𝐌𝐀𝐘𝐁𝐀𝐍𝐊𝐒𝐖𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓:
( * ) is marked for nsfw!
rafe cameron imagines / fics / blurbs
styofa doing anything

Andulka
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TVSTRANGERTHINGS
2025 on Tumblr: Trends That Defined the Year
will byers stan first human second
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Today's Document
Aqua Utopia|海の底で記憶を紡ぐ
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
No title available

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seen from United States

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seen from Malaysia
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seen from Maldives
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@maybankswhore
𝐌𝐀𝐘𝐁𝐀𝐍𝐊𝐒𝐖𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓:
( * ) is marked for nsfw!
rafe cameron imagines / fics / blurbs
1. what i signed up for : rafe overhears you talking to sarah about your feelings and wants to help you.
2. “fuck it’s too big” gf & “baby it’s barely in” bf : nsfw headcannon *
3. insecurities : reader is feeling insecure about the label on her relationship with rafe.
4. rafe giving you a promise ring : rafe gives reader a promise ring for her birthday.
5. boyfriends bestfriend : you cheat on topper with rafe. nsfw warning *
6. ( almost ) ex boyfriends bestfriend : part two of you cheating on topper with rafe. nsfw warning *
7. cockwarming rafe : nsfw headcannon. *
8. rafe’s proud to be with you.
9. barbie and ken : you and rafe dress up to see the movie ‘barbie’ and reminisce about the younger versions of yourselves.
10. golf cart girl : rafe eats you out on the golf cart. nsfw warning *
11. ocean blvd : soft sex w rafe ( hints of virgin!reader ) nsfw *
jj maybank imagines / fics / blurbs
1. truth or dare : you play a game of truth or dare with jj and he admits his feelings.
2. ab riding with jj : nsfw warning. *
3. gun to my head : jj fucks you with a gun to your head. nsfw warning *
4. just a bad day : jj comforts you after a really bad day that adds on to your depression.
5. kiss me goodbye : after jj breaks up with you , you find yourself in a relationship with rafe cameron & jj still isn’t over you.
6. a couple of swifties : jj sings taylor swift with you.
7. bad boy x good girl trope with jj : slight nsfw warning. *
8. chain ’round my neck : jj is the only one who really knows you.
9. the five love languages : jj’s love language is physical touch.
10. “you came.” “you called.” : it doesn’t matter what happened , if jj calls you — you’re answering.
11. opposites attract : it doesn’t matter how different you are from him , you’re the girl of jj’s dreams & he won’t stop until he has you.
12. let me take care of you : jj takes care of you on your period.
13. safe space : you’re eachothers safe space.
14. wedding bells : you’re marrying rafe and jj is still in love with you.
15. begin again : jj shows you how to open yourself up to falling in love again.
16. eyes on the road : you give jj road head. nsfw warning *
17. taking care of you : aftercare with jj.
18. missing piece : jj won’t admit your feelings for you but he doesn’t want anyone else to have you.
19. mcdreamy : you trip over some rocks at the beach and jj can’t help but worry about his precious girl.
20. our song : you & jj are sickly in love with eachother.
21. i can see you : you and jj try ignoring the temptation to break the rules.
Ink and Quiet Things
Fred Weasley x Shy!Hufflepuff!Reader (soulmate au)
cw: fluff, not really anything but a little suggestive, a disgusting amount of use of y/n, this is my first post so pls be nice 😭 open to any criticism (like please im dying)
Word Count: 7.1k
。゚•┈୨♡୧┈• 。゚
Grimmauld Place wasn’t the cold, cursed house it once was. Not anymore.
With the war that never happened, with Regulus alive and the Potters untouched by Voldemort’s wrath, the Black family home had become something else entirely. It was still dark in places, still held echoes of the old ways, but now there were charmed lights, mismatched furniture, and constant noise. There were loud dinners and louder debates. Music drifting down halls, laughter echoing off portrait covered walls, and Sirius (very much alive) arguing with James over whether or not the chandelier was meant to swing like that.
It was home, in a way y/n had never really known.
She was a Hufflepuff, soft-spoken and polite, far too used to fading into the background of louder Gryffindor personalities. But somehow, she’d been pulled into the gravitational orbit of Harry, Ron, and Hermione early in first year, and now, years later, she was here, spending her holidays surrounded by magic, noise, and people who were far too bright for someone so…quiet.
And yet, they kept inviting her back.
Every Christmas, every Easter, every summer she was welcome. The Potters treated her like one of their own. Molly Weasley fussed over her hair and fed her second helpings before she could politely decline. Remus always had a book recommendation just for her, and Regulus, not nearly as terrifying as she’d once thought, would quietly set a cup of tea down beside her without saying a word.
It was perfect, almost.
Except for the mark. And for Fred Weasley.
She’d known for a while. The soft swirl of ink on her skin, a curling feather paired with an ember, intricate and strange and impossibly him. Soulmarks appeared in adolescence, and hers had been there since fourth year, hidden beneath long sleeves and jumpers. It was delicate. Beautiful. And unmistakably Fred's, once she’d seen his in passing during summer at the Burrow.
His mark matched hers exactly. His just happened to be inked proudly on the inside of his forearm, often visible as he pushed up his sleeves to cook, or tinker, or just walk around like it didn’t matter that his soulmate was clearly nowhere in sight. Except she was right there.
Sitting across from him at breakfast. Laughing quietly at his jokes. Helping Hermione clean out the attic while he and George planned pranks two rooms away. She was right there—heart thudding every time he brushed past her, never looking close enough to see.
Because how could he?
Fred was sunlight and fire. Charismatic and funny, brilliant in a way that burned. She… was not. She was Ron’s friend, quiet and kind and perpetually wrapped in oversized jumpers. Her sleeves always long enough to hide the mark. Always careful, always cautious.
She couldn’t tell him. Not when he deserved someone who matched his energy, someone bold and quick and magical in a way that sparkled, not lingered in corners. And not when Ron might very well lose his mind. The idea of dating anyone was already enough to get him fussy. But his best friend with his brother? No, thank you. So she kept it quiet. She watched Fred laugh with George and throw his head back around the fire. She helped Ginny repaint her room and stayed up late reading with Harry. She smiled and listened and never let her sleeves slip.
And Fred? Fred didn’t seem to notice.
He spoke to her kindly, joked like he did with everyone, but never once looked at her the way soulmates were supposed to look. He was waiting for someone else. Someone loud. Someone obvious. Someone not her.
So she stayed hidden. Quiet. Long sleeves in summer. Careful, careful always.
But magic has a way of dragging the truth out.
And houses, especially ones as alive as Grimmauld Place, never stay quiet for long.
。゚•┈୨♡୧┈• 。゚
The first time it happened, it was barely anything.
Y/n was reaching past Fred to grab a spoon from the kitchen drawer, murmuring a soft “sorry” as she brushed by. But her fingers, just the tips, skated over the bare skin of his forearm where his sleeves were rolled up.
Her breath caught.
The world tilted, just slightly.
It felt like static, like lightning dressed up as a whisper, quick and electric and too much all at once. Her mark flared under her jumper, not in pain, but in awareness. She yanked her hand back like she’d been burned and mumbled an apology.
Fred, for his part, blinked. It had registered. Not fully, not consciously maybe, but something in him had noticed. He glanced down at his arm, then back at her, confused.
“Huh,” he whispered, more to himself than her.
But she was already halfway out of the kitchen, hands shaking, fingers curled to her chest like she could press the feeling back in. She didn’t look back.
。゚•┈୨♡୧┈• 。゚
The second time, it was worse.
Fred and George were helping Sirius repair a shelf in the sitting room, and y/n, curled in her usual armchair, offered to help pass tools from the box. Sirius had wandered off to yell at James about the missing nails, so it was just her and the twins. She handed Fred the small hammer, their fingers brushing again. That time, it was deliberate. Not on purpose but not a mistake either. Her fingers grazed his knuckles, and something tugged in her chest so hard it made her dizzy. Her heart tried to climb up her throat. Fred froze.
Just for a second. Barely enough for George to notice, but enough that y/n did. His fingers tightened around the handle like it grounded him. Then his eyes flicked up to her, just a beat too long.
“Thanks,” he said. A little quieter than usual.
She gave a small, strangled nod and buried herself in her book, eyes fixed on the same line for ten minutes without reading a single word.
Fred tried to shake it off. He did shake it off. He always had random moments of weirdness, too much static from George’s spellwork, or a quirk from living in a magical house full of twenty people. But…
That night, lying awake in the room he shared with George, Fred found his thoughts wandering. Back to her. Back to the way her fingers had touched his. How her voice went a bit breathless when she was nervous. How she always wore long sleeves, even when it was boiling. He didn’t know why he noticed those things. Or why it suddenly mattered.
。゚•┈୨♡୧┈• 。゚
The third time it happened, neither of them could write it off.
She was helping Molly in the garden, potting herbs in little clay jars for the kitchen. Fred came out to drop off lunch, arms full of sandwiches and his usual grin slanted across his face. He sat beside her in the grass without being asked. They talked, about nothing, about gnomes, about Regulus’s weird attachment to one of the garden cats. It was easy, which was always the most dangerous kind of moment. Fred passed her a cup of lemonade, fingers brushing hers again and this time?
It jolted.
Like something cracked open between them. Their marks pulsed; hers beneath cloth, his in open air.
She gasped. He flinched.
The cup slipped, lemonade spilling over her skirt. But neither of them moved right away staying frozen in place, eyes locked.
“What was—” he started, then stopped.
She stood too fast, mumbling, stammering, heart beating so loud she could barely breathe.
“I—I should—go inside,” she whispered, not looking at him.
Fred didn’t stop her. Couldn’t. He sat in the grass, lemonade dripping from his fingers, staring after her with the mark on his arm tingling.
。゚•┈୨♡୧┈• 。゚
Later, he’d sit in his room, legs folded, staring at the design he’d always worn like decoration.
The feather and ember. Curling inwards.
Familiar in a way that now made him uneasy.
Because he’d felt something. Three times now.
And maybe, just maybe, he was starting to realize it wasn’t just random sparks.
It was her.
It had to be.
Her quiet hands, soft eyes, and the way she always wore long sleeves in the middle of August.
Fred Weasley had never been more confused in his life.
゚•┈୨♡୧┈• 。゚
George wasn’t a mind-reader. He just had a twin.
Which meant that he didn’t need to hear Fred’s thoughts to know something was up. All he had to do was watch. And lately, Fred had been looking.
At her.
At y/n.
Not that she noticed. She was the kind of person who made herself small without meaning to, always tucking herself into corners like she didn’t belong in the noise. But George had noticed. Had alwaysnoticed. Because Fred noticed. And now it was getting… suspicious.
It had started with the garden. George heard about it from Ginny, who’d seen Reader nearly bolt inside “like her skirt was on fire.” Fred had come in ten minutes later, weirdly quiet, and gone straight upstairs. Alone. No commentary. No dramatic reenactment. Just gone.
That wasn’t normal.
And then there was the way Fred had been rubbing his forearm lately. Not in pain. More like restlessness. That same forearm with the soulmate mark.
George wasn’t the sentimental sort. He and his own soulmate, Angelina, had figured it out fast and easy. No dramatics. No poetry. Just a “hey, you’ve got the same weird lightning bolt-and-laughing mask combo as me, want to make this official?” and a kiss behind Zonko’s.
But Fred? Fred had always been the one who’d imagined something… more. He’d always joked about a “big, cinematic reveal.” He wanted the drama. The passion. Fireworks.
Instead, he got a Hufflepuff girl who tripped over her own feet when he looked at her for too long.
George, naturally, found this hilarious.
And also, a little bit endearing.
So he decided to help. Subtly.
Which, for a Weasley twin, meant just enough chaos to get things moving.
゚•┈୨♡୧┈• 。゚
It started with lunch. Everyone was crowded into the dining room at Grimmauld Place, half the house seated elbow-to-elbow, passing plates and shouting over one another. Y/n was nestled between Ginny and Hermione, picking at her salad, while Fred sat across the table talking to Harry, but watching her.
George leaned in. “You’ve been acting weird,” he muttered under his breath.
Fred blinked. “What?”
“You’ve got that look,” George said, stabbing his fork into his food without looking. “Like you’ve seen a ghost. Or fallen into a hopeless, soulmate-level crush.”
Fred choked on his water.
George slapped him on the back. “There it is.”
“I have not—” Fred hissed, glancing around, but no one was paying attention.
George raised an eyebrow. “Then why do you keep staring at y/n like she’s got a secret you’re trying to read off her face?”
Fred went quiet.
And that was enough for George.
He smirked.
゚•┈୨♡୧┈• 。゚
The next morning, George took it up a notch.
“Hey, y/n” he said casually, popping into the sitting room where she was curled up with a book. “You ever get those random soulmate mark flares? Like, warm spells or zaps or whatever?”
She stiffened. Just slightly. But he caught it.
“Um…” she said softly. “Sometimes, I guess. Not lately.”
Lie.
He grinned like it was nothing. “Weird. Fred’s been saying his has been going bonkers lately.”
That was also a lie. Fred hadn’t said a word. But she didn’t need to know that.
She bit her lip.
George walked off like he hadn’t just dropped a match into a bucket of gasoline.
゚•┈୨♡୧┈• 。゚
Later that night, Fred cornered him. “You’re messing with me.”
George looked deeply unbothered. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Fred crossed his arms. “Telling y/n about my mark flaring up?”
“Is it not?” George blinked innocently. “I figured it was. You’ve been rubbing at it like it’s got fleas.”
Fred’s hand dropped from his arm like he’d been caught red-handed.
“I’m just—” Fred faltered. “I think I might know who—”
George leaned in, smug. “Do tell.”
Fred shook his head. “It’s stupid. She’s—she wouldn’t… I mean, she’s Ron’s friend. She’s shy. She never even looks at me.”
George’s face softened. “Yeah, and you’re not exactly subtle either. She looks at you when you’re not looking. All the time.”
Fred stared at him.
George just clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t overthink it. Just—pay attention. Maybe the drama you’re waiting for is already happening. Quietly.”
Fred didn’t say anything. But that night, when he saw y/n helping Lily with tea, her sleeves pulled to her wrists again in the middle of summer, he looked a little closer. And the next time their hands brushed, he didn’t pull away quite so fast.
゚•┈୨♡୧┈• 。゚
The house had gone unusually quiet. It was late, later than it should’ve been. The kind of late where the halls of Grimmauld Place creaked softly under their own weight and the enchanted lanterns had dimmed to a golden haze. Everyone else was asleep or pretending to be, tucked into mismatched rooms and beds far too small for the growing number of people they now housed.
Fred wasn’t tired. Not really.
He was restless, mind buzzing with a quiet, nagging hum he couldn’t shake. He wandered toward the sitting room, where the fireplace still crackled low, and nearly turned back when he saw someone already there.
It was her.
She was curled into the armchair closest to the hearth, blanket draped across her lap, a half-read book cradled against her chest. Her head tilted toward the firelight, and for a second, just one brief aching second, Fred forgot how to move.
She looked like something out of a memory he hadn’t made yet. Peaceful. Soft. Warm. She didn’t hear him at first. And maybe he should’ve left. Should’ve turned and given her the quiet she clearly came looking for. But then she shifted, reaching down to adjust the blanket. And her sleeve slipped.
Just for a moment.
Just far enough.
Fred’s breath caught. He didn’t mean to stare, he didn’t mean to, but he did.
There, just above her wrist, half hidden in the shadows and the folds of soft knit fabric, was the familiar curve of a feather. Dark ink curling up her forearm. The exact lines he’d traced a hundred times with his eyes, maybe more.
His own mark.
His soulmate’s mark.
On her.
She didn’t see him. She didn’t know. And Fred didn’t say a word. He stepped back, quietly, breath barely held between his teeth as he turned and walked away, heart slamming so hard against his ribs it made his palms sweat.
He didn’t sleep that night.
The next morning, nothing had changed.
Not on the surface. Y/n sat beside Hermione at breakfast, soft-spoken and sweet, sleeves tugged back down like usual. Fred wandered in late, hair mussed, eyes shadowed from too little rest. George gave him a look. Fred ignored it. He didn’t speak to her. Not directly. Not yet.
But he watched.
He saw her.
The way she laughed softly at Harry’s joke. The way her fingers danced nervously around her mug. The way she chewed the inside of her cheek when Ron brought up the Yule Ball from two years ago. And he wondered: how long had she known? Because she’d known. She had to. No one hid a soulmate mark that well on accident. Fred’s hand drifted down to his own arm, fingers brushing the mark he’d never bothered to hide. He thought about the garden. The lemonade. Her silence. She’d known. And she hadn’t told him. And for once, Fred didn’t have a joke ready. No quip. No grin.
Just a quiet question that gnawed at the edge of his ribs:
Why not?
゚•┈୨♡୧┈• 。゚
Grimmauld Place was asleep. The kind of deep, velvet silence that only came in the earliest hours, long after the laughter faded and the house finally stopped creaking under the weight of too many footsteps and too many secrets.
Y/n stood barefoot in the cold kitchen, fingers wrapped around a glass of water, watching moonlight spill through the tall, grimy window above the sink. She wore only a soft tank top and sleep shorts, loose and plain. Something she never would’ve worn in the daytime, not in this house. Not when she spent every waking moment covering the one part of herself she couldn’t let anyone see. But it was late. Everyone was asleep. Or so she thought.
The cold tile cooled her toes as she took a small sip, her mind foggy from sleep and the residual tug of dreams she couldn’t quite remember. She set the glass down and turned
toward the hallway when—
“Didn’t mean to scare you.”
She jumped. Actually jumped, heart lurching into her throat.
Fred Weasley stood in the doorway, shirtless, pajama pants hanging low on his hips, hair a riot of copper and curls. He blinked at her, one hand dragging across his face. Sleepy.
Surprised.
Too awake.
“I—sorry,” she stammered, taking a quick step back, her right arm instantly crossing over her left, covering the exposed mark on her upper forearm.
Fred’s eyes dropped, just for a second. And that was all it took.
The curve of the feather. The ember trailing into soft spirals. Her soulmate mark. His soulmate mark.
Exposed for half a heartbeat before she shielded it with trembling fingers.
He knew.
He knew.
But she didn’t know he knew.
He looked up again just as she spoke, fast and brittle.
“Didn’t think anyone else would be awake.”
“Couldn’t sleep,” Fred said casually, voice rough with the kind of tired that doesn’t come from a lack of rest.
She nodded, backing away with practiced grace, arm still clutched tightly against her side. “Well—goodnight.”
“Night,” he echoed softly.
She left quickly, bare feet nearly silent on the wooden floors. He waited until he couldn’t hear her anymore before sinking down onto one of the kitchen stools, elbows on the counter, head in his hands.
She was his soulmate.
He'd been almost sure after that night by the fire. He’d been hopeful after George started poking around. After the strange spark between them. The softness. The hesitation.
But now…
He’d seen it.
No mistaking it. No room for doubt.
She had known.
And she was still hiding.
Fred exhaled slowly, staring down at his own forearm; the same mark, bold and bare, exposed for years. She must’ve thought he didn’t want her. Did she really believe that?That she wasn’t what he wanted?
He stood slowly, the kitchen too quiet, the glass still sitting where she’d left it. Fred didn’t sleep for the rest of the night. He just sat awake, mind turning, heart aching, not angry. Just full. Too full.
゚•┈୨♡୧┈• 。゚
He didn’t say anything. Not about the mark. Not about that night.
But everything changed.
Not suddenly, not in a way most people would notice. But she noticed. Of course she did. Y/n had spent her entire life listening for the quiet things.
And Fred was loud, normally. Wild, quick-tongued, sharp and sun-bright.
But now, when it came to her?
He was quiet.
Intentional.
Soft.
He started sitting closer. Not in a crowded kind of way, not too close, just enough. Just near enough that she noticed the warmth of him before she even saw him. He’d fold himself into the couch beside her while she read. He’d sit at the table early if she was already there. No grand entrances. No loud jokes. Just.. presence.
And his mark, his soulmate mark, was always in sight.
Not aggressively. Not on display. But visible. Sleeves rolled up. Arm on the back of the chair. Subtle things.
And he’d glance at her sometimes, not at her face, but at the fabric she wore. The way her sleeves were always pulled long. Like he was waiting. Wondering.
She noticed. She noticed all of it.
It terrified her.
Because something was changing, but she didn’t know what.
゚•┈୨♡୧┈• 。゚
One afternoon, when the rest of the house was loud with Ginny and Ron arguing over a chess match, Reader sat alone in the sunroom, curled in her favorite corner chair with a book she’d been trying to read for over an hour. She didn’t hear him come in. But suddenly he was there. Holding a mug of tea. Her tea. The exact way she took it. No one else ever remembered.
He handed it to her wordlessly, then sat on the floor beside the chair, close enough for his knee to rest near her ankle, but not quite touching.
“Thanks,” she said softly.
He didn’t look up. “You always read when things get loud.”
Her heart flipped. “It helps me think.”
“Yeah?” He rested his head back against the edge of her chair, voice low. “I think I’d rather listen to you than them.”
She nearly dropped the mug. He didn’t press. Just closed his eyes and let the silence settle around them, warm and fragile. And she wondered, was this how he was with everyone? But she knew the answer.
It kept happening. Small, impossible things.
Fred started remembering details about her, little ones no one else had ever bothered to ask.
The kind of books she liked. The way she hated cold butter on toast. The exact spell she struggled with during sixth year. And then one morning, in the kitchen, he reached across her to grab a jar, his fingers brushing the fabric at her wrist.
“Sorry,” he said, too gently. Like he didn’t mean just for the touch.
She flinched anyway. And Fred, his smile didn’t fade. But it shifted. Softer. Sadder. Like he understood. Like he didn’t want her afraid.
゚•┈୨♡୧┈• 。゚
That night, she lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, her arm cradled to her chest. He was acting like someone who wanted her. Not just liked her. Not just thought she was funny or nice.
Wanted her. Desperately. Quietly. Like he didn’t know how to say it.
And she didn’t understand why.
She’d always thought she wasn’t his type. But then why was Fred Weasley, flirt, prankster, golden boy, bringing her tea and memorizing how she liked her jam and sitting on the floor just to be near her? Unless…
No.
He couldn’t know.
Could he?
Down the hall, Fred sat at the edge of his bed, arm resting on his knee, thumb tracing over the familiar lines of his mark.He had no idea what he was doing. No plan. No script. Just one stubborn, overwhelming truth:
He wanted her.
Exactly as she was.
Quiet, and scared, and soft.
And he would wait.
As long as it took.
゚•┈୨♡୧┈• 。゚
It was nearly two in the morning. The house had fallen into that thick, uncanny quiet again, too still for a place always brimming with life.
Y/n hadn’t meant to be up this late, but she’d left her sketchbook in the old study off the second floor and she couldn't sleep without it.
Barefoot, hoodie tugged low over her sleep shorts, she padded through the corridor, heart calm, unaware she wasn’t alone. Not until she turned the corner. And crashed directly into Fred Weasley.
She gasped as she hit him, stumbling back, only for his arms to catch her, steady her, pull her in.
It was instinct, fast and clumsy, not meant to be more than a reflex, but it was more. Because she ended up backed against the wall. And Fred? Fred didn’t step away. Neither of them moved. Not for one long, crackling second.
He was so close. She could feel the heat of his chest against hers, the brush of his breath where it hit the shell of her ear. One of his hands was braced beside her head, the other—lower, hovering near her waist like he didn’t know if he was allowed to touch. She looked up at him, wide-eyed. He looked down at her like she was something precious he wasn’t sure he deserved.
And then—
He did touch her.
Slowly.
Carefully.
His hands, warm and calloused, slid under the hem of her jumper. Not far. Just enough to find her bare waist. He exhaled sharply through his nose, like he hadn’t expected to feel so much from something so simple.
She trembled.
His thumbs moved in slow, careful circles. Up and down. Feather-light. Barely there. But there. Anchoring. Worshipful.
“Sorry,” he whispered, but he didn’t pull away. “I just…”
He never finished the sentence.
Because her breath hitched. Her hands curled into the front of his shirt like she didn’t know what to do with herself. And then, just like that, she unraveled.
She ducked under his arm, half-stumbled, and all but ran down the hall. Fred didn’t follow. He pressed his back to the wall, dragging a hand down his face, his skin still buzzing where he’d touched her. His fingers still remembering the curve of her waist. The soft warmth of her. The way she’d melted into his hands before she ran. He didn’t know if he should be kicking himself or chasing after her.
゚•┈୨♡୧┈• 。゚
She didn’t sleep.
She lay in bed, blanket up to her chin, every inch of her skin still singing. Not just from his hands. From how he’d touched her. Gentle. Slow. Like he wanted her. Like he knew what she was.
She pressed her palms to her burning cheeks and wanted to scream into her pillow. He hadn’t said anything. But he hadn’t needed to. And now she didn’t know how to look at him again.
゚•┈୨♡୧┈• 。゚
He didn’t sleep either.
Because now? Now he knew she felt it too. That this wasn’t in his head. That even if she ran, even if she hid her mark under long sleeves and tried to pretend, She wanted him too.
And Fred Weasley had never in his life wanted anything more.
゚•┈୨♡୧┈• 。゚
She’d been avoiding him.
Not overtly, y/n was too subtle for that. But Fred wasn’t oblivious. Not anymore. Not to her. She moved differently around him now, like he was heat she couldn’t bear to stand too close to for long. Always out of the room just before he entered, always keeping her eyes fixed anywhere but on his face.
He gave her space. At first.
But he was starting to burn from the inside out.
And then, one evening, it just happened.
The house was noisy with after-dinner chatter, Harry and Ron yelling over wizard chess in the lounge, Ginny and Hermione helping Lily in the kitchen, James loudly threatening to sing. Fred slipped away to the hallway, needing air. And that’s when he saw her.
She stood by the old bookshelf near the stairs, arms folded, face turned toward the high, half-cracked window. Moonlight caught the side of her face. She looked calm, but her fingers were fidgeting, like she was trying to undo the nerves curled up inside her chest.
He didn’t think.
He moved.
“Hi.”
She jumped—again—and looked over, startled. “Oh. Hi.”
Fred smiled, soft, nervous. “Didn’t mean to sneak up on you. You okay?”
She nodded. “Yeah. Just needed a minute.”
“Me too.”
He leaned beside her, close but not touching. Silence stretched between them, not awkward, but full. Of questions. Of things unsaid.
He glanced at her from the corner of his eye “You’ve been… quiet.”
She let out a breath. “I’m always quiet.”
Fred turned his head, really looking at her now. “No, I mean… quieter. Around me.”
That landed. She froze, just for a second. “I don’t mean to be.”
“You don’t have to be afraid of me, you know.”
She flinched like it was a touch.
“I’m not—afraid of you.”
“Then what are you afraid of?” That cracked it open. Just a little.
Her throat bobbed, her eyes darted away, and her voice came out barely above a whisper. “Of wanting something I can’t have.”
And that almost broke him.
Because Merlin, if she only knew.
Fred took a breath, sharp, quiet, unsteady. His heart was pounding, his hands twitching with the need to reach out, to touch her again, to press his mouth to her jaw and tell her everything.
She was right there. Inches away.
He turned, stepped closer.
She looked up.
And it was all there. In her eyes. Her breath. The way her lips parted like she was waiting for something, anything.
Fred leaned in.
His hand lifted, hovered near her face, near her hair, her neck.
So close.
He opened his mouth.
“I…”
Her eyes widened.
His voice caught.
And then—
He didn’t say it.
Didn’t say I know. Didn’t say I saw. Didn’t say I want you too.
Instead, he exhaled. A quiet, rough thing. And let his hand fall to his side.
“Goodnight,” he whispered.
He stepped away. Left her standing there, staring after him like he’d stolen the air from the room.
And down the hall, out of sight, Fred ran a hand through his hair and whispered to himself: “Coward.”
゚•┈୨♡୧┈• 。゚
Fred was brooding. Again.
He stood in the backyard, leaned against the garden wall, chewing absently on a blade of grass like it might stop him from thinking about her.
It didn’t.
Of course it didn’t.
George found him like that. Arms crossed. Mark visible. Soulmate-level angst radiating off him in waves.
“You’re being pathetic,” George announced.
Fred sighed. “Hello to you, too.”
