A sick and twisted loser who loves heart wrenching angst, hardcore smut, and tooth rotting fluff. Yet can't stomach a cheating fanfic with her favorite characters.
Does anyone else get sad when they look at their "following" and see blogs that haven't been active in years? Especially when they used to be your favorite?
── A long shift at the diner has you exhausted, making you return home late from work. Your older boyfriend is waiting for you, and all he wants to do is make you feel better.
The front door creaks as you shut it, a loud, exhausted sigh leaving your mouth once you step into the house. It’s dark; only an orange light lit in the small living room, the television turned off, the window cracked. It was quiet, and you assumed that your boyfriend had already gone to sleep, though he left the light on, having the courtesy of not leaving you completely in the dark.
You slip off your sneakers, your tired feet padding along the hardwood floor, only to be stopped by a hand gently tugging at your wrist when you walk by the edge of the couch.
“Not even gonna tell me how your day was?” a familiar voice drawls, and you pause, your eyes finding your boyfriend’s in the dimly lit room.
He had been waiting for you ever since you told him your shift at the diner was running late, making your ten-hour shift into a twelve-hour one. He waited in the living room, chainsmoking like usual, nursing a cold beer in his hand, the condensation dripping onto his denim jeans. You don’t know how you missed him when you entered, but you were happy you noticed him now.
“Come here, girl,” he mumbles slowly, carefully guiding you towards him and pulling you down to sit on him. You straddle his leg, your thighs spreading around his own, and you can feel the denim of his jeans on your bare skin.
“Tell me, why were you so late tonight?” he asks, his hands settling on your hips as his legs spread, and he’s sinking deeper into the sofa with a creak, his head tipped back slightly to look up at you. His voice is possessive, but not accusatory.
“It was so… so busy, and someone called in, and I was on the floor, and they made me close even though I wasn’t supposed to, and now they want me to do a double on Monday,” you ramble on, a clear sign of stress on your face; pinched brows and a frown, all from the twelve hours you spent on your feet, dealing with customers.
“My poor baby,” your boyfriend hums softly, his large hand slipping down to carefully untuck your polo shirt from the waistband of your skirt. “They’re workin’ you so hard, huh?” he asks, his tone on the verge of condescending, and you whine in response.
“Yeah.. Yeah, they are, and I don’t want to go back because they’ll screw me over again,” you complain, feeling a warm hand sliding up your shirt, a palm resting against the flat of your stomach. He’s rubbing gently, nodding slowly.
“Mhm… m’know, baby,” he murmurs as his hand slides to the curve of your waist instead, the other hand finding the top of your thigh. He’s rubbing slowly, letting his hand find your knee, his calloused thumb gliding over the bruises.
“You’re home now, though, right?” he reassures, reminding you that you don’t have anything to worry about – you’re in his arms, on the couch, and there shouldn’t be a worry in your head.
You shrug and look away from him, sighing again, feeling his hands up your uniform shirt and on your knee. He’s rubbing, soothing you, and it’s making you shift slightly against the thick thigh that you sit on.
“I don’t know,” you mumble and shake your head, your eyes gazing down to your lap; your boyfriend’s hand has slowly gone up the hem of your skirt, and his other one is resting on your bare waist.
“That’s okay,” he mumbles as he shakes his head, his eyes focusing on you despite your lack of eye contact. “You don’t have to think about anything right now.” he nods slowly, his hand leaving your waist to brush away stray hairs from your face.
You pout and close your eyes for a second, letting your cheek rest in his palm for just a second before he pulls away, his hand finding its way back up your shirt, resting against the curve of your waist. He’s rubbing still, your eyes gazing into each other’s, silence hanging in the living room.
“You look pretty,” he whispers, watching as you bite your lip to suppress a smile. “Even all tired and sweaty,” he teases, giving your waist a gentle pinch, causing you to shift against his thigh, and he’s watching you, analyzing.
“I missed you today,” he adds quietly, his other hand leaving your thigh and sliding up to your hips, cradling you there. “You left your old man alone,” he teases again, pulling your body further against his thigh, his eyes never leaving your face.
You wish he didn’t notice, but he did; the way your lips parted as he pulled you closer, feeling an uncomfortable friction between your thighs against his jeans. He smiles when he notices and gives your hips a little squeeze, almost a gesture of encouragement.
“What, baby?” he asks quietly, letting his tongue swipe across the front of his teeth for a second, and he’s looking up at you through his eyelashes. He knows something is on your mind, and it isn't work that’s starting to nag at you.
He teasingly adjusts you once again, letting his thigh tense up beneath your body, and at the same time, he grips your hips a little tighter. He had always been like this; subtle, but knowing. He knew your body like the back of his hand, it seems.
“Stop it…” You whisper as you shake your head, though you’re giggling quietly and looking away from him. He knows you don’t mean it; you’re just acting like you aren't being slightly affected by the way he’s moving you.
“Come on,” he coaxes, gripping your hips tighter, this time purposely moving you against him, and this time, your hips follow suit. “Atta girl,” he teases, smiling up at you.
You sigh quietly as a hand lifts, and you’re resting it against his shoulder, your eyes gazing down, watching the way he guides you, purposely grinding you against his thigh. There’s a stark contrast between the softness of your skin and the roughness of the denim.
“You like watching?” he asks quietly, his own eyes glancing down. “Always been a curious little thing, huh?” he questions with a tilt of his head, keeping you moving at a slow, agonizing pace.
You nod a little as you look up at him, and you’re panting softly, his eyes finding yours. He stares at you in the darkness of the living room, and it’s making you blush, a stupid, flustered mess against his thigh, and he’s basking in the heat of it all.
“There you go, good girl,” he praises softly, patting your hip gently, coaxing sweet sounds out of you; quiet moans and whines, breathless whispers that only he can hear. He’d usually be taunting you by now, but it’s obvious that you’re too exhausted to take any of that.
“My sweet girl,” he whispers once again, his eyes trailing down your body; you’re still in your work uniform, your skirt bunched up, your polo shirt untucked, reminding you of the urgency of his hands. He was always so eager, never wanting to wait.
Your boyfriend looks down at his thigh, smirking to himself when he can see the mess you’re making, the way it has already left your underwear and accidentally moved to his jeans. It’s a wet spot, and he won't bring it up yet, but his lips curling give you enough to know that he’s catching on.
“Tell me I’m making you feel good, baby,” he asks, his thumb rubbing steady circles at the waistband of your skirt. “Your body is already telling me, but I wanna hear that sweet voice of yours,” he adds, smiling up at you.
“Feels… feels good,” you pant out with a quick nod, though your head is bowed, your hair is falling in front of your face, and you’re making soft noises that interrupt your own words.
“Ah, ah,” he mumbles as he shakes his head, giving you a light pinch on your warm skin. “Full words, you know how to use them,” he reassures you with a slow nod, and you’re whining in response, shaking your head.
“You’re making… making me feel… so good,” you stutter out, panting and breathing heavier as your hips move back and forth, all accompanied by the encouragement of his big hands, keeping you grounded.
“Yeah?” he whispers, patting the softness of your lower back, suhering you to speed up and you do. He’s instantly letting his hands move with you, helping you find a rhythm despite your clumsiness. “I make you feel good.”
It’s quiet in the living room, just the soft sounds of your moans and whines filling it, your hips keeping up with your boyfriend’s hands, and you can feel it, that familiar feeling in your stomach. Your boyfriend notices the stutter of your hips, and he slides his hand over, letting his palm lie flat on your stomach.
“Gonna make a mess on my jeans, baby?” he teases quietly, leaning his head forward, letting his nose bump against your chin – he wants to see if he can make you finish from just this, just his thigh between your own, and a few grinds of your hips.
“Come on, girl,” he encourages once more, his voice low and taunting, and he’s moving your hips for you, helping you keep up the pace as you begin to slow down. He can sense it, your body tensing up, your head tipping back.
Your boyfriend slumps deeper into the couch, his thighs spread, his own shirt sliding up just a bit. The clasp of his belt shows, the smallest sliver of his happy trail right above, and he’s grinning, watching you like you’re his own show to watch.
You pause for a second, your head tipping back as a louder noise leaves your mouth, and he can feel your thighs squeezing around his own. You let out a whine, and it fizzles into heavy pants and breaths, your boyfriend’s jeans now covered in a mess.
“There you go, sweetheart, there.” he nods as he keeps guiding your hips, letting you ride out the orgasm against his leg, and it’s making you embarrassed – you can feel the mess between your legs, and if you can, then he can too.
“Messy baby,” he coos as he shakes his head, his hands slowing down, letting you take the lead for a second, wanting you to enjoy the feeling for as long as you can. He’s watching you, finding it fascinating, the way you move your hips, finding something that feels good for you.
Once you slow down, finally stopping, your boyfriend’s hands slide down the front of your thighs instead, massaging the top of them. He’s humming, his head resting against the back of the couch.
“What am I supposed to do if I can’t even keep you fucking safe?” The front door slams, the small interior rattling with just the sheer force of your boyfriend’s strength, accompanied by his low voice, echoing throughout the living room.
“I didn’t mean to,” you plead softly as you shake your head quickly, standing in front of him, still dressed in his jacket, the warm leather wrapping you up. “It was an accident, you can’t be mad at me for that.”
“Can’t be mad? Watch me,” he scoffs, slipping off his boots in one swift movement, his jacket following suit, being hung up on the coatrack. “You are not fucking smart, not at all,” he mumbles as he pushes past you, leaving you there.
You don’t know what else to say to him – it was an accident, though he doesn’t seem to be taking it as one. It wasn’t your fault that you slipped while walking through the forest, though it was your fault for getting up and leaving without his permission. Your day was long, and you needed a break, some time alone, and maybe it wasn’t the best idea to leave at eleven o’clock at night.
“I’m sorry,” you plead to him, quickly walking after him, forgetting to take off your sneakers that are already tracking mud behind you. “I should’ve told you, I know, but I knew you’d say no, and I didn’t want to have to beg you,”
Your boyfriend mock-laughs, stopping in his tracks in the narrow hallway. Only the bedroom light is on, and that’s from him flicking it on in a rush, realizing you weren’t in bed anymore, and sneaking out instead.
