxed, and your arms are crossed over your chest. Before you glance towards him.

Overing him an even sweeter smile.

And Jason stumbles over his words, before his lips purse, and he feels the way his ears burn with embarassment.

"Oooooh, he's shy." A tiny voice calls out and is immediately followed by a flurry of 'ooh's.

And they're right. He is shy.

But he also cannot empty his Glock.

And Jason glances towards you, or at least attempts to, because right above your head, there's another fucking Cupid pointing an arrow at him. And his fist clenches in annoyance at the convenience of the smirking infant, ruddy cheeks and tiny wings that, speaking aerodynamically, should definitely not be able to lift that chubby body higher than a foot or two.

Jason lets out a deep, controlled breath before lowering his gaze to meet yours, pretty doe eyes stare at him with the intensity of a thousand suns and his compression shirt seems a bit too stuffy right now. But he doesn't tear his gaze away.

At least not immediately, because once your pretty lashes flutter when you blink, he looks away. To the complete opposite direction of you.

"You've been reading for a while, so I wanted to ask if you want a juice box?" You offer him sweetly and God, he feels like a pervert because he wants your juice box.

Your sweet, tantalizing and snug juice box.

"Please." He damn near breathes out the word, and you nod your head, carrying in a tray with multiple juice boxes, as well as snacks. Sliced fruit in labelled bowls, incase something isn't immediately identifiable, chips, raisins, cookies.

And Jason looks at the juice box you place in his hand.

Pineapple.

He doesn't know if he's being paranoid, but it's a bit on the nose, but he slides the straw into the hole, unable to hide the snicker that tumbles from his lips at the sight.

And you let out a snort. "Perv."

God.

You even laugh the same.

˚˖𓍢ִִ໋❤️་༘🎀˚˖𓍢ִ🌹˚.

When the library empties out, you're left all alone with Jason, golden light streams into the library, although, it's dimmed by the frosted glass windows, and Jason clears his throat.

"Shouldn't you be heading home?" He questions you softly, absentmindedly picking up books that have been scattered across the tables and he sets them back into their places on the shelves. The actions so practiced and familiar, that it leads you to believe he's reading to these kids for far longer than you originally thought.

"I still need to update the system as to which books were taken, so, that'll take a bit." You respond with a sweet hum, clearing out the bowls and empty juice boxes from the tables and wiping them down.

You're methodical.

He likes that.

You've always been methodical. When it came to putting bandaids on his scuffed and knobby knees, when it came to speedily mending his cape before Bruce could find out.

Although looking back on it, Bruce could probably tell.

The lime green thread wasn't too difficult to spot against the shade of his cape, but he just never mentioned it.

"You don't have Valentine's Day plans?" You question him this time, glancing at Jason over your shoulder as you begin to take down the bulk of the worst of the decorations. Mainly the Cupid's. And the origami flowers that dangle from the corners of the room and he shakes his head.

"Not a big fan of Valentine's Day."

"You've never had a good Valentine's Day?" You hum softly, pausing your motions to stare at Jason while he continues to reorganize the shelves, and you get the honour of watching the muscles of his back flex and move with every motion.

"I had like, one." He hums softly. "When I was younger."

"You wanna have another one?"

˚˖𓍢ִִ໋❤️་༘🎀˚˖𓍢ִ🌹˚.

There's something so stupidly romantic about the way the two of you are seated next to each other, a packet of chocolate chip cookies between and conversation flowing like water from a river.

And Jason doesn't know if it's the way the flame of the scented candle reflects in your iris, or if it's the way you thumb away the crumbs from the corner of his mouth or if it's even the way you compliment the colour of his eyes.

But he leans in, impulsive and stupid, but he leans in, his lips ghosting over yours in a sweet peck.

And you stare up at him, eyes wide and brows raised in surprise before a smile spreads across your face. Wide and dimpled, before you place a manicured hand on the side of his face, leaning in and you whisper so softly, just before your lips meet his.

"If it isn't the Boy Wonder."

Jason wastes no time in pulling you into his lap, your thighs pressed against his waist as your hands cradle his face so sweetly, thumbs brushing across his cheekbones as his hands find your waist. Warm, rough palms pressed against the skin of your waist and he pulls you closer.

He doesn't need to say he missed you. He doesn't need to say that you were the only person he wanted to see after the Lazarus pit.

Jason pulls away, pressing soft, sweet kisses along the curve of your jaw, lingering on your erratic pulse and your nails scratch at his scalp, carding through thick, wavy locks. Your head tips back, trying to give him the maximum amount of access to the sensitive flesh as your hips roll needily.

And your lips part to let out a shaky breath, lashes flutter and you whine softly, glossy lips letting out sweet moans that fill his ears, just like that sweet, lingering perfume on your skin fills his nose.

It's all too much.

Too much and not enough.

The way you grind against the bulge in his pants does nothing to sate that burning feeling in the pit of his belly, but the way your thighs press against his waist, as if you're trying to pull him closer.

That.

That does it for him.

It feels like a fucking dream when you hop up on the table, thighs parted and he watches the way your slick forces your pretty panties clinging to your cunt. Outlining the pretty folds and puffy lips, and he groans under his breath, his head moving to rest against the plush flesh of your thigh.

"You're so perfect." He breathes out. "Can I?"

Jason asks you softly, even as his fingers hook around the soaked gusset of your panties, pulling it to the side and clingy gossamers of your slick snap against his fingertips. And he whines when you lift your skirt better, thighs moving to rest on his broad shoulders and his face is nestled between your thighs.

Jason's tongue drags through your slippery folds, wet muscle gathering the stickiness of your slick before he groans at the taste, lunging the glob at the hood of your clit, before he circles the sensitive nub with mastered precision.

He feels the way your pillowy thighs press against his blazing ears, sweet sounds slipping past your lips as your nails scratch at his scalp, fingers massaging his head as your hips lift to meet the curls and flicks of his tongue.

Meaty hands paw at your thighs, and Jason pulls away occasionally, just to press sloppy, wet kisses against your skin, glancing up at you through his lashes as you push his hair out of your face. Right at that snowy tuft, and all the way to the nape of his neck, and Jason could fucking paint the inside of his pants when your nails dig into the flesh of his neck, pulling his face back to your cunt.

"You taste so fucking good..."

One of your hands support your weight on the surface of the table, your head tipped back and hickeys littered across the expanse of your neck and your eyes are half-lidded, moans falling from your lips with the kind of ease that only comes with unbridled and unfiltered lust.

But Jason knows it's not lust.

And if he didn't know it before, he definitely knows it when you pull him away from your cunt, his chin and lips glistening with slick and you lean down, pressing a sweet yet sloppy kiss against his lips.

Before you usher him back below your skirt.

And he sucks at your needy clit, feeling the way your hips buck and twitch, slick coating his lips, his tongue as well as his chin. And thick fingers dig into the fat of your thighs as he laps at whatever trickles from your sloppy hole.

And Jason brings up a hand, pushing your thigh further from his ear, before sliding two fingers into your drooling cunt, feeling the way you spasm around his digits, your belly caving inward and you whine.

"You're so tight..." Jason breathes out, tongue flicking against your overstimulated clit, just as his fingers curl against that spongy spot that makes your eyes flutter shut. "And you're so warm..."

You whine, your body breaking out in goosebumps and you can barely give a warning before you're coming on Jason's fingers, feeling the way he keeps sucking on your clit, coaxing a damn near screaming orgasm from you and your thighs wrap around his head.

And only when you let him up, does he let out panting breaths, before slumping back in his seat, carding his fingers through his hair. And he looks up to you with hazy green eyes.

And you barely wait before you're fiddling with his belt buckle, trying to unzip his charcoal coloured cargo pants, and he lets out a hoarse laugh, before helping you undo the loop and he shifts, just enough to pull his cock out.

And it's so pretty.

Long, thick, beads of precum trickling down that pretty upward curve and pooling just above his cock, flushed red tip weeping and twitching.

And you swallow.

Wrapping a hand around the base of him, and you give Jason a few slow, tentative pumps, watching the way deep breaths escape his lips.

"Ride me." Jason sighs, a soft whimper leaving him. "Please ride me."

Jason whines when your hips meet his, his cock nestled so firmly in your gooey walls, your cunt pulsing around his cock, your arms wrapping around his neck and your face tucked in the crook of his shoulder.

And his hands bracket your hips, fingers kneading the fatty globes of your ass, as his hips tilt upwards, rotund tip pressing against your cervix so sweetly. And he groans, pressing the sweetest kiss against your temple.

And he whines when your hips roll against his.

The air is thick with tension, the scent of cinnamon from that candle that's still casts a pretty gold glow and the smell of his cologne.

Earthy, smoky and so, so intoxicating that it makes your eyes roll back in your head, your nails digging into the back of his neck.

Your hips roll, the plumpness of your ass meeting his thighs in rhythmic movements and Jason's pretty sure the Lazarus pit was bullshit and he's actually dead right now.

Because you're so fucking heavenly.

The sluttiest squelchy sounds ring out from your pretty cunt, and you keep slobbering around his cock, as he bullies your insides so eagerly. Each of his hips move to meet your sloppy movements and Jason's hands massage at your hips.

He savours the way you feel in his hands.

The last time he had you on his lap was exactly 12 days before he died. You had placed the sweetest kiss on his lips, giving him the prettiest little doe eyed gaze.

And you're doing the exact same fucking thing right now.

Bleary eyes staring up at Jason, your lips parting to let out the prettiest, sluttiest little sounds while he fucks up into you. Each ridge and each vein drags against your sloppy walls, and watching the way your brows knit into the cutest little frown.

You look so pretty.

"So fucking pretty..." Jason whines, his face buried in your neck as he moves your hips, harder, faster, meaner but so, so sweetly.

"Shit, can I come inside?" He begs softly. "Please, please, please."

He begs so prettily, his blunt nails leaving indentations in the fat of your ass, his face hidden and you can only murmur a weak 'uh-huh' as you pummels into you so...

Meanly.

Hips snapping vigorously while he keeps cooing, kissing your neck and wrapping his arms around your waist so tightly, he might break one of your ribs. His muscles bulge underneath his already tight shirt, his brows bunch and his hips still.

Jason edges himself just a bit, before whispering.

"No..."

He needs to fulfill his fantasy. He owes it to himself.

"I wanna come on your face."

Taglist:

@lucky-beheaded 🌻

@jasontoddswhitestreak 🌸

@anesthesia-4rizzle 🎀

@allycat4458 🪻

@feral010 ✨

@blckbarbiedoll 🌷

@custardpuddingprincess ⭐

@couldeatthatgirlforlunch 🦄

@theamazkngskye 🍄

@titchx0 🦆

[kekewrites]

Tw. insecure/introvert reader, angst(?), dark content, noncon kissing, implied noncon/dubcon at the end, jealousy, tension, mutual pinning, misunderstanding, hidden feelings, slow burn(?), stalking, toxic, sabotage, possessiveness, red flag, manipulation, dependency, no actual smut

***

Imagine being the childhood friend of the popular playboy in school.

He wasn’t just a typical playboy—he was popular for a good amount of reasons. He was, of course, hot, tall, with a pretty face, but he also had that effortless charisma. Easy-going, charming, funny when he wanted to be, and somehow still managed to keep decent grades. A good reputation wrapped in the kind of smile that made girls melt.

The only problem? His ongoing roster of girls. You honestly couldn’t pinpoint when or how he turned into such a flirt, it sort of just... happened. Maybe when high school hit, and puberty did him more favors than most. Whatever the case, he became that guy. The one you’d usually only see in dramas.

But it’s not like you had any business with that part of him. At least, that’s what you told yourself.

You two had always been close. Childhood friends. Neighbors. Playmates since you were practically in diapers. Your parents knew each other well, your families comfortable enough to arrange sleepovers that turned into routine. You grew up in each other’s houses, like siblings. Always “the duo.”

But while he bloomed into the guy everyone wanted to be around, you... didn’t exactly shine the same way. You were a little plain. A bit on the bland side compared to others, especially compared to him. While he stood tall, you were shorter than average, often overlooked in group photos. You didn’t have much of a figure either, which made changing in the locker room a quiet kind of dread. Flat and forgettable. You’d never say it out loud, but you noticed the difference.

He lit up every room he walked into. You were just... there. Next to him. Always next to him. Just not quite enough.

But it was fine.

You never made a big deal about any of it. It’s not like you wanted the spotlight anyway. You were comfortable being in the background, comfortable not having all eyes on you. Sure, sometimes you got a few questionable looks when you were with Mr. Charming, but you learned not to care. Let them wonder. You were used to being the quiet one beside the star of the show.

Though, truth be told, you sometimes wondered too. Why did he always stick around? Even when the popular kids were constantly egging him on to ditch you and join them, he never really did. He’d flirt and play around, sure, but he always came back to you. As if none of the sparkle out there was worth trading for late-night game sessions and instant noodles in your room.

"Geez, why’re you in my bedroom...? I thought you were about to go to the concert with them," you asked one evening, raising a brow as he sprawled across your bed like it was his.

“Nuh-uh. Don’t wanna,” he replied, eyes already glued to the game controller in his hand. “Plus, I wanna spend time playing games with you.”

You rolled your eyes at the time, but deep down, your chest tightened just a little. Warm and confused all at once.

It was things like that, small, innocent moments that led to the never-ending question you kept hearing from people.

“Are you guys dating?”

You always shut it down quickly, automatically, almost on instinct now.

“No. Definitely not. I’m not his type, we’re just friends.”

Because that was the truth, right?

Right?

***

He heard you say it all the time.

“We’re just friends.”

You said it so naturally, like breathing. Like it was a fact. Like it didn’t chip away at something in him every time those words slipped from your lips.

But damn, you didn’t make it easy to believe.

Not when you smiled at him like that. Not when you laughed at his dumb jokes, even the ones no one else caught. Not when you looked at him like he was just him, not the guy with a line of girls and a reputation he didn’t even care for anymore.

He told himself he was just being a good friend. That walking you home—even when it meant doubling back—was normal. That flicking some guy’s forehead for looking at you too long was harmless. Just a joke. Even if something in his chest burned every time.

And maybe he leaned in too close sometimes. Maybe he hovered near your space a little more than necessary. But he didn’t do it on purpose. Not at first.

It’s just... you never pulled away.

You made it feel like he belonged there.

And then there were the little things.

The way you always insisted you weren’t picky, but he still remembered how you liked your noodles with less broth. The way he always brought an extra hoodie because yeah, you always forgot yours, and he didn’t want you getting cold. The way he chose the seat next to you, even if the room was empty. Always you. Always your side.

You never questioned it.

Except that one time.

"Why’re you always hanging out with me? I'm not exactly a party."

He remembered how you asked it with a smile, trying to play it off.

But it hit him harder than he expected. So he gave you the truth. Or at least… part of it.

"Yeah, but you’re my favorite kind of quiet."

You laughed, of course. Brushed it off like it was nothing.

But he saw the way you looked down after. The way your cheeks went warm. And he carried that moment with him, filed it away with all the other things he never said out loud.

And when people asked if you two were dating and you laughed and said “No, I’m definitely not his type”—he never corrected you.

He should’ve. God, he wanted to.

But instead, he just smiled. That same tight, hollow smile.

Because you were wrong.

You were so wrong.

You weren’t loud, or bold, or flashy like the girls who chased him, sure. But none of them ever made him feel the way you did.

And you never saw it.

You looked at yourself and only saw “plain.” But he looked at you and saw home.

And he stayed.

He always stayed.

That part? You never really understood.

But maybe… he was just too much of a coward to make you.

***

It happened one weekend night.

Your parents were out of town for a wedding (you didn't want to go along), leaving you with the house to yourself. You’d planned to spend the evening curled up with snacks and a cheesy drama, nothing unusual. The house was quiet, comfortably so.

Until a knock came at the front door. Loud. Repetitive.

You opened it, and there he was, him. Tall, flushed, and very, very drunk.

“Heeeyyy,” he drawled, grinning lopsidedly as he leaned against the doorframe. “Youuuuuu. I missed you.”

