frat!laxus x shy!reader requested
summary - a party, a fight, and one grumpy blond later, you find yourself being pulled back to the same place every time—right back to him.
cw - alot more plot than porn, strangers to lovers, angst if you squint, slow burn, opposites attract, cutesy/feminine reader, laxus is soft around reader, anger issues, experienced laxus, less experienced reader, making out, 69, p in v, fingering, dirty talk, protected sex, getting together
a/n - this was supposed to be longer but i ended up cutting a few things out. i might turn it into another post instead! thanks for requesting! i hope you enjoy <3
you're at the party because cana begged you to come out for once, promising it was one of those low-key hangouts.
it was not! it's loud, sweaty, bodies everywhere… you definitely don't fit in.
you're wearing a pink dress with a bow in the middle of the neckline, along with some pink kitten heels. you thought it was appropriate because the dress was shorter than your other ones. atleast cana said so.. but you felt like a sore thumb compared to the other girls. where the hell is cana!?
you press yourself against the wall near the stairs, trying to make yourself invisible.
but then the shouting starts, and you hear a loud pang of glass shattering across the room. that's when you see him.
he's in the middle of the living room, shoving some guy off of him like he weighs nothing. below the guy was pieces of a glass table. the blonde ones knuckles were split, blood smeared across his fingers, jaw clenched. he looks furious, electric. he's breathing hard.
you don't know him, you've never seen him. he stomps towards the hallway you're standing in, pushing past you without realizing. the force of it makes you stumble further into the wall.
he mutters something under his breath, something sharp and annoyed, and disappears into the darker part of the house.
you should stay where you are. you should pretend you didn’t see anything. but you’re you. you were concerned, despite not knowing the guy and kind of being scared of him too.
you saw the blood on his hand. the way he held his ribs for a second. the way his breathing didn’t sound right. and before you can talk yourself out of it, your feet are already moving.
you follow him down the hall. he ducked into the downstairs bathroom, the door half shut behind him. you hover outside for a second, heart pounding, telling yourself this is stupid... but caring is instinct for you. it’s not something you turn off.
so you knock. gently. barely audible over the music.
there’s a pause. then a rough, irritated, “what.”
you push the door open a little, peeking inside. he’s standing at the sink, head down, water running over his bloody knuckles. he looks up when he sees you, confused, annoyed and surprised all at once.
“you’re bleeding...” you say softly.
he blinks, a little annoyed. he's never seen you around before. he looked at you up and down. cute face. cute outfit. the hell was someone like you doing here?
he just scoffs. “get outta here kid.”
you freeze for a second, but you don’t back out. you don’t leave. you just stand there, small and stubborn.
“i’m not a kid...” you murmur.
he doesn’t even look at you when he answers. “didn’t ask.”
he shakes his hand out, blood flicking onto the counter, and winces when the movement pulls at his knuckles. he tries to hide it, but you see it anyway.
you take one step closer.
he notices immediately. his eyes snap up, sharp and irritated. “the hell are you doing?”
“you’re hurt. what happened?” you whisper.
“and?” he shoots back, brows raised like you’re the one being ridiculous. “i told you to get outta here.”
you swallow, but you don’t move away. “but i can help.”
he stares at you like you’ve just said something insane. like he can’t figure out if you’re brave or stupid or both.
he scoffs under his breath, a short, sharp sound that makes it very clear he’s not impressed.
“help,” he repeats, like the word tastes stupid in his mouth. “yeah, okay. sure.”
you can’t tell if he’s mocking you or testing you. maybe both.
“look,” he mutters, shaking water off his hand, “i don’t need you hovering over me. get lost.”
he turns back to the sink, shoulders tight, jaw clenched, blood swirling down the drain. he’s still breathing too fast, still wired from the fight, still radiating that sharp energy that makes everyone else i. the house keep their distance. somehow everyone except you.
you take another tiny step inside the bathroom.
his head snaps toward you, eyes narrowing like you’re the most annoying thing that’s happened to him all night. “are ya fuckin' deaf?” he snaps. “i said get lost.”
you step forward anyway. you can never ignore someone who's hurt. that's just not you.
that makes him pause. not soften, just… pause. like he can’t believe you’re still here.
you move beside him, reaching under the sink for the first‑aid kit you spotted earlier. he watches you in the mirror, eyes narrowed, jaw tight, like he’s waiting for you to mess up or freak out or finally run.
you set the kit on the counter next to him. “give me your hand.”
he barks out a laugh. “not happening.”
you look up at him... really look. and for the first time he seems to notice how close you are. how small you are. how pink and soft and out of place you look in this grimy frat bathroom.
you take his hand anyway. his knuckles are warm and sticky with blood. you were holding it like it was something dangerous.
he watches you the whole time, expression flat and unimpressed. but he doesn’t pull away.
“you're real pushy for someone who looks like they're about to cry.” he finally muttered.
you swallow, but your grip doesn't loosen. “i'm not pushy..”
“sit.” you whisper, nodding toward the counter.
he scoffs. “you givin’ orders now?”
“you’re dripping blood everywhere,” you say, voice barely above a breath. “please?”
the word hangs between you, soft and fragile in the cramped bathroom.
he clicks his tongue, annoyed, but hops up onto the counter anyway, shoes thudding against the cabinet doors. not because you told him to. he’d never admit that. but because standing hurts more than he wants you to notice.
you open the first aid kit with trembling fingers. he notices that too.
you dab at the blood on his knuckles with a cotton pad. he hisses, jaw tightening, but he doesn’t yank his hand away. he stares at you like he can’t wrap his head around it. who even are you? you walk in like some princess, all soft and pink with big eyes, acting like you belong anywhere near a guy who just put someone through a table.
“you’re really doin’ the most for a stranger.” he mutters, tone flat, almost bored.
you don’t look up. “you’re bleeding.”
“yeah, i noticed.” he snaps, but he keeps his hand exactly where you’re holding it.
you dab at another streak of blood, and he shifts just slightly.
“this is stupid...” he says under his breath, eyes flicking over your pink dress again. “you should be out there with your friends or whatever. not here.”
“it's fine. 'm not a party person anyway. cana was the one who dragged me here...” you mumble.
oh, so you're with cana? he definitely didn't expect that, but it tracks. she's always dragging people into chaos, but still, he's never seen you with her either.
and yet here you are, standing between his knees, cleaning blood off his hand like it’s normal. like you’ve done this before. like you’re not scared of him, even though you should be.
you finish wrapping his hand in silence, the music from the party thumping through the walls. he watches you the whole time, just tracking you.
you smooth the last bit of tape down, fingers brushing his skin for half a second. he doesn’t flinch. he doesn’t thank you either.
you step back, giving him space.
he hops off the counter in one clean motion. he flexes his wrapped hand once, testing it, jaw ticking like he hates that it actually feels better.
he heads for the door without a word.
then, right as he reaches it, he stops.
he doesn’t turn around. doesn’t look at you. just stands there, shoulders broad and tense.
