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st4rbwrry · 7 months ago

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𝓢𝓐𝓣𝓞𝓡𝓤’𝓢 𝓖𝓘𝓡𝓛. satoru gojo.

ᰔᩚ warnings. 5.2k, fem!reader, professor!satoru x college student!reader, classroom sex cs duh, reader’s 23! & satoru’s 30!, oral ꒰ f + m ꒱, titty sucking, biting, size kink, voice kink, sub / dom dynamic, fingering, choking, spanking, lotssss of dirty talk omgie, multiple orgasms, pet names ꒰ lil’ girl (literally just a taunt), pretty, baby ꒱, roughhhhh sex ona desk, minors aren’t welcomed! reblogs + comments are greatly appreciated. ♡

꒰ mocha’s note ! ꒱ : got inspired by miller’s girl and wrote this in literally five hours. so, happy bday daddy. <3

he always knew there was something wrong with you. how could there not be? one, you’re deadly in the eyes. that he solidified the first day. always looking at him like you wanted to eat him. two, you're a mythical deity. stunning. you could be born in a different world for all he knew. sometimes he hated those voices that told him to stare at you. watch you watch him. velvet red hair cut in layers that reach the middle of your back. dermal piercing a few inches below your right eye, multiple on your ears, septum ring in your nose. your eyes are slanted like a cat, fluffy lashes enhance your features. your lips always look soft, darkly lined, and topped with a sheen of gloss.

most days you dressed according to weather, or really whatever you felt comfortable in. yesterday, when going over the topic for an essay he wanted everyone to have written and turned in before spring break hit, you were different. just tuesday you were wearing oversized men’s jorts with a basketball jersey tied up to your back. now, when you walked into his classroom with less clothing than he’s ever seen you in, he had to question it. you looked nice. it wasn’t any of his business, maybe you could be going out later with friends. it’s not his business.

what was his business was how you strutted up to his desk after you waited for every student to exit class. satoru sat in his leather chair, legs sprawled and hands clasped together in front of him as he leaned back into his seat. his eyes absentmindedly trail up and down your body full of curves and soft, ample skin. the tattoos on various areas of your body are more evident. the black prescription glasses sitting on the bridge of your nose as you chew your gum and hand over your essay. those short ass white ruffled shorts and a yellow crop top, without a bra, with green accents and black font that read ‘soulaan’ in the middle a distraction.

“hi, ꒰♡꒱. you’re always one of the few people who turn in their work early.”

“what can i say, i was very passionate about this essay,” you twirl your finger within your necklace, scanning his entire face with flirtation. satoru hums, pretending not to notice. “i really put my entire soul into it, so please take your time reading it. it’ll mean a lot.”

“must’ve been a really interesting dream of yours.”

“you have no idea.”

and you were fucking right. that night satoru went home and started his usual routine of getting comfortable, making dinner, and brewing some coffee so he’s wide awake to read over thirty student essays. luckily, he didn’t ask for much. they were given two options. their goal was to describe the perception of dreams or in detail, write a tragic fantasy story. most of the essays he read felt like middle school writing, frustratingly rubbing his temples as he graded multiple papers, trying to figure out why basic comprehension skills were lacking, even doubting himself as a teacher. he tries not to stay up for hours, flipping through papers and scribbling—until he sees your name on the corner.

satoru sniffles, taking a sip of his coffee before he’s getting comfortable in his chair, sinking into it and beginning to read what you wrote about. you’ve always had a way with words, great formatting, expansive dictionary. when reading your dream, it felt like a real novel, like he was a part of it. then, he felt really a part of it, to a point where it was uncomfortable. the story has to do with a woman who aches for an intimate union with her lover, yet he’s withholding her pleasure, leaving her trembling on the precipice of desire in their lover's den. the greek god you describe as your lover is dominating. stunning facial features, starlight hair, and crystal blue eyes. the woman is feeble, urging him to see her, to yearn for her, to become one with her. abandoning her needs for his personal endeavors.

with gentle touches that linger on the softness of her plush thighs, smoothing along her brown skin shining under the moonlight, she results in the sensual act of pleasuring herself. the help of her lover is nowhere to be found in the darkness where her body laid on milk-toned, silk sheets. leaving her to pursue the cavern flowing with burning, hot arousal. she finds herself daydreaming of what could’ve been as her delicate fingers find themselves sinking between her precious legs. trailing another hand to her throat which she clutches tight as if it were his. rolling her hips into her hand to grind on as if he were entering himself into her. dulcet whimpers escaping her throat as her body arches off the bed in ecstasy, mind swirling with pleasurable emotions and unforeseen desires. rocking her body upon the bed as if his heavy, big body hovered over her and lost himself in her. spanking herself as if it were him. chewing on her lower lip as if he were gnawing at them. orgasming with tiny whimpers and sobs as if he were the cause. him, him, him. . .

the heat encasing satoru’s face could only sum up one feeling; arousal. the essay goes on for so much longer, conjuring up unwanted fantasies of a woman he promised to push back into the furthest parts of his brain. you were altering his mind. it was clear as day exactly who you wrote this for and about. him. what you wanted from him, the longing ache to have him. it’s enough to give him a migraine, cutting off his desk lamp before forcing himself to take a very cold shower. those words replay in his mind, the image becoming erotically more vivid. picturing your body atop of silk sheets where you’d fuck yourself out of pity. is that how he’s making you feel? edged? unsatisfied? whimpering in your loneliness? he’d never do that to you.

satoru hates himself for needing to handle the painful hard on he’d gotten, head buried under the stream of water as his fist twists roughly around his aching dick, grunting at any image of your face coming to mind. it was a highly inappropriate thing to do. a professor and his student sleeping together? it’s all too cliche. you were a grown ass woman, so if teasing him by switching up how you dressed to purposely gain his attention, and writing erotic pornography was your way of showing him you needed him for one act, one day, one night of nasty ass sex . . what were he to do? you are a beautiful woman, and he’s always felt a source of attraction to you, but you weren’t worth jeopardizing his career for. it’d have to wait.

the last day before spring break came and he was ready to confront you about your so-called ‘essay’. when he notices you walking into class, he tries to avoid staring at your attire; a really short black pleated skirt with a matching ed hardy tank top and glossy mary jane’s on your feet. gulping and keeping his focus on your eyes as he whispers, “stay after class. i need to talk to you.”

you try to hide the smirk wanting to display upon your face, winking at him before nodding and finding your seat. class seems exceptionally longer today, finding yourself dozing off for most parts, shutting off your brain by doodling into your journal or making a grocery list for this weekend. pulling a sweet treat from your purse, you find a pink lollipop to distract yourself with, oral fixation getting to you. satoru almost chokes on his words when he catches you swirling your tongue mindlessly around your candy, being a fucking brat in his eyes. gently kicking your feet and resting your chin in your hand to keep yourself from sleeping.

when the lecture ended, that’s when your heart began to race in excitement, and maybe a sheer sense of nervousness. curious to hear what he was going to say to you. making your way down the steep stairs of the class, you sit in the front row, plopping into a chair and crossing your legs as you look up at him, watching him say his final goodbyes as the class completely clears out. half of the campus was empty considering most students began making their way home, so really only fifteen students showed their faces today.

satoru’s shoulders roll as he sighs, folding his arms in front of him. “so, ꒰♡꒱. . . i read your essay.”

“uh huh, what’d you think?” you smile.

“it's definitely something. very good writing, never doubted you on that. but, i do have some questions.”

you snap your fingers before pointing them his way like a gun. “shoot!”

“you remember the topic of discussion, correct?”

“wrote it down in bold,” you nod.

“right, but, i think we went far off topic. as in, inappropriately.”

“what are we, in high school?” you scoff. “i’ve read worse. i used to grade papers for teachers.”

“i understand that. but it’s evidently not what i meant as far as the topic goes. in this dream of yours, the two characters are . .” he pauses, trying to figure out what to say.

“fucking,” you finish for him, still sucking on your lollipop.

satoru’s gaze flew there momentarily before finding your eyes again. “having intercourse, yes. i’m just having a hard time comprehending what you wrote.”

“why is that?”

“how is it considered a tragedy?”

“well, the woman couldn’t have what she wanted in the end. she was edged, given false hope from promises that were made to her. pleading for any form of gratification. why, as a man, deny your lover of acts that forever bonds their love?”

you bat your lashes, eyes going wide as you word it so . . dreadfully. satoru inhales, stuffing his hands into his pockets as he squints at you.

“so, she killed herself in the end, because she wasn’t gratified?”

“as implied, yes. the pain of a woman, you’d never understand. it’s unbearable. feels like death, satoru,” a pained sigh emits from you as you hold your heart and shake your head. “ugh.”

“꒰♡꒱,” satoru blinks, your games becoming unfunny. “was this dream something you recalled, or are you trying to imply something?”

“dreams can’t always exist, unless you persuade yourself to make it real,” you respond firmly, making yourself as clear as you possibly can.

“do you want it to be real?”

“do you?” you counter.

satoru pokes his inner cheek with his tongue, turning his attention away. “i-i can’t answer that.”

“why not?”

“it’s just . . not in my position to answer that. it’s inappropriate.”

“but, you felt it, right?” your voice grows softer.

he looks at you. “felt what?”

“our attraction to each other,” your head slowly tilts to the side, eyeing him up and down, watching him slightly shift. “through that essay. what i want from you, what you’ve been wanting from me, professor satoru.”

his jaw stiffens. “you’re essentially crossing a line.”

“the only thing i’m crossing are my legs,” a loud pop! rings as you remove the lollipop from your mouth, looking at it before deciding to crack it in your mouth and tossing the white stick somewhere in the room. satoru’s fists clench whilst he admires your glistening legs. “you want them . . un-crossed? open?”

“꒰♡꒱.”

“mhm,” you moan after hearing your name desperately fall from his lips. he didn’t mean for it to sound that way, sucking in his breath as your fingers trail within your plush inner thighs. “it’s wet, professor satoru. see.”

next, you spread your legs apart, lifting your skirt up some more so satoru can easily see the imprint of your cunt against the red fabric of your cotton panties, wetness sealing and sticking to you.

satoru clears his throat, hand coming up to rub the back of his neck with a rough grunt, trying to contain himself from acting on his obvious desires. his polished loafers click amongst the tile as he strides quickly towards the classroom door, locking it and pulling the shade down so there would be no interruptions. he doesn’t know what he’s doing, he shouldn’t even react this quickly in fact. but he’s been pent up ever since last night, having such a hard time sleeping. only the thought of you glimmering in his mind.

satoru takes a deep breath with shut eyes, hands sliding back into his slacks pockets as he leans against the desk, one foot crossed over the other, those once daydream blue eyes now staring maliciously in your direction. you bite your lip, slowly rising from your seat to strut towards him, hips swaying salaciously.

your body brushes amongst his seductively slow, tits grazing his chest and arms that are tightly fitted into his baby blue button down, lips coming up to graze over his clenched jawline. your hand trails up his left arm, feeling the hair on his skin rise as your nails brush along his neck where a vein throbs violently, blood rushing.

“don’t be so scared, i don’t bite. and i don’t tell.”

in a swift move, you're hiking your body on top of the mahogany wood desk, kicking off your shoes and planting your feet flat on the surface, legs spread wide to allow him to slot himself between you. satoru’s vision remains unchanged, still staring at the seat you once resided in as he breathed heavily. your manicured foot skims up and down his strong arm, your short, bubblegum acrylics sliding into your mouth as you lewdly suck on your own fingers while mewling. satoru can see you in his peripheral vision, your hips shifting dauntingly, just waiting for him to react.

“you already locked the door, what are you waiting for?”

“for you to say it.”

you grin. “say what, baby?”

satoru scoffs, shifting in his spot from the sudden pet name, dick uncomfortably hard. “that you want me to fuck you, ꒰♡꒱. i need to hear it.”

okay, you get it. lowering your leg from touching him, you go to grab his hand instead, the expensive watch on his wrist cold to touch as you guide him to touch the top of your thigh. “want you to fuck me like you've been needing to, satoru. please.”

an unexplainable breath of air releases from him as he finally faces you, and seeing you spread along his desk like this felt like a hallucination. most of this didn’t feel real. maybe he was still sleeping? and if that was the case, there were no rules. his towering body slots between your thighs, glaring down at you possessively as he smoothes both his veiny hands up and down your thighs, tightening at your hips before sliding back up. going back down to apply pressure to your ass, then lowering his head to your pretty face.

“gimme your mouth,” satoru rasps, clutching your neck to pull your face up before you oblige and lean in for a kiss first to feed his hunger.

satoru grunts in your mouth, soft lips molding with your own in a passionate kiss. it’s slow, sucking on each other's lips before you’re sucking and moaning on his thick tongue, moaning into his mouth while he pants into yours. you suck on his lips, turning your head slightly to deepen the kiss, unbuttoning his shirt, desperate to feel the heat from his skin. then goes his belt, unraveling it along with pulling down his zipper, and that causes satoru to get aggressive with his mouth. kissing so rough it makes your pussy throb.

“you taste so good, pretty,” he moans in between, turning your neck to the side to latch his lips and tongue on the flesh, your eyes rolling back as he found your sensitive spot. you gasp from the whimper he emits as he does it.

“f-fuck,” you whimper, gripping his wrist as he suddenly sinks his teeth delicately into your skin, soothing it with a rough, slow swiped of his tongue before ending it with a kiss.

he’s traveling to the other side to do the same, your hips rocking on the desk to try to get closer to him, his bulge only grazing your soaked pussy. you lift your hips and scoot closer, balancing yourself by gripping onto his shoulders to drag yourself against the outline of his dick. satoru moans from the motion, locking his right hand under your left thigh to raise higher so he could grind against you like you whimpered for, dry humping you as he continues to kiss you.

soon, he’s lifting your top over your tits, eyeing them as they sit on your chest, barbells pierced into the dark skin of your nipples. it created a visceral response from him, shifting his hips to grind against you harder as if he’s fucking you slow, cocking his head to latch his full mouth around your tits. your head falls back as he pulls them into his mouth greedily, dropping your hips on him mindlessly.

“satoru, you’re g’na make me cum too soon,” you whine into his ear, but he ignores you completely, almost growling like a dominant animal in heat as he locks you close.

“g’na cum a few times fuckin’ me, so get over it,” he mumbles after releasing your tit with a lewd pop, switching his mouth to drop his tongue and enclose his lips over the other, tongue flicking with his hands slamming against the side of your ass falling bare of your skirt.

satoru hisses a deep ‘fuck’ as you rotate your hips quicker, humping him like a bunny, an orgasm in fact happening. satoru picks up his pace, rolling his hips forward to match your rhythm, his eyes sparkling from your desperation. he’s leaking precum, and your slickness is drenching his briefs.

“mgh, baby—fuck,” your tongue lolls out to lick and suck at the shell of his ear, biting gently on his earlobe as your knees buckle and you whimper while grabbing at his backside to pull him indefinitely closer.

“lemme taste that shit,” satoru’s almost begging, your heavy breathing by his ear and inability to stop moving your hips fucking him up. he knows you taste as good as you look.

you grip the edges of the desk as you nod, legs shakily raising as he roughly pulls your victoria’s secret thong with a blinged hemline off to finally see his other girl, lowering to his knees in worship.

“she’s pretty as hell,” he whispers with an erotically drawn-out moan, licking his lips before he leaves open-mouthed kisses at your inner thighs, holding yourself open for him. he spanks your thigh hard, the hit making you squeak and stare at him with a stretched jaw and furrowed brows. “where’s that thank you, lil’ girl?”

“t-thank you, baby.”

“mhm, that’s right,” now his lips are latching onto your sluice clit, hungry eyes piercing into your every emotion as you whimper pathetically and maintain eye contact you’re sure he wants. “fuck yes, baby. so fuckin’ good, girl. rock on my face.”

sinking your teeth into your lips which you’re sure were bitten red and nearly chapped, you comply, gripping tight on the desk while your other hand tangles into tresses of white, swallowing and lifting your hips just like you were doing a few minutes ago. satoru’s thumbs are embedded into either side of your thighs, using only your pelvic muscle to shift into his mouth, his fat tongue hot on your pussy.

“tongue so good, baby. nng,” your face scrunched up as he growls into your cunt, your inner thighs shaking when he slicks his face up and down your pussy, juices covering his chin. “right there, right there!”

satoru keeps his mouth where you want it, focusing mostly on your engorged clit pulsating on his tongue, digging into and occasionally capturing it with his lips, his salvia drooling onto you as he moans, his eyes scrolling as you tug at his hair.

“oooooo, fuck, yessss,” you didn’t mean to scream, but his attention on your clit gets distracted by his thick fingers sliding into your hole, twisting and thrusting two of them simultaneously. his jaw shifts quick, kissing and licking while he fucks you open. “ ‘t-toruuuhh.”

“unh huh,” satoru continues to swallow you. “gimme that fuckin’ cream, baby. i want it all in my mouth. make me proud. atta girl.”

you cry out, stomach heaving. “i love when you talk like that.”

his fingers pull out to quickly spank your clit, your hips stuttering as he’s slipping them back in, pumping three to four times before taking them out again and spanking your clit again. “that’s what you like?”

“y-yessss!”

“fuckin’ sexy ass girl,” he spanks your outer thigh with vigor, coming to grab your throat once again, giving you a chaste kiss while he finger fucks you faster. “ain’t you? fuckin’ let me know. scream that shit out loud.”

“i amm, ugh—god . . pleaseeee.”

“go ‘head and cum, c’mon. gotta paint my dick pretty with it, yeah?”

“oh . . my . . g-goddd,” the way he talks to you makes you dizzy, and it’s everything you’ve ever dreamed of. his mouth is filthy, and when you cum hard for the second time, he makes sure you suck on his fingers to taste yourself. wrapping your lips around them to suck them clean before satoru’s sticking out his tongue to rush over your mouth along with his fingers, pulling them into his mouth to suck after.

your eyes are drooped, feeling so fucked out without actually having him fuck you yet. who would’ve expected your professor to be this . . nasty? it’s like he’s been waiting for you to speak up so he can fulfill his own disgusting fantasies. safe to say, you made a good choice.

satoru’s standing back to his full height, which never fails to make you ditzy from the size difference. you feel so small on this desk under him.

“c’mere, move up all the way,” he’s now guiding you to turn your back to him, which makes you pout since you wanted to face him. he chuckles deeply at the audible disapproval, swatting your ass. “you’ll still see my face, greedy. be patient.”

he positioned you on your knees on top of the desk facing a dusty chalkboard, spread eagle and hands pinned behind your back, almost curled up into a fetal position with your tits to your knees. satoru swallows, your pretty red hair falling angelically around your soft features as you wait for him to fuck you. his dick is throbbing in his fist he’s pumping it into, the shlick shlick noise leaving you anticipated as he uses your arousal as lube. he’s aligning the tip with your opening, teasingly rubbing the head up and down, the vein on the underside of his heavy dick throbbing.

his other hand is keeping you pinned down at your hip, also lifting the flesh of your ass so he can slide into you. he’s pushing forward, choking on a moan the deeper he gets. you’re real tight, it being slightly difficult to push fully into you. words like ‘relax’ and ‘breathe baby’ utters painfully from satoru as he tries not to lose his shit at the sight of your pussy literally gripping his dick to pull back in after he slightly shifts back. when he’s halfway in, leaving the hand on your hip, he uses the other you lock your wrists behind your back, gyrating his hips to cock back and grind into you.

“ooo, f-fuck,” you whimper, hands wiggling in his grasp, nails managing to scratch his arm. satoru watches the flesh of your ass bounce with every deep, slow thrust, pussy squelching.

“see? look at the shit,” satoru comments to himself, knitting his brows together in fascination. “told ya’ it’d make it pretty,”

“can’t see it,” you whimper, upset.

“you can feel it, right? it’s stretchin’ that pretty girl open,” satoru moans gruffly, moving himself closer so his sharp hips hit your ass with every movement. he’s getting rougher, your skin nearly bruising from his hot touches, the bangles on your wrist clinking with each thrust.

“i feel it,” you hiss, stomach caving in. “bet s’so pretty.”

“yeah? promise to give it a taste after?”

“yeah,” you nod slowly, eyes tightly shut. “y-yeah. will, ‘toru.”

“good girl.”

gasps fill the air when he fucks you harder, balls slapping against your sticky clit as your ass recoils and claps back onto his abdomen. he’s got a deadlock on your posture, satoru’s face completely serious as he fucks you so, so rough. his sounds are animalistic compared to your own; whiny and soft. coughing out moans as you heave against the desk creating a spot of condescension. he’s so big hovering over you, bending you underneath him, papers falling off the desk while he rutted into you. skin clapping, moans synchronized, and sweat dripping. it’s the hottest fucking scene.

“takin’ me so deep, baby. this shit feels so fuckin’ . . good, god,” satoru’s voice breaks, hitting you ass with a dirty grunt. “ungh, fuckin this pussy g’na get me in trouble.”

“i n-need you,” you fight to break free from his grip, flipping your hair over to one side of your face as you sit up after he releases his grasp. “closer.”

taking the initiative, you go to stand on your feet, back pressing to his chest as he clasps your throat, standing on your tiptoes to rotate and grind your ass back on his dick, stuffing you so full you feel it in your tummy.

“that’s my girl,” satoru’s kissing your earlobe, pressing his cheek onto the side of your face as the two of you controlled your breathing together. “it’s your dick, take it. fuck that pussy how you want. i’m your fuckin’ toy.”

“ssshit,” sucking your lips inwardly, you keep your hand on satoru’s wrist while your arm slings behind his neck to balance yourself, the ridges of veins on his dick scratching all the good, achy parts.

“c’mon, girl, got me waitin’ too long,” without incoming, satoru spanks your thigh, hips thrusting steadily. “if you g’na fuck me, do it right.”

you try to keep your composure, but the sultry, deep baritone of his voice directly by your ear makes your waist stutter, that warm, bubbly feeling swarming in your tummy. his mouth is back on your neck, and that activates you quick, sobbing and clapping your ass back needily. the mutual desperation to cum is at an all-time high.

“there we go, t-there we go, girl. that’s what i wanted. s’good,” satoru’s gorgeous eyes cast white, jaw dropping as he grunts, holding your waist just to hold you, allowing you to handle it. “ungh, fuck. keep fuckin’ back.”

the burn in your legs prolongs as you sway your hips and fuck back on him, his grip on you keeping you balanced to give you enough space to move how you want. this dick is slick with your cum, a ring of cream covering it as you cry and push all your weight back so you're feeling every inch while he's experiencing every tight clench.

“ ‘toru, i—” your words are cut off by an interrupted orgasm, cumming yet again as you greedily roll your ass back with weak cries. your legs feel staticky, almost falling down before satoru makes sure to lock his forearm around your stomach.

“ ‘toru needs t’ cum too.”

interlocking his right hand with yours, the two of you hold hands as he lays it on your thigh, bringing your head back to rest on his shoulder with a hand grasping your throat tight, nearly cutting your airways. he’s getting . . mad? nothing satisfies him more than to know he’s made a woman cum multiple times in one session, but when he gets as horny and fucked out as he was now? it wasn’t a good idea to leave him without one orgasm. and he can definitely give you more than just one. he wanted to show you that, you deserved that.

satoru begins to pull his hips back, giving you a sweet kiss on the lips to let you know he still cares and will comfort you after. just needs a few minutes of shutting off that part of his brain to fuck himself dumb. your pussy clenches and pulsates sloppily on his dick as he fucks you harder than he has before, the breath knocking out of your throat while he squeezes his eyes shut and pounds assertively. they’re neither fast nor slow, just steady and rough. like he’s been needing it so damn bad. the warmth of you getting him out of character, the scent of your perfume enveloping him. the conditioner in your soft, red velvet hair. the tattoos inked into your brown skin, the piercings on your ears and face. your fogged-up glasses, courtesy to him. the unexplainable pleasure he derives off of hearing you whimper ‘toru, toru, toru’.

who knows what kind of fucking spell you put on him. he just knows he’ll never, ever erase today from his memory. it’ll play like a tantalizing loop. tears threaten to fall from your eyes, cunt going sore from his brutal pivots, falling back weakly into his strong body and gasping from every deliciously deep, thrust. satoru kisses at your face, lashes kissing your cheekbones, trying your best to look up at him. and when you do, you can see he’s utterly gone. the groans emanating, feral growls, and pinball white eyeballs that couldn’t stop scrolling into the back of his head. you watch him mumble your name while spewing expletives, pink lips wide as his whimpers and moans break apart.

“fuck!” he bellows, moving your bodies back towards the desk as he pins you down flat and fucks your ass back onto him, that pressure tugging at him. he's pressing the side of his cheek with yours, breathing heavily while gripping your jaw and dropping his weight on your backside. “fuck, fuck. fuck.”

“ ‘toru, please cum for me, baby. w’na taste you so bad.”

and he does, as soon as you say his goddamn name like that again, that vanilla voice of yours, seductive yet sweet, coaxing him to cum.

“knees, baby. suck me,” satoru heaves in a high pitch.

hurriedly, you twist your body to crouch below him, palm wrapping around his dick, satoru’s hand taking strands of your hair to make a ponytail on the back of your head to bob your head to suck him, hips stuttering and his lips damn near quivering. your cheeks hollow inwards as you swallow him in your throat, satoru guiding your head as he shoots his cum hot in your mouth. you moan around him, staring up at him through your dark falsies to be rewarded with the beautiful sight of his snow white hair shielding his face, blue eyes glowing as he looks at you with a genuine laugh.

pulling your head back, you wipe your mouth slowly with the back of your hand, satoru’s dick twitching midair, semi-hard. he holds both palms out, waiting for you to grab him so he can pull you up. you take them, and he brings your chest to his.

“fuck, you’ve got me spent,” his hands are now on either side of your face, locking his lips with yours once more. “so damn good.”

“mhm,” you blink with a goofy smile, pulling your shirt down and smoothing your hair. kissing his face, you wipe your lipgloss off any part of his skin. “so, same time after break?”

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sometimesanalice · 1 year ago

Text

Between Friends

Summary: Bradley and you don’t talk about that Spring Break. But a single question asked during a night out at the Hard Deck might just change things between the two of you forever.

Pairing: Bradley ‘Rooster’ Bradshaw x Female Reader

Length: 11K

Warning: smut (including loss of virginity), brief mention of underage drinking, and college!bradley in a backwards hat

(Author's note: Happy Birthday Jordan! I wrote this just for you! Look at me keeping secrets from you! Enjoy!)

𝐍𝐎𝐖

Rooster couldn’t control his bouncing leg.

That night at the Hard Deck had started out like any other: good music, good drinks, good people. Over the course of the evening, he’d found himself seated between you and Bob in a lopsided circle with the rest of the Daggers around a few tall tables that had been pushed together just shooting the shit.

It was all fun and games until swapping stories about embarrassing middle school moments turned into cringing over first kiss stories turned into Seresin grinning like a shark asking about how everyone’s first time went down.

Rooster felt his pulse kick up with every collective laugh and groan as his friends went one by one sharing how they’d lost their virginities. Because with each passing story, it meant that you were one person closer to going. And for the first time in his life- even after over two decades of friendship- he didn’t know what your answer was going to be.

So he is just as shocked as his teammates are when you tentatively reveal, “So, um, my first time was with Rooster.” He doesn’t miss the way all his friends’ heads snap towards him.

All eyes are on the two of you, and you’re pointedly looking anywhere but him.

Rooster had been anxiously waiting to hear the story of your first official time, the one that was with someone who wasn’t him. He didn’t realize that you still considered him your first. He’d figured that part of your history had long been overwritten by whoever had been lucky enough to catch your eye and make your heart race in a romantic way.

The two of you had never talked about it in the after.

Not once, not ever.

He didn’t care that people knew, he just wasn’t expecting it.

Jake starts the group out of its stunned silence by slapping a heavy hand on top of the table, nearly sending some bottles to the floor, “I knew it! I knew y’all couldn’t have been friends all this time and not have tried it out at least once.”

“Jesus Christ, dude, chill,” Javy mutters. He’s always been the better of the two about reading the room.

Trying to spare you from being put on the spot even more than you already were now, Rooster mumbles through the way he’d lost his to a girl from his AP Econ class after a playoff baseball game.

He stares at the way you’re nervously picking at the label of the Blue Moon he’d grabbed for you when he went to get a refill of his own. He can practically hear the way your brain is buzzing. He wonders if you wish you could take back the words from where they are sitting on the table with the collection of bottles and peanut shells for everyone to see.

Bob being the team player that he is starts talking about how he’d lost his one summer in college to another camp counselor, going into more detail than he’s ever given before, probably trying to redirect the attention to himself to give the two of you a moment to regroup.

Rooster makes a mental note to tell Penny to put all of Bob’s cream sodas from now on on his own tab.

He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do here. Or where to look. Or where to put his hands. He wants to talk to you, but there’s no good way for him to go about it without drawing even more attention to the two of you.

You were supposed to be going on a first date tonight, but he’d talked you into canceling to hang out with him instead. He likes having all of your attention on him. And maybe he’s been a little selfish with you, because he doesn’t like to share you with anyone else. You’ve always been his best friend.

Rooster likes that he gets to talk to you whenever he wants now, and that it doesn’t feel like a never-ending game of catch up anymore. In the year since the Uranium mission, he’d felt like all the fragmented pieces of his life had finally come together. He’d reconnected with Mav, he was living in the same city as his best friend, and he had a place he could finally call home.

He didn’t just want the highlights with you, he wanted everything in between too. There’s no more distance due to time zones and scheduling times to call because now you only live 20 minutes away from him. And the next time he comes home from a deployment, he knows he’ll get to look forward to seeing you there waiting for him.

He feels like he’s learned so much more about the grown-up version of you over the last year than he has in the last ten.

Jake jumps in barely a breath after Bob finishes telling his story. “Well, we all know it’s not the first who matters, but who was the best.” Rooster doesn’t trust the gleam in his eyes or the sharp smile on his face. “Since Bradshaw cut you off before, how’s about you go first this time, darlin’. You can tell us about who knocked your socks off. Maybe this time he’ll let you finish, if you know what I mean.”

It’s thinly veiled snooping disguised as chivalry, and it doesn’t fool anyone. Nat’s eyes dart to him briefly, trying to get a read on him.

He’d been 21 at the time. And while he knows more now that he did then, he also knows his name isn’t going to be coming out of your mouth for a second time tonight.

Rooster takes a sip of his beer, needing something to do.

He knows you’ve been with other people. You’d lived with your ex for over a couple years, for fuck's sake. But it was like an unspoken agreement between the two of you to not talk about your sex lives with each other.

His leg starts bouncing again and he realizes he really doesn’t want to hear this. Not because of his ego, but because he doesn’t know what to do about the knot that’s formed in his stomach.

Your mouth opens and closes a couple times before you speak, “That title would also go to Rooster.” The admission is soft, but sure.

Where his heart had been pounding before, now it feels like it had stopped completely.

It’s been 13 years since that Spring Break. 13 years and he’s still your best?

Barely five minutes ago, he hadn’t known where to look. But now? Now he couldn’t stop staring at you.

He just didn’t understand why you still wouldn’t look at him back.

𝐒𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐁𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐊, 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐇 𝟐𝟎𝟏𝟎

When you’d floated the idea by Bradley about visiting him at UVA for Spring Break during your weekly phone call, you’d been braced for the disappointment of him already having plans. It was his Senior year, it wouldn’t surprise you if he wanted to go out with a bang and make the most of it. Especially since he would belong to the Navy soon enough.

But he’d taken you by surprise when he started enthusiastically listing off all the places he wanted to show you, planning out your trip like a well-seasoned travel agent before you’d even booked a plane ticket.

You’d started looking up airfare before you’d even hung up the phone. And thirty minutes later you had a confirmation email flagged in your inbox after elatedly charging that aisle seat to the credit card you only used for emergencies.

It had been close to a year since you’d last seen him. He usually spent his Winter Break with your family, but this year he’d stayed on campus for the holidays and it was the longest the two of you had ever been apart since you’d first met him when you were 8.

And maybe that’s why it took you so long to spot him in the Arrivals area of the Charlottesville-Albemarle Airport.

You’ve always prided yourself in being able to pick Bradley out of a crowd anywhere, but in your cursory glance you hadn’t recognized the tall, broad guy with the UVA shirt pulled taut across his chest and wearing a baseball hat backward on his head. It wasn’t until your third searching pass that you’d caught the lips that were quirked up in amusement and those familiar brown eyes trained on you as he leaned ever-so-casually against the faux wood paneling on the wall waiting for you to notice him.

He’d filled out in the months since you’d last seen him. He was more toned than you remembered him being with definition in places where there hadn’t been before. His face had more distinct angles and less baby fat cushioned curves. Still a bit boyish, but he was well on his way to looking like a man.

Bradley raised his hand like he was going to wave, but then he’d mimicked casting a fishing line in your direction and reeling it in. And it was so endearingly stupid- so him- that you couldn’t help but take the bait and made your way towards him with the biggest grin on your face.

You’d ignored the jittery flutter in your stomach as you’d weaved between people and luggage. You’ve never been nervous around your best friend before. There was something that had on your mind a lot as the days to your visit inched closer, but you’d shoved that out of your mind, because you were finally standing in front of him in person for the first time in months.

“Hey, kid,” he’d greeted you, taking your bag, “Charlottesville must have known you were coming, because she’s going to be sunny for you all week.” As soon as you were within arm’s reach, he tugged you right into his chest for a hug. You could feel the unspoken I missed you in the way he squeezed you just that bit tighter before releasing you.

Then he was dropping an arm over your shoulders and steering you towards the exit and driving you into town in the beat-up car he’d bought after selling his prized Montero, the car that Mav had given him for his birthday.

You’re only there for a week and Bradley doesn’t waste a single moment of it.

After dropping your things off in his dorm room, he takes you straight to campus where he gives you the Official Bradley Bradshaw Certified UVA Tour. He buys you lunch from one of the food trucks in the Amphitheater “for sustenance” before taking you to see the highlights. You start with the Rotunda and then the academic village, making a special pitstop at the Whispering Wall for you to tell it a secret. And then he takes you on a more historical tour, like showing you the exact route he used to streak The Lawn and pointing out the place he’d puked after his 21st birthday.

It’s clear he’d put so much thought into your visit because it seems like there is never a down moment. By the end of the third day you’re more surprised that you don't wake up every morning with a printed itinerary on your pillow.

He sneaks you into the Slaughter Rec Center to rock climb, claiming he had a person on the inside with the right connections. But really from what you could tell, the pretty girl at the check-in counter clearly had a crush on him. He takes you to the batting cages he likes to go to before Dead Week, and spends the time there equal parts making fun of your power swing and trying to fix it.

You get your revenge the next day standing outside of the imposing columns and massive doors to the Fralin Art Museum. Skeptically eyeing the sculpture in the front of the building that kind of looked like a giant wisdom tooth, you mentioned, “I didn’t realize you’d become such a patron of the cultural arts.”

“Hey now, I like artsy shit,” he’d said, only mildly affronted.

You snorted at that. “Is there an exhibit on beer pong and blunt rolling you wanted to see?” Through the window you’d spotted some large landscape oil paintings in ornate gilded frames and carved marble busts of what you assumed were probably of some of the Founding Fathers.

“You just missed that one, it was last month,” Bradley lobbed back, opening the door for you.

“What a pity,” you’d said with a dramatic sigh, “Guess we’ll have to settle for some tasteful nudes instead.”

“If we’re lucky,” he’d muttered under his breath, as you passed under his arm.

And then you’d felt the corners of your mouth kick up.

Turning around you’d pressed your finger to his chest, whispering so the person behind the ticket desk didn’t hear you, “Twenty bucks says you don’t make it thirty minutes in there.”

He narrowed his eyes, taking in your sly grin, “You’re on, kid.”

It’s the easiest $20 you’ve ever made.

The two of you call it a truce only after he tips your kayak into the still chilly Rivanna River.

Later that night, he takes you to a party on “Mad Bowl” that one of his frat friends was hosting. The backyard was all strung up with red and green Christmas lights like they had been too lazy to take them down after the holidays and decided it added to the outdoor ambiance instead of packing them away.

He was still just as protective over you as he was back in high school. Spending the whole night keeping an eye on you and handing you drinks that he’d uncapped himself using the opener that he had on his keychain, the one that still had the little fighter jet charm you’d given him ages ago dangling from it.

The days pass all too quickly as he shows you all of his favorite spots.

You knew UVA wasn’t where he’d originally wanted to be- where he thought he’d be- but you were happy that he seemed happy here.

But in between the late-night microwave ramen and movie watching and crossing off all the things on Bradley’s Spring Break To-Do List, there’d been something you’d been wanting to talk to him about. But you were having so much fun with him, you’d missed your best friend over those long months apart, and you didn’t want to ruin the time you had left with him here.

It lingered at the back of your mind like a phantom hair that you can feel, but can’t ever seem to brush off no matter how many times you attempt to. You felt like you were waiting for the right time that you weren’t sure would ever come. And if you were being honest, you weren’t entirely sure you would even be brave enough to ask if the time came.

The two of you had woken up way before the sun this morning.

If anyone other than Bradley had asked you to wake up before 5 AM to go hike to watch the sunrise, you would have laughed at them. But because it was Bradley, you’d set the alarm without comment. Even though he did have to gently pry you out of his roommate’s bed- with the fresh sheets he told you he bought especially for your visit- and lace up your shoes for you.

The views at Humpback Rock had been worth the hour hike up to the outcrop of craggy rocks. The sunrise painted them a stunning shade of soft orange as the rays illuminated evergreen covered hills and valleys that extended in front of you to the skyline. You and Bradley watched it in silence, shoulders pressed against each other as you took it all in.

You’re cozied up on your bed for the week, flipping through a book you’d brought with you, but hadn’t touched at all until now when Bradley comes back from the showers. His hair is still damp and the ends are starting to curl a bit.

He drops a Styrofoam cup of coffee on the nightstand next to you.

You hadn’t been sure what rooming with him would be like, the two of you together 24/7 since his roommate had left to go home for the break. But it felt like you were two kids at sleepaway camp getting away with mischief rather than two broke college students only pretending to get away with mischief.

