Summary: Logan knows better than to fall for his best friend’s little sister.
wc: 2,2k graham!reader; figure skater!reader; reader is inspired by alysa liu; brother’s best friend; hockey player x figure skater; mouthful reader; multiple chapter fic
Their house smelled like beer and sweat. Which meant the party was dying.
Bodies still crowded the living room, music still thumped through the speakers, and someone was loudly arguing about video game hockey in the kitchen, but the energy had shifted hours ago, from drunk and chaotic to lazy and half-dead.
Logan leaned back against the couch with a bottle hanging loosely from his hand while Dean flirted shamelessly with two girls near the staircase.
Typical.
Tucker was passed out in an armchair.
Also typical.
And Garrett… “Get your damn feet off my table,” he said, glaring across the room at a freshman defenseman currently ignoring him completely.
Logan snorted into his beer. “Y’know,” he drawled, “you get more aggressive every year.”
Garrett flipped him off without looking away from the kid. “I’m two seconds away from murdering half this team.”
“Only half?” Logan asked, smirking.
Before Garrett could answer, the front door swung open hard enough to hit the wall. Cold air rushed inside.
And then:
“Jesus Christ, this place smells disgusting,” a familiar female voice said dramatically.
Logan looked up automatically.
Y/N Graham stood in the doorway wearing leggings, an oversized Briar hockey hoodie (which was, by the way, stolen) and the kind of expression that suggested she’d rather be literally anywhere else. Still… she was here.
Her duffel bag slid off her shoulder as she kicked the door shut behind her.
“Oh, thank God,” Dean said immediately. “An attractive person finally showed up.”
Y/N rolled her eyes. “Still using that line?”
“Still working?” he winked.
“It’s really not,” she said casually.
Garrett frowned from the kitchen. “What are you doing here?”
She stared at him blankly. “Hello to you too, sunshine,” she said sarcastically as she moved to give him a light kiss on the cheek.
“Weren’t you at practice?” he asked as he leaned down to receive it.
“Yeah… like three hours ago.” She checked her phone for the time. “I texted you.”
Garrett pulled his phone out, checked it, then shoved it back into his pocket. “Didn’t see it.”
“No way,” she deadpanned. “You mean you ignored your phone during a party? That’s so unlike you.”
Logan huffed out a laugh before he could stop himself.
Y/N’s eyes flicked toward him briefly. Just for a second. Like she only now acknowledged he was there.
Then she walked straight past the couch and headed for the kitchen like she owned the place. Which, honestly, she kind of did at this point. Especially when Dean instantly grabbed her bag from the floor and took it to the living room like second nature.
Nobody questioned it anymore.
Not when she’d been hanging around the team since their freshman year. Not when she knew all their names, their habits, their schedules. Not when she walked into their house without knocking and immediately started stealing their food.
“Is that my pizza?” Dean yelled, watching her take a container out of the fridge.
Y/N opened the takeout container. “If you have to ask, they’re not yours anymore.”
“That’s stealing,” he complained.
“That’s survival,” she replied, already placing the leftovers in the microwave.
Dean pretended to be annoyed about it. But not really, already accepting the terrible fate that his leftover pizza didn’t belong to him anymore.
Garrett, meanwhile, was still watching his sister with narrowed eyes like she might spontaneously set the house on fire if left unsupervised for too long.
She was too much like Garrett. Same sharp mouth, same stubborn confidence, same tendency to look at people like she already knew exactly how to win the argument before it started.
It made her annoyingly difficult to intimidate.
Logan had learned that pretty quickly.
The first time they met, she’d looked him up and down and said:
“You definitely look like a hockey player,” she said.
Logan laughed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“The hair. The ego. The vacant expression. Very on brand.”
That had been two years ago.
And now she was just… always there. Curled up on their couch during movie nights. Stealing all their hoodies. Yelling at the TV during games. Bullying Dean with terrifying efficiency. Part of the furniture, basically.
Y/N hopped onto the kitchen counter and pointed at Logan’s bottle. “Is that the last Diet Coke?”
“No…” he lied, looking away because he knew she’d fight him for it.
“Give it to me,” she ordered.
Logan held the bottle out lazily. “Then come take it, Graham.”
Her eyes narrowed immediately.
Garrett didn’t even look up from his phone. “Don’t encourage her.”
“Too late, man,” Dean said.
Y/N slid off the counter and walked over. Logan expected her to snatch the bottle and leave.
Instead, she stopped directly in front of him.
Close enough for him to notice the cold flush in her cheeks from outside. Close enough to smell winter air and something faintly sweet underneath it.
She tilted her head and pouted cutely.
Logan grinned slowly. “That’s not gonna work on me, princess. I’m not your brother… or Tucker.”
“But… there’s only beer left in the fridge,” she said sadly.
“Come on, Johnny,” she said softly. “You’re really gonna let Garrett’s little sister die of dehydration?”
Logan grinned slowly.
“Pretty sure Coke does the opposite.”
“Wow,” she said, unimpressed. “And they let you into college.”
Dean barked out a laugh somewhere behind them.
Logan looked down at her, still smiling, and willingly handed over the bottle. She smiled and grabbed it before moving to the living room with his soda and Dean’s pizza.
But across the room, Garrett was watching the entire interaction with narrowed eyes.
He knew hockey players couldn’t be trusted around his sister.
Good thing Logan agreed.
And he had nothing to worry about.
“So… what are you doing here, Baby G?” Tucker asked sleepily, barely lifting his head from the armchair as Y/N practically threw herself onto the couch with Logan’s stolen Coke still in hand.
“My roommate’s having her boyfriend over tonight,” she said easily, stretching her legs across the cushions. “She asked me to disappear for a few hours.”
Dean looked offended on her behalf. “And your first thought was to come here?”
Y/N took another sip of the soda. “Well, yeah. You idiots always have food.”
“That’s weirdly touching,” Dean admitted.
“It’s not meant to be.”
Garrett pointed at her from the kitchen. “You’re not sleeping here.”
Y/N blinked at him. “I literally wasn’t asking permission.”
“You should,” he replied.
“Fine,” Y/N said dramatically. “I’ll just sleep in some motel then.”
Garrett looked horrified. “Absolutely not,” he practically shouted.
She smirked immediately, seeing he’d fallen for her teasing.
“You are not staying alone in some random motel.”
Y/N threw her hands up. “You seriously need to stop acting like I require constant supervision.”
Garrett stared at her blankly. “Y/N…”
“What?” she asked knowingly.
“Two days ago you got suspended from practice for fighting another girl.”
Y/N scoffed immediately. “She deserved it.”
“Wait, what?” Dean perked up instantly.
Y/N scoffed again. “Some girl at practice kept acting like I stole her routine or something.”
“You did steal her routine,” Garrett muttered.
“She wasn’t performing it correctly,” she said, offended.
“And you threw a skate guard at her.”
Her jaw dropped dramatically. “It barely hit her.”
Logan barked out a laugh. Tucker and Dean joined immediately.
Y/N pointed at them. “Thank you.”
Garrett looked exhausted. “I hate all of you.”
“That’s not true,” Y/N said sweetly. “You love me.”
“I tolerate you because we share DNA.”
“Aww.”
She leaned back deeper into the couch cushions, entirely too comfortable for someone who technically didn’t live there. Not that anyone was surprised.
At some point over the years, Y/N had stopped being Garrett’s little sister visiting campus and started becoming part of the house itself.
Logan sat on the end of the couch and looked at her.
She looked exhausted.
There was still faint glitter near her eyes from practice, her hair messy from being shoved into a rushed ponytail, oversized hoodie sleeves covering half her hands.
Cute.
The thought came and went so fast Logan barely registered it.
Garrett’s sister.
Mouthy figure skater. Professional thief of their food. Human headache.
Nothing more.
“Hey,” Y/N suddenly said, tossing a pretzel at his chest. “Why are you staring at me like that?”
Logan caught it automatically. “I’m trying to figure out how Garrett and you came from the same genetic pool.”
“Easy,” she replied. “I got the personality. He got the anger issues.”
Garrett flipped her off from across the room.
“See? I’m right.”
Y/N smiled proudly.
“Anyways,” she said, taking another sip, “you boys don’t mind me. Just finish your party. I can sleep on the couch.”
She sounded completely unconcerned about it already, like the decision had been made hours ago and everyone else was just catching up.
Before Garrett could argue again, she shifted deeper into the cushions, grabbing one of the throw pillows and shoving it under her head.
Logan snorted softly.
“She’s nesting,” Tucker said.
“I do not nest,” Y/N mumbled, eyes already half-closed.
“That’s my pillow, by the way,” Dean pointed out.
“Communism.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s not how communism works,” he replied.
Garrett crossed his arms. “You’re not sleeping down here while the house is still filled with people.”
Y/N cracked one eye open to stare at him. “Garrett. I grew up with you. Trust me when I say none of your friends scare me.”
“That’s because you have terrible survival instincts.”
She smiled lazily. “Maybe. But I’m tired enough not to care.”
And honestly, she looked exhausted.
The dark circles under her eyes were faint but there, her voice rough with sleepiness after what was probably hours at the rink.
Figure skating looked elegant until you actually watched the training. Then it just looked painful.
Logan had seen enough practices to know that much.
Y/N shifted again until her sock-covered feet ended up in his lap without warning.
He looked down at them. Then at her.
“…seriously?” he asked, annoyed.
“You’re warm,” she said simply, not even bothering to move.
Garrett rubbed a hand down his face like this entire room was raising his blood pressure by the second.
Within minutes, her breathing evened out.
Asleep.
Even with the music and chatting around her.
Dean noticed first. “Wow. She’s actually dead.”
Garrett immediately grabbed the nearest blanket and tossed it over her without a second thought.
Something in Logan’s chest tightened strangely at the sight.
Not because Garrett was protective, that part was expected. But because Y/N relaxed almost instantly after the blanket covered her. Like she trusted, without even thinking about it, that her brother would always take care of her.
Garrett glanced toward Logan then. “Don’t let anyone wake her up.”
Logan frowned. “And why am I responsible for that?”
“Because I know you won’t anyway,” Garrett said, clapping Logan’s shoulder once before heading off to probably end the party.
It wasn’t even said like a warning.
That was the worst part.
It sounded like trust.
Dean followed right behind him, still muttering something about his stolen pillow, while Tucker dragged himself upstairs looking half-conscious.
And then suddenly, the living room was quiet.
And Y/N was asleep beside him.
Or technically… on him.
Logan looked down carefully. Her feet were still in his lap, tangled under the blanket Garrett had thrown over her earlier. One of her hands was tucked under her cheek, hair falling across her face messily.
She looked peaceful asleep.
Softer.
Not like the sharp-mouthed girl constantly arguing with everybody in the house.
Just tired.
Logan shifted slightly, testing to see if he could leave.
Y/N immediately made a small sound of protest and moved closer unconsciously, pressing her legs more firmly against him like she was searching for warmth in her sleep.
Logan froze.
Completely froze.
“…seriously?” he muttered under his breath, throwing his head back.
Because now if he moved, she’d wake up.
And somehow that felt illegal considering how exhausted she looked.
He leaned his head back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling with the exhausted resignation of a man realizing the universe hated him personally.
This was ridiculous.
The same girl who once laughed at him for walking into a glass door.
The same girl who stole his fries every single time she came over.
The same girl who called him “Johnny Boy” specifically because she knew it annoyed him.
There was absolutely no reason for him to suddenly be hyper aware of the weight of her legs across his lap. Or the heaviness of her breathing. Or the hair falling across her face.
And yet—
His eyes dropped back to her face.
A strand of hair had fallen over her cheek. Without thinking, Logan reached over slightly to move it away.
The second his fingers brushed her skin, Y/N frowned softly in her sleep before relaxing again almost immediately.
Trusting. Comfortable.
Like she never once considered he could be anything except safe.
Something twisted strangely in his chest.
Logan pulled his hand back fast.
“Yeah,” he muttered quietly to himself, staring back at the ceiling again. “This is exactly how people die.”
Find My Pitt Masterlist here
Based off of an idea from @lunamoonbby blog which you can check out here
Brendon Park's wife is a marine biologist that specialises in Sharks. One day she pops in to drop off some lunch for him. Being coy about her relationship with him she instead chooses to talk with those around her while waiting for him.
One thing leads to another and somehow you get to talking about why Park is known as a Shark.
The real question remains however is, just what kind of Shark is he?
Warnings: little bit of strong language, secret wife!reader, little knowledge about marine biology regarding Sharks. Just a bit of fun.
Word Count: ~2.1k
There was something about sharks that had always intrigued you.
Even when you were younger.
Bright eyed, eager to learn about the world around you.
Grasping at all the new information you were presented with each and every day.
You were told that as a young girl your eyes practically sparkled when they had first caught sight of the sharks.
Swimming around the tank.