“...what’s your name?” he mutters, voice low, rough, like he regrets asking the second it leaves his mouth.
you blink, caught off guard, mumbling your name beneath your breath.
he nods once. then he’s gone.
no goodbye. no thank you. no lingering look.
just the door swinging shut behind him, leaving you alone in the bathroom with the faint smell of soap, the first‑aid kit, and the echo of your name hanging in the air like he took it with him.
you just blink in his direction, totally confused. you didn't even get his name!
you left the party right after that.
you didn’t mean to. you tried to find cana, weaving through the crowd, calling her name over the music but she was nowhere. the house felt too loud, too hot, too full of people who didn’t look twice at you, and your head was still spinning from the bathroom.
so you slipped out the front door, heels clicking on the pavement, the night air cold against your flushed skin. you walked home alone, replaying the whole thing in your head, wondering why he even asked.
the next morning, you’re at your tiny kitchen table, wrapped in a blanket. your head still feels fuzzy, your body still tired...
and the door swings open.
“you left me!” she groans dramatically, dropping her bag on the floor and collapsing into the chair across from you. “i thought you ditched me. then i finally saw you. i turn around for two seconds… and you were gone!”
“i couldn’t find you!” you mumble, rubbing your eyes. “and it was… a lot.”
“yeah, well, that’s what parties are. duh.” she says, waving a hand. “chaos, sweat, bad decisions. speaking of— did you see that fight?”
cana perks up immediately.
“some guy from pi kappa.” she says, rolling her eyes. “you know, that rival frat full of dudes who think they’re god’s gift to the campus? anyway, one of them showed up last night. big mistake.”
“because he and laxus—the blond one—hate each other.” she says simply. “like, actual beef. years of it. i don’t even know the whole story... something about a game, a fight, who knows. but they can’t be in the same room without starting shit.”
you feel your pulse pick up. so... that guy you patched up is laxus?
“so what happened?” you ask quietly.
“the pi kappa guy started running his mouth.” cana says, leaning back. “talking about how laxus only wins because he’s ‘built like a truck,’ how their frat could ‘wipe the floor’ with his team, blah blah blah. just stupid crap.”
“and.. laxus didn’t like that?” you murmur.
cana snorts. “laxus never likes anything. but this? this set him off. the guy shoved him first, and laxus shoved back harder. next thing you know, he’s flying into the glass table.”
so that was the shattering you heard.
“honestly, i’m shocked it didn’t get worse. those two frats hate each other. every time they’re in the same room, something breaks. usually furniture. sometimes noses.”
you blink. “and… laxus is always like that?”
“he’s a walking temper tantrum with muscles. best athlete on campus but also the biggest headache. coaches love him, everyone else avoids him. he’s got this… reputation.”
you swallow. “what kind of reputation?”
“the kind where if he’s pissed, you get out of the way. he’s huge, and he doesn’t care who he scares. people don’t go near him unless they have a death wish. he definitely has a wild case of anger issues.”
well... now things are starting to piece together. he seemed irritated at the bathroom, but not like how cana's describing him.
“like, i swear, i’ve seen him punch a hole in a wall because someone bumped into him. he’s insane. i don’t even know why he goes to parties. he hates everyone there.”
your voice comes out small. “i… didn’t know he was like that.”
“trust me,” cana says, rolling her eyes, “if you were anywhere near him, you’d know. he’s impossible to miss.”
“well... i.. i kind of met him. helped him?”
“in the bathroom. he was bleeding. i just— i don’t know. i followed him. and i cleaned his hand.”
cana stares at you like you just confessed to petting a wild bear.
“you followed laxus dreyar into a bathroom...” she says slowly, “and touched him!?”
“i didn’t know who he was.” you mumble.
“that doesn’t make it better!” she yelps. “oh my god, you’re lucky he didn’t throw you through a wall! maybe he thought you were cute or something...”
“cute!?” you squealed. “no way. he looked really irritated... i think i was just annoying him.”
“well, he still let you touch him. that's definitely something!”
“how do you know so much about him anyway?”
“because we’re… friends.” she says, making a vague gesture with her hand. “well, kind of. it’s complicated. he’s an ass. i’ve known him since freshman year. he’s always been like this.”
you blink. “like… angry?”
“angry, stubborn, impossible...” she says, counting on her fingers. “but he’s not a bad guy. he just… doesn’t do people.”
you stare at her. “so why does he talk to you?”
“because i don’t take his crap.” she says proudly. “and because he knows i’ll punch him back. plus, how do ya think the frat gets the best alcohol around?”
“i guess that makes sense... he sounds intense.”
monday evenings on campus always feel hollow. you're walking back from your last class with your bag slung over your shoulder, brain foggy and feet aching.
the sky is already dimming. it looks like it’s about to rain. you're already thinking about your cozy home, making dinner and showering and collapsing into bed—
cana: babyyyy i need a favor
cana: i left my gym bag in the training room
cana: pls pls pls grab it for me i’m busy
you sigh. of course. well, it never hurts to do something nice for your friend. you type something back and turn towards the gym building.
the hallways get colder the closer you get, that weird gym air chill that smells faintly like rubber mats and metal weights. the fluorescent lights hum overhead, buzzing just enough to make your temples throb.
you push open the door to the training room.
it’s mostly empty. mostly.
the first thing you notice is the sound.
a deep, heavy thud that vibrates through the floor. then another. and another. steady, rhythmic, like someone trying to beat the air out of the room.
you step inside, and that’s when you see him.
he’s in front of the heavy bag, shoulders broad and tense, muscles shifting under his skin with every punch. he’s shirtless, beads of sweat dripping down his abs, his hair is damp, sticking to his forehead, jaw clenched in that same sharp line you remember from the bathroom.
his hands are taped. your tape.
the same white wrap you smoothed over his knuckles two nights ago, now frayed at the edges, stained faintly pink.
you freeze in the doorway, breath catching in your throat.
he doesn’t see you at first. or maybe he does and just doesn’t care. he keeps hitting the bag, each strike sending a dull echo through the room. the chain rattles overhead. the bag swings. his shoulders rise and fall with controlled, irritated breaths.
you force yourself to move, slipping along the wall toward the shelves where cana’s bag should be. your footsteps sound too loud in the empty room, like you’re intruding on something you shouldn’t be seeing.
you stretch up on your toes, fingers brushing the strap of a bag that’s just barely out of reach. you try again, and the shelf creaks, and—
the silence hits you harder than the sound did.
you turn your head slowly.
not angry. not surprised. just… focused. like he’s trying to place you.
you swallow, throat tight. you quickly turn back to the shelf.
he just watches you, chest still rising and falling, sweat dripping down his temple. you turn back to the shelf, pretending you’re not shaking.
you reach again. the bag is still too high.
you try a third time, stretching your arm as far as it’ll go.
behind you, there’s a low, annoyed exhale.
then a shadow falls over you.
you don’t turn around. you don’t have to. he steps past you, close enough that you feel the heat radiating off him, and grabs the bag with one hand like it weighs nothing.
you take it carefully, your fingers brushing his for half a second. he doesn’t flinch. he doesn’t pull away. he just stands there, breathing steady now, eyes unreadable.
“tell cana to do her own chores.” he says, voice low and rough, like gravel dragged across concrete.
you hug the bag to your chest, nodding. he’s already looking past you, like the conversation is over, like you’re just another thing in the room he’s done dealing with.
not dramatically. just a hitch in movement, a tiny break in the rhythm of him turning back toward the heavy bag.
his eyes flick down to your shoes, your pretty pink ballet flats, a little damp from the walk over then back up to your face.
