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drunkinyourbenz · 4 months ago

Note

soft smut with bils?

୨ৎ can't sleep? b.e

୨ৎ billie eilish x fem!reader

୨ৎ genre: smut and fluff

୨ৎ content: sleepy smut, fingering, thigh riding, scissoring, pathetic sub top billie if you squint (shut up i'm in love with her i can't live without her)

୨ৎ note: hi i'm alive

୨ৎ wc: 1.8k

billie was busy making her album–it was a lot of work for her, and she was at finneas' house in his home studio almost every hour of every day. it often made her home late, but you didn’t mind. you'd visited them around 11am and had lunch with them and claudia, but you left after a few hours to feed you and billie's dog, shark.

it was now almost midnight, and you were half asleep in you and billie's shared bed. you'd been trying to stay awake, wanting to see her when she got home. the book you had been reading was discarded to the side, and your phone sat on the nightstand, a soft glow emitting from it whenever you got a notification you were too tired to check.

billie finally arrived home, pulling her car into the driveway and parking. it wasn’t common for her to end up recording this late, but it was needed─she only hoped you hadn't waited up. she didn't want you to stay up just for her. she made her way toward the front door, quickly unlocking it and stepping inside.

slipping off her shoes at the door, which she shut quietly so as not to wake you in the hopes you were asleep. she placed her bag down on a stool in the kitchen and found shark, giving him a quick pat and a forehead kiss. she didn’t turn on any lights, instead relying on the soft light glowing from the window. she walked down the hallway, gently pushing your shared bedroom door open and peeking inside.

your head lifted off the pillow slightly the second you heard the door of your bedroom open, and a smile spread across your face. "get over here."

billie's eyes landed on you, and a fond smile graced her lips at the sight of you in bed. she fully entered the room and slowly walked over to the bed, slipping off her clothes from the day and pulling an oversized shirt over her head.

"bossy, hm?"

you simply roll your eyes fondly at her, silently holding your arms out, gesturing for her to join you under the covers.

a cheeky smirk tugged at her lips, teasingly pretending to ponder on obeying your command for a few seconds, before she eventually gave in. she needed to feel your arms around her more than anything, of course. she walked over to the bed after placing her clothes on the chair by the vanity. she slid under the covers with you, quickly wrapping her arms around you and pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.

"hi, pretty," she murmured into your ear, her voice slightly gravelly from exhaustion.

you smiled, nuzzling my face into the crook of her neck and mumbling sleepily, "hi, my love. missed you."

her smile only widened at your words, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead, “you saw me a few hours ago.”

“still missed you. plus, it was eleven hours.”

a soft hum left her lips, “mhm. i missed you too, by the way. ‘m sorry i got home so late.”

you just shake your head, “you don’t need to apologize, it’s okay.”

the two of you fell into a comfortable silence wrapped up in each other’s arms, but something was holding you back from sleep. your eyes drifted to the analog clock on the nightstand, where the digital red numbers glowed ‘12:34’.

billie was still, so you closed your eyes. you opened them minutes later, feeling restless—despite being ready to pass out before billie got home.

a soft sigh slipped from your lips, and billie’s arms shifted slightly around you. her lips were pressed gently against the bare skin of your shoulder when she spoke, her thumb tracing the ghosts of circles on your thigh. “can’t sleep?”

you shook your head softly, voice coming out in a sleepy murmur, "mhm. you too?"

a low hum of agreement left her lips, “don’t know why…” she shifted slightly, her hand resting gently on your waist as she traced shapes—they felt like stars—on your skin through the thin fabric of your clothes.

the two of you remained like that for a few long moments, before her lips brushed your skin again as she whispered, “need a distraction?” her hand tugged ever so gently on the fabric of your shirt, so slight that it almost slipped your attention—but you noticed.

you smiled at the clear implications in her words, “i do, but i’m so sleepy.”

a faint laugh left her lips, “that’s okay, i’ll do all the work.”

the smile on your lips widened at her words, you both knew that billie could easily spend hours pleasing you. “hm, always so good f’me.”

her hands travelled over the body she knew so well, giving one of your tits a teasing squeeze on the way down your body, propping herself up with her elbow as she hooked her index finger in the waistband of your underwear under your sleep shorts, pulling both down in one easy movement.

leaning down, she pressed a soft kiss to your stomach, then your thighs, and then her fingers dipped between your folds. the moan you let out was so soft, so half asleep, that she almost came right then and there. it made her slip one finger inside you, shifting slightly so she was more comfortable. the moans you let out were so perfect, so enticing, and she slipped another finger inside you easily, scissoring them inside of you. she watched the way your face scrunched up in pleasure, and decided that sleepy sex with you was officially one of her favourite things.

bringing her thumb to your clit, she circled it a few times, before her movements changed. you were too sleepy to realise she was spelling her own name on your clit, but she knew. she knew, and it was enough to make her clench her thighs together needily. the thrusts of her fingers were slower than usual, since she too was exhausted, but that somehow made it better. it was achingly slow, soft, and sweet.

the feeling of her fingers inside you paired with her thumb on your clit and the sleepy fogginess of your mind made you let out another moan, your head falling to the side on the pillow and letting your half lidded eyes lock with her piercing blue ones.

the eye contact just made everything better, and you groaned. “fuck–bils, baby–”

her lips twitched up, “gonna cum f’me?”

you nodded drowsily, and seconds later, she’d sent you over the edge. your head fell back onto the pillow again, although your eyes travelled to the ceiling this time as you exhaled softly.

you were shaken out of your slight trance when you felt billie shift slightly, the familiar feeling of her grinding against your thigh making you lift your head again to watch her for a moment. she was just wearing an oversized t-shirt and underwear, what she usually wore to bed. your eyes were fixed on her for a moment, and the corner of your lips curled upwards when you took in just how needy she was for you.

“baby?”

her eyes finally looked up, half lidded with the pupils dilated. “mhm?”

“take them off, sweet girl.”

she did so instantly, without hesitation, lifting her hips from your thigh so she could tug her underwear down her thigh. she automatically rested back on your thigh, but you spoke before she could continue riding it.

“no, baby. come closer.” your hand reached up and you gently guided her until her pussy was hovering over yours.

billie’s eyes instantly widened in recognition the moment she realised what you were getting at, and she wasted no time in moving closer so that your core met hers, her head falling back and a choked moan leaving her mouth. “god, baby–”

the two of you were grinding slowly against each other, still too tired to be moving with the usual vigour, especially after you’d already had one orgasm—but that didn’t make it any less passionate.

her eyes were fixed on the way her soaked pussy moved against yours, but they drifted up to your face for a moment, watching the way you were still propped up on your elbows slightly. “lay back, baby. relax. i’ll take care of you.”

you did just that, relaxing back into the pillows, although you were still watching her closely. the miniscule changes in her facial expression whenever your clits bumped together made the coil in your abdomen tighten. her dark hair fell in a curtain around her shoulders, and the soft glow of light from the ever so slightly parted curtains reflected like a halo around her head. she was the most gorgeous person you’d ever met—in this moment and all others. you watched her eyelashes flutter against her cheeks, and a groan left your slightly parted lips.

“making me feel so good, baby.”

she let out a whine, grinding slightly faster while her brows furrowed in concentration, bottom lip caught gently between her teeth. “i’m gonna–”

you weren’t sure which one of you had reached the edge first, all you were conscious of was the intense pleasure building and finally snapping, and the feeling of both of your cum dripping down your thighs.

your eyes automatically fluttered shut with pleasure, but you forced them open and they snapped to billie’s face, wanting to watch the way her own face contorted in pleasure. billie’s own eyes were shut, her head angled back as she breathed deeply, and you looked at the way the light lit up the column of her neck, and the slight peak of her collarbones that her oversized shirt allowed you to see. she wasn’t wearing a bra under the shirt, so you could see the outline of her breasts and the way they heaved with each breath she took. her hair was messy and cascading down behind her, a little splayed over her face.

never had you wanted to capture a moment more—you wanted the blissed out look in her eyes engraved into your brain, and you almost could have came again from the sight alone.

once she’d ridden out her high, she collapsed on top of you with a heavy sigh, one of her thighs still slotted in between your own like a puzzle piece. nuzzling her head into the crook of your neck, her lips ghosting over your collarbones as she inhaled your scent deeply.

“think you can sleep now?” you murmured, gazing at her figure clinging onto you in the darkness of your room.

the only response you got was a sleepy murmur and billie nuzzling closer to you, and you smiled. your lips found the top of her head, and your arm draped loosely around her waist.

“i love you.”

୨ৎ taglist. @47lake @st0nerlesb0 @n0vabug @darkside-0f-the-sun @asterisk-eyes @amara-eilish @dragoneyelashart @greenbttrflyy send an ask or commet here to be added <3

#୨ৎ lyd writes #୨ৎ lyd's requests #billie eilish #billie eilish x reader #billie eilish smut #billie eilish fluff #billie eilish x you #hit me hard and soft #hmhas #happier than ever #hte #when we all fall asleep where do we go #wwafawdwg #billie eilish fanfiction #billie eilish imagine

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zyafics · 9 months ago

Text

PLAY FAKE | 13

MASTERLIST (Series)

Pairing — Rafe Cameron x Female Reader .ᐟ

Summary — When Rafe needs to secure a girlfriend for his father to see him as a viable candidate for Cameron Development, he enlists the help of a bartender who wants nothing to do with him.

Content — 18+, smut, angst, depictions of jealousy + aggression, emotional turmoil, mild descriptions of violence, and usage of drugs.

"Are you busy?"

The phone call came at the stroke of midnight. Rafe had just gotten away from a lengthy discussion with his father regarding the open properties around Kildare and wanted nothing more than to crash out. But he answered without hesitation when your name flashed across the screen.

"No," he pauses. "Do you need me?"

You do, but you're reluctant to confirm that piece of information. Flattening your lips on the other line, you rub the back of your hand over your tired eyes as a prolonged silence engulfs the call.

But Rafe understands. With a firm I'm coming over, he disconnects the call to pick up his keys.

You've been home for a couple days now, having stayed at Tannyhill for a little over a week. However, with Sarah's return, you felt you'd overstayed your welcome and needed to part ways. Despite Rafe's protests, you insisted, needing to find your own space in the aftermath of everything.

He had hated the way you phrased it. That you needed a place without him.

When he reaches your driveway, Rafe discerns two silhouettes on your porch. Adrenaline spikes, assuming it was Aaron—and that was the reason for your distress call—but upon closer inspection, with the headlights of his car glaring in that direction, the clarity hits.

Maybank and Heyward.

His stomach twists at the realization that he wasn't your first recipient. That you went back to your roots before coming to him. Now, more than ever, Rafe has a bleeding need for some security, to be your first choice.

He doesn't like to be set in the backseat to a pair of Pogues.

Turning off the ignition, Rafe exits the vehicle just as Heyward and Maybank launch from your porch steps with rigid defense. Their eyes narrow at him in suspicion as he stalks up the long pebbled pavement.

"What are you doing here, Rafe?" Pope interrogates in lieu of a greeting.

Rafe scoffs, stuffing his hands into his pocket. "How is that any of your business, Pogue?"

JJ jumps in. "If you're here for Aaron—"

"I'm not," Rafe snaps, not liking any association with the loan shark, before admitting, "She called me."

A moment of suspense punctures the air before JJ disrupts it, shaking his head with disbelief. "Bullshit. Why the fuck would she contact a Kook?"

It's an insult, the way Maybank's lips curled with the title and Rafe huffs. He doesn't owe him any explanation and certainly won't give one. Stepping forward, Rafe attempts to enter your house, only for the two boys to block his path.

"Move," Rafe commands lowly.

Pope tries to meditate. "Look, I don't know what you're doing here, but she's been through some things and we don't want any more problems—"

Rafe doesn't bother listening to whatever else he has to say. He knows. He knows what you've been through and he's here because of it, not to add to it. But the accusation is thick on Pope's tongue, fueling his irritation. He attempts to shove past both of them, only for JJ to push back.

Shouting stirs you awake. That's a lie. You've been staring at the ceiling for the past hour, hoping it'll lull you to sleep, only for the act to be unproductive. When you start to hear sounds coming from outside, you know Rafe arrived.

Pushing past the screen door, you step out onto the porch to witness JJ and Rafe in the middle of a standoff.

Charged words thrown back and forth, you recognize the dark look behind Rafe's gaze as JJ keeps pushing Rafe's chest—one full of deep agitation, seconds away from snapping.

Your stomach flips with nausea.

"Back off, JJ," you announce sharply to the open yard, causing the trio to direct their attention to you. You briefly connect your gaze with Rafe before turning to the younger blond. "I called him."

JJ's hands drop from Rafe's chest, taking a step back, but there's a look of unsteadiness behind his gaze. Confusion spreads across his hard features while his mouth twists into an ugly scowl. "For what?"

"Does it matter?" You refute, avoiding his question. JJ cocks his head, only for you to add, "You can go home now."

JJ frowns, turning to Pope as they exchange a silent debate. When all Pope could give is a casual shrug, knowing it's your decision at the end of the day, JJ turns back to you.

"You could've let us stay," JJ reasons, throwing a harsh glance over his shoulder at Rafe. "What could a Kook do for you?"

"It's fine. He's my…" You trail off, unable to find the right words to label Rafe. Your initial ideas are too compromising. And Rafe doesn't want your relationship to be seen as complicated to the Kook public, since your interactions could circulate back to Ward. But here, in the sanction of The Cut, you know there's no intersection. No need for security. You shake your head with a tired yet reassuring smile. "It's okay. I appreciate you guys' help."

Rafe hates how you didn't say it.

With a heavy sigh, JJ nods. "Alright," he says, clapping his hands and signaling Pope to descend off the porch. They pair off as they head home and, sparing one last glance at Rafe—who's ascending up the short steps to approach you—JJ bids a final farewell. "Call us if you need anything."

Rafe's arm wraps protectively around your waist. "She won't."

You roll your eyes, shoulders relaxing from their rigid stance, as you watch their departing figures. Once they're no longer in view, you take his arm and tug him into your house.

The short stroll to your bedroom is mostly silent and Rafe takes inventory of your home for any disturbance. Since he ordered that cleaning service, your house is significantly cleaner. You had initially refused his charity but he refused to take no for an answer and you ended up with a grade-A cleaning company that polished your home from all the broken debris and dangerous hazards.

But that wasn't the problem.

When Rafe steps into your bedroom, it's an absolute mess. Pillows are skewed across the floor, your sheets wrinkled and tangled upon each other, and piles of your clothes are thrown together into a pile next to your closet. It greatly contrasts the environment outside your door.

"Shit," you mumble, embarrassment flooding through your body. You move from his touch to do some quick cleaning—throwing your pillows back on the bed, picking up dirty clothes, and tossing them into the hamper.

Abashment increases with each of your frantic steps, to the point that Rafe has to grab your elbow to stop you in place. "Hey," he says softly, lifting your gaze to his, "I don't mind."

You don't say anything. Fatigue pours into the very crevices of your bones. But despite the urge to be presentable, Rafe is a comfort. A clutch. And it's getting dangerous seeing how much you lean on him.

It's on the tip of your tongue to push him away. To tell him to go back home. But he beats you to it, glancing at the door.

"Where's your sister?" Rafe asks. "Are they okay?"

"They're fine," you answer, "They're sleeping."

You assumed Amara and Leilani would deal with the same troubles as you, but when you checked up on them, they were out like a light.

Rafe examines you carefully: the way you shift your weight from one leg to the next, the way your hands slightly tremble, and the clear indication of sleep deprivation from the darkened shades ringed around your eyes.

He understands now.

"And you're not?"

Your jaw locks before unwinding. "I'm sorry."

He wants to eradicate that phrase from your vocabulary.

"Why are you apologizing?"

"It's stupid."

"It's not stupid," he argues. "You have a problem and you called me. I'm here to help."

Rafe's words are adamant and warms your chest but guilt presses like glass against your heart. "Were you busy?"

"Doesn't matter."

You frown. But the look in his eyes is genuine and honest. You take a step back to separate from him, needing your own air. As of late, everything you own is his. "I…" You exhale a large breath, voice shaky. "I don't know. I don't know what's wrong."

"Is it because of Aaron?"

You hesitate before nodding once.

"Have you seen him?"

"No, and I think that's the problem." You expel another breath. "I'm on edge all the time. My chest feels heavy and tight and my head hurts." You pause, before choking out. "I'm just so exhausted."

Rafe closes the distance and wraps his strong arms around you as you sink into his chest. You inhale, taking in the faded smell of his cologne.

"I hate this," you mumble, balling the fabric of his shirt into fists. "I hate that I can't sleep. I hate that I'm always stressed. I hate that—" You cut yourself off, not wanting to reveal too much. Swallowing hard, you attempt to salvage your words. "I just hate that I'm like this."

Frustration oozes out of you and Rafe hates to see you in this state. However, he'll admit, having you vulnerable and open is a welcoming change. You're allowing him a chance to see a side of you no one else has the privilege to and he deeply treasures your trust.

He'll do anything to preserve it.

Rafe massages delicate circles into the small of your back, soothing the aches in your bones as you melt into his arms. "It's okay," he reassures with a sweet mumble, "I'm here. What do you need from me?"

"I just want to sleep."

"Then we'll sleep."

"No sex." You withdraw enough for him to meet your solemn gaze, "No touching. I don't want to do anything other than sleep."

"Okay." He agrees slowly, his voice is unsteady because of your accusatory tone.

"I'm serious, Rafe," you proclaim. "I know we like to mess around, but I'm too tired. I don't want to fuck tonight."

Rafe's expression is unreadable, stonewalling his emotions the moment those words slipped from your lips. Did you think he only sees you as a fuck buddy?

"I said okay," he snaps, a little sharper than intended, but you pretend not to acknowledge it. You misunderstand it as him being upset over the celibacy rule imposed tonight, but that wasn't the case.

You swallow hard, not wanting his aggression to roll over into bed. "Rafe," you begin, feeling guilty, "if you don't want to, it's fine—"

"I never said that," he cuts you off, not wanting the implication to be read that he doesn't want you here. He does. It hurts him that you think he sees you as nothing—when that's far from the truth. He just can't seem to say it. "I just..." His jaw tightens. "Let's just go to bed."

Your lips pull together into a thin line, wanting to address the issue, but deciding you cannot handle an argument tonight. Nodding, you separate from him and move to one side of the bed. Rafe does the same.

You thought Rafe would take some precaution to add distance between you but he doesn't. You can feel the overwhelming radiation of his body heat, the indication of his proximity in close range, and it causes your breath to be still.

You can't handle it. You need distance. You need space. It's too intimate otherwise, and you can't afford that.

Pulling yourself to the ledge, with your back facing Rafe, you inhale a deep set of breaths to soothe the tension in your body. To pretend you don't feel the heat of his gaze. "Goodnight."

He doesn't answer at first, before he reciprocates with a night and you close your eyes to sleep.

Rafe watches you. The first few minutes are normal, but as time passes, you can't seem to relax in your position. Twisting and turning, your eyes remain closed throughout. The only sound is the soft breaths escaping you to indicate your sleepy state—or, at least, the closest attempt at it.

His mind still lingers on your earlier words. Do you think he doesn't care about you? Beyond intimacy? Is that why you called Maybank and Heyward first?

Rafe never thought you had an issue with it. That you were perfectly content with the arrangement. But the accusation on your tongue gave a different interpretation. Do you want more? Or, is he driving himself insane with the idea of you being his and only his?

Lost in the spiral of his own thoughts, Rafe didn't even realize that you moved closer. Your back now facing the wall as one of your arms extends outward, draped across his chest.

He freezes. Rafe assumes it's an accident, something you'll retract in a matter of seconds. But when your arm reaches out again, seeking the curve of his neck, he realizes it isn't.

You want him.

Taking it as a sign, Rafe lowers himself to grab the underside of your thigh, pulling your weight onto him. The moment you're in his embrace, chest resting against his, you wrap your arms around his shoulders. And, in return, Rafe nuzzles into the open crook of your neck, inhaling your scent.

"No touching, huh?" He mumbles into the softness of your skin as a gentle taunt. But when there's nothing but the sound of shallow breaths and the emptiness of replies, Rafe realizes you truly fell asleep.

You reached for him unconsciously.

His heart races at the implication, before calming to a normal rate, matching the steady guided pace of your own breaths. His grip around your body tightens, squeezing the soft flesh because, at that moment, he doesn't ever want to let you go.

"You need me," Rafe murmurs the confirmation in the column of your throat, hoping the words would sink through. "And I need you too."

—

By morning, you're gone.

It shouldn't come as a surprise. Every time he spends the night, there's a brief hope that the outcome for the morning will be different. That you'll remain in his arms, sleeping soundly. It never happens. And despite the subtle ache in his bones from the weight of your body on top of his all night, it beats the ache in his heart.

Sighing, after washing up, Rafe exits your bedroom to discover you sitting on one of the stools. A leg propped on the flat seat, your chin rests on your kneecap while you're flipping through some old documents.

"Morning," Rafe says, falling into the space next to yours.

"Shit," you swear, nearly jumping out of your own skin, a hand covering your accelerated heart. You hadn't heard him coming. "You scared me."

"Sorry," he apologizes sincerely, his eyes scanning over your refreshed face. "You sleep okay?"

You nod, recalling the memory of this morning. Curled up on his arms, head buried in the curve of his neck, your body pressed against his. At first, you assumed Rafe had pulled you in, but that wasn't possible. He wouldn't go against your directive. It was all you.

The corner of his mouth rises at the recognition dawning on your face. Before he gets the chance to make some comment about your neediness, you cut him off. "Don't," you warn, feeling a rush of heat rising to your cheeks.

"I haven't said anything,"

"I see it on your face,"

He scoffs, but the smile remains. "You're right," he relents, leaning closer, shortening the distance between you until he's right before you. "I was thinking of it."