You blinked, completely stunned. “Wait—what the hell? Are you drunk? Where were you?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he stumbled forward, and your reflexes kicked in just in time to stop him from falling face-first into your entryway.

“Oh my God,” you muttered, arms flailing as you tried to support him. “Jeez, you’re heavy, what did you drink?”

He giggled. Actually giggled.

“Dunno,” he mumbled, dropping most of his weight onto you like a sleepy sloth. “They gave me... stuff. Tasted like cough syrup. Missed your face though…”

You groaned, knees nearly buckling under him as you fumbled to drag his dead weight toward the living room. “You missed my face? Seriously?”

He made a noise that was suspiciously close to a whine. “Yeah… You didn’t come to the party. I waited. Got bored. Left.”

“You should’ve just stayed and sobered up instead of dragging your drunk ass here.”

But he didn’t respond. Instead, he slurred something completely incoherent and nuzzled into your shoulder.

You finally managed to guide him to the couch, huffing and trying to keep your balance. But as you bent to lower him onto the cushions, he suddenly shifted his weight and with zero warning, pulled you down with him.

“W-Wait—!”

You fell right on top of him with a muffled oof, and before you could scramble away, his arms lazily wrapped around you, holding you there like a living body pillow.

“Comfy,” he mumbled against your hair. “You smell nice.”

Your brain short-circuited. “Wha— I— Get off!”

But he didn’t budge. In fact, he snuggled closer, warmth radiating off him as he held you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Y’know,” he whispered, voice thick with sleep and alcohol, “I don’t like it when you say you’re not my type.”

You froze.

“I hate it,” he added, softer now. “So dumb. You don’t even see how much I like being around you…”

Then silence. Deep, slow breaths. He was already half-asleep, completely unaware of the way your heart was trying to beat out of your chest.

You didn’t know what to say.

So you said nothing.

And stayed there, quietly listening to the sound of his breathing, with your face burning and your thoughts racing, wondering if he’d remember any of it in the morning.

Your heart was pounding like it wanted to escape your chest.

You could feel the heat of his breath against your collarbone, his arms still wrapped around you in a lazy hold. Everything about the moment was too much—the closeness, the weight of his words, the way he mumbled "I don’t like it when you say you’re not my type.”

It should’ve meant something. Should’ve stirred something deeper. And for a moment, it did.

But then, reality hit.

This was him—the same guy who’d flirted with three girls just last week, the same guy whose phone buzzed with messages from different names at ungodly hours. The guy who could have anyone he wanted with just a glance and a half-hearted smile.

Your brows furrowed, the haze of warmth in your chest beginning to cool.

Of course he was saying stuff like that. He was drunk. Sloppy. Blurry-eyed. Probably mistaking you for someone else, or worse, just saying the first sweet thing that came to mind because it was easy. Because that's what he does.

The warmth in your cheeks faded. Your eyes narrowed slightly as you stared.

You sighed.

“Stupid drunk,” you muttered, voice flat and unimpressed.

He didn’t react, already halfway to sleep, breathing soft and slow like a knocked-out puppy.

You stayed like that for a moment longer, caught between the ghost of his words and the bitter edge of your thoughts. Part of you wanted to believe what he said. But the other part? The part that had watched girl after girl fall for him and get tossed aside like it was nothing?

That part just wanted to roll its eyes.

Still, you didn’t move.

Because even if you didn’t believe him…

His arms around you still felt kind of nice.

***

You two acted normal after the morning of that. He probably didn't remember what he said, which was a good thing for you. Moved on, like nothing happened.

It's been a few days after that and you were talking about someone new—a guy from your class, apparently. You had that little spark in your voice, the one he usually only heard when you were talking about food or finding a cute dog online.

He didn’t like it. Not one bit.

“So yeah,” you said casually, biting into a snack as you scrolled on your phone, “he offered to walk me home the other day. I didn’t let him, obviously. But he was really nice about it. Kinda surprising.”

He sat beside you on your bed, leaning back on one hand, pretending not to care. “Oh? He did?”

“Yeah. I think he’s cool,” you said, voice light, unaware of how that single word stabbed into him harder than he wanted to admit.

He tilted his head, a smile pulling at his lips, one of those closed-eyed smiles he wore when he was being “harmless.”

“You do?”

You nodded, totally unfazed. “Mhm. He’s funny, smart. Kinda cute.”

There it was.

The trigger.

He sat up a little straighter, the smile never quite reaching his eyes now. “Funny, smart, cute?” he repeated, still with that casual tone. “Wow. Sounds like a real catch.”

You blinked at him. “Yeah, I guess. He’s easy to talk to.”

He snorted. “Right, right. Tall guy? Bit of a clean-cut look?”

You nodded again, chewing absently on your snack.

“Must be nice,” he muttered, crossing his arms. “Bet he’s the type to open doors and call you ma’am too.”

You laughed. “I mean, manners aren’t exactly a red flag.”

“Oh yeah, totally,” he said, voice picking up heat now, even as he smiled. “So polite. Bet he irons his shirts and rehearses compliments in the mirror.”

You gave him a look, amused. “What is with you?”

“Nothing. Just sayin’—guy’s probably all talk. Bet he folds under pressure. Can’t even kill a spider without screaming.”

You raised a brow, “That’s a bold assumption.”

He scoffed, throwing his hands up, still smiling but not meaning it. “I’m taller, better looking, and I don’t have to try so hard to impress people.”

Your jaw dropped a little. “What?”

“I’m just saying,” he said, raising his bottle in mock-toast. “If you’re gonna go for someone ‘cool,’ maybe aim higher. You know. Someone who’s taller, funnier, better-looking, less try-hard. Maybe someone who’s known you since you were five. Just throwing that out there.”

“Huh?”

“And I bet my dick’s bigger than his."

You choked on your drink, “What?!”

He blinked. “What?”

You stared at him, stunned, and he just gave a tiny shrug like oops, did I say that out loud?

You laughed, shaking your head, brushing it all off like it was just another one of his weird ego trips. “Okay, weirdo.”

He didn’t respond right away.

He just watched you, jaw tightening slightly as you turned your attention back to your phone, entirely missing the storm he was trying to hide behind casual smirks and crude jokes.

You didn’t get it, because you didn’t think he looked at you that way.

***

After that conversation, things didn’t exactly change—but they didn’t quite go back to normal either.

He still walked you home. Still flopped onto your bed like it was his own. Still stole your snacks and your charger and your last bit of patience on most days.

But sometimes, you’d catch him watching you a little too long.

Not in the obvious way. Not like the way other guys did, staring with boldness and intentions written all over their faces.

No—he did it quietly. Like he was trying to memorize the way you smiled when you thought no one was looking. Like he was trying to figure something out about you… or maybe about himself.

Then there were the little shifts.

He started texting back slower when you told him you were talking to that guy again. Didn’t say anything harsh, but his replies were short. Blunt.

And when that same guy approached you one afternoon in the hallway, he just so happened to slide in between you two, throwing an arm around your shoulder.

“Didn’t know you liked hanging out with traffic cones,” he muttered with a lopsided grin, nodding at the guy’s neon hoodie.

You laughed nervously, brushing it off. “You’re so dumb.”

But the guy left after that. Didn’t even try to keep the conversation going.

And when you asked him what that was about, he just shrugged.

“Didn’t like his face.”

You rolled your eyes. “You don’t like anyone’s face lately.”

He smiled. “Yours is okay, I guess.”

And then there were those times when you were on your phone, texting, and he’d lean over your shoulder too quickly.

“Who’s that?”

“No one.”

“Hmm. No one has a name?”

You sighed, brushing him away. “Why are you so nosy lately?”

But he’d never answer. He’d just flop backward onto the couch or your bed and throw an arm over his eyes like he was bored. Or tired. Or both.

But you felt it.

Something had shifted.

He was getting quieter about the things he didn’t say. Quieter about how he stayed so close but kept himself just far enough that you wouldn’t really notice.

***

You didn’t say anything about it to him.

Not when you got the number. Not when you exchanged a few late-night texts with the guy from class. And definitely not when he asked who kept lighting up your phone and you lied—said it was your cousin, or some stupid group chat.

Because… if he wanted to keep treating you like you were just his best friend, then fine. Maybe you’d stop waiting. You were plain ol Jane anyway, at this rate you'd end up alone. Not like anyone would like you if you don't even try or put any effort to yourself. Maybe it was time to try something different.

Someone different.

So you said yes to a date.

It wasn’t a big deal. Just a small place near the station, casual, low-pressure. You wore a little lip tint. Changed your shirt twice. Checked your phone four times on the way there.

You even left the house without telling him.

Which was rare.

Because somehow, despite how frustrated you were, you still felt a little guilty doing something like this without him knowing. Scrap that! You shouldn't feel guilty at all, it's not like you're his girlfriend or something. Plus, this was your first date, you shouldn't even think of him.

You got there early. Sat at the little table. Smoothed your skirt out. Sipped water slowly.

And waited.

Then waited some more.

Minutes passed. Then a half-hour. Then an hour.

No messages. No call. Just… silence.

At some point, you stopped pretending to check your phone like there was something new. You just sat there, hands folded, eyes distant. Trying not to let it sink in too hard, but it did anyway.

He didn’t show.

No explanation.

No reason.

Just a reminder that maybe you really weren’t the type to be chosen after all.

By the time you got home, it was dark. You kicked your shoes off a little harder than usual, holding back the pressure behind your eyes. The house was quiet. Your parents weren’t home. Just you. And the lingering ache of rejection sitting heavy in your chest.

Maybe you shouldn't gotten your hopes up.

And then you heard the knock on your door. You already knew who it was.

He walked in like he always did, with a lazy grin and a snack in hand. You stared at him like you hadn’t just spent an hour trying to convince yourself you were worth showing up for.

“Yo. You were gone,” he said, tossing a drink on your desk like usual. “Didn’t text me back. Something happened?”

You looked up from where you sat on your bed, your voice dull. “No. I just… needed some air.”

He paused. The grin faltered, but only for a split second.

“…Did you go somewhere?”

You forced a laugh, shaking your head. “Just errands. Nothing interesting.”

He didn’t question it. He trusted you too easily. Or maybe he didn’t want to push. Instead, he stretched out beside you, letting out a sigh. “People are exhausting. I don’t get how you deal with them.”

You shrugged, keeping your voice light. “Guess I just have more patience.”

He turned his head to look at you then—really looked. Eyes soft, searching.

“You okay?”

You smiled, quick and small. “Yeah. Just tired.”

And that was the thing with him. He’d always pull back just when he was about to see something too real. Like he was afraid of what he might find if he looked too closely.

So, he let it go.

He reached for the controller on your desk, tossing it in your lap. “Wanna game ‘til we pass out?”

You nodded.

Because what else could you do?

You couldn’t tell him your date never showed up. You couldn’t tell him that for a brief moment, you thought maybe—just maybe—you could be wanted by someone else. That someone else could make you forget the way he made you feel without ever touching you.

***

Of course, he knew.

He always knew.

He noticed the shift before you even realized it yourself—how you started texting a little less when he was around, how you smiled down at your phone and quickly locked it when he leaned over. How you’d hum that soft little tune you always did when you were nervous or excited.

It didn’t take much.

One glance at your screen while you left it unattended. One name. One stupid string of texts about Friday and coffee and maybe I’ll see you there? :)

And it pissed him off more than he wanted to admit.

Not because he thought you weren’t allowed to date. Not even because he thought the guy was anything special.

No.

It was because you thought someone else could understand you better than he did. That someone else could earn what he’d spent years protecting.

You didn’t know it, but he was the reason most guys never got near you in the first place.

He wasn’t exactly subtle—especially in high school. Any guy who so much as looked at you too long got “the talk.” A casual hand around your shoulders. A stare that went a little too cold. A whispered “She’s not interested” even if you hadn’t said it yourself.

He made it hard for anyone to approach. On purpose.

Because you were his.

Not in the possessive, boyfriend kind of way. At least, that’s what he told himself. But in the I know every part of you, and no one else ever will kind of way.

So when this new guy started sniffing around, he didn’t wait.

He caught the guy behind the gym after class, right where the hallway cameras didn’t reach.

The guy flinched when he turned the corner and saw him standing there—arms crossed, calm smile on his face like this was just another casual run-in. But his eyes… his eyes were cold.

“Hey,” he said smoothly, stepping into his path.

The guy hesitated, confused. “Uh. Hey?”

“You’ve been texting her.”

The guy blinked, caught off guard. “I—what?”

He took another step closer. “Don’t play dumb. You’ve been trying to take her out. Planning something for Friday, right? Café date?”

The guy laughed nervously, confused. “Yeah? I mean… she said yes.”

That smile widened, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Yeah. She’s nice like that.”

Then the smile dropped.

“But let’s get one thing straight.”

The guy’s brows pulled together. “What are you—?”

He grabbed the front of his collar, shoving him hard against the wall, voice dropping low and sharp.

“You’re not gonna show up.”

The guy froze. “What the hell is your problem?!”

“I don’t like repeating myself.” He leaned in close, breath calm and voice terrifyingly even. “You’re going to leave her alone. You’re going to block her. And you’re never going to speak to her again.”

“You’re insane—!”

He smiled again, twisting the guy’s shirt tighter. “No. You’re stupid. See, here’s the thing. I’m the popular guy. Good grades. Everyone loves me.” He tilted his head, voice dropping even further. “You? You’re a background character. No one’s gonna believe some awkward little shit over me. You tell anyone I threatened you, and all I have to do is smile and say, ‘Who, me?’ And everyone will laugh and move on.”

He let go with a shove, stepping back as the guy gasped, fixing his shirt.

“You can call it jealousy. Obsession. Whatever makes you feel better,” he said, brushing invisible dust off his sleeve. “But here’s what it really is, I’m not letting someone like you anywhere near her.”

The guy stared at him, chest heaving.

He walked away with a casual wave. “Don’t forget. Friday? You’re busy~”

The guy didn’t show up.

And that night, when he dropped by your room and found you curled up and quiet, wearing his hoodie like a safety blanket, something in his chest twisted.

You didn’t say a word about it.

But he knew.

He could see the flicker of hurt behind your eyes. The soft smile you gave him—fake, practiced. The way you brushed him off like it didn’t matter. He wanted to feel satisfied. Victorious.

But it just made him feel worse.

Because no matter how much he tried to control things… he couldn’t stop that sadness in your eyes.

You didn’t even know it was him. Didn’t even know that all this time, the reason you felt so overlooked, so invisible was because he’d made sure of it.

Not because he wanted to hurt you. But because he couldn’t stand the idea of someone else seeing what he saw.

You were his quiet. His warmth. His constant.

And if someone else took that away from him?

He didn’t know who he’d be.

***

It started small.

You noticed it when you caught him glaring at someone you’d only spoken to once. When your texts started mysteriously going unanswered. When people who used to be friendly now looked at you like they didn’t want to get involved.

At first, you thought you were just overthinking it. Paranoia, maybe. You were introverted, bad at reading people. You kept to yourself more often than not, maybe that just meant people naturally faded away.

But then there were moments.

Moments where you caught the sharpness behind his smile when someone mentioned another guy’s name. Moments where his “jokes” about being possessive didn’t feel so funny anymore. Moments where he looked at you too long, too quietly, like he was thinking something he couldn’t say out loud.

And then that night—everything shifted.

He was in your room again. Like always. Sprawled out on your bed, head resting against your pillow like it belonged to him. You were on your floor, flipping through old game cases, trying to ignore the heavy beat of your heart.

“You’ve been quiet lately,” he said, tone light but eyes tracking every move you made.

You shrugged. “Just thinking.”

“About?”

You didn’t answer right away. You didn’t really know how to. Your mind had been a mess lately, spinning with everything you didn’t understand. Everything you were starting to understand.

“Do you…” you hesitated, eyes on the case in your hand. “Do you ever think people avoid me because of you?”

He sat up. Slowly.

“Where’s that coming from?”

“I don’t know,” you muttered. “It just feels like… people don’t even try anymore.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then he stood. Walked over. Sat beside you on the floor, shoulder brushing yours. You didn’t look at him. You felt like you couldn’t.

