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 timeâright 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 didnât see anything. but youâre 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 didnât 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. itâs not something you turn off.
so you knock. gently. barely audible over the music.
thereâs a pause. then a rough, irritated, âwhat.â
you push the door open a little, peeking inside. heâs 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.
âyouâre bleeding...â 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. âget outta here kid.â
you freeze for a second, but you donât back out. you donât leave. you just stand there, small and stubborn.
âiâm not a kid...â you murmur.
he doesnât even look at you when he answers. âdidnât ask.â
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. âthe hell are you doing?â
âyouâre hurt. what happened?â you whisper.
âand?â he shoots back, brows raised like youâre the one being ridiculous. âi told you to get outta here.â
you swallow, but you donât move away. âbut i can help.â
he stares at you like youâve just said something insane. like he canât figure out if youâre brave or stupid or both.
he scoffs under his breath, a short, sharp sound that makes it very clear heâs not impressed.
âhelp,â he repeats, like the word tastes stupid in his mouth. âyeah, okay. sure.â
you canât tell if heâs mocking you or testing you. maybe both.
âlook,â he mutters, shaking water off his hand, âi donât need you hovering over me. get lost.â
he turns back to the sink, shoulders tight, jaw clenched, blood swirling down the drain. heâs 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 youâre the most annoying thing thatâs happened to him all night. âare ya fuckin' deaf?â he snaps. âi said get lost.â
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 canât believe youâre still here.
you move beside him, reaching under the sink for the firstâaid kit you spotted earlier. he watches you in the mirror, eyes narrowed, jaw tight, like heâs waiting for you to mess up or freak out or finally run.
you set the kit on the counter next to him. âgive me your hand.â
he barks out a laugh. ânot happening.â
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 doesnât pull away.
âyou're real pushy for someone who looks like they're about to cry.â he finally muttered.
you swallow, but your grip doesn't loosen. âi'm not pushy..â
âcould've fooled me.â
âsit.â you whisper, nodding toward the counter.
he scoffs. âyou givinâ orders now?â
âyouâre dripping blood everywhere,â you say, voice barely above a breath. âplease?â
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. heâd 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 doesnât yank his hand away. he stares at you like he canât 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.
âyouâre really doinâ the most for a stranger.â he mutters, tone flat, almost bored.
you donât look up. âyouâre bleeding.â
âyeah, i noticed.â he snaps, but he keeps his hand exactly where youâre holding it.
you dab at another streak of blood, and he shifts just slightly.
âthis is stupid...â he says under his breath, eyes flicking over your pink dress again. âyou should be out there with your friends or whatever. not here.â
âit's fine. 'm not a party person anyway. cana was the one who dragged me here...â 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 itâs normal. like youâve done this before. like youâre 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 doesnât flinch. he doesnât 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 doesnât turn around. doesnât look at you. just stands there, shoulders broad and tense.
â...whatâs your name?â 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 heâs 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 firstâaid 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 didnât 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 didnât 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, youâre at your tiny kitchen table, wrapped in a blanket. your head still feels fuzzy, your body still tired...
and the door swings open.
âyou left me!â she groans dramatically, dropping her bag on the floor and collapsing into the chair across from you. âi thought you ditched me. then i finally saw you. i turn around for two seconds⌠and you were gone!â
âi couldnât find you!â you mumble, rubbing your eyes. âand it was⌠a lot.â
âyeah, well, thatâs what parties are. duh.â she says, waving a hand. âchaos, sweat, bad decisions. speaking ofâ did you see that fight?â
âi⌠saw some of it.â
cana perks up immediately.
âsome guy from pi kappa.â she says, rolling her eyes. âyou know, that rival frat full of dudes who think theyâre godâs gift to the campus? anyway, one of them showed up last night. big mistake.â
âbecause he and laxusâthe blond oneâhate each other.â she says simply. âlike, actual beef. years of it. i donât even know the whole story... something about a game, a fight, who knows. but they canât be in the same room without starting shit.â
you feel your pulse pick up. so... that guy you patched up is laxus?
âso what happened?â you ask quietly.
âthe pi kappa guy started running his mouth.â cana says, leaning back. âtalking about how laxus only wins because heâs âbuilt like a truck,â how their frat could âwipe the floorâ with his team, blah blah blah. just stupid crap.â
âand.. laxus didnât like that?â you murmur.
cana snorts. âlaxus never likes anything. but this? this set him off. the guy shoved him first, and laxus shoved back harder. next thing you know, heâs flying into the glass table.â
so that was the shattering you heard.
