ncsdlr

[ncsdlr]

Are you a girl?

?? yes🧍‍♀️

[ncsdlr]

Can't Have One Fucking Night ISTG

Billie Eilish x Reader

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Billie’s sofa had basically molded itself to your body at this point. You were half-sprawled across her, your legs draped over her lap while some random movie flickered across the TV—neither of you paying enough attention to remember the plot.

Billie’s arm was thrown casually over the backrest, her fingers tracing lazy shapes on your shoulder like she wasn’t even aware of it. She snorted suddenly at the screen.

“Okay but like… that’s the dumbest line of dialogue I’ve ever heard. Who wrote this?” she muttered, shaking her head.

You smirked. “Oh, because you’re a scriptwriter now?”

Billie tilted her head, giving you that slow grin. “I mean, clearly I’d be better than that. Did you hear what he just said? Sounds like an AI wrote it.”

You laughed, swatting her knee. “Shut up.”

The laughter faded into a comfortable silence. You shifted, tucking your head against her shoulder, the rhythm of her thumb brushing against your arm suddenly feeling way more noticeable. For a while, it was just the hum of the TV and the quiet sound of her breathing beside you.

Then, almost as if the thought just dropped into your brain, you said it casually:

“Wanna go out?”

Billie blinked, tilting her head down to look at you. “Out? Like… into society? With people?”

“Yeah.” You shrugged like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Why not?”

She squinted at you, mock-suspicious. “You’re plotting something.”

You grinned. “I’m plotting a date, dumbass.”

“Alright, c’mon. If we’re gonna ‘go out,’ you’re not wearing my hoodie that’s three sizes too big.”

You groaned, clutching the fabric dramatically. “But it’s comfortable.”

She smirked, leaning down to kiss your forehead. “Yeah, because it’s mine. Change.”

The two of you ended up side by side in her room, Billie rooting through her closet while you sat on the edge of the bed pretending to help. She tossed clothes over her shoulder like she was auditioning for a fashion montage, pausing every now and then to hold something up against her body.

“You’re literally gonna look better than me no matter what,” she grumbled, wrinkling her nose at the pile on the floor.

“Facts,” you teased, earning a playful shove.

It was light, easy—until you stood up to check yourself in the mirror. That’s when the room tilted a little. Just a flash, barely enough to make you blink twice. Your chest felt a touch heavier than usual, your throat scratchier.

You brushed it off. Probably nothing.

By the time you slipped your jacket on, though, you could already feel that faint ache building behind your temples. Billie glanced at you as she grabbed her bag.

“You good?” she asked, brow creasing just a little.

“Yeah.” You forced a smile, waving it off. “Just tired. I’ll be fine.”

And it was true—you would be fine. Tonight mattered too much to let a little weariness ruin it. You hadn’t had a night off together in weeks, both of you swallowed up by the whirlwind of schedules and cameras. The last thing you were going to do was cancel.

But when the two of you finally stepped out into the cool night air, it hit you harder. The weight in your chest pressed deeper, your head fuzzier, but you straightened your shoulders and ignored it. This was your night with Billie—you weren’t about to waste it.

---

The restaurant wasn’t crowded, but it was just busy enough to give you both some anonymity. Billie always had that way of drawing eyes anyway—hood up, rings glinting under the dim light, leaning back in her chair like she owned the place.

You tried to focus on her, but that dull ache in your head hadn’t gone away since earlier. It was subtle, like the promise of a headache waiting in the wings. The scratch in your throat was still there too, annoying but easy enough to ignore—at least for now.

She caught you staring and smirked. “What?”

“Nothing,” you said quickly, taking a sip of your drink. The cold fizz felt good against your throat, but it didn’t do much to steady the heaviness sinking in behind your eyes.

Billie raised her brows like she didn’t buy it, then leaned forward on her elbows, voice dropping low enough that only you could hear. “You keep looking at me like that, people are gonna know we’re on a date.”

