#not that they’d have to pretend around each other either

[ellecdc]

can i formally request something? (i have no idea if you take smut requests so please ignore me if not😭) a barty x reader smut where everyone already thinks they’re together so they’re like 🤔?? maybe they’re onto something

and maybe if they try to tell people (read regulus) they’re just like -_-¿ this is new

and well done on your exams!! i’m sure you aced them

hahaha omg this is so Barty and reader coded fr. thanks for your request (I hope I did it justice)

Barty Crouch Jr x afab fem!reader who has sex for the first sodding time, Evan

CW: smut - like straight up porn people, p in v intercourse, pussy slapping cuz apparently I'm a freak, soft choking, a slap in the face if you squint, 18+

This conversation had been going on for so long that you were truly fighting the urge to throw your head back and let out a guttural scream out of pure frustration.

But Barty never fought his urges.

“For fuck’s sake!” He screeched. “How many sodding times do you need me to say it: we - are - not - to - geth - er!” He shouted at Evan, emphasising each syllable with a stomp of his foot. 

Evan smirked and shared a look with Dorcas before rolling his eyes.

“Sure. And what exactly is this?” He asked, gesturing with his book at your tangled forms.

Okay, so maybe you and Barty were physically affectionate with each other - but that didn’t mean anything.

“What?” Barty asked simply.

“The way you’re sitting, Junior.” Dorcas drawled in a bored tone.

You both looked at each other like you were only just now realising your proximity to each other. 

You were positioned on the cushion of the sofa between Barty’s thighs with his arms wrapped around you and his hands weaselled under your shirt and tucked under your breasts.

What?

It was for warmth; he has terrible circulation, you know.

“We always sit like this.” You replied.

Evan scoffed. “You always sit like you’re one sneeze away from having his dick slip inside of you?”

“Okay, you know what?” Barty said, slipping his hands out from your shirt and patting your thighs to say ‘get up’, and standing up behind you. “I didn’t come here to be spoken to like this, least of all by someone who has his head shoved so far up his arse that he could check for tonsillitis.”

Evan shut his book he’d been pretending to read up until that point causing Barty to screech and shout at you to ‘save yourself’ as the two of you took off in the direction of his dorm room. 

You were laughing and breathless by the time you made it into Barty’s room and he shut the door behind you, casting a locking charm for good measure should Evan come looking for retribution for the slander.

“Honestly, I think they’re just jealous.” You said breathlessly.

Barty nodded as he sucked in a few deep breaths himself. “I mean, it’s kind of sad he’s never had a best friend that he felt so comfortable with, you know?”

“Exactly!” 

“And I don’t know why everyone has to make it so sexual. Do you have great tits? Sure. But that’s not why I put my hands on them!”

“Of course.” You agreed readily. “And I mean, are we two of the hottest people to walk these fucking halls? Of course we are -”

“Absolutely.”

“- but that doesn’t mean we’re shagging!”

“Right!” Barty said with finality as he finally sat down on the chair at his desk. “I don’t know why they have to make everything so weird.”

“Me either.” You groaned as you fell backwards onto Barty’s bed and stared up at the green velvet bed curtains draped over the four poster bed. “They’re probably just jealous.” You repeated. “I mean, we would make a really hot couple; I’d want to be with us too.”

“You know, that’s exactly what I was just thinking.” Barty agreed quickly. “And if we were having sex, they’d bloody know it. It would be hot.”

“Gods, it really would be, wouldn't it?”

“Without a doubt; I’m great in bed, and you’re great at everything.” Barty said simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“You know what.” You said as you sat up to face Barty. “It would be hot. Great sex comes from trust-”

“Check.”

“- communication,”

“Check.”

“Familiarity,”

“Duh.”

“Confidence.”

“Obviously.”

“We’d be sodding lucky to be shagging each other!” You proclaimed.

“I agree!” He responded. 

You both stared at each other; breathing slightly laboured having gotten yourselves so worked up pleading your cases (to no one, seeing as you were both clearly on the same page).

“Huh.” Barty said finally, giving your body a once over. “You know, maybe it is weird we haven’t fucked before.”

“Yeah.”

Your eyes met his green ones that held an intensity you’d not seen from him before.

“Y/N?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you wanna fuck?”

“Yeah.”

And like a flip had been switched, the two of you were launching yourselves at each other. 

No time was spent savouring touches or testing waters. It was all teeth clashing, tongues dancing, heavy breathing, and tearing each other’s clothes off.

It felt somehow both forbidden and oh so right.

You’d truly never thought about Barty like this; you really were just that comfortable with one another.

But as you pulled his shirt over his head and started fussing with his belt, a fire roared to life inside you screaming we should have been doing this the whole bloody time. 

You nearly tripped over the waistband of your trousers as Barty backed the two of you towards his bed where he sat on the edge.

You broke apart for air as he moved his sinful mouth down the expanse of your torso and took to marking up your breasts.

“Salazar they’re even better like this.” He murmured to himself before taking one of your nipples in his mouth whilst he pinched the other.

You ran your finger through his hair, an action you'd done many times before, but never like this.

You pulled at it roughly and brought his lips back to yours as you pushed him to lay back on his bed so you could straddle him.

“Merlin, Y/N. No foreplay?” He chuckled breathlessly as you gave his cock a few strokes and whispered a lubrication charm.

“Next time.” You sighed as you lined him up with your entrance and slowly sank down onto his cock, causing the two of you to moan in unison.

“Next time, huh?” Barty teased as he smoothed his hands up and down your sides, allowing the two of you to adjust to the feeling of one another before you experimentally rolled your hips.

“What? Don’t you want to fuck me, Junior?” You taunted right back.

Barty thrusted his hips up roughly into yours, causing you to cry out and place your hands on his shoulders to stabilise yourself. “I think it’s very obvious I want to fuck you.”

“Yeah?” You whispered, bringing your mouth back to his and biting gently on his bottom lip.

“Yeah.”

You breathed a laugh out through your nose before you bit down harder.

“Then fuck me.”

And before you could tell which way was up, Barty had flipped the two of you over so he now hovered over top of you and had his hand wrapped around your neck.

“You want to be fucked, doll?” He groaned as he hooked one of your legs around his hip allowing himself that much deeper in you.

If there was one thing you could thank the fucked up breeding habits of Purebloods for, it was apparently the size of their cocks. 

“You want me to ruin you?” He continued as he added more pressure to your throat, still grinding into your now sopping cunt. “Make sure no other wizard is ever good enough for you?”

Your entire body felt like it was on fire; the feeling when you’re sitting on the poolside in the sun after a swim; the beads of water only make the sun’s rays feel that much warmer against your skin.

“Oi.” He demanded, giving your cheek a chastising tap. “You gonna be good for me?” He asked more seriously this time.

His beautiful green eyes were nearly fully eclipsed by his pupils as he continued moving in and out of you with what you realised now was a very controlled pace. But you were eager to see where he’d go from here.

“I’ll be good.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me.” He ordered.

“I’ll be good.”

“What was that?”

“I’ll be good, Barty.” You whined, pulling at his arms in an attempt to bring him closer.

“Who are you going to be good for?”

“You.”

“Yeah?”

You hummed in agreement as he hiked up your other leg and wrapped it around his hip.

“Tell me.”

“I’ll be good for you! Promise. I’ll be so good for you, please.”

Barty chuckled and let out a taunting cooing sound as he fell to his elbows and brought his face to yours.

“There’s no need to beg, sweets.”

And just like that, he was pulling away from you again.

Suddenly, his hands were on your hips and he lifted them into the air, holding them there as he began slamming into you. 

“Gonna be so fucking good for me, aren’t you angel?” He grunted.

You scrunched your eyes shut at the feeling of his throbbing cock pounding into you; adjusting his angle every few thrusts in search of something.

“I bet you’re a fucking screamer, huh? You always got so much to say babygirl; don’t go quiet on me now.”

His fingers dug further into the fat of your hips as he adjusted his grip on you, causing you to let out an embarrassing keening sound.

Apparently that was close, but not quite what Barty had been looking for.

“Close. How about we try…”

And he pulled out of you completely before landing a hard smack against your pussy, forcing a surprised scream to tear from your throat. 

“There’s the pretty sounds I was looking for.” He celebrated, rubbing placating circles on your clit before repositioning himself and sinking back into you. “Think you can keep that up for me, Princess?”

“Yes!” You cried quickly, grabbing helplessly at the bedding as he once again lifted your hips up into the air, finding that sweet spot inside you that he’d been in search of before his interruption.

He knew he found his mark when you let out another strangled sob.

“Alright pretty girl, there we go, huh? Does that feel good?”

You were babbling affirmatives nonsensically as he groaned at the sensation of your walls clenching around him; yesses and pleases spilling from your lips.

“Fuck you feel so good.”

“Please Barty.” You cried, reaching a hand up to his wrist.

He let your hips fall to the bed as he brought one thumb to your clit and his other hand took yours in his.

“What is it, princess? Hm?”

“Please.” You whined, and it sounded pathetic even in your own ears in your current state.

But Barty only tsked and pulled two of your fingers into his mouth which he began to suck.

You could feel the tension building in your core as he quickened his pace with his thumb and his hips before letting your fingers go with a pop.

“I’ll take care of your princess, you know that. When have I ever let you down?”

Never.

“Never.”

He smiled triumphantly down at you; and though his mouth was cocky, his eyes were sincere. 

“Exactly. I’m not about to start now, yeah?”

And suddenly his thumb was gone from your clit, your ankles were thrown over his shoulders and he was leaning his weight against the backs of your thighs as he began thrusting into you with an air of desperation.

“Atta girl; so good, huh? S’good.” He grunted as his thrusts became somewhat sloppy. “S’fuckin’ good for me. Perfect for me, aren’t you?”

“Yes! Yes, yes, yes.” You chanted with each thrust of his hips. “Please, oh gods, please, please Barty.”

“I know, I know.” He grunted, clearly as close to teetering over some sort of edge as you were. “I know, I feel it. You’re alright, yeah? Go on, sweets; I’ve got you.”

And his hands were holding onto your thighs for dear life and he was kissing at your knee like even that silly little part of you was something worthy of worship, and he did have you and he never let you down and he wasn’t going to start now and you saw stars as you finally fell over the edge.

The room fell quiet as Barty locked his lips on yours, and you realised you’d been screaming. 

His hips stuttered as he thrust into you once, twice, three times more before he followed you over the edge; letting your legs fall from his shoulders as he fell to his elbows on top of you and the two of you fought to catch your breath.

In complete contrast to the Barty who was only moments ago pounding mercilessly into you, he started placing, slow, lingering, gentle kisses over your face as his thumbs rubbed idly at your temples.

He pressed a kiss to your neck, your jaw, the tip of your nose, over your eyelids, your forehead, your ear.

You knew Barty could have a soft side, but you never imagined it so tender.

“I knew you’d be a screamer.” He whispered, breaking you out of the serene moment and surprising a bark of laughter from you, which caused both of you to groan in discomfort before Barty slowly pulled out of you. 

“Stay here, princess.” He instructed as he walked away from the bed and returned a few moments later with a warm cloth and one of his (read: your favourite of his) t-shirts.

You watched him carefully as he cleaned you up - and once again, what probably should have felt awkward or embarrassing felt nothing but natural as he doted on you. 

“Can you sit up?” He asked; not one hint of condescension in his tone as he held the neckhole of his shirt open for you to slip your head into.

As it poked through, he pressed a kiss to your lips before helping to thread your arms in.

“Is it safe to assume we’ll be doing that again?” You asked with a smirk, causing him to scoff dramatically. 

“We’ll be doing that the rest of our lives if I have anything to say about it.”

After a shower and a change into comfies, the two of you returned to the common room, and though Dorcas was long gone, Evan could be found where the two of you had left him, now in the company of Regulus. 

“Well boys.” Barty sang dramatically as he swung his legs over the back of the sofa and landed on the seat with a bounce. “We just fucked.”

You rolled your eyes at his blatant goading as you sat beside him.

“Yeah? And I had potions today; so what?” Regulus muttered without looking up from his novel.

“What do you mean so what? This was the first time!” Barty argued.

“This is new.” You insisted severely.

“You know, I always knew Barty was a liar; but I expected better from you, Y/N.”

Your mouth dropped open as Regulus and Evan stood up and walked away from the seating area.

What you didn’t see as they walked towards the Slytherin dungeons was Regulus passing Evan five Galleons for their bet on who could convince the two of you to finally get over your “just friends” bit.

#marauders era #marauders au #marauders fanfiction #reader insert #self insert #barty #barty crouch jr #barty crouch junior #slytherin skittles #the slytherin skittles #smut #barty crouch jr imagine #barty cr #barty crouch jr x reader #Barty Crouch jr x #barty crouch jr x you #barty crouch jr smut #barty crouch jr drabble #barty crouch jr headcanons #barty gate #if you give the fans a barty #they’re going to ask for smut #ellecdc fics

[ellemj]

Needs & Wants - Sex Pollen Trope BONUS CHAPTER

Bucky Barnes x Reader

*Read parts 1-10 first for the full effect!*

Summary: It's been a little over a month since you and Bucky decided to begin your secret relationship, but he's grown tired of only getting to have you in the middle of the night. His possessiveness gets the better of him during the team's New Year's Eve party.

Warnings: profanity, teasing, possessive!Bucky, slight angst, public sex, unprotected sex, fingering, MINORS DNI, 18+!!!

Word Count: 4.1k

A/N: Merry Christmas everyone, thanks for all of the support this holiday season! We've made it to the end of the 12ish Days of Smut!

            It’s been a little more than a month of sneaking into Bucky’s room every night and then sneaking back into your own every morning. It’s been a little more than a month of finding ways to discretely fuck your frustrations away after every mission. It’s been a little more than a month since the two of you realized that you were in love with each other. Truthfully, it’s been the most difficult yet rewarding month of your life. You might be lying to everyone you know and going out of your way to hide the best thing in your life, but Bucky is everything to you and he’s actually yours.

            As you smooth your hands over the tight black dress, feeling the scratchiness of the sequins against your palm, you smile at yourself in the mirror. It’s been a secret obsession of yours to wear Bucky’s dog tags hidden beneath your clothes the last few weeks. It feels so dirty, knowing that not a single person around you would ever have the slightest suspicion that you walk around with his name hanging over your chest every day. James B Barnes. No one would ever have the slightest suspicion that you moan his name every night either. You’ve done such a thorough job of keeping your secret, maintaining that you still can’t stand each other when you’re around the rest of the team but being completely infatuated with each other in private. You’ve loved every fucking minute of it. But Bucky? Bucky feels differently, though he hasn’t communicated that to you yet. He hates the way he has to pretend like you don’t belong to him, like he doesn’t have any right to grab you by the waist and pull you into his lap when you’re around the others. He hates the way other men look at you, like you’re a piece of meat in a damn butcher shop, available for purchase. If they knew who you belonged to, if they knew what he thought about doing to anyone who so much as cast a lingering glance in your direction, they’d all be running for the hills.

            Bucky knows better than to slip into your room before everyone has gone to bed for the night, but he’s been caring less and less lately if he gets caught. So, as soon as he pulls on his black suit jacket and slips his phone into his pocket, he crosses the hall and quietly turns your door handle. The sound of the door gliding over the threshold breaks your gaze away from your own reflection and your eyes flit over your shoulder, watching in the mirror as the door opens fully and Bucky steps in. He shuts the door behind him just as quickly as he opened it and then slides the lock into place before turning around to look at you.

            Fuck. He approaches you slowly, letting his eyes travel from your black heels, up the backs of your toned legs, straight to where the hem of your sparkly black dress is just barely covering the curve of your ass. Your eyes are settled on his face as his teeth sink into his bottom lip. You know him well enough to know that he’s fighting the urge to rip the dress off of you and make you both late for the New Year’s Eve party you’re supposed to be at in half an hour. That’s exactly what you don’t need right now, not when you’re trying to keep this whole thing a secret.

            “You’re not supposed to be in here.” You warn him, turning around slowly to face the man who insists on breaking the rules. Now he has a chance to admire the front of your look. His eyes always search for one thing first: the outline of his dog tags beneath your dress. He finds it instantly, though it wouldn’t be obvious to anyone unless they knew they were there.

            “I don’t care, I wanted to see you before anyone else does.” Bucky reaches out for you now, his hands landing on either side of your waist to hold you at arm’s length. “Why do you always wear things that make me want to fuck the shit out of you?” He pulls you to his chest and presses his forehead against yours lightly, his blue eyes meeting yours with a loving gaze.

            “Because I like when you fuck the shit out of me.” You admit. Bucky groans softly before letting both of his hands fall away from your waist and glide down your hips, curving around to grab two handfuls of your ass. His touch never fails to send the resident butterflies in your stomach into a frenzy.

            “I’d do it more often if you let me come over earlier than midnight.” Bucky huffs. He ghosts his mouth over yours but he tilts his head to the side and gently presses his lips against your cheek instead, denying you the sweet taste of him. You know that he’s grown to hate how secretive you insist on being. He’s made that known in more ways than one, but he also knows that it was the only rule you set forth at the very beginning of all of this, so he tries his best to put up with it. If this is what he has to do to keep you to himself, then so be it.

            It isn’t long before you shoo Bucky out of your room, too worried that someone will knock on your door for something or start wondering where Bucky is if he isn’t in his own room. He heads down the hall and finds Sam, Torres, Wanda, Vision, and Clint all gathered around the elevator, ready to head downstairs and separate into a couple of cars to drive over to the club Tony rented out for the night.

            “It took you that long to put on a suit?” Sam questions jokingly, clapping Bucky on the shoulder. “I thought you might’ve been curling your hair or something.” Bucky rolls his eyes but chuckles lightly, finding a little bit of humor in Sam’s joke. He wishes he could just say he was with you, but of course, he won’t. It’s only a minute later when the sound of your heels clicking on the hard floor of the hallway reaches everyone’s ears, and all eyes are on you as you finally appear, ready to head out. A few friendly whistles and compliments ring out from the group, but your eyes are only on Bucky. He stares at you with a hunger in his eyes and lust written all over his face. Before anyone can notice the way you’re staring right back at the super soldier, you break your gaze away from him and remind yourself that you have to spend this entire holiday evening acting like you can’t stand him. A heavy sadness settles in your chest as you pile into the elevator with your friends, feeling Bucky’s arm just barely brush against yours. You’ve just realized you won’t even be able to kiss him at midnight.

---

            “Just give him a chance, he’s a pretty decent guy from what I can tell.” Clint lifts his beer bottle to his lips and takes a small sip after urging you to go talk to the SHIELD agent that’s been staring you down since you walked into the club an hour ago. “Nat would’ve shoved you over there already if she was here.” The mention of Nat doesn’t come with as much sadness as it used to, it comes with a lot more nostalgia now, which you welcome.

            “I’m sure he’s a decent guy, but I’m not interested.” You respond with a sweet smile, dragging your fingertip around the rim of your own bottle. You glance over in the guy’s direction, and once again, find him staring at you shamelessly. When you turn your head back to the group, your eyes land on Bucky, who sits across from you and between Sam and Clint. His lips are pulled together in a taut line, he’s actually nearly scowling at the current topic of conversation. His stare is icy as his eyes rake over you. He’s pissed. The group continues on, all talking about why you should go over and talk to the guy, about how cute the two of you would be together if you just gave him a chance. You haven’t heard a word. You can’t ever focus when Bucky stares at you like he fucking hates you. Bucky, however, has heard and hated every single word that’s been spoken for the past minute since you started meeting his stare. He’s had enough.

            “Go over there and ask him if he has someone to kiss at midnight.” Sam teases, looking right at you as he points the mouth of his bottle in the direction of the guy.

            “She’s not doing a damn thing.”

            Everyone’s heads snap to look at Bucky. No way he just said that. There is no fucking way he really just risked it all over a harmless little conversation. The two of you are staring at each other as everyone else’s eyes dart back and forth between you, waiting for either one of you to say anything else.

            “Why not?” Sam finally breaks the silence, beginning to understand what might be going on here. He wants to hear one of you say it, he wants one of you to admit it. You give Bucky a warning glance that says don’t you fucking dare, but of course, Bucky simply raises an eyebrow at you and then he dares.

            “Why don’t you tell him, sweetheart?” Fuck. Him. Fuck Bucky Barnes. He chooses that moment to stand up and smirk at you, ignoring everyone else in the group as he leaves you sitting there. Bucky heads straight for the bar across the room, weaving his way through the crowd of people as smiles to himself. He knows he shouldn’t have done it and he knows good and well that you’ll be beyond pissed with him. But he was already pissed. You were really going to sit there and let them continue encouraging you to go out with some other guy? Even if you weren’t going to give the guy a chance, how could you stand to listen to everyone tell you how good you’d be with someone other than Bucky?

            “Why the hell did you do that?” Your angry tone rings out behind Bucky mere seconds after he’s stepped up to the bar. He doesn’t even turn to look at you as you come to stand on his right side. He waves over the bartender and lifts his beer bottle, letting him know that he’d like another, all while refusing to look at you.

            “I wasn’t going to sit there and listen to that shit any longer.” Bucky answers nonchalantly, like he didn’t just out your secret relationship to your friends and colleagues, like he didn’t just break one of the only two rules you’d set for your relationship.

            “You’re so damn possessive and I hate it.” You spit the words out like they’re poison. You don’t even have a moment to dramatically storm off like you’d planned, before Bucky’s turning to you and lifting his flesh hand to your chest. Your eyes flit down to the veins on the back of his hand just as the tip of his index finger comes to rest on the notch between your collarbones. You’re frozen in place as he drags his fingertip down your sternum. He’s searching for something. As soon as he finds the outline of his dog tags beneath the fabric of your dress, he stops moving his hand and looks into your eyes. He taps his finger against the tags gently, his tongue wetting his bottom lip.

            “Remember whose name you’re wearing right now, or I’ll take you right here to remind you myself.” An icy chill races down your spine at his words, raising goosebumps all over your skin. He gives you a few seconds to think about what he’s just said before he asks his question. “Whose name hangs around your neck?” You swallow hard, wanting so badly to answer him when he talks to you like this, but refusing to give him the satisfaction after what he just said in front of everyone. He tsks softly and lets his hand fall away from your chest. “I thought I fucked that stubborn attitude out of you the first night we spent together. Such a shame to see it back now.”

You don’t fight him when you feel his flesh hand wrapping around your wrist and spinning you around to face away from him. You don’t fight when he shoves you forward, moving his flesh hand to the small of your back and guiding you to the back of the club where the restrooms are. You don’t even know why you don’t fight him. You’re angry as hell and want nothing more than to throw a fit, to scream at him, to hurt his feelings for disrespecting your only wish.

“Why isn’t it being with me enough for you? Why does everyone have to know about us?” You demand to know as he shoves you through the women’s bathroom door and quickly shuts it behind you both. You stand near the door, crossing your arms over your chest and watching as his stalks across the bathroom, checking each stall to make sure they’re all empty.

Bucky runs his flesh hand through his hair as his eyes coast down to where his dog tags are hidden underneath your dress.

            “I only get to be with you between the hours of midnight and six in the morning, that’s enough for you?”

            “You agreed to this from the beginning Bucky, we both knew this needed to be a secret if we wanted to keep being partners in the field.”

            “I don’t agree anymore.” Bucky says pointedly, narrowing his eyes at you.

            “Yeah, I got that when you outed us in front of everyone.” Your tone is laced with malice. What else could it possibly be laced with when you’re as angry as you are? You want to scream, you want to break shit. Why didn’t he just outright tell you that he didn’t want to keep it a secret anymore? You could’ve talked about it in private before something like this happened.

            “You shouldn’t have sat there and let that conversation go on for so long. What would you have done if they tried to introduce you to the guy? Would you have let him fucking flirt with you?” Bucky demands to know, his fists clenching at his sides.

            “No, I would’ve found a way out of it. I told them I wasn’t interested, Bucky. You don’t have to get so goddamn jealous over nothing.”

            “Jealous?” He chuckles darkly, the anger seemingly melting away from his face. “I don’t get jealous when I have what I want.”  

            “Is that so?” You raise an eyebrow at him, taking a couple of steps further into the bathroom, closing some of the distance between the two of you as you wait for him to say more.

            “Whose name is around your neck, sweetheart? Tell me.”

            “No.” You refuse defiantly, stopping in your tracks. You’re still about two feet away from him and he hates it. Bucky closes his eyes and massages his temples with his thumb and middle finger. He knows you’re mad at him, he knows he broke your trust, but now he needs to break your stubborn attitude down just so he can have a damn conversation with you.

            Bucky closes the last bit of distance between the two of you and places his hands on either side of your face before you can tell say hell no. His lips are on yours in an instant, kissing you the same way he kisses you when you’ve just come back from a frustrating mission that left you both feeling on edge. He puts all of his anger into the kiss, sucking on your bottom lip before sinking his teeth into it a little harder than he normally would. When you gasp against his mouth, he takes the opportunity to slide his tongue into your mouth and caress your tongue with his. He hears that familiar hum rising from your voice as you deepen the kiss and he knows he has you right where he wants you.

            “If you won’t simply tell me whose name is around your neck, I have other ways to get it out of you.”  Bucky rasps, breaking the kiss and taking a step back from you. He begins unbuckling his belt in a way that makes all of the warmth in your body swim straight for your cunt. You can feel your cheeks heating up as you watch him. You should be telling him off, you should be telling him there’s no fucking way you’re doing this after what he just did out there, but your body is on an entirely different wavelength than your rational mind.

            Bucky’s belt comes completely undone and he uses one hand to undo the front of his pants as he tilts head to the side, beckoning you to step over in front of the sinks with him. Why your body chooses to listen to his silent command you have no fucking idea, not when you’re still so angry with him. But you find yourself standing in front of him facing the mirror, looking at him in the reflection as he slides the hem of your dress up your hips and leaves it to sit snug around your waist. He leans forward more, pressing the front of his body against the back of yours as he wraps his flesh hand around your throat gently. You’re no stranger to what he likes to do with that hand. It only took a week of sleeping with him to find out that he’s no 40s man in bed, though you could’ve figured that out from the night you were exposed to the sex pollen, or the night you spent stuck in the hotel together.

            Instead of choking you, Bucky slides his hand down your throat and beneath the neckline of your dress, fingering the chain of his dog tags and tugging them until they’re out of your dress and dangling in front of the black sequin fabric. He has a thing about seeing his dog tags around your neck when he fucks you, at this point it’s basically a kink.

            “One more chance, baby. Whose name is around your neck?” He asks. Your own body blocks your view as Bucky pushes his boxers and pants further down, freeing his cock and giving it a few slow strokes as he glances down at the black thong you’re wearing. You say nothing, you only bite your lip and try to prepare yourself for what’s about to happen. Bucky sighs and moves forward as much as he possibly can before dragging your thong to the side and guiding his cock between your legs, rubbing the tip back and forth along your already-soaked folds. Normally, he likes to give you time to adjust. He likes to work you up to being able to take his cock so he never leaves you too sore, after all, you never wanted anyone to find out about the two of you. You walking funny every morning would’ve definitely raised some questions. That’s why Bucky decides that this time, he doesn’t give a shit. He looks at you one last time in the mirror, taking in your stare of anticipation and the stubborn look in your eye. Then, he shoves his cock so deep inside of you that you cry out due to the mix of pain and pleasure. You feel more pain than pleasure at first, and you expect him to be still for a moment, to let you adjust to his size. But Bucky doesn’t so much as stutter as he begins to fuck his entire length in and out of you at a bruising pace. You’re a moaning, whimpering mess within seconds, trying your best to pull your hips forward and give yourself some relief from his deep thrusts, but failing due to the way he has you trapped between his body and the sink.

            “Bucky, it’s too much.” You cry out a little too loudly, gripping the edge of the sink until your knuckles turn white.

            “No, baby, you can take it. You always take it so well.” He coos, leaning into you more and pressing a soft kiss to the side of your neck. The way his mouth moves over your skin heavily contrasts the way his hips are snapping forward, forcing his cock inside of you hard, repeatedly. He continues fucking you until he can tell that your legs are trembling beneath you, that you’re doing your best to stay upright but likely can’t much longer. He slips his flesh hand between your legs and does the exact thing that you needed him to do to send you over the edge, he starts rubbing fast circles against your clit. Arching your back, you let out a sultry moan as your eyes roll back into your head. Bucky loves seeing you like this, so overwhelmed with pleasure that you can’t even open your pretty little eyes and focus on him. For the past month, he’s made sure that every single time he fucks you, he cums inside of you. Not only has he never once wanted to pull out, but you likely never would’ve let him even if he did. Tonight is going to be different. Bucky continues fucking you while simultaneously rubbing your clit with his fingers until he feels the walls of your pussy squeezing his cock so hard that he has to bite his lip and let out a guttural groan to keep from cumming too soon. “That’s it, cum all over my cock, baby.” Your release is instant at the sound of his command, and your legs nearly give out as your orgasm wracks through your body. He fucks you through it until your moans die down to soft whimpers and you’re able to open your eyes and look at him in the mirror once again, then he pulls his cock out of you.

            “Bucky, no, don’t—” Ignoring your protests, he stops rubbing your clit and instead wraps that hand around his shaft, stroking it quickly as he edges himself. He uses his vibranium hand to snag the fabric of your thong and stretch it out enough to give him a small canvas. “Oh, fuck.” The curse falls from your lips as soon as you realize what he’s doing. Bucky groans out a string of filthy curses as he cums all over the inner fabric of your thong, thoroughly coating it.

            You’re silent, still trying to catch your breath, when Bucky tucks his cock back into his boxers and pants and then slowly runs his hands up either side of your thighs. He’s gentle as he pulls your thong back into its proper place and then slips a hand between your legs and rubs your pussy through the now wet fabric. Fuck. There’s a soft wet sound as his cum mixes with your wetness, trapped against your cunt by your thong.

            “Whose cum are you about to wear for the rest of the night? Whose cum might end up dripping down your leg?” Bucky asks in a serious tone, staring right into your eyes as he continues spreading his cum over your cunt.

            “Yours.”

            “Good girl. Who just fucked you so hard that you’ll barely be able to walk out of here on your own?”

            “You, Bucky.” His name falls from your lips with ease. Truthfully, you can barely remember why you were denying him before.

            “That’s right, you’re being so fucking good for me now. Not so stubborn anymore, huh? Whose name have you been wearing around your neck for a goddamn month now? Say it for me.”

            “James Bucky Barnes.”

            “You are so fucking mine, and every single person out there needs to know that.”

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#bucky barnes #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes smut #mcu #bucky barnes x you #marvel #the winter soldier #winter soldier

[cherryjuiceblues]

𝐌𝐔𝐓𝐔𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐘 𝐁𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐅𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐀𝐋 | 𝟐

➯ HARRY IS A LITTLE OBSESSED WITH Y/N AND Y/N JUST WANTS TO KNOW WHEN HE’LL HAVE SEX WITH HER AGAIN. ✰ dom!harry sexual content. dominant and submissive dynamics. minors dni. 𝑤𝑐 14k ッ mutually beneficial masterlist

Harry doesn’t love his job.

He doesn’t hate it either. But he certainly doesn’t love what he does.

It’s not the hardest of occupations; since becoming CEO (and after getting over the guilt of surpassing his colleagues in status), having the option of assigning others to complete otherwise arduous tasks for him has eased some of his tension.

However—inevitably—those smoothed over stress bumps are quickly replaced by bigger, more stubborn protrusions that take more than a gentle palm to flatten out.

But Harry is comfortable—he’s financially secure, surrounded by a loving family and loyal friends, and treated with respect, revered even, by some. So despite being true, what Harry had told Y/N—that You think I was wishing to own a finance company when I was a little boy? indicating that it has hardly been a dream come true—he is grateful for his position in life. Aware of his privilege but also immensely proud of how much his hard work had paid off.

However right now, as he sits behind his desk with his phone burning a hole in his pocket, Harry hates his job.

Hates the schedule that’s pulled up on his monitor, hates the squeak of his chair as he rolls over to the filing cabinet, hates the way the clock is ticking louder than he’s ever heard it before. And the seconds are taking twice as long as they should.

With each passing minute, the presence of his phone in his trouser pocket becomes heavier and heavier; its lack of buzzing and dinging feeling abnormally disheartening. And everytime his work phone—that’s lying face up on his desk—lights up with an email or a phone call and creates its shrill cacophony that pushes the line of Harry’s brow deeper and deeper into his already default frown, he becomes less and less of the easy-going boss he presents to everyone.

It’s enough to drive anyone mad; this torturous waiting. Harry feels as though he’s being dangled over the edge of a cliff but never dropped, never given the sweet release of death which he would gladly take over the pain of not knowing when he was going to fall.

One week. It had been one week since Harry first met Y/N. One week since they’d had maybe the best first experience he’d ever had with someone, and one week since he’d heard a single thing from her. And the memory of that night is enough to have Harry distracted. Enough to have him on the edge of his seat.

ㅤㅤ

“Please.” She whines—to Harry’s teasingly obvious question.

“More what?” He wants to ask. Wants to make her spell it out for him. 

But he doesn’t. He’s nice. 

Nice as he stretches her open with his fingers—intrusion more than easy with the copious amount of slick between her thighs—whilst his tongue plays with her masterfully. She pants and whines, bucks and wiggles. Loses the ability to say coherent words without stuttering over them.

He takes his time—relishing in the fierce, squeezing heat around his fingers—in the way her excitement makes his palm shine the longer he goes at it.

And he’s thorough in the treatment he gives her. Behaves as if he’s a professional that’s been paid to change her life. He imagines Niall as his agent who had come to him earlier in the day with a ‘great opportunity’ and demanded Harry give his absolute best. 

Pretends that his entire career rides on Y/N’s enjoyment of this night.

Harry thinks, really, that Y/N’s lack of experience means he could do a subpar job in actuality—but the thought just makes him go harder. Makes every flick of his tongue and curl of his fingers feel like the best thing she’s ever known.

She’s soaking into his skin and it’s filthy; the way Harry’s throat rumbles out a groan at the thought of his stubble bathing in her—the resentment he’ll have in washing his face later.

Little does he know that Y/N is thinking the same thing—or rather, imagining the irritation of her thighs his facial hair will leave behind. The soreness that can only come from pure satiation, that she’s sure she’ll admire with great joy. Her first marks, her first memory-jolting piece of evidence of the night she was finally touched. The day she’s been waiting for—for far too long, in her opinion.

Especially now, as it’s happening, and Y/N doesn't know if she’ll ever be able to stop chasing this feeling. Her limbs fight between stretching out in tight, desperate attempts to grasp for her orgasm—and melting into the mattress in a mangled mess of flesh and bone. Harry’s mouth struggles to compete with the smile that overtakes his expression, watching Y/N’s body writhe in response to his ministrations.

This is his favourite thing to do.

She tightens, and squeaks, and drips—Harry’s fingers working her just right and tongue curling in fast, pointed flitters—as she propels further towards the edge. Close, so close; lips moulding around a string of garbled sounds and hips pushing up into the large span of his hand. She’s trying to beg but she doesn’t get the chance because Harry is feeling her spasm in contracting waves and she’s slicking down his fingers, crying out—

ㅤㅤ

Harry’s debauched daydream fizzles away when his work phone chimes insolently. The screen lights up, forcing his eyes towards it.

A reminder.

Team meeting | in 15m

“Fuck’s sake,” Harry runs his hand through his hair, leaning back in his chair as the leather stretches. His trousers are tighter than he would consider comfortable, but he’s safe—no recognisable evidence of unprofessional thoughts in his professional environment.

Harry considers himself to be a focused man—often finds solace in working to provide distraction—but this constant replay that has been leading his mind astray whenever he even attempts to shift his concentration is proving to be a hurdle too high for Harry to jump over. He thinks if he makes himself come then the unavoidable meeting that’s starting in thirteen minutes might be less torturous to sit through.