Out of all the exhibits in the aquarium, the sharks had lured you in.
What others might’ve seen as intimidating and frightening.
All you saw was its majestic beauty.
Serene.
When your mother tried to pull you to go check out the tropical fishes, you had dug in your heels.
Unwilling to leave.
Attention enraptured by the deep sea predators.
So every few weeks as a kid you would beg to be taken back to the aquarium, all to go watch the sharks.
Your intrigue only cemented further when a member of staff had taken the time to answer your questions.
Telling you of all the fascinating ways sharks were important.
And how they were cool.
You were only made more excited when you were told there were over 500 different species.
All of varying sizes, shapes and colours.
Living all across the globe.
So it was no surprise that your love for sharks had led you to pursuing a career in marine biology.
It was an arduous journey.
One that had taken you around the globe. Long nights spent studying and gathering data.
Studying sharks of all different kinds up close and personal.
One of your particular favourites was your time spent off the coasts of Australia, as you researched the habits of Great White Sharks.
It was simply exhilarating.
Until eventually you had been led to visit Pittsburgh.
You were just passing through the city, there to join a fellow researcher at the local college.
It was in Pittsburgh where you met the love of your life.
Just picking up a coffee early in the morning, when you had heard someone call out, “just grab me a long black Shark!”
Shark…
Glancing around you, your eyes are drawn to a tall broad shouldered man.
He had the steely temper of the very aquatic animals that you loved.
Chiselled features, pointed. Assured of himself.
His eyes meeting yours, brows arching at the sight.
Your eyes had widened in surprise, diverting them quickly. As your face flushes from being caught.
Oh god.
You just hoped your coffee would be called out soon.
But before that could happen, you feel someone shift beside you.
As he clears his throat.
You look up to find him there.
Eyes staring ahead of him.
Almost as though he were…shy?
No, that felt ridiculous.
Whatever you were picking up soon subsided, as he locked eyes with you once more.
You ask the question floating around in your mind, “Why were you called Shark?”
He sends you an amused smile, before answering to your curious nature.
And with that.
That little meeting.
A beautiful new relationship began to form.
Leading to a first date.
To a first kiss.
Before developing into meeting the family.
Moving in together.
In a moment of bliss, Brendon had gone down on one knee.
A beautiful ring.
Followed by a more than beautiful wedding.
Everything you could’ve wanted and more, all within the strong arms of Brendon.
Whose funny little nickname had drawn you in.
Luring you into his affections.
So now.
A few years after you had exchanged your everlasting vows. You both fell into a comfortable rhythm.
One where he never failed to show you how much he loved you.
Pulling you in and kissing you deeply.
Showering you with affection and gifts.
You took care of each other.
In a way no one else could.
With that in mind.
All that caring had led you to now.
Walking into PTMC, entering chairs as you tapped gently on the window to gain the attention of the reception on the other side.
In your other hand you held a small box, containing the very food your husband had left behind this morning.
Having discovered it once you’d gotten back from the aquarium. Where you now worked in conjunction with a local university.
“Hello”
“Hi, Ma’am how may I help you?” she’d asked you.
“I’m just here to drop off some lunch for Dr Park, is it alright if I go through?”
Nodding, “No problem, just head on through I’ll have our nurse Mateo meet you on the other side”
“Thank you” you smiled, walking through the doors as you’re buzzed in.
“I’m told you’re here to drop off some lunch?” A young man, Mateo, greets you with a kind smile.
Nodding, “Yeah, just passing through.”
“I’ll bring you to the hub where you can wait, and I’ll have someone page Dr Park down for you” he informs you.
“Thanks for that”
He simply shrugs with a small no problem.
Your eyes skirt around your surroundings. Enraptured by the constant movement as they all work in sync.
Despite the unpredictability of their work. They made it look seamless.
Effortless.
Working within their own little ecosystem.
All with their own part to play.
“Who’s this?” An older woman asks, head tilted observing you, as her hands make their way onto her hips in question.
“This is uh- I don’t think I caught your name?” Mateo asks.
Introducing yourself, “I’m Y/N. Just here to drop off some lunch for Dr Park”
“Good to meet you Y/N, I’m Dana, That was real nice of you to stop by, I’ll page Dr Park down for you,” she explains, “You can take a seat here while you wait”
“Thank you, Dana”
Taking a seat at the desk, you’re not left alone for too long as a new voice rings out.
“So you’re here to see Dr Park?” A younger woman appears before you, an intrigued look crossing her features.
Dr Santos you read her name was.
Nodding, “Yeah, I’m an old friend of his”
While not strictly true.
It was partially correct…
You were both once friends before you became more.
You knew Brendon liked to keep his life private at work. Something about his image.
And you respected that.
Didn’t need anyone at work knowing he had the potential to be soft.
Even if he did become putty in your hands.
Feeling secure in your relationship with him.
It didn’t bother you to keep this secret for a little longer.
“An old friend?” she’d only probed further, almost disbelieving.
But you didn’t waver, “Yeah. Just an old friend”
“Is he intimidating all the time?”
A new voice entered, eyes full of intrigue. A badge stating the name Dr Whittaker.
Shrugging, you weren’t about to reveal all.
“Only some of the time”
A small smile creeping up on your face.
“Oh no way, is that a key chain from the Pittsburgh aquarium of Pudge?”
Hanging off your bag a cluster of keyrings hang and chime as they move.
One in particular is of a very cute pufferfish. Pudge. A new addition to the aquarium.
Humming as you confirm, “Yup, and I can confirm he’s a real cutie in person”
“Now I really need to go see him,” she adds, “Oh, I’m Dr King, but you can call me Mel”
“Nice to meet you Mel, I’m Y/N” you smile warmly. “And if you ever want to visit I’d be happy to show you around, I work as part of their marine research department”
She nods happily, as your attention is drawn back over to Santos.
She complains. “Dana did Shark say how long he’d be?”
To which Dana only shakes her head.
Choosing to have a little fun, you tilt your head in false intrigue.
“Why do you call him Shark?”
Now this was something you had learnt very early on.
The very first time you had met, it was the same question you had posed to him.
His own answer interested you enough to accept going on a first date with him.
So it was interesting to hear why anyone else would call him that.
“They say he can smell blood,” Santos joked.
“Have you seen those teeth? Just takes one look at those to know why he’s called a Shark,” A nurse, Princess, throws in.
While Dennis states, “I heard its because his curt demeanour is as lethal as a shark’s bite”
You chuckle at their words.
Thoughtfully, Mel’s mind drifts just slightly, as she asks aloud, “I wonder what kind of Shark he might be?”
“That is a great question.” You agreed. “I’d bet $100 that he’d be a Great White Shark ”
“Sure I’m game, I think he’d be a Bull shark.” Santos affirms quickly.
Great….They had taken the bait.
Mel adds placing her hand on her chin in thought, “Really, see I could see him as a Mako shark”
“What about a Tiger shark?” Dennis suggests.
“Whatever he is, he definitely isn’t a Nurse shark”
You couldn’t help but laugh loudly at Mateo’s remark.
“I’ve heard of these ones called Oceanic White tips, could be him?” Princess suggests.
“See I was picturing a Whale shark,” Dana voiced.
Santos questioned as her brows raised, while the others similarly agreed, “Really? Aren’t they meant to be super docile”
With the smallest of shrugs, Dana simply states, “Somehow I think deep down Shark’s a bit of a softy. Intimidating on the outside but really has no bite behind his words”
And in your eyes, that was a very accurate description.
And in a moment you glance over as the elevator doors open.
Eyes crinkling at the corner of your eyes, as a smile slips onto your face.
“Well now's the chance to ask”
“Ask what?” His tone is gruff, clipped.
Arms folded over his chest. Brows furrowed in a way that would make anyone nervous to speak.
Eyes softening just barely at the sight of you.
Only for you would he be soft…
His only exception.
“We were just wondering what kind of shark you’d be?” Dana had stepped up to the plate.
Unafraid as one of the few who didn’t flinch at the idea of him coming down.
Offering a look of annoyance. He licks his teeth before stating a short answer.
“Great White Shark”
You offer the packed lunch to him, as he nods with a small thanks.
The most imperceptible smile flashing on his face before his steely gaze set back in.
“Thanks”
About to leave he glances back at those around him.
“Do you really have nothing better to talk about?” he gruffly commented. Shaking his head.
Before stalking back to the elevator.
Just barely able to catch you as you boast your winnings. A smile creeping on his face at your antics.
With a grin splitting across your face you send them all a knowing glance as you state.
“Pay up”
Disgruntled remarks sound out as you’re paid your dues.
Counting it as it adds up.
“Fuck yeah, $500. Guess I’ll be eating out tonight”
“Come on, how’d you know that?” Santos groaned, reluctantly paying up.
“What can I say, I just know that guy all too well” you smirk with a small laugh.
Dana tilts her head observing you just a little more intensely, shaking her head with a laugh.
Of course. You were fucking Dr Park’s wife…
There might not have been a ring upon your finger.
Or on Park’s for that matter.
But upon each of your necks respectively hung a chain, dropping down beneath your shirts.
Dipping to conceal itself, were the beautiful rings you had chosen to vow yourselves to each other with.
Both constantly working in fields where having it on your fingers were a liability.
It was simply easier to hang them around your neck.
A tiny little secret, held closely to your hearts.
And as you laughed and teased Santos, Princess and Mateo.
Offering Whitaker an ok to be paid another time.
And reassuring Mel that you’d love to show her around the aquarium and even show her Pudge.
The bright smile wide across your face, gleaming.
And the small sliver of love she had seen crossed Brendon’s face just before.
Dana at that moment knew.
Park was totally a Whale Shark….
The others might’ve assumed Park's response was generic.
A reflex to respond with one of the greater apex predators.
To determine that he was a Great White Shark, for the sheer fact that it was known to be powerful, ferocious, with razor sharp senses as deadly as their teeth.
But in fact.
The reason for his response.
His pick of shark he thought he most aligned with.
It was because he knew.
The Great White Shark, was one of your favourites.
And Brendon Park liked to believe that he was your favourite.
Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed my first Dr Brendon Park the Shark x Reader fic! 🦈 (Also what a great idea from @lunamoonbby it was just such a fun idea to explore, I couldn't resist) Hope I did the idea justice and that it was a fun one to read, (No second part planned for this one) let me know what you think! ✨
Comments, Reblogs and Likes are welcomed and appreciated 💕
Feel free to find my Dr Robby x Wayne!Reader Rinse & Repeat Series Masterlist here 🩺
Or check out my overall Masterlist here
𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠: age gap (reader is mentioned as 23, rafe as 39), established relationship, older boyfriend!rafe, reader insert (no y/n), secret relationship, lying to parents, class differences, kissing, making out, groping, grinding, dirty talk, praise, alcohol (wine), domestic intimacy.
𝑠𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑦: your first sleepover at older boyfriend!rafe’s house is full of tiny discoveries: a junk drawer, a half-finished cup of coffee, your favorite creamer in his fridge, and all the little ways he was already making room for you long before you ever walked through the front door.
𝑎/𝑛: genuinely by the time i finished writing and did my final proofread of this, i couldn’t help but giggle and kick my feet. i really don’t love the idea of writing fan fictions about real people, but some parts of this feels more like what i’d imagine drew to be like and less like canon rafe if he was older. he’s pretty soft here, but i love him this way. i hope you guys do too ♡
𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑡: 8.4k
your phone buzzes on your desk at 4:56 PM.
you're halfway through folding laundry when the vibration makes you freeze, a t-shirt dangling from your hands. you pick it up expecting a text from a friend, but your stomach drops the second you see rafe's name.
Pack a bag.
you stare at it. read it twice. three times. your thumbs hover over the keyboard, but you don't ask what for. you don't ask where or why or how long. you just know.
are you serious
three dots appear. disappear. appear again.
Very.
oh god. your heart is actually racing now.
you press your phone to your chest and let out a breathless laugh that's half excitement, half panic. you want this so badly your hands are shaking. but the thought of lying to your parents makes something twist in your stomach. you glance at the time. 4:59 PM. if you're going to do this, you have got to move fast. there's a really big chance that you can't pull this off. an even bigger chance that your mom shuts it down. but you're willing to try.
it takes you twenty minutes to come up with something believable. a trip to the mainland last minute with stella from your old sociology class. her friend bailed. you'd be back tomorrow evening. that's believable, right? you practice it four times in the mirror, watching your own face for tells. you look nervous and giddy. way too fucking giddy. you try again, aiming for casual, but casual isn't happening.
you pull your duffel bag out from under your bed and start packing, grabbing a change of clothes and the cute pajamas, the ones that don't look like you're trying too hard, your toothbrush and deodorant and phone charger. your hands hesitate over your underwear drawer, but you grab a matching set, just in case, and shove it to the bottom of the bag where your mom wouldn't see it if she happened to glance inside. god, that would be embarrassing.
downstairs, you can hear the tv on in the living room, your dad's low voice asking your mom something about dinner. you zip the bag shut and stand there for a second, staring at it. this is actually happening.
your mom is easier to convince than you expected. she's loading the dishwasher when you come downstairs, duffel bag slung over your shoulder. "hey, so stella from one of my old classes just texted. her friend bailed on this trip to the mainland and she asked if i wanted to go. i know it's last minute, but—"
your mom glances up, wiping her hands on a towel. "tonight?"
