2023

[sedonasummer]

ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴀʙʏ ᴘʀᴏᴊᴇᴄᴛ | ᴍᴀᴇᴋᴀʀ ᴛᴀʀɢᴀʀʏᴇɴ

─ summary: When Maekar agreed to have a baby, he thought it a reasonable undertaking. He was not an old man. You were young and healthy and wanted a child of your own and he loved you, so he said yes. Simple enough. He was a fool. aka: you run your poor husband absolutely ragged in the name of family planning

─ pairing: Maekar Targaryen x Wife!Reader (Second Wife)

─ word count: ~2.8k

─ content: 18+ MDNI | Smut | Semi-public sex | Outdoor sex | Pregnancy | Implied Smut| Age Gap| An exhausted man who cannot have any peace in his house

─ a/n: Me if I ever found myself in Westeros. This man would not rest. Inspired by this gif 🖤 Thank you for comments, reblogs, likes, and messages. Part 2 here!!!!

(masterlist) (ao3)

The first sensation you registered was warmth: the solid heat of Maekar's muscular arm draped possessively around your waist. You shifted slightly in sleep; his arm tightened, pulling you flush against the firm plane of his chest. He was already awake, his gaze on you so palpably you felt it on your skin. Then his lips came to you — first a feather-light kiss at your temple, his beard tickling, then another on your cheekbone. He pressed closer; through the thin fabric of your nightgown you felt the hard length of him against your thigh. A low pulse of desire kindled in you. His lips trailed down your throat and you stirred, a soft hum in your chest as you turned toward him.

"Good morning, my love," you murmured, voice thick with sleep and something more.

A slow, satisfied smile spread across his face. He answered with a deeper press of his hips, his erection a hard promise against you. You responded instinctively, lifting your leg and wrapping it around his waist, opening yourself to him. The gesture was an invitation, a surrender, a demand all at once. He shifted, his hand moving from your waist to grip your thigh, lifting it higher over his hip. He ground against you, the thick ridge of his cock sliding through your folds. The friction was exquisite, a slow, deliberate torture that had you arching your back, a silent plea for more. He seemed to understand. With one hand, he impatiently pushed the hem of your gown up to your waist, his knuckles brushing against your sensitized skin. He paused for a moment, his gaze dropping to where your bodies were about to join. Then he guided the blunt head of his cock to your entrance. He didn't thrust in immediately. Instead, he teased you, circling your clit with the tip, spreading your wetness, making you whimper with need.

"Maekar," you breathed, your hands fisting in the sheets.

Then he entered you, inch by thick inch, letting you feel every stretch, until you both sighed together. His rhythm was languid and possessive. He watched your face as he moved, his violet eyes dark with lust and a deep, unwavering affection. One hand remained on your hip, holding you steady, while the other roamed, tracing the curve of your breast, thumbing a pebbled nipple, then moving down to press against your lower belly, as if he could feel himself inside you from there.

You met his gaze, your own eyes wide and pleading. "Harder," you whispered. He obliged, just a little. His thrusts became deeper, faster, the angle changing so that he brushed against that spot inside you with every pass. A gasp tore from your throat. He leaned down, his mouth capturing yours in a kiss that was just as deep as his fucking. You could feel the orgasm coiling in your core, tight and hot. He must have felt it too — the way your inner walls began to flutter around him.

"That's it, my love," he rasped, his voice a low gravel. "Come for me. Let me feel you."

His words were your undoing. With a sharp cry, you shattered. The pleasure washed over you in waves, intense and all-consuming. He groaned, a deep, guttural sound of satisfaction, and thrust into you one last, hard time, burying himself as deep as he could go. You felt the hot pulse of his release as he spilled inside you. He stayed there, his forehead pressed against yours, both of you breathing heavily in the quiet aftermath.

Maekar felt the quiet satisfaction of a man who considered himself more than adequate to the task. He pressed a soft kiss to your sweat-dampened forehead before carefully pulling out of you. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his powerful muscles flexing as he prepared to rise. But before he could stand, you shot out a hand and caught his wrist.

"Where are you going?" Your voice was soft, but there was an edge to it, a new hunger already stirring in the aftermath of your pleasure. He looked back at you, his eyebrow quirking in amusement.

"Again?" he asked, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest.

You just smiled, a slow, feline curve of your lips. That was all the invitation he needed. With a groan that was part exasperation and part pure, unadulterated lust, he got back into bed. He didn't bother with gentle this time.

Later that afternoon, you found him in the passage off the eastern corridor. He was speaking with a steward, his expression serious and focused — a stark contrast to the passionate man from your bed that morning. You waited patiently, leaning against the stone archway, until the steward bowed and took his leave.

As Maekar turned to continue down the hall, you appeared at his elbow as if by magic. You didn't say a word, just gave him a look — a look that promised sin and immediate gratification. He stopped, his eyes narrowing slightly. You took his hand, your fingers lacing with his, and steered him toward a section of the wall he had never paid any mind to, drawing him into a narrow passageway.

The space was tiny, dark, and smelled of dust and old stone. You pressed him back against the wall, your body molding to his, a cheerfulness in your eyes that he found both alarming and extremely compelling.

"Someone will hear," he said, his voice a low warning, even as his hands came to rest on your hips.

"Then we had best be quiet," you said pleasantly, before rising onto your toes and crushing your mouth to his.

You were not quiet.

That evening, you came to the solar as the afternoon light went gold, leaning against the doorway and just watching him. He was seated at his large oak desk, a stack of parchment before him, a book open in his hands.

"I am working," he said, without looking up.

"You were staring at the same page when I came in," you replied, your voice soft and teasing.

This was true. He had been. He closed the book with a soft thud, a sigh escaping him. A slow smile touched his lips. He knew why you were here. You walked toward him, your hips swaying slightly, a small, knowing smile on your face. When you reached him, he took your hand and pulled you down onto his lap. He kissed you, a slow, deep kiss that tasted of wine and shared secrets. His hands roamed your body, relearning every curve. This time, he was slow with you.

Later that night, he was already in bed, propped up against the headboard, a book in his lap. He looked tired, but his eyes lit up when he saw you. You were wearing a sheer, almost transparent shift that left little to the imagination. You slid into bed beside him, taking the book from his hands and setting it aside without a word. You straddled his hips, your knees on either side of his powerful thighs. In no time at all, the sound of your bodies meeting filled the quiet room. You collapsed against his chest, boneless and utterly spent.

He fell asleep with you draped over him, your head on his shoulder, your breathing soft and even against his skin. He felt extraordinarily pleased with himself. Five times. He felt not merely capable but frankly impressive. He had satisfied his young, insatiable wife, filled her with his seed again and again. He thought of the child you both wanted, and a deep, primal sense of accomplishment settled over him. He slept the sleep of a satisfied and confident man, his arms wrapped tightly around the woman he adored.

It was the last truly restful night he would have for some time.

ᴅᴀʏ ᴛᴡᴏ

The first thing he was aware of was a wet, insistent heat. A groan rumbled in his chest as consciousness slowly returned, his heavy limbs sinking into the mattress. He blinked his eyes open, the dim morning light filtering through the curtains, and looked down. There you were, your head bobbing over his lap, your mouth wrapped around his rapidly hardening cock. One of his hands instinctively flew to your hair, his fingers tangling in the wild mass of your curls — not to guide you, but simply to anchor himself in the exquisite, overwhelming pleasure. Later, as you lay tangled together, a sweaty, panting mess, he thought he was the most fortunate man in the world. He revised this opinion as the day progressed.

The late morning air was crisp and clean as you rode out together, the sun warming your faces. Maekar was beginning to feel the profound ache of the previous day in his very bones, a deep-seated weariness that clung to him — but the sight of you, laughing freely as your horse trotted alongside his, filled him with a simple, uncomplicated contentment. You pulled your horse up suddenly near a dense stand of trees, where the grass grew long and looked invitingly soft. You turned to him, and he saw that look in your eyes — that delicious, determined glint he was rapidly becoming an expert at reading. He scanned the path. It was empty, the road quiet for now.

"Here?" he asked, a hint of disbelief in his voice.

"Here," you confirmed, already swinging your leg over your horse and landing gracefully on the ground.

Maekar sat astride his mount for a moment longer, a prince of the realm contemplating his dignity — but the sight of you, already waiting for him with a patient, knowing smile, was a more powerful force. At one point, the distant sound of hoofbeats echoed on the path, and he froze instantly, his body tensing. You just laughed quietly against his throat, the vibrations sending a shiver through him. He decided he had faced down considerably more threatening situations on a battlefield and carried on, the thrilling risk of discovery only making the frantic coupling more intense.

Upon your return to the castle, Maekar all but fled to his chambers, requesting a bath. Hot water. Peace. A single moment to exist without being required to perform. He sank into the steaming water with a sigh of profound relief, letting the heat soothe his aching muscles. He was in it for perhaps four minutes before the door creaked open. You were already unwrapping your robe, your eyes fixed on him. He watched you climb into the large tub with the expression of a man watching an inevitable, beautiful natural disaster.

"You cannot possibly," he said, his voice a low groan of protest.

"I only want to bathe with my husband," you said, your tone entirely too innocent as you settled into his lap.

"You have never simply bathed in your life," he accused — but his hands found your waist regardless, pulling you closer.

In bed that evening, he lay propped against the pillows, watching you in the warm glow of the firelight. He felt the familiar, relentless pull of you — the wanting that had not dimmed one bit, regardless of the state of the rest of him, and he sighed from somewhere very deep in his soul.

"You are going to be the end of me," he said, a statement of fact rather than a complaint.

"Not yet," you said cheerfully, and climbed into bed, your naked body sliding against his.

ᴅᴀʏ ᴛʜʀᴇᴇ

Dawn was a grey suggestion at the windows when you moved over him, a familiar warmth settling over his prone form. Maekar's eyes fluttered open, one eye squinting at the ceiling as a low groan rumbled in his chest. He was exhausted, every muscle in his powerful body aching with a sweet, profound soreness, but you were already awake, your eyes bright and determined in the gloom.

"Fuck me," he muttered, the words a breathless prayer.

You leaned down, your hair creating a wild curtain around his face. A slow, wicked smile curved your lips. "That's what I'm trying to do."

He stared at you. In the dim light, you were a goddess of the dawn, all soft skin and resolute purpose. He thought of the man he had been a mere three days ago. Smug in his strength, confident in his stamina, certain that meeting his young wife's desires was a task he could master with ease. What a fool. He saw it now, the utter, beautiful delusion of his pride. With a sigh that was equal parts defeat and surrender, he placed his hands on your hips, his thumbs stroking the soft skin there.

He was a fool, and he was yours.

Somehow, through sheer stubborn will, he made it to his study by afternoon. He slumped in the heavy leather chair behind his desk, the scent of old parchment and wax filling his nostrils. Documents lay strewn before him, the ink blurring into meaningless symbols. He had been staring at the same treaty for an hour when the door creaked open.

"No," he said, his voice rough, not even bothering to look up from the page. He knew the sound of those footsteps. Your soft tread crossed the room, stopping just before his desk. He finally lifted his head, and there it was — that fond, knowing expression, the one you wore when you found him particularly amusing.

"You look weary, husband," you said, your voice laced with a syrupy sympathy that was utterly false.

"I wonder why," he shot back, the edge in his voice blunted by exhaustion.

You gracefully sat in the chair opposite him, arranging your skirts with deliberate slowness. He watched you, a creature of vibrant energy in a room that felt as drained as he did.

"What has gotten into you?" he asked, the question genuine, though he feared he already knew the answer.

"A babe," you said, your eyes gleaming with playful fire, "I pray."

Silence. The only sound was the birds in the trees. He let his head fall back against the chair, staring at the carved wooden ceiling.

"My well has run dry," he confessed, the words tasting of ash. "I am one man. Three days you have had me at every hour the gods see fit to send, and I have nothing left."

You tilted your head, a picture of concern so transparently false it was almost insulting. "Well," you said, rising from your seat, your voice dripping with exaggerated pity, "if you truly cannot manage. I suppose that is fair. You are not as young as you once—"

That was it. The final straw. He was out of his chair before you could finish the taunt, the heavy wood scraping against the floorboards.

"Sit down," he commanded.

ᴡᴇᴇᴋꜱ ʟᴀᴛᴇʀ

The world had softened into a gentle rhythm. The frantic, relentless pace of those first days had somewhat subsided. He was asleep in the chair by the fire when you returned from the maester, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the room. You moved silently, sinking to your knees beside him and curling against his side, resting your head on the solid warmth of his chest. He stirred, his arm instinctively wrapping around you, pulling you closer even in his sleep.

"Maekar," you whispered, your heart thrumming against your ribs.

"Mm," he murmured, his voice thick with slumber.

"The maester confirmed it."

He went utterly still. The hand on your back froze. Then, slowly, he opened his eyes. He looked down at you, his gaze searching your face in the flickering firelight. He looked at this woman who had systematically dismantled his pride, worn his body to the very bone, and in doing so, had given him the entire world. A terrifying, exhilarating wave of love and awe moved through his chest. His hand found yours, his thumb moving slowly, reverently, across your knuckles.

"Satisfied?" his voice a husky whisper.

You looked up at him, your eyes bright with tears and entirely, beautifully unrepentant.

"For now,"

Maekar closed his eyes, and a slow, genuine smile spread across his face.

"Gods help me," he breathed.

[cosmictheo]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐞𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐧 (𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐛)

| gif credits: @emmaziadarcy |

Based on this request

Fic that can be read as a complement to this one: here

— summary: baelor is really busy being the perfect, responsible king while you and maekar are busy... well, populating westeros! — pairing: baelor targaryen x wife!sister!reader x maekar targaryen — word count: 2k — content: +18 (minors dni!), targcest, throuplet, implicit smut, established marriage, domestic bliss, humorous undertones, pregnancy, maekar & reader going at it like rabbits, parenting, soft!baelor & maekar, they are so in love with their wife.

Six children borne of Maekar and two of Baelor make for a kind of domestic chaos that no septa’s lessons nor queenly composure could ever truly prepare you for.

The Red Keep, vast as it is, feels too small when filled with their cute voices, Maekar’s children loud and willful as their sire, Baelor’s gentler in their tempers, yet no less spirited. They are yours all the same, they have learned your art of charm, wielding your tongued grace and your wit in their laughter.

Baelor had always been the most responsible of the three of you. He was the very image of what a king ought to be, honorable to a fault, steadfast in his duty, beloved by smallfolk and lord alike. The realm had been blessed the day the crown was set upon his head.

But, even so, together the three of you represent the perfect combination of kings and queen.

You love your Baelor for that, for being so good, so kind and gentle in his ways. But there are times when the Iron Throne snatches him from your arms in a way that drives you to exasperation.

In times like that, it leaves you with only fragments of him. A modest kiss on the forehead or the cheek, a quick cuddle in the morning just before he rushed away to another meeting.

This time, it had been worse than most.

Your poor husband had been immersed in scrolls, wax seals, and discussions with the Small Council. And when that was not enough, the Riverlands had called for their king, and Baelor—your dutiful, noble Baelor—had gone without hesitation.

He always did.

Maekar, however, had never possessed his brother’s patience for enduring such prolonged separation from you.

They joked that whenever Baelor was gone more than a sennight, Maekar took it as a personal challenge to ensure you wouldn't be able to fit into your favorite silk gowns by the time he returned.

And just in the ten days Baelor had been gone, Maekar had been relentless.

“He's serving the realm, Maekar,” you try to ease your husband, running your fingers through his silver hair as he holds you close, all tangled up in the satin sheets of your massive be. On your other side, Baelor’s place remains untouched, the pillows smoothed and cold. “Someone's gotta do it.”

“I have no love for the realm,” he hums contentedly, his face nuzzling your neck, pressing a path of warm kisses as he slowly makes his way down to your chest. “I prefer to serve you”

His hands slide down to your thighs, intimately familiar with every detail of your skin as if it were a carefully memorized map, effortlessly lifting you up so you can wrap your legs around his waist.

He rises from the bed with you, the atmosphere in the room quickly heating up in the mood of romance and passion, but you chuckle softly when he nearly trips over the sheets that are still tangled around your bare bodies. Your arms hug his neck, demanding his lips with your own in a passionate kiss.

Maekar lays you down gently on the oak table near the bed, sweeping aside the maps and goblets that are in the way with a swish of his arm, sending them clattering to the floor to make room for you.

“Six children, and I still feel like I haven't had enough of you,” he growls in between kisses, gazing down at you from above with worshipful eyes, darkened with desire. “I might as well fuck another into you while we're at it, hm? Just one more, my love.”

It’s a familiar lie. He had said the exact same thing the last four times, swearing it would be just one more time, insisting he just loved the sight of you carrying his baby. At this point, you are certain he won’t stop until every corner of the Red Keep is filled with little silver-haired versions of himself, scowling at the world.

You laugh, a breathy little sound that gets lost against his disheveled hair.

“You're a liar, Maekar,” you accuse him, arching your back when his lips find that sensitive spot in the hollow of your neck. “You said the same thing with Aemon, and with the twins, and— and with Aegon...”

“And I'll say it with the eighth, and with the ninth if the Seven allow me,” he sighs dreamily, kissing his way down your chest.

His warm tongue drags slowly over your abdomen, his lips lingering over your womb in a tender, worshipful kiss.

Baelor finally walks into the great hall of the Red Keep, wearing a look of exhaustion and the weariness of weeks of diplomacy pressing down on his shoulders. He is still wearing his traveling cloak, fresh from an unexpectedly long trip to the Riverlands.

He is expecting silence, perhaps a glass of wine, and the comfort of your loving arms.

What he finds is Maekar seating on the floor, frowning, trying—and failing—to keep little Matarys from crawling toward a pewter jug, while Aerion tugs at his doublet and the twins chase each other around.

“Welcome back, brother,” Maekar greets him, glancing up as he brings Matarys into his arms to end his misbehavior. He looks more exhausted than if he had been fighting in three wars in a row, but still, his furrowed expression softens into a hint of a tired smile—only for it to quickly wiped away when Aerion gives his hair a sharp, unforgiving yank. “Aerion, stop it!”

“Aerion, obey your father, love,” your voice falls like that of a divine, gentle being through the hall.

And Aerion instantly complies, his defiant spark replaced by a flashing smile so sweet it could hide a thousand crimes. “Yes, Mother. I’m sorry.”

You walk through one of the hallways of the children's chambers, cradling Aegon in your arms, your hair slightly disheveled from the day’s demands, yet with a radiance of joy as you finally see your other husband.

“Baelor, dearest, how was the journey?” You walk up to him with a warm smile,and Baelor's hand finds your waist to pull you into a deep, lingering kiss, greeting you properly.

He kisses you again before he pulls back only to shower Aegon with the same affection, he kiss the babe’s brow, coaxing a bright, bubbling giggle from him.

“Painfully lonely and boring without any of you,” he answers, letting out a sigh as he sets his crown down on one of the nearest tables.

The children erupt at his arrival, a tide of high-pitched squeals and cheers as they swarm him, cheering his name with joy.

Baelor can't help but burst into hearty laughter as he kneels on the ground, allowing the tide of children to symbolically knock him down. The twins cling to his shoulders like little burrs, while Aerion scrambles up his back as if conquering a fortress. Valarr is hugging one of his hands, grinning sheepishly.

“My sweet dragons,” Baelor chuckles, bestowing kisses on the tops of their heads and holding them with a tenderness he reserves only for this dear family. “I’ve brought sweets from the Riverlands, assuming you’ve been on your best behavior while I've been away.”

Maekar huffs at that as you help him stand up, having tucked Aegon safely into his crib. As he leans slightly into your touch, you can feel the tension in your husband's shoulders melt away as he watches his older brother. Understanding, like you, that there is a strange and perfect peace in this chaos.

Baelor stands up with some struggle, a lingering chuckle on his throat as the children scrambled away, their laughter echoing as they shared the spoils of the Riverlands. He brushes the dust off his knees and turns his gaze back to you, noticing the way Maekar is hugging you close to him, both gazing fondly at his interaction with the children.

His expression softens even more, taking on a more attentive stance. His eyes move down from your beaming face to the rounding curve of your belly, which the silk dress accentuates in a way that wasn't there a month ago.

A spark of amusement glints in his two-toned eyes as he raises an eyebrow, his eyes dancing between you and Maekar.

“By the Seven...” Baelor mutters, his lips curling into a lopsided smile as he walks over to you two to take advantage of the newfound moment of privacy. Still, he is careful to keep his voice down, in case any of the little ones are eavesdropping. “I see that while I was busy negotiating grain taxes and peace treaties with the Tullys, you two have been... far more productive.”

He comes to your side to place a gentle, protective hand on your belly, bending down once more to kiss you, his previous exhaustion turning into pure contentment. You can savor the bliss that the news brings him through his lips.

“Another one, Maekar?” he still teases, attempting to feign a seriousness he does not feel as he glances over at his brother, who is clinging to you on your other side. “At this rate, we’ll have to build a new wing in the Red Keep just for your brood.”

“Someone has to populate the realm you work so hard to rule, brother,” Maekar replies with a smug little smile, his arm tightening around you with quiet pride.

“I suppose I’ll have to be very diligent to catch up to your lead, then,” Baelor whispers, making you blush with anticipation

The birth of little Baena—Maekar’s seventh child and your ninth overall—had brought a brief, blissful lull to the Red Keep. For a few weeks, the chaos was muffled by the soft coos of a newborn. Maekar was insufferably smug, walking through the halls with the beautiful babe cradled against his chest, looking at Baelor with a silent, triumphant glint in his eyes that clearly said: Seven to two, brother.

Two moons had turned after the birth, when Baelor finally clears his schedule, dumping every responsibility onto Maekar’s shoulders. No Small Council, no grain taxes, no border disputes for him.

He walks into your shared chambers and found you relaxing by the hearth, finally free of the heavy weight of the pregnancy.

“You look radiant, my love,” Baelor whispers, leaning down to press a lingering, much more intense kiss to your lips.

“I feel lighter,” you laugh, your heart fluttering as you lean into his warmth.

Baelor pulls back jus enough, his hand sliding down from your waist to rest flat against your stomach—now soft and reclaiming its shape.

“Maekar has had his fun,” Baelor says, lifting you into his arms with a strength that reminds you he is the greatest knight of his age. “And as much as I love our brother, I think it’s time the next babe looks a little more like me.”

He carries you toward the bed, his intent clear.

“Baelor! The maester said I should rest a bit longer,” you tease, your hands, very contrary to your words, are already undoing the clasps of his pretty doublet.

“The maester doesn’t have to deal with Maekar’s smug face every morning at breakfast,” Baelor rolls his eyes, laying you down on the silk sheets.

He hovers over you like some god, his gaze treating you like the open gates to paradise.

Just as he begins to trail kisses down your throat, the door creaks open. Maekar stands there, holding a crying Baena, looking completely exhausted.

“She won't sleep,” Maekar grumbles, stopping mid-sentence when he see Baelor over you. He took in the scene and let out a sharp, dry laugh. “Oh. So the King has finally put down the pen to pick up the sword, has he?”

Baelor doesn't even bother to look back, too absorbed in the fantasy of kissing your breasts.

“Take the babe to the maids, Maekar,” he commands, his skilled fingers pulling down his trousers all the while his lips continue to cover your stomach with kisses. “And don't forget the mountain of paperwork currently piling up on your desk.”

Maekar lets out a mocking grunt, shifting the babe to his other hip as he feasts his eyes in delight on the sight of your arching back, looking back at him with pleasure-filled pupils. “As you wish. Good luck to you catching up, brother—you’ve got a long way to go to reach seven.”

“Watch me,” Baelor challenges softly, a competitive smile tugs at his own mouth.

[cosmictheo]

𝐒𝐇𝐄'𝐒 𝐌𝐘 𝐖𝐈𝐅𝐄 | baelor targaryen

| gif credits: @allyriadayne |

A/N: I am absolutely in love with @idksmtms's fics of Maekar having a young wife whom Dunk confuses with his daughter, and I just kept thinking about how Baelor would react if it happened to him 😭 so I wrote this. Special thanks to @vhagars-dementia for constantly blessing this fandom with her ideas!!! I dedicate this to you <3 And to all my Baelor enthusiasts.

— summary: ser duncan the tall thinks you're just a beautiful girl close to his own age, but his innocence is his undoing when he mistakes you for just another targaryen cousin. the only problem? you are actually the lady of dragonstone and baelor’s wife. — pairing: baelor targaryen x wife!reader — word count: 2k — content: controversial young wife!reader, age gap, humor, mentions of reader's hair length, jealous!baelor, implicit sexual references, pda.

⋆ . ۰˚ ౨ৎ ── series masterlist with different characters’ versions: here!

The hedge knight spends more time than ever with the family, forever trailing after Aegon like a loyal hound, laughing, jesting, and, above all, eating.

It was only to be expected that the prince would invite his dear friend to the feast held at Dragonstone for the celebration of your name day. Your husband, Baelor, had prepared a banquet worthy of you, with an enormous cake and hundreds of servants rushing frantically through the castle, adorning the halls with flowers and colors chosen to your liking. He knew you exceptionally well, so it had been easy for him to decorate precisely how you'd like.

You had told him, of course, that such splendor was unnecessary, that a small supper with the family would have more than sufficed. Yet Baelor delighted in spoiling you, for you were the finest blessing he had been granted in a lot of time.

Whenever Ser Duncan the Tall found himself in your presence, he devoted most of his time to watch you from afar—seeing you laugh beside Baelor, play with Egg, or even speak comfortably with Prince Aerion. Your presence was nothing short of glorious, a magnet for eyes and devotion wherever you went. Your nature was exquisite—kind, gentle, and so unbearably sweet that at times Dunk thought you could scarce be of the same blood as the rest of them. 

And your beauty… that was another matter entirely. You were the loveliest sight the humble eyes of a hedge knight had ever beheld. Your form was wondrous, your face celestial, your long hair falling over your shoulders like a silken cascade, and your smile... it stole the very breath from his chest every time. Each time you entered his sight, a sigh would just escape out of him, soft and helpless, like a boy hopelessly in love.

“Do not even think it, Dunk,” Egg warns him, as he had more than once before, quick to notice the besotted look upon his big friend’s face as they sat together at the table. “That's out of your power to reach, Ser.”

But Dunk does not answer. He is far too intent upon you as you appear in the great hall’s doorway. 

Today you wear a gown of red, dazzling, adorned with pearls and white embroidery that spreads across your bodice, climbs your shoulders, and trails down the length of your spine, where darker crimson stitching forms the likeness of dragon scales. Your hair lies loose down your back, softly waved, gleaming in the candlelight.

All rise at your entrance.

Dunk is the last. He nearly stumbles over his chair in his haste, its legs scraping loudly against the stone floor as he shoves it back. That alone—and you—turn him red as a summer apple.

Valarr, seated at his other side, watches his brutish motion with poorly hidden amusement.

“My love,” Baelor calls first, his face gentle as drifting clouds, fondness curving his lips as he comes to greet you properly. “Happy name day.”

You accept his embrace, smiling as he presses a tender kiss to your hair.

After him, the others come in turn, forming a line to offer their wishes, their thanks, their gifts—small tokens and letters placed into your hands.

Egg flings himself into your arms, making you laugh and sway back a step beneath the force of him. Baelor, standing close at your side, smiles at the sight. Ever tender are you with the younglings, and for that, he loves you all the more. You shower his children with a devotion so maternal and steadfast that one would never guess they did not spring from your own womb.

“Thank you, my sweet Aegon,” you tell him, stroking the fine, pale silver-gold hair already sprouting upon his head. The boy had even brought you a flower—one of those you cherished most, a silent token of his affection.

Duncan feels painfully out of place when his turn comes. Standing empty-handed while his stomach twists into a tight, miserable knot.

He is already flushed when you lift your gaze to him, your eyes sparkling with amusement at the familiar effect you have upon him—his trembling hands, his stammer, his shy smiles. He's so cute!

“Ser Duncan. I hope you would be here,” you greet him warmly, you know well the bond he shares with Aegon; to have him present is a comfort to your heart. “Aegon speaks wonders of you. It does not surprise me to see you have become each other's shadow.”

“My lady,” Dunk answers you, his voice no louder than a mouse’s squeak. His gaze, much against his better judgment, betrays him, making a swift, helpless journey over the length of your body.

And Baelor notices, of course; his smile fades, slow and certain, as he watches the knight’s every movement like a hawk perched upon your shoulder. A single brow lifts slightly, and a deep, thoughtful furrow begins to cloud his brow.

Duncan clears his throat and casts your husband an apologetic glance before daring to look at you again. “I— I beg your pardon. I would not wish to be an intrusion upon your name day. Your father was kind enough to grant me to attend.”

The hall falls into sepulchral silence. The small conversations that bloom among the Targaryens die at once when Dunk’s words echo through the great chamber, their meaning plain, their offense unmistakable and unashamed. Even the youngest cease their play, and the servants stand frozen right where they are.

All turn to stare at Duncan now, and they look upon him with mortified eyes, as though none dare breathe.

Somewhere, someone fails to smother a laugh—most likely Aerion.

Egg’s mouth falls open in mortification. He looks up at his friend, his expression stricken, willing him to understand—to see—that what he has just said is wrong. Very wrong.

Duncan looks down at him when his small squire gives his shin a furtive kick, meant to draw his notice without the others seeing. He frowns, bewildered, not understanding what offense he has given now to deserve such a blow.

And when he looks back to the grown folk, he finds you watching him with an expression poised in perfect balance between horror and amusement. There is even the faintest hint of a smile at the corner of your lips, one you must press away when you turn your head toward your prince.

Baelor does not look pleased as you do.

His face is uncommonly stern, his brow drawn tight, his lips pressed into a hard, unforgiving line, he is trying to gather every shred of his restraint to keep from striking the foolish knight upon your name day.

“She is my wife, Ser Duncan,” he clarifies, his patience stretched thin, drawn so taut it borders upon offense. His hand comes to curl around your waist as you lean into him, lifting one hand to his chest in quiet reassurance.

You are still trying to hide that treacherous, amused smile.

“Oh—Seven—” Dunk breathes, realization striking him at last. He drops at once to his knees, bowing his head in reverence and shame. “I beg your forgiveness, Your Grace. I—I did not know. My manners are poor—you must understand, I never m–meant offense.”

“Of course not, Ser,” you reply kindly, looking down at him, still leaning against your husband’s chest. He lets out a soft sigh beneath your touch, your hand rising and falling with the steady motion of his breath.