But just as he smooths a palm over his thigh, there’s a telltale knock on his door. The rapping a pattern that only his assistant uses.

Harry clears his throat, shifting himself higher to appear more orthodox in his chair.

“Come in, Mr Rowland.”

The door makes way as it’s opened, rattling the blinds that preserve Harry’s modesty—matching that of the ones on the full-length windows that look out into the building.

The man moves to stand stiffly in front of his boss’ desk, suit free of creases and long hair tied back to maintain formality. Harry used to have long hair once.

Mitch Rowland is a quiet man; stoic, but not unfeeling. Harry believes him to be the thoughtful type, and he chips away more and more of his exterior everyday, he’s sure. Cracking a joke that makes Mitch laugh feels like a reward—an acknowledgment of all the hard work he puts in to becoming closer to his reserved assistant.

“Time for a briefing, Mr Styles?”

Harry nods, gesturing to one of the armchairs facing his desk. “Yes, go ahead.”

He’s respectful enough to look intently at the man sitting across from him. As he speaks, Harry doesn’t drift off into his fantasy land full of strawberry embroidered dresses and passion fruit martinis—no, he converses with Mitch like the approachable boss he takes care to be, discussing the best way to go about conducting the team meeting and how to amicably pull up the areas that his employees are lacking in.

Truth be told, it’s life changing having someone like Mitch as his assistant. He demonstrates capability—enough so that Harry can often sit back and let him take the reins—it’s satisfying when their brains match up like they're connected via bluetooth. It’s an easy relationship to maintain, and Harry often ponders about how grateful he is.

But never has Harry been more grateful for Mitch as he is right now. (Which is cruel really, for a situation that would probably lose in a battle of importance if voted on by a large audience.)

The meeting is going fine, most likely—Harry wouldn’t know because his mind is elsewhere once again.

ㅤㅤ

“That’s it, take a deep breath for me, darlin’.” He’s good at maintaining composure, but God if Y/N isn’t testing Harry right now. She’s still fluttering—more than ready to let him start pushing into her—as her arousal coats copious miles of skin. He leans over her, pressing a soft kiss to the dip above her chin as he rolls a condom over his neglected cock. The throbbing gets harder to ignore now that she’s laid out for him; all stretched and wet.

“Are you sure it’s gonna… fit?” Y/N looks down, pupils expanding at the sight. Long, and thick, and hard.

“I’m sure,” Harry drags his nose against her throat, lifting back up to catch her blown-out eyes. He smiles.

“I… I want you to feel good too, Harry. Please?”

His heart thumps and his eyebrows pinch. She’s special. He wants to take such good care of her.

“I feel so good, love. I promise.” Harry drops his hips to prove it, sliding through her folds and nudging her sensitive clit as Y/N’s breath shudders. “Are you ready?”

“Can I—can I hold your hand?”

She’s a doll. (Maybe in more ways than one permitting she’d like to be pliable for him, but right now Harry knows she’s cuter than even the sweetest of puppies). He wants to coo right in her face, obnoxious and embarrassing, before his voice takes on a squeaky pitch and he expresses Of course, you can hold my hand—you’re just adorable, aren’t you?

Instead, he wordlessly transfers his weight to the now singular arm holding him up as he reaches for the girl’s empty palm and tugs it up beside her head. Their fingers entwine as the mattress creates a mould of their knuckles—and Y/N’s eyes clear themselves of the fear of rejection, gazing up at Harry with such appreciation that he doesn’t even receive from his employees. Not that he’d expect them to but the way Y/N is looking at him makes Harry feel as though he’s done something far more significant than hold her hand or coax a few orgasms out of her.

It’s almost sad.

“Ready now,” she whispers, and Harry’s forgotten everything else.

He reaches down to stroke over her hip bone in soothing circles. “Keep looking at me, okay?” She nods, eyes never wavering even as Harry guides himself into her drippy hole.

The first feel of intrusion is new—different to his fingers—exciting and tight as the mushroom tip of Harry’s cock presses in gently. Y/N gasps but it doesn’t hurt; it’s a filling sensation, one that makes her question why she’s not always been doing this. It feels right, like it’s meant to be.

And when she breaks eye contact to look down, she sees that he’s hardly an inch in and exhales heavily into Harry’s face. He squeezes her hand, green surveying her expression. It takes all of his composure to ignore how tight she is around him. It’s euphoria.

“H-Harry,” Y/N whines, shiny mouth falling further with each centimetre discovered inside of her.

“So good, baby, you’re so good. Keep looking at me…there you go.” His voice is taut, even Y/N can tell, and she blinks at him because it’s all she can do—hoping she is communicating well enough with her eyes.

As he gets deeper, she suddenly expels a great breath, jumbled words tumbling out. “Thank you, oh—that’s so—oh my god.”

And Harry is bottoming out, balls resting against her bum, as he lets out some air of his own. “Look at that, darlin’,” he smiles, “took all of me, first try.”

Y/N’s face suddenly splits into a grin. She chances a lift of her leg, to open herself up more as she stretches it to the side, bent knee pressing into the sheets.

“I didn’t know I had that much space in there.”

Harry laughs (it’s quite literally forced out of his lungs) and Y/N starts to let out endless strings of giggles—delirious with overwhelming happiness—as her stomach starts to contract. She can’t stop laughing. And every one has her core tightening around Harry’s cock in pulsing flutters.

If he wasn’t searching deep in his mind for the stability not to build up too quickly, then Harry’s heart would be bounding at the sweet sound of Y/N’s giggles. Pure elation in the form of prancing lilts. Bouncing off the walls and racing past their ears; slicing through any of the nerves she had left.

To see her face bunched up in laughter is to witness beauty in its rawest form, Harry is certain. All whilst she lays bare with himself inside of her—connected as far as he can possibly reach—this feeling doesn’t compel him very often. If ever at all.

ㅤㅤ

Sitting at the head of the table with absent eyes, Harry’s nodding his head in faux-interest whilst his mind is full of filth. Not many eyes are on him anyhow, as Mitch talks through the monthly rates but—understandably—when his personal phone starts ringing disturbingly loudly, the heads of everyone turn to watch their boss answer it alarmingly quickly. The same boss who most employees have never seen handle a personal phone in their entire career at his company; might have believed he lived permanently in his office, in fact.

It’s a shock when he holds the phone up to his ear, shoots his assistant a glance and says, “You’ve got this, haven’t y’Mitch?” before exiting the room with a curt nod and a rushed shuffle to squeeze around the chairs.

Harry knows it’s unprofessional of him, but he’s been waiting for his phone to ring all week. So he’ll be damned if he misses an important call just to maintain formality. He can’t fire himself.

The voice on the other end of the line doesn’t quite contain the lilt he was hoping for, however.

“Heyyy, Harry.” He can’t help but sigh as he closes his office door and slouches unceremoniously into his chair. “You’re at work, aren’t you? Surprised you answered.”

“The luxury of being your own boss, Niall,” Harry watches the seconds hand spin around the clock on his wall. Each tick is echoed by nails tapping wood. “You okay?”

“Oh yeah, yeah, I’m fine. I was ringing to ask about you, actually.”

“Yeah?”

“You heard from Y/N at all?”

Harry looks away from his clock. “I haven’t. Is she alright?”

“Oh, she’s more than alright. She had a great time with you.”

He smiles a little, “That’s nice. She’s very sweet, Niall.”

“Mhm she is… I think you should see her again.”

Harry thinks so too. “I’d like that. But I haven’t heard from her, which is fine—I didn’t want to overwhelm her.”

“That’s the thing though—she’s so nervous, even though she’s been proper gushing about ya. She’d love to see you again, I’m sure. But she’s too scared to call you.”

Harry rolls his eyes at his friend’s dramatics. “Alright… what are you saying, Niall?”

ㅤㅤ

Y/N is shy. 

Chronically shy.

She always has been and that certainly isn’t going to change overnight. Especially not if she were to meet the most attractive man she’s ever seen, have him take her home and then alter the very definition of pleasure itself. Especially not then.

But she so very wishes that was the case.

The post-it note hasn’t moved from the position Harry left it in when he penned his number. He’d been so sweet when asking if he could give it to her—like making her come multiple times wasn’t enough of an indication that she might want to see him again.

And she really does. God, she wants it more than anything.

But she’s an overthinker. She’s a worrywart, a nervous Nellie, a wet blanket—whatever. In every version of the phone call they have in her mind, she says the wrong thing, or Harry lets her down gently, or someone else picks up the phone. And if she texts him, her responses are awkward, or he leaves her messages on delivered—or worse read—or even worse he asks to see her again and then Y/N has to panic over fifty completely different hypothetical scenarios.

She decides that it’s just not meant for her—relationships, or human interaction, happiness—she’s not sure what specifically, but she knows it’s too much to handle. Harry would only be disappointed in the long run anyway; Y/N is simply saving his time—doing him a favour.

Niall isn’t inclined to agree—because of course the topic came up in conversation. Her friend had never been so eager to talk about anything in his entire life, and he loves talking.

The morning after Y/N met Harry, she was greeted by a dozen text messages, followed by multiple missed calls. (If Niall was ever in danger, Y/N thinks she’d be inclined to ignore him—never phased by the multitudes of spam she receives on a daily basis.) And at the first opportunity he had, Niall was knocking—no, pounding—on her door, sing-songing her name from outside her flat.

There was a reluctance in letting him in. This was all new territory for Y/N and Niall knew that. However in fairness to her—rather oversized golden retriever of a—friend, he attempted with all his heart to pretend he wasn’t bursting at the seams for as long as he could. Grinning in a somewhat subdued manner as she opened the door—elated beam withstanding his journey to her sofa—until he sat down and just couldn’t help himself, springing back up.

“You didn’t fuck on the couch, did you?” Half teasing, half deadly serious as his eyes widen and he shuffles away in an attempt to evacuate quicker if Y/N were to confirm his fear.

Y/N cowered behind her hands, cheeks burning, “No! Don’t say it like that, Niall.”

“Oh right, I’m sorry, hang on,” he cleared his throat obnoxiously, “You didn’t make sweet, sweet love on the couch, did you?”

She squawked and Niall cackled, holding his arms in front of his face when Y/N started to batter him with a sofa cushion.

“Okay! Okay, I’ll stop, I’ll be nice.”

He was nice. A relief to have someone to talk to, and never before has Niall been happier about anything, Y/N is convinced. She didn’t realise the status of her sex life was something to be so thrilled about, but his smile threatened to blind her.

And once the initial embarrassment had somewhat passed, Y/N was honest.

“He was so lovely, Niall. Far too good for me, I mean—God,” she smiled but it’s a little sad.

“Hey,” Niall’s eyebrows pinched, “don’t go there with me, young lady.” He flicked her arm. “Harry wouldn’t have initiated a thing if he didn’t want to. And he left his number, come on.”

And that’s how they’d ended up in a tizzy over calling him. Y/N just couldn’t make herself do it. No matter how sweet, and pretty, and kind he’d been to her. Niall had even offered to do it for her but that had sent humiliating shivers down her spine, imagining it play out. My friend has a crush on you—absolutely not.

The days pass and Y/N works. She eats poorly, often asleep standing by the time she arrives home—and if it is proper food she’s ingesting, it’s something she’s woken up at two a.m. to bake because she’d had a sudden itch to do it. The rest of her time at home is spent cleaning the mess she made whilst baking—which turns into moping with a feather duster in hand. Moping about the best night of her life and how she’ll never get a part two.

Nighttime comes and her fingers don’t feel the same. It feels fruitless to even try. She’s hardly got hands big enough and none of the curling does her any good. It only makes her angry, and that’s the one thing she was always told not to be when going to bed.

She asked Niall not to bring Harry up in conversation again; that it would only make her sad and she’ll just have to get over it. Over him—or over whatever he could’ve become.

So the last person Y/N assumes is at her door when she hears knocking, is the very man she’s trying to pretend doesn’t exist. She’s exhausted—been home for no longer than an hour after a long day of answering the phone to far more people than usual, trying to maintain equanimity as she booked meetings in the rapidly filling calendar. Her lunch break had been undeniably cut short—some may argue it was cut out completely—when the computer she was entering sensitive data into decided to crash (without saving) and Y/N had to compose herself in the toilet so she didn’t stain inky droplets all over her desk.

She was hungry, and tired, and sad, and—above all else—overwhelmed. Y/N’s not sure the last time in her life when she wasn’t, and it really builds up in a person. It’s near impressive that she’s even still running. If Y/N were a computer, much like the one at work, she would have crashed years ago. And point blank refused to turn back on again.

It’s unsettling, to say the least, when she hears that knocking. Because who could possibly be at her door right now? It’s too late for it to be the postman, Niall is still working—and that is literally all the people she knows.

In a panicked rush, Y/N scrambles to answer it, too startled to check her appearance or wipe the panda circles from around her eyes. It feels like everything happens in slow motion, from the door opening to reveal the man standing behind it—to the unveiling of his gentle smile and kind eyes. Y/N is half-inclined to slam it shut in his face with an affronted squeal.

She doesn’t quite squeal, but a noise is certainly made. One of terror, Harry might believe, as her eyes widen and flit around his face in a frenzy. The flowers in his hand are only just noticed, and she pauses on them for a moment, an expression of disbelief passing over her features before they become chaotic once again.

“Harry! I—” Y/N pastes a hand to her cheek in bewilderment, heart sinking at the sight of the man’s eyebrows kinking, migrating towards the centre. Then she trails further down, sees him still clad in his suit—crisp navy pressed to perfection. It’s jarring the way her brain switches from awkward to lewd for a split second, until she looks away with shame.

“Darlin’, are you alright?” He steps forward, hand reaching out. “You’re not going to faint, are you?” His voice is light and Y/N wants to laugh because what a ridiculous suggestion, of course she’s not going to faint! but she’s not so sure she believes it.

“No, no, I’m okay,” she lies.

“Let’s sit you down. Can I come in?”

Y/N swallows, exhaling as she looks up at him, before nodding slightly and stepping to the side to allow him room. Harry barely stops to assess his surroundings—only guides her to where he’s been before—her sofa feeling like the softest of clouds in this moment, while her heart is racing and her skin is tingling. He stays remarkably calm and light on his feet, whisking himself away to do God knows what but Y/N is hardly concerned. All she can think about is the fact that he’s here, and she’s a catastrophe, and she has not prepared for this. She has NOT prepared for this.

Harry finds the kitchen, near tripping over his feet to turn down the boiling pot of water that’s about to overflow. He throws some pasta in the saucepan—something quick he can fill her tummy with—and digs around for another that he fills with a jar of sauce. Then he’s rifling through cabinets to find a vase for the bouquet in his hand—which is something she apparently does not own, so a jug will do—before filling both that and a glass with water to take back to Y/N.

She looks timid and small—hands fiddling with themselves in her lap as she disassociates whilst staring at her coffee table. Harry places the jug down right where she’s looking and she blinks some. Her lips upturn just a little at the sight of the buttery petals.

“Drink.” Y/N accepts the glass easily, swallowing multitudes. Her face is dewy, a slight sheen of anxiety, and her knees bounce. “Better?” Harry softens his gaze, aware of the tension between his eyes—he knows he can sometimes appear cross without realising.

Y/N nods, rubbing at her nose like a little rabbit, he thinks.

“I’m sorry,” her voice is small, “you’ve been at work, and now you’re here and I’m… I’m a mess,” she tries to laugh but it falls flat.

“Don’t be silly. I’m a big boy, Y/N, you don’t need to apologise.” He’s encouraging as he smiles, rubbing over her knee soothingly. She’s still in her pencil skirt and white shirt—but she looks less like a sexy secretary and more like a sweaty schoolgirl. It’s hardly self-respecting.

Y/N grips the glass like it’s an anchor, altering her train of thought. “Uh… no one has ever… bought me flowers before.”

The smile he gives her is compassionate. A small curve of his lips and the widening of his eyes as if to implore his feelings to display correctly on his face. The way he disagrees with the fact of it—why could that be true? It shouldn’t be true. Everyone deserves flowers.

“There’s sunshine in your smile… yellow tulips, that’s what they mean.” He offers the information with zero insecurity.

Y/N’s face starts to burn, heart fighting to burst through her ribcage. She opens her mouth, and then she closes it. Harry’s watching her so, very intently, eyes crinkling when her hands press into her cheeks as if to will the heat away.

“I don’t know what your favourites are, but I thought you might like those.”

“No…” Y/N shakes her head, “yellow tulips are my favourite flower… definitely.” She chews on her lip to detain the smile threatening to break free.

“Yeah?” His eyes are shining, light reflecting off the sea glass of his irises and unlocking the depths of his spirit. “You gonna let me see your sunshine smile, darlin’?”

She laughs, a bright, bubbly giggle as her palms smother her face. “No!”

“What?” Harry grins. “What’s so funny?”

“Stop talking like that… it’s— I’m… flustered.”

“‘M just talkin’!” He insists, hands holding themself in a surrender.

“You’re being… a lot.”

“Too much?”

“No. It’s just— people don’t talk to me like you do. It’s nice… but I don’t know how to react.”

“Just show me your pretty smile, I think that’s a good place to start.”

She giggles again, eyes full of mirth—trying so desperately to embrace the fire in her cheeks. “Thank you for the flowers, Harry.”

They hold each other’s gaze.

“You’re welcome, Y/N,” his voice is soft.

“Can I— Can I make you dinner?” She starts, desperate to repay him in any way that she can. And then her eyes widen and she springs from the sofa. “Oh shit—”

“It’s okay, I did it, love.”

“What?” 

“I turned the water down and put some pasta in. I’ve got it all sorted.” He touches her elbow, conveying his wish for her to sit back down.

She doesn’t.

“You— Really?”

Harry nods.

“I’m sorry, God, I’m so sorry. You shouldn’t be doing that! I can’t even boil a pan of water properly.”

“Listen to me, Y/N.” His voice hardens a little. Not enough to be scary, or rude, or suggest he has ill intentions. His voice hardens and suddenly Y/N wants to listen to him, just like he said. It’s relieving, almost, the way his words cut through the thick fog inside her skull.

“Sit down, okay?”

She does, eyes wide and nervous.

“You remember what we spoke about last week?”

The look on his face prompts Y/N to answer—to brush past the sex despite it being the first thing she thinks of. “About you being a— a dominant? Or… uh… taking care of… people?”

“Mhm. How would you feel about letting me take care of you?”

And Y/N is shy—it’s been discussed—but she knows she really has to be honest right now. Even if that means embarrassing herself.

“Guilty,” she murmurs.

Harry straightens up some. “Guilty? Now why would you feel like that?”

“Because! You’ve turned up today with—with flowers and you’ve put dinner on and I already want to pay you back. I don’t deserve it, I’ve done nothing to warrant all of this.”

“All of this?” Harry parrots. His eyebrows furrow but he maintains a gentle tone, shifting closer to Y/N and holding his hand out, palm facing up. She places her own on top with the hesitance of a newborn lamb, eyes meeting his. “Darling, I don’t mean to be blunt but… this is not a lot. Flowers are really the bare minimum, and putting pasta in a pot is hardly a back-breaking task. Lovely… relationships, friendships—they’re not transactional, okay?” His thumb drags across the back of her hand.

She’s going to cry.

“You don’t need to pay me back for anything. I’m here because I want to be. And I want to show you that you deserve to be taken care of. Because you do, Y/N. You do deserve it.”

A tear brims over her rapidly filling waterline. “I’m sorry,” she laughs wetly. “I’m just tired.”

Harry nods, “I know,” wiping her cheek. “You just need a little help. And that’s okay.”

“You wanna do all this… and you barely know me… why?” He’s cloudy in front of her eyes, tears obstructing his handsome face.

“I haven’t stopped thinking about you all week. You know that?”

“Okay, sure.” Y/N rubs at her lashes, smearing more mascara around. But she’s smiling a little, at the absurdity of Harry’s words.

He replaces her hands, the soft pads of his thumbs doing an adequate job of preserving her dignity whilst he wipes the smudges away. 

“Mean it. Been distracted at work remembering it all.”

She’s not laughing anymore. No, her skin is tingling now. And her throat squeezes around a swallow.

“But it’s not just about sex. I like you, Y/N. And I want to like you more—get to know you, spend time with you. Is that convincing enough?”

Y/N shakes her head. But Harry sees the glint in her eye. He narrows his own at her.

“No? Are you playing with me? I thought you were a sweet, good girl.”

The skin of her cheeks has never been subjected to so much heat in such little time. It spreads out to her chest, and down her arms. She must be praying to some sort of God to ensure her hands haven’t become sodden yet.

“That’s not fair,” she squirms. “I just… like hearing you talk.”

“Hm, you like hearing me say that I like you, is that it?”

“Maybe,” she looks down. “Never really heard it before.”

“Well, get used to it, love. I want you to become sick of those three words.”

“You don’t even know me.”

Harry just smiles. “Will you let me?”

ㅤㅤ

Y/N is confused. 

Or rather, she is tentative. Anxious, uncertain, disbelieving—waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Harry sits across from her in the café they’ve frequented quite a few times in the last two weeks. His eyes are closed, taking in the first gulp of his coffee as it slinks down his throat and warms his chest, leaving a pleasant trail of heat in its place.

She admires him; something she wishes she could do more without his beady eyes on her and making her feel all embarrassed. He’s pretty—she likes to look at him. Especially when he’s not in his usual suit and slack attire. (Not that her brain doesn’t start to malfunction when he’s embraced by the flattering lines of fabric clutching to the muscles Y/N has had the pleasure of being crowded by but…) The contrast of seeing him comfortable and unfiltered is enough to make her relax too.

Or attempt to relax.

The first time Y/N and Harry came to The Little Snail Café, the former of the two had been nervous. (That is hardly information anyone would pay for.) It was a date as far she had been aware; Harry had explicitly labelled it so. And Y/N hadn’t been on a date since she was with her ex… but their time out was hardly ever impressive enough to warrant any kind of excitement.

Even remembering that she’d had a boyfriend renders every moment spent with him as less and less meaningful. As time spent wasted. He’d never told her her smile was that of sunshine. He’d barely ever told her he liked her.

But Y/N wasn’t thinking about him. Not on that day.

Harry had forced her to let him serve her dinner that evening he’d brought her flowers. Had implored that she change into something comfortable and sternly ordered glue your pretty arse to that sofa, little miss. That had been hard to argue with. Then he’d proceeded to plate up perhaps her first proper meal she’d consumed in a week and ask her about her day.

Y/N had been a little hesitant to admit the extent of her misery but Harry cottoned onto her pause quicker than most would. He was earnest in his sympathy, eyes void of ridicule as she detailed all her misfortunes.

“No wonder you nearly stacked it when I turned up,” he’d joked. “I’m sorry you had a rough day, love.”

It had been nice to have company. A pleasant silence whilst the two filled their stomachs. Y/N had missed it irrevocably—someone to breathe the same air with. 

That had been when Harry asked about taking her somewhere the following day during her lunch break. A quaint place I think you’ll like. It wasn’t far and he’d have her back at work just in time. Y/N found that she trusted his word.

And although she had been worrying about it, as soon as Harry walked through the front doors and into the reception—wearing a chestnut suit that once again clung to him, like thick globules of honey, with his slicked hair that begged to curl onto his forehead in ringlets like that of a piglet’s tail—she had tunnel vision.

Her boss could have come in and fired her on the spot and Y/N wouldn’t have heard a thing. Only the rush of blood in her ears as her pupils expanded to the size of ten pence pieces and her stomach became the home to a dozen butterflies.

Harry had watched her reaction as she’d read the sign above the café—smiled at her bright eyes when she’d told him how cute it was. Had smiled even larger when he took her inside and let her discover the tiny snails etched into the edges of the tables.

“No one else has ever shared my passion for these little guys,” he’d emphasised as they sat down in the corner, sunlight flooding in through the windows and brightening up their irises, making Y/N giggle easily. Harry could tell she wasn’t laughing to make him feel better—or just to flirt—and that only made him try even harder to elicit those sounds from her pretty mouth.

He’d insisted he wanted to get to know her better. So that’s what he did.

Harry learned that Y/N eats far too much sugar, doesn’t sleep enough, and wishes she could have a pet cow. Or that is how he heard the words that exited her mouth. Y/N had only said she usually baked goodies in the dead of night and that videos of little fluffy calves make her cry.

The two never glanced away from one another. It was the kind of chemistry that drew eyes. Subtle glimpses from other customers sipping their warm drinks and cherishing that collective sense of human connection just from witnessing two people so innately into each other. Old couples nudging the other to reminisce on their younger days—workers wiping down tables and feeling a sense of respite during their long day at the unmistakable widening of the woman’s eyes in an attempt to see all of the man before her—to hang onto his every last word.

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-nine.”

“What’s your favourite colour?”

“Pink.”

“Dogs or cats?”

“Dogs.”

Y/N had asked him lots of those questions. And had seemed very content with every answer he gave her. Perhaps apart from that last one. Y/N might have preferred cats but it wasn’t a dealbreaker.

It didn’t last long enough, in her opinion; their date. She had to return to work far too soon for her liking. But Harry paid for her toastie and hot chocolate, much to Y/N’s disarray, and dropped her off with a stroke of his thumb to the back of her hand and a kiss to her cheek.

She’d smiled so much she’d had to bite her lip to tone it down. Receptionists were never that happy.

ㅤㅤ

Their second date had been impromptu. And not really a date. Harry had knocked on her door once again—however this time, Y/N hadn’t jumped out of her skin. In fact, she’d just finished decorating a cake she’d hoped to surprise him with and the shock of his presence was replaced with elation at the coincidence.

The door opened, and before Harry stood a smiling girl with youthful glee painted all over her face. A pleasant difference from the last time. She giggled to herself and instructed he close his eyes as she guided him to her kitchen where the sweet smells were surely giving away any element of surprise. Still, Harry played up to it—feigning shock—(it’s not that he’s a cruel man but Harry remembered things about people and Y/N wasn’t so hard to read).

“Oh! It’s beautiful, darlin’… you made this f’me?”

Y/N nodded, grinning. A proper smile, unabashed and without premeditation. Harry felt its warmth; lucky to receive such a display from someone he’d previously seen so reserved.

The cake was cute; rusticly smothered in vanilla buttercream and decorated with halved strawberries circling the edges (Y/N was not so hard to read) and it tasted heavenly. Harry never believed he was much of a cake person—he’d always much preferred ice cream—but devouring a slice with the knowledge it had been made with care, especially for him, had his taste buds in a sugarcoated frenzy.

Y/N had been so elated to watch Harry enjoy her baking that she’d failed to realise that he had come to her home for a reason. And so had Harry, apparently—a look of epiphany crossing his face as he was placing his plate in the dishwasher. (Y/N had tried to do it for him but Harry had smoothed a large palm over the top of her head and all thoughts just melted away.)

“I wanted to ask you something.”

“Mhm?”

“Weather’s supposed to be nice this weekend. Picnic?”

And Y/N still got flustered, sure, but…

“You came all the way here to ask me that? You have… you have my number, don’t you?”

Harry couldn’t help his smile, tongue stuffing his cheek to attempt to control it. “Yeah, I do. I do. Just wanted to see you. Good job I did too.” He nodded to the cake.

But Y/N was all twinkles. In her eyes, over her face, all the way to her toes. She had half the mind to believe Harry visited her just to garner this reaction; to inflate his ego.

“I won’t be able to take you for lunch tomorrow though, ‘m sorry.”

“Oh… that’s okay,” she smiled. It wasn’t okay. It was world-ending news. What was she supposed to look forward to now?

“Been offloading a lot onto m’assisstant lately—should really give him a break.”

Y/N frowned, “I’m sorry.”

Harry barely let her finish the word. “No. No, I don’t want to hear that.” He moved forward, nudging the back of his index finger under her chin. “Not your fault, is it?” His eyes bored into Y/N’s, stern but imploring her to not worry herself like that. To take the blame for something that was not her fault.

“I’m— I…” Words failed to form, eyelashes brushing her cheeks in repeated blinks.

Harry swept it under the rug. It’s not something he wanted her to get het up about. Another time—he’d thought—another time he’d make sure she understood never to apologise unnecessarily. To feel guilty about him causing an inconvenience just to see her; because God forbid she accepted that she was good enough to be treated with such consideration. Another time. “I’ll come see you the day after though, yeah? I still want you to try the beetroot soup.”

“Idon’tlikebeetroot,” the girl mumbled, lips downturning with the admission.

“What was that, love?”

“I don’t think I like beetroot, Harry.” Her eyes lifted…and there was that guilt once again. Fear that disliking something may cause offence or trouble.

“Have you ever tried it?”

Y/N’s silence was deafening. She smiled shyly up at him, skin tingling with the beginnings of heat—whilst Harry simply shook his head with a playful eye roll before stroking his thumb over her chin. The plush pad met with a soft indentation.

“Have an early night tonight, okay? Get some rest.” The syllables rolled off his tongue like a gentle caress; told her she looked tired in quite possibly the kindest way.

Y/N nodded, focusing all her energy on the feeling of his thumb on her skin.

And when Harry had gone, leaving her heart an overexerted mess of muscle and blood turned flower petals and bubbles, she’d simply looked to the ceiling with a shit-eating grin as she tried to swallow a giggle. There was nothing inside her that was not touched by Harry—and everything transformed from rickety and paint-chipped to sturdy and ornate—embellished down to the finest details.

ㅤㅤ

It had been a joy to wake up on Sunday.

Y/N felt the rays of sun through her curtains warming her sleepy face as her alarm blared—an alarm worth setting despite it being the weekend—and as her consciousness came rushing back to her, the memory of Harry promising to pick her up at eleven had her residual tiredness dancing away like it was performing the quickstep.

Dress weather made Y/N happy. Made her feel pretty and confident and giddy; something quite contradicting considering her skittish personality. And that’s exactly how she felt when she admired her sundress in the mirror of her wardrobe—square neck framing her chest, white fabric bunching around her shoulders in sheer puffs and cinching at her waist to flow into a floaty skirt. She looked sweet; the picturesque vision of a girl about to perch on a blanket under the sun and consume saccharine confections. Y/N pulled the hem between her finger and thumb, exposing the skin of her upper thigh, deep in thought at the fantasy of Harry taking her all in. His own confection.

And he did of course.

Though it didn’t unfold in perhaps the way Y/N had hoped. Which is why they’re called fantasies, she supposed. Because she was still her—despite feeling like a whole new person, she certainly wasn’t.

Harry had knocked on her door at two minutes to eleven, which may have been a problem had Y/N not been ready over an hour earlier than she needed to be. (With another bunch of flowers—white gardenias—“They mean I have a crush on you,” Harry leaned over and whispered as though it was some big secret. Y/N took them with a stifled titter and scurried off to place them in water, dress swishing around her thighs.) His gaze had dripped down her, as respectfully as he could manage when all he wanted was to glide his palms all over. The sight of soft skin contrasted by the sanctity of white cotton—her silky hands carrying a wicker basket (the true vision of a picnic) which Harry had plucked out of her grasp with little hesitation.

As a true gentleman would, he offered Y/N his arm to place her hand; the crook of his elbow providing a safe seat to rest from the weary necessity of holding the weight of her own limbs.

Y/N, however, would only be so lucky to mirror Harry’s formalities—to uphold the stereotype of womanly elegance—as her toe catches on a step down towards his car. Emulating their first night outside of her house, only this time it felt worse. It’s far more embarrassing, Y/N decided, to fall when holding onto the person you’re so enamoured by.

It was hardly a fall—moreso a drag of the foot, a buckle of the knee. But it was still enough to have her gasping and untangling herself from Harry. Harry who had kept her secure without any chuckling or patronising. Had his brows furrowed in concern and his hand to her elbow to steady her. Y/N still ripped herself away, turning so he couldn’t see her.

“Oh my god! Don’t look at me.” She was mortified; as the pair stood halfway down the steps, suspended in a moment.

“Darlin’—” Admittedly, Harry did have to try his hardest not to laugh. Not at her trip but her reaction; the drama! “Darling,” he tried again, “you’re alright.” His hand ghosted over Y/N’s shoulder blades, where fabric met flesh.

“That was—I’m mortified—that was so unattractive!” She barely meant it; was just humiliated as she’d said, but Harry shook his head behind her.

“You’re still very pretty, Y/N. Just a little clumsy. But that’s okay,” he turned her around, “you’ll just have to hold on tighter.” Harry admired the kinks in her brows, expressive in her shame, as he guided her hand back to his arm. “Very pretty.” He’d almost whispered it—not out of a wish that she had not heard but as an attempt to reseal their bubble—their intimate world.

The sun stayed magnificently bright for them.

As though it was watching its light bounce between their eyes; wanted the moment to last as long as it could maintain the warmth; the incandescence.

Harry followed the motions of her hands, fingernails painted in alternating shades of soft green and pastel pink, as Y/N devoured a punnet of strawberries. (She’d brought two.) She was a head-bobber, munching away with the occasional hum as her eyes transfixed onto his knees. 

He was wearing corduroy shorts and a big floaty shirt, unbuttoned to reveal a white top poking out from underneath. Y/N admired his golden skin, the delicate tattoos bracketing his kneecaps, and the dusting of hair covering his lean limbs. It was still a joy to see him so underdressed, the true image of a boy she would take home to her parents.

The two looked symbiotic—two sides of the same coin, or heart, or strawberry—as Y/N offered one to Harry, who took it graciously with a smile and a scrunch of his nose. (Mild hayfever, he’d described it as.) From an outside perspective, they looked established. A relationship that surely began as highschool sweethearts. Enough so to have strangers whispering I’ll bet you a tenner he’s about to propose to her.

But neither registered any sort of outside perspective, they were the only two people that mattered, after all.

“You ought to be careful, love, you’ll get a bad tummy if you eat so much fruit,” Harry prodded, as Y/N opened up the second punnet of strawberries.

“Oh,” she frowned down at them. “My stomach sorta always hurts anyway.” He perturbed her none, eyelashes fluttering as she bit into a picture perfect fruit. Harry hardened his gaze—registering her unbothered tone with concern.

“That’s not… ideal, Y/N.” He was slow, cautious. “Y’shouldn’t be hurting all the time.”

Her eyes rounded out as she looked at him, lips plush as she took another bite. But she just shrugged her shoulders, tastebuds too preoccupied by the blossoming on her tongue. The wind picked up a little, blowing her hair across her face in soft streaks—as though the Earth was wielding a paintbrush, and using her strands as the medium. She whined a little, trying to avoid getting hair in her mouth as she finished the rest of the strawberry. Harry watched with starry eyes—zoned in on her shining skin—as a drop seeped out of the edge of her lips and dribbled down the side of her chin.

He reached over without hesitation, thumb swiping the liquid away, and Harry basked in the subtle widening of Y/N’s eyes as he brought that very thumb to his mouth to coat his tongue. Her fingers scrambled at her face messily, brushing all hair out of her eyes. It felt incredibly humid all of a sudden.

“Hey,” she pouted, refusing to be swept away under Harry’s ruse, “that was my juice.”

And Harry couldn’t help himself. Not when she was setting the scene just perfectly. “Mm, sorry,” he hummed, “d’you want it back?”

Y/N nodded, tongue darting out to wetten her lips.

“Hm?” He prompted.

“Yeah—yes, I do, please.” She swallowed; Harry’s eyes followed the contraction of her throat.

“Come here then,” he tempted. He was already in a very alluring position, elbows bracing his weight as he sprawled across the blanket, knee propped up and easily manoeuvrable. Y/N shuffled on her knees, the short space towards him, setting herself down with her hands placed on her thighs as though he’d instructed her to.

