#this was my first time writing a fanfic

[rosefilledpiano]

HI hi! I was wondering if you could write an x reader of Leo Valdez? Where reader is cold in their cabin and Leo decides to cuddle with them and warm them up? GN also please! If you don't wanna that's completely ok! Have a wonderful day/night!!! <3

(I made this more of a winter theme since I feel like Leo's just always warm. Hope that's okay! P.S., it's my first time writing something like this, so I hope it's okay!)

Winters at Camp Half-Blood were either one of two things. One, Chiron and Mr. D decided to leave the snow and cold air out, or two, Chiron and Mr. D decided to give camp a snow day. Only problem? Mr. D always went a bit too cold for everyones liking.

Today was one of the unfortunate days that Mr. D decided he didn't care, and let in the snow and cold air. As a result, most of the campers stayed in their cabins due to the cold. Not wanting to risk sickness. You included. Your boyfriend Leo, however, seemed to never be cold.

"(Name)! C'mon! Let's make a snowman or something!" You heard from your cabin door. "Get your boyfriend to shut the hell up!" One of your siblings yelled to you. With a groan, you got up from your bed. Blankets covering you. As soon as you opened the door, you were met with Leo and his usual grin. "Hey, babe!" He beamed, leaning forward to give you a kiss on the cheek, his hair as messy as always. He seemed to be completely unfazed by the cold. "Leo, it's so fucking cold out, what do you want?" You said with a slight smile of your own. As much as you hated to admit it, you couldn't help but love whenever he came over. "(Name)! Close the door! You're letting the cold in!" One of your siblings yelled, throwing a pillow your way. With a chuckle, Leo invited himself into your cabin, picking up the pillow and tossing it back. "So you don't wanna build a snowman?" He asked though he didn't seem too sad about it. "What the fuck is this? Frozen?" Your sibling groaned but shut up when he saw your glare. Letting out a sigh, you shook your head. "No, Leo. It's too cold for that." "Aw. I was gonna name him Fred. Had a hat and everything.." Leo mumbles, but wraps his arms around your waist anyway, pulling the two of you onto a nearby bed. Not even caring whose bed it was. "Such a shame.." He added with a grin, lifting the blanket from the bed and pulling both you and him under it. After adjusting himself a bit, he laid with his chin resting on your head, eyes closed with his arms still around your waist. He felt warm. Really warm compared to the cold outside. "I love you." He mumbled, kissing your hair. "I love you too, Repair Boy." You said back, a smile appearing on your face as you both began drifting to sleep. You both felt so comfortable and content in each other's arms. It felt nice...Until your sibling chimed in. "Can you guys stop being so-" With a groan, Leo cut him off by throwing a pillow at him. "Where were we? Oh right. I love you, (Name)." He chuckled, resting his chin on your head again. You giggled, snuggling closer to him. "I love you too, Leo."

[catgrandpa]

Gotham has always been weird, so when the groundskeeper at the cemetery noticed the Wayne kid’s plot was disturbed, he just chalked it up to more of the same ol’. Alright, so ‘disturbed’ may be a tad too light of a word, but what’s an empty grave in the grand scheme of Gotham? God knows in a city like this one, they could use all the burial room they could get. He figured he’d just jot it down on the website and hope nobody noticed for a while.

Too bad he didn’t account for the 13 year old boy in Bristol who periodically checks the cemetery’s website when he’s feeling particularly lonely.

Plot Removed.

Tim Drake stared at the two words under the heading for Jason Todd’s plot number. Removed? What do they mean ‘removed’? They can’t just remove a plot? That’s a person down there! That’s Robin down there! You can’t Remove Robin!

Calm down. Deep breaths. Assess the situation.

Robin has been dead for 5 months and 14 days. There is no reason for a grave to be removed that early, especially one of a member of such an affluential family. Chances are likely it’s a simple clerical issue. He can call first thing in the morning and make them aware of the mistake. He can have it all fixed in 5 hours.

Just a phone call.

In 5 hours.

…

Tim hates talking on the phone almost as much as he hates waiting.

Well it won’t be the first time he’s snuck out to head to Gotham proper at 1am. It can’t even really be considered sneaking out if there’s no one home to catch you.

Buses stop running at 2, so he layers a couple sweaters under his coat and grabs his best running sneakers so he can comfortably make the trek back.

Just a quick trip to settle his nerves. Maybe get a few shots in if he spots Batman, but really he just wants to see with his own two eyes that things are okay and Jason can rest.

It’s 1:37 by the time he gets to the headstone reading ‘Here Lies Jason Todd’ and the gaping, muddy pit in front of it.

This- This doesn’t make any sense. This is not removal. This is destruction. Desecration. Somebody did this. Somebody-

Assess the situation.

A hole in the ground, approximately 1.5 feet in diameter.

Mud and grass flung outward but with little force.

Large chunks of earth turned over and shoved away.

No signs of tool marks or clean lines of entry into the dirt.

Dragging claw marks.

Staggering, shuffled pairs of foot prints in the mud.

A trail of dirt.

Something… Something large clawed its way out of the ground here. Something large and bipedal and- and humanoid.

Tim refuses to jump to any conclusions he can see all the facts laid in front of him. He’s going to cautiously follow the trail and simply hope to any god listening that he isn’t the world’s first line of defense against the zombie apocalypse.

He’s been walking for 23 minutes and there’s good news and undecided news. Good news: he’s closing in on the target and the trail isn’t taking him out of the way so his trip home won’t be prolonged. Undecided news: The potential Zombie Robin is heading directly for Wayne Manor.

As zombie apocalypse news, this is very bad. From Tim’s collected observational evidence, his not-so-professional opinion is that Batman, faced with a horror movie level zombie of his dead son, would not respond well, and would likely not fight back.

In Batman and Robin news? Tim’s unsure. If Jason is simply back? What could that mean for them? Batman can have his Robin. He wouldn’t have to continue nearly killing others and himself every night in his grief. Jason could-

No. Stop. Do not jump to conclusions.

Hope only brings heartbreak.

What would Batman do? Get close and see if the target is a threat.

Target is male. Mid-teens. Dark hair. Pale skin. Leaning against surfaces as he walks. Appears injured and disoriented.

Minimal risk assessed. Approaching and attempting contact.

Target identity confirmed: Jason Todd.

“J-Jason?” It comes out as a croaked whisper. Jason shows no sign of acknowledgment.

Tim clears his throat, steps right in front of his path, and tries again.

“Jason. Jason, stop I want to help you.” Still nothing.

“Please, Jason. I can help, I promise I can help!”

Why isn’t this working?! Why can’t he just do something right for once?! He wants this to work, he wants to help Bruce, he wants to fix Batman, he wants to not be alone, he wants-

“Robin!”

Robin jerks to a stop.

Tim reached out his hand.

“Robin. Robin please, I’m sorry you’re going through this, it’s really scary, I’m really scared. But I just want to help you. Help you find Batman. Help you get home.”

Jason just stares at him. Of course he does. Of course it’s not going to work. Why did he even bother hoping he could help?

Hope only brings heartbreak.

His sight blurs as his eyes fill with tears and he starts to lower his outstretched hand.

His arm is slowed as a cold hand weakly grasps his own.

“Don’t… scared… Bat… help… Dad… help.”

A relieved sob tears out from Tim’s chest and he gathers himself together. He yanks his extra sweater off and gently pulls it over Jason’s cold shoulders. Jason lets Tim drag his arm over his shoulders to try and carry some of his weight.

“Okay, Robin. Yeah. Your dad will help us.”

Batman will solve everything once Tim gets Robin home.

[writeouswriter]

My followers: And is this “writing” you’ve been “working on” in the room with us right now?

[ejsuperstar]

Imagine you live in pelican town. The new farmer has been here a couple weeks now and seems to be settling in, except... He's picking the weirdest friend choices. Like sure it's not weird to befriend the local fisherman, especially when he has an interest in fishing himself, but you're pretty sure you've seen him rooting through the Saloon's garbage with the local homeless man. As well, he keeps harassing the poor guy who works at Joja even though you KNOW he doesn't want to be friends with him.

And since you're on the topic of weirdness, isn't it odd he seemingly runs everywhere at a full sprint? Or just... Eats entire raw fish while fishing for "energy reasons"...

...

Despite all that, it's too early to call him off putting or anything... He has been engaging in town traditions, and he's started helping out with the old community centre. He's probably like the rest of you. Someone with a few quirks, that will fit in with the valley great!

Surely he can't get any weirder... Right?

[mrcatlion]

I have been consuming Zack Lives AUs and would like to offer the headcannon: Zack keeps a habit of taking initiative for transporting Cloud to places even after Cloud wakes up. Usually grabbing and leading Cloud places, but sometimes ends up with Zack full on hoisting Cloud over his shoulder and starts walking.

[frownyalfred]

I cannot emphasize this enough: sometimes the draft sucks because you keep looking at it. It doesn’t actually suck. You just need to post it and stop beating yourself up.

[frogstappen]

𝐳𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐯𝐨𝐨𝐫𝐭, 𝐧𝐥

best friend!max verstappen x reader / 3k

you watch max's home race from the red bull garage.

⚠️: description of major crash, some mentions of injury. sickly sweet friendship with a hint of something more. jealous!max, soft!max, cheeky!max.

“Headset?”

“Yep.”

“I got some snacks for you. Where are the –?”

The bag rustles as you lift it. “Pretzels. Got them.”

“And you know where the bathroom is? Out that door, down the corridor –”

“Max,” you push his arm down, “You know who we sound like right now?”

His eyebrows lift. “Who?”

You giggle. “You and GP. Radio, check. Headset, check. Bathroom, check.”

Max sighs, propping a hand on his hip. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Just – listen to me, please, okay?”

“I’m going to be fine,” you assure him. “I’ve watched you from the garage a thousand times before.”

“Yeah, well, you haven’t been down here in a while. I’m just making sure.”

The track is already deafening. The roar of tens of thousands of bloodthirsty Formula One fans isn’t quite as earthshaking as that of twenty racecars – but Jesus, there’s not much in it.

The attendance in Zandvoort this weekend has reached well over three hundred thousand. Earlier, you stood out front to watch the drivers’ parade with some of the team.

Max lifted his head as the bus turned the last corner and trundled down the main straight. The crowd thundered all around. He caught your eye and, with a smirk, lifted a waggling hand – and you felt your bones vibrating with the cheering.

An orange sea parted by a strip of black asphalt; they twirl flags between thick clouds of tangerine smoke. They paint their faces and wave their banners, topple their drinks with the thrill that just a half-second glimpse at their Dutch Lion ignites.

Formula One fans go hard. Max Verstappen fans go harder.

An assistant taps Max’s shoulder. She flicks up the mic on her headset as he turns. “Three minutes to anthem.”

He nods, and she totters off.

“Promise me,” he takes hold of your elbows, “that you’ll stay right here. I’ll find you after, okay? One of the guys will bring you to the podium.”

“Confident,” you snort, though his expression tightens.

Your phone buzzes on the desk. You flip it over and the screen lights a name adorned with a heart emoji. Beneath, a picture of the classic overhead of the grid, stretched across a flatscreen TV.

Bet your view is better than mine! Miss you. X

Max grumbles, grabbing his balaclava. “I should go.”

“Hey, wait.” You tug on the sleeve of his suit, dangling from his waist.

