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osachiyo · 6 months ago
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“HERE K!TTY-K!TTY—”
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synopsis— not so innocent moments with your favorite cat boys <3
warnings— n/sfw content, fem!reader, HORNY cat boys, teasing, bondage, oral (m&f), thigh fucking, kinda feral xavier, collars, body worship, overstimulation, sub!rafayel, pet names & nicknames (master, kitty, cutie etc), praise, a lil degradation, very feral sylus & more! also there may be some grammar mistakes which i apologize for </3
note— my first time writing for these boys, hope I did ‘em justice! ik I’m astronomically late don’t clock me 😞
featuring— zayne, xavier, rafayel & sylus x fem!reader (separate)
✰ now playing — kitty kat by megan the stallion ✰
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✦ ZAYNE— feasting on his master
“There, there, kitty,” you smiled at Zayne’s serious expression, waving the cat toy in his face before pulling it away just as he reached for it.
“Feeling playful, are we?” he huffed, his voice a mixture of exasperation and amusement as he lunged to catch the bright, feathered toy again, but your quick reflexes kept it just out of reach. “Oh? Don’t you want to play with your master, cute kitty?” The corners of your mouth curled into a wide smirk as you settled comfortably onto the plush sofa behind you, the soft fabric cradling your form. In your playful distraction, one of your shoes tumbled gracefully to the wooden floor with a soft thud. You glanced up at the towering man, your eyes sparkling with mischief and challenge. “Well? Aren’t you going to help me put it back on?” you teased playfully.
Zayne sighed at your flirtatious little display before kneeling in front of you and picking your shoe up from the carpeted floor. You observed as he gently lifted your foot, his gloved hands gliding down the soft fabric of your stockings while you placed your foot on his thigh. A gasp nearly escaped his pink lips as you ran your foot up and down his clothed thigh, causing him to shiver at your touch.
He let out a soft scoff, a small frown gracing his face as he suddenly seized your foot, halting your playful dance. “Your shoe, master,” Zayne said, his gaze locking onto yours, those long lashes framing his eyes captivatingly with every blink. A thrill ran through you as you leaned in, your cheek resting against your palm, eyes sparkling. You nodded, a playful smile curving your lips, allowing him to slip the shoe back on your foot, your heart pulsing with a mix of anticipation and lust.
You didn't stop him as his hands suddenly traveled further, and further up your smooth legs, up your plump thighs — until they were playing with the hem of your tight little dress, making goosebumps appear on your soft skin. “You knew exactly what you were doing when you wore this, didn't you, master?” Zayne breathed out, licking his lips as he slowly spread your legs apart, lowly purring at the sight of the little patch of wetness staining your cotton panties.
“Hmm, did I?” A playful grin spread across your face as your hands reached out to gently pet and scratch at his soft, velvety ears. The delightful sensation made him release a soft moan from his slightly parted lips, his fingers instinctively tightening their grip on your thighs, anchoring himself closer to you.
“You’re playing a dangerous game, darling,” Zayne murmured with a low, teasing tone, his breath warm against your skin. He lowered his face, allowing his cheek to rest on your lap, feeling the warmth radiate from your body. The intoxicating scent of your arousal filled his senses, and he could almost taste it—rich and sweet, making his mouth water with longing.
“Well?”
Your voice, soft yet teasing, drew his gaze upward to meet your captivating face, where a playful glint danced in your eyes. A mischievous smirk graced your lips as you leaned in slightly, the warmth of your presence electrifying the air between you. “Aren’t you going to dig in, kitty?” you purred, each word laced with an inviting promise.
And dig in he did — panties hurriedly being pushed to the side as he buried his face between your plush thighs, tongue circling your clit while two long fingers poked and prodded at your tight hole — eliciting little moans of pleasure from your plump lips. The pretty noises encouraged Zayne to wrap his lips around your little bundle of now nerves and sucking hard — causing one of your hands to tangle itself in his hair and tugging like your life depended on it.
That caused Zayne to groan loudly into your cunt, earning a sharp gasp from you as the sound reverberated through your body — biting down on your bottom lip to keep yourself somewhat grounded as he stuck his tongue in your cute hole; gooey walls clamping down on the muscle as he savored the tang of your sweet slick.
“F-fuuh— tastes s’good, master,” he moaned into your pussy, slurping on your juices as they poured down his chin like honey, successfully coating the lower half of his handsome face in your sticky arousal.
With your legs resting comfortably on his shoulders, you could feel the warmth of his skin against the backs of your thighs. Your shoes lay discarded on the floor, forgotten as your feet swung gently in the air, toes barely brushing against his back. The way he held you created a lovely curve in your spine, pulling you into a graceful arch as Zayne brought you closer to the edge of the sofa — his tongue sloppily fucking into your cunt.
“O-oh god, Zayne—!” you mewled, clenching your eyes shut as you felt your orgasm approaching fast, your legs closing around him — effectively trapping his head between your thighs as you grinded on his face. “Cum. Oh s-shit — cum on my face, master.” You threw your head back as your pussy gushed on Zayne’s eager tongue, while he licked up every single drop of your sweet slick — couldn't let any go to waste.
“Good girl. Now bend over for me, won't you?”
✦ XAVIER— sleepy catboy turns feral?!
You stepped into the shared bedroom, a weary sigh escaping your lips as you brushed off the stray cat fur clinging to your clothes. Another long day at the cat cafe had left you both exhilarated and drained. Your heart swelled with affection for the playful furballs that filled your day with joy, but you couldn’t ignore the toll that wrangling a dozen spirited kitties took on your energy. As you kicked off your shoes, you felt the familiar blend of exhaustion and satisfaction wash over you.
"You're back." A wave of warmth flooded through you at the sound of your boyfriend Xavier's soothing voice, the tension in your shoulders dissipating as he enveloped you in his taller, comforting frame. His lips met your forehead in a tender kiss, and he nestled his nose into your hair, inhaling the delicate, fruity aroma of your shampoo. "Missed me too much?" you teased, a soft chuckle escaping your lips as you wrapped your arms around the elegant curve of his neck. In response, he tightened his embrace around your waist, eliciting a contented sigh from you, as your exhaustion melted away in the safety of his hold.
"Mm, you couldn't imagine how much," Xavier purred, pulling away from you before pouting — god, you just wanted to press kisses all over his face. He's too pretty for his own good, you thought as you reached out to pat his head and scratch at his little ears until he caught your hand before you could. "You smell like other cats. I don't like it," he scrunched his nose up in disgust, clearly jealous that you had another cat's scent on you.
You laughed softly, amused at how childish he was being. "I was at a cat cafe the whole day, love. I'd be surprised if I didn't smell like cats," you said, shaking your head in disbelief. You made another attempt to wriggle your hand free from Xavier's firm grasp, but he remained steadfast, his grip unyielding. Just as you were about to plead with him to let go so you could take a refreshing shower, he suddenly broke the silence with a surprising comment.
"I see... I suppose it's only right for me to mark you as my own now," he declared, a determined glint in his eyes as he fixed his gaze on you, his seriousness palpable. The weight of his words hung in the air, thick with unspoken promise. You could only blink in stunned silence, your mind racing to process his intent. Confusion etched itself across your features, and you furrowed your brows in disbelief. "M-mark me...?" you stammered, the words barely escaping your lips as you struggled to comprehend what he meant.
Xavier's lips curled up into a devilish smile, mischief swimming in his soft azure eyes. "Mhm, shouldn't a cat properly mark their property?" He questioned as he pulled you closer — your hands settling on his hard chest, his voice husky and dripping with lust, causing your thighs to clench.
You gasped when Xavier's soft lips found themselves latching onto your earlobe, biting and sucking on the sensitive spot before whispering lowly, "don't you agree, master?"
That's how you ended up in the meanest arch— your knees sinking into the silken sheets as your face was pushed into the fluffy pillows, rendering you a drooling mess beneath the man fucking into your sopping cunt like his life depended on it. "Nngh— Xavier!" You wailed out, fingers entangling themselves in the sheets. Your pretty moans and cries of pleasure did nothing but add fuel to the burning fire of his desires— his eyes almost rolling behind closed lids as he slammed his hips against your ass harder— faster, much too drunk on the feeling of your tight walls fluttering around him.
"S-shiit— so fucking pretty, angel—" Xavier's breath came in quick, warm bursts as he panted into your ear, his hard chest flush against your back. Each labored inhale fanned over your ear, sending a shiver down your spine and igniting a rush of heat across your cheeks. "You're s-so nng—! pretty.." he slurred, one of his hands reaching to grab your hair before pulling your head back and forcing your tear-stained eyes to meet his own drunken ones. Your mushy walls tightened upon looking at his hungry gaze, earning a choked moan from him— god, you could practically see hearts floating in his eyes.
Xavier smashed his lips against yours, teeth clashing against each other’s and his tongue ravishing yours. His hips bucked into your ass at a wild pace and the tip of his cock nudged into your g-spot repeatedly, causing little yelps and moans of his name to fall from your candied lips.
"s'messy, baby fuuck—!" You whined, biting your lower lip as you looked down to see what a mess you both were making, your juices and Xavier's previous loads dripping down from your overstuffed hole to the sheets underneath like a waterfall.
"Haah— clenching s'tight 'round me," Xavier whined pathetically before sinking his teeth into the juncture of your shoulder, earning a high pitched squeal from you. You threw your head back as you felt his hand coiling around your tummy to reach down and rub fast circles on your clit— sloppy walls clenching and unclenching around his length, his mouth all but drunkenly slacking open at every clamp of your syrupy pussy.
"'G-god, you're so unngh— fucking b-beautiful," he groaned out, his free reaching upwards to wrap his fingers around your pretty little throat— turning your head towards him to meet his gaze once again.
You feel your swollen folds get even more soaked, if that's even possible, at the utter pussydrunk look on Xavier's usually aloof features. His eyes were almost crazed— feral even, pupils blown out with the desire to breed you and fill you up with his kits overtaking his entire being.
To say you were in big trouble would be an understatement at that point..
✦ RAFAYEL— “stringy” situation?…
The sun flooded through the window, spilling its golden rays throughout the living room. You were lounging on the couch, half-distracted by a book, when you heard the familiar sound of Rafayel's soft purring from the other side of the room. You glanced up just in time to see him—your recently turned cat-boyfriend—pawing at a stray ball of yarn you’d left on the floor earlier.
"Rafayel... no!" you gasped, knowing full well how mischievous he could be when he set his mind on something.
But it was too late. His curiosity got the better of him. Rafayel, with his nimble fingers and feline instincts, quickly batted at the ball, unraveling it further. He gave you a sly glance, as though saying "try me if you dare."
"You better not," you warned further, but it was already too late.
Rafayel was able to deftly maneuver his hand towards the center of the ball of yarn, thanks to a sudden flicking motion of his wrist. He made a strange sound and stopped working when he felt the string rotating around his wrist and then his arm. His cat brain was clearly working hard but didn't seem to realize how much havoc a ball of yarn could cause.
Before you could react, Rafayel tried to pull the ball closer, only to find himself awkwardly yanked forward by the strands now snaking around his legs. With a plop, he tumbled to the floor in an ungraceful heap, his body tangled in a mess of yarn.
You burst out laughing, watching as Rafayel wiggled and squirmed, his tail flicking with irritation. "I didn’t think it would be this bad," he muttered, trying to untangle himself with his free hand, but only managing to knot the string further.
“Need some help?” you asked, trying to stifle your giggles.
“I’m fine,” he replied, a bit too proudly, although he was clearly stuck in a ridiculous position. He tried to stand, but the yarn just seemed to hold him in place, like an invisible web. His attempt only resulted in a slow, comical spin as the yarn tightened around him.
After a few more futile attempts to free himself, Rafayel finally gave up with an exaggerated sigh, slumping onto his back. “Okay, maybe a little help.”
You moved over to him, carefully "undoing" the tangled mess of yarn as he laid back with a contented purr, his eyes half-closed in relaxed defeat. “I really thought I had it under control,” he mumbled, his voice warm with embarrassment but still endearing.
"Wait- wait why are you—!" Rafayel gasped in confusion as you pulled the yarn tighter around him, effectively trapping him in place. "Well, mister kitty cat, I did tell you not to touch the yarn, didn't I?" You questioned, a teasing lilt to your tone.
“So? What’re you planning to do, cutie? Punish me?” Rafayel smirked, raising a brow at you. You only smiled, eyes twinkling with mischief, “Yes. You’re gonna be punished.”
“Bring it on then,” he huffed, cockiness dripping from his tone as he eyed you down, a tent already managing to form in his pants at your intense gaze.
Oh poor thing, he had absolutely no idea what was coming for him.
“O-oh cutie—“ Rafayel’s lewd moans echoed throughout the living room, his abdomen clenching and unclenching with pleasure as you bobbed your head on his pretty cock; the sensitive tip hitting the back of your throat each time. You only hummed, looking up at your boyfriend through your lashes, his pre-cum and your saliva running down your chin as your nails gripped onto his thighs.
Rafayel groaned out your name repeatedly, as if it were his prayer — when you were the one worshiping him. Could anyone blame you, though? When he looked so delectable with his hair sticking to his sweaty forehead, nose scrunched up in pleasure and eyes shut tight, lashes resting on his cheeks and mouth agape as loud moans left him.
Not to mention the small beads of sweat dripping down his abs— his back arching and hips bucking into your mouth while you suck on his pink tip just the way he likes it, the gags and choked sounds leaving your lips only making him harder— if that were even possible.
You hummed sweetly around his cock, staring up at him through your lashes as you blinked slowly— letting his precum drip down your chin in stringy webs. Rafayel could only whine at the sight, a pout settling on his pink lips as you teased him.
“So close b-baby, don’t— ngh shitshitshit- stop—” he threw his head back with a loud groan as you took him in as deep as you could, shooting his cum down your throat as your nose bushed against that little patch of hair on his pelvis.
You pulled back with a ‘pop!’ before opening your mouth, letting his semen drip down your chin, making a mess on the wooden floorboards below. Rafayel panted, eyes darkening at the lewd scene before him.
“I must say, cutie— that was a reaaal nice show you put on for me,” He drawled, “but—”
Your eyes widened when you heard the loud ‘riiiip’ echoing off the walls — Rafayel’s now free hands reaching down to shove you against the floor,
“Raf—”
He was quick to cut you off, “ah ah ah, darling— you’ve had your little fun, and now I will have mine.”
✦ SYLUS— the collared beast.
You really don’t remember how you ended up in this position— folded up like a lawn chair under sylus’s strong figure, knees touching your ears and thighs flush against your bruised tits. You can hear ringing in your ears, not being able to pick up sylus’s feral groans and growls of your name until a soft slap to your cheek broke you out of your sweet trance. “W-what’s wrong, sweetie? Thought you could handle me?” He purred, fingers tightening around your throat so even if you wanted to answer, you couldn’t. Not that you would be able to anyway, not when Sylus’s fat cock drilled into you so hard, fast and rough— pressing into the rough little patch of your g-spot so deliciously.
You could only babble and cry out broken little moans and sobs— almost making the feline above you feel bad— almost. But it also scratched a deep, dark part of him— something he had been repressing for your sake, but god did it feel amazing— having you split open and dumb on his cock.
The collar around his neck only added more fuel to his burning fire, the pretty leash tangled in your fingers as he demanded you to pull— pull as hard as you could because fuck, nothing could feel better than this, in his mind. Nothing could feel better than him finally letting the beast out— devouring you whole as if you were his prey, not his master. The thought made him rut into your soaked heat even faster— sharp teeth burying themselves in your shoulder as his balls slapped against your ass, the loud “plap plap plap!” noise echoed throughout the room— if anybody was outside they could surely hear you two easily, but that was the least of your worries.
How could you worry about being heard when sharp red eyes glared into your own teary ones— gooey pussy squeezing tight around his shaft as he finally gave you the permission to let go - to cum for him, hard.
“Ohh yes, there she is..” Sylus groaned, a smile gracing his sharp features. “Did you enjoy yourself, sweetheart?” You only hummed in response, seemingly too tired to give him a proper response.
You almost let your eyes fully shut until you heard the soft click of the collar being opened.. but your eyes widened in confusion and dread once he wrapped it around your neck.
“What’s with that look, master? It’s only fair that I have my turn as well, don’t you think?”
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@𝐎𝐒𝐀𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐘𝐎 — ᴀʟʟ ʀɪɢʜᴛꜱ ʀᴇꜱᴇʀᴠᴇᴅ. ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴄᴏᴘʏ/ꜱʜᴀʀᴇ ᴏʀ ᴛʀᴀɴꜱʟᴀᴛᴇ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋ ᴀɴʏᴡʜᴇʀᴇ.
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sapphire-writes · 1 year ago
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Beyond The Play
college!Art x college!Reader
summary: Tashi needs some time alone with her man, which leaves you without a room for the night.
word count: 3.8k
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rating: mature/explicit/18+
warnings: alcohol, fingering, dry humping, p in v sex with a condom, light praise, titty sucking, there's only one bed oh no!!
a/n: thanks for all the love on my first Challengers fic! hope you enjoy this one!
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“You are so fucked,” Art says, taking another sip of his beer.
“Shut up.”
“He’s right,” Tashi agrees, sighing heavily, glancing at her cards.
You’re all sitting on the floor of your and Tashi’s dorm room, half-empty beer bottles littering the floor between you. You’d been playing poker for the past hour or so, swindling more of Patrick and Art’s money. It’d become a Friday night habit of yours, card games and beer with Patrick and Art. Patrick was always a maybe, he only came to visit his girlfriend a couple times a semester. 
But you, Art, and Tashi were always a solid trio. Tashi and Art had met through tennis of course, and you had met Art through Tashi after rooming with her freshman year of college. You’d become fast friends, and roommates for the next several years. You got along with Patrick well enough, you had to once he and Tashi started dating.
You could tell that had been a sore spot for Art, at least for a while. You’d suspected he’d had a thing for Tashi, and fire and ice hadn’t been the same since. You’d once asked Tashi about it and she’d only shrugged. Even though she was with Patrick for now, you knew Tashi had only one true love. 
Whatever Art felt for Tashi was easily molded into friendship, and the three of you became nearly inseparable. Which was good, even if you may or may not have developed some feelings of your own for the blond tennis player. 
But your friendship was more important. Those feelings could be pushed aside.
“God damn it,” Patrick curses, “I fold.”
Tashi snickers, revealing her cards and Patrick swears once more. 
“I need a smoke,” Patrick says, standing and leaning across Tashi’s bed to the open window.
“Oh no you don’t,” Tashi says, standing at lightning speed, “Outside, we are not getting in trouble for this.”
She grabs Patrick by the shirt collar, dragging him off the bed. He dramatically chokes, but lets her drag him towards the door.
“Art come on,” Patrick insists, reaching for his best friend.
“What? No, I wanna stay,” Art says, sandy hair falling in front of his eyes, “You don’t need a babysitter—”
“Yes I do,” Patrick insists, “C’mon five minutes, I swear.”
The boys tumble into the hall and you can hear their voices fading as they make their way outside. You stand from the floor, gathering up some beer bottles, and folding up the empty pizza box.
“Hey, d’you think you could sleep somewhere else tonight?” Tashi asks, brown eyes wide, “It’s Patrick’s last night, and y’know we really haven’t had any alone time.”
Your chest constricts at the thought. You totally get where she’s coming from but, it’s your room too. The thought of sleeping in the common area is less enticing. 
“Or at least just for a couple of hours,” Tashi backtracks, seeing your expression, “Just so we can—”
“Yeah, Tash it’s fine,” you tell her, swallowing your annoyance. Tashi’s been nothing but thoughtful and kind as a roommate, and friend. It’s an inconvenient favor, but nothing crazy. “I’ll get out of your hair for a couple of hours.”
“You’re the best,” she says, kissing your cheek, “Seriously, I owe you one.”
“You sure do,” you tell her, “I expect full payment for this.”
“Do you mean a trip to the movies with slurpees and popcorn?” Tashi asks, raising her eyebrows. 
“With extra butter,” you clarify and point at her, “You’re not cheaping out on me.”
“I’d never,” she insists, feigning seriousness before breaking into a grin. 
You finish helping Tashi clean up and begin your excommunication from your room. Walking down the hallway you bump into Patrick and Art on their way back from Patrick’s smoke break.
“What’re you doing out here? You start smoking?” Art asks as Patrick keeps walking past you, picking up the pace, “Hey where…”
“Party’s over,” you tell him, as Patrick turns the corner, eager to return to Tashi now that she’s alone.
Art frowns, confused.
“But we were—”
“Art,” you cut him off and place your hands on his shoulders, shaking him slightly, “Party’s over. Unless you’re eager to be a third.”
Art’s cheeks flush and he glances away, forcing out a laugh. Something tugs at your heart watching his half-smile appear. 
“Uh yeah ... .no thanks,” he says and you pat his shoulders before releasing them, “Wait but where are you going to go?”
You shrug, “I haven’t thought that far ahead.”
“You can’t just wander around campus, it’s like 2 am,” Art says, beckoning you with his hand, “Come back to my room, at least till they’re done.”
“Really?” you ask, “Cause if you’re tired I can just—”
“Don’t be silly,” Art says, poking your shoulder, “C’mon.”
Art’s room is in a separate building on campus, about a five-minute walk from you and Tashi’s building. Art is lucky enough to have a single; you’d been there a handful of times before class or practice. He keeps his room neat, aside from some clothes scattered on the floor from quick changes before practice. You smile as he hurriedly picks them up, throwing them into a hamper in his closet.
His bed is unmade, navy sheets messy as though he’d just woken up. 
“Sorry bout the mess,” he says, awkwardly scratching the back of his neck.
“I’m not judging, you’re cleaner than most guys I’ve met,” you tell him and he laughs. 
Suddenly, it hits you how late it is, sleepiness hitting you like a train as you yawn. This triggers Art’s yawn and the pair of you stand awkwardly in front of each other. 
“Um,” Art says suddenly, “It’s late.”
“Yeah,” you agree, stomach sinking, “I can just—”
“You should stay.”
You’re silent at that. You stare at him, as he nervously plays with the hem of his t-shirt, waiting for your reaction. You’re not sure what to say. It’s fine, right? Just a friend, helping out another friend.
A friend whom you have a big fat annoying crush on.
“I mean….it’s just late and you’re tired and who knows when they’ll be done.”
“I don’t have anything with me,” you tell him, voice sounding softer, meeker than you’d like.
“Oh, here I got you,” he says, walking to his dresser. He shuffles through the drawer a moment before revealing a shirt and clean boxers, “Just did laundry today. You can….you can change in the bathroom. I even have an extra toothbrush.”
You roll your eyes at that, taking the clothes from him. 
“Okay,” you agree.
“Bathroom’s right there.”
You nod, quickly making your way across the room and into the bathroom. You close the door and quickly change, finding Art’s spare toothbrush unopened in a goodie bag from the dentist shoved into a spare drawer. You quickly wash your face, brush your teeth, and change into his clothes. The shirt is baggy, with Stanford Men’s Tennis written across the front. It smells like him, like his detergent and his cologne and you can’t help but greedily inhale.
When you exit the bathroom, Art dips in, leaving the door open as he brushes his teeth. You place your clothes in a pile on his desk, awkwardly waiting for him. When he emerges, he’s wearing only his boxers and a gray t-shirt.
“I’ll take the floor,” Art says, his face turning beet red, “You can have the bed.”
“Art no,” you insist, “It’s your room. I’ll take the floor, it’s only fair—”
“Yeah that is not happening,” he says, satisfied smirk on his face, “Tashi’d kill me if she found out I made you sleep on the floor.”
“We could…..” you wet your lips, struggling to get the words out, “We could share the bed?”
Art watches you, his eyes wide. You watch his Adam’s apple bobs as he contemplates your question. Suddenly your pulse quickens, and embarrassment floods your body, and your face flushes. You turn away from him, scooting onto the bed.
“I mean only—”
“—if you’re comfortable,” Art finishes and you shut your mouth. You both giggle at the overlapping sentences.
“Yeah, I’m comfortable, Art,” you tell him, patting the space beside you, “Come on.”
Art moves onto the bed and you push closer to the wall. He’s so close when he lies down beside you, stretching his arm above your head. You’ve grown accustomed to the moonlit room and at this distance, you can almost count each eyelash that frames his blue eyes. 
“Is this okay?” he whispers, minty breath wafting over your face, making your head spin.
“Mhmm,” is all you can manage as the heat of his body warms you under the covers.
He’s silent then and you lay there for a moment, watching each other, listening to your shared breathing. Art chuckles then.
“What?”
“It’s just…” he trails off, “Nothing, it’s silly.”
“What is it?”
“You’re the first girl I’ve shared a bed with,” he admits, shyly glancing away from your gaze.
“Art Donaldson,” your tone is teasing, “I find that rather hard to believe.”
“It’s true,” he insists, brows furrowing together, “I mean….I’m not saying—wait” he wets his lips nervously, “I’m not a virgin—”
Your eyebrows raise, a smile curling at the corner of your lips. No, you did not doubt that. 
“Not that anything’s wrong with that, I just—wait and not to imply—”
“Art!” you cut him off, reaching forward and pressing your fingers against his lips, “I’m kidding. Don’t freak out.”
“M’not,” he mumbles, lips moving against your fingers.
“I’m fucking with you, Donaldson,” you whisper, taking your hand back, “I know you’re a gentleman.”
“Thank Christ,” he says with an exaggerated exhale causing you to giggle once more. He watches you, a smile on his face, eyes flickering to your lips.
Your face heats up as he wets his lips. Suddenly, nervousness flutters in your belly, and your heart flutters in your chest.
“Goodnight,” you tell him, turning away from him to face the wall.
You wait for his response, hoping he’s not disappointed. Disappointed about what, you’re not sure. 
“Goodnight,” he says softly and you close your eyes.
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You wake up early. Birds are chirping outside the window, golden sunlight is beginning to bleed into the room, and Art’s chest is smushed firmly against your back. His arm is curled around your middle, hand splayed under your shirt and on your tummy, face buried in the crook of your neck. He’s so warm, his presence so comforting, you just want to close your eyes and melt back into him. 
Art groans in his sleep, moving his hips slightly and your eyes snap open.
Oh, Art.
He’s pressed firmly against your backside, rock-hard, hips unconsciously grinding against you. Your mouth falls open slightly feeling him against you, the hard outline of his cock bullying against your ass. Art groans again, hand on your stomach pushing you closer to him.
A breathy sigh escapes you and your head falls back against him slightly. 
“Art,” you breathe, answered with another groan, this one edging on a whimper. His hips gyrate, cock pressing against you with need, “Oh God…”
You swallow, breathing becoming more shallow. Your pussy clenches, and you can feel the growing wetness in the boxers Art had lent you, thighs pressing together desperate to relieve some of the pressure.
“Art wake up!” 
Art wakes with a start, head pulled from your shoulder. You can’t see him, but you feel him tense, the warmth of his body ripped from yours as he lurches backward, right off the edge of the bed. He falls with a yelp, hitting the floor with a loud thud. You sit up turning toward him. 
“Fuck!” he says, scrambling to sit and hide his erection, “Shit, I’m so sorry!” His face is red and he grabs a pillow, placing it over his lap, “God–fuck, I’m so sorry I was asleep—” He keeps stuttering, unable to meet your eyes. 
“Art.”
“It’s just biological you know, just morning wood, I would never do anything without your explicit consent–enthusiastic consent!”
“Art…”
“And I would never want to ruin anything between us, ever–”
“Art!”
His head snaps toward you then, eyes meeting yours. His mouth hangs open, eyes watery as he looks up at you. He looks so sad, so embarrassed, and disappointed. And something else as well. Worried, perhaps. 
“Get back up here,” you tell him.
Art’s mouth remains open in shock as he glances at the bed.
“Now?”
“Yes, right now.”
Art scrambles to rejoin you on the bed, lying beside you. He faces you just as he did last night, sandy hair falling across his forehead. You smile softly at his disheveled appearance and his flushed cheeks.
“I’m sorry—”
“Stop talking,” you tell him, reaching forward and brushing some hair from his face. You let your hand trail around to the nape of his neck, fingers curling in his hair. “You have my consent.”
Art’s eyes widen, lips parting in shock.
“Yeah?”
“Mhmm,” you tell him, pulling yourself closer. His hand drifts to your hip, anchoring himself to it. “Explicit, enthusiastic, all yours.”
The last word has barely left your lips before he’s leaning forward, pressing his lips against your own. They’re warm and soft, he kisses you with innocent eagerness, the hand on your hip pulling you flush against him. You lift your leg, hitching it around his thigh, fingers tangling in his hair and tugging slightly, earning a moan against your mouth.
“Fuck,” he moans against your lips, “You don’t know how long I’ve thought about this.”
Something deep inside your belly warms at his admission. 
“Yeah?”