Your eyes catch him and the teasing glint behind his gaze, causing your breath to shorten. You expel a breath, trying to release some tension in your shoulders, before you clarify, "All we did was sleep."

"Yeah, but you slept on me," his voice drops a full octave, "Admit it, sweetheart, you want me. Why else would you want me here?"

You search his face, trying to figure out what he wants. What he's trying to get out of you. But you find nothing tangible. Refusing to put yourself in another position of vulnerability when Rafe has done nothing to balance the scale, you scale back, adding space. "I just—I needed someone I trust."

You don't acknowledge that his assertion is correct. That the one time you fell asleep peacefully was in his arms. Or, perhaps, it wasn't necessarily about trust but about him. Instead, you pretend it's something else, something vague and general, hoping one day it will.

"Someone," Rafe repeats. "Or me?"

You avoid the question.

And Rafe assumes the former.

Dropping your gaze to the files, the air stiffens into a palpable silence. Your fingers thread through the records, pretending to search for something, when all you can feel is the thumping of your heartbeat in your veins.

Rafe releases a sigh. The elation of his state quickly deflates after your rejection. Again. He doesn't know how much longer he can take before it truly destroys him. Deciding to shift the conversation elsewhere, he asks, "Do you want me to stay again?"

"No, it's fine," you shake your head, dismissing the proposition out of habit. Even though it would bring you peace, the rational side of your brain determines the distance necessary to protect yourself. Becoming too reliant on Rafe would add nothing but pain. "You can go home," you pause, considering how to lighten the mood, "I bet the mattress here sucks in comparison to your one-million thread counts, huh?"

There's a strain to your voice; a telltale sign. Rafe ignores your words and focuses on what he does best: reading your body language. With squared shoulders and an avoidant gaze, he knows your words are far from the truth. You just don't know how to ask for what you want.

So, he proposes a different question.

"But can you sleep?"

You don't answer.

"I'll stay then," he decides, as if he's reading an item off a menu. Before you get a chance to object, Rafe shifts closer, tugging the corner of a document. "What's this?"

Your mouth closes, shoulders slouching from how quickly he changes the topic. It almost makes you smile. Deciding it would be better than fighting it, you explain that you're reviewing your Sailor bank accounts to see what money you can spare without harming the business. However, the issue is that you can't seem to find any gaps.

Rafe's brows furrow together as he listens, asking permission to take a look at your statements himself. His eyes scan through the billing, before asking. "Why don't you sell the business and work elsewhere?"

"You're not funny," you declare, attempting to pull the document away, but his grip remains firm. His eyes are set on yours.

"I'm not joking," he declares. "It could help a lot. I mean, you'll earn more than what you're earning here."

He isn't wrong. At this point in time, you would profit more by working as a bartender than a business owner. But that's not the point.

"Sailor is my family's legacy," you explain, believing his question was not an attack on your qualification but rather from a strictly logical standpoint. "It and my sisters are the most important things in my life."

Rafe hums, and he doesn't add anything else. You don't know if he gets it. "Let me ask you something: why do you want Cameron Development so badly?"

He goes rigid. He's never been asked that question before. Never had to articulate his reasoning. It makes him uncomfortable to be interviewed—especially if it's to you of all people. "I don't know," he declares noncommittally, glancing at his lap, "I always assumed I would get it. I'm the oldest."

You shake your head. Not out of mistrust, but because you know him. Rafe isn't as simple-minded as the rest of Kildare likes to believe. There has to be more. "I don't believe that," you say gently, "Try again."

His expression morphs into a charming smile. A facade to hide. "Do I get something if I talk?"

You roll your eyes. "It's always sex with you, isn't it?"

His smile drops, but you don't pick it up. He shouldn't have said that, but it's too late. Your expression is easygoing and loose, a detachment to your words as if you truly believe and accept that perception of how he views you.

Instead of addressing his feelings, he tries to articulate what he meant before.

"I don't know," Rafe starts again, in a low mumble, his voice more vulnerable than it was moments prior. "Business was the one thing I got. I... I didn't excel in academics and I didn't like sports that much. But with Cameron Development, it was the one thing me and my dad could sit down and talk about and I didn't feel like a big disappointment to him."

He never said those words out loud before, and the confession sounds pathetic, but the way your eyes soften and your head nods along as you listen with no judgment, it gives him the confidence to continue forward.

"I... I get it, you know? The numbers don't scare me and the logic makes sense. It's the one thing I have going for me and to know that my dad is considering giving it to Sarah... It hurts. Like, she has everything and I can't even have the one thing I'm good at."

His voice cracks at the end, and his gaze has since dropped to the floor, hands messing and rubbing the calloused skin of the other.

You reach forward to cup the side of his face, and lift his head, meeting his sensitive gaze. "It isn't fair," you run the pad of your thumb over his cheekbone, trying to soothe the ache of his admission. "It truly isn't. I wish I could make it better for you."

Too gentle. Too loving. In the comfort of your touch, Rafe speaks before he can stop himself. "Sometimes I think if I have you, I'll be fine with the world."

Your breathing stills. Rafe did too. You don't know if you misheard him, or if he's implying something else, but before you can seek clarification, the doorbell rings.

"I'll get it." Rafe swiftly pulls away, moving to the exit. His hands clench by his side, teeth grinding, regret coursing through his veins at the mistake of letting his emotions overtake him back there.

He shouldn't have said that.

When he opens the door, without checking the peephole, JJ stands behind it.

"Oh, you're still here," JJ declares with a hint of bewilderment. "Didn't think she kept dogs past noon."

Rafe's already on edge from the previous conversation that he has little patience for the Pogue. Seconds away from slamming the door on Maybank's smug face, you appear by Rafe's side, stopping him and inviting JJ in. He steps into your living room, holding something in his hands.

"What's that?" You point to the crumpled note, before recognizing his nervous stance. JJ's bouncing on the heel of his feet, avoiding your gaze, and when you repeat your question, more firmly this time, he reluctantly holds the note out.

"Someone left this at your bar," JJ explains as you take it. Your eyes quickly scan the message, your heart sinking with every word you read. "It's a warning. If you don't... If you don't pay him back in full tomorrow, he'll do something to your bar."

Rafe's watching your reaction with a hardened look. His eyes keep sliding over to JJ, the Pogue being the messenger of the news—the one you sought help from before—and the blond feels the heat of his stare on him. Consequently, it forces JJ to grab your elbow and pull you off to the side, away from Rafe.

JJ begins. "Look, I know you don't wanna do it, but my dad knows a guy—"

"No."

"He's been through with Aaron before," he whispers back sharply, "It might be the only option you have."

"And get stuck in the same shit I had with Aaron? No," you declare firmly, reading the note again. It does nothing to soothe the heightened nerves in your body. The way panic is ricocheting inside your stomach like a ping-pong ball.

JJ says nothing, the absolute behind your tone quiets him. While you're preoccupied with another read-through, JJ glances back to where Rafe stands.

"I gotta ask," JJ starts again, lowering his voice so only you can hear. You lift your head from the note, meeting his curious gaze, with a raise of your brow. "Rafe? Seriously?"

While you're trying to figure out how to maintain your livelihood, JJ is concerned about your love life.

"Is this really the time and place?"

"I'm serious, what do you see in him?"

"Drop it, JJ."

"I just don't understand," he continues in a whisper, but his volume raises slightly, "I swear, you're a pretty girl. You can do 10x better than him—"

"JJ," you command sternly, all amusement vanishes. "Drop it."

"Fine," he stays, stepping back with both hands partially raised to his collar. He doesn't turn to catch another glimpse at Rafe, but instead, offers the same advice as he did before. "If you need my help, you know where to find me."

Rafe watches as the Pogue leaves, stepping out to your porch and closing the door behind him. But his breath remains ragged. He caught the last bit of JJ's hushed words, and as much as he wanted to be sensible, he didn't like it.

You're different than Rafe, he understands that. You have a support system, a list of other people, and sometimes—as much as he hates to admit—they are better than him. Less volatile. Less emotional.

But it feels like you're pushing him away. Placing him as a last line of defense for all your troubles. The insecure parts of him are roaring—louder than his rational thoughts can ever be—telling him that he's the last choice. The last option.

He can't help but wonder. If Leilani hadn't called him, would you have? Or would it be JJ or Pope?

Rafe rounds the couch to approach you, his hand circles your wrist holding the note. Your head lifts to meet his harsh gaze.

"You don't need his help," he declares gruffly, "I could've done it."

You blink. "What?"

"The note at the bar," he gestures to the crumpled paper in your hands, before dropping his to his side, clenching down to a fist. "I could've taken care of it."

"I... I didn't ask him. He did it himself."

Rafe isn't convinced. "And last night with Maybank and Heyward, that was all them too?"

His tone is sharp and accusatory, leaving you lightheaded as you stare at him. You're still wrapped up around the threatening note, but Rafe is somewhere else. A different topic. Another issue. You can't seem to gauge what type of response you need to have. And in turn, you give him silence.

His anger rises. "Am I just your second choice? Your fucking backup plan because those Pogues don't cut it?"

Your head is spinning, and you attempt to pull away from his grip but he tightens it. "Rafe," you start slowly, your breathing quickens, "What are you talking about?"

Are you being ignorant on purpose? Are you trying to drive him mad? His fury erupts, flooding all his senses.

"Them!" Rafe points to the door, where JJ left moments ago. "Last night. Everything. Did you ask them before you asked me?"

It's starting to catch up. "Are you serious?"

"I told you that we'll figure it out together."

"I—" Your throat burns. You can't believe he's letting his jealousy about your friends come at a perilous stage in your life. Exhaling a sharp breath, you meet his stare head-on. "They appointed themselves to that role. I never asked that of them."

After Pope discovered the break-in, JJ and him formed a pact to take it upon themselves to watch over you while you're home. They traded off shifts, entertaining themselves on the porch where they set up a makeshift couch and hammock to crash. You had tried to convince them you were fine, but they were stubborn. They wouldn't listen. And at the time, you appreciated the extra protection.

But it didn't work. You couldn't sleep. You still needed him.

Does he not get that?

Rafe scoffs, shaking his head with contempt, "You never ask for anything."

"Are you really trying to start a fight right now?"

"Are you making it a fight?"

"They're my friends, Rafe," you emphasize, "I told you that."

"I'm not talking about that."

"Then what is it?"

His jaw is set, resistance churning through his system to shut the fuck up, but he can't hold it in. He finds himself asking, half in plead, half in confession, "What am I?"

You weren't expecting that. Your lips part, but no words follow through. His hard gaze is on you, waiting for an explanation, but you don't answer fast enough. It's killing him. His next words are a shimmering calm, in a deadly whisper, "Do you think I only want you for sex?"

Your heart squeezes in your chest, taking all your air alongside it. You think you lost your ability to speak, but when you do, it comes out small. "Don't you?"

You're turning the question back onto him, and he hates it. He's trying to get the words out of you, to see where he stands, but neither of you is willing to take that step. It reduces him to silence.

You can't believe it. He can ask, but he can't answer. Frustration fills you, searing hot and explosive. You don't stop yourself from saying, "Because last I remember, whenever you had a problem, you came over to fuck." You snap, your emotions rising to a crescendo, "And when I asked you what we are..." You trail off, losing your voice. The sting of his label still hasn't passed.

But he knows what you're referring to.

"That's different."

"How?"

Rafe doesn't speak. All he knows is it's different. He has feelings for you. Before he refused to acknowledge it, now, it's bleeding into everything he touches. Everything he does. He just can't seem to say it.

"That was before."

Your brows pull together, your anger pulsating through your veins. "Before what? Before Aaron broke into my house?"

"No," he declares, his response is a knee-jerk reaction, but it wasn't the right one. Attempting to rectify, Rafe stammers, "Well, yes, but it's just... It's..."

Why can't he fucking tell you?

He's afraid of being first.

"It's pity?" You supply, not bothering to conceal the hurt in your tone. "Everything is just pity?"

"No!" He exclaims, but it isn't right. It still isn't good enough.

"Then what is it?" You demand, trying to get a hold of your emotions. But you're seconds away from screaming, or crying, or both. You rip your hand from Rafe's grip, taking a step back to conserve yourself.

His gaze falls to his empty hands, his emotions choking him. Every attempt at saying the right words causes him to shrink, feeling small, feeling like a child reaching for their parent's love, only to be pushed aside and dismissed. His walls are for protection, but it destroys as much as it save him.

Rafe decides to settle on something easy. "I'm your boyfriend."

"Fake," you correct.

"Does this feel fucking fake to you?"

You reel back. All your anger dissipates. All your resentment, hurt, and frustration disappear once those words leave his lips. And you're left with a burning clarity. Your chest constricts, your heart hammering. But you can't seem to answer him. You want him to say it first. "You tell me."

Rafe can't. It took all of him to admit such a thing.

You watch him with bated breath, but only to be disappointed again. His dark blue eyes are piercing, rich with emotions, but none of them are vocalized. None are honest. You can’t do this. You can’t go through another second of this uncertainty. You’re tunneling towards heartbreaking misery. So, you turn to leave.

But Rafe catches your wrist and pulls you back. His lips slam into yours, knocking the wind from your lungs.

He pours everything into this kiss; all his desperation, vulnerability, and truth. His action demonstrates everything his words can’t. And while you reciprocate with the same passion, reality grounds you, and you draw back, shaking your head. “Rafe—“

He kisses you again. Hoping it’s enough. Begging it to be. He can’t say it. He doesn’t know why he can’t fucking say it. He wants this to be enough.

You push back again, and this time, his arm wraps around your waist, trapping you in his embrace. You’re breathing hard as Rafe stares down at you while you’re looking at his chest.

He says your name. You refuse to look up.

He says it again. More firmly. You don’t acknowledge.

“Sweetheart,” he finally says, softening his words, and you find yourself crying. Tears crowd your waterline as you shake your head, refusing to be persuaded by the sweet sound of your endearment.

“No,” you choke out, slamming a weak fist against his chest. “Let me go. I can’t—I don’t—I’m not doing this.”

You finally tilt your head up to look at him. The way he stares at you with such tenderness. You can’t seem to discern it from pity. “I can’t.” You sob, “If this is how you’re playing me, I can’t keep doing this anymore. You’re breaking my heart.“

Then it finally hits him.

All your resistance. It was never rejection. It was the complete opposite. Coupled with the same fears he had; the same emotions he didn’t know how to express. He’s been so blind to it.

He should’ve known. He should’ve read it the same way he’s been reading everything else.

It finally gave him the confidence nothing else has.

“I fucking love you.”

You are completely still. You think you're hearing him wrong, that this is just a way of your brain deluding you and calming your irrational state of mind, but it's real. Your lips part, breathing shallow, all while you're staring back into Rafe's eyes.

He's afraid. Rafe doesn't trust his own instincts. Everything about you makes him question himself. And while he gained a fleeting moment of courage, he doesn't know if it will follow through. On the off-chance that, despite all this, all the signs he read, he was wrong and it will be rejection.

"Say it back," Rafe whispers in a plea. It's pathetic, but he no longer cares. "Say it back or I'm going to lose my fucking mind."

"You love me?" You breathe in a whisper, unable to move on from this moment. Rafe squeezes his eyes shut, swallowing thickly, before nodding once.

“I think I loved you since I first met you,” he confesses. “I just didn’t know it yet.”

“You’re not just saying that?”

Rafe bristles, “You think I go around telling people I love them?” He declares, studying your expression, trying to gauge your reaction, but it’s hard when he’s blinded by the crippling fear that you don’t feel the same. “You think I do this for anyone?”

“I don’t know,” you admit, “I just don’t want you to say something you don’t mean.”

“I do mean it,” he declares, his voice suddenly dry, as he finds your gaze. “I… I’m sorry for before when I said things I didn’t mean. I don’t want you just for sex, I don’t see you as just a fuck buddy. I’m… I’m in love with you, and it’s fucking difficult to tell you that.”

Your lips purse together, but you still don’t answer him. Don’t confess your own side. Instead, you ask in a meek voice, “Since the beginning?”

He huffs. He can’t believe he’s admitting so much today. Revealing things he swore he’d keep hidden behind a locked box. But when he finds the light returning in your eyes, trying to gauge more of his reaction, read his true meaning, finding comfort in his words, he’ll rip out his own soul to keep it there. “Since the beginning. When you called me out, when you patched me up, when you slapped me—“ That bit makes you let out a small laugh, “I don’t think I was going to meet anyone who challenges and accepts me the way you do.”

You don’t say anything for the next few moments. And they were the longest seconds of his life. Rafe had to speak, “And if it’s just me, if I’m the only person who feels this way, I’ll find a way to be okay with that—“

You cut him off with a kiss.

“I love you,” you breathe into his lips, wrapping your arms around his neck, “I love you,” you jump, curving your legs around his hips as Rafe catches you, steadying you with two hands tantalizing skimming the curve of your ass. “Fuck, Rafe, I love you so much.”

His heart fills with your words. Your desperation clinging to each puncture. He grins into the kiss, before he deepens it, tasting you, stealing your air. Everything feels right. Feels good. When Rafe separates to break the kiss, he catches the residue smile on your face and the little daze behind your eyes. He snaps a memory of it and saves it forever.

But, just as it came, it slowly faded away. Reality quickly dawns on you, and your arms tightens around Rafe’s neck, reminders and deadlines creeping up your skin. Your confession comes out small. “I… I’m scared. With Aaron and everything.”

“Sweetheart…”

“I don’t have the money, Rafe,” your eyes connect with his. “I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

Rafe pulls you in, flushed against his chest as your head lays on his shoulders and his hand strokes your hair. It takes a moment for him to process, to remember the world outside of you. But, when he does, he whispers, “I’m going to take care of it,” his voice so low, it almost comes out as a threat. “I’ll take care of you.”

And he will.

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nylqnder · 4 months ago

Text

IF THESE WALLS COULD TALK WILL SMITH

pairing: will smith x celebrini!sister!reader

summary: you've been struggling to keep your relationship with will a secret, but when teasing escalates, your secret is unexpectedly exposed.

warnings: brother's best friend trope, mentions of drinking, secret relationship, you and mack are living together instead of him living with the thornton family

wc: 2.49k

notes: when done right, the brother's best friend trope is soooo delicious

As you pull up outside of the Toffoli’s house, the party is already in full swing as the Sharks let loose for the night. You can hear the steady hum of conversation and music flowing out from the open windows.

You’re used to this by now. Living in San Jose for school has meant becoming a regular fixture at these gatherings, thanks to your brother, Macklin. At first, you’d felt like an outsider, just the kid sibling tagging along, even though you’re older than him. But over time, the team had embraced you as one of their own. It’s hard not to get close when they’re constantly around, filling your nights with games or pre-match dinners with the girls.

You step inside, exchanging quick greetings with the players and their significant others. You sidestep through the crowded space, quickly taking in the familiar faces. And then, your eyes find him across the room, as they always do.

He’s standing near the kitchen, beer in hand, laughing at some story Nico is telling him. The dim lighting does nothing to dull the sharp angles of his face, the way his blonde hair curls slightly at the ends, a little dishevelled but in a way that only makes him look better. He’s wearing a fitted black t-shirt, sleeves stretched just enough over his biceps to make your stomach do that stupid little flip it always does when you see him.

God, he looks good. Too good. Unfairly good.

For a second, you forget yourself, caught in the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he grins, how effortlessly he commands the space around him. But then reality snaps back into place, and you remind yourself that you’re not supposed to be looking at him like this. Not here. Not when your brother could walk past at any second.

Your relationship with Will has been a secret — a carefully kept one.

At first, Will was just your brother's teammate — another face in the endless cycle of players who drifted in and out of your life because of Macklin. But unlike the others, he stuck around. He and Mack had clicked instantly when they joined the Sharks, and from that point on, they were practically inseparable. If Macklin wasn’t at the rink, he was with Will. If Will wasn’t at the rink, he was at your and Macklins' place. They trained together, travelled together, and spent their downtime playing video games on your couch like overgrown kids.

And somewhere along the way, between all the nights spent at your apartment, things changed. The connection had been effortless, undeniable.

But it wasn’t supposed to turn into something more.

You hadn’t meant for the late-night conversations to get deeper, hadn’t planned for the stolen glances to linger too long. You definitely hadn’t expected the first time he kissed you, back when it was still something you could chalk up to bad decision-making and too much tequila consumed at a San Jose State frat party. But then it happened again — sober, intentional. And again. Until, eventually, neither of you could deny it anymore.

Now, months later, it’s something real. Something you don’t want to hide, but Will — he’s more cautious. Not because he isn’t sure about you. That much has always been clear. It’s Macklin he worries about.

Mack’s always been protective, always viewed you as his responsibility in a way that, while sweet, could also be incredibly frustrating. On one hand, he’s looking out for you and making sure his older sister is always happy. But he’s your younger brother. Your baby brother. He’s the one you should be worrying about, not the other way around.

And Will? He’s one of his closest friends, someone he trusts implicitly. The idea of telling him — of risking that dynamic — makes Will hesitate.

And so, you’ve kept it quiet.

It’s not always easy. Especially at moments like this, when you’re at the same party, standing in the same room, but you have to pretend you don’t want to be near him. That you don’t want to walk over there and run your fingers through his hair, tug him closer, and press your lips to the spot just below his jaw that always makes him shiver.

Instead, you force yourself to look away, to find a drink, to keep yourself busy. But the weight of his gaze finds you anyway, and when you glance up, Will is already watching.

His expression is unreadable to anyone else, just casual enough to seem normal, but you know better. You see the flicker of longing, the way his fingers tighten ever so slightly around the neck of his beer bottle.

You’re tired of this game — this careful balancing act of stolen glances and unspoken words. It’s not that you want to make some grand announcement, but there’s something about tonight, about the way Will looks at you like he’s barely holding himself back, that makes you want to push him just a little.