You rolled your eyes, about to shoot something back—when you felt her hand slide casually under the table and settle on your thigh.

Your words caught in your throat.

She didn’t even look at you—just kept her eyes on the menu like she wasn’t doing anything. Her thumb brushed lazy little circles over the fabric of your pants, and you swore your heart rate doubled instantly… though maybe that was the heat already running through your body from whatever bug was trying to creep in.

“Billie,” you warned, half because of her antics, half because you weren’t sure how much longer you could hold yourself steady without giving away how weird you felt.

“Hmm?” She tilted her head, picture of innocence.

The heat of her hand crept higher, slow enough to make you squirm. You shifted in your seat, trying to keep your expression neutral. Between Billie’s teasing and the faint pulse pounding in your temples, it was getting harder to tell which was making you more restless.

“You’re twitchy,” she murmured, still pretending to study the menu.

“Because you’re being—”

“Fun?” she cut in, finally glancing at you with that smug grin.

You gave her a sharp look, but before you could retort, the server arrived with your drinks. Just like that, Billie’s hand slipped away, her attention flipping to small talk about appetizers like nothing happened.

You sat there, pulse still racing, head still heavy, trying not to let either show. Billie only caught your eye once, smirking around the rim of her glass as she took a sip—completely unaware of the storm starting to build inside you.

--

The appetizers had just landed, Billie picking at hers while you tried to convince your stomach it was up for food. Somewhere between talking about the movie you half-watched earlier and her rant about the restaurant playlist, her hand found its way back onto your thigh under the table.

This time, it wasn’t deliberate. Her fingers just rested there, warm through your jeans, occasionally shifting a little higher when she gestured with her other hand or leaned forward in the conversation. She didn’t even seem to notice what she was doing.

You let it ground you, even as your body ached with that quiet heaviness.

“…We’re both so busy all the time,” Billie was saying, chewing on a fry like it personally offended her. “It’s stupid. I feel like I see you less now than when we first started talking, and that doesn’t even make sense.”

You smiled faintly, though your chest tightened at how right she was. “It’s the schedules. I mean—you’re everywhere, and then I’m everywhere, just not the same places.”

Her eyes softened. She pushed her plate aside and leaned in on her elbows, thumb brushing over your leg absentmindedly. “We can’t keep doing that. Not like this. I hate it.”

Something in you cracked a little at how sincere she sounded. The tiredness in her voice matched your own.

“We’ll figure it out,” you promised quietly. “Even if it’s stupid little stuff. Like—coffee runs. Or late-night FaceTimes when we’re not in the same city. Or…” You trailed off, shrugging. “Just… anything. I don’t care what it looks like, as long as I get you in it.”

Billie’s grin was small but real. She squeezed your thigh gently, finally aware of the touch, but not pulling away. “That’s cute. Gross, but cute.”

You laughed, the sound raspier than you meant, and immediately took another sip of water to cover it.

---

By the time you both stepped out of the restaurant, your head felt like it was filled with static. Every step weighed heavy, the night air cooler than you expected and somehow making the ache in your chest sharper.

Billie, of course, didn’t notice. She was still riding the high of being out with you, hood up, grin flashing every time you glanced her way.

She brushed her hand against yours, then casually let her fingers slide down, hooking into your back pocket as the two of you walked. “I’m stealing this,” she murmured.

You snorted, though it came out weaker than you wanted. “That’s not how stealing works.”

“Shhh.” Billie leaned in closer, lips grazing your ear like she was about to say something scandalous. “People probably think I’m dragging you home to ruin you.”

Your stomach flipped, but not entirely for the reason she thought. Heat curled low, sure—but so did nausea. You swallowed hard, forcing a grin. “You’re an idiot.”

She laughed, pulling back just enough to glance at you with that mischievous look, hand still firm against you like she had every right to claim space there. “And you like it.”

The world tilted a little as you both rounded the corner, and before you could get your bearings, the noise hit—shouts, voices, the telltale pop-pop-pop of camera shutters.