“you walked here?” he asks, voice low and rough.
he exhales through his nose. something in between a sigh and annoyance. he drags a hand over his face, wiping sweat from his brow, tape scraping lightly against his skin.
you frown. “figured what?”
he doesn’t answer right away. he just looks at you again. the damp shoes. the thin pink cardigan. cute skirt. the way you’re holding cana’s bag like a shield.
finally, he says, “you don’t dress for the weather.”
“your shoes.” he says, nodding toward them. “they’re soaked.”
you look down. he’s right! the fabric is darker at the toes, waterlogged from the walk across campus. you hadn’t even noticed.
“it’s fine...” you mumble.
“it’s stupid.” he corrects, blunt as ever.
your head snaps up, but he’s not smirking, not teasing. he’s just stating it like a fact.
“this building’s on the far end of campus.” he continues, turning slightly but not fully away. “sidewalk floods when it rains. everyone knows that.”
you bristle a little. “i didn’t...”
“yeah.” he says, eyes flicking over you one more time, “i can tell.”
it’s not an insult, just how laxus talks.
he turns back toward the heavy bag, shoulders rolling, muscles tensing like he’s about to slip right back into the rhythm you interrupted.
he still doesn’t turn around. he just drags a hand over the back of his neck, tape scraping lightly against his skin, jaw flexing like he’s annoyed. at you, at himself, at the situation, at everything.
“wait. i’ll take you home.”
your heart stutters. “w-what?”
now he turns, finally, eyes cutting toward you with that same unreadable intensity.
“your shoes are soaked.” he says, like that explains everythin. “you’re not walking across campus like that.”
you blink. “huh? i'm fine...”
“you’re not.” he says immediately, no hesitation. “you’re gonna get sick or twist your ankle or—” he stops, jaw tightening again, like he’s catching himself caring too much. “just wait.”
you shake your head. “i... don’t need a ride. it's fine! i can walk.”
“didn’t ask if you needed one.”
your mouth opens, closes. “i don’t want to bother you...”
the word is sharp, final, not loud but firm enough to shut down the air between you.
you try one last time. “i really don’t want to be a problem.”
“you’re not.” he says again, quieter this time. “just grab your stuff. give me 10 minutes.”
you hesitate, but ultimately give in. “okay...”
you stand there awkwardly, hugging the bag to your chest, unsure where to put yourself.
he turns back to the heavy bag, rolls his shoulders once, and then—
the sound is sharp, controlled, nothing like the wild, angry punches from earlier. this is different. measured. precise. like he’s burning off the last of something he doesn’t want to carry home.
you watch him without meaning to.
the way his muscles tighten and release, the way his breath steadies, the sweat dripping down his sculpted figure... wait, what are you doing!?
finally, after what feels like forever, he steps back from the bag. his chest rises and falls in slow, controlled breaths. he grabs a towel off a bench, wipes his face, then drapes it around his neck.
only then does he look at you again.
“okay.” he says, voice low, rough from exertion. “let’s go.”
you nod and follow him out of the building. he doesn’t wait for you. he just walks, long strides, towel around his neck, hoodie in one hand, but he slows down just enough that you don’t fall behind.
the air is cool and damp, the pavement still shining from earlier rain. the parking lot is mostly empty, but one car stands out immediately.
sleek. low. black. the kind of car that looks expensive even if you know nothing about cars. he must be rich...
he unlocks it with a short beep, not even glancing at your reaction.
you try not to stare, but you do.
he opens the passenger door and jerks his chin toward the seat.
you climb in carefully, trying not to scuff anything. the interior is even nicer: leather seats, clean dashboard, faint scent of something warm and sharp... maybe cologne, maybe just him. everything looks polished, well kept and expensive.
he gets in on the driver’s side and shuts the door.
“where do you live?” he asks, eyes on the road.
you tell him. a small house just off campus, barely a five minute drive.
he nods once, starts the engine, and pulls out of the lot. he doesn’t talk, he just drives, steady and focused.
you sneak a glance at him once, maybe twice.
you fumble for it immediately.
the rest of the drive is silent, but not uncomfortable. like there’s something in the air neither of you knows how to name.
when he turns onto your street, he slows down, scanning the row of houses.
your small house with the flower boxes and the little porch light shaped like a star. soft and warm and completely out of place next to his sleek black car.
he actually stops for a second.
a small pause, like his brain needs an extra beat to process what he’s looking at.
“…that’s yours?” he asks, voice low.
you nod, suddenly self‑conscious.
he stares at it for a moment longer, jaw shifting like he’s trying to decide if he should say something.
finally, he mutters, almost too quiet to catch.
your breath catches. “huh?”
he shakes his head, already shifting the car into park. “nothing.”
you open the door, stepping out carefully onto the dry patch of pavement. he’s already looking at you like he’s checking to make sure you’re actually okay.
“yeah. now go inside.” he says, voice low. “it’s cold.”
you walk up the little path to your door, and when you turn back one last time, his car is still there, headlights glowing softly in the dark.
he doesn’t leave until you’re inside.
you close the door behind you with a soft click, the sound settling into the quiet of your little house. for a moment you just stand there in the entryway, cana’s bag still clutched to your chest like you forgot how to let go.
your heart is still beating too fast.
you take a slow breath, then another, trying to steady yourself. the lamp in the corner casts a warm glow across the room, softening everything—the walls, the tiny bookshelf, the little rug you crocheted last semester...
you toe off your wet flats and set cana’s bag on the bench by the door. then you hear his car drive off into the distance...
he's nothing like how cana described him!
yeah, he's kind of intimidating... scary even. but he seems nice. or maybe you're just being delusional. but he helped you, same way you helped him.
a whole week passes where you don’t see him, don’t hear from him, don’t even catch a glimpse of him across campus. you didn't tell cana about the ride home. partly because you don’t know how to explain it, partly because you’re not sure it meant anything, and partly because you don’t want her to look at you with that oh my god face she does.
you try not to think about him, but you fail.
but life moves on, classes pile up, and by the time friday rolls around, you’ve convinced yourself it was nothing.
that’s when cana bursts into your room without knocking.
“big game tonight!” she announces, flopping onto your bed. “massive. everyone’s going. you’re coming too.”
“yes!” she says, already rummaging through your closet. “and wear something cute. the stadium lights are terrible.”
you hesitate. “who’s playing?”
she gives you a look. “who do you think? laxus’s team.”
your stomach drops, but you try to play it cool. “oh.”
“oh?” she mocks. “that’s all you have to say? he’s the star player. it’s gonna be insane!”
you nod, pretending your pulse isn’t suddenly too loud. “i guess i'll go.”
