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tokkiwrites · 5 months ago

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game show host!joel miller x contestant f! reader ▪︎summary: it's the late 1970s, and you're fresh out of college. for your graduation gift, your parents got you a special ticket to be part of your favorite game show, 'Love Jive'. They didn't know you didn't like the show itselfㅡ but it's smooth talking MC, Joel Miller. ▪︎tags: pwp, age gap (pretty hefty one), super flirty joel, shy/lovestruck reader, afab!reader, pet names galore!!, p in v (unprotected), mirror sex kind of, slight breeding kink, creampie, joel kind of has an innocence kink idk.

▪︎this has been sitting in my drafts for two months now. Hopefully, you enjoy this short and silly 2.45k words one. There is no plot for it honestly, just thought it would be a cute concept. maybe a series might come from it. Who knows? anyway!!! love ya!!

It was the summer of 1979, and the air felt heavy with possibility. You were fresh out of college, diploma in hand, and ready to take on the world—or at least that’s what you told yourself when your parents asked what came next.

Their graduation gift to you? A surprise ticket to Love Jive, the hottest game show on TV. You’d tried to hide your awkward smile when they handed it over, the envelope sparkling with glitter that matched the show’s logo. What they didn’t know was that it wasn’t the show’s ridiculous premise that had you tuning in every week.

It was him.

Joel Miller.

The man was a legend, smooth as honey and twice as sweet. The way his Texan drawl slid over those ridiculous love-related catchphrases? You swore it had ruined you for men your own age. He had to be at least twenty years older than you, but that salt-and-pepper hair, that sly smile, those broad shoulders stretching under his velvet blazer? They didn’t make men like Joel Miller anymore.

So here you were, standing nervously behind the curtain in the Love Jive studio.

“Contestants, ready?” a stagehand called.

Your stomach did a flip as the warm-up announcer's voice boomed through the speakers. The audience clapped and cheered, the excitement infectious. Before you could second-guess yourself, the curtain lifted, and the stage lights bathed you in gold.

And there he was.

Joel Miller stood center stage, microphone in hand, looking like he owned the room— and maybe he did. That million-watt smile lit up his face, his dark eyes sweeping the contestants before landing on you. He did a double take so subtle you almost missed it, but when his smile softened just a fraction, your heart skipped a beat.

“Well, well, what do we have here?” His voice rolled through the air like warm molasses, drawing chuckles from the crowd. “Looks like we’ve got ourselves some fine contestants tonight. Y’all ready to find love and maybe a little bit of fun?”

The audience erupted in cheers, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to join them. Not when Joel Miller was staring at you like you were the most interesting thing in the room.

“And what’s your name, darlin’?” Joel asked, pointing the microphone toward you.

You blinked, mouth suddenly dry. “Uh—uh, it’s—” You blurted out your name, voice cracking slightly. Joel chuckled, low and smooth, his dimples deepening as he grinned. “Well now, ain’t you just the sweetest thing. Y’all hear that? Even her name’s cute as a button.”

The crowd ooh’d and ahh’d, but Joel’s gaze stayed locked on you.

“Tell me, sweetheart,” he drawled, leaning ever so slightly closer, “what brings a lovely little thing like you to Love Jive? Lookin’ for romance? Or just here for the spectacle?” Heat bloomed in your cheeks, and you prayed the lights were too bright for anyone to notice. “Um, I—I guess you could say both?”

Joel’s eyebrows lifted, and his grin turned downright wicked. “Both, huh? Well, darlin’, I can promise you this much—you’re in for one hell of a show.” The crowd roared their approval as Joel winked at you, leaving your heart thundering in your chest. You’d come to Love Jive expecting to admire Joel Miller from afar. You hadn’t counted on becoming the center of his attention.

And as the game began, one thing became crystal clear: Joel wasn’t just hosting tonight. He was playing a game of his own— and you were the prize he had his sights set on.

Fast forward to the 15-minute commercial break.

The knock on the door came firmly, pulling you out of your flustered thoughts. You glanced at the mirror, smoothing down your blouse and trying to will away the redness on your cheeks. “Come in,” you called out, voice trembling slightly.

The door creaked open, and in stepped Joel Miller, the man of all your desires.

The sight of him so close took your breath away. He leaned casually against the doorframe for a moment, his dark eyes settling on you. His smile, warm and teasing, was the kind that made you feel like you were the only person in the world. “Well, there you are,” he drawled, his voice like velvet. “Thought I’d come check on you, see how my favorite contestant’s holdin’ up.” You blinked, trying to find your voice. “Oh, uh—fine! I’m fine,” you stammered, your hands twisting nervously.

Joel stepped fully into the room, closing the door behind him with a soft click. The dressing room wasn’t large to begin with, and his presence filled it completely, making the space feel even smaller.

“Fine, huh?” he said, leaning against the vanity, his arms crossing casually over his chest. “Can’t blame you for bein’ a little flustered. All those lights, all those people… and me.” His grin turned teasing, his gaze dropping to your lips for the briefest moment. You laughed nervously, shaking your head. “It’s not—I mean, you’re not—”

“Sweetheart, relax,” Joel interrupted, his voice a low chuckle. “I’m just messin’ with you.” His eyes softened, and he tilted his head. “But if I’m bein’ honest, you’ve got somethin’ about you. That’s got me wonderin’ if maybe I’m the one a little flustered tonight.”

Your heart skipped at his words. “Me?” you asked, disbelief clear in your voice. Joel’s grin deepened, his dimples on full display. “Yeah, you,” he said, his voice dropping slightly. He stepped closer, his hands sliding into his pockets. “Pretty little thing like you walkin’ in here, lookin’ all sweet and innocent, got every man in the audience wishin’ he was sittin' in my shoes tonight.” You felt like your face might catch fire. “I don’t think that’s true,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.

Joel reached out, gently lifting your chin so you had no choice but to look at him. His hand was warm and firm, his thumb brushing lightly against your skin. “Well, I do,” he said softly, his dark eyes holding yours. “And I don’t say things I don’t mean, sweet girl."

You swallowed hard, your breath hitching as he leaned in just slightly, his voice dropping even lower. “I was thinkin’... maybe once this show wraps up, you and I could get outta here. Go somewhere quiet. Just you and me.” Your pulse thundered in your ears, and you felt dizzy under his gaze. “You mean… like a date?”

Joel chuckled, the sound rich and deep. “Exactly like a date,” he murmured. “What do you say, sweetheart?” You nodded before you could overthink it, your shy smile breaking free. “I’d really like that.” Joel’s grin turned downright wicked. “Good,” he drawled, his hand sliding to cradle your cheek. “’Cause I’ve been dyin’ to do this all night.”

Before you could say another word, Joel leaned in and kissed you. His lips were warm and sure, moving against yours with a perfect mix of confidence and tenderness. You felt your hands instinctively grip the vanity behind you, your knees going weak as his other hand settled lightly on your waist.

The kiss lingered, soft and sweet, but with just enough heat to leave your head all dizzy. When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested lightly against yours, his thumb brushing over your cheek.

“Damn,” he murmured, his voice rougher now, “even better than I imagined.” You couldn’t help the giggle that bubbled out of you, shy and giddy all at once. “You imagined kissing me?”

Joel grinned, pressing a quick, playful kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Oh, I imagined far more than kissing you, darlin’. Hard not to when you look at me the way you do.” Your heart felt like it might burst, but before you could respond, a sharp knock sounded at the door. “Mr. Miller, we’re back in two!”

Joel sighed dramatically, giving you a wink as he stepped back. “Guess I better get back to work,” he said, his tone light but his eyes still lingering on you. “Don’t go runnin’ off after the show, y’hear? I’m not done with you yet.” You nodded, still too flustered to form a coherent sentence. With one last smirk, Joel turned and strolled out the door, leaving you breathless.

The show had ended in a blur of applause, flashing lights, and the announcer’s booming voice thanking everyone for watching. Contestants and crew mingled briefly as everyone prepared to leave. You’d just stepped to the side of the stage when one of the other contestants, a bubbly blonde in a bright orange jumpsuit, sidled up to you with a knowing smile.

“Well, well, well,” she teased, nudging you with her elbow. “Looks like you really got Mister Smooth swooning all over ya.”

You blinked, startled. “What? No, I don’t think—”

“Oh, honey,” she interrupted with a laugh, crossing her arms. “Everyone could see the way he was devouring you with his eyes. I swear, I was worried he might forget the rest of us were even there.” Your face went hot, and you shook your head quickly. “You’re imagining things.”

“Sure,” she said with a wink, already walking away. “If by ‘imagining things,’ you mean watching him look at you like you hung the moon. Enjoy it, sweetie. A man like Joel Miller doesn’t come around every day.”

Her words echoed in your head as you made your way back to your dressing room. Closing the door behind you, you exhaled deeply, desperate for a moment to collect yourself. The quiet was a relief after the chaos of the show. You slipped out of your stage outfit and into the dress you’d brought for afterward. A soft yellow dress with bell sleeves, a cinched waist, and a flowing A-line skirt covered in a delicate floral print. It felt like something out of a sunny dream, and you hoped it might give you a touch of the confidence you sorely lacked.

You were smoothing the fabric over your hips when the door opened without warning.

“Oh, wow.” The single word made you whirl around. There he was. Joel Miller, standing in the doorway. His tie was loosened, his shirt collar slightly unbuttoned, and his dark eyes were locked on you. “You’re gorgeous,” he said, the words leaving his lips like a breath. Your cheeks warmed instantly, and you managed a shy smile. “Oh, it’s just… just a dress,” you murmured, brushing your hands nervously over the skirt.

Joel stepped inside, closing the door behind him as he approached. His gaze was unwavering, taking you in like you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

“Just a dress, darlin’,” he said, his voice low and rough. “But you could be wearin’ a paper bag, and you’d still be the most beautiful thing in the room.” You opened your mouth to respond, but nothing came out. Joel stopped in front of you, lifting a hand to gently cup your cheek. His thumb brushed over your skin, his touch warm and steady.

“Fuck it,” he muttered, more to himself than to you, before closing the space between you.

His lips met yours in a kiss that was anything but hesitant. Where the earlier kiss had been soft and tentative, this one was sure, filled with hunger and intent. His other hand found your waist, pulling you closer as his lips moved against yours with a passion that made your knees weak.

You couldn’t think, couldn’t speak— only feel. His touch, his warmth, the way he held you like you were something rare. “Been thinkin’ about doin’ that since the first time I saw you,” he admitted, his voice rough.

You let out a breathless laugh, your hands clutching the lapels of his jacket for balance. “You’ve kissed me twice tonight, Joel,” you teased, your voice trembling slightly. Joel grinned, his dimples making an appearance. “Yeah, I have a soft spot for sweet girls like yourself. ” he said before pausing shortly. “And if you’ll let me, darlin’, I’d be doin' a lot more than kissing you.”

Stopping him was the furthest thing from your mind.

"I'll let you.."

Without thinking, you tilt your head up, meeting his gaze with a mixture of submission and maybe a little defiance. His eyes darken, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, as if he's won some battle. " You're a good girl," he breathes, his thumb brushing the edge of your jaw. The contact sends sparks through you, and your skin burns where he touches. Without any hesitation, he spins both of you so that you are facing the large golden mirror above the counter. Joel groans, rolling his shoulders back as he bends you over the vanity, your hips snug in his grip. "God, you're so fuckin' gorgeous, angel."

you look down. "Please.." The man shakes his head and lands a hard smack on one of your asscheeks, making you yelp in the process. He takes his time pulling up your flowy dress, finally taking a look at your soaking panties, white with laced blue details. "Fuck, look at her." His calloused thumb makes contact with your clothed folds, dragging it up and down, in painfully slow circles. In mere seconds, you hear the material rip and then feel the flimsy undergarments fall on the cold tiled floor.

"What a pretty pussy." he mutters under his breath, undoing his trousers. he pulls them a bit down, enough for his manhood to spring free and slap against his covered bellybutton. you can see it all in the mirrorㅡ it's huge, to say the least. you gasp softly as you feel him drag the wet tip of it against your swollen bud, and you hide your gaze, head hanging low in embarrassment. this doesn't last long, as his rough palm grabs at your face pulling it up again. you're making eye contact with him through the lit up mirror and you see him shake his head. "No, baby. You watch while I wreck this pussy, understand?" you shake your head, agreeing, but that isn't good enough so he slaps your cheek with the back of his hand, lightly.

"Speak, sweetheart." you breathe out. "Yes, Joel." he drags the pulsing tip up and down, up and down as if he didn't make you wait long enough. truthfully you never wanted it to end, so maybe him teasing was his way of making sure this lasts. after he thinks its sufficient, Joel starts to push inside, and godㅡ your breath gets stuck into your throat, from the feeling laden with thorns. every prick of discomfort is soon replaced by an unexpected surge of delight.

Your tears fall down onto the surface under you, little moans gripping your throat as he slips inside further. "You're alright..." he assures you, asking you to surrender.

"Take it all. Atta girl, just like that..." he praises, lifting your hips a bit to get a better angle. Joel moves gently at first, each stroke hitting deeper within your core, the pain soon converging with ecstasy right as he alerts his movements. His hips dive down with force, one of his palms snaking up and wrapping itself tightly around your throat, assuring you see how good he's destroying you.

Your head was spinning, heart pounding, as his whole weight dominated over you. "That's it, little girl, look how tight she's suckin' me in." his thrusts are rough, each hit making your body bounce, the urgency as he hit that very spot each time. your whole insides burning, too cock drunk to talk or respond, other than some pathetic whines that perfectly accompanied the wet sounds your pussy made wrapped around him.

"Oh, god, please.." You manage. pulling at your hair, he starts chuckling. "Am I your god, baby? Ya like beggin'?" While thrusting relentlessly into you, jelly like legs barely holding you up anymore, your knees buckle. Feeling you tightening, the hand that was around your throat slips down to your clit, while the other makes you spread your legs wide again for easier access, this allowed you to take in a big gulp of air before you feel him deeper in your guts.

"Want me to breed this young pussy, huh? Fill you up with my babies? let people inside this roomㅡ let them film it for the whole world to see?" the room spins around you, vision blurry with tears and brain all fuzzy. you try your best to reply. "yes, oh, p-lease, please! "

"Go ahead." the man succeeded to say, between his breathy groans. "Thank you, thank you, oh god, thank you so much, Joel!" you cry out, praying to him whilst he keeps fucking into your pulsing cunt. The man buries himself into you as you come down from your high, body almost too limp to register your surroundings. then he slaps your ass, and watches you writhe under him. You looked perfect, like a carved our porcelain doll. With a few more snaps of his hips you feel he's close, his nails digging roughly into your skin as he finally paints your velvet walls with white ropes of come. "God fuckin'ㅡ!" you know that will leave bruises.

the dressing room feels sticky, and the mirror in front of you is all fogged up, but you can just barely make out your face, all tearstained and messy. You moan as he pulls out, the sudden feeling of emptiness leaving you shivering. Joel watches intently as his seed drips out of you, your body beautifully splayed out right under him like the most beautiful piece of art.

You're both quiet for a bit, before he breaks the silence. "You're still up for that date, little lady?"

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himasgod · 11 days ago

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ACE, DEUCE, LEONA, KALIM AND LILIA X READER

Where you have the habit of patting them on the head when they do something right

You made the mistake of patting Ace's head the first time after he barely passed a basketball practice match without cheating.

A small miracle.

You had smiled and ruffled his messy red hair saying,

"Good job, Ace. I’m proud of you."

Ace froze for a second. Blink. Blink.

Then— He grinned.

You could practically see the little sparkle light up behind his eyes.

"Ohhh?~ What's this? Little ol' me getting a reward, huh?"

He leaned down dramatically, tilting his head toward you like a cat demanding attention.

"Wanna pet me more? Maybe scratch behind my ears next time, Yuu?"

From that moment on, Ace treated your habit like his favorite game.

Whenever he did anything remotely successful—winning a card game, finishing a group project, even just carrying your bag for you—he’d shoot you the most obnoxious overly innocent look and announce,

"So, where’s my headpat?"

Sometimes he’d physically nudge your hand toward his head, acting whiny.

Other times, he'd dramatically flop into your lap pouting,

"C'mon, I worked so hard for this."

It was a bit of a monster you created, honestly.

But deep down you knew Ace loved it.

It wasn’t just the attention (though he definitely loved that too). It was you, loving him out loud.

Sometimes, after a rough day (when he didn’t feel like being annoying or bragging), Ace would just plop down beside you, resting his head against your shoulder wordlessly.

And you would smile and card your fingers through his hair, slow and gentle, murmuring how proud you were of him.

Ace would close his eyes, a soft smile tugging at his lips—and let himself be held by you.

Deuce wasn’t used to being praised. Not like this.

When you first patted his head, he’d passed a potion test he was convinced he’d failed.

The moment Professor Crewel handed him a passing mark, Deuce lit up like a sunrise. And when he turned around to share the joy with you—you just smiled and ruffled his hair.

“There you go! I knew you could do it.”

He blinked. Face froze. And then:

“What are you doing?!”

He turned bright red. Hands flailing. “I’m not a little kid!! You can’t just—!”

But despite the protests, he didn’t stop you. His cheeks glowed. His ears went pink.

And you could feel him slowly leaning into your hand, like he really needed someone to say “you did good” and mean it.

From then on, you made it a habit. Big things. Small things.

If Deuce gave someone without punching them?

Pat.

If he helped someone carry books or aced a quiz?

Pat.

At first, he would puff up every time: “Yuu! Come on, don’t do that in front of the others!!”

He got this tiny proud smile every time, like he couldn’t help but melt a little.

You started noticing he worked harder when you were watching.

“I’ve got to do it right,” he’d mutter under his breath. “Yuu’s gonna see this. I gotta make ‘em proud.”

Eventually, Deuce started earning your headpats on purpose.

He’d glance over with hopeful eyes every time he did something right, and when you stepped close and reached up, he’d bow his head, pretending not to smile—but you could feel it radiating off him.

It wasn’t about being babied. It was about you believing in him. And every headpat said: You’re doing great. I’m proud of you.

For someone trying so hard to walk the right path—that meant everything.

Leona hated it. ...At least, that’s what he said.

The first time you patted his head—after he actually bothered to show up to a Housewarden meeting on time—he let out a growl.

"The hell do you think you’re doing, herbivore?"

But you just smirked and kept scratching behind his ear in that one spot, and watched as the mighty lion prince immediately betrayed himself by leaning into it, just a tiny involuntary fraction.

"You did good today," you murmured.

And you saw it—the second when the tension drained from his shoulders, when he let himself lean just a little closer.

After that, it became a game.

Leona pretended to be indifferent whenever you pet him, acting lazy and annoyed, grumbling things like,

"You're such a pain."

But whenever he actually accomplished something (winning a Spelldrive match, helping a Savannaclaw student study even though he claimed he didn’t care)—he would position himself within reach.

Sprawled on the lounge couch?

Conveniently lying right where your hand would naturally fall on his head.

Sitting with you under the shade of a tree?

Somehow ended up leaning back so close you couldn't not pet him.

He never asked.

But every time you started to run your fingers through his hair and scratch gently behind his ear, that gruff lion would let out the softest rumbly purring sound against his will.

(And if you kissed his temple while you did it, his ears would flatten... but he wouldn’t move away.)

The first time you patted Kalim’s head, it was after he successfully hosted a big Scarabia banquet where no one got food poisoning, nobody got sunstroke, and Jamil didn’t strangle anyone.

High bar.

You reached up, giggling, and fluffed his snowy white hair between your hands.

"You did amazing, Kalim! You’re incredible!"

Kalim immediately lit up like a sunbeam.

"REALLY??" he cried, sparkling. "You think so?! Ahahaha!! You're the best, Yuu!!"

He immediately tackled-hugged you, spinning you around in circles, laughing so loudly and brightly that half of Scarabia heard it.

From that day forward, Kalim decided headpats were mandatory.

Every time he achieved anything—got a good grade, learned a new flying trick, remembered all his appointments for the day—he would come BOUNDING up to you like an excited puppy.

"Yuu! Yuu! Look!! I finished all my homework early!!"

And then he would immediately bow his head down toward you, waiting for his headpat.

If you didn’t do it fast enough, he would grab your hand and put it on his head himself.

Once, in front of the entire Scarabia dorm, he proudly yelled,

"I did all the event planning with Jamil without messing up once!! Yuu, gimme my headpats now!!"

The Scarabia students just sighed fondly. (They were used to it.)

Sometimes Kalim would fall asleep with his head in your lap, your hand stroking through his soft hair.

He would mumble half-dreaming praises:

"Yuu... the best... so nice... love you lots..."

No matter how rich, powerful, or loved he was by the world—there was something in Kalim’s heart that craved that warm reassurance. That he was seen.

That he was cherished just for being him.

And you gave it to him, every time.

Lilia’s reaction to your headpats was...

Well.

The first time you did it, he simply closed his eyes and smiled like a cat basking in the sunlight.

You had congratulated him for flawlessly performing an impossibly complex spell during Alchemy class (he's like 500 years old how is he not gonna do it)

— and without missing a beat, you'd stood on your tiptoes (he was short, but still a bit taller than you!) and fluffed his hair affectionately.

Lilia chuckled.

"My, my. How spoiled I'm becoming, but if it's coming from you, I suppose I could grow used to such indulgences."

Unlike Leona—who denied wanting headpats and melted when he got them—Lilia leaned into it shamelessly.

He treated it like a game.

Sometimes after pranking Silver he'd come sauntering up to you, grin wicked, and lower his head.

"Don't I deserve a little reward, Yuu?~" he’d tease. "If you're feeling generous, that is."

If you hesitated even a second, Lilia would pout, arms folded, pretending to be deeply wounded.

"Ohhh, how cruel! You encourage me to be mischievous and then deny me my rightful prize!"

He’d even throw in a fake sniffle for good measure.

When you did give in—giggling and running your fingers through his soft hair—Lilia would hum, closing his eyes, his whole person softening.

And sometimes he would rest his head against yours

"You’re too kind to an old fae like me, Yuu." A whisper of something bittersweet

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hazbinhotei · 3 months ago

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drunken kisses.

read part two here

warnings: alcohol, detailed makeout session, alastor being a little (drunken) shit

word count: 1753

summary: What started as a harmless drinking challenge between you and Alastor quickly spirals into something far more scandalous—to the horrified dismay of the entire hotel staff.

alastor x gn!reader. thank you to the anon who requested this story! testing out how to write lukewarm spicy scenes because i currently lack the expertise to write anything steamier than fluff.

Laughter and music crackled through the lobby, the air thick with a cocktail of cigarette smoke, booze, and the lingering scent of whatever cake Niffty had insisted on making. It was a birthday celebration for… someone in the hotel. You honestly weren’t sure anymore.

The evening had started innocently enough—drinks poured, toasts made, laughter spilling as freely as the alcohol. You were all huddled around the bar, Angel Dust telling a story of some bitchy pornstar he had met the other day as Husk poured drinks for everyone.

You were in the middle of a sip when you felt a presence behind you, your neck twisting to find Alastor looming over you. He had reached over your shoulder to grab his glass from the counter, but as you leaned back to give him more space, his eyes locked onto yours. And suddenly, a second after analyzing your face and the drink in your own hand, he got that look. That sharp, devious look in his eyes, the kind that meant trouble. You remember the alarms in your head going off at the way his sharp yellow teeth glinted behind his wide—almost predatory—smile.

"Care for a friendly wager, dear?" Alastor had purred, twirling a glass of dark liquor between his fingers, the rich scent of whiskey wafting between you. "A little game to see who can hold their spirits better?"

And like an absolute idiot, you had agreed. You somehow even believed you'd come out of this little challenge unscathed, with the naive thought that you would win floating in the back of your mind. You never had been a lightweight before, why, you were certain you could hold some ground against this old geezer of a Sinner.

The first few rounds were smooth, easy even. You matched him drink for drink, keeping pace as he downed every glass with a flourish and a wicked grin. But the more you drank, the more absurd the challenge became.

(Why had you agreed to this again?)

Alastor remained eerily composed at first, his usual energetic sharpness undeterred by the steadily increasing volume of alcohol. But by the fifth—or was it the sixth?—round, his laughter started to turn loose, his grin wider, his movements just a little less controlled. And you? Oh, you were doomed.

(Doomed in all sense of the word. Despite your hazy vision, the way Alastor seemed to unwind with each drink made your knees weak. His perfect posture had slackened just a fraction, the mischief in his smirk that was usually coupled with the overwhelming sense of terror was now instead radiating with unbridled happiness. And his eyes—oh, those crimson eyes, half-lidded, foggy with amusement yet still glowing with a wild kind of energy—lingered on you in a way that made the heat in your chest rival the burn of whiskey in your throat.

You knew your returning gazes were embarrassingly eager, your sober thoughts of him being oddly attractive and charismatic amplified tenfold by the alcohol also coursing through your system. You wondered if he could hear your breath hitch every time he licked his lips?)

After he refilled your almost empty glass with a twirl of his fingers for the seventh time that night, everything blurred after that. Just the warm buzz of liquor in your veins, the sound of his laughter tangling with yours, and the absolute certainty that one of you was going to collapse.

And now?

You were both absolutely wasted.

Sitting side by side on the couch, the world swayed around you like a funhouse mirror, and even though you were clearly not the winner here, you couldn’t bring yourself to care. Your head was heavy, your limbs loose, and Alastor—normally so composed, so rigidly in control—was laughing. Like, actually giggling in that half-maniacal, half-melodic way of his, eyes unfocused but still bright.

“Ah-ha! My, my, you’re lookin’ awfully dazed there, cher,” he teased, tilting his head as he swayed ever so slightly. Your stomach churned at the way the whiskey made his Southern drawl slip through his usual Transatlantic accent. “Are you sure you can still stomach the competition?”

You sluggishly turned to face him, blinking slowly. Despite your breathy voice and flushed cheeks, you frowned at him in faux annoyance. "You're practically as drunk as me, asshole."

Your deadpan tone seemed to be the funniest thing Alastor had heard that night, resulting in him howling at your words. You almost jumped at the sudden sound of it, watching as he flew his head back and sank deeper into the couch. "Always such a spriteful one! I have to admit, dear—you're such enchanting company."

You rolled your eyes, but your lips twitched at his drunken amusement. "Yeah, yeah, keep talking, you smug bastard."

Alastor chuckled, swirling the last remnants of his drink in his glass before fixing you with a look that sent something dangerous through your already alcohol-flooded veins. "Oh, but I do enjoy our little conversations, darling. Such wit, such fire—it's rather... intoxicating."

His expression was smug, spiked fangs peeking boyishly from his grin, and suddenly you felt acutely aware of the situation you were in. You blinked at him, your mind blank as you realized how close you two were—even though the couch was big enough to fit 5 demons, somehow you and Alastor were still mere inches apart, so close your knees were touching. Your head spun with the scent of whiskey and him; a scent that suspiciously smelled of tall cedar trees, fresh blood, and the dirt from a graveyard. You don’t know what possessed you—maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was your itch to wipe that damn smirk off his face, maybe it was the way his voice slurred just so, but suddenly you weren’t thinking.

You were acting.

Your hands found the lapels of his blazer, gripping the fabric as you leaned in and—

Your lips were on his.

Time stopped.

You barely registered the sudden quietness from the usual white noise that surrounded Alastor the second your lips met his. It was awfully silent, save for the distant laughter from the rest of the hotel group still at the bar, your eyes closed as you gently locked your lips onto his.

It took approximately three seconds for your brain to catch up with your body, and by the time it did, you were already feeling the heat of his breath against your face. Shit. Your eyes opened as you hastily pulled back, what the hell did you just—

But before you could spiral into a pit of embarrassment, a clawed hand shot out, grasping your waist.

“Now where do you think you’re going, darling?”

Your stomach flipped.

Because Alastor? He wasn’t pushing you away. No—he was pulling you closer.

And then? Oh, then he kissed you back.

It was clumsy at first, your lips quirking into an affectionate smile at the way he was clearly inexperienced in kissing, like he was trying to puzzle the act out as he went. But after a moment passed, something in him shifted. His hands gripped your waist harder, his fingers pressing into the fabric of your clothes, and suddenly, the kiss was anything but hesitant.

Your cheeks burned, your breath came short, and whatever restraint had existed between the two of you melted away entirely. His lips moved against yours with an eager curiosity, slow at first, but as he grew bolder, so did you. His sharp teeth nipped teasingly at your bottom lip, a low hum vibrating in his throat as you gasped against his mouth. The warm, rich taste of whiskey lingered on his tongue as it slid against yours, coaxing a sound from you that should not have been heard in a public setting. His body was warm beneath you, his blazer bunched under your fingers as you clung to him, entirely lost in the moment.

You felt his grip tighten, easily lifting you from your spot on the couch onto his lap with a surprising gentleness you did not expect from the Radio Demon himself. You were in his lap, straddling him like it was the most natural thing in the world. His hands—oh, his hands—gripped you like he needed you there, his claws curling into the small of your back. It was intoxicating, dizzying. You barely registered the way he tilted his head to deepen the kiss, his tongue teasing against yours, his laughter—low, husky—spilling into your mouth like it was his own personal victory.

Oh my God. You were making out with Alastor in the middle of the damn lobby.

And that's when you heard it.

The collective gasp of an entire audience.

“What the fuck–?!”

You didn’t even get a chance to process who screamed first because suddenly, you were being yanked away from Alastor so fast you swore you left part of your soul behind. Husk had grabbed the back of your shirt, pulling you off like a misbehaving cat, while Charlie and Angel Dust stood frozen in sheer horror.

“We left you alone for two freaking minutes!” Charlie shrieked, hands flying to her mouth.

“Oh my God, were you two aboutta fuck on the COUCH?!” Angel cackled, slapping his knee.

Charlie only gasped further, her voice shrill. “In the middle of the party?!”

Vaggie rubbed the shoulders of her horrified girlfriend, clearly repulsed by Angel’s words as her face scrunched up in disgust. “Ew, Angel.”

Alastor, still lounging on the couch, just laughed.

“I fail to see the problem!” he chimed, looking far too pleased with himself, eyes locked onto you even as you were forcibly dragged away like a crime scene witness. His smile was wolfish, his pupils dilated with mischief (and maybe a little more).

You, meanwhile, were fighting for your life.

“I– I– It wasn’t– We weren't–!”

Husk scoffed, dropping you on the couch opposite to Alastor and shoving a glass of water into your hands. “Jesus, kid, sober up before you start dry humping demons in the damn lobby.”

You groaned, burying your face onto the top of the glass, the cup strikingly cold against your feverish skin. You cursed under your breath as the others erupted into chaos, Angel laughing so hard he had to cling to Charlie for support as everyone stood between the two couches like a barricade, ensuring you wouldn't end up in the same situation from mere minutes ago.

And Alastor?

That bastard just winked at you, his smile lopsided as he drank in your horrified expression.

…Yeah, you were never living this down.

#alastor #hazbin hotel #hazbin alastor #alastor hazbin hotel #alastor x you #alastor x reader #oneshot #thanks anon!#request

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neferaskingdom · 5 months ago

Text

♡ Two Lattes and a Truce, Please | MV1

NEFERASKINGDOM

Summary: WAR IS OVER

PREVIOUS | MASTERLIST | NEXT

Max barely had time to react before George slammed him harder against the wall, his forearm pressing into Max’s chest. The eerily calm facade George had worn moments earlier had shattered, his eyes burning with unrestrained fury.

“How dare you?” George hissed, his voice low and shaking with rage. “How dare you go after my sister? Was this some twisted ploy to get back at me?”

Max blinked, stunned. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about!” George snapped, his volume rising. “Do you hate me so much that you thought screwing my family was fair game? What kind of sick—”

“That’s enough,” Max growled, shoving George’s arm off his chest and stepping forward. His tone was sharp, cutting through George’s tirade. “This isn’t about you, George. This was never about you.”