You take a sip of your drink, letting your gaze sweep the room before landing back on him. Then, deliberately, you tilt your head and let your eyes drop to his lips before flicking back up to his. It’s subtle — just enough for him to catch it.

Will straightens almost imperceptibly, his fingers flexing around his beer bottle.

You bite back a grin.

You turn on your heel and weave through the party, lingering in conversations just long enough to be seen. You laugh at something one of the girls says, throwing your head back slightly, knowing full well Will is watching.

And when you lean in to talk to Collin — just innocent conversation, nothing more — you don’t miss the way Will shifts where he stands. The way his jaw ticks.

You’re halfway to reaching Cat when Will suddenly steps in front of you.

“Hey,” Will says casually, too casually.

He’s so close that you can feel his breath on your face, the scent of his cologne completely enveloping you. “Hey yourself.”

His eyes flick over your shoulder to Collin, expression neutral but you don’t miss the way his eyes narrow and the way his shoulders stiffen. “Didn’t know you and Collin were so close,” Will remarks, taking a slow sip of his beer.

“We’re not,” you reply, feigning innocence. “We were just talking.”

Will hums, unconvinced. “Sure.”

You tilt your head, leaning just a fraction closer, just to mess with him. “Why?” you ask, voice low, teasing. “Something wrong?”

He meets your gaze, and for a second, you think he’s going to cave — that he’s going to say screw it and kiss you right here, right now.

But then, instead of giving in, Will’s hand closes firmly around your wrist.

“Come with me,” he mutters under his breath, barely giving you time to react before he’s tugging you through the crowd.

You stumble slightly, caught off guard, but quickly regain your footing as he pulls you down a hallway. The noise from the party dims the farther you go until Will reaches the door to the bathroom and pushes it open, ushering you inside.

Before you can make a smart comment, the door clicks shut behind you, and Will turns to face you, his expression tight, controlled. “Are you having fun?” he asks, voice low, rough.

You blink, caught between amusement and curiosity. “Excuse me?”

He exhales sharply, shaking his head. “You know exactly what I mean.”

You cross your arms, tilting your head slightly. “If you’re asking if I’m enjoying the party, then yeah, it’s been great.”

“Cut the crap,” he says, stepping closer. “You’ve been teasing me all night.”

Your brows lift. “Teasing?” you scoff. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Will lets out a short, humorless laugh, running a hand through his hair. “Bullshit. The looks, the little smirks, leaning into Collin like that—” He stops himself, exhaling through his nose. “You’re trying to get a rise out of me.”

You shrug, biting back a grin. “I don��t know, Will. Sounds like you’re the one making a big deal out of nothing.”

His eyes darken, stepping closer and forcing your back against the counter. “You think this is funny?” he murmurs, voice dropping.

Your heart stutters, but you keep your expression neutral. “I think you’re overreacting.”

Will shakes his head, exhaling heavily. His hands press into the counter on either side of you, caging you in. “You can’t do that,” he mutters, eyes locked onto yours.

“Do what?” you challenge, tilting your chin up.

He leans in, lips barely an inch from yours, voice barely more than a whisper. “Make me want you when I can’t do anything about it.”

Your breath catches, but before you can say anything, he pulls back slightly, running a hand over his face. “Macklin can’t find out,” he reminds you, and there’s something almost desperate in his tone.

You exhale, shaking your head. “I don’t think he’d mind as much as you think.”

Will lets out a sharp, humorless laugh. “You’re kidding, right? He’s your little brother. He’s my teammate. He’s protective as hell.”

“I know my own brother, Will,” you counter. “And yeah, he might be a little weird about it at first, but once he sees how much you mean to me — how much we mean to each other — he’d get over it. He’d probably be happy for us.”

Will’s jaw tightens like he wants to argue, but he doesn’t. He just stares at you, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.

You reach up, fingers grazing his forearm. “You’re the only one making this harder than it needs to be.”

He swallows, his hand lifting to cup your jaw, thumb brushing over your cheek. It’s so gentle, so at odds with the tension crackling in the air between you. His forehead drops to yours for a beat, and you can feel the unspoken words sitting heavy between you both.

And then, finally, he exhales, shaking his head with a reluctant smirk. “You drive me crazy.”

You grin. “Good.”

And then, before he can say anything else, you close the distance.

The second your lips meet, Will exhales sharply, like he’s been holding his breath this whole time. His hands move down to your waist, pulling you flush against him as he kisses you, slow and deep, like he’s making up for all the times he’s had to hold back.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging just enough to draw a low groan from his throat. It sends a thrill down your spine, and you press closer, letting yourself get lost in him. The party outside fades away, nothing but muffled voices and music in the background.

It’s just you and Will, finally allowing yourselves this moment.

Will’s lips trail from your mouth to your jaw, his breath warm against your skin as he whispers, “You’re impossible.”

“Hey, Smitty, can you stop macking on my sister? I gotta take a piss.”

Macklin’s voice comes through clear as day, making the both of you freeze.

Will pulls back like he’s been electrocuted, eyes wide in panic. His grip on you loosens instantly, and he looks at you, then the door, like he’s calculating how fast he can escape.

You, on the other hand, are struggling to hold back laughter. Because of course this is how Macklin finds out. Not through some well-planned conversation where you gently break the news, but by catching Will mid-makeout session with his sister in a damn bathroom.

The knocking starts up again, more insistent this time.

“Come on, man,” Macklin groans. “Just open the damn door before I start thinking you two are doing more than just making out.”

Will lets out a sound that’s somewhere between a groan and a whimper, running a hand down his face. “I’m actually going to throw up.”

You bite your lip, reaching for the doorknob. “Well, there’s no getting out of this now.”

Will doesn’t move, still staring at the door like it’s a portal to his impending doom. You take pity on him, squeezing his hand quickly before turning the handle. The door swings open, revealing Macklin standing there, arms crossed, expression mostly unimpressed.

“Hey Mack!” you say brightly, like not a single thing is out of the ordinary. Will moves behind you, almost as if he’s using you as a barrier between him and Macklin.

Macklin’s eyes flick between the two of you before he just sighs, shaking his head like he’s already too exhausted to deal with this. “Are you guys done?” he deadpans. “Because, seriously, I really need to piss.”

Will blinks, his mouth opening and closing like he’s trying to form words but failing spectacularly. You, on the other hand, just fold your arms, tilting your head at your brother.

“That’s all you have to say?” Will blurts out, voice strangled.

“What do you want me to say? You want me to scream at you for making out with my sister? Beat the shit out of you?” Macklin snorts at his own comments. “Come on. I’m not an idiot. I’ve known something was up for a while.”

Will finally finds his voice, clearing his throat. “Wait—what?”

Macklin rolls his eyes, stepping past both of you and toward the toilet. “Dude, you’re not as slick as you think you are. The little looks across the room? The ‘accidental’ hand brushes? I mean seriously it makes me want to puke.”

Will is still standing there like he’s buffering, his brain trying to process this information in real time.

You bite back a laugh. “So, you don’t have a problem with the two of us?”

“I mean… why would I?” Macklin asks. “I know you. I know him. Do I love thinking about one of my best friends making out with my sister? No. But you’re both adults, and Will’s a good guy. As long as you’re happy, I don’t care.”

“I told you he wouldn’t care,” you say, smug.

Will doesn’t even bother responding to your comment, exhaling sharply and dragging a hand down his face. “Jesus Christ.”

“I mean, don’t get me wrong — if you mess this up, I’ll have to kick your ass,” Macklin adds.

His gaze sharpens just enough that Will instinctively straightens. “Noted.”

Macklin nods, satisfied. “Good. Now, can you two please get out because I actually have to piss.”

You laugh, grabbing Will’s hand and pulling him out the door before Macklin kicks it shut behind the two of you. Will still looks mildly stunned, but you squeeze his fingers, shooting him a reassuring smile.

You nudge him. “See? Told you. Nothing to worry about.”

Will exhales, looking at you with something between relief and disbelief. “I think I need another beer.”

You grin, lacing your fingers through his. “Come on, then. Let’s go celebrate your survival.”

He lets you pull him back toward the party, still shaking his head, muttering under his breath, “I cannot believe I lost sleep over this.”

#˚₊۶ৎ˙⋆ nylqnder #will smith hockey #will smith x reader #will smith imagine #will smith #nhl #nhl imagine #hockey #hockey imagine #san jose sharks

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muletia · 2 months ago

Note

Please oh great one, I beg of thee to give merform deception crumbs. I want to tease the big evil fishies. I want to bite merformer Megatron affectionately and then pretend to be oblivious to it, I want to be spoilt by mer Knockout and spoil him back with pretty shells, I want to tame merform Starscreams tsundere ass and scratch n pet his helm till he's whining affectionatly

mer!megatron x human!reader mer!knockout x human!reader x mer!breakdown mer!starscream x human!reader no specified iteration

Fuck it, I caved in, merformers content. Somewhere in the world it must be May first already, right?

Also, everyone is soft-bodied because that's my guilty pleasure

Megatron (axolotl, based on this concept)

Huge, powerful arms covered in scales wrap around your waist, shielding most of your back, holding you tightly against the stomach of the massive mer and grounding you against him. Every attempt to pull away, to increase the distance even by a single milimeter ends in failure when a warning, guttural growl paralyzes your body, commanding you to stay. Right here. With him. After all, you left your lonely, proud axolotl for two weeks — now it’s time to pay him back for making him wait, for taking away his only source of comfort in this forsaken place, this lake of despair in the middle of nowhere.

And Megatron needs to make sure you understand why he’s "punishing" you this way. What kind of agony your absence threw him into, even if he was already used to deadlier stretches of time without contact with another soul. You shifted his thresholds of tolerance, and now you had to pay. He just happened to take advantage of your closeness, feeling his resentment toward you wash off of him as easily as water. He couldn’t stay mad at you for long. Not anymore.

Annoyed, though — that, yes. A sudden, subtle bite to his bicep pulls him out of the bliss of closeness. A single growl sends a warning, continuing to test the fragile string of his nerves might not end too kindly for you, but when red optics glance at you inquisitively, you pretend you did nothing. That the pathetic little bite wasn’t your doing, which almost offends him. Do you really think he’s a fool? Your naivety also holds a delicious flavor for him, and he’s not about to let it slide.

"You send me an invitation to mate, and now you act all innocent?" he says, knowing full well you can’t understand him, not yet, but he intends to hammer his intentions into your mind with a low, husky tone, which apparently works judging by your flustered reaction. "Let me show you what love bites really look like," he adds, opening his maw to reveal two rows of razor-sharp predator teeth. He wastes no time sinking into your neck, leaving behind his affection.

Knockout (lionfish) + Breakdown (blue shark)

Perched on a large rock close to the shore, the red mer watches from the corner of his optic as you wander nearby, head lowered and eyes fixed intently on the flawlessly clear water. His helm rests on crossed forearms, tracking your movements for some time now, trying to decipher your strange little human game. It didn’t look interesting, and frankly, he couldn’t care less, but with nothing better to do while Breakdown went out hunting, Knockout decided to indulge you with his presence. He hoped you’d return the favor and shower him with your full attention, but you had your boring plans. He barely holds back an annoyed click of his tongue. Boring! Dreadfully boring!

"Heeey, couldn’t you do something more exciting? Like, I don’t know, me?" he calls out to you, but all he gets in response is a quick smile. You go right back to whatever it is you were searching for.

Offended by your lukewarm reaction, he huffs and rolls his optics, returning to sunbathing with no real purpose, keeping one optic on your movements. His tail, streaked with white and red smears of scales, slaps the surface of the water a few times.

Only after a while does the quiet of nature break with your excited squeal. Knockout lifts his helm from his arms and watches you rush toward him, splashing the water awkwardly with your feet. In your hands, you’re holding a giant conch shell that perfectly matches the colors of his scales. A strange glint flashes in his red optics, but you don’t notice it through your excitement.

"For me?" Knockout asks, pointing a claw at himself. Only when you nod enthusiastically does he take the conch from you and briefly admire it before purring with delight. "Thank you, darling. And since you’re already so close, allow me to take advantage."

Before you can blink, his free arm wraps around your back and pulls you in, completely ignoring your startled squeak, rubbing his conveniently dry helm against your head, grateful that you saved him from his boredom. He couldn’t wait to show your find to Breakdown and for the two of them to show you just how grateful they were that you began your courting.

Starscream (sailfish)

The growl escaped him by accident, a primal instinct urging him to defend his mate from danger. The problem was that you weren’t his mate (yet), and there was no danger. He just didn’t like how close that harmless fish got, breaking his sweet little idyll of you stroking his helm. When you pulled your hand back, startled by his sudden reaction, it left behind a strange emptiness that gnawed at his spark. Your touch had been pleasant, soothing. It belonged where it was — on his helm. Worshipful and adoring.

Starscream wants more of what he is owed.

"Bring that weird human hand back here," he demands and grabs your wrist, pulling it back onto his helm. Apparently a bit too forcefully, because you almost tumble into the lagoon he was currently submerged in up to the waist, but Starscream wasn’t about to apologize, even as your accusatory glare burns into him. "Worship me, human," he commands, and you obey, even without understanding his shrill chirps.

You stroke the top of his helm, and Starscream melts under your touch, sinking down into the sand and purring in contentment. "You are surprisingly fit to be my mate," he sighs, webbed servos kneading the sand in bliss like a happy, relaxed cat pawing at a cushion.

You take that as an invitation to move a bit lower, running the edge of your hand along his faceplate until you reach his chin, which you begin to gently scratch, right before Starscream accuses you of slacking off.

"W-what are you doing?!" he cries out, but it’s a bluff, the initial shock caused by the overwhelming joy of an unknown sensation of chin scratches. His tail starts swaying gently on its own, stirring the surface of the water, and a sweet little whine escapes his intake, begging you not to stop. Starscream doesn’t even notice your wide, satisfied smile, hypnotized by the addictive power of your touch.

#muletia writes #merformers x reader #merformers #megatron x reader #knockout x reader #breakdown x reader #starscream x reader #btw if you ever noticed that my writing style is hella inconsistent #it's because it is lmao #i like to experiment with the way i construct sentences #and where i put commas and such #maybe someday i will be satisfied with my writing style enough not to change it every fucking time

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annaswrites00 · 12 days ago

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Damage Control

OP81 x mediamanager!reader

(3.7k)

Summary - Oscar’s still wired from the chaos of Monaco, and she knows just how to push his buttons… warnings - smut, explicit content, public setting, language. 18+ ONLY!!!!!

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The applause faded behind the press barricades, but Oscar could still feel it crawling under his skin.

He’d smiled on the podium, sure. Said the right words. Let the champagne spray across his fireproofs. Even laughed when Lando poured the sticky liquid down his neck.

But it wasn’t real.

Not today.

P3 should have felt like something. It should have meant something.

But all he could feel was heat.

Heat at the base of his neck, prickling under the collar of his suit. Heat rising behind his ribs. A low burn of resentment he couldn’t shake.

Stupid mistakes.

That was all standing between him and something more.

He tugged at the Velcro near his neck as he stalked down the paddock corridor, jaw locked, mouth set in a tight line. The noise of the crowds, the calls of crew and media, the subtle roar of the harbour still pulsing with celebration—it all blurred into a kind of pressure behind his eyes.

He needed space. Silence. Cold water. Anything but—

“There you are.”

He stopped.

She was standing just past the media tent, iPad tucked under one arm, headset hanging around her neck. No clipboard this time. Just her, in the McLaren black polo that was one size too big and didn’t quite hide the nerves in her posture.

“Media starts in ten,” she said, softer than usual. Not a command. Almost… a question.

Oscar stared at her for a second.

The last few weeks had made her too familiar—a constant shadow in the garage, in the hallways, in his periphery. She was always hovering, always coordinating. Efficient. Polite. Unshakable, until now.

Now she looked almost unsure.

He didn’t answer.

Just tugged at the top of his suit and wiped at the sweat behind his ears. The scent of champagne still clung to him. He hated it. Hated that it meant celebration when all he felt was disappointment.

“I can—” she started, adjusting the tablet against her chest, “—I can see if they’ll push the first interview back a few minutes if you want. If you need a breather.”

Oscar’s eyes narrowed. “That's your call now?”

She hesitated. “No. But—”

“Then don’t offer things you can’t deliver.”

The words came out sharper than intended.

Her lips parted, like she might argue—but she didn’t. Just swallowed once, visibly, and nodded.

“Sorry.”

The silence that followed made it worse.

He wasn’t trying to be a dick. Not really. He just… couldn’t do this right now. Couldn’t fake the right sound bites when his blood was still boiling from a race that felt like settling.

She took a step back. “You’ve got a few minutes if you want to clean up. Water’s just inside. I’ll wait here.”

Oscar didn’t answer. Didn’t thank her.

He pushed through the side door of his driver’s room without looking back.

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When he returned, his suit was tied at the waist, sleeves hanging limp. He’d splashed his face and rubbed a towel through his hair, but the tension hadn’t eased. If anything, it was worse now—trapped under his skin like static.

She was still waiting.

“You don’t have to follow me around, you know,” he muttered as he passed her.

“Actually. I do.”

She fell in step beside him.

They didn’t speak as they walked. The corridor toward the media pen narrowed, the buzz of voices growing louder. Crew, reporters, photographers—all gathered like sharks that could smell blood.

She glanced sideways at him once. “I can brief the first two outlets to keep it short.”

He didn’t say thank you. Just ran a hand through his hair, then dropped it with a sigh.

And when they reached the edge of the media tent, he finally stopped.

“I don’t want to do this.”

It wasn’t loud. Just kept between them.

But it was the first honest thing he’d said since the podium.

She looked up at him, eyes soft, uncertain. “I know.”

He should’ve hated the way she said it. Gently. Like she saw something he didn’t want her to.

But he didn’t.

He just stood there, jaw tight, fists clenched loosely at his sides.

Something flickered between them—an imbalance shifting. She wasn’t giving orders now. Wasn’t pushing. Just waiting. Letting him decide.

And maybe that was what made him speak again.

“It was just silly mistakes. I could’ve had it. I can do so much better than this.”

“I know,” she said again.

Oscar’s breath caught. He looked at her—really looked.

No headset now. Just her. Her mouth pressed tight, like she didn’t trust herself to say more. She was younger than most of the team. New. Still finding her place. And yet, somehow, she’d found him.

Found the part of him that wasn’t polished or press-ready. The part that cracked.

“You don’t get it,” he muttered.

“I might,” she said, voice quiet.

That made him pause.

He stared at her for a beat too long, jaw working like he was chewing down something bitter. Then he glanced past her toward the growing swarm of cameras and flashing lights.

And he shook his head.

“No,” he said, more to himself than to her. “Not doing it.”

He turned away, started back toward the corridor—toward escape.

“Oscar—” she started, catching up, voice sharper this time.

He didn’t stop walking.

“You have to—”

He did stop at that. Pivoted with a quickness that startled her into stillness, his eyes dark with heat. The kind of heat that came from pressure.

“No,” he said again, firmer now. “I don’t have to stand in front of ten different microphones and act like I’m happy to settle for third.”

Her mouth opened, closed.

He waited.

“Look,” she tried, a bit breathless now. “It’s not about pretending. It’s just a part of the job. It’s about showing up—for the team, for the sponsors—”

“For the cameras,” he cut in, stepping in closer. “For the show. For the headlines. I know.”

Something about the way he said it—like a weight around his neck—made her temper pull back, just slightly. But she held her ground.

“This isn’t personal,” she said, quieter. “It’s just the media schedule. You know that.”

His jaw ticked. “You think I don’t give enough already?”

“No,” she said immediately, which surprised him. “That’s not what I’m saying. I get it. You’re pissed about the race, this weekend. Ok. That doesn’t mean you get to skip out on the rest of your job.”

Oscar looked at her, gaze flicking down for just a second—at her hands clutching the tablet again, knuckles tight with strain. She was flustered. She didn’t hide it well.

“You’re new,” he muttered.

“What?”

“You’re still trying to prove yourself.”

That landed somewhere deep. She shifted her stance. A slight defensive tilt to her chin.

“That doesn’t mean I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“I never said that.”

“You didn’t have to,” she replied, quick, sharper than she meant to. Then her voice dipped. “I’m just trying to do my job, Oscar. Same as you.”

The silence between them was taut, wound tight like a snapped cord.

Somewhere behind them, a camera flash popped. Someone was shouting a name—his name—but it might as well have been on the other side of the world.

Oscar exhaled through his nose and jerked his head sideways.

“Come on.”

She blinked. “Where—”

“Driver’s room,” he said, already walking. “Unless you want to argue in front of a dozen journalists.”

She hesitated. Then followed.

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The door clicked shut behind them, muffling the outside noise like a switch had been flipped. The air inside Oscar’s driver’s room was chilled—almost aggressively so—but it didn’t do anything to cool the heat tightening his shoulders.

He didn’t look at her right away. Just threw the towel from earlier onto the bench and paced once across the room like he was too wound up to sit still.

She hovered by the door, hands at her sides now, iPad forgotten. Only a half-step into his space.

He turned on her.

“Do you know what it’s like,” he said, voice low and sharp, “to have a car capable of a win and then spend the whole weekend trying and failing to execute?”

She swallowed.

“No, of course you don’t.”

“That’s not fair. That's your job. not mine."

“I know it’s not fair,” he bit out. “But neither is a weekend where I know I should’ve been better, and instead of getting to deal with it, I’m being pulled in a dozen directions to smile for cameras and say how great it is to come in behind my teammate. How great the weekend was for the team.”

Her brow furrowed, her tone finally defensive again. “I never said you had to smile.”

Oscar let out a quiet, humourless laugh. “You don’t have to. Everyone expects it anyway. Because I’m always a class act after the race, right?”