âhonestly, iâm shocked it didnât get worse. those two frats hate each other. every time theyâre in the same room, something breaks. usually furniture. sometimes noses.â
you blink. âand⌠laxus is always like that?â
âheâs a walking temper tantrum with muscles. best athlete on campus but also the biggest headache. coaches love him, everyone else avoids him. heâs got this⌠reputation.â
you swallow. âwhat kind of reputation?â
âthe kind where if heâs pissed, you get out of the way. heâs huge, and he doesnât care who he scares. people donât go near him unless they have a death wish. he definitely has a wild case of anger issues.â
well... now things are starting to piece together. he seemed irritated at the bathroom, but not like how cana's describing him.
âlike, i swear, iâve seen him punch a hole in a wall because someone bumped into him. heâs insane. i donât even know why he goes to parties. he hates everyone there.â
your voice comes out small. âi⌠didnât know he was like that.â
âtrust me,â cana says, rolling her eyes, âif you were anywhere near him, youâd know. heâs impossible to miss.â
âwell... i.. i kind of met him. helped him?â
cana freezes. âwhat!?â
âin the bathroom. he was bleeding. i justâ i donât know. i followed him. and i cleaned his hand.â
cana stares at you like you just confessed to petting a wild bear.
âyou followed laxus dreyar into a bathroom...â she says slowly, âand touched him!?â
âi didnât know who he was.â you mumble.
âthat doesnât make it better!â she yelps. âoh my god, youâre lucky he didnât throw you through a wall! maybe he thought you were cute or something...â
âcute!?â you squealed. âno way. he looked really irritated... i think i was just annoying him.â
âwell, he still let you touch him. that's definitely something!â
âhow do you know so much about him anyway?â
âbecause weâre⌠friends.â she says, making a vague gesture with her hand. âwell, kind of. itâs complicated. heâs an ass. iâve known him since freshman year. heâs always been like this.â
you blink. âlike⌠angry?â
âangry, stubborn, impossible...â she says, counting on her fingers. âbut heâs not a bad guy. he just⌠doesnât do people.â
you stare at her. âso why does he talk to you?â
âbecause i donât take his crap.â she says proudly. âand because he knows iâll punch him back. plus, how do ya think the frat gets the best alcohol around?â
âi guess that makes sense... he sounds intense.â
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 itâs about to rain. you're already thinking about your cozy home, making dinner and showering and collapsing into bedâ
cana: babyyyy i need a favor
cana: i left my gym bag in the training room
cana: pls pls pls grab it for me iâm 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.
itâs 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 thatâs when you see him.
heâs in front of the heavy bag, shoulders broad and tense, muscles shifting under his skin with every punch. heâs 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 doesnât see you at first. or maybe he does and just doesnât 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 canaâs bag should be. your footsteps sound too loud in the empty room, like youâre intruding on something you shouldnât be seeing.
you stretch up on your toes, fingers brushing the strap of a bag thatâs just barely out of reach. you try again, and the shelf creaks, andâ
the silence hits you harder than the sound did.
you turn your head slowly.
not angry. not surprised. just⌠focused. like heâs 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 youâre not shaking.
you reach again. the bag is still too high.
you try a third time, stretching your arm as far as itâll go.
behind you, thereâs a low, annoyed exhale.
then a shadow falls over you.
you donât turn around. you donât 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 doesnât flinch. he doesnât pull away. he just stands there, breathing steady now, eyes unreadable.
âtell cana to do her own chores.â he says, voice low and rough, like gravel dragged across concrete.
you hug the bag to your chest, nodding. heâs already looking past you, like the conversation is over, like youâre just another thing in the room heâs 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.
âyou walked here?â he asks, voice low and rough.
you blink. âyeah...?â
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.
âfigured.â he mutters.
you frown. âfigured what?â
he doesnât answer right away. he just looks at you again. the damp shoes. the thin pink cardigan. cute skirt. the way youâre holding canaâs bag like a shield.
finally, he says, âyou donât dress for the weather.â
you blink again. âwhat?â
âyour shoes.â he says, nodding toward them. âtheyâre soaked.â
you look down. heâs right! the fabric is darker at the toes, waterlogged from the walk across campus. you hadnât even noticed.
