2000s baby ♡

|she/they| 🎨 |20's| Imma be real I only made an account to read smut☠️so I will reblog +18 stuff (some *dark*) or stuff I like in general ♡

[myspacecrybaby]

the teenage years i was promised…..

[glossykissies]

deer!reader meeting dex through being a hostage at the bank she works at :(

maybe it was naive of you to assume it could never happen to you — a bank robbery, that is. after all, you lived in new york, and with fisk in charge the city had fallen into mayhem. now, you stand facing the vault — looming figure right behind you, keeping you faced away from him.

a couple of tears slip down your face, you can’t help it — you’re so nervous, trying to type in the long and tedious passcode you were made to memorise a long time ago on your first day. when the vault made an obnoxiously angry buzzing sound, signifying that you put the passcode in wrong, you all but whimper like a frightened puppy.

“i’m sorry, my hands are just shaking so much, i’ll do it again m’just nerv—”

“hey. you’re okay. take a breath and try again for me.” his voice is surprisingly more gentle than it was earlier when you’d heard him drop the security guards. oddly enough, it’s reassuring — and you nod, wiping your tears on the back of your hands, going to try again.

“i’m really sorry.” you whisper, shakily beginning the sequence again.

“you’re okay sweetheart. i’m not gonna hurt you. just concentrate on the passcode for me.”

you hated that his kindness made it harder to focus, trying to ignore the warmth of his body and his raspy voice. or maybe it was the sweetheart nickname that did it for you?

whatever it was, it looped around your head for weeks as the bank recovered. you wondered who he was, where he was, why he was so nice to you, and dex being dex — he just couldn’t stay away. he needed to know you, the sweet girl from the bank.

he’s returning to the bank in regular attire weeks later, requesting your help with a charming yet knowing smile on his face when your ears prick up in recognition at his voice. it had to be him.

fast forward again, it’s the voice you fall in love with. the voice that reassures you, telling you he’d never let anyone hurt you, telling you he’d never let you get in any trouble, telling you how pretty you are when you cum.

“listen to her baby, so good at talkin’ for daddy.” he coo’s almost mockingly as he pushes into your wet heat once again, the way you cream around him audible amongst the quiet walls of his apartment. he has you face down ass up, a compromising position you wouldn’t fathom yourself in if not for your much older boyfriend. you squirm, embarrassed at the way you squelch around him and he holds you down, a low chuckle rumbling from his chest. “dont run from it now. my girls not a runner is she? wasn’t even scared the first time we met. who’s my brave girl?”

“me.” you choke out, though you’re not fully convinced that word is completely accurate to your timid ways.

“speak up, sweetheart.”

“me.” you cry, as his arm snakes round your hips to toy with your clit.

“thats my girl.”

[loveharlow]

SEX ON THE BEACH

SYNOPSIS‧₊˚ When you enter the Love Island villa as a bombshell, you spark an instant, high-stakes connection with the intense and complicated Rafe Cameron. As you navigate each others web of secrets, messy betrayals, and jealous rivals, you must decide if your undeniable chemistry is a genuine match or just a casualty of the game...

WARNING(S)‧₊˚  swearing, smut, mentions of past relationships, suggestive content, mentions of addiction, circumstantial cheating/infidelity, general LI drama, arguments, mentions of mental health, drinking, more detailed warnings for each individual chapter

SERIES TAG NAV‧₊˚ #fic analysis☀️ | #sotb | #mailbox:sotb | #the bombshell files

some quick (kinda important) notes

EPISODES

The Deep End (Day 1+2) | tweets

2. Muggy Mornings and Moonlit Pasts (Day 3+4) | tweets

3. Receipts and Recouplings (Day 5+6) | tweets

4. Do For Love (Day 7+8) | tweets

5. Va Va Voom (Day 9+10) | tweets

6. Is There Someone Else? (Day 11+12) | tweets

7. My Moon My Man (Day 12 cont.) | tweets

8. Fire In My Heart (Day 13+14) | tweets

9. Ex's & Oh's (Day 15+16) | tweets

10. We Never Dated (Day 17+18) | tweets

11. Do I Wanna Know? (Day 19+20) | tweets

12. I Need Your Love (Day 21+22) | tweets

13. Misery Business (Day 23) | tweets

14. Your New Home (Day 24) | tweets

15. Here [Instrumental] (Day 25+26) | tweets

16. Bleed (Day 27+28) | tweets

17. Untitled (Day 29+30)

18. Untitled (Day 31+32)

19. Untitled (Day 33)

20. Die On This Hill (Day 34)

21. Letter Home (Day 35)

22. Mirrors (Day 36)

23. Welcome Back, Islanders (The Reunion)

WHERE ARE THEY NOW? >>

EXTRAS

TR's Style Board

The (OG) Girls

The (OG) Guys

AFTERSUN : Ruthie

💣Meet Rima

💣Meet Miles

AFTERSUN : Topper

The Casa Girls

The Casa Guys

AFTERSUN : The Unchosen (Delaney, Winnie, Thomas, Brandon, and Mattheo)

AFTERSUN : Kiara

AFTERSUN : Miles

💣Meet Talia

AFTERSUN : Sofia & John B

AFTERSUN : Kaitlyn & Haja

[lazer-exe]

I'm gonna say it, I do think that even the laziest person imaginable should have a roof over their head, food in their stomach, and access to healthcare

[obsourie]

FRIENDZONED ! —MASTERLIST

synopsis . ݁ ˖ youre the only calm and sweetest thing in rafe cameron's life, because of that, you trusts him too much. you treat him normally like a bsf—sometimes almost like hes your gay bsf. the thing you dont know? hes been obsessed & waiting to fuck you, playing the long game.

pairings . ݁ ˖ dark!bsf!rafe x gentle!oblivious!reader.

warnings . ݁ ˖ 18+ mdni, dark romance, toxic friendship dynamics, heavy objectification, dub-con, coercion, exhibitionism risks, power dynamics, size difference, weird fetishes, gaslighting, emotional manipulation, extreme possessive & obsessive behavior, unhinged jealousy, invasion of privacy, stalking, isolation tactics.

—LISTS

✷ shopping with bsf!rafe

✷ patching bsf!rafe up and you dont know he lied

let me know if you wanna be on the taglist!

taglist: @phoebesatoru @ssugartalkin @eerilyjaggedconstruct @frrahhh @meltyice77

[obsourie]

FRIENDZONED !

a normal shopping day with your bsf! what could go wrong? except, you dont know why hes so demanding...

cw: 18+, highly suggested themes, gaslighting & emotional manipulation, intense possessive/obsessive behavior, toxic friendship dynamics, objectification, perverted thoughts

pairings: dark!bsf!rafe x gentle!oblivious!reader

more of friendzoned ! series here

“ouhh, this is cute.” you grab a white, linen midi dress hanging on the clothing rack. staring up and down of the design on the dress. its flowy and stops at your shin. you held the dress on your body, watching how good it would look. “i could wear this to topper’s boat party.”

“put that shit down.” rafe lazily comments from behind you. eyes not leaving his phone. you turn around, pouting. “youre not even looking at it!”

your face scrunched up in a frown. “c’mon, ray, this is pretty. white is my color, it makes me look classy.”

rafe turns his phone off, sliding it into his pocket. he closed the distance between you until hes completely towering you.

he reaches out, pinching the fabric between his thick fingers, looking at it with disgust. it was boring and completely swallowing your body shape.

“since when do you get so boring?” he spoke up. your face falters. looking back at the white dress youre holding. a faint blush covering your face in embarrassment.

“last summer you wore a bikini top to a bonfire. now youre trying to dress like.. this. if you dont want to show off, fine. but i know your real style.” he guilt trips was right. you immediately panic. thinking youre losing your 'cool' girl image on his eyes.

“you think it looks bad?” you put the white midi dress back into the rack.

“it looks cheap.” he lies answered smoothly.

“you wanna be the girl everyone stares at, right? try this one on.” he grabs a white ribbed mini dress instead. its.. very tight, scoops low on the chest, and the hemline ends on your inner thigh.

you paused. “ray, thats.. way too short. if i bend over, everyone’s gonna see everything.” you look at the dress, not sure. your face flushes hot.

rafe stares at you, gaze slowly getting dark. he smirks possessively. he leans his head down to your ear. dropping his ‘bestfriend’ act. “then dont bend over unless im standin’ right behind you.”

you gasp, brows furrowing. well, its not unusual for your bestfriend to whisper you weird things. hes just like that! a little perverted but you love him.

“youre so pervy.” you roll your eyes and giggling. he steps back, handing you the dress. “go try it on.” he orders lazily. you grab the dress and step inside to a massive, private fitting room.

once you put the dress on, you stare at yourself in the mirror. turning around to see how it looks from the back. it looks so short and tight. almost suffocating your body. you cant help but to admit you indeed look sexy in this. glad youre bestfriends with rafe, he always picks out the best for you!

and not long, rafe enters the fitting room with you there. you ask nervously, “does this look good?” you show him the front and then turning around.

rafe doesnt say anything. he physically cannot speak. his eyes goes hungry, tracking from your collarbone, down to the swell of your tits in a cleavage, then to the dip of your waist and hip, finally to how barely it covers your plush thighs and ass. you look innocent in white, yet so disrespectful.

“its fuckin’ perfect.” he compliments. theres something about rafe that makes you feel.. weird. everytime he conpliments you or stares at you, you always feel shy. maybe its because hes just intense like that.

“thanks! but im not sure—”

“keep it. you look pretty.” pretty, he said. there it was. mostly, guys and your stupid exes call you ‘hot, sexy, fine’. never ‘pretty and beautiful’. its weird ‘cause.. considering of how pervy you know your bestfriend is. but hes got a kind heart.

you stare up at rafe with a smile, heart fluttering. “aw, rafe. you always find a way to make me feel so entirely seen.”

rafe’s smile didnt reach his eyes, it stayed sharp and hungry as he dropped his gaze back to the short dress. he felt a dark thrill. feeling like he was the only guy who actually gets you and treats you right.

you take a shaky breath, fingers digging at the hem of the dress to pull it over your head, “uhm, okay. ill pick this one. just go wait outside so i can change back into my clothes.”

rafe doesnt even move towards the door. he reached over to the small hook on the wall and grabs the black micro string bikini. he brought it here before she even enters the fitting room. what the?

“try this one first.” he stares back at her. “fits your style, no?”

you stared at the bikini he held in his hand, eyes going wide. “i have to take my bra off to put that on. get out, ray.” you command softly.

rafe lazily looks down at you. tilting his head and brows furrowing in confusion. “just put it on.”

