#...and THIS TIME THEY FINALLY GET IT RIGHT. RIGHT? | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

tonycries · 5 hours ago

Text

Type Dangerous - R.S.

Synopsis. Five times Ryomen Sukuna’s “wingmanning” family is the biggest cóckbIock in existence, and the one time he finally gets what he wants - you, his nephew’s hot preschool teacher.

Pairing. Ryomen Sukuna x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem!teacher!reader, 5 + 1 things, Itadori family shenanigans, unckuna, he has the BIGGEST crush on you, making him blush, face-ríding, síxty-nine, Sukuna with tattoos, PÚSSYDRÚNK Sukuna, he goes feraI, p sIapping, p talking, he’s BIG, chokíng, tummy buIges, manhandIing, dúmbifícation, creampíes, through pantíes, cúmplay, slight bréeding, getting together, nosy families, lowkey crackfic, pet names, swéaring.

Word count. 12.6k

A/N. HEHE TOLD Y’ALL I’D WRITE IT…

“This is my uncle, he just got out of jail.”

“Hell yeah.” Not the most courteous introduction to Yuji’s wide-eyed lil’ friends - but if Jin had bugged n’ blackmailed him into picking the brat up from preschool today then he was going to make sure it never happens again.

And as Yuji starts swinging from Sukuna’s broad, beefy biceps, he grins at his miniature crowd. “He also has tattoos and likes to drink.”

“Hell yeah- don’t forget about the cars, twerp.” Sukuna’s nodding, breezing past the horrified faces of parents that tugged their children at least seven feet away. Seriously, how long was this teacher going to take? He could see your back hunched by another corner of the classroom, hugging a sniffly student goodbye.

“Oh yeah- and he likes driving fast and slashing tires.”

You straighten, probably hearing every word - not that he cared, Sukuna couldn’t imagine who’d want to be around this all day. “Hell ye- oh.”

Until you turned his way.

And Ryomen Sukuna feels his heart drop- right along with the muscular right arm that was stuck out for Yuji to climb all over like a handlebar. And with it, his nephew.

Who seems quite disgruntled at his sudden meeting with the soft, padded floor of the preschool classroom, standing on his own two feet for the first time since Sukuna had arrived here. He furrows his light brows, “Hey- wha’s the big- oh! Teacher!”

Seems like it runs in the family, Sukuna muses - because all it takes is one glimpse of you starting to head their way before Yuji lights up as brightly as the Sun itself. And to Sukuna, whose nephew was a perpetual Christmas tree, it almost made him wish he wore his usual shades.

At least that would’ve hid the way his crimson eyes sweep up n’ down your figure, languidly. Breath stuttered, mouth partly agape.

Sukuna’s utterly forgetting himself before he’s called out by one of Yuji’s friends- a squeaky, orange-haired girl no older than five. “Ewwww- why are you red?”

“Shut it, bob-cut.”

“So—” Perfect timing, you sidle up to the bustling little group right as Sukuna spits out the tail end of his sentence. A brow of yours raised, bob-cut?

And oh- you’re even more perfect up close. Is it really too late for him to enroll in preschool? He didn’t see any age restrictions around, and he could count till ten, surely. Genuinely considering, he’s gulping at the way your pretty eyes narrow. “Jin’s not here today? Yuji, do you know this man?”

The boy in question bounces with excitement, “Of course! This is Sukuna, my uncle who just got out of jail and drives fast cars.”

“Ah- ahah.” Said Sukuna chuckles gingerly, eyes flitting between his beaming nephew and your blank expression. Finally settling on the kid, “Yuji! What have I told you about uh- the benefits of um- safe driving and caring for our fellow civilians on the road?”

And there was Sukuna’s first mistake - asking a question, because surely that was a sign for Yuji to nod solemnly. “That it’s for lame pussies who- mmpf!”

“Ah…” You blink.

The damage was already done- but Sukuna’s clapping a meaty palm over Yuji’s mouth already. Oh, he was smashing this kid’s iPad when they’re home. A thin line of nervous sweat beads down his temple as he stares up at you, “K-kids these days, right, ma’am?”

Yuji frowns, “But you do call them lame pussies who-”

“Yuji!”

“Right right, miss.” The lively girl from before - Kugisaki, he thinks her name was - latches onto your swaying skirts. “And he also likes to drink.”

“And slash tires.”

“Tuna mayo.”

The crowd mercifully quietens down for a split-second. “…”

Until a grumpy black-haired boy peeks through his bangs at that last line, as if translating. “He says he also sets fires.”

Sukuna never said that - but he doesn’t get a single chance to say so. Too busy staring at the constant knit of your brows, the way your gaze was darting from the children to Sukuna like a tennis match, trying to bite back a smile. “I-is that so?”

“And he has a lotta tattoos.” Yuji pries off his uncle’s muffling palm, back to climbing him like his very own jungle gym. As if to prove his point, he pokes the bulging band of black ink that encircles Sukuna’s bicep. “See?”

And if he was any less devastated about making himself look like an absolute fool in front of his nephew’s pretty preschool teacher, then maybe he’d have noticed that look in your eyes.

Maybe.

Maybe he’d have seen the slight glint in them as you followed Yuji’s pudgy, directing finger - from the wide tattoos at his biceps, to his wrist, to the circles peeking through Sukuna’s off-white undershirt. So tight that it was like the pale color was nearly painted onto him- if Itadori Jin was the sweet, soft single dad that was always early for pick-up, then Sukuna was just rugged.

From the dishevelled state of his twinning rosy hair, to the studded piercing on his left earlobe, to the naturally-honed muscles that made him look hulking.

And it almost seemed like you were…checking him out? But surely that was a figment of Sukuna’s imagination, right? Right?

You’re nodding as Yuji looks to you impatiently for approval, “Why, you’re quite right, Yuji.” The corners of your glossed lips curl upwards as you turn to Sukuna - and he feels electricity pang down his body. “Uncles these days, huh?”

Ah, he was gone for.

It was almost a comical sight, you’re thinking - such a large, towering man well over six feet, speechlessly gawking at you. Leaned forwards, ears red; barely even registering the way his nephew grabs onto the tufts of his coral pink hair like a horse- whispering for the rest of his friends to join in.

Kugisaki makes two treks grabbing onto his sides before she’s looking up and crinkling her nose, “Ew. You’re red again, Mr. Felon.”

“He’s not Mr. Felon, he’s Mr. Tire-slasher.”

Yuji shakes his head, “No, he’s Mr. Mugshot.” Seated upon Sukuna’s broad shoulders, the boy adjusts his body to stick a hand inside his backpack and search. “Would you like to see the mugshot, miss-”

“Okay, time for us to get home.”

Firmly, Sukuna tries to shoo away the army of toddlers trying to climb him as gently as possible - only four glares, now that’s a record. Nephew still on his back, bag now wrestled into his hand and well away from where Yuji could procure any printouts of his (admittedly flattering) mugshot.

He’s feeling his heartbeat pick up just a lil’ as he darts his eyes back to you, “I-it was just probation, by the way. Happened to slash some uh- tires…”

“And also drive fast!” Yuji pipes up happily.

“…That too.” Grouchy face wincing at the amused smile on your face- goddammit he’s never going to be able to show his face here ever again. Sukuna simpers out a wave, making sure to flex his chiseled biceps at you ever-so-slightly - if he couldn’t keep reputation, at least he could make you stare. “See you ‘round, teach.”

“See you around, Mr. Mugshot.”

Fuck.

“I thought I said I’m not doing shit for the brat’s school again.”

Jin patiently gestures for him to hush with the swearing in front of the gaggle of children, humming as he keeps handing out sugar cookies - half-off for dealing with Sukuna’s shoddy customer service. “Well, technically, we’re not in the preschool. We’re in the park.”

His younger brother seethes, flicking the ribbons of his pretty pink apron (Jin’s doing, of course.) “Having a damn bake sale-”

“Shush, Ryo. There are children around.”

“Exactly my point!” Was Sukuna the crazy one? He must be the crazy one. And he’s running a grumpy hand through his unruly pink locks- before remembering that one of those damn kids running around this bake sale had called him cotton-candy head and now he’s both irritated and unable to self-soothe.

It’d been Jin’s idea to drag him to the preschool bake sale, held at the nearby children’s park- something about raising money for a talent show.

Honestly, fuck talent shows. It didn’t even take two minutes surrounded by all the fanfare for him to have half the mind to eat those sweet treats himself and just leave-

“Oh hey, you’re Mr. Mugshot.” A little boy wearing a panda mask, one he’s never even seen before, points up at him and giggles as Sukuna glares. Did that nickname really spread?

He’s bending over their frilly pink stall with a damn good word or two about-

“Oh! Jin, thank you for coming.” Before he’s hearing the sound of the pearly gates of heaven, and an angel to accompany right along with it. You. Who’d silently meandered up to their cookie stand with an expression of both delight and concern. Your gorgeous mouth pursing as you stop to think, “And…Sukuna, right? Thank you, too, the children really appreciate the work you’re putting in.”

You remembered his name. He has to hold back a squeal.

“A-ah, yeah- yeah! Of course, of course.” He’s swiftly leaning over the stall, arms crossed so that you can fully take in the way they streeetch his tight sleeveless turtleneck.

In the faint distance - honestly, it feels like miles away - he’s hearing the panda-mask boy unsubtly whisper something to his father about how ‘Mr. Mugshot has turned red.’

Not! Obviously not- smooth. Ryomen Sukuna is supposed to be smooth, and he’s desperately attacking his features into something that resembles suave nonchalance. “I’m a…real philanthropic type of guy, y’know?” Cocking his head with a smug grin, “So, you come ‘round here often?”

You’re smirking, your giggle sounding like his favorite song. “Well, it is my preschool class.”

Ah, shit. His eyes widen just a fraction, right.

Scoffing, “Tch, uh, yeah. I knew that.”

So many days spent mentally praying that yet another one of Jin’s work meetings went over time again - just so that Sukuna would have an excuse to see your pretty face. And that’s the first thing he says?

Suddenly, he’s too aware of the ogling toddlers, of the snug pink apron that he was currently donning - and the way your eyes seem to stray down to the gaudy bow settled between his pecs.

At this point, it seems even his brother takes pity on him. Adjusting his glasses with a soft chuckle, “It seems Ryo here had the greatest time at pick-up last week, he only had good things to say about you, ma’am.”

You blink in slight surprise, eyes taking in Sukuna’s large, fidgeting figure. “I’m quite flattered.”

Yes! Sukuna’s pleading eyes snap to the interested twinkle in your eyes, and then to the other man- yes, keep going!

“Of course, Yuji did tell me he was upset he didn’t get to show you his printed mugshot of him. It was all that he could-”

Fuck no!

Catching the other’s urgent eyes, Jin sputters- “B-but- but, it was just a little vandalism, of course. Just a little ah…a little driving and- eek!” Cutting himself off promptly as soon as Sukuna steps down on Jin’s foot, syllables stumbling, looking ‘round anywhere for any distraction. “Why don’t you- ah! Why don’t you give our lovely teacher here a cookie, Sukuna. Free of charge.”

You’re waving your hands, oh-so-sweetly, “I could never, please let me pay-”

“Nah, a pretty girl like you? I should give you more, ma.” He could give you a totally different type of cookie but this might just not be the place to say those words out loud- ah, he’s still got it.

Sukuna’s thumbing out the biggest baked treat between a fluffy tissue and handing it over to you- ready to feel the sweet, sweet graze of your fingertips, if he was lucky.

But oh- it seems like the gates of heaven really have just opened up to him, because instead of taking it from his hands, you’re leaning down and taking a bite. Straight from where he held it. Humming as the candied taste floods your mouth, the soft pushness of your lips taps against the edge of his thumb.

And he wonders how they’d feel on his lips, instead.

“Ah, sorry.” You’re taking a peek at him through your lashes and maybe he doesn’t still have it because Sukuna feels his breath hitch. “It just looked so good, and my hands are a little…”

And it’s only then that he’s noticing just how many boxes upon bags of things you’d bought from nearly every stall here. Happy to support your students - oh, you really were an angel.

“Oh, let me.” Ever the gentleman, Jin hastens to move around a few bags so that you’re more comfortable. All while Sukuna can only hold out the cookie and freeze. Slack-jawed.

Completely ridiculous.

He doesn’t move a single millimeter, not even when you’re now able to easily grasp the baked good from him. Expectantly waiting, palm raised - while he only ogles you.

“I uh- let me just-” And it takes Itadori Jin both hands to pry the crumbling cookie from Sukuna’s hands, sighing before wrapping up about two more in apology and handing them over to you. “We do hope you like them, ma’am.”

“Mhm—” Rubbing over the crumbs at the edge of your lower lip with one hand, you look dead-set on Sukuna as you murmur. “It was delicious. My compliments to the chef.”

Sukuna might not have been the chef - baker, whatever you said goes - it was Jin, but he can’t help but feel on top of the world as if he was. Waiting just until you’re out of sight, walking through the sunny Spring park up to the next parent-manned stand, to pump his fist with a low ‘hell yeah!’

“Ryo, you haven’t been this smitten since- well, ever.”

“Daddy, Mr. Mugshot is really weird.”

Sukuna whirls at a few staring parents- “The fuck are you lookin’ at?”

“Remind me why you’re here again?”

Arguing with a thirteen-year-old wasn’t very high on Sukuna’s bucket list, and yet, it seemed to happen on a nearly daily basis. He would blame middle school for being the root of Choso’s attitude, but he suspects the new emo look has something to do with it, too.

And maybe the fact that the older man was accompanying one of his weekly visits to Yuji’s preschool playground. Cutting off just the last of Friday’s classes just so that he could walk down the street to see his little brother. Despite seeing him at home every day, but still.

That’s also what Sukuna himself was here for- of course. Why else would he-

“Ah ah- Kugisaki, what have I told you about using the toy construction hammer for things other than construction? We don’t hit, m’kay?”

Sighing, the way that Sukuna’s towering frame leans against the playground’s cherry blossom tree for support draws such disgust from Choso. Dark eyes flickering between his blushing uncle, and you - in the middle of the sand pit, trying to wrangle a class of toddlers. “You’re pathetic.”

“Shut it, scrawny.”

“Why don’t you just talk to her?”

Sukuna’s life flashes before his very eyes, and strangely it’s mainly made up of every moment where he’s embarrassed himself in front of you. Looking away with a huff, “It’s…complicated.”

The other snickers, “Well, it’s about to get a whole lot more complicated because she’s coming up to us right now.”

Oh, fuck.

Now, he might have had the sense to ‘accidentally’ bump into his oldest nephew just as he was on his route to meet Yuji (Sukuna had memorized his schedule, sauntering by this very block for an hour until he’d run into Choso) - but he didn’t have enough wit for this.

Conversations? With both parties and a classroom of preschoolers participating?

He was just about ready to race right out of here and leave Choso to the wolves-

“Cho! You’re here as always.” You’re smiling as you waltz up to them, a neat line of toddlers following you as they would a mother duck. Hitting him with your scent of flowers n’ the sunniest of days, “And I see you’ve brought along a guest with you- how are you, Sukuna?”

“F-fine.” F-fine? With a stutter? Sukuna simply bristles at the smirk his nephew shoots his way, already feeling the tips of his pierced ears start to scald bright hot.

“Bubba!”

Saved by the bell-like shriek of Yuji, enough to make Choso take a few steps over and hug his toddling brother so tight that the former squeals. Checking him over for scratches, dust, stickers- you name it.

You’re catching the raise of Sukuna’s brows and chuckle, “He is always quite the attentive older brother. You should join us more often, I’m sure Yuji would enjoy having his favorite uncle around.”

Mouth dry, “I’m- I’m his only uncle.”

Yet, your grin still stands - a slight knowing curve in them that makes his brain fuzzy, and his lips just a bit too loose. Did he say he liked drinking again? What a fucking lie, you got him more buzzed than a shot of straight vodka pumping through his nerves.

And he’s finding himself reaching over to brush a stray petal of cherry-pink from your crown. Blurting out before he can stop himself, “Hey…so what’s your ty- I mean, are you seeing any-”

“She’s mine!” Cuts off an annoying, grating voice - one that understood what you evidently didn’t, with the few syllables that Sukuna had been able to croak out.

And he’s looking over your shoulder to find himself being stared down (stared up at?) by a boisterous, buzz-cut boy slightly older than Yuji. Protectively standing behind you as he glared daggers, “When I’m old like you, she shall be my bride, Mr. Mugshot.”

Huh.

You’re droning out in your nicest tone, wagging your finger. “Now now, Todo Aoi, what have I told you about not proposing to your teachers?”

“To not.”

“And what are you doing?”

“Proposing.” Stifling a sigh, you realise that it would be yet another chat with Todo’s guardian about the boy’s harmless little puppy crush.

But before you can direct the conversation back towards anything else, he’s stabbing an accusing index up at Sukuna’s looming frame. “Miss teacher here-” Not quite your name, but close enough. “-and my sweet idol Takada-chan are the only ones I shall marry. You can’t have either!”

“Who the hell…” Sukuna furrows his brows- what was this boy talking about? “Listen, kid, I-”

“Pffft–!” He could recognize that burst of muffled laughter anywhere, and at least Choso was having a grand ol’ time- whispering to Yuji, “Don’t you think this is like those late-night dramas dad pretends not to watch?”

No! Sukuna’s internally groaning.

“Oh- oh yeah!” An over-hearing Kugisaki bounces at the mention of dramas, “My mommy watches those. Times like this the two guys will fight over the pretty girl.”

Todo puffs up his chest, “Then fight me, old man- I demand a duel!”

“I’m not even thirty?”

“That’s old.” Choso nods.

“You’re thirteen.”

“I’m five!” Yuji jumps up, and immediately his older brother’s pulling his phone out to snap a few hundred photographs at the cuteness.

Todo stomps, “Fight me, fossil–”

And his young nephew - that traitor - is the next one to shrill with glee at the altercation, clapping his hands once Todo charges forward with a damn war cry to pummel Sukuna’s abs with hits about as fierce as cotton. “Fight! Fight! Fight!”

At the slight raise of your brows at the chaos, Sukuna rushes to explain, “Please excuse my nephew’s behaviour, ma’am, I don’t know where he got it from-”

Choso deadpans, “But you’re the one that taught us that the best talk is to talk with your fists because-” The two brothers turn to each other in unison, as if preaching the truth and nothing but the truth. “-we’re no weakass bi-”

“Their father.” Sukuna grits out- okay, maybe that kid’s punches were getting a little more painful. Or maybe it was just the way you were cocking your head at him that made his stomach churn, “Surely.”

“Defend the honor of your woman, geriatric–!”

Seemingly snapping out of the little reverie of taking in whatever the fuck this was, you clap your hands in that teacherly way to demand silence. “Alright alright, break it up. You wouldn’t want me to take down any of your star points, would you, Aoi?” Tugging away the boy from Sukuna, you grimace up at him. “I’m so sorry about all of- well- this.”

Waving off- remember, Sukuna, nonchalance. Nonchalance. “Don’t worry about it, mama.”

“Y’know how they apologize to each other in the dramas?” Kugisaki speaks up, and honestly, this girl really did speak up at the most inopportune times. She glows at all the attention on her, “They kiss.”

And she was a genius.

An absolute genius, bob-cut!

Yuji - ever his lil’ ally - starts pumping his fist with whoots- “Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!”

Starting up a slight chant within your group, you turn to him in question.

“I uh…” Sukuna starts, tilting his body down ever-so-slightly, until you could could nearly every thread on his dark hoodie. The way his slashing tattoos framing his jaw ripple as he gulps, “You don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to, ma- that’s assuming you wanted to do something, and what I meant was-”

It was one second. A singular, heavenly second that your lips graze the right side of Sukuna’s cheek as he rambled - fluttering away right before his skin started to scorch with a blush.

Quite frankly, fuck nonchalance.

“Ewww, he’s red again. What’s wrong with him?”

“Were you this red when you were setting fires, Mr. Mugshot?”

“He looked nothing like this in his mugshot- wanna see?”

“Salmon.”

Ears tinting a shade that matches his hair, voicebox void of any coherent words, Sukuna barely even functions until he’s hearing the sharp ka-chick! of a camera shutter. Whirling his head ‘round to find Choso with his phone pointed at him, catching him in all his flustered glory. “I’ll send it to the family groupchat.” He turns to you. “And to you on the preschool groupchat.”

Imagine Sukuna’s surprise when he finds you nodding, “Mhm, oh, and I should really be getting the kids back now, it’s almost time for the bell.” Making the kids waddle into a neat line once more, you wave. “Thank you for the visit- do come again, it was quite…interesting.”

And they stare - Choso at Yuji, Sukuna at you - as you and your classroom disappear back within the preschool walls. “No phone for you for two weeks.”

“No hot teacher’s number for you forever.”

Only after a second- “Hey- hey kid. Show me that number again? I’ll make it one week.”

Sukuna had almost, mercifully, forgotten about that damn talent show.

The bake sale? Gaping at you for nearly five full minutes straight? Never happened.

And he’d almost convinced himself of that- until the time came for him to be seated right on the very front row of the cozy preschool auditorium. Taking up nearly three chairs as he squeezes himself into the humble seat, arms crossed and scowling.

“You know…” Jin claps as Yuji and Kugisaki fight to clamber onto stage first, with a reluctant Fushiguro in tow. About to showcase whatever it is that they’d been practising with doves and sticks all week. From the corner of his mouth, “When we had the kiddos over, Megs told me something very interesting the other day.”

“Hm.” Sukuna’s grunts noncommittally when Yuji pulls out a comically large fairy wand - ah, a magic show.

“Something about you duelling with a kid for the hand of a certain someone.”

Letting out a strangled groan, his eyes immediately find you - as they always seemed to do. Stuck on the way you were kneeled by the front of the stage, motivating each little performer tonight. “Y-ya don’t say…”

Jin beams, “You know, you should really ask her out, Ryo- oh! Do you need our help? I can tell you this, the Itadori family makes great wingmen.”

“Ya don’t say.”

Tattletale, Sukuna’s grousing. And just as Fushiguro Megumi finds himself being stuffed into a box - to be sawed in half as all good magicians did, apparently - the older man slowly, menacingly pulls out his prized camcorder.

Just in time for Fushiguro to glance over and have his face pale at the blinking, recording lens.

“After all, Megumi did say you were blushing like a- what was it- ‘maiden in love’ that day. How cute.”

“Ya don’t say.” Sukuna zooms in, right on the black-haired boy’s ashen face once the saw raises high in the air to magically cut him in half. And to make things even worse, he starts pointing at his camera, mouthing through a grin, ‘Oh yes.’ At Fushiguro’s slight shake of his head. ‘You are dead.’

But, alas, it was too good to be true.

And instead of having the little snitch be the casualty in one of Yuji’s magic tricks, the talent show goes shockingly smoothly. Hell, Wasuke slept through only about half of it, which was as much of a compliment as one could get.

All because of your efforts, surely - and when the entire thing ends with (surprise, surprise) every little brat getting awarded a winning prize, Sukuna finds himself not half-annoyed that he’d actually sat through all of it.

Well, right up until about when it was time for the exhausted preschoolers to be taken home by their families.

And Yuji comes bounding up to the four with a squealing—“Dadda–! Bubba–! Gramps–! Mr. Mug-”

“Another word out of you and I’m throwing your iPad out the window.” Sukuna grumbles, heart leaping to his throat when he’s spotting your chuckling figure follow up behind his nephew, as if Jin’s elbowing wasn’t a sign enough.

Yuji frowns, “Aw, but I already told everyone here.”

Damn gremlin- but before he can get another word in, you’re already greeting his brother and father with a smile. “It’s so great to see you again, Mr. Itadori- I hope that blood pressure you were telling me about is better now.”

“Ah, ya know- I won’t be dying any time soon.” Wasuke barks out a hoarse noise of laughter, before beadily eyeing Sukuna. “This one, however…”

Your gorgeous face drops in worry, and he doesn’t know whether to whine at his father for letting you make that expression, or giggle because you cared about him. Fuck. “Oh no- everything alright, Sukuna?”

But Wasuke answers for him, “No. Not at all, quite the incurable disease, my dear.”

He watches on in matching confusion with Yuji as Jin lights up beside him, “Ah- ah! Right right, that-” Soothing his face into something pitiful as he turns to you, “That ah- thing that only heh- one person can solve.”

About as subtle as a sledgehammer.

And just as efficient in bagging the woman of one’s dreams.

Because you only furrow your brows in confusion, “I’m…sorry? What?”

Sukuna’s older brother’s smile tightens in desperation, nervously laughing. “You- you know…that thing?” And you tilt your head, eyes darting between the four as if trying to work out the punchline. “The thing like- the heart condition? No- not something serious but like…the butterflies?” Now looking to Sukuna for help - as if the other man wouldn’t just let him rot in the very grave he’d dug for himself.

Then at Choso, who’d been quietly attempting to disappear into the wall plaster. Trying not to laugh as he dotes on Yuji, “The doki-doki.”

Jin snaps his fingers, “Yes! Like the doki-doki? The-”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake- he wants to fu-”

“That’s enough for tonight, pa.” It really does run in the family - because in a split-second, Sukuna has his palm clapped over Itadori Wasuke’s mouth. Smile painfully plastic, “Did you take your meds today, dear father? I don’t believe you took your meds today.”

He plunges his sprightly father into Jin’s arms, “Say, Jin, why don’t you get dad his meds.” Making note of the way that you - still thoroughly confused, and now thoroughly off your shift helping each student get to their guardian - were toyin’ with the cute decorations of your car keys.

Letting his mouth work before his brain could regret anything- “And why don’t I walk you to your car, ma?”

“I- what.” You’re somewhat shocked at being addressed so directly, and at the kindly incline of Sukuna’s head. “Don’t you have a heart condition? I wouldn’t want to exert you, Sukuna.”

Wasuke grunts, “Exert him in another- mmpf-” Hastily shushed by Choso’s palm, more for his sanity’s sake than his uncle’s.

These damn- he narrows a glare down at an unabashedly-eavesdropping Jin and Wasuke. “No. No, don’t worry about it, they were just joking. Ha. Ha.”

Well…it was quite dark outside the building, even with the surrounding streetlights. And your vehicle might just be a little ways away but it never hurt to be extra safe, did it? Especially when his stature was so intimidating anyways?

And so, you nod.

And he walks with you.

More like floats beside you on cloud nine, actually. Sukuna’s sure you two made quite a sight in the corridor, if the way passing parents whispered to each other signalled anything - him, with his ears flared red, unable to even look at you directly as you two were alone. You, as perfect as ever.

“Ah- so-”

“What did you-”

You’re both speaking at the same time once you’re out of the school building, laughing into the nearly-empty night air that forms clouds out of your puffs of laughter. The few minutes of a walk to the parking lot seemed like eternity - and Sukuna would have gladly let it be.

“You speak.” You’re urging.

“No you.”

“You-”

“I refuse.”

“Fine.” Rolling your eyes, you never noticed the way he always seemed to nudge his head ever-so-closely to you whenever you spoke. As if he was hanging onto your every word. “What did you think about the talent show?”

“Brilliant. All because of you, of course- got so much blackmail to use in ten years.” He cackles.

Though, that’s stopped short very soon the nanosecond you’re nudging him playfully. Heat touching heat. And he shivers, “Hit me if this is strange.” Letting the tense air clog his throat, at least, that’s his excuse for it. “But do you remember that thing I meant to ask you that one time at the playground…”

“Yes—?”

“Are you-” Sukuna’s husky baritone cracks and he twists his face into a wince, “D-do you happen to be seeing anyone?”

You blink, and there’s something about the way you look at him that makes him feel like you’re holding back such a smile. How he wished to see it right now. Musing into the silent night air, only thrumming with your footsteps towards the car, “Nope.”

“O-oh.” And if this was any other time, then he’d be embarrassed about how obviously relieved he sounds. How you surely must have picked up on it.

Faking nonchalance, he’s stuffing his hand into the baggy cloth of his ripped jeans, “Cool.” And it was a damn good thing you didn’t have x-ray vision like all the heroes in all those weekend cartoons Yuji watched - because then you’d have seen the way his painted nails dig in so deeply into his palms in pure excitement. Nearly hard enough to draw blood. “Very cool.”

“Very cool.” You’re echoing, now stood by the driver’s seat of your car - just waiting for him to say something. Anything.

Waiting as he opens his mouth- “What’s your ty-”

“Yuji- Yuji noooo- don’t interrupt your uncle’s k-drama moment- oh, dammit.” Itadori Jin, who’d been chasing after an adventure-hungry Yuji, balks at the way you were both so close. Snatching up his struggling toddler, “Forget about me! We- we never here- go back to doing whatever you were doing!”

And somehow, you lurch apart as if you’d just been shocked. Only now realizing just how warm the temperature of his proximity was, fighting to keep your professional façade in front of your spying audience.

“I bid you goodnight, Jin- Yuji.” Gesturing out a wave, you’re getting into your ride so quickly that Sukuna thinks he must’ve been dreaming you up. “And you, Sukuna.”

Nevermind- not a dream.

Definitely not a dream. Because even in his sweetest hallucinations he wouldn’t have been able to make you say his name like that. Almost a purr. Almost batting your lashes.

Almost ripping out his heart from his very chest as you then speed down the road.

“That’s the best ya could’ve done, sonny? Even after I taught you everything to know about wooing a woman?” How very much like Wasuke to manifest from nearly thin air, from somewhere out of the shadows of the building.

“Not that.”

“Especially that.”

The older man only waves off Jin’s bemoaning concern about ‘ruining the moment- they had a doki-doki moment!’ “Choso’s in the car, can’t believe I lost a bet to a middle-schooler. Dammit.”

Sukuna’s eyes widen, “You…bet on me?”

“Whaddaya think, sonny?”

Jin smiles, “Guilty.”

“Gwuilty!”

“No- no, Yuji, not guilty.”

Wasuke paces away, shaking his head. “Thought I raised you better- keh! Thought I’d get grandchildren from you, too. Tch, now I owe a middle-schooler fifty yen, oh, woe is me.”

It takes a second for Sukuna to register the words, “Wait- only fifty yen?”

“Yeah, that’s just about my belief in you, kid.”

KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!

“Oi- oi, Jin. Go get the door.”

“I’m cooking dinner–! Cho, could you get the door?”

“I’m in the middle of homework- ask uncle.”

Sukuna grumbles, why the hell was he the one to always answer that damn door? Honestly, Yuji could buck up and get some experience yelling at sleazy salesmen sometimes. Sprawled out across the TV room couch, he stares at his nephew playing with a toy bow and arrows set on the floor, “Yuji, could you get the-”

“I can hear you, Ryo.”

Dammit- there was a reason why Itadori Jin was the older brother.

And there was also a reason why Ryomen Sukuna had a reputation in this quaint neighborhood for being a boor - not that that was much of a brag. But at least it explained why he was stomping up to the oak front door, damn near ripping it off its hinges with a growl- “We’re not buying any- oh.”

‘Oh’ was right.

Because standing right there on his porch was a damn sight for sore eyes - you.

You, with your mouth parted and your brows slightly raised as you looked from the messy bangs of his locks to the oversized sweater he was wearing. You, who doesn’t even flinch about the fact that he’d just answered the door yelling. You, donned in a pretty lil’ skirt that makes him gulp-

“You okay, Sukuna?”

“No. So how are you doin’ on this fine day, ma? ”

“Oh!” A happy call of your name makes you turn - even though Sukuna just stares, shell-shocked. Jin shoves him bodily out of the way, opening the door wider, “Please- come in, we’ve been expecting you.”

Looking down at the slight stain of something at the hem of his sweatpants, the other man frowns. It’s not like that was news he’d ever forget - so why the hell was he looking like that? “We have?”

“Yes?” Jin’s showing you the way in- only for you to be dragged in by an overeager Yuji anyways. And as the two of you disappear down the halls, he’s turning to his taller brother in genuine confusion. “Did Cho not tell you that we were having Yuji’s teacher over for dinner tonight?”

At Sukuna’s sputtering, Jin wastes no time grasping a nearby broomstick and thumping the wooden end up against the ceiling. “Kamo Choso–!”

And out comes a muffled reply, “I told grandpa to tell him!”

“Haaah? I told Yuji to.”

It sinks in. The fact that you were here, all prettily dolled-up and at their family home - and you’d happened to see him in nothing but a stained, ratty sweatshirt and pants torn down the side of his thigh to show off one tattoo.

Jin grimaces, “Um…we can still wingman our way through this?”

“I’m gonna kill you.”

Murder does not, in fact, come before dinner; as all good manners dictate. And Sukuna decides that revenge can wait after he’s totally, completely, utterly made you swoon.

“S-so-” Only after a quick change into his best tightly-fitted turtleneck and his silver chains did he dare to show his face ‘round you again. Spritzing enough cologne to almost overpower Jin’s omurice, he tries to smize from where he was sitting right opposite you on the kotatsu. “Nice place, huh?”

The shot of extra, extra strong sake that Wasuke slides over is a consolation as much as a ‘you’re not in a restaurant, you fool!’ He finishes the cup in one go.

“You do have a very beautiful home.” You’re nodding over at a proud Jin.

“And the- food- how is the food?” Another cup- what moral support, father.

“Mmm- amazing, I usually never have the time to cook much for myself with the kids n’ all.”

Which Jin takes as the cue for him to butt in on the conversation, helping it flow as smoothly as an enclosing dam would to a river. “You like kids, huh?” Kicking Sukuna underneath the kotatsu, he rattles the plates. “Our Ryo here also…tolerates children.”

“Really?” You’re teasing, “I couldn’t tell.”

“Why I love kids, yeah.” Sukuna tuts as he lifts his hand to pat the crown of Choso’s head- who only swerves out of the way, food finished n’ leaving the room to join his brother playing. Hiccuping, you were so pretty sat in front of him like this- too pretty, that the vision of you was starting to get blurry.

And another cup.

He’s jostled by the tap of Jin’s hand on his arms- “And he’s actually quite sweet in his own way once you get to know him. I’m sure dad agrees-” Ignoring Wasuke’s ‘I don’t’. “-that he’d make such a responsible-”

“U-unless you don’t like kids.” Still stuck on that - still. Sukuna downs it and then shakily pours himself another. “In that case, I don’t like kids either. Yeah, can’t stand them.”

And another.

Jin and Wasuke share a glance between themselves when the hulking man leans over the kotatsu towards you with what sounded suspiciously like a whine. “Would you want kids with me?”

And-

“Sukuna-”

“W-well—time for Ryo to be put to bed, I think.” Jin hastily stands up, struggling to hoist his oversized younger brother from his seat. Failing, evidently, as in that time he’s managing to gulp down another two or three sake cups. “Dad- a little- help?”