Harry pushed up, hand ghosting along the side of Y/N’s cheek. “What am I going to do with you?” Their breaths mingled, swirling across one another’s face and sinking into their skin. Y/N’s eyelids dropped closed, patiently asking, waiting. He took his time to admire her anticipating face, leaning closer to drape a sigh over her bottom lip.

“Kiss—kiss me,” she exhaled, eyelids twitching—wanting to open. But they didn’t. They stayed shut, stayed waiting, stayed hiding her from the world around them.

Harry smiled and Y/N swore she could feel it. Feel as he leant forward and brushed the tip of his nose down the front of hers. His hand stroked through the hair behind her ear, large digits coaxing her to melt and mollify into his hands, which she did so easily. She parted her lips wider, blindly tilting to try to meet his. Harry let them touch for a second—a press of flesh—before he leant back, nose nudging hers once again.

Y/N expelled a shaky breath, a little whine falling out of her neglected mouth. Her eyebrows kinked and her pretty nails dug into her thighs.

She chose to stay in the dark—from fear that it would be over if she opened her eyes. But that was something she needn’t have worried about. Harry leant back, enough to see out of the corner of his eye and reach for a strawberry.

He resisted the urge to indulge himself, mouth watering at the thought, and instead brought the pointed tip towards Y/N’s eagerly awaiting lips. Harry grazed his nose along her cheekbone, words finding her sensitive ears as he pushed the fruit to touch.

“Bite,” he whispered.

A noise of complaint lodged itself in Y/N’s throat, but she complied regardless, teeth sinking into the strawberry. Its juice coated her tongue and lacquered over her lips, the gooey pulp going down smoothly as she dared to open her mouth for another offering.

But as she did, suddenly the air around her face shifted, and the heat of Harry’s breath ghosted across her once more. Pointed and heavy exhales from his nostrils as she felt his tongue dart out to swipe across her bottom lip. It felt exploratory, leisurely—like he had all the time in the world to get to know her mouth. And it’s not like they hadn’t done this before—kissed—but it felt new, all the same. It had her breath hitching and her body leaning unconsciously into his touch.

Once her bottom lip stopped being enough, Harry pulled it down with the pad of his thumb and unlatched Y/N’s jaw in the process. He opened her up, and she let him completely, sat still on her knees as he played with her. She didn’t feel toyed with really—was still processing being touched in such a way and wondering if it would ever stop feeling so intoxicating. Harry took one final moment to bask in her blind trust; to watch the stillness of her face and feel the gentle (but rapid) breaths fan against his mouth.

And then he kissed her.

He really kissed her.

Y/N’s hmph quickly turned into a muffled mewl, open mouth accepting Harry’s tongue rubbing over hers as though it was her resuscitative medication. The only thing to stabilise her bloodstream, to soothe her fighting heart. He tasted like strawberries. And so did she. Sweet, and wet, and promising. It felt filthy but it felt clean at the same time—renewing and resetting, like running across soft sands to plunge into bracing sea water—Y/N would let him drip juice anywhere he liked, she’d let him feed fruit from his own mouth into hers. She’d let Harry spread her out and do with her as he pleased. Right there. Right then.

And it caught up to her all too quickly, the overwhelming heat of her thoughts. They were in public. But yet she couldn’t possibly entertain pulling away—not when Harry’s mouth engulfed her entirely. It wasn’t a cute kiss, a sweet reminder of affection or endearment. It was a kiss you shielded your child’s eyes away from, or grimaced at from nearby. It was sloppy, and sticky, and mind-numbingly dizzying.

Harry’s lips left syrupy residue wherever they landed—her top lip, her bottom lip, her tongue, her cupid’s bow. Y/N felt poisoned. Drip fed for weeks until Harry deemed the time right as he went in for the kill. She wasn’t sure she was even doing much of the kissing; perhaps she was simply being kissed. She tried to keep up, returned his tongue with her own and let her mouth encase his bottom lip in a frenzied attempt at reciprocation.

But his hands were holding her face, and then they were sliding into her hair, and all Y/N could do was feel.

Feel, and be felt, and—and—

ㅤㅤ

And Y/N is still confused!

She’s drifted away from their cosy table at The Little Snail Café—well physically, she’s right there but mentally… Her eyes are glossed over and she’s still very much contemplating the state of their relationship. Because… that kiss had been nearly a week ago and… well, Y/N doesn’t want to be thought of as some sex pest (she loses her virginity and now she’s clawing at the walls for orgasms) but she always thought—completely aware of her ignorance and unrealistic education—that the role of a dominant was to… fuck the living shit out of someone on the regular.

And even as she’s thinking that, with Harry right in front of her, she feels crude and disrespectful. But he hasn’t so much as hinted that he was going to have sex with her again, and that moment with the strawberries has been going round, and round, and round inside her head for days and nights and it’s driving her insane. Because, as previously established, nothing she can do matches what Harry made her feel, so any attempt at quelling the ache leaves her worse off than before.

“Don’t much like hearing how I feel about squirting, huh?”

Y/N blinks, and physically shakes her head as if to wake herself up. “Sorry?”

Harry sips from his mug, smiling. “Joke, love.”

“How uh—” she clears her throat, “How do you feel?”

“Hm… messy, but hot.”

She nods—perhaps a confusing reaction to such a sentence. Most people would probably quip back something flirtatious or coy. But Y/N just nods.

“What’re you thinking about in there?”

“Um… I was just wondering when— when you were gonna kiss me… again…”

“Y’are, are you? How uncouth.”

“Well— I just… When you said you were,” she leans forward, volume dropping considerably, “a dominant… I just thought… something different would be happening.” And then she starts to spiral. “Not in a— not because this is… this is great. I mean—”

“Settle down, darlin’, it’s okay.” Harry sighs, scratching the top of his head with a thoughtful expression on his lovely face. “‘s my fault, really. I haven’t explained much to you. And I have no doubt you are basing all of your facts on poor media portrayal.” Y/N scrunches her nose in a silent show of guilt. “It’s not just about sex,” he starts. “It is for some people, but for you I don’t think it is. And I’ve been slow, and cautious in fear of overwhelming you, and it’s resulted in probably a couple confusing weeks for you. So, I’m sorry.

“The whole point is for you not to worry, and you’re still doing that because I’m not doing my job properly, but I was worried you might change your mind so I held off. You can still change your mind, by the way.” Y/N shakes her head. Harry continues. “I’ll take you home now, if you like, give you the whoooole run through. Does that sound good?” Y/N nods. “And you’ll tell me if it’s too much, won’t you?”

“Yes, Harry. I will.”

“Can I take you to my home? Cook you dinner?” He asks, staring at the way Y/N’s head lays heavy against the headrest and her limbs are leaden, as she relaxes into his car.

She nods, lips quirking upwards with intrigue. At the blanks in her mind that will be filled. What to imagine when he’s in bed, when he’s watching TV, or eating… or… showering. “Can I help?”

Harry pretends to consider it. “We’ll see.”

ㅤㅤ

Harry’s house is… not what Y/N expects it to be.

Well, it is in some ways.

It’s large, and it’s expensive, and it’s astronomically grand. But it’s… it’s characterless. It lacks personality—and Harry Styles does not lack personality. Harry Styles is charming, and intelligent, and beautiful. But his house is stark white. There is no indication that his house is not a show home. It’s untouched, unlived in, unloved. And Y/N wasn’t expecting that.

“It’s too big, I know,” Harry gestures to the air around them as he watches Y/N take it all in.

“Not at all! No… it’s so beautiful, Harry.” And it is, it really is. She’s not lying. How can she lie when she’s staring at such a grand staircase? When the windows are so large, and bright that the space is nearly sparkling. And the garden she sees through the other side is blooming trees and unkempt flowers and just begging to be loved.

But as beautiful as it is, it’s still just… white.

He guides her through to the kitchen which…

“Woah,” Y/N admires, “you could make so many cakes in here.” She laughs and Harry grins just at the sight.

It’s true, there’s enough counter space to house at least ten separate mixing bowls. Impressively clean considering the observed shades of white. But there are signs of life in here—photos on the fridge, (one that catches her eye of two women that absolutely have to share his genes) post-it notes huddled around a pot of pens, a basket of cleaning products, a vase of flowers in the middle of the island. A comforting sight to see a little bit of the inside of Harry’s brain.

“They’re very pretty,” Y/N points at the photo on his fridge with a hesitancy that suggests she’s expecting him to berate her for being nosy.

“Mum’ll love that,” he laughs. “That’s her,” Harry points to the woman on the left, adorning sunglasses and a bright smile, and then to the right, “and m’sister, Gemma.”

“You look like each other.”

“Yeah? Y’think so?”

Harry shines when he speaks about his loved ones. Is so happy to talk about the photo of his father, his step-dad, his mum’s cat, the younger Harry surrounded by other young boys (“My mate Jonny, he was stoned as fuck in this picture. Had no idea.” His eyes crinkle around the edges and Y/N can only think about how beautiful those lines look).

Then he moves over to the island and tugs out a stool. “Come sit,” he pats.

He doesn’t let her help him cook—insists that she stay right where she is and carry on looking at him like that.

“Like what?” Y/N pretends she’s not shy about being caught.

“With those gooey eyes.”

“Gooey?”

“Mhm. You look one moment away from melting into the counter.”

“I do not,” she scoffs.

“It’s okay, I like it.”

ㅤㅤ

Harry owns the fluffiest rug in the history of the universe, Y/N is sure.

Obnoxiously cream in comparison to the rest of the colour palette. And in defence of Harry, the walls of his living room are painted a warm beige and his vast, velvet sofa is a deep forest green. The main attraction remains the rug, however. Long and shaggy and absolutely imperative to lie upon.

Y/N withholds the urge, but she stares pointedly and longingly towards it for too long to be considered a passing gaze.

“You can touch it if you want.”

“Hm?” 

“The rug… that you’re eyefucking.”

“I—” she blanches, “It looks so soft.”

Harry makes the first move, blue jeans creasing at the knees as he crouches down. He pushes his palms into the strands and watches as they’re swallowed up into the depths of the faux-fur. Y/N hesitates, looking down at him on his hands and knees and wondering if it would be inappropriate to join him. But when he leans back, hands bracing himself behind him so he can lounge—mirroring the position of the day they had their picnic far too much—Y/N caves and drops to her own knees.

It’s sensory heaven—quite frankly—and Y/N knows immediately that she could get lost stroking this sole rug for hours. Harry watches her with an informed smile as she drags her fingers back and forth through the threads, already lost in a little world of her own.

“G’na have a mature and adult conversion now, alright, love?”

Y/N nods.

“Are you going to be able to listen and finger my rug at the same time?”

She narrows her eyes at him, adjusting from kneeling to crossing her legs. “I’m not finger—” she swallows. “Yes, I believe so.”

ㅤㅤ

“—I would encourage you to eat, go to bed at a certain time, turn your phone off. And I would want you to listen to me—not to argue, to trust that I know best.” That sounds easy, Y/N thinks. “I would want you to raise concerns in a polite manner—I don’t think it’s ever necessary to shout. And it would be important to me that you are always honest about the way you are feeling. No trying to make me feel better or pushing it down, okay?”

Y/N had feared it may be complicated, from the way Harry had suggested—had put off having this conversation for so long. But his commanding voice, and intense eyes make her feel so safe, and incredibly mellow. New feelings for Y/N. She nods.

“And when it comes to sex… trust is the most important thing. I don’t want to be doing anything we haven’t discussed, and I certainly don’t want you to make yourself uncomfortable in an attempt to please me. Now I know you may not be experienced with a lot of the things that are involved in these kinds of relationships but would you be interested in learning… with me? What you like and dislike?”

“Yes.”

“How are you feeling now? Good?” When Y/N nods once more, Harry gets to his feet. His voice slicks down her spine when he drawls, “Come here then. And kneel.”

Whilst Harry had been speaking, Y/N can’t deny the fact that her insides had started stirring around in anticipation. But now, as he commands her to station herself so far below him in stature, the silly little brain inside her skull begins to melt into mush. She crawls the short distance towards him until her eyes are level with the tops of his knees, and she just waits, sneaking a glance up to see Harry towering above her with a subtle quirk of his lip.

He brings a hand up slowly, warm palm ghosting the heat of her cheek and smoothing over her head in a comforting stroke. “I want you to call me Sir. T’help you slip quicker. You wanna be all nice ‘n’ mellow? Forget about all your stress?”

“Yes… Sir.” It comes out as little more than a squeak.

Harry chuckles, “You’re so good.” Y/N quite nearly beams up at him, insides swarming. “You like that? You like when I praise you?”

“Mhm,” she nods.

“Well it’s just so easy for me, darlin’. Because you’re so lovely.”

She closes her eyes, bottom lip nibbled to hide the giddy smile that overtakes her. Harry’s hand in her hair, scratching and smoothing, is already doing enough to make her eyelids heavy. But she supposes sleep is not the end goal.

“Your first time,” Harry starts. “Did you enjoy it?”

What? “Yes—yes Sir, of course.”

“What would you change about it?”

“N-nothing! It was perfect.”

He hums, nails dragging soothing lines into her scalp. “Which part?” Y/N opens her mouth but Harry keeps speaking. “When I fucked you open with my fingers? Got you nice and stretched for me—had your little pussy just quivering and begging me to fill her up?” He fists a more substantial amount of her hair. “Or maybe when I finally got my cock inside of you, and you were so happy. Squirming underneath me like a wet dream.”

Y/N can’t help but grab for his thighs, nails trying to dig in.

“Hands in your lap, darlin’.”

She pulls away regretfully.

“Was it when I fucked up into you, hard enough to force all those pretty sounds out? Or when I stretched over you and held your hands above your head? Had your body arching for me.”

Y/N is on fire. She must be. Her body is aflame and her insides have melted.

“I think…” Harry bends over some, trying to catch the eyes of the girl who is fighting every feeling. Her eyelids are shut, concealing the windows to her soul, and her brows are knitted together so tightly that she might induce a migraine. He smooths them out with a thumb before stroking over the delicate skin of her lids. “I think—look at me, darling—I think… it was when I had your stomach pressed into the mattress and a hand around your throat,” thick fingers squeeze her cheeks together with care, “and all you could do was lie there and take it. As I fucked you for the first time, just like you deserve. 

“And after you came around me for the third time, I flipped you over so I could see your pretty face, and I came between your soft thighs, didn’t I, love? Did you want it inside of you? Warm, and sticky, and all because of you? Is that what you’d change?”

Y/N doesn’t actually think he would have come inside of her—he’d worn a condom, after all—but if the thought doesn’t have her thighs squeezing… “Wouldn't change,” she shakes her head. “Liked having you— liked it on…”

“Mm, I think you’d say that about everything. What do you know, after all?”

He’s right, and she hates the way his condescension has her wilting even further into the palm of his hand. 

Y/N leans her face into Harry’s hand as he begins tracing over her features with a curious thumb, dedicating every line and mark to his memory. Then he’s crouching down with a little exhale and securing his hands under her armpits to pull her up with miniscule preamble. Y/N gasps, and her hands shoot out instinctively whilst Harry is lifting her up to his height. She grabs his shoulders and wraps her legs around his waist using muscle memory she didn’t realise she had.

Her knees sink into the rich green of his sofa as Harry sits down, gently encouraging her hands down from his shoulders and behind her back. A buzz zips through her chest from the feel of his warm body underneath her. Warm, and strong, and solid.

“Wanna hold these here, okay?”

“Yes, Sir.”

Harry’s tongue darts out to wet his rose-tinted lips. “Gonna be a little rough with you. If you want to stop, you say Red. If you want to slow down—take a break—you say Yellow. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Good,” he says, eyes trailing down her neck, deciding what to do, “good,” repeated solely to himself.

Y/N feels the frustration of choosing to put on jeans this morning, mind spiralling at the thought of being on top of Harry with just a skirt to hide her modesty. Just a skirt that would so easily be slipped underneath by his hands, and then her underwear…

But Harry seems less concerned. His gaze is transfixed to her chest; to the intricate lace of her camisole, that—in contrast to her jeans—provides very easy access. Y/N’s breathing picks up at the very thought, ribs expanding and only drawing his eyes further. She’s tugged forward by a hand on her hip, searing through the fabric, and the other holding her hands. Tugged until Harry is resting his forehead on her sternum and inhaling deeply.

Her lungs are working at an extreme rate, and more of his nose presses into her with every breath. Y/N is so close to his hair in this position—just has to bend her face down a little and his musky scent fills her nostrils. It seems they both have similar ideas—breathing one another in—but Harry seems far more relaxed than the near shaking girl on top of him.

It only gets worse for her when he pushes his lips against the valley of her breasts—small, tender kisses that have Y/N’s breath hitching. The straps of her camisole want to fall down her shoulders in angelic swoops but her cardigan prohibits all movement. Suddenly it’s the heaviest and warmest piece of clothing she’s ever worn.

“Har—Sir,” she breathes, head tilting back on her shoulders. The caress of his breath on her body is immobilising, and he seems content in moving at a snail’s pace for his own enjoyment. Whether he gets the message or not is unclear, but regardless, Harry lets go of her hands just long enough to shuck the chunky cardigan down her arms and discard it beside them.

As soon as he tightens his grip around her wrists once again, the strain of her arms has her camisole straps slipping down the curves of her shoulders, like a waterfall of silk. The fabric is so light and thin that it pools underneath her breasts—the crooks of her elbows the only things keeping the straps suspended. And Harry’s immediate response suggests he’s somewhat of a starved individual, teeth digging into the top of the left cup of her bra and tugging it down with haste.

He takes her nipple into his mouth and Y/N is all gasps and bucks. The sensitivity of her skin and the rough suction of his lips, the flicking of his tongue and the grazing of his teeth. It’s deafening; the blood rushing in Y/N’s head, it’s near predisposing. The spit, and the hot exhales from his nose against her chest, the indentations his teeth leave behind when he pulls away to admire the wetness of her breast. But he goes back in—bites at her flesh—chews, and laves, and consumes her entirely.

Y/N’s cunt is pulsating. She is wet, and fervently hot, and the subtle rocking of her hips is ceased by a large palm over hip, which has her whining into the air.

“Stay still f’me,” he slurs into her skin, desperate fingers pulling her bra down further and watching to make sure it stays, before he starts on the other side of her chest. Her wrists are encircled behind her back, and Harry pushes her forward—into his mouth, as if he’s not already practically eating her. And maybe she can try her hardest not to squirm but all that energy has to go somewhere, and she’s panting now—whimpering all these sounds that she’s never heard herself make before—and Harry can surely feel the vigorous inflation and deflation of her lungs.

“Oh—oh, H—Sir, please.”

Please what? Stop? No. Keep torturing her breasts? Also no.

Harry hums against her, long and unwilling as his mouth leaves her with a wet smack. He admires her skin, eyes flitting up to see the dazed girl atop him.

“Don’t like it?” He puffs, inhaling deeply, beginning to dance a hand around her ribs.

“I do, I do,” Y/N breathes, eyes still closed. “Too h-hot.”

Harry frowns though she can’t see, before he’s unclasping her bra and pulling her camisole over her head—standing her up on jelly legs and pulling her jeans down. Sat on his lap once again, he tightens his grip around her wrists and curls his fingers around her throat.

“Can feel your heat, baby,” he looks down to where her clothed cunt rests just before his bulge. His still very clothed bulge. “Give me a kiss.” And she still feels exceptionally inexperienced in the whole department but her body surges forward, urged by the pressure against her pulse, as her lips meet his shiny ones. 

This time, when Y/N’s hips start moving on their own accord, Harry doesn’t stop her—tugs her closer in fact. Right on top of where he’s warm, and hard. Their mouths part a centimetre, just enough to pant into one another at the feeling. Of his hand squeezing her throat, and pushing her arms into her back. Y/N doesn’t even notice when he lets go of her wrists—never daring to move them—as his palm comes down in an experimental slap to her arse. 

It’s light; enough to not hurt but suggest his intentions. And when Y/N gasps and twitches on top of him, he gets the idea. “Is that nice?”

“Yes.”

“You like that?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Sir, yes Sir,” she whimpers into his mouth, lips pasting to his cupid’s bow and falling away when he does it again. Hard enough to leave a tingle that spreads out to her centre and up her stomach.

“Unzip my trousers.” 

There’s no hesitation, both his palms are holding her ass now, desperate to spread them apart but damned by the confines of her underwear. Y/N shakes a little but does what he says, exposing the hot pink of his boxers underneath—and the thick outline of his cock.

“Take me out, go on.” She meets his eyes—blown out and transfixed, mirroring her very own. “Take me out, Y/N,” he whispers, leaning closer to lick a stripe up the column of her throat, and then an open-mouthed kiss to her chin, and her mouth.

He’s heavy in her hand, and intimidatingly big. How did she ever fit this inside of her? But she feels the instinct to make him feel good. This was the one area she had experience in, afterall. The skin is so soft and all she has to do is spit down and watch as it drips from his head along his shaft. But Harry takes her hand instead and laves his tongue along her palm before guiding her down to wrap around him.

His breath hitches; their eyes don’t stray from one another’s. He holds her hand over him and starts to drag it up and down, his blinking lagging a little from the feel of her delicate fingers wriggling underneath his palm. It’s intense, and paralysingly slow—every second spent watching his face feels like sixty—and when she looks down, she feels herself clench around nothing at the sight of her smaller hand wrapped in his, and the way his cock looks between them. Red, and thick, and wet.

It must show on her face because Harry’s unwrapping her hand and reaching forward to press his fingers into the front of her underwear. “Put me in.”

“What? B-but I’m not… and you’re so…”

He nods, “I know. You can do it,” as he awkwardly fumbles for his wallet from his back pocket. Y/N’s heart jumps when he rips the condom open with his teeth—a true teenage fantasy—and slides it on with a swallowed grunt.

He tugs her gusset to the side, breaking strings of arousal and basking in the twitch of Y/N’s hips. She clumsily hovers over him, embarrassed as she holds onto his base. As she lowers down, Harry’s thumb finds her clit—swollen and hypersensitive—and she squeezes him reflexively. He groans, low and vibrating, content to roll her under his digit cruelly—distracting her from the attempt at swallowing him with composure.

Y/N whines as the thick head squeezes inside her tight hole, mouth ajar and eyes half-focused on the man who brings his shining thumb to his mouth and makes a show of relishing in the taste of her arousal.

“F-fuck,” the words force their way out of her shining mouth.

Harry rears a hand back and slaps her ass, harder than the other times, fingers staying on the skin to dig in and pull. “Don’t swear.” And Y/N doesn’t think he’s usually adverse to it but she’ll do whatever he asks of her right now.

“S-sorry, Sir,” she moans out as Harry sinks deeper and deeper inside. Maybe he should’ve stretched her out first but God if it isn’t the most blissful discomfort. That initial entrance—knowing what her body is accommodating for and how far he reaches inside of her most private place.

As soon as she’s seated on him, completely and utterly full, Harry confines her wrists once again as he sits up and encourages Y/N to lean into him. Her breasts squish into his shirt. His shirt. That he is still wearing. “Come on, baby. Tire yourself out.”

Exhaustion is already seeping into her bones but Harry’s voice croons into her ears so tenderly—it coats her skin in a sheen of glitter and pumps sparkling wine through her veins. She makes every effort in lifting up and sinking back down—in, albeit, slow and wobbly movements—but the concentration on her face is like a drug to Harry. It has him thumbing over her nipple and taking it into his mouth again, which only has Y/N stuttering and inevitably stopping. She pants, and wiggles, and whines, enough so to have Harry placing both palms underneath the seam of her underwear and gripping her bum like he’d wanted.

He squeezes and stretches to his heart’s desire, mouth still firmly attached to her breast, but his strong hold aiding Y/N in moving once more. She’s lifted up and down, and up and down—slow enough to feel every ridge of him opening her walls.

“M-my legs hurt. Sir.” Y/N wishes she were a gym fiend as she admits it.

“Do they, love?” He pulls back from her chest, discontent to stop nibbling her skin raw but her voice is oh, so fragile. He’ll take care of her like he promises all the time. “Lean your head on my shoulder—keep your arms where they are.”

When she doesn’t immediately listen, and looks up to his eyes with a silently begging expression, he cocks his eyebrow. “Can I f-feel you? Your skin, please, Sir.” He’d left his clothes on, somewhat intentionally, but he doesn’t feel so mean in this moment. A nod is all the encouragement she needs, as Y/N unbuttons his shirt with clumsy fingers, and pushes it off his shoulder to rest her cheek upon. Her arms go back behind her and her nose moves forward to press into his neck deliciously. He smells of allure.

Harry can’t help himself when he tears her underwear from her body. She’s too soft, and warm, and wet to simply entertain the idea of pulling out of her. And from the noise she makes—a surprised squeak but no beratement—and the clench around his cock, he can only assume she likes it. Likes the desperation, or the display of strength, or his pure animal brain—it doesn’t matter. Because Harry’s kneading her ass in heavy handfuls, and moving her faster and faster, and Y/N is flooding his neck in her warm, tight pants—sweet whines falling out of her mouth.

“Beg me to come,” he grunts, granting Y/N no kind of warning before his fingers dig in harder and his hips slam into her at a speed that has her lungs forcing out high-pitched squeals. The sounds are nasty, unmistakable and unexplainable. The slap of skin, the wetness between her thighs, the noises that leave both their lips. It’s raw, and scaldingly hot, and— and… she needs to rub her clit.

“I— Sir, I can’t—”

“No?” His thrusts don’t falter, not even once. She’s on her back in a second, and her wrists are trapped underneath her. He makes no move to readjust them, only stretches her knee to the side so it pushes into the back of the sofa before grabbing a throw pillow and stuffing it under her hips. “Come on, beg me, little doll,” his hand spans across her mound, thumb meeting her clit in a back-arching press. This, has her cunt tightening—pulsating, contracting, strangling his cock. And with the pillow angling her just right, Harry can feel himself underneath his palm; it drives him batty.

He fucks her into the sofa, hard and unrelenting, leaning over her to chew on her tits once more. It’s sweaty, and messy, and that only makes it hotter. “Beg, Y/N.” His thumb rubs faster, expelling the choked up cry from her throat. She’s so close, is writhing underneath him—fighting the rolling of her eyes into the back of her skull.

“Please! S-sir, I—”

“That’s it. Good girl letting me fuck you—your sopping cunt, baby. Beg better than that, come on.”

His words send her spiralling, orgasm racing up on her and she panics that she won’t be given permission before it happens. “Oh my god! Oh, pleasepleaseplease, Harry!— Sir, please l-let me, please.” It’s adorable, Harry finds, her minimisation of the English dictionary when she’s so bent out of shape. Her pleading is less begging and more repetition, but he’ll let it slide.

He’ll let it slide as he presses his thumb harder and leans back to watch as he murmurs something akin to the value of diamond. “Come. Fucking come f’me, darlin’. Look at you.”

Y/N can’t hear anything. Not now. All she needed was that first word of permission and she’s seeing stars. Spasming around him so tight that Harry’s own moans started flowing out, pace increasing as he rolls her clit under his thumb. “Fuuuck, there you are. Keep squeezing like that, there’s a good girl.”

It takes her a while to come down from, no surprise considering Harry is still pounding into her, and her whimpers echo his moans—desperate and unabashed, his lips red and brows tight. He looks so handsome. So beautiful above her with his flushed skin and his flexing muscles, unbuttoned shirt floating around him. Y/N’s not sure she’s ever felt so peaceful, in a dreamlike state in all her vulnerability. And she keeps contracting around him, like he asks—because when he groans like that, she’d have to be a sadist not to—and as his moans build up in pitch, and his eyes meet hers in frenzied pleasure, she’s sure she wants him to come more than she’s ever wanted her own orgasm in her life.

Harry surges forward, smearing his lips all over Y/N’s mouth. It’s messy, and uncoordinated, and his tongue is slicking her skin. But it’s the hottest kiss she’s ever had. And it feels so good when his groans hit a crescendo, and his hips stutter, and Y/N can feel the warmth of his spurts inside the condom. She whimpers against his open mouth, arms losing all feeling behind her back, but she doesn’t care because his eyelashes are brushing against her cheek and it’s the most intimate thing she’s ever felt.

They’re lethargic, Harry’s movements, and he’d like to be much more alert but his body is tingling and Y/N is looking up at him so trustingly—he wonders if she’s fallen into a stupor.

“Th-thank you, Sir.”

He strokes her hip bones, pulling out with a soft hiss. Y/N whines a little at the sensitivity.

“You can call me Harry again now, if you like, darlin’.” He leans down to kiss her forehead, consuming palms holding her cheeks.

She’s not really listening. “Mm, feels… feel kinda drunk.” She smiles, nose turning into his thumb. Harry gives her another kiss and pulls away, to knot the condom and collect her clothes. Minus the pair of panties that are no longer wearable. He doesn’t feel even an ounce of guilt.

He’ll make her some food, watch as she eats it with her eyes begging to close, and then let her sleep in his bed—hoping she’ll want him to stay.

Little does he know that Y/N will wake up in the middle of the night to raid his kitchen in a matter of ways that Harry will reprimand her for. 

But for right now, he’ll keep her as happy as he possibly can.

#harry styles #harry styles one shots #harry styles x reader #harry styles smut #harry styles imagines #mutually beneficial #writing #domrry #dom!harry #fanfiction

[cherry-titz]

HI GUYS @cherryjuiceblues here ! oof, this took me longer than i anticipated to finish, and for that i am sorry, friends! this is my installment to mine and @1800titz first collab :D if you haven't already read part one, written by titz herself, then you can do so here !!

some warnings before you read! following on from part one, this is dark harry. some very dark themes going on. and once again, as miss titz previously stated, harry is simply a faceclaim here. there is absolutely no intention to associate the real harry with this fictitious one !!

content warnings include: dom/sub themes, exhibitionism, light spanking/impact play, choking, name-calling, degradation, praise, threats of intending to cause harm (hitchhikerry is not a good man at all). generally, he's a bit meaner in this one!

word count is just under 11k (both of us had aimed to write a short and snappy 6-7k each but here we are LMAO) !! ENJOY :D

This bathroom is filthy. The slanted mirror swirls a little, in a thick, hypnotic puddle, as Y/N stares at the smeared reflection before her.

A new low, perhaps—this night, for Y/N (only competing with one other evening that springs to mind). In an unloved bar, in a dingy bathroom, fingers digging into grimy porcelain that no amount of suds from the muddy bar of soap could clean. (And, really—whose idea was it to have bars of soap in a public place?) Clenching digits in an attempt to wake up some from the wave of paranoia that skittered across her skin in the public eye of the bar.

Y/N swears her pupils fluctuate as she grounds herself in them. Recollects herself in this pigsty of an establishment. Forces some of the alcohol to evaporate off of her in waves as she sobers up to the thought of piss-stained tiles and sticky toilet seats.

Y/N doesn’t drink alone.

But she didn’t do hitchhikers either and look where that got her.

In a shithole—that’s where. In a shithole, on her lonesome, on a Monday night of all nights. Argued to be the worst day of the week to wake up, go to school, work—and most relevantly—get drunk. But she’d considered it important to force herself out—to maintain control over her actions whether they be sensible or not. It was rather unimportant to Y/N what day of the week it was. They’d sort of all merged into one since receiving the phone call—every day reduced to the same thoughts tick, tick, ticking inside of her head. Hours spent ping-ponging back and forth over every moment in which her life could have ended inside of that car.

She’d tried since; to phone him back. Each time met with the denying wall of a payphone. Y/N almost grew comforted by that failure—that safety of knowing no one would ever answer—until rationality kicked in and she blocked the number. A small, tiny ounce of power to hold.

And there’s a part of her, still, that doesn’t quite believe it. That surely friendly Harry—adorned in his soft sweatshirt, with his dimpled cheeks and yellow nails—could have only been laughing with his friends, all huddled around his phone that blasted on speaker, at the successful spooking of an unassuming girl. Despite the fact of all the evidence stacking up against him—that she’d heard only his breaths, only his voice, and the undeniable dead of night surrounding him. She needn’t even ponder over the possibility to accept it—lone stranger on the side of the road, in the dead of night, sleeping at a motel, so eager to manhandle and encourage Y/N’s struggle—

The door clatters, and then a body pushes it open, the heavy wood resisting some and disguising Y/N’s flinch at the sudden intrusion. She clears her throat, turning the tap on and pretending to wash her hands as she meets the eyes of a woman in the mirror, a small weak smile upturning Y/N’s lips, before she disappears inside a cubicle.

She’s retraced every single moment of that night. Looking back with shame and humiliation. Because (and it’s pointless to waste even a second on it now but) how silly—how stupid—does someone have to be; how lacking in common sense or respect for one’s self, to pick up a stranger on the side of the road. Harry was right to scold her over the phone, no matter the irony of it all. She might as well have served herself up on a platter for him to take. So easy, he’d said. 

So easy it hadn’t been fun, is all Y/N can assume.

The broken seal of the door reminds her of the outside world, shaking her head—an attempt to rattle her thoughts into submission, to collect herself and focus on the surface level image of her reflection. To remember the facts. That she looks pretty. Pretty and put-together—and ready to drown more of her sorrows in another cocktail mixed with her chosen spirit.

It’s as quiet as it was before Y/N slipped into the bathroom, a handful of lonely men scattered on opposite ends of the bar—the occasional group huddled around a table—or a couple sprawled against a sofa. The wall-mounted television has been switched on, subtitles an obnoxious fluorescent yellow as the news captures the attention of few desolate drinkers. Y/N doesn’t notice the extra body occupying a high-top table nearest to the bar, her back turned towards them, as she makes herself (comfortable would be an exaggeration) settled once again on a rickety, wooden stool.

She doesn’t notice. Not until she orders a Cosmopolitan and twists her clutch onto her lap, opening the zipper’s teeth, fingers pinching the familiar edge of her card just enough for it to peek past the confines, and is hastily denied by the bartender. He shakes his head, hands busy as he mixes her drink, nodding in some direction behind her as he says, “Gentleman over there paid for it.”

And that… that can’t be right. Gentle and man are two respected words in their own right but together? Y/N’s spine straightens and her muscles tighten. There’s no way she could know, but somehow she does—shutting her eyes, expelling a breath in preparation—as she twists around on her stool to see the man who she invited into her sedan all those days ago. There was nothing gentle about that night.

Or so she found out.

And he looks… the same. Of course he does.

Same chocolate-swirled curls brushing against the unperturbed smoothness of his forehead. Same strong line of his nose, same hard clench of his jaw dusted in scruff that she’d let him brush against her face as they’d kissed. Same plush lips that purse around the rim of a tumbler, cheekbones sharp as he tips his head back enough to allow the cool liquid to slick down his throat. Same rough, sinewy fingers—the subdued yellow of his nails (so far along the spectrum from the blinding fluorescence of the television subtitles) now chipped in a way that suggests it’s fashionable as opposed to scruffy.

All the same features and yet Y/N can’t help but picture them in a new, scathing light—those soft tendrils matted with thick, dark blood, splatters dripping down his temple and beading at his chin. Blush-tinted lips curled up in a sinister, satisfied smile—chilling enough to slow the blood in Y/N’s veins—and those hands; his fingers that had previously delivered so much pleasure, wrapping around the handle of a sharpened blade with the intent to inflict more than she could have bargained for—no sunshine yellow in sight. 

And the morbid image is hardly helped by the baggy garments that swallow his limbs, grey sweats and black hoodie selling one of two different visuals. Either that of a cosy boyfriend or a looming presence on a dimly lit street, late at night. Y/N’s brain opts for the latter.

Harry meets Y/N’s gaze with confidence—if he is surprised, or displeased, or worried by her presence then it shows none on his face. She watches the tick of his throat as he swallows the remainder of what looks like whiskey, before carelessly sliding the glass across the table in which he is slouching away from with arrogance, to meet its other empty friend as they clink together. His posture suggests complete ease—the sort of position you would take on a deep-set sofa—an ankle slung across a knee, an elbow propped behind you. Perhaps the type of arrogance only the person who had admitted their desire to murder you could have.