"yeah. she could come pick me up now. i'd be back tomorrow afternoon or so..."
she looks at you for a long moment, and your heart hammers against your ribs. please don't ask more questions. please don't look closer.
"stella... from college?"
"yeah."
"and you'll text me when you get there?"
"of course." immediately.
she smiles. "okay... have fun, sweetie. be safe. and text me when you get there, okay?"
the ease of it almost makes you feel worse. "i will. thanks, mom." you kiss her cheek and head for the door before she can ask any more questions, before the lie can show on your face and ruin everything.
by 5:30 PM, you're standing on the corner a block away from your house, duffel bag at your feet, phone clutched in your hand. the sun is starting to dip lower, casting long shadows across the pavement. the neighborhood is quiet. a dog barks somewhere in the distance. you shift your weight from foot to foot, your leg bouncing slightly. you check your phone. 5:31. then 5:32. what if he doesn't show up? or what if he changed his mind? what if—
then you see it—his black truck, pulling up beneath the shade of the oaks, windows tinted dark. relief crashes through you so hard it almost knocks the air out of you. you'd recognize it anywhere. you grab your bag and hurry down the sidewalk, glancing over your shoulder once, twice, before yanking open the passenger door and climbing inside.
the cool air hits you immediately. the ac is cranked high, carrying the faint scent of his cologne mixed with his black ice scented car freshener. the leather seat is cool beneath your thighs. the door closes with a solid thunk.
rafe is leaning back in the driver's seat, one hand resting on the wheel, the other draped casually over the center console. he's wearing a linen button-down, sleeves rolled to his forearms, and there's a faint shadow of stubble along his jaw. he looks casual. so unfairly casual.
he doesn't pull away from the curb yet. instead he just looks at you. his eyes move down your face to your hands gripping the bag, then back up. his mouth curves into a smirk.
"look at you," he murmurs, his voice low. "sneakin' away like a little criminal."
heat floods your cheeks instantly. you drop your bag to the floorboards and fumble with your seatbelt, trying not to meet his eyes. your fingers feel clumsy, uncoordinated. he's watching you. "i'm not—"
"no?"
you freeze. he's still watching you, that smirk fully formed now.
"checkin' over your shoulder like that?" he says, tilting his head slightly. his eyes drop to your hands where they're fumbling with the seatbelt, then back to your face. "trembling."
"i am not trembling."
"yeah, you are."
you bite your lip, fighting a smile. he's impossible. "c'mere," he says, and his voice drops, and you don't hesitate. you lean across the console and kiss him, hard and desperate. the leather of the seat creaks slightly beneath you. you can taste the faint hint of coffee on his mouth. your fingers find his shoulders and for a second you forget why you were even nervous.
you lean in again, throwing your arms around his neck, peppering soft, quick kisses along his jaw. he smiles against your skin. you kiss the corner of his mouth, then his cheek, then back to his lips, and he's making a low sound in his throat, his hands coming up to cup your face.
"hi," he says against your mouth, teasing.
you pull back just far enough to look at him, your face flushed. "hi yourself," you murmur, and he grins before kissing you properly again, deeper this time.
when you finally pull back, you're both breathing harder. his hand smooths down your back, his thumb tracing small circles against your spine.
"been waitin' all day for that," he murmurs against your lips.
you pull back just enough to look at him, your face flushed. "yeah?"
"yeah." his eyes are dark. "you?"
"maybe," you say, trying to play it cool, but he sees right through you. he always does.
he starts to protest, but then his eyes are catching on your hair falling across your shoulder and his hand moves, tucking it back behind your ear. his fingers linger there for a second, warm against your skin.
"what?" you ask, breathless.
"mm, nothin'." he's still looking at you like he lost his train of thought, but then he blinks. "you smell good."
"rafe—"
"you do." he's laughing now—quiet, rough.
you bury your face in the crook of his neck, embarrassed, and he wraps his arms around you properly, his hand smoothing up your back. you feel him smile against your hair.
"alright," he says after a moment, and his hand slides down to your waist, squeezes once. "sit back before your neighbors see something they shouldn't."
you obey reluctantly, buckling yourself in, and he's still watching you with that amused expression. he shifts the car into drive, one hand returning to the wheel while the other finds your thigh, his palm warm against your skin.
the neighborhood disappears behind you, and for the first time all day, you let yourself breathe.
the drive starts familiar, your neighborhood with its modest coastal cottages and beach box houses. rafe's hand stays on your thigh, his thumb tracing absent patterns. god, his hands are huge. after a few minutes, he glances over at you.
"you're quiet," he says.
you bite your lip, staying silent for a moment. "i lied to my mom."
"figured. what'd you tell her?"
"just... a really elaborate lie. about going to the mainland with stella. she believed me immediately and i guess now i feel—" you exhale shakily. "kinda guilty?"
his hand squeezes your thigh gently. "want me to turn around?"
"no," you say quickly, maybe too quickly. the thought of turning around makes your chest clench. and he smiles, like he already knew that would be your answer.
"then stop worryin' about it."
"easy for you to say."
"sweetheart." his voice is patient. "you're twenty-three."
"yeah," you mutter. "but you're thirty nine."
he doesn't argue with that. he just keeps driving, his hand warm on your leg. you watch the scenery change outside the window, the neighborhoods becoming progressively nicer. after a moment you reach down and lace your fingers through his. he glances at you again, something soft crossing his face, and brings your joined hands up to brush a kiss against your knuckles.
"you nervous?"
"a little," you admit. your stomach's been in knots since you got in the truck.
"yeah?" he says, his mouth curving slightly. "good. means you're gonna hold onto me the whole drive."
you roll your eyes but you're smiling now, heat creeping up your neck. you look out the window and watch as the landscape begins to shift. the houses get bigger, set farther back from the street. gated communities with brick columns and wrought iron. the kind of places where you definitely don't belong.
"wait," you say, sitting up straighter. "this is where you live? like, this area?"
"further north," he says.
"of course you do," you murmur, and he laughs—low and genuine. that's where almost all of the wealthy people live. the absolute northernmost area of the island.
"what's that supposed to mean?"
"nothing. just..." you gesture vaguely at the massive houses passing by. "very you. very well off person who has everything figured out."
"very me," he repeats, smirking. "that an insult?"
"no. i just mean—" you're fumbling now. heat is creeping up your neck. "you probably have like a… a fountain, or something don't you?"
he doesn't answer, which is answer enough. you groan and cover your face with your free hand.
"oh my god. you do."
"came with the house," he says, and there's that edge again, like he was waiting for you to notice.
"rafe. nobody's house just comes with a fountain."
"mine did."
you're laughing now, and his hand tightens on yours. the streetlights get fewer and farther between. the trees grow taller, older, spanish moss dripping from the branches. you watch it all pass through the tinted window, hyperaware of the way his thumb is tracing circles against your palm.
"how much further?" you ask after a while.
"ten minutes."
your stomach flips. ten minutes until you're actually at his house. ten minutes until this stops being theoretical. you nod and look back out the window, biting the inside of your cheek. the road narrows. suddenly there are no more houses at all—just dense forest on either side.
"rafe?"
"yeah?"
"is it... big? your house?"
he glances at you, something unreadable in his expression. "figured you'd see for yourself."
"that's not an answer."
"you'll see in a minute."
"that's not reassuring," you mutter, and he laughs again, his hand leaving yours only to slide higher up your thigh. your breath catches slightly.
"you think too much," he says.
"no i don't."
"yeah, you do." he glances at you. "can hear it from here."
you huff, but you're smiling. "well, excuse me for being a little nervous about seeing where you live for the first time. seems like it deserves a reasonable amount of overthinking."
"why?"
"because—" you falter, searching for the words. your heart is actually pounding now. "because i've never been to your house before. because i don't know what to expect. because—"
"hey." his voice is lower now, and his hand squeezes your thigh. "s'just a house."
"yeah... with a fountain."
"i told you, it came with—"
"i know what you said," you interrupt, grinning despite yourself. "i'm just saying... it doesn't sound like just a house. it sounds like a place where people like me don't really... fit."
he's quiet for a moment. then the trees break, and you see it: the ocean, dark and endless, the last of the sunset turning the water to gold.
"oh," you breathe.
rafe's hand tightens on your thigh. "almost there."
you can't look away from the water. you've always known he had money. you'd have to be blind not to notice the car, the watch, the way he never looks at a price tag. but knowing it and seeing it are two different things.
he turns onto a private drive, oyster shells crunching under the tires. the forest opens up into something softer. sea grass and palmetto palms and flowering bushes you don't know the names of. it feels impossible to believe that there's a spot in a place like this for a girl like you.
"you alright over there?" he asks quietly, his eyes still on the road but his hand finding your thigh again.
you nod, not trusting your voice. your throat feels tight.
and then you see it. his house rising up ahead, low and modern with clean lines and huge windows that catch the last of the light. white siding, dark wood, a wraparound porch. there's a fountain in the circular drive.
you sit there, staring. this is his house. he actually lives here.
"told you," he says. "came with the house."
you let out a breathless laugh, but you're already unbuckling your seatbelt, already climbing out. the air smells like salt and jasmine and moss. the ocean is louder here.
rafe's already beside you, taking your duffel bag from your hand. "c'mon, baby."
he unlocks the front door and you follow him inside, and your breath catches. the space opens up in front of you: vaulted ceilings, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the ocean, furniture that looks expensive but lived-in. warm wood floors beneath your feet. the kitchen is all marble and stainless steel, and the entire back wall is glass.
but that's not what makes you stop in your tracks.
it's the sneakers by the door. one tipped over on its side. the heel scuffed. the coffee mug on the side table—there's still liquid inside it. cold by now, probably. the book left open on the arm of the couch, pages down. the spine is creased, well-loved. a hoodie draped over the back of a kitchen chair, slate grey. mail stacked on the console table. a ceramic bowl filled with keys. coins scattered among them. a receipt folded in half.
"oh wow," you whisper.
rafe's leaning against the doorframe, watching you. "what?"
"i don't know... you actually live here."
"well, yeah."
"no, i mean—" you gesture at the mug, the book, the shoes. "like you woke up here this morning. you drank coffee. you left a book on the couch. you're just... you exist here."
"yeah, baby." he's grinning now. "i live here."
you turn in a slow circle, taking it in. the throw blanket on the couch, worn smooth in places. the record player in the corner with a stack of vinyl beside it. you can see the edges of the album covers, the colors faded from sunlight. the way the light hits the kitchen island. there's a pen on the counter, uncapped. a grocery list stuck to the fridge with a magnet. the handwriting is unmistakably his—sharp, efficient, organized. there's a small framed photo on the mantle.
it's a much younger him and an older woman. she has his eyes.
"your mom?" you ask, not turning around.
"yeah," he says from behind you. "that's her."
you nod. you're standing in a photo of his life, looking at a photo of his mother, and something about it makes your chest feel tight. you don't know why exactly.
you wander into the kitchen, running your fingers along the cool granite. you open a cabinet without thinking and find glasses that are neatly stacked. you close it quickly, then you open another one. plates. another. bowls. you find a drawer filled with what looks like chaos: takeout menus, rubber bands, batteries, a phone charger with a frayed cord, business cards held together with a rubber band.
"this is a disaster," you say, gesturing at the chaos.
"yeah, well." he leans against the counter, crossing his arms. "that's where the random shit lives."
he has a junk drawer. like a normal person. and somehow that makes him feel more real.
you keep exploring, walking over to the refrigerator. there are photos held up with magnets. you pull open the fridge. it's surprisingly well-stocked. fresh vegetables, eggs, butter, a few bottles of expensive wine. there's a bottle of your favorite creamer on the second shelf.
"...is this mine?" you ask quietly, reaching for it.
he glances over from where he's started pulling things from the pantry. "hm?"
"the creamer."
"yeah."
your hand goes still. he bought this. he went to the store and bought the specific creamer you like and put it in his fridge knowing—knowing—that you'd eventually open this door and see it.
you don't say anything else. just put it back and close the fridge. your hands feel a little shaky. he just keeps moving, setting things on the counter. olive oil. garlic. a package of fresh pasta. basil in a small pot on the windowsill. he planned this. he really planned this.
"you're gonna cook?" you ask, wandering back over to the island, trying to sound casual.
"thought i'd make dinner." he's already pulling out a cutting board. "that alright with you?"
"yeah, i just—" you climb onto one of the barstools. "i didn't know you cooked."