Wasuke only shakes his head gravely at you, “You should know he was switched at birth.”

“We’re nearly identical twins–”

“Twins? What-” Sukuna babbles, “Does she want twins?”

Glassy eyes blinking n’ squinting furiously down at you as if trying to figure out whether you were real. Before ultimately giving up, it seems.

Because he’s stumbling a few unsteady steps forwards, pulled by Jin, before dropping to his knees and toppling his head over your lap, just by the gap of the kotatsu edge and your stomach. He’s nuzzling his face right against your tummy, “Mmm— maybe triplets. Would be the cutest fuckin’ things if they looked anything like hck! her.”

You giggle and he gasps- as if the epiphany had just struck him. “Quadruplets?”

Starin’ down at him, at the rosy blush painting his ears, you’re muttering. “You wish.”

“Dammit- even this hck! illusion of her is fine as fuck. Shit. I wonder if her type is…”

Trailing off, he looks to his older brother for assistance- who helpfully supplies, “Sad and drunk?”

Wasuke’s contribution- “Zero game- as the kids say?”

“Dangerous?” You pretend to think, assessing over the mountainous heap of a man. “Actually- only pretends to be but is really a softie inside?”

“Yes! That- wonder if he type is dangerous…pretend dangerous. I’d give her all the kids she’d ever want- all big…n’ glowing…” It was almost like the setting of the sun, and just as quietly that Sukuna’s dipping past the edge of consciousness. “And…mine…if she wants. Oh, only if she wants- I’ve gotta- hck!” He turns up slightly to you, “-gotta woo her first, you see? Gotta date her…marry…but- but most of all…” Words slowing, heartbeat still racing whenever he looked at you. “I…just want to love you, pretty girl.”

And with that, he was out like a flickered light.

With only Wasuke, Jin, and Choso with his camera snooping through the doorway as witnesses for when you’re snaking a hand down to the phone bulging in Sukuna’s pocket. Quickly entering a few coordinates and a date.

And a heart emoji.

“Oh- oh, shit, mama.” Sukuna’s tongue lays over the sheeny insides of your thighs, throat muddled with groans and the cloying taste of your slick gluing to his rovering mouth.

Honestly, fuck whatever tips his family had made him memorize before coming over for his lil’ ‘talk’ at your cozy apartment, as promised. Because the two of you had barely made out two or three words before Sukuna found himself sprawled on his back on your bed.

Your knees framing his face, your clothed cunt right near his mouth.

Right near where he’s dotting your skin with hot, open-mouthed kisses that make your entire body tremble. Whimpering over your shoulder, “D-didn’t think you’d be such a tease, Kuna.”

“Because this isn’t real.” He’s breathing out, as if he’s just so sure of that fact. As if he can glide his ringed index down the dampened slit of your folds and drool- because this feels like a dream n’ he was going to savor every moment. “Fuck, there’s no way this is-”

And just at that very moment, he’s craning his head up further between your pretty, pretty legs. Greedy tastebuds darted out just so he can catch the treacly splat! of your leaking slit.

Dampening his tongue n’ drooling all down the edge of his tattooed chin, “Do you even know how many times I’ve imagined this exact moment?”

“Mmm- no-” You’re wrenching out a heady puff of air- spread on your front in the meanest sixty-nine. You gulp down your parched throat as you’re taking in the wet, bulging outline of Sukuna’s erection through his boxers. “But I can guess.”

He was just so big, aching-

Ryomen Sukuna wasn’t just rock-hard. He was hard enough that he’s sure his round, bawling tip was damn near ready to fall off, twitching oh-so-painfully in his pants as he’s snapping back your soaked panties with a wet thwack!

Just a glimpse of the wet haven you were hiding and he’s groaning throatily, “Guess-” He hisses, close enough that the straight end of his nose slides down your puffy pussylips. Nudging your panties to the side and sniiiiiffing you, “You’ll never be able to guess how badly I want you, pretty girl.”

Never.

Never would you have even been able to register that within mere split-seconds, he’d have one beefy arm looping around your hips to make you sit on top of his mouth.

Slamming the edge of your cunt against his chin, plopping your full weight down until he’s nose-deep between your quivering legs. “Fuck-” Letting the first gush of your saccharine juices flood his throat, lips against lips. “Fuck fuck fuck- what was I even…saying?”

“W-wait–” Your breath hitches, spine arching into such a perfect curvature. You claw onto his meaty thighs in an attempt to regain balance, “You won’t be able to breathe like this, Sukuna-”

“You think I fucking care?”

It’s spat - spat - out right against the swollen nub of your clit. Hazed crimson irises rolling to the veeeery deep, dark depths of his skull at the first long gliiiide of Sukuna’s tongue from top to bottom of your pussy.

Cheeks hollowed the very moment he’s pushin’ himself even closer, “You think I ngh- can care about anything else?” The very moment he’s tugging you back down - with the full force of his upper strength, hard enough that your heated aches with raw, primal bruises. “Be a good girl n’ put that hah- pussy on my face. Fucking- sit-”

“I don’t- fuuuuck—” Fingers twitching, it’s all you can do to fumble with the drawstrings of his wettened boxers.

Thighs shaking at every flicker of his slimy tongue swirlin’ and stirrin’ every inch of your outer pussy. Your head muddles with the realization that Sukuna’s tongue was just so long that he could lap at your glisten hole n’ still have enough length left over to snag on your clit. “You’re not going to be the only hah- one-”

Whimpering, you find your eyes blurring up each time the ridged texture of his tastebuds glissade between your folds. Curlin’ in just past the elastic circle of your entrance-

And you’re gasping - but you don’t know whether it’s because of the lecherous intrusion or because of the way you’re pushing down Sukuna’s snug underwear to free his massive cock.

Reddened, swollen.

He’s bulging all solid and girthy that it makes your hole clench ‘round his flexible tongue. The cutest ruby-red at the top of his shaft, forming a gradient all the way down to his tight, heavy balls. Mentally, you’re counting about nine- fuck, maybe even ten damn inches that hit the end of your chin as he springs up.

And from where you’re straddling him, you can make out what looked like a matching thick, black band of ink around his bulky hilt.

Letting the polished pink crown of his cockhead smear out a generous dollop of pre, you’re teasing your tongue out just enough to taste the salted caramel taste.

“You’re so…” Sinking him past your spit-slicked lips, his swabbing mushroom tip is just so big that your jaw aches just by looking at him. Just by fitting him inside, right until his drivelling slit- “-s-sho big, Sukuna.”

“Fuck- fuck-” He’s spitting into your cunt and you find yourself flinching, hard enough that his pearly white canines nip at your thighs and you cry out.

And he’s only holding you back - not letting you shift your restless hips even a single centimeter as he’s eating you out like a man dying of thirst. Dry tastebuds lavishing himself with wads of slick, Sukuna’s stuffing your tight hole with the entirety of his tongue. “You’re m-making me drool.”

You swear you’re feeling the thin line of his wet spittle stain the front of your cunt, whimpering around his bulbous cockhead. “Made ya stutter, too, Sukuna.”

“Ohhhh- talkin’ smart, are we?” Snickering, he lets off a loud spank against the front of your pussy - one that makes your bones reverberate, and your mind numb. Pushin’ back to ride the circling girth of his tongue, to ride him. “Why don’tcha put that mouth into use elsewhere?”

Elsewhere - his cock was so hot and throbbing between your swollen lips. Just the slightest slip n’ slide makes it feel like he’s pulsing all the way at the back of your throat.

Creamin’ out a spray of syrupy precum that slides down your tongue, “So big- too big.” And yet- it was just so cute how you’re suckling him like your favorite lolly, eyes criss-crossing when you’re trying to take more. He couldn’t even bottom out. “Mmm– dunno if it’ll even all fit.”

“Well…”

The way he’s drawling out in a smoky tone makes you ponder that this won’t be ending well for you. And Sukuna’s dark chuckle hits your cunt in a murky gust, “You’re takin’ it in from here—” Just at that sultry second, he’s crowning the snug circle of your hole with two fingers.

Making you break out with a shrill waiiil as he sinks in the thick, calloused curves of his fingerpads. Letting such thick digits stretch you out fully, make your head spin. “So shut it n’ take this looong fucking cock, ma.”

All that it takes for him to plunge a few more throbbing inches past your maw, oh-so-big that you’re drooling down the sides of your mouth already.

Striking the edge of your throat and making you choke on his sheer size, your nose wrinkles as you’re tickled by the curly tendrils of his pinkish hair. “This enough or you want three, pretty girl-”

“I-”

Letting out such a cloying squelch that spurts from your pussy once he’s teasin’ your entrance, “Not you, mama. She wants three.”

Moaning away wildly after each pump of his fingers- Sukuna doesn’t even have to try to dip into each nook n’ orifice. Slamming to fingers down to each knobbly knuckle with a resounding slam- “See? See?”

So cockdrunk on the feeling of his velvety tongue that you’re only partly registering the way his vocals are higher. Unsteady.

The way you’re clamping your dewy walls in a cute, squelching smooch ‘round his digits makes his voice fucking crack. “J-just take it a bit- fuck- deeper.” Mindless little half-thrusts up into your heated mouth like he can’t even control it- “You can swallow it up like a reeeeal good girl, can’t you?”

“Mmm—” Purposefully letting off your pretty sounds all over his fleshy girth, “Yes- yes yes yes- more.”

“More?”

“More.”

As if he wouldn’t fucking ruin you if he could.

“You want more?”

“Y-yes- oh.”

Only to be gifted with such a rude slap of his doughy palm, “Not you.” And he’s waiting for the soppy squelches leaking out from your cunt, the way you’re talking to him from your swollen lips just to continue.

Squelch after squelch.

Your pleas only spur him to tug at the sweet, softened ring of your cunt, latching his lips over the flexing muscle. “If you say so—” Crooning, you can feel the cold hiss of his metallic rings upon the insides of your thighs. Sukuna’s biceps shifting as he starts to tug them off–

“A-actually-” You’re popping off of the strawberry-pink curve of his cocktip with a plop! a few glittery strings of pre and spit still connecting you lewdly to it. “…Keep them on?”

“Oh. Ohoho- you naughty lil’ thing.” He’s swatting over the slope of your dripping wet pussy n’ giving your clit a good pinch with his ringed fingers. “You like it like this- like- this-?”

He’s spitting out each word into your cunt, thrusting the barrelling tips of his fingerpads to graze just below your pulsating g-spot. “All those mouthy lectures?” In vulgar tandem strokes with the thwack! of his heavy, curvaceous balls slapping your chin. “And you wanna take it like- this- mama? Ohhh, it just makes me wanna…”

Trailing off, Sukuna’s body is just bulky - oh-so-tall that he can bend and reach down to cup your throat with his one free hand.

Digging five of his fingertips into the side of your throat as he’s holding your neck and squeezing- feeling the cylindrical outline of his cock bulging your poor mouth. Up n’ down, up n’ down- he’s feeling for the precise moments his plump cockhead lodges at the back of your throat.

“Who’d have known the cute lil’ teacher would be such a slut f’me. Cat got yer tongue, girl, orrrr—s’it just my dick?” Humming over your clit, he’s adding a fourth finger that swabs at the texture of your gummy walls.

“F-fuck off- ngh-”

“Wha’s that? Try- try and say my name?” Squeezing. Only feeling your ripped, pathetic vibrations. “Can f-feel myself over here.”

With four neatly pushing fingers.

Pulling back with a sluuurp–! Slowly, just so that you whimper that the knobs of his joints, just so that he can thump right on the target of your g-spot and make you cry out in cute bliss. “So s’only fair that I’m over here, pretty girl.”

“Yes- yes yes yes—” Words bubble out and slur out of your maw, in unison with such sloshing spurts of saliva.

You’re drooling everywhere - from both pairs of lips. Your mouth over Sukuna’s hard, vein-covered erection, glazing his puffy lines of veins with sap. And your pussy slide-slide-sliiiiding down the gaping area of his mouth, wide open and eagerly lapping up each sloppy drag of your hips.

Faster.

And now that Sukuna had actually found your most favorite spot, he couldn’t fucking stop.

Not when each whack at that same exact spot makes you splash your sweetened slick all down his throat, not when you were clenching your walls and cryin’ out at the frigid brush of his thick rings.

Again and again, he’s probin’ his crowned fingertips to push against the insides of your pussy, “Don’t think m’gonna last ngh-”

“Yeah-” And that’s not to say his tongue was letting you off easy, either- simply aching with the feverish state of his movements. But it hurt Sukuna more any moment he wasn’t snogging your glossy cunt, n’ so he’s slapping your clit with a wet one-two. Spank after spank to make your hips jerk back and forth, “Whaddaya want? To cum? S’that it?”

Blubbering over the taste of his slick, sensitive slit, “Yes- yes, please- m’so fucking close.”

“Not. You.” Each word ended with two swats on your simmering pussy, you’re webbing his chin all down with syrupy sap.

Moving off from your throat with a final squeeze, a bicep tightening ‘round your hips to squeeze you in place. “Not you- but you, pretty girl.” Slickly gliding back and forth all over your pried-open cunt, all over the quivering rim of your hole. Everywhere and anywhere. “Why don’tcha talk louder?”

And it’s not just you riding his tongue dry - it’s Sukuna bucking animalistically upwards, too. Pressing the ridges of his washboard abs up against your front, you’re just fountaining out so much sappy slick that it’s running down to the large mouth that he had tattooed across his stomach. As if both his ravenous mouths were gulping up each of your slick puddles.

Crooning at the oversaturated squelch that spills out of you- he’s nodding like he’s never heard a sweeter sentence. Nudging his knuckles to bump against your g-spot, “If you say so—”

You don’t get to find out what he’s hearing - but you’re registering the gist soon enough.

Because by then Sukuna has his ringed index swiping your g-spot, coldly massaging that bundle of nerves. Hard. Sloppy. At the very same second he’s settling the fringes of his canines on your perky clit and streeeetching-

“O-oh my god I’m—” Keening out a whimper, your high runs you over like a rollercoaster. And you’re rocking your boneless body to and fro just as much, thumping your thighs into Sukuna’s sharp jawline.

“Yes-” Clenching around his motions so hard that he has to fight to unstick his digits from the sides of your bubblegum walls, still fucking you through your lecherous high. “Oh, hell yeah, been so good for you, mama- why don’tcha reward me? Use me- hck- use me.”

As if you weren’t thrusting your cunt back into his face in a frenzy already, he’s using the arm holding onto your waist to keep you repeatedly moving.

Tired-out. Fingers tugging into each crevice of your velvety walls. Cheeks aching and hollow where he’s putting such force on your throbbing clit to suck- “Ride my- mmmf-” Talking with his mouth full, “Ride my fuckin’ face raw- wanted to taste y’cumming on my tongue for so long.”

With your spine arched, you’re pulling off of the bulged tip of his cock just as he’s spewing out a slimy ribbon of ivory white. Just a single drivel of cum- just from the way you’re cumming.

“God- god fucking dammit.” Sukuna spits, right into your cunt. And he barely even takes his eyes off of your slobbering pussy to snake a free hand down and plug his geysering orifice with his thumb.

Stopping himself promptly from cumming if it isn’t anywhere near your pussy.

But that didn’t mean he was letting you get away.

Oh, no- he’s still pulling you back with inclines of his head like a man addicted. Thoroughly drunk on the heady globs of slick that travelled between your legs, pushing and pushing himself upwards to glue his glossed lips all over your cunt.

You can feel yourself squealing with each lap of his scratchy tongue- the primal overstimulation too much that great droplets of tears take over your eyes.

“O-oh– fuck- m’so sensitive, Sukuna.” You’re arching your back away- “I don’t know if I- oh!” Only to get pulled back down. Toes curling when this only spurs him to dive himself even deeper, flopping out the flexible end of his tongue to try n’ flit past your squeezing hole.

Drawling, “Remember those fuckin’ sugar cookies? You taste- hah- even fucking better.”

Sniffling, your spine zings with a few more zaps of electricity as he’s starting to caress your sweetened g-spot once more.

And the only thing you can do is try and pathetically pry his firmly-planted palm from his lengthy shaft, trying for the life of you to just get another taste-

“Oh. Oh.” Sukuna gasps from behind, pink brows raising. “I see what you’re doing, pretty girl. H-heh…hungry for more, are you?”

He didn’t need any further answer - because the way you’re cutely clenching to glaze his scouring digits tells him more than enough.

And before you know it, you’re finding yourself pulled off of his long, aching cock like some glorified ragdoll. Sukuna was just so large - in every sense of the word - that he could manhandle you with only one arm.

Clinging onto the side of your waist as he’s sitting up, he makes you straddle the twitchy length of his cock. And now that you were seated upon his lap- oh, could you admire him.

Ryomen Sukuna was a fucking masterpiece.

From the bands of tattoos circling his biceps, his wrists, straight down to the plush of his sculptured thighs. “Like what you see?” He tilts his head cockily down at you, slouching sexily back on your wooden headboard to let you take in all of his tensed core.

Glistening pecs all temptingly large, abs ripped.

“M’gonna get those pretty haaah- fucking initials of yours tatted.” He’s tapping the prominent side of his left v-line with a polished finger, “Right here.”

Climbing further upon his lap, you rest your ass cheeks back against his swaying cock, bobbing so hard n’ proud between your sheeny thighs. Pouting, “Only if you fuck me, Kuna— ngh-”

“Kuna? Tch- you see that lil’ tattoo here, mama?” He sounded as if he was shattering, and he’s leaning back so that you can take a goood, long look at the circular tattoo on his base. Nuzzled by the tufts of his pinkish happy trail, and his tender underside - but it was still there.

Like a target. And Sukuna’s thinking the exact same thing, “You’re gonna take it riiiight- till- here-” Lodging the swollen end of his shaft to plug your hole, it’s such a tiiight fit as he starts bullying inside. “Until- hah-” Feeling a hand down your tummy, your womb. “-here.”

He was going to fit himself until your pretty pussy won’t be able to forget him.

And it takes only seconds for you to be clawing onto his tattooed deltoids for dear life, feeling the inner parts of your thighs slip n’ slide down his own with perspiration. You scramble with the stringy, slightly-torn fabric of your panties still on- “Kuna- Su–Kuna, this-”

“Nah, let it stay.” Snickering, he claws onto the top of your scalp. “You have much…heh- bigger ngh- problems ta worry about, pretty girl.”

Bigger - his prolonged shaft was simply ravaging your walls. Plumply ballooned-up enough that his veiny layer rubs your sweetest spots without even meaning to, and you’re just seeing stars with every inch deeper his mazing cock spears through. “Fuck- fuck, it really is big-”

“Mhm– and you’re going- to take- it all.” Times like this he’s wishing he had just about four fucking hands. Because one’s pushing down, down, down on the lolling top of your head, the other’s pushin’ your trembling thighs apart just so you could straddle his meaty hips. “All hah- say my name. Say my name while you take it-”

And he always did love the way you said his name.

The way you’re letting free a few bubbly spurts of saliva as you’re babbling away–”Sukuna- Su-” Throat clogging up with so many sobs of utter bliss, “Kuna—”

“Again with the ‘Kuna’- s’not my name, silly girl.” Even though each sound of that slurring nickname makes him twitch against your deepest insides.

But you can’t even hear him properly, eardrums distantly popped until the only thing you can feel is the thump! of your heartbeat between your legs. And the way that his reddened, slick-glazed tip was thrashing your tight insides, “Kuna- ngh, please, Kuna. Wan’ it a-all hck! Inside.”

The swabbing girth of his cock was so fat that he has you stupid with just his size, biceps bulging as he’s pressurizing down on your head. “God-” And you can only blink pathetically once he’s bringing up his free hand to your blurry line of sight. Hissing, “Bite down-” Lips smirking as you plant a kittenish bite, he fucks up into you once to make your force increase. “Bite down harder and take it.”

He wasn’t wasting any time - he didn’t have the fucking patience.

He barely even had the sanity to tease you and edge you for hours on end like he’d always wanted to. Instead fucking up into you like a damn animal- he’s swatting your cunt with the edge of his throbbing cock. Spitting through clenched teeth, “O-oh, if yer gonna ask for all of it then m’not playin’ around, ma.”

You sink your teeth in and nearly scream into the flesh of his forearm, gnawing down right at his tattoo. “Mmmpf- big- nghh–” Unable to fucking take it, the only thing you can do is arch your hips deeper and let his pummeling rams spike your poor insides.

Hitting the very back of your cervix with a wet thwack! that makes your eyes damn near bulge out of your head.

He…bottomed-out.

“Lemme check now…” Taking a single peek at the way his hilt was all covered up by your bloated folds until he couldn’t see that tattoo anymore. “S’all in.”

And the towering man wasn’t celebrating once he did - he was pumping all his fleshy inches into you like he’d gone feral.

Eyes dazed and hooded, mouth frothing with a line of silver drool - Sukuna grunts after each singular gliiiide of his watery orifice drawing down the bottom of your pussy. Sloppy. “F-fucking hell, never felt like this- what the…”

“Are you okay- oh god nghh–”

“M’fuckin’ more than okay.” Spitting out crassly, Sukuna swerves his hips off of the rickety bedsprings to drag his cock harder down your cunt. And it just felt so delicious to have his swollen veins stir up your walls, “S’just— who let you feel this good?”

Your honeyed cunt has made him way too pussydrunk that now he’s tattling out everything from his melty mind. And you can only whine– “Heh-” One hand grazing his scorched ear, “You’re blushing, Kuna- better not be ngh- tapping out on me.”

“Tapping out?” Punctuated by a hard spank against the door to your womb - exactly where he said he would be - and then a harder one against your mapped-out g-spot. “Me? Me tappin’ out?”

Blinking through the splotchy whites sparking in your vision, “Y-yeah- fuck!”

SPANK!

Oh-so-hard, he’s swatting your pussy with enough stinging force that it makes glittering drops of slick splash across his slamming palm. “You n’ this smartass pussy are gonna see.” He’s gritting through dangerously grinning teeth, “There’s a fuckin’ reason I’m Ryomen fucking Sukuna.”

Because he’s rude - and he fucks even ruder.

Pounding away upwards into you like he doesn’t care if he’s bruising great purple bruises at the bottom of your cervix. The mattress creaks in fervent protest after each gyration of his hips, “P-please-” The only thing you’re mewling out like a broken record, “I-it just feels so…”

Trailing off, your movements are sluggish as your hand starts to slither down between your rutting legs. Yearning to just touch your neglected clit-

SPANK!

“Oi- and who’d ya think you are to touch- hngh- my pretty girl?” He’s grinning, manhandling you in an instant. Before your candied brain can catch up, Sukuna has both your arms pinned behind your back, chin hitting his cushy pecs. “I’ll touch her when I feel like it-”

Such a fucking tease, at the constant timing of his slimy mushroom tip spearing your cunt like a headlight- Sukuna lifts off one of his hands downwards.

Replacing your own with his roughened fingers, he pinches your poor clit—“Sh-shit m’so sensitive there- keep going, Kuna–”

And at this point you weren’t just drooling you were sheening the entirety of his smooth pectorals with a shiny polish. Letting it smear down the side of your cheek as you drunkenly lean on them like pillows, “Chehhh-” He’s spitting out, staring down at the glistening glaze dripping down to his bumpy abs. “Tha’s supposed to stay inside, pretty girl.”

“I-inside?” Dazedly, the only thing you can think of were your rummaging insides, the way that Sukuna was fucking you like he hated you.

But it was the complete opposite. And he’s draggin’ on your clit, giggling to himself like he’s in love as he watches you huff n’ puff. “God you love it like this- c’mon, ngh- teach, milk this fucking cock- why don’t ya?”

“I-I am-”

SPANK!

“Harder, mama, make me feel it.”

With a right spank to emphasize his sentence, he’s jostling his hips upwards so you’re left throwing your head back at the full, stretching impact. Unable to even handle the slightly spring recoil that comes with striking your cervix, he’s bouncing you on his pelvis.

“S’this what you thought about every- hah- time you saw me?” Taking hold of your neck for a brief moment, he’s spitting doooown your throat. “Wantin’ me to fuck this- ngh- pussy raw?”

And the locked restraint on your neck helps bend you into the perfect geometrical curvature to stare up at him as he collapses forwards. Hot breath wafting your features, you whimper- “Y-yes.”

“Not you.”

“Kuna.”

“I’ve been dreamin’ of this for aaages now-” His clammy forehead crinkles as he’s scratching down your clit with the rough texture of his happy trail. Leaving it all stinging n’ raw to make sure the impact is extra sensual as Sukuna rubs over a slooow ‘K’ right on top.

Rutting into your poor cunt so hard that the skin surrounding his v-line was all reddened- and he can’t help but take one look and moan. “M’getting that tattooed.” Watching as his mean, curvaceous cock molded your walls constantly to him. “Oh- trust when I say-”

And then a ‘U’

“Fuh-fuuuuck, please-” It almost feels like you’re begging for your damn life by now, lungs ripping with moans every time he’s thumping up. You ride your hips in a sexy figure-eight and feel the way Sukuna’s thumb trembles on your clit.

A wobbly ‘N’

And you already knew what was headed next- oh, you were already prepared.

But what you weren’t ready for was the completely vicious way that he’s accelerating his papping hips, so fast that the dark tattoo nuzzling your entrance was almost a blur. Thump after thump-

You’re falling over until that symbolic inking of a widely-opened maw on his stomach licks up your core. Body twitching with white hot flashes of something electric running through your veins, “F-fuck- fuck, s’not gonna last-”

“S’that soooo—?” Sukuna asks down at your pussy to confirm, and only after a few ‘uh-huh’’s does he bore into your stupidly heart-shaped eyes. Tongue lolling straight out for him to lap up into his own mouth, “She says you’re close-”

A firm ‘A’

Another SPANK!

“-and I say you’re cumming already.”

“Wh-what…”

He’s ending off with a perfect heart shape rolled over your clit. What’s that spell- he’s asking mentally.

Only for you to mewl wantonly as if you’d just heard. “Kuna- Sukuna- Yes- yes m’cumming m’cumming—”

It’s like you’re enveloped in a tidal wave - you didn’t know where your orgasm started and where it ended. Just that Sukuna’s moans break into something octaves higher as he fucks you through your bliss.

You claw down the expanse of his flexing back with each burst of pre splattering your gooey insides. Toes curled, eyes all teary. “I-it’s so- hck! Feels too good…”

Turning you into absolute mush every time he pumps his thorough inches into you- and the mean fingers on your nub just tug n’ tug.

And it’s only after a few more of your shrilling whines that you’re still feeling the hot entrance of his shaft plummeting through, your walls squeezing ‘round his flared tip. “I want you to cum, too, Sukuna.”

“F-fuck.” He lets out, softly.

Cupping his attractive face, if you thought you were gone then you weren’t ready for the way that Sukuna looked. Cheeks burning hot and red, mouth parted with overspilling drool, brows furrowed into such an expression that it almost makes you feel shy.

Repeating those very same words, you start sloppily swervin’ your hips straight to his. “Cum inside m- ngh, please?”

All this time and his cute lil’ teacher was still minding her p’s and q’s.

So, of course, when you’re asking him that nicely- it’s the least he could do to listen. To let out a final, vulgar stroke that has him spilling over the edge.

In great, piling heaps of ivory cum that puddles at the bottom of your pussy. There’s so much of it that your ears ring with the lecherous sluuurp–! as your cunt walls suck up every last steaming drop.

You can feel it trailing down the insides of your thighs like a waterfall and keen, “Just like that, f-fuck…” Almost like you’re hypnotized, you drag one of his much-larger hands to palm the outside of your tummy. “Can feel it all the way here.”

“O-oh my god…” He’s groaning, eyes drifting off to the back of his head as soon as you’re meeting his tempo. Slamming down to rob his aching balls, milking him all dry - you were overspilling and it still wasn’t enough. “Y’really are a dream.”

And there’s something about the way he’s sluggishly brushing away a stray bead of perspiration from your temple. Something about that lazy, half-lidded look in his eyes, the complete n’ utter reverence in his tone as he asks- “So…s’your type ‘dangerous’, mama?”

Almost…shy.

Oh, it hits you. He’s pussydrunk.

You’d made big, bad Ryomen Sukuna completely and utterly pussydrunk.

To the point where his studded ears flare a deep crimson once you giggle, “Mmm- pretend dangerous, Kuna.” His eyes shine. You think back to that night at the Itadori household, “And I also remember something about quadruplets?”

It’s then that Sukuna whimpers.

Not even pulling out. Not even considering such an impossible feat for even a split-second before he rolls your weakened body over.

Hovering over you now, it’s so easy for his beefy arms to tug your legs over his shoulders. Still shaking. Still suffering from the aftermath of your orgasm as he’s holding them tight and bending down, down, dooooown.

Straight into a mating press.

Oh, your breath catches.

“Before I pound you until you can’t haaah- walk, mama-” Uncharacteristically, Sukuna gulps as he shifts his crimson eyes away from you. “-m’I giving you quadruplets that’ll have my last name?”

Now that was a round-about way to ask someone out- and he knows it, too.

But it only makes you shuffle up onto your elbows on the now-ruined sheets, sticking to you like glue. You place a lingering peck on Sukuna’s wobbly, overstimulated lips, “Mm- I love you, too, Kuna.”

Oh, how he loves you. He almost cums right then and there.

Fuck.

He does.

“You.”

“You.” Yuji narrows his eyes down at the sight of Ryomen Sukuna towering over the busy preschool pick-up. Trying to look over his broad shoulders for any sign of his father, “Huh? But dadda said he was coming to pick me up today?”

Sukuna gingerly scratches the back of his head, “Yeah, well…listen, twerp- I mean, kid. There’s something I need to-”

Only to be cut off by a dramatic gasp—“Oh no- Did dadda go to jail just like you-”

“No,”

“Did he drive fast-”

“No.”

“Did he drink-”

“No-”

“Did he slash tires-”

“Maybe once?”

And fuck- he really didn’t understand tiny children, because explain to him why the pink-haired boy starts bawling in his arms. Pitiful enough to draw the glares of parents wrenching their own children away from the perpetrator, loud enough to draw the sweet concern of you.

Walking from your station saying goodbye to one other student, “Yuji what- oh!” You’re pressing your lips together to contain your smile as you happen to see who was throwing Yuji on his shoulders to soothe him. Bouncing him lightly until he smiled- and you did, too. “I didn’t expect you so early today, Kuna.”

“Yeah, well.” He’s using Yuji’s palms to cover the pinkish ends of his blushing ears, “Decided I wanted to see ya off from work today.”

Now past grief and straight into utter nosiness- “Wait- what do you mean ‘see off’.” He gasps, “Is she going to ja-”

“Brat-”

“What your uncle means to say, Yuji-” Playfully pinching his chubby cheeks, you try to ignore the gawking stares of every other one of your remaining students as you promptly turn to face Sukuna. Giving him a sweet, sweet peck on his. “-is that you’ll be seeing a lot more of me around.”

Another gasp - well, multiple.

One from Itadori Yuji, who gapes, open-mouthed between you and his uncle - as if wondering how he ever managed to bag you, and wait does that mean you’re his auntie now?

About twenty from your crowd of students, right along with a few whispers.

“Hey, isn’t that weird Mr. Mugshot?”

“So that’s why Mr. Mugshot was always red- eugh! In my momma’s dramas they don’t get together, they just die.”

Fushiguro frowns, “I would rather die than watch him like this. Gross.”

“Caviar.”

Walking up from the group, Fushiguro tugs on your skirt. Innocently - but Sukuna could feel the evil intent. He just knew that boy was a villain. “Inumaki asks whether you mind that he sets fires, miss.”

What the fuck is with the fires-

And then finally - three distinct, unfortunately familiar gasps that make Sukuna dread turning around. Struggling against it, even as his nephew tugs on his locks of pink hair with a delighted squeal- “Dadda–! Bubba–! Gramps-”

You smile, watching Choso take flustered pictures of his uncle. “How the hell did you even win her over? All of these are going in the blackmail folder. Maybe your wedding presentation too.”

Sukuna bites back a shy blush- turning it into a scowl, “Maybe…”

“Well, I’ll be.” Wasuke nods his head in approval, “All thanks to the ah- ‘wingmanning’ as the kids say. I’ll be expecting at least three grandchildren in the future, sonny. And when I say ‘future’ I mean in nine months-”

“Dad! It’s too early for that.” Jin, ever-the-voice-of-reason, gives you a breezy handshake. “Congratulations- by the way.” And it’s all soft. It’s all sweet- that is, until you’re trying to pull your hand back and he only tightens his grip. Smile still tightly in place, “I will be the kids’ godfather, by the way.”

Settling an arm around you now, You and Sukuna don’t know whether to laugh or stand in shocked silence as Jin finally sets you free - but you don’t have to make the choice.

Because the annoying, grating voice of Todo Aoi breaks through—“Noooooo– my bride!”

A/N. Hope you have a lovely week <3

Plagiarism not authorized.

#sukuna x reader #sukuna smut #sukuna x you #jjk x reader #jjk smut #jjk x you #ryomen sukuna x reader #ryomen sukuna smut #ryomen sukuna x you #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen smut #jujutsu kaisen x you #jjk #jjk fic #jujutsu kaisen #sukuna #tonywrites #sukuna ryomen smut #sukuna ryomen x reader

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pucksandpower · 20 hours ago

Text

Engaged-ish

Lando Norris x Grand Duchess!Reader

Summary: in which an obscure Luxembourgish tradition leads to a proposal … sort of

The paddock buzzes like a beehive, sun-drenched and shimmering with the scent of gasoline, sunscreen, and expensive cologne. Cameras flash. People talk in clipped, purposeful voices. Somewhere, an engine snarls awake.

And then — chaos.

Well, not chaos exactly. More like a whoosh, followed by a yelp.

“Oi! Shit! Watch out!”

A blur of black and orange comes flying down the narrow stretch between team garages. Lando Norris, crouched low on a scooter like a gremlin on wheels, is laughing before he slams into something soft and solid.

There’s a crunch of expensive heels.

A thud.

A gasp.

And then-

“Oh my God. Ohmygodohmygod.” Lando’s already halfway off the scooter, scrambling to his feet with hands out like he can rewind time by sheer panic. “Are you — are you okay? I didn’t — I mean, it’s not like, that fast, right? It’s — okay, yeah, no, you’re very much on the ground, cool cool cool-”

You’re lying there, halfway on your side, propped up by one elbow, blinking. Your oversized sunglasses are askew. One of your heels has flown halfway under a stack of Pirellis.

And the guy looming above you is grinning like he’s not sure if he should laugh or throw himself into the Mediterranean out of shame.

"Hi," he says. "Sorry for, uh. Running you over."

You tilt your head, still stunned. “Are you seriously racing a scooter through the paddock?”