“No, seriously,” George said, throwing an arm around his twin’s shoulder. “You’re acting like you’ve been love-cursed. You’ve seen her mark. You know she’s yours. She wants you. And you’re still walking around here like you’re waiting for the Sorting Hat to give you permission.”
Fred groaned. “It’s not that simple—”
George spun to face him. “IT IS EXACTLY THAT SIMPLE.” Fred blinked. George threw up his hands.
“You know what she’s like, mate. She’s shy. She’s scared. And she’s convinced you’re not into her. You waiting for her to get a telescope and decode your emotional signals from space?”
Fred scowled. “I’m trying not to scare her off. You didn’t see the way she ran after I touched her.”
George put a hand to his heart. “Okay. Fine. Yes. You’re soft and sweet and respectful. We all love that about you. But if you don’t kiss her soon, I will lose my mind.”
Fred laughed despite himself.
“And!” George added, “I have a plan.”
Fred narrowed his eyes. “I don’t like that look.”
“You will,” George grinned. “You’re going to take her to the lake.”
Fred blinked. “What lake?”
“The lake, Fred. The one five minutes from here, the one that glows at night from the enchanted algae, the one that’s literally built for soulmate confessions and forehead touching and tragic stargazing. That lake.”
Fred hesitated. George leaned in, lower and dead serious. “Just you and her. No interruptions. You tell her you want to show her something. You walk her down there. You sit next to her. You take her hand. And then—you tell her.”
Fred swallowed. “And if she runs again?” he asked, quiet.
George shrugged. “Then at least she’ll be running away knowing she’s wanted. And that’s already more than what she thinks now.”
That shut Fred up.
Because George was right.
She didn’t know.
She couldn’t possibly know, not really.
And he’d waited long enough.
゚•┈୨♡୧┈• 。゚
That evening, just as the sun dipped behind the trees, Fred found her on the back steps, hugging a blanket to her chest, watching the sky fade into twilight.
“Hey,” he said softly.
She looked up.
“Want to take a walk?”
Her brows pulled together. “Where?”
“I want to show you something.”
She hesitated. But then she nodded. And Fred offered his hand. She took it.
゚•┈୨♡୧┈• 。゚
The lake shimmered like spilled stardust.
Soft blue light bloomed beneath its glassy surface, illuminating the mossy edges and casting a pale glow over the quiet trees that stood like silent sentinels around them. The night air was warm, the kind of summer air that held you gently and smelled like grass and faint wildflowers.
Fred tugged off his shirt with a lazy smirk, the light catching along the lines of his back as he dropped it onto the grass. Y/n sat at the edge of the dock, bare feet swaying in the water, ankles glowing softly from the magic below.
She tried not to look at him.
And failed.
He stretched, slow and unbothered, then glanced at her over his shoulder with a teasing grin. “You coming in?”
She sputtered. “W-what?”
He stepped toward the water, now only in his swim shorts. “You heard me. It’s perfect. You’re wasting it.”
She shook her head, clutching her knees to her chest. “Nope. I’m good here. On land. Where there’s… gravity?”
Fred grinned wider and slipped into the water with barely a splash.
She watched him, face warm. Too warm. Her stomach buzzed like she’d swallowed a snitch.
He swam a few strokes, then turned and began drifting toward her again, slow and smooth like some sea creature sent to ruin her life. And ruin her life he did.
Because he reached the edge of the dock, hands sliding gently onto her thighs, wet and warm and intentional, and pulled himself closer between her knees, water dripping down his chest, his face suddenly very close to hers. Her breath vanished.
His hands moved up, grazing her bare skin beneath her sleep shorts, then settled on her hips, fingers curling around the soft waistband. He tilted his head, smirk lazy but his eyes, his eyes, hungry.
“Still not tempted?” he murmured, voice low and soaked in amusement.
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Tried again.
“I—I’m not really… swim-prepared.”
“Neither am I,” he grinned. “But here I am. No excuses.”
“I—this isn’t fair,” she whispered.
“What’s not?”
“You.” Her voice cracked. “You being this close and—touching me and—looking at me like that.”
Fred leaned in closer, lips just a breath from hers. “Like what?”
She couldn’t answer.
Couldn’t think.
Her hands gripped the dock beside her, knuckles white. His fingers squeezed her hips just slightly, like he was grounding her, keeping her from floating away.
They sat in that charged silence, barely breathing, until Fred whispered, “Can I kiss you?”
She nodded before she even realized it.
And then his mouth was on hers.
Soft. Gentle. But hungry, too. Like he’d been starving and she was the first taste of something real. Her entire body went stiff, shocked, and then melted, mouth opening under his, hands rising shakily to his shoulders.
Fred kissed her like he already knew every inch of her, slow, reverent, deep. One hand slipped under the hem of her oversized sleep top, dragging up the damp fabric to feel more of her skin, and her breath caught.
She hesitated.
Pulled back, just slightly.
Fred paused, eyes heavy-lidded and lips parted. “Please, baby,” he whispered, voice so soft it didn’t even echo.
And that was it.
She gave in.
Let him pull the shirt up, let him kiss her again as her hands found their way into his dripping hair. Everything else vanished; the dock, the trees, the whole damn world, except him. Fred's hand found her wrist. The one she always kept covered. She didn't even realize.
Not until he pulled away and brought it to his mouth and pressed a kiss directly to her mark.
Her soulmark.
His soulmate’s mark.
Her breath stopped.
The world crashed back in.
She froze, stiff as stone.
Fred felt it immediately. Pulled back, confused.
“Hey. What’s wrong?”
But she was already scrambling, grabbing her shirt, slipping it back over her head like armor.
“I—I have to go.”
“Wait—”
“I’m sorry—I just—” she stood, wild-eyed, barefoot, heart racing.
Fred stood in the water, blinking, arms half-outstretched, the blue light painting him in soft silver. “Please, love—”
But she was already moving.
Already gone.
Running.
Again.
゚•┈୨♡୧┈• 。゚
Once again she didn’t sleep.
She couldn’t.
Her skin still buzzed with the ghost of his hands,on her waist, her thighs, her wrist. His mouth on her mark. His voice in her ear.
“Please, baby.”
She clutched her knees to her chest in the corner of the bed, oversized hoodie drowning her frame, heart racing so hard it felt like something might snap inside her.
She’d ruined it.
Whatever gentle, burning thing existed between her and Fred, she’d burned it down. She should’ve stopped it. She should’ve said no. She should’ve never let it happen.
But when he kissed her like that, when he touched her like she was something precious, how could she not fall apart?
And then he saw the mark. Kissed the mark. And he hadn’t said anything, but she knew. Knew the second it happened that he knew. Now what?
Avoidance. That was the only plan. The only survival method she had left.
So the next morning, she didn’t come down for breakfast. She skipped lunch. Pretended to nap. Hid in the upstairs library until nearly everyone had gone to bed. But George Weasley was waiting.
He cornered her just outside the second floor bathroom, arms crossed, leaning against the wall like he’d been lying in wait all day.
She froze.
He raised a brow. “You planning to hide for the rest of your natural life, or just until Fred starts crying into his pillow?”
Her stomach dropped. “George—please don’t—“
“Nope.” He stood, arms flinging wide. “Absolutely not. I let you both have your tension. I let you pretend like the longing stares were just 'coincidences'. I even let Fred spiral in peace for, like, months. But this?” He pointed at her hoodie. “This is mark-covering shame mode. And I’ve had enough.”
“I—I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said too quickly, backing up a step.
George just stared at her like she was the slowest puzzle he’d ever solved.
“I know what happened,” he said, voice gentler now. “Fred told me. He’s been losing his mind.”
Her heart stopped. “He—he told you?”
“Not everything. Just that something happened. That he messed up. That he thinks he pushed you too far.”
She opened her mouth. Closed it.
George softened, stepping closer. “Look, I get it. You’re scared. You think he only wants you because of the mark. You think maybe if he’d found out differently—less… naked—he’d have changed his mind.”
Tears stung the back of her eyes. She looked away.
“But here’s the thing.” George ducked his head to catch her eye again. “Fred was in love with youbefore he ever saw the mark. Before you kissed. Before the lake. Before anything.”
She sucked in a breath.
“I know my brother,” he continued, voice low, steady. “He doesn’t do this. He doesn’t look at someone like he’s been struck by lightning unless it’s real.”
Her throat burned. “But what if it’s not enough? What if—what if he regrets it? What if I’m not who he wanted me to be?”
George reached out, placed his hands on her shoulders gently.
“You are exactly who he wanted. You’ve always been.”
She blinked fast, tears catching in her lashes.
“Fred is absolutely wrecked over you right
now,” George said. “He thinks he scared you away. He thinks you regret it. He thinks he’s lost his chance.”
“I don’t regret it,” she whispered, voice cracking.
“Then tell him.” George squeezed her shoulders, smiling slightly. “Tell him before he sets something on fire in your honor. He’s very dramatic when heartbroken.”
She let out a shaky laugh.
“Just… talk to him,” George said softly. “Let him show you how much he wants you. Because he does. Mark or no mark. All of you.”
She nodded, finally. Barely.
゚•┈୨♡୧┈• 。゚
The hallway outside Fred’s room was dim, the shadows long and flickering with the soft glow of the sconces. The house had finally gone quiet again, filled with the hush of night.
She stood at his door for a full minute before she could bring herself to raise her hand.
She didn’t knock.
She just opened it.
Fred looked up from where he sat at the edge of his bed, hair messy from running his hands through it, shirt rucked up slightly where he’d been tugging at the hem in frustration. He froze when he saw her.
Eyes wide. Lips parting.
He stood slowly.
“Hey,” he said, voice rough. “I—”
But she didn’t let him finish.
Didn’t say anything.
She crossed the space in two heart-thudding steps, grabbed the front of his shirt in trembling hands, and kissed him like her life depended on it.
It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t careful.
It was everything she’d been holding in for months. All the terror. All the longing. All the slow-burning want that had curled in her belly since the first time he touched her and she felt it.
Her mark burned under her sleeve, but she didn’t care.
Fred made a choked sound against her mouth, surprised, but then he was kissing her back with equal desperation. Hands on her waist, her hips, gripping like he wasn’t sure she was real.
He backed her toward the bed without ever breaking the kiss, swallowing her gasp as he gently eased her down with him, her legs falling to either side of his hips as he hovered over her, still drinking her in like she was made of light and he was starved. She was trembling. He broke away just long enough to breathe, his forehead pressed to hers.
“You came,” he whispered, like he couldn’t believe it.
She nodded against him, still too breathless to speak.
Fred’s hand came up, brushing the hair from her face, thumb resting on her jaw.
“I was so worried I’d scared you away.”
“You didn’t,” she breathed. “I—I just—“
He kissed her again before she could spiral. Slower this time. Reverent. Like she was something sacred and he’d never get tired of worshipping her.
When his hands drifted beneath her jumper again, she didn’t stop him. She let him pull it over her head, slow, careful, and this time, her soulmate mark was fully exposed in the dim light. Her skin burned under his gaze, but she didn’t flinch.
Fred stilled.
She could barely look at him.
But when she finally dared to lift her eyes to his, she found something there that broke her.
Wonder. Awe. And something so devastatingly tender it made her chest ache.
He didn’t speak.
He didn’t need to.
Instead, he reached for her wrist, just like before.
Pressed his lips to the mark again.
This time, she didn’t run.
CORRUPTION𓍯𓂃 r ֶָ֢cameron 003.
rafe cameron x shy!reader
𝜗𝜚 summary : rafe has been trying to get you alone for far too long and now that he finally has, he won't give the moment up for anything.
𝜗𝜚 words : 2.3k
𝜗𝜚 c!w : smut, humping, thigh riding, public!sex, finger sucking, risk of being caught, praise kink, kinda degradation kink.
part 1, part 2.
days had passed since the incident with rafe cameron and the boy who's name you didn't wish to remember.
this time, you hadn't gone out of your way to avoid the boy but instead went back to normal, almost as if nothing had happened between you two at all. you sat on the couch of tannyhill, giggling at something on sarah's phone with your legs crossed.
now, that simply wouldn't do.
rafe had been eager for a minute alone with you which seemed almost impossible when his sister was hanging off your side every minute you spent at tannyhill.
he was sitting on the living room couch, the one across from you both, scrolling on his own phone, a finger to his mouth as he gnawed at the completely bitten down nail.
his eyes kept travelling over to you, skimpy little summers dress clinging to your form while the skirt part began to ride up your thighs as you moved against the couch.
dirty thoughts swarmed his head, thoughts that shouldn't be repeated out loud. thoughts that shouldn't have been in his head to begin with.
he thought he was sure to be damned to hell for the things he was thinking.
and then, ironically enough, the gods seemed to smile down on him. it was as if all of his prayers had been answered and every beg and grovel had finally been listened to by an angel.
the angel who's name was wheezie, standing in the living room door frame. "sarah." wheezies hair was a mess, thrown into a bun with loose strands of hair sticking out every which way, she looked tired, so awfully tired and dreadful as she stared forward at her sister who's head instantly snapped up. "please help me. i'm trying clean out my wardrobe but it's too much."
a laugh fell from sarah's mouth. "no way. it's your mess, clean it yourself."
but that was when wheezie's arms crossed over her chest, cocking a brow. "I'm sorry, who covered for you and topper last night?"
"wheezie!" sarah exasperated, glancing out into the hallway. ward and rose were upstairs but sarah still didn't wish for them to hear about the late night activities she'd been getting up to with her boyfriend.
defeated, she turned her head back to you, who was sitting so sweetly on the couch, that same sickly sweet smile crawling up on your features. you liked watching the cameron siblings interact, even if it wasn't always so pleasant, there was something oddly homely about it. "'s okay, sarah, 'm fine down here."
"okay." she sighed, getting up from the couch. "okay, you just―just hang out for a while and i'll be down soon, okay?" she watched you nod. "okay, come on, let's get this over with."
and suddenly, tension ran thick through the air.
it was you and rafe, alone.
his legs were spread apart on the armchair he was seated on, eyes running up and down your body. you seemed to notice your dress riding up and instantly tugged it down with pink cheeks. you swallowed thickly. "I, uhm―i wanted to say thank you." your eyes finally looked up to reach his.
the minute he heard your voice, his phone was turned off and tossed away. his head cocked to the side. "what for?" teasing. for he knew exactly what for.
you squirmed in your place. "for everything you did with max."
"didn't seem too grateful when you ran away, hm?" he didn't mean the bitter words that slipped from his lips. he watched the way you hung your head low, eyes glassing over. instantly, a kind of guilt washed over him and he leaned back further into the chair. "c'mere." and he patted his thigh, watching your eyes flicker down. you glanced out to the hallway and he had to roll his eyes. "'s okay, nobody'll see you. they're all too busy."
you did as you were told, crossing the room and landing in his lap.
there was something so sensational about being in his lap again.
memories flooded your head, pictures and images of you and he, in this same predicament inside his bedroom, his lips tainting yours. you couldn't help but latch your eyes onto his lips.
"you wanna tell me why you keep runnin' away, hm?" you don't answer, eyes searching anywhere but his face. he doesn't allow it, turning you slowly towards him once again. "asked you a question, sweetheart."
you fought words inside your mouth, all threatening to come tumbling out. "was scared." is all he's met with.
"scared of what?" his head dips, his eyes trying to reach yours, trying to look in and gauge your emotions. "scared of me?"
you shook your head, fingers reaching out to trail across the fabric of his sweater. "i... liked it when you kissed me." you admitted and he watched as a blush fell across your face, red reaching the tips of your ears. "i liked it a lot but 'was scared that sarah would find out 'n i don't―"
"sarah doesn't need to know anything." he answers quickly. "besides, who you kiss..." his fingers trailed across your bottom lip, sucking in his own bottom one between his teeth as he gazed down at them, sweet like honey. "is none of her business, yeah?"
you nodded too quickly, too eagerly, too convinced by his words too quickly. "'m sorry, rafe, 'm really sorry."
"think i know how you can make it up t'me." his fingers left your lips and placed themselves against your hips. "you wanna make it up to me?"
"yes, please." came out too swiftly.
he couldn't help but smirk at your eagerness. "'m gonna kiss you again, okay?" and suddenly, you could feel heat pooling in the bottom of your stomach. he leaned in, his breaths falling hot against your face, his scent filling your senses. and just as his lips brushed against your own, he whispered. "you gotta promise me something first, 'kay?"
you licked your wet lips. "anything." wanting nothing more than for rafe to lean in and seal the kiss. you'd do anything he ever asked.
"no runnin' away this time." his fingers pinched at your jaw, holding it so your eyes could reach his. "you want this? you take it 'n you don't go pushin' me away again, alright?" a curt nod. "words, princess."
"promise." you spoke quickly. "promise, rafe, please."
his lips quirked.
but he didn't keep you waiting.
when his lips crashed into yours, you were very aware of the fact that you were sitting on the couch of tannyhill, the living room door wide open. all it took was for ward or sarah to come down the stairs and they'd see what you'd been up to.
they'd see that you weren't such a good girl after all.
but you couldn't seem to care.
you were too focused on his hot hot lips, tongue slipping into your mouth as he deepened the kiss, hands pinching at your waist, holding you in place.
your mind began to unravel, all you could think about was him. rafe cameron. you were sitting on his lap, kissing him, again. and you swore it was a feeling unlike any feeling you'd ever felt in your entire life. it was making you so desperate, so messy, so wet.
and you were sure he could feel it too. he tugged on your waist, rolling your hips against him.
you let a whimper be swallowed by his mouth.
his lips finally broke from yours for air but he didn't allow himself enough to fully regain his breath before they were latched beneath your jaw, sucking and kissing harshly.
again, he rolled your hips. you weren't sure if it was him moving you or you doing it by yourself now. you could feel him growing hard beneath you, you could feel him pressing himself up against your clothed pussy and all you could think about was how much you needed everything off.
you needed to feel him, skin to skin.
it seemed so close yet stretched so far away.
his hands ran up the skin of your thighs, pushing the fabric of your dress up as he went. "r-rafe." you whimpered out, head turning to the door. "someone could see―"
"'s what you asked for, isn't it?" his hands were rough against you, tugging the dress upwards, not caring for the family who remained upstairs. "isn't it?"
you swallowed thickly. "yes." you stammered out. "b-but―"
"you still wanna make it up to me, don't you?" his brows knitted together in this false sense of sadness, as if you'd done something awful to the poor man. you'd felt suddenly guilty for even suggesting that you stop.
you felt yourself ease against him, your own brows pinching together. "'m sorry, rafe, swear 'm sorry. i'll do anything, jus' please don't be angry―"
"'m not angry." he assures you, fingers brushing up and down your thighs, inching too high. "jus' need you to do something f'me, can you do that, sweetheart?" you were nodding like a puppy, eager to do anything he would ask of you. he maneuvered you so you were situated on one of his spread thighs and not his lap anymore. "y'gonna rub yourself on my thigh like the pathetic good girl you are, okay?"
you'd never done anything like this before.
suddenly you began to panic. "rafe, someone'll hear 'n―"
"nobody'll hear you, baby, jus' gotta be nice 'n quiet, yeah?" you still looked hesitant, top teeth clamping down on your bottom lip. "would make me feel so good, princess 'n you jus' wanna make me feel good, isn't that right? yeah, baby, jus' wanna make rafe feel good, you're such a good girl, aren't you?"
and you don't know how, why, or when but suddenly, you're doing just what he told you.
your hips are stuttering as they move against his jeans, you can feel your panties growing wetter and wetter with every jolt of movement.
rafe doesn't appear to be doing much, hands skillfully moving your hips while he leans back against the armchair.
"there you go, good girl." his cock twitched in his jeans, watching your hesitant, shy face as you moved oh so slowly on his jeans. "lift your hips f'me, sweetheart." you did as you were told, pausing to lift yourself up from his thigh. his hand moved beneath you, tugging your panties to the side and rubbing gentle circles against your clit.
"oh." fell so sweetly from your lips that to anybody else, it would have appeared almost innocent. but rafe was well aware of how dirty you really were.
he landed you back on his thigh, letting you rub yourself against him, this time, it was your bare pussy that ran up and down his jean-clad thigh.
he groaned at the sight of you, free hand coming down to fix his situation that was suddenly growing in his pants. he pulled at the jeans slightly, trying to make his growing bulge less noticeable but there was simply too much to hide.
your eyes cast down to his hand, then to the bulge and you found a little whimper leaving your mouth.
his eyes studied your face, watching you lick your already wet lips and rubbing yourself against him a little quicker. sweet, poor, innocent, you was so turned on by his growing dick. and he could feel it by the dampness of his jeans turning wet hot
you really were filthy.
a particularly loud whine left your lips and rafe realised that perhaps it wasn't a smart idea to start this whole thing off while his whole family was home.
but he couldn't stop now. that'd be cruel. especially seeing how worked up he'd gotten you.
he trailed his fingers up to your lips and tapped on your chin.
you didn't even need to be told, you simply opened up. he stuck his digits right in, feeling your flat tongue against them and spit coating them.
"so filthy, baby." he uttered so softly, as if he were complimenting you. "what'll we do with you, huh?" you only whimpered around his fingers. "'s okay, sweetheart, gonna get that pussy stuffed jus' like you want. just gotta be patient, yeah? can you do that f'me?"
and you're sloppy against his thigh, sloppy against his fingers. you can feel juices rubbing against his jeans and dribble forming at the gaps between your lips and all you can do is not so dumbly.
a stutter of your hips.
a grin on his lips.
"you gonna cum, already, huh?" it didn't take long, but you were already approaching your orgasm. he wished now more than ever that he could take pictures with his mind. that he could frame this moment and pull it out every time his dick got hard. he slipped his fingers out from your mouth. "gotta ask like a good girl before you cum."
your hands pawed at his shoulders. "please, rafe." your mind was turned to mush. "please, please, please."
he shrugged so cruelly. "'m hearin' a lot of beggin' but i don't hear you asking me yet."
"p-please, can i cum?" your face was red hot, embarrassment flooding your features quickly. "please?"
he smirked, leaning back against the armchair and removing his hands from your waist. you were a big girl, you could finish yourself off. "go on, princess."
he watched as your hands pawed at him, hips stuttering and eyes rolling backwards, mouth falling open. it was such a pronographic, filthy scene. and yet, he knew by tomorrow, you'd be prancing around in the same little dress and everyone would see you as the same lovely good little girl that you pretended to be.
and rafe thought that was enough to make him cum in his own pants.
i need to stay off character chats bc why rafe tells me he kills sherrif peterkin and i immediately go into ride or die mode for my man and start planning how to get away with murder and get a chat warning
PLEASE I WAS COVERING FOR MY MAN I DO NOT ACTUALLY KNOW HOW TO GET AWAY WITH MURDER IM JUST A GIRL
The Girl Who Hates Quidditch
Fred Weasley x FemRavenclawReader
When Ginny introduced Fred to her friend who hates quidditch, none of them expected Fred would make it his personal mission to change her mind. He might not achieve his goal, but he might just fall for her in the process.
———————————————————————
The Gryffindor common room was buzzing with post-dinner warmth. A fire crackled in the hearth, casting a golden glow across the familiar scarlet banners and deep armchairs, while the sounds of Exploding Snap echoed from one corner. Somewhere near the portrait hole, a third year was being lectured about curfew by an older sibling. The unrestrained chaos might have been typical for the Gryffindor common room, but to y/n, it was amazing. A long way away from the far more quiet, orderly atmosphere of the Ravenclaw Tower. But she found she surprisingly enjoyed the lively nature of the space.
She sat curled up with her newest friend, Ginny Weasley, near one of the windows. The younger girl animatedly recounted a story about a spell they’d been practicing in their most recent DA meeting. The two had met when y/n joined the DA along with Cho Chang and some of the other Ravenclaw students. Y/n swiftly grew fond of the fiery redhead, and a close bond had formed as they partnered up to practice new spells together.
“And then it just absolutely incinerated it!” Ginny finished, her eyes wide.
She raised an eyebrow. “That’s a pretty tricky spell to master, Gin. Well done.”
Ginny grinned. “You should’ve seen Fred’s face when it happened.”
“Speaking of—” came a voice from behind the armchair. Fred Weasley’s flaming hair popped into view, followed immediately by George’s.
“—Ginevra, what’s this?” George asked, looking the Ravenclaw girl up and down in mock confusion. “You brought a Ravenclaw into the lion’s den?”
“You’re in enemy territory,” Fred added, squinting dramatically.
She didn’t even flinch. “You do realize Ravenclaws have the highest percentage of inter-House friendships, right? Probably because we don’t judge people based on colour coordination.”
“Ooh,” George said, placing a hand to his heart. “She’s got a sharp tongue.”
“She’s got a name, too,” Ginny said dryly. “This is y/n.”
“I know, I’ve seen you at the DA meetings. You’ve got a wicked impedimentia jinx,” Fred extended a hand, ever the showman. “Fred Weasley. Professional mischief-maker, master beater, part-time heartbreaker.”
She took his hand warily. “Is there a support group for people who’ve had to hear that introduction more than once?”
“Only one member so far - me,” George muttered, earning a nudge from Fred.
“Don’t worry, he’s mostly harmless,” Ginny said, stretching out her legs. “Where have you two been? You missed curfew.”
“We were giving Ronikins some pointers,” George answered, jumping over the couch to plonk himself down on a plush cushion. “After our loss to Slytherin last week, he sure needs it.”
“Ugh, can we not talk about that,” y/n wrinkled her nose in disgust.
“Ah, a woman of taste. So you’re supporting the red and gold this year too?” Fred winked at her, dropping down on the couch right next to his brother.
“No, she just hates quidditch.” Ginny grinned and Fred gasped like someone had cursed his broomstick.
“She what?” Fred looked personally offended. “You can’t just hate Quidditch. It’s like saying you hate flying. Or fun. Or sunshine!”
“I don’t hate sunshine,” she replied calmly. “Just aerial chaos involving flying weapons and ridiculous safety standards.”
“Flying weapons?” Fred sputtered. “It’s a game! A beautiful, noble game steeped in centuries of tradition!”
“And concussions,” she added, folding her arms. “Last year alone there were five broken collarbones, two arms snapped mid-air, and a dislocated jaw. You lot are just one Bludger away from a ward in St. Mungo’s.”
Fred turned to George. “She’s been reading Witch Weekly, hasn’t she?”
“Or she’s just clinically joyless,” George whispered back.
“I heard that,” she said.
“Merlin’s beard…” Ginny hid her face in her hands. “She does volunteer work in the hospital wing. Most of the time, it’s her patching up the players after a game.”
Fred leaned closer, hands moving animatedly to support his cause. “Alright, then. You hate Quidditch. I respect your right to be utterly, tragically wrong.”
“Chivalrous of you.” Y/n arched a brow, unimpressed by the Gryffindor beater.
“But,” he continued, voice rising with purpose, “I propose a challenge. A wager. A bet, if you will.”
She gave him a look that said she was already tired. “Do I get a say in this?”
“No,” George said helpfully. “But it’ll be entertaining, so go on, Fred.”
Fred pointed at her like a man announcing a duel. “By the end of this season, you will not only tolerate Quidditch, you will love it.”
She laughed. “Not happening.”
“If you do,” Fred said, ignoring her, “you’ll come to a Gryffindor match, wear our house colors, and admit - out loud - that you enjoy it.”
“And when I don’t?”
“I’ll…restock the hospital wing shelves for you. Manually. No magic. I’ll even wear one of those sad little volunteer aprons.”
The Ravenclaw girl leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, studying him. “Alright, Weasley. I’ll play along. But only because you’ll need a miracle to make me like quidditch.”
Fred grinned, the corner of his mouth quirking up in that confident, careless way. “Oh no. All I’ll need is my roguishly good looks, natural endearing charm, and ‘til the end of the year.”
“I’m going to regret this,” she muttered.
“Oh, you will,” Fred said. “But not for the reason you think.”
And just like that, the bet was on.
———————————————————————
The library was quiet, at least by Hogwarts standards. A low murmur of whispering voices, the gentle scratch of quills on parchment, and the occasional thump of a book closing made up its usual background hum. In the far back corner, nestled between the Charms section and a draughty window, y/n was buried in a heavy tome on healing hexes, her parchment covered in neat, flowing handwriting.
She had just finished diagramming the wand movement for a particularly complex nerve regeneration spell when something thudded beside her elbow. Then another thud. And another.
She blinked, then looked up.
Fred Weasley stood in front of her, dropping a final book onto the growing stack with an air of triumph. He looked far too pleased with himself, arms crossed and eyebrows raised like he’d just solved some great mystery.