He sways back into your side, the weight of him familiar and gentle. “Mhm?”

“Have a good one, okay? Be safe.”

“Safe?” He smirks, toying with the cord of your headset. “That’s no fun.”

“I’m serious, Max. Don’t be a dick.”

Okay, he mouths, patting your head. “Speaking of dicks,” he taps your phone, “Better reply.”

His head tilts back in laughter when you shove him off, and he swaggers out of the garage. An assistant hoists a parasol in the air and scurries down the pit lane at his side.

He’s so calm, you think, that he may as well be out for a Sunday drive. It comes naturally enough to him.

He’s on pole today. The car has been good, Max’s form even better. The sky is clear (save for the fans’ fluorescent flares), and there’s no chance of rain – though, sometimes, you find yourself praying for it.

He’s Dutch, okay? The rain is always on his side.

It’s been a decent weekend, for once. No hiccups, no setbacks. He’s soared his way around the track, producing lap after perfect lap. The way he always does, when he knows you’re somewhere nearby.

His lucky charm, since his first go around a karting track. So Max says, anyway.

He’ll say it with humor; that wit of his that you’ve learned like a second language. Still – sometimes, after his hardest races, his toughest battles, he wraps his arms around you tight enough to convince you that he might just be telling the truth.

Just for a moment.

You’ve been best friends for as long as you can remember. Never one without the other; always whispering into each other’s ears or otherwise communicating through flashes of eye contact, kicks under the table.

Wherever he goes, you go. You bicker like a married couple, and trust each other much the same. From the school playground to the Circuit de Monaco – and everywhere in between.

The orchestra swings to life, sending the sound of Wilhelmus skyward. Onscreen in the garage, the camera focuses in on Max: calm, composed, staring off down to the first corner like it’s his next meal.

Nothing has ever happened between you. Not really. No secret rendezvous nor dear diary crushes. Once, and only once, a chaste kiss during a high school game of spin the bottle.

It was about as awkward as it should’ve been. This quick, electric shock of a kiss. Over all too soon and not soon enough. He tasted like the lager he’d been drinking. He steadied himself with a hand on your thigh.

You sat back on your heels, wiped your lips with the sleeve of your sweater, and aped Max’s look of disgust. You snickered with your girlfriends as the circle moved on – but anytime you snuck a glance at him, he was already looking straight back.

He never brought it up again, though – and so neither did you. As far as either of you were concerned, it never happened. You’re just friends.

Best, best friends.

This new guy you’ve been seeing – you met him in a bar in London. He said he liked your dress, said he liked your smile, then offered to buy you a drink. It’s been no more than six weeks, but Max had already quietly decided his thoughts over summer break.

He’s a nice guy, he said, deliberately bumping his rubber ring into yours.

You pushed away from him, floating across the pool. Nice? That’s all you got?

What do you want me to say? I’m not the one dating him.

I just don’t believe that nice is all you have to say. You’re not that good at pretending. I know you too well, Verstappen.

Okay, fine. Too much styling of the hair.

Too much…What?

Yeah. And he wears weird shoes.

Well, he likes F1. Said he’s a fan of yours.

Ha, Max clicked his fingers, That’s the biggest red flag of them all.

Your phone buzzes again. You turn it facedown without looking, and pull your headset on.

The circuit shudders as the anthem comes to an end. The drivers split up, pulling off ice vests and zipping up their suits. The mechanics prop chairs in front of the screen, thumping their helmets over their heads.

Almost ten years in, the anxiety still hangs heavy in your stomach. The rumble of the engines, the babble from the loudspeakers. The rapid-fire orders shot over your head in the garage.

It comes naturally to Max, sure – that doesn’t mean it’s easy for you.

You watch him as he lowers into his car. Eyes narrow and focused, blurring everything but that first bend from his vision. All good humor shaken off, replaced by a vicious hunger to hit the end of the straight first, to be a speck on the horizon before the first lap is through.

Your thumb picks at the 33 sticker on the side of your headset. You burst open the bag of pretzels.

Max checks the radio and GP replies: “Loud and clear.”

“Beautiful day,” the driver says, weaving through the formation lap. “Simply lovely.”

You smile, suckling on the salty snack. As nervous as you may feel, at least he’s having fun.

He brings the car to a soft stop on his line and waits as the others follow suit. The lights flick on one by one, a painful pause between each. One sharp breath, held at the bottom of your throat, – and the red dissolves.

The Red Bull fires down the track.

Your lungs fill with a gulp of fuel-fumed air. Veins flood with warmth – the ice-cold grip around each nerve thawed as soon as Max begins to lead the flock.

He fights off contenders for first all the way to turn four – snuffing the flame of a Ferrari here, squeezing the papaya of a McLaren there. He catapults ahead just past Hunserug, and the garage springs to cheerful life.

In your headset, the pit wall is serious, fixed on the race. They murmur over wavelengths, static fizzling between words. Voices flat and emotionless; statistics on top of statistics, strategies on top of strategies.

You crush more pretzels between your molars, watching, unblinking. You twist the cord around your index finger, draining the tip of blood, then loosen again as Max puts more than a second between his car and the next.

He’s doing good. He always does good, as far as you’re concerned.

He’s doing what he always says he was made to do. He was raised this way, weathered into shape by each storm he powered his way through. Not born, not destined – Max doesn’t believe in any of that shit.

God doesn’t drive F1 cars, he’ll say. I do.

A couple tense laps pass. The Red Bull is still up front, though he’s tussling with the Ferrari now hot on his tail. Each chance his pursuer takes, each split-second jab at his lead, Max has already squashed before it materializes.

He rips around turn fourteen, following the track through its widest bend down to fifteen, and hits the main straight to thunderous applause. The cars scream past the pits, a roar sliced in two as they barrel straight for Tarzan.

The gap is barely two tenths. The mechanics clutch their helmets. Max taunts the corner on the outside of the track, eyeing his target.

“Defend,” one of the mechanics growls. “Hold him, Max.”

The Ferrari tucks behind, its front wing edging closer and closer.

You blink.

The red car swings out, shuddering with the force of the maneuver. He steadies himself and floors it, each closing centimeter perilous.

Blink again.

They’re side by side. Almost wheel to wheel. There’s no way Max can’t see that scarlet smirk from the corner of his eye. The apex is right there, though, it’s right fucking there.

Another blink, and –

He’s gone.

He’s gone. He’s –

Hurtling off the track. At almost two hundred miles per hour. The gravel spits at him as he spins; smoke and dust billow from beneath. He slams straight into the barrier, and, finally, the moment ends.

Your chest shrinks; a weak wheeze passes your lips. “Oh, my God.”

The mechanics leap to their feet. They bark amongst themselves like a pack of angry dogs, though you can’t make out a word.

Your hearing is shot. Every sound bleeds into the next; one long, high-pitched scream. You move without thinking, without feeling; slip off the stool and tug your headset. It hits the desk with a distant clatter, though you’re already wandering away.

The sound of the crowd rattles against your skull. Numb, muted. An awful groaning sound as the cloud lifts, revealing the chewed-up car.

It’s bad. It’s the worst one in a long time. He must’ve hit that barrier at near-enough full speed. The dread fills your lungs like torrents of heavy, black water. Sickly salt, suffocating sea. Oh, God.

You scan the garage for any of his mechanics. Matt. Ole. Chris. Fucking – any of them. Who did he say would bring you to him when this was over? He said he’d meet you at the podium. He said he’d find you –

A rough hand grabs your elbow.

Max’s face flickers across your vision. Blue steel gaze, freckle above his lip. The dust pulls him away from your grasp. He hits the barrier again and again and again.

“Max –”

The voice is calm – too fucking calm, you think, when it tells you, “He’s talking. They’ve got him talking.”

“Talking,” you echo, begging it to solidify in your brain. “Can you put me on to him?”

The engineer pulls you over to the exit. He plucks at his mic, murmurs some response down the line to the team. He takes your wrist and leads you out, muttering, “C’mon.”

“Hey,” you tug on his arm, “Please let me speak to him.”

“You will,” he replies, snaking through the tight corridor. “Once he’s out, they’ll check him over. He’ll be taken in for evaluation, hitting the wall at that speed. Force must be bloody nuts.”

The thought sends another bitter stream of panic through your blood. “Can he move? Is he –? Can he get out of the car?”

He gives one quick nod. “Medics are there. They’re helping him out.”

Sunlight floods overhead, dazzling as you follow him out front and towards a sleek car. An attendant opens the door for you, and you slide into the backseat.

The engineer gives your shoulder a friendly shake. “He’ll be fine,” he says. “He’s done worse.”

The door falls closed and the car moves off, purring through the paddock towards the medical center.

You slump into your seat and press your fingers into your eyes; a headache already blooming between your temples.

He’s moving. He’s moving and he’s responding. They’re helping him up out of the car. He’s probably already being checked over.

He’s probably already asking for you.

“Jesus Christ,” you groan, fingers dragging down your cheeks.

The center is a polite little hut inside the circuit. By the time you pull up, the race has already resumed. The remaining cars whizz by as you jog over, slipping inside behind a couple guys from Max’s team.

He’s had his fair share of scraps on the track. You don’t make it to the top without a sincere sense of dare, and an even sincerer lack of fear. Some call it idiocy. You’re often one of them.

Sitting on the other side of the clinic door, though – knee jerking, nails picking at the skin on your fingers – you’d be thrilled to never see these four walls ever again. Idiot or not, you care about him.

More than anyone else in your life? Jesus. Probably.

The door clicks open, and your blood jumps.

A pale woman in a pale coat steps out. She peers over her glasses, eyes you from the sneakers on your feet to the worry on your face – and says your name.

You push yourself up, squeezing past her into the room.

Max is perched on the edge of the bed, still in his fireproofs. Hair disheveled, face flushed and exhausted. Translucent with shock or concussion or worse, he lifts his head and flashes a lopsided smile.

It’s weak, barely there – but it’s him.

You care about him more than anyone else in your life. Definitely.

He opens his arms, fingers beckoning you in. “C’mere.”

“Oh, my God,” you sweep over, already in tears by the time you meet his body, “Oh, my God – you fucking idiot.”

His shoulders shudder with a bottled laugh. He wraps his arms around your waist, turning his head against your chest. “How was I supposed to know he was going to turn into me, huh? I had the line, I was –”

“Max,” you pull back, staring into his bleary eyes, “I don’t care. Just – don’t do that ever again.”

“I didn’t do anything,” he whispers, corners of his mouth twitching.

You sigh, collapsing onto the bed at his side. You lean against him and he winces a little, before pressing his lips to the crown of your head.

“You really scared me,” you admit, turning in to his chest.

Max slings an arm around your shoulders, holding you tight. “I’m fine, no? I mean, everything’s blurry and I can’t really hear much, but – it could have been worse.”

He props the pillows against the wall and pushes himself back gingerly, reaching past you for a paper cup of water at his bedside.

You move slowly, carefully, waiting for him to get comfortable before settling back, too – leaving a safe gap between his battered body and yours. Your cheek rests on the curve of his shoulder; fingers trace the logos on his sleeves.

Max breathes in the scent of your hair. He turns his hand and watches as your fingers trail down his wrist, circling his palm. He sucks in a deep breath, sighing to the ceiling.

“Your heart’s beating really fast,” you whisper, and he hums.

“Nerves,” he mutters.

“From the race?” You lift your head. “You don’t get nervous.”