He sits down at the edge of his bed, his elbows resting on his thighs, “So.”

“So?” you repeat, blowing on the hot coffee before taking a sip.

“Are you going to tell me what’s been up with you?”

You wince, and it’s not because the coffee tastes like tar.

“What do you mean?” you try to ask casually.

Bradley gives you a look that says you don’t fool me, kid. “You’ve been squirrely. I didn’t want to press it, but I can tell there’s something on your mind.” He takes a sip of his own milky battery acid. “Are classes going better since you switched majors?”

You nod, looking anywhere else other than at him.

“How are things with your Dad?”

You offer him a shrug.

He sighs your name in exasperation. You can tell he is trying to tamper his frustration at your lack of cooperation.

“Is it a guy?” Bradley tries again.

You swear you feel your heart stop, because you knew what you wanted to ask him, but you didn’t know how he was going to take it.

You fiddle with a string on his roommate’s comforter. “There’s something I wanted to talk to you about,” you admit, tentatively, “But I’m nervous.”

Bradley’s eyebrows pull together as he sets his coffee aside, “C’mon, it’s just me. You can talk to me about anything.”

“It’s more of a question.” One you’re still deflecting from asking.

“Ok, well you know you can ask me anything.” His tiny dorm room feels even smaller as the two of you try to read the other’s face.

Taking a deep breath, you ask the question that’s been rattling around in your brain for weeks.

“Bradley, I was wondering if you’d be my first?”

Less than ten words. That’s all it takes to tilt Bradley’s world off its axis.

He’s loved getting to show you around UVA this week. It wasn’t where he thought he’d end up, but he hadn’t lost sight of where he was going. He was going to be a Naval Aviator one way or another. He just also got to have a normal college experience too, one he’d been excited to share with you.

Bradley had originally been invited to go stay with one of his friends at his family’s beach house, but when you called and asked about coming to visit Charlottesville, it was an easy choice for him. He’d pick you every time.

It had been even better getting to cross off some of the things on the bucket list he’d made for his Senior Year with you in tow, like the hike he’d taken you on this morning.

He loves the views from up there and thought it would be something you’d like too, but he’d never done the hike early enough to catch the sunrise before. It was actually something he was planning on going the morning of graduation as a symbolic way to end his time at UVA, but getting to do it with you was special in its own way.

And while he’d caught you lost in thought more than a few times over the last few days as he showed you around, he never in a million years would have ever expected you to ask him that.

Bradley knows all the words you just used, but they don’t make sense to him in that order.

His brain is working in overdrive trying to figure out if there is any possible way he could have misinterpreted you.

“Your first…”

You take another deep breath and tip your chin up in resolve before looking him dead in the eye, there’s so much vulnerability reflected in them, “I haven’t had sex before, Bradley. And I’m really hoping that my first time can be with you.”

Bradley wants to tell you to put your Styrofoam cup down because he’s worried the tight grip you have on it might crush it, but he feels like the wind has been knocked out of him.

He didn’t realize when his leg started bouncing until he sees you glance down at it.

Shooting to his feet and off his bed, he goes to lean against his recently decluttered desk. There’s too much restless energy coursing through him to just sit like he isn’t completely reeling.

“Shouldn’t you want to do this with someone special? Like with rose petals and all that shit?” He scrubs a hand over his face. Rose petals and all that shit? God, he sounds like such a fucking dumbass, but he’s struggling to keep up.

And if he’s being entirely honest, he’s pretty surprised to learn you’re still a virgin. Not that there’s anything wrong with it, but he knows you’ve had at least one serious boyfriend since you’ve gone to college. He figured that you got asked out all the time. He saw the way that some of the guys in his buddy’s frat were looking at the pretty girl with the dimples and big smile.

The girl who just asked him to be her first.

He hates the way your shoulders have slumped forward, like you’re trying not to cave in on yourself, “So, you don’t want to?”

“I didn’t say that.” His answer takes him by surprise.

The only other sound in the room other than his pounding heart is the whir of the air circulating in his dorm.

“Would it help to make a pro con list?” you offer, less than helpfully with a little shrug.

“Jesus Christ,” Bradley mutters under his breath, looking up at the speckled ceiling trying to decode the flecks like tea leaves. “She’s cracking jokes like she didn’t ask me to make her come.”

“Technically, I didn’t say anything about that. I just asked you to be my first.”

“I’m not taking your virginity and not giving you an orgasm,” he states, and your eyes get wide. He runs his hands through his hair. “Sex makes things complicated, kid. We’ve got a good friendship.”

You sit up straighter on his roommate’s bed and bring your knees to your chest. It exposes the backs of your thighs and he has to shake the mental images of skin on skin out of his head.

There’s a look on your face that tells him you feel ridiculous even asking him, “Do you think you’re going to fall in love with me or something?”

“No,” Bradley says, honestly.

He knows you’re just trying to make a point.

The two of you have been friends for over a decade. He knows he cares about you- he always has- but he couldn’t imagine what anything other than just friendship would look like with you.

You nod in agreement, like you had been anticipating the answer before you’d even asked him the question.

“And do you think I’m going to fall in love with you?” you ask, your head tilting to the side.

He doesn’t even blink, “You can do better than me.”

And he means it.

Even if there was something more between the two of you, you’ve always been too good for him. And knowing him, he’d find a way to fuck it up. You’re the last person in the world he’d ever want to hurt. He’d let you down before, he doesn’t want to do it ever again.

You shoot him a disappointed look, like you don’t like hearing him say that about himself. And he’s oddly touched that you’re defending him against himself.

“You’d literally be doing me a favor.”

Bradley is still surprised that he hasn’t ended this conversation yet. The two of you were supposed to go to the movies, but that definitely wasn’t happening now.

“I’m not saying no,” he says, “But I need you to help me understand. Why me? Why now?”

“Bradley, I want it to be with you because there’s no one else I’ll ever feel as comfortable with as I do with you,” you explain.

He watches as you unfold yourself and climb off the bed, coming to stand in front of him. You gingerly reach out and put your hand on his forearm, like you don’t want to startle him. Not that he’d be able to move anyways since it feels like the soles of his feet are cemented to the floor.

“I keep waiting for it to not feel like such a big thing, but every time it seems like it’s going to happen, I freeze. And I know you’d take care of me, and I’m not talking about orgasms.” You stumble over the word a bit, not fully meeting his eyes as you say it. “It’s scary enough as a girl and I’m worried I’m going to be too in my head with anyone else. But I also don’t want to look back and have any regrets, and I know I wouldn’t have any with you.”

The mention of regrets makes his stomach twinge. His heart feels like it’s hammering in his chest. He doesn’t know what to say.

You are looking at him with such open sincerity. He has never been good with talking about his feelings, he’s always been the type to bottle things up, while you have always worn your heart on your sleeve. It was just another way that you were braver than him.

“I know it’s a lot,” you say, letting go of him to take a step back, like you want to give him breathing room, “So if it’s too big of an ask. Or if it’s not something you’re comfortable with-”

Bradley shakes his head cutting you off, “It’s not that at all, kid. I just haven’t done this before.” Your eyebrow scrunches together in confusion. “I mean, I have,” he corrects, “But it’s not the same. All the girls I’ve been with had already had experience. And if we were going to do this, I would want to make sure it’s as nice for you as it can be.”

“So you’d be my first and I’d be yours? Well, kind of.” You give him a little smile, it’s a shy but hopeful thing. There’s only a hint of your dimples, but it’s enough. And he feels that practical part of him that had been holding back soften at the sight of it.

He doesn’t think he’s ever said no to you, excluding the times you tried to get him to give you his beer at the house parties he took you to in high school, and that was more out of self-preservation from a healthy fear of your mom than anything else.

When you wanted to learn how to drive a stick shift? He took you to the abandoned parking lot, it didn’t matter that you didn’t have your learner’s permit yet. When you wanted to learn how to throw a punch? He was making sure you knew not to tuck your thumb under your fingers, so that you didn’t break your own thumb instead of someone’s nose.

He’s always had your back and you’ve had his. That’s how it was between the two of you.

You’ve already said it, but he needs to hear it again, “You really want to do it?”

“I really want it to be you, Bradley. I really want to do this with you. I trust you the most.”

He’s always been willing to help you with anything you’ve ever asked of him, why should this be any different? What’s a couple orgasms between friends?

“Ok,” Bradley nods. If it’s to reassure you or himself, he couldn’t say. “I’ll do it. We can do it.”

Your eyebrows raise in surprise, like you were fully prepared for him to let you down gently, “Really?”

You didn’t ask for his why he was agreeing, but he was going to give it to you anyway.

“I don’t think I’ve told you this, but I lost mine to Samantha Prescod after the game against Centennial that got us a spot at State that year,” he waits until he sees the recognition cross your face before continuing, “But I had also just learned about my mom’s diagnosis and I was trying to find anything I could do to not think about it.” He rubs at a spot underneath his collarbone, it never got any easier talking about his mom. “I think she assumed that I’d done it before, because we didn’t really talk about it. She was there and into it, so it just sort of happened. Actually, I’m pretty sure she only slept with me because she wanted to make her ex-boyfriend jealous, because they got back together like three days later.”

It’s probably for the best that Samantha Prescod lives on the other side of the country now because you look livid. Your eyes spark with anger and disbelief on his behalf.

“It was years ago, it’s fine, kid” he shrugs, trying to brush off your concern. “But if I had a do-over, I don’t know if I’d make the same choice again. And that’s not something I’d ever want for you.” You deserve the rose petals, but he’ll do his best for you. “So we can do it, but I have one condition.”

The relief on your face and the way the tension in your shoulder releases only solidifies his decision.

“Tell me,” you say, taking a half-step towards him, “I want you to be comfortable too.”

Bradley pushes off his desk and meets you the rest of the way, “If you even think you’re feeling uncomfortable- about any of it- I need you to tell me. And we’ll stop and figure out where to go from there. If it’s a change of position, if it’s a full stop and order pizza instead, we’ll do that.” He pauses and reaches out to tip your chin up. “I’ll do whatever you need, got it?”

You throw your arms around him, and his wrap around you just as easily. Your hair smells like the travel sized shampoo he’d picked up for you, figuring you wouldn’t want to use his 2-in-1. You murmur your thank you into his shirt followed by a fuck Samantha Prescod that makes him squeeze you just a bit tighter to him in affection.

When you step back and look at him, your lips twitch upwards, “What’s with the look, Bradshaw? Don’t tell me you’re going to lie back and think of England?”

That makes him chuckle, your joke lightening the mood in only the way that you can do. He rolls his eyes in equal parts exasperation and fondness.

“God, I haven’t been this nervous since I lost my own virginity. I was so stressed I was going to blow my load in two pumps and lose my street cred.”

You snort and send him a smirk, “Well, you must have done just fine. I overheard some glowing reviews in the girl’s bathroom on more than one occasion.”

“I maybe lasted ten trusts, but I had the good sense to eat her out after,” he admits, and then tacks on for good measure, “I’ve gotten better since then.”

“What a stud,” you tease.

This is easier, this feels like the two of you. This should be fun, it shouldn’t feel serious. He can make it good for you.

You look up at him shyly from under your lashes, “So how do we do this?”

He feels like he only just wrapped his head around the idea of it, but now he was facing the very real possibility of seeing you very naked very soon.

“You want to do it now?” Bradley blinks.

“I mean, if you’re up for it.” You scrunch your nose when you realize you’ve made a terrible double entendre. “No pun intended, I promise.”

He wipes his hands on his pants.

“You sure?” he asks again.

“I’m sure, Bradley. As long as you are too.”

He nods, “Then I guess we just…”

He’s not sure where he was going to go with that. But he’s spared from being roasted by you for making some sure to be lame birthday suit joke because you’re untying the bow on the soft lounge shorts you’d thrown on after your shower from the hike, and all the words get trapped in his throat.

You don’t look at Bradley as you slide your shorts down your legs. And you definitely don’t look at him when you pull your shirt over your head, leaving you in only a soft green mesh bra and your cotton underwear. They’re mismatched, but sex with Bradley wasn’t originally on the Spring Break To-Do List agenda for today.

In fact, you hadn’t even been sure you were going to go through with asking him until he brought up the point that he knew you had something on your mind because you apparently had no poker face.

While it felt like you had a swarm of butterflies whirling in your stomach, you also knew wholeheartedly that this was the right choice for you. Everything he had said had solidified that for you.

You weren’t sure how you were ever going to thank him for this, but you had a lifetime of friendship with Bradley to figure it out.

His room cast in the soft afternoon light, the blinds only partly closed. There are little streaks of gold that line the plaid comforter on his bed. He’d been right, Charlottesville had stayed sunny just for you.

As you climb into it and situate yourself against his pillows, you can help but notice just how much his bed smells like him. It’s not the spicy scent you associated with the High School version of him. The woodsy and warm scent embedded in the threads of his sheets suits this grown up version of him.

You feel equal parts overdressed and underdressed in your bra and underwear. You know the latter are going to come off eventually, so you make a split-second decision to just take them off yourself under his covers. The idea of Bradley helping you to pull them off later seems like it would be too intimate based on the way the thought of it makes your cheeks heat up.

It’s practical, you’re being practical, you think to yourself.

You chance a peek at him and are surprised to see that he hasn’t budged an inch. It’s almost like he is waiting for you to get completely settled before he dares to move a muscle. His eyes are trained on the pile of your clothes on the floor, he looks lost in thought.

“Bradley?”

The sound of your voice seems to kickstart him into action.

He shucks off his shirt in that kind of reckless way that seems to be ingrained in boys and then unbuttons his pants. You’re torn between feeling like you should give him privacy and wanting to watch. What you were expecting is the way he takes the time to pick his clothes up before folding them over the back of the chair at his desk.

Your mouth goes dry as you take in the sight of his body, the diffused light perfectly outlines the shape of him. His broad shoulders are rounded with the muscles he’s gained from whatever exercises the NROTC has been putting him through. Your eyes dip down to his defined chest and over the ridges of his abs. You’ve seen him in swim trunks plenty of times, but seeing the way the muscles of his thick thighs fill out the black boxer briefs he was wearing was entirely new to you.

Bradley approaches you and then pauses as he bends down to collect your pile of clothes on the floor, his hand hesitating only for a second when he reaches for your underwear. He drapes all of your things on top of his on the chair and makes his way back to you.

The gesture makes you melt a little like a soft serve ice cream cone on a summer afternoon.

You lift the corner of the cover for Bradley and he climbs in next to you. You move closer to the wall, trying to make more room for the bulk of him in his small bed, and he shifts in even closer into you until your bodies pressed tight against one another. The curves and angles of the two of you slotting together like pieces of a puzzle.

It feels like the two of you are teetering there on the edge of something. You both know exactly where it’s going, but are unsure of how to make it from Point A to Point B. Both waiting on the other person to make the first move.

He rests his warm hand on your stomach, the muscles there jumping on their own under his touch in anticipation. Your faces are close since you’re sharing his pillow. His brown eyes are searching yours, probably looking for any sign of hesitation that you don’t feel.

“Tell me how you’re feeling.” It’s not a question, but a request.

“Overwhelmed,” you admit, “But in a good way.” He runs his palm lightly up your stomach and back down, soothingly.

“Good, that’s good,” Bradley says, clearing his throat, “You’re supposed to feel a little ‘overwhelmed, but in a good way.’” You feel your lips pull up at his gentle teasing.

He smiles softly at you. His face has always been so familiar to you. The pink from his scars have finally faded, but you wonder when his eyes start crinkling around the corners.

You let go of the comforter to run a finger down the top of his nose, “I don’t know how this has stayed so straight.” He’d been in more than a couple fights in his teen years, including one that had sent him through a sliding glass door.

��Probably the combination of a little luck and the fact that none of those guys could throw a punch,” Bradley smirks. He shifts on his side, propping himself up on an elbow looking down at you, still running his hand along your stomach. “What have you done so far?”

His fingertips circle your bellybutton and your stomach swoops like it’s on the swing carousel ride at the fair.

“Some over the clothes stuff…” you stammer. You’re having trouble focusing because all your attention is on his big hand and how it feels against your oversensitive skin. “And I have a vibrator, but ah…”

You’re so keenly aware of his hand. With every lazy circle he makes, he has you wondering if this is going to be the one where he finally moves his hand lower. That part of you in flutters in expectation because you know it’s coming.

You let out a shaky huff when his fingers trails back up your stomach.

“What is it?” Bradley’s hand stops moving. “What are you thinking?”

“Honestly?” you say, trying not to squirm, “I’m getting really horny and you keep teasing me.”

He presses his lips together like he’s trying not to laugh at your overshare, and there’s amusement in his eyes.

“You know, some people call it foreplay,” he drawls. You’d roll your eyes but his fingertips are by your bellybutton again and you want him to keep going. “You ready for more?” You nod a few times because if he doesn’t touch you soon you might just crawl out of your skin. “Ok, gonna stop ‘teasing’ you now.”

This time his hand doesn’t stop at your bellybutton, it keeps moving down, down.

You stutter over a breath when Bradley’s fingers touch your clit. You feel yourself melt a little further into his mattress. He’s making easy circles, letting you get used to someone’s fingers other than your own on the most sensitive part of you. Your hands are clutching tightly to his comforter, unsure of what else to do with them.

“Spread your legs a little wider for me,” he murmurs. You feel your face heat up. He’d just given you a direction, but it sounds almost indecent coming out of his mouth.

You shift, moving your legs apart further for him, until he secures your left between his own, opening you up even more. You know you’re wet and now he does too. Bradley’s fingers slide easily over you as he increases the pressure on your clit. You can feel the intensity of his gaze on you watching for your reaction as he figures out what you like the most.

It doesn’t take him long to learn your body. You don’t know whether to be impressed with him or embarrassed with yourself at how quickly he’s worked you up.

Your breathing feels so loud in your ears in the quiet room, every breath and sigh is amplified. There’s a certain thrill in not knowing how he’s going to touch you next, your own fingers pale in comparison now.

His warm breath coasts down the side of your neck causing you to shiver at the sensation. It makes goosebumps break out along your arms and your nipples pull taut.

He notices. Of course he notices.

“Are you cold?” His voice is low in your ear.

“No, I-” Oh god, you’re right there. “B-bradley, I’m-” You’ve made yourself orgasm plenty of times, but you’ve never shared that part of yourself with anyone else before. No one knows what you sound like or what you look like when you come. But now, Bradley was going to have the piece of you too. A whine escapes you without your permission.

“It’s ok, kid, I’ve got you.”

You’re seeking and searching, but it’s Bradley’s fingers that have the answer.

And you come with your stomach twitching and hips jerking as he murmurs praise in your ear.

His fingers slow down, featherlight on your clit, but your heart is still racing when he rasps, “There’s one, you up for another?”

Bradley loves that moment during sex when he hears that first gasp or moan. He loves learning what sounds of satisfaction he can pull from his partner. He loves knowing he earned it. But he never in his life could have ever anticipated hearing those sounds from you.

In his bed. Because of him.

He didn’t expect the lick of heat that curled up his spine at the shape of your legs and the curve of your ass as you were stepping out of your shorts. He’d never seen anything so strangely endearing as it was watching you shimmy your underwear off under the shield of his covers.

Every hitch in your breath made his blood run hotter in his veins. He was trying to control his cock, but he’d started getting hard the second you’d pulled your shirt off. Your bra was some kind of sheer thing that left nothing to the imagination, and while he wasn’t trying to check you out- because that’s not how it was between the two of you- he couldn’t help the way his eyes flickered down.

You’re slippery, wet, and warm. And he knows he can make you come again.

“Do you want me to use my fingers now?”

You crack an eye open at him, it’s the first time you’ve opened your eyes since he first touched you. Your eyes are bright in that way that only comes with an orgasm. “I thought you already were.”

“Such a smartass,” he grins.

Bradley changes the unhurried circles he’d been making on your clit to the upstroke that made your hips jerk up into his hand the first time he’d tried it. The little noises you’re making have him fighting the urge to grind himself against you for some relief of his own. He’s still got your knee tucked between his own; where there had been a hint of polite space between your bodies, the way you’re writhing now has him pressed up against your hip.

You gasp, breathily, “Oh, you’re hard.” The disbelief is evident in your voice, but it’s the look in your eyes that he doesn’t know what to make of, something like surprise.

He’s been trying to be a gentleman, this is about you and not him. There might not be anything romantic happening between the two of you, but this was hot and he was more than a little turned on. And he knows you are too because he can feel how wet you are under his fingers.

“’Course I am,” Bradley says, nudging his nose against your temple, “I’ve got a pretty girl in my bed half naked.” He didn’t want you to feel like you were in this on your own, so he lightly rocks against you. He wants you to feel him, he wants you to know he is into this too. “Are you ready more?”

“I’m ready, I want more,” you confirm, wrapping your hand around his bicep.

Your breath hitches as he teases you with just the tip of his finger.

He’s been told before he has big hands and thick fingers, he’s always taken it as a compliment in the past, but now he’s scanning your face for any trace of discomfort as he sinks one into you.

Your eyebrows twitch then smooth out and your mouth drops open as he starts pumping his finger into you in a smooth rhythm.

“That feels nice,” you sigh, airily.

He knows you like it when your hips tip up just a fraction. His comforter is bunched around your waist and your nipples are peaked against the see-through fabric of your bra. He gets his thumb on your clit and you whimper as you tentatively roll your hips against his fingers.

Bradley hums his approval, “Atta girl. There you go, find what feels good for you.” His voice sounds low even to his own ears, a throaty rumble. He feels you clench around his fingers and it sets his pulse racing. It’s a piece of information he tucks away for himself.

He’s gentle on your clit, but now that he knows you’re into it he’s setting a more purposeful pace with his fingers.

You’ve got your bottom lip pinned between your teeth, like you’re trying to swallow down your sounds. He didn’t realize how much he liked hearing these new sounds from you until you started trying to muffle them. On the next slide of his finger into you, he knows exactly what he’s looking for.

You suck in a sharp breath of surprise when he finds it.

“Is that the right spot, kid?” He sounds so smug. You curse and your hand clutches at his shoulder. “You want to try a second finger?” he murmurs into your ear.

“Yes,” you rock into his hand, “Yes, please.”

“Whatever you want, Miss Manners.” His chest feels like he’s taken a shot of Fireball. “You’re so polite when you’re trying to get your way.”

“I’m always polite,” you challenged weakly, pressing your head further into his pillow.

“Mhm,” he indulges, fondly, “You’re the sweetest girl I know.”

And then he fills you with two fingers.

“Jesus, Bradley,” you gasp, offering more of yourself to him.

Your nails dig into the muscle of his shoulder as he lets your whimpers and whines guide his hands.

The two of you have your eyes fixed on the way the tendons of the visible part of his forearm are flexing before it disappears under the covers as he works you.

Bradley curls his fingers into that spongy part of you and your hand flies to his wrist, gripping him tight. It makes him pause, worried that he might have pushed you too far too fast.

“No, no. D-don’t stop,” you plead, desperately, “I’m so close. Keep going, please.” You squeeze his wrist encouragingly.

“Sorry, sorry,” he soothes. He focuses his efforts on that spot again now that he knows you weren’t wanting him to slow down, but rather trying to hold him in place. His fingers inside of you and his thumb on your clit working in tandem to get you there again.

“I just- yes. Like that. Oh fuck. Keep doing that. Oh my god. Please, Bradley.”

He’s heard you say his name a lot of different ways, but never like this.

Your back arches and you twist yourself towards him, burying your face against him and keening into the hollow of his throat as you come around his fingers.

You jerk and writhe into his hand, your knee slips free of his and your thighs clamp together around him. Bradley rolls off the arm he’d been leaning on and brings it to cradle the back of your head, pulling you closer and holding you to him as he steadily works you through it until you’re loose-limbed in his arms.

He waits until your rapid pants have evened out before he slips his fingers from you. The displeased sound that you make makes the corners of his mouth twitch. He should have known you’d be bossy. He rubs gentle circles into the divots at the base of your neck as you come down.

Bradley can feel your lips graze the side of his neck when you finally speak, “So, um, let me know if you need a letter of recommendation or anything. I’d be happy to pass one along to your next partner.” You languidly prop yourself up on his chest and he notes with pride that you look a little flushed. “But, seriously, I get it now.”

He huffs a laugh as he toys with the end of your hair, “I’m glad it lived up to the hype. Well, at least that part of it.”

You press your lips together like you’re deciding something, tracing idle shapes on his stomach, and he can’t decide if he thinks you’re doing it without realizing it or if you’re the one doing the teasing this time. Your eyes flick down to his visibly hard cock and he feels his face heat up, “Can I?”

“Do you want to?” Bradley wants this experience to be everything you need and want it to be, but something about the tables turning here and the idea of you being the one to touch him like that makes his heart pound.

“I want to make you feel good too,” you softly tell him, resting your chin on your shoulder. The tender way you’re looking at him makes his teeth ache.

“Ok, but only for a little bit,” he agrees. Bradley knows he’s walking a tightrope with this, he’s aching and more than ready to be touched, but he doesn’t want to come all over your hand.

He plants his feet into his mattress and lifts his hips enough to pull off his boxer briefs, sighing in relief as his cock bobs free.

“That can’t be average,” you mutter under your breath.

He doesn’t know if you meant to have said it out loud but he smirks all the same, “I��ve never been average a day in my life, kid, Grade A student here.”

A groan slips out of him as your tentative fingers grasp his cock. There’s a lack of finesse in the way you touch him, your hand isn’t nearly as well-practiced as his own. He wraps his hand over yours, guiding your strokes as he shows you just what he likes.

“You can grip it a little firmer,” he coaches. You nod studiously, like you’re going to be tested on it later. Together the two of you work him from root to tip.

Bradley had never given much thought to his size until now. He knew he was big, but seeing that your thumb couldn’t reach the tips of your fingers when your hand was curved around him was an ego boost he didn’t know he needed.

You get more confident with every glide up and down the length of him. Your tricky thumb sweeps over the tip, collecting what precum had gathered there, and it makes your hand slide easier over him. When he accidentally thrusts into your hand, you grin and there are those dimples again.

“Ok, ok,” he blows out a shaky breath, stilling your hand with his. “We gotta stop or I’m going to come. And I’m not about to be a one pump chump.”

“It sounded like you’re more of a ten pump chump, if I remember correctly,” you tease, looking all too pleased with yourself. “Don’t worry, Bradshaw, your street cred is safe with me.”

He shakes his head in amused disbelief, “You’re such a goddamn menace. I knew I shouldn’t have told you that part.” He surprises the both of you when he wraps an arm around you and rolls to pin you under him.

And it’s like all the air is sucked out of the room because your thighs are cradling his hips and his cock is resting heavy on your stomach.

Neither one of you dare to move. He’d give anything to know what you’re thinking right now, he feels out of his depth as he watches you watching him.

His tongue feels thick in his mouth, “Are you on-”

You nod before he even finishes the question.

“Do you have-”

He nods before you finish yours.

“What did you promise me?” he prompts, squeezing the dip of your waist.

You hold up your pinky to him, “I’ll tell you.” He wraps his own crooked one around yours and gives it a shake.

Bradley doesn’t know what comes over him, but he drops a kiss to your shoulder as he reaches over you into the drawer of his nightstand to fish out what he needs. He’s thankful when you don’t comment on it because he wouldn’t even know how to explain it.

He leans back on his knees and rolls the condom on with practiced ease, then flicks open the cap to the bottle of lube he’s also grabbed and drizzles it over his cock.

“Am I not…” you trail off. He doesn’t think he’s ever heard you sound this shy with him before.

“You’re plenty wet,” he assures you, pumping himself- once, twice- just enough to coat himself, “But this’ll be good too. I think you’ll like it.”

Bradley settles back over you, one arm braced by your head and the other on your hip, as your hands come up to rest lightly on either side of his ribcage. He rocks against you to demonstrate; the head of his cock nudges your clit with each silky pass. You exhale heavily at the sensation as he eases you into the motion of it, as he shows you what it’s like with another person.

You’re holding him close, and in just a moment the two of you will be the closest two people can be.

He makes only enough room to reach down between your bodies, only looks away from your face long enough to line himself up with you. There is such trust in your eyes as you gaze up at him, it’s not something Bradley takes for granted.

You nod, your fingers stroking his sides.

God, does he want this to be good for you.

He takes a breath.

And then he’s shifting forward and pressing in.

Bradley thrusts into you with all the careful gentleness you’d expect from him.

His thumb skimming along your forehead as he pushes in, in, in.

When he found that spot inside of you with his fingers, you thought you were going to fly away from the intensity of it, but then he’d pulled you into the safety of his arms and you felt like you could fall apart because he’d be keeping the pieces of you together.

He’s been so good to you. He is so good to you. He’s the best person you know.

The more of him he gives you, the less you feel like you can catch your breath.

You feel hot, hot all over. And much fuller than you’ve ever been.

Some sound must make its way out of you because Bradley offers you a low soothing noise before you feel his lightly chapped lips against your temple.

There’s something about this that reminds you of the time he tried to teach you how to skateboard. Always waited until you told him you were ready, until you found your balance. He’d held your hand as you cautiously rolled along the sidewalk, you were less worried about falling with him by your side. Only this time, his hand is on your waist and the only movements are his hips against yours as he rocks into you.

Little by little. Inch by inch.

You clutch at his biceps at the slight stinging sensation and you feel him hesitate.

“It’s just a lot,” you whisper. His fingers flex on your waist.

“You’re doing so good, just a bit more,” Bradley murmurs, encouragingly.

There’s pressure, there’s a give, and then there’s relief when his hips finally, finally meet yours.

“Shit,” he curses under his breath.

Your eyes had flickered shut somewhere along the way. You open them to see that Bradley’s face and chest are flushed pink, the muscle of his jaw flexing. The furrow between his eyebrows is so deep that you release your grip on him to smooth out the lines with an unsteady fingertip.

He reads the question in your eyes.

“You’re just really tight,” he grits out, voice strained.

You assumed that was a good thing, but he’s holding himself so tense above you that now you’re not sure. “Do I-,” you fumble over the words, “Does this feel good for you?”

He huffs an incredulous laugh, and brushes back some hair from off your face, “You feel really fucking good, sweet-”

Your whimper cuts him off when he pulls out a fraction and then pushes back in.

His brown eyes take you in as he does it again, more this time. Pulling out just a bit- just enough- and then filling you again. The discomfort fading more with each thrust as he guides his hips to yours until yours are tilting up to meet his seeking more.

It’s a conversation between your bodies, the give and the take of it all as Bradley introduces you to this new unspoken language. You feel yourself flutter around his cock, stretched wider than you’ve ever been.

You feel that heat spreading underneath your skin again as he surely and steadily pumps into you. It feels like your nerves are on fire. You didn’t expect to even come once and you’re well on your way to a third.

He reaches down and hooks your leg over his hip. His hand slides up along the outside of your thigh and under your ass, tilting your hips up towards his even more. He’s so much deeper like this. Your hands slide into his hair, tugging at his curls.

“Bradley, I-I think… I feel-”

“You’re gonna come,” he rasps, nodding at you. Encouraging, coaxing.

He grinds his pelvis against your clit with every deliciously slow roll into you.

Your mouth drops open at the feel of it, it’s better than anything you’ve ever imagined. You don’t think your faces have ever been closer than they are now. Bradley is breathing your air, and you’re breathing his. Bradley’s pupils are blown wide, his heavy-lidded eyes are locked on yours. You didn’t know there could be so many shades of brown. His curls are a mess and it’s all because of you. He licks his lips and your breath catches in your throat when his eyes dart down to your parted mouth.

His next thrust into you hits that spot inside of you just so right that it has you gasping.

It’s so good, it’s too good, it’s overwhelming.

You wrap your arms around his neck clinging to him, your face buried against him. Bradley drops his head to your shoulder, you feel his lips brush against your clavicle. Your head moves away on instinct, making more room for him if he wants to do it again.

You get lost in the feeling of his cock hitting you in all the places you’ve heard about and read about, but have never felt for yourself until now. He’s still got your ass gripped in his hand, whereas your hands can’t stay in one spot. They’re tangled in his hair, running over his shoulders and down his abs, gliding over his back aided by the sheen of sweat he’s worked up.

You’re not trying to hold yourself back, but it feels like you’re standing on the tallest diving board at the pool, your toes curled around the edge, but still too nervous about the drop to jump.

“C’mon, kid. You’re right there,” he breathes hard, “I need you to come for me. Just one more.”

He gets his fingers back on your clit and it’s the end of you. Your back is arching so much you think you might snap. Your toes curl so tights they may never unfurl. The force your orgasm overtakes you, demanding everything you have up to offer and then some.

You hear Bradley’s moan as you pulse around his cock, trembling under him as the waves of pleasure wash over you. His hips stutter against yours, finally losing that steady rhythm he’d set, you pull him tighter to you and it’s not long until he comes too.

It’s all white noise. All you can feel is your heartbeat pounding, until little pieces of the world come back into focus.

The hum of the fan.

The beam of warm afternoon light through the blinds.

The smell of the now cold coffee on his nightstand.

In the after, you’re all too aware of every place your body is touching Bradley’s.

He’d somehow managed to roll on his back and had taken you with him. He was literally just inside of you, but yet it feels like your leg draped over his thigh is somehow more intimate. A prickly self-conscious feeling settles over you. Unsure of what the rules were for friends who just had sex, you attempt to peel yourself off of him, but the heavy arm over your waist keeps you in place.

“Come back here, kid,” Bradley mumbles, his eyes still closed, “I need to cuddle after I come, so I’m gonna need you to indulge me here for a moment.” He strokes a soothing hand down your back. And while he says it’s for him, you know he’s still trying to take care of you.

He hums when you lay back down. You set a hand on his chest. He reaches for it with his free one and threads your fingers together. It makes you melt further into him.

You feel a little different. But mostly, you feel like a weight you didn’t know you’d been carrying had been lifted off of you.

Your first time was everything you hoped it would be. You were safe and cared for, and you already knew, you’d never have any regrets about it. And it was all because of him.

“Thank you, Bradley,” you say, softly.

“Anything for you, kid.”

Your early morning catches up with you as you lay there, warm and secure. Your eyelids get heavier with each pass of Bradley’s hand along your spine. And you drift off to the sound of his heartbeat under your ear.

You’re still you. And Bradley is still Bradley.

It was just… something between friends.

A few hours later the two of you are still in his bed.

Only now you’re clothed and swapping the cartons of Chinese food that he’d ordered while you’d napped against his chest, and fighting over the fortune cookies watching some reruns of old sitcoms. You couldn’t hear their laugh tracks over your own.

The last couple of days you had at UVA fly by just as quickly.

You don’t know how, but the two of you managed to cross of all the things on his Spring Break To-Do List. And before you knew it you were back at the airport.

Bradley had insisted on walking you in, wanting to see you off.

Neither one of you has ever been good with goodbyes. So you don’t give him one, instead you reach for your bag and tell him, “Ok, see you in June.”

Bradley doesn’t let go, clearly confused, “What the hell are you talking about?”

You grin because it feels like a checkmate.

“You didn’t think you’d be getting that diploma all by yourself, did you?”

He looks thunderstruck.

You and your mom already had the plane tickets and hotel room booked. Your stepdad wouldn’t be able to come, but he was planning on sending your mom with one of the cakes from his family’s bakery. You’d been tasked with finding out what flavor, carrot cake or peanut butter- Bradley’s two favorites- but you could iron out the details with him later.

You’d had a busy week, plus it was more fun this way.

Bradley tugs you into his arms, yours wrap around him just as easily as they always have.

“June?” he asks into the crown of your head.

“June,” you promise.

And when he lets you go- for real this time- it’s with a smile that takes up his whole face.

He doesn’t say goodbye either, “Be good, kid. See you in June.”

𝐍𝐎𝐖

You avoid Rooster for the rest of the night.

And Jake too, for that matter. Bless Javy for finding ways to distract him because you could tell than man was chomping at the bit for more details. But you’d already given him more than enough.

You could have lied, you probably should have lied. It might have been easier than feeling like you’d hung up part of yourself on the drying line for everyone to see. But in that moment, the thought of lying and saying anyone else’s name other than Rooster’s had made your stomach turn.

Because it was the truth, he was your first, but he was also your best.

When you come out of the bathroom, there’s no missing Rooster. He’s leaning against the wall by the entrance. It takes him a moment to notice you since he looks lost in thought, but when he does you feel pinned to the wall by the intense look in his eyes.

He stands to his full height as you approach, you know he wants to talk about it.

You shake your head at him, “We don’t need to do this.”

“No, kid, we really do.” He takes you by the arm and leads you to a quieter spot away from everyone else.

“It was just a game,” you start before he can, “And now I know more about everyone’s sex life than I ever wanted to.” He crosses his arms over his chest at your attempt at deflection. “Look, I’m really sorry if that was something you wanted to keep a secret or just between us. I should have asked you first if that was ok to share.”

“I don’t care about that.” Rooster waves you off and takes a step closer to you, his eyes searching yours. “All this time and I’m the best you’ve ever had?”

“Are we really doing this? Here and now?”

You peer around him to look and see if anyone is watching the two of you, it feels like a showdown. But all the Daggers are occupied, probably on purpose. You’ve never seen Mickey with such a serious look of concentration on his face.

“Here and now,” he confirms.

You feel flustered, “Rooster, it’s been 12 years and we haven’t talked about it once-”

“Bradley,” he cuts you off. He takes another step towards you, so you’re toe to toe with him. “I’ve always been Bradley to you.”

The tension that had crept up in your shoulders releases a bit.

“Bradley,” you say, softly. “Listen, I’ve had a lot of good sex since then. Great sex even.” He presses his lips together and nods. “And with other men, if I felt like they weren’t putting in their best effort I’d kick them out because the bar was set very high early on.”

You see him fight back a smirk.

“That’s my girl,” he murmurs, with pride.

Your breath gets caught in your throat, you know he hears it because his eyes take on a richer shade of brown. You both feel the shift, tension churning between the two of you.

Taking a deep breath, you continue, “But I was telling the truth when I said you were my best. Probably because of the way you made sure I knew that you cared. I don’t know how to describe it. It was just different with you.”