She narrowed her eyes. “No.”
“No what?” he asked, pulling out the chair across from her with a loud scrape.
“I don’t know what you’re doing, but whatever it is, no, I don’t like it.”
He ignored her and sat down anyway, spreading a roll of parchment between them like a general laying out battle plans. “We’re studying.”
“I was studying,” she said pointedly. “You are…intruding.”
Fred leaned forward, tapping the parchment. “Correction: we are studying the majestic, thrilling, occasionally bruise-inducing art of Quidditch.”
She stared at him. “In the library?”
“Where else?” he said brightly. “You Ravenclaws worship at the altar of academic rigor. I figured if I wanted to convert you, I had to meet you on sacred ground.”
She opened her mouth to argue, but paused when he unrolled a crudely drawn diagram of a Quidditch pitch. The broomsticks were labeled. The hoops had sparkles. There was even a tiny stick figure with wild hair and an arrow that read ‘Me (legend)’.
“You can’t be serious.”
“I am very serious,” Fred said, flipping open a book titled Quidditch Through the Ages. “To love the game, you must understand the game. So. Crash course.”
She sighed, setting down her quill. “Fine. Amuse me.”
He beamed. “Right. So, seven players per team. Three Chasers, who handle the Quaffle - that’s the red ball, moves like a hot potato with an ego. Two Beaters, who smack Bludgers away from teammates using bats. That’s arguably the most important role, which is, of course, why I’m a beater. One Keeper, like a goalie, and one Seeker - you know, the lunatic who flies at the speed of sound to catch the Golden Snitch.” He jabbed the diagram for emphasis. “And the game ends when the Seeker catches the Snitch, which is worth-”
“One hundred and fifty points,” she said flatly, arms crossed. “Which often makes everything else in the game irrelevant.”
Fred looked simultaneously offended and surprised that she knew. “It adds drama.”
“It adds reckless, high-speed trauma.”
He grinned. “Speaking of, did you know the first recorded Quidditch match was played on a marsh in 1050, and ended with two players being swallowed by the pitch?”
“I did. And I also know that in 1675, a Keeper lost three fingers and a chunk of his ear in a match against the Heidelberg Harriers.”
Fred raised his eyebrows. “Oh? So you’ve read about it.”
“I read everything,” she said primly, picking up her quill again. “But understanding doesn’t equal liking. You don’t see me forcing you to read about the structure of blood-replenishing potions.”
Fred leaned forward, propping his chin on his hand. “I don’t need to. You light up when you talk about it.”
Her quill paused in mid-air. She gave him a long look. “Is this your tactic, then? Flatter me into enjoying bodily harm disguised as sport?”
“I told you I’m serious about this bet.”
“And I told you you’d need a miracle.”
“Well,” he said, sliding the parchment toward her with his charming, maddening grin, “we’ve covered theory. Now comes the practical portion.”
She groaned. “Fred—”
“Come to practice,” he said. “Just to watch. An easy introduction. No stakes. No Bludgers. Just drills, formations, and most importantly, watching me look magnificent.”
She hesitated. The idea of watching a real practice did intrigue her, if only to point out its many flaws. And despite herself, she was a little curious to see Fred in his element. Not to mention, the longer he talked, the harder it was to tell if she wanted to hex him or grin at him.
She sighed. “Fine. But if anyone loses a limb, I’m leaving.”
He stood up with a victorious fist-pump. “Excellent. I’ll bring my very best form.”
As he turned to go, she called after him, “You do realize this is only going to prove my point, right?”
Fred looked over his shoulder, that same confident glint in his eye. “Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure. You might surprise yourself.”
She shook her head as he disappeared behind the bookcases, leaving behind the smell of ink, parchment, and something far more dangerous: a small smile on her face.
———————————————————————
When she arrived at the pitch, the sun was just beginning its descent behind the Forbidden Forest, casting long, golden rays over the Hogwarts grounds and tinting the sky a soft lavender. Most students were trickling inside for dinner, but she stood at the top row of the stands, arms folded over her Ravenclaw jumper and expression set with careful neutrality.
She wasn’t here because she wanted to be. She was here because she had a point to prove.
That, and because Fred Weasley had somehow embedded himself into her brain like a persistent jinx. A loud, grinning, ginger-haired jinx.
It had been a lot easier to notice him now - making trouble in the halls, performing spells in DA meetings, working admittedly impressive mastery, and trading in a black market of spelled sweets. And it was a lot harder to ignore him too.
The locker room doors cracked open below, and the Gryffindor team began to spill onto the pitch in a flurry of broomsticks and warm-up chatter. She scanned the group quickly. There was Angelina Johnson at the front, her voice already raised, barking out instructions. Behind her, Alicia Spinnet and Katie Bell trotted along, swinging their brooms and laughing about something. Of course, there was Harry Potter himself.
And then came Fred and George.
Even at a distance, it was surprisingly easy to tell the twins apart. George’s gait was smoother, quieter, his smirk a little more reserved. Fred, on the other hand, had the swagger of someone who knew he was good. He bounced on the balls of his feet, already teasing one of his teammates, and then he saw her. Fred’s eyes found hers through the stands, and without missing a beat, he winked exaggeratedly.
She rolled her eyes immediately, but it didn’t stop the slight flutter in her stomach. Nor did it stop the chain reaction it caused: George nudged him, Angelina paused mid-sentence to glance toward the stands, and someone - one of the Chasers - leaned over and asked loudly, “Oi, who’s that?”
She couldn’t hear Fred’s reply, but whatever it was had George nearly choking on laughter. Still, she didn’t leave. She settled on the edge of the seat and pulled out a small notebook from her satchel. Not because she was trying to distract herself, of course. She just wanted something to do with her hands. Definitely not because Fred looked…well, admittedly very at home in midair when he kicked off moments later and soared upward in a fluid, effortless arc.
She half-watched them warm up, half-defending to be interested in her notebook. But the Gryffindor team was…coordinated. Tight-knit. Angelina Johnson ran the team like a drill sergeant with a broomstick, barking instructions and narrowing her eyes with terrifying precision. And yet, even within the structure, there was room for antics.
Especially from Fred. He weaved through the drills with practiced ease, shooting past George to steal a pass mid-air with a grin, then looping under Katie Bell to flick her broom tail with a cheeky tap of his wand. The team groaned in mock annoyance while Angelina shouted something about “less flirting, more flying!”
George gave Fred a flat look as they hovered near each other, and Fred grinned like he’d just earned a medal.
From the stands, she watched him - watched all of them - but her eyes kept drifting back to Fred. She noticed the way he adjusted his grip on his broom when he turned sharp corners, how his eyes flicked from player to player a second before each move. He had a loud mouth and a louder laugh, but his strategy was quick and sharp and smarter than she’d expected.
She also noticed how his shoulders flexed every time he threw the Quaffle, which was a completely unnecessary observation. Academically.
Still. The drills made sense. There were patterns, formations, real thought behind the flying chaos. She found herself frowning, leaning forward, following the Chasers’ diamond formation and Angelina’s signals.
When practice wrapped up, the team circled low over the pitch before landing in a casual tangle of brooms, gear, and triumphant chatter. Fred peeled away from the group and started toward the stands with an all-too-familiar smirk on his face.
“Don’t say it,” she said, descending the last few steps to meet him halfway.
“I wasn’t going to say anything,” he said innocently, falling into step beside her as they started walking toward the castle. “But since you brought it up…”
“I didn’t.”
“…I’ll just ask how much fun you had watching me fly like a majestic ginger bird of prey.”
She snorted. “More like a hyperactive kestrel with a sugar problem.”
“Ouch,” he said, pressing a hand to his chest. “Sharp words from someone who stayed the entire time.”
“I was waiting for it to get interesting.” She lied.
“Sorry to disappoint.”
She didn’t answer right away. The grass squelched gently beneath their feet as they moved up the hill, the towers of Hogwarts silhouetted against the twilight.
“Maybe I didn’t absolutely hate it,” she said finally, too low for him to gloat.
But Fred caught it anyway. “You didn’t hate it,” he echoed with delight. “High praise from a known Quidditch cynic.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself. I didn’t say I liked it. Just that it didn’t make me want to rip my own eyeballs out of their sockets.”
He grinned and bumped her shoulder with his own. “What a shame that would be, love. I quite like those pretty eyes of yours.”
Her stomach flipped, but there was barely enough time for her to process her own reaction or respond to his jarring comment before George was joining them.
“So, what did you think?” The other Weasley twin question, hooking his arm around her shoulders.
“I think with the two of you, Angelina seems to have her hands full. Do you ever not make a joke out of everything?” She shot back.
“What’s life without a little laughter, love?” Fred shook his head, his arms coming around her as well. Now she was flanked by both the Weasley twins on their way up to the castle.
“You Ravenclaw are always far too sensible for your own good,” George added on in agreement.
“Do you even know any Ravenclaws well enough to back up that statement?” She challenged, knowing full well that neither of the Weasley twins had interacted much with anyone from her house.
“I’m hoping you might be the first to prove us wrong,” Fred winked at her again, and her brows drew together in a slight frown at the effect it had on her heartbeat.
As they approached the stone steps, Fred glanced sideways at her, something softer behind his grin now. “So,” he said casually, “Now that you’ve survived a practice, what about the real deal?”
“We’ll see.” She arched an eyebrow before walking off, leaving the Weasley boy staring after her with a grin platted on his face.
———————————————————————
The Room of Requirement had taken it’s usual shape of a practical dueling hall: soft mats padded the floors, torchlight flickered in sconces along the walls, and a long mirror ran the length of the far side, reflecting students practicing their spellwork with varying degrees of success.
“Alright,” Harry called out, voice clear and sure despite the noise. “Get into pairs. Let’s stay focused on our wand movement and intent. Remember, Expelliarmus isn’t just about brute force.”
The group shuffled into motion. Wands were drawn. Spells began to echo off the stone walls.
“Looks like we’re together,” Ginny said cheerfully, turning to y/n with a grin.
Before she could respond, a drawling voice from just to their right cut in. “Try not to let Ginny disarm you too quickly. She learned from the best, after all.” Fred Weasley twirled his wand lazily in his fingers, standing beside George, who gave them both an amused look.
“As if,” Ginny shot back. “You spent half of last practice flat on your back.”
“That was strategy,” Fred said confidently. “Lure the enemy into a false sense of superiority.”
“Of course,” Y/n replied dryly, stepping into position across from Ginny. “That’ll send the death eaters running.”
Fred turned to her then, eyes gleaming. “Care for a little duel?”
“I’d hate to embarrass you in front of your brother,” she said sweetly, raising her wand.
“Oh, please, go ahead,” George muttered with an amused smirk, his eyes flickering between the two with a knowing glint of mischief.
Fred grinned wider, moving to stand across from the Ravenclaw with his wand drawn. “What do I get when I win?”
Y/n barely let him get the question out before her own wand flew through the air. “Expelliarmus!” she snapped l.
Fred’s wand jerked sideways in his grip, but didn’t fly out.
“Oho! Cheeky. Playing dirty already, are we love?” he crowed, and her stomach fluttered at the nickname. “You’re quick, I’ll give you that, but not strong enough.”
“Wouldn’t get cocky if I were you, Weasley,” she said, squinting as she adjusted her footing. “A ravenclaw doesn’t make the same mistake twice.”
He gave a theatrical gasp. “Merlin, is that a threat? Expelliarmus!”
Their duel was fast-paced and full of mischief. She dodged a too-flashy flick of his wand that sent sparks flying, and countered with a clean disarm that nearly knocked him off balance, and laughed when Fred exaggerated the stumble with a dramatic groan.
“All right, all right,” Harry eventually called. “Let’s circle up for a moment.”
Wands lowered. Spells ceased. The crowd gathered in again, flushed and laughing and buzzing with the kind of energy that only came from learning magic they weren’t technically supposed to be learning.
“Nice one,” Ginny murmured to her, nudging her shoulder. “He’s impressed.”
She kept her face neutral. “He’s impossible.”
Ginny grinned like she knew better.
As the group began to disperse - students heading out in pairs, some lingering to thank Harry - Fred suddenly jogged up behind her.
“Oi! Don’t suppose you’re planning to vanish into the library again?”
She turned around slowly, eyeing him. “Why?”
He looked…oddly hopeful. “Thought you might come hang out in the common room with us for a bit.”
“You trying to convert me now, Weasley?” she asked, a little suspicious but also - if she was being honest with herself - a little pleased.
Fred just smirked and shrugged. “You’ll have to come and see.”
Ginny gave her an encouraging glance as she passed, but y/n still hesitated. Then nodded. “Fine. Just for a bit. Umbridge will have my head if she finds me breaking curfew.”
The Gryffindor common room was already bustling when they climbed through the portrait hole. A fire crackled in the hearth, casting a golden glow across the scarlet armchairs. Someone was playing a game of wizard’s chess near the stairs, and the wireless in the corner was crackling faintly with the warble of Celestina Warbeck.
“C’mon,” Fred said, steering her toward the far side of the room. “We’ll grab a corner.”
He pulled over a low table near the fireplace, kicked aside a footstool, and rummaged through his bag. She sat down, eyeing the sudden flurry of parchment and books he began piling onto the tabletop.
“…What are you doing?”
Fred grinned, cheeks pink from the walk and ears just slightly red - either from excitement or firelight, she couldn’t tell. “Lesson number two,” he said proudly, opening a folder labeled Professional League Stats: 1994–1995 Season in bold, scribbled ink.
Her stomach dropped just a little. “Oh,” she said, trying to mask the disappointment in her voice. “This is…another Quidditch thing?”
Fred looked up, surprised. “Well, yeah. You’ve gotta understand the stakes before you really feel the games.”
“Right,” she stated dryly, watching as he unrolled a color-coded map of the teams and their home stadiums. “This wasn’t exactly the what came to mind when you said ‘hang out’.”
Fred paused. His smirk faltered for a moment. “I mean, we are hanging out,” he said with a sheepish shrug. “Just…with spreadsheets.”
She blinked. “Did you make spreadsheets about Quidditch?”
He turned the parchment around proudly. “Fred’s Highly Scientific Player Performance Index. With doodles.”
She stared at it. There was a tiny cartoon of a Harpies Chaser kicking a Quaffle into a hoop with the caption Catriona McCornwell is a goddess among mortals. Fred had even attempted stick-figure broom velocity lines. It was ridiculous.
And endearing.
She sighed and tucked her legs beneath her. “Fine. Impress me.”
His grin returned full force. “Right, so. There are thirteen professional teams in the British and Irish League. You’ve got your legendary powerhouses - the Holyhead Harpies, Puddlemere United, the Chudley Cannons - though don’t let their current standing fool you, they were excellent in the 1890s.”
She held up a hand. “Fred. I thought we established that knowledge doesn’t equal fondness. In fact, I’d wager I know more about quidditch than you do.”
He leaned in closer, eyes gleaming with challenge. “Try me.”
Her lips twitched. “Fine. Did you know the average life expectancy of a Beater in the Kenmare Kestrels is ten years shorter than other teams due to Bludger-based concussions?”
“Actually, I didn’t know that. But worth it,” he said smugly.
“Thirteen Harpies have broken their collarbones since 1991.”
“I call that character building.” He commented but that didn’t stop the impressed tone from creeping into his voice. And the hint of surprise.
She shook her head. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet, you’re still here.”
She didn’t answer that. Instead, she leaned over the map as Fred launched into a passionate explanation of why the Wimbourne Wasps were overrated and why Viktor Krum’s style of Seeker play was dramatic but ultimately impractical. To her own horror…she actually listened.
His hands moved when he talked - wide gestures and tapping fingers and the occasional quick doodle on the parchment. His enthusiasm was infectious, his jokes absurd, and even when he got overly dramatic (“And this is the legendary Cannons keeper who once caught a Quaffle in his teeth! Don’t fact-check that.”), she found herself smiling despite herself.
It wasn’t what she expected ‘hanging out’ with Fred Weasley would be like. And it was even…kind of fun?
———————————————————————
The air in Umbridge’s classroom was thick enough to choke on.
It always felt like this - cloying and false, as though the scent of her rose-scented perfume was meant to smother any thoughts of rebellion. The lace curtains, the doilies, the shrill, saccharine tone in which she addressed her students…all of it masked the fact that they were learning nothing useful. Just pages upon pages of theory. No wandwork. No defense. No real preparation.
It was a mockery. And it made her skin crawl.
Y/n sat stiff-backed in her chair, knuckles pale around her quill, jaw tight as Umbridge’s syrupy voice slithered across the classroom once more. Until she couldn’t handle it any longer and her hand shot straight into the air.
“Now, Miss Y/l/n,” Umbridge simpered, her teeth bared in a parody of a smile, “perhaps you’d like to share with the class exactly why you felt the need to interrupt?”
Her voice was pure sugar. Her eyes were arsenic.
“I didn’t interrupt,” the reader said evenly, forcing calm into her voice. “I wanted to ask a question.”
Murmurs rippled through the room. Fred, two rows back, sat straighter. He could see the way her shoulders were drawn tight, could practically feel the tension radiating from her spine.
Umbridge’s eyes narrowed, the bow of her lips twitching. “And what question, pray tell, was so important it warranted disrespecting the order of my lesson?”
Y/n didn’t blink. “You said we wouldn’t need to learn practical shielding spells. I wanted to know what we were meant to do in the event of an actual attack.”
Gasps. Sharp, involuntary. Someone sucked in a breath.
Fred leaned forward in his chair, elbows on the desk, and watched Umbridge closely. The woman’s smile never slipped. But something far crueler flickered in her gaze.
“Detention,” she said sweetly. “Monday night. Six O’clock with me in my office.”
A long pause. Her pen scratched the parchment. “…And perhaps,” she added, almost absently, “you might spend that time considering your place.”
Y/n didn’t respond. Didn’t flinch. But her hand curled tighter around her quill. Her mouth pressed into a line.
Fred watched her, heat rising in his chest - not from the confrontation, but from the way she endured it. Silent. Strong. Refusing to give Umbridge the power of seeing her upset.
It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right. And by the time class was dismissed, Fred had already packed away his things and made a beeline for the Ravenclaw girl.
The corridor outside Defense Against the Dark Arts was a rush of footsteps and bitter muttering. Students poured out like floodwater escaping a dam, eager to breathe freely again.
Fred didn’t hesitate. He caught up with her in three strides. “Oi,” he said gently, reaching out and brushing his hand against her wrist to catch her attention.
She didn’t look at him at first. Not until he tilted his head, gaze warm with concern. Her eyes met his, fierce and unguarded, but tired.
“I’m fine,” she said quickly, the words clipped and hollow.
“I know,” Fred replied, low and steady. “Doesn’t mean you need to be.”
She blinked at that, just a flutter of surprise. But she didn’t pull away. Fred’s brows furrowed. His fingers, still barely grazing her wrist, lingered only a moment longer before he withdrew.
“She’s a miserable cow,” he muttered. “A hypocritical, fluffy pink tyrant.”
That earned him the ghost of a smile, dry and thin. “Careful,” she said. “She’ll give you detention next.”
He leaned in, smirking. “Not the worst thing I can think of if it means more time with you.”
She exhaled, something close to a nervous laugh escaping her lips. Fred caught it. Memorized it. His shoulder found the wall beside hers, casual and close. Their bags hung side by side, inches apart.
“She’s never going to answer your question,” he said. “Because the only thing she’s more afraid of than rebellion is admitting she’s wrong.”
Her lips twitched. But her eyes flicked to the floor. Fred nudged her boot lightly with his. “So.” She looked back up. “There’s a match this weekend,” he said. “Ravenclaw versus Hufflepuff.”
Her brow furrowed. “I don’t go to matches.”
He nodded, unconcerned. “Right. I remember. You hate Quidditch with the passion of a thousand cursed bludgers.”
She folded her arms. “I do.”
“Well then.” He flashed a grin. “What better way to unwind from a soul-sucking lesson than to channel that rage into watching your house clobber a bunch of loyal badgers?”
Her eyes narrowed. “You’re just trying to win your bet.”
“Obviously,” he said, unfazed. “But also…maybe you could use a bit of fun. Just for an hour or two.”
She hesitated. The corridor buzzed around them - students passing, chattering, brushing by - but the air between them was still.
Soft.
Charged.
She didn’t answer.
Fred shifted his weight and tilted his head. “Look, meet me at the north exit before the game if you decide to come. I’ll be there waiting.”
She raised an eyebrow. “You’re that confident?”
He shrugged. “No. But I am that stubborn.”
She huffed, almost fond. “I didn’t say I’d come.”
He grinned. “I know. But you didn’t say you wouldn’t, and that’s good enough for me.”
And with that, he pushed off the wall and walked away, hands in his pockets, wild hair bouncing with each step, his back warm with the weight of her gaze as she considered his proposition. She supposed spending an evening with Fred Weasley wasn’t the worst way to spend her time.
———————————————————————
Fred stood just beyond the castle’s North exit, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, the hem of his scarlet-and-gold scarf fluttering in the crisp afternoon breeze. His watch was flicked open in his hand, thumb running over the dial absently. The Hufflepuff-Ravenclaw game was due to start in fifteen minutes, and despite his usual laidback attitude, Fred was…fidgeting. He wouldn’t admit it aloud - especially not to George - but he’d been pacing the corridor for ten minutes already, fully convinced she wasn’t coming.
He sighed dramatically and started to close his watch when—
“There you are.”
His head snapped up. She was there. She stood with her arms folded and an amused arch to her brow, dressed in a Ravenclaw scarf that contrasted the slight flush on her cheeks from walking briskly across the castle. Her hair was a little windblown, eyes gleaming, and Merlin, Fred lit up like someone had set off a firework in his chest.
“You came!” he practically beamed, pushing off the wall like he hadn’t just been about to give up and sulk in the stands alone.
She rolled her eyes. “Don’t look so surprised. I didn’t want you bragging for the next month about how I’d chickened out.”
He grinned, already walking beside her, just close enough that their shoulders occasionally bumped as they headed down the slope to the Quidditch pitch.
“Oh, you wound me,” Fred gasped, pressing a hand to his heart like she’d stabbed him right through the chest. “Here I was, pacing the floor, dramatically torn between hope and despair, and you think I’d brag?”
She snorted. “Fred, you literally bragged for two straight hours when you figured out how to levitate two dungbombs with one spell.”
“That was innovation, not bragging.”
Their banter fizzled into warm silence as they approached the stadium. The towering stands loomed ahead, and the golden sunlight filtered through the structure in slanted beams, casting Fred’s hair in a reddish blaze that somehow made her stomach flutter. She told herself it was the walk. Just the walk.
He led her up a spiral staircase, winding higher and higher into the Gryffindor section until they reached a spot that was, admittedly, brilliant: close enough to make out faces, high enough to see the whole field in motion. She was catching her breath when Fred pulled something out of his bag with a flourish.
“Well, madam, for your viewing pleasure,” he said dramatically, unveiling a carefully packed cloth satchel. “Snacks from Honeydukes, handpicked by yours truly.”
She blinked. “Is that…are those grape sugar quills?”
He smirked, cheeks a little flushed. “Course they are. Your favourites. I do pay attention.”
Her brows arched. “You pay attention?”
“Guilty.” He popped a chocolate frog into his mouth like it wasn’t a big deal, like he didn’t just casually admit he’d been noticing the tiniest things about her. “You always sneak them into study hall.”
She stared at him for a long beat. “That’s oddly specific.”
Fred gave her a cheeky smile, but there was something behind it that wasn’t all mischief. “I’m a very observant bloke. Especially when it comes to certain Ravenclaws who have a habit of invading Gryffindor airspace.”
Her cheeks warmed, but before she could conjure a clever response, the crowd began to stir. Players zoomed onto the pitch with cheers echoing through the stands. Blue and yellow banners flapped in the wind as Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff took to the air.
Fred leaned toward her, close enough that she could feel the brush of his shoulder. “Don’t worry,” he whispered, eyes crinkling in amusement. “This one’s gonna be friendly. Hufflepuff plays cleaner than a house-elf with OCD.”
She eyed the pitch warily. “I’ll believe that when I don’t see anyone falling off their broom.”
As the game kicked off, she found herself watching more closely than she’d anticipated. It wasn’t quite the chaos she expected. The movements were fluid, almost graceful. She began to recognize the formations, the deliberate placement of Chasers, the split-second strategy behind Beaters’ swings. She caught herself leaning forward at one point, eyes narrowing in concentration.
Fred nudged her softly with his elbow. “You’re getting into it.”
She huffed. “I’m observing. There’s a difference.”
“Right, right,” he said, grinning. “You observed your house score a beautiful goal and didn’t even grimace.”
“That doesn’t mean I like it.”
He turned to her with exaggerated offense. “You wound me again. Do you enjoy stabbing me repeatedly, woman?”
“I’ll knit you a patch for your ego later.”
Fred chuckled, and in a moment that felt more intimate than expected, he brushed a stray hair away from her face, his fingers lingering near her cheek a second too long.
Her breath caught. And he knew it.
“You know,” he said lowly, “I’m starting to think there’s something you’re scared of even more than quidditch.”
She arched a brow. “Oh? And what’s that?”
He leaned in, grinning, voice a mischievous murmur against her ear. “I think you’re afraid of how much you enjoy my company.”
She turned to him slowly, eyes locking. “You’re absurd.”
“And you’re blushing.”
“I am not.”
“You so are.”
She was. A little. Maybe. But before she could argue further, the final whistle blew. Ravenclaw had won. The game was over, and to her shock, no injuries. No concussions. Just a few windblown players and smiling teammates.
Fred stood and stretched, then held out a hand to help her up. She hesitated, then took it.
He didn’t let go right away.
“See?” he said as they descended the stairs. “No blood, no broken bones…and you had fun, right?”
“Maybe,” she admitted with a reserved tone.
“So you liked the game!” He grinned widely.
She looked up at him. “I wouldn’t go that far.”
He smirked again, eyes full of mischief. “So you’re saying it wasn’t the Quidditch that was fun?”
“Exactly.”
“So then it was my company that you enjoyed so much?”
She didn’t answer right away. Then, with a tiny smirk playing at the corner of her lips, “You’re not entirely unbearable.”
Fred stopped walking, hand still in hers, and gave her the most infuriatingly smug smile she’d ever seen. “I’ll take it.”
———————————————————————
It started with one practice.
Then one game.
Then two.
By the end of the month, she’d somehow carved out a permanent spot on the edge of the Gryffindor section of the pitch. She claimed it was for ‘scientific observation’. A kind of long-form thesis on why wizards still subjected themselves to glorified aerial combat. But Fred saw right through her.
The practices became something of a rhythm. One she never officially committed to, but always showed up for. She’d drift into the stands just before drills began, a Ravenclaw scarf knotted loosely around her neck, hair tossed up in a casual bun, ink still smudged on her fingers from her last library visit.
Fred would spot her every time.
And every time, he lit up like Christmas at the Burrow.
Some days, she sat in her seat with a book open in her lap, pretending not to watch. But Fred would always catch her eyes flicking up from the page, usually right as he did some absurd stunt or shouted something deeply inappropriate mid-drill.
Other days, she’d sit beside Angelina Johnson during cooldowns, politely asking about rotations and chasing tactics. Angelina quickly clocked her growing interest. Not just in the game, but in the redhead who kept offering her cauldron cakes and the best seat on the bench.
“You’ve got a good eye,” Angelina told her one afternoon, sweat still beading on her brow. “You ever thought about playing?”
She scoffed, but didn’t deny it. Not really.
Because truthfully…once upon a time she had. It had been years since she’d even stepped foot on a pitch, but she could still see it all. The loops, the triangle formations, the subtle shift in a Keeper’s weight before a dive. She could anticipate the swing of a Beater’s bat a second before it happened. And when she shyly suggested Gryffindor stagger their Chasers instead of clustering near the hoops?
They scored four more goals than their previous season-record in the next match.
Games quickly became events in her calendar. When Gryffindor wasn’t playing, Fred always found her in the library with a half-smile and a hopeful question. “Game today. You coming?”
Sometimes she teased him. Sometimes she claimed she was too busy. But she always ended up by his side, somewhere in the stands, usually yelling at a bad referee call or muttering about someone’s lack of defense.
And she always wore her Ravenclaw scarf.
Always.
Fred, of course, made a scene every time.
“You’re a traitor,” he’d say with a grin when she clapped for a Ravenclaw goal.