“im about to take my clothes off..?” you hiss, cheeks burning.

rafe sighs in exhaustion, “y’know, if youre that insecure about your body right now, we can put it back. thought it would look good on you, but if youre going to be weird ‘bout it.. whatever.” classic rafe, hes always dramatic!

before he could left, you let out a gasp. “im not insecure!” you argued gently, a small smile coming out. you take the bikini from his hand. “fine, ill put it on. but i want you to turn around. or, look at your phone, whatever.” well you know rafe’s definitely hooked up with a lot of girls and see them naked but still, hes your bestfriend. your rafe. you feel shy undressing under his gaze.

you take the white dress off over your head. leaving only in the pink lacy panties and bra. obviously youre not taking your panties off whenever youre trying bikinis on.

your fingers moved behind you, unclasping the bra. and just then, you quickly grab the tiny black triangle top to cover your tits.

you dont know the fitting room has three-way mirrors on every single wall. youre too busy putting the bikini on, not realizing rafe wasnt staring at his screen. he stares right at you. eyes taking in your soft skin, curve of your waist, and the way your thighs press against each other. pink undies? how cute. makes him want to ruin you.

he noticed how your fingers fumbled against the bikini string. your face confused.

“ray, i cant get the knot.” you admit, looking back at him.

he shoved his phone back into his pocket, walking closer to you. “drop your hands, ill do it.” he closed the distance, tall frame towering over you.

he reached his thick fingers to the nape of her neck. blood rushing violently on his head (and dick) that he actually feels dizzy. he takes the bikini strings and tying it slowly. he could see your tits from up here.

the air felt so thick. dont know maybe from how tense you were or the fact that his dick is throbbing. hes thinking about groping your tits from behind, and bending you over in here. he would cover your mouth to keep your moans quiet and muffled from making the staff suspicious. bet you’d get so cockdrunk. he jerked off at the thought of you for a lot of times before.

then, he brings the second set of strings down to her back. he pulls them really tight.

you squirm, “rafe, wait, thats too tig—” a gasp left your mouth, from how warm his broad body is, pressing against yours.

“if its loose, youre gonna spill right outta it. wouldnt want any other guys oglin’ at you, hm?” he tied the knot on your back carefully. his bruised knuckles from whatever fight he got—brushing softly into your bare back on purpose. once hes done, he pats your right hip. “there. told you it’d fit you.”

you stare at your reflection in the mirror infront. suddenly realizing how big his frame is swallowing you from behind. your gaze tracks down to your body—from your pink panties to the micro bikini top, but then directed at rafe.

he stares back from the mirror. making a long eye contact seconds after seconds. he leans down, his chin pressing against your bare shoulder. you dont even realize both of his hands are gripping the sides of your waist, not tightly—but firm enough.

“youre wearing this under the white dress tomorrow,” rafe dictates, tone flat. his eyes bored, but then dropped to your body again. smirking secretly. he lifts his chin off your shoulder.

“and when other guys say you look so good, youre gonna tell ‘em i picked it out for you. understood?” his big hand grabbed your chin, making you look and turning up at him.

he loves making you his doll. putting his name on your aesthetic and demanding you to brag about it to the rest of the island.

overwhelmed, flustered, and so obedient.

your lips part slightly. you give a tiny nod as you stare up at him.

“put your clothes back on. im paying for everything weve picked out.”

ⓘ do not copy/repost my work or use my idea to ai. likes nd reblogs are appreciated! dividers by @/cursed-camine.

[jupitercomet]

If You Love Me | Garrett Graham

SUMMARY A series of one-shots about your time in the Love Island Villa with Garrett.

CONTENT love island au, fem reader, love island relationship dynamics, smut/suggestive content will be marked with a *, one-shot specific, one-shots are loosely in chronological order...

Now I got that feeling...

America, Do You Hate Me?

Your unhinged confessionals about Garrett

Nosiest Couple in the Villa

You and Garrett love to gossip about the other Islanders (Garrett doesn’t actually care that much, but don’t save him, he’s exactly where he wants to be)

Breakfast Smoothies

You’re really bad at multi-tasking and Garrett's love language is acts of service and forced radical acceptance

Casa Blues

The guys get sent to Casa Amor and now have to juggle getting to know the new girls with stopping Garrett from hurling himself into the ocean. Back at the Main Villa, you get into journaling

Casa Blues Part Two: Electric Boogaloo

Production finally releases Garrett from his Casa Amor shackles. The boys return from Casa Amor, but will the girls be standing alone when they return?

Movie Night

Amidst the drama of Movie Night, Garrett makes you cry for an entirely different reason

...you without me will break my heart

EXTRAS

love island!garrett asks

please don't copy, repost, or feed my work into ai, thanks!

[creepinggirl]

[kooksandpearls]

garrett graham ❄︎ noise complaint.

pairing – garrett graham x nursing student!reader summary – the morning after becoming official, garrett tries to make coffee while the boys chirp him, protect their favourite person, and accidentally start planning an away-game hotel situation. warnings – suggestive content, morning-after intimacy, implied smut, lost voice jokes, hickeys/noise teasing. notes from me – hi loves!! as requested here!! my sweet babies :') & currently working on the ‘weekend away’ fic and it’s looong and so so cute!! word count – 4.2k

navigation – masterlist |

Pipes groan somewhere inside the walls of the hockey house. The refrigerator hums with the strained determination of an appliance that has survived too many protein shakes. 

From upstairs comes one heavy footstep, a pause, then nothing, as though whoever made it reconsidered the concept of being awake and returned to bed.

She sits on the kitchen counter in Garrett’s jersey and a pair of little cotton shorts, one bare foot swinging loosely above the cabinet door while the other has found its way around the back of Garrett’s thigh. 

The jersey hangs nearly to the hem of the shorts and smells like his laundry detergent now rather than the rink, softened from enough washes that the fabric sits warm and loose over skin still carrying a faint, pleasant sensitivity everywhere it touches. 

Her hair is tangled down her back, the ends catching against the stitched numbers whenever she moves. There’s a small ache low in her body that makes climbing onto the counter feel like an accomplishment she deserves academic credit for, a softer soreness through her thighs, and the distinct awareness that her voice may not survive any sentence requiring volume before noon.

Garrett’s shirtless in grey sweatpants, standing between her knees with his back to her while the coffee machine makes a series of wet, threatening noises on the counter. 

His hair is flattened on one side from sleep and curling wildly on the other, a line from the pillow still faintly visible along his cheek. The thin chain around his neck catches the grey morning light coming through the window above the sink each time he reaches for something, flashing briefly against his chest before settling again.

He’s been trying to make coffee for six minutes. She’s been preventing him from completing any individual step for more than twenty seconds.

Garrett reaches for the mugs. She hooks her foot more securely around the back of his knee and pulls. It doesn’t move him far, because he has the stability of a building designed to withstand coastal weather, but it gets his attention. 

He glances over his shoulder, the corner of his mouth already shifting. “What?”

She lifts her brows. “Nothing.”

“Your foot’s trying to climb into my pants.”

“It likes you.”

Garrett turns properly then, abandoning the mugs with the weary acceptance of a man who understands the coffee is no longer the main task. His hands settle on either side of her thighs, palms warm against the cold stone counter, and she catches his chain between two fingers before he can say anything else. 

It’s a gentle pull, barely enough pressure to bring his mouth closer, but Garrett follows immediately, chin tipping down until his breath moves warm over her face.

“Needy this morning,” he murmurs.

She studies the chain rather than him, thumb moving over the small metal links. “That’s rich.”

“Is it?”

“You tried to follow me into the bathroom.”

“You were gone a long time.”

“I was brushing my teeth.”

His mouth twitches. She gives the chain another small pull, and Garrett leans in the last inch without making her ask. 

The kiss lands soft and warm, morning-slow rather than hungry, his mouth tasting faintly of toothpaste and sleep. His hand slides from the counter to the outside of her bare thigh, thumb passing once along the hem of her shorts while she kisses him again because the first one feels too brief now that she has him there.

The new title hasn’t changed the mechanics of Garrett’s mouth. It hasn’t altered the weight of his hand or the rough-soft brush of his curls beneath her fingers or the way his body fits into the space between her knees like it has been doing so for months without formal permission. 

Still, something in her keeps testing it. Pulling him back when he moves away. Touching the chain at his throat. Catching his shoulder when he turns toward the cupboard. 

Because he’s her boyfriend now and her body has interpreted that as unrestricted access to his general vicinity.

Garrett seems to have reached the same conclusion. He kisses her once more, then presses his mouth to the corner of hers, her cheek, the warm place beneath her ear where the jersey collar slips wide over one shoulder. 

His hand spreads over her thigh as she tips her head to give him room, and the small pull through already-tender muscles makes her inhale differently.

Garrett stops. It’s almost irritating, how quickly he catches it. His mouth lifts from her neck, eyes moving over her face with the immediate focus of someone who’s spent enough time in hospitals around her to believe every bodily sound comes with follow-up questions.

“You sore?”

She looks at him. “You’re smug.”

“I’m asking.”

“You’re asking smugly.”

“Can you answer, baby?”

Her fingers stay looped loosely in his chain. “A little.”

Garrett’s mouth curves.

She narrows her eyes. “Don’t.”

He kisses her forehead, the smile still pressing into her skin. “You want ibuprofen?”

The question comes out so sincerely practical that a laugh slips through her before she can stop it. Her throat objects halfway, roughening the sound, and Garrett’s grin deepens into something unbearable.

“Oh, wow.”

She presses her palm over his mouth. “Don’t.”

Garrett kisses the centre of her hand.

“That’s not an invitation to become worse.”

His fingers circle her wrist, holding her hand against his face as he says, muffled into her palm, “Your voice is gone.”

“My voice is fine.”

“You sound like Dean after a three-day bender.”

She pulls her hand away to glare properly. “I worked an eleven-hour shift yesterday.”

“Mhm.”

“I was tired.”

“Right.”

“The heating dries out my throat,” she argues. 

“Baby.”

She catches his chain again, hard enough this time to bring his mouth down before he can finish whatever deeply self-satisfied contribution was coming next. 

Garrett laughs into the kiss, one hand sliding behind her neck while the other grips her thigh more firmly. She bites lightly at his bottom lip because he deserves it. He makes a rough sound and steps closer until the soft fabric of his sweatpants brushes between her knees.

The coffee machine clicks off behind him. Neither of them moves.

Then a floorboard groans in the hallway, followed by the dragging sound of someone approaching the kitchen with no meaningful interest in surviving the morning. 

Garrett pulls back by half an inch. She keeps her fingers around his chain, mostly because releasing him would suggest shame and she’s currently too comfortable for that.

Dean appears in the doorway wearing black sweatpants, one sock and no shirt, his hair standing up at the back as though he’s been electrocuted. He makes it three steps into the kitchen before seeing them. 

His gaze moves from Garrett standing between her knees to her hand wrapped around Garrett’s chain, then to the coffee machine like it has personally betrayed him by placing this scene along the route.

“No,” Dean says.

Garrett doesn’t turn. “Good morning.”

“It isn’t.”

She smiles at Dean over Garrett’s shoulder. “Morning.”

Dean’s expression changes immediately. “Morning, sweetheart. Sleep okay?”