âitâs fine...â you mumble.
âitâs stupid.â he corrects, blunt as ever.
your head snaps up, but heâs not smirking, not teasing. heâs just stating it like a fact.
âthis buildingâs on the far end of campus.â he continues, turning slightly but not fully away. âsidewalk floods when it rains. everyone knows that.â
you bristle a little. âi didnât...â
âyeah.â he says, eyes flicking over you one more time, âi can tell.â
itâs not an insult, just how laxus talks.
he turns back toward the heavy bag, shoulders rolling, muscles tensing like heâs about to slip right back into the rhythm you interrupted.
he still doesnât turn around. he just drags a hand over the back of his neck, tape scraping lightly against his skin, jaw flexing like heâs annoyed. at you, at himself, at the situation, at everything.
âwait. iâll take you home.â
your heart stutters. âw-what?â
now he turns, finally, eyes cutting toward you with that same unreadable intensity.
âyour shoes are soaked.â he says, like that explains everythin. âyouâre not walking across campus like that.â
you blink. âhuh? i'm fine...â
âyouâre not.â he says immediately, no hesitation. âyouâre gonna get sick or twist your ankle orââ he stops, jaw tightening again, like heâs catching himself caring too much. âjust wait.â
you shake your head. âi... donât need a ride. it's fine! i can walk.â
âdidnât ask if you needed one.â
your mouth opens, closes. âi donât want to bother you...â
the word is sharp, final, not loud but firm enough to shut down the air between you.
you try one last time. âi really donât want to be a problem.â
âyouâre not.â he says again, quieter this time. âjust grab your stuff. give me 10 minutes.â
you hesitate, but ultimately give in. âokay...â
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 thenâ
the sound is sharp, controlled, nothing like the wild, angry punches from earlier. this is different. measured. precise. like heâs burning off the last of something he doesnât 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.
âokay.â he says, voice low, rough from exertion. âletâs go.â
you nod and follow him out of the building. he doesnât wait for you. he just walks, long strides, towel around his neck, hoodie in one hand, but he slows down just enough that you donât 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 driverâs side and shuts the door.
âwhere do you live?â 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 doesnât 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 thereâs 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 heâs looking at.
ââŚthatâs yours?â he asks, voice low.
you nod, suddenly selfâconscious.
he stares at it for a moment longer, jaw shifting like heâs trying to decide if he should say something.
finally, he mutters, almost too quiet to catch.
your breath catches. âhuh?â
he shakes his head, already shifting the car into park. ânothing.â
you open the door, stepping out carefully onto the dry patch of pavement. heâs already looking at you like heâs checking to make sure youâre actually okay.
âyeah. now go inside.â he says, voice low. âitâs cold.â
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 doesnât leave until youâre 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, canaâs 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 everythingâthe walls, the tiny bookshelf, the little rug you crocheted last semester...
you toe off your wet flats and set canaâs 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 donât see him, donât hear from him, donât even catch a glimpse of him across campus. you didn't tell cana about the ride home. partly because you donât know how to explain it, partly because youâre not sure it meant anything, and partly because you donât 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, youâve convinced yourself it was nothing.
thatâs when cana bursts into your room without knocking.
âbig game tonight!â she announces, flopping onto your bed. âmassive. everyoneâs going. youâre coming too.â
âyes!â she says, already rummaging through your closet. âand wear something cute. the stadium lights are terrible.â
you hesitate. âwhoâs playing?â
she gives you a look. âwho do you think? laxusâs team.â
your stomach drops, but you try to play it cool. âoh.â
âoh?â she mocks. âthatâs all you have to say? heâs the star player. itâs gonna be insane!â
you nod, pretending your pulse isnât suddenly too loud. âi guess i'll go.â
âgreat! i was gonna drag you along anyway.â
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 warmâups, 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. heâs a machine, a wall, a force. he tackles clean, blocks hard, reads the field like itâs second nature.
and finally, the final play.
theyâre 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 âlaxus' team lost?â and âno way...â fill the stadium
he suddenly storms toward the teammate, shoving him back when he tries to defend himself.
âyou had ONE job!â laxus snarls.
the guy shoves him back. âget off my ass manââ
but laxus just lunges. furious, like a thunderstorm.
coaches rush in. players grab him. someone yells his name. heâs 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. âyeah⌠thatâs about right. feel bad for the other guy, dunno if he's gonna survive this week.â
âis he always like that?â you ask quietly.