“great! i was gonna drag you along anyway.”
cana does your hair and you do your own makeup. honestly, cana's the only reason you go out so often, especially in places you don't fit in. it's fun... sometimes.
you both walk to the stadium with the rest of the crowd, the air buzzing with excitement. the crowd is huge. are games like these even that exciting?
you find seats near the sidelines, close enough to see the players clearly.
helmet off for warm‑ups, jaw set, shoulders broad under his pads. he looks different out here. even sharper, more focused, like the world narrows down to the field and nothing else.
your breath catches. you can't help but just watch.
cana notices your stare at him, but ultimately brushes it off.
laxus hates the pre-game noise. the crowd, the chants, the stupid mascot dancing around like an idiot. he just wants to win and get this shit over with.
he rolls his shoulders, breathing in slowly. he's focused. and ready.
but then something flickers in his vision. soft colors, a familiar shape. someone sitting near the sidelines with the damn alcoholic.
his chest tightens before he can stop it. he looks away immediately, jaw clenching. he brushes it off, and forces himself to focus on the play, on the ball, on the snap count.
and for most of the game, he does.
he plays well, better than well. he’s a machine, a wall, a force. he tackles clean, blocks hard, reads the field like it’s second nature.
and finally, the final play.
they’re down by four. they need a touchdown. laxus throws a perfect pass to their wide receiver.
the whistle blows. the game ends.
laxus sees red. he stands there, wide-eyed while half the crowd cheers and the other half gasps. mumbles like “laxus' team lost?” and “no way...” fill the stadium
he suddenly storms toward the teammate, shoving him back when he tries to defend himself.
“you had ONE job!” laxus snarls.
the guy shoves him back. “get off my ass man—”
but laxus just lunges. furious, like a thunderstorm.
coaches rush in. players grab him. someone yells his name. he’s dragged back, still seething, still ready to swing.
he rips off his helmet and throws it at the bench, chest heaving. he doesn't bother to look at the crowd.
you flinch when he throws the helmet.
cana sighs. “yeah… that’s about right. feel bad for the other guy, dunno if he's gonna survive this week.”
“is he always like that?” you ask quietly.
“when they lose? yeah. when it’s not his fault? even worse.”
laxus just storms off, not acknowledging anyone who was trying to talk to him. he just moves fast, like he'll explode any second.
the stadium noise fades under the pounding in your ears.
cana is still talking beside you—something about how the wide receiver always chokes under pressure—but her voice blurs into background static. she doesn’t notice you standing up or notice you slipping past the people in your row.
you don’t even know why you’re moving. you just are.
your feet carry you toward the side gate, then around the corner of the stadium, following the path players take to the locker rooms. the air is colder here, quieter, the roar of the crowd muffled by the walls.
laxus stands with his back to you, shoulders heaving, hands braced on his hips like he’s trying not to punch the concrete wall in front of him. sweat drips down the back of his neck, catching the stadium lights.
he looks dangerous like this. untouchable. nothing like the guy who drove you home.
you take a tiny step forward.
slowly, he turns his head. not all the way, just enough to see you out of the corner of his eye. his expression is sharp, tight, still burning from the game.
“what the hell are you doing back here?” he snaps.
you open your mouth, startled. “i… i just wanted to—”
“of course you did.” he cuts in, voice dripping with irritation. “little princess wandering where she shouldn’t. figures.”
your breath catches. “i’m not—”
“i don’t need anything from you.” he snaps, louder this time. “i don’t need you checking on me. i don’t need you following me. i don’t need you here.”
he sees it, and instead of softening, he doubles down.
“go home.” he says, voice low and sharp. “before you get in the way.”
you stare at him, stunned. “i wasn’t trying to—”
“you did. now fuck off.” he fires back.
the words hit like a slap.
your throat tightens and you just run off, feeling like an absolute idiot.
watches the way your shoulders curl in, the way your head ducks, the way you practically flee like he’s something to be afraid of.
his jaw clenches so hard it aches.
“fuck.” he mutters under his breath.
there’s a flicker of something that isn’t anger. something that looks more like regret. but it’s gone as fast as it comes, buried under the leftover rage still burning through him.
he drags a hand through his hair, pacing once.
he shouldn’t have snapped. he knows that.
but he’s still furious. at the game, at his teammate, at himself. and he doesn’t have the space or the patience to deal with what just happened.
another week passes. it isn't dramatic or life changing. you go to class. you take notes. you laugh when cana says something stupid. you do all the normal things you’re supposed to do.
and every time your mind drifts, even for a second, you shove the memory of that night back down. because it shouldn't matter. it doesn't matter. you don't even know him like that. he was angry, and you were in the way. that's all.
it shouldn't sting. but it still does.
now, you’re exhausted after a morning class and decide to stop by the campus cafe. it’s busy, loud, warm... the kind of place where you can easily disappear into the noise.
you order something to get you through the rest of the day. a nice sweet treat for yourself!
the barista rings it up, so you reach into your bag.
shoot! your wallet. how can you forget something like that!?
you blink, patting every pocket, checking again, heat rising in your cheeks.
“uh.. sorry!” you mumble. “i think forgot my money. i can cancel—”
the voice comes from behind you.
deep. low and unmistakable.
it causes you to freeze up. you turn and.. it's laxus.
laxus stands there, hands in his pockets, expression unreadable. no jersey, no pads, no sweat—just a hoodie, messy hair, and that same sharp stare that makes your pulse jump.
he nods at the barista. “put it on mine.”
the barista shrugs, taps a button and moves on.
but you’re still staring at him.
“you were holding up the line.” he says flatly.
“i didn’t ask you to do that...”
you swallow. “you didn’t have to—”
he says it like it’s obvious. like it’s nothing. like he didn’t tear into you a week ago and leave you running off like an idiot.
you stand there, awkward, unsure what to do with your hands or your face or your entire existence.
he glances at you again. like he’s checking if you’re about to cry or bolt or do something weird.
“you gonna sit?” he asks, jerking his chin toward an empty table in the corner.
your breath catches. “you… want me to?”
he rolls his eyes. “i wouldn't ask if i didn’t.”
you follow him before you can overthink it. you quickly grab your drink and pastry from the counter, trying not to trip over your own feet as you drop into the chair across from him.
for a moment, neither of you say anything.
you clear your throat. “i… didn’t know you came here.”
“i do.” he says, deadpan.
you stare down at your cup. “i just… didn’t picture you as a cafe person.”
he snorts. “what’s that supposed to mean?”
your eyes widen. “nothing! i just— you know— you seem more like a… protein shake type...?”
you want to melt into the floor.
then, just barely, the corner of his mouth twitches. “you’re not wrong.”
he leans back in his chair, stretching his legs out under the table. they bump yours. you jolt. he doesn’t move them.
“so,” he says, tone flat but not hostile, “what’s your major?”
you blink. “oh. um. literature...”
he nods once, like that makes sense. “figures.”
“figures?” you say, a little defensive.
“you look like you read a lot.”
you open your mouth to argue, then close it. “…okay, that’s fair.”
“you planning on being a teacher or something?”
“maybe. or editing. or writing. i don’t know yet.”
“at least you got options.” he mutters.
you tilt your head. “what about you?”
he shrugs. “sports management. not because i want to. just the easiest thing to balance with football.”
you blink. “you don’t like it?”
“i like playing.” he says. “everything else is noise.”
you study him for a moment. the bruises on his knuckles, the faint shadows under his eyes, the way he keeps rolling his shoulder like it still aches from the game.