“You knew I’d say no, huh?” he asks, eyes narrowing as he looks down at you, gazing down at your muddy shoes. “And you think that makes it okay, right? That makes it any fucking better?” he asks, his eyes finding yours again.
He’s mad, and it’s obvious; the way his head is tilting, his jaw set, his eyes narrowed. He’s had enough of you, fed up with the way you completely disobey him, not only that, but putting yourself in danger, too. He does nothing but try to keep you safe, always ensuring that you’re protected, and it seems like you throw it all back in his face.
“You’re not going outside again,” he mumbles, shaking his head, his tongue running over the front of his teeth. “Not leaving this fucking house unless I have a leash wrapped around your neck,” he adds, his voice hoarse, his tone low, turning away.
You watch him walk back into the bedroom, his broad shoulder nudging against the doorframe, and you’re quickly following after him, still tracking in mud, covered by his leather jacket. He’s in the process of taking his shirt off, tossing it onto the pile of dirty laundry on the chair.
“I told you, it was an accident,” you say, standing in the doorway now, leaning slightly, and he’s not looking at you, he’s much too focused on unbuckling his belt.
“Don’t care what it was, you’re stupid, and don’t think,” he mutters, carefully taking his belt out of the loops of his jeans, the ones he hurriedly threw on when he realized you were missing from the left side of the bed. “Don’t think, don’t listen, can’t follow basic rules,” he adds, scolding you.
You feel about ten years old right now, listening to your dad list off the things you aren't good at, aren't capable of, and it’s bringing tears to your eyes. They’re glossing over, and you’re biting your lip, stopping it from pouting. He notices, but rolls his eyes, gazing at the window; he can’t pity you right now.
“If I hadn’t heard that scream of yours because you left the window open, you would’ve been out there right now,” he tells you, walking over towards it, big hands shutting it with a loud thud. “And didn't I tell you to keep it shut? Multiple times?”
“It’s good that I didn’t then,” you mumble, trying your best to smooth over the situation, but it seems like you just aren't taking it seriously, and he’s glaring at you over his shoulder. You stare back at him, wiping a stray tear that fell down your cheek.
“Take your dirty shoes off and come here,” he tells you, waving for you to go over to him, and he’s sitting on the edge of the bed now. He’s still shirtless, his hair a tired mess, his voice low as sleep settles into the back of it.
You carefully take off your sneakers and leave them by the door, your head bowed low, eyes gazing at the carpet beneath your feet. His legs are spread when you go over to him, and with a harsh grab, he’s pulling you to stand between his thighs, his hand finding your hip.
“You’re gonna look at me, and you’re gonna listen,” he tells you, his free hand lifting, gripping the side of your face. “You’re never doing something like that again, understand me?” he asks, gazing up at you through his eyelashes, his hand firmly against your cheek.
“Mhm,” you mumble and nod a little, feeling his hand sliding down to rest against your neck, his thumb rubbing over the pulse. Your heart beats against it, a solid rhythm revealing how quickly it’s pumping.
“Don’t be a stupid girl,” he adds with a shake of his head, his hand sliding down to your shoulder, then to your arm, and now to your hip. He now holds you, both of his hands grabbing you there, eyes darkened and looking up at you.
“What if I didn’t hear you?” he then asks again, raising his eyebrows a little. “What if you got left out there, huh? Do you really think you’d be capable enough to get up?”
He’s talking down to you; it’s on purpose. He wants you to feel weak and stripped, to get under your skin, to ensure that you don’t do something like that again.
“I would’ve been… I would’ve been fine,” you stutter and shake your head, shifting a bit closer between his thighs, and he’s rolling his eyes. “It’s not like I got hurt or anything, I just tripped,” you defend.
“I don’t care what you did,” he spits back, giving your hip a light smack, keeping his grip firm. “You’re being dumb, and you know you are.”
Silence falls over the bedroom, and he’s looking up at you, his hands gliding down your hips and to your thighs, where he carefully rubs them over your denim jeans. He’s looking down now, shaking his head; he's disappointed more than anything.
“I don’t get it,” you whisper, your eyes watching his large palms spread across your jeans. “It’s not that big of a deal,” you practically whimper, and he’s tipping back his head in frustration.
“You don’t get anything, it seems,” he shoots back, eyes narrowing. He takes his hand away from your hip, rubbing over his stubble, and he sighs. “Simple rules I set in place, and you can’t follow one of the easiest ones, baby,” he adds, his words almost sweet, but his tone mocking.
You look like a hurt puppy dog before him; head down, and you're gulping with each one of his words. You know he’s right, and that’s what makes it even worse.
“You’re not looking at me – look at me,” he cuts in, taking his hand from his face and tapping the side of your chin, forcing your gaze. “Maybe it’ll get through your head if you actually pay attention to what I’m saying to you.”
You whine and stare at him, although you can’t help it; he is shirtless after all, and your eyes flick down to his bare chest; it’s firm, usually where your head rests before you fall asleep. You look back up, and he has a dumb, condescending grin on his face.
“Don’t be gross,” he teases, tapping your chin just a bit harder now, ensuring that your gaze is on him. Of course, he had to call you out on your wandering eyes.
“I’m sorry,” you apologize quietly, and he’s taking his thumb, wiping it against your bottom lip and tugging down, his eyes gazing at your bottom teeth. You look up at the ceiling, ignoring the gesture.
“Smart mouth you have,” he comments, slipping his thumb to tap on your teeth, lightly. “Too fucking smart,” he adds, clicking his tongue before his thumb pressed onto your own.
It makes you wince, the rough calloused skin against you, and you can taste the saltiness from his skin before he pulls it back, purposely wiping your own saliva on your mouth. He scoffs.
“Behave from now on,” he warns with a tick of his head as he pulls his hands away from you, gently patting his thighs. “We’re not having this conversation again,” he warns.
─ Your older boyfriend is far more experienced than you are in every way, and it’s always made you insecure. You tell him one evening, and he changes that.
The cold has settled in for the winter, a light sheet of snow managing to cover the area surrounding the small cabin your boyfriend and you reside in – a small place on the outskirts of an even smaller part of town, complete isolation from civilization. You liked it that way.
A movie plays on the television in the living room, a light hum masking the usual dead silence that lingers. You’ve gotten used to the creaks and groans of the old place, the wooden floorboards creaking with each step, and you can't lie, it creeps you out.
The sofa creaks too as you curl more into your boyfriend beside you, his hand around the back of your shoulders, a large palm resting on your arm. He’s warm, warmer than the furnace that struggles to keep the place warm, though a fire sits before the two of you, keeping both of you content.
Your eyes leave the television screen and drift to gaze at the side of your boyfriend’s face; his jaw is set, eyes focused on the brightness in front of him. You smile a little, biting your lip to make the facial expression less obvious. You can’t help it, you notice his stubble he forgot to shave, the slightly chapped lips; he had been working outside earlier, the cold nipping and drying out his leathered skin. He’s everything, you think.
“You’re staring,” he says plainly, not even bothering to turn his head to see the embarrassed look on your face, now that you’ve been caught. He breathes out, shaking his head.
“Something on your mind, baby?” he asks quietly, turning his head just slightly, doing that thing you love – lifting his hips to adjust himself on the couch, his legs spreading with the movement, his jeans stretching across his thighs. You shrug.
Something is on your mind, and it’s the difference between the two of you.
No, not the age gap, but the difference between experience. You knew what his life was like before yours: a wife and kids, a messy divorce, then lousy hookups before he somehow found you. It was intimidating to say the least, being with a man who was with women before you, more than a few, and you knew that. It gnawed at you, that difference and what he may think about it.
You’ve made out with him, his hands all over your body, grabbing and touching you, eager to extract more from you, but that’s the furthest you’ve ever gone. He says he doesn’t care, but you care, and you find yourself thinking about it more and more.
“I don’t know,” you say quietly and shake your head, swallowing hard. Your eyes look away from the television and down, your gaze landing on the belt of his jeans, the sliver of skin right above it where his shirt slides up.
“Sounds like you know,” he teases with a pinch of your shoulder, his thumb dipping into the sleeve of his tee shirt, the one you’re wearing that you stole.
“Are you… Like, bored of me?” you ask with a turn of your head, those soft eyes finding his, and he looks confused; eyebrows knitted, his lips parting as he seems to be taken aback by your question.
“Bored?” He asks with a raise of his eyebrows, a hand lifting to rub across his scruff, and he’s scoffing. “Why are you asking me this?” he presses, turning his body more, his leg lifting slightly, one foot resting on the coffee table. His legs spread further now, God.
“I don’t know,” you whine as you tip your head back against the back of the couch, and he’s following your movements, eyes following the curve of your neck, the way your lips purse.
“You don’t know anything, baby,” he laughs, shaking his head, but he sits up a bit more, his hand sliding down your arm and to your waist. “Tell me what's going on,” he adds.
You sigh and look at him, but he’s already looking at you, and his expression is serious. He’s a mind reader, even if he tells you he isn’t, but he always knows what’s wrong, and the way his eyes blink slowly shows it.
“When did you have your first kiss?” you ask, your eyes accidentally glancing back to his lips that he’s currently wetting with his tongue in thought.
“Fifteen, maybe sixteen,” he shrugs, his eyes looking away briefly. “It was nothing, didn’t mean much to me,” he adds, shaking his head.
“Like, did you make out or something?” you ask with a small smile, nervously laughing at the questions that seem too invasive or bold.
“Yeah, she wasn’t a good kisser,” he jokes, laughing at the memory; her lips fumbling with his, awkward teenagers trying to navigate a new part of life.
“And… like..” you mumble, awkwardly shifting against the sofa, and it groans in response. “Your virginity? What about that?” you ask, your toes curling in your socks, cheeks flushing pink.
“So that’s what this is about,” he laughs, and you’re whining, looking away from him. “I was.. About seventeen, back of my truck,” he shrugs, rubbing the side of his face with his hand, his thumb rubbing his chin.
“Seventeen.. That’s kind of young, right? Like, not even an adult, in high school…” You ramble on slightly, your head turned to look at him, and he’s thinking, eyes at the ceiling.
