You leant comfortably back on the bean bag in your boyfriend's bedroom, a magazine in hand, and Muloo, your kwami, tucked soundlessly into your shoulder.
A black figure leaped in from the open window, and you dont even look up to see who it may be.
He releases a groan, his ring beeping and automatically detransforming him into his civilian self.
Adrien plops onto his bed face first, before releasing yet another groan, this time, louder, but condensed by the sheets of his bed.
"Adrien, sweetie...you okay?" You set your magazine down as Muloo and Plagg take a dive into a cabinet of cheese, leaving the two of you alone.
A cacophony of incoherent words.
"Im sorry, what was that?" You tease amd he lifts his head up to shoot you a look.
You giggle. "Oh come on, it was just Mr Bird again! It shouldve been easy this time!" You smile, stepping towards the bed and taking a seat, rubbing your hand through his tousled blonde hair.
"Its Mr. Pigeon, and yes, it was easy. But thats just the point! Hawkmoth has been running out of ideas, akumatizing the same people over and over! Wheres the excitment, the anticipation? The need to call for help from other heroes on the team...?" He finishes sheepishly, sending a look to your miraculous.
Your eyes roll involuntairly. "Oh please, Adrien. Lile you need me anyway."
He gasps, sitting up. "Dont speak that way! We need you, its just...things have been rather...drab, lately. Im sure a little Mousie-action would...liven it up a little!" He smiles and you pat his cheek.
"Not a chance, kitty. You remember what Ladybug said. 'Only come when I summon you', or however she worded it. She entrusted me with the mouse miraculous full time. Who am i to question her orders?"
He sighs, throwing himself back again. "Youre right. As usual."
"I know," you smile and lean in to press a kiss to his forehead. He melts almost instantly.
You lay beside him and cuddle, no thoughts of super heroes pr super villains in your mind, but only of your Adrien.
A/N: English isn't my first language, too much thoughts about Luka in season 6 and I wanted to sublimate them. Please, enjoy.
Luka didn't know or notice when his heart stopped hurting. However he could finally breathe freely, seeing her smiling during the sunset.
Luka didn't know when it had started. He encountered her on the secluded part of the beach Irupé recommended to him. The place was already taken when she showed up. Her appearance displayed she wasn't local. A filled-to-the-brim bag kept trying to slide off her shoulder. A simple caftan covered a swimsuit with a multicolored geometric pattern on the exposed straps. Even in unadorned clothes, it seemed she looked neat and comely. She was breathingly beautiful.
It was obvious she wanted to spend some time alone, and his existence caused her to awkwardly avoid his sight and shift from one foot to the other, reckoning what to do next. Something got him, and he said:
"I'm Luka."
Abruptly she lifted her head and met his eyes. Those glassy eyes made him catch his breath. He suggested her to sit nearly and got a polite decline and a faint smile. But at least she said her name in the end.
He assumed this encounter would easily be forgotten, although he didn't notice his sleep became placid and soothing with bright, delightful dreams.
Luka visited that part of the beach more frequently, dreaming about crossing paths with you again. He even prepared a bigger blanket and some snacks, like lurking a wild cat.
But nothing went right in his life. You find each other by chance after his conversation with Ladybug. Luka was sure she used a snake talisman to say something she thought she shouldn't. This disrupted barely founded harmony in his heart. He didn't feel safe anymore; that awful, sticky, consuming swamp caught him, and he didn't intend to have any freedom in the foreseeable future.
She literally bumped into him while turning the corner of a building with a café on the ground floor.
"S-sorry," she mumbled, rubbing her sore forehead. The first thing she saw was a hand with a snake-shaped bracelet. Something is strange with it – the metal she's never seen – it's none of her business. What she couldn't ignore was his expression of pain and desperation. "Are you okay? Umm, Luka?" she inquired timidly.
These words do something to Luka. Just some polite phrases made him fluttered. He couldn't resist a small smile and nodded, "Mhm, just a really hard day, more difficult than in the near past."