“It’s not racing if no one’s timing it,” Lando says brightly, offering you a hand. “… But yes. And that was reckless. And stupid. And really fun. But mostly stupid.”

You stare at his hand. His cap’s pushed up on his head, curly hair spilling out in sweaty tangles. His eyes are impossibly bright. He looks like he just crash-landed from a cartoon.

You take his hand.

He pulls you up with an exaggerated grunt. “Wow. Okay. You’re stronger than you look.”

“You’re more of a menace than you look.”

He grins. "Thank you. Wait, was that a compliment?"

“Not even remotely.”

You dust yourself off, lifting your sunglasses onto your head. Lando watches, then lets out a short laugh.

“Oh no.”

“What?”

“You’re — yeah, wow, okay. You’re very pretty. Like, really pretty. You’re probably important, huh?”

You narrow your eyes.

“Are you asking if I’m important because I’m pretty?”

“No! No no no,” he says, horrified. “God, no. I mean — you look like the kind of person who has a security detail and a Wikipedia page. Which is not the only reason you’re important. It’s just … I feel like I’m gonna get sued.”

You smirk. “You might.”

He’s staring at you like you just told him he ran over Taylor Swift.

“Okay. What’s your name? I’ll write you a very panicked apology letter. Maybe flowers? Wait, do you even like flowers? Maybe chocolate. Wait — nut allergy?”

You blink. “Are you always like this?”

He considers that. “Yeah. But sometimes I tone it down for the elderly or if I’m at a funeral.”

You should be irritated. You’re not. Somehow, all this flailing panic is … disarming. He’s like a golden retriever who just knocked over a vase and is now waiting to see if you’ll still pet him.

“I’m Y/N,” you say finally.

“Y/N,” he repeats. “That’s a lovely name.”

“And you are Lando Norris.”

He pauses. “… So you do know who I am. That feels unfair.”

“You ran me over.”

“Right. Nevermind.”

You retrieve your shoe from under the tires with a little sigh. He watches you with a sort of guilty awe. Like he can’t quite believe he survived the collision.

Then, after a beat, “You here for the race?”

You arch a brow. “What gave it away?”

“Could be the Monaco sun,” he says, walking backward beside you now. “But also the outfit. You look too … elegant to be someone’s PR handler. You’re not a driver’s girlfriend either, or I’d have seen you on Insta by now.”

You snort. “What a deduction.”

“I know, right? Sherlock Norris. So … what do you do?”

You stop walking. He stops too. Tilts his head.

You smile. “I would tell you …”

“Oh, you would?” He says, eyebrows bouncing.

“-but I think I want to see if you can guess my job correctly.”

He grins. “Love a challenge.”

You lean in slightly, like you’re sharing a secret. “You only get one guess.”

“Only one?”

“One.”

“Okay, okay. No pressure.” He pinches the bridge of his nose like it’ll help summon divine clarity. “Let’s see. You’re well-dressed, clearly clever, somehow not screaming at me despite the vehicular assault … so you’re either incredibly powerful or completely unbothered by earthly consequences.”

“Very astute.”

He squints. “You’re … a fashion CEO.”

You blink. “That’s your guess?”

He nods, proud. “Big time. Like, quietly running a billion-euro empire from a Parisian penthouse. You look like you boss people around in three languages.”

You purse your lips. “Close.”

“Seriously?”

“No. Not even remotely.”

He looks personally offended. “Okay, then who are you?”

You just start walking again.

“Oh, come on! That’s mean,” he whines, trailing after you. “I guessed. You said I get to know!”

“No,” you say over your shoulder. “I said I want to hear if you can guess it. You didn’t.”

“Unbelievable,” he mutters. “Is this what heartbreak feels like? Are you — are you a spy? A secret agent? Do you know Daniel Craig? Please tell me you’re MI6.”

You’re laughing now, which only makes him more dramatic.

“Oh, you’re loving this,” he accuses. “You’re totally enjoying watching me flail.”

“You flail very naturally.”

“Thank you — wait, no. That’s not a compliment.”

“Isn’t it?”

He squints suspiciously. “You’ve got the same energy as my trainer when he says I’m doing a good job but makes the workouts harder.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Okay, mysterious beautiful stranger who may or may not be royalty-”

You freeze for a split second.

He catches it.

“Oh my God,” he says slowly. “Wait. Wait. Are you actually — wait. Like, real royalty? Is that — no. That’s not a thing. That’s a thing in Netflix movies.”

You raise a brow.

“Oh shit,” he whispers.

You don’t confirm. Don’t deny.

He stares at you like you just turned into a unicorn. “I ran over a princess.”

You tilt your head. “Technically, Grand Duchess. Hereditary Grand Duchess, if we’re being precise.”

He’s silent.

For about three whole seconds.

Then, “I’m going to jail.”

You burst out laughing.

“No, seriously,” he says, mouth falling open. “That’s like treason? Assault on a noble? Is that a law? Is there a dungeon? Oh my god-”

You reach for his sleeve, tug it gently. “Relax. You’re not going to prison.”

“But I could be,” he says, stunned. “You’re actual royalty. I think I saw you once, like a year ago! You were on the cover of Vogue or something-”

You glance sideways. “So you have seen me before.”

“I thought you looked familiar! But I just assumed I’d dreamed you.”

You roll your eyes.

He stares at you for another second, then breaks into a wide, sheepish grin. “This is insane.”

“You’re telling me.”

He scratches the back of his neck. “So … you coming to the motorhome, Your Highness?”

You pretend to consider it. “Only if you stop calling me that.”

“Deal,” he says immediately. “But I’m still going to make you guess what my job is, just to even the playing field.”

You glance at his McLaren shirt. “You sell scooters.”

He gasps. “Correct. Wow. Nailed it in one.”

You both laugh.

***

The McLaren motorhome hums with life, all sharp lines and bright orange accents, but it feels like a bubble. A refuge tucked between the chaos of the paddock and the roaring engines beyond. You follow Lando inside, still unsure how you got here — still vaguely amused that he hasn’t stopped talking since the crash.

“You know, I don’t normally just run over people,” he says, leading you past a security guy who gives you both a baffled look. “You’re actually my first. Well. That I know of. I might’ve clipped a Ferrari engineer once, but he was dramatic about it and threw a clipboard.”

You smile, trailing after him. “Is this your version of flirting?”

“Oh no, no, this is panic,” he says quickly. “My flirting is marginally smoother.”

“Marginally.”

“On a good day.”

The motorhome is bustling. Engineers tap away on laptops. There’s a spread of snacks someone’s half-raided. You notice a few people double-taking as they see you walk in, but no one says anything. It’s like they’re used to Lando bringing in strays.

“Do they always stare like that?” You ask under your breath.

He glances around. “What, that? Nah. That’s just them wondering if you’re a Netflix producer, or my cousin, or a very lost model.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re so annoyingly casual about this.”

“It’s my greatest skill,” he says proudly, then spins around suddenly. “Wait … here.”

He pulls off his McLaren cap and steps forward, holding it out to you. “Sun’s brutal today. You’ll need this if you’re hanging out here.”

You blink at the hat in his hand. “You’re giving me your hat?”

“Lending it,” he corrects, but he’s already stepping closer.

And then — without really thinking — he lifts it over your head and places it gently on top of your hair, adjusting it with exaggerated care.

“There,” he says, grinning. “Now you look fast.”

You snort. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

“Doesn’t have to,” he says. “You feel fast.”

You adjust the cap slightly, not thinking much of it. It’s warm from his head. Smells faintly like his shampoo and sun.

And somewhere across the paddock, at least four camera lenses catch it. The exact moment Lando Norris — a nonchalant, grinning mess of curls and chaotic charm — places his own hat gently on your head with all the care of someone proposing a life together.

Of course, neither of you notices.

“You look good in papaya,” he says, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

You raise an eyebrow. “You just like seeing people wear your merch.”

“True,” he admits. “It’s excellent branding.”

There’s a pause, and then you both start laughing at the same time. Loud and open, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Somewhere in the background, a McLaren comms staffer walks by, glancing between the two of you and immediately pulling out her phone.

“Right,” Lando says, flopping onto the couch and patting the space next to him. “Come on. Sit. Tell me everything.”

You lower yourself carefully onto the cushion, still unsure how your diplomatic morning turned into … whatever this is. “Everything?”

“Everything. Like what’s your actual day-to-day like? Are you doing royal things all the time? Are there, like, scrolls? Do you own a sceptre?”

“No scrolls,” you say. “And sadly, no sceptre. But I’m working on it.”

He nods solemnly. “You deserve a sceptre.”

“Thank you.”

“But seriously. Do you have meetings with … I don’t know, other royals? Do you sit in a big room and talk about treaties and wear sashes?”

You laugh. “Sometimes. Though most of my meetings are just government-adjacent. I do a lot of international work. Cultural diplomacy. Economic initiatives. Tourism stuff.”

“So … not just tea parties and ribbon cutting?”

“Shockingly, no.”

He whistles. “That actually sounds important.”

“It is.”

“And exhausting.”

You tilt your head. “It can be. There’s pressure. Constantly being watched. Expectations. Every gesture means something.”

He raises a brow. “Even hats?”

You don’t even flinch.

But internally, you do hesitate. The old Luxembourgish tradition flashes through your mind — one your grandmother once explained with a warm smile and a twinkle in her eye.

“If a man offers you something of his, something worn, something marked by him — especially a hat — and places it on your head, it means he offers you protection. Partnership. In the old days, it was a proposal before a proposal.”

You remember laughing at the time. It was quaint. Archaic. Romantic, in a way that felt more myth than law.

You doubt Lando Norris is aware of any of that.

You watch him now — grinning at a text, tossing his phone aside, still slouched like he owns the whole motorhome — and decide not to mention it.

“It’s just a hat,” you say lightly.

He nods. “Right? Totally normal. Generous, even.”

“Deeply generous,” you echo, smiling.

You both fall quiet for a moment. It’s not awkward. It’s … easy.

Then he turns to you again.

“So do you get bored of it?” He asks.

You blink. “Of what?”

“Being important. Being watched. Being … not normal.”

That one hits.

You lean back, letting your gaze drift to the window. “Sometimes. It’s hard to know if people are being real with me. If they want something, or if they’re just pretending they don’t know who I am. Or worse, pretending they do.”

He nods, slower now. “Yeah. I get that. A bit.”

You glance over at him.

“Okay, not the royal part,” he adds. “But … being public. Being expected to be on all the time. It’s weird, right? Like, people think they know you. Like they’ve already decided who you are before you say anything.”

You watch his face as he says it. There’s a moment of real honesty there, flickering between his words.

And you realize he’s not as clueless as he seems.

“I like this,” you say softly.

He looks up. “This?”

“This. Just talking. Not performing.”

He smiles, slower this time. “Me too.”

Someone calls his name from across the motorhome, but he doesn’t look away.

You pick up a packet of cookies from the coffee table, toss it into his lap. “Tell me more about crashing into other people. I want to know how many lawsuits you’re juggling.”

He laughs. “Okay, so once in Silverstone, I clipped George Russell with a golf cart. He insists I did it on purpose, but I maintain it was sabotage from Mercedes.”

You lean in, smiling. “Tell me everything.”

And so he does.

He talks with his hands, dramatic and unfiltered. He tells stories that make you laugh until you’re clutching your stomach. He impersonates Daniel Ricciardo. He makes fun of himself, of the team, of the absurdity of fame. You don’t realize how much time has passed until the room starts to empty.

You glance at the clock and blink. “It’s been two hours.”

“No way.”

You both look around. People are filtering out. The buzz of the paddock is louder now, the day slipping past you like sand through your fingers.

You reach up to adjust the hat again, and Lando watches, biting back a smile.

“You’re really keeping that, huh?”

You shrug. “Finders keepers.”

“I knew it,” he says. “You just came here for the merch.”

“I’m royalty,” you reply. “I came here for the drama and the free stuff.”

He clutches his heart. “A woman after my own heart.”

You hear a few more shutter clicks outside — photographers catching shots through the motorhome windows, lenses like little eyes peering in. Lando doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he’s used to it.

You should care more. Maybe you do, somewhere deep down.

But right now? In this moment?

You don’t.

You’re wearing his hat, and he’s laughing like he’s never had more fun in his life. And you’re just … two people on a couch, pretending the world outside doesn’t exist.

Later, you’ll both hear about the photos. About the symbolism. The headlines in Luxembourgish tabloids translating your laughter into lovers’ whispers, the cap into a silent vow.

But for now, you just look at him and smile.

And he smiles back.

***

It starts early.

Too early for a Sunday race day.

Lando is still half-asleep, blinking against the pale Monte Carlo morning light slicing through the curtains, when his phone explodes.

First it’s the buzz. Then the buzzbuzzbuzz. Then the ping, ping, ping of messages stacking up like a digital avalanche.

He groans, rolls over, tries to bury himself under the pillow. No use. Whatever this is, it’s not going away.

And then-

Cabrón. WHAT have you done?

Carlos is the first one in the group chat. With a screenshot.

Lando squints blearily at it. All caps. Tabloid headline.

A blurry photo from yesterday.

It’s you. Wearing his McLaren cap. Laughing. The moment he placed it on your head captured in too-crisp detail.

And the headline-

HEREDITARY GRAND DUCHESS OF LUXEMBOURG ENGAGED TO FORMULA 1 STAR LANDO NORRIS IN SECRET MONACO CEREMONY?

He blinks again.

“…What the fu-”

Another buzz.

ZAK BROWN: Call me. Now.

ANDREA STELLA: This is not funny. We are in Monaco. Please, for once, use your head.

GEORGE: Lando. Mate. Explain the royal engagement.

MUM: We need to talk ❤️

He stares at the screen like it might bite him.

The Grand Duchess part doesn’t even register at first. He scrolls through more links, more headlines, all variations of the same fever dream.

Symbolic proposal shocks royal observers in Monaco GP paddock.

Royal family confirms no comment

McLaren’s Lando Norris in relationship with Luxembourg’s future monarch?

He mutters, “What the — what is happening?”

Carlos sends another message.

CARLOS: This is the best thing that’s ever happened. Can I be your maid of honor?

CARLOS: Wait. Groomsman. Unless you're planning to wear the dress, then honestly I support it.

Lando doesn’t even have the energy to reply.

He swings out of bed, throws on a hoodie, and starts pacing. The cap. The hat. Was it really that big of a deal?

He offered it because she looked a little sun-blind. He thought it’d be cute. A gesture. Flirty. A laugh.

Not an international incident.

There’s a knock on his apartment door.

He opens it.

Zak stands there with the energy of someone who’s been yelling into a phone for two hours straight. Andrea is behind him, looking like he aged ten years overnight.

“You’re trending,” Zak says without preamble. “Not for winning. Not for pole. Not even for crashing. You’re trending because apparently you’re about to marry into a monarchy.”

“I didn’t — what — no,” Lando says, holding his hands up. “I gave her a hat!”

“An engagement hat!” Carlos shouts from inside the apartment, because of course Carlos has let himself in somehow. “The most sacred of all hats!”

Lando glares. “You’re not helping.”

Andrea pinches the bridge of his nose. “Do you understand the implications of this, Lando?”

“No! Because it’s insane!”

Zak exhales. “There are diplomatic rumors flying. Press camped outside the motorhome. Questions coming in from Luxembourg’s government channels.”

Lando looks helpless. “But I didn’t do anything.”

Carlos, now lying fully horizontal on Lando’s bed, grins. “You proposed. With headwear.”

“I hate all of you.”

Carlos lifts a hand. “It’s what we do.”

***

By the time Lando makes it to the paddock, he’s wearing sunglasses and a hoodie pulled up like a man on the run.

He gets stopped four times before reaching the McLaren motorhome.

One PR officer actually bows at him, just to be a menace.

Oscar gives him a slow, impressed once-over and just says, “Your Royal Highness,” with a mocking nod before walking away.

He’s never living this down.

The only thing he wants is to find you.

And, as if summoned by the strength of pure panic, there you are. Standing just outside the McLaren garage, mid-conversation with someone from Alpine, sipping from a bottle of water like you own the place. Your hair is tucked into a sleek ponytail. The sun makes your earrings glint.

Lando jogs up to you, breathless.

“Hey! Hey, hi, um, hi.”

You turn, startled. “Good morning.”

“Not really,” he says, lifting his glasses. “What the hell is going on?”

You blink. “What do you mean?”

“The cap. The hat. The one I put on your head yesterday? Apparently that means I proposed to you. The tabloids are going crazy. Everyone thinks we’re engaged. My mum texted me.”

Your eyebrows lift. “Wait, seriously?”

He pulls out his phone, flicks through the headlines, and shoves it toward you.

You squint at one. “‘Royal Love Blooms on the Grid?’” You snort. “‘Luxembourg’s Heartthrob Duchess Swept Off Her Feet by McLaren Maverick?’”

Lando’s voice pitches up. “Swept off her feet! I literally ran into you with a scooter!”

You start laughing. Not a polite laugh. A full-body, unbothered laugh. Like this is all the most normal thing in the world.

He stares. “Why are you laughing?”

You wipe a tear from under your eye. “Because this is nothing. You should’ve seen the time they said I was secretly dating a Swiss banker who turned out to be my second cousin.”

He pauses. “… What?”

“Or the time they decided I’d renounced the throne to become a goat farmer in Liechtenstein.”

He blinks. “Okay, that one’s kind of iconic.”

You give him a shrug. “This is what happens when you’re born into a monarchy and dare to show emotions in public.”

He stares at you. “You’re telling me you’re fine with this?”

“I think it’s hilarious.”

“Hilarious? They called me your future consort.”

“Are you not?” You ask innocently, sipping your water.

He splutters. “What-”

You grin. “I’m kidding.”

You’re very not kidding. Not in the way that matters.

Because watching him panic like this — watching him trail after you with his hoodie strings bouncing and his voice pitching up with every breath — it’s … oddly sweet.

He cares. Not just about the press. About you. About how this reflects on you. That matters.

You reach over and tug gently at his hood to straighten it. “Relax. The headlines will change by tomorrow.”

“You really think that?”

“No,” you admit. “But that’s what I tell myself when I’m spiraling.”

He laughs despite himself. “You’re way too chill about this.”

“I’ve had practice.”

“You’re literally a royal and you’re less stressed than me.”

“That’s because I’ve had years of training in pretending I’m not screaming inside.”

Lando looks at you. Really looks at you.

There’s this flicker of something in his chest. Admiration. Confusion. Something just slightly more than fondness.

He exhales. “You’re ridiculous.”

“So are you.”

“I didn’t mean to propose to you.”

“Shame,” you say casually, and walk away before he can respond.

He stands there, stunned, as Carlos passes behind him, humming “Here Comes the Bride.”

***

Back in the McLaren motorhome, the chaos continues.

The PR team is in damage control mode. Zak is pacing with a headset. Andrea has three newspapers folded under his arm and an expression that could melt titanium.

But Lando?

Lando is leaning on the windowsill, watching you from across the way as you chat with someone from Mercedes.

Still wearing his cap. Still laughing like you haven’t just caused a minor diplomatic crisis.

And for some reason … he’s not mad.

He just grins, taps the glass once, and mutters, “Yeah, this is totally fine.”

Absolutely fine.

Nothing is on fire. Nothing at all.

***

You know something’s wrong when Martine shows up.

Martine only shows up when things are very wrong. Like, international-incident-meets-centuries-old-protocol wrong. She’s your primary handler, which is a polite way of saying she’s the one who stops you from accidentally tanking Luxembourg’s economy with a bad outfit choice.

You spot her across the paddock: sharp black blazer, sunglasses that mean business, marching toward the McLaren motorhome with the speed and grace of a small, determined missile.

“Oh, no,” you mutter.

Lando, sitting on a folding chair next to you with his helmet in his lap, glances up. “What?”

You nod in Martine’s direction. “That.”

He follows your gaze and immediately winces. “Oh no.”

“She’s here to kill me.”

“She’s probably here to kill me,” he says, standing up like a man preparing to face execution.

Martine stops two feet away, does not greet you. Does not smile. Just removes her sunglasses and levels the two of you with the look she usually reserves for scandalous budget overspending or cousins dating minor celebrities.

She speaks in a voice so tight it might shatter glass. “Well, I hope you’re both having fun.”

You open your mouth to respond, but she holds up a hand. “No. Stop. Don’t speak yet. We’re in crisis mode.”

“Isn’t that a little dramatic?” Lando offers, with a hopeful grin.

Martine turns to him so slowly it’s almost operatic. “Mister Norris, the Luxembourgish Parliament has just issued a formal declaration of congratulations on your engagement. Your faces are on the front page of every major paper from here to Berlin. People Magazine referred to you as the ‘millennial fairytale.’ And — just to really put a cherry on top — your Instagram post from two days ago has now been recirculated as a ‘subtle announcement.’”

Lando swallows. “That post was about McNuggets.”

“Yes,” Martine says. “And you hashtagged it #lovemylife. So now the press thinks the nuggets were metaphorical.”

You press a hand to your face. “Okay. That one’s kind of on you.”

Martine whirls on you next. “Do you understand the implications of this? Because this is not just a PR disaster. This is a constitutional event. We cannot simply say it was a misunderstanding.”

“Why not?” Lando asks, hands outstretched. “Can’t we just say it was, like, a joke? A mix-up? A funny cultural thing?”

Martine takes a deep breath, as if preparing to deliver a death sentence.

“Because,” she says carefully, “in Luxembourgish law, once a declaration has been acknowledged by Parliament and received no formal objection from the heir apparent within the hour, it becomes a matter of record.”

Lando stares. “What does that mean?”

You sigh. “It means … it’s official. As far as the government’s concerned, we’re engaged.”

There’s a beat of stunned silence. And then Lando says, very quietly, “Oh, my god.”

Martine nods grimly. “Oh, your god, indeed.”

“I didn’t even do anything!” He protests. “I gave her a hat!”

Martine’s eyes narrow. “Which, in Luxembourg, is equivalent to a pre-marital vow of intent.”

“That’s ridiculous!”

“It’s ancient tradition!”

Lando throws his hands in the air. “Well maybe someone should’ve written a pamphlet! ‘Hey, welcome to Luxembourg, don’t give royal women hats!’”

“I should have known,” you say, mostly to yourself. “I knew the hat was going to be a problem.”

Martine exhales and pinches the bridge of her nose. “There is a press conference in two hours. The Grand Duke has already spoken to French media.”

You freeze. “Wait. My father knows?”

Martine shoots you a look. “Knows? He’s celebrating.”

“Celebrating what?”

“His exact words,” she says, pulling out her phone and reading from a very official-sounding email, “‘I have always dreamed of a son-in-law who drives fast and talks nonsense. This is perfect.’”

Lando, completely bewildered, points at himself. “Is that a compliment?”

You look at him. “Honestly? I think it is.”

Martine puts the phone away. “You both need to keep this under control. Just for a few days. Until the press dies down.”

Lando’s face scrunches. “Wait. Waitwaitwait. Are you saying we have to pretend to be engaged?”

Martine nods once. “Exactly.”

“Temporarily?” You ask.

“For now,” she says. “But you will both need to act engaged. Convincingly. That means appearances. Smiles. Coordination. Possibly an interview.”

Lando looks like he’s going to be sick. “Interview?!”

“Oh, you’re absolutely doing the interview,” Martine says.

You blink slowly. “So … just to clarify. Our options are either to lie to the international press and pretend to be planning a royal wedding or risk sparking a diplomatic conflict between my country and the rest of the European Union?”

Martine smiles grimly. “Correct.”

Lando leans against the nearest wall. “This is a nightmare.”

You nudge him with your elbow. “Could be worse.”

“How?”

You grin. “You could’ve actually proposed.”

He groans. “I’m never giving anyone a hat ever again.”

***

The rest of the morning is a blur.

Your phone doesn’t stop buzzing. Everyone from Monaco’s royal family to your mother’s childhood piano teacher is reaching out.

Lando’s friends have renamed their group chat “THE ROYAL CONSORTS.”

Carlos sends a meme of Meghan Markle waving from a balcony, photoshopped with Lando’s face. Lando throws his phone across the room.

Everywhere you walk in the paddock, people are staring, whispering, smiling in that way that means they think they know.

Lando sticks to your side like a man attached by invisible glue.

“This is surreal,” he mutters, not for the first time. “You’re just … fine with this?”

You glance at him. “I’ve been fake-smiling through political dinners since I was ten. This is honestly one of the less stressful things I’ve had to fake.”

He eyes you. “That’s kind of impressive.”

You shrug. “I mean, don’t get me wrong. It’s insane. But it’s also temporary. We do a few appearances, wear some coordinated outfits, and smile for the cameras.”

He groans. “Do I have to wear a sash?”

“Only if you want bonus points.”

He considers. “Does it come in papaya?”

You grin. “Now you’re thinking like a royal.”

He glances sideways at you. “You really think we can pull this off?”

“I think,” you say slowly, “we have no choice. But yeah. We can do it.”

There’s something unspoken between you in that moment. Some flicker of understanding. And maybe a spark of something else.

***

By the time you arrive at the media scrum, the photographers are already in position. Flashes pop. Lenses aim.

You loop your arm through Lando’s, and he looks down like you’ve just handed him a live grenade.

“What do I do?” He mutters.

“Smile,” you whisper back. “And look like you’re wildly in love.”

He takes a breath, then smiles so wide it almost hurts to look at. A little crooked. A little chaotic.

It’s perfect.

He leans toward you. “Like this?”

You nod. “Exactly like that.”

The cameras love it. Shutters go wild. A symphony of clicks.

Someone shouts, “Any wedding date yet?”

Lando opens his mouth to panic.

You answer smoothly, “We’re just enjoying the moment.”

“Have you met each other’s families?”

Lando again looks like he might choke. You reply, “They’re … very supportive.”

“How did the proposal happen?”

Lando starts to laugh, helplessly.

You answer, “It was spontaneous.”

And that’s how the day goes.

Flash after flash. Smile after smile.

And through it all, Lando — your accidental fiancé, your completely overwhelmed co-conspirator — stays right beside you, fingers brushing yours, as if anchoring himself to reality.

You don’t know what’s coming next.

You don’t know how long you’ll have to keep this up.

But when Lando looks at you with that half-panicked, half-awed grin — like he still can’t believe this is happening — you just smile back.

Because somehow, against all odds this royal disaster? Feels a lot like fate.

***

The Grand Prix is over, the champagne has dried, and the press has moved on to whatever other scandal is brewing in the glittering circus of Monaco. And yet … you stay.

You’re supposed to leave, technically. There’s a return flight booked under your name, a motorcade on standby, and a color-coded itinerary that includes words like “debrief” and “post-engagement optics strategy.” But instead of heading back to Luxembourg, you text Martine something vague about needing to monitor the situation on the ground.

She doesn’t push. She never pushes when you use diplomatic language like that.

And so, you stay — in the sunshine, in the noise, in the afterglow of whatever chaos you and Lando have created.

And Lando? Well. Lando leans in. Hard.

It starts with a bouquet. You think it’s from some Monegasque diplomat until you read the note.

For my one true duchess. Long may she reign.

- Your Devoted Fiancé™

You roll your eyes so hard it almost hurts.

The next morning, there’s a box of chocolates left on the doorstep of your borrowed suite. Heart-shaped.

The note reads: May these sweets bring you half the joy your smile brings me.

- His Royal Himbo-ness

Then come the messages.

LANDO: Milady, I beseech thee … may I take thee to breakfast?

YOU: Only if thou bringest me hashbrowns.

LANDO: I would brave dragons and tyre degradation for thee.

YOU: Good, because I just saw you stall your scooter outside my hotel.

It’s ridiculous. It’s also … weirdly fun.

You keep telling yourself it’s fake, that it has to be fake. A temporary performance to appease international dignitaries and excitable royal fathers with a love for motorsport.

But then one afternoon, you find Lando outside your hotel with a paper crown from Burger King and a daisy between his teeth.

He bows. “Milady. Thy noble steed awaiteth.”

You snort. “You’re riding an electric scooter.”

“And she runneth on pure love.”

He offers his hand, like you’re a princess in a storybook.

You take it.

***

It’s only when you’re not performing — when the flowers are left without a camera flash or you’re laughing in a hallway while ducking behind a vending machine — that Lando starts to notice it.

The quiet moments.

The way your smile sometimes fades the second people look away. The way you’re constantly being trailed by someone in a blazer holding a tablet. The way your phone buzzes and you flinch like it might explode.

It hits him hardest at the hotel bar.

You’re sitting across from him in some ridiculous formal dress, sipping water like it’s wine because the event is too long and you’re too tired, and someone behind you says, “She doesn’t even look that royal.”

You hear it. He knows you hear it. But you don’t flinch. You just smile, poised and polite, and excuse yourself a moment later. You come back three minutes later, smile reset, posture perfect.

He watches the entire transformation with his stomach twisting into a knot.

“You alright?” He asks gently, when the crowds have thinned.

You glance over. “Of course.”

And he doesn’t push. But something in his chest tugs.

***

The idea comes to him in a flash.

“Hey,” he says the next night, casually leaning against the doorframe of your hotel suite. “Wanna ditch this disaster and do something stupid?”

You arch a brow. “Define stupid.”

“Burgers. Reality TV. My place.”

You blink.

“No press, no handlers. Just us. A comfy couch and some bad choices.”

You narrow your eyes. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch,” he says. “I just thought maybe … you might want to feel normal for a bit.”

You don’t answer right away.

Because it’s absurd. It’s reckless. You have a state dinner in forty-five minutes and there are actual diplomats waiting downstairs to make small talk about Luxembourg’s agricultural exports.

But then you look at him — hopeful, earnest, wearing a hoodie that says “QDRNT” and socks that do not match — and you think screw it.

You shut the door behind you.

“Let’s go.”

***

He smuggles you out the back through the hotel kitchens.

“You’ve done this before,” you note, as he expertly navigates a series of corridors.

“Absolutely,” he says. “I once snuck out past curfew during a sponsor dinner to get tacos with Max.”

“And how’d that end?”

“In a minor fire.”

You blink. “Wait, what?”

He just grins.

Ten minutes later, you’re sitting in his apartment — barefoot, legs tucked under yourself on the couch, a paper bag of burgers between you.

“You know,” you say, unwrapping one of them, “if this gets leaked to the press, they’re going to think you’re a bad influence.”

He takes a dramatic bite. “Milady, wouldst thou accept this humble offering of ketchup and meat?”

You snort, almost choking on your fries. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet you remain seated.”

You roll your eyes but don’t argue.

He clicks on the TV and scrolls to a show that looks suspiciously like Love Island, then leans back and stretches his arms behind his head like it’s the most relaxing evening of his life.

“Do you do this a lot?” You ask.

“What, seduce royalty over fast food?”

“No,” you laugh. “Just … be this normal.”

He shrugs. “Normal’s relative, innit? I mean, yeah. When I can. When people let me.”

You nod slowly. “Must be nice.”

He turns to look at you. “You really don’t get much of that, huh?”

You take a sip of soda. “Not unless it’s scripted. Or has a purpose. Even this … it’s not real.”

He shifts on the couch, voice quieter. “It feels real.”

You glance over at him, something flickering behind your eyes. “It does, doesn’t it?”

There’s a long beat. The show drones in the background — someone screaming about being “mugged off” and crying in a hot tub.

And then he says, softly, “Can I ask you something?”

You nod.

“What would you be doing right now if you weren’t, y’know, you? The royal stuff, I mean.”

You pause.

“Sleeping,” you say finally. “Without a schedule. Without worrying if my resting face looks too detached in photographs.”

He smiles, a little sadly. “You’re good at it. The pretending.”

“Too good,” you murmur. “It’s like muscle memory.”

He nods, thoughtful.

Then, in a whisper like a secret:, “I wish I could give you more of this.”

You turn to him fully. “More burgers?”

“More normal,” he says. “More space to just … be. Laugh. Eat crap food and wear ugly pajamas and not have to explain yourself to anyone.”

Something in your chest squeezes.

You don’t say anything.

Instead, you lean over, take a fry from his tray, and say, “You talk too much.”

“Sorry,” he says quickly. “Didn’t mean to-”

“I like it,” you interrupt.

He blinks.

You nod toward the screen. “Shut up and watch trash TV with me.”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

He salutes. You hit him with a pillow.

He yelps, dramatically falling sideways onto the couch like you’ve slain him. “Oh no! The duchess has betrayed me!”

You’re laughing now, full-bodied and unfiltered, and Lando watches you like he’s discovered something sacred.

And in that ridiculously expensive Monaco apartment — over lukewarm burgers and cheap television — something real clicks into place.

Something neither of you says out loud. Yet.

***

There’s something wildly disorienting about pretending to be engaged while boarding a private jet with your not-actually-fiancé and his team. Everyone’s in branded hoodies, backpacks slung low, and you are wearing sunglasses too big for your face and eating gummy bears out of Lando’s hand.

It shouldn’t feel this easy. But it does.

Lando slouches into the seat beside you, nudging your knee with his. “You ready to charm the entire paddock again?”

You grin, biting off a red bear. “As long as you don’t run me over with a scooter this time.”

He chuckles. “I make no promises.”

The entire team is still buzzing about Monaco, and Lando’s riding the wave like he was born for it. Every time someone asks about “the duchess,” he beams, slings an arm around you like it’s instinct, and says something utterly absurd like, “She saved me from a life of bachelor mediocrity.”

You elbow him every time. He doesn’t stop.

When you land, everything’s familiar but shinier. More photographers. More interest. More rumors. The press is obsessed, still pushing out think pieces dissecting your “engagement,” articles titled How Luxembourg’s Royal Match Might Save McLaren’s PR Season and Love, Speed, and Statecraft: A Modern Fairytale?

You try not to read them. You try not to notice that people are beginning to look at you and Lando like something real is happening.

But the problem is … it’s starting to feel real.

Especially when he FaceTimes his mother from the garage and yells, “Mum! Look who I’ve got!”

You barely have time to blink before a kind, curious woman appears onscreen, waving excitedly. “Oh, she’s gorgeous! Hello, sweetheart!”

“Hi,” you laugh, suddenly weirdly nervous. “It’s lovely to meet you.”

“Don’t let him get away with anything,” she says warmly. “He’s always been a cheeky one.”

“Mum,” Lando whines, red in the ears.

You smile. “I’ll keep him in line. Royal decree.”

His mum howls with laughter. “Oh, I like her.”

After the call ends, Lando’s quiet for a second, just watching you like he’s never seen you before.

“What?” You ask.

He shrugs, softly. “Nothing. Just … you’re good with my family.”

You nudge his shoulder. “And you brought a duchess to meet your mum over FaceTime in a dirty motorhome. What a catch.”

He grins. “The best catch.”

It’s easy. Too easy. And that’s what makes the next part harder.

