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bizarrelovetriangel · 1 month ago

Text

captive.

zayne wants to smash but keeps getting interrupted.

wrote the same prompt for this sylus fic. wanted to do one for zayne also <3

starts off suggestive and flufy and ends with smut so mdni. 18+ only. grinding. oral (m and f giving and receiving). creampie. overstimulation.

Zayne traps you against the closed door, wrapping your legs around his hips while his lips devours yours.

He groans as you tug on the strands of hair just above his neck, where your hands are resting as you hang onto him. His ears are as red as his cheeks, and his breaths are heavy as he kisses you deeper.

DING.

Zayne frowns at the phone notification.

Interrupted yet again. It's the third time this week.

It's like the world is testing his patience.

Zayne is finding it harder and harder to keep himself in control.

You two were only saying goodnight to each other, and somehow the parting kiss turned into a heavy makeout session by the door, as neither of you were unable to pull away so soon.

And so his phone demanded attention, letting him know that it's time to head home so he can finish the reports that have upcoming deadlines.

"Alright, I'll be going home now — for sure this time."

"Okay! Goodnight, Zayne."

As you gave him one last goodbye kiss, Zayne used up all his strength to not kiss back as deeply as before. Otherwise, he'll end up on your bed rather than in his home office, where he should've been about fifteen minutes ago, if only he didn't get distracted.

A peck on the forehead should suffice.

For now.

"Goodnight, darling."

Two days later, you and Zayne agreed to have a quick little lunch date in his office in between work hours.

As you ate your meals, you shared all the interesting moments that happened throughout your day so far. Often, you're the one doing most of the talking, as you love to ramble about your Wanderer encounters and mysterious investigations, which you probably should've kept classified, but Zayne is special so he gets to be in the know.

Other times, such as today, Zayne would have some patients that he thinks you'd like to hear about, so they end up being your discussion topic for half of your lunch date.

Somehow, your conversations led to Zayne feeling up your biceps, for science, he said.

He was standing in front of you, between your legs, while partly bent down so that he could properly feel the muscles of your arms.

You've already forgotten why exactly he's doing that in the first place, mostly because the closeness made you forget every thought in your brain, so you're not making any complaints.

You stared at his pretty eyelashes behind his glasses. Suddenly, his eyes darted to yours, and you watched as his pupils dilated not long before his face leaned even closer.

You weren't sure who closed the distance between you two — maybe it was both of you at the same time, equally compelled to press your lips against each other.

Zayne's hands made their way to your face, just underneath your jaw to gently brush his thumbs against your skin, while your right hand traveled to the back of his neck to keep him in place.

He hummed with content against your lips, using one hand to gently adjust your face so he could kiss you deeper.

Neither of you wanted to break apart, taking only seconds to gasp for air before diving back in to each other's lips.

Your face burned along with your body as your heart races. Feeling just as flustered, Zayne reached one hand up to his tie so that he could loosen it, hoping for his body to cool down even just a little bit.

But he doubts it'll be any help. Every part of him has been ignited, and now he can't help but want you close to him.

He kisses you with a little more force that's fueled with hunger while his hands rest on your hips, just for a minute before they started to slowly slide down to your thighs.

Zayne got on his knees in front of you, still positioned between your now-parted legs. He gazed at you with lustful eyes, cheeks burning along with his red ears.

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.

"Doctor Zayne, do you have a minute?"

Your eyes widened at Greyson's voice from the other side of the locked door.

You looked at Zayne with shock before reaching for his tie to straigten it properly.

He blinked slowly for a moment before sighing then clearing his throat. His hand brushes with yours to help you fix his tie before responding to Greyson.

"Just a moment please."

You jumped up and planted a kiss on his cheek. "I guess it's time for me to get back to work too. See you later, Zayne. Have a good rest of your day ~"

You held back a grin as you caught his brows furrowing.

Once you reached Saturday night, it was time for your weekend date. This time, you decided to go to a restaurant that contained billiards and arcade.

Before dinner, you two challenged each other with a few round of pool. It's been a while since you two had played it, so he wanted to see if you remember the things he'd taught you.

You did remember most of his lessons and your skills have slightly gotten better, though Zayne still ended up as the winner.

You tried your best, but you didn't mind being the loser because you got to see Zayne do a whole bunch of poses that showed off his figure quite well while playing, so you were grinning a lot at the end of it.

"What are you so happy for?" Zayne asked curiously.

"Don't worry about it. Shall we eat? I'm hungry now."

"Yeah."

Dinner was perfect.

All the ordered food and drinks were delicious, so you two agreed to get dessert as well. There were a lot that looked good on the menu, so you two just chose the top two that looked most appealing.

It turns out.... that wasn't the greatest idea.

Neither of you read the tiny information that came with the pictures because you were so entranced by their appearance.

Your chosen dessert was a cute little ice cream cake that both of you finished only with a few bites.

Zayne's dessert, on the other hand....

"Darling, why are you so far away? Come a little closer."

It contained liquor.

And now....

It's better to go home as soon as possible.

You called for a taxi and the ride home wasn't so bad, except for the fact that your face was hot with embarrassment because the driver laughed at you two when Zayne buried his face on your neck while mumbling things under his breath.

A quarterway through the trip, he ended up falling asleep with his face still on your neck and shoulder, so you had to wake him up once it was time to get off.

You're technically strong enough to be able to carry him, thanks to your intense hunter training, but you're not confident that you won't drop him or make him vomit with all the shaking you will be doing to him. The right thing to do was to wake him up.

Zayne tried to press the correct code to unlock his door, but his hazy mind and slightly spinning vision prevented him from doing so.

It was just like that one time he got drunk from eating one alcoholic chocolate. Recalling the memory made you grin, and Zayne didn't fail to catch it despite his current state.

"Are you laughing at me?" he asked with narrowed eyes, and flushed, red cheeks.

"Not at all."

"Liar."

His attention shifted to you, facing away from the door so that he could look at you closely. The distance between you two was so short, you could smell the chocolate and alcohol from the dessert he had eaten.

Zayne leaned down so that his face is only a hair away from yours.

"And since you lied to me.... I might have to punish you..."

His lips suddenly covered yours with enough force for your body to be pushed back, though his hands made their way to your back to prevent you from roughly hitting anything behind you.

One blink and you found yourself trapped against his door, with Zayne's hands roaming all over your figure while his mouth explores yours in such a rushed manner.

"Zayne..."

He groaned against your lips while his hips grinds against yours. You tasted the sweetness of chocolate and the bitterness of alcohol as his tongue clashes with yours.

Forcing yourself to pull away from the intense kiss, you put a hand on his chest and used the other to fix the glasses that had slipped down to the bridge of his nose.

He slightly shook his head and rubbed his eyes, feeling his vision worsening by the second. He was looking more red too, and you're unsure if it's because he's flustered or if it's from all the alcohol. Either way, it's better if he cools off for now.

"Let's go inside and get you some water."

As you turned around to press the security code for his door, Zayne wrapped his arms around your chest to hug you from behind, resting his chin on your right shoulder.

Once the door finally opened, you had to walk towards his bedroom while he was still embracing you, so that was a challenge that took some time to accomplish.

You sat him down on his bed.

"Stay here while I get you some water and the medicine to make you feel better."

Zayne was quick to grab your wrist just as you were about to leave. "Wait, stay here..."

"I'll only be gone for a few seconds, I promise."

He huffs. "Fine. But if you're not back within three seconds, I'll have to punish you."

Somebody is quite intent on punishing you tonight.

Supressing a chuckle, you nodded and patted his head. "Alright."

"One."

"What?! Already?! I haven't even taken a step yet!"

"Two."

"Oh my god — "

You sprinted to the kitchen to fill a glass of water, then you darted to the medicine cabinet for the pill that'd make him sober up, and the one that would make his stomach calm down, just in case.

Out of breath, you returned to his room and found Zayne lying down on the bed, already sleeping and snoring softly.

It was such an adorable sight, you can't help but sit beside him and pet his head.

"So, is this my punishment?" you brushed some strands of his hair away from his forehead. "I get to watch you sleep like a baby?"

You undressed him and put on his pajamas so that he could sleep more comfortably, then you repositioned his body so that he's lying down properly, in a way that won't hurt his back tomorrow morning. Luckily, he didn't wake up from all the movements.

You took a quick shower and got dressed into your night attire before joining him in bed. As you closed your eyes, you recalled his cute drunk expressions, and so you fell asleep with a smile on your face.

You didn't see Zayne for five days due to a faraway mission. On the day of your return, however, you ended up meeting him by accident.

"No way, Zayne!"

His eyes widened as soon as he saw you waving at him, sitting alone on a table at the back of the busy cafe.

He almost ran into a delinquent-looking highschool boy as he quickly made his way towards you.

"Hey, watch it, old man!" the boy growls, but Zayne paid him no attention as all of it are on you.

Zayne set his iced vanilla latte next to your macchiato and took an empty chair, pushed it right next to yours before taking a seat. Your knees touch at the closeness.

"I didn't know you're back already." he gave you a frown. "You didn't tell me anything."

You shrank down into your seat, feeling a little guilty. "We got back two days earlier than planned since we wrapped up everything quicker than expected. I was just about to send you a message right now! See?"

You unlocked your phone to reveal your half-written text message to Zayne, inviting him for dinner tonight.

"I thought you'd be working right now, so I was going to ask you out later."

Zayne relaxed and nodded his head. "I have some time before my next patient's appointment, so I went out to get something to drink. This cafe's latte is much better than the one that the hospital. I had no idea I'd see you in here."

The cafe is not too far from Akso Hospital, and it was on the way to the hunters' headquarter, halfway from the train station. You saw a woman drinking coffee and got jealous, so you got one as well. And now, you're sitting with Zayne as a bonus.

"So, how did your mission go?" Zayne's eyes scanned your figure to see if you had any injuries that required medical attention. "You came back without a scratch this time. I'm proud of you."

You laughed and playfully bumped your knee with his. "So mean! I'm not always injured after a mission!"

"You're right. Not always. For one out of every five missions, you'd successfully return with only two bruises. This time, however, there's not a single scratch on you, so consider it your greatest achievement."

He was on fire today.

"Alright, I get it." you scoff, though you're unable to stop yourself from smiling.

You've only been away for five days but you missed him.

"So, let me tell you about the guy that was behind the whole thing! You're not supposed to know this but I'm gonna tell you anyways so don't tell anyone that I told you."

As you began to ramble about your mission, Zayne tries his best to listen, especially since he genuinely loves hearing about all the crazy things you do at work. You always sound like a cool superhero that fights monsters and saves the day. He'll always be proud of you.

But right now, Zayne can't help but be distracted by.... you.

His eyes studied the features of your face and his fingers want to caress them, so that he could feel your warmth and softness. Instead, Zayne kept his hands wrapped around his cold drink, as if to stop himself from reaching for you.

As you spoke, your legs casually swayed and would ocassionally bump into his. Once again, his hands yearned to feel them. He wanted to run a hand from your knees to your thighs, recalling how it feels whenever he's between them.

And when his mind went to what's in between your thighs, Zayne exhaled slowly before taking a long sip of his iced coffee.

"...and then we discovered their hideout and — Zayne, are you feeling okay?"

He blinked out of his trance as he felt your hand touch his cheek.

"You're so warm and red!"

Zayne held the hand that was on his face.

"I'm alright. I just.... want to hold you..."

Your eyes softened and your thumb gently rubbed his cheek.

For a moment, you two stayed like that without saying anything. Just for a brief minute, it felt like you two were alone, just appreciating each other's presence.

But soon enough, you got a reminder that you were not alone, at all.

"Oops! My bad, old man!" the highschool boy that Zayne almost ran into had passed by right behind him and his elbow accidentally hit Zayne on the back.

After you pulled back from him, Zayne raised one hand in dismissal. "It's alright, no worries."

He then glanced at the time and let out a sigh before turning back to you. "I have to get back to work now."

"Oh, yeah." you almost forgot. "I'll get going too!"

You and Zayne stood up and walked out of the cafe together.

"The dinner that you have yet to ask me about..." Zayne points at your phone. "Send me the time and place. Let's meet up later."

"Oh!" you lit up with excitement, not expecting him to remember the invitation and actually go through with it. "Yeah, I'll send you the details in a bit! See you later, Zayne!"

This time, Zayne made sure to order his dessert carefully, so you two were able to end dinner without worrying about anyone intoxicated.

After getting another plushie to add to your collection, you two returned to his place. As Zayne finished up a paperwork in his office, you decided to take a shower.

The hot water felt so nice, so you ended up being there longer than intended.

So long that Zayne decided to check up on you.

And join you.

"Wha — Zayne!"

"You were taking too long. I need to take a shower too."

It's not the first time you two showered together, so it's not a big deal. Still, seeing him naked out of the blue did get your heart racing, for many reasons.

"Using my shampoo?" you raised a brow, watching as Zayne grabs the purple shampoo bottle instead of the blue one.

"Only because mine ran out faster than usual, for some odd reason..."

"Hmm... that is weird, hahaha!" you're definitely not guilty, at all. "Anyways, let me help you!" you grabbed his arms and forced him to lower down so that you could reach his hair.

Zayne gave no objection and allowed you to play with his foam-covered hair, chuckling at your level of concentration.

A few minutes later, as you're washing off soap from his body, you got the urge to write a hidden message on his back.

With your index finger, you wrote:

'<3 you.'

You grinned at your work despite having no evidence of it.

"If you have something to tell me, say it to my face, not my back."

Zayne turned around to face you, just in time to watch your grin vanish as you became surprised.

"What?! How did you know?!"

He smiled with amusement. "I'm a doctor who knows a lot of things."

"You are such a comedian."

Zayne disregarded your sarcastic reply and held your hands that reached up to his face to pinch his cheeks.

"So are you going to tell me what you wrote on my back?"

"I thought you know it already, Doctor Zayne."

"I do. But I want to hear you say it."

He leaned down towards your face and your entire body became nervous all of a sudden.

"Wow, look at this! We're wasting water! Better turn it off." you tried to run away by moving to the other side to turn off the shower valve.

Zayne didn't let you go easily.

He came up behind you, spun you around and trapped you against the wall, left arm blocking your upper left side and his right hand pressed against the wall, right next to your hips.

"I'm sorry, I can't let you run away again." he whispered before kissing you just under your right ear. "I haven't seen you for days, but it feels longer." He recalled all the times he'd gotten interrupted every time things are just starting to heat up. "I might just have to.... keep you captive."

You failed to come up with a proper response as his words had your mind melting and overheating.

No, it's not just your mind, but your body as well.

As he starts to slowly leave a trail of kisses from your ear to your neck, your heart skipped a beat and your face heated up along with the rest of you body. Your legs weakened, and your core clenched with excitement.

After leaving a couple of marks on your skin, just above your collar bones, Zayne focused on your lips.

Keeping a slow and gentle pace, he kissed you passionately, over and over again, going in deeper everytime.

Once his tongue slipped betwen your lips, your hands moved from his back to his shoulders so that you could pull him closer while simultaneously keeping yourself steady, just in case your knees give out from the way he's making you feel.

Your thighs burned with desire, especially when something hard suddenly poked you.

Zayne moaned as his cock twitched and its tip had grazed your soft, sensitive skin, hot and wet just for him.

"Let's take this inside, okay?"

You vigorously nodded your head and wrapped your arms around his shoulders while he grabbed onto your legs to wrap them around his hips.

At his movement, his cock once again brushed against your pussy and the two of you failed to hold back a gasp from the pleasant wave of sensation that stuck your bodies.

Zayne carried you out of the bathroom and onto the bed, not caring much about his sheets getting wet from your bodies, still slightly wet from the shower.

He sat you down at the edge of the bed and got on his knees, positioning himself right between your legs.

Just then, his phone started ringing.

He freezes, and your mouth drops.

Interrupted again?

This has to be the worst one of all, you thought.

But Zayne ignored it.

His hands went to your legs and parted them so he could make more room for himself.

"Wait, are you not gonna answer that?"

"I told the hospital that I'd be busy and won't be able to get back to them at all. Whatever it is, it's not important."

You are much more important.

Right now, all he wants to do is make you feel good, so that's what he's going to do.

Zayne buries his face between your thighs and his tongue massages your folds, causing you to gasp and grasp his shoulders.

The movement of his tongue increased its pace as he devoured you deeper. He hummed with satisfaction, enjoying how you taste. At last, he finally gets to have you.

He'll be sure to take his time.

He'll make sure every part of you gets the attention it deserves.

No matter how deep, he'll be sure that you feel all of him.

And so, as soon as you reached your climax and squirted all over his mouth, Zayne licked his lips and moved on to your breasts, taking his time to suck each one and leaving a mark near them.

Soon, he led you farther into the bed, ready to get on top of you. However, after seeing his hardening cock coated with pre-cum, you pulled him down on the mattress and straddled his thighs.

Zayne's breath hitched as you lowered your face onto his hips before taking his cock into your mouth. He groans at the feeling of your lips and tongue enveloping and caressing him so tightly, he can't help but thrust upwards just a little.

RING RING RING.

Your eyes widened as your ringtone blared loudly, causing you and Zayne to glance at your phone on the nightstand, right next to his.

Zayne frowned and took a glance at the lit-up screen of your phone.

"Would you like to answer Andrew's call, darling?"

With his cock still inside your mouth, you furrowed your brows and shook your head.

"Are you sure? It might be important."

One death glare from you, and Zayne chuckles and rejects the call. He silences your phone before returning it on the nightstand.

He was just about to say something, most likely a teasing remark judging by the smirk on his face, so you quickly put all of his length in your mouth, taking him as deep as you could. Zayne flinched and threw his head back, grunting loudly while his fingers cling onto the sheets of his bed.

At that moment, he came inside your mouth.

You swallowed as much as you could, though there had been so much that your lips, and portions of cheeks and chin had gotten painted white as well.

Zayne breathes heavily while his cock remains hard and twitching, just like how your pussy is even more wet than before.

He sat up and captured your lips roughly, with one hand on your neck, holding you just strong enough to keep you in place, but nowhere near enough to hurt you.

His kisses are tender and packed with hunger. He only just tasted you, but he wants more. And you're just as desperate, kissing him back just as forceful while one of your hand run up and down his chest, feeling his fast-beating heart.

You slowly start to sway your hips and grind on his thighs, immediately making him gasp. His cock pokes your entrance, demanding to feel you, so you take it and ease it in you.

Zayne rested a hand on the small of your back once you slowly began to move up and down, matching the pace of his lips that dances against yours.

Every part of him wanted to grab your ass and urge you to move faster, but Zayne wanted to take it slow tonight.

He wants to take his time.

He's not going anywhere and neither will you.

Tonight, there won't be any interruptions.

So, there's no need to rush.

You'll have each other for as long as you want, for as long as you can.

When he reached his second climax, Zayne remained inside you. Even when some had spilled out, he continued to thrust into you.

He kissed you as you cried with pleasure, feeling overwhelmed with the euphoric feeling all over your body.

"Just a little more, okay?"

You nodded as a response, barely understanding his words due to your spinning mind. You gasped for air as Zayne gently nudged down on your stomach before going on top of you, aligning his cock against your ass.

He kissed your ear before entering you once again.

Just as promised, he kept you as a captive.

He took his time with you and stopped at nothing until both of you could no longer keep your eyes open.

"By the way..."

Just before you could fall asleep, Zayne, who was lying down next to you, drew something on your back using his index finger.

'<3 you.'

#was that ending too cheesy??? mayhaps but i like it hehe #love and deepspace #zayne #zayne x reader #zayne smut #zayne love and deepspace #love and deepspace zayne #lads #lynnsfics #lads zayne #zayne lads #lnds #love and deepspace x reader #lads x reader #lads smut #love and deepspace smut

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navybrat817 · 5 months ago

Note

Love drunk Bucky! What about a drunk reader?

Yes, we've seen drunk!Bucky in Pretty Girl. A drunk reader could be fun.

Your Girl

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Summary: You're very vocal about wanting Bucky Barnes.

Word Count: Over 1.7k

Warnings: Drunk reader with no filter, drunk confession, dirty talk, humor, slight feels, talk of consent and communication, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?).

A/N: Hope you lovelies enjoy. ❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

“Raw. Next question.”

You sipped your drink, the room going eerily silent. It was the quietest it had been since everyone gathered in the lounge for some drinks hours ago. Pairs of eyes stared at you with a mix of fascination and shock as your words hung in the air.

Just moments ago, Clint had been going through his phone and showing everyone candid photos he managed to snap of everyone. Most of them were hilarious, but the most recent one wasn't hilarious at all. It was clearly hot based on your reaction.

“What did she say?” Steve whispered to break the silence.

“You heard what she said. Everyone heard it,” Sam whispered back, giving you a quizzical stare. “How many drinks have you had?”

You held up a finger followed by another couple. “Like this many. And water. Hydration is so important.”

“Hold on. Back to what you said a second ago.” Clint turned the phone toward him with a raised brow and slowly turned it back toward you so you could see it again. “You know that’s a picture of Barnes, right? Not some model or actor?” he asked.

Bucky Barnes, the beefy super soldier who was trying not to shatter the bottle in his metal hand as he watched the scene unfold before his eyes. Clint managed to snap a photo of him when he removed his shirt after a recent workout, which begged the question of why he was taking the photo to begin with. Bucky wasn’t looking at the camera since his eyes were shut, but his parted mouth, slightly messy hair, and sweat shining off his torso made him look like a thirst trap. The sweatpants only made the picture that much hotter.

“Yeah, I know. He’s hot. We all know he’s hot,” you shrugged. “And I said what I said.”

Bucky audibly exhaled. You had a penchant for being very honest with the team which they appreciated. If someone asked for your opinion or thoughts on something you didn’t hide how you felt. You were careful not to be cruel if you disagreed with anyone, but you still led with honesty. Alcohol didn’t change that.

So, if you said you thought Bucky was hot and you wanted him to fuck you raw, you meant it.

Clint exchanged a quick glance with Natasha before the redhead nodded to the spot beside you. The spy looked like she was having a hard time not smiling. “And you know he’s sitting next to you, right?” she asked.

You downed the rest of your drink and shrugged again. “Yeah, I know. And I’d let him fuck me raw. Every day. Twice on Sundays,” you said unapologetically as Steve coughed. You swung your head toward Bucky with a sultry smile and leaned in a little closer. He smelled your perfume before you sat down tonight, but now the sweet smell combined with your natural scent was making him dizzy. “You’d fuck me raw, right? Maybe fuck me from behind so you can get nice and deep.”

The bottle shattered which only made you smile more. Bucky’s nostrils flared and everyone backed up a few inches, except for you, the newest member of the team. The person who loved to leave little treats and snacks for him to make sure he ate throughout the day. The same person who made a show of bending over and stretching in front of him whenever you two worked out together. The only one who seemed to get a real smile out of him since you showed up like a shining beacon of happiness and sass.

And now you were telling him you want him to fuck you. Raw. He thought about it, of course- how wet and snug you’d feel around his bare cock, how you’d take him like a good girl. He pictured you sobbing his name and squirming as he pinned you down and brought you over the edge again and again. Licking his lips, he imagined the taste of your arousal on his tongue and wondered if he could make you squirt. He sure as hell wanted to try.

Bucky heard Thor’s footsteps, but didn’t take his eyes off you as the God of Thunder took a seat. “Clearly, I’ve missed something.”

“I said I want Bucky to fuck me raw,” you said without missing a beat.

Bucky bit back a groan. He was two seconds away from throwing you over his shoulder like a caveman and taking you away from everyone. There were so many filthy things he wanted to say and do to you…

And your bluntness didn’t seem to bother the blonde. “I thought you two were already having relations. With how close you two-”

“I’m sorry. Did you just say ‘relations’?” Clint asked. “Relations.”

“Is that not what they’re discussing?” Thor asked, taking a sip from his flask. “Though if there is no protection there is the risk of procreating, but they would have beautiful offspring.”

You leaned in a bit closer, but Bucky gripped your arms to move you away from his spot. “I don't want the glass to cut you.”

“You're so thoughtful. And amazing,” you smiled. He adored your smile. “And if a breeding kink is what you’re into, actually breeding me or not, I’m all for it. I’m wet just thinking about it.”

Thor laughed and held up his flask. “That’s the spirit.”

Bucky’s cock twitched in his pants. “I know you’re wet. I can smell it,” he all but growled. He inhaled so deeply he could actually taste it, and he wanted more. And if he could smell it, Steve could smell it.

“Okay then.” Clint removed his hearing aid. “I think I’m done.”

Steve jumped up when his best friend glared at him. “I think I’m done, too,” he said, not wanting to face Bucky’s wrath even though it wasn’t his fault he also had heightened senses.

“Let’s go, boys. I think these two should talk without us,” Natasha suggested, hauling Sam up by the arm and giving both of you a wink. “Be good, okay?”

“No promises,” you replied in a sing-song voice.

“Shouldn’t they get a room? I’m just saying,” Sam said as Natasha dragged him away.

“Breed her well, Barnes. Make us proud!” Thor shouted. Steve hauled him from the room, too, with Clint hot on their tail.

“Alone at last,” you giggled. If you were at all embarrassed, it didn’t show. And now that the two of you were alone, the tension skyrocketed. “You know, this isn't how I pictured saying any of this, but here we are.”

“Here we are,” he said. He couldn't believe you wanted him, but you did.

“I hope I didn’t make you feel uncomfortable or weird. I’d never want that.”

“That’s the last thing I feel,” he exhaled, still gripping your arms when you finally moved into his lap and straddled him.

“Good,” you smiled, leaning in for a kiss.

As much as he wanted to feel your lips against his, he stopped you. And as much as he wanted to tear your leggings away and have you then and there, but he couldn’t. “I’m not fucking you. Not tonight.”

The playfulness slipped from your eyes. So did the smile from your face. “Oh. I thought…” you breathed, looking away and quickly blinking. God, he hoped there weren’t tears in your eyes. “You don’t actually want me, do you?”

Bucky hadn’t meant for his words or stopping the kiss to come across as rejection, but that was exactly what happened. “That’s not–”

“Oh, my God. I ruined everything, didn't I? Why did I open my mouth?” You sniffled and tried to move away, but he wouldn't let you. “Six months of friendship and crushing on you and I-”

“Hey. You didn't ruin a thing.” Bucky gripped your chin with tenderness he didn’t think he was capable of anymore, and his heart broke when he saw the tears swimming in your beautiful eyes. “I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anyone in my life,” he admitted, brushing a tear away that fell. “But you’ve been drinking, and that means you can’t fully consent, and I will not take advantage of you, no matter how you say you want me or this. I respect and care for you too much for that.”

HYDRA took consent away from Bucky for a long time, and it was one of the worst feelings in the world. He’d hate himself for doing anything with you without your full consent. He wouldn’t be the kind of man who did that. The man you deserved would be the one who properly took care of you in and out of bed.

And he’d be the best man for you if you let him.

“So, you do want me?” you asked, your voice uncertain.

“I did say more than anyone else, and I meant it,” he replied. You had to believe him. “But our first time should happen when you're sober.”

However you wanted your first time to be, he'd make it happen. He'd make love to you or fuck you or both. As long as there was clear consent and communication, he’d give you everything you needed and more, and he knew you'd do the same for him.

The smile you gave him repaired the cracks in his heart. “You’re a good guy, Bucky,” you said, snuggling against him. “And it isn’t just sex I want, but, well, I do want to have sex with you.”

“You’re adorable,” he chuckled and rested his chin on your head. “And I know. It isn't just sex I want either.”

Bucky wanted to take you to bed, but he also wanted to take you out on dates. He wanted to make you laugh and smile, wipe your tears and comfort you when you cried, and be the one you confided in. He wanted to be your man, and he wanted you to be his best girl.

“I wanna be yours,” you sighed as if you read his mind, his heart skipping a beat. “Can I be your girl?”

“Yeah.” He closed his eyes when he kissed the top of your head. “You can be my girl.”

And tomorrow once you were sober, he’d officially ask you to be his girl.

Happy Moanday, lovelies! Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

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shiniestcrow · 2 years ago

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Tumblr is driving away my mutuals :(

Might have to actually use discord more :(

#i don't like discord #half the time it doesn't even work properly on my phone #turned off the notifications for new messages because they just wouldn't show up when I opened the app #which in turn led to me forgetting about discord

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cleo-fox · 2 years ago

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Surrender

Summary: Finding your soulmate is supposed to be a romantic, life changing experience.

No one tells you what to do when a). your soulmate is the homicidal maniac who led the successful takeover of your planet and made himself king and b). you kind of still want him anyway.

(Soulmate AU where Loki won)

Pairing: Loki x Female Reader

Warnings: Smut, 18+, Minors DNI, dirty talk, praise kink, oral sex, teasing, orgasm delay, sex, vaginal fingering.

A/N: look, I was intrigued by the idea of a Loki Wins AU and also a soulmate AU and this just sort of happened. I may write more of this concept because it gave me IDEAS. This is also available on AO3.

The mark on your wrist begins to burn the minute he walks into the room.

At first you think it’s a coincidence or a mistake—there are guards walking with him, perhaps it’s one of them. But then he flinches, his right hand going to his left wrist and your heart sinks to your knees. It could still be a coincidence, you tell yourself halfheartedly.

He scans the room and when his eyes land on you, it’s like the tumblers of a lock clicking into place and you know.

He’s much taller than you thought he was—that’s the only conscious and coherent thought you manage to have as he approaches you. Being the subject of his gaze is overwhelming in a way that you sort of expect, but it still makes you want to sit down and close your eyes. He looks you over, his gaze lingering briefly on your nametag from work.

“Show me your wrist,” he says.

You don’t think he’s using his powers, but you comply automatically, extending your arm toward him, wrist turned up. There’s a frisson of electricity that buzzes along the back of your hand when he touches it—if there were any remaining doubts about who he is and his relationship to you, that feeling surely puts them to rest. You know that he must have felt something too from the way he looks at you sharply, as though he thinks you’ve done something intentional to cause this. You can only hope that your wide eyed bewilderment convincingly conveys your innocence.

His expression betrays nothing as he examines the mark on your wrist, which is now glowing a bright gold that would be pretty if the circumstances were different.

It’s funny, you think. You’ve been waiting for this moment your entire life and all you can think is that you wish it wasn’t happening.

He releases your hand and looks at you in a calculating sort of way. “Come with me,” he says finally.

You do, of course. What other choice do you have?

The next several hours are a blur.

You are shuffled from place to place. Usually there is at least one guard—you’re not sure why. The idea of you being able to do any damage to him is laughable and escape doesn’t exactly seem like an option. Where could you go that he could not find you?

It’s a depressing thought; you try not to think much about it.

You know exactly when the news breaks because it coincides with your phone basically becoming unusable due to the flood of notifications, calls, and texts. You put it on airplane mode to compose a short message to your family and friends. Your reassurances feel a little trite given the circumstances: I’m fine, I’ll call when I can.

You can’t exactly type what you’re really thinking, which is more along the lines of I’ve just learned that my soulmate is the homicidal maniac who led the successful takeover of our planet. I’m doing about as well as you’d expect.

You turn airplane mode off long enough to send the email. Once it sends, you power down your phone. It doesn’t seem prudent to leave it on, at least not right now—right now, it only serves as a reminder of a life you know you’re going to have to leave behind and you’re not at all ready to confront that particular loss.

They eventually take you to what you assume are his rooms. You’re surprised by how traditional the decor is—you had expected a cold sort of minimalism, but there’s more wood and warm colors than you would have thought. You are informed that there are clothes for you in the closet; you nod and say nothing, though you wonder how they managed to pull an entire wardrobe together in the span of only a few hours. Magic, perhaps.

You are finally left alone, though you’re fairly certain that you would find guards stationed outside if you were to look.

You take one of the elegant velvet throws from the bed and wrap it tightly around yourself before settling on the couch next to the window. You’re not exactly cold, but it feels like a necessary armor between you and this unfamiliar place.

You stare out the window for a long time. You’re too high up to people watch and you’re not sure that you could handle that anyway—it would be yet another reminder of the fact that your life has changed in a massive, earth shaking way that you can’t even begin to understand. Instead, you stare at the tiny cars on the city streets below, snaking their way to destinations that feel so far out of your grasp that they might as well be on a different planet altogether.

It’s late when he finally shows up—so late that you’ve actually gotten ready for bed, donning one of the silk nightgowns that had been left for you. You can tell it’s more expensive than any sleepwear you’ve ever owned in your life. You’re just glad that it’s modest—you had half expected to find that all your pajamas were bustiers, thongs, and thigh highs in some sort of ill considered attempt to seduce you. But this is elegant and understated, with a matching robe that you cinch tightly around your waist.

You sit on the couch, the throw still wrapped snugly around you. He looks at you, the corner of his mouth curled up in a slight smirk.

“I hope you don’t intend to stay there the entire night,” he says.

“I hardly know you,” you say before you can even contemplate whether it’s wise.

He looks…amused isn’t quite the right word, but there’s a subtle tilt to the corner of his lips—not quite a smile, but maybe somewhere in the vicinity.

“Give it time,” he says, and something about that makes you shiver.

You intend to sleep on the couch, at least for these first few nights when everything still feels so raw and strange.

Or that was your plan, anyway.

Loki doesn’t say anything else as he prepares for bed and you stare resolutely at the window so as not to invite any more conversation or prompt any invitations to join him in bed. Eventually, the lights go out and you are left alone with your thoughts in the dark.

The room is much colder at night.

You’re not sure if it’s on purpose, though you wouldn’t be surprised if it was. Perhaps he likes it like this. Perhaps it’s to lure you to him, to tempt you into seeking out the warmth of his bed and body.

You pull the blanket more tightly around your shoulders. Eventually, you allow your eyes to drift shut.

You wake some time later in the middle of the night. The room feels even colder, the velvet of the throw and the silk of your nightgown and robe a scanty defense against the chill. You burrow against the couch cushions and it’s sort of bearable.

But you also have to pee.

You hold off for as long as you can, but you eventually summon the will to leave the couch and seek out the bathroom.

The bathroom is even colder—perhaps it’s all that glass and marble that makes the difference. You’re wearing your robe and you’ve still got the blanket wrapped around you, but your teeth are chattering by the time you wash your hands. You run the water as hot as you can stand, but it only does so much. If you were braver—if it wasn’t your first night here, you would run an extra hot shower and stay under the spray until your fingers and toes pruned and the chill was chased from your bones.

Instead, you hustle back to the couch, burrowing against the cushions, throw and robe wrapped tightly around you. But you still can’t seem to shake the cold. You huddle on the couch, shivering, trying to calm your body.

Time passes and you don’t grow any warmer. You wonder if you can steal another throw from the bed—surely he won’t miss one—when a voice speaks from the darkness.

“Come to bed,” Loki says.

You clear your throat. “What?”

“I can hear your teeth chattering from here. Come to bed and stop being absurd.”

You hesitate, staring into the dark. You consider the cold, the slight kink in your neck from the way you’ve been sleeping on the couch, the late hour, the way that sleep pulls at your eyes. A bed is appealing. Maybe more appealing than it should be.

You find yourself getting to your feet and slowly making your way across the room.

You pause on the other side of the bed—your side, you suppose, though calling it that still feels too intimate. You can just make him out in the dark.

“You’ll stay on your side,” you say, like making it a statement will make it so.

“Well, you hardly know me.” His voice is clipped, more bitter than you expect as he echoes your words from earlier.

You can’t help but scowl. “I’ve known you for less than twenty-four hours and it’s the middle of the night. I’m not doing this right now.”

He laughs. It’s sharp and brittle and unexpected, but it’s a laugh all the same, and something about that helps, if only a little.

You don’t say anything else as you climb into bed. You find that the blankets are warm—warmer than you expect—and heavy. There’s a part of you that expects yourself to be too nervous and on edge to fully relax, but the coziness of the blankets piled around you is oddly calming, even with Loki mere inches away. You hunker down underneath the blankets, situating yourself on the pillows.

He doesn’t say anything and it’s not long until his breathing becomes steady and even.

And after a while, yours does, too.