It was instant. Paparazzi seemed to appear out of nowhere, cameras flashing bright, fans calling Billie’s name, a few yelling yours too. The sidewalk filled with noise and bodies, and the flashes turned the night into a strobe light.

Your pulse spiked. The heaviness in your chest slammed down harder, vision warping around the edges. Billie’s hand left your pocket to grip yours instead, tugging you protectively closer as the crowd pressed in.

“Just keep walking,” she muttered under her breath, keeping her voice calm even as her jaw clenched.

You nodded, or thought you did, but your body wasn’t cooperating anymore. Your ears rang with the chaos, your steps growing uneven. The warmth of her hand was the only tether keeping you upright as everything blurred.

You made it maybe five more feet before the world went white with another flash—then nothing at all.

“Baby!” Billie’s voice snapped sharp with alarm the second your steps faltered. You barely registered it before your knees buckled.

“Hey—hey!” She caught you fast, arms wrapping around your waist before you could hit the ground. The cameras popped louder, the crowd shouting questions, but all Billie could hear was her own heartbeat thundering in her ears.

She lowered you carefully, cradling you against her chest like you were something breakable. Your head lolled, vision swimming, and that was all it took for her to lose it.

“Back the fuck up!” Billie shouted, her voice slicing through the chaos. The cameras didn’t stop, their flashes relentless, but she turned with you shielded in her arms, putting her body between you and the swarm.

“She’s not—she’s not okay, move!” Billie’s voice cracked on the words, anger and fear twisting together. Her grip tightened around you as she tried to push through, her hoodie slipping back enough for her face to be caught in every blinding photo.

“Do you not get it? She just fucking collapsed—stop shoving cameras in her face!” she snapped, nearly snarling as a paparazzo stepped closer.

Her arm curled protectively around your shoulders, pulling you into her as if she could physically block every flash, every shout, every grabbing hand. The world around her blurred into noise and light, but she didn’t care—her whole focus was on keeping you upright, your faint breaths against her chest the only thing keeping her from breaking.

“Baby, stay with me,” she whispered against your hair, trying to keep her voice steady for you even as panic raced hot in her chest.

Then she looked up, glare sharp as knives. “Move. Out of the fucking way.”

Her tone dropped low, lethal. The kind that made people actually listen. Even as the cameras kept flashing, the crowd parted just enough for her to maneuver you through. She tightened her arm around you, half-carrying, half-guiding until you were both at her car.

The second the doors slammed shut behind you, the chaos muted to a dull roar. Billie exhaled shakily, fumbling with the seatbelt to secure you before pulling out her phone with trembling fingers.

Not 911. Not the hospital. She scrolled straight to the private contact she trusted—someone who could come to the house, no questions asked, no headlines made.

Her hand found yours again, gripping tight. “You’re okay, baby. I got you. We’re going home.”

She muscled through anyway, shielding your body with hers until she got you to the car. She wrenched the door open and eased you inside, fumbling with the seatbelt until it clicked. Her hand lingered on your cheek, brushing your hair back. “Almost home, I promise.”

Billie slammed your door shut and rounded to her side, yanking hers open. The moment she slipped behind the wheel, flashes exploded again—paps pressing close, cameras practically against the glass.

“Are you kidding me?” she hissed, laying on the horn. The car filled with the blare, but the mob barely budged, still snapping away like you were both exhibits in a zoo.

“Back the fuck up!” she shouted through the window, fury sharp and raw. She gripped the wheel so tight her knuckles went white, jaw set as she leaned on the horn again. The cameras didn’t care. The noise, the flashes, the invasion—it just kept coming, merciless.

Billie turned her head toward you, chest heaving, trying to ground herself. Her hand found yours across the console, squeezing hard. “I’ll get us out of here,” she whispered, a promise through clenched teeth.

--

The ride home was silent except for the hum of the engine and Billie’s occasional curses under her breath whenever another flash went off from a car trailing behind. But once she pulled through the gates and the world finally disappeared behind high walls, the silence felt safer.

