#( I've been dying to write with you for a while )

[likeumeanit9497]

heatwave | m.s. |

matt sturniolo x fem!reader

summary: you and matt find a way to entertain yourselves during the east coast heat wave.

warnings: smut; unprotected p in v; oral (fem receiving); fingering; hand job; squirting; cream pie; dirty talk; overstimulation if you squint; established friendship (duh); 18+

notes: this may or may not be heavily inspired by an encounter i had yesterday (i've never ever used real sexual experiences as a structure for my very fictional writing but that d was fire tbh). i hope y'all enjoy this as much as i did LMAO i love u all very very much <333

─ ⊹ ⊱ ☆ ⊰ ⊹ ─

Boston is sweltering, and Matt’s room is a sealed oven — windows cracked but useless, blinds drawn to block the sun, a fan wheezing like it’s dying a slow death in the corner. The two of you are sprawled across his bed — limbs loose, clothes clinging to clammy skin, the sheets kicked to the end of the bed hours ago.

You’re lying flat on your back, one leg bent, the other outstretched; your tank top stuck to your ribs in damp patches. Matt’s beside you, lying the wrong way across the mattress, one arm flung off the side like he’s trying to melt through the floorboards.

“Why is this place a furnace?” You groan, dragging a hand down your sweaty face, “I feel like I’m being slow-roasted alive.”

“You’re dramatic,” He says, not even opening his eyes.

“Well you’re delusional.” You shoot back.

He tilts his head slightly toward you, lips curved into a lazy smirk. “Take your shirt off, then.”

You blink at him, letting your head roll to the side, “What?”

He shrugs, the sheen of sweat on his forehead glistening under the light, “It’s hot. I’m trying to help.”

“You’re crazy.”

“I’m being nice,” He brings both hands up and covers his eyes, palms flat to his face, “I won’t even look. Scout’s honour.”

You huff a laugh, biting back your smile, “You were never a scout.”

“No, but I’m very honourable. And sweaty. You are too, so, shirt off. Live a little.”

You watch him for a moment, amused. His mouth twitches like he can feel you staring. There’s a bead of sweat at his temple. He’s a mess — hair sticking up, shirt of his own long discarded. You shake your head, “You’re such a freak.”

But the heat is unbearable. And he really wasn’t looking. You hesitate just a second longer before grabbing the hem of your shirt and peeling it up, the fabric sticking stubbornly to your back as you tug it over your head. You drop it somewhere by your side, now left in nothing but a bra and shorts. Still sticky and flushed.

Matt’s hands stay right where there are, fingers splayed like he really is shielding his vision. For a few seconds, he’s perfectly still — dramatically obedient with his mouth locked in a tight smile like he’s resisting every natural impulse. You watch him, amused, for a moment. Then, just as you shift your weight on the bed, you catch the slightest flicker — a single eye glinting through the sliver between his fingers. You can’t help but burst out laughing, “Matt!”

He flinches like he’s been caught red-handed, slapping his hands fully back over his face with a theatrical groan. “You saw nothing,” He mutters into his palms.

“Right,” You laugh.

“I was just checking on you,” He insists, muffled, “For safety reasons.”

“Oh, I see. In case I passed out mid-shirt removal?”

“Exactly,” He says, briefly lowering one hand just enough to wink at you, “What if you got tangled?”

You roll your eyes, but you’re still laughing. You nudge his bare shoulder with your foot, “Creep.”

He grins wider, then finally drops his hands and turns his head toward you. His gaze travels down your body, playful but lingering. He wiggles his eyebrows in a mock-seductive flourish, “Much better.” You roll your eyes, crossing your arms lightly over your chest, “Pervert.”

“Saviour,” He corrects, and leans back into the mattress like he’s done something heroic.

You both lay in silence for a little while, focused on lowering your body temperatures. No movement besides the occasional shift of a leg or the tilt of a head. After a lull, Matt glances over. “You cooling down?”

You snort softly, “Not really.”

He’s quiet for a second, eyes fixed on the ceiling. You can almost hear the gears turning in his head. After a moment, he sits up abruptly. “Wait, I have an idea. Stay here.”

“Where else would I go?” You mumble, watching him slip out of the room in search of whatever brilliant plan he’s concocted. A minute or two passes. The fan hums uselessly, blowing stale recycled air in your face. Sweat trickles down the side of your neck. Then he returns — triumphant, holding a plastic cup brimming with ice. You lift an eyebrow, “Seriously?”

“I’m a genius,” He says, settling back onto the bed beside you, “I come bearing salvation.”

He plucks one cube from the cup and rolls it between his fingers. You eye him warily.

“Close your eyes.”

“Why?”

“Just trust me.”

You do. Once your eyes flutter shut, the ice touches your forehead and your whole body shudders in response. It’s a shock — biting, electric — and then it begins to melt, cooling the skin it traces. Your breath hitches. Matt drags the cube down your temple, across your cheekbone, down the column of your neck, and then back up again in slow, fluid strokes. He doesn’t speak. Neither do you. Too soon, the ice cube melts to nothing in his hand.

There’s silence. You open your eyes to find him staring at you. Something about the air has changed — impossibly thicker, slower, hotter. He pulls his eyes from you and grabs another cube. This time, it presses to your cheek again, trailing down. Past your jaw. Down your throat. And then lower, to the swell of your chest. You inhale sharply.

His fingers keep moving, steady and smooth, gliding the ice across your skin, circling your thin bra, skimming the tops of your tits. The cube slides between them, slipping into the dip of your sternum before melting again. Your whole body is awake now — flushed, chilled, aching. He pulls his hand away, and you catch his wrist gently. Your other hand drifts to his thigh, fingers curling into the fabric of his shorts. When you look up at him, there’s nothing casual about it. He sees it — his throat bobs.

“More?” He asks softly, voice low and rough, like he already knows your answer and what it actually means. Still, you nod. He doesn’t say anything else — just reaches for a third cube. It’s pressed to your tit first — right at the curve — and then lower, bolder, tracing the edge of your bra. The chill is unbearable in the best possible way. Your back arches, hips shifting slightly as your body reacts on its own.

Through hooded lids, Matt watches you. Watches the way your lips part, the way your lashes flutter. He takes his time letting the melting ice drag slowly beneath the cup of your bra now, sending cold water in thin, shocking rivers across your pebbled nipples. You gasp, hand tightening on his thigh. He brings the ice lower again, this time over your stomach, tracing a path past your ribs, across the soft skin of your belly, toward your waistband. You bite your lip as the ice stops at your hip, and you almost tell him — say it out loud, give him permission. But you don’t need to. You lift your hips instead, just a little. Barely a tilt, but enough to signal to him exactly what you need.

He tugs gently at the waistband of your shorts, easing them down over your hips with a softness you weren’t expecting from him. Your friendship with him was usually filled with quick wit and crooked smirks, but now his fingers are slow and careful and almost cautious — as though he wants to take his time in this moment.

The shorts slip past your knees and you kick them off lazily, still sprawled across his sheets in nothing but your bra and thong. He sits back slightly, ice cube in hand, eyes flicking over you and your goosebumped skin. He leans in, and this time the ice touches the top of your thigh.

You gasp again, sharper this time, and Matt lets out a laugh — low and breathless, the sound of someone who’s trying very hard not to lose control. He drags the cube up along the inside of your thigh, slow and deliberate. You feel every nerve ending flicker awake; your core flooding with a heat much more pleasant than what you have been experiencing all day.

“You’re insane,” You whisper, but there’s no weight behind it. Just the heat of your breath and the sharp contrast of the cold.

“And you’re melting,” He murmurs, voice closer to your hip now, “I’m just doing my part.”

The ice skims higher, fraction by fraction. You hold your breath, body vibrating with desire. The cube stops a breath away from the edge of your thong. He glances at you with a look of finality, as if to say: this is it. This is your last chance to stop this thing that will change our friendship forever.

You nod again, even faster than before. The next second is quiet. He presses the cube to the thin fabric between your legs, and your whole body jolts. A sound slips from you, embarrassingly real, and his mouth curls at the edges like he’s not trying not to smile too much.

“Still hot?” He teases.

“Shut up,” You whisper. But it’s breathless, and he knows you don’t mean it. The cube disappears even quicker than the last two — leaving only a slick trail behind — and his fingers follow, brushing lightly over the edge of your lace underwear, right where the ice had been. They linger there, fingertips barely brushing the dampened fabric. Just curious and waiting, but there is an energy in the way that they tremble that lets you know he needs this as bad as you do.

Without a word, you shift your hips again and widen your legs, offering more. His gaze darkens with lustful disbelief — as though he hadn’t let himself imagine this far ahead, as though he thought you would eventually tell him it’s all a joke. He blinks into a swift recovery. And then slowly, carefully, he hooks his fingers around the waistband and begins to pull.

Your breath hitches as the warm air caresses more of your skin, as the thin fabric slips over your thighs, your knees, your ankles, and finally off entirely. He tosses them somewhere and then he’s still again, just sitting beside you, taking in the sight of you laid out across his bed like some impossible offering. Sweat-slicked, yet goosebumped. A perfect paradox.

A gritty sound escapes his lips as he takes you in. You don’t say anything, just reach behind your back to unclasp your bra. The straps fall like silk down your arms. You let the fabric slide off and drop beside you on the bed. There’s a beat of silence where he doesn’t move, eyes on your bare tits. “Well, you’re definitely hot.”

His lame joke makes a laugh burst out of you, startled and breathless. “You’re such a loser.”

But he’s already leaning down, grinning as he kisses the curve of your knee. Then up your thigh. Then again, higher. Your body tenses, breath rising fast. He shifts on the bed so that he’s right in front of you now, body so close you can feel the anticipation radiating off of it. “Don’t worry,” He murmurs, voice raw, “I’ll cool you down.”

His hands are warm and sure as they slide over your thighs, coaxing them apart even more. His thumbs trace slow, wide arcs on your inner thighs, not quite approaching your centre yet — and the anticipation makes your skin tingle, makes your breath catch. Then he shifts lower, flattening himself against the bed, lying fully between your legs. His face hovers just above your glistening core — close enough that you feel the heat of his brooding breath across your slick skin. He’s staring, openly now, no jokes left in him. You can see it in the way his eyelids droop, the way his lips part like he’s about to say something but can’t quite find the words.

His breath continues to fan over you in an unhurried way that makes you twitch in anticipation. And then, just as you are about to pout, his mouth is on you. Not right where you need it yet. No, he’s still taking his time. His lips find the inside of your thigh first, the soft flesh kissed and then kissed again. A slow trail of heat and patience. He hums against you, the sound low and lazy like he’s easing himself into this — like he wants to remember how every part of you tastes. It makes your hips tilt, chasing his mouth.

He chuckles softly, lips still pressed to your skin. Then finally, finally, he shifts just slightly, and his mouth meets your folds. In an instant your body jerks at the contact. His tongue is slow at first — too slow. Flattening against you and drawing a long, deliberate strip through your slick heat like he’s savouring something sacred. You feel the first roll of pleasure hit deep in your belly — sharp and liquid and sudden — and your spine arches off the bed involuntarily.

“Oh my God,” You gasp, one hand flying instinctively into his hair, fingers twisting tight. He groans in response, a rich, appreciative sound that vibrates deliciously against you. Like he’s agreeing with you, like he wants to say the same thing — Oh my God — but he’s too preoccupied. His mouth works with more focus now, his lips wrapping around the delicate bundle of nerves at your centre with maddening precision, his tongue flicking and pressing in just the right way, just the right rhythm.

You’re really melting now. Every part of you feels like it’s been plunged into heat and ice at the same time. Your thighs threaten to close around him, but his hands are there — steady, anchoring — one splayed across your stomach, the other curling around your thigh and dragging upward, brushing so close to where you need him most that you whimper. Then his fingers find your entrance. Not yet entering you, but pressing softly, as if to feel how ready you are for him. You’re soaked, you know it. He knows it, too, and his groan confirms it.

Your head tips back against the sheets, eyes fluttering shut, every muscle singing under his touch. And he’s listening to you. He’s watching you. He’s adjusted his movements to your reactions. The way your legs twitch. The way your breath skips. The way your hips rock in tiny, desperate pulses. Every movement of his mouth is tuned into the sounds that leave your lips. He learns you fast — adjusts, adapts, deepens. Sucks harder when your fingers tighten in his hair. Flattens his tongue when your hips vibrate.

Your thighs begin to tremble beneath his grip, your back arching higher now, neck exposed, lips parted in soft, uncontrollable moans that sound nothing like you, and he knows — he can feel it. He tightens his grip on you and keeps going, keeps coaxing, keeps drawing sounds from your lips like he’s performing an exorcism.

“F-fuck Matt— I’m g-gonna—”

He doesn’t let up. In fact, he groans again, as though your words are the trigger he’s been waiting for. The vibration against your swollen bud tipping you over the edge. You come apart beneath him, everything in you buckling, curling, unfolding. Your hips jerk, hands flailing against his head and shoulders, and for a moment you forget how to breathe. Your mouth is open but no sound comes out until the wave crests and you sob his name. His crazed tongue doesn’t stop until you’re gasping, whimpering, pushing at his shoulders — too much, too sensitive, too hot. Only then does he pull back.

His lips are swollen, chin wet with you, eyes dark and blown out as his chest rises and falls like he’s been the one undone. He looks at you like he just did something unspeakable, but also unmistakably like he wants to again. Your skin is thrumming, flushed and oversensitive, but every nerve feels lit, alive, and reaching for more. You feel the slow drag of his body as he travels up yours. His mouth brushes across your hipbone in a lazy kiss. Then your stomach, where the warm press of his lips leaves invisible stains across damp skin. You shudder when he pauses at your ribs, nose nuzzling the underside of your tit, and your hand finds his hair again, fingers curling gently through the strands. He groans faintly when your nails graze his scalp.

The next kiss lands just above your heart — soft, but lingering. His breath is still uneven, matching yours. And then his face is level with yours. You look up at him — chest rising, eyes hazy, lips parted — and he’s already watching you with that same wild, unreadable expression. His hand comes up to your face, knuckles brushing along your cheek, and then he kisses you. Gentle, at first. But in an instant it slips into something urgent and achingly slow, like he’s trying to devour you without losing control.

His swollen lips fit over yours perfectly, parting just enough to taste, to tug, to ask. You open for him instinctively, and the low sound he makes in the back of his throat lights a new fire in your core. His tongue strokes against yours — cautious at first, exploratory, like he’s testing you — but when you respond, when you meet him with equal hunger, he sinks into the kiss fully.

His hand slides from your cheek to your jaw, thumb brushing your skin as his mouth moves against yours in slow, wet, desperate waves. His body hovers just above yours, one arm braced beside your head, the other hand skating down your ribs, across your waist, gripping the curve of your hip. Your whole body arches into him in response. You moan softly into his mouth, the sound swallowed between your lips, and you feel him shiver, even in the heat.

His hips press closer — just enough that you can feel how hard he is against your thigh — and you whimper at the sensation. He responds with another kiss, messier this time, lips dragging down to your jaw, your throat, sucking gently at your pulse point as his fingers dig tighter into your skin. Everything feels swollen. Your lips. Your chest. Your heat. The tension has shifted — pooling low in your stomach all over again.

When he returns to your mouth, the kiss is slower but no less intense. He kisses you like he wants it to last forever — like he can never get enough of your taste. You feel yourself melting again, hips rolling up toward his without thought. He pulls back just an inch, breathing hard, forehead pressed against yours as though he’s trying to hold himself together.

Your hands drift from his face to his shoulders, fingers curling around his muscles, pressing into the warmth of his skin. He’s solid above you, and yet he trembles when you touch him like that — a subtle, involuntary twitch beneath your palms that thrills you. You let your hands roam farther. Over his inked arm. Across his chest. Down his back, your nails grazing along the soft dip of his spine. He shudders again, exhales sharply against your cheek, and his hips rock forward in just a way that makes his cock press against your clit.

Without a thought your hand drops lower. Fingers drifting between your bodies, you reach down, tracing the line of his stomach, past the sharp dip of his hip and the waistband of his pants, you find him — hard, hot, pulsing in your hand. He groans when you wrap your fingers around him, his forehead dropping to your shoulder, lips pressing into your neck like he’s trying to hold on to something

“Fuck,” He breathes, barely there.

You stroke him slowly, learning the shape and weight of him. Your thumb brushes over his tip, slick and already beaded with precum, and his hips twitch against you like he can’t help it. His whole body jerks, his breath dragging ragged against your collarbone. You feel drunk on it — how much he wants this. He lifts his head again, mouth finding yours, kissing you harder now — mouth open, a little messy, like he can’t quite keep himself in check anymore.

He shifts his weight onto one arm and his other hand slides between your legs, fingers trailing through the slick mess he made of you earlier. The sound it makes — wet and unabashed — draws a gasp from both of you. It’s embarrassing and exhilarating all at once, that undeniable evidence of your desire. He lingers there for a second, fingers gliding through your folds, collecting your arousal, spreading it slowly, deliberately, with slow circles that make your breath catch.

“So wet,” He murmurs, almost to himself, “Jesus.”

Then, with a swift push, two fingers curl inside of you. You cry out softly from the sudden fullness. The way you stretch around his digits, the slow glide of his knuckles as he sinks in deep. Your body rolls into his contact, seeking more, and he groans again as your walls flutter around his fingers. He begins to move — slow and steady at first, learning the angle, the rhythm matching your own hand on his cock. His fingers curl just right, finding that perfect pressure on every stroke, and it sends a ripple of heat through your core that makes your legs tremble. Your mouth falls open around a whimper, body moving with him now, chasing the sensation. His thumb brushes your clit in a lazy circle and you nearly sob out loud.

“M-Matt—” His name is a barely coherent sound.

He kisses you again, swallowing your noises, and his fingers pump into you deeper, faster now. You cling to his shoulders, his back, free hand digging into his skin. Every muscle inside you coils tighter, your body inching closer to the edge with every curl of his fingers. And he knows it — you can tell. He watches your tight expression with awe in his eyes. The tension in your lower stomach is exquisite, almost unbearable.