You feel his finger graze the back of your hand.

The sounds of the Hard Deck fade into the background as you stare at each other. Entire conversations are being had as you look into his eyes and he looks into yours. Words and sentences spoken with glances.

Just friends don’t look at each other like this.

“It’s never been like this,” you whisper, “We’ve never been like this before.” You gesture at how close he is to you.

How he’s almost got you backed up against a wall.

How he’s looking at you like you’re his.

“I know.”

He says your name and your heart somersaults in your chest.

“I want to see your tattoo. I keep finding myself looking for it when we’re all at the beach. And then I get annoyed, knowing that people have seen it and I haven’t.”

“My tattoo? Bradley, what-”

“I want to see your tattoo,” he repeats like it’s a fact. “And I want to punch Seresin in his smug face every time he flirts with you.”

You roll your eyes, “Jake doesn’t flirt with me, not really. He just likes riling you up.”

“What if I said I wanted to try this as more than friends.” Bradley settles a large hand on your hip. “What if I said that since you’ve moved here I’ve had a hard time keeping my head on straight.”

“Bradley.” His name falls out of your mouth so easily now that it can.

“I want to take you home with me. I want to kiss you. I want to make you come. I need to know if you sound the same in my bed. And then I want to take you out for breakfast and buy whatever fancy coffee you want and as many pancakes as you can eat.”

You’ve been told that you wear your heart on your sleeve, but he has always worn his on his face. There’s no mistaking the open want on his face.

“Bradley, it’ll be different this time.” For so many reasons.

Because it’s not a favor being asked. It’s not some new experience being tried with the person you trust the most, with everything. You’d be on equal footing. It wouldn’t be a friend helping a friend, the two of you would be crossing that line between friends and more because you want each other in that way.

“I want it to be different, sweet girl,” he says, cupping your face in his familiar hand, “I’m ready for it to be different, if you are.”

He looks from your eyes down to your parted lips.

“We didn’t do that last time,” you whisper. Feeling brave, you reach out and run your fingers along the buttons of his shirt.

“No, we didn’t,” he agrees. His eyes are trained on his thumb as he skims it under your lip. “And that’s a damn shame.”

Bradley’s face is all you can see. Warm eyes, a still-straight nose, and a soft smile that is for you and you alone.

He dips down and your eyes flutter closed, your head tipping up on its own in anticipation.

His lips brush your cheek. It’s not enough.

You tug on his collar, but he chuckles and kisses your cheek again, lingering longer this time.

“I’m not kissing you for the first time around the corner from a bathroom,” he rasps.

You open your eyes and see the amusement in his. He always did like teasing you.

“Oh, where do you plan on doing it then?”

“Outside your front door, like a gentleman,” he says, like it’s obvious.

You can’t help but grin because Bradley Bradshaw can’t wait the extra 10 minutes it would take to drive to his place instead of yours. He wants that kiss just as badly as you do. You watch as a matching smile to yours blooms across his face.

It feels normal to slide your fingers between his much larger ones. It feels right as you lead the way out of the Hard Deck with him only a step behind you.

As it turns out, he only makes it as far as the Bronco before he’s spinning you back towards him and pressing you against it. His hands are on your hips and yours are wrapped around his neck as he kisses you for the very first time.

Bradley kisses you like a man who knows what he wants. And what he wants is you.

It’s not tentative in the way that first kisses usually are.

He kisses you like he knows you.

Because he does.

Later, when he closes the door to the Bronco for you, it feels like the end of one thing. But as he slips his fingers into yours when he backs out of the parking space it feels like the beginning of something new.

That night tangled in Bradley’s sheets- he’d kissed you at every light which made those extra 10 minutes it took to get to his home worth it- he makes your back arch and your toes curl as he makes you come with his fingers and mouth and tongue and cock. His lips dropping kiss after kiss on every part of you that he can reach. Because he can, because you want him and he wants you.

The way he touches you tells you that he remembers it all.

He was you first, but what you wouldn’t learn until later, is that he would also be your last.

And he’d be the only man to ever have your entire heart.

Happy Birthday Jordan! An AU just for you! 💖 I adore you and I hope this year is the best one yet!

A big thank you to @callsignspark and @ofstoriesandstardust for their help and beta reading and their woogirling! I appreciate you two so much!

Author's Note: this was a "what-if" AU set in the 'Like I Can' universe! If you want to read about what really happens you can read it here!

You can read more of my stories here!

Taglist:

@gretagerwigsmuse @sehnsuchts-trunken @callsignspark @notroosterbradshaw @tongue-like-a-razor @laracrofted @ofstoriesandstardust @bradshawsbitch @starryeyedstories @top-hhun-main @startrekfangirl2233 @callsign-viper @teacupsandtopgun @angelbabyange @oneelleandaneye @mizzzpink @cornishkat @alana4610 @20th-centu-fairy-girl @pono-pura-vida @donttouchmycarrots @eg-dr3amer3 @whaledots-blog @a-beaverhausen @hangmanscoming @mandolin22 @theweekndhistorybook @lilpeekabooze @high-bi-imgonnacry @ahintofkiwistrawberry @ruewrote @spiderman-stilinski @jayniebop @my-soulmate-is-mycroft @imaginecrushes @keyrani @chicomonks @artemissunn @mayempress @eddiemunsonreader

#bradley bradshaw x reader #bradley bradshaw x female reader #bradley bradshaw imagine #bradley bradshaw x you #bradley bradshaw fanfiction #bradley bradshaw smut #top gun imagine #topgun fanfiction #bradley rooster bradshaw x reader #bradley rooster bradshaw x you #bradley rooster bradshaw x female reader #bradley rooster bradshaw fanfiction #bradley rooster bradshaw imagine #rooster x reader #rooster x you #rooster x female reader

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plutoslastwords · 4 months ago

Note

I love ur baby Norris fic smmmm

Can you do one where she is feeling super clingy and just dosent want to leave him alone whether she is just always wanting to be held or just living in his shadow and constantly following him.

koala time

lando norris x daughter!reader

summary: baby norris doesn't get clingy often, but when she does, she really does

warnings: none!

w/c: 1.6k

a/n: sorry this is rushed and all over the place hahah, but hope you enjoy xx

~~~

For a three year old, you are relatively independent. If he had to guess, Lando would regretfully say that it is because he has to be away so often, so you have had to learn to cope with life without your daddy. Obviously you have babysitters and such when he can’t be there to look after you himself, but he knows that no one can properly fill the void of a missing parent.

It's not like you're already ready to live by yourself yet, but it’s the little things like knowing where the cup cupboard is, or where all of your clothes are so you can get yourself dressed in the morning - though you sometimes struggle with the fiddly buttons. In a way, it makes Lando sad, he should be the one doing these things for you, you’re just a baby, you shouldn’t have to do this all yourself.

Unfortunately, there’s not much he can do about it except shower you with attention whenever he gets the chance, making sure that you know just how much he loves you.

However, no matter how independent you can be, there are times where you just need your daddy.

Lando has dubbed it ‘koala time’, when you practically attach yourself to him, not letting him go anywhere or do anything without you, clinging to him like he’s about to disappear. It normally occurs when he’s just got back from a long trip away, and for the next few days you follow him around like a shadow, placing yourself in his lap every moment that you can, whether it is convenient or not.

At present, you’re on Lando’s private jet, along with a few other drivers whose names you haven’t been bothered to remember. The next race is in Japan, and luckily you have some time off from school for spring break, so naturally Lando is taking you along. You’ve never been to Japan, but Daddy has told you that it is very cool, and he’ll take you to lots of shops in Tokyo to buy you new toys, so you’re excited.

The flight from Monaco is long, you spend most of it asleep on a little makeshift bed that you have, and the rest of it immersed in some movie that Lando has got playing on your iPad. You’re not in any sort of clingy mood at the moment, so you’re perfectly happy to sit by yourself and watch your cartoons.

Finally, you arrive in Japan, Lando scooping you up from the plane and carrying you through the airport to the awaiting van that will take you both to the hotel.

“You excited, angel?” He coos at you as he places you on his lap in the car, your bags disregarded to the side.

You nod eagerly, everyone so far has been very nice to you and you are awaiting the moment you can get your hands on some new toys.

The drive to the hotel is fairly long, as Tokyo is so big. You’re only staying in Tokyo for a couple nights, to enjoy the city before travelling further south down to the Suzuka circuit. On the drive you quite contently sit on Lando’s lap, making small comments about what you can see outside the window, mainly just taking in your surroundings.

When you finally arrive at the hotel, it is very grand, very befitting for a millionaire Formula 1 driver. You’re escorted to your suite, which has a grand king-sized bed for Lando, and a smaller twin bed for you, where a bunny plushie is sitting there waiting. (Lando had told them in advance about your love for the animal)

The excitement of the new room is almost enough to defeat the exhaustion that you are feeling, but eventually the long flight starts to catch up with you, and Lando knows you well enough to notice the first stages of collapse.

“Okay, baby, I think it’s bedtime now, yeah?” He picks you up from where you’re sitting on the bed, holding you on his hip whilst he looks through the suitcases to find you some pyjamas.

In response you try to protest, but the only sound that comes out is a yawn, and even at 3, you know that it is a losing battle. Instead, you opt to lean in closer to his hold, burying your face in the crook of his neck and falling asleep there. He smiles when he notices, softly changing your sleeping body into some pyjamas, and tucking you into your bed with your favourite teddies.

“Goodnight angel” He presses a kiss to your forehead.

The next morning you wake up as usual, you crawl into your daddy’s bed, snuggling up next to him to which he responds by wrapping you in his arms and falling back asleep. You’re having none of that, continually hitting him until he wakes up and gets you both ready to go down to breakfast.

It’s there that the jetlag hits. You’ve never been anywhere with this much of a time difference before. Well, you have, but you were a newborn, and newborns have no concept of time, newborns never sleep. Therefore, the jetlag hits you hard and fast, causing you to almost fall asleep in your half eaten waffle.

Lando chuckles when he notices this, being an F1 driver, he’s basically become immune to jetlag, so it’s amusing to see his usually oh so energetic daughter completely collapse.

“You tired, baby?” He coos

“‘S early, daddy…” You mumble, eyelids threatening to close.

“It’s 10am, angel girl.” He chuckles at your drowsy state.

Throughout the day your jetlag doesn’t improve, you’re still very very tired. However, unlike most toddlers who have tiredness and grumpiness going hand in hand, your tiredness comes with a big dose of clinginess.

After breakfast you refuse to walk anywhere without Lando carrying you, burying your head into the crook of his neck, and your little hands gripping the collar of his shirt tightly.

When you get to the place where Lando is meant to be meeting up with a few of his team members to discuss what’s going to be happening in the upcoming weekend you still refuse to let go, even after Lando sits down at the office table.

“Baby, do you wanna go sit over there for a bit whilst Daddy chats?” He asks softly, knowing you’re probably in a bit of a fragile mood.

You shake your head stubbornly at this, you want to stay with your daddy. You just grip onto him tighter.

At some point in the meeting, you fall fast asleep, and a kind secretary takes you from Lando’s arms - with his permission - to go and lay you down on a nice comfy sofa for you to continue your nap.

When you wake up, you are appalled. Where is your daddy? You immediately sit up, ignoring the rush of exhaustion that is still somehow hanging on, no matter how much you’ve been sleeping. You toddle into the room where Lando is, seeing that he is just leaving, from another door, presumably to go and grab some lunch from the office canteen. Naturally, you follow close behind.

You trail behind him the rest of the way like a shadow. He doesn’t notice you as your legs aren't long enough to fully catch up. When he finally slows down a bit, you see your opportunity, running up to him and clinging onto his leg.

He jumps slightly. “Oh, baby, you gave me a fright, I thought you were having a nap, hm?” He scoops you up into his arms, holding you close.

“Want daddy.” You mumble, pulling at his curly hair.

“We don’t pull hair, my love..” You pout at that, but stop, resting your head on his shoulder as he walks further into the lunch room.

Throughout your stay in Tokyo the clinginess doesn’t get much better. Most notably is when he’s on a conference call with a brand back in England in the hotel room. He had put you to bed a couple hours before so wasn’t too worried about you interrupting.

Obviously he had underestimated the power of a jet lagged toddler.

You wake up unhappy, you’re still tired, you’ve been tired for days now, and you want your daddy. With a frown on your face you waddle into the room where he’s taking the call, standing next to his chair and holding your arms out, gesturing that you need to be held.

He looks at you with surprise, muting his mic, “Darling, you’re meant to be in bed…”

You don’t say anything in response, simply holding your arms out higher, pleading with your eyes for him to hold you. He knows he cannot resist once he sees that pleading look in your eyes, sighing he lifts you up, holding you on his lap for the rest of the call, not caring how unprofessional it might seem, any brand he works with should know that you’re his first priority, always.

After the call he puts you to bed, but you immediately crawl into his bed with him, grabbing at his arm and nestling your face into it like it’s a pillow. He sighs, knowing that there’s no way he’s winning this one.

He places a little kiss to the top of your head, “My little koala, daddy loves you.”

~~~

a/n: pls continue sending in requests about baby norris, i love writing her!!

#f1 #f1 imagine #f1 fanfic #f1 x reader #f1 x you #lando norris #lando norris imagine #lando norris fanfic #lando norris x reader #lando norris x you #lando norris daughter #f1 daughter

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studiogrimm810 · 2 months ago

Text

Yes, Ma’am

// Est. Dean Winchester x afab!you

summary: after a night out with dean, someone gets a bit touchy with him and you need to reassert yourself in his eyes so he knows exactly who you are to him // 2.7k //quick content: MDNI!!! smut, submissive dean, car sex, kinky sex, dominate woman, eventual praise, make up sex, pwp

A/N: this was a request!! based off of the songs miss possessive and sports car, pleeeease i LOVE submissive dean and i love getting a man to his knees, that is ALL

p.s. im back bitches :]

You knew better than to bring him here. Really, you did. But all you wanted was to dance with your man in a sea of drunk people having the time of their lives. You loved clubbing in your college days- the beat in your chest, dancing until you’re breathless, meeting new people, drinking your paychecks and when you were out of cash, you’d get some poor fucker to buy you a drink under the guise of getting you naked. You knew the moves and it’s easily recognized as the tiny thing with pretty blue eyes, and an outfit you wouldn’t necessarily sport yourself, slithers up to Dean’s side with a pearly grin.

A building bubble of annoyance pressed against your sternum as you wait for the bartender to get done with your drinks. The girl is definitely here on spring break and is using a classic girl-move on your man.

Dean seems unimpressed but he isn’t shooing her away, damn his charm and people-skills. You know he isn’t intentionally flirting, but with a face like that, any attention will be taken as a praise of itself.

With drinks in your hand and a confident posture, you walk back to your shared table and set down his drink in front of him.

“Oh hey, are you lost?” You ask with a head tilt while fingering the straw of your martini to your vibrantly painted lips. The girl seems to deflate some but you can tell she’s persistent.

“Gabby here was just telling me about some friend of hers who saw a ‘monster’,” Dean emphasizes and you squint slightly at his insinuation of a case.

“Yes! Okay,” the girl, Gabby, takes a spare stool and slides in, her chest on full display as she leans in. Honestly you can’t blame her, the dress you chose hugs your ass just at the crease and the breast support in the damn thing could stun a room of men. Under different circumstances, you could see having a fun night out with Gabby, but for the introduction she had in your night, you’re already done with her presence. “My friend swears she saw some crazy shit. Now I haven’t taken shrooms myself, but I was there and when I tell you she was totally freaked!” Gabby laughs, moving her hands as she talks- hands that end up on Dean's arm casually, as if they’re close like that or something.

Dean rolls his eyes, taking a sip of his old fashioned, realizing the girl was just full of it.

“Right,” he nods, giving you a look that says ‘girl is a waste of time’ but you barely acknowledge it as you stare daggers at Gabby- her hand not moving.

“You two ever take any crazy stuff? Most I’ve done is a line that barely made it up my nose, shit burned,” she groans as she pouts, looking up at Dean. “You look like you could take it though.” She bumps him softly, pressing into his side.

“I don’t need substances to act irrationally,” you say before you mean to, alcohol making you overly confident. Gabby just gives you a ‘wtf, girl?’ look but your stone doesn’t shift. Dean just chuckles, seemingly oblivious to the girl’s advances, which pisses you off you may add.

“That’s my girl,” Dean hooks his arm around your waist, bringing you in and kissing your jaw. The height difference of your heels and him sitting on a barstool is just enough to give you a guard-dog mentality. Your lips lift into a claiming smile as Dean kisses your skin, your eyes still locked on the girl.

She sighs, starting to get the hint that maybe she can’t win this one, but damn is she confident.

“You guys could join me and my friends? We know some cool spots, we always come to the city when we’re out of school,” she suggests with a small shrug that hugs her cleavage tighter. Her eye contact remains on its priority of Dean’s emerald gems.

“We’re fine,” you decide, looking down on her, your heel advantage letting you loom over her as well. She looks frustrated at this point and you can tell Dean is enjoying the dominance you have over the situation. It makes you wonder if he entertained her attention just so you could intervene.

“He can speak, yaknow,” Gabby cringes as she folds her arms over her chest.

“Oh, she speaks for me,” Dean plays into it, leaning back and taking another sip of his drink. Gabby works her jaw, squinting up at you.

“Whatever,” she stands, “you both seem toxic anyways,” she scoffs, slithering back into the crowd of nameless dancers and forgotten faces.

Dean chuckles into the rim of his glass, his breath fogging the crystal. You take another sip of your drink, a ring of your lipstick stained to the straw.

“The hell was that?” You ask, setting your drink down and looking over at him, your frustration finding its second victim. He looks over at you, sweet mossy eyes shimmering as he takes in your form, a lazy smile showing sharp canines.

“She was harmless,” he shrugged simply, warm eyes relaxing in your shine.

“She was a pest,” you bite, eyes carrying back to where she vanished to make sure she wouldn’t reappear.

“She’s gone,” he sets his glass down, grabbing your waist and pulling you between his knees. “Relax, baby, she’s just drunk and I thought she would bring us a case,” he says, looking up at you, club’s lights reflecting off his eyes like fireworks.

It’s hard to just forgive and forget, to move on like the jealous rage in your chest didn’t scream at you to assert your claim over your man. I mean, the audacity she had to just come out of nowhere and touch him. She pouted up at him. She was trying to get him to fawn over her and take her home or offer her a drink. You don’t realize the grip on Dean's thigh is just about bruising until he speaks up and brings you out of your graying cloud veined with lightning.

“I’m all yours, baby,” his fingers dig into your hips and he wets his lips. Your eyes draw to his lips, heart racing and throat full. You’re pissed.

You grab the stem of your martini and discard the straw, downing the drink and grabbing Dean's hand. He gets the memo pretty quickly so he finishes his drink swiftly, letting you drag him out of the club.

The bumping music blares from the now abandoned building as you make your way back to Dean's Impala that’s parked along the street. Dean maneuvers in front of you to open your door and help you in. He rounds the car and settles in the driver's side. He looks over at you to gauge your mood and your folded arms as you look out the window doesn’t prove his innocence in your mind, but he can’t help but drool a bit at the skin puffing over the neckline of your dress.

He opens his mouth to speak but you instruct “just drive”. He listens.

Music plays and the engine purrs as Baby runs the paved roads to take you far away from her. God, you just couldn’t get the situation out of your head. The overstepping, the butting in, the pouty face, the touchy hands.

“There,” you point to an empty parking lot behind a closed breakfast spot. Dean raises a brow but follows your instructions. You don’t even know what your plan is- yell at him? Yell about her? Have him explain himself? He didn’t really do anything wrong though, but fuck you just felt misplaced by the whole thing. Like you need to reinsert yourself back in his eyes.

Like you just needed to…

“Is she still bothering you? Sweetheart, I promise you, I don’t have eyes for anyone else,” he leans over after putting Baby in park. You look over at him, arms still folded and a scowl still contorting your features.

Before he can try and speak again, you pounce, grabbing his collar and claiming his lips back. It was unexpected by both of you, that much is obvious, but Dean still melts into your kiss, his hands roaming your body. You slide closer, kicking off your heels and straddling his lap. Your ass hits the horn and Dean chuckles into the kiss but it only pisses you off more. He leans down, hissing along your neck and down your jaw as he reaches for the lever to move the bench back.

Once the seat is shifted back, your manicured nails grip the roots of his dirty blonde hair and he gasps in surprise, his sharp teeth glinting as you take in his gaped mouth.

You bring him back to you, scooting closer and taking his lip between your teeth and he… whimpers?

Did Dean Winchester just whimper under you?

Your fury mends with something darker and it only fuels your need.

His hands hold your ass, running up the curve of your back and right back down, squeezing hard and keeping you close. You can feel him try and settle you on your back but you’re locked on top of him and refuse to move. You can feel his dick pressing into your barely clothed core and the hem of your dress rides up as you grind into him to show the hooks of your thong resting up to your waist. His fingers mess with the strings.

Your grip in his hair reforces and tugs him back so you can kiss along his jaw. The kisses are wet and sloppy, leaving a glistening trail of your mark. You make your way back up to his ear, whispering warm breath over his sensitive flesh.

“That was ridiculous,” you deem softly, taking his earlobe between your teeth and pulling another whimper out of him. God, that sound really melts that anger deep in your chest, but it isn’t enough just yet.

“Sweetheart-.”

“Don’t,” you warn, dropping your hold on his skin and pressing your lips to the other side of his neck as you force his jaw to open for you. He holds back another whine. “Don’t hold back, show me who you fucking belong to,” you demand before biting the skin just under his ear, sucking in his scent and pulling a low moan from him.

You can’t stop your lips from claiming him over and over again, especially as his trapped cock can only barely feel the brush of your distant lips, he can only rely on memory to ease his need.

“Look at me,” you push up, letting your ass rest on his dick with your full weight and his head is thrown back in a loud, whiny moan. You grab his jaw, pulling him back to you and the pressure parts his lips and his eyes are wide and observant, ready to listen.

“Apologize,” you instruct, your face a stone of foreshadowed repercussions.

“I’m so sorry, baby,” he rushes out shaking his head and digging his nails into your hips to press you into him more. His eyes dip down to your tits as they threaten to spill past the low-v of your dress at any moment.

“I didn’t say look there, I said look at me,” you tighten your grip, a drunken haze puppeteering your limbs like an Irene Adler wannabe. You lean in like you’re about to kiss him but you stop, watching as he tries to arc forward to meet you, “I don’t believe you.”

A small, pathetic whine tugs out of his throat and he swallows, looking up at you again. You maneuver your body off of him enough to push him so that he’s laying down in the front seat. He stares up at you, his hands finding any opportunity to hold your hips.

“Baby, I promise, I only want you,” he pleads, looking up at you, panting and flushed. You straddle his waist, running a teasing hand up his chest and latching it between the buttons of his shirt. You manage to rip it open completely and trace your fingers down his chest.

“Those are just words,” you point, your eyes following your fingers but you can still feel his eyes on you. “I need something else,” you meet his gaze again and he practically melts with anticipation as you finally look at him again.

Your eyes on him makes him feel like the most powerful man in the world.

“Anything, gorgeous, anything you want,” he quickly abides, making you smile down at him. It’s a smile that makes him warm inside like he’s done something right.

“Scoot,” you flick a finger for him to move down as you lift off him to do so.

He listens without hesitation, even if his legs don’t have enough room on the driver's side.

“You’re gonna do me a favor and prove to me that I’m the only woman you see,” you reach a warm hand to cup his cheek, speaking softer than you have all night.

“Yes, ma’am,” he smirks, his eyes still wide and lustful, panting and so fucking ready for whatever you have in store.

You pierce an acrylic stiletto through your thong to snip off the fabric that you can easily replace later. He watches your movements, trying to guess what you’ll do next. You reach behind you to unfasten his belt. It’s a little tricky to do without seeing it, but you manage. Dean eyes stay glued to your tits as they ripple with your movement.

He groans as his dick springs free, throbbing in the steamy air of sex in the Impala. He wants so badly to reach down and touch himself but he’s guessing, based on your current control over the night, that it wouldn’t end well for him.

You stuff your shredded thong in his hand and scoot up closer and closer.

“You’re gonna take care of yourself while you take care of me, you got it? Show me how you live to make me happy,” the words leave your lips like a sweet commandment, like a vow he’d happily plead to to keep you smiling.

“Yes, ma’am,” he whispers, repeating the only words he can think of besides your name.

He lets out a low groan as you hook yourself over his shoulders and plant your pussy right at his lips, trapping him between your heat and the squeaky leather seat.

When you decide enough has been enough, you settle fully, allowing him to bury himself in your lips. He’s needy and hungry but he knows your body and knows what you need to feel pure ecstasy. He’s holding back and you can tell.

“Good boy,” you ride, digging your nails into the leather and bracing your left arm on the dash. The praise sends a shiver to his dick as he strokes himself with your thong still in hand.

He moans into you, the hum prickling your sensitive skin and warming you up just right. His nose presses against your clit but he holds still, letting his tongue build you up until you’re right there.

Right on the edge, he waits until he can feel the tremble in your thighs and the squeak in your moans. Right until you grip onto his roots and show him you're ready. His tongue keeps steady and consistent as he now moves his face to circle his nose around your clit, ripping a melodic moan out of your throat.

The feeling is unlike any other and you don’t think you could ever even think straight enough to attempt to put it in words that would never give it justice.

Your body wracks with quaking pulses, and your senses are overstimulated as he moans into you with his own release and you can’t help but grind into him to spasm just right.

You settle back onto his chest, legs still hooked around him and thighs flooding along his face like a lonely island.

His lips shimmer with you and his smile basks under your eyes. His face is hugged by your plush skin and his cock is emptied onto your panties.

This man is yours.

thank you so much for reading!! <3

>> check out my other works here

#supernatural #fanfiction #fandom #dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester one shot #dean x reader #dean winchester imagine #spn fanfic #supernatural fanfiction #dean winchester fanfiction #dean winchester smut

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bratbarzal · 6 months ago

Text

Let It Happen (LH43) 1/3

Pairing: Luke Hughes x Fem!Reader

WC: 17k

If you're ready, all I mean is we could go, I've never craved someone's attention as much as yours.

General Warnings: an almost unbearable amount of sarcasm and snark, even more idiotic shenanigans, many affectionate empty threats of murder/violence, fluff, mentions of golf 🤢, cursing and I'm pretty sure that's it for this half

A/N: in line with the general consensus lmao this has been split, part two will be posted as soon as it's finished (lol) but it's best read as one whole fic, it isn't a multi-part situation really!! it was originally supposed to be my submission for the eras tour fic challenge (hence the graphic I'm too attached to to change) but took a different direction to the song I was given, and I missed the deadline, and I pretty much listened to the secret of us exclusively while writing this whole thing. also dropping an overwhelmingly summery fic in december might actually be my brand. keep your eyes peeled for a christmas fic in july.

very special shoutout to shea @sleepretreat I made a random comment one day that luke gives seth cohen energy, and she fanned that flame like a full time job. ily shea!! I hope this lives up to any expectations and I owe a lot to your instigating!!

AS ALWAYS!!! never proofread!! I'll probably get around to it when the thought of a spelling mistake keeps me awake at night. and also!! please let me know what you think I am like a teeny tiny little plant that can only thrive under the constant shower of validation and you don't want me to wither and die do you? (I’m kidding) (I’m not)

You kind of, sort of, think you might hate summer.

You haven’t always felt this way, though. Growing up, it had always been your favourite time of the year.

No school? Check.

Going on vacation, sometimes multiple, all expenses covered by your parents? Double check.

Getting to do all the cool things you don’t have time for in the school year with all your friends? Concerts, festivals, beach days, bonfires on the evenings. Check, check and check again.

But 4 years ago, your whole world as you knew it was torn apart, and summers have never been the same, since.

A season that was once filled with light and companionship, never ending plans and joviality, became darker - isolated, getting yourself out of the house even if everyone else was busy, driving just to drive and making the best of your own company.

School ended up becoming your escape, especially since you had started college - your studies and the chaos of Greek life distracting you from the calamitous state of your home life, making new friends that became like family and sticking to them like glue, where possible, clingy and possessive to the point of ruin, almost - and so the lack of it in the summers now actually sends you into some sort of warped spiral.

It’s manageable in the winter and spring, the breaks no longer than a few weeks at a time, but going home for summer is somewhat of a nightmare.

It’s hard to go back, hard to ignore the mess your mind has become when it’s just you and your mother - or, you, your mother and whatever bottle of pinot she’s 3 glasses deep into at any given time of the day - and you’re sat in a house that’s a cold reminder of the warmth that once filled it.

But when Ellie - your best friend since moving to college, the girl who took the sister part of sorority sister to the next level at all possible opportunities over the years - found out you’d put your name down to be the caretaker for your sorority house instead of going home, she had put her foot down on your summertime sadness session.

Which is how you end up moving into her family home - spending the first few weeks integrating yourself into their routine while trying to grip desperately onto some form of your own - trying not to get too used to the feeling of such a big family when you know it won’t be forever.

You braid her little sister’s hair everyday, kick a soccer ball around with her little brother when he needs someone to stand in goal, wash the dishes with her mom, talk sports with her dad, and before long, you blend like a chameleon into their dynamic.

You pick up a summer job at the country club to cling back onto your independence. Your commute provides the solitude and quiet you‘ve grown accustomed to in the years before, a bus journey through town with headphones on, watching the scenery and admiring the greenery until you get to work, donning your navy blue polo and tucking your little notepad into your hip apron as you serve tables at the clubhouse restaurant and bar.

It’s a much needed escape from Ellie, if you’re honest.

You love that girl with all your heart, appreciate her housing you more than you’ll ever be able to say, but if you have to hear her sit and mope about how hopelessly in love she is with Jack Hughes for even a second longer, you’re going to vomit. Or scream. Or both.

Jack and Ellie grew up together - their families close, Ellie’s dad best friends with Jack’s uncle, or something - and she’s been into him since he had teeth missing - a point she loves to hammer home when it comes to you always listing that as one of his (many, if it’s up to you) cons. Considering his job, and the fact he already lost one, not too long ago, a toothless boyfriend seems like a massive ick, if you’re honest.

But Ellie is beyond reason when it comes to him. She worships the ground he walks on - talks about him non-stop, messages him every day, regales you with stories you, awfully, but realistically, couldn’t care less about - and it’s the only real problem about living with her.

Even beyond the summer, you two had shared a room your first two years in college, still live in the same house - and it’s a year round problem.

But being unable to escape, having your days tied to close to hers, and knowing that it’s bound to be worse with proximity, Jack back in Michigan for the summer, himself, she’s starting to drive you up the wall.

It wouldn’t bother you if you had never met Jack, but the two of you don’t exactly get along. He’s rude, and self-absorbed, and had looked down on you the first time he ever laid eyes on you, and you really shouldn’t let it get to you, but you do - the thought that your best friend is in love with an asshole, and that she won’t let you hear the end of it.

Won’t stop whining about how he’ll never feel the same, or that she can’t handle another summer of biting her tongue, of being around him, feeling the way she does, and not being able to do anything about it.

She deserves better.

Ellie has a heart of gold, and she deserves someone who handles it with care. If Jack Hughes doesn’t like her back, that’s his loss - but you’re kind of getting sick of telling her that.

Getting through a whole summer of it is going to be hard, you think, but it’s better than the alternative. Better than being entirely alone. So you put on a brave face, use work as your escape in the same way you usually do with school, and avoid blowing your top for as long as you can, suffering through the late nights and heart to hearts where Jack is the sole topic of discussion, and bask in the good stuff.

In the chaos of her siblings, in the closeness of her family, and the way they’ve welcomed you with open arms.

This summer could be okay, you’ve just got to give it a chance.

Luke Hughes loves summer.

He loves being back home in Michigan, spending his days out on the lake, or making the trip out to parade around Ann Arbor, catching up with all his college buddies, making the rounds at all the UMich sporting events he now gets a VIP pass to thanks to his last name.

The routine of it all is familiar, and warming, and it restores a sense of normality that playing in the NHL for the past year has so brutally ripped from him, already.

He had enjoyed starting his summer overseas - making the team for the world championships and competing beyond the abysmal end to his rookie season - had enjoyed the time away from his brothers, if he’s honest. Quinn and the Canucks making it a few rounds into the playoffs, and Jack back home recovering from getting surgery on his shoulder - and it’s the latter he needed the reprieve from.

He does love living with his brother.

Jack looks after him in ways he’ll never really be able to make it up to him for. He always has, Quinn has too, but ever since Luke got drafted to the Devils, Jack has helped him adjust to the chaos of his career without much fuss or hardship.

And he really is grateful for that.

But, God, can he be annoying.

Especially when it comes to his infatuation with his best friend, Ellie.

Jack and Ellie have always been close - despite the fact she’s Luke’s age - and grew up thick as thieves, spending summers together, especially when the family moved to Michigan, and Ellie’s family were just on the other side of town.

He’s always been obsessed with her, even if it hasn’t always been love - but these last few years have been different. Like a switch flipped in his head when Jack saw what Ellie was like when he came to visit Luke in his freshman year of college.

A version of Ellie that was no longer just his - no longer exclusive to their summer bubble, and lived in a world beyond lounging by the lake and hanging out with the Hughes family.

A version of Ellie who liked partying, liked schmoozing and charming everybody she came into contact with, liked being the centre of everyone else’s attention, not just Jack’s.

And it’s that version of Ellie that has driven Luke’s brother crazy, which has, in turn, started to drive Luke crazy. He talks about her non-stop, and it was those much needed weeks away in Czechia that almost had Luke forgetting just how stupid his brother has gotten about the whole thing.

Until he came home to Michigan, and Jack, in all the commotion with his shoulder, with ending his season early and starting his summer off alone, has worked himself into such a stupor about the whole thing that merely a week into his return, he has driven Luke up the wall.

He’s grumpy, all the time - which leads to him being snarky, all the time. He huffs and puffs around the house so much Luke is starting to think he might need an inhaler, and he really can’t take any more.

Not when he’s making such a show of his irritation, stomping around with heavy feet and slamming doors that don’t need to be shut in the first place.

“What crawled up your ass and died there?” Luke frowns as he follows Jack into the kitchen upon his return from therapy, holding out for the doors he swings open with a little too much vigour so that they don’t swing back into his brother’s slinged-shoulder. “I thought the physio is going alright?”

“It is,” Jack huffs, storming over to the fridge and yanking it open, the jars and bottles in the door clanking together in a way that makes Luke cringe. “I’m fine.”

“Tell that to all the hinges you’re testing the limits of.”

“Don’t start with me, Luke, I’m not in the mood.”

“You just said you’re fine.” Luke rolls his eyes as he starts to scroll through his group chat with his friends from college, trying to check who said they might be free today to get him out of this vicious circle.

“It’s nothing.”

“Clearly not.” It’s interactions like this that confirm to Luke just how annoying Jack has become - because what reason does he have to be so evasive? Luke is handing him the opportunity to air out his grievances on a silver platter, and he’s rather slam cupboards and create creases in his forehead from frowning 24/7.

“Fine, it’s Ellie.”

Luke wishes he never bothered asking, although he has been wondering why he’s been seeing way less of her already this summer. He had figured Ellie was away with family until he saw her at the gas station the other night - had watched from the car as Jack had what seemed like a heated conversation by the entrance.

“She’s refusing to hang out with me.”

“Has she said why?” Luke asks, although he doesn’t really care. He’s just asking to get it out of the way in the hopes that Jack talking about it might lighten the load, might make his own life a little easier.

It’s the bitter muttering of your name that captures Luke’s full attention, his neck audibly cracking at the speed in which his head shoots up, no longer caring what could possibly be going on with the boys in the group chat.

“She isn’t going back to whatever fiery hell pit it is that she comes from for the summer, and she’s staying with Ellie’s family, therefore Ellie isn’t staying with us.”

Luke hasn’t heard your name in a while. Not since he left college last year, not since he got caught up in the whirlwind life in the NHL, when a schoolboy crush on a girl he interacted with once in his entire college career became the least of his worries.

But one utterance of it has his spine straightening, just like it would have done just over a year ago.

You’re in Michigan. You’re at Ellie’s, on the other side of town. You’re barely two degrees of separation from him.

“Why can’t Ellie bring her here?” Luke asks, throat dry and voice breaking so subtly that he hopes Jack doesn’t notice. That could be fun. Would make up for the hell his brother has been putting him through since he got here.

Maybe a little glorious sunshine might finally get you to notice his existence. He wouldn’t mind third wheeling Jack and Ellie if you were there, too. It would give him the perfect opportunity to prove he’s worthy of your attention - too shy and too scared to do so, back in college, but he’s different, now. Confident, almost. More sure of himself.

“She hates me.” Jack huffs, “Last time we met she was giving me the stink eye all night.”

And of course it would be his brother to ruin his plans, yet again. You’ll probably hate him, too - a hatred so strong for Jack that it seeps through his entire bloodline, because Luke of all people knows he can be annoying like that.

“Trust me, she probably doesn’t care enough to hate you,” Luke scoffs, not realising the spool of information he’s just given Jack to unravel.

“You know her?”

“We had a class together. I know of her.”

Not the truth, but not exactly a lie.

Luke knows a lot about you. It’s borderline creepy, the observations he can still remember, even after so long.

He knows you like only like coffee if it’s iced, had seen you with too many clear plastic cups to count, had watched plump lips chewing at straws by the time you had finished the drink. He had even, one time, tried to zoom in on a picture of your order printed on the side in one of his many states of delusion where he had been trying to build himself up to ask you out.

He knows you can hold your own in an argument, had watched you debate with the best of them in your business comms class, has watched you shoot down most guys that approach you with a sharp tongue and even sharper wit, and has watched you take down a frat guy or two, usually in defence of your sorority sisters - who Luke noticed you’re the most protective of.

He knows you match your perfume to the colour of your outfit, had notice you smelled citrusy like lemons in yellow, floral like roses in pink, sweet like candy in purple, and clean like fresh cotton in blue.