Baelor makes a sharp, dismissive gesture for him to rise. “See that it does not happen again.”

“Of course!” Dunk scrambles to his feet at once, his face burning red with shame. “I only meant that she is so young and beautiful, and you—”

His frantic blue eyes fall upon Valarr, standing just behind his father. The prince shakes his head swiftly, his mismatched eyes widening in urgent warning, bidding him to hold his tongue.

Dunk obeys at once and his jaw snaps shut so hard it almost snaps apart.

“You witless boy,” Maekar rebukes him, his face twisted with disgust and disdain when the hedge knight dares glance his way, standing at your side like some old, ill-tempered hound. “That should cost you your fucking tongue.”

Your soft laughter breaks through the tension of the moment, and all turn to look at you, the heavy air easing when they all realize this offends you not half so deeply as it does them.

“I am certain Ser Duncan meant no malice, Maekar,” you say, seeking to soothe them—most of all your husband. “And I should not like to see any tongues torn out upon my name day, please.”

Baelor’s gaze remains fixed upon the mortified knight, his hand coming to rest upon the pommel of his sword—a blade he carries in quiet defiance of your pleas to remain unarmed this day. He thinks, perhaps, that he shall have a use for it against Ser Duncan.

“... shall we eat at last, then?” Comes Daeron’s unmistakable voice from somewhere within the hall. “I am hungry. And thirsty.”

“Of that, none have any doubt,” Maekar mutters, rolling his eyes as he returns to the table.

The others follow in his wake, granting you and your husband a moment alone.

Ser Duncan gives you another quick, apologetic bow before hastening out from beneath your husband’s gaze.

You cannot hold it any longer.

A breath of laughter escapes you, soft and bright, and you turn in Baelor’s arms to face him fully. 

He is still watching the place where Duncan stood, his jaw tight, his shoulders rigid beneath your touch, as if the insult lingers in the air like a foul smell.

Your fingers curl more firmly into the front of his doublet to call for his attention.

“My prince,” you whisper with a smile when his two-toned eyes finally meet yours. “My heart...”

You rise onto your toes and press a gentle kiss to his cheek, his beard tickling against your skin. His body noticeably softens beneath your warm affection.

Another kiss follows, softer still, at the corner of his mouth.

And one more, sweet and lingering, upon his lips.

“Peace,” you plead humorously against his mouth, your fingers toying idly with the Hand of the King’s badge on his chest. “You look as though you mean to challenge the poor knight to single combat over a slip of the tongue, my love.”

“I am not amused,” he manifests, his tone remarkably sullen, yet you press another loving kiss to his lips to chase away his pettish little pout.

“No?” You lean closer, your voice drops into something more playful and teasing, “is it because he thinks you're old, husband?”

His lips tremble at your words, holding back an ironic smile, and his hands tighten at your waist, pulling you closer against him.

Baelor clicks his tongue, and your gaze falls to his lips as he does. “I am not old.”

“Well, considering my own age... truthfully, you are a bit older,” you continue to tease him, biting back a small laugh at his startled reaction. “Should I begin calling you father now, hm?”

His beautiful eyes narrow.

You grin—and steal another quick kiss before he can protest.

“Do not push your luck, wife,” he warns all the same, a playful little smile curving his lips. His hand slides down to the small of your back before he delivers a sharp, scolding swat to your backside, making you jolt lightly against him.

His brow arches slightly. “You are the only one left breathless and trembling like some frail, ancient little thing. Or must I remind you how you clung to me the other night and begged me to—?”

Your hand flies to his mouth, covering it before he can utter another word.

“My prince,” you hiss under your breath, though laughter trembles in your voice, your eyes wide with scandalized amusement. “You grow bold. We are in a hall full of eyes, and your sons sit but a stone's throw away.”

His lips move against your palm, pressing a lingering, heated kiss there that sends a shiver down your spine. Baelor gently pulls your hand away, though he does not let go of your fingers, his thumb stroking your knuckles with a slow, possessive rhythm, grazing your betrothal ring.

“Let them look,” he dismisses, leaning into you to kiss your lips properly, claiming them. And claiming you.

The heated kiss, at last, forces Duncan’s eyes away from you, and Baelor smiles against your mouth as he watches him behind you, finally closing his own eyes to savor the honeyed sweetness of your kiss.

[cosmictheo]

𝐒𝐇𝐄'𝐒 𝐌𝐘 𝐖𝐈𝐅𝐄 | aerion targaryen

| gif credits: @hvitserkk |

based on this request!

— summary: while lunching in the red keep’s gardens with the targaryens, ser duncan spots prince aerion behaving like a civilized man beside a kind, sun-bright lady. bewildered by the rare sight, poor dunk assumes she must be prince baelor’s daughter, patient and too compassionate—because surely no woman of sound mind would choose to spend time in aerion’s company on purpose. — pairing: aerion targaryen x wife!reader — word count: ~2.5k — content: sunshine x grumpy!!, domestic fluff, humor, protective!aerion, himbo!dunk, romance, pda, poor dunk can't catch a break with these people, probably ooc!aerion.

⋆ . ۰˚ ౨ৎ ── series masterlist with different characters’ versions: here!

Ser Duncan had always known that princes were strange.

That, at least, was something he’d made peace with.

They were born strange, raised strange, and lived their lives in a world that did not much resemble the one the rest of them walked in. They spoke in courtesies that meant threats and in threats that meant nothing at all. They smiled when they were angry and grew angry when there was no cause he could see.

Still, he thought he understood them well enough—he’d been wrong all along.

He knows he is wrong because there he is, seated at a crystal big table amidst the gorgeous midday sun-drenched gardens of the Red Keep, ogling like a big oaf at Prince Aerion Targaryen—no, not at him, but at the lady sitting by his side, near the head of the table.

She is laughing, that is the first thing he is struck by. A melodious, gentle sound, like sweet honey. And then, the second thing that hits him is the sight of Aerion laughing with her as well, very quietly, with his head tilted towards her.

Hearing him laugh with genuine joy must be the most unnatural and eerie sound Duncan has ever heard.

Her hand rests casually on Aerion's forearm, intimately and so naturally, as if that's where it belongs. As if it's always belonged to touch him.

Dunk frowns and then he frowns even harder as his thoughts stumbled over themselves.

He keeps watching as she says something else—he can't hear what—and Aerion gives a slight tilt of his head, not in a scornful way, but in an expression of attention and delight.

Of course, Dunk has seen you before. You are no stranger to the Red Keep. You address the guards by name, thank the servants when they bring you things or offer assistance. Once, you even had smiled at Dunk himself, and he nearly tripped over his own feet when you did.

You are kind, gentle, and sweet. Everything Aerion is not, so Dunk naturally kept assuming you must be some cousin or sister or relative to the royal family.

Dunk just sits there, taller and clumsier than usual, and definitely feeling like a fish out of water among the majority of the Targaryens. He fiddles with his fingers in front of him, like that might stop him from saying something stupid, but it's already too late.

Next to him, Prince Aegon devours a fig with an expression of utter indulgentment; they went through this phase of confusion weeks ago and now seems to find it a source of amusement.

“Is something wrong, Ser?” asks Egg, his mouth partially full. “You’ve got that look on your face again.”

Dunk doesn't respond immediately. His eyes remain locked on the other side of the table, where the shade of the vines reaches upon you and your husband.

Aerion, who usually looks at everyone as if they were insects beneath his boot, is doing the most horrifying act: he is peeling an orange with the greatest of care. In one perfect spiral, he strips the peel and offers it to you along with a faint smile.

“She's Prince Baelor's daughter, right?,” Dunk asks cautiously, leaning toward Egg as far as he can without falling over. “A niece. Or maybe a distant cousin whom Aerion has kindly decided not to terrorize today for reasons of royal courtesy.”

Egg chokes a little on the piece of fig and bursts out in a dry laugh, which sounds more like a little bark. “My Uncle Baelor's daughter? Oh, Ser—”

At that very moment, your laughter fills the air at something Aerion whispers in your ear. The Prince allows himself another smile; not one of those malicious grimaces that Dunk knows so well, but a genuine, gentle one.

You place a hand on his cheek, caressing the edge of his jaw with a tenderness that makes Duncan's stomach churn with unbridled astonishment and revulsion.

“Come on, Ser, let's go meet her!” Egg suppresses a mischievous grin as he tugs on the sleeve of his tall friend's doublet, urging him to stand up as well. “I can see you like her. Let me introduce you, then.”

Dunk lets himself be led along, trying to remember every lesson in courtesy he never really learned, and as they reach the table, Aerion lifts his gaze. His eyes narrow with that characteristic coldness as he recognizes the knight, and all his gentle, carefree demeanor from mere seconds ago seems to vanish when he lays sight on Duncan.

“Ser Duncan,” Aerion drawls the name, his voice reverting to that harsh, extremely contemptuous intonation. “What a surprise. I didn’t know you were coming. It seems you're encroaching on my family's privacy a little more each day—”

“Prince Aerion,” Dunk greets him back dismissively, disregarding what the prince is saying to him, and not even bothering to listen to his passive-aggressive nonsense, since he is too concerned on gazing in awe at you. “My lady.”

“It's a pleasure to have you here.” You flash him a cheerful smile, glancing sideways to see Aerion's plump lips gaping in shock and offense at your side. “Ser...”

You pause for him to introduce himself, and he rushes to do so, inclining his head once more.

“Duncan, my lady,” the tall knight pronounces his name with more trepidation than pride. “At your service.”

Aerion frowns, his eyes squinting with growing annoyance. “Your service? What—”

“You are very kind, Ser Duncan,” you interrupt your prince, struggling to stifle a giggle at his expression of pure bewilderment. “Thank you for taking such good care of Aegon.”

“You don't have to thank me at all, my lady,” Dunk replies, his voice coming out softer. “Looking after Egg—Prince Aegon, is truly an honor. And seeing you here, being so patient... well, it just confirms what everyone at court says.”

You tilt your head curiously, as Aerion stares at him with cautious defiance.

“Oh? And what do they say, Ser Duncan?” you ask with a twinkle of amusement in your eyes.

“That you have a noble soul,” Duncan states with complete conviction, nodding to himself. “One can tell in a heartbeat that you are Prince Baelor's daughter”

And he carries on, even when Egg sneaks a kick to his shin, and the whole dining table drops silent, with everyone turning to look at him with expressions of either bafflement or disgust—in Maekar's case.

“He must be immensely proud to have such a kind and compassionate daughter. Only someone with his blood could have the strength to...“ His blue eyes glance at Aerion with barely concealed distaste, “Well, to spend the entire day entertaining your cousin Aerion and still keep a smile on your face. You are an exemplary cousin, my lady.”

Egg muffles out a strangled laugh and has to cover his mouth with both hands to keep from spitting it out.

Aerion, for his part, is not amused and remains petrified beside you. His lips part, uttering a gasp of outrage, and his violet eyes gleam with a fury that promises a death of agony.

“Daughter?” Aerion hisses, his voice rattling like a viper’s threat. “Did you call her my uncle Baelor’s daughter? And my cousin?”

You blink, glancing first at your husband, whose face is flushing through various hues of red, and then at the tall knight standing in front of you, who is frowning in innocent confusion.

“Ser Duncan...” you begin, trying to maintain your composure as the situation descends into absurdity. “I’m afraid your compass for kinship is a little... misguided.”

“Misgui—what?” babbles Dunk, batting his eyelashes as slowly as an ox that has just been struck on the snout.

Before your husband or you can answer, a soft, vibrant laugh comes from the head of the table. Prince Baelor is leaning back in his chair, attentive to the unfolding scene before him, in his usual courteous silence. His eyes now sparkle with genuine amusement.

“Gods be good, Ser Duncan,” says the King's Hand, his fingers absentmindedly twirling the wine glass he holds in his hand. “I appreciate your loyalty and your high regard for my character, but I fear you are attributing merits to me that I do not possess.”

“Prince Baelor is my uncle-in-law, by marriage, not by blood, Ser Duncan.” you clarify, reaching out to Aerion’s hand, that had been resting on your lap the moment Duncan had arrived at your side. “I am Aerion’s wife, not cousin.”

“W–wife?” Dunk repeats, his voice breaking with disbelief. “Aerion's? But, my lady, you're kind and beautiful and—”

“For five years, you bloody twit!” Aerion explodes, springing up from his seat now in defense of your honor and his own as well. The chair scrapes violently against the floor. “She’s been my wife for five years! My wife!”

You quickly rise to your feet as well, standing between your husband's fit of fury and Dunk's monumental state of embarrassment.

The difference in height is almost laughable: you attempting to calm a fuming Aerion, with Duncan looming over you both, appearing to wish the ground would open up and swallow him now that he has finally realized the mistake he has just made.

You bite your lower lip, battling to keep from laughing, knowing that would only further wound Aerion's pride.

“Calm down, my love,” you coax him gently, pressing both hands on his chest to push him back a step away from Duncan. “I’m sure Ser Duncan meant no harm.” “He called you my cousin!” Aerion retorts, his burning gaze finally dropping from Dunk and focusing on you, relenting at the way you’re gazing at him, fearful of his anger.

His hands immediately curl around your waist, drawing you closer to him reassuringly and further away from the hapless hedge knight.

Dunk is as red as a tomato and his ears are turning crimson.

“Oh fuck— I'm sorry... I'm so sorry, my prince, my lady,” he blurts out, bowing his head apologetically over and over. “I didn't mean to... it's just that she's such a good person, and you're... well, you're...” His voice trails off the instant Egg kicks him again, without even trying to be subtle about it this time. “A thousand apologies to both of you for my clumsiness. Five years... Seven Hells, five years—”

“Cease your stammering, you simpleton!” a sharp voice growls from the other end of the table. “Have you no sense at all in that thick skull of yours?”

Prince Maekar is looking at Dunk with his characteristic loathing, there is a hint of fatigue in his eyes, as if being surrounded by such a load of idiocy is costing him years of his life.

“You've caused enough of a commotion with your lack of brains, Ser,” Maekar went on, glaring at his son Aerion to shut him up as well. “Sit down and keep your mouth shut before I decide that your penance for being a dimwit should be spending the rest of lunch standing next to the horses!”

Baelor breathes out another quiet snicker at his younger brother's interruption, visibly enjoying his nephew's humiliation.

Dunk straightens up at once, rigid as a plank, still pleading for your forgiveness under his shaky breath.

“There's no need to apologize, Ser Duncan,” you try to soothe him, leaning against your husband's chest.

Clinging to your body, Aerion glares at him with hateful, menacing eyes. “I won't forget this.”

“Aerion,” you call out in disapproval, pulling yourself back in his arms so you can face him, but he just keeps eyeing Duncan, who finally stumbles away from you two and back to his seat at the table.

You seize the moment to gently tug at your husban's hand, forcing him to sit back down as well. And he lets himself fall into the chair, still holding you in his arms, and pulling you onto his lap. And you let out a light, melodic laugh as he does, twisting a little in his arms to nuzzle your nose against his affectionately.

The garden eventually settles back into its rhythmic hum of clinking silverware and low conversation. The initial shock of Dunk’s blunder lingers only in the faint, lingering flush on his face as he focuses entirely on his plate, determined not to breathe in the wrong direction.

Aerion doesn't let you go. Even as he resumes eating with his free hand, his other arm remains firmly wrapped around your waist, his thumb tracing idle, possessive circles against over the fabric of your dress. He leans his head against yours appreciatively.

“He thought we were cousins even when we treated each other like this,” Aerion whispers into your ear after taking a bite of his slice of strawberry cake, his words still laced with indignation, although you can taste the sweetness of the pastry in his breath. “How could anyone be so—”

“Oh, hush,” you whisper, your eyes gazing at his with amusement and then you pick up the small silver spoon from the edge of his plate, scooping up a generous portion of the creamy pastry. “Now, stop pouting, my love. Open up for me.”

Aerion’s obeys you, naturally, leaning forward to take the sweet offering from your hand. He chews slowly, his violet softening eyes never leaving your face.

“Is it good?” you ask softly, wiping a tiny stray bit of cream from the corner of his mouth with your thumb and sucking on it to taste the flavor yourself.

“It’s tolerable,” Aerion purrs, and then kiss your lips tenderly, his mouth lingers close to yours as he pulls away, flashing you a mischievous look. “Hmm, that is far more delicious...”

While Duncan sits frozen—staring at his plate as if the roast swan might testify against him—the rest of the table barely bats an eye at the scene unfolding at his opposite side over the table.

For the Targaryens, such public displays of affection are a common occurrence, perhaps too common during family gatherings or outings or feasts.

Maekar, though still wearing a permanent scowl, simply reaches for the wine carafe, maneuvering his arm around Aerion’s sprawling form without a word. He’s seen his son go from a bloodthirsty terror to a purring housecat in your presence too many times to count. To Maekar, your lap-sitting and sweet-feeding is a necessary evil—a price he’s willing to pay for a quiet afternoon without Aerion setting something on fire.

“You see, Ser Duncan?” Prince Baelor calls out, his voice smooth and teeming with mirth as he watches you feed Aerion another spoonful of the cake, but loud enough to make the hedge knight jump in his seat. “The Prince is quite manageable when he is well-fed and well-loved. It is a pity we cannot bottle his lady wife’s influence and distribute it among the rest of the Realm.”

Your husband scoffs, though there's no real heat in it as he tries to steal another kiss between your spoonfuls, making you laugh.

Dunk, eventually looks at Aerion and then back at you. He still doesn't quite get it—how the most difficult prince in the Seven Kingdoms ended up with a woman who treats him like a pampered house cat—but as he watches you laugh again at something the prince whispers in your ear, he decides that maybe he doesn't need to understand.

[chasedeys]

Batmobile thoughts, please?

Joe : I don't know what you're talking about. Tee : ........I don't know what y'all are talking about. Ja'Marr : He bought the batmobile?

You guys are all in on this, wow. You guys are all playing dumb.

[cementcornfield]

Tee Higgins gets a jersey from Kevin Durant 🏀

[laineypooh]

Under his Desk, Over your Head. (Pt. 2)

A/N: Guyssssuhhhhh look at those eyes omg. Part 2's here here here!

Smut warning, duh.

(I'm having fun with the colors hehe)

And I also wanna thank ya'll from the very bottom of my heart for all the love on part one, I was super hesitant on posting my writing period, so seeing the likes and comments of support motivated me so much, and really did help me dive deeper into my love of writing:)

(and don't be shy to let me know if you enjoy this one too, or not. i am so listening to your opinions and love feedback sososo much.)

ALSO feel so free to request, i made sure to switch on the anonymous option. As I said, free agent ready to serve you my lovelies.

NOTT proofread. (see what i did there ;)

word count: 7.5K

link to part 1:

Under his Desk, Over Your Head.

okay okay no more yap!!! xoxo

------------

“Must not have turned me on enough.” you settle on saying, knowing you’ll ruffle a few of his feathers.

“No?” he asks, his smile never dropping. His eyes glazed, not knowing where to look now, shamelessly dropping to your chest, bouncing back up to meet yours as if he’d never in his life make such a perverse move. “Well we can’t have that.”, mock care laced in his tone. “Take those panties off, and I'll see what I can do to remediate your predicament.”

Your face is schooled into a scowl at his condescension, but in your mind, you’re bouncing off the walls in elation. As his voice rings in your carnival of a mind, you realize again you were lost in your thoughts, failing to articulate a reply.

“Chop chop donna, I’m certain your best mate Riddle’s coming back in a bit.” 

The reference makes you semi- cringe, as you recall how thirsty you were acting in the library. “Not my mate.”, you grumble, hooking your fingers into the waistband of your panties. Maybe he’s kind of your friend. He did his big one by getting you into Theodore’s clutches, that’s for sure. You smile to yourself, knowing he’d be proud as fuck if he knew what the two of you were up to, especially after he had to endure all your love lorn whining. You might as well get to work, you need somethin’ to show for all that yap.   

Sliding your panties down your frame, you feel those stupidly hot eyes on you as you lift one leg, then the other, successfully removing the last of your garments. Without a care you lightly toss them on the growing pile of clothes on the foot of Theo’s bed, feeling the beginning stages of vulnerability. The bare expanse of your body ample for his viewing, his criticism. Your peaks, your valleys, your scars, imperfections, and your pride. And even still, you can’t tear your eyes from his, and neither can he from yours. 

“Ma guardati.”, he mumbles finally, pupils enlarged, his phalanges caressing softly at your bare hips. Look at you. 

A familiar warmth settles in your abdomen, a deep fluttery feeling, a mix of arousal along with unbridled yearning, as if the most enchanted group of butterflies decided to find solace inside your belly. You combat your feelings by being literal, doing just what he said, looking down at your body, still straddling his form. 

You hear a deep scoff, before hands grip your hips firmly, securely. One second you’re on his lap… and now you’re in midair, squealing and giggling as if you were on a carousel. Your hands don’t know where to go, unable to reach either of the posts on the side of his bed, so they settle on a wooden board in the center. “You’d better put me down, you sneak- Ah! Are you looking at my..?” you cut yourself off, literally in the best way appalled at Nott’s behavior, holding you above his view as if you weigh nothing. He shakes his head, the most innocent look on his features. 

“I’m only holding you, silly girl.”, his brow quirks, those delicious dimples appearing in his cheeks.

“Well as I said, I’d appreciate it if you'd-” your knees reach the linen of his sheets first, then the pads of your feet. “...put me down”

“Yeah? You’d appreciate that?” he asks softly, allowing his expressive brows to relax, and he’s back to giving you the doe eyes. You can feel the ghosts of his cool breath near to you, your mid thighs, then inner.

Ultimately, the final portion of your body finds its way down to Earth, when Theo takes the liberty of settling the most intimate and sensitive part of you atop a sickeningly pretty mouth.

“Mhm.” is the only response you can muster, as if your brain stopped working due to the amount of blood flowing through its most erogenous areas. You can’t even look down, there is absolutely no way you can look him in the eyes. You retract your previous thoughts, tenfold.

“Mhmm?”, he mirrors, deeper, and the vibrations of the voice hit you just right. As if he can read your mind, he brings a hand up, his thumb softly stroking your chin, urging you to look down at him, while at the same time his sweet kisses are peppered along your inner thighs. His free hand slides around, finding purchase once again on your ass, his hold on you attractively firm. “Cat got your tongue, love?” 

His nose brushes against the perimeter of your sex, and a few more sporadic kisses fall onto your skin, one of them open mouthed- right where you needed, where you ached most.

“No! Merlin, no, not at all!” you blurt out, your nails digging into the wood of his bedframe. The bastard chuckles.

You at last cave, tilting your head down, to take a peek at him. All you see is blue, blue, blue.

"Ah, found your voice." he drawls, his words dripping with honeyed sarcasm. The corners of his mouth tug upwards as he gazes up at you through heavily lidded eyes.  He uses the hand supporting your rear to tilt your pelvis upward, exposing you completely to him. He swipes his finger along your lower lip, lightly, before bringing his hand down to your even lower lips. His thumb and forefinger trace along your hood, before spreading your labia. You feel yourself squirming at his touch, and his grip on your ass toughens. 

“Not turned on enough.” he mumbles under his breath, mocking your earlier words, shaking his head. “Liar.” his eyes roll, deliciously, his fingers smearing your wetness around your flesh. 

“Am not!” you defend, weakly. Being so exposed, in a way, flusters you all the more. You’re such a liar. If one were to search for “turned on” in a thesaurus, a picture of you would sit pertly on the parchment among the synonyms. 

“Are too.” he tuts, matching your tone. “You wanna know what happens to liars?” he asks, hands going back to your ass for a third time, as if it’s where they belong. His breath fans over your heat again, and the kisses on your outer lips follow, each one making your stomach tighten in anticipation. “You wanna know, pretty?”, he whispers against your skin, eyes finding yours. 

You hum in response, nodding your head, almost too excitedly given the situation. 

“Mhmm? Use your words. You were doing so well a moment ago.” he rasps from beneath you.

“I wanna know what happens, Theo.” your hands move from his headboard to rest on a miscellaneous pillow, gripping lightly to ground yourself.

He leans back in, his kisses turning into licks. “Yeah?” Agonizingly slowly, his tongue traces paths along your hood. Your hips buck against his face as your surrender to each and every tingle. A soft, pleased sigh falls from your lips.

“I think I’m gonna start lying more often.” you whisper softly, a sweet nothing. You giggle when he raises his brows, the sharpness of his cheekbone peeking from between your thighs. A kiss lands directly on your sensitivity, and you can’t help but throw your head back, blissfully. 

“Smartass.” It’s a whisper. His hands cup the underside of your rear, pulling you closer to his lips.

You grin. 

A tight, wet seal forms around your clit, pulling at you so deeply it feels like he’s trying to draw the very breath from your lungs.

You don’t even recognize the noise that leaves your mouth, mixing with barely recognizable words. “My fucking- What my- You-”, just a jumble of incomprehensible whimpers. Your fingers dive into his hair, tugging desperately to either pull him closer or push him away, you don't even know which—but he just digs his fingers into the soft meat of your thighs, anchoring you to his mouth as he drinks you in, relentless and greedy. You can’t shut up. 

After his tongue caught onto you over and over again, little groans slipped from him as well. He’s not scared to show how much he enjoys your taste. Giving your clit another teasing nibble, he lets up, his tongue finding your now sopping entrance. Once, twice, three times he slides his tongue into you. You wince at the intrusion, warm and wet, doing nothing little to quell your ache. At the contrary, you begin feeling even more feral, more desperate for further penetration. The fourth time, he returns to your neglected clit, soothing your aches with light kitten licks. 

“Che bello”  he groans against your pussy, his hands tugging on your hips desperately, forcing you impossibly closer to his starved mouth. You can feel his words in your stomach and you know you need more. You blindly reach backward, cupping his dick over his flannels. You thought you accidentally grabbed the spine of a spellbook– he’s impossibly stiff in your hands. 

He groans now, louder, overly sensitive from the blood rush, and playfully nips at your clit in return. You squeal at the bite. “You asshole!”, you blurt, grabbing his length more firmly, digging in your nails over the thin fabric of his pajamas. 

Instead of the scoff you thought you’d get, you earn an even sexier moan from him. He wraps his hands around your waist, pulling you tighter, leaving no space between the two of you. He suckles you again, and you’re done for, a shaking mess on his face. Gluttonously, he licks every last drop of wetness that slips out of you, ignoring how loud you are, whining even sweeter nothings about how good he’s making you feel. He stops when he’s satiated, hands encircling your hips, plopping you back to where you were, on his lap, which is becoming an increasingly uncomfortable seat. Aren’t chairs supposed to be soft? 

“You’re gonna get a wet spot on your jammies.”, you tease, happy to see his whole face again, not marred by your thighs that once enveloped his lower half. Your body’s still tingling, as if he imprinted the feeling of his mouth onto you. 

“Nothing the bloody house elves can’t fix. You know that.” A cheeky smile slides onto his lips. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then licks his lips acting as if you aren’t staring right at him. "You're so worried about my clothes," he starts, hands already working the drawstring of his pants. "I think it’s time we get them out of the equation entirely."

“I’m scared!" you snicker, placing one of your hands on his wrist to still his movements.

“You’re scared, donna? Were you not just riding my face better than a broom 5 minutes ago?” his lip finds its way between his teeth, discreetly, as if he’s already reminiscing the moment. His thumb prods at your wrist and you release your grip, fingers happily accepting his as they interlace in a hand hold.

“I mean yeah, but you’re gonna poke me with that thing.” you punctuate your statement with a little wriggle atop his cock, your body thanking you for the frictional contact.

Theo rolls his eyes, though the smirk remains on his face.. "Poke you? I’m going to do a lot more than poke you. You’ve got jokes.” 

“Right? You’re literally always cheesing when you see me in the corridors. I have a few.” you beam, letting one of your hands absently dip into the waistband of his pants.

"Fucking hilarious, love. Truly. Funny how you weren't complaining about 'that thing' when it was down your throat earlier," he murmurs, his thumb digging into your hip. 

“Wasn’t me, don’t know what you’re talking about.” deny,defend,deffer,  “It was for surezies Draco under your desk anyway.”

“Oh yeah. For surzies.” he agrees with flying colors. “For sure.” He gives a sharp, upward tilt of his pelvis, making you gasp as you feel the full, hard length of him right where you’re most sensitive.

“Mmm, quit poking me!” you mewl, resting your hand on the flat planes of his abs, feeling them involuntarily flex under your fingertips. Your other hand squeezes his.

“You complain a lot for someone who keeps climbing into my lap,” he counters, bringing your joined hands up to himself to kiss your dorsum.

“You put me here this time.” you complain once more, letting your bare core rub against him again. A long, theatrical sigh leaves his lips.

“Alright.” he sits up, dragging you closer by your hips. “You’re being a fuckin’ tease.” he groans, rubbing at his temples. The boy’s painfully hard at this point, balls bordering on blue. 

“Am not.” you whisper coyly, knowing where that got you moments ago. You press your bare chest against his. “Am not, Am not, Am not.” you repeat, peppering kisses on his sculpted face. You can feel his resolve wavering, his breath picking up and the ghost of a smile on him. 

“C’mon bella.” He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his lips brushing your skin in a way that’s almost a plea. "I don't want to be a gentleman anymore," he groans against your pulse point, leaving a small rouge mark to remember him by, for the next few days. Theo wraps his arms around you, squeezing you so hard your breath hitches. He hides his face now in your chest, his voice muffled and thick, his accent thicker. "I’m hurting, I want you so much.”

You smile, evil thing you are. In the matter of a few hours, you rendered Theodore Nott a yearner. You close your eyes, thinking your decision over one last time before you give him your consent. Flashes– flash forwards, splatter all through your mind. Lunch period, Theo. Studying with Theo. Lectures with Theo. Like a truck, his intentions of purity hit you, as if you could feel his aura radiating around him, welcoming instead of warning. You open your lids for one second. Those baby blue eyes are a pair you could never say no to.

Placing your hand on his jaw, you urge his face to align with yours. He doesn’t waste a second to kiss you, hand finding the nape of your neck, holding you close to him. “Need an answer.” he whispers against your lips, his hips desperately rutting up into you once more. “Prego, mamma.”