The look was redirected to the path where Marinette left. Eyes held comprehension without further questions. That intrigued him, it was the first person who listened to him, not the other way.
"What do you think about meeting again? Not by chance."
They spent time together more frequently and didn't analyze it, just enjoying the process. They shared their past, humor, and stories. She surprisingly loved the teasing jokes, "Soooo, do you like Blue Lagoon due to, well, your eyes? "What an arrogant person," and threw up her hands in fake disappointment. He laughed loudly and replied with a playful short melody. Lately it was so easy to create that weeks felt as short as one minute. The new song's motif had a deeper, crystalline, and serene atmosphere.
After that, something started to change in him. With each next morning, waking up was easier, and appetite returned completely. Even Juleka noticed his high spirit and hoped coming back to Paris wasn't a pipe dream anymore. Anarka at the same time, knew something had happened, there was no chance these drastic changes could surface from nowhere. Though Luka didn't give her a specific answer, as he was afraid something awful would happen if he told her about her.
Days went on. Luka comprehended you would have to return home sooner or later, but he still hadn't prepared himself for that moment. The desire to persuade you to visit him in Paris or let him leave with you.
Unfortunately, the realization came too late.
He understood that his love for Marinette was like he was seeing her from bottom to top with eyes full of admiration. On the other hand with her, he felt like a flower in the rain, greedily absorbing each emotion from her.
And the more Luka spent time with her, the more he was conscious about his own feelings. He was able to watch himself in the past from the third point of view. How his love for Marinett turned into an obsession with love as a concept. How he left his mom, Juleka, his friends, and dreams. He was ashamed.
"Like I needed to love someone," ironically he finished his thoughts.
He understood he was the one who made his own life miserable. Thought he had to sacrifice himself for others' happiness. Chose the easiest way.
Luka was devastated when he heard your reply to his compliment, "Um, thank you, but I think I don't deserve such beautiful words." A forced smile and eyes with no light in them spoke for themselves: she was ready to do everything to help and didn't even believe somebody would do that for her.
He had to do something, he wasn't ready to let her go. He wasn't going to just wait, he had to take action and make her fall for him too. Firstly, he should ask Ladybug for a recipe for an "astro power snack."
Happiness wasn't his goal, and somehow it reached him unintentionally. Well, part of it, another part he was ready to work for. She was his salvation after all.
juggling life between ballet, owning the shop and paying your rent in the state of new york is a constant battle and doing it alone is the big blow that knocks you down constantly. but things change, just as it did on a regular tuesday morning at the shop.
•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•
4:00 AM
the alarm that goes off every morning at four on the dot is a soft jingle, loud enough to wake you but soft enough to not startle you. The soft rustle of your cotton sheets, swish of your embroidered bed spread and persistent tapping of your phone screen to stop the alarm fills the room. This is nothing new to your well trained body. It's like clockwork, every morning, every day, every year since you moved to New York. The same patterns that you expect to never change for the next couple of years.
You slide your legs off of your bed, feet touching the soft rug you pull your weight up to stand. Your body aches from the hard training you did yesterday in preparation for The Nutcracker, you've landed the role you've been wanting since you were a young girl, the sugar plum fairy, it didn't come easy, but you made it, and that's one thing that keeps you pushing everyday.
•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•
5:30 AM
you've showered, brushed your teeth, oiled your body to prevent dryness, put on your day to day outfit, cozy enough for the winter chill but cute enough to look like you tried today, and made your way to the living room rubbing your tabby to his wake, putting food and water in his bowl. You check your phone, acknowledging that you only have so much time to spend before you have to get to work. You throw on your shoes, grab your purse and keys, all while making your way towards the door.
The shop is in the perfect spot. Not too far away from home and in a decent enough area. To you it was a total jackpot. The walk is colder than usual, the regret creeping up your neck forming goose bumps on your arms, you swear you can feel the ice starting to form on the coils you have on your head, but you keep it pushing.