Garrett pulls back enough to stare at him. “What the fuck?”

Dean ignores him and crosses to the cupboard, opening it with the careful dignity of a man refusing to engage with something below his moral standards. “There any coffee?”

“I just made it,” Garrett says.

“Great.” Dean reaches for a mug, pauses, then glances at Garrett’s bare back. “Didn’t realise you still had the upper-body strength. Good for you, man.”

Her face warms instantly. Garrett lets go of her thigh and turns around, placing himself between her and Dean as though modesty can be installed retroactively by shoulder width. “Can you not?”

Dean blinks at him. “Can I not get coffee?”

“You know what you’re doing.”

“I’m standing six feet from the kitchen counter because there’s a private event happening near the mugs.”

She presses her lips together.

Garrett looks back at her, catches the beginning of the laugh in her face and points one warning finger. “Don’t encourage him.”

“I haven’t said anything,” she says smiling.

“That’s because you can’t,” Dean says pleasantly, pouring coffee.

Garrett’s head snaps toward him. “Dude.”

Dean brings the mug to his mouth and blows across the top with complete serenity. “What?” Dean’s eyes widen with exaggerated innocence. “I was expressing concern about the house’s dry air.”

She folds in on herself, laughter catching silently in her chest as she presses her forehead to Garrett’s shoulder. His skin is warm beneath her face. 

Garrett mutters something that sounds like unbelievable and reaches automatically, one hand settling at the side of her neck to hold her there even while he glares at Dean.

Another set of footsteps sounds on the stairs, quicker and heavier. Logan comes into the kitchen in a backwards cap and a faded Bruins shirt, scratching one hand over his stomach. 

He stops beside Dean, takes in the arrangement and looks toward the ceiling. “Huh,” he says. “Still structurally intact.”

Garrett’s shoulders tighten. “Morning to you too.”

“I genuinely thought your headboard was going through the wall.”

“That headboard’s cheap,” Garrett grumbles.

“That headboard’s loud,” Tucker says from the hallway before appearing behind Logan, hair rumpled, grey hoodie pulled over sleep shorts. He carries his phone in one hand and looks more awake than the rest of them. “Or it was last night.”

Garrett turns enough that she can see his face. “Why does everyone keep talking about the headboard?”

The three boys stare at him.

Dean takes another slow drink of coffee. “Did you smack your head?”

She makes the mistake of laughing aloud. Her voice cracks visibly enough that Logan’s mouth drops open.

Garrett points at him immediately. “Don’t.”

Logan shuts his mouth, cheeks puffing as he holds the comment inside. His eyes water with the effort. Tucker looks toward the refrigerator with the strained neutrality of someone witnessing a minor car accident. Dean lowers his mug and bites down on his own knuckle.

“Oh my God,” she groans, putting both hands over her face.

Garrett steps closer at once, crowding between her knees again as he reaches up and catches her wrists. “Hey. They’re assholes.”

“No,” Dean says. “You’re the asshole. We’re witnesses.”

“Hostages,” Logan corrects.

“Tucker made popcorn,” Dean adds.

Tucker’s brows pull together. “I was hungry.”

“You made enough for everyone.”

“You were all downstairs.”

“Because nobody wanted to risk the upper floor.”

Garrett looks at Tucker. “You too?”

Tucker has the decency to appear slightly apologetic. “The vents carry sound.”

“The vents,” Logan repeats darkly. “A design flaw.”

Garrett releases one of her wrists but keeps hold of the other, thumb passing over the inside as he turns back toward the boys. “Okay, why are you all chirping me?”

Dean glances toward her. “Because you’re here.”

“So is she.”

All three faces change. There’s only a small, collective stillness, like Garrett has asked why they don’t kick puppies for sport and the room has to recalibrate around the moral deficit required to form the question.

Dean lowers his mug. “Don’t be dumb.”

Garrett frowns. “What?”

“We’re not chirping her.”

“Why not?”

Logan looks offended now. “Because we have manners.”

Garrett stares at him. “You told a campus cop his moustache looked like a cry for help.”

“He was harassing Tuck.”

“He asked Tucker to move his car,” Garrett argues.

“It was the tone.”

Tucker opens the refrigerator and peers inside. “Also, she’s our friend.”

Dean points his mug toward her, careful not to spill. “She’s basically my little sister.”

Her hands lower from her face. “Basically?”

Dean looks at her with immediate sincerity. “Emotionally. Not biologically. I would’ve remembered you at Christmas.”

“You got Tucker a gas-station gift card for Christmas.”

“He loves fuel.”

“I do drive,” Tucker says, taking the eggs from the fridge.

Garrett’s still looking between them, genuinely bothered by the imbalance. “She was up there too. Louder than me, actually.”

The comment earns him a smack to the stomach. 

“No,” Logan says.

Garrett’s brows draw together. “What do you mean, no?”

“I mean I didn’t hear anything.”

“You just said–”

“Heard you,” Logan says. “Loud and clear. Like a fucking podcast.”

Dean nods. “Mostly you announcing relationship updates.”

Her stomach drops with a warm, humiliating lurch. Garrett’s hand tightens reflexively around her wrist.

“What relationship updates?” she asks grinning, though her voice comes out rough.

Dean’s mouth twitches. “Couldn’t tell you, sweetheart.”

“Selective hearing,” Tucker says, setting the eggs on the counter.

“It’s a trauma response,” Logan adds.

Garrett looks at all three of them, then back at her. His expression has gone from annoyed to openly betrayed. “You were saying it too.”

The boys look away simultaneously. Dean studies the inside of his coffee mug. Logan becomes fascinated by the magnets on the refrigerator. Tucker opens a drawer and begins searching for a spatula that has lived in the same place for two years.

Garrett’s eyes narrow. “Oh, fuck all of you.”

She laughs again, quieter this time, and lets him step back between her legs. He places both hands on her knees, looking up at her like she has personally failed to defend him in court.

“They love me more,” she whispers.

“Apparently.”

“Maybe I’m nicer.”

“You’re not.”

Her foot hooks around the back of his calf again. “Maybe I’m prettier.”

Garrett’s gaze moves over her face, then drops briefly to the jersey hanging loose over her body and the small strip of thigh above the cotton shorts. His annoyance softens around the edges in spite of himself. 

“Yeah,” he says. “That one’s probably true.”

She catches his chain and pulls him in. This kiss is smaller, mostly the press of her smiling mouth to his, but Garrett’s hand moves to her waist like no part of him understands the concept of casual contact anymore.

Dean makes a disgusted sound into his coffee. “See, this is what I mean. She’s being cute. You’re disgusting.”

Garrett kisses her once more before turning his head. “I’m making coffee.”

“You stopped making coffee ten minutes ago.”

“The coffee is made.”

“For her,” Logan says, spotting the second mug near the machine. “You made exactly two coffees.”

Garrett follows his gaze. “Make your own.”

Dean lifts the mug he is already drinking from. “I did.”

“Then why are you still talking?”

“Because your girlfriend’s funny.”

Garrett’s mouth presses together. She can feel the retort building in him before he gets it out, but Tucker interrupts by setting a pan on the stove.

“Eggs?”

“Yes, please,” she says.

Garrett glances at her. “You hungry?”

She makes a considering noise. “Starving.”

Dean opens the bread bag and takes out two slices. “You want toast?”

“Oh– I’m okay.”

He puts the bread in the toaster anyway. “That wasn’t the question.”

Garrett gestures toward her as though presenting evidence to a jury. “There. Chirp her for that.”

Dean gives him a flat look. “We’re feeding her.”

“That’s not chirping,” Garrett frowns.

“She works eleven-hour shifts and thinks crackers are a food group,” Logan says, reaching around Tucker for the orange juice. “There’s no sport in it.”

“It’s actually sad,” Dean adds.

She presses one bare foot against Garrett’s stomach. “Defend me.”

Garrett catches her ankle, palm circling it easily. “Eat the toast.”

“Traitor.”

“Girlfriend.”

The word is quiet, almost absent-minded, but it lands with embarrassing precision anyway. Her toes curl slightly against his skin. Garrett feels it. His eyes lift to hers, and something pleased moves slowly through his expression.

Dean watches both of them and sighs. “I hate that one word has made this worse.”

“You made this worse,” Garrett grumbles. 

“You were excited last night,” she reminds him.

“I was excited that you finally made an honest man out of Graham,” Dean corrects. 

Garrett snorts. “What does that even mean?”

“I don’t know. It’s what people say when a woman saves some asshole from himself.”

“That’s not what happened.”

Dean looks at her. “Is that not what happened?”

She considers Garrett’s hand still warm around her ankle, the coffee cooling behind him because he has once again forgotten to hand it to her, the way he stood outside the hospital asking whether a title could turn him into someone allowed to know she was safe. 

Her chest draws tight around something too soft to expose before breakfast. “Little bit,” she says.

Garrett looks up at her, deeply wounded. “Baby.”

She smiles and draws him closer with her foot until his hips bump lightly against the counter. “But you’re very trainable.”

Logan nearly chokes on the orange juice.

Tucker slides scrambled eggs onto plates while Dean handles the toast with the reckless confidence of someone who didn’t contribute to cooking it. Logan takes bacon from a container in the refrigerator, sniffs it, receives three immediate objections and puts it back. 

The kitchen fills gradually with heat and the warm, buttery smell of eggs, coffee and bread, everyone moving around one another with the unspoken choreography of people who have shared too many mornings in too little space.

Garrett finally remembers her mug. He pours in the small amount of milk she likes without asking, stirs it once and places it into her hands. She takes a sip and makes a soft sound of approval.

“Good?” he asks.

She nods, and he reaches up to push a piece of hair behind her ear. The motion is so gentle and ordinary that it catches somewhere strange. 

His knuckles brush her cheek. His fingers linger near her jaw for half a second before dropping to her knee, and he looks at her with the quiet attentiveness that usually comes after pain, bad shifts or arguments, except nothing is wrong. 

Nobody is bleeding. No doors are locked. His father is nowhere near them. Garrett’s only standing in his kitchen on a cold morning, shirtless and sleep-creased, touching his girlfriend because he can.

She takes another sip to give herself something to do with her mouth.

Garrett’s thumb moves once over her knee. “Away game this weekend.”

Her eyes lift to his.

“You coming?”

The question is casual enough that it could almost disappear into the noise of Dean complaining that Tucker has overcooked one side of the eggs, but Garrett’s attention stays fixed on her face. 

She thinks through her schedule first. No placement. Assignment work she can technically carry with her and then absolutely ignore in a hotel room. The drive is manageable. The ticket probably is too. Then the hotel cost arrives.

Her mouth pulls to one side. “I can’t afford the hotel, baby.”

He smiles immediately. It’s the smile of someone who already encountered this problem in his own head and quietly removed it before asking the question. “I’ll sneak you into my room.”

From inside the refrigerator, Logan says, “Whoa.”

Garrett doesn’t look away from her. “What?”