You looked up at him, finally and your breath caught.

He was quiet for a second. Then he said, voice low, “Maybe I like it that way.”

And then he kissed you.

Because his eyes weren’t teasing. They were serious. Dark. Familiar in a way that suddenly felt foreign.

Just like that.

No warning. No permission.

His lips were on yours—soft, warm, dangerous. It wasn’t rushed, but it wasn’t gentle either. It was sure. Like he’d been waiting. Like he’d done it a thousand times in his head already.

You froze.

For a second, your brain short-circuited. Everything blanked. Your body didn’t know whether to lean in or pull away. Because you’d thought about this before. God, had you thought about it. Wondered, dreamed, ached over it. But now that it was real…

You remembered the girls. The rumors. The way he never looked twice at them after he got bored.

You pulled back, breath catching. “Don’t.”

He blinked at you, surprised, maybe even a little hurt.

You stood, fast. Hands shaking. “You should go.”

He didn’t move.

Instead, he gave you a small, crooked smile. The kind you used to find charming. The kind that now made your stomach twist.

“Why?” he said softly. “I wanna stay the night.”

You stared at him.

He tilted his head, like this was all just a game, “We can play boyfriend and girlfriend again,” he said, voice low, teasing. “Like we used to when we were kids. Remember that?”

You took a step back. “That was pretend.”

“So~?” He stood too now, closing the space between you. “Let’s pretend again. This time I won’t leave.”

Your chest tightened.

You want to push him away, your mind reeling with the memories of him being a playboy.

“I said you should go,” you repeated, trying to keep your voice firm.

And you hated that your heart skipped. That your body remembered the kiss more than your mind could process it. But your gut? Your gut screamed something was wrong. You took another step back, putting space between you.

He didn’t move. His eyes tracked you like prey, something unreadable flickering beneath the surface.

"You used to let me sleep over all the time," he said softly, like he was reminding you of a rule you were suddenly breaking. “What changed?”

Everything, you wanted to say.

But instead, your voice came out smaller than you intended. “That was when we were kids.”

A slow grin tugged at his lips—but it wasn’t his usual smile. It was something darker. Almost sad.

“You’re acting like I’m a stranger.”

You clenched your fists, unsure why your throat felt tight. “You are. Lately... I don’t know what you are.”

Something in his jaw twitched. The grin dropped.

And then, suddenly he stepped forward.

You barely had time to flinch before you felt his hands on your shoulders, gently but firmly guiding you backward. Your knees hit the edge of your bed. You stumbled. Sat down.

His body was close. Too close.

Your breath hitched.

“I don’t want you to be scared of me,” he murmured, crouching slightly so he could look you in the eyes. “I’d never hurt you. You know that, right?”

You nodded slowly, heart hammering. But the unease wouldn’t leave.

He placed a hand beside your thigh on the bed, leaning in.

“Then why are you shaking?”

You didn't answer.

Because part of you didn’t know if it was fear… or something else. Something even more dangerous—doubt.

You tried to stand again, but he didn’t move back. He was watching you too closely. Like he was trying to read your mind. Like he already knew what was in it.

"I know you're confused," he said. "But deep down, you've always felt something too. I just had the guts to do something about it."

You opened your mouth, to argue, to tell him to leave again but nothing came out. Instead, you whispered, "I don't know what you're doing anymore."

His expression cracked for a moment—something bitter bleeding through.

“I’m doing what I should’ve done a long time ago.”

And for the first time, he didn’t try to mask it.

[sh4nksslvt]

Greetings! May I request Luffy x reader who used to be so nonchalant and reserved but after the timeskip, reader can't help but secretly stare and admire luffys muscles especially in wano when luffy was in prison and reader got caught up in the mess. Reader is basically simping and blushing as they stared, sometimes wishing to be held by luffy because of it.

Steel and Sunlight

You were always the calm one—until two years passed and Luffy's muscles became a problem.

LUFFY X GN!READER | ONE SHOT tags: fluff, sfw, ooc(?), simping!reader, comfort a/n: this js me trying to write ffs, this is experimental and for fun only, so expect this ffs a bit cringe n akward word count: 1k

masterlist | ko-fi

: 𓏲🐋 ๋࣭  ࣪ ˖✩࿐࿔ 🌊

You used to be the composed one.

Cool. Calm. Unbothered.

Whether it was Luffy announcing a war with the World Government over lunch or Zoro getting lost on the same ship, you never flinched. Your reactions were measured, your tone even. If Robin was “mysterious” and Zoro was “stoic,” you were “unshakably chill.” That was your brand.

Then the timeskip happened.

And now? Now you had a problem. A tall, tan, infuriatingly ripped problem.

It started the moment you saw him again on Sabaody. You didn’t expect much to change—maybe a new scar, some new techniques, a slightly deeper voice. What you didn’t expect was the muscle. Luffy, the rubber goofball you once had to stop from putting forks in outlets, had come back with biceps that could casually snap chains and pecs that flexed when he so much as breathed.

You were not okay.

But you could deal with it. You were good at hiding things. Two years of control didn’t break that easily.

Until Wano.

Wano was chaos, but it was beautiful. You had joined up with the group that infiltrated the Flower Capital, your identity masked in stolen rags. Everything went relatively smoothly—until Luffy punched kaido who is untouchable, got caught, and thrown into a prison camp.

Naturally, you dove headfirst into the mess to follow him. You told yourself it was strategic. You told yourself someone had to watch his back.

But let’s be honest: you saw those chains, those muscles bulging under the sun, the sweat glistening down his chest—and your brain went static.

You were absolutely, one-hundred percent, down bad.

“Hey,” Luffy’s voice snapped you out of your trance.

You blinked, realizing you’d been staring again. Not just staring—mouth slightly open, red-faced, nearly-drooling staring.

“H-Huh? Yeah?” you coughed, rubbing your face like it might wipe away the blush.

Luffy looked at you curiously, a big chunk of dango sticking out of his mouth. “You okay? Your face is all red.”

“I’m fine,” you muttered, turning away so fast you nearly tripped over a bucket.

He caught your arm—easily, with that damn veiny forearm—and steadied you like it was nothing.

“Whoa SHISHISHI,” he laughed, bright and unbothered. “You really okay?”

You nodded quickly, but your heart was screaming: No. I’m not. You touched me and now I’m going to die.

You spent your prison days doing everything you could to seem normal. You focused on the plan, helped stir rebellion among the prisoners, and tried to ignore the fact that Luffy kept lifting entire stone slabs shirtless.

Sometimes you stole glances. Okay—often.

One day, you caught him mid-training, shirt half-off, sweat gleaming under the sunlight filtering through the bars. He was laughing with Hyogoro, his muscles flexing with every movement, and you just stood there behind a crate, watching like a total creep.

I want to be held by those arms, you thought—and then smacked yourself so hard the guy next to you flinched.

You made a promise to yourself: no more ogling. You were a samurai of dignity. Or something.

That promise lasted six hours.

“You’ve been acting weird,” Luffy said bluntly one morning, tossing a dango at you. “Weird-weird. Not your usual chill-weird.”

“I’m fine,” you lied, biting into the dango like it owed you money.

“You stare a lot,” he added, unbothered as always. “Especially when I’m working out.”

You choked. He patted your back, grinning. “See? shishishi! that’s what I mean.”

You didn’t know what was worse—that he noticed, or that he was cool about it.

Things got worse the next day, when Queen decided to throw another death game. You were chained up next to Luffy, side by side in the cold prison dirt.

He was still shirtless, breathing hard from the fight, and glowing in the sunlight.

He turned to you, his voice low for once. “You okay?”

“I’m—” You met his eyes, your chest tight. The sunlight painted across his collarbone. You were way too close. “I’m fine.”

“You sure?” His voice dropped even more. “You look… kinda sad.”

You didn’t mean to say it. Really, you didn’t.

But you mumbled, “Just wish I could lean on you for a bit.”

There was a pause.

Then Luffy, ever literal, opened his arm and said, “...Okay.”

You froze. Blinked. Was he serious?

“You said you wanna lean on me, right?” he said with a smile. “Go ahead.”

“…I didn’t mean—” You swallowed. “Okay.”

You leaned in.

His skin was warm. His arm settled around you. He smelled like sweat, dango, and something distinctly him—earthy and light.

You didn’t move for a long time.

And neither did he.

After that, something changed.

Luffy started hovering a little more. Sitting closer. Sometimes his shoulder would bump yours “accidentally.” He started sparring shirtless on purpose, claiming it was “hot” (it wasn’t). One night, he even offered you his lap when there wasn’t enough room on the floor.

You refused.

Then agreed 30 seconds later.

He grinned the whole time, like he knew something.

Eventually, you couldn’t take it anymore.

It was a quiet moment in the prison yard. Most of the guards were asleep. Luffy was practicing his haki again, his back turned, muscles flexing as he struck the stone.

“Luffy,” you said, heart in your throat.

He stopped. Turned, face open. “Yeah?”

You didn’t know how to say it, not without sounding like an idiot. So you just blurted:

“You look really good.”

There was a beat of silence.

Luffy tilted his head. “Good?”

“Like—” You threw your hands up. “Muscles. Strong. Attractive. I don’t know, okay? You got buff and now I can’t think straight.”

He blinked.

You buried your face in your hands. “I’ve been staring for weeks and I’m sorry I’m weird and probably creepy and—”

“Cool,” Luffy said simply.

You peeked out between your fingers. “What?”

“I think you look good too,” he said. “Your punches are stronger. And I like your face.”

Your heart stopped.

“You—what?”

He walked over. “Wanna lean on me again?”

You stared. “You’re impossible.”

He grinned wider. “But strong, right?”

You laughed despite yourself. “Yeah. Strong.”

You leaned into him again, this time with your arms around his waist. He held you like it was the easiest thing in the world.

Later, when you were all free and celebrating under the cherry blossoms, Luffy came up behind you, wrapped his arms around your waist, and nuzzled into your neck.

“You’re still staring,” he teased.

You blushed. “So? You’re still showing off.”

“Maybe,” he said, pressing his face into your shoulder. “I like when you look.”

You were so screwed.

But maybe being hopelessly into your captain wasn’t so bad after all.

[spencersmopbucket]

Another Man's Treasure | Fred Weasley

Pairing: Fred Weasley x Reader Summary: You're Cormac McLaggen's girlfriend — but Cormac pays more attention to Quidditch than you. Shame, shame.. Fred just can't let you go to waste.

Warnings & Themes: fluff, NSFW (oral!fem receiving), cheating on partner

When you'd begun dating Cormac, it was different.

He was attentive, sweet, mindful. But now? The man was a complete git. Most days, you sat on the bleachers of the pitch, feeling absolutely bloody dejected and watching him fly around on a broom for hours practicing for a team he was only a reserve on.

It was pathetic, truly. You and him. You sat waiting for a guy who couldn't show less interest in you if he tried — and he absolutely sucked at Quidditch yet continued to ignore a gorgeous girl for it.

It didn’t help that Cormac never introduced you to anyone either. You weren’t “his girl” at Gryffindor parties — just some girl hanging around him until someone asked who you were. You weren’t on his arm, weren’t in his conversations, and apparently weren’t important enough to even walk with to Hogsmeade.

You were Cormac McLaggen’s girlfriend in the way someone might say they “have a cat” and never feed it.

So, yeah, sitting in the stands while he zoomed around like a headless Hippogriff? It was just your Tuesday.

Sighing, you opened a book, frowning at the pages in front of you. You might as well get comfortable. It would be a while.

Below you, Fred and George Weasley stood, getting gear on to begin practicing. It was a gorgeous day and some of the Quidditch players actually had a solid reason to get out and practice.

Because again, only some had a productive spot on the team.

You felt eyes on you. Glancing down, you saw Fred. You rolled your eyes as he waved at you, wiggling his fingers in a flirtatious fashion.

You knew Fred and George. Everyone did. Every girl especially — they were tall, muscular, Quidditch stars, and incredibly easy on the eyes. You felt a warmth spread across your cheeks at his wave, despite how much you tried to ignore it.

You also tried to ignore the girlish excitement you felt. You were spoken for after all. What would you look like entertaining another man? A right slag, that's what. Waving back nonchalantly, you turned back to your book.

Fred sighed, clipping his helmet onto his head.

“Shame,” he addressed George. "That is a right shame. A crime, really."

George cocked a ginger eyebrow as he adjusted his gloves. “What is?”

Fred nodded subtly toward the stands. “Her. All alone. Looking like that. For him.”

George followed his brother’s gaze, lips tugging into a smirk once he spotted you. “McLaggen’s girlfriend?”

Fred glanced back up at you. You were back absorbed into your book, e/c hair blowing in the soft wind. Every once in a while, you glanced gloomily at your boyfriend, who once again didn't spare you a single ounce of his attention.

"She's the fittest girl at Hogwarts. Easily. Why is she with McLaggen?"

George scoffed under his breath. “Because looks clearly aren’t everything. Or maybe she’s got a savior complex.”

Fred frowned.

"He's not even good at Quidditch! He's bloody awful. Look at him," He gestured to the pitch, where Cormac was wobbling about on his broom. "Doesn't even look like he's playing. Looks like he's doing an interpretive broom dance."

George burst out laughing, nearly dropping his bat. “Merlin’s beard, you're not wrong. That’s not flying — that’s flailing with purpose.”

Fred rolled his eyes. “And somehow that is the bloke she waits around for every damn day like he’s the bloody star player.”

George snorted. “You’ve been keeping tabs, then?”

Fred gave him a look. “You telling me you wouldn’t notice her? Sitting there every day, looking like a dream and getting treated like a backup broomstick?”

“She’s not our problem, mate.”

Fred didn’t answer right away. His jaw ticked slightly as he watched you glance up at Cormac again, a flicker of hope in your eyes — one that died almost immediately when he didn’t so much as wave.

“She could be someone’s world,” Fred said quietly. “Instead she’s waiting for scraps.”

George eyed his brother, something more serious settling between them. “You’ve got it bad.”

Fred didn’t deny it. Instead, he said, “I’m just saying… if it were me, she wouldn’t be sitting up there alone. She’d be on the broom with me. Or on my shoulders. Or—hell, anywhere but forgotten.”

George paused, then smirked again. “So what’s the plan, Casanova?”

Fred grinned, a familiar mischievous glint returning to his eyes. “Easy. Show her the difference between being looked at and being wanted.”

He kicked off the ground again, but this time with a different kind of determination.

He was set to embarrass the shit out of McLaggen. One, for being ungrateful. And two.. He was kind of hoping you'd get the ick.

George cackled as Fred shot into the air, weaving expertly through the sky while McLaggen hovered below like a confused Bludger.

“Oi, McLaggen!” Fred called loud enough for half the pitch to hear, voice full of feigned cheer. “You practicing for the ballet? Thought Quidditch involved a Snitch, not pirouettes.”

A few laughs echoed from the other players. Even George barked a laugh, tossing a Bludger up with a wicked grin.

Cormac scowled from midair, wobbling slightly as he turned toward Fred. “Bugger off, Weasley!”

Fred cupped a hand around his ear. “Sorry — couldn’t hear you over the sound of mediocrity!”

You peeked over the top of your book, startled by the sudden exchange. You tried to hide your amusement, but Fred caught the slight twitch of your lips. His chest swelled with triumph.

Phase One: Humiliate the knob. Phase Two: Make her smile. Phase Three: …Well, he hadn’t figured that bit out yet. But he would.

Fred flew another circle around Cormac, performing an exaggerated, showy dive that ended with a perfect landing — just below the bleachers where you sat.

He pulled off his helmet, glancing up at you with that telltale grin.

“Hope you’re taking notes,” he called, slightly breathless. “In case your boyfriend ever wants to learn how to actually fly.”

Your mouth parted slightly, a laugh escaping before you could catch it. “Are you always this cocky, or is today special?”

Fred’s eyes gleamed. “Only on Tuesdays. And when a pretty girl’s watching.”