“Oh, don’t give me that bullshit,” George shot back, his fists clenched at his sides. “You’ve been dating her for over a year, Max! Behind my back! You can’t stand me, fine, but don’t drag my sister into this mess. And now—” His voice cracked slightly as his fury spiked again. “Now, you’ve got her pregnant?”

Max stiffened at the accusation, his jaw tightening. “Yes, we’ve been together for over a year. And no, this wasn’t some game or some vendetta. I love her.”

George let out a sharp, bitter laugh, shaking his head. “Love her? That’s rich coming from you. You’ve spent years with a reputation for flings and one-night stands, and now you expect me to believe you’re suddenly the poster boy for commitment?”

Max’s eyes flashed. “You don’t get to decide how I feel about her. And you don’t know anything about us. She’s not just your sister, George—she’s my everything.”

George’s face twisted with a mix of anger and betrayal. “We used to be friends, Max. Before all this… tension, before the media shitstorm, I trusted you. And now I find out you’ve been sneaking around with my sister, lying to me—”

“We weren’t sneaking around to hurt you,” Max cut in. His voice softened slightly, but the edge remained. “We didn’t tell you because we knew this is exactly how you’d react. You wouldn’t have given me a chance.”

“And why the hell should I have?” George shouted, taking a step forward. “You could’ve come to me! You should’ve come to me! Instead, you lied to my face for a year, Max.”

Before the argument could escalate further, a panicked voice echoed down the alley.

“George!”

Both men turned to see Y/n running toward them, her expression a mix of frustration and fear.

“What the hell are you doing?” she yelled, her voice cracking. “George, let him go!”

George hesitated for a fraction of a second before releasing Max, stepping back but still glaring at him.

Max rubbed his shoulder, muttering, “Nice timing.”

“How did you even find us?” George asked, his tone clipped.

“Alex,” Y/n panted, shooting Max a look. “He saw you dragging Max into this alley and told me to come save his life before you did something stupid.”

Max snorted despite himself, but Y/n quickly rounded on him. “You—go. Let me talk to him.”

Max frowned, clearly reluctant. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, Max. Go,” she insisted, her eyes darting between him and George.

After a tense moment, Max exhaled sharply and stepped back. “Fine. But I’m not going far.”

George’s jaw was tight as he stared down at Y/n, the tension in his posture palpable. He hadn’t moved since Max left, his silence heavier than any shouting match they’d ever had.

“George,” Y/n started softly, her voice trembling. “I’m so sorry for avoiding you. I didn’t know what to do, what to say. I was scared.”

“Scared of what?” George snapped, his tone clipped but not loud. He wasn’t angry enough to yell anymore, but his voice was laced with hurt. “Why didn’t you tell me, Y/n? I thought we shared everything.”

She flinched at the edge in his voice. “I didn’t want to disappoint you.”

“Disappoint me?” he repeated incredulously, stepping closer. His voice dropped to a near whisper, raw with emotion. “You could never disappoint me. But lying to me for over a year? Keeping this from me? That’s not like you.”

Her chest tightened, and tears pricked her eyes. “I wasn’t trying to hurt you, George. I just… I didn’t know how to tell you. You’ve made it so clear how you feel about me dating other drivers. I didn’t want you to—”

“To what? Disown you? Hate you?” He let out a short, bitter laugh. “You’re my sister, Y/n. Nothing, nothing, could make me hate you.”

Y/n bit her lip, the weight of his words cracking through her defenses. “I was afraid,” she admitted, her voice breaking. “Afraid of how you’d react, afraid you wouldn’t approve. Max… he just…” She trailed off, searching for the right words.

George raised an eyebrow, his arms crossing over his chest. “He just what?”

“He grew on me, okay?” she blurted, throwing her hands in the air. “Like a fungus! He’s annoying and stubborn and so full of himself sometimes, but he’s also… sweet and caring and—”

“Fungus? Seriously?” George interrupted, giving her an exasperated look.

“Don’t make fun of me right now!” she snapped, glaring at him through her tears. “This is hard enough as it is.”

George sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “Alright, fine. Fungus. Go on.”

She hesitated, taking a deep breath. “Before I knew it, I was in love with him. And I was terrified of what you’d say, of how you’d look at me. I didn’t want to lose you, George. You’re my big brother. I need you.”

His expression softened slightly, but the hurt in his eyes remained. “You never had to worry about losing me, Y/n. But you’ve got to understand how blindsided I feel right now. You’ve been lying to me for a year. A whole year. That’s a long time to keep something this big from me.”

She nodded, her tears spilling over. “I know. And I’m sorry. But I couldn’t keep hiding it. I love him, George. I love this baby. They’re my family now, but I don’t want to lose you in the process. Please don’t make me choose.”

George’s gaze dropped to her stomach, where her hand rested protectively. His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, his defenses cracking. “You’re really having a baby,” he murmured, almost to himself.

Y/n nodded, her voice barely above a whisper. “Yeah. You’re going to be an uncle.”

The words seemed to hit him like a freight train. His eyes widened slightly, and for the first time, his anger gave way to something softer—something vulnerable. “An uncle,” he repeated, as if trying to wrap his head around it.

“Yeah,” she said again, a small smile breaking through her tears. “And judging by that face, you’re already a mess about it.”

George blinked rapidly, as though trying to hide the tears forming in his eyes. “I’m not a mess,” he said gruffly, clearing his throat.

“Oh, please,” Y/n teased, stepping closer. “You’re totally about to cry. Look at you. Mr. Stoic is cracking.”

“I am not,” he insisted, though his voice wavered.

Y/n let out a watery laugh, poking him lightly in the chest. “You’re going to be such a softie with this kid. I can already see it—Uncle George, buying them whatever they want, teaching them how to drive a go-kart.”

He shook his head, finally letting out a small laugh despite himself. “Don’t push your luck.”

She smiled up at him, her tears drying as the tension between them eased. “I mean it, George. You’re going to be an amazing uncle.”

George looked at her for a long moment, his emotions written all over his face. Finally, he stepped forward and pulled her into a tight hug, holding her as if he never wanted to let go.

“I’m sorry for how I reacted,” he murmured against her hair. “I just… I didn’t know what to do. But I’m here now. For you, for the baby—for all of it. I promise.”

Y/n clung to him, her own tears returning but this time from relief. “Thank you,” she whispered.

As they pulled back, George’s eyes flicked to her stomach again, a small, hesitant smile tugging at his lips. “An uncle,” he said again, softer this time.

“Yep,” Y/n said, grinning. “And I fully expect you to cry when you meet them.”

He rolled his eyes, but the warmth in his gaze betrayed him. “Not a chance.”

“We’ll see,” she teased, poking his shoulder.

George held Y/n in a tight embrace, his protective big-brother instincts still warring with the softer emotions breaking through. As he finally pulled back, his eyes flickered with something sharper. He crossed his arms and glanced toward the direction Max had left.

“Just so we’re clear,” he said, his tone firm, “I might have forgiven you, but that doesn’t mean I’ve forgiven him.”

Y/n groaned softly, already dreading where this was going. “George, come on—”

“No,” George cut her off, raising a hand. “You lied to me, yes, but Max went behind my back for a year. A year, Y/n! And then he let this whole thing explode in the most dramatic way possible.”

“It wasn’t exactly planned,” Y/n muttered, cheeks flushing.

George scoffed. “Planned or not, he’s got a lot to answer for. I’m willing to let go of our public feud for your sake but that doesn’t mean Max gets off easy. He needs to prove himself.”

“Prove himself?” she echoed, exasperated. “George, what does that even mean?”

“It means,” George said, his expression deadly serious, “that he needs to show me he’s good enough for you. And he’d better get down on one knee while he’s at it.”

Y/n’s face turned scarlet. “Oh my God, George. Stop.”

“Nope,” George said stubbornly, his tone matter-of-fact. “This is my right as your older brother after the shit you two pulled. You don’t get to say anything about it. I’m exercising my privileges.”

She buried her face in her hands, groaning. “I can’t believe this. I’m going to die of embarrassment.”

George smirked, clearly enjoying her reaction. “Good. That’s exactly how you’re supposed to feel after pulling something like this.”

“You’re impossible,” she mumbled, but there was no real venom in her voice.

“And you’re stuck with me,” he shot back, his grin softening into something more affectionate.

Despite her embarrassment, Y/n couldn’t help but laugh, nudging him lightly. “Fine. But can we at least agree that you’ll keep this lecture to just me and Max? No ambushing us at family dinner or something?”

“No promises,” George teased, but his smile made it clear he wasn’t entirely serious.

The next morning Max stood in front of the hotel, staring at the text from George for what felt like the hundredth time. “Meet me at my hotel for coffee. 10 AM. We need to talk.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, unsure if this was going to be another thinly veiled trap or a genuine olive branch. After yesterday’s confrontation, he wasn’t holding his breath. But for Y/n’s sake, he’d go through whatever hoops George wanted him to.

He took a deep breath and walked into the lobby, spotting George sitting at a quiet corner table. Two mugs of coffee sat in front of him, steam still rising from the cups. George’s posture was straight, his face set in an unreadable expression. Max approached cautiously, offering a small nod as he slid into the chair across from him.

“Morning,” George said, his tone neutral but clipped.

“Morning,” Max replied, equally measured.

“Thanks for coming,” George said as Max slid into the seat across from him.

“I figured I didn’t have much of a choice,” Max replied lightly, though his voice held no hostility.

George gave a small smile, almost amused, but it faded quickly. “Look, I wanted to say… about yesterday. I didn’t handle things well. I was angry, and I let it get the better of me. But that doesn’t mean I regret defending my sister.”

They sat in silence for a moment, the tension between them almost tangible. George was the first to break it, leaning forward slightly as he spoke. “I thought it was time we had a proper conversation, away from the cameras, away from everyone else.”

Max nodded. “I think that’s a good idea.”

George tapped his fingers against the table, his sharp blue eyes locking onto Max’s. “Look, I’m not going to pretend I’m okay with everything that’s happened. I’m not. But I need to understand… What are you doing, Max? What are your intentions with my sister?”

Max’s jaw tightened. He’d expected this question, but that didn’t make it any easier to answer. Still, he owed George the truth. “I love her,” he said firmly, meeting George’s gaze. “I have for a long time. She’s… she’s everything to me. And now, with the baby, it’s not just about love—it’s about building a life together, a family. I want to give her everything she deserves.”

George’s eyes narrowed slightly, his expression still unreadable. “If that’s true, then why didn’t you come to me? Why keep it a secret for over a year? You knew how I’d feel about it, didn’t you?”

Max exhaled, his hands gripping the edge of the table. “I did. I knew you wouldn’t approve, and I didn’t want to put her in a position where she’d have to choose between us. I didn’t handle it right—hiding it wasn’t fair to you. For that, I’m sorry.”

George studied him for a long moment, his fingers still tapping against the table. Finally, he leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. “Do you intend to marry her?”

Max didn’t hesitate. “Yes. I want to spend the rest of my life with her. I’ve already started looking at rings.”

That admission seemed to catch George off guard, his eyebrows raising slightly. He looked away for a moment, his gaze fixed on the untouched coffee in front of him. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter. “I won’t lie, Max. This is going to take me some time to process. I can’t say I’m thrilled about it, but… for her—and for the baby—I’m willing to put our differences aside. We can be cordial. But don’t mistake that for approval. You’ve got a long way to go before you earn that.”

Max nodded, his expression serious. “I understand. And I’ll do whatever it takes to prove to you that I’m worthy of her.”

George leaned forward again, his voice hardening. “One more thing. If you ever hurt her—if you ever make her regret this—I won’t hesitate to make you pay. I don’t care if you’re a four-time world champion or the King of the Netherlands. I’ll make sure you regret it.”

Max’s lips twitched in a faint smile. “If I ever do anything to hurt her, I’ll come to you myself and let you deal with me.”

That seemed to satisfy George, who leaned back again, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Good. Then we’re on the same page.”

There was a moment of silence before George let out a long sigh, running a hand through his hair. “God, I can’t believe I’m going to be an uncle.”

Max chuckled softly. “You’ll be a great uncle. The kid’s already lucky to have you.”

George shook his head, laughing lightly. “Don’t butter me up, Verstappen. It’s not going to make me go easy on you.”

Max smirked. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

George’s expression turned serious again. “I’m giving you a chance here, Max. Don’t waste it.”

“I won’t,” Max said, his voice steady. “I promise.”

“Also,” Max began, his tone more subdued, “I want to apologize for some of the things I’ve said about you in the media.”

George’s eyes snapped up to meet his, eyebrows raised slightly in surprise.

“I shouldn’t have insulted your driving the way I did,” Max continued. “I was frustrated, angry… you know how it gets out there sometimes. But that doesn’t make it okay. You’re a talented driver, and I should’ve respected that, even if we were at odds.”

George nodded slowly, his expression softening just a fraction. “I appreciate that,” he said quietly. “And… I owe you an apology too.”

Max tilted his head, waiting.

“I shouldn’t have called you dangerous,” George admitted, his voice a little heavier with guilt. “That was crossing a line, and it wasn’t fair. I let my emotions get the better of me after… well, after what happened in the steward’s room. I shouldn’t have let it get so personal.”

Max leaned back slightly, folding his arms across his chest as he processed George’s words. After a beat, he gave a small, understanding nod. “We were both running high on adrenaline and emotions. It happens. But if you’re willing to move past it, so am I.”

George offered a faint smile, one that looked genuine despite the lingering awkwardness. “Yeah, I think it’s about time we put it behind us. For Y/n’s sake, if nothing else.”

“For Y/n,” Max echoed with a small smile of his own.

They both extended their hands almost at the same time. Their handshake was firm, a silent agreement that they were both ready to turn the page.

As they stood to leave, George clapped Max on the back, his expression softening. “For what it’s worth, Max… I hope you prove me wrong.”

“I will,” Max replied confidently. “For her.”

y/n_russell posted:

y/n_russell: Plot twist of the century: Baby Verstappen-Russell loading… 🍼❤️

Comments:

georgerussell63: I’m so excited to be an uncle!! 🥹❤️

y/n_russell: I just know you're going to be the best uncle ever Georgie ❤️ user: Hold up. George Russell is actually HAPPY about this?! What parallel universe are we in?! user: George in the comments acting all sweet now… Sir, we SAW you death-staring Max at the anthem. Don’t think we forgot 💀

user: SCREAMING, CRYING, THROWING UP. THE DRAMA. THE PLOT. THE ABSOLUTE CHAOS.

user: Y’all laughed at me when I said this was real. NOW WHO’S LAUGHING?!

user: I would like to personally APOLOGIZE to you. I thought you were joking about this, but clearly, you knew what you were doing. user: I need to apologize too for saying this wasn’t real. I genuinely thought you were being delusional. user: And THIS is why we don’t call people delusional, y’all!! Everyone owes her an apology immediately.

user: This baby just united two bloodlines like it’s Game of Thrones or something.

lewishamilton: Congratulations, Y/n and Max! Wishing you all the best on this exciting journey 🙌

y/n_russell: Thank you Lew 🥹

user: MAX VERSTAPPEN AND GEORGE RUSSELL AS FAMILY?!

user: The Verstappen-Russell feud will NEVER die. Even the baby can’t fix this 💀

user: I cannot BELIEVE the Verstappen-Russell baby is real. We live in the wildest timeline.

user: This baby has been conceived in a PR warzone. Their future memoir is gonna slap.

user: George, make Max get on one knee IMMEDIATELY. We are NOT doing this out of order!!

user: The way George probably has an Excel sheet for his new uncle duties… God bless this baby.

landonorris: I CALL GODFATHER. EVERYONE ELSE CAN BACK OFF.

charles_leclerc: Sorry, Lando, but I already submitted my application. Try again. oscarpiastri: Pretty sure I saved Max’s life this week. I should automatically win godfather. user: CHARLES AND LANDO FIGHTING OVER GODFATHER RIGHTS HAS ME ON THE FLOOR.

user: Y/n is so gorgeous, it’s unfair. Like, she’s PREGNANT, and she looks like THAT?!

user: I genuinely thought the Verstappen-Russell feud couldn’t get crazier, but then THIS happened.

user: Imagine being this baby and knowing your dad and uncle almost threw hands in the paddock over you. Icon.

carmenmmundt: So, so happy for you both!!! Baby Verstappen-Russell is already so loved. Can’t wait to spoil them.

y/n_russell: Carmen 😭❤️ Thank you! You and the girls have been the absolute best.

maxverstappen1: My love, you are my everything ❤️ I can’t wait to do this with you.

y/n_russell: I love you so much, Maxie 🥹❤️ georgerussell63: Okay, enough. Keep it PG. user: GEORGE SHUTTING IT DOWN IMMEDIATELY LMAO. user: George really said, “Not on my watch.”

user: The way Y/n just casually dropped this and logged off like the internet wasn’t gonna explode. Queen behavior.

user: welcome to the world baby Verstappen-Russell ❤️

Taglist: @ilovechickenwings @spooky-librarian-ghost @diaryofarandomkid @rd14 @hc-dutch @96mcobo @grussellsprout @tremendousstarlighttragedy @awritingtree @shelbyteller @diorbrxtz

@henna006 @freyathehuntress @nichmeddar @formulaal @sleutherclaw

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@formula1fordisaster @5sospenguinqueen @ellelabelle @mastermindbaby @sturmatt @quinquinquincy @raizelchrysanderoctavius @mysteriouslydecaffeinatedfox @czennieszn @inthefairygrove @l3thal-l0lita @bravo-delta-eccho

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goldfades · 4 months ago

Note

More controversially young girlfriend x sidney please I beg 🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻 my fave thing on tumblr rn

Sidney was a lot of things.

Disciplined. Respected. A goddamn adult man with a fully formed brain and a career built on structure.

And yet.

Yet, when it came to you?

He had nothing. No defenses, no strategy, no self-preservation instincts. Nothing except the overwhelming, all-consuming, slightly humiliating urge to make you happy.

And it wasn’t just that you were gorgeous—though, obviously, that was a problem in itself. You had this effortless, natural beauty that made his head spin, sure. But it went so much deeper than that.

It was the way you looked at him. With amusement, with curiosity, with something warm and open and unfiltered. Like he was just Sid—not Sidney Crosby, not the face of a franchise, not a legacy—just your Sid.

It was the way you laughed—loud, unrestrained, with your whole damn body. You were playful, always ready with a joke, always willing to poke at him, never afraid to give him shit when he needed it.

And it was the way you felt beside him, your energy all light and easy, like you could take anything serious and make it a little less heavy.

You made him feel young in a way that had absolutely nothing to do with age.

Not young in the reckless, careless way of twenty-something athletes who had too much money and not enough foresight. No, you made him feel young in a way that was alive. In a way that reminded him that life wasn’t just training schedules and game film and calculated, responsible decisions.

And that was the real reason he couldn’t say no to you.

Because the world saw you as his young, spoiled girlfriend, the girl with the wide eyes and the expensive bags, the one they thought had him wrapped around her finger with a pretty pout and a bat of her lashes.

And, okay—fine. You did have him wrapped around your finger.

But not just because you were pretty.

Because you made him happy.

And Sidney, for all his discipline, for all his control—Sidney liked being happy.

Which was why, despite knowing better, despite all logic and self-restraint, he found himself in the same situation over and over again.

Like right now.

"You are not pouting at me right now," he said, watching you with a raised brow.

You blinked up at him, so falsely innocent it was insulting. "Pouting?" you echoed. "Me?"

Sid gave you a look. "Yes. You. The pout. The eyes. The whole act you’re putting on."

You gasped dramatically. "Are you saying my feelings aren’t genuine?"

"I’m saying," he exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose, "that we both know exactly how this ends, and you are still going through the motions like I have even a fraction of a spine when it comes to you."

Your lips twitched, and he knew—knew—you were thriving off this.

"So," you said sweetly, stepping closer, tilting your head up at him, "*what I’m hearing is… you’re gonna get me the bag?"

Sid sighed, scrubbing a hand down his face. "God, I’m a fool."

"You’re a very generous fool," you corrected, standing on your toes to press a quick, teasing kiss to the corner of his mouth. "My favorite kind."

Sid muttered something about being so whipped it was embarrassing as he pulled out his phone, already texting his assistant to make the purchase happen.

And then, before he even hit send—

"Wait!" you gasped, grabbing his wrist. "Oh my God!"

He stilled, immediately on alert, brow furrowing. "What? What happened?"

You placed a hand over your chest, eyes wide and serious. "I think I just realized—"

Sid’s heart actually skipped a beat. "What? What is it?"

You squeezed his wrist. "I might need the matching wallet, too."

Sid groaned, head tilting back as you cackled. "I hate you."

"Liar," you grinned, nuzzling into his chest. "You love me."

And—yeah. Yeah, he did. Like a damn fool.

And Sidney wasn’t proud of how easily he folded for you. But in his defense, you made it really, really hard to say no.

So, of course, despite all his grumbling, despite rolling his eyes and pretending to put up a fight, the second you started up with that sweet, pleading voice and those ridiculously big, unfairly pretty eyes—he caved. Like he always did.

Which was why, less than a day after your little performance, a sleek black shopping bag from Chanel was sitting on the kitchen counter, filled with the bag you wanted (and the matching wallet, because he was so far gone it was pathetic).

And the second you saw it?

"Oh my God," you gasped, dropping your phone onto the couch as you all but floated toward the counter, eyes shining like you just saw heaven itself. "Baby, no way—"

Sidney, already leaning against the counter with a lazy smirk, shrugged. "You really didn’t think I was gonna get it?"

You turned to him, clutching the bag to your chest dramatically. "I hoped," you sighed, "I dreamed—"

Sid chuckled, shaking his head. "Unreal."

But before he could get another word in, you were launching yourself at him, wrapping your arms around his neck, peppering his face with quick, giddy kisses.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you," you murmured between kisses, your happiness so damn pure that Sidney actually felt something in his chest clench.

This was the part he could never prepare for.

Yeah, he liked spoiling you. Liked making you happy. But the way you reacted? The way you never took it for granted, the way you always lit up, always made it feel like the best thing in the world? That was what got him.

You pulled back slightly, your nose brushing his, voice softer now. "I love you."

And just like that, he knew.

Knew he’d do it all over again in a heartbeat.

But, of course, he couldn’t let you off that easy.

"Wow," he hummed, lips twitching. "Now you love me?"

You narrowed your eyes. "Shut up."

Sid laughed, his grip tightening around your waist. "You weren’t saying that when you were trying to manipulate me yesterday—"

"Manipulate?" you repeated, scandalized.

"—with your little pout and those fake sad eyes—"

"FAKE?!"

"—and now that you’ve got your bag, it’s all ‘I love you’—"

"Sidney Crosby, you take that back this instant," you demanded, poking his chest.

"Mmm, I don’t know," he mused, enjoying this way too much now. "Maybe I should return it. Can you even appreciate something if you got it through emotional deception?"

Your jaw dropped.

"You are so dramatic," you muttered, pulling away, clutching your bag tighter like you thought he’d actually take it from you.

Sid grinned, tilting his head. "You gonna pout again?"

You glared. "You are the worst."

"And yet," he smirked, leaning down, voice dropping to a low murmur against your lips, "you love me."

You exhaled sharply, your resolve cracking. "Unfortunately."

Sid chuckled, pressing a kiss to your forehead before wrapping an arm around your shoulders, guiding you toward the couch. "C’mon, princess. Let’s see what other trouble you can get me into."

And just like that, the cycle would start all over again.

#sidney crosby #sidney crosby imagines #sidney crosby x reader #sidney crosby fic #sidney crosby imagine #sidney crosby smut #sidney crobsy #sidney crosby fanfiction #nhl imagine #nhl #nhl fic #hockey #nhl fanfiction #nhl oneshot #hockey fic

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bettys-redwinesupernova · 5 months ago

Text

ANIMALS

inspired by the song ‘Animals’ by Maroon 5.

rafe cameron x kook!fem!reader

SUMMARY: in a world where obsession blurs the lines between love and hate, Y/N and rafe cameron are locked in a toxic game of desire and dominance. as the tension between them reaches a boiling point, rafe’s possessiveness and Y/N’s defiance threaten to expose the truth—some animals can’t resist the hunt.

based on this ask !! i hope this is everything you asked for anon, and i’m so so sorry it’s taken so long, i took a cheeky writing break !!🫣 you didn’t specify if you wanted smut or not, but you can stop just before the smut when they get to the bedroom if you wish <3

WARNINGS: lighthearted angst, enemies w/ benefits, smut (18+ mdni!), alcohol consumption, slut-shaming (?), bitchy!reader, unprotected p in v (wrap it before ya tap it!), doggy style (bent over vanity), rough sex, manhandling (😝), hair pulling, jealous!rafe, reader throws a drink on rafe. (i think that’s it? lmk if i missed anything !!)

A/N: you can imagine any era rafe during this, but i do mention him having hair as reader pulls it, but i do see buzz cut!rafe in this too😫

WORD COUNT: 4.6k

THIRD PERSON +

The summer air was thick with humidity, the nights heavy with tension on the Outer Banks. Parties spilled onto beachfronts and estates, bonfires lighting up the endless skies. Y/N had the world at her feet—a true Kook princess with her sharp tongue, dazzling smile, and a touch of venom.

She played her cards perfectly, commanding the room wherever she went.

Rafe Cameron, however, was her shadow—a predator who stalked the edges of her light. He was trouble wrapped in an expensive polo, a cocktail of entitlement, rage, and obsession. The two of them didn’t get along in public. They’d perfected the art of bickering, their sharp remarks drawing laughter from Kooks and Pogues alike.

But beneath the surface, there was something darker, something intoxicating they could never resist.

—

The party was in full swing at Tannyhill, the gilded walls reflecting the warm glow of the chandelier overhead. Kooks milled about, drinks in hand, laughter echoing off the high ceilings. Y/N leaned casually against the marble counter in the kitchen, a glass of champagne dangling from her manicured fingers. She looked every bit the spoiled, self-assured girl everyone knew her to be—her designer dress clinging to her figure like a second skin, her lips painted in a deep shade that matched the smug smirk on her face.

Across the room, Rafe Cameron leaned against the doorway, his sharp jawline tightening as he watched her. He hated how she always seemed so effortlessly in control, like she knew exactly how to drive him crazy. He hated it even more when she turned her head and caught his eye, her smirk widening into something far more dangerous.

"Staring much, Cameron?" Y/N called out, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

Rafe pushed off the doorframe, weaving through the crowd with the precision of a predator closing in on his prey. He came to a stop inches away from her, his blue eyes locking onto hers. "Can you blame me? You make it impossible not to look."

Y/N arched an eyebrow, unfazed by his proximity. "Careful, Rafe. Your obsession is showing."

His lips curved into a smirk, but there was nothing playful about it. "Obsession? Don't flatter yourself, sweetheart. I'm just curious how someone so perfect at pretending to be untouchable keeps ending up in my bed."

Her smirk faltered for a fraction of a second, but she recovered quickly. "Must be all that champagne. Makes it hard to remember mistakes."

Rafe leaned closer, his breath hot against her ear. "Mistake? We both know I'm the only thing you can't resist. You're just too proud to admit it."

Y/N's stomach twisted, but she refused to let him see how much his words affected her. She tilted her head, her voice as cold as ice. "Funny, I don't recall needing to admit anything to you."

Before Rafe could respond, JJ appeared at her side, slinging an arm over her shoulder. "Hey, pretty girl. Thought you'd ditched us for your old Kook crowd."

Rafe's jaw tightened, his glare shifting to JJ. "Don't you have a surfboard to wax or something, Pogue?"

JJ ignored him, flashing Y/N a grin. "Let's get out of here. This party's dead."

Y/N hesitated for a moment, her eyes darting to Rafe, whose expression darkened. She knew exactly what she was doing when she looped her arm through JJ's and started toward the door.

"Don't go too far, Y/N," Rafe called after her, his voice low and threatening. "You can run, but you'll always end up right back here."

—

The night air was cool as Y/N sat on the dock, the soft lapping of the water providing a brief reprieve from the chaos of the party. She'd barely been there for five minutes when she heard footsteps behind her.

"Couldn't stay away, could you?" she said without turning around.

Rafe dropped down beside her, his knees brushing hers. "You're really testing my patience tonight."

Y/N rolled her eyes. "What, did JJ's existence bruise your fragile ego?"

"You think this is a joke?" Rafe growled, grabbing her chin and forcing her to look at him. "I see the way you act around Maybann. Like you're trying to piss me off on purpose."

She yanked her face away, her voice sharp. "Maybe I am. Ever think about that?"

His eyes darkened, and for a moment, she thought he might snap. Instead, he leaned back, his smirk returning. "Go ahead, keep playing your little games. But we both know how this ends."

"Enlighten me," she said dryly.

Rafe's voice dropped to a whisper, his hand brushing against her cheek. "You can't run from me, Y/N. You belong to me, whether you like it or not. And no Pogue or party can change that."

The tension crackled between them like a live wire. She hated how much his words got to her, how his touch sent shivers down her spine. But she'd be damned if she let him win.

"Is that so?" she said sweetly, picking up her glass and tossing the bubbly contents into his face.

The champagne dripped from his hair, and for a moment, the shock on his face was enough to make her burst out laughing. But then his lips curled into a dangerous smile, and she knew she'd made a mistake.

"You're gonna regret that," Rafe said, his voice low and dangerous.

Y/N stood, her confidence unshaken. "Try me, Cameron."

As she walked away, swaying her hips a little more than usual, she could feel his eyes burning into her back. She knew she was playing with fire, but part of her loved the thrill of it. She and Rafe were two sides of the same coin, locked in a game neither of them could quit.

Because deep down, she knew he was right. No matter how far she ran, he'd always find her. And part of her didn't want him to stop.

—

The late afternoon sun cast a golden glow over the beach outside The Wreck, where Y/N sat at a picnic table surrounded by her friends. Sarah was leaning back on the bench, sunglasses perched on her nose, while Kie propped her chin on her hand, animatedly recounting a story. Cleo chuckled beside her, and Y/N's two Kook friends, Taylor and Malia, leaned in with interest, their perfectly styled hair catching the light.

The scene was serene, a picture-perfect group of girls enjoying themselves on the edge of paradise. But Y/N couldn't focus. Across the sandy expanse, near a beat-up truck surrounded by Kooks, Rafe Cameron stood with Topper, Kelce, and a couple of others, the unmistakable swagger in his stance making him impossible to ignore.

Y/N sipped her iced tea, letting her gaze flicker toward him briefly. He was watching her—had been since the moment she arrived. His intense blue eyes tracked her every move, smoldering with a mix of anger, desire, and something darker. She could feel his stare like a physical touch, and though it sent a shiver down her spine, she wasn't about to let him win.

"Y/N, hello?" Kie waved a hand in front of her face. "Earth to Kook Barbie. You're zoning out."

Y/N snapped her attention back to the group, giving Kie a lazy smile. "Sorry, what were you saying?"

"Forget it," Kie said, rolling her eyes. "You've got that look again."

"What look?" Y/N asked innocently, toying with the straw in her glass.

Sarah smirked. "The one you get when my brother is around. Don't think we didn't notice."

"Oh, please," Y/N said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Like I care about whatever Rafe is doing."

Cleo raised an eyebrow, a sly grin spreading across her face. "You might not care, but he sure does. Dude's been staring at you like he wants to devour you."

Y/N scoffed but didn't deny it. Before she could come up with a cutting remark, their waiter approached—a new guy, tall and tanned with a charming smile, and black curls sitting atop his head. He carried a tray of drinks with ease, his eyes lighting up when they landed on Y/N.

"Afternoon, ladies," he said, setting the tray down. "Your drinks, courtesy of...well, me."

Kie raised a brow. "My parents own this place. You don't have to do that."

The waiter grinned, but his attention stayed on Y/N. "Consider it a perk of working here."

The girls giggled, and Y/N leaned back in her seat, tilting her head. "Wow, how generous," she said, her tone teasing.

"It's not every day I get to serve someone like you," the waiter replied smoothly.

Y/N feigned shock, her hand fluttering to her chest. "Someone like me? You mean, devastatingly gorgeous and completely out of your league?"