“And you’re a hopeless show-off,” she’d shoot back when he cheered too loudly for the opposite team anyway.
But when her hands clutched the edge of her seat during close calls, or she shouted “bludger, left flank, LEFT FLANK” during practice like she was in the game, Fred would glance over and feel that strange, floaty thrill in his chest. Like flying. Like falling.
One night after practice, she and Fred walked back to the castle under a dusting of early snow. The kind that dusted his shoulders and curled at the ends of her hair.
She nudged him with her elbow. “You’re lucky I’m a Ravenclaw, you know.”
“Oh?” He smirked. “How’s that?”
“Because if I was in Gryffindor, Angelina would’ve recruited me, and you’d be benched.”
Fred gasped, hand to his heart. “You wound me, strategist.”
She smiled without looking at him. “And yet you keep coming back for more.”
“I’m nothing if not loyal.”
The snow crunched softly beneath their boots as they walked in silence for a few seconds. Then Fred gently reached out, brushing a speck of frost from the back of her scarf.
“You’re not so bad at this Quidditch thing,” he murmured.
“I still hate it.”
“Of course you do.”
And she smiled. Because somewhere along the way, the lines between friendly competition and flirtation had all blurred. And she had started to enjoy being part of this wild, high-speed, sky-chasing world. Not because of the brooms or the bludgers…but because of the way Fred looked at her when she understood something he hadn’t even said.
Or when he looked at her like she’d always belonged there. Like the pitch wasn’t quite right without her on the sidelines.
———————————————————————
The Gryffindor common room crackled with warmth and firelight. The low hum of conversation threading through the haze of late-night laziness. Fred had his legs draped across the rug like he owned it, sprawled in front of the hearth beside her with a sugar quill half hanging from his mouth. George lounged in one of the armchairs, feet propped on the table. Ginny sat cross-legged on the couch with a pillow hugged to her chest.
It had become routine, her being here. A Ravenclaw in enemy territory, as Fred had once called her, though there was nothing hostile about the way he leaned toward her when he laughed, or how he always saved her a spot by the fire. There was just…comfort.
Even when they were collectively complaining.
“Umbridge is getting too close,” Ginny muttered, eyes narrowed toward the dancing fire. “She’s sniffing around like a bloodhound. I swear, if she finds the Room of Requirement—”
“Harry’ll blow something up,” George finished, deadpan.
“Or Hermione will,” Fred added, smirking. “You’ve seen how serious she is about the DA.”
“That pink toad is handing out detentions like Honeydukes samples,” Ginny grumbled. “Colin Creevey got one just for asking if the rules on club meetings had changed.”
“Lee got one for breathing too loud,” George offered, shaking his head.
“Filch is practically salivating at the thought of catching people,” Fred muttered. “It’s disgusting.”
“Filch has always been like that. Umbridge just enables it,” y/n’s laugh came a second too late, too tight around the edges. She was staring at the fire, fingers drifting to the back of her left hand like a reflex. Slow, absent, like scratching at an itch that wouldn’t go away.
Fred glanced down at the movement and caught sight of her rubbing the spot just beneath her knuckles, like she didn’t realize she was doing it. His brow furrowed.
“What’s that?”
She blinked. “What’s what?”
“Your hand.” He sat up straighter, voice sharpening with sudden alertness. “What’re you—?”
She quickly tucked it beneath her thigh, but he was faster. Fred reached over, gentle but insistent, catching her wrist before she could hide it. He turned her palm over and his breath caught. There, faint but unmistakable even in the glow of the fire, were the angry red words etched into her skin: I must not question authority.
“You—” His voice came out hoarse. Then louder. “She didn’t.”
She tried to pull away. “Fred—”
“That hag did this to you?” he spat, his voice rising as he glared at the wound like he could burn it off with fury alone. “Are you…? What the hell! Why didn’t you tell me?”
George had risen out of his chair, his eyes narrowing. Ginny had gone still, her grip on the pillow tightening.
“I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it,” she said softly.
Fred stared at her, incredulous. “A big deal? She carved you.”
“There’s nothing to do about it,” she said, curling her fingers over the scar again. “It’s done. It’s not permanent. Just, drop it. Please.”
“No, no, we should go to McGonagall,” Ginny cut in, voice cold with controlled rage. “She has to know.”
“McGonagall’s got enough going on with the staff performance reviews,” y/n said quietly. “Besides, she can’t do anything about it either. Not when Umbitch has Fudge’s support.”
Silence pulsed in the space between them. The fire crackled, throwing shadows over Fred’s clenched jaw.
She offered the smallest, tired smile. “Let’s talk about something else.”
George exchanged a tense glance with Ginny, but it was Fred who finally sighed, low and reluctant, and leaned back again beside her. His hand hovered a little closer to hers now, resting against the rug.
“Fine,” he muttered. “New topic. Gryffindor versus Hufflepuff. Saturday.”
George perked up. “You coming to see us win, or what?”
“She’s never been to a Gryffindor game,” Ginny said slyly, cutting her a look. “Strange, considering she goes to every practice these days…”
“I’m not missing study time for a game,” she said, a little too quickly.
“Game ends at noon,” Fred said with a tilt of his head. “Plenty of time to study after.”
She looked away, fiddling with the end of her sleeve. “It’s not about the game.”
George raised a brow. “Oh?”
She hesitated. “I just…don’t want to watch Hufflepuff win.”
Fred laughed. “Oh ye of little faith, you wound me.”
“You’re not worried about us losing,” George said with a grin. “You’re worried we’ll get flattened.”
“I’m not—”
“You’re worried we’ll get hurt,” Fred filled in, blunt and knowing.
She didn’t deny it. Her cheeks were dusted pink now, and her eyes stayed on the fire like it would save her from the teasing.
Fred’s smirk turned warm. “So what you’re saying - or rather, not saying - is…you care.”
She groaned. “Don’t start.”
“Too late.” George was grinning. “It’s out there now.”
Fred nudged her lightly with his knee. “Admit it, strategist. You like us.”
“You’re alright,” she muttered.
“Alright!” He echoed in mock offence, gripping his heart like she’d stabbed it.
Ginny snorted into her sleeve. Fred leaned closer, voice dropping into something that made her chest flutter. “You know, if you are coming to the match, I’ll reserve you the best seat in the stands.”
“You don’t get to reserve seats.”
“Don’t need to. I just threaten to hex anyone who tries to sit there.”
She rolled her eyes, rising before she could smile too much. “It’s nearly curfew. I should go.”
“Don’t make me walk you,” Fred said, already standing. “You know I will.”
“I can survive a walk to Ravenclaw tower, thank you.”
He smirked, but his gaze lingered just a second too long, like he wanted to say more. “See you Saturday?” he asked.
She hesitated, her fingers tightening slightly around her books.
“…Maybe.”
———————————————————————
The afternoon sun was low over the Quidditch pitch, casting long gold shadows across the grass and staining the sky in hues of soft orange. The air still carried the buzz from Saturday’s Gryffindor vs. Hufflepuff match - a fair, but difficult affair that ended in narrow victory. Katie had taken two near-misses from a Bludger, George had a scuffed shoulder, and Angelina’s voice had gone hoarse from screaming.
Now it was Tuesday, and they were back on the pitch. A post-match practice to tighten up what had gone wrong and polish what had gone right.
Y/n hovered near the edge of the stands, arms folded across her chest and scarf wrapped around her Ravenclaw uniform like armor. It wasn’t where she usually stood. Normally she was on the field’s edge with a notebook or crossed arms, calling out ideas and running commentary, offering observations that always - somehow - helped.
But today, she was quieter. Kept a little distance. Fred noticed. So did the others.
“Oi,” Katie Bell shouted mid-pass, gliding toward the sidelines. “Where were you Saturday? You promised you’d come!”
“I didn’t promise,” she said, shading her eyes. “So Fred and George shouldn’t have said I did.”
“You basically did,” George called out from across the field, swinging his bat and sending a Bludger soaring. “You’ve been at every practice for weeks, talking tactics. We thought you were a convert.”
“She’s still scared Fred’s going to break every bone in his body,” Ginny teased from the stands behind her, wand in hand for mock-commentary.
Fred flew past above them, looping in the air with an exaggerated wobble. “It’s very likely,” he called. “I am tremendously reckless!”
She rolled her eyes, ignoring the rush in her stomach. “You lot didn’t need me,” she called back. “You won.”
Fred angled into a sharp descent, landing near her with all the grace of someone born to broomsticks. He was flushed from flying, hair windswept and cheeks tinged pink. He grinned at her, broad and stupid.
“But it wasn’t the same without our favourite Ravenclaw strategist,” he said, brushing back imaginary tears. “We missed your constant sass and judgment.”
“Didn’t miss your dramatics.”
Fred’s eyes twinkled. “I think you did.”
She huffed. “As if I don’t get enough of that off the pitch.”
He beamed. “See? She likes me.”
“No, I—”
But then Angelina blew the whistle again, and Fred winked before kicking off and soaring back into the air with a wild flourish, looping through a passing drill like he hadn’t just spent half of it teasing her.
She shook her head, hiding a reluctant smile.
The next twenty minutes were routine: Chaser drills, Beater coordination, Keeper defence. Everyone was sharp and focused. Even Fred, despite the obvious effort he was putting into cracking jokes mid-pass. The ball zipped back and forth across the pitch, and she could see him keeping one eye on her even from a distance.
Fred launched forward to catch the Quaffle from Katie, but instead of taking the pass cleanly, he twisted midair, gave a loud grunt, and tumbled off his broom.
It happened so fast she barely registered the fall. One moment he was aloft, and the next, his body hit the grass with a thud, rolling with a convincing groan. He didn’t get up.
Her stomach dropped.
“Oh my God! Fred!” She sprinted across the pitch before she could think, feet flying over the grass, scarf billowing. Her heart thundered in her chest, panic pushing adrenaline into every step.
He was lying facedown, groaning softly, one hand twitching by his side.
She dropped to her knees beside him, breath catching. “Fred? Hey, hey, what hurts? Can you hear me? Can you turn over?”
He groaned again, face still pressed to the grass. By now Ginny was behind her and the rest of the team were touching down on the field.
“Oh my god! Don’t move. Merlin, did you land on your head? We need to get Madam Pomfrey!”
And then he turned his head. And grinned.“Gotcha.”
Dead silence met him. Dead, thick silence.
“You absolute git,” she breathed in a combination of relief and hurt as her horror passed by.
Fred blinked innocently up at her from the grass. “What? You were worried?”
“I was worried because I thought you’d shattered your bloody spine—!”
He pushed himself upright, still chuckling. “I just wanted to see if you’d run to my rescue.”
“You—” She shoved him. “You idiot! You utter arse—!”
“Hey, you were the one who denied caring about our wellbeing,” he said, laughing, brushing grass off his robes and leaning back on his hands. “I was just…confirming it.”
Her fists were clenched, cheeks flushed with rage and humiliation. “Do you have any idea how terrified I was?” she snapped. “I thought you cracked your skull open!”
“But now we know, if I ever do, you’ll be the first one on the scene.” His grin grew wicked. “To kiss it better. Maybe nurse me back to health.”
She stared at him. And then smacked him on the arm.
“OW—! Okay, maybe no kissing then—!”
“You’re unbelievable,” she snapped, standing up and brushing off her robes. “Completely unbelievable. You think this is funny? I was genuinely scared.”
Fred froze. The laughter died in his eyes. “Hey…I didn’t mean to…Look, I didn’t think it’d really scare you.”
She took a step back. “Well next time, don’t pull some ridiculous stunt just to make a point.”
And with that, she turned on her heel and stormed off the pitch, boots kicking up grass, hair flying behind her.
Fred watched her go. His mouth opened. Then closed. “Y/n, wait!” Ginny called out after the girl, hurrying to try catch up.
George landed beside him, blinking. “Well, you messed that one up.”
Fred ran a hand down his face. “…Yeah.”
———————————————————————
It started the morning after practice.
Fred waited for her outside the Great Hall, leaning against the stone wall with a casual smirk and a single Chocolate Frog in hand. A peace offering.
“Oi, Ravenclaw,” he said as she walked past with her books hugged to her chest. “I come bearing bribes.”
She didn’t stop walking. Didn’t look at him. Didn’t even blink.
Fred’s grin faltered. “Too soon?”
She turned a corner and was gone. He stood there, alone, Chocolate Frog melting slightly in his palm.
A few days later, he tried again. This time in the library.
He spotted her at a back table, parchment spread out, quill flicking in sharp, irritated strokes.
Fred walked in with a crooked smile and a folded up piece of parchment under his arm - a “Very Official Study Guide to Quidditch for Stubbornly Brilliant Ravenclaws,” complete with doodles of brooms, bludgers, and stick figures he would insist were very accurate drawings of her throwing things at him.
He dropped it on the table. She looked at it. Then at him.
And then very slowly, deliberately, slid the parchment back over to him without unfolding it, and returned to her notes.
His throat felt dry. “Right,” he muttered. “Cool. I’ll… just be over there. Not interrupting.”
At dinner in the Great Hall, he tried to catch her eye across the tables.
She laughed at something Luna Lovegood said. She looked even more beautiful when she laughed, Fred thought. He watched her as she shifted her weight. Brushed her hair behind her ear. Never once looked his way. Even when he dropped a levitating pumpkin pasty in front of her plate.
It hovered. She didn’t flinch. It floated back to him like a defeated puppy.
By the time the weekend rolled around, the rest of Gryffindor House had caught onto her mysterious and sudden absence.
“She hates you,” George said cheerfully, flopping onto the common room couch beside Fred. “It’s actually impressive.”
“Shut up.”
“Yes, well, what did you expect after that stunt you pulled?” Ginny asked, biting into an apple as she joined them. “Mum always said you had the emotional intelligence of a troll with a head cold.”
“I didn’t think—” Fred started, running a hand through his hair. “It was a joke. A harmless joke.”
“Doesn’t seem so harmless now that she’s not talking to you, does it?” Ginny said bluntly.
Fred looked at her, jaw tight. He didn’t reply.
Ginny let out a long sigh, “You know what, let me help you out here. Only because you look so pathetic right now moping over her.”
“I’m not moping,” Fred scoffed.
“Admit it Freddie, you are moping,” George shook his head in disagreement. “You miss her. We can all see it. I think someone has a little crush.”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” The older of the two twins protested, though the flush on his cheeks said quite the opposite.
“Come off it, Fred. Admit that you like her and I’ll tell you exactly where you went wrong,” Ginny bargained. “It’s really a wonder you haven’t figured it out for yourself.”
A muscle in Fred’s jaw feathered as he clenched it. He was tempted to tell Ginny where she could stick her wand but then he thought better of it. After all, he had missed y/n. He’d missed her smile and the sound of her laugh. He’d missed her quiet presence in the common room and the sparkle in her eyes when they met his. But what he missed most of all was the feeling that bloomed in his chest whenever she was around - warm and comforting and exhilarated all at once. The idea of never getting to experience that again left a hollow feeling in his stomach. So, swallowing his pride, he turned to his sister.
“So maybe I do like her,” he admitted. “So, spill. What is it?”
“Do you know why she hates Quidditch?”
Fred looked over, eyes shadowed in the candlelight. “Because she’s allergic to fun?”
Ginny didn’t smile. “No, Fred. Her dad? I’m guessing you’ve never connected the names?”
He frowned. “What? Y/l/n?”
Ginny nodded. “Her dad used to play professionally. For the Montrose Magpies. He was one of the best Chasers the league had. Fast. Sharp. People said he could outwit a bludger mid-match.”
Fred’s breath caught. He had heard the name. In old game tapes and collector’s cards. Y/l/n was a legend. He couldn’t quite remember what had happened to the guy, just that his name wasn’t around anymore.
“What happened?”
“Final game of the season,” Ginny said. “Against the Wimbourne Wasps. A Bludger hit him wrong - back of the head. Mid-air. He fell about thirty feet. Broke his back. Spine never healed right.”
Fred’s face paled.
“She was there,” Ginny added, voice low. “She was seven.” Silence fell between them like a dropped wand. “She watched the game from the stands. Watched him fall. Watched the medics run out, her mum scream. He was in St Mungo’s for months. He still can’t walk properly. Definitely can’t ride a broom.”
Fred stared at his hands, at the way they curled into helpless fists. “Merlin, I’m an asshole.” Fred’s chest ached.
All her sharp retorts, her anxiety in the stands, the way she chewed her lip watching drills…it all clicked. The reason she could see patterns in plays, why she knew every injury in league history, why she wouldn’t come to games. It wasn’t because she hated the sport. It was because she loved someone who lost everything to it.
And Fred had made a joke out of it. A joke that pulled that old, raw fear right back into her chest.
He stood up abruptly, blood rushing in his ears.
“Fred—” Ginny started.
“I have to fix it.”
Ginny sighed. “How’re you gonna do that?”
He didn’t reply. He just turned and walked out, the guilt coiled tight around his ribs like a bludger straight to the heart.
———————————————————————
The Owlery was nearly empty, save for the soft rustling of feathers and the scent of straw and parchment. Wind whistled gently through the open arches, tugging at the edge of her robes as she tied a letter to one of the school owls.
Behind her, boots scuffed against stone. She didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. She was familiar with with the sound of his steps, with the pattern of his gait, and the feeling of his presence.
Fred.
He cleared his throat, awkward and quiet - two words no one ever really used to describe him. Not until now.
“Hey,” he said gently.
She didn’t reply. Just stared ahead at the misty hills beyond the castle, where the sun was starting to dip toward the treeline, gilding the sky in gold.
Fred stepped closer, hands in his pockets, voice soft. “I know I’m probably the last person you want to see right now.”
She still didn’t look at him, but she didn’t walk away either. He took that as a small mercy.
“About that stupid prank,” he said. “I didn’t understand. I just thought…I don’t know what I thought anymore. Maybe that it would be funny? A stupid joke? A chance to get you to pay attention to me?”
The silence stretched, brittle and heavy. Fred exhaled slowly. “I never meant to make you feel like that - to scare you like I did.”
She flinched at that. Not visibly, not much. But enough for him to notice.
“I didn’t think about what watching someone you care about get knocked out of the sky would feel like.”
Now she turned. Just a little. Enough to look at him from the corner of her eye, guarded.
Fred met her gaze, voice steadier now. “Ginny told me. About your dad. About what it did to your family.”
A beat passed.
“I’m not him,” he added, quieter. “And I’m not asking you to pretend it didn’t happen. I just…I just want you to know I’d never want to be the cause of that kind of hurt. Not to you.”
Her breath caught, barely audible, but she didn’t turn away from him. Her sharp eyes stayed trained on his, and that was enough to keep his heartbeat racing.
“I care about you,” he said. “More than I’ve let on. More than I probably should, considering I’ve spent the last week being hexed by your glares.”
That pulled a flicker at the corner of her mouth. Not a smile. But something close. He took a small step closer, tone gentler now.
“I miss you, alright? I miss our bickering and your eye-rolls and the way you always correct my Quidditch stats. I even miss you calling me out for being an idiot, which - let’s be honest - is pretty often.”
She looked away, heart thudding too loud in her chest.
“You don’t have to forgive me,” Fred said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just needed to say it. All of it.”
Still, she did not speak. Couldn’t bring herself to.
“I’m sorry.” He lingered a moment longer, like he was hoping for something. A word. A glance. A sign. But she said nothing.
And after a beat, he turned and left her there, alone with the owls and her thundering heart.
———————————————————————
The next morning, y/n sat by the lake, bundled in her cloak as the wind rippled across the water. Her fingertips kept brushing over the scarred words on her hand.
She never expected to fall for someone like him. Someone loud and unpredictable and reckless. A Quidditch player, no less.
She’d promised herself - after seeing what it did to her mother, after watching her father disappear into a hospital bed and never really come back - that she’d never let herself get involved in anything so dangerous.
But Fred wasn’t just a Quidditch player. He was stupidly kind. And funny. And so painfully sincere when it mattered.
And the thought of him hurting because of her? That was a weight she hadn’t expected to feel.
“You’re brooding,” Ginny said, plopping beside her on the bank, tucking her knees to her chest.
“I’m thinking.”
“That’s just silent brooding with a fancier name.”
She snorted despite herself.
Ginny nudged her shoulder. “You saw him, didn’t you?”
She nodded.
“He’s miserable without you.”
“I’m sure he’ll survive.”
Ginny gave her a look.
“Fine,” she muttered. “He seemed sincere.”
“He is sincere. He hasn’t been this quiet since Mum threatened to move the family ghoul into his bedroom in second year.”
That made her laugh. Really laugh, the sound catching on the breeze like music.
Ginny smiled. “He likes you, you know. Really likes you.”
She looked down at her hands, fingers fiddling with the hem of her sleeve. “I don’t know if I can do this, Ginny. I promised myself I’d never fall for a Quidditch player. Never let it…take up space in my life. Never let it cause that kind of grief again.”
“But you already have,” Ginny said gently. “You fell for him, didn’t you?”
“I think I have…” Y/n admitted in a small voice, as if afraid of the words themselves. “Is that weird to you? Me talking about your brother like that?”
Ginny gave a small shrug. “Doesn’t bother me. But I think…if there’s one thing Mum always says about Dad, it’s that she never regretted falling for him. Nothing else that they’ve gone through ever mattered more than getting to love him.”
Her eyes stung, just a little.
“And for what it’s worth,” Ginny added, bumping her shoulder, “he’s completely destroyed without you. Like, extreme levels of mopiness. He’s reached all new levels of melodramatic. It’s almost impressive.”
That pulled another soft laugh from her, and Ginny smiled, triumphant. But the laughter faded into something heavier. Because the truth was: she didn’t know if she could allow herself to open up to him. But she wanted to. And maybe that was the first step.
“Next game’s on Sunday. Gryffindor’s playing Slytherin,” Ginny reminded her before standing and dusting her hands off on her pants. “Something tells me you’ve got a lot to think about before then.”
———————————————————————
The late November air had a bitter edge to it, the kind that stung your nose and numbed your fingertips. A wind cut across the Quidditch pitch, tugging at scarves and cloaks as students filtered into the stands. Among them was a splash of unexpected colour - scarlet and gold - looped loosely around the neck of a Ravenclaw girl.
She didn’t wear it high and proud like the Gryffindors around her. It wasn’t wrapped tightly to ward off the cold. It hung loosely, uncertainly, like the decision she’d finally come to only hours before.
Ginny spotted her immediately. “You came,” she said with a hopeful grin, sliding onto the bench beside her. Luna was already there, humming to herself with her lion hat perched lopsided on her head.
Y/n nodded once, her eyes scanning the pitch nervously. “Don’t read into it.”
Ginny smirked. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
But Ginny’s gaze flicked to the Gryffindor locker room tunnel with unmistakable meaning. And sure enough, moments later, the red-robed team came bursting onto the pitch in a roar of noise and wind and energy. The crowd erupted, but the world stilled for her.
Fred was there. Helmet under one arm, broom in hand, grinning lazily as if none of this mattered. But she saw it. The way his eyes scanned the crowd, how his steps faltered for half a second when they landed on her. She barely had time to react before the whistle blew.
His gaze was still locked on her when the bludger nearly took his head off.
“Oi!” George barked, dragging Fred down by the sleeve just in time. “Focus!”
Fred blinked, as if waking from a dream, and then, grinned. That was when she knew.
The fear that twisted inside her was different than the one she remembered watching her father fall. This one was sharper, messier, tangled up in affection and anger and wanting to leap out of her skin. She gripped the rail in front of her as the game roared to life.
Slytherin was out for blood. It was instantly brutal. Bludgers aimed not at brooms but heads, shoulder checks that bordered on illegal, and jeering chants from the green-and-silver section. Y/n felt herself flinch every time Fred dipped or swerved too close to a hit.
He was reckless. Of course he was. She hated him for it, and loved him all the same.
“You alright?” Ginny asked, frowning as y/n went still after a particularly hard and fast bludger sent Fred spinning midair.
“I’m fine,” she lied. She felt her stomach lurching as though she were about to be sick.
But she wasn’t. Not when Fred pulled out of the dive gripping his side. Not when his broom sagged slightly, and he drifted off toward the sidelines.
“Madam Hooch’s calling a timeout,” Ginny muttered, already standing. “Something’s wrong.”
Y/n didn’t even think. She was halfway down the stands before anyone could stop her.
By the time she reached the edge of the pitch, Fred was sitting on the ground, one glove off, squinting at Madam Hooch as she shone the glowing tip of her wand over his left rib cage. The look on his face - sharp but edged in pain - scared her more than any curse could.
She shoved past the barricade of people. “Move! Fred!”
His eyes flicked toward her, confused. “You came.”
“Why are you smiling? Are you…? Don’t tell me you’re joking again—”
“I’m not,” he said softly, wincing. “I’m actually a bit knackered.”
She sank beside him, eyes scanning his face. His cheekbone was grazed from the scratch of a broom tail as he’d flown too close. And the way he sat clearly gave away an injury at his side where he’d been struck.
“You absolute idiot,” she whispered.
“I missed you too.”
Despite the worry, the fury, the ache she’d carried for weeks, her heart fluttered stupidly.
Madam Hooch stood and gave him a curt nod. “Nothing appears to be broken. You can finish the game.”
Fred made a move to stand but faltered, and she caught his arm instinctively. “I thought you didn’t like Quidditch,” he said as he leaned closer, eyes locked onto hers.
She hesitated for a beat, heart pounding, before a swell of confidence overcame her. The wind tugged at her hair, and the roar of the crowd faded beneath the rush in her ears.
“I don’t,” she said. “But I like you.”
Then she grabbed the collar of his flying robes and yanked him forward.
He didn’t need more than a second. His lips found hers like they were made for it. Burning and soft and clumsy all at once. She could feel the grin in his kiss, the way his fingers hovered at her waist like he couldn’t believe this was real.
Somewhere above them, Lee Jordan’s voice cracked over the magical megaphone. “AND IT SEEMS…YES, FOLKS, IT SEEMS FRED WEASLEY HAS JUST BEEN KISSED SENSLESS BY WHO MY SOURCES TELL ME IS A RAVENCLAW IN DISGUISE, IN FRONT OF THE ENTIRE STADIUM! MERLIN, SOMEONE GET THAT BOY A TROPHY!”
Laughter erupted around them, but Fred only pulled away slightly, forehead resting against hers. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that.”
Her voice trembled. “You’re going to win, right?”
His grin stretched, cocky and wild. “For you? Always.”
And with that, he straddled his broom and shot back into the sky, chasing a Bludger and leaving her breathless on the ground. One hand still clutched her scarf, the taste of wind and honey lingering on her lips.
She turned and walked back to the stands, cheeks flaming, heart racing.
Ginny was already smirking when she sat back down. “I guess you weren’t lying. You’re not into Quidditch, huh? You’re just into my brother.”
“Shut it.” But she didn’t stop smiling. Not once, not even when Fred scored the winning goal and pointed straight at her from the air.
This time, she cheered the loudest.
———————————————————————
The Gryffindor common room was glowing. Literally. Lanterns had been charmed to flicker gold and crimson, casting the whole space in a warm, celebratory hue. Firewhisky (procured through highly suspicious means) sloshed in mugs, music played from a bewitched gramophone in the corner, and someone had strung Gryffindor banners between the beams of the ceiling.
Y/n pushed through the portrait hole, the same Gryffindor scarf she’d stolen from Ginny still knotted loosely around her neck and a nervous energy trailing behind her like steam. The room erupted into cheers the moment someone spotted her.
“There she is! The Ravenclaw with the kiss of the century!” bellowed Seamus, raising his drink in her direction.
“Did you see her grab him? Poor bloke didn’t even have time to prepare!” added Parvati, giggling from her perch on the arm of a squashy chair.
“Who cares about him! Did you see Umbridge’s face? She looked like she’d swallowed a blast-ended skrewt!” Padma exclaimed.
Y/n flushed, her expression flickering between embarrassment and amusement as she murmured greetings and edged through the crowd.
“Looking for someone?” Ginny asked, sidling up beside her with a smirk and an all-too-innocent tone.
“Maybe,” Y/n answered, trying not to smile. Her eyes scanned the crowd, but there was no sign of Fred. “Have you seen him?”
Ginny raised a brow. “I might have,” she said cryptically, before disappearing into the crowd, leaving y/n blinking.
She spotted Neville next, sipping a butterbeer and looking entirely overwhelmed by the crowd.