He knows the pieces of hair that frame your face curl when wet from the rain. Knows you used to volunteer at the pool on the weekends it was open to the kids of the community, would teach them how to swim. He knows you listen to Taylor Swift and has heard you humming just about every song of hers he knows.

But he doesn’t really know you - not on the level Jack is assuming, when his eyes widen and hope flashes across his crystal irises.

“You know how I’m your favourite brother?”

“No,”

“And I let you live with me all year?”

“My name’s on the lease.”

“Maybe you could talk to her for me?”

Luke sighs, shoulders heavy and eyes rolling practically to the back of his head. “I already told you, I don’t really know her like that.”

“C’mon, you could at least try! I’m dying here, Luke! She’s hogging all of Ellie’s time, and she won’t give me the time of day if I try!”

If only Jack knew how much time you’d ever given Luke, he wouldn’t be asking him such an absurd request.

You’re so out of his league, it isn’t even funny. He probably couldn’t convince you to light a candle in a power cut, much less to give his annoying brother a shot to prove himself.

“You’re wasting your time, Jack,” Luke responds, “I’m gonna meet Dylan at the club. No, you can’t come.”

And by the time Luke makes it out to his car, he’s relieved to have ditched that conversation, entirely. He knows what’s waiting when he gets home, what his brother is going to be like for the next few months to come, but a temporary relief is all he needs.

He had already been planning on getting a few late morning holes in at the club, and meeting up with Dylan had been a white lie, needing some alone time away from Jack’s incessant whining to think about how he was going to survive the summer - and seeing you on your break, perched on the edge of the fountain in the courtyard by the clubhouse bar, basking in the sun and talking with your co-worker, he feels like he might have just struck gold.

Since when do you work here?

He supposes since you decided to spend your summer with Ellie’s family - it only makes sense. Ellie doesn’t live too far from the club - not as close as the lake house, but closer than Ann Arbor, at least. She’d worked in the club shop last summer, even when Jack insisted he’d pay for whatever she needed while she was staying with them - had said it was nice to pass the time with something else while they all went off doing whatever - and he assumes you’re doing the same.

It’s the first time he’s seen you in a while, outside of coming across your pictures on his Instagram feed occasionally, or the flash of your figure in Ellie’s stories.

He had thought that, after the year he’s had, he’d be over schoolboy crushes like this - would be over the way his breath catches just at the sight of you, over the way the hairs on the back of his neck prick up and stand to attention, over the way his throat goes dry as he watches your eyes crinkle from afar, watches your lips curve up into a heart-stopping grin.

But it’s like he’s picked up straight from where he left off at the end of his college career, pining after you from afar with hearts in his eyes and feet that start to shuffle at just the thought of approaching you.

If he’s going to do this, though, he needs to be clever about it, he thinks.

Approaching you on your break, limited to the amount of time he can use to put his point across, wasting yours, doesn’t seem like something that will work.

Which is how he finds himself bypassing you completely and walking straight into the bar, offering a friendly nod to the guy stood at the front of house, and letting him point him toward the right section to be served in.

It isn’t long before you’re in front of him, sidling up to his booth, and he had almost forgotten how pretty you are up close. Hair clipped up with loose strands framing your face, chewing at your plump bottom lip as you scribble on your notepad to get your pen to work. And your honeyed voice settling deep in the pit of his stomach, warmth spreading throughout as you introduce yourself, like he has no clue who you are, and tell him you’ll be his server, “What can I get for you?”

“Five minutes of your time?”

The Luke that spent his college years obsessing over you might have stuttered - his voice might have broke, squeaked or choked in your presence - but while his throat does feel a little dry, he’s able to maintain his cool now, even when you look up from your scribblings to meet his eye. Maybe he can do this. Maybe he has matured.

His heart might jump in his chest, his mouth might tingle, his spine might stiffen, but he holds your gaze, hoping if you see a reflection of confidence that you might give him the time of day.

He’s seen you interact with guys before, has familiarised himself with the ten-foot walls you have in place, has seen others fold and try find a long way around, but he thinks that maybe matching your energy is the way to break through.

Who doesn’t love a shortcut?

Your eyes narrow back at him as pouted lips form around a response, looking him up and down before tilting your head, and coming back with, “I all of a sudden feel the need to inform you we do have security here,” you point the tip of your pen to the entrance, where he was greeted on the way in. “I meant a drink.”

“Water’s fine,” his gaze flickers to the movement of your wrist as you click the other side of your pen, not even writing it down. “Maybe with a side of conversation?”

“I’ll go get your water,” you offer a smile, and the insincerity of it does little to cool his bravado, even if you head off with mutterings of why do I always get the creeps?

He watches you as you make your way over to the bar, not creep-like whatsoever, and he channels the nerves that sneak up on him, now that you’re distanced, through fiddling with his fingers on the table, pinching at the tips of them when you glance back over your shoulder, probably telling the girl behind the bar just how lucky you were to once again get the weirdo in your section.

It surprises him how little he cares, possessing more of your attention now than he ever has before, and if he could tell the Luke from two years ago, who spent every shared Principles of Marketing class ritualistically watching you chew on the end of your pen, that he’d be able to make eye contact without dribbling and breaking out into full body sweats, he’d have lost his mind.

He embodies a strange level of dislocated arrogance that manifests itself in his body language, sinking into the booth with arms outstretched across the back, a dangerous smirk teasing the corner of his mouth when you return, placing a pitcher of water down on the table and a glass with ice.

“I’m Luke,” he tells you, placing a hand on his chest and doing his best to ignore the thudding he feels beneath it. “Hughes. Jack’s brother,” and when you look back over to him with a raised brow, he adds, “Ellie’s Jack.”

“And who’s Ellie?” You ask with a tilt of your head, your voice dripping in teasing sarcasm.

“Funny,” he quips, biting back the urge to call you what he actually means. He can hardly call you cute, you’d probably pour that water straight over him. “I went to UMich, we had a couple classes together.”

Your eyes narrow again, and he knows it’s an intimidation tactic, a way to make him feel smaller than he’s acting, shrinking him down to a version of himself you can stamp your authority on, but he finds himself being resilient for once, carrying on like he isn’t affected.

He is. Massively, in fact. Just not in the way you probably want. Your indifference drives him in a way that presses into his spine, an inner voice pleading, notice me, I’m breaking through!

“Bauman’s class, Business Comms, you sat in the second row, I sat in the third, you dropped your pencil one time and I-,”

“I know who you are.”

So he’s been yapping on at you for no reason? Fantastic.

He can’t let his momentum slip, though, so he forces the corners of his lips into a victorious smile, and counters, “So you know I’m not a creep.”

“You literally memorised my seat in a class from 2 years ago, so…”

“I have a good memory,” he’s quick to defend, fighting the urge to let his eyes linger on your pouted lips.

“Right,” you roll your eyes, “What is it you want, again?”

“I came to talk about Jack and Ellie.” He nods to the other side of the booth, and has to roll his shoulders so that his chest doesn’t inflate with misplaced hubris when you shuffle into the seat with a huff, discarding your notepad to the side as you level him with another raised brow.

“What about ‘em?”

“About how they’re hopelessly in love with each other and doing nothing about it.”

“You got hopeless right. What’s that got to do with us?”

Us. Oh, he likes that.

“I’m thinking they need a little shove in the right direction. And maybe we could be the shovers.”

You presses your lips together in faux-apology, a lopsided, patronising, adorable frown taking over your expression. “No can do, I don’t shove, I’m a pacifist.”

“A nudge, then?”

He isn’t giving up easy, no matter how much sarcasm you try to throw his way. You wouldn’t have sat down if there wasn’t something about this situation that irks you, too.

If Ellie is being only half as annoying as Jack is, he knows that you’re having a bad time of it. And you’re supposed to spending her summer with her - it can’t be easy, having your friend constantly pining over someone and refusing to do anything about it, if anything, making it your problem.

“Are you here to eat or annoy me?”

“Both,” he smiles, “I just figured a problem shared is a problem solved, and all.”

“How profound.”

“C’mon, you sat down, you at least agree they’re into each other, and I know you’re staying with her this year, so I know you’ve been getting the same grief I have.”

“I’ve been on my feet 4 hours, I wouldn’t look too deep into me sitting down.”

“Jack’s been moping around about her for years, I can’t listen to it anymore, he’s all, she’ll never like me back, this, and, I’ll never find a girl like her, that,” he whines, imitating his brother’s voice in the most annoying, high pitched tone he can muster, “I can’t take one more breakdown of her snap stories, especially not if it’s all summer if she’s not gonna be staying over, I’m gonna lose my mind.”

“How supportive,” the sarcasm in your bite does little to hide the beginnings of your smile, your glare softening into what he hopes is the start of some sort of bond, a shared feeling of exasperation. Finding your footfall in common grounds.

“It’s relentless, we can’t go a single conversation anymore without him bringing her up,” he sighs, slumping into his seat, finally giving in to all the ways this is starting to grate on him. “I don’t get why neither of them do anything.”

“Yeah,” you sigh, too, relenting a little. “She talks about him so much it kind of makes me nauseous.”

“How supportive,” he mimics, nerve endings set alight when your eyes meet his over the table, and narrow in a different way, almost appreciative, almost respectable.

“Can it, Hughes,” you scoff, “Me even entertaining this conversation right now is support enough, I’ve had it in my ear for months about how she doesn’t know how she’ll make it through another summer.”

“That’s what I’m saying. If we can get them together this summer, then we’re both better off. No more whining or crying or earaches for either of us.”

“I’d hope you didn’t make your way out here with the mere promise of no more earaches, Luke.” He tries not to preen at the way you say his name. “What’s in it for me?”

“You and Ellie can stay at our lake house.” He suggests, straightening up before he leans onto the table, elbows extending so that he can rest on them, “It’s closer to the club than her family’s place, it’s gotta be better than having her siblings running around you all the time, I can even drive you to work when I’m free, if you want?”

You blink at him slowly, as if to say, and? “So I can stay at your glorified frat house, and you can be my chauffeur?” You ask with an unimpressed raise of your brow, before letting out a humourless scoff of, “What more could a girl want to do with her summer?

“What do you want?” He asks, leaning further forward.

“To go back to work and not worry about strange guys propositioning me, funnily enough.”

Luke laughs, a deep, breathy laugh that rises from the depths of his chest and comes alive in an almost-bark, and he doesn’t miss the way your eyes flicker to his mouth when it comes out.

This is fun.

There’s no way he’s letting you leave this table without agreeing - just the thought of one more singular interaction keeping him on his toes.

“Why don’t we make it interesting, then?”

“It’s about time you tried.” The quiver of your lip tells him everything he needs to know - and that’s without the entertained glint in your eye that accompanies it. You’re enjoying this, just as much.

“We could make a competition out of it.”

“A competition?” You ask, with a curious tilt of your head.

There it is, he thinks. Interest: piqued. He practically has you in the palm of his hand. Who would ever have thought, the way to a sorority girl’s heart would be a friendly little wager?

“Whoever actually gets them together, wins.”

It’s all he can think of in the moment - petulant and part-planned, but it seems to be enough.

“Wins what?” You lean onto your elbows, your gaze levelling his as he mirrors your positioning, having to slouch a little further forward in his seat to meet your pretty eyes.

“Whatever you want.” He doesn’t intend it to come out as low as it does, doesn’t realise how close the two of you have gotten over the table, but he sees the flicker of something cross your features as your head tilts again, eyes still locked on his as yours begin to narrow, still just as pretty even when they’re glaring at him.

“It’s what you want that concerns me.”

“Don’t worry your pretty little head over it,” he jibes, watching the way your lips part in preparation of another witty comeback. “What do you say?” He asks, not giving you the chance, seeing the way it makes your skin crawl that you weren’t quick enough, for once. “Are you in?”

You heave out a sigh, shoulders slumping - a tell-tale sign that you’re about to acquiesce - and Luke starts to feel his chest puff out in victory. This feels like a shut-out. It feels like the best performance of his life.

“You’re gonna make me regret this, aren’t you?”

“Oh definitely,” he smirks, eyes tracking you as you lean back into the booth, retreating from him in defeat, a hand running through your hair as he promises, “You’ll warm up to me soon enough, though.”

“I can’t see that happening.”

“I can,” he shrugs, leaning back too. “I’ve been told I’m inevitable.”

Luke can remember, like it was yesterday, the first time he ever saw you.

Freshman year, the week he moved into his dorm at Michigan, Jack had sent him across campus to check in on how Ellie was getting on. He had arrived with some extravagant gift basket in tow, plastic wrapped, a giant blue bow tied around the top and an assortment of snacks inside, and was left knocking for at least five minutes before you showed up.

“Please tell me you’re not another stripper-gram.”

If his throat hadn’t gone so dry all of a sudden, he thinks he would have had more wits about him to have questioned the use of another - a concept that had stuck in his head for weeks until he caught wind of a story of pledges for Pike being sent around campus and forced to lure girls to their house through way of humiliating song.

But God, you were pretty.

Siren eyes narrowed toward him, glossy lips pouted pensively, long lashes blinking impatiently as you awaited some kind of response that didn’t come in the form of an open, drooling mouth.

“I’m Luke.”

“Right.” You had sighed, pretty eyes rolling at him. “You’re blocking my door."

“Oh, I’m-,” he stuttered, immediately stepping to the side for you to come forward and insert your key into the lock. “Does Ellie live here?” He asked, confusion etched into his features as he watched you swing the door open, turning in your place to look him over again.

“Depends who’s asking.”

“I’m Luke.”

“So you’ve said.”

“I know her.”

“Clearly.”

“This is her basket.”

“Does she need to sign for it?”

“No, I-,”

“I’ll make sure she gets it, thanks, Lu!”

And when you had taken the basket from his hands, he had been too distracted by the way your skin brushed against his to properly respond, or worry if you had called him that as a nickname or had already forgotten his name, entirely.

He then spent days thinking about you, looking for you - at parties, in the campus coffee shop, online, despite not knowing your name - trying to commit to memory the way your eyes had sparkled when looking his way, until his first Business Communications class.

He had been a little early, first week nerves playing out and his constant craving for positive validation coming to the forefront, and was watching the door waiting for the professor to arrive. He had been slouched in his seat, chin in the palm of his hand, foot tapping rhythmically against the floor, and he had almost given himself whiplash when you walked in.

He learned your name from there, learned a lot just from watching you in that class, but never really captured your attention.

And if the Luke that has been driving you to work every few days, who has been living with you for the past two weeks - who sits around the same dining table, laughs at the same jokes cracked when you’re all lounging around the house, sits out under the same sun, drinks from the same carton of orange juice in the morning - could tell the Luke that sat pining after you all that time, all the little ways in which he’s captured your attention lately, he’d probably have an aneurysm.

When you and Ellie moved in, Luke had been the only one allowed to touch your stuff - and there’s a part of him that knows it was mainly because you enjoyed watching him work like a packhorse, hauling your cases up the stairs and dropping them in front of you with a huff, but there’s a larger, more delusional part that thinks you preferred him to the others, maybe even trusted him.

He’s taking credit for how quick you’ve adapted to the dynamic of the house, too. Of all the different faces coming in and out - Quinn’s friends, Jack’s friends, his friends, sometimes even his parents. If you’re around, you’re pleasant. You abide by house rules, some of them stupid, but set by the brothers so long ago that they just work now - like no phones outside of your rooms so that you can be more present. You insert yourself comfortably into conversations, you form your own relationships with everyone - you and Quinn trade book recommendations, you and Jack bicker while Ellie mediates. You do your fare share of chores - laundry, dishes, cooking, even.

And he’s so caught up in just sharing space, just being around you, even, that for those first couple weeks, he forgets why you even agreed to be there in the first place.

At least, he forgets the incentive part - because he watches mindlessly as you interfere in Jack and Ellie’s dynamic, without a care in the world for the fact that it means he’s losing.

He watches you push one of them out of the way to claim whatever seat at the table or in the car forces them to sit beside each other. He watches you taunt Jack to just the right point where Ellie interferes, coos at him protectively and he melts into her affections. He watches you agree to plans he knows you wouldn’t in a million years follow along with, just to get them together - and all he can do is admire how easy you make it seem.

He admires when you come out wakeboarding with the group, when you let him fasten you into a vest and don’t flinch when his fingertips brush against bare skin. Watches you bite your tongue over the fact you just got your hair blow dried - a fact you have no problems relaying back to him when he drives you to work the next day, and you’re muttering in his passenger seat about lake water giving you frizz - just so you’re not dampening the mood.

And when you agree to tag along to the golf course on your day off, despite the fact it’s so close to work if could be considered triggering, and you stick by Luke’s side so that Ellie can feign some sort of incompetence until Jack takes it upon himself to correct her form.

You stand by Luke’s side, the two of you watching with mirrored expressions of almost-disgust as Jack wraps his arms around Ellie’s body, and send a shiver down his spine when you lean in for only him to hear as you say, “I’d ask if you’ve put any more thought into what you want out of our bet, but I so have this in the bag.”

The bet.

Luke hasn’t thought about it since that day in the restaurant, if he’s honest, but he had known what he wanted then.

He’s hardly going to tell you, now, though.

If he’s ever going to take you out on a date, he doesn’t really want to force your hand - not that he has a chance, he’s fallen so behind with this Jack and Ellie thing that it isn’t even funny.

He needs to up his game, if only for the fact that you’ll no doubt catch on to his lack of efforts, soon.

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” he taunts, because it’s what he does best, “I have a few tricks up my sleeve.”

“And how long do you plan on keeping them up there?” You call him out so easily, tilting your head when his eyes meet yours, mischief highlighted by the sunshine that speckles in your irises.

“Maybe I’m luring you into a false sense of security,” he shrugs, “Maybe I’m letting you do all the heavy lifting so I can swoop in when those weak arms get tired.” He pokes at your side, basking in the way you scowl like you pertain any sort of threat to him.

He has you figured out, by now.

“I didn’t have you pegged as being lazy, Hughes.”

“You spend a lot of time thinking about me, huh?”

“You wish,” you scoff, shoving when he dares to get too close, and it’s when Luke is biting back a full-blown grin that Ellie comes back over.

“This sun is crazy, I think I left the sunscreen in the locker room and Jack’s nose is going all red, would you come back with me?”

You smile sweetly at your best friend and agree, only glaring at Luke over Ellie’s shoulder when she’s distracted with saying her brief, temporary goodbyes to Jack, and once you’ve turned and made your way over to the cart, he lets his eyes linger on your figure as you retreat.

The soft sway of your ponytail, the expanse of smooth skin along your legs, he’s completely hypnotised, and he needs to pull himself together, he thinks.

He tries to regain focus as he and Jack work their way through the next couple of holes, caddying their clubs around without the cart, and chatting mindlessly until Jack sighs heavily, like he’s been waiting to bring something up.

“I want to take Ellie out on the boat tomorrow,” He states as Luke tees up, resting on his club as he squints against the sun to watch his little brother, “Just the two of us, so we can talk about stuff.”

“Sounds riveting,” the disinterest in Luke’s tone is amplified by the lack of attention he’s giving overall, looking out across the green and trying to measure his swing before he takes it. “Have fun.”

“I was thinking I’d need your help for it to work.”

“I’m not being your boat-butler again,” Luke scoffs, mind immediately going to all the times their parents would make Jack take Luke out with him and his friends, and all the times he was made to wait on his older brother hand and foot to make up for crashing his hang-outs.

“I’m not asking you to tag along,” Jack scoffs, “You third-wheeling would be the ultimate buzz-kill. I thought you could be of use elsewhere.”

“You’re making whatever it is sound so fun.”

Luke takes his swing, driving the ball and watching it soar to his desired point with a hand shielding his eyes from the sun. Jack watches too, stepping to Luke’s side to measure how far from his own ball it lands.

“Nice,” he mutters appreciatively as the two of them load their clubs into their stand bags. “I need you to keep Regina George busy, distract her or something, she’s stuck to Ellie like glue, it’s beyond annoying.”

If only he knew, Luke thinks, a worry in the back of his mind about how his brother owes more to you than he even realises.

“You worried she’s gonna make her see sense?”

Jack swats at his arm and rolls his eyes.

“I’m worried she’s gonna ruin the good vibes like she usually does and I won’t be able to bite my tongue from saying something and looking like the asshole.”

Distracting you isn’t the worst thing he could be doing with his time, Luke thinks. It’s not like he has to go all out, you’ll no doubt be hanging out around the house and the two of you can hang together. All he has to do is keep you off your phone. Shouldn’t be too hard. You’ve adapted pretty well to mimicking the guys when it comes to staying off theirs.

It ticks off the box of trying to fight for a scrap of your attention. With no one else around, you’ll have no choice but to entertain his company.

And it puts him in front of your little race - lending a helping hand to Jack’s plans to talk to Ellie is surely the same as getting them together. It’s all falling so perfectly into his lap. He isn’t being lazy.

But he can’t let Jack know that, so he heaves out a sigh and offers a slow shake of his head for dramatic effect. “Fine,” he groans, “But you owe me. Big time.”

You’re starting to find it harder and harder to pretend like you don’t want to be at the Lake House.

If you’re being honest, you don’t entirely know why you’re even trying to keep up pretences, but using your disinterest as armour has become like second nature over the years, and you’re hardly going to stop now.

Even if there are already so many little things about being there that are starting to wear you down.

Quiet, early mornings, for one - birds chirping just outside your open window, sun rays pouring in through sheer curtains that flow in the slight breeze, that light feeling that blows through your chest when you’re sat out on the deck behind the house with a fresh cup of coffee, looking out over the still lake and basking in the peace of it all.

And even when it’s not so peaceful, when the kitchen is full of bodies swerving around each other to try and throw together some sort of breakfast spread - pastries and fruit, bacon and eggs, various boxes of cereal on the counter. Quinn had even made a whole batch of pancakes one morning, and you’d be lying if you said you didn’t come down every day since hoping to see him donning that same frilly apron that Cole had draped around his waist and working his magic with a pan.

You’ve never really been a part of such a full house. You had been an only child for so long - and by the time your parents split, and it was just you and your mom, on the days she wasn’t already at work when you got up - and were so ingrained in your own routine in the morning that you think you might actually need the chaos to function better. The rush of bodies, the arguments over who drank the last of the juice, the bickering over who’s turn it is to do the next grocery run - it’s a kind of entertainment you haven’t been privy to in a long time.

Being kind of disconnected from everything else isn’t as bad as you thought it would be, either. You’re not attached to your phone, checking socials to see what everyone else is doing, to see if your dad has sent any messages yet this summer, and you find yourself connecting a little more with the people around you and leaving your family stress on the back burner. You’re more focused on what’s in front of you, and your relationships with other people. With Ellie, with some of the guys in the house, with your friends at work, even.

And it’s nice to be closer to work too. You don’t have to rush around trying to make the bus - Luke has been keeping his word and driving you to the club most days, and where he can’t, either somebody else has offered, or you’ve just ridden one of the bikes in the garage that the boys said were free to use - the helmet hair is an easy fix when you have access to the locker rooms.

It’s an adjustment, for sure, getting used to being in a full house. Especially this one - with a constant revolving door of faces, friends of the brothers switching out week by week to come and stay, departing just as you’ve started getting to know them with a promise of dropping by again soon.

So far, you’re almost at double-digits for the names you’ve had to memorise. Some of them you were already familiar with, guys from Michigan who you already knew or knew of, but others were more Jack or Quinn’s friends that you’d never had the pleasure of meeting before now.

Cole Caufield being one of them.

He had arrived a couple of days after you and Ellie moved yourselves in, closer to Jack than the other two brothers, you had noticed, and was going to be staying longer than any of the other visitors - having his own designated room in the house, similar to you girls.

You like Cole - he’s good fun, can take a joke unlike his supposed best friend, and has the kind of smile that almost gives you a buzz whenever it’s flashed your way. Your first few interactions with him were seemingly pleasant, despite Jack constantly in his ear with a hardened glare pointed your way and no doubt unsavoury words uttered. Cole would just shrug him off, laugh, meet your eyes and drop a wink your way - a gesture you’d usually squirm and cringe at, but Cole kind of pulls it off.

He joins in when you chirp Luke, too - which, if your honest, is your main source of entertainment since arriving, so your interactions with him grow day by day.

You haven’t really spent any one-on-one time with Cole yet, though. You were hoping to, before he left to visit home for the weekend - for no other reason than to get the scoop on something you’d happened upon at work last week - and had planned on asking him to hang out on your day off. But with Cole now gone for a few days, Jack and Ellie off doing god knows what, Quinn and Luke working out wherever, you have no choice but to spend your free Sunday lounging around the house, trying to find something to suppress your growing boredom.

You start with your nails, painting them a summery orangey-red and doing your toes to match, then do your laundry, abiding by house rules that you rotate the loads between the machines, and fold out whoever’s clothes were last in the dryer and place them in the hamper on the side.

You’re hoping you haven’t had to fold Jack’s underwear but you decide to live in blissful ignorance - trying to identify the load based on the rest of the clothing in there is impossible when they all share, so it kind of works in your favour.

You FaceTime your mom for almost an hour, getting an update on what she’s been up to with work, and giving her updates on how your summer is going, trying to focus on your time at the club and Ellie so she doesn’t worry too much again that you’re spending your summer in a house filled with boys.

And by the time Luke and Quinn come back from their workout, you’re in the lounge, 50 pages deep into a book you really couldn’t care less about, but there’s something in you that refuses to beg one of them for company, so you suffer in silence.

Even when Luke does join you, throwing himself down onto the opposite side of the couch you’re occupying and pushing your feet off his side like it’s his sole purpose just to annoy you.

“I was comfortable there, asshat,” you frown, lifting your feet back into their previous position and using one to give him a light kick to his thigh.

“Yeah, well, I hardly want your feet all up in my business while I’m trying to relax,” he sighs, sinking into the cushions with hands clasped behind his head, biceps flexing and tightening the arms of his t-shirt in a way that momentarily catches your eye. You’re thankful for his closed eyes, chewing at the inside of your cheek as you divert your attention back to the mundane words on the pages in front of you.

“And yet here you are when there are 2 other couches.”

“Yeah, well, I know how much you like to be near me.”

You try to ignore him, pulling your feet a little closer to your body and focusing back on the book, but it’s hard when Luke has such a presence. You feel the little looks he keeps sending your way like a physical touch, and the couch shifts with every slight movement he makes, so when he constantly shuffles, you start to think he wants your attention.

Of course he wants your attention. This is Luke Hughes.

“Are you just sitting down here to annoy me?”

He lights up, like he’s just been waiting for you to ask, and shuffles in his seat to face you, fully, bouncing in place like a puppy being teased with a tennis ball.

“I’m actually trying to distract you, if you must know.”

“Bold of you to assume you have enough of my attention to be distracting in the first place,” you scoff, trying not to react to the way he smirks in your peripheral, the words in front of you all blurring together. If you were actually focused on them, you’d have lost your place, already.

“I think you pay more attention to me than you’d like to admit.”

“That’s some ego you’ve got on you, Hughes,” you narrow your eyes as you look above the edge of your book, “Is that what you spend that big NHL paycheque on, charisma classes? How to flirt for dummies?”

“Oh, is that what we’re doing? Flirting?”

Damn. You walked yourself right into that one.

Sometimes biting back at Luke comes like second nature, words first, thoughts after - and you’d be lying if you said you didn’t like it that way. It’s easy, the back and forth, and you can’t really think of an instance with him where you’ve sat in a lingering, awkward silence. You’ve really grown to hate silence, lately.

“You wish.”

“You think I’m charismatic,” he teases in a sing-song voice, knocking at your knee and wiggling his eyebrows when you glare at him.

“I think you’re an idiot.”

“You’re not gonna ask what I’m distracting you from?”

“I don’t really care,” you lie, eyes darting back down and diverting the attention he so desperately craves away from him.

“Jack wanted to take Ellie out on the boat.” He says, ignoring your attempts to ignore him - pushing your buttons like a full time job. Like an operator for your last nerve.

“Good for her.”

“Alone.”

“No shit.”

“To ask her out.”

“Whoop-de-doo.”

“Whoop-de-,” Luke straightens up, like a whack-a-mole with his head positioning itself over the top of your book, and you kind of wish you had one of those soft mallets right about now. It would be so satisfying to bonk at his head, you think. “What do you mean, whoop-de-doo, is this not what you agreed to be here for? To get them together?”

You scoff, flicking to the next page of the book in feigned disinterest. “He isn’t asking her out today.”

This is the exact something you had wanted to talk to Cole about - whispers in the staff lounge at work earlier in the week doing the rounds would imply otherwise, but your main source is kind of a gossip, and you’re not entirely sure of their reliability, despite the few degrees of separation to the subject at hand.

Mutterings of Jack and Cole and their little country club connections.

You can hardly ask Luke of all people if his brother is as much of a man-whore as everyone is making out. Cole was a safe bet - he’d probably just tell you straight up what they’re up to, wear his pride like a shining gold medal. He’s upfront about his promiscuity, at least. Luke is more protective. Of himself, of his family, you’re not entirely sure. There haven’t been as many whispers about him.

“How could you possibly know that?”

“Because he’s a spineless idiot,” you retort, eyes flicking up momentarily to take in his furrowed brow. “No offence,” comes out of nowhere, and you surprise yourself with the instinct to lessen the blow of your words for the first time in forever.

“None taken, he’s only my flesh and blood,” Luke huffs, “You’re just jealous I’m winning our bet.”

“Sure,” you drawl, eyes widening to emphasise the sarcasm as you make a point of angling your head to the next page, like you’ve taken a single word in for the past five minutes. “He’s been talking to one of the girls from work. There’s no way he’s doing that and asking Ellie out, unless he’s completely brain dead.”

And when you look back at Luke, that furrowed brow has shifted into a full blown frown, pouted lips and eyes cast down as if he’s trying to figure everything out in his head.

It’s probably the pout that has you cushioning your words, once more.

“Again, no offence, I doubt it’s in your DNA.”

“How do you know?”

“I’m no bio student but I don’t think there’s a genetic marker for being a fuckboy.”

“No, about him talking to one of the girls at the club. He didn’t tell me that.”

Why does he have to sound like that? Let down and unsure, quieter than you think you’ve ever heard him. It’s like the tone he carries goes straight to your fingers, clasping the book closed without marking your page - because what business do you have carrying on that charade?

“Do you guys tell each other everything?” You ask as you throw the book until it lands on the coffee table with a gentle thud, shuffling until you’re sat against the arm of the couch with knees bent in front of you, giving him your undivided attention and feeling guilty that it might not be enough.

“I thought we did,” he scratches at the back of his head, nervously, “He literally told me yesterday he was taking her out to talk about stuff, why would he make a point of asking me to keep you busy if he’s not serious about asking her out?”

“You don’t want to hear my answer to a question about your brother not being serious.”

“Who’s the girl?” He asks, ignoring your comment despite the slight ghost of a smile you see flash into the corner of his mouth.

“Jessica, she works at the pro shop, apparently they’ve been texting all summer.”

You know for a fact that since you’ve started paying attention, you’ve seen Jack on his phone a lot for a guy who chirps you for your own screen-time, and who has enforced the house rule of no phones outside your room like a prison guard yells out no touching at visitation. So it sort of checks out. You’ve tried to sneak a peak, but he’s protective of his stuff like a yappy little dog with attachment issues at the best of times, so you haven’t really put too much effort into it.

“There were a few people talking about it in the lounge at work the other day,” you shrug, “One of the girls talking about it is Jess’ best friend, so not exactly from the horse’s mouth, but I don’t think she’d be spreading lies about her friend around like that.”

“Can you find out?”

“You ask that like I haven’t been trying.” That gets a full smile, a small chuckle that lifts his shoulder, even, “I was gonna grill Caufield about it but he’s gone. But I know you guys have plans when he gets back tomorrow, so if you want to take Cole I’ll hack away at the grape vine at the club?”

“Does this mean we’re teammates?”

“No. It absolutely does not.”

Hacking away at the grapevine is really a lot more like plucking absentmindedly at an overgrown patch of grass when it comes to workplace gossip.

By the end of your shift, you’re leaving the club with a fist clutched full of loose blades, fingers stained green from the amount of information people were willing to ‘fess up.

Liam who works behind the bar had overheard a conversation where Jack had mentioned Jessica, but could only give you useless tidbits, like how he had to stop by the shop for a new putter, and Jess had been the one to ring him up.

Hardly incriminating, but you had a feeling it would be a small piece of a way larger puzzle. That, and guys are notoriously useless at gossiping, there’s definitely more to that story than Liam could even comprehend in his tiny man brain.

Cassidy who works at the front desk had seen Jack and Jess talking in the main lobby last week, definitely flirting, she had said - with hair flips and giggles galore - and way too familiar to be new.

Much better.

Paola who has the alternative shifts in the pro shop was more than willing to take up ten minutes of your time ranting how Jess’ work is never fully done when it comes to a handover, and she spends half her time on her phone. Kiran, who works the bev cart every Monday, said Jack is always one of the most charming in their golfing group, so it’s no surprise if he is exchanging texts with girls from the club.

You get dirt from most corners of the place, and it leads you all the way back to your station, to reservations set for the restaurant, where tonight’s list - unfortunately a shift you’re not set to work, although you very much question the serendipity of that - has Jack’s name down at 7pm. A table for 2 in the back corner, shielded from prying eyes and intimate.

And if it weren’t for the fact you’ve already worked a full shift, you would consider staying just to get the full scoop.

You know Ellie isn’t going to be the one sat across from him, she’s been sending you pictures all day of her various hauls for her quiet night in. New paints and pencils, a sketchpad, some candles - she has all intentions of working on her watercolour technique.

So it has to be for him and Jessica.

Imagine his face, you think, picturing wide, panicked eyes as you roam up to his table to take his order. He’d actually crap his pants.

But, it’s another set of eyes that you picture when you start to enjoy the scheming a little too much. The sad, teary eyes of your best friend, when she finds out the guy she’s been hung up on for half her life, who she has all but convinced herself isn’t interested, and is - absurdly - ‘far too good’ for her - yeah, right - is dating other girls while taking her out on not-so-platonic boat dates only the day before. A boat date that she had come back to your room, flung herself onto her belly on the bed, and kicked her feet as she gushed all about it.

So you make your way back to the house after a long day, and resign yourself to the fact that you’re going to have to, yet again, get all your information on Jack’s date second hand.

You primed Cara, your colleague in the restaurant, to keep an eye out, and she promised to send updates on her breaks, and you have been holed up in yours and Ellie’s shared bedroom trying to keep her busy when there is a persistent knock at the door, and a mop of soft, curly brown hair pokes in before his eyes meet yours.

“Hey, Luke!” Ellie chimes, cheery and all too blissfully unaware of the potentially horrific circumstances you’ve stumbled upon. “You need to borrow my conditioner again?”

You scoff from your position on the bed, watching a slight pink hue flush up Luke’s neck.

“What? No,” he denies, running a hand through his hair and seemingly frowning a little at the way it feels. “I’m going to the store, wondered if either of you needed anything?”

“Nah, thanks, we’re good,” Ellie smiles, attention diverting straight back to where she’s drawing in her sketchbook, missing the way Luke widens his eyes and tilts his head as if to encourage you to take him up on his offer.

“Can I come with?” You shuffle from your position on the bed, swinging your legs out from beneath you and over the side as Ellie looks back at you.

“Sorry, I didn’t realise you wanted something.”

“Someone’s got to show the poor guy what’s what on the haircare aisle, El.”

And you’re thankful that Ellie has settled herself in for the evening already by 6:45, showered, pyjamas on, otherwise she might have tried to tag along, too, just for something to do.

You swipe her phone before she can notice and hide it under your pillow before you leave, thinking it might reduce the risk of her getting bored and texting Jack, or, worse, checking his location.

A trip out gives you the chance for you and Luke to debrief each other on your findings of the day - or, as it turns out, just you, because Luke Hughes might be the worst information-gatherer on planet Earth.

Finding his life’s niche in hockey is fortunate, because he definitely wouldn’t cut it as an investigator.

“He just said he didn’t know anything,” Luke shrugs of his earlier encounter with Cole, and you try not to gape at him in disbelief as he fiddles with the screen in his BMW, scrolling through the interface in search of the nearest store.

You swat his hand away with a scoff, typing in a destination, “And you believed him?”

“Was I not supposed to?”

“You’re about as useless as a chocolate teapot, Hughes. What is it with guys and gossip, are you all really that dumb?”

“That’s the address for the club,” he points out, ignoring your jibe as he starts driving.

“Well done, you can read.”

“Why?”

“Because, thankfully, one of us is a good detective.” You snark, “Jack’s there.”

“So?”

“He’s on a date.”

“No he isn’t,” Luke frowns, attention momentarily taken from the road as he looks over at you. “I’ve been with him all afternoon, he would have told me if he had a date, tonight.”

“Oh yeah? Where’d he say he was going when he left, earlier?”

He hadn’t been home when you got back from work, but that had been around an hour ago. You figured if he was sneaky enough to book into the restaurant when you’re not working, he’d have his wits about him to avoid you, entirely. Whenever the two of you cross paths, you can’t help but try get on his last nerve, and he’s hardly going to want to start his evening in a foul mood.

“To get his hair cut.”

Jesus Christ, you think, he’s so lucky he’s cute.

“You’re so clueless. He’s at the lounge with Jessica, the girl I told you about yesterday.”

“And what are we supposed to do about that?”

“We’re gonna supervise. And maybe interfere, if necessary.”

You don’t really have a plan, but it seems like the right thing to at least get a look in as to what the hell Jack thinks he’s doing, especially if you’re going to carry on with this whole plan of getting him and Ellie together. If he’s seriously entertaining other girls while making out to Luke that he only has eyes for Ellie, your plans might have to change. You’re not sure if Luke will be on board with the new path you’re willing to take, but you’ll be happy to kill his brother on your own.

“Interfere?” Luke’s eyes are wide, but he keeps them on the road, fingers flexing against the wheel. “I just came out for chips to make nachos, not play spies!”

“Cara’s working tonight, she said she’d keep an eye on them for me. I bet if I cover her hosting shift on Friday she’d sabotage their date. We’d just have to sit back and watch.”