The two of you are one in the same, your orifice throbbing in its vacancy. “Take me, then.”, you mumble, sounding just as needy as him. Lifting you by your waist, he lays you down flat on the linens. You make grabby hands at him, looking up through your lashes. “What a comedian.”, he chuckles, fingers hooking into his flannels and boxers, pulling them down his body, throwing them on the foot of the bed, completing your combined pile of discarded clothing. You can’t tear your eyes away from his body, fully nude. His length, stiff, hits the middle of his stomach, his tip red with blood flow. He scrunches his brows, biting the inside of his cheek. “You know, it’s rude to stare.” he chides, getting on top of you, his pale biceps caging you in. 

“You know I can’t help it!” you defend, wrapping your arms around his neck. “You’re so hot.” you mumble, letting your nose nuzzle his. “Boh, it’s a burden I carry daily.” Ass. He seems to be getting to know you perfectly already, swallowing your words with a kiss before you can take back your previous compliment. He catches your lower lip gently between his, pulling on it with a slow, rhythmic pressure that matches the rise and fall of your chest. A peck, and he's back to making out with you like he means it. He settles his weight on his elbow, his other hand sliding downwards to part your thighs, settling his hips between you. He pushes against you in a slow, circular motion, your wetness messily coating his shaft. You try to arch up to meet him, to force the entry, but he pins your hip down with his hand. 

“My room, my rules.” he stops kissing you now, absolutely relishing your desperate, pissed off expression. “Yes sir.” you begrudgingly comply, letting your eyes wander. You watch, entranced, as he strokes himself using your slick, and your mouth can’t help but fall open when he brings himself to you, running his velvety tip along your slit. He pushes in just a fraction—the tiniest, most insulting centimeter—before pulling back and rubbing himself against your nerves. You gasp at the intrusion, and it’s gone as fast as it came. “You want more?” he asks, brushing repeatedly over your clit, the feeling traveling down to your toes in bliss. As aroused as he is, he gets even more of a kick out of keeping you on edge. “So much, Theo. Please, please.” you implore him, your doe eyes working overtime. 

“Greedy girl. You sure? ‘Cause I'm not stopping once I start.” he punctuates his words by placing himself to your opening, raising a brow. You really don’t know what you’re getting yourself into. But he’s right, you are a greedy girl indeed. 

When your chin lowers from your frantic nod, he pushes into you, taking his sweet time. The delicious sting of him stretching you knocks the air out your lungs. You realize moaning truly isn’t optional, a strangled one coming straight from your throat. Dropping his head to your shoulder, his entire body goes rigid, his skin searingly hot against yours as he comes impossibly closer to you, his pride melting away with every breath you take. He feels a deep, throbbing ache in his chest that has nothing to do with the physical act. As he sinks further into you his heart swells with a possessive, frantic kind of love that he’s always masked with sarcasm. 

“Theo.” you sigh, almost like a prayer, fingers clawing at his shoulder as he retreats, pushing himself back into you. Again, and again he thrusts, not believing this is real, that you’re real. And when you wrap your legs around his waist, he feels himself becoming small. He’s just a boy, desperate and starving for the girl he’s loved in secret, for all these years. He smiles to himself at the realization, inhaling your sweet scent at your decolletage. You finally noticed him, gave him the time of day. His wanton glances toward you began to be reciprocated, and by the grace of Merlin, he just so happened to skip out of detention early. Just so happened to get word from Riddle that you’re for real about him, that you’d be slipping into his room. Everything fit into place, and now, he’s fitting into you just as perfectly. He’ll admit that to himself, and only himself in this moment, his carefully curated wall’s peeled back.

He pulls away just enough to look at you, his pupils so blown they’ve completely swallowed the blue of his eyes. He watches the way your hair is fanned out on his pillows, the way your lips are parted and swollen. "I used to dream about this," he admits, his voice a low, gravelly crawl. "I used to think I’d have to settle for the dreams. But you’re better. You’re so much warmer than the dreams." he divulges, letting himself sink into you a little faster than before. He sucks in a breath as you milk him for everything he’s worth. 

“I… I-fuck. I’ve imagined you in me since last winter.” you whine, feelings for him growing, your hormones running rampant throughout your bloodstream.

“Yeah?”, he asks, pushing another quarter of his length into you, one you weren’t even aware he had, brushing against your cervix. 

“Shit, Theo!” you nearly squeal, pulling your hips backward. He tsks, hand stilling you.

“Ah, bella, don’t run now, you wanted this, didn’t you? Isn’t that why you broke into my room? Take it.” his hand pulls you onto him, making you meet his thrusts as they grow more intentional, his tip kissing the hilt of you each time. He’s greedier than you, his movements becoming more frantic as he realizes just how much of him you can actually take. 

You throw your head back, not even able to speak coherently, surprising yourself at how unhinged your moans are. His veins rub against your ridges, soothing every possible ache you could fathom. He takes advantage of your ample skin, kissing biting, sucking at your neck, leaving behind more patches of red. He’s starving for you in every possible way, muffling his guttural moans into your skin. 

Feeling himself hit a certain gummy part inside you, and the sharp breath that follows, he decides at that very moment he’s going to absolutely ruin you. "Right there?" he inquires, his voice  low, gravelly against your ear, making your nerves smile. 

“Can’t say.” you giggle between your moans, breath picking up when he hits it again. 

“No?” he asks, grabbing one leg then the other, pinning your knees to your chest, angling you directly how he needs to. “No Theo, please!” you squeal, smiling, panting, knowing exactly what’s coming to you. "Still can't say?" he taunts, his voice vibrating against your collarbone. He pulls back just an inch and then snaps forward, hitting that spot with the precision of a hammer. “Huh?” he asks, picking up his speed again, devouring your mouth when you scream almost too loud. “I know baby, I know.” he muses, pulling back from your lips. “You feel so fucking good, it’s driving me mad.” 

“I can’t stop looking at you.” you hiss, biting your finger to try to silence yourself. “I’ve needed you for like, forever.” you mewl, and he picks up the pace at that, the lewd sound of his rigid muscles slapping your curves filling the dorm. He lets go of your legs to cradle your face, comfortingly holding your breast with the other. You take the liberty of resting your feet on his shoulders, and he loses it. You look so sexy like that. 

“Cazzo... mi stai distruggendo” his hand moves to the back of your head, supportively, not knowing what to do, where to hold you. His stamina is almost inhuman, his pace constantly rapid. 

“Mama Mia” you moan, no idea what he just said. He throws his head back laughing, giving your ass a quick swat for making fun of him when he’s on the verge of breaking. 

“No no, you don’t understand.” he sighs, sucking his teeth to stifle his groans.  "I'm never letting you leave my side after this. I mean it. I’ll lock the door.” he takes a moment to kiss you another time, addicted to your taste. “I’ll hex anyone who tries to court you, to look for you.” 

The words send a flowering warmth in your chest, which he just so happens to be grabbing like his life depends on it. “I’m right where I wanna be, I don’t wanna be saved.” you squeak, tears brimming at your eyes from exertion. “I’m so close.” you warn, your hands grabbing at his chest to ground yourself.

“I know, I feel you.” he rolls his eyes arrogantly, biting his lip to keep from smiling himself. His hand slides down to your clit, rubbing lazy circles, slowing his pace to ensure he feels every second of you squeezing him. “You know I've got you, come on.” he whispers reassuringly, keeping his gaze focused on your face. You feel yourself gushing against him, the slick, wet sound of his thumb and his length working in tandem filling the quiet dorm. Because he’s staring directly into your eyes, you have nowhere to hide. You feel his gaze like a physical touch, pinning you down more effectively than his hands ever could.

Your back arches off the bed. You can feel your own internal walls fluttering and squeezing him desperately. Every time you clench, you feel the hard, rigid throb of him responding. “Si baby. You’re making me lose my goddamn mind, c’mon.” he coos deeply, right in your ear. He strokes you upward, thumb slick with you, and the knot tied in your stomach snaps. You gasp out his name like a mantra, clinging to his neck to ground yourself, because you feel as if you’re floating. You see white when he doesn’t fucking stop, he literally thrusts faster, relishing in how your pussy gains a mind of her own, gripping him like a lifeline. 

Your peak travels to your extremities, toes curling so tightly they ache, and your legs, still draped over his broad shoulders, begin to shake uncontrollably. You feel the fine tremors in your thighs as they lose their strength, your muscles turning to water under the onslaught. “Theo.” you whine, as if he can bring you down from your high, even though you don’t even want to stop flying. Never in your life have you came like this.

“Mmmm, Yes ma’am?” he asks with faux innocence, holding your thighs to steady their tremors, slowing his pace a fraction finally, allowing you to catch your breath.

“Holy, I- My-” you tumble over your words, rubbing your hand over your eyes in embarrassment. 

“Don’t be so shy.” he peels your hand back, interlacing your fingers, stilling his movements.  “You have no idea how good you are for me.” he won’t admit it, but he meant his words in more ways than one. 

“I’m absolutely not shy.” you retort, catching your breath. “My brain was just off for a sec.” you decidedly say. 

“Yeah yeah, there’s that fuckin’ attitude.” he resumes his movements, secretly growing a little harder with the banter between the two of you, hands running up and down your thighs. “Sei sempre stata una ragazza testarda.” 

“If you wanna shit talk me, do it in english, assface.”

Theo’s eyebrows shoot up, a bark of genuine, surprised laughter escaping him at your choice of words. He doesn't look offended; he looks delighted that you still have the spirit to insult him while he’s literally inside you. “Eh, Assface? Davvero? Non morder la mano che ti tocca.” He picks up his pace a little, and you sigh, wanting to argue, but succumb to your pleasurable overstimulation. 

“I think you’re broken.” you reach up, tapping the beauty mark on his cheek. “There, I switched you back to english.” 

He shakes his head from one side to another, running his hand up to grab your foot, planting kisses on your instep. “Pulsante sbagliato” he mumbles, pummeling you faster. 

“Eek! Wrong button?” you ask, exhaling a few whines, in a last ditch effort to keep up the joking tone. You know if he keeps that up, you’re going to literally implode, from inside to out. “Si.” he replies simply, his smirk displaying those dimples. Feeling himself move closer, he doesn’t have it in him to joke. “Can you give me one more, pretty girl? I need to come with you.”  he feels himself stiffening impossibly so, his hand joining the other on your upper thighs, pulling you harder onto him in time with his thrusts, his skin battering yours in the best way. You feel like a passenger in your own body, ragdolled under his grasp. 

“I’ll give you whatever you want Theo, Fuck.” you’re so obedient for him, tightening yourself around him, your body naturally caging him in. "Again... do that again," he gasps, his forehead dropping to yours so he can look you dead in the eye. “Wanna feel you bleed me dry.” Your hand tangles in his hair, needing him closer to you, his face prettier than any of your wildest dreams could conjure, his thick brows knitted together in earnest. You comply, squeezing him, releasing, squeezing. “Like that?” you croak out, barely able to find your voice, you’re just as close as him. He becomes incredibly tactile, his face seeking out any patch of your skin he can find. He’s nuzzling into your throat, his breath hot and frantic, his moans turning into small, needy groans. “Exactly that, so tight.” With his abs rubbing against your no longer neglected pearl, you know you’re there, leaning back into the pillows. 

He delivers a sequence of frantic, blurring thrusts, his eyes searching yours with a look of pure, unadulterated need. "I’m going to lose it, I’m going to—fuck—" He shakes his head, his chestnut locks damp with sweat. "Tell me where. Quick. Inside? Outside?" He’s losing the ability to form coherent thoughts, his Italian slipping. "Dove lo vuoi? Dimmi…” 

You gasp, his words twice as hot in either language. Seeing him so frantic, feeling him so frantic… you don’t even weigh the future consequences in your mind. “In, i’m begging you in.” you blurt “Paint me nice and pretty, all white.” who is this girl and what has she done with you? How could you say that, how cockdrunk are you?  

"My pretty, painted girl," he whimpers, his head falling back, exposing the corded muscles of his neck. "You’re never going to feel empty again after tonight. I won't allow it” he promises, breathing going ragged. His thrusts grow sloppy, erratically quick, your body quivering around him as you come again. “Come with me, please, please please.” you cry out, legs wrapping around his torso. He pulls you onto him one last time, letting himself do the rest of the work, holding you firmly to him. His jaw is locked so tight you can see the bone jump in his cheek, and you soothe it with your thumb, wanting him to relax, trying to ground your own shaking with him. His moans dissolve into half-words in his native tongue.  Not spoken, but groaned out—"Sì... dio... così..."—the vowels elongated and heavy with his accent. “I’m all fucking yours.” he breathes out, chest heaving, whispering your name over and over in your ears as his hips stutter, spilling himself into you. Thick, warm, heavy, his semen coats you, his dick throbbing in tandem, soothing the aftershocks of your own orgasm. 

He collapses onto you, spent and breathless, soft groans still leaving him. His love overflows, spilling out your entrance, coating his cock, tickling your skin as it slips down your thighs. His hands, still trembling, move from your hips to your hair. He isn't gripping you now; he’s petting you, his fingers clumsy and shaking as he tries to find his way back to reality. "You’re so soft... and I’m so... fuck." He lets out a shaky laugh against your neck.

“You’re so pretty.” you mumble, lifting your hips to draw him and his cum deeper into you. A faint, dark flush creeps up his neck and into his cheeks. “Stop.” he groans, from your flowery compliment, and then he coughs at your audacity. “You trying to kill me?” he asks, shuddering lightly from overstimulation. He slumps against you further, hugging at your waist. “Daverro?” you ask, deepening your voice, mimicking his accent. “Like, why would I do that, bro? I’m Theodore by the way.” you clarify, showing all your teeth when he cuts his eyes at you. You hug him back to make up for your mockery, arms wrapping around his back firmly. He licks a stripe up your neck, just to annoy you.  “I mean, I’d literally let Theodore annihilate me, have you seen those eyes, Mattheo?” he mocks, bringing his voice as high pitched as it can go, which is a sorry excuse for a girl’s voice. You still gasp, tugging on his hair. “Mattheo snitched?” you’re definitely going to have a talk with him later. So uncool. And all this time, you thought he was one of the girls. Partially. With you, at least. “You said that?”, he answers your question with his own, letting his lips fall apart in mock surprise. 

“I can’t freaking believe you right now.” you scold, tightening yourself around him again. He hisses, a string of obscenities flying from his mouth, body shaking again. “Low blow.” he shudders out, his nerves going haywire. You giggle, letting up, wishing he’d never have to pull out of you again. Inevitably, as he softens, you huff at the fate. The two of you lay there for a few more minutes, leaving you giggling to no end. 

“You wanna go ahead and get cleaned up?” he asks tenderly, kissing your temple. “Do I? It feels like I double peed myself, Theo. Gosh.” you smile, being painfully overdramatic. 

“How pitiful.” he agrees, scooping you up into his arms, taking it into account that your legs will need a bit to adjust. “Alright, don’t freak out when you see yourself in the mirror.” he groans lightly as he stands from his bed, holding you securely around your waist. “I’m absoshittylutely gonna freak out now? All the more? The hell did you do?” you mouth off at him, holding him around his neck. You see him visibly gulp turning the handle of the bathroom door. He sets you down on your feet in front of the mirror, wrapping his arm around your bare waist, allowing you to feast your eyes. The fluorescent light of the bathroom flickers on, and for a second, the brightness is a physical blow to your overstimulated senses. You blink, squinting at the glass, and then the breath leaves your lungs all over again in a small sigh. 

It’s one thing to feel him—to feel his weight, his heat, his frantic heart—but seeing the two of you together like this is surreal, like everything and more you’ve dreamed of. Standing there, the height difference hits you first. He towers over you, his broad, pale frame acting as an anchor behind your form. His arm’s wrapped around your bare waist, his fingers digging slightly into your skin as if he’s still making sure you’re really with him right now.  Then, you look at your face. Gosh. Absoshittylutely freaking out was an understatement. Your makeup is a gorgeous, tragic disaster, your mascara smudged into dark, smoky halos beneath your eyes, like a sleep deprived raccoon. Your lipstick is gone, replaced by a raw, swollen pout that looks like it’s been thoroughly thoroughly kissed for hours..

Your eyes drop to your neck and chest, and you let out a tiny, shocked sound. Blooming hickeys litter your skin, the flushed reds trail from the sensitive hollow behind your ear, down your throat, and disappear into the swell of your breasts. One particularly dark mark sits right at the top of your cleavage and you groan, throwing your head back. “Theooo.” you draw out, clawing at your tangled hair, finger combing it as much as possible to return it to its original state. “Scusaaaa.” he repeats, mirroring your tone. He places his other hand on your waist, squeezing gently. “I was hungry.” he excuses, crouching to rest his chin on the top of your head. He on the other hand looks the opposite of you, his hair sexily messy, lips matching yours, swollen and flushed, some small scratches painting the top of his shoulders. Your gaze drops to your thighs, his release still shimmering against your skin, a slowly dropping trail that marks exactly where he was just buried. It’s almost poetic. 

He plops you on the counter by your waist, the chill of the marble biting at your skin. He reaches for a plush white towel, soaking it until it’s heavy and steaming. When he turns back to you, the steam curls around his messy hair, softening the sharp lines of his face.

"Open for me" he asks, gently. He doesn't wait for an answer, his large hand sliding to the inside of your thigh, his thumb grazing the skin just above your knee to urge you wider. He settles himself firmly between your legs, his eyes dropping to the mess he made. Hands shielded by the warm towel, he wipes away the evidence of your rendezvous. He cleans the entrance where he was just engulfed, and you can’t help but laugh at the irony. “Tickles?” he asks, looking up at you. Bastard was already smiling, just looking at what lies between your thighs. “Does not, and if you even attempt tickling me, I’m gonna pee on you, for real.” He tilts his head to the side, pursing his lips. “Don’t threaten me with a good time.” 

You exaggeratedly gasp, lightly smacking his cheekbone. “You’re up here” you start, mimicking a teacher’s voice, Babbling. “I’m gonna need you down here.” you chastise, sucking your cheeks in to look like you mean business. 

“Ma’am yes ma’am.” he nods, patting your pussy with his hands, wordlessly telling you he’s done. You squirm, closing your legs with reddened cheeks. He wets another towel, passing it over to you, to wipe your face. He stands between your legs, doing the same. You look closely in the light, up at him, and notice traces of your makeup are scattered along his features, some glitter, and pink from your blush.  You admire your handiwork. There’s a tiny fleck of glitter right on the tip of his nose, and as he blinks, it catches the light, making him look absolutely ridiculous and incredibly dear.

You take the towel he gave you and start dabbing at your own face, scrubbing away the ruined mascara. He watches you with rapt attention, his head tilted. Every time you wince at a sensitive spot due to your play, he reaches out to take the towel from you. "Easy, easy. You’re already raw. Let me." He takes over, gently wiping the dark smudges from under your eyes with the care of an artist. “Thank you.” you murmur, wrapping your arms around his neck again. “All done?” you ask when he sets the wrung out towel on the rack. “All done.” he confirms, hoisting you up by your butt, carrying you back to his foamy bed. 

The two of you aren’t quite ready to let the night end, not in the slightest, but the coolness of the room is starting to bite, and knowing Theo, his friends will likely return in some hours, drunk or high off something. He strides to his mahogany wardrobe, and you eat up the sight of his back muscles, rippling as he rummaged though it.  He picks through a drawer of expensive, silk-blend boxers, tossing a pair of charcoal gray ones onto the bed. "Here. These are clean," he grunts. You pick them up with two fingers, playfully pouting. You hold them to the light, squinting dramatically. “Ew, are you sure? Is this a wrinkle, or a cum stain?” you ask, and he doesn’t bother turning around to defend himself, laughing lightly at the accusation. “Yeah, you wish. I throw any pair before they can even draw holes.” And you know he’s not lying either. He’s scarily put together for a guy. He looks back at you, gesturing vaguely at a row of perfectly hung shirts. "Options," he starts. "I have 'Slytherin green' for the brand, Black, or Classic White if you’re feeling plain." 

“Gimme green.” You opt for the forest green silk button-down. You lift your arms, waiting for him to slide it on. As he does, the hem falls nearly to your mid-thigh, and the sleeves hang several inches past your fingertips. “Thanks for the shirt, Nott.” 

“Yeah, you can keep it, smelly.” he bends down to pull his boxers over your legs, the fabric clinging to your thighs. 

“I know you are but what am I?”

“Clever.” He smirks, finally pulling on some clean boxers and lounge pants of his own. 

You take a big whiff of his shirt, your chest warming at his natural, woodsy scent. “It smells so good, your shirt.” 

"Better than smelling like 'double pee,' I assume?" You nod wildly at that, laughing some more. The little girl in you smiles, feeling so seen and swaddled. 

He walks closer to the bed and you lift your hands, but they’re completely lost in the forest green silk. You wiggle your fingers, and the empty cuffs just flop around like a puppet show. He lets out a soft, genuine huff of a laugh. "You have no hands," he notes, reaching out to capture the silk ends. “No more spells for you.” 

“Ugh, guess I can’t leave now huh? Cause like, if I don’t have hands, how will I be able to balance?” you add on, and he balls his hand into a fist holding it to his mouth, nodding. “Such a good point. You’ve got to spend the night with me.” he ratifies, moving to the other side of the bed, tossing pillows around to make a comfortable area. “No spells for me, for real?” you inquire. 

He moves to the foot of the bed, neatly folding your discarded clothes and places them in the hamper, then gently joins you under the sheets. "No spells," he repeats, pulling you softly toward the center of the bed. "Just... this. I think my magic is short-circuited anyway. If I tried to cast a Lumos right now, I’d probably just accidentally set the curtains on fire." He sounds completely leveled, his movements heavy and relaxed. “Hmm, I kinda think you’d do that on a good day.” 

Theo lets out a dry, sleepy chuckle at your jab, his head falling back into the mountain of pillows he just constructed. He reaches out and grabs the excess silk of your sleeves, gently hauling you closer until your head is pillowed on his bare chest. You can hear his heart, drumming a little faster at your nearness, then steadying. “Yeah, yeah.” His hand slides down to rest over your stomach, his palm wide and warm over the green silk. His voice drops into a more serious, velvet tone. "I don't need a Lumos right now anyway. I already used the only bit of magic that mattered the second we started." 

“You did? What’d you do, Theo?” you ask, genuinely curious, tilting your chin up to meet his eyes. 

He leans in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. "Standard contraceptive charms, love. Pureblood training. It’s the first thing they teach us so we don't end up with 'accidents' before we're twenty-one. It’s a localized, lingering spell. You’re good.” 

You smile sleepily, relief washing over you. You hadn’t much thought about your methods of contraception in the moment, and it’s so sweet he had the foresight. “I wanna see where this goes, Theo. We spent all that time brushing shoulders, but, I really wanna know you.” your lashes flutter as you exhale your confession. 

His arm, already draped over your waist, cinches a fraction tighter. He doesn’t say anything for a long moment, just lets the weight of your words hang in the dark. He lets out a long, shaky breath against your temple, the heat of it seeping through your messy hair. "You have no idea," he whispers, his voice sounding raw and stripped of his usual arrogance. "How much time I spent watching you from across the Great Hall... wondering about you. I..I built this wall. ‘Try to put my grades first. So after a while I stopped letting you take up so much of my mind.” 

“Mhmm?” you ask, actively listening to him, trying to act like this confession isn’t setting your entire soul on fire. This whole time? He’s known about you, he’s been watching you, this whole time? Your heart aches for what could have been, yet swells at the prospect of what will be.

“But, y'know, bella from now on, I want you right here. In my clothes, in my bed, in my head.” He lets out a soft, self-deprecating laugh. "I think I’m in trouble. I think you've done something to me that I can't undo with a charm. You’ve made me want things I haven't even thought about since I was a kid." 

Your heart rattles against your chest, and you hook a leg around him, wanting closer. "I used to practice my, like, nonchalant face in the mirror every morning just so I wouldn't look at you for too long at the Gryffindor table. I thought you were just, unattainable" , you admit biting the inside of your cheek. “What a waste of perfectly good time. We could’ve been doing this in October.”

“Hey, hey.” he starts, brushing your cheek. “None of that shit. I don’t know how I’m gonna spend more than a few hours away from you after this, and that’s something.” 

You don’t respond, your thoughts racing. “And your nonchalant face wasn’t very good, pretty. I could always see you looking.” You giggle at that. “There she is.” he coos, stroking your face gently. 

“I’m all yours to look at now. We can study for finals, we can eat together, find some muggle films and watch ‘em.” 

"Muggle films?" you murmur with your animated tone, voice breathy with sleep. "I bet you've never even seen a television." He huffs a soft laugh into your hair. "I’ll buy one. I’ll figure out how to charm the damn thing to work in the castle.”

“I’ll literally kiss you a million times if you can pull that off.” you smile lightly, hands fiddling with your hair.

“I’ll hold you to that.” 

“I’ll hold you to me.” You bite lightly at his chest and he exaggeratedly sighs. 

“So now you’re going piranha on me? Merlin, what am I gonna do with you? Go to bed.” 

You’ve had your fill of defiance to last you weeks, so on a rare one off, you oblige, closing your lids with the goofiest, most satiated smile you could ever produce. You rest knowing you can dream however you may, and wake in the morning, marking the beginning of everything, with him. 

[mrs-delaney]

Can you do one of Colston where you surprise him w Bears themed lingerie 😛😛

pairings: colston loveland x reader wc: 2000ish warnings: smut a/n: thank you to the requestor for requesting this. it was so fun to write.

This was a mistake.

You tugged at the hem of Colston’s hoodie for the hundredth time, pacing restlessly between his couch and kitchen island. The oversized fabric brushed against your thighs, soft and carrying his scent—laundry detergent and something warmer. The sensation was familiar. Comforting.

What wasn’t comforting was what you were wearing underneath it.

The set arrived three weeks ago—custom. Orange bra, cheeky underwear, 84 in navy blue across the back. You’d ordered it on a whim after a win, riding the high of watching him play. You wanted to do something fun. Sexy. Something to make him lose it a little.

Now, standing in his apartment after a bad loss, you question every decision that led to this moment.

He’s going to be crushed. He’ll step through the door, see you, and want nothing but sleep and silence. This plan is idiotic. Why can’t you just play it cool for once?

The sound of his key in the lock made your heart slam into your ribs.

Too late.

You froze by the kitchen island, hands still gripping the hoodie’s hem, as the door swung open.

Colston looked exhausted: heavy shoulders, tight jaw, flat eyes reserved for the roughest losses. Still in travel clothes—gray sweats, Bears hoodie, duffel bag over his shoulder—he dropped it by the door and found you instantly.

Something in his expression softened. Just a fraction. Just enough.

“Hey.” His voice was rough. Tired.

“Hey.” You moved toward him without thinking, your plan dissolving the second you saw him like this. “You okay?”

He didn’t answer. He closed the space, pulling you into his chest—one arm at your waist, the other cupping your head. Face buried in your neck, you felt the frustration and disappointment weighing his body.

You held him back. Let him breathe. Your fingers found the back of his neck, scratching lightly at the short hair there, the way you knew he liked.

“Wanna talk about it?” you asked quietly.

He shook his head against your shoulder. “Nah. Just—” A breath. “Glad I’m home.”

“Okay.”

You stayed like that—a minute, maybe two. His heartbeat slowed. His grip loosened, but he just shifted, looking at you.

His eyes swept over you—the hoodie, your bare legs, the way you were standing like you weren’t sure what to do with your hands. His brow furrowed slightly. “You okay?”

“Yeah. I just—” You hesitated. This was the moment. The fork in the road. You could let it go, change into real clothes, order food, put on a movie, and let him decompress the way he normally does.

Or.

“I had something planned,” you heard yourself say. “For tonight. Before the game, I mean.” Your voice wavered slightly. “I wasn’t sure if it was still—if you’d want—”

Colston’s eyes sharpened. The exhaustion was still there, but something else flickered underneath it. Curiosity. Interest. “What kind of something?”

Your face went hot. “It’s stupid. It was supposed to be for a win, and then—”

“Show me.”

Simple. Direct. That was Colston—he said what he meant and waited for you to catch up.

You swallowed hard. “Cole, you just got home. You’re tired. We don’t have to—”

“Baby.” His hand found your hip, thumb pressing through the hoodie fabric. His voice dropped lower. “Show me.”

Your pulse pounded so loud you were sure he heard it. But his eyes were patient, and something about the way he looked at you made you braver than you felt.

You stepped back. His hand fell away from your hip, and you saw his jaw tighten slightly at the loss of contact. But he didn’t move. Just watched.

Fingers trembling, you catch the hoodie’s hem. You’re about to expose everything—nerves, hope, fear, all wrapped up in orange. Don’t bail now. You pull it off over your head before you can stop yourself.

The apartment was quiet. You couldn’t look at him—you could barely breathe. The orange fabric felt bright, the bra cut low, the underwear high on your hips. You felt exposed, more by nerves than skin.

Colston went completely still.

You force yourself to look up. Of course, he’s not looking at your face. Part of you wants to laugh, to shout, to vanish. You wonder if you’re ridiculous or brave or both.

His gaze was tracking over you slowly, deliberately—your collarbones, the swell of your breasts in orange, the dip of your waist, your hips. Something in his expression shifted. The exhaustion was still there, but it was being steadily overtaken by something darker. Hungrier.

“Turn around.” His voice was rough in a different way now.

You turned.

The silence stretched. You could feel his eyes on the small of your back, dropping lower, finding the 84 printed across the curve of your ass.

“You’re fucking kidding me.”

The words came out strangled. When you glanced back, Colston ran a hand over his face, trying to compose himself. He failed.

“I had it custom-made,” you said, voice smaller than you meant it to be. “A few weeks ago. I was going to surprise you after a win, but then tonight—”

“You did this for me?”

The question was so genuine, so honestly surprised, that it made your chest ache. “Yeah, Cole. I did it for you.”

He crossed the space between you in two strides.

His hands landed on your hips from behind, pulling you back. You gasped—the heat of him, his fingers in the fabric, torn between tearing it off and just looking at it.

“Turn around,” he said again, quieter this time. “Wanna see you.”

You turned in his arms. His eyes dropped to the bra, then back to your face, then down again. He shook his head slowly, a disbelieving laugh escaping his throat.

“Orange.” He traced the edge of the strap with one finger. “My number.” His hand slid down your side, curving over your hip to palm the back of the underwear. “Right here.”

“You like it?”

His answer was to kiss you.

It wasn’t gentle. His mouth took yours like he’d been thinking about it for hours—hungry, a little desperate, the kind of kiss that made your knees weak. His hands slid up your back, tangled in your hair, pulling you close until no space was left.