“D-don’t stop,” You gasp, “Matt—p-please—”

He doesn’t. He keeps pushing his fingers into you, twisting them just enough to make your legs shake. Keeps circling your clit in perfect, devastating passes. He whispers something against your cheek, but you don’t even hear it — all you know is the pressure, the slick glide, the fullness, the heat. You’re going to cum again.

He grabs your hip, holding you in place while you writhe. Your hand freezes around his length, incapable of movement of your own. “Right there,” You gasp, “Don’t stop, don’t—”

And that’s when it hits. You clamp around his fingers, your entire body tensing before it explodes outward, a burst of white-hot pleasure tearing through you so completely you forgot your own name. Your legs shake, your back arches. You cry out, eyes squeezed shut, and Matt just guides you through it, pulling back just enough to watch as the pressure in your lower stomach collapses into a gushing puddle against the mattress, dripping down his fingers, down his wrist. You tremble around him, and you’re still gasping when he finally eases his fingers out of you, hand slow and careful.

Your eyes flutter up to his slowly, blinking up at him through the blinding haze, and he’s watching you again — flushed and wild, chest rising fast. His fingers glisten in the light, and he brings them to your mouth, eyes alight with fiery desire as you wrap your lips around them and suck — the sweetness of you melting against your tongue as it swirls around the digits. He swallows hard, then whispers almost desperately, “I need to be inside you.”

Your breath catches. The urgency in his voice ignites you. It matches the ache deep in your core, the ache his fingers had only just began to quiet. You nod without hesitation, but your body says it louder — the way your fingers pull down his shorts, the way you wrap your thighs around him, inviting him in.

“I want that,” You whisper, “So fucking bad.”

He kisses you again, that slow kiss that tells you he’s holding himself back. You can feel how badly he wants this, not just in the way he moves, but in the tension humming through his entire body — like a taut wire ready to snap. He cups your face in one hand as he does, thumb stroking just beneath your jaw. His other hand moves between you, and you feel the soft rustle of him reaching down, the glide of his fingers as he lines himself up.

You’re still so wet from your last release, your inner thighs sticky, the air thick with the addictive scent of it, but the stretch of him pressing at your entrance makes you gasp again. The raw, unfiltered heat of him a promise that makes your body pulse. He pauses — just barely resting inside you — and lifts his gaze to yours.

“Okay?” He asks, voice strained and barely more than a breath.

You nod, lifting your hips a fraction to urge him forward. His eyes stay on yours as he pushes himself in; slowly, exquisitely. You feel his thick head slide deeper, a tight, stretching burn that blurs into something molten, something impossible to define. Your lips part on a soft moan as your body opens for him inch by inch, yielding to him as he parts you. He goes slowly, as if he’s trying to feel everything. And you are, too. You feel every ridged inch of him as he sinks deeper, your walls fluttering around him, welcoming him. Your fingers dig into his shoulders, clinging. You don’t know if you’re pulling him closer or just holding yourself together.

His breath breaks above you in a low groan, and your mouth falls open in a soundless moan against his shoulder, eyes fluttering shut, overwhelmed by the fullness, the pressure, the weight of him sinking inside of you. Finally, he bottoms out with a shudder, buried to the hilt, his hips flush against yours. For a moment, neither of you move. Your foreheads are pressed together, your breath tangled, your bodies locked in a silence more intimate than anything either of you could say. And you feel it everywhere — the pulse between your legs, the tremble in your limbs, the way your body molds to his, takes him in like it was made to.

“You feel so good,” He whispers, “So fucking tight.”

You whimper, involuntarily pulsing around him, and he groans again like he’s barely holding on. Then he draws back — not all the way, but enough to make you feel the absence — and pushes back in with a slow, steady roll of his hips. You gasp at the stretch, the fullness, and you swear you can feel him rearranging something inside of you. He finds a rhythm almost immediately, each thrust unhurried but deep and deliberate. Every motion presses up into your g-spot, makes your mouth fall open, makes your fingers claw down his back and clutch at his waist.

You arch beneath him, chasing every moment, and the angle of his body, the way he so completely fills you, starts to build another aching knot low in your belly. You feel slick, swollen, stretched, perfect. He kisses you again, open-mouthed and distracted, one hand still against your face while the other slides under your back, lifting your chest toward him. Your tits press against his own chest, flushed body to body, and the friction of your nipples brushing his skin sends a ripple of sensation through you.

“Faster?” He asks, his voice gritty and uncertain. Like he wants it desperately but won’t push. You nod, eyes glassy and blown out. “Y-yes, please.”

His hips snap harder now — deeper, faster — and the rhythm punches a moan from your throat. You meet him eagerly, hips rising to meet every stroke, gasping as the friction and fullness begin to spiral tighter again. The sound of your bodies colliding fills the room, wet and obscene. You’re drowning in it. In the feel of him. The scent. The pressure building low and hard in your stomach.

You moan openly now, voice raw and desperate, every sound torn from your throat without permission. He grits his teeth above you, his face — dripping in sweat — twists with restraint as he fights not to finish too fast. But your body around him — your heat, your wetness, the way you tighten on every thrust — is undoing him by the second. Your body trembles and he buries his face in your neck, one hand gripping your thigh and pulling it higher over his hip so he can fuck you deeper.

You whimper at the angle, at the sudden pressure against your spongey core. It shatters your thoughts. Your hands tangle in his hair, your back arches off the bed, and the pleasure crests sharp and sudden in your gut. You’re coming apart already, faster this time, your body raw and open from the waves that still echo in your limbs. He can feel it, your exposed nerves communicating with his own.

“Give me another,” He pants, forehead pressed to yours, “Needa feel you around me. Come on— fuck— give it to me—”

There’s a desperation in his voice that sets you aflame. This is Matt, who’s unraveling above you, who can barely hold himself together, who’s chasing your pleasure like it’s the only thing anchoring him to this earth. His thrusts are erratic now, messy and deep, like control is slipping through his fingers and all he can do is chase the feeling of you tightening around him, the sound of your moans, the heat, the wetness, everything all at once.

You’re there. You’re right there. You look up at him through hooded eyes and your breath catches. His dark hair is damp, sticking to his forehead, his cheeks flushed red and glowing. His mouth is parted, jaw tense, eyes wild and dark and locked on your own. You’ve never seen anyone look like this. Like they’re about to come undone just from watching you fall apart.

“There you go,” He coos, encouragement thick with desire, “That’s it, baby.”

All at once, your body clenches around him in frantic, uncontrollable waves, wet and tight and pulsing. You cry out — his name, or just a sound, you’re not sure — as the orgasm rips through you. It seizes you completely, head tipped back, fingers clawing at his arms, your legs trembling around his hips. It’s a violent, full-body surrender. A deep contraction from somewhere unreachable inside of you, like your core itself is pulling him in and refusing to let go.

And Matt feels it. He chokes out a groan, deep and raw, and you feel the shift in him — the exact second he begins to lose control. His rhythm falters. His breath punches out of him in short, desperate grunts. One thrust, another. Then a sharp jerk of his hips, and suddenly he’s still — his body locking above you like something has snapped inside him. You feel him throb between your walls. The twitch of his cock, thick and urgent, is followed by a guttural sound you’ve never heard from him before. Like a growl broken in half, cracked by sensation.

His head drops to your shoulder, his arms shaking where they cage you in, his entire body shuddering. Then you feel the heat of him spilling into you. Rope after rope, thick and hot, pulsing into your already aching body. It’s overwhelming — not just the satisfaction of being filled, but the knowledge that he’s coming because of you. That you alone did this to him. That your body brought him to the edge and held him as he fell.

He stays inside of you, buried to the hilt, as the last few waves pulse through him. You feel every one. Every throb, every flicker of his release as it fills you. His breath is ragged against your throat, his whole body weight pressing into you now, heavy and real and shaking. You don’t mind, even in the humidity of the room. You need the weight of him. It pins you to the moment, keeps you from floating off somewhere. Because your whole body is humming — sore, raw, alive — and your mind hasn’t caught up yet with what just happened.

You wrap your arms around his back, fingers dragging gently up his spine. He’s soaked in sweat, heaving beneath your palms, and you can feel his heart hammering where his chest is pressed to yours. Neither of you can speak yet. There’s only breathing. The soft, broken rhythm of lungs searching for air. The thundering in your ears. The quiet twitch of your walls still fluttering around the softening length of him, like your body hasn’t quite figured out it’s over.

You don’t even realize you’re practically suffocating until Matt slides carefully out of you and collapses on the bed to your left, chest rising and falling in sync with your own, both of you gasping like swimmers who misjudged the distance to the surface. The bed feels disgusting beneath you — damp, sticky, top sheet clinging to your back like wet paper. Every inch of your skin is slick with sweat. The heat presses in like a second body. It’s even hotter now than before you started, like the room itself is exhaling with you.

Matt groans, throwing one arm over his eyes. “Okay,” He says, voice raw and hoarse, “In hindsight? Probably the worst possible activity for a heatwave.”

You let out a breathless laugh, turning your head toward him, “Yeah, I noticed.”

He doesn’t move — just lies there, limbs spread like he’s trying to make contact with any available patch of cool air. Eventually, he turns his head toward you, eyes squinting in the light, hair matted to his forehead. “You good?”

You nod, small smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. “You?”

He lifts one lazy hand and gives a crooked thumbs-up before letting it flop back to the bed. Silence drapes over you again, but it’s comfortable. It’s the stretch of space after something monumental, when your body is still remembering and your brain hasn’t quite caught up. Matt rolls onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow. His fingers reach for your hair — pushing it back gently. You close your eyes at the comforting feeling of his knuckles skimming your temple, dragging sweat back into your hairline.

“Wanna take a shower?” He mumbles, brushing a damp strand off your cheek.

“Yes,” You reply, though it comes out more like a sigh.

Neither of you rush it, though. You just stare at the ceiling for another moment, slippery legs braiding together mindlessly. Eventually, you both drag yourselves up. The floor is hot beneath your feet. The hallway even hotter. When you reach the bathroom, Matt leans over the tub and fumbles for the cold tap. He doesn’t speak, just waits, listening to the rush of water hit the tile. You lean against the wall beside the closed door, arms crossed under your bare chest. “You gonna keep your hands to yourself?”

He blinks at you in the mirror, then gives a lopsided grin. Holds two fingers up, “Scout’s honour.”

You raise an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Hmm. That sounds awfully familiar.”

He pretends to look scandalized. “Are you accusing me of being untrustworthy?”

“I’m accusing you of being full of shit,” You say sweetly, stepping around him to test the water. It’s ice cold, thankfully. “I believe you very recently said the same thing. Then proceeded to melt an ice cube on my tits.”

“That was purely for heat stroke prevention,” He explains.

You snort, “Then you fucked me.”

“Touche.”

You step into the spray first. The cold shocks your system, but it feels so good — almost as good as your last orgasm, who’s aftershock still sits low in you. Matt steps in behind you a moment later, groaning dramatically as the water hits him. He stands a respectful distance away, but you can feel the heat of him still. It’s silent for a moment as you shampoo your hair, rinsing it out and letting the suds run down your body.

“Are you cooled down enough yet?” His voice comes from behind you. You turn around and find him standing with his arms crossed, goosebumped skin and blue-tinged lips. You laugh at the pitiful sight, letting the water run slightly warmer.

“You could’ve waited.”

“You may have died of hypothermia in here unsupervised.”

You snort. “Supervised? What are you, a lifeguard?”

He pauses for a moment, playful smile toying with his lips in the way it does when he’s coming up with a clever response.

“I prefer the term wetness consultant,” He finally says, and you nearly slip from how hard you began to laugh.

“You did not just say that to me.”

“It’s true,” He tilts his head beneath the spray, flicking water from his lashes, “I stand by it. I’m providing a service.”

“A public one?” You retort.

He rolls his eyes, smirking, “Nah. Usually private one-on-ones.”

You shake your head, stepping forward to reach for the body wash. His gaze drops automatically to your tits, and you catch it. “Eyes up here, creep.”

But his gaze has intensified, and brows pull in just slightly with focus. “You just,” He says, voice low, words half-lost beneath the rush of water, “Have something—”

Before you can ask what, his hands rise and settle at your waist, thumbs brushing your wet skin. His touch is so light it feels almost imagined. You lean back slightly, instinctively, and the chill of the tile wall hits your spine like a warning. But his body moves with yours, crowding just enough without forcing space. His eyes flick down again. You follow his gaze and see a single line of suds, clinging to the curve of your tit, delicate and iridescent in the light.

One of his hands travels up your side and cups your breast, and he swipes a thumb across your nipple to clear away the shampoo in a single, fluid motion. It hardens under the contact, and you groan internally at the way your pulse began to race. His lips part as he watches it react, and he leans down, wrapping his mouth around your nipple and sucking delicately. You close your eyes, the cold washing over you in unison with rippling desire, and try not to think too hard about the distinguishable heat still burning dangerously beneath your skin.

─ ⊹ ⊱ ☆ ⊰ ⊹ ─

[wisteria-lodge]

What do you think about Draco’s and James’s similarities + differences but opposite treatment in the narrative?

Since Draco does have a full detailed explanation behind his behavior, he was raised to think it’s okay but they should keep up appearances, and he often witnessed others doing it first. James does not have any sort of explanation other than his parents pampered him.

Both said “Think I’d leave, wouldn’t you”. However Draco said it in context of trying to find something to bond with Harry over whereas James just wanted to bully Snape.

In Goblet of Fire, Draco points out how the death eaters could attack Hermione to scare the Trio into leaving him alone, however James actually did what the death eaters and threatened to do worse since he took his frustrations with Lily out on Snape. In Said confrontations, The Trio were the ones who accidentally came across Draco but James approached Snape out of boredom.

Both had prejudiced beliefs but Draco actually gave up his childhood prejudices but we have no proof James did.

While James did help Snape, he was also helping His friends and he went right back to sadisticly bullying and he was the main instigator.

Draco spared his enemies and tried helping them with no ulterior motives and fully expecting to be tortured/killed. While he did go to Harry in the room of requirement, he didn’t actively participate in the attacking, aside from trying to stop Crabbe from attacking the Trio. He also even expresses concern for Harry.

Yet James is somehow seen as more heroic.

James dies, Draco doesn't. It's the Draco vs Regulus framing thing all over again. As far as JKR is concerned, dying heroically just fixes everything, I guess.

A related part of her worldview is that suffering purifies you and makes you a better person. I do think that's the intended purpose of the super deliberate James + Draco parallels ("I think I'd leave, wouldn't you? [if I was sorted into X house]" - is really on the nose.) It's supposed to communicate how Harry would have looked, if he'd grown up like James or Draco. (Wealthy, only child, wizard parents who dote on him and spoil him.) Under difference circumstances, Harry could have had more of an ego, been more entitled, given into the brutal streak that he does have. When we first see school-age James, he's described as "It was as though [Harry] was looking at himself but with deliberate mistakes." That's a very interesting description, and I think ties in nicely to an "alternate universe Harry" reading.

This is also something that seems to have been on Dumbledore's mind. He describes 11-year-old Harry as "You were not a pampered little prince [ie, James], but as normal a boy as I could have hoped under the circumstances. Thus far, my plan was working well."

So: As far as he's concerned, leaving Harry with the Dursleys is not just justified but good, because it's made Harry a better person. Considering that Dumbledore, Snape, Dudley, Ron (arguably Draco) also have personal growth arcs kick-started through suffering... I'd say this is a point of view the text supports overall.

But another thing... is that I've always thought JKR writes friend group dynamics really, really well. They're messy, shifting, warm, tight-knit and complicated. Outside dynamics like class, politics, and discrimination come in, and bounce around in unpredictable ways. Even if there was some way to cleanly add up everyone's 'bullying points' and 'victim points' or whatever, and plug them into some formula, and be able to come out with some definitive statement like "Draco had it worse than Peter" - I wouldn't want to do it. What makes the Harry+Ron+Hermione+Draco dynamic interesting... and what makes the James+Remus+Sirius+Peter+Severus+Lily+Regulus dynamic even *more* interesting... is that basically everyone has an area in which they're powerful or privileged, another area where they're vulnerable or disenfranchised (with the possible exception of James)... and it makes for these fantastically complex character dynamics and vicious cycles.

Because every single one of these characters is written with some degree of ambiguity, (some more than others...) which ones you gravitate towards, and which ones you dislike end up being more of a personal Rorschach test than anything rooted in the books.

Like, I can see from your ask that you're inclined to give Draco a very positive edit. (and I mean, come on, I love Draco too.) You read Draco as vulnerable during the scene where the Golden Trio finds him the woods during the World Cup chaos, and decides to "scare the Trio into leaving him alone." That is absolutely a read that makes sense, but it's one that you're bringing to the book, there's nothing in that scene to suggest that Draco feels threatened. My personal read is that Draco - always squeamish about violence - is actually worried about Hermione on some unexamined level, because everything he says during that scene is advice on how to protect her, just expressed in a really asshole-ish way. But I think the read intended by JKR is - here's Draco, being an asshole, dishing out some exposition.

[lochallthedoors]

You seem to be coming from a pretty optimistic place, though, with Council Skies. I guess it’s uplifting in the right places, and it’s melancholy in the right places. I think it’s quite an honest record. I don’t like to make the [songs] too autobiographical. I certainly wouldn’t draw attention to the parts of songs that are about me and my life. “Dead to the World” is very autobiographical. So are “Think of a Number,” “Council Skies” and “Trying To Find a World That’s Been and Gone.” -- noel interview, spin.com, may 25, 2023

noel interview in first and last gifs: radio x, 8 june 2023

bonus, liam when asked about the song: "It's all about me it always was and is"

[rawliverandgoronspice]

Gantober 2024

So, joining the efforts of @bloobluebloo, I'll be partaking in Gantober!!

What that entails is, I'll be TRYING (emphasis on trying) to post one Ganondorf-related prompt a day. I have two ready, one for yesterday and one for today, but feel free to send me suggestions, either under this post or through asks!