“you are really good...” you say quietly.
he just shrugs again. “i’m supposed to be.”
you just sip your drink, your heart fluttering a little.
and then, somehow, the conversation just… keeps going.
you ask him how long he’s been playing. he asks you what books you like. you tell him you crochet when you’re stressed. he stares at you like you were crazy. you laugh, really laugh, and he doesn’t look annoyed by it.
the tension from last week doesn’t disappear, but it shifts... it becomes something else entirely.
you don’t even realize how much time has passed until your drink is empty and your pastry is gone.
he notices you staring at the cup and raises a brow. “you done?”
he stands, stretching, hoodie riding up just enough to show a sliver of toned stomach before he pulls it back down. “i gotta head out.”
you nod, trying not to look disappointed. “right. of course.”
you watch as he leaves. once again, your perception of him changes. he's... nice. at least when he wants to be.
you were sure that would be the last time you saw him. but lately, it was like he was a reoccurring figure in your life, and you had no clue what it meant.
the next morning, you’re walking across campus, half awake, clutching a coffee. that's when you see him coming down the steps of the athletic building. hoodie up, backpack slung over one shoulder, jaw tight like he’s already annoyed at something.
you end up looking at him.
he glances up at the same time, eyes flicking over you in a quick, unreadable sweep.
you give a tiny nod, one that was barely there.
he returns it. just a dip of his chin.
and then he keeps walking.
you tell yourself it means nothing.
two days later, you see him again.
you’re leaving the library, arms full of books you definitely don’t need, when he pushes the door open from the other side. you nearly collide with him, chest to chest, breath catching, books wobbling.
his hand shoots out, steadying the stack before it spills.
“sorry!” you softly yelp.
he looks down at the books, then at you. “you always carry this much shit?”
you blink. “i… like reading.”
he huffs. “yeah. i know.”
you don’t know what that means, but your face warms anyway.
he holds the door open for you, because you're already there and it'd be stupid of him not to. but that's what he tells himself.
you walk past him, mumbling, “thanks.”
he grunts something that might be “you're welcome.” but it’s so low you’re not sure.
you spend the rest of the day thinking about it.
the next time is the café.
you’re not looking for him. you’re not thinking about him. you’re just tired and cold and craving something warm.
same table as last time. this time he's wearing a tight black shirt with sweats, hair messy like he ran a hand through it too many times, black headphones around his neck and a half finished drink in front of him.
you didn't mean to, but you freeze in the doorway.
he looks up, and his eyes meet yours.
and something in his expression shifts. like... warmer? like he’s been waiting for something to happen and now it has.
he doesn’t wave you over or smile.
but he just taps the empty seat across from him once with two fingers, then goes back to his phone like it’s no big deal.
you walk over, trying not to look like you’re overthinking every step.
“you don’t have to sit here.” he says without looking up.
“yeah. didn’t say it was an invitation.”
you blink. “then what was it?”
he finally looks at you. “you looked like you were gonna hover like a weirdo.”
your mouth falls open. “i wasn’t—”
you sit down before he can make fun of you more.
he smirks, then takes a sip of his drink.
you order something small, something warm, something to keep your hands busy so you don’t fidget under his gaze.
when you come back, he’s scrolling through something on his phone.
you try not to stare but he notices anyway.
“what?” he asks, but not in that rough tone he usually had.
“nothing.” you say quickly. “just… didn’t expect to see you again.”
you shrug. “you don’t seem like the type to… repeat things?”
he raises a brow. “repeat what?”
he snorts. “you’re not that bad.”
your cheeks heat. “thanks…?”
“don’t get excited.” he mutters.
you roll your eyes, but you’re smiling into your drink.
the next day, you pass him on the main path between classes.
he’s with a teammate, laughing... actually laughing. it’s loud and unrestrained and so different from the version of him you’ve seen that you almost don’t recognize him.
until he sees you. the laugh dies instantly.
his expression shifts. it's not angry or annoyed, just… focused. like he’s tuning out everything else.
his teammate follows his gaze, then looks at you, then at him, eyebrows raised.
“who’s that?” the guy asks.
laxus doesn’t answer, he just keeps walking.
and your heart does something stupid.
you don’t realize it until you’re home. you drop your bag by the door, kick off your shoes, and flop onto your bed without even turning the lights on.
and that’s when it hits you.
this tiny, stupid curl at the corner of your mouth that you can’t quite get rid of. you try to wipe it away, but it keeps creeping back like your face is betraying you.
you bury your face in your pillow.
“oh my god...” you mumble into it.
but your brain doesn’t listen.
it replays the way he tapped the seat for you. the way he looked at you like he was actually paying attention. the way he held the door at the library without thinking. the way he nodded at you on the path like it was a habit.
you roll onto your back, staring at the ceiling.
you don’t even know him like that. you barely talk. he’s rude and blunt!
your stomach does that fluttery thing again.
you groan, dragging your hands over your face.
you've actually been looking forward to seeing him.
“dreyar’s been less of a dick lately,” one says, tossing a ball between his hands.
“yeah, what’s up with that? think he’s getting laid?”
the first guy laughs. “please. laxus doesn’t date. he just… you know. does his thing and leaves.”
“yeah, but that’s the point.” the second guy says. “he’s usually all tense and pissed off until he finds someone to blow off steam with. but lately? he’s been… different.”
“i don’t know. calmer. less ready to break someone’s jaw. it’s weird.”
he’s not even trying to. he’s just walking past the field, towel slung over his shoulder, sweat still drying on his skin, when their voices drift over.
normally, he’d snap. or glare. or tell them to shut the hell up.
but today, he just listens, and they keep going.
“maybe he found someone new.” one says. “someone he actually likes.”
“nah.” the other replies. “he doesn’t like people. he just uses them to get his head straight.”
laxus’s jaw flexes, but not from anger.
because the thing is... they’re not wrong. he's never been the relationship type. but lately it's like he's been catching himself looking for someone. someone all dolled up and dressed in pink.
it's irritating, but... he likes seeing you around. and he doesn't know why.
you’re passing the gym when you hear it—the sharp, thud of something hitting the ground. then another. then a low, frustrated growl that makes the hairs on your arms lift.
but... something pulls you towards the open side door of the gym. curiosity, maybe. or something you don’t want to name yet.
you peek inside and there he is.
laxus stands alone in the middle of the empty court, chest heaving, hair damp with sweat, fists clenched at his sides. a medicine ball rolls away from him, the one he must’ve slammed into the floor hard enough to make the whole building shake.
not the sharp, cold anger you saw the first night. this is different. hotter. heavier. like he’s fighting something inside himself and losing.
you step inside quietly, the door clicking shut behind you.
for a second, just a second, something vulnerable flashes across his face. surprise. confusion. something softer than you’ve ever seen on him.
“what are you doing here?” he mutters, voice rough.
you swallow. “i heard… something. i just wanted to make sure you were okay.”
he scoffs, looking away. “i’m fine.”
you can see it in the way his shoulders are tight, in the way he keeps flexing his hands like he’s trying to shake something off. in the way his breathing hasn’t settled.
you take a few steps closer. “bad practice?”
you sit on the bleachers, giving him space but not leaving. “you don’t have to talk about it.”
he lets out a slow breath, almost a laugh but not quite. “good. because i’m not.”
you nod, staring at the floor. “...okay.”
silence settles between you. warm. familiar in a way that makes your chest ache.
after a moment, he speaks again.