He takes another breath and turns to you. He’s blushing, and doing a shitty job at hiding it. “No,” he says. “Not from the race.”

You gulp. “Are you sore?”

“Yeah. My back, my ribs.”

“Do you want me to get up?”

“No. Stay.”

He wears the same expression he did all those years ago, sat too many people apart from one another in that drunken circle. The same expression you only allowed yourself fleeting glances at: bashful, a little awkward – all the more endearing for it.

Maybe he actually doesn’t remember that night. Maybe he was just too tipsy – alcohol gone straight to his teenage head. And maybe he won’t even remember this, what with the concussion and all.

It’d make things a hell of a lot easier, that’s for sure. You could go back to your old ways: arguing over the best flavor of chips, screaming while playing video games. No second-guessing, no jumping to conclusions. Hell, maybe you hope he doesn’t remember any of it at all.

Somewhere, though, deep down – you know that’s not true.

“How’s, uh…whatshisface?” Max asks, nudging you with his elbow. He takes a feeble sip of his water and offers you the cup.

“Oh,” you shrug, “No idea. I left my phone in the garage.”

He scoffs, staring at your lips as you take a drink. He takes the cup from your hands once you’re done. “I don’t mean to give him shit, you know. If you like him, I like him.”

“Well, there’s liking someone,” you pout, “and then there’s willingly watching them crash full-speed in a racecar.”

Max smiles, lifting his cup.

“Whoever that is, sounds pretty cool to me.”

[densewentz]

Edwin has to bite his lip to smother his laugh, shoulders shaking minutely against tanned skin. The rough sound ratchets up a tick. Purring. The Cat King is purring.

Guys I wrote 2k of toothrotting catwin fluff! Check it out on ao3 💕

tags: edwin/cat king, established relationship, Teen, no archive warnings, kissing/cuddling, purring, excessive use of the words warmth and rumbling, just generally a sweet soft little thing tbh

[leviscolwill]

adore

pairing: bsf!jude x fem!reader

summary: you adored your friendship with jude, but sometimes you wished things weren't so complicated between the two of you. [wc: 3,2k]

contents: mostly angst ??? a few cute moments here and there bc i'm fluff girly thru and thru 🤞, they can't communicate to save their life, drunk jude, a random man being annoying, jude being a dumb fuck, language, did i miss anything ?

note: this wip has been rotting in my drafts for a couple of months, i hope you enjoy it because i really enjoyed writing it 🫶

now playing adore by cashmere cat & ariana grande...

"please don't leave me y/n... you don't understand, i need you here."

"jude, i'm literally going to the toilet. i'll be back in 5 minutes, now let me go."

your best friend had always been the clingy type whenever he'd reach his alcohol limit (which was usually only after a couple of drinks). but tonight he was practically glued to your side, not that you minded, you basically spent your whole life attached by the hip. but you had to admit, it hurt a bit to see the person you couldn't have, not in the way you wanted to have him, at least, act all lovey-dovey with you.

the nature of your relationship with jude was complex, to say the least. he was your best friend since you were kids and you wouldn't change that for the world. but the way he looked at you sometimes made you yearn for something more, or whenever his touches on your shoulder or your waist would linger a bit too long to be friendly. maybe it was your mind playing tricks on you, after all, the chances of jude wanting you the way you wanted him were very low, not to mention the fact you led two different lives. but it didn't matter, you could manage to live and long for him with the hope that one day you could be more than a best friend to him. and this thought was all you needed to face him and his sparkly eyes for the rest of the night.

when you got out of the bathroom, your mind was still full of thoughts of your relationship with jude running in your mind. you were so engrossed in your thoughts that you bumped into a man's chest, not really being careful about your surroundings.

"i'm sorry, i wasn't looking." you quickly apologise to him, you were already on your way to your friends before the man grabbed your wrist, quickly letting it go.

"it's okay sweetheart, can i get your name as an apology ?" you cringed at his poor attempt at flirting with you, but you weren't feeling confrontational tonight.

"i'm-"

"y/n !" jude's voice made your head turn in surprise.

"you were gone for so long i almost forgot what your beautiful face looked like." he said smashing his face on your shoulder.

"is that your boyfriend?"

"ummm, no he's my-"

"depends who's asking." jude interrupted you, side-eyeing the nameless man.

"jude. i can speak for myself." the look he gave you broke your heart a bit, his lips pouting in sadness.

"if he is not your boyfriend, i'd gladly take your number, might even take you back to my hotel room..." it was obvious to everyone around that the situation was uncomfortable for you, that familiar feeling of disgust you always got when a man was being too friendly creeping on you.

"who do you think you are?" your best friend stared at the man with a frown on his face.

"jude, let's not..." the tension between the two men was evident as people stopped to stare at whatever was happening.

"relax mate, i just wanna talk to your friend nothing more." the stranger grabbed your wrist, still looking at jude, testing him, testing how far he would go to stop this.

"let me go." you didn't have to try getting away from him because jude did it for you.

the nameless guy suddenly let you go, and seeing him hold his jaw while screaming profanities at your best friend was all you needed to understand what just happened. jude punched him, but the alcohol in his veins prevented him from dodging the punch that came straight for his eyebrow.

immediately you took jude's arm before he found another idea to mess up your night some more, and walked out of the packed club for some air. you ordered a uber for the two of you and texted your friends that you were getting home early.

even fresh air couldn't rid you of the anger that coursed through your body. of course, you were mad at the man who couldn't keep his hands to himself. but another part of you couldn't help but be pissed at jude and his impulsive behaviour. but when you looked at him and saw blood trickle down from his eyebrow, everything was suddenly forgotten and you could only worry.

"fuck you're bleeding, why didn't you tell me? fuck, fuck, fuck." you searched through your bag for a tissue, mentally cursing yourself for how messy it was, and handed one to jude.

"just didn't wanna bother you..." he mumbled, holding it to his wound.

you both waited for the uber in complete silence, you knew you needed to have a conversation with jude about what just happened but you'd do it tomorrow, when he was sober and when your judgement wouldn't be clouded by anger.

thankfully, your uber didn't take too long to arrive, you helped jude put his seatbelt on after watching him struggle with it for a good minute. the atmosphere was tense and it seemed the driver felt it so he didn't try to make conversation with any of you.

you were halfway to your destination when you felt jude's fingers brush against yours lightly. you took a glance at where your hand lay, on the middle seat, jude's hand was right next to yours and when you looked at him he was suddenly entranced by his shoes, busy pretending it never happened.

you were sick of him acting like a child, so you held his hand, since he obviously wouldn't do it himself. the rest of the drive was silent but the atmosphere was peaceful, a nice change from the club.

you let go of jude's hand once you arrived at the villa you rented with your group of friends. you immediately took jude to the bathroom to clean his cut, he looked like a child while you were gathering the material you needed, mumbling words to himself with a frown on his face.

"is it gonna hurt?"

"probably not." these were the first words you exchanged since the club, the uneasy atmosphere of the room wasn't one you were used to whenever you were with jude. he was the one person who could understand you the best in the world, but it just wasn't the case tonight.

"can you hold my hand?" it was like he turned four again. but you couldn't deny anything from him, especially not when his eyes were glassy from all the drinks he had, so you took jude's hand in yours.

you started cleaning the cut, fully focused on your task, trying your best not to be distracted by the way your faces were inches from each other's.

"you're so pretty..."

if there was one thing you knew about drunk jude, it was that had loose lips. he couldn't keep any secret from you whenever he had the right amount of alcohol in his veins, and that often worked in your favour, but right now his words were only distracting you from your job.

"don't say that..." your heart was racing both at his words and at the proximity you two shared.

"i mean it." he was tracing your jaw with his fingers. you felt your hand quiver at the unexpected contact, and afraid you might mess something up because of jude, you quickly put a bandage on top of his, now clean, cut.

you started tidying up everything you used and expected jude to go to his room but he didn't budge.

"what's wrong?" you were a bit worried his injury was more serious than you thought and his brain was just working a bit slower than usual.

"kiss it better... please?" he said pointing at his bandage with a kissy face.

you were torn between kissing or slapping some sense into the boy standing in front of you. jude bent down so your face was in front of his, you obliged because you knew hammered jude would not have let you go to bed before you kissed him better. not because you wanted to, of course.

he was still unmoved, looking deep into your eyes so you took his hand in yours and led him to his bedroom for him to get a good night of sleep.

once you got jude to his bedroom safely, which wasn't an easy task given how starstruck he was at every little everyday thing in the house, he threw himself on his bed and grumbled something about clothes, before taking off his shirt with no prior notice. you immediately looked at your feet to give him some privacy while he changed clothes. he only giggled at your action saying he knows how much you would like to watch undress. which wasn't true, of course.

you took a quick peek, to make sure he was under his sheets. handing him a glass of water once he had his sheets pulled up to his chin and a content look on his face.

"no thanks, i'm not hungry."

"this is a glass of water?" you were perplexed at jude's words. the fatigue of your body preventing you from trying to understand his nonsense.

"well, i'm not hungry for water." you sighed at his childlike behaviour and considered shoving the water down his throat at some point before retracting, not really wanting to deal with the homicide of one the most in-demand football players of the moment.

you placed the glass on his bedside table and walked towards the door, unwilling to talk to a very drunk jude when all your body asked for was a good night of sleep.

but you couldn't ignore jude calling your name in a tired voice. you turned around to listen to whatever he had to say to you, only for him to beckon you closer with his hand. you rolled your eyes but still obliged, sitting on the unoccupied side of his bed.

"i just wanted to know why you were mad at me tonight." you didn't want to have this conversation tonight, but it seemed jude had other plans.

"because even if your intention was right, i think we could've solved the issue with no fits of screaming and fighting. i know you meant right but you can't just act without thinking all the time." you weren't even sure jude was registering your words properly, his eyes moving up and down your face.

"but i was mad at him too, he kept talking to my girl as if i wasn't right there." although jude was hardly convincing by the way the words came out of his mouth all slurred, you had to admit him calling you his girl put a faint smile on your face.

you thought your best friend was done but he just kept right on.

"fuck, you don't even know how many times i wished i was your boyfriend to stop these men looking at you that way. i mean i wished i was your boyfriend all the time, but especially then and also when you show me whoever you're talking to, you really have a vile taste in men y'know."

you looked at jude in total shock, he wasn't aware of what he just said from the way his face had the same drunken expression as before.

"do you mean it?" maybe he was pulling a prank on you. the look on his face didn't seem too serious, but then again he was drunk, how could you know how serious he was?

he laughed, how could he laugh in what was a very serious situation from your point of view?

"of course i mean it, sometimes it even looks like you want me too, maybe i just thought wrong. just tell me you don't want me, i reckon i could live with the fact i'm your best friend a bit longer." jude's nonsense somehow got even more nonsensical. how could he be saying all this with a smile on his face? even worse, how could he possibly think you didn't want him to be your boyfriend? you didn't even know what to say to him. hell, was there even a right thing to say in this exact situation?

"you can't do this to me jude... you can't just say this shit to me when you're drunk out of your mind. what do you expect me to say? i don't even know if you're aware of what you're telling me right now." words finally found their way out, your voice was much less cheery and much angrier than his as you felt a sense of injustice seeping through your veins. how could he say this to you like it was the simplest thing in the world? did he only love you when he was drunk? did he actually mean that, or was he over-exaggerating things under the influence?