I'm open to any iteration of Ganondorf, or even characters adjacent to him, and the mood can be my usual overdramatic somber edgelord shit or something less intense, and I'll even indulge in spice if that's what you're craving!

thank youuu ;;

Masterlist of all Prompts

Rest (Adult Timeline, OoT/Wind Waker)

Vessels (Tears of the Kingdom, Ganauru sort of, mind the tags it's weird)

...

...

[sisterdivinium]

Asymmetry

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Categories: F/F, Gen Relationship: Jillian Salvius/Mother Superion Characters: Mother Superion (Warrior Nun), Jillian Salvius

Mother Superion almost wishes she had not lost her scar at the thought of Jillian's own.

[haru-chi]

Okaaaay I'll drop this crazy thought that's been on my mind for ages for Seiji ...

If I said, what if something within him is yokai-related, would that make any sense to you ??

[jumpscaregoose]

UPDATEE FOR UR EVIL BIG THING PRETTY PLEASE

alas not much progress has been made due to my work being crazy this week... the doc is now almost 6k words though...

after much deliberation you can have a snippet. as a treat

[xoxojisu]

CRASHOUT CENTRAL!

synopsis: katsuki has no idea if you like him or not

notes: bubbly + affectionate reader. umm implied hetero girl i think? but could also apply to not hetero i have no idea im sorry im just writing. idk if men crashout the way girls do but i like to think so. a lot of excessive unnecessary swearing bc it's katsuki. this is so ooc bc lets be fr when does katsuki talk abt *puke* feelings

he’s pacing.

shirtless. agitated. hair all mussed from his own frustrated hands.

kirishima’s lying on his bed with his hands behind his head, watching his best friend spiral for what has to be the third time this week.

“she said i smelled good,” katsuki huffs, whirling around. “who says that? who just..! says that to someone?”

“people who think you smell good?” kirishima offers helpfully.

katsuki glares at him like he’s the dumbest person alive. “she said it while huggin' me. and she said it in that sweet fuckin' singsongy voice.”

“right.”

“and then laughed when i didn’t say anything back. all fuckin' giggly and stupid.”

“you like when she’s giggly and stupid,” kirishima points out.

katsuki makes a noise in his throat. “not when i’m trying to figure out if she’s in love with me or just likes everyone.”

kirishima hums. “well. she is kind of a naturally affectionate person.”

“exactly!” katsuki snaps, flinging his arms out. “what if i’m just one of her little fuckin'.. plushies she likes huggin' or some shit? what if she’s going around being all sweet and smiley with everyone and i’m here thinking she wants to marry me? like, seriously. i've seen her cuddle with fuckin' pinky and round cheeks too, and she's always so.. giggly! and when i think she's flirting, she says it so fuckin' casual. like it's nothing. and i must be fuckin' delusional to think that it's anything more.”

kirishima snorts. “well, ashido and uraraka are both girls. and she doesn’t cuddle me the way she cuddles you.”

katsuki freezes.

“…you think?”

“bro, she lies on top of you like you’re a mattress. more than that, she like really curls in to you. no one does that platonically. that's just not a thing.”

katsuki makes another miserable groaning sound and throws himself down into the beanbag chair like he’s been wounded. he drags his hands down his face, muffling a scream into his palms.

“i don’t know anymore,” he mutters. “she calls me ‘kats’ like it’s just a nickname but then she’ll say it in that soft fuckin' voice like it’s something else. she’s always touching me and smiling and calling me cute but she does it so casually, like it’s just her being her. i don’t know what’s real. i don’t know if i’m hallucinating. i think i’m losing my goddamn mind. like, it's the tone. she goes all 'aweee, thanks kats!' in that stupid fuckin' sing-songy tone. i hate it! fucking..!” kirishima has no idea what katsuki's trying to punch to death. the air, maybe?

after watching him flop around like a dying fish for a moment, he offered gently, “why don’t you just ask her how she feels?”

katsuki sits up. furious.

he says nothing, but kirishima can tell what he's trying to say just from his look.

“well then,” kirishima shrugs. “guess you’ll just have to keep suffering.”

and katsuki does. every time you brush your fingers over his knuckles or play with his hoodie strings or grin at him from across the room with that stupid sweet look in your eyes, he suffers. quietly. dramatically.

because he wants you to mean it so badly.

but he has no idea if you do.

masterlist

[ozzgin]

It is the 19th century and you are returning home by ship. Before you embark, you happen to find a glowing shell abandoned by the docks. It seems that the sea creatures are searching for it. Or maybe it's something else they're interested in. content: gender neutral reader, violence, dubious consent, based on Return of the Obra Dinn

January 1802 What's the matter with me, I wonder? As if my luggage wasn't heavy enough already, I had to drag around a big shell of sorts. Found it by the docks while I waited for my ship to arrive. It has a strange glow to it, this shell. Can't quite place it.

January 1802 Cheeky bastards! The seamen are such a flirt. From the moment I stepped onto the main deck, a handful of them haven't dropped the whistles and stares. One of the topmen - I recall he's Scottish? - he's been pestering me about the ship. "I'll show ye around, can't find a better guide," he says. His mates laugh and clap to his petty attempts.

February 1802 Some of the sailors are dying from lung illness. I was on the orlop deck, playing cards with the three Russians, when the surgeon rushed to one of the cabins ahead. "If it was contagious, we'd all have it by now. Damned if I know what it is, or where it comes from," I could hear him groan. I wondered out loud if I might catch it myself, but then I noticed one of 'em rascals trying to cheat the cards. February 1802 I saw it again tonight. Ever since we launched from Falmouth, as soon as the sun sets, there's an eerie glimmer in the distance. It reminds me of this damned shell. Are my eyes playing tricks on me? Oh, the sea is so terrifying in the dark. There's nothing but black stretching all around. My window is low; whenever the waves break against it, the wooden walls let out a groan that awakens me from the deepest slumber. Surgeon gave me pills to sleep. The creaks of the ship sound like a weeping maiden. February 1802 I think the cursed glow is getting closer. I couldn't sleep anymore, so I snuck onto the main deck. Scotsman found me wandering towards the bow, so he quietly hoisted me up by the waist. I thought he'd tell the Captain, but he sat me on the lower rigging, next to him, and we listened to the waves. I was afraid I'd fall off, but he kept a steady hand on me. I wish I could tell him about the light stalking our ship. Would he think I'm mad?

February 1802 Second Mate returned today on a small boat. We heard shouts coming from upstairs, so we rushed to see what was happening. Bosun had his pistol readied next to the Captain, and the sailors lifted the cargo from below. I thought I was dreaming at first. Some creatures, unholy beings, were caught in the net. They had the body of a human, but thick, fish tails covered in spikes. One of the Formosan passengers muttered something in Chinese, and some of the tail spikes suddenly pierced him dead. The old Miss next to me fainted on the spot, and the stewards urged us to leave. Right before I turned, I noticed one of the beasts pointing at me. It had a monstrous grin on its face. Oh, what a sight! The Scotsman guided me away, but I can't forget those eyes. Was it malice? Such an intense stare, burning straight into my soul. Now that I'm writing all this, a memory has come to mind: the creature had the same shell as mine, dangling from its neck.

February 1802 The pills no longer work. I can't rest anymore. Every time I close my eyes, I hear its wretched voice, calling me from the lazarette. That's where they locked those sea monsters. It sings nonsense, blasphemous lies. We're not fated soulmates. I've nothing to do with those devils. I should've never picked up the shell. I can only pray we reach land soon.

March 1802 God, oh God, what disaster has befallen us? I don't have much time. The gun deck is in shambles, more than half the crew dead. Underwater beasts have crawled their way up our ship; strange humans with spears, saddled on top of crabs larger than I've ever seen. The poor midshipman, oh, a young boy! He set himself on fire to stop the nightmarish fiend. Threw the lamp across the floor, and the flames swallowed both of them up. I scrambled up on the main deck, but there was no peace to be found; colossal tentacles sprawled around the ship, pulling the rigging apart, tearing humans like insects. The Captain's wife was struck by a falling pillar, I saw her crumble right before me. Scotsman is still alive, but his arm is missing a good chunk of it. I don't know where to find the surgeon.

March 1803 They left. They took the last boat, I only found out this morning. I tried to join them, but one of the sailors stopped me. "Witch," he shouted at me, "the beast down by the cargo hold screams your name. You must've called it here, brought this curse upon us." I don't know what he's talking about. Tonight I'm going to the lazarette, I can no longer bear the calling. This blasted fiend, oh, he's ruined me. I'll rot on this wreck. Mother, I don't think I'll ever reach the shore.

Your steps are hesitant as you tiptoe your way around the dried blood and debris, until you reach the locked chambers. The door is bent and folded away, as if hit by a great force. You do indeed notice the round prints against the rusty surface: giant suckers from a blasphemous being.

There he is, the wicked varmint who plagues your sleep! A pale creature is propped up, halfway out of the water, welcoming you with a toothy grin. The shell around his neck glows mockingly.

You throw your own shell at him. The small, ivory object rolls with a hollow thud.

"Is this what you wanted, damned monster?"

"Why, what am I to do with two?"

His voice is harsh and deep, rapping against your eardrums, scratching the inside of your head.

"I've been waiting for you. Can't leave this place without my beloved, can I?"

"There you go again with this nonsense. Villain! Drown me if you must, but spare me your deceit."

His smile falters, eyes narrowing in a frown.

"Is that how you find my love? Some petty lie told by a charlatan? Ungrateful brat, who do you think freed you from their shackles? Who do you suspect has summoned the leviathan, from the deepest trenches of the sea, to save your mortal soul?"

"The kraken left with the storm," you counter as the blood drains from your face. Could it be that you were to blame, after all?

"No, it left after the bargain."

He pulls himself up and sits on the edge of his former cage. You observe his features in mild awe: the texture of his skin, the dark locks of hair reaching all the way to the tail, the spikes breaking out of the thick, hard scales.

"What bargain," you ask fearfully.

"The last ones are free to escape, if they leave you to me."

Why, your horrified expression is not quite something he expected. Surely one must feel relief once their freedom has been guaranteed. And not just any kind of freedom - you've been returned to your soulmate.

He's spent weeks chasing the currents, trailing the faint glow in the distance. He hasn't stopped once, tail pushing forward to the promise of a reunion.

Yet, you seem unsure. Perhaps his approach has been too hurried, too nonchalant. You need a little bit of convincing, and he happens to be a master of courting.

His thorax suddenly expands, and you can almost hear the twisting sound of his ribs cracking and breaking under the pressure. A sweet voice rolls out of his mouth, a song you've never heard before. Your heart pounds tremendously, threatening to burst out of your chest, and a foreign panic floods your senses.

Despite your desire to flee, your lids are heavy, eyes slowly closing. Through your lashes, you can discern the beast crawling towards you, the same defiant grin plastered on his face.

It's time for you to come home.

[whorelaud]

꒦꒷ ﹏ destory me on camera ¡

pairing best friend!rafe x OF creator!reader

summary Rafe finger fucking you for you OF content, not because he's been dying to lay his hands on you, and carress every curve of your body, after only being able to admire such view through the screen. 

contains smut, fingering (obvi), cameras, squirting, spit as lube, dirty talk, praise & degradation, teasing, brief mention of rafe jerking off to your videos, perv rafe...? wc; 2k

a/n this had me insane i needed to do it omff i hope you enjoy as much as i did writing it!! bsf rafe is such a whore he needs his own appreciation :p

"Pretty please, Rafe?" Your lips jut into a pout, eyes innocently fluttering up at him. Your hand lightly trailed up his thigh, landing right around his crotch, where his cock was already leaking with pre-cum, desperare to be caressed by your pretty, delicate fingers. "C'mon, you don't want to be mean to your best friend, do you?" 

"You're insane, you know that?" He barely managed to stutter out a breath, arms haunched over the couch, where he was struggling to maintain his position, and hold back from pushing your head down on his cock. 

"Is that a yes?" You excitedly perked up, face mere inches away from Rafe's. You planted a small kiss to his cheek, moving away before he could process the gesture. "Thank you, I'll make sure you won't regret it." 

"Do something before I change my mind, then." He shot back, causing you to shove his arm. A breath knocked out of his chest at the lack of warmness when you moved away to stand to your feet. His gaze followed your figure, halting just around your cleavage, where your boobs laid exposed to the chilly air, barely covered by the sheer, see through top you were wearing.

Rafe's gaze furrowed upon landing on the hand you offered him, hesitating to accpet the touch till you further explained. "You don't think I'm gonna let you fuck me here, do you?" You questioned, sly grin plastering across your lips. Rafe's throat dried at the statement, failing to keep his compusure, and feign nonchalance over whatever the hell stunt you were pulling on him. "Let's go to the room, I already have the camera set up." 

"You do?" He mumbled, letting you drag him towards your room. You nodded, twisting the doorknob open, and revealing the set up you had going on, camera adjusted over the bed, the same view he was used to witnessing through the screen while he secretly got off to your videos. 

"I've got to be prepared," you giggled, letting go of his hand, and throwing yourself on the bed with a thud. You plopped your arms on the bed, crossing your legs seductively, as your skirt rid up your thighs, revealing the plump flesh hidden beneath the material. That alone had Rafe's cock stirring in his pants, desperate to explore your whole body, dive in your pussy till he no longer could coherent normal words out. "Knew you'd agree to this." 

"What made you sure I was gonna agree to this?" He cocked his head to the side, fingers finding your ankle, as he deliberately traced the soft skin, leading all the way to your thighs. You tilted your head back, groping your tits through the fabric, the action immediately earning a grunt out of Rafe. 

"I know my best friend," you shuddered out a breath, tugging the sheer of your top down, causing goosebumps to instantly break out across your chest. "You wouldn't say no to this." 

"Fuck, yeah I won't." He hissed, grasping one of your tits in his hold. He squeezed the fatty flesh, kneading and carressing your nipple in between his fingers, until it was hard and perky. His attention settled in between your thighs, admiring the wet mess he made out of you, a wet patch visible through your lace panties. "While you look fucking great in those, I need them off your body now." 

"Relax, Rafe, I'm not goin' anywhere." You teased, gliding your tongue over your teeth, as you leisurely tugged at the strings of your panties, merely to mess with Rafe, and get a reaction out of him. "Why don't you get the camera rolling first? Then I'll give you what you want." 

"Fuck, how do I start this thing?" Rafe mumbled, pressing random buttons to get the camera started. His gaze fixed on the small lense, gulping at the sight of you practically half naked on the bed. Fuck, you looked surreal, out of world, he wished this wasn't just for content. "Is it on?" 

You nodded upon spotting the little red light, waving him over with your hand. "How are we doin' this?" You asked, shuffling around for Rafe to squeeze himself behind you, quickly relaxing in his arms after he adjusted his position. A yelp almost shrieks past your parted lips as Rafe's hardon brushes over your lower back, clearly as turned on as you were, probably ever more. "Comfortable?" 

"Don't worry about me," he hummed in your ear, bunching your hair to the side, where he could catch glimpse of your figure loose in his hold. He began by toying with the necklace hugging your neck, trailing his hand all the way down to your cleavage. From soothing circles turned into him groping you through the fabric, kneading the skin in his hand, the moans you mewled out like music to his ears. "Moaning like a fucking slut, huh, that feel' good?" 

His name threatened to leave your mouth, washed down by a gasp when his lips brushed over the blade of your shoulder, littering wet, open-mouthed kisses to it as his fingers continuously massaged your tits, immediately releasing them when he tugged the fabric down. You buried your face in the crook of his neck, teeth grazing over his throat, far overwhelmed by the pleasure from the touch. 

"You gonna let me fuck you in front of that camera?" Rafe whispered, mostly to you, dragging his hand down your lower stomach, past the waistband of your skirt. He pushed it up your waist, gaze settling on the camera lense as he fingered at your panties, sliding then beneath the fabric, as he toyed with it back and forth, the action teasing, causing you to arch your back. "Such a desperate slut, aren't you? Dying for my fingers to fuck your needy pussy." 

"Mhm," you nodded, lips pressing into a thin line to contain your whines from scooping out, not wanting to come off needy, though your body language spoke otherwise. "Fuck me, please, destroy me on camera for everyone to see, 'want your fingers inside me." 

Using the arm wrapped around your waist, Rafe pressed you down as he managed to slide the lace panties off, the action casual, yet deliberate, oblivious to your fucked-out state, and the mess he created out of you. 

He almost chuckled, amused by the ragged whine that escaped your throat, lips parting with awe, as Rafe glides his digits up and down your folds, fingering at your sensitive clit, making you squirm in his arms. It felt heavenly, most times, you had to fake your reaction for content, but with Rafe? It came flawlessly, his fingers worked magic. 

He traced your hole with the tip of his long digits, collecting your juices in the process of sliding his fingers up and down your hole, until your cunt was drenched with your arousal. 

Pride swelled his chest, knowing he was the cause of this, as well as the whines you kept spilling out, far too gone to acknowledge the camera yet rolling. Rafe used your parted lips as an opportunity to slip his fingers inside, taking in the sensation of your hot spit gliding over the digits, desperately licking your arousal off his fingers.

A groan knocks out Rafe's mouth, as his fingers exit your mouth with a pop, the sound causing him to twitch in his pants. He was rock hard, it was starting to hurt, he could not wait to get off while remincing over your little moans that displayed how eager you were to have him, feeding into his sick fantasies. 

"So good with your fingers," you praised, encouraging him to continue rubbing circles to your clit, flicking the nub over and over again, till your cunt was slick with (your) spit. 

"Such a fucking whore." He murmurs, lips ghosting over the shell of your ear. His attention fixed on your cunt, hole gripping around nothing, and leaking with your juices. Turned on was underestimating how Rafe felt in the moment, heat pooling past his neck, until it settled on his face, tinting his cheeks a deep shade of red. 

"Fuckkk..." You trailed off, fluttering your lashes through hooded eyes. Your body jerked as Rafe spread your folds with his fingers, revealing your glistening nub, coated with a glossy layer. "You like playing with your best friend's pussy baby?" 