“Neville,” she said warmly, touching his elbow.
“Oh, hello! Merlin, you were brilliant!” he blurted, then went beet red. “I mean, not in the game, obviously, but with Fred, and the kiss, and all.”
Reader laughed, tension easing slightly. “Thanks, I think.”
She continued through the crowd, waving to Lavender and dodging a butterbeer spill, searching every corner. No Fred. It was only when she spotted George leaning against a wall near the hearth, chatting with Angelina, that she zeroed in. He saw her coming and grinned.
“Looking for a certain ginger?”
“If you’re referring to yourself, no,” she quipped.
George chuckled and casually slipped a folded piece of parchment into her hand, before turning back to Angelina without another word.
Curious, she stepped aside and unfolded the note.
If you’re reading this, you’re looking for me. Which is good, because I’ve been hoping you would. Come find me. Just follow the hall behind the tapestry of the drunk troll (you know the one). I promise it’s worth it.
– F
Intrigued, she tucked the note into her pocket and slipped out of the common room unnoticed, heart drumming faster than she liked to admit.
She ducked behind the tapestry Fred had referenced - one depicting a troll singing off-key with a mug in one hand and a lute in the other - and found the narrow corridor just as he’d promised.
It was like stepping into another world. Candles floated gently along the walls, their golden light flickering against stone. The floor was dusted with soft rose petals and the air smelled faintly of cinnamon. At the far end, standing sheepishly beneath a hovering bouquet of enchanted peonies and a few nervously blinking fairy lights, was Fred Weasley.
Y/n stopped in her tracks, lips parting in disbelief. “What is all this?”
Fred rubbed the back of his neck, cheeks tinged with red. “So…I might’ve gone slightly overboard. But in my defense, you did kiss me in front of the entire Quidditch stadium, and I figured I should try to live up to that.”
She folded her arms, the corners of her mouth twitching. “This isn’t exactly your usual style, Weasley.”
“Well,” he said, stepping forward, “neither is falling for a Ravenclaw who once told me Quidditch was the root of all evil and that I had the attention span of a flobberworm.”
She laughed. “I stand by both those statements.”
“Fair,” he grinned. “I guess you did win the bet. I couldn’t make you like quidditch. Merlin, you still flinch when someone so much as nudges a bludger.”
She opened her mouth to argue, but he held up a hand.
“But you came to every practice. You brought ideas. You even wore that scarf.” He pointed to the Gryffindor colors still around her neck, the edge of it frayed from overuse. “So if you didn’t do it all for quidditch, then that means you did it all for me.”
“I…” she began, but he stepped closer.
“And I know what you’re going to say. That maybe I’m a bit too much like your dad. That Quidditch is dangerous and selfish and a bit idiotic, and honestly? You’re right again. But you also can’t live your life afraid of the what ifs.”
She went still.
He took a breath. “So if you’ll have me, I’ll promise to always be careful. I’ll promise to never pretend I’m injured again, because, bloody hell, I was a right idiot for that. And - this is the most important part - I’ll never ask you to love Quidditch. Not ever again.”
She smiled slowly, heart aching in that soft, terrifying way that meant it was real.
He hesitated. “So…what do you think? Are you willing to give us a shot?”
“I think,” she said, stepping into him until the flickering candlelight danced across both their faces, “that you talk far too much.”
Then she kissed him again, gently this time, like the first breath after a long dive underwater.
Fred made a soft sound of relief and kissed her back, one hand moving instinctively to her waist, the other brushing her cheek with surprising reverence.
When they pulled apart, his eyes were alight. “That means yes?”
“That means yes,” she confirmed. And nothing - not even quidditch - had ever made Fred Weasley’s smile shine brighter.
euphoria — jj maybank x reader
a fic in which jj’s nate , you’re cassie & kiara’s maddy.
or . . . where you fuck your bestfriends ex boyfriend in a bathroom at a party & almost get caught.
You didn’t want to be that girl.
The girl who broke girl code. The one who messed around behind her friends back , lying and sneaking around. The sheer thought of you doing such a thing— hurting someone you cared about so deeply , nearly brought you to tears with guilt.
But for some reason , he had been there. In that bathroom at midnight when the clock struck twelve. He was there , looking at you like you were the prettiest girl in the world. And you stood there— in awe , in surprise. The way he drank your body in , slowly because he didn’t want to miss anything. So tall and handsome , sandy blonde hair a mess around his forehead from the heat of the island.
Fuck. . .
You stared at him with parted lips , eyes so wide and when he started walking closer with sweet nothings falling out of his mouth and dripping off of his tongue— your throat felt dry and you couldn’t speak. You couldn’t think. Everything else had turned to mush and every moral you currently had disappeared.
“You’re so pretty.” He mused. The sentence came out like a taunt and a compliment mixed in one. Like he was making fun of you somewhere in between the lines as a smirk played on his face.
Standing frozen in your spot , swallowing harshly , you simply nodded. A nod that seemed so pathetic and needy , you hadn’t realized how desperate you seemed to him. Perky , willing , hanging on to every word and movement like it was a prayer.
His feet hitting the floor rang against the four walls of the bathroom. And your breathing hitched as he moved closer , absentmindedly backing yourself up to create more space. The air was fucking suffocating you. Like all of the oxygen vanished and all you could smell , think , taste or hear— was JJ fuckin’ Maybank.
“Want me to kiss you , pretty baby?”
Shuddering when his breath fanned against your face , he said nothing. Watching you so intensely it made your skin feel like it was on fire. His knee had pushed itself between your legs , spreading them.
You felt so open and exposed despite being fully clothed. It felt like he was staring at more than you , something much deeper and darker inside of your soul that you didn’t know existed.
You shivered and he smirked. Taking that as an invitation to reach down and press his mouth to yours.
It happened so suddenly. At first it was slow. His tongue licking the folds of your lips , and without question or thought or sanity , they parted. And it slipped in your mouth , swirling around anywhere it could touch.
He groaned with eyes closed , the warmth of your mouth giving him satisfaction and pleasure mixed into one. You were mushy in his hands , soft and sweet. JJ felt like he could do whatever he wanted to you and you’d let him , and enjoy it.
The tension was hot and needy. It wrapped around the two of you like a blanket , strapping itself down to where you couldn’t breathe. And with wild , big eyes— nothing could have prepared you for anything else after this.
Somehow he had tugged the tight dress you had wore down , your breast spilling out embarrassingly so. You gasped as JJ’s head immediately ducked down. His lips wrapping around your hardened nipple , sucking on it harshly as he palmed the other. Instinctively your back arched , lips parted and heart beating so hard you felt it in your ears.
You could feel him smirk. Feel him press his thigh harder against you making your throat release a pathetic sound between a whimper and a moan. It made him grunt in response and back away , eyes locked on yours silently as he quickly undone his belt buckle.
“JJ—” you tried to say but it came out so very wrong. Your hair a mess , dress pulled down and up to where it bunched all around your stomach. Your vulnerability , the wide bunny expression only made him harder. Only made him want you more.
“You want it?” He muttered , lips capturing yours once again. It was hot , messy , wet. It was everything filthy and you were drinking it all in. “Say you want it , baby.”
Shuddering against your judgement , you nodded furiously. “I want it.”
He said nothing but stared. His hand wrapping around his cock , not caring , not ashamed. The music that boomed in the background seemed like a soft hum now. “If we do this— can you not say anything?”
You were already too far gone. “Yes.”
He wasted no time. No foreplay. No games. As he slipped between your legs , entering your body , it was all gone. The friendship with Kiara. The severity. The guilt. Your walls clenched around him delicately but deliberately. In such a way that made the wheels in JJ’s head turn.
“Fuck.”
Your back arched as far as it would go against him. He was smooth and fast. Touching , kissing , licking every inch of skin he could find. He panted loudly , gripping at your hips like you’d leave and never come back. Like he wouldn’t let you.
Skin slapping and lewd noises over took the bathroom. It was fast and rough. Everything you had needed or ever wanted. You were blown out and fucked and he was getting off on it. On using you. On you letting him. You enjoying it.
The familiar heat swirled in your belly and you chanted his name like a prayer , holding on to his shoulders for support. “I’m gonna—”
Knuckles rapping loudly and angrily on the door made you freeze instantly. Clenching onto JJ’s cock in anxiety and desire.
“Open the fuckin’ door!”
And then it all faded.
Kiara’s yells were painfully clear. So clear that both you and JJ flinched simultaneously.
This was just the beginning.
hii this is my first time requesting, but i was wondering if u could do tennis coach!art x reader?? maybe at first it’s just reader looking way too deeply into if there’s an undertone in his teachings, and then him subtly confirming as such
WILD CARD
summary: You came back to tennis because you thought you were ready. Ready to face the pressure, the legacy, the weight of your father’s name. But weren’t ready for Art. Your dad’s best friend. Your coach. Married. Twice your age. Maybe you shouldn’t have come back to the sport at all when you know what’s going to happen.
pairings: coach!art donaldson x zweig!reader
warnings: 11.4k words. mature themes. large age gap (20s x 40s). power imbalance (coach x student, best friend’s daughter). infidelity. unprotected p in v. internal ejaculation. breeding kink / pregnancy risk mention. cunnilingus (post-ejaculation). degradation & praise. mild choking / hand-over-mouth. forced proximity. alcohol mention. morally grey dynamic. power imbalance. rough sex / manhandling / impact play. internalized guilt & shame. read & consume responsibly.
note: hello to the anon who requested this!!! first off, thank u for trusting me with your first request 🥺 i’m so glad you dropped this in my inbox. you asked for coach art and um. i think i. went a little insane. decided the reader will be pat’s daughter. ik this probably isn’t what you were thinking when you requested this… but uh. i still hope you like it. and i hope other readers will too. <3 :)
You didn’t grow up normal. You always know that because of the constant reminders that you have a different privileged life. By seven, you’d already been to three Grand Slams, met Federer twice, and you could even string a racquet faster than most adults who claimed they’re tennis players. There weren’t playdates or sleepovers around you. Just airports, hotel rooms, courts, and your dad rewatching matches like TV shows while icing his knees. Life followed match seasons. You learned to keep score before you could memorize the multiplication table. Learned to stay silent on the courtside when you watch him. Learned charm from watching post-game interviews, a towel around his neck, lying through a grin. Because your dad wasn’t just any tennis player. Patrick Zweig. Loud. Marketable. Addicted to winning, but even more addicted to being adored.
Fans screamed. Brands chased. Headlines followed. To the world, he was the showman. He likes to perform. To you, he was the guy who taught you how to toss a ball right. The one who told you to lock your wrist, even when your grip was still awkward and small. And orbiting close was Art Donaldson- there before you were even born. Patrick's best friend. Same junior circuit, same tennis academy, same shitty motels and racquet brands. If Patrick was fire, Art was ice. Sharp. Clean. Precise. But they moved together. They always had. A good pair, what they say. It looks perfect and too addictive to watch their old tapes when they play doubles. Then came Tashi. Star. Ruthless. Smarter than anyone gave her credit for. Your dad dated her first. Back when they were still young and still thought nothing would get in the way. But it did. He wanted something deeper. She wanted the trophy. They split. She stuck around though. And years later, she married Art.
No one was surprised, but it changed things. Tashi didn’t fade out of the picture. She picked you up from school, told you to stop wasting talent, and fix your hair before matches. She wasn’t soft. But she showed up. That's what counted, right? You had them all Patrick, Art, and Tashi. Your dad. His best friend. His ex who married his best friend. A triangle no one spoke about, but everyone worked around. You never got the whole story about it. They never told you but you absorbed it, or at least guessed what happened. You can see it in long car rides and cut-off comments. In silence that’s thick enough to be the kind of truth you can see. You didn’t know if they were still in love or just too tired to stop circling each other. Now, you’re older and you know it’s history. And history doesn’t leave. It just sinks deeper.
Being Zweig means everyone thought you’d carry it. You had the bloodline, the coaching, the headlines waiting to be written. You were a prodigy. At least when you were young. For a while, it even felt good. But somewhere along the line, it got too much and got burned out. So you left it all behind. You didn’t want to be a legacy. You just wanted peace, but maybe you have to face the truth that’s been haunting you. Now you’re back. You don’t know what came into you to try again but after thinking about it for a long time, you told your dad you wanted to try again. Expected something soft to start with. Something like a club coach. Something casual. But Patrick had other plans. Well, he’s always extra and wants the best for you after all. “You’re starting next week,” he said, voice low and certain. “Art agreed to coach you.” No space to answer. No room for complaints.
And guess what? You’re here and twenty-two. Put the bag over your shoulder. Hair neat. Wearing a skirt that clings more than it should, but is appropriate for the sport. You look like every other rich girl who picked tennis for aesthetics, except you didn’t choose this. You were born into it. It’s basically in your genetics. The air smells like sweat and acrylic and nerves baked into the hard court. Smells like memory. Like pressure. Art’s across the baseline, tossing a ball lazily before catching it again. All black. No logo… which is new because he used to wear brand clothes, but that’s for the sponsorship... He’s really getting comfortable with retirement and coaching. He’s still moving like a man who could break someone just by standing still. He hasn’t looked at you. Or maybe he has and just didn’t care, that idea feels offensive considering he has known you for long…
The first thing he says is: “Tie your shoes tighter.” You’re still halfway across the court, laces clean, tucked in. He doesn’t glance up. Just point it out like he’s looking for faults he can see in you which is annoying. “They’re fine,” you say, though you glance down. “They’ll slip if you stop short,” he says. “You’ll lose your balance.” You crouch anyway, it’s better to do it than fight with his ass. Tighten them. Double-knot. Mostly to shut him up. When you stand, he finally looks. Eyes are drawn from your sneakers to your face. One nod then he turns. That’s it. No greeting. No welcome back. No anything! Jesus, is this what retirement do to him?
The session moves like that. Sharp and brutal. He doesn’t coddle, he doesn’t joke or lighten the mood. Makes you redo warmups all over again. Fixes your grip with just two fingers pressing your palm, light but certain. Says nothing when you miss. Barely reacts when you don’t. When you finally land a forehand clean, he just says, “Finally.” Like it’s the only thing you did right in this first coaching session. Your shirt sticks to your back. Your legs tremble. And still, nothing soft from him. No flicker of warmth. He stops a stray ball with his foot, balancing it there as he says, “You’re out of shape.” You look up, still panting. “It’s my first session.” He shrugs. “You’re not a teenager anymore.”
That’s it. No word of encouragement you want to hear since it's been years since you last held a racket. No smile… face so stoic it’s making you want to punch him in the nose Just a whistle and the soft clatter of balls dropping into a hopper. You leave soaked in sweat, but colder than when you walked in. This Art isn’t the one you knew. This one’s leaner. Closed off. Stripped clean of charm. And now he’s yours to tolerate. Coaching becomes a routine. Same time, same court, and same drills. He doesn’t miss a day. You've never seen him late. Doesn’t waste a single breath. Call you by your last name like you’re a stranger. It’s weird. You are not used to being referred to by your last name because they often use that to Patrick, not to you. Like he didn’t teach you to serve like him. Doesn’t flinch when you argue. Doesn’t soften when you push back. He just holds the line. Makes you meet him where he is. Every. Damn. Time.
Some moments slip through. Quick. You won’t even notice it if you are not just… too bothered by his coldness. But sometimes you can feel his palm pressed too low on your back during drills. The way he jerks his gaze after catching your legs when your towel falls. The slow drag of his thumb over your wrist- not quite intimate, maybe maybe just to steady you. Once, after the cooldown, he kneels to adjust your shoulders. Tells you to pull back. You do. He stays there a second too long. His eyes hold yours. Then he clears his throat and tells you to go home. That’s it. But it happens again. And again. You don’t ask about Tashi. You feel like he will just dismiss you if you ask anything. He doesn’t mention Patrick. Not once. Some days it feels like he’s trying not to look. Other days, it’s all he does. You tell yourself he’s just hands-on and focused. But you’ve seen him with other girls he’s coaching with. And there’s a distance he keeps. How he’s hard with his teachings but warmer to them. How quickly he moves on. How he corrects them but not in a way he does to you. God, it’s so different.
Near the end of one session, when the sun already dips low, your body is aching and damp through the waistband. You reach for your water bottle that rolled under the net so you bend without thinking. One knee over the cable, and your back curved low while your skirt is already snug and now bunched higher. You don’t fix it because you’re too tired, but it hits you, so you glance back. He’s there in the baseline. Clipboard down, his eyes locked on you. He doesn’t even blink. When you stand, he flicks his gaze to your face. “Focus next time.” You blink. “On what?” He just calls the next drill and ignores your question like it doesn’t even matter. That’s where it starts- the guessing. The heat in your stomach every time he steps in too close, and every time he stays too long. You tell yourself you’re imagining it. But it won’t stop. His jaw clenches when you stretch forward. His hands twitch when your breath catches. You see it all.
When he’s trying to keep it together, it’s where you push harder. Tighter skirts. Smaller tops. Move like it’s nothing. But you’re testing him. Every time your back arches a little more. Every time you drag a stretch out too long. After the third week, you stop pretending. You show up in a borderline short skirt. Shirt clinging. Laces tied slowly, hips tilted just enough. He trains you harder. Barking orders. Snapping. But the way he watches sticks. You kind of just want to give up and use it to your advantage. Your legs give out and you sprawl across the court. One knee up, the other stretched. Skirt hitched and shirt soaked and clinging to your chest. You cover your eyes from the sun. “I’m gonna die here,” you say. “Just leave me. Tell my father I trained hard.”
Steps approach you. It’s measured. He stands above your body with his arms crossed. His eyes hit your legs before snapping back to your face. “You need water and to stand up,” he says, voice rough. “I need a new coach,” you mutter. “One that lets me breathe.” He doesn’t answer. Just watch. You see it- the shift in his stance, the tension in his jaw, the way his hips angle. The way he’s hard under his sweats. Barely, but enough. You blink. “And I can’t. Too weak.” His voice drops. “You’re not weak.” You drag a hand over your thigh like you’re stretching. “Then come make me.” He turns quickly. Leaves without a word and leaves you there. You stay flat on the court, heart pounding under your ribs. You’re sure now he’s affected by you.
The next morning, you show up early. Hair neat. Gloss only. Skirt longer. The shirt is looser. Not too much skin. Even your towel is folded clean. You look like someone who means business. As expected, Art’s already there, silent, and stretching. He looks at your outfit. Eyes flick down and back to the clipboard. Says nothing. You don’t either. You change everything on purpose because Patrick told you he would come and Patrick being Patrick he arrives loud, sunglasses on, and with a coffee in hand. “There she is,” he says. “You'd better have a good forehand today. I brought a camera.” You smile sweetly. “Only the best for you.” He posts at the fence. You don’t even look his way.
The session starts. You’re clean and sharp. There’s no teasing or playing around either. When you bend, your knees stay tight. When you stretch, your back stays straight. You don’t slip. Not once. Not like yesterday. The one where Art’s grip on the stopwatch turned white-knuckled. You give nothing away today. And he says almost nothing back. A nod. One correction. No contact. But during breaks, you feel it. His eyes flicker. Linger. He’s tight, and tense. Patrick claps when you land a strong backhand. “That’s my girl,” he says. “Told you she still had it.” Art doesn’t glance over. “She’s putting the work in.” His grip on the hopper tightens. When the practice ends, you grab your towel and head for the bench. Behind you, your dad says, “She’s sharper than last time. Better.” Art doesn’t answer at first. Then, finally, “She’s focused.” He looks your way before turning to Patrick. “She always is.” Your dad chuckles. “Well- when she’s not being a pain in the ass.”
You don’t turn. Just drink your water and let your smile sit in the bottle. There’s a pause. Then: “You got plans tonight?” Art stays quiet. Then he glances at you. Quick and careful. Patrick goes on. “Got a bottle I’ve been saving. Come by. We can hang. Like old times.” Art nods once. “Yeah. Alright.” Patrick claps his shoulder. “Atta boy. You still drive that ugly car?” His answer is dry. “Yeah.” Patrick’s already looking at you. “She’ll ride with me. You know where the house is.” Art nods again. Quiet and he doesn’t look at you. You grab your bag and walk past him. Just close enough for your arm to brush his. “See you, Coach,” you say without making eye contact. There’s a pause. Then you hear it, whispering and it’s just for you. “Longer skirt suits you.” You don’t stop walking. Don’t turn around. But the grin that creeps up your face is anything but innocent.
You ride home with your dad. Art drives behind, headlights trailing through the dusk. No one says much and Patrick fills the quiet with stories from matches you’ve heard since childhood. You laugh when you’re supposed to. You smile when expected. All while trying not to think about your coach trailing behind, the same man who whispered about your skirt like it meant something. Like he’s not done watching. It’s been infecting your mind like a virus that you are going crazy and reading all the lines, you are not sure if it’s really there.
You don’t wear anything special when you get home. Just a loose shirt and baggy shorts- something soft, and something quiet. Clothes meant for someone upstairs scrolling, not someone sitting in the dark, and listening. It’s not that they’re keeping it quiet. So you can easily listen with the door cracked open. Music plays low from the kitchen. Classic rock, something your dad always picks when there’s company. You hear bottles shift glasses and a kind of laughter that means something’s already being remembered. You stay upstairs. But you know where they are. Seated in the living room. Your dad gets louder when he’s drinking- more carefree, reaching for stories that feel like him and easy to laugh at now.
“You remember that one match when we were… seventeen?” Patrick’s voice rides ahead of the story. “God. The one where you split your racket and didn’t have a backup? You were losing your mind.” Art answers calmly, his voice harder to catch but clear. “Yeah. You gave me yours. Wrong grip. My wrist hurt for three weeks.” No irritation about the detail. Patrick’s laughing, already pouring again. “You still beat me.” There’s the scrape of his glass across the table. “You double-faulted at match point.” Art doesn’t skip a beat. Just go with the truth. That’s how it’s always been. Patrick bounces, and Art grounds him. One so bright, the other holding it still.
Another pour and the chairs shift. Then: “Lily’s good?” The way your dad asks it sounds soft, but it stirs the air too much. He adds carefully, “Tashi too?” Like that makes it easier, but it doesn’t. Her name drops hard. Art answers simply. “They’re good.” Final. No room to open it, it’s like he’s closing it before he can talk about it. He’s not being cold. He’s just always known when to stop. When something isn’t his to explain. Patrick doesn’t push. He never really does with Art since he knows he can’t really make him talk when he doesn’t want to. Silence folds in and the music fills the space between them. Then, quieter, “Thanks for doing this. Coaching her. I know I kind of threw it on you.” Patrick sounds different now, more like a dad. Less like an athlete who plays tennis for a long time.
Art brushes it off too fast. “It’s fine.” But something sits underneath. Not anger. Just weight. Something you’re not supposed to hear. Patrick keeps going. “She listens to you.” The words carry something else. Something about how you haven’t been listening to him. Not really. Not lately. Art doesn’t answer fast before he says, “Not always.” Not a complaint. It almost sounds… being real. Like he knows you too well to be mad. Patrick laughs. “Well. That makes two of us.” Patrick says playfully even though there's truth behind it. He means it like he always has- he’d still pick you first. Even if you make it hard.
Your door was closed long enough before Art asked about Tashi and when they talked about you, that part’s theirs. You curl under the covers, stare at your phone. Skin is still warm. Your head is loud. You shift once. Again. Still too restless to sleep. Eventually, you do. At least for a little while. Then: 3:12 AM. Red glows on the clock. You sit up slowly. Shirt sticking in one place while your shorts are twisted and your eyes are gritty. You walk out of your room without even fixing anything because you’re in your home after all. But your steps remain quiet, avoiding the creaky stairs. You tell yourself you’re just getting water.
When you reach the kitchen the stove light’s still on. Soft yellow glow across the tile. You stop when you see him. Art stands by the sink. No shoes and messy hair. Same shirt from earlier with his gray sweats hanging low. His body tenses just a little when he sees you, like you weren’t expected- but not unwanted either. He lifts a glass partway, eyes on you. You blink. “You’re still here?” It comes out flat, not flirty, just tired and surprised. He doesn’t blink. “Your dad didn’t want me driving. Guest room.” Like it’s normal. This happens all the time. Maybe it does, he and your father are after all. You nod and move past. Fridge light spills out when you open it, and the light hits your legs. You get a glass and fill it with water. Drink it, and glance back when you push the door of the refrigerator with your foot.
He hasn’t moved. Still leaning with his arms crossed. Eyes heavy on your legs. Not hungry-looking eyes, but focused. Tension hums in the space between you. Same way it did earlier, on the court. You drink again before setting the bottle down. “Couldn’t sleep,” you say. It’s casual. But not empty. Nothing really is between you two anymore. He doesn’t reply and just watches. The shirt clings to your waist. Your thighs touch. He sees all of it. But he doesn’t move, he just shifts his weight against the counter, arms folded tighter. “Drink some water,” he says finally. “Then go back to bed.” His voice lands softly. Firm, but quiet. Like it’s a rule he doesn’t want to say twice.
You tilt your head before asking, “Coach’s orders?” It’s barely teasing. But it hits harder in the dark. He doesn’t laugh but his eyes are on you. A smirk flickers and dies quickly before you can tease him about it. He turns, like it’s safer not to stay in it. “Something like that.” The silence folds again. You don’t leave. Neither does he. You could feel the hem of your shirt touching your thighs, leaning back in the chair as your arms folded and head tilted like you’re waiting for something to happen. The light hit the curve of your hip, and right now, everything about you looks so soft and sleep-ready, but the air between you says otherwise and feels like glass. Neither of you moves. He just watches you stand there, legs showing and clothes too short, as if it’s still just a quiet night. You clear your throat, voice dipping low. “I thought you’d be asleep by now. Didn’t think whiskey kept you up.” The words try to sound casual, but they’re something to push him more. You know he’s not calm in his head, you can feel it. And when he finally answers, his tone stays the same like a mask. “It doesn’t.” The glass between the two of you lifts once. Like it’s breaking already. “You do.” With that, you finally confirmed what you’ve been overthinking about. Here’s the truth. It’s plain and heavy. You know he’s not joking when there’s no smile on his mouth. His fingers are tense around the rim. You don’t know what you were expecting. But it wasn’t that.
You stare. Try to laugh, to shift the mood, to push it away before it sets too deep. “Is that what this is now? A blame game?” Your sarcasm comes thin. Not convincing so he doesn’t even flinch. Doesn’t even blink. Just let the silence stretch until your body starts to buzz with it. Your knuckles press tighter into the counter. You don’t pull away. Can’t. His voice cuts through, simple. “No game.” It lands hard. Like an assurance. You swallow. Step forward, foot brushing the tile. Another step closes the space. His arms stay folded, jaw locked, but his chest doesn’t rise as much now. He’s holding himself still, like any movement might ruin it. The way he watches you now- there’s no pretending left. The kitchen’s too quiet. The light was too low and present. You both feel it.
You’re close enough to feel the heat off him. The edge of his breath. Still, he doesn’t move. Your voice drops, words sliding slowly. “I am surprised to you’re still here, honestly,” He looked straight into your eyes before saying, “Why?” His voice is tight, careful. You feel it in your ribs. A pause passes before you shrug once, loose. “Thought you’d leave. After all that.” Your eyes drop, catch the pulse at his throat. His mouth shifts, like he’s holding something in, and you know you’ve touched something. Then finally, “I don’t look at you because I’m supposed to. I look at you because I can’t fucking help it.” It punches through your chest. Not new. Not shocking. But it's true. And that makes it worse.
You don’t breathe. Don’t even blink. “Say it.” The words come quietly. You are not begging, not teasing- just a push. He stares. “Say what?” He knows. He wants you to say it anyway. Your body fills with tension. You don’t break the gaze. “That you’ve been thinking about it.” You wait. But he’s not doing anything to move or shake anything at all. “I think about a lot of things.” It’s too… generic. You know he’s being vague purposely. He’s dodging you. He’s slipping. You press in closer. “Bullshit.” His expression stays the same, it’s unreadable. But the silence is too loud and it’s cracking. “You think I am blind and don’t see it? The way you look at me. The way you- ” You stop. Breath caught. He cuts in fast. “Stop.” It’s not harsh, he’s not even raising his voice. He steps forward, knuckles brushing your hip. Close enough to touch. Still not touching.