“Mhmm,” he answers, kissing you again, “Since freshman year.”
“Why didn’t you…..oh fuck..” your question trails off as Art mouths your neck, sucking and biting the tender skin.
“Didn’t want to ruin anything,” he mumbles, kissing your collarbone. 
You hum at his answer, tilting your head to give him better access. His hand moves from your hip bone, up under your shirt—his shirt. 
“Is this okay?” he asks, mouth returning to your lips.
“Yes,” you tell him, “Please touch me.”
You can feel his smile against your lips as he does what you ask, fingers grazing the underside of your breast. Pushing against him, his hand cups your breast, squeezing lightly. You pull away from his lips briefly, tugging your shirt over your head and tossing it to the end of the bed. Art’s eyes devour you and he kisses you desperately as he continues to play with your tits. 
“Fuck you’re beautiful,” he murmurs, kissing down your neck until he reaches the top of your chest. 
Art’s lips move across the tops of your breasts, as though he’s struggling with choosing which one to lavish with attention. Luckily for you, he decides rather quickly and latches his mouth to your right nipple, thumb, and forefinger, tweaking the opposite. Your back arches as he gently bites down, sucking the hardened peak harshly before releasing it with a pop. 
“Art.”
He simply moans, ignoring your cries as he brings his mouth to your opposite nipple, repeating his previous action. Pleasure winds a current in your lower belly, your thighs clench as he repeats his little torture, alternating back and forth between your breasts. You grab his hair, tugging him not too gently until he glances up at you, cheeks red, lips glossy and puckered. 
He’s too pretty.
You pull him back to your lips, kissing him feverishly while trying to rid yourself of the clothing you have left. Art feels you squirming and assists, hands moving the boxers down your legs until you’re able to kick them off at your ankles. Your hands move to him next, eager to even the playing field. 
You tear his shirt over his head revealing his toned stomach from countless hours on the court. Your mouth waters at the sight before Art is on you once more, lips capturing yours in another heated kiss. His hand returns to your hip, curling against it before he reaches further, squeezing your ass.
You smile against his mouth as he squeezes again. 
“You’re just fucking perfect, aren’t you?” he murmurs, returning your smile.
His hand grazes down the back of your thigh before venturing to the front where your legs meet. Your breathing becomes more labored the closer he gets to your hot center. 
“Can I?” he asks, so softly, you nearly drown out his question with your heavy breath.
“Yes,” you tell him, and that’s all he needs. 
Art slides a curious finger between your wet folds, gently circling your clit. Your mouth falls open as he continues.
“You’re so wet,” he remarks, dipping his finger lower, and finding your entrance. 
He lets his middle finger sink into you, met with little resistance. Your walls greedily accept him as he curls his finger upwards, beginning to pump it in and out. Stars explode behind your eyes and you moan, clutching onto his shoulder.
Art smirks, eyes aglow at the pleasured noises you emit.
“That feel good?”
“Yes—fuck,” you squeak as he presses another finger inside of you, “Oh god.”
“Yeah?” 
Art crooks his fingers against your velvety walls, pressing against that special spot inside of you that has your head lolling against him, moans spilling from your lips. His thumb joins, caressing your sensitive clit in time with the strokes of his fingers. 
“Feels so good,” you moan, “I’m so close.”
“Yeah? You're gonna come for me?” he asks, kissing your neck. Your fingers tangle themselves in his blonde hair, tugging harshly, your orgasm building deep in your belly, “Come on baby, come on my fingers, I wanna feel this pretty pussy come.”
His words send you over the edge and your pussy clenches around his digits as you come, thighs shaking from the intensity as warmth floods through you.
“That was so hot,” Art says, kissing you, still buried to the knuckles inside you, “You’re so hot. Let me fuck you, please.”
You hum against his lips as he carefully removes his fingers from your warmth. He pulls away, bringing his fingers to his lips, sucking them clean. You watch him awestruck as he moans, eyes closing at the taste of you.
“Get inside me,” you tell him, “Right now.”
Art doesn’t need to be told twice, sitting up and pulling his boxers off as you lay on your back. Your eyes drift down his stomach to his cock. It’s pretty, just like the rest of him. Long, girthy, a neat tuft of dark sandy colored hair at the base. The tip flushed red and weeping as he strokes himself. 
“Condom?” you ask, and he nods, walking to his desk and rummaging through the first drawer. 
He comes up successful, ripping the wrapper with his teeth and rolling the condom on his length before crawling on top of you. You spread your legs for him as he lines himself up, rubbing the tip along your soaked slit. 
“Art, please put it in,” you whine, hips lifting.
“Jesus, I’m not gonna last long if you keep that up,” he says, shaking his head.
Your responding giggle is short-lived as he slowly sinks inside of you, filling you to the brim.
“Oh god,” you whimper, as he rests his forehead against yours.
“You okay?”
“More than okay,” you answer, cupping his cheek. He mirrors your action and you smile, a sudden burst of tenderness exploding in your chest, tears welling in your eyes. 
Art rotates his hips, pulling back and sinking back into your inviting warmth. 
“You feel so fucking good,” he murmurs, kissing your lips, “I’ve dreamt of this for years.”
“Me too,” you admit, wrapping your legs around his waist, “God, Art, I’ve wanted this forever.”
This spurs him on, his thrusts becoming quicker, more eager at your confession. 
“Yeah?”
“Yes,” you whimper as he pounds into you, “Wanted this for so long—used to talk to….to Tashi about it—”
Art moves his hand along your side, reaching your thigh and hooking your leg over his shoulder.
“What’d you tell her?”
The new angle sends him deeper, the head of his cock rubbing perfectly against that spongy section of your walls that has your mouth dropping open in pleasure.
“Wanted you,” you manage as Art holds one of your hands above your head against the pillows, “Wanted this so bad.”
“I’ll give it to you,” Art says, his breath catching, “Fuck—oh god you’re so pretty like this, fuck.”
“Art!” you cry his name as your second orgasm builds, sneaking up on you as he slows his pace, “Why’d you—”
“Wanna savor this,” he says softly, kissing the tip of your nose. His thrusts have slowed, hips moving with leisure. 
The pressure in your belly continues to build as he smirks down at you. Tennis has done wonders to his stamina; he fucks you like he could keep this pace for hours, barely breaking a sweat. You whine, throwing your head back against the pillows as he kisses your neck, your hamstring burning deliciously with the stretch. 
“Please come for me,” he murmurs, right next to your ear, “I’ve got to feel that sweet little pussy come around my cock, please.”
You do as you’re told, spurred on by Art whispering praises and encouragement in your ear and you fall apart, clenching around his cock and milking him for all he’s worth. You feel his hips stutter, cock twitching inside your warmth as he follows your release with his own. Art’s lips find yours then, and you can taste yourself on his tongue as he kisses you like a drowning man coming up for air. 
You stay like that for several minutes, his cock softening as you kiss one another, before he slowly pulls out. He takes a moment to take off the condom, tying it off and tossing it in the trash before he rejoins you in bed.
“C’mere,” he says, pulling you across his chest. 
You lie with your cheek pressed against his pec, listening to the gentle beating of his heart. He strokes your arm with his fingers, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.
“Did you mean what you said?” he asks, face buried in your hair, “About wanting me? This?”
“Mhmm,” you answer, putting all your cards on the table, “I may have harbored a small crush on you.”
Art picks up your hand measuring it against his own before lacing your fingers together.
“I wish I knew that earlier,” he admits, still holding your hand, “I’ve been in love with you for ages.”
You glance up at him between your lashes and he grins.
“It’s true,” he says with a smile.
“And here I thought Patrick was the only one who owned your heart,” you tease, causing him to playfully bite your wrist, “Hey!”
“Not the only one,” he admits, rolling you over onto your back, “I’m glad you got kicked out of your room last night.”
You lean up, placing a kiss on the tip of his nose.
“Me too.”
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link to other stories from me!
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likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated but never expected 🩵
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jaylalolz · 9 months ago
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❛ 𝐓𝐄𝐀𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐏𝐄𝐓 ❜ . . . nicholas chavez
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COLLEGE STUDENT!reader x PROFESSOR!nicholas 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚
SUMMARY, Mr. Chavez notices that his most intelligent student has been falling asleep and receiving poor grades in class. After class, he decides to check on her, which escalates to something else.
A/N, if you don’t feel comfortable reading this then don’t!! i didn’t proof read this so there might be some mistakes. if so, let me know!! have fun reading, angels.
WARNINGS, smuttyyy
Mr. Chavez adjusted his glasses, scanning the room as he wrapped up his lecture. His students, usually attentive, were scribbling furiously, hanging onto every word. Well, most of them were. One, in particular, sat slumped in the back row, her head resting against her arm, eyes half-closed. This wasn’t like her. She was his brightest student—sharp, focused, always the first to raise her hand, challenge ideas, and submit assignments that left him impressed. But lately, she’d been different. She’d started falling asleep in class, her energy waning, assignments either late or missing altogether.
As the class packed up and filtered out of the lecture hall, Nicholas kept his eye on her. When she made a move to leave, he cleared his throat, voice gentle but firm.
“can you stay for a moment? I need to talk to you.”
She froze in place, her hand still on her bag strap. She hesitated for a second before nodding and walking up to his desk. The other students trickled out, their chatter fading in the hallway, leaving an awkward silence behind.
Nicholas leaned against his desk, arms crossed. His expression softened as he looked at her, the concern clear in his eyes.
“I’m worried about you. You’ve been distracted, your work isn’t where it used to be, and your most recent work was very.. inappropriate. I know something is up and i’m here to talk about it. Whatever you say stays between us.”
She swallowed hard, her heart pounding in her chest. She could feel the weight of his gaze on her, and the urge to speak was overwhelming. But something inside her pulled back, a voice in her head telling her this wasn’t something she could say out loud. Not to him. Not to her professor.
“I—” she started, then shook her head, her words catching in her throat. “I can’t. It’s… complicated.”
Nicholas leaned forward slightly, his expression softening. “I understand that it might feel complicated, but I’m here to help. You’ve always been an outstanding student, and I can see something’s changed. You don’t have to carry this alone. Whatever’s distracting you, I want to help you work through it.”
She bit her lip, her mind racing. She couldn’t tell him. She wasn’t allowed to, not even by her own sense of self-control. But the sincerity in his voice, the warmth in his eyes, made it hard to keep it all bottled up. She looked at him for a long moment before sighing, dropping her head.
“You wouldn’t understand,” she whispered, almost more to herself than to him.
Nicholas gave her a reassuring look, his voice calm and steady. “Try me.”
She glanced around the empty classroom, the quiet space making it feel like the world had shrunk to just the two of them. She hesitated, then whispered, "What if it's something I shouldn't be feeling? Something I can't talk about?"
Nicholas’ brow furrowed slightly, sensing the weight behind her words. “whatever you’re feeling, whatever’s been distracting you—it’s okay. This is a safe space. It’s just between us. No one else needs to know, and I’m not here to judge you. I just want to make sure you’re alright.”
She nodded, feeling both a sense of relief and a lingering uncertainty. She wasn’t sure what would come next, but for now, at least, the burden of silence had been lifted. She shifted uncomfortably, avoiding his gaze, her fingers twisting together in her lap. She took a deep breath, as if bracing herself for something difficult. Finally, she lifted her eyes to meet his, and the words tumbled out before she could stop them.
“It’s you,” she said softly.
Nicholas blinked, thrown off by the unexpected response. “Me?” he asked, his brow furrowing. “What do you mean?”
She exhaled slowly, shaking her head slightly, as if struggling to find the right words. “I can’t focus because… you’re distracting me. I think about you all the time, and when I’m in class, I can’t pay attention. I try to keep up, but everything just… spirals. And you we’re in my head while i was writing the assignment.”
Her confession hung in the air between them, the weight of it settling in as Nicholas processed her words. He looked at her, his mind racing.
No. She's a student.
A professor and student should never have a romantic relationship. But Nicholas would have her hands chained and her ass marked with his belt if they were living in a lawless society. For the benefit of the two of them, this had to end. "I will be direct with you. I understand why some students enroll in my course. You are a youthful college student. We live in a confusing and evolving period. You're discovering who you are away from home. However, that does not imply that you would make up a filthy story about me.”
Nicholas's mind faltered. The level of tension in the room was increasing to a level that neither she nor he could handle. Something perplexing, thrilling, and erotic. At last, Nicholas said, "I'll give you an A," closing the discussion and putting her paper in a drawer.
"I... thank you, professor. I really appreciate it."
"Anything else?"
She remained silent, as Nicholas wanted. Before he lost all control, he had to get the student out of there.
However, she did respond at last. "Why do you study what you do?" It was a risky response from the professor. For this reason, he evaded the topic altogether. “It's getting late. I think you should leave."
"But -"
"Whatever you think you want from me, you don't get, Miss. I've never indulged with a student this much. Don’t tempt me.” It made her feel attracted to him. And it was something she despised. She was extremely frustrated because she hated herself for being so deeply attracted to the professor.
"Or what." bringing the two closer together as they stood on either sides of the desk. They were aware of one other's heated bodies and labored breaths. teasing. Her subsequent remarks served as the final spark. "You would never lay a hand on a student."
When her palms struck the hard surface of his desk, Nicholas pushed her onto it and allowed her to steady herself. He pushed Her down until she was only supported by her elbows, one hand on her back. She made a small arching of her back in an attempt to tease the professor in a desperate manner. "Professor, please..."
"quiet." She felt Nicholas's presence behind her, and her act was answered with a hard slap across her ass.
"Is this what you want?" With his voice hardly more than a whisper. She, on the other hand, made the decision without pausing. "Yes." Nicholas fisted a hold of her hair, very aggressively. Her lips were pursed to contain a cry that leaked out as a high-pitched whine.
"You will address me as 'sir'. If you don't, you will be punished”
"I understand, sir."
In one smooth motion, he unbuckled his belt, leaving her speechless with the sound of leather and metal. While she was thinking about how she was going to walk the following morning, Nicholas hastily covered himself with a condom that she had not seen him take out. "sir...professor, it's been a while - I don't think..."
The professor, really delighted by her response, gently clasped her jaw and ran his thumb over her lower lip. "Shhh... take it like a good girl."
She was so engrossed in his remarks and intense stare that she failed to notice Nicholas pulling her panties to the side and pushing up her dress. He wasted no more time in doing so. He had developed a painfully throbbing and stiffened cock.
The moment Nicholas felt her warm arousal covering his length, he pushed forward a little and groaned. She sensed the mouthwatering sound vibrating from his chest to hers.
With all of his remaining strength, Nicholas whispered in her ear, "Relax, baby, don't tense up," intending to spare the girl from a ruthless fuck.
When he finally gave her a full thrust, she flung back her head and let out a sound that was somewhere between a yell and a groan through parted lips. Nicholas was unable to hear her at all. He could only concentrate on the sensation of her walls pressing just the right amount of pressure against his cock.
Nicholas pulled away, then pushed forward once more, widening her entrance and losing himself in her presence. As Nicholas touched a portion of her that no man had ever touched before, she gasped. In response, she felt every muscle and bone in her body contract, like a bundle of hypervigorated nerves. "I'm not holding back." Nicholas warning was precisely what she wanted to hear.
Nicholas picked up speed, every move intentional and purposeful. With every stroke, she felt herself rise higher and higher, closer to an unfathomable release. She had never felt anything so erotically pleasant as the tension and sense that Nicholas was using her so forcefully. All she needed was one more edge. She was still engrossed in the rhythmic pleasure as Nicholas's fingers crept up on her neck.
As he pressed against her airways, Nicholas felt his cock pulse inside her, his release getting closer as he saw her fight to breathe. Her senses faltered as she focused on Nicholas's relentless thrusts and her own shallow, labored breathing. Her hand automatically reached out to remove the pressure on her neck, but Nicholas's grip tightened and she was forced closer to the edge.
He moaned, "Don't come," reaching even farther down and causing her to cry out, which was like music to Nicholas. “Tell me who you now belong to."
Nicholas used his other hand to cover her lips and stifle a scream as he simultaneously took his hand off her neck to yank her hair back and pushed deeply from a different angle. "Come on, baby. "I know you want to," Nicholas teased, opening her mouth to speak freely. "You're my little whore, tell me."
Her desperate gasps came her raspy voice. "I belong to you. I’m your little whore. please, please, fuck." He continued at his rapid speed, allowing her to collapse several times.
Her eyes were nearly full with tears, and she felt an overwhelming sense of pleasure all over her body. The sensation, noise, and visual of her amazing release was sufficient to set off Nicholas's own. He declared her his, and more than a student, with a last thrust and groan.
The two stopped, gasping for air, realizing what they had done was wrong. Their bodies were drenched in sweat and sensual ecstasy, and their heartbeats and respiration slowed. The professor and the student couldn't help but look at each other, witnessing their reflected feelings. Feelings they were unable to comprehend.
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kajibunny · 11 months ago
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✶⋆.˚꩜ it's not what it looks like, i swear!˙⋆✶ w/ the wind breaker boys
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✿ featuring: haruka sakura, ren kaji, hajime umemiya, hayato suo, jo togame, toma hiragi (first time writing for hiragi! yipeee) ✿ contains: suggestive dialogues, crack, mutual pining, some established relationship, a lil bit of fluff ✿ a/n: heads up, please do not read this while drinking coffee because you’ll probably end up like sakura in the banner ( ≧ᗜ≦)  ✿ wc: 2.4k
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— what happens when perfectly innocent scenarios with them turn suggestive once they are taken out of context? well, you're about to find out one way or another. 
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ʚɞ kaji -
how did you two end up in this position?
kaji was sprawled on top of you, his hands braced on either side of your head with his knees straddling your legs. his face was so close that you could feel his breath against your skin, your cheeks burning pink as his eyes locked with yours.
"kaji, you were supposed to be chasing the cat, not me!" you exclaimed, feeling the heat rise up your cheeks. 
"you were in the way." kaji responded, with a frustrated sigh.
"you were the one who knocked me over!" you shot back at him.
he tried to move aside, but the way your breath hitched, your lips parted and your cute face so flushed left him momentarily frozen.
when you offered to help kaji find risa-chan, you had no idea how things would spiral. chasing the cat with the pink ribbon felt like trying to catch a bolt of lightning. 
as you both darted around in pursuit, kaji eventually found her on a bush and made a desperate lunge to grab the elusive feline. instead, he ended up accidentally colliding into you, sending you both tumbling into an unexpectedly intimate position.
"kaji! that’s not the cat you’rrre supposed to be chasing! arrre you two fooling arrround with each otherrr now?" enomoto’s voice rang out, breaking the spell. beside him was kusumi who covered his eyes with his hands—though the gap between his fingers betrayed his curiosity.
"we weren't—"
"this isn't—"
neither you nor kaji could find the words to explain how you two ended up like this, tangled up and breathless, both of you too flustered to speak. 
finally, kaji regained composure and got up, dusting off his clothes before offering you a hand, still refusing to meet your gaze as you took his outstretched hand to pull yourself up. you two continued your search without uttering a word to one another. 
although, the way kaji fiddled with his lollipop and hurriedly put on his headphones while turning his blushing face away everytime he saw you spoke volumes. why did you have to look so adorable in that vulnerable position? 
kaji did end up catching something else that day, and it was feelings of undeniable romantic attraction for you.
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ʚɞ umemiya -
"there, there, let me put it in, i'll a be a bit more gentle this time, okay?" umemiya said, his voice calm and reassuring. "oh no, it won't go in." you exhaled in frustration. 
"ah, it's because your hole is too tight." he said with a slight grin. "what? i-i thought maybe it was just too big to fit in my hole." you replied, a hint of embarrassment in your voice. 
"don't worry, i've got you. i'll help you ease it in - there we go, nice and deep, just like that." umemiya groaned softly as he helped you lift and position the pots in their rightful place. 
"you're so good at this, ume!" you praised him, giving umemiya a pat on the back, your eyes lighting up in admiration as he gave you a wide, proud smile.
gardening together with umemiya was definitely hot. literally. the sun beaming down on you both, with little shade to protect your skin from the heat. 
as you wiped the sweat from your forehead, you wondered how he managed to convince you to be his gardening assistant for the day. maybe it was his irresistable charm, or that infectious smile. 
either way, you were here now, knee-deep in dirt, struggling to transport seedlings - a task that was proving to be far more challenging than you anticipated.
meanwhile, the tamon squad had gathered outside the rooftop garden, their faces flustered as they listened in on your conversation.
"are they-?" nirei whispered, his voice filled with disbelief. 
"but...on the rooftop of all places?" kiryu added, equally shocked. 
"what are they doing, it sounds so-" sakura began, but hiragi cut him off. "okay, that's enough. everybody back to patrol-" hiragi declared, but then the weight of everyone leaning on the rooftop door caused it to whip open.
they all accidentally burst into the garden, only to be met by the sight of you and umemiya...calmly arranging pots. nothing more, nothing less. 
oh, so that's what it's about. the tightness, and the holes, and the depth. it all made sense now.
suo bent forward and whispered to both of you: "sorry, we kind of misunderstood and thought you two were doing something else up here." 
you and umemiya exchanged confused glances with flushed faces, completely oblivious to what they were insinuating. 
upon looking back and gaining realization of what you and umemiya might have sounded like to them, your only wish was to be a transported seedling buried beneath the soil of umemiya's garden.
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ʚɞ sakura -
you pressed the back of your hand against sakura’s forehead, feeling the unmistakable heat radiating from his skin. "you’re burning up, sakura." you murmured, in a concerned tone.
he tried to brush it off, his cheeks faintly flushed. "what are you talking about!? i’m fine...!" he protested, but his hoarse voice betrayed him.
you shook your head, a determined look in your eyes. "take off your top."
sakura’s eyes shot wide open. "w-what? no! why are you trying to undress me?!"
you stifled a laugh, and tried to ease him. "to give you a sponge bath, silly. don't worry, i'm used to taking care of sick people. it'll help lower your temperature."
despite his protests, he eventually allowed you to help, his face burning brighter as you carefully sponged his fevered skin, your touch both soothing and embarrassing him.
when dinner time rolled around, you placed a bowl of steaming soup in front of him. "here, umemiya gave me the recipe. it's his special soup!"
sakura, still flustered from earlier, reached for the bowl with shaky hands, but you gently stopped him.
"say ah." you instructed, holding a spoonful of soup close to his lips.
his eyes widened again, his voice shaky. "w-what are you trying to do this time?"
you tilted your head. "you’re too weak to hold the spoon, sakura. let me take care of you." you smiled gently at him.
"i’m...i’m fine!" he insisted, his face a mix of embarrassment and defiance.
you leaned in closer. "sakura, let me do this for you. i’m not taking no for an answer." 
he eventually reluctantly opened his mouth, allowing you to feed him. this feeling was all so foreign to him, as no one ever tried to care of him like this. 
however, the real challenge came when it was time for him to take his medicine. sakura outright refused, turning his head away with a stubborn glare.
"be a good boy and take it." you insisted, holding the medicine out to him.
"no way." he muttered, crossing his arms defiantly.
a sigh escaped your lips. "sakura, don’t make me give it to you by force."
his eyes widened for a moment at your insinuation, but he still refused to budge. so, with a determined look, you gently pushed him back onto the bed, pinning him down.
"open your mouth." you commanded, in a firm voice.
sakura’s blush deepened as he squirmed beneath you. he hesitantly opened his mouth, allowing you to administer the medicine, his cheeks burning with both the fever and the flurry of emotions he couldn’t quite name along with the intrusive thoughts running in his mind.
as he finally swallowed, you wiped a stray drop from his lips and smiled softly. "see? that wasn’t so bad."
but instead of cooling down, you noticed sakura’s face was only getting redder, his body temperature seemingly rising even higher. you frowned, pressing your hand against his forehead again.
"hm, strange. this medicine is supposed to lower your temperature...why are you heating up even more?" you murmured.
sakura turned his head away, hiding his flushed face in the pillow, his voice barely above a whisper. "i-i don’t know either..."
you couldn’t help but wonder what was really causing his temperature to spike. maybe the medicine just needed more time...or maybe it had nothing to do with the fever at all.
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ʚɞ togame -
you had asked togame to teach you self-defense, and who better to learn from than togame himself, shishitoren's second-in-command, whose fighting style was totally unpredictable, and could knock a dozen opponents to the ground.
it took a lot of convincing, but eventually, he agreed once you promised him you'll buy him a whole crate of ramune. it also didn't help that you threw him puppy eyes and a pleading face that even the togame jo himself is not immune to.
during your sparring sessions, togame tried his best to go easy on you, since he didn't want to hurt you, but you told him you wanted him to go full-force. 
"is that all you’ve got?" you teased, dodging another swipe from togame.
"nah, i’m just getting started." he shot back, as he lunged at you. you barely had time to react before togame grabbed your wrist, pulling you down onto the floor. you twisted away, but togame was quicker, pinning you beneath him.
"got you now." togame says, his voice low, leaning in close as you struggled under him, his weight pressing down just enough to keep you in place, the warmth of his body making your breath hitch.
"not yet, you don’t." you countered, managing to free one of your arms. with a swift motion, you flipped togame onto his back, your faces being inches apart, as you could see the evident blush on his face from being too close to you. 
his hands found your waist, holding you in place as you both caught your breath.
anyone who caught you two in that position would have thought you were fighting for dominance in a different sense.  
"okay, you win." he chuckled, togame's eyes looking directly into yours. "but only because i let you."
"oh, really?" you replied, unable to hide the smile tugging at your lips. "i think you just like being in this position."
he blinked, the room and your faces suddenly feeling warmer as your words sunk in. before he could respond, you leaned in slightly, bringing his face even closer to yours, the air between you thick with tension. he was close enough to kiss, and it certainly didn't help that he wasn't trying to make any attempt to stop you.
togame told you he wanted a round two with you, saying he wasn't going to let you off easy this time. 
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ʚɞ suo -
you had agreed to help suo and sakura bake a cake for nirei's birthday, as you three were nirei's closest friends, and you wanted to make it a special celebration for him.
suo, who was quite skilled in baking, took charge and offered to teach you, while sakura assisted from the sidelines, helping the both of you in preparing the ingredients. 
it was going well at first, the kitchen filled with the sweet aroma of vanilla and chocolate, but as you and suo began working closely together on the cake, things turned into a bit of a spiced up situation.
first, you and suo mixed the batter.
"oh, you’ve really got a knack for handling the sticky stuff, huh?" suo watched you pour in the ingredients, with a playful smile on his face.
"do i? maybe it's because you help me out all the time." you say to him.
"i'm glad. here let's help you out with this, too." suo approaches you and helps you steady the mixer from behind. "thank you, suo. it's quite big so i might have a hard time doing it alone."
when sakura glanced over, from his angle it looked like suo was pressing you up against the counter, and a furious blush crept up on his cheeks as he swatted away his unwanted thoughts.
"oh, dear. it might be too wet." you turned to suo to ask for his advice.
"it looks good to me, but here, stick this in." suo says, handing you a stick of butter, which sakura had to do a double take on to make sure it was just butter and not some other kind of stick.
then you helped prepare the frosting. 
"it tastes amazing, suo!" you exclaimed, sampling the frosting.
"mind if i have a taste too?" suo said, leaning in closer. "of course, here, try it." you smiled and offered up the spoon to him. 
"ah, you have some on you, here." he pointed at your hand, which had splashes of frosting on it which escaped the piping bag. "oh no, it squirted out. i'll just lick it off, then." you replied, smiling and darting out your tongue to taste the sweet frosting.
sakura was close to absolutely losing it because of you and suo's interactions.
lastly was assembling the cake. 
"are you ready for this? it might get a bit messy." he asked you, as he brought the baking pan closer. 
"it's alright. i know you will help me clean up the mess after!"   
sakura's face turned as hot as the pre-heated oven as he listened in from the sidelines, feeling his face flush as he heard what sounded like a heated flirtatious exchange between you and suo. 
sakura silently vowed never to help you two bake a cake ever again.
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ʚɞ hiragi -
hiragi was always juggling so many responsibilities as one of the four kings of bofurin, that stress had become a constant companion, often forcing him to rely on his stomach medications just to get through the day. 
so when you offered to give him a quick massage to ease his aching joints, he couldn’t help but feel a wave of relief.
you were very skilled with your fingers, expertly working out the tension in his shoulders, digging into every tight spot with just the right amount of pressure.
"ah, that feels so good." hiragi murmured, his voice heavy with relaxation.
"yeah? you like it there, 'ragi?" you teased, your fingers finding a particularly tight knot.
"mhm. that’s the spot..." he groaned, his eyes fluttering shut as he surrendered to the pleasure. 