Rafe palmed your cunt at the statement, the gesture spiraling a wave of pleasure through your insides. Rafe's grunts were barely audible, though they were loud and clear like music to your ears, only for you to hear and enjoy. 

The latter eventually decided to quit teasing you and line his fingers with your entrance, tracing them up and down, only inserting the tip of his digits to test you. You whined in protest, wiggling for a fraction, anything to help with your pent up sexual frustration, one only Rafe, your best friend could relieve. 

He easily slid a finger inside, immediately engulfed with the warmness of your cunt, as you clenched around him, growing blinded by pleasure. He moved slowly; with a purpose, exploring each and every inch of you, afraid he'd miss out if he didn't pay you enough attention. 

"Such a pathetic doll, letting your best friend ruin your pussy with his fingers." He grunted, fastening his pace, and lining his other finger with your hole. 

"Yes yes yes yesss," you threw your head back,

as Rafe inserted another finger inside you, pumping them in and out of your hole, till you got used to his digits stretched you out. "Fuck me, please, 'wish it was your cock instead!" 

"Bet you do," he heaved out a breath, scissoring his fingers inside you to explore every corner. "You'd like that, huh? Wanna fuck you dumb like a pathetic lil slut." 

Rafe continued fucking you with his fingers, main focus on your face as it twisted with pleasure. His calloused digits repeatedly moved inside you, hitting your sweet spot in the process, and causing desire to spiral through your insides, coating every blood vessel and vein. 

"You like fuckin' me like this?" You questioned through a whine, littering kisses to the curve of Rafe's jaw. "Much better than jerking off to my videos, don't you think?" 

Fuck, you knew. 

You chuckled when you recieved no response from the latter, a mere whimper as he thrusted his fingers inside your hole, rather pleased with himself, hoping this was your actual reaction, and not just for content. 

"Come on my fingers," he demanded, request filthy,

something he fantasized about in the dim of the night. "I know you're close." 

He was right, in the span of seconds, your climax built up, indicating you were close everytime Rafe would apply pressure, or use his thumb to rub your clit, spiking more and more heat through your body. 

Your orgasm reached its peak, coming hard as you squirted all over Rafe's fingers, with Rafe riding his digits through your orgasm, not stopping even when your legs trembled as you came down from your high. 

Rafe's fingers dripped with your sweet arousal, liquid tracing along the veins kissing up his arms. The sight alone had him a fucking mess, you dare make it worse when you bring his fingers to your lips, and suck his fingers clean. 

The latter observed in awe, spit pooling in his mouth, as desire fogged his vision, eager to get a taste of your lips now glossed with your arousal. 

A grin formed on your lips, quickly closing the distance seperating you in a chaste kiss, one breaking the boundaies you built for your friendship. Rafe's lips moved desperately over yours, licking into your mouth for the mere purpose of tasting you. 

That didn't last long, interrupted when you inched back, just enough to whisper out your next words. "Pizza?" 

"What?" Rafe's caught off gaurd by the question, too sudden for him to process it. 

"Should we get pizza?" You asked, sitting up straight. "I'm hungry." 

"Did we not jus–" 

"That was for content!" You reasoned, face immediately growing hot. "It's done now, take care of your business and come on out, you drained me out, I'll help you out next time." 

"There's a next time?" He nearly choked on his own spit. 

"Only if you're up for it..." You shot back, searching for a reaction out of the latter. 

Up for it? Screw that, he'd fuck you right now if he could. 

[harrysfolklore]

i see your face in every crowd - op81

summary: the asutralian grand prix is right around the corner and oscar's face is everywhere in melbourne, his ex girlfriend can't help but miss him (he misses her too)

folkie radio: if you know me you know i'm a sucker for an exes to lovers trope, and honestly this one is one of my faves i've ever done. ENJOY AND LEAVE FEEDBACK

MASTERLIST | MY PATREON

liked by oliviarodrigo, lando and 2,107,399 others

yourinstagram back home for a bit... needed some time to reset & breathe. been writing loads lately - the songs are just pouring out 🌊 feeling more inspired than ever tbh. can't wait to share what i've been working on with u all soon. huge thank u for all the love lately, means more than u know xx

view all comments

username1 BABYYYY

username2 i'm happy she's home and surrounded by love

sabrinacarpenter miss ur face already 😭 these songs are about to end lives fr

chappellroan THEYRE NOT READY FOR WHAT'S COMING!!! also pls come back to LA soon i'm dying without u

username3 chappellynbrina is a forever thing

username4 the way melbourne gp is gonna be so awkward next month...

└ username1 why does everyone have to make everything about that 🙄 let them live

└ username2 no fr like can we focus on the music instead

username5 oscar ain't shit anyway, ur so much better without him queen

└ username3 y'all don't even know what happened, stop being toxic

└ username6 they literally both asked for privacy can u respect that maybe

alexandrasaintmleux being home suits u sm! can't wait for the new era

└ username2 once a wag always a wag

username7 THE BREAKUP ALBUM IS COMING AND IM HERE FOR IT

username8 take all the time u need but also pls drop a song soon we're starving 😩

lando yooo text me when you get the chance !

└ username1 THEIR FRIENDSHIP LIVES

└username2 oscar piastri you can't break this one

username9 some of y'all are being so mean for no reason, they were cute together and now they're not, it happens

username10 manifesting a collab with sabrina on this album 🕯️

liked by lando, alex_albon and 467,958 others

oscarpiastri Last few days of prep before heading home for the season opener. Ready 💪

view all comments

username1 THATS MY BABY GOAT

username2 we're so taking that wdc this year

lando looking a bit weak mate might need another few months of training

└ oscarpiastri stick to gaming mate

└ carlossainz55 Children, behave 😂

└ username1 THIS INTERACTION

username3 we're so back. man's entering his thirst trap era and we love to see it

└ username1 healing through gym pics, real

username4 the transformation from rookie to absolute unit we love to see it

username5 melbourne's gonna go crazy for him

└ username2 the city will be pretty much covered with his face

username7 the post-breakup glow >>>>>>

username8 bro said watch me get faster AND hotter

username9 yn is stronger than me bc i definitely would've given him another chance

georgerussell63 Looking strong 💪🏼

└ lando but still slower than me

└ oscarpiastri We'll see about that mate

└ username3 WHAT IS LANDO'S PROBLEM

aussiegp Our hometown hero getting ready to give us a show 🇦🇺

username10 YN GET BACK WITH HIM I BEGGG

liked by shortandbrina, livbedumb and 119 others

definitelynotyn not me stalking his instagram at 2am with a glass of rosé in hand... why he gotta post gym pics looking like THAT 😭 someone take my phone away fr because what if i do something stupid like text him rn???? also why does he have to look so good while training I HATE HIM

view all comments

shortandbrina girl DELETE instagram rn i'm not joking!! calling u in 2 mins

└ definitelynotyn too late i already watched his story 3 times help

midwestprincess this is why we don't drink wine alone bestie... coming over with ice cream and we're watching mean girls

└ definitelynotyn pls hurry before i do something stupid like listen to our playlist

livbedumb first rule of breakups: BLOCK THE GYM PROGRESS POSTS!!!! trust me on this one

└ definitelynotyn but what if i just want to check if he's doing okay 🥲

└ gracieeeeee she's lost it completely someone intervene

arithegood not me literally writing a song about this exact situation last week 💀 wine drunk stalking is universal bestie

└ definitelynotyn pls send me the song i just know it'll hurt so good

phoebenotbuffay okay but like... we've all been there 😭 remember when i almost texted #him after he decided to walk around in those short shorts

└ definitelynotyn at least urs wasn't wearing race suits that make his arms look like THAT

whostaylorswiftanyway time to write a song about it bestie x

└ definitelynotyn already got three verses and a bridge done ngl

liked by username1, username2 and 6,974 others

f1updates Melbourne is getting ready for the Australian GP! The city is covered in @/oscarpiastri billboards and posters as they prepare to welcome their home hero

view all comments

username1 imagine being yn trying to get coffee and boom there's your ex's face on a 50ft billboard 💀

username2 the way you literally can't escape his face anywhere in the cbd this week

username3 the way this gp would've been so different if they were still together... remember last year?

└ username1 they were the cutest in the paddock

└ username2 pls she probably won't even be in melbourne this year

username4 our boy is everywhere and we love to see it!!

username5 the promotional team really said oscar piastri world domination

username6 the billboards are giving everything they need to give tbh

username7 maybe she should drop the breakup album during race week for maximum chaos

└ username1 now that would be iconic behavior

└ username3 the way the charts and the podium would be fighting for his attention

username8 MELBOURNE IS OSCARLAND

username9 imagine not being an oscar fan rn… or worse, being his ex

username10 CAN SOMEBODY THINK OF OUR GIRL YN

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

liked by lando, charles_leclerc and 597,388 others

oscarpiastri Seems like there's a few of me around Melbourne at the moment... has anyone noticed? 😅

view all comments

username1 OSCAR FUCKING PIASTRI

username2 HE DID NOT

lando bit of an upgrade for the city tbh └ oscarpiastri Better than your face mate

username3 OH HE'S MESSY FOR THIS ONE

└ username1 posting this RIGHT after her story i'm screaming

username4 he chose violence today and i'm here for it

mclaren Our guy's everywhere! Can't wait for the weekend 🧡

└ username2 admin pretending they don't see what's happening here

username5 THE TIMING OF THIS POST??? someone's feeling petty

username6 he really said "oh you can't escape me? let me show you why" 💀

georgerussell63 Just ran into your face in the airport

username7 the way he probably had these pics ready and WAITED

username8 bro saw her story and chose chaos

danielricciardo looking good mate! although i remember when it was my face everywhere 👴 └ oscarpiastri Times change old man

username9 it's giving "oh you miss seeing me? here's more" energy actually

username10 focusing on the important stuff: he looks good in every single billboard

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

liked by harrystyles, sabrinacarpenter and 1,389,647 others

yourinstagram missing tour life so much today! can't wait to get back on the road and see all your beautiful faces again 💕 thankful for the memories we've made together x

view all comments

username1 MY GIRL I MISS HER

username2 the way she posted this exactly after THAT story... we see you

└ username3 damage control era

troyesivan SUPERSTAR 🤩🤩

username4 girl we know what (who) you're really missing

└ username2 not her trying to distract us 😭

username5 we're not fooled bestie but we support you

sabrinacarpenter miss you too angel!! ❤️

└ yourinstagram love you sabs 🥺

username6 NOT THE DAMAGE CONTROL POST

username7 WE NEED A TOUR ASAP

gracieabrams I miss being on the road with you 🥹🥹

username8 EVERYONE TALKIG ABOUT OSCAR HELP

username9 can we talk about how good she looked on tour though??

username10 the way she's probably sitting with sabrina rn planning damage control posts

└ username11 the group chat must be WILD right now

liked by midwestprincess, livbedumb and 109 others

definitelynotyn well. something just came in the mail and i think i might actually throw up. universe really said "you thought that instagram story wasn't enough embarrassment for one day?"

view all comments

shortnbrina GIRL CHECK YOUR TEXTS RN

└ definitelynotyn I'M HAVING A CRISIS

midwestprincess the way i SPRINTED here when you texted

└ definitelynotyn help what do i do

└ midwestprincess BREATHE FIRST

gracieeee wait is that what i think it is? 🏁

└ definitelynotyn 🙃🙃🙃

└ gracieeee OH MY GOD????

livbedumb the timing… someone's been plotting

└ definitelynotyn don't. i can't think about that.

maddiebeer okay but like… are you going?

└ definitelynotyn MADS PLS I'M ALREADY SPIRALING

└ maddiebeer that's not a no 👀

arithegood manifesting a rain delay so you have to stay longer

└ definitelynotyn I HAVEN'T EVEN DECIDED IF I'M GOING

└ arithegood sure jan

phoebenotbuffay imagine if you'd actually posted this on main too

└ definitelynotyn DON'T EVEN JOKE ABOUT THAT

└ phoebenotbuffay too soon? 😂

dulapeep at least you have time to plan outfits

└ definitelynotyn NOT HELPING

└ dulapeep the green dress. trust me.

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

liked by lando, charles_leclerc and 665,583 others

oscarpiastri Close. Bring on tomorrow

view all comments

username1 THATS MY BABY GOAT

username2 oscar piastri man of few words

username3 pole position if he was still with yn

mclaren Our home champ 🧡

username4 OKAY CHAT DO WE THINK YN WILL ATTEND THE RACE??

└ username1 maybe focus on racing?? this isn't about his ex

lando sorry about that

└ oscarpiastri Should've just let me keep it

username5 can't help but think about yn in parc fermé for his win tomorrow but they're not together anymore

username6 HES WINNING TOMORROW THERE'S NOTHING THAT CAN CHANGE THAT

charles_leclerc An existential crisis later

└ carlossainz55 Let him breathe

└ username1 HUUUH WHAT ARE THEY TALKING ABOUT

username7 brb listening to yn's songs about him.. specially lover

liked by midwestprincess, shortandbrina and 107 others

definitelynotyn watching from my couch because apparently i'm the biggest coward in the universe. the pass is literally staring at me from my coffee table. i hate myself.

view all comments

shortnbrina GET IN YOUR CAR RIGHT NOW

└ definitelynotyn I CAN'T

└ shortnbrina YES YOU CAN I'M CALLING YOU AN UBER

midwestprincess GIRL THERE'S STILL 40 LAPS YOU CAN LITERALLY MAKE IT

└ definitelynotyn and then what?? walk in mid-race??

└ midwestprincess YES EXACTLY LIKE A MAIN CHARACTER WOULD

livbedumb not you watching his every move on tv when you could be there

└ definitelynotyn this is less scary ok

└ livbedumb is it though??

maddiebeer remember when you said you'd never be that girl who's too scared to face her feelings?

└ definitelynotyn low blow mads

whostaylorswiftanyway THE PASS IS RIGHT THERE GO GET YOUR MAN

└ definitelynotyn STOP YELLING AT ME

└ whostaylorswiftanyway NO

gracieeee remember when you said his note was the sweetest thing ever? remember crying about how much you missed him? but sure stay on your couch

└ definitelynotyn this is emotional manipulation

definitelynotyn FINE YALL WIN. CALLING A CAR RN

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

liked by shortnbrina, landitooooo and 113 others

definitelynotyn we did some talking. then we did some kissing. then we did some more talking. then we did some more kissing. might have cried a bit (him too). wearing his sweatshirt again. life's funny sometimes.

view all comments

midwestprincess OH GOD FINALLY

gracieeee I'M SOBBING

leclercccccc FINALLY you accepted the follow request

└ definitelynotyn oh my god

└ leclercccccc i helped with the speech you know

└ notoscarpiastri mate.

└ leclercccccc you're welcome btw

landitooooo took you both long enough bloody hell

└ notoscarpiastri says you

└ landitooooo oi what's that supposed to mean

└ shortnbrina no idea really

└ definitelynotyn lando norris and sabrina carpenter... there's stuff you need to explain

arithegood THE TIMELINE HAS BEEN RESTORED

└ definitelynotyn dramatic much

└ arithegood says the girl who showed up mid-race

whostaylorswiftanyway I expect a full debrief tomorrow but I'm happy for you my girl

notoscarpiastri Can we go back to the kissing?

└ definitelynotyn please

liked by username1, username2 and 8,594 others

popbuzz YN AND OSCAR PIASTRI SPOTTED TOGETHER IN MELBOURNE

view all comments

username1 THE SWEATSHIRT THE SWEATSHIRT THE SWEATSHIRT

└ username2 SHE'S WEARING HIS CLOTHES AGAIN

username3 FROM SPINNING OUT TO BREAKFAST DATES IN 24 HOURS

└ username2 character development at its finest

username4 IM GOING TO CRY THEY'RE BACK TOGETHER

username5 Sources say he went to her place last night...

└ username1 and didn't leave 👀

username6 I CAN'T BELIEVE THEY REALLY GOT BACK TOGETHER

username7 this is proof that crying over your ex on main actually works

username8 YN IS A WAG AGAIN OMFG

username9 everybody say thank you australia gp billboards with oscar's face

username10 OSCAR LOVE SONGS ARE SO BACK

username11 WE WON SO HARD

liked by yourinstagram, lando and 876,494 others

oscarpiastri Home race took some unexpected turns both on and off track. P9 wasn't the result we wanted, but somehow still ended up winning this weekend.

view all comments

username1 HE'S SOOOO

username2 LOST THE RACE BUT GOT THE GIRL??

lando mate that's actually smooth

└ oscarpiastri Learned from the best

mclaren We'll take this kind of victory too 🧡

username3 THE THIRD PICTURE IM SOBBING

username4 mans really said forget p9 i got the girl

username5 HE'S SO BOYFRIEND WE'RE SO BACK

nicolepiastri ❤️

username6 OSCAR PIASTRI THE MAN THAT YOU ARE

username7 oscar's guide to get back with your ex with just ten simple steps

sabrinacarpenter FINALLY !!! OUR GIRL CAN STOP MOPING AROUND

└ chappellroan now we need oscar's friend to grow some balls too

└ oscarpiastri @/lando

└ lando well...

└ username1 OMFG LANDO AND SABRINA??

└ username2 WHAT JUST HAPPENED

username8 I CAN'T BELIEVE THIS IS REAL LIFE

yourinstagram 🥺🥺 i love you

[pedroscurls]

in every lifetime

summary: you lost logan in this universe. logan lost you in his. what happens when you both see each other again, but realize that you're both from different worlds? pairing: logan howlett x fem!reader warnings: post deadpool & wolverine ("worst" logan!variant), angst (mentions of death, loss from both reader and logan), no use of y/n. word count: 2.1k a/n: this is my first logan fic, so if anything is ooc, i'm sorry in advanced! just like everyone else, i've been obsessed with hugh jackman / logan after watching deadpool & wolverine (if it isn't obvious lol)... i had the song 'unchained melody' in mind when writing this story because whenever i hear it, i think of logan for some reason lol (tried to embed it but it didn't work, but i'd highly recommend listening to the song while reading this!) anyway, hope you enjoy! next part.