“why’d you come in?” he asks, quieter this time.
you look up. “i told you. i wanted to make sure you were okay.”
he studies you like he’s trying to figure out what you want from him, why you’re here, why you keep showing up in places he doesn’t expect.
his voice drops. “you shouldn’t worry about me.”
“too late.” you say before you can stop yourself.
his eyes flicker and something cracks.
just a tiny shift in the air, like a door opening a fraction of an inch.
he sits down on the court floor, back against the wall, legs stretched out. he doesn’t tell you to leave. doesn’t tell you to stop looking at him. doesn’t tell you anything at all.
he just lets you be there.
and that alone feels like something huge.
you slide off the bleachers and sit a few feet away from him, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his skin, far enough that he won’t think you’re pushing.
he tilts his head back against the wall, eyes closing for a moment.
“practice was shit.” he mutters finally.
you smile softly. “i figured.”
“quarterback’s an idiot.”
he huffs a breath. almost close to a laugh.
“team’s a mess.” he mutters. “coach is losing his mind. everyone’s tired. i’m tired.”
“you don’t have to pretend you’re fine.” you say quietly.
he snorts. “i’m not pretending.”
he opens one eye, looks at you, then shuts it again like he can’t believe you’re calling him out.
“you’re annoying.” he mutters.
that gets a real exhale out of him. not a laugh, but something softer, something that sounds like he’s letting his guard down without meaning to.
then, out of nowhere, he says, “my grandpa used to say that.”
“that i pretend i’m fine.” he shifts his shoulders against the wall, eyes still closed. “he’d say i walk around like i’m made of stone, but i’m not. i just… don’t know what to do with shit sometimes.”
he’s never talked about himself like this. not to you. maybe not to anyone.
“your grandpa sounds smart.” you say softly.
“he is.” laxus’s voice drops, quieter. “he raised me. taught me everything. football. life. how to deal with idiots.”
you smile. “so he taught you how to deal with your quarterback!”
that earns you a chuckle.
“yeah.” he says. “he’d tell me to breathe. walk it off. not break anything.”
he cracks an eye open again, looking at you like he’s seeing you in a way he hasn’t before.
“yeah. he's a real pain in the ass. but... he's the one person who understood me. he didn't take my shit, but he didn't back off either.”
you feel something warm twist in your chest.
“sounds like he loves you a lot.” you say quietly.
laxus’s jaw shifts. “yeah. he does.”
he says it like it’s something he’s still learning how to hold.
the silence that follows is softer now. not heavy. not awkward. just… open.
you don’t know why, but open up too.
“i’m not close with my family.”
laxus’s head turns toward you immediately, like the shift in your voice pulled him.
“yeah?” he asks, quieter.
you nod, picking at a loose thread on your sleeve. “they’re not bad people. they just… don’t really see me. not the way i want them to. i always feel like i’m trying to be someone they can be proud of, but it never feels like enough.”
laxus’s brows pull together—not in judgment, but in something like understanding.
“they should be proud.” he says simply.
“of you.” he says it like it’s obvious. like it’s fact. like he’s annoyed you don’t already know it.
“you don’t even know me that well.” you murmur.
you look at him, and he doesn’t look away. his gaze is steady, warm in a way you’ve never seen from him, like he’s letting you see the part of him he hides from everyone else.
“you’re… good.” he says, voice low. “you care. you try. you show up. that’s more than most people do.”
he shifts slightly, knee brushing yours. not on purpose but he doesn’t move away either.
“and if they don’t see that...” he adds, “that’s on them. not you.”
you don’t know what to say. you don’t know how to breathe around the sudden warmth in your chest.
so you just whisper, “thank you.”
he nods once, like he’s accepting something he doesn’t know how to name.
the space between you feels different now. deeper, warmer, threaded with something fragile and new.
and neither of you move away.
that night, he gave you a ride home again. there was something light between you two, something soft and... real.
now there's weeks of something blooming between you two. something neither of you talk about, but both feel.
you start spending more time together without deciding to. it was just natural. walking together after class... studying in the library, mornings at the cafe.
he's even different with you now. of course, he's still blunt and sharp around the edges. but softer too. he listens, he remembers, and he waits for you.
both of you find yourselves drifting towards each other without meaning to.
everyone notices. especially cana. she thinks you're crazy for going after someone like him, but she's happy for you. she'd tease you a lot, naming him your boyfriend, but you'd deny it every time.
and his teammates finally realize the reason why’s he’s been acting so different.
one afternoon, you’re sitting on the quad, pretending to study, when he drops down beside you with a sigh that sounds like he’s been looking for you.
“you’re hard to find.” he mutters.
you glance at him. “were you looking?”
he doesn’t answer, but the corner of his mouth twitches. the closest he gets to admitting anything.
another day, he walks you home in the rain, hoodie pulled over your head because he forgot an umbrella and refuses to let you get soaked. you complain the whole way, and he just shakes his head, but he keeps his arm around you the entire time.
and then there are the nights.
the late texts. the quiet calls. the way he says your name like it’s something he’s still getting used to.
you don’t talk about what’s happening. you don’t need to.
and one friday night, he invites you over.
you hesitate for a moment but you go anyway.
the frat house is unusually quiet when you arrive. the hallway lights are dim, the air warm with leftover heat from the day. you can hear faint music from someone’s room down the hall, but otherwise it’s still.
he opens the door before you knock.
“hey.” he says, voice low.
his room is warm, a little messy in a way that feels real. the lamp casts a soft glow over everything, making the space feel smaller, more intimate. it’s not the first time you’ve been here, but it feels different.
he sits on the edge of his bed, and you sit beside him, close enough that your knees touch.
“yeah.” he leans back on his hands, stretching his legs out. “practice was rough. coach is losing his mind.”
he glances at you, and something in his expression softens. “better now.”
your breath catches, but you don’t look away.
“silly?” he scoffs like you personally offended him. “you don’t know what that word means.”
you grin. “you’re proving my point.”
he gives you a slow, unimpressed look. “you’re real confident for someone who talks nonsense.”
“and you’re real grumpy for someone who invited me over.”
“i didn’t invite you. i said come by.’”
“that’s me telling you where i am.”
he huffs. it’s not a laugh, not even close, but the closest laxus gets when he’s trying not to react. his knee bumps yours, casual, careless, except it lingers a second too long to be accidental.
you feel it. he feels you feel it. neither of you comment.
“you always do this...” he mutters.
“i know you’re not as scary as you pretend.”
his jaw ticks. not in anger, more like you hit something he didn’t expect.
“you talk too much.” he says.
“again, you invited me! don't be rude.”
he doesn’t deny it this time. he just shifts again, thigh pressing against yours fully now. he doesn’t move away. he doesn’t even pretend to. his fingers tap once against the mattress, close enough that you feel the heat of his hand.
that makes your heart thump.
“you’re easy to mess with.” he says.
you pull away, just slightly.
“so you are messing with me!”
“and?” you sputter. “that’s rude!”
you shove his shoulder, more out of instinct than anything. but he barely moves. he’s solid, warm, annoyingly steady. he catches your wrist before you can pull your hand back.
not tight. not rough. just… there.
he notices. of course he does.
“you’re dramatic.” he mutters, eyes dropping to where his fingers wrap around your wrist.
“you’re—” you start, but the word dies in your throat when his thumb brushes the inside of your wrist, slow and thoughtless, like he’s not even aware he’s doing it.
except he is. he definitely is.