She parked haphazardly in the driveway, barely turning the car off before she was out of her seat and at your side.

“Baby,” she murmured, opening your door carefully. Her hands slid under your arms to guide you out, steady even though her heart was racing a mile a minute. “I got you. We’re home now.”

The house was dim, quiet, a sharp contrast to the chaos outside. Billie led you straight to the couch, easing you down gently. You barely had time to blink before she was crouching in front of you, brushing damp hair from your forehead with trembling fingers.

“You’re burning up,” she whispered, fear flickering across her face before she masked it with action. She grabbed her phone, already dialing.

“Hey—it’s me,” she said when the call picked up, her tone clipped but urgent. “I need you at my place now. She’s not okay. Bring whatever you need.”

By the time she hung up, her hands were back on you—one holding yours, the other resting against your knee like she couldn’t stand to lose contact.

“Don’t scare me like that again,” she muttered, voice rough, though her thumb stroked your hand gently. She leaned forward, pressing her forehead to yours. “I swear I’ll chain us to this couch forever if it means you don’t pass out on me in the middle of the street again.”

Despite the weight in your chest, a laugh bubbled out of you, weak but real. Billie exhaled shakily at the sound, pulling you closer until your head rested against her shoulder.

The room swayed in and out of focus, shadows stretching too long, colors bleeding into each other.

You blinked hard, trying to clear it, but the haze clung stubbornly. Your chest rose heavy, each breath an effort.

“Hey, hey—look at me,” Billie’s voice cut through, soft but firm. She crouched low in front of you, hands warm around your own. You forced your eyes open and found her face hovering close, green eyes frantic and glossy in the dim light.

“I’m right here,” she murmured, thumb brushing across your knuckles. “You’re safe. Just breathe with me, yeah?”

You tried. Inhale. Exhale. It didn’t match her steady rhythm, not really, but the cadence of her words anchored you—like she was tugging you back from somewhere too far.

“I’m fine,” you rasped, though the lie scraped rough against your throat.

Her jaw clenched, but she nodded anyway, like she didn’t want to push. She shifted up onto the couch beside you, tugging you against her chest until your head was tucked under her chin. One hand rubbed slow circles between your shoulder blades, the other gripping your knee like she might lose you if she let go.

“Stay with me,” she whispered again, softer now. “I’ve got you. Just let it pass, baby. I’ve got you.”

The haze pulled heavy, but her voice threaded through it, warm and steady, every word a tether. You let yourself sink into her, body weak but heart easing just a little, wrapped up in the one thing stronger than the storm pressing down on you—her.

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[ncsdlr]

idk why i have ur notifs on but never get them

Perhaps you can check your phone settings? Idk I’ll check my tumblr settings too see if I can fix anything on my end bb

[ncsdlr]

She Found Out. She Fell. She Proved.

Zora Bennett x Reader

Hi, I am currently working my way through you're Zora Bennett x reader fanfics. They are phenomenal. You got Zora's characterization to a T. She's tough but so soft for the ones around her. The way you write her is just perfection. And she always has chemistry with every version of R you create. I know you are taking requests write now and I was wondering if you could write an established relationship Zora x Reader one shot where R is the one that falls during the Quetzalcoatlus scene. And instead of immediately being able to varify she is in fact alive like loomis did. For whatever reason she is unable to (maybe she hit her head or something) and Zora thinks she's dead for a stretch of time. She does not handle it well to say the least. She kind of loses her mind in a "I've just lost the love of my life" sort of way. And perhaps some emotional reunion smut. If thats not your vibe it's totally okay. I am enjoying going through your masterlist. And will love whatever you write. Thank you for sharing your stories with us.