He winked, then turned and jogged back onto the field — leaving you flustered, smiling despite yourself, and just a little less devoted to the prat in the air.

You didn’t know it yet, but Fred Weasley had just started rewriting your entire love story.

Of course, Cormac had opted to go over plays in the locker room after the incident at the pitch instead of walking back to the dorms with you. Typical.

You walked back alone, carrying your book and pulling your jacket tighter — the wind had started to get chilly as the day went on. You hummed to yourself as you got closer to the castle.

“Oi! Bookworm!”

You turned, startled, and there he was — Fred Weasley, jogging up beside you like it was the most natural thing in the world. His hair was windblown, his cheeks still pink from the chill, and his smile was… well, unfair, really.

“Didn’t think it was nice to let you walk alone,” he said, matching your pace. “Seems your rogue Bludger of a boyfriend forgot where the castle was.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were already smiling. “He’s not my Bludger. He’s just... my boyfriend.”

Fred made a face. “You say that like you’re trying to convince yourself.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, choosing not to respond right away. The path toward the castle was quiet, apart from your footsteps on the gravel and the low whistle of the wind. It felt weirdly intimate — the kind of silence that made you feel seen.

Fred didn’t push. Just walked with you, hands shoved deep in his pockets.

“You know,” he said after a moment, glancing sideways at you, “I wasn’t joking earlier.”

“About what?”

“About you being the prettiest girl at Hogwarts.”

Your heart skipped embarrassingly. “That so?”

“Swear on George’s life,” he said solemnly. “And I only say that when I really mean it. He’s very dear to me.”

You laughed again, surprised at how warm it made you feel — not just the compliment, but the effort. The way he noticed you, even in a moment as small as this.

“I’m not used to people saying things like that to me,” you admitted quietly.

Fred slowed his pace slightly, studying you. “Well, get used to it.”

You looked at him, brow raised. “Why?”

He smirked. “Because I’m not done saying them.”

And as the two of you crossed through the castle doors, brushing shoulders, warmth blooming where he accidentally touched your arm — you realized something:

You hadn’t thought of Cormac once since Fred showed up.

"I have a boyfriend, Weasley," you snorted. "I doubt he'd take kindly to you doing this."

Fred just grinned, undeterred. That infuriating, charming grin of his — the kind that made your stomach twist in a way Cormac's never had.

“Doing what?” he asked innocently, all wide eyes and mock-surprise. “Walking you back? Complimenting you? Being decent? Merlin forbid.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “You know what I mean.”

Fred leaned in a little, voice lowering — not teasing now, but sincere, softer. “I know. And I know you’re with him. But that doesn’t mean I don’t see what he doesn’t.”

You blinked, startled by the seriousness that slipped into his tone.

“He takes you for granted,” Fred continued, holding your gaze. “Doesn’t mean I have to.”

The hallway was suddenly too quiet. Too warm. You opened your mouth, but you weren’t even sure what you were going to say — luckily, Fred filled the silence with a familiar crooked smile, stepping back and releasing the tension.

“But hey,” he added, casual again, “if he ever stops being the luckiest git alive... I hope I’m first in line.”

Then he winked — not flirty this time, not entirely — and turned toward the Gryffindor staircase like he hadn’t just lobbed a Confundus charm straight into your chest.

And Merlin help you...

You kind of wished he already was first in line.

—

The first Common Room party of the year always hit immediately after the first Gryffindor quidditch win.

Only 6th and 7th years were invited, of course — there was Firewhiskey and other alcholic beverages involved. If the younger students were invited, the festivities may get out to the professors. If that happened, everyone was being hexed by McGonagall and buried in a hole on the quidditch field.

You got ready with Hermione and Ginny Weasley (who you'd just met the same night). Hermione was your closest friend. After you'd confided in her about having a slight crush on Fred, she'd immediately introduced you to the ginger girl.

Hermione curled your hair gently as you giggled, listening to a story about Ron bubble from Ginny's lips.

“…and then Ron actually tried to hex Malfoy with a mouth full of treacle tart,” Ginny said, laughing as she swept some glitter onto her cheekbones. “Honestly, I’ve never seen treacle shoot that far.”

You snorted, barely managing to stay still as Hermione tugged the curling wand through another section of your hair. “Did it even work?”

“Of course not,” Hermione huffed from behind you. “He said ‘slug’ instead of ‘slugulus.’ All he managed to do was make a very sticky mess.”

You grinned into the mirror, cheeks already sore from smiling. There was a lightness in your chest tonight — the kind that hadn’t been there in weeks. You knew why.

Fred.

Even the name fluttered through your chest like a secret. It often switched between feelings of excitement and feelings of guilt.

You glanced down at your outfit — Hermione had loaned you one of her sleeker cardigans and Ginny insisted you wear her black mini skirt (“You’ve got legs, use them”), and your own boots tied it all together. You had to admit… you looked good.

No. You looked better than good. You looked like someone who was not dating Cormac McLaggen anymore — which wasn't true, but you looked it. You knew Cormac wouldn't approve of your outfit. You also knew he might not even pay enough attention to you to care.

Hermione raised a brow at you through the mirror. “You’re smiling.”

“I’m always smiling.”

“Not like that you’re not,” she smirked, handing you a tube of lip gloss. “You’ve got the look of a girl who’s about to fall.”

Ginny tilted her head. “For Fred?”

You rolled your eyes.

"Gals! I have a boyfriend."

Ginny raised an eyebrow, a knowing smile tugging at her lips. “Yeah, and he’s busy playing Quidditch, while Fred is right here, right in front of you, actually noticing you.”

Hermione shot her a look. “We’re not encouraging this, Ginny.”

You blinked, glancing at your reflection in the mirror again. The truth hit you like a ton of bricks: Fred had been noticing you for days. And you'd been noticing him right back. You'd even caught yourself imagining what it would be like to kiss him, to have someone actually see you instead of just waiting around for scraps.

Your fingers tightened around the lip gloss Hermione handed you, unsure of how to respond. The guilt felt like a heavy cloak you couldn’t quite shake off.

“I have a boyfriend,” you muttered, voice quieter this time. "But—"

“You're not blind," Ginny finished for you, that smirk still in place.

Hermione shot her friend a glance, looking more thoughtful than mischievous. “It’s just... if you’re not happy in a relationship, it’s okay to rethink things. Just don’t rush into anything.”

You met her eyes in the mirror, her voice striking a chord. You weren’t happy. You hadn’t been for a while.

“I don’t want to hurt anyone,” you said, the words feeling heavier than you intended. “But I also don't want to keep pretending everything’s fine.”

Ginny reached out, squeezing your shoulder lightly. “You don’t have to pretend. And besides, if Fred’s interested, you should at least see where it goes.” She raised her glass of pumpkin juice. “No harm in that, right?”

You forced a smile, feeling a weight lift from your chest. “Yeah, I guess. No harm.”

Hermione let out a sigh, but there was no disapproval in her tone. "Just don't make any decisions you aren't ready for. But do what makes you happy, alright?"

"Alright," you nodded, feeling strangely reassured.

As you stepped into the common room, you tried to shake off the heavy thoughts clouding your mind, but they followed you like shadows. Cormac hadn't even noticed you when you walked in, his focus entirely on the latest Quidditch match stats he was bantering about with Seamus. You approached him with your arms crossed, smiling kindly when he finally glanced down at you.

"Hi, love."

He smiled back briefly, leaning down to peck your cheek.

"Hello, darling."

The brief kiss on your cheek didn’t feel like it used to. It was routine now, nothing more than a formality. You swallowed the lump in your throat and forced a smile, trying to ignore the empty feeling settling in your chest.

“How was the match?” you asked, hoping for some kind of real connection.

Cormac shrugged, already turning his attention back to Seamus, clearly eager to get back to the conversation. “Ah, you know, same old, same old. Quidditch, mate. Nothing to worry about. I’m already focused on the next game.”

You wanted to be nasty. You wanted to be rude.

How would he even know how the match was? The git didn't even play in it. He sat on the bench.

You bit your lip to stop the words from spilling out, but they hovered at the tip of your tongue, demanding to be said. The frustration you’d been holding back for weeks was threatening to pour out like a flood. How could he be so blind? How could he be so wrapped up in his own world that he didn’t even notice how much you were trying?

Instead of lashing out, you forced a tight smile, biting down on your irritation.

“Right,” you said, your voice slightly sharper than you intended. “You’re focused on the next game. Of course.”

He didn’t catch the sarcasm, of course. He was too busy regaling Seamus with more stats, as if that was the most important thing in the world.

You stood there, arms crossed, and felt yourself growing smaller in his shadow. The longer you stayed in his orbit, the more you realized just how little you mattered to him anymore. It wasn’t even about Quidditch anymore — it was about how he couldn’t be bothered to even acknowledge you, let alone make any effort.

You shifted on your feet, suddenly feeling like you couldn’t stand there another second. You could practically hear Fred’s voice in your head — You deserve better than this — and for the first time, it actually felt true.

With a last glance at Cormac, who hadn’t even realized you were still standing there, you walked off, a burst of energy propelling you away from the dullness of him. You didn’t know where you were going, but anywhere felt better than standing there like an afterthought.

And then you spotted Fred.

Of course, he was watching. He always seemed to be watching.

His lips quirked up when he saw you, and the glint in his eyes was almost enough to make you forget how awful everything had just been. Almost.

“Looks like that went well,” Fred remarked, crossing his arms as you stopped in front of him, feeling the weight of everything on your shoulders.

You almost didn’t know how to respond, but somehow, Fred’s presence made it easier. “Well, he’s still talking about Quidditch,” you said, your tone almost too calm for how you were feeling inside.

Fred laughed, glancing over at your boyfriend.

"Quidditch, yeah? The same Quidditch game I played and won today?" He asked playfully. "That's funny. I don't remember seeing a Cormac McLaggen on the pitch."

You couldn't help but laugh at the way Fred's tone had an edge of mockery, and the way he made Cormac sound so utterly irrelevant. You glanced at your boyfriend again, who was still in his own little world, bragging about his Quidditch expertise. It was honestly pathetic.

"Exactly," you replied, rolling your eyes. "I don't think Cormac would know how to hold a broomstick properly if it bit him."

Fred's grin widened, clearly pleased with your response. "Well, at least one of us appreciates Quidditch the way it was meant to be." He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice, "And just so you know, I don't mind playing for two."

You met his gaze, a teasing smile curling on your lips. "Two?"

"Yeah, for you." Fred said it with such casual confidence, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, but the way his eyes lingered on yours made your chest tighten in a good way.

You swallowed the lump in your throat, trying not to let your thoughts run away with you. Cormac was still your boyfriend — kind of. But standing there, in Fred's orbit, you couldn’t ignore the growing pull between you two, a magnetic force you hadn’t expected.

"I don't think Cormac would appreciate you sharing the spotlight," you teased, but even you could hear the lack of real conviction in your words.

Fred chuckled, his voice lowering in that way that made it feel like there was no one else around. "Who says I’m sharing? You’ve got a lot more going for you than just his attention."

For a moment, the space between you seemed to shrink, and everything else — Cormac, the party, the chatter — disappeared. It was just you and Fred, and the undeniable chemistry that had been building since the first time he’d shown up at the pitch.

“Maybe you’re right,” you said softly, unable to pull your eyes away from his.

The party went on. You didn't even waste your time glancing at Cormac anymore. Instead, you took shots with your friends and cast every spare glance at Fred.

As you got drunker, your feelings got stronger. They always did. You sat with Hermione and Ginny, singing a song loudly and giggling. Before you knew it, Fred was back again, smirking.

Fred leaned casually against the table, his smirk never faltering as he watched you and your friends. He crossed his arms, but his eyes were all on you, gleaming with mischief and something else — something that made your pulse race just a little faster.

"Still here?" you teased, a playful challenge in your voice as you looked up at him from where you sat.

"Wouldn’t miss it," he replied smoothly, his tone low, yet dripping with that signature charm. "Besides, I don’t think you’d want to be stuck with Cormac for much longer."

You rolled your eyes, but the smile tugging at your lips was undeniable. “I’m fine without him,” you said, feeling the heat of alcohol start to cloud your thoughts, but only in the best way possible. "And maybe I’ve got better company right here.”

Fred raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth curling into a half-smirk. "Better company, huh? What a coincidence. I was thinking the same thing."

The tension between you both was electric, palpable. It hung in the air, thick and unspoken, but you could feel it in the way Fred’s gaze never wavered from you.

Ginny, always the observant one, caught the subtle shift in the atmosphere and grinned. "Alright, you two," she said with a knowing look. "You both should just kiss already."

Your heart skipped, and for a split second, Fred’s eyes flickered to yours, his smirk turning into something more sincere, something almost... hungry.

You nearly choked on your drink, laughing in an attempt to mask the sudden heat on your face. "Ginny!" you protested, though it came out breathlessly. "You’re drunk."

Fred chuckled, his voice barely audible above the noise of the party. “I’ll take that as a compliment, then.”

The moment was interrupted. Cormac cleared his throat, a glare on his face. His friends stood behind him.

The air in the room instantly thickened, the playful energy dissipating as Cormac’s presence loomed over you like a storm cloud. He didn’t even glance at Fred; his eyes were fixed on you, his expression harsh, almost accusing.

“Everything alright here?” Cormac’s voice was low, the kind of tone that suggested he already knew the answer but wanted to make sure you felt the weight of his disapproval.

You shrugged.

"You seemed fine in your corner of the room."

Cormac’s jaw tightened at your response, and his friends shifted uncomfortably behind him, sensing the brewing tension. He wasn’t used to being spoken to like this, and you could feel the heat radiating off him.

“You’re drunk,” he muttered, his gaze flicking to the drink in your hand as though it was some kind of proof of your irresponsibility. “And you’re with him.” His eyes shot a pointed glare at Fred, who simply raised an eyebrow and leaned back casually.

“I’m allowed to talk to whoever I want,” you replied, keeping your tone steady, even though your heart was pounding. You could feel the eyes of the entire room on you, but this time, it didn’t bother you as much as it usually did. You were done hiding in Cormac’s shadow.

Fred smirked and took a step back, hands in his pockets as if to give you space, but still within reach should you need him. "Looks like someone needs to get a grip," he said lightly, his voice teasing, but there was an edge to it.

Cormac’s nostrils flared, and he took a step closer, his face reddening. "You think this is funny, Weasley?" His voice was low, threatening. "Stay out of this."

Fred’s grin never wavered. “I think it’s hilarious, actually. But hey, if you want to keep playing the jealous boyfriend role, go ahead.”

You could see Cormac’s hands twitch. He stepped forward. Fred raised an eyebrow, standing from his seat. He was easily a head taller than Cormac, maybe more.

"Stay away from my girlfriend, git. I hear all the whispers around this school. Fred Weasley flirting with my girlfriend. You're flirtin' with a right ass kicking next."

Fred’s eyes darkened slightly, but his smirk remained, though now it was colder, sharper. He stood tall, his posture effortlessly confident, an undeniable contrast to Cormac’s flustered and aggressive stance.

"An arse kicking?" Fred snorted, actually having the guff to laugh in Cormac's face. "Oi, Georgie! Did you hear that right? McLaggen wants to deliver me a 'right arse kicking'."

George, who had been leaning casually against the wall, looked up with a grin that matched Fred’s. He crossed his arms and took a step forward, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “An arse kicking, bloke?” he echoed, his tone full of sarcasm. “Oh, I do hope you’ve got more than just the threat of bad breath and an overinflated ego, McLaggen.”

The laughter between the twins only served to make Cormac’s face redden further, and you could almost feel the heat radiating off of him. It was clear that the situation was getting increasingly uncomfortable for him, and yet, Fred and George didn’t seem to care in the slightest.

“Yeah, mate,” Fred continued, his voice dripping with amusement. “Not sure you’ve got the goods for that kind of threat. How about you take that bad attitude and go sulk somewhere else before you really embarrass yourself?”

There was a palpable tension in the room as Fred’s eyes locked onto Cormac’s, but despite the threat of violence, Fred seemed completely unfazed. He just stood there, his smirk wide and his posture so relaxed it was as though he was daring Cormac to take the first swing.