âwhen they lose? yeah. when itâs not his fault? even worse.â
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 youâsomething about how the wide receiver always chokes under pressureâbut her voice blurs into background static. she doesnât notice you standing up or notice you slipping past the people in your row.
you donât even know why youâre 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 heâs 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.
âwhat the hell are you doing back here?â he snaps.
you open your mouth, startled. âi⌠i just wanted toââ
âof course you did.â he cuts in, voice dripping with irritation. âlittle princess wandering where she shouldnât. figures.â
your breath catches. âiâm notââ
âi donât need anything from you.â he snaps, louder this time. âi donât need you checking on me. i donât need you following me. i donât need you here.â
he sees it, and instead of softening, he doubles down.
âgo home.â he says, voice low and sharp. âbefore you get in the way.â
you stare at him, stunned. âi wasnât trying toââ
âyou did. now fuck off.â 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 heâs something to be afraid of.
his jaw clenches so hard it aches.
âfuck.â he mutters under his breath.
thereâs a flicker of something that isnât anger. something that looks more like regret. but itâs 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 shouldnât have snapped. he knows that.
but heâs still furious. at the game, at his teammate, at himself. and he doesnât 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 youâre 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, youâre exhausted after a morning class and decide to stop by the campus cafe. itâs 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.
âuh.. sorry!â you mumble. âi think forgot my money. i can cancelââ
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 sweatâjust a hoodie, messy hair, and that same sharp stare that makes your pulse jump.
he nods at the barista. âput it on mine.â
the barista shrugs, taps a button and moves on.
but youâre still staring at him.
âyou were holding up the line.â he says flatly.
âi didnât ask you to do that...â
âdidnât say you did.â
you swallow. âyou didnât have toââ
he says it like itâs obvious. like itâs nothing. like he didnât 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 heâs checking if youâre about to cry or bolt or do something weird.
âyou gonna sit?â he asks, jerking his chin toward an empty table in the corner.
your breath catches. âyou⌠want me to?â
he rolls his eyes. âi wouldn't ask if i didnât.â
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. âi⌠didnât know you came here.â
âi do.â he says, deadpan.
you stare down at your cup. âi just⌠didnât picture you as a cafe person.â
he snorts. âwhatâs that supposed to mean?â
your eyes widen. ânothing! i justâ you knowâ you seem more like a⌠protein shake type...?â
you want to melt into the floor.
then, just barely, the corner of his mouth twitches. âyouâre not wrong.â
he leans back in his chair, stretching his legs out under the table. they bump yours. you jolt. he doesnât move them.
âso,â he says, tone flat but not hostile, âwhatâs your major?â
you blink. âoh. um. literature...â
he nods once, like that makes sense. âfigures.â
âfigures?â you say, a little defensive.
âyou look like you read a lot.â
you open your mouth to argue, then close it. ââŚokay, thatâs fair.â
âyou planning on being a teacher or something?â
âmaybe. or editing. or writing. i donât know yet.â
âat least you got options.â he mutters.
you tilt your head. âwhat about you?â
he shrugs. âsports management. not because i want to. just the easiest thing to balance with football.â
you blink. âyou donât like it?â
âi like playing.â he says. âeverything else is noise.â
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.
âyou are really good...â you say quietly.
he just shrugs again. âiâm supposed to be.â
you just sip your drink, your heart fluttering a little.
and then, somehow, the conversation just⌠keeps going.
you ask him how long heâs been playing. he asks you what books you like. you tell him you crochet when youâre stressed. he stares at you like you were crazy. you laugh, really laugh, and he doesnât look annoyed by it.
the tension from last week doesnât disappear, but it shifts... it becomes something else entirely.
you donât 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. âyou done?â
âyeah.â you say softly.
he stands, stretching, hoodie riding up just enough to show a sliver of toned stomach before he pulls it back down. âi gotta head out.â
you nod, trying not to look disappointed. âright. of course.â
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, youâre 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 heâs 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.
youâre leaving the library, arms full of books you definitely donât 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.
âwatch it.â he mutters.