“I’ll be back.”

“But what if–”

“I always come back, bub.” Logan’s looking down at you, hand cupping your cheek. In moments like this, you can see the age in his features. The crows feet at the corners of his eyes. The gray in his hair and beard. 

“Logan…” Tears sting your eyes. You know he has to leave, has to go help Charles, but there’s a feeling deep in your gut that knows that if he goes, he isn't coming back. 

“Wait for me, then.” He says, dipping down to gently peck your lips. “Okay? Wait for me.” 

“Logan,” you repeat. “What do I do if I– if I lose you?” 

There’s a feeling in the pit of Logan’s stomach, a sense of dread and fear that he’s only ever felt when you were concerned. This feels a lot like a goodbye… That maybe if he does go, he won’t come back. And the thought alone scares him. He never used to have to think about the possibility of dying, his regenerative powers always healing him in record time, but he knows that he doesn’t heal as quickly as before. He feels more pain now than he ever had. And he knows he’s sick, knows that the adamantium that once gave him strength is now slowly making him weaker.

But now, the thought of dying… It fucking scared him. It scared him to think that he’d leave you here, all alone, grieving him. He had never thought he’d be deserving of someone like you, to be loved and taken care of so gently, so sweetly, so patiently. Even with all of the baggage he carried, you never pushed. He knew, right off the bat, that you deserved someone so much better than him, but you stayed. 

Through it all, you stayed. 

And Logan would forever be grateful. After everything he’s been through, the things he’s seen, the things he had to do, the people he’s lost, you gave him a life that was finally worth living. 

“Then, you move on, darlin’.” Logan finally answers. 

“And if I can’t?” 

“You’ll have to.” 

“I don’t… I don’t want you to go, but I know that you have to. Charles needs you and–”

“I love you with every fiber of my being, baby,” Logan interjects. “And I will love you in every lifetime.” 

And that was almost a year ago. The moment he stopped calling, you knew that was it. That he either got into some real trouble or… Or that he was no longer here. It wasn’t until a young girl named Laura showed up on your doorstep, holding his dog tags that your assumptions were correct. 

You had fallen to your knees, a sob escaping your lips, as you felt your world come crashing down. Logan’s death had left a gaping hole in your heart, in your life, and everywhere you looked and everywhere you went, all you could see was him. 

You learned from Laura that during his last moments, he had told her to come and find you, that you would take care of her and give her a good life. Whenever you were around her, you tried to be strong, tried to put on a brave front, but behind closed doors, you were a complete mess. There were days where you didn’t want to get out of bed, didn’t want to eat; you just wanted the pain to stop. Every night, whenever you closed your eyes, you forced yourself to sleep because that was the only place where you could be with him. 

In your dreams, he was alive. 

In your dreams, he had made it back home.

In your dreams, he was here with you, helping raise Laura. 

And every time you woke up, you were welcomed with the sudden reality that he wasn’t alive. He wasn’t coming back home. He wasn’t ever going to be here with you to help raise Laura. 

Logan was dead and now, you had to try and learn how to move on. 

For yourself.

For Laura.

For Logan. 

—

He didn’t know what he was doing here, why he agreed to stay with Wade because it was driving him crazy. This wasn’t even his timeline; he wasn’t even meant to be here. Despite saving Wade’s timeline, Logan still found it hard to fit in. He tried to keep Wade and every single one of his friends at an arm's distance because he knows what happens to people he cares about. 

But the more time he spent around them, the more he felt at ease. Logan would be lying if he said he was waiting for the other shoe to drop, but when Laura mentioned your name at one of Wade’s family dinners, his heart skipped a beat. When he realized he would be able to stay in this timeline, you were all he could think about. 

Logan wondered if you existed in this world and what he would do if you did. So, when Laura casually said your name, his head turned around so quickly that he felt dizzy. There were so many things he regretted in his own timeline, but you were his biggest regret. 

Just like he failed the other X-men, Logan had failed you too. You had been there with the other X-men, trying to warn them of a planned attack and ended up getting caught in the crossfire. You had called out for him, just like Scott, like Charles, like Storm. 

He managed to get to you before you had taken your last breath, holding you in his arms. Logan begged and begged for you to fight, that he’d do things right from now on as long as you just held on, but you were losing so much blood and Logan couldn’t stop it. 

Even then, when you had every right to be angry with him, you gazed up at him with an understanding look on your face. You had always been so patient and kind, so sweet and considerate. You had made him so happy and it scared him, which ultimately ended in pushing you away because he didn’t think he was deserving of it. Of you. 

“I love you, Logan,” you had said, wincing at the pain. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m–” Logan felt a sob catch in his throat, tears stinging his eyes as he looked down at you. “Please, baby, please please please, don’t–”

“I–” you coughed, eyes fluttering as you felt the pain overcome your entire body. “I will love you in every lifetime, Logan.” And then, you took your last breath, eyes falling shut and body falling limp in his arms. 

Since then, Logan drank himself day after day, from dawn to dusk. The alcohol never truly helped, his regenerative powers sobering him so fast, but with every swig of liquor, it burned. And he spent years bringing pain unto others, including himself. 

That was, until he met Wade who had given him a chance, a reason to fight for something… To not turn his back on someone who relied on him. A chance for redemption, to finally make things right. 

“So, will you meet her?” Laura asks, holding Dogpool in her arms as she gazes up at Logan. “She– She used to be with this universe’s Logan and…”

“No chance, kid.” Logan interrupts, shaking his head. “I’m not him.” 

“Did you have someone like her in yours?” she asks. “She’s always put me first, always made sure I was taken care of even when she didn’t have to, when she was grieving. And I think–” Laura sighs. “I think if she knows that some version of you is alive, it would make her real happy.”

“I’m not him,” Logan growls, feeling his irritation spike. “‘Sides, she’s better off without me.” He stands from the table and walks out into Wade’s balcony to get some fresh air, shutting the door behind him as he leans against the railing.

“But she’s coming tonight,” Laura finally says, long after Logan’s walked away.

Throughout the rest of the dinner, Logan remains outside. He can hear the muffled laughter coming from inside and it only angered him because it was just another confirmation that he didn’t belong here. He’s already on his fourth bottle of beer when he hears a familiar voice, smells a recognizable scent. He turns slightly and catches you stepping into Wade’s apartment, an arm slinging over Laura’s shoulders so casually, so maternally. 

He feels his heart rate pick up. Your smile still lights up a room and he can’t help but his lips turning upwards at the sight. With his enhanced hearing, Logan can hear your voice and he shuts his eyes for a moment, tuning all of his attention on you until you’re the only one he hears. 

Then, he hears your laugh and he lets out a sigh. He never thought he’d be able to hear that again, but his eyes shoot open when he hears you say his name. There’s a shocked tone in your voice, laced with sadness and hope. It all but crushes him because he knows that you’re probably expecting someone else, expecting this world’s Logan and he doesn’t want to disappoint you. Not again. He doesn’t think he’d be able to handle it if he were to hurt you again. 

But when he looks at you, his breath catches in his throat when your eyes meet his. Logan notices the surprise look on your face, but before he could try and escape, you’re already walking towards him. When you open the door and step out with him, your scent fills his senses and it makes him dizzy, like he can’t fully concentrate. 

“You…” he hears you say, voice unsteady. “You’re not… I’m–” you sigh and shake your head. 

“I know who you are,” Logan finally says, his own voice shaky. 

Your hands reach out for him, but stopping halfway when you realize this isn’t your Logan. This is not the same man who died all those years ago. This is some version of him – much younger, less wrinkles and gray hairs in his hair and beard, but he still has that same look on his face. The scowl. 

“From Laura?” you ask hesitantly. 

“From my universe,” Logan answers. 

“There– There’s a version of me in your universe?” 

“There was.”

“And what happened to me?” 

Logan’s jaw tightens. “The same thing that happened to your Logan in this universe.”

“Oh.” Your face drops, eyes softening. “I’m sorry,” you whisper. 

Logan wants to run far from here, far from you because he feels himself yearning for more. He almost forgot how it felt like to be near you, to be inches away that he can just reach out and pull you into his arms. Your eyes captivate him, the kindness it expresses makes him feel like he matters. You had always made him feel that way that even through all of his anger, through all of the walls he put up, you showed him that he was deserving of something good. Even if he didn’t believe it himself. 

And you… You were the best thing to ever happen to him.

“Don’t know why you’re apologizin’,” Logan mutters. 

There’s an uncomfortable silence that engulfs the both of you. He can see the tears threatening to spill over, can see the way your lower lip is beginning to tremble and he has this sudden urge to console you, to wipe away the tears that have now fallen down your cheeks. 

“I’m sorry,” you repeat, bringing your hands up to wipe away the tears that seem to be trickling down your face nonstop. “I just– Losing my Logan just crushed me and I don’t think I’ve ever recovered.” 

My Logan. 

Logan can practically feel his heart beating in his chest. This isn’t a conversation that he thought he would be having and certainly not with someone he loved and died because of him. 

“That’s okay,” Logan responds quietly, his tone softening. “I don’t think it’s easy to recover from losing someone you love.”

“Did you– Did you love me in your universe?” 

Logan nods slowly, tightening his jaw as he gazes down at you. “With every fiber of my being.” 

Your eyes widen and stare up at him. This might be a different Logan, but hearing those words again just brings you back to the moment you last saw your Logan before he left to go take care of Charles. 

“Did you love me in yours?” Logan asks hesitantly.

You nod instantly, tears trickling down your cheek as you stare up at him. “I’d love you in every lifetime.” 

Logan feels his own set of tears pool at the corners of his eyes and he moves a hand to rest on the railing, fingers lightly brushing against yours as he stares into your eyes. 

“I’m not him,” he whispers. 

“I know,” you say quietly. “And I’m not her.” 

[steddiehyperfixation]

@steddiebingo prompts: college au + crush + bandana | 1.1k words | T |

“Steeeveennnn,” Robin complains, poking Steve's shoulder with her pencil. “This was not the deal.”

Steve blinks and startles as if shaken out of a trance and grudgingly drags his glance over to Robin. “What?”

“You're only supposed to zone out when I'm paying attention and I can only zone out when you're paying attention.” That's their standard deal for any class they share that they're both only taking to knock out some credits and isn't relevant to either of their majors.

“Okay,” he says, “so pay attention.”

“I have been, dingus,” she argues. While this semester's History of Rock course is actually kind of interesting, Robin would still appreciate being able to use some of the precious daydreaming time she’d been promised. “I've been giving you my notes for the last month, at least! It's my turn to zone out now, slacker.”

“Alright, alright. I'm paying attention.” Steve makes a big show of picking up his pencil and writing down what's on the lecture slides, even leaning forward a little to emphasize his focus. “You're free to zone out to your heart’s content.”

Robin doesn't trust him in the slightest.

She enjoys about five whole minutes of spacing out before one Eddie Munson inevitably interrupts the professor to challenge some point and any hope of Steve's ability to continue taking notes for her is lost completely. His attention is stolen the second that ringed hand goes up, focus returning undividedly to the loud, scraggly man who is now standing up in his vehemence to counter the teacher. Steve instantly becomes enraptured by this argument, though Robin doubts he’s really comprehending a single word of it. He even gets this dopey little smile on his face as he watches.

“Oh my god,” Robin groans, rolling her eyes and dropping her chin into her palm in resignation to her fate. Steve is utterly useless when he has a crush. It would be pointless, Sisyphean even, for her to keep trying to snap him out of it; no matter how many times she diverts his attention, it always rolls right back to Eddie.

Robin doesn't know what Steve sees in him. Personally, she finds Eddie kind of obnoxious and thinks he looks a bit like a stray dog that's been left outside in a thunderstorm. But for some reason he has her best friend totally captivated. Even when Eddie sits back down, conceding the tangential debate and letting the professor continue, Steve's gaze still lingers as it always does for the remainder of class, his eyes all dreamy and far away and the very epitome of yearning.

“This is getting pathetic,” Robin tells him when class is dismissed and she looks over to find him still staring. “Just go talk to him already. Make a move. I’m sick of watching you sit here and pine.”

“He might not even be queer, Rob.”

“He wears a black bandana in his back pocket.”

“So? He's all metal and shit, it could just be, like, a style thing. Doesn't mean it's hanky code.”

“Okay, so ask him.”

Steve looks at her like she's gone insane. “I can't just go up to him and ask him if he's flagging.”

“Fine, then I will.”

“What- No, Robin-!”

But Robin is already standing up and marching through the crowd of students leaving the classroom to catch up to Eddie. “Hey, are you flagging?”

Eddie stops short and turns sharply around to face her. “Excuse me?”

“That bandana you've always got in your pocket - is that just a fashion statement or are you flagging?” she repeats bluntly.

Eddie's eyes narrow, halfway between distrustful confusion and a sneer. “What's it to you?”

“Absolutely nothing,” Robin says. “I couldn't care less. I'm asking for my friend, Steve.” She points a thumb over her shoulder, fairly certain Steve isn't too far behind her. “He's the one who's been staring at you like an idiot all semester, and he's just dying to know if-”

“Oh my god-” Steve interrupts, shoulder checking her as he comes up beside her, his face flushed and slightly out of breath like he fought his way here desperately. “I’m so sorry about her.” He gives Eddie an apologetic smile and cuts Robin a sideways glare. “She was dropped on the head a few too many times as a baby and it left her incapable of comprehending boundaries.”

Robin scoffs. “Oh, like watching creepily from afar is so much more respectful,” she retorts.

“I’m not a creep-” Steve rushes to protest, looking hastily back to Eddie. “I’m not a creep. She's making it sound like I'm some sort of stalker or something. I’m not, I swear.”

Eddie laughs, and Steve looks whipped. “It's alright, I don't mind.”

Eddie's wary hostility seems to have faded into something more amused and definitely not uninterested, if the way he's looking Steve over is any indication. Robin subtly nudges Steve with her arm. Time to turn on the charm, dingus, he likes you.

“You just catch my eye, is all,” Steve recovers, regaining his composure and quickly attempting to school his flustered, lovesick expression into a smoother, more intentional smile. “You stand out, you know - in a good way. I like your style, how outspoken you are. You seem really passionate about this music stuff; it's cool to watch.”

Eddie's interest only sharpens, slow grin growing. He considers him for another moment. “Your friend says you're curious about my bandana.”

“Yeah, uh-” A little bit of that flusteredness slips out again, just enough that it could possibly be intentional (or maybe not; Robin’s really not giving him that much credit). Steve chews at his lip, eyes flicking Eddie up and down. “That too.”

Eddie's about to say something in response, but he's cut off by someone shouting his name. There's some blond guy at the end of the hall gesturing impatiently at him.

“Shit, sorry, I gotta run, my band’s got practice right now. But, um.” Eddie searches his pockets and grabs a pen out of his leather jacket. “Here.” He takes Steve's arm, scribbling a phone number onto his skin. “Why don't you call me later and we can talk more, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees. He looks mildly starstruck, smiling stupidly at the number on his arm like it's a celebrity autograph or something. “Yeah, for sure.”

Robin snickers. “Oh, he's never washing that arm again.”

“Shut up, Robin,” Steve hisses, his cheeks tingeing pink again. Eddie laughs and Steve manages a sheepish smile. “I-I’ll call you,” he confirms again as he turns to leave, grabbing Robin by the arm and dragging her with him before she can embarrass him any further.

“You better,” Eddie calls after him, and Steve looks over his shoulder just in time to catch his smirk and farewell salute before he too turns and bounds off in the opposite direction.

Robin digs her elbow into Steve’s ribs, grinning smugly at him. “You're fucking welcome,” she says.

[sweeterthanficstion]

— all the right reasons || l.s.k

pairing: older!rockstar!leon x popstar!fem!reader

tags: music au, set in 2011, leon is a rockstar (obviously), and reader is a popstar (think like, sabrina carpenter type). rivals to lovers, lots and lots of shitty banter, feelings are CAUGHT!, really bad music related puns, MDNI 18+, unprotected p in v, reader rides that dick into next weeeek, vaginal fingering, lots and lots of dirty talk too. sappy ending <3

summary: You're a sugarplum tabloid darling who's making headlines across the globe, he's a tried and true rockstar who's a household name. Leon S. Kennedy was just another thorn in your side. Until he wasn't. He’s older, meaner, and too good with his hands. You’re supposed to hate him. So why do you feel like you’re falling in love?

word count: 8.4k

a/n: omg... so like... hi again... it's been a while!! i dragged myself out of the depressive pit that is trying to date real men and reminded myself of what REALLY matters (writing fanfiction of men who don't exist) so that's how i'm back here, lmao.

also, BIGGEST thank you's to my gorgeous girls vivi and lea for offering to beta read and leaving the silliest, funniest comments and feedback

anyway enjoy asshole-older-rockstar leon, he's stolen my heart and i want to [REDACTED] [REDACTED] [REDACTED]... i've been shot 47 times

playlist⭑masterlist⭑AO3

You never liked Leon Kennedy.

He’s always been bark and bite, broody and callous. All whiskey breath and tired denim and the kind of stubble that looked more like laziness than effort. Too jaded. Too old. His time has come and gone, and still, somehow, he was headlining festivals, charting on billboards, signing tits.

You’d met him twice before you ever really spoke. Once at an awards afterparty, where he didn’t even look at you when you said hi—just brushed past with a half-hearted “sorry, sweetheart,” before disappearing into a crowd of laughing industry men. The second time, backstage at some benefit concert. He’d been in the wings, watched you be hurried past in a blur of glitter and gold, murmured something you can only imagine was unsavoury under his breath.

So yeah. You weren’t exactly dying to be his friend.

Which is why it’s so fucking inconvenient that your first real single is now under the same label as his—why you pass each other in the hallway at Capitol every other week, the scent of his cologne arriving before he does, heavy and heady and masculine.