You grabbed at his hoodie, tugging. “Off.”

He broke the kiss just long enough to yank it over his head, and then he was lifting you—hands gripping your thighs, your legs wrapping around his waist automatically—and carrying you toward the bedroom like you weighed nothing.

He dropped you on the bed and stood over you, chest heaving, eyes dark. His gaze traced your body again, slower this time, memorizing it.

“Turn over.”

You rolled onto your stomach, face pressing into his pillow, heart pounding.

You felt the bed dip as he climbed over you, his weight settling against your back, his mouth finding the curve of your shoulder.

“Eighty-four,” he murmured against your skin, and you could feel him smiling. His hips pressed forward, and you gasped at the friction, at the hard length of him against your ass. “Fuck. You’re gonna kill me.”

“That’s the plan.”

He laughed—a real one, low and warm—and then his teeth scraped against your neck, and you stopped thinking clearly.

His hands worked the clasp of your bra, and you lifted up just enough for him to pull it away. He turned you over, and for a second, he just looked at you—flushed, breathing hard, bare except for those stupid blue underwear with his number on them.

“C’mere,” he said, soft now, and pulled you up into his lap.

The kiss was deeper this time, slower. His hands explored your chest like he had all the time in the world, thumbs brushing over your nipples until you whimpered against his mouth. You ground down against him, chasing friction, and he groaned into the kiss.

“Need these off,” he muttered, fingers hooking into the waistband of the underwear. He paused. “Actually—” He pulled back, looking at you with something between amusement and disbelief. “I kinda want you to keep them on.”

You laughed breathlessly. “Cole.”

“What? It’s hot.” His grin was crooked, boyish. The loss was gone from his eyes—replaced by something lighter. Hungrier. “You got my number on your ass. I’m enjoying it.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“You started it.”

He kissed you again before you could argue, and then his hand was sliding down your stomach, slipping under the waistband of the underwear, and whatever comeback you’d been planning dissolved into a moan.

His fingers found you wet and ready, and he swore under his breath—a rough, desperate sound that went straight through you. “Fuck. You’re soaked.”

“Been thinking about this—” You gasped as he pressed inside you, two fingers curling perfectly. “All night.”

“Yeah?” He worked you slowly, watching your face and adjusting with every sound you made. “Thinking about me?”

“Always.”

Something in his expression cracked open at that. He kissed your forehead, then your cheek, then your mouth—soft, sweet—even as his fingers kept moving, kept building you higher.

“I love you.” The words slipped out rough and unplanned. “You know that, right?”

Your heart clenched. “I know. I love you too.”

He pressed his forehead to yours, breath mingling, and crooked his fingers in a way that made you cry out. “That’s it. Let me hear you.”

You came apart around his hand, shaking, his name falling from your lips like a prayer. He worked you through it, gentling his touch as you came down, pressing kisses to your temple, your jaw, the corner of your mouth.

“Good?” he asked, pulling back to look at you.

You laughed weakly. “Yeah. Good.”

His grin was smug now, satisfied. “Good.”

But you weren’t done with him yet.

You pushed at his chest until he let you up, then climbed off his lap and reached for his sweats. He helped you get them off—impatient now, his breathing ragged—and when you finally wrapped your hand around him, his head dropped back, and he groaned.

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to.”

You stroked him slowly, watching his face, the way his jaw clenched, the way his hands fisted in the sheets. He was beautiful like this—undone, vulnerable, trusting you with this part of himself.

“Baby.” His voice cracked. “I’m not gonna last if you keep—”

You released him, and he made a sound of protest that turned into a groan when you hooked your thumbs in your underwear and slid them down your legs.

“Wait—” He grabbed your wrist, pulling the fabric from your hand. He looked at the underwear, then at you, then back at the underwear. “I’m keeping these.”

“Colston.”

“What? They’ve got my number on them.” He tossed them toward his dresser, already pulling you back into him. “They’re mine now.”

You were still laughing when he rolled you beneath him, settling between your thighs. The laughter died when you felt him press against your entrance—heavy, hot, waiting.

“Ready?” he asked, even now, even desperate, checking in.

“Yeah.” You pulled him down, mouth brushing his. “Cole. Yes.”

He pushed inside you slowly, inch by inch, his forehead dropping to yours as you both adjusted. He was big—he was always big—and you loved the stretch of it, the fullness, the way he filled every part of you.

“Fuck,” he breathed, bottoming out. His arms were shaking where they braced beside your head. “You feel—Jesus.”

You clenched around him, and he swore again, hips jerking.

“Move.” You dug your nails into his back. “Cole. Please.”

He didn’t need to be told twice.

The first thrust was slow, testing. The second was harder. By the third, he’d found his rhythm—deep, steady strokes that hit exactly right, that had you gasping and arching beneath him.

His mouth found your neck, sucking marks into your skin that you’d have to cover tomorrow. His hand slid down your thigh, hitching your leg higher around his hip, changing the angle until you cried out.

“Right there?” he asked against your throat.

“Right there, don’t stop—”

He didn’t stop. His pace picked up, hips snapping against yours, the sound of skin on skin filling the room. You were close again already, pleasure coiling tight in your belly, and you could tell he was too—his thrusts getting rougher, less controlled, his breathing ragged in your ear.

“Gonna come,” he warned, voice wrecked. “Baby, I can’t—”

“With me.” You pulled him into a kiss, messy and desperate. “Come with me.”

He slammed into you once, twice, and then you were falling—both of you, together, his groan swallowed by your mouth as he spilled inside you, your body clenching around him as the orgasm ripped through you.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. Just breathed. His weight was heavy on top of you, but you didn’t mind—liked it, actually, the solid press of him, the proof that he was here, that this was real.

Eventually, he lifted his head. His hair was a mess, his eyes half-lidded, a dopey smile spreading across his face.

“That was—” He shook his head, still smiling. “You’re insane. You know that?”

“You liked it.”

“I loved it.” He kissed you, soft and sweet. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

He pulled out carefully, both of you wincing at the loss, and collapsed beside you. His arm hooked around your waist immediately, tugging you into his chest.

“For the record,” he mumbled into your hair, “you can do that after every loss. Win. Any game. Any day. I don’t care.”

You snuggled closer, smiling against his chest. “Noted.”

“Seriously. Custom lingerie with my number on it?” He pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “Best girlfriend ever.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Too late.”

You tilted your head up to look at him. The tension was gone from his shoulders now. The tightness in his jaw had softened. He looked like himself again—relaxed, content, happy.

“Feeling better?” you asked.

He considered this, then nodded slowly. “Yeah. I am.” His hand traced lazy patterns on your back. “Still sucks that we lost. But this—” He squeezed you closer. “This helps.”

“Good.”

“Great, actually.” He yawned, his eyes already getting heavy. “You’re stuck with me now, by the way. Can’t leave after doing something like that.”

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

“Good.” His voice was fading, sleep pulling him under. “Love you.”

“Love you too, Cole.”

He was out within minutes, his breathing evening into the slow rhythm of sleep. You stayed awake a little longer, listening to his heartbeat, feeling the rise and fall of his chest.

The loss would still sting tomorrow. He’d watch the film, see the mistakes, carry it with him into the next week of practice. That was just who he was.

But tonight, he was here. With you. And that was enough.

You closed your eyes and let sleep take you too, warm and safe in the arms of number eighty-four.

taglist: @honeydippedfiction @harryweeniee @mruizsworld @cixrosie @babygirlburrow @coasttocold @jbnine99 @willowpains @melanie-15 @renegadebirch @yourfavmahomie @neyessibff @hallecarey1 @amelijamorozova @nngkay @itsleilabxtch @cozygirljay @nycgblogs05 @marvelislove10 @megsinnerthoughts

[mrs-delaney]

Blurb where Colston and reader are still in a new ish relationship after she spent the night, he tells her to stay while he’s at practice like “I want him to be here when I come back” 🥹🥹 thank u!

Parings: Colston Loveland x Reader WC: 1800 Warnings: Nudity AN: I am taking New Year’s requests for Colston and Joe Burrow, so send them on. Like 70 something of you said you wanted to see New Year’s requests but my ask box is empty. Taglist: @honeydippedfiction @harryweeniee @mruizsworld @cixrosie @babygirlburrow @coasttocold @jbnine99 @willowpains @melanie-15 @renegadebirch @yourfavmahomie @neyessibff @hallecarey1 @amelijamorozova @nngkay

You were somewhere between asleep and awake when you felt him move.

The mattress shifted. Footsteps, soft on the floor. A drawer opening and closing. The quiet, careful sounds of someone trying not to wake you.

You didn't open your eyes. Not yet. Just stayed there in that warm, hazy place, wrapped in sheets that smelled like him—clean laundry and something woodsy, maybe his cologne, maybe just Colston. His bed was stupid comfortable. You'd told him that the first time you stayed over, and he'd laughed, said it was the one thing he'd actually spent money on. Gotta protect the body, he'd said, and you'd rolled your eyes, but he wasn't wrong. The mattress was worth whatever he'd paid for it.

You heard him moving again. Closer now. And then the mattress dipped beside you, and you felt the warmth of him before you felt anything else.

His lips brushed your shoulder. Soft. Barely there.

Then your neck. The curve of it, right where it met your jaw.

Then your jaw itself, his mouth tracing a slow path toward your ear.

You hummed, stirring. Couldn't help it. Your body was already responding to him before your brain caught up, warmth pooling in your chest, your limbs loose and heavy with sleep.

"Baby." His voice was low, rough with morning. Right against your ear. "Hey."

You finally opened your eyes.

Colston was right there, face inches from yours, propped on one elbow. He was already dressed—gray t-shirt, black shorts, the uniform of a morning practice. His eyes were that impossible blue, catching the pale early light filtering through the curtains.

He smiled when your eyes met. That crooked one. The one that always started in one corner of his mouth.

"Morning," you mumbled, voice thick with sleep.

"Morning." He kissed the corner of your mouth. Lingered there. "Sorry. Didn't wanna leave without saying bye."

Right. Practice. It was Saturday, which meant he had to be at Halas Hall by 8:30, which meant—you glanced at the clock on his nightstand—it was barely seven. Way too early for a Saturday. Way too early for anything.

But that was his life. And this—spending the night, waking up to him leaving—was starting to become part of yours.

You'd been together a couple months now. Long enough to feel comfortable. Long enough to stop being nervous every time you came over. But still new enough that every step forward felt like something. Sleepovers still had a shine to them. Waking up in his bed still felt like getting away with something.

"Okay," you said, pushing yourself up onto your elbows, the sheet slipping down. The cool air of the room hit your bare skin, and you shivered slightly. "Let me get up. I'll get out of your way."

This was the routine. He left for practice, you gathered your stuff, you both went about your days. Clean, simple. No pressure.

But before you could move, his hand found your hip. Warm, gentle, but deliberate.

"Wait."

You paused, looking at him. He was watching you with an expression you couldn't quite read—something careful, something he was working up to.

"What if you stayed?"

You blinked. "Stayed?"

"Yeah." He shifted, thumb brushing absently over your hip bone. "You don't have to get up. Just... stay. Sleep more. Hang out."

He wasn't looking away from you. Those brown eyes, warm and open, the way they got when it was just the two of you. But there was something underneath—something almost vulnerable. Like he wasn't sure if he was allowed to ask.

This was new.

He'd never asked you to stay when he wasn't going to be here. You'd slept over plenty of times, but there was always a natural exit point—he left, you left. You didn't just exist in his space without him.

But he was asking you to. Be in his apartment. Be in his bed. Just... be here.

Your heart did something stupid.

"I'll order you breakfast," he said, filling the silence, maybe because he'd seen something flicker across your face. "Whatever you want. Doordash, Uber Eats—there's this place that does really good pancakes, or if you want something healthier, there's a smoothie place—" He was almost rambling now, listing options like he was trying to sell you on it. "And the shower's got good water pressure, if you wanna—"

He stopped. Rubbed the back of his neck—the tell you'd learned to recognize. The thing he did when he was working through something.

Then he exhaled, and his voice dropped. Quieter now. More honest.

"I just... I want you to be here when I get back."

I want you to be here when I get back.

Not I'd like it if or it'd be cool if. Just I want. Simple. Direct. Colston.

He was saying something without saying it. That he was thinking about coming home to you. That his apartment—this big, sparse, still-figuring-it-out place—felt better with you in it. That he wasn't ready for you to be gone.

Just Colston, saying what he meant because he didn't know how to be any other way.

And it undid you a little.

You felt your chest go warm, felt something settle and expand at the same time. He was watching you, waiting, and you realized you'd been quiet too long.

"You're gonna order me breakfast and let me use your fancy shower?" You raised an eyebrow, letting a smile pull at your mouth. Teasing, just a little. Just enough to keep from getting too in your feelings about it. "Hard sell, Loveland."

The tension in his shoulders eased. That grin crept back—relief and pleasure mixed together.

"That a yes?"

"Yeah, baby." You let yourself soften, let him see it. "That's a yes."

Something flickered across his face. That quiet satisfaction he got when things went the way he wanted—not smug, just content. Happy in a way he didn't always let show.

He leaned in and kissed you properly this time. Not rushed, even though he probably should've been heading out five minutes ago. His hand came up to cup your face, thumb brushing your cheek, and you melted into it—into him—still warm and soft from sleep, wrapped in his sheets, not going anywhere.

When he pulled back, he didn't go far. Just rested his forehead against yours for a second, breathing you in.

"I'll be back around noon," he said. "Maybe a little earlier if I can."

"I'll be here."

He pulled back enough to look at you when you said it, and you saw it—the way hearing those words out loud did something to him. Made it real. Made it land.

One more kiss—quick, like he couldn't help himself—and then he was up, grabbing his keys from the nightstand, his phone, patting his pockets to make sure he had everything.

At the door, he glanced back.

Just looked at you. In his bed. Staying.

That crooked smile one more time. Then he was gone, the door clicking softly shut behind him.

───

The apartment went quiet.

Just the hum of the fridge. The tick of the clock on the microwave.

You sank back into his pillows. Let yourself feel it—the sheets against your bare skin, the warmth of the bed, the quiet of his space. It smelled like him everywhere. Like you'd burrowed into the center of his world and decided to stay there.

Which, you guessed, you had.

I want you to be here when I get back.

Just Colston, being honest, because that's all he knew how to be.

You smiled at the ceiling. Pulled the covers up to your chin.

You weren't going anywhere.

───

You were on the couch when you heard the lock turn.

You'd migrated there after a shower (he was right about the water pressure), wrapped in one of his t-shirts—a faded Michigan one you'd found in his drawer—with some show playing on the TV that you weren't really watching. The remains of breakfast sat on the coffee table.

The door swung open, and there he was.

Gym bag over his shoulder, hair still a little damp from the facility showers, that post-practice look on his face—tired in a good way, like he'd worked hard and was ready to be done.

His eyes found you immediately.

And he stopped. Just for a second. Just long enough for you to see him take it in—you, on his couch, in his shirt, still here.

That slow smile spread across his face.

He dropped his bag by the door—didn't even bother putting it away—and crossed the room in a few long strides. Before you could say anything, he was climbing onto the couch, all 6'6" of him settling on top of you, heavy and warm. His face pressed into your neck, arms sliding underneath you.

You laughed, the sound muffled against him. "You're crushing me."

"Don't care." His voice was low, happy, right against your skin. He shifted just enough to take some of his weight off you, but didn't move otherwise. Just stayed there, wrapped around you like he'd been waiting all morning to do exactly this.

"Thank you for staying, baby." He pressed a kiss to your neck. "Made my whole day."

Your chest went tight in the best way. You wrapped your arms around him, fingers tracing up his back, and let yourself sink into it—into him.

"Yeah," you said softly. "Mine too."

He hummed against your throat, content. Didn't move. Didn't seem to want to.

You stayed like that for a while. No rush. Nowhere to be.

[mrs-delaney]

hi besties does anyone know the Colston fic where he’s sitting next to his girl and she realizes he’s liking girls insta pics and they argue???

pairings: colston loveland x reader 🧡🐻 wc: 2600 a/n: i started this the other day and was like… too much angst 😅 but i came back to it today with fresh eyes and i think i’m really proud of what we got here.

if you like my content, please give it a like and follow — i post all the time. here’s the masterlist. got a question or just wanna say hi? drop something in the ask box. and if you wanna be the first to know when new chapters or stories drop, message me and i'll add you to the taglist.💜

The restaurant was one of Colston's spots. Big portions, not too crowded, nobody asking for pictures while he ate. You'd been in Chicago for eighteen hours. Most of that had felt like waiting for him to finish something else.

He'd hugged you at the airport. That part was good. But then his phone buzzed before you'd even pulled out of the parking garage, and he'd checked it, and you'd told yourself it was fine. Movie night, he scrolled through half of it. The "quick call" with his agent went forty-five minutes while you sat on his couch pretending to watch something on your own phone. It was fine. He was busy. This was just how it was now.

But sitting across from him at lunch, watching him scroll while you waited for food, something started to curdle in your chest.

You'd noticed it earlier. When you were mid-sentence about something—your roommate, maybe, or work—and his eyes drifted to the screen in his hand. You'd noticed it when you came back from the bathroom and it took him a beat too long to look up. Little things. The kind you file away and tell yourself don't matter.

Now you glanced over and saw his thumb move. Double-tap. Some girl in a bikini, all angles and golden skin. He didn't even pause. Just kept scrolling.

"Really?"

He looked up. "What?"

"You're doing that right now?"

He glanced at his phone like he genuinely didn't know what she meant. "Doing what?"

"Colston."

"It's just Instagram." He said it like that explained anything. Like that made it fine.

"Yeah. I saw."

Something flickered across his face. Not guilt—confusion. Like he was trying to figure out why this was a conversation. "Okay? I don't even know those people."

"That's supposed to make it better?"

"I don't—" He exhaled, set the phone face-down on the table like that fixed something. "Babe, come on. It's not a big deal."

"Then why are you doing it while I'm sitting right here?"

"I wasn't—I was just scrolling. It's not like I'm DMing anyone."

"Oh, great. The bar is in hell."

His jaw tightened. You could see him cycling through responses, trying to find one that would end this. "I don't know what you want me to say."

"How about 'sorry'? How about 'I get why that's weird'?"

"It's not weird. It's Instagram. Everybody does it."

"I don't."

"Okay, fine, you don't. Congratulations." An edge crept into his voice. "Can we just—" He glanced toward the bar, then back at you. Lowered his voice. "Can we not do this here?"

"Do what? Talk?"

"You know what I mean."

You did. You hated that you did. "I flew out here to see you."

"I know."

"I've been here for almost a day and you've been on your phone half the time."

"That's not true."

"It is true, Colston. Last night during the movie. This morning. At the airport. Right now. And when you actually do look at me, it's like you're waiting for me to be done talking so you can check it again."

His nostrils flared slightly. He sat back in the booth, arms crossing. "So what, I'm not allowed to look at my phone now?"

"That's not what I said."

"Sounds like it."

"I'm saying maybe you could look at me instead of half-naked girls when your girlfriend is sitting right across from you."

"They're not—" He stopped. Recalibrated. His eyes darted sideways again. Someone at the bar was definitely looking now. You could feel it too, the subtle shift in the room, the way conversations around you had gotten a little quieter. "Can you keep your voice down?"

Your stomach dropped. Not the hurt kind of drop. The angry kind.

"Wow."

"I didn't mean it like—"

"No, I heard you." You were already grabbing your bag, already sliding out of the booth. "Loud and clear."

"Come on, don't—" He reached for your arm.

You pulled back. "Don't."

"Where are you going?"

"Somewhere I'm not embarrassing you."

You didn't look back. Just walked, bag over your shoulder, past the host stand, through the door, into the Chicago cold that hit you like a wall. You weren't dressed for this. Jacket but no hat, no gloves. Didn't matter. You were already moving.

You didn't know where you were going exactly. Toward his apartment, maybe, because that's where your stuff was. Because you sure as hell weren't going back in there. Your eyes stung from the wind. That's what you told yourself.

***

He caught up to you half a block later. Of course he did. His legs were a foot longer than yours and he wasn't wearing heeled boots on icy pavement.

"Will you stop?" He was slightly out of breath, falling into step beside you. "Can we just—"

"Go back to the restaurant, Colston Loveland."

Full government name. He knew that was bad.

"I'm not going back without you."

"Then I guess we're both walking."

"Babe—"

"Don't 'babe' me."

He tried to get ahead of you, to make you look at him. You cut across the street, dodging a cab that honked. He followed, swearing under his breath.

"Can you at least slow down? It's freezing and you're not even wearing—"

"I'm fine."

"You're clearly not fine."

"Wow. Good observation."

He reached for your arm to slow you down and you jerked away so hard you almost slipped.

"Don't touch me right now."

His hands went up. Surrender. "Okay. Okay." He was quiet for a few steps, just walking beside you, breath clouding in the air. Then: "I don't understand why this is such a big deal."

You laughed. Not a nice laugh. "Of course you don't."

"Then explain it to me."

"Not out here."

"Then come back inside somewhere. It's like twenty degrees."

"I'm going to your house."

"That's like a mile and a half from here."

"Then I guess I'll be warm when I get there."

He made a frustrated sound. "You're being—"

You stopped. Turned. Looked at him for the first time since you left the restaurant.

"I'm being what?"

He stopped too. His cheeks were red from the cold, hair windblown. He looked young. Frustrated. Lost.

"I don't know," he said. "I don't know what I'm supposed to say."

"I don't know why I came."

That landed. You saw it hit. He flinched like you'd shoved him.

"You don't mean that."

"Don't I?" Your voice cracked. You hated that it cracked. "Do you even want me here?"

"Of course I want you here."

"Then act like it."

You turned and kept walking. He followed. Neither of you said anything else until you got to his building.

***

The second the door closed behind you, you detonated.

You didn't even take your jacket off. Just turned on him, all the cold fury that had been building during the walk finally boiling over.

"You told me to calm down."

"You were getting loud. People were looking."

"I don't care about people!"

"Well I have to!"

The words hung there. He ran a hand through his hair, pacing toward the kitchen and back like he couldn't stand still.

"So that's it?" You were shaking now. From cold, from anger, from the effort of holding yourself together. "I'm just supposed to sit there and smile? Act like everything's fine so nobody tweets about your girlfriend making a scene?"

"That's not—"

"That's exactly what it is. You didn't care that I was upset. You cared that someone might see."

He stopped pacing. Faced you. "That's not fair."

"None of this is fair!" Your voice cracked again and you hated it. "I'm not the one liking other girls' pictures in front of my face. I'm not the one who can't put my phone down for one meal. I'm not the one who made this into a thing about optics instead of just—"

"Instead of what?"

"Instead of just hearing me! Instead of saying 'I'm sorry, I didn't realize' like a normal person!"

"I don't know what you want from me." He said it flat, tired, like he'd already given up.

"I want you to want me here!" The words tore out of you before you could stop them. "I want to feel like I matter more than your phone. More than your image. More than some random girl in a bikini you'll never meet."

"You do matter—"

"Then show me! Because right now I feel like I'm just... here. Taking up space in your schedule between practice and film and whatever else is more important."

"That's not—"

"It's exactly how it feels, Colston." Your eyes were burning now. You blinked fast, refusing to cry. "I flew a thousand miles to see you. And you can't even look at me without checking your phone first."

He was quiet. Jaw tight. You could see him working through something, some defense he wanted to mount. But for once, he didn't.

"And you know what the worst part is?" You laughed, but it was wet, broken. "It's not even the pictures. I don't care about some stupid Instagram model. It's that you didn't even look guilty. Like it never occurred to you that it might hurt me. Like I'm not even a factor."

His face changed. Something cracked in it.

"Maybe you should just be with one of them," you said, and you hated how small your voice sounded. "Since that's what you want to look at."

You turned toward the bedroom. Toward your suitcase.

"Wait."

You didn't stop.

"Please. Just—wait."

He was in front of you before you reached the doorway. Not blocking you—he knew better—but putting himself in your path. His eyes were red-rimmed. You'd never seen him look like that.

"Don't go."

"Give me one reason not to."

He swallowed. Ran a hand over his face. For a long moment, he just stood there, like he was trying to find words he'd never had to use before.

"Because I'm an idiot," he said finally. "And I didn't realize how bad I was fucking this up until you were walking out that door."

You waited.

"I wasn't thinking," he said. "About the phone, about any of it. It's just... it's habit. It's stupid and it's mindless and you're right, I wasn't thinking about how it would make you feel because I'm an idiot who doesn't think."

"That's not—"

"Let me finish." His voice cracked. "Please."

You closed your mouth.

"When you started getting upset, I panicked. Not because I thought you were wrong. Because I saw someone look over and all I could think was 'this is gonna end up somewhere' and I made it about that instead of about you. And that was wrong. That was really wrong."

He took a shaky breath.

"You're not a PR problem. You're not something I need to manage. You're the only thing in this whole city that feels like home and I've been treating you like... like you're just here. Like you'll always be here no matter how little I give you. And that's not okay."

Your chin trembled. You bit down on it.

"I don't know how to do this," he said, quieter now. "The distance. The schedule. Being good at football and being good at us at the same time. I thought I was handling it and I wasn't. I was just... coasting. Assuming you'd understand. Assuming you'd wait."

"I'm tired of waiting, Colston." Your voice was barely a whisper. "I'm tired of feeling like I'm at the bottom of your list."

"You're not." He stepped closer. Not touching you, but close enough that you could feel the heat of him. "You're not at the bottom of anything. I've just been really bad at showing you that."

A tear slipped down your cheek. You swiped at it angrily.

"I'm sorry," he said. "For the phone. For the pictures. For telling you to calm down like your feelings were the problem instead of me being the problem. For all of it."

He reached out, slow and careful, and brushed the tear track from your cheek with his thumb.

"I don't want anyone else," he said. "I don't want some girl on Instagram. I want you. I want this. I just need to be better at showing up for it."

"How?" It came out raw. Desperate. "How do I know it'll be different?"

"Because I'm gonna pay attention," he said. "I'm gonna notice. I'm not gonna make you chase me down for the bare minimum. That's not—" He stopped, frustrated with himself. "I should've seen it. I should've been looking. That's on me."

You looked at him. At the boy from Idaho who still didn't know what half the stuff on Chicago menus was. Who FaceTimed his brothers to show them his apartment. Who was 21 and trying to figure out how to be an NFL player and a boyfriend at the same time and failing at the second part.

"I need you to try," you said. "Not perfectly. Just... actually try."

"I will."

"And if you're on your phone when I'm talking to you, I'm throwing it in Lake Michigan."

A surprised laugh broke out of him. Wet, relieved. "Fair."

"I'm serious."

"I know you are." He was closer now, close enough that his forehead almost touched yours. "I love that about you."

You let out a breath you hadn't realized you were holding.

"Come here," he said, and pulled you into his chest.

You went. Because you were tired and cold and you'd walked a mile and a half in January and you'd been holding yourself together for so long. His arms wrapped around you, solid and warm, and you let yourself collapse into him. Let the tears come, the ones you'd been fighting since the restaurant.

"I'm sorry," he murmured into your hair. "I'm so sorry."

You fisted your hands in his shirt and held on.

You stayed like that for a long time. Him holding you, your face pressed into his chest, his chin resting on top of your head. The apartment was quiet. The city hummed outside, distant and indifferent, but in here it was just the two of you. Figuring it out.

Eventually, he pulled back just enough to look at you. Thumbed another tear off your cheek.

"You hungry?"

You almost laughed. "We literally just left a restaurant."

"Yeah, without eating." He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. "I can make eggs. That's about it. But I can make eggs."

You looked up at him. At this 6'6" man-child who could catch anything thrown at him on a football field but couldn't cook more than three things. Who was trying. Who was going to keep trying.

"Eggs sound good," you said.

He kissed your forehead. Long and slow. Then let you go and headed toward the kitchen, already pulling out a pan.

His phone was still in his jacket pocket by the door. He didn't reach for it once.

It wasn't fixed. Not really. You couldn't fix months of long-distance strain and missed connections with one fight and one apology. But it was a start.

You curled up on his couch, still in your jacket, and watched him crack eggs into a bowl. He glanced over at you and smiled—small, uncertain, hopeful.

You smiled back.

It was going to be okay.

taglist: @honeydippedfiction @harryweeniee @mruizsworld @cixrosie @babygirlburrow @coasttocold @jbnine99 @willowpains @melanie-15 @renegadebirch @yourfavmahomie @neyessibff @hallecarey1 @amelijamorozova @nngkay @itsleilabxtch @cozygirljay @nycgblogs05 @marvelislove10 @megsinnerthoughts

[mrs-delaney]

I thinking a little miss possessive with Colston Loveland?!

parings: colston loveland x reader wc: 5500 an: i had so much fun writing this one. i don’t think i’ve ever written reader being jealous like this before, and flipping the dynamic to let her be the possessive one? elite. jealousy is such a messy, human thing — not the toxic kind, just the “that’s mine and i care about it” kind. and colston being completely oblivious while reader is internally spiraling just felt very on brand for him. if you want to be added to the taglist, let me know. ♡

Wanna binge all my work? Here’s the masterlist. Got a question or just wanna say hi? Drop something in the ask box. And if you wanna be the first to know when new chapters drop, message me, and I'll add you to the taglist.

You weren’t even going to come tonight.

It had been a long week—work, errands, the kind of low-grade exhaustion that made your couch and a glass of wine sound infinitely better than a house party in Logan Square. But Colston had given you that look when he’d mentioned it, the one where he doesn’t actually ask but somehow makes you feel like he’d be bummed if you said no, and here you are. In a teammate’s apartment that smells like cologne and beer, bass vibrating through the floor, pressed into Colston’s side while he talks to three people whose names you’ve already forgotten.

He’s in a good mood. You can tell by how much he’s talking—animated, hands moving, laughing too loud at something one of the guys said. His arms are draped around your shoulders, casual and heavy, and every now and then his thumb drags across your collarbone without him even registering he’s doing it. He’s wearing that gray henley you like, the one that stretches across his chest and makes his arms look stupid, sleeves pushed up to the elbows. You’d told him he looked good before you left, and he’d grinned and said “yeah?” like he genuinely didn’t know.

That’s the thing about Colston. He genuinely doesn’t know.

You excuse yourself to get another drink, pressing up on your toes to say it near his ear so he can hear you over the music. His hand slides to your hip, squeezes once. “Want me to come with?”