The girls burst into laughter, and even the waiter chuckled, though his cheeks flushed a little. "I wouldn't say out of my league," he shot back with a wink.

Y/N could practically feel Rafe's glare burning into her from across the beach, and that knowledge made her smirk grow. She leaned forward slightly, giving the waiter her full attention. "Careful," she said, her voice low and sweet. "Flattery might just get you somewhere."

The poor guy was about to respond when the door to The Wreck slammed open, and in walked Rafe, flanked by Topper, Kelce, and the other Kooks. Their arrival was loud, drawing the attention of nearly everyone in the restaurant.

"Oh, for the love of God," Sarah muttered, pulling her sunglasses down. "What are they doing here?"

"They're like cockroaches," Taylor grumbled. "You can't get rid of them."

The boys took a table near the girls, Rafe purposefully sitting with a clear view of Y/N. She didn't miss the way his gaze flicked to the waiter, who had quickly retreated to the kitchen, and then back to her. His jaw was tight, his fingers tapping rhythmically against the table.

"Y/N," Rafe called, his voice cutting through the chatter. "Having fun?"

Y/N turned her head slowly, fixing him with a bored expression. "Immensely. Thanks for asking."

Topper snickered, leaning back in his chair. "You sure about that? Looked like your new boyfriend was trying a little too hard."

"Jealous, Top?" Y/N shot back, her tone saccharine sweet. "I didn't think I was your type."

Rafe's smirk widened, but it didn't reach his eyes. "What's the matter, Y/N? You settling for waiters now?"

The girls groaned audibly, Malia muttering, "Here we go."

Y/N leaned forward, her elbows resting on the table as she met Rafe's gaze head-on. "What's the matter, Rafe? Can't handle a little competition?"

"There's no competition," he shot back, his voice dripping with confidence. "We both know how this ends."

The tension between them was palpable, drawing the attention of everyone nearby. Kie looked ready to intervene, but Sarah grabbed her arm, shaking her head.

"You're delusional," Y/N said, her voice sharp. "Just because you can't handle rejection doesn't mean I'm going to cater to your bruised ego."

Rafe leaned back in his chair, his smirk unwavering. "Keep telling yourself that, sweetheart. But we both know the truth."

The room fell silent for a moment, the weight of his words hanging heavy in the air. Y/N's cheeks felt warm, but whether it was from anger or something else, she couldn't tell.

"Let's go," Kie said firmly, grabbing Y/N's arm.

Y/N stood abruptly, glaring at Rafe. "You're pathetic, Cameron. Enjoy your boys' club."

As the girls filed out, Y/N could feel Rafe's eyes on her, his stare as possessive and unyielding as ever.

Back at their table, Topper and Kelce were laughing, but Rafe wasn't paying attention. His mind was elsewhere, his fists clenching as he replayed the interaction with the waiter. Without a word, he got up and made his way to the kitchen.

The waiter was leaning against the counter when Rafe approached, his towering presence immediately unsettling.

"Hey," Rafe said, his voice low and menacing.

The waiter looked up, his brow furrowing. "Uh, can I help you?"

Rafe stepped closer, his gaze cold. "Yeah. Stay the hell away from Y/N."

The waiter blinked, confused. "What? Dude, I was just—"

"You were just what?" Rafe interrupted, his voice rising. "Flirting with her? Trying to impress her? Let me make this clear: she's mine. So back off. You so much as even breathe near her, I will be the reason you never will again. Got it?”

The waiter raised his hands in surrender, clearly shaken. "Alright, man. Chill. I didn't know she was...yours."

Rafe smirked, satisfied. "Now you do. Keep it that way."

As he walked back to his table, Rafe felt a grim sense of satisfaction. Y/N could play her little games, but he'd always win. She was his—whether she admitted it or not.

—

The bass thumped through the walls of Y/N's sprawling Figure 8 estate, the music so loud it felt like it shook the floor beneath Rafe's feet. The party was in full swing, her infamous gatherings never failing to attract the entire island—Kooks and Pogues alike. For one night, the divide that separated them blurred under the haze of expensive liquor, pulsating lights, and deafening music.

Rafe leaned against the bar in the corner of the room, nursing a drink he hadn't touched in the last hour. His usual cocky smirk was absent, replaced by a scowl that deepened every time someone brushed past him. He told himself he didn't care about Y/N's party, didn't care that she was in the same house, probably doing everything she could to piss him off.

But he was lying to himself, and he knew it.

For days, he'd been ignoring her, hoping distance would dull the fire she sparked in him. He knew his obsession with her was spiraling out of control, consuming him like a predator stalking its prey. But Y/N wasn't just prey—she was a fighter, stubborn and untouchable, and it made the hunt all the more maddening.

Kelce leaned against the bar beside him, talking about something Rafe wasn't listening to. His mind was too preoccupied with the faint sound of Y/N's laugh echoing through the house, the mental image of her smile, the way she always seemed to dance just out of his reach.

"Bro, you need to see this," Topper suddenly said, his voice cutting through Rafe's thoughts.

Rafe turned his head, narrowing his eyes. "What?"

Topper grinned, motioning toward the living room. "Y/N's losing her mind right now. Dancing on a table. You have to see it."

Rafe's jaw tightened, his fingers curling around the red solo cup in his hand. Topper didn't notice, too busy grabbing Kelce and a couple of others to follow him.

"C'mon, man," Topper called over his shoulder.

Rafe hesitated for a split second before downing the rest of his drink and shoving off the bar. His feet carried him toward the living room almost involuntarily, like he was drawn to her by some magnetic force.

When he stepped into the room, the scene in front of him made his blood boil.

Y/N was on top of a table in the center of the room, the crowd around her cheering and chanting her name. The bass-heavy beat of a Weeknd song pulsed through the air as she moved, her body swaying in a way that was both hypnotic and infuriating. Her dress—a tiny black number that clung to her curves and barely grazed her thighs—left little to the imagination. She ran her hands down her body as she dropped low to the beat, the crowd around her cheering and whistling.

Rafe's grip on his drink tightened, the nearly empty plastic cup crumpling slightly under the pressure. He hated this. He hated the way everyone was looking at her, like she was a piece of meat. He hated the way his sister, Sarah, and her Pogue friends were egging her on, cheering her as she danced.

But most of all, he hated the way Y/N's eyes found his in the crowd, her lips curling into a smirk as if she knew exactly what she was doing to him.

"She's so hot," Topper said beside him, nudging Kelce. "Like, insanely hot."

"Shut up," Rafe snapped, his tone sharp enough to make them both flinch.

"What's your problem?" Kelce asked, raising an eyebrow.

Rafe didn't answer. His attention was locked on Y/N, who had leaned down to respond to something JJ said. The way she bent over, laughing and tossing her hair, gave JJ a perfect view of her exposed chest. Rafe saw red.

Without thinking, he shoved his way through the crowd, ignoring the curious stares and whispers that followed him. By the time he reached the table, Y/N was already watching him with a mischievous gleam in her eyes.

"Y/N," he barked, his voice cutting through the music. "Get your ass down here. Now."

She tilted her head, pretending not to hear him. "What was that?" she called, cupping her ear mockingly as she continued to dance.

"I said get down," he repeated, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Y/N crossed her arms, leaning against the makeshift pole on the table. "No, I don't think I will."

The crowd around them had started to notice the interaction, whispers spreading quickly. Why was Rafe Cameron, of all people, telling Y/N what to do? Everyone knew they hated each other—or at least, they were supposed to.

"Y/N," he growled, his patience wearing thin. "I'm not playing games. Get down."

"And I'm not taking orders," she shot back, her voice dripping with defiance.

The Pogues exchanged glances, their confusion evident. Even Sarah looked unsure, her eyes darting between her brother and her friend.

Rafe had enough. In one swift motion, he grabbed Y/N by the waist and slung her over his shoulder, ignoring her gasp of surprise.

"Rafe, what the hell?!" she shouted, kicking her legs as he pushed through the crowd. "Put me down!"

"Not a chance," he muttered, his grip like steel, holding the minimal fabric of her dress to keep her ass covered from the hungry eyes of partygoers.

The crowd parted as he stormed upstairs, the whispers following them like a shadow. Y/N's protests continued, but deep down, she reveled in the attention. She knew what this was—a game of dominance, one she had no intention of losing.

When they reached her room, Rafe punched in the code to the keypad with practiced ease. He pushed the door open and stepped inside, locking it behind them before setting her down.

Y/N crossed her arms, glaring at him. "What the hell is your problem?"

"My problem?" he shot back, his voice loud and angry. "What the hell was that downstairs?"

"That was me having fun," she retorted, stepping closer to him. "What's it to you?"

"You call that fun? Parading yourself around like a damn stripper?"

"Oh, spare me the lecture, Rafe," she snapped. "You don't own me."

"Don't I?" he countered, his voice low and dangerous.

Her breath hitched, but she didn't back down. "No, you don't. And the fact that you think you do is pathetic."

The tension between them was suffocating, their faces inches apart as they glared at each other.

"You drive me insane," Rafe muttered, his voice thick with frustration.

"Good," she shot back.

Before she could say anything else, his lips crashed against hers, the kiss rough and desperate. She melted into him for a moment before pushing him back.

"This doesn't mean you win," she whispered, her voice breathless.

Rafe smirked, his hands gripping her waist. "Keep telling yourself that, sweetheart."

Rafe used Y/N’s brief moment of weakness to his advantage, and manoeuvred her body towards the large king-sized bed in her room. He gripped her wrists in one of his hands, Y/N instantly struggling in his grip.

"You’re such a fucking brat," Rafe growled, his hands tightening around her wrists as he pinned her to the bed. Y/N's back hit the soft mattress with a soft thud, her chest rising and falling as she glared up at him, her lips swollen from his bruising kiss.

"And you're a possessive asshole," she shot back, her voice sharp despite the way her body betrayed her, arching into his touch. "But you're my possessive asshole."

Rafe's smirk was dark, predatory, as he released her hands. "Damn right I am."

He leaned down, his lips grazing her ear, his voice a low, dangerous purr that sent shivers down her spine. "You think you can keep playing games with me? You think you're in control?" His teeth nipped at her earlobe, and she gasped, her perfectly manicured nails digging into his back.

"I'm always in control," she breathed, but the tremor in her voice gave her away.

Before Rafe could respond, she bucked her hips, using the momentum to flip them over. She straddled him, her hands pressed against his chest, her hair falling in a wild curtain around her face.

"See?" she said, tilting her head with a smirk. "I'm calling the shots here."

Rafe's eyes narrowed, his hands sliding up her thighs, pushing the black fabric of her dress up, gripping her hips with a bruising force. "You keep telling yourself that, princess."

Their lips crashed together again, the kiss fierce and unrelenting. Y/N's hands tangled in his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan, while Rafe's fingers dug into her skin, leaving marks that she knew she'd wear like a badge of honour in her designer bikini’s.

They were a mess of tangled limbs and heated breaths, their bodies moving in a desperate rhythm that was as much about dominance as it was about pleasure. Y/N's nails raked down his now bare chest, and Rafe retaliated by flipping her onto her back once more, his lips trailing down her neck, leaving a trail of bites and kisses that made her head spin.

"You're mine," he muttered against her skin, his voice rough with need. "You've always been mine."

"Keep dreaming," she scoffed, but the way her body responded to him—arching into his touch, her legs tightening around his waist—told a whole different story.

Rafe pulled back, his eyes locking with hers. The intensity in his gaze was overwhelming, and for a moment, Y/N felt like she couldn't breathe. "Look at you," he said, his voice low and filled with a raw hunger that made her shiver. "You're a fucking mess for me, and you hate it."

She opened her mouth to retort, but he cut her off with a kiss that left her dizzy. His hands moved to her waist, lifting her effortlessly as he stood, carrying her to the vanity in the corner of the room.

"What are you doing?" she demanded, though her voice lacked its usual bite.

Rafe didn't answer. Instead, he set her down on the edge of the vanity, his hands gripping her hips as he manhandled her body around to face herself in the mirror. "Look at yourself," he ordered, his voice firm.

Y/N hesitated, her eyes flicking to the reflection in front of her. Her hair was disheveled, her lips swollen, her skin flushed, the thin straps of her dress hanging off her shoulders exposing the lace of her bra, the fabric of her dress crumpled up by her hips. She looked... wrecked.

And it was all because of him.

"See?" Rafe's voice was a low growl in her ear, his hands trailing down her sides. "This is what you do to me. This is what I do to you."

She opened her mouth to protest, but the words died on her lips as his hands moved to the back of her thighs, spreading them apart. His lips pressed against the curve of her neck, his teeth grazing her skin in a way that made her gasp. Rafe moved the thin lace fabric of her thong to the side, middle and ring finger running through the wetness in between her thighs, Y/N shuddering as he brushed over her clit.

"You're so fucking beautiful like this. So fucking wet all for me," he muttered, his voice thick with need. "All mine."

Y/N's breath hitched as he positioned himself behind her, his hands deftly undoing his belt then undoing the button and zip on his pants, pulling them down enough to expose his rigid cock. The sheer girth and length of it never failing to surprise Y/N.

Rafe gripped her hips with a possessiveness that made her heart race. "You're such an egomaniac," she managed to say, though her voice was breathless.

Rafe chuckled darkly, his lips brushing against her ear. "And you love it."

Before she could respond, he thrust into her, the sudden fullness making her cry out. Her hands gripped the edge of the vanity, her eyes locking with his in the mirror.

"Keep your eyes open," Rafe ordered, his voice rough. "I want you to see what I do to you."

Y/N's breath came in short gasps as he moved inside her, each thrust sending waves of pleasure crashing through her. She tried to hold his gaze, but the intensity was too much, and she had to look away, her head falling forward as a borderline pornographic moan escaped her lips.

Rafe's hand tangled in her hair, pulling her head back up. "I said, keep your fucking eyes open," he growled, his voice filled with a command that she couldn't ignore.

She met his gaze in the mirror, her cheeks flushed, her lips parted as she panted. The sight of him behind her, his eyes dark with desire, his hands gripping her hips with a possessiveness that made her heart race, was almost too much to bear.

"See that?" Rafe muttered, his voice low and filled with a raw hunger that mirrored her own. "That's you. That's what I do to you."

Y/N's nails dug into the edge of the vanity as he thrust into her again, the force of it making her cry out. She could feel herself unraveling, the pleasure building inside her with each harsh thrust Rafe delivered, but she refused to give in, refused to let him have the satisfaction of seeing her fall apart.

"You're such a bastard," she managed to say, though her voice was shaky.

Rafe chuckled darkly, his lips brushing against her ear. "And you're such a brat. But you're my brat."

His hand moved between her legs, his fingers finding her clit, moving in swift circles that made her gasp, and she couldn't hold back any longer. Her body arched into his touch, her eyes locking with his in the mirror as she came undone, her moans filling the room as her pussy clenched around Rafe.

Rafe didn't stop, his movements growing more frantic as he chased his own release. His hands gripped her hips, pulling her back into him with a force that made her gasp. The sounds of slick skin colliding and gasps and moans were the only sound in the room, and Y/N was thankfully for the bass-heavy music that was playing downstairs, meaning nobody could hear them.

"You're mine," he muttered, his voice rough with need. "You've always been mine."

And as he spilled inside her, his lips pressing against her neck in a bruising kiss, Y/N couldn't help but think that maybe—just maybe—he was right.

She is his, and he is hers.

betty’s notes ౨ৎ ⋆｡˚

i had SO much fun writing this one !! there’s something about writing such a bad bitch character and she reminds me so much of a character from a wattpad fic i wrote a while ago😫

anyways, i hope you enjoy this anon !! and i hope this was what you asked for :) as always, please like and reblog and comment your thoughts !! <3

#rafe cameron #bettys asks !! ౨ৎ ⋆｡˚#drew starkey #outer banks #fluff #obx #rafe cameron x reader #bettys work !! ౨ৎ ⋆｡˚#rafe cameron outer banks #rafe cameron smut #smut #enemies to lovers #rafe cameron x y/n #rafe cameron x you

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wosospacegirl · 1 month ago

Text

I've got you - Grace Clinton

Summary: Grace and Y/n have a fight before English Camp, and now they have to find a way to make it right

Word count: 1.3k

a/n: angst with a happy ending.

This is part of my 1k commemoration blurb! <3

Masterlist

It had been four days.

Four days since the argument. Four days since Grace walked out of Y/n’s flat with her jaw tight and her eyes flashing

Four days of cold shoulders and awkward silences at the England camp, of avoiding eye contact across the dining hall, of teammates whispering because everyone could feel the tension.

It had started over something small—a missed call that turned into a late reply, which then escalated into Grace snapping, “Maybe I’m just not your priority anymore.”

And that was it. Grace had raised her voice for the first time, and Y/n had gone quiet, the hurt blooming in her chest. Neither of them had spoken since.

It had happened before they were called up for the squad, and so, everyone noticed that something wasn’t quite right between them.

Y/n and Grace weren’t ones for public affection, but they were incredibly close, and it was obvious to everyone that something had shifted between them

On the first day of camp, Y/n pretended she was fine. She smiled through team meals, trained like nothing was wrong, and laughed at Millie’s stupid jokes.

But Grace’s absence hit her like a slow, bruising ache. Grace was there at camp, of course, but they didn’t share a room like they always did.

They didn’t have breakfast together anymore.

They didn’t walk around the city after training like they used to.

But even still, Grace was everywhere. Always close, but never quite with her. Same warm-ups, same squad, same locker room—but she never looked directly at Y/n. Never said her name.

At night, Y/n stared at the ceiling of her room, and the phone clutched in her hand, always waiting for a message that never came. And she wasn’t going to be the one to say sorry first, absolutely not.

Beside her, Jess Park let out a loud snore, and Y/n sighed. Of course, her new roommate had to snore.

As if things weren’t miserable enough already. She rolled onto her side, tucking the phone under her pillow like maybe that would make it buzz.

It didn’t.

But every time Grace walked past without a glance, it was hell.

Y/n and Grace had never fought like that, they were together for a year now, they only had to deal with minor arguments, but they never latest more than a day

But now? It was bad, they were hurting each other, and none of them had the courage to do something about it.

By the time match day rolled around—a closed‑door friendly at St. George’s, Y/n and Grace had barely exchanged a glance, each pretending the other didn’t exist as they paired off with different teammates during warm‑ups

Y/n was trapped in her own head; the emotional turmoil raged through her every time the ball came near, and she simply couldn’t keep her focus.

Leah barked at her to get her head back in the game after another wayward pass, and Lucy offered a sympathetic tap on the back when her miscued touch gifted Germany possession.

It was one of the worst performances of Y/n’s career: every misplaced pass, every heavy first touch, every fraction of a second too slow piled up like lead in her chest.

And deep down, she knew exactly who to blame—herself, for allowing her personal pain to spill onto the pitch. The emotional turmoil with Grace had taken root deep in her bones, and now it was choking out every instinct she had as a player.

And then it happene

It wasn’t even a big moment. A corner. A simple set piece. She stepped up, took a breath, and swung her leg, only to send the ball sailing awkwardly off her foot. A wasted opportunity.

The kind of mistake that usually passed without consequence, but today, it tipped her over the edge, and she was subbed off.

Sarina’s voice came shortly after, calm but concerned. “Sit down, kid. Get some water, yeah?”

Her chest was heaving. Her hands shook as she reached for a water bottle, but she didn’t even unscrew the cap.

Y/n nodded, blinking fast, already feeling the sting behind her eyes.

She jogged off, boots dragging, and slumped onto the bench.

And then the tears came. Hot. Sharp. Relentless.

The way Grace hadn’t looked at her in four days. The ache of sleeping in a bed alone when she was used to Grace’s arms around her. The weight of pretending everything was fine while feeling like she was slowly cracking in half.

She didn’t even understand why she was crying. It wasn’t just the missed corner. It wasn’t just the game. It was everything.

The silence.

She curled forward, elbows on her knees, hands over her face, trying to muffle the sounds. Her shoulders shook with each breath, each broken sob slipping out despite her best effort to stay composed.

“Hey, came Jess Park’s soft voice beside her. “It’s okay. We all have those days, yeah?”

Y/n didn’t look up. She couldn’t. The embarrassment burned too bright beneath her skin, shame curling in her stomach like smoke.

She vaguely registered Maya’s voice saying something motivational, but it faded into the background. None of it mattered.

After the final whistle, Y/n was the first to leave the pitch, slipping away toward the locker room while the others lingered to celebrate.

It was a closed‑door friendly, so she didn’t have to plaster on a smile or answer post‑match pleasantries—thankfully, no one saw the tracks of tears still glistening on her cheeks.

She was halfway through peeling off her jersey when the soft echo of boots on concrete made her look up.

There, framed in the dim corridor light, stood Grace—her brow creased with worry, hands half‑raised as if not sure whether to reach for Y/n or step back.

“Hey,” Grace said, her voice quiet and hesitant. “The others told me you were upset. I couldn’t see you from the pitch… what happened?”

Y/n froze.

F or a long moment, they simply stared at each other.

She inhaled, voice trembling: “You’ve been ignoring me.”

Grace’s eyes searched Y/n’s face for a clue, and Y/n scrabbled for words that wouldn’t betray how raw she still felt.

She could have confessed to the ankle pain, the dizziness from the heat, how every misplayed pass echoed her own tangled emotions, but none of that mattered right now

Grace took a slow step forward. “I’m so sorry, love. I was angry—” Her throat caught. “You were angry, too. I didn’t know if talking would help or only make things worse.”

Y/n’s heart clenched. “You left my flat that night,” she whispered, voice cracking. “You walked out… then acted like I didn’t exist.”

G race’s lips quivered. “I was hurt,” she admitted, gaze downcast, “but I never—” She closed her eyes, then looked back up. “I never stopped caring. I’ve missed you so much.”

A soft, broken noise escaped Y/n’s lips. Grace closed the last inches between them, cradling Y/n’s face, brushing away her tears with gentle fingertips. “I love you,” she murmured. “I’m so sorry.”

Y/n leaned into those hands, pressing her forehead to Grace’s. The world shrank to the warmth of her voice. “I’m sorry, too,” she whispered. “I never should have let it go this far.”

Grace nodded, relief and resolve shining in her eyes. “Next time, we'll talk. No more silence. No more walking away.”

They stayed like that for a moment—two halves mending—until Y/n pulled back to study Grace’s face, still wet with tears.

“Still mad at me?” Grace asked softly, offering a shy, hopeful smile.

Y/n let out a breathy laugh. “A little,” she admitted, “you did disappear in the middle of the night.”

Grace grinned, eyes alight. “Fair enough.”

And then, without another word, Y/n slipped her arms around Grace’s waist and held on tight—finally home.

Grace kissed her temple, then her cheek, slow and soft. “I’ve got you

a/n: if you read this far — first of all, ily. second of all, feel free to let me know what you thought! i love hearing your reactions, fav lines, or just general thoughts 🫶 it really makes my day <3

Tag list: @edensbreeze, @silentwolfsstuff, @goodloe-e @mccabeskcc,@blaugranafairy, @footy-lover264 @the-fandom-ness

#woso x reader #woso fanfic #woso #grace clinton fanfic #gracie clinton #grace clinton x reader #wlw writing #wlw fanfic

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gf2bellamy · 5 months ago

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library — draco malfoy

pairing: draco malfoy x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) summary: draco joins you in the library content warnings: mention of school stress , eating in the great hall

Charms class dragged on, as Professor Flitwick went over the details of next week’s homework. You slouched in your seat, propping your head on your hand while your gaze drifted around the room. Beside you, Pansy was doodling aimlessly in her textbook, entirely uninterested in the lecture.

Your eyes landed on Harry and Ron, who were scribbling furiously in their notes—but not about Charms. Judging by their muffled laughter, they were playing some sort of game, much to Hermione’s dismay. She swatted Ron’s arm with an exasperated glare, clearly trying to get him to pay attention.

The scene made you smile faintly, but your attention shifted again, landing on Draco Malfoy. He sat slumped in his chair, his pale hair falling across his forehead as his eyes threatened to close. He looked like he was seconds away from dozing off completely, the faintest scowl tugging at his lips.

You found yourself watching him longer than you intended.

“Enjoying the view?”

Pansy’s whispered voice jolted you out of your thoughts. You snapped your head toward her, and she raised an eyebrow, a knowing smirk on her lips.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you muttered, giving her a half-hearted grimace as you straightened up in your chair.

Pansy didn’t buy it for a second. She had caught on to your not-so-subtle crush on Draco ages ago, though she’d promised to keep it to herself. That didn’t stop her from teasing you at every opportunity.

Professor Flitwick’s voice cut through your embarrassment. “I’ll see you all next week!” he announced, dismissing the class.

Grateful for the excuse to leave, you hastily shoved your books into your bag, ready to escape to the Great Hall for dinner.

“You two coming?” Blaise Zabini asked, stopping in front of your desk. Draco stood just behind him, lazily slinging his bag over his shoulder.

Pansy snapped her textbook shut and stood, brushing imaginary dust from her robes. “I’m starving,” she declared, already heading toward the door.

“Me too,” you murmured, falling into step behind her and Blaise.

Draco, however, matched your pace, walking beside you as the group made its way down the corridor. You tried to keep your focus straight ahead, even as you were hyper-aware of him beside you.

“Long class, wasn’t it?” Draco drawled, his voice low and smooth.

You glanced at him, startled that he was talking to you. His gray eyes met yours briefly, a flicker of amusement in them.

“Yeah, Flitwick really knows how to make time crawl,” you replied, managing to keep your voice steady.

Draco smirked faintly, his gaze lingering for a moment longer before he looked ahead. “You didn’t look like you were paying much attention anyway.”

“Neither were you,” you muttered under your breath, glancing at Draco out of the corner of your eye. “Saw you almost falling asleep.”

He looked momentarily caught, his gray eyes widening just a fraction before he shrugged it off with practiced nonchalance. “Long day,” he replied simply, though the slight curve of his lips hinted at his amusement.

The conversation didn’t go further as you and the rest of your friend group reached the Great Hall. The familiar buzz of chatter and clinking silverware greeted you, and you slid into your usual seat at the Slytherin table.

Pansy wasted no time piling food onto her plate. You followed suit, your stomach reminding you how long it had been since lunch. Double Potions with Snape followed by Professor Flitwick’s monotone lecture had drained you completely.

You sighed heavily, spearing a few fries with your fork before popping them into your mouth. For a moment, you let yourself get lost in the simple comfort of food, but the looming pile of homework waiting for you made it hard to relax.

Draco’s voice pulled you from your thoughts. “What’s up with you?” he asked, his tone casual as he reached for a bread roll.

“Don’t feel like spending the night in the library,” you mumbled around a mouthful of fries. “Again,” you added with a groan, thinking back to the endless hours you’d spent surrounded by dusty books and half-finished parchment the night before.

Draco’s gaze flickered toward you, his attention drawn away from his plate. Blaise and Pansy were too busy bickering over the last piece of bread to notice at first, their playful banter filling the space.

“I’ll come with you,” Draco said suddenly, his voice cutting through the background noise.

You froze mid-motion, your fork hovering just above your plate before you slowly set it down. Turning to face him, you raised an incredulous eyebrow. “You?”

Draco met your gaze with his cool, gray eyes, the faintest trace of a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Draco Malfoy. In the library?” you said, your voice laced with disbelief as you studied him.

“Why not?” he replied nonchalantly, shifting his focus back to his food, though you didn’t miss the flicker of amusement in his expression.

At that moment, Pansy and Blaise stopped mid-argument, their heads snapping toward the two of you.

“What was that about the library?” Pansy asked, her eyes darting between you and Draco.

“You’re going to the library with her?” Blaise chimed in, his tone equal parts surprise and amusement as he leaned forward.

Draco didn’t look up, slicing into his food with an air of indifference. “I don’t see why it’s such a big deal,” he said, but his smirk deepened ever so slightly.

Pansy’s lips curled into a knowing grin. “Oh, it’s not a big deal,” she said, dragging out the words as her gaze flicked to you. “Not at all.”

You rolled your eyes, ignoring the heat creeping up your neck. “I need to finish my essay, that’s all,” you muttered, trying to downplay the situation as you returned your attention to your plate.

“Sure, that’s all it is,” Blaise teased, exchanging a sly look with Pansy.

Draco finally glanced up, his sharp eyes narrowing slightly at the pair of them. “You two should focus on your food instead of other people’s business,” he said smoothly, the authority in his tone enough to quiet them for now.

After dinner, the chatter and laughter continued as everyone polished off their meals. Blaise and Pansy eventually decided to head back to the Slytherin common room, but not before Pansy grabbed your arm, pulling you aside with a teasing grin.

“So, the library, huh?” she whispered, her voice dripping with mischief.

You rolled your eyes, trying to appear unaffected. “Don’t make it weird, Pansy.”

She leaned in closer, her grin widening. “Oh, it’s already weird. Malfoy volunteering to study? With you? That’s rich.”

Before you could respond, she gave you a playful wink and flounced off to catch up with Blaise. You let out a sigh and turned back toward Draco, who was waiting patiently at the base of the stairs.

His expression was unreadable, but there was a flicker of curiosity in his gray eyes as he watched Pansy retreat.

“What did she say?” he asked casually as you joined him.

“Nothing important,” you replied quickly, brushing it off.

The two of you began climbing the grand staircase toward the library, your footsteps echoing softly in the quiet corridors. The conversation turned to your respective workloads—essays, spell theory, and the looming deadlines that Hogwarts always seemed to pile on.

Once you reached the library, the atmosphere shifted immediately. The warm, hushed air was filled with the faint rustle of turning pages and the soft creak of chairs as students worked at scattered tables. The librarian shot a warning glance in your direction as you entered, and you both instinctively fell silent.

Draco scanned the room before selecting a free table near the back, far enough away from the busier sections. He pulled out a chair and sat down. You slid into the seat across from him, pulling out your books and parchment with a quiet efficiency.

The two of you worked in near silence, save for the occasional scratch of quills on parchment and the soft rustling of pages. Draco’s focus was surprising—he wasn’t just idly pretending to work.

You stole a glance at him from behind your textbook, unable to help yourself. His usually sharp, guarded expression softened slightly in the dim light of the library, and the way he absentmindedly tapped his quill against the edge of his ink bottle was strangely endearing.

“What?” he asked suddenly, not looking up but clearly catching you in the act.

You snapped your gaze back to your parchment, your cheeks heating. “Nothing. Just surprised you’re actually working.”

Draco smirked faintly, his quill pausing mid-scratch. “I told you, I’m full of surprises.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at your lips as you returned to your work.

You focused on your parchment, the rhythm of writing and flipping pages creating a peaceful backdrop.

Every now and then, you’d exchange a wordless glance across the table—a raised eyebrow when Draco sighed in frustration at his essay or a subtle laugh when you dropped your book.

“Why does Snape insist on us writing essays on potion theories we’ll never use?” Draco muttered under his breath, breaking the quiet. His voice was low enough not to earn the librarian’s wrath, but it carried just enough irritation to make you stifle a laugh.

“Probably because he enjoys watching us suffer,” you whispered back, unable to resist teasing him.

Draco snorted softly, a rare but genuine reaction that made your heart skip a beat. “You might be onto something,” he said, his smirk widening as he leaned back slightly in his chair.

You returned your focus to your work, but a few minutes later, Draco spoke again.

“You’ve got ink on your nose,” he said casually, leaning forward with an amused glint in his eyes.

“What?” You immediately raised a hand to your face, swiping at your nose.

Draco shook his head. “Not there. Here.”

Before you could react, he reached across the table, his fingers brushing against your skin as he wiped the spot just above the bridge of your nose. The gesture was so unexpected, so gentle, that you froze for a moment, your breath catching in your throat.

“There,” he said softly, his voice almost tender.

You managed a quiet “Thanks,” barely able to meet his gaze as heat flooded your cheeks. Draco didn’t comment, but you noticed the faintest flush creeping up his neck as he returned to his essay.

The rest of the evening passed in a blur of quiet concentration, shared glances, and the occasional murmured exchange.