•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•
6:05 AM
you made it just in time to set up and open before your usuals start flooding in, you grab your apron, check on your orders that are waiting to be sent off, greet your helper Maci who usually preps the orders before it's time to start letting customers in, play the christmas music that makes your soul feel joyous, and pep talk yourself as usual.
you start piping the last two cupcakes that have the cute edible Santa hats on them, checking the gingerbread man cookies making sure they are perfect for the customers, and laughing with Maci before she leaves. Little moments like this make your heart feel a little bit more whole.
Maci ventures to the front door, turning her head to speak "You're doing great -, see you tomorrow!"
you smile softly, hands under the warm running water that feels unbelievably hot due to your fingers being frozen to the bone. "See you tomorrow Maci, thanks for all you do!"
you're happy that someone acknowledges your hard work, especially when you can't acknowledge yourself.
•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•
6:30 AM
you've unlocked the doors, flipped the decorated "open" sign, and examined the pastries in the display case. Now it's time for the waiting game, you zone out, softly humming to whatever christmas jingle is playing now.
you hear the ding of the doorbell followed along with soft foot steps that shake you from your day dreaming. You look up to see a new face, a familiar but new face.
"Good morning, what can I do for you today?" you say with the ecstatic but professional voice, the one you spent time working on, the one that has the southern hospitality twinge, but bubbly personality underneath.
The customer is tall, very tall, wearing a plain sweater, Yankees hat, and a calm smile. He looks up at the menu, back at you, and then at the display case.
"would you like a recommendation?" you say softly, hoping that'll break his silence. In the back of your mind, you are still trying to pinpoint where have you seen him?
he looks at you, then smiles flashing his teeth slightly "I would like that, it looks like you put hard work into your pastries." he says while moving to stand directly in front of the display case, squinting and examining all of the options.
you nod, "yeah it's just me and my coworker Maci, we put in the time and take turns with the nightshifts." you sigh gently before staring back up, "I recommend the macarons, the strawberry ones are my favorite," you point at them in the box, "and the ginger bread cookies are the best, it's my mom's recipe I took with me, they are probably the best holiday snack in my opinion!"
he looks at you with an "oh really?" grin, "if you say they're the best I'll take your word for it, I'll do the macarons, two gingerbreads and an espresso." taking out his wallet, then his card, and pays.
The emptiness of the bakery is calming, quiet, the bakery has always been a little less busy on Tuesday mornings, though there's never an explanation for it.
After making the espresso, boxing the macarons alongside the cookies, you place the box on the counter and slide it towards him. He reached for the box, fingers grazing softly at yours. It feels accidental, to you it's accidental, to him it's not.
You slide your hands away, looking up at him, doe eyes and slightly surprised by the contact.
"sorry about that" he says grinning, a mischievous undertone peaking behind it.
"it's okay," you say, but a question, the question cuts you off. who is he, why does he seem so familiar, do I know him? "i- err. sorry but, who are you?" words not coming out the way you wanted, you jamble, but he stops you.
a chuckle, almost breathy, is released from his mouth. "don't be sorry, im giancarlo." he says almost reassuringly.
a panic, mixed with surprise fills your nerves, but you catch it before it can show. You open your mouth to speak, but not before being cut off. He takes out a twenty dollar bill, more that what the order was, grabs the sparkly pens you leave in a jar near the register, and scribbles something onto the edge of the bill, sliding it towards you. "here's a tip but it's for you." he says, and turns to leave before you can respond or protest.
he ventures to the front door, opens it, looks back and shows a soft smile "I'll be back for more." he states, then leaves.
you're still in shock, you take a second to take in the fact you just had an encounter with the man you've seen in a magazine and the man who plays for the yankees.
nonetheless the day must go on, customers enter and exit, you package, you pipe cupcakes when it's empty and you wipe off tables after customers leave.
you can wait to get home, you can't wait to see what he wrote, but right now you need minimal distractions.