"you’re so stiff." you giggled, leaning in closer. "you really need to relax more often."
as the two of you were chilling in the cozy corner of pothos café, completely absorbed in the moment, across from you sat umemiya, who looked like he was about to choke on his food.
umemiya shot you both an incredulous look. "please, not in front of my salad!" he quipped, his tone half-joking, half-bewildered.
you glanced over at his plate, unable to suppress a laugh. "umemiya, your food isn’t even a salad!"
"yeah, well, it’s hard to focus on what i’m eating when you two are…whatever this is!" he shot back, rolling his eyes but unable to hide his amused smile.
hiragi opened one eye, as he shifted in his seat. "you seem tense. maybe you could use a massage too, umemiya."
umemiya quickly held up his hands in mock surrender. "nope, i’m good! you two just keep that over there, and leave my...omurice in peace! thank you!"
if only you could see what kind of face hiragi was making while you massaged him, his eyes fluttered closed while his brows knitted together in a moment of pure bliss, then maybe you would have choked on your omurice too. 
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© kajibunny 2024 / all rights reserved
2K notes · View notes
ghstyles · 3 months ago
Text
Ethics | His Angel
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· · ─────────────────────── · ·
Pairing: College!Yn x CrimeBossl!Harry
WC: 5k
Summery: You interview Harry for your business ethics class. Desperate times call for desperate measures. Hope you know how to sugarcoat
His Angel Masterlist
· · ─────────────────────── · ·
The phone's vibration pulls Harry from a light sleep.
He never sleeps deeply, years of survival instinct ensuring he remains aware of his surroundings even in rest. His hand moves automatically to the gun beneath his pillow before his brain registers the custom ringtone.
Y/N.
A spike of adrenaline hits his system as he answers immediately, mind cycling through worst-case scenarios.
"What's wrong?" he demands, already sitting up, calculating how quickly he can get to you.
Your voice comes through, not panicked or frightened, but rushed and slightly frantic in a different way.
"Yes, I'm calling at three am. Don't ask why I'm still awake," you begin without preamble. "Anyways, I checked my assignment last minute thinking I can do it in an hour. It turns out I have to interview someone in business. It's due tomorrow. Please save me."
Harry blinks once in the darkness of his bedroom, processing. The tension in his shoulders eases slightly, but irritation quickly replaces concern.
"Let me understand this," he says slowly, voice rough with interrupted sleep. "You called me at three in the morning because you need...a business interview."
He runs a hand through his hair, glancing at the clock on his nightstand. The red digits confirm the ungodly hour.
"Christ, Y/N. I thought you were hurt," he mutters, but there's more relief than anger in his tone.
You make a pleading sound on the other end of the line.
"I'm sorry! I know it's late, but I'm desperate. The assignment is worth like 30% of my grade and I completely forgot about the interview part until now and—"
"Breathe," he interrupts, already swinging his legs over the side of the bed. "What exactly do you need from me?"
Your sigh of relief is audible.
"Just answers to some basic questions about running a business. Challenges, opportunities, that kind of thing. I can make it quick, I promise."
Harry glances at his watch, calculating.
"I'll be at your place in twenty minutes," he decides. "Have coffee ready."
"Wait, really? You're coming over?" Your surprise is evident.
"Did you want to do this over the phone?" he asks dryly.
"No! No, coming over is perfect. Thank you! I'll make coffee."
Harry ends the call and stands, stretching briefly before reaching for clothes. As he dresses, he shakes his head slightly, wondering when exactly he became the type of man who would leave his bed at three in the morning to help with homework.
Only for you, he thinks.
Fifteen minutes later, his car pulls up outside your apartment building. The streets are empty, the city quiet in these early morning hours. His security team follows at a discreet distance, used to their boss's unpredictable schedule when it comes to you.
As he walks toward your building, he's already mentally editing his business history into something that won't implicate him in multiple felonies. Some truths can be told while some must remain buried.
Either way, he's certain this will be the most interesting business interview your professor has ever received.
The soft knock at your door comes sooner than expected. When you swing it open, Harry stands in the hallway looking surprisingly put-together for 3:20 AM with dark jeans and a black sweater that clings to his shoulders, hair slightly tousled but intentionally so. The only sign of the hour is the faint shadow along his jaw where stubble is beginning to form.
Before he can speak, you launch yourself at him, arms wrapping around his neck.
"Hey you! My wonderful, spectacular, brilliant, handsome boyfriend," you gush with exaggerated enthusiasm, the words tumbling out in a caffeinated rush.
Harry catches you easily, one arm wrapping around your waist while the other hand moves to steady himself against the doorframe. His expression shifts from mild annoyance to reluctant amusement.
"Laying it on a bit thick, aren't we?" he murmurs, but his arm tightens around you nonetheless. "How much coffee have you had already?"
He steps inside, guiding you backward and closing the door behind him with his foot. His eyes scan your apartment automatically, a security check that's become a habit, before settling back on you.
You're wearing pajama shorts and an oversized university sweatshirt, your hair piled messily on top of your head. Textbooks and papers are scattered across your small dining table, your laptop open and surrounded by empty energy drink cans.
"Three cups and two Red Bulls," you admit sheepishly, releasing him to gesture toward the kitchen. "But I made you the good coffee. The expensive one you brought over last time."
Harry takes in your frazzled appearance. The dark circles under your eyes, the slightly manic energy in your movements. His expression softens fractionally.
"When's the last time you slept?" he asks, following you to the kitchen where a fresh mug of coffee waits.
You wave dismissively at the question.
"Sleep is for people who don't have a business ethics paper due at noon. I can sleep after I turn it in."
Harry accepts the coffee, taking a sip as he leans against your counter. He watches you over the rim of the mug, something like fond exasperation in his gaze.
"So," he says after a moment, "what exactly am I being interviewed about at this hour?"
You grab your notebook and pen, suddenly all business despite your disheveled appearance.
"Business ethics, leadership challenges, how you handle competition, your five-year growth strategy," you list off rapidly. "Oh, and don't worry, I'm using a pseudonym for you in the paper. Professor Johnson will never know I interviewed the most feared man in the city's underground."
You deliver this last part with a wink, as if it's a joke, but Harry's expression doesn't change.
"Thoughtful of you," he responds dryly. "Shall we begin before the sun rises?"
You settle on your small couch, notebook ready, while Harry takes the armchair across from you. The coffee mug looks almost comically delicate in his large hands.
"Okay, so for the paper, I'll be interviewing..." you pause dramatically, flipping to a fresh page in your notebook, "Mr. Bartholomew Whiskerton, CEO of Cuddly Kitten Enterprises."
Harry's expression freezes mid-sip of his coffee. He slowly lowers the mug, his eyes narrowing dangerously.
"Absolutely not," he says flatly.
You bite back a grin, enjoying his reaction.
"What? It's a great cover! No one will ever connect it to you."
"Because it's ridiculous," he counters, setting the mug down with deliberate control. "I'm not being quoted in your academic paper as 'Bartholomew Whiskerton.'"
You tap your pen against your notebook thoughtfully.
"Fine. How about... Duncan Powers? That sounds businessy."
Harry's expression remains unimpressed.
"That sounds like a porn star."
You laugh, the sound bright in the early morning quiet of your apartment.
"You would know," you tease, earning a dangerous look that only widens your smile. "Okay, okay. Sebastian Reynolds?"
Harry considers this for a moment, then shakes his head.
"Too pretentious. Even for me."
You huff dramatically, flopping back against the couch cushions.
"You're so picky! It's just a name for a paper no one except my professor will read."
"A paper about business ethics," Harry reminds you pointedly. "Starting with a completely fabricated identity seems...counterintuitive."
Your eyes roll skyward.
"Says the man who probably has seven different passports."
Harry doesn't confirm or deny this accusation, which is answer enough.
"James," he says after a moment. "James Harrington. Simple, forgettable, professional."
You consider the suggestion, head tilted.
"James Harrington," you repeat, testing it out. "Fine, but he needs a middle name. James H. Harrington sounds more official."
Harry sighs, rubbing a hand over his face.
"It's three-thirty in the morning, and we're debating fictional middle initials."
You lean forward eagerly.
"I'm thinking 'H' for Hector. Or maybe Horatio?"
The look Harry gives you could freeze fire.
"H for Harry," he says with finality. "James Harry Harrington. Now can we please start the actual interview before I reconsider my life choices?"
You grin triumphantly, scribbling the name at the top of your page.
"See? That wasn't so hard. Mr. J.H. Harrington it is.And considering all that you do, this, shouldn’t be what makes you reconsider life choices. Just last week you…” You take a breath, “you know what? None of my business. Let’s start”
Harry's eyes narrow at your comment, the humor in his expression fading slightly. There's a moment of silence as he studies you across the small space between your seats.
Harry sets his coffee mug down slowly, that calculating look in his eyes.
"No, please," he says, voice deceptively soft. "Continue that thought. Last week I what, exactly?"
You clear your throat, suddenly very interested in organizing your interview notes.
"Nothing. First question! What would you say are the biggest ethical challenges facing business leaders today?"
Harry doesn't take the bait, his gaze unwavering.
"Last week I had three men taken to the warehouse for questioning about missing product," he supplies calmly, as if discussing the weather. "Is that what you were referring to? Or perhaps the negotiation with the Italians about the new territory lines?"
His tone remains conversational, but there's an edge to it. Not anger, but a reminder of exactly who and what he is.
"I'm reconsidering my life choices because I'm sitting in a college apartment at half past three, helping with homework, when I should be sleeping before my meeting with the harbor commissioner at seven."
He leans forward, elbows on his knees, closing some of the distance between you.
"Yet…you came" you say softly in a way that sounded like a question. 
 "Because you called."
There's something unexpectedly vulnerable in that simple statement. An admission that carries more weight than any declaration.
Your expression softens, the teasing fading into something more genuine.
"Thank you," you say quietly. "I really do appreciate it, Harry."
He holds your gaze for a moment longer, then leans back, picking up his coffee again.
"Now," he says, voice returning to its usual controlled tone, "I believe Mr. J.H. Harrington has an interview to complete before sunrise, or his very sleep-deprived girlfriend will fail her business ethics class."
You smile gratefully at the shift back to safer territory, picking up your pen.
"Right. First question for the distinguished Mr. Harrington: What would you say is the biggest ethical challenge facing business leaders today?"
Harry's lips quirk slightly as he considers the question, slipping effortlessly into the role of legitimate businessman.
"Balancing profit motives with social responsibility," he answers smoothly, as if he's given this response at actual business conferences. "The pressure to deliver quarterly results often conflicts with long-term sustainable practices."
You blink, surprised by how convincingly normal his answer sounds.
"Wow, that was actually good," you comment, scribbling it down. "Have you been practicing legitimate business speak?"
Harry's expression remains perfectly serious, but there's a glint in his eye.
"I attend chamber of commerce meetings every third Thursday, angel. Bring donuts and everything."
The deadpan delivery makes you snort with laughter, the earlier tension completely dissolved as you continue the interview, Harry crafting increasingly plausible answers for your paper while carefully omitting any details that might raise eyebrows—or federal investigations.
Looking at the next question, you snort, “this one might be hard to sugarcoat. How do you handle managing difficult employees or conflicts within your team?“
Harry takes another sip of his coffee, a dangerous amusement flickering in his eyes at your question. He sets the mug down deliberately, considering his answer.
"How do I handle difficult employees," he repeats slowly, as if testing the words.
You bite your lip to suppress a laugh, knowing exactly what's going through his mind. The images of concrete rooms, of Marco and his particular set of persuasion skills, of the rumors you've heard whispered about what happens to those who cross Harry Styles.
"Yes, Mr. Harrington," you prompt innocently. "Your conflict resolution strategies. For the paper."
Harry leans back in the chair, stretching his long legs out in front of him. The early morning light filtering through your blinds casts shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp angles of his features.
"I believe in clear communication of expectations," he begins, his voice taking on that smooth, professional cadence that would be perfectly at home in any boardroom. "When someone joins my...organization, they understand precisely what's required of them."
He pauses, choosing his next words carefully.
"Conflicts typically arise from misunderstandings or competing priorities. I address these directly, one-on-one, rather than allowing tensions to fester."
You raise an eyebrow, scribbling notes.
"And if direct conversations don't resolve the issue?" you press, unable to help yourself.
A cold smile touches Harry's lips.
"Then more decisive action becomes necessary," he replies smoothly. "Sometimes people need to be...reassigned to positions better suited to their capabilities."
You snort softly. "Is that what we're calling it now?"
Harry's expression doesn't change, but his eyes hold a warning.
"For your paper? Yes, that's exactly what we're calling it," he says pointedly. "I find that most workplace conflicts can be resolved through clear consequences for underperformance."
You're still writing, struggling to translate mob boss tactics into corporate language.
"In extreme cases," Harry continues unprompted, "separation from the company becomes the only viable solution. I don't believe in maintaining relationships that no longer serve mutual interests."
You look up from your notebook, meeting his gaze.
"That's actually...not terrible business advice," you admit. "Though I'm guessing your definition of 'separation from the company' is a bit more permanent than a severance package."
Harry's expression remains impassive, but there's a hint of appreciation in his eyes for your quick mind, for the way you don't flinch from what he is.
"Write that I prioritize team cohesion over individual egos," he suggests, redirecting slightly. "And that I reward loyalty and results equally."
You nod, adding his suggestions to your notes.
"So basically, do your job well, don't cause problems, and stay loyal, or you'll be 'reassigned' to a position six feet underground," you summarize quietly, a ghost of a smile playing at your lips. "Very ethical, Mr. Harrington."
"It's a competitive industry," Harry replies with perfect deadpan delivery. "Only the most dedicated professionals survive."
“Speaking of competitive industry” you roll the eraser on your chin, trying to pick a question that can be sugar coated, “What strategies do you use to stay ahead of your competitors and how do you differentiate your business from others in the same industry?”
Harry shifts slightly in his seat, a predatory gleam entering his eyes at the mention of competition. This is a topic that clearly interests him and perhaps too much for your academic paper.
"What strategies do I use to stay ahead of competitors," he repeats thoughtfully, running a finger along the rim of his coffee mug.
You watch him carefully, aware that you're treading into territory where his actual business practices might be difficult to translate into acceptable corporate strategy.
"Market research," he begins after a moment, his voice taking on that smooth, professional tone again. "Understanding what others are offering and identifying gaps they've overlooked."
You scribble this down, nodding encouragingly.
"I maintain a comprehensive intelligence network," he continues, choosing each word with precision. "Information is power in any industry. Knowing your competitors' moves before they make them gives you an undeniable advantage."
You look up from your notebook, raising an eyebrow.
"Intelligence network? Is that what we're calling Marco and his guys who hang out in bars listening for gossip?"
Harry's expression doesn't change, but there's a warning in his eyes.
"For your paper, yes," he says pointedly. "Industry analysis and strategic information gathering."
You press your lips together to suppress a smile and continue writing.
"As for differentiation," Harry continues without prompting, "exclusivity and reputation are key. My business provides services that others simply cannot, or will not, offer. Our clients understand that working with us means a certain level of...commitment and discretion they won't find elsewhere."
You pause in your writing, pen hovering over the page.
"So...unique value proposition and customer loyalty," you translate, looking to him for confirmation.
Harry inclines his head slightly, the ghost of a smile touching his lips.
"Precisely. We also maintain strong relationships with key stakeholders across various sectors, ensuring smoother operations."
"Stakeholders," you repeat dryly. "Like Judge Reynolds who mysteriously dismissed those charges last month?"
Harry's expression remains perfectly neutral.
"Strategic partnerships," he corrects smoothly. "Write that I emphasize the importance of a robust network across complementary industries."
You add this to your notes, shaking your head slightly.
"Anything else about your competitive strategy, Mr. Harrington? Perhaps your approach to mergers and acquisitions?" you ask, unable to resist the double meaning.
Something dangerous flashes in Harry's eyes, but it's gone so quickly you might have imagined it.
"I prefer organic growth to hostile takeovers," he says, his voice dropping slightly lower. "Though when presented with a particularly valuable opportunity, I'm not opposed to aggressive expansion."
He leans forward, elbows on his knees.
"The most important differentiator, however, is reputation," he adds, his tone suddenly serious. "In business, your word must be unbreakable. When I make a promise to clients, to partners, to employees, it's kept. That reliability is rare in any industry."
You look up from your writing, struck by the sincerity in his voice. This, at least, isn't a translation but rather a genuine principle he lives by, criminal enterprise or not.
"That's actually...really good," you admit, finishing your notes. "Professor Johnson is going to think I made you up."
Harry shrugs smugly
You flip to the next page of your notebook, stifling a yawn despite the caffeine coursing through your system. Harry watches you, noting the fatigue beginning to show in your movements.
"I think that's it but I'll ask a few more just in case I don't meet the word count," you explain, scanning your list of questions.
You look up at him, mentally bracing yourself.
"So, uh... how would you define ethical leadership?"
Harry's carefully constructed business persona seems to slip slightly. He leans back in the chair, something cynical flickering across his expression.
"Ethical leadership," he repeats, a hint of dark amusement in his voice. "In my world? It means not killing someone unless they deserve it."
Your pen freezes mid-air.
"Harry..."
He shrugs unapologetically.
"You wanted honesty. Ethics are relative, angel. I have my own code. I don't hurt innocents. I don't deal with children. I keep my word. More than most 'legitimate' businessmen can say."
He takes a sip of his coffee, now gone cold.
"Politicians take bribes to let corporations poison water supplies. Banks foreclose on families while paying their CEOs millions. At least I'm honest about what I am."
You sigh, trying to formulate a way to translate this into something you can actually include in your paper.
"Okay, let's try this. What's the hardest leadership decision you've had to make?"
Harry's expression darkens, his eyes growing distant.
"Killing Michael Hayes," he answers without hesitation. "He was like a brother to me. Taught me everything when I was just a kid on the streets. But he was skimming money, selling information to the Russians."
He says this so matter-of-factly that a chill runs down your spine despite your familiarity with his world.
"I did it myself. Owed him that much. Quick, clean. More mercy than he deserved for the betrayal, but..." he trails off, then refocuses on you. "That's leadership. Doing the necessary thing, even when it breaks something in you."
You stare at him, pen completely forgotten. These glimpses into his past and into the events that shaped him are rare and always unsettling.
"Where do you see your business in five years?" you ask quietly, trying to move to safer ground.
Harry's laugh is short and without humor.
"Alive," he says simply. "In my line of work, five-year plans are a luxury. I see myself either expanding to the east side, or dead. There's not much middle ground."
He notices your expression and something in his face softens slightly.
"But if you're asking what I want..." he continues, surprising you, "I want enough security that I don't have to look over my shoulder every minute. Enough power that no one would dare come after what's mine."
His eyes meet yours, and there's something unexpectedly vulnerable in them.
"Maybe a place on the coast. Somewhere quiet. With you." The admission seems to surprise even him. "That's assuming I don't get shot or arrested first."
The casual way he references his potential violent death or imprisonment hangs in the air between you, a stark reminder of the reality of his existence and by extension, yours as his partner.
"Write whatever sanitized version of that you need for your paper," he adds, his walls coming back up. "I don't imagine Professor Johnson wants the unvarnished truth."
The sudden shift catches Harry off-guard. 
One moment answering questions, the next with an armful of you. His body tenses briefly in surprise before relaxing, arms wrapping around your waist automatically.
You climb into his lap and bury your face against his neck, saying nothing but holding onto him fiercely. The warm, familiar scent of his cologne envelops you. Expensive and subtle, mixed with something that's just him.
For a moment, Harry remains still, processing your reaction. Then one hand moves to the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your hair while the other arm tightens around you, securing you against him.
"What's this for?" he asks quietly, his voice a low rumble you can feel against your cheek.
You don't answer, just hold him tighter, overwhelmed by the casual way he spoke about his own mortality about a future that might include you, or might end abruptly in violence.
Harry seems to understand your silence. His hand continues its gentle movement through your hair, a soothing rhythm that contrasts with the dangerous life he described moments ago.
"Hey," he murmurs against your temple, his voice softer than it ever is with anyone else. "I'm still here."
The simple statement acknowledges everything unsaid between you. The danger, the uncertainty, the reality of loving someone who lives with death as a constant companion.
For several minutes, you stay like this, the early morning silence of your apartment broken only by the sound of your breathing and the occasional distant car passing outside. Harry holds you patiently, his usual restless energy contained, giving you whatever time you need.
One of his hands moves to trace gentle patterns along your spine, and you feel him press a kiss to your hair. A rare tenderness he shows to no one but you.
"I shouldn't have said that," he finally offers, his voice low. "About being dead or arrested. It was...unnecessary."
You can count on one hand the number of times Harry Styles has come close to an apology. This is as near as he gets to an acknowledgment that his words affected you in a way he didn't intend.
His fingers find your chin, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. His eyes search yours, more open than they've been all night.
"That place on the coast," he says quietly. "I meant that part."
"What if I hate the ocean?" you mumble against his chest, trying and failing to keep a straight face.
His eyebrow arches slightly, calling your bluff. He studies your face for a moment, catching the telltale twitch at the corners of your mouth. His expression remains serious, but something playful enters his eyes
"Bullshit," he says simply, his thumb tracing the curve of your jaw. "You've got that painting of the coast in your bedroom. You wear that shell necklace your grandmother gave you. You fall asleep to those ridiculous ocean sound recordings."
The fact that he's noticed these details, small things about you that most people would overlook, makes something warm unfurl in your chest.
"Besides," he continues, his voice dropping lower, "I've seen your face when you talk about the beach house your family rented that summer. Your eyes light up."
His hand slides to the nape of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair.
"But if you've suddenly developed a hatred for ocean views and sea air," he adds with mock seriousness, "I suppose I could consider a mountain cabin. Somewhere remote. Defensible position. Good sightlines."
You roll your eyes at his tactical assessment of romantic getaway locations.
"Of course you'd evaluate a vacation home based on its defensive capabilities," you tease, some of the earlier tension dissolving.
Harry's lips quirk in that rare, genuine smile.
"Old habits," he admits, then adds more softly, "But I'd make sure it had a good kitchen. Those windows you like. Space for your books."
The casual way he includes these details about your preferences and things that matter to you, reveals more than any grand declaration could. Harry Styles notices everything, catalogs it away, uses the information to protect what's his. But sometimes, like now, he uses it simply to make you happy.
"I'd still need to come back to the city for business," he adds, his tone shifting back to something more practical. "But a place just for us...somewhere no one could find us unless we wanted them to..."
His eyes grow distant for a moment, as if he's actually visualizing this future. A safe haven away from the violence and chaos of his world.
Then his gaze refocuses on you, something possessive and tender mingling in his expression.
"Don't pretend you hate the ocean, angel," he murmurs, leaning closer. "You're a terrible liar."
"It's rude to call your girlfriend a liar," you mumble indignantly, settling more comfortably against him. "Were you absent that week from boyfriend school?"
Harry's chest rumbles with a low chuckle, the sound vibrating against your cheek as you rest your head on him. His fingers continue their gentle path through your hair, occasionally massaging your scalp in a way that makes you want to purr like a cat
His arm tightens around you, adjusting your position slightly so you fit more perfectly against him. The expensive fabric of his sweater is soft against your cheek.
"Boyfriend school," he repeats dryly. "Must have missed that lesson between 'How to Intimidate Rival Organizations' and 'Advanced Weapons Handling.'"
You make a small sound of amusement against his chest.
"I never attended boyfriend school," he continues, his voice a low rumble beneath your ear. "Had to figure it out as I went. No instruction manual for dating a college student when you're..." he pauses, searching for the right words, "...in my line of work."
His hand shifts to trace lazy patterns along your spine, the gentle touch at odds with the dangerous man delivering it.
"Though I'm fairly certain rule number one is 'don't wake your boyfriend at three in the morning for homework help,'" he adds, but there's no real reproof in his tone.
You tilt your head to look up at him, finding his expression softer than usual in the dim light of your apartment.
"And yet here you are," you point out quietly. "Helping with homework at three in the morning."
Something passes across his face. A flicker of surprise, as if he's just realized the same thing. Harry Styles, feared mob boss, holding his girlfriend in the early hours, discussing ethical leadership for a college paper.
"Here I am," he agrees, a note of wonder barely detectable in his voice.
His hand comes up to brush a strand of hair from your face, the gesture unexpectedly tender.
"Maybe I need to reevaluate what makes me dangerous," he murmurs, more to himself than to you. "Agreeing to be interviewed as Bartholomew Whiskerton seems like a significant weakness."
You can't help the laugh that escapes you, the sound bright in the quiet apartment.
"It was James Harry Harrington, and you know it," you correct, poking his chest accusingly. "Don't pretend you forgot."
His lips quirk upward, that rare, genuine smile making another appearance.
"How could I forget the distinguished Mr. Harrington?" he asks, his voice taking on that smooth, professional tone he used during the interview. "CEO of...what was it again? Legitimate Business Ventures, Inc.?"
You giggle, the sound slightly slurred with fatigue now that the adrenaline of your academic panic is wearing off.
"You're ridiculous," you tell him, stifling a yawn.
Harry's expression shifts to something more assessing as he notices your fatigue.
"And you're exhausted," he observes, his hand resuming its gentle stroking of your hair. "Did you get any of that paper written before you called me?"
Harry watches as you fight to keep your eyes open, your words slurring with exhaustion. Your head grows heavier against his chest as you lose the battle with consciousness.
"Gonna...do that...now," you mumble through a yawn, even as your eyes drift closed.
He feels your body relaxing against him, your breathing beginning to slow and deepen. A ghost of a smile touches his lips. Something no one else would ever see.
"Of course you are," he murmurs, his voice soft with an affection he shows to no one but you.
For a few minutes, he simply holds you, one hand continuing its gentle path through your hair while the other secures you against him. The first pale light of dawn has begun to filter through your blinds, casting long shadows across the floor.
Harry glances at your laptop, still open on the table surrounded by textbooks and empty energy drink cans. The business ethics paper that was so urgent at 3 AM now seems to have taken a backseat to sleep.
With a quiet sigh that's more resigned than annoyed, he carefully shifts, gathering you more securely in his arms as he stands. You murmur something unintelligible but don't wake, instinctively curling closer to his warmth.
He carries you to your bedroom, laying you gently on the unmade bed. You immediately roll to your side, face pressing into the pillow with a contented sigh.
Harry pulls the blanket over you, then stands for a moment, watching the rise and fall of your breathing. The dangerous mob boss, the feared enforcer, the ruthless businessman—all those versions of him fade slightly in this quiet moment.
Then he turns and walks back to the living room, rolling up his sleeves as he sits down at your laptop. The screen illuminates his face as he begins to type, occasionally referring to the notes you've taken.
By the time you wake up, groggy and disoriented hours later, you'll find a completed draft of your paper saved on your desktop, a fresh pot of coffee in the kitchen, and a note on your table written in his precise handwriting:
"Mr. J.H. Harrington sends his regards. Paper needs your final review before submission. I have meetings until 3. Call if you need anything. - H"
And beneath that, a postscript that would surprise anyone who knows his reputation:
"P.S. The ocean house remains on the table. Sleep well, angel."
Taglist: @silastylesswift @babegoals @harryssunflower17 @puzio19 @goldensunflowerss-blog @drewrry @tinawritesstuff @dipmeinhoneyh @spinninc @harrystyleshotwife
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sceletaflores · 9 months ago
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couldn't help it, i had to kiss the teacher!
pair: professor!logan howlett x fem!reader
wc: 3.6k
contains: 18+ SMUT MDNI, swearing, established relationship, age gap (reader is mid twenties...logan is...his age), gratuitous nickname usage, public sex (classroom), oral sex (fem!receiving), fingering (fem!receiving), an impromptu clitoral anatomy lesson, scent kink, hair pulling, light traces of a foot fetish (i'm literally not even sorry), nat probably blatantly ignoring canon, nat trying to sound smart, porn w/o plot, no use of y/n.
a/n: based off of me going to my a&p lab today and getting super bored which somehow led to thoughts about professor logan who teaches a&p…that then spiraled into this very quickly. p.s this is like a t.a!reader not a student lol
professor logan has a special way of helping you retain information...
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You've been huffing and puffing for the last twenty minutes.
Logan has been blatantly ignoring you for the last twenty minutes, because that's the only way a man with enhanced hearing can ignore someone.
Blatantly.
He's been at the chalkboard since you came in a little after his last class ended, busy mapping out his lesson plan for tomorrow.
The chalk squeaks rhythmically as he writes, you tap your foot in time with it.
You're perched on top of his desk, different stacks of papers messily scattered all around you like a tornado of ungraded essays and homework assignments tore across the glossy cherry wood of it.
You glare at Logan's back harder, forcing yourself to ignore the way his muscles glide and flex beneath the thin fabric of his flannel with every move. You've got your chin resting on the palm of your hand that's propped against your knee, the other holding a red pen down by your shoe.
You sigh, long and overdramatic, for what feels like the millionth time.