"i don't really," he says, starting to chop garlic. "at least not all the time."
"so what, do you doordash?" you ask.
he stops chopping and looks at you, one eyebrow raised. "doordash?"
"i don't know." you shrug, smiling sheepishly. "i just thought you maybe had people bring you food or something."
"what am i, ninety?" he says flatly, going back to the garlic.
"you're almost forty."
he stops. looks at you again, his expression something between offended and amused. "that's rude."
you smile, and can't help but giggle. "i've been waiting to use that."
he shakes his head and goes back to chopping, but there's a small smile on his face. "old man," you mutter, and he flicks a piece of garlic at you without even looking.
you laugh again, ducking, and he pours you a glass of wine without asking. he slides it across the counter and you take a sip. it's cold and crisp. you watch him work, the knife against the board, the way he moves through the space like he's done this a thousand times. his forearms tanned and flexing. you take another sip of wine. stop staring.
the smell of garlic hits you suddenly, sharp and pungent, and your mouth waters. he's stirring something, and the pan hisses when he adds more ingredients. the smell becoming richer.
"so you cook couple times a week then?" you ask, genuinely curious now.
"yeah," he says, not looking up from what he's doing. "relaxes me."
you put that away for later. you take another sip of wine and notice him glance at you, then back at the stove.
"how long have you lived here?" you ask.
"couple years."
"do you like it?"
"yeah." he doesn't elaborate.
you wander away from the counter, drawn to the bookshelf in the living room. you run your fingers along the spines. cookbooks, mostly, but also novels you recognize, a few nonfiction titles about business, some memoirs. there's a small ceramic bowl on the shelf, filled with shells and smooth stones. you pick up one of the shells, turning it over in your hands. it's worn soft at the edges.
"you collect shells?" you call out.
"hm?" he appears in the kitchen doorway, wooden spoon in hand. "nah. just stuff i find."
you put it back and keep browsing. you find a photo album wedged between two books and pull it out, but you don't open it because that feels too invasive. there's a record player in the corner with a stack of vinyl beside it. you read the titles, trying to piece together who he is. old soul records sitting next to indie rock sitting next to classical. it doesn't match what you expected.
"you comin' back over here or you gonna take inventory of my whole house?" he calls out.
"just getting to know the place," you call back. you head back to the kitchen anyway, perching on the barstool again.
he's stirred the sauce, added something else. the kitchen smells incredible. your stomach rumbles, and he glances at you, his mouth curving slightly.
"almost ready," he says. "grab some plates from that cabinet." he nods toward one on the far side of the kitchen.
you hop down and pull out two plates, setting them on the counter beside him. he plates the pasta with ease, and without thinking, you lean up and press a quick kiss to his cheek. "thank you, rafe." you murmur.
he looks momentarily stunned, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly before he catches your chin with his free hand and tilts your face toward his. he kisses you properly, soft and warm before handing over the plate.
steam rises from it. you take a bite before you even sit back down, and make a small sound of approval without meaning to.
"not bad for a guy who survives on doordash, huh." he says, settling onto the stool next to you.
you laugh, nudging him with your elbow. "i didn't say you survive on doordash. i just—"
"you absolutely implied it."
"okay, fine. i thought you did. clearly i was wrong." you take another bite. "this is actually really good."
he takes a bite of his pasta, watching you. "you taste wine with this?" he asks, nodding at your glass.
"not yet," you take another sip of the wine. the flavors pair perfectly. "oh. wow."
"hm," he says, like that was the obvious choice all along, and goes back to eating.
you eat in comfortable silence for a while. it's easy, and you find yourself leaning slightly into his space, your knee brushing his under the counter. he doesn't move away. if anything, he shifts closer. his hand finds your lower back at one point, stays there for a moment while he reaches for his wine glass with the other, then moves away. he feeds you a bite of his pasta with his fork, watching you carefully as you taste it. your face flushes.
"this is really good," you say after a few minutes, your voice slightly smaller than before.
"you already said that."
"i know. but it is. like, genuinely."
he glances at you, then back at his plate. you watch him for a second, then go back to your own food. there's something intimate about eating together like this, sitting close in his kitchen, the ocean visible through the massive windows behind you.
when you're finished eating, you start to stand, reaching for his plate, but he catches your wrist gently.
"leave it," he says.
"rafe, i can—"
"sweetheart, just leave it."
you hesitate, then sit back down. he stands, rounding the island to rinse his hands in the sink. he leaves the plates where they are, just washes his hands and turns back to you.
"you wanna go for a walk?" he asks.
you look surprised. "now?"
"why not?"
you glance at the plates, then back at him. "the sun's almost gone."
"i know." he's already moving toward the glass doors that lead to the deck. "come on."
you follow him, and he doesn't wait for you to grab shoes. you slip off the barstool and just follow him outside. the air hits you immediately, cooler than this afternoon. salt-laced and clean. the sky is still holding onto the last traces of daylight, deep blue fading to violet at the horizon. the ocean sounds different. louder.
"oh my god," you breathe, stopping to look around. "this is—rafe, this is insane."
"you think so?" he says, and there's that slight curve to his mouth. he's watching you, not the view.
"you just— walk out here whenever you want?"
"pretty much."
you shake your head, laughing. the privilege of it is almost absurd. "you're so lucky. the beach back home is always packed with tourists."
"you can come here whenever you want," he says, and when you glance at him, he's already looking at you like he's imagining you here, coming back, making this a habit. "you know that, right?"
"really?" you ask, your voice softer now.
"yeah, baby. any time."
you walk a little further, the water getting closer. the sand is soft and still warm from the day, giving slightly under your weight. it's quiet out here. just you and him and the sound of the ocean.
"wait," you say suddenly, stopping. "do you swim out here?"
he huffs a laugh. "mm, sometimes."
"at night?"
"yeah."
"that's terrifying."
"nah." he tugs you closer, his arm sliding around your waist. "it's peaceful. we should sometime."
"it's dark," you counter, but you're grinning now, leaning into him. "what if there's like a shark or something?"
"wouldn't stand a chance against me."
you burst out laughing, shoving at his chest. "you're ridiculous."
"i'm serious." he's grinning too now, catching your hand before you can pull away completely. "what— you think i'm lettin' a shark get you?"
"oh my god, stop—"
but he's already pulling you in, kissing you mid-laugh. his hand cups the back of your neck, and you melt into it immediately. his other hand finds the small of your back, pulling you flush against him. he tastes like salt and wine. when he pulls back you're both smiling, both a little breathless.
he kisses you again, softer this time. "hi," he murmurs, teasing.
you pull back just enough to look at him, feeling heat creep up your neck. "hi," you say sheepishly, and he grins before leaning in to kiss you again—quick pecks along your jaw, your temple, the corner of your mouth.
you're still catching your breath when he pulls back to look at you. his thumb brushes across your bottom lip, slow enough to make your stomach flip.
"jesus..." he murmurs, almost to himself. "look at you." the way he says it makes your cheeks heat up.
"c'mere."
"i'm already here."
"not close enough."
heat floods your face and you kiss him again, because what else are you supposed to do when he looks at you like that? he smiles into it immediately, both hands gripping your waist as you melt against him. when you finally pull back, he's still looking at you with that same expression.
"what am i gonna do with you, huh?" he murmurs.
you pull back and look out at the water. the last of the sunlight is turning everything gold. the wind picks up, and you shiver slightly. your bare feet are cold against the sand.
rafe doesn't say anything. he just pulls off his zip up and drapes it over your shoulders before you can protest. it's warm from his body, and it swallows you—the sleeves falling past your wrists, the hem hitting mid-thigh. you wrap it around yourself and breathe in.
"alright," he says, taking your hand. "let's go back in before you freeze."
you follow him back up the beach, your fingers laced with his. when you reach the deck you notice your shoes still sitting there by the door. right next to his, like they belong there.
the warmth of the house wraps around you when you step back inside. the dishes are still on the counter. he's already moving past that, gesturing toward the couch. "c'mere, baby."
he picks up the remote and scrolls through something on the tv. a movie flickers to life on the screen, but you're not really watching. you're watching him. the way he moves. the way he tosses the remote onto the coffee table like he's done it a thousand times. he settles beside you on the couch, and you don't hesitate. you shift closer immediately, tucking yourself against his side. his arm comes around you properly, his hand settling at your waist, his fingers splaying wide against your ribs. the cotton of his shirt is soft beneath your palm. you can feel his heartbeat under your fingertips. it's faster than you expect.
"better?" he asks.
"much," you say.
he presses a kiss to the top of your head, then to your temple, then to the corner of your mouth. you turn slightly and catch his lips properly, and he makes a soft sound before pulling back. his hand comes up to cup the back of your neck, his thumb brushing the soft skin there, and he's kissing you again before you can take a full breath.
this kiss is different. slower. he takes his time, pressing his lips to yours once, twice, then deeper—his tongue tracing the seam of your mouth until you open for him. when he licks into your mouth, your stomach clenches and heat pools low between your thighs. you make a small sound against his mouth and he groans, pulling you closer.
his hand tightens on your neck—not rough, but firm. his other hand finds your waist and he's pulling you toward him, and you're moving without thinking, your knee sliding up onto the couch cushion.
suddenly you're half in his lap, your hands gripping his shoulders. he pulls you the rest of the way, adjusting you so you're straddling him properly. the kiss turns messy. his tongue slides against yours and he tastes like the wine from dinner, like salt air, like want. you press yourself against him and feel the hard line of his cock between your thighs where you need him most
his hands grip your hips and he pulls you tighter against him, harder. his fingers dig into the soft flesh there, and you whimper into his mouth, clenching around absolutely nothing.
"yeah?" he asks, and his voice is rough. "you like that?"
you nod, but it's not enough. you pull back just slightly, still straddling him, still breathing hard. your eyes meet his and for a second neither of you moves. you can feel the slight dampness between your legs, the way your panties are starting clinging to you. god, you're already wet for him and he hasn't even hardly touched you.
"please," you whisper, and your voice comes out small and broken and completely helpless. "i need you."
he watches you for a moment, and you can see him fighting it. fighting himself. and you're trembling slightly, still twitching against him, your hips moving in these tiny involuntary circles because you can't help it. you need friction. you need him.
"fuck, baby—" he pulls you back down, kissing you harder now, messier. like he's trying to devour you.
"need more," you whine against his mouth, the words coming out breathless and desperate. he groans into your neck, kissing along the line of your throat, his hands shaking slightly.
his free hand slides down your back, past your waist, and grips your ass, pulling you harder against him. you can feel exactly how much he wants you. the strain of his jeans, the hard heat of him pressing right where you need it most.
"please—" you say it against his mouth, just that one word, and he groans like you've actually hurt him.
for a moment it feels like it could go either way. like he could just keep going, like he could bend you over the back of this couch and—
but then he stops.
it's sudden enough that it takes your breath away. his hands still. his kiss gentles, though he keeps his mouth on yours for just a second longer. then he pulls back, and you can see the tension in his jaw, the way his breathing is ragged.
"hey—" he says quietly. "look at me."
you're already looking at him, but he reaches up anyway and cups your face with both hands, his thumbs settling on your cheeks. he tilts your chin up slightly, forcing your eyes to stay locked on his. up close like this, you can see exactly how much restraint this is costing him. his pupils are blown, his breathing heavy, a flush creeping up his neck.
"gotta be good for me, alright?" he says, and his voice is rough. rough in a way that makes your stomach clench. "can you do that? be patient for me?"
be patient? wait? you're not sure you can sit here and not combust. you nod, but your eyes are already tracking down to his mouth. to the way his lips are swollen from kissing you, the slight shine on his mouth. you want to lean in and taste him again so badly your whole body aches with it. your hips shift slightly, just an inch, testing—
"look at me," he repeats, not unkindly, and you snap your gaze back to his immediately, but it takes actual effort. like your body doesn't want to listen to anything but the pull toward him.
"good girl," he murmurs, and the praise hits you somewhere deep. his thumbs trace your cheekbones, gentle now, tender. "we're gonna do this right. but not tonight, yeah? tonight you're just gonna sit with me."
you nod again because you can't speak. because you're trembling slightly, something hot buzzing just beneath your skin. and he's holding your face like you're something precious and the contradiction of it—the softness and the absolute control—is making you dizzy. some part of you is thinking how long you can actually wait before you lose your mind.
he kisses your forehead, then releases your face. his hand finds your waist instead and settle there.
"c'mon," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple. then your temple. then the corner of your mouth. his breathing is still heavy. "sit with me."
but when you shift to move beside him on the couch, he pulls you back into his lap instead. his arms wrap around you from behind, anchoring you against his chest. you can feel him beneath you, still hard, but he's resting his chin on your shoulder like this is enough. like just holding you like this is enough for right now.
the movie plays on. you're not watching it. you're not even pretending to watch it. you're hyperaware of every point of contact between your bodies. his arms around your waist, his chin on your shoulder, his hands occasionally drifting lower before he catches himself. his breathing is steady now, but you can feel his heartbeat. fast, still affected by what just happened between you.
after a while, he presses a kiss to the side of your neck. "you okay?" he murmurs.