She blinks at him, unable to startle back around in fear. Not in order to preserve any sort of upper hand—but from a complete lack of said immediate panic; that fight or flight response. She blinks as she sees the screen of her phone behind her eyelids; as she sees every unanswered call she dialled to that payphone. The ringing in her ear as she waited, and waited, and waited.

The reminiscence, the amusement in his tone—that switched as though controlled by one—to disappointment and disdain, to deliver a warning with such severity that only left Y/N with more questions. Why wait an entire week to call? Why tell her about his intention? How many times had he killed before? Why didn’t he kill her?

“—Police have found what they believe to be the body of twenty-five-year-old Ruby Wilcox…” Y/N doesn’t know why this specific statement is deemed salient enough to shove it’s way past all the other droning noise and embed itself deep within her head—but it is. As though Ruby Wilcox is her own name, Y/N feels a pit of dread churning around inside of her stomach, twisting and turning in a true derivation of discomfort, as she peers around to acknowledge that she’s heard correctly, skimming the subtitles with grave trepidation. The journalist goes on, “...reported missing six days ago…” but Y/N already feels as though she’s heard the story.

She turns back towards Harry, unsure as to why it feels necessary to do so—the moment their eyes met the first time, she should have bolted. Harry’s already looking at her, as though his eyes have never trailed away, and it’s telling—the quirk of his lips. The way his tongue darts out to wet them and he can’t contain the small bracket that they form into.

His left eye flutters closed in a wink as new droning voices of monotonous news presenters burrow deeper and deeper into Y/N’s skin. The fear is undeniable. It aches deep inside the marrow of her bones; a lingering, languishing throbbing that can only be attributed to embedded dread. But if Y/N can’t deny that she hasn’t run for the hills then she also can’t deny the way the fear dances atop her skin like little bolts of lightning. Displacing the panic with a desperate flush of rage—a desire for violence to be met with violence—in a less than chaste way.

The danger—it… excites her, it challenges her. To know why, and how, to learn the extent of what spared her life. To take more. It feels reckless; almost demanding of death. It feels belittling, and demeaning, and like everything every girl is ever taught not to do. Could Y/N really justify endangering her life for the perversity of something as insignificant as body-slumping sex? Could she ever look herself in the eye again?

…Did it matter?

It doesn’t seem to when Harry suddenly stretches his arms out above his head, cracking the bones from his strenuous period of sitting down, and pushes himself up from the creaking, groaning chair. It seems as though the decision is made for Y/N when she bolts to follow him without a second thought. Or she bolts in her mind—her body delivers a much more convincing performance of nonchalance—seemingly casual as she sifts through her clutch in a faux check of inventory.

And then, when Harry’s broad back faces her for long enough, weaving his way towards the steel door of the back entrance—that’s when Y/N jumps down from her stool, downs the entirety of her drink and relishes in the warmth that blossoms in her chest, and leaves the bar.

The heavy door screams on its hinges, slamming shut with a reverberating bang. Y/N peers left down the alleyway, dim light from a distant streetlamp casting shadows across gravel—

“Sneaky little thing.”

Y/N startles, whipping around to see her stranger (surprised but not understandably by logic) as he mutters, “No self-preservation.” Effortlessly cool, leaning against the exterior of the bar—rough brick undoubtedly frigid and scratchy. His jaw works incessantly, clearly nursing a flavour of gum that he can only just have popped into his mouth—and disgust gurgles in Y/N’s stomach at the sight of his demeanour—unsettling yet titillating, all the same.

“Y’following me?” he pushes forward off of the wall, height suddenly looming as his lip curls into a simper much less pleasant than that of the man she’d met last week. Though it fails to feel threatening, her mouth still runs dry, now faced with the opportunity to say… anything—to ask, demand, accuse to her heart’s content—but she… she can’t, too inundated by the possibilities as her brain splutters and jolts like an empty engine.

When Y/N doesn’t answer, Harry’s mouth crooks up, pulling back to reveal a deceptively pretty smile—before he purses his lips to blow a cool stream of breath directly into Y/N’s face. Her nose crinkles as the conspicuous scent of peppermint forces its way, no doubt into her brain—to associate peppermint with him for the rest of her life—may it be long or considerably shorter after tonight. “Minty fresh,” Harry smiles around a chew, impishly delighted by Y/N’s scowl. “Wha’s the matter? Don’t like peppermint?”

Sure—yes, sure, she likes peppermint but what level of absurdity— A humourless bark of a laugh fizzles between them, Y/N unable and unwilling to ignore the fatuity of the situation. Y/N could say so much, but it seems she chooses, “I prefer bubblegum,” clearing her throat to ignore the waver in her voice.

Harry nods earnestly—as though her taste in confectionery holds the same gravity as that of an embarrassing truth or a confession of crisis—jaw flexing on its hinges, “Mm, makes sense. Little—” his arm reaches out, finger uncurling to brush a knuckle against a loose strand of her hair, “bubblegum princess,” and Y/N wonders if he might be a little insane, body tight as the distance between them lessens. Distance that could only be described as valuable in such a situation, with such a person.

It strikes Y/N now, the difference in his temperament—gone is the charm of a man brimming with polite conversation to show his gratitude towards her—in his place stands the one who spewed filth inside the confines of her sedan. Shameless, smug, awash with a handful of complexes, she’s now sure.

Despite the blast of fresh air and biting peppermint encouraging sobriety, dregs of intoxication still prevalently linger in Y/N’s bloodstream. That boost of liquid courage she needs to say what she does, to be reminded of that vehement anger, and to ignore the pounding of her heart—the way it begs and pleads with her to go back inside—as her foot takes her a step forward. Her voice drops to a whisper as she tilts her head up, now intimately close, “Do you still think my eyes are pretty?”

And Harry laughs—the sound forced from his lungs as he fails to conceal amusement. “Christ, no shame…” he pauses, eyes darting back and forth between Y/N’s falsely confident ones, “‘f course I do, I meant everything I said... Everything.”

It’s those words that drive home the reality of the situation; a clear confession, a clear joy to remember—“I was going to kill you that night. Thought about draining the life from those pretty eyes the second you rolled your window down.”

Y/N’s tether to sanity unravels, hanging on by a mere thread as she throws her hands in front of her wildly. “I let you inside my fucking car!” The fury finally weaponised, despite the whiny defiance of her tone, that is only further fuelled by Harry’s wry smile, growing and growing. It sets something alight in Y/N; the defeating realisation of a true psychopath before her. Nothing she could say would allow sympathy to seep into his bones. 

Not that she demanded sympathy. What good would an apology do? An apology for what… scaring her? Disturbing her so deeply to her core that life felt bathed—drowned—in danger? The only real, tangible thing Harry had done to her was have sex with her and that— That was nothing to apologise for, no matter the embarrassment to admit as such.

So why… bother… Why bother to fight when he smells so inviting and the warmth of his body yearns to take the chill off of hers?

Harry dips down—peppermint again, mixed with the same pleasant cologne from the night he tainted her backseats, that had blotted itself in her memory unknowingly—eyes boring into her own. “You did more than that, pet,” an effort to get the words out without scoffing, “You let me fuck you inside your car. Begged me—”

She shoves demurely at his chest, coils of heat tightening at the memory, causing only the slightest of stumbles as Harry grips her hand to his chest and tugs her with him “—pleaded me—for it, in fact.” His breath fans across her face; close enough to still be warm and pebble her cheeks with goosebumps. Her lashes flutter innocuously—the perfect picture of doe-eyed and yet she has no intention behind it.

Y/N’s face is warm with the alcohol coursing underneath her skin and the tingling of Harry’s air dusted across it, that jacket of heat the only thing bracing her against the whipping breeze against her bare legs. Naturally, if it wasn’t for the existence of Harry, Y/N would feel perfectly content right now. Tipsy but not detrimentally so—surfing along the wave of intoxication with only an occasional plunge beneath the bracing waters. She feels good like this, most of the time. She feels confident, and sexy, and free of all of life’s burdens.

But now one of life’s more recent burdens is standing in front of her, simmering smile surely on the verge of snapping. Y/N wonders what she might do in order to make that happen—so be it, if that puts herself at risk. There's no such thing as risk when you’re a drink or two down. The anger feels subdued, the fear feels subdued—something in the back of her mind convincing Y/N of some faux sense of safety—however real or fake it may be.

“Didn’t you?” Harry nudges, sly fingertips catching her off guard as they tap sequentially against the curve of her waist, gently—subtly—manoeuvring Y/N’s body to rest against the harsh stone. She hardly realises she’s moving, too honed in on the whispering taunt of Harry’s voice.

Yes. She did.

But she doesn’t care to focus on that anymore—she doesn’t care to play the regretful part. Y/N has moved onto bigger and better things. She tilts her chin up, defiant in nature, as her tone takes on that of a snarky assertion, “How—how were you g’na do it? Tell me.” 

It doesn’t seem as though Harry needs a reminder; he knows what she’s referring to. He knows and he shows zero interest in humouring it—her perverse request. Tapping fingers trail their way up, up, up until they’re cradling her collarbones, vast palm spread out across her chest. 

He plays gentle, unknowing, as he shushes her, “It doesn’t matter…” he murmurs, hand slipping higher still until his long fingers can curl and wrap around her throat, the first indication of the whiskey having its desired effect clear when his eyelids flutter and syllables threaten to merge.

He doesn’t squeeze and it’s disturbingly unforeseen—the hold in which he keeps her in without pressure. But it’s not enough, and Y/N’s not satisfied with such an answer. No matter the desperation to surge forward and kiss him messily, or the eagerness to find out whether he’ll explore her mouth again or degrade her for his pleasure, Y/N doesn’t budge.

“Tell me,” she insists, voice teetering on the edge of too loud in the soulless alleyway. Her fist comes up in a weak thud against his chest, unable to display any other sort of physicality. “How were you gonna kill me, Harry—?” Her breath catches as he digs his fingers into the side of her throat—finally satisfied to see the edge of that smirk wiped off of his face. Piercing green holds her in place, sneer dominating her vision.

“Shut up—”

“When you were cumming inside me—?” 

“—Shut the fuck up.”

Y/N wheezes when he squeezes even harder, mouth dropping open in a masochistic smile—eyes half-lidded as the blood fights its way to her brain. The warmth of Harry’s palm against the column of her neck presses just as hard, taunting and tormenting her airways—daring her to breathe.

“What—did you—” a second of respite in which he loosens his grip, as Y/N inhales as much as her little lungs can take, “do to that—woman?”

He scoffs at her—almost annoyed that she would care enough to ask—that he even has to waste his energy thinking about it. “I didn’t fuck her if that’s what you’re worried about,” serrated ice in his tone, freezing over when he spits out, “sweetheart.” No attempt at denial, no reassurance of his innocence—just. I didn’t fuck her.

It comes barrelling out; the provocation, “Had to get your fix somewhere else, then,” Y/N accuses, swallowing underneath the weight of his hand. “Didn’t kill me so you had to hurt poor Ruby Wilcox, didn’t you?”

“—Don’t play detective, pet,” he expertly deflects, squeezing harder—disguising any sort of discomfort with the quirk of his lips, “it doesn’t suit you. Much preferred it when you were dumb around my fingers, barking f’me like a good girl. D’you remember that?”

Very well. Too well. Even still after learning the truth, Y/N had remembered it in great detail. “Why didn’t you kill me?” she whispers, numb now to the pads of his digits and the way they demand bruising against the delicate skin of her neck. Pointed indentations to aggravate with her own pressing fingers (assuming she lives long enough for them to form).

“Maybe I just wanted another taste,” Harry admits, eyes clear—surprisingly sincere despite the vulnerability of such a claim. “Maybe I wanted to hear about more of your bad dates—”

“—It wasn’t a date—”

“Maybe…” and Y/N starts to doubt that earnest expression, “maybe I got off on the idea of ruining something—of leaving this kind, sweet, generous girl… with something real to cry about.”

Something real? Something real?

“Why me?” She’s not kidding herself; there’s nothing special or unique that might have altered years and years of Harry’s personal psychology—but maybe, just maybe—Y/N might be given something to help her sleep a little better at night. A reason; valid or not, just something to roll around in the palm of her hands until she could make sense of it.

She’s granted no such thing.

“You stopped the car, Y/N,” he drawls in such a casual tone, sounding the same as the man who had told her his name, debated the importance of the rules of Uno, and breathed a sincere wish that she got home safe. “You let me in. I had nothing to do with it,” Harry promises. But it’s not a friendly promise, nor a reassuring one. It’s an assertion that leaves no room for interpretation, a cold, hard fact that can never be dissected. And unfortunately for Y/N, the fact of the matter remains that this is all her fault.

Cold fingers curl into the front of his hoodie, material scrunching between her digits. Harry tuts, “Hands off,” but Y/N only grips him tighter—knuckles tensing as she urges him closer towards her body by the baggy fabric. (When she’s sober she might berate herself for pushing him the wrong way.)

It’s discernible; Harry’s distaste—eyes sharpening as they slice into her own. He takes matters into his own hands, forcibly removing hers from his front and squeezing the delicate bones of her wrists as he presses them, less than gently, into the harsh bricks.

“Not so obedient today, are we?” Their hips dare to meet, twitches and nudges teasing the inevitable. Y/N can’t disguise the way she bucks a little, thin dress waiting to be bunched and moulded by bigger hands. She knows what he feels like—and it’s impossible not to yearn for it.

Her words are airy—breathless from no exertion—heartbeat drumming in her chest with anticipation. “I assumed you…liked a struggle.”

“I do,” Harry hums, a smile edging back onto his face, as he dips down enough for his breath to kiss her ear, “...but where’s my easy little stray gone?” he pouts, leaning back to tilt his head in a way that suggests simple curiosity. “Girl I met two weeks ago was already open wide f’me by now… Wanna show me your tongue again, pet?”

And it’s juvenile—but Y/N isn’t sober and neither is Harry—when she sticks it out in a way similar to that of a snotty toddler as opposed to the languid reveal she gave him in her car. She pokes it out and scrunches her nose, almost amusing herself in the process. In what is a ridiculous display of immaturity that far from pleases Harry.

He grunts, “Yeah, that’s funny,” patting the side of her face. Hard. Not a slap but something that makes her cheek tingle and her jaw loosen. Even more so when Harry’s fingers squeeze either side and manhandle her face left and right—moving her as he pleases and reveling in the dipping of her eyebrows and the rounding of her eyes. It’s pathetic, really, how quickly she can be reduced to insignificance with just a little pawing.

But he underestimates her ever so slightly. She’s not quite finished it seems, when—through the mush of her mouth—she gurgles, “Are y’gonna kill me this time?”

The amusement that dances so often in Harry’s eyes fizzles out once more. “Shut up, Y/N,” he shoves closer, the blushing tip of his nose daring to brush against her bridge. “Don’t make me say it again.”

She practically preens, rocking up onto the tips of her toes, forcing their chill-bitten skin to brush. “Or what? You’ll make me?” The question floats between them like a perilous snowflake, not for long enough before she jeers, “How you g’na do it? You’ll finally get to watch th—”

Harry’s had enough of her voice, surging forward, desperately capturing the end of Y/N’s exhalation and coalescing it with his own. It’s rough, and it’s dirty—his fingers still controlling every purse of Y/N’s lips—hips finally clashing in a grinding of bones. He lets go of her face, encompassing hands tugging through her hair as he holds the back of her head. The only gesture of comfort he grants her away from the wall; not for long before those same fingers roam and dishevel—nails pinching just on the side of too hard.

Every subconscious twitch of her own fingers has Harry alert—any attempt of Y/N’s made to touch him in exchange meets her swift return of each wrist pinned to either side of her head—knuckles brushing sharp bumps of brick. A small noise seeps out of her mouth and into his own, vibrating against his lips and reducing Harry to a deep, acknowledging sigh.

They’re uncoordinated; desperation dominating precision and finesse. Laboured exhalations blanket their cheeks, noses squished and lips swollen. Harry’s hands float back up to her face, pressing coolly against the sides, spanning the entirety as his thumbs bracket their mouths. He holds her like he wants to consume her—crawl inside her skin, swallow her down—tongue boldly stroking against her own in contrastingly lazy flicks. A dizzying enmeshment of fast and slow, hard and soft.

Y/N’s neck aches from the angle in which she’s forced to meet Harry’s mouth, strong palms nearly pulling her off of her toes as he cups her cheeks with almost too much chivalry, too much romance. It would be all too easy to forget his confession, encompassed in his warmth, his scent—too easy to pretend it didn’t matter.

She sinks her teeth into his bottom lip, pulling back as they clamp and opening her eyes just enough to watch the flesh snap back into place. There’s no time to smile with sadistic glee before Y/N’s head is yanked back by the roots of her hair, slender fingers wrapped in tendrils and tugging. Hard. A gasp is ripped from the back of her throat, cold and sharp against her tonsils. And Harry gets to experience the twitch of his lips and the amusement of winning as Y/N’s back bends to accommodate the sudden stretch of her neck. 

He peers down at her parted lips, the slight tension in her brows from the strain, and her heavy arms that slowly droop down against the wall. Small clouds of mist pass between them—the cold air kissing their recycled breaths—soaking in the chill the longer they stay outdoors. The stray street light bounces off of one side of Harry's back, casting a glowing outline around his body as he blocks Y/N in against the wall. The irony of such an image. She shuffles her feet atop the gravel, aching from lack of movement—twitching when a thick thigh nudges its way between her own—soft sweatpants stroking her naked skin.

“Bite me again, sweetheart…” Harry taunts, voice scarily steady, “see what happens.”

A choked laugh escapes from Y/N’s chest, forced through her open mouth. A delightful invitation. She pushes as far up on her toes as she can manage, pulling against the force of Harry’s hand—reaching as far as his chin before she eases the tension. He smirks down at her, wandering fingers teasing the hem of her dress as his thigh warms between hers.

“Pity I don’t get to rip another pair of little tights,” he tuts, trailing a digit up the inside of her knee. “Trying to make the old men happy tonight, were we?” tugging at the material, tight against the tops of her thighs. “Hoping one of them might take you to the bathroom and let you call him Daddy.” He tuts again, “How sad.”

“Would you have?” she pouts, eyes bright with mirth. “Let me call you Daddy?”

“Would I have let you? Would I have given you permission? I don’t think so, pet.” He squishes her cheeks together again—demeaning, degrading—leaning back down to ghost his mouth across her puckered lips. “I don’t think you deserve to call me anything at all.”

Her lungs are tight; desperate for more than just a shallow inhale through her nose, borrowed from another. He’d slowly, ever so slowly, meshed their mouths together once more—stopping her from replying with anything other than a scalding kiss, tongues overlapping in an erotic embrace.

But Y/N finds herself impatient—and Y/N falls short in the realm of manners, greedy hands sneaking down when she gets the chance—palming at the thick outline through Harry’s sweatpants.

“Ah—ah, hands off,” he echoes, fingers tugging at her scalp again, forcibly expelling the breath from her lungs. “Ask nicely. I know you know better than that.”

“I do,” she pants, lips tingling with the imprint of Harry’s own. “I don’t think psychos…deserve nicely.” A dangerous blow. One he doesn’t take lightly—one that makes Y/N think she’s hit a nerve when he grits out his next command, jaw tight and eyes stormy.

“Turn around. You’re pissing me off,” not granting her the option to do so herself before his spanning hands are forcing her waist in a squirming prod until her front meets the wall. She wants to push back but Harry is consuming all the space behind her, chest expanding against her shoulder blades. The heat against her ass is dizzying, tunnelling all of her thoughts to places dissolute.

Harry spits his next words, anger palpable, “Fuckin’ brat,” pulling her against his crotch by the small of her waist. Y/N gasps, ears momentarily filled with nothing but white noise. “I let you go and the universe brought us back together, isn’t that something?” A pause; clearly waiting for her snarky response but he gets nothing. She’s too overtaken by the buzzing between her thighs. “I thought so,” he sighs, “but you’re being such a little bitch tonight.”

A pathetic whine crawls its way out of her downturned lips, wisping between them like a sad trail of smoke. Her head feels thick, like she wants to let it fall back and rest upon Harry’s shoulder. What was she annoyed about again? It feels futile. 

The harsh emphasis of ‘bitch’ echoes in her ears about five beats after he’s gritted it out. And it burns deep within her abdomen, a searing coalescence of shame and arousal. “...Not a bitch,” she mumbles, eyes fluttering closed as her hands brace against the wall—willing herself to stay upright; to focus on anything but the heavy bump against her backside. But it is futile, because the insult doesn’t land the way it’s supposed to—it doesn’t upset or offend—and that’s when it becomes clear to Harry that the wall is crumbling. That his charm remains absolute.

“Oh, baby,” he coos, voice lathering her skin like thick globules of honey, “still so easy,” lips kissing the shell of her ear as his breath seeps into her hair, coating and warming. “My little bitch, how about that? Do you like the sound of that?”

She wants to shake her head but it’s too heavy, clogged with the fog of Harry’s voice—every nerve tingling as he glides his palms over her hips and down… across her pelvis and curling around the edge of her dress, teasing it, bunching it up just enough to dance his digits over her mound. Y/N’s hips twitch in anticipation, giving away what her words don’t say.

“Y’want my fingers…” an electrifying brush over her clothed clit, “here?” She exhales a shaky breath, trying to push back into him—it’s the only thing she can do, with her fingernails threatening to dig into stone and her forehead sure to come away with its imprint. Her heartbeat throbs between her thighs and a swallowed whimper seeps out of her mouth. “Got to hear you say it, pet. Say you want me to play with your hot, little cunt.”

“Mhm,” is all Y/N can manage, hoping—praying—that for once it might be good enough.

It’s not.

“Mhm,” Harry echoes, the pressure on her clit disappearing and the bulge nudging against her ass harder. Y/N pushes back—Harry pushes forward. A cant of his hips and a teasing reveal of more and more of her skin, the skirt of her dress manipulated high enough to brush across the small of her back and reveal the breadth of her underwear; less salacious than the purple thong Harry had admired previously. A soft white cotton and frilly pink decorating the hem.

“These are sweet, pet,” he mumbles. But it doesn’t fill her chest with warmth; it fills her with trepidation—waiting for the other shoe to drop—for Harry to tear them or rip them, defile them or taint them. But he never does. He doesn’t do anything aside from stroke his thumb across the hem of her panties, up and along the seam. Y/N exhales, trying to sway her hips in order to sway him but it seems he needs no persuasion.

“I’m waiting,” he scorns—much to Y/N’s distaste. Because waiting is not a luxury that either of them can afford right now. Time… Privacy… Two valuable assets that are not provided by the dimly lit alleyways between dingy bars and the rest of the population. The steel door barely a metre beside Y/N could swing open at any point—revealing a disgruntled worker tired after a long shift—or an impatient pedestrian could decide to try their luck exploring a shortcut and happen upon their preoccupied bodies. And surely there must be a view from a window somewhere, anywhere.

So Y/N says what she knows he wants to hear. “Please,” a whisper—unpossessing of the desperation Harry often desires. But she’s not finished. “Please. Please play with my— my…” his fingers drag down across the gusset, prodding at her fluttering hole through the thin material that’s far from dry. A motivating caress that wobbles Y/N’s voice, “—M-my hot, little cunt.”

Shame bathes in her skin, cheeks blooming with an imprudent heat. But Harry laughs at her compliance, no matter how pathetic or meek. He thuds the width of his fingers over her clit suddenly, Y/N’s knees buckling with the unforeseen impact but Harry grips onto her waist, holding her against the warm wall of his body as his fingers push at her underwear. 

The wetness is embarrassing, thick and glossy through the cotton. Harry seems to take pride in it, spending too long nudging his fingers over the slick at her hole instead of focusing where they both know Y/N wants. And then a slip to the side, fingertips prodding at the flimsy hem—manoeuvring it over and out of the way, just enough for the shame to coat his skin.

They’re cold against the radiating heat from between her thighs, pulsing and rolling in waves throughout her insides. A jolt; a twitch, the width of Harry’s chest against her back.

“Hold them—fuck, you’re sopping—hold them f’me,” he instructs, Y/N’s shaking fingers obliging before they even know what for, slinking down the front of her body and shucking the gusset of her panties aside enough for Harry’s liking, “Y’always get this wet or is it just f’me?”

And Harry must know the answer—well acquainted with her pussy once before—asking the questions he knows will satisfy him most. “Jus’ you.” A pathetic admission—even more so when Y/N realises it’s not even a lie.

She’s never been more sure of something. Not by her own hand, not by another cock; never has she been so ruined. “No wonder everyone you fuck bores you.” 

Yeah… she had insinuated that—she’d yearned for it to hurt, for it to be interesting—inadvertently matching Harry’s sick sense of pleasure. Because here she was, wetting his fingers—the same fingers he’d taken so much away with—and yet they felt so good.

“You need a bit of danger, baby?” Harry cups over her tightly. “Yeah?”

“—Mhm—”

He smiles, leaning forward into the back of her hair. “Need to pick strange men off of the side of the road? Need to fuck them in alleyways?” His palm grinds along her clit in slow, torturous circles, the tips of his fingers daring to dip inside of her but never breaching. “You gonna let me fuck you, pet? Gonna squeeze that cunt over me again like a good—” he retracts slightly, heavy hand slapping over her pussy and rendering Y/N immobilised, “—fucking—girl?” Each smack jolts her body, knees buckling, crumpled mouth whimpering.

“Ye-yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, please,” her tone borders on watery, thick with overwhelming urgency—coaxing him to warm his fingers inside of her—pleading with her grabbing hand as it reaches behind her and palms at the front of his sweats. And he’s told her no once… twice before already… so it’s only fair that he slaps down on her again. Harder. Louder. The sound of Y/N’s cry echoing out, just teetering over the edge of too pitchy. He doesn’t bother to smother it.

He’s terse, words forced through the gaps of his teeth as he grits, “Stop fucking touching me. Just…” he sighs, warm breath tickling the shell of her ear, “Jus’ be a… good… little hole, yeah?”

Yeah. Yeah. She can do that, she can— “Okay,” the breath trails out of her lips, wispy and frail, body tightening up when she feels… feels his middle finger circling the outside of her cunt—silently pleading for his touch—“O-okay,” she mewls again, dumbstruck as he pushes in—up to the first knuckle, and then the second, and the third.

“There you go,” it’s gentle, almost nurturing; far too soft for the stolen secrecy of an alleyway. Y/N keens, knuckles tightening around the gusset she’s still holding onto for dear life—empty hand flying down to cover Harry’s own. Delicacy coalescing with rigidity. She begs for his finger to sink deeper, to curl and to soothe—to be cajoled by another—to carve its path inside of her.

Harry wiggles it tauntingly, chest puffing out with a frustrated exhalation. “Give me your hand—come on—” he’s rough as he twists it behind her back, away from his skin and exposed to the cold air, “keep it there, stop—bothering me.” She’s not even rewarded with his bruising grasp around her wrist, just the aching chore of correcting each slip down her back as her arm tires.

His ring finger squeezes beside his middle, tip teasing Y/N’s achy hole, soft pads pressing into the spongy front of her walls. He scissors his fingers inside of her slowly, rubbing with virility as the backs of his index and pinky slap into the plush flesh either side of her wet cunt. And then he gets faster, grunting senselessly through every twitch and clench of her pussy. He finds that spot—and then he abuses it—Y/N unable to support her own weight when her knees start buckling and her tired bicep suffers behind her back.

“Can’t handle it, pet?” the cadence of his tone matches each punch of his fingers inside of her—the pit in Y/N’s stomach edged and taunted with every curl against her gummy walls. “S’it too good? Got you shaking all over th’place with just m’fingers.”

She thinks she garbles something unintelligent but it’s impossible to be sure when all the blood is rushing between her legs.

Harry murmurs, lips catching the shell of her ear, “I think you’re a little slut, baby,” biting down on her lobe with contrasting care. “Letting me ruin you in a dirty alleyway… Outside where anyone could see you—see your drippy pussy soaking m’hand.”

“Yes,” a sigh slips—agreeing to nothing in particular—an expression of pleasure, a plea for more.

A dark laugh stretches taut between them, powerful as his fingers speed up, palm slapping against her clit with each thrust. It vibrates and buzzes, twitches and pulsates. “You’re g’na cum for me, pet. Right now.”

It’s a simple demand. One that manhandles Y/N to the very edge—it dangles her over as the drop below taunts her. It beckons her like a siren call. Harry nudges her spot again, and again, and again—coaxing it, consoling it. Every curl of his fingers, every thud of his palm. It fills her up, breath catching, head falling back on her neck. And then she falls, plummets, cascades down—jaw dropped in a silent cry as her cunt convulses seismically around Harry’s fingers—clamping near violently. He rubs her through it, stroking her walls in heavy thrusts as he slows and forces her to feel it all.

“There you go, good girl. Filthy girl.” His hand glistens with her slick, pulling strings away with it. Y/N mourns his fingers, his warmth when he pulls away. Her hole flutters and her body suddenly feels cold—isolated and alone.

He exhales, “Fuck—put your hands on the wall, bend over a bit—that’s it,” crouching down, perverse in the way he inspects the glistening between her thighs. At least, that’s what Y/N assumes he’s doing as he nestles in closer to her cunt, close enough for his breaths to wash over her shaking form. 

One heavy forearm pins the skirt of her dress over the rounds of her arse, his free hand coming up to spread her open with the precision of a man who has much more time than either of them currently do. Y/N doesn’t see the way her slick creates ribbons between his fingers after he nudges at her opening and pulls away to scrutinise them. She doesn’t see the way his throat bobs as he tucks his digits past his blushing lips and laves his tongue around them salaciously. She only hears the muffled hum, and the harsh breath leave his nose as the man beneath her drools around himself.

“Sweet little thing,” he pants, voice gruff—gravelly—when he finally brings his fingers back to her centre. He pets at her, thudding the thick of them against her quivering cunt unnecessarily; from a want to render her even less stable on her aching legs. “Absolutely drenched f’me, aren’t you. Does that scare you, sweetheart?”

A whimper climbs out from Y/N’s throat, delayed in her response. Answering of the wrong question—the one she would lie about if she were sober. She needs more—she needs something more… something all-consuming. 

“Fuck—fuck me—now,” she pleads, hips pushing back as her neck cranes to catch a glimpse of the man below her.

He rises to his full height. “That’s not how you ask.”

“Please. Or I’ll… I’ll—”

“You’ll what, pet?”

“—I’ll tell everyone…” she whines, trailing off when her words reach no conclusion.

“Yeah? You’ll tell everyone. You’ll go to the police?” She’s nodding mindlessly, head weighing her down. “And what will you say?” tone turning petulant and shrieky, “‘I let him defile me, officer. I let him stretch me out on his big cock, officer. I let him do whatever he wanted, officer—’”

“Please,” her voice is thick, full with a sob—and a wave of panic washes over her at the possibility of not having him at all. 

“Don’t know if you deserve it now,” drumming his fingers across the small of her back. “Threatening me, huh? Silly girl.”

No reasoning comes to mind—nothing smart or clever to wield as a rebuttal. Just a slew of pathetic sounds; only possibly attractive to someone yearning for power—someone like Harry. Her body answers for her, still desperately twitching and searching for his own and being rewarded with nothing. He stays stoic, mild palm smoothing along the expanses of her chill-bitten backside.

“Tell you what…” he starts, a sly smile morphing the sound of his voice. “You be quiet f’me, yeah? You be quiet and I’ll give you what you want. Don’t w’na hear a single fucking thing else from this bratty, little mouth, you understand?”

A trick—an attempt for her to slip up before they’ve even begun. She nods frantically, teeth clamped together, lips equally as shut. She’s ready to offer more than is wise, for him to fuck her—ready to give herself up completely just so he’ll quell that ache. The nerves of their exposition are really starting to buzz along the surface of her skin.

“There you go, not so hard, is it?” She shakes her head no, enthralled by the soft sound of skin rubbing against thick cotton, fingers slipping underneath elasticated waistbands. “Good,” Harry murmurs, so quiet that Y/N wouldn’t have heard it if it weren’t for her heightened senses. And then again, even softer, swallowed around a gruff exhale that she can only assume is in response to curling his fingers around himself. “Good girl.”

She feels him tug at the gusset of her panties—haphazardly skewed across her centre, unable to conform without the curl of Y/N’s prying joints keeping them astray. Harry stretches the stitches easily, forcing the fabric to adhere to his perversion, as his thumb strokes the skin adjacent to where she would really feel it.

The corner of a condom wrapper flutters to the floor out of Y/N’s periphery, landing by her achy feet, as the image of Harry tearing it with his teeth flashes behind her eyelids. He rolls it on silently—and for a moment she wishes she could see—picture the length, the girth that had scripted her deepest desires so dominantly.

He smooths his hand up, underneath her dress, shuffling in closer behind her as he nudges the head of his cock against her slick cunt. Y/N’s jaw drops open in a silent whimper—catching the noise, suffocating it in her throat before it ripples out around them. Sweat gathers in the palms of her hands, irritated against the rough brick wall when they’d much rather be buried in his hair. Her forehead dips down, willing Harry to do something… anything.

He strokes up and down her clit, smiling at every overstimulated twitch, dipping down to smear arousal. He teases her, letting the thick of his tip stretch her entrance before he pulls back. Once, twice, three times… And then he sinks in, fingertips creating divots in her hips, holding harder with each inch that he carves out inside of her. When his pelvis cushions against her ass, he sighs—a long exhale of breath—followed by a rumbling from within his chest, “Perfect little pussy.”

Y/N can’t help the little whimper that falls from her lips, brows scrunched, dipping towards the centre of her face. Either Harry has a change of heart or he doesn’t hear her—too enraptured in the feeling of every vein and ridge perfectly filling the space surrounding him; as though created just for him, his cock.

He doesn’t move, perfectly still—embedded deep inside of her convulsing pussy—feeling her out. Mentally (though physically too). Waiting and waiting, regarding her presence with a slight jerk of his hips that already press demandingly into her backside. Waiting for those words to fall off of the tip of her tongue, with a protesting or begging cadence, and redirect his little game. A game Harry doesn’t even know the rules to—the only importance serving in his right to manhandle Y/N every which way; however he may please. A single plea, or a frustrated curse… that’s all he needs.

But she holds on. She stays silent and her hands stay slipping down the bricks. Enough so to have the opposite effect; to rile Harry up, to have his digits curl tighter into her skin and pull out all the way—feel her clench around him in an effort to keep him inside—and then rock back into her. Harder. The thud of their flesh meeting rippling out around them. 

Y/N doesn’t think that’s very fair; physically forcing the sounds from her larynx—punching the air from her lungs in such a way that makes it impossible for her silence to remain. She cries out, quiet enough to suggest a desire for modesty but loud enough for Harry’s lips to curl up nefariously.

“What did I say?” His hand clamps around her mouth, fingers brushing her eyelashes if he stretches them out far enough. The grip forces Y/N’s neck to stretch, trembling body elongating as Harry straightens her out and melds her into the wall. Her forearms squish into her biceps and her chest flattens indelicately. If she didn’t know any better, she’d say he was trying to cast her into the bricks, grout and all.

His hips snap back into her.

“Fuck,” Harry moans wantonly—exaggerated as he amuses himself with the pleasure of her newfound silence—“that’s sexy,” teeth grazing her ear. “So much hotter with your mouth shut, you know that?” She opens it just to spite him, tongue laving over his palm. His hips slap harder against her in return, eager to manoeuvre and curl his digits along the flesh of her tongue—eliciting a harsh gag from her unprepared throat. 

It perturbs him none when she presses her teeth into his skin, clamping gently at first but losing the capacity to be anything when Harry slinks his other hand around her neck. The blood fights for its strength, struggling and forcing its way through to her brain as the periphery of Y/N’s vision darkens. There’s nothing scary about it—and if they weren’t outside she might feel a semblance of peace.