***

You find out about the betrothal preparations by accident.

You’re in your suite, half-watching footage from practice, when your phone buzzes with a message from Martine.

Draft of formal announcement attached. Parliament reviewing wording. Father approved. Event tentatively scheduled for end of month.

You stare at the screen. You knew they were talking. You just didn’t know it had escalated.

The file opens to a beautifully typeset letter with phrases like With deep joy, the Grand Ducal Family announces … and in celebration of the enduring relationship between Luxembourg and the international community …

Your name. Lando’s name. Your actual engagement.

You blow out a slow, quiet breath. “… Right,” you murmur.

Because this was never supposed to get that far. This was supposed to be a joke. A misinterpreted hat and a string of PR saves. Something temporary. Something ridiculous.

And now it’s a royal decree in waiting.

***

You don’t tell Lando right away.

You’re not sure how. Or when. Or even if it’ll matter. Part of you wants to see if he’s catching on.

The problem is — he is. But not in the way you expect.

You catch him in the paddock later that afternoon, pressed up against a journalist with a tight smile and a voice that sounds … off.

“We’re just having fun,” he’s saying. “I mean, obviously we’re fond of each other, but come on, it’s been, what, a few weeks? Everyone’s reading into things too much. It’s not, like … real real.”

You freeze. Your chest does something strange.

“Fake engagement,” the reporter repeats, scribbling fast. “So you’d call it fake?”

“No — well — I mean, it’s a misunderstanding. But like, funny. Silly. Not serious-serious. I’m not actually about to marry-”

He looks up.

Sees you.

His mouth shuts instantly.

You turn on your heel before he can say your name.

***

He finds you later in the hospitality suite, tucked into a corner booth with your legs crossed and your arms folded tight. You’re wearing sunglasses even though you’re indoors. It’s not sunny.

“Hey,” he says, breathless like he ran. “Can we talk?”

You don’t look at him. “You should go.”

“Please don’t be mad-”

“I’m not mad,” you say. “I’m just confused.”

He slides in across from you. “About what?”

You take off your sunglasses slowly, like peeling back a layer of yourself.

“Are you embarrassed?” You ask, quiet but steady. “Of me?”

His eyes widen. “What? No!”

“Because I heard you,” you say. “With the press. Like I’m some PR stunt you’re trying to backpedal.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?”

He opens his mouth. Closes it.

“I didn’t think they’d take it this seriously,” he says finally. “I thought we were just having fun.”

Your expression doesn’t change. “Is that all it is to you?”

He fidgets. “I don’t know.”

You let the silence settle like dust between you.

“Do you think I chose to be born into this?” You ask, softer now. “The titles. The politics. The fact that I can’t even order a burger without it being international news?”

“No, of course not-”

“I’ve spent every day of my life playing by someone else’s rules,” you say. “And then this — this accident, this whole engagement — it’s the first time I’ve actually liked the story I’m in. And you’re out here telling everyone exactly how fake it is.”

Lando looks like he’s been slapped. “I didn’t mean to make you feel that way.”

“Well, you did.”

You stand.

He reaches for your wrist, but you step back.

“I have to go,” you say. “My advisors are expecting me. We’re planning a fake betrothal gala.”

Your voice cracks a little on the last word.

And then you walk away.

You don’t see the look on Lando’s face as you leave. But if you had, you’d see it plain as day:

Regret. Real, gut-punching regret.

***

Lando’s been outside your hotel for thirty-six minutes.

Thirty-six minutes of pacing, kicking the heel of his sneaker against a marble step, and trying to figure out if knocking on the door of a royal suite gets him arrested. Or excommunicated. Or worse — rejected.

He’s holding a paper bag.

Inside is an apology attempt in the form of your favorite milkshake (two straws, vanilla with caramel swirl), a squished pastry from the café you liked down the block, and a note that says I suck but I’d like to stop sucking, please?

He stares at the door. Then knocks, fast, before he can lose his nerve.

When it swings open, you’re there. Barefoot, in an oversized t-shirt and a messy bun. You look tired. And beautiful. And like you haven’t made up your mind about forgiving him.

“You came all this way to give me diabetes?” You ask.

He lifts the bag sheepishly. “There’s also emotional vulnerability in here. Limited edition.”

You lean against the doorframe. “How limited?”

“Like … might expire in fifteen minutes if left at room temperature?”

Your mouth quirks. “Alright, come in.”

He steps inside. There are no royal advisors. No handlers. No headlines. Just you. And the thudding panic in his chest.

“I brought peace offerings,” he says, unloading the bag onto the table like a raccoon presenting stolen treasure. “Pastry. Milkshake. Handwritten note, because I’m a man of old-school charm and no real plan.”

You sit down across from him, legs folded under you. “Didn’t peg you for the note-writing type.”

“Yeah, well, I panicked halfway through and drew a sad face instead of finishing a sentence.”

You pick it up, scan it. Then lift your eyes to his. “You really drew a sad face next to the word ‘unworthy’?”

He winces. “In hindsight, it was maybe too on the nose.”

Silence.

You take a long sip of milkshake. “Why did you say it wasn’t real?”

Lando swallows hard. “Because I freaked out.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He nods. Rubs the back of his neck. Then looks at you, really looks at you.

“You’re a duchess,” he says. “A literal royal. You speak six languages and have a coat of arms, and every photo of you looks like a Vogue cover. And me? I crash scooters into things and get told off by Zak for being late to briefings because I got distracted by pigeons.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Pigeons?”

“Look, they were doing funny head bobs, alright?”

You huff a laugh. He presses on.

“I didn’t say it wasn’t real because I don’t want it to be,” he says, voice low now. “I said it because I didn’t think I deserved it. Deserved you.”

That catches you off guard. You blink. “You think I’d pretend to be engaged to someone I didn’t think was worth my time?”

“You agreed to it because of a hat, Your Highness,” he points out. “Not exactly a high bar.”

You throw a pillow at him. He catches it, grinning, but there’s something earnest in his eyes now. Less golden-retriever panic, more quiet honesty.

“I meant it when I said I like being around you,” he says. “Not because of the title or the press or the fact that you can probably have me banished. I like you. The person who steals fries from my plate and makes up stories about strangers in cafes and gets this little line between her eyebrows when she’s pretending not to care.”

You glance away, trying to hide the fact that your heart’s doing the cha-cha.

“I was scared,” he adds. “Still am, kinda.”

“Of what?”

“Of messing this up. Of not knowing where the fake part ends and the real part starts. Of it being real and you not wanting that.”

You stare at him. Then lean forward. And kiss him.

It’s not for show. It’s not for the cameras or the press or the legacy of Luxembourg. It’s just for him.

His breath catches. His fingers curl reflexively around the edge of the table like he’s grounding himself.

When you pull back, you’re still close enough to see the freckle on his cheek, the way his eyes dart to your lips like he’s already memorizing the way you taste.

“That,” you say, “was not fake.”

He exhales, stunned. “Good. Because if it was, I was gonna have to dramatically fall to my knees and declare my love in rhyme.”

You snort. “Please don��t.”

“I had a verse ready,” he insists. “Something about you being the queen of my circuit and the pole position of my heart-”

You groan, but you’re laughing now. He grins wide, basking in it like sunlight.

Then your smile fades, just a little.

“But I don’t want to keep pretending,” you say. “Not like this.”

He nods. “Neither do I.”

“I want it to be real,” you say. “Even if that means stepping back from the public part. Even if that means confusing everyone.”

“Let ‘em be confused,” he says. “I just want to be with you. Not the tabloid version. You.”

You sit there for a moment. Letting the quiet fill the space between words.

Then you reach for his hand.

“I have to make some calls,” you say. “Tell my advisors we’re not doing a state engagement tour.”

Lando bites back a smirk. “Damn. I had already picked out a tiara to match my race suit.”

You stand, tug him up with you. “Help me sneak out the back?”

He beams. “Always.”

***

An hour later, you’re both in disguises — hoodies, sunglasses, and the kind of hats you only wear when you’re actively avoiding being recognized.

You walk along the water like two teenagers skipping class. Lando swings your hand between you.

“You know,” he says casually, “I don’t even mind if you tell your family we broke up.”

You glance at him. “What, you want me to text my father hey, sorry, not actually marrying the F1 driver?”

He shrugs. “I mean, if you want. But like, add a smiley face so he doesn’t hate me.”

You stop walking.

“Lando,” you say, turning to face him. “He doesn’t hate you.”

“You sure? He looked like he wanted to adopt me and throw me in a dungeon over video call.”

You roll your eyes. “He likes you. He’s just never had to deal with this kind of scandal before. Luxembourg is … very traditional.”

Lando’s quiet for a second. “Do you ever wish you weren’t royal?”

You hesitate. “Sometimes.”

“Because it’s lonely?”

You nod. “Because it’s … scripted. Every word. Every move. Every smile.”

He squeezes your hand. “Then let’s unscript it.”

You look up at him.

And in that moment — no palace, no cameras, no ancient traditions — you believe it.

This thing between you isn’t part of the plan. But maybe it’s the best part.

***

The Château de Berg looks exactly like a place where people wear sashes unironically.

Lando stands at the base of the grand staircase, fiddling with the cuff of his tux, while you float down the steps like you’ve been doing this since birth — which, frankly, you have.

You’re in navy silk and diamonds. He’s in mild, manageable panic.

“You okay?” You ask when you reach him.

He stares at you. “You look like a Bond girl. I look like I got lost on my way to a wedding I wasn't invited to.”

“You look great.”

“Yeah, great and very much like a commoner infiltrating the kingdom.”

You roll your eyes, looping your arm through his. “You’re my date, remember?”

“Right. Your real date now. Not just the guy who caused a constitutional crisis with a baseball cap.”

“That was a team hat,” you correct. “And technically, it’s a national treasure now.”

He laughs, but there’s a beat of silence as you both step into the gala ballroom.

Because everyone is watching.

Every. Single. Person.

Politicians, nobles, press photographers, distant cousins who’ve probably never spoken to you but now feel emotionally invested in your relationship status. All of them freeze slightly when they see you walk in.

And then Lando does the most Lando thing imaginable. He squeezes your hand. In full view of everyone. No hesitation.

Your spine, trained by decades of royal etiquette, goes rigid for a half second, then softens. You glance at him.

He just smiles.

“Do I bow to anyone?” He asks under his breath.

“You could,” you whisper back. “But that would be weird.”

“So I shouldn’t curtsy either?”

“I swear to God, Lando-”

“Just checking.”

You lead him through the crowd, nodding politely to various dignitaries who eye Lando with expressions ranging from bemused to is that the F1 boy who did the shoey that one time?

When a Luxembourgish minister tries to corner you with questions about heritage tourism initiatives, Lando — beautiful, clueless, brilliant Lando — steps in and distracts him by asking detailed questions about the country’s road safety infrastructure.

He even nods seriously. “Roundabouts are so underrated, man.”

You almost choke on champagne.

Later, after the violinist finishes a performance so somber you briefly feel like you should repent for something, you tug Lando away toward one of the quieter wings of the palace.

He follows without question. “We sneaking out again? Because I don’t think I’m dressed for burgers.”

“Not this time,” you say, leading him through a hall lined with portraits of monarchs in very large ruffled collars.

You open a door.

The room inside is small by royal standards — still the size of a generous hotel suite — but softly lit and quiet. At the center, on a velvet pedestal, rests a crown.

Not a cartoonish, jewel-encrusted monstrosity. But elegant. Heavy-looking. Steeped in history.

Lando freezes. “Wait. Is that-”

“The ceremonial crown,” you say. “For the heir.”

He blinks. “So … yours.”

You nod.

He steps closer, squinting. “It looks really … shiny.”

“That’s the gold.”

“Right. Of course. Just, y’know, very crown-y.”

You raise a brow. “You want to try it on?”

His head snaps up. “Am I allowed to?”

“Absolutely not.”

He grins. “So obviously I have to.”

You gesture to the nearby armchair like a royal game show host. “Then kneel.”

He hesitates. “Like, actually?”

“If you want the crown, yes.”

He kneels.

It’s chaotic, awkward, and completely him — one knee down, then wobbling a bit because his dress shoes have no grip. You bite back a laugh.

“You sure you’re ready for this responsibility, Mr. Norris?”

He places a hand dramatically on his heart. “I solemnly swear to not crash into any world leaders on a scooter.”

You lift the crown carefully from its stand.

It’s heavier than you remember. Or maybe it’s just that Lando’s looking up at you with that dopey grin, eyes crinkled, like he thinks this is the best joke you’ve ever played on him.

You lower it toward his head, pausing just above.

Then say, soft and teasing, “Do you swear loyalty to the Grand Duchy of Luxembourg?”

He blinks.

Then something changes in his expression. Something unguarded.

“I swear loyalty to you,” he says, quiet now.

Your breath catches. And for a moment, it isn’t funny anymore.

You look down at him. Kneeling. Grinning still, but less exaggerated. Less ironic.

And you feel it — the shift. That terrifying, impossible weight in your chest.

You want it to be true. All of it.

Not just the fake engagement. Not just the headlines or the banter or the jokes about tiaras.

You want him.

The chaos. The kindness. The fierce way he holds your hand in front of a room full of people who’ve probably written dissertations on protocol.

You set the crown down beside him.

“Too heavy?” He asks.

You sit across from him. “Too real.”

Lando folds his legs under him, now seated on the floor in full tuxedo, just inches away. “You okay?”

“I don’t know,” you admit.

“Because I said something dumb again?”

You shake your head. “Because you said something honest.”

He rests his chin on your knee.

“That’s the thing about crowns,” he murmurs. “They look like jokes until they’re not.”

You meet his eyes.

And maybe he sees something in yours, because he adds, “Hey, I’m not asking you to make me royal. I’m just saying … you don’t have to wear the heavy stuff alone.”

You don’t kiss him this time.

You just lean your forehead against his and stay there, hearts thudding in tandem.

The velvet. The gold. The hush of history around you.

And him.

The boy who kneeled because you dared him to. And meant every word he said.

***

Silverstone is humming.

The air crackles with adrenaline and overpriced beer and the unmistakable scent of burnt rubber. British flags wave like it’s a national holiday — because in a way, it is. It’s Lando’s home race, and every person within a five-mile radius not cheering for Lewis Hamilton is wearing something papaya. The grandstands are alive with chants and cheers. It’s chaos. Beautiful, electric chaos.

And somehow, you’re in the middle of it.

Again.

You’re not in a palace. Not under a chandelier or beside a velvet rope. You're in a paddock full of sweaty engineers and excited children and a camera crew who keeps zooming in a little too often. The sky above is a mess of clouds that can't decide whether to rain or behave. It feels real. Unfiltered. Like the first inhale after you’ve been holding your breath for years.

Lando is glowing.

Not literally. (Although he’s so ridiculously tanned from being outside that he might be.)

He’s just … alive. In his element. Grinning like a kid who got handed the keys to a rollercoaster.

“Mate,” he says to a McLaren engineer, “if we shave 0.2 off sector two, I’ll get you a beer the size of your head. Swear.”

Then he catches your eye across the garage, and the grin softens. Changes. Like he can’t quite believe you’re there.

“You showed up,” he says, walking over. His suit is half-zipped, gloves dangling from one hand, hair a little flattened by a headset.

You raise an eyebrow. “I said I would.”

“Yeah, but sometimes I think you’ve got a kingdom to run or — what do you call it — ancient royal responsibilities?”

You smile. “I rearranged Luxembourg’s strategic policy briefings to be here. So you better win.”

“Oh God,” he mutters. “National pressure.”

You reach into your bag.

He narrows his eyes. “What’s that?”

“A surprise.”

“Is it a scepter? Please tell me it’s a scepter.”

You pull out a hat.

Not just any hat.

It’s a custom McLaren cap — deep orange with black trim, his driver number embroidered in silver thread on the side, and a small, discreet crest of Luxembourg stitched into the underside of the brim.

Lando blinks. “Wait. What — ”

“I had it made,” you say, holding it out. “For you.”

His mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again. “You made me a hat?”

“Technically I designed it. Royal prerogative.”

He takes it reverently, like it might shatter in his hands.

“Try it on,” you say.

He does.

And you reach up, slow and deliberate, to adjust it — placing it gently on his head.

The way he did with you in Monaco.

The way you now know means something in your culture.

It’s not just cute. It’s not just a gesture.

It’s a statement.

There’s a beat.

A collective inhale from the crowd around you, like everyone saw it and knows.

Someone’s camera shutter clicks.

Then another.

Then three more.

Somewhere, a tabloid headline is practically writing itself.

Lando stares at you under the brim.

“You just …” he starts, voice low.

“Balanced the scales,” you finish. “You gave me yours first.”

His mouth quirks up. “This means I’m the Grand Duchess now, yeah?”

“You would make a terrible duchess.”

He scoffs. “I’d be brilliant.”

“You’d try to turn the royal palace into a karting circuit.”

“I would never-” He pauses. “Okay, I would. But like … a tasteful one.”

You both dissolve into laughter.

The kind that catches you off guard and settles somewhere deep in your ribs.

The kind that means this — whatever this is — isn’t just temporary anymore.

***

Later, while Lando’s giving a pre-qualifying interview, a reporter points to the hat.

“Custom cap today, Lando?” She asks with a wink.

He glances toward you, watching from the edge of the pit wall in sunglasses and a smug little smile.

Lando shrugs. “Gift.”

“From the Duchess?”

His face turns ten shades of red. “Maybe.”

“Looks like a pretty serious gesture.”

He scratches his neck, sheepish. “I mean, if you’re lucky enough to get one, yeah … you hold onto it.”

The clip goes viral before the session even starts.

***

After qualifying, he finds you waiting beside the McLaren motorhome, arms crossed, foot tapping in mock impatience.

“You said you’d get pole,” you tease.

“I said I’d try. Which I did. Very hard. Max just exists to ruin my life.”

You loop your fingers through his. “I’m still proud of you.”

“Even with P2?”

“Especially with P2.”

He shifts his weight. “They’re calling it the Reverse Proposal now. On Twitter. The hat thing.”

You roll your eyes. “Of course they are.”

“I’m trending with your country’s name. I’m not even in Luxembourg.”

“Give it a week. You’ll probably be knighted.”

Lando leans closer. “Would you stay?”

“Hm?”

“After the race. Stay in the UK a little longer. I’ll take you to my hometown. My mum’ll feed you way too much and ask if I’m behaving.”

You smile. “And what would you say?”

“That I’m doing my best.”

You brush a hand through his hair, just under the brim of the cap.

“You’re doing more than that,” you whisper. “You’re making me feel like I’m not just … a crown.”

Lando’s eyes soften.

“You’re not,” he says. “You’re everything but that.”

The cameras catch you leaning into him.

Not for show. Not for press.

Just because.

And somewhere, miles away, in a palace covered in polished marble and a thousand years of history, a staffer is already drafting a new press release.

Not for a fake engagement. Not for a tradition accidentally triggered.

But maybe, just maybe …

For the real thing.

***

It starts like a joke.

The kind Lando makes when he’s nervous. Fidgeting with his hoodie strings, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet, saying things like “Right, so if this goes terribly wrong, I can still blame the British weather, yeah?”

You’re in London. More specifically, you’re in a hidden garden tucked behind a historic townhouse, the kind with ivy climbing up old brick walls and roses blooming like they’re performing for royalty. (They probably are.) You’re only in town for a few days — official meetings, diplomatic appearances, a quiet dinner with a visiting Luxembourgish minister. Nothing too scandalous. Nothing that would make the papers.

Until now.

You glance at him suspiciously. “Why are you being weird?”

“I’m not being weird,” Lando says, very much being weird.

“You’re sweating.”

“It’s thirty degrees and I’m in long sleeves.”

“You’re in a hoodie. Like a gremlin.”

“First of all, rude.”

You cross your arms, stepping in front of him on the cobbled garden path. “What are we doing here, Lando?”

His grin flickers. Just for a second.

Then he exhales.

“Okay, right. So. I wanted to do this somewhere quiet. Somewhere just … us.”

Your eyebrows rise.

“Not in a castle. Not in front of the entire European Parliament. Just … with birds and, like, a suspiciously photogenic squirrel over there.”

You blink. “Are you okay?”

He reaches into the pocket of his hoodie.

And pulls out a hat.

Not just any hat.

The hat.

The one from Monaco. The one he placed on your head the day everything spiraled. The one that started a thousand headlines and at least one constitutional debate. The one you lost your mind over when it mysteriously vanished from your closet last week.

“Is that-”

He nods, sheepish. “Yeah. I, uh … borrowed it.”

“You stole it.”

“Temporarily.”

“Lando!”

“I had a plan!”

You laugh, half outraged, half flattered. “You absolute menace.”

He steps closer, holding the cap in both hands now. And suddenly, he’s not fidgeting. Not bouncing. Just looking at you like the rest of the world has gone silent.

“I was gonna get a ring,” he says. “I have a ring. But I thought maybe this … this felt more us.”

You stop breathing.

He takes a breath for you.

“I didn’t know what I was doing back then. When I gave you this. I didn’t know who you were or what that meant or how much that one tiny moment would mess up my entire life in the best way possible.”

You blink fast.

“Lando …”

“And now I do. Know. Everything. I know who you are. I know what you carry. And I know I want to carry it with you.”

He swallows. The cap shifts in his hands.

“So, yeah. This is stupid and not shiny and it’s probably sweaty. But it’s ours.”

Then — slowly, deliberately — he places it back on your head.

And kneels.

Not dramatically. Not performatively.

Just … reverently.

Like a man who understands now what he didn’t back then.

“Will you marry me?” He says. “For real this time?”

Silence.

Except your heartbeat.

And the click of a single camera shutter — because of course someone, somewhere, caught it.

You don’t care.

You kneel, too.

And kiss him.

Right there in the dirt and roses and British humidity.

“Yes,” you say against his smile. “Obviously, yes.”

***

The palace releases a statement two hours later.

Their Royal Highnesses the Grand Duke and Grand Duchess are pleased to confirm the engagement of Her Royal Highness the Hereditary Grand Duchess Y/N Y/L/N to Mr. Lando Norris.

You pass the phone to Lando.

He stares at it like it might explode.

“Oh my God,” he says. “It’s real. It’s really real.”

And then he pulls out his phone.

“You’re not tweeting,” you warn.

“I’m absolutely tweeting.”

You watch over his shoulder as he types.

@LandoNorris: turns out giving someone your hat is a big deal 👀

also turns out i’m marrying the love of my life

brb crying 🧡👑

You groan. “You put emojis in your engagement tweet.”

“Of course I did.”

“I’m going to be monarch someday and you just used the eyeball emoji.”

“Should’ve thought of that before you said yes.”

He turns to the camera crews still filming.

“She said yes, by the way!” He calls out. “Like, for real this time! Sorry to disappoint anyone still holding out for a princess fantasy. She’s mine now.”

You bury your face in your hands.

It’s absurd.

It’s embarrassing.

It’s … perfect.

Somewhere, your father is probably watching the livestream and toasting with vintage champagne. Somewhere else, Parliament is scrambling to schedule a press conference. And somewhere even farther away, an ancient Luxembourgish historian is definitely writing a very dry academic paper titled “The Sociopolitical Implications of Cap-Based Courtship in the 21st Century.”

But all you can see is Lando.

Grinning like the sun.

Yours.

1K notes · View notes

daddyjackfrost · 3 days ago

Text

Wanna Be Yours ; B. Barnes

Secrets I have held in my heart are harder to hide than I thought

Pairing: Avengers!Bucky x Avengers!F!Reader

Synopsis: Bucky’s been in love with you for longer than he’ll admit. But when a moment of clarity after a misunderstanding on his part cracks the tension between you wide open, he finally gets to show you just how much.

Warnings: Fluff, minor angst, minor hurt/comfort, bucky yearns like a mf, brief misunderstandings, insecurities, friends to lovers, ft. the avengers & friends, sam being sam, minor jealousy, pining, SMUT, minor romanogers (not sorry), cursing, Bucky’s sort of shy and awkward (at first), praise kink, dirty talk, unprotected sex, MDNI, pussy pronouns, mutual obsession, kissing, switch energy, soft!dom bucky, begging, gentle possessiveness, religious imagery, oral (f and m rec), riding / WC: 7.7k

A/N: Thank you so much for this request! This was meant to be short…a drabble…but then I started to listen to Hozier and well…yeah. Title inspired by I wanna Be Yours by Arctic Monkeys.

Bucky doesn’t think he’s ever met someone like you.

He’s told himself it’s because you’re kind. Because you don’t flinch when he walks into a room, because you laugh at all his dry one-liners, because you bring him coffee without asking and leave notes that say “don’t forget to eat after training” like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

But, the truth is, he likes the way you exist. The way you fill space with warmth without trying. The way you somehow make him feel like he’s part of this new world, that he can exist here too.

With you.

He doesn’t know when it started—not exactly.

There wasn’t a single moment where the light shifted or the heavens parted. No slow-motion entrance, no dramatic realization.

But somewhere between your half-sleepy smiles over morning coffee and the way you laugh at his dry sarcasm like it’s the best thing you've heard all day—he fell.

Hard.

Somewhere between the early morning training sessions and the late night chamomile tea, his heart grew, both in size and fonder, and it became an innate feeling—the love—the want. It became embedded into his bones, in his DNA. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And maybe it was always going to happen. Maybe it was inevitable. Because you’re the only one who never looked at him like a ghost of something broken, like he still had to search far and wide for the man he became. You don’t flinch when his fingers twitch or treat him like a ticking time bomb, or a relic, or worse—an object of pity.

You treat him like he’s just…Bucky. Someone who deserves kindness, a friend.

You bring his favourite kind of bagels without asking. You mock his grumpy scowls and tease him into smiling. You sit with him in silence and don’t try to fix the quiet. You seem to enjoy it with him—understand.

You once fell asleep with your head on his shoulder during a movie night, and he thought he might die from how carefully he held his breath, afraid of waking you.

He wants you—so badly it aches.

But he’s never said anything, never dared. Not when being your friend already feels like more than he deserves.

He gets to see you every day and that should be enough—it never is.

Tony announces it during a briefing: an Avengers Gala. Hosted at the Tower. Black tie. Heroes and allies from across the globe. Sponsored by Stark Industries and curated, of course, by Pepper.

Bucky half listens, frowning, until you perk up beside him.

“Oh, fancy,” you murmur, nuding him with your elbow, capturing his attention, though it had always been yours. “You gonna wear a tux, Barnes?”

He smirks faintly, something easy and familiar and yours. “Only if it comes with a hidden holster.”

You snort, hiding part of your face when Pepper’s eyes meet yours. “As if you need a hidden holster to hide a gun. Don’t you have three somewhere on you right now?”

Bucky shrugs, lips lifting into something brighter, simply because you’re right. “Guilty.”

You roll your eyes and blink innocently at Pepper, pretending that your attention isn’t on the man beside you. Bucky’s eyes soften into something stupid and he leans further back in the chair, pressing his arm against yours.

You giggle and lean in close to whisper something snarky about Tony’s need for dramatics, and he feels your breath against his neck—he swallows hard.

You turn back to the front, eyes falling on the screen, none the wiser.

Bucky spends the rest of the meeting barely hearing a thing.

Later that night, after you bid him goodnight, he lingers by the window of the communal lounge, half-lost in thought as city lights blur beyond the glass.

Steve finds him like that—arms folded, jaw tense, quiet in the way only Steve knows means he’s thinking about you—something beautiful yet horrid about himself.

“You should ask her,” Steve says softly.

Bucky exhales, having heard Steve’s light footsteps and seeing his reflection. “It’s not that simple.”

Steve shrugs, stepping up beside him. “Sure it is. You like her. She likes you.”

Bucky exhales louder. “She doesn’t—”

“She does,” Steve interrupts, nuding Bucky with his shoulder. “Trust me.”

Bucky huffs a tired laugh. He would trust Steve with his life—with more, but not with this. Not when his blonde friend couldn’t see Natasha’s feelings for him. “And what? Ruin this? She’s the best thing in my life. If she says no—”

“She won’t.” Steve gives him a look, one Bucky thinks he wore many, many years ago, back when he would Steve in alleys. “You think she touches everyone like that? Laughs like that?”

Steve crosses his arms, raises an eyebrow. “Do you honestly think she looks at anyone else the way she looks at you?”

Bucky doesn’t answer, just shoves Steve back with his shoulder lightly. Part of him wants to believe it, like there’s a world where you like him—love him, the way he loves you. Wants to care for him the way he wants to care for you.

But, the other part of him, the one that often wins, is scared—scared he’ll ruin everything, that he might see the flicker of pity in your eyes. The last thing Bucky wants is for you to think that his feelings for you, his honest adoration for you comes from anything except his care, his heart.

He loves you, but you were his friend first. He’ll always be your friend, even if he aches for more.

Steve lays a hand on his shoulder, something warm and solid. “Even if I’m wrong, I don’t think you have anything to worry about, Buck. A few weeks, and it’ll be past you.”

Bucky hums like he agrees, but he’s not sure. He doesn’t want to put you in an uncomfortable position, or feel like you aren’t safe with him. Because he cares—so much. He’d rather live in silence and the brief touches then make you feel like your friendship isn’t enough for him.

Because, God, it is. It’s everything to him, a root in his heart that’s grown into branches and leaves.

Still, that night, he lies awake for hours, hand resting over his chest, heart thudding too loudly.

I’ll ask her tomorrow, he thinks. I will.

He almost does.

He finds you in the lounge the next evening, curled up with a book and a half-drunk coffee. You’re wearing one of those soft hoodies that always make you look impossibly cozy, socked feet tucked beneath you.

He steels himself, breathes in deeply—thinks back to the lines he said over and over to himself in his bedroom.

Then he hears it.

“I don’t even have a date for this thing,” you’re saying to Sam, voice light and faintly exasperated. There’s something there, something familiar, something he hears in his own voice sometimes when he talks about you but he can’t register it, can’t pinpoint it.

You shut your book with a dramatic sigh. “Honestly? I’m kinda glad. No one to impress, no pressure.”

Sam snorts and swats your feet away, pretending to shuffle back when you inch your toes closer to him. “I’ll take you.”

You raise a brow, legs stretched weirdly. “You?”

Sam grins, lets out a quiet laugh. “No need to look so surprised.” He shrugs, “Come on. Low expectations. No romance. Plus, I look good in a suit.”

You tilt your head, hum thoughtfully. Sam spreads his arm, putting himself on display. “Deal. You’re my date.”

You clink mugs, laughing.

Bucky stops in his tracks, his stomach twists and he can’t breathe.

He doesn’t hear the teasing edge, he hasn’t been good at noticing these things. He doesn’t see the subtle glance Sam casts toward the hallway, like he knows Bucky’s there. Doesn’t realize this is Sam’s own way of pushing him.

No—he just hears the words. You’re my date.

And something in him goes quiet.

It’s quick, the way everything inside him shuts down and he almost sags against the wall. Like the wind has been knocked out of him. He’s breathing hard—but at least he’s breathing. He shuffles back, quietly, hiding in the shadows.

He’s fine—he would have been fine if you had said no to him, if you had told him that someone else had asked—but Sam?

Momentarily, very briefly, something akin to anger—jealousy—flickers in his chest, loud and bright and instantly, it's put out, dies quickly until the ashes spread across his chest. He hears you laugh, soft, carefree, and his heart settles.

He’d do anything for you, for that laugh.

Bucky swallows the lump in his throat, the jealousy he’d never admit to and the question on his lips and turns, walks down the hall and tosses the single rose into the trash.

He gets you flowers often, whatever he passes by on his runs that he thinks you would like, might brighten your floor, but he’s never gotten you roses.

It was a line he drew for himself.

He glances at the folded rose and sighs.

The line gets thicker.

The gala is a blur of silk and glass and lights that glitter like champagne bubbles.

Every year, Bucky swears that Pepper has outdone herself. And every year, she proves that she’ll always have more up her sleeve.

Bucky wears a classic black tux. His hairs slicked back, neat, and beard trimmed. He looks sharp, clean, polished. But inside, he feels like he’s unraveling.

Because you walk in and you look—

“Jesus,” he breathes, barely audible.

You’re radiant, glowing and beautiful—perfect. Your dress, a deep purple, hugs you in all the right places, glittering like stardust with every step. He tries to think back to you mentioning the dress at all, but all he can remember is the way you winked at him.

Your smile could bring a man to his knees.

He knows, because he’s halfway there, legs weak. And all he can think is, I was going to ask her.

I could have had this.

He looks away, blinks a few times to remind himself of his place. If he’s caught gawking at you—well, he knows what would happen.

He keeps to the shadows most of the night, nursing a glass of whiskey, tucked into the quiet corners. He mingles briefly, making sure to be polite, to be seen. Tony put a lot of effort into this, made sure that it curated to all of them, the least he could do was make his appreciation shown.

But you? You’re a firecracker on the floor, bright and loud and so fucking radiant. Laughing, twirling, dancing with Clint, with Nat, with whoever grabs your hand. You’re drinking and smiling—magnetic.

But your eyes—they’re fleeting, looking for something, someone.

Bucky can’t look away.

Until you find him.

You corner him outside on the balcony, where the air is cool and quieter and he can breathe.

“There you are,” you say, hand on your hip. “Avoiding me?”

Bucky’s throat goes dry. He’s leaning on the railing and tilts his head towards you, resisting the urge to turn completely. “No. Just needed some air.”

He can’t look at you—not your eyes or your dress or your smile. It’s blinding, too much. He just needs one day—one day and he’ll be fine, one day and his heart will settle, make peace with you and Sam.

You take a step closer, head tilting in that curious way that always makes his heart soften.

His eyes flick up. There it is—that sharp breath he always seems to take when he sees you.

You smile at him softly, lay your hands on the railing next to his. “You gonna ask me to dance”

He blinks. Then, slowly, pushes himself off the railing, turns his whole body to face you properly. The muscles in his face smooth out and his shoulders drop, relaxed.

“I should be the one asking you that,” he murmurs, so softly, delicate.

Your grin tugs wider. “So ask me, then.”

He swallows, eyes flickering between yours before he offers his hand. “May I have this dance?”

You take it.

The music is warm, old jazz bleeding through the speakers as bucky pulls you onto the floor. His hand is strong at your back, the other gentle at your waist. He moves like he was born to this—measured, smooth, leading you without hesitation.

You’re laughing, a bright smile on your lips as your eyes shine. You spin, twirl, your head tilts back as he draws you close.

“You’re good at this,” you breathe.

Bucky leans in, lips near your temple. “Used to be the only way to get a girl to notice me.”

You turn into him, mouth brushing his ear. “Now I know you’re lying. Steve told me you were quite the heartthrob.”