"i love you and i loved you for a long time, please believe me, i know you're my best friend, and i don't want to ruin things between us... but i just needed to get this off my chest." jude was truly confused as to why you were so mad at him for this sudden 'confession'. of course, you didn't have to reciprocate his feelings, but he could only think about how he ruined your friendship for good from the way you responded so vehemently.

"goodnight jude." you left his room before he could add anything, and your thoughts were already running wild. you weren't sure if you should be feeling happy that he felt for you what you felt for him, or if you should be mad at jude for dropping this bomb on you so suddenly when he could clearly not think straight, making you doubt about the whole thing.

if you were overthinking before, your brain was now about to explode from everything that just happened in the span of an hour.

once you got under your sheets, no amount of sheep counting, lofi music, or breathing methods could put you to sleep. your brain was screaming at you, urging you to freak out about what just happened. every and each of your thoughts led back to jude, your own brain was torturing you, forcing you to separate truth from fiction at 3am.

you wished jude told you the truth, you wished his drunken words were his sober thoughts. but you didn't know how you were supposed to act like this never happened if this wasn't the case. how could you possibly come back to your little role, so well perfected over the years, of jude's best friend after he gave you the smallest glimpse of hope? your friendship with jude was the most important thing for you, but you wondered if you'd be able to pretend for the rest of your life or if you would go insane before that.

when sleep finally started taking over your endless train of thought, you came to the conclusion that if he meant what he said earlier, he'd have no issues telling you once he sobered up. you comforted yourself with this idea while your eyes closed by themselves, no more energy left in them to fight for the sake of overthinking.

jude had been avoiding you all day. the only time you exchanged an eye contact was during breakfast and even then he quickly went back to his room, not speaking a word to you. you could tell he was avoiding you like the plague, if he happened to be where you were he'd immediately flee the room, suddenly mesmerized by his phone.

you wished you were mad at him for how he was treating you and how he was making you feel, but the truth is, you could only focus on your heart breaking a little more each time he'd walk past you like you were two strangers.

after dining with the rest of your friends, you decided you were sick of jude's little games. if he didn't want to talk to you, then you would confront him whether he liked it or not.

it took you all the strength of the world to knock on his door after taking a deep breath.

no answer.

there was no way he knew it was you, you were sure of it. maybe he was just avoiding everyone tonight? you quickly refuted this idea, you saw him laugh with a couple of your friends half an hour ago.

you knocked again, a bit harsher this time to make sure he'd hear it. still nothing. you were preparing yourself to knock one more time, with much less hope than the first time.

"y/n, what are you doing?" yasmeen's voice startled you, it almost felt like getting caught doing something you shouldn't be doing.

"um... just needed to talk to jude, do you know where he is?" you couldn't help but feel embarrassed at the question. you were his best friend, if anyone should know where he was, that would be you. and your friend's dumbfounded look wasn't helping the heat creeping on your face right now.

"what do you mean? he left like an hour ago, had an unexpected meeting in london or something like that... he didn't tell you?"

it had been a very long time since you felt this way, maybe since middle school when your math teacher made fun of you in front of the whole class. your mouth suddenly drying, the sensation of your heart constricting, and your eyes stinging, trying their best not to let the sadness spill. it all felt like one big joke, you hoped jude would open the door, he'd tell you he was messing with you, he'd tell you everything he said last night again.

but that moment did not come. you couldn't answer yasmeen, afraid that the truth might spill along with your tears if you uttered a word. you simply shook your head, and went to your room, trying your best not to meet her eyes. your friends weren't blind, they could tell something was wrong between jude and you today, although none of them asked you what happened, they just kept a watchful eye on you and the way you looked at jude, in hopes he'd look back.

it felt good to cry in the privacy of your own room, far from the speculative conversation others were most likely having about the whole situation.

once your eyes were short of tears, you somehow found the strength to take your phone and click on your messages with jude to type a new one.

let's just keep doing what you did all day

i'll pretend you don't exist and last night never happened

probably best for us :)

[dear-ao3]

Some fanfiction authors are actually insane, I started reading a fic those days with ~87k and only 8 chapters and the author promised more chapters soon and I'm just ... Do you guys sleep? Do you guys get a warm meal? Pls go to sleep.... I commented in every chapter but for the love of God take care of yourself!

i think i once wrote a 40k fanfic for a fandom i wasnt in entirely out of spite in about 2 weeks so. no. none of us are ok.

[szynkaaa]

Zhu Bajie: do you exercise Travel Companion: I like to run away from my problems and feelings

The dialogue is based off a scene from Doctor Who. I don't think that my OC would be going with Zhu Bajie and the Destined One into the rock for the final battle (probably cause she is not able to enter) so she has to sit outside and wait anxiously for them to return.

She is happy to see them return but then also immediately notices how the Destined One's whole demeanour and aura changed. She knew that this point was going to happen where he inherits everything and becomes the new Monkey King, but I also think that she has a hard time wrapping her head around the concept of reincarnation and struggles with accepting it.

So yeah, I imagine the moment after new Sun Wukong comes out of the rock, it's an angsty moment. He just wants to see his best friend and tell her what happened, and now that he is finally "whole" again be able to propely have conversations with her and ask her about all the weird things she says and does, but instead she looks at him like she is very unsure of everything.

Sun Wukong doesn't really have the temper imo or at least here things get a bit heated and he snaps and well, she does what she is best at in situations like this: fucking book it :)))))

Obviously SWK wants to chase after her but Zhu Bajie helds him back and says "ayo kiddo give the lassie some time to process everything, she will come around" he doesn't want to but he knows that is what she needs atm.

Where is Travel Companion hiding meanwhile? In the Zodiac village, the Yin Tiger offered her a spare bedroom, and in exchange she helps around, with the crops, bringing materials back and forth and also has some good times drinking and sharing stories with the villager. Maybe also crying about her woes, and I think that the villager sharing their stories about SWK and explain more about his backstory and stuff helps the her to come around more.

also SWK knows she is there and comes by every day to get his harvest and the free medicing from your local meth dealer Xu Dog. She is hiding in Yin Tiger's lil blacksmith hut everytime he is visiting, but she knows that he knows that she knows that he is there.

And then one day when he is visting Yin Tiger, SWK sighs and goes all "hey bud can you pass this message to Travel Companion," and inserts some very sweet and sappy stuff, knowing that she is there and can hear him. Just as he is about to leave she decides to come out of her hiding spot and go "Hey... let's go talk somewhere more private".

SWK is not showing any emotions but you can tell by the flicker of his tail that he is relieved to see her. Bit worried about the dark eye circle and how not well-rested she looks like, but he will make sure to fix that soon.

[lineffability]

"Crowley."

Crowley froze, every atom of his body coming to a complete standstill. Aziraphale had appeared out of nowhere, just like that, and he felt like a fly in a spider's web, like he had just run against a glass door that he could not have seen. Oh, this was cruel. He did not turn around.

"Don't even use doors anymore?" He tried to keep his voice level, cold, unaffected. He failed considerably, but the message got across anyways.

"I'm sorry," Aziraphale said, immediately flinching at the words. The first time they were seeing each other again, after-- after that, and his first words were I'm sorry and he was apologizing for not using a door? Aziraphale felt like swearing, but could not. "I thought you wouldn't open if I-- well. I thought this was easier. Like a bandaid."

"Well, you were right. I wouldn't have." Steel was creeping into Crowley's voice, steel around his heart. With a forcing of limbs, he spun around, his gaze piercing through the armor of his sunglasses. Facing him.

"I need your help" Aziraphale said.

"What," Crowley said. He had possibly never put as much meaning into a single word. The glass door turned into a Great Wall. Aziraphale understood. But he was willing to climb.

The angel (oh, a true angel now, wasn't he--not his angel) fumbled, talking with his hands before his mouth even opened. Talking with his eyes, too, but they got lost in translation. Repelled by a black mirror.

"I know this is untoward. I know it's-- But Crowley, I don't have a lot of time."

"Nothing lasts forever, yeah," Crowley spat, hating himself the second the words left his lips. Unnecessary cruelty. Demonic, huh? Worse yet, Aziraphale accepted the verbal lashing. Don't forgive me, Crowley thought.

Crowley looked at him. He was still wearing his suit, there was tartan in it, but it had become polished, the worn edges returned to pristine, boring perfection. He looked prim. Proper. Perhaps this hurt most of all.

"Why are you here?"

Aziraphale glanced upwards. Then he looked intently at Crowley. I don't have much time. Right. He couldn't speak freely, Crowley realized. Of course he couldn't. This was exactly what he had been afraid of, what he had known would happen. His angel in chains. (Yet here he was. Here he was.)

"They don't know I'm here," Aziraphale mumbled, gesticulating weakly between them and Up. "I guess I can divert their attention now, for a bit. Comes with the new powers"--he shrugged helplessly--"but not for long. Crowley, do you know about-- about the-- what they're--"

"Armageddon 2.0? Sure."

There was an undecipherable look in Aziraphale's eyes. "Why didn't you-- well. It's not just. I mean it kind of is--it's. More than that. Crowley, I need you to do something for me."

"No."

"This is important." (This isn't about us.)

"I don't care." (There is no us anymore.)

"You do! You always have."

"Oh not this again," Crowley hissed. "You were an angel once. You can be forgiven. Shut up."

"That's not what I meant."

With two long, angry strides, Crowley closed the space between them. Menace, anger, hurt-- "Then what did you mean?" He spat the words. Like a weapon. (Then why was it a question?)

Aziraphale's face crumbled. He stood his ground nonetheless, not backing away. The angel's anger was less spiky, but it rose to meet Crowley's. It made his next words hit like bricks. "I mean that you love. I mean that you, Crowley, are the best person I know. I mean that I love you."

The words dropped like a lead balloon.

There was utter silence between them.

Why were they so close?

Why were his sunglasses so dark? Aziraphale saw only his own reflection. He couldn't bear that, and dropped his gaze. Oh, worse. There was his mouth, mere inches away.

Aziraphale looked at Crowley's lips, really really looked, and there was nothing more, now that he knew about the feeling of Crowley's lips and of his heart, there was nothing more he wanted to do than to kiss him. But he couldn't, he couldn't. Not like this. He needed the next time (he had to believe in a next time, in a time with Crowley, again)--the next time they kissed he needed it to be good and happy and an affirmation. He couldn't bear it otherwise. He would break entirely. He was sure of it.

But still, still-- Crowley was so close. He could smell nothing but him. Think of nothing but him. That weakness again, that soft spot inside him he had never known how to hold down. And with it, Want reared its greedy head. Aziraphal leaned in ever so slightly, felt their noses touch-- and then used all his strength to move away, to pull back. It was not the right time. Not yet.

He looked past Crowley, who might have as well turned to a pillar of salt. Crowley, whose face was a mask he couldn't let slip. The air flickered between them.

There were tears in his eyes when he finally forced his gaze towards Crowley's face, a silent plead to not misunderstand. Please, please. But he couldn't expect that of him. He was pulling away again. But not because he wanted to. No, there was nothing he wanted more than to pull closer. There was nothing more he wanted than to talk to him, to truly talk, to explain and apologize and make amends, but he was bound by Duty and Rules and Watching Eyes more than he ever had been.