“Oh,” Luke’s brows furrow, as if it’s taking any consideration at all to mess with his brother. “You really are an evil genius.”

You try not to think too hard about who’s been spewing that rhetoric already in his ear, and instead you smile when he casts his eyes your way, proud and pleased.

“Thank you.”

It takes another 15 minutes to get to the club, considering Luke’s best Driving Miss Daisy impression, so their date is already underway by the time Cara is ushering you to a booth in the far corner, where you can see Jack’s table, but he shouldn’t be able to see yours, and agreeing to play along.

“Can I get you guys any drinks?” She asks as she hands over two menus, and you’re too interested in trying to gauge the vibe at the other table while Luke looks over his.

“Two diet cokes, shaved ice, no lemon,” he says, and you can’t help but frown at the way the specificity of that order rolls so easily off his tongue. That’s your order.

“Any food?”

“Could we just get some nachos, please?” You ask, sliding your menu across the table without even looking, not wanting to give Luke too much of a chance to peruse his own out of fear you’ll be here all night. “And extra picante on the side.”

“Extra guac, too,” Luke adds as Cara scribbles the instructions on her notepad, “And some of those chicken tenders, and extra ranch. And maybe some fries. Yeah, chilli fries. And breadsticks.”

You level him with a glare, already proven right in your decision not to give him too much time to think about what he wanted. He’ll order every appetiser on the menu, if given half the chance.

“Thanks, Cara, that’s everything.”

“Sure thing, should be around fifteen minutes. They only just ordered,” she points her pen back to Jack’s table, where Jess is leaning onto the table and Jack is leaning back in his seat - heavy on the distance but even heavier on the eye contact. That little shit.

“Does he have any allergies?” You lean onto your own table to ask Luke, quirking a brow up when his eyes darken in response, mischief swirling in his emerald irises.

“Absolutely not,” Cara interjects, “I’m doing this so you cover my job, not make me lose it.”

“Let me guess, he ordered the steak, medium-rare?” Luke asks, and she nods, hesitantly. “Char it.”

“Won’t he complain?”

“He’ll just grumble to himself about how tough it is. It’ll put him in a bad mood. That’s what we want, right?”

“Yeah,” you confirm, nodding your head to ease Cara’s worries despite what you really want is for Chef Michael to poison the cut, entirely. If Jack Hughes wants to play with your best friend’s heart, you’ll play with his gut. But you can settle for burnt meat. Luke can work some sort of magic with that, you think, convincing Jack of all people that any first date that resulted in him coming home all sour-puss and sulky should never result in a second. “Bad mood. Bingo.”

“Fine,” Cara grumbles, “But if he even thinks about asking for a manager, you’re covering my next 3 Fridays.”

She storms off to the kitchen, and you and Luke simultaneously sink into your seats, attention immediately diverted back to the table in the opposite corner of the room.

“We should have kept the menus,” Luke mutters from across the booth, “Could have hidden behind them.”

“What are we, children?” You snark, “You can’t think of any more creative ways to stay hidden?”

“I heard PDA makes people pretty uncomfortable,” he leans onto the table, dropping you a wink when you glance over out of the side of your eye, “We should make out to throw everyone off the scent.”

“In your dreams, Hughes.”

Luke sort of envies the charm you hold over people.

The way you can convince people to do your bidding with a mere flutter of your eyelashes or a flash of pearly teeth and a glimmer in your irises.

He has trouble, sometimes, skirting around his honesty or hiding his intentions - and he knows that’s not a bad thing, knows that being clear and truthful is an admirable trait, if anything - but the way you persuade others to bend to your whim with intricate white lies based on observations you’ve made or intel you’ve gathered is a praiseworthy level of genius.

It had taken such minimal effort for you to get Cara on side, to convince her that being a little clumsy is hardly grounds for her termination, and spilling a little of Jack’s drink close to the edge of the table - close enough that it drips onto his pants and Luke can see the steams of frustration exuding from his brother’s skin from all the way on the other side of the restaurant - or bumping her hip on the edge of their table every time she passes are really just harmless irritations, not likely to cause actual complaint.

You had used the mere tone of your voice to convince Liam from behind the bar to squeeze a little lime in Jack’s water, knowing just from observing him back at the house that he hates the taste, face curling in disgust at even the slightest hint of it, and Luke had watched your eyes gleam in delight every time Jack took a sip of his drink and tried not to spit it back out, seeking much needed reprieve to swallow down the world’s toughest steak cut.

You’d even worked your magic on him, pouting your lips when the food had arrived at the table, and he had initially declined to share his chicken tenders with you - your grumblings at him ordering enough to feed the five thousand fresh in his memory, but so easily wiped away by the soft, sad look in your eyes, and your whining of, “But I didn’t realise how hungry I’d get. Plotting and scheming is hard work, Luke.”

You ended up eating half, but he could hardly complain - you were doing the heavy lifting out of the two of you.

He was sitting back and enjoying the show - enjoying your company, if he’s honest. Enjoying the way his gangly limbs would sometimes knock into yours under the table, enjoying the way he kept getting little nuggets of information out of you while you were distracted, sipping at your coke and making little comments about yourself, about your life, without even realising you’re doing it.

And an unplanned, pseudo date ends up being the first time he thinks he’s had a glimpse at the real you.

The you who knows more about hockey than you’ve ever let on before, who comes back to his stories with contextual questions about the game, even has references to a few games of his back at Michigan, and keeps the conversation flowing despite your feigned disinterest, and a constant gaze cast his brother’s way.

That would usually drive him crazy.

He’s experienced it so often that he has come to expect it, people only entertaining his company to acquire the attention of his brothers, but that’s not what you’re doing. Not really.

You pay more attention to Luke than you’d ever let on.

You ask him about his time in Ostrava at the beginning of summer, even though he’s only mentioned being overseas once while you’ve been staying with him - an offhanded comment from Quinn at breakfast that you must have taken on. Ask him about all the food he tried while out there, when he mentions he doesn’t like picante, and you use it as a springboard to talk about what sort of spices he does like, or if he’s the type to try things or stick to what he knows.

You ask him about being the youngest sibling, and it stems from an offhanded comment Luke had grumbled about always being the last to be clued in on stuff, about how Jack had probably confided in Quinn about his extracurricular activities at the club, and didn’t trust him enough to let him in on the fact he’s going out on dates. You ask if he usually figures things out himself before he’s told them, if that’s what makes him so good at observing and analysing stuff, and he hadn’t ever realised he was particularly good at those things before you brought it up. But then you reference a day in class one time, where he had picked up on something in a textbook that you never would have figured out in a million years, and his heart leaps at the praise you don’t even realise you’re giving him.

You sandwich your perceptions in your usual snark, but he doesn’t miss the slight curve of your lips anymore when he bites straight back, knowing now that there is some part of you that feels the nip of his teeth, that acknowledges his existence beyond him being a speck of inconvenience in your peripheral.

And he gets a little carried away in that acknowledgement - stops paying attention himself to what is happening on the other side of the room and tries to focus on what’s in front of him; the girl he pined after his entire college career, sat sharing nachos and pretending not to know him at a level you so clearly do.

You must get carried away, too, because neither of you notice Jack’s date wrapping up until Luke catches him hand his card over to Cara.

He’s lost count of how long the two of you have been at the club, now - way longer than it takes to get chips from the store, that’s for sure - and all he does know is that if Jack catches either of you two here, after a night of mishaps, bad food, spilled drinks and Cara’s incessant clumsiness, he’ll know who’s to blame.

“We better get out of here before he sees us,” Luke sighs, not entirely wanting to wrap up his time with you but knowing he doesn’t really have a choice.

“I’ve just got to pick something up before we head back,” you reply, edging out of the booth at the same time Luke does, “I’ll meet you out front just give me two minutes?”

“Be quick,” he tells you before you scurry off, and he flags down Cara, who tells him you already put your bill on your worker tab. He tells her to switch it to his, and that he’ll drop by tomorrow to pay it off, promising to leave her a good tip for her stellar services for the evening.

He waits where you asked him to, making sure to stick to the side of the entryway where he can duck for cover if his brother makes an appearance - but you show up first, skipping out from the staff lounge with a bag of tortilla chips in hand.

“Let’s go, Lukey boy!” He follows you out like a puppy on a leash, all the way to where his car is parked, almost bumping into you when you stop and turn without warning, stretching your hand out to him. “Give me your keys.”

“Are you crazy?” He snorts, “You’re not driving my car!”

“I know a shortcut!” You reason, stepping forward and making a grabby motion with your fingers, “We gotta beat Jack home, I just paid another server $20 to spill a whole drink on him before he leaves and he’s gonna be pissed. I want to see the meltdown back at the house and you drive like a nun!”

Luke doesn’t know why he gives in so easy - it could be the proximity, the way you’re so close you have to look up at him, eyes twinkling softly under the moonlight, voice carrying over to him like a siren song, or it could just be because he’s weak - but he hands his keys over with a roll of his eyes and climbs into the passenger side, sliding the seat back with a huff to accommodate his long legs and watching as you adjust the driver’s side, cringing at the way he’s gonna have to figure out exactly how he had it before.

You drive like a maniac, to the point where Luke has to screw his eyes shut as you use some back road, can hear the squelch of mud beneath his tires and squirms at the thought of having to take it to the car wash, tomorrow.

But you make it back to the lake house much quicker than if he were driving, he’ll give you that. So quick that you feel comfortable enough to turn to him once you’ve pulled up, in no rush to unbuckle and get out to get inside before Jack gets home.

“Just so we’re clear, this is a point under my name. You’re not claiming tonight as a win.”

Luke chuckles, turning in his seat to face you, features illuminated by the dim overhead light that turns on when the engine switches off and a slight flush of exhilaration to your cheeks. There’s no pretending you haven’t enjoyed yourself, not tonight. “But the steak thing was my idea?”

“If it weren’t for me, you’d be sat watching baseball and thinking he was getting a 3 hour haircut, you can’t seriously be trying to steal this from me, I thought you athletes had integrity!”

“You’re really keeping score?”

“You’re not?”

If Luke’s honest, he hasn’t really thought about your whole wager all night. He’s been too wrapped up in the idea that his brother had lied to him. Twice. And now his whole plan for the two of you all summer has potentially been messed up. But hearing you mention it, hearing you talk about it like it hasn’t been flushed down the toilet by his brother’s idiocy sparks something in him - excitement, anticipation. He doesn’t want to let this go.

“I actually think we made a good team back there,” he shrugs, eyes meeting yours to gauge your reaction to the thought of doing this together.

“You’re only saying that ‘cause you’re gonna lose,” you retort, eyes sparkling with those same sentiments he had just felt.

“Probably,” he acquiesces, “Also ‘cause you kind of scare me a little after tonight, last thing I wanna do is go up against you when you have the power to turn half the country club against me.”

You smirk, and his eyes are drawn to the plush curve of your lips, watching them as they form around the softly spoken words, “God forbid you can’t go a round of golf without your caddy breaking down.”

“Exactly.” He mutters back, glad to see your gaze is still zeroed in on him when he meets it again. He can feel the thump thump thump of his pulse in his ears, and takes a deep breath before proposing, “Partners?”

He cocks a brow and holds his pinky out over the centre console, and you eye the digit, sceptically, narrowing your eyes into a glare before raising them to meet his. “Fine,” you grumble, then hook your little finger through his and tighten it to shake, a slight yelp of surprise filling the car when he tugs, your lax arm giving way until your knuckle touches his lips and he kisses it.

“Ew,” you whine, snatching your finger back as he fills the space himself with a hearty chuckle, wiping it on his hoody in disgust. “That’s gross!”

“No take backs,” he smiles, victorious, with his chest puffed out, primed for you to swat at with the flex of your hand, and the two of you are only pulled out of the moment by the sound of tyres pulling up on the gravel behind you, both of you stumbling to unbuckle yourselves and climb out of the car.

Jack is exiting his own vehicle behind, and stomps down the driveway, shouldering past you until he realises who he has passed, turning back and looking at you with suspicion cast across his features.

“Where have you twobeen?” Jack asks, glancing a curious eye between the two of you before meeting Luke’s gaze, levelling him with an inquisitive glare.

“We went to the store for chips,” Luke holds the bag up, the crinkle loud enough for Jack to hear, and he feels an insurgence rising within him, spurred on by the way his brother is looking at him like he’s the one who should be ashamed of his actions. “Nice haircut.”

Jack runs a hand through his hair, surprise crossing his features in a brief flash at the call out, like he had never even expected Luke to notice his hair looks no different to the last time he saw him mere hours ago, like he would never even need to question his alibi.

“Oh, yeah, I got the day wrong. Went out for dinner instead.”

“On your own?” You ask from beside him, your presence giving Luke the kind of back up he very much needs right now, a new target for Jack’s narrowed eyes that takes the heat off of him a little, lessens the burden of lying to his brother - despite Jack being the one who started it, it doesn’t make Luke feel any less bad, doesn’t quell the need to word vomit and admit to all the ludicrous things he had done to ruin Jack’s night. “You end up having a little accident there, bud?”

Luke tries not to outwardly laugh as his attention is diverted to the wet patch that still soaks up the front of Jack’s pants, lips quivering as he presses them together, oblivious to the steam pouring out of his brother’s ears as he immediately gets riled up.

“One of your esteemed colleagues at the club apparently lacks hand eye co-ordination. Plus, some of us like our own company,” Jack scoffs, “Some of us can go an evening without the need to annoy anybody else.”

“It’s not news to me that you’re in love with yourself, dude,” you retort back, entirely unbothered by his jibes. “Bet you’ve got all sorts of riveting thoughts swirling around that ginormous head of yours, must keep you busy for hours on end.”

“At least I have thoughts, at least I’m not some airheaded-,”

“Hey,” Luke’s tone is authoritative when he calls out, stern and demanding, “Cut it out, Jack.”

“She started it!”

“She asked you a question,” Luke frowns, disappointed with how quick his brother had taken to escalating the situation, all in an attempt to deflect the attention from his own deception. He knows you don’t need him to protect you from Jack’s sharp tongue, knows you can very much defend yourself, but he needs to vent his frustrations, somehow, without causing a bust up on the driveway. “You could have just give her a straight answer without biting her head off.”

He feels like you’re a little closer, all of a sudden, and he doesn’t know it’s the slight brush of your arm against his or if it’s something else, something less tangible - but it warms him, all the same. Steadies the static thump of his heart in his chest at the thought of starting an argument with his brother out of nowhere.

“Whatever,” Jack rolls his eyes, “I’m going to bed.”

And as Jack turns, Luke sees your lips part, ready to send him off with the last word until a large hand clamps itself over your mouth, and your wide eyes meet his over the sides of his fingers.

He’s not sure why he did it, why he all of a sudden feels comfortable enough to cross the boundaries of purposeful touch, but he doesn’t entirely regret it.

Plush lips press mid-word against his palm, and your skin is soft, cheeks warming ever so slightly beneath his hand.

“You gotta let him go, there’s no use fighting with him tonight, it’s better to drag it out. Didn’t think I’d have to teach you about the beauty of the long game,” he says, voice low as he watches his brother retreat to the house, waiting until he’s safe inside to retract his hand. “Not like this, anyway.”

“Your brother’s an asshole,” you grumble, “Full offence.”

“No arguments from me,” Luke concedes, holding his hands as if surrendering to the fact, himself. “What are you gonna tell Ellie?”

“Nothing.” You sigh, stepping a little down the drive and toward the house before turning back to him. “We’ve got a lot of work to do, partner.”

There have only been a handful of times in your life you’ve ever been thankful for work coinciding with huge plans, but when the group had decided that they wanted to go see Zach Bryan play Ford Field, you had thanked your lucky stars you had been put down to work a full shift at the restaurant and wouldn’t be able to go.

Not only for the fact that he isn’t really your thing, but for the fact that you’re finally getting a full evening to yourself.

So far, in your time at the house, most evenings have been spent with everyone else - group dinners, game nights, movie nights, even a couple of girls nights with just you and Ellie scattered in there, but nothing on your own, yet.

You can’t wait. And with an empty house, you have a full pamper night planned. You’ve been stocking up odd bits on your trips to the store over the past couple of weeks - sheet masks, aromatherapy candles, you’ve even picked up some flower petals from the spa at the club, in the hopes that you might even treat yourself to a relaxing soak in the bathtub. You can play whatever music you want, make whatever food you want, sit wherever you want in the house, out on the deck, overlooking the lake with a book in hand and no chirpy voices in your ear all night.

You can’t wait.

The only downside is not having a ride home, but you haven’t finished too late. The sun will still be up for a couple of hours, and a walk in the simmering heat back to the house doesn’t sound like the worst thing in the world.

Your feet carry you with ease down the back roads, and you even make the journey without your headphones on, taking in the scenery, the blissful peace of your surroundings, so lost in the tranquility of it all that the sight of Luke washing his car on the drive when you get home dampens your mood as quick as a torrential downpour of rain, flash floods coursing through your evening and wrecking your plans entirely.

“What the hell are you doing?” You can’t help the bite in your tone as you approach, sneakers crunching against the gravel as Luke pauses the hose, looks over at you with the sun in his eyes, and you have to remind yourself he’s just ruined the one night you have for yourself before you get distracted by the fact that he’s shirtless.

“Washing my car?” he calls back, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“Aren’t you supposed to be in Detroit right now?”

Luke shrugs, and you have to will your eyeballs not to move any lower than his neck to watch his shoulders lift and drop, lest you get too caught up in the broad expanse of his chest and do something ridiculous like drool.

“Wasn’t feeling it.”

“You weren’t feeling a concert you guys haven’t shut up about for weeks, but you were feeling washing your car?”

He’s dead. When he’s finished with his car and he retreats to his room, you’re gonna smother him with a pillow and discard of his body in the lake. You’re not even gonna let him shower, first. That’s what the lake’s for.

He’s crapping all over your plans because he wasn’t feeling it?

“It needs cleaning,” he shrugs again, and you swear you’re gonna jump in and run him over with the damn thing, “In fact, you really should be helping me.”

There’s a small part of you that feels like the thoughts of violence are worryingly aggressive, but then a larger part of you realises he must have a death wish.

“How’d you get to that conclusion?”

“You’re the one who drove us through a swamp,” he scoffs, a pointed hand flung toward the body of his car, where the sides are lined with a thick layer of dried dirt from the other night, “You get it dirty, you clean it up.”

“As much as I would absolutely love to fulfil your pervy car wash fantasy, I have much better things I could be doing with my time.”

Or you did, until Luke rained all over your parade of solitude.

“Like what?”

“Literally anything but this.” You gesture at the show he’s putting on. The suds dripping from the roof of the car, the hose in his hand, the buckets scattered around the perimeter. “I need to shower, I just walked from the club and I-,”

A death wish might actually be an understatement.

Luke wants you to murder him in the most gruesome, horrific way you could possibly muster - he has to, because there’s no other explanation for why he’d turn the hose on, point it straight at you, and drench the front of you, entirely.

You can feel the fabric of your t-shirt dampening and sticking to your chest, and you scrunch your eyes shut to stop droplets of water slipping into them, thankful that when they open again, his own are looking back at you, and not any lower.

You’d really have a reason to kill him, then.

“You did not just do that.” You growl, glaring back at him with a clenched jaw as the fucker beams back at you, pressing the trigger once more in a short burst that fires straight at your chest, again.

“What, that?”

“You’re so dead.”

You drop your bag and launch for him, aiming to take the hose from his grip, but he fires it again out of sheer panic, the water spouting out from between your splayed fingers, cold and pressured, and it soaks the both of you, raining down as you grapple for the head and Luke remains unrelenting.

There are squeals and yelps called out into the misty air between the two of you, and you get to a point you can’t tell what sounds are coming from who, but you manage to wrestle the hose from his grip and point it straight at him as he jets away with a laugh that rumbles straight from his belly.

It’s the kind of laugh that elicits another, and you don’t realise until he’s circling back to you that the laughter is coming from you - giggling, even, as the two of you engage in a water fight like misbehaving children - and it isn’t long until all aggressive thoughts wash away with the suds that slip to the gravel, forgetting why you were even annoyed in the first place.

It shouldn’t be as fun as it is, but after the long day at work, and the tiring walk back, letting your guard down and engaging it a little mindless chaos seems to wake you up a little.

Your childish game gets Luke what he wanted, anyway, the two of you working together to clean his car when you realise he’s only running in front of all the parts that actually need hosing off and relying on you having bad aim to get the job done, and you figure getting your hands a little dirty is harmless when you’re already soaked through and in dire need of a shower.

And your pamper-plans of a bubble bath and self-care don’t entirely come to fruition, but Luke promises to make up for his petulance by ordering pizza and sticking a movie on, so you bite your tongue to refrain from voicing your initial complaints, and decide to just go with the flow, for once - he hasn’t exactly led you astray, yet.

You take a little longer in the shower than normal, with no one around to complain about hogging the bathroom or worry about them barging in unannounced, and you suppose that’s a small victory - one little luxury you get to cling to as you bask in the steam, letting all the tension slip from your aching muscles after being on your feet all day.

And once you’re out, hair dried just enough with a towel that it isn’t going to drip or soak your t-shirt, and you’re dressed in your pyjamas, you make your way downstairs, where Luke has already set up a plethora of snacks in the living room.

Nachos, popcorn, candy and drinks scattered across the coffee table as he relaxes on the couch, hair extra curly after his shower and an old Michigan t-shirt stretched tight across his now much-broader chest.

“Thought I’d wait for you to pick a movie,” he chimes up from where he’s sat, gesturing with a lazy point to the wall of blu-rays beside the TV.

“Did Netflix never make it to the Hughes household?” You scoff in disbelief as you take them all in properly for the first time. You’d seen them in your peripheral when you’d been hanging out down here, before, but actually looking at them up close, reading all the titles, seeing the sheer volume of how many there are, it kind of surprises you.

“We can look on Netflix if you want. They always take stuff off, though.”

You know. All your favourite movies get taken off of streaming, and you only ever find out about it when you’re really in the mood to watch them. As soon as you realise the wall is alphabetised, you know exactly where to look.

“That’s alright,” you shrug, stepping to the side as you track backwards, through M, L, K and J. “You guys are pretty analogue, I’ve noticed.”

“What do you mean?”

“The board games, the DVDs, the whole no phones around the house thing.”

“No phones around the house is common courtesy,” he chuckles, “But I guess we’re a little weird about the other stuff.”

“It’s pretty cool,” you shrug, spotting the DVD you want and sliding it out to assess the case. “It’s old school. Probably better for the brain. My little brothers can’t really function without an iPad and they’re 5, it’s freaky, like they’re haunted by the capitalist ghost of Steve Jobs or something.”

“I didn’t know you had brothers,” Luke frowns where you almost expect him to laugh, and you spin on your heel to face him. He has this look about him like he should have known that - like the two of you have ever conversed in anything other than sarcastic quips and scrunched up faces, or whatever attempts at flirting have been on his part.

“Technically they’re half brothers,” you shrug, “They live out in Philly with my dad and step mom, I don’t really get to see them much.”

“Didn’t know you were from Philly, either.”

“I’m not, my dad moved out there when him and my mom got divorced.”

It’s not something you really love talking about.

The few times you’ve tried, you’ve been shot down, patronising tones scoffing at how your biggest trauma is the separation of your parents, as if your whole world didn’t crumble down with the demise of their relationship, the demise of life as you knew and very dearly loved it.

“You don’t see him even in the summer?”

“Him and his family are on vacation in Europe for 6 weeks. England, France, Spain, Germany, the boys are into soccer so they’ll be out there until the Euros.”

You don’t miss the way Luke’s face scrunches at how you call them his family, and you’re not sure you’re ready for him to start pitying you, so you throw the DVD case toward him before you can second guess your choice.

Interstellar.

You hope he doesn’t pick up on why it might be one of your favourites. Especially not considering the topic of the conversation at hand. Something about the crippling regret Cooper has for leaving Murph behind plucks harmoniously at some unidentifiable strings deep within you, but you’re hardly about to admit that to Luke, of all people.

“I love this movie,” he smiles, almost surprised, as if he expected you to throw The Notebook his way. Maybe next time - he’d probably love that movie, too, if he gave it a chance.

“Me too. I love space movies.”

“Like Space Jam?” He asks as he pushes himself up, going toward the TV to set up the movie with the DVD in one hand and the remote control in the other.

“No, like movies about Space,” you say, throwing yourself down onto the same couch he just vacated and tucking your feet beneath you to get comfortable. “Although I guess Space Jam would technically fit into that bracket.”

“I didn’t realise that was a genre,” he chuckles.

“Not the scary ones, though, I don’t wanna be freaked out by space.”

“Is that like a thing? You just like any movie set in space?”

“I like anything about space, period. Movies, documentaries, books. Thinking about it makes me feel really insignificant.”

“Insignificant? Is that not a bad thing?” He asks as he makes his way back, settling into his side and angling his body toward yours.

“Do you ever think about how big the universe is, Hughes? It’s humongous! If I ever feel anxious or panicky I think about just how big it is and how I’m not even a speck of dust in the grand scheme of things. If I’m so tiny, how big can my problems actually be?”

“I guess that makes sense,” he seems to mull it over in his head, the thought of him even considering it and not making you feel stupid warms your chest - makes you forget just how much of yourself you’ve shared with him in the last couple of minutes alone, makes you worry less that you’re sharing too much. “I think I might be the opposite, though. Probably the youngest brother in me, I only feel better if I feel bigger.”

You think that might be why he’s always trying to one up you - sassy comments and inappropriate jokes galore. Not that you mind any of it, not really.

“What about you? What movies do you like?”

“You’re gonna be so shocked.”

“Sports movies?”

“Look at you, knowing me like the back of your hand.” He coos, nudging at your knee with his hand. “I’ll watch anything, though. We should take it in turns, whenever it’s just us,” he says like the thought of spending time alone with you has only just crossed his mind. “Picking a movie to show each other.”

You think there’s a lot of yourself in the media you consume. The movies you watch, the music you listen to, and sharing those things with Luke feels like giving him the only other key to a high security vault. It’s something you’ve avoided so far - letting him play his songs in the car, avoiding making any sort of pick in the group movie nights. It’s daunting, and it’s a lot of pressure, and so you don’t know why you agree with so much ease - a shrug, and a casual muttering of, “Sure, why not?”

The pieces of your dynamic slowly start to slot together, and you start to realise why you’ve been entertaining his company so often, lately. Why your mood so quickly de-escalated itself, earlier. Why you’ve found yourself curled up on the same couch as him, instead of literally anywhere else in the house, doing anything other than this. Why you’re so quick to agree to letting him access all these unseen parts of you.

And why you think he might be able to read your mind, after he asks, “Can I ask you a question?”

“Only if I get to ask one back.”

“What were you gonna do tonight, if you were on your own?”

Thank God, you think, your heart jumping at the thought of anything else he could have asked.

“I was gonna do a sheet mask and steal the bottle of wine Quinn stashed behind the laundry detergent.” You admit with a nonchalant shrug, the plans you had been looking forward to all day seeming mundane in comparison to this. “Why’d you stay behind? You love Zach Bryan.”

“I love sheet masks and stolen wine, too.”

Your lips curve up before you get the chance to huff at his non-answer, and you feel your throat go a little dry at the way his curve, too - the way his green eyes darken when they meet yours, and you feel like he’s looking straight through you.

It’s around half way through the movie that you realise how much you’re enjoying yourself - when you look over at Luke, and the light from the screen is still bouncing off the sticky white sheet plastered to his face, only just able to make out his round eyes through the little slit in the fabric.

You sip at your wine to hide your smile, and turn your attention back to the TV until Luke nudges at your feet with his, and your eyes meet over the tops of your bent knees.

“You tell anyone I did this, I’ll never speak to you again.”

Your laugh ripples through every inch of your upper body, rumbling up from your belly and manifesting itself in shaking shoulders, your smile wide and your sheet mask slipping out of place. “You can’t threaten me with a good time, Hughes.”

You spend the rest of the night trying not to think about how there might just be a tiny door in your heart, eking it’s way open for him to squeeze his gangly limbs into.

>PART TWO<

another a/n: I don't want to put a timeframe on when the next part will be posted bc as soon as I do that, my brain will revolt and it won't happen, but I'd love to know your thoughts in the meantime!!! I have a lot of the rest actually written, and what I don't have written, I have drafted, so it shouldn't be too long but!!! like I said no timeframe!! I've had a lot of fun with this dynamic, and hearing any opinions would mean a lot to me!!

this was my first time writing reader insert if you saw any instances of she/her where they shouldn't be, no you didn’t. I tried as best as I could to avoid using Y/N because it takes me out of it I don’t even remember if I put it anywhere but sometimes it's hard to get around I did my best ok!!!

#luke hughes #luke hughes x reader #luke hughes imagine #nhl imagine #nhl fanfiction #luke hughes fluff #my hearts going pitter patter pitter patter like I could throw up #need to post this before I fall asleep lmao #*writing

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oneforthemunny · 2 months ago

Note

I was thinking about what you said about dry humping and Janitor!Eddie. Then I started thinking about straddling him on the couch while he sucks on his girl’s tiddies and she begins to grind on him until they both cum in their pants 🫣

oh helllllllll yeah. lfg janitor!eddie girlies nows your time!!!! smut ahead minors dni.

Eddie groaned beneath you, his head tipping back onto the cushioned back of the couch, eyes screwed shut, lips vibrating with the moan he tried to swallow. He looked so pretty, you decided, a hand caressing his cheek for a moment before your lips were back on his.

A bottle and a half of chardonnay, the excitement of spring break and being off for the week, and Cross My Heart playing on the screen; you'd blame that triple threat as the reason you both were here. Stripped down to just your underwear, hips rocking against his.

"Please," Eddie gasped, a straggled breath caught in his throat, fingertips sinking into the flesh of your hips. "Sweetheart, you- I'm gonna bust if you keep do-doing that."

Your toothy grin had his stomach lurching with a rush of excited heat, eyes widening in excitement, maybe fear. You had a tendency to get a little bold when you'd had a drink or two, not that Eddie minded. Oh no, it was quite the opposite, it's the exact reason why his body was fidgeting under yours, hips wiggling for friction.

"Mmm," You let out a soft moan, your hands squeezing around his shoulders, head tipping back. Your own hips swiveled, rocking gently. You could feel the wet patch already forming at the front of your cotton panties.

"Baby, you- you gotta stop." Eddie's voice cracked, embarrassingly high pitched in a way he hadn't heard since middle school.

"I don't wanna stop." You purred, hips moving agonizingly slow, your clothed clit rocking against his tented boxers. "I like how this feels."

"Fuck," Eddie whispered, the combination of your words and the way he could feel your wetness starting to seep through your underwear to his, had his hands beginning to shake with blinding pleasure.

"Don't you like how this feels?" You hummed, so sweetly it had Eddie blushing. "Doesn't it feel good?"

"Jesus- Yeah, it feels really fuckin' good, baby." Eddie nodded, eyes rounded and wide when they met yours, only for a moment, before his gaze shifted to your boobs, nearly inches from him.

His hands slid up your body, slowly, leaving you shivering, a small whine leaving your lips, grinding harder and harder when Eddie's thumbs slid over your nipples.

Eddie's hands lingered there for a moment, before his face was buried between them, kissing your left boob, lips wrapped around your nipple.

His hands slid back down your body, over your ribcage, the swell of your hips, anchoring on your ass. Squeezing handfuls of each of your cheeks between his calloused hands, your thighs were beginning to shake at the sensation, rocking harder and harder.

"Eddie, that feels so, sooo good." You whimpered, his face pressing further into your chest, tongue swirling around your nipple.

A gasp tore from your throat, eyes opening with a start at the sudden shift. Eddie's hands still held your ass, pressing you further and further into him, his own hips meeting yours with a furiously needy rhythm.

"E-Ed," You gasped, your orgasm creeping closer and closer, Eddie's hands pressing you further and further into him. So close you thought you might fuse together.

Eddie's body moved with yours, a symphony of both your breathy moans and gasps mixing with the squeak and groan of the couch springs, until you finished, a flood of wetness that soaked and darkened the front of your panties. Eddie's followed shortly after, a sticky, whiny mess of an orgasm, his face still buried between your breasts.

He pulled you on top of him, your warm cheek pressed against his chest, both your eyes shining from the wine and your own releases. "I don't think I've dry humped someone since freshman year of high school." Eddie admitted, mind still swimming, slowly reeling. "I forgot how good it feels."

You giggled, turning to him, chin pressed to his chest. "It did feel pretty good, didn't it?"

"Felt more than pretty good." Eddie muttered.

"More than pretty good, hm? So you liked it?" There it was again- that sneaky, wide smile that had Eddie's heart lurching. Eddie nodded, his hand smoothing down your back gently.

"Yeah? You liked it when I did this?" Your grin widened, pressing your hips into his, your wet underwear pressing together.

"Yes." Eddie jumped at the sensation, a smile tugging on your lips when you giggled, silly and love sick, his arms wrapping around you.

"Good to know." You hummed, leaning in gently, lips barely brushing. "I'll keep that in mind." You muttered, your lips enveloping his, hands sliding over his jaw, pulling him into you.

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mrkified · 3 months ago

Text

the letters i "never" sent .ᐟ | to all the boys i've loved before ୨ৎ | nct dream

when a box of y/n’s secret love letters accidentally gets sent out, their world turns upside down as seven different boys from their past suddenly confront them about their hidden feelings. each boy has a different reaction—some amused, some shocked, and some realizing they might just feel the same way. as y/n navigates the chaos of their exposed crushes, they find themselves at the center of an unexpected love story, one where they have to choose between the people they once loved—and the ones they might just love now.

pairing: nct dream xfem!reader

note: the prologue is here! i'm ngl i don't think this is my best work but sorry it took me so long (a month) -- um school is literally my 24/7 but thankfully spring break is next week so i have more time to work on everything and hopefully get everything out! i have like..... 2 more months of school and then i'm FREED. stay strong mrkified nation, daddy (me) will be back soon

word count: 1.2k ᶻ 𝘇

tatbilb masterlist ✴︎

main masterlist ⟡

Sunlight peered into your room as your alarm started to blare that forsaken tune that told you it was time to get up for school. Your eyes still felt heavy as you slowly tossed and turned until you eventually arose from your spot in your bed. While you were slowly opening your eyes you were feeling slightly groggy, you started gathering your stuff to get ready for the school day. The sound of water pouring in the shower could be heard from the bathroom as you looked through your closet for something to wear. After you picked out an outfit you quickly ran towards the bathroom to get ready for the day.

You got to school with 5 minutes to spare and surprisingly — that was the least of your worries. Before you could even walk onto campus from the parking lot, the class president was yelling at everyone to get to class. You tried your best to avoid him before vanishing down the hallway.

When you thought you were in the clear, you felt a hand pull you around the corner into an empty room. You whipped around to face the culprit – the class president Mark Lee.

The day you met Mark was the first day of third grade. You both sat on opposite sides of the class so you didn't interact much outside of class, but he would always go out of his way to be nice to you. You two were not quite friends but he gave you tons of candy with a clumsy smile that you liked a little too much.

“Mark?! What the fuck!” you exclaimed as you pulled from his grasp, freeing your arm. He looked like he didn't know what to say as he took a moment to get his words out.

“I wanted to talk about this” Mark lifted up his hand to reveal a white envelope with a red heart on it.

A letter you knew far too well – It was one of the seven letters that you wrote when your crush was too intense that you had to confess your feelings in the form of a letter. It started in elementary school after Mark bought you a candy and you became head over heels. The letters let you organize your thoughts and feelings which is why you kept writing more as the years went by. The letters possibly getting out would be the end of the world – you had to get out of there to figure it out fast.

You originally tried to play dumb, since you knew he was awkward and hated confrontation. “I don’t know what you’re talking about”

“Are you sure? This came in the mail yesterday, it says it’s from you” Mark shuffled around, unsure how to go about this.

“Um..yeah.. I’m not sure what it is, maybe someone’s messing with us or something? But listen I really have to get to class and you shouldn’t be late either Mark” You awkwardly smiled and gestured to the door before turning and walking out. How did Mark Lee get his hands on his letter? You had to figure this out before the rest of them got their hands on their letters — unless they got it already?

You started desperately walking faster, speeding up to try and make it back to the parking lot. You couldn’t make it far before you became face first with someone’s back. This was starting to feel like a cliché — getting pulled into a classroom, bumping into someone’s back, what could happen next?

You couldn’t think for long as the boy you bumped into turned around revealing an annoyed Donghyuck. When his eyes shifted onto yours, his expression turned into a more amused one.

Donghyuck – more commonly known as Haechan, was a first class asshole. He was a bully, always making fun of people who he thought were under him. Always skipping class, never misses a party, he was one of the boys you were the most ashamed of liking.

“Well look who it is, I thought I had to search the whole school to find you. Who knew you would just come running to me, I guess I'm as irresistible as you think” His tone was smooth as he leaned against the wall. He seemed to have his letter as well, and playing dumb wouldn’t work as well as it did with Mark but you still had to try as getting out of there is your priority.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about Donghyuck — and I definitely don’t have time for this, please move” The desperation was present in your voice. You waved your hands to signal him to move but to no avail – Donghyuck stayed planted in his spot. Amusement was more prominent on his face as his smile grew bigger when you tried to move around him but he pulled you back.

“Not so fast baby, you know what I’m talking about and it’s clear you do, but really? You had a crush on me? Now that is not what I expected to come home to” He pushed back against the wall as he pulled the smushed letter out of his pocket. “Dear Donghyuck, first of all I will never call you Haech–” “Don’t start!”

You quickly covered his mouth and looked around for any witnesses. “Look Donghyuck. I don’t know how you got that but I really can’t talk about this right now, okay? The letter is old anyway” you sighed. You heard his muffled protests from under your hands before you removed them, hoping he didn’t try to embarrass you.

“Y/n? Haechan?” A voice questioned behind you

You knew the owner of the voice and you knew it too well – Lee Jeno. Professional fuckboy and Donghyuck’s ex best friend. Of course he would be behind you right now, does anyone in this school even go to class?

“What do you want Jeno? Can’t you tell she’s busy?” Donghyuck glared at the boy.