You don’t back down, you hold your chin high. “Then tell me I’m wrong.” His eyes drop to your mouth, to the loose curve of your shirt. It’s the kind of look you’re not supposed to catch. He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t pretend. “I haven’t stopped thinking about it. Not once.” His voice scrapes out of his throat. You lean into the fridge, mouth curling. “Even when I’m being good?” There’s no innocence left in the question. Only the urge for more. You want to know if it drove him crazier but holding back when you made it impossible. His gaze drags down. “Longer skirt suits you.” It sounds like a lie, it sounds like he meant to say that shorter skirts suit you because it looks like he’s been saying this in his head over and over ever since you started wearing unbearable short skirts.
Your smirk deepens. “What’s your excuse now? You can’t see my ass in this. I’ve got water. I’m not misbehaving.” He doesn’t take the bait. Doesn’t relax. His fingers dig into the counter like he’s holding himself in place. “I’m being careful.” That’s unbelievable to hear, considering his voice is strained and looks like it's cracking at the edge. So you just tilt your head before asking him, “Why?” You don’t expect him to answer. He always walks away before the moment breaks. But this time, he doesn’t. His eyes meet yours again, and what he says is so soft it barely lands. “Because your father is upstairs.”
He says it like it should matter. But it doesn’t. Not right now. “But you’re not.” You don’t say it to be smug. Just to name what’s true. His eyes shift, like he’s trying to ignore the fact that you’re right. “You don’t have to…” he starts, voice thin, when he feels your hand on him. You slide it higher and shut it down just to play with the moment. You shake your head, close enough now that you’re breathing in the same air. “I know. I want to.” The words land softly against his chest, your fingers curling into his shirt, right over the beat of his heart, fast, and it’s like he might get into cardiac arrest from just you holding him. He almost touches you, but he drops his hands before they land on you. It’s like he doesn’t trust himself. But you help him by putting it around your waist and it settles there. “You don’t know what you’re doing,” he murmurs, but more likely he’s telling this to himself more than to you. His eyes tell you otherwise, like he doesn’t mean what he just said. Your mouth brushes his jaw. “You gonna stop me?” His grip tightens, hard at your sides. “No,” he says, voice cracking at the edge. “Not tonight.”
You don’t hesitate and your mouth finds him. It's not gentle. Nothing about it is. Lips moving messily and fast like a crash. Like both of you are making up for the tension between the two of you. His hands hold you down to stay at your place around your waist as he walks you until your back hits something, and his mouth moves into yours. His groan hits your tongue, sharp and low. He pulls you closer, hips pressing to yours, and everything burns hotter. He doesn’t pull far when the kiss breaks, just drops lower, mouth dragging against your neck, his breath thick and uneven. “Fuck,” he mutters, lips brushing your throat. “This is so fucking stupid.” But he doesn’t stop. You lean into it, nails dragging down his back, your body arching into his. “Then stop.” But you both know he won’t. He kisses harder, rough at your throat and collarbone, his stubble scratching, his hands slipping everywhere. You twist your grip in his shirt, anchoring him. The counter digs into your spine, but you don’t care. You want to feel it later. You want to remember.
Everything about the kiss turns hurried. Hands desperate. Breath tangled. His palm lay flat on your back when he slid his hand underneath your shirt, the sudden feeling of his warm hand made you twitch. The sound that escapes your mouth is soft and helpless. It pulls a grunt from him, and suddenly he’s shoving closer. One arm snakes around your back. The other slides down, gripping your thigh. You hook it around him. His mouth trails down, kissing too hard along your jaw. You claw at his shirt, yanking it up. He lets you, but he doesn't take it off. His skin’s hot beneath your palms, chest rising. You kiss him again- deeper, dirtier- and he dips his hand into your waistband. You jerk against him. Then- he freeze.
He doesn’t pull away fast. Just freezes. His forehead rests on your shoulder. You feel the change in his body. All that restraint returning. He breathes like he’s counting seconds. Then, slowly he pulls back enough to meet your eyes. “We can’t do it here.” His voice sounds rougher now, tight with control. “He’s upstairs.” You’re still panting. Still aching. “What?” you whisper. “Patrick,” he says. “The guest room is across from yours. The bathroom is in the same hall. If he wakes up” He doesn’t finish. Doesn’t need to. It’s already sitting between you like a wall. His hands stay where they are, not wandering now, just holding you in place. You feel the pull. The way he’s forcing himself still.
He steps back a little. His body’s still close. Still hot. But the air around him has changed. Like he’s holding himself together by one thin thread. You nod. Lift your eyes slowly. “Living room?” It’s all you can think of, but you say it anyway. He shakes his head. “Still too close.” You take another breath, trying to settle the buzz in your blood. “There’s another room.” You hadn’t planned to say it. It just falls out of your mouth. His eyes flick to yours. “Upstairs,” you say. “The attic. It’s mine.” He doesn’t say anything, but you see something shift. Like he remembers.
“My dad had it fixed up when I was sixteen,” you tell him. “I went through that whole thing. Didn’t wanna be around anyone. Slammed some doors. Cried. Begged for space.” You shrug, voice low. “So he gave me the attic. I begged him to soundproof it.” You pause as the memory floats up slowly. “Patrick used to make fun of me for it. He called it my cave. Said I was protesting against him.” You don’t know why you’re telling him. Maybe to calm yourself at this moment. Maybe just to show him it’s real. Art huffs, quiet, almost amused. “Said you locked yourself up there for a month.”
The way he says it makes something catch. His tone is different now. Warm at the edges. Familiar. You nod, a little breathless. “You remember.” He doesn’t look smug. Just tired. “’Cause he wouldn’t shut up about it.” You pause and don’t step back. Just lean in again, voice lower. “It’s still mine. Mattress on the floor. Thick blankets. Pillows. Books. My other laptop. The walls are thick. Nobody hears anything up there.” You’re not even bluffing. You still hide there sometimes when the house is too loud. When you need space because it’s yours.
He doesn’t speak, but you watch the decision move across his face. Your fingers lift, brushing his waistband. “It’s far,” you say, gentler. “Really far. No one will hear.” You’re not pushing. (Maybe a little) Just letting him know it’s okay to want this. His hand twitches at your waist. His breath picks up. And then- he takes your hand. His grip is tight, sure. “Show me,” he says. Just that. But everything’s in the way he says it. You don’t ask anything else. Just lead him upstairs.
Now you are inside of it with him. Naked. The attic is warm. Not hot. Not stifling. Just warm in the way that feels personal. Like the air up here has only ever known you. The mattress is too soft, thick, and bouncy, but sunken now with your and his weight. It’s surrounded by pillows that are now your lifeline to hold on to and where your body feels supported. The old lamp that has been here for years is glowing in the corner. It’s barely showing enough light to show the hand in front of your face. But it’s enough. Enough for him to see the slope of your back. The curve of your ass. The way you spread your knees deeper into the pillows like you’ve done this before- like you’ve done this for him.
He doesn’t say anything when he presses the head of his cock against your pussy. Don’t ask again if you’re sure. You already told him no one would hear. You already told him you wanted it. He just breathes once. It’s low and heavy, then pushes in slowly. Your face buries deeper into the bedding as his cock slides inside. Inch by inch. Thick. Deep. Steady. The stretch makes your hips twitch, thighs tensing as your cunt clenches down too fast. Too tight. You try to muffle the sound you make, but it slips out anyway- soft, broken. The way your body welcomes him, like it’s been waiting.
His hand lands firm on the back of your neck, not rough but it’s not sweet either. Just enough to keep you down. To remind you to stay quiet. To remind himself not to look at your face. Because he can’t. Not like this. Not while he’s inside you, buried to the hilt, hips flush with your ass and his hands digging into your skin. Not when you’re way younger than him while being this warm, this willing. Not when you’re still his best friend’s daughter. Not when he still has a wife. A kid. So he keeps your face in the pillows.
Your cunt squeezes around him again as he starts to move. Slow at first. Dragging his cock back just halfway, then driving it back in until your body jolts forward against the mattress. His hands keep holding your hip and gripping it. It’s tight enough to make a bruise. At this point, he doesn’t even care about being careful. Not when it already feels this good. Not when your pussy’s soaking his cock and taking every inch like you were made for it.
“Fuck,” he breathes out, voice low against your spine. “You’re so- fuck.” His jaw flexes tight when he says it, hips grinding deeper, like if he keeps saying it he’ll somehow get used to how good your pussy feels wrapped around him. But it doesn’t go away. It only gets worse. The guilt. They want. The way your cunt milks his cock with every roll of his hips like it knows exactly how to undo him. You hum into the sheets. Nothing too loud. Just enough to let him know you heard. That you like it. That’s okay.
He thrusts again, but it’s this time. Your ass bounces back against him with the force of it. His eyes locked on how it ripples. Definitely enjoying the sight of his cock disappearing inside your pussy again and again. The way it gets slicker when he pulls out and has this gushing sound when he thrusts again. The room stays quiet, except for the sounds you are making. There’s a soft creak of the floorboard underneath the mattress. The wet sound and the skin is slapping between your bodies every time he pushes back in. Thumb finds the line of your spine and he presses there. Then drags down between your cheeks, finds the place where you’re stretched open, fucked open, dripping.
“You shouldn’t feel this good,” he mutters. Like it’s your fault. Like you planned it. But the truth is it scares him how much he likes it. How good it is to let go. To let it happen. How easy you make it. Like all it takes is one whisper, one look, one night of letting himself forget. And here he is. Cock soaked. Conscience blown out. Still grinding into the tightest cunt he’s ever been inside. And maybe you did. Maybe that’s what kills him the most. The mattress dips under both your bodies as he leans in, his chest brushing your back. Blankets shift beneath your knees, the weight of his body locking you in place. His cock drives in deep again, and this time he doesn’t move right away. Just stays there. Buried. Breathing heavily against your skin. Then his hand covers your mouth. Not suddenly. Not harsh. Just firm. Quiet. Like he’s making sure- one more time- that you won’t make him stop.
“You said no one would hear,” he mutters through his teeth, his voice rough and low. “Then don’t fucking bite the pillow.” But he doesn’t say it like a warning. He says it like a beggar. Like the sound of you might undo him if he hears it raw. Like he needs control over something, anything, because he’s already losing it everywhere else. A noise escapes anyway. It’s not a scream. Not a moan. Just a muffled, breathy whimper that your body can’t help. “Mff- god- Art-” Your chest burns after it slips out. It’s embarrassing how you moan it when you weren’t supposed to say his name like that. You weren’t supposed to moan like that like there’s nothing to be guilty about this. But it’s too late to take it back and you can’t even help it. You’re full. Fucked. Gone.
“Don’t say my name like that,” he growls, even though he’s still fucking into you, even though his cock’s buried all the way in and your cunt’s gripping him like it doesn’t want to let go. It breaks something in him when you say it like that. Like you mean it. Like you want him. Not just his cock. Him. And that’s the worst part. Because it makes him want to say yours back. “W-why not?” you breathe into his palm, voice thin and cracked. “Scared it’ll feel like it's really happening?”
You want to hear him say it. You want to know it’s not just sex. Not just stress. Not just a mistake he’ll regret in the morning. You want him to feel the way you do. Like it already is real. Like it’s been real. His hand lifts. Slide up your belly. Palms your chest with rough fingers. He squeezes until your breath catches, until your whole body goes hot again. His hips slow. Grind. Sink into you until you feel everything-every inch, every pulse, every part of him pressed inside you like he belongs there. “You want me to pretend that this- fuck- that you’re not Patrick’s daughter right now?” The question hit hard. It’s broken. Shaky. Like he wants you to lie. To say yes. To tell him this is nothing, that he doesn’t have to hate himself for how much he loves it.
Your answer is a whisper. “Maybe.” Maybe you want it. Maybe it will feel less guilty if both of you pretend. God, you are not even aware of what you are saying anymore. What you know is, you want him to stay. Or who he’s supposed to be. He snaps his hips forward. “Then shut the fuck up and take it.” And there’s no hesitation anymore. No holding back. Just heat and skin and the thick sound of your cunt sucking him back in every time he pulls out.
The next thrust is deeper. Then another. The rhythm starts to break apart. Messier now. Your knees spread wider into the blankets. His cock slams into you over and over, dragging wet sounds from your body, slick and fast and loud enough to make you wonder if the soundproofing will even hold. “Fuck,” he grits out, his voice close to your ear. “You don’t even feel sorry.” He says it like it’s disgusting. But his cock’s still inside you. Still hitting the spot that makes you clench. Still chasing the high of how wrong it is. “I’m not.” You say it because it’s true. You’re not. Not even a little. If anything, you wish you’d done it sooner.
“You fucking should be.” But he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t slow down. His hand just drags your body back harder as he sinks into your cunt again like he wants to teach you a lesson you’ll feel tomorrow. He pulls you back with both hands, one still locked at your hip, the other wrapping under your body to keep you from sliding too far forward. You feel his breath at your neck, the sweat off his chest soaking into your back. The slap of his skin hitting yours echoes in your head. You can feel your pussy throb around him, feel the way he stutters when it does. The way his thrusts lose rhythm for a second before snapping back harder.
Your mouth opens. You try to say something. Maybe his name. Maybe more. But he’s already covering it again- his palm pressing over your lips, catching the moan before it can fill the room. The heat builds fast. The pressure. The warm feeling in your stomach. Your body starts to shake. He leans closer, voice gravel in your ear. “You’ve been wanting this since I got here.” He knows it now. Maybe he always knew. The way you looked at him. The way you let him talk to you. Like you didn’t care about the line. Like you wanted him to cross it. Your nod is desperate. Barely a nod at all. Just a twitch of your head against his hand. “And you’re not gonna cry about it tomorrow?” It’s not a question. He’s taunting the fuck out of you. He needs to know he’s not the only one who’s gonna lose something if this gets out.
You almost laugh. Almost choke. “Only if you stop.” You can’t tell if you mean it as a joke or a threat. Maybe both. But you say it because it’s the only way to keep him inside you. To keep this happening. That makes him groan. Real, loud, and unfiltered. His cock twitches deep inside you and he drives forward again. It’s rough, and deep enough that your body arches up without meaning to. His hand slides off your mouth again. Down between your thighs. Two fingers pressed to your clit. It’s wet and swollen. He’s rubbing circles that make your cunt squeeze tighter around him. “Gonna make you come like this,” he says. “Gonna make you come on my cock.” The words punch through his teeth. It’s like a promise he’s going to fulfill. Like something he’s needed to say since the first time you wore shorts that were too small.
Your head drops to the mattress, letting out a muffled moan and words, “A-ah- fucking d-do it.” You don’t care what it means anymore. Don’t care if he hates himself for it. You just want to come. You just want to feel it. And he does. He fucks you like he means it. Like he hates that he means it. Like he’s trying to make you pay for it- but also trying to make it last. The pace gets rougher. The pressure builds deeper. Your body shakes through it all. “I shouldn’t be doing this,” he mutters. “You’re not- fuck- you’re not mine.” The words sound like they’re tearing something out of him.
But his cock’s still inside you. Still fucking you like you are. “You are now,” you rasp, voice wrecked. “Right now… I’m yours.” You want to give him the excuse. Just this once. Just for tonight. And when he slams into you again, you know he heard you. The bed’s a disaster already. Pillows are half on the floor. Sheets twisted around your legs. Heat is trapped under the blankets where sweat sticks both your bodies together. It smells like sex- like slick and skin and the way his breath drags in heavy behind you.
He’s still inside. Still moving like he can’t stop. Like his cock’s too deep and your pussy’s too tight and there’s no version of the night where he pulls out and leaves this undone. Each thrust just pushes you more into the mattress, every pull of his cock from your pussy just soaks him down with more of your slick. Thighs trembling, arms weakening, but if you feel it’s not enough. “You think I don’t notice?” His voice hits low in your spine, palm planted between your shoulders as he drives in again. “You think I don’t fucking see the way you look at me during practice?” He’d been pretending for weeks that he didn’t see it. The way you sucked on that straw during water breaks, the way you stretched a second longer than needed. Like you weren’t doing it for him. Like he didn’t have to excuse himself to the locker room once or twice just to calm down.
Your ass pushes back instinctively. Just to be a brat. Just to bait him. His grip at your waist tightens, fingers bruising. “You wear those skirts. Bend over like it’s nothing. Like I’m not supposed to care.” His cock presses in harder. “You’ve been doing it on purpose.” He hated that you had that power over him. The second you walked in, all logic shut down. You wore innocence like a costume, and he kept falling for the act even when he knew better. Your laugh slips out slowly, a little breathless. “Still took you long enough.” You’d been pushing buttons for weeks. The eye contact, the half-smiles, the way you said Coach like it was dirty. You weren’t surprised he finally snapped. You were surprised it actually took him this long.
The sound he makes isn’t a groan- it’s something darker. His hips snap forward, cock slamming in deep enough to make your eyes flutter. The bed jolts under both of you. “Fucking brat,” he mutters. “You don’t even know what you’re asking for.” He wants to scare you with it. Wants to believe you don’t understand the weight of what you’re doing. But you do. And he’s the one drowning in it. “Don’t I?” You tilt your hips again, roll them up into his cock just to show him how easy it is to take it. “You’re the one still fucking me, Coach.” You say it to see the look on his face. To remind him he crossed the line first. You didn’t make him do this. He wanted to.
The word makes him stutter. You feel it. His whole body tenses, and his cock throbs hard inside you like it means something. Like he knows it should stop mattering, but it still does. “This is fucked up,” he says. You hum, lips curled against the pillow. “Then stop.” You’re calling his bluff. You already know he won’t. You already feel the way he keeps sinking deeper like he wants to lose himself in you. He doesn’t. He fucks in again, thick and hard. His breath breaks across your back, all heavy with guilt and sweat and the weight of everything he’s still pretending not to feel.
“You’re sick.” His jaw’s tight when he says it, voice caught somewhere between shame and hunger. Like he wants to punish you for what he can’t stop wanting. Your moan scrapes out high and wrecked. “You’re worse.” You mean it too. He’s the one still fucking you. The one whose wedding ring keeps catching against your skin when he grips your hips tightly. His pace falters. Just for a second. Enough for the guilt to slip in. His forehead presses against your shoulder blade, breath hot and shaky. “You’re older,” you pant. “You’re my coach. My dad’s best friend.” You drag each word out slowly but softly. Meant to mock. Meant to remind. But also true. And somehow that just makes it hotter.
His cock twitches again. You feel it pulse inside you. You smile wider. “And you’re still married.” You say it like it’s nothing. Like it’s not tearing something open in him every time you do. But you want it to hurt. Want him to feel what you feel every time he fucks you and pretends it’s the last time. That lands heavy. His next thrust is brutal, like he’s trying to fuck the words out of his own head. Your body jolts forward on the bed, tits pressed to the sheets, one hand catching yourself in the blankets. “You should hate me,” you whisper. “Should’ve walked out the second I opened my mouth.” You wonder if part of you does hate him. But you don’t want him to walk out. You never did. But he’s still here. Still deep inside. Still pounding your pussy like it’s the only place he belongs.
“I’m your student,” you say softly. “You’re supposed to be teaching me.” You say it with a smile this time. Like you know exactly what lesson you’re getting. And you like it. “I am,” he spits. “I’m teaching you what happens when you act like a fucking tease.” He grits it out like he’s trying to convince himself this is discipline. Like it’s not just him losing control. You cry out when he slams in again, fingers pressed hard against the back of your neck- not pushing, just keeping you there. Making you take it. “Keep fucking pushing back like that,” he mutters. “See what it gets you.” His voice roughens with each word, breath growing harsher against your spine. He’s close. You can feel it. “Gets me more,” you moan. “Gets me your cock.” You turn your face against the sheets, smiling into them. You like this game. You like breaking him open one thrust at a time.
His groan rips out raw and heavy. He grabs your hips tighter and starts fucking you rough again, wet and deep and so loud the slap of skin echoes across the walls. There’s no rhythm anymore. Just messy, and desperate thrusts. Like he’s punishing himself with it. He needs to feel how tight your pussy keeps squeezing around him. “Tell me you like it.” He says it low, almost like he’s asking for assurance. Like he needs to hear it. Like if you say it, it’ll justify everything he’s doing. “Want it,” you breathe. “Want you.” You mean it too. Even if it ruins you both. You want every inch. Every grunt. Every awful second of this. “Sick little thing.” He hisses it into your neck. But he doesn’t stop. If anything, he fucks you harder.
“Takes- n-nghh… o-one to fuck one.” You say it sweetly. Taunting. You want him fucked up. You want him messy. You want to be the one who did it. That shuts him up. Just for a second. You feel his whole body jerk, like the words hit where it hurts. And he still doesn’t stop. Your cunt tightens again and again, milking his cock, slick dripping down to your thighs. You push back, grind into him on purpose, clit brushing the sheets just enough to make you whimper. His hands are everywhere now. Waist. Ass. Thigh. Anywhere he can grab you. Like he’s trying to hold this moment together before it breaks apart.
He growls again. “You really- really think I haven’t seen- shit… you’ve b-been moving around me all week?” He hated himself for how much attention he gave you. The way he looked for you in every hallway. The way he noticed when you wore new earrings or changed your perfume. He told himself it was normal. But it never was. You moan into the pillow, not even trying to be quiet. “You wore that skirt on purpose.” He remembers every inch of it. How short it rode up when you bent over. How tightly it clung when you sat on his desk. He’d gone home hard for two nights straight after that. “You’re the one who made me stay after.” You never needed extra help. You just wanted him alone. Just wanted to see how long it’d take before he caved.
“Because you don’t fucking listen.” He bites the words out like they mean nothing, but you both know they do. He made you stay because you wanted him to. Because he couldn’t help himself. “I do now.” Your voice is soft, teasing. You’re dripping around him. You’ve never listened harder. His cock drags out slowly, then slams back in. Your moan shatters in your throat. “You like being bent over like this?” he pants. “Like a little slut I’m not even supposed to touch?” He wants you to say no. Wants to believe there’s still a line left to save. But there isn’t. “And you still do.” You laugh a little under your breath. Because it’s true. Because no matter what he says, he’s still fucking you.
He grabs your wrists and pins them down beside your head. His cock buries deeper than before. “You think I won’t stop?” His voice sounds wrecked now. Like he’s hanging by a thread. “You won’t.” You whisper it like a promise. You know him too well. “Think I won’t pull out and leave you dripping and empty?” He’s breathing hard. You feel his chest heaving behind you. “You’re still inside me.” You squeeze around him again. Just to prove your point. He grunts. His groan is thick and guttural. His mouth brushes your shoulder, voice hoarse. “You don’t even care that I’m old enough to be your-” He can’t finish it. His voice dies in his throat.
“You fuck better than anyone my age. That's what you wanna hear?” You twist your head just enough to look at him. You’re not smiling anymore. You’re serious. His cock twitches. You bite your lip, roll your hips again. The sheets are soaked. Your pussy’s leaking down his length. Your whole body feels used, overstimulated, and filthy in the best way. “You’re not even sorry,” he whispers again repeating what he said earlier, like he hates how true it is. You breathe out slowly, hips lifting again. “You are,” you say gently. Like it’s obvious. And it is. That one hits deep. His pace stutters, breath catching. His fingers curl into your waist again like it’s the only thing keeping him standing.
“You’re getting off on this,” you murmur. “Fucking your friend’s kid. Getting off inside her.” Your voice is soft and breathy. Sweet enough to cut deep. He groans, rough and wrecked. “Shut the fuck up.” His voice breaks. You know it’s not from anger. But his hand presses to your mouth again. And you smile under it. “You’re more fucked up than me,” you whisper. “Because you’re the one still fucking me.” You want him to hear it. You want him to remember it every time he sees your dad’s name on his phone. He drives in again, cock thick and twitching, slick soaking your thighs. His hand slides down and circles your clit, fast and rough and desperate. Your legs start to shake.
“You wanted this,” he mutters. “You wanted to be fucked by your dad’s best friend.” His voice is low, breathless. Like he can’t believe he’s still saying it out loud. “Yeah. I wanted it.” Your voice catches. You’re so close. You want to come with him deep inside. “God- not even guilty.” His grip tightens. His thrusts turn wild. You turn your head against his palm and meet his eyes over your shoulder. “Neither are you.” Your voice is steady. True. You both know it. And he knows it. But it still continues. Didn’t even stop to catch a breath. Cock still deep inside your pussy and fucking you like this is his only chance. It’s wet and loud. The mattress beneath is creaking with every thrust he plunges inside you. The sheets are ruined, twisted under your belly, and your tits keep dragging across the fabric, raw from the friction. He’s bent over your back, skin slick against yours, breath hitting hot at your shoulder.
Then his hand slides up from your hip. Rough, steady. Tracing the line of your ribs like he’s mapping you by feel alone, until it comes up to your chest. He grabs your tits like he owns them- palming one hard, fingers sinking into the softness, squeezing until your back arches. The other hand finds your ass again, groping the curve with the same kind of greed, pulling you open so he can grind in even deeper. “Fuck,” he mutters, voice raw and cracked low in your ear. His hand moves underneath so he can grope the underside of your tit. Thumb flickering slowly on your nipple until you feel yourself getting wetter and gasping as you clench down on his cock. He stays still for a few seconds and groans like he’s realizing how tight your pussy is.
“You fucking grown, huh?” He didn’t even realize he said it out loud because it just did. He can’t even stop it halfway because he’s so deep into it, and he goes stiff right now behind you. But it’s too late. The silence stretches thick for half a second, and then your pussy clenches again. “Oh, you like that?” he breathes, cock twitching deep inside you. “Course you do. You’re not some little girl anymore. Big girl now. Can take this cock like it’s nothing.” Words are filled with something messier and filthier than guilt. His voice sounds louder and deeper. He can’t breathe evenly now like he’s aware how fucked he is right now, like he knows he shouldn’t do this but still did, but now? They’re uncontrollable, and spilling out faster than he even knows what’s happening.
His thrusting resumes and deeper this time. It’s like he’s punishing your body for making him this sick. His hand squeezes your tit again, rougher this time, like the words woke something up in him he can’t put back to sleep. His other palm grabs your ass tighter, fingertips leaving marks. “Bet those dumbass boys your age can’t even get it up right. Soft little fucks, don’t know what to do with a pussy like this. Bet they don’t fuck you like I do.” His hips grind into you deep, dragging slowly along your walls until the sound that leaves your throat is broken and high. “You waited for this, didn’t you? For someone to ruin you. Not a boy. A man.” He drags his teeth down the back of your shoulder. The growl that rumbles out of him isn’t just lust- it’s years of repressed hunger, buried under every smile he gave your dad at barbecues. Every moment he watched you grow into this and looked away. Now he’s not looking away anymore.
His cock drives back in harder now, rougher. Each thrust makes your tits bounce and jiggles and skin on skin making loud noises. While he’s bent down to your level, too, to press his forehead to your shoulder that's damp with sweat. Voice getting ragged in your ear. “That’s what you are now,” he pants. “Big fucking girl with a big fucking cunt. Tight. Wet. Made for cock like this.” The words tumble out like they’ve been sitting in his throat forever. Like he’s been biting down on them through the time he saw you bent over during coaching sessions, every time he caught your little safety shorts or panties underneath your skirt. He’s talking like a man who’s been sick for years and finally let the disease in.
He’s losing the pace, it’s sloppy now. Losing control. Every movement turns messier. Desperate. One hand keeps palming your tits, the other locked hard around your hip like he’s holding himself together with it. His whole body hunches over yours, and you feel the way he starts to tremble. “Shit- fuck- I haven’t felt pussy this tight in years,” he groans. “Not since- fuck- not since before my wife stopped letting me touch her. Before she got tired of me cumming too quickly.” His voice catches like the memory hurts. Not just the sex- but the way it ended. The way no one’s wanted him this badly in so long. You make him feel young again. Strong again. Like a man again.
That makes your pussy flutter again. He groans like he feels it. “Fuck,” he spits, breath shuddering. “Can’t fucking hold it. You’re- god, you’re too much.” His voice is starting to break, like he hates that it’s ending already. Like he wishes he could last longer, fuck you better, take his time- but you’re making it impossible. You’re taking everything he has, and it’s still not enough. You can feel him teetering. Right at the edge. Like if he cums now, there’s no going back. No pretending this didn’t mean something. His thrusts stutter. Hips jerk. Arms shake. And still- he hasn’t pulled out.