This was his rebellion: he lifted a hand, the ghost of a touch, fingertips against cheekbone. The memory of holding on. Of never wanting to let go. Crowley flinched without moving, a shiver of his lips. Aziraphale let his hand drop, briefly, to Crowley's chest, holding it over his human heart. It was beating just like his.

This was his successful magic trick, when it counted: he drew away, leaving a crack in Crowley's steel-clad heart, and a note in his chest pocket.

"I'm sorry. I need to go."

"Of course you do."

"Oh, Crowley. I--" But he did not finish the sentence, knew there was no proper way how. So he said, quietly, softly, "Trust me, please."

And he did. Crowley hated it, hated it so much, but he did, he did trust him despite it all. But it did not erase the hurt. The festering wound. Now what was he supposed to do with that?

With one last pointed look, Aziraphale vanished.

Crowley was alone.

His defenses lay shattered at his feet, and he slowly gathered them back up. He did not mend the cracks. (That's where the light had gotten in.) He cleared his throat. Tried to banish from his mind the look in Aziraphale's eyes, the memory of his lips and of his tears.

And failed considerably.

I love you.

(Touched his cheek, and then his chest, and faltered.)

[this fic is now also on ao3 and being continued there]

[ikeasharksss]

hey im curious

feel free to rb & explain your answer in the tags!

[creepling]

⋆.˚☀︎٠ ࣪⭑ A KNOCK AWAY

synopsis: returning packages and a broken washing machine lead you to spend the night with your hot neighbour, digger harkness.

tags: smut - minors dni. fem!reader. age difference (early 20s x late 30s). domestic elements. reader described as "shy" but not really. sexual tension. alcohol use. drinking games. awkward moments. oral (f receiving). couch sex. big dick (it's canon it's out of my control!!!). p in v. creampie. 4.4k words.

Your neighbour had a habit of ordering ludicrous amounts of packages but is never at home to collect them. It was almost every day they arrived and piled at your front door. The last few days you’ve knocked on his door to give them, but met by silence. Your small apartment is running out of room if any more decide to show up. You had been going in the afternoons once you came off work, but he either didn’t answer or wasn’t in. This time, on Saturday morning, you decided to knock on his door. Who cares if it’s the weekend, or it’s too early, you were determined to get those packages out of your house.

You knock gently at first and wait for a minute. No answer. A week. A whole week of this bullshit. Impatience clouds your sympathy, and you knock on the door harder. You hear a thud, a clank of glass, and a curse on the other side of the door. You knock again, calling up a groan of annoyance and an “I’m coming!”

The door opens, and you’re greeted by your neighbour for the first time since you moved here. He is shirtless, showing off a collection of tattoos. His mop of hair hadn’t met a comb yet; still scuffled by sleep. You could tell he was older, and you were taken aback by how attractive he was. Given in a rugged way. You half-expected a balding divorcee with a beer belly.

“You’re George, right? I live next door,” You introduce.

Eyes squint and bloodshot, he looks you up and down before nodding. “You know what time it is, sunshine? Too bloody early to be knocking on people’s doors.” He said, fighting through a hangover to communicate. The twang of an Aussie accent was the second thing to surprise you. Even with the twang of annoyance in his tone, you bite your cheek to fight off a flattered smile.

Your bashfulness forces you to ditch the defiant speech you prepared. “I’m aware of that- but I’ve tried to get a hold of you all week, but you seem to not be in during the afternoon.” You shuffle to your open door, grab one of the packages and gesture it to George, “There’s a ton of packages here for you.”

George’s annoyed face began to soften, and he let out an idle chuckle. “Shiiiiit, I forgot about those!”

He opened his door wider and began collecting the parcels from you. You got a peek inside his apartment. Your suspicions of his home were accurate, resembling what all men living alone succumb themself to; their own squaller.

“Thanks for holding onto them for me. And sorry for being cranky, hangovers, y’know?” George said, his tone now different, one more pleasant. You smile, feeling pleased that you have the chance to converse with a neighbour and know who lives next door.

“Hope you had a good night so it’s worth it,” you chuckle, taking a stack of the packages and shuffling to his door. George takes them from your hands swiftly. This left you standing by his door, looking around the living room, stumped on the small talk. You were never really good at this.

“I mean- it was alright. They just hit you more when you get older,” he dropped the remaining boxes by his door, rubbing his temples as he stretched. His abdomen extended, shifting the waistband of his pants, making you look away and stand in silence. George scratches the back of his neck as he looks at you, feeling the interaction fade to a farewell.

“I better get going, you’ve got a lot to unbox,” you say, slowly backing away.

George gets to the door, nodding and shooting you a smile. “Thanks again for keeping them safe.” You could have sworn he looked you up and down, in a different way this time. Sizing you up, for other means. Maybe it was your imagination.

You meekly wave before retreating to your apartment. With the packages gone, your eyes adjust to the clear space, and the lingering images of your neighbour hot in your thoughts.

The washing machine was stuck again, and no matter how hard you hit it, it was still broken. Today is not going well, and you were on the edge, especially since the only other machine in the block has an ‘out of order’ sign on it. You rub your hands along your face, the skin already flushed from anger. A shuffle of footsteps approaches the entrance, and you reveal yourself to see who is witnessing your self-pity.

“Useless fucking thing, ain’t it?” It was George, the first time you’ve seen him in clothes that weren’t pyjama pants with socks and slides. He looks like he’s back from work, or the gym, it is hard to tell. You did wonder what he did for a living.

“I’m lucky it broke before I put my laundry in,” You look at the bright side with heavy eyes and a half-assed smile.

“Well, I don’t wanna brag, but I do have a machine. Wouldn’t mind ya using it until they fix it,” George shrugs with a ‘no big deal’ attitude. Suddenly your neighbour was a beacon of hope, and the stress left you with a sigh of relief.

“That would be really helpful, thanks,” you pick up your laundry basket, following up the stairs. He hunched the duffle bags over his shoulder. Reaching the top of the stairs, he unlocks his front door and lets you in first, taking a look at his living room and huffing. “Sorry about the mess.”

Beer bottles and cans littering the coffee table, clothes on the floor or hanging from the couch and chairs. You take one breath and smell the stale air, keeping a straight face. “It’s okay,” You smile through it, not wanting to place judgment. Maybe he’s just a busy guy.

George quickly shows you the settings on the machine (which he wasn’t so sure about) before excusing himself to the shower. Before you could ask questions, he was dashing to the bathroom, leaving you to your own devices. You load the machine, press the button and hope for the best.

Alone in his apartment was daunting and you begin to explore. Mostly focused on the messiness, the environment nagging at your senses. Clean space, clean mind, as they say. You pick up the trash and throw it out, starting with the beer cans. Luckily you didn’t find anything too disgusting, with the odd dirty plate you could place in the sink. You open the curtains, coughing from the dust and open the window to release the smell of stale pizza and beer. Your mind is clearer, you go to wash your hands until you spot George standing by the entrance of the living room in awe. He is still in his towel, his right hand clenching the side to keep it in place, his hair wet and slicked back. You turn away immediately, looking anywhere but him, a kick of adrenaline overtaking your insides.

“Wasn’t aware I ordered room service,” he joked, amused by your embarrassment.

“I’m sorry- I should have just left and come back later for the laundry. But- I don’t know- your place looked like it needed a tidy-up. I can’t help myself, it’s a habit. God- I’m so stupid-”

“Don’t get your undies in a twist, it’s fine. I appreciate it,” George reassures, rubbing the back of his neck, “As you can see, I don’t get many visitors.”

When he closes the bedroom door to change, it’s safe for you to look again. That feeling in your stomach didn’t go away, it still brewed in the pit and crawled its way up your core. It makes you think about him again, like those sleepless nights after your first encounter, and your cheeks grow hot. Maybe this is a good time to slip out and avoid him like the plague. But what else would you be doing? Watching TV? Playing video games? All alone in your apartment, like you always are. That’s how your life has been, work, home, bed; absent of social life, of anything remotely adventurous. You keep your feet firmly on the ground, chewing your lip in thought. There was a time when you lived life on the edge, out every weekend, hooked up with people. Letting your old self come out to play wouldn’t be so bad, would it?

“Where do you keep your cleaning supplies? I could do the rest for you if you want,” you call, inching towards the bedroom door so he can hear you. He opens the door quickly, startling you, wearing casual grey sweatpants and a white tee.

“Are you like a freelance maid or something? This how you get clients?” He leaned an arm on the door frame, looking down at you. He becomes the only thing in eyesight and you freeze, giving a shy smile.

“No, I just like cleaning, that's all. You seem like you need it, being a busy guy and all.” You study his eyes, wondering if he sees right through you.

George slowly nods, then snaps his fingers, heading towards the front door and sliding his shoes on. “Tell you what, love. I have to run a few errands, while I’m out I’ll leave you to it.”

You frown, crossing your arms. “You’re just gonna leave me, your neighbour you’ve met like once, in your house alone? You trust me like that?”

He shrugs, taking one of the duffle bags full of… something. “I’ve got many weapons I can pull on you if you try anything. Plus, you’re young and don’t look that strong, so I think I can take you on.” You weren’t sure if he was joking, but there was a cheeky look in his eye that allowed you to chuckle.

“That would do it. You can trust me.”

George gives a little salute, exiting the door. “Stuff’s under the kitchen sink. Good luck!”

You look at his limited supply, an empty bottle of bleach and a mysterious liquid in a spray bottle. You decide to use your supplies, grab them from your apartment, and come back to start the work.

You collapse on the couch gasping for air. People underestimate how much energy it takes to clean, especially when cleaning George’s house. Within an hour you cleaned the living room and kitchen and hung up your laundry to dry in your apartment. The worst part was the vacuuming, as like not owning cleaning supplies, he also didn’t have a vacuum. Go figure.

George eventually returned, greeted by your efforts and your limp body sprawled on his couch. You quickly got up, hoping he didn’t mind. Heck, this guy doesn’t have a vacuum, he can’t be the judge. “So, what do you think?” You anticipate.

“You did a bloody good job, I’ll tell ya that,” a smile on his face, making you smile too. “And since ya the best neighbour on this side of Metropolis, I got ya a lil payment to say thanks.”

George pulls out a crate of beers and takeaway pizza, presenting them to you. Your eyebrows knit in confusion, but you smile at the thought. “Thanks, George.”

“Please, call me Digger, everyone calls me that,” he said, “Thought we could have a couple of beers and I’d feed ya, but I’m no chef, hence the pizza.”

“So, Digger… is this you inviting me over for dinner?” You ask, pursing your lips. He thought about it and then nodded his head. “I guess I am,” he smirks.

Pizza crusts and beer cans decorate the coffee table, the television musing low music. You laugh at a joke Digger told you, hiding your mouth to not spit all over the place. He sits low on the couch, his hands resting between his legs with a beer. With your legs close to your chest, you take a sip of beer when a silence falls between you.

“Thanks for having me, I’m having a lovely time.” You confess, a little tipsy. You get shy admitting that, focusing on the music, unaware of Digger’s eyes not leaving your sight.

“I didn’t have a college kid cleaning my house on my bingo card,” he muses teasingly, smirking at your bashful smile.

“I am not a college kid! I graduated ages ago.”

“And by ages ago you mean in the last five years?”

He chuckles at your look of defeat. “Says the guy who’s five years off getting a pension,” you tease in defence.

“I’m not that old!” He defended back, “Nowhere near it!”

“Well, you’re at least old enough to clean your own house and have a vacuum.”