She opened her mouth—then closed it. There was a flush in her cheeks now, subtle, but rising. She wasn’t used to this—wasn’t used to him like this.

He knew he was pushing. Knew he was being unfair. But it felt good, in a twisted way, to finally let some of the pressure bleed out. And she was here, in the target zone. Because she hadn’t backed off.

Because she’d followed him.

“I’m not your enemy,” she said finally, voice low. Steady, but with an edge of vulnerability under it.

He blinked. Something in him paused at that.

“No,” he muttered. “But you’re always there.”

“Because it’s my job, Oscar. I don’t know why we're wasting time arguing over media. You have to go back out there. You know that.”

Oscar stared at her.

There it was again—that tension. That tether pulled taut between them.

She was right.

She was always right in these moments. Level. Composed. Doing her job while he cracked under the weight of his own perfectionism.

But tonight… he couldn’t do level. Couldn’t do composed. Couldn’t take the neat little box she kept placing him in—the driver, the brand, the polished professional. He was more than that tonight. He was tired. Raw. Burning.

“You say that like I’m some kid who doesn’t know how this works,” he said, stepping toward her. Just one step. Close enough for her breath to catch.

She stood straighter. Didn’t back down. “I say it because you need reminding.”

“Maybe I don’t want to be reminded tonight.”

His voice dipped lower.

She should have backed down, let him stew in his own frustration. But instead, she stepped forward.

One step.

Then another.

“You don’t get to take this out on me,” she said, voice low but steady. “I’m not the one who cost you the race.”

Oscar’s gaze snapped to hers, like a whip.

For a second, just one, she thought maybe she’d gone too far.

But then he laughed. A short, bitter sound.

“No,” he said, “you’re just the one standing in front of me acting like you get it. Like you know what it feels like to be this close and then have to walk away smiling like it doesn’t hurt.”

She opened her mouth to fire back, but he was already moving.

His hand found the door handle behind her, clicking it locked before she could take a step back.

Her breath hitched.

Oscar’s voice softened, but not kindly.

“You don’t get to act like you know how this feels. You don’t get to stand there and tell me what I have to do when you don’t even…” His jaw clenched. “You don’t even know me.”

Her throat was tight. She could feel it.

But she forced her chin up. Forced the words out.

“Then let me.”

That made him stop.

“Let me know you,” she said, barely a whisper now, but steady enough to hold his attention. “Not the headlines. Not the driver the team parades around. Just you. Even if it’s messy. Even if you’re pissed and tired and—”

She didn’t finish.

Because he’d stepped closer again.

Close enough that the tension snapped like a live wire between them.

Close enough that she could feel the faintest brush of his breath against her cheek when he spoke.

“You’re playing a risky game.”

Her pulse jumped, but her voice didn’t shake. “Maybe I don’t want to play safe anymore.”

Oscar’s lips twitched like he almost wanted to smile, but it was too bitter to surface. His hand came up, fingers brushing the curve of her jaw, tentative at first, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed.

When she didn’t pull away, he let his thumb trace lightly along her skin.

Silence.

Thick. Heavy.

His hand dropped from her face to her waist like the tether between them finally snapped.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

Her voice dropped with him. “Then tell me to leave.”

But he didn’t.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t say it.

His fingers tightened slightly at her waist. His other hand braced against the door behind her, caging her in without ever touching her fully.

“You’re going to make this complicated.”

“It already is," she spit out. Chest tight.

His head dipped, forehead brushing against hers like he was still deciding whether or not he should cross the last inch.

“Oscar—”

His mouth was on hers before she could finish.

It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t careful.

It was all heat and static, frustration blooming into something that felt like collapse.

His hand slipped from her collar to the nape of her neck, threading through her hair as he tipped her head back, kissing her harder—like he was chasing quiet, or trying to press something out of himself.

And she let him.

She kissed him like she’d been waiting. Like she had nowhere else to put the slow-burning ache she’d been carrying for weeks.

It wasn’t tender. It wasn’t neat. His fingers dragged rough along the line of her waist, catching the edge of her polo, tugging it up without finesse. Her skin buzzed under his touch—bare fingertips skating over ribs, tracing the curve of her breast through the lace of her bra.

She gasped into his mouth, and he swallowed the sound like it belonged to him.

“Still want to send me back out there?” he asked against her lips, voice syrupy, slow, dripping with something like amusement.

She didn’t answer. Didn’t have the air.

His mouth ghosted over hers once more before he dropped to his knees in one fluid, unhurried motion, tugging her skirt down her legs with the kind of carelessness that made her dizzy. One hand braced at her waist, holding her steady, the other brushed the fabric of her underwear aside with a lazy slide of his thumb.

“You’re soaked,” he murmured, like he wasn’t speaking to her, like it just slipped out. “You like being told off?”

She made a noise—half protest, half plea—but before she could spit something sharp back, he slid two fingers into her, slow, deliberate, like he wanted to savor it.

Her head tipped back, landing softly against the door.

“God—fuck, Oscar—”

He didn’t respond. Didn’t need to.

His fingers moved with a rhythm that made her legs shake—cruel in precision, but never rushed. She gripped his hair, unsure whether she was pulling him closer or steadying herself, but his gaze flicked up to her, eyes dark, mouth set in something close to a smirk.

“Look at you.” His voice was a low drag, almost bored. “You’ve been waiting for this.”

Her breath faltered. She dug her nails into his shoulder, but he didn’t stop.

“You play at being difficult, but this is what you wanted all along, isn’t it?” His thumb pressed against her just right, coaxing a desperate sound from her throat. “This is what shuts you up.”

Her moan cracked sharp in the air, and still, he didn’t let up. His palm ground against her, his pace merciless, like he was methodically pulling her apart just to see how fast he could do it.

Her hips jolted forward, desperate and messy.

His smile barely touched his mouth.

His lips brushed lazily against the inside of her thigh, breath hot against flushed skin. “Deep down, you want me to ruin you.”

It hit her like a wave—sharp, hot, blinding—and she cried out, thighs tightening around his shoulders as she came, as he worked her through every tremor, every breathless shake of her body.

His hand skimmed her inner thigh, dragging his thumb across tender skin like he was leaving a signature.

“You’re a mess,” he said softly, almost like it amused him.

When he stood, he loomed over her again, catching her chin between his fingers, tilting her face toward him like she was something to inspect.

Then—without hurry—he slid his fingers past her lips.

“Now,” his voice dropped to steel, molten and heavy. “Get on your knees and show me just how badly you want me to go out there and do my job.”

She sank to her knees in front of him, breath still ragged, body buzzing with the echo of what he’d just done to her.

His fingers slid from her mouth with a slow drag, grazing her bottom lip like he wanted to feel her pulse there.

He murmured, thumb brushing over her jaw, a glint of something dangerous in his eyes.

Her hands were already at his waistband, tugging open the drawstring with shaky fingers.

His smirk deepened, head tipping back as he let her work, as if her urgency was some small entertainment.

“You’re always so mouthy,” he said, looking down at her like he was considering what to do with her now. “Funny, isn’t it?”

She glared up at him through her lashes, half tempted to bite something just to wipe that smugness off his face.

But then she had him in her hand, heavy and hot, and the ache in her throat overrode everything else.

She leaned forward, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the base of him, slow, deliberate, like she could make him feel the weight of her silence.

He hissed through his teeth, his fingers sliding into her hair again—less to guide her, more to keep himself steady.

“You’re not gonna make this easy, are you?” he muttered, half-laughing, like the patience she was showing now was the cruelest thing she’d ever done to him.

She hummed against him in response, dragging her tongue up the length of him with a kind of lazy precision, keeping her pace maddeningly slow.

“Oscar,” she breathed against him, voice sticky, clinging to the syllables like sugar melting in the heat. “You wanted this.”

He tightened his grip in her hair—not enough to hurt, just enough to remind her who started this.

“Don’t get clever.” His voice dropped, frayed around the edges now. “You needed to be put in your place, didn’t you?”

She flicked her tongue over him, then took him deeper, answering without words.

His groan broke the stillness like a crack through glass.

And suddenly his restraint was gone.

He thrust forward, not rough, but decisive—forcing her to take more, forcing her to feel the weight of him, to let him chase his own undoing in the heat of her mouth.

Her hands caught at his hips, nails biting into his skin as she tried to steady herself, breath stolen, eyes watering—but she didn’t pull back.

Didn’t want to.

“Look at you,” he gritted out, watching her, gaze molten and unblinking. “Fucking taking it. So desperate to prove something.”

She hollowed her cheeks around him, dragging another ragged sound from his throat. Drool starting to slide down her chin.

The push and pull of his hips set the rhythm now—sharp, controlled, but relentless—and she let him, let herself unravel around the edges, chasing his pleasure like it was something she could claim for herself.

His grip in her hair tightened, a sharp pull that made her whimper, made her thighs press together.

“God, you’re such a mess for me,” he rasped, chest heaving, pace faltering just enough to let the words slip out.

Her nails dug harder into his hips in answer.

He groaned, head tipping forward, his free hand cupping the side of her face, thumb brushing over her cheek like he couldn’t quite believe she was real.

“You’re so fucking pretty like this,” he muttered, voice dissolving into something raw. “Don’t you dare stop.”

She didn’t.

She swallowed him deeper, worked her tongue in ways that made him curse, made his hips stutter, made his control slip just enough for her to feel it in the way his body tensed beneath her hands.

His thumb dragged across her lower lip, slick from her, from him.

“I should’ve made you beg for this,” he said, breath hot and ragged, like the thought alone might undo him. “I should’ve made you fucking crawl.”

Her whimper vibrated against him, pulling another curse from his throat.

But it was too late to be careful now.

His grip tightened—desperate, aching—and his rhythm stuttered as he came, head tipped back, breath caught somewhere between a groan and her name.

She took all of it, swallowed him down like it was a quiet kind of victory, like she wanted to keep him there.

He barely gave her time to catch her breath before he was pulling her up, crashing their mouths together in something messy, something breathless, tasting himself on her tongue and not caring in the slightest.

His hands cupped her jaw, thumbs brushing along her cheeks with a reverence that didn’t match the bruising heat of the kiss.

“You’re fucking dangerous,” he whispered against her lips, forehead pressed to hers, breath mingling in the narrow space between them. “And you know it.”

She smiled, faint but sharp, fingers still curled in the hem of his shirt.

“Still want me to go back out there?” he asked, voice a little hoarse, a little smug now.

His chest rose and fell against hers, the weight of their bodies still tangled, the heat still thick in the air.

“I think I’d rather stay right here for a bit,” she breathed.

And she kissed him again—slow, soft this time—like maybe they both knew this was the part they wouldn’t be able to walk away from.

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Thanks for reading!!!!

#oscar piastri fic #op81 x reader #op81 smut #oscar piastri imagine #oscar piastri fanfic #oscar piastri x you #oscar piastri x reader #f1 fic #f1 imagine #formula 1 fic

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sectumsempraaa · 8 months ago

Text

Roadtripping

Pairing: they’re all in love w/ you lol x fem!reader

Word count: 1.9k

T/W: none

Featuring: Draco, Theo, Mattheo, Lorenzo

Summary: It’s a three day weekend at Hogwarts, and you want to make the most of it. But roadtripping with a bunch of Slytherin boys (who would do anything for you) means bickering, flirting, and a road-side emergency.

A/N: Some silly nonsense I came up with today. Needed a little fun 🤭

“Absolutely not.” Draco commands, his tone as stern as ever as he jangles the car keys in his right hand.

“Come on, you stubborn twit. You always drive!” Mattheo complains, his voice like that of a cranky teenager.

“There’s a reason for that, Mr. I-Swear-I-Won’t-Speed-Again,” Draco responds as the two of them bicker in front of the castle, waiting for the rest of the gang to meet.

You make your way downstairs with Theodore and Lorenzo, both of them helping to carry your luggage, despite your insisting that you were fine on your own.

It’s a three day weekend at Hogwarts and the Slytherin crew has decided to roadtrip for it, an idea you proposed that was met with immediate enthusiasm.

But let’s face it, you could suggest swimming with sharks and these boys would do it. Oh, you’re asking? Then the answer is yes.

You pick up on Draco and Mattheo’s argument as it becomes less distant. You roll your eyes, laughing to yourself as Theo and Enzo drop the bags next to the disagreeing couple.

“It was ONE ticket, TWO years ago, and-”

“One deep, unforgivable scratch on MY passenger door.” Draco sneers, lunging towards Mattheo as the argument intensifies. “You think I’m putting your clumsy arse behind the wheel with precious Y/N in the car?”

Yeah. It’s time to step in.

“Matty, baby, maybe we should take the backseat on this one. But, literally.” You interject with your soft, angelic voice and a comforting hand squeezing his shoulder.

The second he turns to you, his expression melts into a state of calm. His eyebrows relax as the corners of his mouth turn slightly up.

“As long as you’re back there with me, sweetheart,” He suggests, each word laced with a child-like hope.

“Sure-” you start, before you’re interrupted by Theo.

“What the hell gives you the right to assign seats? Especially for Y/N, who should obviously be next to me instead,” Theo retorts.

“And why’s that? So she can hold your hand when you get car sick?” Lorenzo mocks while holding his stomach and laughing, earning a middle finger from Theo in reply. Lorenzo continues to plead his case.

“I’m the perfect shoulder height if Y/N wants to take a nap. Therefore, she’s sitting next to me.”

“Can’t nap on them if they’re dislocated.” Theo grimaces as he takes an intimidating step towards Lorenzo.

You can’t help but giggle at the ensuing debate over something so trivial. At this point, there’s no use in trying to interfere. You stride over to Draco who silently observes the others with a permanent scowl.

“Hey, should we go warm up the car?” You ask, wrapping your hands around his arm.

“And make them drag all the luggage over themselves?” He suggests.

“You read my mind, Malfoy.” You smile, your agreement earning one from him in return. A wave of peace washes over his features, an effect you commonly have on the boys.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I think you should sit in the back.” Draco says as you give him a knowing look on the walk to the car.

“To keep the storm at bay in the backseat?”

“That, and I think the whole lot might implode if they can’t access you. You just tell me when you need a break from babysitting.” He playfully nudges your side, placing a gentle kiss on your temple.

You both turn to the sound of the boys moaning and groaning while struggling to carry all the bags to the car.

“Meeting adjourned?” You joke as the boys catch their breath. Mattheo pipes in to respond, pointing a finger at you.

“You. Backseat. Center. Now.”

—

And so the trip begins.

Well, it would have started sooner if Enzo hadn’t needed two rest stops almost immediately, blaming it on his alcohol consumption from the night before. Followed by Draco demanding him to “just hold it,” which resulted in many verbal threats.

“Which one of you foul gits has the aux cord right now?” Mattheo asks with annoyance from your right side.

“We’ve been listening to this classical shit since we bloody left,” Theo snarls from your left as he stretches an arm around you, fiddling with the fabric on your shoulder.

“Guys, it’s Draco’s car, so it’s only fair he gets to choose.” You defend your driver despite it ending with pouts from the others. You can’t help but notice the blush forming on Draco’s face.

“It’s the radio, you blubbering idiot. You can change it if you like.” Draco offers.

Lorenzo’s hand almost immediately reaches for the knobs, turning it to classic rock and boosting the volume way too high for anyone’s liking.

“My god, turn that trash down, Enzo!” Theo yells from the backseat, completely ignored by a headbanging, dashboard-drumming Enzo. “Fine then,”

Theo leans forward, hoisting his whole upper body over the front seat in order to turn it down.

“Y/N, darling, you need anything?” Draco asks, catching your eyes in the mirror.

“I’d take a stretch. Oh, and a snack!” You reply, to which all heads turn to you like you’re some kind of genius.

Mattheo gasps with excitement. “Brilliant brain this one has, yeah?!” He laughs as he places his finger under your chin, guiding your gaze to meet his. He gives you a wink, acting like no one else in the car even exists.

Draco agrees, informing the group of the next rest stop in nearly 20 miles.

To this, you sigh and let a yawn escape you. Mattheo’s eyes light up as you remove his hand from your chin and wrap it around yourself, sinking into his side as you close your eyes.

Seemingly in unison, the other three boys observe your movement with looks of envy raging in their eyes. Even Draco, who should be keeping his eyes on the road, scoffs and mumbles to himself.

“God damnit, I should never have put her back there.”

“Mind if I nap here for 20 miles?” You ask Mattheo, knowing full well he would never deny you.

“You can nap here for eternity, love. I’m not going anywhere.” Mattheo wraps his other arm, both around your waist now, and shifts so the back of your head rests on his chest. Theo chimes in with his reaction.

“Great, so I’ll just sit here on the verge of illness and watch the girl of my dreams take comfort on this half-wit.”

“Yup.” Mattheo responds with a smug, shit-eating grin.

—

You awaken suddenly to a loud thud, jolting you from your small nap. A groan from Mattheo leads you to believe he was asleep, too.

“Great mother of fuck!” Draco blurts out, gaining everyone’s attention.

“Shit, Draco, what was that?” Lorenzo asks as Theo looks out the window to investigate. His head turns both ways before landing on the culprit.

“Mio dio… flat tire, mate.” Theo announces to the rest of the car.

You’d just barely made it to the next rest stop before driving over some glass on the road that unfortunately has you pulled over on the side of the road now.

The whole crew gets out, Theo looking relieved at the lack of motion. Draco bends down to take a look at the tire, his hands grazing its surface. He takes a long, determined pause.

“Is there… a spell for this?” He asks sheepishly.

“You’re joking, right? You can’t use magic out here.” Theo answers, gesturing to the busy highway passing by you. He saunters over to you, pulling you in his arms.

“Sorry, bella. I’ll buy you a snack after we fix this.” He rests his head on top of yours as you breathe in his scent.

An idea occurs to you, luckily, just as Lorenzo picks a fight with Theo over who’s buying you lunch.

You walk back to where Draco is and kneel beside him as he continues to observe the tire with defeat in his eyes.

“Draco darling,” you start, instantly winning his affection. His ice blue stare melts into yours as you rest a hand on his knee. “Do you have a spare?”

“A spare what?”

Your eyes close briefly in impatience, willing yourself to understand his privileged upbringing. Instead of asking again, you stand up and proceed to check the trunk for a tire. And to your surprise, you find one.

The other boys are too distracted trying to come up with solutions and trying to flag down other cars to notice your initiative. Draco helps you roll it to the side of the car, looking hesitant as you kneel back down.

“Tools?” You ask.

“Tools!” He affirms, quickly making his way back with a box of everything you need. “You sure you know how to-” he starts, cut off by your annoyed glare.

“Are you underestimating me, Malfoy?” To which he merely shakes his head and swallows, regretting his question and watching you return to the task before you.

“Can I help?” Draco coos, his eyes filled with apology.

“You just sit there and look pretty. Oh, and make sure those morons don’t get run over.” You joke, throwing a wink his way. He stands up and gathers the other boys, assuring them you’re going to be on the road again soon.

“You’re making her change the tire?!” Lorenzo yells, completely appalled.

“She’s our only hope right now, Enzo. You want to walk the extra eight miles to fetch her a sandwich?” Draco grits his teeth while scolding the boy. You give Enzo a shrug and a sympathetic look in return.

After a solid fifteen minutes, the new tire is installed and ready to go.

You find the boys sitting in the field, laughing uncontrollably and generally… enjoying each other. Which, for the first time on this trip, is extremely refreshing.

“Hey lovebirds!” You call from the side of the car, gesturing to your job well done. All four heads turn, once again, in unison in your direction. Mattheo the first to physically stand up, running over to you and nearly tackling you over.

He lifts you up and spins you in his arms while the others admire your finished product. Lorenzo pipes in first.

“Jeez, Y/N, where’d you learn to do that?”

“Gods, and I thought I couldn’t fall more in love with her.” Theo swoons.

“I told you she has a brilliant brain,” Mattheo remarks.

“While the lot of you were having playdates in mansions, I was out in the country. My father taught me how to get out of almost any situation.” You respond, the group looking at you like they worship you.

“C’mere you gorgeous thing,” Draco beckons, the rest of them crowding around you for the first and only group hug they’ve ever performed.

“Our fucking hero, principessa.” Theo declares. “We wouldn’t last two days without you, you know.”

“Oh, I know.” You state with the utmost confidence and a dramatic eye roll.

The tightness of their arms envelopes you, and you realize suddenly this might not have been the best idea. Your small celebration is quickly ambushed by the boys.

“Who’s touching my arse?”

“No one wants to touch your arse, you idiot.”

“Hey, don’t talk shit about Matty’s arse,” Theo joins in.

“Oh, that’s rich coming from you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?!”

“Aren’t you supposed to be buying us lunch?”

“No, I’m supposed to be buying Y/N lunch.” Theo grabs you and pulls you away from the group, earning a playful yelp from you.

“My brilliant bella. What would we do without you?”

You look back at your boys; your helpless and immature, yet loving and fiercely loyal boys.

“I have no answer for you, Theo. I don’t want to imagine a life without you.”

🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍

#slytherin boys #slytherin boys x reader #draco malfoy #theodore nott #slytherin #lorenzo berkshire #mattheo riddle #draco x reader #theo nott x reader #mattheo x reader #lorenzo x reader #slytherin boys fic #slytherin fanfiction

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averalia · 16 days ago

Text

When Agencies Collied

|Pairings: Aaron Hotchner x Reader, Spencer Reid x Reader

| Summary: Your a NSA deep cover agent, and are furious after the FBI's BAU team inadvertently exposes your two-year operation.

| Warning/s: Strong language, Implied violence & discussions of trauma, Emotional distress, Confinement.

| A/N: OMG, can you feel the tension?! Your having a really, really bad day, but look super cool even when your totally ticked off! 🥺

The sterile white walls of the interrogation room seemed to press in on you, but it was the glare from the one-way mirror that truly rankled. Your hands were cuffed to the table, a stark reminder of how badly this had gone south. You were Agent [Y/N] [L/N], an undercover operative for the NSA, and your carefully constructed world had just imploded, courtesy of the FBI's Behavioral Analysis Unit.