Consciousness creeps up on you slowly the next morning, a far cry from the jarring alarm on your phone that usually disrupts your slumber. You are warm and cozy, cocooned in the blankets, safe from all of the bullshit that had happened yesterday.

It’s such a peaceful, easy awakening that it takes you a moment to realize that you aren’t alone.

It takes another moment for you to realize that your cheek is pressed against Loki’s chest. And to make matters worse, not only are your arms wrapped around his him, your right leg is also flung across his waist, like you can’t bear to be parted from him for even a moment.

But before the panic sets in, there is a barely perceptible moment where your body just enjoys the feeling of being pressed against him. It’s quick and you’d deny it if asked, but the rush that you get from giving into the pull of your soulbond for even that brief moment is nothing short of incredible.

But it’s just a moment and your mind quickly turns to the matter of extracting yourself without drawing his notice. Ideally, he’ll just stay asleep and you won’t have to deal with any awkward fallout. If you move very slowly and carefully, perhaps he won’t notice.

You carefully start to move your leg from his waist.

“To be clear, you’re on my side of the bed,” he says.

God fucking dammit.

You abandon all subtlety and quickly peel yourself away from him.

“I must have rolled over in my sleep,” you say, incredibly conscious of how stupid that sounds.

He smirks, which is somehow worse than if he’d said anything.

“It won’t happen again,” you say.

It does.

This is your new routine: you start every evening on the couch, wrapped up in your robe and throw. You wake some time in the night, teeth chattering. Sometimes, Loki will tell you to come to bed. Other times, you quietly give up and slip under the covers on your side of the bed.

But every morning without fail, you wake tangled around him.

Sometimes, he’s spooned up behind you; more often, though, you’re the one clinging to him. It’s as though your body has a homing device that leads you over to his side of the bed in your sleep, dutifully ignoring all of your stern warnings about who stays where.

The worst part of it is that you’re fighting your own instincts. On a very basic, physical level, you yearn to be close to him. There’s a part of you that revels in these unintentional moments of closeness, that wants to allow yourself to enjoy the feeling of him, to allow him to put his hands on your body, for you to put your hands on him.

The fact that he wakes up noticeably hard most mornings does not make this any easier.

This is a problem that you’re not entirely sure how to solve and the second week in, your desire for information finally outweighs your desire to avoid social media and the deluge of emails and texts that you know are waiting for you on your phone.

You turn your phone back on and immediately delete all of your social media apps. You don’t know what they’re saying about you and you don’t care to. You turn off all of your notifications, even the little number icons that show you how many unread emails and texts that you have. You want absolutely no distractions.

You open a private browser window and pull up Google.

Newly connected soulbonds are the hormonal equivalent of pouring out a bunch of gasoline and striking a match. Soulbonds are intended to be consummated. You know this. There are people who wait it out for one reason or another, but that’s very much the exception—it’s a physical and emotional test of endurance. And you’re beginning to understand why.

The internet is not very helpful. You already know what happens when you don’t consummate a soulbond promptly—increased arousal, restlessness, vivid dreams, and so on as time goes on. You’re more interested in mitigation. You find a few blogs that have entirely irrelevant suggestions like cuddling on the couch or holding hands. “While you’re waiting for intercourse, why not try some outercourse?” one post muses with a level of earnestness that causes you to immediately turn off your phone and fling it across the room.

You’re going to have sex with him at some point. That’s inevitable. On a very basic level, you want him—it’s more or less coded into your DNA. But that is at odds with the reality of who he is and what he’s done. It might feel good to wake up tangled around him, but it only takes a minute to remember the battle of New York and it nearly extinguishes the desire burning within you.

But only nearly and only for now.

The third week is when things start getting increasingly difficult.

Loki seems content to wait things out. You can feel the burn of his gaze on you, but he doesn’t push, doesn’t prod.

You, on the other hand, find yourself slipping into a heightened state of arousal that is becoming impossible to ignore. Midway through the week, you finally give in and try touching yourself in the shower in the hope of some relief and you come so quickly and so hard that you have to clap a hand over your mouth to keep from crying out and your legs very nearly buckle from the force of it. A few twitches of your fingers has you sprawled on the shower floor and coming again, harder than before. You repeat this trick a few times but even as strong as it is, it doesn’t really help—you’re back to where you started within minutes.

Worse though, is the fact that it’s his face that you see when you come. Every. Single. Time. You imagine him over you, his gaze dark and intent as he watches you come; slack jawed and hissing in pleasure as he pushes into you; growling in approval and impatience as you take his cock into your mouth. The images come entirely unbidden and stick in the forefront of your thoughts like a burr clinging to wool.

When you see him later that afternoon, his gaze lands on you in such a way that it feels like he knows everything you’ve done and everything you’ve seen, from that moment in the shower to the shameful thoughts you had as you came.

The dreams start shortly after, and they are objectively worse.

The dreams are far more vivid than just images. In the dreams, he’s touching you, coaxing you to peaks you could never have imagined, pressing into you, taking you hard and fast and achingly slow and everything in between. The dreams leave you out of breath and shaky, aching for a touch that you know that you should not want, but do with every fiber of your being. By some miracle, they only seem to occur while you are on the couch and not when you’re in bed, but that luck won’t hold forever.

Perhaps more importantly, you know it’s only a matter of time before you give in. Deep down, you’ve known this from the moment the mark on your wrist started to burn. Your resistance is eroding like a sandcastle at high tide and it’s only a matter of time before you crumble.

But not yet. Not yet.

Five weeks after your arrival, you wake sweating and out of breath from another dream.

You take a few deep breaths. It was similar to the ones you’d had before. Thinking about the details makes your core ache and your clit throb so you try to keep them out of your mind.

You’re half surprised that you’re not tangled around Loki, given the content and subject of your dream, but that makes sense when you realize he’s not in bed. Instead, he sits on the couch, staring into the middle distance. Perhaps he is struggling with the same kinds of dreams.

The idea of you making Loki too hot and bothered to sleep is more appealing than you’d like to admit. You hastily dismiss the thought before it can bring any more heat to your already too warm skin or add more fuel to the flickering desire that seems to have settled permanently in the cradle of your hips.

You slip out of bed and go to the window, folding your arms across your stomach as you stare out at the sleeping city.

“You were calling out in your sleep.”

More heat prickles at your skin.

“Hm,” you say, trying your best to sound casual.

“What were you dreaming of?” he asks.

He’s only asking because he already knows the answer. You know this. But the lie still slips from your lips: “I don’t remember.”

He laughs, a quiet and dangerous sound that stokes the fire in your belly. “Have you forgotten, darling, that I am the god of lies?”

You can hear him walking toward you, but you keep your back turned. Has the room always been this warm?

He waits until he is directly behind you to speak again. “Will you lie again when I ask if you were dreaming of me?” His voice is so close, full of depth and a little husky.

“You flatter yourself,” you say.

You can hear the smirk in his voice, feel the whisper of his breath on your neck. “You’d like to think that, wouldn’t you?” He pauses for a moment. “But you were calling out for me.”

Your lips are dry. You want to deny it, but it feels useless. Worst case scenario, he’s still mostly right: you were dreaming of him and you can’t even really deny crying out for him because you were asleep and you don’t know for sure.

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” he continues. His voice drops. “Every time I close my eyes, I see you writhing in pleasure beneath me.” He pauses. “Or I see myself between your legs, worshiping you with my mouth, bringing you to ecstasy over and over before I finally take you.”

Your heart is pounding and every nerve in your body feels as though it’s connected directly to your clit. You are warm—too warm—and you can feel your pulse pounding in your throat.

“What were you dreaming of?” he continues, his voice barely a murmur.

“Nothing,” you say.

He clicks his tongue. “Try again, darling.”

You say nothing and after a moment of silence, he seems to decide that it’s time to switch strategies.

“You must be so wet,” he murmurs, his tone low and soothing.

Your stomach and your cunt clench. If he starts talking dirty to you, it’s over.

“We’re not meant to go this long like this,” he says. “We both know that. It’s been five weeks. Your poor cunt is probably aching for me, just as I ache for you.”

Your breath is coming in shaky gasps. You need him. You can feel your resolve starting to slip.

“Yield to me.” His voice is rough with wanting, like this is just as hard for him as it is for you. “I know you feel it. I feel it, too. You yearn for me, you crave my touch. Let me make you feel good, darling, let me ease that ache. Yield and I will give you everything.”

You draw in a shaking breath and slowly turn to face him. He’s looking at you with an intensity that you expect, but it takes your breath away nonetheless.

The remnants of your resistance are lost to the wave of him and the only thing that’s left in its place is a raw need like you’ve never experienced before.

You don’t know what to say, so in the end, you settle for his name. Just his name, said quietly with all the desperation and longing that has been making your life hell these past few weeks.

You get a glimpse of the fire in his eyes before he’s on you.

There’s nothing gentle about this kiss. It’s the kiss of two people who have been deprived of each other for too long, your teeth bumping against each other, tongues twisting and tangling. You end up pressed against the wall next to the window, your leg wrapped around his waist, his hand supporting your thigh. He presses his hips against you and you moan into his mouth at the feeling of his hard cock dragging against your swollen, sensitive clit. He draws back slightly to look at your face as he slowly grinds his hips against yours, his free hand moving to palm your breast over the silk of your nightgown.

You moan again, your head dropping back against the wall. The soft, slippery friction of the silk of your nightgown against your nipple and the soaked lace of your underwear rubbing against your clit is enough to make you go cross eyed, a slow tease that only fans the burning embers within you. Your body is overheated and too tense, but Loki is blessedly cool in a way that somehow both soothes and inflames.

“You’re drenched. I can already feel that,” he says, his voice thick with desire as he moves against you. “I could make you come like this.”

You whimper, rocking your hips back against him. “Please.”

He shakes his head. “Another time. Tonight I want to feel you when you come.” He drops his hand from your breast, trailing down your stomach and moving in between your legs. His fingers slip beneath your underwear, and you let out a needy whine as he strokes the slick folds of your sex. “Is this all for me?” he asks, his voice slipping into a low growl.

You barely manage a breathy affirmative.

“Sweet thing.” His thumb rolls over your clit as he slides one finger into you, and your back arches automatically, your breasts jutting out. “We’re going to have to do something about this, aren’t we?”

“Please,” you breathe.

“How can I resist such a sweet plea?” he says, sliding another finger into you and curling it just so. “Or such a wet and needy cunt?”

“Don’t stop,” you say.

“I ought to make you beg me for it after everything you put me through.” His eyes darken as his thumb presses against your clit and you moan. “But perhaps I can be generous. I can feel how much you need to come on my fingers.”

You nod, slack jawed and panting.

“You’ve been waiting for this,” he murmurs. “You’ve tried to deny yourself, but you need me, you need my touch.”

You whimper, your hips rocking.

“Say it,” he says, stroking your clit.

“I need to come,” you moan.

“A good start,” he says, his voice a stern purr. “But not quite what I asked, my love. Try again.”

A twinge of irritation manages to work its way to the forefront of your mind. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m not exactly in a state to be playing twenty questions.”

His eyes light up with a predatory gleam that heralds the arrival of something that you know will end enjoyably for you.

“Oh, darling, that attitude won’t do at all.” His fingers are immediately and conspicuously absent and you very nearly cry out in frustration. But before you can, he is sweeping you into his arms and making the journey to the bed in several long strides. He sets you gently on the bed and looms over you, green eyes flashing as his hands stroke up your thighs. You lift your hips and he pulls your underwear off, tossing it to the side.

“Let’s try that again, shall we?” His voice is a growl. “Tell me what you need.”

“I need to come.” You know it’s the wrong answer, but this particular game of cat and mouse and the predatory gleam in Loki’s eyes are making you even wetter and god, you need him.

His eyes flash with a barely concealed delight. “Try again.”

You spread your legs rather conspicuously, hiking your nightgown up to your waist. “I need to come.”

He’s looking at you intently, lips slightly parted. “You’re trying to distract me with that pretty cunt, you wicked thing.”

“Is it working?” you ask.

He lowers his head to kiss the inside of your left knee. “It would work much better if you answered me properly and told me everything you need.”

You think you have an idea of what he wants to hear, but you’re not quite ready to give up the game yet. Instead, you pull your nightgown up and over your head and toss it to the side. His eyes are dark as he looks at you, his gaze lingering on your breasts and trailing down to the apex of your spread legs. You wonder what it would take to make him lose control, to take you in the way that you both need.The thought sends another flood of heat to your aching core.

You lick your lips. “Will you make me come, Loki?”

Another wolfish grin. “Closer. But not quite. Try again.”

You let your hand slide down your stomach and between your legs and you part your sopping folds so he can see the full extent of what he’s done to you—every dripping inch. The look he’s giving you now only heightens the feeling.

“Should I make myself come?” you ask and you’re immediately rewarded with an almost feral look and a sharp smack to your ass.

“Don’t you dare,” he growls.

You put on your most innocent expression, even as his visible hunger makes you ache. “I thought you’d like seeing me touch myself.”

“Oh, there will be time for that later,” he says, his eyes still dark. “I’m particularly interested in seeing what prompted those intriguing little noises I kept hearing while you were in the shower. But every tremor of pleasure that wracks your body tonight will be from me alone. Now,” his eyes glitter and his hand replaces yours on your cunt, his long fingers spreading you open, but not touching you, his expression rapt with undisguised greed, “tell me what you need.”

Your capacity to tease and resist him was well and truly exceeded when he smacked your ass and was further obliterated by the monologue he just delivered. “I need you to make me come, Loki. I need you so bad.”

His smile is filled with dark promises and a hunger that you have every interest in sating several times over.

“Good girl,” he says.

And his fingers slide back into you as his mouth envelopes your aching clit.

You moan as your hips lift and your hands tangle in his hair. He mumbles something that sounds like “perfect” against your clit, first teasing you with the tip of his tongue and then pressing it flat against you and rubbing in slow circles. Meanwhile, his fingers have found that soft, aching spot inside of you and he presses against it in slow, firm thrusts that make you tremble.

You initially think that you’ll be quite quick to come because you’re already so wound up, but Loki seems determined to find the edge and keep you there for as long as possible—and he’s really, really good at it. He falls into a rhythm where his tongue strokes your clit once, twice, three times and withdraws; his fingers pick up the thread, stroking your walls once, twice, three times and withdrawing, only for his tongue to resume where he left off. In this way, he keeps you balanced on the edge in a perfect kind of torture. It feels so good, but it’s not quite enough to get you there just yet.

You make liberal use of his name—it’s a plea, a curse, a benediction, a moan, a sigh. Instinctively, you know that he likes this, but it’s not enough to distract him into letting you fall even a moment before he wants you to.

The ache that’s been building in your hips for the last couple weeks is growing, burning bright and warm. Your body feels electric in the best way, your nerves humming and buzzing and straining for release.

“Loki,” you moan, partly as encouragement and partly because you want him so badly.

You’re so close. Your entire body is tense and trembling; all you can think about is how badly you need to come, how much you are aching for your release.

So close.

“Loki, please,” you moan, truly desperate now. “Please let me come. Make me yours—”

You’re not sure if it’s what you said, the desperation in your voice, or pure coincidence, but in that moment, he shifts his rhythm so that his mouth and fingers are no longer alternating, but are instead moving in sync. And this is what you need to tip you over, to allow that wave to finally, finally crest and then break.

Your orgasm hits you hard, pulling a loud moan from deep within your chest and making your entire body quake. Sparklers are dancing along your veins, champagne bubbles fizzing along your muscles, stars bursting behind your eyes. You have never felt anything like this before—you are satisfied but also aching for more, falling apart and being remade over and over again.

It’s only when you’re decidedly in the blissful wave of the aftershocks that he dares to lift his head and he looks you over like you’re something wonderful. Before you can raise your hands to reach for him, he’s crawling up to you, claiming your mouth in a kiss that feels deeper than the ocean.

He slides his hand in between your legs and you whimper, shivering at the sensation of his thumb stroking your sensitive clit. But somehow, he finds that particular angle and pressure that’s just enough, but not too much. You moan and he slides a finger back into you, rolling in the same rhythm as his thumb on your clit.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Keep going for me, darling. I want to watch you come this time.” His voice is so firm and authoritative and it strikes sparks up and down your spine.

“Fuck,” you gasp, your hips rocking with his hand.

“You’re doing so well getting ready for me,” he purrs. He lowers his voice to a rough growl. “I can’t wait to fuck you until you’re trembling and coming all over my cock like the wicked, filthy girl that you are.”

It’s the combination of his words and his voice and his perfect hands that does it this time. A rolling, fluttering shudder fizzes through your body, building to a peak that has you letting out a guttural moan as you clench around his thrusting fingers.

“Yes, that’s it,” Loki says as he watches you through hooded eyes. “You are gorgeous when you come undone.”

He kisses you slowly, fingers moving steadily until the final shudder rolls through you.

Somehow, through all of this, he’s remained fully clothed. There’s an aspect to this that’s appealing—it makes everything feel particularly decadent and a little forbidden—but your palms are practically itching with your need to touch him. You need him inside you, but you also need him close, bare skin on bare skin.

Your hands sneak under his shirt and you suck in a sharp breath when you feel the heat of his skin underneath your palms. You tug his shirt off him and make quick work of his pants before drawing back to look at him.

He looks like art. It’s a silly thought, but there’s some truth to it—there’s an almost ethereal quality in the sharp angles of his face and the elegant symmetry of his musculature.

Your gaze drifts down to his cock. He’s long, thick, and hard, the tip flushed and slick with pre-come. An ache courses through you—something about seeing the full evidence of his arousal makes everything seem more real, makes you want him with renewed ferocity.

You want to touch him and so you do, your fingers curling around his shaft.

“Can you feel how much I need you?” he asks as you stroke him slowly. He is remarkably composed, though you catch the slight hitch in his breath and it sends a thrill through you.

“Will you show me?” you ask.

“Every day,” he says.

It’s an answer you’re not expecting. You were speaking strictly in the immediate, physical sense. This feels deeper, more meaningful. You’re not quite sure what to say, so you kiss him and he kisses you back with an intensity and thoroughness that makes your toes curl.

He rolls over you, his body covering yours. It’s almost overwhelming how good his bare skin feels against yours. You take his cock in your hand again and stroke him, slowly rubbing the tip from your clit to your entrance, coating him in your slick.

You expect him to just push forward when you guide him to your entrance and you’re almost disappointed that he doesn’t—you’ve both waited so long for this and your need for him is burning inside you like an inferno.

But instead he pauses, his eyes locked with yours.

“Will you have me?” he asks. There’s vulnerability in the question, a softness in his green eyes that you don’t expect. It feels like a loaded question, though not necessarily in a bad way.

You don’t hesitate. “Yes,” you breathe.

Something like relief flashes briefly in his eyes before he leans in and kisses you. You tilt your hips up again and this time, you feel the blunt head of his cock slowly press into your waiting warmth.

You’d read people describing first times with their soulmates and it had always sounded so hyperbolic and silly. They’d throw around words like euphoric and transcendent and all you could do was try not to roll your eyes.

But the moment Loki is fully seated inside you, you finally get it. Every overwrought, overused cliché seems to occur to you all at once—puzzle pieces falling into place and locks and keys and halves made whole and all that bullshit—and it all makes sense in a way that it hadn’t before.

Loki’s eyes are stormy above you, to the point that you think you may have angered him, but then he kisses you with a ferocity and possessiveness that steals your breath and makes you tighten around him.

“Mine,” he growls against your lips. “Mine.”

There’s a lot of emotion in that word. There’s history in that word. It’s the sort of thing that the two of you will probably need to unpack later. For now, though, you wrap your legs around him and meet his demanding, hungry kisses with your own.

“I’m yours,” you murmur against his lips. “Take me.”

You expect him to respond to that plea with a frantic pace. But instead, his first thrusts are slow, like he’s savoring it. Your body yields to him instinctively, your muscles drawing him in and then tightening further as he withdraws. You are so slick, so ready for him that it almost feels a little obscene.

“You are exquisite,” he rasps as he sinks into you, his head bowing to kiss and nip at your neck. “I have been aching for you.”

“Yes,” you breathe. “Please.”

You’re not entirely sure what you’re asking for—more of this, more of him—but he seems to know anyway. He kisses you deeply as you wrap your legs around his waist, rolling your hips up to meet his.

In one fluid motion, he rolls you over so that you are on top. He looks up at you, an irrepressible smirk curling at the corners of his lips.

“Go on,” he says, his voice low. “I want to see you take your pleasure from me. Claim your throne, my love.”

A shiver works its way up your spine. This is a man who single-handedly conquered the entire planet and he’s telling you he wants you to ride his cock until you come. It is raw and sexy and undeniably hot and the way he’s looking up at you makes you feel beautiful and powerful.

You lean forward, bracing your hands on the mattress, tilting your pelvis until you find the right angle, the one that makes your stomach tighten and your breath stutter.

A smile twitches at the corners of his mouth. “Right there?”

You let out a shaky breath and rock your hips. “Yeah.”

It takes a moment for you to find your rhythm, but you find that you want—or perhaps need—to go slow and steady. Loki watches you, his hips rocking with yours as he lets you set the pace, his hands sliding from your hips to your breasts and back again, like he can’t get enough. His gaze is intent and intense and you get the sense that he’s cataloging every movement, every gasp or sigh, furrowed brow or bitten lip.

The coil in your hips is starting to wind tighter and you know it won’t be long.

As though he knows, Loki slides a hand down your body, palm gently pressing against your lower stomach. A fantastic pressure begins to blossom in your hips and you whimper.

“You’re doing so well,” he purrs. “So tight and wet. You’re perfect.”

“Getting close,” you breathe.

“I know, I can feel you,” he says.

You’re at a point somewhere beyond words, riding that wave, chasing bliss that you can almost feel. A choked whimper falls from your lips.

“That’s it,” rasps Loki. “Be a good girl and come on my cock.” He flicks his thumb against your clit and you completely unravel.

It was good the first two times, but having him inside you as you come sends you to another plane of existence entirely. Your orgasm seems extended, the feeling of his cock against the spasming muscles of your cunt creating more even rippling pleasure. And the noise that he makes, the filthy praise that falls from his lips, the way that his fingertips dig into your hips just makes it all better.

He rolls you over onto your back just as you’re starting to feel boneless, and pulls you into a deep kiss. He thrusts into you, a little faster than the pace you had set, but still slow and steady.

“I want to feel you come again,” he breathes. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve waited for this, how good you feel?”

You shudder as his cock drags again against that spot inside you. He repeats the motion and you keen, tangling your fingers in his hair.

“That’s it,” he rasps, bringing your leg up over his hip to press even more deeply inside of you. “Come on, darling. Let me feel you.”

You wrap your arms around his neck, meeting his hungry, demanding kiss with your own. You roll your hips with his, chasing the flickers of bliss that he’s steadily stoking to an inferno once more.

“Please,” you mumble against his lips. “Need you. Please.”

He groans and increases his pace just enough to make you whimper. The desire inside of you is catching fire.

“I…fuck, I—” Your hands are gripping his shoulders, your body shaking as you approach your end.

Loki’s eyes are wild, his teeth bared. You can tell that he’s close, that he’s chasing the same incredible feeling that you are.

“I want you to come for me,” he grits out. “And the second I feel your tight cunt start to tremble around me, I’m going to come inside you.

You moan, fingernails digging into his shoulders. You are unbearably close.

“Do you want that, darling?” he says. “Do you want me to come inside you? Do you want your perfect cunt filled with my seed?”

You are almost beyond words, but not quite: “Yes. Please.”

Despite how close he is, he still gives the impression of being entirely in control. He lowers his head so that his lips graze yours and his eyes are all that you can see. “Then come for me,” he says.

Two more deadly smooth rolls of his hips and you do. A guttural, plaintive sound falls from your lips as your whole body trembles with the force of your orgasm, your cunt squeezing around the girth of his cock. He groans, mumbling something in a language you don’t recognize before he, too, starts to unravel.

His face is rapturous when he comes, his head tipping back and his mouth falling open, brow furrowing. If you weren’t so distracted with the rippling shocks of your own pleasure, you would try to commit it to memory. Instead, you simply try to enjoy the feeling of him emptying himself inside of you, the stuttering thrust of his hips, the soft groan that falls from his lips. Finally he stills, resting his head in the crook of your shoulder. You can feel his heart pounding against yours.

You feel…it’s not different, exactly, but there’s a kind of ease and connection that just feels right. The restless ache inside of you is finally quiet and you feel loose and languid and pleasantly sleepy.

Finding your soulmate isn’t necessarily the same as falling in love. Sometimes it all happens in the moment. Sometimes it’s years in between.

For you, though, you can pinpoint the exact moment that seed was planted: Loki raising his head to look at you, his hand curled against your cheek. His gaze is careful, reverent, like you are as warm and golden as the dawn just barely beginning to streak the morning sky.

#loki smut #loki x reader #loki laufeyson #loki imagine #loki x you #loki fanfic #loki x yn #loki x female reader smut #loki x female reader #loki x reader smut #loki laufeyson smut #loki fanfiction

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tonycries · 1 year ago

Text

The Call - G.S.

Synopsis. After an explosive fight with your boyfriend, you really should feel sorry about being swept up by the blue-eyed stranger at the club - but it’s so hard when he kisses you like that.

Pairing. Gojo Satoru x Reader, background Zenin Naoya x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, no curses! AU, Naoya gets cucked, Oggy & The Cockroaches cameo, NSFW, making out, cunnilingus, fingering, doggy, missionary, manhandling kinda, Satoru is taller, mentions of alcohol, pet names (doll, babe), oral sex (male + female receiving), Satoru is down BAD, cheating, I bully Naoya, car sex, overstimulation (male + female), swearing (I’m a pottymouth, sorry), exhibitionism if you squint.

Word count. 6.7k (being stuck on a farm really does that to ya)

A/N. BONJOUR BABYGIRLS, FIRST POST KINDA NERVOUS?? Based on The Call by Backstreet Boys. Art by @_3aem on X.

If you reblog, I’ll literally kiss you on the mouth (with your consent). <3

Cross-posted on AO3

“Listen, baby, I’m sorry.”

He’ll see the marks.

“Jus’ wanna tell ya don’t worry. I will be late, don’t stay up and wait for me.”

He’ll know.

Good.

Long fingers trail higher and higher up your thigh.

Meeting his fiery cerulean gaze, the grip on your phone weakens - only one thought running through your mind right now.

Satoru won’t let you get out of this alive.

Shit. How the hell did you even get here?

Hitting the club on a random Thursday with your friends means you’d geared up for a dead dance floor and some old creeps you’d have to fight off.

Hey, it wasn’t perfect - but at least it would get your mind off of That Bag of Dicks. And the fact that it was your two-year anniversary with him today. AND the fight that led you to furiously text your groupchat demanding a night out.

But, whatever, semantics.

What you certainly did not expect was the crowd to be dancing in an uproar, and one white-haired man to be in the middle of it all. The creeps were still there - as always - but what did it matter when his electric eyes caught yours across the dance floor. Mouth curving up in a teasing grin as he kept gaze locked with yours.

Beautiful.

Wait. Ugh. You really needed to get a hold of yourself.

Ripping your eyes away from this stranger’s, you check your phone - somewhat out of habit.

0 new notifications.

Well. Fuck it, you thought.

Downing your friend’s double shot, you mentally made a note to buy them a drink next time as you plunged into the dense crowd.

Fuck Naoya. Fuck his mind games. Fuck his stuffy, exclusive family dinners.

…

And that uglyass e-boy hairstyle.

Maybe it was the Smirnoff, or maybe it was the music thrumming through your veins - all you knew was that the dancing bodies around you were magnetic, and you hadn’t felt this good in a long time.

Yeah, this is exactly what you needed right now.

You’re moving your hips to the beat in all the ways your boyfriend wouldn’t appreciate. Running your hands over the top that stuck to you like a second skin.

And that was when it happened.

A hand grasps yours in midair.

Ew, what the fuck. You’d barely formed that thought before you’re suddenly spun so that your back is pressed against the front of…a wall? A wall wearing such alluring cologne.

No wait, that’s a person. Holy shit they must be some sort of gym rat.

“Hey, wanna dance on that table?”

You turn your head to snap at whoever this stranger speaking to you from behind is, partially impressed by his sheer audacity.

But whatever curse or shout at the tip of your tongue died down when you saw those eyes from before peering down at you. Except, now that you were closer - almost intimidatingly so - you could truly appreciate what a breathtaking man he was.

Ethereal white hair framing those incredibly blue eyes. And a small dimple at the corner of a grin, which moves as he cocks his head and leans down to repeat, “Wanna dance on that table?”

Dammit, you might have been ogling him for too long.

The table in question was one fringing the dance floor, slightly battered from too much experience with drunk dancing. Yet, it didn’t seem like it would break down anytime soon - and your phone was tragically empty of any concerned calls from your boyfriend so…what’s the worst that could happen?

“...Sure?” You answer, eyes still unmoving from his face.

At most you’d just dance till you forget today.

And before you knew it, both of his hands rested softly on your hips as he carefully steered you through the crowd from behind.

Upon reaching it, his long legs jump onto the table and he holds a hand out towards you - boyish mirth evident on his features and the surrounding crowd cheering in drunken camaraderie. Face slightly burning at the spectacle, you slide your hand once more into his grasp.

It should be illegal to be this good-looking and the life of the party.

This stranger had you belting out the lyrics of songs with almost-reckless abandon, hands ghosting your body as you two moved in sync. An unknown magnetism drawing you to each other like a moth to flame.

You were most definitely the flame, you thought, with the way his intense stare left your skin burning. You felt your heartbeat banging against your ribcage in symphony with the strobe lights above.

He was towering in front of you now. An arm wrapping around your waist, and the other gently pushing away the hair from your face. Close.

“I’m Gojo Satoru. You can jus’ call me Satoru, doll.”

A large hand caressing your cheek now.

“I’m-”

That was when you felt it. The incessant vibration in your skirt pocket that most definitely wasn’t the pounding club music - your phone. And you knew who it was.

Shit, you lost track of everything.

“...taken.”

The smile on Gojo’s face falters for the first time as he makes a noise of confusion.

“I’m taken. Sorry. See you around.”

And with that, you untangle yourself from his arms and make your way back onto the ground, weaving through the crowd that had formed around the table due to your guys’ little show.

What the hell were you even thinking? Just because you were mad at your boyfriend doesn’t mean you don’t have one.

You look back and catch a glimpse of Gojo’s slight pout.

Cute.

But, your buzzing phone served as a reminder - now wasn’t the time to forget yourself. You came here to dance your worries off, not cheat on your damn boyfriend! Maybe you really should check out that couples therapist your aunt recommended…couldn’t be that expensive, could it?

A glance at your phone shows Naoya’s string of texts. A couple cuss words, some accusations thrown here and there - none of them true, yet you felt guilty as you made your way to the bar.

He still didn’t call, but it’s a start, right?

Upon grabbing a seat at the counter, your friends excitedly rush to hear the tea.

“Oh my gosh, WHO was that hottie you were up there on the table with earlier?”, they gasp and crowd around you eagerly.

“Some guy named Gojo, but we just-”

One of your friends interrupts your explanation by tittering, “You know I always told you to leave that asswipe, Naoya. Glad you finally decided to stand up, girl.”

The rest of your group make noises of agreement as you sputter your excuses, “What- NO. I told him I was taken. Either way, I know Naoya’s a dick but I’d never cheat on him!”

You weren’t like that. I mean, he drives you mad but every couple has their moments, right?

“Well, are you sure you told him you’re taken?”

Your friend’s odd question makes you snap out of your little overthinking tirade, enough to turn to what the group was now looking at - or more like who.

Gojo was unmissable.

A cloud-like beauty with locks of white, standing a full head above everyone else. But what jarred you the most was the look in his eyes as they locked upon you, like a man dying of thirst spotting an oasis on his last breath.

Well, shit.

“Not really in the mood to watch you two eye-fuck each other sooo we’ll prolly go dance. We’ll be nearby keeping an eye, though, so remember the signals, yeah?” you hear from your left.

You nod mutely as your friends leave you for a repeat of Heads Will Roll.

“We meet again, Ms. Taken.”

You rip your gaze away from your friends on the dance floor to look up at Gojo. His stupid little joke startles a small laugh out of you.

“Didn’t think you were one for dad jokes, Gojo.” you muse.

“Please, call me Satoru.” he grins as he leans over the counter to order you both a shot of Baileys. “You’re an incredible dancer you know.”

“Says the life of the party?” you laugh, turning in your seat to better face your interesting new friend.

He conducts an exaggerated bow, bragging “What can I say? I’m quite great at everything.”

Ah, the dramatic type.

“Now that just makes you sound sleazy, Satoru.” you tease, gratefully taking the shot from the bartender.

Despite the dim lighting of the club, you could make out the slight darkening of Satoru’s cheeks. But, before you could ponder that any further, he clinks his shot glass against yours and downs the liquor.

Once you follow, he leans in closer to drawl “As sleazy as that boyfriend of yours?”.

Goosebumps rise on your shoulders and you have to hold back a shudder - whether from Satoru’s deep voice in your ear or because of what he just said, you don’t question.

Raising an eyebrow, “What would you know about my boyfriend?”

You watch as Satoru’s eyebrows furrow slightly, a more serious expression taking over his face. “Oh, doll. You do know that your lil’ boyfriend is very popular with the ladies here, right?”

What the fuck? Okay, to be touchy is one thing but outright lying about your boyfriend is another.

You stare at Satoru blankly, unimpressed. Droning monotonously, “Ah, so you’re one of those guys that lie to pick up a girl, huh?” You see his eyes widen by the smallest fraction - clearly not expecting this kind of response. Then he throws his head back and laughs. The nerve.

Between cackles, “I’m not. But your boyfriend sure is.”

And as you open your mouth to retort he plows on, “Nao-something, right? That two-tone-haired gremlin? Bumped into him last time I was here, he showed us a couple pictures of you, bragging about having a hottie waiting for him at home. It was almost heartfelt.”

Satoru fishes his phone out of his pocket and fumbles with it before turning the screen to face you. “That was right before he started making out with some other chick, of course.”

And making out with some other chick he was.

The picture was blurry - seemingly zoomed into the background of a group selfie - but it was undeniably your Naoya, only with the added detail of his tongue down some other girl’s throat.

This FUCKER.

“...when was this?”, the words sounded foreign to your ears, as if spoken by someone else. But you knew from the way Satoru assessed you with slight concern that it was you who asked this.

“...last week.”

Last week? Last week was when your boyfriend(?) was out of town for some alleged family dinner at the Zenin Estate. And the week before that as well. At this point, was any of it real?

“Another dinner, babe? Old man Zenin sure is stepping up with the family bonding.” you chuckle, as Naoya fixes his hair in the mirror.

“Yeah. Won’t be home tonight.”

“Staying at the Estate again? Ugh, well, stay safe. Love you!” you chirp as he flits out the door. Disappointed but, whatever, time to binge-watch those shitty rom-coms he complains about.

The longer you sat on that too-high seat at the bar counter, the longer things began lining up. His short fuse, the incessant texts, and most of all - his paranoia that you were cheating on him with any and every male in the vicinity. It was actually one of the things you’d blown up over before you left for the night.

“What? Naoya, babe, he’s literally my friend’s boyfriend. Why would I ever-”

“Oh yeah? Well I couldn’t tell cuz you’re such a fuckin’ slut. Y’know, going on dates behind my back and all.”

“It was a GROUP HANGOUT, I haven’t seen these people in ages. What the fuck is up with you these days- I literally love you and only you. Look - can’t we just celebrate our anniversary like usual, c’mon…”

“Just fuck off.”

Tears well up in your eyes. How could he do this to you? After two entire years?

You felt so stupid. Your thoughts were running a million miles a minute, and it stopped on one - you were going to get revenge.

Abruptly getting down from your seat, you turn without remembering to say so much as a goodbye to Satoru. Fuming, and mind filled only with thoughts of how you’d burn Naoya’s ugly, overpriced shirts. Or maybe you could even send his unflattering nudes to the Zenin family groupchat - that would give those uptight fossils a real kick.