“Most of my buddies weren’t virgins; all had girlfriends they’d screw in their basements,” he says casually, his hand reaching over to grab his beer that rests on the table, and he’s taking a slow pull of it, letting the bitter liquid wet his throat.
“So.. me being a virgin, that’s.. Weird?” you ask, your thighs subconsciously squeezing together in a nervous tension, and he’s smiling, turning his head to find your eyes. Too bad you’re looking at your lap instead.
“No, that’s not weird,” he reassures, his hand dipping from your waist to the soft curve of your hip. “Just uncommon, maybe rare,” he shrugs, completely unfazed by the idea of you being a virgin, completely lacking in such an important area.
You sigh and watch him go back to watching the movie, missing the hint, and you shift a little closer to him, and his lips are smirking as the tip of his beer bottle presses to his lips before he takes another sip. He knows you a little well.
“Why?” he then asks, his beer resting on his thigh, his head turned to look at you.
You look over at him, and you notice his hand drifting lower, finding the side of your thigh. It’s bare, and the skin is warm, the hem of your shirt riding up, giving him a little more access to the softness there.
“I guess.. I guess I’m curious,” you tell him, your voice a little quiet and awkward. It usually was when it came to these topics: sex, intimacy, romance.
“Curious about what, baby? Having sex?” he asks, his words bold and his voice low, making you blush like an absolute idiot – maybe it’s because you can picture it so well, how he’d feel, how he’d hold you, the noises he’d make. It’s a lot.
You nod, but it’s small and short, and it’s like you don’t want him to see that you’ve just admitted to being curious about sex. You bite your tongue.
“That’s fine,” he tells you, nodding slowly, and his eyes gaze down to your thighs that are pressed together. “Open your legs, hm?” he suggests, tapping your thigh with a gentle touch of his thumb.
You freeze at his question, but obey, letting them spread a little bit in front of you. It’s an embarrassing sight to see; your legs open, silly band t-shirt riding up, revealing the cotton underwear beneath the dress that’s really an article of clothing stolen from your boyfriend.
“Atta girl,” he teases with a grin, sighing quietly as his hand leaves your outer leg and finds the thigh closer to him, making the position just a little bit more comfortable. You sit beside him, his hand now pressing against the inside of your leg, his palm warm and big.
“We can’t rush something like this, you know?” he mumbles, leaning his head in to kiss the temple of your head. “You know what fingering is?” he whispers, tapping his thumb against your thigh, though it’s sliding up.
You swallow hard and nod, barely looking at him, feeling much too shy and nervous to meet his gaze. You’d probably melt into the couch if you looked at him right now.
“Baby,” he whispers now, his voice sounding deeper than usual as his fingers poke and prod at the cotton underwear you have on. “You can’t even look at me, and you want me inside of you,” he calls out, and you can hear the smile in his voice without even looking.
He carefully slides his hand up further, his thumb settling on just the front of your underwear, right through the thin fabric. He presses lightly, testing, his eyes focusing on your expression – parted lips as you inhale, eyes flickering.
“Hmm, see,” he mutters, starting to move his thumb in slow circles, light as ever but still there. “Feel good, sweetheart?” he asks, and it’s embarrassing how quickly you nod. It earns a soft laugh from him.
“Just getting you ready,” he reassures, his eyes glancing down between your thighs. “And you’re already wet, I think,” he teases, his language vulgar, and it makes your chest tight. He’s dirty talked before, but with actions, it’s different, intense.
“Making a mess already,” he comments, rubbing back and forth, slow circles, applying just a bit more pressure, and causing a soft noise to leave your lips. “Messy baby, it’s cute,” he taunts, leaning in to nuzzle his strong nose to your cheek.
You pant softly, eyes glancing down at his hand between your thighs, and he’s focusing, his thumb light and relentless, providing you with just enough relief. His eyes are on you, blinking slowly, focusing.
“Tell me you feel good, baby,” he says, applying just a bit more pressure, and he watches your head tip back in awe again, your mouth hanging open. He smiles, basking in your reactions to him.
“Mhm, feels good,” you agree, your hips subtly lifting, and he takes it as a sign to pull his hand back carefully – you whine, your eyes flickering to look at him, and he’s shaking his head.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he whispers, kissing the temple of your head again, his lips soft and the lightest line of salvia being left behind.
His large hand slides up, carefully dipping into the front of your underwear, and the heel of his palm presses against you, a gentle pressure against your bare skin. You gasp at the feeling and look away from him, feeling as if the air has been knocked right out of you.
He lowers his hand, his thumb carefully finding that sensitive spot, the place his finger was focusing on before; it’s a lot more intense now, the direct contact, his warm hand against you. He leans forward, nuzzling his nose against the side of your face once more, inhaling.
“Being so good, yeah? For me?” he mutters, starting to rub in slow circles once again, though there’s more pressure, more intensity, and he’s urging you to watch it all for yourself. It’s quite obscene; his hand pushed into your underwear, moving around, his strong forearm flexing, and his eyes remain on you.
“You’re so tense, sweetheart,” he whispers, noticing your thighs flexing and clenching, your face contorted, and you can’t even look at him. “Relax your body, it’ll feel better, I promise,” he reassures.
You nod a little and let out a deep breath, head tipping back, and you spread your legs a bit more – it’s accidental, the way they fall open, and he’s smirking at the way you’re clearly falling apart on him. He’s nodding and humming, his thumb relentless against you.
“It’s gonna feel weird,” he mumbles, suddenly feeling a gentle finger prodding at your entrance, begging to slip in, but he’s holding back. “Your body will adjust, okay, baby?” he whispers, nudging the side of your head with his forehead. You can hear the smile in his voice.
Your boyfriend carefully moves his ring finger, letting it circle just the outside, though his thumb continues lightly. He’s watching you closely, monitoring your expression; parted lips and hooded eyes, the rise and fall of your chest beneath his t-shirt. He carefully slides it in.
The sound that leaves you is a mix: a soft cry, fizzling into a whine and a whimper, just a pure reaction to the new feeling. He was right, it did feel weird, a completely foreign sensation rippling through your body. You do nothing but arch your back, begging for your body to adjust, and he’s shushing you.
“You’re okay, baby,” he whispers, peppering gentle kisses to your jawline and then to the side of your face, his thumb still lightly moving. “You’re tight, it’s normal,” he mumbles, his eyes glancing down again, taking a look at the scene unfolding.
You try to nod, but you’re much too focused on the feeling. It’s a light sting, but it’s fading into something else, maybe pleasure, although pain is still evident. He’s careful, thorough, moving his finger slightly, just to get you used to it. He keeps his gaze on you, noticing the slight, inevitable discomfort.
“How does two fingers sound, sweetheart?” he asks quietly, his middle finger slightly touching you as well now, just moving against your entrance. “Can you take it? I think you can,” he praises, nodding, biting his own lip.
You hesitantly nod, your eyes glancing at him, noticing the immediate pull of his lips; he's smirking at your confidence. You barely have any.
With a slow movement, his middle finger joins, and you let out another obscene noise, your head falling against the back of the couch. You’re breathing heavier than ever, practically choking on the air you’re quickly inhaling. He’s smiling, basically getting off on this.
“Perfect little thing you are,” he coos, nodding, letting his fingers move inside of you with purpose; he’s gentle, always has been, exploring and touching around, keeping you worked up. His thumb hasn't stopped either.
“It’s… too much,” you cry softly and shake your head, and he’s reassuring you, lightly kissing your ear, whispering praises through soft mumbles and hushes. He knows you, knows you can take it.
“Come on, take it all for me, you can,” he mumbles, his fingers purposely curling, causing that coiling in your stomach, and you groan in response to it, your back curving perfectly. He’s watching in awe.
“There you go, baby, see, feels all good, mhm,” he adds, his own voice sounding like meaningless babbles, just to make sure you know how proud of you he is. His voice is smooth and deep, fitting in every crevice of your body.
“Think you’ll cum on my fingers?” he asks, smiling as he watches the embarrassment flush across your face: eyes shut and you’re biting lip, nodding – you feel ashamed somehow, knowing the mere touch and graze of his fingers is enough to do this.
“Cum on my fingers, baby, come on,” he encourages, nodding, carefully coaxing more sounds out of you with the gentle curls of his ring and middle finger, the light swirl of his thumb. He focuses on your body, focuses on making sure every part of you feels good.
And you do it: a loud noise slips out of the back of your throat, a soft pull that has him shushing you, kissing the side of your face, calming you down. He feels the warmth against his fingers, withdrawing them as you crumble, but his thumb persists, letting you ride out the feeling, not wanting to deny you any pleasure at all.
“Good girl, perfect,” he whispers, his thumb purposely spreading your own slick against you, a silent taunt for the mess you’ve between your thighs. “So good for me, baby, look at you,” he adds, finally taking his fingers away from you.
He lifts his free hand and turns slightly, brushing back the sweaty hair coating your forehead. You’re still gasping for air, breathing heavy, trying to grapple with the new feeling; your thighs shaking and your stomach still twisted, it’s nerves.
“You take me so well,” he praises, his hand now cupping your cheek, his thumb rubbing over your prominent bone. “Perfect baby.”
—— Honestly, I find that I write the best when I have genuine motivation or ideas I find interesting. I don't want to fall into a hole of only posting for likes, attention, etc. I post because I want to share things I imagine.
Q - Will you ever post for LnD?
—— I plan to, one day.
Q - Why don't you make longer fics instead of headcannons or short imagines?
—— I find that headcannons are easier and straight to the point. I mentioned that I enjoy sharing my imaginations, and headcannons allow me to do so quickly and easily whilst still having fun.
Q - Will you write for other characters in the fandoms you're currently in?
—— I'd honestly love to. But like I mentioned, I write things I personally imagine. And since I mainly imagine things with characters I am attracted to (e.g. Levi Ackerman from AOT), it makes it a little bit difficult.
Ron: Please tell me you’re not saying you like Malfoy now!
You pulled a face.
You: Oh, dear Merlin, no. How could I possibly like that spoiled arsehole?
Your tone dripped disgust. Then casually
You: I just wouldn’t mind bouncing on him if he buys me flowers.
Ron froze, fork halfway to his mouth.
Ron: Merlin’s fucking beard.