Logan straightens with a yoghurt in one hand. “Your room?”

Garrett’s thumb continues moving over her knee. “Yeah.”

“Our room,” Logan corrects.

There’s a brief silence.

Garrett glances at him. “You can stay with Dean.”

Dean’s head lifts from his toast. “Why am I being volunteered?”

“Because you love him.”

“I don’t love him enough to sleep beside him.”

Logan looks offended. “We’ve shared rooms before.”

“You kick,” Dean argues.

“You talk in your sleep.”

“I narrate.”

“You said, ‘No, officer, the horse consented,’ at three in the morning,” Logan says, shooting him a look.

Dean’s expression remains completely composed. “Sounds contextual.”

Tucker closes his eyes. “Why was there a horse?”

“It was a dream,” Dean says.

“That doesn’t answer anything.”

Garrett turns back to her as the argument begins widening behind him. His hand slides from her knee to the outside of her thigh, warm and steady beneath the jersey hem. “Come.”

The single word moves through her more softly than it should. She looks past him at Logan, who has now begun negotiating room compensation in the form of Garrett paying for all road snacks. 

Dean’s objecting on principle to having his sleeping arrangements treated like a public utility. Tucker’s trying to determine whether the hotel beds are doubles or queens, believing accurate dimensions may restore order.

Then she looks at Garrett. His hair still flattened strangely from sleep. The faint scratch she left near one shoulder visible when he turns. The chain she’s been using as a personal retrieval system all morning lying warm against his chest. 

He’s watching her without trying to hide how much he wants the answer to be yes. Her foot catches around the back of his leg again.

“Yeah,” she says, smiling before she can stop it. “I wanna come.”

Garrett nods once, like something has settled exactly where he wanted it. His hand squeezes her thigh. “Good.”

She lifts her brows. “Good?”

“Yeah.” He steps closer, fitting between her knees again despite having never moved especially far. His free hand comes up to her face, thumb passing lightly over her cheek. “Want you there.”

There’s nothing polished in the way he says it. Only the plain, warm weight of want you there, spoken while Tucker scrapes eggs from a pan and Logan tries to extort minibar privileges in exchange for losing his bed.

Her chest tightens anyway. She curls two fingers into Garrett’s chain and draws him in, kissing him slowly enough that his hand slides from her cheek to the back of her neck.

Behind them, Logan says, “Okay, but I’m serious. Where exactly am I sleeping?”

Garrett’s mouth stays against hers when he answers, “Not my problem.”

“It becomes your problem when I climb into the other bed at three a.m.”

She laughs into the kiss. Garrett pulls back enough to glare over her shoulder. “You do that and I’m locking you in the hallway.”

Dean picks up one of the plates Tucker has made and brings it toward her. “Here, sweetheart.”

Garrett turns back. “Why are you serving her?”

Dean sets the plate carefully beside her on the counter. “Because you made coffee and then spent fifteen minutes letting her lead you around by the necklace.”

She looks down at the chain still curled around her fingers. Garrett looks down too.

Dean gives a small, vindicated nod. “Exactly.”

Tucker hands Garrett another plate. “Eat.”

Logan takes the final one and leans against the opposite counter, yoghurt abandoned. “I still think I deserve compensation.”

“You’re getting a whole room with Dean,” Garrett says.

“That’s not compensation.”

Dean points his fork at him. “You’re lucky I’m taking him at all. What do I get?”

Garrett looks at her. “Privacy.”

Dean follows his gaze, then closes his eyes briefly as though receiving spiritual guidance. “Right. Yeah. Fine. Separate room. Far end of the hall, ideally.”

“Different floor,” Logan says.

“Different hotel,” Tucker adds.

She hides her smile behind her coffee. Garrett catches it anyway, his hand returning to her knee beneath the edge of the counter.

“See?” he says quietly. “They’re assholes.”

“They’re helping you smuggle me into a team hotel.”

“They’re still assholes.”

Dean points his fork toward Garrett without looking up from his eggs. “And yet we’re not the reason she can barely talk.”

Garrett throws a dish towel at his head.

Dean catches it one-handed and places it politely beside his plate. “Violence won’t restore your dignity.”

“I have dignity.”

Logan looks around the kitchen. “Anybody seen it?”

Tucker shakes his head. “Not since last night.”

Garrett mutters something beneath his breath and turns toward her, clearly expecting support. She takes another bite of toast, chewing slowly as if considering the available evidence.

“Sorry,” she says once she swallows. “Selective hearing.”

For one beat, Garrett only stares. Then his hand tightens around her knee, and she laughs as he leans in, crowding her back slightly against the cupboard. 

His mouth finds her cheek first, then the corner of her smile when she turns her face, the kiss warm and full of the grin he’s trying not to give her.

“My own girlfriend,” he murmurs.

She hooks her heel behind his thigh and keeps him there. 

Across the kitchen, Dean groans so loudly the refrigerator hum briefly loses the competition. Logan throws a crumpled napkin at Garrett’s back. Tucker moves the pan off the warm burner.

Garrett kisses her anyway, one hand sliding into her hair and the other steady on her bare thigh, while coffee cools in her mug and the boys complain around them and plans for the weekend form in pieces across the kitchen: tickets, rides, room keys, Logan’s threatened exile. 

The house is loud again now, properly awake, full of cupboards shutting and forks scraping and Dean insisting he never consented to becoming part of anybody’s romantic logistics.

She keeps Garrett close with two fingers in his chain. He lets her.

to be notified when i post new fics, follow @kooksandpearls-library and turn on notifications! i no longer use a taglist for garrett fics.

[spankyourlocalbrat]

seasontwo!rafe who’s favorite position is missionary because he needs to see your face. your legs wrapped around his waist, his body pressed flush against yours, each and every ab pressed against you, forehead almost touching yours while he stares into your soul. he’ll roll his hips deep and slow just to watch your mouth fall open and your pupils blow wide. “yeah? you feel that? look at me while i fuck you.” he’d demand.

seasontwo!rafe who loves eye contact so much that if you look away, he’ll edge you mercilessly. his thrusts change from the rough pace to extremely slow, shallow thrusts while demanding you keep looking at him. “you wanna cum? then fucking look at me.”

seasontwo!rafe loves the power it gives him when you’re almost falling off the bed with how he’s fucking you. seeing your eyes widen in panic and pleasure as gravity pulls at you, while he keeps pounding into you without mercy. “scared you’re gonna fall, baby?” he taunts, lips brushing against yours. “then keep those pretty eyes on me and i won’t let you.” he taunts.

seasontwo!rafe who loves to be so close to you when you listen to his orders, rewarding you with his cock in the spot that he knows gets you so quick to coming in seconds. his lips brush against yours with every breath, faces so close that you can feel the heat of his skin and the faint scent of his cologne mixed with sweat. “that’s it… right there, isn’t it?” he’d murmur against your lips, voice low and raspy, while he angles his hips just right and drives in deep, hitting that perfect spot inside you that makes your whole body jerk.

seasontwo!rafe who fucks you hard and angry when he’s mad at you, in missionary or with your legs over his shoulders so he can hover right above your face. every brutal snap of his hips is paired with that burning eye contact. if you try to turn away or close your eyes from the overwhelming pleasure pain, he slaps your cheek firmly, leaving your cheek with the stinging sensation and growls.

seasontwo!rafe who when you get too close to slipping, rafe yanks you back up by your thighs or hips, flips you slightly, then immediately drives back in just as hard. the whole time he’s staring straight into your eyes, daring you to break contact. “that’s it. good girl.” he coos. “look at me while i fuck you stupid.”

[spankyourlocalbrat]

⎯⎯⎯⎯ 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐘 𝐅𝐀𝐂𝐄 ✦

pov. after going to brunch with your next door neighbor’s family, you lay eyes on your new neighbor

content warnings. ⸝⸝ fem reader, sweet!rafe, fluff moments, romantic start, no proof read, penetration, gentle sex, soft dom!rafe

the brunch had gone on longer than you expected. mrs. ellison had insisted you stay for another cup of coffee while her husband told the same fishing story he’d told at least four different family gatherings. her youngest daughter was trying to convince you to adopt another cat. somewhere in the middle of it all, you’d completely forgotten that the house next door, the one that had sat empty for nearly three months had finally sold.

it was the latest gossip.

you were halfway up your front walkway when you noticed movement out of the corner of your eye. someone was carrying a cardboard box up the porch steps next door. you looked over absentmindedly, and then you stopped walking.

he hadn’t noticed you yet. he was taller than anyone you’d seen in a while, broad shoulders stretching the faded gray t shirt he wore, the sleeves hugged his arms just enough to hint at lean muscle without looking like he was trying to show it off, sunlight caught against messy blond hair that looked impossibly soft, like he’d run his hands through it a dozen times already that morning.

he set the box down with a careful grunt before he looked up with colored eyes. the kind that were bright without being sharp, gentle somehow, framed by thick lashes that felt almost unfair on someone who looked like him. there was something strangely warm about his face, too. his jaw was strong, his nose slightly crooked like it’d probably been broken once.

instead of it making him look intimidating and closed off, it made him look prettier, embarrassingly pretty.

the kind of pretty that made your brain completely short circuit. he caught you staring and your stomach dropped. before you could pretend to check your phone or suddenly become fascinated with your mailbox, he smiled. it was not a cocky smile, not one that said, ‘yeah, i know’.

just a genuine one, it was small at first, then bigger when you awkwardly smiled back. “hey,” he called, lifting a hand. “i’m your new neighbor.” he announced. his voice carried easily across the yards, low and relaxed.

“hi.” you replied. fantastic. you thought. one word, truly inspiring. he laughed softly, not at you, it didn’t feel like that, he walked a few steps closer, stopping near the property line. “sorry if i’m makin’ a mess over here,” he said, glancing back at the moving truck. “i swear i’ll have everything cleaned up by tonight.”

you blinked, then laughed. “no, no!” you start. “you don’t have to apologize.” you stated. “still.” he shrugged. “first impressions matter.” he continued, then smiled. his smile looked easy, possibly boyish, like he actually cared whether the people around him liked him.

“i’m rafe.” he said as he offered his hand across the little strip of grass separating your yards. you hesitated for exactly half a second before stepping closer and taking it.

his hand was warm and his grip was gentle. “i’m [insert your name]” you stated. he paused and he repeated it quietly, almost to himself. “that’s a really pretty name.” he complimented. your heart betrayed you immediately.

“thank you.” you replied, then there was an awkward silence, not uncomfortable, strangely. he rubbed the back of his neck. “this might be weird.” he started, you smiled tilting your head. “…okay.” you add. “but…” he smiled sheepishly. “you looked like you were coming from somewhere fun.”

you laughed. “brunch.” you explained. “with friends?” he questioned. “my neighbors.” you correct, then he looked around dramatically. “guess i missed the invite.” he joked, and another laugh escaped before you could stop it. “you literally moved in today.” you said.