Your thoughts of enacting revenge are halted only when a large hand wraps around your wrist, stopping you from heading for the club exit. Satoru’s ramblings hit you before you’d even turned to look at him.

“Look- I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean for you to find out this way. I thought you two had an open relationship or something. Which - looking back - how the fuck would a douche canoe like him have ever convinced you to have an open rela-”

Out of the corner of your eye you spotted your friends worriedly making their way towards the two of you.

You take a quick glance up at Satoru who was still in the middle of mumbling, “-shocked an e-boy bastard like him even pulled you in the first place.”

Fuck it.

Your body moved before your mind. You quickly shot your friends a thumbs up and tight-lipped smile that made them stop in their tracks, still slightly unsure. And with that, you grabbed Satoru and began dragging him to the exit, effectively cutting off his long-winded apology and/ or Naoya diss track.

Eyes firmly facing forward, you miss the mixture of delighted and scandalized expressions on your friends’ faces. The only thing distantly registering in your mind being the cold touch of Satoru’s wrist.

It was quiet outside. Your ears were ringing a bit from the chaos of the club, so you bask slightly in the serenity before Satoru speaks up from beside you, “So…changed your mind, Ms. Taken?”

Oh, right. You took a prize with you - and he didn’t even know your name, yet.

“Ah! Sorry- That was just on impulse, I didn’t mean-”, now it was your turn to ramble apologies for your hasty reaction. Just because you wanted to get back at your boyfriend doesn’t mean you should involve someone else in it!

After apologizing and giving him your name, you look up to see the twinkle in Satoru’s eyes. He seemed…amused?

“I did take you for a bit of a thrill-seeker after the table incident, but damn…”, he chuckles. “Well, now that we’re acquainted with each other, why don’t we give that lil’ boyfriend of yours something to really be mad about?”

His words cause a shiver to run down your spine. What?

He leans in close - so very close - and bats his long lashes, “That is what you dragged me out here for, right?”

Well, maybe you are sort-of the adventurous type. And maybe this is what your freshly heartbroken brain had concocted as revenge for your boyfriend’s betrayal - but wasn’t this too reckless, even for you? With what dignity you have left, you muster, “Once again, I’m so sorry for all of this. Let’s both pretend this never happened, you can head back and I’ll head…home.”

“Where my cheating scumbag boyfriend is” is the part that goes unsaid.

Satoru stays unmoving from his place in your personal space, defiantly staring right into your eyes, “You didn’t answer my question, doll.” he hums.

It might have been the alcohol - or the way his lip curled oh-so-perfectly into a teasing smile - but you find yourself sighing out in defeat. “Fine. Yeah. That is what I brought you out here for but mind you it was impulse and-”

He has the audacity to look absolutely exhilarated at your response, cutting you off to muse “That’s perfect then, isn’t it? You get revenge on that cheating dumbass, and I get to fuck an absolute goddess.”

At your stunned silence, he quirks an eyebrow and continues, “Come on, you really think I didn’t see the way you were eyeing me up before getting on the dance floor?”

“Well, you’re kinda hard to miss.” you defend, face warming. ‘And either way, I’m still in a relationship, we could even try couples therapy…and besides - I don’t even know you.“

Satoru’s grin only seems to grow at each word that spills out of your mouth, he was getting impossibly closer to you. Surprisingly, you didn’t mind it as much as you think you would.

“Why don’t you?” he murmurs, eyes unwavering from your face.

“Huh?”

“Why don’t you get to know me?”

You frown at the question, heart still stinging from the revelation earlier about your boyfriend. “Last time I ‘got to know’ someone it ended up with him cheating on me after two whole years.” you mutter darkly.

The amusement drains from Satoru’s face and his eyebrows furrow as he rasps out “That prick doesn’t deserve you.” His eyes flicker briefly to your lips, he was close enough now that you could slightly smell the liquor from earlier mixed with his expensive cologne.

It was so intoxicating.

Against the rational part of your brain, you feel yourself leaning into his presence. You challenge, “And you do?”

“Absolutely not.”, he breathes out.

And - fuck - then you’re kissing him. Because how could you not? Your lips are drawn to Satoru’s own like two halves of a soul that have connected after eons. Unbearable to part. He breathes you in like you were the only thing tethering him to this world.

A small groan wrecks the back of his throat.

Shit, maybe it was the other way around.

Your mouth parts, letting his tongue slide in. Satoru tasted sweet - like Baileys and every fantasy of a suave Prince Charming ever. You think that maybe you could get drunk off of his lips alone. You distinctly register the strong arm around your waist pulling you to him, sliding your hand up his chest and into those angelic locks.

His mouth curls into a smile against yours. “Having fun, doll?” he chuckles, each word punctuated by small pecks to your lips. He pulls back ever-so-slightly to bite and tease the skin on your neck.

Against your will, a quiet whine rips from your throat. Satoru was everywhere. But it wasn’t enough. You tug at his silky hair.

He seemed to get the memo. Connecting his forehead with yours, Satoru’s hands wander the expanse of your body before resting it on your ass, squeezing it lightly. “C’mon, use your words.”, he sounds just as breathless as you feel.

Raising your neck a little higher, lips ghosting over his, you whisper, “Satoru…I want to fuck you.”

He huffs out a laugh before murmuring lowly in your ear - words meant for you and only you - “No, doll. I want you to ruin me.”

Your thighs press together, he was going to be the death of you. Satoru catches the small movement and hums thoughtfully, “I got a lil’ place nearby. Wanna go?”

This was stupid. This was reckless. And you were going to do it.

Following your impatient nod, the both of you hurriedly walk the short distance to where Satoru’s car was parked. You share your location with your girls - just in case - before Satoru pushes you against the backseat door of his jet black Hellcat.

Lips connecting once more, he groans out, “Need you here right now.” sounding at his wits end, “Please, doll.”

Before you know it, the door is opened and slammed shut, and you’re sinking into the plush leather seat. Satoru is hovering over you now, dim street light illuminating the lust on his features. You looked into his darkened eyes, now hinging on a black that matched his car. The air was still. Waiting.

Then broken by the cacophony of the theme song to Oggy & The Cockroaches.

Ah, how classy.

Mentally cursing yourself for how out-of-place that joke ringtone was, you pull out your phone as Satoru backs up a bit. Your heart stops at the caller ID - “Naoya <3” - anger and guilt filling you.

“Answer it.”, you hear from above you. Satoru, who had looked at your phone screen while you froze, was now smirking devilishly. He kisses your forehead reassuringly, repeating “Answer it.”

Well…you’ve already come this far…

“Hello?” you stammer out, answering the call.

Your heart clenches as you hear Naoya’s voice demanding to know where you are right now. But his words go in one ear and out the other as you pay more attention to where Satoru held you, letting him do as he pleases while he takes the liberty to trail his hands where your skirt was hiking up. You could feel his thumb rubbing circles into your thighs. Tease.

“Hellooo, can you hear me? Haven’t you had enough of fucking feeling sorry for yourself??” Naoya’s grating voice snapped you out of your reverie.

Right, you still had to deal with that.

“Listen, baby, I’m sorry.”

Satoru’s hot breaths were fanning your hair now. His fingers continue their dance on your thigh. Feathery touch too light for any sort of friction, but just enough to set your skin ablaze.

“Jus’ wanna tell ya don’t worry. I will be late, don’t stay up and wait for me.”

He bends down to kiss the crook of your neck and you feel his smile against your skin. Devilish and dangerous. Angling your head slightly, a jolt of electricity goes through your body as you meet his intense gaze - one that makes you feel vulnerable and exposed, despite being fully clothed.

The grip on your phone weakens - only one thought running through your mind right now.

Satoru won’t let you get out of this alive.

Your heated thoughts are once again interrupted by Naoya’s nagging complaints. Usually, you would have simpered on the line, but right now consoling your boyfriend was the last thing on your mind.

“Say again? You’re dropping out, my battery is low…Jus’ so ya know, we’re going to a place nearby.”

Naoya’s shrieks of profanity are loud enough for Satoru to hear as well. He chokes on a laugh, quickly muffling it in the valley of your chest.

You have to hold back a yelp as his soft hairs tickle your nose. Evidently bored of all your conversation, Satoru’s hand finally slips past your skirt and begins playing with the hem of your lacy panty.

Shit.

“Gotta go-”

And with that, you quickly hang up the phone and let it fall to god-knows-where. Satoru immediately catches your lips again, “Thank fuck, e-boy bastard was about to make me lose my boner.”, he mumbles against them. He presses hot, open-mouthed kisses against your neck and all the way down to your chest. “Keeping me your dirty lil’ secret, huh?”

A mischievous grin makes its way to your face as you hum, “For now. Revenge cheating isn’t as fun when they already know about it.”

You wrap your legs around Satoru’s waist to pull him closer, feeling the outline of his cock. He grinds against you, letting out low, strangled groans at the touch of your clothed core. Both of you knew it - he wanted you so bad.

Satoru’s fingers were now rubbing against your folds through your panty, causing you to moan at the friction. He playfully nipped at your collarbone before looking at you with eyes that look like he wanted to eat you alive.

“Let me taste you.” he breathes out.

You nod, not trusting yourself to speak. Urgently, Satoru wasted no time in helping you sit up against the door, falling onto his knees to come face-to-face with your dripping pussy. He licks a long stripe, hands tightly gripping your ass to hold you in place.

Where Satoru was suave when kissing you, he was absolutely filthy when making out with your cunt. “Mm- Tastes s’good, doll.” he moans against your wet lips. You couldn’t hold back your groans of pleasure, his mouth making your head spin.

Finally, his hands on your ass swiftly remove your flimsy panties - completely soaked with slick and spit. You reach out to take a hold of them, but Satoru redirects your hands onto his hair. “Use me.” he grins. Walls fluttering at how fucked out he sounds already, you almost miss the way he pockets your wet panties.

He dives back into making out with your pussy, Tongue pushing its way through your folds and tasting every inch of you with purpose. His nose keeps rubbing against your clit, and mewls rip from your throat to harmonize with the lewd squelching sounds from below.

Satoru pulls back to admire his work, satisfied at the disappointed gasp coming from you. “Fuck- look at you. So pretty and dripping f’me. Gonna make a mess of my seats, doll?” he rasps out.

“Shut up.” you whine embarrassed, pushing Satoru’s head to where you need him the most. He relishes in the rough treatment, rolling his tongue harshly over and over against your throbbing clit.

“Shit! Satoru!” you yelp in ecstasy as you buck your hips into his face. More.

Satoru now uses two fingers to spread your cunt even more, admiring.

He bullies a long finger into your wet pussy. His ice-cold ring rubbing the base of your folds in stark contrast with the hot vibrations of his moans on your clit. It was all too much. You squeeze around his head - which only seems to spur Satoru on more as he increases his pace.

A second finger slides in, curling in unison to search for that spot inside you which Satoru knew would have your sweet moans singing louder.

Ah, there.

“S’good Satoru. Fuck. Right there, don’ stop.”, you whine as Satoru fervently continues his attack on your cunt.

You call out his name over and over again. Satoru was everywhere. Everything. And he was the only thing on your mind as you cum with a strangled gasp of his name; iron-tight grip on his hair helping you ride it out on his pretty face.

While you descend from the heaven Satoru sent you to, he continues giving kittenish pecks to your pulsing cunt. Experimental licks making your thighs squeeze more around his face. He looked absolutely fucked out, eyes hooded and face flushed a delicate pink.

As the heartbeat ringing in your ears subside, you register that goddamn Oggy & The Cockroaches ringtone in the distance again.

Half-consciously reaching a hand out to feel it for it, you already know who it is before you take a look at the phone screen.

Naoya <3

The exasperation must show on your face, because Satoru reaches out a toned arm and silences your phone before setting it down - all while still nose-deep in your pussy. He pulls away, the absolute mess of spit and slick still connecting him to you and covering his devilish grin. It makes your cunt throb once more.

“Couples therapy is too expensive anyway.”, he rolls his eyes.

You spot the very obvious outline of Satoru’s cock straining against his trousers. He looked painfully hard.

God, you needed him.

Reaching out an unsteady hand, “Let me-” you begin before you were interrupted by his hands tenderly intertwining with yours for the nth time this night. His soft lips press a gentle kiss to them. And despite the lewd acts you two had been doing not even a minute before, this is what makes your cheeks heat up the most.

“I want you so bad, you wouldn’t even believe. But trust me, where we’re going I can have you however I want. Properly.” his words strained, and going straight to your pussy.

And it’s the last thing said before he pulls your skirt back down and opens the door, only carrying you carefully to his passenger seat. “Safety first.” Satoru chirps, as he pulls over your seatbelt before closing the door and making his way to the driver’s seat.

Was he coddling you?

The drive to Satoru’s place is slightly rushed, his impatience showing in the way his fingers drum against the steering wheel.

Fingers that were in you.

Your cheeks burn as you try not to look behind and see the mess that you surely left on his overpriced seats. Whether from the blasting AC or from the prospect of what was about to happen, goosebumps rise on your skin.

They stay prominent as Satoru pulls into the extravagant driveway of the type of apartment complex that you’d sneer at on a normal day.

You feel very out of place at the gaudy entrance without panties under your short skirt.

Satoru hands his keys to the valet before steadily making his way to you, pulling you to him with a strong arm around your waist. “Told ya I got a lil’ place nearby.” he drawls into your ear.

“Nothing too little about this place. Compensating?” you tease, and watch his eyes crinkle as he laughs.

“Well. You’ll find out soon enough.”

The walk to the elevator is rushed, and you two have to fight to keep your hands to yourselves if you didn’t want to permanently scar the sweet old couple riding it alongside you.

Finally. Finally you reach his floor,

Penthouse, you note.

“Couples therapy is expensive” my ass! Does this guy run a drug cartel or what?

Roughly pushing you against his door, Satoru’s lips are once again on yours. He firmly grinds his erection against your core, massaging your ass in the process.

Ah, you don’t think he’s compensating.

A deep moan leaves Satoru as he feels the clenching of your naked cunt against him. You yelp when he moves your legs to wrap around his waist, effectively lifting you off the ground as if you weigh nothing.

One hand steadying you, he quickly punches in the code to his door.

Even as he enters and kicks the door closed, Satoru’s lips don’t leave yours. He blindly turns on a light before pulling back to admire you. You felt like you were losing your sanity, “You’re stupidly good at this, y’know.” you murmur, uncharacteristically somewhat shy.

He chuckles, removing your shoes before setting you down. Yet, your feet touch his cold mahogany floors for only a split second before Satoru has you in a bridal carry. “Save your praises for the bedroom, doll.” he chuckles out.

It’s a short walk to his room - or maybe Satoru was rushing - but his lips are on you as soon as your back hits the soft navy sheets of his king-sized bed. Maybe if you were in a clear state of mind you’d better appreciate the beauty of Satoru’s sleek interior décor. But right now you were only focused on the open-mouthed kisses he was leaving on your covered breasts.

“I have a feeling you’ll like me a lot less if I rip this off.” he tugs on the hem of your shirt with his teeth.

“Duh. And you really talk too much.” you huff out in impatience and quickly discard your top while Satoru pulls off your skirt.

He pecks you, hand reaching behind to unclasp your bra and leave you completely bare to him. “Not fair that I’m the only one naked.” your voice tinged with embarrassment as you start unbuttoning his shirt while he teases and pulls at your hardened nipples. Satoru lets you manhandle him to your liking, and manhandle him you did.

You flip your positions so that you are straddling him, overpriced white button-up now thrown across the room.

Holy shit, he really is a gym rat.

You kiss your way down the white happy trail on his sculpted body, squeezing his pecs and licking long stripes up his prominent abs. “Hah- yes. Please.” Satoru’s moans sound heavily, and it spurs you to make quick work removing his belt. Rivaling your impatience, he hooks a thumb under his trousers and urgently discards it.

Yeah, definitely not compensating.

Satoru is long, and flushed a pretty pink that matches his cheeks. His weeping tip makes the prominent vein along his length glisten in the low light. So perfect.

Mouth salivating, Satoru watches you with predatory eyes as you lean closer and closer. “Bigger than your lil’ boyfriend, huh?” he hums cockily. You roll your eyes and shut him up by spitting right on his flushed head. You kiss it slowly, relishing in the low hiss drawn from him,

“Hngh- F-fuck, doll”. Pumping his base slowly, you take his head into your mouth. Bobbing at a steady rhythm that has Satoru’s eyes rolling to the back of his head.

“Fuck. So fuckin’ good. Keep- keep going.” Satoru moans. You hum around him in a way that has his hips bucking into your mouth. You could tell - he wanted to push you down like a fucktoy and chase his high, but right now he was completely under your control.

Nails digging into his toned hips, you take his cock in further. “Yes yes yes yes. Jus’ like that.” he whines, one hand grabbing your hair into a makeshift ponytail and the other gripping onto the bed sheets.

It was messy. Drool pooling at the corner of your mouth, you gag on Satoru’s length as you suck it. Suddenly, his grip on your hair has you pulling off of his cock with a pop.

His hand moves to squish your wet lips together in a pout, “Can’t have me finish before the main course now, can we, doll?” his gravelly voice drawls.

In a split-second, Satoru flips your position to hover over you. His hands groping and admiring every inch of skin he can see. Eventually, his fingers find their way back to your cunt, “Such a pretty pussy. All f’me.” he spreads your lips teasingly before plunging inside - two fingers easily finding the spot from before.

Ever the multitasker, he sucks and teases your nipples, switching between the two to give them equal attention. You writhe, the pleasure from every point becoming too much. “Ah! Hngh- Satoru don’ stop” you moan out.

He adds another finger at a relentless pace, “Satoru! S- Toru! Toru. I’m close.” your words slur together as Satoru’s name falls like a prayer from your mouth. You were still sensitive from before, so it wasn’t long before you were cumming all over Satoru’s fingers with a final mewl.

But you two weren’t done - far from it.

“Need you so bad, Toru.” you breathe out, half-lucidly.

Proud smirk on his face, Satoru quickly fishes out a condom from his bedside drawer. Through the hazy aftermath of your second climax, you hear him mumble sweet reassurances to you as he rolls you over onto your stomach.

A soft caress of his fingers at your pussy and you feel his head rubbing your folds.

Worriedly you breathe out, “Toru- it won’t-”

“Shhh, doll. I’ll make it.”

You whine in both pain and ecstasy as Satoru bullies his thick cock into your cunt. “Oh god. S’tight. So fucking tight.” he gasps out in pleasure, starting to move in shallow thrusts that have your eyes rolling to the back of your head.

His large hand pushes down on your back, making you arch into his cock, the other starts incessantly rubs desperate circles on your sensitive clit. A few tears stream down your face from the sheer overstimulation. But it felt good - so good. Your moans grow louder as the pleasure starts overtaking the pain.

“More, Toru.”

“Oh yeah?”

Satoru’s thrusts get deeper and deeper, until he finally buries his cock into you as deep as it could go. Throaty groans spilling out of his mouth, he leans over and bites you at the crook of your neck hard, still slamming into you at an intense tandem. You yelped at both the new angle and the bite which was sure to leave a lasting mark.

Now, Satoru has tolerated many types of people through clubbing, your bastard boyfriend wasn’t any different. It was when he showed a picture of you that things got interesting.

Perfect. So perfect. You’d be better off with someone else than that smug lil’ gremlin. Like him…

And when he saw you tonight dancing like that.

Satoru had to have you.

“Bet he never fucked you like this.” His every word punctuated by a hard thrust. Shit, you didn’t even want to think about him right now. Your walls flutter around Satoru’s thick cock, throaty groans leaving him as his toned arm grabs the headboard for some stability. “Pussy fuckin’ sucking me in just right. Hah- so good.”

Feeling that very familiar coil in your abdomen, you mewl, “Toru- I’m gonna-”, face burying deeper into his luxurious bed.

Suddenly, the friction you crave so badly halts as Satoru pulls out to flip you onto your back with a playful smack to your ass. “Fuck. Wanna look at your beautiful face as you cum.” he mutters into your ear.

Leaning down to tug on your breasts, he looks at you with deceivingly innocent eyes as he keeps up his merciless cadence. Your arms reach around his muscled back to dig your nails into the unblemished skin. It felt so animalistic, the way his heavy balls were slapping your ass, stimulating you just right. Your hips buck up to meet Satoru’s, causing him to let out a strangled moan “Shit, doll. Pussy made jus’ for me. I’m so close.”

“M-me too.” his fingers start their abuse on your clit once more, “Hngh- Toru.” you whimper. Overstimulated and senses filled with only Satoru, you finally cum, riding it out on his deep thrusts.

Tears stream down your face as you come for the 3rd time tonight.

“Fuck- FUCK. Yeah, cum on my cock, doll. Jus’ like that.” he moans out as your pussy clenches down on him, finally tipping over the edge as well.

You feel Satoru cum in hot spurts into the condom, rasping your name over and over as if it was the only word he knew.

He collapses onto you, careful not to crush you with his full bodyweight. As you both come down from your highs, he quickly removes the condom and hugs your sweaty body closer to his. You feel more relaxed than you have in ages. Moves veiled in exhaustion, Satoru nuzzles your hickies as a lover would.

So he was a cuddler.

Giggling at the contrast from before, you lay there in a blissed out silence almost has you falling asleep. You take the moment to appreciate just how pretty Satoru in his post-orgasmic euphoria was. Cloudy locks disheveled, and lips a wet, rosy pink. His cerulean eyes were barely keeping open as he gives innocent pecks to your lips.

The serenity is disrupted by a familiar, unpleasant cacophony of vibrations near the edge of the bed where your phone had been thrown. The fucked out little smile on Satoru’s face grows as he realizes who it is. “Gonna answer the phone, doll?” he rasps out.

You raise a brow, “Why? Wanna give him a show?” you tease, not expecting the hum of agreement from Satoru. “Why not? Show him jus’ how I fuck you right?” he cocks his head, challenging you.

Your knee brushes up against his half-hard cock, causing a drawn-out hiss from him. His hips lightly rutting into you, you watch in satisfaction as tears spring to Satoru’s half-alert eyes. From pleasure or overstimulation? Probably both.

Well, the score was You - 1, Satoru - 3.

Might as well try and catch up.

Round two, you guess.

You snatch your phone before it topples off the now-untucked bedsheets.

Naoya <3 is video calling…

Pinning Satoru down, you scoot down the bed and hand him your phone, which he gratefully takes with a mischievous smile. Positioning yourself in-between his strong legs, you gently kiss his twitching cock, now painted with spit and cum.

The delicate tears in his eyes now track down his flushed face. Satoru lets out a choked out whine, bucking his hips and smearing his cum all over your swollen lips.

And he answers the call.

“Where- WHAT THE FUCK???”

Happy anniversary, you jerk.

A/N. I don’t condone cheating but c’mon it’s Gojo Satoru.

Plagiarism not authorized.

#gojo x reader #gojo x you #gojo smut #jjk x reader #jjk x you #jjk smut #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru x you #gojo satoru smut #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen x you #jujutsu kaisen smut #jujutsu kaisen #jjk fic #jjk #gojo satoru #tonywrites

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copperbadge · 1 month ago

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Light Cues

From the "find what works" department of my life...

I was telling my prescribing psychiatrist about this and he really loved it, and it occurred to me I'm not sure I've ever talked about it on here, but I've started using light cues instead of alarms for some things.

I don't use a lot of alarms regularly throughout the day (I don't need one to wake up unless I'm getting up at an unusual time, for example) but I use them for one-off stuff like "time to start getting ready to go out" or "today you have a doctor's appointment". I found after a while that with an alarm for a regular repeating task, there comes a point where I just silence it and forget to do the thing. Like, I have almost all notifications on my phone turned off and it's still muscle memory for me, as it is for many people, to have my phone beep for attention and just silence it unthinkingly. So I started using lighting cues.

It's evolved a lot, starting with the end of the workday. The lighting in my bedroom is all floor lamps; the one over my work desk is on a smart switch, which plugs into the wall and then the lamp plugs into the switch. I set the switch to turn the lamp on at 8am just before I start work, and off at 4:30pm to remind me to stop work, which I don't always remember to do. The light suddenly going out makes that corner unpleasantly dim, and it's more work to turn it back on (open phone, open app, find the right switch) than it is to stop work for the day.

Then I thought, this is so irritating it must be useful for other things. So I set it to go off from noon to 12:03pm. It's more of a pain in the ass to turn it back on than it is to get up, go to the kitchen, and do what I'm supposed to do at noon anyway: take my second Adderall dose. And the light is back on by the time I get back.

But I was running into the problem of taking the dose on an empty stomach as you're supposed to, but not having eaten since breakfast at like 5am. And now I'm in the kitchen. Having forgotten to eat my Early Lunch at 10:30. But the Adderall needs like 20 minutes to kick in before I eat, and by then I'm back at work, and then I wonder why I eat my body weight in pasta at 5pm.

So I set a light cue for 10:30 to remind me to take a break and eat. But I don't want to use the same cue for everything. The lamp on the other end of the bedroom doesn't have a smart switch but it does have a smart bulb, which is even more flexible, so at 10:30am it dims to 50% (irritating) and turns deep blue (doubly irritating). I leave the room, go eat lunch, and usually come back to sit on the bed with the cats for a few minutes. I don't mind the dim blue light when I'm on the bed -- I just can't work with it that way. So at 11 the light goes back to full white brightness and I get my cue to go back to work.

I have various other cues -- the living room lamps go off and the LED string on the headboard in the bedroom goes on low and red to indicate it's bedtime, and the LEDs go off a little later to remind me NO, it is BEDTIME NOW.

Obviously a lot of this is only possible with either analog daily timers or smart bulbs/switches, and those can be cost-prohibitive for some while others don't like having their lighting on the internet. But it's all switches and bulbs that I can remove easily, and they've come down a great deal in price -- mine are all Kasa brand so they're controlled from a single app, and I've found them extremely helpful.

Plus sometimes at night I put all the lights to deep blue and pretend I'm underwater and that's fun.

#adhd #sam has adhd #neurodivergent life hacks #hahah its a LIGHT HACK

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fireya-x · 5 months ago

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hold me close and tell me that it's real

【 AO3 Link (full tag list) || masterlist 】 ✦ John Price x Reader ✦ A message to a wrong number turns out to be just perfectly right. ✦ 4.7k words ✦ tags/cw: smut, neighbor!price, wrong number, oral sex, vaginal sex, anal sex, strangers to lovers, aftercare

The bathroom air, thick with steam, clung to the cool tiles. The fogged mirror reflected a distorted image of you, a silhouette emerging from the swirling mist. You’d agonized over which photo to send the firefighter from Tinder, meticulously staging it until your body was just visible enough through the hazed mirror, the outline of your body a clear invitation. Biting your lip, a nervous blush warmed your cheeks. You usually weren’t one for such blatant displays of… yourself.

But tonight, something felt different. Reckless. Desperate, even. Maybe it was the gnawing loneliness that had been settling in your bones lately — a constant, dull ache that no amount of casual encounters seemed to alleviate — that made you reckless.

You reached for your phone and began typing a casual message, trying to sound as flirty and inviting as possible. Attaching the photo, you hesitated, chewing on your lower lip, a familiar wave of self-doubt washing over you.

Was this too much? Would he even be interested? Was your body even desirable enough?

You’d always been self-conscious about your curves and softness, comparing yourself to the impossibly thin, toned figures gracing the pages of magazines, the women who seemed to attract the attention and affection you craved effortlessly. The string of meaningless dates, the empty encounters that had left you feeling more hollow than fulfilled, had only amplified your insecurities.

You’re not enough. You’re too much. You’ll never find someone who truly wants all of you.

He was attractive, yes, this firefighter, with rugged handsomeness, but something still felt off. He wasn't him. He wasn't John Price, your enigmatic, handsome neighbor who sometimes fed your cat, whose presence electrified the air, sending a ripple of awareness through your senses whenever he was near. You’d always found him incredibly attractive, a silent, secret yearning simmering beneath the surface of your polite, neighborly interactions. But the brief, almost impersonal conversations you’d shared – about preferred cat food, the best local dry cleaner, the noise from the construction site down the street – had led you to believe that he saw you as nothing more than a friendly face in the hallway, a helpful neighbor. Certainly not someone he’d ever be interested in.

But you couldn’t help it. Those stolen glimpses of him – carrying groceries, his strong hands gripping the bags, shirtless after he was out running or repairing his motorbike, the muscles in his arms flexing beneath the worn leather of his jacket – were seared into your memory, each a silent, secret fantasy. John Price, with the fine lines etched into his face by age and experience, the crinkles around his eyes whenever he smiled, the intense gaze that seemed to see right through you, the sometimes rough beard you longed to touch, the effortless kindness that radiated from him — he was everything the men you'd dated were not.

Still, he was a mystery, a silent, smoldering ember that had been slowly igniting a fire within you for months. A fire you’d diligently tried to extinguish, knowing, or rather believing, that it would never be reciprocated.

You hit send.

Your stomach plummeted. No. Panic seized you, your heart pounding against your ribs like a trapped bird. You scrambled for your phone, your fingers damp, desperately trying to undo the unthinkable, but the dreaded "Delivered" notification appeared on the screen.

Mortification washed over you, hot and stinging, a tidal wave of shame threatening to drown you in its intensity. You sank to the bathroom floor, naked and now shaking, the forgotten towel a crumpled heap beside you. The stinging cold bathroom tiles against your skin seemed to mock your misery, amplifying your sense of utter humiliation. Your breath hitched in your throat, a strangled sob escaping your lips.

The text had been delivered to John, not Josh from Tinder - your damned clumsy fingers hit the wrong recipient.

Then, a soft vibration against your thigh. Your phone.

John: Well, hello there. I wasn't expecting this kind of payment for occasionally feeding your cat.

A wave of heat flooded your cheeks, the blush burning against your skin. He was teasing you. Of course, he was. He was probably laughing at you, finding your blatant display of desperation pathetic. You wanted to disappear, to melt into the bathroom tiles and cease to exist.

You: oh my god, john. i am so incredibly sorry. this was a complete accident. wrong number!! i can’t believe this happened

John: An accident? How disappointing. I am rather enjoying the view.

You: i should have checked correctly. i’m so sorry

You: i'm so mortified

You: i’ll find someone else to look after Milo

You: i am so so sorry

John: Mortified? Don't be. You look beautiful. Breathtaking, actually.

You didn’t know what to say. Was he being serious? Or was he just toying with you, enjoying your discomfort? You couldn’t tell; his tone was so carefully neutral. Then, another text.

John: Lucky guy who was supposed to receive that photo.

You: just another date. nothing special. who knows

You typed back, trying to sound nonchalant, but your fingers trembled on the keyboard.

John: Are they treating you right, at least?

The question, so unexpected, so caring , caught you off guard. A lump formed in your throat, and the casual encounters of the past few months suddenly felt even more hollow and meaningless than ever.

You: sometimes

You replied, just a single word, yet it was heavy with unspoken longing for something better.

John: Tell me, what was the plan with that photo?

You hesitated, your fingers hovering over the keyboard. How could you explain the desperate want you felt sometimes, to be needed, to be loved, to be seen?

You: i don’t know… i just hoped it would make him want me

The words tumbled out, raw and vulnerable.

John: Do you want to be wanted, love?

The question, so simple, so direct, pierced through your defenses, striking deep within you. Your body was aching for a touch that had always seemed just out of reach. You’d craved it, yes, the feeling of being wanted, of being desired, but the encounters you’d had, the fleeting moments of intimacy, had never truly satisfied that yearning.

Instead, they’d only left you feeling emptier, more alone.

You: yes

You cringed inwardly at the desperation you put forward without hesitation. There was a small silence before your phone buzzed again.

John: I’d kiss away the water drops from your sweet tits to show you just how much I’d want you.

Your eyes went wide, a blush, hot and intense, flooded your cheeks at his boldness. You certainly hadn’t expected a text like that .

You took a deep breath.

He wasn’t just toying with you. He was serious. This wasn’t happening. Was it?

Another vibration of your phone.

John: Tell me what you want, love.

And then, the dam broke. All the pent-up desires, the unspoken longings, the secret fantasies you’d harbored for so long came pouring out in a torrent of words.

You: your hands on me… your mouth. everywhere

John: What a coincidence. I want to worship your gorgeous body.

You: i want to feel your lips on mine, your tongue exploring my mouth…

A shiver ran down your spine as you typed the words, the image vivid in your mind.

John: Another coincidence, because I want to taste you, love. Every inch of you.

You: id lie if i said i have never thought about how you’d feel inside me before

You: you’d probably feel so good

Why did you tell him that? You didn’t know. The thought simply sent a wave of heat through your core. Any shame that was supposed to be there was long gone.

John: Fuck. I wish you could feel how hard you make me.

You: i wish i could

The three dots appeared on the screen again, promising another text from him. You stared at them with an intensity that bordered on obsession, your heart pounding with anticipation. What would he say next? What would he do? The dots danced again, then vanished, leaving you suspended in silence.

A sudden, sharp knock on your door echoed through the quiet apartment, and your heart leapt. You scrambled to your feet, grabbing the towel and wrapping it hastily around yourself.

You hesitated for a moment, your heart pounding in your chest and your hand hovering over the doorknob. Then, taking a deep breath, you slowly opened the door.

John Price. Filling your doorway, his eyes dark with a desire that mirrored your own, his breathing ragged. He didn’t speak, didn't give you time to even register his arrival completely – the second the door was open, he reached for you, pulling you against him, his lips crashing against yours in a hungry, demanding kiss that stole your breath away.

“Fuck,” he groaned, his voice rough against your lips, his hands roaming over your body, mapping every curve, every inch of exposed skin.

“You feel that?” He murmured against your lips, grinding his hips against yours, his erection pressing hard against your stomach. “That’s all you, love.”

Your mind went blank. You couldn't speak, only moan softly as his lips trailed down your neck, nipping at the sensitive skin below your ear, his beard scratching the soft skin along the path. Your hands found their way to his back, pulling him closer, your fingers digging into the taut muscles beneath his shirt. You reached lower, grabbing him through his pants, desperate for more contact. He groaned, a low rumble of pure lust that echoed through you, making every nerve ending in your body sing.

“Mm, I’ve dreamt about touching you like this,” he groaned and pulled away, reaching behind him and closing the door, then carefully started walking forward while holding onto you, pushing you towards your bedroom with long strides, barely holding back himself. His hands were now ripping his clothes off and then your towel, leaving you completely naked in front of him – but you didn’t even register any of that. If you did, you probably wouldn’t care anyway.

He wasted no time, pushing you gently onto the bed, his body following quickly after. His weight was comforting and, at the same time, exhilarating. His lips found yours, hungry and demanding but with a tenderness that surprised you. It wasn't just lust; it was something more, something deeper. A connection you hadn't expected, but now, in this moment, felt undeniable. You kissed him back with equal fervor, your hands roaming over his back, feeling the muscles dance beneath his skin.

It just felt right. Like a culmination of all the stolen glances, the unspoken desires, the secret admiration you'd harbored for so long.

Never in a million years had you thought he’d think about you the same way.

He broke the kiss, trailing his lips down your neck again. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmured against your skin. "So fucking perfect.” His words sent a shiver down your spine. No one had ever spoken to you like this, with such raw, unfiltered adoration. It made you feel beautiful, desirable, worthy in a way you hadn't before.

For a moment, he just looked at you, his gaze intense, drinking in the sight of your naked body beneath him. A blush crept up your neck, a mixture of shyness and excitement. Then, his gaze dropped lower, his eyes dark and hungry as he settled between your legs.

Your breath hitched in your throat, anticipation coiling in your belly. His hands framed your hips, his fingers tracing the delicate skin of your inner thighs, sending shivers dancing across your skin. He leaned in, his warm breath ghosting over your core, making your muscles clench in anticipation. The tip of his tongue darted out, a tentative touch that sent a jolt of electricity straight to your clit. You gasped, your hips lifting involuntarily towards him.