You burst out laughing at his expression, but the laugh caught in your throat when, exactly five seconds later, your owl dropped a bouquet of dark roses onto your breakfast plate.
Ron: Please tell me you’re not saying you like Malfoy now!
You pulled a face.
You: Oh, dear Merlin, no. How could I possibly like that spoiled arsehole?
Your tone dripped disgust. Then casually
You: I just wouldn’t mind bouncing on him if he buys me flowers.
Ron froze, fork halfway to his mouth.
Ron: Merlin’s fucking beard.
You burst out laughing at his expression, but the laugh caught in your throat when, exactly five seconds later, your owl dropped a bouquet of dark roses onto your breakfast plate.
hey, i was wondering if you could write a draco malfoy x reader who harry has a crush on but doesn’t realize and draco is jealous. sorry if that didn’t make any sense, just any draco x reader would be fine if not
Mine | D.M.
summary: draco is jealous about how much time you’ve been spending with harry
pairing: draco malfoy x fem!reader
includes: reader’s last name is dossett, jealously, possessiveness, suggestiveness toward the end, pansy, blaise, and theo are very curious people lol, harry’s a little annoying
a/n: i haven’t written for the og husband in soooo long
Maybe you were being a little too loud during Potions, or maybe you were busy scribbling away on your parchment, but neither of those things warranted you to be partnered up with Harry Potter for an important project in the only class you knew you could pass in your sleep.
At first, you didn't necessarily mind because the project did seem easy enough. But that wasn’t until you found out how terrible the boy was in class—and you already knew he was bad at potions. It seemed like Harry would always mess up the simplest recipes because he misread something and would nearly cut himself while holding the knife the wrong way.
How does one not know how to hold a knife properly?
You honestly wished you could complain about him to his face, but you guessed Harry was technically your friend, and if you complained to Snape, he would just continue to partner you with Harry since it was amusing to him to see one of his best students struggle with his worst student.
Some head of your house.
So, unfortunately, that's how you found yourself studying up until midnight with Harry, who seemed to have a little too much fun laughing at all the ingredient names—specifically the plants. You were starting to get bored with the stupid jokes, and you wanted to spend time on your Transfiguration work before your partner for that class got upset with you not pulling your weight— Wait.
"Shit!" Your eyes widened as you quickly packed your things up, ignoring Harry's confused gaze. You began to speak fast, looking down at your watch every few seconds like the time would magically rewind. "I forgot that Draco and I have to finish our essay for Transfiguration—"
"I'm sure he'll be fine." Harry waved the thought off before earning an annoyed look from you, making him frown in surprise that you were so eager to leave him. If he was being honest, he would think you would love to spend more time with the chosen one instead of the blonde. "If it's that important—"
"It is." You interrupt with a set tone and pull your bag over your shoulder, glancing at your watch one last time before meeting his eyes for what seemed like the first time this evening. You sighed when you saw the look of disappointment on his face, hesitating before speaking. "Look, I'm sorry, Harry. I'll see you tomorrow, alright? We can finish the project then."
Just before you could walk out, Harry stood up faster than a beater could hit a bludger toward the opposing team. You looked at him with creased brows and mild irritation as he spoke.
"I can walk you back. It's late anyway." He grabbed his own books and parchment with little to no writing, making you sigh and tuck a piece of hair behind your ear. "Slytherin common room, right?"
"Yeah." You mutter and tighten your hold on your bag, stepping a little further away from Harry when he got too close to you for your liking.
The walk down to the dungeons was awkward—well, more so than usual. Every time you tried to start a simple conversation about anything your mind could come up with, you would only get small responses back, making it a little frustrating until you finally made it to the stone wall that hid the Slytherin Common Room and dorms.
It was stupid of him to extend an offer and not commit to the bit—it was annoying, really.
"This is my stop." You say stiffly and turn toward the wall when he didn’t respond, muttering the password and watching the stone wall reveal the entrance to the common room with stone snakes circling the door. "Thanks for walking me back, Harry."
"Of course." He gave you a small smile—one that irked you oddly. Harry watched you step up toward the door before speaking up a little too loudly than what was expected in the dungeons at this time of night. "Could I ask you something?"
"Yeah, what's up?" You ask quickly, looking down at your watch again and pursing your lips as the second hand kept ticking.
You even swore it was ticking faster than it usually did.
Harry cleared his throat and fumbled over his words, not noticing you wince at his voice crack. "Would you—I don't know—like to go to Hogsmeade with me this weekend? Not for studying, but you know—as a date."
Your eyes widened for the second time tonight, your hand instinctively clutching the necklace around your neck like it would protect you. "Oh, Harry— I—"
"Dossett!" You heard a voice—Pansy—seethe from the entrance of the Slytherin Common Room, your head whipping around to the sound of her voice. "Draco’s going to literally kill you.”
"Is he there?" You murmur in her direction, ignoring Harry’s impatient foot tapping on the stone floor. Who was he to be this impatient when he kept you up at the library until 12 AM because he was laughing at ingredient names? Some chosen one he was.
But could you really blame him? He technically wasn't raised to have proper manners—
"Yes." She said through a smile when she noticed Harry looking at her like a crazy woman, Blaise and Theo's heads peeking from behind her. She rolled her eyes and looked back at you, shoving Blaise and Theo's heads back into the common room. "He can hear you both very clearly."
"Shit." You groan and wave her off swiftly, looking back at the boy who decided to make your night a living hell. "Harry, I seriously have to go, okay? Have a good night."
You entered the Common Room and winced when you heard him call out for you again, your eyes drifting toward the leather chair by the fireplace. Draco was sitting there, eyes trained on a textbook he stopped reading the moment he heard your voice through the stone walls.
Maybe you shouldn't have wished Harry a goodnight.
Pansy, Theo, and Blaise were huddled on the couch opposite of him, their own eyes darting between yours and Draco like they were watching a drama show. All they were missing was a large bucket of butter popcorn—ranch for Theo. If they knew any better, they would’ve returned to their own dorms the moment you entered the Common Room with a guilty face.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to stay out that late, but Harry kept going on about how all the plants where named funny." You took a seat beside him, frown deepening when he didn't even acknowledge you with as much as a nod. "Draco."
"What?" He muttered.
You hold back a heavy sigh and look up at the your friends across from you both, nodding your head to the side. They gave you a strained smile and finally left for their own dorms, leaving you and Draco alone in the Common Room.
You waited a little longer until you heard their footsteps retreat fully, your gaze going back to the platinum blonde who looked like a pouty toddler. It was funny that the man who seemed so powerful and uncaring to the rest of the world looked so dejected when presented in front of you because you were out with his supposed mortal enemy.
"What's wrong this time?" You asked and took the heavy textbook from his hands, watching his fingers curl around nothing.
"Oh, nothing. Just the fact that the Golden Boy takes up every single second of your day now, and even offered to take you on a date this weekend." Draco huffed and spun the signet on his finger, the M flashing from the fireplace to his left.
"I didn't say yes." You creased your brows together and tried meeting his eyes.
"You didn't say no either." He pushed his hair back and stared down at the burning fire this time; the red and orange flames reflected in his eyes. "So what? You and Potter are dating?"
"What? Draco, I could never date him. He's not my type." You fiddle with your silver necklace again, catching his gaze wander over to your hand before he looks away. You tilt your head, voice quiet. "You know what my type is."
"Do I?" He crossed his arms and leaned back on the leather chair, his gray eyes boring into the Black Lake window instead, everything far too dark to even see anything out of it. "Enlighten me."
"Draco, you're jealous." You finally say without any precaution, putting a hand on his arm and grabbing his attention again. You rack your brain for ideas. "If you really think about it, I spend more time with you than Harry every week."
"Not today." He lolled his head to the side and ignored your attempts, still choosing to be a pouty toodler.
You were getting close to ripping your hair out with how jealous and childish he was acting, but you could only do so much. All you had to do was be patient and wait for his resolve to crumble.
"Draco, look at me." You reach out for him and tilt his chin, meeting his stormy eyes that always showed you more emotion than the rest of his body. "Whose old jersey do I wear to quidditch games?"
Silence filled the air while you waited for an answer, his eyes looking between yours before he finally answered, voice quiet compared to the beat of both your hearts.
"Mine."
You nodded slowly, "Whose dorm do I go to when I need to talk to someone?"
He sighed through his nose, his hands wiping up and down his pants. "Mine."
"Who do I trust beyond all measures that they were all my firsts?" You say and let your hands fall away from his face, head tilting to the side. When he didn't answer, you softly spoke again. "Draco—?"
"Me." He groaned and pulled you into his arms, dropping his head to your neck and muttering into your skin. "You hate me for reminding me about those things."
"I like you, that's why." You retort and run your fingers through his hair, his natural hair shape returning after all the gel was worn down from how many times he ran his fingers through it. "You're just always jealous when I'm out with people without you."
"I ought to transfigure him into a stool." He murmured and brought his cold hand under your sweater, tracing your spine with his index finger. He earned a tongue click from you, but he continued his ministrations. “You’re making me look like a fool in front of the boys.”
“And Pansy.” You corrected with an amused grin, laughing when he pulled you forward so you were resting on top of him. You put your palms on his chest and scrunch your nose, “I'm just letting you know right now, if your godfather pairs me with Harry Potter again, we're gonna have serious problems."
Draco chuckled and squeezed your waist, “I’ll let him know you’re threatening him.”
“You suck.” You groan and rest your chin on his chest, smiling up at him before your hand came up to fidget with the platinum blonde lock in front of his forehead. You twist it in between your fingers, not noticing his smile as he watches you. "Do you still want to stay up and finish our project? Or will it be a tomorrow morning issue?"
“I already finished the project while you were away.” He murmured and adjusted his hold on you, humming when your nails scratched his scalp.
You watch his eyes close for a second before realizing what he had said, smacking his chest with no real force. “Dray, that’s not fair. I barely did any work during class the other day.”
“You can make it up.” He said offhandedly, lips twitching into a tiny smirk when you stilled all movements. He popped an eye open when you stopped scratching his scalp, “What?”
“You know, you’re a very possessive man, Draco.” You say when you snap back into reality, shuddering ever so slightly when his cold hands snuck up your sweater once more.
He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, “Only to what’s mine.”