“details.” he replied. you smiled so hard your cheeks hurt, he seemed to notice, because his own smile softened. “i’m glad you’re my neighbor.” he said, the words came so naturally that he almost looked surprised he’d said them out loud.

he rubbed the back of his neck again. “sorry. that sounded kinda cheesy.” he whispers. “a little.” you admit with a smile. “yeah?” he said. “just a little.” you explained, lifting your hand and spreading your pointer and thumb just a little bit to show him.

he grinned. “i’ll work on it.” he said.

you couldn’t stop looking at him. not because he was handsome, which he absolutely was, it was the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled, the way he looked at you like he actually wanted to hear whatever you had to say, the way there wasn’t an ounce of arrogance in him.

he was beautiful. but it was his kindness that made him impossible to look away from. behind him, someone from the moving truck yelled his name.

he glanced over his shoulder. “duty calls.” he said. you nodded. “good luck unpacking.” you say. “thanks.”

he took a few backward steps before stopping. “hey?” he spoke up. “yeah?” you replied. “i’ll probably burn dinner tonight.” he admits, his eyes gently landing on yours. you frowned, confused. “…what?”

“i can’t cook.” he explained, and you laughed. “good to know.” you replied. “can you?” he asked. “can i?” you started, then he gave you one last grin. “can i cook?” you echoed. “yeah” he confirmed. “are you trying to ask me to come over for dinner?” you teased.

“yes, will you be there?” he asked, and you stared at him like you were considering it. “i mean… why not?” you reply and he smiled, then nodded like it was finalized without another word. you then watched him disappear back toward the truck.

the candlelight from the dinner table still flickered softly in the background as rafe led you by the hand from the dining room into his bedroom. the evening had started innocently enough, dinner at his place but the way his eyes had lingered on you all night, warm and attentive, had built something undeniable between you.

now his hands were gentle on your waist as he pulled you close, his tall frame curving protectively around yours. “you’re so beautiful,” he murmured against your lips before kissing you deeply, slowly, like he wanted to savor every second. his mouth was soft and warm, tongue sliding against yours in unhurried strokes that made your knees weak. you melted into him, fingers threading through his hair as the kiss grew heavier, more needy, but never rushed.

rafe’s hands slid up your back, fingertips tracing your spine with feather light touches. “tell me if you want me to stop,” he whispered, even as he kissed the corner of your mouth, then your jaw, then the sensitive spot beneath your ear. his voice was low and sweet, nothing but care in it. you shook your head, pulling him closer.

“i don’t want you to stop.” you reply. he smiled against your skin, a genuine, boyish smile that made your heart flutter, before guiding you back onto his bed. he followed you down, settling between your legs without putting his full weight on you. clothes came off slowly, reverently; his fingers undoing the buttons of your dress one by one, lips following the path of exposed skin with soft, open mouthed kisses.

when you were both bare, he took his time just looking at you, light eyes dark with want but still so tender.

“feel so good already,” he breathed, pressing his body to yours. his cock was hard and warm against your thigh, but he didn’t rush. instead he kissed you again, deep, consuming kisses that left you both breathless. while his hand slipped between your legs. gentle fingers circled your clit, then dipped lower, stroking through your slick folds until you were arching into him with soft whimpers.

“rafe…” you gasped. “i’ve got you,” he soothed, kissing your neck, your collarbone, the swell of your breast. he took a nipple into his mouth, sucking gently, tongue flicking in lazy patterns while two fingers eased inside you, curling just right. he worked you open patiently, whispering praises between kisses. “so wet for me, n’ so perfect… that’s it, baby, just like that.”

when you were trembling and ready, he reached for a condom, rolling it on with steady hands before positioning himself at your entrance. he looked into your eyes, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “ready?”

you nodded, and he pushed in slowly, inch by inch, stretching you with a delicious fullness. a low groan rumbled in his chest as he bottomed out, forehead pressed to yours. “fuck, you feel incredible,” he whispered. he stayed there for a moment, letting you adjust, kissing you softly the whole time, slow, deep kisses full of tongue and affection.

then he started moving. gentle rolls of his hips, deep and steady, never slamming into you. every thrust was measured, loving, his body rocking against yours in a rhythm that built heat between you like a slow burning fire. one of his hands laced with yours, pinning it gently above your head while the other cradled the back of your neck, keeping your mouths fused together.

heavy, wet kisses swallowed your moans as he made love to you. the slide of his cock inside you was perfect, hitting that spot that made stars burst behind your eyes with every roll of his hips. his free hand roamed your body; cupping your breast, thumb brushing your nipple, sliding down to rub your clit in soft circles.

“doing so good for me,” he praised between kisses, voice husky but sweet. “taking me so well.”

your legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him deeper. the pleasure coiled tighter, sweet and overwhelming. rafe’s pace stayed gentle but grew a little firmer, a little faster as he felt you fluttering around him. he kissed you through it all, messy, open mouthed, full of tongue and shared breaths, until you came with a broken cry, clenching around his cock.

he followed right after, groaning your name into your mouth as his hips stuttered and he spilled inside the condom, holding you close like you were something precious.

afterward, he didn’t pull out right away. he stayed buried deep, kissing you lazily, softly, hands stroking your sides as you both came down. “stay with me tonight?” he murmured, nuzzling into your neck with a sweet, satisfied smile.

notes. this is shorter than usual but you love me right? gulp…. right??? anywho, this fic is inspired by my silly post i made about him

[spankyourlocalbrat]

ARRANGED MARRIAGE RAFE PLEASE I NEED MORE

arrangedmarriage!rafe who loves hearing you say degrading shit. he loves laughing at you in your face while you cry, not being able to speak but moan. his favorite sentence to tell you to ‘thank your daddy for selling you to a cameron’ who then he rewards you with orgasms when you obey and gets meaner when you’re bratty.

arrangedmarriage!rafe who is is ridiculously turned on by your changing body. as soon as your tits start swelling and getting sensitive, he’s on them constantly, sucking, biting, and leaving marks all over them. always sucking bruises into the soft flesh, making you whimper because everything feels more intense.

arrangedmarriage!rafe who’s honeymoon phase with you is absolutely wild. he keeps you in the bedroom for days, only letting you out to eat. multiple rounds every single day, morning sex where he wakes you up by eating you out until you’re crying, lazy afternoon fucks on the balcony where anyone could see, and rough nights where he ties your wrists to the headboard and edges you until you’re begging.

arrangedmarriage!rafe who is so horny during the second trimester when your belly really starts showing. missionary is out of the picture, he loves fucking you from behind or spooning so he can wrap one arm around your bump and the other around your throat.

arrangedmarriage!rafe who didn’t want this marriage at first. he saw it as another one of his dad’s power moves; merging families for business. but the second he saw you walking down the aisle in that white dress, something dark clicked in him. that night he didn’t even wait to get to the honeymoon suite properly; he had you bent over the nearest surface in the reception hall bathroom, dress shoved up around your waist, while he fucked you hard enough that your legs shook for the rest of the night.

arrangedmarriage!rafe who makes shower sex become a regular thing because the water helps with the extra weight and rafe loves watching soap run down your pregnant body. he’ll press you against the tiles, one hand supporting your belly while the other rubs your clit, fucking you until your legs give out.

[dark-fics-4-you]

Maybe Bimbo! Reader x Dark!Rafe

Something along the lines of him taking advantage of her naivety.

Lead On

dark!Rafe Cameron x f!bimbo!Reader drabble

Warnings: noncon touching, intox, implied noncon, fingering, victim blaming, slut shaming

You took another sip of your drink between giggles as you listened to his story about having to run from the cops at his last party.

“Not like they would have actually done anything if they caught me,” he drawled with a low chuckle.

“Oh my god, I’ve never been to a party that got busted before,” you admitted, shaking your head with a smile and looking up at the taller man.

“Then this must be your first time coming to one of my parties.” Rafe joked, but you nodded your head in agreement, and he didn’t look surprised.

“That explains why I didn’t recognize you, sweetheart,” he grinned, white teeth winking at you as he shifted closer to you in the secluded hallway. “I would have remembered a pretty girl like you.”

You blushed, thanking him for his compliment with a smile. “I’m just in town to visit my sister, she has a friend who knew about the party.”

Rafe didn’t reply at first, his eyes flicking down to the short black skirt you were wearing so fast you convinced yourself you must have imagined it.

“You’ve barely had any of your drink, Y/N.”

You glanced down at the cup in your hand, suddenly feeling like a jerk for not having the drink that Rafe had prepared for you.

He was so nice to you, and it felt good considering you didn’t know anyone here except your sister, who was god knows where right now.

You raised the cup to your lips again and you were surprised when his hand covered yours, holding the cup in place and forcing you to drink the rest of the strong punch he had poured you.

When he finally dropped his hand, you swallowed the last bit and looked up at him in confusion.

Rafe brought his hand to your chin, rubbing his thumb across your bottom lip, collecting the drop of alcohol that you missed, and mumbling, “spilled a little.”

His touch sent a hot spark through you, and you blushed at the close contact.

“Thanks,” you quietly replied with a smile.

Rafe was so nice.

“C’mon, lets get you another drink.” He grabbed your wrist and started walking towards the sounds of the party but you stayed put, tugging your wrist from his grasp.

“I don’t know if I should’ve have another drink yet, I think that last one is about to hit me hard.” You paused, noticing the frown that had begun to set in on his face. “Plus, I don’t really know anyone here, it’s probably best if I take it slow.”

He looked down at you, his eyes darkened and his jaw ticked before he replied, “well you know me, don’t you?”

His answer surprised you, but it did make sense, and Rafe had only been sweet and helpful to you so far tonight, so you felt pretty confident that he would help you out if anything went wrong.

“Okay! I guess that would be fine,” you smiled at him, happy when his grin returned to his face.

“I promise, I’ll make sure you’re okay.”

You followed him to the kitchen where he poured you another cup of punch before leading you to his bedroom. You felt so glad he was making your drinks for you, and you thought to yourself that Rafe seemed like a really good guy.

“It’s so loud out there,” he explained as he closed the door behind him, muffling the sounds of the party downstairs. “Thought it’d be better here, so we can keep talking.”

“That makes sense, you’re so smart,” you replied, genuinely smiling at how thoughtful he was being. You sat down on his bed, taking another sip of your drink before setting it down on his bedside table. Your head felt kind of funny, and you thought it might be time to slow down.

“So, have you lived in Outer Banks your whole life?”

Rafe sat next to you on his bed, “yep. Born and raised.”

“It must be so nice living near the beach, I’ve always wanted to live on the ocean.”

Rafe didn’t respond, his blue eyes studied you when you looked away, drinking in the way your tight shirt and short skirt accentuated your curves.

“You’re so beautiful, you know that, Y/N?” His voice was deeper now, words coming out slightly slurred.

You turned to meet his eyes and you were shocked when he leaned forward and pressed his lips to yours.

Letting out a small squeak of surprise, you tried to pull away, but his hand came to the back of your neck, holding you in place as his lips covered yours again.