Cormac got closer, him and Fred almost nose to nose.

"Stay. Away. From Y/N."

Fred’s smirk didn’t falter, though there was a noticeable shift in the air. His posture didn’t tense, but there was a quiet intensity in his eyes now. He leaned forward just slightly, closing the gap between him and Cormac with a confidence that almost made it seem like he had all the time in the world.

“Make me,” Fred said softly, his voice low and almost casual, like the entire confrontation was a minor inconvenience. The challenge in his tone was unmistakable, daring Cormac to try something — anything.

Cormac’s face was mere inches from Fred’s, his breath hot and heavy in the silence that had enveloped them. For a moment, it seemed like neither of them would budge, like the tension was going to snap in a violent clash. But then Cormac’s hands clenched into fists at his sides, frustration evident in the sharpness of his jaw. He was seething, but Fred wasn’t backing down, wasn’t giving him an inch.

Finally, the dam broke.

Cormac lunged at Fred, but his friends were too quick, grabbing ahold of him. Your eyes widened.

Fred burst into laughter, his eyebrows raised.

"Oh, my! The froggy did jump. Let him go, boys. Let's see what he can do, yeah?"

The tension in the room reached a fever pitch as Fred's challenge hung in the air. Cormac’s friends, clearly unsure, hesitated for a second before releasing him, but there was no mistaking the fury in his eyes. He was seething, ready to lash out, but Fred didn’t flinch.

Fred’s laughter rang out, loud and carefree, like he was genuinely enjoying this absurd situation. He stepped back a little, hands in the air as if to say, “Come on then.”

“Go on then, McLaggen,” Fred taunted, his tone light, as though he were merely encouraging a schoolyard squabble. “Show me what you’ve got. But don’t go crying to your mates when it doesn’t work out.”

You could feel the eyes of everyone around you, the whispers and the stares. Some of the students were backing away, not wanting to get caught in the middle of this. Fred’s confidence was unmatched, but you could also see the moment Cormac’s resolve started to crack.

Fred’s posture was still relaxed, his smirk in place, but there was something more now — the challenge had shifted. The onlookers were waiting to see if Cormac would actually follow through.

For a split second, Cormac looked like he was going to make a move. His hand twitched, as if contemplating it, but then he stopped. His chest heaved with anger, but his eyes were calculating now, as if trying to figure out if it was worth throwing the first punch.

Fred raised an eyebrow, mocking him. “What’s wrong, mate? Too scared to even throw a proper punch?”

Cormac’s face was a mask of fury, his pride clearly wounded. He looked like he was about to explode, but after a tense pause, he began to walk away.

"I want you back in the dorm by one, Y/N." He hissed. Then, he left.

The moment Cormac’s voice cut through the tension, it was like a cold splash of water. You were still frozen in place, your heart pounding in your chest. His words echoed in your mind — the command, the possessiveness. You felt your stomach twist, the anger bubbling up once more.

But Fred, as always, didn’t seem fazed. He leaned against the table casually, his arms crossed over his chest, looking after Cormac with a raised brow. “Is that right?” he muttered under his breath, an amused smirk tugging at his lips.

The air was thick with the aftermath, the party resuming its usual hum of conversation, but the dynamic had changed. Everyone could feel it.

Fred turned his gaze back to you, his eyes softening, though the sharpness of the encounter still lingered in the air. “You don’t have to listen to him, you know.”

His words hung there, simple but loaded. You knew it wasn’t just about Cormac anymore. It was about what you wanted, what you were going to do next.

You met Fred’s eyes, trying to steady your racing heart. “I know.”

But even as you said it, part of you felt a strange pull, a sense of responsibility to Cormac’s words. You could feel the control he tried to exert over you, like a tight grip on your very being. It wasn’t right, but the thought of confrontation still made your stomach churn.

Fred didn’t push. He didn’t need to. He stood there, waiting, giving you the space to process.

After a long pause, you finally spoke, your voice quieter now. “I don’t want to go back to the dorm tonight.” It came out almost like a confession, and you immediately regretted it. But Fred’s gaze softened in understanding.

“Then don’t,” he said simply, a warmth creeping into his tone. “You’re not his to command, Y/N.”

His words were a reminder — not just that you were free, but that you deserved more. You deserved to make your own choices, to not be controlled by anyone.

You couldn’t help but feel the weight of that. Fred’s presence had shifted from playful to something deeper, something more protective and genuine.

Without a word, he reached out, offering his hand to you. His gaze didn’t leave yours as he waited, his smirk gone, replaced with something that spoke volumes.

“You’ve got options. You can stay in my dorm, or we can go somewhere else. Your call.”

The offer was simple, yet it felt like the world was in your hands. Cormac’s control, his possessiveness — it felt a lot smaller in comparison to the choice Fred was giving you now.

Ultimately, you decided to go to Fred's upon the promise that he'd sleep on the floor and you could have the bed.

When it was time, you crept up the stairs sneakily, knowing you weren't supposed to be there. Before you'd left, Hermione and Ginny winked at you, mouthing 'use protection'. As usual, you'd used the lame quote you always did.

"I have a boyfriend!"

You stepped into Fred’s dorm with a mix of nerves and curiosity fluttering in your chest. The room had the unmistakable scent of boy — a mix of broom polish, something vaguely like cinnamon, and just a hint of mischief. Quidditch posters were slightly crooked on the walls, a pair of socks hung from the corner of his bedpost, and a few Zonko’s wrappers were scattered on the floor like confetti after a prank well done.

Fred closed the door behind you with a quiet click, then turned, watching your expression closely. “Alright, I know it’s not exactly five-star,” he said, scratching the back of his neck with a sheepish grin, “but I promise the bed’s clean-ish. And I’m told the floor builds character.”

You rolled your eyes playfully, but the corners of your lips twitched up. “You don’t have to sleep on the floor, you know.”

Fred raised a brow. “You’re not about to suggest we share, are you? Because that might make your boyfriend — sorry, our resident caveman — a bit twitchy.”

You laughed, the sound soft and surprising even to your own ears. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” Fred said, flopping down on the bed for the moment and tossing a pillow to the floor like it was a throne, “you’re here.”

You stood there for a second longer than necessary, watching him. For all the jokes and smirks, there was something undeniably warm about him — like you were safe in a place you hadn’t realized you’d been missing.

“I’m only here to avoid a fight,” you said, not really believing it yourself.

Fred looked at you, unbothered. “Then I hope it was worth sneaking past McGonagall and the protection squad.” He mimicked Ginny and Hermione’s voices with a dramatic flair: “‘Use protection!’ — honestly, I feel like they’re rooting for me.”

You groaned, pulling a pillow over your face. “I hate that I keep using that same excuse. I have a boyfriend… it sounds weaker every time I say it.”

Fred’s voice was quieter now. “Then stop saying it.”

The room fell into a soft silence.

You lifted the pillow just enough to peek at him. “That’s not fair.”

He met your gaze with something softer than a smirk. “Neither is the way he treats you.”

There was nothing flirty in his voice this time — no edge, no teasing. Just truth.

You could feel how close you were. His thighs were resting next to yours, only an inch from touching. You were sad you couldn't share the bed without it being wrong.

Fred must’ve felt it too — the closeness, the tension that wasn’t born from a fight or an argument, but from restraint. The unspoken something that had been hanging between you two for weeks now. Maybe months. Maybe longer.

You could feel the heat radiating from him, his presence like a magnetic pull, and it wasn’t fair. Not because of the situation, or the rumors, or even the rules — but because being near him made you feel calm. Real. Understood. Something you didn’t even realize you’d been starving for.

“I hate this,” you whispered, not even sure if you meant the situation, your relationship with Cormac, or the fact that you couldn’t just... let yourself fall into this moment.

Fred didn’t move, but his voice came low. “What part?”

You hesitated. “The part where I have to keep pretending I don’t want more than this.”

He looked at you then — really looked. All the mischief and bravado faded in a blink. There was something in his eyes that made your breath catch, something heavy with meaning, but gentle too.

“You don’t have to pretend with me. I won't squeal.”

Your eyes softened. You felt yourself almost melting.

Fred leaned forward, almost testing how far you'd let him go.

Your breath hitched, but you didn’t pull away.

His hand found the edge of the bed, steadying himself, his knuckles brushing lightly against your knee. It wasn’t bold or pushy — it was cautious, careful, like he was giving you every opportunity to stop him. But you didn’t. You couldn’t.

His eyes never left yours, and in them, you didn’t see a boy looking for a joke or a cheap thrill. You saw someone who meant it. Someone who knew exactly what you were risking and was willing to meet you there anyway — with patience, with warmth, with that steady, maddening confidence he always wore so well.

“You sure?” he asked, voice a whisper now, nearly swallowed by the hush of the room. “Because once I know you want this too… I don’t think I can go back to pretending either.”

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you reached out, fingers barely ghosting over his wrist — and that was all he needed.

Fred closed the space between you, slow and certain, his forehead gently resting against yours. No kiss. Not yet. Just that shared breath, that promise suspended in the air.

"I don't think I've ever felt this way in my life."

Fred let out the softest breath, like the weight of your words had struck something deep inside him — something real. His fingers brushed your knee again, this time more firmly, grounding himself as he searched your eyes.

“Me either,” he admitted, his voice barely audible, like speaking too loud might break the moment.

His thumb skimmed your wrist, tracing slow, reverent circles as he kept his forehead against yours. “It’s not just a crush. Not some passing thing. I feel it — here.” He moved your hand gently, placing it flat over his chest where his heart thudded steadily beneath your palm. “Every time I see you.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty — it was full. Full of every glance, every smirk, every quiet moment you’d shared that hadn’t made sense until now.

Fred leaned back just enough to look you in the eyes again, searching for the final piece of permission. His voice cracked just slightly when he whispered, “Can I kiss you?”

Fuck it.

"Please?" You asked, your voice a quiet whimper.

That was all it took.

Fred closed the distance without hesitation, one hand coming up to cradle your cheek with such care it made your heart ache. His lips met yours gently at first, like he was memorizing the shape of your mouth, the feeling of finally having you this close. It wasn’t rushed — it was reverent. A kiss years in the making, built from tension, longing, and all the moments you’d spent denying it.

But once it started, there was no going back.

The second kiss was deeper, slower but more desperate — his fingers slipping into your hair, your hands clinging to his shirt. It was like something had finally broken free between you, and now that it had, neither of you could stop. The need in the room shifted from hesitant to hungry in an instant.

Fred pulled back only slightly, his forehead pressed against yours again, lips brushing as he spoke. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that — instead I got to watch moments like this wasted on some talentless git."

He kissed you again before you could respond — soft, then firm, like he couldn’t get enough. His voice came in a breathless whisper against your lips: “Say the word and I’ll stop, yeah?”

You didn’t say a word.

Instead, you pulled him back in with a grip that left no room for doubt. Your fingers tangled in the hair at the nape of his neck as you kissed him harder, need surging like a flood. Fred groaned softly into your mouth — a low, desperate sound that seemed to vibrate right through you — before his hands found your waist, tugging you into his lap like you belonged there.

You did.

The warmth of his body pressed against yours, his touch suddenly more urgent, more claiming. His mouth moved along your jaw, down to the edge of your throat, where he lingered with soft, open-mouthed kisses that made your breath hitch. “You have no idea,” he murmured against your skin, “how mad you make me, every time you call that idiot your boyfriend.”

His hands ran under the hem of your shirt now, slow and reverent even in the heat of it all, like he still couldn’t believe he was allowed to touch you this way.

Fred's hands paused just beneath the fabric, fingertips brushing your bare skin like he was memorizing the feel of you. His breath was hot against your neck, the restraint in his movements contrasting the intensity of the moment. He didn’t rush. He didn’t push.

“You shouldn’t have to settle for someone who only wants to own you,” he whispered, lips brushing your collarbone. “You deserve to be worshipped.”

Your heart pounded at his words — not because of the heat, but the sincerity behind them. Fred didn’t just want you. He saw you. All of you. Every piece you’d tucked away, every part Cormac had ignored or tried to control — Fred was holding you like none of that scared him.

He pulled back enough to meet your gaze again, thumbs still stroking lazy circles into your hips. “I meant what I said. You call the shots. We stop whenever you say.”

His voice was still low, husky with want — but his eyes held nothing but respect, waiting for your permission, like it was the only thing that mattered in the world.

You felt yourself squirm under his touch, the heat between your legs almost becoming uncomfortable. You weren’t even sure if you’d feel guilty for doing this anymore. Fred was the most exquisite thing you’d ever tasted, a forbidden fruit.

Fred noticed the way you moved against him, the quiet, involuntary squirm, and his hands tightened slightly at your hips — not to restrain, but to ground. His lips parted like he was about to say something, but he didn’t. Instead, he just looked at you, his gaze dark and reverent, as if he could already feel the shift in you, the slow unraveling of hesitation.

“I want to take care of you. Will you let me, love?” He asked, his brown eyes darker than ever.

Your breath caught at the tenderness in his voice — the contrast between his raw need and the reverence in his words made your heart ache. There was no arrogance in the way Fred looked at you now, no teasing or bravado. Just a quiet, aching sincerity. Like this had never been about just desire — it had always been about you.

You nodded, barely able to speak. “Yes,” you whispered, voice trembling. “Please.”

Fred smirked, the hands on your hips lifting only to slide under the waistband of your skirt. “That’s my girl.”

You shuddered as his rough, Quidditch conditioned hands met the skin below your belly button, your e/c eyes glued onto him. The brisk air flooded your hips, thighs, and legs as he pulled the skirt off.

He tossed it to the floor quickly, his eyes raking over your body in awe.

“You’re gorgeous. Absolutely bloody perfect.”

His thick fingers trailed along the waistband of your underwear, toying with the thin fabric. He eyed the wet patch on the front, an amused smile on his lips.

“Betcha Cormac McLaggen never caused this mess, hm?”

You rolled your eyes, attempting to close your legs. He pushed them back open, chuckling.

Quickly, he tugged your panties down your legs too, his eyes darkening even further at the sight of you. Your pussy was perfect, glistening in the dim light of the moon. He ran a finger down the length of it, watching your essence collect onto it.

You exhaled, the cold breath hitting Fred.

“Pretty. So, so pretty.”

Before you knew it, Fred was repositioning himself, his body sliding down the rest of the bed. He positions himself between your thighs, pushing them further apart. His eyes look eagerly up at you, a smirk on his lips.

“Gonna take care of you, yeah? Show you an unselfish bloke, since you’ve never seen one.”

You could’ve cried.

With a firm squeeze on your thigh, he dives in.

He licks a thick stripe up the middle of your heat, eliciting a moan from your lips immediately. You could’ve sworn you heard him chuckle against you — you definitely felt the vibration of it.

He laps at you eagerly, like a dog that just found water in the desert. Your clit gets most of the attention, but he occasionally goes where your essence has collected most, cleaning you up as he works.

“Oh my Merlin—” you gasp, a quiet whimper leaving your lips as your hand trails down to him, threading through his hair without even thinking.

This only pushes him further. He focuses on the most sensitive part of you, the cute little bundle of nerves, until you feel like you could pass out.

All it takes it one more push. He sucks at you, a loud sluuuurp, just enough pressure.

You come undone immediately, a lewd moan leaving your lips. You’d almost be embarrassed at how quick it was if you could even think.

“Fred!”

He doesn’t stop, leading you through your release. Your hips buck as you attempt to push him off, but his broad hand forces your hips down.

All that’s left now is to clean you up. He can’t let you go to waste.

Licking up every drop of cum you’d let slip, he came up off from you. The lower part of his face glistens sinfully.

Your jaw is still wide open in both bliss and disbelief as you look at him, a loud exhale exiting your mouth.

Quickly, as if it was perfectly normal, a typical part of his evening, he wiped your release from his face and sucked it from his fingers, humming gratefully.

He looked down at you with a lazy, satisfied grin, eyes soft but gleaming with something deeper. “See?” he murmured, brushing your hair from your face with the gentlest touch. “That’s what you deserve, love. Not the bloody Quidditch mascot.”