“You got me there…” he says into his beer.

The silence fell between you once again, but surprisingly it was not awkward. The air was thick, and not with stale air like before. You convince yourself it’s one-sided, keeping yourself together. You had an idea, but it was juvenile. When he doesn't say anything to keep the conversation going, you go on and suggest it.

“How about we play truth or drink?”

“How old are you? Five?” He scoffs.

“We already established my age, remember? C’mon, it’ll be a good icebreaker. Don’t you wanna get to know your friendly neighbour?” You nudge his arm playfully, realising you’ve been going that a lot since you had a drink. Mostly when he told a joke. You try not to cringe, realising your inferiority. He probably thinks you’re immature, and you suddenly see yourself as a fool. But when he turns his body towards you, giving you his full attention while cracking open another beer, you feel a little better about yourself.

“Who’s asking first?” He asks.

You volunteered since you suggested playing. You turn towards him, fighting through a fit of giggles, liking the way his eyes smile at you. He has nice eyes, light in colour, a mix of blue and grey with crow's feet winging the sides.

“Okay, let’s start easy. How long have you lived on the block?” You ask.

“‘Bout five months, I’d say,” he says.

“Do you move around a lot?”

“Oi, thought you ask one question at a time?”

“Yeah, sorry. Just curious,” you dart your eyes to his smirking lips before looking away.

“To answer your other question, I do move around a bit. It’s a job thing.”

You look back at him, catching his stare, the one that never seems to fade from you. You like the way he stares at you, so attentive like he refuses to have you out of his sight. It’s the type of stare that makes someone feel special.

“My turn,” he chirps, “are you always this shy around people?”

“What? I’m not shy,” you scoff.

“Really? You’re not shy?”

“What happened to starting easy?”

“No, you said that. I didn’t. I never start easy,” he says haughtily.

You roll your eyes, taking the beer can to your lips and taking a sip. Digger scoffs in shock, “No way are you drinking to that.”

“It’s a ridiculous question, plus I technically did answer the question. I’m not shy.”

Digger shakes his head in disappointment, breaking eye contact to chuckle into his hand. You narrow your eyes, readying the next question.

“Do you have a wife and kids?” You ask.

Digger didn’t act like you struck a nerve, but he wasn’t laughing anymore. He shook his head, and you take that as an answer, not wanting to press further. Yet, he begins to speak, in a tone softer than the one you’ve been getting used to;

“I know at my age I probably should, but it’s never worked out, y’know? The whole love thing I’ve never gotten the hang of.”

You resonate with him, meekly returning a smile. “Me either.”

“I find that hard to believe,” Digger said.

“Really?”

“Yeah, you’re good-looking. Woulda bet somebody snagged ya by now.”

You can’t help but chuckle, hearing how wrong his words are. “I guess I’ve gotten close before, but it was never meant to be.”

Digger nods in agreement like he is in the same boat. You had a strong urge to move closer to him, but resort to fidgeting with a thread on the coach. “Who’s turn is it?”

“Mine,” Digger returns his gaze to you. It was more intense, and you feel him all over you. As you grow the courage to meet his eyes, you see them trailing from your lips to meet you, his icy eyes darkening and lips parting as he readies his words.

“How would you feel about kissing me?”

Your stillness speaks volumes to him, and from the look of shock in your eyes, Digger’s smile fades and turns sour. He hides his face in his hands, cursing under his breath.

“Fuck- Just drink to that, it was bloody stupid,” his self-depreciation eats at you and you try and find the words to explain yourself. He was right, you were shy, and it got in the way of your feelings. So much for being the big flirt like you planned.

“No, it’s fine, honestly-”

He cuts you off, “I just thought- why else would wanna hang out with an old fuck like me? Keep my packages, clean my house,” he groans out a sigh, “and the way you look at me, fuck, it’s been driving me insane all day.”

“Digger-” you catch his attention, softening your face, and placing your beer on the coffee table. You shift your body closer to his, your movement swift but gentle. “I’d like it if you kissed me.”

He blinks, adjusting his eyes to the proximity, noticing the small details of your features, the softness of your lips. He swallows back his nerves, “Nah- you’re just saying that to make me feel better.”

There is only one way to prove him wrong, and you did it by making the first move. You press your lips against him, and you're struck with his immediate touch as he engulfs you in his arms. Your hands snake up his chest to the back of his neck, deepening the kiss as he beckons you to press your body against him with his firm hold. He grins into the kiss at the sound of your whimpers, holding the small of your waist and guiding you to his lap. You go with the motion, swinging your leg around and straddling him, enamoured by the hold he has on you. The makeout was sloppy, tipsy on beer and getting more drunk on each other’s lips. Digger’s kisses were firm and deep, his chapped lips coated in your sweet spot as he glided his tongue along yours. His hands lay haven on your asses, rubbing his callous palm around the fabric of your pants, enchanting your hips to move ever so slightly.

“Ain’t so shy now, are ya?” He grunts into your ear, migrating his lips down your neck, sucking and nibbling on your faint skin. You see stars, closing your eyes in bliss, your fingers tugging at his shirt and fighting off the urge to rip it off. He takes the time to remove his t-shirt with your eager assistance, latching onto you once you discard it.

“Please, I need you,” you plead. You gaze down at him, your stare both close and far. His bucking hips invite your crotch to feel his length, the tip of his bulge grinding against your thigh.

He whispers to you, “Tell me what you want.”

 “Use me, I know you want to,” you taunt, enjoying the light that ignites in his eyes, his grip tighter on your skin.

“You’ll regret saying that, but I bet you can handle it,” he jesters, pulling your hair to expose your neck, his lips latching back onto your sweet skin. His other hand pushes your top over your breasts, exposing your hardening nipples. Licking towards your nipples, sucking on them gently and cupping your tits in his hands, grazing his teeth when you grind down on his erection.

Digger, hungry for more of you, lays you down on the couch. His eyes demand your attention, taking time to pull down your pants and underwear, drenched in your arousal. He lowers his head to your cunt, prying your legs open as you try to hide how wet you were.

“Don’t hide from me, love, show me how pretty you are,” he muses, admiring your glistening walls, lapping them tenderly with the tip of his fingers. Relishing in your squirms, he gazes at you under his lashes. “Fuck, you’re drenched.”

Your hands grip his hair when his tongue makes contact with your sensitive walls, his prominent nose snug on your clit as he eats you out. His movements are deep and steady, keeping himself in place between your quivering thighs, refusing to come up for breath as a rising feeling of release fills your insides. Shifting his tongue from your walls to your clit, his nose taking place not to neglect your pleasure, his eyes checking your reactions as his pride swelled from your raptured state. He takes a breath to tease you in between, his hoarse voice wavering against your heat, “Look at you, getting so worked up for me.”

“’m so close,” that was music to Digger’s ears, egging him on to keep up the pace.

Your whimpers rise into moans, and your thighs shiver under his grip and come undone. Digger doesn’t stop, pressing a firm hand on your stomach, keeping you in place so he rides out your high. You’re flushed in humility, but fuck it feels amazing. You break a sweat, shivering at the cooling of your hot skin, sighing in relief when Digger finally relaxes his hold on you. His face meets yours, your arousal coating the stubble on his chin and spreading to his chops. He is ferocious and light-headed – as if drunk on the taste of you.

“Hope you’ve still got some spunk in ya,” he pants, “I’m as stiff as a board here.”

Digger invites your hand to feel his erection. You didn’t think he could be harder than he was before, but he comes full of surprises. He slings the waistband of his trousers down and his cock springs free, twitching at the touch of your flinching fingers.

“Jesus fucking Christ-” Blessed by the man himself, his size was insane. You straighten in intimidation.

“I’ll go slow, okay? Just- fuck- I’m bursting at the seams here,” he begs, cupping your cheek with a reassuring hand.

You nod with a morbid curiosity, unable to deny the instinct to have him inside you, to feel every inch of him. Digger litters you in kisses, sloppy and idle as he dampens your cheeks and lips. Opening your legs wide, sucking in a breath, you watch as he lines his cock to your entrance. There was no fuss in sliding inside you, your dripping cunt lubing his tip and coating his shaft, the feeling of him inside you more filling than painful. It sets a spark in your mind, your eyes distant, the twitch of his cock against your walls melting your senses.

An unexpected moan escapes Digger’s lips, but he is attentive enough to coo for your attention, holding your face and bringing you back to earth.

“You still with me, hun?” He chuckles at your dazed look, trying to keep himself together as you tighten around him. You blink back to reality and wrap your legs around him, mewling at the slow thrusts coming into you. You eventually nod a reply, straining your neck to witness his cock buried inside you to train your hole for his massive size. He takes advantage of your position, locking a hand behind your head and picking up the pace. He is smitten by your squeaks. His rough hand clenches your hip, setting out to fuck you good. As you will soon learn, Digger has a habit of getting carried away. You learn a lot of dirty things about him that both shock you and fill you with sweetly sick lust.

Digger has you bent over the arm of the couch, his cock pummelling in and out of your abused cunt, muffling your feral moans with a hand clasped over your mouth. He arches your back and presses his lips against your ear, reminding you that he can see right through you.

“Is this what you wanted? To fuck you; get you drunk on my fat dick. Bet you didn’t think I had it in me.”

“You’re so good, so ‘fucking good,” you moan, your eyes glued to him with lust, a sly smile across your face. Digger sticks two fingers into your mouth, teasing your tongue to swirl around them, smirking at your eagerness.

“Shit, that’s enough to make me finish,” he says in a low voice, “And you wouldn’t want me cumming inside you, would ya?”

The way you clench around his dick and the sidious look in the dim light suggest the opposite. “No, come inside me,” you seal the deal.

“You’re so bloody dirty.” Digger’s eyes turn dark, his hand wrapping around your neck, rutting into you faster and harder than before. You see stars, giving into the numbing pleasure you succumb to. A dumbfound smile stretches across your lips once you feel the warmth of Digger’s seed filling your cunt, hitting against your womb. His weight falls on you momentarily, leaving kisses along your back while his energy is slowly sucked out of him. His cock slips out and before his heavy eyes close over, he gazes at the cum dripping from your slit, groping your ass for a better view.

Digger gathers his senses, only noticing you struggling to get up from your stiff knees. He brings you onto his lap, soothing your legs and resting your head on his shoulder.

“Well, that was something…” He chuckles, “Ya think we got a little carried away?”

“I think I’ll never be able to walk again,” you joke, yet anticipated the next few days entailing leg pain.

He felt guilty, knowing to make up for it he would need more than pizza and beer. He continues to sooth your legs, nuzzling his nose into your hair.

“How’s about I run you a bath?” He suggests.

There he is again, that beacon of hope. He is going to find it hard to get rid of you now. “That’d be amazing.”

[onsomenewsht]

All these people think love’s for show but I would die for you in secret

About when she’s got a smile and you got impatient

》 Leah Williamson × Reader

》 words count: 1.7 k

》 soft launch [verb, specialized]: to make a product, service, or business available or open for the first time, but only to a limited number of people at first

Being in a private relationship when you’re a public figure is even funnier than it sounds. And it sounds pretty funny as it is.

“You’re overthinking it”, Leah says, even if she knows better than to tease who’s literally feeding her.

You don’t bite back but keeping the plate slightly out of reach is a clear enough answer.

She smiles.

Oh, the way she lights up your day when she smiles at you.