“I can get a drink by myself, babe.”

He grins. “Just checking.” His hand lingers for a second, then lets you go.

The kitchen’s crowded—people leaning against counters, someone mixing something in a red Solo cup that looks lethal. You grab a beer from the cooler, crack it open, and lean against the doorframe for a second, just watching the room. It’s a good party. Loud but not chaotic. Mostly teammates and their people, a few faces you don’t recognize from whoever else got invited.

You take a sip and glance back toward the living room, looking for Colston.

You find him. And you find her.

She’s standing where you were thirty seconds ago. Tall, pretty, laughing at something he just said with her whole body—head tipped back, hand on his arm. The kind of laugh that’s doing a lot of work. Colston’s smiling, relaxed, drink in one hand, the other hand shoved in his pocket. Just talking. Being friendly. Being Colston.

You watch for a second. Take another sip.

She says something, leans in closer so he can hear her over the music, and her hand stays on his arm, and doesn’t move. Her fingers curl around his bicep like she’s testing the give of it, and you see her squeeze. Subtle. Deliberate. The kind of touch that looks casual but isn’t.

Colston doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move her hand. Doesn’t even seem to notice it’s there, because of course he doesn’t. He’s telling some story—you can see the way his free hand’s moving, illustrating something, probably about practice or some play he made—and she’s watching him like he’s the only person in the room.

Your jaw tightens. Just a little.

It’s not that you think he’s doing anything wrong. You know he’s not. Colston doesn’t flirt. He doesn’t even know what flirting looks like when it’s aimed at him. You’ve watched women hit on him at bars, at events, in line at the grocery store, and every single time, he just thinks they’re being nice. “She was cool,” he’ll say afterward, completely oblivious, and you’ll want to shake him because no, Cole, she was not just being cool, she was trying to give you her number.

But knowing that doesn’t stop the hot, irrational thing that tightens in your chest when you watch this girl touch him. When you watch her lean in again, closer this time, her shoulder brushes his. When you watch him smile at her—that easy, open smile he gives everyone, the one that makes people feel like they’re the most important person in the room—and she practically glows under it.

She doesn’t know he smiles at everyone like that.

You do.

You take a longer pull of your beer. Stay where you are. You’re not going to be that girl. You’re not going to march over there and cause a scene because some random woman at a party is talking to your boyfriend. He’s allowed to talk to people. You trust him. You do.

But then she touches his chest.

It’s quick—a playful swat, reacting to something he said, her palm flat against his sternum for just a beat too long before she pulls it back. And Colston laughs. That big, easy laugh that you hear across rooms, the one that makes his whole face change, and she’s smiling up at him like she just won something.

Your grip tightens on the bottle.

A girl you vaguely recognize—one of the other girlfriends, maybe?—slides up next to you in the kitchen. She follows your gaze, then looks back at you with raised eyebrows.

“Yikes,” she says, sipping her drink. “She’s bold.”

“He doesn’t even know,” you mutter. And you mean it. You’re not mad at him. You can’t be mad at someone for a crime they don’t know they’re committing.

But you’re done watching.

You set your beer on the counter. You don’t think about it. Don’t weigh it, don’t talk yourself out of it. You just move.

Across the kitchen. Through the cluster of people in the doorway. Across the living room, where the music’s louder and the light’s dimmer, and she’s still standing there, still touching him, her hand back on his arm now, fingers curling into the fabric of that gray henley you’d told him he looked good in not two hours ago.

You walk right up to him. Right into his space, close enough that your hand finds his stomach—flat, firm, possessive—and presses.

Colston blinks, looks down at you. His face shifts immediately—confused, then warm. “Hey. You good?”

“Come with me.”

He tilts his head. Glances at the girl, then back at you. “Right now?”

“Right now.”

Something in your voice must register, because his brow furrows just slightly—not concerned, exactly. Curious. He looks at you for another second, searching your face, and you hold his gaze without flinching.

“Uh—” He turns back to the girl, gives her an apologetic half-smile. “Sorry, one sec.”

You don’t wait for her response. Your hand slides from his stomach to his wrist, fingers wrapping around the warm, thick width of it, and you pull. Not hard. Just with purpose. He follows, because of course he does. He'd follow you anywhere if you pulled him like that, like you know exactly where you're going.

You lead him through the living room, past the group by the speakers, down the hallway. The noise dulls as you move deeper into the apartment. Bathroom. Second door on the left, you’d noticed it earlier. You push it open, pull him inside, and close the door behind you both.

The lock clicks.

Colston’s standing in the middle of a bathroom that’s too small for him—his head nearly brushing the light fixture, his shoulders taking up half the space between the sink and the shower. He looks at you, hands at his sides, eyebrows raised.

“Okay,” he says slowly. “What’s going on? You good?”

———

You don’t answer him. Not with words.

You grab the front of his henley with both hands and pull. He dips down on instinct—he’s learned to, with you—and you kiss him. Hard. Harder than you usually start with, all teeth and intent, your mouth slanting over his like you’re trying to prove something.

Because you are.

Colston makes a surprised sound against your lips—a short, muffled “mm”—but his hands find your waist immediately, instinct overriding confusion. He kisses you back, because he always kisses you back, fingers pressing into your hips as he tries to catch up to whatever this is.

You pull back before he can settle into it.

“That girl,” you say, and your voice comes out lower than you expected, rougher, “was flirting with you.”

He blinks. Straightens up to his full height, which puts a full foot of distance between your faces. “What girl?”

“The one who had her hands all over you for the last ten minutes, Cole.”

You watch it land. Watch his face cycle through confusion, then realization, then something that looks dangerously close to amusement. His lips press together. His jaw works.

“Wait,” he says slowly. “Are you talking about—she was just being friendly. She’s someone’s—I don’t even know her name.”

“I know you don’t know her name. That’s not the point.”

“Then what’s the—” He stops. Takes in the set of your jaw, the way your hands are still fisted in his shirt, the way you’re standing in front of him in a locked bathroom at a house party.

And then—because he’s Colston, because he can’t help it, because this is apparently the funniest thing that’s happened to him all week—he grins.

“Oh my god,” he says. “You’re jealous.”

“I’m not jealous.”

“You are.” Full-on smiling now, that lopsided thing that starts in one corner and takes over his whole face. “You pulled me into a bathroom because you’re jealous.”

“I pulled you into a bathroom because some girl was touching what’s mine and you were just letting her.”

The word lands different than you expected it to. Mine. You watch his grin falter—not disappear, but shift. His eyes darken. Something behind them changes, goes from amused to heated in the space of a breath. His hands are still on your waist, but his grip tightens.

“Say that again,” he says, and his voice is lower now.

You hold his gaze. Even tilted all the way up to reach him, you don’t waver. “Mine.”

He exhales—rough, shaky—and then he moves. His hands find your waist and lift you onto the bathroom counter like you weigh nothing, stepping between your knees in the same motion so you’re face to face for once. Eye level. Close enough to see the way his pupils have blown wide, close enough to feel the heat coming off him in waves.

“Yeah,” he says, voice rough, hands gripping the counter on either side of your thighs. “Yours.”

And then he kisses you.

Not confused this time. Not catching up. He’s right there with you, one hand sliding into your hair, the other pulling your hips to the edge of the counter so your legs wrap around him. You feel the hard line of him pressed against you, feel his chest heaving against yours, and for a second—sitting up here, your legs locked around his waist, his mouth hot and desperate on yours—you almost let him take over.

But that’s not what this is about.

You break the kiss. Plant your hand flat against his chest and push—not hard enough to move him, you couldn’t if you tried—but enough that he stops. Pulls back. Looks at you, breathing ragged.

“I’m not done,” you say.

His throat bobs. “Okay.”

From up here, you can reach him. That’s the whole point. You lean forward, mouth finding his jaw, dragging down to his neck. You find the spot below his ear that always makes him tense, and you don’t just kiss it—you bite. Not hard enough to really hurt, but hard enough that his breath catches and his hands clamp down on the counter’s edge.

“She was touching you right here,” you murmur against his skin, your hand sliding up his arm, curling around his bicep in the same spot the girl’s had been. You squeeze. “Like she had any right to.”

“Baby—” His voice cracks at the edges. “I didn’t even—I wasn’t—”

“I know.” You drag your mouth down the column of his throat, feel his pulse hammering under your lips. “I know you didn’t notice. That’s the problem, Cole. You never notice.”

His hands leave the counter and find your thighs, gripping hard, fingers pressing into the skin above your knees. You can feel the tension running through him—the effort it’s taking to stand still, to let you do this, when every instinct is telling him to take over.

“You’re so fucking friendly,” you say against his throat, and it sounds like an accusation and a compliment at the same time. “You smile at everyone. Talk to everyone. And they all think—”

“I don’t care what they think.” Rough. Earnest. “You know that.”

“I know.” Your fingers find the hem of his henley, push underneath, flatten against the warm, taut skin of his stomach. He sucks in a breath. “But I still want them to know.”

“Know what?”

You pull back. Look him dead in the eyes. “That you’re mine.”

Something in him snaps. His hands move from your thighs to your face, cupping your jaw, and he kisses you like he’s trying to consume you—desperate and messy, a groan vibrating through his chest that you feel in your own. Your legs tighten around his waist, pulling him closer, and when his hips grind into yours, the friction drags a sound out of you that gets swallowed by his mouth.

You let him have it for about ten seconds. Then you grab his wrists. Pull his hands away. Hold them there.

“Shirt off,” you say.

He yanks it over his head and drops it on the tile without looking. From this angle, sitting on the counter with him bare-chested between your knees, the sight of him hits different. Flushed from his ears to his collarbones, chest heaving, watching you with an expression that’s equal parts wrecked and hungry.

You press your palms flat against his chest. Feel the jump of muscle, the hammering of his heart. Drag your nails down—slow, deliberate—from his collarbones to his waistband. Faint white tracks that fade almost immediately.

He hisses through his teeth. His hips jerk into yours, involuntary, and the friction hits right where you need it. A gasp slips out of you before you can catch it.

His eyes sharpen. Catch the sound. And you see the shift—the moment he goes from letting you lead to wanting something back.

“You wanna mark me up?” His voice is low and rough and not remotely a question. “Go ahead.”

He tilts his head. Gives you his neck. And you take it—mouth on the curve of muscle where his shoulder starts, sucking hard enough that he groans and his grip on your thighs tightens. You feel it bloom under your lips—the heat, the blood rising—and you don’t stop until you know it’ll bruise. Until you know that tomorrow, at the facility, when he’s pulling on a t-shirt, it’ll be right there. Visible. Yours.

“That what you want?” he asks, voice strained, and when you pull back to look at your work, he’s watching you with something dark and electric in his expression. “You want everyone to know?”

“Yes.”

“Then we’re on the same page.” His hands move fast—grabbing your hips, yanking you forward to the edge of the counter so you’re flush against him, one arm banding around your back and the other gripping the base of your neck. The shift is instant—two seconds ago you were setting the pace, leaving your mark on him. Now he’s got you caged between his arms and the mirror, your back arching into the glass, his body the only warm thing in front of you.

“My turn,” he says.

———

His mouth finds your neck first. Not gentle—open and hot, teeth grazing the spot just below your jaw that makes your whole body tighten. His hand at the base of your neck tilts your head back, giving himself access, and he takes it. Drags his mouth down your throat, across your collarbone, his free hand sliding under the hem of your shirt and up your ribs.

“Off,” he mutters against your skin, already pushing the fabric up. You help him, pulling it over your head and dropping it somewhere behind him. His eyes drop—track across your chest, the black bra, the rise and fall of your breathing—and his jaw flexes.

“This too.” His fingers find the strap on your shoulder, and drags it down.

You reach back and unhook it yourself. Let it fall between you.

He exhales roughly. His forehead drops against yours, eyes half-closed, and for a second, he just looks at you—close, breathing hard, his thumb tracing the curve beneath your breast like he’s trying to commit it to memory.

Then his mouth is on you. The swell of your breast, tongue dragging hot and flat, his lips closing around your nipple and sucking hard enough that your back arches off the mirror and your fingers fly to his hair. A sound leaves your mouth—louder than it should be, given where you are—and his hand comes up to cover your lips.

“Shh.” He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even slow down. Just keeps his mouth on you, his palm warm over your lips, muffling the next sound you make when his teeth graze the sensitive skin. “Thirty people out there, baby.”

You bite his palm. He huffs a surprised laugh against your chest, pulling his hand back.

“Brat,” he says, but he’s grinning when he lifts his head.

“Then stop making me loud.”

“That’s not really my problem, is it?”

You grab his jaw and kiss him—hard, hungry—because if he’s going to be smug about it, you’re going to make him work for it. Your legs tighten around his waist, pulling his hips into yours, and you grind against him deliberately. The friction—denim against denim, the hard length of him pressing right where you’re aching—makes you both groan into the kiss.

His hands find your waistband. He pops the button of your jeans without breaking the kiss, works the zipper down, and then pulls back just enough to look at you. A question.

You lift your hips off the counter. He pulls your jeans down and off in one rough motion, taking your underwear with them. The counter’s cold against your bare skin and you flinch, but his hands are already there—warm, rough, palms spreading over your thighs and pulling you back to the edge.

He looks down at you. Bare on his teammate’s bathroom counter, legs parted around him, and whatever’s on his face—you’ve never seen that exact expression before. Hungry, yeah, but something underneath it. Something almost reverent.

“What?” you ask, a little breathless.

He shakes his head. Runs his thumb along the inside of your thigh—high, slow, close enough to make you twitch. “Just thinking about how you marched across that party like you were about to start a war.”

“I was.”

His thumb drags higher. Brushes the crease where your thigh meets your hip. Your breath stutters. “Over me.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Too late.” And then his hand is between your legs—two fingers sliding through the slick of you, and the sound that comes out of your mouth is embarrassing in its desperation. His jaw goes slack, eyes dropping to watch his own hand.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “You’re this wet from—what, watching me talk to some girl?”

“From dragging you in here.” Your voice is thin, barely holding together. “From having you do what I say.”

His fingers push into you—two, thick and rough—and your spine bows, hands slamming flat on the counter behind you. He watches your face with focused intensity, cataloguing every reaction, adjusting the angle until he finds the spot that makes your thighs shake.

“There?” he asks, even though he already knows. He can feel it—the way you clench around him, the way your breath goes high and tight.

“Don’t stop—”

He doesn't. Works you with his hand, deep and unrelenting, his other arm bracing against the counter to keep you from sliding. His thumb finds your clit and presses—firm, circular—and the sound you make bounces off the tile walls loud enough that he leans in and covers your mouth with his again.

You’re close. Already. The combination of adrenaline and jealousy and having him between your legs in a room you shouldn’t be in, doing something you definitely shouldn’t be doing—it’s all too much, building too fast.

“Cole—” You grab his wrist. Not to stop him. To hold on. “I’m gonna—”

“Not yet.” He slows his hand. Pulls back just enough to let the edge recede, and the whine that comes out of you is pathetic.

“Colston”—

“Told you.” His lips brush your jaw. “My turn.”

You’re going to kill him. You’re going to kill him and it’ll be justified.

His fingers slide out of you, and the loss makes you gasp. He brings his hand to his mouth—casual, unhurried, holding your gaze while he licks his fingers clean—and the sight of it short-circuits something in your brain.

“Undo my belt,” he says. Quiet. Not a command, exactly—more like he knows you want to.

Your hands are shaking when you reach for it. You fumble the buckle, and he doesn’t help—just stands there, patient, watching your fingers work with that half-lidded expression that makes your stomach flip. Belt open. Button. Zipper. You push his jeans down his hips and he takes care of the rest, stepping out of them and kicking them aside.

He’s hard. Straining against his boxers, the outline of him obscene. You reach for him—palm pressing flat against the length of him through the cotton—and his breath punches out.

“Fuck—” His hand catches your wrist, but he doesn’t pull you away. Just holds you there, hips pushing into your palm like he can’t stop himself. “Baby, if you start that I’m not gonna—I need to be inside you.”

The words hit you low and hot. “Then get inside me.”

He shoves his boxers down. Pulls you to the very edge of the counter—your ass barely on it, your legs hooked around his hips, completely dependent on his hands and his body to keep you from sliding off. It should feel precarious. It doesn’t. His grip on you is sure and solid, like dropping you has never once crossed his mind.

He lines himself up. The head of him presses against you—hot, blunt—and you both go still.

“This is insane,” he says, almost to himself. His forehead’s against yours, breath ragged. “We’re at Kevin’s house.”

“Don’t care.”

“Someone’s gonna hear.”

“Don’t care.”

He laughs—breathless, disbelieving—and pushes in.

Your head falls back against the mirror with a thud. He fills you in one long, slow slide, thick enough to stretch, deep enough to ache, and by the time his hips are flush against yours, you’re gripping his shoulders so hard your knuckles are white.

“God—” His voice is wrecked. Barely a voice at all. He stays there, buried in you, both hands gripping the counter’s edge, arms flexed and trembling. “You feel—fuck, baby—”

“Move.” You dig your heels into his lower back. “Cole, move.”

He does.

The first thrust knocks a sound out of you that has no business existing. He pulls back and drives in again—harder, deeper—and the counter shakes under you, something on the sink rattling. His hand slaps the mirror behind your head to brace himself, and the image is obscene: you in the reflection, bare and flushed, legs wrapped around him, his back muscles flexing with every stroke.

“Quieter,” he manages, but he’s the one groaning—low and rough, the sound vibrating through his chest into yours. “You gotta be quieter.”

“Then stop—” Another thrust that steals your breath. “—stop doing that.”

“Doing what?” He knows exactly what he’s doing. You can hear it in his voice, that edge of smugness underneath the desperation. He shifts his angle and drives in again, hitting a spot that makes your vision blur.

You grab his face. Pull him down to you. Kiss him to muffle the sounds you’re both making, wet and messy and more breath than contact. His rhythm is picking up—less controlled, more instinct—his hips snapping into yours with a force that scoots you back on the counter until his arm bands around your waist and holds you in place.

“This what you wanted?” he pants against your mouth. “When you pulled me in here?”

“Yes—”

“Wanted everyone to hear?” His teeth graze your lower lip. “Wanted her to know?”

The mention of her—the girl, the whole reason you’re here, the whole reason you’ve got him buried inside you in a teammate’s bathroom—sends a fresh wave of heat through you. Possessive and sharp.

“I wanted you to know,” you say, and your voice doesn’t sound like yours. Lower. Rawer. “I wanted you to know who you come home to.”

Something in his expression cracks open. The smugness drops away and what’s underneath is naked and young and so completely yours it makes your chest hurt.

“I know,” he says. “I always know.” He kisses you—softer this time, just for a second. Then his hand slides between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit, and whatever tenderness was in that kiss evaporates.

“Oh, fuck—Cole—”

“Come for me.” His voice is strained, barely holding. “I’m right there, baby, I need you to—”

You shatter.

It hits you like a wall—sudden and blinding, your whole body clenching around him as your nails rake down his back and a cry tears out of you that his mouth catches just in time. He groans into the kiss, hips stuttering, and you feel him try to hold on—feel the effort in the tension of his arms, the lock of his jaw.

He doesn’t make it. Your body’s still pulsing around him when he breaks—buries himself deep and comes with a groan that vibrates against your throat, his hips jerking once, twice, his arms shaking where they’re braced against the counter. You feel the heat of him spilling into you, feel the full-body shudder that rolls through him, and you hold on. Legs locked around him. Arms around his neck. Keeping him as close as physics allows while he falls apart.

For a long moment, neither of you moves.

The bass is still thudding through the wall. Someone laughs in the hallway—distant, oblivious. The bathroom fan hums overhead, doing absolutely nothing for the heat between you.

Colston’s forehead is pressed against your shoulder, breath coming in rough, uneven waves against your skin. He’s still inside you, still holding you on the edge of the counter like letting go hasn’t occurred to him yet. One of his hands has migrated to the back of your head, fingers tangled loosely in your hair. The other is splayed across your lower back, warm and heavy.

You trace a lazy line up his spine. Feel the scratches you left—raised and rough under your fingertips. He’ll feel those in the shower tomorrow. Good.

“You alive?” you murmur.

He huffs a weak laugh against your shoulder. Doesn’t lift his head. “Barely.”

Silence. Just breathing. The slow return of reality—where you are, what you just did, the fact that there is a party happening on the other side of that door.

He pulls back enough to look at you. Flushed. Wrecked. Hair a disaster, red marks on his neck and chest, that dazed, half-gone look in his eyes that you only ever see right after. He blinks at you. Then at the bathroom. Then back at you.

“We just had sex in Kevin’s bathroom,” he says.

“We did.”

“At a party.”

“Yep.”

A beat. Then that grin—slow, incredulous, spreading across his face like he can’t believe his own life.

“Because you were jealous.”

“I wasn’t—” You stop. There’s no point. “Fine. I was jealous.”

He laughs. Full and real, his head dropping back, the sound bouncing off the tile walls. You smack his chest, but you’re smiling too, and he catches your hand, brings it to his mouth, presses a kiss to your knuckles.

“For the record,” he says, still grinning, “I didn’t know she was flirting. I genuinely thought she was just being nice.”

“Cole, she squeezed your bicep.”

“People do that.”

“People who are flirting do that.”

He shrugs—easy, unbothered. Like it doesn’t matter. Like it never mattered. “Okay, well. Now I know.” He leans in, presses his mouth to the bruise on your neck—the one he left, the matching one—and his voice drops. “And now she knows.”

“She doesn’t know anything. She watched you walk away.”

“She watched me get dragged away by my girlfriend who then fucked me in a bathroom.” His thumb traces your jaw. “Trust me. She knows.”

You snort. He grins wider. And then the softness comes—the way it always does with him, after. The way the sharpness and the heat fade out and what’s left is just Colston. His hand gentle on the side of your face. His eyes warm.

“You know I only see you, right?” he says. Not smooth. Not rehearsed. Just simple and certain, the way he says everything that matters. “Like, I don’t care who’s at any party or any bar or anywhere. It’s you. It’s been you.”

Your throat tightens. Because you do know that. You’ve always known that. It was never really about the girl.

“I know,” you say. Quieter now.

“Good.” He kisses your forehead. Lingers there. “But, uh—feel free to drag me into bathrooms whenever you want. That was—” He exhales a laugh. “Yeah. That was something.”

“You liked that?”

“Baby, I think I blacked out for a second.”

You laugh—real, surprised—and he grins against your temple, pulling you into him, his arms wrapping around you in that full-body way he does. For a second, you just sit there. On a bathroom counter, half-naked, holding each other, the party was still going on outside like nothing happened.

Eventually, reality sets in. You both start putting yourselves back together—finding clothes, cleaning up, trying to look like two people who did not just do what you did. Colston catches sight of himself in the mirror and stops.

“Babe.”

“Hm?”

He turns to you, pointing at the bruise on his neck. Dark. Unmistakable. In a spot that no shirt is going to cover.

“How am I supposed to explain this?”

“You’re not,” you say sweetly. “That’s the point.”

He stares at you for a second. Then shakes his head, that half-grin tugging at his mouth. “You’re evil.”

“You like it.”

“I do.” He says it like it surprises him. Like he’s still figuring out how much he likes everything about you, even the parts that drag him into bathrooms at parties and leave evidence on his neck. “I really fuckin' do.”

He unlocks the door, checks the hallway, and steps out first. You follow, smoothing your hair, praying your face doesn’t look as wrecked as it feels.

You make it about four steps before one of his teammates rounds the corner.

The guy stops. Looks at Colston. Looks at you. Looks at the bathroom you both just came out of. His eyebrows climb toward his hairline.

“Don’t,” Colston says flatly.

The teammate holds up both hands, grinning. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

“I was gonna say—nice hickey, Loveland.”

Colston flips him off without breaking stride, his hand finding the small of your back as he steers you down the hallway. You press your lips together to keep from laughing.

Back in the living room, the party hasn’t changed. Same music, same crowd, same energy. Nobody looks twice at you. Nobody noticed you were gone—or if they did, they have the decency not to say anything.

Colston gets you both a drink. His arm finds your shoulders, pulls you into his side, easy and warm. You lean into him, feeling the residual heat of him through his shirt, the slight soreness between your legs that makes you press your thighs together.

Across the room, you catch the girl’s eye. Just for a second. She looks at Colston—at his arm around you, at the mark on his neck that’s visible even in the dim light—and then she looks away.

You take a sip of your drink. Don’t bother hiding your smile.

Colston glances down at you. “What?”

“Nothing.”

He gives you a look—suspicious, knowing—but lets it go. Presses a kiss to the top of your head and goes back to his conversation.

His hand doesn’t leave your shoulder for the rest of the night.

taglist: @honeydippedfiction @harryweeniee @mruizsworld @cixrosie @babygirlburrow @coasttocold @jbnine99 @willowpains @melanie-15 @renegadebirch @yourfavmahomie @neyessibff @hallecarey1 @amelijamorozova @nngkay @itsleilabxtch @cozygirljay @nycgblogs05 @marvelislove10 @megsinnerthoughts @britt217

[babygirlburrow]

The Heels Stay On - Colston Loveland

A/N: Wahooo back with my favourite Chicago Bear and college sweetheart!! I've had this one on the backburner for the last few weeks and I've lowkey really struggled with it for some reason - I think I might take a bit of a pause doing smut for the time being; for some reason it just really burns me out more than writing other genres! So if this isn't great, I apologise! But I hope you guys enjoy, nonetheless.

WC: 4.2k

Warnings: SMUT! Minors DNI, 18+ only, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex, p in v, somewhat dirty talk, if I've missed any let me know!

Pairings: Colston Loveland x college sweetheart

Part of the 'You're Still The One' universe - Masterlist | Colston Loveland Masterlist

Since Colston’s draft, you’ve had to get used to many things.

The main thing has obviously been the media attention, especially after his unbelievable breakout game against the Bengals in November. You still remember the feeling of being followed by paparazzi for the first time and how unreal it felt, and not necessarily in a good way.

What took you by surprise, however, was just how needy for sex he is. Both of you are, actually, when you think about it.  

You’ve known it since college, but since he got drafted and started his NFL career, Colston’s hardly been able to keep his hands off you.

But then the first week of off season arrived. It’s been like living with a completely different person for the last week.

From the morning after the last game, when Colston came home from his exit interview, he’s been exhausted. 

Most nights, he’s barely made it to nine in the evening before shuffling upstairs to bed. 

He still hugs you, still kisses you, but it never… goes anywhere. It’s all just sweet touches and kisses, neither of which you mind. 

You love it, and you would never dream of making him do anything he didn’t want to or making him have sex when he was too tired or sore from the season. 

But you’re starting to get pent up with need.

The Saturday after the last game of the season, nearly a week of doing nothing together. 

You come home late from dinner with a few friends to find Colston on the couch. There’s a massage gun in his hand and he’s trying to reach his shoulder, the one that he had surgery on before the season, but he’s having trouble reaching the perfect spot on his shoulder blade. 

He’s shirtless. Your mind goes temporarily blank at the sight of his enormous shoulders, toned abs and deliciously biteable biceps. The sinews of his muscles flex and ripple in the low light of the living room. Your mouth waters before you can even register it. You don’t even realise how hard you’re clenching your hands until you feel the pain in your palm. 

The sound of your keys dropping into the bowl on the entryway table alerts him to your arrival. When he looks up and sees you shrugging off your coat, his whole face lights up with a gentle smile. 

‘There she is.’ 

Something in his body shifts the second you make eye contact with him. His shoulders drop, then he leans forward on the seat in anticipation. 

It’s clear that he’s happy to see you. Relieved, even. Then something else melts into his eyes, something that makes them flash. Could it be… need? Just a little bit of… arousal? 

You’re intrigued. You’re willing to bite. So you walk over to him, heels clacking on the hardwood beneath them.

The closer you get to him, the more his face darkens.

You stand next to him, so close that you can feel the heat from his body. 

‘Hey, Colst,’ you murmur.

‘Hi baby girl,’ he replies, voice equally soft. ‘Good night?’

You hum in response.

‘Better, now.’

His eyes rake over your body, mouth slowly falling open as he takes in the little black dress that shows both cleavage and leg, accentuated by the black six-inch heels you’re wearing. One of his enormous hands grips your calf just strong enough to make a gasp leave your body. 

‘You’re staring,’ you say softly. 

He doesn’t even try to hide the up-and-down he gives you with his eyes. Colston knows he hasn’t paid you nearly enough attention over the past week. 

That changes tonight, he decides, matter-of-factly.

‘God, you are so perfect.’ 

You lean down to kiss him, humming against his lips in response. You’re unable to stop yourself. As your lips move against each other, slow and desperate, he groans into your mouth. The sound is sinful and makes heat pool low and bubbling in your stomach. 

‘Give it here, Colly.’ 

Colston looks at you, confused, but then sees your outstretched hand in the direction of the massage gun. 

‘Oh, baby, you don’t have to, it’s…’ All protests, whether genuine or otherwise, stop when he looks up to see the way that your eyes are hooded and dark with need. ‘Yeah. Okay. Here.’ 

You smirk in victory, knowing exactly the effect you’re having on him. 

The massage gun is heavy in your hands. You flick the on button and the room instantly fills with the dull, whirring thrum of the gun. 

‘Where?’ you ask, barely above a whisper, so quiet that you’re surprised he can hear you over the gun. 

‘Uh, just… on the shoulder blade, right side,’ Colston gestures with his hand where he needs it. ‘Just go round in circles. I’ll tell you if you need to move.’ 

You nod and move closer. Your body shifts so that you’re half standing, half kneeling on the couch behind him. Your body tingles with the proximity. 

The gun moves towards his skin. 

‘Tell me if it hurts?’ You’re suddenly scared of causing another injury, but he reaches back and squeezes your thigh.

‘Baby, I block three hundred pound men for a living. You could never hurt me.’ 

The room falls quiet the second the massage head of the gun hits his skin. A vein in his neck pops when he clenches his jaw without even realising, making you smirk behind him. Colston’s head tips forward just a fraction to allow you more access to his shoulder.

‘Left a bit, babe, please?’

When you obey, he actually hisses through his teeth when the massager hits a particularly troublesome knot in his muscles. 

‘Fuck, that feels good,’ he groans into the air. 

Your brain temporarily goes offline, but you continue to slowly move the gun in circles around his shoulder. The skin is turning slightly red from the impact, but he never tells you to stop. 