“I wanted to ask if this letter was serious” He replied while holding up his infamous letter in his hand. Just great.

Before you could even speak, Donghyuck spoke up. “You’re telling me HE got one too?”

Donghyuck rolled his eyes and scoffed, “Out of everyone in this school, you chose Jeno to write to? Unbelievable”

“And what’s that supposed to mean, huh?” Jeno stepped forward, a questioning look on his face. The tension was rising and you were starting to feel awkward so you started to look for an escape.

“You know exactly what I mean” Dobghyuck crossed his arms. “Why would she want NEO’s number one fuckboy?”

Jeno’s jaw tightened. “Why do you always do this Haechan? You always have to start something” His voice was laced with frustration.

As the boys continued their argument, you escaped down the hall once you figured they wouldn't notice. Every step you took got faster until you were eventually running out the main door of the school. A little dramatic -- but this is your social life! Senior year cannot end with seven boys thinking you're head over heels for them, it could get messy.

Considering your odds of three out of seven, it was safe to say that all of them might have gotten their letters. After pushing back the feeling of humiliation you finally had made it to the parking lot. Before you could celebrate, you saw a note on your car that wrote – “We should talk, Renjun.”

Renjun was from your Chemistry class Freshman year – stereotypical top student who didn't do anything to jeopardize his grades. During Freshman year you were on top of your grades and went to a lot of study groups which is what got you somewhat familiar with Renjun but you were never really close. Your strive for good grades caused you to form a crush on the boy because with “both of your smarts your baby would be a mini Einstein.” Sucks you got lazy after sophomore year.

Considering the note came the day the letters got sent out – it's no coincidence that he wanted to talk. You picked up the note and rummaged your pockets for your car keys before unlocking and getting into your car. Once you were in, you turned the car on and let it sit before putting it into drive.

The first thing you could think about is how easy it was to sneak out of school – like seriously… all those days spent in your third period WASTED – but this wasn't the problem here. How did all your confession letters get leaked? You would notice if you sent them yourself, right? You think you’d have enough spacial awareness to notice you shipped the wrong box of letters. Potentially.

You spent the rest of the time driving home thinking about what the rest of the boys' reactions would have been. Renjun probably read through the letter and then stashed it somewhere unimportant. Chenle probably laughed, he’d find it hilarious that someone liked him enough to write out their feelings to him. It boosted his ego knowing that you liked him. He probably told his whole team by now, his big mouth running on and on about how you are obsessed with him. You grimaced at the realization but kept going. You knew Jisung didn't care, probably shrugged off the letter and threw it away before going back to whatever emo guitarists do. Jisung’s reaction would be your ideal reaction from all seven of the boys but at least he wouldn’t pester you like Donghyuck and Chenle.

You kept driving for a while, listening to whatever songs that would distract your mind. When you approached your neighborhood you noticed someone was sitting outside your front door. This was particularly odd since it was only about 10 am on a school day. When you got closer you realized it was Jaemin, the last one out of the seven boys you wrote to. Letting out a deep breath, you pulled the car into your driveway. You put the car in park then gathered all your things before turning off the car.

Jaemin is your neighbor from next door, he moved in last summer and you both hit it off fairly fast. He was the sweetest and it wasn’t that long before you developed a crush on him. You didn't want to ruin what you two had so you hid your feelings with a letter before he was able to catch on.

Once you were out of the car, Jaemin stood up and walked towards you. “Hi”

He gave you an awkward smile and a slight wave, it was obvious he was nervous.

“Hey Jaemin” You responded reluctantly, sending him a short wave.

“Can we talk about this?” He held up the letter addressed to him and gave you a questioning look before continuing. “I don’t want us to be awkward, I really cherish our friendship.” he held your hand, a genuine smile on his face.

You could tell he didn’t want this to mess anything up but you started to feel overwhelmed. You pulled your hand out of his grasp.

“Listen – I’ve had a long day and I just want to go to my room and take a nap or something, can we talk tomorrow?” You walked past him before pulling out your keys and unlocking the door,

“See you Jaemin” You gave him a small wave before closing the door, all Jaemin could do was stand there processing what just happened. He had a strange look on his face, a face you couldn’t read. You didn’t want to dwell on it, you didn’t want to break your own heart over what he was thinking. After the door was closed, Jaemin let out a slight sigh before slowly turning around and leaving your porch.

You didn’t mean to shove the door in his face, but after seeing Jaemin it all just started to feel so real. It was finally sinking in that you just confessed to seven boys in the span of one day, every letter confessing your feelings (some more detailed than others…) and now you possibly could lose your somewhat friendship with some of them, especially Jaemin. How are you going to face them now that they know your true feelings? You let out a deep sigh and walked towards your room feeling defeated.

Once you walked through the door you ran straight to your closet. Searching for the box was harder than you thought, but when you found the small brown box filled with your graduation invites it all clicked in your head.

Yesterday you decided to send out the graduation invitations to your family, but you left in a hurry since the post office closed early that day. You quickly ran to your closet and grabbed the first box you saw, confidently taking the letters and putting them in your bag. You didn’t think to double check the letters which in turn caused all seven of the white love letters to be sent to their respective recipients.

After you reflected on the day before, you found a form of peace knowing that you were the reason that your letters were sent instead of someone else. At least it was almost the end of the year and this situation wouldn’t dwell past two months.

You got up from your spot in front of your closet and climbed into bed. Today was humiliating to say the least, but at least you have a valid reason to skip school!

“I just hope this doesn’t last until graduation..” you muttered before shifting around. You stretched out your limbs and got comfortable before slowly drifting off, blissfully unaware of the message that popped up on your phone,

“Can we talk?”

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joeloverture · 1 year ago

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hook 'em horny | j.m. x f!reader

masterlist : coach!joel masterlist pairing: college football coach!joel miller x reader summary: [no outbreak] seeking petty revenge on your cheating quarterback ex-boyfriend leads you somewhere you shouldn't be — and then it lands you over the knee of his coach. warnings: (18+ mdni, don't make me say it again.) cheating done by a referenced oc, briefest mention of drugs, porn barely garnished with plot, age gap (22/52), smut, unprotected piv sex, creampie, vaginal fingering, potentially dubcon by way of power imbalance but consent is enthusiastic, daddy kink, sir kink, 'punishment' spanking, degradation, praise, brat tamer!joel, dom!joel, joel spits on her ass but otherwise no butt stuff, mild choking, body writing, so many pet names of so many varieties, aftercare, surprisingly fluffy [no use of y/n] word count: 6.4k a/n: this is a crazy idea to have considering joel can hardly handle ellie. i don't think he'd be able to handle ~118 college-aged boys. however, the idea of football coach! joel is hot to me (i mean, seriously, look at those sluts on the sidelines) so i made it happen. on a serious note, i am so sorry to the unnamed university this is based on. i toured you. i'm legacy. but... joel miller. let's make it clear this is for entertainment purposes only. this is a fictional work about fictional people that does not reflect the school itself, which is a fine institution whose head coaches historically do not fuck students in the locker rooms. shoutout to my dad who, unknowing what this information would be used for, explained to me how he snuck into this stadium 3x. don't do that, either.

You can’t even remember the last time you made a good decision.

Your track record definitely isn’t the cleanest: you chose to go to school in Texas, and then chose to stay there for four years. Choosing to go to that frat party in late junior year wasn’t your brightest moment, either, evidenced by the resulting hangover from hell and, predictably, frat flu. All things considered, those choices pale in comparison to hooking up with their all-star quarterback, Lucas Scott.

Dirty-blonde, blue-eyed, muscled Lucas Scott. He’s the sort of guy who looks like an eight when you’re looking at him after a few shots of tequila and a four when you’re sober. The sort of guy who, after over a year of dating, makes you split the bill halfway after ordering the more expensive entree. Crowned as the most efficient, precise, and instinctive quarterback the Longhorns have ever had. Apparently that instinct hadn’t been enough to drive him away from dipping his wick in every sorority girl’s candle wax.

No matter how much post-orgasm Lucas panted into his ear that he loved you, you weren’t stupid enough to trick yourself into believing it. Staying with him was the easier choice, not yet wanting to reduce yourself to locker room talk. Walking in on him sloppily fucking some redhead nursing major was the breaking point. When it became less about you and more about your dignity.

So, yeah, you’ve never been one for making good decisions, and you certainly aren’t about to start now.

You thought breaking into the stadium would be some sort of monumental task. Trespassing here was normally reserved for campus rooftops and after-hours exploration, but once you’d gotten this batshit crazy idea in your head, you knew it wasn’t going to shake until you at least proved it couldn’t be done.

The open garage at the back of the building doesn’t help to deter you. It’s like there’s a welcome-mat outside saying, ‘Come on in and get what you deserve!’.

Who would you be to decline such a sincere invitation?

The garage is empty apart from some cushy golf carts, and the steel door behind them couldn’t be more tempting. If it’s locked, you tell yourself, you’ll go back to the dorm and forget about your incident of near-trespassing.

You take small steps to the door, testing the handle. It springs right open, and all thoughts of leaving dissipate from your mind.

Who leaves the garage open and forgets to lock the door? Probably people with just as little between their ears (and legs) as Lucas. You scoff in half-disbelief, half-luck as you close the door behind you.

The energy feels stagnant this late at night, no announcer on the loudspeaker or swarms of burnt orange hats and T-shirts standing shoulder-to-shoulder. Industrial lights flicker above, their hums loud enough to make you wonder if you have tinnitus. Concrete lines the hallways, interrupted by a few silver-painted pipes arranged in a labyrinth up against the walls. A few security cameras are pointed at you. Before going any further, you pause to raise the hood of your Longhorns sweatshirt.

Even if you should be, you aren’t in much of a rush; you amble about, really taking in the sterile ambiance of the empty stadium. You turn a few corners, going in what feels like the right direction. You figure you’re getting closer when you spot what looks like it could be a security tower. Crouching behind a trash can, you wait it out, trying to peer through the untinted windows to figure out if there’s anyone in there at all. When you’ve determined it’s unmanned and let out a shallow exhale, you go back up to full posture and keep wandering around unsupervised.

You know you’re in the right place when you find your toes hovering over a red line painted on the oil-stained concrete: AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY BEYOND THIS POINT.

Bingo.

Crossing that line without really thinking about it, you stick to your (so far) tried and true method of going wherever feels the most promising until you’re standing in front of the two black doors you were looking for. The door’s handle is an obnoxiously large longhorn, and you quite literally have to hook ‘em to get inside.

You’re starting to understand where the rest of the university’s funding is going when you walk into the locker room. After dating Lucas for a year, you know the football team is full of itself, but the Longhorniness of it all is… excessive. There’s the silhouette of the logo glowing on the goddamn ceiling, and if the jerseys the players are wearing on their digital nameplates isn’t enough of an indicator of who they play for, every backlit locker has a drawer with, you guessed it: a longhorn painted at the center. A brown vinyl couch wraps around the front of the room in direct view of a powered down videoboard that you can only assume replays highlight reels.

You roll your eyes. Again, your track record with decision-making isn’t the best, because you chose a school who puts every penny towards sweaty frat boys with brain damage from the amount of concussions they get.

And then you see it: a sign tacked onto the middle aisle of lockers that reads CORE VALUES. From top to bottom, HONESTY, TREAT WOMEN WITH RESPECT, NO DRUGS, NO STEALING, and NO WEAPONS. You have to physically clamp your jaw shut to restrict your laughter at the second one.

It doesn’t take you long to find what you’re looking for. Lucas Scott, #10.

His sweat-stained jersey hangs limply from the rack, and you eagerly tear it off, tossing it down onto the floor. Eager like a child ready to color outside the lines of a coloring book, you kneel down in front of it, pulling out the one thing you had prepared for tonight. A bold black Sharpie.

You pop the cap with your teeth, spitting it out somewhere on the floor as you start scribbling. Disguising your handwriting isn’t intentional, but you’re writing so carelessly and on such a foreign material that it comes naturally. Your tongue sticks out of the corner of your mouth as you work. In a year and a half, you’d never felt such satisfaction about — and certainly not from — Lucas.

TWO PUMP CHUMP along the side. FIVE INCHES FULL MAST on the other. CHEATER at the bottom. WHORE across the front.

A throat clears behind you. You drop the Sharpie, a blot of ink forming on the mesh. You startle backwards, scooting until your back hits that stupid longhorn drawer. You’re expecting a janitor, maybe a security guard if you’re extra unlucky.

That isn’t the worst of your options, apparently, because when you look up, it’s at Joel fucking Miller, head coach of the longhorn’s football team.

Your lower lip starts trembling, and that moment is when you decide maybe you need to start making good decisions. You’ve heard enough about Joel from Lucas to know he’s a total hardass. He could drag you by the ear to the dean and have you kicked out at the tail end of your second to last semester in this hellhole.

He glares down at you with his head cocked, hazel eyes far darker than they ever seem on TV. His scruff stipples his hardened jawline, lips thinned out like the worry lines pressed onto his forehead. If you were interested in digging yourself any deeper, you might stall to think about how good he looks: the faint trail of chest hair vanishing down into the neckline of his longhorns polo shirt, his fitted khakis, broad leather belt slung around his waist, and the slight bulge of tummy above it. You swallow hard and kick yourself for it.

“What exactly,” Coach Miller drawls, voice syrupy and sticky. “do ya think you’re doin’?”

Your mouth moves, but no words come out. He doesn’t seem very amused, his muscled arms crossing over his wide torso.

Joel shakes his head. “Ain’t a good look for you, hun, scrawlin’ that chicken scratch all over my QB’s jersey. Could get a real ugly charge for that.”

Heart crashing into your ribcage, you bite down on your lip. “I can pay the damages,” you blurt out.

He sizes you up all over again, eyes dragging up and down your body. They linger on your chest for a few extra seconds that you’re convinced that you just made up. “Can you, sugar? ‘Cause to me, looks like you’re the type to be chasin’ tips at whatever joint hires you.”

You don’t have the bandwidth to be as offended as you should be, especially because he’s right. You settle for glowering at him instead. A huff of laughter pinches out of him. “You give everyone you vandalize that blue look? Or is that lil’ number jus’ because you found out Lucas really ain’t that loyal?” With ease, Joel bulldozes over whatever thinning resolve you have remaining.

“What’s that sign over there say? ‘Treat women with respect’?” You say. Joel’s backlit like all of those over budgeted lockers behind him. You squint your eyes. “You know that’s fucking bullshit. So what if I give him a taste of his own medicine when he’s been a minute man for every girl with a pulse on this campus?” You cap your Sharpie and clip it back onto your collar and get to your feet. So much for good decisions. “Fuck right off with that.”

“Hey, hey. Down, hun.” Joel holds his hands out to you, and you notice just how heavily you’ve been breathing, just how close you are to him. “Never said you were wrong. Kid’s a fuck up in all sorts ‘a ways. But I don’t like how you’re mouthin’ off at me, Miss Priss. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re in dire need of a spankin’ to set you right.”

Your breath cuts short and your cunt bottoms out without your permission. You don’t need a mirror to know your eyes just went glassy, your lips parted as your mouth goes desert dry. As discreetly as you can manage, you squeeze your thighs together.

Joel doesn’t miss it. You can tell from the moment his brows raise and his eyes sparkle, the corner of his mouth picking up a smidge. “Oh, yeah? That do somethin’ for ya, hun? Nasty little girl.” There’s a dangerous, uneven grit to his voice that has arousal burning like a candle in your stomach, the wax of your arousal syrupy against your thighs already.

Your tongue darts out to wet your lips. Fuck.

“No,” you breathe out stubbornly, but you’ve already given yourself away, even to yourself. The insides of your thighs are molten, twitching with every throb of your clit between your legs. That flush of warmth from your pelvis is spreading, overheating.

Joel tuts. “You really think that? You can whine all you want ‘bout wantin’ respect, but at the end ‘a the day, you just wanna be treated like some whore, huh?” And, yeah, he has you figured out, has you in the palm of his hand. Even though you have no idea what someone like him could do to someone like you, you want him to do it. You want to find out. “I’ll tell ya what, sugar, you walk outta here right now and nobody but me’s gonna know you came pitchin’ a hissy fit in my locker room.”

You frown at that, a small arc of your pouty lips that has Joel’s eyes gleaming.

“Or,” he says. “You can pull those wet fuckin’ panties down – don’t gimme that look, I know they are – and I can give ya a real lesson in respect.” He shrugs, hands going to his waist as he looks you up and down.

He knows he has you the same way you know, but you aren’t just going to give in that easily. You flare your nose and counter, “If there’s nothing keeping me here other than a firm hand, why should I stay?”

He’s looking at you like he wants to take you apart. His fingers jump against his hips for the opportunity to break you down.

“Sweetness,” Joel shakes his head as if it’s obvious. “if you let me, I could make you feel good. I’m guessin’ you got some vibrator sittin’ in the back of your desk drawer to use when your roommate’s out ‘n about, but you don’t wanna use that tonight, do ya? You want the real thing, hun, and I’d give it to ya real nice once I teach ya to behave.”

There it is again: Coach Joel Miller has you all figured out. Every syllable he says is doomed to send another shiver up your spine, and damn it, fuck playing coy.

You’re too busy tearing off your hoodie to think about how unsexily dressed you are, but the rushed nature of your actions punches a chuckle out of Joel. “Eager thing.” You’re halfway through kicking your shoes and leggings off when he saunters over to the couch, plopping down on the edge and patting his broad, khaki-covered thigh. Your mouth waters when you look back and see just how much the fabric strains against his leg. “Whenever you’re ready, hun.”

You waddle over to him, stripped down to the basics of your sports bra and everyday panties. It’s the furthest thing from erotic, but the way he’s looking at you isn’t. It’s primal and ravenous, enough to have you forgetting all about how you’d even gotten there in the first place. He licks his lips as he trails his eyes all over you, darkening a couple of shades when he looks at your cleavage. “Lucas is a fuckin’ idiot, baby.”

“Knew that already,” you mumble.

He pats his thigh again, bounces his leg. “C’mon, over my knee like the good girl I know you can be. Hurry up and I’ll only give ya five.”

You shuffle forward, relishing in the rubbing of your thighs that comes from it. He’s sitting on the corner of the couch at the perfect angle for you to rest your head on the arm. It doesn’t take any more convincing for you to put yourself over his lap, not that he needed to do much in the first place. You feel so much smaller than him. Your ass is up for him to do whatever he’d like to; it’s a tantalizing feeling you hadn’t gotten out of any intimacy – if you could call it that — with Lucas.

“Mmmmmm,” Joel groans as he runs a hand between your legs. He rubs at your slit through the soaked gusset of your panties. You can’t stop the way your hips buck, or the pitiful shout that jumps off your lips when he pins you down by the small of your back, robbing you of any friction. Between one arousal-riddled breath and the next, Joel tugs your panties off and flings them to the side. You know how it feels, tacky and cold on your core and thighs, so you can only imagine how it must look. Joel gives you a pretty good idea when he reveres, “Goddamn, pretty cunt is throbbin’ for it.”

He pulls apart your folds and you think you hear him lick his lips above you before he lets them go. The schlick noise your dripping pussy makes is nothing less than pornographic. Joel gropes you carefully, kneads the skin of your ass like you have all the time in the world. Under his ministrations, it’s easy to melt into the couch, forgetting why you’re there in the first place until his palm cracks down on your ass cheek.

The stinging impact has a slurred hnnnngh leaving your lips, and a fresh gush of wetness between your legs to accompany it. You keep your head tucked into the sanctuary of your folded arms, eyes squeezed shut so tight you swear you’re seeing stars. Joel’s quick to rub the spanked patch of skin, his palm soothing his ache. “That’s one, baby.” You nod into your arms. “Think you can take four more?” Another nod.

“I need to hear ya, hun. C’mon, head up f’me.” He taps the side of your cheek, and you prop your cheek up on your forearm. “Think you can take four more?” he repeats.

Your voice hitches, courtesy of the beating that echoes in your chest and between your legs. “Y-yes…”

When the second hit lands, you don’t expect it. You flinch away from his hand when it comes down with a clap that leaves you squirming in his lap. “Yes, what?”

“Yes sir,” you whine out, back arching. Although a punishment, that spank has the same effect as the last: a live wire of arousal strung from your spine to your cunt.

“Takin’ it well,” he praises, squeezing your ass cheeks together. “Sure didn’t expect anyone to come crawlin’ in when I left that garage open, ‘specially not some slut like you with an ass that needs a spankin’ six ways to Sunday.” Just as quick as he can build you up, he can take you down a notch, but you can’t mind when it has you moaning all the same. “Oh, she likes that,” Joel clicks.

He rubs your ass again, and you’re bracing yourself for that next strike, pulled stiff with an arousing, anticipatory sort of fear. Only when you convince yourself it isn’t coming do you let all of that tension flood out of your body — and that’s when Joel smacks his hand across your far-too-trustworthy ass.

You cry out, pouting over your shoulder at Joel, who has a proud smirk drawn all over his face. You don’t even feel your hips rocking down, seeking whatever pleasure you can get until he reprimands, “Ruttin’ against my fuckin’ leg, now, huh? Don’t pretend you don’t like this.”

With a particularly good grind of your hips, you feel his bulge pressing into your thigh. From a mere graze alone, you can tell it’s huge. A whimper tears out of you at the same time he groans above you. “You got nothin’ to prove, ain’t gonna change the fact you’re a slut who needs to get spanked ‘n stuffed to talk ‘er into behavin’ a bit.”

“Can’t even follow your own rules,” you huff, apparently still interested in shooting yourself in the foot even when Coach Miller has you ass-up over his knee.

“Don’t see how you care…” Joel slides a hand down between your legs. He rubs at your clit, an intense pressure that has you wanting more and less all at the same time, before dragging a thick finger across your opening. Arousal squelches between your legs and your hips jump – a dead giveaway to just how turned on you are, whether you like it or not. “when it gets you this turned on,” he finishes. Then that same finger is prodding at your mouth, glistening with your wetness. You whimper before tasting yourself, sucking obediently on his finger until he pulls away with a pop.

You sulk, “Don’t act like I can’t feel you ripping a hole in your jeans, Miller–”

The fourth spank is the hardest by far. The skin of your ass feels bitten by Joel’s ‘firm hand’. It’s the kind of hit that makes your legs kick in his lap and your fingers clutch in the couch’s arm for purchase. You wail, “Daddy!” Pain disappears from your mind when you realize what exactly you just said, quickly replaced by the churning coolant of embarrassment. If you were paying attention to anything else other than the shame suddenly inhabiting your chest, you might’ve been able to feel the twitch of his cock in his pants.

“Daddy, huh?” Joel hums, rubbing your hurt ass with one hand while the other strokes your shoulder. You bury your face back in your arms as an apology takes shape in the back of your throat. “Lucas your daddy, too?”

“No!” You squeak, adjusting in his lap. The hood of your clit catches on the rough material of Joel’s pants. Unable to stop yourself, you hump his knee again, shallow rolls of your hips. You can still feel his hardness against you. Needily, you tip your head up, panting as foggy pleasure hangs over your head.

“Stop makin’ a mess of daddy’s dress pants, baby, unless you wanna be on your knees, lickin’ it up.” You keen, and he chuckles knowingly. “Shoulda known, little whore like you gets off on that.”

Joel gives you a longer reprieve between the fourth and fifth spank. Instead, he strokes your ass and asks, “One more gonna be enough to set you straight, sweetheart?”

“Y..yes daddy,” you whimper. He hums in approval.

You shift back and forth, waiting for it to come — and when it does, it’s softer. It’s by no means a love pat, but it pales in comparison to his previous work. You still sniffle, squeezing your thighs together as he coos, “I know, I know. Poor baby, actin’ all high ‘n mighty. Can’t be on her high horse when she’s over Daddy’s knee.” Gentle, he pats your ass and guides you on all fours at the edge of the couch. He hums in approval. “See? Not throwin’ a hissy fit anymore. She’s all nice ‘n obedient when you get ‘er to act right.”

Joel spreads your pussy with his thumbs, and you hear the vulgar noise of him collecting his saliva before you feel his spit landing on your clenching hole. You’ve never felt so empty, not when your bottom drawer vibrator is buzzing against your core, definitely not when Lucas fucks you in the same old missionary. Whimpering for him, you arch your back to try to rub against his crotch.

“Quit your whinin’,” he snips, his thumb finding your clit in one swipe. Joel’s touch is firm, but not too firm, just enough to make your hips push down with a need only he’s ever made you feel.

Without warning, his middle finger slides inside of you, thick and calloused and so, so right. “Fuckin’... tight.” Another slides in as he starts scissoring you open, apparently satisfied enough when he crooks his fingers deep in your cunt. Instantly, he catches that spongy spot that you can never reach on your own. You nearly crumple with the sensation, limbs going weak and buckling. “That the spot?” he asks, but he already knows.

“Mhm,” you moan, chin instinctively tucking against your chest as if you can get away from the pleasure he’s giving you, as if you’d ever want to.

Then — he stops.

His fingers sit heavy inside of you, so close to where you need them to go. “What the fuck, Joel?”

"Baby, s’that how you get what you want?” He rubs your thigh with his free hand and gives it a quick swat. “Help daddy out, tight girl. I'm not just gonna let you get away with bein’ a spoiled brat. Work yourself on my fingers."

You’re putty in the palm of his hand – malleable, docile for him to treat or mistreat you however gets him hard. You whine, punching your hips back nonetheless. Grinding down, down, down, your cunt unresisting when he gives you another finger. It’s crude, the way you moan for him.

Even though he’s hardly doing anything, just the hand you’re getting yourself off on, that all-consuming strain in your body only gets stronger. “Daddy – close, please…”

“Attagirl, atta-fuckin’-girl, give it to me.” He rewards you with a press of his fingers against that golden spot inside of you. Your orgasm splinters through you, an ecstasy-charged mist fanning over your body. Your release runs down Joel’s hand and your thighs with every clench of your cunt, like you’ve been skinned and set ablaze by your own desire. You fall forward on the couch, no longer able to hold yourself up, arms a tangled mess as you gasp into the cushion. “You come so pretty, baby. Messy pussy, too. Soaked me up to my goddamn elbow.”

You’re still reeling from the best orgasm you’ve had in months, maybe ever, when you hear obscene slurping noises from behind you. You cast a look at him, your arousal returning with a vigor at the sight of Joel sucking his fingers clean. He groans at the taste, and you swear you see his cock jump in his khakis. Stomach warped with desire, you’re about to plummet off of the very dangerous edge of doing just about anything for him right now.

“Please fuck me, daddy,” you plead, and in any other position, with any other person, it might be mortifying, something worth clutching your pearls over. But this is Coach Joel Miller, the last person you ever expected to be fucking, giving you the best fuck you never expected.

“There’s those manners,” Joel praises, leaning over you to press a brief kiss to your shoulder blade. You can smell your release on his lips, a sweet smell that’s so distinctly you. He eases off of you, presumably to take off his pants. There’s the shuffling of fabric, and when he returns to your side, you’re disappointed to find he hasn’t even unbuckled his belt.

You pout at him again, still desperate to get your way. Eye-level with his bulge, you’re salivating over it. You had made a mess of his dress pants, a wet spot formed just above his knee, taunting you. You lick your lips.

“Think it’s only fair,” he says, looming over you. He’s holding the Sharpie you’d brought along with you. Your brows furrow as you look up at him through your lashes. “If I give ya the same treatment you gave his jersey.” His gaze is cocky as he pops the cap with his thumb, giving the marker a twirl.

Oh.

It shouldn’t turn you on as much as it does. Nothing about this should turn you on as much as it does, yet here you are, in a puddle of your own sweat and cum, itching for the next thing he gives you. And if it’s marking up your body before he fucks your brains out, so be it.

He nudges his head, gesturing for you to get down on your stomach. You lift your knees up and flatten yourself out on the cushions. The vinyl sticks and pulls from your skin as you get where he wants you. A soft, surprised noise leaves you when he straddles your thighs, his clothed cock nudging at your seam.

“Holy fuck,” you breathe out, because it’s the only phrase you can think of that even holds a candle to what all of this has become.

A laugh fans out from under his breath as he starts at your freshly spanked, raw ass. The Sharpie is cold and foreign, tugging at your skin as he inks you up. “Gotta make sure you match before I dick you down, don’t I? What is it you wrote on his jersey? ‘Whore’? Between the two ‘a ya, I woulda put my money on you for that one.”

If that wasn’t enough indication, you figure out what he’s doing by the time he gets to the right cheek, what feels like an ‘R’ taking shape across your ass. He finishes the ‘E’ and sets down the Sharpie for a moment, his meaty palms spreading your ass. It still thrums with the afterglow of his spanking. You don’t think you can throb any more than you already are, but then he spits on you for the second time that night, this time landing it on your puckered asshole. A gasp flutters from your lips as you grind down into the couch, his spit dripping down your folds.

“See? Real whorish, fuckin’ my couch.” He taps your ass for good measure. “Asshole makes a perfect fuckin’ ‘O’, baby. Looks a whole lot better than that chicken scratch shit you put on his jersey.” You think maybe, just maybe, he’ll dismount you and pull his cock out, but instead he keeps writing, scribbling on your back and upper thighs. Every pull of your skin under the bleeding ink has you aching for him.

When he’s content with his work, he lifts off of you, hands fumbling to undo his belt. It snaps apart, dangling open around his waist as his hands open up his khakis. “You let Lucas fuck that sweet lil’ cunt raw?” he asks.

“No, I don’t,” you admit, unable to tear your eyes away from his cock as he pulls it out, and fuck you. Your eyes don’t even feel big enough to take all of him in, and you have no idea how you’re going to fit him between your legs. You almost go cross-eyed at the sight of it, his head leaking precum.

“Thought so. You gonna let me fuck it raw?”

“Yes, daddy,” you breathe out, drool pooling in your mouth at the thought of having him inside of you, having him inside of you bare. Yet another thing you never gave to Lucas in a year of disappointing sex, but are eagerly giving up to Joel.

“Gotta be a real nasty slut,” Joel says, returning to his place atop your thighs, his thick ones framing yours. Your breath hitches when you feel the weight of his cock gliding through your ass cheeks and down to your cunt. “to let your ex-boyfriend’s coach bareback ya in the locker room.” A heady gasp tears from you when the head of his cock bumps your clit. He teases you — his cock, slippery with a combination of your arousal, skating from your clit to your spasming opening, not quite nudging in.

“Daddy, please – I need it… need you to fuck me, fuck me–”

He doesn’t make you wait any longer.

When he pushes in, it knocks the air out of your lungs. The only proof that you’re still breathing is when you let out a pitchy, desperate moan. Joel grunts, teeth gritted as he flattens himself down against your spine so he can roll his hips into yours. The pain of his size becomes an afterthought just as quickly as the pain of your spanking, dwarfed by the pleasure he gives you just as easily.

“Fuuuuck,” Joel groans, nuzzling into the crook of your neck and shoulder. Inch at a time, he works you open, grinding his hips into your opening. “Could you be any goddamn tighter?” He bites at your neck from behind with every rock of his hips into yours until he bottoms out.

“Big,” is all you manage to squeak out as he hauls you back on his cock, already prodding your g-spot with his head. Your eyes roll back as you clench around him.

His fingers go up to run circles around your shoulder, soothing you, grounding you when his cock has you anything but. “Mmm, I know, I know. You can take it. All whores can.” With that, Joel starts fucking you, really fucking you, a punishing, relentless pace where he pulls out entirely before filling you to the brim. Each snap of his hips into yours fills the locker room with shameless sounds, the mere background to your depraved moans.

“Never had your pussy stretched by a man double your age before, huh?”

“N–no! Never… never had my pussy stretched mu…much at all–”

Joel slams into you, laughs at the strained noise that you make. “Yeah? Those dumbfucks on my team not doin’ it for ya, baby?” You don’t answer, don’t think he’s expecting one until his hand wraps around your front, forearm pressed firm against your tits. His thick hand wraps lightly around your neck, jostling you. It’s not hard enough to blur your vision, but just hard enough to remind you of the power he has over you. The power you allow him to have. It’s invigorating. Everything about him is.

Moans spurt out of you as you fumble to answer, “No da– daddy! You — ah! — do it for m–me!”

“And what do you say for that? For goin’ outta my way to show you what a real fuck is?”

“Thank you, Daddy!” you cry out. You’re spilling down his thighs, the wet suction of your pussy around his cock making noises more vulgar than you’ve ever heard in porn.

His hand squeezes again at your neck, and you feel floaty, a bubble just waiting to pop. Pleasure dances in every one of your veins, every nerve ending burning like a match that he keeps striking ablaze.

“There you go, desperate slut just needs a freshly spanked ass, a good dickin’ down, and a hand ‘round her throat to behave.” Joel’s pace stays just as harsh, crushing your g-spot with his cock. “Should keep you back here for when we lose, tie you to the goddamn desk. Let my staff take turns with you, see how much crybaby you have left in ya when a dozen men’s loads are drippin’ outta your reamed fuckin’ cunt. Bet you like it when men use you.” The whine that almost gags you on its way out is enough to confirm it.

If he keeps talking to you and the wind blows the right way on your clit, you know you’ll be coming. You’re wringing out his cock with every flutter of your pulsing pussy. The beginning embers of your orgasm turn into a wildfire when he wedges his free hand down between your legs, rubbing messy circles into your sloppy clit. “Fuck, please, please, please,” you sob out, too riddled with pleasure to care about how pathetic you sound or look as you hump his hand while he pounds you.

“Can feel you squeezin’ me, baby.” Joel rasps, nipping at your ear. The hand around your throat falls fully to your chest, pressing you solid against him so he can fuck deeper, deeper, deeper. It’s enough to make you scream, hands clawing and scratching down his muscular grip on you. “C’mon, hun, give it to me, come on my cock, fuck.”

With another thrust, he has you pushed right down onto his fingers, rubbing and flicking you every which way. It’s all you need to come undone, your second orgasm of the night unlatching through you like something forked and angry, battering your sore limbs until there’s nothing left of it or you. You’re a mess, spit oozing down your chin as you slur “thank you daddy” like a broken record, thighs clamping around nothing.

Joel groans as you clench around his cock and continues his relentless pace, hips slapping against yours. The hand he’d been using to rub your clit migrates to your tits, grazing and then thumbing and then tugging lightly your nipples. “There it is, told ya you could be a good girl. Lettin’ your daddy use this cunt to get off, lettin’ me use you. I’m fuckin’ close, baby, where do you want me?”

And you want it even if you shouldn’t, want his cum deep inside of you, want it to leak out into your panties as you walk back to your dorm. You’re still no good at making decisions, too fucked out to tell right from left when you beg, “I–inside, fuck, come inside me, daddy, please.”

Joel practically growls at that, thrusts losing their steadiness as his hips jump and he hurtles towards his release. “Yeah, you’re a goddamn whore, beggin’ for this cum. And you’re gonna fuckin’ take it, yeah… fuckin’ take it.” He slams all the way into you for the last time before shooting his cum into your cunt, swearing and moaning. Breathing like he’s run a mile, he goes slack on top of you, pets the back of your head while he comes down from the exhilaration of his high.

With a gentle kiss to your shoulder, he rises, and the fantasy is over. His cock slips from your pussy, and you feel hollow with the loss. This is where he tucks himself back into his pants, runs a hand back through his hair, tells you to never show your face in his stadium again, and shoves you out the door.

And he does: tucks his softening cock into his boxers, zips up his khakis, does his belt, tames his post-sex head of hair. You wince even if you expected it, leaning down over the edge of the couch to grab your hoodie, already moving to tug it over your head.

“What do you think you’re doin’?” Joel asks, and his tone sounds much more different than the first time he’d asked you. He sounds offended. You blink confusedly, dazedly at him with your arms halfway through the armholes. “Let me clean you up, hun.” Joel side-steps the pile of your leggings and shoes, adjusting the hoodie on your arms and pulling it down your torso. “I know Lucas ain’t done you right, but you deserve to be taken care of, pretty girl.” Your heart pinches in a way that it shouldn’t, not for a hookup with your ex-boyfriend’s coach.

You shift, and he can’t help but look back between your legs where his cum escapes your hole. He manages to pry his eyes away, but not without licking his lips first. “I’ll be right back, baby. Promise.”

When he’s back, it’s with a damp rag. He crouches down in front of you, taking it to the apex of your thighs and wiping away the combination of your releases, careful not to nudge your sensitive clit. He kisses your thigh gently before pulling back, folding the towel on the arm of the couch you’d been crying into just a few minutes ago.

Joel shimmies your ruined panties up your thighs, followed by your leggings. You let him, breath cut like a snipped wire from the sheer intimacy of it all, intimacy you’d lacked with Lucas even after a year of trying. You’d stayed with him for comfortability at your own expense. How stupid could you have been?

Joel pats your knee, eyes soft and weirdly sincere as he looks at you. “I’m sorry about Lucas, honey, but I meant it when I said you deserve to be taken care of.” He rubs the back of his neck before holding something out to you. A business card, his work number plastered in bold sans-serif font across the bottom. “I know this is in reverse ‘n all, but I’d really like to take you out and treat you right, if you’ll let me.”

Saying yes is your first good decision in a while.

#vetty's words 𓇢𓆸 #joel miller smut #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller/reader #joel miller x reader #joel miller/f! reader #joel miller x you #joel miller one shot #joel miller fic

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prettycottagequeer · 1 year ago

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ok maybe I'm a little late to this BUT I'm gonna do a to-do list motivation thingy because I've had the worst two weeks since I started college :)

SO these I should start on asap:

50 I make the snack I really want but I haven't had the motivation to make

100 I clean my dorm. another thing I've been meaning to do for a week

150 I do the presentation about mid-victorian fashion I've been putting off (due Monday)

200 I start memorizing the monologue that was due a week ago (now due Tuesday)

these can wait longer:

300 I spend time outside. It's so nice but I'm getting stuck scrolling because I feel like shit. vicious cycle ect

500 I start setting a better weekend routine (aka getting up before noon)

1k I start working out again. I was doing a routine to get more masc and build muscle and I liked it but life hit me like Crowley driving the Bentley and I've missed like 3 weeks

2k I buy my first binder. I've been coping with sports bras for almost a year now and I haven't been able to justify spending $50+ on a binder even though I know I'd love it and use it everyday.