When Rafe broke away from the kiss only to push you down onto the bed and start straddling you, you tried to protest.

“Wait, Rafe stop,” you told him and he looked down at you like you were crazy.

“What?” He questioned you, clearly annoyed that you had interrupted him. His blue eyes bored into you, and anxiety began to clutch your throat.

“I- I just think we’re going too fast, I feel pretty drunk right now,” you quietly admitted and he scoffed.

His blue eyes darkened as he sneered at you. “This whole night you’ve been trailing after me and batting your fucking eyelashes at me and now..? What- you’re acting like you don’t want this?”

His harsh words stung and they had you second guessing every interaction you had had with him tonight.

“Like you weren’t leading me on?”

You reached a hand up to push him off of you, to show him that you weren’t kidding, and you gasped when he harshly grabbed your wrist, twisting it painfully as he pinned it to his bed.

You yelped, struggling against him as your breath grew uneven. “I wasn’t leading you-”

His lips captured yours again. This time his hand came to your cheek, holding you in place as his other hand stayed wrapped tight around your wrist.

The feeling reminded you of the several other times you had found yourself in situations like this, alone at a party with a stranger who thought you were sending signals when you were just being nice.

It always took you until the last second when they would lean in for the kiss for you to realize you had sent them the wrong message.

A couple of them got angry with you and called you a ‘tease’ or a ‘slut’ before storming off, which hurt and confused you a lot. But you had never had a guy keep kissing you after you had asked him to stop.

When he squeezed your wrist again, you whimpered in pain, and Rafe took the opportunity to slide his tongue into your mouth, groaning as he tasted you.

You felt so confused, and the alcohol coursing through your system wasn’t helping you. You thought that Rafe was a good guy. You thought you could trust him.

Hadn’t he been helping you out all night?

His dark room was spinning around you as he kissed you, and when his hand trailed from your chin to your chest, you squirmed beneath him.

Rafe broke the kiss, his rough hands coming to the hem of your shirt and tugging it off over your shoulders, ripping the fabric in the process before he discarded it over his shoulder.

“Why the fuck do you think those drinks I made you were so strong?” He chuckled, looking down at your exposed chest hungrily, his tongue swiping along his bottom lip as he took in your distressed state. “Just ‘cuz I was being nice?”

You let out a whimper at his harsh words, burning tears collecting on your waterline, “I- I thought-”

When you felt his hand creeping up your skirt, the pads of his large fingers pressing against the damp patch on your lacy panties, you froze, teary eyes going wide as you looked up at him fearfully.

“I didn’t spend the whole party with you to listen to your thoughts, Y/N.” He mocked you, tugging your panties down your legs with ease despite your pathetic attempts to stop him.

Your back arched up off the bed when Rafe roughly pushed two digits past the gummy resistance of your entrance, sliding his large fingers inside you with ease, and you bit your lip to stifle the whine that threatened to climb out of your throat.

“I didn’t bring you up to my fucking bedroom just for you to back out after teasing me like a slut all night.”

[raspberriesnwine]

puppy dog eyes [dean di laurentis]

you get in trouble with dean, and the bedroom turns much less vanilla than usual.

warnings: MDNI, mean!dean, hard dom!dean, a lil bit of bdsm, dub con, oral fixations, hints of puppy play, dumbification, degradation, reader rides dean’s boot…, confused!reader is facing a moral dilemma

word count: 2.3k

a/n: whew!!! here it is! my first ever completed request!!! shoutout anon. this idea was so much fun,,, kinda sorta ran wild with it idk something came over me. lmk if u like it :) — berry

dean was a puck bunny magnet.

it didn’t matter where he was — class, the rink, malone’s, hell, even his own house. one was always just around the corner. batting their long pretty lashes at him. clawing at his biceps with their french manicures just to grab his attention.

to dean’s credit, he never gave in.

well– not since he met you. 

you’d seen the performance a hundred times over. he’d flash them a practiced smile and a polite ‘thank you,’ before parting the crowd in search of something (or someone) actually worth his time.

your heart still turned a tinge sour every time. plagued by age old insecurities and infinite what ifs. usually, you swallowed all of those icky feelings down. 

but tonight the girl begging for dean’s attention looks a little too much like you. the chatter of the party is a few notches too loud. and the beer you drank earlier is currently curdling in your stomach. 

so tonight, you decide to try something new.

you scan the backyard, and lock eyes with your target.

reclined on a deck chair, he’s pretending to listen to beau’s teammate bitch about how fucking terrible their offensive line has been playing. 

he’s got a half-drank bottle of miller high life dangling from his hand. the condensation of it is a steady drip, drip, drip onto his levis. 

hunter davenport. 

bingo.

you knew it was a fucking stupid idea. the kind of idea your brain only conjures up after taking a shot of room temperature tequila. 

but just because you know what’s good for you doesn’t mean you turn your ass around. 

no, dean deserves this, some deep dark part of you thinks. he deserves to know how shitty you feel every time you see a puck bunny feening for his attention. 

you march up to hunter. plaster a bright a smile on your face, and convince yourself you’re making the right call. ignoring that rotten feeling in your gut screaming at you to find dean. it’s your body betraying you, you decide. you pull the trigger anyway. 

“hunter! it’s so great to see you. you’re usually never at these things.”

you cringe at the truth hidden beneath your words. he’s usually not at these things because these things are at your boyfriend’s house off campus. your boyfriend who wishes hunter davenport was buried six-feet under. your boyfriend who stays up at night plotting how to do it himself.

you squeeze your eyelids shut, bracing for the retort you’re expecting to be slapped in the face with. some mean, cruel comment that hunter is somehow always armed with. 

you pray for a portal to open up, and spit you out into an alien dimension where you have a shred of confidence. 

you really thought you could flirt to hunter davenport. what a fucking stupid idea.

you’re about to raise the white flag, to be noble and walk away, when hunter’s face breaks out in a wide-toothed grin. 

“hey, trouble.”

oh?

he flashes his canines at you, and you swear his teeth glimmer. his eyes trace the outline of your silhouette, figure accentuated by your mesh mini dress. his gaze lands on your breasts. 

you look down. your nipples are pebbled from the cold air. standing at attention through the mesh fabric. 

you’re quick to cross your arms and shield him from the view he thinks he’s so privy to. the view he sees as an invitation. 

“i didn’t realize dean would let you off your leash with so many people around. must be my lucky day.”

oh. right. 

this is why you didn’t talk to hunter davenport. he was a pretentious fucking asshole.

“i’m not–” you sputter at the comment.

“dean doesn’t.. i’m not on a leash," huffing, you set a hand on your hip.

you can see hunter wracking his brain for some quippy comeback. but the smug look is wiped clean off his face the second a shadow overtakes it. 

you feel someone breathing down your neck, and a heavy arm wraps itself snugly against your middle.

dean.

“what the fuck is going on here, davenport? what are you playing at?” dean’s gaze is hard-set on hunter. 

“dean, chill out. it's fi–” hunter is practically cowering under the weight of dean's stare.

“actually, no. y’know what? get the fuck out of my house. i’ll deal with you later.” dean’s voice is steady and cold. he doesn’t yell. he doesn't need to. he points to the back gate, and hunter has already left with his tail between his legs. 

“upstairs. now.” 

you don’t need to hear another word before you’re sprinting through the crowd of strangers. 

your heart is beating in your throat. the lace trim of your dress is itchy on your skin as you take the stairs two steps at a time. you almost trip over the last one on your way up. 

when you get to dean’s bedroom, you’re blurting out apologies before he even gets the chance to shut the door. 

“i’m so so sorry, dean. i didn’t– didn’t think he’d be like that. i didn’t think it through, i swear,” you hiccup as you plead, throat tight and scratchy — straining just to get the words out.

“please, please don’t be mad.”

dean’s got that unimpressed look on his face. massive arms crossed cooly over his chest. his large frame kicked back with one boot against the door. 

he looks so handsome tonight in a creamy white henley and faded jeans. the mean, unforgiving look in his eyes doesn’t suit him. it makes you burst into tears. this is all your fault. 

“you’re un-fucking-believable, you know that? running off to fucking davenport in my house. didn’t realize you were such a little attention whore. can’t handle not having my eyes on you for two seconds, can you?”

a loud sob escapes you. you wanna scream and plead and promise him you want nothing to do with hunter. you were just being stupid.

but you keep your mouth shut and hang your head. try and convince yourself his words are empty. devoid of any real meaning. you’re jumping through hoops trying to tell yourself your boyfriend doesn’t think you’re a whore.

you sniffle and wipe at the flood of tears pouring from your bloodshot eyes. you look like a wreck, you’re sure of it.

maybe dean’s right. none of this would’ve happened if you’d just been good. 

“i’m just so so sorry, dean. i just– i missed you. you were busy and i–”

he gives you an accusatory look that shuts you right up. he’s not interested in excuses right now, obviously.

you try again.

“i wanna make it better. please, let me make it better. i’ll do anything.”

his ears perk up at that. he cocks his head. “you’d do anything, huh?”

you nod furiously. it’s true. you’d do whatever he asked if it meant he’d stop looking at you like this. like you'd disappointed him. 

“anything you want,” you promise.

dean’s toying with you. pretending to weigh his options. maybe he’ll granting you forgiveness. or maybe he’s planning how to make sure you regret ever going up to davenport in the first place.

he pushes his body off the door. walks a few steps over to the end on his bed and slowly lowers himself down. he sits and stares at you. 

you’re standing in front of him, pulling at the mesh fabric of your dress. tracing the pretty cheetah print pattern of it. distracting yourself by thinking of a happier time — last weekend, when dean had bought you this dress at a boutique downtown. he'd chanted sweet nothings to you in the dressing room.

“crawl.”

“w–what?” your eyes pop open.

he’s got his hand beckoning you forward in a come hither motion. his legs are spread wide and you feel yourself start salivating at the bulge in his jeans. 

“crawl to me.”

you weigh it in your brain.

you and dean definitely weren’t vanilla by any means. he was prone to settling a rough hand around your throat every now and then. slapping your ass in doggy. but you’d never delved into anything teetering on bdsm.

you decide dean knows best. 

you gulp in anticipation, legs shaky as you lower yourself onto your knees. 

it feels so primal, having his eyes on you as you bring yourself to all fours. a natural submission. feeling any sense of power slip through your fingers as the fibers of the rug eat at the skin on your palms. knees scraping against the fabric. your bones aching against the wooden floorboards. 

you move toward him, and you see his hand slip under his waistband. lazily playing with his cock. and, god, you want it so bad. 

the heady smell of him hits you when you arrive at his feet, eye-level with his crotch. it’s a woody musk mixed with the denim fabric of his jeans. you want to bury your face in it. 