He chuckled, a low rumble in his chest, and then he delved deeper, his mouth working its magic, his tongue and lips creating a symphony of sensations.

He knew exactly what he was doing, his rhythm building, the pressure increasing, his tongue a skilled artist painting pleasure across your most sensitive flesh. “John,” you moaned, his name a breathy whisper escaping your lips, a plea for more. He hummed against you, a low, guttural sound of approval. You tangled your fingers in his hair, your nails scratching his scalp as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over you, each one more intense than the last. His tongue and lips worked tirelessly until your body tensed and balanced at the edge of release.

And then, with a final, exquisite flick of his tongue, he sent you spiralling over the edge. You came hard, your body convulsing around his mouth, your cries unfiltered and shamelessly loud, a release so intense it left you breathless and trembling, your mind a blissful blank.

He rose, his eyes dark with satisfaction, a triumphant glint in their depths. Before he moved higher, though, his fingers dipped between your legs, testing your wetness. He brought his fingers to his lips, licking them slowly, his eyes never leaving yours. A warm thrill coursed through your body at the sight, a tingling sensation that ran along your spine.

He leaned in, his body hovering over yours, his lips meeting yours in a deep, lingering kiss. You tasted yourself on his tongue, the flavor intoxicating, a tangible reminder of the pleasure he'd just brought you – the combination of the lingering aftershocks of your orgasm and the feel of his lips on yours, his taste mingled with your own, was almost too much to bear.

As his tongue explored your mouth, he moved between your legs, aligning himself with your entrance. With a soft groan, he pushed inside, slowly, carefully, his kiss deepening as he filled you.

It was a perfect fit, a seamless joining of two bodies, punctuated by soft moans and your mingled breaths.

And then, he began to move, his rhythm slow and steady, his thrusts deep and deliberate, each one sending waves of pleasure radiating through your body. You tangled your fingers in his hair, pulling him closer, your moans soft against his lips. It was almost… loving. A gentle exploration, a tender dance between two lost souls connecting.

Suddenly, you felt his hands explore your folds, gently touching our clit, wandering down below where your bodies connected – before a finger pressed against your other hole – and your breath hitched.

He seemed to notice your reaction and chuckled lightly. He stopped moving to look right into your eyes. “Tell me, did any of the Tinder boys ever fuck you here?” He put more pressure on your asshole, seeking entrance, and your entire world almost fell apart.

“No…,” you whispered, voice shaky. “No one ever has.”

“Good,” he growled, his voice thick with possessiveness. “Because I will, and I don't want anyone else touching you from this day forward. You're mine .”

He moved, his thrusts deep and powerful, his whispers raw and possessive, filling your ears with words of praise and adoration that made your heart ache with a happiness you’d never known. The way he moved within you, each thrust increasingly more intense – it was a declaration of his claim. You arched beneath him, your body molding to his, your moans a demonstration of the pleasure, echoing through the room. A heat bloomed within you, spreading through your limbs, pooling in your core, a fire ignited by his touch, his words, his sheer presence.

You accepted your fate of being his, completely and utterly his, captured and taken - and yet in that moment, helpless and surrendered to the intoxicating power of his possession, you’d never felt so free .

He continued to thrust, his rhythm relentless, his body a perfect complement to yours, driving you closer and closer to the edge. You clung to him, your fingers digging into his back, your nails raking across his skin, leaving marks that mirrored the ones he was leaving on your soul. The world narrowed to the space between your bodies, the sound of your mingled breaths, the raw, unfiltered pleasure that was consuming you both.

Then, just as you felt yourself on the precipice of release, he pulled out, leaving you achingly empty, a void where his warmth and hardness had been just moments before. A whimper escaped your lips, a soft sound of protest, of longing. He turned you over, his hands gentle but firm, guiding you onto your stomach. A shiver of anticipation and a nervous thrill ran through you as you felt his breath hot against your ear, his voice a husky whisper that sent goosebumps rippling across your skin.

“Do you have any lube, love? I want this to be perfect for you.”

You nodded, barely able to point toward your nightstand. Your entire body trembled endlessly, not knowing if it came from pure arousal and lust or this unexplainable affection you felt towards him — how considerate he was with your pleasure and, more so, with your comfort. It left you speechless and breathless, exposed and bare, and longing to never come down from this high, no matter how hard the fall would eventually become.

You silently cursed yourself and the universe for not letting you know there had been a connection between you so much earlier, so you could have been spared all the emptiness and loneliness the fleeting encounters with other men always left behind.

He reached for the nightstand drawer, pulling out a small tube of lubricant. He looked you directly in your eyes – it felt like an unspoken vow, a wordless agreement to give yourself to one another in the deepest possible sense. It felt utterly intimate – to let him , a man you were so painfully shy with just moments ago, perform such an act… how strange the universe worked – and how intensely right it all felt.

His touch was gentle as he lubricated his fingers, one after another, and then reached behind you – so carefully circling your puckered entrance, making you moan softly in surprise and wonder at the completely new feelings. It felt like being touched for the first time in places nobody ever cared to explore – let alone so masterfully gentle and knowing like this. A mix of strange anticipation, embarrassment, and the sheer thrill of being touched by this man sent shivers through your core.

“So fucking tight,” he murmured, pushing his first finger inside, slick with a mix of lube and your juices, so very gently at first. “Want me to fuck that pretty little hole, love?”

“Yes, please ,” you whined, sounding utterly desperate and shameless. With nobody before, you’d ever begged - yet with John, it slipped from your lips almost naturally. He chuckled, and his mouth twisted in a wicked smile, making your heart race.

He continued to prepare you, adding a second finger, slowly stretching you, his touch both firm and incredibly tender, your entire lower abdomen now twisting and pulling itself down in involuntary anticipation of being filled. You gasped, a small moan escaping from your lips. The feeling of being so tenderly explored made tears spring to your eyes. No one had ever treated you like this, with such reverence, such care. You put your head down on its side, trying to catch a glimpse of him, wondering why or how someone like John Price – the distant, mysterious neighbor who seemed to exist in a world of his own, someone who you deemed out of reach just an hour ago, now took such incredible, passionate care of you , making you feel precious . It was almost too much to handle, each gentle stroke making you feel more overwhelmed and wanted. It was everything you always fantasized about, what having a lover truly could feel like but never dared believe to be true.

“Does that feel good, baby?”

You gasped, your body convulsing, the pleasure so intense it bordered on pain. But it was a good pain, a delicious, welcome ache, a sensation unlike anything you’d ever experienced. He continued to explore your depths, stretching you, accustoming you to the unfamiliar feeling, his touch patient and understanding. His fingers slowly widened you, his movements deliberate and unhurried, giving you time to adjust, to relax into the sensation. All the while, his other hand was buried between your folds underneath you, and his thumb continued to caress your clit, sending waves of pleasure radiating through your body, distracting you from any discomfort, replacing it with a growing anticipation.

“Tell me if it's too much,” he whispered. “I don't want to hurt you.”

His words, his tenderness, his concern for your pleasure, melted away the last of your apprehension. You moaned softly, over and over, your body arching against his touch, your hands gripping the sheets beneath you.

Then suddenly, he withdrew his fingers, replacing them with the lubed head of his cock, pressing gently against your entrance. “Ready, love?”

You nodded, unable to speak, your heart pounding in your chest. He pushed inside, slowly, carefully, giving you time to adjust to his size, his fullness. You gasped, a small cry escaping your lips, but it wasn't pain, not exactly. It was a new sensation, intense and unfamiliar but somehow just right. He paused, waiting for you to relax, his hand rubbing soothing circles on your hip, his touch a silent reassurance. A feeling of belonging settled deep within you, a terrifying, exhilarating connection unfolding between you.

You knew, with certainty, that this would never be the same with anyone else.

He began to move, slowly at first, then with increasing urgency, his thrusts deep and powerful, filling you completely. You cried out, your voice a mixture of pleasure and surprise, your body arching against his, desperate for more. He whispered dirty praises against your skin, his words a heady mix of possessiveness and adoration, fueling the fire within you. “You're so fucking tight,” he groaned, “so perfect. All mine.”

With another groan, he pulled you flush against his chest, his arm wrapping tightly around your body, his large hand cupping your breasts, pressing you against him. He held you there and continued to move, but the rhythm changed, becoming a desperate, needy grinding, his hips pushing against yours, the friction building, the intensity escalating. You whimpered again, your head falling back against his shoulder, lost in the overwhelming sensations. It was too much, too intense, too good . You didn’t even know what was real anymore. All you knew was him , the feel of his body against yours, the sound of his breath and his growls in your ear, the raw, unfiltered pleasure that was consuming you.

His other hand moved between your legs, his fingers finding your clit, circling, rubbing, adding to the already overwhelming pleasure. You arched your back, your body writhing against his, your moans growing louder, more desperate. He added two fingers to your slick heat, swirling and stretching you, sending shocks of pleasure through your already overstimulated body. You cried out his name, over and over, lost in the sensations, lost in him.

“Fuck, yes,” he groaned, “just like that, love. Take it all.”

You shattered, your body convulsing around him, cries mingling with his groans in a symphony of pure, unadulterated pleasure. The release was an explosion of sensation so intense it left you breathless, trembling, mind blissfully blank. He continued to grind against you, each thrust echoing the receding waves of your orgasm. Then, he went still, holding you so tightly against him you forgot how to breathe. The sensation of him pulsating deep inside you, buried within your ass, was exquisitely intimate. It was a connection so profound, so utterly consuming; it sent another ripple of pleasure through your still-sensitive nerves. You felt the warmth of his release, a shared intimacy that brought tears to your eyes. Teeth nipped at your shoulder, followed by a growl that bordered on animalistic, a raw expression of his own pleasure.

You clung to him, your fingers digging into his arm, holding yourself as close as physically possible as he shuddered through his climax. It was a moment of such raw vulnerability, such complete surrender.

For a fleeting second, a flicker of fear sparked within you – the fear of losing this connection, this incredible intimacy.

But he didn't let go. The expected detachment, the sudden chill of loneliness, didn't happen. Instead, he held you close, almost protectively, his arms wrapped tightly around you. His lips brushed against your ear. “You're incredible,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “So fucking incredible.”

His words were a balm to your soul. He hadn't discarded you like the others. He held you as if you were precious, as if you were something to be treasured. You turned in his arms, burying your face in his chest. A warmth spread through you, a deep, abiding sense of peace you hadn’t realized you’d been craving.

Fear whispered that you were overstepping, that this closeness was too much, too soon, but his arms held you captive.

The self-doubt that had plagued you for so long, the insecurities that had whispered insidious lies in your ear, the ghosts of endless, disappointing dates and fleeting encounters – all of it washed away, cleansed by his touch, his words, his sheer adoration. You held onto him, clinging to him as if he were a lifeline, the only solid thing in a world that had become fluid and uncertain.

A playful smile tugged at the corners of your lips. “So,” you murmured against his chest, your voice still shaky, “does this mean I can repay you like this for cat-sitting more often?”

He kissed your temple, a tender gesture that sent a wave of warmth through you. “Love,” he whispered against your hair, his voice a low rumble that vibrated against your skin, “Not that it matters, but I'd fuck you for free.” He chuckled.

“As often as you'll let me." He paused, his breath warm against your ear, and added, his voice dropping to a husky murmur. "In fact, I have a feeling I'm going to need to. And want to. A lot." He pulled back slightly, his eyes meeting yours, a possessiveness simmering in their depths. "What's mine," he whispered, his voice low and intense, "is mine."

His words were dark, almost dangerous, but the way he said them, the intensity in his voice, the possessiveness in his gaze, made something deep within you stir.

Belonging. It was a dream you'd almost given up on, a fantasy that had faded with each meaningless date, each disappointing encounter.

His thumb gently stroked your cheek. “You said those other… dates … they only sometimes treat you right?”

His words, soft yet pointed, pricked at the carefully constructed wall around your heart. You swallowed, suddenly shy again. They… they don’t see me,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “I’m just… a body.” You hesitated, then continued, the words tumbling out in a rush. “I miss… talking. Laughing. Being held. Someone who looks at me like… like you just did.”

His face softened, and he leaned closer, his breath warm against your ear. “Then let me show you how you deserve to be treated.”

“Are you going to stay?” you whispered, the question barely audible, scared of his reaction.

He pulled back slightly, his gaze holding yours intensely. “Do you want me to?”

“Yes, please,” you breathed, your fingers finding the short strands of hair at his nape.

“What about your date?”

“You’re better than any date is ever going to be,” you said, the conviction in your voice surprising even yourself. “I never thought you’d… like me this way,” you whispered.

“I always have,” he confessed, his thumb tracing the outline of your lower lip. “I’ve been dreaming about kissing these lips every time you smile at me in the hallway.” He paused, a hint of a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “That photo… might have been your best mistake ever."

You smiled a genuine, happy smile that reached your eyes. “Keep it,” you whispered, your heart swelling with a joy that felt excitingly new. “And maybe... send me one back sometime?”

He grinned, a flash of heat in his eyes. “I'll see what I can do.” He leaned in, his lips brushing against yours, his beard prickling against your skin. “Now,” he murmured, “where were we?”

#captain john price #ao3 fanfic #cod fanfic #captain price #captain john price x reader #cod modern warfare #john price #captain price x reader #fanfiction #call of duty #captain john price smut #john price x reader #john price x you #18+ mdni #call of duty fanfic #captain price x you #x reader #x female reader #cod smut

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dontrllycaretbh · 2 days ago

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Title: In the Paint, On Her Knees

Pairing: Paige bueckers x Azzi fudd

Warnings: Explicit sapphic content (18+), spit kink, fingering, semi-public setting (locker room), teasing, dom!Azzi, sub!Paige, excessive flirting, public embarrassment (loving), mild praise/degradation, filthy locker room smut, banter, dirty talk, confessions, years of pining, Azzi snapping (finally), james and lily potter type of love 🙂‍↔️

Summary:

For three years, Paige has been the campus gay disaster — loudly and publicly asking Azzi out mid-basketball practice, in group chats, and once via megaphone. Azzi’s always brushed her off… until one day, in the middle of a sweaty one-on-one match, Azzi snaps. Turns out, she’s been waiting just as long — and she takes control

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Three Years of Chaos

Paige had never been subtle. Not about anything, really, but especially not about Azzi.

It started freshman year — Paige, standing center court during basketball practice, waving a bright pink poster that read “Azzi, go on a date with me!” in marker so thick it bled through the posterboard. The whole team stared, some snickering, others just blinking in disbelief. Azzi rolled her eyes, but Paige caught the barest hint of a smile.

Next came the group chats — constant, relentless. “Hey Azzi, I bet you’d lose a game against me if we played for a date,” Paige typed, followed by a slew of emojis ranging from basketballs to winks to hearts. Azzi ignored the message but always read them, lurking silently as Paige’s notifications kept pinging like clockwork every afternoon.

Then, there was the infamous megaphone incident. Right before the final four game , Paige had smuggled a megaphone into the gym and shouted, “Azzi, date me or I’ll never pass your locker again!” Geno nearly had a stroke, and Azzi’s glare could have stopped a freight train. But again, Paige saw that flash of something—amusement? Fondness? She wasn’t sure, but it fueled her fire.

Despite the public embarrassment and the endless teasing, Azzi never outright said no. She brushed Paige off with quick retorts, sarcasm, and a wall of cool detachment. But Paige had noticed the way Azzi’s eyes lingered a little too long, or how her smirk softened when Paige caught her watching.

Years of flirting, of daring and denying, led to countless locker room exchanges filled with sharp wit and sharper glances.

“Still pining for me, bueckers?” Azzi teased once after practice, tossing Paige a towel.

“Maybe,” Paige grinned back. “But you make it so hard to give up.”

Azzi’s smile faded just for a moment—enough for Paige to catch the secret behind the teasing. Azzi wasn’t indifferent. She was just waiting. Waiting for Paige to push harder, to finally break through.

And now, standing face to face in the sweaty heat of a one-on-one match, Paige could see it in Azzi’s eyes—something different. Something ready to snap.

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2 weeks later, Practice, 3:42 PM

“Hey Az!” Paige yelled from across the court, breathless and already a little pink from their scrimmage. “Will you go out with me yet?”

Azzi didn’t even look up as she pivoted, dribbled, and sank a clean shot. “Still no.”

“Okay, cool, cool.” Paige pretended to write something down on her arm with her finger. “Just crossing off Thursday’s rejection. Only two more to fill out this week before I hit my quota.”

From the bleachers, one of their teammates yelled, “Paige, take the L!”

“Never!” Paige called back. “I never lose”

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One-on-One, 4:10 PM

It was just them now. Practice had ended, the others long gone. Paige had stayed behind to “get extra shots in,” which really meant “get extra Azzi time.”

Azzi was sweaty. Sharp. Deadly focused. And unfairly hot.

Paige was already halfway to combusting and trying not to let it show.

They played in silence for a few minutes — until Azzi faked left, spun around her, and sank a three-pointer like it was nothing.

Paige collapsed onto the court in melodramatic agony. “I’d let you break my ankles and my heart.”

Azzi, catching the ball on the rebound, raised a brow. “Are you ever not flirting?”

“Only when I’m unconscious.”

She stood, winded but grinning. “Be honest. You like it.”

Azzi hesitated. Just for a second.

And then: “Locker room. Five minutes.”

Paige blinked.

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“Wait, seriously? No trick? No fake-out?”

Azzi stepped closer, dropped the ball with a heavy thud. “You’ve been running your mouth for three years, Paige. Time to see if you can do something useful with it.”

Paige’s jaw dropped. “Oh my God.”

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Locker Room, 4:18 PM

It smelled like floor cleaner, deodorant, and victory. Paige was still catching up — mentally and physically — when Azzi pressed her back against the lockers and kissed her like she was trying to erase all those years of denial in one go.

It was hot. Messy. Urgent. Azzi’s thigh pressed between Paige’s legs, and Paige moaned before she could even think.

“Wow,” Paige gasped. “You kiss like you’ve been mad at me this whole time.”

“I have been,” Azzi growled. “You’ve been infuriating. You and your stupid jokes. Your ridiculous posters.”

“The megaphone was iconic,” Paige wheezed. “People still talk about it—”

Azzi shut her up with another kiss. This time, her hand slid under Paige’s jersey, cupping a breast, thumb flicking over her nipple.

Paige whimpered. “I swear to God if I’m dreaming, I’m gonna die in my sleep and it’ll be worth it.”

Azzi grinned against her mouth. “You want to be useful?”

Paige nodded frantically.

“Then open your mouth.”

Paige obeyed instantly.

Azzi leaned in and spit into it — warm, slow, filthy.

Paige groaned, swallowing it without breaking eye contact.

Azzi’s voice was low and smug. “Knew it.”

“You—what?”

Azzi shoved a hand down the front of Paige’s shorts. “You think I haven’t seen how you look at me every time I spit on the court?”

“I’m normal—” Paige gasped as Azzi’s fingers slid through her soaked folds. “I’m very normal—oh fuck—”

Azzi curled her fingers and Paige saw god.

“Been teasing me for years. But now I get to ruin you.”

“God, please ruin me—”

Azzi pushed two fingers in, deep and slow, then rubbed her thumb over Paige’s clit with precision that made her knees buckle.

“You’ve been dripping for me since sophomore year,” she whispered. “So wet for me now. Like you’ve been waiting.”

Paige sobbed out a moan. “I have—Azzi—please—”

“Beg better.”

“Please let me cum, I’ll shut up forever, I’ll stop asking you out in the quad, I’ll burn the megaphone—”

Azzi kissed her again, biting her lip. “Come for me baby, make me happy.”

And Paige did. Loud. Shaking. Practically collapsing into Azzi’s arms as pleasure rolled through her in waves.

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4:34 PM

They were sitting on the bench now, Paige in Azzi’s lap, both half-dressed and still breathing hard.

Paige nuzzled into her neck. “So… does this mean you’re finally my girlfriend?”

Azzi chuckled. “One orgasm and you’re already claiming me?”

“Please, I’ve been claiming you since I wore the number 5 on me.”

Azzi snorted. “Fine. But if you so much as touch that megaphone again—”

“I swear it’s retired. I’ll replace it with whispering sweet nothings directly into your mouth.”

Azzi rolled her eyes and kissed her again, this time soft and slow.

“Let’s get out of here before someone walks in and sees you drooling on me.”

“Too late,” Paige said dreamily. “Been doing that since day one.”

Azzi groaned. “God, I should’ve ruined you sooner.”

#paige bueckers #uconn wbb #azzi fudd #paige bueckers uconn #pazzi #kk arnold #uconn huskies #paige bueckers x reader #paige x azzi #azzi x reader #wlw yearning #james potter #lily potter

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capuccinodoll · 4 months ago

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The boyfriend act, part 3: "The one with the birthday party" Pairing: Frankie Morales x F!reader SERIES MASTERIST

Chapter Summary: At Frankie’s mom’s birthday party, you aim to keep a low profile, doing just enough to blend in. But the night takes an unexpected turn—his family pulls you in more than you anticipated, catching you off guard with their warmth. And then, just when you think you’ve made it through unscathed, the pavement has a surprise for you too. WC: 18.8k (CAREFUL, THIS BABY IS LOOOONG LOL)

A/N: Alright, it's here at last! You have no idea how much I've been looking forward to sharing this chapter. For some reason, life kept getting in the way and I couldn’t finish it sooner, but NOW IT’S FINALLY DONE! I’d love to know what you think—your feedback always helps me improve, and I really enjoy reading your comments! <3 LOVE YOU YOU ALL, THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING!!! If you want to be in the tag list, let me know. Don't forget to follow capuccinodollupdates for notifs!

Friday, August 9th.

“Hey,” you said as you opened the door, stepping aside to let Frankie in. You barely glanced at him before turning toward the other room. “I’ll be ready in a minute.”

He walked in without a word, shutting the door with a soft click. His silence felt heavier than it should have, like an unspoken critique. You gestured toward the door on the right, in front of the stairs that led to the second floor and to your apartment.

You went into the bookshop, and he followed you, his shoes heavy against the floor.

Inside, Frankie lingered by the doorway, his eyes darting around the room as though assessing it for structural integrity. You ignored him, sliding behind the counter to finish typing something on the computer.

“What are you doing?” he asked, leaning on the edge of the counter with the practiced impatience of someone who believes they’re above waiting. His tone had a sharp edge, as if the concept of you having a to-do list offended him. “Can’t this wait?”

You exhaled, a soft, deliberate sigh that was barely audible over the quiet clatter of the keys.

“Just finishing an order. If you’re going to stand there and criticize, at least try to look useful.” A few more taps, and you turned the screen toward him with a mock flourish. “There. Done. Satisfied?”

Frankie didn’t bother responding, his attention shifting to you instead. His gaze dragged up and down, his expression a mix of scrutiny and reluctant approval.

You stepped around to the other side of the counter, reaching for the bookshop keys. With them in hand, you paused in front of him, your gaze drifting down the length of his body.

“Well, this is… unexpected,” you said, letting your eyes linger pointedly on his polished black coat, white buttoned shirt and neatly pressed pants. “You look decent.”

“Don’t sound so surprised,” he said dryly, though the corner of his mouth twitched like he was fighting a smirk. “And you look…” His eyes trailed to your dress, narrowing. “Half-dressed.”

“Excuse me?”

Frankie crossed his arms, tilting his head as though giving your outfit a second appraisal.

“I’m not joking. Did you forget part of your dress? Or is it supposed to look like that?”

Confused, you glanced down at yourself. You were wearing one of your favorite dresses—a white one with delicate straps and a fit that was snug but not tight, elegant in its simplicity. It was modest enough: the neckline wasn’t too low, the hem rested just above your knees. Perfectly normal. Perfectly appropriate.

“There’s nothing wrong with my dress. You’re just being annoying and mean.”

“Your back,” he said flatly, gesturing with his hand.

Your fingers flew to the back of the dress, and sure enough, they met the unzipped fabric.

“Oh,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “I… I was going to zip it upstairs. I have this little hook thing for it—”

“For god’s sake,” Frankie cut in, pinching the bridge of his nose like this was the single most inconvenient thing anyone had ever asked of him. “Turn around. I’ll do it.”

You stared at him like he’d just suggested performing open-heart surgery.

“You don’t have to—”

“It’s a zipper, not a marriage proposal. Turn around.”

Reluctantly, you turned, feeling his presence close behind you. His fingers were quick but precise as he tugged the zipper up, the movement so mundane yet strangely charged. The warmth of his breath hit the back of your neck, and you froze for a second, hyperaware of the proximity.

“There,” he said gruffly, stepping back as if the contact had been nothing more than a chore. “Happy now? Let's go.”

You turned to face him, adjusting the straps with an exaggerated shake of your shoulders.

“Ecstatic,” you said, your voice dripping with sarcasm. “Truly life-changing.”

Frankie rolled his eyes and made a beeline for the door, opening it with a sharp glance over his shoulder.

“Are you done with the dramatics?”

Adjusting your bag on your shoulder, you followed him outside, muttering under your breath just loud enough for him to hear.

“You’re lucky I didn’t ask you to tie my heels.”

The party was being held in the gilded elegance of the Golden Room at Hotel Le Grand. Frankie had mentioned, in passing, that he and his sisters had been planning the event for months—though it was clear Luna had been the one to shoulder the real burden. Frankie didn’t strike you as someone who knew how to color-coordinate table linens or confirm catering orders. Luna, on the other hand, sounded like the kind of woman who thrived on spreadsheets and perfectly executed itineraries.

You walked down the wide, carpeted hallway toward the entrance, feeling an unfamiliar kind of nervousness bloom in your chest. It wasn’t fear exactly, nor excitement—it was something in between, something that lived in the pit of your stomach and coiled tighter the closer you got. You could hear the faint hum of voices, glasses clinking, the muffled thrum of music filtering out from the room ahead. Frankie’s pace slowed beside you, his polished shoes scuffing lightly against the floor.

When you turned to look at him, his expression was hard to read. He was studying you, eyes narrowing slightly as if you’d done something suspicious, though you couldn’t imagine what.

“Wait,” he said abruptly, stepping closer and grabbing your arm—not roughly, but firmly enough that you stumbled slightly.

“What—”

He didn’t answer, just pulled you along a few steps before opening a nearby door and tugging you inside.

“What the hell are you doing, Francisco?” you hissed, glancing around the dim, utilitarian room. It smelled faintly of dust and lemon cleaner, the air heavy with the static quiet of spaces not meant to be used by guests. Stacks of chairs loomed in uneven piles against the walls, making the room feel even smaller.

Frankie shut the door behind you with an exhale.

“Let’s go over it one more time,” he said, his voice low and edged with impatience.

“You’re kidding.”

“Just—humor me, okay?” He glanced at you, his dark eyes darting quickly over your face before he looked away again, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Are you nervous?”

“No,” he replied, too fast. He planted his hands on his hips, his expression careful. “Santi introduced us. We’ve been dating for two months. We kept it private because we wanted to talk to him first. It’s… fine. Normal. Our relationship is easy.”

“Easy?”

“Yes, easy. It just happened. The usual.”

“You’re so nervous,” you said, fighting the urge to laugh. “Look at you.”

“I’m not nervous.”

“You’re definitely nervous.”

“I just need you to promise me that you’re not going to do anything to ruin this. Okay? Can you promise me that?”

You scoffed, clicking your tongue in mock offense.

“Why do you automatically assume I’m the one who’s going to ruin it? If you want my honest opinion, you’re way more likely to mess this up. Look at you—you’re sweating.”

“I’m not—”

“You are. You look like a dog with its tail between its legs,” you said, lightly poking his shoulder with two fingers.

“You are going to make me fucking nervous if you keep talking like that,” he said, pushing your shoulder with two fingers, a perfect imitation of your earlier gesture.

You exaggerated the movement, stumbling back as though his touch had been far more forceful than it was.

“Deny it all you want, but I’m not the nervous one, and I’m not going to ruin this. I still need you for the wedding, remember? Or has that slipped your mind?”

He rolled his eyes, shaking his head in exasperation.

“I guess so. What a ridiculous plan,” he said, his voice dripping with faux superiority. When his gaze found yours again, it was sharp. “And I’m not nervous.”

Frankie didn’t seem to realize how obvious his nerves were. His eyes darted around like they were chasing his thoughts, moving too quickly for comfort. Every so often, his eyebrows would twitch in a way that betrayed the tight control he thought he had over himself. And you’d noticed it earlier, too, during the car ride—his restlessness, the way his fingers drummed against the steering wheel, harder and faster than usual. It was almost endearing, if not for the fact that he refused to admit it. Instead, he was blaming you.

A thought sparked in your mind and you couldn’t stop yourself from leaning into it. Your eyes brightened as you tilted your head, feigning an exaggerated air of curiosity.

“Well, if you say so,” you sighed, looking away for just a beat before locking eyes with him again. “So, where can I touch you?”

Frankie froze, his entire body going rigid.

“What?”

“Where can I touch you?” you repeated, slowly, as if he might need help processing the question. “Like, can I hold your hand? Touch your face? Your arms? Anywhere that’s off-limits? I just want to make sure you’re comfortable.”

You could feel the corners of your mouth twitching, fighting the urge to fully smile. God, this was too easy. He looked equal parts horrified and confused, his eyebrows knitting together as his eyes widened slightly.

“Stick to the basics,” he said, his tone clipped and no-nonsense. He was trying to regain control, though the way he crossed his arms over his chest only made him look more defensive.

“And what exactly are the basics, Francisco?”

“It doesn’t matter. This is a family event. Just don’t—don’t overdo it.”

“Well, that’s a start,” you said, nodding like you were taking mental notes. “So, can I hold your hand? Or is that too intimate for you? If I make you nervous, you can just say so.”

Your voice had softened into something almost saccharine, a honeyed sweetness that didn’t belong to you.

Frankie stared at you in silence, his dark, intense eyes fixed on your face like they were trying to strip you down to your core. You could almost feel him siphoning your energy, leaving you lighter, emptier.

“Yes, you can hold my fucking hand.”

“Great,” you said brightly, nodding as if you were in complete agreement. “And what about kissing?”

“There’s no need.”

“No need? That’s good.”

“Yeah.”

“Good.” You paused, letting the silence settle just long enough to be deliberate. “Now I’ll tell you what I’ll allow.”

Frankie frowned, his head tilting slightly in irritation.

“There’s no need. I don’t plan to—”

“You can hold my hand, my shoulders, and my waist. My waist, but no lower—understood?” You raised your index finger for emphasis, looking up at him with mock authority.

Frankie blinked, caught somewhere between disbelief and amusement. He stifled a laugh, though you caught the way his mouth twitched at the corners.

You shook your head, crossing your arms over your chest like a disappointed teacher.

“What? Are you seriously planning to convince your family that you’re head over heels for me without even touching my shoulders? That’s ambitious, Francisco. And, honestly, not very convincing. You’re out of your depth here. And nervous,” you added, tilting your head to one side with a knowing smirk. “But I get it. You’re not exactly the picture of confidence, are you? In fact, you strike me as one of those guys who find it really difficult to socialize with women. You know the type.”

Frankie’s jaw clenched, and for a moment, you thought he might actually snap. But instead, he nodded slowly, biting the inside of his cheek as a bitter, humorless smile spread across his face.

“I’m very sociable with women, sweetheart,” he said, his voice smooth and edged with something sharp. “The thing is, I have to like them first.”

You raised your eyebrows, disbelief etched across your face.

“Well, I think that makes you a bad actor. You’re not cut out for the job.”

Frankie leaned against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest. His gaze, steady and unflinching, fixed on you like he was deciding whether you were worth responding to.

“Oh, no?”

“Yeah, you know, for the act,” you said, tilting your head.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re a nervous coward.”

Frankie didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he stared at you, his silence stretching long enough to make you shift under the weight of his gaze. You could see the wheels turning in his head, and for a brief, panicked moment, you thought he might just open the door, leave you standing there alone, and abandon the whole charade.

But then, his face shifted. A smug expression slid into place, slow and calculated, accompanied by that crooked smile that always made your stomach tighten—not in a pleasant way, but in a way that felt like a warning.

“And what about you, Meryl Streep?” he asked, his tone light but laced with an edge. “You want to talk about bad acting, but yesterday, after I kissed you, you looked completely out of place.”

You sighed, a deliberate move to buy yourself a second to think.

“Sorry,” you said finally, tilting your head like you were truly apologetic. “I guess that happens when I get the most unpleasant kiss in the world.”

Frankie laughed under his breath, shaking his head.

“Then it shouldn’t bother you that this party is kiss-free, should it? Little physical contact, just the necessary effort.”

For a moment, you felt the wind knocked out of you—not by his words, but by the realization that he had managed to flip the conversation so seamlessly, deflating your earlier momentum. But you recovered quickly, letting a slow, understanding smile spread across your face.

You leaned in slightly, your hand lifting toward his face. Frankie, ever cautious, instinctively moved his head back, but you didn’t stop. Your fingers found his cheek, warm under your touch, and your thumb rested lightly at the corner of his mouth.

“You have no idea how much I’m going to enjoy it when you come begging for a kiss or a small demonstration of affection, Francisco,” you said softly, your voice dripping with satisfaction. “Because even though I know how much you hate this whole thing, I also know that your need to make this convincing is even stronger.”

You dropped your hand and stepped back, feeling a delicious sense of control settle over you like a second skin.

Frankie’s jaw tightened as he turned toward the door, his hand gripping the handle tightly, knuckles faintly white. He paused just before opening it fully, glancing over his shoulder at you, his eyes sharp and impatient.

“Ready?”

“Yes,” you said lightly, brushing past him as you moved toward the door.

Already in the hallway, Frankie fell into step beside you, his shoulder brushing lightly against yours. Without warning, his fingers found yours, intertwining them in a quiet, deliberate motion. His steps were slow, measured, as you both neared the doorway leading back to the crowded hall.

You turned to him, a soft smile playing on your lips.

“I thought that—”

“No way,” a voice cut in from behind, smooth and teasing. “Sneaking off to a closet during Mom’s birthday party? That’s risky, Frankie.”

Frankie froze, his grip on your hand loosening for a second. He turned, his face momentarily pale, but when he saw her, something shifted. The tension in his jaw melted away, replaced by a warm, easy smile. You followed his gaze.

The woman approached, a grin already forming, arms outstretched. She pulled Frankie into a tight embrace, her dark eyes bright.

He kissed her cheek before pulling back.

“How are you?” he asked, his voice lighter than before. “How’s Mom? Is she happy?”

“She’s great, so so happy. She wants to see you,” the woman said, and then her attention flicked to you. Curiosity glimmered in her gaze. “Aren’t you going to... introduce me to your girl?”

Frankie hesitated, like the thought had only just occurred to him. Then, his hand slid to your waist, his grip warm and steady as he pulled you closer.

“Oh, yeah,” he said, and your name slipped from his lips with an unfamiliar sweetness. “My girlfriend.” He paused, like he was testing the words, then smiled. “And baby, this is my sister, Maia.”

The way he said it caught you off guard. There was a natural ease to it, like he’d said it a hundred times before. Like it wasn’t the first time he was calling you that in front of someone else. Baby.

Your mind went back to what Frankie had told you the night before. Maia, of all his sisters, was the most perceptive. She’ll figure us out if we’re not careful.

You turned to her with a genuine smile. She was beautiful—big brown eyes framed by long lashes, dark hair swept back effortlessly. There was something about her features, the sharp cheekbones, the knowing glint in her eyes, that reminded you of Frankie.

“Oh, it’s so nice to meet you,” you said, meaning it. “Your brother’s told me so much about you. You look gorgeous.”

Maia’s grin widened, a pink flush rising to her cheeks.

“Oh, stop, really? You’re gorgeous.” She reached out, touching your arm lightly. Her hands were soft. “I wish I could say the same, but this idiot kept you a secret. He’s told us next to nothing.”

“Maia,” Frankie started, already formulating an excuse.

"It’s my fault," you cut in, glancing at him briefly before turning back to her. "I asked him to keep it private, at least until we told my brother."

Maia's brows lifted. "Oh? And why—"

Frankie exhaled. “She’s Santi’s sister.”