•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•
9:00 PM
you've had a long shift, all you want to do is go home, greet your cat, eat something, and crash. You hang up your apron, greet Maci who is on her way in for the nightshift, and tell her about the day you've had, making sure to leave out the part where you have an encounter with a professional baseball player.
You leave the shop, and walk the cold, streets, some of the trees are wrapped with lights, there are shops that are closed or are closing, and you try to walk a little faster to get to your apartment, even though the cold is restricting much movement.
•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•
9:35 PM
you've made it home, the warmth of your apartment, the smell of vanilla perfume and the candy cane candle you blew out hours ago hits your nose immediately, your once tense body, letting loose at the comfort of your home.
you sit on your couch, cat scurrying to your side, rubbing and rolling all over you. You make a mental note to refill the feeder, while taking out the twenty, and unfolding it.
at the top it reads, in small rushed letters
"you're beautiful." next to it a long line of numbers.
a phone number.
•-•-•-•-•-•-•-•
thank you for reading! I will be making more this is just chapter one, if you want another player to go with this story just send a request with the players name. I also write for race neutrals! Id also love for you guys to send some asks, and to stay tuned for chapter 2 which will be coming out soon! lastly, giancarlo stays injured like it's insane.
finally wrote Ernie again since i'm really obsessed with the blue jays rn <3
You’re waiting for him after the game, standing with a dozen others—family members and friends. Everyone is eager for the players to come out. When your phone buzzes, you ignore it and focus on the tunnel.
Then you see him.
Ernie is still in his uniform, his cap pushed back. He looks tired but a bit energized too. His bag hangs from one shoulder, and his smile barely reaches his eyes as he scans the crowd.
Looking for you.
When he sees you, his expression changes completely. His smile turns genuine. He starts moving before you can wave, squeezing past teammates with “sorry, sorry,” almost tripping over someone.
“Hey,” he says, his voice cracking.
“Hey, superstar.”
He drops his bag and pulls you in tightly. You can feel his heart racing. He is so warm. When he buries his face in your neck, he finally exhales.
“I can’t believe that just happened,” he says into your skin.
“I can.” You pull back to look at him. “I knew as soon as you swung.”
His eyes shine as he laughs, sounding breathless. “I need to relax. Can we just go home?”
“Yeah, let’s go.”
He takes your hand and doesn’t let go until he picks up his bag.
The car is quiet at first.
Ernie tosses his bag in the back and sinks into the passenger seat with a big exhale. You start the car, and the radio comes on softly. He stares out the window, replaying everything in his head.
Two blocks away, he starts talking.
“Bottom of the sixth, two outs.” His hands begin to move. “I wasn’t even thinking about a home run, you know? Just trying to make contact, get on base, keep us alive.”
You glance over. “And then?”
“And then I felt it.” He hits his fist into his palm. “Perfect connection, sweet spot. I didn’t even look—I just knew.”
“The crowd went crazy.”
“I couldn’t hear anything.” He grins. “I could see people standing up, mouths open, but it was silent in my head. Then I’m rounding first, and the noise comes back. Everything.”
You place your hand on the center console, palm up.
He takes it immediately, lacing his fingers with yours. For a moment, he plays with your hand, running his thumb over your knuckles and tracing lines on your palm. The energy shifts.
“I was so scared,” he says softly.
“Yeah?”
“Right before, in the on-deck circle.” He looks at your hands. “My stomach was churning. I kept thinking, what if I strike out? What if I ground into a double play? What if I mess it up?”
You squeeze his hand.
“And I looked up at the section behind first base.” He glances at you. “You had on that blue hoodie you stole from me. You were standing, hands together like you were nervous or something.”
“I was,” you reply.
“I saw you, and I just—” He hesitates. “I thought, okay. She’s here, watching. Whether I hit a home run or strike out, she’s still going to be there afterward.”