Colston’s never been so turned on in his life. 

All thoughts have abandoned his brain. The only thing he can focus on right now is you, massaging his shoulder with a Theragun while standing behind him, wearing a tiny black dress and tottering heels. The perfume you’re wearing is sensual and heady, and then he realises with a low, guttural groan that it’s one that he bought for you. 

To make matters worse, the hand that isn’t holding the gun slips to the back of his neck, playing with the short hairs at the nape. Then they move into his hair and tug at random strands, pulling his head back towards you. 

‘Baby,’ he groans out loud when you kiss him. A smirk appears on your face when you see that your dark red lipstick has transferred onto his mouth, slightly smudged. 

‘Hi Colly,’ you singsong quietly in response. ‘Missed you.’

‘You saw me this morning.’

You lean down and kiss him again, still slow, still unhurried despite the tension that’s crackling between you. Your lips move against his at a snail’s pace. He’s craving more, you can tell. He runs warm anyway, but you can feel the way his body temperature has risen since you took over the massage gun. 

He actually whimpers, like a child that’s had their favourite candy taken away from them, when you pull back to purr into his ear,

‘That’s not what I meant, Loveland.’ 

His eyes darken even further and he reaches back to grab the gun.

‘We’re done here.’ 

‘But Colly, I’m helping!’ You reply sweetly, eyes wide in faux indignation. ‘The Bears can have a new athletic trainer, I can help…’ 

Quick as a flash, tight end reflexes kicking in without prior thought, Colston pulls you down into his lap, arms cradling your body so you’re lying across his lap and facing towards him. He’s hard as a rock underneath your ass that’s lying snug on his crotch. He kisses you roughly, lips attacking yours in that hungry way it makes your mind go hazy.

‘I’ve gone too long without makin’ love to you, darlin’.’ He murmurs the words against your lips, then trails kisses down your cheek and following the line of your jaw. ‘Could tell you’ve been missin’ me, baby, could feel you missin’ my cock inside you, that true, huh?’

One of his hands moves to your thigh, just high enough to make stars appear in your eyes. It’s not where you want him, though. Your dress hiked up your legs when he pulled you down onto his lap so he has free and unlimited access to your pussy… but his hand doesn’t move. It just rests there, claiming and possessive on your skin. 

Colston nibbles your bottom lip and the moan that jumps out of you is utterly sinful. It bounces off the walls, echoing around the otherwise quiet room. He chuckles appreciatively through kissing your neck, teeth nibbling on the skin and causing bruises to bloom already.

‘You know I love the sounds you make, sweetheart, but tell me how much you’ve missed me being balls-deep inside you. Need to hear your words before I take you upstairs.’ 

It’s your turn to whimper. Your entire body is white-hot with arousal. It takes a few seconds for your mind to clear and words to form in your mouth.

‘I-I’ve missed - fuck - missed you, Col-Colston, you were… you were tired, though,’ you manage to get out. It’s pathetic, really, how he reduces you to a mumbling, stammering mess every time. You wouldn’t have it any other way, though, not when his hands are burning against your skin and when his mouth is pebbling kisses to your neck…

His head moves from the crook of your neck, where a variety of bites now litter your skin, purple and blue already, back to your lips. The kiss when his mouth meets yours is searing. Your vision goes foggy all over again. All you can focus on is him, the way he smells of clean laundry and something woodsy, his hair tickling your forehead as the kiss deepens in intensity and his huge biceps trapping you next to him with nowhere else to go. 

‘Good girl,’ he growls. ‘C’mere, and hold on.’ Without another word, his arms tighten around you and you know what’s coming, so you loop your arms around his neck and hold on.

And suddenly, you’re airborne, Colston holding you bridal-style in his arms.

Neither of you break the kiss as he carries you upstairs, expertly negotiating the stairs and doors on the way to the bedroom. When he reaches the master suite, he places you down on the bed, still gentle and precious in the way he lowers you onto the mattress. 

His enormous form looms over you, all huge shoulders and toned biceps and washboard abs. Your mind temporarily goes hazy with how beautiful he is, and he’s all yours. 

He reattaches his lips to yours, breathing heavily and hands roaming your body. Yours move to his bare chest, skin flaming hot to your touch and warming up your hands that are still getting warmth back from your journey home. The sensation of your cold hands on his warm skin makes him hiss through his teeth.

Colston shifts without breaking the kiss so his shoulders are directly above your head. They’re so broad that he blocks the skylight above the bed. It’s dark outside, so you can see your reflection and the muscles of his back in the darkened glass above you. 

Your palm roams his bare chest and stops, right over his heart. It’s pounding in his chest cavity, harder even than it is when he goes onto the field. 

‘Heart’s going fast, Colst.’ 

‘Yeah, well,’ he grits out through his teeth, breath whispering hot and intense against your face. ‘My woman is laid out on the bed in front of me and she’s got too many clothes on for my liking.’ 

You grin into the kiss and he uses the opportunity to slide his tongue into your mouth. 

‘So take ‘em off, then, baby.’

He instantly obliges, unzipping your dress and shimmying it down your thighs. Your bra comes next. It’s thrown somewhere over his shoulder with no thought to where it lands. He immediately takes one of your nipples into his mouth, swirling the hardened nub with his tongue and making you arch up beneath him. 

Electricity surges through your body. It’s becoming painfully clear that neither of you are going to last long tonight. 

You suddenly remember that your heels are still on your feet, but he stops you the second he feels your hand moving towards the clasp, hand gripping your wrist and moving your arm back to him.

‘Nope. The heels stay on.’ 

‘But what about my…’ 

Colston doesn’t let you finish your question. The tell-tale sound of tearing fabric tells you that your panties are no more, making you whine. Cool air rushes against your soaking pussy and you hiss at the sensation. 

‘Colston,’ you whine, ‘I liked that pair.’

He moves so he’s above you again, lips inches away from yours. His eyes are almost black with lust. It drives you even more insane. 

‘I’ll buy you more, sweetheart.’ 

And then he’s kissing you again, hands roaming your naked body as if he’s committing the feel of you back into his memory after a week of not appreciating you the way he should have, mapping every sinew, every perfect inch of you. The kisses move down your body, in between the valley between your breasts and down to your sides, inching closer to where you need him most but not quite reaching it. 

‘Colston, please,’ you mumble pathetically. 

He chuckles, the sound reverberating through his chest. 

‘I wanna take my time with you, baby girl.’ 

‘But I am slightly wine drunk and I need you.’ 

He shifts his body to sit between your legs, looking up at you with that shit-eating smirk that means he’s about to go down on you in a way that should be recorded in the history books. 

Without another word, his mouth finds you in a way that has your body arching up off the mattress like you’ve been touched with a live-wire. 

‘Oh - Col - fuck…’ you whimper. Your eyes flutter shut in pleasure as he grips your thighs slightly tighter than usual to hold you open for him. He licks you in long, meaningful strokes that has you gasping and mewling all at the same time. 

He finds that spot almost immediately, curling his tongue around it to make you squirm underneath him. Your head curls back into the pillow behind you, while one of your hands disappears into his hair to thread through the dark strands. They’re longer than they have been all season, making it the perfect length for you to hold onto and keep him there. 

Your legs hang limply on the bed as Colston’s mouth continues its work on your clit. He can see the way your feet are weighed down by the stilettos, and it makes him even more feral for you. 

‘Colly - ‘m gonna…’ 

The sentence disappears on your mouth the second one finger, then two fingers slide into you. They curl up and hit that spot inside you, the sensation making your body arch off the mattress. His name escapes your mouth in something that’s not a scream but not a whisper, something in between. 

He hums against your core and the vibration is what pushes you over the edge. 

‘Mm,’ he hums, ‘let me hear you, baby girl.’ 

The coil inside you snaps without any prior warning. Heat blooms over your body as pleasure rocks you to your core, pulsing through you in shockwaves. Colston’s mouth stays on you through it all, only moving away when the stimulation becomes too much. 

‘H-holy fuck, Col,’ you whimper. It comes out as less sound, more breath. 

He smiles wickedly from between your legs. His chin glistens with your slick, fresh from your orgasm, and the sight makes warmth thrum through your entire body. 

‘God, you’re so beautiful.’

And he’s right. Your bare chest heaves with the aftershocks of your orgasm. Beads of sweat trickle down the valley between your breasts, making your mouth twitch at the ticklish sensation. Behind your head, on the pillow, your hair fans across the material, creating a halo effect that makes you look angelic in the late evening light from the window. 

You try to sit up to reach him faster, but he places a warm, huge hand on your shoulder to encourage you to stay horizontal.

‘Let me take care of you, sweetheart,’ he murmurs. He crawls up the bed to lie on top of you, mouth finding yours once again. They move against yours as if they’re trying to devour you while one of his hands moves to gently cradle your face. 

‘P-please, Colston, I need… need you.’ 

‘Alright, honey, alright, I hear you,’ he whispers against your mouth. You feel his hips rock and thighs shuffle above you. Moments later, something hard and fleshy hits the inside of your thigh, and you realise it’s him. Warm, thick and already soaked with pre-cum. 

He looks at you, eyebrow raised in a silent ask for consent, and you kiss him with a nod. He adjusts his hips to line himself up with you. 

‘Thighs a little wider for me, baby.’ 

You comply and are instantly rewarded, with a gasp from your mouth, with the sensation of him pushing into you, slowly but determinedly. It’s deliciously steady, the way he fills you up. 

Above you, Colston grunts at the feeling of you taking him perfectly, just like you always do. When he bottoms out, the stretch of him inside you makes your eyes water. 

‘H-holy shit…’ he groans in pleasure through scrunched eyes. One of his hands reaches up to hold him steady against the headboard behind you, muscles flexing in his bicep as he does so. 

‘Colston, move, please,’ you snap quietly with a gentle tap to his face to bring him back to the moment. 

He smirks down at you.

‘My bad, baby, thought you needed a minute to get used to me back inside you.’

‘Don’t flatter yourself, Loveland.’ 

The smirk turns into a shit-eating grin, as he knows that you’re loving this. He loves when you get snippy like this. 

When he starts moving, stars appear in your vision. Your walls squeeze around him, adjusting to the feeling of him again. The thrusts to start with are soft, steady, getting used to each other again after so long without this feeling, this intimacy. 

‘Feel good, sweetheart?’ Colston asks huskily into your ear as he continues his rhythm. 

‘Harder, Col, faster,’ you reply. He kisses you once, twice, then holds your lips with his. You moan, loud and uninhibited, into his mouth as the pace and strength of his hips driving into you picks up.  The sound makes him grin into your mouth, like it always does. 

Every other thought melts away. Nothing else matters but him. 

The room is quiet. All you can hear is the obscene sounds of sweaty skin slapping against sweaty skin, his grunts with every thrust and your own gasps of pleasure with every piston of his hips. 

‘There’s my girl, huh,’ he mutters into your mouth. ‘Takin’ me so well, look at you, wearin’ nothin’ but those damn heels while I fuck you, hottest thing I’ve ever seen.’ 

You’re so overwhelmed with pleasure that words fail you. All you can do is hold his face with your hands and keep him over you, body arching into him. 

Then he’s nibbling your lips. Then his hand is reaching down to your thigh. 

‘Leg, leg around me, baby, get a - fuck - new angle…’ 

You immediately obey. His name falls from your lips in a yelp when the new angle makes his dick start to hit that spot inside you over and over again. 

‘Fuck, fuck Col… feels so good, fuck…’ 

Colston grins against you in victory, then grunts again. He’s close. His thrusts growing sloppy and the feeling of his dick twitching inside you give it away. 

He falls quiet again, face scrunching in focus as his high builds inside him. 

Your own climax starts to linger inside you. 

‘Col, baby, I’m… I’m close…’ 

He nods weakly. 

His hand moves down between you and his fingers find your clit, still sensitive from his mouth. The stimulation pulls your orgasm closer, so close that it’s right above you. All it takes is a rub from his thumb and a mutter of ‘come for me, baby, let me hear you’ from him…

And you’re shattering. You come apart on his dick hard and violently. 

And then he’s burying himself deep inside you as he follows you over the edge with a grunt so loud that it seems to make the walls shake around you. The neighbours definitely know what’s just happened, but neither of you can bring yourselves to care. 

Heat ebbs over you in waves. Pleasure rocks through you in shockwaves all over again. Overstimulated and overwhelmed, you gulp in breaths of air like a woman resurfacing from water after too long being submerged. 

Colston flails above you, miles away from the coordinated, calm professional athlete you’re used to seeing on the field, and then he’s flopping. 

Two-fifty pounds of Idaho mountain man collapse down onto you, making you giggle breathlessly. 

‘Col,’ you whisper. ‘Col, I love you but you are too heavy to be on top like this, baby.’ He takes a second to breathe, chuckling softly to himself, and then pulls out so that he can move off you. He rolls over, moves under the covers and lies down next to you.

‘C’mere, then, menace.’ He opens his arms and you instantly shuffle under the covers to tuck yourself into him. 

For the first few moments, there’s quiet between you. 

You’re both sweaty. His hair is sticking down to his forehead from the exertion. Your body is still pulsating with the aftershocks. Both of you are breathing heavy, ragged and uneven, the room heavy with what just happened. 

Colston’s fingers thread through your hair. You trace absent shapes into his bare chest, sweat dried on his skin that makes him feel slightly sticky but still perfect. Still yours.

Then you remember that your feet still have the heels on.

‘Colly, my heels are still on,’ you declare quietly. 

He huffs a laugh out of his chest and props himself up onto his elbow to look down at you with a grin.

‘And I suppose you’re wanting me to do something about that?’ 

You reach up to kiss him. Both of you smile against each other’s lips, and you nod. 

‘Yes, please, Colston. I would love for you to do something about that.’ 

He doesn’t waste a single second. He unfolds himself from the bed and moves around to kneel in front of where your feet are resting on the mattress. When he lifts the comforter up to take the heels off, the cool air makes you wince in surprise, but then you feel his warm fingers against your skin. 

Seconds later, there’s two small thuds against the carpet. Relief instantly fills you at the feeling of your feet being bare. 

Colston presses sweet kisses to your ankles, then moves back to the bed and takes you in his arms once more. 

‘Thank you, my prince,’ you smile into his neck. 

He chuckles softly and tightens his grip on you.

‘Anything for my girl.’ There’s a beat, before he turns his head to look down at you. ‘I’m sorry I haven’t been very present the last week. Just been so tired and drained since the season finished.’

Your hand reaches up to cradle his cheek, thumb brushing the skin. 

‘I know, Colly. You don’t need to explain anything to me. This season was hard, you guys fought so hard. I’m so proud of you.’ 

His jaw tightens with emotion at your raw honesty, then he drops his forehead to yours.

‘I just didn’t want you to think it was you. I never want you to worry that I’m not in this, forever. Because I am. There’s nothing I’m more sure of than you. Football will come and go, but this? This, I want to last.’

You kiss him again, sweet and soft.

‘It will last. Because we want it to. We’ll work on it. Good things don’t come easy, my grandma always said that.’ You fiddle with his hair, with the slight stubble he’s had growing in since the season finished. He looks years older than his twenty-one. He’s matured so much since the start of the season, not just physically but mentally too. You can feel it, you can see it, in everything he does. 

Colston looks at you like you’ve hung the moon. 

‘You’re the best thing in my life, you know that?’ 

You shrug playfully. 

‘I’ve got a pretty good idea.’ 

He chuckles and brings you in close again, holding you tight to his side. 

‘I love you, baby,’ he murmurs into your hair. You shift to rest your head on his shoulder. 

‘I love you too, Colston. My boy since freshman year.’

He hums happily, fingers resuming their rhythmic threading through your hair. 

Your eyes slowly start to close, and he stays awake until your breathing evens out, just like he always does.

Because one thing about Colston? He might be feral as fuck for you, but he will always wait for you to fall asleep first. 

He watches you fall asleep, eyelashes brushing your cheeks in sleep, and realises, not for the first time and definitely not for the last time, that he is the luckiest man in the world. 

COLSTON LOVELAND TAGLIST (message or ask to be added!): @vroomvroombtch @mrs-delaney @cozygirljay @nngkay @patosduck @harryweeniee @junovee @snoopyhughes @ivy-34 @holidaycashton @princessmermaid1289 @snowyjoeyburrow @bjewel @goldfades @spideysgwen @itsjustjackie55 @obssessivefangirl @basicash @starboymuse @potatoes698 @hannahvb01 @daniiibananiii @m3gyonc3 @coder4500 @sofabwriter @britt217 @ilyfood737373 @hufflewhore128 @renegadebirch @dolphdrago

[liainterrupted]

God is Fair, Sexy Nasty | C. Loveland

summary: Colston can’t let you leave for girls night without getting his kiss first.

warnings: suggestive

a/n: I hate coming up with titles lowk 🤦🏽‍♀️ Also thanks for all the love on my last blurb, hope u guys enjoy this 😊😋 feel free to send in any asks if you’d like

It seems like the world is personally out to get you today.

Clothes are scattered haphazardly on the floor. Each outfit you put on is worse than the last— all ill-fitting and looking nothing like it does in your head. Some red dress that you need to donate because it’s two sizes too small. Lace long-sleeve and blue jeans that are better suited for a high school party, not the club. Other godawful combinations that assault your eyes.

You don’t even understand how this is happening. The closet that’s supposed to be shared by you and Colston is practically bursting at the seams from all the impulse purchases you’ve had to shove in. Colston doesn’t even have his clothes in here anymore— he moved everything into the guest bedroom when you told him that your side was starting to run out of space.

The urge to rip your hair out and text your friends that you can’t make it out tonight becomes stronger by the second. A fashion emergency should not be sending you on the verge of a mental breakdown, but the universe is definitely making you pay for whatever misdeeds you committed in a past life. You take a deep breath in, trying to center yourself as you prepare for another round of war.

After five minutes of rummaging through drawers and shuffling hangers, you find a black tank-top that ties around your back, leaving it exposed. You pair it with your favorite black mini skirt that covers just enough of your ass that you aren’t flashing anyone. The relief is almost instantaneous, finally putting something on that doesn’t make you want to fall to the floor and put your head in your hands. You take one last look at your reflection before turning off the lights and heading towards the bathroom.

Inside, the air is warm and the mirrors are still fogged up from the shower you had taken. The sound of Colston yelling at his friends through his headset— something about how he can’t believe they sold for the third game in a row —gets muffled when you shut the door. You open your phone, quickly checking the time before you queue up several songs to finish getting ready to.

It’s already 8:22 p.m., and you still have to do your hair and makeup. Forgoing either one isn’t an option– you know you won’t feel satisfied unless you're fully ready. The irritation inside you is now directed at the fact you have to start rushing. As you pull your hair into a half-up, half-down, you let out a small huff. Your hair doesn’t want to cooperate either. It won’t stop puffing up regardless of the amount of gel you use, bumpy in several different spots and excessively sticking out in the back.

“I’m actually about to tweak out,” you say out loud.

Your disheveled reflection stares back at you mockingly. It’s already too late for you to back out of the hairstyle. The gel is starting to harden, and when you rip out the hair-tie, the ponytail has already made an indent on your hair. Picking up your brush, you try again, sweeping the hair back in slow, meticulous movements.

By the time you finish with your hair, you’re left with no choice but to do your usual makeup routine.

Your hands move on autopilot as you hum along to the music, starting off with your brows before moving on to your base. It doesn’t take long until you’re dousing everything in setting spray. You dig through your makeup bag to trace the outer edges of your mouth with lip liner and top it all off with some lip gloss, rubbing your lips together to smooth out the product.

You head back into the closet, spraying perfume onto your pulse points and clasping on the necklace that Colston gave you for your anniversary. A weight lifts off your shoulders when you look in the mirror this time, standing taller.

Whatever was troubling you earlier is a distant memory. You’re feeling yourself, now.

You pick your phone up and open TikTok, scrolling through your saved sounds while walking back to the bathroom. You’re so locked in on finding the perfect audio that you don’t hear Colston’s footsteps approaching.

The door swinging open startles you.

“Colston, what the fuck,” you jump, right hand clutching at the counter while the other comes to your chest.

He lets out a small chuckle at your reaction. “Sorry, angel. I should’ve knocked.”

“I almost had a heart attack.” You’re able to actually process Colston’s appearance once the shock wears off.

He’s shirtless. Broad shoulders blocking your view outside of the doorway. Arms folded over his chest as he leans against the frame. Biceps slightly flexed. Contours of his muscles rippling under the light as he shifts. The silver chain that he refuses to take off unless he’s playing football shines back at you. You can’t form a single coherent thought when your eyes travel down to his gray sweatpants that hang far too low on his hips.

It’s sinful, really.

You clear your throat as you look at his face. Smugness is written all over it, lips pulled into a smirk from watching you check him out.

“Like what you see?”

“Don’t piss me off,” you respond even though there’s no bite in it.

He snorts at that.

“You finished getting ready?”

“Mhm.”

Colston drags his eyes over your body, lingering on the C dangling off your neck. The bathroom suddenly feels a lot smaller. You subtly rock back onto your heels to have something to do, face heating up from how intensely he’s analyzing you.

“Damn.”

“I look like this and all you have to say is, ‘damn.’”

“No, lemme get a 360.”

It takes him two strides to get to you. He raises his right hand into the air, giggles spilling out of you as he twirls you around.

He lets out a low whistle. “Who are you trying to show out for tonight?”

The comment makes you roll your eyes. “A girl can’t want to look pretty for herself?”

“Hmm,” he pretends to think. “You can. The problem is that you look very pretty and I won’t be there to scare everyone off.”

“I’ll tell anyone who says something nice to me that my hunk of a boyfriend also thinks the same.” That draws a laugh out of him.

He wraps his arms around your middle and rests his chin on top of your head. The two of you stare at one another through the mirror, eyes full of unspoken adoration.

Colston’s voice is soft when he says, “You forgot to give me my kiss.”

Your eyebrows raise at that. Normally, you would call Colston in before putting on your lip combo to let him have his kisses; however, the chaos you lived in for the last hour and a half made it slip your mind entirely.

You untwist yourself from his hold to stand face-to-face with him. The cool touch of your hands running across his chest causes the muscles underneath to tauten up. His hands naturally fall to your hips and pull you closer.

“I’ll make it up to you when I get home.”

“You are home.”

“Yeah, but I don’t wanna ruin my makeup.”

Colston pouts at that, looking childish despite being 6’6 and 240 pounds.

He knows this is how you get when you finish getting ready. Knows that you hate when all the effort you put into your appearance gets ruined when you haven’t even left the house yet.

Which is why he loves the perfect solution you came up with of smothering him with however many kisses he wants before you put your lip combo on.

“Just reapply it.” Like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“But I have to leave soon.”

On cue, your phone lights up with a text from your friends saying they are about to be on the way. Both of you glance at the notification before turning back to one another.

“If you kiss me right now, you’ll have enough time to fix it.” Colston’s hand curls under your chin, careful not to smudge anything.

“Colston, I’m serious–”

He’s quick to cut you off. “I’m serious, too. You’ll be fine if your makeup isn’t perfect, but I’m gonna die if I don’t get a kiss.”

The desperation in his voice has you fighting to keep your face neutral, but he sees the way the corner of your mouth twitches. Know he’s got you right where he wants. He starts leaning in and you squirm under his touch, nails digging into his bicep.

“Y/N,” he warns, breath fanning against your lips from close he is.

“You don’t know how hard my night’s been.” It comes out almost pathetic. Like having a difficult time getting ready constitutes an actual crisis. “Charlotte Tilbury is the only thing keeping me together.”

“Last I checked, Charlotte’s not the one dicking you down every night.”

His candor causes your mouth to hinge open and you playfully shove at his shoulder. He doesn’t even budge. Just removes his hand from your jaw and goes to cradle the back of your head. Colston’s on a mission now, adamant that he has to have his kiss.

A small shriek escapes from your throat when he manages to bring his mouth to yours. His bottom lip slots between yours like it was personally molded to fit there. You stiffen up, all rigid and stubborn, but you make absolutely no effort to get him off you.

He coaxes you into relaxing by tilting his head to deepen the kiss. Your body moves instinctively with him when he takes small steps towards the counter. The marble is cold on your lower back as he presses you down against it.

Everything about this situation makes your head spin. Colston’s acting like a starved man— mouth hot and heavy, hands roaming all over your body. His fingers brush over your neck before trailing down the sides of your body. All the fight left in you rushes out as you melt into his touch.

When you finally kiss him back, he smiles.

“That’s my girl,” he murmurs against your mouth.

He changes pace. Kissing you with the same amount of passion. Same hunger. But everything slows down— every shift in angle, every change in pressure is done with purpose. Like he wants to savor the taste of you. Like the feeling of your lips on his is the only thing keeping him in reality. Even when his lungs are burning for air, he refuses to pull away.

Your fingers dig into his hair, softly tugging. The sensation makes him groan and you take advantage, biting on his lower lip. Any concerns you had over your appearance are drowned out by the weight of Colston against you. You kiss him with just as much fervor and need— you want him to know that he’s the only who can ground you. That the way he handles your stubbornness with such tenderness and care is something you’ll never be able to thank him enough for.

Both of you are breathless when you come apart. The only noise filling the room are your soft pants. Your cheek rests on his chest, the rapid beating of his heart loud in your ear. His arms tighten around you while you regain control over your breathing.

When you peer up at Colston, it feels like a bucket of water has been dumped on you.

Colston is essentially wearing your makeup. The entire area around his mouth— the tip of his nose, his chin, his upper lip —is tanned from your foundation transferring onto him. His lips are shiny and covered in gloss.

You can only imagine what you look like.

“Colston, I swear to God if my face looks crazy–” Words dying in your mouth when you catch a glimpse of your reflection.

The sound of him trying to suppress his laughter sets you off.

“This isn’t funny!”

Colston’s shoulders continue to shake. “No, you’re right. Nothing’s funny.”

“I’m not joking. They’re probably a few blocks away and you’re about halfway to a full beat while I look like a mess.”

He fights off the laughter even though the amusement in him is still alive.

“You. Are. Still. The. Most. Beautiful. Woman. In. The. World.” Every word is punctuated with a kiss.

You don’t even have it in you to be annoyed anymore. Accepting defeat, you slam your forehead into his chest and groan. Colston embraces your shoulders, rubbing small circles to soothe you. He feels the tension in you ebbing away. You tip your head back, chin replacing your forehead on his chest, and stare at him. He flashes that smile he reserves only for you.

Rising on to your tippy-toes, you kiss him one more time. There’s nothing scandalous about it— it’s quick and over in a few seconds. But Colston’s eyes are darker when you look back at him.

You gnaw at the inside of your lower lip.

“You’re gonna get me in trouble, baby,” he whispers. You can hear the arousal simmering in his voice.

“Don’t tell me that, out of everything we’ve done right now, it’s that weak ass kiss that made you hard.”

“You try having a pretty girl kiss you like that and see what happens,” he mumbles.

His hand drops down to your ass, gently squeezing it. The imprint of his dick is prominent against his gray sweatpants.

“You’re so easy,” you tease him.

You start palming him. The blood starts rushing to his dick, tingles running down his spine. Colston hisses sharply and throws his head back. Every nerve ending is on fire for him, and all he can focus on is how small your hand is compared to his length. The way it can never fully wrap around. How it’s always just enough to keep him right along that edge. Leaves him permanently chasing that sweet relief.

You continue bringing your fingers down to paw at him. Switching from tapping to rubbing small circles every time his breath hitches. Colston thinks he might actually cum in his pants if you keep this up any longer.

The trance you’re in snaps when your phone starts ringing. You stop your movements to answer it and Colston whimpers at the loss of contact. His jaw clenches while you talk to your friends.

“I’m sorry, baby. They’re outside.” You genuinely feel bad. If he left before getting you off, you’d be pissed.

He shuts his eyes. Voice strained. “Give me a second. Thinking about cows or some shit.”

You nod even though he can’t see. After a minute, he opens them and gives you a tight smile. “Okay, we’re good. Let me walk you outside.”

He places his hand on the small of your back and guides you to the front door.

“Tell your little friend that I promise I’ll finish what I started when I get back.”

“He’s not little,” Colston defends.

You shake your head, laughing, and give him one last kiss. “I’ll see you later, baby. I love you.”

“I love you, too. I’ll be staring at a wall, waiting for you to come home.”

The night is spent in two very different states: Colston at home— achingly hard—while you are living your best life with your girls.

Cocktails in hand. Befriending random girls in line. Taking endless bathroom pictures. Dancing in the crowds, claiming every song is your song.

Colston’s seen about fifteen different Instagram stories of you at this point. Each one makes him lose his mind just a little bit more. He swears he’s a patient man. Doesn’t want to be the guy that ruins his girlfriend’s fun. But once the clock strikes 1:00 am, he’s texting you: Can’t stop thinking of you.

You smile when you get the notification. You type back: On my way! To suck your dick 😊

[angiiewritess]

first times - colston loveland.

description -> request! chicago’s latest tight end is distracted, booked and busy, filled with one secret that kept him away from dating. it changes all for colston when you become his first time, ruining him completely for anyone else… (tags and warnings; some swearing and foul language, tiny talks of insecurity, smut, minors dni!, talks of first time, loss of virginity, teaching him, oral both f and m, talks of making out, fluff, mentions of y/n, lmk if i missed any!)

loveland’s navigation

word count; 4,679 words

angie’s notes; hiiii 😼😼 back with another request from an anon!!! this is mostly all smut for my loveland girlies!!! <33 had sooo much creating and piecing this together so i hope you all enjoy and sleep tight!! this is a different form of smut than i'm used to so bare with me!! feedback is greatly appreciated😽😼

“i had a really great time tonight,” colston said, his cheeks rosy when you gave him a small smug smile. “we have to go to that place again. something about it made the whole night perfect,” you said, looking down at your nails, making a mental note to book an appointment soon. his larger hand reached over and brought it to him, small kisses being pressed on your wrists and knuckles. “come home with me tonight,” he breathed, his eyes low filled with something you couldn’t quite put your finger on.