“You prefer it like this, don’t you?” Harry gruffs against the side of her face, lashes threatening to kiss over her temple. “Jus’ w’na be treated like a silly—little—slut.” His thrusts punctuate each word, short cries forcing their way between his fingers. Drool gathers in the well of his palm, shameful rivulets smearing against Y/N’s chin.

“Don’t you?”

“Mhm—Mhmn—” she garbles something thick, tongue heavy in her mouth—battling against the extra weight of Harry’s intrusive digits. She swallows around them. 

He’s everywhere—soft clothes baggy on him and swamping her frame as he swallows her up—sure that if someone were to simply glance down their alleyway she would not be seen. Heat plagues her, rolling out of her pores in thick, murky waves—the kind of heat she suddenly fears she will always be cold without. The presence against her back, the stoicity of his figure. 

Her noises topple out.

Sad, desperate, pathetic little whines—snappy with the way Harry pummels into her. No one would have to ponder for long to dissect the cause of such sounds. Flesh smacking, fabric chafing, laboured breathing.

“Yeah. Yeah. I know,” fingers tighten around her throat. “Shrieky thing, you are. Can’t stay quiet to save your life.”

The insinuation is not lost on her, no matter the delirium that she’s submerged under. And Harry relishes in it; of course he does.

He slurs, “Would you die happy? Right now? Right now, baby?”

And Y/N knows she’s deeply flawed when his words scratch a spot. When she doesn’t recoil in disgust, attempt to pull away and run—but instead melts even further into his grasp. Nodding in jerky nudges of her head. She’s not giving him permission to stop the beating of her heart but she supposes it doesn’t matter either way. 

Harry rips his hand from her mouth, trailing saliva down the front of her dress, squeezing his thick forearm between her abdomen and the wall as he searches cruelly to overstimulate her. She’s been so easy thus far, soft and pliable no matter Harry’s propensity for writhing. But when he skims over her clit, that…—that’s when she starts to struggle. To will her body away from the torturous pads of his fingers.

This only encourages her tormentor, deft digits pulling up the hood, allowing no room to hide as he applies direct pressure and tightens the barrier of his arm as her body spasms out of control. A sob rips from Y/N’s chest, loud enough to be deemed inappropriate—and no matter how much pleasure he might find in those sounds, she’s teetering on the brink of becoming dangerous. The grasp around her neck loosens, fingers slipping up to push past her lips again; the only effective method of muffling her at all. 

Y/N keens with the weight in her mouth, relishes in the way her lips have to wrap around his big, masculine fingers. “Fucking tight, pet,” Harry grunts, ministrations messy and uncoordinated as he rubs over her clit, bumping into his shaft with every thrust. And she is—clamping down so hard her muscles yearn to loosen. They yearn to melt into a softness, into a safety, into a slumber. But her brain is running away, and Harry’s not slowing down, the tip of his cock abusing the spot he already petted at so perfectly with his fingers. 

And he knows she’s nearly there, smiles into the crook of her neck and lets his teeth bite into her flesh for just a second.

But just as her orgasm starts to topple over the edge, he stops. He leans back, pulling her hips so her bum juts out and her back arches again.

“Come on, I’m tired, baby,” he teases, a slither of playfulness lost to the tightness in his voice, hips dragging to a still. “Long day of slaughtering.” Y/N is too far gone to find the joke inappropriate. To even register anymore that this whole affair is inappropriate. “Work for it a little,” Harry leans back, eyeing up the place in which they meet, shining in the glow of the streetlight. She’s still for too long, trying to process where his movements have gone—confused pants turning the ends of Harry’s lips.

“S’feel good?” Hands aid hips slightly—just enough to gain momentum, as Y/N fails to question why she’s suddenly the one fucking him—only chasing the return of the blissful prodding of her insides. Harry’s eyes are glued to her pussy, stretched deliciously around the thick of his cock, dragging back and forth with each nudge of her over him. The soft of her ass meets his pelvis and he delivers a squeeze in return, fingers destined to leave their presence known as he manhandles the flesh. Pulling and indenting, the other hand hanging heavily by his side as his gaze trails over Y/N’s bending body.

He deigns to let the saliva in his mouth pool in the hollow of his tongue, lips pursing as a line of drool drips down onto her puckered hole—the sudden sensation making Y/N convulse around him—twitch and gasp, stutter her hips and still for a moment. Harry thumbs over her carelessly, moving his thumb down to the stretch of her cunt around his prick; an unnecessary wetness. Somewhat possessed by the image below him, removed of all purpose except this one.

“Did I tell you to stop?”

Y/N shakes her head, a squeak ripped from her throat when Harry’s palm comes down on her ass, the sound reverberating through the silence of the alleyway. “N-no,” she cries. No, he didn’t. He never told her to stop.

“So keep fucking moving, sweetheart.” She nods mindlessly, head shaking up and down as her hips pick back up—thighs burning quicker with the exertion of it all. Her forehead scrapes against the wall, eyes squeezing shut with concentration as she focuses on the in and out, back and forth—every stretch against her walls dizzying—every nudge inside of her rendering more and more of her body to jelly.

She wants that feeling back; the one where she’s constantly on the verge of cumming. But there’s too much to focus on—her hands digging into the bricks, her thighs shaking, her clit untouched and overstimulated at the same time.

“I don’t have all fucking day—” Y/N would scoff if she could but the frustration spikes, “—come on. Fuck’s sake—”

Harry loses his patience, pulling out completely in a jarring sequence of motion, leaving Y/N panting—struggling to stay afloat if she were treading water. He physically turns her around and hoists her up as though she is made of nothing—slinging her thighs around the bumps of his hips.

And this is the first time she’s seen his face in… a while. The first time since he’d started dismantling her with his fingers, his cock. Y/N’s heart jumps, the stoicity in which he displays; unsettling and erotic simultaneously. She lifts her heavy hands, moving with the weight of a thousand tonnes, but Harry is quick to catch them. He yanks them overhead, grazing the stone, incarcerated within the circumference of his hand.

It hurts. The wall scratches up the delicate skin of her back, through the flimsy material of her dress. It hurts but it’s grounding—Y/N only thinks about the way her flesh will serve as a reminder of Harry, of this bar, and of this alleyway.

“Gonna make me do everything myself, hm?” gripping around his shaft, painting it across her slit with a harshness that makes Y/N shudder. He’s disrespectful, sliding in indelicately, rough palm yanking down the front of her chest to smooth over her neglected tits, squeezing and moulding between his fingers.

Y/N’s already there, she’s sure. The pit at the bottom of her stomach tightening, her eyes clenching shut, head falling back unceremoniously despite the view she has below her. Harry’s grunting, low, gravelly sounds that enmesh with her own whimpery exhalations.

“Fucking look at me—look at me,” pinching digits squish her cheeks together. A smirk tugs at the corners of Harry’s mouth, tongue darting out to wet his lips when Y/N stares at them. “Let me see that pretty, slutty face.” Her brows quirk when he rocks in particularly deep, eyes flitting around—unsure of what to look at first. Harry’s own face is flushed; perhaps the only indicator he can even feel her at all. That and the size of his pupils—the shortness of his breaths as they wash across her face.

She holds his gaze, mouth ajar with soundless cries.

“You’ll always be my filthy—plaything,” pressing in so close their noses touch. “Even after I’m… long gone—and… you’ve got some other man’s cock inside you,” his breathing shallows, “you’ll always have been mine.” Y/N doesn’t doubt him, she doesn’t even try. Not when he punctuates every word with a thrust so deep it lingers and blossoms inside of her, spreading through each limb and tingling in her fingertips.

Harry’s hand manhandles her face from side to side, grip immovable.

“When you go running back to—Cody… and he can’t fuck you properly… and all you’ll wish for is me—but you’ll hate yourself for it, won’t you, pet?” He pouts, eyes rounding out in a faux sense of sympathy. “For wanting a cold-blooded killer to make you feel good.” 

He hammers the final nail into the coffin, lips brushing her own in a sadistic contradiction, voice only a whisper when he says, “You’ll never feel this good again.” 

Y/N sobs audibly this time, cunt clenching from his words alone. She thinks he could talk her over the finish line entirely. The promise is dreadful, and it weighs heavy despite how perfectly it nuzzles against her sweet spot. But then he drops her cheeks and snakes those same fingers down, circling easily over her swollen clit. She convulses, weak wrists tugging against the constraints of his hand.

Harry’s close, desperate now to reach his peak. He sinks his teeth into her bottom lip. “Go on. Cum. Cum on your stranger’s cock.”

It’s a wonder Y/N doesn’t crumple to the floor as she cums—but somehow her thighs stay gripped around Harry’s hips. If anything they tighten, squeezing up to his waist, yearning to crush him between her as he pushes her over the edge again and joins her himself as he releases rope after rope into the condom, hips rocking all the way through. He’s moaning a slew of real pretty noises, and Y/N can’t help but pulse at every single one—orgasm begging to last forever—forcing her eyes open no matter the struggle, so that she can really see what he looks like.

It’s devastating—when he smiles. Pleasure written all over his face as his thrusts slow down, cock still dragging through her but no longer with a purpose. And Y/N finds it disorienting; the happiness in which she could be convinced he is feeling. As if it were all a joke—some twisted roleplay—that they were simply playing a fun, little sex game, of all things.

He pats her hip when he slides out, too gentle for Y/N’s post-orgasmic haze. She’s tired now. Too tired to be out at a bar, alone. 

Harry encourages her legs from around his waist. “That’s it, down you get, good girl.” Her legs wobble as her feet meet the ground, the centre of her thighs vibrating and pulsating. She only somewhat sees him tying the condom and tucking it back into the wrapper.

“Do you need some help getting home?” Y/N feels like crying. Of course she does. But not from him, never from him—that would be even sillier than letting him fuck her. And then fuck her again.

“N-no,” her voice dry and scratchy.

He’s not convinced but he doesn’t ask again. He simply crouches down and searches for the hem of her underwear under her dress. Y/N thinks he might fix the gusset back over the mess of her pussy but he doesn’t. No, he wiggles them down her thighs and lifts up each shaky leg to retrieve the fabric and twirl it around a slender finger.

“Let me have these, yeah, pet? A little trophy, hm?” Something screams from within Y/N to be scared. But she’s tired now. “It’s only fair… don’t y’think?—if I can’t have what I truly want.” She wishes to wonder why he can’t, but the thought doesn’t form fully. Perhaps he’ll kill her now, after all. She’s fulfilled her brief, performed her duties.

But he’s already taking a few steps back; a distance that feels gargantuan in her current state. She blinks, and then blinks again, mindless fingers fixing clothes and brushing hair from her face. The cold suddenly hits her like a freight train, bare legs littered in goosebumps.

Harry sighs, like he’s considering something in his head before shucking his hoodie from his body and letting it hang between them. An offer. “Keep it warm f’me,” he murmurs, eyes insistent. She takes it with a shaky hand, and hurries to drown herself in his second-hand heat. 

He’s already beginning to walk away by the time her head emerges from the fabric, eyes flitting in a panic as they focus back on his shrinking frame. Y/N is offered one final glimpse when he angles his head back to see her, a small smile upturning his mouth. His words fill no hole, quell no worries, heal no wounds. They add insult to injury, smirk morphing his tone.

“Why don’t you… go back inside, yeah? Have another drink for me.”

Y/N’s feet feel stuck—glued to the gravel, too scared to take her eyes off of him for even a moment. But he nods his head towards the door, silently repeating his assertion. “Go on.”

Slowly, she heads back into the bar, the heavy door squealing on its rusty hinges. She sits back down on her previously claimed stool.

She waits. 

The stranger never follows her inside. Y/N never notes his silhouette in her peripherals on the other end of the bar, yellow-polished fingertips stroking over a rocks glass as the two pretend not to know one another.

He never comes in and… maybe it’s for the better. 

Y/N never sees him again.

#harry styles #harry styles x reader #harry styles smut #harry styles one shots #harry styles fanfiction #dark harry styles #dom!harry #dom!harry styles x sub!reader #dark harry #harry styles writing #harry styles imagines

[calypsocolada]

CAPTAIN | r. zoro

synopsis: the captain of the hockey team really gets on your nerves. authors note: hi! i'm back from the dead to offer this fic! i saw a tik tok and got inspired. it was a sports au of hockey player zoro and I was obsessed and wrote this! hope you guys like :) might write a part two since I really like this pairing. also was thinking of doing a series where all the one peice characters play different kinds of sports :)

cw: sports au!, hockey player zoro, not proofread, slightly suggestive wc: 3.5k

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You would venture to say you're a pretty reasonable person. You never got angry easily, or upset. You kept it together pretty well usually. 

Usually.

Today… Well, today was an exception. Actually it was always an exception when Rorona Zoro was in the rink. He was one of those rowdy hockey players that you would mostly ignore. You worked at the ice rink on weekends and most of the time you got lucky. The players would either be at away games or out partying on weekends. But not Roronoa Zoro. If you could say one nice thing about him it was that he is dedicated to his craft. You had the displeasure of being stuck talking with him and a few of his hockey buddies one day. Who knew this one day would taint the rest of the times you saw him.

His hockey friends were desperate, you’d think they’d never talked to a human woman before in their life the way they pounced on you. Asking you tons of questions about your life, if you had someone, who was your type, did you fancy anyone. By the time they were done asking you felt as though it was an interrogation. You were about to tell them you had to get back to work when suddenly Zoro spoke first.

“Leave the girl alone.” He’d walked out of the showers, his green hair damp and messy. “She clearly doesn’t like being interrogated.” He grumbles. The rest of the team sighs but they listen to the green haired man, leaving you be. You watch as they head back towards the showers, letting out a sigh of relief.

“Thanks.” You had said, he shrugged.

“You should learn to speak up for yourself, rink girl.” He says and before you can respond he’s gone back towards the locker room.

Asshole.

After that you didn’t even spare him a glance, let alone a moment of your time. When he’d check in you’d slide the clipboard over to him not even looking up. It was a bit petty but you felt slightly vindictive towards him. Maybe not entirely towards him but also the company he keeps. His other hockey friends are atrocious to be around. They stare and ask for your number and try to eat lunch with you and just bother you relentlessly. Also despite them all claiming to have interest in you they call you rink girl because of Zoro even though your name is on a tag on the front of your shirt.

Days like today were no different. Once again two of the players were at your desk, asking about your day and pretending to care.

“Still no guy?” The blond one asks, you never learned their names since they didn’t care to learn yours. You clicked your pen, you had paperwork to do and were in a particularly bad mood. 

“Still no girl?” You snap, the blond one pouts but the brunette one snorts a laugh.

“I see why Captain likes you so much.” The blond one mutters under his breath. You barely hear it, your brows furrowing.

“What?”

“Dude… shut up.” The brunette intercepts, knocking the blond in the back of the head. The familiar ding of the front door sounded as Zoro entered the building. “Oh shit… let’s go, hurry!” The blond gasps, you watch the two players practically sprint and trip over each other to get away from your desk. You furrow your brows as Zoro clears his throat. It makes you jump.

“Jesus!” You gasp.

“No, it’s Roronoa.” He says as he watches you place a hand over your heart, the other grabbing the clipboard for him to sign. 

“Ha-ha.” You mock, sliding it to him. For the first time in a while you look at him. It’s cold out so he’s bundled up slightly, his cheeks lightly dusted pink from the cold. He’s almost… handsome? You never really noticed. You can’t look away… well until his eyes meet yours. You look away quickly as he clicks the pen and places it on the clipboard, sliding it back to you. When you reach to grab it back your fingers just barely grace his hand. He’s warm, despite just being out in the cold. You clear your throat, pulling your hand away quickly, busying yourself with your paperwork again. 

“Hey,” He says as your hand pauses and you slowly look up at him. He looks at you for a moment, as though he’s trying to read something on your face.

“What?” You ask, slightly concerned that he’s lingering at your desk more than usual.

“I saw those two idiots talking to you.” He says and you're not sure if it’s a question or a statement so you nod your head. His jaw tenses as he sighs heavily. “Are they bothering you?” He asks. You stare at him for a moment, trying to read his face to know whether or not he was messing with you. He was infinitely serious.

“No. I can take care of myself.” You say with a tad bit of venom in your voice. He nods his head, the look in his eyes unreadable.

“Good.” He says and with that walks towards the locker room without another word. You watch him go, very confused. 

A few hours pass as you walk back to your desk after lunch. The players are leaving for the day, some of them wave at you and you wave back halfheartedly. When the blond and brunette from earlier today pass they walk past you like wounded dogs, very clearly avoiding looking in your direction. Zoro isn’t with him curiously and as it gets later you see he’s the only one who hasn’t checked out and since the rink is closing soon you sigh and hop up from your chair. You walk into the locker room first, silence fills as you poke your head around the corner. Sure enough his locker is open and full of his stuff. You make your way towards the rink you know he’s in there before you even catch sight of him. You hear the sound of his hockey stick smacking against the puck sending it flying through the air, it swishes into the net with ease. A perfect shot. He hasn’t noticed you watching as he sails across the ice to retrieve the puck and set up again for another drill. He’d gotten much better in the months he practiced here. He played like a possessed man, much different from the person you watched practice months and months ago. Not that you knew anything about hockey but there was a reason this man was the captain. 

“Enjoying yourself?” Zoro calls out to you. You jump again for the second time again, blowing out a breath, holding your heart again. “Someone’s jumpy.” He mumbles as he lines up a shot, sending it sailing down the ice into the goal. You clear your throat.

“We close in six minutes.” You call out to him coldly, turning. 

“Hey,” He calls out to you. You're not sure why but you pause, turning as he skates to you, the only thing shielding him from you was a thick piece of acrylic glass that spanned the entirety of the ring. “You play?” He asks as you furrow your brows.

“Hockey?” You ask, looking up at him. Was he always this damn tall? He nods his head, reaching up and wiping sweat from his brow. You scoff, slightly amused.

“No.” You answer and his eyes travel from your own down your body then slowly, agonizingly slowly back to your eyes. You're blushing by the time he meets your eyes again.

“Think you can block me?” He asks and you stare at him incredulously, it takes you a long moment to answer. 

“W-what?” You question, he cocks his head, smirking down at you. 

“I said… Do you think you could block me?”

“I heard you.” You sigh. “And no… I don’t think I could block you.”

“Why not?” He asks, leaning against the glass.

“B-because you're like eight foot tall and hundreds of pounds.”

“Ouch… you make me sound like a monster.” He tsks, still with that grin on his lips.

“You are… you're huge.” You say and a second later your words cause you to blush and look away.

“Uh huh.” Zoro hummed, laughing slightly. You swallow, clearing your throat. “Put on some skates, Y/n, if you can’t guard me I’ll need a goalie.”

“We’re closing, in fact we're probably closed already.” You say as he shrugs his shoulders.

“Hmm… didn’t take you for the scared type.” He says, slowly skating towards the puck.

“I…” You stutter, scoffing a laugh. “Am not scared.” You finish as he shoots you a look, a challenging one. It was stupid really. Stupid that you found yourself sliding into skates and sailing right towards him in the rink. “Fuck,” You curse, not able to stop as you practically crash right into him. But it’s more like hitting a damn wall, he barely budges and grabs you before you can go down. “Sorry.” You breathe out, his hands are on your hips, stabilizing you, your hands on his shoulders trying to keep your balance. 

“You can’t even skate?”

“I just haven’t done it in a long time.” You say feeling a rush of something entirely out of your control when his hands slowly let you go. “I’m fine,” You say, testing the waters as you skate around a tad bit. He watches you like a hawk and when it looks like you're about to go down he’s there in seconds, those big hands back on your hips. 

“I think it’s safe to say I’ve won this game before we even started.” He says with a slight laugh as he slides off his jacket. You shake your head vehemently. 

“Nuh uh! I just-- need to warm up, that’s all.” You say, staring at the ground as your hands grip his forearms.

“Here,” He says, placing his jacket on your shoulders, it smells like him, like something warm and woodsy. You slide your arms through the sleeves. “Look up,” He says. A moment later your eyes find his, something sparks between you, your stomach doing a flip. “Don’t stare at your feet as you skate.” He directs as you nod your head, not trusting yourself to speak and not mess up your words. Slowly he starts skating backwards, holding you as you keep up with his pace. Slowly you fall back into your old routine, able to skate on your own. 

“See… told ya’.” You say a bit cockily, almost falling again but catching yourself. Zoro smiles softly, shaking his head. You could crash looking at the smile alone. You force yourself to look away. “So… how do we play?” You ask as Zoro grabs and tosses his stick to you, you catch it with ease. 

“We’ll play for five minutes, if you can score one goal on me you win.”

“I thought I was gonna play goalie?” You ask.

“I’d rather me get hit with pucks than you.” He says, warmth spreads through you at that, so you don’t answer him. He reaches and zips up your jacket before skating towards the goal. He turns to face you, crouching slightly, nodding his head to you. Game on, you guessed. 

You skated a few feet before hitting the puck hard. It sails and misses the goal by at least a couple feet. Zoro laughs.

“You’re trying right? That wasn’t even anywhere close.” He mocks as you skate to grab the puck.

“I don’t even know if I’m holding his damned thing right!” You call out, shaking his stick at him. 

“You’re not.” he says and you huff.

You hit the puck again and again and again. A few times you made it close to Zoro but he just batted it away with ease. You weren’t sure how much time passed before you were hitting the puck again, missing, the force of the hit making you lose your balance and slam onto the ice. You lay sprawled out on the ice as Zoro skates over quickly to your side. You took the opportunity to hit the puck where you laid and slowly it glided into the goal.

“She shoots! She scores!” You cheer from the ground as Zoro scoffs a heartily laugh, his cheeks dusted that same pink from earlier.

“That was a dirty play.” He grins, looming above you. 

“It was a play all the same right? Is that five points? I don’t know anything about hockey.” You skirk as Zoro lends you a hand, you take it.

“It’s one point.” He laughs, pulling you easily to your feet. 

“One point…” You trail off. “I slammed into the ground for one point.” You say and Zoro breathes out a laugh, nodding his head. “What do I win for beating the captain? Bragging rights?”

“You can’t utter a word of this to my team.” He says in a mock serious tone as a smirk grows on your lips. 

“You can’t tell me that, Roronoa, I’m the captain now.” You say as Zoro raises a brow, his cheeks going even more pink.

“Is that right?” He asks, his voice a rasp. You notice than how close you two are standing, you're still holding his hands, the warmth of them radiating through you. 

“That’s right.” You confirm, keeping a well placed poker face. 

“Got another round in you?” He asks as you shake your head.

“Y/N! Is that you?” Your boss called as you heard the door being pushed open. Your heart drops in your chest, the alarm showing on your face. “What’re you doing?” Your boss asks as you stutter out a sorry.

“She was helping me clean up, sir, sorry for keeping her.” Zoro calls out to your boss. Your boss buys Zoro’s words. 

“Well hurry up, I need to get home for dinner.” Your boss says, walking back out of the rink. You blow out a breath, skating towards the exit, Zoro just behind you. 

“Jesus… thanks.” You blow out, heart still in your throat. 

“No worries.” He says just behind you.

You plop down on the bench, leaning to untie your skates. Zoro sits beside you quietly, doing the same. It's a little awkward now, especially after all that oblivious flirting you were doing. This wasn’t something you couldn't see coming.

Just last week you didn’t even like looking at this guy, now you found yourself liking looking at him. A complete turn around. Not entirely unwelcomed though.

When you finally kicked off your skates, you sat up just as Zoro reached over, warm fingers on your chin and turned your face gently towards him and pressed his lips to your own. You gasped, taken off guard, eyes wide. A spark shot through you like nothing you’d ever felt before. His fingers on your chin slid until he was gently cupping your cheek, his other hand coming up and doing the same thing on the other side of your face. He kissed you gently. Slowly your eyes fluttered closed, your hand reaching up and falling short, as you knotted it in the front of his t-shirt, pulling him by it closer to you.

“I really fucking like you.” He mumbles against your lips in between kisses, you kiss him hard at his words. Ghosted over your lips causing a shiver to track down your spine. All the pent up emotions you harbored came spilling out as you somehow ended up in his lap, the moment grew intense, a groan escaping his lips that your lips muffled. His hands found purchase on your ass as he stood, taking you with him, carrying you with one hand to press your back into the acrylic glass around the rink. One of your hands slides around the back of Zoro’s neck, tangling in his hair. Zoro makes a sound you didn’t think was possible for him to make, something that had your stomach bottoming out and your fingers barely tugging at his hair, a soft sort of whimper escaping his lips. His kisses then turn hungry, almost feverish. He’s burying his lips in yours, forgetting to breathe, his hands tightening around you, completely lost in the moment. Someone clears their throat, startling you both as Zoro lets you down. Your boss stands there, hands on his hips, a look of embarrassment on his face. 

“Sir, I was helping him.” “She was helping me.” Zoro and you speak at the same time. Your boss raises his head, shaking his head as you nod your head in understanding leaving with your boss. 

You were reprimanded but ultimately he let you keep your job. Yay. It was your first infraction and he said to keep it professional which you agreed with and apologized vehemently. You probably apologized hundreds of times in a five minute conversation. Your boss asked not to talk about it again and you were completely fine with that. You gathered up your stuff and pushed out into the cold winter night. The cold hitting your warm cheeks and cooling you off. You didn’t have a moment alone to think about what had just transpired. 

“Y/n…” Zoro called out as you crossed the parking lot. He waved as you blushed. “I’m so sorry… you didn’t get fired did you?”

“No... What was that?” You asked as you got closer.

“What?”

“Why’d you kiss me? I-- I sort of thought you hated me.” You confront.

“What? I don’t-- I don’t hate you.” Zoro shakes his head. 

“You sure? I mean-- you were an asshole to me that one time… saying I needed to learn to take care of myself and that stupid fucking nickname? Rink girl? All your teammates call me that by the way.” You say, all of it sort of falling out like word vomit. Zoro raises his chin slightly, looking down at you. 

“They call you that?” He asks, his voice level as you sigh.

“Yes! They do!”

“I’ll fix that.” He promises as you stare at him. This whole night was just strange. 

“Why’d you kiss me?” You ask again. Zoro’s eyes soften.

“I told you already.” He says as you shake your head. 

“You didn’t tell me anything? We barely talked before today.”

“I said I like you. I said I really fucking like you.” He reiterated. You remember him saying that. The heat and warmth spread like a wildfire after hearing it again.

“Why?” You ask as Zoro sort of cocks his head.

“Why?” He echoes as you raise your brows, nodding your head imploring for an answer. “Because you're pretty. You’re funny and I like the way you ignored me all the time.” He admits as you laugh despite yourself.

“What? Y-you like that I ignore you?”

“I did. I like this way better.” He motions to you and him talking. You raise your head.

“Okay…” You say skeptically, you find your mind trailing back to the kiss and it brings a blush to your cheek. You clear your throat. “How long?”

“Hmm?”

“How long have you liked me?” Zoro looks like he’s thinking about it for a moment. 

“The first day I met you probably.” He says nonchalantly. You laugh.

“Yeah… sure.” You roll your eyes. He steps closer to you.

“I mean it. You introduced yourself and said I had green hair, not that you liked it, you just said I had it.” You remembered that, your lips part in surprise because he remembered it too.

“It’s uncommon.” You say and Zoro smiles warmly down at you. 

“Still don’t know if you like it or not.” He grins as your eyes bounce to it. 

“I like it.” You say and see a soft blush form on Zoro’s cheeks. “Why were you such an asshole to me that day?”

“I-- am sorry about that. I was more angry with my teammates for annoying you. I wanted you to know that you could speak up for yourself, that you could just tell them to shut up but-- I’m sorry.”

“And Rink girl?”

“Poor attempt at flirting…” He says. You start laughing, shaking your head.

“The poorest attempt. But… your words did make me speak up for myself more, so…” You relent. Zoro smiles softly. You can’t help it, you pull him against your lips. That smile was too much. You needed it pressed against your lips. His hands slid around your hips.

“Christ, Y/n… go home!” Your boss grumbles as you startle, Zoro’s hands stay planted on you as you shoot an apologetic look at you boss. 

“Sorry, sir.” You say as he waves you off, slipping into his car and driving away. You start laughing, your hand coming up to cover your mouth.

“You are going to get me fired.” You grumble as Zoro presses his mouth to yours again as though he couldn’t wait another damn second, walking you back until your back is pressed against his car. He lifts you with ease, setting you on the hood as the car’s alarm sets off. 

“Fucking hell!” Zoro hissed, fumbling for his keys. You dissolved into laughter.                

#one peice x reader #one piece zoro #zoro roronoa #zoro roronoa x you #zoro roronoa x reader #roronoa zoro #zoro x reader #zoro #zoro x you #zoro roronoa x y/n

[wilteddreamsofbaldursgate]

The Scent of Missing Buttons

Astarion centred || implied Astarion x gn!Tav || ao3 || Masterlist

Rating: M ; +18Word Count: +2.9k Warnings: prostitution, sex work, sex trafficking, PTSD, suicidal thoughts, no graphic description of sex act

He thought about his old brass buttons as he let the couple have their way with him. His doublet had thirteen buttons, if he recalled correctly. Six he had found on the floor. There was no way of telling where the others were. They had probably rolled under the bed or were lost in the gaps between the splintered floorboards. He would dare another attempt at retrieving them when these brutes were finally done with him. Going back to the master without either of them was simply out of the question. 

a/n: phew, that was hard to write. Don't forget to hug your vampire boyfriend today.

Neither the loud human nor the scrawny half-elf sitting on each side of Astarion cared about how witty or charming he was. All he had to do was sit still and smile while he endured the dirt-stained fingers messing up his carefully coiffed curls. The sweaty hand resting heavily upon his knee. The stench of days-old sweat radiating from their bodies.

Astarion gave the gawking half-elf a crooked smirk for no other reason than to loosen the building tension in his jaw.    

His marks usually came to him, and that night had been no different.

Astarion had noticed the couple looking over at him from the bar ever so often, giving him toothless grins while he’d pretended to sip on the cheap ale the tavern was pouring out en masse. 

Admittedly, the unkempt couple wouldn’t have been his first choice of company, but the night had been approaching eerily fast and Astarion could seldom afford to be picky. 

And so he’d met the couple’s shamelessly lewd looks through heavy-lidded eyes, giving them an inviting smile in return. 

It had taken them embarrassingly long to stumble over to his table, greeting Astarion with the stink of alcohol on their breaths. They must’ve started their night out drinking well before sunset—Astarion rather hoped to get it over with them fast.

Maybe they were already drunk enough to skip business and just follow him back to the master, he mused as the half-elf’s uncoordinated hand tried and failed to locate his groin. 

But then the human let go of his hair; Astarion could feel her sour breath tickle his ear and knew they wouldn’t let him get off the hook that easily.

He tried to subtly lean away from the human, but she was already dragging her coated tongue along his elongated helix.

Astarion shuddered in disgust.

“So much more sensitive than his,” the human panted. Her stupid delight was evident on her face as she indicated the half-elf who was barely an inch short of crawling onto Astarion’s lap.  

“You’re the prettiest thing we’ve ever seen,” she continued, mistaking Astarion’s visible disgust for arousal. Or maybe she was just ignoring his displeasure. 

“We want you.” 

All too easily, Astarion forced his well-constructed mask back over his features. 

Grinning, his fingers curled around the human’s bony wrist as he stood, pulling her with him.

“Wonderful, because I know a place where you can indulge in me all night long,” Astarion purred. “Somewhere quiet—just for the three of us…” 

The human giggled, though her partner eyed him with a slight hint of contempt.

“Our bed will do, filliken,” the half-elf mumbled as he manoeuvred himself off the bench they’d abandoned him on.

Astarion tensed.

Whore…

Even this piss-drunk mutt had taken only one look at him and known him for what he was.

Astarion had half the mind to bare his fangs, rip out the bastard’s throat. Decorate the dingy tavern with his innards. Paint the walls red. 

The human would come next. He would tear off her little ears and shove them down her stinking maw and, maybe, if he was lucky for once, some of the patrons were emboldened enough to drive a stake through his dead heart. 

From a distance, Astarion could hear the clock tower strike thrice and the master’s voice came to his mind.

Do not disappoint me again, boy…

The vampire spawn wet his lips, swallowed down his anger and lust for blood until they mingled with the soaring hunger in the pits of his stomach.

A moment passed. 

Astarion smiled. 

“Lead the way, then, darling.” 

The couple brought him to a cramped attic room right across the street. 

Dark mould grew on scratched windowpanes and it smelled as if the chamber pot hadn’t been emptied that morning.

Somewhere inside the walls, Astarion could sense a small colony of rodents scurrying to and fro.

He tried to focus on the erratic symphony of their heartbeats as he eyed the colourful range of fluids staining the sheets of an unmade bed.

It would be over soon—at least for that night. 

Astarion would deliver these two fools to the master in no time. Maybe he would even get a little treat for a job well done—a fat rat, or even a small dog, if he was being very good. 

And then he would rest in the shadows. Close his eyes to the buzzing city above, imagine the sun caressing his skin as it tenderly reduced him to ashes. 

The attic door slammed shut behind the human.

Astarion knew he would never feel the sun on his skin again, not even for the short moments between pain and salvation, because as much as he was a whore, he was an even bigger coward.  

He stood still as greedy hands began tugging at his clothes. 

The human giggled stupidly as her cross-eyed partner tried to undo the brass buttons on Astarion’s doublet. It was a rather pathetic sight, and before Astarion could assist him, the cursed half-elf ripped the doublet open. 

A curse ready on his lips, Astarion watched as his buttons went flying across the room. 

He doubted the master would afford him new ones any time soon; worse yet, he surely would be chastised for being so careless with his clothes again! 

Fuming inside, Astarion pushed the half-elf onto the bed and sank to the dirty floor where he crawled around to collect the buttons closest to him. 

“What a cute little pup,” the human laughed right above him. 

Her hand clawed at his locks again, and Astarion could feel humiliation merge with the seething mix of anger and hunger and hatred and disgust and—

Astarion pocketed whatever buttons he could retrieve, then rose to his full height.

The human’s hand fell away and her laughter stopped as Astarion crowded her against the rickety bed frame. 

She looked up at Astarion with round eyes. Perhaps, somewhere in the back of her booze-clouded tiny little brain, she recognised the danger she’d invited into her greasy bed. 

Astarion ran his knuckles along her jaw before his fingers curled tightly around her chin. She shivered. 

“Why don’t you two cosy up and just watch for a moment?” Astarion purred. “You like a good show, don’t you?”

“We like so much more than that,” she breathed, her eyes glassy with arousal instead of fear. 

Astarion almost scoffed. Stupid bitch.

“So much more you shall have.”

The human ran her calloused fingers over Astarion’s lean forearm before she eagerly joined her partner on their bed. 

The couple took in every part of his body as he undressed himself. 

They liked that he took his time because they didn’t know that, with every article of clothing that fell away, Astarion imagined ripping them limb from limb. 

A finger here. A foot there. The eyes that had seen entirely too much… 

Oh, how he hoped the master would make them suffer later. 

Allowing himself an honest smile, Astarion tossed his smallclothes atop the rest of his clothes and crawled onto the bed.

The doomed couple groped him roughly, drew their sharp fingernails across his skin. Used him. 

But that was quite alright; their night would end so much worse than Astarion’s. 

He thought about his old brass buttons as he let the couple have their way with him. 

His doublet had thirteen buttons, if he recalled correctly. Six he had found on the floor. There was no way of telling where the others were. They had probably rolled under the bed or were lost in the gaps between the splintered floorboards. He would dare another attempt at retrieving them when these brutes were finally done with him. 

Going back to the master without either of them was simply out of the question. 