By the time you both decided to call it a night, the library had emptied out.As you packed up your things, Draco stood and waited for you, his posture relaxed but his eyes attentive.

“Ready?” he asked, his voice low.

You nodded, slinging your bag over your shoulder. When you reached the staircase that would take you to your own rooms, Draco paused, glancing at you.

“You work too hard,” he said after a moment, his tone light but his expression sincere.

You tilted your head, meeting his gaze. “Says the person who just spent two hours in the library with me.”

Draco smirked, his usual confidence returning. “What can i say ? I had a lot of free time.”

Your heart fluttered at his words, and you couldn’t help but smile. “Goodnight, Draco.”

“Goodnight,” he replied, his smirk softening into something warmer as he watched you descend the stairs.

#draco malfoy #draco malfoy x reader #harry potter x reader #harry potter fanfiction #draco malfoy fanfic #draco malfoy fanfiction #draco malfoy fluff

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leriexoxo · 2 months ago

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SKZ HEADCANONS

Bestfriend! Stray kids vs You in a heated staring match (OT8)

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

AN: I did a poll a few days ago for new content and everyone chose head canons so here we are! I’ll be creating a separate master list for these but it will be attached to the main ML. Requests for Head canons are open!

Disclaimer: I will not take ABO requests! (Or any sorta weird stuff)

⸻

Bang Chan

• Laughs when it starts. All dimples and cocky smirks. But the second your eyes lock and you don’t flinch, his smile fades.

• His jaw tics. You see it—see the way his eyes drop to your lips for a fraction of a second, like instinct.

• “You sure you wanna keep looking at me like that, sweetheart?” he murmurs, low and teasing—but it sounds like a threat.

• Doesn’t look away. Not because of the game—because he can’t. He’s too busy thinking about how good you’d look underneath him, making that same intense eye contact while he wrecks you.

Lee Know

• He’s cocky from the jump. Tilts his head, folds his arms, leans in just enough to make it feel intimate.

• The tension builds so quietly. His eyes are sharp but soft around the edges. You feel stripped bare, like he’s undressing you with his gaze.

• When he sees your throat bob? He smirks.

• “Getting nervous?” he whispers, and it feels like he’s right next to your ear even though he hasn’t moved an inch.

• The moment your gaze flickers down—just once—he wins. And he knows it.

Changbin

• Gets flustered immediately. Tries to act tough, but you see the way his ears go pink.

• He starts with that goofy grin, but the longer it goes on, the more serious his expression gets. His brows draw together. His jaw sets.

• He licks his lips. That’s his downfall. That unconscious little habit that suddenly makes it feel too real.

• “Why’s it so hot in here?” he mumbles—and you both laugh, but neither of you look away.

Hyunjin

• Deadly. Absolutely lethal. He stares like it’s art. Like you’re art. His eyes are dreamy and half-lidded and burning.

• Leans forward just enough that you can smell his cologne, his breath, and you realize this game? Yeah. It’s not a game anymore.

• His tongue swipes across his lower lip so slowly and he watches your eyes drop to follow it.

• “You blinked,” he says, voice like velvet. And then smirks. “Or maybe you just got distracted.”

Han

• Tries to make jokes to break the tension. “What do I win if I beat you?” “Can I use my puppy eyes as a weapon?”

• But the silence creeps in. Your gaze stays steady. And he changes.

• He starts squirming in place, biting his lip, suddenly too aware of how close you’re sitting, how pretty your eyes are.

• “This doesn’t feel friendly anymore,” he blurts. Then goes beet red. “Not in a bad way—! I mean, not that I don’t—fuck.”

Felix

• So sweet at first. Giggling, winking at you, doing little fake attempts to distract you.

• But when you don’t react, when you just stare? His expression shifts. His voice drops. His freckles seem to glow under the heat of it.

• “You’re really not gonna look away, huh?” he says softly. And then—whispers it again. Closer.

• Your faces are inches apart and the air is thick. And when neither of you move, he just smiles. “Kinda like this…”

Seungmin

• Immediately calls it childish. “This is stupid.” Says he’s not playing. Then plays anyway.

• You match his stare, eyebrow raised. And for once, he breaks. His face twists—caught between annoyed and aroused.

• “Why are you looking at me like that?” he mumbles. But he doesn’t look away. If anything, he leans closer.

• Suddenly it’s quiet. The kind of quiet that makes your skin buzz. You swallow. He watches your throat.

• “Don’t start something you can’t finish,” he says under his breath.

Jeongin

• Tries to win by pure stubbornness. “I’ve got this. I’m unbeatable.”

• But his eyes soften the longer he looks at you. His breathing changes. His lips part just a little.

• He gets so self-conscious, but doesn’t back down. You see him glance at your mouth and immediately regret it.

• “I swear if you move any closer I’m gonna—” he mutters, then cuts himself off.

• Neither of you knows how to stop it now.

#skz imagines #bang chan #bang chan smut #leeknow x reader #leeknow fluff #changbin x you #hyunjin smut #skz headcanons #headcanon #seungmin stray kids #bang chan skz #stray kids smau #stray kids minho #han jisung smut #jeongin x you #felix fluff

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foolexby · 2 months ago

Text

Silence vow.

Notes: Rivals James Potter x Female Reader. Sassy Hufflepuff reader. Cliché I don't care. Not use of Y/N. English is not my first language. Use of Google translate. I hate people who don't know how to express their feelings (me). Slightly angst.

WC: 11.0k

Navigation | Serie Masterlist | Part I

James usually didn’t think too much after a match.

Winning or losing was just part of the game, and there was always another one ahead—another practice, another chance to shine. But this time, something felt different.

Since your fall, his mind kept returning to the moment he had to swerve away from the Snitch to catch you instead. The way his fingers had closed around your waist, the weight of your body swaying in the air, the fear that—for a fraction of a second—had frozen his blood. He’d never felt anything like it in the middle of a match.

He had won, yes. Gryffindor had celebrated. But he hadn’t, not really.

He spent more time than usual in the tower, sitting by the window, staring out at the pitch as if expecting to see you appear. Sometimes you did, sneaking out at night, thinking no one noticed. But James did. He knew you went out to train alone. He knew something inside you hadn’t healed with the bruises. And although he’d wanted to approach more than once, something held him back.

It wasn’t fear. It was respect. And guilt.

He kept replaying that argument in the air, the words laced with anger. “Fine. You win. Your team wins. Another victory for Gryffindor.” That line stuck with him like a curse. It hadn’t been the voice of someone who’d lost a match. It was the voice of someone who had been robbed of the chance to finish it. And he had been the one to take it from you.

The arrogance he used to wear like a protective cloak no longer served him. Every time he climbed on his broom during practice, something inside him tensed. Not because he doubted his skills, but because he finally understood that flying wasn’t just about winning. That there was more at stake when you shared the sky with someone like you.

And yet, he didn’t know how to reach it.

He didn’t know whether to apologize or simply stay away. But what he did know was that when your next match came—against Slytherin—he would be there. Not as a rival, not as a detached spectator. But as someone who, though he’d never admit it aloud, wanted to see you just fly again.

It had been a few weeks since that fall during the Hufflepuff vs. Gryffindor match, but the memory still clung to you like a stubborn shadow refusing to fade. Some nights, when the castle slept and the world seemed to pause for a moment, you snuck down to the Quidditch pitch. There was no light, save for the soft glow of the moon filtering through the stands, but you didn’t care. Flying in the dark, training alone, feeling the cold wind against your face… it had all become a refuge. An obsession.

You spent hours sweeping across the pitch, mentally replaying every move of the match, every mistake, every second that could’ve changed the outcome. You repeated maneuvers until exhaustion, forced yourself to dodge imaginary players, to react faster, to anticipate the impossible. The fall hadn’t just been physical. It had struck your pride. The idea that you were ready to lead.

You analyzed every play, every flight, every decision with near-maniacal precision. You became your own harshest critic, and each night in the air turned into a desperate search for control. It couldn’t happen again. Not against Slytherin. You couldn’t afford another mistake.

But it wasn’t just the match that had been left unfinished. It was something else. Something deeper, more intimate, that still weighed in your chest with a force you could no longer ignore. It wasn’t just the fall, nor the lingering pain in your ribs. It was that exact moment when you’d felt his arms around you, holding you mid-air like you were the most fragile thing in the world. That shared look frozen in time, heavy with tension, with unspoken words.

Since then, you’ve avoided thinking about him. You’d repeated in your head, like a protective spell, that it meant nothing. That was just a moment. That he would’ve done the same for anyone else.

And now, standing in the middle of the empty pitch, with the dark sky mirroring the confusion inside you, and the wind whistling through the goal hoops like a distant lament, it was much harder to keep pretending. The echo of that instant—his ragged breath, the warmth of his body next to yours, the slight tremble in his hand as he held on—came back with unbearable clarity.

It wasn’t just the match that had been left unfinished.

It was you. It was him. It was both of you.

That night, the sky was clear, studded with stars like distant embers.

The air was cold, but not enough to stop you from following your usual routine. After hours of solitary training, your muscles were tired and your hands numb, but your mind remained alert, insistent, as if it still wasn’t enough.

You had lost track of time between your secret practices, mental corrections, and the constant anxiety about the upcoming match. The night air felt less biting from the Astronomy Tower, where you usually end up after flying. It was your way of returning to the ground without really touching it. From up there, the pitch looked smaller, more manageable. As if your mistakes could also be seen from a safe distance.

You sat on the edge of the stone ledge, legs dangling into the void, broom resting against the wall. The wind played with loose strands of your hair, and the sky, clear and open, let the constellations shine as if they, too, were silently watching you. The silence felt different this time. It wasn’t the usual kind.

You felt it before you heard it. That unmistakable kind of energy he always carried with him, even when he tried not to make a sound. And though you didn’t turn around, you knew it was him.

“Come to rub your victory in my face?” you asked coldly, still not looking at him, eyes fixed on the horizon.

James didn’t answer right away. He knew you’d noticed him, and still he stayed silent for a few seconds, as if he didn’t know what to say. As if he hadn’t expected to find you there—and yet, at the same time, had somehow planned for it.

“No,” he said finally, his voice lower, calmer than usual—almost like he was afraid of breaking something. “That’s not why I came.”

You stayed silent. It was his turn. Let him speak.

“I’ve seen you training at night,” he went on, approaching slowly. “A few times. I didn’t say anything… I didn’t want to interrupt. But tonight… I don’t know. I guess I got tired of just watch from afar.”

“From afar?” you echoed, sarcasm lacing your voice. “How noble of you, Potter.”

James shook his head, a barely contained smile curving his lips. He let out a soft huff, like even he couldn’t believe what he was about to say. His eyes, always so alive, sparkled with that familiar glint, the one that came right before he said something infuriating. “Nah,” he said with mock nonchalance, shrugging. “Just came to bother you for a bit.”

You rolled your eyes with a sigh, not even bothering to look at him. Even if you didn’t show it, part of you felt that familiar tingle—that mix of irritation and something else. The idiot really knew how to get under your skin.

James chuckled softly, the sound fading into the cold wind sweeping across the tower. He stepped a bit closer, close enough to feel present, but still respectful of your space. “Although, to be fair, you’re always mad at me anyway,” he added with a crooked smile, “so it’s not like this makes much of a difference.”

“Hmm,” you murmured, still not looking at him, as if the stars were safer than his eyes.

He noticed that tiny shift in your tone, that barely perceptible change. And it only made his smile widen, like he’d just scored a point in some invisible duel. “You always seem in a bad mood when I’m around,” he said softly now, almost gently, like someone testing dangerous ground.

You crossed your arms, tense, though your tone was more biting than firm. “Because you’re annoying. And unbearable.”

James let out a real laugh, shaking his head slightly, as if your insult was some kind of backhanded compliment. “And you’re stubborn and reckless,” he shot back, glancing sideways at you, one eyebrow raised.

You turned just enough to throw him a sharp look. “And you’re spoiled and impossible.”

“And you’re uptight and a perfectionist,” he replied without much thought, still playful, but there was something in his eyes—something more.

“And you’re selfish, insufferable, and arrogant,” you fired back without hesitation, your pride giving your words perfect aim.

James paused for a second, like your words had hit deeper than he wanted to admit. But then he huffed, not quite offended, and tilted his head with that infuriatingly arrogant expression of his. “And you’re a pain in my ass,” he said with a lopsided smirk, sarcasm dripping from every word.

“How clever, Potter,” you replied coldly, sarcasm like venom in every syllable—even if, deep down, something inside you clenched without warning.

James rolled his eyes, but his smile didn’t fade. On the contrary, it softened a bit, losing some of its usual smugness. His voice lowered slightly, like he was speaking only to the night—or to the part of you still deciding whether to listen. “I have my moments… surprisingly.”

And in that moment, the silence grew heavier. It wasn’t just the usual game, the sharp-tongued sparring, the sarcastic armor you both wore. It was something else. Something that lingered in the cold air of the tower, in the whisper of the wind, in the subtle heat of a presence that refused to leave.

Your hands were cold, but the warmth radiating from him—even without touching—was unmistakable. And you hated yourself a little for noticing it.

“Surprisingly,” you echoed, one eyebrow raised, tone mocking.

James laughed briefly at your sarcasm, clearly enjoying this far more than he should’ve. “Don’t sound so surprised,” he replied with a playful grin. “Sometimes I can be clever.”

“Oh, really?” you retorted, tilting your head with fake interest, like you weren’t quite convinced.

James chuckled, clearly amused by your sharp replies. There was something about this dynamic that kept him hooked—like he couldn’t help coming back for more. “Very funny.”

“What do you want, anyway?” you asked, more serious now, your tone sharp and unbothered. Your eyes stayed on the sky, but your posture had turned rigid—alert.

He shrugged, as if he wasn’t sure why he was there. But the truth ran deeper, even if he wasn’t ready to say it aloud.

“I just wanted to see how you were doing. After all… you fell off your broom last match.”

“I don’t need you checking on me,” you shot back, the words out before you could stop them—harsher than intended, though you didn’t take them back.

James rolled his eyes, still wearing that maddening smile. He knew you well enough to hear the armor in your voice. “Someone’s got to. With the way you fly, it’s a miracle you haven’t gotten yourself killed yet.”

You turned to him, frowning like he’d insulted you, though deep down, you knew he wasn’t entirely wrong. “I wasn’t being reckless. I just lost balance.”

He huffed, crossing his arms with a look that hovered between disbelief and amusement. His eyes narrowed, catching yours with a teasing spark. “You lost balance because you were flying too fast chasing the Snitch. That’s reckless.”

“Trying to win, they call it,” you muttered, a hint of wounded pride slipping through despite your best efforts.

James rolled his eyes again, this time with a mix of frustration and fondness. You always had that effect on him. No matter how impossible you were, some part of him admired your fire—even when it drove him mad. “There’s a difference between trying to win and throwing yourself off a broomstick,” he said, voice low but firm, like he needed the words to hit their mark.

You met his gaze, unflinching, your eyes still on the horizon. “I was trying to win.”

James sighed—a sound closer to a growl—as he watched you. There was something about the way you held yourself, so certain, so immovable, that only made his frustration grow.

“No. You weren’t just trying to win,” he said, his voice deepening as he looked at you, eyes scanning every inch like he was trying to decode you. “You were being reckless. You could’ve gotten seriously hurt, and all you cared about was catching that bloody Snitch.”

You finally glanced at him, a faint smirk tugging at your lips, like his concern was some sort of twisted joke. But under the surface, the tension was undeniable. “So what? Why do you care? You won, didn’t you? End of story.”

He let out a bitter laugh, one that escaped before he could stop it. The frustration was bubbling to the surface now, whether he liked it or not.

“I don’t care about the win. I care that you were so reckless. You could’ve died; do you get that?” His voice cracked—just barely—as a flicker of something raw passed through his eyes.

“That’s not your problem.” You didn’t even look at him, like you could dismiss his concern with a single breath.

James shook his head, more to himself than to you. He knew nothing he said would change your mind, but he had to try anyway. “Of course it’s my problem,” he muttered, voice lower now, edged with something heavier. “Because it seems like you don’t give a damn about your own safety. Someone has to. And it’s gonna be me”

He looked up at you fully then, face tight, jaw clenched, like he was holding back words that might only make things worse. “You were so focused on the game, you didn’t even realize you were risking your life,” he said, his voice strained. “You’re so obsessed with winning, you can’t even see how dangerous you’ve become.”

There was a line between you, invisible but palpable—one neither of you dared cross. And still, he kept talking. But now there was something more behind his words.

“I should’ve let you fall. But I didn’t,” he said, the words rougher than he intended. Still, his voice didn’t shake. “I’m not going to stand by and watch you destroy yourself just because you don’t know when to stop.”

You looked at him, defiant as ever. “And what exactly is the point of this lecture?” Your voice was cool, unreadable.

James clenched his jaw, the ache of trying to reach you sitting heavy in his chest. “The point is for you to see what you’re doing. To stop being so damn reckless and stubborn. To stop acting like your life doesn’t matter.”

You frowned, visibly irritated, but you didn’t turn away. The tension between you was tangible now, a slow-burning fuse. “So, what do you want from me?” you asked, your voice edged with exhaustion.

He let out a long breath, dragging a hand through his hair like that might somehow ease the knot in his chest. “I want you to stop throwing yourself into danger like it’s worth nothing,” he said, almost a whisper, soaked in desperation. His eyes locked on yours, hoping—begging—you’d finally hear him.

You held his gaze for a long moment. “You’re exaggerating,” you said flatly, that faint smirk returning with a hint of mockery.

James rolled his eyes hard, his whole face tensing in frustration. “I’m not exaggerating. You were reckless. You could’ve seriously hurt yourself.”

“But I didn’t,” you shot back, indifference curling in your tone like a shield.

He sighed again, slower this time, dragging a hand down his face. “That’s not the point,” he said, more calmly now, though the edge hadn’t left his voice. “The point is that you could have. You were so focused on winning, you didn’t even realize how close you were to—” He cut himself off, closing his eyes for a moment. The thought was too much. “You were this close to ending up dead.”

“I wouldn’t have died,” you said with a shrug. “Just… severely injured.”

James scoffed in disbelief, shaking his head with a bitter laugh. “And you think that’s better? You didn’t stop for one second to think about the consequences?”

“I did think about it,” you replied simply, your tone unchanged.

He stared at you, stunned. “So you knew? You knew it was dangerous and kept going?” He shook his head again, voice rising slightly. “You’re unbelievable.”

His voice was thick with disbelief and something else—disappointment. “You could’ve died. And you didn’t care. You just kept flying like nothing else mattered. Like you don’t even matter.”

“James…” Your voice softened at last.

“What?” he snapped, still tense—too tense to notice that, for the first time, you’d called him by his first name.

“I’m fine. I’m alive.” Calmly. Quietly. Your eyes gentler now.

He stared at you for a beat, silence stretching between you. The anger still burned beneath his skin, but now something else flickered behind his eyes—relief. And frustration.

“You’re fine,” he echoed, almost bitter. “That’s all you’ve got to say? You could’ve broken your neck, and all you say is ‘I’m fine’?”

“Yes… because none of that happened. I am fine…” you paused. “Thanks to you.” That last part came out in a whisper, barely audible, like it physically hurt to say it.

James frowned, tilting his head slightly. He caught the murmur, but not clearly enough to understand it. His expression was still serious, but his tone now carried a hint of curiosity he couldn’t quite hide. “What did you say? I didn’t hear you.”

“I just said I’m fine,” you insisted, shrugging like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

James was now visibly exasperated. “Yeah, I heard that,” he said impatiently. “I want to know what you said after that. I didn’t catch it.”

“I didn’t say anything after that,” you replied quickly, lowering your gaze just a little.

He rolled his eyes again, clearly not buying it. “Don’t lie to me,” eyeing you intently. “I heard you say something. I just didn’t catch it. So say it.”

“You’re delusional,” you muttered, folding your arms, clearly uncomfortable.

James scoffed and shook his head, his patience running thin, though his tone stayed insistent. “No, I’m not. I heard you. I just didn’t understand. What was it?”

You sighed, eyes dropping for just a second, and mumbled, “That I’m fine… thanks to you.”

For a moment, James looked surprised. His expression softened instantly, the irritation fading, though a trace of skepticism still lingered in his eyes. His voice dropped, calmer now. “Are you… thanking me?”

“Kinda,” you said, not quite meeting his eyes.

A playful smile crept onto James’s lips, and the usual mischievous glint returned to his eyes. He spoke in a teasing tone, but it was warm, not mocking. “‘Kinda’? That’s all I get?”

“Fine. Thanks for catching me. Happy now?”

He let out a light laugh, and his smile turned into that classic, arrogant half-smirk he was known for. He shook his head, clearly amused. “Aww, was that so hard to say?”

“It really was,” you admitted with a resigned little shrug.

James kept smiling, smug but gentle, his voice still playful. “Well then… you’re welcome.”

“You’re impossible,” you huffed, though a small smile tugged at the corner of your lips.

He laughed again, clearly delighted by your reaction. “You love saying that, don’t you?”

“Because it’s exactly what you are.” You sighed, glancing away for a second. You couldn’t believe you’d just thanked him. James Potter. You swallowed and forced yourself to keep it together.

“Well… I’ve to go,” you broke the second of silence, tossing your hair back with a casual gesture, though if your heart was beating faster than you’d like to admit.

He gave you that arrogant grin he always seemed to have ready, like he knew exactly how much he got under your skin. “Running away? What a surprise.”

You rolled your eyes and shrugged, a crooked smile on your lips. “See you later, loser,” while turning around before he could answer.

You heard him scoff behind you and couldn’t help but smile a little more. “See you, reckless little headache,” he called after you, in that teasing tone you knew far too well.

You didn’t answer. You just lifted one hand in a lazy wave, not looking back, as you walked off toward the stairs.

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It had only been a couple of days since your last conversation with James. Not a long time, really. Just a few days, a handful of shared classes, some fleeting encounters in the hallways. But it was enough for everything to feel different. Undeniably different. As if something invisible and heavy had settled between the two of you, altering the air you shared without either of you being able to name it. A subtle presence, almost imperceptible, yet impossible to ignore.

The atmosphere between you had changed. Not explosively, not with grand gestures, but with a quiet kind of transformation—like the air growing heavier before a storm. There were no shouts, no arguments, none of those sharp jabs you used to trade as if they were part of a daily ritual. You simply… didn’t speak.

And that, more than any past argument, made everything seem stranger. It wasn’t a truce, nor a peace hard-won. It was a kind of carefully maintained void, as if both of you had silently concluded that it was better to stay quiet than risk saying something you couldn’t take back.

There were no provocations, no sarcasm disguised as humor. None of those intense looks full of irritation or underlying tension that had once been inevitable whenever you shared a room. What had once been a constant battle of wit and willpower, an all-out war of words and gestures, had completely vanished.

In its place, a carefully measured distance had been born. A kind of silent pact to keep out of each other’s way, as if any wrong move might break the fragile balance that had formed between you. And the worst part was that no one needed to ask what had happened. Everyone noticed. Everyone felt it. But no one dared to mention it.

Because the silence between you and James wasn’t accidental. It wasn’t the kind of silence born of forgetfulness or disinterest. It was something deeper, something heavier. A silence that, on its own, spoke louder than any previous fight.

And his friends noticed immediately. No one had to say anything; there was no need to ask. It was evident in the small gestures, in the subtle absences that suddenly weighed more than any spoken word. They noticed how, when he passed you in the halls, he no longer opened his mouth to make a sarcastic remark or furrowed his brow like he was gearing up for another verbal skirmish. He simply looked at you—if he looked at all—and dropped his gaze slightly, his shoulders losing that usual tension, as if he had suddenly decided not to fight.

Your friends noticed the change in you, too. How your eyes no longer searched for him in a crowd to challenge him from afar. How your firm stride and determined expression no longer came with that spark of provocation you used to reserve just for him. No more cutting words, no more sharp remarks delivered with surgical precision, knowing exactly how to strike a nerve.

None of that was there anymore.

Now, when you saw him, you simply walked past. Not a glance, not a reaction. As if he weren’t there. As if he were just another figure in the crowd, as irrelevant as any stranger in Hogwarts robes. And he, who had always been ready to take the blow and strike back with equal force, now seemed to avoid it at all costs.

Silence.

Complete and absolute.

A silence that didn’t scream revenge or hold onto resentment; a silence that, somehow, hurt more than any past fight. Because this silence wasn’t empty. It was full of everything you hadn’t dared to say.

And that was what stood out the most.

Not the silence itself, but its strangeness. Its abnormality. Because it wasn’t what people were used to. It wasn’t what they expected to see when the two of you were in the same space. It wasn’t the usual anymore. It wasn’t what had, over time, become almost a constant within the castle—like the bustle in the corridors or the constant hum in the Common Room.

People had grown used to that near-electric tension that sparked whenever you crossed paths. To the back-and-forth of sharp remarks that always hovered between genuine irritation and poorly disguised amusement. To the sparks that flew when you exchanged words, glances, or simply shared presence. It was a game—dangerous, yes, but also fascinating—that seemed to feed itself, grow by inertia. A constant tug-of-war, a dance of egos that kept everyone watching, expectant, as if witnessing something greater than a simple school rivalry.

They were used to seeing you like that: on the edge of confrontation, as if every conversation were a chess match where neither of you wanted to concede. As if provoking each other were an essential part of your routine. As if neither of you could resist the other’s presence—the temptation to seek them out, just to test them, to get a reaction, to see how far the other’s patience could stretch.

But now… nothing.

Not a word in passing. Not a whispered, mocking comment. Not even a fleeting glance—one of those that lasted barely a second but left a mark. The air between you, once full of tension and fire, now seemed empty. Cold. As if something had been extinguished without warning.

It was as if, without speaking, without needing to make it explicit, you had reached a silent agreement: to disappear from each other’s lives. To erase one another from your orbit. To pretend that the need to clash, to seek each other out with eyes or words, had never existed.

Or maybe… you were just avoiding the inevitable.

Because if one looked closely—and some did, though they would never admit it aloud—they would start to notice certain things. Small details. Tiny gestures that, on their own, might not say much, but together began to form a pattern impossible to ignore.

Like how James, for instance, sometimes lingered a few seconds longer than necessary staring at the entrance of the Great Hall, his expression distant, as if expecting someone to appear amidst the morning crowd of robes and laughter. And when he didn’t see you—when the moment passed and you didn’t arrive—he’d lower his gaze with a swiftness that almost looked like disappointment. Almost.

There was also the fact that he no longer made snide remarks whenever someone mentioned the Hufflepuff team aloud, nor did he try to throw in a veiled jab disguised as a joke. He would just change the subject or go quiet, as if the words were stuck somewhere in his throat.

And you weren’t completely absent from it either. Because sometimes, when you were flying over the Quidditch pitch during team practice, your eyes would wander toward the empty stands. Not really looking for anyone in particular—or so it seemed—but there was always a pause, a slight slowing of your flight, as if you were hoping to find a familiar figure, a face in the crowd... and when you didn’t, you simply sped up again, pretending nothing had happened.

And there was more.

In the few classes you shared, you would always sit on the opposite side of the room if he was already there. Not as a conscious decision to avoid him, but more like an automatic reflex, one you’d learned the hard way.

Sometimes James would slightly turn in the corridors when he heard your voice. A subtle movement, barely noticeable—but it was there.

There was also that moment in the library when you both happened to be there, and neither of you would lift your eyes, but both knew the other was present. That the other had arrived. That the other was sitting just a few tables away—or walking past. And then your whole body would suddenly become hyper-aware: of how loud you were turning the pages, of every movement, every breath.

Sirius was the first to break the heavy silence in the Gryffindor common room. The sound of his History of Magic book slamming onto the table echoed through the space. “When was the last time he threw daggers at the Hufflepuff girl?” he asked, amusement in his voice, though a flicker of unease showed in his eyes.

Remus, buried in a scroll full of Potions notes, looked up and let out a soft sigh. Peter, sitting next to him, tried to hide a grin, but a small chuckle escaped him. “Exactly six days ago,” Remus replied calmly, as if he had the date stored in memory, showing no discomfort at the question.

Sirius raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised. “You’re counting the days?” he teased, but there was a hint of genuine curiosity. He leaned forward, resting his head on his arm atop the table.

“No. But James has been unbearably quiet every time she enters the Great Hall—or whenever she’s nearby. And that, believe me, is more unsettling than when they fight,” Remus added, his voice calm but his eyes thoughtful. His tone was so serious that Sirius didn’t know what to say for a moment.

James, who was a few feet away, pretending to read an article on Quidditch strategies, said nothing. But the subtle shift in his posture, the way he turned the page without even looking at it, made it clear he wasn’t paying attention to a single word. The book stayed open, but his mind was far away.

Sirius glanced at James for a second, unable to resist a mischievous smile. “Wow. What happened to the James Potter who used to dive into fights as easily as he throws a Bludger?” he remarked, throwing a smirk at Remus. But deep down, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something had changed. The atmosphere in the room had felt more tense ever since that Hufflepuff girl crossed paths with his best friend.

Peter, who had been chewing on his quill, stopped and shrugged. “I don’t know what’s worse,” he muttered thoughtfully. “At least before it was entertaining. Now... it feels like they genuinely hate each other.”

Remus frowned, as if weighing every word he’d just heard. “They don’t hate each other,” he said, in a quiet, slightly somber tone. “If they did, it would be easier. The fights, the grudges... everything would be clear. But that’s not what’s happening.”

Sirius looked at him intently, his grin fading. The atmosphere had grown far heavier than he’d anticipated. James was still in his own world, reading without reading, detached from the conversation—but something in him had shifted ever since that argument on the Astronomy Tower.

“What makes you so sure they don’t hate each other?” Sirius asked, his tone less playful now. He really didn’t get it. To him, relationships were simple: either there was friendship, or there was conflict. But this... this didn’t fit.

Remus sighed, glancing at James for a second before returning his gaze to Sirius. “Because James wouldn’t be this quiet if he actually hated her. If he did, there’d be some kind of reaction—something tangible. But he’s just... empty. Like he doesn’t know how to deal with what he’s feeling. And to me, that’s a lot more complicated than any screaming match. The lack of answers is what makes it all so confusing.”

The common room, usually buzzing with noise, felt quieter than usual. Even the other students scattered around the tables seemed unusually subdued, as if the conversation among the four Gryffindors was the only one that mattered.

Peter looked at Remus, trying to grasp the weight of what he’d just said. “So... what do we do with that?” he asked, voice a bit shaky, clearly unsure of what that kind of unresolved tension even meant. For Peter, problems were solved with a few jokes and a good distraction. But this felt deeper. Way deeper.

“Nothing,” Remus replied, a sad smile tugging at his lips. “There’s nothing we can do. All we can do is wait and watch how James deals with it.”

Sirius finally found something to say, but his tone was different from usual. “I guess... it’ll be interesting to see how this ends,” he said, the usual spark gone from his eyes. “Though honestly, this is starting to scare me a little.”

Remus nodded slowly; his thoughtful gaze fixed on James. What had started as a small friction now felt like a silent war. And deep down, they all knew someone would have to give in. But no one knew who it would be.

James slowly turned the page of whatever he was pretending to read, but his eyes never really landed on the words. Everyone knew the answers were inside him, but he didn’t seem willing to share them.

Meanwhile, in the Hufflepuff common room, the conversation between Nora, Owen, and you were taking an unexpected turn. Nora, as always, couldn’t stay quiet when something didn’t make sense to her—and this time was no exception.

“Are you seriously telling me you’re never going to say anything? Ever again?” she asked, her voice filled with disbelief as she chewed a piece of Honeydukes chocolate.

You glanced briefly at the parchment you were writing on, pretending you hadn’t heard her, but you knew it was useless. Nora wasn’t going to drop it—especially not when she saw your face so serious, so distant. Of all moments, this one was the most tense.

“Say what?” you replied, not lifting your gaze, like the words were just noise—just another distraction.