âsorry!â you softly yelp.
he looks down at the books, then at you. âyou always carry this much shit?â
you blink. âi⌠like reading.â
he huffs. âyeah. i know.â
you donât 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, âthanks.â
he grunts something that might be âyou're welcome.â but itâs so low youâre not sure.
you spend the rest of the day thinking about it.
the next time is the cafĂŠ.
youâre not looking for him. youâre not thinking about him. youâre 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 heâs been waiting for something to happen and now it has.
he doesnât 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 itâs no big deal.
you walk over, trying not to look like youâre overthinking every step.
âyou donât have to sit here.â he says without looking up.
âyou⌠tapped the seat?â
âyeah. didnât say it was an invitation.â
you blink. âthen what was it?â
he finally looks at you. âyou looked like you were gonna hover like a weirdo.â
your mouth falls open. âi wasnâtââ
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 donât fidget under his gaze.
when you come back, heâs scrolling through something on his phone.
you try not to stare but he notices anyway.
âwhat?â he asks, but not in that rough tone he usually had.
ânothing.â you say quickly. âjust⌠didnât expect to see you again.â
you shrug. âyou donât seem like the type to⌠repeat things?â
he raises a brow. ârepeat what?â
he snorts. âyouâre not that bad.â
your cheeks heat. âthanksâŚ?â
âdonât get excited.â he mutters.
you roll your eyes, but youâre smiling into your drink.
the next day, you pass him on the main path between classes.
heâs with a teammate, laughing... actually laughing. itâs loud and unrestrained and so different from the version of him youâve seen that you almost donât recognize him.
until he sees you. the laugh dies instantly.
his expression shifts. it's not angry or annoyed, just⌠focused. like heâs tuning out everything else.
his teammate follows his gaze, then looks at you, then at him, eyebrows raised.
âwhoâs that?â the guy asks.
laxus doesnât answer, he just keeps walking.
and your heart does something stupid.
you donât realize it until youâre home. you drop your bag by the door, kick off your shoes, and flop onto your bed without even turning the lights on.
and thatâs when it hits you.
this tiny, stupid curl at the corner of your mouth that you canât 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.
âoh my god...â you mumble into it.
but your brain doesnât 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 donât even know him like that. you barely talk. heâs 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.
âdreyarâs been less of a dick lately,â one says, tossing a ball between his hands.
âyeah, whatâs up with that? think heâs getting laid?â
the first guy laughs. âplease. laxus doesnât date. he just⌠you know. does his thing and leaves.â
âyeah, but thatâs the point.â the second guy says. âheâs usually all tense and pissed off until he finds someone to blow off steam with. but lately? heâs been⌠different.â
âi donât know. calmer. less ready to break someoneâs jaw. itâs weird.â
heâs not even trying to. heâs just walking past the field, towel slung over his shoulder, sweat still drying on his skin, when their voices drift over.
normally, heâd snap. or glare. or tell them to shut the hell up.
but today, he just listens, and they keep going.
âmaybe he found someone new.â one says. âsomeone he actually likes.â
ânah.â the other replies. âhe doesnât like people. he just uses them to get his head straight.â
laxusâs jaw flexes, but not from anger.
because the thing is... theyâre 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.
youâre passing the gym when you hear itâthe 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 donât 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 mustâve 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 heâs 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 youâve ever seen on him.
âwhat are you doing here?â he mutters, voice rough.
you swallow. âi heard⌠something. i just wanted to make sure you were okay.â
he scoffs, looking away. âiâm fine.â
you can see it in the way his shoulders are tight, in the way he keeps flexing his hands like heâs trying to shake something off. in the way his breathing hasnât settled.
you take a few steps closer. âbad practice?â
you sit on the bleachers, giving him space but not leaving. âyou donât have to talk about it.â
he lets out a slow breath, almost a laugh but not quite. âgood. because iâm not.â
you nod, staring at the floor. â...okay.â
silence settles between you. warm. familiar in a way that makes your chest ache.
after a moment, he speaks again.
âwhyâd you come in?â he asks, quieter this time.
you look up. âi told you. i wanted to make sure you were okay.â
he studies you like heâs trying to figure out what you want from him, why youâre here, why you keep showing up in places he doesnât expect.
his voice drops. âyou shouldnât worry about me.â
âtoo late.â 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 doesnât tell you to leave. doesnât tell you to stop looking at him. doesnât 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 wonât think youâre pushing.
he tilts his head back against the wall, eyes closing for a moment.
âpractice was shit.â he mutters finally.
you smile softly. âi figured.â
âquarterbackâs an idiot.â
âi figured that too.â
he huffs a breath. almost close to a laugh.