Neither the wicked human nor the crude half-elf laying on each side of him cared that his well-timed groans were purely performative, that their touch made his skin crawl. All he had to do was please them, lure them away to their death. 

All he had to do was survive another night. Another year. Another century of nothing but pure shit.

How he wished it would end. Time was running out.  

Don’t you dare disappoint me again, you useless dirty thing…

The half-elf came first, then the human. It had taken them long enough. 

Astarion was quick to pull his shirt back over his head as the human watched him intently—he was sure she wanted another round. Good. This only ever played right into Astarion’s cards. 

The half-elf was a problem, though. He’d passed out the moment the last of his spend had added another stain to the nasty bedsheets. 

Astarion barely refrained from rolling his eyes; they would have to wake him, and that soon. They had places to be and daybreak was approaching fast. 

Astarion gave the human a crooked smile as he put on his breeches. 

“You’re very skilled, handsome,” the human said, taking the bait.

“Likewise, darling.”

She returned his smile as she untangled herself from the bedsheets and sat on the corner of the bed, never letting him out of her sight. 

Astarion slipped into his doublet. So far, he hadn’t spotted another missing button.

“Why don’t we repeat that—there’s a place I’m dying to show you. If we leave now, I promise you it will be unforgettable…”

The human’s smile widened.

“No.”

No?

Astarion wet his lips.

For a moment, he thought he’d misheard. 

No.

It wasn’t like this hadn’t ever happened before. But because it had happened before, Astarion’s hands began to tremble ever so slightly. 

No meant trouble.

No meant failure.

No meant punishment.

“You see, we don’t fuck the same thing twice,” the human said, that arrogant grin still plastered across her hideous face. 

And then she tossed Astarion some coins—laughably few coins at that. They wouldn’t even buy him some cheap ale from across the street.

Astarion was too stunned to catch the coins. They rolled around his feet before they dropped to the floor with a final mocking clink.

He stared at the dirty change, even spotted one or two of his lost buttons among them.

“Pick them up.”

Astarion’s eyes met the human’s, who licked her lips. 

She wanted him to crawl again. Like a dog. Like trash. Like the rat in a cage that he was. 

Astarion turned and fled from the attic room. There was nowhere to go, though; the city’s dirty streets only lead to one end.

The clock tower struck five times. Far in the distance, the sky turned indigo. 

There was no time to find another victim, Astarion knew, as he prowled the shadows.

But he couldn’t return empty-handed, either. 

Astarion considered dragging some passed-out drunk from the next alleyway back to the master. It wasn’t too bad a plan, wasn’t it? 

But the master liked his playthings sharp. He wanted them to be aware of what he did to them. He so delighted in their screams.

And if those poor fools couldn’t scream, Astarion’s screams would have to make do instead. 

In fact, they were the master’s favourite. 

Come to me, boy.

“Shit. Shit. Shit!”

Astarion should’ve gone down on all fours and crawled at that bitch’s feet; begged her to come with him.

He was a fool. He was so fucking stupid. He deserved any punishment the master deemed fit. 

He couldn’t do anything right.

Astarion shot another look over his shoulder, fearing to see the sky having changed colours again. 

But instead of being painted with dawn, the sky… tore open?

People started to scream. They ran from the flying ship that had appeared out of nowhere. Its tentacles chased after them, picking them off the streets one after another. 

Astarion should join the fleeing drunks and alley cats, he thought. 

But, really, what could be worse than what was waiting for him at the master’s feet? 

Astarion stood still; he could be very good at that. 

And unlike the master’s punishment—unlike the nightly humiliation that was his cursed existence—it was over in one blissful moment.

Neither the annoying wizard nor the nosy cleric sitting on the opposite side of the dying campfire cared that they were interrupting Astarion in his plan of bedding you. That night, he’d already endured yet another long-winded retelling of the young warlock’s heroic feats. Listened to the prickly warrior loudly sharpening her blade. Suppressed a laugh at the fiery tiefling’s silly joke. 

He wanted to be alone with you. Look at that cute little smile that had only needed one glass of watered-down wine in order to grow this wide. Subtly close the empty space between you and him sitting side by side on a smooth wooden log.

He wanted to breathe in the herbal fragrance of your soap without anybody watching.

The first thing Astarion had ever noticed about you was that, even covered in the blood and grime of your enemies, you smelled nice.

It had taken him days to figure out that the pleasant scent surrounding you didn’t emit from your washed hair or reasonably clean clothes. Once Astarion’s raging hunger had been sated enough, he’d even understood that it wasn’t your delectable blood that made his head spin.

No, your subtle yet unique scent simply lingered as naturally on your skin as the sunlight did on Astarion’s face these days. 

It was just you that smelled good, and it slowly drove him mad.

Astarion’s plan was simple enough. All he had to do was please you, weasel himself into your bed and good graces. Only then was he as safe from the master as he could possibly be out here in the wilderness. 

But you just had to make this difficult; you didn’t fall for his charm and flirtations. Instead of swooning, you just frowned at him whenever he tried to seduce you—and gods was he trying. And failing.

If he were to lean over and bluntly propose sex to you right then, he was sure you would reject him. The very idea of both excited and terrified him at once.

The wizard and the cleric only excused themselves when the sun’s first golden fingers started to part the night sky.

Astarion watched them vanish into their respective tents, finally leaving you alone with him. 

He stole a glance at you and found you already looking at him. 

Maybe this was his chance. Astarion couldn’t afford wasting another night, not when the master was breathing down his neck at any given time.

“And what are we two pretty things going to do with the rest of the night, darling?” 

You scoffed. “Night? It’s almost morning.” 

“Ah, you’re quite right, of course. With the right company, one can lose track of time so easily, no?” 

“Indeed,” you yawned. “Now let’s get some rest, Astarion. We have a long day ahead.” 

Astarion wet his lips. 

Shit.

What was wrong with you? 

What was wrong with him? 

If he couldn’t even get his stupid little plan right, then maybe he deserved his master’s wrath. 

Astarion picked up a crooked branch and poked around the fading embers.

If you didn’t want his body, then what use did you have of him? He was just some idiot. A whore nobody wanted to fuck. He was—

“Oh!” You exclaimed, suddenly. “I forgot!” 

Astarion, trying to not let his growing desperation show on his face, watched as you excitedly produced something from your pocket. 

You scooted closer to him; your knee brushed against his thigh and your smile grew as you looked up at him. Instinctively, Astarion breathed in your scent.

Then you opened your hand, revealing thirteen buttons. 

The rising sun reflected prettily on their golden surface.

Astarion tensed.

“What’s that?”

Your cheeks reddened, looking as if you’d just scrubbed them clean down by the river. 

“Your doublet—it doesn’t close properly, doesn’t it? So I thought, well…buttons.”

When Astarion neither reached for the buttons nor said anything, you slowly let your hand sink.

“I could sew them on for you,” you offered sheepishly. “I’m sure they’ll look very nice on you.”

Throwing his now broken stick aside, Astarion rose to his full height.

“I don’t want them. Go to bed. We have a long day ahead,” he said courtly before he all but fled to his tent.

The sun burned on Astarion’s skin but didn’t reduce him to ashes. He never was afforded any luck.

He watched you walk far ahead of him, leading your companions through the woods. This far back, he could barely catch your lovely scent. 

Not for the first time that day did he wonder what those buttons you’d offered him would’ve cost him. 

Wouldn’t any price have been worth it?

Astarion had been a fool again. 

He should’ve just thanked you, watched your quick little fingers close the chasm in his chest with nothing but some thread and pretty buttons. After that, he should’ve pressed a lingering kiss to your cheek. Take you into his arms.

That’s what he wanted to do, if he was being honest.

But he hadn’t done any of this. His doublet was still shoved to the very bottom of his pack and he hadn’t looked you in the eyes all day.

Because as much as Astarion was a whore, he was an even bigger coward.

That was all to him there was.

The vampire spawn looked over his shoulder but couldn’t see much of what lay behind. 

The golden sun was too bright in his eyes.

As usual, all he could do, though, was endure.

Tag List

@spacebarbarianweird @bardic-inspo @kawaiiusagichansan 

#astarion #astarion x tav #baldurs gate 3 #bg3 #baldur's gate astarion #astarion ancunin #gn reader #astarion x you #gn tav #astarion x reader #hurt/angst #fanfic #baldur's gate fanfiction #emicha writes #wilteddreamsbg3

[deanbrainrotwritings]

—  TWO HEARTED

SUMMARY : playing pretend, doing risky things, improv, Valentine’s Day is more than “unattached drifter Christmas” now.

PAIRING : dean winchester x fem!reader

CHARACTERS : none

WARNINGS/TAGS : explicit(18+), tiny bit of trauma/PTSD thoughts, public sex, fingering, car sex, p in v, oral sex, cum play, breeding kink

WORD COUNT : 4.8k

A/N : i see stars song title. this fills the “I don’t believe in love at first sight, but goddamn look at you.” square for my @jacklesversebingo card. I really had fun with this one 😂 xxxxxx

Dean was on the hunt.

Not the typical monster hunt. 

It was Valentine's Day, “unattached drifter Christmas,” as he jokingly told Sam a few times in the past. His mission tonight: pleasing the ladies who were out looking for a fun night. Or just one special lady. Whoever caught his eye, whoever was the most interesting to talk to, the most fun to be around. Someone as lonely as him, someone single, someone who would let him in for just one night.

Sure, maybe the suit he was wearing gave false pretences to the women he’d approach or the women who approached him. He knew the consequences of doing that, he could get robbed by the girl he’s with while he’s asleep, or maybe they’ll turn out to be Amazonian women who questionably get themselves pregnant without him knowing, and send their daughters to kill him… He’d rather forget that and the phobias that that made him start to have. 

Still, he liked to have fun. And no one in the over-expensive bar knew how embarrassed he was to be so overdressed, but the scotch helped with making him feel a little more comfortable under the gaze of a few women who were instantly eyeing him, hoping he’d make a move.

The lights were white rather than yellow, somewhat bright, and the bartop where he’d ordered from was made of marble rather than wood. It was clean, there were no stains, no circular marks from the condensation of previous drinks left on the surface. 

There were perks to these expensive places.

And there was already someone he had his eye on. Because she was funny without having to say a single word. It seemed she had other admirers as well. They sent her drinks and they’d smirk suggestively at her, and the bartender pointed to the man that ordered it for her. Even the bartender was amused. Every time she got a drink, she’d walk around, and hand the drink to the first woman that made her laugh. Each time it was a different woman and Dean only watched with a smirk on his face from the table in the far corner as the events unfolded.

The bright lights above where she sat atop a bar stool made her look celestial. Her hair shimmering brightly, hanging loosely over her shoulders, framing her face gorgeously. Her lucious, kissable lips were as red as raspberries, and the colour of her almond-shaped nails matched both the silk dress with a slit going up to her thigh, and her heels. Her skin looked perfect to kiss, perfect to touch, to bite, and mark. Her smooth, mouthwatering legs were crossed. He’s never paid attention to a woman’s shoes, but either her blood red heels made her look hotter, or she made those red heels look sexier. 

Whichever was the case, Dean couldn’t stop picturing lifting her up, and having her legs wrapped around his waist while he fucked her. He couldn’t stop imagining what it would feel like for her nails to scratch down his skin. Or what it would look like to have her red lips wrapped around his cock, leaving red kiss marks on his skin, her lipstick smeared across his lips. 

Dean finally stood up and made his way to her. She was talking to—and laughing with—the bartender and one of the women she’d handed her drink to. His stomach knotted up as he got closer, his heart pounded in his chest, something he didn’t often feel when he was approaching someone he wanted. 

She was way out of his league. 

He had the intention of getting her attention, by extending a small, flirtatious greeting, but his mouth opened up, and nothing came out. His throat clamped up as he eyed her elegant hand playing with a napkin that had her lip stains, and he whimpered instead. She turned around to look at him with a polite smile on her face. Dean only smiled bashfully at her, choosing to order rather than making a bigger fool of himself until he regained the courage to finally talk to her. 

“Uh, whiskey,” Dean smiled at the bartender when he came up to ask what he wanted. The mystery woman got along with the bartender because he was married, and the woman that she’d befriended so quickly was genuinely kind and funny. Dean was about to talk to her once more, but the bartender slid the glass of whiskey towards him, so he shut up once more. 

He felt too observed. Too tense and anxious to formulate words.

But after about fifteen minutes, the mystery-girl's friend went to go pee and the bartender went off to start making drinks for a group of women that just got there. Dean finally relaxed and then he turned to her, momentarily admiring the side of her gorgeous face. 

He didn’t know if it was just him or if there was actually some tension between them. She turned to look at him with a tiny smile, soft locks of her hair fell over her eyes, and Dean’s breath stopped. 

Dean had barely collected himself when he smiled at her and said, “I don’t believe in love at first sight, but goddamn… look at you.” Dean was beyond mortified, an intense, fiery blush matching the redness of her lips erupted up his neck like a flare from the Sun. 

She laughed softly as Dean stumbled for an excuse or an apology. “Does that usually work on women?” She asked, turning her body to face him, her eyes sparkling with joy and laughter. When she tilted her head, her hair moved with her, falling over shoulders breathtakingly. Dean was mesmerised, but her kindness made him feel at peace, if only a little.

Dean cleared his throat, willed himself to stop flailing by taking hold of his glass, his shoulders dropping humbly, “sorry, I’m a bit rusty.”

“Me too,” she admitted, biting her lip. White teeth sank into red and Dean gulped, trying to swallow down the anxiety that made his heart thunder. 

“Seems like you don’t really have to try,” he reassured her, turning his body to face her as she’d done so. She looked away thoughtfully, and placed her arms under her breasts, lifting them up slightly. Dean forced himself to look away from them, and raised the glass to his lips, tracing the tiny chain resting over her collarbones with a tiny charm hanging from the centre. 

“I’m too picky for my own good, I guess,” she sighed, playing with her lipstick-stained napkin. Dean inhaled, held his breath as he thought of what to say, then he exhaled a little laugh. 

“Can I order you a drink anyway?” He asked lamley, licking his lips slowly, seductively. She dropped her gaze down to his tongue and she smiled. 

“Sure,” she shrugged, sliding her arm out from beneath her breasts, much to Dean’s dismay. “Where were you sitting before?” She asked, looking back over her shoulder. Everything she did captivated Dean, but he forced his eyes away from her face, and followed her gaze.

“Table by the weird painting.” Dean pointed towards where he was sitting before joining her. 

She hummed softly, then faced him again. “Wanna sit back there with me?”

Dean struggled to respond to such a simple question, but he nodded at her instead of opening his mouth, and making a bigger fool of himself. Thankfully, the bartender returned when mystery-woman locked eyes with him from a distance. It was then that Dean remembered he didn’t know her name. 

The bartender smiled at her, then peered curiously at Dean. “Uh, I don’t know his name,” she laughs while looking into Dean’s daydreaming eyes, “but he’s gonna order me a drink.” It’s like the two of them have an inside joke, because the bartender snorts, and she’s grinning at him like she just caught the mouse she’d be toying with. 

“What’ll it be, then?” The bartender asked Dean, smiling mildly. Dean thought for a while, he gazed at her: the cherry colour of her lips that hadn’t faded despite the deep colour on the napkin, the pinkish blush on her cheeks, the sexy scarlet of her nails, the soft rose dress slipping over her body, and the matching red heels. 

“Raspberry martini.” The bartender nodded and turned away with his lips stretched into a gentle smile. “I’m Dean,” he told her to fill the silence. She moaned, low, and he knew she hadn’t meant it to be lewd, but that’s exactly how it felt with a jolt of arousal to his cock.

She gave him her name and the bartender returned with the raspberry martini, slowly sliding it to her with his eyes on Dean. Approval made the bartender step away with a smile, and Dean finally relaxed slightly, letting his gaze drift to her once more. She hummed softly at the drink, curled her fingers gracefully around the glass, and took a sip—enough to savour it properly. 

After letting it settle in her taste buds, she pulled the steel pick holding three raspberries. The sweet alcohol dripped down her pretty fingers and Dean’s mouth went dry, but when she wrapped her lips around the first berry, Dean’s mouth watered. He shifted his leg a little, trying to get rid of the tight feeling around his crotch, and realised how hard he was as his sensitive cock pressed against the thin material of his slacks. 

“Okay,” she said after chewing and returning the pin into the martini, “let’s go.” Dean blinked at her dumbly.

“Go?” He blushed, leaning forward a little. 

“To the table,” she chuckled, hopping down from the stool. Dean cleared his throat, scratching the back of his neck out of embarrassment for how eager he sounded. She didn’t seem to mind as she cupped her drink again, glancing down shamelessly at the small tent in his dress pants. 

“Fuck,” Dean shuddered, drawing her gaze up to his. He observed her for a few seconds as he slid off the stool, staring down at her. Her nipples were pinched tight and poking through the thin cloth of her dress, her pupils dilated and pushed against the colour of her irises, she breathed unevenly, and was tightening her grip around the glass. 

Dean carefully took her waist and pulled her close, her gasp only made him hornier. Dean leaned down to her ear, his stomach fluttering when she leaned into him. He slid his hand down lower to squeeze her ass, then slid his hand back up the silky dress to hold her waist, and rubbed the silky material between his rough fingers, pulling away just to watch her. 

Her eyes were closed and her cheeks were a darker shade of rose. 

“Careful,” Dean murmured, pulling away to guide her towards the table that he’d sat in earlier. She nodded, carefully sipped on her drink, and he smiled when he gazed down at her. 

When they sat, she took the seat with the wall behind her, and he moved his chair to sit closer to her. He watched her closely, and she did the same to him, pushing the berries around inside the martini glass. 

“Hard limits?” He asked, gently bringing his fingertips to her knee—the one exposed by the long slit. He felt her move her leg closer to his hand, so he rested it flat on her soft, warm skin, slowly sliding up the inside. 

“Haven’t found any, yet,” she whispered, taking his wrist in her hand. Dean couldn’t help flinching, but he relaxed when she began to guide it up faster, higher between her legs. “At least none that apply to you,” she purred, allowing him to cup her pussy.

Dean could feel how warm and wet she was beneath the lace of her underwear and he moaned. She took the martini and took another sip, trying to act normal while he placed his hand inside her underwear, two fingers separating her drenched folds. He flicked her clit with his middle finger and played with the wetness that resided on her pussy. 

“Did you come here for a good time with the ladies or to go back home with a guy?” Dean asked gruffly, watching her try not to squirm with a smirk on his face. He wished he could touch himself, or get her to touch him, but for now, he pushed his finger into her warm, fluttering walls.

“Mostly the first thing,” she murmured, spreading her legs for his hand to fit, “but then I saw you and I changed my mind.” Dean laughed, pressing his palm against her clit, slowly starting to pump his finger in and out of her. 

“So, love at first sight it is,” he joked, moving his hand faster. She closed her eyes and pressed her cheek into her shoulder to hide her face from everyone else. She bit her lip and moaned softly, her cunt soaking his hand. 

“Love? Too early to tell,” she teased. She offered him her last raspberry and he let her feed it to him. His mouth watered chewing on the partially sour fruit and he stared at her as she drank the rest of the martini, licking away some of the remaining salt around the rim.

“All I can think about is how good you’re going to taste,” Dean purred seductively, grinding his palm against her swollen clit. She grinned mischievously. “Wanna see my car?” He asked, pulling his finger from her warmth to massage around her clit.

As soon as they exited the bar, Dean wrapped his arms around her from behind, chuckling against the skin of her neck. He kissed her softly, inhaling the expensive perfume on her skin, as he manoeuvred her across the parking lot to get to his car. 

She giggled and squirmed, moaning softly when he sucked at her pulse, and dragged his tongue upwards to her earlobe. His hands groped her body, grabbed her hips, squeezed her ample breasts, his fingers teasingly rubbing her nipples over the dress until they were pinched tight underneath. 

“Can you feel how hard I am for you?” Dean murmured, his cock twitching when she cursed softly under her breath. 

She turned around in his arms, teasingly bringing him down while walking backwards as carefully as she could. Dean held his breath, baited by her warm breath against his lips, only for her to move away, and lick his cheekbone. 

Dean laughed loudly, and his hands slipped down to squeeze her ass, grinding his hard cock against her stomach. “How far is your car?” She whined, sneaking her hand down between their bodies to stroke his cock over his pants. Dean gasped, his hips thrusting into her hand, and grunted softly when she squeezed. 

“Here,” he panted, pushing her up against cold, black metal. She turned back to admire the shiny car, the sleek, elegant lines of it while he trailed his mouth across her clavicle. He cupped her warm breasts in his bigger hands, ghosting his lips and scruffy chin along her cleavage until she shivered, and turned back to him. 

She took his jaw in her hands, and moved his face up to hers. Finally, red lips pressed against his and made him breathless. He stood at his normal height, forcing her to tilt her head back, his fingers digging into her sides. He licked into her mouth, tasting sweet, salty berries and alcohol with a moan. She met his warm tongue in a dirty frenzy of passion and her lipstick smeared across his pillowy lips. 

She lifted her leg up his thigh, and even over layers, it sent an erotic tingle along his leg that moved up to his swollen cock. His dick moved beneath his boxers for attention. He instantly took her soft thigh, sliding his hand up her hot skin and inside the slit, lifting her up until she stood on her toes to grind his aching cock against her core.

“Please, fuck me, Dean,” she whispered against his lips. With every word, her lips brushed against his, sending a spark of arousal across his entire body, making his muscles twitch and tingle. To his surprise, she crumpled the dress up to her waist, revealing red-lace panties. But she kept pulling it up, and his hands enchantedly followed the exposed warm skin until she got the dress off herself completely, standing bare before him in the parking lot. 

“God, you are so hot, baby,” he murmured, taking the dress from her. He unlocked the door clumsily, lowering his mouth to her exposed breasts, relishing in her moans when he sucked on her nipples. She began grinding against his thigh and he moaned in approval. One of her hands held the back of his neck, keeping his mouth close to her chest, and the other rubbed his throbbing cock. He pulled away from one nipple to wrap his warm mouth around the other one, leaving it as wet and hard as the other. 

Dean pulled her away from the door and opened it for her. She sighed shakily, shuddering in the cool air, and slipped inside wordlessly, facing him as he shoved his suit jacket off his shoulders. He ducked his head inside, and threw the keys, his jacket, and her dress into the front seat. 

“I like your car, it’s somehow… almost as hot as you are,” she breathed, watching him climb inside after her, loosening his red tie, and shut the door behind him. She scooted up, but he gripped her thighs with a deep chuckle that made her squeeze her legs together. 

“Thanks,” Dean murmured, “it looks better in here with you naked.” She smiled bashfully and laid back against the door silently, gazing at Dean who kissed her ankles, his warm lips moving up her calves. Her legs fell open as he moved higher, his eyes glued to her shimmering folds behind the red lace. Dean lunged forward, and pressed a kiss to her clit over her underwear, and teasingly traced the bottom of her underwear, tugging the ruined lace away from her soppy folds.

“You’re so fucking wet,” Dean groaned, his fingers grazing her warm slick, “I can’t wait to sink my cock into your pretty little pussy.” She moaned softly, cupping her breasts as she ground against his tantalising mouth. He pulled her underwear to the side and swirled his tongue around her entrance, moaning at the taste of her. His mouth watered instantly and he flattened his tongue up between her pussy lips to tease her clit.

“Holy fuck, Dean,” she gasped. She buried her fingers into his hair and wiggled her hips impatiently. Dean laughed against her and she whined when he pulled away.

“Fuck yourself on my fingers,” he ordered, then plunged a finger into her dripping hole. She gasped, her cheeks red, watching him undo his belt with his other hand. She folded, and did as he asked, moving forward to bring her swollen clit against his palm, holding onto the seat to lift herself up and down on his finger. He curled it against her walls just right, pulled his belt out of the loops, and burrowed a second finger into the warm wetness between her legs. 

Dean took her hip and brought her closer so he’s the one leaning against the door of his car. He worked her open with two thick fingers and she placed her hands on his chest, clutching his vest, spreading her legs wider for him. She moaned his name, and dropped her face into his neck, trembling as she lifted her hips up and down on his hand. 

“Good girl, keep going,” Dean praised, feeling more of her arousal against his fingers, dripping down his hand. He felt her tighten around his fingers and she got breathier, sucking a mark in his neck as she rolled her hip against his palm. Dean pulled his fingers out of her and she pulled away to narrow her eyes at him. 

“Why are you still dressed?” She panted, unbuttoning his vest to distract herself from the need to come. Dean stared at her lips hungrily, and forced his eyes up to hers to suck her juices from his fingers. “You got what you wanted, a taste of me,” she teased, then bit her lip, starting on the buttons of his white dress shirt as he slipped his fingers out of his mouth. “What do I get?”

“Did you know that every time your lips move, I picture them wrapped around my cock?” Dean trailed his fingers up her sides, and she halted, blinking at him with amusement. She sank her teeth in her plump lip, and giggled, finishing with the last button on his shirt. 

“Let’s see what you’ve got then, pretty boy,” she smirked flirtatiously, tugging his shirts out from under his pants. She dropped a quick kiss on his forehead, which made Dean pout, but she shoved the white t-shirt up his chest, and began to kiss his chest. 

She swirled her tongue around his nipples and Dean groaned, watching her swing her hair to the side as she kissed hard at his freckled skin. Her soft tongue lapped at his flesh, sucking marks on his twitching muscles, scraping her teeth down lower and lower.

Her red nails followed, sparking arousal as they brushed along his nipples, hooking onto his pants, popping the button out of the slit, zipping them down slowly. Dean bit his lip and lifted his hips up, allowing her to tug his slacks and boxers down his hips and thighs. Her hair tickled his skin and he shivered. She marked his hip bones with hickies, his pelvis, the v-mark leading to his cock. She stopped kissing him until his cock spring free, slapping against his stomach—red, leaking, and throbbing for release.

“Fuck, I can’t wait to feel you inside me,” she whispered. 

She wrapped her red lips around the head of his cock and sucked without warning. Dean moaned loudly and choked on a gasp, clutching the leather seat as she gently stroked the rest of his cock. Her tongue moved along his glans and Dean whined, a shudder of pleasure shaking his body. She took him deeper and sucked harder, and then she nearly swallowed his cock whole. Dean choked on a loud, lustful moan, his hips bucking upwards into her hot and wet mouth.

Her red lips slid up and down his cock, leaving him slick with warm saliva, and Dean thought he might just cum at the sight of her. She moaned around him, the sound vibrated through him, blood rushed all over his body, making him hot and desperate. 

He tangled his fingers in her hair and she reached in between his legs to fondle his balls. Dean nearly jammed his cock into her mouth and she whined, her jaw coming loose. Dean shoved her head all the way down anyway, and her nose pressed against the patch of thick, coarse hair. 

Dean’s balls drew in and his body became tense, he expected his climax to ripple through his body, but she slurped up his cock, spit and precum connecting the head of his dick to her pretty lips. “God, fuck!” Dean grunted, his orgasm slowly and painfully evaporating. 

“Dean,” she murmured, tugging his pants lower with his help. She straddled his legs, and leaned down to press tender kisses to his neck, biting at the stubble there, before tugging his ears with her teeth. 

“Do you like these?” He murmured, pulling her panties to the side to slide his swollen cock through her slick cunt. She released a breathy moan, and began to roll her hips against his throbbing dick, coating him with her slick while his precum rubbed through her a slit.

“Yes,” she pouted, then smirked when he groaned in irritation, his eyes rolling back. She moved away from him, and quickly discarded her panties, before inching closer to him. “You collect underwear?” She mocked, dangling her ruined, red lace intimates in front of him. 

Dean snatched them from her with a sarcastic laugh, then he turned serious. “No, but I can collect yours if we do this often,” he grinned mischievously, shoving her underwear into the pocket of his vest. 

She bit her lip and hovered over his cock, hooking her thumbs under the shirt to keep it up on his chest. She looked at Dean expectantly and he snorted. She didn't have to say a word. Dean lifted his hips, and in a sharp thrust, he entered her delightfully wet and warm walls. 

She let out a surprised cry of pleasure and ground down against him. He could feel her walls clench and unclench around him, then he lowered his hips, keeping her hovered so only the tip remained inside her, teasing his frenulum. Dean’s fingers dug into her hips and he slammed her over his throbbing erection, enjoying the sensation of her slick insides as he filled her up once more. 

Wet and obscene sounds filled the small space every time he pounded his hips up into her and she ground down on him to create friction on her clit. Dean had a thousand dirty things to say to drive her crazy, but as the car shook with their efforts, the words got jumbled up in his brain, spilling out like water in a glass during an earthquake. 

All he could do was moan with her, desperate, clinging to her so tightly all he could feel was her all around him. She lowered one leg to the floor of the car, opening herself more to him so that Dean’s cock slipped inside her fully, aching to touch every part deep inside her. He felt whole, warm, tingly, enraptured. 

“Please,” she panted, “come inside me, Dean. Fill me up.” With a long, deep groan of her name, Dean’s hot cum spilled inside her, and her vagina squeezed him tight, her own sticky release coating his throbbing cock. She gasped and dropped her forehead to his cheek bone, chanting his name quietly, riding each other through their orgasms, meeting his every thrust. 

Dean wrapped his arms around her, holding her in a warm embrace as the thrust of his hips came to a slow stop, with both of them heaving. She finally relaxed in his arms, but lifted her face to breath exotically against his lips, a smug smile on her red lips. 

“How was that, sweetheart?” Dean asked fondly, moving away stray strands of her hair before bringing her down for a kiss. She moaned softly against the kiss, slipping her tongue into his mouth, before lifting herself up so he slid out of her. Dean could faintly feel their release dripping over his cock and thighs, but the gentle scrape of her cherry-red nails down his chest took his mind off it.

“So goddamn good, baby,” she praised him softly when she pulled away. She gave him a short kiss and sat on his tummy, a mixture of their fluids spilled from inside her, and pooled over his navel. 

Dean reached down to play with the puddle of their release, then he thrusted his finger up into her—slick and all. Dean smirked when she groaned, but lowered his gaze to stare at her tits as she attempted to catch her breath. 

She moved away from him, ignoring his pout, and his shameless, salacious stare. She leaned over the front seat to pick her dress up from the front seat, giving Dean a full view of her glistening vulva and the mixture of their spendings dripping out of her. 

“What if I get you pregnant?” Dean bit his lip, struggling to pull his boxers over his wet cock—trousers bunched with underwear. She sat with her dress in her hands, her eyes glazing as she daydreamed. Dean remained quiet with her, focusing on getting his clothes back on in the tight space of his car. He pulled his pants up his legs, lifting his hips to zip them back up. “Funny story to tell the kids,” he grinned, but beneath his amusement, there was a little bit of hope and tenderness. “Here,” Dean pulled her underwear from the small pocket of his vest and handed them over to her.

“Thanks,” she smiled, watching him button his shirts up. She stood as best as she could without hitting her head on the roof of the car, turning around, and shaking her ass a little. Dean stared at her jiggling ass with a smile. His green eyes flickered up to hers when she turned to face him with a grin after pulling her soiled panties up legs, keeping their cum inside her. 

“This would be a funny story,” she agreed with a laugh, making Dean smile. She found her place back in his arms, resting her head on his chest. Dean rubbed her back soothingly and closed his eyes, humming softly when she began tracing random shapes on his chest. “I love you, so much,” she mumbled, nuzzling into his chest, inhaling the scent of him. 

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[sinofwriting]

Made For Each Other - Max Verstappen

Words: 3,486 Summary: Max never put much stock into love at first sight until meeting her. Note(s)/Warning(s): Near Physical Cheating, Some Emotional Cheating (on Kelly not reader). So this is the toxic!max fic I mentioned and uh yeah this isn’t super like toxic but it’s something. Also, I will not apologize for inserting found family into this fic.

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“What?” Max presses his lips together, jaw twitching and he’s happy that P isn’t here, but with Daniil’s parents. “Things haven’t been good for us in awhile.” Maybe ever. He thinks and nearly winces, because they had been good in the beginning. But things had changed halfway through the 2021 season and it had only gotten worse as the weeks and months went on. “Kelly, it is unfair to you for me to pretend that I want to be with you anymore.” He nearly says that once the season was over he was already planning on breaking up with her, but manages to hold his tongue. She’s looking at him in that way that he hates, that’s caused arguments because it reminds him of his father. “What do you want me to tell P?” He can’t help the sigh of relief that escapes him at her easy acceptance. “Tell her that I will always love her and that if she ever wants to talk to me, she can call and I’ll do my best to answer.” “Okay.” Her voice is quiet and she looks around his apartment. “There shouldn’t be much here, but what you do find, have it shipped to me.” “Of course.”

He watches as Kelly walks towards the front door and maybe he shouldn’t say anything, doesn’t want to give her false hope, but he can’t help it. “Kelly.” She stops, her hand on the door knob ready to turn it. “Thank you for the past few years and all your support.” He sees her shoulders move as she sighs. “Your welcome, Max.” And then she turns the handle and walks out of his apartment.

He watches the door for a moment, feeling like if he looks away, suddenly she’ll be back. But the handle doesn’t turn and he’s spinning around to move to the couch where he had thrown his phone when Kelly had unexpectedly come here.

His thumb quickly moves across the screen, opening his last text message thread and sending a simple text.

I broke up with her.

It stares up at him and three dots appear along with those little check marks and he can’t help but smile. And god if the media could see him now, smiling after just breaking up with his girlfriend of so long, they’d use this as some sort of proof that he is the devil.

And now what?

His smile grows and his thumb moves again.

And now I come to you.

—

“You know, I thought you athletes had to train. Keep fit for the season.” She teases as he watches her move around her small kitchen. “I’ve barely been here a day and you’re kicking me out?” She shakes her head at him. “No it’s just I know that China got canceled, but you do have another race soon.” He shrugs, “It’s at the very end of the month. Besides, there's a gym close by. I can go there.” “And did you tell your trainer that you wouldn’t be home so he shouldn’t drop off any food or expect you?” His eyes widened. “Fuck.” He curses, scrambling out of the kitchen and to the bedroom where his phone is, her laughter ringing in his ears.

Calling Brad, he hears the phone ring three times before his trainer picks up. “Hello,” “Hey Brad, uh I’m not home right now. I mean, I’m not in the uh country.” “Did they call you for some testing?” “Uh no. I’m not there either. Just took a bit of a break, so don’t worry about meals or anything.” There’s a bit of silence before Brad speaks again. “Max, is everything alright?” “Yeah, yes. Everything is fine. I just needed a bit of a break. I’ll see you in Milton on the twenty-first, yeah?” “Sure.” “Great.” And Max hangs up the call, feeling a bit like a hurricane.

“You’ve made me go crazy.” He tells her when he sees her standing in the door of the bedroom, raising an arm when she doesn’t move. She immediately moves into his space, wrapping her arms around his waist, as his arm wraps around her shoulders, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Have I?” “Yes. Meeting you has made me crazy.” “Do you regret it?” “No.” The answer is swift and firm, because no he could never regret it.

So much had changed since he had seen her for the first time just barely two weeks ago. Most of those changes happened in the past forty-eight hours. But he liked those changes.

He liked how he felt ever since she first looked at him, shook his hand, said his name. Liked how she made him smile and laugh. Maybe it was fucked but he liked how in Austrailia when he won and he nearly kissed her at the afterparty, she had to press her hand on his chest and hold him back. Remind him that he had a girlfriend. Had to stop him from pulling out his phone to call her and break up with her right then and there. Liked that despite that, she had taken his unlocked phone, added her number and told him to text her. Pressed her lips to his cheek and let the scent of her bury itself in his brain. He liked that when he first texted her asking when he could see her again, she hadn’t asked who, just told him they could talk when he was single. Liked that barely a day later he had texted her telling her he was and now he was here, with her, in her home.