Nora let the chocolate drop into her hand and crossed her arms, watching you with a mix of frustration and concern. “I don’t know. ‘Potter, you’re unbearable’? ‘Stop hogging the pitch when it’s not your turn’? ‘I’d mess up your face if it wasn’t already so wrecked’? Something like that. Anything. For Merlin’s sake, this has gone on too long!”

The mention of James made a knot tighten in your throat, and without meaning to, you let out a dry, humorless laugh. It was all you could manage—laughing so you wouldn’t break. It wasn’t that you didn’t care. You’d just learned to deal with it in your own way—in silence, alone.

“It’s not worth it,” you repeated, like a mantra. The words came out mechanically, as if you’d said them so many times they’d lost their meaning. But deep down, you knew they weren’t entirely true. You knew it wasn’t that easy to let go of what had happened between you and James. That tension now filled every space between you two, and ignoring it wasn’t going to make it disappear.

Owen, who had been sitting quietly by the window, staring outside, finally spoke. His tone was gentler, but no less concerned. “Do you really think that’s going to make it go away?” he asked, not judging—just trying to understand. He knew you didn’t like talking about it, but he also knew the words were there, hovering, waiting.

You sighed and looked at your friends, finally letting go of a bit of the pressure that had been weighing you down. You knew Nora wouldn’t let it drop, and Owen was also quietly waiting for a more honest answer. Even though they both tried to show you support, the truth was that no one could fully understand what was going on in your head.

“No. It’s not going to go away,” you said softly, almost in a whisper, while staring at the quill in your hands. The parchment no longer seemed important—just a background to thoughts you couldn’t focus on. All your mind circled back to was James.

Nora frowned; concern etched on her face. “Then what are you going to do? Because you can’t keep going like this. We’re all noticing it—and so is he.” Her voice was blunt, no sugarcoating. That was sometimes the best way she helped you: with honest. She wasn’t afraid to say what others wouldn’t.

You stopped writing, finally. You couldn’t avoid it anymore. You couldn’t keep pretending nothing was wrong. But what you felt now was more complicated than a simple fight or cold indifference.

“I don’t know,” you admitted at last, looking at Nora, then at Owen. The vulnerability in your voice was something you rarely let show, and you knew your friends felt it, even if they didn’t say anything. You were caught between what you wanted to do and what you felt you should do. Silence settled between the three of you like a heavy blanket, only broken by the soft crunch of Nora’s chocolate.

Owen looked at you with understanding but said nothing. He knew sometimes words weren’t enough for something this tangled. Meanwhile, Nora let herself fall back onto the sofa with a sigh.

“Just... don’t leave everything in limbo,” she said at last. The suggestion was simple but carried a lot of weight.

The sound of the conversation faded as the Hufflepuff common room returned to its usual calm, but in your mind, everything still revolved around the same thing.

A Tuesday afternoon. The Quidditch pitch almost empty. The Gryffindor team had just finished their practice, and the Marauders were heading back to the castle, James and Sirius with their brooms slung over their shoulders, boots caked in mud. The sky was starting to darken, stained with violet clouds, and the air carried that unmistakable smell of damp autumn.

James walked in silence, eyes on the ground, spinning his wand between his fingers absently. Not a joke, not a sarcastic remark about how the Ravenclaw’s new Seeker was so bad.

“So what, we’re not having any more fun messing with the Hufflepuff captain?” Sirius blurted, his usual smirk in place, one eyebrow raised.

Remus shot him a warning look, but it was too late.

James paused for a second. Just a second. He didn’t say anything, but his jaw clenched—just slightly, just enough for all three of them to notice. Then he kept walking, as if he hadn’t heard.

“It was a joke, mate. Relax,” Sirius added, raising his hands. “Though, I’ll admit, the fights with her were the highlight of every Tuesday. A classic. Like Thursday pudding.”

“There’s nothing to fight about,” James muttered without turning around.

“Nothing?” asked Remus, walking beside him, his voice low. He was more perceptive than the other two combined, and he knew James well enough to recognize when something was off. “When was the last time you two exchanged sharp insults?”

“Couple of days ago,” Peter chimed in from behind, in a neutral tone like he was reporting the weather.

“Thanks, Pettigrew, we didn’t need the exact track,” James grumbled without stopping.

There was a pause, as if the three of them were mentally calculating how far they could push before James snapped.

“So what happened?” Sirius asked, cocking his head with genuine curiosity now. “Did she finally bore you? Beat you in a fight and crushed your ego? Or are you just swallowing your feelings like an idiot?”

James came to an abrupt stop. The wind tousled his hair, and for a moment, the pitch fell completely silent. “I’m not bottling anything up,” he said quietly, but firmly.

“Of course you are, mate,” said Remus, with that rare kind of patience he only used when he truly cared. “You’re bottling everything up. And you’re not even pretending you’re not anymore.”

James pressed his lips together. He closed his eyes for a second, as if he needed to gather strength just to speak. “It’s not worth dragging this on,” he said at last, and there was a strange bitterness in his voice—something that didn’t usually belong there. “That’s it. It’s over. It was fun while it lasted, but... no more.”

“You really believe that?” Sirius asked, more serious now.

James looked at him, and for a moment, there was nothing but exhaustion in his eyes. Not physical tiredness—something heavier. Emotional fatigue, like he’d been fighting a battle he didn’t even remember starting.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “All I know is that talking to her is... complicated. Everything with her is complicated. And if I don’t talk, if I don’t look at her, if I don’t say anything... then at least I’m not making things worse.”

“Or maybe you’re just avoiding the inevitable,” Remus murmured.

James didn’t answer. He simply started walking again, a little faster this time.

Peter exchanged a glance with Sirius, who shrugged. Then they picked up their pace to catch up.

“What if it’s not the trouble that bothers you?” Sirius said quietly, just beside him. “What if it’s that you don’t know what to do with how she makes you feel?”

James stopped again. This time, he said nothing. He didn’t deny it. Didn’t confirm it. He just looked down at the ground, at the dry leaves crunching beneath his boots, and stood there for a moment, like the answer might be hidden in the mud or in the wind beginning to pick up.

Then, without another word, he murmured, “Let’s head back to the castle.”

And the three followed him, saying nothing more—because they knew that in that silence, there was more truth than in any half-spoken confession.

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James was standing in the middle of a fifth-floor corridor, like so many times before, with his usual three companions. They were leaning against the stone wall, taking up far more space than necessary, talking far too loudly for a time between classes. Sirius was gesturing wildly as he recounted some absurd story that had Peter laughing uncontrollably, while Remus tried—without much conviction—to get them to lower their voices. The laughter of the four echoed through the corridor like a familiar soundtrack, a regular occurrence for anyone passing by. It was the same old scene—messy, loud, as if the whole world revolved around them.

And then, without warning, you turned the corner.

You were walking fast, determined, clutching your books tightly to your chest. Your robes were a bit disheveled, and your face held a look of focused determination, as if your mind was already in the classroom ahead. You weren’t expecting to run into a group blocking the hallway. And you certainly weren’t expecting him to be standing right there.

The collision was inevitable. Literally.

You both staggered a step back from the impact. One of your books slipped from your grasp and hit the stone floor with a sharp thud that seemed unnaturally loud amidst the suddenly fading laughter. The Marauders’ chatter died off as if someone had hit a switch. For a split second, time froze.

You looked at him first, your eyes finding his like it was instinct. There was something defiant in your gaze—something that had been simmering for weeks and now, finally, found a crack to slip through.

“You do know corridors are for walking, not chatting, don’t you, Potter?”

You didn’t say it with anger. It came out in that perfect blend of annoyance and dry sarcasm you used to reserve just for him. Like the weeks of silence vanished in that instant, bringing everything back to familiar, if uncomfortable, territory.

James didn’t hesitate. Didn’t even blink. “And you do know you’re supposed to look where you’re going.”

The tension that followed was almost tangible. No one said a word. Sirius froze mid-laugh, mouth still open. Peter’s eyes went wide, like he was witnessing the return of an anticipated storm. Even Remus, usually so composed, frowned slightly—watching.

“Throwing yourself at me to get my attention? You could’ve chosen something less dramatic,” James added, flashing a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Peter laughed like it was the best joke he’d heard all week. Sirius let out a theatrical “Oof!” clearly delighted. Remus let his head fall back against the wall, muttering something that sounded a lot like, “Not again…”

You didn’t even blink. “And you always block hallways like they’re an extension of your common room” you said, crouching down calmly to retrieve your books, never breaking eye contact. Your voice was steady, but sharp as a freshly-honed blade.

James opened his mouth, like he was considering a clever comeback, but no words came. For once, he hadn’t expected that answer. Sirius watched with a mocking glint in his eye, but also curiosity. Peter rocked on his heels, unsure whether to laugh again or stay quiet. Remus remained silent, though now he was watching you closely—measuring, calculating.

“You know,” you continued, rising to your feet, gripping your books tightly to your chest, “not all of us have time to loiter around making noise and taking up space like the rest of the school doesn’t exist. Some of us have more important things to do.”

The tension became almost unbearable. James’s grin faltered slightly, and while he still looked composed, something in his stance shifted. A slight tightening of his jaw, a flash of something else in his eyes—something rarely seen.

“And yet, here you are,” he replied, voice lower. “Right in the middle of our noise.”

“Lucky you, Potter,” you shot back just as quietly, your voice intimate but unmistakably clear. “You bump into someone and already have a snappy comeback prepared.”

James tilted his head just slightly, with that familiar smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes—but the spark behind it was unmistakable.

“Lucky you,” he murmured back. “Found yourself an excuse to talk to me.”

It was just a moment. But it was enough.

You narrowed your eyes but didn’t respond immediately. Part of you wanted to keep going—to throw another sharp line, to cut through that arrogant armor he wore like an invisibility cloak. But another part—smaller, more annoying—wondered if that was exactly what he wanted.

So instead, you simply stepped to the side, still looking him in the eye. “Lucky for me, I don’t plan on staying.”

And without waiting for a response, you kept walking down the corridor, forcing them to move out of the way as you passed. The silence that lingered behind you stretched a little longer than usual.

That brief encounter, that minimal exchange, held more weight than any of the shouting matches from weeks before. It was a crack in the wall you had both so carefully built. Not a truce. Not a reconciliation. But a break in the silence.

James watched you until you disappeared at the end of the corridor. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t move. Just stood there with an unreadable expression—though Remus didn’t miss it.

As soon as you turned the corner and vanished into the crowd of students passing through the halls, the group remained quiet for a few seconds. It wasn’t awkward silence—but it was heavy, expectant.

Sirius was the first to speak, using that tone he always saved for when something amused him far more than it should.

“Well, well, well…” he said with theatrical slowness, folding his arms. “Are we back in the game, Prongs?”

James didn’t answer right away. He kept staring at the spot where you had just disappeared, as if the corridor still held some echo of your voice. There was no smile on his face, none of that cocky expression he usually wore when he came out on top of a verbal exchange. What he had now was something more restrained, more serious. As if, deep down, he was regretting something he’d said—or maybe something he hadn’t.

Remus watched him with the quiet patience that was so typical of him. He didn’t mock, didn’t exaggerate. He simply observed, like someone reading between the lines of a scroll that had been handled too many times.

“So the vow of silence lasted sixteen days?” he asked—not mockingly, more like stating a fact.

“There was no vow of silence,” James replied curtly, still not looking away from where she’d vanished. “And this was… nothing. A collision. Literally.”

Peter, who had remained quiet until that point, let out a sound somewhere between a nervous laugh and genuine concern. He glanced sideways, as if checking whether someone else might’ve overheard the exchange.

“Do you think she’s mad?” he asked softly, like saying it too loud might summon the answer.

“Her?” Sirius replied, a wide grin now spreading across his face. “If that was anger, I call it progress. She used to act like he didn’t even exist. Now at least she ran over him.”

He paused, clearly enjoying his own phrasing.

“Metaphorically. And physically.”

Remus let out a long sigh and leaned back against the wall, arms crossed.

“It was strange,” he said at last. “Not enough for them to start fighting again, but just enough to know this whole ignoring-each-other thing… it’s not going to last much longer. Whatever that between them is, it’s unresolved.”

James finally turned on his heel to face them. His dark eyes glinted with something that wasn’t anger but wasn’t clarity either.

“There’s nothing between us,” he said sharply, like he needed to say it more to himself than to the others.

Silence fell again among the Marauders, but this time it was heavy with meaning. Sirius just smirked, that half-smile he always wore when he knew he was right and didn’t need to prove it anymore. He clapped his best friend on the shoulder and lowered his voice.

“Of course not. Absolutely nothing. That’s why you look like you just swallowed a Bludger every time you see her.”

James didn’t respond. He just looked down and shoved his hands into the pockets of his robes, as if trying to contain something threatening to rise to the surface. He tried to pick up the conversation they’d been having before the collision, but the thread was lost. And they all knew it: something had changed.

You were walking fast through the corridors, as if moving quickly could somehow put distance between you and what had just happened. Your lips were pressed into a thin line, your brow furrowed, your thoughts a hopeless tangle. With each step, the scrolls you’d scooped up after the collision trembled in your hand, like they still remembered the impact.

Charms class was on the third floor, but in that moment, it could’ve been on Mars—you would’ve kept walking just as distracted. Your mind kept replaying what had just occurred.

You’d spent weeks building a wall of indifference. You’d convinced yourself it was better not to speak, not to look at him, not to give him any space in your day. That if you ignored him consistently enough, he’d stop mattering. But it had only taken a second—an accident, a brush of contact, one miscalculated corner—for all that self-control to collapse like a house of cards.

"Throwing yourself at me to get my attention? You could’ve picked something less dramatic."

You repeated it in your head, hearing his stupid voice, with that damned confidence that never wavered. The line was trivial, almost a joke. But the way he said it… wasn’t. There was something else. Something you weren’t sure if it bothered you or confused you.

You entered the classroom with firm steps, though the tremble in your fingers hadn’t entirely gone away. You sat in your usual seat, opened your Charms book, and pretended to pay attention—even though you knew you hadn’t heard a single word the professor had said in the first few minutes.

Part of you was frustrated that you’d spoken to him at all. Another part—though you didn’t want to admit it—felt alive. As if that brief exchange had reignited something you thought long buried.

You didn’t know what it was. But you knew one thing for sure:

You weren’t going to be able to ignore it much longer.

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That Saturday, your friends—and a couple of your Quidditch teammates—had dragged you to the stands of the stadium, forcing you to watch the third match of the season: Gryffindor vs. Ravenclaw. You’d tried to resist, of course. You had a pile of homework waiting, a training session to plan, and, honestly, zero desire to spend the morning watching James Potter strut around on his broom in front of half the school.

But Owen had insisted, using logic you couldn’t entirely refute: “We have to study the Ravenclaws,” he said with a serious tone, as if it were a matter of life and death. “They’re slippery, unpredictable… no one really knows how they play.”

And he wasn’t wrong. The ravens were rarely seen training. Their schedules were so erratic that more than one person had questioned whether they trained at all. They entered the pitch before dawn and left just before classes started, like ghosts. There was no chance of spying on them—not even with the help of an invisibility cloak. So there you were. Against your will, seated in one of the middle rows, a yellow-and-black scarf knotted around your neck, arms crossed, brow slightly furrowed as you waited for the match to begin. The air was cold and smelled of damp grass, polished broomsticks, and collective excitement. Around you, students from every house filled the stands with enthusiasm.

You crossed your arms tighter, uncomfortable, and let out a sigh that didn’t go unnoticed by Owen, who was beside you eating an apple with a smug look on his face.

“Oh, come on, captain,” he said with a teasing grin. “A bit of team spirit. This is field intel, not torture.”

“It’s Saturday morning. It’s freezing. I haven’t had breakfast. And I’ve been forced to sit next to a couple who hasn’t stopped kissing since we got here,” you replied, turning your head with a resigned expression toward the pair beside you.

“But you always say Quidditch is won with strategy. And what better strategy than observing your enemies?” Nora chimed in from the other side, bundled up to her nose in her scarf, though her eyes sparkled with amusement.

“Observing the enemy, yes. Freezing to watch Gryffindor was not part of the plan.”

And, as if the universe had been listening just to mess with you, that was precisely the moment the teams took to the field.

The roar was immediate. A mix of cheers, shouts, and applause filled the stadium as the scarlet and blue robes soared over the pitch in formation. The sound of broomsticks slicing through the air made you look up almost by reflex.

And there he was.

James Potter led the Gryffindor formation with that same charming arrogance that followed him through the corridors. It was obvious the pitch was his natural element. He didn’t just fly—he owned the sky like it belonged to him. He gave commands with confident gestures, and his teammates responded with perfect precision. The game hadn’t even started, and it already looked like he had it all under control.

The crowd's excitement grew by the minute, and all you could think about was how many more useful things you could be doing right now.

Or at least, that’s what you forced yourself to think… because, even if you wouldn’t admit it—not even under Veritaserum—part of you knew your discomfort wasn’t just about the weather or your to-do list.

The real reason was at the center of the pitch, adjusting his gloves with arrogant ease and that carefree smile that seemed permanently etched onto his face since birth. Sitting on his broom like it was a natural extension of his body, chatting animatedly with his teammates, laughing with Sirius Black, bumping fists with another chaser. He looked perfectly at home.

And you couldn’t help the way something—annoying, uncontrollable, unnecessary—stirred inside you when you saw him.

“Careful not to stare too long. Might strain your neck,” Owen muttered beside you, still watching the pitch.

You shot him a sharp look, but he only grinned, clearly entertained, as he settled further into his seat.

“I’m watching the Ravenclaws,” you said stiffly. “As you should be doing.”

“Sure, sure,” Nora nodded from your other side. “And I swallowed a Snitch this morning.”

You rolled your eyes. The sound of Gryffindor’s drums started to rumble, announcing the teams’ final formation. You tightened your scarf, took a deep breath, and forced yourself to focus.

You had a mission.

Study the Ravenclaws.

Only the Ravenclaws.

The whistle blew—sharp and clear, slicing through the cold air like a dagger. The match exploded into motion: Bludgers shot off, the Quaffle was tossed into the sky, and the players scattered like a controlled storm, each with a clear purpose.

Your eyes didn’t take long to find him. Not the Quaffle, not the Beaters, not even the fastest Chasers on either side. Your attention was focused on the highest point of the sky, where James Potter had already risen above the chaos, scanning every inch of the field.

Seekers played a different game. While the rest fought for points, they hunted the final prize. And he did it with a level of focus that stood in stark contrast to his usual attitude on the ground. No jokes. No smug smiles. Just a sharp gaze and precise movements, almost feline, like he could feel the Snitch in his bones.

“You see that?” Nora whispered beside you, leaning slightly forward to keep him in view. “He hasn’t moved from that quadrant in over a minute.”

You nodded, narrowing your eyes. “He’s casting a net. Closing in on zones to narrow the search.”

“Like you,” Owen added, crossing his arms with one eyebrow raised.

You didn’t answer. But yes, in a way, it surprised you. James moved with calculation. He flew in wide circles, crossed the field diagonally, and paused briefly at strategic points. And when one of the Ravenclaw Beaters sent a Bludger his way, he didn’t just dodge it easily—he used the momentum to gain height and shift his angle, not wasting a single second.

For several minutes, the match turned into a chaotic and vibrant choreography, but you weren’t seeing it all anymore. You were only watching him.

Until, suddenly, he stopped mid-air.

The Snitch.

You saw it too: a golden flicker hovering a few meters above the west hoop. Almost no one else noticed. But he did. He turned his broom sharply, body nearly parallel to the handle, and dove. The speed of his descent made the crowd erupt in cheers. The Ravenclaw Seeker reacted a second too late—and that second was all James needed.

He caught it with a flawless maneuver, closing his fist around the Snitch as if it had always been part of the plan.

Owen stared, mouth agape. “Merlin! Even I wouldn’t have reacted that fast.”

“That's because you usually react after the matches even start,” Nora teased, elbowing him.

But you said nothing. You kept watching James as he descended slowly, the Snitch still in his hand and a satisfied smile painted on his face.

The stadium exploded with deafening cheers, but you couldn’t look away. Something about the way he’d caught the Snitch left you speechless. He’d been so precise, so exact, that you couldn’t help but feel a strange mix of admiration and frustration.

The rest of the Gryffindor players gathered around him, applauding and celebrating, but James barely paused. He’d caught the Snitch as effortlessly as someone might catch a falling feather.

That’s when you realized your breathing had quickened. It wasn’t just the game that kept you glued to the stands.

It was him.

And you couldn’t deny that the uncomfortable feeling inside you was becoming harder to ignore.

You were walking down the stadium steps, heading back to the castle, with Nora and Owen chatting about their weekend plans. Nora suggested a trip to Hogsmeade that afternoon, while Owen groaned about all the homework he had and how it killed his mood for any outing. Between laughs and jokes about whether magic could do his assignments for him, you tried to relax, to forget for a moment about the match and everything that had happened on the field.

The crowd was starting to disperse, the buzz slowly fading, and the crisp afternoon air hit your face as you reached the bottom of the stairs. But just as you were about to take the next step into the courtyard, a familiar voice stopped you cold.

“Did you enjoy the show?” The voice was soft, but laced with challenge, and it made you freeze. It was him.

James Potter walked toward you, his robes billowing behind him and the golden Snitch still in his hand, as if there were nothing more important in that moment than making sure you knew he’d won. The smirk on his face was as arrogant as ever, but there was something else—an unmistakable gleam in his eyes that suggested that, for some reason, he wanted your attention.

Owen stopped when he saw the two of you falling behind, and Nora gave you a knowing look before walking a few steps ahead.

You didn’t look at James right away, focusing instead on the path ahead, but you knew you couldn’t ignore him for long. Finally, you turned to him with an expression that teetered somewhere between indifference and defiance—though he, of all people, likely knew that you hadn’t yet managed to erase the image of him catching the Snitch with near-perfect precision.

“The show?” you repeated, raising an eyebrow, fully aware of what he wanted to hear. The sarcasm was inevitable. “Sure. Pretty impressive. I didn’t think you could catch anything other than your own ego.”

James’s smile widened, but this time there was something more genuine in his eyes, like he was actually enjoying the challenge.

“Hey, not every day a bloke pulls off his very own ‘great feat.’ I thought you’d appreciate it,” he said, spinning the Snitch between his fingers like it meant nothing at all.

He was clearly teasing, but there was something in his posture—a subtle provocation. Like he was testing you. Like it was a game.

“Appreciate it?” you repeated with a small smirk. “Don’t worry. I have no intention of worship Seekers. Or oversized egos.”

James stepped a little closer, that smug smile still playing on his lips, though there was a flicker of something else in his eyes—like he enjoyed this back-and-forth, this push and pull only the two of you seemed to know how to play.

“I wasn’t expecting applause,” he said. “But if you ever decide to give me a chance to show you what else I can do…” He shrugged, almost like he was joking, though there was an edge of sincerity beneath it. “Might be worth considering.”

You looked at him for a moment, feeling the tension rise between you again, unsure what to do with it. It was a provocation, no doubt—but there was something in his tone, in the way he stood there, that made you wonder if he meant something more.

“In your dreams, Potter,” you replied, not breaking eye contact, refusing to be pulled into his game—even if a small spark of curiosity had already been lit.

Apparently satisfied with your answer, James grinned again—that same maddening, challenging grin.

“See you around, Captain,” he said as he turned to leave, walking toward the locker rooms with that infuriating ease of his, still toying with the Snitch like he hadn’t just won a critical match. Like the win didn’t weigh on him at all.

You stood there for a few seconds, watching him disappear into the crowd of students. Something inside you—a small flicker you couldn’t name, irritation or curiosity—was still burning. Because James Potter wasn’t just a boy who sought attention. He was a boy who knew how to get it. And now, for some reason you didn’t want to examine too closely, he had yours.

“You okay?” Nora asked, reappearing at your side again—though she’d clearly been watching from closer than you realized.

“Yeah. Perfectly fine,” you replied, not entirely convincing, quickly regaining your composure as you walked with her and Owen, who had also lingered nearby, watching like a silent spectator to a play that was just beginning.

“Did he say something interesting?” Nora pressed, using that tone she always used when pretending to sound innocent—and failing miserably.

“Nothing worth to repeat,” you replied, though the echo of his words still bounced around your mind.

“You looked at him like it was,” Owen said with a shrug.

You shot him a glare, and he just raised his hands in surrender—though he couldn’t hide the amused smile tugging at his lips.

“What you saw was sheer amazement at the height of human arrogance. Rarely do you get to witness something so... refined.” You said it with as much seriousness as you could muster.

Nora snorted. Owen let out a loud laugh.

“Sure, sure. Refined. Like Ravenclaw’s plays, right?”

You didn’t answer. Because the truth was, yes. You were studying him. Maybe not with strategic intentions. Maybe not for training purposes. But you were watching him. Noticing how he moved on the field, how he spoke, how he looked your way even when it seemed like he wasn’t.

And that… wasn’t part of the plan.

You quickened your pace, letting the castle’s familiar buzz wrap around you. It was still early. Hogsmeade awaited. The weekend was just beginning.

Part three.

Tags (I hope you enjoy this part<3): @whoismonse @collectionof-cells

#marauders era #james potter #james fleamont potter #marauders #james potter x reader #x reader #the marauders #hp marauders #james potter x you #james potter imagine #foolexby

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stellar-bluelock · 4 months ago

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until the world knows your name ☆ itoshi rin x reader

On the night of the U-20 vs. Blue Lock XI exhibition match, you will never forget the way everyone's jaw drops when you ask where Itoshi Rin is.

"Rin?" Someone asks in confusion. "You wanna see him?"

You hear the other members whisper, but you're not that surprised.

If Rin hasn't changed throughout his stay in Blue Lock, it makes sense for his teammates to question how confidently you request for his presence.

"Uh, he was in the locker room when I saw him last. I don't know if he's still there...or if he's in the mood to see any visitors?"

Ah. The celebrated striker of the night, Isagi Yoichi.

"That's not unlike him," you respond. "But, could anyone tell him that I'm here to see him?"

One of the blue-haired members volunteers—a quick memory of remarkable passing abilities flashes in your mind. He asks for your name before returning inside the main building.

The chilly air bites at your face as you wait. For a few moments, silence hangs heavy in the atmosphere.

Well, up until someone opens their mouth. The dam breaks.

"Are you Rin's friend?"

"A secret sibling we didn't know about?"

"Significant other?"

"Guys, don't bother them."

You chuckle, a little amused at their curiosity.

(You'll never admit it, but there's a selfish joy you feel from being someone that Rin can trust wholeheartedly.)

"Best friend."

Your answer effectively cuts off their stream of questions—for a few seconds, at most.

The concept of Rin having a best friend seems entirely foreign to them.

"You're..."

"Wait, they're looking for Rin, right? Not Sae?"

"Are you also friends with Sae?"

"What the heck happened between those two-"

Oh, that's not territory they can cross.

"I won't entertain any other questions, sorry." You smile, perhaps a little too sweetly. "But anyway, congratulations on the game."

Some of the boys pout at being denied the chance to learn juicy information about their teammate; thankfully, they don't protest.

"Thanks, it was a tough one," Isagi states and you nod.

This is the first time you've met the striker, but your gut tells you that he's Rin's newest rival—if Rin's glare at the end of the match was anything to by.

"Even I couldn't tell how it was going to end," you admit. "You all had me at the edge of my seat."

"I was lucky to be in the right spot." Isagi pauses for a moment. "But, it only happened because Rin managed to get the ball."

He smiles but it falters for a moment. "I just wish that he was a little happier about the win, but at least he seems fired up!"

"That's Rin for you."

"Are you talking about me?"

At the sound of a new voice, everyone's head simultaneously turns to the facility's entrance.

Rin's eyes are narrowed in suspicion, but you see the way they widen a fraction when they land on you.

(You're not sure if anyone ever notices, but you always do.)

"Yes. I was looking for you."

"You should've gone home. It's getting late."

A few scandalized gasps escape from the group, but a quick glare from Rin shuts them up.

"Uh, we'll leave you to it...nice meeting you!" Isagi laughs nervously, hastily pushing the rest of the team away.

You chuckle at the chaos while Rin scoffs. However, as the rest of the Blue Lock members disappear from sight, you can see his shoulders relax more.

It's just you two now.

As you look at his expression, you realize that it holds a wild mix of emotions. You can't tell what it is just yet.

So, you start with what you know.

"What did Sae tell you on the field?"

The frown is immediate.

"Piece of shit," he seethes. "Didn't even acknowledge me. Talked to me just to praise that stupid Isagi."

You click your tongue. When you were all kids, Sae was never the best with words and talking to others.

(Even then, you find yourself wondering what the hell happened to him in Spain.)

"Just because he scored that damn goal." Rin clenches his fists. "The whole team was centered around me and my attack ability. I got that ball!"

He lowers his head, shaking in frustration. "But nothing. Everyone's cheering his name. Even my shitty brother would rather talk about him."

Hesitantly, you reach a hand out to brush his bangs to the side. Out of instinct, you nearly want to tell him that everything will be okay.

That's what you used to tell him in middle school; a bad match, a bad score on a test, a scolding from his parents, a minor injury, even small arguments with Sae.

But now...those words feel empty. Not when his life has truly turned upside down, for better or for worse.

"Rin?"

He hasn't pushed your hand away, so you get a clear view of his teal eyes, round and unguarded—the very ones that have been burned into your memory for years.

"Although your team won, you have every right to feel frustrated."

He sighs. "Finally. I've had enough of them telling me to cheer up."

"They've been pestering you all these months, huh?" You chuckle lightly.

"I'm sick of it. They keep thinking we're friends. We're not. They're all rivals. It's bullshit."

You recall Isagi trying to hug Rin on the field earlier, only to fail miserably; you can only imagine his and the others' futile attempts.

"Well, whatever the case, stay true to yourself, yeah?" You punch his arm lightly. "You are Itoshi Rin."

Though he doesn't smile, something in his eyes lights up.

"I am Itoshi Rin." He says quietly. "I don't need him. I'm not Itoshi Sae's little brother."

It almost seems like he's saying it to himself instead of you, but his statement makes you sigh in relief.

It's precisely what you (and perhaps Sae) wanted him to realize all this time.

"Yeah. You were never meant to live in his shadow. You're here to make a name for yourself. Rin, do you even know how many people in the world tuned in to this match?"

He shakes his head.

"It's all over the news. It's being streamed everywhere." You smile to yourself, recalling how excited you were to finally see him again.

"But listen, Rin. You held your own throughout the game. You scored a goal. You blasted through the U-20 defense. You managed that one-on-one with Sae. There are people out there that have their eyes on you."

You take his hands into yours, squeezing them gently.

"Whatever you feel about this match today, tomorrow, a week, or months from now, you need to keep them watching. Score the next goal, keep on playing. Don't stop until the world knows your name."

masterlist

#stellarwrites #first bllk fic hooray #so i wrote this like i was possessed? (not with my tongue out tho lol)#i might cry at this tomorrow afternoon but im trying to stop being a perfectionist #get rid of the writers block ykno #blue lock #bllk #itoshi rin #x reader #blue lock x reader #bllk x reader #itoshi rin x reader #blue lock imagines #blue lock oneshot #blue lock scenarios #fluff #blue lock fic #itoshi rin fic

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rafesteddy · 10 months ago

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𝕊𝕙𝕒𝕣𝕚𝕟𝕘 ℙ𝕒𝕣𝕥 𝟚 – 𝕋𝕨𝕚𝕟 ℝ𝕒𝕗𝕖 𝔽𝕚𝕔

+18 𝓜𝓲𝓷𝓸𝓻 𝓓𝓝𝓘

𝙲𝚞𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗𝙱𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚜!𝚁𝚊𝚏𝚎 𝚡 𝙱𝚞𝚣𝚣𝙲𝚞𝚝!𝚁𝚊𝚏𝚎 𝚡 𝙶𝙵!𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

Warning: Language, drug usage, drinking, name calling, choking, pet names, sharing kink, ownership kink, fingering, unprotected p in v, choking, cuckolding, rough sex, anal sex, oral male receiving, oral female receiving, threesome, degradation, hair pulling, pussy slapping, female oral stim from the back, the twins talk about the reader in an explicit manner without her.