âteamâs a mess.â he mutters. âcoach is losing his mind. everyoneâs tired. iâm tired.â
âyou donât have to pretend youâre fine.â you say quietly.
he snorts. âiâm not pretending.â
he opens one eye, looks at you, then shuts it again like he canât believe youâre calling him out.
âyouâre annoying.â he mutters.
that gets a real exhale out of him. not a laugh, but something softer, something that sounds like heâs letting his guard down without meaning to.
then, out of nowhere, he says, âmy grandpa used to say that.â
âthat i pretend iâm fine.â he shifts his shoulders against the wall, eyes still closed. âheâd say i walk around like iâm made of stone, but iâm not. i just⌠donât know what to do with shit sometimes.â
heâs never talked about himself like this. not to you. maybe not to anyone.
âyour grandpa sounds smart.â you say softly.
âhe is.â laxusâs voice drops, quieter. âhe raised me. taught me everything. football. life. how to deal with idiots.â
you smile. âso he taught you how to deal with your quarterback!â
that earns you a chuckle.
âyeah.â he says. âheâd tell me to breathe. walk it off. not break anything.â
âi donât listen to it.â
he cracks an eye open again, looking at you like heâs seeing you in a way he hasnât before.
âyeah. 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.â
you feel something warm twist in your chest.
âsounds like he loves you a lot.â you say quietly.
laxusâs jaw shifts. âyeah. he does.â
he says it like itâs something heâs still learning how to hold.
the silence that follows is softer now. not heavy. not awkward. just⌠open.
you donât know why, but open up too.
âiâm not close with my family.â
laxusâs head turns toward you immediately, like the shift in your voice pulled him.
âyeah?â he asks, quieter.
you nod, picking at a loose thread on your sleeve. âtheyâre not bad people. they just⌠donât really see me. not the way i want them to. i always feel like iâm trying to be someone they can be proud of, but it never feels like enough.â
laxusâs brows pull togetherânot in judgment, but in something like understanding.
âthey should be proud.â he says simply.
you blink. âof what?â
âof you.â he says it like itâs obvious. like itâs fact. like heâs annoyed you donât already know it.
âyou donât even know me that well.â you murmur.
you look at him, and he doesnât look away. his gaze is steady, warm in a way youâve never seen from him, like heâs letting you see the part of him he hides from everyone else.
âyouâre⌠good.â he says, voice low. âyou care. you try. you show up. thatâs more than most people do.â
he shifts slightly, knee brushing yours. not on purpose but he doesnât move away either.
âand if they donât see that...â he adds, âthatâs on them. not you.â
you donât know what to say. you donât know how to breathe around the sudden warmth in your chest.
so you just whisper, âthank you.â
he nods once, like heâs accepting something he doesnât 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 whyâs heâs been acting so different.
one afternoon, youâre sitting on the quad, pretending to study, when he drops down beside you with a sigh that sounds like heâs been looking for you.
âyouâre hard to find.â he mutters.
âfelt like you were.â
you glance at him. âwere you looking?â
he doesnât 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 itâs something heâs still getting used to.
you donât talk about whatâs happening. you donât 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 someoneâs room down the hall, but otherwise itâs still.
he opens the door before you knock.
âhey.â 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. itâs not the first time youâve 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.
âyeah.â he leans back on his hands, stretching his legs out. âpractice was rough. coach is losing his mind.â
he glances at you, and something in his expression softens. âbetter now.â
your breath catches, but you donât look away.
âsilly?â he scoffs like you personally offended him. âyou donât know what that word means.â
you grin. âyouâre proving my point.â
he gives you a slow, unimpressed look. âyouâre real confident for someone who talks nonsense.â
âand youâre real grumpy for someone who invited me over.â
âi didnât invite you. i said come by.ââ
âthatâs an invitation!â
âthatâs me telling you where i am.â
he huffs. itâs not a laugh, not even close, but the closest laxus gets when heâs 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.
âyou always do this...â he mutters.
âact like you know me.â
âi know youâre not as scary as you pretend.â
his jaw ticks. not in anger, more like you hit something he didnât expect.
âyou talk too much.â he says.
âagain, you invited me! don't be rude.â
he doesnât deny it this time. he just shifts again, thigh pressing against yours fully now. he doesnât move away. he doesnât 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.
âyouâre easy to mess with.â he says.
you pull away, just slightly.