Logan doesn't turn around, doesn’t flinch, doesn’t move at all. His hand hardly even slows, jotting down different tissue structures with infuriating disinterest.
You shift on his desk with a huff, dragging your eyes back to the paper in front of you. You scan over the messy handwriting and tiny diagrams littered over the page as you tap the pen in your hand against the toe of your shoe absentmindedly.
"Knock it off," Logan mutters from across the room, not looking at you as he does. It's the first thing he's said to you since you showed up.
You instantly perk up at the attention, flicking your eyes back to him.
“Knock what off?” you ask innocently, tapping the pen on your shoe harder than before. The tiny 'clack' sound it makes is sharp in the quiet of the room.
Logan finally turns, fixing you with a look that’s equal parts annoyance and amusement. “The sighin’, the tappin’, the huffin’ like you’re a broken radiator. You’ve been makin’ noise since you sat down.”
You narrow your eyes at him, unrepentant. "I’m bored."
He lets out a dry chuckle, turning back towards to board with a amused shake of his head. “Not my problem, sweetheart.”
You frown, dropping the pen and sitting up straighter, as if you’ve just been handed a challenge. "You could try and help me," you suggest, gesturing to the scattered pile with a wave of your hand. "You know? Like a good professor would."
"I don't grade papers, kid. That's what you're here for." Logan shoots over his shoulder, seamlessly picking up where he left off. “Besides, I’m good with the chalkboard for now. Better company.”
“Chalk doesn’t talk back,” you grumble under your breath.
“Exactly.”
“Oh, so now you can hear me?"
Logan doesn’t bother replying, but you can see the barely there smirk turning up the corners of his mouth.
You scoot forward on his desk, pushing papers out of the way so your legs can dangle over the edge. You swing your feet back and forth, just enough to disturb another pile of papers sitting nearby, watching them slide closer to the edge.
One more swing and the corner of a stack teeters precariously. You bite your lip, considering whether or not to send it tumbling just to see if that would get him to turn around again.
Logan, of course, somehow knows exactly what you’re thinking without even glancing towards you. “Don’t,” he grumbles lowly, a warning.
You freeze mid-swing, but the urge to push his buttons is too tempting. "What?" you say, all wide-eyed innocence, nudging the pile ever so slightly with your knee.
Logan lets out a deep sigh, giving you a sideways glance over his shoulder. “You’re more trouble than you’re worth sometimes, you know that? I doubt Hank's help nags him half as much.”
You grin, taking that as a small victory.
"I was recommended," you remind him, tone overly cheery and saccharine.
"Must've been desperate," he mutters, finally stepping away from the board and dusting chalk from his hands. Logan turns, crossing his arms as he leans back against the chalkboard, giving you a look that says he’s just on the edge of being amused
You raise an eyebrow, fixing him with a blank stare. "I’ll be sure to pass that along to Professor Xavier."
Logan shakes his head, his lips twitching like he’s trying not to smile. “Yeah? Be my guest. Make sure you tell him you’re spendin’ your time testin' my patience instead of your job.”
You slump back on the desk with a groan, head tilted towards the ceiling. "It's been forever since I've taken this class," you whine, rolling your head to the left lazily. "I hardly remember any of this, how am I supposed to grade it?"
"Barely remember any of this?" he repeats back to you, brow raised in disapproval. He pushes off the chalkboard and starts to make his way towards you. His steps are slow, deliberate, like he’s sizing you up—though you know it’s mostly for show. 
Mostly.
You watch him through half-lidded eyes, still splayed back on your palms and kicking your feet languidly. There’s chalk dust littered over his chest and the front of his thighs, coating them in a thin layer white. Your gaze trails the path of his steps, a slow smile tugging at your lips the closer he gets.
Logan stops in front of you, his towering frame almost filling your view entirely. You’re able to look him in the eyes perched on his desk like this, the green of them is darker than normal.
He crosses his arms over his chest, his eyes glint with a teasing challenge as he tilts his head slightly, like he’s daring you to keep going.
“You got cotton in your ears when I’m up there talking or what?” he asks, voice dipping lower than before.
Your smile widens, and you shrug, trying to keep your cool under his heavy gaze. “You know I can’t listen to you when you wear jeans that tight.”
His eyes lock onto yours, their usual sharpness softened by something more dangerous, something that sends a thrill down your spine. "Maybe if you paid a little more attention," he says, voice a low rumble, "you wouldn’t need to whine so much."
You roll your eyes, even as the heat between you starts to curl in your chest. "Or maybe," you counter, leaning back a touch more and tilting your head up to meet his gaze better, "you could actually help me instead of being a complete pain in the—"
Before you can finish, Logan’s hands slam down on either side of you, caging you in. His face is inches from yours now, that barely-there smirk playing on his lips again.
You can feel the warmth radiating off him, the sharp edge of his stare cutting through your casual defiance.
“—ass,” you finally finish, voice slightly more breathless than before.
Logan just stares at you, the intense and unwavering attention you were itching for earlier makes you want to squirm in place now. His gaze is almost predatory, as if he’s taking in every flutter of your eyelashes and the quickening pace of your breath. 
Your heart skips a beat, but you don’t back down.
You lean forward a little, tilting your head. "So, what’s it gonna take to get you to grade just one of these?" You pick up a paper from the pile and wave it in front of him teasingly. “I really need your help, professor.” 
The word drips from your lips like a challenge, a taunt.
Logan’s eyes flicker with something dangerous, a flash of heat that tells you he’s not as unaffected as he pretends to be. His fingers brush against the desk right beside your thigh, close enough to feel the warmth of him but it’s still too far.
He leans down slightly, inches away from your lips. His breath mingles with yours, warm and inviting, as the tension in the air thickens.
The scent of him—woodsy and masculine—invades your senses, and you can’t help but feel exhilarated. Your pulse starts to race, a mix of excitement and a hint of challenge flashing between you. 
You let out a soft breath, eyes fluttering shut as you lean forward almost involuntarily.
Just as you’re about to close the gap, he pulls back, straightening up with a smug grin.
“Tell you what,” he starts, voice gone casual like he isn’t testing the very limits of your sanity. “I’ll help you.”
You open your mouth, cocky victory speech on the tip of your tongue, but Logan cuts you off.
“Not with grading,” he clarifies with a shake of his head. “It’s more like a," he takes a slow pause, like he's trying to find the right words, "personalized lesson.”
You swallow hard, trying to ignore the way your pulse thunders in your ears. "What kind of lesson are we talking about?" you ask, trying to keep your voice steady but it still comes out breathless.
His hands move from the desk, gliding up your legs until they rest just above your knees, the warmth of his touch igniting every nerve ending in your body. 
“Logan—”
Anything you were going to say dissolves into a breathy gasp when he drops to his knees in front of you.
Your thighs clench together, arousal pooling in your panties sticky and wet. Logan's nose twitches, eyes darkening as he scents the headiness of your essence in the air.
His mouth twitches into a slow, deliberate grin as he catches the shift in your scent, the change in your body language betraying your desire. 
His hands, firm yet careful, slide higher along your thighs, fingers brushing the sensitive skin just beneath the hem of your skirt. The fabric rucks up ever so slightly under his touch, exposing just a little more of you to the cool air of the room and the heat of his gaze.
"Real quiet now," he teases darkly, voice husky and thick with tension, his thumbs tracing small, maddening circles against your skin. "Not so mouthy anymore, huh?"
Your breath hitches, a low heat sparking in the pit of your stomach and spreading outward.
Logan's grip tightens slightly, as though he’s testing the weight of your response, the way your thighs tense beneath his hands. He looks up at you, eyes dark and gleaming with an intensity that makes it impossible to think straight.
“You talk a lot of game, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice sending a thrill down your spine, “but I think it’s time to show me you can learn something."
You tilt your head back, trying to steady yourself, but it’s no use. Your body’s betraying you, hips shifting slightly forward, your legs spreading just so, inviting more of his touch—inviting him to make good on that unspoken promise that hangs between you.
Logan’s smirk deepens, dangerously close to devouring the last of your composure. "All you gotta do," he drawls, his breath hot against the inside of your thigh, "is ask for it."
His hands slide up a little more, his fingers catching on the edge of your panties. You can't help the sharp inhale that escapes you.
His challenge hangs in the air, thick and heavy, but you're past the point of hesitation. The words leave your lips before you even realize it.
"Teach me."
Logan’s grin spreads like wildfire, the kind that sparks and sets everything in its path ablaze. His eyes never leave yours, holding you captive as he flips your skirt up.
Something low and gritty tears its way from his chest at the sight of your panties, soaked fabric melded against the shape of your aching pussy. The sound echoes in the quiet room, low and primal, stirring a deep thrum of excitement in the pit of your stomach.
He shoves his way between your thighs, spreading them even further to make enough room for the width of his shoulders.
"You're a smart girl," Logan says easily, leaning down to trail kisses along the skin of your inner thigh, just inches from where you really need his mouth. "You should be able to tell me what tissue this is made of."
He dips his head, trailing his nose along the soaked fabric of your cotton panties until it nudges against your clit.
"Logan, I– ah!”
A sharp slap to your thigh cuts you off, pinpricks of pleasure making you cry out as they bloom red across your skin.
“Is that what you call me?”
It takes a second to click in the haze of your mind, what he’s asking for. When it finally does, you're whole body shivers, a broken moan falling from your lips as you take in the expectant look in Logan's eyes.
Your mind whirls, but the answer tumbles from your lips like a breath you didn’t know you were holding.
"Professor," you gasp, voice soft and laced with need.
Logan's grin is devilish, hands gripping your hips tight enough that you can feel the strength behind them.
"Good girl," he growls, voice thick with approval, the heat in his gaze burning you from the inside out. 
You let out a soft whimper, hips instinctively tilting toward him, silently begging for more. But he doesn’t move. Instead, his grip on your thighs tightens, holding you firmly in place.
“Uh-uh," he rumbles, his mouth inches from you, but not close enough to touch. "You know how this works. You haven’t answered my question."
You can’t respond, silent as you stare down at Logan, wide-eyed as your mind races for anything to say that’ll get him to keep going.
"Come on, baby," he urges, thumbs rubbing slow circles over your skin. "Just tell me somethin' smart, I'll give you what you want."
You try to focus, try to remember something—anything—about what he taught in class. But all you can think about is the way his hands feel on your thighs, the heat of his breath, the maddening nearness of his mouth.
He leans in closer, his lips brushing the edge of your panties, just shy of where you need him most, and you can't help the frustrated groan that escapes you.
“What's sweet thing made of?" He nudges the soaked fabric against your clit again, drawing a sharp gasp from your lips.
"Fuck...erectile tissue," you manage to breathe out, mind fogged as you claw for the right answer. "But it's—it's surface is covered in epithelial tissue."
Extra credit.
Logan hums, the sound low and approving. 
"Very good," he murmurs, his hands slipping beneath your panties, pushing the fabric aside. The first touch of his fingers against your bare skin sends a shiver of pure pleasure through you, your body arching off the desk in response.
His fingers tease along your slit, and you bite your lip to stifle the whimper threatening to spill out. Logan watches you closely, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction as he spreads you open with his fingers, exposing the slick heat between your legs.
Your back arches off the desk with a loud moan, hands gripping the edge hard enough that your knuckles turn white with it. 
“Fuck, look at that,” he mutters, more to himself than to you, sliding his index finger through the wetness gathering at your entrance. “This is all for me? This pretty pussy all wet for your professor?
He presses a finger against your entrance, teasingly pushing just the tip inside before pulling back, relishing the way your body instinctively arches toward him.
You shake your head, peering down at him with glassy eyes. “You were never my professor,” you shoot back breathlessly, unable to keep from pushing against him even now.
Logan hums absentmindedly, eyes glued to the space between your legs. “Lucky you,” he drawls, sinking two fingers inside you without warning.
Your head falls back with a cry, thighs tightening around his shoulders as sparks go off at the base of your spine. 
“Now, tell me how you feel,” Logan prompts, his voice gravelly and filled with that dark, teasing edge. His fingers glide up, slick as they draw tantalizing circles over your clit that set your nerves ablaze.
You can feel the heat rising to your cheeks, embarrassment mixing with arousal as you wrestle with the overwhelming sensations. “I—uh,” you stammer, trying to organize your thoughts, but they slip away like sand through your fingers. “I feel–ah!…good.”
Logan lets out a chuckle. “Good, huh? Just good? You can do better than that. Don't get shy now, baby.”
His hand speeds up, the lewd noise of your slick pussy fills the room with each thrust. “What’s it feel like when I’ve got my fingers in you, hm?”
The dam breaks inside of you, all the embarrassment leaving your body as your hips start rocking down against him lightly.
“Feels so good,” you slur, head lolling to the side to watch him through half-lidded eyes. “Your fingers feel so good in me, professor.”
You’re playing with fire and you know it, but when your eyes slip down his body to find the hard imprint of his cock more than visible through his jeans, you can’t help yourself.
You slide your foot up his toned thigh until the chunky sole brushes against the tented denim.
Logan’s eyes flutter shut for just a second, his grin turning almost feral as he feels the pressure of your foot against him. His hips rock forward slightly, just enough to acknowledge your touch.
“You’re pushin’ your luck, kid,” he bites out, voice rough as gravel, but there's a thread of amusement running through it—like he’s enjoying this game just as much as you are.
You give him a slow, languid smile. "Maybe I like pushing," you breathe, dragging your foot up and down the length of him slowly.
Logan groans darkly, sliding his fingers out of you in one slick motion that makes you whine in protest. His hand moves to grip your ankle, firm but not painful, keeping you pressed against his cock. 
“God, you smell so fuckin’ good,” he says quietly, the words passing through his lips like he couldn’t hold them in anymore. He brings his soaked fingers to his lips, sucking them clean with a groan. 
"Taste even better." His voice is rough, filled with desire that matches your own. You can’t hold back the whimper that escapes your lips, your hips bucking involuntarily, begging for more.
His grin widens, and finally, after what feels like an eternity of teasing, he gives in. Logan lowers his head, his mouth pressing against your clit in a slow, deliberate kiss that has your back arching off the desk, a strangled cry ripping from your throat.
Your hands find his hair, fingers tangling in the thick strands as you guide him closer, urging him on. His tongue flicks against your clit expertly, his stubble scratching deliciously against your skin with every drag of his head.
Your body feels like it’s been set on fire. The heat builds in your core, faster than you can control, a coil winding tighter and tighter until you feel like you’re about to snap. 
“I—I think I’m going to—” you stammer, overwhelmed by the pleasure as he picks up the pace, fingers moving faster.
“Tell me,” he growls, the rumble of it vibrating against your clit as he holds your gaze, plunging his fingers back inside of you. “I want to hear you say it.”
“God, Professor! Fuck, Logan, I’m gonna—” you cry out, your body trembling, ready to explode. Your pussy weeps around the stretch of his thick fingers, soaking his hand and his wrist with your wetness.
"Atta' girl," he growls, pressing his thumb over your clit to send a jolt of ecstasy through your core. "Makin' a fuckin’ mess all over my desk, just like that.”
He leans in, wrapping his mouth around your clit and sucking while his fingers keep up their relentless pace. With barely any pressure, he drags the harsh edge of his teeth over your clit and sends you tumbling over the edge, your body arching into his mouth as you come. 
The sheer force of it has your whole body tensing, your foot pressing on the clothed length of his cock harder than before. Logan groans at the feeling, eyes screwing shut as his hips buck up against the heel of your shoe. 
As you ride the waves of ecstasy, Logan’s eyes stay locked on yours, watching. Greedy eyes taking in every detail of your face, every moan and whimper that falls from your slick lips, every tremor of your body.
He doesn’t relent, his fingers working you through the aftershocks, coaxing every last bit of pleasure from you until you’re left breathless, heart racing, and utterly spent. 
As you come down from the high, you glance at him, chest heaving with exertion. 
Logan’s already looking at you, his gaze has a little more softness mixed in with the heat still simmering. He drops one last kiss to the slick skin of your thigh before pushing your foot off his lap and standing. His lips and chin glistening with your release, that cocky smirk still firmly in place as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
Your eyes fall to where he’s still hard and tenting the denim of his jeans, pre-come leaking from the tip to stain the fabric darker.
“Ready for another one,” he whispers, leaning in close. His lips brush over yours, hips slotting between your thighs to grind the hard length of his cock along your sensitive pussy.
You can’t help the smug smile that takes over your face, your arms raising up to circle around his neck. Your eyes trail along the boards forgotten lesson plan over his shoulder, to the papers that were sitting on his desk scattered on the hardwood. 
Your legs circle his waist, dragging him closer. "I think so."
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tags are now in the comments! if you want to get tagged for any of my works just fill out this form!
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om-nom-snom · 5 months ago
Note
For the morning routine headcanons, could I request Grusha? And whoever else you wanna add? Two of my f/os are in the other post you already have.
[Morning Routines]
Grusha x Reader, Raihan x Reader, N x Reader
Part 1 here
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Grusha <3
Grusha is honestly pretty normal when it comes to his mornings
He likes to stick to a set routine, but he doesn't freak out if he sleeps in or needs to shuffle things around
Wakes up at 7am every morning and tumbles out of bed in a giant hoodie with a rattatas nest for hair
Boils the jug for his coffee and feeds his Cetitan, trying stay quiet enough that he doesn't wake you
Once you do wakes up, Grusha is drinking his coffee on the couch and has already prepared a hot drink for you too
He might already be on his second coffee but you don't need to know that
You're more than welcome to snuggle up with him on the couch, enjoying your drink as whatever sport he's watching plays in the background
When it's time to start getting ready for the day he'll be very appreciative of help taming his bed hair
Sit him down on the ground in front of you while you're on the couch so you're comfy while brushing it
"You can put a braid in if you really want... But only a small one."
You'll be there a while, but he's already worked that into the morning schedule
Other than that, he really doesn't take long to get ready and after a few good bye kisses Grusha will be out the door
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Raihan <3
Raihan basically sleeps on top of you
There's no need for a weighted blanket when your boyfriend is basically a living one
You'd best be prepared to be stuck in bed for a while too, because if it's not gym challenge season there's no way he's waking up before 11am
And once he does wake up he needs at least an hour minimum to doomscroll on his rotom phone in bed
He does it while still lying on top of you, naturally
If you desperately need help to get him out of bed, flygon can be convinced to help
The dragon pokemon is happy to get all up in Raihans business and help roll him off you
Once Raihan finally makes it out of bed, he wanders into the kitchen wearing only what he sleeps in
Aka his briefs
He'll ask if you like the view while he cooks you guys brunch
"Feel free to take a photo, babe, it'll last longer."
Raihan's happy to take the mornings with you nice and slow while he can
And that includes plenty of pictures of you two and more than one 'outfit of the day' post
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N <3
We have a total insomniac over here
N falls asleep very late at night and wakes up very early in the morning, but he'll stay in bed the whole time you're sleeping
On the morning he wakes before the sun comes up and knows he won't be able to fall asleep again he'll grab a book
With a soft bedside lamp on, zoroark half on his lap, and you by his side he's more than happy to read the morning away
He's the type of softy to brush hair away from your face as you sleep
Should you wake up early with him, then he'll open up the curtains in your room so you can both watch the sunrise from bed
Pulls you into his chest and wraps both of your shoulders in another blanket too
As usual, N's zoroark joins in with any cuddling going on and is a very welcome heat source in winter
He's in no rush to get out of bed, but once you're up for the day so is he
N always starts off his morning with breakfast, but I feel like he's a cold breakfast person
He'll cook for you though if he knows you like a hot breakfast
If you're not a breakfast person he'll also low-key guilt you into eating something for your own good
"Eating is a non negotiable, love. Now, do you want me to make you some toast?"
He's so sweet and domestic-
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rafey-baby · 6 months ago
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forbidden fruit 2
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Once upon a time there was a princess and a hunter...
snow white!reader x hunter!rafe
c/w: mentions of violence & murder, one bed (my fav cliche ever!), slightly suggestive, also if it’s not obvious this is *loosely* based on the story of snow white, 18+ mdni!
wc: 2.4k
is he warming up to her? #it’s hard to tell
series masterlist
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 
“Have you ever considered a less...um, violent job?” she asks, nausea coiling in her guts at the mere thought of harming— let alone killing an innocent animal.  
The inky sky has turned into an even gloomier hue, and if it wasn’t for the luster of the moonlight illuminating their journey, they wouldn’t be able to see a thing. However, it’s still a challenge for them (her) to evade the thick roots hiding underneath the spongy moss and brittle lichen— she thinks her fingers aren’t enough to count the times Rafe has had to prevent her from toppling over onto the soil with a steadying grip on her arm.  
At this point, she can’t comprehend how he even knows where they’re going. She thinks that every rock and tree trunk they pass resembles the last but apparently, he’s using them to track the route to his cabin— something he tried to teach her about two hours ago, but gave up the moment her attention was captured by a tiny squirrel hurriedly scampering off into its hiding spot.   
“If I’m bein’ honest, I think killin’ is the only thing m’good for at this point,” he murmurs while inspecting a fallen spruce in the middle of their path. 
“I’m sure that’s not true,” she argues, rounding the obstacle while he simply steps over it.   
“Tha’s cause you don’t know me. Listen, m’not…m’not a good person, I’ve done some, uh, real shitty things, alright?” he looks over to her, gemstone eyes sullen.   
She wonders if the real shitty things include other people’s blood on his hands. After all, the queen wouldn’t have asked him to end her life if he’d never done it before. A shiver creeps up her spine when a vivid image of him doing something so remorseless flashes in her mind.  
However, it’s soon replaced by him dropping the knife and sparing her life, even if it meant complicating his own.   
“I think…a bad person wouldn’t be helping me right now,” her words are honest but he doesn’t offer her a reply, merely flits his eyes over her frame with a furrow in his brow.   
They fall into a serene silence, wordlessly treading further and further into the somber forest while she keeps getting distracted by the glittering stars above them; mesmerized by the beauty of something so far away from all the cruelty on this planet.   
However, when she goes on to take her next step, the ground (or what she thought was the ground) suddenly cracks underneath her, the partly frozen lid of the pond shattering with a loud crackle— only a surprised squeal leaving her throat when she loses her footing and tumbles right into the frigid water with a splash.   
Turns out, it’s not just some small little puddle that’s partly covered by fallen leaves and branches, but a rather deep one; saturating her all the way up to her neck as she gasps for breath when the coldness surrounds her helpless limbs.  
“Shit.”   
She hears Rafe hiss before humored laughter bubbles from his chest.  
“Rafe, this is not funny,” she complains with her teeth chattering when the icy liquid soaks through the fabric of her dress in an instant.   
“M’sorry, you jus’ look like a wet kitten right now,” he shakes his head, chuckling as he extends an arm towards her— pulling her up and steadying her with a firm grip on her waist.  
“Ow,” she cries out when she leans her weight on her left foot.   
“What’s wrong?” he seems almost concerned as he scans her for any visible injuries.   
“Think I sprained my ankle, it hurts,” she frowns, reaching for his forearm for balance.   
“Of course you did, told you to be careful,” he clicks his tongue, slightly annoyed at the fact that she really is a helpless case. “Can you walk?”   
“I don’t know…” she mumbles; face crumpling up when she tries to take a step forward.   
“Right, uh, c’mere then,” he huffs out before his hands are on her waist once more and he’s lifting her into his arms like a bag of flour.   
“Oh, you don’t have to—”   
“There’s no way you’re walkin’ right now,” he scoffs as he shifts her into a better position before he’s continuing their trek. “What would you even do without me, hm?”   
“Probably freeze to death like you said,” she pouts, eyes despondent when she leans into his supportive hold.  
“Yeah.”   
“M’sorry,” she sniffles, the ache in her foot combined with him being mad at her causing her eyes to burn.  
“Shouldn’t be that long ’till we’re there, princess. Think you can manage not to cry before we get there?” 
“I don’t know…it hurts and m’cold,” she sulks, feeling miserable, even if she knows she should be grateful she’s not dead or alone in the woods right now.   
“You’re a big girl, know you can take it. You’ll feel better soon, yeah?” he attempts to provide her some sort of comfort with his limited knowledge of handling something so fragile.   
She hums out something incoherent in response, weak arms wrapping around his neck as she takes in a shaky inhale— damp skin prickling under the chilly air that’s making the leafy trees sway back and forth, reminding her of shadowy ghosts.  
- - - - - - - - - - - - - -   
“Uh, think there should be a dry shirt for you here somewhere…” he trails off as he goes through his closet. “This is probably a little too big but should be fine, yeah?”   
The cabin is small and secluded; the darkened walls blending in with the rest of the forest and concealing them from the outside, making her feel strangely secure. However, his taste in decor makes her rather uneasy as she tries to desperately focus on the crackling fireplace beginning to warm up her trembling limbs and not the assortment of dead animals and their fur or other body parts on display.   
“Oh, it’s perfect, thank you,” she tears her eyes from the elk antlers presented on the wall, offering him a tense smile when she takes the cottony shirt from him; the material surprisingly soft between her fingertips. 
However, before he has the chance to leave the bedroom in order to give her some privacy, she timidly speaks up again, words clumsy and hurried. “Could you— um, could you help me undress? This corset is quite impossible to take off by myself…especially now that it’s wet.”  
“Uh, right, yeah,” he clears his throat, gesturing for her to turn around before he’s pulling her closer by a grip on her hips, the wooden floorboards creaking underneath their feet making up for the sudden silence.  
She doesn’t know why the gesture feels almost intimate or why it makes her hold her breath when he begins to unfasten the strings holding the corset top together, but a strange shade of suspense colors the air around them nonetheless. 
“A tight little thing, huh?” he rasps as his fingers deftly work on the satiny ribbons— a process that feels eternal while she tries not to pay any mind to the way her heart keeps thumping louder and louder by each passing second. 
When she finally feels the silky material loosening around her middle, she has to will her erratic breathing to slow down as he unhooks the rest of the dress— the fabric forming a pearly white puddle on the floor.  
Then, he’s wordlessly slipping his shirt over her head; the sleeves far too long and the hem fitting her more like a short nightgown.  
“Thanks,” she swallows before she’s gingerly turning around, lacking the courage of looking him in the eye for any longer than a glance.       
“Right, uh, we should get some sleep. You can take the bed ’n I’ll sleep on the floor, yeah?”  
And she’s already nodding before the words register in her disconcerted brain. “Wait, no, it’s your bed. I can sleep on the floor,” she argues immediately, momentarily forgetting why she was so shy in the first place when the weight of being an inconvenience builds up on her shoulders.   
“Nah, m’not gonna let a fuckin’ princess sleep on the floor. S’fine, jus’ take the bed, I don’t want it. Need to make sure we weren’t followed anyway,” he grumbles, attempting to leave the room once more.  
“Rafe, you need sleep just as much as I do. It’s the middle of the night, my stepmother doesn’t even know what you did yet. She’s expecting you to return tomorrow, right?” she tries to reason, not willing to give in because letting him sleep comfortably is the least she can do to even begin returning the favor.  
He lets out a weary sigh before shrugging off his jacket, far too worn out to argue. “Yeah, alright, guess you have a point.”   
- - - - - - - - - - - - -   
They end up sharing the bed.    
And once they’ve both settled into the opposite sides, she’s far too intimidated by Rafe’s disgruntled aura to utter out anything other than a whispered goodnight before it’s quiet once more.    
However, as the night stretches on, she begins to grow restless; tossing and turning on the creaky mattress and driving Rafe mad in the process.
She doesn’t mean to, the last thing she wants is to disturb his rest but her thoughts are racing and she can’t seem to close her eyes for more than a few seconds because truthfully, she feels terrible— everything familiar has been turned upside down in the span of a day and the only life she knows has practically ceased to exist. All she wants is to go home but that’s not an option anymore and it’s scary. 
“Hey, uh, you good?” Rafe’s sudden drawl makes her flinch.    
“Sorry, can’t sleep,” she peeps out, expression apologetic when she twists to face him, causing the sheets to rustle around them.    
“Yeah, me neither since you keep movin’ around like a lunatic,” he grumbles, irritation clear in his tone.   
“M’sorry. Just can’t stop thinking about everything and I just…I’ve never understood why she hates me so much,” she breathes out, features contorting into something heavy-hearted as she chews on her bottom lip. 
He blinks tiredly; movements lethargic when he runs a hand through his hair.   
“The queen? Well, in case you haven’t noticed, she’s, uh, not that alright in the head. M’sure you’ve done nothin’ wrong, okay?” he attempts to reassure her, albeit to no avail.   
“I just— just feel like...this is all my fault, you know? And now you’re in danger too because of me,” she rambles, not able to let the thought go.    
“You don’t need to worry ’bout me, princess. There’s enough people that want me dead already, what’s one more?” he lets out a dry chuckle that makes her frown.    
“What do you mean?”    