📖 After meeting Rafe's (CurtainBangs!) twin brother Cam (BuzzCut!) for the first time, Rafe gives you a proposal you can't help but accept: sharing you.

❕❕𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚡 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎. 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚌𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎. 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚣𝚎𝚛𝚘 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛. 𝙸𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚍𝚘 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍. 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚞𝚖𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗❕❕

Rafe’s POV:

“Too bad you’re not coming in two weeks,” I drone as I relax on the couch, kicking my feet up on the coffee table. I run my fingers through my hair, turning my hat backward as I shift my attention to the bathroom, watching Y/n’s shadow moves underneath it. Baby girl…

“What’s goin’ on then?” Cam asks, mindlessly flipping through the TV; pulling up Netflix.

“MacLaren’s comin’ to town for a soccer game.”

“No shit,” Cam grins. “Aunt Connie and Uncle Matt comin’ too?”

“I don’t know. Probably,” I shrug.

“He bringin’ Zoey?”

“Hope not,” I sough. “Girl’s a dud.”

Cam snickers as he lifts his White Claw to his lips, draining the can. “She’s no, Y/n. That’s for sure. You sure this is okay, buddy?” Cam asks as he reaches behind his ear, fishing out a joint.

“Dude…” I scoff, narrowing my eyes on his as he blazes up. “Season ain’t over for me.”

“That’s a shame, brother,” Cam chuckles cruelly before popping it between his lips. “This is good shit. Remember, you ended my season, dickhead. I deserve this shit,” he gripes, his voice already gravelly from the weed. He relaxes his head on the back of the couch, blowing a thick cloud of smoke to the ceiling. “Your girl is stunning. Fuck. She’s somethin’ special,” Cam rolls his head to the side, matching my eyes.

“What did I tell ya?” I gloat as I extend my fingers, reaching for the joint. “Just one hit.”

“Rafey… I dunno,” he mocks, eyeing it as he rolls it between his fingers. “The season ain’t over.”

“Shut the fuck up,” I clip before snatching it from his hands, ripping the joint between my lips. The sticky smoke swirls in my lungs, quenching a fraction of my thirst. “Fuck,” I groan through my exhale, passing it back to his reluctantly. “Take this shit before I smoke it all.”

“Ya didn’t answer my question, dumbfuck,” Cam mumbles, joint dangling from his lips. “You sure you’re okay with this?” I look toward the closed bathroom door, listening for y/n. Her little heels click across the tile, causing my excitement to build even more.

Goddamn. I love watchin’ my girls get fucked. She’s it. She’s that forever type of love. This high is gonna hit different. ‘Course I share. It’s like watchin’ porn, but I’m the star. I’m cuckolding myself… I don’t look at Cam. I’m not a perv like that. But, watching the woman I love get railed by a man who looks like me is a fuckin’ trip. And two of me versus one of them, holy shit, that’s ecstasy.

I’m not jealous of Cam. It also helps that I’m bigger than him. Longer… I got that curve that she loves. The one that makes my neighbors leave nasty little notes on my door after a great night. She never came from a cock before she had me. Always fakin’ it.

Sure, my brother’s thicker, but my stroke game’s better. It always has been. I like to see him try to outdo me. Hasn’t happened yet.

“Please say ‘yes,’ Rafe. Jesus fuckin’ Christ.” Cam snaps me out of my daze, blowing a stream of weed smoke in my face. “Also, can you pull your head out of your ass? This is important shit.”

“Of course, it’s okay, bitch. This isn’t our first rodeo. Twenty bucks says I can make her cum faster,” I taunt as I cock my eyebrow, making him do the same.

“We countin’ the club… What was that, couple minutes tops? The shit was quick.”

“Nah. I helped. That ain’t fair,” I mock. “I’ll even let you go first. You might stand a chance.”

“You’re a cocky little fuck,” Cam sighs weakly, rubbing his hands over his tight buzz cut. “Rules? She’s your girl. What am I workin’ with?”

“Anythin’ you want. I get her ass. I get her last.”

“Fair. Rather rude that you won’t let me take her in the ass, man… I am a guest in your home.”

“That makes no fuckin’ sense,” I chuckle, crossing my arms across my chest; giving him a side-eye.

“Yeah? That’s ‘cause you have no manners, Country Club,” Cam taunts.

“Yeah, Yacht Club? ‘N you do? Oh, by the way, I like your buzz cut, Cami. You finally look like a real man.”

“I like your curtain bangs, Rafey. You look like a fuckin’, princess.”

Bitch. I move fast, punching him roughly in the arm, making him wince. “Good choice,” I bully as I wiggle my eyebrows.

“Yeah. Yeah. ‘You’re the only one standin’ in between me and your girl’s pussy. Yadda. Yadda’.” He mocks my voice, knowing what I was aiming to say. And he’s right. I could end this shit any time I wanted. Y/n is mine.

I sit in my chair, eyes trail up Y/n’s body. Ugh… Those legs, those thighs—my eyes double, mouth falling open as she drops her little robe for Cam. A bright pink garter belt hugs her skin. Fuck me. I follow the strap higher, my eyes following the curve of her ass. Ugh… I feel helpless. I wanna peel that ruffly little thong right off her body—unfasten the hooks of her pink bra one by one. Her skin is just begging to be touched, her lips kissed, body fucked senseless.

Cam’s moving slower than expected. Taking his time where he’d typically rush. His hands trail her body, skimming her curves, taking it all into memory.

Shit. I’d take her right there. Push her to her knees… Shove my cock down her throat. She gives the best fuckin’ blowjobs, not afraid to get messy for me. Daddy’s perfect little slut. But damn, does she look good bent over my dresser. Her knee thrown up on the top. My hands holding her hips as I watch her take all of me from the back, catching her beautiful face in the reflection of the mirror. But there’s always the bed. I’d spread her out and dick her down, devour her, anything and everything she ever wanted. ‘Rafe’. I can hear her moans and picture her climax perfectly. That face is forever etched into my mind.

“Fuck baby,” Cam chuckles lustfully. Pulling me out of my daze. He takes a haul off his joint, pressing his lips against her mouth, sharing his smoke. Her hands rest on his chest, just like she does to mine. My ring shines on her finger, just a casual reminder that she’s mine. Cam ashes out the joint on my bedframe before returning his attention to Y/n. He cups her lace-clad tits in his large hands. I lift my whiskey to my lips, taking a sip. Cam’s hands work down Y/n’s back, landing on her ass. He works his hands slowly over her soft skin, giving her a little spank making Y/n moan in response.

“Fuck me,” I huff, adjusting myself in my seat. Cam pushes her to sit. Y/n looks up at him hungrily. She spreads her legs wide as Cam moves to his knees. Reaching up, Cam takes hold of the straps of Y/n’s bra, pulling each side down making her breasts bounce out.

He releases a hungry moan at the sight of her, making her blush and smile. Cam’s mouth meets Y/n skin, sucking on her nipple while his hand works on the other side, pinching and rolling her blushed skin between his fingers. Y/n throws her head back, moaning loudly, pleasure coursing straight to my cock. “Holy fuck, baby,” I groan as I hold back the temptation to join… Just gotta give ‘em a minute. Cam slides her panties to the side, lowering his mouth to her pussy. I flick my wrist, fixing my watch, catching the time.

“Fuck, Cam,” y/n whines as his tongue meets her heat. There it is… Shit. I down the rest of my drink. God, it’s like snortin’ a line. That high of hearing a woman moan like that’s too fuckin good. Cam licks a line up to her clit, his hand working higher on her legs, disappearing between my girl’s thighs.

I can hear Cam’s fingers darting quickly, driving in and out rapidly. Y/n grips the back of his buzzed head, forcing him closer. He slows his pace, making her lift her head off the pillow. She looks down at him desperately, still too unfamiliar to plead with him to speed up. I know what my girl likes. She would have already been grippin’ the sheets. Callin’ out for me. Rookie mistake.

I rise from my chair, walking toward her slowly as Cam continues to play. Y/n looks at me; lashes fluttering as he changes his approach, curling his thick fingers in her pussy. I mount the bed, moving toward her slowly. Y/n reaches for me before I can even get at her, pulling me to her lips. Her sweet tongue rolls with mine, plush lips brushing as I catch her soft moans. “Tell him what you want, princess. C’mon,” I mumble against her lips.

“Faster,” she whimpers against my lips.

“Louder—”

“Faster,” Y/n moans loudly, the sounds of her pleasure making me feel like I could bust right then and there.

“Atta girl.” Cam works her pussy quicker, the wet squelching of her cunt fills the room as her back starts to arch off the bed. “Mmm… Like that?”

“Just like that,” she cries.

“You gonna cum, baby?” I ask.

“Mmpf… Y-Yeah. I’m gonna cum.” Her voice cracks, already hoarse from her cries. “Fuck, Cam.” She bucks her hips, but my brother doesn’t let up, holding her in place, working her through her orgasm as Y/n moans and cries.

Cam licks another line up her pussy, swirling his tongue, kissing her clit. He looks up at me, chin glistening with my girl’s slick, a smug smile tugs on his lips. I give him a smirk, tapping on my watch face, completely unimpressed, making him suck his teeth and roll his eyes. His demeanor changes as he crawls toward Y/n, softening completely as he looks into her half-lidded eyes.

She’s so fucking beautiful…

Reader’s POV:

“Come’ere,” Rafe groans, reaching out for you. His eyes roam your curves as you walk his way. “How ya doin’, princess?” He smiles as he wraps his strong arm around your waist. “This okay? You’re not just doin’ it for me. Are ya?” You shake your head. ‘No,’ Rafe responds with a sinful smile. “Take off my shirt, baby.” You pinch the bottom of his white v-neck, drawing it off his muscular body before tossing it to the floor. You wrap yourself up in his arms, taking in the familiar scent of your boyfriend.

Rafe’s lips meet your neck, kissing you roughly, marking you with his lips. He kisses his way to your ear, swirling and tugging on your lobe, breathing soft and slow, making you throb below. ”How are you so sexy?“ Rafe hums, making you moan needily for more. Rafe’s fingers drift into your hair, pulling you even closer. You reach down, stroking your hand over his clothed cock. ”You ready, baby?“ You bite your lip and nod, meeting his beautiful blue eyes. “My girl,” he chuckles lustfully; his praise making your heart pound. “You gonna be a good girl for us?” He hums as he latches onto your skin again, sucking down on your pulse point, feeling your racing heart.

“Yes, daddy,” you moan.

“Good answer… Take care of my brother. Yeah?”

“Yeah—” Before you can even say anymore, you’re whisked away by Cam, his lips colliding with yours in a passionate kiss. You slip the tips of your fingers under the elastic of his boxers, excitement building as you think back to the bar, remembering how it felt as you danced together.

Drawing back slightly, your eyes follow the indentations of his chiseled v-lines to his thick cock. Cam gives you a gentle smile, sensing your nerves. “We’ll go slow. Alright?” His fingers hook under your chin, his thumb rubbing along your jaw. You give him a little nod, returning your focus as you drag the material the rest of the way to the floor. He’s big. Almost as long as Rafe, no curve, thick and veiny: his pink swollen head, leaking at the tip. You grip him in your hand, swirling your tongue around his cock, collecting his prerelease.

“Shit,” you hear Rafe groan, looking back in his direction. He’s relaxed on the chair again, thighs spread wide; nothing left on his body but a smirk. It’s almost impossible to tear your focus away from Rafe as you take him in. He lifts his hand to his rosy lips, spitting on his palm, guiding your attention even lower. Your guide falls from his muscular chest to his tight stomach, his long, heavy cock now resting in his fist. Rafe uses his spit as lube, stroking slowly. His eyes roll back as you echo his movements on Cam. Rafe’s brother moans, tossing his head back to the ceiling. You stand up, continuing to palm his cock.

“I’ll do whatever you want, daddy,” you breathe, watching as a smile spreads on Cam’s lips. He steals the words off your tongue, taking your breath away. Cam reaches for you, drawing you even closer.

”Fuck. Call me daddy again,“ he mumbles between kisses as he peels your thong off your hips.

”Daddy,“ you whisper, scratching your fingers through his hair. Cam moans for you, taking a tighter grip on the plush of your hips.

“Mmm… And you’ll do whatever daddy wants?”

“Anything daddy wants, daddy get…”

”Suck my cock, baby girl.“ Cam wraps his hands around the back of your neck, forehead resting against yours. “Just for a bit… Then, I’m gonna fuck that pretty pussy. Shit. I bet you’re so tight, so fucking wet…” Cam guides two fingers between your thighs, gathering your essence on his fingers; cock twitching as he gets his answer. He brings his lips to his fingers, sucking them clean. ”Fuck. You’re sweet.“

Cam presses you toward the bed, knees buckling when you hit the side of the mattress, falling to your back. You crawl to the headboard as Cam continues to kiss you hungrily, tongue rolling with yours. He wraps his arms tightly around your body, moving you onto his chest.

You lean down, kissing his flushed cheeks. Moving a little lower on the bed, your lips meet his neck, hands gripping his muscular chest. You shift between his thighs, dragging your nails down his body, tracing your fingers around his cock as Rafe watches on with a smirk. Cam runs his tongue along his bottom lip as yours glides along the underside of his length, swirling around the tip, making him release a deep moan, throwing his head onto the pillow.

Cam’s large hands quickly find the back of your head, gathering your hair in a makeshift pony so he can get a better look. You wrap your lips around his thick tip, sucking gently, making his brows furrow, eyes shutting softly. Sinking low, you take as much of him as you can, spit seeping out of the corners of your lips already at his sheer girth.

”Fuckkk…“ He draws out the word, thigh muscles tightening under your hands as you deep throat his cock, choking on his shaft again and again. ”Mmm… Fuck. Rafe’s got you trained, baby. Shit,” he mutters. “Keep doin’ that.” You feel another touch. Rafe… His fingers glide through your hair at the nape as he leans in, lips brushing your ear as you continue to suck.

“We made a little bet, baby girl. Who could get you off the quickest,” Rafe groans. His other hand cracks against your ass, making you release a whiny gasp. “You think I’m gonna win? How well do you think I know this pussy, princess?” His large palms circle the fullness of your ass. “Shit…” He groans, drawing out the word as his hand meets your pussy. His arm reaches further around your hip, fingers skimming your ass, reaching as far as he can, the tips of his fingers swirling your arousal dipping into your entrance outlined.

Rafe reaches down, pushing you where he wants you. He thrusts his hips, rolling his body against yours, his rock-hard cock nestled between your thighs. You can feel the chill of the slick between your legs, making you release an eager whimper. “Need you, Rafe,” you whine, gasping as you come up for air. Cam grabs a mess of your hair, pushing you back down on his cock as Rafe tortures you with a few more hindered thrusts.

“Gonna get you good ‘n ready for my cock, baby girl,” Rafe groans as he takes hold of your curves, spreading your ass cheeks slightly. Rafe draws his hand back, slapping your bum; a satisfying clap cracks through the room. He snares your hips, towing you closer. You relax your body a little more, the sway of your spine deepening. Rafe’s rough fingers meet your clit, making you release a throaty moan onto Cam’s cock. “Such a pretty pussy,” Rafe groans as he works a little further back, toying with your entrance, running his fingers through your sticky folds before slapping your cunt. “Always so wet for me.”

“All from suckin’ my cock,” Cam grunts. You can hear the wavering in Cam’s voice as his thighs start to tremble.

Rafe starts to play with your pussy as Cam watches you put in work on his cock. “You’re gonna swallow my cum,” Cam moans the words, relishing each one. “You gonna let me stretch out your pussy? Fill you up? Hmm?” You answer with a gag, humming and hallowing your cheeks, creating a suction that makes Cam grip your hair tighter. “Gonna cum… Shit. So good at sucking cock. I’m gonna—Fuck-” His cum spurts down your throat as he moans your name, hips jostling, shuddering in overstimulation as you continue to suck. ”Goddamn, Y/n,“ Cam laughs through his panting breaths as you suck off his throbbing dick, cleaning on your lips with your finger before sucking it clean. “Fuck… I’m obsessed with you. You’re so perfect, baby,” he mumbles as he lowers himself on the mattress, one with your lips. ”I always wanted a girl like you, Y/n,“ he whispers. ”So fucking beautiful. Every part of you. Too bad my brother gotcha first.”

“That’s right,” Rafe rasps. His rough palm glides down your body, pressing down on your hip, causing you to widen your thighs. “You’re gonna be okay. A’ight, princess? I’ll go nice and slow.”

“Our girls gonna love it,” Cam mumbles against your lips. His tongue slips through your parted lips as Rafe rubs his thumb over your taut hole using your slick as lube, adding a little more, running a line of spit down, making you release a little gasp. Rafe circles a little quicker before pressing it inside, making you clutch Cam’s biceps.

“Good?” Rafe hums.

“So fucking good,” you moan. Rafe draws his finger out, pulling out a moan from your trembling lips. He presses against you again, his pointer finger replacing his thumb.

“Want me to keep goin’?”

“Yes. Fuck, Rafe… Don’t stop,” you whimper. You watch as Rafe wraps his fist around his dick as well. Your entire body starts to throb, your heart banging in your chest as he pumps his long cock at the same tempo as his finger, working in and out of you. A bead of precum drips from his swollen tip onto the comforter below. You feel heat spread across your already hot skin as he answers your question. His fat cockhead presses against your entrance, making your fingers claw into Cam’s flesh, eyes squeezed as Rafe glides his dick in your pussy. “O-Oh, Rafe. I—Mmm...” Cam grabs your cheeks, drawing you to his lips as Rafe sinks balls deep, the skin of his body pressed against yours, making you cry out. Rafe lets you adjust to his size and the new sensation before rocking into you at a familiar tempo, working his fingers in tandem with his thrusts. “Oh my god,” you gasp in ecstasy as he adds another finger, filling you fuller than before.

“Jesus Christ,” he huffs. Rafe curls his digits inside your ass, pumping both a little quicker, making you tighten around him more. “Feels so good, Y/n… Shit,” he pants between ruts.

“So good,” you cry. Rafe palms the arch of your ass with his other hand, spanking your cheek before gliding it forward, forcing your body a little lower. He feeds off your whines and moans, searching for that perfect angle to send you over the edge.

“Right there,” you cry between kisses.

“Yeah, baby?”

“Faster,” you snivel.

“Fuck, Y/n.”

”Harder,“ you plead through quivering lips. His hand takes a grip on your ass; rough thrusts with his fingers and cock making your body weak. ”Gonna cum.“

”Mmm… Squeezin’ me so tight. S-Shit,“ he stammers. You scream out his name, pussy fluttering around his length as you cum harder than you ever have before. Your toes curl tight, head falling onto the crook of Cam’s neck as you flood Rafe’s cock with your release. Your lashes beat to a close, muscles settling around him as his fingers pull out of your ass. ”Mmm…“ Rafe growls from behind you as his hand rounds your hips. He grinds his cock slowly, just rough enough to make the plush of your ass recoil.

”Felt so good, Rafey,“ you mewl in exhaustion, feeling his hand sail up the bend of your spine, raking into your hair. You gasp as Rafe yanks you off Cam’s chest, pulling you to his.

“Looks like I’m a winner, bitch,” Rafe claps back to Cam.

“No fuckin’ way,” Cam sneers.

“Hey, don’t be a sore loser. I know this pussy like the back of my hand. A’int that right, princess?”

“Yes, daddy,” you pant breathlessly.

“Think you can handle my cock, champ? You’re lookin’ pretty tired… Bet two’s outta the question. Huh?” He teases.

“Fuck that,” Cam chuckles. You release another gasp as Cam’s thumb finds your clit rubbing slow circles on top. “I’m gettin’ this pussy one way or the other.”

“Please, daddy… I want you both so bad,” you plead. Rafe smiles, using his grip on your hair to turn your head, planting a rough kiss on your lips.

“Anything for you, Y/n. Now sit on his cock, baby.”

Cam clasps your hips, hovering you over his dick. You reach between your thighs, taking him in your grasp, swirling him through your sopping folds. The tip of his cock presses against your pussy, making your whole body tremble. Your fingers clunch into your thighs as you sink on the first few inches, pausing to adjust to his size.

“You’re so f-fucking—mmm… You’re squeezing me so tight, baby. Shit,” Cam babbles. Cam pitches his hips, filling you to the brim, causing you to squeal and fall back onto Rafe. “Mmm… Couldn’t help myself, baby. Sorry,” he groans as his large hands hold your waist, not letting you move away.

“S-So big,” you whimper.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” Rafe whispers against your hot skin. “You gonna be a good girl and let me fuck you too, or is it too much?”

“Fuck me.”

Your body shakes in anticipation as he presses his tip against your second hole. “You ready, Y/n?” He hums.

“Yes,” you moan as you drop down slightly on Cam’s cock, inhaling sharply as his head enters you. Cam’s eyes plead with you to keep going, the desperation on his face encouraging you to take him deeper. “Shit. Holy shit!” You whine as you feel Rafe coax himself in as well. There’s a sting of pain, a slight discomfort as you work yourself even lower on Cam. You feel yourself becoming more and more full. Pressure building in your stomach; cries of pleasure free falling from your lips.

“Princess?” Rafe’s voice brings your gaze back to him. “You okay? Does it hurt?” He asks gently, moving closer than before.

“Yeah… But, fuck. J-Just. Fuck. Don’t stop.”

Rafe laughs and shakes his head. “You like that, Y/n? Shit… Our girl’s a little slut for pain, buddy?” He mumbles, lips brushing your shoulder. Your mouth drops open, eyes fluttering shut immediately as you feel both of them bottom you out.

“Gonna move now...” Cam hums. His teeth bite down on his kiss-bitten lip as he begins to thrust up into you. His fingertips dig into your skin as Rafe starts thrusting as well.

“Just a little whore for Cameron cock,” Rafe hisses, making Cam let out a breathless laugh.

”Fucking hell...“ You moan as they both begin to move in tandem, your whines and cries causing them to speed up. Cam fucks you from below as Rafe drives into you from above, both dying to bring you to your climax. Tears fill your eyes as they slam into you again and again.

”You’re taking us so well, baby. So fuckin’ well,“ Rafe praises. You try to speak, but you can’t focus on anything; every part of you numb with pleasure.

”Mmm. She loves us filling her up. She is so dumb on cock she can’t speak. Our poor little baby,” Cam rasps.

“Harder…” You pant breathlessly.

“Oh yeah, baby?” Rafe grunts, pistoning his hips, skin cracking against your ass as Cam drives his heels into the mattress fucking you from below.

“H-Harder!” You wail, nails clawing into the fronts of Rafe’s thighs, making him moan.

“Fuck, Y/n,” Rafe grunts. The two of them moan and groan and pleasure. Your vision blurs as Rafe’s hand clamps down around your throat, making your eyes cross. You hit your crescendo, reaching your highest high as you cry out for the both of them, back to back, one after the other, over and over. You feel Rafe’s body tremble, the warmth of his release filling you as Cam’s fingers brush along your clit.

“Keep doing that,” you whimper.

“Mmm… This?” Cam groans, working his digits a little faster, eyes locked on your pussy, watching as you make a wet mess on his lap. You fall into Cam’s arms, grinding slowly. The two of you move together, thighs sticky with your release. You start to lose your tempo in exhaustion. Rafe catches your hips guiding you as you roll on Cam’s cock, slamming you deep. “Shit… I’m almost there, baby,” Cam breathes. His fingers drift through your hair, tugging hard. “You’re my girl. Yeah? Gonna let me cum inside you?” He pleads, lips brushing against yours.

“Mmm… I’m your girl. Need it. Please.” Cam’s eyes slam shut, mouth falling open as he pins you in place, flooding you with his cum.

“Fuck, Y/n… Oh shit,” he cries. Rafe comes down on top of you, covering your body with his, lips connecting, kissing your neck and your shoulders anywhere and everywhere he can reach.

“I love you,“ he whispers. “Fuck, baby. I love you so much.”

”I love you, Rafey.”

Late that night…

You bite down on your bottom lip, eyes rolling back, toes curling tight as you try to contain the pleasure building inside. A muffled moan slips your lips, causing you to cut off the noise with the palm of your hand as you use the other to grip Rafe’s dirty blonde hair. The bed shifts beside you as Cam sleeps soundly.

Rafe’s finger swirls around your entrance, the buzz of a hum grazing against your clit. You lift the covers as Rafe’s eyes flick to yours, his beautiful face buried between your thighs. His fingers curl, finding your sweet spot, making your mouth fall slack as you let out a choked cry.

A part of you wants to moan a little louder. The greedy girl in you wanting to wake up Cam as well, but you can tell that’s not what Rafe wants. Rafe wants you all to himself. He slows his pace, adding a third finger instead, making your thighs widen, back arching off the bed. You feel a familiar heat building in your core, warmth spreading across your body.

“Fuck, baby. Lemme see your ass,” Rafe groans, nipping at the plush of your inner thigh. He grabs your hips, flipping you on the mattress before lifting your hips in the air. You arch your back a little further, giving him access to your pussy as kisses your ass and thighs.

Rafe starts to eat you out from the back, drowning himself in your wet cunt as you claw the sheets. His tongue plunges into your entrance, causing you to bury your face in your pillow, quieting yourself.

The coil in your stomach starts to tighten along with your pussy around Rafe. His trained fingers rub figure eights on your clit, tongue sweeping your G-spot again and again.

“S-Shit,” you hiss the word out as he pinches your clit, tongue fucking you ruthlessly. You move away in overstimulation, but Rafe pulls you back, keeping you in place. His tongue swirls around your entrance, collecting your arousal, moaning into your cunt; fingers delighting your clit. Your bottom lip quivers as Rafe licks a fat stripe up your pussy. You cry into the pillow, fingers twisting in the fabric, using the textile to dampen your sounds.

“Rafe,” you pant breathily as your orgasm casts through your body. Your muscles clench tight; teeth gritted as you ride the waves of your bliss, pussy, fluttering around his fingers. Your ears ring; everything in the room falls out of earshot. He rolls you to your back, claiming your lips.

“I get you last… I always get you last,” Rafe whispers breathlessly against your kiss.

“Always.”

Rafe clears his throat, his face a mess of emotion as his eyes stare into yours. His rough finger brushes along your cheeks as he struggles to find the words, but they’re hard. “Princess…”

“Baby…”

“I’ve never felt like this before,” he presses out the words.

“Like what, Rafe?” You ask gently as you lean in, kissing his lips, feeling him melt at your touch. He nuzzled in a little closer, pushing his naked body against yours.

“I’m a little jealous,” he whispers weakly.

“Rafe—”

“Wait,” he stops you before you can scold him, shaking his head ‘no.’ “I’m the one that wanted this to happen. And I loved it… Watchin’ you like that, baby… It was a fuckin’ fantasy. A’ight? But, Cam, that fucker was enjoyin’ it a little too much for my liking,” he sneers as he glances over your shoulder at his brother. “I’ve just never felt like this about anyone; loved anyone like I love you, princess.”

“I love you, Rafe,” you answer earnestly, pleading with him to believe you even after tonight. It’s hard to deny the chemistry. You couldn’t lie to Rafe and say that he was wrong about Cam.

“I know, baby. I know you love me,” he mumbles as he rests his forehead against yours.

“We don’t have to do that ever again,” you soothe even though it pained you to say. “I won’t talk to Cam. I—”

“Baby girl,” he whispers. “Not necessary. A’ight? And it is happening again. I just want to make sure you really know who you belong to.” Your heart patters as he confirms what you were hoping he would. He wants this to happen again. The three of you together wasn’t just a one-time thing. You do your best to fix your face, not wanting to act too excited… I mean, he could call it off ultimately.

“I belong to you, Rafe Cameron,” you assure as you lift your leg, wrapping it over his body. Rafe takes hold of your ass, palming your curves as he looks down at you lovingly. “I already talked to Cam. Told him that I didn’t want him talkin’ to you without me.”

“Oh… What did he say?” You whisper.

“He said, ‘We’re cool. He understands. He knows you’re mine and that he never questioned it. Just told me I don’t have anything to worry about. I know that. Got nothin’ to worry about when it comes to you, honey—”

“You don’t, Rafey. M’all yours.”

“And I’m yours, princess.”

One week later…

“Fuck. I’m gonna miss you,” Rafe hums against your lips, arms wrapped lazily around your hips. He paws at your ass, lifting the bottom of his old t-shirt, hands resting on your bare skin.

“You’re gonna do so good, baby.” You rise on your tippy toes, meeting Rafe’s lips. “Can’t wait to watch you play.”

“Mmm… I’ll call you right after. And, if we make it to Nationals, you’re coming with me. A’ight? M’Nothing without my lucky charm.”

“I’m your lucky charm?” You smile, your cheeks burning from your smile as Rafe lifts you to his level, standing straight.

“‘Course you are. I’m gonna be missing my pregame ritual, my post-game ritual… What am I gonna do without you,” he mumbles, face buried in your neck.

“Rafey,” you chuckle lightly, drawing his beautiful blues to yours before brushing his dirty blonde bangs back. “Call me when you get back to the hotel, and we can FaceTime…”

“Yeah?” He chuckles giddily as he smushes his lips against yours.

“Mhmm… Then, we can pick a movie and not watch it like we usually do.

“Shittt, baby,” he groans as he tosses his head back slightly. “I love the sound of that.” Rafe turns over his shoulder, looking toward the door as one of his teammates blares his car horn. He lets out a little annoyed grumble, returning his attention to you. “Wish me luck?”

“Mmm…” You kiss him against, lips lingering with his. “Good luck, baby.”

“My girl… This bus ride is long as shit. Phone on. A’ight? I’m gonna be bored as fuck,” he bitches as he tugs on his team jacket before looping his duffle bag over his shoulder.

“Promise,” you smile, holding the door as he passes through. Rafe steals three more kisses before bounding toward the Wrangler. You stand at the doorframe, watching as he hops in the passenger’s seat. Your phone buzzes in your pocket already, making you smile.

Your cheeks blush as you look at the little thumbnail on your screen, Rafe’s ring-adorned hand wrapped tightly around your neck. You look up toward the car, watching as it pulls out of the driveway. Rafe gives you a smile and a wink before peeling out onto the main road.

The notification at the top of your phone catches your attention, making your heart stop.

Fuck.

#my library ᝰ.ᐟ #twin!rafe ִ ࣪𖤐.ᐟ #⋆.°🧸๋ྀི࣭⭑ sharing #sharing!rafe ִ ࣪𖤐.ᐟ #rafe #rafe smut #rafe cameron x reader #rafe one shot 𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ𖦹₊⊹#tw twincest

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natsaffection · 10 months ago

Note

Please can we have something with top!reader please?

Reversed. | N.R

Warnings: 18+! MINORS DNI!, Oral (n receiving) fingering (n receiving) begging, edging multiple orgasm.

Word count: 4,8k

A/n: Actually found this in my notes..

You found yourself in a circle with other agents and Avengers, the excitement in the air amplifying as the night progressed. The game of Truth or Dare was in full swing, and when it was your turn, all eyes fell on you. "Y/n.." Clint Barton grinned mischievously, "I dare you to seduce Natasha."

The group erupted into a chorus of whoops and cheers, their eyes darting between you and the redhead seated across the room. You raised an eyebrow, smirking as you accepted the challenge with a nod. It wasn’t the dare that was the challenge. It was Natasha herself. The Black Widow was an enigma, her emotions as guarded as her past, and yet you felt a thrill at the idea of unraveling that mystery, even if just for a night. You stood, smoothing the fabric of your dress, and made your way toward the bar where Natasha sat. Each step was calculated, purposeful, as you approached the formidable assassin. Natasha didn’t look up as you neared, but you knew she was already aware of your presence. It was in the way Natasha’s posture shifted ever so slightly, her body attuned to the movements around her.