You laughed, breathless and flushed, your brain fuzzy.

“I have a boyfriend.”

Fred let out a dramatic groan and threw his head back against the pillow. “Merlin’s bloody beard, not again.”

You giggled, half buried in his chest, still breathless and dazed. “It’s a reflex at this point.”

He turned his head to look at you, one brow raised and a teasing smirk forming on his lips. “Yeah? Well, reflex or not, love, you really need to update your status. Because your boyfriend didn’t make you sound like that.” His fingers traced lazy circles over your spine. “I did.”

You roll your eyes, pushing yourself closer to him. He wraps his arms around you tightly, curling you into his chest.

“Goodnight, Weasley. You’ve turned me into a sinner.”

Fred chuckled, the sound low and warm against your ear as he buried his face in your hair. “Then I’ll happily be the reason you fall from grace,” he murmured, voice laced with something both teasing and devastatingly sincere.

His arms tightened around you as he pressed a soft kiss to your temple. “Sleep. I’ve got you.”

The warmth of his embrace, the steady beat of his heart, and the fading ache of the night’s confessions lulled you into a peace you hadn’t felt in ages. And for once, you didn’t care about tomorrow — not about guilt, not about consequences.

The next morning, you still felt the same. No guilt. No shame. That’s how you knew for sure that your relationship with Cormac had run its course and that you needed to end it — ASAP.

And after his brutish behavior the other night, what better way was there to break it to him but through the very Weasley that had shown you the greener grass on the other side?

You entered the Great Hall, Fred’s arm thrown around your shoulder.

You didn’t even try to hide the smug satisfaction bubbling beneath your skin.

Fred was relaxed, smirking like he knew exactly the kind of storm you were about to unleash. His arm hung heavy around your shoulders, protective and possessive in a way that was unmistakably deliberate. You leaned into it — not for the drama, but because it felt good. Right.

The hum of morning chatter in the Great Hall dulled the second you walked in. Heads turned. Students smiled, cheered even. And at the Gryffindor table, Cormac McLaggen froze mid-bite, eyes narrowing as they locked onto the two of you.

You gave him a look that was cool, almost bored. “McLaggen,” you said lightly, as though you were passing a stranger on the street.

Fred didn’t stop walking, guiding you toward your usual spot like nothing was amiss. But as you slid onto the bench beside him, his arm stayed firmly in place, and his hand brushed your shoulder with just enough intimacy to make the message clear.

Cormac was already on his feet. “What the hell is this?”

Fred looked up at him with a smile that was too calm to be kind. “This?” He gestured lazily between you. “This is her making a better choice.”

Cormac’s jaw clenched. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not,” you cut in, voice steady, unfazed. “We’re over, Cormac. As of last night, officially. Your behavior lately? That was the last straw.”

He looked between you and Fred, fuming. “So you’re just gonna — what? Run off with him?”

You didn’t blink. “No, I walked away from you. And he was already standing there.”

Fred leaned back, hands behind his head now, relaxed as ever. “She simply decided she preferred gingers. And blokes that don’t pretend to be good at Quidditch. And blokes that brush their teeth.”

The Gryffindor table burst into scattered laughter, a few muffled snorts and gasps echoing down the line. Even George, two seats away, choked on his pumpkin juice, coughing into his sleeve with a wide-eyed, delighted grin.

Cormac’s face flushed a deep, angry red, his fists clenched at his sides. “You think this is funny?” he snapped, eyes locked on Fred. “You think you can just take her from me and humiliate me in front of everyone?”

Fred didn’t move, his tone still maddeningly casual. “Mate, I didn’t take anything. You lost her all on your own. I just happened to be the better option when the dust settled.”

You saw it — the twitch in Cormac’s jaw, the way his shoulders squared as if ready to swing. But this time, Fred’s eyes sharpened, just a little.

“Don’t,” he warned, his smile fading just enough to let the tension creep in again. “I’d hate to embarrass you twice in one week.”

Cormac turned, glaring.

“Whatever. I deserve better than some stupid slag, anyway.”

Fred was on his feet before anyone else could react.

There was no teasing in his expression now — no witty retorts, no lopsided smirk. Just pure, cold fury. The kind that silenced the whole hall in an instant.

“What are you—”

Fred’s fist connected with Cormac’s jaw before the insult could fully leave his mouth.

The sound was sickening — a sharp crack that echoed through the Great Hall like a thunderclap. Heads turned. Conversations halted mid-sentence. Even the enchanted ceiling seemed to flicker for a moment, as if the castle itself recoiled from the blow.

Cormac stumbled back, dazed, clutching his face with wide eyes and bleeding pride. He didn’t fall — not quite — but the damage was clear: his lip was split, and his ego shattered.

Fred didn’t follow it up. He stood over Cormac, shoulders heaving, eyes burning. “Long overdue, you absolute waste of space prat,” he growled. “Try that shit again and see what you get next, mate.”

McGonagall’s voice suddenly rang through the hall like a whip. “Mr. Weasley!”

Fred didn’t flinch. He only turned slightly, shielding you behind him again with a hand at your hip. “Sorry, Professor,” he said, still glaring at Cormac. “Slipped.”

—

The tension from the Great Hall carried all the way into detention, where Fred now sat slumped at a desk in an empty classroom, idly tossing a quill from one hand to the other. He looked more annoyed than remorseful — not at the punishment, but at the hour wasted inside instead of with you.

The door creaked open.

He glanced up — and there you were.

McGonagall had given you permission. She was an advocator for women, and you’d explained the entire situation to her. She was slightly reluctant, but ended up letting you enter with a ‘just this once’ slipping from her lips.

“You’re not in trouble,” he said, brow lifting in amused confusion as you shut the door behind you.

“No,” you teased, strolling toward him. “Figured if you’re gonna sit here sulking, I might as well brighten the place up a bit.”

Fred grinned, eyes following your every step as you hopped up to sit on the desk in front of him, legs swinging playfully. He reached towards your waist, pulling you closer to him.

“I can’t believe I can call you my girlfriend now. Never thought I’d see the day you gave up on the bench warmer.”

You smirked, gently nudging Fred with your knee as he leaned forward, resting his chin on your thigh like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Gave up on him the moment I realized I was already in love with the guy who actually showed up for me,” you said, fingers sliding through his hair.

Fred beamed, practically glowing. “So you’re saying I’m your hero? Finally getting the credit I deserve?”

You rolled your eyes, trying to hide the fond smile tugging at your lips. “More like my very chaotic, very ginger hero who got detention for punching my ex.”

Fred looked far too pleased with that title.

“Don’t forget, love. I also devoured his girlfriend in my bed two doors down from him.”

You raised your eyebrows, laughing as you lightly smacked his shoulder. “Fred!”

He grinned shamelessly, that familiar mischievous glint lighting up his eyes. “What? Just making sure history remembers me properly.”

You shook your head, but the smile on your face wouldn’t budge. “You’re unbelievable.”

Fred leaned in, brushing his nose against yours, voice dipping to something softer. “And yet… you still chose me.”

You exhaled, heart full. “Yeah. I did.”

And as he kissed you — slow, certain, and impossibly warm — you realized that, for the first time in a long time, you didn’t regret a single thing.

[sylusxyou]

Sylus saying reader is short/too short and we say put some inches into me then?

omg my first request and it's a little scandalous! happy to oblige :) honestly, i got a little carried away with this one. not sure if it's exactly what you were looking for, but hope you enjoy. thank you for the request! word count: 1.5k content: just suggestive, use of kitten and sweetie, short reader hehe, reader can be gender neutral and non-mc

︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶ ୨♡୧ ︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶ ୨♡୧ ︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶

You were sure that Sylus placed his most used cookware in the highest cabinets just to make it difficult for you to grab. To be fair, most of your adventures in his kitchen resulted in burnt ingredients, hand cuts, or just plain bad food. You were determined, however, to surprise him with a decent home cooked meal. Three times this week you had practiced cooking baked scallops in your own kitchen. It was Sylus’ favorite dish and also the bane of your existence. 

The first two times you made it at home, it was completely inedible. The third time it actually tasted decent, but there was still room for improvement. You were sure you would get it right this time, especially with the state of the art cooking appliances in Sylus’ kitchen. 

None of that mattered, however, when you couldn’t even get a baking dish down from the cabinets. Since Sylus was so tall there was no step ladder in sight. You stared up at the stack of baking dishes and silently cursed your parents for passing on their lack of height to you. 

There was no other option as you were the only person in Sylus’ residence. Just as you began your climb onto the counter you heard a throat clear behind you. 

“What’s going on here?” The deep timbre of his voice never failed to send a chill down your spine. 

You slid off the counter and turned to face Sylus. “Why are you back so early? I thought you were going to be out most of the night.” 

“Last time I checked,” Sylus began to walk towards you, “this is my home. I don’t think I’m required to announce when I’m coming and going.” 

The closer he got to you, the deeper the blush grew on your cheeks. He hadn’t even said anything flirtatious or suggestive. Just his presence flustered you and he knew it. 

“Of course you don’t. But now you’ve ruined your surprise.” 

This made him quirk an eyebrow, “My surprise?” 

Sylus was now right in front of you. You stood with your back to the counter and peered up at him. ‘Damn tall people.’

“I was going to cook you dinner.” You reached behind you to grab the recipe sheet and hand it to him. “Baked scallops. Your favorite.” 

His grin was wide, filled with unadulterated joy. These were your favorite smiles to get from him. Though he never said it, you were pretty sure you were the only one who got to see them. 

Sylus looked over the recipe sheet and tapped you on the head with it before placing it back on the counter. “That’s very thoughtful of you, kitten, but you don’t have to do that.” 

You narrowed your eyes at him and crossed your arms across your chest. “I know you’re saying that because you don’t think I can cook something edible.” 

“Can you blame me, sweetie?” He gently placed his hands on either side of your face and brushed his thumbs across your cheeks. “The few times you’ve tried to cook with me, it didn’t really end well.” 

You swatted his hands away. “I’m aware of that. But I’ve been practicing.” 

“You’ve been practicing?” 

“Yes, you can drop the skeptical tone.” You pulled your phone out of your pocket and scrolled through your photos. When your last try had turned out decent, you decided to snap a photo. It certainly wasn’t restaurant quality presentation, but you can tell that the scallops are well cooked. You showed the picture to Sylus. 

He looked at the photo and then back at you. “That’s not bad. I guess I’m willing to risk it. How long until it’s ready?” 

“I haven’t even started.” You pointed up the the high cabinet where the baking dishes were stored. “You keep your dishes way too high up.” 

This made Sylus chuckle, “I have to keep fragile items out of harms way. Would you like some assistance?” 

“Yes, actually, I would like that.” 

His large hands grabbed your shoulders and turned your around. Before you could ask what his intentions were, he grabbed you by the waist and lifted you up. 

“What are you doing?” you shouted. 

You could hear the smile in his voice when he replied, “Put your feet on the counter, kitten.” 

You did what you were told and Sylus’ hand rested on your ass, presumably to hold you in place. 

The contact burned into your skin through the fabric of your shorts. “Somehow I feel like you have ulterior motives. You could’ve just grabbed it yourself.” 

“Where’s the fun in that?” His hand gave a gentle squeeze.

You tried to compose yourself as you grabbed the baking dish from the cabinet. “You can let me down now.” 

“Lean back and I’ll grab you.” Sylus stretched his arms out and you slowly lowered yourself down to be cradled by him. He gently placed your feet on the ground and leaned into your neck, placing soft kisses across the length of it.

It was completely unfair how easy it was for him to make you melt. You knew you had an effect on him has well, but he was able to keep it together more masterfully than you. Just once you wanted to see him flustered. 

You gently pushed on his shoulders, removing his lips from their exploration of your neck. “Maybe you should keep your baking pans in a lower cabinet.” 

“I’m sorry, kitten. Sometimes I forget I’m not the only one using these spaces anymore.” Sylus ran his hands up and down your arms. “And the person sharing them with me has such a small reach.” 

The smug grin on his face told you he was intentionally pushing your buttons. “I’m not that short. You’re just freakishly tall.” 

“Freakishly?” He raised an eyebrow. “No need to be hostile. I’m always happy to lend you my extra inches to reach the places you can’t.” 

You couldn’t keep your eyes from widening. The way he quirked his head when he noticed your expression made you wonder if he realized exactly what he just said. Sylus was no stranger to innuendo but he usually shot for something classier and less obvious. This wasn’t exactly his style. Then again, he was hardly naive and much more skilled at keeping his composure than you. Perhaps it was intentional after all and he was feigning ignorance.

Well, two could play at that game. You couldn’t let this opportunity pass you by. Usually when Sylus said something suggestive you would blush and change the subject. Now was the time to be bold if you wanted to get a reaction out of him. 

You tucked the baking dish in your hands under one of your arms and ran your free hand behind Sylus’s neck, lightly dragging your nails up and down. “If you take me to your bedroom you can show me just how deep your extra inches can reach.” 

There it was. It was slight but it was unmistakable. Sylus’ eyes widened just a bit, his shock at your response momentarily visible to you. He shook it off quickly, however, and dipped his head with a chuckle. “My, my, my. You have gotten bolder, kitten.” 

You fought the blush rising in your cheeks now that Sylus’ composure returned to him and shrugged. “I figured it was a good chance to give you a taste of your own medicine.” 

“I like it. And you know what?” Sylus grabbed the baking dish tucked under your arm and placed it on the counter behind you. “I think I’ll take you up on your offer.”

His arms caged you in between him and the counter, his face mere inches from yours. “What do you mean?” 

Sylus’ voice was a low, hot, whisper against your skin. “Why don’t we skip dinner and spend the rest of the evening in my bedroom. That’s what you really wanted, right?” 

“N-no!” You grabbed the baking dish from behind you and held it up in front of you like a shield. “I worked way too hard to learn this recipe. We are not skipping dinner.”

Sylus placed a chaste kiss on your cheek. “Okay, kitten. We won’t skip dinner. I would hate for your hard work to go to waste.” He backed away from you, eyes still locked on yours. “Besides, scallops are a great aphrodisiac.” He grinned at you and began walking out of the kitchen. Over his shoulder he called back, “Let me know when dinner’s ready.” 

You stood in place for a few moments, your face moving from blushing to completely red. You had wanted to be bold, to make him feel this way. With hardly any effort at all Sylus had flipped the script on you. Now you were left wondering if you had started something you hadn’t intended. As you began working on dinner you couldn’t keep your thoughts from wandering to you and Sylus in his bedroom. You hadn’t planned anything for desert but perhaps you’d have some after all. 

[mintyys-blog]

TOO HEAVY, HUH? | jason todd x reader

DC MASTERLIST | WARNINGS: insecurities, mentioned sex, implied sex.

You didn’t mean for the comment to slip out. It just happened—soft, bitter, and too quiet to be taken as a joke.

“I’m probably too heavy to lift anyway,” you muttered, tugging your shirt down over your stomach and avoiding his eyes.

Jason stilled. He was mid-way through drying his hair with a towel, drops of water still clinging to his collarbone, but now he was staring at you like you’d just insulted his favorite book and his motorcycle in the same breath.

“Too heavy?” he repeated.

Your shrug was half-hearted. “It’s fine. I get it. I’m not exactly—”

Whatever insult you were about to throw at yourself got cut off when your world suddenly flipped. With zero warning, Jason grabbed you—grabbed you—and hauled you up into his arms like you weighed less than a duffel bag.

“Jas—!”

“You mean like this heavy?” he teased, arms solid under you, expression infuriatingly smug. “Because I can do this all day.”

And then—he deadlifted you.

He actually deadlifted you, squatting low before standing up tall, arms wrapped under your thighs and back. Like it was nothing.

“Jason!” you squeaked, smacking his shoulder. He only grinned wider.

“Still too heavy?” he challenged, and before you could answer, he tossed you up slightly—just enough to catch you again with ease. Your breath hitched, heart racing, and he chuckled. “I train with hundred-pound sandbags, babe. You’re warm, soft, and so much better to hold.”