“come to mine instead,” you dared, reaching over the center console, watching colston let out a shaky breath. your fingers intertwined together, a small peaceful silence shared before he replied, “would you be okay with that? me coming to yours?” his thumb stroked against your skin, not daring to look away from you. he needed the okay, the reassurance, before doing anything.

you leaned forward, lips brushing against his, sweetly, no urgency, enough to make his breathing rapid. “come stay the night with me,” he smiled against your lips, nodding, heart beating faster as his eyes roamed over your figure again. skin silky from your body oil glow, your dress reaching over your thighs, the jewelry adorning and making you look like a goddess, god, and your scent was driving him crazy.

after being greeted by your doorman, he led the way up to your apartment, his larger palm fitting warmly against yours. the elevator was filled with a heated tension, sneaky glances that had both of you giddy and nervous. “pardon for any mess i have, i tend to do that when i go out,” he looked around your apartment, it was cozy and accessible, overlooking a small city view. you had your diplomas hung up on a wall with a built-in bookshelf and a ladder decorated with books or small pieces, a cushioned l-sofa with a small table with lamps, and your kitchen with minimalist decorations.

“your place is very cool,” he compliments, accepting a glass of wine you offered him. “thank you! it took me a while to figure out the ‘theme’ i was going for, but i got some help from my mom and friends, and now we’re here,” you rambled, sitting on your left side facing him. he observed you, had been the entire night. he was in a daze and never wanted to part. “why are you staring at me like that?” your voice was shy, intimidated by him.

“staring at you, how?” colston spoke lowly, his finger rubbing his mustache and stubbled chin.

“i don’t know, you tell me, colston,” you shrugged, staring directly at his brown eyes as he shifted towards you. “i think you’re the most beautiful woman on earth. i haven’t been able to stop looking at you because you’re unreal. your personality, your manners, your charm, your damn smile, everything about you is so tempting,” he rambled, finger itching closer and closer to you, testing the waters.

he hears the glass clink on the table, the couch sink as you moved closer and closer, faces inches apart. your finger traced his brow, letting out a soft giggle when he pressed his lips on the inside of your wrist. “you think im beautiful?” you ask, watching the small, infamous smirk appear on his face.

“so beautiful.”

“kiss me then,” you breathed, leaning closer, nose nudging with his. colston let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, hands gripping your hips and pulling you onto his lap. he kissed you so gently, afraid to hurt you, lips molding and moving perfectly against yours. he was gone immediately, your small whimpers, your taste, the way you moved against him. he wanted it all.

his heart pounded loudly in his chest. he was afraid to move, to make a mistake, and have you pull away from him. he was used to it; he knew he had to tell you, yet if you rejected him, it would ruin him completely. colston had no time for the whole boyfriend-girlfriend thing; football had come first, and when he finally wanted something real, a committed relationship, he realized how inexperienced he was.

part of him wished he could figure it out as it happened, but he needed to experience and learn from it. he had been so dedicated to his career that he missed out on a lot of his major “firsts”. he was new to everything. his first date had been a disaster; he didn’t know what to ask, where to go to eat, what to bring, and the girl looked almost relieved when he dropped her off.

another part of him was afraid of loving someone. would he really find that soulmate, as some people in his life had? would he find a woman who would stay with him, support him through his ups and downs? would he find the person who showed him the true meaning of being loved? he was so used to being alone that he started to ask himself if he was even capable of being loved.

“something is bothering you, and i can tell,” you murmur, leaning back to your spot, giving him space. colston chuckled nervously, itching to tell you, but he wasn’t sure how you’d react. “it’s just in my head, nothing is wrong,” he rambled, not meeting your gaze. “i thought we swore to tell each other if something is bothering us,” you reminded him, tilting his face so he could look at you. would you make him leave after he explained his secret? would you laugh at his face and judge him as others had judged him?

“there is something i haven’t been honest about,” he spoke, a small blush spreading across his face. “colston, look at me,” and he did, brown eyes dilated, he was nervous, whatever he was thinking of was a present sign of discomfort. “whatever it is, i would never make you feel uncomfortable or laugh at you for it. if you want to tell me, tell me, and if you’re not, that’s okay too. i won’t ever force you to tell or make you do something you don’t want.”

if there were a lottery, he would have won it with you. you were perfect in every way, and the thought of losing you scared him.

“promise me you won’t laugh?”

“i promise,” you swore.

“i’m new to all of this… the dating, being intimate,” he said quietly, almost too quiet, you began to think what on earth had him this puzzled. “it was always football, from early morning practices to late night games, meetings, and drafts; it always kept me busy. i guess i never really knew what it was like being with someone,” he admits.

“i'm embarrassed to tell you,” he laughs, covering his face with his hands, “i’m a virgin. i’ve never had sex.” silence fills the room; you’re too stunned to speak, in denial of his words.

“ever?”

“never. i’m in my twenties, and i’ve never slept with anyone,” he admits further, face beet red. “but you’ve done other things right?” you ask, brows pulled in. he shakes his head, “define other things,” he chuckled, scratching the back of his head. “so no experience?” you ask, wanting to know the full truth. “the furthest i’ve gone is gotten a blow job,” he grimaces, facing you. “are you mad? disappointed?” he questions, making you giggle and shake your head.

“absolutely not. there’s nothing wrong with that. some people wait for a longer time, and if you’re waiting, that’s also okay.”

“i’m not really waiting, more so, never had the time to do it,” colston explains. “i really like you, y/n. you’re all i can think of as soon as i wake up. with all this time we’ve spent, i don’t want to mess this up. don’t want to lose you,” colston continued, drawing circles on your thigh. “i love being with you, spending time with you, learn new things about you,” you say, which makes the two of you laugh. ‘you didn’t mess this up, nor should you feel guilty.”

“i also want this to work. we take this step by step, okay?” your words soothe the tense nerves pent up. he stares at you in awe, laughing when you push his shoulder. “stop staring at me like that, it makes me nervous,” you giggle, feeling him pull you onto his lap. “does it surprise you?” he asks carefully, playing with the hem of your dress. “that you’re a virgin? yes, very much,” you nod.

“and if i told you i wanted you to be my first, what then?”

his forehead rests against yours, feeling your kisses pepper the corner of his mouth. “i want you to be sure about that colston… don’t want you to say something and then later regret it.” he captures your lips, brushing his tongue against yours, dazed with the way you taste. “i won’t regret it, i want this,” he let out, kissing you messily. you moaned against him, friction bonding between you.

“teach me. i want you to teach me y/n,” he gasped, his lips pink and puffy from the kiss. his hands ran shakily over your sides, his chest rising and falling, his brown eyes never leaving you. you let out a soft giggle, “patience colston, there’s no rush.” your words soothed his heated nerves, leaning up to press kisses along your sternum and jaw, “you have no idea what you’re making me feel right now, i just want you, need you.” colston was never a persistent man, but that all changed moments ago when he shared his sacred secret.

your hips grinded a little harsher, a groan escaping his lips at the feeling. you could feel it. all of him. he was heavy, huge, so hard, you reached down and palmed him, this time a whimper and red cheeks meeting you. “is this okay? or too much?” you ask, colston shook his head eagerly, “it-t-t’s perfect, fuck,” his grip against your hips tightened. you bite a small moan begging to be let out when he frees your boobs, his hand squeezing the flesh gently, then feeling his lips suck and flick your nipple with his tongue.

“might not be that experienced, but i want to make you feel good, darlin’, i know i can.” he’s so sure of himself, and you believe it. it could perhaps be the sudden switch, yet colston being a huge talker, was making your head fuzzy. “am i doing this right?” he asked, looking at you for approval.

“doing so good colston,” you praised, his cock twitching in your hand. “we’re taking this step by step, okay? just let me know if you don’t feel comfortable, we can stop at anytime,” you whispered, your free hand playing with the hair on the nape of his neck. “i don’t wanna stop. keep teaching me. want to make you feel good too,” he discloses.

“colston-”

“i trust you. with my whole being,” he continues to blabber, sealing the confession with an insolent kiss. “i trust you to. i want both of us to enjoy this,” you say between the kiss. your hands find the hems of his shirt, not wasting a second to take it off, staring at his defined structure. you run them across his skin, watching as he lets out ragged breaths. he groans when you sink onto your knees, leaning down to help you remove the rest of your dress.

“we can stop at any moment, don’t hesitate to tell me,” you remind him, watching as he nods frantically, colston shivering when you help him out of his briefs. “your hands feel so good around me, fuck,” he moaned, feeling your hands stroke his length. “barely touched you and you’re already worked up for me,” you kissed the red sensitive tip, his cock twitching for more. he felt your tongue trace his slit, throwing his head back when you wrapped your lips around his head, sucking him off softly.

there was rushing, you wanted to work and take your time. he got the courage to look down, watching his cock disappear further and further into your mouth, working him closer and closer to his pinnacle. he couldn’t believe what was happening. he felt like an asshole thinking about the first time he experienced this, yet this, with you, felt so much better, more right. “is it okay, shit, just like that, is okay if i place my hand here?” you felt his hand press it on the nape of your neck, noticing he was hesitant. “wanna fuck my mouth, baby?” you say, looking up at colston, who sighs with pleasure, bobbing his head yes.

“can i, darlin’?”

“do whatever you want,” your words encouraged him to lean a bit forward, slightly taking control of your movements. he had a firm grip, continuing to watch as you worked him up and down, your moves sloppily. colston starts to get lost in the moment, lost in the way how sexy you looked, taking him in your mouth. he thrusted his hips just barely, feeling himself hit the back of your throat, “fuck, just like that, just like that”.

“just like that? mhm, tell me, is this what you’ve been wanting?”

“yes, so bad,” he cursed again, blinking erratically. he was big, and you struggled to deepthroat all of him. you hollowed your cheeks, squeezing your hand from time to time around his shaft to drag him closer to the edge. his hips jolted up again, letting out a strong, loud, deep groan, feeling your hums vibrate across him. his grip had gotten tighter, no longer shy or hesitant.

you could tell he was so close, his breathing had changed, his legs were trembling, his moans uncoherent, and you did the only thing you could to make him last, pull away. “w-why did you do that? i was close,” colston blubbered, watching as you got up from your knees. “if we’re gonna do it, then it won’t be here,” you say. he was quick to pick you up and lift you effortlessly into your bedroom.

he set you gently on your duvet, placing hot, mouthed kisses along your jaw down to your breasts. his hands worked to remove your bra, followed by your underwear, taking a step back to admire, “you’re so beautiful, can’t believe you’re real.” you let out a small giggle, sitting up on your arms, meeting his soft kiss, “you’re a talker, you know that?”

“is that bad?” he voiced, embarrassed. “it's fucking hot, colston,” you praised, the kiss more profound, tasting his minty scent.

“want to make you feel good, show me what you like,” he begged, a hand gripping your hip as he pulled back. “we don’t have to, it’s okay, tonight can be just about you,” he shook his head, looking at you through the warm lighting, “i want to. need to. i wasn’t lying when i said it then,” he declared again, a shaky laugh falling from your lips as he repeated kissed over you sweet spot.

“what do you want to do?”

“i want to taste you, right here,” you felt his fingers stroke down your abdomen, folding gently through your wet, slick core. if he had to beg, he would; he desired to make you feel good, not wanting tonight to be just about himself. “please let me,” he whispered, sucking your earlobe with his teeth. once you have him, the okay, he moved slowly. “sensitve already?” he murmured teasingly, watching as you rolled your eyes playfully.

colston kissed the flesh between your thighs, constantly looking up to check in and see if he was doing it right. his hands pulled you closer to his mouth, coming face to face with your core. you gulped heavily, watching as he tenderly, so softly, licked through your folds, finally having a taste “s-shit, colston”. he chuckled, taking it as a go that it felt good. your thighs quiver as he sank his tongue in again, further, more intensely, getting a complete taste of you. he groaned, feeling his sound spread through you. “am i doing it right?” he asked, listening to you let out a guttural and excited “yes, doing so good”.

“right here?” colston asked, pressing his thumb against that sensitive bundle of nerves, circling it smoothly, looking up to see you nodding. he continued to work, his tongue warm as he flicked it on you, against your clit, which he gave various attention, drawing shapes, his name… “not so talkative now, are you?” he dared, your fingers lacing through his hair. “not so bad for a virgin,” you bite back, watching as he digs his head between your thighs again.

you couldn’t think straight, not like this, where you didn’t have control, where he was distracting you from your worries and stress. colston moans at the sound of his name falling from your lips, at the way your hips started to roll against his face, eagerly wanting more from him. he was infatuated with you. he was completely ruined; he swore it would never feel this good ever again. he wanted this only with you, forever with you. it was crazy, but he could feel your orgasm building, pulling back to catch his breath. he didn’t know what undertook him, bringing two of his fingers to your mouth where you coated them generously, sucking softly.

colston pushes you closer to your high, his two digits intruding on your velvety walls, reaching that spongy spot that makes your back arch off the mattress. “use your mouth,” you whispered shyly. he hears you trying to catch your breath as his teeth coat your sensitive bud, sucking softly, fingers working their way in and out, licking up your wet traces. when he hears you tell him you're close, he could almost feel the way every nerve in your body lit up, making the blood rush down to his cock once again.

you could feel it coming fast and shattering, legs shaking, fingers tugging roughly against his roots, as you let him take control. however, colston was quick to serve and do justice right. slowly removing his fingers and mouth away from your messy core, your insides are confused, begging to be unleashed, as that feeling painfully starts to disappear, legs clenched tight, wanting to create friction.

“i hate you right now.”

“did it to me when i was seconds away, had to get my payback…”

the two of you scramble to the top of your bed, where he pushes your pillows off, covering both of your shivering bodies with a duvet. he didn’t want to rush any of this, just as you did. his lips captured yours with a satiny manner, not forced, or passionate, the ones from movies where both main characters get their happy ending. those kisses where it will have the two of you daydreaming, reflecting on this moment from here on out.

“still have time to back out if you want to wait,” you remind him, but colston shakes his head. “i wouldn’t want to do this with anyone else who isn't you. you destroyed me for anyone, forever.” your hand brushed down his abs, feeling the rigid muscles against your fingertips, down his happy trail, and to his cock. and that’s when it hit you.

“we can’t,” fear spreads across through him, a cold shiver running down his spine as you sighed beneath him, “we don’t have any condoms.”

“are you on the pill?”

“i am. but still, this is your first time, we should be taking precautions and practicing-”

“darlin’ i couldn't care less about that now. the next time we do this, we will use one, but don’t deny me now. not now when i feel like my dick is about to fall off,” he quips, kissing the tip of your nose. “are you sure, colston? there’s no rush with this.” you need to hear the reassurance, not wanting him to make an error. “i’m one hundred percent all in, but if you’re not okay, we can wait.”

“trust me, i want to so badly,” you bite your lip, feeling like a dirty schoolgirl who got caught. he peppers kisses all over your face, brushing away your worries. “you ready?” you ask, hand reaching down and stroking his shaft. “please,” he begs, feeling his head fuzzy as he pushes his hips slightly back. the scene itself feels dirty, yet the two of you watch together as his tip coats up and down your wet walls, creating enough lubrication. he moves his hips down once his tip enters your wet entrance, thinking of football plays so he wouldn’t cum on the spot.

“f-fuck, that feels so good, darlin’. so wet and tight,” he praised, watching your face contour into pleasure. you knew he was big, but the sensation of him now inside you was incredible. you swore you could feel every rigid vein from his cock, as he sank deeper, stretching your walls completely. your eyes connect with his. colston looks ruined, pants of air escaping his lips as he fully moves inside you, all of his inches in.

“you’re blushing,” you tease him, feeling how he hides his head in the crook of your neck. “stop teasing me, it's taking everything out of me to not cum on the spot,” he explains, a hand coming up to grip your hip. “it’s okay if you do, it happens during your first time,” you explain, playing with the hair on the nape of his neck. “but i don’t want that, i want both of us to reach it together.”

you kiss him, nails scraping down his muscles, “you can move whenever you want,” you say, your legs wrapping around him. he thrusts his hips back, creating a movement comfortable for the two of you, as he sank into you again. the pace was slow; he knew he was big, and he wanted to refrain from hurting you. “so big colston, doing so good, treating me so right,” you praise, colston’s cheeks burning redder.

he continues to drag his hips, his cock entering and exiting, feeling his shaft get coated by your wetness, making it easier to slide in and out. colston hisses through his teeth, the feeling of your tight walls clenching around him becoming difficult to hold back from his high. your hips tilt, the new position making it possible for his tip to brush that spongy part inside you once again. you want to beg him to move faster, harder, deeper, for him to have you dripping in seconds.

“you feel so good, so tight round’ me… could stay like this forever,” he chokes, kissing you to shut up his thoughts. “filling me up so good, all of me, can feel you hitting my tummy,” you cry out, nails raking down his back, leaving marks for tomorrow's problem. you’re so warm, tight, he couldn’t form coherent sentences; he could feel himself edge nearer. he wanted to show you he was good at this, at what you conducted him. he picked up the pace, getting a hand of it once he felt your legs tighten around him, creating a jumbled mess.

“i’m so close y/n, so close,” he warned, that familiar spiral reaching inside him, one he couldn’t control. he gasped when you managed to flip the two of you over, colston’s back hitting the cold spot. “you said you wanted to cum togther right?” he watches the smirk spread across your lips, hands placed along his chest. you lift up, guiding his cock back into you, his length deeper than before.

you take a second to recover after bottling all of him, balancing yourself properly, before moving again. you knew you were going to be sore tomorrow, yet that was the least of your worries when you looked down at colston who watched intently as you urged both of your orgasms. you rock against him, picking up the pace, his cock kissing over and over that spot. he watched as your boobs shook as you worked all of him. he didn’t understand how sex could feel this good, this right with you. something about you taking control when he thought he had it was so sexy. the way you drove and shifted around him was even hotter.

your head was tossed back, pussy clenching around him tight. he loved it more and more. his head fell back at a gnarly rock from your hips, the different sounds you continued to unleash. “fuck colston! you’re so deep!” you cried out, feeling his hands snake around you to squeeze your ass. “don’t stop, please. feels so good, darlin’, in fucking cloud nine right now. watching you take all of you,” he didn’t know what grew within him; he just had the need and did just that.

you replied with a loud moan, an intense heat spreading across your back as he glorified you. the headboard of your bed banged against the wall, your swiftness now merciless. your open-mouth kiss made him forget everything for a few seconds, his palms squeezing your sides, encouraging you to move faster. “sound so pretty for me, begging, asking for more,” colston murmured, relieving the desire to lift and slam his hips with yours. “i know, baby, i know, just wait a little longer with me, can tell we’re both so close,” you begged.

“do you know how long i’ve thought about this? how much i’ve wanted this with you?” he thought of anything, listening off items from his weekly grocery list, how he needed to get an oil change soon, whatever it was to distract him from the fact that he was seconds away from his first orgasm with you. it felt like a dream, one he didn’t want to wake up from, one he would remember forever.

“open your eyes colston, want you to remember who made you like this, who ruined you,” you said lowly, leaning down to whisper it. he groaned, meeting your movements once again. he panted in your mouth, kiss sloppy as the two of you grinded harder and deeper. that bubble burst once your climax reached its peak, shaking and shivering with pleasure on top of him. colston’s ragged breaths decreased as his thick, white ropes of cum, coat your insides, cock twitching. “that felt so fucking good, i’m speechless. is sex supposed to feel this addictive?” his words cause the two of you to laugh.

“gonna need a minute to rethink,” he blabbered again, feeling himself regain consciousness after being in an encitement. you lie on top of him, his fingertips tracing slow movements along your skin, enjoying the post sex emotion. “was that okay?” you whisper, mistaking his silence for something negative. “okay? darlin’, that was the best thing ever. it couldn’t have gone better,” he expressed, tilting so he could kiss your temple.

“thank you.”

“for what?” you giggled.

“for this. for being patient. for being understanding.”

“you don’t have to thank me for anything, colston.”

“but i do, so just let me,” he insisted.

silence filled the room again, only being able to hear the crickets chirping, the air conditioning system switching on, and the faint smell of sex still lingering. you never thought in a million years you’d be the one taking someone’s innocence away, just the thought of you telling yourself from years ago wanted to make you laugh. “what now?” he asked, being able to almost see his grin.

“we enjoy this. this exact moment.”

he felt like he had more to say, yet for some reason, when he sensed you snuggle closer, tugging the sheets higher to cover your bodies made him realize there was nothing left to say. it didn’t just feel right; it felt perfect. right out of a book. he didn’t need to run or hide, to feel ashamed. all he needed was to soak it all in. his first time, the very first time with you.

[babygirlburrow]

Don't Stop Now... - Colston Loveland

A/N: Stepping back into my favourite universe! This takes place immediately after the National Champions blurb, so consider this a part two to that. I'm still deciding how to write this universe in terms of time wise, but I really wanted to get this written up as I've had a brainworm about it for DAYS and I am feeling so feral for this man, so I hope you enjoy ☺️

Part of the 'You're Still The One' universe - Masterlist | Colston Loveland Masterlist

WC: 3.3k

Could be read as a part two to this blurb! But also can be read as a standalone fic.

Warnings: Smut, MDNI, public sex, risk of being caught, dirty talk, semi voyeurism (someone walks past as they're getting off), Colston is lowkey rough and handsy

The locker room is still thumping long after the final whistle. 

You’ve been in locker rooms after wins before, but this one feels different. It feels as though things will never be the same again, in the best way possible.

Colston hasn’t let you out of his sight for more than a few seconds for the entire evening. He keeps looking at you with a glint in his eye that means only one thing; he’s feral and wants you. 

As you move through the party and say your hellos to his teammates, his hand stays firm on your waist, not letting you move more than a foot away from him. Every so often, he pulls you in close to his side in a grip so tight that it’s as if he’s worried you’ll simply float away if he loosens his hold on you. 

His pads are off, leaving him in a Michigan hoodie and the game shorts that he’s still wearing. His eye black is still on his face, but it’s diluted now with sweat and, though he’ll never admit it, tears of joy. He looks unfairly good. His whole body is simmering with the high of the win. 

Nobody misses the way he’s looking at you. You’re talking to his teammates, literally just talking, and yet Colston’s stood next to you, looking down at you with an expression of love so tender that it would melt even the steeliest of hearts. 

The more the party drags on, though, the more his look changes. It morphs from a look of love into a look of need. A look of lust. His eyes change from warm honey to dark determination. His face becomes lined with determination and his shoulders have hunched with having to physically restrain himself from you. 

Colston prides himself on his patience, but when it comes to you? All bets are off. 

And the best part is, he knows you’re not faring any better. If anything, you’re worse. He dares to look at you with that look of I need you so badly, it hurts, whenever you look up at him, and then there’s the eye-black situation… 

His eye-black has been a secret obsession of yours since the very first time he wore it, and it sends you into a feral, dripping mess every single time. He knows what it does to you and that’s exactly why he loves wearing it. 

Some of it is still smudged on your face from when he kissed you. You’ve tried several times to wipe it away, self-conscious of the fact that everyone - including his parents - absolutely knows how it got there, but every time, Colston’s raised a hand to yours and gently swiped it away.

‘Remind everyone who you’re going home with tonight,’ he whispered into your ear after the second time you tried.

Heat blooms low in your stomach as you watch him move around the room, arm firmly tucked around your waist so you have no choice but to follow him. Your eyes never leave his enormous form. People can definitely see the heat in your eyes. Neither of you care. 

A pause in the party allows him to pull you close to him. His strong arms hold you tight to his chest around your waist while you tilt up to your tiptoes so your arms can loop around his neck. 

‘You’re makin’ it so hard for me to behave, baby girl,’ he croaks into your ear so that nobody else can hear. He disguises the words by planting kisses to your temple.

‘You just won a national championship, Colly,’ you singsong back to him, just as quietly. ‘Don’t think anyone expects you to behave.’ 

He exhales heavily. 

‘Need you so bad, it’s not even funny.’ It’s little more than a whine into your ear, as if he’s not getting his own way. 

‘Need to wait, Colston. Coach Harbaugh wouldn’t take kindly to you railing me up the wall in this locker room in front of everyone.’ 

Colston glares at you, but he knows you’re right.

The minutes drag by. Time passes so slowly, it seems to go backwards at one point. 

Your Loveland Michigan jersey burns your skin as your body temperature rises. Colston is next to you, talking to JJ and AJ, but all he can focus on is your warmth next to him. He can feel you edging closer to him, can feel the warmth radiating from your body. 

His hand moves under your shirt and up your back, under your bra strap to fiddle with the clasp. You have to physically close your eyes to stop yourself from saying something. He doesn’t break conversation with the boys, but he’s still smirking.

At last, someone yells something about going outside to the bus. 

‘Party downtown, y’all! Everyone pull up!’ 

The crowd moves as one enormous unit towards the doors. There are shouts and whoops of excitement for the night to continue. 

JJ asks Colston if the two of you are coming. For a moment, your heart pounds when Colston says yes, worrying that you’ll have to go another two hours, at least, before you can go home, but then he says, ‘I’m gonna take another shower, we’ll Uber over’, and the heat in your stomach returns with a ferocity that almost knocks the wind clean out of you. 

The quarterback looks between the two of you with a smirk, but mercifully doesn’t say anything. 

Colston busies himself at his locker, pretending to look for a change of clothes, while the sound of everyone’s voices grows fainter the further away from the locker room they get. 

Finally, the last of the hollering fades out, and then it’s just the two of you. 

Colston immediately locks the door from the inside.

‘So nobody comes in while I’m showerin’,’ he smirks to you as he crosses the room back to you.

‘Oh yes, very important to not let anyone disturb you while you’re showering.’ You grin up at him when he looms over you again. The minute he’s back in your space, he’s holding your face and kissing you hard, humming against your lips. One of his hands moves to grip your waist to keep you close to him, while the other cradles the back of your head. 

He breaks apart and rests his forehead against yours, eyes fluttering shut. Your eyes close as you soak in the moment, soak in the warmth from his body that’s still simmering with adrenaline and need. Both of you are breathing hard.

‘Thank you for being here,’ he murmurs after a few moments. 

You don’t even need to think about the response.

‘You know there’s nowhere else I would rather be.’ 

Colston pulls back just enough to look at you. He takes in your eyes that are still bright with emotion from the win, rakes over your cheeks, flushed from the cold of the field, and the way the eye black is still smeared under your eyes. His eye black. Possessiveness clouds his eyes.

‘There’s my girl,’ he mutters as his lips trail kisses from your temple down to your cheeks. ‘Don’t have long, baby.’ 

You shrug playfully.

‘A quickie in the locker room, who said romance is dead.’ 

He laughs heartily.

‘I’ll take you home and take my time with you there after we finish, how ‘bout that, darlin’,’ he whispers into your neck. You whine and tilt your head back as you feel his teeth nip the skin.

‘Shut up and kiss me, Loveland.’ 

He obliges immediately, mouth hitting yours in an urgent kiss that makes heat pool low in your abdomen. You’re wet already, you can feel the slick through your jeans. 

A gasp falls from your mouth as he grips your waist tighter with both hands, pulling you into his chest and lifting you in one effortless motion. Your legs wrap instinctively around his waist while your arms curl around his neck to support you against him. He takes a few steps forward until you feel your back gently hitting the wall. 

Looking around, you see that he’s got you pinned up against the wooden paneling by his locker. The screen above the gap in the wall is emblazoned with LOVELAND 18 in bold yellow lettering. 

You look back at him with a smirk.

‘Of course.’ 

He returns your smirk and kisses you, teeth nibbling at your bottom lip. Without even realising you’re doing it, you moan into his mouth and hold the back of his head with your hand. 

‘Need you, baby, need you now,’ he growls. 

‘Take me, then, Colston.’ 

He doesn’t waste another second. His fingers shake as he fumbles with the fastening of your jeans, and he grumbles to himself about ‘fuckin’ buttons’, making you giggle into his mouth. Finally, he lowers your jeans to your ankles and kicks them to the floor. His arms hold you steady at the wall where your back is still pinned to. He’s huge, but up close? He towers over you. Huge shoulders blocking everything else in your peripheral vision. 

He’s hard as a rock underneath his game shorts. You can see the bulge, it’s practically staring up at you through the yellow of his shorts. The thought of him, thick and delicious, makes your mouth water. His eyes follow yours. He knows what you want, you can tell from the filthy smirk that cracks his face open. 

‘See somethin’ you want, princess?’ he grunts. 

You don’t have the words. All you can manage is a whimper and a nod, making him chuckle. 

He doesn’t waste another breath. The second he kicks his shorts down and lets them pool at his ankles, his dick slaps up to his lower abdomen. It’s already leaking with pre-cum, and when it bumps against your upper thigh when you wrap your legs around him again, your mind loses track of thought completely. 

Colston looks at you with an eyebrow quirked, silently asking for consent like always. You give him a nod, and the shit-eating grin you have on your face makes his chest nearly split open with love. 

But then he’s pushing into you. He grunts with the effort, the sound reverberating through your ear where his chin is resting on your shoulder to keep him stabilised. 

‘Shit, Col,’ you gasp, more breath than sound, burying your face into his neck.

‘I know, baby, I know, I’m not gonna last long,’ he laughs just as breathlessly. His huge body is still simmering with the adrenaline of the win, but now it’s got need and raw desire mixing in with it. 

Urgency reminds Colston that you realistically don’t have long. Five minutes, maybe ten at a push. His hips start moving immediately, snapping up and forward in a rhythm so fast, so strong, that it makes your entire body thrum with pleasure. Each of you are completely undone, trying so hard to keep quiet. You actually have to bite down on the skin on his shoulder to keep your moans under control. 

‘Keep bitin’ me like that and we won’t go to the party at all, sweetheart,’ he groans. His face is still buried into your neck, his voice barely more than a muffled suggestion against your skin. 

You can’t answer, as much as you’d like to snark him back. The rhythm of his thrusts driving into you - deep, hard - has you seeing stars. Your head rocks to lean back against the hardwood paneling behind you and a moan punches out of your chest when he hits that spot, the spot only he knows how to reach. 

The moan bounces off the walls and reverberates through the air. Anyone walking past the locker room will know what’s happening, there’s no doubt about that. 

Colston’s hand comes up from your thigh to your mouth, gently covering it and clamping down. Not hard enough that you can’t breathe, just enough that it muffles some of the sound. 

‘Try be quiet, baby,’ he mutters into your ear through the rhythm of his thrusts. ‘Can’t let the coaching staff know I’ve got you railed up against the wall.’ The obscenity of the words makes him chuckle softly before he can help himself, because it hits him, then, that he’s really got you backed against the wall of his college locker room, your legs around his waist and coming apart on his dick. 

He shakes his head, then turns his head back to you so he can kiss you again. Your mouths barely brush, barely make contact, it’s more a way of distracting himself so he doesn’t follow your moan with a grunt that’s even louder. 