Max loved however, her. The way she kissed him when he showed up at her doorstep. The then slight shyness she had over her giving him her number and her text, though there was no guilt or apology to be found in her words. Just more disbelief that she had done so. How she smelled, her house smelled. The way she sat, how her fingers brushed over his skin. How passionate she was about her job, about the music she listened to, and the candle that sat beside her bathtub.

And so it comes out. “I love you.”

He shouldn’t be saying it. People would and will call him crazy for it, but he knows himself. He knows what he’s feeling. And he loves her. Loves this woman that he hasn’t even known for a month. And fuck, people like to talk about how love at first sight doesn’t exist and you don’t know when someone is the one immediately or so soon after meeting them, but that isn’t true. There are outliers. He’s got a cousin that married her husband barely a year after dating him and they are happier than any couple he’s ever seen. One of the guys he grew up karting with met his girlfriend and a month later they were moving in together. He thinks they have three kids or maybe it’s four now.

And she, she feels like he was made for her and only her.

“I love you too.” The words aren’t whispered, no shame or doubt on them. Just certainty and he doesn’t know that she’s thinking the same thing. That she was made just for him.

—

She doesn’t come to the next race no matter how much he begs. Even when he’s about to run late for his flight back to the factory, head buried her neck as he pleads with her to come. But she only laughs, brushing her fingers through his hair.

“You just barely made a statement about no longer being with Kelly.” And he kind of hates that there’s no distaste in her voice about him having a girlfriend when they met. He knows that if she had been seeing someone his blood would be boiling everytime his name got brought up or even hinted at. “Give it a bit to settle.” He straightens with a bit of frown, “I won’t hide you.” She laughs, eyes lighting up and it makes him smile. “I’m not asking you too. Just for patience. I don’t want your PR team to end up hating me.” “Miami, then?” She shakes her head, pushing him away. “You have a plane to catch, Max.” “Imola?” He asks, backing up. Eyes widening a bit when she shakes her head again. “Monaco?” “Max!” And she’s laughing again. “Spain?” And this time she nods her head and he groans, picking up his duffel bag that’s been sitting by the door for probably thirty minutes now. “That is so fair away. You will make me wait that long?” “Oh, poor baby. Having to wait just a little over a month.” He pokes his bottom lip out, unashamed to pout. Because yes, not having her with him for the next four races sounded like torture. He had only gotten a taste of what her support was like in Australia. He wanted all of it now.

She must see that on his face because her smile turns fond, no more teasing and she’s capturing his lips in a quick kiss. “It will go by faster than you think, Max. And it gives me enough time to get everything situated so I can really be comfortable working from anywhere in the world.” “So, you’ll join me for the rest of the season?” “Yes.” He grins, pressing their lips together once, then twice. “If it does not go by fast like you say,” She stops him before he can continue. “Go, Max, it will. And I’m always a call away.”

—

The press eagerly awaits Max’s arrival in Baku. Hoping to see the two time world champion, downtrodden, miserable, regretful. Instead they get an even better story. He arrives at the track on the phone laughing, smile wide and body relaxed. It wasn’t the image of a man who had just separated from his girlfriend of a few years. It was the image of a man happier than he ever had been before.

They all want to ask questions, want to ask who he’s talking to, what or who perhaps has him smiling. Why did he and Kelly break up? Did he break up with her? Did she with him? But none of them are willing to risk the odd relationship that Red Bull has with the press, kind even generous until you cross the line.

—

“No more races without you.” He murmurs when she arrives at his hotel in Spain, his breath causing goosebumps to appear on her neck. “No more.” She agrees, before pulling slightly away, just so they can look at each other. “Hi.” She greets. He smiles at her. “Hi.” “Congrats on Monaco.” He huffs, but something warm fills him with her words. “You said that on the phone.” “That was on the phone.” She teases, before lifting her arms to loop them around his neck. “Proud of you, Max.” He doesn’t know how to respond to that, to how sincere her words are, so he presses their lips together.

“I love you.” She breathes when they break apart, panting slightly with shiny and swollen lips. “I love you too.”

—

The camera's shuttering intensifies as soon as Max’s car that he was given for the race weekend arrives at the track on Saturday. And it only gets worse when instead of just locking the car and starting his walk to the red bull garage, he rounds to the other side, opening the passenger door and helping a woman get out.

This woman is not one that any of them recognize. She is not Max’s mother or sister. She is not Kelly or some sort of model, super, instagram, or swimsuit. And even better they don’t recognize this Max. Who as soon as she is out of the car, purse in hands, shuts the door for her, which is fairly typical for him. But what is not is the way he presses his lips to hers for a quick kiss, before snaking an arm around her waist, a sort of love sick smile on his face as they begin the walk.

“I can’t believe you wanted me to come to one of these things earlier.” She murmurs to him, giving a wave to all the cameras. If she was going to do this, be with Max, she’d have to get used to them and quickly. “I still wish you had.” He murmurs back, squeezing her waist and turning his head to press his nose quickly to the top of her head. “Did you tell anyone about me or that I was coming?” She asks, though she already has a feeling what the answer is as they move further into the paddock and sees some of the drivers do double takes. He smirks, “now why would I do that?” She shakes her head, “your PR team is going to kill you and I’m going to watch.” Her eyes then catch on a slightly familiar man who’s looking at Max with murder in his eyes and she amends her statement. “Daniel is going to kill you and I’m going to watch.” Max pales slightly as he takes a look at the man she only knows from his stories and a few brief clips she’s seen on youtube.

As soon as they enter Red Bull’s hospitality for the weekend, Daniel pounces. Dragging Max and her since Max refuses to let go of her, to Max’s drivers room.

When the door closes, Daniel shoves Max though she expects more gently than he normally would due to her and stands in front of the door, hands on his hips, anger and disappointment warring on his face.

“Max.” “Daniel.” He replies, though it's a bit meek and she can’t help but give his hand a quick squeeze before letting go and stepping away. Not returning to his side despite the offended and hurt look he gives her. She shakes her head. “I told you that you could tell people.”

Daniel turns to look at her, giving her a quick grin. “I like you.” He declares before turning back to Max, grin gone.

“Seriously Max. First there was Kelly and you breaking up, which I found out through social media and you still haven’t told me how that whole thing went down.” She winces at the exasperation in Daniel’s voice. She knew from Max how close they were, considering themselves brothers just about and she couldn’t imagine how Daniel felt learning about Max’s breakup from social media and not the man himself.

“And now this!” He waves his hands around between her and Max. “I’m sure you're great.” He tells her quickly and she gives him a sheepish smile. “I mean really Max. What gives?” Max stares at the older man, unsure of what exactly to say to him.

It wasn’t like he didn’t think the people he was closest to weren’t going to have a reaction to the news of his breakup and now new relationship. It’s just that besides Daniel none of them had really reached out wanting to know what happened because they were all right with not knowing. They knew that if Max wanted to talk about it with them, he would. But Daniel was different.

He talked to Daniel about everything. A side effect of the older man having to deal with him as a teammate for those few years when he was so young and trying to really figure himself out. They had developed a different kind of relationship. One where he knew that he could go to Daniel with anything and everything and receive no judgment, only support. Daniel to him was a weird cross of a friend, brother, and father.

“I’m sorry.” He apologizes and his hands tighten into fists a little. Always unsure of himself when apologizing. “I should have called. Told you, explained what happened.” He hesitates, but knows that Daniel deserves the truth. “I nearly did.” And wasn’t that the truth. There were many times he nearly called or texted Daniel to tell him about the stunning girl he saw, then met, then nearly kissed, then got together with. But he hadn’t. He knew if he told Daniel, he’d end up telling everyone. Daniel stares at him, face giving away nothing, making him fidget, before he sighs and gives Max a smile. “It’s all good mate. You’re a bit of a cunt. But,” he shrugs, grinning. “You’ve always been like that.” Max lets out a laugh, relaxing at the familiar energy of Daniel. “Yeah, just a bit.”

He turns to look at his girlfriend, who's looking between the two of them with a smile, beckoning her back to his side. Enjoying how she easily fits into his side. “Daniel, this is my girlfriend,” and he knows his voice is lovesick when he says her name with the way Daniel looks at him. “Darling, Daniel.” “It’s nice to meet you, Daniel. Max talks about you a lot.” Daniel’s eyes flicker to Max, expecting some sort of an embarrassment or denial, but the younger man just nods. And that’s good enough for Daniel, who immediately grins at her before pulling her into a hug. “Nice to meet you as well. Max treating you well? I taught him everything he knows.” He tells her with a wink when he releases her. She lets out a small giggle at his words, but nods. “Very well. And thank you for your services.” She winks, making Daniel laugh.

“Oh, you are amazing. Now, tell me how this happened and what happened with Kelly.” He says gesturing between the two of them, sitting on the folding chair in the room, while they sit on the couch. “They are very much connected.” She laughs, before patting Max on the arm and sitting back fully.

“Oh, no.” Max groans, running a hand over his face. Daniel was going to have a fucking laugh. “So, we met a little before the Australian Grand Prix. Nearly had an incident there.” He tilts his head towards her and Daniel nods, understanding what he’s saying. “I actually nearly broke it off there. She managed to stop me however. But when I got home to Monaco, I broke up with Kelly then and there. Was already planning on doing it at the end of the season.” Daniel nods. “You mentioned that before.” “Yeah.” Max sighs, before telling him the rest.

Daniel stares at him for a moment after he's done before shaking his head, with a sort of breathless laugh. “Only you, Max. Only you. I’m happy for you though.” Max smiles at the older man’s easy acceptance. “Thank you.” “PR’s going to kill you for not giving them any warning.” He rolls his eyes, she had been telling him the same thing. “They won’t do anything. Besides, didn't they want me to be more personable?” “Don’t think this is what they meant or had in mind.” She tells him. “Probably hoping you’d vlog. Do what Charles and Lando do.” His nose wrinkles at the idea, making her and Daniel laugh.

—

“You’re good for him.” Daniel murmurs as they watch qualifying. She turns her head a little, still keeping most of her focus on the track. “Think so?” “Know so.” He corrects, taking a moment to flash her a smile. “Max and Kelly,” he sighs. “They had a lot of issues.” She says for him. “Wanted different things or the same things but not at the same time.” “Yeah,” the older man breathes, feeling at ease with how much she knows. “She made him happy at first ya know? But you,” he pauses to shake his head. “You make him into the person I think he would’ve been without Jos. Relaxed, at ease, happy.” His voice is a little quieter with the last word and she has to blink so she doesn’t start to cry. “I want him to be happy. And I know we fell into this fast, but Max.” She sighs, feeling a smile stretch across her lips as her heart flutters in her chest all at his name, at the thought of him. “I was made for him.” Daniel chuckles, taking in the infatuated, lovesick, expression on her face. It was the same look he had seen earlier on Max. It was nice to see that it really did go both ways. “There might be some fuss around it, but it’ll die down eventually.” He hesitates not wanting his next words to seem to much, but thinks fuck it. They went to the extremes here, and she’d have to get used to it fast with Max, if she wasn’t already. “I’ll message a few drivers that I know will support you and Max. We’ll have your guys back with the media or anyone else.” His support and approval make her reach out, squeezing his forearm for a few seconds. “Thank you, Daniel. It means the world to me.”

---

Tagging: @lapb @gemofthenight @peachiicherries

#max verstappen x reader #max verstappen imagine #f1 x reader #f1 imagine #formula 1 x reader #formula 1 imagine #my brainrot for max is so bad #i had to finish this one because last night i came up with another idea for him #he has a hold on me

[koolades-world]

Hellooo I like your stuff! :)

Can I pls request something where MC takes Mammon’s early game tsundere shit too seriously? Like, they always take things literally so when he says he doesn’t like or care about them, he’s annoyed to have to babysit them, he doesn’t want this stupid human, etc etc, they believe him?

But they thought he was warming up to them, they thought they were friends (and they’d started to really love their first friend!), so they get really sad about it. He’s like “I DONT care about the human!” And MC’s like, “oh… :’( okay….” and like, either Mammon has to fix it, or Beel and/or Levi (or any of the others! All of the others? Whatever you like) (after making their pacts) have to step in and help. Comfort the human and guilt Mam into communicating however they’d go about that.

Sorry if this is too specific! No pressure of course, do whatever you want with this, have fun :)

Thank you :))

🫐

hi! yes of course :)

today I actually based my outfit around his casual outfit since I have a jacket kinda like his. got so many compliments <3 wore knee high brown boots, a jean mini skirt, a cropped black cami, my mammon jacket, and my diamond studs. wanted to wear some gold hoops but my ears were not having it. dressing up and outfit planning are some of my favorite things to do

if you see that i wrote in second person instead of third in a few spots, please ignore that! i kept catching myself swapping tenses and I tried to find all of them but if i missed them i'm sorry haha

please enjoy, blueberry anon!!

Heart to Heart

Life in the Devildom wasn't easy, but Mc was slowly getting used to it. Sure, it would never be not chaotic to walk around and classes in a school full of demons, but maybe one day, they might be able to consider it normal.

They had begun to make friends with the other demons in their class, gotten involved with a few clubs that they really enjoyed, and even finally started to grasp the concept of the subjects they were attending class for. But, there was one thing they just couldn't even see themselves growing used to.

The first demon they had really thought they'd started to get to know really seemed to dislike being around them. No matter what they did, Mammon always seemed annoyed with them, no matter how sweet they tried to be. They felt most comfortable turning to him since they'd never seen him angry, and seemed the least violent out of their new housemates, especially with Devildom things they just didn't understand. He was by far the most approachable.

They could never understand his seeming hostility despite the fact that they hadn't done anything to him. His almost condescending nature bugged them a little. They didn't take it personally at first, since he was just supposed to be his tour guide and someone to go to if they needed it. He wasn't obligated to them in any way.

But they couldn't help but notice how mutually, they had wormed their way into each others hearts. At some point, it had become routine for him to invite himself into their room after he had finished getting ready for the night to watch something on TV while they attempted to do homework. Every time, they would eventually give up in favor of watching with him since he always had something funny to add. At lunch, despite having his own friends, he would plop down beside them with a snack for you, with some excuse about needing the human to stay healthy. Even if they were talking with one of their friends, he would wiggle between the two of them and stay there, to the point where their friends knew to leave him a spot since he was always fashionably late. At dinner, he always insisted they sit next to him, where'd he'd always whisper to them about his brothers and always inevitable get caught by the one he was talking about. It never failed to make them giggle, and also almost get in trouble.

Every time they had a moment like one of these, he would pretend like it hadn't even happened. It was like nothing between the two of them mattered to him. His comments always read like he was almost annoyed to have to be around them, and that he disliked it. It hurt, but they couldn't say they weren't used to it. After all, they would be gone after a year, so it wouldn't matter anyways, right?

One day in particular, nothing had gone correctly. Mammon had been out the previous night and let Mc know very last minute, despite it being a school night. Their room had felt empty. In hopes he would be back soon, they left his spot open, but he never showed up. They had known that, but it still felt strange. They had been able to get so much work done, but they went to bed feeling something they didn't quite understand.

The next morning, it had felt like he was going out of his way to avoid them. They had seen him once, and perhaps he hadn't seen them, but they didn't even get so much as a smile. He was absent at breakfast, like usual. It also wasn't his turn to walk them to school, so they didn't get to talk to him then either. Later that day, during lunch, he also never showed up. It was odd, but the two of them had never made the promise to meet, so it wasn't like he had some obligation. Their friends gave them a knowing look, one filled with concern, but they told them nothing was wrong. Or so they hoped.

They finally saw him that evening at dinner, but he just wasn't himself. He made no effort to speak to them. When they did try, he was harsher than usual, and kept making comments about them being a stupid human who didn't know any better. It was all in character for him, but with the treatment they had received that day, it hit closer to home than they thought it would. Once the meal was mostly over, and a few of his brothers had filed out of the room, Mc leant over to him to quietly ask if something was wrong. The response they got was much more explosive than they thought they would receive.

"Mammon, how have you been today? I haven't seen you much, and wondered if something was wrong." They stood next to Mammon, collecting all the spare dishes to be washed.

"That's none of yer business, human." He spat out his words like venom at them. His expression after the fact seemed like he'd almost regretted what he'd said, but made no move to take it back.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I just thought... Forget I asked." They took a step back, not expecting his words to hit them like that. They decided to take the dishes they were holding to the kitchen. Maybe he would be gone when they returned for more.

"Mammon, that was very rude." Lucifer, who was doing the same as Mc since they had dish duty together that night, gave Mammon a death glare. "Apologize this instant." When Mammon looked away, Lucifer continued. "Well?" Lucifer searched Mammon's face.

"What's your problem?" Asmo spoke up, looking perturbed by the way he had treated yet another one of his claims to fame. Mc did so well on Devilgram, so the two of them had gotten somewhat close, but not as close as they had with Mammon.

"I don't care about that damn human. When did I say that I did? They're just another responsibility." Mammon spoke as confidently as he usually did, but the look on his face gave it all away.

Mc, who had been hanging in the hall just outside the dining room door since they'd dropped a fork, heard his words. It stung them. They'd heard him say that before, but this time it felt as if he meant it if he hadn't before. With a sigh, they hurried off to the kitchen, closing the door behind them. The three brothers left in the room turned at the sudden noise.

Mammon realized what he'd done, and stood there, stewing in the consequences of his actions. Lucifer and Asmo said something to him before leaving, but he didn't really hear it. He wished he could take it all back, and to tell Mc he didn't mean it. But, he wasn't sure how, or if their relationship was even salvageable.

Mc was in the kitchen, scrubbing a plate when they heard Lucifer enter. They could tell it was him thanks to the sound of his shoes on the tile. They scooted over to make room for him at the sink. "I'm sorry about Mammon." Lucifer broke the silence.

"It's fine. He's right. I am just another task for him to juggle." They didn't look up from the running water.

"I assigned him to look after you. If anything, I can care for you." He placed the dishes in the sink.

"But, he's right, is he not? I'm just a human. I've got no clue what I'm doing here so someone has to look after me. I'm not in this family, so it's not like taking care of me was something he signed up for." They moved clean dishes out of the sink and onto the drying rack. Lucifer remained silent for a moment.

"It's an honor having you here, I hope you realize. This is a momentous occasion. Diavolo entrusted us with the duty of caring for one of the only two human exchange students, in a program that's unique." It seemed like Lucifer was struggling to find the right words to say. This was the nicest they had even seen him be.

"I appreciate it. Thank you. But, what am I to do? A human trapped in a place where humans aren't meant to go. I can't help but feel like a task to be completed." Mc paused. "I'm sorry. That was probably too much." They went silent again.

"You can go up to bed early if you wish. I'll finish these." Lucifer finally said. Without making eye contact, they got down off the stool they had been standing on to reach the top of the drying rack, and left with a small thank you. Mammon wandered in moments after they left, finally seeming to have collected himself.

"Mammon. I hope you're proud of yourself. After that spectacle, I might just have to make Beel their new guardian." Mammon froze at Lucifer's words.

"No! Ya don't gotta do that." He couldn't bring himself to continue himself.

"Really? Because with the way you treated Mc, I would not blame them if they never wanted to speak to you again." Lucifer turned around to look Mammon right in the eyes. He knew that look well. He was disappointed with him.

"I'll just go apologize. No biggie, right?" He tried to act as if nothing was wrong despite the turmoil he'd just caused.

"I have no words." Lucifer turned back to the dishes, ignoring Mammon's attempts to speak to him anymore. Mammon was left with his thoughts again, and all the regret he had. He wasn't sure how to go about with telling them he didn't mean what he'd said, and that was just because he really liked them. After some pondering, he realized nobody but himself was going to fill this hole he'd created, and that it was his job to do it if he wanted to repair their relationship.

Mc had been in their room, reading through some notes from earlier that day, when their door slammed open. Only one demon entered like that. "Mammon." They nodded without looking up.

"Mc. I- Do ya have a moment?" They looked up to meet his gaze. All the animosity had faded and was replaced with a warmness they'd never seen before.

"Yes." They set their pen down, and waited for him to speak.

"I'm sorry about what I said. I'm sorry fer ignorin' ya today. I'm sorry fer treatin' ya like garbage. You don't deserve that." Tears began to well up in his eyes, but he continued. "I have trouble tellin' ya this, but I think yer really great. If yer willin' to talk to me again, I promise I won't do all that anymore." The tears began to slip down his cheeks.

"Oh, Mammon, please don't cry." Mc got up to hug him and close the door behind him. He tightly gripped them back, as if they might leave him. Once he'd calmed down a little, Mc spoke again.

"I won't lie, what you said did hurt, but thank you for saying you're sorry. I really love spending time with you. You make me feel welcome here. I don't fully understand you, but I hope that you'll help me understand you." Mc patted Mammon's back.

"Can I stay over in yer room tonight? Let me start there and make it up to ya fer yesterday. Let's watch yer favorite human movie." His eyes are still red, but the smile is back on his face. It really suited him.

"Yes, of course." That night, the both of them fell asleep in Mc's bed together, but not before Mammon thought how lucky he was to have them, despite himself.

#blueberry anon #sorry im on computer lol #obey me #obey me! #obey me x reader #obey me mammon #obey me lucifer #obey me asmo #obey me shall we date #obey me! shall we date #omswd

[piratefishmama]

Fake it till you make it | Part 4

‘Boundaries’ were harder to settle on than they'd expected them to be. Eddie didn’t seem to want to put anything on the “strictly no” list. Even when Steve suggested sex should be on there Eddie just wiggled his brows and claimed a week in a cabin with him might change things.

Steve found that hilarious enough to laugh at (much to Eddie's adorable pout) but also too fair to disagree with.

They were two healthy, queer, adult men! What was a little consensual nookie between fake boyfriends?

Plus he couldn’t tell if Eddie was joking or not so he put that on the mental ‘maybe a boundary’ list that may or may not be tested.

Steve wasn’t about to completely rule it out either! He had a healthy libido and Eddie wasn’t unattractive. He… actually was pretty damn attractive.

Nice eyes, nice hair, nice lips, nice voice, nice han— anyway, they had a whole week together in a romantic chalet, pretending to date.

Anything could happen. Especially if they didn’t rule anything out. And ruling it out only made it seem more exciting, like it was dangerous. Best to just not rule it out.

“What about kissing?” Steve pondered aloud, a small frown on his brow

“If I’m not ruling out sex, Harrington, I think kissing should be fi—"

“No, dumbass, not ruling it out, I mean… it’s gotta seem like a thing we normally do right? An you gotta stop calling me Harrington, it’s Steve. Boyfriends don’t call each other by their last names.”

“I’ll have a mental list of pet names prepared before the day ends, don’t you worry, Stevie, but what do you suggest? Are you thinking we should practice?” Eddie leaned forward a grin stretching on his lips that almost seemed predatory, like he was expecting Steve to stumble through a rebuttal, expecting him to back down or to apologise, but no, Steve wasn’t some simpering maiden who’d bashfully turn him down.

Steve was an experienced ladies man with a reputation for being… for lack of a better term, a bit of a hometown slut.

Even if he had no practical experience with men, that didn’t stop him from exuding confidence as he moved onto his haunches and crossed the very short distance between them, forcing that mischievous little shit right back into his spot as Steve basically climbed from his hands and knees into Eddie’s lap, watching in satisfaction as all that mischief just kind of…

Drained from his face.

Drained and replaced with wide-eyed rosy cheeked surprise, his hands extended out either side of himself to avoid touching Steve’s body. Adorable.

“Maybe we should.”

“Ah—uhm—heh—y-yeah I mean—m-maybe not here though, yeah?” He talked a good game, he put on a damn fine front, but Eddie Munson wasn’t exactly swimming in cock. Wasn’t even paddling. Or wading the cock waters.

No he was mainly just suffering in queer silence on dry land with just good ol leftie and a few skin mags to make himself feel better. Although the image of Steve Harrington in his lap? Oh yeah that’d do him for a few months.

Sad that it ended so fast though, with Steve backing his perfectly plush ass right back into his seat quickly after, holding his hands up in mock surrender, accepting the stuttered rejection like a champ.

“Wherever you feel comfiest, man, but I suggest we figure that shit out fast, we don’t have long before this trip an you’ll have to meet them before we go so we’re going to have to be comfortable with each other, especially if it’s an environment where we have no excuse to not be comfortable.” If they were in public? Absolutely they’d have many excuses readily available.

The chalet? Not public. In fact it was quite big, the only reason he was so sure his parents would bring someone for him was because it was big enough that they could do their own thing for hours without crossing paths. Sure the bedrooms were close to each other but there were other rooms to fuck around in.

Damn thing had two Jacuzzi’s and a sauna. Not to mention a home cinema to fool around in.

They’d be hoping that he’d spend some easily obtained alone time with this mystery person. God he’d be being pimped out by his parents. How had his life come to this?

“You want me to meet them before we go?” He was just expecting to turn up on the day and be ‘Steve’s new boyfriend’ that they’d never met and would just have to accept would be in attendance. In that scenario he assumed Steve would just get the okay from them to have him come and that be that but—

Clearly his imagination was not even remotely true to real life. “Uhh… yeah, they’ll wanna know who they’re spending a week with, Eddie, c’mon, fake dating starts like… now…”

“So can I charge you from now?”

“Dude that’d be double—”

“Aren’t you rich?”

“I work minimum wage at Family Video for crying out loud, no I’m not rich. My parents are rich, I make enough to keep the lights on and keep my fridge stocked while they’re away. C’mon man… I can do a week, I have savings that’ll cover a week but two weeks? That’s fourteen-hundred, dude, I can’t—” Two weeks was stretching things uncomfortably far. Like… going into debt kind of far. He couldn’t ask his parents for money because they’d wanna know what it was for and for him to get a receipt and Eddie didn’t do receipts. Or refunds. “I might actually starve.”

“… Fine.” He almost argued, you live in a McMansion Steve, I live in a trailer park, but then… Steve did actually work at Family Video, wouldn’t just do that if he didn’t have to, who’s to say his parents paid for anything for him? Who’s to say they didn’t pull the ‘you’re an adult now, son, we’ll let you live here but you have to pull your own weight’ shtick parents were apparently so fond of? God what if they made him pay rent?

Eddie really didn’t know anything about the Harringtons.

Steve clearly didn’t go to college, so… maybe his dad wouldn’t hire him for a role he wasn’t qualified for? Unlikely but not impossible if recent discoveries concerning Steve Harrington were to be used as a reference point. Couldn't assume anything about him. “Fine?”

“Yeah, fine. How about, instead… we stick with my original rate an call it a flat seven hundred, fifty per day, an we start now? We can head to the trailer park an figure shit out there, deduct today so it’s only six fifty cause we’re brainstorming. My uncle may be home, but he should be asleep now. He works nights. We should be fine… unless you wanna head to yours and go in blind, take a ‘we’re figuring things out together awkwardly’ approach to it?” That’d track, he could do awkward, he could probab—

“Nah, they’d never think I was awkward at dating, even though you are a guy.” Of course they wouldn’t. Their lady killer son would never be awkward about dating… he wasn’t either, that was the kicker. He’d got all the way up in Eddie’s business not five minutes ago and looked comfortable doing it, like he actually would have practiced kissing in the back of Eddie’s beat up old van.

Holy shit he could have been making out with Steve Harrington in the back of his van.

He said not here, yeah?

What the shit was his problem?!

Was he actually completely insane?

He was going to be a virgin forever.

“You good there, Ed?”

“Huh?” He squeaked. Eddie Munson did not squeak, but yet, there he was. Squeakin away. “Oh! Y-yeah yeah, just coming to an abrupt unfortunate conclusion, yep, I am a-ok completely and totally oooone-hundreeeeeee— okay I came to a very real realisation that I could have been basically making out with you for ‘practice’ in the back of my van in the bushes where nobody could interrupt us and that could have gone anywhere cause it’s comfy back here yet i decided to tell you ‘not here, yeah?’ like a perma-virgin so— yeah.”

“Jeez… maybe you could pull off the awkward boyfriend thing.”

“…So about that fourteen hundred.”

Part 6

#PirateWrites #FakeItTillYouMakeItFiclet #Steddie #No Upside Down AU #they're gonna be FIIIIINNEE

[rachalixie]

a/n: a little 2min x reader thing i wrote at 1am because @gimmeurtmi is a little enabler and sent me into a spiral (i love u wife). it's just my need to have the boys i'm in love with also be in love with each other.

dating both seungmin and minho was an interesting experience in almost all aspects. 

the two were, quite literally, like cat and dog. they bicker constantly, provoking one another just to get a rise out of it, but still insanely protective of one another. they’d been friends for longer than either of them had known you, a history there that you could never understand no matter how hard you tried to. they were roommates after all, they spent more time with each other than they did with anyone else. 

you fell in love with them at the same time. they were a constant from day one, wiggling their way into your life until they found a home there. they were unusual, they were frustrating, they were wonderful. a mixture of emotions that you couldn’t quite wrap your head around - maybe that’s why it took you so long to notice. 

they were flirting. 

their bickering was their ploys for attention, their jabs at each other were their ways of showing affection, their protective streaks were their way of saying i see you, i care about you, please be okay. 

it frustrates you that it took you months to realize this. months of sleeping over, alternating whose bed you ended up in at the end of the day. now, lying wide awake next to a softly snoring minho, the puzzle pieces finally line up and you’re stuck with the slowly spiraling thought that the two stupid men you fell in love with were also in love with each other. 

you hear soft footsteps outside of the room followed by the squeak of minho’s doorknob turning, and you close your eyes and level your breathing. you didn’t want to see kim seungmin right now. you didn’t want to speak to kim seungmin right now. 

he pads to the bedside table, quiet as possible to not wake you or minho. you hear the click of minho’s bedside lamp and the orangey glow behind your eyelids disappears.  

seungmin can’t sleep with the lights on, even the softest glow from the crack beneath his door bothers him. his room is always shrouded in darkness, the thickest blackout curtains lining his windows and covers over every charging cable. 

“stupid hyung,” he mutters, sliding out of the room as fast as he entered it. 

this is something you’ve seen him do often. he would sneak into minho’s room, slick and quiet, and turn the lights off. he would never bring it up to minho, never scold him for leaving the lights on and disturbing his sleep. 

seungmin can’t sleep with the lights on. minho knows this. minho, for all of his teasing and general i-don’t-give-a-fuck facade, he remembers these tiny details. he would never do something purposefully that would harm someone else’s health, especially kim seungmin’s. 

he’s been leaving the lights burning on purpose. just so seungmin has to come into his room and then them off. just so he has a little pocket of interaction to hold close. and seungmin has been letting him. seungmin was never one to hold back from complaining to minho about his behavior, from the way he leaves his shoes just an inch away from the rack to the way he breathes too loud during movie nights. so, why does he not complain about this? why does he not barge in and wake minho up in his frustration instead of creeping in and out like a ghost?

because they love each other, your traitorous brain supplies. 

you’re still pretending to be asleep when you hear minho sigh and roll over, his hand coming to cover his face. you can hear the smile in his breath, and you’re sure that if you opened your eyes you’d be able to see the fiery red burning in his ears, even in the dark. interesting. 

this stays with you for days. weeks. you know you spend a little too much time staring at them now, but you can’t help it. if they notice, they don’t bring it up to you. 

you start staying awake later on the days that you’re in minho’s bed, just to get a glimpse of seungmin coming in and out of the room. sometimes, he would turn off the light quickly and leave just as fast. other times, he would take a second to stare at minho’s face with heavy eyes, pausing for longer than necessary before turning and walking away. on rare occasions, when he notices that the blankets have shifted away, he pulls them over an exposed knee or elbow or foot, tucking minho in like he’s a child that needs to be coddled. 

minho wakes up sometimes. he sighs like he’s in school and he’s experiencing his first crush, every single time. other times he remains fast asleep, mumbling lightly in unintelligent syllables. but every day that seungmin visits his room, he wakes up utterly content and pleased. 

a month into this routine you’ve had enough. you don’t know how long this has been going on for, but you know that you’re ready for it to end. 

“talk to him,” you say to minho before bed as you run your fingers through his hair in what you hope is enough to comfort him. 

“talk to who?” he asks, voice trembling around the edges. he’s playing ignorant, when you know he knows exactly who you’re talking about. 

“he feels the same, you know that?” you keep your voice soft, not wanting to spook him. he spooks easily, like a kitten. “the three of us are already dating each other. it’s just that you two don’t know it yet.”

“what if he says no?” he forces out, avoiding your eyes as he fiddles with his fingers. 

“he won’t. trust me?” you hold out a pinkie and he links his own with it with a slow nod. 

it takes him longer to go to sleep, this time. you can hear his uneven breathing under your head from where it’s pillowed on his chest, and it jumps when he hears his bedroom door creak open. 

seungmin moves to the light and clicks it off, but before he could back away minho’s eyes flutter open and he grabs seungmin’s hand. 

“hyung?” seungmin squeaks out, frightened at being caught for the first time. that he knows of. 

“you came all this way just to turn off a light,” minho starts, words slow and tentative like he’s testing out the flavor of them on his tongue before he speaks them. “might as well stay. there’s room for you, in here.”

not the confession you were hoping for, but you suppose it’ll do, for now. he folds back the blanket a bit, enough to signal the invitation but not enough to be embarrassed about if he was rejected. 

“you want me?” seungmin’s voice is too shocked for how smart he is. why can’t these boys see what’s in front of them?

“get in the bed, seung,” you jump in, not willing to witness the awkward stumbling that those two were about to engage in. you had plenty of time for that tomorrow, in the daylight. “he wants you to.”

so seungmin does. he gets in quietly, and minho wriggles a bit closer to you to make room. despite minho’s claim, it’s a tight fit, but when minho throws and arm around seungmin and pulls him into his chest so that the two of you were mirrored images of one another it works. 

minho’s smile almost outshines seungmin’s, both blinding the room in the kind of light that doesn’t need flame or electricity. 

the next morning, seungmin claims that it was the best sleep he’s had in a while. minho claims that it’s usually a little too cold, and having two personal heaters instead of one was better. you roll your eyes at them, but when they shyly kiss over the kitchen table you’re the happiest you’ve ever been. 

#stray kids imagines #stray kids fluff #stray kids drabbles #stray kids soft thoughts #stray kids soft hours #soft #lee know fluff #seungmin fluff #2min #lee know imagines #kim seungmin imagines

[steddieas-shegoes]

“Eds. What are you doing.”

Steve wasn’t really asking him. He could see very well what he was trying to do.

He was trying to hide an amused smile.

They’d moved into the apartment less than two hours ago and Eddie’s one singular task was to set up their bed so they could sleep in it tonight.

Steve figured that would be relatively easy.

He was clearly mistaken.

“I can feel you laughing. Silent laughing is still laughing.”

“Not laughing. Just wondering how long you’ve been trying to starfish the sheet onto the bed.”

Eddie was indeed starfished across their bed, arms and legs spread out with the fitted sheet wrapped around his hands and feet. He’d been trying this method for maybe 20 minutes after the last attempt of one corner at a time didn’t work.

“Too long. Help.”

Steve came over and put his hand on Eddie’s back, rubbing it up and down his spine.

“You could’ve just asked me for help. I didn’t think you could actually get this sheet on by yourself. It’s a king sized bed, baby.”

Eddie glared at him over his shoulder.

“I take it back. You sleep on the couch. I sleep right here on my unfitted sheet in my king sized bed.”

Steve laughed. He couldn’t help it. Eddie was so fucking cute when he had to do household chores. It wasn’t that he couldn’t either, he just liked to pretend he couldn’t so Steve would help him.

Steve was onto him, but he loved it.

Loved doing everything together, no matter what it was.

“C’mon. I’ll help. It’ll be easy if we both do it.”

“Nope. This is the bed now. We live like this.”

“What do you want me to do to get you up?”

This was all part of the game.