Maia’s mouth fell open slightly, then curved into an amused, knowing smile.

“Shut up,” she said, her tone laced with delight. “You’re dating your best friend’s little sister?”

A small laugh escaped you before you could stop it.

“Can you believe it?” you said, glancing at Frankie before turning back to her. “And I’m dating my brother’s best friend. Talk about a cliché.”

“Unbelievable,” Maia echoed, her laughter bright and infectious. “And what did he say when you told him?”

“Oh, Santi thought it was a little ridiculous at first,” you admitted, glancing at Frankie, amusement dancing in your expression. “But he got over it pretty fast.”

Your eyes met his then, full of plastic love.

Maia smirked knowingly.

“Well,” she said, tilting her head, “this just got interesting.”

Frankie cut the conversation short, brushing off Maia’s questions with the kind of firm, practiced ease that suggested he’d been doing it his whole life. She rolled her eyes but didn’t press further, leading the two of you deeper into the party.

His hand found your waist again as you stepped inside the hall. The space was vast and elegant, bathed in the warm glow of fairy lights strung overhead. White tablecloths stretched across the tables, each adorned with delicate centerpieces of white lilies—his mother’s favorite, according to Frankie. The scent was soft, fresh.

Maia wove through the gathering guests with the effortless familiarity of someone who had done this a thousand times. You, however, were hyper-aware of every step, every shift of movement. The closer you got to the main table, where the rest of his family sat in easy conversation, the more your nerves crept up, curling around your ribs like vines. Without thinking, your fingers sought Frankie’s again, gripping them tighter than necessary.

He leaned down, his breath warm against your ear.

“Relax,” he murmured, his voice a quiet reassurance meant only for you. “I’ve got you.”

You nodded, even if you weren’t entirely convinced.

Then Helena spotted Frankie, and everything else in the room faded.

Her eyes went wide, bright with unfiltered joy. “Francisco!”

She pushed back her chair in an instant, standing with her arms already outstretched. Frankie barely had time to let go of your hand before she pulled him into a tight embrace, holding him the way only a mother could—like she needed to be sure he was still whole. She kissed both his cheeks, then held his face between her hands, searching it, memorizing him.

“Esta fiesta es increible, mi amor (this party is incredible, my love),” she told him, eyes still shining. “The best gift of all. Just having everyone together, that’s all I wanted. All my babies with me.”

Frankie smiled, a real one, the kind that made his entire face look younger, lighter.

“Feliz cumpleaños, ma, te mereces esto y mucho más. Una fiesta increible para una mujer increible, ¿o no?. (Happy birthday, Mom, you deserve this and much more. An incredible party for an incredible woman, right?)”

You felt something swell in your chest at the way he said it, at the way his voice sounded softer in spanish—his voice warm with love.

Helena beamed, then turned toward you.

The shift was subtle, but sharp. Her gaze landed on you with something keen behind it, something appraising.

“Mom,” he said, his fingers brushing your back again, “I want you to meet someone.” He pulled you closer, and when he said your name, it was softer than usual, careful. “She’s my... She's my girlfriend.”

The word hit the air, and you felt Frankie tense beside you, just for a second.

Helena didn’t react right away. She simply looked at you, studying, deciding. And then—she smiled. Broadly, like she’d decided something in your favor.

She repeated your name, and up close, you saw it now—how much of her was in Frankie. The same warm brown eyes, the same mischievous pull at the corner of the mouth, like they were both always half a second away from teasing you.

“A beautiful name for a beautiful girl,” she said, reaching for your hands. “What a lovely surprise, sweetheart.”

Your face warmed immediately, heat spreading down to your chest, and you knew you were blushing. Next to you, Frankie smirked, clearly amused by your reaction.

“Thank you so much,” you managed, shifting slightly closer to him for balance. “And happy birthday. It’s really wonderful to finally meet you, Helena. Francisco has told me nothing but amazing things about you.”

“Oh, thank God,” she teased, tossing her son a look before giving his arm a gentle pat. “And I do hope you’ll fill in the gaps. I’ve been waiting so long for this one to bring someone home, you have no idea. If you only knew!” She clasped her hands together in mock prayer. “Now, come—come! Come meet the rest of our family.”

Before you could react, she had already taken your arm, gently pulling you away from Frankie. You barely had time to glance back at him, your expression somewhere between help and save me, before you saw the exact same look mirrored on his face. He could do nothing but follow as Helena paraded you toward the table.

Introductions unfolded in a series of warm, overlapping voices.

Luna was stunning, exactly as you’d imagined. Her dark hair was swept back, save for a few loose strands that framed her delicate features. Her green eyes carried a quiet curiosity as she hugged you gently, greeting you with the kind of reserved kindness that made you think she was someone who observed before she spoke.

Next to her was Henry, her husband, who greeted you with a polite nod and a brief kiss on the cheek. Jamie, their son, waved shyly from his seat, his big brown eyes round with something close to awe. His curls bounced slightly when he moved, making him look like some kind of cherub from a Renaissance painting.

Then came Grace, Frankie’s niece, who stood just long enough to kiss your cheek before shyly murmuring, “I like your dress.” She had the kind of effortless sweetness that made you instantly want to protect her.

Her mother, Sofia, was beside her. Of all the sisters, she resembled Helena the most. Her dark curls fell over her shoulders, her smile was warm and knowing, and something about her presence felt effortlessly welcoming.

And then Maia, despite having already met you, stood again to press another kiss to your cheek, like she simply had to.

Once everyone was settled, Helena guided you to the empty chair beside her, which you realized—only as Frankie moved toward it—was the seat he had been planning to take. He hesitated for half a second, then shifted to the free chair on your right instead.

You exhaled, trying to ignore the way your nerves still buzzed under your skin. But when you turned your head, Frankie was already watching you.

He leaned in, his breath just barely grazing your ear.

“Calm down,” he murmured, his voice low, easy. “Just do the minimum.”

You huffed a quiet laugh.

“Like you?” you whispered back.

Frankie gave you a crooked smile, his eyes gleaming with the urge to fire something back at you. But he held it in.

“So, how did you two meet?” Grace asked, her voice sweet, playful. She turned to Frankie with a teasing grin. “I didn’t know you had it in you to charm such a pretty girl.”

Frankie let out a low chuckle. You felt heat creep up your neck.

“Oh, you’re going to love this,” Maia said, eyebrows arching in anticipation.

“Frankie was a total heartbreaker when we were kids, baby,” Luna added, her tone rich with amusement. “The girls loved the whole brooding, shy boy act.”

“I was shy,” Frankie defended, frowning slightly, as if the memory still perplexed him. “I think that was just my secret weapon.” He shrugged, then winked.

Helena shook her head, smiling.

“And how did this happen?” She turned to you, her gaze warm, almost knowing. “Francisco hasn’t told me a thing, no matter how much I insisted on it. I can’t believe he kept it a secret—especially with someone as lovely as you.”

“I thought he was about to take a vow of celibacy,” Sofia chimed in dryly, swirling her wine before taking a sip. “After he turned down that date with Genevieve’s daughter, we were convinced. She’s very pretty.”

“What’s celibacy?” Jamie piped up.

Henry, sitting next to him, burst out laughing.

Frankie exhaled through his nose, then leaned in, his arm draping over the back of your chair. The shift in posture was subtle but intentional. You felt the warmth of him at your side.

“Yeah, well, did you ever think that maybe you all just wore me out with that?” His voice was even, but his eyes moved slowly across the table.

“Ay, sweetheart, we were just worried,” Helena said, her concern soft and painfully genuine. “We just want you to be happy, genuinely happy. And after everything that’s happened…” She hesitated, her gaze lingering on her son.

Frankie stiffened, his jaw tight. His eyes flicked to hers, a silent warning: Don’t say it.

Helena caught it instantly. She inhaled, then softened her expression. “I’m just happy to hear you say that you’re happy with someone great.”

You turned to look at Frankie. He was still close, his face unreadable, his body warm next to yours.

What exactly had he told them? That he was happy? That he was in love? How intense was it all according to him?

“How did you two meet?” Sofía asked, her voice light but perceptive, her gaze flickering between you and Frankie. She had noticed his discomfort—of course, she had.

“It’s a funny story, actually.” His eyes found yours, holding them for a fraction too long, something unspoken passing between you. A silent negotiation. A mutual recognition. “Do you remember Santi?”

Everyone nodded. Even Henry, who had never met your brother but had certainly heard his name before.

“Well,” Frankie said, as if stating the most obvious fact in the world, “she’s his sister.”

For a second, there was silence, the air thick with realization. Then—

Helena, Luna, and Sofía all widened their eyes in synchronized surprise. Grace, on the other hand, grinned like she had just won something.

“You’re Santiago’s sister?” Helena asked, reaching out and taking your arm gently, warmth in her touch. She looked genuinely delighted, like this was some grand revelation that connected dots she hadn’t even known were unconnected.

You nodded, already feeling heat crawl up your neck.

“Oh my God, Francisco, why didn’t you tell me?” She asked her son, her tone accusatory.

Frankie shrugged, but before he could speak, you jumped in.

“Oh, that was because of me,” you admitted, smiling at her. “I asked Frankie to keep it private until I had the chance to talk to Santi. I… I wanted to tell him first.”

Luna, who had been watching with her chin propped on her palm, suddenly straightened, her lips curving into something sharp and entertained.

“Wait, but how?” she demanded, eyes glinting. “Was it sudden? Was it a secret? Please tell me everything.”

Frankie clicked his tongue.

“Jesus, relax.”

“Hey, we want to know!” Maia chimed in, twisting in her seat to get a better angle on you both. Grace nodded eagerly beside her, practically vibrating with interest.

Frankie glanced at you then, his expression unreadable, but there was something in his eyes—caution, amusement, curiosity. A silent question.

You held his gaze, then gave the smallest nod. Permission granted.

He turned back to them, exhaling like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders.

“It just happened,” Frankie said, his tone edged with impatience, like he was eager to get it over with. “We’d known each other for years, but we never really talked. Not much, anyway. Then Santi asked me to pick her up in Dallas because he couldn’t go, and he’d already promised. So I did.” He paused, tilting his head slightly, like he was considering the weight of his own words. “It was the longest trip of my life.” He glanced at you then, a slow, almost taunting smile curving his lips. “But I think something changed there. Don’t you?”

You held his gaze, matching his expression, refusing to break first.

For his family, this was a love story. For you, it was the beginning of a nightmare in a roadside diner, the longest meal of your life.

“Oh, of course it did,” you said, letting your hand fall onto his knee without warning. You felt him tense under your touch—so subtle no one else would have noticed. But you did. The corners of your mouth lifted, amusement flickering in your eyes as you smoothed it over with something softer, something that could be mistaken for affection.

“Actually,” you continued, turning toward Helena, who was watching you with quiet curiosity, “we never got along too well. The few times we saw each other, we ended up arguing, or worse.” You flicked your gaze back to Frankie, like you were measuring his reaction. “I always thought he disliked me. He always seemed uncomfortable, like he was disgusted by me.” You let the words hang in the air for a second longer than necessary before adding, lightly, “Apparently, not at all.”

“He liked you,” Grace said, beaming as if this was the best news she’d heard all night. “It’s so obvious.”

“Ah, typical,” Maia chimed in, crossing her arms, as if she had seen this exact scenario unfold a hundred times before.

Helena, still completely engrossed, leaned in slightly. “So what happened then?”

Frankie exhaled, his voice smoothing into something more deliberate, as if the story was forming in real-time.

“She left something in my car. I went to drop it off at her place a few days later. We talked for a while and—”

“And he kissed me,” you cut in, turning to look at him, eyes sparkling with amusement.

Frankie’s expression barely changed, but you caught the flicker of irritation in his eyes, the way his jaw tensed for half a second. He had been telling the story clean, simple, effortless. And now, suddenly, you had made it romantic. More than it needed to be.

Helena squeezed your arm gently, as if this moment—this entire fabricated story—was something to be treasured.

“Oh, who would have imagined it!” she said, delighted. “And what did your brother say? Was he angry? Did he approve?”

You tilted your head, considering. “Well, at first, he was just… shocked.” You smiled, remembering the way Santiago had looked at you when you told him your plan the day before, like he genuinely thought he had misheard. “I don’t think he was angry, exactly. More like—‘of all the people in the world, you and Francisco?’” You mimicked your brother’s voice, shaking your head. “His exact words: You two couldn’t even be in the same room without arguing.” Okay. That was fake, he never said that, but was it a lie?

Helena laughed, eyes warm.

Frankie sighed beside you, and when you glanced at him, his gaze was already on you—steady, unreadable. A story told a little too well.

“Well,” he said finally, his voice dry. “I guess people change.”

“Well, actually, I don’t find it strange at all,” Helena said suddenly, glancing at her daughters as if they should have known this already. “When I met your father, I didn’t like him. Not even a little. I thought he was insufferable, so arrogant. He asked me out five times, and I turned him down every single time. I was convinced he was conceited.” She shook her head, a small smile tugging at her lips. “In reality, he was just… shy and a little bit awkward.”

You smiled, genuinely this time. Maybe that had been true for Frankie's father, but not for his son. With you, Frankie hadn’t been misunderstood—he had been downright mean. What had he called you once? Ah, yes, “little insufferable brat.”

The memory made you tighten your grip around your glass.

Luckily, the party had started to fill with more guests, and Helena excused herself to greet them. Frankie’s sisters kept you in their orbit a little longer, but their questions were harmless. You answered lightly, intentionally keeping your responses vague, avoiding any personal detail that might reveal too much.

By the time dinner was served, the conversation had shifted entirely, now centered on Helena’s upcoming trip. She was going to Maui with her two sisters.

“Maybe I’ll just stay and live there,” she mused at one point, raising an eyebrow as she sipped her wine. “If the sand convinces me.”

“I think you’re going to love it,” Luna said. “Honestly, I think it’s the best thing you can do. Travel. Go to all those places you always told us about.”

Helena smiled at her daughter, but there was something behind it. A flicker of sadness, a private grief.

“Oh, yes,” she said, exhaling softly. “I just wish I could have had my Gabriel with me.” She smiled as she said it, but the words landed heavier than anything else had all evening.

You glanced at Frankie without meaning to, and that’s when you noticed how he was looking at his mother. Not just listening, watching, the way someone does when they know exactly what’s behind a statement like that. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. The same quiet ache was there, in his eyes, in the way his fingers curled loosely around the stem of his glass. Then he caught you looking and dropped his gaze to his plate.

After dinner, Luna and Sofía stood under the spotlights, microphones in hand, offering heartfelt words to their mother. Helena sat at the center of it all, her expression soft, her eyes shining as she listened. Friends and family followed, sharing anecdotes—some sentimental, others ridiculous.

You found yourself genuinely enjoying the evening. Frankie's family was incredible—funny, loud, and full of life. The stories they told about Helena were the kind of stories that made you want to listen forever.

At one point, Eli, one of her oldest friends, recounted a story about the time she and Helena had snuck into David Bowie’s hotel as teenagers, only to steal a pair of underwear that—to this day—they weren’t entirely sure had belonged to Bowie himself or just some unfortunate member of his team. Either way, they still had them, tucked away somewhere.

The entire room erupted into laughter.

You were still caught in the story, your attention fully on the speaker, when you felt the weight of Frankie’s arm settle lightly against your back. He leaned in, his mouth near your ear, his voice low enough that only you could hear.

“You didn’t have to say all that,” he murmured.

It took a second for you to register what he meant.

“Huh?” You turned slightly over your shoulder, catching the sharpness in his expression.

“This doesn’t have to be romantic.”

You blinked at him. Then scoffed.

“There’s no way it’s not romantic,” you whispered back, exasperated. “I’m your best friend’s sister. It just happened. How do you expect people not to romanticize it?”

Frankie exhaled, his hand briefly flexing against your back before he pulled it away.

“Just… just leave it to me from now on, okay?”

You rolled your eyes and turned back to the spotlight, where Helena’s friend was still mid-story.

“Fine,” you muttered.

The party carried on the way these gatherings always did—laughter spilling into the air, the clinking of glasses as a few heartfelt toasts were made, voices overlapping in lively conversation. At the center of it all stood the towering delicious cake, drawing admiration before being sliced and passed around on small plates. Cameras flashed as family members huddled together for pictures, arms wrapped around shoulders, cheeks pressed close, and after a few more anecdotes and a couple more glasses of wine, Frankie leaned in, his breath warm against your shoulder as he murmured that he needed to find the bathroom. You nodded, barely looking up, stretching your legs as you stood. The air inside had started to feel thick, a little too warm, a little too full of laughter and clinking glasses.

You wandered toward the courtyard at the heart of the hall, a quiet oasis strung with soft lights, vines curling around wrought iron railings. The hotel was stunning, all old-world charm and careful elegance, the kind of place you’d never had a reason to visit before tonight.

Sinking onto a small stone bench, you exhaled slowly, watching the golden glow of the party through the enormous windows. Inside, the music throbbed, rich and nostalgic—ABBA, because of course it was. Guests twirled and swayed, arms flung around each other, faces flushed with wine and joy.

You lifted your glass to your lips, the white wine still pleasantly cool, still sweet. For a moment, you stared down at your shoes, tracing patterns on the stone floor with the tip of your toe. This was ridiculous. All of it.

What the hell were you doing here, at Frankie’s mother’s party? How had you let yourself get talked into this? His family was lovely, yes. His mother, especially. But did you really need to be here, sitting among strangers, smiling politely at old stories that weren’t yours? And Harry’s wedding—did you really want to go to that, after everything?

“Enjoying the peace and quiet?”

The voice startled you out of your thoughts. You turned to see Helena stepping into the courtyard, lifting the hem of her dress as she walked. Her cheeks were flushed, her dark hair slightly undone from all the dancing.

You smiled despite yourself, tilting your head.

“It’s beautiful out here,” you said, glancing around as she lowered herself onto the bench beside you. “It’s a beautiful place.”

She hummed in agreement, smoothing the fabric of her dress. “Yes, it is. My kids did a good job.”

“It’s a wonderful party. You have so many people who love you.” You hesitated, then laughed lightly. “The stories were funny.”

Helena smiled, and for a split second, you saw Frankie in her—the dimple that appeared when she laughed, the way her eyes crinkled at the corners.

“I really liked them,” you added.

“Yeah?” she asked, turning to you, her expression open, curious.

You nodded.

“Good,” she said. “Me too.” Her gaze drifted toward the party, toward the window where music and voices poured through. “The years go by, and sometimes I forget just how much has happened to me. It’s strange. Sometimes it feels like my life after Gabriel passed away is… something separate. Like a different life entirely, like I became another woman without even realizing it.”

She looked down at her hands, twisting her ring absentmindedly.

Frankie had never talked to you about his father, but you knew. He had died suddenly two years ago. Santi had mentioned it in passing on the day of the funeral, his voice thick with something you couldn’t quite place—grief, exhaustion, maybe both. You had called him that morning, not knowing what had happened, and when he told you, it felt like the air had changed. Gabriel. You remembered the name, the way Santi had said it so carefully, like it was something fragile. He loved him, that much was clear. Like a second father, he said.

Helena’s words pressed against something in you, something raw. You and Santi had lost your own father a couple of years ago, when you were twenty-three. It had been sudden, too—death always seemed to be, no matter how much warning you had. Your mother had taken it the hardest. She couldn’t bear to stay in the house they had shared for nearly thirty-five years. The grief sat too thick in the walls, in the corners of every room, in the quiet that used to be filled with his voice. So she left. Packed her things and moved to New York to live with your aunt. Sometimes, when she called, she sounded lighter. Other times, she just sounded far away.

You glanced at Helena, something warm and unspoken passing between you.

“As if you had been torn in two,” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper. “As if there was the version of you that knew him, and a new one that spends every day missing him.”

Helena turned toward you, studying you in the dim light. Then she nodded, her gaze drifting back to the party, to the golden glow of the room beyond the window.

“That’s right,” she murmured. “But I’m very lucky, aren’t I? To have a family like this?” She turned back to you, a small smile playing at the edges of her mouth. “Tell me, do you like us?”

You let out a breath of laughter, shaking your head slightly.

“Oh, of course I do,” you said, meaning it. “You have a beautiful family.”

Helena studied you for a long moment, her smile still in place but something shifting behind her eyes. A quiet kind of consideration.

“Can I ask you something?”

You hesitated, then nodded, suddenly unsure of yourself, worried you weren’t as good an actress as you had hoped.

“How is he?” she asked, her voice warm, gentle. There was no interrogation in it, only concern, the careful curiosity of a mother trying not to overstep but unable to help herself. “I don’t want to be that kind of mother, but… I think I am.” She smiled, a little self-deprecating. “Of all my children, he’s always been the most sensitive. Did you know that?”

You swallowed, your fingers tightening slightly around your glass. You didn’t know what to say. What could you say? You didn’t know Frankie. Not really. Not in any way that mattered. Your impression of him had been built on a handful of unfortunate encounters, on snide comments exchanged in passing, on the way he always seemed to carry himself like he had something to prove.

She watched you hesitate, and before you could scramble for an answer, she reached out, her hand landing gently on your leg, a mother’s touch—steadying, reassuring.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I don’t mean to pry—”

“Oh, no,” you cut in quickly, shaking your head. “I’m sorry, I…” You let out a breath, deciding there was no point in pretending. “He’s fine. Maybe a little nervous about tonight.”

It wasn’t a lie.

Helena sighed, nodding knowingly.

“Oh, yeah. I noticed that. That boy isn’t very good at hiding things, dear.” She smiled again, her expression fond. “He’s always been like that. Very transparent with his feelings. From the moment he arrived, I could tell—he looked as nervous as a cat backed into a corner.”

You laughed, unable to help it.

“Oh, yes,” you agreed. “On the way here, he was humming this song, and I swear, it was the funniest thing. And before we even walked in, he gave me this whole speech—like, a full-on monologue.”

Helena let out a laugh, shaking her head.

“But you have nothing to worry about,” she said softly. “I already like you very much.”

Her hand came up, brushing against your cheek for the briefest moment, warm and gentle. You felt yourself smile, unthinking, almost reflexive.

“And I’m really sorry about what I said at the table,” she continued, her voice quiet, careful. “I am happy that he’s happy. It’s just… when he told me the other day that he was seeing someone, I really thought he was lying. I hate to admit that, but I did.” She sighed, shaking her head lightly. “My daughters and I have been… a little difficult with him. And I know he wouldn’t want me to talk about this, but I feel like I have to.”

You nodded.

“Of course,” you murmured, your brows pulling together.

She looked at you then, as if weighing something, as if considering whether or not she should say the thing already forming on her tongue.

“I worry about him,” she admitted finally, her voice barely above a whisper. “After Rachel…” She hesitated. “Did he ever talk to you about her?”

You nodded once.

“Well,” she exhaled, leaning back slightly. “I had never seen him like that before.” She glanced away, her fingers smoothing over the fabric of her dress. “Of course, it wasn’t just her. It was everything. His father’s death shattered him, and Rachel… well, she only made it worse. And Francisco has always been strong, but underneath all that, there’s his enormous heart, and he tucks everything away in there. He carries it all.”

Her eyes softened, as if remembering something.

“And when he finally started to come back to himself, I noticed he was… lonely,” she admitted. “I know I can be overbearing, and I know he’s probably told you all about the blind dates.”

She raised her eyebrows, smiling a little.

You laughed, nodding. “Oh, yes. Absolutely.”

Helena let out a small chuckle, shaking her head, but the warmth in her expression didn’t fade. She studied you for a long moment, as if trying to piece something together, as if she had already made up her mind about you and was simply waiting for you to realize it, too.

“I think you’re a good person,” she said at last. “No, I know you are. My intuition is rarely wrong about these things.” She tilted her head slightly, considering you. “And you’re Santiago’s sister. I know no one of his blood could have a bad heart.”

She leaned forward then. “Can I trust you?”

Your breath caught for a second.

You stared at her, your smile slowly slipping away, your expression shifting into something more uncertain. Could she trust you?

No.

She couldn’t.

You were nothing more than a woman her son had convinced to pretend. A stranger caught up in a performance. And yet, here she was, speaking to you with nothing but honesty, with nothing but trust. Her words settled into you, heavy and warm, and you felt something tighten in your chest, something uncomfortable, something that almost hurt.

“Hey. There you are.”

The voice cut through the quiet, startling you. You turned instinctively, your body tensing before your eyes even landed on him.

Frankie.

He stood in the doorway, framed by the soft glow of the garden lights, his expression pulled into something that looked like a smile, but wasn’t. His eyes gave him away—something sharp, something unsettled lurking just beneath the surface.

Helena moved first. She stood, smoothing out the skirt of her dress as if shaking off the weight of your conversation. By the time she reached her son, any trace of emotion had been neatly tucked away.

“I’ll leave you two,” she said lightly, resting a hand on his shoulder. “I can’t abandon my own party just yet.”

Frankie barely glanced at her, his gaze still fixed on you. Helena disappeared through the doorway, her presence vanishing as quickly as it had arrived.

You stayed where you were, fingers pressed against the fabric of your dress, trying to ignore the way your pulse had picked up.

“What do you think you’re doing?” His voice was low, edged with something you didn’t like. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

He moved toward you, sinking onto the bench beside you. Too close.

“What the hell were you doing talking to my mom?”

You exhaled sharply, already exhausted by the conversation before it had even properly begun.

“I just needed air,” you said, leveling him with a look. “She just… showed up.”

“Well, no. Don’t.”

You blinked at him. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t talk to her.”

You let out a humorless laugh, shaking your head.

“What did you want me to do, Francisco? Turn my back on her?”

He didn’t answer right away, just studied you, his jaw tight.

“What did you say to her?”

The accusatory edge in his tone made something twist inside you—something hot, something unpleasant. Your heart kicked up a little, the way it had when you were younger and had done something wrong, when an adult’s disappointment settled over you like a heavy weight. But this wasn’t that. You weren’t a child, and Frankie sure as hell wasn’t some authority figure.

Still, something about this—his sharp words, his narrowed eyes—made you feel small. And maybe, just maybe, that conversation with Helena had already set something loose inside you. Had already made you feel like the fraud you were.

“I didn’t say anything,” you said firmly. “Seriously.”

Frankie let out a harsh breath, rubbing a hand over his face before gesturing sharply with his hands.

“You already ruined it,” he said, his voice low but forceful. “What was that at dinner, huh?”

“What?”

“Everything. I thought we’d been clear. Nothing too personal. Nothing too over the top.”

You inhaled, slow and steady, trying to keep your irritation in check. But it was creeping in, needling its way under your skin.

“I didn’t do anything wrong, I just acted how we agreed—”

“No,” he interrupted, turning to fully face you. His expression had hardened, frustration and something else—something darker—etched into the lines of his face. “You went too far. You did it wrong.”

Your stomach twisted.

“I did exactly what we agreed on,” you repeated, your voice sharper now. “It’s not my fault your mom wanted to talk to me—”

“You said too much—”

“No, I was just being myself but a little—”

“Exactly,” he cut in, his voice a little louder, a little rougher. “You shouldn’t have been you!”

You felt it like a slap.

Your breath hitched, your throat tightening, heat rising to your face before you could stop it. The burn started behind your nose, your vision blurring slightly at the edges.

Frankie’s expression shifted just the slightest bit, his mouth pressing into a tight line, as if he had only just realized what he’d said. As if he could see it—the way you were gripping your empty wine glass too tightly, the way your whole body had gone rigid.

But he didn’t have time to take it back.

Because you stood so quickly the bench wobbled slightly beneath you. And then you were moving—away from him, away from the awful heat crawling up your neck, away from the sharp edge of his words.

“Hey—” Frankie started, standing just as fast, his voice breaking through the air. But it was useless.

The music swelled, drowning him out, swallowing whatever poor attempt at damage control he was about to make.

You didn’t stop.

Didn’t look back.

Couldn’t.

The farther you walked into the party, the harder your heart pounded, the sound of it loud in your ears, almost drowning out the music. The heat in your face hadn’t faded. Neither had the sharp, lingering sting of Frankie’s words, pressing like a bruise against your ribs.

You exhaled, slow and deliberate, eyes scanning the room. The dim lighting worked in your favor—candles flickering on the tables, the dance floor bathed in a shifting wash of blues and reds, everything softened by the haze of too much champagne and conversation. You doubted anyone would notice you slipping away.

For a brief second, you considered heading straight for the door. Walking out, stepping into the night, inhaling air that wasn’t thick with perfume and laughter and the weight of everything that had just happened.

But instead, you turned on your heel and went to the bar.

You weren’t going to leave. Not yet.

You were angry, and there was an open bar. It would be stupid not to take advantage.

You slid onto a stool, pressing your elbows onto the smooth wood, and ordered a margarita.

The bartender nodded, reaching for a bottle of tequila, his movements fluid, practiced. You watched him pour, shake, pour again. The salt rim sparkled under the low lights. When he finally set the drink in front of you, you didn’t hesitate—lifting the glass to your lips and taking a long, slow pull. The cold hit your tongue first, followed by the sharpness of the lime, the bite of the alcohol. You drank like you had something to prove, and by the time you set the glass back down, it was already halfway empty.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw movement.

Frankie.

He slid onto the stool next to you, his presence shifting the air before you even fully registered him. He didn’t say anything. Just sat there, his body angled toward you, his forearm resting on the bar, his fingers absently grazing his mouth like he was considering his next words. Or maybe biting them back.

Your jaw tightened.

Then he ordered a whiskey, and you rolled your eyes—not at the drink itself, but at the sound of his voice, at the way it cut through the music and curled under your skin.

Still, he didn’t speak. Just watched you, his gaze flicking toward you every few seconds, charged with something unreadable. You refused to meet it, keeping your attention locked onto anything else—the melting ice in your glass, the vodka label in front of you, the way the bartender’s hands moved as he made another round of drinks.

And so it went.

You started your second margarita. He started his second whiskey.

Minutes passed.

Then, finally, you turned to look at him for the first time since the courtyard.

He was already looking at you.

“I know you’re nervous, but that doesn’t give you the right to talk to me like that.”

Frankie opened his mouth, but you cut him off before he could get a word out.

“You’re not going to talk to me like that,” you repeated, quieter this time, sharper.

His eyes flickered—something hesitant, something almost guilty.

“I’m—”

“Look at me,” you murmured, leaning in just enough that your words landed between you, closer than they needed to be. “I spent hours getting ready for this. Hours making sure I looked perfect for this stupid charade. Do you have any idea how long it took me to fix my hair? No, you don’t. Because you’re a complete idiot. An idiot who treats me like shit when I’m the one standing here, at your mother’s party, pretending to be someone I’m not—for you. And do you know why I'm doing this, Frankie?” Your voice wavered, not with weakness but with the sheer force of your anger. “Because I chose to. Not because you deserve it or I need you for another stupid lie. Because let’s be honest—” you tilted your head, smiling coldly, “—we’re not even fucking friends.”

His gaze hardened, but he didn’t look away.

“You owed me,” he said simply, like that was supposed to mean something.

You let out a quiet scoff, your eyes flicking to the dance floor, where Maia was watching the two of you from a distance, her expression unreadable.

When you turned back to Frankie, something had shifted in your eyes—something lighter, something amused. A slow, deliberate smile tugged at your lips as you lifted a hand, resting it against his cheek.

His brows knit together in confusion.

“Your sister is watching,” you murmured.

His shoulders relaxed, his expression softening just slightly. Your thumb brushed over his cheek, slow and calculated.

“Forget about the wedding,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. You tilted your head, your smile still sweet, still deceptive. “Because after tonight, I don’t want to spend another fucking second with you.”

Frankie let out a low breath, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.

“I’m useful to you,” he said, his voice smooth, certain.

“You’re useless to me.”

He leaned in just enough that your knees touched. “I don’t think so, shortcake.”

"Huh?" You let out an incredulous laugh, letting your eyes flick across his face—his mouth, his jaw, the slight smugness settled into his features. Beneath your hand, you could feel the warmth of his skin, the steady pulse beneath your palm.

Your fingers slid from his cheek to his neck, and you squeezed, just enough to make a point.

“To me,” you whispered, your breath brushing against his skin, “you’re nothing but a pathetic, desperate little loser trying to convince his mommy he’s something he’s not.”

Frankie let out a quiet, bitter laugh, the kind that barely curled the edges of his mouth but darkened his eyes in a way that made your stomach twist. He lifted a hand and wrapped his fingers around yours, prying them gently from his neck. But he didn’t let go. Instead, he laced his fingers with yours, lowering your joined hands to his chest.

His body shifted forward, closing the already dangerous space between you. If you leaned in even slightly, your nose would brush against his.

Your breath hitched, the heat pooling in your cheeks betraying every emotion you were trying to suppress. Anger, frustration, something sharper beneath the surface.

Frankie studied you for a second, his expression unreadable. Then he spoke, his voice low, edged with amusement.

“You sound a little too confident for someone who might be a pathetic, desperate loser herself,” he murmured.

You swallowed, your pulse a steady, insistent beat against your ribs.

“Can I ask you a question?” he continued, his fingers flexing against yours.

“No.”

He ignored you, tilting his head slightly, considering something. And then—

“Which came first,” he asked, voice almost teasing, “the moon or the sun? I thought you were afraid of needles.”

You stared at him in silence, the smug smile on his lips igniting something hot and restless inside you. It wasn’t just anger—it was something stranger, something you didn’t want to name.

Your tattoo.

He must have seen it earlier, when he helped you with your dress. A small moon and sun, delicately inked on your lower back—a reckless decision from a night out drinking with Emma. She was the sun, you were the moon. At the time, in your drunken haze, it had seemed like an aesthetically brilliant idea. Sober, you weren’t so sure.

A quiet laugh slipped from your lips, amusement curling at the edges of your mouth. Your fingers tightened slightly, gripping the fabric of his shirt beneath his hand.

“Look at you, a regular voyeur,” you murmured, tilting your head. “Why do you ask, Francisco? Is it you talking, or the whiskey? And how many glasses of wine had you had before this? Three? Four? ”

His grin didn’t falter. If anything, it deepened, his gaze trailing over your face like he was enjoying something about this moment, about you.

“I really didn't think of you as the type of person who would wear a tattoo like that.”

You raised an eyebrow, lips curling into a half-smile.

“Ah, funny. So, you spend a lot of time thinking about me and what I wear? Or is it only when you’re bored, staring at the walls of your sad, monotonous life?”

“Said the woman who spends her nights with a cat and an imaginary boyfriend,” Frankie said, grinning as he watched you roll your eyes. The dim bar light caught the edge of his smile, sharpening it. He lifted his glass—dark amber, expensive—and took a slow sip. You followed the movement of his throat, the way the muscles shifted beneath his skin.

“Mr. Darcy’s excellent company. And at least I have a cat. What do you have?”

Frankie made a show of looking around, scanning the crowded room like the answer might be hidden somewhere between the swaying bodies on the dance floor or in the clinking glasses behind the bar. Then his gaze settled back on you, steady, assessing.

“What do I have?” He hummed as if considering it, then leaned in just slightly. “I think I really want to have another drink to make being around you more bearable.”

You pressed your lips together, biting back a retort. The warmth of alcohol sat low in your stomach, and the room was just a little too bright, a little too soft at the edges.

Across the room, Frankie’s sisters were dancing, their hair spilling over their shoulders, their laughter rising above the music. Maia caught your eye, her face flushed, and raised her eyebrows in an invitation. Without a second thought, you hopped off your stool, smoothing the fabric of your dress.

Frankie watched you, something unreadable flickering in his expression. He parted his lips like he was about to say something, but before he could, you turned and walked away. His mouth actually dropped open when he saw where you were going.

Maia pulled you in by the arm, and just like that, you were dancing, your body falling easily into the rhythm of the music. The moment felt expansive, electric. A kind of joy buzzed beneath your skin—the kind that only came from being a little tipsy and surrounded by people who knew how to have fun. You let it take you, the laughter, the music, the hands brushing against yours as you moved.