Didn’t ask. Didn’t think. No condom. No anything. Just raw cock inside raw pussy, filling you up like it’s the most natural fucking thing in the world. “You didn’t ask,” you whisper. “Didn’t ask if I’m on anything.” You smile a little. Not mean. Just knowing. You want him to panic. Want him to realize how far he’s let himself go. “I’m not,” you say Your voice stays soft, almost gentle- like it’s not the most fucked-up thing you’ve said tonight. Like it’s not exactly what he wants to hear. His whole body jerks. Cock twitches once. Twice. Then he fucking loses it.
He cums so hard it knocks the breath out of him, voice shattering in your ear as he grits out every curse he can grab at. Thick spurts fill your pussy, hot and endless, soaking the mess already leaking between your thighs. His arms wrap tight around your waist, chest pressed to your back like he’s trying to stay inside forever. “Oh, fuck- fuck- ” His hips bucked again, pushing deeper. “You weren’t- shit- you’re serious- ?” You’re not but his words break like his conscience is trying to crawl back in, but it’s too late. His cock is already flooding you. And it’s still twitching. You moan. Smile into the sheets. Arch your back just enough to press him deeper inside.
“You gonna knock me up, Coach?” It’s like some sick joke when you said it, but it lands intending to send the message. His body tightens and stiffens like he realizes how fucked up this is. The sound that tears from his throat isn’t human. He slams forward again, cock twitching hard like the idea did something sick to him. “Yeah? What do you want? Want this old cock to fill you up? Want me to fucking breed you?” His voice goes lower. But there’s no panic anymore. No guilt. Just lust. Just want. Just need. Just the sound of a man realizing how far you’ll let him go.
He continues thrusting even though he just finished inside of you. Like he’s trying to stuff the idea so deep it takes root. His hand slides down, fingers pressing roughly against your clit. “You’d let me, wouldn’t you? Let me cum inside you again and again until it sticks?” He says it like a promise. Like a threat. Like the idea of you bloated and dripping with his cum is the most beautiful thing he’s ever imagined. Your cunt clenches. The pressure behind your belly snaps. You cum around him, shaking all over, walls fluttering and soaking his cock as more slick spills out around the base. Your moans come fast, messy, buried in the sheets, and still not enough to hide how hard it hits.
He feels it. You know he does. “Fuck, baby- look at that. Look at what this pussy does to me,” he groans, fucking through the aftershocks like he’s trying to give you every last drop. His voice breaks at the edges. Wrecked. Ruined. Proud. “You like it,” you pant. “You liked cumming in your best friend’s daughter.” Your voice is sweet, like you didn’t say some sick, turning words. Tainted. The kind of thing that would make your father kill Art. That’s the point. “Liked it so much you’re still hard.” You grind your hips back once, slowly. Just to feel it. And you’re right- he is. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t have to. His cock twitches again. Like he could do it all over. And maybe he will. Maybe neither of you is done.
But then he pulls out. Slowly. It’s thick. Messy. Your pussy grips him on the way out, and he groans low as the tip drags against your walls one last time. The sound it makes- wet, sticky, obscene- sticks in the air between you. His hands spread your ass, and the second he sees it, he stills. You’re leaking. His cum. Your cum. Both already mixed and dripping down from your swollen, he likes your pussy is begging for his cock to stay inside. It slowly spills down to your thighs down to the mattress, pooling under your knees while you remain on all fours. He watches it for a second. Just breathe. Cock twitching, soaked and flushed, still heavy in his fist.
Then his thumb comes down. Presses against your folds, spreading you open wider so he can watch more of the mess ooze out. He drags two fingers through it, up to your clit, and starts rubbing. Lazy. Bare. Slow enough to feel everything. Your hips jerk from the sensitivity, a breathy noise slipping out of you when his touch circles again. He doesn’t stop. Just watches the way your cunt flinches under his fingers, watches it twitch and leak like you’re still coming. His voice comes out hoarse. “Still twitching. Still so fucking wet.”
He leans down without warning. Doesn’t ask. Doesn’t speak. Just buries his face in the mess he made. Hot breath hits your folds first, then his mouth. He licks a slow, deep stripe through the cum still spilling out of you- starts low, right at the base where it’s dripping, and drags up until he’s flicking over your clit. His hands push your thighs apart and hold them down, fingers gripping tight while his tongue gathers every drop of slick and seed like it belongs to him. You gasp. Your legs shake. He groans into you, tongue fucking into the mess and pulling it out with every stroke. He’s loud. Wet. Shameless. His lips wrap around your clit and you cry out again, arching into the mattress as his chin grinds against your pussy.
He doesn’t stop. Looks like he needs it. Like he’s starving. Like this is what he came for. He keeps going until the taste of your slick is indistinguishable from the taste of his own cum. Until the only sound left in the room is your soft panting and the filthy, wet noises of his tongue moving through everything he left inside you. He pulls back with his mouth still slick, chin wet with everything he just licked out of you. Doesn’t wipe it. Doesn’t speak yet. Just stares between your legs like he’s still not done, like his brain hasn’t caught up to what the fuck his body just did. His breath stays shaky. His hands won’t let go of your thighs.
Then it hits. Head drops. Shoulders sag. His voice comes out low. Hoarse. And it’s not even to you- it’s like he’s talking to himself, horrified. “What the fuck is wrong with me?” He presses a palm to his face, but not before you see the way his jaw locks, the way his eyes flick toward the bedroom door like someone might walk in. Like your dad might’ve heard the way you screamed his name. “Fuck… your dad’s gonna kill me.” He curses under his breath, something quiet and mean, and it sits heavy between the two of you.
Then he looks back at you- eyes dragging up your ruined body, your cunt still leaking, your skin all flushed and wet and marked by him- and there’s something in his face that splits between guilt and something sicker. Something he can’t unfeel. “This is what your dad meant when he said you looked up to me?” He groans like it hurts to say it. Just thinking about what this means makes his chest cave in. You shift under him, slow, but he stops you with a grip on your thigh. Still looking at you. Still not done falling apart.
“You’re his daughter. His fucking daughter.” His voice cracks on it. Like the words cost him everything. Like he knows he can’t take back what he just did. His breath shakes. His hands shake. And then he leans in just enough to whisper it, softer than the rest. Almost a begging. “Promise me you won’t tell him.”
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⠀⠀⠀twenty-twenty-five © addie / musingsofheaven.
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IM BACCKKKKKK. what welcome back fic to you want?
welcome back fic should be?
bestfriends girlfriend pt 3
folklore mini fic continued: betty
𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝟏.
summary: rafe can’t seem to let you go and his mind oftens wonders what it would be like , if you had been the one.
lyrics: “ but we were something , don’t you think so? roaring 20’s tossin’ pennies in the pool. . . and if my wishes came true , it would’ve been you. ” & “ you know the greatest loves of all time are over now. ”
folklore masterlist. . .
Rafe knew that this would be the outcome. God , did he know.
He wasn’t going to be the one. The one that you chose to love. Choose to marry , to have children with , to grow old with. He knew that and still— still , he couldn’t help but think that if everything was different ; if this situation wasn’t what it was and it was just you and him , that he would’ve been.
If one thing had been different , would everything be different today?
He wanted to believe it would be.
Rafe couldn’t quite understand what had made him love you the way he did. It wasn’t a gradual love. It wasn’t the type of love that took weeks to fester up and build until it boiled over. He didn’t have to know you to know that he loved you because even thinking back to that first night on the beach— he felt it.
He felt that overwhelming feeling of pure happiness. You made him feel seen , understood. There was this warmth about you that invited him in and helped him feel safe. You were comforting. You were everything Rafe missed out on in life.
You opened up a whole new set of emotions for him. A new way of thinking , a different perspective. Suddenly the world wasn’t black and white anymore , you had colored it in the most beautiful shades of blue and orange. He could look at the sunset and be in awe like he was watching it for the very first time. He could look out into the water and appreciate how the sky reflected off the currents and twinkled from the sun.
Everything about you had consumed it and it changed him. Truly. Loving you had changed his entire life and he wanted to experience this new life , this new perspective , with you.
But he couldn’t. And he had to learn to be okay with that and Rafe just didn’t know how to handle it. As beautiful as life seemed with you , it hurt to want to enjoy this newfound freedom of it all without you because you were the one who brought him there.
For years , he had always known himself to not be the person who got swept away with things like this. But somehow , Rafe did. He did the one thing he always told himself he wouldn’t. And then it all slipped through his fingers like the sand that they used to sit on.
To him , she was the one. The one who had came crashing into his life without any warning , so much force— like a hurricane , obliterating everything in his path. A hurricane of emotion , pulling him in and leaving him breathless.
Rafe didn’t realize it until it was all over of how much of himself he had given to you , how much of the chaos redefined the calm. And when it ended , Rafe told himself over and over he would be fine. He lived in this delusional world where he could forget all about it. That none of it would matter.
But he was sorely mistaken.
It ripped him apart. Tore him open. Left him aching and sore.
Rafe understood. He did. But that didn’t make it hurt any less. It hadn’t stopped him from remembering every moment they had together. He could still feel your tenderness , he could still picture your smile. Thinking about it , Rafe knew why JJ loved you so much because who wouldn’t? Rafe was sure that anyone that every gotten the chance , the blessing , of coming across you in their life , would fall in love with you too.
Rafe often times thought of the last time he saw you. Thunder cracking behind you as you walked up , giving him that feeling of impending doom. He watched as you walked with droplets of rain pitter pattering against your skin— a solemn expression on your face as you did so.
“JJ’s back.”
You said it so quietly , he almost missed it. You refused to look at him and Rafe couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think. His chest ached and his stomach was sick. In that moment he wondered if he hated you. . . then he realized he never could.
“Are you gonna tell him?”
The question hung over them , suffocating you. You winced at that.
“I never meant to hurt you.”
You. . . You never meant to hurt him yet here he was with all this unimaginable hurt. Pain overcame him and Rafe knew that you didn’t mean to but that fact didn’t erase it or make it any better.
“I just. . . I love him , Rafe.”
Rafe pursed his lips. “So what about me then? Did I mean anything to you? Did this summer mean anything?”
The silence between them was deafening. All the facts laid out on the table caused it shake , threatening to collapse. You couldn’t bring yourself to look at him. Rafe didn’t know if it was because you felt guilt or shame. In the same breath , as he looked at you , his eyes held a mixture of devastation and understanding.
“This isn’t about us. Or what we had. It’s about me. What I was losing and what I was searching for.” You tried to make sense of it all or justify it but you knew that you couldn’t. Rafe did mean something to you. You loved him.
But you loved JJ more.
“And this is what you want?” Rafe sniffed. Stuffing his hands in his pockets and staring off into the ocean as if they could reach him , take him away and drown him from this nightmare. “You’re sure of it?”
“I’m sorry , Rafe.” Was all you could say. And he knew what it meant.
Taking in a deep breath , he took a step towards you. His hand slid around your jaw , helping you look up at him. Rafe looked at you. Studying your face so he’d never forget it. A sad smile on his face as he did so. “I’ll always love you. You know that right?”
You fluttered your eyes closed. Tears prickled the corner of your eyes at his words. “I wish you wouldn’t.” You whispered , and Rafe’s chest squeezed tightly.
Half smile and eyes hazy , Rafe leaned down and pressed a kiss to your forehead. He squeezed his eyelids shut , forcing himself to swallow the grief that threatened to consume him and breathed you in one last time before he turned away , and walked in the opposite direction of you.
He couldn’t help but wish he would’ve been the one.
TAGLIST . . . @redhead1180 @eddsthemunson @riaras-everthroner @valuunit @a-lovers-card @shayofandoms @thoughtfulbouquetalpaca @auroramadelyn @itwas-maroon16 @lilahrosee @
✝🪽 fall to pieces: a rafe cameron one-shot about: rafe x preachers daughter!user, reader is inexperienced & rafe teaches her warnings: 18+, brief oral (f receiving), p in v, loss of virginity, mentions of religion, unprotected sex word count: 2.3k ⋆˚ 𝜗𝜚˚⋆ other works
You aren't supposed to be up this late. Your father wouldn't approve. You have church in the morning, and you're supposed to look your best, and you can't look your best if you don't get your beauty rest.
Your nightly routine usually finished around 9:30-10pm. You would read the Bible, shower, put on your pajamas, brush your teeth, brush your hair and braid it, pray, and then crawl into your soft cotton sheets and go to bed. But something is different tonight. Something is aching in your stomach. You try to push the feeling away, but you can't.
It's not the first time you've felt like this, and it definitely won't be the last. Your body feels like it's burning up, just begging for you to touch it. But you won't. You can't, it's wrong. Good girls don't do things like that.
You're staring at the pink crucifix on your wall, feeling guilty, when there's a tapping at your window. You look over, seeing your friend, Rafe. You rush over to the window, throwing the curtains open and sliding the window up. Rafe crawls inside without saying hello, sitting on the edge of your bed. You stare at him.
"Hey, princess," he says, smiling lazily, "Those pajamas are cute."
You look down at your pajamas- a lacy tank and cotton pajama pants- and blush, because you realize you're not wearing a bra, and he can practically see through your white tank top. "Rafe, it's late. My father will kill you if he hears you."
Rafe raises an eyebrow. "It is late. Way past your bedtime. You're always asleep by ten, that's why you never come to my parties."
You cross your arms. "That's not why I don't come to your parties. I don't party because good Christian girls don't do that."
Rafe waves your comment off with a dismissive hand. "Yeah, yeah. Whatever." He pats the bed next to him. You sit down, tentatively. "Why are you up, anyway? Something bugging you?"
You blink. You wonder if you should tell him...no. You can't. Boys and girls shouldn't discuss such things.
He looks at you with his big blue eyes, and...shit. He knows, doesn't he? You get the sense that he knows exactly why you're awake. Gosh. Maybe you should just tell him.
"I..." you blush, trailing off. "It's nothing."
He places a hand on your knee. The warmth of his body heat feels like it's burning a hole through your skin. "Come on, y/n. You can tell me."
You fidget.
He smiles lazily at you, almost hungrily. "Maybe you just need to take the edge off, huh?"
You blink at him. You should probably move away now. Get his hand off your leg. Kick him out of your room. But you don't. You can't bring yourself to. "I...I don't know how."
His hand moves up further, rubbing small circles on your thigh. It feels amazing. The heat in your stomach grows stronger. He leans in closer to you, his breath tickling your neck. "I can think of a few ways..." His hand travels up further, rubbing you through your thin pajama pants. You let out an involuntary moan.
"Mmph, Rafe," you practically whisper, "I can't. You know I can't."
He shushes you, moving off the bed, kneeling in front of you. He's exactly where you kneel when you're praying. He slides in between your knees, moving your legs apart. "Shh, princess. Let me help you, okay? Nobody will know."
You glance up at the crucifix on your wall and fiddle with your silver cross necklace. "God will," you say, but your heart's not in it.
Rafe chuckles. "Yeah?" He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of your pajama pants, pulling them down.
"Oh," you say, and your voice suddenly sounds very far away. Rafe smiles at you, tossing your pants to the side.
"Nice underwear," he says, and you don't have any time to formulate a response before he's gotten his head between your legs, teasing your clit through your panties. You moan, slapping a hand over your mouth to hold it in. He laughs, but not in a mocking way, pulling your panties to the side, just enough that he can slip a finger inside of your aching pussy.
"So fuckin' wet," he observes, sliding his finger in and out, "Damn."
You stifle another moan.
He slides a second finger in, and your legs spasm. The heat in your stomach increases tenfold. "That good?" You nod. He shakes his head. "No, you have to use your words, y/n. Tell me. Does that feel good?"
You gasp as he curls his fingers inside of you. "Y-yes, Rafe, that feels good..."
He grins, placing a third finger inside of you. It feels so good that for a moment, you forget that you're sinning. "Yeah? Feels good? You like that?"
You moan, louder than you mean to. "Mmm, yes, Rafe, feels so good, I like it, I like it."
He removes his fingers, and pulls your underwear off with his teeth. You miss his touch immediately, your pussy clenching around nothing. He places his hands on your knees, spreading your legs wider.
"You've got such a pretty pussy, princess. So wet f'me." He drags his fingers over your cunt, bringing your own sweet wetness up to play with your clit.
Your eyes once again fall on the crucifix. You squeeze them shut. Maybe it doesn't count if you're just letting it happen and not giving him anything in return. Maybe, if you pray enough, God will forgive you for liking Rafe's fingers in you so much.
Rafe hums, leaning in between your legs and licking a long, slow stripe up your pussy. He flicks his tongue on your clit, before attaching his lips to the pretty pink bud and sucking. You gasp out a few staccato moans. He keeps licking and sucking, keeps teasing you, his tongue never going inside of you. He pulls away, kissing your lower stomach.
"Rafe..." you whisper.
He looks up at you. "Yeah? Need somethin'?"
I need you, you think, but you can't get yourself to say it. Instead, you just exhale shakily as he continues kissing up your stomach, moving up your tank top to access more skin. He pulls off the tank top, revealing your perfect breasts. He moves you, scooting you further back on the bed so he can sit on it too, pushing you back against the mattress. He cups your breasts in his hands.
"Fuck," he says, "Never seen you like this. Knew you'd be fuckin' gorgeous."
You look up at the ceiling, avoiding his gaze. He rubs his thumbs over your nipples, and you gasp, your back arching slightly off the bed. "Rafe!"
He continues to play with your nipples, and you feel your pussy get wetter, feel the heat in your stomach growing stronger with each passing second. He's above you, now, and he's all you can see. You feel his growing hardness against you.
"Mm. Fuck, y/n. You gotta be quieter. Don't want your daddy to hear us, now do you?"
You shake your head.
He unbuckles his belt, taking his pants off and tossing them to your floor before quickly getting rid of his shirt and tossing that, too. You run your hands over his exposed chest, over his muscles and perfectly tanned skin.
He pulls off his boxers. You stare.
"Like what you see, princess?"
You make eye contact. It feels electric. "Rafe, I've never done this before. I'm supposed to save myself for marriage. This is...this is wrong."
He smiles, leaning down and pressing a quick kiss to your collarbone. "Feels right, though, doesn't it?"
He's right. It does.
Fuck.
The logical side of your brain, the Good Christian Girl side, is pleading with you to say no. Begging you to push him off of you and forget this ever happened. But it's taken over by the devil on your shoulder. It feels so good, the little devil says. He's so handsome. And he thinks you're beautiful. Just let him fuck you. It'll be good.
You make a decision before you can stop yourself.
"Rafe," you whisper, almost pleading, "Keep going."
He grins wickedly, wolfishly, like the cat that got the cream. "Fuck yeah." And then his fingers are pressing into you again, four this time, moving faster than before, going even deeper, hitting just the right spot.
"F-fuck, fuck!" You're being loud. Too loud. Rafe's free hand clamps down on your mouth.
"Shut the fuck up," he says, going harder. You moan into his hand, tears of pleasure streaming from the corners of your eyes.
You place your hands over his hand, squeezing it harder against your mouth, your moans getting louder.
Rafe grins down at you. "Fuckin' cock hungry, aren't you? Not such a good girl now." You nod before you can stop yourself. His grin grows wider. "Yeah, baby? You want my cock in your pussy?" You nod again. He's practically beaming now, removing his fingers and placing just the tip at the entrance to your cunt. He drags his dick over it, and you can feel the beads of precum dripping onto your already wet clit.
"Condom?" he asks, and you shake your head. He removes his hand from your mouth.
"I don't...have them. I don't have any use for them."
He scrunches his eyebrows for a brief moment. "Ah, fuck it. I'll buy you a morning after pill." He sinks his cock into you, and it slides in perfectly, enveloped by your wet, warm, plushy pink walls. "So fuckin' wet, Jesus. So tight, too. Perfect fuckin' virgin pussy."
You moan again, and his hand is back over your mouth in an instant. Except this time, he slides two fingers into your mouth. You blink up at him.
"Suck," he says, and you do immediately. "Good fuckin' girl. That's right, y/n."
He's moving, now, his dick hitting you right where you need it most, your cunt clenching around him. He removes his fingers from your mouth, smothering your moans with his hands instead.
He moves faster, deeper, harder, both of you gasping.
"Fuck," he says, shifting so his mouth is right by your ear, "You feel so fuckin' good, taking my cock like this." He shifts again, capturing your lips in a deep, hungry kiss. You've never kissed anyone before, not like this, not with tongues and moaning and desire. "If I don't cover your mouth this time, can you be quiet?"
You nod quickly, almost desperately. "Yes, Rafe, yes, I can be quiet, I-"
He cuts you off. "Shut the fuck up. I didn't tell you to talk."
You nod again, moving your hips experimentally. The change of position makes his dick hit your g-spot even better than before. You see stars. "Oh, fuck," you whisper.
He jackhammers into you, clearly on the edge. "God fucking damnit, that feels good. Jesus Christ." He kisses you again, his tongue licking into your mouth.
He grips your hips tightly as his strokes get more sloppy, and then, all of a sudden, he's spilling into you, his hot cum filling you up. You turn, burying your face into your pillow to stifle your moan.
For a moment, he pauses, shaking through the aftershocks, but then he's moving again, flipping you both so that his back is against the headboard as he sits up, you facing him in his lap.
"Good?" he asks.
"So good," you respond, your arms moving to be around his shoulders, "Need more."
He grins again. "Perfect little preacher's daughter beggin' for more cock? What a sight to behold, damn."
You blush. You had almost forgotten why exactly you shouldn't be doing this. But then he kisses you, and instantly you forget again.
He pulls away. "Still cockhungry?"
You nod once again. He grabs your hand, spitting into it before, wrapping it around his already hardening dick, his hand moving yours up and down. You run your thumb over his slit experimentally, and he groans with pleasure. He grabs your hips, moving you to sink down onto his cock, not giving you any time at all to process what's happening. It hurts, slightly, the new position foreign to you, but it's good.
"Go on, then," he says, "Fuckin' take what you need, y/n."
You move up and down on his cock, starting off slowly before you get more comfortable, riding him desperately.
"Damn," he moans, "Fuckin' cowgirl, ridin' me like that. Goddamn porn star."
You laugh breathily. "Really? I'm just making it up as I go, I have no clue what I'm doing."
He wraps his arms around your waist. "You're doing a great fuckin' job, princess." He moves his hips up, matching your rhythm, and it's not long before you feel yourself reaching the edge, your pleasure overwhelming.
"Rafe, I'm...I'm close."
He looks deep into your eyes, slamming his hips up into you. "Let it happen, y/n. Come on, cum for me." He kisses you deeply, and that's what sends you over the edge, your legs shaking as you cum for the first time in your life. You shake through it, moaning into his mouth. You feel like it's never going to stop, waves of pleasure overtaking you. He kisses you through it, rubbing your back.
It stops, eventually, and you pant as you come down from it, breathing heavily. "Oh my God," you say, "Rafe."
He smiles, pulling out, lying down and wrapping you in a tight embrace. "That good, huh?"
"Uh-huh," you say, nuzzling into him and getting comfortable. You let your eyes close.
If having sex with Rafe Cameron is a sin, you think, I'm willing to go to hell.
Do I wanna know?
Summary: You and Drew are best friends, but you want more. What happens when you get invited to a day out on Drew’s friend’s yacht and get more?
Warnings: MDNI(18+), fem!reader, thigh riding, daddy kink, nicknames used (princess, baby, little lady, good girl…), kissing, alcohol (beer), swearing, no use of (y/n), reader wears a skirt, shy!reader, pining amongst friends, English is not my first language, if I forgot anything; please let me know!!
WC: ~2.4k (no idea how that happened)
A/N: I got inspired by this photo so I wrote this at like 2 am and I’m posting it now at 5 am, this is a mess, gn my loves (NOT PROOF READ, SORRY) (also this is my first fic about Drew so yeah)
When your best friend, Drew Starkey, invited you to a small get together on his friend’s yacht, you were more than willing to go. You and him had been friends since years, getting to know each other through mutual friends and suddenly you were eating take out with a b-list celebrity every other night.
You twirled around in front of your full body sized mirror, watching with amusement as your skirt twirls with you, the ruffles bouncing as they fluttered in the wind.
“Wow. Really doesn’t take much to get a smile on that pretty little face of yours, huh?” Drew chuckled as he watched you spin around.
Startled by his voice you stopped your little turns, looking at him with a small playful glare when the dizzy fog finally cleared from your vision.
“I’m just a happy person. You should try it sometime” you shot back, but you knew it was no use. Drew was great at talking, arguing, whatever. He was great with people in a way you just couldn’t figure out for yourself.
But honestly? You were fine just standing on the sidelines watching him do his thing, waiting for him to abandon that and come talk to you for a bit.
You had been fine with it.
Lately every time he laughed and grinned at one of your sarcastic comments and every time he stared at you like he was a theoretical physicist and you had the answers to string theory, you couldn’t help but want more. Couldn’t help but want that “best friend” status to be upgraded to “girlfriend”. Hell, you even dreamt of being called his wife.
For now though, you were just going to try and enjoy the day on a luxurious boat.
Soon you found yourselves in the car. You clicked on random songs on your phone and sand along to the “wait, this is the best part, shut up”’s before yet again changing the song as Drew drove to the harbour, admiring the way you seemed so enthralled by the different songs and music.
“Would love to continue listening to your big world tour concert, little lady, but we’re here,” he announced once he’d gotten the car carefully parked.
Excitedly, you jumped out of Drew’s car, watching as he did the same before you both made your way closer to the water where many ships floated atop the sea.
At the same time, you both spotted Drew’s group of friends, waving at them as they saw you two as well.
You’d gotten to know them a bit but the amount of group hangouts you attended, didn’t really allow you to form a strong bond to any of Drew’s friends.
What can you say?
You’re just not a people person.
You’re a person person.
A Drew person.
You squashed the ridiculous thought, giggling it off before you checked that your outfit was neatly in order.
Upon seeing you inspecting your clothes, Drew leaned down and whispered in your ear, his breath tantalizingly brushed against your ear and neck as he spoke, “You look amazing, baby, don’t worry.”
As you reached the boat, the smile you had shared for a few enchanting seconds came to a sudden end.
“Hey, Drew!” Various different voices greeted the both of you and you both returned the favour with just as much enthusiasm.
One of the guys, the one whose yacht it was presumably, invited everyone aboard.
Your eyes flitted to everything around you, spotting a few seats, some complicated looking boat equipment and random day-to-day fun stuff lying around.
The smell of fish and sea breeze filled the air and your nostrils, but that scent quickly evaporated when Drew stepped next to you, finally finished with catching up with his friend and was now holding out a beer bottle for you to take. His cologne took over, overwhelming your senses. Something you were definitely not complaining about.
You accepted the beer from him, taking a sip before handing it back to him and watching as he repeated your action of drinking from the bottle.
Your gaze drifted to his Adam’s apple as it bobs when he took gulps of the alcoholic drink. He lowered the glass container from his lips, putting his strong bicep right in your line of sight.
As embarrassing as it is to admit you could have almost moaned from just looking at his muscly arm.
He must have taken off his shirt sometime between helping you up the steps on the side of the ship, his hand securely wrapped around your thigh to keep you from falling, and when he seemingly appeared behind you as you admired your surroundings.
Then your eyes found his chest, strong pecs priding over his abs that seemed carved from the very marble that Michelangelo had used to sculpt David, each muscle defined with an almost perfect precision to it.
Just before you could take a good look at his black swim shorts hanging off his hips and hugging his beefy thighs, his voice called your name.
“Hey, come on, picture time,” he reiterated what he had said when you were still zoned out.
“Oh. Okay,” Throwing your thoughts back into reality, you watched as everyone made their way over to the discussed upon place where the photo would be taken.
“Who wants to set the timer?” A girl, who you’d forgotten the name of, asked.
Something with an F? L? A? Who cares.
“Not it!” Was called by everyone but you, your face quickly morphing from a surprised look of “who the hell still uses ‘not it’?” to an accepting face that you were in fact “it”.
The girls and boys all took their places on the netting of the boat. The 5 people in front of you got ready to pose for the group photo.
Efficiently, you adjusted the tripod so that the camera of the phone pointed perfectly towards the centre of everyone.
You bent down, looking at the screen of the mobile. You saw Drew depicted by many pixels, your thighs clenching when he moved his hips up to readjust his position on the midnight blue blanket that lay sprawled over the rough nylon net.
Fuck, he was perfect.
Of course, you fixed your hair one last time before pressing the white button on the right side of the device, starting the 10 second countdown until the picture.
Swiftly, you made your way around the tripod, and plopped down onto the free space between a dark haired guy, you’ve come to know as Matthew, and Drew. You smiled sweetly at the round circles on the back of the phone as Drew slung an arm around your shoulders.