“Nothin’ just, uh, listen…the worst thing that’s gonna happen is that she’s gonna have me killed when I don’t return, ’n once she finds out you’re still alive, she’s gonna send her soldiers to bring her your—”   
“Rafe, that’s not helping. Why would say that?” she interrupts him and apparently, he finds her scowling face to be the most hilarious thing in the world because next thing she knows he’s laughing, sleepy features scrunching up as he shakes his head. 
It’s safe to say she does not understand his humor, whatsoever.    
“All m’sayin’ is that we’re gonna have to find someplace good to hide.”    
“We have to leave the kingdom?” she asks, worried.    
“Yeah, think so,” he says, sounding far too impassive for her liking.    
“But I can’t just leave, this is my home.”   
“I know, but s’gonna be okay,” he murmurs, mouth stretching around a yawn.   
“But what if— what if something happens?” she sounds panicked, all the worst-case scenarios bouncing around her skull because she’s never even been this far from the palace. How on earth is she meant to survive in the real world? 
“I’ll keep you safe, yeah? Now can you let me sleep?” he lets out a drowsy exhale, seemingly fed up with the conversation already.   
“But what if—”   
“Shh, c’mere,” he hushes her before he’s tucking her flush against his chest— a heavy palm resting on her thigh to keep her from moving because he’s exhausted and more than aware that tomorrow is going to be a long day, especially with this overthinking princess who he wishes would just shut up.   
It’s something he’d tell her outright if he wasn’t certain that she’d start crying all over again in response— the rest of the hike here with her sobs and hiccups thrumming in his ears more than enough for one day.   
And the sudden proximity seems to work because instantly, she stops shifting around; nearly stops breathing altogether when she swallows. “What are you…”   
“Just, uh, need you to calm down, yeah?” he pats at her hip before she’s clumsily humming out another apology.  
And despite the slight trace of the muddy water, her hair still smells of forest berries and wildflowers, making exasperation worm its way into his veins. He doesn’t understand why she’s trusting her life in his hands so thoughtlessly; it’s like she has no sense of self-preservation with the way she’s blindly following him anywhere, when not even a day ago he attempted to murder her.   
He wonders if she’s always been like this; naive and dumb, always seeing the good in people, even when there isn’t any. All it took was a few remotely sweet words and she’s already allowing him to hold her this close— a foolish deer resting peacefully next to a starving wolf and expecting not to get hurt.    
Momentarily, he gets the urge to just finish the job right now, wrap his arm around her throat until the flame burns out, leaving her eyes dull, lifeless. After all, it would make his life considerably easier. He can almost feel it— the moment her heart comes to a halt in her ribcage as she turns into nothing more than flesh and bones, freeing him from this burden.  
And at the end of the day, it’s part of his nature to kill for his own benefit, muscles nearly stinging with the self-serving temptation because that’s what he’s always been; selfish.    
“Rafe, that hurts,” her voice is small, nervous, nonetheless forcing him to resurface to the current; his rough fingertips mindlessly sinking into the bare surface of her thigh, harsh enough to leave a bruise. 
Her entire form is tense, breathing shallow and limbs unmoving, resembling a rabbit rigid with fear, only amplifying this ever-growing itch under his skin.  
He clears his throat.  
“Sorry,” a mutter through his teeth before she can finally feel the pressure dissipating— his thumb smoothing over the sore patch while he tries to decide what the fuck he should do with her.    
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mariclerc · 7 months ago
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Farm love | cl16
Summary: where your family farm serves as a set to film a Ferrari challenge.
Warning: fluff, shy reader, Charles being such a curious person, farm girl!reader.
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The Tuscan sun beat down on the rolling hills, a vibrant canvas of gold and green stretching as far as the eye could see, the air hummed with the low drone of a helicopter circling overhead, a stark contrast to the usual peaceful quietude of your family farm. Today, however, was anything but usual, because your father, ever the pragmatist, had secured a filming opportunity with the Ferrari team, it was a challenge for their YouTube channel and social media, a decision that had initially filled you with a mixture of excitement and apprehension.
You loved the farm, loved the rhythm of rural life, loved the animals. It was your sanctuary, your refuge from the noise and chaos of the outside world. The thought of a horde of camera crews and high-profile racing drivers invading your peaceful haven had made you somewhat anxious, so you decided to stay away from the filming and just watch from afar.
You found a quiet spot near the old stone barn, a vantage point that offered a clear view of the activity without requiring any direct interaction. You were perfectly content observing the chaos from afar, you were comfortable being alone.
The filming was in full swing, a chaotic ballet of camera crews, technicians, and the Ferrari drivers themselves. They moved with an almost otherworldly grace and precision on the track, but here, in the rustic setting of your family farm, their usual poise seemed to falter, they looked much less comfortable, less composed, but it was funny to see their reactions.
You're gently brushing a horse's mane, a bucket of apples nearby while Charles Leclerc and Carlos Sainz are struggling with some farm task—let's say milking a goat. Your father, a jovial man, is giving them instructions in rapid-fire Italian.
“Mamma mia... they look so lost.” you say quietly to yourself.
Charles, wiping sweat from his brow, accidentally bumps into a nearby hay bale, sending it tumbling.
“Charles! Careful!” Carlos says.
Charles laughs nervously. “Sorry, Carlos! This goat... she's... feisty!”
Your father, in rapid Italian, gestures wildly with his hands, Charles and Carlos look utterly bewildered. “Ma che state facendo?! Così non si fa! Prendete la cosa giusta!” (What are you doing?! That's not how you do it! Grab the right thing!)
You hesitantly approach, clutching a bucket of apples, you're still quite shy. “Scusi...” you say softly in Italian. (Excuse me...)
Charles and Carlos turn, surprised. Charles is particularly captivated by your presence.
“Ah, buongiorno!” he says a little awkwardly in Italian. (Good morning!)
“Buongiorno...” (Good morning...) “My father... he’s just...” you gesture vaguely towards your father. “Perhaps I could help?”
Carlos sighed. “Oh, grazie! To be honest, we're completely lost!”
Your Father grins. “Ah, finalmente!” (Finally!) he explains the task in simple Italian. “This is how you milk a goat properly! See? Gently and steady…”
You demonstrate the process calmly and efficiently. Charles and Carlos watch, mouths slightly agape.
“Wow… that was... so elegant.” Charles says in a whisper.
You blushed. “Oh, it’s nothing special. I’ve been doing this since I was little.”
“We’ve been trying for ages! It's like we have two left hands.” Carlos said and you giggled.
You continue to guide them gently, your touch light and assured. Charles is particularly attentive, watching your every move.
“You're so… graceful.” says Charles quietly and you blush even deeper, avoiding eye contact.
“Oh, it’s just... I like animals… it’s just...” you say stammering a little.
Carlos nodded at your words. “It's clear you love them. They seem to love you back!”
After a while, they finally manage to milk the goat successfully, mostly thanks to your guidance.
Your father beams. “Bravi!” (Well done!) he claps Charles and Carlos on the back. “You were hopeless until she showed you the way!” he gestures towards you.
Charles smiles at you. “She's a natural. A true miracle worker.”
Later, after filming wraps up, your father offers them some homemade limoncello.
Charles sighs contently. “This has been...an amazing experience! I didn’t expect to learn so much about goat milking today.” he giggled.
You smiled shyly. “It was my pleasure to help with your challenge video!”
“I'm Charles, by the way. And this is Carlos.” he says while smiling softly.
“I'm y/n. It was nice to meet you both!” Charles extends his hand, you shake it gently, feeling a spark of connection.
After a while, the Ferrari team and Carlos have left, and Charles is lingering, showing genuine interest in your family farm, you're cleaning out a rabbit hutch while Charles is leaning against the fence, watching intently. The sun is beginning to set, casting long shadows across the fields.
You smile slightly. “Everything's cleaned up now.” you whispered softly.
“That's amazing how organized you are! And so gentle with the animals! I've never seen anything quite like it.” Charles said.
You shuggered. “It's just… habit I guess.”
Suddenly Charles approaches you. “Tell me more about the farm. Your family has been here for generations, right? Your father mentioned it earlier.” he said softly.
You nodded. “Yes, for over three hundred years. Each generation has done its part to maintain the farm. My grandfather taught my father, and my father taught me... It's a long history.”
Charles point to a small stone structure. “What is that?”
“Oh, that’s our old well. My great-grandfather used to draw water from it... It’s still working but we use a pump now.”
“That sounds amazing! Could I see it closer?” he says, somewhat intrigued.
You nod and you lead him to the well, explaining its history and the stories associated with it. He listens intently, asking insightful questions, remembering details.
“This farm is more than just a place, it’s in my blood, it's who I am. The land speaks to me, so to say... Every stone, every tree, every animal, it’s a living history.” you say thoughtful.
He nods. “I can feel it, there's a tranquility here, a peace... It's a world away from the noise and pressure of Formula 1.” you giggled.
You both walk towards the sheep pen. Charles watches you interact with the sheep, his gaze is soft and admiring.
“You have such a special gift, y/n. A connection with nature... A lot of people just don’t have that.” he says in a soft whisper.
You blush lightly, looking away. “It’s just…” you murmured quite embarrassed. “It's just normal for me, you know?” you say softly.
He cuts you gently. “No, no, it’s special... Truly, it's something so beautiful to witness.”
He stays for a long time, helping you feed the animals, asking questions about the various breeds, the farming techniques, the challenges of maintaining the land, and the history of your family. He shows a genuine interest, far beyond simple politeness.
Charles smiles as he watches the sunset. “The light is so beautiful here, I've never seen a sunset quite like this.”
You both stand in silence for a few moments, admiring the view.
He turns towards you, a wistful look in his eyes. “I could stay here forever.” he says softly, he gently touches your arm, a hesitant touch that speaks volumes, but you don't pull away.
“Me too.” you say softly.
He takes a deep breath, the scent of the countryside filling his lungs. “Thank you for sharing this with me, y/n. It's… more than I could have ever imagined.”
You smile warmly at him. “Anytime you want, Charles.”
He stays until the last sliver of sun disappears below the horizon, he's completely enchanted by your world, your family's history, and you.
“I should go back to the city. But... I'll see you again, right?”
You smile again. “Of course.”
He leaves the farm, but it feels different. It's not just a goodbye; it's a promise of something more.
***
A couple of months later, you're tending your vegetable garden, your four kittens playfully weaving between your legs. The sun is warm, the air fragrant with the scent of ripe tomatoes and basil. It's been like two months since the visit of the Ferrari drivers to the farm, in particular, since Charles' interest in you and your family.
You chuckled, as a kitten bats at a juicy-looking tomato. “Oh be careful, you little bandit! Those are for dinner!” you giggled at their antics.
You're humming a gentle tune, your movements fluid and practiced as you weed between the rows of lettuce. Suddenly, the familiar hum of a powerful engine breaks the quiet. You look up to see a sleek, dark car approaching the farm, your heart quickens as you recognize the car...
A moment later, Charles emerges, looking relaxed and happy. He's dressed casually—jeans, and a simple white shirt—but his smile is as bright as ever. The little kittens, sensing a new presence, start to cautiously approach, their tails held high.
“Charles! What a surprise! What brings you here?” you say slightly surprised.
He grins. “Hi y/n! I thought I'd surprise you, I had a few days off, and… well, I couldn't resist coming to see you, and the farm... And the little kittens, of course!” he giggles.
He kneels down, gently stroking one of the kittens, the kitten purrs contentedly. Charles spends a considerable amount of time helping you in the garden, his presence as comfortable and natural as if he'd been a regular visitor for years.
“This one's a tough customer, huh?” he says while carefully pulling a weed.
“These weeds are tenacious! We've been battling them for weeks!” you say while sighing.
You and Charles work side-by-side, chatting easily about the garden, the animals, and the challenges of farming. He asks about the different plants, showing a genuine curiosity and understanding of the intricacies of gardening. His questions are detailed and insightful, not just polite inquiries.
“I'm still amazed at the amount of precision and planning this requires. It’s like a strategic race—nurturing the land and your plants to be perfectly timed!” he says amazed.
You share a laugh, recognizing the parallel between his world of precision racing and the meticulous care needed for a thriving garden.
As the afternoon wears on, the sun begins to dip lower in the sky. The light softens, turning the garden into a picture-perfect scene. You gather the harvest, Charles assisting with a natural grace and skill. He’s become comfortable with this simple work, a welcome change from the pressure of his racing career.
“Look at this! A true champion of the garden!” he says while holding up a particularly plump tomato. “What a beauty!” he smiled so widely.
You both laugh, sharing a moment of easy camaraderie and understanding. At one point, while you were tending to the little goats, you can see how he walks towards you and brought you flowers, a simple bouquet of wildflowers gathered from a nearby field, a sweet and thoughtful gesture that speaks volumes, your cheeks blush a bit too much.
Later that afternoon, your father returns from the fields. He sees Charles sitting with you on the porch, chatting amiably and sees the little bouquet of wildflowers on your lap. He stops dead in his tracks, his jaw slightly agape. His usual jovial expression is replaced by a mixture of surprise and, you suspect, slight apprehension.
“Charles? Ma che…? (But what…?) What in the world are you doing here?” your father says in a slightly incredulous tone.
Charles stands up, he smiles brightly. “Oh, buongiorno, Signor! I hope I'm not intruding, I'm just spending some time helping y/n in the garden.”
Your father is visibly taken aback, he wasn't expecting to see the famous Formula 1 driver, a global superstar, on your humble family farm, again. He stares at Charles for a long moment, a mixture of disbelief and suspicion clear on his face.
“I… I mean, it's certainly… unexpected.” he gestures vaguely towards the garden. “You're… helping with the vegetables?”
Charles smiles. “Yes, I am! It's fascinating work, i've learned so much from y/n. I know it's a different kind of challenge, but equally rewarding. It requires a different kind of precision and, well, I’m surprisingly good at weeding.” he giggled softly.
Your father looks from you to Charles, his expression slowly softening. He's observing your easy interaction, noting the genuine connection and mutual respect between you two. He's seeing a side of you daughter he hasn't seen before—a confident, independent woman who's clearly capturing the attention of someone far above her social standing.
“Well... It’s... good to see you.” he says a little less stiff. “Perhaps you could join us for dinner? My wife made her special lasagna.”
Charles readily accepts the invitation, his smile widening. Your father, still somewhat flustered but visibly thawing, gestures towards the farmhouse. As the three of you head towards the house, your father glances back at the garden. He sees you and Charles talking, your laughter echoing softly in the evening air. A look of understanding, perhaps even pride, appears on his face, he accepts that this seemingly unlikely connection may be stronger than he initially thought.
The farmhouse is warm and inviting, filled with the delicious aroma of your mother's lasagna. Charles is seated at the table, chatting animatedly with your father, who’s surprisingly relaxed and friendly. Your mother is bustling about, her face beaming with pride and hospitality.
“…and then, the tractor broke down just as we were harvesting the wheat! It took three hours to fix it!” your father gestures with a flourish and Charles laughed soundly.
“That sounds like a real challenge! A very different kind of race against time!”
Your mother places a steaming dish of lasagna in front of Charles, a generous portion. He compliments her cooking in Italian, his words sincere and heartfelt, your mother beams, clearly pleased.
“Thank you, Charles. I’m so glad you could join us for dinner. We rarely have guests, especially guests as… distinguished as you.”
You and Charles exchange a knowing smile, the atmosphere is warm and convivial. The initial surprise and apprehension have given way to a comfortable, relaxed feeling. The conversations flows easily between you, your parents, and Charles. He displays a genuine interest in your family’s history, asking questions about the farm's evolution, the challenges faced over generations, and the traditions that have been passed down.
“I’ve never been on a farm before, I’ve always been in big cities. But this… this is incredible! The sense of history, the connection to the land… it's truly remarkable.” he says while he drinks a little bit of wine.
Your father, proud and slightly boastful, launches into a detailed account of the farm’s history, tracing its lineage back centuries. He speaks passionately, sharing stories of his ancestors, their struggles and triumphs, the changes they've witnessed in the land and in the world.
“…and my grandfather, he always said the land tells its own stories. You just have to listen carefully.” you father said.
Charles nodded. “I can see that, It's like reading a book, but the chapters are written in the seasons, the growth of the plants, the changing landscape.”
The conversation shifts to the current challenges facing the farm – climate change, fluctuating market prices, the difficulty of attracting younger generations to farming. Charles listens attentively, offering thoughtful insights and questions, demonstrating his intelligence and empathy goes beyond the racetrack.
“It’s remarkable how many parallels there are between farming and Formula 1. Both require meticulous planning, adaptability to changing circumstances, and an understanding of the systems involved. And both, ultimately, depend on teamwork.”
Your mother adds to the conversation, sharing stories of her own childhood on the farm and the challenges of balancing family life with the demands of farm work. Charles listens with genuine interest, showing his respect for her resilience and the traditional values she represents.
The meal extends into a long, leisurely affair, the initial tension between Charles, a global superstar, and your family, rooted in their simple, traditional life, gradually dissipates, Charles effortlessly integrates into the family dynamic, engaging in lighthearted banter with your father and sharing stories from his life that reveal a depth and vulnerability rarely seen in public. He speaks of his close-knit family, his childhood in Monaco, and the demanding but rewarding world of Formula 1, offering candid reflections on his career.
You find yourself observing Charles with renewed appreciation, his genuine interest in your family and their lives goes far beyond simple politeness. You see a different side of him here, away from the pressure and scrutiny of the public eye, a side that is warm, humble, and deeply thoughtful. He listens intently when your mother speaks, his eyes reflecting sincere interest.
As the evening draws to a close, a sense of warmth and connection pervades the room. The meal has transcended its function; it's become a sharing of lives, a bridging of worlds. You and your family are captivated by Charles, not just by his fame, but by his humility, intelligence, and genuine kindness.
***
Several months have passed, and Charles' visits to the farm after race weeks have become a regular part of your life, his presence is as familiar and comforting as the scent of hay and blooming wildflowers. Today, however, your family has gone to the local market, leaving you, Charles, and the menagerie of farm animals – including the four playful kittens and a fluffy family of bunnies – entirely alone.
You and Charles are working in the barn, a symphony of gentle sounds filling the air: the soft bleating of sheep, the contented mooing of cows, the chirping of crickets, and the playful mewing of the kittens as they chase a particularly plump bunny.
Charles is expertly tending to a newborn lamb, his touch gentle and assured. You are cleaning the goat pens, your movements fluid and practiced. The atmosphere is calm, intimate, and filled with a comfortable silence that speaks volumes about the connection that has grown between you.
As you finish your work, you notice Charles watching you, a soft smile playing on his lips, he sets down the lamb, carefully tucking it back with its mother. He walks towards you, his gaze warm and tender.
“You're amazing with these animals, you have a gift.” he says softly.
You smile. “You always say that, but yeah, they’re pretty easy to work with. They respond to kindness and patience, just like people.”
He steps closer, his hand gently brushing yours, the touch sparks a warmth that spreads through you, a silent acknowledgment of the feelings that have blossomed between you. The playful energy of earlier months has given way to a deeper, more intimate connection. The playful sounds of the animals seem to fade into the background, replaced by a palpable tension that hums in the air.
“I love being here with you. With all of this scenery… It feels… so right.” he says with a soft voice, his eyes filled with a tenderness you've come to cherish.
He gently takes your face in his hands, his thumbs caressing your cheeks. His gaze is intense, filled with a longing that mirrors your own. The barn, usually a space of bustling activity, is still and quiet, your connection the only thing that matters.
He leans in, his lips meeting yours in a kiss that is slow, tender, and deeply felt... It's a kiss that is as soft and gentle as the caress of a summer breeze, a kiss that speaks volumes about the trust, intimacy, and affection that has grown between you over the months. The animals seem to sense the intimacy of the moment, their movements softening, their sounds mellowing.
The kiss deepens, a culmination of shared moments, quiet conversations, and a growing bond that has blossomed amidst the simple beauty of farm life. It is a kiss that is as natural and unhurried as the rising and setting of the sun.
After the kiss, you and Charles continue to work together, your movements effortless and harmonious. You share quiet moments of laughter and conversation, interspersed with periods of peaceful silence. The animals seem to sense your happiness, their presence adding to the idyllic atmosphere.
As the sun begins to set, casting long shadows across the barn, you and Charles find yourselves sharing a quiet meal—rustic bread, cheese, and fresh fruit—in the hayloft. The setting sun paints the sky in vibrant hues of orange and pink, a picturesque backdrop to the intimate moment.
The meal ends, and a comfortable silence settles between you. The scent of hay, earth, the gentle breeze and the soft sounds of the sleeping animals lull them into a state of quiet contentment. Exhausted but content, you two fall asleep nestled together amidst the soft hay, your bodies close, your breathing synchronized. Your shared connection is palpable, a quiet harmony that transcends words.
The next morning, your parents enter the barn to complete their early morning chores. They stumble upon you and Charles, fast asleep in the hayloft, your bodies intertwined in a gentle embrace. The scene is idyllic, innocent, and undeniably romantic. Your parents share a knowing smile, a mixture of surprise and quiet happiness in their eyes. They carefully tiptoe out, leaving you undisturbed, understanding the unspoken language of love and happiness.
You stir, feeling the warmth of Charles's arm around you. The scent of hay and earth is comforting, a familiar fragrance that speaks of peaceful mornings on the farm. You open your eyes slowly, your gaze falling upon Charles's sleeping face.
He looks peaceful, his features softened by sleep, the usual intensity in his eyes replaced by a gentle calmness. A faint smile plays on his lips. You gently brush a stray strand of hair from his forehead, your touch light and tender. The simple gesture speaks volumes about the intimacy that has quietly blossomed between you.
You study his face, your heart swelling with a quiet affection. The shared laughter, quiet conversations, and unspoken understanding of the past months have led to this intimate moment, a testament to the bond that has grown between you. The world outside the barn fades away, leaving only the two of you and the quiet intimacy of the moment.
Charles stirs, his eyelids fluttering open. He gazes at you, his eyes slowly focusing, recognition dawning in their depths. A gentle smile spreads across his face, a silent acknowledgment of the tenderness of the moment.
“Morning.” he says with his voice husky with sleep.
You smile softly at him. “Morning.”
A comfortable silence settles between you, punctuated only by the soft sounds of the awakening farm—the gentle bleating of sheep, the contented mooing of cows, and the chirping of crickets. These familiar sounds create a tranquil backdrop to your intimate moment.
Charles gently pulls you closer, his arm encircling you. You snuggle against him, the warmth of his body a comforting presence. The hayloft, usually a space of hard work and practicality, has become a sanctuary, a private haven where your connection can flourish without pressure or expectation.
You spend several moments in comfortable silence, simply enjoying each other's presence. The simplicity of the moment is profoundly moving, a testament to the deep bond that has grown between you. You feel utterly content, safe, and loved.
Charles breaks the silence, his voice low and intimate. “You know? I didn't want to wake up.”
You laugh softly. “Me neither.”
He gently strokes your hair, his touch lingering on your cheek. The gesture is simple, yet speaks volumes about the affection and tenderness he feels for you. The intimacy of the moment is palpable, a shared understanding that transcends words.
Charles continues, his voice laced with a vulnerability you've rarely seen in him. “This… this is something special. Being here, with you, away from… everything else.”
You nodded. “I know. It’s… different here. It’s just us, the animals, the farm. No pressure, no expectations… just peace.”
He kisses your forehead gently, his touch lingering. His eyes reflect a deep love and affection that is both reassuring and profoundly moving.
As the sun rises higher, casting a warm glow through the barn, you and Charles begin to move, your movements tentative yet intimate, a silent acknowledgment of the closeness you share. You help each other out of the hayloft, your laughter echoing softly in the quiet barn.
As you descend from the hayloft, you take a moment to appreciate the sight of the barn, the sun now fully illuminates the space, showcasing the dust motes dancing in the golden light beams. The familiar scents of hay and earth create a comforting atmosphere that embodies the simplicity and tranquility of farm life. The sounds of the farm, once merely a background hum, are now more distinct—the gentle bleating of lambs, the quiet mooing of cows, and the occasional chirping of birds—all harmonizing in a symphony of nature's gentle rhythm.
You and Charles walk hand-in-hand towards the farmhouse, the morning light illuminating the path. The familiar surroundings create a sense of peace and belonging, the rhythmic sounds of your footsteps on the dirt path and the comfortable silence between you create a tranquil and intimate atmosphere.
As you enter the farmhouse, you are enveloped in a wave of warmth and familiar scents. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee and baking bread fills the air, creating a welcoming and comforting atmosphere. Your mother is humming softly, busily preparing breakfast in the kitchen. The sight of her warm smile and the inviting atmosphere instantly dispel any lingering awkwardness from the previous night’s events.
“Good morning, you two sleepyheads! I was wondering when you’d finally appear! Breakfast is almost ready.” you mother says kindly.
Your mother’s welcoming smile puts you at ease, her warmth enveloping you in a comforting embrace. There’s no judgment, only a quiet understanding in her eyes. This unspoken acceptance reinforces the sense of belonging and peace that permeates the atmosphere of your family home.
You and Charles join your mother in the kitchen, engaging in lighthearted conversation. The breakfast is simple but delicious—freshly baked bread, homemade jam, strong coffee, and a bowl of fresh fruit. The conversation is easy, flowing naturally from farm gossip to Charles's racing career, to your dreams and plans for the future, the atmosphere is relaxed, intimate, and filled with love.
Charles engages with your mother, effortlessly sharing anecdotes from his life while listening intently to her stories of farm life. His genuine interest and respectful demeanor are endearing, further solidifying his place within your family's circle.
As you eat breakfast, the conversation turns to more intimate topics, exploring your hopes and dreams for the future, your shared desire to build a life together. Charles' candidness and vulnerability showcase a depth of feeling that surpasses his usually reserved public persona.
***
A couple of days after that, you and Charles are together, feeding the farm animals, working together, gently handing hay to a group of sheep. You're laughing softly, a comfortable silence between you punctuated by the sounds of bleating sheep and clucking chickens. As the days and months have passed, you have seen how Charles has become accustomed to farm work, which is a huge difference from racing,
He smiles as he chases the chickens that come towards you. “They seem to like you! They’re usually a bit more… skittish.”
You blushed. “Oh, I think it’s just that I’m gentle. You know, my parents always taught me to be kind to animals.”
He watches you as you interact with the animals, a tender look in his eyes. “I love that about you, so kind, sweet and gentle.” he whispered, he paused a bit, then speaks, his voice slightly hesitant. “I was thinking… about something... Something important.”
You look at him, a little surprised. You’ve been having a wonderful time at the farm with him, but this shift in tone has you slightly apprehensive.
“Oh, what is it?” you say slightly nervous.
He scratches the back of his neck. “Well, my family… they’re very important to me. My mum, Pascale, and my brothers, Lorenzo and Arthur... They mean the world to me.” he says softly.
You nod, understanding dawning on you. “Yes, I know. You've told me about them, they sound wonderful.”
He nodded back. ”They are... And... I want you to meet them.” he whispered.
You pause, your heart fluttering. The thought of meeting his family is both exciting and terrifying, a mixture of anticipation and nerves.
“Oh… wow. That’s…” you pause, searching for the right words, slightly overwhelmed. “That's quite a big step, isn’t it?”
He takes your hand, his touch gentle and reassuring. “It is, I know it is, but I really want you to. I… I really like you, y/n. A lot, more than a lot if I'm honest.”
You blush deeply, looking down at your hands which are now clasped with his. “I like you too, Charles. A lot! But… I’m so shy, I’m worried I’ll make a fool of myself.” you whispered.
He smiles, his expression filled with warmth and affection. “You won’t, my little bird. They’ll love you, I know, I’ve told them all about you, of course... I mean, who wouldn't want to meet the amazing girl who can handle sheep better than I can?” he laughed.
You giggle, feeling your nerves ease slightly under his reassuring words. “That’s sweet of you to say. But still... it's a lot.”
He kisses your hand lightly. “I know, but it’s important to me. They’re a big part of my life, and... I want you to be, too.”
Later that evening, after dinner at the farmhouse, Charles approaches your father in the garden. He looks very nervous, even has shaking hands.
“Buonasera, signor. It’s… it's lovely to see you.” he says softly. (good night sir)
Your father smiles warmly. “Oh Charles, good to see you too. Cosa ti viene offerto, figliolo?” he says. (what can I do for you, son?)
“Thank you, sir. Ehm... Actually… that’s why I’m here, there’s… something I wanted to ask you.” Charles said softly, while fidgets with his hands, his nervousness evident. “It's about y/n and I…” he sighed. “You know that we’ve been seeing each other for a couple of months now. And… things are going very well between us, and I… I really care for her. More than words can say.”
Your father listens attentively, a thoughtful expression on his face. He’s a wise man who sees his daughter’s happiness is important.