"yeah,"
"good." another kiss, this time to the sensitive spot behind your ear. you feel it shoot straight down your spine. his hand tightens on your waist. he doesn’t make it easy.
you sit like that for a while, existing in this space between wanting and waiting. his breathing eventually steadies, but his hands don't stop moving, tracing patterns on your ribs, your waist, your back.
eventually, you shift position slightly, turning so you can rest your head in his lap. his hand immediately finds your hair, fingers threading through it gently, stroking from your crown down to the ends. you have no idea what's happening on screen anymore.
"mm, you're gettin' sleepy," he says after a while, his fingers still moving through your hair.
"'m not," you murmur, but your eyes are already closing.
"no? cuz it looks like it."
"but i'm awake," you protest, but your words are soft, slurring slightly.
his fingers keep moving through your hair, up and down, up and down, a small, knowing smiling playing on his lips.
"c'mon, baby," he says softly. "let's get you to bed."
you want to argue, but you're too tired. so you just nod, and he helps you sit up, his hand steadying you. your legs are a little unsteady. the darkness wraps around you. your bare feet are cold against the hardwood floor. but his hand is warm against the small of your back.
the bedroom is at the end of the hall. when he pushes the door open, you stop in the doorway for a second. clean lines, dark wood furniture, a massive bed with crisp white sheets. there's a watch box on the dresser, a book on the nightstand, a pair of his shoes by the closet door. it smells like him.
"bathroom's through there," he says, nodding toward a door on the far wall. his hand is still on your back.
you nod and cross the room. the bathroom door is slightly ajar, and when you push it open, the light flickers on automatically. it's beautiful. all white marble and clean glass. you step inside, your bare feet cold against the tile, and that's when you see it.
a toothbrush. sitting on the counter beside the sink. in your favorite color.
you freeze. your hand hovers over the counter. it's just a toothbrush. just plastic. but he bought this. he put it here. your eyes move to the folded fabric beside it. silk pajamas, soft and expensive. your size. you reach out and touch them, the material slipping through your fingers like water.
there are bottles lined up near the shower. you pick one up, turning it over in your hands. light and floral. the scent hits you immediately—something that reminds you of the perfume you wear on special occasions.
your hands are shaking slightly when you set it back down.
you hear him before you see him. his presence fills the doorway. when you turn, he's leaning against the frame with his arms crossed, watching you.
your throat tightens.
he pushes off the doorframe and crosses to you slowly. his arms slide around your waist from behind, pulling you back against his chest. you can feel the warmth of him. his chin rests on the top of your head.
"the toothbrush," you say. your voice sounds small. "the pajamas. the shampoo."
"yeah," he says simply.
"how long ago did you buy those?"
he's quiet for a second. "while," he says finally. "been thinkin' about you stayin' over for a bit."
you turn around in his arms to face him. his eyes are soft, patient.
"so you've been planning this," you say.
"yeah." he doesn't sound apologetic.
you've never had anyone be this thoughtful. this intentional. your ex-boyfriends never remembered how you took your coffee. never planned for you. never looked at you like you were something precious. something they wanted to keep.
"you okay with that?"
"yeah," you whisper. "yeah, i'm okay with that."
he kisses your hair once, soft and tender before letting you go. "go get ready," he murmurs. "i'll be in bed."
you nod and he leaves, and you're alone again with the toothbrush and the pajamas and the shampoo that smells like you.
you change into the silk pajamas (they fit perfectly, of course they do), and brush your teeth with the toothbrush he bought. when you catch your reflection in the mirror, your cheeks are flushed and your eyes are bright.
when you step back into the bedroom, he's already under the covers, propped up on one elbow. the lamp on his nightstand casts everything in warm gold. he's shirtless, the sheets pooled around his waist. for a second you just stand there.
his eyes follow you as you cross the room like he's taking his time appreciating the sight of you in pajamas he bought for you. in his room. in his house
"c'mere," he says, and you slip under the sheets beside him.
for a moment, you're not sure where to put yourself. your hands hover awkwardly.
then he huffs out a quiet laugh and his arm reaches across the space between you. he pulls you against his chest without hesitation, his hand splaying wide across your back. your bare skin meets his warmth, and you suck in a breath.
"there," he murmurs, and then he's kissing you—soft and slow and deep. once, twice. his hand slides up into your hair, tilting your face toward his. you make a small sound against his mouth, and he pulls you closer, his chest pressing against yours. deeper. like he's trying to commit the feeling of you to memory.
when he finally breaks the kiss, he's breathing harder.
"goodnight, sweetheart." he whispers, and his voice is rough.
"goodnight, rafe." you murmur back, settling against him, your cheek pressed to his chest. your bare hand rests over his heart. you can feel it racing. his arm wraps around you properly now. you can feel his chin rest against the top of your head. his hand moves slowly up and down your back. he's still awake. still aware.
you're hyperaware of how little you're wearing. how close you are.
eventually, your breathing evens out, and you drift off like that—wrapped around him, his hand on your back, the sound of the ocean through the window.
you wake up slowly and for a second, you forget where you are. the ceiling isn’t quite right. the angle of the sun is wrong. then you remember. you're in his bed.
you turn your head, and he's right there. still asleep. his face is turned toward you on the pillow, one arm stretched out between you. his breathing is slow and even. his mouth is slightly parted, his jaw relaxed. his hair is messy, falling across his forehead. without his usual intensity, he looks younger. softer.
you've never seen him like this. the morning light catches on the stubble along his jaw, which is thicker this morning than it was last night. you want to reach out and touch him, but you're afraid to wake him.
slowly, carefully, you reach out anyway.
your fingers hover over his face for a second before you let them settle against his jaw. the stubble is rough under your fingertips, coarser than you expected. you trace the line of it, feather-light. his skin is warm. you move higher, brushing your thumb along his cheekbone.
your fingers move to his temple, then his hairline, smoothing back the strands that have fallen across his forehead. you let your hand rest there for a moment, your palm against the side of his face.
and then it hits you all at once.
you're in love with him.
your heart kicks into overdrive, your hand still on his face, and you can't breathe. you're completely, irrevocably in love with him. this man who bought you a toothbrush and silk pajamas weeks ago. who remembered how you take your coffee. who kissed you like you were the only thing that mattered. who's been planning to have you here all along.
he stirs.
it's small at first—just a shift in his breathing. then his eyes flutter open, still heavy with sleep, and he's looking right at you.
his mouth curves immediately.
"caught you," he says, his arm sliding around your waist. he pulls you closer.
heat floods your face. "no," you say anyway, but you're smiling despite yourself.
"no?" he repeats, his eyes sharper now. then he leans down and kisses you before you can deny it again.
"mornin'," he murmurs, pressing his forehead against yours.
"good morning," you say back.
he pulls back just enough to look at you, his hand still on your back, his eyes dark. "what's goin' on in that head of yours?"
you shake your head. "nothing."
his eyes narrow slightly. his thumb traces slow circles on your skin—bare skin.
"mm."
he studies you for another moment, then leans down and kisses you again—deeper this time. slower. his other hand comes up to cup your jaw, tilting your face toward his. you kiss him back, your fingers curling into his shoulder, and he makes a low sound. when you look at him, there's that slight curve to his mouth. but his eyes are darker than before.
"c'mere," he murmurs, and he's pulling you up to straddle his lap without breaking eye contact. his hands steady you at the hips, and then they move—sliding up your sides, tracing the curve of your waist beneath the thin silk. his thumbs brush the underside of your breasts and you suck in a breath.
"you're okay?" he asks.
"more than okay,".
he kisses you again, and you let yourself sink into it. your hands find his bare chest, his skin warm and solid beneath your palms. you can feel his heartbeat racing. his hand slides up your back, and suddenly the only thing between you is silk and the awareness of what's happening. the way your body fits against his. the way his hands know exactly where to touch you.
when you finally pull back, you're both breathing harder. "i want—" you start, and then you're not sure how to finish that sentence.
"i know," he says quietly. "but not yet. wanna do it right with you." you reply with a nod, even though what you want right now has nothing to do with right.
he brushes a strand of hair from your face. "c'mon," he murmurs. "let me take care of you. coffee?"
“yes please.”
he moves to get out of bed, and you follow the shift, adjusting slightly as he sits up, your legs still tangled with his. he disappears for a moment, and then you hear the soft pad of his footsteps in the hallway, the quiet clink of ceramic against wood.
when he appears in the doorway again, he's holding a mug in one hand—the same blue one from yesterday—and a small plate balanced in the other. still shirtless. still rumpled. his hair still falling across his forehead.
he sets the mug carefully on the nightstand. the plate follows, and then he just stands there for a second, looking at you. his gaze feels intimate, like he's looking at something that belongs to him.
"you look good in my bed,"
your face heats, and you're smiling sheepishly. "rafe—"
he sits on the edge of the mattress, and you shift closer without thinking. his hand finds your hair automatically, smoothing it back from your face. he stops, his hand stilling in your hair. his eyes move over your face.
you glance over and watch as steam curls lazily from the rim of the mug. you can smell it from here—rich and warm and sweet, exactly how you like it.
"still can’t believe you remembered the creamer," you murmur.
"’course i did." it's not a question. his hand slides down to cup your jaw. "c'mon. sit up."
you push yourself up, the sheets pooling around your waist, and reach for the mug. it's warm in your hands. you take a sip, and it's perfect.
he doesn't ask if it's okay. he just watches you, his hand resting on your thigh beneath the sheets, his thumb moving in that slow rhythm. but his eyes don't leave your face.
you take another sip, and his mouth curves slightly.
"what?" you ask.
"nothin'." but he's still watching you.
you set the mug back on the nightstand and reach for the toast, breaking off a corner. you take a bite, and you wrinkle your nose slightly.
"oh, so that's how we're doing this," he says, and there's amusement in his voice. "you're gonna judge my old man breakfast?"
"i'm not judging," you say, but you're grinning. "i'm just observing. burnt toast and coffee. very... vintage of you."
he leans back slightly, his hand still on your thigh, and gives you a mock offended look. "vintage?"
"sorry, i meant to say geriatric."
"geriatric," he repeats, shaking his head. "you're callin' me geriatric while you're sitting in my bed eating the breakfast i made you?"
you bite your lip, trying not to smile. "when you put it like that—"
"so what does that make you?" he asks, leaning closer. his hand drifts higher on your thigh. "you're the one who likes old men, so what's that say about your taste?"
heat floods your cheeks. "my taste is clearly terrible."
"terrible, huh?" he's grinning now, that cocky smirk on his face. "you seemed to think my taste was pretty good last night on the couch."
"rafe—"
"what?" he says innocently. "i'm just sayin'."
you throw a pillow at him, and he catches it easily, laughing. but then he tosses it aside and leans over, kissing you softly. when he pulls back, he's still smiling.
"finish your breakfast, baby. before it gets cold," he says, his hand giving your thigh one last squeeze before he stands up and heads to the bathroom.
you watch him go, your heart still racing, and take another bite of the burnt toast.
he comes back a little while later, showered and almost dressed, and the morning light catches on the water droplets still clinging to his hair. you're still in bed, cradling the empty coffee mug, watching him move around the room.
"you alright?" he asks, pulling on a black tshirt.
"yeah," you say, and you mean it.
he bends down and kisses the top of your head, his hand lingering on your hair for a moment. "you have to be back soon?"
“i told my mom this afternoon.” the reminder of reality crashes down like cold water. you don't want to leave.
"mmm.” he says quietly, like he can read your mind, "you could text her. tell her you're stayin' another night."
your heart jumps for a moment, then another wave of reality hits you. "not sure that i’d be so lucky."
"worth a shot, yeah?" he sits on the edge of the bed and takes your hand, lacing his fingers through yours. "i want you here."
your throat tightens.
"i know," you whisper.
for a second, you let yourself imagine it. another morning. another cup of coffee. another night falling asleep with the windows open and the ocean just outside. he studies your face for a second before leaning in to kiss you again, slow this time. his thumb brushes your cheek when he pulls away.
"alright," he murmurs. "we'll worry about that later."
you nod. later can wait a little longer.
𝑎/𝑛: EEEEKKKKKK i love them so fucking much i can’t. i love love. i want to be love.
i’m willing to bet at least a few of you were wondering where a lil special something was… and trust me, i get it LOL. but i really wanted to focus on the emotional aspect of their relationship and make sure their weekend together paid off emotionally, rather than risk having that swallowed up by smut. before i even started writing, i knew i wanted the heart of this chapter to be reader realizing she’s completely in love with him.
that being said… i am planning to write a yummy smutty bonus that’s basically an alternate ending to stay a while. 🤭 so stay tuned!!!
please let me know what you guys think via comments and reblogs! pls pls pls feel free to send asks and requests as well! i promise i don’t bite ♡
Summary: After your breakup, the last place you want to be is your dad’s family barbecue, until Soldier Boy shows up - what starts as risky flirting by the truck ends with Ben fucking you in secret.