The door creaked open, and in walked the two agents who had been circling you like sharks since your arrest. Aaron Hotchner — stoic, sharp, and radiating an authority that usually commanded respect, but today just ignited your fury. Beside him, Spencer Reid — brilliant, observant, his eyes normally full of a gentle curiosity now held a cautious, almost accusatory glint.

"Agent [L/N]," Hotch began, his voice calm, clipped, and utterly infuriating. "We'd like to understand your involvement with the Weston group. We have evidence placing you at multiple locations where their operations were carried out."

You scoffed, a raw, bitter sound. "My involvement? You want to talk about my involvement? How about your involvement in blowing a two-year deep cover operation straight to hell?"

Reid’s brow furrowed. "We understand you're upset, but-"

"Upset?" You leaned forward, the cuffs digging into your wrists, but you barely noticed. "Upset doesn't even begin to cover it, Dr. Reid. I was this close," you held up your cuffed hands, gesturing with them, "to bringing down a major international arms trafficking ring. Two years. Two years of living, breathing, eating their lies. Two years of sleeping with a knife under my pillow, wondering if today was the day I'd get made. And you two, and your whole damn team, just waltz in and throw a grenade into all of it!"

Hotch’s expression remained impassive, but you could see a flicker of something in his eyes—surprise, perhaps, or a dawning realization. "Agent [L/N], we followed standard protocol. Your profile matched several key indicators for association with this group. We had no information that you were-"

"No information?" You cut him off, your voice rising, fueled by pure, unadulterated rage and exhaustion. "That's convenient, isn't it? Because I'm pretty sure 'NSA Undercover' is a pretty crucial piece of information! Do you have any idea what I’ve been through? I watched them execute a man in cold blood because he owed them money. I smuggled illegal weapons across three borders. I earned their trust, piece by agonizing piece. And for what? So you could come in like a wrecking ball, all guns blazing, and make me a target for every dirty mercenary on the planet?"

Reid shifted uncomfortably, his gaze darting to Hotch. "We genuinely had no prior intelligence, Agent [L/N]. Had we known you were an undercover operative, our approach would have been entirely different."

"Oh, I'm sure it would have been," you spat, sarcasm dripping from every word. "But you didn't know, did you? Because you didn't bother to check! Or your internal communication is so utterly fragmented that you're endangering agents in the field! Do you know how hard it is to build a new identity, to shed every piece of who you are, to become someone else so completely that even you start to forget the real you? I can't go back to that life now. They know my face, they know my voice, they know my name. Because you exposed me!"

Hotch finally spoke, his voice lower, more measured, but no less firm. "Agent [L/N], we understand the gravity of your situation. However, your arrest was based on solid behavioral analysis and forensic evidence. If your cover was that deep, why were there no safeguards? No emergency contact procedures, no fail-safes in place with local or federal agencies?"

"Safeguards?" You let out a disbelieving laugh. "My safeguard was not being found! My safeguard was blending in so perfectly that I was invisible! And as for 'fail-safes,' my chain of command doesn't exactly hand out gold stars for calling in every time some FBI agent wants to play cowboy! My job was to infiltrate, not to wave a flag saying 'I'm a spy, please don't arrest me!'"

You leaned back, taking a deep, shuddering breath, trying to regain some semblance of control, but the anger was a roaring fire within you. "Do you have any idea how many lives are now at risk because of this? Not just mine. The people who helped me, the informants I cultivated. They're all vulnerable now. And for what? A few quick arrests that won't even scratch the surface of what I was about to uncover?"

You looked from Hotch's unyielding gaze to Reid's troubled one. "You think you're the only ones who care about justice? About catching the bad guys? I've been doing it for years, quietly, effectively. And now, thanks to your 'profiling,' I'm a ghost, a dead woman walking, and that entire network is going to scatter like roaches."

Hotch slowly pushed a folder across the table, his eyes still fixed on yours. "Agent [L/N], we've made calls. We've verified your identity. Your NSA handler is currently en route. This is a massive misunderstanding, and we will work to rectify it. But your cooperation is still vital."

You stared at the folder, then back at them, the raw fury slowly starting to mix with a bone-deep weariness. "Cooperation? You want my cooperation after you just handed my life over on a silver platter to a bunch of killers? You want me to help you clean up the mess you just made?" You shook your head, a bitter laugh escaping your lips. "Fine. But know this: you didn't just blow my cover. You may have just signed my death warrant. And if anything happens to me, or to anyone connected to this operation, I will hold every single one of you personally responsible."

The silence that followed was heavy, thick with unspoken apologies and the crushing weight of your accusation. Hotch and Reid exchanged a look, and for the first time, you saw something akin to genuine regret in their eyes. But it was too little, too late. Your world, as you knew it, was irrevocably shattered.

#aaron hotchner #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds #spencer reid #spencer x reader #spencer reid x reader #aaron hotch x reader #aaron hotch hotchner #aaron hotch imagine #aaron hotch fanfiction #spencer reid fanfiction #dr spencer reid #bau team #nsa #fbi #Undercover Agent #misunderstandings #Deep cover operations

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revelboo · 5 months ago

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*dies* the plot twist in the last Everything is Alright update!! I was expecting soundwave to end up with the sparkling, then star would have to except him, but Megatron is even better,I'm been waiting for him to bond Reader. I think I'm going to go hysterical waiting for the next part! (No pressure, I'm just obsessed with your writing ♡♡♡)

Poor Megs getting to figure out the hard way how interspecies reproduction between Cybertronians and humans works. I’m sure this won’t be awkward at all…

Everything Is Alright Pt 115

IDW Starscream x Reader, Soundwave x Reader, Megatron x Reader

• “I’m sorry. What?” You manage, struggling to sit up in his palm as he sits on his berth holding you. And you feel oddly exhausted as Megatron just stares at the far wall. Your own tired brain teetering dangerously close to the urge to laugh, and afraid you won’t be able to stop if you start. Because of course this weird alien bullshit can get worse. Nothing should surprise you at this point. And then you think about how Star’s going to react to the fact that you somehow gave his spark he’d created with you to his worst enemy. “Can you give it back?” Before Star figures out what happened?

• Venting, he scowls at you. “I don’t even know how I took it,” he growls, head lifting when someone starts banging on the door to his habsuite and you wilt. Because of course, your spark mate would have felt you collapse. Standing, he carries you to unlock the door and is surprised to see Soundwave, not Starscream. Doesn’t even protest when the communications officer reaches for you and you slide over into his hands. Abandoning him after sparking him. “Where’s the Seeker?” Because he’d rather just get this idiocy over with. Because this isn’t how this works. The carrier keeps the spark, but you’re human not Cybertronian.

• Servos stroking over you, physically you seem fine, but your emotions are all over the place, jangling through him. “Collapsed. Hurt?” He asks, tipping your chin up and you grab onto his servo. ‘Wait, Star collapsed?’ You ask as Megatron makes a noise and you shoot him a look. What is he missing? There’s something there in the expression on Megatron’s face, but he’s just so glad you’re okay. It feels good to have you in his hands again, thought when the Seeker collapsed that he wouldn’t have a chance to apologize to you. To do better for you. Thought he’d somehow lost you. Starts to ask about the spark and hesitates glancing at Megatron, remembering that it’s secret.

• Pushing at his servos as he nervously touches you, feeling your heart, checking you over in gentle touches. And not answering you. “Soundwave, old friend,” Megatron says, his tone almost friendly to make your skin prickle all over. “Were you aware that our pet was sparked? With Starscream’s young?” Oh, he’s smiling. If shark’s could smile, that’s exactly what it would look like. That gleam in the warlord’s optics makes you want to try to pry open Soundwave’s cassette compartment and hide inside.

• Waiting patiently as Soundwave slowly inclines his head, Megatron presses his servos against his helm. “Lord Megatron?” Soundwave asks, servos curling protectively around you. Like his commander thinks he’s about to lash out at you. Not realizing that you’re absolutely safe from him. That you’re fully bonded to him and Starscream. “The spark?” His communications officer asks as you just hide your face in your hands in mortification and he looks from you to Megatron at a loss.

• Coming online, Starscream struggles to get free of the two Constructicons lifting him off the floor. Hearing them swear at him as he breaks loose and takes off. Because that fear that had slammed through him before something has gone wrong with his spark and processor had been yours. And all he can think of is that you need him. He’s terrified for you. That your weak human body has rejected the spark, that you might not survive it. Running, for Megatron’s habsuite as his own spark constricts painfully. Even if you’re still upset with him, he needs to see you. To reassure himself that you’re okay. Because you’re what matters to him.

Clumsy Heart, TKO, and some TFA updates later hopefully

#transformers x reader #starscream x reader #megatron x reader #soundwave x reader #soundwave #starscream #megatron

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naturesapphic · 2 months ago

Note

hi!🫶🏼 I adore your work🥰 I have a request for billie eilish x reader smut if you are up for it. how about billie comes home from touring or even just an interview or something and discovers reader in the billie merch boxers? idk if this has been done before because I‘m more of a quiet admirer in her fandom. if not no worries! have a great day!

Hot Attire

Billie Eilish x fem!reader

Warnings: smut, oral, fingering

“Princess im home!” Billie shouted in the quiet house. She had just came back from doing some interviews for the day and couldn’t wait to come home and have you in her arms. Billie runs up the stairs and almost trips over shark as she tries to get to you. She opens the door and her eyes widen in surprise at what she sees. It was you, on the bed, with her hit me hard and soft blue boxers on. The sight alone made her pussy clench and her blue eyes darken.

You felt someone staring at you so you looked up to see your girlfriend Billie. “Billie! You’re back!” You say happily as you rushed to get out of the bed and jumped into her waiting arms. She giggled slightly and caught you effortlessly in her strong arms. “You wearing my clothes hm princess?” She whispered in your ear softly and you felt your cheeks heat up. “Y-yes…just m-missed you.” You whisper back and Billie’s smile turns into a smirk at how needy you are getting for her.

“Yeah? Well I miss you.” Billie replied and you felt your cheeks heat up more at the tone of her voice and her movements. Her hands slide up your thighs and onto your back as she walks to the bed. She throws you onto it gently and goes on top of you, trapping you which you didn’t mind one bit. “You’re so beautiful.” She says under her breath as she takes you in. You always felt so loved and cared for at how Billie looks at you and how she treats you. “Thank you bils…” you replied shyly and Billie smiles brightly at you. She loves how shy you get, especially when she compliments you.

Billie places her hands on your thighs, slowly moving them up to the boxers you were wear and she gently tugged them down, revealing your soaked pussy to her. Billie licked her lips and had to stop herself from drooling all over the two of you. “K-kiss me.” You ask breathlessly and Billie smile as she leans down and captures your lips with hers. You immediately kissed back and felt yourself get more turned on the longer the kiss was. It was full of passion, lust and love for one another and soon, both of yall wouldn’t be able to control yourselves.

Billie pulled away from your lips slowly and looked in your eyes, making your heart soar with anticipation. She started kissing your neck, moving her lips down your body and you were getting more desperate as the seconds go by. You felt your body burn with desire and you couldn’t wait any longer and Billie could tell by how you were squishing underneath her. “Patients baby.” Billie whispered against your pelvis and you let out a little whimper that made her smirk. “So desperate for me huh? Want mommy to touch you?” She asked teasingly and you basically almost cried when she asked you and you blurted out a yes mommy.

“Good girl. Tongue or fingers?” She asked you and you blushed at the thought of the two. “T-tongue.” You shyly say and Billie giggled at how shy you get, especially when you are desperate. “Your wish is my command princess.” She whispers against your pelvis and licks it gently making your hips buckle. Her tongue slowly went down, finding your sensitive nub and swirls all around it. You whimpered loudly which fueled Billie’s confidence more and knew how good she was making you feel, which was very important to her. She kept swirling around your nub that made your back arch and she carefully took her index finger and gently pushed it into your hole making you gasp.

You felt her finger push in your tight hole and you knew you weren’t gonna last long. She pumps her finger in and out while licking on your clit, making extra stimulation for you. Billie loves making you feel good. It’s one of her pleasures and biggest turn ons. If you ask her to eat you out in public then she will gladly take you to the bathroom to do that. Doesn’t matter where yall go, she will automatically drop to her knees and please you in anyway you want. Your legs started to shake and your moans grew louder as you felt yourself about to cum. “Come on baby, let go for me yeah? Let me taste you.” Billie whispers against your pussy and you whined at her tone, making you clench around her finger.

“Come on Angel. Let go for mommy.” She said again and you let out your loudest moan yet and you cum all over her finger and face. She pulled away slightly from your clit and started licking up your essence. She moans softly under her breath and the vibrations from her moan makes you whimper. Billie cleans you up and kisses her way back up to your face and kisses your lips gently. You taste yourself on her lips and you blush wildly. “You did so good for me princess.” She praises you and you mumbled out a quiet thank you. “You need to wear my clothes more often.”

A/n: thank you @stayevildarling for the request! I apologize it’s late but I still hope you enjoy! I hope everyone enjoyed it too! Remember to stay hydrated and to rest! Take care of yourselves. I love y’all! :)

#billie eilish imagine #billie eilish blurb #billie eilish fic #billie eilish oneshot #billie eilish x you #billie eilish fluff #billie eilish fanfiction #billie eilish x reader #billie eilish smut #billie eilish x fem!reader #billie eilish #billie o’connell #singer #dom!billie eilish #wlw smut

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tifosipogue · 3 months ago

Text

Shadowbound

xaden riorson x reader

The first time I controlled shadows, it nearly killed me.

They came unbidden, twisting from my fingers like smoke made flesh, writhing through the air in thick, sinuous tendrils. They answered a scream I didn’t even realize I had loosed, a sound of pain, confusion, and fear. The sparring arena had cleared in seconds. Cadets scrambled to get away from the unnatural display, leaving me crouched and gasping at its center.

The silence after was deafening—until footsteps echoed on the flagstones.

He stepped through the haze like a myth incarnate. Xaden Riorson, wing leader of Fourth Wing, son of rebellion, and war-marked from wrist to bicep. His eyes found mine instantly, and his gaze pinned me in place as if he, too, wielded a signet of power over the soul.

"So it’s true," he said, his voice calm but low. "You control shadows."

I managed a nod, forcing the darkness to retreat into my skin. "Apparently."

He tilted his head. "You’re Dain’s sister."

"Yes," I replied, breath still shaky.

For a long moment, he said nothing, just studied me. "You’ll need to learn control. Soon. Or the wrong people will notice."

"And what then?"

His lips barely curved. "Then you won’t have to worry about learning anything at all."

____

Training with Xaden Riorson was like learning to swim by being thrown to the sharks. There were no soft landings. No encouragement. Only brutal honesty and relentless pressure.

"Again," he said for the fifth time that hour, as my shadows flickered and fizzled.

"I'm trying!"

"Try harder. You’re letting your fear get in the way."

I glared at him, fists clenched. "I’m not afraid."

He stepped closer, eyes narrowing. "Yes, you are. And that’s exactly why they’re not listening to you."

We were in the secluded room beneath Basgiath, the air was thick with old magic, cold and sharp. The perfect place to fail in private.

"You don’t control shadows," he reminded me, voice low. "You speak to them. Command, not coerce. If you push too hard, they lash out. If you hesitate, they slip through your fingers."

I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. The darkness welcomed me like an old friend, a thousand silent voices humming just out of reach. I extended my will, and slowly, a blade of shadow rose, solid and sharp.

"Better," Xaden said, and I dared glance at him. Was that approval? Maybe. For a moment.

Then he stepped back. "Again."

____

Days blurred into weeks. Training sessions turned brutal. He taught me how to fight blind, how to cast darkness over entire fields, how to manipulate form, shape, and structure. I learned to conceal myself, to strike without sound.

But it wasn’t just combat he was teaching me. It was restraint. Awareness. Balance.

And somewhere between the clashing of shadow and steel, something else bloomed. A bond neither of us dared name.

Every glance held heat. Every brush of hands lingered longer than necessary. We fought like enemies and stood like lovers on the edge of something dangerous.

There were nights when I woke gasping from dreams filled with him—his touch, his voice in the dark. And every morning, I pretended nothing had changed.

Until it did.

It happened on the eve of a tactical simulation. We were camped high on a ridge, the wind howling through the rocks like a warning. Everyone else was asleep, but I couldn't rest. My skin itched with unspent magic.

I found him where I always did—standing at the cliff's edge, watching the valley below like it might attack.

"You’re always up here," I said, joining him.

He didn’t look at me. "It’s easier to think when it’s quiet."

I stepped closer. "What do you think about?"

His jaw tightened. "How many enemies I have. And now, how many more you’ll have, too."

The words struck like a blade. "You think I'm a liability."

"No," he said quickly. "I think you’re the biggest advantage we have. And that terrifies me."

"Why? Because I could be a threat to them?"

His gaze snapped to mine, fierce and dark. "Because you’re already a threat. And they’ll come for you like they came for the others."

"Then let them come."

He stepped in, so close I felt the heat of him despite the chill. "You still don’t understand. Two shadow wielders? We’re not just dangerous. We’re unpredictable. No one in power will let that stand."

The anger boiled up in me, fueled by weeks of tension and silent longing.

"Stop pretending this is just about power!" I snapped. "You push me. You protect me. You treat me like something fragile, and then train me like a weapon. What the hell do you want from me, Xaden?"

He stared, jaw clenched, shadows writhing at his back like they felt his turmoil.

"I want you to live," he said finally. "Because I can’t lose you. Not now. Not after..."

His voice broke, and I stepped closer. "After what?"

He reached up, his hand brushing a strand of hair from my cheek. His touch was fire. "After you became the only light in this damn war I actually want to protect."

And then he kissed me.

It was like falling.

Falling into fire and shadow, into something so consuming it stole the breath from my lungs. His arms wrapped around me, one at my waist, the other in my hair, pulling me closer as if distance between us had ever been a sin.

The shadows danced around us, not as shields or weapons, but as witnesses.

When we broke apart, both of us breathless, he pressed his forehead to mine.

"We can’t afford this," he whispered.

"We can’t afford not to," I breathed.

____

The days that followed were a blur of preparation. Word had already started to spread. Whispers of a second shadow wielder. Of the girl who trained with the son of rebellion.

Dain found me alone in the mess hall a week later. His face was tight with barely veiled panic.

"Tell me it isn’t true," he said, voice hoarse.

I looked up. "That I can control shadows? That I’m training with Xaden? That we’re stronger together than apart? Which part exactly, Dain?"

He slammed his tray down. "You don’t understand what they’ll do to you. To both of you."

"I understand perfectly," I said, rising. "And I’m not hiding from it."

He stared at me, searching my face like he didn’t recognize me anymore. "He’s dangerous."

"So am I," I said. "And I’m done pretending I’m not."

The final test came during a surprise attack on the outer defenses. Venin forces breached the barrier, pouring through in a tide of corrupted power.

Cadets scrambled to form ranks. Screams filled the night.

I found Xaden already fighting, shadows curling from his body like blades. We moved as one. My shadows met his, locking together like puzzle pieces. Every movement was synchronized, deadly, beautiful.

I created cover with a dome of darkness. He struck from its edges, silent and swift. Together, we decimated a wave of attackers.

And then a Venin commander stepped into the field.

He laughed when he saw us. "Two wielders? How quaint. Let’s see how well you share."

He conjured a spear of obsidian and launched it toward Xaden.

I didn’t think. I moved.

My shadows snatched the spear mid-air, snapped it in half, and launched the shards back at the Venin.

Xaden's eyes widened. "You split it. You manipulated someone else’s creation. That shouldn’t be possible."

I was shaking, adrenaline and raw power coursing through me.

When the battle ended, we stood in the wreckage of victory, bruised and bloodied.

Xaden reached for me, shadows still pulsing beneath his skin. "They’ll come harder next time."

I looked at him, every inch of me alight with defiance and something deeper.

"Then let them. We’re not just shadow wielders. We’re shadowbound."

He smiled, small and real. "It was always meant to be this way, wasn't it?"

I stepped into his arms. "Yes."

The stars overhead bore witness as we stood in the dark, not afraid, not alone.

Two against the world. And for the first time, that felt like enough.

#fourth wing x reader #fourth wing xaden #iron flame #onyx storm #xaden riorson x reader #xaden riorson #fanfic #oneshot #the empyrean

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aliceinborderlandsquidgame · 3 months ago

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Silence | The Salesman x Wife!Reader

Summary: He Plays with others and enjoys their spiral into desesperation. But a call from his wife means more.

Warnings: Canon violence - Sadistic!Salesman - Lovely!Salesman - Whipped for his wife -

The Salesman smirked as he saw the two men in front of him. Both seated in front of each other, restrained to their respective chairs and with gags on their mouths (now removed so he could listen to their pleas and cries)

Both were sweating and crying as he ordered them to go again.

The Salesman likes games. He likes others suffering under them. He enjoys it like its his favorite TV show.

Currently he was making them play Russian Roulette and added to that he was making them play rock papper scissors with the twist of removing one hand. Once they do the one who loses its the one the Salesman will shot. So far both have survived against the odds. But The Salesman did like it, two fresh bullets inside the revolver waiting to pierce throw a brain of one of them.

"Again" He commanded and both men looked at each other. The odds of dying still high "We should make this more interesting" He added another bullet teasting them as he showed them the three bullets and closed it rolling it.

"Please stop this. We wont tell anyone" One of them said between sobs as the Salesman put the gun under his chin a sick smile present.