âso you are messing with me!â
âyeah,â he says. âand?â
âand?â you sputter. âthatâs rude!â
you shove his shoulder, more out of instinct than anything. but he barely moves. heâs 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.
âyouâre dramatic.â he mutters, eyes dropping to where his fingers wrap around your wrist.
âyouâreââ you start, but the word dies in your throat when his thumb brushes the inside of your wrist, slow and thoughtless, like heâs not even aware heâs doing it.
except he is. he definitely is.
âiâm what?â he asks, voice low, almost bored. but they really aren't.
âyouâre...â you try again, but your brain short circuits when he drags his thumb over your skin a second time.
he smirks. âthatâs what i thought.â
you glare at him, but itâs weak, and he knows it. âyouâre such an ass. let go!â
âwhy?â he says it like a genuine question.
âbecause...â you say, flustered.
you huff, and he finally lifts his eyes to yours. the look he gives you is unfair. lazy, heavy lidded, like heâs already decided how this ends and is just waiting for you to catch up.
âyouâre staring.â he says.
âiâm literally looking at you because youâre holding my wrist!â
âyou can look somewhere else.â
you try. you really do. but the second your eyes flick away, he leans in just a little.
your gaze snaps back to him.
âstop messing with me!â
âyouâre bad at pretending you donât like this.â
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 doesnât comment. he doesnât need to. the silence says enough.
âyouâre messing with me...â you say, but it comes out softer than you mean it to.
âyeah.â he murmurs. âbut youâre messing back.â
his hand finally loosens around your wrist⌠only to slide lower, fingers brushing the side of your palm, slow, like heâs giving you a chance to pull away.
âfigured.â he mutters, voice low.
âthat you werenât gonna pull back.â
your face heats. âi wasnâtââ
âyou were.â he cuts in. âbut you didnât.â
his thumb drags along the side of your palm again. like heâs testing something. like heâs waiting for you to flinch.
he shifts closer, thigh brushing yours again, this time with purpose. he doesnât pretend itâs accidental. he doesnât pretend anything anymore. the warmth of him sinks into you, steady and heavy and impossible to ignore.
âyouâre quiet.â he says.
âyouâre distracting....â 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 didnât mean to. ânot my problem.â
âit is if youâre doing it on purpose!!â
âwho says iâm not?â
âyouâre staring.â he murmurs.
âyouâre close...â 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 heâs done pretending he doesnât want this.
your breath catches. he hears it. his thumb brushes your cheek, softer than anything heâs 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 heâs 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. heâs not supposed to care. but there you are, lips parted, eyes blown wide, leaning into the space he hasnât even closed yet, and it does something to him he canât shove down or ignore.
instead, he leans in again, pressing quicker kisses onto your lips, then down to your jaw and neck.
âlaxus...â you softly whine, and he just smirks against your neck.
âhm?â he grunts, sucking on your neck like he wants to mark you, to let everyone know you're his.
âare you sure aboutââ
he cuts you off by squeezing your waist again, pulling away from your neck to look you in the eyes.
ânever been so sure about anythin'.â
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 heâs trying to make sure you feel every bit of what heâs not saying out loud. his hand stays firm at your waist, grounding you, keeping you close, like heâs afraid youâll slip away if he loosens his grip even a little.
he pulls back, just slightly.
â...is this your first?â
you stare at him like he's crazy, then you're shoving him off.
âdon't be rude! it's not!â
âthen why ya kissin' me like that?â he playfully smirked.
âlike what!? are you messing with me again!?â
he chuckles, really chuckles while you sit there in pure embarrassment.
âa little. just sayin', you kiss like it's your first.â
âit's not! i've only ever had one boyfriend... so leave me alone.â 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.
âdid he make you cum?â
âwhat!? what does thatââ
âi... i guess not butââ
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.
âcâmon.â he murmurs, leaning in, his breath brushing against your thigh. âlet me show you how itâs supposed to feel.â
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...
âlaxus! 's too much...!â
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.
âlaxuss...! dontâ hhah.. tease..!â
âc'monn.â laxus coos, his thumb moving a little faster. âyou can take it.â 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 downâ
you pause, looking back at him.
âi just thoughtâ ah!â
he slipped a finger into your sopping hole.
âdidn't know you could be so forward.â
âwhat's that supposed to mean! hah..â
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.
âfuckk..â he groans, âif you're gonna return the favor, do it right.â
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.