𑣲 warnings: NSFW, MDNI, 18+, smut, large age gap, dad's best friends, secret sex, slight risk of getting caught, unprotected sex
wc: 2k
Your dad had hosted a family barbecue, which would be fine, but you and your boyfriend had just broken up. You felt horrible. You didn’t wanna see anyone, let alone your family and dad’s friends. Except one. Soldier Boy.
Ben was hot, like really hot, and always touching your shoulder. Since you turned 18, he was always leaving comments about how mature you were and how much you’d grown.
The way his eyes lingered on your body made it clear exactly what kind of “growth” he was talking about. So today, even though your heart was aching, you made sure to put on your shortest jeans, the ones that rode up high on your thighs and made your ass look incredible, and your most well-fitting tank top, the thin white fabric hugging your curves and showing just enough.
You were sitting on the back porch steps, staring at nothing, when your dad’s voice cut through the noise. “Hey, did you get the cooler from my truck?”
“Huh? Oh, no, I will now.”
He nodded and turned back to the grill, flipping burgers while the rest of the family and friends chatted and laughed. You sighed, pushing yourself up and heading toward the front yard, the gravel crunching under your sneakers.
You sighed as you yanked down the tailgate of your dad’s old pickup truck, the metal groaning in protest. The afternoon sun beat down on the backyard barbecue, laughter and the sizzle of burgers floating through the air like some cruel reminder that life was moving on while you felt stuck in the wreckage of your breakup.
Maybe it was desperate. But if you had to be miserable, at least you could look good doing it.
“Ya’ need a hand, sweetheart?”
The deep, gravelly voice hit you like a shot of whiskey. You turned, heart skipping, and there he was, Ben. Soldier Boy.
Your dad’s oldest friend, the walking embodiment of arrogant, old-school masculinity.
He was leaning against the side of the truck, arms crossed over his broad chest, the fabric of his button-up straining against muscles that definitely weren’t from just working out.
You swallowed hard. “Oh, hi Ben. Yeah, please. The cooler’s in the back. It’s heavier than it looks.”
He pushed off the truck, stepping close enough that you caught the scent of his cologne, something woodsy and expensive with a hint of cigar smoke. His hand brushed your lower back as he reached past you into the truck bed, the touch lingering just a second too long.
“Damn, look at you,” he murmured, voice low so only you could hear. His eyes dragged slowly down your body, taking in the tiny shorts and the way your tank top clung to you in the heat. “All grown up.”
Heat rushed to your face. You bit your lip, trying not to smile too obviously.
Ben grabbed the heavy cooler with one arm like it weighed nothing and set it on the tailgate, but he didn’t step back. Instead, he turned toward you, close enough that you had to tilt your head up to meet his eyes. His fingers grazed your bare shoulder, the same casual touch he’d been doing for years, except now it felt electric.
“Rough week, huh?” His thumb brushed a slow circle against your skin. “Heard you and that little boyfriend finally called it quits. Kid didn’t deserve you anyway, You need a man who knows how to handle a woman like you.”
You leaned back against the truck, arching your back just a little so your chest pushed out. “And what kind of man is that, Ben?”
“C’mon, sweetheart. Let’s not keep Daddy waiting.”
You followed him back, heart racing. When you reached the backyard, your dad spotted him immediately.
“Oh, hey Ben, you finally made it.” Your dad took the cooler from him and set it down with a grateful slap on the back. “Say hi to Ben, honey.”
“Oh, she already did,” Ben said with a knowing smirk, glancing over at you. His eyes lingered on your legs before he looked away.
You blushed hard and quickly turned away, heading over to talk to your cousins. But you could feel his gaze on you the entire time. Every time you moved, his eyes followed.
The afternoon dragged on with food, laughter, and games. Ben stayed close to your dad, cracking jokes and drinking beer, but he never stopped watching you. When you bent over to grab a soda from the cooler, you caught him staring openly at your ass.
Later, while everyone was distracted by a loud cornhole game, Ben wandered over to where you were standing near the edge of the yard. He stopped beside you, shoulder brushing yours.
“You’ve been avoiding me since we got back,” he said quietly, that deep voice sending warmth pooling low in your stomach. “What’s the matter, sweetheart? Scared I might say something your dad shouldn’t hear?”
You glanced up at him, “You keep on making it obvious looking at me like that.”
Ben’s smirk grew. He leaned in slightly, his hand brushing the small of your back again, hidden from everyone else. “Like what? Like I want to pull you behind the shed and see exactly how well these little shorts fit when they’re around your ankles?”
Your breath hitched. He chuckled softly at your reaction.
“Easy, baby girl. Not yet.” His thumb stroked your spine through your tank top. “But keep wearing shit like that and I might forget I’m supposed to be the responsible one here. You keep teasing me with this body and I’m gonna stop being such a good friend to your old man.”
He gave your waist a gentle, possessive squeeze before stepping back just as your dad called his name for another beer.
The rest of the afternoon was pure torture in the best way, stolen glances, “accidental” brushes when he passed by, and low comments whispered when no one was listening.
“Those legs look even better when they’re walking away from me.”
“Careful bending over like that, darlin’. Not sure I can behave all night.”
By the time the sun started to dip, the tension was thick enough to cut with a knife. You knew it was only a matter of time before Ben made good on every filthy promise.
The last guests finally trickled out, and the backyard grew quiet except for the low hum of crickets and the distant clink of your dad cleaning up the grill. The string lights glowed softly as the clock pushed well past midnight. You were exhausted but buzzing, every whispered word and hidden touch from Ben still burning under your skin.
“I’m heading in,” your dad yawned, wiping his hands on a towel. “Lock up when you’re done, kiddo. Ben, you crashing in the guest room tonight?”
“Yeah, might as well,” Ben replied casually, stretching his arms overhead. His eyes flicked to you for a split second, “Too many beers to drive.”
Your dad nodded and headed upstairs. A few minutes later, Ben muttered something about using the bathroom and slipped inside the house. Your heart pounded.
You waited just long enough for your dad’s bedroom door to click shut upstairs, then followed Ben inside, telling yourself you were just “going to bed.” The house was dim, only the kitchen light left on. You barely made it past the living room when a strong hand grabbed your wrist and pulled you into the small hallway bathroom.
The door clicked shut behind you. Ben spun you around, pressing your back against the sink counter in one smooth motion. His big body caged you in instantly, hard muscle and heat pinning you there.
“Been waiting all fucking night for this,” he growled. One large hand gripped your jaw, tilting your face up as his mouth crashed down on yours. The kiss was greedy, demanding, all tongue and teeth, like he’d been starving for you. His other hand immediately slid down to grab a handful of your ass, squeezing hard through your tiny shorts.
You moaned into his mouth, hands fisting his shirt. He tasted like beer and sin, and the sheer size of him made your knees weak.
“These fucking shorts,” he muttered against your lips, yanking them down roughly along with your panties in one tug. They pooled at your ankles. “Been teasing me with this ass all day. Turn around.”
He spun you to face the mirror, bending you over the sink. Your hands braced on the counter as he kicked your legs apart. In the reflection you saw him behind you, eyes dark, jaw tight with hunger. He freed himself from his jeans, thick and heavy, already rock-hard.
“Fuck, look at you,” he groaned, one hand stroking down your spine while the other gripped your hip. “All bent over and dripping for your dad’s best friend. Such a naughty girl.”
You whimpered as he rubbed the thick head of his cock along your soaked folds, teasing your entrance. Then he pushed in, slow at first, stretching you open with his size. You gasped sharply at the feeling, so full it almost hurt in the best way.
“Shit, Ben...” you moaned, pushing back against him.
“That’s it, sweetheart. Take it.” He bottomed out with a deep groan, hips flush against your ass. “So fucking tight. Better than I imagined.”
He didn’t give you long to adjust. His grip on your hips tightened and he started thrusting, deep, powerful strokes that rocked your whole body against the sink. The sound of skin slapping skin filled the small bathroom, mixed with your desperate moans and his low, filthy grunts.
“Look in the mirror,” he ordered, one hand tangling in your hair to lift your head. “Watch me fuck you. Watch how pretty you look taking my cock.”
You obeyed, eyes locked on the reflection: your flushed face, mouth open in pleasure, tank top still on but pushed up so your tits bounced with every hard thrust. Ben looked feral behind you, shirt half-open, muscles flexing as he pounded into you.
“Fuck, you feel so good,” he growled, reaching around to rub your clit in rough circles. “This pussy was made for me. Been mine since you turned 18 and started prancing around in tight little outfits.”
Your legs shook, pleasure building fast and intense. The risk of your dad being right upstairs only made it hotter. Ben’s pace grew faster, more punishing, the bathroom filling with wet, obscene sounds.
“You gonna cum for me, baby girl?” he rasped, lips against your ear. “Cum on my cock like the dirty little slut you are for me.”
The combination of his filthy words, his thick cock stretching you, and his fingers on your clit sent you over the edge. You cried out, clamping down around him as your orgasm hit hard, vision blurring.
Ben groaned loudly, thrusting through it. “Good girl, fuck...”
A few more brutal strokes and he buried himself deep, spilling inside you with a low, satisfied growl. His hips jerked as he rode it out, filling you up.
For a moment the only sounds were heavy breathing. Ben stayed buried inside you, leaning over your back and pressing lazy kisses to your shoulder.
“Keep it a secret, okay?” he said, eyes locked on yours. “This stays between us. Your dad can never know. Last thing I need is him trying to kill me, even if it’d be funny to watch him try.”
You nodded quickly, still dazed from the intense orgasm. “I won’t tell anyone. Promise.”
WARNINGS: Smut & Fluff, Secret Relationship, Angst, Established Relationship, Possessive Behavior, Public Sex, Oral Sex (M Receiving), Unprotected Sex, Soft Dom!Jude, Size Difference, World Cup, Protective!Jude, Jealousy, Bathroom Sex and Minors DNI.
Summary: Between having a double life as the England national team captain's sister and secretly dating Jude Bellingham — maybe the hardest part is getting your boyfriend to keep his hands off your body. You'll also find out that a jealous Jude is the worst thing you can deal with.
Part Two: Dollhouse.
THE BRITISH CROWD ROARED loudly as the scoreboard showed the final stoppage time that would lead to the national team's victory. The Hard Rock Stadium in Miami was packed and divided between the English and the Norwegians. You were seated in the VIP area reserved for family and friends of the team, wearing the white and red shirt with your older brother's name on it — even though, secretly, your desires were to be wearing one with Jude Bellingham's name.
The two decisive goals were scored by the Real Madrid midfielder. You knew he was happy in the way he looked for you in the crowd when he scored for the team. Then, after minutes of the sport's welcome tension, the English team was in the World Cup semifinals. You were pulled into a hug by Katie Goodland, with Henry, your youngest nephew, in her arms, standing between the two of you.
"I can't believe we're in the semifinals." She said, jumping beside you, making you laugh and follow along. You knew how much Kane had waited, and you were so confident; the country had been waiting for this since the 1960s. Finally, they were so close.
"We're so close, I feel like this time we're going to make it." Your voice came out affirming, after you both let go and watched the team gather in the middle of the pitch. "Come on, kids? Your dad is amazing." You said, looking at your nieces and nephews, Ivy, Vivienne, Louis, and Henry, who were jumping excitedly along with the crowd, clapping.
"It seems like not just him. There was a midfielder who couldn't take his eyes off you when he scored the goals." Katie said, quietly, teasing you while you felt your cheeks blush, looking around to see if anyone else had heard. But everyone was too absorbed by the nostalgic feeling of that historic moment.
"Keep your voice down, someone might hear, Kate." You said, making her roll her eyes playfully. The relationship between you and Jude was recent, and you knew your brother Harry was overprotective, especially when it came to you dating a footballer as famous as Bellingham.
You felt you needed more time to prepare your brother for the news, especially since you were the youngest of the Kane family. It was something that constantly occupied your thoughts: when would you be ready to have that conversation? You knew Jude was growing more impatient, but he still allowed you this time because he knew how massive the media could be and how important your brother was in your life.
"Compared to how he stared at you yesterday during the interview, my comment is nothing." The striker's wife said, as she handed the youngest son to you to give her hand to the other children, like the loving mother she was. The passage for family members was opening.
"I've already talked to him about it, but it doesn't help much." You replied, holding Henry firmly in your arms as the child started playing with your hair, while you both began to move toward the stadium pitch.