"Oh no, I cant do that. You see, you two are here for a reason. And only one of them can walk out of this alive. You both wanted that" he used the gun to point to a lot of cash a gift from the organization for his good work. He did not need more money, and the organization knew he did enjoy playing personal games. A win over win.

"We dont want it" the other Man said "We dont-"

"Then you would prefer to go back to your life of worm? To be hiding from loan sharks and keep being beaten" he then took a look at the other men "or give yourself to alcohol and then sleep on the streets? Doing it whatever to get a small part of the money you need? You two dig on others and cause trouble and suffer. No one wants either of you in their lives. Because they know just how bad you two are. This is a chance" he opened his arms signaling the room they were in with a big smile. Eyes shining with amusment "Man up! Kill the other one and get yourself a better life. Thats what im offering, im not bad im being generous" he said his smile big and twisted as he leaned in between them "Go on, do something for your life once" he whispered then got back to his standing position a serious look now "AGAIN" He screamed both men starting to play the rock papper scissors with both hands "FASTER" the different shapes went faster as the heart of each men beated wildly.

"AND-"

A ringtone broke the atmosphere the song "My only love" being played on the background. The Salesman pulled out his phone seeing the picture of himself and his dear wife, she was calling him. Probably to ask him about dinner or where he was.

"One moment" He said to the two men who were too stunned. They saw the Man who at this point had showed nothing but empyness and cruelty towards them get a sincere smile and a centrain bright in his eyes as she answered the call.

"Hello my Love, everything alright there?" The Salesman empy voice was now filled with emotion and love as he walked away from the two men. "Mhm I see, no its work. My Boss sent me two internts for late training" he said smirking over his shoulder "oh? Yes I will tell them you said Hello, they are doing....well the could do better"

One of the men feeling like this was his chance in a desesperated atempt screamed "DONT BELIEVE HIM!! HE HAS ME AND ANOTHER PERSON HOSTAGE AND IS GOING TO KILL US!! PLEASE YOU NEED TO CALL THE POLICE"

At your house your face took a suprised look and then confusion "What was that ? I hear hostage and kill, you giving them too much work?" You joked not knowing what was happening. You did listen to what could be a collision "...Dear are you safe?" You asked worried thinking it was him in danger.

At the hideout the Salesman had just knocked the Man's face with the revolver. His breath coming hard as he held himslef from screaming knowing you were still on the line.

"Im safe my Love. This two like to play jokes instead of following orders. Im afraid I will be home late" he answered his voice back to a lovely tone "Please dont wait for me awake I hate seeing your tired face...fine I will wake you up once im home. I love you"

Once he handed and pulled his phone back he circled the two men one of them now leacking blood from his head.

"I gave you two too much credit" he started as he went towards the table and took the four bullets left. "If you two cant read a room I dont expect you to be able to rebuild your life" he finished the sound of the gun ready to shot sending shiver down their spines.

"You will root in hell" the one who screamed earlier said "and your wife will-"

Two shoots to his head and he felt backwards the other Man screaming at the sight.

"One for talking. Two for mentioning my wife" He said without emotion turning towards the other Man.

"Wait!! I did not do a thing, it was him! Please I dont want to die, please please!"

"Worms. Always trying to get a way out. You dig and dig and if you find a competitor you push then. In other case I might have let you live. But you did overlook one thing"

He pointed the gun towards his hands both out from under the table and on his lap crushing his legs.

"You moved your hand when earlier I said not to unless i gave the order" he cold metal made contact with his head "You dont deserve a second chance if you cant even follow a simple order like that"

Another shot and just because he was angry the three bullets left were used to.

He took a look at himself feeling the blood on his face and shirt. He would have to clean the place and himself before going home to you.

And find another two players for next time.

~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~○~

Finally when he got home it was four in the morning. He silently left his briefcase and changed before joining you on the bed, wrapping his arms around you. He kissed your head when he felt you move.

"Shh go back to sleep my Love. Im here now" he whispered into your hear kissing it then letting his head fall against your neck smelling you. His heart melting by how you looked all sleepy and in his arms.

He did not want to think on whatever that worm was going to say about you. He may die and walk in hell, but you ? You were too pure and kind. You would live a peaceful life that he would take care of and protect. No one would ever hurt you or say your name in a bad way.

You would live by his side forever. Being the closest thing to good and real as he played his part for the organization and his twisted needs.

#squid game imagines #squid game x y/n #squid game x reader #the salesman x reader #the recruiter x reader

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hellishjoel · 1 year ago

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on call

7.5k / pairing: cardiothoracic surgeon!javier peña x resident surgeon f!reader

main masterlist | notifications blog

summary: Javier Peña - a shark of a surgeon - is the head of Cardiothoracic Surgery and you're on his service for the week. After letting you take lead on a risky surgery, you crave what else he can teach you. warnings/information: MA 18+ (minors DNI), doctors performing surgery but no gore, medical talk (open heart surgery performed, mention of aneurysms and paralysis), both Javi and reader are surgeons, implied but unspecified age gap (Javier is an attending surgeon, reader is a resident surgeon), sex in an on call room (rooms in the hospital where the staff can catch some zzz's), swearing, size kink, praise & degradation kink with accompanied dirty talk, competency kink, (un)affectionate pet names, fingering, oral cleanup (f!receiving), oral (m!receiving), unprotected p in v, creampie reader is described having hair and wears surgical scrubs, but otherwise (I believe) no physical description, no use of y/n A/N: FYI the only knowledge about hospitals or doctors I know is from Grey's Anatomy, so expect some drama and inaccuracies! beta’d by the lovely @thetriumphantpanda! spanish assistance by the talented @undercoverpena! banner made by me!

Any doctor will tell you that smoking cigarettes has a well-documented history of negative health risks.

Smoking can significantly increase the risk of various health problems, including cardiovascular diseases, lung cancer, respiratory issues, and, most importantly, to a surgeon, how delicate your tissue is. It shreds during stitching, falls apart in between gloved fingers, and increases the risk of infection.

So why does Javier Peña, the Head of Cardiothoracic Surgery, smoke?

Probably because he thinks he’s God. Galavanting through the surgical wing in his dark navy scrubs. The attending flirts with every nurse who passes his eyeline, sweet-talks his residents, and charms each patient he consults.

Beneath all that, he was a ruthless shark of a surgeon. Driven to the point of recklessness. Stealing surgeries out from under fellow doctors, commandeering ORs, and always proving to be the smartest in the room. He knew when to bark and, more importantly, when to bite.

Javier Peña was a piece of goddamn work.

The operating room is the only time he’s silent. Espresso eyes narrowed on the surgical field, fingers succinct and persuasive like he’s giving the most delicate organ in the world a compelling speech: to live, to keep beating, to pump blood until it simply cannot.

He’s impressive, really.

Standing on the opposite side of the patient on the table, watching him work, you nearly forget how handsome he is behind his mask. If you weren’t such a great resident, you’d be more impressed by his looks than his hands.

But his hands… they were brilliant.

Peña was steady. Every movement is filled with confidence; they don’t stutter or flinch. He operates with wonderful dexterity, switching between both hands, neither more dominant than the other. Instrumental and graceful, like a maestro conducting a large orchestra.

This was his stage, the surgical instruments were his props and everyone in his OR was simply an extra. He was a star; everyone knew it. But no one knew it more than you, his third-year surgical resident on his cardio service for the week.

His years of training bleed through his expertise, and shine in a way that makes you remember why you signed up for so many years of medical school, dropped top dollar on an education to get you here, and then granted residency at one of the finest hospitals in the country.

You were good. Peña was great.

As his resident, you must prove nothing but useful. He’s not a natural teacher, the way his brain drives allows no one in his passenger seat. But you’re keen on declaring on cardio, and you’ve been the resident by his side for most of this year. He doesn’t need your help. He can do this all by himself, so all you can do is prove yourself useful.

You must anticipate his needs and next move, watching him progress from step one to final completion.

But this surgery was unexpected. Unplanned. Most heart surgeries end up being accidental, arising from complications during a routine surgery. The patient on the table before you was scheduled for a general procedure but began presenting with heart issues during the operation.

Peña performs an aortic arch replacement. He starts with a #10 blade, making an incision along the sternum to access the aortic arch.

“Retract all this tissue,” he mutters.

It takes you by surprise because his OR is radio silent. He talks in his head, not to you, ever.

“Me?”

“Are you really asking me that?” His tone twitches with irritation, but you do as he asks before he can disregard and bury your anticipation. It allows for more exposure, and he’s back to work. He cannulates the patient for CPB, working through the right atrium and then the aorta.

“Proper placement?”

You nod before you remember he’s still staring down at the patient’s heart. “Yes.”

Doctor Javier Peña is the commander of his OR. Which makes you all the more confused as to why he decides to put you in the driver’s seat. Or rather, the hot seat.

“Okay, we’re going to arrest the heart using cardioplegia purposely. What’s next?”

Your mouth is going dry; it takes you a moment to find your words. You should know the answer, even without having prepared. He just makes you nervous. “We need to use myocardial protection techniques to minimize… ischemic damage?”

His eyes snap up, glaring, cold as ice. “Are you asking me? Or are you telling me?”

You force down the lump in your throat and take in a shaky breath. “Telling?”

He cocks his eyebrow in annoyance.

“Telling.” You say more confidently, nodding before he sighs. He wanes his options in his head before his eyes start to soften. He must feel at slight ease talking to a resident who isn’t a fucking moron.

“Okay. You’ll deliver the cardioplegia solution and monitor its function.”

You let out a breath of relief, perhaps too big of one, because Peña smirks and tuts at your shift in breath.

“You’re not a complete waste of space in this surgical program after all. Congrats.”

After willing yourself to bite your tongue, you watch him proceed with the arch repair. He returns to silence as he carefully dissects the aorta, amber eyes admiring each of the strong branches like that of a great oak tree.

“Name them.”

Eyes meeting his over the operating table, Peña waits. He’s testing you, pushing you towards greatness or failure. He wants to see where you fall—if you’re worthy to be in his OR, opposite of him, learning under his greatness, or if you’re a waste of his time and talent.

“You’re a third-year resident, I knew this by my second,” he grinds, “all the books I’ve seen you read in the cafeteria should have told you this. Name them.”

He watches you, it wasn’t just in your head - the magnetic stare you can feel from across the room that makes the hair on your arms stick up. He watches, he knows you’re capable. “Not gonna get by just on looks here, Doctor.”

Dragging your eyes away from his intense stare, you loosen your jaw and line your fingers over each strong branch, starting at the trunk of the tree. “The left subclavian artery, left common carotid artery, the innominate artery-”

Peña raises his gloved hand, seeing the gentle smear of blood along his fingertips and palm. “Stop.”

Your eyes squint heatedly, feeling your chest tighten. “I can finish, I know them-”

“Stop, damn it,” he barks louder, his eyes shifting away from yours and across the room. He wasn’t listening to you; he was listening to the heart. Doctor Peña tilts his head to the monitor, watching the heart shift its beats. “Doctor, identify the pathology.”

You shift on your feet, the nerves throughout your arms leave you feeling shaky. Something was wrong. “The aortic arch, it shows…” Closing your eyes helps you focus, ignoring the crowd in the overhead gallery, forgetting the patient on the table just for a moment, and only listening to the beat on the monitor.

“Pretty girl, not so smart,” he taunts with a shake of his head, the beeping on the monitor pitching louder and echoing hauntingly through your ears. You wished this room would swallow you whole, but that would be you admitting to cowardice.

Peña takes a deep breath and looks between you and the monitor, “Alright, come on, open your eyes,” he instructs, guiding your hand off the retractor and along the heart’s wall. “What do you see?”

The commanding tone in his voice brings you out of your head and back to the patient. The room wavers and it goes silent. You don’t hear the erratic beeping of the machines, you don’t see the movement in the gallery. Doctor Peña is in front of you, calm and focused. Because he trusts that you know what’s wrong.

The aortic wall bulged out of its normal shape. It looked weak, stretched out, thin, and nearly translucent. You see the saccular protrusion, lips parting at the discovery.

“He’s—was there an aneurysm? He had an aneurysm?” you ask with more panic in your voice than you had hoped. It must have been during the patient’s original procedure earlier in the day before you and Doctor Peña even scrubbed in. “We can’t do a repair or a replacement of the arch. We have to stop everything--”

“So what are we gonna do, Doctor?” He probes, piercing dark eyes on you. Suddenly, your height shrinks, and you feel only a few inches tall under his gaze. He’s so much older and wiser, and all you can do is panic. “What, you can't figure this out yourself? Four years of medical school, internship, and residency, don't fucking disappoint me now. Tell me how we fix it.”

Our brains hold endless files of knowledge. A doctor is not only supposed to keep files on how to perform a procedure but also what to do if one is horribly failing. But your brain only knows panic because until you become a brilliant surgeon, all you know is fear.

“Should we page neuro? A-A neuro consult, his blood flow isn’t reaching his spine. He might be paralyzed.”

Peña scoffs and shakes his head, “Hoping someone else comes to save you and fix your problems? What if I wasn’t standing here? You’re on your own, kid.” he spews, focusing his headlight back over the heart. “We don’t call neuro, the patient can’t wait that long. Come on,” he whittles away your confidence, fire in his eyes. “Come on!”

You can’t seem to control your anger, feeling it ween down to something brittle and broken. You snap. “Doctor Peña, respectfully shut the hell up. We’re gonna fix the aneurysm sac.”

“How?” He’s quick on the whip, and it feels like your lungs might give out. “Come on, smart girl, tell me how.”

“You’re-You’re gonna use the sac to bring blood back to the spinal cord. He’s only paralyzed because the aorta isn’t able to send blood to his spine. You replace the aorta with a Dacron graft and rebuild the aneurysm into a second aorta.” It’s spoken with half confidence, but your eyes are fiercely stubborn.

“Its only job is to send blood to the spine,” he mutters in agreement, hands already at work.

“Like the freeway being blocked by traffic, you take a side road. Or, in this case, you’re building the side road.”

He momentarily pauses his hands, pretty brown eyes searching yours. He stares you down longer than anticipated, and suddenly, the air feels charged. Heat tingles up your spine, and you find yourself challenging his stare.

You deserve to be in this OR. You’re good, but Peña is great. And you will be great once you learn more from him. Him and his stupid fucking- brilliant hands.

“I’m not building the side road; we are,” he corrects, and he asks the scrub nurses to give him the supplies for constructing the graph.

Finally, his cheeks perk up, and a small smirk hides under his mask. “Suction, Doctor. Prep some 6-0 of prolene. We’re gonna need it.” Peña spends the next few hours teaching you how to reroute the aneurysm and restore blood flow, allowing you to reconstruct and place the graph.

You and Peña are a well-oiled machine. He lets you take the lead under his supervision. It’s impossible not to scream inside your head about this moment. You feel like you’re floating, no longer panicking. Your fingers weave with an indescribable amount of delicacy. It feels like braiding hair, the way your fingers know where to move, the muscle movements natural despite never having done this procedure before.

What a fucking high. And you’ve always been such an adrenaline junkie.

Once word got out around the hospital that Peña was doing this incredible and unexpected surgery, the gallery was all standing and fighting for room to glance out the over-viewing window. And you were there, across from him the entire time. Every surgeon in your class is sitting in the gallery, damn jealous of you.

Peña watches you close up the patient and says nothing; you were perfection.

You huff loudly upon completion, watching as Peña wipes his forearm across the sweat on his forehead. You despise him in this moment. Thankfulness fights your need for social justice. He can’t talk to you like that, belittle you, squish whatever confidence you had left. But you’re exhausted now and don’t feel like snapping in front of half the hospital.

“We won’t know if he has full function until he’s awake. Page neuro and tell them they have a post-consult waiting for them.” His voice drips with exhaustion, rolling out his shoulders as he speaks, and you can’t help but watch as the broad muscles move under his shirt, tan skin now visible after the medical gown has been removed.

Trailing behind him out of the OR, you strip your surgical gloves, gown, and mask in the trash as you try to calm your adrenaline. It never stopped beating; your heart, the strong and beautiful organ that it was, never stopped pounding. You can hear it in your ears, in your pulse, even thudding excitedly against your neck.

It beat for your ambition, it beat for Doctor Peña. He’d never see you as his equal. Hell, he’d never see anyone as his equal. But today, he taught you. And you can’t think why. He has barely done his duty all year despite working at a teaching hospital where the residents are nearly quizzed on the minute by their attendings.

Peña didn’t think anyone was worth his time, but he saw something in you today. Despite being thankful, you can’t help the anger you feel bubbling up as he smirks at you from down the hall.

“What the hell, Peña?”

Oh shit.

The head of neurosurgery stomps down the hall in his navy blue scrubs, graying hair tucked under a scrub cap decorated by EEG waveforms. His eyes are narrowed on Peña, pointed finger at the ready.

“Who the hell do you think you are? Your patient goes into paralysis and you don’t think to page me?”

Peña merely shrugs and sets his hands on his hips. “I did think to page you. And decided not to.”

The head of neurosurgery scoffs in disbelief, raising his voice to a shout. “You’re too fucking- cocky for your own good! I could have done an assessment, they could gotten spinal cord ischemia- and a third-year resident of all people performing that surgery? What the hell were you thinking?!”

Fuck. Now you were brought into this, and standing at the end of the hallway couldn’t be farther away. Peña was as solid as stone, heat didn’t faze him. “She had it under control. She was perfect.”

Perfect.

Neuro seems to smirk lightly, brain doctors who love to play mind games. “You two screwin’ around in the on-call rooms, too? Is that why you let her in on that surgery a fifth year couldn’t even perform? You pull that shit again, and I’ll-”

“You’ll what?”

Peña steps closer, narrowing his eyes on the short little man whose bark was louder than his bite.

Neuro stutters for a moment, his posture shrinking. You can’t help but smirk, almost a little lightheaded at the way he steps in to protect your credibility. Peña was a dangerous surgeon to stick around with. His arrogance, next to his skills in the OR, could be taught by accident.

Neuro grabs onto a slipping rope and sniffs as he glances around at the onlookers in the hallway. “Don’t think I won’t tell the Chief about what happened today. You and her are on thin ice.”

Peña smirks and pats his shoulder in a futile manner, pulling loose his scrub cap and running a hand through his jet-black tresses. “She had it under control. I wouldn’t have let her do anything she couldn’t handle. And if you talk about her like that again, I’ll knock your fuckin’ teeth out.”

Peña’s already walking away, back to the angry little man.

Your stomach bubbles with something unfamiliar, slipping behind the elbow of the wall and taking a shaky breath. You can’t feel anything besides the buzzing in your brain and the tremble in your hands.

Doctor Javier Peña was defending your fucking honor.

In Javier’s eyes, any surgeon can walk into an operating room and follow the procedure's already-written steps. They can rehearse, practice, and prep all they want. But the beauty of surgery was that it was both a science and an art.

The heart was such an intricate, unpredictable thing. Healthy one minute, broken the next.

Javier loves to read, but only for the plot twist endings—the ones you don’t see coming—which add richness to the story and make you fall deeper into the mystery.

That’s why he loves the heart because it isn’t easy. It’s a challenge. He also loves that hearts make him feel special because not everyone can handle operating on a heart. That’s why people choose easier specialties. Cardio was hardcore. Javier was hardcore.

Despite how difficult a cardio surgery can be, the surgeon must be gentle. Going too fast leads to mistakes.

As if driving on black ice, you can’t twist your wheel too fast, or you’ll spin out and crash. He was like that during his internship, even into his residency, but he carried raw talent that no one else could compare to. He was the star of his class, a surgeon who felt like he was more than a doctor, more than a God. A preacher to the soulless, a guide to the lost. He was his patient’s light at the end of the tunnel. He saved their fucking lives.

In his eyes, heart surgeons needed to be sharks. He never met a shark who wasn’t fierce and damn near evil. It’s critical to success; to be a shark in the water, eager to see crimson.

You were no shark—not yet. But your drive, dedication to the art, and willingness to work with him set you apart. He knows he’s not easy. But he’s never liked easy anyway.

Javier slowly slumps down onto the edge of an on-call bed, smacking the light switch so damn hard that he thought he broke it. The room sinks into darkness, a velvet blanket of blue from the slight night sky slipping past the blinds.

He was exhausted after today, the hours of his day stolen by back-to-back surgeries. His back ached, and his knees were screaming at him. But the comfort of a bed wasn’t all that he craved.

You were brilliant, purring like a kitten whenever Javier stroked your ego. A younger colleague impressed him for the first time in months.

God, you were young. What—ten years his junior? More?

His face fell into his hands, heat flushing into his stomach at the thought of you.

When he’s in surgery, the heart is all he can think about. But your eyes were on him for hours, watching him, learning from him—God, the things he could teach you.

Suddenly, the door clicks open, and light floods the room, causing Javi to drop his head and squint.

“We need to speak, Doctor Peña,” your silken voice evokes a sense of long-lost courage.

You’re the last person who should be in his on-call room.

He groans and stands, eyes cast on your hand still nervously caught on the door handle. “Not now.”

“Yes, now,” your voice wavers as you click the lock and cross your arms. His eyes drag over your body, hugged by the comfort of your soft blue scrubs. He can tell it’s taking everything in your body to control your temper, as he is still technically your boss. “You can’t just belittle me in front of the entire OR. No more calling me princess, no more calling me pretty. I’m a lot more than those pathetic superficial names, and you know it.”

Javier runs his fingers down his nose, mutters something incoherent, and plants his hands on his hips before curtly jerking his head expectantly. “I said not now.”

“You push me, you push me around, you push me in the OR, you just don’t stop-”

He snaps.

“I push you to be great!” His brown eyes nearly turn obsidian as he locks you in his gaze. “You’ll be a better doctor when I’m done with you. You should be thanking me.”

You scoff indignantly and throw up your hands in frustration. You’re so fucking cute when you’re upset. “Thanking you?”