Your throat tightens. You bring his hand up and kiss his knuckles, keeping your eyes on the road.
“That’s what got me to the plate,” he says. “Knowing you were there.”
You take the long way home.
The apartment is dark when you unlock the door. Ernie heads straight to the bathroom. The shower starts. You move through the space almost on autopilot.
You turn on the soft lamps, avoiding the overhead lights. You grab the fuzzy throw blanket from the bedroom, the one he pretends to dislike, along with pillows from the chair.
You create a cozy nest on the couch, arranging and rearranging until it feels right.
The shower stops. You know he is probably looking at himself in the mirror, still seeing that pitch.
When he comes out, he’s wearing sweatpants and an old t-shirt. His hair is damp, sticking up everywhere from the towel. He looks younger this way, more like the guy who is clingy and soft than the one who just hit a home run.
“Come here,” you say, patting the couch.
He doesn’t hesitate.
Ernie settles next to you, and you pull the blankets around you both. He shifts until he’s against your side, his head on your shoulder and his arm around your waist. You feel him starting to relax.
For a while, you sit there, breathing together.
“I almost choked,” he whispers.
You don’t respond, just put your hand on his arm, your thumb moving in small circles.
“Standing there, watching him wind up, I almost stepped out, almost called time.” He laughs softly. “My hands were shaking. I was terrified I was going to swing and miss and look like an idiot.”
“But you didn’t.”
“But I could have.” He turns to look at you. “That’s what people don’t get. Every at-bat, I could fail. Every play, every throw, I’m one mistake away from being the guy who messed up.”
Your chest aches. You touch his face. “Ernie.”
“Everyone expects me to show up. Every single game.” His eyes shine. “I’m supposed to be the guy who delivers. Today I did, but-” He stops, swallowing hard. “What if tomorrow I don’t? What if I’m the one who chokes when it matters? One bad moment, and that’s all anyone remembers. That’s all I become.”
You turn to face him, placing both hands on his face.
“Hey. Look at me.” You wait until he does. “One bad game doesn’t erase everything. It doesn’t erase today.”
He stays quiet, looking at you as if he wants to believe it.
“I mean, people know you. Not just from today, but from all of it. The way you...” You pause, searching for the right words. “You’re not just one swing, Ernie.”
“You don’t know—”
“I do.” You shake your head. “I’ve watched you every day. The way you show up even when you’re scared. The way you care so much. Maybe too much.”
He exhales shakily.
“So yeah, you could have a bad game. You probably will at some point.” You’re stumbling through your thoughts, but you mean every word. “But that’s not who you are. One bad moment doesn’t define you.”
He closes his eyes.
He makes a sound between a laugh and a sob, pulling you closer. His face buries into your neck, and he breathes you in deeply.
“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” he whispers.
“Good thing you don’t have to find out.”
You hold him tightly, one hand in his damp hair and the other tracing patterns on his back. Outside, the city hums through the night. Tomorrow, there will be another game, another chance, and another battle with his doubts.
But right now, wrapped in blankets in the soft light, he is just Ernie. Not the athlete, not the home run hitter, not the guy trying to prove himself.
Hiiiii can you please write something, anything for Roman Anthony? Thank you!
Pairing: Roman Anthony x Fem!reader
Warnings: smut, fingering, kissing, dirty talk.
Roman is sitting on the couch watching film not paying attention, until you walked in the room in his jersey. Roman's head snaps up so fast you wonder how he didn’t give himself whiplash. You giggle as his jaw drops in shock, "you okay baby?" You ask
"Yeah, what are you doing?" He asks raking his eyes over your body.
"Surprise" you say.
Roman bites his lip as he sees the jersey barely cover your ass, "Fuck come here."
You slowly approach as you get closer Roman grabs you by the hips and pulls you onto his lap. When you straddle him he groans as he realizes your bare under his jersey, he immediately sticks both hands up the jersey and starts fondling your tits.