"I'm going to have to side with him this time, dear." Katie said, turning back and winking at you. "You have a man who loves you, I can't be against him on that." She answered the question in your eyes. You felt embarrassed by her words, but you knew they were true. Every second by Jude Bellingham's side was nothing short of perfect.
You stayed silent after that as you walked, being careful with the children on the stadium steps. The weather was hot and humid in Miami. The pitch was full of journalists walking around and preparing interviews with the players. You walked together, soon finding your brother coming toward you.
Harry approached, picking up Vivienne in his arms and giving a kiss to each of the children, giving you a hug as the youngest sister and then giving his wife a sweet kiss, pulling her into a hug right after. You loved seeing them together, how caring and loving they were with each other, the way they made each other happy.
"You were great, darling." Katie said, as Kane gave her a sweet kiss. You loved seeing them together, how caring and loving they were with each other.
"Thank you, my love." He replied. Then, playfully, you made a sound with your throat to get their attention, since they were lost in each other's world, making your brother and sister-in-law look at you.
"I think we need to give your parents a break, kids." You said dramatically, receiving a joint eye roll from the couple. It was just a sweet teasing you had with your older brother.
"I love having all of you here with me." Kane said, giving you a hug, one of those typical of a protective older brother. You were close, even though he was years older than you.
"You were amazing on that last pass in the first half." You replied excitedly, as you began talking about the match with the couple, while the children played around, with Henry still in your arms, lying on your shoulder, falling asleep even with the noise.
"I feel like it was a good match for our team, especially, but just the way Jude found ways to score both goals was incredible." Bellingham's name was said calmly by your brother, in an unpretentious way, as if it didn't affect you. Of course you would notice the spectacular way your boyfriend participated. Your sister-in-law looking at you with those attentive eyes of someone who knew too much.
"Bellingham was great, wasn't he, dear?" She asked directly to you, the situation making you look at Henry in your arms, distracting yourself while feeling the gazes of both. But the words didn't need to be said before you heard that strong voice that brought butterflies to your stomach, in the way only one man could cause — your midfielder.
"Captain, are you going to the celebration today?" Bellingham's voice arrived, speaking directly to your brother playfully with the title Harry had earned in the match, but you felt the impact of that tone. "Excuse me, ladies." You heard him greet you, feeling the urge to look at him, but you forced yourself to keep your attention on your nephew who was sleeping peacefully in your arms.
"Of course, we're all going." Kane said, looking at Jude in response, while Katie looked between the two of you. "We just need to put the kids to rest, Henry is already in dreamland." He said, pointing to the boy you were holding firmly in your arms. Your hands were sweating slightly because of the attention; you knew that if you looked at him, you might reveal more than you wanted, more than you should, at least for now.
"Looks like we have a tired little one." Jude said, approaching you, feeling his steps closing the distance between you, that sensation of knowing his gaze was on you, watching and searching. "Aren't you going to look at me, darling?" You heard the whisper, making you look to see if your brother had heard, but Harry was already distracted with the children and Katie. You knew Bellingham had that provocative smile on his lips, the one that made you want to blush, but also to seek them with yours in search of his taste.
"We've already talked about this, Jude, nothing near Harry." You said quietly, finally lifting your gaze to your man. You tried to stay strong, but the intense way he looked at you was so burning that it completely threw you off balance, those dark penetrating eyes that took your breath away and took you to another world, one that was only his and yours.
"Don't be like that." He said, turning to stand beside you, so that Kane would be facing Harry and Katie, who were starting to talk to some journalists who had approached, while you watched the children playing around. "I'm trying, it's not my fault you're so..." The midfielder leaned a little closer to your ear discreetly so it wouldn't be too much and draw unnecessary attention from those present. "Delicious in that shirt, too bad it's not my name on the back." You looked at him this time, feeling the intensity of that gaze. You wanted to look at him with reproach for his behavior, but you knew he really was trying, at least a little.
"Just for now, love." You replied, whispering the endearment knowing it was risky, especially that Kane would find out through the press and not from you, but the way he looked at you left you no way out of the feelings you had. "Later I'll be beautiful for you, but keep your hands to yourself at the celebration." Then you winked provocatively, letting out the comfort he caused you, the feeling that you could be yourself with Jude.
"I don't promise anything." The Real Madrid player said, making you roll your eyes in response, knowing that would clearly be his answer.
"Jude..." You called Bellingham's attention, seeing him cross his arms without looking at you, avoiding your inquisitive eyes on him. "Jude Victor William Bellingham." Your voice saying his full name made him straighten his posture, knowing there was no more choice.
"I'll try, okay?" The English national team player replied, finally looking at you. You sighed in response, knowing that was all you would get from him. You hoped it would be enough.
"Say you'll try." You ordered, seeing him look away again, but sigh and answer you with a nod.
"Okay, Miss Kane, I'll try to keep my hands to myself." Jude said, joking with the way he said it. You hoped that would be enough, so you nodded, seeing Jude's name being called by the press, even though you wished it could all be kept secret, at least for now.
You loved having him around, the way his protective presence hovered and made you feel like never before. Seeing him leave was always disheartening, but you understood what his profession demanded.
You heard him sigh, knowing he had to go. "See you later, baby." Then, lovingly, you saw the tall man lean in a little closer, looking between you and your nephew in your arms. "You have a way with kids, darling. It's going to be beautiful when they're ours." He winked, and you felt your face blush again. You tried to open your lips looking for words to answer, but he smiled provocatively again.
He knew he had left you disconcerted, with the prospect of the future, the one you dreamed of one day with him, but which the midfielder had finally said to you. He withdrew, and then your brother returned with Katie. Even when you no longer felt Henry in your arms, you couldn't stop thinking about Jude's words, with the prospect of the future and not being sure he could keep his hands to himself.
THE INTERCONTINENTAL IN MIAMI welcomed the English national team's celebration and their families with open arms. The atmosphere was luxurious, but with chatter from what you could tell because of the players, all celebrating with champagne on the tables and being led by coach Tuchel and Declan Rice in an animated conversation.
You were wearing a burgundy strap dress with light fabric, the slit giving space for your legs to be free. You looked beautiful and shone in the middle of the place, like the chandeliers in the room, but that wasn't seen only by others, but by the way Jude Bellingham had watched you enter the hotel accompanied by your brother and sister-in-law.
The conversations dominated the tables, and the one you were seated at was shared with Harry, Katie, Anthony Gordon, and, of course, your secret boyfriend. Jude clearly finding a way to sit beside you. You felt your hands sweating, knowing the midfielder's restless behavior was suspicious.
"I'm happy about our last match, but I can't help feeling anxious about the next one." Harry Kane said, taking a few more sips of the red wine on the table. You knew why: your brother usually took all the responsibility on himself, even with the team's victories, he demanded more of himself and about not making mistakes.
"You take too much responsibility on yourself, darling." Katie's voice was directed at her husband, as she held his arm lovingly. You actively agreed with your sister-in-law's statement.
"You're a great captain, Kane. Relax and enjoy the celebration a little, we'll do well." Jude replied, taking the lead. He knew, being one of the main players, how difficult the responsibility was and how much was demanded of them, but panicking in advance would bring a rupture in the team's psychology before the match.
"You're right." Harry sighed in response, putting on a wide smile followed by a laugh right after. "With so much support like this, I think it's impossible not to feel motivated." He continued, giving his wife a sweet kiss right after, making you roll your eyes playfully and laugh along.
"I forgot how mushy you two were." You said, making everyone at the table laugh, but you knew Jude was thinking about how you were with each other when no one was watching.
"One day you'll be like that too." You heard your brother's voice reach you, making you almost choke on some of the champagne you were drinking at that moment. Everyone at the table staring at you made you feel your cheeks wanting to blush.
"Are you okay, dear?" Katie asked, concerned, but knowing exactly the reason Kane's words had affected you. It was possible to see almost a laugh in her eyes and caught on her lips.
"Sure she'll find out one day." Jude replied right after, feeling his hand find your thigh under the table in the slit of your dress, making you straighten your spine, going to meet his hand with yours so he wouldn't move it. Kane looked confused by the midfielder's words, perhaps not imagining you two were so close. Your brother looked at you right after, opening his lips as if wanting to say something, his gaze going to something suspicious for a minute, but he was interrupted by Tuchel approaching the table where you were.
"Don't forget not to drink too much for tomorrow's training, boys. Excuse me, ladies." Tuchel's drunken voice standing at the table where you were, clearly having drunk more than usual. You felt relieved for a moment until you felt Jude's hands moving on your thigh. Then you looked for the midfielder's gaze who had sat beside you.
Trying to hold his hand tighter and looking at him with reproach, he kept his face neutral, but that look was absurdly hot, and you felt at the same time the concern taking over your body, but the warmth in your stomach, that one from the nights you spent with him.
"Tuchel, I think you should sit down a bit, you've drunk too much for today, coach." Said the English national team striker, looking at the coach worriedly. Then he stood up, seeming to go accompany him to sit down a bit.
"I think I drank a little too much." The British coach said, almost stumbling for a moment, making Kane hold him quickly and decline Jude's help to take Tuchel somewhere else.
"It's okay, I'll be back soon, you can continue." Kane replied politely, as you watched him lead the coach to the hotel room where he was staying, until you heard yourself being called by Anthony Gordon, who was staring at you fixedly during dinner.
"You look very beautiful, Miss Kane." The English national team player said to you, making you feel Bellingham's grip become more present and firm on your thigh. You knew he wasn't liking the direction the conversation could take.
"Oh, thank you." You replied, a little embarrassed, seeing Katie watch everything as if it were an iconic scene, making you almost beg for help with your look.
"I don't think I've ever had the pleasure of talking to you." The English national team winger said, looking at you with a penetrating look that brought you concern. Fortunately, being interrupted by Katie, when you felt speechless because Bellingham's hand went up, going increasingly slower, reaching your panties. You felt warm, even though you knew it was wrong.
"Usually my sister-in-law doesn't go to the matches, she's very focused on her studies and ends up not having much time." Katie said, while Jude took the opportunity to bring his fingertips to your panties, trying to enter. You brought both hands under the table trying to hold him, but it seemed impossible at the same time to hold back the moan that wanted to escape your lips.
"Oh, I see." Gordon said, making Katie smile calmly and take a sip of wine to her lips. "But do you have a type?" The young player asked shyly, making Katie choke and you look up, feeling Bellingham's hand harden. You didn't know if you were relieved to be able to breathe for a minute or worried about what was to come.
"Definitely not you." Your man's voice came out firm and brutal, making Katie choke and you look at him astonished with wide eyes, while looking at Gordon, who turned red for a minute before looking confused between the two of you. You knew at that moment you needed to leave there and Jude at that exact moment, before anything else could be said.
You interrupted the deafening silence at the table: "Excuse me, I need to go to the restroom." Your voice came out shaky, managing to remove your boyfriend's hands from your legs, looking at him with reproach and a warning that he should follow you right after.
You knew he would understand. You didn't look at the table in shame of the situation, then calmly walked past the people present in the environment, greeting with a soft smile. The way to the restroom was quick; the place was empty. You were grateful, waiting a few minutes for Bellingham to come find you. The place was luxurious like the rest of the environment, spacious and with large stalls, a great place to have a discussion with your boyfriend, who couldn't keep his hands and words to himself.
Soon hearing your man's voice call you. "I think I overreacted, didn't I?" Jude said with a calm voice, when you turned to him, but you felt he was nervous, the way his hands were clenched into fists and his lips pressed together.
"You think, Jude?" Your voice came out exalted. "You did exactly the opposite of what I asked you to do." You said, moving nervously around the restroom. You knew anyone could walk in at any moment, but everyone was too busy at the party, and you needed to let the nervousness out of your body somehow, even if in attacking words.
"You can't think I could stay quiet watching someone hit on my girlfriend in front of me." Bellingham said, approaching you, his eyes catching fire in a mix of desperation and love. You understood him, but at the same time it had been your request.
"Do you think this has been easy for me too?" You said sincerely, the desperation showing in your tone. "I'm scared of what could happen, if in reality this between us isn't going to work out." Your words seemed to hit him deeply, making him take a step back, as if it were a slap in the face.
"So out of fear you'd rather leave what we have behind? Because it seems like what I'm doing isn't enough and wanting you isn't enough." The exchange of harsh words hit both of you. You fell silent, stunned. "I think it's better if we talk later, I'm leaving." Jude's words came out in a discouraged tone, as if he were lost in his own massive thoughts. "I think you need to spend some time alone to find out if I'm really who you want." You felt your heart shatter with the man's words.
You loved him, of course you did, but it was like a block because of everything around you. However, amidst all the doubts, the only certainty was that you couldn't let him go. You watched him turn to leave, but how could you allow it? How could you give up what you loved because of harsh words?