“Yeah. Thanking me. My ass is on the burner because I let you perform that surgery.”

“The one not even fifth-year residents could perform?”

Peña pauses, his jaw shifting from left to right as he glances at the room's corner. “You heard all that, huh?”

There’s a lull, one that signifies you both know that he stepped in to defend his choices in the OR; specifically defending you. He watches as you slowly nod, pulling your hand off the doorknob and crossing your arms over your chest.

“You didn’t have to do that. Now it looks like you favor me. I’m gonna get chewed out by the other surgeons, not to mention my entire class is going to think I’m sleeping with you.”

Pena shrugs and purses his lips. “Let ‘em.”

He watches as your lips part, taken aback by his words. After a few doe-eyed blinks from you, the room falls out of focus, and it doesn’t feel like he’s standing in the hospital anymore.

Javi imagines you in places he shouldn’t. At his place, in his apartment. On the couch. In his bed. He thinks about how different you’d look in the light of day, your body curved by jeans or even a sundress if the weather allowed. He’d be privy to the freckles on your back and shoulders, the dips of your hips, the slope of your body he wants to memorize with his eyes closed.

But fantasizing wasn’t enough.

“Let ‘em,” he mutters, low, and enclosing the space between your bodies. “If they already think that, let ‘em. Fuck ‘em.”

Your face visibly softens, and your head naturally leaning into his hand that rests on your cheek.

“I want you to teach me,” you whisper to him. And it’s so fucking soft, so sweet dripping from your lips, almost whining with need.

He slowly nods as the room falls silent, Javi’s opposite hand coming to your hip, flushing your body against his.

“Okay, cariño, I’ll teach you.”

“Teach me,” you plead again, your chest heaving with anticipation. His eyes fall to the way your breasts protrude with each breath you take in your scrubs. The emotion that stirs in the room is enough to start a full-blown hurricane.

Javi’s hands fall to the hem of your top, and you raise your arms swiftly, so pliant to his touches. But that’s your job, to anticipate his needs.

The sight of your skin alone is enough to make his shoulders tighten, seeing you all pretty and exposed. A knot begins to grow in his stomach. But no, you weren’t done yet.

“Please, Doctor Peña,”

No, don’t fucking beg.

“I want you to use your hands and teach me.” Insistently, your fingers dip into your scrub bottoms, his eyes catching the pretty black band of your panties before the material is pooled on the floor.

You stand there with soft eyes, wide and expecting. The longer he stands here, not touching you, it damn near looks like he’s hurting your feelings. But he’s not stupid enough to leave you abandoned.

“Fuck,” he grunts, closing the distance in a matter of a second, his hands on your hips as he yanks your body into his firm front.

The kiss is tangled and heated, desperate and needy, so different compared to the subtle dance you both played before. But now it’s so obvious the pure need that consumes you both.

Your small fists clutch his broad shoulders, and you moan into his mouth purely at the muscle built into his toned body. He licks into your mouth, and all he can think is how fucking sweet you taste. And how your pussy probably tastes just as sweet.

Your fingers blindly reach for the light switch, flicking them off and sinking you into midnight once again.

Javi tuts and shakes his head, breaking the kiss as he glares down at you. “You wanna see my hands work, cielo? Then you gotta watch.” He mutters as he flicks the switch back on, guiding you into the lower bunk of the on-call beds.

He likes the way your hand slips from his cheek to the back of his neck, fingers gentle at first before clutching at the hair on his nape.

Javi lets out an unexpected moan into your mouth as his body slots perfectly between your legs. His rough and calloused hands explore the smooth skin of your outer thighs. He squeezes and cradles the flesh with the perfect balance of strength and delicacy, the coarse hairs of his mustache scratching your skin as he presses kisses over your exposed breasts.

He craves every breath that you take because of him, because of his actions. Your reactions are honest and instinctual, watching as you bite down on your lip because God forbid anyone saw you sneak into his room.

Javi’s fingers are just as you expect, expertise as he unclips your bra with ease. He snatches away the black material, your nipples sensitive to the cool air as they peak under his eyeline.

“Christ,” he mutters, his hot mouth on them in an instant. His tongue circles them meticulously before he suckles, lifting his head and watching as your breast is tugged into his mouth. A whine slips past your lips and he feels your legs tug tighter around his waist. It’s enough to get him hard, the way you won’t let him go, because this feels way too fucking good to stop.

“Doctor Peña-”

“Javi,” he mutters upon letting your nipple go with a pop, moving to the other and showing it just as much affection, letting his teeth gently nip at the sensitive peak. “So fuckin’ pretty, princesa,” he mutters before sucking on a spot just above your breast, a place to mark his territory.

You gasp at the feeling of his hot mouth on your skin, goosebumps flooding to his touches. You glance down through barely-open eyes as the skin changes color, from red to a soft purple as he draws blood to the surface. His teeth marks are still there even after he leaves, a smirk on his face as he slips lower to between your legs.

“Javi, please,” you muster up, trying to regather air in your lungs.

He shifts to his knees, one arm straight and hand planted beside your head as he hovers over you, the other finally slipping between your legs. Your lips part as he slowly swipes two up your center, seeing what makes you tick.

His smirk widens as your eyes roll to the back of your head, biting down on the plush of your lower lip again to conceal a moan that surely would have slipped. He spreads you, letting his thumb pads delicately circle your clit experimentally. “So fucking wet for me.”

Just as a moan emits, his hand is clamped over your mouth.

“Shh, shh, shh,” he degrades, your eyes wide as the circles continue achingly. “Into my hand, baby girl, don’t want anyone else to hear you. Just me.”

Your thighs begin to tremble as his thumb experiments on you, and you realize he’s learning. Everything is about learning for him. He learns and studies the heart, now he’s studying what makes you fucking soaked for him.

The slow circles are enough to get you going, but as he continues to pick up the pace, he realizes you need more more more.

His thumb moves faster and surfs the edges, it makes you twitch under him. His smirk widens as two of his fingers glide up and down your wet center, your hips nudging upward with neediness.

“Wanna hear you,” he mutters, but you’re so scared to let out a peep. In this fog, you can’t even remember if you locked the door, and now your heart is pounding against your chest, the beautiful muscle that it is.

“Come on,” he says goadingly, pushing two fingers into your entrance. Your eyes blow wide as you let out a soft sigh into his palm, followed by a wimpy whine. “Give it to me,” he mutters as his fingers start to move through your tight heat. He’s trying to find it, working himself deeper and deeper, curling them just right and finally-

His hand clamps harder down on your mouth as you let out a loud cry, eyes shutting hard as your body writhes against him. You leak out against his fingers, hearing them squish with your arousal as he smirks. “That’s fuckin’ right, feels so good to let it out, doesn’t it? You can gimme more,” he encourages, and you don’t think you fucking can.

But he works against you so feverishly, the combination of his thumb on your clit and fingers fucking your entrance, once the seal was broken, it was hard to contain it.

“Fuck!” You cry out as he scissors you open, separating his fingers and forcing your entrance to work itself wider for him. The noises are obscene, soaking his fingers as he continues to plunge so deeply into you. Your hand shakily reaches up to the bicep bulging beside your head, nails sinking into his tan flesh.

His movements have your thighs beginning to shake as he searches, still learning, looking for that one spot that has you breathless. Then it fucking sucks the air from your lungs.

You gasp against his hand and clutch his wrist desperately, feeling him massage the sweet, spongy part inside of you that has sparks going off at the base of your spine. Your eyes begin to water at the overwhelmingness of it all, him and his stupid fucking perfect hands.

“Javi,” you pant against his mouth, because something indescribable is building. Your back arches against his body. He doesn’t even need to look at what he’s doing, he’s so distracted in watching you unfold.

Finally, it’s all too much, and he’s got you in the palm of his hand. You can’t help but bite into his palm as you sob against his hand, his fingers so perfect inside of you, leading you to the crescendo of your orgasm. The build leaves you lightheaded, your thighs twitching against his hips as he purrs your name.

“Just wanna little taste,” he mutters as he finally slips his hand from your mouth, still feeling the burn of your pretty bite. His chest lands on the mattress, and you sit up a bit to allow him space.

Javi’s arms wrap around your legs, hands now on your inner thighs as he helps spread you open. You whimper, still so sensitive that you nearly twitch away as he moves in. “Aww, come here, sweet girl. Know you taste so good, don’t you?”

You weakly nod and sink back into the mattress, your eyes falling closed as he slowly sponges kisses to your warm inner thighs. Your hole still puckers for the loss of his fingers, a groan leaving his throat at the sight. He teasingly flicks his tongue against your twitching clit, and it’s enough to make your entire body seize.

“So fucking sensitive,” he mutters adoringly, spreading your labia and letting his tongue flush against the juices that soak his tongue. He audibly grunts against you and works slowly to clean you up. His eyes meet yours, and he reads your wrecked face instantly.

You let out a hesitant moan, your fingers tiredly weaving into his dark locks and nails gently scratching along his scalp. His mustache tickles your clit and you try to breath through the aftershocks of your orgasm.

He was right, his hands were fucking perfect. Look at the way he learned your body, what it was chasing after, how it could be healed with his touch. You only with to give him the same.

You sit up off your elbows, and he looks up at you with your arousal sitting silkily across his mustache. You cup his jaw, and he sits up with you, your mouth landing on his. You taste yourself, and it almost makes you shy, knowing Doctor Peña has tasted you. More importantly, made you cum with nothing more than his fingers.

The opportunity to touch his body is one you didn’t realize you craved, small palms moving down his front. On instinct, he parts from your kiss and pulls his scrub top off. And God, you were right with every assumption.

You knew he worked out, all cardio Gods adhere to the rule of working out to keep the heart muscle strong, but this was a different kind of strong. He was a Greek marble statue, all arms and toned chest and a waist you could easily tangle your legs around.

“Jesus,” you breathe out.

Javi smirks confidently, his large hands cupping your face once more and tangling his tongue with yours. You swallow the lump in your throat and move your hand to his upper thigh, coasting your hand along until you feel his shaft protruding against his scrubs.

“Take ‘em off,” you whisper.

“Are you asking me or telling me?” He asks confidently, forcing a grunt out of your mouth as you tug against the hem.

“Telling. Now off with them.” You command.

He tuts as he stands from the mattress. “That’s my girl,” he mutters proudly, circling his thumbs along the waist of his scrubs before pushing them down, briefs included, stepping out of the material that pooled around his feet.

You slowly raise an eyebrow, your lips parting at his size. No wonder he was so cocky. You sit at the edge of the on-call bed and he steps forward knowingly.

“S’okay, pretty girl. Just wanna make you feel good.”

You stubbornly shake your head and take his hands, guiding him closer as your doe-eyes meet his melting brown ones.

“I can do it.” Wrapping a hand slowly around his length, your other hand rests on his thigh to allow some security.

He takes in a slow breath, his eyes growing heavy as you spit along his length.

“Fuck,” he mutters as his large hand gently comes to rest on the back of your head, fingers intertwining in your hair as he begins to clutch them possessively.

It felt so good to be the one in charge, to be his guidance. He wants you so badly, your hot mouth wrapped around him, begging for his own release just as you were.

You sponge kisses along his length, watching him almost in a taunting way, because you know he’s going to fall apart before you. Flatting your tongue and sticking it out, he grunts at the sight. Leaning forward, you take him in your mouth. Your tongue circles his beady tip and you get to enjoy the taste of his pre-cum on your tastebuds.

He’s salty and musky, hours after a long surgery and it tastes divine. All man. All Javier Peña.

Javi’s breaths are getting faster as you begin to bob your head, taking him inch by inch until you felt comfortable enough to really go for it.

“Such a fucking- overachiever,” he grins, your nose brushing against the coarse hair along his base as your eyes clench closed, choking around him but not letting off. “Holy fuck,” he moans. Your nails sink into his thigh and he hisses, your one and only reminder for him to stay quiet. He pulls off with a pop, leaving you pouting as you stroke over his impressive length. He twitches in your hand and he’s so heavy in your palm.

“Don’t want anyone to hear us, Peña,” you remind as you break to give kisses along his thigh where your nails created crescent moon shapes.

“Got me so close, baby. Don’t wanna cum yet, though.”

You pout but ultimately leave him with one last kiss to his shaft.

Javi can’t seem to get enough of your kisses, tracing his tongue along your bottom lip as he moves you back onto the mattress once more. Your fingers glide down his body, feeling the ripples of his muscles that you hope stays engrained in your mind forever.

Even if it’s just a one-time thing, you wouldn’t mind storing the way he makes you unfold so effortlessly, caring to learn your body and its cravings.

“Please, Javi,” you whimper against his mouth, feeling the warmth of his body slipping between yours once again, and it feels like a home. “Need you.”

He nods breathlessly against you, propping up the pillow behind your head. You’re not sure why it gives you butterflies, taking care of you more than just sexually. But he pats the pillow a few times nonetheless and centers it to the back of your head, not stopping until you’re smiling up at him.

Your hand cradles his jawline, thumb gliding across his chin before his mouth is back on yours. His lips part as your gasp enters his mouth, feeling his hand guide his tip from your clit to your leaking entrance.

“Wet all over again,” he mutters against your mouth, but acting surprised is pointless.

“Uh huh,” you whisper, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth before letting him envelop you fully.

Javier listens to you, reads your body language. He feels you grow tense as his tip nudges at your entrance, feeling your legs tighten hesitantly around his waist.

Your hands are soft on his back, moving along the carved muscles and following their runs like wild rivers. Perhaps it is a way you calm your nerves, touching his warm skin relaxes your walls. He’s able to push onward.

“Jesus- Javi,” you whimper, letting him sink his length fully into you until he bottoms out in one thrust that leaves him groaning. The pillow he’s laid down for you is held by his fist, the veins down his arms bulging against your head.

“Fuck, that’s it,” his chest rumbles, Javi starting to find a rhythm as he guides his length in and out of you.

The first couple of strokes are dragging, aching. It’s hard to breathe and your nose brushes against his neck.

Javier is so lost in the feeling of you, your tight little cunt squeezing repeatedly around his cock. The hand not holding him up runs up the side of your body, first on the outside of your thigh, then moving upwards to squeeze your ass in his large palm. You moan into his ear, and he does it again, both of you smirking against the kiss. Then he’s on your hip, following the pretty curve before he wraps his arm on the underside of your body, cradling your shoulder.

It’s like a seatbelt clicking in, gasping as you feel him lock you into place. Your eyes widen as you look up at him, Javi coming to rest his forehead against yours as he begins to snap his hips.

With the change in pace, the energy becomes charged with something less delicate. It’s like you were witnessing Javier’s two-sided personality, trying to learn and teach, and now, the arrogant, cocky shark.

The drag, once painful, now feels heavenly, the ache becoming a sedative that has you cooing for more. He’s more relentless now, hips snapping into yours that has your eyes rolling into the back of your head. Your jaw points to the ceiling, and he sees the opportunity for his lips to latch onto your neck.

At the height of sensitivity, you feel everything. The sweat trickling down your temple, his teeth carving marks on your neck, your breasts pressed against his toned front; he’s all encapsulating.

You whine as you squeeze around his cock, his hand on your shoulder pressing harder into your skin. He keeps you there, pounding into you, the coarse dark hair grinding against your clit so perfectly. Your core tightens, and you feel your second orgasm begin at its crest. He must be close, too, because he’s driving into you with ferocity.

“Javi,” you cry against his neck, your nose brushing against his tousled hair, “I-I can’t.”

Javier shakes his head and moves the hand on your shoulder down between your bodies, finding your quivering clit and adding pressure to the small ministrations he starts on. His lips move to your ear, placing a kiss against the outer shell.

“You can,” he demands in a stern tone, his hot pants fanning against your face as his aquiline nose nudges your cheekbone, “you can give me another one, cariño.”

He wants to see your star explode. See you dissolve before him into a million tiny sparks, fizzling into the night sky so he can take your beauty in fully, from inner soul to outer exterior. You were slipping into the void before him like a firework bursting.

“Fuck, I can,” you pant, your head dropping back onto the pillow as heat slips down your spine and your vision goes dark.

You squeeze his cock repeatedly as your orgasm surges through you, back arching off the mattress and your legs tightening around his slim waist. He can feel your pulsing clit against the pad of his thumb, feeling you gush around his dick as his balls slapping against your core grow slick with your arousal.

From below, your vision is hazy, and he looks so fucking handsome. The surgical mask doesn’t do him justice.

“You can come inside me,” you whisper as you lean in and nibble his earlobe, hearing him grunt at your comment.

“Christ,” he mutters, “you have no idea what you do to me.” Javi gently tugs on your lower lip before he distracts himself with your kisses. His snapping hips begin to lose their rhythm, becoming more sloppy and erratic.

He was chasing the feeling, distracted by how perfect you were for him today.

The vein along his temple bulges as his desperate espresso eyes meet yours. All he needs to see is that little smirk of yours, and it sends him over the edge.

His jaw drops, and a silent moan wants to slip out desperately, but somehow, he’s able to conceal it with low grunts of something that resembles your name.

You begin to feel his warmth spread through your core, making your insides fuzzy. He trembles; you both do. It feels like he comes for forever, but frankly, you don’t want it to stop.

This feeling sits still inside you, humbles you, and centers you with the universe. Your life is hectic, and for one hour today, you’re not running around from one room to the next or getting chewed out by the senior doctors. This was the perfect stress relief; Javier Peña was a damn good break.

His strong body collapses over yours, and any residual strength he has left is being held by a tiny string that keeps you from being crushed.

He lays on his side, shoulder blades pressed against the cold cinderblock wall. He buries his hand in his face, and you wonder if he regrets what he’s done.

Did he?

“Thanks,” you whisper, reaching blindly for scrubs and accidentally tossing on his scrub pants in your orgasmic haze.

“For what? And those are mine. You can have them in a few years when you’re an attending.” He hums, smirking as he pulls the sheets up to cover his lower half.

You scoff and pull off the pants, switching out for your own after you clasp your bra behind your back.

“For the lessons.”

He watches you change, slipping your shoes back on and fixing your hair in the mirror. You try to ignore the feeling of his come slipping out of you, your legs as wobbly as a newborn calf.

“Yeah? What did you learn?” He cocks an eyebrow and blindly reaches for a pack of cigarettes on the windowsill, propping open the window a few inches.

Your eyes scan over him slowly as you tighten the tie on your scrub bottoms, a slow smirk gradually growing on your lips.

“I know why you smoke.”

Ignoring his intrigued face, you flip off the lights and leave his on-call room in a midnight blue film. The heavy door inches open, light shedding through and inching into the darkness. It clicks closed behind you just as your pager goes off, seeing that there is a message coming through for your newly reconstructed aortic arch patient.

“Shit,” you mutter.

The door swooshes open behind you, and Peña reappears dressed in his navy scrubs, surging past you. His shoulder knocks yours on the way out, and you can’t help but scoff.

“Let’s go. Pick up the pace,” His voice is raspy and tired, but you keep his stride as you work your way towards the intensive care unit.

Doctor Peña glances back over his shoulder, his smirk mirroring your own.

Even a shark has its vices. Perhaps after tonight, you’re Javi’s.

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azuraaass · 30 days ago

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"The Knight's Dance"

Content: Lewis Hamilton x reader in a Bridgerton way - fluff

Part II / Part III / Part IV / Part V / Part VI

The ballroom glittered like a jewel box, all crystal chandeliers and framed mirrors reflecting the cream of London society in their finest silks and satins. She pressed herself against the marble pillar, trying to make herself invisible among the elaborate arrangements of hothouse roses and peonies that perfumed the air with their heady sweetness.

Another season. Another ball. Another evening of being paraded before eligible gentlemen like a prize.

Her mother had outdone herself with tonight's gown—Emerald silk that brought out her eyes, with tiny golden filaments sewed along the bodice that caught the candlelight with every breath. Beautiful, certainly, but it felt like armor. Pretty armor designed to catch a husband before she became a burden on the family.

She was contemplating a potential espace from the garden when she saw him.

Sir Lewis Hamilton stood near the French doors leading to the terrace, and every eye in the ballroom seemed drawn to him like iron filings to a magnet. He cut a striking figure in his perfectly tailored evening suits, his dark skin uncommon among the pale English nobility but commanding attention in a way that spoke of confidence rather than novelty.

The whispered conversations around her painted him in broad strokes: youngest son of a shipping fortune who'd made his own name in the military, decorated for valor in the Peninsula, recently returned to London society with more invitations than he could possibly accept. The sort of man mothers schemed to place in front of their daughters, if only he seemed inclined to marry.

But it wasn't his reputation that held her attention. It was the way he stood slightly apart from the clusters of gentlemen, watching the dancing with an expression she recognized—polite interest masking barely concealed boredom.

As if sensing her study, his gaze found hers across the crowded ballroom. For a moment that seemed to stretch like taffy between them, they simply looked at each other. Then Lady Danbury's laugh boomed nearby, startling her back to awareness, and she quickly looked away, her cheeks warming.

"Miss."

The voice was warm, cultured, closer than she'd expected. She turned to find Sir Lewis standing beside her, having navigated the crowd with the same quiet grace she'd noticed earlier. Up close, he was even more striking—tall and broad-shouldered, with intelligent dark eyes that seemed to see more than most.

"Sir Hamilton," she managed, sinking into what she hoped was an acceptable curtsy.

"You appear to be studying the proceedings with the eye of a military strategist," he observed, and there was gentle humor in his voice that made her forget to be nervous.

"Is my tactical assessment so obvious?"

"Only to a fellow observer of battlefield dynamics." His mouth quirked upward. "I confess, I was attempting to devise my own escape route when I noticed your... reconnaissance."

"And what conclusions did your reconnaissance yield, sir?"

"That we are both fish out of water in a sea of sharks."

The unexpected frankness startled a laugh from her. "That's a rather dramatic assessment of a ball, sir."