"Roman" you moan as he pinches your nipples. You pull him into a kiss causing him to groan into your mouth.
"Fuck your so hot" Roman says before flipping you so your laying on the couch.
Roman hikes the jersey up far enough to expose your glistening pussy, he immediately finds your clit and starts circling. You moan and arch into his touch as he uses that finger and inserts it. You moan as a second finger follows the first, "Roman fuck."
Roman starts thrusting them in and out causing you to moan loudly. Roman kisses you as he continues moving his fingers in and out at a fast pace. Roman groans as you clench down his fingers and moan into his mouth as you cum all over his fingers.
Roman works you throw your orgasm before pulling his fingers out and licking them clean, "You okay baby?"
"Yes I'm good" you reply.
"Flip over I want to see my last name on your back as I fuck you" Roman says.
You do as Roman says excited for the long night ahead of you because once he gets going your not getting a lot of sleep.
the wind presses soft kisses onto your skin, raising goose bumps from your delicate flesh. The stadium is loud and smells of beer, hotdogs and whatever other food item that's being sold at the concession stands.
you wore the goodluck jersey that your husband tells you to wear to his games, his name stitched beautifully into the back, his numbers covering your spine. This is everything you've wanted and more, something you've yearned for since you were young, dreaming of the day you could be the wife of a man who swings bats for thousands of people almost every night.
your eyes scan the field, looking for the one person you've come for. You spot him, sweat clinging to his skin, veins protruding from all of the movement and blow flow he's worked up since the game has started.
you reach for your lanyard that states that you are family to one of the players, mindlessly playing with it not minding the jingle of the metals that attached the two main pieces of the lanyard together.
you can't wait to leave with him, the game is almost over, his team at the winning point, with multiple home runs. you smile to yourself, the stadium lights catching the glimmer of the gloss that you placed on your plump lips repeatedly.
the game is called for an end. you smile, cheer, and represent the man who loves you more than anything, the man that you wouldn't trade for anything else in the world.
you walk with him after he exits his locker room, smelling faintly of sweat, that's mostly over powered by the soap he used to quickly wash with before greeting you again.
he turns his head to look at you "what have you been thinking about this whole time?" he says, reaching for your freshly manicured hand.
you giggle softly, pursing your lips, catching your breath to speak before closing your mouth just to open it back up. "I was thinking of you, and how I have wanted this.. wanted a man like you for so long." you pause, ponder with a slight frown, the kind of frown the average person wouldnt be able to tell, but he could, he always could.
you start back up again, "I thought that I would never be a baseball wife, I'd never wear the family member lanyard, be close with the clubhouse staff, and go to the team dinners." you sigh softly, "I dedicated my life to my craft, and silently hoped a man like you would appear in my life and he did."
your husband, stops in his tracts, halting you with him as he holds you by the waist, looking down at you with the most genuine look of love and adoration. He opens his mouth with the crooked grin he gave you every day you've been with him "I do this not just for me, but for you. I make you proud and that means more to me than the money, the fame, and the constant nights under bright lights playing baseball. Every day, at every moment I think of you, my proud wife that helped me through the sleepless nights and heinous practices. The woman who helped me acknowledge my limits, but also encouraged me to do better."
you smile, the tingle of fluster creeping from your neck to your cheeks, the words coming up your throat jambles and crashes into each other, leaving you unable to form a sentence.
he leans down, slowly and effortlessly to connect his lips to yours, with no care regarding your lip gloss. The feeling is warm, it sends sparks through your nervous system, sending shivers down your spine and unleashes butterflies in your stomach.
he makes eye contact with you, the same kind of eye contact he gave you when he first told you that he loved you.