But you’re not stupid either. You knew who he was long before you ever stood in the same room as him. You knew the album that broke him, the single that went triple platinum, the first stadium he sold out. You knew the way critics talked about his guitar playing like it was something they’d never seen before. You might’ve even had a crumpled tour shirt buried somewhere in your closet from high school, but that was a long time ago. That was before you learned what it meant when people said never meet your heroes.

But still there were moments, little things that made you reconsider. Once, at the label offices, he held the elevator door open for you even though you were halfway across the hallway. He didn’t look at you when you stepped in. Just said, “You gonna hit the button or stand there all night?” but his voice had been warmer than you expected.

And maybe it’s all in your head. Maybe he’s not thinking about you at all. Maybe he’s just that kind of man—coated in disinterest, carved out of concrete. Still, there’s something behind the way he looks at you that you still haven’t quite figured out.

It’s midnight when Leon finds the fork in the road that decides his fate.

It’s the voice of an angel that seals it.

He’s not even supposed to be standing in the liminal space outside your door and wondering if he should go in. He’s not even meant to be thinking about you at all.

He was thinking about the rain. About how he’d failed to remember an umbrella, about how his car smells like mildew and the CD player is still shot. About how he hasn’t written a decent song in six months. His manager had so kindly told him to go home, sleep it off, stop showing up to the label’s building like a ghost to its haunt.

And fuck if he’s already had his fill with the shitty elevator. Leon’s busy jamming the buttons to the ground floor, stuck on the second, when he hears it.

A pretty litany of sun-soaked lyrics that spills into the hallway and the elevator the same way the light from the half-opened door does.

That’s how he finds himself here: standing outside your studio door, staring at the plaque with your name engraved in gold like it’s daring him to knock.

He doesn’t. Just opens it.

“Didn’t know they let you keep the studio past your bedtime.”

It’s a joke. Kinda. He winces halfway through delivery, like he hears it too late. Nose scrunching like he didn’t mean it, and truthfully he doesn’t think he did. God, Kennedy, didn’t anyone teach you to think before you speak?

You flinch—just a little—eyes snapping open as you pull off the headphones. The track dies in your ears, and the silence feels abrupt, almost rude, like it’s been interrupted mid-confession.

You glance over your shoulder. Leon stands in the threshold looking exactly like he always does—leather jacket, dark jeans, stubble that's a little more dirty than charmingly rugged. He could be anywhere else. He should be anywhere else. And yet.

Your brow lifts, unimpressed. “Didn’t know they let you out of the retirement home either. Should I call someone?”

Leon scoffs. “I’m not geriatric.”

“Sure.” And you turn back to the soundboard like he doesn’t exist.

He stands there, lips pursed like he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself.

“So… what was that?” he asks.

You sigh like it costs you. Slip the headphones off and let them settle around your neck. “A song. You’re familiar, yes?”

Leon rolls his eyes. “Plenty. You’ve got a smart mouth, kid.”

You grin, all teeth. “Thanks.”

He lets that hang in the silence for a beat, then has the bright idea to push off the doorway. He wanders in and makes himself at home in your space. His boot grazes a stack of scribbled sheet music, and he nudges it aside with his toe like he’s being polite. Then he drops onto your couch without asking—moves a cushion, spreads his knees, settles like it’s shared property.

You shoot him a look. “Comfortable?”

Leon shrugs. “Your feng shui needs work.”

“What do you want?” You finally ask, defeated.

He nods toward the board. “Play it.”

You blink. “What?”

“The song. Play it.”

“You’re really bad at this, y’know.”

“At what?”

“Basic human interaction. Hospitality. Small talk.”

He blinks, caught off-guard like he’s never been told that a day in his life.

“Sorry,” you say sweetly. “Too honest?”

“Play the damn song.”

You raise a brow. “Magic word?”

Leon just stares.

You sigh, press spacebar. The track tumbles out of the speakers, raw and half-finished. It holds for a moment, teeters, then collapses—unfinished and unsatisfying. You pull your headphones off with a huff. Leon thinks it's cute.

The weight of his gaze burns a hole into your back, makes heat crawl up your spine. You glance at him when it gets too much. “What?”

“I didn’t say anything,” he hums.

“Felt like you wanted to.”

He laughs a little then, like the meekness to your voice is amusing. “I was just gonna say it’s close.” He murmurs, “But it’s stuck.”

You exhale through your nose, lean back in your chair, swivel from left to right. “No shit.”

You don’t see him move as much as you hear him, the creak of the aged leather couch, before there’s the familiar dull ring of your guitar.

“You don’t mind, do you?” He asks as he slips into the second chair next to yours, you try to ignore the way your skin prickles when his knee knocks yours.

“Mi casa, su casa,” you sigh defeatedly, his lips quirk and you find yourself smiling against your will.

Leon decides your song just needs some weight to it. Typical of him. All his music has weight. A smoky, heady bass, a sexy guitar, heavy drums, but what he plays for you is none of that.

Yes, it holds weight, but a different one to what you pinned him for. It carries something gentler, softer chords that fill your lungs with exactly the type of yearning you were aiming for. 

You pause. “That’s…”

“Exactly what you wanted?”

You nudge his knee with your own, hit record on the soundboard, “do it again.”

And so it begins. 

You find that Leon isn’t so bad when he’s writing music with you. In fact, within the four soundproof walls of your studio, he’s almost nice. He listens when you tell him to change a chord. He lets you needle him, prod at his composure like you’re tuning a guitar string too tight just to hear it snap.

Most nights you’re in the studio until the twilight hours before sunrise. You stay until your voice is worn ragged, fingers blistered from overuse. Until your limbs give out and you’ve passed out in the swivel chair, curled up like a cat in the glow of LED strips and mixing boards. You always wake to something left behind—a lukewarm cup of coffee, a half-drunk energy drink, sometimes the old throw blanket draped over your shoulders. It’s a rhythm now, syncopated and strange, yet something you’ve grown fond of.

It’s only inevitable, the way you grow closer with time. 

“Don’t lie sweetheart,” he murmurs one night in the hush of your studio, “I think I’m growing on you.”

“Like black mold.” you shoot back, but the grin tugging at your lips betrays you.

And it’s just all too easy to think about him when he's not there.

You remember watching his set from the wings at that summer festival—the first time you’d shared a stage. The downpour had been terrible and insistent his entire performance, rain slicking his thread-bare shirt to his skin, turning his hair dark and wild. He’d looked like straight up sex appeal, sweat and storm and strobe lights, and you’d had to physically stop yourself from reaching for him when he walked offstage.

He’d smelt like a thunderstorm, heady as he’d squeezed your shoulders like he was grateful, damp and buzzing with leftover adrenaline. “How���d I do?”

“Not bad, rockstar,” you’d said, but your voice had come out all soft.

Now he lives in your notebooks.

That’s the real inevitability of it, you think. Unreleased verses tucked between grocery lists and studio appointments. Lyrics written in the haze of 2 a.m., voice notes left half-sung on your phone, songs you’ll never show him during your secret writing sessions.

They’re not the kind of songs you should be writing.

They’re laced with want—velvet and teeth, obsessive and desperate. They don’t sound like you, not the way your label wants you to. They’re darker, sultrier, leave you flushed when you play them back. 

It’s not like you mean to write them about him. They just come out that way. Something about the way his voice sounds when he's two glasses of whiskey in and recounting a silent film he’d watched three fortnights ago. They’re all pent up tension—the way he pretty much knows his way around your apartment now, well enough to find where you keep the good wine anyway, the way his fingers move over the fretboard of his Paul Reed Smith with a guitar pick between his teeth, the phantom weight of his palm on your lower back when he passes by you.

You bottle every look, every breathy half-laugh, every fleeting moment where you wonder what his hands would feel like if they dipped lower.

Your songs are about him, yes, and they’re for him, in all the infuriating ways you wish they weren’t.

So naturally, the smartest thing to do is keep them buried—demo files hidden in unlabeled folders, notebooks tucked behind equipment cases. Off-limits. Confidential. A bomb waiting to go off. 

At least, until tonight.

You’re curled up on the studio couch, Leon’s out at some fancy party tonight, said he couldn't write. There’s a half-empty bottle of wine and the glow of your laptop screen to keep you company, but it’s not enough not the same without him.

There’s a particular song that haunts you. It’s a confession wrapped in delicate ribbons of sultry melodies. Your voice a touch away from a moan, lyrics that dance around his name.

You shouldn’t have written it. 

Definitely shouldn’t have recorded it either.

And now you find yourself hovering over the file like it’s taunting you.

Maybe you can blame it on the buzz in your veins, or the way you’d caught his eye earlier that morning in the breakroom. He’d looked at you over the rim of his mug, winked at you like he could read you. You curse yourself under your breath at the memory. He totally knows he’s getting to you. You’d dropped the I-hate-you act three moves back.

So you drag-and-drop the demo. Chew your lip. Hit send.

Check and mate.

But by the time you’ve sobered up enough to panic, it’s already much too late.

Seven minutes. He texts back, and it sounds nearly like a threat.

Bad, bad, bad idea. No, actually, bad doesn’t even begin to encapsulate how horrific of an idea that was. A category-five hurricane of a mistake. 

What were you thinking? 

Well, clearly you weren’t.

You clamber to your feet, pace barefoot on the studio carpet, wearing a frantic path into the fibres. Back and forth, back and forth. Damage control is like a roulette wheel spinning in your mind, you could delete the message, a phone malfunction, yes, totally. Your label leaked it by accident, or it’s just one big elaborate joke.

Or, or— and this is the best one yet, you could change your name, dye your hair, move to another country where six-time award winning rockstars with stupid voices and stupid fingers on guitars don’t exist.

You’re halfway through plotting your escape through the window when the door clicks open exactly seven minutes later.

You startle like a deer in headlights, eyes wide when they snap up to the man of the hour—to Leon— and your stomach drops clean through the floor.

“You drive fast,” is what you manage. Leon clicks the door shut behind him.

His hair’s an artful mess, like he’s either run his hand through it a million times on the drive here, or just rolled out of bed. You like the former option so you pretend it’s that. His shoulders look tense, jaw tight, and his eyes—dark, sharp, dragging over you like he’s trying to see right through you.

His eyes flick to the littered coffee table, your notebook, the bottle of wine that looks at least a quarter drained.

Something strange flickers in his gaze, and for a minute you paint him as disappointed. 

Oh. You realise, with startling clarity, that he thinks you’re wasted.

It’s like a light at the end of the tunnel, a saving grace. It’d be an easy way out, wouldn’t it? Oops, Leon, sorry, wasn’t in my right mind, don’t even remember sending it, haha, how embarrassing!

But you’re not, at least not anymore, you’re standing in front of him with unfortunate sobriety. 

“Are you drunk?” He asks, voice low and rough around the edges.

Your mouth falls open, as if you’ve been scandalised. “Uh, rude?” You gesture wildly to the wine, then yourself. “I had two drinks, max. I am perfectly—” you take a dramatic step forward, stop, then another, arms out like you're proving a sobriety test, “—-fine.”

Leon doesn’t budge, stands there with his brows cinched like he’s in deep thought. It gives you space to take the upper hand back, if it was ever yours in the first place. “You, on the other hand,” you point an accusatory finger across the room, “are looking at me like I crashed your car or something.”

You might as well have with the way you have his heart hammering up his throat. He hates it, how you make him lose his carefully crafted cool. Being this nonchalant doesn’t come easy.

His tongue swipes over his teeth. And fuck him, because that shouldn’t be so distracting.

“Fine,” he starts, slow, “you wanna play dumb?’

“M’not dumb, it’s called being coy,” you hum, all too self satisfied.

Leon lets out a short breath of laughter, sharp, shakes his head and turns away like he needs to physically remove himself from you before he does something stupid.

And you should leave it there, because his buttons are officially pushed, yet you don’t feel familiar satisfaction curl around your chest like it should. “If this is about the song—”

His head tips, just slightly. “If?”

You swallow. “I mean—”

He scoffs. Sharp. Disbelieving. Runs a thumb over his lips. “If this is about the song,” he repeats, like he can’t believe you even tried that.

You open your mouth, then close it, then open it again. "I—"

“Don’t,” he mutters. “Drop it.”

Your jaw shuts, and it takes less than a second for Leon to close the distance between you, effectively stealing all the air from your lungs. You resist the urge to back away, to give him that satisfaction, even when your body screams at you to. Not out of fear, but because he’s looking at you like he can finally see right through you.

"You sent it to me first," he says, quiet, but sure. His eyes flick down, over your lips, your throat, back up.

Your stomach turns, and you force yourself to bite back your words, despite how hard they are to swallow.

“And I wanted to believe you were drunk when you sent it,” he says, voice rougher now than before, “would’ve been easier that way.”

You shift your weight, but don’t bow your head. “Easier?”

Your gaze flickers to where his jaw flexes. "Would’ve been a mistake, then. Would’ve meant I could just forget about it."

Forget about it. That shouldn’t sting.

You shrug, aiming for nonchalance, but your voice comes out quieter than you mean it to. "So forget about it."

His voice, that stupid calibre of his, drops to something even lower, something  barely above a whisper. 

"You really want me to?"

Your breath stutters. He takes your loss of words as an answer.

His fingers brush against your wrist, deft hands circle around the bone, his thumb brushing up against your pulse. Your skin burns where his finger’s graze. His other hand skims up your other arm, brushes against your jaw, and it’s so soft, tentative in a way that makes you shudder, an oxymoron to the storm brewing in his eyes. 

“Tell me,” he murmurs, “if I kiss you right now, are you gonna pretend you don’t want it?”

The question hangs in the space between, thick like tar.

It’s only when his thumb brushes against your cheek, that you feel your restraint, thin as hair, give. Slowly—so slowly—you tilt your chin up, just a fraction, just enough to close the distance so that your lips ghost over his, an echo of a kiss, but not quite one. Your move, rockstar.

It’s a thread-thin dangerous thing that sets his jaw tight, he inhales sharply, and you swear you see him tremble. 

You laugh softly at that, sweet as ever.

Leon caves.

His hand shifts, curls around the nape of your neck, pulls you flush and slots his lips against yours. 

The press of his mouth is warm, wanting, firm and demanding. 

But then you smile against his lips—satisfied, smug, victorious—and he groans something devastated.

It’s a low, deep, wrecked sort of sound, something that comes right from his chest, heavy with everything unsaid. His other hand finds your waist, squeezes tight, feels your skin give under his hold, like you’re finally his to keep and he can’t quite get enough. 

“Minx,” he mutters, breathless frustration bleeding into his words.

You revel in it, your skin erupting in goosebumps.

His hand tightens around the back of your neck, tilting your head just so—like he’s determined to kiss that satisfaction right off your lips.

Spoiler: he won’t.

Because you kiss him back just as fiercely, just as insistently, pressing up on your toes like you need to get closer, like you could crawl inside his skin if he let you. 

Your hands curl around his shoulders, move up to the junction where they meet the column of his throat, tangle in the hair at the nape of his neck. You tug and he lets out something that sounds dangerously close to a moan.

And you wonder if he hates this, how easily he unravels for you, how easily you undo him. It’s like you’ve been sent right from heaven to torture him.

His hands find the curve of your waist, skate down the warmth of your skin, the swell of your hips, the back of your thighs, until he’s pressing in, guiding you backward—steady, steady—until the backs of your knees hit the couch. 

Your balance wavers.

“Careful,” he murmurs, half-amused like this is funny to him.

He doesn’t give you the grace of finding your footing, pressing forward until you’ve sunk into the cushions.

Leon stands there for a second, looking down at you, eyes heavy-lidded, dark with something that makes heat coil in your stomach. He drags a hand over his mouth, like he’s trying to wipe away whatever impulse is written across his face. Like it might be something reckless, ruining. 

Then, he exhales. Sharp and quiet, he sinks to his knees in the space between your legs, a sight so devastating you forget to breathe. 

Broad hands wrap around the plush of your thighs, fingers pressing half-moon divots into your skin. 

“Look at you,” he murmurs, half to himself, half to you, something dangerously close to adoration lacing his words. His thumb brushes absently along the sensitive skin just above your knee, gaze tracking the way your breath shudders. Ruining, indeed.

And then—oh, then— his palm slips to hook underneath your knee, pulls your leg over his shoulder. You suck in a sharp breath, unable to tear your gaze away from his; bright blue eyes that sparkle something wondrous in the low light. 

You try to handle yourself, lest he watch you fall apart from a simple look. “If you think I’m just gonna melt the second you put your hands on me, you’re—” Your breath unfortunately hitches the second his grip tightens around your thigh, makes your pulse jump.

He raises a brow, infuriatingly smug, like he’s daring you to finish that sentence.

You clear your throat. “—you’re sorely mistaken.”

Leon huffs out a laugh, low and knowing. “Sorely?”

You fruitlessly dig your heel into his back, a half-attempt at a kick, a half-attempt at saving some of your dignity. “Yes, sorely.”

His hands slide up in a wordless answer—dragging his nails back down your thigh, nosing at the soft fat, pressing his mouth against the skin. The brush of his lips alone unravels you enough that you can’t muster an appropriate response, shivering, sighing instead.

“Someone’s quiet,” he muses lazily, drags his teeth just barely along your skin before soothing the spot with his tongue. “Where’d all that attitude go?”

You scowl before you can stop yourself. “It’s recalculating.”

A shit-eating smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, “Yeah?” He does it again, open-mouthed this time, sucks supple flesh between his lips, bites, pulls away. “Let me know when it’s back."

Your chest feels like it’s on fire, so instead, your hands find the broad line of his shoulders, curl into the fabric of his shirt, and pull him up by the collar. He follows without much give, your thigh falls off his shoulder when he climbs up to press you into the plush cushion, cages you in. And fuck—you don’t think you should be this turned on by his weight atop you, by the heat of him, by that look in his eyes.

You can hear the way your heart pounds, blood rushing in your ears. Can feel it in your fingertips when you drag them down his chest, his stomach, until they catch the hem of his shirt. You push it up enough to reveal the hard muscle of his abdomen. He shudders atop you.