"Is it? Tell me, have you managed a single genuine conversation this evening, or has it all been variations on the weather and commentary on Lady Whistledown's latest scandal sheet?"

She blinked. No gentleman had ever asked her such a direct question at a social gathering. They discussed her accomplishments, her father's estate, occasionally her opinions on utterly safe topics. Never her actual thoughts.

"The latter, I'm afraid," she admitted. "Though I did have a spirited discussion about the merits of various watercolor techniques with Miss Featherington."

"Ah, a fellow artist. And what is your preferred subject?"

"Landscapes, mostly. Also recently I’ve been finding people too..." she searched for the right word, "changeable."

"Changeable how?"

"They rarely are what they appear to be in public." She glanced around the ballroom, at the elaborate costumes and careful smiles. "It's difficult to capture truth when everyone is performing a role."

Something shifted in his expression—surprise, perhaps, or recognition.

"And what role are you performing tonight?" he asked quietly.

The question caught her off-guard with its gentle perceptiveness. "The dutiful daughter. The accomplished young lady. The..." she hesitated.

"The matrimonial prospect?"

"Precisely." She met his eyes, surprised by her own boldness. "And you, Sir Lewis? What role brings you to Lady Danbury's ballroom?"

"The reluctant bachelor. The decorated war hero who should be grateful for society's attention." His voice carried a note of irony that made her chest tighten with understanding.

"Should be?"

"One grows weary of being valued primarily for one's eligibility rather than one's conversation."

Before she could respond, the orchestra struck up a waltz. Around them, couples began moving toward the dance floor with the precision of a well-rehearsed ballet.

"Miss," Sir Lewis said, offering his gloved hand with a bow that was perfectly proper and somehow intimate at the same time, "would you do me the honor?"

Her heart performed a complicated series of leaps. "I... yes."

His hand was warm and sure as he led her onto the floor, and when he placed his other hand at her waist—properly, respectably, but close enough that she could smell his cologne, something clean and masculine that made her slightly dizzy—she forgot to breathe.

"Eyes on me," he murmured as they began to move. "Not on them."

But she was already looking at him, had been since the moment he'd approached. Up close, she could see the small scar above his left eyebrow, the way his eyes crinkled slightly when he concentrated, the elegant line of his jaw.

They moved together as if they'd been dancing partners for years, his lead confident but never overwhelming, guiding her through the steps with an ease that made her feel graceful instead of merely competent. The ballroom spun around them in a blur of color and light, but she was only aware of him—the solid warmth of his hand, the way he looked at her like she was the only person in the room worth seeing.

"You dance beautifully," he said, his voice low enough that only she could hear.

"You sound surprised, sir."

"Not surprised. Enchanted."

The word hung between them, improper and perfect and absolutely devastating to her composure. She felt heat bloom in her cheeks, spreading down her neck to disappear beneath her neckline.

"Sir Hamilton..."

"Lewis," he corrected softly with a light smile. "When we're dancing, just Lewis."

"That's hardly proper."

"No," he agreed, spinning her with expert precision, "it isn't."

When the waltz ended, they stood frozen for a moment longer than propriety allowed, his hand still at her waist, hers still curved around his shoulder. The ballroom seemed to hold its breath around them.

"Thank you," she whispered, though for what exactly, she couldn't say.

"The pleasure was entirely mine." But he didn't release her immediately, and she didn't step away. "Perhaps... would you take some air? The terrace is quite lovely in the moonlight."

It was scandalous. Unchaperoned walks in moonlit gardens were the stuff of ruined reputations and hastily arranged marriages. Her mother would have an apoplectic reaction .

"Yes," she heard herself say.

As he offered his arm and led her toward the French doors, she caught sight of her reflection in one of the gilt mirrors lining the wall. For the first time all season, she looked alive. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright, her smile genuine rather than practiced.

"Second thoughts?" Lewis asked, noticing her pause.

"No," she said, surprising herself with her certainty. "No second thoughts at all."

Because sometimes the most dangerous thing you can do at a ball is dance with someone who makes you forget you're performing.

And sometimes, if you're very lucky, they forget they're performing too.

#lewis hamilton x you #lewis hamilton x reader #lewis x reader #lewis hamilton #bridgerton #f1 x reader #f1 imagine #f1 fic #f1 fanfic #ferrari #formula 1 #formula one #fluff

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orellazalonia · 2 months ago

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Beach Day

Pairing: Stucky x little!reader [Disclaimer: Age Regression!]

Summary: You and your caregivers go on a trip to the beach where you have an action-packed day of building sand castles, splashing in the water, and spending time with your daddies.

Word Count: 3.1k+

A/N: I tried to make reader actually speak more this time, more excited in little space. I’m also going to the beach this week, so maybe I’ll find some inspiration to write more beach-related scenarios. Happy reading!

Main Masterlist

Sunlight peeks through your curtains, warm and golden. Before you’re even fully awake, you feel it, that fluttery kind of excitement deep in your belly. Today is the day you take a trip with your daddies to the beach.

You practically tumble out of bed, your stuffie clutched in one hand and your blanket trailing behind you like a cape. Your feet patter down the hall to the kitchen where Steve is already pouring coffee and Bucky’s at the table packing snacks and food into a cooler bag.

As soon as they see you, both of their faces light up.

“Well, good morning, sunshine,” Steve says with a grin, crouching down as you barrel into him for a hug.

“‘S beach day!” You declare, bouncing on your toes and giggling. “Gon’ swim, an’ eat sammiches, anddd… maybe find a crab!”

Steve chuckles and ruffles your bedhead. “That’s the plan, sweetheart.”

Bucky comes over and lifts you into his arms with a dramatic motion. “You sound ready to explode with excitement, doll.”

“Boom!” You shout happily, flopping into his shoulder with a squeal.

“Alright, tiny firecracker,” Bucky says with a smirk, kissing your temple, “Let’s pick out that swimsuit, huh? I laid out a few.”

He carries you back to your room, setting you down in front of the bed where three different swimsuits are folded: one with little sharks, one with rainbows and glitter, and one with ducks wearing sunglasses.

You gasp. “Ducks!! ‘M wearin’ the ducky one!”

“Excellent choice,” Steve says from the doorway, holding up a tiny bottle of sunscreen like it’s a secret weapon. “Operation Sunshield begins after we’re dressed.”

You squeal again and squirm excitedly while Bucky helps you into the ducky swimsuit, gently tugging the fabric into place and letting you spin in front of the mirror.

“Look at you,” He teases. “The duck commander herself.”

You pose with your hands on your hips. “Quack,” You say seriously before breaking into giggles.

Steve brings over your favorite sunhat, the one with little cat ears sewn on top. He crouches down to tie the strings carefully under your chin. “There. Our beach baby is ready.”

You nod with a wide smile, pointing to yourself. “Beach baby. Dat’s me.”

Bucky hands you your beach bag, shaped like a strawberry, already packed with your floatie, water bottle, a towel, and your favorite shell-collecting bucket. You peek inside and spot your teddy tucked in there too, wearing his own little sunglasses.

“Brownie comin’ tooooo!” You squeal, hugging the bag tight.

Steve chuckles and kisses your forehead. “Of course. He’s our co-pilot.”

You skip toward the door, flip-flops smacking the floor, bag bouncing against your side, already humming a made-up beach song.

And behind you, Steve and Bucky exchange a soft look, all warm smiles and quiet love, before following you out the door.

It doesn’t take long until you’re all buckled into your seat in the back of Steve’s big SUV, your strawberry beach bag beside you and Brownie resting in your lap. Your feet are swinging back and forth and you’ve got a sippy cup of cold apple juice in one hand.

Bucky’s driving, sunglasses on and arm relaxed out the window, while Steve twists in the front seat to check on you again.

“Got everything, sweetheart?”

You nod enthusiastically. “Mhm! Brownie, got snacks, got juice… oh! Forgot da crayons- wait, no I didn’t! They in the bag!” You unzip it and proudly show off your zip-up pouch full of stubby, broken crayons and coloring pages.

Steve gives you a dramatic sigh of relief. “Phew. Beach emergency averted.”

Bucky grins at the road. “Can’t survive a beach trip without crayons. Everyone knows that.”

You lean back and hum a little song to yourself while kicking your feet. Then, suddenly, “Papa?”

Steve turns again, his expression soft. “Yeah, bug?”

“How many waves do ya fink there gonna be? A gazillion?”

He hums in thought before answering, “Maybe a gazillion and one.”

You giggle and wiggle in your seat. “I’mma jump in alla them! Gonna splash ev’rywhere!”

Bucky snorts, joking. “Better not splash me, unless you wanna get launched into orbit.”

You gasp, wide-eyed. “Like a rocket?!”

“Yup. Straight to the moon, kiddo.”

Steve leans over and smacks Bucky’s arm playfully. “No launching beach babies today, sergeant.”

“Awwww,” You whine with a little pout, “But I wanna go moon swimmin’…”

They both laugh, and Bucky says, “Okay, okay. We’ll settle for ocean splashing. But you are gonna need to hold our hands in the water if you don’t have your floatie with you.”

You cross your arms with a dramatic sigh. “Cuz waves big?”

Steve nods. “And ‘cause we love you. Wanna keep you close.”

That makes you go quiet for a second before you agree with a nod, “Okay. I hold your hands forever!”

The car is quiet after that for a few minutes, filled only with the sound of tires on pavement and the music playing softly through the speakers, one of your favorite silly beach songs.

Eventually, your eyes start to feel a little heavy from the sun and excitement, and your voice gets small. “Tell me when we’re there?”

Steve turns slightly in his seat, watching you snuggle up with your teddy bear. “Of course, baby. You rest. We’ll get you there safe.”

And with Bucky humming along to the song and Steve’s assurance warm and steady, you drift off to sleep, dreaming of ducks in sunglasses and waves that reach the stars.

The car slows down into a parking lot full of stray sand, and you awaken instinctively.

“We here?” You mumble, still a little sleepy, rubbing your eyes.

“We’re here, baby,” Steve says, twisting to smile at you. “And there’s the shore.”

You sit up fast, blinking at the blue sky, the seagulls flying overhead, and the endless stretch of sparkling ocean beyond the dunes. Your mouth opens in a soft gasp. “Iss sooooo biiiiig!”

Bucky chuckles as he parks the car. “Told ya the ocean was a giant bathtub.”

“Bath tub don’t got birds,” You correct him seriously.

Steve laughs and gets out, opening the back door and unbuckling your seatbelt and helping you out. “You’re right, smarty-pants. No seagulls allowed in bathtubs.”

Bucky lifts the beach bag and tosses a towel over his shoulder. Your floatie, shaped like a giant donut with pink frosting, is tucked under his arm. “Alright, sunshine, grab a hand.”

You immediately reach for both of them, one hand in each of theirs, swinging between them as the three of you walk toward the beach. You can feel the sand seep onto the surface of your flip-flops and the ocean breeze tugs playfully at your hat, but you don’t mind one bit. You’re too busy bouncing in excitement.

“Papa! Daddy! Look, look, a doggie!” You shout, pointing to a golden retriever with a stick in its mouth.

“I see him,” Bucky says. “Reckon he’s here for the waves too.”

“Bet he surfs,” You whisper, awed.

The beach opens up in front of you, wide and bright, with the tide glittering under the sun. Steve lays down a big blanket while Bucky sets up the umbrella and cooler. You spin in place, arms out, squealing, “So big!! So blue!! So sandyyyy!!”

“You’re gonna be so sticky by the end of the day,” Steve teases, “Sticky and sandy and tired.”

You beam. “Dat’s the best kinda day.”

He chuckles, holding out the donut floatie. “Want it on now or wait till we go in?”

You tap your chin like you’re thinking real hard, then answer, “Gon’ wait. ‘Mma build da castle first.”

Bucky sets the floatie down, securing it to make sure it doesn’t blow away in the wind. “Then let’s build the biggest castle in the whole world. Fit for a beach princess.”

“I’m a queen,” You say matter-of-factly, plopping down and grabbing your bucket.

“Apologies, your majesty,” Bucky replies with a bow, handing you your shovel.

You take it gratefully. Now sitting criss-cross in the sand, shovel in hand, and your tongue poking out the side of your mouth in deep, serious concentration. “Dis side gonna be da dungeon,” You declare, patting down a lopsided tower with a wet slap.

“Uh-oh,” Steve says, leaning over with a raised brow. “Who’s getting sent to the dungeon?”

You look up at him dramatically. “Any bad guys. Like… da people who steal snacks. Or take my floatie wifout askin’.”

Bucky smirks. “That first one’s harsh, kiddo. Even I snuck a bite of your granola bar last week.”

You gasp, eyes wide. “DADDY!”

He holds up both hands. “I surrender to the queen.”

You scramble up and point your shovel at him. “To the dungeon!!”

Steve is already half-laughing as he scoops up a little wet sand with his palm and begins forming a jail cell beside your crooked tower. “There. You can lock him up right next to the crab moat.”

“Crab moat?” You squeak, spinning to look and sure enough, Steve has drawn a little wavy trench in the sand around your castle.

“Yup. To keep the villains out. Filled with tiny crab soldiers.”

You light up. “Can I name ‘em?!”

Bucky grins from where he’s now digging a tunnel. “They need names if they’re gonna work for you.”

You begin listing in a sing-song voice as you place little seashells at intervals around the moat. “Dis one’s Sir Pincie. Dat one’s Lady Clawdia. Ooooh! And King Crunch!”

“You’re a natural monarch,” Steve says, brushing sand off your nose gently.

The three of you work for a long while like that. Steve shapes towers and walls with his big, careful hands, while Bucky digs tunnels and hides treasure shells underneath the sand (“For adventurers later,” He says with a wink). Meanwhile, you are darting between them, giving orders, adding stick flags, and occasionally squashing the sand with your knees when things get too exciting.

At one point, you tug Steve’s hand and whisper, “Papa, look! I made a tiny throne!” and point to a lumpy mound near your castle.

He crouches beside you, looking at your creation with a warm smile. “That’s perfect, baby. Just your size.”

You plop onto it,sticking your legs out and puffing up proudly. “Now I’m da queen of da whole beach.”

Bucky bows low. “Queen of Shelltown.”

“Queen of Snacksville,” Steve adds with a smile.

You nod seriously. “I rule wif kindness… and naps.”

Sand coats your legs and arms, your cheeks are flushed pink from the sun and all the giggles, and there’s a little grain of sand stuck to your bottom lip, but you’re glowing from all the fun.

And when the tide starts creeping closer, Steve leans over and murmurs, “Wanna defend the castle, or let the waves have it?”

You consider that deeply, then whisper, “They can have it. I’ll build a new one. Wif you an’ Daddy.”

Steve kisses your temple. “Always, sweetheart.”

The castle’s been claimed by the tide, you had waved goodbye to Sir Pincie and Lady Clawdia, and now it’s ocean time.

Bucky crouches down beside you, holding your floatie. “Alright, sunshine. Arms up.”

You giggle and shoot both arms skyward. “Up, up, up!!”

He gently slides the floatie down over your head and around your tummy, adjusting the back. “There ya go. You’re officially donut-fied.”

Steve steps up beside you, brushing hair out of your face and slipping your goggles down over your eyes. “Ready to swim, baby?”

You nod furiously, bouncing in place. “Ready!! Wanna splash! Wanna gooooo!”

“Okay, okay,” Bucky chuckles, scooping you up into his arms. “Let’s get those little feet wet.”

As he carries you toward the water, your legs kick excitedly in the air. The waves rush up to greet you and Bucky sets you down in the shallows, keeping a hand on your floatie. “Whoa there, jellybean. Don’t go zoomin’ off just yet.”

The water laps at your knees and you squeal. When Bucky helps you a bit further to where you can float in the water, you exclaim with glee. “I’m floatin’! I’m a boat!! Papa, look!! I’m a boat!!”

Steve walks in beside you, letting the waves wash over his ankles as he chuckles. “Best boat I’ve ever seen. Might need to name you ‘Captain Giggles.’”

You dramatically turn the wheel of your imaginary ship. “Aye-aye, Captain Papa!”

Bucky lets you drift out a little more, still holding on. The floatie bobs up and down with the swell, and you squeal every time the water splashes up. “The ocean’s ticklin’ me!!”

“You’re lucky it likes you,” Bucky teases.

Another wave comes, bigger this time, and it lifts you gently, your floatie catching it just right. “WHOOOOA!!” You twist in the floatie and throw your arms up. “DO IT ‘GAIN!”

Steve laughs and nudges the float gently from behind so you rock back into Bucky’s waiting hands. “You’re fearless today, huh?”

You beam up at them through your goggles. “M’brave. ‘Cause I gots you two.”

Something about the way you say it makes both men soften instantly.

“That’s right, baby,” Steve murmurs. “You always got us.”

Forever, even when the tide rolls in.

After some more fun in the ocean, your floatie squeaks faintly as Bucky lifts you out of the water, droplets running down your legs and arms. “Okay, okay, little sea monster,” He says with a soft smile. “Time for snacks before you turn into a prune.”

You giggle, leaning your wet cheek against his shoulder. “I’m not a monster… I’m a…. mermaid now!”

“Even mermaids need snacks,” Steve calls from where he’s already crouched by the umbrella, unfolding a soft towel with cartoon sea creatures on it, the one you picked out at the store yourself and insisted “smells like sunshine.”

Bucky lowers you onto it, and Steve helps remove your floatie then immediately starts rubbing you down gently with another dry towel, working from your toes up with patient, warm hands. “You did a lot of splashing out there,” He says as he dries your hair with a little tousle. “You hungry, sweetheart?”

You nod dramatically. “M’really hungwy. Like…” You pause to think, then spread your arms wide, “…like this much hungry.”

Bucky chuckles as he pops open the cooler. “Well lucky for you, I packed the royal picnic. Your Majesty’s favorites.”

You scoot onto your knees and peek eagerly as he starts unpacking it all. Slices of juicy watermelon cut into stars, a crustless peanut butter and jelly sandwich cut into triangles just the way you like, a little container of goldfish crackers, and a juice box with a tiny superhero on it. Your mouth already waters just looking at the watermelon.

Steve sits cross-legged beside you, passing you the juice box with the straw already poked in. “Start with some sips, okay? You got lots of sun.”

You sip happily, legs folded under you. “Dis tastes like blue.”

“That’s ‘cause it is blue,” Bucky teases, handing you one of the watermelon stars on a tiny plastic fork. “Eat that before your sandwich. Hydration first.”

You crunch into it and immediately let out a content hum. “Mmmmmm. Cold!”

Both men smile as they eat alongside you, not rushing, not talking much. It’s just quiet, sun-warmed company. Seagulls squawk in the distance. Waves roll in soft and lazy now, like the ocean’s getting sleepy too. There’s sand on your knees, salt on your cheeks, and watermelon juice running down your chin.

Steve reaches over with a napkin and dabs your face gently. “You’re makin’ a mess, aren’t you?”

You look up at him, grinning. “I’m da mess queen.”

Bucky leans over and plants a kiss to your temple. “Then we must be the mess kings.”

You end up snuggled between them, leaning back against Bucky’s chest with your legs draped across Steve’s lap, half a sandwich in hand. The sun peeks out from behind a cloud, warming your face. You let out a little yawn around a bite.

Steve notices and brushes your damp hair back. “Sleepy?”

You shake your head slowly, though your body sags against Bucky. “Noooo. Jus’… comfy.”

Bucky pulls a second towel over your legs, letting you burrow in like a little cocoon. “That’s okay, sweetheart. You just rest. We’ve got you.”

“Uh-huh,” you murmur, eyes fluttering closed. “You always do.”

And they always will.

The sun is dipping low now, casting long golden streaks across the parking lot as Steve loads up the trunk. The beach towels are a little sandy, the cooler is mostly empty, and your floatie sits squished between the seats like a deflated donut. Everything smells like salt and sunscreen.

Bucky lifts you gently from where you were half-dozing under the umbrella, your cheeks warm and your limbs floppy with that worn-out, sun-drenched tiredness that only little ones know.

“C’mon, peanut,” He murmurs, cradling you close against his chest. “Time to go home.”

You mumble something into his shirt, mostly vowels and half-syllables, nothing real, but your arms curl around his neck automatically. He smiles, brushing a kiss into your damp hair.

The backseat’s already set up, your soft blanket with the stars and moons, Brownie resting nearby, and a small travel pillow that smells like home. Bucky settles you in carefully, buckling you up while keeping the blanket snug around your legs before shutting the door carefully and moving into the passenger’s seat.

Steve climbs into the driver’s seat and glances back at you in the rearview mirror. “All set, sweetheart?”

You blink slowly, eyes heavy. “Goin’ home?”

“That’s right,” He says, starting the engine. “You did so good today. Brave in the water, kind to the sand crabs, full of giggles. I’m proud of you.”

You smile sleepily, turning your head toward the window as the car pulls away from the beach. The world passes by in a blur of fading light, palm trees, street signs, the occasional swoop of a bird overhead. Your eyelids flutter, heavier with every mile.

Bucky twists in his seat, watching you for a moment. His voice is softer now. “Get some rest, babydoll. We’ll be home soon.”

You hum softly, barely awake, your fingers curling in the corner of your blanket. “You stay wif me?”

“Always,” He whispers. “Not going anywhere.”

The car hums along the road, the sound of tires and the occasional song from the radio blending into the perfect lullaby. Steve drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting quietly on Bucky’s thigh, and the two of them share a look, the kind that says everything without words.

And in the back seat, warm and all out of energy from the big day… you drift off to sleepy, safe and loved as ever.

#stucky x little!reader #daddy!stucky x little!reader #daddy!stucky #daddy!bucky #daddy!steve #cg!bucky barnes #cg!steve rogers #agere fic #stucky fic #beach day #marvel agere #marvel fic #little!reader #not proofread

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