Bucky laughs, low and deep. Your eyes flutter shut and you hold onto him tighter. He’s so warm, so solid under your hands. Your eyes meet his and you notice that the smile on his lips—while small—is the most genuine one you’ve seen on him tonight.

“Not anymore,” Bucky says, quietly, his body guiding yours.

“Debatable,” you answer, giving him an exaggerated glance over. “You clean up nice, Buck.”

He tilts his head towards you, almost bashful. You breathe out a quiet laugh, soft, but it awakens something in him and he lifts his eyes to meet yours.

Blue—electric, so deep and filled with so many unspoken things.

“You look beautiful,” he tells you, earnest and soft.

People have been complimenting you all night, but you only really cared about one—his. His words settle something in your chest and you smile, gloss shining under the glittering lights.

“Thank you, Bucky.”

He swallows, steps in line with you. His eyes glance around the room once and he frowns.

“Where’s your date?”

You raise an eyebrow and scrunch up your nose in thought. “Date? What Date—Oh. You mean Sam?”

Bucky’s jaw tightens and he nods, looks away when your eyes search his. You find what you’re looking for and duck your head to hide your smile, biting your bottom lip.

You lift your head and meet his stormy eyes, a gentle smile on your lips. “He wasn’t really my date. We just came together. He immediately disappeared.”

You look away, search the crowd until your eyes land on Sam’s familiar figure and the beautiful woman he’s flirting with. You laugh quietly, shake your head at his antics.

Bucky’s staring at you like you’ve just stabbed him in the back.

You both sway in time, the world shrinking until it’s only the two of you.

You lean in, pressing close. “I wish you’d asked me to the gala.”

Your words were nothing more than a whisper, quiet, melting into the music and noise, but they were honest. As soon as Tony had introduced the idea, your heart had been set on going with Bucky. He looked at you once during the debrief—like he was trying to imprint you into memory—it gave you hope, something light and soft igniting in your chest.

But then hours passed, a day. It was approaching fast and you had slowly made peace with the idea that he wasn’t going to ask, that he didn’t see you the way you saw him—whole, permanent—a part of your DNA.

So, when Sam asked, you said yes. Simply to have someone there, an arm to hold.

But you had looked for Bucky all night, saved the best dance for him.

It didn’t stop the want, though—it burned behind your fingertips, deep behind your eyes. So you let it slip, the quiet admission. “I was hoping you would.”

His heart stops and he tenses—eyes wide.

Before he can respond, someone whisks you away—Steve, grinning as he twirls you into the next number.

Bucky stands there, stunned. He knows how he looks—gaping, eyes wide, heart stuttering wildly. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Peter look over, concerned. He waves away the concern and walks off the dance floor, finds a seat he knows is taken, and readjusts his tie.

Everything inside him feels tight, like his own fist is closing around his organs. Your words ring in his ears and he has half a mind to pour some water in his ear, just to drown out your voice.

He watches as you dance with Steve, bright smile on both your faces. A drink appears in front of his face and he grabs it, mutters a quick thanks and tips it back, enjoying the burn, if just to get his mind off what he could have had if he had just not been a coward.

Sam finds him a few moments later, sipping something sweet with a mint leaf. He takes the seat next to him, leans back.

“You looked good out there,” he says, nodding toward the dance floor.

Bucky glances down at his empty glass before he places it on the table. “Why’d you ask her?”

Sam shrugs, his smirk softening. “Figured if I make you jealous enough, you’d finally make a move.”

Bucky tips his head back and squeezes his eyes shut. Of course, he thinks. It was such a Sam idea, so childish and filmy. Suddenly, Peter’s look makes more sense. He huffs, throws him an annoyed look.

“I was going to. I had it all planned out. Then, well…”

Sam slowly nods, smile twisting into understanding.

“She said yes to me.”

“Yeah.” Bucky doesn’t mean to sound so defeated, he just can’t help it. In the grand scheme of things, it’s not even a big deal. He knows—now—that Sam has no romantic interest in you and you didn’t seem to have any for him.

But, like most things of the heart often do, it felt like the end of the world. Like his life would have been so much better if he had walked in with you, his arm supporting you—his cologne surrounding you.

“Why didn’t you ask her sooner, Buck?” Sam’s voice is quiet as he leans in a bit, wanting to hear the answer over the music.

Bucky almost rolls his eyes but catches himself at the last second. Instead, he twists his fingers together. “We only found out about the gala the day before and it took me hours to build up the nerve.”

Bucky swallows and Sam tries to hide his amusement. He loves seeing ex-assassin Bucky Barnes being bashful, almost shy.

“I like her,” Bucky admits, quietly, like it wasn’t written on his heart and on his fucking sleeve. “So much. I didn’t wanna rush and ruin everything.”

Sam goes quiet, smiling softly. “Is that why I saw a rose in the trash?”

Normally, Bucky would have made some stupid comment about Sam going through the trash, but all he could do was sigh, pinch the bridge of his nose.

Sam’s eyes flick up, behind Bucky, and his smile widens into a grin, eyes bright with something akin to pride and amusement.

“Well, seems like you have a lot going on,” Sam offers, quickly. He pushes himself up, grabs two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter and hands them to Bucky. Bucky stares up at him, half confused and half annoyed—a look Sam is quite familiar with.

“Hi, Y/n.” Sam wiggles his fingers at you and briskly walks away, gets lost in the crowd, leaving Bucky with his spine straight.

Before Bucky can turn around, or book it across the dance floor, you walk from behind him to Sam’s chair and take a seat. Bucky’s staring at you like a deer caught in headlights, eyes wide. A mixture of warmth and love, soft and heavy, fills your body and your lips curl into something secretive.

You gently take the glass from his hands and stare at him, admiring. You let the silence settle between you both, build into something welcoming before you lightly clink your glasses together.

While you bring it to your lips, Bucky simply sets it beside him, staring at you like you might disappear any second and he rather just take you in.

Eyes on him, you place the glass next to his, heart warm and butterflies in your stomach as you slowly stand. Everything inside you almost melts when he instinctively leans closer, hand hovering in case you need him.

You step forward, lean in close, your breath brushing Bucky’s ear. “Can I have one last dance?”

He doesn’t even think, just nods. He stands up slowly, lets you lead him back onto the floor.

This time, the music is slow, intimate. No twirls, just you, in his arms, your cheek against his chest. The hand on his shoulder now rests at his neck and his fingers curl around your waist, his thumb brushing skin.

He feels your lips near his ear, almost collapsing from the sensation alone.

“Do you like me, Bucky?”

Bucky’s throat bobs and his fingers curl into your skin tighter, almost like he could will the answer out of his body. Over your shoulder, Steve and Sam both gave him a thumb’s up before turning.

Bucky clears his throat and pulls you closer. Your eyes lift to meet his and he slowly nods.

“Yes,” he tells you, quietly. “I do.”

It wasn’t just like—it was love. He knew it was. He hadn’t felt it before but he knew it, like a stranger you saw often enough to recognize. But he didn’t want to scare you, push you away.

Bucky was familiar with your smiles, the way you brighten when you’re happy, but it was nothing compared to now—nothing compares to the way you were glowing as he sways you, the way your eyes shine and your smile—oh, your smile, it was so soft and so loving.

“Me too,” you tell him, just as quiet. “So much.”

His heart slams and a shiver runs up his spine. He blinks at you slowly, lips parting. You lean back, eyes shining, wanting to take this moment in its entirety.

Inside, everything is warm and burning. The way he holds you, like you’re something precious has your mind reeling and all you want is to hold him, for him to touch you and smile at you the way you ache for.

Then—he smiles at you.

It’s beautiful. Heart-breaking.

Utterly devastating as it lights up his face, smooths out all the crevices and worries in his face.

He pulls you flush against him and you giggle, something soft and airy but it lights Bucky up in a way you’ve never seen before. Your fingers brush the hair at his nape, nails scratching his skin.

You lean forward, press your lips to the edge of his jaw. His eyes flutter shut and a deep rumble escapes him. The fire in your belly burns brighter and the need inside you cracks alive and all you see is him.

“Take me home.”

You barely recognize your own voice. The want—something you keep hidden, locked away for months or years—you hardly remember—has been pulled to the surface.

Bucky stares, breathless. He doesn’t even know if the music is still playing because all he can see and hear is you. Everything else fades to the back and his neck is warm but he’s so happy—confused, but all warm inside.

Your smile turns slightly wicked, the slight alcohol and confidence burns through your veins.

“You gonna make me beg, Buck?”

Oh, he’s in for it.

His voice is low, a rasp, barely hanging on. “Ask nicely.”

You laugh, bright and beautiful.

The Bucky you know, quiet, warm, confident, is staring back at you with a small smile, heat and want and love dancing in his eyes.

“Please, Bucky,” you whisper, teasing. “Take me home.”

He takes your hand and leads you out, without looking back.

The elevator doors close with a soft chime.

The silence settles—electric.

You’re still holding his hand—the metal one, cool and solid, familiar.

Bucky stands opposite you—broad, strong, flushed from dancing. His chest rises and falls like he’s just run ten blocks, suit tight across his shoulders. You lean back against the mirrored wall, flushed, breathless, heart still pounding from that last dance.

Your eyes lift to meet his.

He’s on you in a second, hands gripping your waist, mouth slanting over yours with desperate, open-mouthed hunger. It’s not gentle, or soft. It’s heat and need and years of unspoken want bursting at the seams.

He kisses like a man who’s been starving for you, like he’s trying to memorize your mouth with his tongue. You moan into him. His tongue slides against yours, and he groans like he’s tasting something forbidden.

He kisses with desperation. With reverence. With a low, guttural sound in the back of his throat as your hips slot against his.

You break the kiss with a gasp. “Bucky—”

He dips to your throat, tongue licking into the space just below your jaw.

“Christ,” he breathes. “You’re killin’ me.”

“Good,” you pant, fingers curling into his jacket. “You deserve it. For making me wait this long.”

Your hands fist in the lapels of his tux, pulling him closer, closer, like there still isn’t enough of him touching you. He groans into your mouth when you bite his lips, his fingers digging into the meat of your thighs.

“Fuck—” he breathes. “You taste so good.”

You gasp as his metal hand slides beneath your dress, gripping your thigh and hoisting you up like you weigh nothing. You wrap your legs around his waist, dress riding high, and thank God for the slit.

“Been wantin’ to do this for so fucking long,” he rasps against your throat, kissing, biting, sucking bruisses into your skin. “Didn’t think I could—didn’t think you’d want me—”

“I do,” you whisper, dazed, fingers in his hair. “God, Bucky, I want you—”

“And you’ll have me,” he kisses your neck, the skin below your ear. “You said please,” he pants, “and I listen when you ask.”

The elevator dings. The doors slide open.

He doesn’t put you down.

Your back hits the wall just outside the elevator, on his floor. He pins you there with his body, mouths at your neck like he hasn’t enough, like he’s been starving.

You drag your fingers through his hair, tugging, pressing your chest flush against his.

“I wanted you,” you whisper, losing your mind. “All night. I kept looking for you—”

His voice is hoarse, Brooklyn accent thick and strong. “I was tryin’ not to fuckin’ look at you. Drove me insane.”

You arch into him, gasping when his hips grind into yours. You can feel the thick press of him through his slacks, rubbing against the soaked lace between your legs.

“Fuck,” you moan. “Bucky—please—”

“I got you, sweetheart,” he whispers, kissing your collarbone as he moves through the space blindly, holding you tight against him. “You’re mine tonight and forever. All fuckin’ mine.”

He lays you down on the couch gently, like you’re something sacred and precious—and you are.

Then he sinks to his knees in front of you, hands warm and pressing into your thighs as he drags them down your legs, eyes aflame.

You barely have time to blink before he’s pulling your legs over his shoulders and pushing your dress higher, higher, until your thighs are bare and open and trembling.

He stares at your panties—dark with wetness, delicate against your skin. His thumb rubs circles into your skin, like he can’t help but touch you, but remind you that you’re safe—loved.

“Pretty little thing,” he murmurs, thumb stroking the damp lace. You gasp, legs trying to shut. His hands, big and warm, hold you open with little force, like he can command your body by sheer will. “Can I take ‘em off?”

You nod, breathlessly. All your dreams, fantasies you’d had but kept to yourself, were coming true. “Yes, Yes—please—”

Bucky slides them down your legs, kissing your skin as he goes. His heart is about to jump out of his fucking chest and go barraling down the tower. He can hardly believe he’s on his knees—nose almost pressing into your cunt—can barely remember the gala itself.

He spreads your thighs wide and groans—low and deep, almost painful.

Bucky tried to be a gentleman, tried to be the good boy his mama raised, but some nights, when his hand wrapped around his cock, all he could picture was your pussy—how soft and beautiful it must have looked, how he’d make her drip for him.

The real thing didn’t even measure. He can’t believe he thought his imagination could do her any justice.

“Fuck me,” he breathes, eyes wide and shiny. “You’re so wet. Fuckin’ dripping, baby.”

“Only for you,” you whisper.

There’s something warm in your voice that makes him look up, into your hooded eyes. You smile, nothing but love and promise on your face. It’s like you're telling him that you know—know he’s thought about you, that you want him as bad as he wants you, that you want everything he has to offer.

His eyes are blazing, chest heaving.

The curve of his smile presses against your skin as he presses soft, open mouthed kisses to your thighs. You barely notice his trailing hand until it lands on your ass and he squeezes hard. You yelp at the feeling and jerk forward, his other hand steadies you easily. There’s laughter in your breath as you breathe out, eyes fluttering shut.

Bucky licks a harsh stripe of your core, holds you down as you writhe under him. He presses his face closer to your cunt as his tongue licks and suckles, laps up all your juices. The sweetness, the unique taste of you has his eyes rolling back and he knows he’ll never taste anything that would compare.

The sounds of slurping and his lips smacking around your clit make your legs shake as you try to breathe. He tilts his head further, pushes his tongue deeper within you and you moan, broken and obscene.

He curls the tip of his tongue upwards and you almost scream, tears falling down your cheeks at the pleasure.

“Yes, yes,” you chant, words falling from your lips like praise.

Lifting his eyes, Bucky hums at the sight of your pleasure, the way the tears fall prettily down your cheeks. One of his hands slides up your body, just to feel you, but before he could bring it back towards him, you grab it with a tight grip and settle it around your throat.

He groans into your folds and your legs shake. Needing more, you begin moving your hips feverishly against his face, grinding down on him. Bucky moans into cunt as you smear all your slick over his face, his chin dripping with drool and arousal.

“Bucky—oh my god—fuck—”

He grunts, and the sound vibrates through you.

“Could do this forever,” he pants.

“You taste so good—so sweet—gonna make you cum on my fuckin’ tongue—”

Your sweet scent and taste overwhelm his mind and he begins losing it, ruts against the edge of the sofa like a schoolboy, his lips latch onto your clit as he pushes himself closer to your dripping cunt, nose rubbing deliciously against your bud as he slides his tongue in and out of you.

“James,” you cry, eyes barely open as you watch him suck you dry. The hand on your throat slides down to yours and he threads your fingers together and squeezes once, twice, thrice, before your legs pulse erratically and your walls clench around his tongue.

“I’m so close, baby.”

Bucky’s brain short-circuits at your words, at the term, and he spreads you open wider and licks at you harsher, licking long strips as he teases your clit with his nose.

“Cum, sweetheart,” he edges, lulling you closer to your orgasm. He needs this as bad as you do. “Cum all over my face, Y/n.”

His words are enough to break you and your vision blurs as you moan, your stomach coils and recoils as your orgasm washes over you like cold water, soaks him completely.

Bucky continues to push his tongue into your gushing pussy, lips coaxing all your juices down his throat, making you throw your head back as you arch into him. He licks and sucks harshly, even as you mumble incoherently about it being too much.

When he pulls away, face covered in your slick, he smiles. Your whole body trembles and you lift your head just in time to watch him coat his fingers in your juices before he plops his fingers into his mouth and sucks.

He looks so pleased, so completely, irrevocably and ardently in love with you.

“Jesus Christ,” you gasp, pussy fluttering. “Where the hell did you learn that?”

He grins—messy, flushed, lips shiny with your cum.

“You think I wasn’t dreamin’ about this? Every fuckin’ night?”

He lifts you easily, arms secure beneath your thighs and back. You melt into him, still dazed, as he carries you into his bedroom.

Just before he lays you down, you grip his shoulders.

“Wait,” you murmur, breath hitching. “Let me.” You unwrap your legs from around him but his hold on you stays tight, keeping you close.

You push him until he stumbles back, landing on the bed with a grunt. He stares up at you, dazed.

You climb into his lap, straddling him. Your dress is in bunches, and you remind yourself to apologize to Nat…she probably won’t want it back.

Bucky tries to touch your hips, tries to breathe, but you grab his wrists and pin them to the bed. You’ve been in this position before, but it was in the training room, briefly, before he flipped you over. Now you know why.

His breath catches when you press down on him, your wet cunt dragging across his hard bulge.

“Hands to yourself,” your words are soft, teasing.

He groans, tips his head back. “You’re killin’ me, sweetheart—”

You push yourself off him and start to stop. The straps of your dress slide off your shoulders slowly. You shimmy it down your body, piece by piece, letting it fall until you’re completely naked in front of him.

He stares like you’ve knocked the breath from his lungs, like he’d follow you anywhere—take a bite of the apple simply because you looked at him.

He’s been cast from heaven but he doesn’t mind, because Eden stands in front of him, beautiful and soft and looking at him—like he’s worthy of it.

“Holy fuck,” he breathes out, groanign at the sight of you.

Grinning, you twirl for him. There’s scars on your skin, burns and patchy stitching, but you don’t care. You never really have and with the way Bucky’s looking at you, like you’re his salvation, you can’t help but move closer.

“You like?”

It’s a bizarre question, because you can see how much he likes it—how beautiful you are to him. But, still, because he’s always been sweet, he smiles something soft and nods, fingers twitching like he might reach out.

“You’re beautiful. Absolutely stunnin’.”

You giggle and slide onto his lap again, kiss his throat and then move lower, kissing down his chest as you begin undoing his shirt. Bucky’s hands stay at his side, curling into fists because all he wants to do is touch.

You pull off his tie, undo the buttons slowly—torturously—and push the fabric open to reveal his bare chest. You’ve seen him shirtless a few times but every time, it knocks the wind out of you.

Broad, defined, and hard.

You kiss every inch.

His abs flex as you drag your mouth down to his waistband, slowly getting to your knees. You undo his belt and pants slowly, hand grazing his cock through the fabric.

He’s so hard—big—straining, leaking.

You free him and his cock slaps against his stomach, thick and heavy and beautiful. It’s everything you thought it would be and more.

“My God,” you almost whine. “No wonder you’ve got such an ego.”

He laughs—then gasps when you kiss his inner thigh—close, so close.

You kiss and bite his skin, etching your name into his skin so the ghost of your lips can live on. Once you’re satisfied, you lift your eyes and almost gasp at the way his cock was leaking, his tip red and veiny. Mesmerized, you lean forward and shift your eyes to his, finding nothing but darkness staring back at you. His blue eyes, the ones you love so dearly, have been replaced by something predatory, almost possessive.

Still, you could see the softness threaded into the crinkles of his skin, the way he refuses to move, to touch you, until you make it clear that you want him to. You rest your cheek against his inner thigh and smile up at him.

“I like you, Bucky.” Your voice is low, a mere brush of air against his skin, but he hears you. You need him to know—that this is more than lust for you, that it’s for life. “You gonna let me show you how much?”

Not trusting his voice, he simply nods. You blink up at him, unmoving. Swallowing the lust that claws in his throat, Bucky tilts his head forward. “Yes,” he breathes out. “Whatever you want.”

Bucky barely had enough time to cry out your name before you lick a long stripe from his base to his tip, circling your tongue around him once before you repeat the action once more. All his empty words die in his throat as he releases a shaky breath at the feeling of your warm mouth taking him in completely.

Pressing your tongue flat against the underside of his cock, you taste the salty taste of his sweat and precum. It takes over your senses and you shift forward, circling your tongue around his tip. Pooling some spit on your tongue, you let it drip down his length as you wrap your hand around him, pressing soft kisses to his tip.

Bucky groans, breathing heavier as his legs spasm around you. He moans out your name and you look up to the sight of his eyes screwed shut, head thrown back. His chest rises rapidly and he looks so beautiful, a thin layer of sweat glistening on his forehead, hair brushed back and unruly.

“Oh, fuck,” he moans, his voice cracking as you push him further down your throat, ignoring the burn because he tastes addictive, sounds sweeter than anything you’ve ever heard.

You hollow your cheeks, spit dripping down your throat as you work him with your mouth, humming when he hits the back of your throat.

“Fuck—baby—” His voice breaks, raspy. “That’s it—that’s so fuckin’ good—” His thighs tremble and his abs clench.

He twitches in your mouth and you push him deeper, practically begging. Before he can cum—

He pulls you off, voice and body wrecked. He pants, cock standing straight and leaking and harder than it’s ever been.

“Wanna cum inside you,” he whimpers, pulling you off the floor and into his arms. “Wanna feel you, Y/n, baby—please.”

You’re nodding, still reeling from the emptiness in your mouth. You straddle him again and he surges forward, captures your lips in a hot, messy kiss. It’s all teeth and lips and his hands are everywhere on you.

As he kisses you senseless, you reach between your legs and guide him to your entrance, hissing into his mouth when his tip drags between your folds.

The satisfying tightening and burn of his veins against your gummy walls make you both moan in unison, your body falling limp into his as you sink down completely, the base of his cock hitting your core. The stretch feels amazing, so good, and all you can do is tuck your face into the crook of his neck, biting back a sob.

His hands grip your hips, jaw slack. He can’t breathe—can barely think with your pussy wrapped around him, warm and tight and so perfect.

“Fuck—you feel so fuckin’ good—so tight—”

He nips at your jaw, tongue dragging across your skin as you roll your hips, bracing your hands on his chest. You feel so full, leaking all over his lap. You press a soft kiss to his neck and his hips jerks upwards, filling you to the brim, his tip reaching parts of you only he could.

You part your lips to say something, anything, but he interrupts you by crashing his lips against yours, swallowing your gasp greedily. His lips move roughly against yours, so perfect, as one of his hands slide down to your ass, gripping tightly as he moves his hips against yours.

He kisses down your body, pressing wet, open mouth kisses to the skin between your breasts, licking and sucking, tongue brushing against your nipples.

You were a mess above him, head thrown back and eyes sewn shut, incoherent mumbles and whimpers leaving your lips as you pull and scrape his hair and the nape of his neck.

He twitches inside you, against your sensitive walls and you almost cry out. As if sensing your distraught, one of his hands grip your waist protectively and he presses a soft kiss to the side of your head.

You slowly move, sliding him in and out of your pussy. His hold on your waist helps lift you up and down, guiding you to a delicious pace. His hands slide from your waist to your ass, resting there.

Bucky throws his head back when you begin jumping on his cock, his balls slapping against your cunt. You grip his shoulders and he can feel his skin break as you dig your nails into his skin, the creak of his bed loud as the room fills with your mixed moans.

You slow down, press down on his length to catch your breath. Grinding on his laps, his cock brushes against all your sweet spots, stretches your walls with a delicious burn. You wiggle around on his cock and Bucky’s eyes fly open and he stares at you with a heavy gaze.

He sits up straighter, wraps his arms around you and kisses your throat. “Can’t—fuck.” He thrusts his hips up, almost animally. “Gotta have you—”

Holding you close, he flips you onto your back and thrusts.

You gasp as he drives into you, pressing you into the mattress. He grips onto your hips and pulls you towards him, flush against his pelvis as he rocks his hips forward, fucking his cock into you.

Back arched, you moan when his hand travels to your throat and he holds you firmly beneath him, tilting your head backwards as he applies just the right amount of pressure to your jugular veins, making you lightheaded as he slides in and out of you at a bruising pace.

He smiles when you whimper, teeth grazing the side of your throat as he bites down, pressing your hips flush against his pelvis, the tip of his cock brushing against your cervix, making you see stars.

His hand cups your jaw and his mouth claims yours, softer, despite the rough and messy pace of his hips. He kisses you slowly, traces his devotion into your gums.

“I love you,” he whispers, like he couldn’t help it. “I love you.”

Your heart stutters and you wrap your arms around his neck—tighter. You kiss his nose, the edge of his lips, before his lips.

“I love you too.”

It was inevitable, you think. You were always going to fall in love with him. There was so much to love.

He groans like he’s about to lose it, like your words have single-handedly freed him from all of his crimes and sins.

“Gonna cum,” he rasps.

“Inside,” you whine, begging. “Cum inside me—please, Buck.”

His hips stutter and he practically growls. “Fuck—my pretty girl. Gonna cum inside you,” he moans. “Fill you up—want it to stay—wanna make you—”

“Yes, yes,” you pant, his cock filling you to the brim.

You clench around him, vision going white as you gush around him and he shudders, hips stuttering as he spills inside you with a broken moan of your name.

He thrusts through it, panting, pressing kisses to your cheek, your neck, your lips.

Once he’s sure he’s emptied himself completely inside you, he slows his pace and presses kisses all over your face, slowly halting the movement of his hips. You fall into a slump underneath him and he wraps his arms around you tightly, body pressing against yours, mumbling quietly to you.

“Sweetheart,” he whispered after a moment.

You hum, eyes too tired and droopy to open. He rubs your stomach soothingly, tries to ground you before he moves. “Are you okay, Y/n? Do you need anything?”

Slowly, you shake your head and open your eyes. He’s staring back at you with so much love in his eyes, nothing but softness and concern bright in his eyes. He nudges his nose against yours and you smile, cracking his chest open.

“Just you,” you whisper, finger curling into his dog tags as you pull him in for a kiss.

He laughs into your mouth but kisses you with the same fervor you kiss him with. Gently, Bucky pulls out of your sopping cunt and you both bite back a hiss. He shifts his weight and maneuvers his body until you’re laying in his arms, your chest pressing against his, legs intertwined.

He knows he has to clean you up, get you a glass of water and maybe something to eat, but your eyes flutter shut and your hand rests on his heart so he puts it off, knows you need him more.

He runs his hands along your arms and then your shoulders, pressing into your skin occasionally to remind you that he’s right here—for good. You snuggle into him, press a kiss to a scar above his heart.

He strokes your spine with trembling fingers, his heart full and warm and content.

“You’re mine now,” he whispers, voice rough and soft and questioning.

You lift your eyes to meet his and kiss his jaw. “Was always yours.”

He smiles—small, awestruck.

“You’re still my best friend,” he says, quietly. Like he needs you to know.

“And you’re mine,” you respond, just as quiet.

He presses his lips to your forehead, holds you tight against him.

It’s all he’s ever wanted—to be yours. In every way.

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emisluvr · 2 days ago

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‎ 𝗖𝗢𝗡𝗙𝗜𝗗𝗘𝗡𝗧𝗜𝗔𝗟 𖥔 𝗣.𝗦𝗛

‎ ♡ 【 𝒅'amour. 】 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝖾𝗈'𝗌 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗅 𝖺𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗇𝗍 !

✿ 𓈒 𝒇.𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋 1448. ─── 𝗌𝗆𝗎𝗍 , 𝗎𝗇𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗍𝖾𝖼𝗍𝖾𝖽 & 𝗈𝖿𝖿𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝗑 , 𝗌𝗉𝖺𝗇𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 , 𝖽𝗂𝗋𝗍𝗒 𝗍𝖺𝗅𝗄

‎ ꒰◞ ˕ ◟୨୧꒱ REBLOG FOR CUDDLES !

your boss, park sunghoon, was a ceo that nearly everyone looked up to. you don't know how you got the job as his personal assistant, it just kind of happened. you were only looking for a job that paid fairly well and wouldn't drain the life out of you, as opposed to your last one.

so when you got the offer to be the personal assistant of a ceo, you obviously didn't turn it down. the position paid well, and you got to eyefuck a handsome man nearly every second of the day.

park sunghoon was a man of himself, in his mid 20s, always wearing a crisp white shirt, sleeves pushed up, an expensive watch, his dark hair styled perfectly, his glasses. not to mention—he was tall, respectful, and had a lean build. he was the blueprint of every woman's ideal type.

and though you were relatively close to his age, and were complimented by many, you would've never expected to have a chance with your boss.

the day starts early and normal. you begin by checking his calendar, fixing files, and bringing him his favourite oatmilk coffee order, making it just right, earning a small compliment every time.

there was always an undeniable tension between the two of you. just little moments where you'd both stare for a little too long, accidentally brush hands, but on this particular day.. it showed more than ever.

when you're in the copy room, his hips brush against your ass trying to move past you as you stand in front of the printer. he doesn't even mutter a small "sorry," but instead carries on like it was a normal thing.

he also stands way too close when he reviews something with you on the projector screen, standing just a little behind you as you feel his tall and muscular figure hover over yours.

your hands softly brush when you pass him a pen, and you swear you see him slightly smirk. maybe you were overthinking, but those little "accidents" didn't mean nothing to you.

when it's late and the office closes, you both usually stay behind a few extra minutes to plan his schedule for tomorrow.

he calls you into his office like always. you walk in, the modern room dead silent with the only light source coming from the warm ceiling lights and a big lamp in the corner of the room.

"close the door," he says, voice low as he shuffles through files, not making eye contact with you. normally, he never asked you to, but you didn't think much of it at the moment.

you walk over to shut the door, heels clinking against the dark tiled floor with your hair tied back in a sleek yet effortlessly messy claw clip. the first front buttons of your black dress shirt are undone, slightly exposing your cleavage, and your tight pencil skirt ends just above your knees, perfectly hugging your curves.

he's seated in his leather chair, legs spread as he finally makes eye contact with you, jaw tense, and eyes dark behind his lenses. "come here."

you walk over to him, setting your clipboard and pen down on his desk that was clean, minimalist, but piled with paperwork. "y/n," he says, voice low as he glances down for a second.

the way he uses your first name catches you off guard. usually, he addresses you as "miss l/n." your name slipping past his lips is enough for several thoughts to rush through your head.

am i about to get fired? did i accidentally schedule one of his meetings for the wrong time? did i say something wrong?

all your racing thoughts are shut down when he finally speaks. "you know how fucking hard it is to sit through meetings when you look like that?"

oh. speaking of meetings.

you gulp. sure, maybe sometimes you liked to be a slight tease at the worst times—for lack of a better word—at meetings. your front buttons were purposely undone to show off your collarbones and the top of your plush breasts sitting pretty in your lace bra. your hips grinding down in the seat as you pretended to shift your position.

truthfully, you didn't even think he noticed. you never thought he paid that much attention to you. so really, you thought you were just teasing for your own satisfaction.

"you think i don't notice how you tease me? walking around like a little slut in that tight skirt," he says, looking back up at you, his sharp features defined from the warm lighting in the eerily quiet room.

the only sounds heard are your heavy breathing and his lighter, more controlled ones.

"s-sir, it's not like that—" you stutter, but before you can get the full sentence out, he grips your wrist and pulls you down onto his lap, his lips immediately crashing onto yours.

his soft lips move against yours, rough and filthy, fingers working your dress shirt open completely until your tits spill out, cupped so prettily in your lace bra.

"bet you soaked through your cute little panties just from me looking at you," he mutters into the kiss, one hand already sliding under your skirt to graze over your clothed pussy. and to no surprise, you’re soaked.

you moan softly at the contact, hands resting on his shoulders as he pushes your skirt up to your hips, giving you full access to straddle him properly—but mostly, giving him better access to you.

your hands reach back to pull your heels off, landing on the tiled floor with two sharp clinks.

"been wanting to ruin you on this chair for weeks," he groans, lips breaking from yours to latch onto your neck and breasts, sloppily and hungrily sucking little bruises into your skin. he tugs your panties to the side, the cold air hitting your bare pussy and making you shiver.

one hand grips your naked hip while the other holds your back, pulling you closer to him. you tug on his tie, loosening it so his collarbones and broad shoulders peek out from under his shirt. he unzips his pants, freeing his thick, leaking cock.

his mouth detaches from your neck, chest rising and falling. your eyes trail down as you adjust your hips to sit just above his cock, then slowly sinking down.

your head falls back, lips parting in a gasp as he grunts underneath you. your tight, soaked pussy takes all of him in with ease.

you start to bounce slowly, finding your rhythm. both of his hands firmly grip your hips.

"so fuckin’ tight around me, shit—" he hisses, before pulling you down for another kiss. this time, it’s more messy and needier. your lipgloss smears across his jaw as his hand wraps around your throat, gently squeezing, holding you there as your bodies move together.

you break the kiss to pant, moaning as your thighs begin to ache from the effort. he notices and starts guiding your hips himself, helping you ride him.

the slap of your ass meeting his thighs, the wet sound of your pussy, your soft cries and his deep groans—all of it fills the room.

his hand slaps your ass, rough and loud. "you love being used by your boss, huh? such a good fuckin’ assistant."

the only thing leaving your lips are desperate moans, cries, and incoherent curses. it’s impossible to form a full sentence when you’re getting fucked dumb on your boss’s cock.

"nghh—fuck! sunghoon!" you whine, your nails digging into his shoulders as the knot in your stomach becomes tighter, his cock hitting your deepest spots with every thrust.

"that’s right, fuck.. cum all over this cock. you know you wanted it so bad," he pants, a few strands of dark hair sticking to his damp forehead. the more he thrusts up into you, the tighter you get, making his cock twitch inside your slick walls.

you both cum—his thick, warm release filling you up, while yours drips messily down his length and onto his slacks.

he stays inside for a second, chest heaving before he finally pulls out, watching the mess of your milky fluids and his own slowly leak out of your pussy.

you look like a mess. but a hot, perfect mess. your claw clip barely hanging on, lipgloss smudged, eyes glassy, and pussy sore and pulsing.

he reaches into his pocket, pulling out a sleek black credit card and dropping it onto your lap.

"buy yourself something pretty. wanna see you wear it tomorrow."

you giggle softly, still breathless. "should i put it on your tab or the company’s?"

he smirks, leaning in. "both. you’ve earned it."

୨ৎ taglist: @murassl, @chuhees, @heebear, @kisuumei, @bangchanwifey, @hoonipies, @sourkiki, @highway-143, @kyanmeai, @nithxhoon, @fdzvie, @hyeinsveil, @curryyed, @heeseungsbm

#‎ 夢𓈒 ✧ 𝑎𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘭𝘴 #enhypen smut #sunghoon smut #enhypen hard hours #enhypen scenarios #enhypen imagines #enhypen hard thoughts #enhypen x reader #park sunghoon smut #sunghoon x reader #enha smut

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nhmkhnh · 3 days ago

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#SPECIAL ──── KNOCK YOU UP.