You tried to hide your face in his shoulder, but he shifted you again, adjusting you like a human barbell.

“You’re not allowed to talk shit about my favorite body,” he said, suddenly serious. “Especially not when it’s the one I fall asleep holding every night.”

Your eyes stung. Stupid Jason and his stupid gentle voice when you least expected it.

“…You really don’t care?” you mumbled.

He looked at you like you were insane. “Care? I love your body. Every part of it. And if I have to throw you around the apartment until you believe that—” he hoisted you once more, arms flexing “—then I guess I’m getting a workout in.”

You finally laughed, weak and watery, and he pressed a kiss to your cheek.

“Don’t ever apologize for the space you take up,” he murmured. “I’ll always make room for you.”

Your laughter finally faded into quiet breathing, cheek pressed against the slope of his shoulder. Jason had stopped showing off—sort of—and now just held you, his hands slowly tracing up and down your back, warm and possessive.

He walked the both of you to the couch, sitting down with you still in his lap. His arms didn’t loosen once.

You buried your face into the crook of his neck, letting yourself melt into him. “You’re ridiculous,” you murmured, voice soft.

“Yeah. But I’m your ridiculous,” he said, brushing his lips against your temple. “And I’m gonna keep lifting you until you stop saying dumb things about my girl.”

He tugged the blanket off the back of the couch and wrapped it around the both of you, one hand running through your hair. You could feel his heartbeat under your cheek, steady and grounding.

“I hate that you ever feel like that,” he murmured. “Like you have to shrink yourself, or like you’re somehow not enough. Because the truth is, babe—you’re too much in the best damn way. You wreck me. In the best way.”

You swallowed hard at the crack of emotion in his voice. The vulnerability beneath the bravado. That was the real Jason. The man who fought so hard, who loved so fiercely.

His hands roamed gently, skimming your waist, your thighs, your hips, like he needed you to feel every inch of the devotion behind his touch. His grip wasn’t possessive—it was reverent.

“You know what else?” he asked, his voice dipping lower.

You hummed questioningly.

“I love your weight on me. When you’re on top of me, when you’re riding me, when you’re just lying on me like this.” His hands splayed across your back. “It’s perfect. It’s you.”

You shivered a little, lifting your head to meet his gaze. His blue eyes were darker now, intense. Focused.

His thumb tilted your chin up, and he kissed you—deep, slow, and coaxing. His lips moved like he had all the time in the world, like there was no rush to take you apart, because he already had you. Mind, body, and soul.

The kiss deepened, his hands drifting lower, gripping your thighs again like he was ready to lift you all over again—but this time, right onto his lap in an entirely different way.

“Still think you’re too heavy?” he rasped against your lips, his voice ragged now, needy.

You shook your head, flushed and breathless. “Not even close.”

His smirk was dangerous, smug, and stupidly hot.

“Good. Now let me prove it again,” he growled, standing with you in his arms like it was nothing, carrying you to the bedroom with sinful purpose in every step.

And he did. Again. And again. And again.

[celestiamour]

ft. logan howlett x f! reader — xmen, marvel

╰₊✧ getting fucked by him against the wall┊0.6k words

contains: smut!! dom logan & sub reader┊nasty filth, size difference, creampie & breeding kink

➤ author's note: i can't stop thinking about this

your bodies were impossibly close to each other, covered in a slight sheen of sweat with strands of hair and what little clothing was still on sticking to your skin. a hot mess of hasty desire stemming from longing looks across the room, logan burning holes into you with his intense gaze just begging to fuck you in that cute little outfit you were wearing. he couldn’t even wait until you both got your shoes off when you finally got home before reaching under your skirt and peeling down your panties in the middle of the hallways, smothing you in sloppy, open-mouth kisses and complaining about how much of a vixen you secretly are by teasing him so unintentionally. 

or was it actually intentional? you might not be even half as innocent as you lead on to be, especially when you certainly seemed to be enjoying the way his eyes followed you prancing around like a deer in front of a starved wolf.

one of your legs was tossed over his built shoulder and the other was uselessly dangling, barely even touching the floor because of how damn tall he is. you were completely in his shadow, eyes screwed shut and your hands finding purchase by scrunching up the shirt you bothered to iron the night before. an ache in your thighs developed from being held up between his towering frame and the wall, being propped up by little else than his hand on the curve of your ass and his ruthless thrusts. although, it hardly registered in your hazed mind when you were being stretched out so deliciously by his cock, reshaping your insides to take him even deeper, his tip kissing your cervix and making you see stars as his thumb lazily circled your clit.

“fuckkkk, princess, you’re taking me so well…” he whispered huskily in your ear, half-lidded eyes looking at where you two were connected and the hypnotizing way he disappeared inside of you like you were made for him. “such a greedy pussy, i’ve been thinking about this all day.” you could only whine uselessly at his dirty words, digging your nails into his skin, making him chuckle in response at how his precious girl’s brains were already turned to mush at the first of many more planned rounds. “don’t worry, baby, i got you…”

when you finally succumb to your climax, he follows shortly afterward, unable to resist how your walls spasm around his cock and groaning as he emptied himself into you. you gasped at the flood of heat, breathing like there wasn’t enough oxygen in the air and clutching onto him like he was the last person on earth while slumping against the surface of the wall in exhaustion. you both stood there for a moment before he finally pulled out of you, watching his cum dripping out of your hole onto your thighs and ruining the fabric of your clothing was an even hotter sight than the moments of passion shared just now. 

it was so hot, in fact, that he felt his cock hardening again at the sight of it, wanting to fill you with his seed until your belly was swollen with evidence of him and you were thoroughly knocked up. with one swift motion, he lifted you into the air to carry you into the bedroom, reminding you that the night was far from over and that he’ll allow you to be fucked in the comfort of a bed instead of continuing to lean against the wall like he could have once again because he’s just that much of a gentleman. 

[sacr1ficialang3l]

I can handle me a dangerous man˚୨୧⋆｡ (no really I can)

OLDER!DEAN WINCHESTER X YOUNGER!READER (based on this)

SUMMARY: Mid 40s Dean is trying really hard to resist the temptation that you are, but you're making it really hard. 3.7k

WARNINGS smut (MDNI). oral f receiving. age gap. implied penetration.

NOTES: He is here! I am not very used to writing smut, so I tried my best. Can you tell that dilfs telling stories about their life is so hot to me? anyway, this was incredibly self-indulgent. As always, English is not my first language. Enjoy<3

It’s another night of you walking around the bunker in a tiny, white lace dress. Long legs visible, looking even longer because of the slight heel of your boots. There is a necklace resting softly against the hollow of your throat, and your cheeks are rosy, lips glossy and full. Dean doesn’t know if it is makeup or if you simply look like that, but it is killing him. 

You started hunting with Dean and Sam a few months ago after they found you trying to kill a whole werewolf den by yourself. You were young –too young– and didn’t have anyone else. You were alone in this world. It was almost instinct that the brothers took you under their wing. It was supposed to be a temporary thing, just until you gained a little more experience and could go on your own, or until they find you a hunting partner. 

But you never really left. Weeks started going by, and you stayed by their side. 

At first, Dean was annoyed. He was in his 40s, he was too old to be babysitting. He had to admit you were a damn good hunter, but you were too impulsive. Too ready to jump to action, too ready to put yourself in the line of fire. That was his job. But Sam wanted to make sure you would be safe after you got hurt in the werewolf incident, so he let you into the backseat of his car and drove you to the bunker. 

As annoyed as he was, he had to admit, you were gorgeous. Soft hair, pouty lips, shiny eyes. You had a halo of light around you, an innocence to you that was captivating. Not to Dean, of course. He couldn’t. Because the longer the time he spent with you, the more you dug your way into his heart. Your soft giggles echoing through the otherwise gloomy bunker, the sweet smell of cookies when you decided to bake, the gentle touches of your hands as you patched him up after an especially awful hunt (he hadn’t been touched so gently in… ever, actually), the adorable smile you gave him after he begrudgingly compliments your improving hunting abilities. 

You were too naive, too pure, too… good. 

So Dean kept his distance. Or he tried.

Because what Dean didn’t know is that you were anything but naive. You knew from the moment your eyes met his, that you wanted him. He was tall, and broad, and his hair was long, falling a little over those piercing green eyes. He was rugged in the ways you liked, and soft in the ways that mattered. But it was the wrinkles around his eyes, the ones that reveal a history of laughter and playfulness even as he glared at you, that charmed you. 

So you flirted with him, insatiably. Directly and indirectly. You ran your hand up and down his arm as you cleaned his wounds, squeezing his bicep tentatively. You complimented him in the worst possible moments, when he was concentrated in research or had just finished off a monster. You ran your fingers across his shoulders when you walked past him and you took any opportunity to press yourself to his huge frame. But you also flirted in other ways, wearing your shortest mini-skirts around the bunker, accidentally bending over to pick up a book in the library when you knew he was watching. You sucked on a lollipop as he tried to explain a case to you, and you blinked your big eyes at him, eyelashes fluttering and lips parting. 

But every time, you got the same response. For a single moment, Dean would lean in. He would stare down at your lips, or he would take a step closer, hand hovering over your waist, and then he would look away. He would tell you he is too old for you, that he can’t take advantage of you. That he is too broken, too damaged, that you deserved better, someone your age that could give you a normal life. He would tell you that you have no idea what you’re asking for, but you know what you need.  

So you walk into the kitchen late at night, past midnight, to get a snack after parading yourself around the bunker all day in your flimsy clothes while Dean did some work in the garage and tried not to lose his mind. You loved the way his eyes darkened when he saw you, the way his hands almost shook with the need to take you. His self-control was slowly crumbling, and you couldn’t be happier about it.

But this meeting is accidental. You are actually just looking for something to eat, not expecting Dean to be sitting at the dining table with a half-empty whiskey bottle and clouded eyes. You stop for a moment while he is lost in thought, not noticing you. He looks a little sad, and it is one of those few moments when the tough guy facade fell and you could witness the weight of the years on his shoulders. The years of hunting, of losing people, of nothing but fighting. As much as you desire Dean, you are also very much in love with him, and you didn’t like when he hurt like this, alone and drowning his thoughts with booze. So you clear your throat, making him turn to you.

“It’s drinking night and you didn’t tell me?” You joke, walking behind the kitchen island to grab a bag of chips from one of the cabinets. 

“I thought you were asleep.” He murmurs, voice even deeper than it already usually is. You turn to look at him, meeting his eyes. Dean is good at keeping his emotions in check, at controlling his expressions, but you are good at reading people. Especially him. And there is this glint in his eyes, the one that tells you he doesn’t want to be alone.

So you grab a beer from the fridge and walk towards the dinner table, sitting down across from him. You had always preferred sweet, fruity drinks, but thanks to the Winchesters you had learned to appreciate beer. Whiskey was a hard no, though. Dean stares at you for a long moment, eyes unreadable, before lowering his eyes to his glass and letting out a low chuckle. 

“What were you brooding about?” You take a sip of your beer, opening your bag of chips and offering Dean some. He shakes his head, taking a swig of his whiskey instead. 

“Nothing, really. I don’t want to bore you with my old man stories.” He laughs, and some tension leaves his shoulders. 

You bite your lip. Oh, if he only knew how much you loved it when he went all old man on you. When he reminisced about the past, when he tried to give you advice, showing you how experienced he was in so many different things, and how much it made you want to find out exactly how experienced he really was.

“I like your stories.” You offer softly, a small smile on your lips. “Come on, tell me a good one.”

He looks up at you over the rim of his glass, and you give him your best puppy eyes.

He crumbles immediately. 

“Once, when I was twenty-three and Sammy was in college.” He starts, and he doesn’t stop.

You spend what feels like hours but also seconds sitting there, drinking beer after beer, listening to him. He tells you about this weird religious cult slash mental control witch he found once when hunting on his own. He tells you about the time he hooked up with some girl at a bar, and she ended up being an Amazon. He laughs at some of the memories and you laugh along. His expression gets somber when talking about certain people, the people he lost, and you give him a few seconds to wallow in it before you make a lighthearted comment that makes him smile again and move to another story. He talks about the times he died, the times he almost did. Sometimes, unconsciously, he rubs his hand over a part of his body as he tells a story, presumably where a scar marred his skin. All while you stare at him with shiny, attentive eyes, like he is the only person in the world that matters.

By the time you finish your third beer, Dean is already a tiny bit… not drunk, but definitely less guarded.

Still, he had such a high alcohol resistance. It was so hot.

“That case was crazy. I still wonder how the siblings are doing. I hope they’re okay.” There it is, the look on his eyes. The way they unfocus slightly as he absentmindedly traces the edge of his glass with his finger. It was in those moments that you can truly look at him, take in every small detail of his face. Every wrinkle, every scar, every evidence of every battle. The living proof of his resilience, of his experience, of his survival. You press your thighs together, trying to ground yourself.

You fantasize for a moment about sliding under the table, taking Dean into your mouth. Make his nostalgia turn into pleasure, make him feel good, remind him of the good old days.

“When was that?” You ask, gently coaxing him out of whatever place he got lost in his mind. He blinks at you, taking in your soft smile and sweet voice before replying.

“Right after Sammy started hunting again, so I was like… twenty-seven?” 

You quickly do the math in your head, calculating how old you were back then. Fuck. You were still a kid when Dean was already killing wendigos and vampires and shifters. Oh, there must be something really wrong with you, because that makes something on your lower stomach burn.

“So, you were quite the ladies man, huh?” You tease him, trying to shake away the desire building inside of you. You watch him chuckle and drop his head forward.

You already knew that, because he still is. You have to watch women throw themselves at him in every hunt and every bar. It was infuriating.

“You could say that.” He replies nonchalantly, but there’s a smirk on his lips as he down the rest of his whiskey. 

“Can you imagine me meeting you in your mid-twenties?” I giggle, and it causes Dean to snort and shake his head amusedly, refilling his glass. You lean forward on the table, your hand laying next to his. So close. “I can. I can imagine us meeting at a bar, or a diner.” You smirk. “Maybe even a concert! Can you imagine us meeting in a rock festival’s pit?”

Dean snorts again, eyes still down on his glass. He presses his tongue to his cheek, like he is trying to stop the words from coming out of his mouth, but they end up escaping him anyway.

“I was very different back then, sweetheart. I wouldn’t trust my younger self around a girl like you.”

And there it was. 

The comment makes your breath get stuck in the back of your throat, and you look up at Dean with wide eyes. 

I wouldn’t trust my younger self around a girl like you.

A girl like you.

Dean returns your heated gaze for a moment, his eyes sharp and deep in the way they only got after you teased him too much. 

“But you trust yourself with me now?” You ask with the most innocent voice you can utter, batting your long eyelashes at him. You watch as he takes in a sharp breath, swallowing harshly.

“Barely.” He whispers, looking down at your lips when you lick them and then back at your eyes. 

Shitshitshit.

“You don’t have to, you know?” Dean looks at you slightly confused, and you lean further forward before whispering. “Control yourself, I mean. You don’t have to.”

There is a second in which you think Dean will lunge himself at you, finally. His eyes are darker than you have ever seen them, because they weren’t dark with anger, they were full of pure, raw hunger.

His hand twitches, and then he pulls away. 

He gets up from the table, downing back the whole glass of whiskey before setting it down on the table with a little too much force. He starts to walk away, and you don’t know if it’s the beers you had or the desperation that had been accumulating for months, but this time you try to stop him.

You get up from the table too, quickly moving until you are blocking his way out of the kitchen.

He says your name in reproach, eyes glued to the floor. “We can’t-”

“Yes, we can.” You interrupt him, waking a step closer until your chests are almost pressed together. You grab his arm, making him look at you. “Please, Dean. I want it, you want it. Come on.”

Dean still shakes his head, deep frown on his face. “I’ve told you, I’m not good for you, you-”

You groan, rolling your eyes and stomping your foot on the floor. It didn’t help make you look any more mature, but you didn’t care.