Leon’s lips are back on yours before you can even think to be smug about it, before the teasing grin can curl at the corner of your lips. It’s hotter now, deeper, tongue sliding against yours like he’s trying to drown you. And in the heat of it, his knee presses between your thighs. You’re not sure if he does it on purpose, if it’s a brilliant accident, but either way it makes you keen, a gasp of pleasant surprise tumbling from your lips.

He groans into your mouth, one hand tightening on your hip. “You sound better than I imagined,” he breathes heavily, and heat floods your face.

You swallow hard. Shut up, shut up, shut up. 

Your heart jumps at the thought of him having imagined this. Having imagined how you sounded, how he would’ve imagined you falling apart. It does horrible things to your head and even worse things to the slick heat between your thighs.

You should have a response by now, something sharp and devastatingly witty, but all you can really focus on is the way he looks at you. Like he’d let you ruin him and call it a privilege. And then he moves, pressing closer, knee pressing up between your thighs more purposefully than before, and whatever witty remark you had queued up promptly exits the premises.

The sound that leaves your mouth is embarrassing. Mortifying, even.

“Oh,” Leon murmurs, voice all smoke and velvet, “there it is.”

You absolutely despise how much you like that, refuse to let him have it. Can’t. Won’t. His ego is slowly swelling to the size of a stadium, and the last thing you need is for him to think he has you all figured out.

So, you do what any self-respecting, prideful person in your position would do: you take the liberty to push at his shoulders, and when he leans back, you seize the opportunity. Grip the front of his shirt, and push him down against the couch. He lets you, laughing under his breath, hands settling easy against your thighs as you straddle his lap.

“Don’t look so smug,” you warn, fingers sliding down, slow and deliberate. His stomach tenses beneath your touch.

“I’m not smug,” he argues, but he’s smiling something devilish—lazy, lopsided, thoroughly enjoying himself. His hands flex against your legs, and you let yourself believe he needs it to ground himself. “Just waiting to see what you’ve got planned.”

Your pulse thrums in your throat, but you play nonchalance better than he gives you credit for. “You got a request?”

“Don’t think I need one,” he says, watching as your hands dip lower, brushing over his belt buckle. “You wrote a song about it, m’sure you have ideas.”

If looks could kill he would be dead, because you’re glaring at him like he’s said something horrific. He is right, but you don’t let him have the satisfaction of hearing you admit it.

Instead, you hook your fingers under the leather, tug just enough to make him suck in a harsh breath. His eyes darken, and it’s thrilling—watching him unravel, shift beneath you.

“Aw, is that all it took?” You coo, pleased beyond words, leaning in close to brush your lips against his jaw. “Usually so put together, doesn’t take much to get you like this, does it?”

Leon huffs a laugh, but goes willingly, tilts his head to let you mouth down his throat. “You wanna talk about falling apart? What was that sound you made just a minute ago?”

You bite down, enough to make him hiss. “Stop talking.”

You can picture the smile that tugs at his thin lips, feel the way his warm, broad palms skim up, under your shirt, pressing into your back, fingers tracing the curve of your spine, slipping under the band of bra.

His belt slips free with a quiet clink, and you savour the way his muscles jump under your hands as you undo the button of his jeans, the steady sound of his shallow breathing when your fingers brush against the sharp line of his hip bone. 

He tries not to push, but you can just about feel the restraining in him, the way his fingers twitch where they rest against your thighs, jaw clenched, muscles tight like a wire pulled taut.

You drag your nails lightly over the plane of his stomach, card your fingers through the thin trail of hair that leads down from his navel, just to see what he does when you do.

Leon sucks in a sharp breath, his head tipping back against the couch, and the sound he makes—low and barely restrained—sends a rush of heat straight through you.

“You’re trying to kill me.” He swears, voice beyond wrecked, and for a second you think he might start begging for mercy. 

“No,” you hum, tilting your head, hands running up his chest, under his shirt. “Just having fun.”

Leon laughs—all breathless, shaky around the edges. But there’s something desperate in the way he exhales, in the way his hips shift up just barely like he’s fighting every instinct to meet you halfway.

There must be a devil on your shoulder, he thinks, because you make it worse.

Your hips roll down, testing, barely any pressure, but enough he feels it. His breath punches out of him like you’ve knocked the wind from his lungs. His fingers dig into your thighs, desperation in his grip.

His head falls forward, eyes flicking up to meet yours, and fuck, you really weren’t prepared for how he looks at you—half-lidded, dark with something simmering just beneath the surface.

“You enjoying yourself?” he asks, voice low and rough, like it pains him to think too hard.

A grin stretches across your lips, heart thrumming with satisfaction, you’ve won, you think, made him fall to pieces without even touching him properly. 

But then he exhales sharply through his nose, takes your hand.

He presses it to his chest, right over his heart—fast, heavy, pounding. 

“You feel that?” His voice is low, his other hand, still on your back, coaxes you closer. Close enough your lips brush. “You did that.”

You let out a shaky breath, Leon curses because he thinks he finally has you breaking.

You didn’t expect him to do that, to let his walls come down and show you just how much you affect him. Didn’t think he’d pull the rug from under your feet and admit defeat in one fell swoop. He looks at you like he actually wants you, not just the game of it, not just for the win.

He wants you. 

…You want him.

Leon watches your face like he’s waiting for you to stop him, but when you don’t, when your lips part like you’re about to ask for something, maybe even beg—he decides.

He leans up, closes the short space between you, and kisses you deep and slow. Like you’re the best thing he’s ever had the pleasure of tasting. He doesn’t rush, nor does he fumble. Just touches you like he means it. Like he really has thought about this more than he’s willing to admit.

His fingers push at the hem of your shirt, sliding up your ribs, pulls the fabric off like it’s nothing. And when your body trembles against his, he swears to himself he’d do just about anything for you.

He lets you tug his jeans lower, helps you. His hands are steady, careful when he presses against the fabric of your underwear.

Leon watches your face, watches the way your lips fall open, breath uneven, the way your fingers tighten in his shirt, and then—

Then you make a sound so sweet, so utterly wrecked that his resolve snaps like a thread pulled too tight.

“Christ,” he mutters, like it physically pains him, and then he’s kissing you twice as hard as before, deep and wanting, swallowing every breath, every soft noise, every shaky exhale.

His fingers press firmer, so, so eager, willing to coax any sound out of you that you’ll let him. Your hands curl at his shoulders, hips bucking deftly against his palm.

“Leon, Leon, Leon,” you murmur, breathless and shaking, spilling his name into his own mouth.

He stills just barely, and fuck, it wrecks him—he doesn’t know if it’s the way you say it, like he’s something sacred, or the fact that you’re coming undone just for him.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he whispers, pulling away even if it kills him, pressing warm lips against your jaw. “Gotta use your words.”

You blink up at him, dazed. “Don’t baby me.”

His mouth twitches. “You don’t want me to baby you?”

You want to tell him everything. That you want him to touch you like this, and talk to you like that, but also see you, really see you. Want him to want all of it—not just your body, not just the thrill of it, but the gentler parts too. The parts of you that ache when he leaves the room. The parts that want to believe someone like him could care that deeply.

“I want—” you start, then stop, teeth sinking into your lip.

He softens. Just a bit. Just enough. 

“Alright, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “Tell me how you want it.”

Your throat works around the words. You reach down, let your fingers trace along the waistband of his boxers, and look him dead in the eyes.

“Wanna ride you.” You whisper, voice is thin with adrenaline and want.

Leon groans like it’s been punched out of him. “Fuck. Jesus. Shit.”

You grin, all teeth, trying to ease the gravity in your chest. “Oh, c’mon, rockstar. I’m sure that’s not the first time you’ve had a girl say that before.”

He huffs out something like a laugh. “S’different,” he says quietly.

You’re too scared to ask how.

So instead, you kiss him like it’ll shut out the question. Like you can pour your want into his mouth and he’ll take it, keep it, like your secret's tucked somewhere between your teeth and if he’s patient enough, if he presses hard enough, he’ll find it there.

Leon groans into it, hands dragging along the curve of your waist, your hips. His palms are firm there, like he’s claiming something, like he’s grounding you both.

“You ride me,” he murmurs against your lips, “and I swear I’m not gonna last long.”

“Aw,” you tease, all syrup and heat, brushing your nose against his, “poor baby.”

He bites your bottom lip in retaliation, gentle but pointed, and you gasp.

“I’ll make it worth your while,” you whisper, fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt before finally, finally, dragging it up, over his head, revealing sweat-warmed skin that you wish you could lick clean with your tongue.

Unfortunately, there doesn’t seem to be much more time to waste. Leon’s handsiness, you’ve discovered, is both a curse and a gift—he can’t seem to stop touching you, and you’re in no hurry to make him. 

He helps you shimmy out of your underwear, breath catching when you’re bare before him. He drinks you in, staring like a man praying for patience. Then you sit back slightly, thighs spread over his lap, and he does it again, that mouth of his.

“God, look at you,” he mutters, like he can’t believe his luck. “You’re unreal.”

It makes your head swim, the way he says it.

In hindsight, you should’ve taken more time, wish you’d used your hand to stroke his length until he was begging for more, but the heady haze of sex-soup your brain is swimming in doesn’t leave you much choice. You’ll get him next time, you decide.

So instead you hide the flush of your cheeks with the sink of your hips, and you think it just about does it. Leon groans like it knocks the wind from him, his head tips back against the couch, throat bared, lashes fluttering.

The stretch is deep, thick, just shy of overwhelming. It steals your breath and then your balance, and you fall forward, catching yourself on his chest. He’s warm there. Bare skin and heart beneath your palms, his pulse kicking against your fingertips like it might leap out and run to you.

“Fuck— God you’re warm. You’re so warm,” he mumbles, and it’s so hot and heavy it makes you blush hard enough you feel it in your ears, your chest, your thighs.

“Romantic,” you breathe against his jaw, trying for wit but inevitably melting into the moment.

He huffs out a laugh, half-amused, half-ruined. “Mouth on you.”

“You like it.”

“Unfortunately,” he grits out, squeezing your thighs. “You gonna move or just sit there lookin’ pretty?”

He feels you grin against the column of his throat first, then feels you roll your hips sickeningly slowly second.

“Christ,” he moans obscenely, fingers digging into your skin. “You’re—fuck. This is a bad idea.”

You pant, shake your head. “I think we’re way past bad ideas.”

Leon’s hand slides up your back, catches at the nape of your neck, forces your mouth back to his like he needs to taste your smugness. You feel him twitch inside you when you moan into the kiss—high and desperate, something wild climbing up your throat.

“You sound so sweet when you’re full of me,” he murmurs against your lips, and it’s awful, the way your body clenches down at the filth of it. “All that smartass attitude, but now you’re just—” he cuts himself off with a groan, “—fuckin’ whimpering.”

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

Your hand finds the back of his neck, you tighten your grip in his hair and drop your hips again, slower this time, grinding until he groans like you’ve punched the air out of him. You want to crawl inside him, disappear beneath his skin.

“Pretty girl,” he says, low and reverent. “You sound so fuckin’ sweet.”

You whimper at that. Your rhythm stutters.

Leon finds it really doesn’t take much to melt your poor brain. You’re already gone—thighs trembling, mouth open, whimpering nonsense between the slick drag of your hips. He takes advantage where he can, thrusts up into you with a force that makes you hiccup on a wet moan. Cute, cute, cute. 

“Leon,” you whisper, voice thin and cracked and ruined. You’re not sure what you’re asking for. More? Less? Everything?

“Yeah, baby,” he breathes, eyes glassy as they flick between your face and where your bodies meet. “Feels good, huh?”

God, his voice. You want to drown in the low timber that rattles through your head when he speaks like that. And of course, you nod. Desperate, mindless, somewhere between obsession and devotion. Your nails dig half-moons into the meat of his shoulders, your hips rocking pitifully.

“Can’t—can’t think,” you admit, a choked sound riding the edge of a sob.

Leon lets out a sharp breath through his nose, swears under it. “Good.” His voice is hoarse, fraying at the edges. “Don’t wanna hear you think. Just wanna hear you come.”

“Yours,” you whisper without thinking, tears burning and cresting your pretty lashes. “Yours, yours, yours—”

“That’s it,” he groans, “My girl.”

Your head jerks slightly, like the words ripple straight through you.

“Your girl?” you echo, dazed, like it floated up out of your mouth before your brain could catch it.

He doesn’t answer—not with words. Just thrusts up into you slow and deep, like he can fuck the truth back into you. Kisses you like you’ve ruined him completely. 

And just like that, it’s all too much.

The rhythm you’ve managed to keep starts to splinter, your movements losing precision. You’re clinging to him, breath coming in hot, wet gasps, thighs shaking, body screaming for that last push.

Leon feels it. Sees it in your face.

“You gonna come for me?” he pants, hands sliding down, down, gripping the back of your thighs as you lift and drop, roll and press. “You gonna soak my cock like a good fuckin’ girl?”

“Don’t wanna yet,” you whisper, but it’s fragile, a lie at best. You’re already falling apart.

He groans like you’ve stabbed him. “Jesus, you’re killing me. I haven’t fucked you stupid enough yet, huh?”

His hand slides down, fingers finding your clit, circling slow and punishing.

You arch into him with a cry, loud and unfiltered, every inch of you unraveling.

“There she is,” he breathes, reverent and wild-eyed, watching you fall to pieces on top of him. “God, baby. Just like that.”

“You’re bein’ mean,” You whine, words all slurred, as the tears begin to well and dribble down the pretty apples of your cheeks.

“Oh, angel,” He coos, and god you really do hate how smug he gets. “Me? Mean? You wound me, pretty.”

“Shut up,” you pant, whining high and rutting hopelessly against him. 

“C’mon,” he pants, thumb still working lazy circles against the throb of your clit, “I wanna feel you beg for it.”

It’s cruel. Cruel, the way he says it—rasped out like a curse, like it’s the last thing he’ll ever ask for. His hand is steady even as his breath breaks apart. He’s wrecked. Close. You can feel it in the way he shakes under you, in the stutter of his hips against yours. 

You giggle helplessly into the crook of his neck.

His thumb presses firmer, tight figure eights.

“Leon—!” your voice catches on a sob, you’re so close it’s dizzying, so wet and full and tense that your whole body tightens like a string about to snap. “Can’t—too much—”

“Too much?” he echoes, low and amused, and god, it shouldn’t sound so tender. “Thought you said you didn’t wanna come yet. Changed your mind?”

You nod before you can stop yourself, head lolling as your hips rut down in frantic little circles, chasing the friction.

He groans at the sight, palm spreading wide across your spine like he’s trying to hold you together. “Fuckin’ knew it. Talk big, but look at you now—makin’ a mess on me.”

One arm tightens around your waist, locking you down, and the other braces at your back as he thrusts up into you again—deeper now, sharper, fucking the air right out of your lungs.

You keen, and he laughs—breathy and soft and so fucking fond that it breaks you open.

“Look at you.” He noses at your cheek. “You’re outta your mind.”

You are. You really are. And it’s all him. The heat of him, the rough scrape of his voice, the way he touches you like you’re something to worship and ruin in the same breath.

“Gonna come,” you choke out, breath hitching as your thighs start to shake. “Please—Leon, please—”

“Fuck,” he groans, and his hips stutter. “Go on, baby. Let go. You’ve been so good for me.”

That’s all it takes. The words hit like a match to gasoline. Your whole body seizes—tight and trembling and gasping as your climax crashes over you like a wave, dragging a whine out of your throat that doesn’t sound human.

Leon holds you through it, rocking you through every pulse, every shudder. He murmurs something into your skin, something quiet and unintelligible, and then he follows—his body locking up beneath you, his breath catching.

“Fuck—fuck,” he hisses, head tipped back, mouth open. You feel the heat of him inside you, feel the full-body tremor that wrecks him. He’s still buried deep, still gripping you like he’ll fall apart if he lets go.

It’s a long moment before either of you moves.

You can feel his heartbeat against your chest, wild and unsteady. 

“You alright?” he asks after a minute, voice low and rough around the edges.

You nod, cheek resting heavy against his shoulder, still trembling even when he eases you back. Your body feels like it’s been rung out, soaked in sugar, nerves singing somewhere between pleasure and disbelief.

Your fingers twitch where they rest against his chest, and you murmur something against his neck—something nonsensical, vowels dragging like honey.

“What was that?” he asks, voice hoarse but amused, his hand smoothing over your back, tracing your spine like a secret.

“Dunno,” you mumble, “I think I saw God.”

Leon huffs a laugh. “You talk a lot.”

You don’t respond, just hum again, lost in the float of it—too far gone to be embarrassed, too fucked out to pretend you’re not still clenching around him. You feel him begin to shift, and what starts as a delighted little hum, turns to protest, a whimper slipping from your lips before you can think to stop it when you realise he’s pulling out.

“No,” you whisper, eyes glassy, fingers curling weakly at his wrist like maybe you could keep him there. “Wait—Leon—mmph.”

His laugh is breathy, wrecked. “That good, huh?”

You glare, or try to. It’s weak at best. “Don’t—don’t be mean to me.”

“You’re the one whining.”

“You made me whine,” you grumble, but it comes out slurred, a little dreamy.

Leon grins like he’s won the lottery. He’s still so close, and maybe the way his hands are smoothing over your thighs, up your hips, dragging the touch out like he can’t stand to stop can make up for how empty you feel now.

He has no shame when he cups between your thighs again and presses two fingers there, slow and lazy, you jolt. “Leon—”

He hums, smug. “Messy,” he murmurs, fingers slipping between your folds. “Look at what you let me do to you.”

You shiver hard, half from oversensitivity, half from the way his voice drips with possessiveness. You’re too blissed out to argue, too soft to push him away. Especially when he slides one of those fingers back in, just enough.

You gasp. “Ohhhhh,” you sigh, all delight and dazed affection.

You squirm against him a little helplessly, make a face when you feel him push a little deeper, like he’s guiding what’s left of himself back into you. Your head tips back with a helpless sound.

“Leon—what the fuck?”