“sit.”

you immediately obey. panties completely soaked through. slippery arousal dripping down your thighs.

you’re wet. 

the realization is a sucker punch. you pause. the anxious, flighty feeling bubbling up is like dark storm clouds over your head. 

you like this. 

maybe you shouldn’t. 

you’re reeling. navigating the ocean of your brain a million thoughts per second. thinking that you’re dirty. that this is wrong. thinking why the fuck do you like being treated this? 

and the worst one of all — oh god. dean’s really going to think you’re a whore now. 

“hey, where’d you go baby?” dean’s voice is so soft and shaky it makes your guts tangle into something poisonous. he’s touching your face so lightly, dragging his thumb up and down your jaw. 

“you need to stop? shit. baby, i shouldn’t have pushed you that hard.” 

if it weren’t for the panic attack you were on the brink of, you would’ve laughed.

“no, no, dean i–” you take a deep breath in and muster up the courage. “i don’t– i don’t think the punishment is working.”

“god, baby, i’m so sorry. had a feeling that was too far. smack the shit out of me next time i–” 

“dean, i–,” you sigh. “you don’t understand. i liked it.”

god, what were you even saying? how are you supposed to tell your boyrfiend that you like being punished. that you like it when he’s mean to you.

“sorry, what?” dean stops in his tracks. 

fuck it. 

“i think i like it when you.. um– get mean? how terrible is that. god, you probably think i’m disg–”

“oh, baby.” 

he lifts your chin up. looks deep into your eyes.

you hope he doesn’t see the deep rooted humiliation you feel.

no, it seems like he doesn’t. or maybe he’s putting it to the side for now. because he’d got this fond look in his eye. readjusting himself to lean in closer to you, pressing a kiss against your forehead.

you preen at that, nuzzling your head further  into his hand.

“my girl likes being roughed up a little? likes being on her knees for me?” his thumb forces its way into your mouth and you latch on. swirling your tongue around the digit instinctively.  

“jesus, baby, you’re so fucking hot. just wanna be told what to do, yeah? c’mon then, baby. show me how bad you want me.”

you hear his boot tap against the floorboards, and look down at the laces swinging side to side.

“c'mon. be a good girl for me, baby,” he coaxes. it’s a warm invitation. one you really can’t refuse. you lick your lips at the thought of it. 

taking a shaky breath, you lift your hips, and he’s quick to fill in the gap with his boot. you carefully settle yourself down onto it. wince at the feel of the hard leather against your heat. it’s so much pressure so quickly. it has your pussy throbbing against the laces as you start grinding against it. 

“oh fuck– dean,” you choke out, grasping at his jeans and twisting the denim fabric in your fist. trying to ground yourself.

he leans back with a smirk on his face. 

“ride out your feelings for me, angel. show me what a good puppy you can be.”

you suppose you asked for this. and god it feels so fucking good, riding his boot with his hand tangled up in your hair. your clit snagging between the laces. pussy juices leaking onto the leather. it'll probably fucking stain.

dean’s always been a dirty talker. and you’re lucky it drowns out that little voice inside your head telling you how wrong people would think this is. 

“you wanted to be my puppy this whole time, didn’t you? just needed a little guidance, babydoll. fuck– keep rolling your hips like that. make a fucking mess on me, pup. i’ve gotcha.”

you know you’ve never been this wet before. then dean starts bouncing his leg up and down, and a white hot heat burns in you as the leather vibrates against your core. the coil in your tummy is about to snap.

“dean– can’t. i’m gonna, fuck– dean!” you squeal, pain searing deep in your bones and throttling you headfirst into an orgasm. 

a soft command, let go f’me, puppy, is all you need before you’re squirting all over the black leather of his boot. body convulsing and pretty tears welling up in your eyes.

“you’re such a good girl,” he coos, lightly tapping your damp cheek. “you liked that? making a mess on me?”

you nod dumbly, still grinding out the aftershocks. 

“since you liked it so much, you can clean it up too.”

he raises a brow, daring you. seeing just how far you’ll push yourself for him. 

if he only knew.

you inch yourself backwards. arch your back till your ass is wagging in the air, and you’re eye level with your slick pooling on his boot.

it doesn’t take long before you’re practically making out with it. tongue threading between the laces.

it’s so mindless and oh so fucking hot. you can’t help yourself when you reach down, pushing your panties to the side and rub circles on your raw clit. 

it’s heaven, until you feel the sharp sting of dean smacking your ass and you pout, pulling your hand away from your core. 

“did i say you could play with yourself, pup? maybe davenport was right. should keep you on a fucking leash next time.”

[glossykissies]

hi!! can you talk about puppy!reader in the barbie dream house? going off the anon who identified with deer!reader, i saw puppy!reader’s outfit and was like “that’s so me”

hmm ok lemme think. she’s a lil all over the place but in a loveable way. the most bubbly gal ever, but there’s interference there with her neurodivergence. so sometimes she gets really overwhelmed and hits a wall and breaks down completely, and when she does she’s inconsolable for a bit. i’d say she discovered she kinda had a puppysona if u will as soon as she was conscious enough to. like she always played as the pet dog whenever she played house as a kid, always. pup was definitely exposed to a lot of inappropriate and bad stuff as a child, which is why she is still latched onto behaving rather childishly a lot of the time. she wasn’t given a safe space to be that when she was younger and now she doesn’t know how to be anything else. she’s girly but always feels like she’s ‘girling wrong’ as she’d put it, as she’s always ‘too messy’ or ‘too loud’, feeling like she’s performing being a girl no matter how hard she tries :(

pup definitely gives me the vibe that she had big brothers!! that’s why she’s so playful and messy. shes a phone game fiend, even when scott buys her a switch (which she does play and enjoys) she’ll always come back to her stupid little merge games that she plays on full volume and narrates to the room even though no one gaf lowkey. she lovessss to be naked ! it’s not even a sexual thing to her she just prefers not having any clothes on whenever she can because it feels so freeing to her (scott detects sensory issues) and sometimes the girls and scott have to fight clothes onto her body bc she’s really not tryna wear them.

she loves happy upbeat music so she likes a lot of music from the 80s, always blasting it in her obnoxiously big headphones as she bikes to work. i’d like to think she works either with animals at a shelter or as a life guard at a local lido.

[spiderbeam]

LN1: keep coming back (like a revolving door)

lando norris doesn’t do mornings. then again, neither do you.

pairing: lando norris x reader

contents: romance/suggestive, friends(ish) with benefits, they’re both bad at relationships, slightly toxic tendencies maybe but they mean well, jealousy, title from revolving door by tate mcrae, loosely inspired by this really old moodboard of mine. my masterlist.

word count: 3.1k

Moonlights slants through the window, caught in  the space between blinds. The covers are already halfway legs; still, there’s a warmth settled behind you. An arm loosely draped over your waist. Nose nuzzled against the back of your shoulder. Evened breaths tickling your neck.

Your eyes blink slowly, sleep still lingering in the edges of your body. His room is dark—messy, too, though not as badly as you’ve known it to be. You vaguely spot the outline of his helmets, of weights that have strayed too far from his training room, of the chair the two of you knocked into earlier.

You close your eyes. Exhale. Through the blinds, you can see the glow of street lights and the quiet night awaiting outside. 

He breathes softly behind you. A steady, quiet sigh capable of lulling you back to sleep just as easily. And it’d be so easy, pretending this away. Pretending you never woke up. That you never saw the clock on his nightstand reading 6:01 AM in bright numbers. That the boy with his arm curled around you is something else than what he is.

The fact that his room is starting to feel familiar is a realization that trickles in slowly at the back of your mind. Not a hotel, like you used to. No—as of late, his apartment seems to have become a fixed point in your nights. 

You know the steps to this dance far too well already.

Lando Norris doesn’t do mornings. Then again, neither do you.

(The first time was back in your hotel room in Barcelona. Ages ago, really—before he started seeing that second-to-last girlfriend of his. You had barely stepped into the shower, the feeling of his lips still lingering on your skin, when you heard the door closing behind him).

Falling back into old habits is a slippery slope. One enough friends have warned you about. It’s routine by now—watching him date for a few months, break-up, invite you out, and end up in his bedroom all over again. You’re rebound, you know that. Except after Lando’s latest very public, though quietly messy breakup, he wasn’t texting you the following morning. Wasn’t liking year-old posts of yours on Instagram. Wasn’t sending you innocent messages that eventually became a casual invite out devolving into anything but. You assumed rumors were true— “slag summer” or whatever that means. You’d seen enough videos of him partying with people whose faces didn’t ring a bell, leaving with girls you forbid yourself from looking up. 

It was three of your friends that made the decision for you. Made you a Raya account, told you that you could do better than some fuck boy with a love  for expensive cars. And you did go on dates—just a few, most for the sake of your friends, though some for yours. It’s not like you and Lando were ever serious, much less exclusive. Just sex and a good time. A mutual benefit to getting rid of pent up frustration.

You went on a date with a tennis player. An actor from some upcoming series on Hulu. A handful of influencers. The farthest you got was three dates with a handsome football player. It only took one casual picture with him posted on your story before someone else ended up finding you on Raya.

lando: i think i have an evn better pic of you on my travel cam from that same day lando: want me 2 send it to u? lando: might not b approved under rayas guidelines tho ;)

He’s a bad habit you can’t seem to shake off. A revolving door that sends you right back to where you started. 

You exhale. Shift on the bed to try and locate your clothes, all strewn across the floor of his bedroom. His shirt is nice on you, though. And if you’ll allow yourself something, maybe you’ll decide to keep it—just because it’s cute and expensive.

Once you spot your top and your shoes, you move to get up. Lando’s grip around your waist tightens, a mumbled protest hummed against your back.

Your hand curls around his, gently trying to lift each finger off. In response, he buries his face deeper into your neck. 

“Trying to get away already?” Lando asks, voice hoarse and sleep-worn.

“It’s late,” you say quietly, not wanting to rouse him any more than you have. You wanted to avoid waking him up all together—make it a quick, swift exit. “I should go.”

His arm tightens around your waist, pulling you closer to him. His nose tickles your neck, lips ghosting against your skin.

“Lando—”

“Stay,” he hums, voice dragging against his throat. His chest rises and falls evenly behind you, like he hasn’t quite managed to wake up just yet. “It’s dark out. I’ll drive you in the morning.”

Your fingers mindlessly tangle through his curls, pulling a content sigh from him. “You don’t mean that.”

Lando mutters something you don’t quite catch. Before you can ask, though, you feel his lips press against your neck in a quiet, bargaining trail. You shiver when his teeth catch on your collarbone. “You can wait a few hours if you wanna leave so badly,” he mumbles, words punctuated by kisses on the slope of your neck—like he’s making it his mission to kiss away the tension caught in your shoulders. “S’it so bad to be seen with me?”

You huff, though there’s no real bite to it. You vaguely register Lando pulling the covers over the two of you. “You’re being unfair,” you murmur back, though your body has already made up its mind, relaxing in his hold.

“Maybe,” Lando says, and you can feel that stupid smile pressed against your skin. Like he knows he’s won. “You love it, though.”