“Yeah, I know. I’m too young, you’re too old. You’re broken and dangerous and all of that.” You say sarcastically, making him raise his eyebrows. “When are you going to stop lying to yourself, Dean?”

That makes him scoff, and he shakes his head while looking away again. “It is true. You deserve better than some guy old enough to be your father.” He grimaces at his own words, rubbing a hand over his face.

But you double down, pressing your body completely against his. You push forward and Dean lets you guide him backwards, and you know he’s letting you because you could not make him move an inch if he didn’t want you to. He ends up pressed against the kitchen island, hand still covering his eyes. You use your hand on his arm to pull it down, forcing him to look at you again.

“Dean, I want you.” You look deep into his eyes, and he almost looks pained by it. “I know you think I don’t know what’s best for me, but I do. I know what I need, and I need you.” You squeeze his bicep before your hand moves to the back of his neck, fingers tangling with the hairs there. 

He says your name again, almost as a plea.

He was breaking. He was caving in. 

“Please, Dean.” You whisper as your lips brush his, looking into those green eyes that consumed your every waking thought. “We both know I need a real man.”

And that seems to do the trick. He lets out something akin to a growl, and his hands are finally on you. One moves to your waist, grip bruising. The other one goes to your hair, fingers intertwining with the long locks and pulling your head back, hard, exposing the delicate curve of your throat. It makes you whimper. 

“You don’t know what you’re asking for.” Dean leans in closer, but he doesn’t kiss you. Instead, he lets the tip of his nose brush against your skin, from the apple of your cheek to your jaw and down your neck. “I’m no prince charming.”

“I want you, Dean.” You whine when his lips brush against the sensitive surface of your throat. You use the hand that is still tangled on his hair to pull him up, make him meet your eyes. “Ruin me.”

His lips are on you in less than a second. The kiss is bruising, violent with months of repressed want. He pulls you even closer, his beard a little scratchy against the soft skin of your face. You love it.

He pushes your lips apart with his tongue and you let him in, whining at the way he bites your lip before licking behind your teeth. You weren’t inexperienced like Dean thought, you had hooked up with people once or twice, but nothing had ever felt like this. Nothing could compare to the way Dean’s experienced tongue explored your mouth, or the way he spins you two around until you are pressed against the kitchen island, callused hands running down your sides until they’re gripping the sensitive skin of your thighs, lifting you up until you are sitting on top of the counter.

You gasp at the sudden movement, but you part your legs and let Dean slide in between them, shuddering as his fingers run up and down your legs. 

“You’re so fucking sensitive.” Dean grunts, lips moving down to kiss your neck. He bites the skin softly, and then a bit harder, making you moan. 

You pull his hair harshly, and it is his turn to moan, a sound you wanted to hear every day of your life. You wrap your legs around his hips and pull him closer, until his clothed cock presses against your core over your dress. You two groan at the same time, and you pull Dean into another kiss.

“Come on, Dean. Show me how a real man fucks, teach me what real pleasure is.” You whisper against his lips, and he seems to go a little insane at that. 

In seconds, his hands have already pulled the tiny white dress off your body, leaving you only in your lacy black underwear. He grunts again at the sight, hands running over all the new skin visible.

“You’re so sweet, so fucking beautiful.” He whispers, almost adoring, as his fingers brush over the curve of your breasts and down to your stomach. You bite your lip, enjoying the feeling of his rough hands on your smooth skin. It is hot, to be only in your underwear while Dean is completely clothed, but you want to see him too.

So you pull his shirt off him before he can say anything, and your mouth waters. He is all lean muscle and tanned skin. There is the tattoo on his chest you’ve fantasized so many times about licking, and you decide to go for it. You first bite softly over his collarbone, trying to subtly suck a hickey there. Judging by Dean’s chuckle, you’re not very subtle. You make your way down, trace his tattoo with your tongue, bite down on the flesh of his pectoral. You kiss over every scar you find, licking over the larger ones. It makes Dean shiver every time, and the way he holds you turns a little softer. 

Then you press your hand over his bulge, and his breath hitches. It makes you feel proud that he is this affected by your touch. You rub him over his jeans for a moment, just basking in the feeling of it cupped in your hand and the fact that this was actually happening. You use both hands to undo his belt and unbutton his jeans. You pull them down along with his underwear, and Dean takes a step back to be able to step out of them. And that is when you finally see all of him. 

You have to bite your lip before doing something too crazy. Dean was big. Curved up against his stomach and flushed. And so fucking hard. 

I did that, you think deliriously as you feel yourself getting wetter.

You lick your lips, craving to feel the weight of him on your tongue, but you need Dean to touch you right now.

Another time.

“One day I will suck you off until you pass out.” You breathe out, and it makes Dean groan. He presses back against you, kissing you harshly.

“You’ll be the death of me, baby.” He whispers against your lips before undoing your bra with just one hand, sliding it off your body. He pushes you backwards until your back touches the cold surface of the counter. It makes you shiver, but it is all forgotten when Dean takes one of your nipples into his mouth.

He sucks softly, and then a little harder. He moves to the other breast, giving it the same attention until your nipples are wet and flushed and hard. You are a whining mess by this point. He continues to make his way down your body with his mouth, lips brushing against your inner thighs and leaving dark purple marks on them. Because you were his now.

He takes off your boots and leaves your socked feet resting against the edge of the counter. The position leaves your legs wide open, and your chest rises and falls more rapidly the closer Dean’s face gets to your clothed pussy. 

“Dean.” You whimper when he presses his face to your mound over your panties.

“Have any of those little boyfriends of yours ever eaten you out, or are they too much of a coward to do it?” You don’t respond, because your head is spinning and your vision is hazy. “It doesn’t matter, because I will show you how it is done.”

And he does. He pulls your panties off and devours you. He has you whining and moaning in seconds, hands pulling on his hair for dear life. He sucks on your clit and runs his tongue through your folds like a starved man. You come on his tongue once, and then again. You basically have to peel him away from you before you lose your mind when he keeps going, keeps sucking until you’re twitching with oversensitivity. 

“Please, I need you inside.”

And how could he ever say not to that.

It is almost morning by the time you two are laying under the covers of Dean’s bed. He had fucked you there on the kitchen island (Sam can never know), and then he had fucked you again on his bed. You were both exhausted as you laid on his chest, drawing figures with your fingernails across his skin. You chuckle and look up at him, only to find him already staring at you. His eyes are softer than you have ever seen them as he seems to bask in the sight of you all fucked out and soft. It makes you blush.

“You might have actually ruined me for anyone else.” You joke, biting your lip. But it was true, you were sure that your body would reject anyone who wasn’t Dean Winchester from now on. 

The joke makes some heat come back to Dean’s eyes, but also something else, something softer. Something so warm and delicate and absolutely terrifying. 

“Good.” he rasps out. “Because you won’t need anyone else.”

NOTES: I can't believe all of this came out of a half-asleep horny thought that I had. Anyway, thank you so much for the overwhelming support, you are all the best.

Older Dean MAY come back because I am too obsessed with him, only if college doesn't kill me first.

TAGS: @h8aaz <3

If you wanna be tagged in future works, let me know!!

[inseobts]

Hello, it's me again.

Can I request a Zoro X Reader,using the picture below? It's the aftermath of Onigashima when they are back on the sunny.

Credit to the original artist @marimo_fr on Twitter :) <3

The Weight You Carry

zoro x gn!reader

the scars of onigashima remain, especially for zoro, whose body bears the cost of every brutal fight. he always claims he can handle it, always acts like the weight of the world is his alone to bear, but not tonight, not anymore.

a/n: I love the idea and the art, hope you'll like it

(ฅ́ ˘ฅ̀)♡

words count: 1.7k

tags: blood, no major spoilers

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

The Thousand Sunny drifts peacefully on the waves, a stark contrast to the devastation left behind in Wano. The battle is over. Kaido has fallen. Luffy’s dream has inched closer to reality. But for those who fought, those who pushed themselves to the brink of death, it doesn’t end so easily.

Zoro grips the edge of the sink, knuckles white against the porcelain. His breath is ragged, uneven, his body wracked with pain that refuses to subside. The blood in his mouth is warm, metallic, pooling between his fingers as it drips into the water below. He watches it swirl, crimson twisting through the clear liquid, disappearing down the drain. His arms shake under his own weight, muscles frayed from exhaustion, from wounds that haven’t had time to heal.

He should be resting. Chopper told him as much, ordered him to stay in bed, to let his body recover. But lying down only makes it worse. The moment he closes his eyes, he feels the weight of every battle, every scar, every near-death experience pressing down on him. He remembers Kaido’s club smashing into his ribs, King’s flames scorching his skin, his swords feeling heavier than ever as he pushed himself past his limits.

How many times has he done this? How many times has he taken on more than he should, because he had to?

“Zoro! Tell me when you’re done with the bathroom!”

Your voice filters through the door, casual, unaware.

Zoro exhales harshly, dragging a hand down his face. He doesn’t want you to see him like this. You’ve seen him fight, seen him bleed, but this? This is different. This is weakness, the kind he refuses to show. He braces himself, tries to push off the sink and stand tall, but his legs betray him. His vision blurs at the edges.

The door creaks open before he can stop you.

Your eyes widen instantly, the casual impatience from earlier vanishing in an instant.

“Zoro—”

He turns away sharply, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, as if that could erase the evidence “Tch. Don’t barge in.” His voice is rough, strained.

“Don’t—?” You shut the door behind you, stepping closer despite his obvious attempt to keep you at a distance “Are you kidding me? You’re—Zoro, you’re bleeding.”

“It’s nothing.”

Your hands are on him before he can protest, gripping his arm, trying to steady him. Up close, he looks even worse. Sweat clings to his skin, his breathing is shallow, and the way he leans against the sink tells you all you need to know, he’s barely standing.

You swallow hard “Chopper told you to rest.”

“I don’t need—” His sentence cuts off with a cough, a fresh splatter of red hitting the sink. He grimaces. Damn it.

You don’t hesitate. Your arms wrap around his waist, supporting him before he collapses “Come on,” you say firmly “You’re going back to bed.”

“I can walk.”

“You can barely stand.”

Zoro grits his teeth, frustration flashing in his eyes, but you don’t budge. He’s stubborn, but so are you.

“Zoro...” your voice softens, and that’s what gets to him. The fight drains from his shoulders, and he lets you guide him out of the bathroom. The walk back to his room is slow, each step heavy, but you don’t rush him. You don’t say anything when he leans into you more than he probably wants to admit.

When you finally reach his bed, he sits down with a heavy sigh. You kneel in front of him, grabbing a cloth from the bedside table “Let me clean you up.”

Zoro exhales but doesn’t argue this time. He watches as you work, dabbing away the blood with careful hands. Your touch is gentle, the complete opposite of the battlefield, of the violence he’s endured.

“I hate seeing you like this” you mutter.

He looks away “You knew what you signed up for.”

“That doesn’t mean I don’t worry.”

Silence hangs between you. You continue cleaning the blood from his face, your touch steady, reassuring. Zoro doesn’t stop you, doesn’t pull away. Maybe it’s the exhaustion, maybe it’s the fact that for once, he’s allowing himself to accept the care he always shrugs off.

When you’re done, you sit back, watching him carefully “Promise me you’ll rest?”

He grunts, which isn’t exactly a promise, but it’s good enough for now.

You sigh, reaching for his hand, squeezing it “You don’t have to carry everything alone, you know.”

Zoro glances at you, something unreadable flickering in his gaze. He doesn’t answer, but the way his fingers tighten around yours tells you enough.

For now, it’s enough.

Zoro leans back against the pillows, his body protesting even the smallest movement. His hand still rests in yours, the calloused warmth of his fingers curling slightly around your own. He hasn’t let go, and you don’t pull away.

“You should sleep” you murmur, watching his heavy-lidded eyes fight against exhaustion.

“Tch” He scoffs, but it lacks his usual sharpness “I’ll be fine.”

You frown “You’re not fine, Zoro. You nearly died.”

He grunts, dismissive as ever “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

His words send a pang through your chest. The worst part is that you know he’s right. This isn’t the first time he’s thrown himself into the jaws of death without hesitation. It won’t be the last. That’s just who Zoro is. He pushes past limits, beyond the brink of what a human body should be capable of, all for the sake of his captain, his crew, his dream.

You’ve always admired his resolve, his unwavering strength. But nights like this, when the cost of that strength weighs so heavily on him, it’s hard to swallow.

You sigh, shifting so you’re sitting on the edge of the bed “You scared me, you know.”

Zoro cracks one eye open, glancing at you “Didn’t mean to.”

“Doesn’t change the fact that you did.”

He exhales slowly, his fingers twitching against yours “I had to do it.”

“I know, I’m not saying that.”

And you do. You know he had no choice but to push himself beyond reason. You know that if he hadn’t, if he had hesitated for even a second, things might have ended differently. The battle against Kaido, against King, against all the overwhelming forces standing in their way, Zoro had taken them all on, knowing damn well the cost.

But just because you understand doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt to see him like this.

Zoro shifts slightly, his face tilting toward you “I’m still here.” His voice is quiet, almost as if he’s saying it for you, not himself.

You squeeze his hand “Yeah. You are.”

Silence stretches between you again, but it’s softer this time, less heavy. His breathing evens out little by little, the exhaustion finally winning against his stubbornness. His grip on your hand loosens slightly, though he doesn’t let go completely.

You adjust the blanket over him, brushing a few damp strands of green hair from his forehead “Get some rest, Zoro.”

He grumbles something under his breath, likely another protest, but his body betrays him as his eyelids grow heavier.

You don’t move, not yet. You sit there, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest, reassuring yourself that he’s here, that he’s safe.

Because for all of Zoro’s strength, for all his resilience and willpower, there are moments like these when you remember he’s still human. And even the strongest swordsman in the world needs someone to watch over him sometimes.

And as long as you’re here, you’ll make damn sure he never has to carry that weight alone.

The room is quiet except for the steady rhythm of Zoro’s breathing. He’s teetering on the edge of sleep, exhaustion finally pulling him under despite his stubbornness. His hand is still loosely curled around yours, warm and calloused, grounding.

You know you should probably let him rest. But something keeps you there, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest, the faint furrow of his brows even in sleep, like he’s still fighting, even now. Like he doesn’t know how to let go.

Carefully, you reach out, brushing stray strands of green from his forehead. His skin is warm, feverish, but he doesn’t stir. Your fingers trail down, tracing the line of his jaw, the scar over his eye, marks of every battle, every fight he’s taken on without hesitation.

Your heart aches.

Zoro shifts slightly under your touch, his head tilting just enough that his lips part on a quiet exhale. You freeze, watching him, but he doesn’t pull away. If anything, his hand tightens around yours.

Your gaze flickers to his mouth.

Slowly, cautiously, you lean in. You hover just above him, close enough to feel the warmth of his breath against your lips. You hesitate, searching for any sign that he’s too out of it, too far gone into exhaustion.

But then—

“Hah… you just gonna sit there all night?”

His voice is hoarse, barely more than a murmur, but it sends a jolt through you. Your eyes snap up to his, startled. Even half-lidded with fatigue, there’s something sharp in his gaze, something knowing. A lazy smirk tugs at the corner of his lips.

Caught.

“I thought you were asleep” you whisper.

He exhales, the ghost of a chuckle. “Not when you’re staring at me like that.” His voice is low, rough, but there’s no teasing in it, just warmth.

You swallow, your cheeks burning “Idiot.”

His smirk fades slightly, his expression softening as he studies you “Come here.”

You hesitate only for a second before leaning down again, pressing your lips lightly to his.

Zoro exhales against your mouth, his grip on your hand tightening. It’s not rushed, not desperate, just a slow, lingering press of lips, filled with everything unspoken between you. He tilts his head, deepening it just slightly, enough to let you feel the warmth of him, the weight of him.

When you finally pull back, his eyes flicker open again, hazy but focused on you.

“Better?” you murmur.

His thumb brushes against your knuckles “Yeah.”

You smile softly, pressing one last kiss to his forehead before settling in beside him, your fingers still laced together.

And for the first time since Onigashima, Zoro lets himself rest.