He has the audacity to look smug. “What? Can’t let any of it go to waste.”

“Gross,” you whine, trying and failing to wiggle away. He keeps you right there, hands firm but fond, and you know, deep in your bones, that you don’t really want to go anywhere but where he is.

He offers you a real clean-up after your thighs have stopped shaking, drives you back to your place and walks you to the door like a gentleman. It feels all too sweet for the type of night you’ve had, and every part of you wishes this won’t be the last of them.

You half expect him to say something—to ask to come in, or kiss you goodnight, or at least promise to see you again.

But he just smiles. Nods. Taps two fingers to his temple in a lazy salute.

“Night, sweetheart.”

Then he’s gone.

And in the warm lull of dawn, with your sheets still cold and your heart beating somewhere between your ribs and your throat, you wonder what to do with the ache of him still lingering under your skin.

So when morning properly comes—sun high, coffee half-sipped, hair still tangled from the night before—you call.

Just to see if he’ll pick up. Just to hear the line connect.

It rings once.

Twice.

And then you hang up in a panic.

You curse under your breath. Call yourself a hundred kinds of idiot. Your thumb is still hovering over the screen when your phone buzzes in your hand.

Leon Kennedy is calling you.

Shit, shit, shit! You muster whatever dignity you have left, swallow, and answer.

“Sweetheart?” His voice is all sleepy, a little hoarse with morning, makes your heart bloom with warmth. You sink deeper into your mattress at the sound of it, curl into your pillow like it’s his chest.

“Yeah?” you say, like you’re afraid you’ve imagined the whole thing.

“You alright?”

“Mhm.”

“You called?”

“Yeah.”

“Wanna say something?”

You pause to worry your lip between your teeth.

“…No.”

He huffs a quiet laugh. You can hear the rustle of sheets over the line, the sleepy shift of his weight. You picture him in bed—bare chest, tousled hair, phone pressed to his ear, eyes still half-lidded with sleep.

“Alright,” he murmurs.

And then he hangs up.

You stare at your phone, wide-eyed like you can’t believe he really did it. Then you hit call again before you can talk yourself out of it. He answers right away.

“Hi,” you say.

“Hey,” he breathes, voice quiet and curious like a secret. “Couldn’t stay away, huh?”

You roll onto your back, smiling helplessly at the ceiling. “No.”

He chuckles, quiet and fond. “Me neither. Was already thinkin’ about you.”

You close your eyes. “I liked your voice just now.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

“I like yours too,” he says, voice thick. “Sound all soft. Like I should be wakin’ up next to you.”

The room feels warm again, like the night before never ended, whatever figurative line that you’ve drawn in the sand between you seems thinner than ever.

“Maybe next time,” you say softly.

There’s a careful pause. You both hang in the quiet, waiting to see if the moment passes.

“Have you…” he starts, then clears his throat. “Have you eaten yet?”

You shake your head although he can’t see. “No.”

“You want me to bring you something?”

The question bowls you over. It’s too sweet, too easy. Like he’s asked it a hundred times before, like this is just what you do.

“You don’t have to,” you whisper, but the fond curl of your lips slips into your voice and gives you away.

“Didn’t say I had to. Just figured you might want it.” A pause. “Something hot and filling.”

Your throat closes up a little, an uncharacteristic flush to your cheeks. “You mean pancakes?”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Among other things.”

“Leon,” you say his name urgently, too much bubbling to the surface all at once.

“Yeah, sweetheart?”

“You’re being…” You trail off, plucking at the fraying cuff of your sweater, too afraid to name it how it is, to ruin a good thing.

Another pause, you can hear the soft rise and fall of his breath. “I can be soft on you.” He murmurs, “If you let me.”

You press the phone harder to your ear, eyes stinging. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

“Good.” He says finally. Then, “Any coffee left at your place?”

“Only if you make it.”

He chuckles, low and fond. “I’ll be there in twenty.”

likes n reblogs r very much appreciated <3

[totalswag]

hey i love your work so much and if it’s not to much go ask i was wondering if you could do a fic where fem!reader is part of the cast on obx and she is really close friends with drew where they are flirting and what not and everyone ships them and they are at an interview with the rest of the cast and that gets brought up? sorry if that doesn’t make sense! if you don’t have time it’s completely

behind the scenes ⎯ RAFE CAMERON

authors note thank you so much lovie!! i'm open to take requests and write them. i've thought of this concept before and all i gotta say is thank you for requesting this because I NEED THIS!! super sorry for not posting for a small while, there were stuff i needed to take care of first.

taglist ⤕ if you would like to be notified every time i post you will type in your username then be all set.

summary having a close relationship with drew that send hints to fans they like each other based on the way they flirt with each other.

warning(s) flirting, shipping, co-stars secretly like each other?

Being apart of the Outer Banks cast has been such a blessing. You've created relationships with people you consider family now and who you can count on no matter what the circumstances are. Being on set for weeks on end filming scenes and making memories is what you look forward to most.

You grew closer with Drew Starkey because your characters are dating in the show and always next together on set too. Drew has become someone that you consider very important in your life.

You joined the Outer Banks cast during the second season. Drew appeared in a couple appearances near the end of the season, implying that he is interested in someone— love interest. You recall fans going nuts trying to figure out if this will continue. Fast forward two seasons, and your characters are together.

After a long day of filming, the cast decided to gather for dinner at a local beachside restaurant. The atmosphere was vibrant, with laughter and the sound of waves breaking on the shore. You and Drew were seated next to each other, much to the joy of your cast members, who were closely watching your interaction with Drew.

"Drew, look at the camera," you softly sang, your phone in your hand on the table, Drew in the frame of the video— he was speaking to Rudy across the table. He gives you a look that shows he knows you are heard before looking down at your phone and waving.

"Oh! "Hello there," he smiles even more when he sees himself on the screen—you giggle at the end of the video before sharing it to your Instagram story. 

"You posted it on your story?" he inquires, his body language focused solely on you. "I obviously had to; it was cute," you said as you placed your phone on the table next to your wallet. You suddenly felt nervous in front of Drew.

He raises his eyebrows in satisfaction. "Cute, huh?" He smirks and smiles, patting your thigh.

Fans began to ship you and Drew together as your relationship grew. The chemistry between you two is clearly obvious on and off screen, which is why you perform scenarios so well. Fans go berserk every time you post something on social media about Drew.

You two flirt without even realizing it at times. You will compliment each other as if you were a relationship, but this is nothing out of the norm for you two. Even your cast members have boarded the train and made a few comments about when you'll finish up together. 

You can't lie, he's an attractive young man. There's no doubt about that.

Few hours after you posted on your story, fans have been discussing the video you shared in which Drew looks at you as if you are the most beautiful person on the planet and no one else is present.

Today, you and the cast will be doing interviews all day to promote Season four. For the first portion, everyone will sit in the same room as the interviewer, but thereafter everyone will be separated.

"Alright, everyone," said the interviewer, "we've got some fun questions from fans today, and they're dying to know more about the dynamic between some of our favorite cast members."

Everyone said "Oooo," anxious to see what else the interviewer would say.

"Let's start with a fan favorite," the interviewer added, her eyes sparkling mischievously. "There's been a lot of talk about the chemistry between you two." She pointed to Drew and you. "Care to share any insights on that?"

Your stomach dropped.

The question hung in the air, drawing a chorus of “Oohs” and playful nudges from the cast. You felt your cheeks heat up as you exchanged a glance with Drew. His blue eyes sparkled with amusement, a smirk playing on his lips

"Well," Drew said, leaning in slightly. "Y/N and I have always been close. We simply clicked, you know?"

"Really?" the interviewer asked, lifting an eyebrow. "Because the way you two flirt on and off set is pretty convincing."

You laughed and shook your head. "We simply have fun with it. Drew is a terrific person, and we like joking around. "It keeps things moving on set."

"From our first reading together, I knew she was going to be a great co star of mine and we've formed an amazing bond throughout the years" Drew says with his hands. In gratitude, you give him a pat on the back.

Your cast mates' eyes are constantly drawn to you and Drew since they can tell you have mutual feelings for each other. Granted, you two have scenes together all the time and have developed a strong bond. However, you consider being more than friends with him.

The interview continued on with more questions popping up that were exciting to answer. In the back of your mind you were thinking about the question about Drew and you— do you want more?

Later that evening, you and Drew returned to your apartment and relaxed in your living room. The city lights outside your window gave a soft glow across the room, and the steady hum of the air conditioner broke the silence. You'd both changed into more comfortable clothes, eager to relax after a long day.

"Today was something, huh?" Drew murmured, breaking the silence as he sprawled down on your couch, seemingly at peace.

"Yeah, it was," you said, sitting next to him. "They really went all in on the whole shipping thing."

Drew chuckled, a deep, warm sound that made your heart race. "Yes, they did. "Makes you think, doesn't it?"

He sat up, his face instantly serious. "About Us. I mean, everybody sees it. Hell, we see it, don't we?

Your breath became locked in your throat. The playful flirtation, the lingering touches, the way your heart raced whenever he was close—it all hinted at something more than friendship. However, hearing him say it aloud was another. It made it real.

"I suppose we do," you confessed gently.

my taglist!!

✰ if you would like to be added to my taglist and be notified whenever i post please let me know in the comments or in my ask box. if there's a line across your name that means i couldn't find your account.

@ifwfratboychris @chenslucy @rosezza @rafeyslamb @runningfrom2am @mymultiveres @starkeyvhs @drewsephrry @francislovergirl @diqldrunks @kiiyomei @sukuna-wafiu @skyslowalking @kneelarmhstrung @inthelibrarybtw @superlegend216

[simpforrooster]

i fucking knew it.

aaron hotchner x f!reader

summary: you and aaron have secretly been dating for a while—and the team is starting to suspect it.

t/w: 18+. MDNI. light smut (plz don’t come for me, it was my first time writing something like it), a mention of an age-gap, some cursing, mentions of criminals. i don’t think there is too much gender identifying language, but i did imagine a female while writing.

a/n: i had no idea where this one was gonna go. i hope you enjoy!!

aaron hotchner catches your gaze over the manila folder he’s holding. to the average person, they wouldn’t think twice about this action.

but, you know better.

his eyes hold yours for a few seconds longer, before he resumes reading the details of the case.

the lowlights of the jet’s interior mask the flush that’s appeared on your cheeks. hotch feigns a stretch, his shoe tapping yours slightly as he crosses his leg.

“sorry,” he mumbles, not taking his eyes off the folder.

you wave him off, knowing your voice would betray you.

i saw that, your phone buzzes with a text from jj.

it was an accident, you reply.

yeah right, emily shares.

what! what’s happening? gosh, i hate that i’m stuck in the lair, penelope adds.

hotch smirks at his folder, affirming he knows exactly why your phone is blowing up.

the two of you have managed to keep your relationship under wraps for the past couple of months, but the girls have started to suspect something. rossi too, but you can’t be certain.

aaron caught your eye as soon as you started at the bau. you’d learn that you’d caught his almost instantly. but he was your boss, and there was the age difference.

several late nights of him helping you with your reports and chinese takeout, you fell for one another.

oh, nothing. just hotch thinking he’s being subtle, jj tells penelope.

~

“three rooms?” hotch asks the tired man behind the desk.

“take it or leave it, man. it’s 2 am,” the clerk says on a yawn.

“i call reid and rossi!” derek sticks his hand in the air. emily reaches out to jj’s arm and pulls her into her side.

rossi shakes his head and exchanges a look with aaron. “which one of you boys are sleeping on the floor?”

hotch looks at you apologetically, but you see the underlying want behind those brown eyes.

“i guess that leaves us,” hotch murmurs to his bag, trying to remain unbothered. he grabs your duffle and starts toward the elevator.

your phone buzzes in your back pocket.

one bedroom trope! emily sends to the group.

epee! penelope replies.

he grabbed her bag, pen! jj shares.

aaron has never once carried anyone’s bag to a hotel room. his gaze catches yours over his shoulder telling you he realizes the implications. his stoic expression returns as you all enter the elevator.

~

the girls, reid, morgan, and rossi get off at the third floor, leaving you and aaron in the elevator alone. not before jj shoots you a wink. hotch visibly relaxes, and gives you one of those smiles he reserves only for you and jack.

"we're on another floor? that's really going to set the girls off," you comment. aaron shrugs like the duffle bag gave it all away and yall should just fuck the secrecy. he takes a step closer to you. back-to-back cases have kept the two of you from any quality time that wasn't outside of a police precinct and the tension radiates off him.

aaron leads you down the hall once the elevator doors open on the fourth floor. his giant hand engulfs yours, and you can't wait to get into the room.

"this is us," he gestures toward the door. dropping your hand, he pulls the keycard from his pocket. swiping y'all in, he pulls you into the room.

as soon as the door closes behind you, you're being pushed against it.

"god, I've been dying to get my hands on your for days," hotch groans against your mouth. you answer him with a small moan you tried to keep in.

you push his suit jacket off his shoulders, then grip his tie. using his tie, you pull him completely flush against you. his tall body is all over you. there is no spot where his body isn't touching yours.

“tell the criminals to take a break,” you breathe. “you almost blew it at the precinct in the last case.”

aaron moves his kisses along the side of your neck. “that officer was getting a little too friendly with you.”

“but a couple hair flips had him on our side, yeah?” you’re breathless with the work aaron is making of your neck. at the mention of your harmless flirting, his arms tighten possessively around you. his mouth moves lower along your collarbone, sucking lightly. he’s learned where most of your shirt collars lie so he can hide the marks he leaves on you.

aaron pulls you from the door, kissing you like you’re his lifeline. he walks you back until the back of your knees hit the bed. “no more work talk, baby,” he says against your mouth. heat pulls in your lower belly at the pet name and a sigh escapes.

the first time aaron called you anything but your last name, you could have climbed him right then. he still uses your last name, or just agent, in the field, but it’s softer than it used to be.

as aaron pushes you back on the bed, you make quick work removing his tie and dress shirt. the white shirt he wears underneath pulls across his chest. your arms move over his biceps reveling in just how nice they are.

“you like what you see?” aaron smirks, his hand slipping under your top.

you answer him with a hand on his chin, guiding him to your lips. “always,” you breathe.

he smiles against your lips. “why don’t we get you a little more comfortable,” he says, pulling your top off and throwing it to the other side of the room. you’re pretty sure it lands on the lamp. this earns a laugh. aaron checks over his shoulder and chuckles along with you.

“i told you, i need to get my hands on you.” he reaches behind you, unclasping your bra. which follows the same trajectory as your shirt.

“hmm, this isn’t quite fair,” you murmur. you push aaron back until you’re sitting up in his lap. your thighs settle on either side of his, and his hands fall to them, giving them a light squeeze.

“tell me.”

“you still have your shirt on,” you tell him, running your hands along his chest. aaron reaches back with one hand and pulls the undershirt from his body. it’s so insanely sexy, your mouth drops open. how is this guy real?

aaron chuckles again. “you never cease to amaze me.”

“i don’t know what you’re talking about, you’re practically an adonis.”

he rolls his eyes and pulls you flush against him. “you’re talkative tonight.” he presses a kiss under your ear. you crane your neck to give him more access.

“i always talk a lot when i’m nervous,” you admit. truthfully, there is nothing to be nervous about. you and aaron have slept together plenty of times since you’ve gotten together. this is, however, the first time while you’re on a case.

aaron pulls back and studies your face. “we don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do, baby.” his brown eyes search yours. the want in his is palpable. you’re certain the same is reflected in yours. your hands knot in his hair and you guide his mouth to yours.

“no, i want to. i need to,” you say, rolling your hips into his, his erection has your cheeks flushing. “i just still can’t believe it’s happening. you and me,” you admit.

aaron kisses you. it’s full of wanting and urgency, as if he’s afraid you’re going to disappear right beneath his fingertips.

“you and me were destined the moment i laid eyes on you,” he says, laying you back and settling between your legs.

~

the next morning, there is just enough time to grab some continental breakfast before meeting the local pd. normally, you don’t like to waste time on something as menial as breakfast, especially with a serial killer on the loose, but you and aaron had a lot of time to make up for and you’d built up quite the appetite.

you left aaron with a chaste kiss on his cheek in the room, before joining everyone in the lobby sans duffle.

“well, you’re glowing,” jj comments as you join her and emily at the table. derek turns from where he’s sitting with rossi and reid. “what’s that?”

emily points to you with her fork. “look at her. a literal ray of sunshine.”

“she looks normal to me,” reid comments. “if not a little worn down. are you feeling okay, y/l/n?” your eyes fall closed, trying to keep your emotions regulated.

“that, reid, is post-coital bliss,” derek says.

“yall have no idea what you’re talking about,” you tell them, praying your cheeks haven’t turned pink, because they’re exactly right.

rossi jumps in to save you. “come on boys and girls. let’s not make claims of our unit chief breaking fraternization rules on a case unless we’re sure,” he chides. he gives you a knowing look. aaron has definitely let rossi know what’s been going on. hell, if you didn’t know any better, rossi was probably the one who pushed aaron to finally make a move. you shoot him a grateful look.

“who’s breaking fraternization rules?” a deep voice sounds from behind you. just the sound of his voice has you wanting to drag him back up to the room. “baby, you’ve got to have more than that,” aaron comments on your lone piece of toast.

your face jerks towards him at baby. aaron curses lightly under his breath. a rare slip up from mr. professional himself. he stands there with both your duffels in his hands, his shoulder slumped in defeat.

derek smacks the table, cause the front desk workers to look over. “i fucking knew it!!”

your head falls into your hands. aaron’s laugh reverberates through the lobby. his real, earnest laugh. “well, i did good for a while there, huh, babe?” he says to you. leaning back in your chair, you tilt your head back to see him. the grin on his face could cause world peace. it’s not everyday the team gets to see aaron’s real emotions.

“you did,” you agree. he leans down and places a quick kiss on your lips before walking over to the desk to turn the room keys in.

as you reface the girls, their eyes are sparkling.

“i fucking knew it,” emily echos derek under her breath.

masterlist.