You and Leah aren’t much for sharing your lifes on social media.

She’s been pretty much traumatized by the immense and not-really-that-unexpected attention after leading her national team to an historic tournament win. You’ve been scolded enough times by your agent to take your online enthusiasm down a notch.

So, your relationship flowered from two friendly teammates - who happened to share a room after a worth to be celebrated win - to an overly in love couple - who barely manage to store that many jackets in a four door closet.

You both understand the importance of some privacy to grow a love so beautiful yet so fragile, also not really caring about the outside world’ hot takes.

But one year of unplanned dates, dances around the kitchen waiting for delivery and shared stories in the middle of the night are a lot to keep just between the two of you.

Your teammates are way over your not-so-discreet looks during practice and your constant touch, the skipper never been one to shy away from a teasing kiss or wandering hands and you never back down an opportunity to make your friends regret every single life choose ‘til that very moment.

“We’re having a good time, aren’t we?”

“Yes, we are”, Leah raises a perfectly shaped eyebrow.

Oh, the way she lights up your mood when she challenges you.

“Such a cute moment to share with our loved ones, isnt?”

Leah looks around, the pasta dish shared in your kitchen island definitely counts as a cute moment for her. Sure, the fact you both are just in oversized t-shirts adding points to her case. Or yours, she’s not sure yet what point you’re trying to make.

“You want to share this?”, she gestures at the scene with a smirk, “We eating undercooked pasta in our underwear at unholy hour?”

“Yes, I want to share us having a wonderful time and perfectly cooked pasta”

Her blonde head tilts studying you, thinking it’s more about the fact you’re looking at her like she’s the reason why the sun rises every morning.

You’re feeding her, Leah’s own hands way too busy caressing her girlfriend’s outstretched legs to bother with food. And you can see her nipples through the overworn t-shirt of yours she’s on.

It's definitely about the nipples.

“What if I die tomorrow and no one knows I managed to win you over?”

“That's a way too dramatic turn, even for you”, but then she cracks up and you sure will die happy if this is how you meet your maker.

Oh, the way she lights up your home when she laughs at something you said just for the sake of making her happy.

“What? Life is unpredictable and McCabe is getting more aggressive with the age, I don’t know how much long I still have”

“And your main concern is the world knowing you won me over?”

"Of course not, my sunshine", you reach toward her, brushing your lips so close to hers she can already taste the wine you paired with the pasta. “My main concern is not being able to survive a tackle by Katie, even dead I have a reputation to keep and it’s your duty to defend my honor ‘til your own grave”

It is Leah who is closing the distance now, and even if you wanted to keep the jokes coming - still making sure she does make up a great story about your noble sacrifice if needed - Earth stops running around the sun when she kisses you.

You’re whipped and she’s honored, truly grateful for the opportunity to learn all your ways to show her and the people you care about how much love one can gift the world with.

“I love you”

“Why are you looking at me like that, Williamson?”

“I love you”

“Now you’re scaring me, are you the one dying?”

She knows you, she knows humor is your way to deal with comfortable and uncomfortable situations alike. She knows you’re always up for a good laugh, but she also knows you never say things just for the sake of a joke. Your words are always meaningful, your retorts always smart enough to look effortless.

“You wanna make some big announcement?”, Leah asks with a smile that’s held back by the seriousness behind the question.

“No, but I don’t want to hide us”

“We don’t hide”

“We don’t keep a secret, but sometimes we do hide”

It takes her a moment, but she gets what you’re saying. Your relationship is not hidden per se, not a secret and never denied.

But sometimes the two of you have to delay your greeting and wait for more private settings, or think twice before posting anything on your social media accounts. Sometimes she needs to withhold the instinct to rush to you and be the first to celebrate you for an incredible and game changing goal. Sometimes you need to hold back yourself, walking a step behind with your head down just to refrain from taking her hand in yours.

Usually, you two don’t even realize you're actively hiding the deep love no speculative-but-surprisingly-high-quality video edit can really capture. It happens regardless and it’s starting to make you feel dejected, Leah notices.

“Then we don’t”

You look up, stopping playing around with the now cold pasta. Your girlfriend’s hands are still on your legs, her soft touch never hesitant or refrained despite the tricky topic.

“What are you saying?”

“You know what I’m saying”

Your lover lights up again, the world lights up again.

She’s smiling a lot tonight, she thinks. She’s also perfectly aware of the permanent grin on her face whenever you’re around. She’s whipped too after all.

You wait for her to elaborate, so she does.

“I’m saying we do whatever we want whenever we want, and we share what we feel like sharing about our lives together”

“Whatever we want?”

Leah is pretty sure you have some very specific images in mind, you’re always taking photos of everything and everyone. Needless to say, your girlfriend is by far your favorite subject to capture.

Pictures of her sleeping with face masks on, or her frown while she’s playing board games and not necessarily winning, or when she’s trying outfit after outfit to make sure she’s dressed up for the occasion. Pictures of her taken during intimate moments, not necessarily suggestive but definitely meaningful given the nature of your relationship and the level of trust in each other.

She’s confident you have several photo albums of her in your phone.

You do.

That’s why when you reach for the long forgotten device, putting on a show of taking as many candids as you can, Leah happily plays along. Your shenanigans get a more creative direction, let's say, and some of the photos are taken just for the two of you to admire.

~

“We can soft launch”, she insists hours later, archives improved and clothes forgotten.

You’re lying on your back with her head placed comfortably on your thigh, sheet all over the bed. She can see your pensive gaze, despite you being at ease.

“Who educated you on such slang?”

“Beth but that’s not the point”

“It clearly is, she did the soft launch thing all wrong”

The hand you have between her blonde locks stops its ministration when Leah bursts out laughing like you just said the funniest thing possible.

“Let’s show them how it’s done!”

~

The next couple of days you both shared a bit more on your social media pages, nothing too revealing but enough to give your agent anxiety.

She posted a few photos on her stories, like a restaurant set up that’s most definitely a date and you from behind preparing tea in her kitchen in the middle of the night. Surprisingly you take a more subtle approach, posting teasing pictures but nothing really telling, even if Leah’s in most of them.

It lasts three days, by the end of which you’re even more pissed than before.

“I genuinely can’t believe it! You’re shoving her during practice and you two are basically married, but you post my hand on your thigh and I’m a really supportive friend”

The team’s admin posted some training shots in the morning and the vast majority of the comments are about the cute interaction between your girlfriend and Lia, the two always messing around a bit.

You’re mostly joking but the English capitan is aware that the constant rumors and the oversexualised comments she often receives upset you. Not sparked by jealousy, rather by the lack of respect towards her and her personal life.

“Relax, my love, they comment about us too”

She’s holding you from behind, her hands on your sides and her freshly washed hair leaving wet spots on your shirt. She lays her chin on your shoulder, trying not to giggle too much at some unhinged comments she can read under the posts you are scrolling.

“The way she looks at Leah: same”, you read out loud, faking annoyance. “Oh, that’s enough!”

You must have spotted something that snapped your sudden reaction.

Your lovely girlfriend stays unfazed in her position as you determinately search for a particular photo, type a caption, then stop to silently wait for her approval.

Leah barely nods, but you feel her smile and then her lips on your skin when you post it.

A picture of the two of you looking at each other with heart shaped eyes, dressed up to the nines since it was a snippet of a date on your summer vacation.

Her black attire was to die for and you sure died in some way. The blonde remembers in vivid details your care and attention, slipping it under her with such reverence later that same night.

She shivers, comments already popping in.

“You'd have tagged me”

“They know who you are”, your grin getting bigger by the seconds as you lock your phone and toss it away muted.

You turn around in her arms, and even if you know Leah’s most definitely sporting one of her best smiles, when you look at her it’s life changing.

Oh, the way she lights up your entire existence when her love for you it’s clear on her face.

You pick her up by her thighs, holding her as close as your bodies physically allow.

"Impatient", she teases.

“I’m gonna show you impatience”.

~

fine.

[wlwloverwrites]

Home Gym

Pairing: Kate Bishop x Reader

Warnings: daddy kink, slight mention of sweat? in a sexy way, thigh riding, nipple play, light biting kink, normal things used as sex toy, smut, small amounts of fluff, oral sex, fingering, shower sex (18+)

Main Masterlist

DO NOT STEAL MY WORK. DO NOT REPOST ANY OF MY WORKS ON ANY OTHER PLATFORMS. DO NOT TRANSLATE MY WORK. NO ONE HAS MY PERMISSION TO DO SO

You knew what your girlfriend was doing before you unlocked the front door. The walls rumbled with repeating vibrations. Her upbeat music she only ever played when she was working out echoed in the hallway. Your neighbors hardly complained… at least not about the music. They have complained about other loud noises coming your shared apartment.

You remember the first time they knocked on your door.

Sweat was beginning to build on your hairline, your robe was falling off your shoulder, and your feet were cold stepping on the hardwood floors. You opened the door to see your very uncomfortable neighbor, right away you knew they heard. You were mortified when they asked you keep it down. You gasped when they admitted your ‘rather loud noises’ had been a reoccurring problem. Genuine sorries fell past your mouth but were interrupted with a rather smug Kate.

Kate’s arms slipped around your waist while her lips found your bare shoulder. She kissed over the forming marks on your heated skin. She didn’t pay any attention to the same neighbor she sometimes helped carry groceries up the stairs. That neighbor was now bright red once they realized Kate was nude, completely unbothered. You said your rushed goodbyes and failed at keeping the noise down.

Your jingling keys did nothing to signal to your girlfriend that you were home. Their sound swallowed by the music Kate added to her ‘Gym’ playlist. After settling down, you found yourself taking a peek into her gym. She noted that the extra bedroom in your apartment would be the perfect place to work out. Your eyes trail over her body.

Her arms are glistening with sweat. Fly away hairs are glued to her forehead and her cheeks are flushed red. You watch as her necklaces dangle in the air with each push up. Her form is impressive, she makes it look easy. Staring at her lips you can see her counting under her breath, the last number falls past her lips with a loud sigh. She gets up to sit on her bench. She leans to get her water bottle and that’s when she sees you.

“Hey baby,” she says with a smile, setting her bottle down and lowering the music with her phone.

“Hi Kate.”

“How was your day?” She spreads her legs just an inch, welcoming you between them as you make your way over to her to greet her with a soft kiss.

“Was okay,” you hum against her lips, giggling softly when you feel her wandering hands.

“You look pretty, baby. Those are nice jeans,” she compliments with her eyes trailing down your body.

“Oh really? Thank you, a really pretty girl gifted me these jeans.” You reply playfully, giving her a nice twirl.

You recall the time she bought them. The skin on her arms was indented with the strings from the numerous shopping bags she insisted only she’d carry. She bought you so much you always had to find a way to rearrange your closet to fit even more clothes. Don’t even let her get started on jewelry. Your nightstand always had some type of jewelry resting on top. Sliver and gold necklaces, tennis bracelets, and rings sparkled with the soft light coming from your lamp. Kate loved buying you rings. Sometimes when she’s bored she just stops by the some random jewelry store and buys you another ring. She always takes a mental note on your reaction, trying to figure out which is your favorite style…. for research purposes of course.

“Girl has good taste,” Kate jokes slipping her hands into your butt pockets, giving your ass a playful squeeze that makes you laugh. “I’m just finishing up here. Do me a favor, baby,” She looks up at you. “Can you hand me the massage gun?”