CHARACTERS: VI ;; CAITLYN KIRAMMAN ;; CASSANDRA KIRAMMAN ;; SEVIKA ;; JINX ;; AMBESSA MEDARDA ;; GRAYSON ;; ELLIE WILLIAMS ;; ABBY ANDERSON ;; MIZU ;; CLAIRE REDFIELD ;; JILL VALENTINE ;; ADA WONG ;; CHLOE PRICE. PAIRINGS: DOM!AMAB!CHAR X SUB!FEM!READER (one for each scenario) AUTHOR'S NOTE: so sorry everyone for taking so long to post the 600 followers celebration fic 😭 now we’re already almost at 1k and i’m only just getting it up hahaa—anyway, enjoyyy!! 🫶 WARNING(S): lowercase, explicit content (minors & men dni) TAGS: breeding kink ;; praise kink ;; possessive!char ;; stomach press (r.receiving) ;; degradation (in the best way) ;; mean/soft dom!char (depends) ;; overstimulation ;; belly bulge ;; slow grind. navigation.

her voice is low, almost a growl, when she presses in deeper, the weight of her hips pinning you down like she owns you. and maybe she does—by the way her hands are gripping your thighs, by the way her eyes darken every time you moan her name like it’s a prayer.

“you know what i want,” vi mutters, breath hot against your neck. “want you swollen with me. want you dripping, begging, full.”

she moves slow—deliberate—each thrust a silent promise that she won’t stop until your belly’s round, until her need is carved into you.

“you’re mine,” she pants, forehead pressed to yours, “gonna make sure everyone knows. gonna fuck you so full you won’t forget who you belong to.”

you can’t answer. not with the way she’s wrecking you. not with the way her voice hits deeper than her cock ever could. and when she groans, “gonna breed you, baby,” you swear you feel it—every cell in your body lighting up, desperate to be ruined by her again and again.

caitlyn kiramman

she’s too composed, too calm for how filthy her words are—brushing your hair back with one hand while the other keeps your legs spread, voice smooth like velvet-draped sin.

“look at you,” caitlyn murmurs, cock buried deep, her hips barely moving as she watches your face twist in pleasure. “taking me so well. you were made for this, weren’t you?”

her pace is slow, cruelly steady. she’s not in a rush—because she knows she’ll get what she wants.

“i’m going to fill you,” she breathes, thumb dragging over your lower belly possessively, like she’s already claiming the space. “you’re going to carry me—feel me every time you move. every breath. every step.”

when you whimper, she shushes you, soothing and dangerous.

“hush, darling. i haven’t even started yet.”

and when she finally starts moving harder—faster—it’s with precision. with purpose. the kind of rhythm that says she’s done playing. she’s breeding you now. and she won’t stop until it sticks.

cassandra kiramman

“such a needy little thing,” cassandra purrs, voice like silk wrapped around a blade, one hand pressing your knees up as she sinks in deeper—slow, possessive, all-consuming.

“you want it, don’t you?” she murmurs, lips brushing your ear. “want me to put a baby in you. to ruin you from the inside out.”

her thrusts are slow but brutal, every drag of her cock making your breath hitch, every snap of her hips designed to make you feel her. to brand you.

“i don’t share,” she says, breath sharp now, pupils blown. “you’ll carry me. you’ll be mine.”

her hand trails down to your stomach, pressing down firmly.

“right here. i’m going to fill you so deep, your body won’t know anything else. your womb’ll beg for me.”

when you cry out, she smiles—smirks—and leans in closer.

“and when it takes,” cassandra whispers, “i’ll do it all over again. again and again, until you can’t remember who you were before i owned you.”

sevika

“look at you,” sevika grunts, voice rough and low, hand wrapped around your throat—not choking, just holding. owning. “fuckin’ perfect like this. open. dripping. mine.”

she’s deep already, rutting into you like it’s instinct—like her body was made to fill yours. her cock thick and punishing, stretching you with every brutal thrust until your legs are trembling.

“you want it?” she growls, metal arm gripping your hip tight enough to bruise. “say it. say you want me to breed you.”

you can’t speak, not with the way she’s fucking you like she’s trying to rearrange your guts, but she doesn’t need your words.

“’course you do,” sevika snarls, jaw clenched. “your body’s already beggin’. clenching like it needs me.”

she slams in deeper, harder, and fuck if it doesn’t feel like she’s claiming every inch of you.

“gonna knock you up, baby,” she groans, forehead pressed to yours. “fill you so good, you’ll leak for days.”

and when you break beneath her, sobbing and shaking, sevika just laughs—a low, hungry sound.

“good. now take it.”

jinx

“hah, look at you—fuck, you’re so cute when you’re wrecked,” jinx giggles, eyes wide and wild, her hips snapping forward in erratic, greedy thrusts. “you wanted this, didn’t you? wanted me to ruin you, stuff you full like a pretty little toy.”

she's a mess—sweaty, flushed, cock pulsing inside you as her fingers dig into your hips hard enough to bruise. and her smile? feral. gleeful. completely unhinged.

“bet your head’s all fuzzy now,” she pants, voice high and breathless. “dumb little thing just needed a cock, huh? my cock.”

she leans in, biting at your neck with a giggle that turns into a growl.

“gonna fill you up, baby,” jinx whispers, eyes fluttering. “fill you ‘til you’re dripping and twitching and begging for more. then i’ll do it again. and again. and again.”

her pace stutters as she sinks in deep, bottoming out with a gasp.

“hope you’re ready to get bred, bunny,” she moans, fingers shaking. “’cause i’m not stopping ‘til you’re fuckin’ knocked.”

ambessa medarda

“stay still,” ambessa growls, voice low and commanding as she pins your wrists above your head with one massive hand. her body looms over you like a force of nature—muscle, heat, control—her cock already buried to the hilt, stretching you so wide you can barely breathe.

“you asked for this,” she hisses, hips rolling slow and deep, like she’s sculpting your body to fit her. “asked to be filled. claimed. bred.”

her free hand presses firmly on your lower belly, eyes darkening as she feels the shape of herself inside you.

“you feel that?” ambessa murmurs, low and dangerous. “that’s mine. i’ll fuck you full, little one. and when it takes, you’ll thank me on your knees.”

each thrust is deliberate, punishing. she’s not chasing release—she’s securing legacy.

“a womb like yours was made for this,” she growls, voice breaking as she slams in again. “you’ll carry my blood. my heir. and you’ll wear it like a crown.”

when your back arches and your voice breaks, ambessa just smirks—feral, satisfied.

“good,” she says, panting. “now take every drop like the good, obedient thing you are.”

grayson

“breathe, sweetheart,” grayson murmurs, voice velvet-smooth and patient, even as her cock’s buried deep—so deep you swear it’s touching places no one else ever could. her hands cradle your thighs, thumbs stroking gentle circles, in complete contrast to the way her hips roll with quiet, devastating purpose.

“you’re doing so well for me,” she praises, eyes warm but darkened with hunger. “taking me so beautifully. just like you were meant to.”

she leans down, kissing your cheek, then your jaw, her lips barely brushing your skin as she whispers,

“i’m going to breed you tonight. no pulling out. no mercy.”

and she says it so softly—like a promise. like a vow. her rhythm never falters, steady and deep, each thrust designed to make you feel every inch of her, to coax your body into surrender.

“you’ll be mine in every way,” she breathes, resting a palm on your lower stomach, her voice thick with possessive reverence. “i’ll fill you up ‘til there’s no room left. until you’re carrying me.”

and when you whimper beneath her, trembling, all she does is smile gently and press deeper.

“shh,” she whispers, “let me give you everything.”

ellie williams

“fuck,” ellie groans, her voice all gravel and heat, forehead pressed to yours as her hips snap forward—hard, deep, needy. her hands are gripping your thighs like a lifeline, keeping you spread wide for her, flushed and panting and perfect.

“look at you,” she pants, gaze flicking down to where her cock disappears inside you over and over. “so fuckin’ full of me already. and you still want more?”

she smirks, breath hitching as your body clenches around her.

“you’re so fuckin’ greedy, baby. what, you want me to breed you?” she teases, lips brushing your ear. “want me to fill you up ‘til you’re leaking down your thighs? fuckin’ dripping with me?”

you whimper something broken, and ellie laughs, cock twitching inside you.

“yeah… that’s it,” she growls, thrusting deeper, harder now—like she’s chasing something sacred. “gonna fuck it into you. make sure it sticks.”

she bites down on your neck, hips stuttering, and her voice cracks when she moans,

“you’re mine. mine to fill. mine to ruin. mine to keep.”

abby anderson

“you ready for it, baby?” abby grits out, voice low and wrecked as her thick cock pulses inside you, stretching you open with every heavy, unrelenting thrust. she’s got you folded, pinned under the weight of her body, sweat slick between you, muscles straining as she fucks you deep.

“gonna fuck you full,” she groans, jaw clenched, arms trembling with restraint. “breed this pussy ‘til it knows nothin’ but me.”

her hands grip your hips like they own you—because they do. she pulls you into every thrust like she’s carving herself into your body, marking you from the inside out.

“you feel that?” she pants, breath hot against your mouth. “feel how deep i am? ‘s where i belong. right here. in you.”

you’re shaking under her, whining, gasping, and that only makes her fuck you harder.

“i’ll keep you full, baby,” abby growls, hips stuttering as she ruts into you with desperate, brutal rhythm. “til you’re fuckin’ leaking. til everyone sees who put that in you.”

then softer—gritted, trembling, reverent—she moans,

“gonna give you everything. gonna fill you up ‘til you take.”

mizu

“don’t run,” mizu warns, voice barely above a whisper, her cock already buried deep as your back arches helplessly beneath her. her grip is firm—one hand pressed flat against your stomach, the other cupping your face with eerie gentleness.

“you wanted this,” she murmurs, eyes sharp but low-lidded, movements controlled, almost graceful. “wanted me. now take it.”

she fucks you like she fights—silent, precise, devastating. every roll of her hips is slow but punishing, her cock dragging against every sensitive spot until you’re gasping her name like a prayer.

“you feel that?” she says, voice low and lethal as she presses harder on your stomach. “that’s me. all of me.”

your body trembles, overstimulated, and she just watches—detached but obsessed, eyes drinking in every twitch, every moan.

“i’ll breed you,” she whispers, like it’s a sacred vow. “you’ll carry something only i could give. no one else will ever touch you like this. no one else gets to mark you.”

and when she finally starts moving faster—harder—it’s with a cold, quiet hunger.

“i’m going to fill you until you forget everything else. until all you know is me.”

claire redfield

“shh, sweetheart,” claire murmurs, voice rough around the edges but gentle, grounding—her cock already buried to the hilt, your legs trembling around her waist as she holds you there, stretched open and so full.

“you’re taking me so well,” she breathes, pressing soft kisses to your temple even as her hips roll deep, steady, controlled. “just like i knew you would.”

her hand drifts down to your stomach, spreading her fingers wide and pressing lightly, like she needs to feel herself inside you—needs to know she’s made it that deep.

“i’m gonna fill you, baby,” claire says, her voice thick, low, reverent. “gonna fuck you ‘til your body knows me. ‘til it wants me. craves me.”

she picks up the pace, thrusts a little harder now, breathing more ragged as your walls clench around her.

“you’ll be mine,” she groans, eyes locked on yours. “mine to ruin. mine to breed. mine to keep.”

when you whimper her name, completely wrecked, claire just smiles—soft, aching, possessive.

“don’t worry,” she whispers, hips snapping deep. “i’ll take care of everything. you just lie back and let me fill you up.”

jill valentine

“hold still,” jill growls, voice low and dangerous against your neck, her cock already buried to the base, hips rolling with quiet force that leaves you shaking. “you said you could take it. prove it.”

she’s got your wrists pinned above your head, body stretched beneath hers, every inch of you trembling as she pushes deeper—slow, controlled, deliberate, like she’s training your body to remember nothing but the shape of her.

“you feel that?” she hisses, eyes narrowed, sweat dripping from her temple. “that’s me. right where i belong.”

her hand slips down to your lower belly, palm spreading flat with cruel affection.

“i’m gonna breed you,” she says, firm, final. “gonna fill you ‘til there’s no room left. ‘til you’re leaking down your thighs and still begging for more.”

she starts thrusting harder, cock dragging perfectly with every motion, and your moans only make her smile—feral, proud.

“you think anyone else can fuck you like this?” she pants. “you think anyone else can claim you like i can?”

you’re sobbing now, ruined, and jill leans in close, breath ghosting over your lips as she groans,

“nah. you’re mine. and i’m not stopping ‘til it takes.”

ada wong

“keep your legs open,” ada whispers, silk and smoke, her cock already buried so deep you can hardly breathe. her gloved fingers cradle your chin, tilting your head up until your eyes meet hers—sharp, unreadable, hungry.

“you look so pretty like this,” she murmurs, lips brushing yours without kissing. “stuffed full. trembling. needing.”

her hips roll slow, precise, every thrust a calculated promise—controlled chaos wrapped in red silk and sin. ada doesn’t rush. she studies you, drinks in every gasp, every flutter of your lashes, every tiny, pathetic sound you make.

“you want me to fill you up?” she coos, voice deceptively soft. “want me to breed you like some desperate little thing?”

her hand slides to your stomach, pressing down just enough to make you squirm.

“you’ll take every drop,” she breathes, voice thickening now, her rhythm sharper, deeper. “you’ll hold it. keep it. let it grow inside you until your body forgets who it belonged to before me.”

when your back arches, overwhelmed, she finally kisses you—slow and claiming.

“and when it takes?” ada smirks against your lips. “you’ll thank me for ruining you so perfectly.”

chloe price

“fuckin’ knew you’d look good like this,” chloe grunts, voice rough and low, her cock buried to the hilt, both hands gripping your hips like she’s barely holding herself back. “so desperate. so fucked out.”

she’s got you folded beneath her, legs trembling, breath punched from your lungs every time she thrusts in deep—messy, relentless, like she’s trying to fuck her name into your bones.

“you wanted this, didn’t you?” she pants, forehead slick with sweat, blue hair clinging to her cheek. “wanted me to ruin you. to fill you. make you mine in every goddamn way.”

her palm presses down on your belly, and she grins when you gasp.

“yeah, right fuckin’ there,” she growls. “you feel that? that’s me. gonna breed you so good, baby, you won’t be able to think straight.”

she leans down, nose brushing yours, hips slamming harder now, eyes burning into you.

“not stopping till you’re full,” chloe breathes, voice shaking. “til you’re leaking and marked and—fuck—mine.”

then, through gritted teeth, filthy and wrecked and breathless:

“i’m gonna put a baby in you, babe. and you’re gonna thank me.”

#vi x reader #caitlyn x reader #cassandra kiramman x reader #sevika x reader #jinx x reader #ambessa medarda x reader #grayson arcane x reader #ellie williams x reader #abby anderson x reader #mizu x reader #claire redfield x reader #jill valentine x reader #ada wong x reader #chloe price x reader

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spidey-webz · 2 days ago

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18+ MDNI

virgin!bob that’s so desperate for you. he hasn’t fucked you yet, but you’ve made out with each other. let him touch you. his cock always grows hard in no time, heavy against your inner thigh as if being inside you becomes more urgent with every day.

he whimpers against your lips when you wrap your legs around him and he ruts into you, multiple layers of clothing still separating you. he can’t wait to finally find out what it would feel like, to be between your legs and feel your pussy clench around him. bob has touched you before, fingers slipping between your folds messily, maybe a little painfully so, watching your face for any reaction. he had clumsily fumbled at your clit, a small attempt at making you cum for him.

you had taken his hand and showed him how to properly touch you. and god, he is an avid learner.

one day, you decide to let him rub himself against your panties. he watches your hips buck up against him when his tip slides over your sensitive clit, panties turning dark from your fluids and his own. bob mumbles profanities under his breath, his tip red and angry, before he wraps a hand around his cock and starts stroking himself.

he comes so quickly. the sight of you, all naked except for your panties, is already enough.

his hands are back on you afterwards, his cum still sticking to your belly and he rubs it in a little before leaning back down to kiss you. messily. his cock is still bumping against your thigh and he gets hard again, thanks to the serum.

“p-please, i want to-“ his voice is nothing more than a stutter, his big hand sliding down your hips and pushing your legs apart a little more. “wanna feel you properly. need it.”

you can’t deny him what he wants, right?

#just a small drabble #hope you enjoy <3 #bob reynolds x reader #bob reynolds #robert reynolds x reader #bob reynolds smut #the sentry x reader #the void x reader #robert reynolds imagine #bob reynolds imagine #bob reynolds headcanons #robert reynolds fanfic #robert reynolds headcanons #mcu #marvel #x reader

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rynwrites4fun · 3 days ago

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Across The Hall (8) | Michael Robinavitch x Neighbor/Teacher ! Reader

Michael Robinavitch x F! Neighbor/Teacher ! Reader

Summary: Michael finally acts on his feelings for you, risking it all to get closer. But the situation grows complicated, and some hard truths come to light.

Word Count: 3336

Warning: Age Gap (Mid 20s/ Early 50s), romantic and intimate content

Authors Note: (today years old finding out Noah Wyle/Robby has tattoos??? hello??? I never noticed. I took this gif for me to realize lol) So...y’all are gonna love me for 5 seconds then hate me bad. BYE 😬🫣 - ryn

Michael was headed to work when he stepped out of his apartment and caught himself staring at your door.

Last night, he’d wanted to kiss you—God, how he’d wanted to kiss you. Not just then. So many times before. He’d wanted you more than anything.

He needed to tell you how he felt. I should’ve said something last night, he thought.

But he didn’t.

He’d figured it was obvious—the way he looked at you, the way he stayed, the way he showed up. Surely you could feel it too.

And then you’d call him your friend.

The word had hit harder than he expected.

Friend.

It stung—maybe more than it should’ve. It bruised something in him

He sighed, adjusting the backpack dangling from his right shoulder.

Jamming his keys into his hoodie pocket, he stuffed his hands in after them and headed down the hall toward the elevator. He pressed the button and waited, his thoughts spinning.

I just need to go for it. Before it’s too late.

The elevator chimed. The doors slid open.

He stepped inside, settling into the corner and leaning against the wall. The silence wrapped around him.

Next time I see her, he’d told himself, I’m not holding back. I’m going to walk right up to her and—

“Morning.”

Out of nowhere—you.

He froze.

Okay—well, definitely wasn’t expecting to see her now. Not this soon. Not when he was still half in his head, rehearsing how it was all supposed to go.

“H-hey.”

Michael cleared his throat and quickly stood up straighter as you stepped inside.

The elevator doors closed behind you.

You could feel his eyes on you. You glanced sideways, then turned to face him fully, eyebrows knitting together.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he said a little too quickly, he still stares at you.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“How am I looking at you?”

He was looking at you the same way he had that morning in his bed—hovering over you, lips parted like he wanted to kiss you… and more. He looked at you with yearning. With longing. Like he could snap at any second.

“I don’t know… like—”

But you didn’t finish the sentence. Your throat tightened. You swallowed hard and turned back toward the doors, heart suddenly thudding in your chest.

Your breathing picked up as you tried to stay calm, but his eyes were still on you. Watching. Burning.

And then something snapped—his self-control, usually so carefully kept in check, cracked under the weight of everything he’d been holding back. It was all impulse now. He couldn’t waste another second.

Fuck it, he thought.

He needed you. Right then. Right there. Needed to feel your breath hitch against his lips, to finally cross the line he’d been toeing for far too long.

He needed to show you how he felt, how you made him feel.

All he knew was that he had to kiss you like you were his.

Michael dropped his backpack to the floor.

He stepped closer, gently taking your hand and guiding you toward him.

You gave him a confused look—right up until your bodies pressed together, close enough to feel the rise and fall of his chest against yours.

Your breath caught as his hand came up to cradle your cheek, his thumb tracing a slow, deliberate line along your skin. For a moment, he just looked at you—eyes locked on yours, searching, aching.

“Michael, w-what are you doing?” you whispered.

“What I should’ve done last night on the park bench… that morning after you stayed over when i had the worst shift of my life… God, what I should’ve done a long time ago.”

Neither of you moves at first. But then, slowly, like gravity has shifted, you both begin to lean in. Your breaths mingle. Noses nearly brush. His gaze flickers to your lips.

And then… you both stop.

Instead, your foreheads rest together, the moment suspended—tense, quiet. Neither of you pulls away. Neither of you says a word. You just stay there, breathing the same air, hearts beating loud and close.

You shouldn’t kiss him—you really shouldn’t. But your heart didn’t care.

It drowned out your brain, smothered logic, silenced reason with want, with need.

Your mind screamed: This will end badly. He’ll get hurt. You can’t hurt him. But still… you leaned in.

The kiss is soft at first, hesitant, gentle. Your foreheads touch again as you pause for breath… and then kiss again. And again. Each one deeper. Each one is more certain. The passion builds, quiet and slow, until it’s not quiet at all. I'm hungry. Needy. Hard.

Like neither of you can bear to stop.

Your bag dropped to the floor with a thud as you grabbed him—hands fisting in the fabric of his hoodie.

He groaned into your mouth, hand sliding to your waist, holding you like he was afraid you might vanish if he let go.

Your fingers curled tighter in response—latching yourself to him more.

You gasped against his lips, a soft whimper escaping before you could stop it—raw, involuntary, real.

“Fuck, sweetheart…” he breathed, voice low and ragged, like the feeling of you was too much and still not enough.

The term of endearment sent a sigh spilling from your lips.

He was panting now, forehead nearly resting against yours, trying to catch his breath—but unwilling, unable, to pull away.

“You don’t know how long…I’ve been wanting to do this…wanting to kiss you…Touch you..” he murmured between kisses, each sentence catching its breath between the next.

“Don’t stop… please” you begged.

Then—without warning—he turned you with urgency, guiding you backward until your back met the cool wall of the elevator.

The chill of the metal against your spine contrasted with the heat of him pressing into you.

You barely registered the buttons behind you, lost in the haze of his mouth, his hands, the weight of his need.

One hand braced above your head, the other slipped beneath your shirt—his calloused palm gliding over your skin like a promise, grounding you.

The elevator gave a shudder and stopped—probably because one of you had hit the emergency button somewhere in the frenzy.

Neither of you noticed.

Neither of you cared.

He kissed you like his life depended on it—like it was the last night he’d ever get to touch you.

Like he was trying to memorize you with his mouth, to savor every second as if he knew he might never get this chance again.

His lips trailed along your neck, each kiss sending a shiver down your spine.

It felt good. God, it all felt so good. You’d never felt anything like this.

It was easy to get lost in the warmth of him—his breath, his body, the way his touch set your skin alight.

The feelings crashed into you like a tide you didn’t want to resist, pulling you under.

Something deep inside you stirred—raw and aching.

Every brush of his fingers sent tremors through you.

In that heat, in that closeness, nothing else existed.

There was only him.

Only this.

But somehow, against all odds, your mind claws its way back to reality. You reason coming back to scream at you.

You shouldn’t be doing this. This wasn’t right. Especially what happened last night after you two said goodnight.

You had to stop this. You had to tell him.

“M-Michael” you stutter out breathless.

“Mhm?” He mumbles as he continues to assault your neck with open mouth kisses.

“Michael”

“What is it? Huh? What is it, baby?…” he murmured between kisses, his voice low and breathless against your neck, each word tumbling out like a plea

“Michael—s-stop, I—I can’t.”

He froze.

Everything stilled at once—the heat, the urgency, the world. He pulled back immediately, hands lifting off you, then reaching for your face.

His fingers brushed your cheek. “Hey… what’s wrong?” he asked, his voice suddenly softer, more grounded.

He saw it in your eyes—a look of regret, look of guilt, the shift from passion to shame.

“Are you okay?”

A beat passed.

Then his expression shifted, guilt crashing into him like a wave.

“Shit,” he breathed. “I’m sorry… I went too far, didn’t I?”

His hand dropped from your face, and he stepped back—once, then again—putting space between you.

You shook your head quickly. “No, no. It’s not you, Michael—”

His brows pulled together. “Then what is it?”

You couldn’t look him in the eye.

“Hey…” His voice softened. “Sweetheart, talk to me.”

He reached for your hands, gently taking them in his. His thumb brushed over the top—slow, soothing

“I—I’m still with Aiden,” you blurted out, the words crashing out before you could stop them.

His thumbs stopped brushing your hands, as he blankly stared at you. Your chest rose and fell in quick, shallow breaths. You couldn’t stand seeing the look on his face.

“What?” His voice was quiet, but sharp at the edges. Just looked at you, as if trying to make sense of what he’d just heard.

Michael shouldn’t have assumed. But after last night, after everything, he thought it was over between the two of you. It had to be. Who in their right mind would go back to that? How could this not have been the last straw for you? Because if he was you, it would’ve been. Hell, if he was in your position, he would have broken up with Aiden ages ago.

This just made things even more complicated.

“I—I talked it out with Aiden… last night,” you repeated, softer this time, almost like an apology.

Michael began to laugh. Not a joyful laugh—not even close. It was hollow, sharp, disbelieving.

“You’re joking, right?” he asked, his eyes searching for yours, hoping for some sign that you were messing with him. That this was just some badly timed joke.

But you didn’t laugh.

You didn’t say a word.

The silence between you answered for you.

Michael stepped back completely away from you like you’d physically struck him. His hands dropped yours and hung limply at his sides.

“You’re still with him? Did you not hear anything I said last night?” he asked, staring at you like he couldn’t believe this was happening. “Were you not listening?”

He begins to slightly pace the small space.

His voice rose, sharp and broken. “How can you go back to him after that? You can’t be serious!”

He let out a bitter breath, dragging a hand through his hair.

“You’re still with him—and I just—God, you just let me—we just—”

He dragged his hands down his face, like he could scrub the memory out of his skin.

“You patched things up with him last night—you knew this and you still let me kiss you and touch you like that?!” His voice cracks, finger stabbing the ground as if trying to make sense of it all.

You flinched, breath hitching as tears welled in your eyes.

His voice cracked with disbelief. “Jesus.”

“Do you have any idea how frustrating it is to care about someone? To feel something real for someone, and watch her waste her time on a man who doesn’t even see her? Who gives her nothing—no love, no attention, not even the bare minimum she deserves?”

His voice cracked, raw now, spilling from the wound you’d just torn open.

“You don’t know what it’s been like for me. Standing on the sidelines these past few months… being your neighbor, your friend—when all I’ve wanted is to be yours.”

He stepped closer, the space between you shrinking with the weight of his truth.

“I want to be the one you depend on. The one you lean on. The one you count on—not just when things fall apart, but always.”

“He came back and—I… I just—” your voice faltered, the words catching in your throat.

“If I had known—”

He cut you off, sharper this time. “No. Don’t say that. We both knew, deep down. We knew there’s something between us.”

His eyes were hard now, voice tight. “You just chose not to do anything about it.”

Tears stung your eyes, but you blinked them back—until you couldn’t.

“I was scared… I am scared,” you said, your voice cracking.

Pushing off the wall, you moved behind him. Michael turned to face you, eyes searching.

“Everything between us…” You shook your head, the words trembling out. “I’ve never felt anything like this before—and that terrifies me. I don’t know what to do with it. I didn’t know how to handle you… or the way you make me feel.”

The tears came fast now, hot and relentless.

“With him… I knew what to expect, but you…” You looked at him through the blur of tears. “You make me want more. You make me feel safe, make me feel seen, heard— and that scares the hell out of me, because I don’t know what to do with good things!”

“So you chose what was familiar,” he said quietly, “Instead of choosing what you really want”

He shook his head, frustration flickering behind the hurt. “Instead of being honest with me—about how you felt—having a conversation with me, you self-sabotaged. You denied yourself. You pushed away something real and good that was right in front of you by going back to him.”

A sob escaped before you could stop it. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“But you did,” he said—not cruel, just tired. “And the worst part is… I don’t think you even realized you were doing it. You were so scared of something real, you threw it away before it even began”

He exhaled, as if the weight of it all was finally too much. “I can’t keep doing this.”

His voice softened, but the words still hit like a blow. “I showed you how I feel. I told you. I put it all out there right here, right now, but I guess I was too late. You made up your mind before anything could even start.”

“Whatever this is… I’m done.”

Those last words hung in the air—tight, final. But underneath them was something raw. Hurt. Disappointment. And maybe even heartbreak.

He didn’t want to be done. He didn’t want to give up on this—on you—before it had the chance to become something real.

But what choice did he have?

He paused, then added, “You need to figure yourself out. Really figure it out. What you want, what you feel… why you push people away when they treat you the way you deserve. Because if you don’t, you’re just going to keep hurting the people who care about you.”

He paused, jaw tightening. “So… I wish you nothing but the best.”

“Michael,” you breathed, his name catching in your throat.

He looked at you then—eyes distant, walls rising—even though his feet hadn’t moved.

“I care about you,” he said, voice steady but low. “Not just in passing. Not like someone who comes and goes. You matter to me.”

He hesitated, the words aching in his mouth. “And maybe that’s what makes this so damn hard.”

“I think it’s best we stop hanging out,” he said, more carefully now, like he had to choose every word with precision just to keep from unraveling. “If I see you around, I’ll say hello. I’ll be polite. But that’s it. Don’t come to me for help.”

It gutted him to say it. But he knew he couldn’t anymore. At least for night now. He needed space. Boundaries. Because caring this much was costing him more than he could carry.

And just like that, he began to step back—not just physically, but emotionally—shutting doors he never wanted to close.

Michael turned toward the panel and pressed the “door open” button. Nothing. He hit “Lobby.” Then another floor. Still nothing.

He pressed a few more buttons in quick succession, frustration creeping into his movements. Nothing. The elevator was still.

Of course. Of course you were stuck now—trapped in a metal box with the man whose heart you just shattered.

He let out an annoyed groan, sharp and brittle. “You’ve got to be kidding me…”

You stood there, arms folded tightly over your chest like they could hold you together. “Did… did we press something?” you as quietly as you sniffle.

Michael gave the panel a deadpan glance. “Yeah. The emergency stop. Guess we hit it when—” He cut himself off, jaw clenching.

You both knew exactly when.

Silence followed, thick and choking.

“I’ll call maintenance,” he muttered, reaching for the phone on the panel. He picked up the receiver, waited for a beat, then spoke into it. “Yeah, hi. We’re stuck in elevator three. No, no one’s hurt. Just… just stuck.”

Another pause.

“Alright. Thanks.” He hung it up and sighed. “They’ve got to reset the elevator. Said it could be ten, maybe fifteen minutes.”

You nodded, staring at the floor like it might offer a way out.

Fifteen more minutes in this suffocating space with him.

Fifteen minutes of trying to hold back your cries. Trying not to say the wrong thing again. Trying not to reach for him even though everything inside you wanted to.

He leaned against the wall with his arms crossed and his eyes fixed somewhere above your head. Not cold. Just… gone.

You swallowed hard, trying not to look at him. “Michael…”

He cut you off, voice low and sharp. “Don’t,”

“Please don’t.” he said softly

It wasn’t cruel. It was protective. A quiet plea from someone trying to hold himself together.

The silence settled again.

After a while the elevator shuttered and hummed back to life The floor numbers flickered, then steadily climbed downward. Relief washed over you, but it was tangled with the heaviness between you and Michael.

He didn’t say a word as the elevator glided to the lobby. The doors slid open smoothly, flooding the small space with the bright fluorescent lights of the lobby.

Without hesitation, Michael grabbed his bag from the corner, slung it over his shoulder, and stepped out briskly. He didn’t look back.

You grab your bag and slowly follow out behind him.

He was moving through the lobby, his steps brisk and determined, focused on putting distance between the two of you. The coldness wasn’t anger. It hurt. And right now, he needed to get away.

You swallowed the lump in your throat. You stood there in the middle of the lobby as you watched him leave through the doors.

The lobby felt suddenly enormous and hollow, like the space between you and Michael had stretched far beyond the few feet that separated you. Your fingers tightened around your bag strap, heart aching with a sharp mix of regret and helplessness.

You wanted to call him back—to explain, to try and fix what you’d broken—but after everything said in the elevator, the damage was done. The words felt useless now. There was no coming back from this.

His words echoing in your mind like a heavy weight pressing down on your chest.

You need to figure yourself out.

The truth of it settled deep inside you, sharper and more painful than you expected. You thought about all the times you've pushed people away—out of fear, confusion, or simply not knowing how to accept love.

His words weren’t just an accusation—they were a warning.

If you didn’t face what was inside, if you didn’t understand what you truly wanted and needed, you’d keep hurting the people you cared about.

But more than that, you’d be hurting yourself.

Holding on to a past that didn’t value you, to a relationship that made you feel small and invisible.

You need to stop settling for less than you deserve and start choosing yourself—learning to listen to your own heart, discovering what happiness really means for you.

Because moving on isn’t just about leaving someone behind—it’s about finding who you truly are, and finally believing you’re worth more than pain and neglect.

It’s about opening the door to a future where you can be whole again.

The End...