His dick pumps effortlessly in and out of you. He pulls back just enough that the head nearly pops out of you, then drives it back into you with such power that it makes your head spin. One of Colston’s favourite sights is seeing your eyes roll to the back of your head. He grunts softly with pleasure when he sees it happen now, alongside your mouth falling open to make an ‘O’ shape as your high bears down upon you.  

The thrusts become sloppy against you. You can feel it, but your high still feels miles away. 

‘Hey,’ you mumble into his mouth. ‘Don’t stop now, Colston, keep going.’ 

He whimpers against you. His eyes scrunch in concentration as he tries to keep his own climax at bay; he always makes sure you finish first, no matter what. 

His hips continue to become sluggish, so he resorts to sliding a hand down to your clit. When his fingers find you, you let out a yelp that can most definitely be heard from outside the room. Neither of you can bring yourselves to care anymore. You’re too engrossed in the feeling of being wrapped into each other like this. The sensation of his fingers swirling your clit around and applying just the perfect amount of pressure makes your high come racing towards you.

Colston smiles to himself when your body arches into him at the feeling of the added stimulation. You cling to him tighter. Your arms instinctively pull him closer. 

The feeling in your stomach builds. The coil tightens. 

‘Fuck, Colly, ‘m gonna…’ you gasp out, tears leaking from your eyes as the stimulation becomes too much, too overwhelming. 

Colston kisses you again. 

‘Come with me, sweetheart, I’m right here, right here with you…’ 

With one last sweep from his thumb and one last drive from his hips, your walls clench around him as you come apart on his dick. He squeezes inside you and seconds later, with a grunt from him, you feel his warmth shooting into you. A cry jumps out of your chest. It sounds suspiciously like his name, but it’s so breathless that neither of you can tell for sure.

Your arms are still wrapped around his neck to brace yourself against him. He hisses when he feels your fingers digging into the skin at the nape of his neck, aftershocks of your orgasm ripping through you and making you twitch against him. He’s still buried inside you, but you can feel him softening already. 

The room is quiet for a few moments. All that can be heard is the sounds of your breathing mingling together, trying to come down to earth. Colston heaves out a breath. Your body starts to tremble, and he looks up at you. 

‘You okay, baby?’ he asks quietly. 

You’re about to respond and assure him that you’re okay, just completely fucked out, when he pulls out of you, causing you to hiss at the change in pressure and loss of feeling. He apologises, quietly and honestly, and kisses your temple. 

Then he helps you back down to your feet, hands firm on your waist to keep you steady. 

‘Just breathe, baby, you’re good,’ he murmurs into your ear. Your head tilts forward to rest on his chest, so close that you can hear his heart through the navy jersey he’s still wearing. His heart thrums rapidly under your ear. Still, though, he focuses only on you and making sure that you’re okay. ‘I’ve got you. I’ve got you.’ He repeats it like a prayer, muttered into your ear. 

The atmosphere in the room is thick with the scent of sex. Tension that was present at the start slowly starts to seep away, the result of it finally being addressed. 

You lean back so you can tilt your head up to look at him. When Colston looks down at you, he takes in your eyes, sleepy and fucked out, and your lips, swollen from kissing him, slightly bruised at the corners, no doubt a result of him nipping at them with his teeth. His arms fold you into him and hold you close to him. Obsession and adoration drips from every pore as he gazes down at you with those soft eyes that only you receive. 

‘You okay?’ he asks again. 

Your legs are shaking. Your groin is already starting to ache. You’re slightly concerned that someone heard you.

But you’re perfect. You’ve never been better. 

‘Yeah, Col,’ you whisper up at him. ‘Never been happier.’ 

His finger tilts your chin up so he can kiss you properly. This kiss is soft, steady and gentle, miles away from the way he kisses you during sex. He smiles against your lips, making you smile in return. He chuckles, buries his face into your shoulder and exhales deeply, as if his body is finally releasing the adrenaline and tension from the day. 

‘Damn, we just had sex in my locker room.’ His huge shoulders shake with laughter when the realisation hits him. The room fills with the sound of your giggles, partly at the realisation of what you just did but more at the way his laughter is just so infectious. If you could inject it to have as an IV when you’re feeling low, you would.

‘And all because neither of us could keep our hands to ourselves until we got home.’ 

He releases you just for a moment to pick up your jeans and his shorts, and the two of you put them back on, still giggling. Once you’re back to being fully clothed, he brings you back in for a cuddle, one hand roaming to slide under your hoodie again. Your back is sweaty and your entire body is starting to ache, but you don’t care. 

Colston turns to you, winks and smirks.

‘So what do you say we go to this party for an hour, then go back to the dorm and finish what we started?’ 

You gasp in mock-horror and shove his chest, playfully. 

‘You are such a horn dog, Colston Loveland!’ 

He shrugs, nonchalant and unbothered, as usual. 

‘Only because I’m dating the hottest girl in Michigan.’ 

This time, you blush furiously and tilt up onto your tiptoes to kiss him again. 

‘Flattery gets you everywhere, though.’ 

He grins in victory, then softens when he thinks about the words you said to him a few moments ago. 

‘Have you… have you really not been happier? Like, ever?’ He says it so quietly, so shyly, that your heart nearly splits open. You reach up to hold his face with your hands. He leans into your touch, like always, and kisses your palm. 

‘I have genuinely never been happier, Colston. You make me the happiest girl in the world. You really do.’ 

His eyes become suspiciously glassy, but he grins all the same.

‘Especially when I pin you against the wall and rail you?’ 

You swat his chest again, both of you laughing heartily. 

‘Yes, Colston, especially then.’ He leans down to kiss you, grinning into your mouth. ‘Come on, national champ, let’s get to this party before the team send out a search and rescue team.’ 

Colston grabs your hand and leads you out of the locker room. The few staffers that are left in the building glance at you as you make your way out to the exit with knowing smiles, but nobody says anything. 

After all, Colston is a national champion now. For at least the rest of tonight, he can do what he wants. 

Although there’s not much else that he wants in this life, especially not with you by his side. 

COLSTON LOVELAND TAGLIST (message or ask to be added!): @vroomvroombtch @mrs-delaney @cozygirljay @nngkay @patosduck @harryweeniee @junovee @snoopyhughes @ivy-34 @holidaycashton @princessmermaid1289 @snowyjoeyburrow @bjewel @goldfades @spideysgwen @itsjustjackie55 @obssessivefangirl @basicash @starboymuse @potatoes698 @hannahvb01 @daniiibananiii @m3gyonc3 @coder4500 @sofabwriter @britt217 @ilyfood737373 @hufflewhore128 @renegadebirch @dolphdrago

[thestoryofagirlxxx]

anatomy of you ~ loveland #84

about: you’re drowning in anatomy notes and desperate to pass your exam when colston offers his body as a “study aid.”

genre: mostly wholesome fluff with mildly suggestive / implied intimacy

word count: around 2.9k

pairing: colston loveland x sports med major student!reader

a/n: hello, it's me.. a long time tumblr reader but a first time writer. i've had this plot idea for a whileeeee now. i haven't seen it done before with colston, so i'm happy i can finally put it to use. also, apologies if the anatomy lingo isn't 100% accurate! please enjoy <3

you’re going to fail this exam.

you’ve accepted it. you’ve made peace with it as the clock ticks past midnight.

you’ve already imagined yourself dramatically telling colston you’re dropping out to become a barista with a mysterious past. with your eyes wide and hair wild, you have become the tragic hero of your own life story.

your anatomy textbook is sprawled across your coffee table. the pages are full of labeled muscle diagrams that now look like abstract art. highlighters bleed neon across the pages. your notes are color-coded. flashcards are stacked in precarious towers, and your brain is completely fried.

the faint hum of the heater blends with the soft tick of the living room clock, while the television mumbles quietly in the background. distant cars pass outside. tires crunching over the gravel driveway, and somewhere faintly, a dog barks. your highlighter squeaks against paper. the scent of your coffee, which is most definitely now lukewarm, mingles with the lingering smell of your vanilla body wash. it blends subtly with the freshly baked cookies scent that still hangs in the air from earlier. you try to blink the exhaustion away. it doesn’t work.

“if one more tutor says ‘it’s not that hard,’” you mutter, pressing your highlighter into the page a little too aggressively, “i’m going to start swinging.” your fingers clench the pen like it’s a lifeline, knuckles whitening, and the stress makes your chest tighten with every labored breath.

from the couch, colston chuckles. his long legs stretched out with one arm propping up his head. black hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows. he looks impossibly relaxed for someone who had just crushed a football game and then still had the energy to lounge around your living room like he owns the place. today’s game ended in a 32–28 bears victory over the rams. somehow, he’s barely winded. he’s just calm, loose, and entirely too comfortable in your space.

he occupies the space like he owns it, being effortless and unhurried. you’re the complete opposite as you've found yourself caught in the storm that comes before an exam. your brain is buzzing with medical terminologies you barely memorize, and the plate of freshly baked cookies near you have remained untouched.

each small motion, including the stretch of his legs and the flick of his fingers, tugs at the edges of your attention refusing to be ignored. the faint scent of his cologne clings to the fabric of his hoodie smelling warm, musky, and familiar. your stomach clenches despite yourself.

“you’re doing great,” he says, voice smooth. cocky, teasing, casual. the warmth in his tone makes your pulse jump.

“i’m not,” you groan. “there are too many muscles. who decided we needed this many?”

“biology?” he offers casually, a smirk tugging at one corner of his lips.

you throw a crumpled-up notecard at him. it bounces harmlessly off his chest. he grins, that infuriating grin. you try so hard not to notice how good he looks in that hoodie. the way the fabric stretches just over his shoulders when he shifts. the faint curve of muscle you can see even through the fabric. the subtle warmth radiating from him that makes your palms itch. the soft swish of fabric draws your attention despite yourself.

he sits up and stretches. his arms reaching high above his head with his fingers interlacing. his back arches slightly. the hoodie rides up just a little, teasing, hinting at the sharp lines of his abs. a strip of warm tan skin appears. all you could see is his lower stomach with hip bones that disappear into the waistband of his sweatpants. the rise and fall of his chest makes your pulse stutter.

your eyes flick over. brief. involuntary. you snap them back to your textbook like you’ve just committed a crime. the paper suddenly feels heavy in your hands. your notes blur. highlighter ink smeared from your slightly shaking fingers.

“see something interesting?” he asks, voice low, amused, leaning back on his elbows like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

“no,” you reply, too quickly, not even trying to sound convincing. your throat feels tight.

“mhm,” he hums, clearly enjoying this, the smirk tugging wider.

he rises from the couch, rolling his shoulders with effortless ease. each step toward the coffee table makes your heart thump faster, like you’ve been caught in slow motion. the soft swish of his hoodie, the faint scuff of his slippers against the floor, the way his gaze flicks to you like he’s teasing without saying a word. it’s all so dizzying. the room suddenly feels smaller, warmer, and more intimate.

“what’re you stuck on?” he asks, coming up behind you. his chest brushes your back lightly. this sends a ripple of warmth down your spine, and your breath hitches.

“everything,” you sigh. “biceps, triceps… they all blur together.”

his hand hovers near your shoulder for a second, teasing, the faint warmth of his skin brushing yours. then, he leans over your notes and scans the diagrams. your brain short-circuits. the smell of him, once again, fills your senses. your fingers clench at the edge of the table.

“feel this one contract?” he murmurs, pressing lightly on his bicep.

“i know that,” you reply, sharp.

“and this relax when you stretch?”

“i know.”

he chuckles. “okay… so what’s the problem?”

you turn your head slightly. huge mistake. he’s so close you can see the faint stubble along his jaw. there's a tiny crease between his brows, and the cold from earlier has left his nose and cheeks a faint pink shade. your pulse hammers in your ears, and a soft heat creeps up your body.

“the problem,” you whisper, “is that it’s hard to visualize.”

he hums thoughtfully. “okay.” he steps back a little. “then use me.”

you stare. blink. “what.”

“you’re studying muscles, right? i have muscles. you can point them out. hands-on learning.” his grin spreads, cocky, teasing, challenging, and your stomach flips at the thought.

“you’re offering to be my anatomy model?”

“i’m offering to help,” he corrects, voice low, teasing, aware. “unless you think you’ll get distracted.”

“i will not get distracted.” you say it too firmly, though your chest tightens.

he raises an eyebrow, smirk never faltering. “sure.”

you stand, trying to act professional. “fine. stand still.”

he obeys, stepping into the living room space, spreading his arms slightly. you flip your textbook to the upper-body page. with his 6'6" frame and full attention on you, it makes it impossibly hard to concentrate. the soft hum of the fridge suddenly seems louder along with the beating of your heart.

“deltoid,” you murmur, stepping forward and placing your hand on his shoulder. even through the hoodie, you can feel the curve of solid muscle, warm under your fingers. the pulse of his heartbeat vibrates against your palm, and your stomach twists.

he inhales softly. “good start.”

“don’t talk,” you snap, though your voice betrays you.

“yes ma’am,” he teases.

you trace down his arm. “biceps brachii.”

“flex?” he asks, cocky.

“yes.”

he flexes, and you immediately realize how much your brain has short-circuited. your fingers press lightly against the contracting muscle, memorizing the feel. the subtle warmth of his skin, the way the muscle moves beneath your touch, is overwhelming.

“that helps,” you whisper.

“happy to assist,” he murmurs, smirk growing, eyes glinting with playful challenge.

you step closer. “pectoralis major,” your palm brushing his chest through the fabric. his heartbeat quickens under your touch.. so does yours.

“originates from the clavicle and sternum,” you recite softly, following the line with your fingers. they brush against the collar of his hoodie, the fabric soft yet firm, and your pulse jumps.

a pause.

you look at him. “can i?”

he tilts his head, his brown eyes darkening just slightly. “yeah.”

you hook your fingers into the hem of the hoodie and pull it slowly. he raises his arms to help. the fabric slides over his stomach, over his chest, over his shoulders. it catches slightly when he stretches his arms higher again, teasing you even more, exposing him fully before the hoodie clears his head.

your breath catches. the warmth of his skin, the faint sheen from earlier practice, and the strong line of his abs make your chest tighten. goosebumps rise along your arms.

he drops his arms. bare chest. broad shoulders. defined lines under the warm kitchen light. your fingers are still tangled in the hoodie before letting it fall onto the couch. the quiet between you is heavy, almost electric, charged enough that even the faint hum of the refrigerator feels amplified.

he doesn’t say anything. just watches, a smirk playing at the edge of his mouth, eyes dark and aware.

“latissimus dorsi,” you whisper, stepping closer, brushing your hands along his sides. skin warm. alive. each breath he takes sends subtle vibrations through you.

“external oblique,” you continue, fingertips sliding over his waist. the light friction makes him shift slightly under your touch.

he exhales slowly. “is this helping?”

“yes,” you say honestly, breath hitching slightly.

you crouch slightly. “quadriceps.” hands smoothing over his thighs through sweatpants. muscles tense instinctively, solid and warm.

“hamstrings,” you murmur, stepping behind briefly, pressing lightly. he lets out a small sound, and you freeze. “sorry.”

“don’t be,” he says, voice low, teasing gone, replaced by something heavier. the heat radiating from him makes your pulse spike.

you step in front, closer now, almost too close. his hands hover at his sides, near enough to brush if he wanted, and the anticipation makes your stomach knot.

“rectus abdominis,” you murmur, palm flat against his stomach. skin shifts under your touch as he breathes. your fingers trail downward before stopping above the waistband. professional. you are being professional.

“i think this is actually working,” you whisper.

“yeah?” he murmurs.

“yeah.”

his hands settle on your hips. steadying. not pushing. just… there.

“prove it,” he says, voice low, challenging.

“sternocleidomastoid,” you murmur, brushing fingers along his neck. he tilts into your touch.

“masseter,” you continue, thumb along his jaw.

“orbicularis oris.”

your thumb grazes his bottom lip. he kisses you. slow, testing. your hands slide up his chest, exploring warm skin, pulling him closer by the hips. soft, familiar, but charged.

“still studying?” he murmurs against your mouth.

“hands-on learning,” you whisper.

he huffs, laughs low, and kisses you deeper. hands slide from hips to waist, up under your shirt, warm palms pressing. you gasp softly.

“cutaneous receptors,” you murmur, breath hitching.

“you’re unbelievable,” he murmurs against your jaw.

his lips trail down your neck, deliberate, teasing. your fingers dig into his shoulders. the faint pulse of his skin against your fingertips makes your head spin.

“feel this one?” he murmurs at your pulse point.

you shiver.

“and this?” his hand slides down your spine, resting just above your waistband.

you suck in a sharp breath. his thumb hooks lightly into the elastic — not pulling, just there. asking.

“colston,” you whisper.

“yeah?”

“i have an exam at 9am.”

“i know.”

his lips brush yours again, slower, deeper. heat radiates between you, body pressed, hands exploring, careful, teasing.

“after your exam,” he murmurs, forehead resting against yours.

“after my exam,” you agree, neither moving. thumb tracing slow circles just above your waistband, making your pulse skip.

one last soft, lingering kiss. then he pulls back, bare chest rising and falling, hoodie forgotten on the couch.

“go study,” he says gently, brushing hair from your face. “you’re going to crush it.”

you sit, breathless, warm, memorized in a completely new way.

“best study session i’ve ever had,” you murmur.

“anytime,” he grins.

legs shaky, textbook open, diagrams finally clicking. every muscle, every line, every curve has been etched into your mind.

back on the couch, colston pulls his hoodie back on, but not before you steal one last glance just to be certain you have actually learned something.

the fabric slides slowly over his shoulders, over the defined lines you had traced only minutes ago with careful academic focus that had not felt entirely academic. for a brief second you catch the flex of his stomach as he tugs the hem down into place, and warmth blooms low in your chest again. When the hoodie settles against his torso, it feels strangely final, like something private being tucked away.

he catches you looking.. just like earlier.

of course he does.

his mouth curves into that lazy, knowing smile that makes your stomach flip every time. there is no embarrassment in his expression, only quiet amusement and something softer underneath. you turn back to your textbook too quickly, shuffling your notes as though you have not just committed every inch of him to memory.

the room feels warmer than it did before. charged in a subtle way that lingers beneath your skin. The television continues its low recap of the bears’ win, analysts dissecting plays with clinical detachment, but the sound fades into background noise. all you can focus on is the steady rhythm of your own pulse and the faint echo of his hands at your waist.

you press your palm flat against the anatomy textbook, grounding yourself. the diagrams no longer look abstract. they look familiar now. tangible.

“you’re blushing,” he says casually from the couch.

“i am not.”

“you are.”

you risk a glance over your shoulder. he is sprawled across the cushions again. His eyes are focused on you in a way that feels deliberate. observant. like he is studying you the same way you were studying him.

“you are such a distraction,” you mutter, turning back to your notes.

“you invited me to help,” he replies, completely unapologetic.

despite yourself, your lips twitch.

the truth is, the information is clicking in a way it was not before. when you read pectoralis major, you remember the warmth under your palm and the steady beat beneath muscle and bone. when you review rectus abdominis, you picture the controlled rise and fall of his breathing. the knowledge feels embodied now instead of theoretical.

the couch creaks softly as he stands. you hear his footsteps approach before you see him. instead of standing behind you this time, he pulls out the chair beside yours and sits close enough that your knees brush lightly. the contact is small, almost accidental, but it steadies you more than you expect.

“you’re going to pass,” he says quietly.

the teasing edge is gone. what remains is calm certainty.

you hesitate before answering. “what if i don’t?”

the question slips out more vulnerable than you intend. beneath the flirting and heat, the anxiety is still there. the pressure. the fear of disappointing yourself.

he leans forward, resting his forearms on his thighs. “then you take it again.”

“it’s not that simple.”

“it kind of is,” he replies gently. “one exam doesn’t decide who you are.”

you stare at your notes, then at him. “do you ever get scared before games?”

he laughs softly. “every time.”

“you don’t look scared.”

“that’s because i don’t let it run the show,” he says. “preparation does.”

the simplicity of it settles somewhere in your chest. he reaches over and brushes a loose strand of hair away from your face, fingers grazing your temple before falling away. the touch is light but grounding.

“you’re allowed to be tired,” he adds.

something about that makes your throat tighten.

the heater hums steadily. the clock ticks past twelve thirty. outside, a car passes slowly, tires crunching over gravel. the world feels small and contained inside your living room.

you close the textbook halfway and look at him fully. “quiz me.”

his eyebrows lift in surprise. “we are serious now?”

“very.”

he picks up a flashcard and deliberately mispronounces the first muscle name. you roll your eyes and correct him automatically. one card becomes five. five become ten. the answers start coming without hesitation. your voice steadies. the information feels solid instead of fragile.

he listens carefully to every response, nodding as if he actually understands more than he lets on.

eventually, a yawn escapes you.

he notices immediately. “bed.”

“one more section.”

“bed,” he repeats, softer but firm.

you close the textbook this time without arguing. he stands and holds out his hand. you take it without thinking. his grip is warm and steady as he pulls you up from the chair. for a moment you are standing close again, close enough to feel the heat of him through the fabric of his hoodie.

the earlier tension flickers between you, but this time he only leans down and presses a slow kiss to your forehead.

“go sleep,” he murmurs.

you change into an oversized shirt and slip under the covers. he joins you a minute later, the mattress dipping beneath his weight. when he pulls you back against his chest, your body relaxes instantly. his arm wraps around your waist, palm resting flat against your stomach. protective. steady. familiar.

your breathing gradually syncs.

the exam is still at nine in the morning. the stakes are still real. but the panic has softened into something manageable.

you trace slow patterns along his forearm with sleepy fingers. “thank you,” you whisper.

“for what?”

“for being my anatomy model.”

a quiet laugh vibrates against your shoulder before he presses a kiss into your hair. “anytime.”

the clock ticks past one.

for the first time all night, your mind does not spiral. the muscle groups blur into something coherent. the fear quiets.

you might still be exhausted.

you might still be nervous.

but you are not alone in it.

and that makes all the difference.

well, that's the end of this plot.. for now. my inbox is open for requests!

picture credits: pinterest

divider credits: @reevesoc, @angeliicide & @issysh3ll

[lov3land]

KEEPIN’ SECRETS

summary ₊ ⊹ it can’t be that hard to keep a pregnancy and a relationship secret…right?

pairing ₊ ⊹ colston loveland x cheerleader!reader

warnings ₊ ⊹ angst, betrayal, colston’s a cutiepie, smut, shower sex, public sex & almost getting caught, a few uses of Y/N.

a/n ₊ ⊹ thank you guys for all the love on baby bear <3

“My body hurts,” she complains, stretching her arms above her head, cracking her knuckles in the process as she makes her way towards her locker. Winona laughs, nodding in agreement, “Same. Coach Riley really beat our asses today.” After a moment of comfortable silence, Winona’s hand pauses on the edge of her locker, “Sooo, are you seeing anyone?”

Her face goes pale. Did Colston say something to his teammates? Are rumors going around? “N-No, why?” she stutters, gulping nervously, which she hopes Winona didn’t notice. “I’m just wondering, hon. Are you okay? You look pale.” She pauses, nodding, “I-I’m fine,” and scurries outside of the locker room, her phone in hand. In the hallway, she leans her head against the wall, taking a deep breath.

When her phone pings, she looks down, seeing one singular message.

cole love 💗

Wanna see my girl and our bear. come to the locker room, no one’s here.

She giggles softly, responding with swift fingers.

mama 👅

We don’t even know if it’s a boy yet, but I’m on my way. Do you still have eyeblack on?

In the locker room bathroom, Colston chuckles, nodding to himself.

cole love 💗

Of course I do, baby. And I’m still sweaty. Meet me in the bathroom, third shower stall.

She reads the message and hearts it, carefully making her way to the players’ locker room. Once she sees the coast is clear, she makes her way to the bathroom, yelping when Colston’s large hands grip her hips.

“You scared me!” she laughs, smacking his bare shoulder—he was only in his boxers, the shower water running, and his practice uniform on the tile floor.

“Oh my God, oh my God, Cole!” she whines softly, her nails digging into his biceps as he snapped his hips up into her. He was holding her up, her legs wrapped snugly around his waist as her back slid up and down the shower wall from his thrusts. “Yeah baby, take this dick,” he grunts, his thumbs rubbing circles into her hip bones. “Fuuuck, such a fuckin’ tight, pretty little pussy—mmh…gonna be such a good mama, yeah…”

Her eyes were clenched shut as she threw her head back, trying to muffle her cries with a bite of her lip. But as soon as they shut, they snapped open again—at the sound of the bathroom door opening and closing. Colston’s head whips towards the sound of the noise, thankful that the showers had full-length doors, except for a small opening at the top. He leans in close to her ear, voice gruff as he continues his thrusts, “Stay quiet.”

She nods as he places a hand over her mouth, his thrusts slow and deep. The person in the locker room begins whistling, before stopping—“Yo Loveland, are you in here?” Fuck. It’s Caleb.

“Yeah,” Colston calls back, feeling the burning sensation in his gut—he’s close. “Ben’s callin’ a meeting,” Caleb says, and Colston hides his head in the crook of her neck, sucking on the skin as his hips jerk, his cum coming out in hot spurts. He feels her stroke his hair as she clenches, her climax finally peaking, and he lets out a soft groan, one that was audible enough for Caleb to hear.

“You good, bro?” Caleb asks, starting to get closer to the shower stall. “I’m good,” Colston responds, clearing his throat, “just ate somethin’ weird for lunch.” There’s pause before Caleb sighs, and shuffling can be heard as he makes his exit. “Hurry up, dawg.”

After Colston knows Caleb has left, he uncovers her mouth and places her feet back on the floor, pressing a soft kiss to her lips. “How’s our bear?” Colston asks softly, the brunette placing a large hand over her stomach, which hasn’t changed much. “I think they’re good,” she hums, “I hope they are. My first appointment is next week,”

“Can I come?” he asks eagerly, his eyes lighting up with excitement. She sighs, turning off the water, “Cole…we both know the answer to that, baby.” The rookie’s face drops. “Oh, yeah. Right.” He opens the door and reaches for a towel, drying himself off and tying it around his waist before handing her one as well.

Then, he grabs his clothes off the bench, avoiding eye contact with her as he pulls his boxers and shorts on. “Cole, I’m sorry—" she apologizes, reaching out to touch his tattooed bicep, but he recoils away from her, shrugging his shoulders.

“It’s fine. I’ll see you back at my place, don’t wait up,” he says gruffly, exiting the locker room with haste as he pulls his shirt over his head, the squeak of his Nike slides evident against the tile floors. When the door shuts with force, she puffs out a breath, beginning to put her own clothes back on.

With the stealth of a ninja, she makes it back to the cheerleaders’ locker room, going unnoticed in the flurry of laughter and hairspray and new makeup techniques. Jess, the redhead she had grown to love and who had quickly become one of her best friends on the team, came running over to her, a look of concern on her face.

Jess is also the only one who knows about her and Colston—she would trust that woman with her life, and eventually, will ask her to babysit.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” she says, sounding a bit out of breath, “Coach Riley wants to see you.” Her brows furrow, pinched with confusion, “Why?”

“Winona saw you leave the locker room. Riley and Coach Johnson know about you and Colston.”

Her heart drops to her ass, and a manicured hand goes to her stomach. This can’t be happening. “I’ll walk you to the HR office, honey. Come on.” She nods like her brain is on autopilot, and as they leave, Winona makes direct eye contact with her, blowing a kiss. “Suck my ass, Winona,” Jess spits, a guiding hand on her back.

Before they even reach the door, she hears yelling from inside the office. I love her and punish me, not her is all she can hear being said. “Good luck, okay? I love you,” Jess says softly, opening the door for her before shutting it, leaving her to be fed to the wolves. Coach Johnson is standing next to Coach Riley, his hands on his hips, and there’s hard-set expression on her face, while Colston is outraged, his hands tugging on his hair while he paces around the small room.

“Sit down, Y/N,” Coach Riley says softly, and she does, her chin already trembling. “This is bullshit,” Colston spits, “We’ve been together since before the season. We shouldn’t face consequences.” Coach Riley sighs, rubbing her forehead, “Colston, I understand that. But her contract was signed before yours, and she agreed to not fraternize with players. You agreed to not fraternize with the cheerleaders or any staff. Her contract was signed before the timeline of the relationship that you gave me.”

He just scoffs, shaking his head, “She’s your daughter, and you’re gonna fire her?” That makes Coach Riley pause. Colston keeps going, “Someone snitched on us, you know that? Another one of the cheerleaders. Winona, I think her name is. So why don’t we bring her in? Bring her in so she can explain to my pregnant girlfriend why one of her friends betrayed her.”

“Colston—" Y/N says, looking at her boyfriend in shock. He’d just revealed their biggest secret of all. “Lovebug, you’re pregnant?” Coach Riley laughs softly, her motherly side now apparent. Coach Johnson, who had been standing there quietly, now speaks up. “You got her pregnant?”

“Fuck,” Colston says softly, now sitting down in the creaky leather chair, slumped with his head in his hands. “Surprise?” she says finally, letting out a soft breath. “I was gonna tell you, mom—"

“Oh, well this is wonderful!” Coach Riley exclaims, jumping up from her seat to press a kiss to her daughter’s head. “My baby is having a baby,” she coos, holding her head in her hands.

Coach Johnson clears his throat. “Martha, we need to talk,” he says gruffly, chewing at his fingernail. He turns to her and Colston, “you two can go. Just—keep the PDA to a minimum for now and we’ll update you two later.” The pair nods, practically leaping out of their seats and exiting as fast as they can.

As soon as they’re out of the HR office, Colston puts his arm around her shoulder, pulling her into his side, “Can I come to the appointment now?” She giggles, looking up at him, “Of course you can.” They make their way to the parking lot, and he kisses her temple. “I’m sorry Winona outed you like that, babe. That’s fucked.”

“It’s fine,” she shrugs, “I have Jess. And I’ll beat Winona’s ass later.” Colston laughs, opening her car door for her. Before he closes it, he says, “I love you. See you at mine?”

“I’ll see you at home,” she giggles warmly, puckering her lips for a kiss, which Colston reciprocates, before closing her car door. The 6’6” man walks to his truck, blowing her a kiss. She giggles again, copying his motion.

“God, I love that man,” she whispers to herself, before starting up her brown Volkswagen Beetle.