"you are my heart, my hope and my dedication." he says, hand rubbing your lower back. He takes your hands in his once more to lead you to the car.
the whole ride home his words echoed endlessly in your head until your mind slowly started to drift into slumber.
this imagine can be applied to any of your favorite baseball players, including.. giancarlo stanton, aaron judge, and cody bellinger. feel free to request an imagine for any of your favorite athletes! Until next time <3
summary: you’re in bed but there’s no sleeping happening
—
You’re both already in bed, half-asleep, limbs tangled, the TV long forgotten. He’s is behind you, one arm draped over your waist, his face tucked into your neck, breathing slow and even.
It’s lazy at first.
Barely there.
His hand shifts, almost absent-minded, settling lower on your stomach.
You hum softly, not fully awake.
His fingers move again, slower this time, drifting without much thought until they slide between your thighs. It’s still soft, unfocused, like he’s doing it in his sleep.
A small reaction slips out of you anyway. A quiet inhale, your hips shifting just slightly.
That’s what wakes him up.
He pauses.
Then does it again.
More deliberate this time.
Your breath catches a little sharper, your body responding before your brain catches up, and behind you, you feel him shift. A quiet exhale against your neck, heavier now.
“Yeah…” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep.
You tilt your head back slightly, eyes still closed. “Davis…”
He’s awake now.
Not all the way, but enough that there’s intention behind the way his fingers move, slow circles that aren’t accidental anymore. Testing. Feeling how you react.
“You awake?” you mumble.
“Am now,” he answers, voice low, still thick with sleep.
His hand doesn’t stop.
You let out a quiet inhale.
A shift of his hips.
You feel it.
“Yeah,” he mutters again, this time a little more awake, a little more certain.
Your hand slides back, finding his arm, gripping lightly. “You’re… not tired anymore, huh?”
He huffs a quiet laugh against your skin. “Was. Not anymore.”
His fingers keep moving, slower than they could, but deliberate now. Like he’s taking his time waking up properly through you.
“Still okay?” he asks, softer now, even as he doesn’t stop.
You nod, breath uneven. “Yeah.”
“Say it.”
“I’m okay, baby.”
That’s enough.
His hand slides a little more confidently now, his touch less hesitant, more in tune with every reaction you give him. Your body shifts again, pressing back harder, and he exhales sharply behind you.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “That’s it.”
You can feel him fully now hard against your back, no mistaking it, and it makes your stomach flip.
“Davis…” you breathe, quieter now.
He presses a lazy kiss to your shoulder, but it’s different now.
“Roll over,” he murmurs.
You blink, still a little dazed, but you do it, turning toward him under the covers.
He doesn’t waste time once you’re facing him.
His hand slides back between your thighs immediately, picking up where he left off, but now he’s watching you. Actually watching you.
“Yeah,” he says under his breath, more awake with every second. “Knew that’d work.”
You let out a soft, breathy laugh that breaks halfway through when his touch sharpens just slightly.
“Shut up,” you murmur.
He grins, but it fades quickly when he sees your reaction.
His head dips, disappearing under the covers before you can fully process it.
“Davis-” you start, but your voice catches when you feel him.
His hands steady your hips immediately, not rough, just holding you in place as his mouth takes over where his fingers were.
Your hand flies to his hair, gripping instinctively.
“Oh-“
He exhales softly against you, clearly more awake now, more focused, his movements no longer lazy but still unhurried. More deliberate.
“You taste so good,” he murmurs, voice low, rough with sleep and something else now.
Your head tips back against the pillow, your grip tightening in his hair as your body reacts without hesitation.
“Davis…”
“Stay still,” he says, not looking up, his hands tightening slightly at your hips to keep you from shifting too far.
You try.
You really do.
But the second he changes the pressure, your hips move anyway, chasing it, and he makes a quiet sound that feels almost like a warning.
“Don’t run from me.” he murmurs.
“I’m not-” you try, but your voice breaks.
“Yeah, you are,” he says, softer now. “Stay right here.”
He keeps going, more confident now, more awake with every reaction you give him, like he’s fully locked in at this point.