Your father nods slowly. “Oh yes! I’ve noticed that, she seems so happy and carefree when you're around her.” he says.
Charles smiled and took a deep breath, gathering his courage. “And well... I was wondering… if you would…” he scratches the back of his neck. “If you would give me permission to… to take her out on a date? A proper one! You know... To officially ask her out... And maybe get your blessing first?” he finally finished saying.
Silence hangs in the air for a moment, as your father contemplates Charles's proposal.
Your father chuckled softly. “That's a very old-fashioned approach, Charles, but charming all the same. I appreciate that.”
He looks down, slightly embarrassed but relieved he’s managed to say what needed saying.
Your father looks at Charles kindly. “You know, y/n is a special girl. She deserves someone good, and from what I've seen, you're a good kid, Charles. You seem genuine, and she seems happy and bubbly with you. So… yes, you have my blessing. Just don't break her heart, okay?” your father finally says.
Charles visibly relaxes, a huge weight lifted from his shoulders. He beams with relief and happiness.
“Oh grazie, signor! Thank you so much. I won't disappoint you. I promise.” he says smiling. (thank you, sir)
Your father smiles, satisfied with Charles’ sincerity and his daughter's happiness. “I appreciate your respect, Charles. Just be kind to my little girl.”
“I promise you sir.”
Charles walks away with a lightness in his step, he has successfully navigated a significant hurdle, a blend of tradition and modern romance. His feelings for you are genuine and deep, and now he can openly share them with your family and move to the next chapter.
The farmhouse door clicked shut behind him, the sound muffled by the thick stone walls. The scent of sun-baked earth and woodsmoke hung heavy in the air, a familiar comfort... But tonight, the usual quiet of the farmhouse felt different; charged with a quiet anticipation that hummed beneath the surface. He’d done it, he'd asked your father, and the answer had been a resounding yes, laced with a paternal warmth that had eased his nerves and filled his heart.
He found you in your bedroom – your shared bedroom, a space that now felt intrinsically yours and his, a shared sanctuary. You were sprawled on the floor amidst a whirlwind of fur and tiny paws. Your four kittens, a fluffy, wriggling mass of playful energy, tumbled around you, batting at your hands, their miniature claws playfully raking your skin.
You were laughing, a light, melodic sound that resonated through the room, a pure, unfiltered joy that lifted his spirits. Your hair was slightly disheveled, escaping the loose braid you'd worn earlier. Your cheeks were flushed with a healthy pink, and your eyes shone with an infectious happiness that mirrored his own. The sight stole his breath away; it was a scene of pure domestic bliss, a picture of contentment he hadn’t even dared to dream of just months before.
He watched you for a long moment, mesmerized. He’d seen you in countless glamorous settings, especially when you want to look a little more put together, but this... this raw, unfiltered joy, this intimate moment, was far more captivating than any red carpet event. The casual way you were dressed – in one of his oversized t-shirts – added to your charm. You looked incredibly beautiful, even more beautiful than he'd ever imagined.
He cleared his throat, the sound breaking the spell. You looked up, your eyes widening slightly in surprise. A moment of pure, shared intimacy hung in the air before a slow, warm smile spread across your face, erasing any trace of surprise.
“Hey darling.” he said, his voice slightly hoarse with the residue of his earlier anxiety.
You looked up and smiled at him. “Hi.” you replied, your voice soft and a little breathless. One of the kittens, bolder than the others, launched itself onto your lap, settling contentedly amidst the chaos.
“They seem to have adopted you.” he said, a smile playing on his lips as he watched the tiny creature knead its paws into your shirt.
“They're incredibly cuddly.” you responded, your laughter echoing through the room, you gently stroked the kitten, its tiny purr rumbling against your hand.
He joined you on the floor, careful not to disturb the furry tornado. One of the kittens, emboldened by his presence, attempted to climb onto his lap. He chuckled, allowing the tiny creature to settle comfortably, its weight incredibly light yet strangely comforting.
The next hour passed in a blur of shared laughter and playful chaos. You told him stories about each kitten – their unique personalities, their mischievous habits. He listened intently, captivated not just by the anecdotes but by the way your eyes shone with affection as you spoke about them, their names and quirks rolling off your tongue like a familiar lullaby. It was a moment of pure connection, of sharing a simple joy that transcended words.
He found himself picking up a kitten, its tiny body surprisingly warm in his hands. He felt a peculiar sense of calm wash over him; a sensation he hadn't felt before. The kitten purred contentedly against his chest, its soft fur brushing against his skin.
“They’re… surprisingly comforting.” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Yup, they are.” you agreed, your voice soft and tender. “They’re little bundles of pure joy.” You reached out and gently stroked his cheek, the gesture felt intimate, sealing the moment with a warmth that resonated deeply within him.
The kittens continued their playful antics, their energy seemingly boundless. But amidst the chaos, a quiet intimacy had settled between you two, a profound connection that spoke volumes without uttering a single word. The playful fur, the soft purrs, the shared laughter – they formed a soundtrack to the quiet contentment that filled the room.
He looked at you and cleared his throat. “Oh, peachy... I spoke to your father.” he said timidly.
“Oh, really? About what? If I may know...” you said softly.
He blushed. “Well, um... I asked him for his permission, let's say... To, you know, take you on a date.” he said softly with a big smile. “A proper date, in the city...” he whispered.
You were speechless, you didn't expect him to say that. “Charles, wow... That sounds amazing!” you giggled. “And you asked my father for permission, quite a gentleman.” you smiled.
He smiled and chuckled. “Hey, I had to ask for his blessing, he's going to annihilate me if anything happens to his little princess.” he said and you blushed so hard. “So... What do you think?”
“Well... I think it's a great idea!” you said and you give him a little peck on the lips.
“So, it's sealed! We'll have a date!” he gives you a little peck on your lips and you giggled.
The success of his conversation with your father was undoubtedly a victory, but this... this intimate moment of shared joy, the simple pleasure of playing with kittens on the floor, was the perfect epilogue. It was the beginning of your own shared sanctuary, a haven of love and laughter on the edge of the farm and the enjoyment of country life. He knew this was just the beginning of a beautiful life together, a journey filled with unexpected joys and profound connections, a life that already felt perfectly, wonderfully complete.
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hcneymooners · 2 months ago
Text
౨ৎ body double.
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sugar baby!paige x sugar baby!azzi. men & minors dni.
synopsis: azzi and paige are both sugar babies who have no prior knowledge of each other. they end up meeting when their shared client invites them to the same hotel room. on the same evening.
cw: power dynamics, mentions of drugs (neither p nor a are the ones using), non-graphic & non-fatal overdose, non-sexual intimacy, suggestive content, the eroticism that comes with finding someone almost exactly like you, strangers to maybe lovers.
notes: hello, my loves. this was written as a part of a challenge to help me write more. the challenge was as follows:
work with isolated locations for the majority of a piece. only one place or two, almost like a film. pairing is pazzi. type: oneshot. prompt: body double.  
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d.c. can feel exactly like new york city if you drink enough. azzi learns this about two months into the sugaring game. she also learns that people with copious wealth will wield it to test your willingness to receive it. 
azzi wonders if they see something when she looks up at them. if there’s a large question mark that they click onto that asks them: what else can i do for love? and the thing is, it’s not about love. it’s about affordability. but still, the wielding of wealth is exactly what’s gotten her into this hotel room with two women she doesn’t know.
one of them is clearly another baby, sugar. the one with the money, and therefore the most power, is currently in the bathroom getting ready for their “night of fun.” azzi and the other girl are sitting so still, each frozen on one of two twin beds, faces steadfastly turned away from one another. 
azzi is pressing her thoughts down like petals under glass. she’s trying to forget she has a body at all. the other girl seems to be evaluating whether or not this is really worth it. azzi understands. 
the drip of the shower is abysmally insanity-inducing, so azzi turns herself slightly so that she can study the woman who still refuses to look directly at her. she’s beautiful, even from the side.
she’s all-american: blonde hair like wheat tumbling past her shoulders, blue eyes that seem to x-ray anything she’s looking at, skin that’s probably more pale than the tanning spray it’s been painted with tonight, a sharp jawline that leans into a strong neck.
she’s awkward, tall, and a bit gangly. slacks. a collared shirt that doesn’t quite fit right. it looks too nice to be hers, probably the client’s pick. azzi fidgets with the glittered hem of her mini dress, which, too, is the client’s pick.
they fit the profile of what most older women with money seem to need: younger, younger in posture still, bodily desperation or at least the shape of it, wide eyes because it makes them appear more into it than they ever are. 
the other woman turns her wrist over, studying underneath her unpainted nails. azzi catches a flash of a tattoo sitting sweetly on her inner wrist. scales. libra, azzi thinks. she tries to think if libras and scorpios are known to be compatible, and she finds she can’t remember. 
she once had a client so into astrology that he used to check his horoscope before they ever slid into bed. he drove her insane. 
that was a valium heavy year. 
the shower is still running, and azzi belatedly wonders what the water bill for the hotel must look like. it’s how she knows she’s getting bored. next to her, on that other bed, her blonde counterpart shifts impatiently. azzi feels a smile flicker along the curl of her mouth, and she bites down on her bottom lip to keep it captive.
something about that urges the woman to look at her, and as she does, azzi lets her bottom lip slide out from where she’s bitten it bloodless. the plumpness returns to the vermilion, and the woman watches as the skin steadily fills back out. it sits pretty and wet in the low light. 
a pause. then:
“you know about this?”
the words both startle and provide clarity to azzi. she knows almost immediately what the appeal is. her voice is low, deliberately kept that way. azzi can tell. her thing is probably not to talk much unless necessary. the charm is always in what you never say.
“about…” azzi says, tilting her head.
“the alleged threesome we’re about to have,” the other woman says, voice just on the side of dry.
azzi gives a non-answer. “alleged is a great word, because with the size of her pupils and the slur of words, i’m not sure she’s making it out of that shower.”
there’s another pause, and then they both slide off the edge of the bed and stand. they do an odd dance for about five minutes: azzi forward, the woman backward, then stand side to side. all of this and never moving closer to the bathroom. finally, azzi is the one to push ahead and knock the door open with a manicured finger. 
they find their client slumped halfway in the shower, water still cascading down the curve of her back, mascara in twin tributaries running past her temples. azzi is the first to move, toeing off her heels, padded and slow over the tile. the other girl doesn’t move from the doorway, only exhales loudly. there's no scream, no panic. just a long, stunned silence.
“she breathing?” she asks, voice flat.
azzi kneels, checks a pulse she barely remembers how to find. “um, yeah,” she says. “i think so.”
they exchange a look.
“do we…call someone?”
azzi’s lip curls. “what, 911? and say what? ‘hi, our shared sugar mommy did too many muscle relaxers and now she’s unconscious in the waldorf astoria bathroom’?” 
her voice goes high as she does the impression, her cheeks slightly puffing so that she can mock pout as she blows her eyes out to look as innocent as they’re paid to be.
the blonde presses her thumb to the bridge of her nose. “we are not getting paid.”
“not tonight,” azzi agrees.
azzi stands up from where she’d crouched beside the tub, brushing her palms over her thighs like she can shake it off. she doesn’t look at paige when she says, “her lips look a little blue.”
the girl—azzi's coined her blondie— frowns. “what?”
azzi turns, finally, eyes more honest than they’d been all night. “i’m not a nurse, okay? but she wasn’t that color before.”
that’s what makes them check again. blondie steps forward, nudging the shower curtain back with two fingers like it might bite. the woman is still breathing, barely, but her head has lolled too far over the side of the tub, and her chest rises, falls, stutters again.
“fuck,” blondie groans.
azzi’s already moving, digging through the woman’s massive purse like she owns it. lipstick. loose twenties. pills. more pills. 
“are you stealing?” blondie asks, and she knows its the wrong thing to say but she’s shit at this. 
azzi tenses and doesn’t look at her as she answers. “i’m looking for narcan.”
“oh.” blondie's voice sounds steadier than she must feel, less apologetic than she wanted. “well, you’re calling.”
azzi glances over her shoulder, brown eyes dark like a deer’s in the light. she studies blondie for two seconds flat before nodding sharply. there’s hesitation, only for a second, then she dials. the conversation is short and strange: no real names, just room numbers and coded panic. she hangs up and drops the phone face down on the carpet.
“she’ll live,” azzi says, finally. “they said they’d send someone. told me to leave her in the tub. that seems cruel."
blondie says nothing.
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paige observes how the other girl tucks a strand of hair behind their client’s ear, how she fixes the strap of her dress so she’s more dignified in her self-designed destruction. then, whatever paige sees? it’s gone. there’s nothing. just the buzz of silence around them, and water still running because neither of them dares to reach in and touch her again. azzi moves again, turns the water off. 
they slink out of the bathroom and sit on the beds again. paige rises, always antsy in conflict, and azzi watches her as she reaches behind herself to grasp her curls in one hand and pin them with the claw clip in the other.
paige leans on the dresser. “guess we’re not going anywhere.”
azzi snorts, then sighs like something inside her unhooks.
she stands, crosses the room, and tugs at the zipper of her dress. it’s glittery and stiff; it could hold its shape without her. 
“jesus, i can’t feel my ribs,” she mutters, more to herself.
the dress peels off like fruit skin. underneath, azzi wears something so worn it’s almost faded: a ribbed cotton tank with a thin daisy print and matching boyshorts, simple, clean, hers. paige is pretty sure it's from h&m.
azzi stretches, shoulders rolling back, head falling to one side in a sleepy waterfall. paige can’t not look. and then can’t stop.
azzi is beautiful. she’s fuller where paige isn’t, hips wide and waning like the moon. her chest is full, the skin glowing with an endless layer of body butter and maybe oiled perfume. her thighs are strong, indicative of an athletic background—her arms too.
paige is helpless to the way her eyes catch on the spill of her ass from her boyshorts, the high rise of them in the front that strip down in a tiny patch of fabric to keep her cunt hidden and alluring. she tries not to look at it for a second time, a third. tries. fails. then begins to wonder.
what does she look like in motion? in your mouth? is it like a flower rising toward the sun?
azzi glances over her shoulder. “are you okay?”
paige nods, too quickly. “yeah. yeah, ‘m fine. i’ve just never seen glitter look so relieved to leave a body.”
that gets a laugh, a bright, real burst, and azzi flops onto the nearest bed, folding one leg over the other. it’s the one paige had been sitting so clinically on before. “you’re kind of funny. didn't expect that.”
“why would you? you don’t know me.”
azzi hums, not disagreeing. “i’m azzi.”
“paige.”
azzi nods, then leans over and yanks a beaded clutch from underneath the bed.
“you’re kind,” paige says after a minute, voice quieter now. “didn’t expect that either. you kind of come off as…”
“a bitch? yeah, i know.” azzi shrugs. “it’s not kindness, it’s survival. but thank you.”
paige wants to sit, but she doesn’t want to take the other bed. it’s too close to the bathroom. azzi looks up from where she’s scrolling on her phone, its delicate skeleton encased in a pink, plastic case with gold lettering airbrushed across it that looks as though it's seen the world. she shifts, makes space. paige climbs up to be with her. 
they sit like that for a while. the wet gurgle of the bathroom, the long shadows, the strange closeness of a night that probably would’ve been later repressed. 
outside the window, the city murmurs on without them. inside, paige’s eyes won’t stop catching on the soft places azzi has let show. not just skin, but still skin.
“what’s it say?” she asks, and azzi looks at her. “your phone case.”
“oh,” azzi says. she flips the phone over, holds it up to the light. “you have all these things inside of you. [i wish] you could turn into something beautiful.” 
“why the brackets?”
azzi brings the phone to the pit of her lap and looks at paige. “without the brackets, it’s a great motivational quote. with the brackets, it’s itself.”
“meaning…”
“it’s the last thing my mother said to me before she kicked me out and cut me off.”
paige lets out a breath. azzi smiles wryly. “we’re kind of okay now. she got comfortable with the liking girls thing when she realized it was technically half of me.” 
the joke makes paige laugh. 
“but still, bisexuality is a large pill for her to swallow. by the time she started to try, i was already thick in the game.”
azzi says it like she’s over it. like it’s a throwaway story she only tells when she’s bored or brave or buzzed off a stranger’s attention. but paige can tell by the way azzi presses the phone to her lap as if it might spill something, by the way she won’t meet her eyes again yet, that there’s nothing throwaway about it.
“that’s kind of beautiful,” paige says softly. “in a fucked up sense.”
azzi's shirt is clinging to her like a second skin, damp where the collarbones dip and the cotton’s gone sheer with sweat. the room smells like sterile panic, like baby powder and bile and something almost sweet underneath. paige’s perfume, maybe. azzi saw the valentino on the nightstand. or maybe it's the city. 
azzi tends to find the skyscape sweet when she has time enough to enjoy it.
paige shouldn’t still be watching her. should’ve turned away after that first scan down her legs, after the boyshorts and the way they cut in at the curve, gave shape to things paige wasn’t supposed to be cataloguing. but it’s like catching sight of your reflection in a window you didn’t know was there. she can’t look away, and azzi doesn’t seem to mind it.
“you always wear them like that?” paige asks. it’s nowhere near as casual as she hopes. she blames the question on adrenaline. on proximity. on whatever the fuck is happening with the allegedly arriving emts and the non-present narcan.
azzi raises an eyebrow, half-lidded, a little mean. “wear what like how?”
“you always wear your favorite underwear under a thousand-dollar dress? then strip down like you want someone to notice?”
a pause. a glint of something dangerous moves through azzi’s expression, then quiets. “how do you know they’re my favorites?”
paige raises a light brow. “baby, those things have seen leagues of better days.”
the pet name hangs between them like a dare. azzi’s mouth twitches.
“bitch.”
“sorry,” paige quips, smiling fully now. azzi can see teeth.
“don’t be.”
that hangs between them, too. 
paige looks down at the bed, at the mussed sheets, and then toward the bathroom where the person who paid for it is still lying. her gaze transfers to azzi, whose mouth is slightly parted like she’s catching breath that won’t come easily. paige feels her own stutter, short-circuit. 
azzi doesn’t look scared. she looks resigned, empty. nothing about this scenario is new to her.
paige thinks: she could be me. if i let go of the wheel. 
azzi catches her staring.
“would you have done it? fucked me, i mean. i’m starting to gather we both didn’t know about this...endeavor.”
it’s the answer to paige’s question from earlier. it’s not coy or flirtatious. it’s almost accusatory, clinical. like she’s calling paige on a secret she didn’t mean to let slip. paige doesn’t answer right away. her eyes flick down, then up again. the air hums.
“since i didn’t know about this whole proposition till we crossed the threshold, i don’t know if i would’ve fucked you,” she says. 
azzi looks at her from beneath her lashes. “do you want to?”
paige leans back on her hands, stretching her body out across the pillows she’s sitting on. she shrugs.
“i think i wanna figure out what happens if i do.”
azzi leans back a little, her head tipping so the tendons in her throat show. her arms are crossed but loose, like she’s considering the confession academically. there’s no warmth in her smile.
“you think it’s something about how we live the same?”
paige swallows. “a bit, yeah. but you’re not that hard to look at.”
azzi laughs again. second time tonight.
there’s a sudden knock, a bang against the doorframe, then rubber soles and clipped voices calling in. azzi rises and grabs one of the satin robes hanging in the room’s wardrobe. she ties it around herself, the belt coming into a neat bow along her hips. she turns, leans forward just enough so that paige can smell the caramelized citrus and musk of her perfume, and pops a few buttons of the shirt paige wears.
“try to look like you’re getting ready for bed,” azzi tells her. paige stands, tries to do her best.
the door opens.
“hi, ma’am. we’re answering an earlier call about an overdose. is she breathing?”
azzi nods jerkily. paige moves up behind her, arms up, closing the space like it’ll prove something. she presses two fingertips to the small of azzi’s back. azzi leans into her.
“she hasn’t woken up,” paige says. “we didn’t want to leave her alone.”
“how do you know her?”
“uh, we had dinner together.”
the excuse makes no sense, and they both ignore the knowing gaze of the team’s head member. a pair of emts flood the space with too much presence, all nylon and light and metal clips. one kneels beside the older woman on the tile, shining a small penlight into her eyes, asking questions she can’t answer. the other reads her vitals off the monitor like a grocery list.
paige backs into the corner, unnoticed, but not unseen. azzi is quiet.
the woman is now out of the tub, a puppet with its strings cut. she lets them touch her, prod and measure, like none of it matters. paige watches the whole time, arms crossed tight over her chest. she should leave. should fade into the background like any good girl caught someplace she wasn’t supposed to be.
instead, her eyes stay trained on azzi’s body, which now seems on the verge of collapse. paige slides closer to her, fits a finger into the hollow under her ribs. the room’s residue of glamour is approaching its expiration date.
“we’ll take her in,” one of the professionals says. “she’ll make it, but just barely. she needs observation.”
azzi finally turns her head, catching paige’s gaze like a hook in the mouth.
“that’s fine.”
it’s not a plea. it’s not a question, even. paige hesitates. then nods. the woman, nothing more than a bank deposit and a shared gps pin, is gone in under five minutes. a transaction cleared.
the silence after is paramount. paige closes the door, latches it. she turns, leaning against it with her arms crossed. 
“want to go to bed?” azzi asks. 
paige huffs out a low laugh. “might as well, mama.”
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the sheets are still warm from when they’d sat on them. it makes them both shiver. they don’t say anything about it. 
paige pulls her shirt off first, then kicks out of her jeans, the slow reveal of ink across her shoulder blade catching azzi’s eye in the mirror. sports bra, soft boxers. nothing delicate, but it still makes azzi blink. her gaze stalls on the cut of paige’s abs, and when she’s caught, there’s nothing said.
paige knows she can’t say anything, not when moments before she was thinking about sucking azzi loose enough to make her cry, right through her fucking see-through underwear.
“do you think they have extra toothbrushes in the bathroom?”
“it’s the astoria. of course they do,” azzi answers, already turning toward the phone. “but probably only one. we’d have to call reception.”
they do. two pristine bamboo toothbrushes are left outside the door on a silver platter alongside a slim tube of marvis toothpaste. they wait for the other to finish despite there being two sinks.
azzi climbs in first, wriggles to the far end of the bed to steal the cold side, but paige follows. long limbs, loose breath, the heavy scent of sleep, something like chlorine and money.
they don’t cuddle. this isn’t what this is. not really. they just… end up there. one turn, another. an arm flung out. a thigh slips between the other’s legs. the legs that hold that thigh clench closed, keeping it there.
“it’s too fucking hot, bruh,” paige mutters, peeling herself off azzi—whose thigh is freed—and stumbling to the thermostat. “what is this, dubai?”
azzi laughs into the pillow.
“d.c., paigey.”
paige shoots her a look at the nickname.
“you could’ve asked her to pay for better a/c.”
“i don’t ask for shit.”
“you’re such a liar.”
“sue me.”
“maybe.”
paige doesn’t answer, just flops back onto the bed. azzi shifts, her knee bumping paige’s thigh as if trying to get her to open up again.
“stop moving,” paige mumbles, one hand flattening against azzi’s hip, her voice heavier now, eyes half-lidded.
“don’t tell me what to do,” azzi snaps back. but she doesn’t really mean it.
she moves more. on purpose. wiggles until the sheets shift and whisper in the most irritating manner allowed.
paige sighs, sharp. she presses a large hand flat against azzi’s stomach, just low enough to make azzi’s chest sing. her palm spans the place paige would push if she wanted azzi to cum on her.
“azzi, chill. ‘m tryna sleep.”
azzi only grows more agitated; she hates the pressure. she tenses, rolls halfway over paige with an arm to the side. her other hand sneaks low, fingers slipping just under the waistband of paige’s boxers before pausing.
“no.”
she rolls away, securing the colder side.
paige’s laugh is low, rough around the edges. a warning bell in a dimly lit room. 
she reaches, snaps the band of azzi’s boyshorts sharp enough to sting.  
azzi gasps, half-startled.
paige pulls her back anyway, drapes her arm over her waist, presses their bodies close, spine to chest. the room tilts. azzi goes heavy, steeped in jasmine and amber. she’s a little dizzy. paige’s scent curls around her throat like a loose ribbon. threatens to tighten.
“go to sleep, azzi,” paige murmurs.
and they do.
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they don’t wake up at the same time.
paige stirs first, slow and unspectacular. she’s rising from too many layers of sleep, more than she’s had in weeks. her limbs are heavy, eyes gummy, the weight of another body is still pressed to hers like a shadow she can’t fully shake. 
azzi’s hair is a mess against the pillow. her lashes are long enough to cast shadows. her lips, parted. there’s a faint imprint of paige’s chain on her collarbone. paige thumbs over it, then remembers herself.
she does it again and understands—it's time to go.
she slides out from under the covers with practiced stealth. quiet but not quite careful. not tender, but still respectful. she dresses without ceremony: yanks on her jeans, and tugs her hoodie over her head. no perfume. no lip balm. not even a glance in the mirror. she ties her hair in a loose bun at the nape of her neck.
she doesn't take anything but her phone.
as she passes the room desk, she spots a little leather portfolio with the wifi information tucked inside. beside it, a small tray meant for bills, folded sharply, ideally meant for tips for the cleaning staff. she pauses.
pulling a pen from the nightstand, she lifts the thick body of her phone case and slides out her last twenty. scrawls something quick, crooked, onto the face of jackson. she crosses the room again, barefoot. the carpet is plush, apricot-colored, and a little worn out.
azzi has rolled closer to the bed’s edge.
paige lifts the duvet, lifts the underside of azzi’s waistband, and tucks the bill against her skin with a faint twist of her mouth. she presses a kiss to azzi’s cheek. it’s barely there, more breath than lip. 
“see you, mama.”
she disappears. the door closes with a whisper, not a click.
she takes the elevator down to the lobby. nobody looks up. paige keeps her hood on, shoulders loose, head tilted forward like she's dodging the day.
outside, it’s too bright. the city is alive in that expensive, awful way it is at 9 am on a weekday. people in trench coats and bluetooth headsets. black cars. barking dogs. everything important, no time to feel. paige walks a few blocks before finding the metro.
she checks the time, taps her card, and descends.
halfway down the escalator, her phone buzzes. she closes her eyes, mildly irritated, already assuming it's her boss once again requesting that she cover another shift. she fishes it out, taps the screen.
unknown number. a text.
the twenty’s unusable btw.
your number’s all over it.
she stares at the screen for a second longer than necessary. then she smiles, small and stupid.
sorry
was trying to do something nice 
another minute passes, then,
hmm
make it up to me. 
it’s not a request. paige shakes her head, laughs once. it comes low.
course
she tucks her phone into her pocket.
the train screeches into view.
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© hcneymooners.
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austinbutlerslovers · 3 months ago
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Unlocked Desires
Label Mature 18+
Summary Austin is your new boyfriend, tall smart, and extremely handsome. As a talented actor, he is kind and patient helping you adjust to his busy world, but haunted by past trauma, you struggle to let your guard down.  You delay intimacy for as long as possible while he’s overwhelmed with work, until a break in his filming schedule reveals the truth…he’s not like other men.
💝Romantic Smut 💝                                                     Austin as new boyfriend •cautious reader • guarded reader •past trauma •sex avoidant reader • Austin patient •kind •talks you though it • oral on fem • fingering •clit play • nipple play • kiss it better • new experience •consent• p in v • intense orgasms• revelation/discovery • aftercare
🔗 Masterlist
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📖Proofreader @purejasmine
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Unlocked Desires
The past several weeks as Austin’s new girlfriend have been a whirlwind of fleeting moments and late-night video calls, the occasional day dates squeezed into his packed filming schedule, sparking the kind of excitement and longing that simmers like a slow fire.
Between the distance and his relentless work commitments, the two of you haven’t even crossed the physical threshold, at least not yet.
Fleeting touches and steamy kisses are rampant when he has a moment to spare but it leaves you both wanting more.
While Austin is out of the country or across state, the distance stretches between you like a live wire with unspoken need. 
Video calls become your lifeline, a fragile thread tying you together through small screens and large time zones. 
Most nights it’s just talk, his tired smiles after long shoots, your quiet updates about mundane days, but tonight a spark flickers between you and it ignites the inevitable.
You’ve been teasing each other for days with seductive hints at wanting more, and when his face finally appears on your laptop, cast in the soft lighting of his hotel room, he looks irresistible.
A rogue smile plays on his full lips, his handsome features striking in the gentle glow as he charms you effortlessly. “Miss you so much baby,” he says, his blue eyes glinting through the pixelated feed, charged with that familiar spark. “You’ve been driving me crazy all week.”
You smirk, leaning in and letting your voice soften. “I kind of like knowing you’re a mess for me over there,” you tease, your finger tracing the edge of the screen. “Lets me know you miss me just as much as I miss you,” you confess, and his grin sharpens, a slow burn igniting in his gaze.