"Mind if I join you?" you asked, your voice low and smooth. Natasha’s eyes flicked up, meeting yours with an intensity that could stop a lesser person in their tracks. She studied you for a moment before nodding, a ghost of a smirk playing on her lips. "Be my guest." You slid onto the barstool beside Natasha, signaling the bartender for a drink. The silence between you was thick, not with discomfort, but with the weight of unspoken words and mutual intrigue.

"I hear you’ve got quite a reputation, Y/n." Natasha said, finally breaking the silence. Her voice was calm, measured, but there was an undercurrent of curiosity. "I could say the same about you." you replied, your tone equally measured, though with a hint of playfulness. "But I’m not interested in what everyone else says. I prefer to form my own opinions." Natasha chuckled softly, taking a sip of her drink. "And what opinion are you forming now?"

You leaned in slightly, your eyes never leaving Natasha’s. "That you’re even more intriguing up close." Natasha’s eyes flashed with amusement, but she didn’t pull away. Instead, she tilted her head, studying you with a new intensity. "And what is it you’re hoping to find, Agent Y/l/n?"

"Maybe I’m hoping to find out if the Black Widow is as untouchable as everyone says." you replied, your voice dropping to a near whisper, an edge of challenge lacing your words. Natasha set her glass down, turning in her seat to face you fully. The air between you crackled with electricity, a tension that was palpable and undeniable. "You might find that some things are better left untouched." You smiled, a slow, confident curve of your lips. "Maybe, but I’ve never been one to shy away from a challenge."

For a moment, the world seemed to fall away, leaving just the two of you, locked in a battle of wills and desire. Natasha’s gaze softened, just a fraction, as she considered your words. Then, she leaned in, her lips brushing lightly against your ear as she spoke. "Careful what you wish for." Natasha whispered, her voice sending a shiver down your spine. "You just might get it."

With that, Natasha pulled back, her smirk widening as she took in the subtle flush on your cheeks. Your heart raced, but you kept your composure, matching Natasha’s smirk with one of your own. "That’s what I’m counting on." you replied.

When you and Natasha finally stood from the bar, walking together toward the private rooms that lined the edge of Stark Tower’s upper floors, a knowing grin spread across Tony’s face. He nudged Clint with an elbow. "Looks like you might be losing this one, Barton." Clint groaned but couldn't suppress his smirk. "Never thought I'd see the day someone could match Natasha like that." The team exchanged glances, some amused, others a little concerned. But they all knew that whatever was about to happen, it was going to be explosive.

You and Natasha slipped into one of the private rooms, the door closing softly behind you as the sound of the party faded into the distance. The room was luxurious, dimly lit with plush furniture and a large bed dominating the space. But it was the air between you both that was thickest of all, humming with anticipation. Natasha turned to face you, her eyes dark with intent. She took a slow step forward, her movements deliberate and predatory, like a panther stalking its prey. You felt your breath catch, but you weren’t about to back down. Not when the game was just getting interesting.

"I’m impressed." Natasha said, her voice low and sultry. She reached out, trailing a finger down your arm, sending shivers through your body. "But I think it’s time you realized who you’re dealing with." There was a challenge in her words, one that you weren’t about to ignore. Natasha was the Black Widow, used to being in control, to being the one who dictated how things went. But you had your own reputation, and you weren’t about to let Natasha take the lead so easily.

You took a step closer, closing the distance. You reached up, cupping Natasha’s face with one hand, your thumb brushing over the assassin’s bottom lip. "Oh, I know exactly who I’m dealing with." you whispered, "But maybe you should see that I’m not the type to be dominated so easily." Natasha’s eyes flashed with a mixture of surprise and intrigue. She wasn’t used to being challenged in this way, and you could see the gears turning in her mind. But before Natasha could make a move, you pressed forward, your bodies nearly touching, your hand slipping around to the back of Natasha’s neck, pulling her in close.

"I know you like control, Romanoff." you whispered against Natasha’s ear, "But tonight, you’re going to let go of that. I’m not here to play by your rules, Natasha."

For a moment, Natasha hesitated, her body stiffening as she processed your words. She was torn between her instinct to dominate and the strange, electrifying thrill of someone standing up to her in this way. You felt the tension in Natasha’s body and leaned in, your lips brushing against Natasha’s in a feather-light touch that was more of a tease than a kiss. The touch seemed to spark something in Natasha, something raw and primal. But instead of trying to regain control, she found herself curious, curious about what it would feel like to let someone else take the reins, if only for a moment. Her lips parted slightly, and you took that as your cue.

With a firm but gentle hand, you pushed Natasha back against the wall, pinning her there with your body. Natasha’s breath hitched, a flicker of surprise and something else..something akin to excitement passing through her eyes. "You might be the Black Widow.." you murmured, your lips grazing the sensitive skin of Natasha’s neck, "but right now, you’re mine."

Natasha let out a shaky breath, her hands instinctively moving to grasp your hips, pulling you closer. But you weren’t about to let Natasha dictate the pace. You moved your hands, pinning Natasha’s wrists against the wall, holding them there with a strength that belied your appearance. "You wanted to see what I’m capable of," you continued, your voice a husky whisper that sent shivers down Natasha’s spine. "so let me show you."

Natasha’s eyes darkened with a mix of emotions, lust, curiosity, and a grudging respect. You weren’t like anyone she’d ever encountered before, and that was enough to make her relinquish control, if only for a little while. With a slow, deliberate motion, you captured Natasha’s lips in a searing kiss, one that was more of a claim than anything else. Natasha responded with equal passion, but there was no mistaking that, in this moment, you were in charge. You deepened the kiss, your hands roaming over Natasha’s body, touching, teasing, and exploring with a confidence that left Natasha breathless.

When you finally pulled back, both of you were breathing heavily, the air between you thick with the promise of what was to come. Your gaze was steady, your control unshakable, as you looked into Natasha’s eyes. "Tonight, I’m in control." you whispered, "And you’re going to love every second of it." Your gaze bore into Natasha, a smirk playing on your lips as you reveled in the fact that you had one of the most dangerous women in the world at your mercy. Without warning, your hands moved with surprising strength and precision, pushing Natasha back until she was forced to her knees on the plush carpeted floor.

Natasha's eyes widened slightly, a flicker of surprise and defiance crossing her face. "You-" she started, her voice carrying that edge of command she was so accustomed to wielding. But you weren’t having it. You silenced Natasha with a firm hand on her shoulder, leaning down to whisper in her ear, your voice low and laced with authority. "I told you, Natasha. Tonight, you’re mine. You’re going to do exactly what I say."

Natasha’s heart pounded in her chest. This was unfamiliar territory for her, being on her knees, looking up at someone with power over her. Her instincts screamed at her to regain control, to flip the situation and take charge, but there was something intoxicating about the way you commanded her, leaving no room for negotiation. Your hand slid into Natasha’s hair, tugging lightly, forcing the assassin to look up at you. The dominance in your eyes was unmistakable, a sharp contrast to the playfulness that had marked your earlier exchanges. "Now, Natasha," you murmured, your tone soft but firm, "I want you to eat me out."

She tensed, her muscles coiled, ready to flip the script and take back control. But you sensed the shift, and with a quick, forceful tug on Natasha’s hair, you brought the redhead’s attention back to you. "Don’t even think about it." you warned, your voice a growl that sent a shiver down Natasha’s spine. "You’re going to stay right there, on your knees, and do exactly what I tell you. You wanted to see if you could handle me, didn’t you?"

You watched the battle play out in Natasha’s eyes, a knowing smile curving your lips. "Good girl." you purred, your voice soothing, as if coaxing a wild animal to submit. You released your grip on Natasha’s hair, sliding your hands down to cup Natasha’s face. "Now, do as you’re told." Natasha hesitated for a fraction of a second, her pride flaring one last time. But there was something in your touch, in the way you exerted control with such confidence and precision, that made Natasha’s resolve falter. Slowly, she leaned forward, her hands gripping your thighs for support as she obeyed the command she had been given.

You let out a soft sigh of satisfaction as Natasha’s lips pressed against your inner thigh, moving closer to where you wanted her most. The feeling of Natasha at your mercy, doing exactly as you commanded, was intoxicating. Your hand found its way back into Natasha’s hair, guiding her with a gentle but firm touch. But just as Natasha was about to take things further, you suddenly tightened your grip, pulling Natasha back slightly, just enough to remind her who was in control. "Not so fast." you whispered, your voice teasing, as if savoring the moment. "You’ll go at my pace, Natasha."

A frustrated growl escaped Natasha’s lips, but she complied, her body betraying her desire as she leaned in again, slower this time, more deliberate. Your breath hitched as Natasha began, her touch both skilled and tentative, as if testing the limits of her submission. You arched your back slightly, your grip tightening in Natasha’s hair as the pleasure began to build. "That’s it," you murmured, your voice breathy, "just like that.."

Natasha’s pride still burned, but it was smothered by the heat of the moment, by the way you commanded her with such skill, reducing her to a vessel of pleasure. Natasha's instincts told her to take back control, but each time she thought about it, you would tighten your grip or whisper something that sent a thrill through her, reminding her exactly who was in charge. You reveled in the power you held, knowing that you had reduced the Black Widow to this..on her knees, fully compliant, her every move dictated by your will. And as the pleasure mounted, you knew there was no going back from this. You had won, and Natasha knew it too.

Your control never wavered, not even as you felt the crescendo building within you. Natasha’s skilled tongue and lips worked wonders, but it was your dominance, your control over the situation, that pushed you over the edge. As the waves of pleasure crashed over you, your grip on Natasha’s hair tightened one last time, holding her in place, forcing her to continue until you were completely spent. Only then did you release her, your breath coming in ragged gasps as you looked down at her.

Natasha pulled back slightly, her lips swollen, her breathing just as heavy. She looked up at you with a mixture of satisfaction and submission, her pride wounded but not broken. There was a new understanding between you, a bond forged in the heat of your encounter. You smirked, brushing a thumb over Natasha’s lips, which were still glistening with your essence. "I told you," you said, your voice a soft purr, "I’m not like the others. You’re not the only one who knows how to take control."

You stepped back slightly, taking in the sight of Natasha, her usually composed and powerful demeanor now slightly frayed at the edges. But even now, there was a resistance in Natasha, a stubborn refusal to fully submit. You could see it in the way Natasha held herself, in the tight line of her jaw, and in the steely resolve in her eyes. But you were determined to break through that last barrier. You wanted to hear Natasha, to feel the powerful assassin surrender completely, not just physically, but emotionally. You wanted to push Natasha to the edge, to the point where she had no choice but to beg.

You reached down, taking Natasha’s chin in your hand, tilting her head up so your eyes met. "You’re strong, Natasha.." you murmured, your voice low and filled with a dark promise. "But even you have limits. I’m going to find them." Natasha’s breath caught, her eyes narrowing as she stared up at you. She wasn’t about to back down, not even now, but there was a flicker of uncertainty in her gaze. You smiled, a slow, predatory grin, before you leaned down, capturing Natasha’s lips in a fierce, possessive kiss.

As you pulled Natasha to her feet, your bodies pressed together, you felt the tension in Natasha’s muscles, the way she held herself taut, as if bracing for what was to come. You wasted no time, your hands moving with practiced ease as you led Natasha toward the large bed in the center of the room. Natasha followed, her movements reluctant but inevitable, like a moth drawn to a flame.

When you reached the bed, you spun Natasha around, pushing her down onto the soft mattress with a force that left no room for protest. Natasha landed on her back, her hair splayed out around her like a fiery halo, her breath coming in shallow gasps. You climbed on top of her, pinning Natasha’s wrists above her head with one hand, while the other trailed down her body, tracing the curve of her waist. "You can fight all you want," you whispered, your voice a dark, seductive murmur in Natasha’s ear, "but we both know how this ends. You’re going to beg for me, whether you want to or not."

Natasha’s eyes flashed with defiance, her lips parting as if to argue, but you silenced her with a searing kiss, one that left no room for resistance. Your hand slipped between Natasha’s thighs, your fingers finding the wetness there, and Natasha gasped, her body betraying her with its response. You smirked against Natasha’s lips, your fingers moving with deliberate slowness, teasing but never quite giving Natasha what she craved. You could feel the tension building in Natasha’s body, the way her hips subtly bucked, trying to get more, trying to take back some control.

But you weren’t going to let her. You wanted Natasha to break, to give in completely. "Comon, Natasha.." you murmured, your lips brushing against Natasha’s ear as you spoke. "Stop fighting it. You know you want this. You know you want me." Natasha groaned, her head tossing back against the pillows, but she still didn’t give you what you wanted.

"I..won't..!" You could feel the struggle within her..the battle between pride and desire, between control and submission. And you were determined to make sure desire won out. You increased the pressure, your fingers moving faster, more insistently, driving Natasha closer and closer to the edge. Natasha’s breath came in ragged gasps, her body trembling beneath your relentless touch. You could feel how close she was, how much Natasha was holding back, and it only spurred you on.

"Don’t hold back." you commanded, your voice sharp and authoritative. "I want to hear you, Natasha. I want to hear you beg." Natasha’s eyes squeezed shut, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip as if to keep herself silent. But you weren’t about to let that happen. You slowed your movements, your fingers stilling just enough to keep Natasha on the edge without letting her fall over it. "Say it." you whispered, your voice a tantalizing caress. "Beg me, Natasha."

Natasha’s breath hitched, her body quivering with the need to release, but still, she held on, her pride refusing to let her give in. You admired her strength, but you also knew it was only a matter of time. You leaned down, your lips brushing against the sensitive skin of Natasha’s neck, your teeth grazing lightly. "Beg me." you repeated, your voice a dark command. "Or I’ll stop."

The threat hung in the air, and you could feel Natasha’s resolve cracking, the thin veneer of control slipping away. Your fingers moved again, this time with a precision that had Natasha gasping, her back arching off the bed as pleasure shot through her.

"F-Fuck..Please.." Natasha finally whispered, the words slipping out before she could stop it. Her voice was strained, thick with need and the remnants of her shattered pride. But you weren’t satisfied with just that. You wanted more. You needed to hear Natasha fully surrender.

"Louder." you demanded, your fingers pushing Natasha closer to the brink, her body writhing beneath you. Natasha’s breath came in harsh pants, her mind clouded with desire, her body aching for release. The last of her resistance crumbled as she finally gave in, her voice breaking as she cried out.

"Please!" she begged, her voice hoarse, desperate. "Please, I need it.." The sound of Natasha’s surrender sent a thrill through you, a heady rush of satisfaction as you pushed her over the edge. Natasha’s body tensed, a strangled cry escaping her lips as she climaxed, her entire being consumed by the intense pleasure that wracked through her. You didn’t stop, drawing out Natasha’s orgasm, making sure she felt every last wave of pleasure until Natasha was left trembling and spent, her body limp beneath yours.

You smiled, brushing a strand of hair away from Natasha’s flushed face. "There you go " you murmured, your voice soft but filled with the satisfaction of victory. "Was that so hard?"

Natasha lay there, her body still trembling from the intense orgasm that had ripped through her. Her breath was ragged, her mind swirling in a haze of pleasure and confusion. But as the aftershocks began to fade, the familiar desire to regain control, to be the one in charge, crept back into her consciousness. She shifted slightly beneath you, her muscles tensing as she prepared to turn the tables. But you, ever vigilant, sensed the shift immediately. A sly smile tugged at your lips as you watched the fire flicker back into Natasha’s eyes, the determination to reclaim her dominance clear. You weren’t about to let that happen. Not yet.

"Oh, no you don’t." you murmured, your voice laced with authority as you tightened your grip on Natasha’s wrists, pressing them back into the mattress. "We’re not done here. You think you can just switch back to being in control after one orgasm? Think again."

Natasha’s breath hitched, her body still sensitive from the overwhelming pleasure, but she couldn’t help the small flicker of defiance that flashed in her eyes. She opened her mouth to speak, to protest, but you silenced her with a firm kiss, one that left no room for argument. Your hand moved with purpose, sliding down Natasha’s body, your fingers finding the slickness between Natasha’s thighs once more. Natasha gasped against your lips, her hips instinctively bucking as a fresh wave of pleasure surged through her. She wasn’t ready, she thought she was, but the intensity of your touch was too much, too soon, and her mind scrambled to catch up with the sensations overwhelming her.

"Y/n-" Natasha tried to protest, her voice cracking as she attempted to regain some semblance of control. But you weren’t having any of it. You pulled back just enough to look into Natasha’s eyes, your gaze sharp and commanding. "You’re going to stay right here, Natasha. You’re not going anywhere until I say so." Natasha’s pride flared up, but your relentless fingers left her no room to argue. You expertly teased her, bringing her close to the edge once more, only to back off slightly, leaving Natasha teetering on the brink. It was maddening, this push and pull, the way you held her at the precipice of release without letting her fall over.

"F-Fuck, Y/n comon.." Natasha finally whispered, the word slipping out unbidden as her need began to overpower her pride. You smirked, your fingers increasing their pace, knowing exactly how to push Natasha to the edge and keep her there. "What’s that, Natasha?" you taunted, your voice dripping with dark amusement. "I didn’t quite hear you."

Natasha’s body trembled, her breaths coming in ragged gasps as she fought to hold on to whatever sliver of control she had left. But you were relentless, your fingers working in tandem with your lips as they traced a hot path down Natasha’s neck, sucking lightly on the sensitive skin. "Please, let me cum.." Her voice more desperate now, her body aching for release.

"That’s more like it." you whispered against Natasha’s lips, your voice thick with satisfaction. Your fingers curled just right, pressing against that spot that made Natasha cry out, her body bucking uncontrollably as the second orgasm ripped through her.

Natasha’s world exploded in a blinding haze of white, hot pleasure, her mind shattering as she was pulled under by the sheer intensity of it. But even as she climaxed, you didn’t stop. You kept going, your fingers never pausing, drawing out Natasha’s orgasm until the assassin was left a trembling, quivering mess beneath you. Natasha’s breath came in ragged gasps, her body completely at your mercy. She thought..hoped that it was over, that you would finally let her rest. But you had other plans.

Before Natasha could even catch her breath, your fingers were moving again, relentless in their pursuit of Natasha’s total surrender. Natasha whimpered, her body oversensitive, her mind struggling to keep up with the onslaught of sensations. "P-Please!" Natasha pleaded, her voice broken, her body trembling uncontrollably as you pushed her closer to the edge once more. "Please, I can’t-"

"Yes, you can.." you whispered, your voice a soft command as you leaned down to kiss Natasha’s neck. "You’re strong, Natasha. Strong enough to take everything I give you."

Natasha’s pride was shattered, her body and mind pushed beyond their limits. She had never been this vulnerable, this out of control, and yet she couldn’t stop the words from tumbling out of her mouth. "That’s it, Natasha.." you murmured, your voice soothing as you brought Natasha to the brink one last time. "Let go. Give it to me."

Natasha couldn’t hold back anymore. Her body tensed, a strangled cry escaping her lips as the third orgasm hit her like a tidal wave, crashing over her with a force that left her gasping for air. You held her through it, your fingers never stopping, drawing out every last drop of pleasure until Natasha was left utterly spent, her body limp and trembling. You finally slowed, your touch becoming gentle, soothing, as you leaned down to press soft kisses to Natasha’s flushed skin. Natasha’s eyes fluttered open, her gaze dazed, her body still humming with the aftershocks of the intense pleasure you had wrought.

"You did so well, Natasha.." you whispered, your voice filled with warmth as you brushed a strand of hair away from Natasha’s face. "You took everything I gave you." Natasha’s breath hitched, her chest rising and falling with the effort of trying to catch her breath. She felt utterly exposed, completely vulnerable, but there was also a strange sense of peace, a peace that came with knowing she had given everything, that she had let go completely.

You smiled down at her, a soft, satisfied smile, before leaning in to capture Natasha’s lips in a gentle, lingering kiss. It wasn’t about dominance or control anymore..it was about the connection you had forged in those intense moments, a connection that neither of you could deny. When you finally pulled back, you brushed your thumb over Natasha’s cheek, wiping away a stray tear that had escaped during the intensity of your encounter. Natasha looked up at you, her eyes still wide with the remnants of her vulnerability, but there was also a newfound respect and trust in her gaze.

You slid down beside Natasha, pulling her close, letting the silence of the room envelop you both. For now, there was no need for words. You had said everything that needed to be said through your bodies, through the way you had challenged and ultimately surrendered to each other.

#natasha x reader #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha smut #natasha romanoff #dom!natasha x reader #natasha romanov x reader #nat x reader #natasha romonova #the avengers #natasha #natasha romanov smut

526 notes · View notes

ahqkas · 1 year ago

Text

♯ WICKED GAME ; theodore nott

PAIRING! theodore nott x slytherin!reader

SYNOPSIS! the world was on fire and no one could save you but him (based off this req.!!)

WORD COUNT! 2k

WARNINGS! nothing really, fluff, reader has trouble controlling her anger, annoying griffindors + lmk !

NOTES! soft theo soft theo

HARRY POTTER MASTERLIST!

THEODORE NOTT HAD ALWAYS ADMIRED YOUR FIERCE SPIRIT, THE WAY YOU STOOD UP FOR YOURSELF AND OTHERS. As a Slytherin, you had a reputation for your sharp mind and quick temper. Losing your temper was something that could be considered common in your case. The initial spark of your heated nature might be something small — a careless feather — but it came hurling at just the right (or wrong) moment.

As the spark caught, the heat rose. Your pulse quickened, a thrumming beat that matched the rising fury in your chest. Every muscle in your body tensed, coiled tight like a spring about to snap. Your hands clenched into fists, nails digging into your palms. Your breath came in shallow, rapid bursts, each one stoking the flames higher.

Your mind, normally a place of rational thought and control, became a battlefield. Rationality and restraint were shoved aside by a bunch of thoughts, each one more inflamed and irrational than the last. Words formed on your tongue, sharp and cutting, begging to be unleashed. The desire to lash out, to make the other person feel a fraction of what you're experiencing, was overwhelming.

And then, the dam broke. Anger spilled out in a flood, uncontainable and consuming. You shouted, your voice raised in a volume that surprised even you.

Most students knew better than to cross you, but occasionally, someone would test your limits. Today was one of those days.

The library was unusually crowded, with students cramming for their upcoming exams. The typically quiet environment was buzzing with hushed conversations and the rustling of pages. You and Theo had managed to secure a quiet corner, away from the main crowd of students who spent their free time with their noses buried in books, hoping to get some much-needed studying done.

You sat with Theo at a wooden table, the light from the nearby window casting a soft glow over your textbooks and notes. Trying to focus on an essay you were writing at the moment, you were barely containing your irritation at the persistent whispering of a group of Gryffindors nearby. They had been whispering and snickering for the past hour, their disruptive presence gnawing at your already frayed nerves. The Potions essay wouldn't write itself and you clearly couldn't pay all of your attention on it with the boys in the same place as you.

One of the Gryffindors, a tall boy with a mop of dirty hair, seemed to be the leader of his little group. He leaned closer to his friends, his voice carrying over despite his attempt to whisper. Someone had trouble learning in kindergarten. "Did you hear about the Slytherin who thought she was actually good at Potions? What a joke. And she proclaimed her supposed knowledge for the whole class to hear. It was embarrassing."

The grip you had on your quill tightened, and you felt the heat of anger rising to your cheeks. Theo, sitting beside you, noticed the change in your demeanor. He knew you well enough to recognize the warning signs: the slight narrowing of your eyes, the tension in your shoulders. It'd come to hell in any second.

"Stay calm," your boyfriend murmured next to you in a low tone, placing a gentle hand on your arm. But his words did little to soothe the simmering anger within you.

The Gryffindor continued with his snickering, his friends laughing at the cruel remarks he made. The final straw came when he leaned back and made a particularly rude comment about Slytherins in general, causing his friends to burst into louder laughter. They were practically asking for it.

You snapped.

Slamming your quill down, you stood up abruptly, the force of your movement knocking over your ink pot and spilling its contents on the table. Your essay was now soaked in a deep blue puddle. "That's enough!" you hissed, your voice echoing through the library. "Get out of here before I make you regret ever stepping foot in this place."

The Gryffindor turned to you with a death wish sparkling in his eyes, a mocking grin spreading across his face. "Oh, look, the Slytherin princess has something to say. What are you going to do about it?"

Before you could respond, Theo stood up and placed himself between you and the Gryffindors, his posture calm but his eyes cold. He placed a firm hand on your shoulder, grounding you as he leaned down to your level to whisper to you.

"Let's not make this worse," he said quietly, his eyes locked on yours. "They're not worth it."

You could see the concern in his eyes, the silent plea for you to stand down. It was a look that Theo had perfected over the years, a look that had saved you from countless confrontations.

"Listen to him, princess," the Gryffindor jeered, clearly enjoying the spectacle. "Maybe your boyfriend can teach you some manners."

The rage within you flared again, and you took a step forward, but Theo's grip tightened, holding you back. His voice was steady, a stark contrast to the storm brewing inside you.

"Walk away," Theo said, his tone firm. "This isn't the time or place."

The muscles in your jaw clenched tightly, a testament to the restraint you were barely managing to hold onto. Oh, those boys were making you so mad. Your fingers twitched, itching to release the pent-up energy that crackled just beneath the surface. Your heart pounded loudly in your chest, each beat echoing the unspoken rage coursing through your veins. It felt like a fire burning hot, threatening to consume you whole if you didn't find a way to let it out.

Theo's hand on your shoulder was a lifeline, his touch both calming and steadying. The warmth of his skin against yours contrasted sharply with the cold anger simmering inside you. His fingers, lightly but firmly gripped your shoulder. He was your anchor, the one thing that could pull you back from the void.

You inhaled deeply, the breath shaky and uneven. The sound of your own breathing was loud in your ears, a rhythmic reminder of the effort it took to calm yourself. You focused on the small details: the way the light filtered through the dusty windows, casting long shadows across the floor; the faint rustle of pages as a student turned a book somewhere in the back; the distant ticking of a clock, each second a tiny victory in your battle against the anger.

Theo's eyes never left yours, their pale blue depths filled with a mixture of worry and reassurance. He knew you better than anyone, knew the struggle you faced in moments like these. His silent plea, combined with his comforting presence, was a balm to your frayed nerves. He was your refuge, the one person who could understand and temper the fire within you.

Slowly, the heat began to fade. The tightness in your chest eased, and the tension in your muscles started to relax. The world around you began to come back into focus, the red haze lifting to reveal the familiar surroundings of the library. The anger, though not entirely gone, was now manageable, a controlled burn rather than a raging inferno.

Theo's gentle squeeze on your shoulder was the final push you needed. His touch, his presence, his unwavering support — they were enough to pull you back from the brink. With one last deep breath, you gave a curt nod, signaling your surrender to his plea. The fire within you had been quelled, at least for now, and you were ready to walk away.

You took a deep breath, trying to calm the tempest within. The Gryffindor's smug face made it difficult, but Theo's presence gave you the strength to pull back.

"Fine," you muttered, your voice low and dangerous. "But this isn't over."

Theo guided you away from the scene, his arm around your shoulders as he led you toward the library exit. The cold stone walls and dim lighting provided a stark contrast to the heated atmosphere you had just left behind.

Just as you were about to leave, Madam Pince appeared, her sharp eyes blazing with anger. "Out! Both of you!" she snapped. "I will not have this kind of behavior in my library. Out, now!"

You opened your mouth to protest, but Theo gave you a gentle nudge, urging you to comply. With a sigh, you followed him out of the library, the door closing behind you with a resounding thud.

Once you were a safe distance away from the commotion, Theo stopped and turned to you, his expression softening into one of genuine concern. The corridor they had led you to was dimly lit, with the flickering torches casting warm, dancing shadows on the ancient stone walls. The distant murmur of the library faded, leaving only the quiet hum of the castle and the steady rhythm of your breaths.

Theo's eyes searched your face for any signs of lingering distress. He reached out, gently brushing a strand of hair away from your forehead, his touch tender and reassuring. The warmth of his hand lingered on your skin, a comforting contrast to the cool air of the castle.

"Are you okay?" he asked, his voice soft and soothing.

You took a deep breath, the remnants of anger and frustration slowly ebbing away with each exhale. The tightness in your chest began to loosen, replaced by a growing sense of calm. You looked up at Theo, your eyes meeting his, and saw the genuine worry etched in his features. It was a look that made your heart ache with gratitude and affection because despite his own problems, he only really cared about you. Nothing else mattered.

"I'm better now," you admitted, your voice a little shaky but honest. "Thanks to you."

Theo's lips curved into a gentle smile, his hand moving to rest on your chin to lift it up a bit. His touch was light, almost hesitant, as if he was afraid of overwhelming you. But it was exactly what you needed — a quiet, steady presence that grounded you, reminding you that you weren't alone.

"You don't have to thank me," he said softly. "I just want to make sure you're okay. That's all that matters to me."

The sincerity in his voice warmed you from the inside out, chasing away the last remnants of your earlier rage. You could feel the tension in your body melting away, replaced by a sense of safety and comfort. Theo had always had that effect on you, his calm and steady nature balancing your fiery temperament.

"I don't know what I'd do without you," you said, your voice barely above a whisper. "You always know how to calm me down, even when I'm ready to explode."

Theo chuckled softly, the sound a soothing melody in the quiet corridor. "That's what boyfriends are for," he replied, his eyes twinkling with a mixture of humor and affection. "Besides, you've got a good heart. You just need someone to remind you of that when things get tough."

You felt a rush of warmth at his words, your heart swelling with gratitude and something deeper, something that made your chest ache in the best possible way. Theo had always seen the best in you, even when you struggled to see it yourself. His unwavering belief in you was a beacon, guiding you through the stormiest of tempers.

"You're too good to me," you murmured, leaning into his touch, drawing strength from his unwavering presence.

For a moment, you stood there in the dimly lit corridor, the world outside fading into insignificance. It was just you and Theo, wrapped in a bubble of quiet understanding and unspoken promises. His hand slipped from your chin to your back, pulling you into a gentle embrace. You rested your head against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart, finding solace in its rhythmic assurance. His arms around you were a shield, protecting you from the world and from your own worst impulses.

As you stood there, wrapped in Theo's embrace, you realized just how lucky you were to have him in your life. He was your rock, your anchor, the one person who could calm the storm within you. And in that moment, you knew that no matter what challenges lay ahead, you could face them as long as you had Theo by your side.

When the world burned, Theo was the only one who could save you. Strange what love will make people do.

566 notes · View notes

thenaughtynorth · 3 months ago

Text

Unscripted (18+) (CM Punk x f!reader)

CM Punk is obsessed, and she knows it. Their tension has been a slow-burning war. Teasing, testing, neither willing to break. But after a brutal match where he bleeds just for her, the game shifts.

CM Punk x female!reader

Warnings: Smut (18+), blood, penetration, oral, dirty talk, masochism, sadism, choking.

Word count: 7,4k

I already KNOW this will get a part 2

———

There was always a certain energy backstage after a live show. Chaos, anticipation, and people moving in all directions. But tonight, it felt different. It was like everything had shifted. And it was because of him.

CM Punk. The one man who had somehow managed to worm his way into my mind, even though I should’ve kept my distance.

It was ridiculous. I was just a producer—an essential part of the team, sure, but I was behind the scenes. No one ever looked at the producers, not like they looked at the Superstars. But Punk? Everyone looked at him. People talked about him, praised him, envied him. He was the rebel, the star, the one who broke the mold and didn’t care what anyone thought.

But there was something about him. Something that drew me in.

Maybe it was the way that he walked into a a room like he owned it, the unshakable confidence that radiated off of him. Or maybe it was his eyes? The way they seemed to study everything, always searching, always hungry for something more. Something real.

I never thought much about it until he started finding ways to speak to me, ways that weren’t about work. At first, it was innocent enough—just casual conversation, little jokes shared during the chaos of a show. But over time, I started to notice the way he lingered when he talked to me, the way his eyes didn’t leave mine for just a fraction too long.

I told myself it was nothing. I told myself I was imagining things. But deep down, I knew the truth.

It was terrifying. I had worked so hard to build a career, to prove myself in this business, and all of it could be ruined in an instant if I let myself get caught up in whatever this was with him.