âfuck. you're filthy.â 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.
âhah! laxusâ waitâ!â
âshittt... you're so fuckin' wet. gonna cum?â
âwaitwaitâ i feel weird!â
he just continues, and you try to suck his cock, but you felt so strange.
âhah! laxus! laxus! i think... aanh!â
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.
âshiiit.â laxus groans into your pussy, lapping up whatever drop you gave him. ây'r a squirter?â 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!?
âfuck. you're driving me insane.â 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.
âya ready? or do i need to prep ya more?â
you just nod, mewling when he teases your pussy by rubbing his cock against your folds. then he finally slides in.
âhah... laxus..â you whine.
âyou got it, princess.â
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.
âfuck... you're an angel. angel with a loud fuckin' pussy.â
âyeah? it's fuckin' squelching. think she wants more.â
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.
âhah! laxusâ laxus! it's too muchhââ
âyou can take it princess, can't you? c'mon baby. fuuckââ
heâs still got that roughness in him, that intensity that never really fades, but itâs tempered now by the way he slows down for you, like heâs making sure youâre 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 heâs not ready to let the world back in yet.
you donât say anything and he doesnât either.
the moment already said it for you.
youâre not together, not officially, at least not yet. but thereâs a closeness now. a gravity. a way he moves around you like youâre already his.
itâs 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 youâre standing too far away for his liking. heâll brush something off your cheek with his thumb, barely thinking about it, and then look away like he didnât 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. youâll be lying on your stomach doing homework, and heâll be sitting against the headboard, legs stretched out, one hand resting on your lower back like heâs 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 heâs trying to figure out how you ended up under his skin so fast.
he kisses you more now too.
itâs casual, almost careless. heâll lean down and press his mouth to your cheek while youâre talking. heâll kiss the corner of your mouth when youâre pouting. heâll kiss your forehead when youâre 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.
heâs protective in ways he wasnât 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.
âthere you are!â she says, scooting over to make room. âyou look cute.â
you tug at the hem of the jerseyâhis jerseyâtrying not to look as flustered as you feel. âitâs big.â
âitâs supposed to be big,â cana says, nudging you. âthatâs the point.â
you roll your eyes, but your cheeks warm anyway.
because itâs true. you didnât ask to wear it. he didnât ask you to wear it.
he just tossed it at you before heading out, muttering, âput it on,â like it was nothing. like it wasnât the loudest thing heâs ever said.
cana leans forward, eyes scanning the field. âheâs already looking for you.â
âgirlâŚâ she says, pointing, âheâs staring directly at you.â
laxus is supposed to be warming up, but instead heâs watching you, jaw set, eyes sharp, gaze flicking to the jersey like heâs checking to make sure itâs still on you. when he sees you looking back, he doesnât smileâhe just gives a small nod, the kind that says good. wait for me.
cana smirks. âheâs ridiculous.â
âyouâre ridiculous.â
âiâm not the one wearing my boyfriendâs name on my back.â
you elbow her, but you donât deny it.
the game is brutal. it's all tackles, shoves, adrenaline. and laxus plays like heâs got something to prove.
âhe's showing off for you!â she yells, shaking your shoulders.
youâre 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.
âgo,â she says, pushing you forward. âheâs looking for you.â
âhe is literally scanning the crowd like a pissed-off golden retriever. go before he starts knocking people over.â
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 youâre the only thing he sees.
âhey,â he says, voice rough.
âhey,â you echo, shy.
he tugs lightly at the hem of the jersey, eyes dropping to where it hangs off your shoulder. âlooks good on you.â
you flush. âyou said to wear it.â
âyeah,â he mutters, âbut i didnât think itâd look that good.â
you swat his arm. âyouâre sweaty.â
youâre about to argue when he steps closer â close enough that you feel the heat of him, close enough that the noise of the stadium fades into a hum.
âthanks for coming,â he says, softer now.
his eyes flick to your lips. âyeah. you do.â
you swallow. âstop looking at me like that...â
âlikeââ you gesture vaguely at his face. âthat.â
âcanât help it.â 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 heâs been waiting all game to do it.
when he pulls back, youâre breathless.
he leans his forehead against yours, voice low. âi love you.â
he rolls his eyes, but heâs smiling. âdonât make me say it again.â
he sighs, dramatic. âi love you.â
you grin, cheeks burning. âi love you too.â