Your breathing is uneven now, your fingers tight in his hair, your body already responding faster than you can control.
“Davis, don’t-” you start.
“Don’t what?” he mutters, not slowing.
You don’t even know.
“Don’t stop,” you correct immediately.
He huffs softly against you, almost amused.
“Not planning on it.”
His hands tighten again, holding you steady as everything builds, slow but intense, his focus completely on you now.
Not sleepy anymore.
Not even close.
And the way he keeps you right there, doesn’t let you pull away, makes you feel every second of it.
He’s definitely awake now.
He doesn’t hesitate.
Now his hands at your hips pull you flush to him, guiding you down so the head of his cock lines up with you. You feel the heat at your entrance and the slick from him and yourself, everything primed.
“Look at me,” he says, voice low, steady.
You meet his eyes, pupils blown, breath hitched. “I’m with you.”
He slides forward, slow and certain. The tip parts you, then slips in, filling you inch by inch. You hiss, a loud sound, and his thumb presses to the hollow at your throat as if to anchor you and keep you present.
“You good?” he asks the smallest thing, but the question is real.
“Yeah,” you breathe. “Right here.”
He pauses with most of himself buried, letting you adjust, letting the moment land. Then he pulls back enough to feel the head of himself, and slides in again, deeper this time. His rhythm is deliberate. Not frantic. Heavy.
“God,” he murmurs, leaning down to kiss your temple while he moves. “You feel perfect.”
Your legs wrap around his waist without thinking, drawing him closer. He answers with harder, measured thrusts that shove into you deep, hitting a place that makes your breath tear out of you. Every time he bottoms out you feel him press his whole weight into your back, solid and grounding.
“You like that?” he asks between thrusts, needing to hear you.
“Yes,” you gasp. “Harder.”
The command flips something in him. His hand at your hip tightens, fingers digging in, and his pace picks up. He is forceful now but still attentive. His palm slides down to rub your clit in time with the thrust, slick and relentless. The combined pressure of him inside you and his thumb circling your clit sends you higher, every stroke building heat in the pit of you.
You start to make sounds you’ve been holding back all day. Moans, curses, your name dragged out. He matches you, low groans vibrating through his chest, the sound of him wholly awake and all in. Sweat breaks along his collarbone. His hair is mussed. He moves with the kind of steady aggression that says he will not be denied what he wants.
“Don’t stop,” you choke out. “Please.”
He doesn’t. He speeds up, hips slamming into yours with a steady, punishing roll. The room fills with the slap of skin and your breathy cries. His mouth finds yours and he kisses you rough, tasting himself and you. When he pulls back to watch your face.
“You’re mine tonight,” he says, throat raw, and the way he says it makes something inside you break open. You shove your nails into his back and fuck your hips up to meet him, desperate and wanting.
He answers with two deep, fast thrusts that knock the air out of you. Your vision flares, high and bright, and you feel the first wave curl through you. He holds you through it, not letting you fall away, slowing only to keep you present. When you come down steaming and shaking, his movements slow into long, possessive strokes, his palm still working your clit until it begs for another release.
You can feel him building too. He curses low, biting the inside of his cheek, and you feel his cock throb inside you. He pulls you into him, burying his face against your shoulder for a second, then starts to thrust harder, faster, each slam closer to the edge.
“Come for me,” he rasps, voice breaking.
“You first,” you snap, but you know you mean it for both of you.
He laughs, breath hot against your neck, and the laugh turns into a growl as he drives you both over the edge. His release is raw, warm, filling you, and you feel him clamp down, shuddering through with deep groans. He keeps his hips rocking until the tremors slow, then finally stills, heavy and spent.
He stays inside you, chest rising and falling against your back, his hand splayed over your hip like he can’t let go. After a long moment he buries his face in your hair and exhales, fingers tracing lazy circles on your side.
“You okay?” he asks again, softer now.
You twist in his arms and press your mouth to his. “Better than okay,” you say, and mean it.
