Work Text:
A Bruh Girl
By: I Should Be Sleeping (AKA) Moar Sleep
Disclaimer: I own nothing
Paul realized that his little imprint was a built different.
Of course, he knew this when he first imprinted on the little spitfire. He had been minding his own business doing a routine grocery run for Emily when he had literally tripped over his soulmate. In his defense, she had been kneeling and looking at off brand cereals on the bottom shelf and he was just stupidly tall. This resulted in him falling over her crouched form and eating shit in aisle six of the only Walmart in Forks.
She was all hair and huffy indignation as she glared murderously at him, and he briefly recalled her calling him a “gormless git” in that fucking sexy accent of hers before gathering her inferior cereal choice and storming away.
Paul had found himself laying prone. His jaw was slack as he had caught the fiery honeyed orbs of that tiny bit before she whirled around on worn trainers, tiny shorts cupping that perfect ass of hers.
He could have said more, but he was currently having what Jared would have called an existential crisis and trying to gather his scattered thoughts and what little dignity he had left. It took a whole of two minutes before he realized that he had just fucking imprinted, and she had walked away!
It was not difficult to find her as he could hop up and peer over shelves into other aisles to see that cloud of curls that made her look like she had been fucked good and hard. Spirits that better not be the reason her hair looked like that because he was going to lose it and break necks!
Not so subtlety turning the corner and wearing a rather nervous expression on his usually confident features probably made him look more pathetic that he realized. However, it worked out for him because she cooled down and looked at him with genuine concern.
“Hi,” he said.
She blinked those large eyes of her. Jesus! She was tiny! The top of those wild curls barely brushed his clavicle, and he was pretty sure it gave her at least two extra inches of height.
“Are you well?”
Paul blinked. He had not imagined the accent and it sounded better than he realized. It would probably sound better rasping his name in ecstasy.
She frowned when he did not respond immediately, and he said the first thing that came to his mind.
“That cereal is shit.”
Honeyed eyes glanced down at her shopping trolley – because of course she called a cart a fucking trolley – and raised a brow in his direction.
“Just because it does not have a cartoon character and is saturated in sugar, does not make it any less. It is also healthier and cheaper.”
Paul could listen to her read the dictionary. Her voice was pure sex.
Her nose scrunched as she looked to be considering his mental facilities. He really could not blame her. In hindsight, he did look like an idiot.
“Well,” she began after a few beats of silence. “I will just continue shopping practically and leave you be.”
Paul panicked again and he scrambled again to prolong the conversation.
“You’re short.”
Now she really looked at him as if he probably had a learning disability and if she was not so adorable, he probably would have denied looking so pitiful. But he was man enough to admit that he definitely looked unfortunate and lucky for him, his imprint had a bleeding heart for the sad cases.
“What is your name?”
“Paul. Paul Oberon Lahote.”
Paul winced when he said his middle name, hating the pansy ass fairy character his mother had named him after in Shakespeare’s, A Midsummer Night’s Dream. His mom was obsessed with the dead poet and all kinds of literature. He had spent far more than he liked having it read to him as a kid.
He never really got into it, but he did like his mother’s voice and if there was anyone in the world Paul adored, it was his mother. So yea, he could recite Shakespeare and other obscure Greek tragedies, but he would fucking hold hands with Emmett Cullen before he admitted it!
He usually never mentioned his middle name and had gotten enough shit growing up for having such a fucking stupid name, but he found he suffered from word vomit with his imprint.
Instead of puzzled, she looked genuinely pleased.
What now? What did he do and how could he replicate it?
“Oberon? From a Midsummer Night’s Dream?”
Paul blinked once.
Twice.
Three times.
“Yes.”
She knew that shit?
Those full lips of hers stretched into a warm smile that had his heart skipping a beat. The fuck!? Shit. This girl already owned him, and she just smiled!
“My name is Hermione.”
“The Winter’s Tale.”
As if her smile couldn’t be any more radiant, his imprint proved him wrong and cranked it up to eleven!
Fuck, that was beautiful.
His mouth moved of its own accord again. “Or is your mother’s name Helen?”
And that was how he found himself with her number scrawled across the palm of his hand in blue sharpie and a flirtatious wink thrown his way.
He decided then that his mother was a fucking Saint and he was going to give her the biggest hug later tonight.
Half a year later and they were in a pretty good place, and he was fuckin happy as shit!
Currently he was sitting in the passenger seat of his truck, his tiny imprint driving his huge ass vehicle with ease. She had to use a booster seat to see up over the dash and was currently wearing heels to reach the gas, but she handled his baby like a fucking pro.
She was all relaxed and fuck him if he did not find her sexier when she drove like this.
Her legs were spread like a total fucking bruh, left hand on the wheel and the right resting above his knee, fingertips curling into his inner thigh.
“Fucking hell baby girl. You drive like a bruh and you are so hot!”
Hermione laughed and shrugged her shoulders. “I like holding onto my man when I am driving.”
“Baby, you keep doing you. I know who wears the pants in this relationship.”
She snorted. “That is only because you go commando.”
Paul rolled his eyes. Pants. Trousers. Fucking toe-may-toe, toe-mah-toe. His girl knew what he meant, but she was cheeky like that, and he loved it.