Hey cutie. Pleaseeee more jealous/possessive draco with a sweet and innocent reader. Like he's your guard dog, walking behind you with his friends while you walk and wonder why no one even dares to stare at you. But when he's gone, people get their confidence back but it it so short lived once he finds out.
thanks so much for you request babe! appreciate your patience 🌹
teeth | draco malfoy
feat. auror!Draco Malfoy x reader
summary: 6k (whoops). you work in the department of records at the ministry of magic, and have made an unlikely friend in the wizarding world's most brutal auror.
cw: MDNI 18+, fluffy with some smut, afab!reader uses she/her pronouns, possessive!draco, scary dog privileges, shy!reader, mean coworkers, threats of violence, “use your words”, dom-sub dynamics, finger blasting as an act of dominance
an: can't tell if I love or hate this, but if i don't post it now, it'll rot in my drafts for all eternity, so eat up !!
| masterlist
It started with a chocolate croissant. You had reached for it in the break room at the same moment he did, the brush of his fingers like cool water. In the moment, you'd recoiled, heat scorching your cheeks, fear knotting in your sternum. Stammered out some halfwit apology.
Sorry, I didn't—please, you take it, Auror M-Malfoy.
Those glacial eyes fixed on your face for a second, the kind of blue found only in the coldest places, and for a moment, you thought he was actually going to reprimand you over a bit of pastry. But instead, he'd smiled and cut the croissant in half.
The following week, you'd found a paper bag and a latte waiting on your desk in the department of records. There was no note, no name anywhere, but nestled between flaxen parchment paper was a chocolate croissant dusted generously with powdered sugar. The only clue as to who left it for you was an angular ‘D’ scrawled onto the side of the coffee cup by the barista who made it.
You'd hardly believed it was real until you felt the sugar dissolve on your tongue. It was a kindness you hadn't experienced since you started at the Ministry over a year ago. It could be a dreadfully bureaucratic, unfeeling place. That sugar high had stuck with you the entire day, lightening your steps.
Another one appeared later in the week, again, anonymous, besides that tell-tale ‘D’.
There were lots of D’s at the Ministry, you told yourself. You had at least three coworkers named Daniel just in the Department of Records. But you knew none of them would have the taste to select such fine pastry, or the deduction skills to know how you liked your coffee based on a few fleeting observations in the break room.
On Friday of that week, you'd arrived early, hoping to knock out some filing before record requests started piling up for the day. The Department had been blissfully empty, and you'd gotten to work with a tune sung just under your breath.
“Ah, you're here early,” a brusk, masculine voice rolled through the quiet like an afternoon storm.
You were a bit embarrassed to admit it, but you knew exactly who that voice belonged to.
Nearly dropping the files in your hands, you whirled around. Your suspicions, and perhaps wildest imagination, were confirmed. Draco Malfoy, the most brutal, efficient Auror the Ministry had seen in decades, stood beside your desk, holding a pastry bag in one hand, a latte in the other. And he looked almost…sheepish, standing there in his heavy black uniform, platinum hair smoothed to perfection.
“Uh—I—yes, the, um, lots of filing,” you stammered, tongue-tied. In that moment, you swore no one had ever looked that good before in the history of forever. And you would know—it was your job to know everything.
The corner of his mouth lifted, and impossibly, he became even more devastating. “You'll need your energy, then,” he said, setting the treats onto your desk.
You had the inane impulse to ask him why. Why was he suddenly paying you any attention? What did he want from you?
But before you could untangle your words, he was turning on his heel and striding away, cloak billowing in his wake.
—
The breakfast deliveries continued, but more often Draco began delivering them in person, or, if he arrived before you, he'd leave a small note beside the bag, written on one of the little notepads you keep on your desk.
Thank you for finding that record yesterday.
They were out of cinnamon, thought you might like mocha instead.
Don't work too hard today.
Going away for a week. Keep an eye out for Potter.
You weren't sure what he meant by that. Harry Potter, obviously, his childhood enemy turned coworker after they both became Aurors, but why would you need to keep an eye out for him?
Then, the following morning, you found Harry looking a bit lost in the department, hovering by your desk. He had a pastry bag in one hand and a latte in the other.
“Can I help you, Mr. Potter?” You asked, approaching cautiously.
His eyes lit up. “There you are! I thought this was your desk, but wasn't sure—” he held out the bag and coffee cup to you. “Delivery from one Draco Malfoy.”
For a moment, you were too stunned to speak. You'd always been a bit shy, preferring books and records to socializing, but tried your best to be friendly and gracious at work. Now, you couldn't even manage a ‘thank you’ as you took the treats from him.
Harry didn't seem to mind. “Malfoy will be back next week, but he insisted I bring you this while he was gone.”
“Do you—um—” you struggled to find the words, suddenly feeling exposed, soft underbelly on display. “Do you know why he's—”
“Because you're kind and genuine,” Harry said with a sympathetic smile. “Draco’s not so mysterious as he looks,” he joked, smile turning conspiratorial. Then, smile faltering, added, “Don't tell him I said that.”
You found yourself giggling at the insanity of this new reality you'd found yourself in. “I won't,” you reassured him.
—
The following Thursday, you stayed late to catch up on the filing that had piled up throughout the week. All of your coworkers seemed to have decided you were the best at it, so you should handle it all moving forward, on top of fulfilling all the requests that came your way. Which was nearly double what the rest of them received.
It was fine, you didn't really mind. You liked being helpful, being needed. But two hours in, and your back was beginning to ache, your energy depleted from continuous magic usage.
“They said you were still here, but I was half-hoping they were wrong,” a low voice broke through the quiet.
You stumbled out from between the stacks, hardly believing your ears. But sure enough, there was Draco Malfoy perched on the edge of your desk, flipping through one of the records stacked high on its surface. He looked different, under eyes bruise-dark, his blond hair finger-tousled and uniform ruffled. There was a slash across his cheek, the skin an angry pink, going lilac at the edges.
Your stomach did a backflip over your lungs, forcing your heart into your throat. “Here I am,” you said meekly. “When did you get back?”
“This evening,” he said absently, a line forming between his brows as he read. He clapped the file shut and slid off the desk. “Krepski pulled this,” he said, dropping it onto your neighbor's desk.
You nodded, not sure what to say.
“Do you usually put everyone else's records away?” Draco asked, his voice softer than the look in his eyes.
“Well, uh, I wouldn't say usually, but—”
“How many of these are yours?” He turned back to your desk, rifling through the stack.
You grimaced. None of them were yours. You always put them away as soon as they were returned to you to avoid, well, this.
Apparently, the look on your face was answer enough. Something sharp glinted in his eyes, but he blinked it away, rolled out the stiffness that had accumulated in his shoulders.
“Let me help you,” he said, meeting your gaze.
“You just got back, I couldn't—”
“Please?”
You stared at him. Somewhere, a part of you knew this wasn't a word Draco Malfoy used often, if ever. You found that you couldn't deny him such a simple request.
And, if you were being entirely honest, the thought of actually spending some time with him cracked your heart like a glow stick.
“Alright.”
The two of you worked together, hardly speaking at first, to start sorting the files. But it wasn't an uncomfortable quiet like you'd come to expect from your other coworkers. This quiet was soft in the way that freshly fallen snow can be, a gentle muffling of the outside world. You found a steady rhythm, communicating without words. He seemed to know what file you were reaching for before you reached for it, just like you knew where he was about to step before he moved.
You'd never seen the Auror look so calm, his muscles loose, his stride languid. Even his voice, when he did use it, had softened to the coo of a dove, sending a tremor down your spine with every passing word.
But mainly, you were just happy to have given him a quiet space to land. From the snippets of information he gave you as the evening wore on, his trip hadn't been an easy one. Chasing dark wizards along the Scottish coastline didn't exactly sound like a holiday.
He'd asked about you more than anything: where you grew up, your Hogwarts house, your favorite music. You answered timidly, unsure about what to do with his interest. Usually, when people asked you those sorts of questions, it was so they could answer the questions themselves, but Draco wasn't like that. You'd even made him laugh a few times, the sound as pleasant a surprise as an afternoon sun shower.
He seemed genuinely intent on getting to know you, and spoke very little of himself. Though you couldn't exactly blame him for that, knowing what you did know about him.
When the last record had been filed, he leaned against the bookcase beside you, having to crane his neck to peer down at your face.
Saints, he was tall.
“So, have you eaten yet tonight?” He asked, adjusting the wrists of his uniform, fiddling with the ring on his middle finger. A signet etched with a coiled serpent.
Your stomach answered for you, growling audibly at the mere mention of food.
He tsked, shaking his head at you. Lips curling in opposite directions, displeased and relieved in equal measure. “I was going to stop at that pizza place on the corner on my way back to my flat. Would you like to join me?”
“S-sure, pizza sounds great,” you said, wondering if you'd somehow fallen asleep while sorting files and this was some insane, marvelous dream.
His smile widened. “C’mon, then. My treat.”
—
After that evening, you and Draco had built an unlikely partnership. You weren't sure you were friends, mainly because you didn't see one another outside of work beyond getting pizza, but he was always there to lend a helping hand. The breakfast deliveries became more frequent, and he started bringing you a cup of tea every afternoon. And, in exchange, you'd let him loiter at your desk whenever he needed a little escape, or to have his overactive mind numbed by the repetitive scribble stamp swoosh of your work.
Even with this new familiarity, your heart still did a little flip whenever he smiled at you, or appeared around the bend of a hallway you weren't expecting him to. But you never imagined he'd feel that way about you. He was Draco Malfoy. He could literally have anyone in the world he wanted.
Whatever the two of you were, you were just happy to have a companion. He made you feel less alone in this marble-crusted corporate hellscape.
And, you realized just a few weeks into this new dynamic, that having a notoriously vicious Auror in your life came with its own set of perks.
The second Junior Auror Lewis walked into the Department of Records, you knew there was going to be a problem. He was red-faced and sputtering, waving the records you had dispensed to him the previous morning like a war flag.
Anxiety prickled along your neck, palms going clammy against your wooden stamper. You set it down, folding your hands into your lap as the flustered man approached.
You gave him your most winning smile. “Can I help you, Auror Lewis?”