Do I tag people? I don't know but I'm going to. @the-globe-theatre-maggot @weirdly-specific-but-ok @howmanyholesinswisscheese

here's just some context if you want to read, feel free to skip. some of this I've talked about in the maggot server, some I haven't, but I really just need a place for this to go that's out of my head. tw homophobia, transphobia, car crash(??)

How I Have Been Run Over By The Bentley Going 90 In Central London What Feels Like 50 Times In The Last Two Weeks

I'm going to college about 4 hours away from my parents, and it's been really nice. They.. suck, to say the least. transphobic/homophobic ect, super traditional conservative catholic, racist, all of it. so i tried to move somewhere where I wouldn't have to think about them and I could be myself and do what I can to be happy. March 1st was the start of my spring break, which meant going home because the dorms close. I was already not excited, but I was prepared. the problem with being away from home is I forget just how bad they are. My optimism gets the better of me and I think maybe this time they'll be better. so I decided to not hide my septum piercing.

that was a mistake. it starts a whole fight where they say we know you're trans, you're actually a girl and you always will be, we have the bones argument, they think I'm being influenced by demons or something (if only they knew about crowley) because I want to change my name, and they tell me that going on t will completely ruin my body and give me cancer and other things. They're also mad about my dyed hair, septum, and general style, and say I'm setting a terrible example for my (5) younger siblings and make it a point to tell me just how much of a disappointment I am. I think I'm pretty cute and fun but y'know, whatever. very fun time. I lie so much, don't give them any more details about my identity, and say I'm not planning to go on t to save my ass. which is all on instinct which makes me feel worse because if I'm really trans I should be able to stand up for that, right? maybe I'm faking the dysphoria.

the next morning I wake up really sick, and spend the rest of the week sick and feeling like shit because I'm home and back in the same place and situation I was a year ago that I thought I escaped. at one point I pretty much lose my voice but also kind of get gender euphoria from it. it's weird.

On Friday it's time for me to drive back 4 hours to school, and I make it about 3/4 of the way when google maps takes me on a random gravel road and I crash my car, really crash my car, like sideways-in-a-ditch-windows-broken-crawling-up-out-the-door crash it in the middle of nowhere. (I was fully paying attention to the road, it was raining and super slick) I call my parents because I have no one else to call and I sit in a Subway for 3 hours while they drive to get my car. when they get there they're (understandably) really mad, and they tell me that I'm not mature enough to be going to school so far away and I need to get my shit together and stop depending on them. which. is probably true. but made me feel even more stupid about the fact that I crashed my car. I get back to school and I'm still Very Sick with no energy or motivation to do anything. So I've spent the last week trying to get better and honestly to do anything. it hasn't really worked. I'm a lot better health-wise (Not emotionally), still sick but I have a lot of work due, so I really need a push to get started

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sanjisluvbot · 4 months ago

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Intuition

Masterlist

Yandere Batfam Blurb

The pain faded when you turned sixteen, only having a phantom ache when one more stray was added to your ‘family’. There was no reason to wonder why they were so uninterested in your life, for as long as you could remember, they had been creatures of the night, and you were the anomaly. Oddly enough.

At first, they tried to integrate you into their lifestyle, but it was hard when all you craved was love, affection, and a place to call home. So they grew uninterested. The worst you ever felt was hearing snide remarks and playground bullying just because you were different.

Your interest lies in the arts that weren’t comparable to figuring out the Riddler's plans or stopping the Joker. To the world, you were most impressive, but after a while even the praise from others meant nothing. Resentment grew easily of course, being giggled at when you left the room was beyond degrading and insufferable. But when offered a spot in one of New York’s best schools for the arts, every memory that left you crying leaped clean off your chest.

A brand new start in a new city—the best city— is exactly what you need. Packing was a challenge as you couldn’t bring the heart to throw away everything and leave without a suitcase and a part of you felt like you would return to the manor one day, so you left everything reminding you of Gotham.

The last thing on your plate before you left would be telling Bruce. You stalked down the gothic halls filled with priceless paintings and old photos, elated, you planned to simply ask for money and be out of his hair.

No more crying, pleading, begging your pseudo father to have interest shown towards you. You knocked on the door to his office, waiting patiently before he let out a tired grunt to come in. He looked up at you, gaze meeting, his eyes lingering for only a second before focusing back on his papers.

“ Y/n.”

“ Father, I need money for a flight to New York.”

He paused his writing, looking up at you curiously. You went on to briefly explain that you were accepted into a new school and would be leaving later that night. You bit your lip anxiously, wondering why he suddenly looked so shocked by what you said, he had always known about your love for music, dance, and drawing, not that he truly paid any mind to your ‘senseless babbling’ as he would call it.

“ Do you want one of my credit cards?” he questioned, finally redirecting his intense stare back to his work.

“ Yes, that will do.”

He hummed and shooed you away by telling you Alfred would give you everything you needed before your flight. Walking back to your room, that phantom pain visited your chest cavity. Even knowing you were leaving didn’t truly spark anything in him and you thought you knew better than to expect a reaction other than indifference. The little girl in you finally let the last ember of hope fade out that day.

The flight to New York was brisk but you're glad you chose it. Alfred offered to just drive you, but it would be dreadful having to show your dorm and lifestyle change from the mansion. Although he wasn’t as unkind to you as the others, Alfred never once stopped the rude comments or showed interest in anything about you, not even in what you liked to eat. What was the point of having an uncomfortable ride?

New York was exhilarating, the city is exactly as described and you couldn’t be more in love. The city was alive and electric, it breathed hopes and dreams to anyone who stepped inside. It was easy to make friends, the school was heavily social and you quickly settled into this new life.

Parties during spring break and recognition for your talents had you in a multitude of social circles you couldn’t even recognize the girl you had become. A newfound confidence in every stride and a smile that never left your face. Now and then you would get some calls, unknown numbers, plus a few in between those calls from Bruce.

It was strange but you ignored both, getting a new number all together because Bruce would never care about your slight over-the-top spending habits to call you about it. Maybe he was beginning to see what he was missing out on, oh well. The heat of the city was something you barely felt under all the smog of Gotham, the pollution seldom let you see the blue of the sky.

New york was full of people who knew who they were, and what they wanted, and even if they were unsure they stood confident. You embraced it, dressing in clothes that would’ve had you outcasted in Gotham and its gothic glory, letting the colors dance on the bronze of your skin. The caterpillar finally became a butterfly, oh so radiant, that must be what drew everyone into you.

When the semester finally came to its end, furthermore, you had presented your final piece, performed a new play, sending off the graduates and the other students off with glee, you decided it was time for a vacation. “Y/n, do you have any plans for the summer?” your friend asked while the two of you lounged at a small cafe.

“ I think we should go to the Hamptons if you don’t have anything planned.”

“ I’ll be overseas for the first two weeks of July, I would love to go in August.”

While you spent the first days of summer lounging under the sun, the bats were still surrounded by darkness, following their same routine. It was one of those days where everyone decided to linger around the cave.

Bruce was oddly glued to his phone screen even when his youngest son tried getting his attention by throwing a knife at him. Easily dodging and continuing to tap away only made the young boy angrier. “ Father, we need to continue training, what has you so distracted?”

“ We can train later, Damien, I’m very busy,” he grumbles.

All of his children suddenly stopped what they were doing, curiosity beginning to peak, could it be a new villain? The joker again? With one look from Dick to Jason to Tim his screen was easily pulled up onto the large monitor. It was a surprise to all when they saw your face, smiling and radiant all over the screen. “ Since when did Y/n have social media?” Barbra spoke up.

“ Recently. Since she…moved to New York for school,” Bruce replied. On the screen, a video appeared, you were accepting an award for one of your paintings. The family became engrossed in the new life you had, telling Bruce to click comments and click on your friends' pages.

Jason was irritated, he can’t even remember the last time he saw you, and Bruce never told anyone you were just going to up and leave. “ Why didn’t you tell us she was going to New York? When did she even leave?” He barked at Bruce. Bruce sighed, looking up at him, “ Well, when she left we were dealing with Penguin and you weren’t around until two months ago so I just never got to it.”

“Well, why didn’t you tell the rest of us? Dick or Tim could’ve told me if you told literally anyone else.”

Bruce shrugged his shoulders, turning back to his screen, “ Well, now you know Jason, and so does everyone else.” Bruce was becoming agitated by questions, he wanted to continue looking at your little life you’ve been building, watching his little girl laugh and smile made him feel bittersweet.

He was beginning to realize how little time the two of you spent together and how he would ignore you whenever you tried to make a connection. He should be there giving you flowers and taking you sightseeing, but you left all on your own only asking for a credit card. The others went on their way, four of them becoming increasingly interested in this new and improved Y/n Wayne.

After a grueling night, the four men of the bunch return to the manor, without word, they had Tim pull up everything involving you dating back five years. The pictures became sparse when you got younger, but it was evident you had always been obsessed with art no matter what form it took.

Hacking into your social media was angering, not just because of what they saw behind your public posts, but because of the ease of your passwords. Throughout your posts were dances, paintings, you at galleries, and you with friends… who were also bad influences to a sixteen year old girl. When diving deeper, they knew they might find things they didn’t like, such as videos on your google photos of you at parties.

All but one adorned red ears and everyone was forced to look away, not being able to bear witness to you being as reckless as they were at your age. Wanting to keep their image of you, their baby girl, squeaky clean.

You painted your first days of summer away, relaxing in your dorm finally having some alone time for the first time in almost a year. It was the most peace you’ve had in life, you should’ve known there was no way in hell that this was truly your life now.

Too good to be true. It was just too fuckin good to be true. As your first week of summer break ended and you were enjoying the breeze in central park your phone rang, looking down at your bright screen the caller ID read Bruce Wayne. Your scrunched your face, irritation filtering into your spirit. You answer trying your best not to sigh as he began speaking.

“ Y/n, are you busy right now?”

“ No Br-father,”

“ O-oh well I wanted to talk to you about returning to Gotham for a while.” Bruce spoke, trying to hide the fact that he was flabbergasted. You almost called him Bruce before quickly correcting yourself. New York has done a number on his baby girl.

You snatch the phone from your ear almost ferociously, return to gotham he said? Return to the place where you spent over a deade miserable? Someone better have died again for you to even consider something so preposterous.

“ Um I don’t know if I can return any time soon, I have a trip planned and I’m working on a few paintings that I want to submit for a show in September.” You spoke.

He smiled into the phone, the slight waver of your voice let him know you were lying. He hummed thoughtfully, “ I’ll send Alfred over now and we can bring your paintings, and over dinner we will discuss this trip you plan on going on and with who.” You couldn’t hide your bewilderedness, you almost forgot you weren’t speaking to just anyone but Bruce Wayne. A billionaire who could make anything happen including but not limited to sending over his butler to gather his daughter’s painting in under an hour.

“ I’m honestly just not too keen on being in Gotham—Listen father I have to get back to my work.” With that you hung up your phone rushing to the nearest exit of the park throwing out what was left of a drink you were carrying. You rushed to your dorm, not even to pack an over night bag but to simply gaze at it lovingly.

This space, this mini apartment meant the world to you and every part of it showcased memories old and new. In this moment non of it felt real, it was all dream like to you.

The sun seeped in through the windows, reaching all the way to your ankles illuminating your dorm in a warmth that Gotham probably only experienced before the existence of humans. Your phone buzzed again and it was a message from Alfred letting you know he would be in front of your dorm in less than twenty minutes.

You bit your lip while a sense of dread washed over you. Such a familiar feeling but the last few months had you believing you’d never experience it again. You’d have to face Bruce and that whole godforsaken family again when you had just gotten used to thinking that part of your life had possibly been a figment of your imagination.

You laugh at yourself, thoughts running amuck when you knew you now had fifteen minutes to back a bag and put your painting into something that wouldn’t damage it during the drive. You lull your head back and clap your hands before quickly moving around the apartment gathering your belongings.

When the car pulled up your body fought itself. Run back inside, hide underneath your bed and turn off your phone pretend as if you’d ran away or maybe you didn’t hear— do something but don’t get in that car— do not go back to Gotham. You gave alfred a polite smile that vanished when you turned your head back to the road.

Small talk was even more aggravating when you genuinely didn’t want to associate yourself with people. Your grew angry when the drive was nearing its end, Gotham and New York were too close for your liking and you had little to no time to prepare and rehearse the made up conversations in your head. The manor came into view and your eyes almost buldged out of your head when Bruce was waiting for you outside the manor door with his youngest little goblin.

You got out of the car, heels scrapping the pavement and extending you an extra pillar of strength. Your eyes met neither Bruce or Damien but you held your head high as they observe you. Bruce smiled at you walking over and embracing you. You were frozen in place.

“ Y/n you look beautiful, I hope your ride was pleasant.”

When he realized you weren’t moving to embrace him back he released you stepping back to look you in your eyes. Your lifted an eyebrow and side stepped him following Alfred into the manor trying to shake off the confusion within your spirit. The manor was dark and unwelcoming all but screaming at your bright colors to leave at once.

You grounded yourself with the sound of your heels stalking through the cold manor to your room feeling Damien and your father’s presence behind you. Alfred helped you settle into your room while the two watch, you felt like you were under a microscope from how hard their eyes burned into your every being and movement.

“ Y/n why don’t you show your brother and I your new painting—”

“ Father can yo please just tell me what the fuck is going on? Why are you behaving as if you even care about a single thing I do? Why am I back at the manor and why on earth was it so important for me to get picked up almost immediately after your weird phone call?” You couldn’t stand another minute of this weird shit.

Why was hovering over you pretending like he cared about you? You knew who bruce Wayne was, especially the Bruce who presetented towards you, his odd child, the child who didn’t have any interest in being a vigilante. The chil he neglected and let get bullied and ridiculed by his other other children who thought she was a useless accessory for the Wayne’s public name.

Bruce sighed, he knew he shouldn’t have come on so strong right off the bat but he couldn’t help himself. He was enamored by the way you simply came out of the car like you couldn’t care any less to be here. You, one of his first children along with Dick whom he barely paid any attention due to his life as Batman.

He had no words that would southe you, he along with the rest of your siblings were riddled in guilt and admiration for you. He knew how the children spoke about you, but he never stepped in due to knowing that although they might sound harsh to outsiders the children were always somewhat jealous of your carefree life that they themselves know they could never have.

Out of every kid you were the one who had absolutely no interest in him as Batman and becoming one of the vigilanties under his wing. You did whatever you wanted to do without thinking there is a possibility of your identity being revealed and you would need to spend all night fighting someone or something twice your size.

Bruce was only now realizing that you had been ostrasized from them, his baby probably thinking she was hated for simply existing. Without letting his small smile drop from his face he walked in your room further sitting on the edge of your bed. “ I called you because I knew summer had just started and I wanted you to come home, the manor has been empty without you as you know most of your siblings don’t live here anymore.”

“ I’ll save the in depth version of this coversation for dinner as I have invited over the entire family to welcome you back… and Y/n, I care about you very much.” You gave him an incredulous look as he got up, pat your head, and walked out with Alfred and Damien.

The little demon only sparring you a glare once more before following his father. A wave of nausea unearthed itself in the pit of your stomach.

A/N: Thoughts…Prayers…. Concepts !!! :D

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gracie-eilish · 3 months ago

Note

Prompt 1 with 🩷

“what would you do if i kissed you?”

prompt list

*contains smut

“BABYYYYY!!!!” billie practically pounced into your arms when she finally saw you backstage.

you and billie had been best friends since god knows when, and for your schools spring break you planned to go see billie in australia and spend the week there.

“i’m so happy your here love,” she giddily whined into your neck, squeezing the life out of you making you giggle. “i missed you,” she added in her little voice pulling back to see your face.

“i missed you too bils" you replied. "however my body is missing my time zone more, so can we pleaseee head back to the hotel?" you playfully groaned. billie just chuckled, shaking her head.

"can't fucking take you anywhere," she mumbled, wrapping an arm around your waist as you two walked to her dressing room.

billie took her time getting changed and freshening up from her show while you sat on a nearby couch, the two of you chatting and catching up on everything. eventually billie made her way over to the couch at first to put on her shoes, but the two of you got caught up in your convo, so now both of you were sat facing each other, talking away.

the tension however shifted as the two of you got closer to each other without even trying. billie had her arm across the back of the couch, and you had your legs across her lap, both of you facing each other, practically no room between you.

billie reached over with her other hand to push some of your hair behind your ear, letting her fingers trace your cheek a bit. she smirked a bit at the blush growing on your cheeks.

"what?" you asked, smiling nervously.

she just shook her head fondly, softly biting her lip. "nothin, just missed ya." your smile grew tenfold as you rested your cheek in her hand.

“what would you do if i kissed you?” she whispered, her minty breath hitting your face.

"i'd probably kiss you back," you replied, voice barely over a hushed whisper.

billie smirked before leaning in to close the distance between you two. the kiss was tentative at first, giving you room to pull away if you didn't want it. but when you kissed her back firmly, she deepened it.

her hands went down to your waist pulling you closer, practically straddling her lap, while yours found a home in her dark hair. soft gasps and moans came from you as her kisses descended down your jaw and neck, careful not to leave any hickies... yet.

when she returned to your lips, her tongue swiped across your bottom lip but you didn't grant her entrance just yet, wanting to tease her a bit longer. her hand resting on your thigh and creeping up your skin however made you gasp, allowing billies tongue to explore your mouth.

she fiddled with the hem of your dress, pushing it up slightly so she could slip her hand underneath, rubbing the soft skin of your upper thigh. she took your soft groans of pleasure as permission to go further, tracing the waistband of your panties. and you whimpered. actually whimpered at the feeling of her fingers so close to where you needed her.

"this okay baby?" she whispered against your neck. you nodded and moaned as she pressed a warm kiss to your pulse point.

her fingers traced down the center of your panties until she found the little wet spot on the bottom, making her smirk. she instantly found your clit, even while clothed, rubbing tight slow circles around it. overwhelmed, you let your head fall to her shoulder as you gasped out in pleasure, attempting to presses kisses of your own to billies collarbone and neck.

"you wanna go back to the hotel lovey?" billie asked right in your ear, not stopping the movement of her fingers. you whined a bit before looking up at her.

"can we- um.. if we go back uh, can we keep..." you stuttered, suddenly nervous under her sultry gaze.

her fingers sped up along with your heartbeat as she leaned back into your neck, moaning herself as she kissed your soft skin. your head started to grow fuzzy as her fingers kept moving on your clothed clit.

"can we what angel?" she whispered between kisses. your breathing started to get heavy as your orgasm was approaching.

"keep going," you squeaked out, half answering and half pleading. your arms tightened around her shoulders, as you started grinding down on her fingers hoping to speed up your release. billie chuckled at your desperation before finding the soft spot behind your ear and sucking lightly.

"c'mon princess-" she barely finished her sentence before you were cumming. her fingers slowed but didn't stop as you rode out your orgasm, and finally went limp in her arms.

she softly fixed your panties and the hem of your dress making sure you were covered before scooping you up in her arms so you guys could finally go back to her hotel... only took a couple of hours ;)

#gracie eilish #billie eilish #wlw #fanfiction #billie eilish x reader #billie eilish fluff #billie eilish fic #billie eilish x fem!reader #billie eilish x female reader #billie x you #billie eilish x you #billie eilish fanfiction #billie eilish smut #billie x reader #billie eilish x smut #billie eilish x y/n #billie x y/n #billie x fem reader

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nicolewritesthings · 4 months ago

Text

Don't press your luck

Steve Harrington x Hopper!Reader

Summary: After the team wins their basketball game, Hopper!reader and Steve go to a party just as friends. But do you leave that way?

Warnings: a little bit of steamy time

Note: it's been a minute, and then I thought I got locked out of this account but I found my password!! This can be read alone, but also is an installment for my hopper x harrington series because I love that idea so much.

Read another part of that series here: What would Madonna do?

Enjoy :)

Spring 1985

Hawkins High School's gym is filled to the brim during a much anticipated match up this basketball season. The crowd cheers on their Tigers as the clock dwindles down to under a minute left of the fourth quarter.

Steve is having a particularly good game, leading the team in points. Boy, did he need the win. After everything that happened a few months ago with Nancy and another brush with death, he really needed some good energy. Dare he think, to get back a bit of the King Steve glory again.

He weaves down the court, faking out a player, and SWISH. Another basket. The crowd ROARS. Steve looks up at the scoreboard: 35 seconds, they're up by 4. Let's keep it that way.

From the crowd, little miss Hopper watches intently. Quite literally on the edge of her seat. She doesn't normally go to basketball games. Maybe she went to a couple with Nancy her freshman year, but basketball really wasn't her preferred sport. So, when she and Nancy naturally drifted apart and made new friends, she had no one forcing her to these games. That is, until now.

Her newly formed friendship with Steve started last Halloween when she was stuck babysitting a bunch of kids, fighting monsters, and getting beaten up by Hargrove. Trauma really bonds the least likely of friends.

Now the two really couldn't get enough of each other. And that is meant in the most platonic way possible. Well, sort of. The two are both major flirts, so it's not her fault when the banter crosses that line and there's a little too friendly of touching. It would also explain why she was at a basketball game for the first time in two years. Yeah, to support her new friend. But, she can't lie to herself, she really wanted to see him sweaty and aggressive and thankfully - winning.

So, Miss Hopper watched as Steve ran down the court again, bidding his teammate for the ball. It's passed to him and she stands up along with the rest of the crowd. They all watch in anticipation as Steve shoots and - SWISH, sinks it into the basket.

The buzzer sounds and the crowd erupts. Hawkins won! Against their rivals no less! She CHEERS, high-fiving the students around her.

Her eyes are on Steve as he celebrates with his team. She smiles, damn he needed this.

Steve breaks apart from his teammates and looks up to the crowd, easily finding her already staring back at him. He gives her an arrogant shrug, making her roll her eyes so hard, but that smirk doesn't leave either one of their faces. He nods his head toward the locker room, silently communicating to her in the very loud, packed gym.

------------

Hopper waits outside the gym in the parking lot, where some other students are waiting for their friends and most likely - boyfriends. Some of the girls look over at her and eye her "GO STEVE" sign. She know how this looks, but making the sign gave her a really good laugh. With all its glitter and pep. She knew Steve would crack up too.

But here, now faced with presumably other girlfriends, she feels just a slight bit of insecurity. Then Marissa Adams is striding over to her, and Marissa's other friend, Ashley something, follows. Marissa nods over at the closed locker room doors.

"You're Steve's girl now?" Marissa asks casually.

Hopper shake her head, "just friends."

Marissa nods, her hands in her pockets, and shares a look with Ashley. She eyes the sign then looks back at Hopper and says, "no girl's just friends with Steve Harrington."

Marissa's a senior like Steve, and it's safe to assume there's some history there. Hopper thinks back, trying to recall any rumor about the two of them together but comes up short. He's been with a lot of girls, she knew that much. But, she'll have to ask Steve about her later.

"Well, there's a first for everything," she says, smiling.

Marissa smiles, taken back by her casual demeanor. She's cool, Hopper thinks, and not your typical townie. Her parents are rich, like work in the city and vacation in Europe rich.

"My boyfriend's throwing a party after this if you want to come," Marissa says cooly, "bring the MVP with you."

Hopper nods as Marissa and Ashley turn toward the opening doors. A blonde boy, Mark, envelopes Marissa into a hug. Hopper shifts her attention to a certain dark head of hair racing towards her.

Steve smiles, pointing at the sign, "that is the best fucking thing I've ever seen." He quickly pulls her into a hug. She wraps her arms around him, face nuzzled into his chest, taking in the fresh soap smell and clean clothes.

She pulls back and he takes the sign into his hands, continuing to gawk, "is that blue glitter? So cheesy."

"You love it," she smirk, walking in tandem toward his car.

Steve throws his things and the sign into the back. She eyes Marissa and turn back to Steve, "I got invited to Mark's party tonight."

He laughs at this as the two get into his car, "wait, who told you? I was just going to bring it up."

"Marissa Adams. She thinks we're dating," she flips through the radio.

Steve starts the car, "oh yeah? What made her say that."

She points to the sign and settles on some rock song.

He nods his head, "yeah that is a bit deceiving. You know, I had a thing with her back in the day."

"I gathered that," she eyes him, "she said you're not friends with girls."

"What the hell does that even mean," Steve scoffs, "you and I are friends."

She throws her hands up, "that's what I said! There's a first for everything."

Steve sneaks a glance over at her, taking in her features. Her cute nose, big eyes, perfect lips. He always does this, sneaking a look here and there when he thinks she's not paying attention. But he's oblivious to her knowing smirk and her own stolen glances.

He lets the song sit comfortably in the car, lost in his thoughts of her. Marissa is right, he wasn't close friends with girls. But, that was his former self, his previous persona. Now he had Hopper and her witty humor and their study sessions and their movie nights and late drives to pick up the kids. Not to mention they ate lunch together almost every day, save for basketball practice or her english club meetings.

They were friends. His first close girl friend who he hasn't ended up romantically, or physically, involved with in some capacity. Which is a miracle because god, have you seen her?

Her perfect hair and soft skin that he gets to feel sometimes when she's a little too close or they're a little too touchy. Oh, he's in for it come summer. She'll probably lifeguard again and come by his pool in a tiny bikini and-

"Steve!" she practically yells for his attention. His bicep burns at the touch of her hand enclosed around his arm.

He scoffs, "sorry, what?"

"Let's park at yours and walk. I'll call my dad and tell him I'm crashing at your place again," she shrugs, retracting her hand from his arm.

He breathes out, "good idea. We can sneak some of my dad's booze."

"Fuck yes," she practically moans. Steve sucks in a breath. She continues, "your dad has excellent taste in tequila."

-------

After a night of dancing and drinking and an abundance of school spirit, Steve and Little Miss Hopper make their way up the Harrington's driveway.

"Really? Rob Lowe over Han Solo?" Steve whispers as he unlocks the door. Their game of who'd you rather has gotten very heated.

She follows him inside, slipping off her shoes, "have you seen him in the Outsiders?!"

Steve shushes her, "but does he fight intergalactic space battles?"

“Now you’re suddenly a star wars fan?” she asks in disbelief, “you fell asleep last time we watched.”

“Whatever, I still think he’s a cool dude,” he shrugs.

They head upstairs and into his bedroom. Steve flicks the light on and she immediately beelines for the bed, plopping down onto it.

"But Rob Lowe's eyes are to die for," she doubles down.

Steve fumbles around his drawers, pulling out extra clothes for her to sleep in. He sets them on the bed and sits down beside her. She sits up on her elbows.

Steve shakes his head, "they have the same eyes, don't they?"

She shrugs, "I prefer brunettes anyways."

"You do?" he smirks.

She rolls her eyes and smacks his arm, "get your mind out of the gutter, Harrington."

"Oh, I could go way deeper into the gutter if I wanted to, Hopper," he laughs, looking down at her.

She sits up now, giggling, "deeper, yeah?"

Now he rolls his eyes, and can't help but join her in laughing at their mutually childish sense of humor.

See, friends can laugh like this together, he thinks. He also thinks about how she's staying the night. In the guest room, of course, but still. They can go to the diner tomorrow for breakfast, sit in their favorite booth, and order their usuals. He'll feign disgust at her purely black coffee and she'll pick at his pancakes even when she insists on never getting the sweet option.

"I'm still surprised your dad let's you stay the night here," Steve ponders this every time it happens, "isn't one of his rules, 'no boys overnight.'"

She shrugs off her jacket, "I guess he doesn't see you as a threat. And actually his rule is don't get pregnant, but they go hand in hand."

Is that disappointment she catches in Steve's eyes? Is he seriously offended that her dad, the big scary Sheriff, believes they're just friends too. I mean, hell, he's grown fond of Steve over the past few months with how much he's been there for both of his girls. Also, the Sheriff knows his daughter and he knows when she's hiding something. She's not hiding Steve.

"Don't look all sad, Steve," she moves on the bed to face him, "it's a good thing you're flying under his radar."

"Yeah, but it's like your dad doesn't think I have a shot with you," he slips out, wincing as soon as the words leave his mouth.

Hopper's eyes glimmer. A mischievous look on her face as she debates her next move. She could do nothing and look past this falter in Steve's usual smooth confidence. Or, she could give in a little and entertain this whole conversation.

So, with the help of the few drinks in her system, Hopper eyes Steve, taking in all his glorious features. His long eyelashes and great hair. What would it feel like to run your fingers through it? To tug a little?

She smirks, "do you think you have a shot with me?"

Steve looks up, taken aback by her question. He nearly melts as her big eyes stare up at him. Fuck, what is she doing? Is she doing what he thinks she's doing?

Wait, Steve knows what this is. He's done this a bunch of times with girls. He's egged them on, gotten them to be the ones to make the first move. He's never the first one to lay all his cards out there on the table. He's definitely never felt shy about being attracted to someone before and yet, here he is with the most beautiful girl he's met, in his bedroom about to change into his clothes, batting her eyelashes at him like it's some game.

No way is he going to lose at his own fucking game.

So he does what he does best and reverts back to King Steve. Just this once is fine, he thinks.

He stands up and walks over to his dresser. With his back faced to her, he shrugs, "you tell me."

Hopper sits back, shaking her head in disbelief. She thought she had him for a second there, but now he's acting all aloof and-

She looks up to find him tugging his shirt off his body, leaving the perfect view of his bare back. Oh you got to be kidding me. Now he's playing with her.

The tension in the room is palpable as Steve turns around and leans against his dresser. He doesn't break eye contact as he slips on a loose white t-shirt to sleep in. She stares back, not looking down as he covers his bare chest.

What she says next will change the trajectory of their friendship, she thinks. So she debates her next move, thinking back to how well they know each other now and how if they move into this physical territory, they risk their friendship. Is it worth it?

But the pounding in her heart is distracting and she can't help but focus on the feeling of desire in the pit of her stomach and the way her skin buzzes by the mere thought of him touching her. This isn't the first time she's felt this way with Steve.

She thinks back to the first time she felt this spark with him. When they were walking down those train tracks with Dustin slightly ahead of them. How Steve grabbed her wrist to stop her from tripping over a broken track. The electricity shot through her in an instant. Something she's never felt before.

Then the memory of desire floods her system. When she and Steve sat on his couch watching Nightmare on Elm Street and he pulled her into his chest because he was anxious and spooked. She felt his warmth and could smell his fresh linen scent. God, she could have taken him then and there if she really acted on how she felt.

But now she's in his bed, on the precipice of changing their friendship forever and instead of making the logical decision, she lets the need for his touch consume her.

His statement echoes in her mind - 'you tell me.'

"Yeah, you do," she states cooly, eyes still locked with his.

Steve breaks momentarily, sucking in a breath. He did not expect that answer, but fuck it. He can't help but eye her pouting lips and big eyes looking back at him. Don't do it, don't do it, don't-

and then she looks down at his lips, briefly, but he still catches it and now all he sees is red.

Steve strides across the room and lunges down to her level, cupping her face in his hands. He crashes his lips to hers and oh wow, is it better than he's ever imagined.

She grips his wrists, pulling him into her as he stumbles onto the bed. Her skin buzzes as they kiss, she needs him to touch her - anywhere.

He sits beside her and puts a hand on her waist. She leans towards him, sitting up on her knees and lowering onto his lap. She deepens the kiss as Steve's hands wander over her body.

The pit in her stomach grows more and more as she pushes further into him, grinding onto his lap. He groans and grabs the side of her head and neck, gripping her to look back at him. They eye each other, waiting for the other to break.

Steve bites his lip, "don't do that."

"You sure?" she smirks, going to lean in. He grips her head gently, making her look at him still.

With hooded eyes, he drawls out, "don't start something you can't finish."

Oof.

King Steve strikes again.

It's subtle. This implication that she's going to put out, and that brings her right back to any other hook up with any other guy. Maybe he didn't mean it like that, but it rubs her the wrong way. It sobers her up completely.

She stares back at him and Steve feels the mood shift.

"Don't push your luck, Harrington," she scoffs, nudging his hands off of her and rising from his lap.

Oh god, he fucked up, didn't he?

He goes to stand and go after her, but his hard-on decides otherwise. Steve stays glued on the bed as she grabs her clothes and retreats to the door.

"Wait, I'm so confused right now," Steve says quickly.

Hopper pauses, turning to him, "I'm tired, okay? Let's just talk about this tomorrow."

Before he can respond, she's already shutting the door and crossing the hall to the guest room, leaving Steve very confused and still very turned on by his best friend.

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try-set-me-on-fire · 3 months ago

Text

don’t be alarmed, this is my loudest roar

1465 words // rated g

8x15-16 spec, major character death

Dad had warned him, in the car. He already knew Bobby is dead, that’s why they left Texas so fast instead of waiting for spring break or maybe the end of the school year like they were starting to talk about. Chris was in the room when the phone call had come in and Eddie’s face had gone all- wide. It’s weird to think about. Bobby, Captain Nash. It’s like a principal or a librarian dying. Not so much a person in Chris’ mind but an architectural feature, a fundamental truth of the way the world is. He’ll visit dad at work and Bobby will give him a grilled cheese with grapes on the side and show him the fire trucks again even though he’s seen them a million times already. And now he won’t, because he’s not alive, because principals and librarians are real people who breathe and bleed and can stop doing those things. It’s weird.

So that’s not what Dad warned him about. It’s after their last stop for gas, where Chris tried to stretch out the ache of sitting in a car for so long and Dad ran off out of hearing again, like he did at every other gas stop, phone pressed to his ear. They’re back in the car and on the highway again and Eddie’s knuckles are tight against the steering wheel and he clears his throat.

“Mijo,” he says. “Chris.” He glances over at the passenger seat, then keeps his eyes on the road. “When we get there- when we get home Buck is gonna be there.” Chris knows that, knows Buck moved in. He dreams- daydreams, not quite asleep enough for it to be anything other than wishful thinking, about him and Buck and Dad all in one house forever, and always knowing where both of them are and that they’re safe. He can almost hear snoring down the hall if he closes his eyes hard enough. “And… I just want to tell you, he-” Eddie’s knuckles creak on the wheel. “Him and Bobby were really close, you know? He… Bobby was kind of like his dad. So- so he’s really upset right now, and I just want to tell you that before we get there because- because we’re going to have to be gentle with him, okay?” Chris nods, Eddie nods. “And because I know… it can be kinda scary, when someone you- you care about is hurting.” Chris nods again, like he doesn’t know that, like his stomach hasn’t wobbled anytime Eddie’s voice has in this conversation. “I don’t want you to be scared. We’re going to be okay. Buck will be okay.” Eddie lets go of the steering wheel for a minute, stretches his fingers out, grabs back on again. “We’re gonna take care of him.” That seems obviously true, so Chris doesn’t nod a third time.

So, here they are now, at the house. Still labelled home in Chris’ mind, on one of those little pieces of tape with the raised up letters like Mrs. Hanrahan had all over everything in third grade, like they’d somehow forget what a pencil is and where to put it away. The lawn is mowed and the door is open and it looks so much the same that Chris feels like crying a little but doesn’t. Eddie gets out of the car first, and doesn’t bother with bags or anything because out of the house-

Buck. Chris imagines the shelf he lives on in his mind, stored close to home and Dad. He thinks he’d need more than one little strip of tape for him. Friend and safe and firefighter and family and- he doesn’t know. He thinks he hasn’t learned the words yet to describe the kind of hurting he feels when he thinks about Buck. Not a bad hurting. Kind of like loneliness, like wanting somebody there, but it happens even when Buck is there. Chris doesn’t know. Dad is on the porch now and he’s holding Buck, different than a hug, in some way Chris also doesn’t know how to describe. Sometimes it feels like Chris doesn’t know anything at all. He sits in the car and wishes he could drive so he could get his knuckles all tight on the wheel. He grabs the door handle and thinks it’s not really the same and then he opens the door, gets out of the car.

Buck meets him halfway down the path, spilling out of Dad’s arms as soon as he sees movement, rushing to meet him. Chris barely gets to look at him — red eyes, too much stubble, his hair is so curly now — before he’s being wrapped up in big arms, clutched against a warm body. “Chris,” Buck says- Buck says. His voice, not over a phone. Chris squeezes his eyes shut tight and shakes his arms out of his crutches so he can hug back. “Chris, Chris-” An earthquake? No- no, just Buck. “God- God, kid, I missed you- I missed you so much.” One of Buck’s arm’s remains locked around him and the other roams, hand clutching his shoulder and then cradling his head, smoothing over his back. And he’s- he’s crying. Big ugly crying. Chris can’t see it but he can hear it and feel it, above and around him. “I’m sorry, I’m s-sorry.” For what? Chris shakes his head. It’s okay. He’s sort of frightened but Eddie had warned him so it’s okay. “Sorry- you’re here, you’re here- oh- oh God-” Chris feels Buck’s face press into the top of his head. He’s still tall enough to do that easily, despite all Dad’s teasing about how big Chris has grown. Dad is here too, Chris vaguely hears him say something close by, but mostly what he hears is Buck sobbing. Chris holds on as tight as he can. He is scared. He’s scared, despite the warning, because- Buck is crying, Buck’s not okay, and there have been so many- all those other times when the world ended Buck was- Chris has seen him cry before but not like this, and it makes him feel sick a little. And- guilty a little, bad a little, because- he knows Mom missed him when she left. He’s pretty sure. He knows Dad missed him when they were apart. He’s pretty sure. He’s very sure, Dad has told him it’s true, and there’s a kind of quiet something-else mixed in with his happiness when they’re together now. Relief? Loneliness for someone next to you? But. Buck shakes and cries and it’s loud and frightening and it’s proof.

“I missed you,” Chris says. He’s not even sure anyone hears him, all muffled into Buck’s sweatshirt. “I missed you, too.”

“Let’s get inside,” Eddie is saying, and his hand is on Chris’ shoulder, and that is so familiar-unchanged makes him want to cry, too. “Alright, it’s okay, lets get inside.”