And yet—his words clung to you like the aftertaste of something bitter. You need to seem... normal. Forgettable, even. Like he was the authority on that. Like it was his job to keep you contained, manageable.

Well, if he wanted you to behave, maybe you should do something to really piss him off.

You turned to find him, just to check. Luna leaned in, murmured something nice about your dress, but you barely registered it. Frankie was still at the bar, one arm draped lazily against the counter, the other wrapped around his glass. His expression was unreadable—neutral, detached—but you knew better. You knew him. And if you had to guess, he was furious.

A song passed, then another. Your cheeks were flushed, your hair a little wild. Helena was dancing beside you, swaying Jamie from side to side, both of them beaming. The kind of easy happiness you never saw at parties in your own family. Frankie was still there, but his eyes weren’t on you anymore. He was looking at his phone.

Two songs later, you weren’t thinking about him at all.

You were laughing, lost in the pulse of the music, your head tipped back as you let it all go. Then—fingers wrapped around your arm. Warm. Familiar. Frankie.

Helena appeared beside him, her voice bright and teasing. “Finally! A girl shouldn’t dance alone when her boyfriend’s around.”

Frankie didn’t answer. He just smiled at his mother—an easy, charming kind of smile that didn’t fool you at all—before tugging you toward him. You stumbled a little, your hands catching against his chest as he turned you, pulled you in close.

Your breath hitched, but your smile didn’t falter. You tilted your chin up at him, your fingers settling on his shoulders.

“Are you going to dance with me now, honey?” you asked, your voice syrupy sweet, thick with amusement.

His hand tightened around yours.

Yeah, he was mad.

And you were having the best time.

Frankie licked his teeth, a slow, deliberate motion, like he was holding something back. A smile curved at the corner of his mouth, tight and humorless. He leaned in, close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath against your skin.

"I see what you're doing," he murmured, his voice slurring slightly, softened by alcohol. "I think you should stop."

You didn’t pull away. Instead, you lifted your chin, closing the space between you until your lips were just beside his ear.

"I'm just having fun," you said, your voice light, teasing. "Completely harmless."

He exhaled a quiet laugh, shaking his head. Amusement flickered across his face, but his eyes told another story—sharp, dark, frustrated. Like enduring this moment, enduring you, required every ounce of patience he had left.

Then, without warning, his hands slid to your waist, fingers pressing in just enough to make you aware of them. Before you could react, he pulled you closer, the movement rough, unhesitating. Your chest bumped against his, knocking the air from your lungs in a quiet, startled gasp.

Your eyes met, and something flickered in the space between you.

"What are you doing?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper, a nervous smile pulling at your lips.

Frankie tilted his head, his expression unreadable, his gaze steady on yours.

"I’m playing your game, didn’t you want to dance?"

You could smell the whiskey on him, the faint traces of something else—lavender, salt, the remnants of the night on his skin. Your hands were still on his shoulders, fingertips pressing into the fabric of his shirt, and for a brief, unsteady second, you let yourself feel it. The warmth of him. The way his body fit against yours.

You flicked a glance around the room, searching for familiar faces—Maia, Sofía, Helena, someone who might be watching. But no. Everyone was lost in their own drunken happiness, in laughter, in swaying bodies and half-empty glasses.

Then Frankie moved.

He stepped forward, hands firm at your waist, steering you with him. The crowd swallowed you both, the music vibrating through the floor, through your ribs, through him.

"This isn't a good idea," you murmured, but you didn't pull away.

Frankie barely reacted. His hand traced up your arm, fingers curling around yours, guiding them into place, his movements seamless, practiced. He looked down at you, his mouth twitching at the corner, like he was already enjoying whatever this was more than he should.

"Oh no? Why not?"

His face was close. Too close.

Then, before you could register it, his cheek brushed against yours, a fleeting touch, just enough to make your breath hitch. The warmth of his skin, the slow, deliberate way he moved to the rhythm of the music—it was too much, all of it. Your fingers tightened around his without thinking.

You exhaled, a slow, shuddering sigh, and with it came the scent of him—warm skin, whiskey, and something else. Something deeper. Was it cologne? Was he wearing fucking cologne?

Whatever it was, he smelled fucking good.

Your eyes fluttered shut, as if that might help erase the fact that Francisco Morales, of all people, smelled good, and that his body was pressed against yours, and—worst of all—that none of it felt bad. In fact, your feet lifted slightly onto your toes, seeking some fraction of closeness, your body betraying you in real time.

It was the alcohol.

It was absolutely, one hundred percent the alcohol. That, and the undeniable, frustrating fact that you were touch-starved. When was the last time a man had held you like this? You couldn’t remember. Your mind was too foggy, too wrapped up in the moment, in the warmth of him, in the firm weight of his hands.

But then it hit you.

It was Frankie. Frankie was the one holding you.

Your eyes snapped open, the realization jolting through you like a slap. Without thinking, you yanked yourself away, stumbling backward. It was clumsy, too sudden, and your own body felt unsteady, like it hadn’t caught up with your decision yet. Your pulse roared in your ears.

Frankie just watched you, an amused, almost devilish grin tugging at his lips. And then, slowly, that amusement shifted into something else—confusion, curiosity—as he took in your wide eyes, your rapid breath, your entire mess of a reaction.

You didn’t wait to see what he would do next. You turned and bolted, and didn’t stop moving until you were outside, back in the courtyard.

The air was crisp and cool, a sharp contrast to the heat burning beneath your skin. You stepped into the garden, tilting your head back, letting the night air kiss your cheeks. It helped, a little. It grounded you, just enough to breathe, just enough to press your hands against your ribs like you could steady your own heartbeat.

"Hey, you okay?"

You stiffened at the sound of his voice.

Of course he followed you.

You didn’t turn around. You heard his footsteps approach, felt him standing just a little too close beside you. He was silent for a moment, and for some reason, that was worse than if he’d said something right away.

"You should drink some water," he said finally, his voice quieter now, less sharp around the edges. You caught the sound of his palm scraping over the back of his neck. "And so should I, honestly. I think I drank—"

“Stop pretending to care,” you snapped, cutting him off. Your voice was sharper than you meant it to be, your arms folding tightly across your chest. And why were you angry? You weren’t even sure. You just were.

Frankie let out a soft, amused breath. He clicked his tongue, then shifted his weight, considering you.

“I’m not pretending anything. I promised Santi I’d look after you.”

You let out a sharp, humorless laugh, finally turning to face him.

“What, like you’re my fucking babysitter or something?” You shook your head, your words dripping with frustration. “I’m twenty-nine, Francisco. I can take care of myself.”

Frankie’s jaw tightened. His hands went to his hips, his eyes dropping to your feet like he was biting back whatever he actually wanted to say.

“Fine,” he muttered.

The silence between you stretched, thin but not fragile, the kind that neither of you felt the need to break. You both stood still, eyes moving across the garden as though searching for something worth commenting on. The music inside thrummed against the walls of the house, muffled but insistent, the bass vibrating faintly under your skin.

And then you became aware of your body—every muscle, every inch of discomfort. The dull ache in your feet flared as if your nerves had only just remembered to complain.

You exhaled sharply, tilting your head back, exposing your throat to the cool night air.

“My feet are killing me,” you murmured, shifting your weight, closing your eyes for just a second.

Frankie snorted. You cracked an eye open in time to see him glance down at your heels—six inches of poor decision-making, glossy under the dim garden lights. His gaze moved up your legs, thoughtful. Then he scratched his chin, eyes narrowing slightly, as if making a decision.

“Sit down,” he said after a pause, nodding toward the bench you’d been perched on earlier, next to Helena. “I’ll be back in a second.”

Before you could ask where he was going, he was already walking off, disappearing through the door.

You hesitated, then lowered yourself onto the seat—not because he told you to, obviously, just because you wanted to. You stretched your legs out, rolling your ankles, relishing the brief relief.

A couple of minutes passed. The music shifted to something softer, slower. You had just started to wonder if Frankie had left you out here for good when the door creaked open again.

He stepped back outside, a crease between his brows and—

You blinked.

“What are you doing?” Your voice carried an edge of suspicion. “What are those?”

Frankie knelt in front of you, setting a pair of slippers at your feet. His expression was flat, unimpressed.

He sighed, already irritated, already prepared for your resistance.

“They’re new, don't worry,” he said, like it was nothing, like this was something he did all the time. His fingers curled around your ankle before you could flinch away. Warm, certain. “Sofia gave them to me, but they’re too small and... not my style anyway. I left them in the car to exchange them, but I never got around to it.” He shot you a pointed look, as if to say, So really, I’m doing us both a favor. “Might as well put them to use.”

Before you could argue, before you could come up with something clever to deflect the strange weight of this moment, he unclipped your heel and slid it off with practiced ease.

You swallowed. Watched him. Felt a strange, unwelcome awareness creep up your spine.

The pads of his fingers brushed over your ankle as he repeated the motion with the other shoe. His focus stayed on the task, entirely unbothered. Meanwhile, something in your chest wound too tight, a tension that hadn’t been there moments ago.

You didn’t like it.

Frankie slid the slippers onto your feet, adjusting them slightly before leaning back on his heels with a groan. He pushed himself up, exhaling through his nose, then dropped onto the bench beside you. A hand scrubbed over his face, rubbing at his eyes, and a yawn slipped past his lips.

You looked down at your feet, flexing your toes experimentally against the soft fabric. You weren’t sure what to say.

But, despite yourself, it did feel better.

“Thanks,” you murmured, voice flat, almost absent.

Frankie nodded, his gaze flicking to your feet, now resting comfortably on the floor.

“You’re welcome.”

And then, silence. The kind that stretched and settled, filling the space between you like heavy fog. Through the glass windows, the muffled thrum of music hummed in the background, but all you could really hear was your own breathing, steady but uneven. Would it be rude if you told him you were ready to go home?

“You okay?” he asked suddenly, pulling you from the thought.

“Yeah,” you said, shifting slightly in your seat. “My feet don’t hurt anymore.”

Frankie leaned forward, elbows on his knees, head tipped down between his shoulders. He exhaled, like he was bracing himself.

“I meant before,” he said, glancing up at you. “I—”

“Ah. Yeah.”

His fingers brushed idly over the seam of his pants, and when he spoke again, it was barely above a murmur.

“I’m sorry I was an asshole to you.” He hesitated, as if deciding whether to keep going. “You just... you... you get under my skin sometimes, but—anyway. I was wrong. I’m sorry.”

You blinked at him.

“It’s okay.”

His lips twitched, like he wanted to say something else but changed his mind. Instead, he let out a short, breathy laugh and leaned back in his chair.

“This was a fucking terrible idea,” he admitted, shaking his head, his eyes glinting with something light, something almost fond. “What the hell were we thinking?”

A laugh bubbled up from your throat before you could stop it. “I have no idea.”

Frankie grinned, pushing to his feet, rubbing a hand over his face as if that might somehow wipe away the flush of warmth creeping up his neck. When he looked back at you, his expression was softer.

“Come on,” he said, holding out a hand. “Let’s stay a little longer, and then I’ll take you home. Deal?”

You eyed his hand, hesitating. There was something about the gesture—about the unspoken truce it implied—that made your chest tighten. But still, after a beat, you placed your palm against his.

Frankie pulled you to your feet, steadying you before letting go.

“You’re drunk,” you observed. “Are you seriously going to drive like that?”

“I’ll call a cab,” he said immediately, as if he’d already made up his mind.

You nodded, about to say something else when the door creaked open.

A man stepped inside, his movements sluggish, a cigarette dangling between his fingers. Frankie shifted closer to you, his body angling slightly in your direction.

“Hey, it's our little pilot,” the man drawled, his words slurring together as his eyes flicked lazily between the two of you. A smirk played on his lips. “How’s it going?”

Frankie’s expression barely changed.

“Ian,” he said, his voice unreadable. “Didn’t see you earlier.”

“Nah, I was running late,” Ian replied with a slow shrug. “You know how it is—time moves like shit when you wanna leave work early.” He clicked his tongue, his gaze dragging over you with undisguised interest. “So, this your new girl?”

Frankie didn’t even hesitate. “Yeah,” he said smoothly. “We were actually just heading out—”

“You still having those problems?” Ian interrupted, tilting his head.

Frankie exhaled sharply. “Not really any of your business.” A beat. “You still avoiding your ex-wife?”

You raised your eyebrows, glancing between them. Ian laughed, shaking his head.

“Tell me,” he mused, voice laced with something cruel. “Does your dick even work with all those antidepressants? Must be a fucking nightmare trying to keep up with something as sweet as this one.” He gestured vaguely in your direction, his smirk widening.

Your stomach twisted in revulsion.

Frankie went still beside you, his jaw locking, his shoulders tight. His gaze was fixed on Ian, his expression eerily blank, but you could feel the tension rolling off him in waves. You thought of Helena’s words about her son and felt something sharp and bitter curdle in your chest.

Ian chuckled to himself, clearly entertained, clearly drunk beyond reason. Frankie was about to say something—you could see it in the way his mouth parted slightly, the way his fingers flexed at his sides—but before he could, before he even had the chance, the anger—and maybe the alcohol—made the decision for you.

“Oh, not that it’s any of your business, Ian,” you said, tilting your head slightly, voice light, almost sweet. “But since you’re so curious…”

You let out a soft chuckle, flicking your gaze to Frankie for the briefest moment before returning your attention to the man in front of you.

“I suppose I could tell you that... yeah, it works. Before we came here, this man had me seeing stars. Multiple times, actually.” You paused, just long enough to watch the words land, to see the flicker of surprise cross Ian’s face. “So really, I guess that answers your question, doesn’t it?”

You reached out then, the movement slow, deliberate, brushing your fingers along Frankie’s cheek, letting your thumb rest lightly against his lips. His breath caught, just for a second, and his eyes darted to yours, startled but composed, like he wasn’t entirely sure what you were doing but was curious enough to let it happen.

Ian scoffed, recovering quickly.

“Sure,” he said, dragging the word out, his expression shifting into something vaguely amused, vaguely condescending. “I doubt that, gorgeous.”

Your gaze flicked over him, head to toe, as if you were appraising something unimpressive on display. You didn’t bother hiding the disdain curling at the corners of your mouth.

Still, your hand remained on Frankie’s face, still at your side. Turning back to him, you found him already watching you, his lips twitching like he was barely resisting a smile. He didn’t care about Ian’s words, about his tone—he was far more interested in whatever it was you were doing.

And then, without really thinking, without hesitating, you pushed up onto your toes and cradled his face in both hands.

You kissed him.

Not a tentative, testing-the-waters kind of kiss. No, this was different. Your lips pressed against his like you’d been wanting to all night, like you didn’t particularly care if Ian was still standing there, gaping at you. Frankie made a sound in the back of his throat, one of surprise that melted quickly into something else. His hands found your waist, firm and steady, pulling you closer as he angled his head, deepening it.

Your tongue traced the seam of his lips, and he let you in, meeting you there, matching you effortlessly. When you finally broke apart, the sound between you was wet and sharp, but you barely had a second to take a breath before you kissed him again.

Your hands slid to the back of his neck, your fingers curling there as you smiled against his lips.

Frankie exhaled a quiet laugh, his thumb brushing your hip.

And then, just because you could, because it felt like the right thing to do, you nipped lightly at his bottom lip before pulling back completely. When you finally turned to Ian, his face was frozen in something close to shock, his eyebrows nearly at his hairline, his mouth slightly open like he wasn’t sure if he should speak or just accept his defeat.

You bit your lip, suppressing a laugh, and turned to Frankie again. He was staring at you now, serious, a little dazed, his hands still resting on your waist.

“Now take me home, baby,” you murmured, your voice just loud enough for Ian to hear.

Frankie blinked, as if snapping back into himself.

“I—” His lips parted, then curved into something lopsided, something close to a smirk. “Of course, baby.”

His hand found yours easily, fingers curling around yours like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You turned, stepping past Ian with a saccharine smile.

“Bye, Ian,” you said, not bothering to hide the smirk in your voice.

Frankie pushed open the door, and the pulse of the music hit you instantly—deep bass reverberating through your chest, the sharp hum of laughter and voices filling the gaps between beats. You stepped inside, weaving through the press of bodies until you reached the edge of the dance floor. The lights were dim, warm, shifting in color. The air smelled like spilled beer, expensive perfume, and something sweet you couldn’t quite place.

You turned to Frankie, amusement tugging at the corners of your mouth.

“Who the fuck was that?” you asked, voice teasing as you lifted onto your toes, your hands finding their way to his shoulders.

Frankie dipped his head slightly, his breath warm against your ear.

“My cousin,” he murmured. “He’s an asshole.”

You huffed out a laugh. “Oh, yeah? I hadn’t noticed.”

His gaze locked onto yours, something flickering behind his eyes—amusement, maybe, or something else entirely. For two long seconds, neither of you spoke. Then, his focus shifted over your shoulder.

“They’re watching,” he said, low enough that only you could hear. “Don’t turn around.”

Your brows lifted slightly. “Who?”

“Mai and Sofía,” he said. “They’re having fun with us.”

The adrenaline still buzzed under your skin, your pulse quick from everything that had just unfolded. You laughed, looping your arms around his neck without thinking, and his hands found their place at your waist like it was second nature.

Frankie exhaled, a sound that was almost a sigh but not quite. His fingers flexed slightly against your hips, like he wasn’t sure whether to hold you tighter or let go.

“I think you should kiss me again,” he said suddenly, like the thought had slipped out before he could catch it, voice rougher than before.

You tilted your head, studying him, letting him sit with what he’d just said.

A slow, satisfied smirk tugged at your lips. “See? What did I tell you, Francisco? Begging for a little kiss. It was only a matter of time.”

Frankie’s throat worked around a swallowed laugh. His grip on your waist tightened for just a second.

“I’m not begging for anything,” he muttered.

“Sure.”

You lifted your chin slightly, and he didn’t waste a second—he ducked his head, his mouth finding yours with an easy sort of urgency.

This time, the kiss was different—less urgent, less about spectacle. His lips found yours with a quiet kind of certainty, warm and unhurried, like something unfolding naturally rather than something being taken. His palm slid up, fingertips brushing your jaw before settling against your cheek, his skin rough but his touch impossibly gentle. His thumb moved absently over your cheekbone, a slow, soothing motion, like he wasn’t even aware he was doing it.

When his tongue met yours, it wasn’t demanding, just deliberate—like he was tasting the moment, like he was letting it settle between you before deciding what to do with it.

And then, before it could tip into something deeper, he pulled back. His lips lingered for a second longer, like he wasn’t quite ready to let go, before he pressed one last, fleeting kiss against your mouth—light, almost absentminded. Then his hand slipped from your cheek, leaving behind the ghost of his touch.

A small smile played at your lips.

“I thought this was supposed to be a kiss-free party.”

“You started it.”

“And you were the one asking for another,” you countered, tilting your head.

He rolled his eyes. “Didn’t take much asking.”

You let out an exaggerated gasp, smacking his arm lightly.

“Oh, by the way—you’re welcome.”

His brows knitted together, head tilting slightly, a stray curl slipping over his forehead. “For what?”

“For what?” you echoed. “I don’t know, Francisco, maybe for showing up to your mom’s party? For saving you a second ago out there?”

“Right. Yes. Thank you. You know that.”

“Do I?” You raised an eyebrow. “How would I know?”

He leaned back a little, his hands slipping away from your waist.

“I thought witches just… knew things like that.”

Your mouth fell open in mock offense as you crossed your arms. Then, without another word, you turned toward the bar, fully aware of him following you, just a step behind.

“You’re not going to the wedding, then?” he asked, leaning his forearms on the bar, watching you carefully.

You shook your head, meeting his gaze. “Why would I?”

He pursed his lips, tilting his head like he was considering something.

“I thought you wanted to prove a point. Show him you were happy. And, I mean… do you even know what kind of food they’re serving?”

You narrowed your eyes. “You sound very invested in this wedding all of a sudden. If you want to go, Francisco, just go. You don’t need me.”

“Maybe I will,” he mused. “Might even steal a bottle or two of champagne while I’m at it.”

A laugh bubbled out of you, light and unguarded.

Your gaze drifted across the bar, unfocused, catching on the row of glass bottles lined up neatly on the shelves. Their labels were intricate, embossed with gold filigree and elegant cursive, the kind of lettering that—under normal circumstances—you might have found charming. Right now, though, your brain, pleasantly fogged from alcohol, couldn’t make sense of them. The letters blurred together, swirling into something abstract and unreadable.

You exhaled, rolling your shoulder as if shaking off the evening itself. The sound of a cork popping somewhere behind the bar made you flinch slightly, and you let your hand drift absently over your opposite arm.

“Ready to go home?”

Frankie’s voice was low, steady, just beside you.

You nodded but didn’t look at him, your eyes lingering instead on the dance floor. Helena was still out there, her laughter bright and careless, her arms thrown around one of her friends. Of Frankie’s sisters, only Luna remained, swaying easily to the music with Henry, her movements fluid, like she could keep going for hours.

Frankie pulled out his phone and stepped away to call an Uber. You tracked his movements for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, a light touch on your arm pulled your focus back.

Maia had appeared on the stool next to you, her cheeks flushed, her hair loose and a little wild. She was smiling, the kind of grin that promised trouble.

“My brother’s a pain in the ass,” she announced. “Dragged you off the dance floor, didn’t he?”

You smirked, amused but not denying it.

“He’s afraid we’ll scare you off,” she continued, lifting an eyebrow in mock seriousness. “But it’s too late for that now. You’ve already witnessed my mom shaking her ass—so, what do you say? One last drink?”

You hesitated for all of three seconds before shrugging and settling back onto the stool. One more wouldn’t kill you. Probably.

Maia was quick with her order—tequila, no hesitation. When the bartender set up the shot glasses in front of you, you eyed them warily, unsure if your stomach was on board with this decision. Was it irresponsible to drink this much at your boyfriend’s mother’s birthday party? Absolutely. But then again, Frankie wasn’t your boyfriend. So, really, what did it matter?

Ten minutes later, the tequila had done its job, blurring the edges of the evening, making everything feel a little looser, a little funnier. Maia had leaned in close, her voice low and conspiratorial, her hands gesturing dramatically as she spoke.

“I mean, she wasn’t explicitly awful,” she said, dragging out the word like she was still weighing it. “But she had… this energy. Something off. You know what I mean? Like, no matter how hard I tried, I could never figure her out. And she could never blend in with the family, like something was repelling her. I know—no, I know—she hated me.”

You shook your head, appalled, as if this was the greatest injustice you had ever heard.

“But you’re so cute,” you blurted, voice thick and slow, your eyes shining with conviction.

“Right?” Maia snorted. “That’s what I’ve been saying. But Frankie didn’t get it. She was nothing like him. Too cold, too shallow. And every time she treated him like an idiot, I swear I—”

“What are you two talking about?”

A new voice cut through the moment, clear and direct, and you turned just in time to see Frankie standing there with Helena at his side. His eyes flicked between you and Maia, suspicion creeping into his expression.

“Maia, shut your mouth,” he said, more exhausted than angry.

Maia made a dismissive sound. “Oh, please, we’re having girl talk.”

“Well, our cab’s here in five,” Frankie said. His voice was flat, final.

You felt a small pang of disappointment. The conversation had been just getting interesting.

Helena stepped forward, her smile soft and radiant, her cheeks flushed from dancing and champagne. She reached for your arm, her touch warm, familiar, like she’d known you for years instead of just a few hours.

“It was so lovely to meet you, sweetheart,” she said, her voice brimming with sincerity. “You have to come over for dinner one of these nights so we can actually sit down and talk properly. How about it?”

Frankie was watching you. Not just watching—staring, as if he was trying to telepathically send you some urgent message. But you weren’t looking at him. You were too busy giggling, too charmed by Helena’s smile, too caught up in the easy, affectionate way she spoke to you.

“I’d love to!” you said, too eagerly, too enthusiastically.

Helena clapped her hands together. “Wonderful! How about next week?”

Before you could answer, Frankie’s hand landed on your lower back, grounding, insistent. His voice was tight when he spoke.

“I think we should go.”

Maia let out a dramatic sigh, shaking her head.

“Don’t be rude, Frankie.” Then she turned back to you, her grin conspiratorial. “So? Next week?”

You blinked, suddenly feeling like a deer caught in headlights. But Maia and Helena were both looking at you with those eyes—hopeful, expectant, impossible to refuse.

“Yes,” you murmured, stepping off the stool, your smile a little uncertain.

The car door shut with a muted thud. Frankie exhaled, pressing himself into the seat beside you, saying something to the driver in a voice that was trying very hard to sound composed. It didn’t quite land.

You slumped against the seat, your arms folded over your chest, your head feeling heavy on your shoulders. He had practically dragged you out of there. You hadn’t even gotten to say goodbye to the rest of his family.

Outside, the city blurred past in streaks of streetlights and neon, and the radio hummed something soft and familiar—an ‘80s ballad, the kind that lived permanently in the background of cab rides at ungodly hours. The dashboard clock read 4:03 a.m.

After a few minutes, he turned his head toward you.

“You okay?”

“Mmhmm,” you murmured, eyes closed.

“Good.”

A silence settled between you, neither comfortable nor tense, just thick with something unspoken.

After a while, he exhaled sharply.

You cracked one eye open. “What’s your problem?”

“Nothing,” he said, staring ahead. “I’m just tired.”

“Me too.”

Another beat of silence. Then he said, “Why did you accepted? Now I have to come up with some excuse to get you out of dinner.”

You turned your head lazily toward him, your eyebrows knitting together.

“I felt cornered, okay? They were both looking at me with those eyes…” You trailed off, searching for the right words before finally landing on him, blinking slowly. “Those eyes. Exactly.”

His expression didn’t change. “They’re just my eyes.”

“Yeah, that’s the problem.”

His brow furrowed. “What’s wrong with my eyes?”

“I don’t know. They’re kind of… intense.”

“Is that an insult?”

You sighed dramatically, letting your head fall back against the seat.

“I don’t even know anymore. I’m too drunk for your dumb questions.”

Frankie let out a short, derisive snort, shifting his gaze toward the window, his thoughts scattering in odd, untraceable directions.

“You left your car at the hotel,” you murmured after a beat, your voice quiet beneath the steady hum of the radio. Maneater by Daryl Hall played, tinny through the car speakers.

He turned his head toward you with an excruciating slowness, like he already knew you’d be looking at him. And you were. Your head tilted back against the seat, arms curled tightly around yourself, fingers bunched into the fabric of your dress.

“I’ll get it tomorrow,” he muttered, as though your comment had somehow irritated him.

“Do what you want.”

He clicked his tongue, shaking his head. “What’s with you and that attitude?”

You exhaled, your shoulders rising and falling as you turned toward the window, the passing streetlights slicing gold ribbons across the glass.

“What’s wrong with my attitude?”

“A lot of things.”

Your eyes flicked back to his, the darkness between you not quite enough to make out his expression, but enough to catch the sharp glint of his gaze. The passing lights reflected off them like tiny, fractured stars.

“You look just like your mom,” you said, the words slipping out, direct and unfiltered. “Same eyes. Same dimples.” Your hand moved before you could think better of it, the tip of your finger pressing into the crease of his mouth. “But she’s nice.”

Frankie huffed out a quiet laugh. “Yeah, my mom’s nice.”

You nodded, shifting back against the seat. “Yeah. Not like you, Francisco.”

He didn’t say anything to that, but you caught the faint twitch of his lips as he turned away, like he was suppressing a smirk. He was pretending to be less drunk than he was. But so were you.

A few minutes later, the Uber rolled to a stop in front of your house. You sighed, pushing the door open, but before stepping out, you turned back, fixing Frankie with a long, unfocused look.

“See ya,” you mumbled, dragging your feet out of the car, your gaze still locked onto his. “I hope this never happens again—oh, fuck—”

The next second, the world tilted sharply. There was no time to react, no time to process the way gravity wrenched you down. Just the sudden, violent awareness of pavement rushing toward your face.

Somewhere behind you, the driver made a startled sound. But Frankie’s reaction was immediate. The car door slammed, quick footsteps on asphalt. Then his hands—warm, steady, bracing under your arms, lifting you before you had time to register the impact.

“Jesus—Are you okay? Fuck—fuck—are you bleeding?” His voice was strained, almost frantic, his palm finding your chin, tilting your face up.

There was a sharp, metallic tang on your tongue. Something wet trickled past your lips. You blinked down at your hands, lifted them into the glow of the streetlamp. Blood.

“Oh, shit.” Your breath caught. Your stomach lurched. “Oh my God, how bad is it? How bad is it?”

Frankie didn’t let go of your face. His fingers pressed lightly beneath your jaw, guiding your head back.

“You’re fine. It’s fine. Just a nosebleed—stop moving, Jesus—hold still.”

You let out a noise somewhere between a whimper and a cry, your hands still hovering uselessly in front of your face.

“It was the slippers,” you muttered, voice thick, your fingers pressing beneath your nose as Frankie tilted your head back. “They’re too big. I tripped.”

Frankie exhaled, a short, sharp breath.

“It wasn’t my fault, if that’s what you’re implying.” Then, when you tried to look at him, he clicked his tongue and pressed his palm against your forehead, forcing your head back again. “No, keep it back. Jesus.”

You made a weak sound of protest but obeyed.

“Where are your keys?”

You blinked at him for a second like you had to remember what keys were. Then, with exaggerated effort, you fumbled through your bag, fingers clumsy as they scraped against receipts and loose change. When you finally found them, you thrust them toward him, and Frankie took them without comment, his mouth pressed into a tight line.

The door wasn’t hard to unlock. He nudged it open, watching as you hesitated on the threshold, swaying slightly. He helped you inside, his hand warm around your wrist as he guided you up the stairs.

Halfway up, you mumbled, “They’re moving.”

Frankie frowned. “What?”

“The stairs.” You squinted. “They’re moving.”

Frankie huffed out a laugh. “No, you’re drunk.”

Then, without thinking, he tightened his grip on your arm, steadying you as you wobbled again.

As soon as the door of your apartment clicked shut, a small, sleepy meow filled the quiet. Mr. Darcy stirred from his spot on the couch, stretching lazily before trotting toward you, his tail curling high in greeting.

“My child,” you said dramatically, bending down as if to scoop him up, only to pause when you caught sight of your own hand, still slick with blood. “Oh—no. Later, my love. Later.”

Frankie crouched down with far less hesitation, rubbing the cat’s head in that familiar, absentminded way. Darcy pushed into his touch, purring loudly, winding between his legs like he belonged to him instead of you.

You narrowed your eyes. “I don’t know why he likes you so much.”

Frankie shrugged, still scratching behind the cat’s ears.

You snorted, wincing as the movement sent a fresh wave of pain through your nose. Frankie caught it immediately. He stood, his expression shifting into something more serious, brows drawn together.

“Oh,” he said, tilting his head slightly. “You look awful.”

“Huh?”

“No, I mean—really bad.” His hand found your jaw, holding it lightly between his fingers as he turned your face toward the light. He made a thoughtful noise. “I don’t think you’re gonna recover. Honestly, I think it’s permanent.”

Your stomach dropped. “What?”

Frankie’s lips twitched, but before he could say anything else, you swatted his hand away and shoved past him, making a beeline for the bathroom. The second you flicked on the light and caught your reflection, your mouth fell open.

Your face, usually warm and flushed, was pale beneath the streaks of dried blood smeared across your cheeks, your mouth, your chin. Your nose was red and swollen. Your hair was a mess. You looked—

“Oh my God.”

Frankie leaned against the doorway, watching you with amused curiosity.

“I look like Carrie,” you whispered, horrified.

You turned on the faucet and bent over the sink, splashing cold water onto your face with frantic urgency. Beneath you, pink-tinted water ran down the white porcelain, swirling toward the drain.

“Hey,” Frankie said, stepping closer. His voice had softened slightly. “I was kidding.”

You didn’t answer, just scrubbed harder.

Frankie sighed, then reached out, gathering your hair in his hands and pulling it back, holding it away from your face. His grip was gentle, careful, his fingers brushing against the nape of your neck.

“It hurts,” you blurted, voice uneven, breaking on the last syllable.

Your upper lip throbbed—hot, swollen, like it was pulsing with its own heartbeat. Your nose ached with a sharp, stinging pain that settled deep in the bridge, radiating outward. The tears welled without permission, collecting on your lashes, blurring the edges of the bathroom light.

Frankie’s eyes flickered with something close to panic. He shifted on his feet, glancing around the room like the answer to fixing you was written somewhere on the walls.

“Okay, okay,” he said, voice slightly unsteady. “I—uh—come on, sit down. Sit on the toilet.”

He guided you gently, hands pressing into your shoulders until you sank onto the closed lid. Your body was sluggish, your movements heavy. You let your head tip back, exhaling sharply as a fresh wave of discomfort spread across your face.

Most of the blood was gone now, wiped away in streaks of pink-tinted water, revealing the damage beneath. The split in your upper lip was small but deep, the skin torn at the center, already swelling around it. Your lower lip, though unbroken, was puffy. And your nose—God, your nose.

Frankie crouched in front of you, his knees pressing into the tile. “Show me your teeth.”

You parted your lips obediently, and he leaned in, squinting like he was searching for something. After a second, he sat back, exhaling through his nose. “Okay. They’re fine.”

You blinked at him, still dazed, then let your gaze drop to his shirt. A dark red smear stretched across the fabric, half-dried, stark against the soft white cotton.

“You have blood on you,” you mumbled.

Frankie looked down, as if just now noticing.

“Yeah,” he muttered, then turned abruptly, yanking open the nearest drawer and shuffling through it.

You watched, brow furrowing, as he fumbled through an assortment of things that had nothing to do with first aid—spare toothbrushes, old makeup, boxes of tampons, a crumpled tube of moisturizer. His hands moved too fast, fingers twitching as he knocked things over, searching for something useful.

You let out a small huff. “Not there.”

“I know that now,” he grumbled, slamming it shut and pulling open another one.

Finally, he found a bottle of antiseptic and a pack of cotton pads, exhaling like he’d just won a small battle. He turned back to you, unscrewing the cap with his thumb.

“Hold still,” he said.

You did as you were told, though every so often a soft, involuntary whimper escaped you, the pain still sharp enough to make your breath catch. It wasn’t unbearable, but it was enough to make everything feel worse—amplified by exhaustion, by alcohol, by the surreal absurdity of it all.

Frankie moved carefully, dabbing the antiseptic along your lip, then your nose, pausing when fresh blood welled up from the split skin. He wiped it away, slow and methodical, before moving on to your knees, gently cleaning the scraped skin there too. You had forgotten about them, but the second the cotton touched the raw, stinging patches, you inhaled sharply.

“Oh, my God,” you muttered under your breath.

Frankie huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah. Scraped knees suck.”

A few minutes later, he tossed the stained cotton into the small trash can and started putting things back where he found them.

When you stood, Frankie’s gaze snapped to your nose, scanning for any new blood. You caught the movement and narrowed your eyes at him.

“What?”

“Just making sure you’re not gonna start gushing again.”

You turned to the mirror, taking in your reflection with a fresh wave of despair. Your skin was still damp, your nose and cheeks flushed from scrubbing and crying. Your lip looked even worse now, swollen and bruising at the edges. And your dress—your favorite dress—was ruined. White satin, now streaked with dark, rust-colored stains.

Your throat tightened. “I look awful.”

Frankie sighed. “You don’t—”

“My dress is ruined.” You turned to face him, your expression nothing short of tragic. “I love this dress, Francisco.”

“We’ll fix it,” he assured you, nodding quickly. “We’ll take it to the laundry—”

“It’s white.”

“I know.” He waved his hands, exasperated. “But they know how to get these stains out, don’t they?”

You frowned. “I think so. I’m not sure.”

“They do,” he said, nodding like it was law. Then, after a beat—“Do you have any anti-inflammatories?”

“In the kitchen.”

Frankie waited, then lifted his eyebrows. “Where?”

“In the kitchen,” you repeated.

He rolled his eyes. “I know in the kitchen, where in the kitchen?”

You thought for a second. “Oh. Over the fridge.”