He slammed the files onto your desk with a reverberating whack, and you startled to your feet, chair screeching backwards. “What the fuck is this?” He snarled, jabbing a finger into the paper. “These aren't the records I requested.”
Heat built under your skin, heart hammering against your ribs. You could feel every eye in the Department on you, judging you. “I—uh—” you made a show of shuffling through the papers, despite knowing that these records were exactly what he had asked for. Evidently, he just wasn't skilled enough to actually use them.
Part of you wanted to say that, to humiliate him like he was humiliating you right now, but the words stuck in your throat. Choked you.
“Uh—what?” He mocked. “You work in the Department of Records and you can't fucking read?”
“Sir—I, if you could just—”
“This is a very important case, and I will not have some paper jockey fuck it up for me!”
Oh no, oh no. Your nose began to itch, moisture pooling along your lower lashes. Don't cry, don't cry.
“And here we go with the waterworks. How about you just do your fucking job instead of sniveling like a—”
“Like a what?” A low growl came from behind you.
Shit, you'd almost forgotten the Draco had been meandering through the stacks, taking a break between meetings.
Lewis paled. “Oh, uh—I—”
Draco moved to stand in front of you, his body warm and solid, traces of his evergreen cologne still lingering on his collar.
It made your head swim.
“Sir, she potentially compromised the mission with false inf—”
“Say another word about her, or her work, and I will be forced to use every weapon in my arsenal as punishment.” His wand whipped outward, verdant green magic spilling from the dark wood. His lips were pulled back in a snarl.
You sucked in a breath, and the Junior Auror staggered back a step.
“Draco, don't—” You weren't sure what came over you, but you placed a hand on his bicep, turning to look into his face. His eyes were blazing, molten glass, as he stared down the length of his wand. He was rigid beneath your touch, coiled like a snake able to strike. “Draco, please,” you tried again.
His eyes finally flicked to yours, and the harsh line of his mouth softened a fraction as he took in your fearful expression. The entire Department held its breath.
“What would you have me do?” He murmured finally, though his wand never wavered.
Your fingers inched down his arm, feeling the supple fabric of his uniform, the ropes of muscle concealed underneath, the slight tremor as you reached his forearm, then his wrist, until you finally brushed the leather glove covering his hand, pressing down gently until his shoulder loosened, and he lowered his wand. Never once did his eyes stray from your face.
“An apology is enough,” you whispered. “Please, Draco.”
He absorbed your words, jaw feathering with tension, until he gave you one stiff nod before turning his attention back to the quivering Junior Auror.
“You will apologize to her, and if I ever hear about you treating her, or any other coworker, this way again, I will see to it that you spend the rest of your simpering life in the bowels of Azkaban. Do I make myself clear?”
“I'm s-sorry,” Lewis sniffled. “I didn't—I’m sorry. Please—”
“I accept your apology,” you replied. “And in the future, if you're having trouble deciphering the information in the records, all you have to do is ask, and I’d be glad to assist you,” you added, flashing a smile.
Our coworkers chittered at that, and Lewis flushed a deep crimson, bowed his head, and fled. You never spoke like that, but having Draco at your side made you feel a little braver.
Draco glanced down at you, the warmth in his eyes almost tangible as it caressed your cheek. A giddy thrill ran through you.
“Clever girl,” he purred. “If anyone speaks to you like that again, come find me. Okay?”
You nodded, feeling like your lungs had turned into hot air balloons. “Okay.” You didn't even think about disagreeing.
“Good,” he smiled then, and it wasn't until he pulled away that you realized your hand was still resting on his. “I'm going to have a word with his supervisor, maybe the Minister, and you are going to take a half-day.”
He said the last part loudly enough that your boss, who was hovering in the wings, could overhear him.
“But I have so much—”
“Krepski will handle the rest of your work, won’t he?” Draco glanced over his shoulder at your desk neighbor, whose eyes widened to an almost comical degree.
“Yes, sir! Happy to!” Krepski blurted, jumping up to take the stack of files off your desk and over to his.
Draco turned back to you, a smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth, brows raised expectantly.
“Why are you doing this?” You asked, voice lowering to barely a whisper. “I don't deserve—”
His expression sharpened. “What you don't deserve is to be overworked and underappreciated by the mindless goons that work here,” he said, voice low but not harsh. Restrained. Then, softer, “Someone has to look after you.”
No one’s ever looked after you before. Not like this. You'd always been independent, high-functioning. Never asked for anything, never needed anyone. If something needed to be taken care of, you were the one who took care of it. No questions asked.
If you were honest, you kind of liked this change of pace, even if it was a bit difficult to accept. And it didn't hurt that the person wanting to look after you was someone you genuinely liked, not to mention drop-dead gorgeous.
“Thank you, Draco,” you said, meeting his eyes.
“My pleasure. Now, go get some rest,” he ordered. “And all of that work better be finished by the time she clocks in tomorrow.” He directed this at Krepski, spinning his wand as if to punctuate his point.
“Of course!” Krepski squeaked.
Draco nodded in approval, flashed you a wink over his shoulder, and took his leave.
—
Word spread quickly about the altercation in the Department of Records, and suddenly everyone was wishing you a good morning or nodding in respectful greeting when you passed them in the hall. Your coworkers fielded work before it could even think about crossing your desk, and the line at the coffee station in the break room magically vanished whenever you stepped inside.
It was weird, and imposter syndrome still dogged at your heels, but you had to admit, it was a nice change. You finally felt like you could breathe again. And, despite yourself, your attraction to him had progressed into full-blown chest palpitations whenever he entered the room.
Sometimes, when he left an extra-sweet note or looked at you for a half-second too long, you thought maybe he could feel the same way about you.
But two weeks later, a gloomy, winter Friday, you hadn't seen Draco at all. No breakfast delivery, no afternoon tea, no five-minute break. Not even a glimpse in the hallway.
Your anxiety had mounted throughout the day, the knots tightening with each hour that passed until you could hardly breathe.
Was he mad at you? Avoiding you? Had you done something to upset him?
The thoughts were an endless loop, a train gone way off the tracks, and finally, when the bell struck 6 pm, and everyone was heading home, you decided to take matters into your own hands.
You were a bit ashamed to admit that you hadn't ever sought him out in his own office. He almost always came to you, except for when you strategically positioned yourself in the break room because you knew he'd be passing by. But even that was passive, an indirect maneuver born out of your own cowardice.
Now, standing outside his office door with a chocolate croissant, a black coffee, and your fist raised to knock, those insecurities came screaming back to you.
What if he doesn't want to see you? What if you're interrupting something? What if he's sick of you and now you look desperate because you can't take a hint?
What if, a quieter voice whispered, he needs you right now?
He'd done so much for you over the last few weeks; the least you could do was show him that you'd be there for him, too.
Knock knock. “Draco?” You called. “It's me.”
You couldn't hear anything through the door, weren't even entirely certain he was actually in here, when the knob unlocked with a soft click, and the door eased open.
Draco’s office was spacious, with large bookshelves and expensive-looking furniture. You could smell the leather polish and mahogany beneath the verdant top notes of the high-end cologne he wore. Emerald curtains were drawn over what had to be enormous windows, leaving the room dark except for the fireplace and fire-lit scones along the walls.
Draco was sitting at his desk, the surface strewn with papers and empty mugs of tea. He'd discarded the bulk of his uniform, leaving him in just a black long-sleeve shirt and pants. His hair was unruly, sticking up at odd angles from running his hands through it, and exhaustion hung from his shoulders like a shadow.
“What time is it?” He asked, though you weren't sure if he was directly asking you, and he spun in his chair to peer at the clock over his head.
“After 6,” you supplied, and he turned back to you, looking a little dazed.
“Fuck, really? I didn't realize—” his eye caught the coffee and paper bag in your hands, and his eyebrows lifted in surprise. “And what do you have there?”
You shrugged, heat climbing up your neck as you fought to suppress a smile. “Thought you might need a little something sweet.”
His mouth pulled into a borderline indecent smirk. “That so?” He asked, tilting his head slightly.
Your stomach swooped. “B-but I don't want to bother you if you're busy…” You back-peddled, fidgeting in place under the burn of his gaze.
“I am busy,” he agreed, watching you intently.
“Oh, I-I’m sorry—”
“Darling,” he cut you off. The new pet name was said gently, but it still felt like a tug at your collar. You straightened subconsciously. “If you wanted to see me, then all you had to do was ask.”
Your cheeks burned, lungs snagging against your ribs and hitching awkwardly. “I didn't—I don't—”
“Don't what?” He rose from his chair, moving around the desk to approach you. “Don't want to see me?” He asked, a faux frown on his face. Teasing you. Testing you.
“No, I—y-yes, of course I do, but—”
“But what?”
“But I know you're busy and…” you trailed off, throat closing as he loomed over you.
“And…?” He was so close you could feel the warmth of his skin, could smell the Earl Grey and lavender brew he was drinking, the ink he was using.
“I wasn't sure if you wanted to see me,” you admitted, looking down to avoid his gaze.
“Love—” his thumb and index finger caught your chin, tilting your head back up. “I always want to see you.”
Your heart thudded wildly against your sternum, mouth going dry at his confession.
“But you seem to have trouble asking for what you want.”
Indignation rose in you, an unfamiliar, acidic feeling. “No, I don't,” you argued. How could he always see straight through you?
He chuckled and took the coffee and pastry bag from you, taking a swig as he turned away and retreated to his desk chair.
“I came up here to check on you,” you continued. Even to your own ear, you sounded defensive.
“And I'm fine,” he said, reclining in his chair, casual as anything, but you could see the stiffness in his shoulders, the grip he had on the coffee cup. “Thank you very much for the coffee.”
Was he dismissing you? Your head spun at his sudden change in demeanor. The distance between you seemed enormous, cold creeping in where his warmth was moments before.
“Was there something else you wanted?” He asked, leaning forward to brace his elbows on the desk.
More, you thought, but didn’t say. You wanted more of that closeness, more of him, but the thought of asking for it stitched your mouth shut. You debated turning on your heel and opting out of whatever mind games he was playing with you, but the echo of his closeness kept you in place.
You met his eyes, and something in your expression must have given away your consternation.
Draco sighed. “You're stubborn, you know that?” He asked, but there was no real bite to it. “How about I tell you what I want?”