Once the photo was taken, everyone scattered and the usual chatter was back. You ran up to the phone and you looked at the image.
Well fuck.
Drew looked absolutely freaking ethereal.
His sitting in a reclined position with one leg bent and the other stretched out, manspreading, almost made you go feral. He was smiling widely toward the camera, his impossibly bright grin attracting all the attention in the photo.
His body looked like a dream. For a moment, you thought maybe you were dreaming, if you were you would hold onto the memory of the photo, even if it was just a dream, for the rest of your life.
God, pining for your hot best friend made you sound so so pathetic.
The thought that what you were experiencing was just a dream was snapped in two like a twig when Drew came up from behind you and flicked your bare back.
“Ouch!” You exclaimed, a frown forming on your face.
“‘M sorry, princess,” he swung his arms over your shoulders, holding on to you from behind like a koala would his mother, peering at the screen in your hands.
“Did it turn out good?” He asked casually, acting as if he didn’t see how your face was blushing an awfully deep shade of red and don’t even start to think that he missed the way you were obviously turned on.
“Yup,” you answered curtly, ducking down to be released of any physical contact with him, because you felt as if you would melt if he touched you a second longer.
“I’m um… gonna go below deck. The sun uh- it’s hitting me pretty hard right now. I have a headache,” you lied, coming up with some excuse to just get yourself somewhere where you can have your alone time.
“O…kay…” He didn’t seem convinced but that wasn’t for you to deal with in that moment. You made your way down the stairs leading below the deck of the ship, the room was nice and cozy.
With a sigh of relief you sat down on a wooden bench near the kitchen and slipped your phone out of your purse.
After a few minutes of mindlessly scrolling through various social media apps you heard footsteps nearing you, causing you to look up.
Your eyes met none other than Drew Starkey himself.
“On your phone when you have a headache? Really?” He asked unamused. “You lyin’ about the headache or you just stupid?”
“Stupid…?” you offered in a quiet meek voice.
“C’mon, sweetheart, what’s the problem, huh? You don’t like my friends or something?” He questioned as he sat himself down next to you on the oak plank.
“No, no, they’re great, I just…” You really should have been able to come up with something to say but the way his forearm was flexing as it rested on his thigh distracted you.
A smirk grew on Drew’s face. “No yeah, I uh-“ he chucked as he shook his head in what looked like slight disbelief, “I know.”
Unsure of the true meaning behind his comment you averted your eyes to the floor, focusing on the swaying of the boat on the water instead of Drew’s piercing blue eyes staring intently at you.
He leaned back with a sigh, his legs spreading wider and his arm sneaking behind your back and around your waist. “You’re kind of ridiculous, you know that?”
All you could do was nod which earned you yet another laugh from Drew.
Just as you were about to persuade yourself to actually speak, you were pulled onto Drew’s lap by his arm, his hands quickly settling you on his thighs.
“Wha-“
“I know, princess,” he cooed.
You know you should have felt at least slightly degraded or mad because of his tone but the only thing it did, was make you want to clench your thighs together. Which of course wasn’t possible because each of your legs rested on different sides of Drew.
“You look so pretty today, baby,” he said, tucking some loose strands of hair behind your ear before moving his face down to your neck and pressing soft, fleeting, sensational kisses to the side of your collar.
Your breathing became panted and you unintentionally slowly rubbed your core along the material of his pitch black swim trunks.
“Not even a thank you?” He murmured teasingly as his kisses walked over to the area right under your ear and his large hands gripped your hips harshly, stopping you from any further movement.
“Th- thank you…” You whispered, your tone dipped and coated in your lust and arousal.
You felt a small nip on your throat that made you let out a small “Ah-!”
“Thank you…?” He muttered expectantly.
“Sir?” You tried, getting your confirmation of that being the wrong answer when a more harsh bite was left just under your jawline.
“Daddy..” you practically moaned out, the small pleasure that you got from the bites making you rut against Drew’s strong hold on your body.
“Good girl…” he praised, his face finally coming up to meet yours, kissing you softly but also at the same time with an unforeseeable force.
His fingers stopped drilling into the skin over your hipbones, letting you push your aching core down onto his covered thigh.
He broke the kiss, his plump lips and hot breath trailing over your cheek as you both gasped from air.
His hand roughly grabbed the back of your head, wrapping his fingers around your messy hair, holding you tight against him.
Immediately after, his other hand took hold of your hip again, helping you grind down on his swim pants.
“That’s right, baby, use daddy’s leg,” he breathed out heavily.
“Such,” he pressed a sloppy kiss to your jawline, “a,” another kiss was placed on the corner of your mouth, “good,” he said before pecking your lips, “girl,” he murmured into your mouth before shoving his tongue down your throat.
The press of his thigh onto your bikini bottom made a perfect friction emerge against your clit, sending jolts of pleasure through you.
“What about-“ you started.
“I locked the door, sweetheart, no worries.”
The way he basically read your mind made you feel even more turned on.
Your folds rubbed back and forth in your
soaking wet swim bottoms as you gripped Drew’s shoulders tightly, eyes squeezed shut as he continued to spew out praise after praise to you.
Suddenly a knock resounded throughout the room, a sudden halt coming to your despicable actions.
“Hello? Anyone in here? Why is the door locked?” A female voice asked from the other side of the door.
“One second!” Drew called before returning his attention to you.
“We’ll finish this later, yeah?” All you could do was nod, still completely dazed.
He picked you up off his lap, helping you settle back into a standing position and smoothing out both of your guys’ clothes.
With a casual smile on his face he unlocked and opened the door, spouting out some excuse for the door being locked before leading you upstairs with him.
For the rest of the afternoon, you sat, with a drink in hand, watching Drew talk amongst his friends, his eyes flicking to you every once in a short while.
Once other people started leaving and the sun started setting, he walked up to you.
“Ready to leave, princess?”
“Uh-huh,” you uttered out, standing up and saying your goodbyes to everyone that still found themselves on the yacht.
As you walked down the dock, admiring the sunset, you gripped onto Drew’s arm.
“Everything okay?” He asked.
You looked up at him with an “Are you serious?” face, annoyed at his nonchalant antics.
“Gee, sorry, okay?” He chuckled.
“I’ll make you feel good soon. Don’t worry, little lady.”
@emma-e-a
𝐀𝐔𝐆𝐔𝐒𝐓.
summary: the possibility of a relationship with you was enough to give rafe cameron the hope of something better.
lyrics: “ to live for the hope of it all. cancel plans just in case you call. ” & “ back when we were still changing for the better. wanting was enough. for me it was enough. ”
folklore masterlist. . .
Rafe knew what it was going to be from the start. He knew it was wrong , not that he ever cared about the difference between right and wrong and where his choice fell between that line. Somewhere deep inside of him— he knew he wasn’t the chosen one. He knew that it was a fling , that you were still growing up and figuring life out as you went along. Rafe knew he was a pit stop through your journey , but he didn’t regret it.
It all happened by coincidence. Right place at the right time.
After another shit day dealing with his dad , Rafe had ran off to the beach. Usually he would’ve sniffed some coke and gone to a strip club , but he just didn’t have the energy.
He liked the beach at night , anyway. It was quiet. There usually wasn’t anyone else there and the sound of the waves crashing against one another soothed him. Helped him forget. Helped him focus.
The moon was currently at its crescent stage. The stars twinkled a little bit brighter , and it reflected against the water. His shoulders weren’t tensed. His chest wasn’t heavy. He could breathe.
When he stumbled across you , sitting in the sand with your head in your knees , crying loudly to yourself— he stared. He just stared. His brain was telling him— no , yelling , at him to walk away. Mind his business. Although he couldn’t see your face , he knew exactly who it was sitting there.
You had the same denim shorts that you always wore over your pink bikini. Your hair was wild around you , blowing softly in the wind. It pushed your vanilla scented perfume his way and he froze— gulping.
“Hey. . .”
His voice had startled you. It made you gasp and retreat within yourself. Instinctively bringing an arm up to cover your face. Rafe stood there with his hands in his pocket , a stoic expression on his face.
“Rafe?”
You said his name so softly , so shyly. Rafe couldn’t deny that the sound made the hairs on his arm stand. Goosebumps.
“You , uh , you okay?” He asked awkwardly. He cursed himself inwardly for the stupid question and tried his best to keep himself emotionless. Regardless , you were a pogue. JJ’s pogue girlfriend nonetheless. He shouldn’t have even tried talking to you. He should’ve walked away , let you cry.
But he didn’t.
And to this day , despite everything , he didn’t regret it.
That night he had sat with you. And it was the first night in his entire life that he had felt comfortable. There was this aura around you that was safe. You looked at him with softness , like he was fragile and he hadn’t ever experienced something like that in his life.
He hung on to your every word , listening , learning. It was just you and him underneath a big open sky and Rafe could feel it melting off of him. That baggage. That. . . that hurt.
He didn’t know how you did it , but you had managed to make a tiny , minuscule crack in the huge cement walls he had built around himself.
After that , it just seemed to fall into place. You’d meet him there almost every night. At first it was innocent. You’d bring a blanket , grinning as he approached. The two of you talked about nothing serious. The light stuff. Getting to know eachother , friendly.
And then. . . and then it happened. Rafe still doesn’t know he allowed it. It happened quick , but the memory was anything but blurry. He remembered it vividly , forever replaying that moment over and over again in the back of his mind.
This night was different. Something tense hung over in the air. Something Rafe couldn’t quite understand. Not at the time.
Your head was leaning on his shoulder. Both of you stared forward , watching as the waves raced against eachother. Racing against time , against this one moment that was so fleeting— so temporary. Something Rafe knew , you knew , but both refused to acknowledge.
“Isn’t it crazy? That we understand eachother so well?” You murmured to him.
Rafe hummed. “So much for that whole Kook versus Pogue thing.”
You pushed yourself off of him , and looked at him. “You’re not who I thought you were.” There wasn’t anything mean hidden behind your sentence. You said it softly , quietly. A hidden message that he understood.
Finally , he had tore his eyes away from the water and looked at you. Really looked at you. His breath was caught in his throat and his chest was aching. The air was warm , it smelled like pine and wood mixed with the saltiness of the sea. The night air clung to you gracefully , suiting you. The aura around you was clear to see. You were glowing underneath the stars and Rafe swore to himself he’d never forget what you looked like. Nothing in his life , had ever come close to being that beautiful.
“What if I am?” He wondered. Second guessing her , and himself. “What if I am this terrible person everyone thinks I am?”
Your face relaxed. It softened as you stared in his eyes. Rafe noticed how the crinkles by your eyes disappeared and your lips pursed as if wondering what you should say next.
“You aren’t.” You said it with such certainty , it took him back. “You’re broken. We all are. It doesn’t make you a terrible person.”
In an instant , Rafe’s entire perspective of himself had changed. The little boy inside of him cried. He felt understood , and truly seen. Seen by an angel. Without thinking , without knowing , Rafe leaned forward to kiss you. It was soft , hesitant , like he was asking for permission to continue.
Then as if the stars aligned for just the two of you , you melted into him. You kissed him back. Everything around you had faded , everything before him— before this moment had disappeared because nothing else mattered. At least right now.
The feel of your lips were soft and gentle. Tender. He was afraid to rush it and it’d disappear. Deep down he knew that the outcome would be nothing short of painful but he didn’t care. Not now. Right now , all he could focus on was you. How it felt to be loved by you.
Rafe’s lips felt like a puzzle against yours. His hand reached up to hold the side of your face gently , deepening the kiss to secure the connection floating between the two of you.
He could taste the sweetness of summer on your mouth. His tongue slipping past the barrier of your lips to consume all parts of you. To enjoy , to feel , to taste everything he could.
As the two of you pulled , Rafe leaned his forehead against yours breathlessly. Both pair of lips swollen , both cheeks flushed and both chest heaving.
It was a mess.
A beautiful mess.
But still , a mess.
“We should come back here tomorrow night.” You breathed , letting your eyes stay closed.
And Rafe nodded.
He knew this wasn’t going to last forever. That this was temporary.
But for now , it was enough. The summer , August , you— this , it was enough.
And he would keep coming back as long as you wanted him to , over and over again.
Which he did. Nights turned into days. Days turned into weeks. As he promised , he kept coming back. But as time went on , the more pulled back you were. The stolen kisses were now sparse. And you were more reserved during sex.
You were pulling away from and he knew why.
You had mentioned it in June , when he first met you on the beach. The reason you were crying: because JJ had left for the summer. JJ didn’t tell you why. Just kissed you goodbye , promising he’d come back.
He just guessed that with summer ending , you were expecting JJ back. JJ. Not him.
Never him.
Rafe wasn’t stupid. He knew was mourning you before you even left him. Not that you could leave him. You weren’t ever really his , were you?
“I don’t want you to forget about me.” Rafe said in the middle of August. He couldn’t help but feel sad. “Forget about what we have. Forget about summer.”
The look in your eyes he’d never forget.
“I could never forget this.”
And then , Rafe decided , that everything was worth it. The loving and the losing.
tag list: @redhead1180 @eddsthemunson @valuunit @a-lovers-card
FOLKLORE SERIES MASTERLIST:
summary: jj leaves you behind for the summer , causing you to form an unlikely bond with rafe cameron. . . when he comes home , everything comes to light— leaving you to choose between the two and come to terms with the fire you unintentionally ignited.
further information: folklore is a story told from three perspectives— james , betty & augustine. james : reader. betty: jj. augustine : rafe. i’m going to be telling a story based off each song from folklore , from the different perspectives involved in the love triangle.
tag list: let me know if you’d like to be added to a taglist for this series <3 i’m very excited for this project and i hope you are , too.
the 1.
cardigan.
the last great american dynasty.
exile.
my tears ricochet.
mirrorball.
seven.
august.
this is me trying.
illicit affairs.
invisible string.
mad woman.
epiphany.
betty.
peace.
hoax.
the lakes. . . ( bonus chapter. )
Bf jj showing up at readers house during his panic attack? Bonus points if her parents adore him and allow him to stay for however long he needs
such a sweetie idea! here’s the link <3
𝐒𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍.
summary: jj’s having a panic attack and you’re the only thing that calm him down.
“ and i’ve been meaning to tell you , i think your house is haunted , your dad is always mad and that must be why— and i think you should come live with me and we can be pirates and you won’t have to cry. . . ” WARNINGS: light mentions of jj’s relationship with luke. talks of anxiety & panic attacks.
JJ’s chest physically ached. It was hurting , deep down inside him and he swore that he felt it in his soul. The whole weight of the world felt like it had landed right on his shoulders , weighing him down and making him delirious. The line between real and fake was beginning to get blurred , and the only thing he knew was that he needed to see you.
It had been just been another night. Another sad and unfortunate night of Luke getting too drunk and taking his anger out on him.
JJ felt weak and ashamed. He was angry at himself , angry at the universe. And he was slowly just breaking down. He couldn’t handle it right now , for some reason it triggered him deeply and he couldn’t just brush it off.
As soon as he stormed out of his own house , he was on his way to yours. All he could think about was you , how gentle you would be. JJ needed you to help ground him and he wasn’t going to be able to get through what was building up inside of him without you.
He knocked on your front door anxiously. He was bouncing slightly , cracking his knuckles. As the door flew open , his heart skipped a beat hoping it was you ; though it dropped when he realized it wasn’t.
Your mom opened the door with a bright grin when she saw it who it was: “JJ , dear! How are—” Her smile faltered noticing his disheveled state. His bouncy blonde hair was a mess and obvious stress was radiating off of him and her own chest squeezed at the sight.
She didn’t know everything about JJ’s life , but she knew enough. Everyone on the Cut knew about Luke Maybank and his tendencies and your mother could only frown when she thought about it. She had loved JJ. He was charming , always polite to her. He was a good boy.
“Oh , honey.” She said with a soft , sad smile. “Come in.”
“I–Is Y/N home?” JJ stammered , scratching the back of his neck. Avoiding looking her in the eye. Any other day he would’ve automatically jumped into a conversation with her. Smiling and laughing , giggling in the kitchen as he gushed about you. But today was different. And he just couldn’t.
“Of course , she’s upstairs in her room.” She had nodded towards the stairs.
With one nod and a forced smile as to say thanks , he shamelessly rushed up the stairs. He didn’t even bother knocking , bursting into your room.
You had looked up from where you were sprawled out on your bed watching something on your phone , jumping at the sudden movement. But as your eyes focused on JJ , your heart fell. “Baby what’s the matter?”
Baby. The minute he heard your voice , he let everything out. He started crying. The loud kind. Shaky breathing and shaky hands as he walked toward you. You watched in concern , scooting up with your arms wide open for him. He fell into them. Laying on his belly with his head in your chest , gripping onto you for dear life.
You didn’t say anything. You just let him cry. You cooed sweet nothings , rubbing his back up and down. You hummed the songs you knew he liked , playing with his hair , kissed the top of his head. All of your attention was immediately put all onto him , and as he cried , he melted into your touch. He focused on how his skin felt where your fingertips touched , how calming the familiar smell of your favorite perfume was. He used all of his five senses on you , easing the tension that was happening in his head at the moment.
A few minutes had gone by before he finally was able to calm down. His breathing was still shaky but it was better now. “I’m sorry I didn’t call first.” He mumbled. He didn’t bother moving though. He couldn’t. JJ felt like he had to hold onto you as tight as he could , in fear that if he didn’t you’d slip away.
“Don’t apologize for that.” You murmured. “Is it home again?”
“Yeah.” He sighed , shaking his head. “Isn’t it always?”
You hummed softly in response. Seeing JJ like this was never easy. It broke your own heart to see his hurting. There wasn’t much you could do , but if you could , you’d burn the whole world down for him. “It won’t be like that forever.”
“Sometimes it feels like it.”
“It won’t.” You promised. Your thumb brushed his cheek softly. “I’m gonna take you out of there one day. It’ll be me and you in our own little world , living together and celebrating every holiday in the most cheesy way , eating frozen pizza and watching Hoarders at midnight.”
JJ’s eyes fluttered closed as he pictured it. He smiled. The idea gave him something to hold on to , to hope for.
The light at the end of the tunnel.
“Thank you for being my person.” JJ said. “I’ve never had a person like this before.”
“Never thank me for that. It’s so easy to love you.”
And you were the first person who had ever helped him believe , that he wasn’t as hard to love as he deemed himself to be. . .
for next nsfw fic :
reader cheat on rafe w jj
reader cheat on jj w rafe
part three to bestfriends girlfriend
BESTFRIENDS GIRLFRIEND.
a ‘mini’ continuation of this fic here!
summary: the night at the beach seemed to be long forgotten. or that’s what you thought until a stupid treasure hunt leads you and jj sharing a place in a locked incubation device and he helps you remember where it all started.
a/n: just recently finished season four & that scene w kiara and jj gave me the perfect idea. i know it doesn’t really ‘match’ the timeline of the last one but we can all pretend that it does <3
warnings: voyeurism , , mean!jj , reader that plays naive , fingering , use of afab anatomy , mentions of cheating , heavy petting.
You should’ve known you were setting yourself up for failure. The minute you saw the slight smirk on JJ’s face the minute you offered to take Kiara’s place— you should’ve known something was going to happen.
Though , almost getting killed and getting your life saved by JJ Maybank was definitely not on your BINGO card.
Things between you and JJ hadn’t settled since that day night. If anything , it only made everything worse.
You were grateful another adventure opened up for the time being because pulling away from John B made you feel sick. You were eaten up by guilt , fear that your dirty little secret would blow up in your face and you’d have to own up to what you’ve done.
You could only imagine the devastation it’d cause John B and the disappointed looks from Kiara and Pope. The idea alone made your stomach sick.
JJ made it impossible to forget. He never brought it up. Not once. But that look in his eyes every time he looked at you made that same familiar feeling from that night on the beach wash up all over again— and you just knew.
You laid there in absolute dread in silence. Your eyes had opened before JJ’s and the immediate feeling of pure terror overcame you. Your memories washed back up and as the bends slowly faded away , the reality of the situation sunk in.
Practically quarantined with JJ , in this closed space , for twelve hours seemed like the test of a lifetime.
As he began to stir away , you swallowed harshly and scooted away. You clutched your necklace , anxiously fiddling with the string as you desperately search for nearby nurses.
“My savior.”
His voice was raspy. A hint of edge around the words as he cleared his throat roughly.
Silence filled the air pretty quickly and JJ’s mouth made a sound. He played it casual , coy like he always did. Cocking his head towards the side , he stared at you. “Ignoring me?”
Again , you decided to stay silent. Your cheek was raw with how hard you were biting it.
JJ sighed. “You know , I’ve been waiting to get you alone since that night on the beach.” He murmured. “A bit offended you actin’ like nothing happened.”
He was baiting you and you knew it. You refused to give and kept staring out the circular window.
“C’mon , Y/N. . .” JJ drug out your name barely above a whisper. You could feel him inching closer making you start to feel hot , your ears burning at the tips. “Have you fucked him yet? After me?”
His question made you flinch.
“Stop playing little miss innocent —” JJ narrowed his eyes , bringing up his index finger to your chin. Everything in you was screaming at you to not make the same mistake twice , to stand your ground , to fight him. . . but you were like putty in his hands. The minute you felt his skin on yours , you felt a fire where he touched and your head tilted ever-so-slightly to the side. “I know you think about it. About me.”
JJ looked into your eyes and paused , before a wide smirk developed on his face. “You haven’t , have you?” You didn’t need to say it , it was written all over your face. You were never good at keeping secrets. You were always so easy to read.
Especially by him.
He knew you like the back of his hand. All that pining had finally paid off— in his mind.
“How come?”
“JJ stop it.” You mumbled , moving to push his hand away. But he didn’t care. Instead he turned on his side to look at you , feeling like the first time all over again.
God , he hadn’t stopped thinking about it. About you.
John B was his bestfriend , his brother , but you— he couldn’t help but be addicted to you. He couldn’t change it and he didn’t want to. He’d risk loosing it all , everything , just to have you.
“You liked it—” he taunted. “You liked it so much , that I ruined your sweet little pussy for anyone else. It only remembers me. It only wants me.”
You shivered and shook your head. “No. I—I love John B. You’re acting crazy.”
“Crazy?” JJ let out a dry laugh. “You should know just how crazy I can be , baby.”
“He’s your bestfriend , JJ.” You sighed and shook your head , pushing his hand that was starting to drift downwards away. “You know this is wrong.”
“I don’t care if it is.” JJ scoffed. “I meant what I said that night. You were supposed to be for me.”
His words made you shiver. The memories crashed onto you like waves , so vividly that you could almost feel exactly how you felt sprawled out on the sand with your legs wide open just for him.
JJ noticed your reaction and smirked. It only pushed him further. “You know it , don’t you?”
You pursed your lips. Pushing your chin up defiantly as you scooted closer to the window , putting as much space between the two of you as possible.
JJ rolled his eyes. “C’mon. You might be able to lie to yourself and lie to John B— but you can’t lie to me, baby.” He murmured softly , delicately. There was a teasing tone to his voice that irritated you because you knew he was right and you hated yourself for it.
“You’re acting crazy , JJ.” You whispered. You squeezed your eyes shut and prayed that this was all a dream— a nightmare. Though the warmth of JJ’s breath and how your heart beat so loudly you thought it’d beat out of your chest , you knew it was real. Too real.
“Maybe I’m just crazy about you.”
Suddenly everything began to feel hot. The all knowing fact that you were trapped in this stupid metal bubble , next to him , it all started feeling too much. Beads of sweat dripped down your forehead , and your hand twitched. Your chest began to rise and fall quickly and you weren’t sure what you were more bothered by.
The claustrophobic , suffocating feeling: or the thump between your thighs that you wouldn’t be able to blame on alcohol.
Light as a feather , his fingertips tapped across the smooth skin of your thigh. He watched you in satisfaction. Loving the way you responded to him despite you trying to fight it. “It’s just you and me in here , baby—” he cooed in your ear. Leaning forward to press a soft kiss to the side of your neck , making your breathing hitch. “Nobody’s gonna know.”
“I–I’ll know.” You answered softly , still refusing to look at him. You hated the way it began to hurt. How it started to burn with a certain need that only JJ could subside. Everything in your body was screaming for him. To feel him again. But your head was fighting it.
“That never stopped you before.” He quipped back.
You turned your head to look at him again. Looking into his eyes that had a certain darkness swimming inside of them. You hated it. You hated him. Most of all , you hated yourself for how badly you wanted him.
Without another thought , becoming slightly delirious and deciding to cave and give in , you rushed forward and pressed your mouth against his. On instinct , he was there. Kissing you back feverishly , gripping onto you like a man starved. He tasted of saltwater and weed , the familiar taste bringing out a soft moan from your throat.
The sound made him smirk. He liked knowing you had given in. That he got what he wanted.
And he was going to make the most of it.
His hand slipped between the two of you , immediately cupping your sex. You gasped , breaking the kiss for air. He hummed in response , rubbing soft and achingly slow circles. “Beg for it.”
“W–What?” You breathed , taken off guard.
“You heard me.” JJ said again , halting his movements. JJ gripped your chin , looking down at you. “Beg me for it.”
“JJ—”
“Beg.”
He wanted to know he had the control. The power. You knew it. As much as you wanted to deny him of it , to refuse it , you couldn’t. It ached agonizingly , just looking at him ignited something within you. Your whole body was on fire and now that it started , there was no way you would have enough willpower to put it out.
“Please. . .” you whimpered , arching your back to feel some type of friction again. JJ wanted to groan right then and there, give in to you. But he refused. He ignored the way his cock was hard and angry , rubbing against the fabric of his underwear harshly. Frowning , you grabbed onto him , fisting his shirt to bring him closer. “Please touch me , JJ. Please. I need it. I need you.”
Your words were like a song to him. He let out a groan deep within his chest and kissed you again , harder , letting his tongue slip past your lips as you gasped when his hand pushed the fabric of your tiny shorts to the side.
His index finger ran up your slit , basking in the slickness. JJ smirked down at you , cocking his head to the side. “Your pussy loves me.” He boasted , and you weren’t in a position to disagree.
“Still my dirty girl , huh?” JJ moaned , sliding his finger inside of you. He grunted as he felt your walls stretch out , the tightness of it amusing him. “I knew I ruined you for him— can’t fuck him now , huh? Too busy thinkin’ bout me?”
You only responded with a moan , throwing your head back as you felt yourself fill up.
JJ watched you with a glimmer in his eyes. He swore had had never seen something hotter. The way your eyebrows scrunched up , your lips pursed , he could your feels contracting around his finger and he couldn’t help but moan at the feeling. “You want more , baby?”
“Yes , JJ , yes. Please. . .”
“Tell me your mine.” He demanded but his voice was softer now. Almost pleading.
Your mind was hazy. You almost couldn’t understand what you were saying— but you knew in this moment it was true. “I’m yours , JJ. I’m yours.”
“Fuck.” He muttered. Dropping his head to kiss your neck , he added in another finger , rutting against the side of your thigh. He pumped his fingers in and out of you , curling upwards just enough to graze over the spot you needed most.
“Yes—” you breathed. Your head lulled to the side and your toes curled. It felt good. The coolness of his metal rings that slapped against your clit each time he pumped his fingers in and out sent jolts up your spine. It felt frivolous , like you were a school girl getting fingered by her first person. But JJ knew just what to do. He knew what you liked , how to make it feel good.
“You’re mine. You’ve always been mine.” JJ said , kissing your mouth. You moaned into it , shaking underneath him as the feeling of his mouth on yours amplified the pleasure you were feeling.
The familiar feelimg began building up in your tummy and you gasped , pulling away as you used him to steady yourself. He sped up , just a little , keeping the same place as before. He cooed in your ear , kissing and sucking on different places. “Cum for me. Cum for me , give it to me.”
With your head thrown back , you felt your legs shaking. A dirty , loud moan left your mouth , one that made JJ’s ears ring. You grinded against him , riding out your high.
“My fucking girl—”
You came down breathlessly , with a new urge. You quickly attached yourself to him , wrapping your arms around his neck and bringing him closer to you. He kissed you back hungrily , grinding into you.
You jumped when you heard a knock on the glass.
“Sorry to um— interrupt.” The nurse cleared her throat awkwardly , looking away. “We need to check your vitals. . .”
And just like that , the weight of the world and your decisions fell back on your shoulders.