“Show me how much you miss me,” he says, his voice a low daring challenge.
Your pulse races from his words, a mix of nerves and excitement rising as you decide to give him what he wants.
You tilt the laptop on your desk, angling it just right so he can see you reclining against the pillows on your bed. You’re wearing a cotton tank nightie, the fabric loose and thin barely hiding your curves. “Like this?” you ask, your voice coy as you trail your fingers down your chest, letting them linger at the hem.
He smiles, his eyes fixated on the screen, a rough “Yeah” tumbling out as he leans closer.
You giggle, playing it up, putting on a show just for him. Your hand slides lower, skimming over your panties, then dipping between your thighs. You don’t actually touch yourself but you make it look real, your fingers moving in slow circles over the fabric as your hips shifting slightly as if chasing the sensation.
“Austin,” you moan softly, letting your head tip back, your lips parting as you arch your spine. You peek at the screen through half lidded eyes, watching his reaction, his jaw set tight, his hand disappearing below the frame, the faint rhythm of his strokes syncing with your pretend rhythm.
“So good baby,” he groans, his voice thick and strained. “You’re killing me. Can’t wait to get my hands on you when I’m back,” he rasps, his voice laced with raw need.
His words hit you like a shockwave, raw and visceral, sending a thrill racing down your spine. You keep the act going, your fingers pressing harder, your moans growing louder, breathier, until his head tips back, a guttural “Fuck” ripping from him as he comes, his chest heaving through the screen.
But then right as his praise washes over you, you freeze. The heat in your veins turns cold, a flicker of dread curling in your gut. He wants you so badly and you want him too but the thought of intimacy….of pain…of disappointment, locks your muscles tight.
You don’t want to be let down, not by him, not after everything he’s come to mean to you. Your hand stills, hoping he doesn’t notice. “I can’t wait,” you say reluctantly, your voice softer now, masking the panic creeping in.
He grins, oblivious, wiping his hand on a towel. “Soon baby,” he says, but inside you’re already bracing yourself, the weight of your unspoken fears settling heavy.
Finally with his latest project wrapped, and after weeks of work, Austin is back, no cameras, no scripts, no interruptions just the two of you in his quiet L.A home, the distant city lights spilling through the windows.
Austin can’t keep his hands off of you from the moment you walk in from your date.  “Do you know how much I’ve missed you baby,” he asks, his voice low and husky as he pulls you into his arms, his lips brushing yours in a heated kiss.
His excitement is undeniable, he’s been telling you for weeks how much he couldn’t wait to be with you, to finally have you completely.
His hands roam your back, pulling you closer, and you feel that familiar spark ignite. But beneath it, a knot of anxiety tightens in your chest.
You want him…desperately, but the thought of intimacy twists something inside you, a shadow of old fears creeping in.
You never told him why you dreaded this. How could you? The words always felt too heavy, too messy. So you let him kiss you, let his hands wander, hoping the desire would drown out the dread.
He guides you down on the couch, his lips trailing down your jaw as he presses himself closer. “I want you so much,” he whispers against your skin, his fingers slipping under your shirt to graze the curve of your breasts. 
A shiver runs through you, your breath catching as he teases your nipples through the fabric, his touch gentle,and slow.
His hand slides lower, brushing between your legs over your jeans, and a wave of heat pulses through you. You’re getting aroused…there’s no denying it, but something holds you back, a wall you can’t push past and your body tenses, locking up involuntarily.
Austin senses it immediately, his movements slowing, and he pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes searching yours. “What’s wrong, baby?” he asks softly, his voice warm, patient, but there’s a flicker of concern in it.
You swallow hard, your heart pounding. His blue eyes are locked on yours, searching, waiting, and the weight of his gaze makes the truth spill out before you can stop it. “I… I have to tell you something,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. 
His full attention is on you now, his eyes bright and steady, holding yours.
“I…I’ve never really… enjoyed sex,” you admit, your cheeks burning as the words land between you, and the way he patiently waits only makes you say more. “…It’s always been uncomfortable. Painful, even. And my body just… gives up after a minute.” you exhale, your eyes meeting his.
His thumb brushes your waist, the small, comforting gesture urging you to keep going and you look to the floor, unable to meet his eyes. “In the past the guy I was with… he didn’t take his time. He’d just push forward, and it hurt, and I never got anything out of it.” 
You glance back at him, finding his gaze unwavering. “I didn’t want to tell you because every time I tried to explain like this, he’d act like I was too much work. Like I wasn’t worth the effort.”
Austin’s expression softens, a mix of understanding and something fiercer, protectiveness, even. His hand stays on your waist, warm and grounding. “Hey,” he says, his voice low and firm, “You’re not too much work….you’re worth everything”He says his voice earnest, unwavering. “We don’t have to do anything okay?”
His words sink in, loosening the knot in your chest, and you nod, finally swallowing the lump in your throat. 
He pulls you to him, wrapping his arms around you like you’re the most precious thing in the world, holding you with a tenderness that acknowledges every unspoken word. 
You tuck in against his chest and his scent, warm, woodsy, and faintly floral, takes over as you breathe deeply, feeling his hands glide soothingly down your back, easing the tension away.
He presses a soft kiss to your temple, his lips lingering. “I’ll do whatever you need baby, always.” He promises.
You sit in silence for a long moment, basking in his quiet care as he rests his chin gently on your head. His hands move slowly over your shoulders and down your back, his words unlocking something inside you, something restricted and guarded softening under the steady comfort of his touch.
After a while, he pulls back just enough to look down at you. “Wanna watch something?” he asks, his voice low and careful.
You nod. “Yeah… I’d like that.”
“Something light, or something that’ll make us cry like idiots?” he says with a grin, his thumb brushing your chin.
You manage a quiet laugh. “Something light… for now.”
He leans forward, still holding you with one arm, and picks up the remote. With a few clicks, he scrolls through the options and selects a movie, something familiar and comforting.
As the screen flickers to life casting a soft glow across the room, he pulls you back to his chest, tucking you under his arm. His heartbeat is against your ear as his fingers trace soothing patterns along your spine, making you feel safe in a way you’ve never known before.
A sense of longing fills you, the depth of your feelings for him igniting a willingness to open up, to try with him. You sense he understands you in a way no one else has, and slowly, that guardedness you’ve clung to for so long begins to fade, unraveling into a quiet, unguarded trust.
“Can you kiss me?” you whisper, your voice small as you tilt your head to look at him. His eyes soften, a smile crossing his face as he tilts his head slightly.
“You like when I kiss you?” he asks, his voice warm and affectionate.
 “Yes,” you nod, unable to hide your desire for him, and he leans in to kiss you soft and slow.
The plush feel of his lips makes your heart pound. You love his mouth, the way it moves against yours, warm and sure, tasting faintly of mint.
His gentle touches, the way his lips press and linger as he savors you, makes your heart stutter, each moment a quiet, intoxicating pull you never want to end.
His kiss deepens, his tongue slipping past your lips, and you melt into him, your hands sliding up his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your palms.
He pulls back slightly, resting his forehead against yours. “You okay?” he whispers.
You nod, breathless, staring at his lips. “Yes… more than okay.”you whisper in return and pull him in to kiss you again, your soft breaths mingling as your heads tilt, chasing more of each other until it becomes impossible to stop.
His hand hesitates at your ribs, fingers brushing lightly, wanting to touch more, and you guide his palm to your chest.
A low, needy hum escapes him as he caresses your breast, his thumb circling your nipple through the fabric, then squeezing gently, sending a jolt straight through your core.
You feel a desperate ache bloom between your legs, and as your hips push up, pressing against him seeking more, you feel just how hard he is, as a soft moan slips from your lips.
He’s completely turned on, his breaths faster as he breaks the kiss and sits up, his eyes dark with want. “Come with me,” he says, his voice breathless as he takes your hand, guiding you to the master bedroom. 
You feel the charge as he lays you down on the bed, his lips trailing down your jaw, brushing your skin as he presses himself closer. 
“Let me try something,” he asks, his eyes searching yours for permission and you nod, already feeling that he understands. His hands slide under your shirt again, lifting it over your head with gentleness, his fingers unhooking your bra and pulling it away.
His mouth finds your collarbone, then drifts lower, kissing a soft path to your breasts. He takes his time, his tongue circling your nipple with lazy, wet strokes while his hand cups the other, rolling it lightly between his fingers until soft moans slip past your lips.
Encouraged he moves lower, unbuttoning your jeans with care. “Tell me if you want me to stop,” he says his voice soothing and steady. 
You don’t…you wouldn’t, because everything he’s doing outweighs your fears now.
His fingers slip beneath your panties, brushing against you with a featherlight touch, and you gasp. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t push, just teases, circling slowly and gently until a warmth builds, a slickness coating his fingertips. “I’ll keep going, baby, let me know how you feel,” he says, his breath hot against your stomach as he pulls your panties off kissing his way down.
His face settles between your thighs, and when his mouth closes over you warm and soft, it’s so euphoric your hands instinctively grip the sheets.
He focuses entirely on your pleasure, his every move atuned to your body. His tongue traces slow, teasing circles, then flicks with expert precision, coaxing your breaths to quicken. 
His hands grip your hips gently, anchoring you as he alternates between soft sucks and rhythmic licks, matching every shiver and moan, intensifying your arousal.
Your core throbs as you surrender to the intimacy and he pulls back slightly his eyes gazing up into yours.
“Is it okay, baby?” he asks, his warm breath fanning against you, and you struggle to focus, swallowing hard before whispering, “Yes,” your head tipping back.
“Good,” he whispers, lowering down and licking a broad, firm stripe up your center with his tongue flattened, and you cry out, hands fisting the sheets even tighter.
He sucks your clit into his mouth, rolling it with quick, precise flicks, and the wet sounds of him pleasuring you fill the room, lewd and intoxicating as he groans against you, the vibration making your toes curl.
You watch through lidded eyes, the way his mouth moves between your legs, his hands sliding up to press your inner thighs wider, opening you to him, your body instinctively yielding to his every silent command.
He works you with slow, soft licks, his tongue tracing your entrance before dipping inside, coaxing you open with gentle, patient strokes. Then he flattens his tongue, lapping at your clit in a steady rhythm, sucking lightly again, until your hips twitch.
“Austin… s’good… oh, feels… so… mmm,”you moan with incoherent whimpers and half-formed pleas tumbling out, your voice breaking under the overwhelming sensation.
“You’re doing so good for me,” he whispers pulling back, his praise sending a shiver through you as he slides one finger in, slow and careful, curling it just right. “Tell me if it’s too much, baby,” he says, pumping it lazily, watching your face react with every thrust.
Your breath are in shallow pants, a slick warmth building as he adds a second finger, stretching you with a tantalizing ache. “That’s it, baby,” he coaxes, his voice dripping with praise scissoring his fingers until you feel yourself throbbing against them.
You’re soaked, slick running down your thighs, feeling the wettest you’ve ever been, and he thrusts his fingers deeper, faster, curling against a spot inside that makes your thighs tense, your walls pulsing in rhythmic waves. 
“You’re right there, let me take you,” he whispers, and your body trembles, a tingling heat spreading from your core. Your hips lift toward him as something unfamiliar builds, a tightening within, growing sharper, deeper, until it’s overwhelming.
Your moans escape in a strange wail, unfamiliar to your ears, as your hips buck wildly, losing all control.
The blinding sensation nearly drowns out Austin’s voice, low and urgent. “Come for me baby,” he says, as he thrusts his fingers faster, the wet, slick sound blending with your cries as he watches you climax.
It hits like a dam breaking inside, a flood of sensation you’ve never known, your entire body seizing as a rush of wetness spills from you, soaking his fingers, and your thighs shake uncontrollably.
You cry out, a raw, primal sound, your vision blurring as waves crash through you, leaving you dizzy, breathless, and utterly transformed. 
You exhale your body shivering from the experience, the profound, earth-shattering, moment re-wiring something in you, igniting a desire you didn’t even know you could feel.
Austin pulls his hand to his mouth licking his fingers clean as he sits back just enough to meet your eyes, a soft smile tugging at his lips. 
“You okay, baby?” he asks softly, his voice low and warm as he caresses your stomach, his hand lingering with tender affection.
You’re still in awe, your breaths uneven at the sight of him, his patience, his care. “I want you….” you blurt out, your voice quivering with need, arousal coursing through you like wildfire.
He grins, a flash of delight in his eyes, as he stands to shed his clothes. “I’m yours” he says and his shirt comes off first, revealing his chest sculpted like a work of art, broad shoulders, defined pecs, a faint trail of dark hair leading down to a chiseled abdomen that flexes with every movement. 
His jeans follow, and when he steps out of them, his body is perfectly carved, lean muscle rippling under smooth skin, his erection straining against his boxers before he discards those too. His cock springs free, thick and hard, flushed, and leaking at the tip. 
He fists himself once, twice, smearing pre-cum over the head before climbing onto the bed. His chest presses warmly against yours, hips settling between your thighs as his full lips find yours, kissing you deeply.
You taste yourself on his tongue as he lines himself up nudging your entrance. “You sure?” he asks, his voice tight with restraint, his bicep tensing as he holds himself back, his eyes searching yours for any hesitation.
“Austin… please,” you plead, your voice trembling with need.
“I’ve got you,” he whispers, his voice a soft and steady as he pushes in, his cock parting you open inch by unrelenting inch with an exquisite ache. Your mouth falls open, a keening moan escaping as he fills you, the raw intensity of the pleasure overwhelming, consuming every thought.
“A-Austin—” you gasp, nails raking down his back your hips tilting up into the sensation, walls gripping him like a vice.
His breaths are ragged as he waits for you to adjust to the size of him. “You okay, baby?” he whispers, his breath warm against your cheek. “Tell me how it feels.” His voice, patient and grounding as he watches your face.
“It’s so much… s’good,” you cry shakily, your voice raw with pleasure and vulnerability.
“I’ll take it nice and slow, keep you right here with me baby” he promises, his eyes darkening with affection and desire.
He slowly pulls back, pushing in again with deep, measured thrusts, each one setting a steady rhythm that has you moaning his name beneath him.
His thrusts deepen, slow and careful, rolling into you as he parts your thighs further, his hands tracing gentle paths along your hips, fingers grazing your skin with reverence. His touch is soft, guiding you, cherishing every curve as he takes you further.
Your body responds, moving with his as he whispers soft, sweet words against your skin, his lips brushing yours in tender kisses, each one lulling you into intimacy. 
You can feel the heat building, your moans turning into soft, trembling whimpers, the sounds spilling from your lips in perfect time with his thrusts urging you toward release.
Your heart races, raw and exposed, the pleasure intertwining with a flood of longing that you can no longer suppress. You surrender fully, every sensation heightening as you finally give in, emotions crashing through the walls you’ve held for so long.
He senses it, the shift, the way you’re trembling, he can see it in your eyes as his hands grip you tighter, one anchoring your hip, the other sliding up to cradle your face, his thumb trailing your cheek.
“That’s it baby..” he says, his voice low and reverent, brimming with raw passion as his eyes lock onto yours, “Give it all to me,” he says, his voice raw and passionate as he thrusts deeper, guiding you to give in with a tenderness that breaks you open.
Your body arches, a scream building in your throat as the pressure snaps, your orgasm crashing through you like a tidal wave. Your walls pulse around him as you come, tears brimming your eyes at the sheer intensity of feeling him, wanting him, having him overwhelming every sense. “Austin—I, I’m—” you sob, your thoughts tangled, broken, and lost as you shake beneath him.
He groans, his thrusts stuttering as he chases his own release. “You gave me everything baby,” he breathes, burying himself deep as he starts to come, his cock throbbing, spilling hot and thick inside you. His mouth finds yours, kissing you through it, swallowing your whimpers, as his hands slide up your back, pulling you even closer to feel safe and cherished in his arms.
You cling to him, trembling, tears still leaking from your eyes as he slowly pulls out, a rush of warmth dripping down your thighs. He gathers you close, his hands stroking your back, his lips brushing your temple. “I’ve got you,” he whispers, voice soft and reverent. “I’m always gonna take care of you,” he vows and you melt into him.
The past dissolves, replaced by a vibrant future, one where you’ll feel desired, cherished, and utterly adored and your body fills with a sense of satisfaction you’ve never known, bound to him, to this, to everything he’s unlocked inside of you.
END 🗝️
🔗 Masterlist
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pricetagged · 7 months ago
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Part 2 of that wifehunter john piece instead of working on my wips 💖
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Masterlist l Previous l Next
Warnings: implied stalking and voyeurism. Nothing too bad...yet.
Unedited, typed on my phone during break, abrupt ending (part 3 ig?)
_________________
He thumbs at the book, tracing the swirls of your penmanship until the ink fades off and the paper turns to felt. It leaves his fingertips stained, dark as indian ink, and he can't help the satisfied burr that catches his breath as he presses the sticky whorls of his prints into the pages.
Stained. Blackened.
Imprinted.
It's what he wants to do to you in something more indelible than ink, something that would burrow under your skin and linger. (This parasitic desire, he'll bury it in you, make you feel his presence deep in your guts, squirming and wriggling at the back of your mind-)
Of course he returns the book. Returns it to you marked and dogeared and of course you're grateful for it. Tripping over your words and choking on the thanks that build up and tumble from your delicate throat, feelings and words too big for you. 
He knows that, sees the slight hesitance in your eyes as they flit to the window where he knows your useless Buck is ambling about. Shambling. (This marriage is a sham, his claim on you is a sham, one that John is more than willing to seize upon and squeeze until it all crumbles and all that is left is you malleable and soft in his hands).
"Where...where did you find this? I thought-" He sees how you choke down condemnations, not wanting to crack open that door that leaves your husband exposed.
Is it loyalty? Obedience?
Whatever it is, he wants it. Wants to redirect it his way. It itches at him, sits awkwardly like a broken seam, seeing you waste this fidelity on something still wet behind the ears.
On a man who can't even protect his own home, can't even cherish his own wife and has to call John in to pick up the mantle-
"It's good work. Shouldn't leave it lying around, sweetheart," he raps against the front cover, needs to do something with his hands before the impulses take over and he does something hasty. Something that would send you darting back to your husband's arms instead of in to his. "Would be a real waste if it got lost. Taught me how to transplant herbs, now I've got some parsley on my windowsill that's still alive."
It's a lie. He must have strangled the roots, harvested it too soon, something-
But it makes you happy. He can see the glow that warms your cheeks and brightens your eyes. They way your face plumps up, softens, due to your shy smile.
"You should've tried mint, first. It grows like crazy, basically does its own thing. Basil, too." You're grinning, in your element out here. Surrounded by green and the rich, earthy scent of the soil that you till. Geosmin. Oakmoss.
"I'll have to get you over to show me sometime."
He plays gallant so well, offering to help you with the weeding and trimming. It wouldn't be the first time he got down into the muck and the mire. Wouldn't be the first time he stuck his hands in, got them caked and dirty right up to the elbow in order to get what he wants. In order to do what needs done. It's as familiar to him as the uniform he wears.
And your company makes it so much more pleasant.
You smile at him, glancing up from the flowerbeds each and every time he passes you a tool. Eventually you feel comfortable enough to call for him - John? - to tap at his wrist and redirect his hands around the roots and stems below you both. It's a beautiful symbiosis: you, who are so good at wringing life and he who is so good at taking it.
He catches the way the living room curtains twitch, the shadow of the young buck pacing and pawing just out of sight. Too much energy, not enough courage. Not seasoned enough to come out and plant himself between the challenger and his wife. It's stable vice, sending him spinning, uselessly watching as John sidles in and digs his paws into the very foundations of the house. It makes him smile, big and broad as he tugs at a particularly stubborn weed with a grunt.
And when you can't quite get the rubber of the yard gloves to slide over your wrist, he just has to help you. Has to grip at your soft forearm, cooing as you wince.
"Big pull, that's it sweetheart."
You brace yourself so well, pulling back in a counterweight that just digs his fingers in tighter. Blinking back tears, you laugh a little awkwardly. A little thrilled.
And you thank him for it, shaking your arm out and stretching your fingers. All damp from the soil and your sweat.
Unoticing uncaring of the ring that's no longer on your finger.
He has the urge to shake it out of the glove onto the dirt. To burry it and trample all over it until it's dull and forgotten and dead.
But -
But it's still warm from your hand.
It's so fragile, too small to fit properly over his thick fingers and swollen knuckles.
He thumbs at it on his drive home, plays with the smooth face and angled edges as he thinks.
He won't give it back, the thought draws a scoff as he signals into his driveway. No, the only way you're getting a ring from him is on the same day that the ink dries on your marriage license.
But there's the matter of that ugly possesive thing that lives in his ribcage, so close to the surface that the lines blur and shimmer until he's not sure which skin he's wearing. It has him feeling hot, burning up and itching to watch the fall out.
He settles on the settee, cigar in one hand and your wedding ring in the other.
It sits tight just barely at the first knuckle of his forefinger. The screen in front of him illuminates it, makes it glint cold and sharp as it moves lower and lower, over the slight give of his stomach until it reaches the bulge pressing into his zipper. He palms himself, hisses as he feels the metal dig in a little to the sensitive, aching flesh.
With another slow drag, he flicks open his fly and settles in.
Even the slight pixelation of the monitor can't disguise how pretty you are.
_________________________
Someone with a big brain please help me to name this haha 💖
Sorry for the delay. Been super demotivated lately. Still got several k of wips that need attention :/
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et7432 · 7 months ago
Text
The Price of Immortality
(Klaus x Reader) (Part 1)
Part 2
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Summary: Rebekah Mikaelson forms a forbidden friendship with a mortal, sparking anger in her possessive brother Klaus.
Klaus, determined to protect the family, forces Rebekah to bring her friend to him, only to find himself unexpectedly drawn to her.
Words: 1,995
Rebekah's anxious energy radiated through the quiet house, her footsteps pounding against the smooth wooden floors. The old boards creaked and groaned in response as if they, too, were feeling the weight of her turmoil.
Her fists clenched so tightly that her nails dug into her palms, causing marks to form. Rebekah had welcomed a mortal into her world. 
(y/n) was now more than a mere acquaintance; she had become a friend who held Rebekah's trust and affection. This newfound bond was like walking on a tightrope—it meant unveiling to (y/n) perils she couldn't fathom or guard herself against.
She crossed the length of the living room in long strides as if trying to outrun her thoughts.
Her gaze fell upon Elijah, sitting there so composed and collected. A pang of envy shot through her, wishing she could have that same calmness amidst the chaos in her mind.
"Can't sit still, sister?" His voice cut through the silence, a velvet blade.
Rebekah couldn't help but pause, her fingers nervously tracing the back of a worn leather armchair. "Too many thoughts," she replied, her mind racing with the weight of their impending decisions. How could she possibly stay still when so much was on the line? She tried to halt her pacing, but it felt impossible - her restless energy had consumed her entirely.
Rebekah turned to face Elijah, her gaze alight with an unusual spark. "(y/n) is different, Elijah," she began, her voice carrying a note of excitement that was rarely heard. "She's not like us."
Elijah lounged back in his chair, his eyes never straying from Rebekah. His features remained as serene as a still pond. "Human connections can be treacherous territory for our kind, Rebekah," he cautioned, his words tumbling softly through the expansive room. Though delivered gently, they bore the gravity of wisdom wrought from centuries of existence.
Rebekah's stance changed subtly; her arms folded protectively over her chest as if to shield herself from his cautionary words. The atmosphere around her seemed to vibrate with the intensity of her conviction.
"I refuse to let fear guide my actions," she asserted defiantly. Her eyes flamed with determination - a bold challenge to anyone who dared question her resolution.
Elijah's eyebrows rose slightly at this declaration, but he remained silent, prompting Rebekah to continue.
"Being friends with (y/n)... it's strange," she confessed after a momentary pause, her voice softer now. "When I'm around her, I feel... human." She glanced away briefly as though the admission cost her something.
Elijah regarded his sister thoughtfully before responding. "Human?" He echoed curiously.
"Yes," she affirmed earnestly, meeting his gaze once more. "She makes me feel alive in ways I haven't felt in centuries."
"And you consider this a good thing?" Elijah asked cautiously.
Rebekah nodded without hesitation. "Yes," she said firmly. "Because she's my best friend and that friendship is worth whatever risks it brings."
Elijah's expression remained unreadable as he contemplated his sister's words. He understood how important her friendship was to her but also knew the risks that came with it for their kind. Nevertheless, he couldn't deny Rebekah's happiness.
"I will support you on this," he finally replied, a weight lifting off Rebekah's shoulders. She let out a sigh of relief and sank into the armchair next to Elijah.
For a few moments, they sat in silence, each lost in their own thoughts. Rebekah couldn't help but wonder what would happen if (y/n) found out the truth about what she and her family were.
"Do you think...do you think she could handle our lives?" Rebekah asked quietly, breaking the silence between them.
Elijah turned to face her, his gaze softening. "I don't know, but I do know if she's friends with you, then she must be strong," he answered truthfully." But we must tread carefully."
Rebekah nodded in understanding, knowing that caution was necessary when it came to matters of the heart for vampires like them.
Just then, another thought crossed her mind, and her eyes widened with realization. "What about Niklaus?" she exclaimed.
Elijah's eyebrows furrowed in confusion. "What about him?"
Rebekah let out a frustrated huff. "He can be very... possessive over those he cares about," she explained.
Elijah let out a small chuckle at his sister's statement. "Yes, I am aware," he said wryly.
"We just have to make sure he doesn't find out about (y/n)," Rebekah added with determination.
Elijah placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. "We will handle Niklaus if and when the time comes," he reassured her.
Relieved by his words, Rebekah leaned back into her chair.
Klaus loomed outside the room, his body taut with rage just beyond the threshold. His jaw clenched tightly, a visible manifestation of the seething tension within him. He could hear every single syllable being spoken, each word adding to his already boiling anger like a final piece in a puzzle.
His siblings thought they were so clever, but he was not fooled. They believed they could hide something from him, nonetheless a human.
The conversation inside continued unabated, yet neither sibling noticed the shadow that listened from the hallway. Rebekah's stance never wavered; her eyes remained fixed on Elijah, daring him to counter her declaration.
Klaus, unseen and unheard, absorbed it all—the defiance in Rebekah's tone, the unspoken undercurrents of the exchange. His presence was a specter at the edge of this unfolding drama.
Klaus pressed his back against the cold, smooth wall of the hallway. His eyes darted around the name (y/n), which echoed in his mind like a warning bell, causing every muscle in his body to tense up. Who was this woman, and what did she want with Rebekah? Klaus's thoughts raced with suspicion and curiosity, igniting a primal urge to protect his family at all costs. Each question sparked a new surge of adrenaline, reminding him of his predatory instincts that had kept him alive for centuries. Klaus pushed himself off the wall and entered the room with his silhouette filling the doorway. The sound of the door clicking shut added a sense of foreboding to his entrance. As he made his way toward the center, his footsteps echoed loudly, each one a deliberate reminder of his power and authority.
Klaus's piercing gaze scanned over his siblings, their bodies tense and ready for battle in the dimly lit room. His eyes gleamed like sharp blades, cutting through the air with a dangerous energy. Rebekah stared back at him, unafraid and unyielding, while Elijah's expression tightened with a silent understanding of the underlying tension. The atmosphere was thick with anticipation as Klaus silently weighed his next move.
"Good evening," Klaus finally broke the silence. The words dripped from his lips like honey masking his true intentions with false pleasantries.
Rebekah nodded, a subtle lift of her chin. No smiles were exchanged, and no pleasantries were required. They all understood the gravity of the moment, the weight of questions left hanging in the air.
Within the elegant room, the game of cat and mouse began. Klaus circled, a predator assessing his territory. Rebekah stood firm among shifting sands. Elijah watched on, a silent guardian, his presence a reminder of the delicate balance they all navigated.
"What are my siblings discussing," Klaus drew, his words hanging heavy in the air. His fingers drum rhythmically on the worn wood of a table. His gaze was focused on Elijah, knowing well that his brother's keen perception could always slice through any pretense he wore.
"Nothing that would entertain you, brother," Elijah responded, his voice a serene lullaby against the storm brewing beneath their conversation. His eyes never left Klaus, a silent challenge in their depths.
Rebekah interjected then, her tone attempting to be light and carefree but carrying an unmistakable edge. "Elijah and I were just discussing our plans for this year's Mardi Gras party."
Klaus' lips curled into a slow smile at her words. The tension coiled tighter between them as he absorbed this piece of information - another cover up, another attempt by his siblings to exclude him from their affairs. But he knew better than anyone how to play this game.
"Charming," came his response, every syllable laced with a frosty mockery that caused an involuntary shudder to ripple down Rebekah's spine. "I trust you're not scheming anything too... elaborate." His gaze locked onto hers then, a silent vow that no matter what secrets they whispered in shadowed corners, Klaus Mikaelson was forever one stride ahead.