Your throat closed, palms growing sweaty. You forced yourself to look at him, to take in the smolder of his eyes.
“I’ve had a really long fucking day, and I'm feeling a bit reckless. I locked myself in here because I didn't want to push you.” He took a breath, mandibles flexing as he arranged his next words. “But what I want, darling, more than anything right now is to see what you’re hiding under that sweet little smile. I want to know what you really want—what keeps you awake at night, what makes your heart race—.”
“But why?” You whispered. You didn’t even want to acknowledge those parts of yourself. Why would he?
“Because that's what trust is.” His words stole whatever scant breath you had left.
“I do trust you,” you said, and meant it. You trusted him more than anyone else in your life. So why were you still hiding from him? Still holding back?
“You need to trust yourself,” he corrected gently. “To trust what your mind and body are telling you that you want and need.”
Clarity hit you square between the eyes.
This entire time, he'd been showing you all the ways you weren't showing up for yourself. All of the wants and needs you were failing to articulate. To claim. Starting with the damn croissant, and all the way to this moment, where you wanted him so desperately, it burned like lava through your bloodstream.
Hadn't he shown you that he was more than happy to deliver whatever you wanted? Whether it was pastries, tea, or an apology from someone who wronged you.
All you had to do was ask.
“Kiss me,” you blurted, spitting out the words before you could talk yourself out of it.
No sooner had the words left your mouth than he was on his feet, crossing the room towards you in three long strides. A hand slid into your hair, the other melting into the curve of your spine, and he kissed you so hard the floor fell out from beneath you.
He left no room for argument, no space for doubt. He was merciless in his claiming of you, lips making way for tongue and teeth, devouring you like a fervor you'd never experienced. But it wasn't reckless or messy. No, every press, every nip, every lick was deliberate. An intricate dance that he led with precision. Like he’d been planning this kiss in his head for a lifetime. You could do nothing but be swept up in the movements and luxuriate in the force that was Draco Malfoy.
He shifted forward, backing you against the bookshelf on the far wall. You gasped when your back hit the wood, and he grinned, tilting his head to drag his lips down your neck. Grinding the frenetic pace to a languid crawl.
His shoulders rose as he breathed you in, the hot muscle of his tongue laving across your hammering pulse. Your knees threatened to buckle as arousal surged through you, electric and exhilarating. If he kept this up, you feared you would melt between the floorboards.
“You're shaking,” he murmured, kissing his way back up to your face.
“S-sorry,” you breathed, struggling to remember a word that wasn't his name.
He shushed you with a peck on the lips. “I'm just making sure you're alright,” he said, his voice like velvet. His lips grazed your temple, heart-achingly tender. A dizzying contrast from the rip current he'd created just moments ago. “That you still want this.”
You nodded, fingers tightening into the folds of his shirt to draw him closer.
“Ah, ah—” he pulled back to look you in the eye. “Use your words.”
Your eyes gave you away, flicking down to where his fingers rested on your hip.
He smirked, lifting his hand. Flexing his fingers in the dim candlelight. “You want my fingers, darling?” He asked, caressing your cheek with the backs of them.
“Yes, please,” you whispered, blinking up at him, cheeks burning.
“Say it.” His hand fell to his side.
“I—” you took a steadying breath. “I want your f-fingers.”
His smirk turned lethally sharp, flashing an ivory canine. “You want my fingers where?”
“Draco,” you whined, dropping your face into his shoulder, and he tutted. You could feel his smile as he pressed a kiss to your hair. So affectionate, even when he was being firm with you.
Then, you felt the belt of your trousers pop open. Those dexterous fingers sliding along the elastic waistband of your panties. You clung to his shoulders, breath coming in short pants, and sent a silent thank you to your past self for wearing a cute pair that day.
“Here, baby?” He asked, fingers dipping lower, finding the pool of slick he'd coaxed from you.
You nodded, tilting the bowl of your pelvis into his palm. “Please.”
Fuck, you sounded so pathetic, but he made a low sound of approval in the back of his throat.
“Good girl,” he praised right as his middle finger stroked against your clit.
You gasped, that simple touch like a bolt of lightning up your spine. You could feel how wet you were, leaking into his palm as he traced slow circles over your bud, gauging what pressure you preferred, what speed. He took his time, spreading you open, teasing out every little sound, every twitch, he could get from your pyretic body.
You were like putty in his hands, completely boneless against him, pleasure saturating your mind, burning through your veins like fire whiskey.
“Draco,” you mewled, hips rolling against his hand, hungry for more.
“And suddenly she's demanding,” he teased, nipping at your shoulder. But he indulged you, finally easing one finger inside your heat, quickly followed by a second. You were more than ready for it, your pussy practically begging to be filled. Fluttering, clenching, coaxing him deeper. “So fucking tight, love. You're absolutely perfect, aren't you?”
You couldn't think, couldn't speak. His fingers had found your brain's off button in record speed, curling against your front wall with that unwavering, merciless intention he did everything with.
And he was going to make you cum embarrassingly quick because of it.
“Wait—I—” you grabbed at his wrist, head spinning as the plummet stretched out before you, and he froze in place.
“Too much?” He asked, leaning back to look at you, his free hand smoothing the hair from your face. He looked almost as wrecked as you felt, cheeks flushed and eyes glossy, hair a disheveled mess from your grabbing hands. So beautiful you could hardly believe he was flesh and blood, and not some horny fever dream. But he was real, muscle and bone and lips and teeth, and you wanted to eat him whole.
Fuck it.
Your hips started to rock against his fingers, that momentary panic twisting into urgency. “S’too good,” you slurred, pleasure-drunk.
He grinned, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “Yeah?” He curled his fingers again, hitting that traitorous, magnificent spot inside of you, and you keened. “I can feel how close you are, soaking me to the wrist.” He pressed you harder into the wall, the wood digging into your back, but you didn't care so long as he kept driving his fingers into you just like that. The sound of your sopping pussy made your cheeks burn, lewd and loud, but it only seemed to draw your orgasm closer. “Show me, love. Show me how pretty you are when you let go—”
“Fuck, D—I’m gonna—want to—”
“Go on, love. Take whatever you want. It's all yours—good fucking girl, just like that—”
Your release crashed over you, white hot, and you buried your scream into his shoulder as he worked you through it, muttering praise in your ear while you bucked and twitched. Stars danced behind your eyes, under your skin as you came down, and you felt yourself smiling.
His motions slowed to languid strokes before he withdrew entirely. Brought his fingers to his mouth, stealing a taste before easing them between your own lips. You parted willingly, the taste of your release heady and sweet on your tongue as you sucked those magical digits clean.
“See what happens when you ask for what you want?” He murmured against the shell of your ear. “You did so well, love.”
You nodded, not having the energy to do much else. But his praise rang against your bones like church bells, and delight reverberated through you.
He withdrew his fingers and righted your clothes, then settled you into his desk chair, the most comfortable one in the room. The croissant you brought for him somehow ended up in your hand, and he was urging you to take a bite. Made you wash it down with a freshly cracked water bottle from his mini fridge.
“You look so beautiful right now,” he said, watching you chew from his perch at the edge of his desk.
The temptation to hide itched under your skin, but you resisted, smiling shyly at him instead. “Thank you, Draco. For all of this, everything.”
“It's an honor and my absolute pleasure,” he grinned, leaning down to kiss your forehead and steal a bite of the croissant. “How about we go get you some real food?”
“Is that pizza place still open?” You asked, and he looked ready to keel over with surprise and delight. You'd actually asked for something!
“If you want pizza, baby, a closed sign isn't going to stop me from getting you pizza. Hell, I'll apparate us to Italy right now—”
“You're ridiculous,” you giggled, rolling your eyes at him.
“And you're mine,” he said, sliding off the desk and offering you a hand. “So, get used to it.”
You slipped your fingers into his, letting him pull you onto still shaky legs. “I don't remember agreeing to that,” you teased, pecking his cheek so he knew you didn't mean it.
“Already spoiled, hm?” His grip on your hand tightened, his body shifting to press you against the desk. “One night with me and you've turned into a brat.” The word was hot at your neck, and a shiver rolled through you, fresh arousal dripping into your ruined underwear. Stirring something wild in you that you hadn't felt before.
“Maybe,” you flirted, leaning forward to nibble at the hard angle of his jaw, hand skimming down the front of his chest until your fingers hooked on his belt. Taking what you wanted, taking what was yours.
And from the rigid pulse against your hip, he was more than eager to give it all to you.
“Good—” his grip moved to your wrist, pinning it to the desk with a force that set your blood on fire, “—because I'm just getting started.”
ugh draco is the typa guy who’d mock ur moans after u did the deed
“did ya have fun?” he cooes poking your side, this made you roll ur eyes playfully
“nope. ew. boring. hated every second of it.” you teased back, voice cracking mid sentence (probably because of how much you begged, screamed, moan u name it for him earlier)
"oh? is that so?. guess we'll have to practise some more." he comment quietly, he copied your position on the bed, eyes darting around his ceiling like he was thinking of something. there was a 4 second silence, and you close your eyes thinking that was the end of that conversation.
“ohhh dray” he mocked in a rather high pitched voice. You shot him a glare.
“malfoy.”
“Oh my god dray! shit i think im gonna cum fuck! please!”
“ugh enough draco!” you whined with a pout, covering your face underneath the sheets.
"oh daddy!" he followed you, tickling your side as you squirmed trying to hide your mortified giggles into the pillow. "isnt that what i heard? didn't you let that slip?" he questioned, knowing damn well what he heard.
“Not funny.” You deadpanned. He only laughed, leaning in to kiss your cheek— the only thing he could reach. You tried to sound intimidating, but all he heard was the world’s cutest baby bear trying to growl.
"apologies, my sweet girl." he calmed himself, manhandling you back to lying on his chest, giving your ass a little pat as if to say 'there we go, back where you belong.' you tilt your head back, barely hiding your smile as you sent him a fake glare. he leant down and kissed your nose with a pleased smile. "you know i like your pretty noises. you're just cute when you're embarrassed."
“whatever malfoy.”
a/n ; posting pt. 4 of timeless on the weekend or so sorry for the delay 😟
The Citrus Scale is a classic way to label the sexual explicitness of your fanfiction work.