You quickly grabbed his hand, pulling him back. He looked at you confused, seeing you choke on your words, as if they were stuck. Then, when he turned again, you held him and managed to say this time: "Don't go, Jude... I want you like I've never wanted anyone in my life." You felt tears staining your face with your makeup slightly, but you couldn't care at that moment. All you couldn't do was let Jude Bellingham leave thinking he had no importance in your life. "I can't let you go... I never could." It seemed like the words were finally freed from you.
"I... Love." The midfielder replied caringly, holding your face in his strong hands, but with a gentle touch when he touched you, as if you were made of porcelain and would break at the slightest touch, drying your tears. "Fuck, I could never leave you, of course I could never give you up." Bellingham said, pulling you into an impactful and possessive kiss that dominated your senses. You felt nothing else but him, the touch on your back with affection, the hands going to your hair and the firm squeeze that went down to your bottom. You could only feel breathless, but wanting more of that man.
"Jude... I need you, now." You said, seeing him look at you seeking affirmation because of the place you were in, but you could only look at him breathless with eyes dark with desire, your lips becoming swollen by the way he had sucked them. You had never looked so sinful; you looked like a goddess, and he just wanted to worship you.
Jude moved quickly into one of the stalls. His eyes were quick to capture the name 13B; you laughed, thinking they should be careful with it now. Your boyfriend looked at you confused for a moment. "I think it's better if no one goes into this stall now." You said, seeing him smile maliciously, locking the door behind him, and then pulled him into a hot kiss, your lips being dominated by him, as the player took control after you surrendered in a battle of tongues.
"I think you deserve a reward for your effort, even if it was unsuccessful." You said, giving him small kisses as you watched him lower his lips down your neck. Then you knelt carefully, grateful the stall was larger than normal and the place was absurdly clean, but you wanted so much to feel your man. You watched the player unbutton his pants and lower his formal clothes along with his white boxers.
He had never looked so delicious. You saw him with his member already hard in front of you, that massive size that made you squeeze your thighs together, trying to stop the throbbing desire between them. You needed him all over you. You took it with your hands, masturbating in a firm grip the way you knew he liked, determined to run your tongue a little over the tip that was already starting to release a little pre-cum.
"Fuck, love, I need..." You watched him throw his head back and let out a masculine but needy sound. You knew he needed it, so you smiled, putting the thick cock inside your mouth, sucking the head of his member and masturbating him with what you couldn't fit in your mouth. You knew he was holding back from thrusting into your throat, but you brought his hand to your hair, grateful it was loose and not in an elaborate hairstyle that would cause problems when you returned to the party.
You knew exactly when Bellingham lost control: his left hand going to your hair as you relaxed your throat, knowing he needed depth. He thrust back and forth, letting your throat be used by him, for what he needed, careful with your teeth as he sought his orgasm more and more. But then you felt him stop. You knew he needed you, your folds around him.
"I need you now." He said, making you stand up and let out a little squeal. "I need to come inside you." His voice came out rough, like you'd never seen before, as if he didn't have a single ounce of control left, as if he needed you in all of him and to give you everything he had.
He pulled your panties down under your dress while lifting you with that massive strength of that delicious body. You sought his lips as your legs intertwined around his waist. Jude pressed you against the stall wall, while bringing his fingers to your entrance, making you moan in a needy way, feeling your folds squeeze Jude's fingers. "Jude, please." Your voice came out breathless as you placed your face in the hollow of the Real Madrid player's neck, trying to muffle the sounds.
You felt him begin to move his fingers, opening you, hitting that spot that made you want to feel him deeper and deeper inside you, but you needed more, something bigger, thicker. Something that would hit you completely and make you become just clay in his hands, just a mass he could move and make release the most delicious sounds.
You felt him remove his fingers from inside you and watched him bring them to his lips, opening them and licking them in front of you. "Fuck, your taste is delicious." His voice came out rough with desire, as his darkened eyes brought his hands to your waist completely and aligned his cock at your needy entrance, teasing you, making you moan. Until he, in a firm thrust, penetrated your body while going all the way, making you throw your head back.
His lips sought yours in a battle of tongues that involved saliva, both of you destroyed by each other, while you brought your hands inside his shirt, your nails scratching his broad and muscular back, thanking football for giving that god-like body to your boyfriend. He thrust firmly, hitting the exact point of your desire, finding the place that made you let out the loudest and most delicious sounds, the one that made your folds squeeze his cock inside you while he held back the sounds.
The sound of the restroom door opening made you squeeze Jude's member inside you and kiss him to muffle the sound in second. Someone had entered. You looked at him alarmed, seeing him look at you maliciously as you began to deny, knowing he wanted to keep moving. "Don't even think about it." You said, whispering, seeing him nod and then start moving slowly, while you threw your head back, bringing your hands to your lips, trying to lock in the moan. The person who had come was quick.
The sound of the door closing right after made you almost sigh in relief, if it weren't for him moving without rhythm. Your orgasm was approaching, and you knew it; he could also feel you tightening around him more and more. Then, with a sensation reaching your stomach and your body tingling with the pleasurable feeling of completeness, your orgasm hit you, followed by him, who filled you. You worried about the condom for a moment, but your medication was up to date since you started dating Jude. You just allowed yourself to feel him fill you with his release.
"Fuck... I can't live without you, girl." He said, pulling you into a breathless kiss. You felt your heart warm with the feeling of love, with the feeling that you were with the man who gave you protection and everything you needed. You knew exactly what needed to be done.
"Jude... Let's tell Harry." You said, as you felt the gentle kisses being left on your shoulder, before he stopped and looked for your gaze.
"Are you sure?" He asked, worried, but the joy showing in his eyes, as if it was all he needed to hear, as if relief took over his body. He hugged you firmly.
"I'll always be sure of you, Jude. Always." He took your lips again. You loved him, the man he was and how he made you feel. The protective arms around you, being your home, the kisses on your skin being your path. Everything began with you and would end with you, a life with him without being double. In the end, no matter how many lives you had, all of them would lead to him.
Hello angels, I'm bringing you another fic of our dear Golden boy, Jude Bellingham. A lot of you asked me for another one-shot of him so I decided to write it, I hope you like it.
I'm still numb from the World Cup and a bit sad because I won't get to watch my men anymore (especially Haaland, Bellingham, and Declan Rice), but I'll keep following the other tournaments (yes, I'm obsessed).
And don't worry — we’ll have something about Haaland coming soon if all goes well. My Man gives me so much inspiration, I already feel like it’s my duty to feed the fandom.
I finished writing this while dealing with a headache so please forgive me if anything is off, I did my best.
Requests are open and I’d appreciate it if you leave feedback and like, I love hearing your opinions.
See you next time guys, there’s more coming and if you want more of Jude, just say so.
❥ The BAU thought they knew everything about Spencer Reid—until an unknown pretty girl walked into the bullpen with pastries, coffee, and zero regard for his personal space rules.
Or a short story about how you visited your boyfriend.
❥ fluff, secret relationship
Just an ordinary Tuesday at the BAU felt endlessly bleak. The team was sluggishly wrapping up paperwork after a grueling case in the Midwest, while Spencer had disappeared somewhere into the depths of the basement archives.
You walked into the center of the office right below the glass balconies, carrying a stylish pastry bag from a local bakery and a travel mug. No FBI badge, no tactical gear—just an aura of a person untouched by the horrors of the world.
Garcia was the first to react, freezing with her tea mug halfway to her mouth. Derek Morgan leaned back from his glass board, instantly switching into profiling mode.
"Well, well," Morgan said, resting his elbows on the railing and looking down with a charming, inquisitive smirk. "Are you lost, ma'am? Tours for civilians usually end at the lobby."
"Not lost, but thanks," you gave him a bright, unbothered smile. "I’m looking for Spencer. Is he around?"
The bullpen went dead silent.
Prentiss slowly put down her pen, completely forgetting about the documents on her desk and stood up.
"Reid?" Derek blinked, exchanging a bewildered look with Emily. "Dr. Spencer Reid? Our Reid? Tall guy, mismatched socks, carrying half a library in his shoulder bag?"
"That’s the one," you hummed, switching the bakery bag to your other hand. "He has a habit of forgetting to eat when he buries himself in old files. Thought I’d bring him some sustenance."
"Oh, my God..." Penelope whispered, dramatically clutching her chest. "She brought him food. Guys, did you hear that? She brought him sustenance!"
"Pardon our curiosity," Emily stepped forward, crossing her arms as her eyes subtly profiled you from head to toe. "How exactly do you know Spencer? Are you a cousin? An archivist from the Library of Congress? A witness from an old case?"
"Didn't he mention me?" a teasing smirk touched your lips "I'm his primary source of stress and his main dopamine hit, all wrapped into one."
Before the team could digest that, the elevator doors slid open and Reid emerged. He was balancing an absurdly high stack of case files, hair rumpled, looking completely absorbed in thought.
"Guys, I re-analyzed the 1998 Ohio data—" he began, not looking up, until he nearly walked straight into you.
The stack of files dangerously tipped over.
"Hey..." Spencer breathed, his eyes widening. An adorable mix of surprise, embarrassment, and something unbearably tender washed over his face. "What... what are you doing here? How did you get past security?"
"You put me on the visitor log yesterday, remember?" You stepped in, effortlessly taking the heavy stack from his hands to place it on the nearest desk, then gently straightened his messy collar. "You left without lunch again, Spence. I brought coffee and those lemon pastries you like. And, honestly, I missed you."
Spencer froze like a deer in headlights, acutely aware of three pairs of profiler eyes locked onto him. But as your fingers brushed against his neck, his shoulders visibly relaxed. He didn't pull away. In fact, his hand instinctively reached out, his long fingers casually intertwining with yours.
Across the room, Morgan’s jaw practically hit the floor.
"Wait," Morgan called out, pointing an accusing finger at Spencer. "Is this the same Dr. Reid who once told me:" he shifted into a terrible, high-pitched impersonation of Spencer "'Actually, Derek, shaking hands spreads twenty times more bacteria than kissing, transferring over 124 million viable colonies per contact'?!"
"I—I didn't say it quite like that, and the statistical average depends heavily on environmental humidity—" Reid immediately objected, gesturing nervously until you softly caught his wrist, cutting off his stream of words.
"And yet," you leaned closer, resting your chin on his shoulder, "he somehow manages to endure my terrible, germ-ridden hugs every single day."
"They're not... you're an exception," Spencer mumbled defensively, though a helpless, soft smile betrayed him completely as he squeezed your hand tighter.
"Okay, yep. They’re definitely together," Emily declared, a triumphant grin breaking across her face.
"Oh, sweet merciful angels, my boy has a girlfriend!" Garcia squealed in delight.
"Well, well," Morgan gestured vaguely in your direction, looking genuinely impressed. "The boy wonder pulled you? What's your angle? Is he holding your cats hostage? Is he doing your taxes?"
You laughed, lightly twisting a stray curl of his soft brown hair around your finger, making him want to run away from his own office—preferably straight to your apartment.
"He's brilliant, he has great hair, and he recites Shakespeare from memory," you glanced up at Spencer with a wink and dropped your voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Plus, he's shockingly good at... a few other things."
Prentiss covered her mouth to muffle a sudden cough-laugh, while Morgan raised his eyebrows in pure, unadulterated respect.
"Damn. Okay. Reid, I see you!"
"Morgan, stop," Spencer squeaked, turning a shade of crimson never before seen by modern science. He quickly tightened his grip on your hand, attempting to pull you toward the exit to save whatever dignity he had left. "We're leaving. Right now."
You let Spencer guide you, blowing the team a kiss goodbye.
As you walked toward the doors, the bullpen exploded into collective teasing.
"Hey, Reid!" Morgan yelled over the railing, grinning ear to ear. "When`s the wedding? I need to get my suit tailored!"
"I'm already drafting the guest list!" Penelope chimed in, practically bouncing in her chair.
"Don't forget to invite the team, Spencer! We want to hear you stammer through your vows!" Emily tossed in.
Inside the closing elevator, Spencer dropped his head against your shoulder, hiding his burning face in his hands with a quiet, defeated groan.
"I hate them," he grumbled into your coat.
You ran your fingers through his hair, chuckling softly. "I think they're sweet. But serious question, Dr. Reid: when is the wedding?"
Spencer slowly lifted his head, his hazel eyes wide and still shimmering with bashful affection.
"Well," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave as he leaned down to press a soft, lingering kiss to your temple, "statistically speaking, autumn weddings have the highest rate of guest satisfaction. So... give me six months to finish the RSVP list?"
♡ in which. the biggest band in the world is on tour, and the most desired member is none other than your very own boyfriend (who just so happens to be completely obsessed with you).
⌗ aus. established rls au, bts au, idol au, smau
⌗ genres. fluff, long distance
⌗ rating. 16+ (dirty talk, mentions of sex)
note. this initially started as a one shot social media scenario that wasn’t meant to go any further, but you guys loved it so much that i had to continue <3 please enjoy!