You hum, turning to get what she asked for. You bought it for her birthday, you remember her smile when she realized what it was. She had been complaining about being sore after working out and occasional cramps, so you did what any good girlfriend would do. You added it to you shopping cart. You mess with the buttons, checking if it was charged.

“After you finish up, want to eat out?”

It’s quiet for a moment and look at your girlfriend confused. You roll your eyes playfully when you see the look on her face. The same cocky smirk you learned to love is on her face as she jokingly licks her lip.

“I mean since you’re offering. I wouldn’t mind…” Her hands grab your hips, her fingers tug on your belt loops forcing you down on her thigh. “I wouldn’t mind eating you out.”

You throw your head back with a laugh. The position you’re in is awkward, but before you can get off her thigh, her arm hugs your body down. Her unoccupied hand grabs the massage gun from your hand and switches it on.

“Finish up with me?” She asks innocently.

Too innocently.

Your hands went to her shoulders, awkwardly rubbing them to massage the forming knots. She sighs softly, you always loved the way you relaxed her. Dropping your hands to her arms, raising your eyebrows when you feel her muscles. Your lips part and suddenly you are hyper aware of your position. You never really noticed her ‘pump’ after working out, you were always quick to rush her in the shower or was simply not home to witness it; however, now you felt it. Kate seems to be in her own world, aiming the vibrating gun on her biceps.

Are you supposed to use it on your arms?

“Feels weird. I usually just do it on my legs,” she shrugs as if she can read your mind. You don’t know how you don’t put two and two together. It’s Kate for crying out loud. The both of you have been dating for the past two years and you still don’t know how you didn’t see her meticulously planning something in her head.

She smiles at you, it’s not a sweet smile.

It’s dark, and widens when your body jerks forward.

Vibrations crawl down her thigh and between yours. Just on the first setting, the vibrations were enough to dig your fingers into her flesh. Loud moans escape your mouth. Kate’s thumb hits a button, bumping up the speed and you feel like you’re flying. Throwing your head back leaves your throat to be Kate’s next victim. Her teeth bite at your skin making you hiss in pain. Your hiss quickly turns into a whine when she pulls away. A text notification pulls her attention away from you.

“K-Kate,” you whine. Your voice is shaky and you’re almost sure your eyes are crossed. Subconsciously your hips flex towards her body, your forehead fell at the junction of her neck.

“Hold on,” she is quick to dismiss you, not even caring one bit about you grinding on her bare thigh, like a bitch in heat. She doesn’t care that you are purposely shoving your breasts in her face to pull her eyes away from the screen and onto you. Your breathing become harsh, every vibration feeding into the sudden pleasure. Forcing your eyes open you look at Kate’s phone. She is the middle of typing a text when you whine again.

Kate shushes you.

Soaked between your thighs, with your wetness seeping through your pants and onto Kate’s thigh. An occasional moan would slip past your lips and it would result in a sharp stare from your girlfriend, but after the third one Kate had enough. Why she wanted silence was beyond you. Was she finally on the neighbor’s side?

Her empty hand, phone finally put away, fell right on your ass. A loud slap echoed through the room. Your skin burned, but it never stopped your hips, only made them faster. The slap only makes you moan louder. Clearly annoyed, the vibrations stop and you are left panting with want. There’s drool that piles by the corner of your mouth, but you quickly try to recover yourself. The inside of your thighs are numb.

“I told you to stay quiet, baby,” she tuts, her hand squeezes your face. She’s taunting you, knowing damn well how much you love when she gets cocky.

“But Daddy, I need you,” you whisper the words against her skin. Your lips are swollen from your teeth tugging at the poor skin. Fingertips dig into her clothes, a silent beg for her to get undress despite her being half naked and you being fully dressed.

“I know you need me, baby.” She whispers back, pushing her face closer to yours so your noses are brushing against each other. Her tongue peaks out from her lips and licks yours. “Want to know how I know?”

You don’t know what game she’s playing at, yet. Nonetheless, you nod, bumping your noses again. Leaning in for a kiss, you part your lips and tilt your head to the right. Patiently you wait because you know more is coming.

“It’s not because you’re begging for me,” she declines pressing a wet kiss against your lips before she pulls away with your bottom lip between her teeth. “It’s not because your eyes have gone all hazy.” You suck in a deep breath when she turns the gun back on and places against her thigh so you can feel the vibrations. “It’s because I can feel how wet you are between those pretty thighs.”

You whine into her neck, your body is shaking with need and it’s only then do you realize how right Kate is. You’re soaked between your thighs. Your panties feel like a second skin and your poor jeans do nothing to help when it came to friction. Drunk with pleasure you nod at her words. Grinding even harder against her thigh, chasing your high.

“‘m so wet,” you whine, sinking your teeth into the bare part of her shoulder. The salty taste of her sweat meets your taste and there is a small part of you that loves the taste. The bite makes Kate hiss in pain, she pushes you off slightly. Before you’re able to overthink why she practically rips your blouse off of you. Your blouse is now resting on top of a dumbbell and Kate’s mouth found its safe haven between your breasts. Not bothering to unclasp your bra, she shoves the padded material down, just enough so your nipples appear. Her lips wrap around your right nipple without warning.

“Come on, baby. Ride Daddy’s thigh. I know you want to.”

You can feel each syllable against your breast. Sensitive and needy you follow her instructions and whine when her lips find your left nipple. Kate, never the one to chose sides, gives the same treatment to the left breast. Groaning into your skin as her unoccupied hand finds your back. Dragging her fingertips down your skin until they find your jeans again. Kate loved the sight in front of her. You grinding against her thigh, bottom lips between your teeth, sweat building up on your forehead, sweet sounds escaping your lips, and most importantly the growing wet stain between your legs which ruins your jeans.

“Daddy knows your body too well, huh?”

She’s taunting you.

“Moan my name.”

“Kate.”

“Louder.”

“Kate!!”

The vibrations are strong — too strong. Your head feels fuzzy and eyes can’t seem to focus on anything. Drunk with pleasure you throw your head back, giving Kate more than enough space to attack sensitive parts of your neck once again. Hips are rolling fast against Kate’s thigh. Too busy chasing your high you barely kiss back your girlfriend who pulled you into a messy kiss. You whine against her lips when you the feeling in the pit of your stomach gets ready to be released.

“Fuck Daddy. I- I’m gon-,” you stumble over your words as Kate gives up on massaging her thigh and places the gun directly on your pelvis.

“Come on, baby. Get all messy for me,” Kate whispers against your skin, encouraging you to soak through your jeans. She bumps the vibrations even higher, sinks her teeth into the soft skin on your collarbone, and rolls your nipple with her free hand. It’s enough to push you off the edge.

Your eyes roll back as your whole body seizes with pleasure. Your fingers dig themselves into the full muscles in her arms. Your thighs clench trapping Kate’s so she can no longer bounce it. You feel wet between your legs, no doubt making your jeans a darker blue than before. You don’t know when the vibrations stop and the praises start.

“Pretty girl.” Kate’s mouth finds your ear, her teeth trap your earlobe, “Doing so good for Daddy.” Kate pays no mind in the aftermath stings caused from your nails. You smile softly when you feel sweaty arms wrap around your waist and a flushed cheeks rests on top of your naked breast. Kate, always the sucker for skin-to-skin contact, whispers how good you are for her. You giggle softly when you feel her wandering hands rub your back and her soft lips find your collarbone.

“You’re so pretty, baby.”

“Thank you.”

Kate laughs against your skin. Even when your mind isn’t working at its full capacity you still manage to keep your manners in check. The minutes you take in hold each other feel like hours, the both of you just enjoying each other’s touch. It isn’t until the sweat begins to build up that you pull away. Kate whines when you pull away but understands because her skin was flushed, which makes you feel bad. She never had the chance to cool off after her workout.

“Kate, honey. We need to shower. You’re stinky and I’m messy.” You groan, scrunching up your nose and giggling when Kate is clearly offended when you stated the truth. 

You jump off her lap when she reaches to tickle you. Smirking when you escape from her attacks and watch as she gets off the the bench. You back away and you sprint to the door, playing a small game of cat and mouse.

“You’re not too sore, baby?” She asked with faux concern, raising your suspicion as she makes no move to chase away you like she usually does.

“No. Are you?” You challenge, looking back at your girlfriend who is pulling off her sports bra, it takes all your willpower to not look. She stands shirtless in the middle of the room for a second before she walks to you. She takes advantage of your eyes that dart to her chest and grabs you.

“Never, just wanted to check in cause I still need to eat you out.” She says with a wink. Her hands cradle your face as she makes you walk backwards to your shared bathroom.

“I made a promise to my girlfriend and I intend to keep it.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Mhmm.” Kate nods as she presses a gentle kiss on your lips.

Finally, the both of you are in the bathroom. Loud giggles fill the room along with the sound of the shower as you get undressed. Kate checks if the water temperature is okay before she gets in and offers her hand to you as you step inside. Sighing softly at the water as you wash away your sweat, and worries. It doesn’t take long for Kate to fall on her knees and hike your leg over her shoulder. Her directness has you holding yourself upright against the sage green tiles you have decorating your shower wall.

“Fuck Daddy.”

Her tongue is gentle, licking your throbbing clit. Kate takes everything you offer her. She moans softly at your salty taste that is watered down with the droplets of water that also fall on her face. She takes in the way your finger get tangled in her soaked hair. She takes in the way you can’t seem to hold your moans, forgetting how loud you can get. It isn’t long til Kate adds her fingers. Her pointer and middle finger find their way inside you. Kate is careful to make sure you don’t lose your balance before curling her fingers in a ‘come here’ motion. You let out a high pitched whine when she repeats the motion again and again.

“I’m gonna come again! Oh Kate.”

Kate keeps a steady pace and makes sure to not be too rough knowing you’re sore despite your confident ‘no’ you said earlier. You can’t get over the feeling of her tongue, eyes rolling back as you moan her name over and over. Your hips roll against her face, forcing her tongue to lick over her fingers and her nose bump your clit. The sound that leaves you is pornographic making Kate laugh against your pussy and another voice yell.

“Can you guys hurry up in there?! I have to use the restroom.”

Your gasp is loud but is quickly switched to an even louder moan when you fall apart on your girlfriend’s tongue. Your fingers tug on Kate’s wet hair and she pushes her mouth closer to your pussy.

“Kate, Kate, honey. Who is that?” Your words are rushed as you try and catch your breath, legs are still shaky and you’re pretty sure your eyes are crisscrossed…again.

“Yelena.” She says as if it is obvious. You blink, once then twice and look at your girlfriend who is already rinsing the shampoo off her dark hair.

“What?”

“She was on her way when you were,” she pauses as she reaches for the loofa behind you. “Well you were… you know,” she pauses and then drops her mouth and rolls her eyes back before mimicking you, “Oh yes, Kate. Fuck, Daddy!”

You feel the heat on the your cheeks and grow hotter when you hear a very confused, russian accent outside the bathroom door a second time, “I thought Y/N finished already?”

You’re mortified, but Kate only laughs as she steps out of the shower. Walking out of the bathroom with only a towel wrapped around her waist, leaving the top part of her body bare.

“Yelena, don’t you know we have a guest bathroom?”

“Don’t you know I can hear her from the hallway?”

thank you all for 5,000 followers! please reblog, comment, and like! - lover