Nowadays, it is more common to simply see the tag 'smut', but if you want to be a little more discreet while still specifying the level of explicitness, you can use the citrus scale.
The most commonly used fruits on the scale are lime and lemon.
Lime indicates the presence of sexual content, which is more implied, involving make-out sessions and groping, but not direct intercourse. Often, the scene ends with a fade-to-black moment when intercourse begins, so it is implied without going into detail.
Lemon is more explicit. You can expect graphic details in a lemon story.
So there is a bit of a difference between a 'lime' and a 'lemon' story. However, there are some other fruits on the scale which I haven't come across that often.
There's orange, which doesn't even imply intercourse, but rather light intimacy, such as kissing and cuddling.
The last one is grapefruit. I really haven't seen this that often, so don't quote me on it, but in my experience, grapefruit signals an even smuttier lemon story to come.
Have you used the citrus scale before? Tell me which fruits you know!
summary: nsfw you bring levi two birthday gifts to his office, one of which is you
the winter air seemed to seep through the walls as you walked through the corridors of the survey corps headquarters. in your hands, you carried a small parcel wrapped in plain brown paper. nothing fancy, but finding anything worthwhile in the aftermath of the wall breach was a feat in itself.
most people didn't know it was levi's birthday. he never mentioned it, never acknowledged it. not even to you. you'd only discovered the date by accident months ago. well, maybe begging commander erwin to let you see levi’s files wasn’t an accident but either way, you got the information you needed. since then, you'd been searching for the perfect gift.
you knocked twice on his office door.
"it's open."
his voice came through flat and uninviting as always, though you knew better. you stepped inside, closing the door behind you with a soft click. levi sat at his desk, paperwork spread before him in neat stacks. the lamp cast harsh shadows across his face, emphasizing the permanent tiredness etched into his features.
he glanced up, grey eyes finding yours. "you're late."
"i had to pick something up." you smiled and crossed the room to place the parcel on his desk. "happy birthday."
levi's expression didn't change, but his eyes flicked to the package, then back to you. "how did you know?"
“i have my sources.” you shrugged.
“tch." he set down his pen, eyeing the package like it might explode. “you didn’t have to do this.”
"i know. but i wanted to." you shrugged, a small smile playing at your lips. "aren't you going to open it?"
he carefully ran a finger over the package before unwrapping it with careful movements.
inside was a tin of black tea. the kind that was expensive and high quality. the kind that was nearly impossible to find anymore. his fingers traced the edge of the tin, and for just a second his eyes met yours in that look he only seemed to reserve for you.
"this must have cost—"
"don't worry about it," you interrupted. "i wanted to."
the silence stretched between you, not uncomfortable, just that typical comfortable silence you and levi could sit in and feel content
"it’s late," levi said finally, setting the tin aside. "you should get some rest."
“but i have another present for you.”
levi raised an eyebrow. "another one?"
instead of answering, you reached for the buttons of your shirt, slowly undoing them one by one.
"what are you doing?" his voice came out rougher than usual, eyes locked on your fingers. his eyes even sharper than usual as they zoned in on each inch of exposed flesh as you released another button one by one.
"giving you your second present." you let the shirt fall open, revealing the bra underneath. black, his favorite color on you. "if you want it."
levi stood slowly, the chair scraping against the floor. "someone could come by."
"then i guess we'll have to be quiet." you shrugged the shirt off completely, letting it pool on the floor.
his eyes darkened, gaze traveling over your exposed skin. "you're a brat you know that?" he said, but he was already moving around his desk and closing the distance between you.
"you say that a lot."
his hand came up, fingers curling around your jaw. "you know i can't resist."
"i was hoping you’d say that."
levi leaned in and kissed you, his lips pressing to yours in what one might call unrestrained hunger. like he truly could t control himself with the sight of you standing in his office, in just your bra, offering yourself to him completely.
his other hand found your waist, pulling you against him as he backed you up until your ass hit the desk. papers scattered, but neither of you cared.
you gasped against his mouth, fingers brushing against the spiky raven locks at the base of neck. he made a low sound in his throat, his hands already working at your pants.
"levi"
"quiet," he muttered against your lips, getting you undressed so quick you barely had time to register. "you're the one who started this. now you have to deal with the consequences."
your pants fell away along with your underwear. levi's hands immediately went to your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples through the thin material. the sensation made you arch into him, a soft whimper escaping your lips.
"i said quiet," he repeated, but his eyes were dark with want. he reached behind you to undo the clasps of your bra with ease, exposing you to the cold air of his office. "unless you want everyone to know what we're doing in here."
his mouth closed over your nipple, tongue circling the sensitive peak. your hands gripped his shoulders, nails digging into the fabric of his jacket. he paid equal attention to both breasts, sucking and biting until you were squirming against the desk.
"levi, please..."
"please what?" he pulled back, lips swollen and wet.
"touch me."
his hand slid between your thighs, fingers finding you already wet as brushed the tips between your lips. "fuck," he breathed. "you really wanted to give me this present, didn't you?"
you nodded, too far gone to be embarrassed. levi's fingers explored you thoroughly, spreading your legs with one hand as the other found your clit. the first touch made your hips jerk, a broken moan escaping your lips.
"what did i say?" levi's other hand came up to cover your mouth. "keep quiet or i'll stop."
you nodded frantically against his palm, and he rewarded you by sliding two fingers inside you. the stretch made your eyes flutter closed, your body clenching around the intrusion.
levi worked you, knowing exactly the way you liked it. his fingers curling to find that spot inside that made your thighs shake. his thumb circled your clit in steady rhythm, building pleasure that coiled tighter and tighter in your belly.
you were panting, being your hand up to cover your mouth so nobody could hear you, trying desperately to stay quiet as he brought you closer and closer to the edge.
when your orgasm hit, your muscles clamped down hard around his fingers, waves of pleasure rolling through you. levi's fingers working you through it until you were trembling and oversensitive.
when he finally withdrew his hand, you watched him bring his fingers to his mouth, tasting you without shame. the sight made heat pool in your belly all over again.
"turn around."
your legs felt shaky, but you managed to turn, bracing your hands on the desk. behind you, you heard the sound of his belt buckle, the rustle of fabric.
levi's hand pressed between your shoulder blades, bending you further over the desk. "stay like this."
you felt the head of his cock against your entrance, and then he was pushing inside in one slow, steady thrust. the stretch was intense, filling you completely. you could feel every ridge of his cock, your pussy fluttering around the intrusion and you bit your lip to quiet the sounds.
"shit," levi hissed, his fingers digging into your hips. he gave you a moment to adjust before pulling almost all the way out and thrusting back in. the angle had him hitting deep, and you had to press your hand over your own mouth to muffle the sounds threatening to escape.
levi set a demanding pace, his cock sliding in and out of you, hips rolling to make sure he hit that spot he knew made you crazy. each thrust making the desk shift slightly beneath you. one hand stayed on your hip while the other came around to find your clit again, rubbing in firm circles.
you could hear levi’s breathing behind you, ragged and thick as his mind almost went blank at the way your pussy felt around him. how tight and warm it felt as he continued his relentless pace.
his pace increased, hips snapping against your ass with sharp smacks that seemed too loud in the quiet office. his grunts grew a bit louder, swears leaving his lips every time you clenched around him, bouncing your ass back against him to drive his cock deeper inside you.
your hand joined his between your legs, fingers working frantically at your clit while he continued to pound into you. the dual stimulation quickly had you climbing toward another peak.
your second orgasm hit even harder than the first, your pussy clenching rhythmically around him. the sensation triggered his own release, and you felt him thrust deep one final time, his cock pulsing as he came inside you with a low groan.
for a long moment, neither of you moved, both catching your breath. finally, levi pulled out carefully, and you felt his cum start to leak down your thigh.
"fuck," he muttered, already reaching for the handkerchief he kept in his pocket. he cleaned you up before helping you stand on wobbly legs.
you turned to face him, and despite everything you'd just done, you felt a flutter in your chest at the way he was looking at you. still with that intense lustful gaze.
"best birthday present?" you asked, still slightly breathless.
levi rolled his eyes, catching his breath before flicking your forehead. "the tea was good too."
you laughed softly. "such a romantic."
"tch. you knew what you were getting into." he helped you gather your clothes and watched as you redressed yourself and attempted to make yourself presentable again.
"thank you," he said quietly. "for both presents."
"happy birthday, levi."
"you should get back to your quarters, i’ll finish up here and meet you there."
you smiled, pressing a quick kiss to his lips before heading for the door. as you slipped out into the hallway, you glanced back one last time. levi had returned to his desk, but his hand rested on the tin of tea.
Pairing : Levi Ackerman x Reader Rating : General Audience Word Count : 312 AO3 : Click this link
You had been tossing and turning, trying to move as slowly and unnoticeably for the past hour in hopes of finding a comfy position that would have you out cold in no time.
To no avail you let out a quiet huff of breath as you accepted defeat and laid on your back unmoving, staring at the dark ceiling when movement next to you caused you to startle.
A deep frown tugged at the corners of your mouth as you felt a pair of warm arms snake around you and pull you close to a firm and equally warm body.
You assumed you woke a sleeping Levi only for him to push your hair away from your face, mumbling quietly that he also can’t seem to fall asleep as he pressed a light kiss to your forehead before tucking your head against his chest.
Sighing contentedly, you interlaced your legs with Levi’s, wrapping an arm around his torso as you scooted closer to him just as he began to slowly card his fingers through your hair.
Levi hummed quietly as he tightened his arms around you to hold you more closely to him. You could hear the faint sound of his heartbeat over his breathing as you closed your eyes, your brain starting to turn to mush from the sensation caused by his fingers brushing against your scalp.
It felt like no time had passed before you felt your eyelids grow heavy and the world started to fade away. You could hear Levi’s breathing starting to slow and feel his body relax more fully, thankful to know that he’d be getting some sleep tonight as well.
The last thing you remember was feeling Levi’s hand still, his fingers still woven through your hair with his palm cradling the back of your head before sleep finally decided to claim you as its own.
2025 faverec. | do not translate, copy, steal or claim my work as your own and do not repost it anywhere.