(SIKE! LMAO, I’m just playing. I wouldn't do y'all dirty like that… I did do you dirty with this part with Robby and reader 💀 IM SORRY Y’ALL KNOW THE DRILL…SLOW BURNNN)

Tags: @im-nowhere-but-also-somewhere @beebeechaos @antisocialfiore @delicatetrashtree @xxxkat3xxx @homebytheharbor @woodxtock @letstryagaintomorrow @livingavilaloca @elkitot @annabellee88 @hagarsays @emma8895eb @the-goddess-of-mischief-writing @jazzimac1967@lafemme-nk @kmc1989 @whos6claire @harrysgothicbitch @trustme3-13 @qardasngan @silas-aeiou @k3ndallroy @ohmystrawberrycheesecake @ay0nha @404creep @dantemorenatalie @obfuscateyummy @steviebbboi @alliegc28 @catmomstyles3 @ardentistella @madprincessinabox @circumspectre @the-one-with-the-grey-color @thatchickwiththecamera @violetswritingg @valutfromlune @baileythepenguin @galmorizethechaos @capj-1437 @airgoddess @nah2991 @interestellarprincess @laurensfilm @peachjellyy @aj3684

Across The Hall | (1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6) (7) (8)

#acrossthehall #michael robby robinavitch #michael robinavitch #dr robinavitch #dr robby #the pitt #the pitt fanfiction #the pitt x reader #michael robinavitch x reader #dr robby x reader #noah wyle

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cantpickyourgenre · 2 days ago

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I've seen a lot of "first date gone wrong shenanigans" but what about a "friend hang where everything goes so right, they're forced to call it a date" for them? Eddie buys Dodgers tickets for him and Chris. Chris says, "Dad, are you crazy?!?!?! I have three tests and two essays ALL due Friday. I do NOT have time for this" because Mr. I Puke Over the Stress and Pressure of Chess definitely cares about his grades. So, Eddie texts Buck and says, "I have an extra ticket, you in?" and Buck responds, "A night with the Diazes? Wouldn't miss it for the world" and Eddie says, "well. Actually. Just me. :(" and Buck goes, "I'll pencil you in then, if I must :)" But then Buck is driving to Eddie's because Eddie is going to drive them to the game, and he stops at the store first. To get Chris study snacks because he's trying to suck up to him post-Texas. The cashier is like, "here. Someone paid for these roses but then dramatically took a phone call with their girlfriend and said they no longer needed them. I think they broke up. They're yours now." So, Buck brings roses to Eddie who is like, "uhhhh, wow" all rosy (pun moderately intended) cheeked and Buck is like "yeah haha I got them for free, BUT they'll look so much better here!!!!!!!!" (they both miss him living there, but couldn't think of a logical reason for him to actually stay) And they go to a restaurant first, and the couple next to them gets engaged. Turns out to be like some rich LA couple, so they buy everyone in the restaurant a bottle of wine to celebrate. So, Buck and Eddie are just like chilling, sharing this bottle of wine, and the couple next to them is talking about their plans for the future and Buck and Eddie are eavesdropping and smiling at each other and feeling light and happy. Then they get to the game finally, and a couple asks them to take their photo, because tourists, and then they offer to return the favor and Buck and Eddie now have a picture of them in front of Dodger Stadium and Buck "jokingly" sets it as his phone background, which makes Eddie take a picture of Buck but super zoomed in on one of his eyes, and he "jokingly" makes that his phone wallpaper because they're being giddy and stupid and maybe a little 30-something men flirty. And the Dodgers win and neither of them care or notice. They decide to take a walk after, maybe at the beach, maybe in the neighborhood of South Bedford because Buck "misses the area". And when they're walking it just feels right to hold hands, and then maybe when they go to say goodnight it just feels right to share a first date sort of kiss. And they don't really talk about it, they just go on dates and start treating each other like boyfriends and all of this is fine with them until Maddie is like, "okay, wait, when did you guys actually start dating? Like when is the anniversary? Also how did this happen?" and Buck and Eddie are like shrugging, Buck is saying, "maybe that dodger game? maybe non-exclusively years ago? I guess I don't really know, just sort of happened." And Eddie is just like grinning, "See Buck, the universe doesn't scream, sometimes it just whispers."

#911 #buddie #911 abc #clearing out my drafts 🤷🏻‍♀️#Important to note in MY mind #Eddie has a mustache throughout this whole thing

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anonf1writer · 1 day ago

Note

Lando gives you his 4 tally mark necklace so everyone knows you're his 😍

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written. 3,1k words. warning: suggestive language. +18. note: this took me almost two months to get done. I'm so, so sorry! I hope you're still around to read it, and I hope I didn't disappoint. Thanks for the request, it means a lot to me!

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The context of your relationship with Lando was easy to describe: you two had met through mutual friends less than a year ago, started casually hooking up right away, and had been officially dating for over six months now.

Giving the nature of Lando’s occupation, and the attention his every move got, things were still pretty private between you, meaning that the general public new nothing about your existence yet. Or of what was happening behind closed doors. Like the fact that you had met each other’s families, that you were comfortable around each other’s friends, and that at this point your visits to his apartment had been frequent enough for you to consider his place a little bit yours, too.

For the most part, when he was traveling and busy being a Formula 1 driver, you spent your time at your own place, doing your own thing. But on those weekends when he was back, or during those rare two or three days off in between races, you joined him in a blink of an eye. No invitation needed—not anymore. Both always on the same page when it came to making the most of it, as in everything, together.

On that particular Monday night, the one that set this storyline into motion, it wasn’t any different. You and Lando were at home, his home that was slowly becoming your home, and one of your closest friends was over for some wine and food. The two of you enjoying each other’s company in the living room, laughing and gossiping on the couch, while Lando distracted himself and livestreamed with his own friends behind closed doors. Nothing big, nothing new.

Sometimes, as you two blabbered and laughed, he would pop out of the room to get a snack, to go to the restroom, or just to check up on you. Just to say hello. To make a silly joke and move on. Never a big deal. Never anything that interrupted the conversation that was going on between you and your friend. Not even when the topic shifted to your new co-worker, a guy who had joined the company you worked at less than three weeks ago, and had quickly developed a not-so-subtle crush on you.

“What about that guy from work?” your friend asked, synced with the opening of Lando’s game room door. “Is he still texting you at random hours?”

Busy chewing the last remains of your pizza, you just grimaced and shook your head. Then watched Lando cross the living room and disappear into the kitchen.

“I think…” you said, then stopped to swallow the food, “I think he finally got the message.”

“Good...” Your friend nodded, and took a sip of her wine. “What was his name again?”

“Vincent.”

Mimicking her earlier movements, you leaned in and grabbed your half-finished glass from the coffee table. And then, as you were sitting back and bringing the wine to your lips, a tiny snort left your nose, and you shook your head. All to yourself.

“What?” she asked.

“Nothing... He just followed me on insta the other day.”

“Shut up...”

“Mhm…”

You sipped more of your wine, watching your friend frown as you did so.

“How did he even find you?”

“I don’t know…” You shrugged. “But he did, and then he liked a bunch of my older pictures.”

“Noooo!”

“Yeah…”

“Oh my God! Can a guy ever read the room?”

A soft chuckle left your mouth.

“I didn’t follow him back tho, so again, I think he got the message.”

“He knows you’ve got a boyfriend, right?”

You shrugged again, then shuffled on the couch, pulling your legs up and making yourself comfortable.

“Everyone at the office knows, so maybe someone told him? I don’t know.”

“Wait, so you didn’t tell him?”

“I didn’t even tell him my name, let alone the fact that I’m dating someone I can’t really talk about.”

Your friend rolled her eyes, and then sighed. “Look, I think it’s lovely how consistent you two are on keeping each other a secret, but just this once I think you should tell him you’re dating and therefore not available.”

At that, it was your time to roll your eyes. “Or... He could realize I’ve done nothing to suggest I’m interest and back off because I don’t want him.”

“Right,” she laughed. “You’re talking about a guy that’s been acting like a creep.”

“Exactly. So if he bothers me again, I’ll raise a complaint to HR for harassing.”

You changed the topic after that, and a few minutes later Lando stepped out of the kitchen, the salad he had ordered in hands. He paused to chat a bit with you two, then kissed your temple and made his way back to the game room.

Eventually, your friend said goodbye and left Lando’s apartment, and you took a moment to clean up the mess left behind. Lando was still busy in his own world, his loud laughter vibrating through the walls and making you laugh along from time to time.

It was on your way to the bedroom that you decided to stop by. Just to let him know.

You knocked on the door once, and then another two times—the code you had unintentionally created to avoid interrupting his livestream and getting caught on camera.

“Yeah?” he shouted, but you knew better than shout back at him. Instead, you cracked the door open slightly. Barely. Only enough for you to peek inside and glance at him.

Lando’s eyes were already waiting for you, his head turned to the side while he fully leaned back into his chair.

“Heyyy…” he breathed out, lips curling up into the cutest, softest smile while he stretched his arms up in the air.

“Hey...” you whispered back, lips curling up as well.

“What’s up?”

“Nothing,” you said quietly. “Just saying hi before I get to bed.”

Lando dropped his arms and placed his hands on his lap, then tilted his chin towards the computer.

“It’s muted,” he said. “No need to be quiet.”

You raised your eyebrows, not changing the volume of your voice as you answered, “That’s what you said last time.”

Lando’s smile got bigger, and his eyes wrinkled at the sides. Mischief and playfulness taking all over his expression at the mention of that chaotic memory—when a female voice laughed loudly in the background of an allegedly muted livestream and caused a very serious online meltdown.

“I checked twice,” Lando said, turning back to the camera and giving a thumbs up. “Right, chat? You can’t hear me right now, can ya?”

He leaned in, then, squeezing his eyes to the screen.

“See? They are all lecturing me. Lando, we can’t hear you. Mic’s off, Lando. Lando turn your mic on. Lan—”

“Okay, okay.” You rolled your eyes and pressed your temple against the frame, but a soft chuckle still left your chest at his silliness. “Got it, yeah.”

He leaned back and turned his head to you, smugness written all over him. “Told ya. I learn from my mistakes.”

He winked. And, once again, you raised your eyebrows.

“They can still see tho, can’t they? So don’t get cocky.”

“You’ve barely opened the door,” he laughed. “Not even I can see you, I doubt they’ll be able to.”

“Yeah? Just watch them read your lips or start analysing who you’re talking to so late at night.”

“C’mon…” he laughed again. Head tilting back as he faced the ceiling. “Don’t be si—”

“Ooookay…” you snorted and stepped back from the door, a little too tired to get into one of his playful arguments. “I’ll save you from finishing that sentence.”

“What? C’mon… I’m just teasing.”

“I know. You’re having fun while I’m worried trying to protect your wishes. Then tomorrow you’ll be snapping at me because someone found out you’re not alone and I’ll have to watch you overthink while trying to find ways to prove I don’t exist.”

The world paused around you.

Time paused inside the room.

You watched the moment his face fell. How his expression changed along with the drop of his shoulders. As if some unknown truth had been thrown at him.

And just like that, regret dawned on you, a tight knot twisting low in your gut as you tried to make sense of your words. Of your abrupt change of mood.

You looked down to your feet and sighed, your voice coming out like a whisper when you spoke again. “Sorry… I don’t know why I said that.”

Lando nodded.

You noticed his movements, the way he turned back to his computer and leaned forward to reach his keyboard. How he typed, then clicked a few things, and then how everything went off. Heavy silence easily filling the room.

“C’mere,” he said, once again leaning back into his chair, then fully turning it towards you. You looked up, meeting his eyes, and Lando tilted his head slightly to the side. “Please?” He stretched his arm to you. “I’m not streaming anymore, I promise.”

You checked the screen, just to be sure, then dropped your arms to your sides and sighed. Embarrassment taking over your chest—and flushing across your neck and cheeks—as you walked towards him.

Lando didn’t wait for you to stand in front of him before reaching out for your waist, hands grabbing your sides and pulling you down to his lap with the easiness of someone who had pulled that move hundreds of times before.

You gasped, even squealed a little, a smile curving your mouth as you adjusted yourself to sit on his thighs. Body to the side and legs hanging in the air. Arms circling around his neck. Eyes settling inside his gaze.

Silent.

Comfortable.

Easy.

“Sorry,” you said. Again. “Didn’t mean to snap.”

“I know,” Lando smiled, placing your hair behind your ear, then cradling your cheek. “I never tried to prove you don’t exist. You know that, right?”

“Of course, yeah.”

“Is it how I make you feel, tho? Like I’m trying to hide you or something?”

“No... C’mon... I understand why you’re so... Protective. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Ok…” He nodded, arms settling around your waist, pulling you a bit closer to him. “Just making sure.”

“Sorry for making you end the stream.”

Lando smiled. “Thank you for making me end the stream.”

A smile grew on your face, too.

There was a pause, in which he held your stare in silence as he moved one hand to the back of your neck.

“C’mere,” he said, then pulled you in, his lips brushing over yours once, then twice. Slowly. Softly. As if it was the first time he was getting a taste of them. As if he wasn’t really sure he was allowed to do that.

Your chest fluttered, and you leaned into him. Melted into him. Eyes falling shut and hands moving to curl tightly around his jumper. To hold onto its neckline like you were afraid he would suddenly stop and leave. Like he could vanish.

A low, contented hum escaped him, almost like he didn’t mean it. Like he couldn’t help it. Like he was melting into you, too. Hand pressing on the nape of your neck and arm anchoring around your waist, guiding the pace while he tilted his head and deepened the kiss.

You exhaled through your nose and followed his lead. Stomach flipping and thoughts blurring. Getting lost into the tenderness and casually of it. Into how personal, intimate, and affectionate it felt. How soft, how steady, how electric it was. The way he moved, the way he sounded, the way he tasted. How he treated you with respect and carefulness, like you were the most delicate and precious thing in the world, and yet made you feel breathless and powerless, like you could die if you didn’t get more of it. Of him. Or this.

And then, Lando pulled away. Panting. Hand still holding the back of your head and lips still brushing yours when he asked, “Who’s Victor?”

Your lips searched for him, unwillingly. Automatically. Your body craving for more before his words clicked inside your mind.

He didn’t stop you, kissing you back and allowing your mouths to ghost over each other as you spoke between kisses. Never quite gone.

“Victor?” you asked.

“Mhmm…” His nose bumped against yours, and he slipped his hand between your hair, making sure you wouldn’t lose the pace.

“I don’t… Hmm… I don’t know… Shit… Who’s Victor?”

“I don’t know…” he repeated. “Someone that’s been hitting on my girlfriend… Or so I’ve heard…”

You blinked your eyes open and flinched back. Just an inch. As far as he allowed you to. Only enough to meet his eyes.

“What?”

Lando shrugged, and you licked your lips. Trying to gather your thoughts. Trying to make sense of what the heck was going on.

“You mean Vincent?”

He rolled his eyes and pulled you back in, his lips barely touching yours before he was tilting your head back and moving them down your jaw.

“Potato, patahto,” he murmured, his warm breath hitting your neck while he kept smothering your skin. Your throat. “Still hitting on my girlfriend.”

A smirk grew on your lips, and you closed your eyes, feeling his lips kissing your sensitive spots. Feeling his tongue getting its own taste, his teeth grazing right behind.

“Didn’t know you were listening to us...”

“Was I supposed not to?”

He sucked onto your sweet spot, and you gasped. Thighs clenching and fingers twisting even tighter around his jumper.

“Fuck…” you breathed out.

“I know…” Lando murmured, brushing the tip of his nose up and down the same spot. “I wonder how many until I leave a mark…”

“You never leave any…”

“Maybe I should start…”

He kissed you again, softly, moving his mouth and making sure no inch would go unattended.

Heat built low in your belly, slow and relentless, and you shuffled on his lap—even though the position you were in didn’t allow you to feel much of him.

“Jealous?” you managed to ask.

Lando snorted and pulled away, guiding your head so you would look at him.

“Just annoyed… Pissed, actually… Why is some random guy texting you and going through your photos? Who the fuck does he think he is?”

You smiled, hands loosening up around his clothing and moving up through the back of his neck. Fingers tangling with his curls as you said, “Someone who stopped texting after I left him on read, and who never got a follow back from me…”

“Hm…” He leaned into your touch, eyes fluttering shut while you ran your nails up and down his scalp. “Can’t say I’m not happy to hear that.”

You chuckled. “Did you think I’d react differently?”

“No…” he said, eyes meeting yours again. “But as confident in our relationship as I am, can’t ever get too comfortable, can I?”

You tilted your head, not really knowing what to say at that.

Thankfully, Lando didn’t give you too much time to think about it before he added, “Don’t want him to think you’re single, tho.”

“We don’t know if he thinks that.”

“Then I want to make sure he knows you’re taken.”

You smiled. “I’m taken, huh?”

Lando rolled his eyes, hands sliding down your spine while he stretched his back and got taller underneath you.

“You’re mine,” he said, voice an octave lower and fingers reaching to the hem of your sweater. “Just like I’m yours. Yeah?”

You nodded, curling your body to place your forehead against his. Feeling his bare touch pressing on your lower back, warm and needy.

“Yeah... You know I am… Yours.”

“I know… I want him to know, tho. Not just him, everyone.”

“Lan…” you sighed. “If this is because of what I said, you don’t have to—”

“Not saying this because of what happened,” he said. “I’m saying it because I love you and because you’re beautiful and I don’t want stupid wankers hitting on you when I’m not around.”

“Well… That’s not really fair, is it? I can’t stop girls from hitting on you while you’re not around.”

“Babe, not one single girl has flirted or—”

You couldn’t help but laugh at that. Loudly enough that you had to bring one hand to cover your mouth.

Lando smiled. And you noticed how something softened inside him. How he dropped his shoulders. How his touch went from greedy to affectionate. Still pulling you closer, still holding you in place, but with a different intention behind it.

“I mean it, tho,” he said. “I don’t want to keep hiding it anymore. I heard when you said I’m someone you can’t really talk about, and I don’t want you to feel that. I want you to say ‘I’ve got a boyfriend’ and throw my name into a conversation if you feel like it. Just… Y’know… Want it to be natural.”

You pressed your lips together and sighed, pushing the playfulness aside to understand the seriousness of what he was suggesting with that.

“Okay… But just so you know, this feels natural to me. I don’t have to say ‘my boyfriend Lando Norris’ for me to talk about you. People who know me know I’m not single, the only reason why I haven’t told Vincent it’s because I haven’t really sat to chat with him. He saw me twice and decided it would be a good idea to get my number without even asking me about it.”

“Fucking idiot.”

“Right?”

“Can’t really blame him, though… Kinda hard to look at you and not to fall in love.”

“Oh my God…” You rolled your eyes, but also smiled, shoving his shoulder playfully before hugging his neck. “Shut up.”

He did as you told, busying himself by kissing you instead of talking again.

From then on, the kissing melted into something more. The chair becoming uncomfortable to hold so much want and so much need from both of you, and your touches and steps guiding you blindly to his bedroom. To your bedroom. To your bed. Clothes getting lost along the way.

“I love you,” he said, over and over again.

Stealing your breath away.

Making you forget your name.

How you got there in the first place.

Until you were shaking and falling on top of him, his hips digging and pushing until he got the last bit of pleasure out of you. Of him. Of both.

Erratic. Intense. Everything.

The next morning, Lando left earlier than you. You didn’t even hear him, didn’t even feel him. Tangled and sprawled in the sheets. Blissfully happy. Satisfied.

You saw it when your alarm went off, though. His tally mark necklace, his number four shining in the sunlight. Right on top of his pillow. And a post it right in between the two.

For you. So everyone knows you’re mine ;) Love you. LN.

And that’s how it happened.

That’s how you ended up clasping his necklace around your neck.

And that’s how now, every time you think of him, you bring your hand to your chest and hold onto him. How you know he’s always there, like a part of you. Loving you. Whether everyone knows it...

Or not.

──────────────────

#lando norris x reader #f1 imagine #f1 x reader #f1 fic #lando norris fic #lando x reader #lando norris fanfic #lando norris x you #lando norris imagine #lando norris fluff #f1 social media au #f1 fanfic #lando x you #lando norris fanfiction #i said i wanted to know your thoughts on this but actually im scared to know so i deleted that lol #I'll just move on to the next one!

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slowfuckintheafternoon · 2 days ago

Text

18+ only please and thank you

Gaz who won’t let you jerk off in peace.

It’s not that you don’t like having sex with him, it’s just that it’s been months since his last deployment, and it feels like forever since you got to connect with your body on your own terms.

You just want to explore yourself again, that’s all. He's been taking good care of you, but you want to take care of you. You want to take your time with yourself, lingering on the most sensitive angles that only you can find. It hits the spot sometimes to just lay back, relax, and get yourself off again like the old days.

But miserably, you’ve been getting home at the same time as him for weeks, and it’s made it nearly impossible to be alone. This weekend, though, you're determined. You're going to make it happen, one way or another. You're going to get that solo wank if it's the last thing you do.

But it seems like as soon as you’ve fully attached yourself to the plan, your boyfriend is suddenly an inescapable force of observance.

All of a sudden he wants your in-depth advice on vacation ideas, following you around the house like a lost duckling. He even turns down drinks with his mates, which is absolutely unheard of, just to spend incredibly inconvenient time with you.

The one weekend you want him gone, and he's become the most constantly around person imaginable, much to your irritation.

It’s absolutely unfair. There’s nothing wrong with wanting a private wank, and you shouldn’t have to feel like you’re sneaking around to get it. But every time you think you've gathered your courage enough to ask, you'll look over at him and he’ll just be standing there, so cute and seeming so happy to be near you, so you don't ask.

You don't ask, and you don't wank.

You start withdrawing from his hugs and touches, hoping it'll put off your the usual weekend fuck, because you just know it'll suck all the satisfaction out of your wank. You can't ask, but you can't seem to let it go either, because it's somehow become a need. An actual, emotional need for something that shouldn't matter that much, but it does. It matters that you aren't getting time to yourself when you need it.

The hours continue to pass, until you find yourself in the last afternoon of your weekend, and you swear he hasn't sat his ass down away from you all day.

You touch yourself a little bit in the bathroom, desperately hoping it'll be good enough, and you'll be able to just get it over with and go back to normal.

But it's not good. It's rushed and anxious and completely unenjoyable, so you give up before you even manage to get yourself wet.

And of course, as soon as you've washed your hands and stepped out of the bathroom, that man is right there waiting for you. You can't help the flicker of annoyance on your face when you spot him sitting there on the corner of the bed.

"Um, I think I'm going to..." You pause, picking up your car keys from the dresser, but then setting them back down. "Oh, I don't know. Maybe I'll stay home. Do you need to go anywhere? Run any, um, errands?"

Kyle frowns at the suspicious, hopeful blinks you're throwing in his direction. "Not particularly."

Unconsciously your fingers grab hold of your keys again, and you only realize you're doing it when his eyes follow the movement.

"Oh, okay," you ramble, shoving your keys away, and feeling like you suddenly don't know what to do with your hands. "You gonna... pop round to see your mum today?"

Kyle stands up slowly, openly eyeing your nervous body language. Your gaze wanders to the dresser because you can't stand to look at him, can barely think past the haze of repressed feelings and self denial and the deception. It's not fair, it's not fair. When will you get what you need?

“D’you want to see other people?” he finally asks.

Instantly your eyes snap up to his face, to the pained expression he’s failing to hide.

“Like, open the relationship or something?" he continues in that too-calm voice. "If you haven’t been satisfied lately, then we can talk about—“

“Kyle, no. What the fuck? No.”

He visibly sets his jaw. “Then what is it? Cause if we’re breaking up—“

“God, shut up! Just shut up for a second. Oh, god."

You start giggling before you can stop it, not because anything is funny, but because you're incredibly nervous. He still looks so worried, and it's still so hard to say, but you might as well just spill your guts at this point because the giggling is making things worse.

“I just wanted to, um, m-masturbate, um by myself, because we just have sex now whenever I’m horny, and I haven’t got to do it in a while. Without you, I mean. All by myself. Oh, god, this is so stupid."

Another giggle slips out, and you’re braced for his hurt feelings, maybe a rare bit of anger poking through the surface.

But instead he suddenly lets out a barking laugh. “That’s it?? You’ve been torturing me all weekend just cause you needed some alone time?”

"It's not funny, Kyle." Nevermind that you're failing to suppress more nervous laugher.

"Oh my god." He wipes his hand over his face, seeming utterly dumbfounded. “Oh my god, what a relief.”

And then your boyfriend spins around all dramatic, and flattens himself against the wall, laughing obnoxiously with his head buried in his arms.

“A fuckin’ wank.” Comes his incredulous voice, half muffled by his forearm. “Just... wanted a wank. All that for a wank."

“You’re being annoying,” you mutter. “And I still haven’t got my wank, thank you very much.”

"You're right." Kyle straightens right up, looks you dead in the eye, and smiles. "And you're gonna get it right now."

"Ha ha, very funny."

"Look at me." He takes one step towards you, pointing a finger at his suddenly grave expression. "I'm fuckin' serious. We're getting you that wank."

The idiot takes you by the hand -- you're incapacitated with giggles, by the way -- and leads you straight to the bed, helping you up onto it as if he was your personal masturbation chauffeur.

"You stay there," he instructs you, only to scurry off and quickly return with your water bottle and your phone.

"For hydration--" holds up the water bottle-- "for visual aids--" holds up the phone-- "for moral support--" leans down and kisses you straight on the mouth.

"Baby, I love you."

"I love you too. I'm gonna go pop off to the shop so you'll have no distractions. You stay there, and please for the love of god, tell me the next time you need a wank."

"You're the best!" you call after him, tucking yourself into the blankets.

"Yes I am."

Soon the place is quiet and still, and it's just you in your fluffy bed, wonderfully, deliciously alone.

You starfish your limbs out in the sheets, once you're good and naked. Let all the fabric drag against your bare skin and sigh happily.

You are happy. You're so happy with Kyle.

It's a good wank, too. You get out your vibrator, and find exactly the visual aids that you want, and you let yourself savor the buildup, without any reason to hide what you're doing.

Soon your brain turns to mush and you cum in your nice comfy bed, cradled in the sheets that smell like your boyfriend. It's lovely. It's wonderful. You click off your sex toy and catch your breath with your fingers pressed tight to your clit, basking in that gooey warmth as long as you're able.

And then you miss him. Like, instantly, as soon as you're done cumming. You miss Kyle.

You should be gratefully taking advantage of his absence to be alone in the bed, maybe grab a few more orgasms for yourself, but instead you find yourself snatching up your phone. You scan through the last few texts he's sent you, imagining hearing them in his voice.

Fuck it. Might as well just call him.

"Alright?" he answers after a few rings.

"Yeah, I'm all finished. You can come back now."

There's a laugh on the other end of the line that makes you smile from ear to ear. "I haven't finished my shopping."

"Okay, but hurry back if you can."

"You missing me, baby?"

Another smile. "Yes. A little."

"Ahh, well. Just a little isn't too bad, I've got a list."

You half laugh, half growl at him. "Come back, please."

"On my way."

It does seem like he's immediately on his way, because he returns so quickly, you imagine he just set down his basket right there and fled the store. You've been too relaxed and lazy boned to even put away your vibrator, but you're so happy to see him that you sit up naked in bed and reach out your arms for him to join you.

That man's face. He's getting worse and worse at hiding how much he likes you.

It just takes one look, one second of having him wrapping his arms around you in a reunion hug, before you're suddenly, violently horny again.

Good news, he's right on board with that idea. Soon you're both tugging his clothes off, and he's tucking himself into the sheets with you, his fingers finding you already so wet and welcoming from your time apart.

This is what your body wants. It's a dumb animal that wants to feel safe, and get the things it needs, and it especially wants him. All of him. His tongue in your mouth, his happy sounds mixing with yours, his cock inside you after you manhandle him onto his back.

You want to ride him. Give him a chance to lay back and relax, and give you a chance to take care of your man who takes care of you. You smile down at him while you bounce on his dick, feeling that familiar stirring of emotion in the top of your throat.

He belongs to you. You want him forever.

It has you going slower, stroking your hand up his body, across his jaw. Feeling and memorizing, and accepting him as yours while you grind his cock in and out.

"Kyle." You're not expecting your voice to crack, so you swallow and try again. "Kyle, I love you so much."

"I love you too, sweetheart."

"Do you want to get married?"

It slips out before you can stop it, before you can cut yourself off or pretend it was a joke, or do anything but inhale in nervous shock.

Kyle's blinking up at you with an equally surprised look on his face, holding your hips tighter than he was before, until you stop moving.

"I'm sorry," you whisper, "I didn't mean--"

"Stop it." Something deadly serious has settled over his face, and he pushes you up and off him in one careful motion.

Shit, fuck, why did you say it? Why did you have to ruin everything?

"Forget I said that, we don't have to get married, I don't even know why I said that--"

He's pushing you off him, throwing his legs over the side of the bed to get away.

"Kyle, please--"

"Shut up! Just shut up." Your boyfriend quickly fumbles his hand around in his bedside table drawer, and then retrieves a...

Jewelry box.

"Oh my god," you whisper, clapping your hand to your mouth.

"I was gonna... That is, I was planning on something else, sometime next month, but..."

"Oh my god," you repeat, relieved tears suddenly stinging your eyes.

"Feels a bit stupid to do it like this, when we're halfway through a fuck, but lord knows I can't reason with you once you've got it in your head that I hate you, so. Will you marry me?"

He starts to sink down like he's about to belatedly get on a knee, but like an animal suddenly untethered, you're already launching yourself at him.

"YES!" you squeal, swinging your arms around his shoulders and giggling like an insane person while you take him halfway to the ground.

You both can't stop laughing after that, especially when he's shaking so much he can barely get the ring on your finger. It's a beautiful, sparkly one, just like you always imagined.

Somehow, between kisses and excited whispers, you both make it back to the bed. He gets you under him and twines your fingers together next to your head, the hand that's now bearing the ring he'd hidden away for you.

And then he fucks you, nice and slow, until his shaking has vanished. That man kisses you like you're precious, keeps pulling back to look into your eyes and smile, like you're the most wonderful thing he's ever seen.

And he keeps fucking you like that, slowly grinding himself into you, keeping your hand in his.

"You gonna be my wife?"

"Uh huh."

"We're getting married, baby."

"I know, I'm so happy."

"I'm so happy, too."

#kyle gaz garrick #cod gaz #call of duty #x reader #fem reader #Kyle Garrick x reader #gaz x reader #chewchewchew #tooth rotting fluff

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soaps-mohawk · 2 days ago

Text

Cherry Red, Crimson Blood

Chapter 56: Making Home

Summary: Now that you've got the house, it's time to make it feel like home.

Pairing: Poly 141 x reader

Word Count: 8,583 words

Warnings: NSFW, 18+, explicit sexual content, p in v sex, anal sex, smut, oral sex, fingering, unprotected sex, praise kink went wild with this one, munch Kyle makes his return, alpha/beta/omega dynamics, alternate universe, a little bit of angst, bad attempts at humor, language

A/N: This chapter tried to kill me but I did it. I finished it. Wound up like twice as long as I thought it was going to because of extra smut so you're welcome.

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“We got the house!”

Excited cheers sound on the other end of the phone.

“Congratulations kitten!”

“Very exciting news, love.”

“Can’t wait to see it.”

“I can’t wait for you all to come and visit and see it. It needs a little work but it’s so nice. It really feels like home being there.” You say.

“What’s it like?” Kyle asks.

“Three bedrooms, with the main one big enough for a large bed, two bathrooms so I don’t have to share with you stinky men. Four acres so we can have our farm. Nice big kitchen so we’re not stepping on each others toes.”

“Sounds perfect.” Johnny says.

“Send us photos when you get there.” Simon says. “I want to see.”

“Of course.” You say, kicking your legs back and forth. You’re laying on the bed in the Airbnb, John heating up leftovers from dinner last night. “I can’t believe we got it.”

“It’s lucky you got it so fast.” Simon says.

“Perhaps it was fate.” Kyle says.

“Whatever it was that made it possible, I owe it a lot. There were a couple other places that would have been fine but this one was the one.” You flop over onto your back. “I cant wait to see you all again.”

“We can hardly wait either.” Johnny says. “Soon as ye get into the house we’ll drive up and visit for a weekend.”

“It’ll be Easter soon. Four day weekend.” Kyle says. “I’ll be up there before then.”

“I can’t wait for you to finally be free.” You say.

“Don’t talk like that.” He chuckles. “I am excited for this new adventure, though. Can’t wait to see what comes next.”

“A farm with lots of animals and a dog and lots of free time.” You say.

“Big dreams, little girl.” Simon says. “I hope they all come true.”

Well, most of them will. Part of your dream is that Simon and Johnny will also retire and the five of you can live out the rest of your lives happy and free from the stress of the military, but you know that’s not going to happen for a long time.

“Thanks,” You say, looking up as John comes in the room.

He lays on the bed next to you and you move the phone between you. “You lads doing alright?”

“Yes, sir.” Kyle says. “Hanging in there.”

“It’s not the same without ye.” Johnny says. “Miss ye.”

“It’s definitely strange. Hasn’t quite hit yet.” John says. “Alright, boys, I’ve got to feed our girl before she gets grouchy.”

You open your mouth in shock. “I don’t get grouchy.”

“Yer the one that has to deal with that now.” Johnny laughs.

“Rude.” You pout. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow, okay?”

“Take it easy, love.” Kyle says. “Don’t be too hard on John.”

“I’m not being hard on him.” You say. “Love you.”

A chorus of I love you’s follows before you hang up.

“I don’t get grouchy.” You pout, turning to face John, trying to convince him you’re right.

He gives you a look before pushing himself up to sit. “You’ve never been on the receiving end of your terror when you’re hungry.”

You continue to pout as he stands up, heading out the bedroom door. “I’m not grouchy.” You say to yourself as you push off the bed to follow him.

“We need to go paint shopping and furniture shopping.” You say, your head resting on John’s chest. “I need to think about décor too.”

You’ve been thinking a lot about your soon to be home and what you want it to look like. Cozy, warm, inviting. Lots of comfortable furniture and blankets and pillows. You want it to feel like home, like the MacTavish farm had. You want artwork and family photos lining the walls and big book shelves with lots of books.

“Let’s sign the papers and get the keys first.” He chuckles, his fingers tracing patterns up and down your arm where it’s slung across his stomach.

“I’m just excited.” You sigh. “I still can’t believe we got it.”

“I know.” He kisses your forehead. “I am happy it worked out.”

You are lucky that things worked out the way they did. You’re not sure what you would have done if you hadn’t gotten that house. You would have found another that you tolerated, but you’re not sure you could have made it feel as much like home as this one does. You can’t wait to make it your home, to have your pack settle down into a normal life with each other. Well, semi-normal. As normal as it can be.

“I can’t wait for Kyle to get to us too.” You say.

“Couple more weeks.” John says. “Around the time we close he should be on his way.”

“Good. I can get his help picking out stuff.” You say. “We’re gonna need so much. We don’t even have dishes to eat on.”

“One thing at a time.” John says, resting his cheek against your head.

“Can we at least look at paint tomorrow?” You ask, your eyes starting to droop a bit despite your excitement.

“If that will make you happy.” He says.

You hum. “It will.”

He presses another kiss to your forehead, still stroking your arm as you drift off to sleep.

“I’m thinking blue for the living room.” You say, looking at the rows and rows of paint color sample cards. “Something light.”

“You want to paint the whole room?” John asks as he grabs one of the cards.

“No, just an accent wall.” You say, grabbing another, looking through the many shades. “Something to give it life beyond the dull white. I like the tan in the kitchen. Nice neutral. I’m thinking green over the red in that one room.”

“You want to paint the spare room?” He asks.

You shrug. “We can still use it. It could be an office or a gym. We can use the other room for guests. I’m thinking we leave that room white.” You look down at the cards in your hands before looking back up at him. “I feel like I’m making all of the decisions.”

He gives you a look, leaning down towards you. “This house is your nest. I want you to make it what you want.”

A slight shiver runs down your spine as you stare up at him, at the sincerity in his gaze. “Okay.”

“Here,” He says, grabbing a couple green cards, looking over them. “How about this green for the red room?”

You drop your gaze from his face to the cards, looking at the light green shade. “I see the vision. It’ll take a lot to cover that red though.”

“That’s alright. We’ll just get a lot of primer.” He says. “How about purple for the main bedroom.”

Your eyebrows nearly shoot up into your hair. “You’d let me paint something purple?”

“Of course.” He says, grabbing a couple cards. “Like I said, this is for you.”