But then there was the way he looked at me sometimes.. like I was the only thing in the room, like he couldn’t imagine being anywhere else. The way his voice softened when he spoke to me, like he was letting his guard down just for a moment.

It was enough to make me question everything.

The show had ended, the crowd still echoing in my ears as I packed up my notes. The chaos of the post-show routine was in full swing, but my mind was elsewhere. Specifically, it was on him.

I felt him before I saw him.

A presence at the doorway, steady and unyielding, pulling my attention like a force I couldn’t ignore. My hands froze over my notes, pulse kicking up against my will. I didn’t have to look up to know who it was.

Still, I made him wait.

When I finally met his gaze, Punk was leaning against the frame, arms crossed, looking like he had all the time in the world. His face was still a little battered from his match earlier, the dried remnants of blood near his temple, his bottom lip just barely split. He should’ve been exhausted. He should’ve been somewhere icing his wounds, not standing here watching me like I was the thing keeping him awake.

He didn’t say anything at first. Didn’t need to.

I swallowed down the urge to break the silence, turning my attention back to my work. Busy. That was the excuse I was sticking to, even though my focus had been shot the second I felt his eyes on me.

His voice finally cut through the quiet. It was low, rough, with the kind of weights that made my stomach tighten. “You got a second?”

I kept my expression neutral, even as my fingers gripped my pen a little tighter. “The show’s over.” The implication was clear. You should be gone.

“I know.” His tone was too smooth, too easy, but I could feel the edge underneath it. “That’s why I’m here.”

I didn’t look up. “I have work to finish.”

He made a noise, something almost amused. Unbothered. “That’s cute.”

I exhaled sharply through my nose. “I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

He still hadn’t moved from the doorway, but it didn’t matter. He didn’t have to come closer to crowd me. He did it just by being there. By making it impossible to focus on anything other than the heat rolling off him, the way the room felt different just because he was in it.

I shifted in my chair, straightening my shoulders, forcing myself to sound unaffected. “You should be resting. You just got your ass kicked.”

His smirk deepened, and I immediately regretted the choice of words. “That what you think?”

I pressed my lips together, not taking the bait.

Punk finally moved, slow, deliberate steps, and I hated the way my breath caught at how casual he looked about it—like he hadn’t just gone through hell hours ago, like he wasn’t covered in bruises, like he wasn’t completely and utterly unshaken.

Like I hadn’t gotten under his skin at all.

He stopped just short of my desk, close enough that I could see the way his knuckles were still raw, the faint twitch of a muscle in his jaw. Not as calm as he looked, then.

Good.

The silence stretched between us, heavy, expectant.

I knew what this was. What it had always been.

A game. A battle.

A slow, drawn-out war where neither of us wanted to be the first one to cave.

He leaned forward, planting his hands on the desk, and I hated how my pulse jumped at the shift in proximity. How my eyes instinctively dropped to his mouth before I caught myself.

Punk noticed. Of course he did.

The corner of his lip curled, and his voice dropped lower. “You’re really gonna sit there and pretend?”

I arched a brow. “Pretend what?”

He huffed out a laugh, shaking his head, like I was trying his patience. I liked that. Wanted that.

He studied me for a moment, like he was deciding whether or not to push, but I already knew the answer before he did. He was always going to push.

His hand lifted, fingers brushing my wrist. Light, barely-there, but enough to send heat curling through my stomach. Enough to remind me how easy it would be to give in.

I refused to move.

He tilted his head, waiting for a reaction, waiting for anything.

I gave him nothing.

Finally, he sighed, feigning disappointment, but there was something darkly amused in his expression, something that told me this wasn’t over. Not even close.

His fingers trailed one last, slow line against my skin before pulling away.

“You don’t have to keep fighting it,” he said, his voice low, just above a whisper. “You know what I want. You know what we both want. You just have to admit it.”

I didn’t move a muscle.

“Alright,” he murmured, stepping back. “Keep playing.”

“But you’re not the only one who can play games,” he said, his voice lowering, the heat in his tone unmistakable. He stepped toward me again, closing the gap between us with slow, deliberate steps. His presence was overwhelming, and I couldn’t seem to stop my heart from pounding harder. I hesitantly stood from my chair.

I wanted to step back. I wanted to keep my cool, to remind myself that this was dangerous, that I couldn’t afford to let my guard down. But every word he said was like a spark, setting off a wildfire that I couldn’t control.

But there was something in his eyes, as he grabbed my wrist. Something dangerous, something hungry that made my breath catch in my throat. He wasn’t just playing anymore. He was in it, completely and fully, and I wasn’t sure I was ready for what that meant.

“You’re gonna regret it,” I warned, though I wasn’t sure if I was warning him or myself.

His grin turned predatory, his grip on my wrist tightening just enough to send a jolt through me. “No, sweetheart,” he whispered, his voice like velvet and steel, “you’re gonna regret not giving me what I want.”

The heat between us was suffocating, and every inch of me screamed to give in. To stop pretending like I wasn’t affected. Like I didn’t want him just as badly as he wanted me. But I wasn’t ready to lose myself to him yet.

His eyes flashed, but there was something new in his gaze now. It was something raw, something that told me he wasn’t done. Not by a long shot.

He turned, leaving me standing there, my body still humming with the electricity of everything that had just happened. My heart raced, my head swirled, but my pride wouldn’t let me acknowledge what was really happening between us.

At the door, he hesitated, just for a second, then turned his head slightly—just enough for me to see the ghost of a smirk on his lips.

“Don’t work too hard.” His voice was quiet, teasing, laced with something that curled low in my stomach.

I watched him go, my breath steady even though my pulse was anything but.

He knew what he was doing. That deliberate, unhurried exit. The way he rolled his shoulders, stretching out the ache from his match, making sure I saw the way his shirt clung to his still-warm skin. He knew I was watching, and he was making damn sure I had something to look at.

I should have been annoyed. Should have been unaffected. But my fingers twitched against the desk, itching to reach for the place where his touch still lingered.

I exhaled, forcing myself to look away from the empty space where he had just been, my skin still buzzing with the aftermath of his presence.

He wasn’t pressing. Not yet. But the warning had been clear.

This game we were playing?

It wasn’t over.

—

The arena was packed, the crowd’s roar echoing through the halls. The Premium Live Event was in full swing, and backstage, it was a chaotic buzz of activity. But for me? Everything felt frozen. The only thing I could think about was what was about to happen out there.

CM Punk. Drew McIntyre. In the ring.

The matchtype was a brutal one. A Dog Collar match. No rules. No mercy. Just pure violence. It was personal, something real between them. But even as I watched the crew setting up backstage, adjusting cameras, preparing for the madness, I couldn’t shake the way my mind kept circling back to him.

It had been a month since our little moment backstage. The teasing, the tension, the unspoken words that still hung in the air between us. And despite the walls we’d built, despite the games we played, there was no denying the fact that something had shifted.

The bell rang. And like a switch flipping, the crowd’s energy reached a fever pitch. Drew McIntyre entered first, his massive frame dominating the entrance ramp as he made his way to the ring. Punk was next.

It was as if the entire arena held its breath when his music hit.

He was the rebel, the one who refused to play by the rules. His eyes were cold, determined, but I could see the flicker of something else in them. something almost… dangerous. Something that was meant for me. I knew it. I felt it. And I couldn’t ignore it.

Punk stepped into the ring, the dog collar chain hanging from his neck like a reminder of what was to come. He looked straight ahead at McIntyre, but the second his eyes flickered toward the camera, I felt the heat of his gaze on me. There was no mistaking it.

And then, the bell rang again and the fight started.

The match was brutal, violent, and raw. Every punch, every slam, every chain wrapped around bodies seemed to echo through the arena. The camera angles were all over the place, showing the carnage, the blood, the destruction. But all I could focus on was him.

Punk was taking hits—hard hits—but he was giving them right back. I knew that under all that blood, under all the violence, there was something more. Something deeper. He wasn’t just fighting for victory; he was fighting for something else. And in the chaos of the match, I found myself completely, utterly drawn to him.

At one point, Punk and McIntyre clashed in the center of the ring. They were both bleeding, their bodies covered in bruises, but Punk… Punk was different. There was a primal hunger in his eyes as he locked the chain around Drew’s neck, pulling him down to the mat.

The crowd was on their feet, roaring, but I barely heard them. The world had narrowed. It was just me, the man in the ring, and the tension that was thick as the blood staining their bodies.

Then, everything shifted. Punk pulled away from the chaos for just a moment. He was crouched over, panting heavily, his bloodied hands wiping the sweat and blood from his brow. He looked into the camera, but not just any camera, as he found the one nearest the production area.

His lips curled into a knowing smirk as he mouthed something. It wasn’t for the audience. It wasn’t for the match. It was for me.

Still playing games?

He spelled it out with the blood on his hands, wiping it across the mat in the shape of those words. Each letter dripped with the reality of the situation. A challenge. A dare. And the heat that spread through my body, the way my chest tightened, told me that he knew exactly what he was doing.

I swallowed hard, my heart thundering in my chest. Every cell in my body was screaming to look away, but I couldn’t. Not when it felt like he was right there with me, in the room, taunting me, teasing me with the dark promises in his eyes. The rawness, the violence, the blood—it was all just a backdrop to the unspoken game we were playing.

The match raged on, but I could barely focus on the violence anymore. Punk was teasing me. The subtle smirks. The way he moved in the ring, like he was aware of every camera, every angle, every single person watching. But most importantly, he was aware of me. Every time he glanced toward the cameras, every time he wiped blood from his brow, every subtle movement he made sent a new wave of tension running through me.

My body was on fire. Every time his eyes flickered toward the screen, I could feel the burn. Every time he grunted in pain, I could feel myself reacting. I was dying for him, and he somehow knew it.

Punk had McIntyre on the ropes, literally, using the chain to choke him, to drag him across the mat. The blood was pouring from both men, and the intensity was palpable. But Punk, in that moment, seemed to come alive.

And then, without warning, he turned his attention to the crowd for just a second before he sent a slow, deliberate wink in my direction.

It wasn’t subtle. It wasn’t even close to being normal. Punk was making sure I knew that this—everything—was for me.

The game we were playing was only getting more intense, and as I watched him land a vicious kick to Drew’s chest, I could feel the heat pooling low in my belly, a fire igniting between my legs.

Finally, the end came. Punk landed his finishing blow, sending McIntyre crashing to the mat with a brutal twist of the chain. The referee counted, and the bell rang.

Punk was victorious. But he wasn’t celebrating in the traditional sense. No, instead, he dropped to his knees, bloodied, bruised, but still grinning like a man who’d just won the war.

And then, as the crowd roared, he turned his gaze to the camera one last time. It was as if his eyes never left mine, and in that moment, the meaning was clear. There was no escaping this. Not anymore.

We were in this together—whether I liked it or not. And there was no turning back. It was as if our souls had been intertwined and I was drawn to him like a moth to a flame. And after his grueling match, his teasingly brutal performance, and the blood message he’d sent, I was no longer uncertain if he was drawn to me too.

Backstage, I was an absolute fucking mess. My body was on fire, my thoughts a tangled mess. What had happened out there? What was happening between us? Every part of me wanted to pull away, but the rest of me was hungry for more.

Punk had made his mark on me tonight. Not just in the ring, but in my mind, in my body. And I was starting to wonder if I’d ever escape the game he was so expertly playing.

But I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I couldn’t stop wanting him.

And that was the most dangerous game of all. I couldn’t keep myself away from him, even if I tried.

After the show, I’d hidden myself to the best of my ability, keeping myself unnecessarily busy, so I wouldn’t run into him backstage.

The adrenaline was still coursing through me as I walked through the hallways of the hotel. My heart pounded against my ribs, every step heavy with the weight of what was about to happen.

The entire night had been an inferno of tension, a war both physical and emotional, and the aftermath had left me breathless. Even though the match was over, there was no denying what was still simmering beneath the surface between us.

I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him. Punk. His smirk. His eyes. The way he made everything feel like it was just for me, no one else. There had been so many moments in that ring when he’d looked at me through the camera, teased me with the kind of raw intensity that made my pulse race and my thoughts scatter. I couldn’t ignore it. I wouldn’t.

Now, I was headed to his hotel room, and I knew exactly what I was walking into.

The moment I knocked on the door, a pulse of heat shot through me. I could hear movement from inside—Punk’s voice, low and gravelly, talking to someone on the phone, but then the sound stopped abruptly.

Seconds later, the door swung open, and there he was.

Punk.

Bruises and cuts framed his face, his body battered and bruised. His eyes—dark and almost feral—locked onto mine, and for a moment, neither of us moved. The silence stretched out between us, thick and taut with unspoken promises.

He didn’t say a word.

I didn’t either.

But as the door opened wider, I could see the way he was watching me. like I was the only thing he could focus on in that moment. His chest rose and fell with each breath, the adrenaline still lingering in his veins, his muscles still tender from the fight.

It was like a pull, a magnetism that neither of us could fight.

“Come in,” he said, his voice rough, but there was a playful edge to it. A challenge. An invitation.

I stepped over the threshold without hesitation.

The room was dimly lit, a faint glow coming from the small lamp by the bed, and the scent of sweat, blood, and his signature cologne filled my nostrils. He had already showered though, his hair semi-dry and dangling loosely around his face. A part of me wished he hadn’t, feeling drawn to the rawness of the combination of his blood and sweat.

There was something raw and intoxicating about the way he still carried himself after the war he’d just been through.

Punk shut the door behind me with a soft click, but he didn’t take his eyes off me. The tension between us was thick enough to choke on.

His gaze drifted slowly over me, taking in the way I was standing, the way I was breathing, almost like he could feel the heat rising between us.

I fought the urge to squirm. My pulse hammered in my ears.

“You gonna stand there all night?” he asked, his voice low and rough.

I swallowed. “What do you want, Punk?”

He chuckled, a dark, knowing sound. “You know what I want. You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t.”

His eyes narrowed, and in that moment, I knew we were no longer playing games. The space between us evaporated as he took a step forward. Slowly. Calculated.

“You also wouldn’t be here if you didn’t want the same damn thing. You sure you’re ready for this?” His words were a whisper, but they carried a weight.

I didn’t answer. My body already had a mind of its own, the heat pooling between my legs undeniable.

Punk’s lips quirked up into that familiar cocky smirk, and then he closed the distance between us, his hand coming up to trail down the side of my face. His touch was rough, but the way he cupped my chin sent an electric shock through my body.

“You’re not gonna walk away from this now. Not after what we’ve been through,” he murmured, his voice thick with the taste of challenge.

I leaned into his touch. “I’m not walking away, Punk,” I whispered, the words tasting like a promise I was too scared to break.

He didn’t let me finish the thought. His lips were on mine in an instant, hot and insistent, the kiss searing as though he was trying to brand me. The world outside of this room disappeared, leaving only the two of us, tangled in the raw, primal energy of what had been building between us for months.

His hands were on me, rough and demanding, as though he couldn’t stand the space between us any longer. He pulled me closer, so close I could feel the heat of his body against mine, his bruised chest pressing into me.

I gasped when I felt the hard line of his body against mine, the way the roughness of his skin made me feel like I was losing control. But he didn’t give me a chance to gather my bearings. He kissed me harder, his tongue sliding into my mouth with a hunger I couldn’t even begin to understand.

And just like that, I was lost in him.

The heat in the room was unbearable. My chest rose and fell with every frantic breath, every kiss he gave me deepening the need between us.

His hands moved lower, one of them sliding under the hem of my shirt, his rough fingers tracing the curve of my waist. Every touch was a shock, a jolt of sensation, and I couldn’t stop the quiet moan that slipped from my lips.

Punk pulled away for just a second, his chest heaving as he took in the sight of me beneath him, his eyes dark with desire.

“You want this. You want me,” he whispered. His voice was rough, almost a growl. “And now, you’re gonna get it.”

Before I could respond, his hands were on my hips, pushing me back toward the bed with an intensity that made my heart race. His lips were on my throat, kissing, biting, his breath hot against my skin.

I gasped, my fingers threading through his hair as he continued to mark me, making sure I knew exactly what this was.

“You’re not walking away from me. Not now,” he said again, his voice strained with need.

Every word, every touch, every second spent in that room with him was a challenge I didn’t know if I was ready for.

But I was beyond caring. Because when it came to him, there was no turning back.

Punk’s hands gripped me with a possessive force, and I couldn’t help but respond, my body a mix of anticipation and fire. The heat in the room was suffocating, the air thick with the raw, untamed chemistry between us. His lips left trails of heat against my skin as his hands pulled me closer, guiding me backward until I was pressed against the edge of the bed. I could feel the undeniable weight of his presence, his gaze heavy with hunger and something deeper, something that spoke of a craving for more than just physical proximity.

“You feel that?” he whispered, his breath hot against my ear, his voice low, almost like a growl. “You feel how much I want you?”

Oh. My. God.

I nodded without hesitation, my body betraying me as the tension between us built higher, tighter. There was no holding back now. We were in this together, lost in the pull of something primal and unspoken. I had no control.

His hands slid to my hips, tugging me closer as he gave me a look that made my stomach tighten, a glint of something darker flickering in his eyes. He didn’t speak at first. He didn’t have to. Every part of him screamed want, and it was almost like he was daring me to break.

“You’re so fucking irresistible,” he muttered under his breath, his lips grazing the curve of my neck. “Everything about you drives me wild.”

I shivered under his touch, feeling the heat building between us, the air thick with unspoken promises. But instead of following through, he held me there, just on the edge, taking his time. I tried desperately to touch him, but he firmly slapped my hands away, leaving a stinging sensation on my delicate skin.

“You don’t get to decide what happens next,” he said, his voice dangerous, a warning masked by desire. “I do.”

He stepped back, briefly releasing me, and the sudden loss of contact was almost unbearable. My body craved him in a way that was raw, untamed, and completely out of my control. I met his gaze, defiant but wanting, knowing the power he had over me.

Without saying another word, he took a step toward the dresser and grabbed a bottle of water, his movements deliberate. His eyes never left mine as he opened it and took a long swig, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. My gaze followed the movement, and I realized just how badly I wanted to be that close, wanted to feel that heat against my skin.

“You’ve got me right where you want me, huh?” I said, trying to hide the tremor in my voice, but he saw right through it. His eyes flickered with amusement and something more dangerous.

“Not yet, sweetheart,” he replied, his smirk making my pulse spike. “But we’re getting there.”

The words hung in the air, thick with implication, and then, without warning, he was right back in front of me, his hand gripping my chin as he tilted my head up, forcing me to meet his eyes. His touch was possessive, demanding, and my body instinctively responded, leaning into him despite myself.

With a firm hold on my jaw, he poured water into my mouth. I swallowed obediently, still locking eyes with him.

“You need to be hydrated for all the things I have planned for you.” He chuckled darkly, wiping water off of the corner of my mouth with a calloused thumb. I sent him an open-mouthed, puppy-eyed look.

“I like the way you look at me,” he said, his voice a dark rasp. “Like you’re both scared and desperate for more. But that’s not how this works. Not tonight.”

I barely had time to process what he was saying before he kissed me again, but this time it was different. There was a hunger, a desperate need, and I knew then that we were no longer playing games. The passion between us was almost suffocating, a heady mix of control and chaos.

The taste of iron caught me by surprise. The cut he’d suffered on his lip had busted open again.

He broke the kiss, his breath coming in quick bursts. His hand traced the line of my jaw, going through the small pool of blood, he’d transferred to my face. He was literally marking me. His touch was rough, almost punishing, but there was something about it that made me crave it more. It was a touch that was both reverent and possessive, as if he was memorizing the way I felt beneath him, as if he was still trying to decide just how much of me he was going to take.

“You’ll be good for me, won’t you?” he murmured, his voice thick with need. “You’ll let me take care of this… all of this.”

I nodded before I could stop myself, the words slipping out as if they were the only thing that mattered. “Yes. I’ll be good for you.”

The bloody smirk that spread across his face told me everything I needed to know: Punk was in control, and I was caught in his web, more tangled than I had ever been before.

He leaned in again, his lips brushing against my ear. “Good,” he whispered, the single word carrying so much weight. “Because if you want to keep playing this game, you better be ready for what comes next.”

“I need you,” I whimpered, wishing I had sounded more in control.

The silence that followed was thick, heavy, stretched taut between us like a wire about to snap. Punk hovered over me, his breath uneven, his chest rising and falling against mine in a rhythm that felt anything but steady.

I could feel the shift, the way something deeper was threatening to break through. The tension between us had always been sharp, electric, but now? Now it was unbearable.

He was still watching me, his dark eyes flickering over my face like he was looking for something. Maybe some last thread of resistance, some unspoken hesitation that he could rip apart. But there was none. I wasn’t fighting this anymore. I wasn’t sure I ever had been.

Punk exhaled sharply, his fingers tightening around my jaw for just a second before he leaned in, his lips hovering just over mine. “Say it again,” he murmured.

My heart slammed against my ribs. I swallowed, heat spreading through my body like wildfire. He wanted me to admit it. To surrender.

I should have been scared of how easy it was.

“I need you.”

The second the words left my lips, something in him snapped.

Punk kissed me like he wanted to consume me, like he wanted to own me. His hands gripped my waist, pulling me flush against him, the warmth of his skin searing through the thin barrier of clothing still between us. He wasn’t careful—he wasn’t gentle—and I loved it.

“I knew you’d come to me,” he muttered against my lips, his breath hot, his voice thick with something dangerous. His hands slid up my sides, slow and deliberate, teasing, testing. “Knew you couldn’t keep pretending forever.”

I let out a shaky breath, my fingers digging into his shoulders, feeling the bruises he carried from his match just hours ago. But if the pain bothered him, he didn’t show it. If anything, it seemed to fuel him, pushing him further, making him rougher.

“You should’ve come to me sooner,” he continued, his mouth moving against my skin, leaving a trail of heat down my throat. “We’ve wasted so much time.”

I gasped when his teeth grazed my pulse point, my body arching instinctively into his. The satisfaction in his low chuckle sent a shiver through me.

“Is this what you wanted?” he taunted, his hands gripping my hips, his bruised knuckles pressing into my skin. “You’ve been watching me. I know you have. Sitting backstage, pretending you don’t see me.”

I bit my lip, refusing to give him the satisfaction of an answer, but he knew.

Punk pulled back just enough to look at me, his smirk dark and knowing. He tilted his head, studying me, dragging out the moment just to make me squirm.

“You like seeing me bleed, don’t you?” he murmured, his voice like gravel, rough and edged with something almost cruel. “I saw the way you looked at me out there. Remember? There are cameras everywhere. You liked watching me take that beating. Liked seeing me suffer.”

His words sent a fresh wave of heat through me. I opened my mouth to protest, but he cut me off with another bruising kiss, swallowing whatever lie I was about to tell.

“Don’t bother denying it.” His hand slid into my hair, gripping just enough to make me feel it. “You liked watching me hurt.”

I let out a shaky breath, my pulse hammering in my ears. The worst part? He was right.

I had liked it. I had sat backstage, watching his match, feeling every second of it like it was happening to me. Every hit he took, every moment he suffered, had sent a pulse of something dark and hot through my veins.

And the worst part?

He had known.

“You’re a sick little thing,” Punk murmured, his lips brushing my ear, sending a shiver down my spine. “But that’s okay. Lucky for you, so am I.”

I clenched my fists, my nails digging into his skin, determined not to let him have the upper hand so easily. “You’re so damn sure of yourself,” I whispered, forcing my voice to stay steady, refusing to let him see how wrecked I already was.

His grin widened. “Because I know you.” His hand trailed down my side, slow, deliberate, teasing. “I know what you need.”

I swallowed hard, trying to keep my composure, but it was slipping fast.

Punk pulled back slightly, just enough to look at me again, his eyes dark and unreadable. He exhaled, his thumb tracing the edge of my jaw.

“You can still leave,” he said, voice lower now, rougher, like the thought of it pained him. “If you walk out that door, we forget this ever happened.”

He let the words settle between us, heavy, suffocating. A way out. A chance to stop this before it consumed us both.

I stared at him, my body still burning from his touch, my pulse still racing. But there was no hesitation. No second-guessing.

I reached up, threading my fingers into his hair, pulling him closer until our lips were nearly touching.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

His breath hitched.

In one fluid motion, he pulled my top up and over my arms, smudging the blood on my jaw and cheek even further. His own shirt soon followed.

He was bruised, battered, and pieces of his skin had been torn, only for it to have been stitched back together again. There was something insanely hot and passionate about the nonsensical act of violence he’d been a part of. The fact that it was all for entertainment—and all for me.

Punk was rough with his touch, not missing a single ounce of skin as his hands roamed over my stomach, waste and chest. His eyes grew big, when he removed my bra, and came face-to-face with the solid metal bars piercing both of my rock-hard nipples.

He rutted his hips feverishly into mine, sending me a clear message; he sure as shit liked what he saw.

Ecstasy and a loud moan rushed over me, as he took a bejeweled nipple into his mouth, and chewed and bit on it, like a starved dog with its bone. It was oddly fitting, had he only still been wearing the dog-collar.

Hours passed, or maybe minutes, or maybe it was just one long, drawn-out moment where time didn’t exist.

Punk was relentless. He was teasing and rough and careful all at once, like he was savoring every second, like he wanted to make sure I felt this long after the night was over. He didn’t let me get away with anything—every sound, every reaction, every sharp inhale, he noticed.

“You always act so tough,” he murmured at one point, his fingers tracing my jaw, his thumb brushing over my swollen lips. “But look at you now.”

I wanted to snap back at him, wanted to bite out something sharp and smug, but I couldn’t. He’d taken all of that control, pulled it right out of my hands and owned it.

And I let him.

I wanted him to.

My pants were practically ripped off of me, as he—with one goal in mind—attached himself to my hips.

“You’re being such a good fucking girl for me, you know that?” He mumbled, voice smooth like velvet, but slightly muffled by the fabric of my panties. His face was planted between my thighs as he breathed me in.

When I didn’t immediately answer, he roughly took a hold of my jaw, pushing two fingers between my swollen lips.

“Use that pretty mouth of yours,” he demanded, “do you know how good of a girl you’re being?”

My thighs twitched and I was unsure if I had died and gone to heaven.

“Y-yes, Punk, yes I know”

That was the confirmation he needed, before he discarded my panties, and dove nose first into me, devouring me like he hadn’t eaten in weeks.

It was sensory overload. The soft licks of his tongue connecting with my sensitive and eager core. His salt-and-pepper beard rubbing and scratching my upper thighs. And the sounds of my own very clear arousal mixed with his saliva? Pheeeew.. it was nearly too much to handle.

I had been fantasizing about him putting his mouth on me forever, but nothing could’ve ever prepared me for the real thing. Punk had a skillful mouth, which was both clear whenever he dropped a pipebomb on an opponent, as well as when he drove me towards an intense release.

With a firm hold and a fast move, he flipped us over, mouth never leaving my pussy.

Punk’s fingers dove into my hips and thighs, as he quickened his pace on me, clearly picking up on the way my body was twitching for an orgasm. He guided my hips, making me ride his face with passion and without a single care in the world.

The grip he had on me was rough, hard, possessive and 100% guaranteed to leave marks come morning.

The sounds leaving my mouth were pornographic and uncontrolled, collecting a throaty groan from Punk underneath me.

It was as if I had been struck by thunder and lit on fire, when my entire body shook as he sent my over the edge and into a mind blowing orgasm.

He guided me through my high, as if he knew every inch of my body and as if we’d done this dance a million times.

A large toothy grin was plastered on his bearded face, that was coated and shiny with my arousal. I couldn’t help but to match his smile. He had, after all, rocked my world.

He gently flipped us over again, hand finding my jaw and mouth for the hundredth time.

“If that’s my last meal, I’m dying a happy man,” he mumbled, maybe more to himself than to me, as he undid his belt.

Minutes had turned into hours, before he finally had my legs wrapped around his waist, pushing slowly, but surely, into me.

It wasn’t just about the way he touched me—it was the way he looked at me. Like he saw right through every single wall I had put up. Like he had known, this whole time, that I would end up here, under him, his.

Some fucked up version of destiny.

A string of dirty curse words left both of our mouths, as our bodies intertwined. It was a feeling unlike no other. Like holstering a gun. Adding the last piece to a puzzle. A feeling better than any high in the entire world.

I felt a tightness around my neck, as Punk just couldn’t help himself. He squeezed expertly—making sure not to miss even a single second of eye contact, even whilst cutting off most of my air. But two could play that game.

I raked my fingers over his chest, circling the skull-tattoo, before pressing a sharp nail into the flesh near one of the cuts he’d suffered during his match with McIntyre.

“F-fucking hell, baby,” Punk moaned his breath hitching, eyes flashing down to the cut I had now reopened slightly.

A wicked smile was on full display on my lips. He likes the fucking pain.

The grip on my throat was replaced by an even harder grip on my hair, as he pulled and pulled whilst punishing me even harder with his relentless pace.

A small drop of Punk’s blood landed on my chest.

“You never answered me before,” he grunted in between his deep thrusts, “do you like seeing me in pain?”

A rush of courage came over me as I forcefully nodded, yanking his hair back.

“I love seeing you in pain, Punk”

He growled, eyes dark and hungry.

“Matter of fact, I live for it. I get paid to see you hurt, bleed, and be in excruciating pain, Punk,” my words were teasing, yet forceful and confident. I was enjoying the game we were playing.

My words only made Punk even wilder and hotter; It was an impressive pace he was setting. Every single dirty word, possessive grab, or even a moment of nasty, shared looks, spurred him on, making my legs feel like jelly.

“You might be one sick fuck, but so am I,” I raise my voice, grabbing a hold of the flesh on his back with my sharp nails.

A sloppiness overtook his thrusts, indicating how close he was to losing control and finishing.

Another pull on his hair, and the most sinful look I could’ve ever sent him, was what sent him crashing into his orgasm.

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” He repeated like a mantra, as he pulled out, jerking himself and coming all over my stomach and chest, as if he’d just autographed his own name to mark me his.

When both of our highs were over, the only sound in the room was our breathing—deep, uneven, wrecked.

I was sure this was the closest two non-believers would ever get to heaven.

Punk was still hovering over me, his arms braced on either side of my head, his face inches from mine. His breath was warm against my lips, but he didn’t kiss me again. Not yet.

His eyes searched mine, still dark, still intense, but there was something else there, something softer. Something he didn’t say.

I reached up, my fingers tracing the bruises along his ribs, my touch barely there. “You’re gonna be sore tomorrow.”

He smirked, but it was slower this time, lazier. “Worth it.”

I rolled my eyes, but the smile that tugged at my lips betrayed me. I couldn’t help it.

For a moment, we just existed like that. No words. No games. Just breathing the same air, feeling the same fire.

Then, finally, Punk let out a breath and shifted off of me, collapsing onto the mattress beside me.

I turned my head to look at him, and he was already staring at the ceiling, his hands resting over his stomach, fingers twitching like he was thinking too hard.

The silence stretched, but it wasn’t uncomfortable.

It was just… us.

And then, just as I was about to say something, Punk spoke first, his voice lower, rougher.

“You know this changes everything, right?”

I swallowed, my heart kicking up again. I didn’t answer right away, because I did know. I had known before I ever walked into this room.

But hearing him say it out loud made it real.

I turned on my side, propping my head up with my hand as I studied him. His face was softer now, the sharp edges dulled just a little by exhaustion.

He glanced over at me, and there was something unreadable in his gaze—something I wasn’t sure I was ready to face just yet.

So I did what I always did. I deflected.

I smirked, reaching over to brush my fingers along his bruised ribs again, light, teasing. “You’re really not gonna make it through training tomorrow.”

Punk let out a short laugh, shaking his head. “You’re such a pain in the ass.”

I grinned. “You like it.”

He didn’t answer right away. He just stared at me, his expression unreadable. Then, finally, he exhaled and ran a hand through his messy hair, smirking just a little.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “I really do.”

And even though we weren’t saying the big things—the real things—somewhere deep down, I knew.

This wasn’t over. It was just the beginning.

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