Klaus' fury didn't burst forth immediately. Instead, it simmered and seethed beneath the surface of his stony expression. His fingers curled around a vase with a grip that defied human capability. The tension hung heavy in the air as he held it there for a moment longer than necessary before propelling it violently against the wall.
The glass exploded into countless fragments, their impact ricocheting through the room. The sound reverberated off the walls and echoed back at them, amplifying the chaos of shattered crystal.
Rebekah recoiled instinctively as if bracing herself against a physical blow. Her eyes clamped shut as she mentally fortified herself against her brother's impending storm.
"Finished with your deception, or still intent on clouding my judgment?" he retorted sharply.
The room choked on a stifling unease; each breath held hostage by the anticipation of his impending verdict.
His words shattered the silence, sending a jolt through the room and making the floor shake beneath them.
His voice roared with a raw fury that rattled the very walls, every uttered sound seething with corrosive disdain: "This insignificant mortal, this (y/n)—what spell has she cast over you to make you risk our destruction?"
Rebekah's entire body tensed, her jaw clenched as she stared defiantly back at Klaus. "She's a friend, Klaus," she repeated through gritted teeth.
Doubt flashed in his eyes, his lips twisting into a cruel sneer. "A friend, Rebekah? Or just another one of your disposable food sources?"
Rebekah fought against the urge to lunge at her brother. Elijah stood nearby, his stoic expression showing disapproval but making no move to stop the impending confrontation. The tension in the room crackled like lightning as the siblings faced off, their bond strained by centuries of betrayal and bloodshed.
Klaus stalked closer to Rebekah, his predatory gaze assessing her every reaction. His patience was wearing thin, and his frustration was mounting with each passing second. There would be no more secrets, not under his rule.
The tension crackled between them like electricity, sparks flying from their fierce gazes. "I'm done playing your games, sister," he snarled, his voice dripping with venom.
Rebekah didn't flinch. "Then I suggest you get comfortable being tired, brother."
His face twisted into a mask of rage. "Watch your mouth."
She laughed bitterly. "Hollow threats from an empty man."
He took a menacing step forward, his eyes blazing with fury. "You have until tomorrow afternoon to bring her to me, or else I'll make sure your death sentence lasts for five hundred years." His words hung in the air like a deadly promise, sending shivers down Rebekah's spine. She knew that he meant every word.
Klaus turned on his heel and left the room.
Elijah turned to her, his eyes filled with sorrow.
"She doesn't deserve this, Elijah," Rebekah's voice was but a whisper in the desolate room. "She's innocent."
Elijah's gaze softened, sympathy coloring his stern features. "I know, Rebekah," he said quietly.
"And yet you stand with him?"
"Elijah responded with a solemn nod, his gaze never wavering from hers. "It's not about siding with Klaus, Rebekah. It's about survival."
Rebekah blinked back, furious tears as she turned away from her brother. The rooms of the Mikaelson mansion suddenly seemed too small, too suffocating. He'd sided with Klaus out of fear—fear for the fragile mortal life that hung in the balance between them.
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dr-spencer-reids-queen · 8 months ago
Text
Fight Back
Pairing: Spencer Reid x Female!Reader
Word Count: ~3.3k
Warnings: angst, talk of being physically abused by a parent, scarring and branding because of the abuse
Request by anon: Could you do where there reader is a part of the Bau and the unsub is kidnapping and killing girls who look like her and it turned out it is her abusive father and when the team finds him the reader and him a a full fight and she gets him back for all the abuse she had to go through
Summary: A case brings up a past you’d rather much forget but haven’t moved on from. A past so traumatic that you have no choice but to take matters into your own hands.
Square Filled: make it look like an accident for @badthingshappenbingo
Author’s Note: any and all comments are appreciated <3
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x
You enjoy traveling to different parts of the country for cases because you enjoy indulging in different cultures and trying new foods. Though, nothing beats being at home. Virginia PD has a case they requested your help on, and you love you can drive home at the end of the day instead of staying in a hotel room.
Detective Banks is already at the scene of a cliff where the body of Justine Frank was located. She was found naked by some hikers who called it in as soon as they got cell service. You and Spencer were tasked to meet with the detective who shakes your hand upon arrival.
“Thank you for coming. I didn’t have anyone touch her until I knew you were done.”
“Good choice. Thank you.” Upon first glance and ignoring the fact that she’s naked, you think she could have landed here after a bad tumble off the cliff. “Detective, why call us out here? Surely your men can handle this one, no?”
“There are four more just like her. We thought it was an accident at first, but more than three is a pattern. We’re stumped.”
Spencer leans down to inspect the body closer with gloved hands. He touches the underside of her wrist and notices fresh wounds.
“Rope burns. She was bound.”
“Was she bound when she went off the cliff?”
We seem to think so,” Detective Banks answers, “but the ME will be able to determine that better than I can.”
“You say it’s a pattern. What makes you think it is?” you ask.
“When one woman shows up, another woman is reported missing. Based on that, it’s safe to assume he already has another victim.”
You’re about to leave when you notice something on Justine’s back. You grab a glove and kneel next to her body to get a closer look. You move her hair to the side and notice a mark on her shoulder blade.
“What is it?” Spencer asks.
“There’s a mark here. I’m not sure if it’s a mark sustained in the fall or if she had it before. I think the rocks and tree branches scratched it up a bit.”
Spencer runs his finger over the mark and frowns. “It’s raised. Like a brand.”
You take out your work phone and snap a picture of the mark so that you can analyze it later. Once done, you and Spencer head back to the police station to meet up with the rest of the team. Hotch and Emily just got back from the ME’s office at the same time you and Spencer got back.
“Did you find anything?” you ask as you walk into the conference room.
“All four victims had ligature marks around their wrists most likely caused by ropes, but the ME says the wounds are much older from when they were found.”
“They were probably bound when they were being thrown over the cliffs, right?”
“Could be or they were bound while being held.”
Spencer gathers the pictures of all five women and pins them to the bulletin board along with their names, a few crime scene photos, and other important details.
“Would you look at that? They look similar,” you point out. “Our unsub has a type.”
Derek dials Penelope and patches her through the phone on the desk so everyone can hear her.
“Hey dollface, ready to work some magic for me?” Derek grins.
“Challenge me, you beautiful behavioral analyst,” she giggles.
“We’re looking for a connection with the victims. Did they know each other? Run in the same circle? Go to the same grocery store? Anything you can see.”
“Even the hidden stuff. Uno momento.”
“If they went to the same kinds of stores, we could be looking at hundreds of employees and even more customers,” you say.
“Let’s hope they didn’t go to the same store, then,” Rossi chuckles.
“A connection they had. They all came from different circles and socioeconomic backgrounds, but they all have one thing in common. They all had different work done on their house with the same contracting company,” Penelope says.
“Where are they located?” Emily asks and grabs a pen and pad.
“Sorry, babe, they don’t have an office. Everything is done through a PO box. It’s more of a mom-and-pop contracting company than a big business. There is only a handful of employees who all live in different parts of the state, and I mean I can count them all on one hand. Addresses are already sent.”
“Thanks, Mama.” Derek hangs up the phone. “Looks like we’re splitting up.”
You and Spencer. Derek and JJ. Emily and Rossi. Banks and Hotch. Four different employees, four different groups. You and Spencer pull up to the house but you don’t get out just yet.
“Are you okay?”
“Something doesn’t feel right with this case. Something is eating at you, but I don’t know what it is.”
“Everyone has a case that gets to them. I know I have a lot.”
“It’s more than just getting to me. There was something familiar about the mark on Justine’s body. I don’t know. Maybe I’m just paranoid.”
You and Spencer get out of the car and walk up the porch steps to the front door. You knock twice, and a middle-aged balding man answers the door.
“Can I help you?”
“I’m Agent Y/N and this is Dr. Reid. We’re with the FBI. May we ask you a few questions?”
“What is this about?”
“We’re investigating a few murders, and one of the leads happens to take us to the contracting company you’re employed with.”
The man steps out and closes the door behind him. “Sorry, my wife and daughter are sleeping. They’re sick with the flu, and I don’t want to wake them. What do you need to know?”
“Where were you on the week of October 14th?”
“At home with my family. They can’t seem to shake his flu. We had our pediatrician come over to check on poor Lily.”
You take out the pictures of the victims and show them to him. “Do you know any of these women?”
“I know her.” He points to Destiny Ray, the second victim. “She called my company for a roof repair. I’m sorry, am I in trouble?”
“No, you’re not. We’re just trying to establish a timeline. Who gets the assignments?”
“My boss.”
“Who is your boss?”
“I don’t know,” he says shyly.
“You don’t know who you work for?” Spencer asks. “How did you get the job?”
“I saw an ad on Craigslist because I was desperate for work. I just got laid off from my other job and I’d have taken anything at that point. I was supposed to meet with my boss but after one text, he hired me. We did all the paperwork online, and he sent me money orders after every job. I go to the bank. They’re legit money orders. Whenever there is a job, he texts me or the other three employees.”
“May we see some of the messages from your boss?”
“Sure.”
He takes out his phone and pulls up the messages. Spencer gets Penelope on the phone and reads the phone number back to her, but no luck. It’s a burner phone. If you had to guess, his boss is the unsub. Your phone rings and you step off to the side to answer Hotch’s call.”
“Yeah, Hotch?”
“There’s been another body. You and Reid are closer.”
“We’re on it.” You hang up and turn to the man. “Thank you for your help. Please call us if you remember anything else.”
You hand the man your card before you leave with Spencer. Detective Banks is already on the scene when you get there. Like with Justine, this new victim was found at the bottom of a cliff. This cliff is much smaller than the last one, and she isn’t naked. Only her shirt is torn to pieces from falling over rocks and sharp branches.
“Her name is Kaylee Robinson. A mountain biker found her not that long ago.”
“That was quick. He didn’t even wait a day before killing another woman.”
You grab some gloves and kneel next to the body. You move the tattered shirt away from her shoulder blade to see if the mark on Justine is just a mark or if it’s on all of them. You don’t know why you do this. Something is telling you to. Because Kaylee’s clothes protected her body, the mark wasn’t ruined by nature.
You gasp in horror when you see the mark for what it truly is.
“What is it?”
“I need to see the other bodies.”
You don’t want to say anything just in case if you’re wrong about this. If you’re not, you have a much bigger problem on your hands. You and Spencer leave Detective Banks at the scene to go to the ME who still has the other four victims’ bodies.
“You’re freaking me out, Y/N. What did you see?”
“Hold on. I need to check something.” With Spencer’s help, you lift all four victims so you can examine the shoulder blades. Just as you feared, there is the same mark on each of them. “Oh, this is bad.”
“What is?”
“Every victim has a mark on their shoulder blade. It’s a brand as if it was caused by a hot poker or a branding machine. Justine’s mark was mangled from the fall, but it was there. I’ve seen it before.”
“Where?”
You turn away from Spencer in shame and pull down your shirt to expose your shoulder blade. Right there, on the top, is the same branding mark.
“On me.” You face Spencer but refuse to look in his eyes. “My father put it there. He’s the one who burned it into my skin, and I know he’s burned it into theirs.”
“Your father? I never knew that. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“How could I tell my boyfriend that my father used to abuse me? I was ashamed and I still am. I don’t want to be. I’ve put this behind me.”
“You know we have to tell the team, right?”
“Yeah,” you whisper.
You’d hope to keep this side of your past a secret from everyone but who knew your father would do such a thing like this? You’re quiet the rest of the ride back to the station and when you walk into the police station.
“I think we found our unsub,” Spencer blurts out.
“I noticed a mark on Justine’s shoulder blade. I thought it was nothing, at first, until Kaylee had one. The same mark. Spencer and I went to the ME’s office because I wanted to see if the others had the same mark on their shoulder blades. They did.”
“What mark?” Emily asks.
You turn and show them the mark on your shoulder. “This mark. My father put it there after a really bad night.” You turn back around. “My father used to beat me and took his anger out on me with cigarettes. Fortunately, those marks have healed but he didn’t like that. I got really good at hiding the marks he left on my body when he decided to brand me instead. A mark I couldn’t hide. He made me wear clothes that showed off my shoulders so that everyone knew I belonged to him. The mark is his initials.”
“What happened after that?” JJ asks. “I mean, how did you get away from him?”
“He went to jail on a count of theft. A convenience store. My mother had passed shortly after I was born. I was put into foster care, but I was almost eighteen so I didn’t stay there long. I didn’t know he got out.”
“What’s his name?” Hotch asks.
“Peter Kamps.”
Derek dials Penelope, and you sit down at the table in silence. You had to have seen this coming eventually. It was foolish of you to think you had escaped him forever. Spencer walks behind you and puts a hand on your shoulder for support.
“We have a name. What can you tell me about Peter Kamps with a K.”
“Oh, I can tell you a lot about him. For starters, he has an arrest record that’s a mile long. Save for rape, this guy has done it all. B&E, murder, kidnapping, assault and battery, and even drug charges. He owns a contracting company called Big Al’s Crew that only has four employees. He has one daughter… Oh…”
“It’s okay, Pen, they know,” you say.
“I am so sorry, Y/N.”
“Garcia, do you have an address?”
“I have two. One is a house that’s been in his name even after he went to prison. I guess he had someone looking after it.” All eyes turn to you. “Another is a farming property that he uses for his contracting company and other side businesses. That one is in his name but is behind on payments.”
“If you have his addresses, you’re already too late,” you say. “I bet he’s moved on by now.”
“Let’s go.” You get up but Hotch stops you from following them. “You have to stay here.”
“What?”
“You have a history with him. We can’t afford anything to go wrong.”
You’re left alone in the police station like a child, but maybe it’s for the best. You know they won’t find anything at both places. One, you’ve been taking care of your childhood home which is why he hasn’t lost it yet. Two, you’ve been to the farmhouse plenty of times on your own. They’re not going to find anything there.
But you know where you will find something.
This time, you’re going to do something you should have done a long time ago.
Fight back.
You grab your jacket and leave the station in hopes they left one of the cars behind. Luck is on your side because they did, and you find the keys in the center console. Hotch made it a rule to leave all keys inside the car when not in use because he’s had to deal with a few too many locked cars in the past.
You lied to Spencer.
You’re not over it. You’ve been waiting for this moment the first time he laid his hands on you. You drive out of town and to a desolate neighborhood. The only people who live here are runaways and drug lords. You park in front of a two-story house and get out nervously. You might be ready to finally fight back but you’re nervous as hell. The front door is ajar when you approach it, and you kick open the door slowly and carefully. The house is dark and silent, two things that terrify you.
The flashlight on your gun is the only thing that’s lighting your way as you make your way through the house. The stairs creak when you step on them. If he’s here, he knows you’re here now. Most of the bedrooms are empty without a hiding space big enough to fit someone like your father. The last place you check is the master bedroom which has few furniture pieces in it.
“I was wondering when you would find me.”
You freeze from hearing his voice from behind you. Stay strong, Y/N. He’s not going to win this time. You turn around and face the man responsible for destroying your youth and innocence.
“I did.”
He eyes the gun in your hands. “I’m assuming this isn’t a social call.”
“You sick son of a bitch. You killed all those women.”
“Call it substitution for the one I really wanted. You.”
“Yeah, well, I’m bigger now. You can’t break me down this time.”
“We’ll see,” he smirks.
You aim the gun at his head. “I could shoot you right now.”
“But you won’t.”
“You’re right. I won’t.” You lower the weapon and toss it onto the bed. “Guns were never your thing, and I want you to feel me kicking your ass.”
All the classes you took on self-defense amount up to this moment. You were picturing the instructor as your father. You were training for this exact moment. Your father rushes at you but you easily block his attempts to attack. You kick his legs and he crumbles to the ground, and you pounce on him before he can get back up. You wrap your hands around his neck and squeeze as tight as you can, but he’s always been more durable than you are.
He bucks his hips and kicks you off him, and you scramble to get away from him. He will kill you if he gets his hands on you but you’re not going to let that happen. You barely get to your feet when your father grabs you and slams you into the wall. He wraps his arm around your neck in a chokehold and puts his dirty mouth next to your ear. 
“What are you going to do now, little girl?”
“This.”
You push off the wall and use your father as support to basically walk on the wall. When your feet get high above his head, you swing backwards and punch him to the ground. The door is closer than your gun so you don’t even think about turning and sprinting out of the room. 
“You ungrateful little bitch! I’ll kill ya!”
Your father gets to his feet and runs after you. You barely make it to the railing by the stairs when he grabs a fistful of your hair and yanks you back into him. He uses all of his strength and slams your head nose-first into the splintering wooden railing. You crumble to the ground in a moan of pain. You can already taste and smell metal as your mouth and nose fills with blood. Your father pants and stands in front of the railing, looking down at you menacingly. The only thing to light this place is the dim moonlight.
“Have any last words?” he sneers.
“Yeah. I’ll see you in Hell.”
You kick him where the sun doesn't shine, and he doubles over in pain. His face is right in your line of attack, and you kick his face as hard as you can. He stumbles back in pain and trips over an uneven board. He slams into the wooden railing and it cracks under his bulky weight. He shouts in shock as he falls through the railing and down to the first floor.
You jump to your feet and look over the railing to see him impaled on a broken two by four. You move your eyes up slightly and see the front door wide open and your entire team standing there with guns in their hands.
“It was an accident?” you say, unsure of yourself.
The ambulance is called as well as the police. The front door is wide open so you’re able to see right into the house where your father fell. The paramedic is assessing your injuries while you’re staring at your father’s body. The man who tormented you, beat you, branded you, is dead. You killed him and you don’t even care if they arrest you for murder. You’d happily go to jail if it means he’s dead for good.
“You lied to me,” you pull your eyes away from your dad to look at Hotch, “and you disobeyed me.”
“Am I fired?”
“I’m tempted to do it right now.”
“I’m sorry, Hotch, but I’m not sorry I did it. If you were ever abused by someone and then learned you had the power to fight back, you’d understand why I had to do this.”
“My office when we get back.” He turns to leave but pauses. “Are you okay?”
“More than okay.”
“I’ll ride with you,” Spencer says when he approaches you.
“Spencer, I’m fine.”
“You dislocated your nose at best. You’re going to the hospital,” the paramedic says.
“Fine,” you chuckle.
“Next time, tell me when you’re going to do something like this, okay?”
“Okay,” you nod and kiss him.
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pucksandpower · 1 year ago
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Sink or Swim
Charles Leclerc x lifeguard!Reader
Summary: in which Charles learns there are some sports he’s just not cut out for … but at least he got a date with a cute lifeguard out of the whole ordeal
Warnings: near drowning
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The salty sea breeze whips through Charles’ hair as he paddles out into the turquoise waters off St Kilda beach in Melbourne. It’s a few days before the Australian Grand Prix, and he’s determined to catch some waves and soak up the laid-back lifestyle before the high-pressure weekend begins.
“You’ve got this, mate!” His surf instructor Brent calls out with an encouraging grin. The tan, stocky Aussie has been giving Charles private lessons, showing him the proper technique for popping up on the board.
Charles gives Brent a tentative smile back, gripping the sides of the board tightly as he bobs up and down on the rolling swell. He’s a world-class driver, but he’s way out of his element here in the ocean. Still, he loves a new challenge.
A decent wave starts to form up ahead. “Here comes one! Remember to pop up when I say!” Brent yells.
Charles takes a deep breath and begins paddling hard as the wave builds momentum. “Pop up! Pop up!”
With all his strength, Charles pulls himself up into a crouched stance on the board — and immediately loses his balance, tumbling head-over-heels into the cool saltwater.
He breaks through the surface, sputtering and laughing at his graceless wipeout. “I’m afraid surfing may not be for me!”
“Don’t give up yet, we’re just getting started!” Brent hollers back with a grin.
For the next couple hours, Charles repeatedly attempts to ride the waves, only to lose his footing or get pitched off every time. He’s soaked and exhausted, but utterly thrilled to be out on the ocean instead of cooped up preparing for the race.
You’re stationed on the beach in your red and yellow lifeguard uniform, watching Charles’ futile surfing attempts through your binoculars. He certainly gets an ’A’ for effort if nothing else.
A solid set of waves starts rolling in, larger than the previous ones. You can see the raw power behind them.
“Big ones coming through!” Brent shouts over the crashing surf.
Charles nods and makes his way into position, paddling furiously as a massive wave rears up ahead of him. He pops up on the board at the optimal moment — and immediately gets launched into the air, flipping upside down violently as the full force of the wave pummels him underwater.
You gasp, realizing Charles hasn’t resurfaced after the extended pounding. In a flash you’re sprinting across the sand and diving into the choppy water, your steely eyes scanning for any sign of him.
There — a limp figure drifting beneath the surface, sinking slowly.
You kick hard, swimming as fast as you can while the current batters against you. Finally you reach him, wrapping your arms tightly around Charles’ motionless body and kicking back up towards the air. You break through, desperately gasping for air.
“Help! Surfer down!” You rasp, hauling Charles’ dead weight towards the shore as Brent and another lifeguard race out to assist.
You lay Charles on his back in the sand, quickly checking for a pulse. Faint and thready … but there. You tilt his head back and seal your lips over his, exhaling two rescue breaths into his lungs to fill them with air.
Nothing.
You interlock your fingers and start performing hard, rapid chest compressions. “Come on, breathe!” You growl through gritted teeth, your powerful arms pounding against Charles’ chest.
Finally — he coughs and sputters, vomiting up saltwater as his eyes flutter open in a daze. You roll him on his side, patting his back firmly as he continues coughing and wheezing.
“Wh-where … am I?” Charles murmurs hoarsely, blinking slowly as he takes in your face hovering over him.
You give him a relieved smile. “Don’t worry, you’re safe on the beach now. I’m the lifeguard who pulled you out, you nearly drowned out there.”
He squints at you, still looking dazed and confused. “Am … am I in heaven? You must be an angel ...”
You can’t help but let out a little laugh at his muddled words, your cheeks flushing slightly. “No, definitely not heaven. Just good old St Kilda beach. How are you feeling?”
“Like I got hit by a truck,” Charles groans, gingerly touching his heaving chest. “Everything hurts.”
“That’s what happens when you take on a 12 foot wave,” Brent chuckles, toweling off Charles’ soaked hair with a caring hand. “Let’s get you warmed up and looked over, eh?”
With your help, Charles is able to stand unsteadily. You wrap a thick towel around his shoulders, rubbing his arms briskly to get the blood flowing.
“I don’t think surfing is my calling,” he chuckles weakly, leaning into you a little.
“Probably not,” you agree with a smirk. “Best to leave it to the pros from now on. You saved yourself from becoming the first ever Formula 1 driver shark snack.”
Charles laughs, grimacing and holding his ribs. “Ouch … don’t make me laugh, everything hurts when I laugh.”
“Well then let’s get you looked over and make sure nothing’s broken or bruised too badly,” you reply gently. Keeping an arm around Charles, you begin walking him slowly back across the beach towards the lifeguard hut.
As you’re tending to Charles, cleaning the sand off his cuts and wrapping his chest snugly, he gazes at you with wonder. “I don’t even know your name, angel.”
You shake your head with an amused smirk. “It’s Y/N. And I’ll accept being called an angel just this once after saving your life out there.”
“Y/N,” Charles repeats, committing it to memory with a warm smile. “I’ll never forget it. You’re my guardian angel today.”
You can’t help but blush a little at his sincerity and charisma, even soaking wet and battered on the bench. There’s just something magnetic about Charles.
Once he’s patched up, Charles stretches out his legs with a wince. “Thank you for rescuing me. I very clearly should not have tried to take on that monster wave.” His eyes twinkle roguishly. “Though I have to admit, the thought of you giving me mouth-to-mouth was quite nice.”
“Oh stop it,” you laugh, playfully swatting at his shoulder. “I was just doing my job. But you’re welcome, even if it means no more surfing lessons for you.”
“Ah yes, my pro surfing career is tragically cut short,” Charles jokes wistfully. His expression turns more serious. “But in all honesty … you saved my life today, Y/N. I can’t thank you enough for that. I would be lying at the bottom of the ocean if not for you.”
You meet his warm green eyes, his face still holding the fading marks of his near drowning. “I’m just glad I was in the right place at the right time to help.”
A charged moment passes between you before Charles clears his throat, looking almost sheepish. “So, uh … I know this might seem a little forward of me. But would you want to maybe come watch me race this weekend? As my personal guest?”
You blink in surprise at the unexpected invitation. “Oh, I-I don’t know, that seems like a lot of-”
“Please, I insist!” Charles cuts you off eagerly. “It’s the absolute least I can do to try and repay my own personal angel for saving me.” He gives you a playful grin. “Unless you make a habit of turning down devilishly handsome race car drivers?”
You roll your eyes at his playful cockiness, but you’re already smiling and shaking your head. “You know what, why not? It could be fun to see you in your natural habitat.”
“Fantastic!” Charles beams happily. “Then it’s a date — well, not a date exactly, more like ...” He stumbles over his words sheepishly.
“It’s a date,” you confirm with an amused smirk, putting him out of his flustered misery.
Charles lights up, reaching out to take your hand warmly in his. “A date it is then. Thank you again, Y/N. I’ll show you a much better time at the race than I did trying to surf today.”
You give his hand a squeeze with a fond smile. “I’ll hold you to that, Charles Leclerc.”
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fataleliebe · 15 days ago
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𝐑𝐎𝐂𝐊-𝐄𝐓 𝐌𝐘 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐋𝐃 ミ★ — Nerd Ellie & fem reader
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A short lil’ something I couldn’t stop thinking about! Might end up writing about this again because i loveeee nerd Ellie. 😍😍 (which is literally just Ellie but I digress)
Content Warnings: suggestive (mdni), stupid fluff, horrible astronomy pick-up lines & puns…
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The night had slipped effortlessly into the—extremely—early hours of the next day, sleep long abandoned. Ellie was settled against your chest, lying between your legs on the couch, the two of you tangled together beneath a bundled blanket. Some comedy, one you had seen hundreds of times before, played halfway through on the laptop resting on Ellie’s lap.
Ellie, however, wasn’t as present as you had assumed. Her mind was elsewhere, a crease in her brow as she glared at the screen. Impatient fingers tap against her crossed arms, tense with unspoken words. She tried to bite her tongue—she truly did.
And, well, she could only hold it in for so long. Mid-joke while hashing out some insignificant misunderstanding, her hand shot out to pause the unfolding disaster. “Ellie?”
“Okay,” she sighs. “You know I love you, right?”
Your eyebrows furrow as you tilt your head, trying to get a better look at her. “Well… yeah? I’d like to think that I do.”
“Good. Because I do. But, babe… this movie’s shit.”
You feign offense, letting out a soft gasp. “What the hell, Els? Wow…” Shaking your head, just barely holding back a laugh. “I can’t believe you’d do this t’me.”
“These jokes fuckin’ suck!” She says it with a lopsided grin, now turning to face you. She sets the laptop aside, banishing it to the coffee table, before turning her full attention to you. The blankets tumble to the floor, left forgotten like time. “I’m sorry,” you start, a smile tugging at the corners of your mouth, “can you do better?”
And Ellie takes it as a challenge; she’s been waiting with jokes, locked and loaded. “Hell yeah,” she mutters, her eyes flickering toward you—though she’s really just captivated by you. You shake your head in disbelief, sinking further into the couch.
“C’mon, babe, don’t let gravity bring you down…”
“Oh, God… No. That was horrible!”
“Okay, well maybe don’t take it too Sirius-ly.” You bend both of your knees to lift your legs, gently nudging your feet against your girlfriend’s chest. It’s hard to hide the smile spreading across your lips—the glow of your gleam a victory for Ellie. With a cocky smirk, she grabs your ankles, pulling you further down the couch until your head comes to rest against the arm.
“Did it hurt when you fell from the asteroid belt…?” Her voice is low as she licks her lips, eyes fixed on you. You can’t help but admire the blush dusting her freckled cheeks. It was sweet—she was sweet. “Because, damn, you’re a heavenly body.”
Heat rushes to your face, and you turn your head slightly to the side. No fucking way that actually worked on you—you’re mortified. “Fuck off,” you whine, flushed and flustered.
A hand slips from your ankle, slowly gliding up your calf. “Your gravitational pull is insane,” she rasps, settling down between your legs to hover over you. “Look at that,” she breathes, words fueling the heat steadily growing between you. Ellie leans in, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to your jaw. “You’ve pulled me into your orbit.”
It sent a shiver down your spine.
“Ellie…”
“Hm?”
“You’re a loser.” She scoffs, but a smirk tugs at her lips, giving you a knowing look.
“Oh yeah? Bet you wanna recreate the big bang with this loser.”
You giggle, lifting your arms to wrap them gently around the back of Ellie’s neck. “Mhm… so why don’t you rock-et my world?”
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