You stare at him for a moment before glancing at the purple cards. “Well then that changes everything.”

A grin forms on his face as you take the purple cards, his hand resting on your lower back as you look through them. You’re distracted, barely noticing the way John’s hand presses harder against your lower back, his body stiffening slightly beside you.

Something tickles in the back of your brain, drawing you from your thoughts as the scent of alpha washes over you. It burns your nose, the scent wrong and overpowering. John’s hand has moved from your back to your hip, your body pressed up tight against his side. There’s someone else in the aisle with you, perusing over cans of paint.

It’s an alpha, his gaze flicking over to you every so often. He’s young, a bit too cocksure and haughty. He’s projecting his scent, likely because you’re there.

Great. Just what you needed.

John shifts you over to his other side, putting himself between you and the alpha. You clutch the paint cards to your chest, staring up at John as he watches the other alpha. The other alpha glances up at him a couple times and you hold your breath, the cards in your hands shaking from the nerves of a possible confrontation. You don’t doubt John and his ability to protect you. He’s a seasoned alpha, a seasoned fighter. He’s a retired soldier for goodness sake. He could take down this cocksure alpha easily, but the last thing you want is a fight to happen in the middle of a hardware store.

“Problem, mate?” The alpha says, turning to face John.

“None at all.” John says cooly, his posture relaxed, demeanor calm.

The alpha gives him a once over and you hope he’ll decide it’s not worth the risk, but you’re not so lucky. The alpha tilts his chin up as his gaze flicks to you where you hide halfway behind John. “Cute girl you got there.”

“She’s taken.” John says, his shoulders starting to tense just slightly. You wouldn’t have noticed if you didn’t know him well enough.

“I bet.” The alpha huffs. He leans slightly to the side to see you better. “What do you say, sweetheart, want to go for a ride with a real alpha?”

You don’t respond, but you couldn’t even if you wanted to. You’ve never thought about this happening, about a confrontation with another alpha. Most people were deterred by John’s presence, but you knew there was always a possibility of some kid getting it in his head he could take on a seasoned alpha.

Of all places it’s a hardware store.

“She’s fine where she is.” John says. “I suggest you take a hint and go about your business.”

“Or what, old man?” The alpha chuckles. “Gonna fight me?”

John moves before you even realize it, closing the distance in three long strides. His hands grip the alpha’s shirt, lifting him almost off his feet so they’re face to face. John’s voice is firm, the captain starting to come out.

“I’d prefer not to, but if that’s what you want, I can make it happen.” The poor kid finally looks scared as John speaks to him, the alpha’s scent starting to waver as John’s takes over. “I’ll have my omega call you an ambulance now so they’re here in time to scrape whatever pieces of you are left off the floor.” He pulls the alpha closer, his toes scrambling to keep hold on the floor. “I’d suggest you go about your business, get what you came here for and leave.”

John releases the alpha and for a tense moment nothing happens. You hold your breath, hands shaking with adrenaline as you wait for the alpha’s response. He gulps as he stares up at John for a moment before nodding, taking a few steps back. His eyes flicker to you as you stand there before looking back at John. He makes the smart decision to turn on his heel, making his way down the aisle until he disappears around the corner.

John stands there for a moment, shoulders tensed before he turns back to you. He steps up close to you, his hands gently gripping your arms. You stare up at him, the adrenaline still pulsing beneath your skin. You really thought for a moment there John was going to have to fight him, but thankfully that alpha wasn’t as stupid as you thought he might be.

“Okay?” John asks quietly.

You nod. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

He nods, wrapping an arm around you as he steers you towards the door. You’ll worry about getting paint later, once you’re actually ready to move into the house. Still you clutch the sample cards in your hand, your fingers curled around them. You’re not sure you could let them go right now. Besides, you need to finalize your decisions.

John leads you out to the car, keeping an eye out in case that alpha decided to change his mind, but he’s not waiting for you. You’d rather not have to deal with the ramifications of a public fight. It wasn’t unheard of, alphas duking it out in public over an omega.

You’d do the right thing like John said and call an ambulance before the first punch was thrown.

“Sorry, love.” John says as the two of you get into the car. “Hate that this was cut short.”

You’re silent for a moment before you turn to face him, the adrenaline still pumping in your veins. “That was the hottest thing you’ve ever done.” You say, staring at him wildly. “I’d suck you off right now if we weren’t in public.”

“Appreciate it, sweetheart.” John grins, chucking you under the chin before he starts the car. “But I agree that we should wait until we get back. I’d rather not let the entire parking lot of the store see your bare ass.” He sinks his teeth in his lip. “That’s for me only.”

You let out a quiet whine, excitement stirring in your stomach, shooting straight down between your legs.

You can’t wait to get back to the Airbnb.

Kyle arrives a week before the sale closes.

You had hardly slept in anticipation of seeing him again after a long month away. You’re not sure how you’re going to stand being apart from Johnny and Simon for so long if a month about does you in.

You slam into him so hard he grunts, his arms wrapping around you to keep from going over backwards and taking you with him. You wouldn’t have minded. He’d break your fall.

“Good to see you again, love.” He chuckles, waddling you backwards into the house.

“I missed you so much.” You say, squeezing him as tight as you can.

“I know you did.” He says, kissing the top of your head. “Good to see you again, sir.” He says, John’s body pressing up against your back.

“None of that now.” John says. “We’re retired.”

“That’s a habit that’s going to take time to break.” Kyle says, gently prying you off of him to hug John.

You slip out from between them, watching them for a moment. Your alpha and beta finally reunited and free from the military. Now you just have your other alpha and beta to work on. Chip away at that stubborn desire to remain enlisted.

You think you can do it.

It’ll take some time, though. Time you might not have.

“So, when do I get to see this magnificent house?” Kyle asks, putting down his bag.

“Soon. The closing process is almost done. Then we have a lot of work to do.” John says.

“Painting, furniture buying, furniture assembly, decorating, barn building, animal buying.” You list off. All things you’ve been thinking about these last couple weeks.

John chuckles. “You retire thinking you’ll get freedom and then you go and buy a house.”

“Sounds like you’ve been busy.” Kyle says, sitting down on the couch.

“You have no idea.” John says, sitting down next to him.

“It’s good for us.” You say, plopping yourself down in Kyle’s lap, swinging your legs over John’s. “Keeps us from getting bored.”

Kyle chuckles, wrapping his arms around you. “I doubt you’ve let him get bored.”

You grin, leaning in to kiss him. “His dick has to be getting sore and I’m not even in heat.”

“Well, now I’m here to alleviate some of that.” Kyle says, nipping at your bottom lip.

John shifts as you kiss Kyle, one hand slipping around the back of Kyle’s neck. “Fucking gorgeous, you two.”

You giggle, Kyle’s lips leaving yours to trail down your neck. Your own teeth sink into your lip as he sucks at your skin, pressing his nose against your throat to inhale deeply. “Fucking hell, get a load of that.”

“She’s been insatiable lately.” John says, thumb stroking the side of Kyle’s neck.

“I missed you.” You say, letting out a quiet gasp as Kyle nips playfully at your throat.

“Haven’t even been here five minutes and you’ve got me bricked up.” Kyle groans, his grip around your waist tightening.

You hum, tugging his head up so you can kiss him again before pulling back. “It’s almost time for dinner.”

You barely make it off of his lap before his arms are around you again, pulling you back.

“Nah, nah, nah.” He grins, tugging you back so your ass is tucked up against the bulge in his pants. “None of that, love, you’ve got something to take care of first.”

Your teeth sink into your lip as you press back against him, grinding your ass against his cock. He breathes out a curse, head falling back against John’s hand as you tease him.

“Fucking hell, sweetheart.” He groans, his hands gripping your hips.

His fingers tease the skin under your waistband, tugging at your pants. You lift your hips for him, letting him slide your pants and underwear down your legs. You kick them off onto the floor, Kyle’s hands spreading your thighs apart. His fingers drag through your folds, already damp from the thick scents in the air and Kyle’s touch. How you’ve longed for him and you hadn’t even realized it.

“Already wet for me?” He groans in your ear, his fingers circling your clit. You let out a moan, pressing your hips up against his hand. “Been a while, yeah? Neglected my girl.”

His hands fall back to your waist, shifting your body up off of his and onto John’s lap. John’s arms wrap around you, his own arousal pressing up against your ass. You press back against him, watching Kyle as he drops to his knees on the floor, moving himself between John’s legs.

“Hold her open for me.” He says, pushing your thighs apart.

John’s hands slide down to your thighs, hooking under your knees, pulling them up to leave you spread open for Kyle. Kyle stares at your pussy with shining eyes, almost with love and reverence.

“How I’ve missed you.” He says, lowering himself down towards your glistening folds.

You don’t think he’s talking directly to you.

You let out a sigh as his tongue drags a stripe up your folds, the tip flicking your clit before he slides down again, prodding at your entrance. His hands settle on the backs of your thighs as he slips his tongue into you, tasting you directly from the source. He lets out a groan, his mouth closing over your pussy and slurping.

You let out a sound, eyes glued to his face.

“Look at that,” John groans, his eyes glued to Kyle as well, chin perched on your shoulder. “You like that, huh?”

Both you and Kyle let out appreciative moans.

Kyle focuses his attention on your clit, closing his lips around the sensitive bud and sucking hard. Your legs jump at the intense sensation, pushing against their hands. Despite the many rounds you’ve gone with John over the last couple weeks, you’re still sensitive, clit still throbbing from the attention being shown to her.

“Fuck, Kyle,” You gasp as he circles your clit with his tongue. Your hand drops down to his head, trailing through his short-cropped curls. You can’t wait for him to grow them out, if he wants to. Maybe you can convince him to grow a beard as well.

What a sight your boys would make, all shaggy with beards.

The mental image has slick oozing out of you.

“Fucking beautiful pussy.” Kyle groans, laving his tongue through your folds, tasting every inch of you he can. His fingers are pressing into your thighs leaving indents in your skin.

“Gonna cum just like this?” John rumbles, addressing Kyle. “Gonna cum in your pants just from tasting some sweet pussy?”

You let out a quiet moan at John’s words. Oh how you’ve missed them together.

“Yes, sir.” Kyle moans, one of his hands dropping from your thigh.

“No touching.” John says, Kyle’s hand rising back to rest against your leg.

Kyle moans against your clit, the sound vibrating through you. You let out a moan, arching against John. John’s hands pull your legs further up until your hamstrings start to burn. You offer no complaint though, too lost in the pleasure Kyle’s mouth is bringing you to care.

“Gonna cum for him?” He grunts in your ear as you push back against the bulge in his own pants.

“Yes,” You breathe, hands gripping John’s arms as the patterns Kyle’s drawing with his tongue push you closer and closer to the edge.

Kyle pants against your pussy, gripping your thighs for dear life.

“She cums first.” John says, no, commands.

“Yes, sir.” Kyle groans, closing his lips around your clit.

You’re a gonner as soon as he sucks, the sensation overwhelming as slick gushes out of you. Kyle is right there, his tongue pushing into your hole to lap up every last drop he can get. Slick smears across his face and your skin as he slurps at you like a man starved.

Well, he has been.

“Fuck,” he pants, pulling himself back, his fingers still dimpling the skin of your thighs.

“Did you cum yet?” John asks.

“No, sir.” He says, eyes and lips shining.

“Let me see.”

John releases your trembling legs as Kyle stands, undoing his jeans before shoving them down along with his briefs.

He is telling the truth, nothing but precum beading out of the tip of his almost throbbing cock. It’s angry looking, Kyle’s hands closing into fists at his side as it hangs there, hard and leaking.

John leans in, whispering in your ear. Your lips turn up in a smirk as you slide off his lap onto your knees, your legs trembling in protest but you ignore them. You take Kyle’s cock in your hand, warm and thick as you grip the base. Your tongue darts out, licking the bead of precum slipping out of his tip. His head is down, eyes glued to yours as you take him into your mouth.

“Bloody fucking hell,” He groans, one hand slipping into your hair, gripping the strands as you suck on his head, flicking his slit with your tongue.

Your hand strokes the rest of him, his hand tight in your hair as you work him closer and closer to the edge.

It doesn’t take much, his cock throbbing as he moans, hips jerking as he cums on your tongue. You work him through his orgasm, swallowing every last drop that he gives you. His head is tilted back, hand still gripping your hair as he twitches with the aftershocks of his orgasm when you pull back, letting his cock drop between his thighs.

“Thank you,” He breathes, his hand releasing your hair, his fingers dragging through the strands.

You both turn to stare at John where he lounges on the couch, knees spread and eyes hooded. There’s a very prominent bulge in his pants, you and Kyle sharing a look before he drops to his knees beside you as you reach for John’s belt.

“I can’t believe it.” You say, staring down at the keys in John’s hand. You’re standing before your new home, the thing you’ve been waiting for anxiously this last month.

“It’s cute.” Kyle says, standing next to you. “Can’t wait to see the inside.”

“You’ll love it.” You say, taking the key when John hands it to you.

You walk up to the door, your hand almost shaking with excitement as you put the key in the lock of your new home.

It looks different with the furniture gone. You’re already starting to imagine what you’re going to put where, what you’re going to decorate with, which walls you’re going to paint.

You lead Kyle through the house, showing him the space and the rooms, ideas starting to float through your mind. You don’t even have the furniture, and already you can see the house coming together.

You don’t think you’ve ever been this happy before.

Well, perhaps there have been a few times, but this is definitely going high on the list.

“I’ve ordered the bed, but it will be a few days before it gets here.” John says.

“Thought my days of sleeping on the floor were over.” Kyle jokes.

“Uh, no, we’re getting an air mattress.” You say, leaving one of the bedrooms. “I’m not sleeping on the floor.”

John kisses your forehead. “Don’t worry, we’d never let our princess sleep on the floor.”

Your face warms at the nickname. It’s been a minute since he called you that. It still has warmth fluttering in your stomach.

You stare up at him for a long moment trying to get yourself together before you clear your throat. “I think we should at least get the main bedroom painted before the bed gets here.”

“Right off to work, huh?” Kyle grins, coming to stand with you.

“She’s an eager little pup.” John says, chucking you under the chin before taking a step back. “We’ll pick up paint tomorrow, for now let’s get our stuff in the house.”

Well, they get the stuff from the cars moved into the house. You mostly supervise, watching them carry boxes and bags into one of the rooms for now. Your few meager belongings packed up from base and your time at the cottage.

You think you have the most boxes out of all of them. Most of them are probably books, stuffed animals, and blankets.

You do carry your big bear in though, setting him down next to the boxes before falling on top of him. “Whew. That was a lot of work.” You say.

“Yeah? I bed supervising us was exhausting.” Kyle says breathlessly.

“You have no idea.” You say, letting out a squeal as hands grip your sides, rolling you off of your bear.

Those hands tickle your sides, making you laugh and squeal as you attempt to fight Kyle off of you, but he’s too strong.

“You little shit.” He laughs, pinning you down as he mercilessly tickles you.

You land a knee in his side and he grunts, releasing you just to lay himself down flat against you. “You’re so heavy.” You whine, trying to push him up but he’s dead weight. “And sweaty.”

“That’s never bothered you before.” He says, voice muffled where his face is pressed against your shoulder.

“Well usually we’re in a different situation when you’re sweating all over me.” You say, pinching his side.

He jerks, his hands grabbing your wrists to pin them over your head. He leans down until you’re face to face, his nose brushing yours. “I could put you in that situation right now.”

Your breath catches in your throat, the energy in the room shifting as his scent starts to thicken. His fingers flex around your wrists as he closed the short distance between you to kiss you softly. You kiss him back hungrily, pushing against his hands but he doesn’t relent. You would have preferred to wait until the bed got here to christen your new home, but desire is quickly squashing those thoughts.

Kyle’s knee slots between your thighs, pressing up against your core. You push your hips down, grinding against him as warmth starts to blossom through your stomach. Your skin begins to tingle, your nerve endings coming to life as arousal pools in your belly.

“Alright you two.” John says, breaking the two of you apart. Kyle pulls back, lifting himself to glance over his shoulder. “We need to hit the shops before they close.”

“Come on, just five more minutes.” You whine.

“You want to sleep on the floor?” John raises a brow at you.

You stare at him for a moment before pushing yourself out of Kyle’s hold. “Nope.” Kyle chuckles, letting you go. You bend down, giving him a kiss before you move past him, coming to stand directly in front of John. “You’re going to pay for that interruption.” You say, trying to threaten him.

“You think so?” He says, lifting his brows, a smirk turning the corner of his mouth up.

“Yeah.” You say, brushing past him to head towards the front door, excitement still burning hot in your stomach. You’ll need to get that under control before you go out into public. The last thing you need is another confrontation, but at least now John has backup.

Not that you think he’d need it.

The days go by in a whirl of shopping and painting and unpacking. Furniture is bought, walls are coated in new colors, the kitchen and bathrooms stocked with necessary items. Already the house is starting to feel like a home, even if you’re only just getting started.

The bed arrives sooner than you expected, and you’re glad you painted the main bedroom first. It’s a big bed, bigger than you thought it would be, but it’s perfect, covering the bedroom almost wall to wall. It’s comfortable too, just firm enough it supports you, but just soft enough it’s still comfortable. John and Kyle spend half the day putting together the frame while you work on painting the living room. They refused to let you help with the tools, but you were more than happy to let them figure out the instructions.

Kyle could defuse a bomb, but putting together furniture...that’s something else entirely.

You leave them to it, happily painting your walls in bliss.

“What do you think?” John asks as he enters the room again.

You’re laying flat on your back on the bed, relaxing on the mattress. “I love it.”

“It’s the perfect size.” Kyle says, crawling up from the end to flop down beside you. “Just big enough for the five of us.”

“Even with Johnny starfishing himself?” You ask.

“Well...it might be a tight squeeze with that, but at least we won’t be elbowing each other and stuck in the same position all night.” Kyle says.

You hum, letting your eyes close for a moment. The other side of the bed dips as John climbs up to join you. He relaxes back with a sigh, the three of you laying still for a moment.

Thoughts begin to form in your head, mental images of everything that could happen with this new, large space you have. Enough room for five bodies to maneuver comfortably, and you know John bought the reinforced frame, made specifically for larger packs.

If you’re going to spend money, you might as well ensure the bed can handle vigorous activities.

Many vigorous activities.

“What’s going through that head of yours, princess?” John rumbles, breaking you from your thoughts.

Your scent has projected a bit, arousal pooling low in your stomach from the fantasies your mind had conjured.

“What do you say we put this bed frame to the test?” You suggest, sinking your teeth into your lip.

Kyle lets out a breathy sound as John growls low in his chest.

“Eager little pup, aren’t you.” John says, scooting himself closer to you.

“I don’t disagree.” Kyle says, scooting closer on your other side as well. “I think we should test it before we fully commit. It says it can handle large packs. Let’s see if that’s true.”

John’s hand grips your chin, turning your face towards him. Heat blossoms from between your thighs as his scent washes over you, thick and musky with his own arousal. You can see it poking through his sleep pants, bulging the thin fabric.

“Fuck,” Kyle moans, pressing up against your side. You can feel his arousal through his briefs pushing against your leg. His lips find your throat, pressing soft kisses against your skin. His own scent is projecting, soft and fresh in the air.

John leans down, pressing his lips to yours as Kyle’s hand starts to wander, sliding down your chest to your breasts, palming them over your baggy t-shirt. “Couple of eager pups.” He murmurs against your lips.

His hand leaves your chin to trail down your body, skirting past where Kyle is teasing your nipple through your shirt. John’s hand trails down your stomach until it reaches the hem of your shirt...well, his shirt actually. He pulls it up, bunching it around your waist before his hand slips down, fingers trailing through your damp folds. He lets out an appreciative growl against your lips, his fingers dipping into your pussy.

You let out a moan, pulling away from his lips as your head falls back. His fingers push into you, two thick fingers spreading you open. He pumps them back and forth, back and forth slowly, working them into you as your body grows slicker and slicker around them. Kyle pinches your nipple hard, your back arching from the pleasure and pain.

John withdraws his fingers, bringing the shiny digits up towards your face. Kyle pulls away from your neck, dipping his head to take them into his mouth.

“Fuck,” You breathe, watching Kyle suck John’s fingers clean of your juices.

More slick dribbles out of you as saliva starts to form at the corners of Kyle’s mouth, threatening to slide down his chin as John presses his fingers as far into Kyle’s mouth as he can. Kyle takes it like a champ, swallowing around his thick fingers.

John pulls his hand free, patting Kyle on the cheek. “Good boy. Now go down there and make our girl feel good.”

“Yes, alpha.” He gasps, panting as he slides down the bed.

John’s body shudders at the sound of his status from Kyle’s lips. It wasn’t often Kyle called him alpha. He was more inclined to calling him ‘sir’ than anything. Perhaps he’s trying something new in his retirement.

Kyle settles between your thighs, his breath warm against your damp folds. John tugs at your shirt, your back arching so he can tug it off over your head. A gasp leaves your lips as Kyle licks a stripe through your folds, his tongue flicking across your clit before his lips close around the bud.

He wastes no time, licking and slurping at your pussy, trying to drink every last drop of your essence. John’s arm wraps around your back, holding you against his chest as Kyle relentlessly eats you out.

“Feel good?” He breathes in your ear. “Is our boy making you feel good?”

You nod, clinging to John’s hip for dear life. “So good. So-fuck-good.”

Your legs are already shaking around Kyle’s head, trying to squeeze closed but his hands keep them open.

“Gonna cum,” you breathe, back arching off the bed. “Please, please let me cum.”

“Go ahead.” John says, Kyle sucking hard on your sensitive clit.

You cum with a cry, Kyle’s mouth abandoning your clit to drink up your juices as they gush from you. John’s fingers take his place, rubbing tight circles against your throbbing cit, working you through your orgasm.

“I can’t,” you breathe, trembling in John’s hold. “I can’t…”

“Yes you can.” He growls in your ear. “One more.”

You whine, your body writhing in his hold in overstimulation as he continues his assault against your clit. He doesn’t let up, doesn’t slow as you almost seize, legs clamping shut around his hand.

Kyle watches as another orgasm burns through you, forcing your legs open so he can push two fingers into you. You yelp at the intrusion, your walls fluttering around his fingers as you cum again.

John finally relents, easing off your clit as he kisses you softly. “Good girl.” He praises you.

You let out a quiet sound, body still trembling as Kyle thrusts his fingers into you slowly.

“Well?” John says, looking down at Kyle. “Are you gonna fuck her or do I have to hold your hand?”

Kyle breathes out a curse, fumbling to yank off his briefs, releasing his hard cock. John tugs one of your legs up over his hip, holding you open for Kyle as he slots himself between your thighs.

“I’ve missed this fucking pussy.” Kyle breathes as he prods at your entrance, slipping the tip in before pulling it back. “You have no idea.”

“Missed your cock,” You whine, pulling your other thigh up so you’re spread open for him.

“Fucking hell,” He breathes before pressing into you, stretching you open around his cock. “Still so fucking tight.”

“Glorious when she’s all nice and slick, huh?” John says, leaning on his arm as he watches Kyle.

“All nice and warm, gripping me so tight.” He moans, his hands dropping to grip your hips as he presses completely into you.

“Feel so good, Kyle.” You moan, squeezing around him.

He curses again, fingers indenting your hips as he tries to hold on to a semblance of control. He starts to move his hips, dragging his cock in and out of you slowly and steadily. You’re breathing heavily, skin slicked with sweat as you lay there at their mercy, John’s fingers drawing patters across your stomach as his eyes watch the way you spread open around Kyle’s thick cock. He’s enjoying this, watching his beta fuck you.

He presses his hand against your stomach, applying gentle pressure. “Let me feel you.”

Kyle shifts his hips, starting to thrust faster as he angles upward. John hums contently as you moan, eyes rolling back from the way Kyle’s cock drags along your walls. You’re shaking again, already approaching another orgasm from how sensitive the first two made you. You won’t last long, and from the way Kyle is moaning, he won’t either.

John applies more pressure against your pelvis, Kyle’s cock pressing upwards with every thrust. Your legs are shaking around his hips, pleasure burning hot through you, your very nerves alive from the sensation.

“Oh fuck, she’s cumming,” Kyle moans, his body folding over yours as your pussy squeezes tight around him.

Your back arches off the bed, your entire body trembling as another orgasm rips through you, your toes curling from the pleasure as Kyle continues to thrust into you, chasing his own high.

“Come on, be a good boy.” John says, pushing himself up to sit. He reaches back, squeezing Kyle’s balls.

“Fuck,” Kyle’s hips buck hard against you, nearly pushing you up the bed from the sudden pleasure. “I’m cumming.”

His thrusts get wild and sloppy, losing all rhythm as he snaps his hips against yours a couple more times. He spills into you with a deep groan, pressed as tightly as he can against you.

He’s breathing hard, John’s hand still massaging his balls as he cums, his own body shaking with overstimulation.

John finally releases him, dragging a hand up his back. “Good boy.” He praises, pressing a soft kiss to Kyle’s shoulder. He leans up, whispering into his ear for a moment.

Kyle nods, pulling himself out of you before dropping onto the bed next to you. He’s still shaking as he tugs you closer, rolling you up onto his chest. He wraps his arms around you, holding you there for a moment as John shifts behind you.

“Come on,” John grunts, patting your ass. “Present for me.”

You let out a whine, forcing your knees under you so you can lift your ass in the air for him. Your cheek presses against Kyle’s chest, Kyle’s fingers tangling in your sweaty hair. John’s fingers drag through your folds, gathering Kyle’s cum before pushing it back into you. You gasp as he fills your sensitive pussy, your walls clamping around his fingers.

“Still so sensitive.” He muses, thrusting his fingers into you a couple times before he pulls away, his pants hitting the floor.

The bed dips as he settles behind you, dragging the tip of his cock through your folds, gathering your slick and Kyle’s cum before he presses into you. You moan from the stretch, still a stretch after Kyle.

John’s hands close around your waist, holding your hips still as he starts to thrust shallowly into your pussy. You let out breathy moans, cheek still pressed against Kyle’s chest. His fingers run through your hair, his other hand finding yours and lacing your fingers together.

“Doing so good for our alpha.” He praises you, a shiver running down your spine. “Being a good omega.”

You whine at his praise, arching your back to press your hips against John’s hands.

“She likes that.” He says, starting to thrust into you harder. “Our girl loves being praised, don’t you.”

“Yes,” you whimper, almost drooling against Kyle’s skin and John has barely gotten started.

“Yes, what?” John asks, pausing his thrusts.

“Yes, alpha!” You cry, trying to push back against his hands but he holds you still.

“Good girl.” He praises, resuming his thrusts into you.

Kyle is still breathing heavily under you and you can smell the waves of arousal still coming off of him. No doubt he’s still hard, throbbing against his stomach. You wish you were flexible enough to reach back and help him out, but you can barely hold yourself up as it is.

John picks up his pace, snapping his hips against your ass. The sound of skin on skin and the squelch of your pussy fills the air, along with the sound of your moans and John’s grunts.

“Fuck,” Kyle breathes, long and drawn out as he watches his alpha fuck you, watches the way your ass bounces from John’s hips driving into you. His fingers tangle in your hair, tugging lightly as he lays there helpless.

“So fucking good.” John grunts, hands squeezing your hips tightly. “Love this fucking pussy.”

You whine, your legs starting to tremble again from the pleasure he’s bringing you.

“It’s all mine.” He growls, his thrusts starting to get harder and harder. He’s close to the edge already, riled up after watching you and Kyle.

“All yours.” You gasp, knees nearly giving out under you but his hands keep you upright. “Just for you alpha.”

He lets out another growl, one hand dropping to draw frantic circles around your clit.

You’re a gonner, body trembling as another orgasm washes through you. John doesn’t let up, still fucking into you hard as you squeeze around him, chasing his own high. He keeps circling your clit, dragging your orgasm out as his thrusts start to get erratic, your eyes rolling back as he snaps his hips against yours.

He pushes your body forward as he slams into you one last time, his cock twitching as he spills into you. You slide further up Kyle’s chest, John following you as you drop off your knees, falling forward out of exhaustion. John peppers kisses across your shoulders, hips still pressed tight against your ass.

“So good for me.” He whispers praises against your skin, dragging a hand across your still twitching body.

“Our good girl.” Kyle says, smoothing the hair from your face.

You can’t do much more than grunt tiredly, shuddering when John pulls his cock from your pussy. His fingers drag through your folds, gathering slick and cum before his hand shifts, Kyle’s body tensing under you.

“Oh fuck…” he breathes, his head falling back.

“Go sit on his face.” John says, patting your ass.

You’re too tired to move, but you do it anyway, dragging heavy limbs up until you’re resting over Kyle’s face. He’s moaning quietly as his hands close around your thighs, pulling your dripping pussy down over his mouth. You grip the headboard, holding on as he starts to suck the mix of yours and John’s cum, and probably a little of his own seeping out of you.

“Relax for me.” John says, Kyle’s hands gripping your hips tightly as his shoulders push against your feet.

He’s still moaning against your pussy. You can’t see what’s going on behind you, but you can imagine where John has his fingers. You can picture Kyle’s cock, hard and leaking where it rests against his stomach, John’s hand between his cheeks, two fingers stretching him open, getting him ready for his alpha’s cock.

A shiver runs through you and for a moment you almost want to turn around, but you’re fully seated on Kyle’s face, his hands holding you in place.

Kyle’s body shudders under you, shifting just slightly and you can imagine John pushing his legs up, shifting his hips so he can settle in, the tip of his cock teasing Kyle’s hole. You can tell when he starts to press in, Kyle whining against your pussy, fingers gripping you so tight you might bruise later.

The bed starts to rock back and forth as John starts to move, thrusting into Kyle. Kyle’s head falls back, pulling away from your pussy for just a moment as he basks in the pleasure. The sound of flesh hitting flesh sounds, Kyle letting out a yelp.

“Keep going.” John commands, Kyle’s hands pulling you down harder against his face.

The slow burn of another orgasm starts to build in your belly as Kyle continues to eat you out, his moans and groans vibrating through your clit. He’s getting close himself, you can tell by the way he shakes under you, the sounds coming from his chest getting needier and needier.

“Gonna cum already?” John asks, and you can imagine his hand around Kyle’s cock, squeezing the base of it to try and drag this out as long as he can.

Kyle makes a noise, his hand sliding on your thighs to your ass before he lifts you. “Please, please,” He begs, breathing hard.

“Get back to work and I might just let you cum.” John says, Kyle lowering you back down on his face.

Quiet moans leave your lips as the pleasure continues to build, your oversensitive clit thrumming from the pressure of Kyle’s tongue. He’s getting close as well, no doubt fighting off his orgasm until John deems it okay for him to cum. Such restraint, and control from your good boy.

Kyle’s body is shaking under you as he moans into your pussy, teeth scraping your clit to try and draw your orgasm out, trying to get you to gush all over his face so he can cum. No doubt John is making him wait until you cum again. You grind your hips down against his face, trying to make yourself cum faster for his sake.

John hasn’t slowed at all, grunting as he fucks Kyle into the mattress. You continue to grind against Kyle’s face, dragging his tongue across your clit. You can feel your orgasm getting closer and closer, your sensitive clit throbbing in need. You can do it, you can cum again, one last time.

Kyle moans as you cum, gushing all over his face. He drinks it up as you shake over him, his hands on your thighs keeping you upright as you grip the headboard tightly. John continues his pace, but you can hear his hand jerking Kyle’s cock, the wet sound of skin on skin as he works Kyle up to the orgasm he’s been holding back.

Kyle’s hands push you up off his face as his body shudders, head falling back as he cums, spurting all over his stomach. Your legs are still trembling as you watch, John’s hand milking every last drop out of Kyle’s cock. John’s hips snap into Kyle’s ass a few more times before he stills, groaning as he cums in Kyle.

John leans himself down over Kyle, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. Kyle smiles softly, his hands smoothing up John’s back. John’s hand slips around the back of your knee, tugging you closer. You lean over, accepting his kiss as he leans toward you. His hand brushes your cheek, cupping it lightly.

“My good beta, and my good omega.” He praises you both, pulling himself out of Kyle. “Did so good for me.”

“Thank you, alpha.” Kyle breathes, pulling John down between the two of you.

“You were so good for us, too.” You say, pressing a kiss to his shoulder.

John grumbles low in his chest, accepting your praise towards him. He wraps his arms around you both, letting out a long breath as the three of you lay there, recovering.

“The bed held up.” He says after a moment of silence.

You giggle as Kyle chuckles. “That it did.” He says.

“I think you made a good choice.” You say, laying your head on the pillow.

“Well, we’ll have to put it to the true test soon.” John says, and you can’t help the small sound that leaves your lips.

You know exactly what he means.

As the days go by your house gets fuller and fuller, furniture being delivered and décor starting to go up as you finish painting.

It’s starting to feel more and more like a home.

“Can we get a dog?” You ask as the three of you lay in bed one evening.

Kyle glances up from his phone, John marking his page in his book before turning to look down at you.

“Why don’t we get a bit more settled in first before we think about adding animals to the equation.” He says. “We can get one eventually, but the yard needs some serious work first.”

You pout. “But I want one now.”

John huffs, stroking a hand over your hair. “I know, but we still have a lot of work to do and we don’t need a puppy underfoot while we do it. Plus there’s all the training they need.”

“I can train them.” You say. “Besides, it’s not like you’re letting me do much anyway.”

John gives you a look. “Soon, but not right now.”

Your pout deepens and you flop over onto your back. “I just want a dog. And some chickens. And a cow. And some sheep.”

“Big dreams, love.” Kyle says, rolling onto his side next to you.

“I really liked being on a farm.” You say. “It was nice having animals around, and I liked the schedule it keeps you to.”

“Once we’re better settled in.” John says. “It’s not even been a month yet.” He leans down, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. “I wish I could give you everything right away, but one of us has to say no.”

“I could say no.” Kyle says, leaning his chin on your shoulder.

John gives him a look. “You’re a sucker for those puppy eyes.”

“So are you.” Kyle retorts, wrapping his arms around your waist. “What if it’s both of us giving you those eyes?”

You can picture the softening of his gaze, those big brown eyes starting to go shiny. You give John your best puppy eyes as well, pouting your lips just a little.

John’s eyes flicker between you for a moment before he sighs. “I can still say no.” He turns around, putting his back to you.

You scoot yourself closer, pressing up against his bare back. “We were just kidding.”

“I know.” John sighs, pulling your arm around his side. Kyle presses up against your back, draping his arm over you to rest on John’s hip. “It’s still a no.”

You pout but you know he’s right. You’re still busy and the last thing you need is something else that needs your attention. You just hope John will decide it’s time sooner rather than later.

You press a soft kiss on the back of his neck before settling in, letting your body relax between your alpha and beta.

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