“i’m what?” he asks, voice low, almost bored. but they really aren't.
“you’re...” you try again, but your brain short circuits when he drags his thumb over your skin a second time.
he smirks. “that’s what i thought.”
you glare at him, but it’s weak, and he knows it. “you’re such an ass. let go!”
“why?” he says it like a genuine question.
“because...” you say, flustered.
you huff, and he finally lifts his eyes to yours. the look he gives you is unfair. lazy, heavy lidded, like he’s already decided how this ends and is just waiting for you to catch up.
“you’re staring.” he says.
“i’m literally looking at you because you’re holding my wrist!”
“you can look somewhere else.”
you try. you really do. but the second your eyes flick away, he leans in just a little.
your gaze snaps back to him.
“you’re bad at pretending you don’t like this.”
your pulse jumps. he feels it. his thumb is right there, pressed to the spot betraying you.
his eyes drop to your wrist again, watching the way your heartbeat kicks under his touch. he doesn’t comment. he doesn’t need to. the silence says enough.
“you’re messing with me...” you say, but it comes out softer than you mean it to.
“yeah.” he murmurs. “but you’re messing back.”
his hand finally loosens around your wrist… only to slide lower, fingers brushing the side of your palm, slow, like he’s giving you a chance to pull away.
“figured.” he mutters, voice low.
“that you weren’t gonna pull back.”
your face heats. “i wasn’t—”
“you were.” he cuts in. “but you didn’t.”
his thumb drags along the side of your palm again. like he’s testing something. like he’s waiting for you to flinch.
he shifts closer, thigh brushing yours again, this time with purpose. he doesn’t pretend it’s accidental. he doesn’t pretend anything anymore. the warmth of him sinks into you, steady and heavy and impossible to ignore.
“you’re distracting....” you shoot back, but your voice betrays you. it's soft, breathy... too honest.
he smirks, eyes dropping to your mouth for a split second before he looks away like he didn’t mean to. “not my problem.”
“it is if you’re doing it on purpose!!”
“you’re staring.” he murmurs.
“you’re close...” you whisper back.
you don't say anything. you just continue to stare, that light flush still on your cheeks.
his hand leaves your palm only to slide up until his fingers curl around your jaw. the touch is steady, confident, like he’s done pretending he doesn’t want this.
your breath catches. he hears it. his thumb brushes your cheek, softer than anything he’s said tonight.
your heart is pounding so hard you swear he can feel it through your skin.
you just blink. then you move without thinking.
and he meets you halfway.
the kiss hits warm and slow, but not gentle. more like he’s been holding himself back for weeks and finally let the leash slip. your fingers curl into his shirt. his hand slides to the back of your neck, pulling you closer, deeper, hungrier.
you whine as you kiss him back. he groans into your lips. you're all messy and shit... you new to this stuff? the thought only spurs him on. his other hand reaches for your waist, gently squeezing.
you've been driving him insane lately. you're all that's been on his mind. you're something special. it's as if some angel just fell into his world. you slipped through all his walls without even trying. and instead of snapping, he finds himself wanting more. wanting you.
he kisses you with more fervor, and you just try to keep up with him. you're cute.
he pulls away for just a moment, looking at your flushed, needy face. something in his chest tightens, like he wasn't prepared for the sight of you wanting him. he’s not supposed to care. but there you are, lips parted, eyes blown wide, leaning into the space he hasn’t even closed yet, and it does something to him he can’t shove down or ignore.
instead, he leans in again, pressing quicker kisses onto your lips, then down to your jaw and neck.
“laxus...” you softly whine, and he just smirks against your neck.
“hm?” he grunts, sucking on your neck like he wants to mark you, to let everyone know you're his.
he cuts you off by squeezing your waist again, pulling away from your neck to look you in the eyes.
“never been so sure about anythin'.”
your breath hitches, your heart clenches. and then he's kissing you again, like he didn't just drop something heavy into your chest.
it's like he’s trying to make sure you feel every bit of what he’s not saying out loud. his hand stays firm at your waist, grounding you, keeping you close, like he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he loosens his grip even a little.
he pulls back, just slightly.
you stare at him like he's crazy, then you're shoving him off.
“don't be rude! it's not!”
“then why ya kissin' me like that?” he playfully smirked.
“like what!? are you messing with me again!?”
he chuckles, really chuckles while you sit there in pure embarrassment.
“a little. just sayin', you kiss like it's your first.”
“it's not! i've only ever had one boyfriend... so leave me alone.” you mumble, your face flushed with a light red.
something in his expression shifts. a tiny drop of his brow, a faint tightening in his jaw. not anger or judgment. just that quiet reluctant huh he gets when something hits him sideways.
he lays himself down on his bed before he suddenly grabs you, throwing you over his body as if you weigh nothing. you're suddenly looking at his legs instead of his face, your ass up against his face now.
“c’mon.” he murmurs, leaning in, his breath brushing against your thigh. “let me show you how it’s supposed to feel.”
you try to argue, but he's lifting up your skirt, now face to face with your clothed pussy. fuck, even your panties are all lace and cute. he quickly leans in to drag a lick over it.
you immediately whine, accidentally arching further into his face. he grins against you, pressing kisses against your cunt before fully starting to eat you out even with your panties on.
he sloppily makes out with your pussy as if he's been waiting to do this for years. even your pussy is sweet, you keep driving him insane...
fuck, you're already sensitive? his hands squeeze your ass before sliding down to move your panty to the side. cute pussy too. his thumb moves to your clit, rubbing slow circles.
“laxuss...! dont— hhah.. tease..!”
“c'monn.” laxus coos, his thumb moving a little faster. “you can take it.” he mumbles, pressing kisses over your pussy before really eating you out. he slurps and sucks hard, tongue flicking in and over your slit.
you moan and whine repeatedly. oh god... he's good at this. your ex never came close to making you feel like this.
you break out of your daze for a moment when you spot his bulge. he's hard. like... really hard. and he looks huge. you blink, hesitating for a moment before you reach out for his waistband. your fingers hook onto the fabric of his pants to tug it down—
you pause, looking back at him.
he slipped a finger into your sopping hole.
“didn't know you could be so forward.”
“what's that supposed to mean! hah..”
just one of his fingers were stretching you out so good. his finger started pumping in and out of you while he eats your pussy.
shit, he's playing dirty!
you try to focus on your part too. you tug the rest of his clothes down until his cock springs free, slapping against his lower torso.
you take his cock into your hands, causing him to hiss and buck into your touch. whines slip past your breath as he continues to lap up your cunt.
you stare for a moment, your hand slowly pumping his cock before leaning down to press a kiss onto it. then another. then you're taking him into your mouth.
you're given no warning before he pushes his cock further into the warmth of your mouth, and there's still more left of him to take.
“fuckk..” he groans, “if you're gonna return the favor, do it right.”
the room is filled with noises of you choking on his dick and him slurping up your pussy as if it's his last meal.
“fuck. you're filthy.” he groans. he can feel your pretty pussy tightening around his finger, so he slips in another one. he's pumping your hole and licking at your clit much faster now.
you pull back from his cock at the change in pace, whining as drool drops down from your mouth.
“shittt... you're so fuckin' wet. gonna cum?”