Frankie shifted, his body tilting toward the door, ready to leave. But before he could get too far, your fingers curled around his wrist.

He stopped. Turned. His frown was immediate, brow creased like he was bracing for whatever was coming next.

“Can you—” you hesitated, suddenly too aware of the weight of your own request. “Can you help me with the zipper?”

You were already turning before he could answer, offering him your back like you were giving him no real choice in the matter. Your hand ghosted over the clasp, fingertips brushing the delicate fabric, then dropping to your side in silent surrender.

Behind you, Frankie let out a long, tired sigh. Then, a moment later, the unmistakable sound of the zipper being drawn down, slow and careful. The fabric parted beneath his touch, cool air rushing in where warmth had been. His knuckles skimmed the length of your spine, steady and impersonal, but still—

A few hours ago, you might have been embarrassed.

Now, not so much.

The man had seen your bloodied face. Your tampons. Your secret tattoo, the one no one was supposed to know about. What was left to be embarrassed about? Any lingering self-consciousness had evaporated somewhere between the pavement and the bathroom floor. Or maybe it was just the alcohol, stripping you of inhibition, loosening things that might have otherwise remained tightly wound. Maybe.

The zipper reached its end. Frankie’s hand fell away. He left the bathroom without another word, and you didn’t wait to see him go.

You hurried to your room, pushing the door shut behind you.

The dress slid from your shoulders, pooling at your feet. Your slippers followed, discarded without care. You unclasped your strapless bra with an exhausted groan and tossed it somewhere—where, exactly, didn’t matter.

The closet door creaked as you pulled it open, grabbing the first thing within reach: a worn-out T-shirt, oversized enough to swallow you whole. You pulled it over your head, wincing as soreness pulsed through your body, a dull and aching reminder of the fall.

Then, just as you were tucking the fabric against your thighs, a knock at the door.

A dull thud, careful but firm.

“Don’t come in!” you called instinctively.

Frankie’s voice filtered through the wood, low and steady.

“You okay? I brought you some aspirin.”

You exhaled, raking a hand through your tangled hair.

“Wait,” you warned, shifting on your feet, making sure the shirt was long enough, that everything was—decent. Or as decent as it could be at this point.

Once satisfied, you reached for the doorknob and cracked the door open.

Frankie stood there, quiet, holding a glass of water in one hand and a small white pill in the other. His gaze flickered briefly—to the dress on the floor, then back up—but he didn’t let his eyes stray from your face.

He held out the aspirin. You took it without a word, placing it on your tongue before chasing it down with a sip of water. He watched you carefully, noting how your swollen lip pressed against the rim of the glass, how you winced slightly, the tenderness in your face growing more pronounced with every passing minute.

Something twisted in his chest. A strange, unnameable thing.

He swallowed.

“You feeling okay?” His voice had softened.

You nodded, then immediately regretted it as your lip pulled in protest. Grimacing, you wordlessly handed him back the empty glass.

Frankie hesitated before taking it from you, his brow still creased with that same look—something tight and unreadable, like watching an injured animal struggle to stand. Like witnessing something fragile and knowing there was nothing he could do to fix it.

"I'm sleepy, I..."

Your voice trailed off as you turned toward your bed, your gaze settling on the smooth, undisturbed surface of the sheets. They looked impossibly soft, the kind of soft that could swallow you whole, erase the sting in your knees, the throbbing in your mouth, the hazy weight of the night pressing on your shoulders.

Frankie nodded, shifting his weight. "Yeah. You need rest. Get some sleep."

He took a small step back, like he was giving you space, but not too much.

Without much thought, you turned and walked toward your bed, your limbs heavy with exhaustion. The second you reached it, you collapsed onto the mattress, sinking in, the cool fabric pressing against your skin. You didn’t even bother with the quilt.

"Good night," you mumbled, already curling into yourself, your back to him.

Frankie hesitated. He stood there for a moment, watching you, feeling strangely uncertain, though he wasn’t sure why.

"I'll call an Uber," he said after a beat, voice quiet, as if he wasn’t sure if you were still awake enough to hear him. "Head home."

"Okay." Your response was barely above a whisper, thick with sleep.

"Okay." A pause. "Good night."

He waited a second longer, then turned and made his way out of the room, walking slowly into the dimly lit living room. The air was cooler here, quieter. Mr. Darcy was waiting for him, perched on the coffee table like some kind of tiny, judgmental sentry. The cat’s tail flicked, his green eyes tracking Frankie’s every move.

Frankie exhaled, running a hand down his face before stepping toward him. He reached out, dragging his fingers gently over soft fur. Mr. Darcy purred instantly, pressing into the touch, rubbing his face against Frankie’s hand like he’d been waiting for this all night.

Frankie huffed a small laugh, shaking his head. “You’re ridiculous.”

He sat down on the couch, phone in hand, thumb hovering over the Uber app. His body was too heavy, too worn out, but he forced himself to go through the motions—searching for a ride, entering the address, preparing to leave.

But then—

A small weight landed on his lap.

Mr. Darcy, stretching out comfortably, his tiny paws kneading into Frankie’s thigh before settling completely, purring so loudly it was practically vibrating through him.

Frankie sighed, phone slipping from his hand onto the cushion beside him.

It was only for a second, just to close his eyes, just to let his body sink into something solid. Just until the exhaustion stopped weighing so heavily on his limbs.

The next thing he knew, he was lying flat on his back, his arm draped over his stomach, the cat now curled up on his chest. Frankie’s breathing slowed, deepened, and before he could fight it, his eyes shut completely.

His body gave in.

And then—sleep.

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

Taglis: @paleidiot @gothcsz @everyth1ngfan @katw474 @mellymbee @pedritosgirl2000 @tsunamistorm123 @jokesonthem @sunnytuliptime @greenwitchfromthewoods @ashleyfilm @darkheartgatita @joelmillerisapunk @nandan11 @whirlwindrider29 @onlythehobi @diabaroxa @yellowbrickyeti @daybleedsintonightfa11 @mys2425 @pigeonmama @speaktothehandpeasants @pez3639 (some tags aren't working apparently sorry!)

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starkwlkr · 1 year ago

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american royalty | max verstappen

kennedy!reader

US GRAND PRIX (TIME SKIP)

Max was in panic mode. Little baby Luke did not want to leave his father’s side. Yeah, it was cute, but Max had to be in the car in five minutes.

“I don’t want to leave you either, baby, but papa has to go race.” Max whispered to the seven month old. It amazed y/n and Max how quickly Luke had grown.

Y/n wanted to burst into tears right then and there in Max’s driver’s room, but she held it in. She loved her boys so much.

“You should go, I don’t want you to be late.” Y/n told Max, which made him frown. “You’ll see us after.” She chuckled and grabbed Luke from Max’s arms. Instantly, the boy started to whine.

“It’s okay, Luke, papa is just going to win the race and then he’ll be back for more cuddles.” Max pressed a light kiss to his son’s head.

Y/n and Max kept your relationship very private so no one apart from their families knew about their relationship or baby Luke. When she did attend a race, she watched from Max’s driver’s room. Usually she was alone, but now she had Luke to keep her company. Before y/n could say something, Max turned to her.

“How much longer do you think you and Luke will be watching from here? Don’t get me wrong, I love you both for coming. I think it would be better if my family watches from the garage.” Max waited for you answer. He was sure y/n was going to be mad at him for even suggesting that idea, but she smiled at him.

“You read my mind.” She kissed his lips.

So without hesitation, Max grabbed her hand and together as a family, they walked in the direction of the Red Bull Garage.

When Max saw photographers start to notice y/n, he grabbed Luke from her and took off his Red Bull hat, using it to shield Luke from the cameras. They both agreed to keep their son away from the media. They quickly arrived to the garage just in time.

“Checo’s wife, Carola, is here. You can sit with her so you don’t have to be alone.” Max said as he led her through the garage. “And she has kids so that’s something you both have in common!” He tried to lighten up the mood.

“We’ll be okay, won’t we?” She tickled Luke’s side, which made the boy giggle.

“Max!” His race engineer, Gianpiero, called out. “Who’s this smiley boy?” He waved to Luke.

“My son, Luke, and this is my wife, Y/n.” Max introduced her to the British man. She didn’t correct Max on the term he used for her, it felt right coming from his mouth.

“Welcome to the Red Bull family!” He smiled at y/n.

After talking for a short time, Max had to leave so he gave y/n and Luke a kiss and a hug then left. She was introduced to Carola. It didn’t take long for the two women to get along.

Halfway through the race, the camera was focused on y/n for a few seconds. She was looking at a different monitor so she didn’t even realize she was on tv.

“And we have American royalty in the paddock today. There she is, Miss Y/n Kennedy, daughter to the late JFK Jr. and his wife Carolyn. Didn’t know she was a Red Bull fan.” Crofty said.

Immediately, Twitter was having a field day.

Y/n’s phone was flooded with notifications, but she ignored them. Baby Luke and Y/n were about to witness Max win.

As predicted, Max came in first with Checo taking second place. While Carola took her kids to watch their dad on the podium, Y/n stayed behind with Luke. As much as she wanted to watch Max, she didn’t want to expose Luke to everyone.

While the Red Bull team celebrated another win, y/n looked down at her son. “I think dad would’ve loved to be here, don’t you think?” Y/n asked. “Mom on the other hand . . . She would’ve loved Max that’s for sure.”

The topic of her parents made her emotional so she stopped talking. But it was definitely clear that y/n’s parents would’ve loved Max. Even if the media painted him out to be some kind of villain, Max Verstappen was far from it.

Max quickly made his way back to his family after the podium celebrations. He was eager to show his son his trophy, but before he could do that, he was stopped by Charles.

“You’re dating THE y/n kennedy?!”

“How do you even know?” Max wondered.

“Mate, you’re trending all over twitter. The cameras showed her, but what I want to know is why didn’t you tell me? I thought we agreed to tell each other everything!”

“You agreed, I didn’t.” Max corrected him.

“Still! You’re basically important in the eyes of america now. So if you get married, does that mean you’re automatically a US citizen and you can be president?” The Ferrari driver asked.

“I’m pretty sure in order to be president you have to be born in the US— why am I still talking to you? I have to go see my family.” Max said as he ran to the Red Bull garage.

“Congratulations, mr. president!”

Of course calling Max ‘mr. president’ became an inside joke in the paddock.

When Max made it back to the garage, he saw y/n talking with several drivers, one being the only American driver, Logan. At least they were keeping his family company.

“When Max is on break, he sleeps through the night, but he wakes up several times when his dad is gone. He’s such a daddy’s boy.” Y/n explained to Logan, Lando and Oscar.

“Of course he is, I’m the best dad in the world.” Max interrupted.

“Look at you, daddy Max.” Lando joked.

“Oh god, mate. Don’t ever say that again.” Oscar said.

“Anyways . . . How’d you like the race, y/n?” Logan asked the kennedy woman. He felt so at home at the moment. He was so honored to even be talking to someone related to the president of his country.

“It was amazing. Luke and I enjoyed every minute of it. Maybe we’ll just have to come back for another race.” Y/n looked at Max with hopeful eyes. Baby Luke cooed at his father.

“We are going to Mexico next and you love Mexico . . .”

“Great, we’ll be seeing the first family back in the paddock. It was great to meet you, y/n and you too baby Luke.” Lando smiled cheekily at the mom and son.

“You know Charles just called me Mr. President and now this? What else is going to happen?” Max laughed.

“Who knows, maybe you might end up being the president?”

#formula 1 #f1 x reader #formula 1 imagine #f1 imagine #f1 x you #max verstappen smau #max verstappen x reader #max verstappen one shot #max verstappen imagine #max verstappen fanfic #max verstappen #mv1 x reader #mv33 x reader #mv1 #max verstappen x you #kennedy!reader

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mari-positas · 1 year ago

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baby, i’m yours

Jackson! Joel Miller x Female Reader

summary: You remind Joel that you’re his.

warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI. READER HAS NO PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION however she does wear Joel’s t-shirt and he semi lifts her onto a counter? sorta but not really? UNSPECIFIED AGE GAP (Joel is in his 50’s but reader’s specific age is not mentioned). established relationship, sort of. consumption of food (if you are allergic to peanuts, i so sorry). angst, Joel and Ellie’s strained relationship is lightly implied, Joel is insecure, it’s implied reader did some horrible things in her past, reassurance, brief smut, unprotected p in v sex, creampie, consider it a quickie idk. apologies if i missed anything.

word count: 2.6k

a/n: this short lil thing has been sitting in my drafts forever. i finished it while i was in ireland and finally had the chance to sit down and do a quick edit and when i say it was quick, i flew through it so i could hop onto my next wip so please excuse any errors! here’s a spotify link to the song if anyone’s curious, it’s an oldie but a goodie although it may not be everyone’s cup of tea.

main masterlist l fic notifs

Joel rolls over in bed, his arm outstretched and seeking the warmth of your soft, naked body.

“Mmph,” a small, sleepy groan falls from his lips as his long, thick fingers feel around on your side of the bed—of his bed. Of course, you have your very own bedroom in the house you all had been placed in when you first arrived in Jackson. Your very own bed to sleep in is just down the hallway, but lately, you’ve been waking up beside him a lot more often than not, especially now that Ellie’s a bit older and she’s gone and made herself her own space out in the garage behind the house. Being under the same roof as Joel did those two more harm than it did good, and while you missed having her around, it was for the best.

“She’ll come around, Joel,” you’d assured him. “I know she will. She just needs a bit of time is all.”

“Hope you’re right, darlin’,�� he had murmured sadly in response.

Still lost somewhere in between sleep and full consciousness, Joel continues feeling around for you, but all he finds are the wrinkled sheets, cold and abandoned. Confused, his eyes finally flutter open and with a painful protest from his sore, stiff back, he sits up, blinking furiously as he looks around the darkness of his bedroom. The door’s been left cracked open ever so slightly, and as his vision adjusts now that he’s fully awake, he notices the dim glow of the hallway light that’s peeking through into the room.

He turns and glances over at the old digital alarm clock perched on his nightstand, the obnoxious, bright red numbers practically screaming at him that it’s a quarter past midnight. With a small, tired grunt, Joel switches on the lamp beside the clock and swings his legs over the side of the mattress, goosebumps erupting across his flesh the instant that his bare feet meet the cold, hardwood floor. He stands and fumbles around for his clothes, which he’d tossed carelessly somewhere over his shoulder hours earlier when he’d been lost in the heat of the moment with you. He finds his faded, navy blue sweatpants strewn across a chair next to the door and pulls them on over his naked lower body before searching for his t-shirt. When he doesn’t immediately see it, he doesn’t bother, figuring that it’s just going to come back off when he climbs back into bed with you.

Padding out of his bedroom, he makes his way down the hallway, heading towards the staircase. As he draws closer, he hears it—the soft music that’s coming from downstairs.

Baby, I'm yours

and I'll be yours until the stars fall from the sky

yours until the rivers all run dry

in other words, until I die

He’s led towards the kitchen and that’s where he finds you.

Joel wants to be annoyed.

Fuck, he tries to be annoyed. But he can’t help the way that the corners of his mouth threaten to turn upwards when his eyes take in the sight before him.

You’re standing at the center island slowly swaying your hips from side to side along to the beat of the song that’s playing from the record player perched next to the instant coffee maker on the counter behind you. He’d nearly wrung your neck when he found out what all you had traded just to get your hands on it, but you loved that thing more than life itself it seemed, so he couldn’t stay mad for very long. You’re making yourself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich—the peanut butter you’d learned how to make yourself with the old food processor he found deep in one of the kitchen cabinets, and the strawberry preserves you had picked up from the market earlier that week. Clad in nothing but his t-shirt, you’re singing along quietly to the lyrics as you finish making your late night snack.

Baby, I’m yours

and I’ll be yours until the sun no longer shines

yours until the poets run out of rhyme

in other words, until the end of time

Joel leans against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his bare chest as he watches you carefully lick the remnants of peanut butter off of the knife you’re using before setting it down on the counter. You then pick up the two pieces of bread and slap them together—you’d also learned how to bake homemade bread using some old nineties cookbook you had found in the commune’s library. Your sourdough is the reason he had to go up a notch in his belt.

Sandwich in hand, you do a little spin, humming happily as you take your first bite.

Joel loudly clears his throat from the doorway.

Startled, you whirl around and freeze, your eyes wide.

“Enjoyin’ yourself there, darlin’?” He asks amusedly as he approaches you.

“Jesus Christ! You scared me, Joel!” You hiss at him. You then realize what time of night it is and a look of guilt crosses your features. “Oh shit. I’m sorry, did I wake you up? I honestly thought that I had the volume down low enough in here—”

Frowning, you turn around and reach towards the record player to turn the music off, but much to your surprise, Joel stops you. “No, s’okay. I woke up on my own,” he assures you. “I reached over for you and you were gone.” The admission slips before he can even think to stop it. He notices how taken aback you are by what he’d just said and quickly asks, “What’cha doin’ up so late, anyway?”

“I was hungry,” you tell him, sheepishly holding up your food. You always have one hell of an appetite after Joel was through fucking you senseless. You take another bite and offer it to him. “Want some?”

“Sure.”

He accepts and takes a corner of the sandwich before handing it back to you. His fingers brush against yours and his face burns at the contact.

Fucking Christ.

You’re standing there in nothing but his fucking t-shirt after he had, yet again, made you his in his own fucking bed, and that’s what gets him?

Truth be told, the only time he holds your hand is when he’s inside of you—his fingers lace with your own as he comforts you and praises you for being such a good girl for taking his cock the way you do.

For being so, so fucking good for him.

He’s thought about taking your hand in front of others. Particularly when he notices the way some of the men in town stare at you. Joel wants to make it known that you’re already spoken for. Only, you’re not spoken for, not really.

You’re his, but you’re not really his. It’s not that he doesn’t want to take the leap and acknowledge the two of you are far more than just patrol partners, far more than just two people who fought like fucking hell to get some smart assed teenager—and the world’s only hope for a cure—across the country.

He feels undeserving of it. Of you and your heart.

Several seasons had come and gone since you’d both arrived in Jackson with Ellie in tow, and somehow, Joel still can’t fathom what you’re doing by his side. She’s out of the house now and there’s nothing tying you to him, so why are you still here?

He’s so much older. Closer and closer to being on his way out, while you still had your entire life left ahead of you. He’s worn down, hardened from the post outbreak world. And you, you hadn’t lost any of your softness, your sweetness. Not even after the things you’d been forced to do to survive because of him.

You could meet someone younger, someone closer to your own age. You could marry, even start a family. You could be with someone who could give you a good life, the life you deserve.

The life that he’s too fucking broken to give you.

“Joel?” Your voice breaks into his thoughts. “Hey. Are you okay?”

“Yeah. M’fine.” He gestures to the record player with a nod of his head. “Y’know, this song’s older than me. By a few years. Came out in the early sixties.”

Joel half expects you to make some wisecrack joke and tease him over his age like you have done in the past—especially when the kid would get you going. Instead, he watches you set what’s left of your sandwich down and brush the crumbs from your hands before holding one of them out to him.

Confused, he stares at it for a moment before his dark eyes meet yours. “What are you doin’?”

“Dance with me,” you say, smiling at him.

“You’re fuckin’ kiddin’ me, right?” When he realizes you’re being serious, he shakes his head. “Y’know I don’t—I can’t dance.”

Dropping your hand back down to your side, you turn around and flip the record, starting the song over again before whirling back around and taking Joel’s hands in yours.

“Just follow my lead,” you tell him as you place them on your waist. Your own hands settle themselves on his broad shoulders, his skin warm beneath your fingertips. “Don’t overthink it.”

“You’re fuckin’ ridiculous,” Joel grumbles underneath his breath, however he finds himself moving along with you without further protest. Subconsciously, he pulls you closer against him as the two of you slowly sway from side to side along to the beat of the music. He chuckles, “Y’know we gotta be up at the asscrack of dawn for patrol, right?”

“And your point is?” You rest your head on his shoulder and exhale a soft, contended sigh.

Joel’s lips threaten to pull down once more.

Could it be that you’re actually content with him?

Head still on his shoulder, you sing along softly with Barbara Lewis.

“I’m gonna stay right here by your side

do my best to keep you satisfied

nothing in this world can drive me away

‘cause every day you'll hear me say…”

It quickly becomes too much for him. Joel’s hands leave your waist. Taking your wrists, he tugs your arms from around his neck and gently pushes you away from him. “Why?” he finally asks the question that’s been hanging off the tip of his tongue for the better part of the last three years. “Why me?”

You stare at him, puzzled. “What?”

“Why me?” he repeats himself. “Why me when you can have anyone else—”

Your reply is prompt and you say it so simply.

“Because I don’t want anyone else.”

“You deserve better.”

You peer at him curiously. “I deserve better?”

“You do. Ain’t got no business being with someone like me. After all the terrible shit I’ve done—”

“I did the same exact shit, Joel. Sometimes I did even fucking worse.” Somehow, softness laces your tone. You have never been angry with him and you weren’t about to start now. “What makes my hands any cleaner than yours?”

Joel begins to sputter. “M’older than you. Much older. Should’a been a lot more careful. Should’a done more so you didn’t have to do those things.”

His hands still curled around your wrists, you reach up and gingerly cradle the sides of his face. He winces, but then quickly melts into your touch, the very same touch that could heal his wounds, if only he would allow it.

“I made my own choices,” you remind him, quietly. Neither of you realize the music has stopped. “Quit acting like blood doesn’t stain my hands too because it does.”

His lips press into a tight line. “Blood stains your hands ‘cause of me. S’my fault. I was responsible for you. I was s’pposed to take care of you. I didn’t protect you the way I should’ve.”

You sigh.

“When are you going to stop blaming yourself, Joel?”

The muscle in his jaw ticks as it clenches. He averts his gaze, his eyes falling to the floor. He doesn’t answer.

You stroke the scruff of his beard lightly with your thumbs. “When are you going to stop thinking you’re not good enough for me? What’s it going to take for me to prove to you that you are all I could ever need and want?”

“You’re just wastin’ your fuckin’ life on me, darlin’. S’the truth and you fuckin’ know it as well as I do.”

Pulling your wrists out of his hands, you pivot on your heel and suck in a sharp breath, stubbornly blinking back the tears stinging your eyes. You’re frustrated.

It cuts you to your very core to know the man you’ve grown to love more than anything and anyone else on what’s left of this fucking planet can’t see that he’s enough. He’s more than enough.

Joel bites back his own frustrated sigh. He knows he can’t rely on you to tell him, rely on the reassurance—he needs to do his part and believe it. If he keeps trying to push you away, he just may very well succeed one day. He will lose you.

After a moment, he walks up behind you and wraps his arms around you, his lips lightly brushing your neck. “M’sorry,” he mumbles, his own voice thickening as a lump forms in the back of his throat. He’s quick to swallow it down. “Jus’ have a hard time believin’ you’re mine. S’almost like my mind is lookin’ to prove me wrong.”

“But I am yours, Joel. I’m yours, I’m fucking yours.”

It’s more than just reassurance. It’s an oath, one you’ll honor for the rest of your life.

He holds you tighter. “Yeah?” He nips at the delicate spot right below your ear, his teeth scraping along tender flesh. “S’that right, baby? You’re all mine?”

“All yours,” you confirm breathlessly as his hands slowly begin trailing down the length of your sides, his fingers skimming the hem of his t-shirt.

Joel swiftly turns you around in his arms and slips his hand between your thighs. The next thing you know, he has you backed up against the counter and he’s shoving his sweatpants down, freeing his hard, thick cock. With one of your legs hooked around his waist, he buries himself into the warmth of your cunt and begins to deliver smooth, languid strokes.

“Say it again, baby,” he rasps into your neck. He coaxes your other leg up and around his waist and his large hands curl securely underneath your thighs as he bucks up into you. He’d deal with the back pain later. He pants, “Need—need to hear you say it, my sweet girl.”

You hold onto the countertop behind you as he fucks you, your fingernails digging into the laminated wood. “Fuck, I’m yours,” you moan into his shoulder. “I’m all yours, Joel. Oh fuck—”

You say it over and over again and he believes it.

He finally fucking believes it.

Sweet nothings fall from his lips with each thrust.

“S’lucky you’re all fuckin’ mine.”

“My beautiful, beautiful girl.”

“Gonna keep you for the rest of my fuckin’ life.”

When he spills into you, there’s no regret on his part nor yours. You’d always wanted to feel him come inside of you—secretly, so did he. Joel’s deep, guttural groans bounce off of the kitchen walls as your pussy fills with him, with all of him, taking as much as it can before he begins leaking out of you and down the insides of your thighs.

“Jesus,” he exhales. He dips his head for a kiss. “You’re all messy now, baby,” he mumbles against your lips. “How’s about we go upstairs and get back into bed so I can clean you up?”

Giggling, you mimic him and remind him of what he’d said earlier. “Y’know we gotta be up at the asscrack of dawn for patrol, right?”

Joel grins. “And your point is?”

You laugh again as he leads you out of the kitchen and back up to his bedroom—to yours and his bedroom.

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x female reader #joel miller smut #joel miller angst #joel miller fluff #joel miller x you #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x y/n #joel miller drabble #joel miller one shot #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller imagine #the last of us fanfiction #tlou fanfiction #tlou fic #joel fic

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blossomwritesfics · 27 days ago

Text

-Me n My Girl-

Alfie Buttle x fem reader

Summary: Your first time at the Grotto.

Warnings: None! Fluff, kissing?

Blurry FaceTime calls, midnight texts and liking instagram stories. The realities of a long distance relationship. Practicality hadn’t seemed to matter at the time, not when he first popped up into your DM’s with a cringe worthy pickup line. You’d laughed at your screen, a girlish giggle as you just stared at the message.

Alfie Buttle has sent you a message…

The notification had set off the butterflies in your stomach, fluttering and dancing with joy. You’d replied instantly of course. Becoming an influencer overnight hadn’t seemed real, you were still the same teenage girl who people somehow found interesting enough to pay attention to. And now you’d caught the attention of the brunette you’d been ogling over for months.

Late night phone calls slowly turned into good morning texts, memes being sent throughout the day until one day he popped the question. “How do you feel about staying at mine this weekend? Saves you paying for a hotel” You could feel his grin through the skin, a boyish smirk with a mixture of hope. Who were you to deny him?

As the weekend arrived you found yourself a flustered mess, cross legged on your bedroom carpet as you stuffed the last of your belongings into an overflowing backpack. The zip refused to close, much to your dismay, despite your insistent tugging and grumbled swears. “Stupid fucking bag!” You snatched it up in a huff, throwing the strap over your shoulder before jumping into the car.

“Omw! See u soon x”

Three hours passed as you drove, singing along to the radio, one hand gripping the wheel and the other clutching a coffee you’d picked up along the way. The stupid paper straw had practically dissolved by the end of your journey, but nothing was going to dampen your mood. The smile tugging at your lips was infectious, a bright grin sure to make anybody’s day.

Pulling into his driveway felt like a fever dream, your heart thudding louder than the engine. The car's soft hum faded as you put the car in park, you sat in silence for a moment. Everything had led up to this one nerve wracking moment. Your reflection in the mirror showed flushed cheeks and wide, expecting eyes, both excitement and nervousness all blended into one. The perfect storm. Was he watching you from the window? Were his cheeks as pink as yours? There was no time to contemplate as Alfie swung the front door open with a sense of urgency. Taller than you’d expected, the instagram photos you practically had memorised didn’t do him justice. Familiar, and completely new all at once. He walked toward you, arms open and inviting, and in that moment the distance seemed to melt away.

“Hi,” You whispered breathlessly, cheek to his chest. His heart was beating slowly, a relaxed and soothing rhythm contrasting yours. You could still feel your heart in your throat, intrusive and nerve wracking. “Hey darlin’,” He hummed back, pressing a delicate kiss to your hairline.

Like a true gentleman, Alfie carried your bag into the house, ensuring your over packed belongings didn’t explode onto the ground. You stood awkwardly in the middle of the bedroom, taking in the space. Crisp white sheets on a perfectly made bed, nothing out of place as if he’d run round tidying just moments before. Alfie watched as you glanced around, now his turn to check you out. He let out a hum of appreciation, stepping forward to tower over you once more. “C’mere” he murmured softly, sensing your nerves. He dropped onto the bed, the mattress springs creaking beneath his weight. You joined him without a second thought, hypnotised by his gentle tone. He wasted no time in pulling you close, sharing the warmth radiating from his frame. “You’re warm,” you breathed, eyes closing as you nuzzled closer. “And you’re hot,” he laughed, leaning forward to catch your lips in a kiss. If it weren’t for the surprising affection, you would have rolled your eyes at the cheesy come back.

You had spoken about this moment for months, half-teasing, half-dreaming. The air felt charged, heavy with everything you were yet to say. The kiss was soft, gentle at first as you found your rhythm. Real, raw, a culmination of months of longing compressed into a few stolen seconds.

Alfie was the first to pull back, not bothering to speak in favour of taking you in. The sparkle in your eyes, the way it seemed like the entire universe had shifted.

Taglist: @mdhillclarkey

#blossomwritesfics #alfie buttle x fem reader #alfie buttle #alfie buttle smut #arthur hill #arthur frederick #harry lewis #george clarke #george clarke x fem!reader #chrismd #george clarkey #sidemen

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navybrat817 · 21 days ago

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Hold You Tight: Part 26

Pairing: Club Owner!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Fic Summary: The owner of The 107th wants you to be his girl whether you like it or not.

Part 25 | Series Masterlist | Part 27

Chapter Word Count: Over 4.1k

Chapter Summary: You get a little closer to Bucky, and you get in touch with your mom.

Chapter Warnings: Sexual undertones, bonding of sorts, inner turmoil, world building, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?), more warnings to come.

A/N: More Hold You Tight, and thank you for sticking with me! Over a year since we began this wild journey! Bucky edit by the beautiful @nixakimbo. ❤️ Beta read by the lovely @whisperlullaby, but any and all mistakes are my own. Divider by the talented @firefly-in-darkness. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

Sometime after the popcorn and candy fight with Bucky you began to doze off in his arms. You hadn’t meant to, but you felt so comfortable and at ease. It was the first time that day you felt like you could breathe. That frightened you a bit since he wasn’t meant to be the hero in your story.

Or was he rewriting the story?

“I should get some sleep,” you whispered.

His stubble brushed your temple. “You seem pretty comfortable,” he said, not releasing you, but not holding you tighter either. “I don’t mind falling asleep like this if you don’t mind.”

“I should brush my teeth. Maybe shower and change,” you said. It was too late for a bath and you didn’t want to risk falling asleep in the tub, though you had a feeling he’d never allow that to happen.

He sighed, but didn’t argue as he helped you up. He didn’t look angry, which was a good sign. Disappointed maybe. “Do you mind if I join you?”

You stared at him, your mouth agape. Was he really asking to join you in the shower? Could you stop him?

He chuckled at your expression. “I should’ve been more specific. I know you don’t want me in the shower with you tonight, but I’d like to be in the bathroom so I’m close to you if that’s okay,” he said. He just wanted to be close to you? “I won’t look or try anything.”

Maybe what happened to you was raw for him, too, and he wanted you in his sights so he could relax. “Okay,” you said after a beat. You were going to trust that he wouldn’t do something so soon after Clark. “But I’m yelling for Curtis if you do try anything.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “You’d yell for one of my men because of me?”

“Well, he is my bodyguard,” you replied, smiling when his mouth fell open.

“You really do have claws,” he said proudly, pulling you away from the messy living room. “Something wrong?” he asked when you whipped your head around.

“Did I bring my phone out here with me or did I leave it in the library?” you asked. You hadn’t paid much attention to that since you had been so upset before Bucky brought you to the living room.

“Don’t worry about your phone. Tonight’s about you relaxing,” he said. You were about to argue, but he was right.

Your heart picked up when he led you to the guest bathroom. It was smaller than the master bathroom, which meant he’d be somewhat close to you. It was vulnerable for you too, since you’d be naked and he’d be put together like always. That was one of the differences between you two. He had you vulnerable from the start while you had to work to peel back the many layers of him.

“I had some things brought from the apartment while you spent time in the library,” he said, testing the water for you after turning it on. “Your bridesmaid’s dress, the photo of you and your friends, the dress and diamond necklace I got you, and some other things.”

“Thanks,” you whispered, knowing you wouldn’t have the energy to go through anything tonight. You wondered what was left behind.

“Natasha also reached out to check on you. I told her you plan to talk to her about those self defense lessons.” His eyes lingered on you until he moved a few feet away and turned his back to you. “I think you’ve made quite an impression on her.”

“I can’t imagine why,” you said, undressing as quickly as you could and keeping an eye on him. The tension in his body told you he wanted to look, but he stayed still while you stepped under the water and shut the door. The water felt nice and you couldn’t help but sigh. You also didn’t feel as tense as you expected with him being so close.

Was that progress?

You still half expected him to strip down and join you since you hadn’t forgotten about the things he said he wanted to do to you. How he’d fuck you in the tub, make you ride his face before he fucked you, how he’d make you take his cock. Would he turn you into his perfect plaything when the time was right?

“It’s because you’re genuine and goodhearted, which she appreciates,” he said over the sound of the water, making you push those thoughts away. “My mother appreciated it, too, and so do I.”

You turned toward the sound of his voice and saw his hand pressed against the frosted glass. Could he see you? You pressed your hand against his, the pain bringing out the need to comfort him. Funny how instead of you putting a mental or emotional wall up, there was a physical door between the two of you this time. All you had to do was open it.

“I’d like to do something for your mom,” you said.

“What is it?” he asked curiously. “You already have Zemo making a donation.”

“I’ll tell you in a minute,” you said, quickly washing yourself so you could sit with him. “Is there a towel or a robe?”

“I hung it up for you. I’ll be right outside,” he said, surprising you all over again when he pushed off the shower door and left the bathroom.

“He really is trying,” you whispered.

You dried yourself off, brushed your teeth, and wrapped yourself in the plush robe before you opened the door. Bucky paced back and forth in front of the bed, a haunted look in his eyes. It was a heartbreaking sight. Did he hear you open the door?

“Bucky?” you asked, his gaze softer when he looked at you. Your presence truly rid him of his demons. “Are you okay?” “Just thinking about you and my mom,” he said, taking a seat with a heavy sigh. “Everything in my head is so loud.”

“The anniversary of her death is coming up, isn’t it?” Between that and your attack, you couldn’t imagine the range of thoughts and emotions he felt.

“Yeah, it is.” He clenched and unclenched his fists. “I don’t go to the club that day. I don’t really talk to anyone either. Not even Steve.”

You took a seat and leaned into him, hearing him exhale before he wrapped an arm around you. You were still tired, but you wanted to finish this talk before you went to sleep. Like you needed space earlier, you sensed that he needed this. “I can’t imagine how hard that is.”

“It’s one of the hardest days, and it hasn’t gotten much easier with time,” he admitted.

Time didn’t heal all wounds. “It isn’t much, but the thing I wanted to offer? I’d like to make a floral arrangement for her headstone.”

He faced you and you shivered. There was so much love in his eyes, enough to snuff out every other emotion. How was it all directed at you? “You would?” he whispered.

“I would,” you answered. She was a good woman caught up in a cruel world, and you wanted to make something beautiful to honor her. “And you won’t have to be alone,” you added, unless he wanted to be. Grief hit everyone in different ways and you understood if he didn't want to be around you that day.

“Thank you. That would mean a lot to me.” Bucky swallowed and gave you a soft smile. “The arrangement and you being with me.”

He looked into your eyes before they dropped to your lips. Another moment where he wanted to kiss you and held himself back. It had been too raw to kiss him in the living room earlier and it was still too raw now, but you pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. His grip on you tightened and you stayed still, not daring to pull away.

“I want you. Fuck, I want all of you. I need you,” he breathed, tucking your head into his neck. With your lips against his pulse, you could feel his heart was pounding. “But I won’t take you tonight.”

“I know you won’t,” you said. He wouldn’t push. Maybe he would tomorrow, but not tonight.