Buck gasps a few times above him, pulling in air like he’s going to jump in a pool- jump into water, after Chris. Maybe Chris is crying already. It’s hard to tell. And then Buck pulls back just a little, straightens up, and there he is looking down at him. He looks rough and wrecked and so real Chris sort of realizes he’s not dreaming, which he already knew but- understands, now. It’s real, and Bobby is dead, and they’re not in Texas, and he wishes he never left because the house is the same but everything feels different now, and Buck is frowning now, a different kind of frown, careful and worried and his hand is on Chris face, calloused thumb very soft brushing across his cheek. “Oh, Chris, hey. Hey, you’re okay.”

“I love you,” Chris says, and the label on the shelf should really just say Buck, because doesn’t that mean all of the rest of it? What did Buck label Bobby, on his shelves? “I want to go home- I want to come home, I want to come home, I’m sorry, I want to come home.”

“We’re here,” Eddie says, kissing Chris’ head so close to where Buck’s fingers rest. “It’s okay-” his voice cracks but Dad and Buck were always a team and one will pick up a thought where the other dropped it.

“It’s okay, Chris,” Buck says, and his voice is still wet and raspy, but- they’ll all be in one house and maybe Chris isn’t the only one who needs that to be true. Maybe it’s okay to want that to be true. “Let’s get inside. Let’s-” he looks at Eddie, almost a question that seems to be answered before he even asks it. Chris can feel him breathing, his lungs expanding and collapsing and expanding again, and again. Quietly, he says “Let’s go home.”

#major character death #mcd #my writing #christopher diaz #eddie diaz #evan buckley #buddie #sort of around the edges #Bobby Nash #this is for Kaitlin who i sent a sad dm to and told me to write a fic about it

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sabrinasopposite · 8 days ago

Text

manchild; pilot.

anakin skywalker!70s x reader

summary: anakin skywalker starts his summer break as a heartbroken guy over the break up with padmé amidala, yet while he was drinking his blueberry slushy in a gas station by a desert highway, he met a girl called y/n y/l/n, who was a wild and free spirited girl with tons of flings. what if the summertime sadness turns into a fake relationship? anakin wants revenge and jealousy, and y/n wants fun and drama.

fake dating.

! warning: there will be a lot of sexual comments and references, just like cigarettes and alcohol

further questions, please ask me

ps: another warning... y/n is flawed and complex

next chapter: star-crossed lovers

summer, june 1972.

It was summer in the seventies — the kind that played like a worn vinyl, crackling under the heat of the Arizona sun. School was winding down like the last chorus of a slow-dance song at prom. One more year till college — a horizon Anakin Skywalker wasn’t ready to stare into. Not yet. Not when the sun still burned gold, the air hung heavy like incense, and the days blurred into a sleepy Technicolor haze.

He lived in a one-gas-pump desert town that looked like it’d been left behind by time — diners with flickering neon, drive-ins ghosted by tumbleweeds, and motels with signs that buzzed louder than their guests. People drifted away from here like smoke rings in the wind, but somehow, they always found their way back.

While the jukebox generation kicked off their summer-of-love dreams, Anakin’s own soundtrack had cracked mid-song. Padmé had left him at the end of spring semester — clean cut, no B-side explanation. And like a cruel twist of radio fate, two months later she was already holding hands with Rush Clovis — the kind of guy who wore poetry like cologne and probably read Kerouac for fun. The kind of guy who fit her world now.

It was golden hour — the kind of light that made everything glow like a photograph you want to live in. A breeze shuffled through the Arizona heat like a slow dance with no music. The final bell had rung, setting teenagers free with the excitement of open roads and Top 40 dreams. Talk swirled around — Bowie had a new track out, someone’s older brother just scored a new Camaro, and summer was theirs to burn.

But Anakin wasn’t thinking about any of that. He just stared off at the horizon like it might tell him something. His heart, cracked and splintered, still beat her name in every silence. Padmé walked past — glowing, laughing, alive. She wore high-waisted jeans and a lavender blouse that looked like it belonged in a Fleetwood Mac album cover. Like she was already living in a world Anakin couldn’t reach anymore.

Fives looked over at his friend — who hadn’t been the same since Padmé walked out of his life like the fadeout on a sad soul song.

“Dude… how long you gonna keep staring at her like she’s the second coming of Janis Joplin?” he asked, voice low but amused.

“Until I figure out her goddamn plan,” Anakin muttered, arms crossed over the hood of his battered ’68 Dodge Charger. The car was a wreck, always one gear-shift away from death — but it was his church, his therapist, and his war bunker. And, lately, his best spot to stake out the girl who used to be his whole universe.

Rex leaned beside him, the paper cup of cola sweating in his hand, eyes flicking to Padmé. “Her plan was a breakup, man. You still think it’s deeper than that?”

Anakin leaned back, exhaling like a tire losing air. “I know she dumped me, I do. But why, man. Why? She just woke up one day, flipped the record, and decided I didn’t belong on her playlist anymore. And now she’s with him. I mean, I still don’t understand how she just wakes up and decides to call it quits, then goes out with some guy the week after—- I mean I haven’t slept right since May. I’m running on empty and she already dates someone else.”

Fives gave him a look, pulled a cigarette from the inside pocket of his worn leather jacket — the kind of jacket that had probably seen more heartbreak than prom dates.

“Dude, you gotta let her go. I know it’s messy, and I know you really loved her — still do. But what’s your plan? Run after her until she turns around and says ‘never mind’?”

Anakin raked his fingers through his already chaotic hair. “Yeah, I know. I know. But I can’t just flip the switch. I’ve tried dating, I’ve tried letting go, but every time I do, I just keep hearing her laugh in my head or picturing how she used to look at me — and none of it compares, man. None of it.”

Fives sighed, cigarette hanging from his lips like punctuation. He lit it, took a drag, and offered one to Anakin.

“Yeah… I get it. Wasn’t easy for me and Jackie either. But eventually… it just stops mattering. Eventually, it fades. Like an old cassette left on the dashboard too long.”

Before Anakin could answer, Cal Kestis came jogging up, his ginger hair a windblown mess, eyes wide with adrenaline and teen mischief.

“Okay, okay — I scored the booze for your party, Rex,” he grinned, breathless. Then caught sight of Anakin’s stormcloud stare aimed squarely at Padmé and Clovis. “Jesus, man. You good?”

Anakin didn’t answer. Just kept watching her — like she was a dream he hadn’t woken up from yet. The kind that lingers in the morning haze and makes reality feel like a cheap knock-off.

Fives bumped his shoulder into him with brotherly force. “Peachy,” Anakin muttered, his eyes locked on Padmé and Clovis, tangled in a little sunlit world of their own.

He took the cigarette from Fives, the way a soldier accepts his last smoke before going back to war. A slow, pensive drag — the kind that fills your lungs and lets the silence hang just a little longer.

Rex gave Cal a nod, cracking a crooked smile. “Thanks, man. Well, our lover boy’s going through it — that’s why we’re gonna throw one hell of a beach party tonight, aye?” he grinned, sipping his cola like it was bourbon.

“Yessir,” Cal shot back, grin wide, sun catching in his wild hair. “You bet your ass! End of sophomore year, which means we’re gonna get hella piss drunk… except for Ani.” He slapped Anakin on the shoulder, just hard enough to jostle him back into the moment.

Anakin exhaled a plume of smoke, shooting Cal a sarcastic look. “Definitely,” he said, voice flat, but with the ghost of a smirk.

Fives furrowed his brows, puffing thoughtfully. “Dude, you haven’t touched alcohol in months. I know Padmé didn’t like it when you drank, but—bro, you can now.”

“I dunno…” Anakin muttered, flicking the ash off the end of his cigarette, watching it drift like dust in the Arizona sun. “I know I can… I’m just not sure if I want to. I’ve been doing good. Staying sober, staying outta trouble.”

Rex chuckled dryly. “Yeah, but you smoke cigarettes like they’re your goddamn breakfast.”

“Yeah, but—” Anakin paused, his voice lowering, “Cigs help me concentrate. Keep me grounded. Booze… booze makes me spiral. And she hated that part of me.”

Fives leaned in, whispering like the devil on his shoulder. “But she’s goneeee, man,” he drawled with a mischievous grin. “Come on, Ani. Just a little sip tonight, a good ol’ beer, some tunes, bonfire, waves. Forget her. And I definitely know Rex invited some hot girls.”

Cal rolled his eyes and shot a look at Fives. “Fives, don’t even pretend like you’re gonna pull.”

Fives gasped dramatically. “Hey! Maybe some girls are into the bad boy with a soft heart vibe, ever think of that?”

Anakin actually chuckled — a real, worn-out laugh — as he reached for another cigarette. “I suppose you do have a point, Fives. I could… loosen up tonight. A few beers, some laughs, maybe even forget her for, like, five minutes.”

Fives clapped his hands, triumphant. “That’s my man!” he shouted, placing both hands on Anakin’s shoulders like he’d just won a football game.

Rex groaned. “Oh god,” rubbing his temple at Fives’ volume.

Anakin laughed again and shoved Fives back playfully. “All right, all right! I’ll come to your stupid party. But don’t expect me to be a full-blown drunkard, alright?”

He raised the cigarette to his lips again, a sly grin forming in the corner of his mouth.

Rex gave him a nod. “Got it, Skywalker. Alright boys, I gotta bounce and get the setup going. Also, if you see Obi-Wan, tell him I said hey.”

Anakin shook Rex’s hand, firm. “Will do, Rex.”

Then, turning to Fives, his smirk deepened. “You’re probably heading off now to ‘pick up girls’, huh?”

Fives winked, already walking backward like he was on a stage. “You know me.” He threw up his hands and, in perfect Fives fashion, backed right into a group of girls. They giggled as he spun around, arms wide. “Girls!!” And just like that, he vanished — swallowed by the scene like a Saturday night fever dream.

Anakin shook his head, grinning. “Damn dude… what a player,” he muttered under his breath, though the words tasted half like envy, half like pride.

He tossed his cigarette down, crushed it beneath his black Converse, and turned once more — instinctively — toward Padmé. She was laughing now, head tilted back, Clovis’s arm around her shoulders like she belonged there. They looked like a Polaroid of something Anakin didn’t get to be part of anymore. Too perfect. Too damn fast.

He made a face — disgusted, bitter, hurt — all tangled into one sharp look. Then he turned, walked to his Charger, and slid in with a familiar creak of old leather and old memories.

The key turned. Nothing.

“C’mon…” he whispered, already knowing how this would go.

He hit the dash. Nothing.

He cursed under his breath and kicked the clutch. The car grumbled, sputtered… and finally, with a wheezing growl, roared to life like a beast waking from sleep.

Anakin gripped the wheel and took a long, shaky breath. He looked up at the rearview mirror and there he was. Red-rimmed eyes. Messy curls. Wrinkled shirt and a face that looked like it hadn’t believed in sleep since April.

A ghost in the driver’s seat. He slammed a hand against the wheel. “Damn it all…”

Outside, the sun dipped further, turning the town into a dusty painting of goodbye. That Arizona glow—amber and honey-thick—draped everything like a fading record sleeve from a summer hit long past its prime. Inside that Charger, Anakin sat with the weight of a love lost, an engine rumbling beneath him, and a party waiting at the edge of night like a mirage.

He leaned back, elbow against the window frame, letting the warm wind tangle his curls. As the car coasted through the town’s familiar arteries, time seemed to drip slow like molasses on vinyl. The neon flicker of the old drive-in. The rust-flaked grocery sign spinning in lazy circles. The diner where his uncle played old Motown records in the back and always smelled like fry oil and sunburnt coffee. All of it passed by like ghosts waving from a moving train.

Eventually, he pulled into the gravel drive of his two-story house—paint peeling, porch swing swaying with no one in it. Home, for whatever that word meant anymore.

And later, down at the beach, the world had shifted. The sun was gone now, tucked beneath the horizon like an old photograph sliding back into its envelope. Stars blinked alive above them, scattered across the sky like dust from a shattered disco ball.

The beach pulsed with life—Fleetwood Mac’s “Rhiannon” spun from someone’s truck radio, Stevie Nicks’ voice haunting the salt-heavy air with that silk-and-fire sadness that always knew how to dig into the bruised parts of a heart.

The bonfire cracked and cast golden glows across laughing faces. Boys and girls tangled together—some kissed like they’d never get another chance, others drowned themselves in lukewarm beer and the feeling of now.

Anakin lingered on the outskirts of it all, his converse sinking into the cool sand. He sipped slowly from his beer, its taste dull and heavy on his tongue. That’s when she stumbled up—Cordé, tipsy and sun-kissed, wrapped in a pink bikini and cutoff shorts. Her brown hair curled wild over her shoulders, catching the firelight like it had been dipped in bronze.

“Heeey, Skywalker,” she purred, brushing her fingers along his arm with a confidence borrowed from booze and fleeting nights.

Anakin looked up with a small nod. Recognized her from school, vaguely. Padmé’s orbit. A satellite girl. “Sup,” he muttered with a half-smile, lifting the bottle to his lips again.

She leaned in close, her words slurring like a song caught in a warped tape. “You know I always liked you, right??? Like, Padmé didn’t deserve you…” At the sound of her name, Anakin’s smile cracked a little, like the first fracture in windshield glass. But he shook it off, forcing a shrug.

“Yeah, I know,” he said dryly. “You’re not the first one to tell me that.”

Cordé leaned more into him, fingers trailing over the rings on his hand—old silver, worn and nicked from too many nights punching through walls of emotion. “You deserve waaay better… I could m—”

Anakin pulled back, too fast, his body rejecting the contact before his mind could even process it.

“Look, Cordé,” he said, more tired than angry, “you’re a nice girl. Really. But I’m just here to try and forget…”

He looked over then, and of course, there she was—Padmé. Laughing like the ocean had whispered something sweet into her ear. Tucked under Clovis’ arm like she’d been there forever. Like she’d never belonged to him.

He stood up suddenly, the sand resisting his converse. His voice cut low. “Sorry, but I gotta go.”

Cordé blinked, confused. “Wait—where you going?” she called out, her words dissolving in the breeze.

“Doesn’t matter.” He said it sharp, like a closing door.

He walked away—storm-eyed and stiff-jawed—past the bonfire, past the haze of liquor and perfume, past all of it. Rex and Hunter spotted him, their relaxed posture shifting when they caught the flicker of fury in his silhouette. “Anakin, hey,” Rex called out, standing up. “Where you going, man?”

But Anakin didn’t stop. The tide was pulling him somewhere else—somewhere colder. Rex reached for his arm, and this time, it worked. Anakin turned, eyes dark and jaw tight. “Yeah—Rex, I gotta go.”

“No, you’re not going anywhere.” Rex’s voice rose, more from worry than command. Hunter stood behind him, arms folded, unreadable as always.

“What’s the matter with you, Anakin?” Hunter asked, stern and grounded like thunder. “You’ve been acting like a jerk all night.”

Anakin laughed bitterly, eyes wild and distant. “Sorry I’m not into sucking tits of girls tonight,” he said, sharp like broken glass.

But Rex saw through it. He always did. Saw the raw ache swimming just beneath the sarcasm.

Rex’s grip loosened, his voice softening. “Dude, this isn’t about girls, and you know it. This is about Padmé.”

Anakin didn’t speak. The firelight flickered across his face, casting shadows that looked too much like heartbreak.

“Look—- I didn’t know she was coming tonight,” Rex added gently. “I’m sorry, man. I think it was Sabé who brought her.” “It’s fine,” Anakin muttered, jaw working again. He stared out at the crowd, at them. “I should’ve known better than to come here anyway.”

Rex stepped forward, about to speak again, but Hunter’s hand landed on his shoulder like a warning bell. “Rex—if he doesn’t want to be here, we can’t force him.”

Rex clenched his jaw, frustrated. “But we invited him. He agreed. We can’t just let him leave like this.” He turned back to Anakin, voice quieter now—earnest. “Anakin, come on, dude. Just… please stay a bit longer, okay? We’ll keep you distracted. I promise.”

Anakin sighed, shoulders sagging like a wave had just passed through him. His fingers played absentmindedly with the rings on his hand—twisting them, like turning old regrets. “Not tonight, Rex…” His voice was quieter now, softened around the edges. “But I promise you, I’ll come to your next party. That’s a promise.”

And somehow, the way he said it made Rex believe him. The kind of promise that still sounded like Rumors spinning on a turntable—fleeting, maybe, but real in that moment.

Rex gave him a look—half proud, half broken. “Alright, man,” he said, stepping aside.

Anakin nodded and turned away, the sand cool under his feet, the sky too wide, the night too heavy.

Anakin walked back to his car, the ocean sounds dimming behind him as if the night itself was moving in slow motion. He’d had a few beers, sure—but his head was still clear enough to drive. Or at least, that’s what he told himself. The weight pressing down on his chest wasn’t the alcohol. It was something heavier, slower—something like regret soaked in gasoline.

He slipped into the driver’s seat with a sigh, the leather cold against his back. The cigarette found its home between his lips like it belonged there, and he lit it with a flick that had muscle memory behind it. The engine coughed, groaned, then roared to life—old and temperamental like some broken-down warhorse. The radio crackled on just as the cigarette’s cherry began to glow.

Nirvana buzzed through the static like a voice from inside his ribs. He tapped the wheel in rhythm, eyes narrowed, the wind threading through his hair like phantom fingers. Smoke curled around his face as the Charger hummed down the empty desert road. The stars above him were endless—flickering reminders that the universe didn’t care whether Padmé still loved him or not.

Then, there it was. That old gas station neon burning softly in the distance, glowing like a memory someone forgot to turn off. A familiar landmark on the map of his boyhood. He smirked a little—blue raspberry slushie, the unofficial cure for heartbreak since ’08. He flicked his cigarette out the window with a casual snap, embers scattering like fireflies in the wind, and pulled into the station with the kind of parking job that said, I’ve had a night.

Didn’t matter.

The bell above the door jingled as he walked in, the smell of oil, sugar, and faded linoleum wrapping around him like an old denim jacket. The place looked like it had been untouched since 1956—chrome stools, jukebox in the corner playing a half-slowed Elvis song, and faded pinup posters curled at the edges.

“Hey Dex,” he said, voice low and worn.

Behind the counter, the old man turned—grease-stained apron, hands thick like they’d held a thousand engines. His face broke into a grin, warm and wide. “Well, look who it is! Skywalker, my boy! Haven’t seen you around in a while. What brings you in tonight?”

Anakin chuckled softly, the sound more air than joy, and reached over the counter for a handshake. Dex’s hand was firm, familiar. The kind of grip that reminded Anakin there were still people in this world who remembered who he was before the heartbreak, before the detachment.

“Ah, just… craving a slushie and a pack of cigarettes,” he said, flicking his hair back with the edge of his hand.

Dex’s eyes twinkled with the kind of knowing that came from years of watching lost boys pretend they weren’t. “Ah, I get that. Sometimes you just need a little something to quiet the noise.”

He reached under the counter and slid a pack of cigarettes forward like it was an offering.

“And I remember you always loved my slushies. The blueberry one, wasn’t it?”

Anakin smirked, that rare kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He reached for his wallet inside his leather jacket. “It astonishes me more that you still remember.”

Dex waved him off with a slow shake of the head. “Please, my boy. It’s on the house. Call it a friendship tax write-off.”

He turned and began working on the slushie—one scoop, two, slow and methodical, as if even sadness deserved ceremony. Anakin leaned on the counter, letting himself breathe for the first time that night.

And then it happened.

The screech of tires outside shattered the stillness like a cymbal crash in a love song. Anakin’s eyes snapped to the window just in time to see a modern Mustang lurch to a stop—gleaming, expensive, arrogant. The passenger door burst open and a girl stumbled out, her voice cutting through the quiet like glass. “Fucking stupid manchild!” she yelled, full of venom and fire.

She slammed her heel against the door with all the force of a woman who’d had enough, then raised a middle finger as the Mustang peeled away in a scream of rubber and cowardice. She stood there, fists clenched, hair wild, silhouetted in the neon glow of the station like a fallen angel still burning from the fall.

Dex glanced out the window, brow raised. “Jesus,” he muttered. “Youngsters. Always so much anger and haste in their hearts."”

Anakin didn’t say anything. Just watched her, eyes fixed, a straw slowly finding its way back between his lips. anakin didn’t say anything, just looked blankly at the girl.

The girl was none other than Y/N Y/L/N—chaotic, sun-kissed, and burning like a fire left untended too long. Her presence was like a breeze laced with gasoline: beautiful, dangerous, and full of promise. She strutted into the station like she owned the damn place, her curls bouncing wildly with every furious step, catching in the neon glow. Her knotted white shirt clung to her chest like a forgotten summer memory. Her jean cut-offs were frayed and faded, high on her thighs like the edge of a secret.

Anakin watched her with that stunned, quiet look—like she was a ghost from a song he hadn’t played in years.

They had history, buried beneath layers of time, heat, and unspoken things.

Back then, they were kids on rusted bikes, daring each other to steal fire from the gods—or at least a Snickers bar from Dex’s. She always dared. He always followed. Summer nights filled with match flames, soda fizz, and laughter that echoed off the hollow skeletons of empty houses. He was wide-eyed, trying to be brave. She was barefoot with chalk on her palms and paint under her nails, already wild with the grief she didn’t yet know was coming.

Then time shifted. Like all things do. When her mom died, she disappeared from the inside out.

And Anakin? He went the other direction—louder, sharper, faster. Grease on his hands, silver rings on his fingers, anger he never named. She watched him from across the school halls. He never looked back.

Until now.

She walked in, barefaced and defiant, lips glossed cherry red like rebellion in a tube. She looked at the two men inside—one old, one made of shadows—and offered a sugar-slick “Evening, men,” like she hadn’t just been screaming outside like a thunderstorm in heels.

Dex raised his hand, smiling warmly. “Evening to you too, Miss Y/L/N.”

Anakin didn’t smile. He just gave her a nod. That Skywalker kind—part greeting, part warning, all unresolved memory. He felt something twist in his chest at the sight of her.

“What brings you here so late?” Dex asked, leaning onto the counter, eyes kind but shrewd.

Y/N shrugged, grabbing a pack of gum like it mattered, then turned on her heel—heels click click like gunshots across linoleum—and went to the fridge. The beer clinked softly as she grabbed one.“Eh, just getting something to drink,” she said, breezy as a summer lie.

Dex raised an eyebrow, his smile never quite leaving. “Just something to drink, huh? Are you sure you’re not running from something, kid?”

She walked back, the fridge door sighing shut behind her, and she set her things down beside Anakin’s slushie. Y/N looked like a movie character or like a hippie but with much femininity and risqué. but her personality was somehow, casual and free minded. chaotic even. She had rings on nearly every knuckle, mismatched like her moods. “Dex,” she said with a smirk, eyes gleaming, “if I were running from something, it wouldn’t be in these heels.”

Dex laughed, full and amused. “Touché. But you’re still full of it.”

Anakin stayed quiet. He was leaning on the counter, taking slow sips from his slushie, but his gaze had barely left her. She had that kind of gravity. Always did. A chaos that pulled without asking permission.

Y/N slid some money out from her bra with the same confidence as someone lighting a match. Casual. Intimate. Unapologetic.“Trust me,” she said, placing the money down beside her beer and gum, “this is the best option I’ve got right now.”

Then her eyes flicked to Anakin’s drink, lips curling into that familiar smirk. “Damn,” she said, voice dipped in dry sarcasm. “They let sad boys buy slushies now?”

Anakin’s jaw clenched slightly. He met her gaze without flinching, slushie straw still between his fingers. “You’re one to talk, princess. Last I heard, you were breaking hearts left and right.”

Y/N chuckled. Low, amused. She bent slightly, resting her elbow on the counter and chin in her hand like a cat playing with a bird. “Who said these rumors?” she said.

Everyone in school knew the real stories. Padmé had left Anakin. Then started to date Clovis. And Y/N? She was the girl who never stayed. Summer flings like cigarettes—quick, intoxicating, and over before the pack ran out.

But between her smirk and his quiet intensity, something hung in the air that neither beer nor slushie could cool.

Maybe it was the ghosts of bike rides and stolen candy. Maybe it was the fact that they never really said goodbye. Maybe it was just that they were both tired of pretending the past didn’t exist.

Dex, ever the oracle behind the counter, just watched them in silence.

Anakin looked at the crumpled bills in her hand, his gaze lingering a moment too long over the lines of her wrist, the chipped polish, the rings she always wore like armor. Then his eyes flicked back to her face—calm, unreadable. He rolled his eyes with the same nonchalance he’d perfected over the years.

“You know how gossip spreads in this town,” he said, voice low and flat. “But let’s not pretend, Y/L/N—you’ve always had your fair share of flings.”

Y/N grabbed her beer and gum, her eyes soft but casual—those doe eyes that always masked sharp thoughts. “Lord,” she said, arching a brow, “because it’s a crime to have a bit of fun in life, right?”

Anakin shook his head, a dry laugh undercutting the tension. But there was a flicker of something—irritation, maybe. Or something less honest.

“I never said it was a crime,” he said, his voice a little tighter. “But there’s a difference between having fun and using people. Or are you too busy having fun to care about that?”

Y/N said nothing at first. Just placed a fingertip—ringed and casual—on the top of her beer. She twisted it with one smooth motion, the cap popping off with a small hiss of rebellion.

“Oh, come on, Skywalker,” she said, voice cool, amused. “I don’t break hearts. That’s not really my thing.”

And it was true. Her reputation wasn’t for destruction. It was detachment. No false promises, no lingering stares in the hallway the next morning. Just soft lips, tangled sheets, and the unspoken agreement that some people weren’t meant to stay.

Anakin snorted. He had that same half-smirk now, the one he wore like a defense mechanism.

“Right,” he said, a little bitter. “No-strings-attached, that’s your thing, isn’t it? Just in it for your own pleasure.”

Y/N stepped closer, pressing the cold beer can lightly against his chest. Her voice didn’t rise, her gaze didn’t waver.

“Hey, man,” she said, flat and honest. “I’m not the one who broke your heart, alright? So don’t throw your sad-boy lectures at me. Save it for that chick who actually hurt you.”

The smirk dropped off his face for half a second. Just long enough for the honesty to cut through.

He looked down at the beer, then up again. “And why do you care?” he asked, voice quieter now. “Shouldn’t you be off with one of your flings—having fun, not giving a damn about anyone else?”

Y/N gave a crooked grin, taking a long sip from the bottle. “I wanted to,” she said with a shrug. “But my fling turned out to be an asshole.”

And with that, she turned back to Dex, flashing a grin that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Thanks, Dex!” she called, stepping backward, her shoulders still squared.

Then she pushed open the door with the curve of her back, and the desert air swallowed her whole. The door closed with a soft thud, and Anakin stood there, slushie in hand, heart pacing like a slow drum against his ribs. Anger. Confusion. A strange, magnetic ache that never really left when it came to her.

Dex had been watching all along. Like he always did. Quiet eyes, kind mouth. The man had seen more heartbreak in his diner than a whole town’s worth of country songs. “You and Miss Y/L/N, huh?” Dex said, wiping the counter down with a rag. “Some tense there?”

Anakin scoffed lightly, stirring the bottom of his slushie with the straw. “A bit,” he said. Then shook his head. He didn’t think. He just moved.

The door creaked again as he stepped out, gravel crunching beneath his converse. The night was cooler now, the neon lights from the gas station flickering in lazy hues—blue, gold, red—like a half-forgotten dream trying to stay alive.

She was standing just outside, beer on the ground, a cigarette perched between her lips like a worn-in habit. The breeze pushed her curls back slightly, the smoke curling up toward the stars like a prayer no one meant to say out loud.

She didn’t look surprised to see him. “Oh,” Y/N said with a smirk, eyes flicking to him sidelong. “Missed me already?”

Anakin didn’t answer. He just walked over and stood beside her, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the dark horizon.

Y/N picked up her beer again and took a sip, letting the cigarette rest between her fingers. The music inside the station buzzed faintly through the door—Fleetwood Mac still crooning out into the night.

Anakin finally spoke, barely above a whisper. “You still smoke menthols?”

Y/N gave a soft laugh through her nose. “Only when I’m mad,” she said. “Or nostalgic.”

Anakin nodded once, watching the smoke disappear into the desert sky.

“Well,” he said, his voice half-joking, half-sincere, “you always did mix chaos with charm.”

Y/N smoked slow and steady, arms crossed over her chest like armor, the cigarette dancing between her fingers as she extended the pack toward him. “Definitely,” she said, voice lazy like a cat in the sun. “You changed though.”

Anakin took the pack, their fingers brushing—just enough to short-circuit something in him for half a second. He struck a match against his boot heel and lit up, the flare of orange flickering in his eyes.

“Changed, huh?” he asked, exhaling the first drag like a sigh. “In what way?”

Y/N walked toward the curb, cigarette hanging from her lips, her hair catching the breeze like wildfire. The white of her shirt glowed under the low light, and those jean shorts did nothing to help his already scattered thoughts.

She didn’t look back when she answered. “This super-wannabe-greaser version of you,” she said plainly, dropping down onto the curb, legs crossed. She didn’t say it cruel—just the kind of honest only she could get away with.

Anakin followed, slower, quieter. Watched the way she sat like she owned the sidewalk, the stars, the whole damn desert if she wanted to.

He sat beside her, elbows resting on his knees. “So…Skywalker,” she said after a beat, taking a sip of her beer, “why are you really here? Sippin’ that heartbroken slushie like a sad movie extra?”

Anakin chuckled, surprised she remembered what he always ordered. “What can I say? Sometimes a man just needs frozen blueberry to deal with a broken heart.”

Y/N popped a piece of gum into her mouth and grinned. “Ah, now we’re admitting we’re heartbroken.” She tilted her head at him, half-smirk playing at her glossed lips. “That slushie’s turning your cold heart into a sweet one.”

He laughed, the sound loose for the first time in weeks. “Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. You’re just jealous my slushie’s better than your beer.”

She sipped it defiantly. “Nope. My beer relaxes me. Your slushie’s just brain freeze in a cup.”

She set the bottle down, turned toward him slightly. “So, why aren’t you at your homies’ party?”

Anakin leaned back, fingers splayed across the pavement. “Just needed a breather. Couldn’t deal with all the noise and drunken idiots.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Mmm. Liar.”

He blinked, caught off guard. “What makes you think that?”

She chewed her gum slowly, tapping ash from her cigarette like it was punctuation.

“Because I know when someone’s lying. And you? You left because Padmé was there.”

Anakin’s expression darkened. His jaw tensed like old reflex. He looked away, letting the smoke drift from his lips instead of answering. “So what if I did?” he muttered. “Why do you care?”

Y/N lifted her hands like a peace sign. “Chill, I’m not here to clown on your heartbreak.”

She crossed her bare legs, cool as ever.

Anakin sighed, the weight dropping out of his chest a little. He looked over at her, and this time there was something raw behind his eyes. “I just… I can’t seem to escape her. Even when I try.”

Y/N didn’t answer right away. She watched him—really watched him—but kept her face still. The same face that used to laugh until it ached on hot summer nights. It was weird, talking to him again. But then again, her night was already shot. Her so-called fling turned out to be a first-class jerk with zero rhythm.

She sipped her beer again, then wrinkled her nose like she remembered something sour.

“Yeah, well, let me tell you—Clovis? Not good in bed.”

Anakin choked on a laugh, head whipping toward her. “Nice to know I’m not the only one with a vendetta.” His smirk was back now, crooked and dangerous, but warmer than it had been in days.

Y/N shot him a sly grin, but her eyes stayed out on the highway. “Why’d she dump you anyway?”

Anakin exhaled hard. His cigarette burned low between his fingers. “She said she wanted to focus on herself. Her ambitions. Said we were holding each other back.”

Y/N clicked her tongue, unimpressed. “Damn. That’s some Hallmark movie excuse right there.”

He chuckled again, shaking his head. “You’re preaching to the choir. Clovis is a total ass.”

He took one last drag, flicked the bud out into the dark, watching the ember fizzle against the gravel.

Y/N looked up at the sky, eyes glassy under the haze of citylight and desert stars. “Yeah—I slept with him twice. Only ‘cause I needed his homework.” She said it like it was no big deal, like it was just another Tuesday.

Anakin stared at her, half-shocked. “Wait. You slept with him for homework?”

Y/N grinned, wicked and proud. “I’m a genius.” She sipped her beer, gum snapping softly. “Besides, I hated Mrs. Jocasta. And Clovis kept bragging about his grades, so I figured—might as well get something out of it.”

Anakin was still recovering from that bombshell when she turned the conversation again, voice soft but cutting.

“Anyway—listen, Skywalker. She’s not worth it.” She met his eyes now, fully. No smirks. No gum popping. “I mean it. Padmé’s like every other girl in this high school. Polished on the outside, but not a clue how to love someone who doesn’t fit in a pretty little box.”

Anakin’s stare held hers, long and unreadable. Something in him wanted to argue, maybe even defend Padmé. But more of him was tired. Tired of pretending it didn’t sting. Tired of playing it cool when all he wanted was something real. “I just… I don’t know. Thought she was different, ya know?”

Y/N turned to him, softer now. Maybe it was the beer, maybe it was the wind, maybe it was just old muscle memory kicking in from nights long gone. She wanted to understand—maybe not to heal him, but at least to hear him. “What did you even like about her?” she asked, not judgmental. Just curious. Like trying to understand a song someone kept on repeat.

Anakin leaned back, shoulders folding in like a wilted paperback. “Everything, I guess. She was smart. Kind. Beautiful—like she stepped out of a dream I wasn’t supposed to have. She just… got me. Saw through all my bullshit and still wanted me anyway.”

Y/N gave a slow nod, cigarette balanced between her fingers like an afterthought. “Huh—sounds romantic. How long were you two doing that heartbreak waltz?”

He looked away, the horizon smearing into amber and shadows. “Not as long as I wanted. Off and on for a while. But… two years, officially.”

Y/N let out a theatrical gasp, almost offended on his behalf. “Damn.” Her voice carried down the street like a thrown match. “That’s, like—- okay you know, It’s okay to cry about her,—two years is a lot.”

Anakin chuckled, low and rough. “Nah, I won’t cry about her. She doesn’t deserve my tears.”

But even as he said it, the ache behind his eyes told on him.

Y/N raised a skeptical brow, eyes narrowing. “Yeah, that nonchalant look? Doesn’t work on you.” She pointed a polished nail at his face. “The evidence is here, dumbass.” Her finger hovered near the tired smudges under his eyes.

Anakin sighed, dragging a hand through his already-messy hair. The weight sat heavy in his bones. “I guess I can’t fool you.”

“Never could,” she said, lips curled into that signature crooked grin. “And also—come on, you’re too pretty to pout for free.”

Anakin rolled his eyes, but a smirk tugged at his lips. “You really know how to boost a guy’s ego, don’t you? First I’ve got heartbreaker eyes, now I’m too pretty to pout?”

Y/N shrugged, dramatic as ever, pouting for emphasis. “And it worked. I know men more than you realize.” She stood up with a theatrical sigh, brushing off imaginary dust from her shorts. Her beer clinked lightly against the curb as she stepped out onto the street to glance around.

Anakin watched her with amusement. “Oh really? And what exactly do you know about men?” he asked, lifting a brow.

She raised her hand, thumb pointing out, eyes scanning the road. “That if I do this,” she said, smirking, “someone will stop.”

Anakin blinked. “You think just sticking your thumb out is enough?”

“It’s worked a couple times,” she said with a smirk and a shrug.

Anakin raised his brow, mildly impressed despite himself. “Well, look at you. Hitchhiking queen.”

Y/N nodded, hair catching the breeze like something out of an old photograph. “Man, I wish I could show you my trick—but it’s too late to catch a ride now.” She glanced down at him, still sitting curbside like some brooding James Dean knockoff.

Anakin smirked, letting the moment stretch. “Oh no, now I feel like I’m missing out. What’s this magical trick of yours?”

Y/N fidgeted with her shirt—tying the knot a bit tighter beneath her chest. It left her collarbones bare, skin sun-kissed and glowing under the flickering streetlamp. A very 70s look—half western, half rebellion. “To catch a ride home,” she said, matter-of-fact. “’Cause these heels? They’re not made to walk a mile.”

Anakin’s gaze flickered down—lingered a second too long. Her skin, the curve of her ribs, the exposed midriff. He looked away quickly, lips twitching. “Well,” he cleared his throat, “if you’re looking for a ride, I guess I can’t let a damsel in distress walk home in those heels.”

Y/N turned, faking a scandalized frown. “Wow. Damsel? Really? You just called me a helpless maiden?” But the corner of her mouth curled into a grin anyway. “…but I’ll take the offer though.”

She walked toward his car. Anakin stood slowly, brushing dust from his jeans, arms crossed as he watched her. “Don’t get used to it. This is a one-time deal.”

She tugged the door handle—stuck. Of course it was. “Yeah, don’t worry,” she said dryly, yanking harder. “Your car’s a piece of junk.”

Anakin walked up beside her, laughing under his breath. “It’s vintage, thank you very much.”

She raised an eyebrow. “It’s rust with wheels.” He popped the lock with a practiced hand and opened it for her. “Ladies first.” She gave him a side glance, dramatic as hell, then slid into the seat with an exaggerated groan.

“So,” she said as he circled the hood and got in, “where’s the playlist? Or are we driving in depressing silence like a sad film?”

Anakin grinned, key turning in the ignition, engine sputtering to life. “You think I drive around without Fleetwood Mac ready to go?”

Her laugh cracked the night open like a bottle. “Skywalker, you softie.”

The desert swallowed them as the music started, tires rolling into the dusk like they belonged to it.

📀 HELLLOOOOO, i am back! I am super excited to release the first pilot to my new series, which I am currently writing on.... c.ia. (no judgement pls.) but I loved the story so much, I had to share it. so this is the first glance to a summer love with flaws and cigarettes. have fun with it, and fell in love with y/n as I do, cause we love complex girls!

📀taglist: @blackynsupremacy @speaknow-sw @alelo23 @collywobblvs @newnewtheicon @angelsgalore @tvdelrey @girldisaster2007 @tinainaction @mariswxt @crazycaoticsimp @star-wars-stuff-1

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