“I’m not calling an Uber in broad daylight,” you say resolutely. His breaths have already evened out.

“Said m’gonna drive you home. Promise,” he yawns.

You turn around, meeting his gaze now. His blue-green eyes are droopy, blinking slowly as he tries to keep himself awake. Your lipstick is still smudged on the base of his throat, curls muzzed with sleep and your own work from early in the night.

“What?” he asks, his fingers trailing mindless patterns on your back.

“I didn’t know that was an option,” you say, brushing away his curls with your thumb. He preens under it, leaning into your touch like he’s starved for it. You think you like this Lando—the one that’s not quite awake yet. “You driving me home.”

“Always has been,” he sighs contentedly. “You just like t’leave before there’s a chance.”

The impulse is to argue. But his eyes are already closing, and sleep is starting to creep up on you too. And he’s not wrong—not really. Every night you’ve spent together—whether at a hotel or here in Monaco—you’ve left long before the sun comes up. A force of habit, maybe.

“Stay,” Lando mumbles, eyes closed and peaceful.

“Okay,” you respond—or maybe you don’t. Maybe it’s just a half-formed, fleeting thought that passes by before you fall asleep.

The next time Lando opens his eyes, sunlight filters through his blinds. He squints, an annoyed half-gran scratching against his throat. He cuts himself off as soon as he notices the warm body next to him.

Your chest rises and falls evenly, hair strewn around your head like a halo. He rubs the back of his palm over his eyes, careful not to disturb you. His apartment already feels warmer—usually, the first thing he would do as soon as he wakes up is open his window before his room starts to feel like a dutch oven. He can’t make himself detach from your side. 

Lando shifts, settling back into you when he feels you stir. He pauses. Closes his eyes for good measure.

A beat passes. Two.

“I know you’re awake, Lando.”

Lando clicks his tongue, pouting as you rise from his pillow, his hand dropping from around you. He should’ve been quieter—let this golden morning stretch like melted sugar.

“There’s no hurry,” Lando hears himself saying before he can help it. He watches as you stretch your arms over your head, his shirt riding up slightly. Lando straightens, trying to go for casual. “Unless you’re supposed to be meeting someone.”

Oh, yeah, real smooth. Really good job there.

You look at him over your shoulder, raising a brow. “Meet someone?”

Lando’s words get stuck in his throat. This is what you look like when you’re waking up. It hits him unexpectedly how domestic this feels—how easy it would be to become used to this.

He clears his throat. “I don’t know.” Lando sits up against the headrest, one hand struggling to fix the mess that is his hair. You’re only partly to blame—his mistake was ever letting you know that he likes it when you tug at his curls. 

He scrunches his nose, annoyance filtering in. “That rugby player from the other day might be waiting to hear back from you.”

You look unimpressed, though he doesn’t miss the faint blush by the tips of your ears. “He’s a football player.”

“Ah,” he says, and his face does nothing to hide the flare of irritation he feels. Lando can’t help it—not when that picture of yours still sits fresh in his mind. 

His chin propped over your shoulder, hands around your waist. Casual. Maybe too casual.

“You’re being petty,” you say, scanning his face carefully. And his stare pointedly lands on the curve of your neck, where a trail of bruised hickeys is already blooming.

Lando meets your gaze. “I’m not petty, I’m jealous.” He shrugs, catching the brief surprise that crosses your pretty eyes. He exhales, letting his body loosen. “Kinda don’t have a right to be, though.”

“Yeah,” you say, and it makes him stiffen, the way it lands when you say it. “You don’t.” 

Lando tries to go for nonchalant when he asks, “How many dates has he taken you on?”

You hesitate. Briefly. “Three.”

“Oh, must be getting serious.”

You look away, jaw ticking—and Lando knows then that he’s accidentally stepped into a sore spot. He fleetingly wonders whether the guy you’re seeing doesn’t wanna get serious with you. The thought makes something bitter churn in his gut. Though it’d be hypocritical of him to say it infuriates him even a little.

But then he pictures the guy’s pearly-white smile. His dark brown eyes and fuckin’ perfect hair like he’s never had bedhead a single day of his life.

So, yeah, maybe he’s checked your Instagram. 

“It was gonna be four,” you say, but your voice catches—like the words slipped out before you could stop them. Four dates. Your eyes find Lando’s, and he hates that his heart skips a beat. Something about the intensity of the way you’re looking at him—somehow both entirely different from last night and all too similar. Like you wanna pull him closer. Like you resent him for it. “Before you texted.”

It lands close to his ego, knowing that you chose him over the lad from Real Madrid. You don’t look too pleased about it, though.

“Interrupted date night then, did I?” Lando asks. He watches as you turn away with a huff, annoyed. And it is annoying—that he still finds you hot when you’re mad at him. “Sorry. Sounded like a dickhead.”

“You are a dick, Lando.” 

“I don’t mean to,” he says, easily. Leans closer to you and props his chin on the curve of your shoulder and neck. Maybe to use up any space your date may have taken. His mind wanders, and the thought trickles into his mind—has he kissed you? Have you hooked up? Maybe he’s not that great at sex if you’d rather have Lando over him. He feels tempted to kiss your neck again, find that spot that makes you whine, erase any trace of anyone other than him. 

Just to test the idea, Lando’s lips press against the slope of your neck, teeth gently nipping at the tender skin. His voice is a deep hum buried at the back of his throat. “Forgive me?”

He feels you relax under him for a second—just a second. Then, you’re pulling away from him like he’s stung you. “You’re doing it again,” you say, unreadable. You mutter something under your breath, moving to stand up. “I should go.”

His chest rattles. His hand latches onto your wrist before he can help it. And Lando’s supposed to be suave and smooth. Instead, what comes out of his mouth is a strangled, “Don’t.”

Your brows twitch. “Lando…”

“No, look, I’m sorry,” he says, and he means it—maybe more than you know. “I am.”

He looks at you like he’s dreading watching you walk out his apartment. Maybe because you stayed past the night—and instead of feeling like a new door’s opening, it all feels like the end of the line is closer than he expected. Maybe this gold-dipped morning was just a way for the universe to soften the blow.

You look conflicted, searching his gaze like you’ve lost something in it.

“Did you just text me because I was going out with someone?” you ask, voice like forged steel. Lando blinks, brows pinched together. “Or because you just broke up with your girlfriend?” 

“It’s not like that,” he’s quick to say. It’s not, he swears, though he’s not dull as to not know how it looks. He releases your wrist. “I mean, I was jealous. Am. Whatever—but that isn’t, this isn’t—”

“Isn’t what, Lando?” you ask, and it’s impossible to miss how exasperated you sound. “Isn’t serious? I know that. But there’s someone out there I might actually get serious with, and I need to know what this is meant to be.”

Whatever he was about to say gets stuck in his throat. His mind loops your words like a record scratch. “You—You wanna go official with him?”

You look away, like his question’s caught you off guard. “I-I mean—I don’t know, not yet, I don’t…” You shut your eyes, trying to gather your thoughts. “This can’t carry on forever, Lan. Not like this.”

Maybe it’s the way you say his name. The first time you said it wasn’t actually in this bedroom, like a breathy whine while he was eating you out—though you have used it several times since. The first time you called him that—Lan—was actually at Max’s birthday last year. Nothing happened between the two of you then. You didn’t take his hand and had him drive to your place like you’d done more than once before. Instead, you’d been sipping on piña coladas and margaritas all night, and by the time he found you again, you were sitting by the stairs of the yacht, staring at the hardwood floors like they were the ones to blame. He ended up sticking by you the rest of the night, your head leaning against his shoulder while you toyed with the rings in his fingers. 

“Y’know,” you’d mumbled, toying with a silver band. “You can b’sweet when you want to, Lan. S’a good look on you.”

And he’d just sat there, thankful you were too tipsy to notice the blush climbing up his cheeks.

So, yeah—maybe it’s the fact that you used that stupid nickname that makes his heart flutter whenever you say it. Maybe it’s the fact that he knows this might be his last chance—that if he doesn’t get it out now, he never will.

“I don’t know how else to talk to you.” 

As soon as he says it, he feels pathetic. His cheeks are hot, and the look you’re giving him doesn’t make it any better.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he complains, biting the inside of his cheek. “I’ve tried inviting you out like fifteen times already, and you always—always shoot me down.”

Your face twists. “What? I don’t shoot you down.”

“Then what was that last week, when I invited you to hang out with a few friends in Nice?”

“That was different.”

“I sent you paddock passes in May.”

“Your team sent them.”

“I sent them.”

A light sparks in your eyes. “You had a girlfriend in June.”

“I did,” Lando concedes, sitting straighter. “And do you know how fucked it is to have to be catching myself before I called her by your name?”

He watches his words land. Your expression sours. “That’s not on me.”

Lando shakes his head. “No, it’s on me.” His hands tangle through his hair. “Because even when I was with her, you would still find your way into my head.” His jaw tightens, like he’s been dreading saying it out loud. “I didn’t break up with her and then go find you.” Lando feels his body brace, akin to when he feels the rear tire lock and knows the crash is incoming. “I kept… I kept looking for you while I was with her.”

You look at him with true, raw surprise. Feels fair, given that Lando feels like he’s exposed himself. Left his skin tender and vulnerable. No lies, no smiles to hide behind anymore.

“Look, I’m not… I’m not asking for an answer,” he hesitates, struggling to find the words. “I’m just asking you not to disappear on me.”

You study him slowly. “I can’t keep being an almost, Lando.”

It feels like the door opens just a creak. He nods in earnest. “Don’t be.”

“It’s not that easy.”

“But we can try, right?” Lando says. “It’s a start.”

And this time, when he kisses your temple, it doesn’t feel like he’s trying to cross out someone else’s touch, or rewrite his own mistakes. There’s no greed there, no lust. Just a start. A first line being penned of a long, long story.

“Let me drive you home,” Lando murmurs into your temple, voice still rougher with sleep. This time, he feels you lean back into him.

“Okay,” you say. When you meet his watercolor eyes, he relishes the small, near imperceptible smile tugging at your lips. Gold-dipped. Sunlight in a bottle.

He nods once. “Okay.”

deuxmoi DEUXMOI EXCLUSIVE …… 📸 Mclaren’s Lando Norris spotted this morning getting cozy with a mystery woman in Monte Carlo. Source alleges Lando was “dropping her off” before the picture was taken, leading to speculation on the nature of their relationship.

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user1 slag summer!!!!!!!

user2 yeahhh the chances of lando getting into a serious relationship r probably the same chances of williams getting a podium 👎👎 sorry pal

user3 admin might wanna check their sources cause you do know this is LANDO we’re talking abt right 😭

lando hey so can you piss off pls

lando ur gonna fuck this up for me delete

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eve’s notes: what if i said the football player she went on a date with was jude bellingham. what then. reblogs and comments are always appreciated!

[jfashion-magazines]

Angelic Pretty

March 2013