Eddie seemed to think about it for a moment and Steve couldn’t help the fond smile he was giving the back of Eddie’s overdramatic head.

“Two kisses and a back massage later. Non-negotiable.”

“How about one kiss now, one when we’re done, and I give you a back massage tomorrow night too?”

Eddie squinted at him, half his face still buried in the sheet below him.

“Why two massages?”

“Because I love you?”

“Can’t fool me, Harrington. What have you done?”

“I may have let Jonathan and Argyle off the hook for helping unpack tomorrow so we’ve got a long day on our own.”

“Why would you do that Steven?”

“Because they’ve helped enough Edward.”

They glared at each other for a moment before Eddie sighed and turned to hide his face back in the sheet.

“Fine.”

Steve smirked.

“What was that?”

“I said fine!”

Eddie got up, received his first kiss, and they got the sheet on the bed in less than five minutes.

Steve knew better than to say anything about how teamwork made the job easier or that he told him so.

Eddie got his second kiss and then stripped so he could immediately get in the shower.

“Baby, it’s only 7:00. We haven’t even had dinner.”

“Too tired. Too sore. Come rub my back.”

Steve rolled his eyes fondly.

“Fine. I’ll order pizza when we’re done.”

“This is why I love you.”

“Uh huh.”

“That and the amazing blowjob you’re gonna give me after the back massage.”

Eddie disappeared in the bathroom before Steve could respond, but he didn’t need to.

He’d give Eddie whatever he wanted.

#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things #headcanon #domestic fluff #okay last one #seriously I got other shit to write #this was just clearing out the cobwebs

[nyoomfruits]

no. 18: Hot Single Parent and babysitter/nanny for mctwinks pls!!

18. hot single parent and babysitter/nanny

There’s a million things that lead up to Lando being broadcasted to the entire F1 watching world with a baby strapped to his chest, but the shortest version of it is this;

He’s in London for a gig, playing at some night club he’s already forgotten the name of, when Max texts him if he wants to go to the Silverstone GP. And Lando loves Silverstone, and he hasn’t been to a race in forever, so he says yes.

When he gets there, excited to watch some racing, he’s instead confronted with Max’s teammate Oscar Piastri, who is cute and serious and looking a little frazzled and holding a baby.

The baby, Oscar tells him, is his daughter Harper. His nanny bailed on him at the very last moment and everyone seems to be busy and he needs to find someone to take care of her right now so if Lando could move out of the way that would be great.

To which Lando opens his mouth and says, “I can watch her.”

So. Baby.

Harper is a pretty chill baby, all things considered. Oscar had been a bit hesitant to hand her over initially, but after the approval of Max and Lando’s assurance that his brother has kids and he knows  what he’s doing, he’d strapped the complicated baby carrier situation to Lando’s chest and given Harper a goodbye kiss on the top of her head before heading to the track.

And it’s not like Oscar and Lando are stranger to each other, either. They’d seen each other over the years, in the paddock whenever Lando came to visit, at parties. Most notably Max’s birthday party two years ago, where they stood outside and talked for nearly two hours, and Lando was so convinced they were going to kiss.

But they didn’t. So.

Harper babbles happily and Lando glances down at her, adjusting the giant baby proof headphones so they cover her ears properly. “Are you excited to watch your dad’s race, Harper?” He asks, to which Harper answers with a decisive, “Ba!” as she slams her fist against Lando’s shoulder.

“Me too, little bug, me too.” Lando says.

The race is pretty good. From where he’s sitting Lando has an excellent view of the track as well as the option to watch the screens for the parts he can’t see, and he entertains himself by pointing out things out to Harper, who mostly babbles happily and waves her fists around in answer.

When Max crosses the line in first, Oscar in second, Lando puts up Harper’s little hands in a cheer and she actually giggles. After that he makes his way back to the Red Bull Motorhome to wait for Oscar, stopping along the way to talk to some people he knows, most of whom give him very amused looks when they spot Harper.

He’s just taken a seat in hospitality, when he gets a text from his sister. You never tell me shit anymore :(((((  It says. Lando frowns. Attached is a message, and he nearly drops his phone when he opens it and sees what it is.

It’s a screenshot from the live broadcast, showcasing Lando and Harper, clearly in deep conversation about something on track. Lando hadn’t even noticed the camera had been on them. But that. That isn’t really the important part. The important part is the caption.

The intention, Lando hopes, must have been for it to say ‘Lando Norris; professional DJ, holding Oscar Piastri’s baby’.

Instead, it says, ‘Lando Norris; professional DJ, Oscar Piastri’s baby’.

“Oh go-“ he glances at Harper. “-Goody,” he finishes. His friends are never going to let this go. Max is going to have a field day. Maybe he can just ignore it ever happened. Sweep it under the rug. Pretend-

“Hey baby,” Oscar Piastri says, appearing next to his table.

Lando cringes. “Ah,” he says, “you saw.”

Oscar shrugs, seeming entirely too chill about the whole thing. “Max saw it, on the big screens. Mentioned it in the cool down room.” Which is Oscar speak for ‘teased him relentlessly about it’, probably. Lando winces in sympathy. “I’m sorry,” Oscar continues.

“Nah, not your fault,” Lando says, waving his hand around. “Besides,” he adds, trying very hard to keep a straight face and not do something embarrassing like blush. “It’s not the worst thing to be, you know. Your baby.”

“Oh,” Oscar says, and his cheeks turn an absolutely delightful shade of pink, and suddenly it’s just like two years ago, standing in the courtyard of a club Lando’s long forgotten, staring into Oscar’s deep brown eyes like they’re the only two people on earth.

Which they’re not, as Harper gladly reminds them by choosing that exact moment to say, “Aga ba,” and slamming her fist against Lando’s cheek.

Oscar’s demeanor changes immediately, his smile mellowing out in something so soft it tugs at Lando’s heart as he reaches for her daughter, who twists around to face him and lets out a delighted string of babbles.

Lando unstraps her and hands her over, watching as Oscar quietly asks her how her afternoon was and then getting the softest, fondest look on her face when she babbles happily, albeit completely nonsensically, back at him.

“Thanks, for watching over her.”

“Yeah,” Lando says, standing up himself. “No problem. Anytime.” Anytime, all the time, forever if you’d let me. God, he’s pathetic. A cute guy is nice to him twice and he’s immediately willing to go down on one knee.

“Right,” Lando says, and there’s a moment, a small moment, where Oscar looks at him expectantly, and he thinks fuck it. I could just ask him out. We could make it work. But then he looks at Harper, still cradled in Oscar’s arms. Thinks about his schedule for the upcoming week, which is so incredibly full he’s going to have to ask his PA if she can please schedule him time to breathe, and realizes that no matter how much he might want this, it’s just not possible for them.

Being Oscar Piastri’s baby is always going to be just a meme on the internet.

“Well,” he finally says, shoves his hands in his pockets. “See you around.”

Something flickers, in Oscar’s face. Disappointment, maybe. Or maybe Lando’s just projecting. Whatever it is, it doesn’t matter. It isn’t going to change anything.

He leaves the Red Bull Hospitality without looking back.

#landoscar #mctwinks #twinklaren #IM SORRY I MADE IT SAD #drabble #ask game

[hotluncheddie]

Day 2: Cockwarming

"Puppy"

wc: 1.5k | rated: E | tags: Sub Eddie Munson, established relationship, collar & leash, chubby Steve Harrington, thigh humping, food during sex, fingering

written for @subeddieweek <3

🍰🍰🍰🍰🍰

Steve suppresses a shiver as he feels drool slide down over his balls. He shoves another bite of cake in his mouth. 

Moving slightly, he looks down and sees big, brown, pleading eyes looking back at him. 

‘Wait till I‘m finished puppy.’ Steve says, yanking lightly on the leash in his hand, attached to eddies leather collar. 

Eddie whines weakly. Slowly closing his eyes again and suckling gently on Steve’s cock. Steve grinds shallowly up into his mouth, just to hear him whimper. 

Eddie’s so pretty when he floats away like this. But he’s not allowed to move yet, and he hasn’t, because he’s Steve’s good puppy. 

Steve never really expected this, when he remembers Eddie Munson from high school. Always too loud, too brash, too quick to loose his patience with jocks - which meant no more weed, no more nothin. 

He held his own kind of reign, that King Freak. 

But then Steve met the other sides of Eddie, after the upside down, throughout the hospital stay and the PT and the meds. Sides that could be quiet and sad, that looked inwards with no patience and left bruises on knuckles. 

Saw all Eddies sides, and searched for them - every ugly, mangled, beautiful one of them. Until, somehow, they came together. Two warped sort of beings, smoothing each others edges over time. 

The first time they’d kissed, after weeks of dancing around each other, and Steve having to slow his charm into a more simple honesty, Eddie opened up beautifully. Melting into the mattress and letting Steve do as he pleased. 

And it's only blossomed from there. Steve takes great pride in being able to give Eddie this. Time away from his brain. Space and care and protection in moments where he can come apart, totally exposed. Knowing that Steve will piece him back together again. 

Steve shoves the last bite of birthday cake in his mouth. Eddie had cut the piece for him, choosing the amount, handing it over shyly along with the leashes handle, before sinking to his knees. 

Now Steve feels sticky and stretched out, Eddie’s mouth warm and wet around him. Steve grinds again and licks the frosting from his teeth, sinking into the couch. 

It’s been about an hour, the movie they put on almost at the end, not that either have been paying attention. But Steve pretended, to allow Eddie time to fall fully, mouth full and back arched, just the way he likes it. 

Eddie said he likes the view from the floor, how his nose can touch the softest part of Steve’s belly, just bellow the bellybutton. Likes the weight of Steve’s cock in his mouth, the anticipation and safety in the act. 

Eddie likes it all so much it’s what he asked for it as part of his birthday present. A scene with cake and his collar, both their mouths full. How could Steve say no? 

‘Baby, m’done.’ He pants slightly, readjusting on the couch again, Eddie sinking till he can nuzzle Steves pubes, forehead bumping into his stomach. Eddie keening another heady whine. 

Steve groans as Eddie’s tongue swirls around him. Yanking the lead up and burying his hand in Eddie’s curls, pushing down. Steve rolls his hips at the wet click of Eddie’s throat. 

He pulls out slightly just to fuck himself back in, deeper, feeling Eddie’s moan vibrate through his bones. He does it again, gripping Eddie’s scalp harder, wrapping the leash around his fist once, twice, holding it taught. 

Steve pulls back to let Eddie catch his breath but Eddies tongue never stops licking. ‘That’s it, good puppy.’ Steve can hear him breathing deep through his nose. Regaining oxygen so he can hollow his cheeks and suck. Steve moans and Eddie’s hips rise and sway a little, back arching even more. Finally allowed to move, finally allowed to play with Steve’s cock in his mouth. Finally allowed to get his throat fucked. 

One night early on in the relationship Eddie had paused making out to nip playfully from Steve’s mouth to his pec. Licking over each bite and moving quick to do it again. But Eddie got too close to Steves armpit and it made Steve snort, unable to contain his laughter. 

It wasn’t exactly sexy, but Eddie’s eyes had lit up and he did it again. Sticking his fingers into Steve’s other armpit and tickling. Making Steve wriggle and buck and Eddie looked so delighted. 

Steve had grabbed Eddie’s wrists, out of breath and vaguely conscious of his still half hard cock between them. ‘You’re like a little puppy.’ He'd said, panting, cheeks hurting from his smile. 

Eddie had wiggled his eyebrows and wiggled his hips, letting his tongue loll out playfully. But Steve saw how his eyes darkened, how his breathing deepened and slowed. 

So Steve pulled Eddie close, manhandling him, wanting to take some bites of his own, leave a mark. Make Eddie squirm and writhe and feel it. 

Steve realised then that Eddie just wanted sensations, wanted to be close. Steve realised Eddie just, always, always, wants to play. 

‘Fuck, c’mere baby.’ Steve pulls Eddie off his spent cock and keeps pulling until Eddie is straddling his thick thigh. Steve pants, still reeling from the feeling of finishing with Eddie’s throat around him. 

‘Show me.’ He says softly, Eddie blinks slow and opens his mouth, showing Steve the mess still on his tongue. ‘Good puppy.’ Steve breaths, reaching his sticky sweet fingers up to press into the mess, get them all wet. 

Eddie latches onto the digits and hums, eyes closing sleepily as his hands find purchase on Steve’s middle.

‘Open.’ Steve instructs again and Eddie opens his eyes and mouth softly, sweetly. Steve pulling the dripping digits out, making sure Eddie sees them glisten with spit and cum before he reaches around and feels for eddies hole. 

He whines as Steve pets him softly, teasing the muscle but not quite breaching. Eddie still loose from Steve fucking him into the mattress this morning, waking his birthday boy up with lube and spit and tongue. 

Eddie’s mouth is still obediently open and his sticky pink cock is dripping onto Steve’s thigh. ‘Swallow.’ Steve tells him and Eddie does with a whine. ‘Your turn, hump my thigh, like a good puppy yeah?’ Steve murmurs, kissing Eddie’s swollen lips and relishing in how sweetly he moans, Steve’s fingers finally sinking in. 

And Eddie’s moving for real now, having been given permission. Able to take what he needs. 

Steve knows he could be meaner, make him hold out for longer. But he can’t quite bring himself to be when Eddie’s been so good, taking everything and wearing his collar so well. 

Instead he holds Eddie steady, curls his finger in and up. Watches Eddie’s eyebrows furrow, lips parting into a soft little o. 

He holds his other arm further out, making the collar dig in to the pale skin of Eddie’s neck. Watching the lack of air make his eyes roll and his tongue fall out of his mouth, panting. 

Eddie’s hips move faster, humping his balls over Steve’s thigh, his cock into Steve’s belly. He’s close. Steve knows from the shade of flush on his cheeks, the pitch of his moans. 

‘Sweet puppy, cum for me.’ Steve says softly. Moving his fingers faster, tugging the lead harder. 

Eddie opens his eyes, glassy with unshed tears, pupils so big they look black. 

Eddie’s lips move but no words come out, just a long, agonising whine, as he spills all over Steve. Cumming into the hairs on his stomach, some dipping down into his pubes. 

Steve keeps moving his hand, fucking Eddie’s hole, watching him squirm. But he lets the leash turn slack and allows Eddie to dip closer, plastering himself to Steve’s chest and licking into Steves mouth. More tongue than kissing - just how his puppy likes it. 

Slowing his fingers once Eddie starts writhing, Steve pulls their mouths apart, wanting to see Eddie’s face. 

He pulls his fingers out slow and unlinks the leash. Moving some of the sweaty hair from Eddie’s face and readjusting the collar so the ring sits in the centre of his pretty long neck. Eddie’s eyes are big and wet and shining, cheeks flushed and there’s a smear of spit across eddies cheek. ‘Beautiful.’ Steve tells him, kissing away a tear that's slipped out from Eddie’s lashes. 

Eddie just whimpers, shuffling in closer and nuzzling at Steve’s cheek. 

‘You want to take this off?’ Steve whispers, tracing the buckle at the back of the leather. 

But Eddie just shakes his head, grunting. 

‘Puppy not ready to talk yet?’ Steve asks and Eddie shakes his head again. 

He must’ve dropped really far. Steve’s precious thing. 

‘We need to clean up though, wanna crawl and get a cloth baby?’ Steve asks him. They can keep playing for a little longer, until Eddie’s eyes start to droop and Steve can carry him to bed, hold him close all night. 

Ready to play again tomorrow, if Eddie wants, whatever Eddie wants. 

🍰🍰🍰🍰🍰

Tag List: @pearynice @xxfiction-is-my-realityxx @scoops-aboy86 @chickensinrainboots @cheesedoctor @marvel-ous-m

#Steve calling eddie puppy sends me insane don't know if u could tell #i love them. they're in love #hotlunch #my fic #subeddieweek #sub eddie week #steddie #steve x eddie #steddie fic #sub eddie munson #“a belly in ur face while ur mouth is full can actually be something so personal” - E Munson

[illicitlimerence-writes]

secret keeper | m. schumacher

pairing: mick schumacher x driver!teammate!reader word count: 2.1k words (i really wanted all of these to be short lol sorry) request: don’t think so! prompt: doing secret santa ⎯ “just tell me who got me.” from this prompt list. not my prompts, credits to the person who created it!warnings: kinda crack!fic, idk. language, really fluffy, seb being great, special appearance by the spanish speaking gang (i had to). reader speaks spanish in this. a/n: here’s day 2! i hope you like it, pls let me know what you think! reminder that my requests are closed.

my masterlist

(you'll know why i chose this gif later lol)

doing secret santa was the most exciting part of the year for her. it was something so silly and it made her so happy, the thought of having someone actually think deep about what they felt she’d really enjoy was a thrilling one.

something she didn’t quite like about secret santa was that first part. the secret. whilst she did like surprises, and there were only a few limited options as to who might give her something, the anticipation was too much for her. 

her teammate, mick, had made a bet with himself, to see how long it’d take her to either figure out or start interrogating everyone until they told her who her secret santa was. at first he gave it ten minutes, but he laughed to himself as he watched her.

they were doing the standard start-of-year interviews, the drivers’ goals and predictions, and the secret santa name draw. mick had already finished his, and was waiting for her so they could go and have lunch together. normally they’d wait longer to do the name draw, but last year the organizers had left it till the last minute, and they didn’t want to risk it this time. plus, they’d have a whole season ahead of them to think really well about the gift.

“okay, (y/n), i’ve got this santa hat here-” the interviewer said, showing her the hat.

“ooh, christmas in march, i like it!” she laughed.

“and in here there’s the names of the other drivers available for the gift exchange,” she nodded at the interviewer.

“i like that we’re doing this right at the start of the season,” she chuckled, grabbing the hat by the white fluff, the pom pom hanging down, “but i can assure you, more than one person will wait until the day before to get their gift,” the people around her laughed, mick did, too. “why are you laughing? did you feel called out?” she asked mick, raising an eyebrow. a camera panned to him, shaking his head at her.

“i already know what i’m going to get,”

“ooh, tell me, tell me!” she rushed to him, moving her hair away from her ear. he leaned in, presing his lips close to her ear.

“no.”

she rolled her eyes, slapping the back of his head. 

“did you get seb?” she asked walking back to the spot where she was supposed to be, where all the cameras were ready to record her. she hadn’t arrived in time to see his secret santa segment, so she’d have to find out another way.

“i’m not going to tell you!” he laughed, as the interviewer shook her head.

“you’re not supposed to tell each other, or anyone,” she clarified. 

“ugh, fine.” she laughed, “sorry,” she apologized, and placed her hand in, “wait, then he should leave! or he’ll know who i get,” she pointed an accusatory finger at him. “what if i get him?”

“someone else already got mick,” the interviewer clarified, and her shoulders slumped a little, it wasn’t a lie that the two of them were the closest friends and teammates, but she wouldn’t let that discourage her. 

“dang it, what am i going to do with all those treats i got for angie, then?” she teased, mick laughed. “so sorry, i know this is taking way longer than it should’ve. i promise i’ll focus now.” she nodded, “you can stay, just promise not to tell anyone,” she told mick, who pretended to zip his lips together.

she ran her fingers through all the folded pieces of paper, finally picking one that called to her. she unfolded it, her eyes opening wide as she read. 

“hell yes!” she skipped from one foot to the other, jumping in excitement, “i got seb!” she declared happily, showing the paper to everyone. “ha-ha!” she mocked mick, who only rolled his eyes as he laughed. the two of them were the best of friends. they grew up together, and had been teammates since they were in f3, somehow they always found their way back to each other. suddenly her eyes snapped open, “did you get me?” she gasped. mick shook his head. “did he get me?” she asked the rest of the crew behind the cameras, who only laughed at her eagerness, but didn’t answer. “fine, if you could just tell whoever got me that my favorite color is blue, that would be great, thanks!”

-

months passed and as the end of season approached, her relentlessness to know who her secret santa was came back with as much as before. this time, mick wasn’t her only victim.

it started in mexico city, when she was walking alongside charles and lando, and someone from charles’ team approached him.

“hey, charles, just to remind you that the deadline for the secret santa gift is in brazil.” he said, leaving them after that.

“you haven’t turned in your gift?” she asked, she’d done it the week before, when she was finally done packing the perfect gift for sebastian. her mentor. 

“i honestly forgot about it,” he said, lando laughed, drinking from his water bottle. something shifted in her eyes as an idea popped in her head.

“well, i could help you!” she offered, blinking slowly to gain his attention.

“really?” he asked, feeling like a weight was being lifted off his shoulders, “thanks i honestly didn’t know what to get-” he was about to say the name of his secret santa, but lando elbowed him on the ribs.

“you can’t say it!” he scolded him, chuckling at her enraged face.

“lando you ass! he was about to tell me!” she grunted, grabbing charles’ face and directing his eyes to her. “tell me charles, who’s your secret santa?”

“no! i can’t say,” he shook his head, feeling something in the pit of his stomach as her eyes narrowed. 

“did you get me? do you know who got me?” she asked, shaking his shoulders dramatically. lando laughed, charles was trying his hardest to keep a straight face. 

“no, and no!” he said, she grunted, and moved on to lando.

“do you know, norris?” she asked.

“no. i don’t know. and i didn’t get you.”

“you didn’t?” she asked, at least if he denied it she could tick him off his list.

“i don’t know,” he said, shrugging and smiling sheepishly. 

she punched his shoulder and walked away, both drivers hurried after her. 

-

finally, in abu dhabi things got a little bit sweeter. the dinner to honor sebastian was a perfect opportunity for her to really tick people off her list of suspects, up until that point the only person off her list was herself. she hadn’t made that much progress. she had to be smart about it, she couldn’t just straight up ask someone about it, much less if her friends were listening to her.

thankfully, as they were about to leave and were all gathering to take a picture, they all started talking about their agendas for the next day.

“i’m doing the secret santa thing early tomorrow, thankfully,” she heard fernando say, in spanish, he was talking to the other spanish-speakers of the grid. she thanked the stars for her stubbornness, and her parents for listening to her when she said she wanted to learn as many languages as she could. spanish, of course, french, italian, english, and german. this was her shot, and if she were alone, she would’ve grinned like the grinch. she approached them, slowly, and listened to them. “after that i’m completely free.”

“free of what?” she popped in.

“media duties,” he explained, smiling.

“ugh, i’m busy all day. i think they left my secret santa segment for last.”

“well, of course, everyone knows how much you love that thing,” checo said.

“that’s true, i know,” she chuckled. “did you guys struggle to get your gift?”

“not really, mine is an inside joke with max,” checo shrugged, the name slipping from his lips without him noticing.

“aw that’s nice,” she smiled, feeling carlos looking at her.

“i’m not going to tell you who i got.”

“why? did you get me?” she tried, but carlos shook his head.

“i don’t mind, if it will help you sleep better. i didn’t get you,” fernando admitted, she looked at him gratefully.

“see, carlos? that’s what a good friend does!” she pointed at fernando, “thank you.”

mick called her name, she excused herself and walked to him, feeling his arm around her shoulders. 

“what are you doing?” he asked accusatorily. 

“we can tick checo and fernando off my list,” she gave him a smug smile, clearly content with her work for the night.

“you’re just not letting this go are you?” he asked, amused at her stubbornness, it didn’t surprise him, he knew her like the back of his hand, but it was still nice to see her trying her hardest to figure this out.

“this all can end if you just tell me who got me.” she said, leaning her head against his shoulder as everyone else gathered around, getting ready for the group picture. 

“you’ll know tomorrow. don’t worry.” he reassured her. she sighed.

-

the next day, mick and (y/n) were like two kids, she’d wanted to watch seb open the present she got him, and had convinced mick to help her make it happen in a way that wouldn’t be so obvious. it didn’t take that much to find a way to stay and watch seb.

they just found him as they walked pass, and asked if they could stay. the lady in charge of all of the f1 media just asked them to stay quiet.

“oh, this is very nice,” seb smiled as he took out the first present, “didn’t we have like $30 limit?” he chuckled, (y/n) and mick laughed too. the last gift was a dead giveaway, a picture of her, mick, and seb. when the two young drivers were just kids, barely starting karting against each other. it was from the first time they met sebastian in a “professional” environment. “oh, well, i think i know who this is from,” he grinned, his eyes darting to the two of them, with mick confused and (y/n) with a big smile on her face. he showed the picture to the camera, a different camera panning to the two haas drivers. “judging by their faces i’d say this is from (y/n),” he guessed. 

she nodded her head, and walked to him when he opened his arms for her. they hugged each other, she was going to miss him so much. he’d always been there for her. all throughout her career and her personal life. she looked up to him, admired him and everything he worked for, what he stood for. 

“thank you, dear, i loved all of my gifts,” she smiled, proud of herself. 

“thank you for everything you’ve done for me,” 

-

after an excruciatingly long day, it was her turn to film her secret santa section.

“i really hope you add a special montage of every time i’ve risked my life, and others’, trying to figure out who got me in this gift exchange,” she only half-joked, but it helped ease the mood with everyone around. mick, as usual, was sitting next to her, on the other side of the cameras.

“we’ll make sure of it,” the f1 producer nodded, making a mental note to check all the footage. once the cameras started rolling officially, she got her signature smile on, “(y/n), welcome to the 2022 f1 secret santa. i know this is something you’ve been looking forward all year long,” she nodded her head, “i won’t make you wait much longer so, here you go,” she was handed a small box, and her first instinct was to shake it to see if it made any noise.

“i hear a faint jingling.” she said, unwrapping the blue ribbon around the black box. “it’s blue! thanks santa!” she smiled, remembering the comment she’d made about her favorite color. “oh, whoa-” her eyes widened as she saw the gift. it was a necklace, with the outline of a track hanging in the middle. “it’s spa!” she giggled, recognizing the twists and turns. “oh my god, this is so nice, i-” her eyes widened as she stared at it, a light flush had creeped its way up to her cheeks. “oh, gosh, i-” she was at a loss for words, she was expecting maybe a gift that was partly a joke, or something small. this was too much. “i don’t think i can accept this.”

“do you have any clue as to who it might be?” they asked her, she was still too shocked to think.

“no. well, i mean the only person that pops in my head that might be this thoughtful is either mick or seb, but i guess maybe charles, too? i know he’s sponsored by a jewelry company,”

“you’re so close,” they told her. 

“pierre?” she guessed, it didn’t really make sense, he didn’t know that spa was her favorite track, well, to her knowledge.

“not quite,” she sighed.

“i don’t know. i-” she turned her head, seeing mick looking at her, throughout the entire time he could feel his eyes on her, it wasn’t anything different. but she saw a faint blush on his cheeks, his ears. “oh my god. no. are you shitting me?” she asked him, directly, not even looking at the cameras. “it was you? it’s been you this entire time?” she asked. and mick couldn’t hide it anymore, he smiled, nodding. “mick!” she ran to him, he stood up as she approached him and she jumped in his arms. “thank you, i love it,” she said.

“i’m glad you liked it,” he said, suddenly becoming shy under all of the stares.

once she returned to her spot, she couldn’t wipe the grin off her face. her fingers were playing with the chain that now hung from her neck. 

“how’d you know it was mick?” they asked her.

“well, not many people know that my favorite track is spa. i mean, they probably wouldn’t think it is given my bad luck there,” she said, referring to the fiasco last year and her dnf of that year after having a great race. “and he blushes a lot,” she added, chuckling. 

they hurried the rest of the video, as she thanked him once more, this time in front of the cameras. 

-

“i should’ve known,” she said as she shook her head. “i knew there was a reason you weren’t telling me.”

“ah, well, i had to keep the secret,” he chuckled. 

“i really love this, mick, thank you. you really didn’t have to get me something so…”

“oh, you’ll just have to wait and see what i’ve got in store for christmas,” he smiled, leaving her stunned there as he kept walking.

“what do you mean? you got my gift already?!” she asked, rushing to him again.

“i don’t know,” he shrugged, “maybe,” he said as he got into the elevator.

“what is it? can you give me a clue?” she asked.

“hmm… i can just say you’re going to love it,” mick smiled, already looking forward to their christmas trip, one that could possibly change the course of their friendship, possibly changing to something more. being her secret santa wasn’t the only secret mick was keeping.

#25 days of christmas #mick schumacher x reader #mick schumacher fanfic #f1 imagine #mick schumacher fanfiction #mick schumacher #mick schumacher imagine #mick schumacher one shot #mick schumacher oneshot #mick schumacher drabble #mick schumacher fan fiction #mick schumacher fluff #mick schumacher fic #mick schumacher x y/n #mick schumacher x you #mick schumacher x driver!reader #mick schumacher x teammate!reader #mick schumacher blurb #f1 fiction #f1 fanfiction #f1 fic #f1 fanfic #f1 fandom #f1blr #f1 #formula one x reader #formula 1 #formula 1 imagine #formula one imagine #f1 drivers one shot

[the-moon-lullaby]

Could you do headcanons of how the boys spend their morning after their first time with candy in episode 40

How the HSL Boys spend their morning/day with Candy after episode 40

𝙽𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚎𝚕 :

He probably already considered the option of Candy staying the next day after spending the night 

Which is why he did some groceries the day before and that there’s some sweet snacks in his kitchen 

(and he didn’t buy them for himself as you could've assumed)

He’d bring her breakfast in bed 

He’s a bit awkward and wouldn’t really know what to talk about because it’s the first time he finds himself in a situation like this 

But the feeling would quickly fades since that he feels even closer and comfortable around Candy than before (I mean it make sense after the night they spent) 

So they’d just enjoy a little breakfast together 

Nothing too fancy but the vibe is chill and nice 

Afterwards he’ll probably would want to take a shower 

and if Candy wants to, she’s free to join (after all it saves water) 

He’d probably do a little checkup on Candy while they’re showering and ask her if she feels sore or anything (and if that’s the case, he’d be happy to offer a little massage under the steaming water) 

Then he’d ask whether she wants to go outside or if she wants to stay inside

If they’re staying home, they’d probably spend the afternoon in Nath’s bed while he reads her one of his favourite book 

I can see them writing little notes in it while they do that and now each time Nathaniel picks up this book there’s a little reminder of this moment (so cute)

When Candy has to leave, he’ll walk her home and while they’re heading there, they’d already be planning their next date (since that they’re free of school now, Nathaniel clearly intend to use these holidays to spend even more quality time with Candy)

Honestly, there is kind of a domestic vibe here and I live for it

𝙲𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚕 :

Okay so we know that my boy was up for a second round but he’s no fool 

He knows that Candy might be a little sore after the night they spent together so he was probably joking around (at least for now)

Yet he wouldn’t let her get out of the bed so soon and would hold her close, wanting to make this peaceful feeling last as much as he can 

I think he’d finally allow himself to be more vulnerable (it’s about damn time) by letting Candy play with his hair and he wouldn’t bother trying to hide his loving stare or blushing face that matches his hair

He’s not the best with love confessions and all(which is why he wrote her a song instead of directly telling her about how he felt, as we already know) so he tries to show how much the moment they shared last night means to him through his attitude

At some point they’d have to get up to take Demon on his little morning walk. So they would go together 

They’d probably stop by on the way back to get a little something to eat (because Castiel spend his whole day before cleaning the apartment for Candy’s visit and ended up forgetting to buy something for breakfast 🥲) 

Afterwards they’d either go back to bed if Candy is still a bit tired or they’ll go shower (no matter what, that’s probably when the second round really begins) 

Then, they’d spent the rest of the day hanging out in Castiel’s apartment 

If it’s a sunny day, they’d go on his little terrasse enjoying the warmth and each other’s company while taking turn to throw a ball to Demon 

Or if the weather isn’t that good or if they just feel like staying inside, Castiel would probably play some guitar for Candy  

(she’d probably ask him to sing the song he wrote for her once again and he’d pretended to be annoyed but he’ll gladly do it)

𝙻𝚢𝚜𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛 :

I believe he’s an early bird so he was probably the first one awake (I know that’s not how it happens in the episode but idc)

Wouldn’t get out of bed though because he doesn’t want to wake Candy (she needs to rest after all because well, the night was short)

As he feels that she’s waking up he’ll just caress her hair and kiss her forehead 

Not much would be said but his caresses and kisses here and there as they’re laying next to each other speak a thousand word 

He’d make Candy feel so loved and special

The kind of feeling that makes you ask yourself if you’re still dreaming (this man, I am melting)

They’d probably have to get up and get ready after a while because I assume that Leigh would like to come home at some point 

I have this headcanon that Lysander, when not at school, prepares his and his brother’s lunch so when Leigh comes home for his lunch break, everything is already ready and Lysander can spend a little time with his brother since he’s often very busy (protect this man at all cost, he’s such an angel)

So he’d do that this time as well, only that he’s cooking for Candy as well

She might try to help him but as we saw in the game, she’s not really a skilled cook so he’d just end up be like « I’ll take care of it dear. Just sit back and enjoy »

For once, Lysander would probably go back to his room with Candy to eat their meal instead of eating with Leigh since he wants to spend a little more time with her 

When Candy has to go, he’ll walk her home and would kiss multiple times feeling it hard to leave her lips as it’s like he already misses her presence (such a romantic boy)

Armin : 

He go raid the kitchen to find some snacks (sorry for his parents who did a refill the day before but now everything’s gone) 

Took the snacks that were Alexy’s too because for once he has a good excuse to do so (“it was for Candy !”) 

But right after, he’d lay back in bed, preferably on Candy, and he’d love feeling her nail softly scratching his back while he’s resting on her chest 

He’d probably fall back asleep that way

Nothing on earth could make Armin get out of bed before 12 AM on a weekend (also expect Candy to fell asleep with him)

Even though, they probably spend the rest of day in Armin’s (bed) room

Armin would pick up some comics and show them to Candy or they’d start to watch this anime he kept telling her about

The curtains would remain drawn because sunlight is not allowed in this room (I have to stop with this whole Armin-avoiding-the-sun thing it’s so cliché, sorry lol)

He would hardly manage to keep his hands of Candy but she wouldn’t mind (she’d actually do the same)

This could lead another fun time, who knows ? (I mean guys, he finally found a sport he enjoy doing)

He ended up ordering food for them, maybe pizza or burgers because despite all the snacks he ate, he’s still hungry (he is a bottomless pit)

Kentin : 

probably woke up first (I don’t remember if it was the case in the game but I rest my case anyway) 

I just know he struggled to sleep the whole night 

He was processing what had happened lol

He’d be terrified to wake Candy because he thinks she look so sweet sleeping like this, in arms

But at some point his arm would feel a little numb as she’s laying on it 

So she’d be woke by him trying to move and then apologising for it 

He’d totally make a fancy breakfast (eggs, fruit salad, pancakes even ? that's a slay)

He knows what he’s doing since he loves breakfast and he never skips it 

So he’d be so happy to share a breakfast he made with her (and he’d hope she’d be impressed lol) and he would bring it in bed for her

Cookie would need to take a walk too (we’re not forgetting the doggies here) so he’d asked Candy if she wants to come along (and of course she wants to)

So they’d get ready together, taking more time than expected because they keep interrupting each other with stolen kisses (aww) 

They’d spend the whole morning enjoy the sun as well as the beginning of the holidays 

Since, they’d probably agree to go eat outside, they’d take back Cookie home and then go do their little lunch date

Then they’d just wander around the city, holdings hands and window shopping (they're this kind of couple you spot in the streets)

There you go Anon, I hope you like it ! (it's more about the whole day rather than the morning but as it's said in all the route, they clearly intended to spend the day together)

#mcl #my candy love #mcl nathaniel #mcl castiel #mcl lysander #mcl armin #mcl kentin #amour sucre #amor doce #amor doce armin #amor doce castiel #amor doce nathaniel #my candy love nathaniel #my candy love castiel #my candy love lysander #my candy love armin #my candy love kentin #mcl hsl #mcl high school life #mcl headcanons