“waitwait— i feel weird!”
he just continues, and you try to suck his cock, but you felt so strange.
“hah! laxus! laxus! i think... aanh!”
you babble whines and moans until you gush all over his face. you cry out as you felt something come out of your pussy. you felt insane, like you were exploding in the best way possible.
“shiiit.” laxus groans into your pussy, lapping up whatever drop you gave him. “y'r a squirter?” he mumbled, pushing your thumb over your overstimulated clit.
the sight of your pussy squirting on him pushed him to his own release, especially when you're trying your best to make him feel good too. you were too damn cute. ropes of white shoot out of his cock with a groan.
you whine, panting as you come down from your high. ...wait, he's still hard!?
“fuck. you're driving me insane.” he murmured as he squeezed your ass. he sat himself up, easily moving you so your back hit his chest. he cupped your jaw, turning you over so he could kiss your face.
you look all fucked up already.
you blinked, a little tired but you nod. you want him.
he grins, placing one last kiss on your shoulder.
you changed positions, and now your ass up, face down on the bed. your heart was racing. you felt a little embarrassed in this position, but your need for him weighs it out.
he reaches towards his nightstand, rummaging inside to find a box of condoms. he grabs one, ripping the square packaging. he slides it onto his dick with a small huff.
then he places his hands on your ass, gently caressing, making sure you're okay.
“ya ready? or do i need to prep ya more?”
you just nod, mewling when he teases your pussy by rubbing his cock against your folds. then he finally slides in.
“hah... laxus..” you whine.
he lets you adjust for a moment, before pushing into you. he holds onto your hip. one of his hands slide up to push both your shirt and bra up, playing with your hardened nipples.
“fuck... you're an angel. angel with a loud fuckin' pussy.”
“yeah? it's fuckin' squelching. think she wants more.”
you whine when he increases his pace, the force of his thrusts. you felt so so full.
he ruts harder, like he can't get close enough. he holds your hips with those huge, calloused hands. his groans are deeper too. he pistons into you with a force, almost animalistic, like he forgot this was your first time taking him.
“hah! laxus— laxus! it's too muchh—”
“you can take it princess, can't you? c'mon baby. fuuck—”
he’s still got that roughness in him, that intensity that never really fades, but it’s tempered now by the way he slows down for you, like he’s making sure you’re steady.
and after you two finish, there was a new weight in the air, not heavy or uncomfortable, but real. really real.
he shifts, pulling you a little closer, like he’s not ready to let the world back in yet.
you don’t say anything and he doesn’t either.
the moment already said it for you.
you’re not together, not officially, at least not yet. but there’s a closeness now. a gravity. a way he moves around you like you’re already his.
it’s subtle, almost absentminded. his hand finds the small of your back when you walk through a crowded hallway. he tugs you closer by your sleeve when you’re standing too far away for his liking. he’ll brush something off your cheek with his thumb, barely thinking about it, and then look away like he didn’t just make your heart stop.
you hang out the same way you always did. in the gym, in his room, on campus, on his bed.... but the space between you is gone. you’ll be lying on your stomach doing homework, and he’ll be sitting against the headboard, legs stretched out, one hand resting on your lower back like he’s keeping you anchored
sometimes he plays with the hem of your shirt without realizing it. . sometimes he just watches you, eyes half-lidded, expression unreadable, like he’s trying to figure out how you ended up under his skin so fast.
he kisses you more now too.
it’s casual, almost careless. he’ll lean down and press his mouth to your cheek while you’re talking. he’ll kiss the corner of your mouth when you’re pouting. he’ll kiss your forehead when you’re tired or kiss you mid-sentence just to shut you up, then smirk when you go quiet.
you get shy every time. he notices every time. and he never lets you hide it.
he’s protective in ways he wasn’t before.
someone bumps into you at a party and his hand is suddenly on your hip, steadying you, pulling you into his side. someone talks too close to you, and he shifts his body between you and them without thinking.
and then there are the quiet moments.
the ones that tell you everything without either of you saying a word. walking home together with his hand wrapped around yours. or giving you a ride somewhere and his hand finds its way to your thigh. or when you hang out at either his place or yours and you'd cuddle in bed all day.
whatever you are now, it's more.
a few weeks later and the next game is loud enough to shake the bleachers, and cana is already three drinks in before the first whistle blows.
“there you are!” she says, scooting over to make room. “you look cute.”
you tug at the hem of the jersey—his jersey—trying not to look as flustered as you feel. “it’s big.”
“it’s supposed to be big,” cana says, nudging you. “that’s the point.”
you roll your eyes, but your cheeks warm anyway.
because it’s true. you didn’t ask to wear it. he didn’t ask you to wear it.
he just tossed it at you before heading out, muttering, “put it on,” like it was nothing. like it wasn’t the loudest thing he’s ever said.
cana leans forward, eyes scanning the field. “he’s already looking for you.”
“girl…” she says, pointing, “he’s staring directly at you.”
laxus is supposed to be warming up, but instead he’s watching you, jaw set, eyes sharp, gaze flicking to the jersey like he’s checking to make sure it’s still on you. when he sees you looking back, he doesn’t smile—he just gives a small nod, the kind that says good. wait for me.
cana smirks. “he’s ridiculous.”
“i’m not the one wearing my boyfriend’s name on my back.”
you elbow her, but you don’t deny it.
the game is brutal. it's all tackles, shoves, adrenaline. and laxus plays like he’s got something to prove.
“he's showing off for you!” she yells, shaking your shoulders.
you’re laughing, flustered, overwhelmed, and maybe a little in love. ...maybe a lot.
when the game ends, with a win obviously, the crowd erupts. the team celebrates. cana is already halfway down the bleachers, dragging you with her.
“go,” she says, pushing you forward. “he’s looking for you.”
“he is literally scanning the crowd like a pissed-off golden retriever. go before he starts knocking people over.”
you roll your eyes, but your heart is pounding as you step onto the field.
and sure enough... he finds you instantly.
he walks toward you with that slow, confident stride, still catching his breath, still flushed from the game, still looking at you like you’re the only thing he sees.
“hey,” he says, voice rough.
he tugs lightly at the hem of the jersey, eyes dropping to where it hangs off your shoulder. “looks good on you.”
you flush. “you said to wear it.”
“yeah,” he mutters, “but i didn’t think it’d look that good.”
you swat his arm. “you’re sweaty.”
you’re about to argue when he steps closer — close enough that you feel the heat of him, close enough that the noise of the stadium fades into a hum.
“thanks for coming,” he says, softer now.
his eyes flick to your lips. “yeah. you do.”
you swallow. “stop looking at me like that...”
“like—” you gesture vaguely at his face. “that.”
“can’t help it.” he smirks, slowly cupping your cheek to kiss you.
right there. in front of everyone. no hesitation.
the crowd reacts, loud, dramatic. the star player is actually dating someone?
but you barely hear it. all you feel is him, warm and steady and sure, kissing you like he’s been waiting all game to do it.
when he pulls back, you’re breathless.
he leans his forehead against yours, voice low. “i love you.”
he rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. “don’t make me say it again.”
he sighs, dramatic. “i love you.”
you grin, cheeks burning. “i love you too.”
kaledo-art
annaxmalina
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