He moved you so you were both lying on the bed. “I’m such a bastard. I should be comforting you instead of talking about my pain and wanting you.”

“You’re allowed to talk about your thoughts and feelings, you know,” you said, trying not to yawn. “And you gave me space today and the movie night, which I needed, so thank you.”

“So, you’re telling me I was a good boyfriend today?” he asked, running a hand along your back, touching you without crossing a line.

“Uh-huh.” You did yawn this time. “You were a good boyfriend today, Bucky.”

You didn’t have to look at him to know he was smiling. “Prepping to be the best husband to you one day.”

“One day,” you whispered, too tired to disagree.

As Bucky held you tighter, you wondered if you should’ve argued and not filled him with hope. But you knew deep down you’d have his ring on your finger and you’d have his last name in time. You would be Mrs. Barnes, his wife, his queen, his Kotyonok, his everything. It was inevitable.

Perhaps it was fate.

Bucky wasn’t in bed when you woke up the next morning. You touched the spot where he laid and found it cold. He was giving you that space once again. Once he had you in the master bedroom, things would surely be different. Chances were he’d wake you with his mouth or cock. You weren’t naive. He’d be insatiable once that dam broke.

“Where’s my phone?” you muttered, searching the nightstand. Bucky had said to relax for the rest of the night, but you wanted to reach out to Addison and the girls.

You checked the library first once you left the guest room and found it right where you left it. Nothing in the room had been touched. Bucky kept another promise.

It wasn’t until you left the library that you noticed the messages and missed calls from your mom, making your stomach sink.

“It’s Mom. Answer your phone.”

“If you won’t call me back, call Dad.”

“Why are you ignoring your parents?”

“I need you to call us.”

Your parents didn’t reach out just because. They never did. Judging from the insistence of the messages, something was wrong. It had to be.

You tried not to think the worst as you called your mom. Was she okay? What was going on?

“You called back,” your mom answered, sounding more irritated than usual. “Finally.”

You sighed, walking toward the kitchen when you smelled coffee. She didn’t bother saying hi. “I’m sorry I didn’t call last night. I’ve been having a bit of a rough time and needed some rest,” you said, refusing to feel guilty.

“A rough time? What could possibly be so rough for you?”

You grit your teeth. So much has happened to you, and of course she didn’t ask what happened or voice any concern. It would’ve been nice if she had, but you were just a florist in her eyes. A disappointment.

Bucky was already dressed for the day when you got to the kitchen. He looked handsome as ever in black. It really was his color. But instead of smiling, he frowned when he spotted you on the phone. “Who are you talking to?”

“My mom,” you mouthed, his frown deepening.

“Put her on speaker,” he said, setting a mug on the island for you. “Please.”

“Are you still there?” your mom asked since you didn't answer her question.

You put her on speaker. “I’m still here, and it doesn't matter,” you said, as much as you wanted to tell her. Shouldn’t a mother’s duty be to protect and care for their child? “Is everything okay? Is Dad okay?”

“We’re fine,” she replied, making you sigh in relief. “But we’re in the city and we’re in a bit of a bind.”

“You’re in the city?” you asked. Bucky raised an eyebrow. When did they get there and why didn’t they tell you?

“Yes. We wanted to see the sights,” she said. Bucky’s jaw clenched when your face fell. They wanted to see the city, but not you? “But we need your help.”

“You need my help?” You shrugged at Bucky who came over and wrapped an arm around your waist. “With what?”

“Well. Our cards were declined last night while we were out. We had to use most of the cash we brought to cover our dinner.” She huffed, a sign that she was embarrassed. The cards declining was a shock. They were careful with their finances. “We thought you might be able to spare a little cash until we can figure out what’s going on.”

“You called me because you need money?” You glanced at Bucky who had a smug smile on his face. Sipping his coffee couldn’t hide it. What did he do?

“You sound surprised,” your mom said.

“I am. With the amount of missed calls and messages, I thought…” You didn't say it wasn't an emergency. Not that declined cards weren't a bad thing, but the way she blew up your phone, you thought something really bad happened.

“You thought the worst? I guess I can understand why, but this is an emergency. And I know a florist salary isn’t much, but surely you can spare a little for your parents,” she said, your cheeks hot. You felt so small, and you bit your lip so you wouldn’t cry. Bucky’s fingers dug in, not liking that she insulted your profession.

“I…” You laughed a little, a small, sad sound. Your mom was calling because she needed money and not because she wanted to see you. It was the cherry on top of a bitter cake. At least no one was hurt or worse.

“We’d be happy to discuss it with you,” Bucky said, sounding friendly enough, but you knew better. “Wouldn't want you to worry about money for the rest of your trip.”

“We? Who is that?” your mom questioned. “Who are you?”

“I’m James Buchanan Barnes, but everyone calls me Bucky. I’m also your daughter’s boyfriend.”

He tilted your head toward him so you met his gaze. He looked and sounded so proud, like it was an honor to be yours. Why couldn’t your parents have even an ounce of pride for you?

“Boyfriend? I… I didn’t realize she was seeing anyone.”

“Maybe that’s because you don’t check in on your wonderful daughter and only reach out when you need something,” he said casually, your eyes widening when your mom sputtered on the other end of the phone. “I mean, you came to the city to see the sights, but not her?”

You gripped the mug, letting the heat seep into your skin before you let it go. He was voicing what you thought. It meant something that he was defending you.

“Well, of course we were going to reach out and see our daughter,” she argued, sounding like she swallowed a piece of glass. Bucky’s dig at her upset her. “My girl, we were going to surprise you before this hiccup.”

You wished you could believe that she wanted to see you.

“I’m sure you were,” Bucky said without a hint of warmth. “But if you need money to get through the rest of your trip, we may be able to spare a little.”

He gave you a nod, encouraging you to say something. “Yeah, I’m sure we can,” you said. He had put money in your account and you could give your parents a bit if necessary.

“Thank you,” your mom sighed.

“Why don't we meet you at The Chateau at 1 o’clock?” Bucky offered. A nice restaurant. They would love that. “It’ll give me a chance to meet my future in-laws face-to-face and I can treat you to lunch.”

He smirked at your expression. Future in-laws? The moment your parents discovered he was made of money they’d be on his side. They wouldn’t be in your corner. But were they ever?

“Y-Yes.” Your mom cleared her throat. “Lunch would be nice.”

“Looking forward to it. And don't be late. My girl’s time is precious and I don't want to waste it.” Bucky hung up before your mom or you could get another word in. “How did you sleep?’

“I… How did I sleep?” you asked, confused by the subject change.

“Yeah. You were so tired you fell asleep in your robe. You're still wearing it,” he said, running a finger along the collar as you tightened it around you.

“I slept fine, but I should get ready for the day. I'm a mess,” you said without thinking. You hadn't gone through your morning routine, immediately searching for your phone before you found him.

He held your chin, his eyes darkening for a split second. “You're not, but one day I will make a mess of you before and after you wake up.”

The breath rushed out of your lungs. There was the Bucky you knew. “Bucky, my parents are very meticulous with their spending,” you said, changing the subject yourself so you didn't focus on his desires. “Did you have something to do with their cards not working?”

Bucky had the power to do that, but what would he have to gain from that?

“I may have made a call or two.” He shrugged when you took a step back. He really did that? Why? “You were still in pain yesterday and I wanted to inflict a little pain on someone else who hurt you. Why not start with your parents?”

The gleam in his eyes didn't frighten you nor did his smile. He really thought he was helping you in some sort of way. “But why would you do that? Because they weren't overly loving to me?”

“That's exactly why,” he said, stepping forward so you were close to him once again. “Outside of me, those are the people who should love and protect you. And when have they been there for you? When have they supported you?” He shook his head in disgust. “They said your life was a waste.”

Your fingers curled. They did say that. All because you decided to do something you loved. “Then why do you want to see them?” you asked. Why would he offer to take them to lunch?

“Maybe I want to tell them what I think of them,” he said, touching your cheek. “Maybe I want to tell them you have a real family here who loves you and are willing to fight for and die for you.”

You didn't pull away when his other hand went to the back of your neck. Wasn't that what you wanted? Your friends were your sisters, but his men were willing to do that because of him, not you. “Did you really freeze their accounts?”

He chuckled and kissed your forehead. How many times has he kissed your forehead since you met? “I’m not heartless. I left them with something because they're your parents and you have a good heart, but I'm guessing they didn't bother trying that card.”

“You really did that?” you asked, still in disbelief.

“I did, and I’d do it again. They may not have put a hand on you, but they hurt you and I won't stand for that.” He moved his mouth to your ear. “Say the word and I’ll make sure they have nothing, Kotyonok.”

You shivered, your eyes shutting. He was willing to destroy your parents for wronging you. It was crazy, but it was his version of love.

And why were you leaning into him? Why were your hands suddenly holding his arms? Was he tightening the chain on you more?

“I’d do anything for you,” he said against the shell of your ear.

The sound of heavy footsteps had you moving away from him, but he stood in the same spot with a knowing smirk. He felt that you had leaned into him, silently looked to him for support. You had to stay in control.

“I think I got the right ingredients,” Curtis said, setting a couple of bags on the counter. “I hope so.”

“Ingredients for what?”

He raised an eyebrow at you and began to unpack the bags. “For the brownies.”

You turned your gaze to Bucky who merely smiled. “Did you send my bodyguard out to get ingredients for the brownies I plan to make for him? That’s ridiculous.”

“He didn't just get stuff for brownies. I had him get a few other things, too,” Bucky said, smiling more when you glared. “I love seeing your eyes light up with fire.”

“Curtis isn't your… errand boy! I could've gone shopping by myself or given you the list.” You threw your arms up when Bucky chortled. “Do not laugh at me.”

“I’m laughing at ‘errand boy’, not at you,” he said.

You pointed to the doorway. “Get out, please. Curtis can stay, but you need to leave my kitchen.”

It was your kitchen now, and baking would help you decompress before seeing your parents.

“You're kicking me out?” Bucky’s expression was a mixture of impressed and offended. “You want him to stay here while you’re in your robe?”

“Yes,” you said, crossing your arms. The robe covered everything.

“Don't you need to get ready for lunch?” Bucky pressed.

“I can do that after I bake brownies,” you said. There was plenty of time.

“Will you wear the diamond necklace I got you?” he asked, staring at your neck. “It looks so beautiful on you.”

Your face warmed at the compliment. “Yes, I’ll wear it,” you said to appease him. “Now go, please. Go talk to Ray. Call Steve. Plot and scheme or do whatever the hell it is that you do when you aren't thinking about me.”

He smiled and kissed your temple as he walked by. “But I'm always thinking of you,” he said fondly, narrowing his eyes at Curtis. “Don't touch my girl.”

“Wouldn't dream of it,” your bodyguard promised.

“I will hurl an egg at your head, I swear!” You stomped a foot when Bucky’s laughter rang out in the hall. He drove you crazy. “Did I just stomp my foot?” you asked Curtis.

“Like a child, but I don't blame you,” he teased, unloading the rest of the groceries. “I think you’ve earned unlimited temper tantrums.”

You giggled and looked over what he bought. “This is everything I need.”

“Recipe from your apartment,” he said when you were about to question how he or Bucky knew to get the special ingredients.

You hang your head for a moment. It wasn't your apartment anymore. “Thanks. I'm sorry you had to buy the stuff for your own brownies.”

“I don't mind,” he said, taking a seat on the stool. It did nothing to take away from his intimidating stature. “Do I scare you?” he asked when your gaze lingered.

“No,” you said honestly. As intimidating as he was, he didn't scare you. He seemed protective of you, and not just because he worked for Bucky. “Do you resent that you're my bodyguard?”

“No,” he said easily, running a hand on the back of his neck. “Someone needs to look out for you, and I’m glad it’s me.”

You began to move around the kitchen to familiarize yourself with where everything was. “Why is that?”

He didn't say anything as he stared at a spot on the island. “Because I know what it's like to feel trapped with nowhere else to go,” he said so quietly you almost missed it.

You spun your head toward him. “You're trapped?” you asked. How and why?

His blue eyes searched yours and you thought he’d elaborate when he opened his mouth. He shook his head instead and softly asked, “Can I help at all?”

You regarded him carefully. Was he talking about the brownies or you? And if he was talking about you, what could you say without it getting back to Bucky? “Thanks, but I'm okay,” you said, offering him a smile which he barely returned.

As you grabbed what you needed, you thought about how the rest of the day would go. What would your parents say when they met Bucky? What would Bucky say to them? Would you tell them anything about what happened? Would they care or try to help you if you did? And what was Curtis's story? Maybe he’d tell you.

Or maybe you’d both remained trapped in Bucky’s world.

Oh, how will this lunch go? And what do we think is Curtis's story? Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

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saltnsugarbear · 6 months ago

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an inch away from more than just friends (18+)

summary: based on the word prompt "I wanted you to be my first" with Carmy!

title from: "Naked In Manhattan" by Chappell Roan

word count: 5.1k

content warnings: beginnings of smut!!! MDNI!! stripper reader (can still be read as gn!), kissing, swearing, teasing Carmy, innuendos left and right, unprotected sex, brief fingering

side note: if anyone wants to yap about Carmy and stripper reader in my inbox after this, please do!!! they're rotting my brain. i love this dynamic <3 I'm actually so excited to post this raahh!!!

Living in New York was expensive.

This is no secret. But the results meant you worked two jobs. One as a bar tender and one as.... An exotic dancer. To put it kindly.

Two night jobs gave you mostly nocturnal habits, but the tips were good. Most of them were in ones and you couldn't exactly pay for everything with a band of dollar bills.

Which is how you ran into Carmy. Outside of a bank. He was lost and you were in a rush to get to the bar.

"Shit- Watch where you're fuckin' goin'!" You hiss as you stumble back, adjusting your bag strap as you steady yourself.

Your first interaction resembled those videos of puppies and senior dogs. You berating him mildly, him knocking you down with a few sentences and you hesitating before going back to nipping his ankles. You're embarrassed now by the way you trailed after him on the sidewalk. You followed this man just because he ran into you on accident.

Carmy has never told you why he didn't yell at you on that day. Why he didn't tell you off for following him through two stoplights. Just like how you couldn't explain why you felt the need to berate this curly-haired stranger in the middle of New York. It also ended up being a pure matter of coincidence when one of your regulars took you to dinner. A dinner that resulted in a kitchen tour that led you back to the man who ran into you.

You stuck around enough to pry a phone number out of him. He was easy to crack, batting your lashes at him and quiet pleading.

He didn't anticipate quite how many notifications you'd wrack up on his phone. He felt obnoxious, being the person whose phone was always buzzing. You were like a labrador chasing at his heels for his attention. Carmy felt bad about when he tried ghosting you. Letting you lead a one-sided conversation for a day.

Just when he thought he'd gotten rid of his distraction, you showed up in the alleyway where he smoked after work. You were already out there when he got outside, leaning against the wall with a cigarette on your lips. That night you managed to convince him to give you a ride to the club after coming all the way out to Daniel to scold him for trying to ghost you.

The first time Carmy pulled up in front of the club, his face flushed bright pink. When you turned to thank him, you couldn't help but tease him over it.

"Aw, Carmen! You didn't tell me you've never been to a club before," You smile at him sweetly.

"Carmy," He says quickly, trying to clear his throat. "Just Carmy is fine."

His words make you hum, watching him as you rest your head against the headrest.

"Wanna come in? Can give you a free dance for the ride," You offer him, smile widening as you watch flush work over his ears and down his neck.

"I uh- I've got to um- I can't I gotta-" He stutters, trying to get out some excuse.

"Fuckin' with you, Carmen," You giggle as you open the passenger door. "You gotta pay for a dance just like everyone else."

You bid him thank you and goodnight after you climbed out of his car, blowing him a kiss through the window as you went inside. And thus started your friendship with Carmy. Although unconventional, you intrigued him. He had never hung out with someone so.... Brazen. Someone so sure about who they were and so different. Someone like you usually trailed after Mikey, fawning over him in hopes he might take you to dinner or to his bed. You were so different from Carmy that it just... Worked.

You brought a different sort of comfort in Carmy. Neither one of you had any expectations for this, and that was enough.

You took to inviting yourself to Carmy's apartment in the beginning before he started asking you over every night. You never expected him to make you dinner but after a few nights of your intrustion, he started asking about your favorite dishes. Started cooking for someone other than himself or a customer.

Which is how you ended up in his kitchen, telling him about your day before work. Complaining about your car that had been acting up and smoking out of the tire well.

"My car's in the shop.." You pout, leaning against the counter, twirling your pen between the surface and your fingers.

"Yeah?" Carmy asks, distantly. He's making you dinner before you have to leave for your shift.

"'S gonna be... Stupid expensive," You sigh, laying your arms on the counter and resting your chin on your forearm. "And Sierra has been askin' for lots of my shifts so I'm not gettin' as much as usual... Gonna be tight between that and rent... 'S my luck though.."

Carmy glances back when you sigh, heart twisting when he sees how your lip juts out with your cheek pressed against your arm.

Carmy tries not to let his thoughts run too wild. Godforbid he messes a good thing up. But it's really hard when you're looking up at him with wide eyes and mouth twisted in a pout. It's easy to let his mind wander to another scenario where you'd look at him like that. Hands resting on your thighs as you sit on your knees, eyes practically begging him to take off his jeans.

He's quick to turn back to the stove, distracting his mind from those thoughts by focusing on what he knew. Food. Not sex and definitely not how you'd look in bed.

Carmy distracts himself with plating dinner. He pulls out two of his pasta bowls and plates up the chicken alfredo you begged him to make for you tonight. Not that you really had to, he would make anything you asked him to. Carmy can hear your hum of excitement as you stand up straight. You've learned to watch Carmy work from the counter instead of trying to help. It just created a bigger headache for the both of you.

Once he's finished plating and puts the bowl in front of you, you give him a quick 'thank you' befire digging in. You carry most of the conversation, making sure to let Carmy know when you wanted his feedback (you learned early-on that Carmy was content to listen, even when you prompted him for a response. He needed to be invited to share his thoughts with you). To anyone else his responses would seem disinterested, but you knew him enough that anything more than a half stuttered few words was good for you.

Carmy does let you help clean up. Letting you pack up the extra food Carmy has started to include so you could take something to your dancer friends or to take home. Carmy focused on rinsing dishes off before putting them in the dishwasher.

You've both fallen into a routine. Once you're both done cleaning, Carmy goes to his room to collect his things for work. You collect your bag from the living room and slip on your shoes and coat.

When you're both ready, Carmy corals you out the door and letting you lead him to the parking garage across from his apartment building. Again the car is filled by your chatter and Carmy's limited input as he drives you to work.

There's a weird vibe when Carmy pulls up to the curb in front of the club. His fingers tap erratically on the wheel and he looks like he's deep in thought. You're about to climb out of the car when he speaks up.

"Y'know, I could um... I could foot the uh, the mechanic bill for ya?" Carmy suggests.

"What?" You ask, turning back towards him quickly.

"For your car... Could pay it off for ya.." He shrugs like it's not a big deal.

"Carm.." You sigh, preparing to turn down what's actually a great offer.

"'S not a big deal promise. You're tight on money and I don't want y'stressin' and risk missin' out on more.." He says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. It's a moments hesitation before you throw your arms around him, leaning over the center console to give him a hug.

"Thanks, Carm," You mutter in his jacket before pulling away. "Means a lot."

You turn back and open the door before turning back to him. Carmy makes a noise of surprise when you place a quick kiss to his cheek, admiring the light lipgloss stain on his cheek. You climb out before he can say anything, ducking down to peer at him from the sidewalk, "Thank you, Carmen!"

You wave him goodbye as he pulls away from the curb, face bright red and stomach full of butterflies.

He's so fucked.

You hope to God Carmy actually picks up his phone. He usually does but you can never be too sure on Carmy's time on his phone.

You're standing in the alley outside of the club, jacket wrapped around you but it's not enough to warm your legs.

"Hey," Carmy's voice is groggy, making your stomach twist with guilt.

"Shit, I'm sorry, Carm.." You sigh, ashing your cigarette.

"No, what's up?" Carmy cuts you off and you sigh again.

"I uh.... I need a ride.. Guy was bein' a major dick and I... I got mad at him and Angie's sendin' me home early.." You tell him. You hadn't bothered changing before you walked out of the club, only grabbing your jacket before you stormed off.

"Give me ten minutes." Carmy's words are final when he says them. He gives you a moment to object before hanging up.

You don't bother to go back inside to grab your things, running on the anger from your customer and manager. It's less than ten minutes before Carmy pulls up to the curb. You climb in the moment the car stops, missing the double take Carmy does when he sees how much of your legs are exposed. You're too busy taking one last hit from your cigarette before dropping it to the sidewalk. When you turn back into the car, Carmy has to tear his eyes away from your thighs, looking for an opening to pull away from the club. He lets you wallow in silence before it hits you.

"Oh, fuck me," You sigh, leaning against your hand on the door and rubbing at your brow.

"What?" Carmy glances at you briefly before flicking on his turn signal.

"Left my keys in my bag and fuckin'- Left my bag at work and I don't-" You sigh heavily, rubbing your hand over your eyes. "I don't have clothes at your place and I can't get home. I'm such a fuckin' mess tonight, I'm sorry.."

"'S okay," Carmy says, taking the gap in cars to pull into the parking lot.

"Carm-" You start.

"It's okay, really. Just give you some of my clothes and I'll uh- I'll sleep on the couch," He says, eyes scanning for a parking spot as if he didn't just invite you to spend the night.

"I'm not gonna make y'do that, Carmy," You tell him while he prepares to reverse into a spot.

"Not makin' me do anything," Carmy tells you once he's parked in the spot. "Now let's get upstairs cause it's fuckin' cold."

You hadn't noticed before but Carmy's only dressed in sweatpants and one of his stupid white t-shirts. You watch as he tucks his hands into his pockets, trying not to stare at the way how his ass looks and how his thighs fill them out.

"Fuckin' stupid f'not grabbing my pants.." You mutter grumpily, bringing the borrowed jacket tight around you. Carmy huffs a few steps in front of you, taking the opportunity to glance at your legs again. Both of you crowd together as you cross the street and enter the apartment building. The building is warmer, making you loosen your hold on the jacket. Being enclosed with Carmy in the elevator makes you open it even more, making Carmy avert his gaze.

You make it more difficult by tucking in close to him, slipping your phone between both of you to snap a quick picture. He still hasn't figured out he doesn't need to look at the screen. When he looks down at your phone, his eyes catch on the deep cut of your top. His breathe catches in his throat at all the skin there, taking in every inch of it.

Within a moment he tears his eyes away, glancing at the numbers as they ding by. Carmy doesn't pay much mind as you hum next to him, bumping him with your shoulder softly. He's gotten used to your casual affections.

Carmy let's you lead him to his apartment door, slipping past you to unlock the door. You still smell like the body spray you showed him. You kept boasting about how it was vanilla and shea and how much you liked it. One of the girls at work had told you about it, and Carmy mentally thanks her for it. Carmy let's you into his apartment, stepping off to the side to toe off his shoes. You sigh as you step in the space, beelining for the island. You drop your phone and cigarette pack before you start shrugging off your jacket. When Carmy looks up from his shoes he feels like he's fucking buffering.

There's so much skin on display and he has to blink hard to fight getting a hard-on. He's not sure what he was thinking, that you had put on a shirt before storming out of work? With the coat off, Carmy can see where your shorts hug your ass, a little bit slipping out of them. He traces up from there to where your top cuts across your skin, breaking up your lower and upper back. There's something else around your middle, a belt of bead strands that clack when you move around and flash refracted light around the room.

You hum as you step out of your shoes, tweaking a strand of hair as you set your jacket on the counter.

"I can sleep on the couch," You tell him, as you turn around to lean back against the counter. He still cringes as you push yourself onto the counter. Carmy's given up on asking you to not. Now he's kind of grateful for it.

"No, it's fine. You can jus' take my bed, not a big deal. Just for tonight, right?" Carmy has to turn away from you to put his locks in place but he can catch your hum as you kick your legs lightly.

"I guess," You sigh. Carmy shakes his head lightly as he walks past the kitchen to his room. You slip off the counter and follow him, beads clacking as you do.

You're not sure why you're surprised that Carmy's room is bland. The rest of his apartment was exactly decorated until you brought things into it. His bedroom was the one room you hadn't seen yet.

"Boring room, Carm.." You tell him, taking it in before your eyes go to where he's digging through his closet. He gives a short hum in acknowledgment but doesn't say anything. While you wait you cross to the bed, sitting at the foot for a moment before you decide to flop back against the mattress.

"What did-" Carmy starts before he turns around. He cuts himself off when he sees you splayed out on his bed, hands resting on your stomach as you trace patterns on the ceiling.

"What did what?" You ask, turning your head so you can see him. Carmy has to clear his throat, folding the sweater he has in half and then in half again.

"What did that uh- that guy from the club? What'd he do?" He asks, setting the sweater on the mattress before he goes to his dresser. He had to buy it when you told him he can't store his extra jeans in the oven. Mostly because he was using it more now that he had you.

You groan loudly, turning back to the ceiling. "Was jus' bein'a dick! Tried coppin' feels left and right, and when I finally told him to stop being a sleazy jackass he got mad and caused a ruckus about me being an ungrateful bitch and then Angie got involved and well.."

You trail off because after Angie had gotten involved you stormed off and called Carmen. You sigh heavily and Carmy turns to look at you before looking back at his dresser.

"I uh.." He clears his throat quietly. "I don't really have... Any shorts or anything, just like uh.. Sweats, jeans.."

"That's okay!" You chirp, pushing yourself up. You lean back against your hands, tilting your head as Carmy turns back to you. You don't miss the way he pushes his back against the furniture, like he's trying to melt into it.

"This'll do," You grab the sweater, running your thumbs over the fabric softly. Carmy nods and you give him a bright grin. "Be back in like... Two minutes!"

Carmy watches as you duck out of his room and make your way to the bathroom. He crosses to the foot of his bed and sits next to where you had been. He squeezes his eyes shut when he hears the door lock click. He tries filling his head with anything he can to keep his thoughts away from you splayed out on his sheets half-dressed.

It turns out that trying not to think about something only makes him think about it more.

Carmy does everything he can think of. Thinks of Chef Daniel, of the dish he was working on this morning. Of Sugar and how he should call her back. Hell, he even let's his mind wander to his mother. But somehow his mind always turns back to you laying back against his bed.

He opens his eyes quickly as he hears you open the bathroom door and the sound of your beads getting farther. He assumes your putting your things with you jacket in the kitchen. It's maybe a minute before you make it back to the doorway to the bedroom.

You look like a vision in his sweater. It's an old navy-colored pullover, 'Brooklyn' across your chest in fuzzy, white letters.

"Very tourist of you," You tell him, pulling at the hem to look at the words. You glance up just in time to find him rolling his eyes at your words, a soft flush dusting his cheeks.

His eyes follow you as you cross to the bed.

"Needed to get some kind of clothes.." He mutters as you climb onto the bed. He doesn't miss the way you huff, shuffling up to the pillows. When he glances back at you he gets an eye full of your baby pink underwear of your work clothes. His eyes widen before his eyes dart quickly up to your face. You're not paying attention, moving one of the pillows over to rest against the other.

"Carmy-" You start, and he feels like he's been caught red-fucking-handed but you didn't even catch him looking. You turn to sit, legs folded out in front of you. He hums for you to continue.

"Lay with me for a little?" You ask him, like you're asking him to hand you something. Like it's normal.

"What?" He chokes out. You huff, the air from it ruffling your hair.

"Lay with me? Stay a little bit before I go to bed?" You cock your head a little, looking at him with wide eyes.

"And do what?" He asks. He doesn't know why he's fucking asking but Jesus Christ you want him to lay in bed with you and his brain is kind of malfunctioning.

You shrug, "I don't know... Sit and talk?"

Carmy seems reluctant, like he doesn't want to be in the room any longer than he has to. Maybe you crossed a line.

"You don't have to," You start, back pedaling on your offer. "Just usually have some sort of like.... Background noise when I go to bed. But my phones gonna die, don't want to steal your charger from you too, tonight."

"Uh... Sure. Yeah, sure.." Carmy sounds hesitant but he gets up and makes his way to the other side of the bed, sitting back against the pillow you left.

You grin at him brightly, curling up against your pillows and tucking your legs under the blanket.

"Tell me about work," You tell him, eyes darting around his face. You always encourage him to tell you about what he does at Daniel, asking questions if you don't know or understand something.

He starts off with reminding you of the dish he did the previous day before coming back to what he did today. You nod along as he describes the menu and the specific dish he had today. You liked watching how animated he could get when talking about a dish.

You let him talk as you rest your head against your hand. You can't help but trace over his features, watching as he licks his lower lip quickly when he pauses. You don't mean to interrupt him.

"Can I kiss you, Carmen?" You ask him softly. Carmy stares at you wide-eyed, mouth open in mid-sentence. His ears are bright pink.

"What?" He blinks a few times.

"Can I give you a kiss?" You say again, like it's the most normal question you could ask him.

"I- Uh- Sure?" He sounds unsure and it makes you furrow your brow.

"Yes or no, Carm," You prompt him gently.

"Yes," He nods quickly, much more sure this time. You give him a quick smile before you're adjusting yourself. You're sitting on your knees now, shuffling forward until they're pressed against Carmy's thigh.

You don't miss how he fidgets and you grab his hand with your left one. "Just a kiss, Carmy."

That's the last thing you say before you bring your right hand to the side of his face and pull him into you. Your lips are soft, is what he first notices. So is your hand. The kiss is chaste and it feels like it's over too soon.

When you pull away, Carmy trails after you, lips ghosting yours as he tries to follow.

"Carm-"

"Please," He cuts you off before kissing you again. Carmy brings the hand from yours to your face, holding you close. You get experimental, turning your head to change the angle. Carmy follows your lead, bringing his hand from his lap to sneak under the hem of your sweater. He pulls at your hip until you get the hint.

Climbing onto his lap gives you the opportunity to deepen the kiss, pulling at his lower lip gently before you slip your tongue into his mouth. His whine is slightly muffled, letting you explore as you please. His grip on your hip tightens as you lower your weight fully on his lap. You don't miss the tent of his sweats pressing against your lower stomach.

You give an experimental roll of your hips, nudging your core just a little over his bulge. He inhales sharply before pulling away, grabbing for the hand that's holding his face.

"I don't um.. I've never..." Carmy trails off. He won't meet your eye, instead focusing on where his hand is holding your wrist.

"Oh! No, that's okay, baby," You coo softly to him, rocking your hips slowly. "Only ever been with like, two people so don't worry.. Pretty new t'this too."

Carmy groans as you continue to drag your core over the tent in his pants. He drops his head to your shoulder, turning his face so he can press soft kisses to your neck.

The kisses are featherlight as Carmy let's himself get lost in the movements of your hips. He groans quietly into your skin when you slowly pick up the pace.

"I uh-" Carmy starts against your skin. You're quick to slip your hand into his curls, guiding his head back so you can hear him clearly. His face is flushed pink as you look at him.

"I want you... I um- I want you to be... Be my first.." He says ths words softly, his eyes are tracing the skin of your neck, mind wandering to how it would look covered in kisses.

"Carm.." You coo softly, bringing your hand from his hair to guide his gaze to yours. "You sure?"

He nods quickly, eyes flicking between yours. "Please?"

Who are you to say no when he asks so prettily?

"Okay," You giggle softly, bringing him into another kiss. This time Carmy tries taking control, prodding gently until you open your mouth to him. He tries to remember how you kissed him, making you huff before you pull away.

"Don't think too hard.." You tell him, placing a gentle kiss to his chin. You nip softly at his jaw before coming back to kiss him. He lets you take back the lead, letting his hands come to rest against your thighs. You bring your hands to his and lead them under your sweater, resting just over your waistband.

Carmy takes the hint, tracing over the skin he glanced earlier. As if to give him some idea, you slip your hands under his own shirt. You let your fingers skim over his abs, following the light trail of hair up his chest. He inhales when you brush your thumbs over both his nipples, pressing his chest into your hands.

You smile against his mouth, pulling away so you can catch your breathe.

However Carmy takes that as the opportunity to kiss at your neck, ducking to nip at your neck. You whine quietly, slowing your hips down to a stop. Carmy groans when you lift your hips but once he realizes why he's less upset. You tug at his waistband, wiggling it as much as you can without his help.

Carmy helps, lifting his hips and hooking his thumbs in his waistband and shoving them to his thighs. You inhale softly when his cock springs free.

Carmy was humble. To say the least.

He didn't act like he had a big dick. He didn't try to boast about it if he ever got the chance. Blush works it's way down his neck at your noise. You're staring transfixed at his cock like you've never seen something like it.

When you look back up you drag Carmen into a sweet kiss. You kiss him slowly, cradling his face as you drag your clothed core over his exposed head. Carmy whimpers into your mouth, taking your lower lip between his.

He lets you go to catch his breath. He can't think of a time he's been more turned on in his life

"Y-You're panties are so- so wet.." Carmy says between pants. He says them like they're not the filthiest thing to leave his mouth.

"Uh-huh," You nod, placing kisses to his jaw.

"Can I please?" One of Carmy's hands has slipped to your waistband, slowly creeping towards your clit. You whine softly into his neck as he ghosts his fingers lower. You can't help but rock your hips into his hand, letting his fingers skim over your entrance.

"Yes, Carmy, yes." You trace a vein with your tongue. He hooks his fingers into your underwear, already prodding at your hole with two fingers.

"Oh my god," Carmy sighs, pressing his mouth against your hair. His breathing ruffles your hair and he has to shut his eyes at feeling of your slick. He dips his fingers into your entrance, making you bite softly at his neck. He pushes until his up to his knuckles. His fingers reach deeper than your own and the heel of his hand presses delightfully against your clit.

Carmy watches in awe as you pull back from his neck and ride his fingers. He gives a few experimental thrusts that make your jaw drop. After a few minutes of this, you bring Carmen into a quick kiss, tugging at his lower lip.

"Need more, Carm," You tell him, lifting your hips off his hand. Carmy mourns the loss as you reach for his dick. His mourning is short-lived when your fingers encircle him, groaning as you angle his head against your entrance. You sink down slowly, and Carmy feels like he could come with just his tip inside you. He won't, but Jesus fucking Christ.

"So fuckin' warm.." Carmy sighs. He holds your hips tightly, keeping you in place. You put your hands on top of his, squeezing them tightly as you sink lower. His jaw drops open at the feeling of your walls around him. You clench around him gently, pulling him into a messy kiss. He pulls back to breathe when you thighs sit flush to his. Having you seated on his cock alone almost makes him come but he has to tense his stomach to prevent it.

Carmy's head falls back against the wall, chest rising and falling heavily as you sit flush in his lap. You can't help but bring your hands to his face, holding him gently as you take in the sight.

"You're so pretty, Carm.." You tell him softly, soothing a thumb over his cheekbone. You're too distracted to notice the twitch against your walls.

"Don't- Fuck- Don't say that..." Carmy mutters, leaning into your touch.

"Say what?" You're confused, tilting your head to one side with a furrowed brow.

"Call me pretty... Make me fuckin'- fuckin' bust b'fore I can move.." He grunts softly as he adjusts his hips. You squeak when his movements justle you, pressing deeper against you.

"Fuck-" You sigh, ducking your head to the side. You can't help the way your eyes flutter shut, soothing your thumb over his skin to keep you grounded. Once Carmy settles back down you pull him into a slow kiss, taking his lower lip between your teeth to tug at gently.

You roll your hips into his, relishing the way he groans into your mouth. The noise trails into a whimper as you clamp your walls around him, making his hands hold on tight to your thighs. The sound makes your head spin, pulling away to catch your breath and hold Carmy's face back as he tries to chase your lips.

You smooth your thumbs over the curls above his ears, while you collect yourself. Carmy ruts his hips up into you, making you squeal softly at the motion.

"Relax, relax," You pull away to catch his eyes. His pupils are blown wide when he gazes at you, blinking softly. You can't help but smile at him.

"Let me make you feel good.."

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