Please do a part 2 to you wanna know so badly where they are in the island. 🙌🏻

Smut

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You were all stood in the clearing on the cliff, preparing equipment under the hot sun. The forest felt too alive. Every sound—the snap of a twig, the rustle in the canopy—made your nerves stand up sharp. The crew moved in a loose line, muttering about water sources and safe ground, but you kept your eyes forward. Kept your pace steady. Kept your distance.

Zora didn’t.

You felt her gaze on you every time you stumbled over a root or shoved a branch aside. She didn’t say a word. She didn’t have to. Her silence pressed harder than her voice ever could.

You told yourself you were fine. That she didn’t matter. That you hadn’t been thinking about the cabin—about her hands, her mouth, her orders—since the second she’d walked out and left you shaking.

And then the shadow hit.

A rush of wings—massive, prehistoric, shrieking through the treetops. The crew shouted, scattered, gunfire cracking uselessly against scales and feathers. You barely had time to duck before the creature dove, claws raking through the underbrush.

Zora’s voice snapped through the chaos: “Down! Everyone down!”

You ran. Or tried to. The ground shifted under your boots, a slick patch of moss, and then—nothing.

The world tilted.

Your body slammed against stone, then earth, pain detonating at the back of your skull. Your ears rang. Vision blurred. You felt yourself sliding, tumbling through branches, until the forest swallowed you whole.

Everything went black.

---

Zora had never felt panic like this. Not even when the boat went under. Not even in firefights where bullets chewed the air inches from her head.

One second you were there—all stubborn chin and sharp words, pushing through the brush like you had something to prove. The next—you were gone.

The sound of you hitting the rocks still rang in her ears, louder than the creature’s screech. Louder than her men shouting.

Her boots slid on the slope as she pushed through them, through the wreckage of trampled brush, teeth bared at anyone who tried to slow her down. One hand curled tight around her knife, the other balled in a fist so tight her knuckles cracked. If she let them see her shaking, she’d never forgive herself.

“No, no, no…” Her voice was a rasp, ripped raw from her chest. “She’s not—she’s not gone. Not like this.”

One of her men grabbed her arm, muttering something about the drop being too steep, too dangerous, the creature circling back. She turned on him so fast he flinched.

“You think I care about danger?” she spat, venom hot in her throat. “She’s down there.”

The man stammered, tried again—protocol, safety, regroup.

Zora shoved her rifle into his chest so hard it knocked him back a step. “Cover me or get out of my way.”

Her eyes were blazing, too wild, too unsteady. For the first time since any of them had followed her, her men saw the cracks. Saw that this wasn’t their boss talking—this was something else. Someone else.

The woman who never lost her cool, who calculated every move three steps ahead—she was gone. In her place was someone who couldn’t breathe right, whose whole body strained forward like if she didn’t reach you now, she never would.

She didn’t wait for an answer. She didn’t care.

Zora was already moving, sliding down the incline with dirt in her teeth and branches clawing at her arms, like pain didn’t matter. Like nothing mattered but you.

---

The forest was too quiet after the attack. No wingbeats. No screeches. Just the distant drip of water and the pounding in Zora’s skull.

Her crew fanned out behind her, weapons raised, boots crunching on leaves. They were searching—but not for the creature. Not anymore.

Every few yards, Zora barked orders: “Check the ridge. Look for tracks.” Her voice was steady, clipped, the way it always was. But her men could hear it. The jagged edge underneath. The strain.

One of them muttered, low, “She probably didn’t make the fall—”

Zora’s knife was out before the sentence finished. The blade glinted under his chin, her hand steady even if the rest of her wasn’t.

“She made it.” Her voice was ice. Absolute. “Do you want to be gutted like a fish?”

The man froze, throat bobbing against the steel. Zora stared at him a second longer, jaw tight, before shoving the knife back into its sheath and storming on.

They followed without another word.

Branches whipped at her arms, vines tugged at her legs, the incline tried to drag her down—but she pushed harder, faster. Her throat burned. Her chest ached. All she could see when she blinked was you slipping from sight, your body vanishing into the green.

Every second you were out of reach made her pace sharper, more desperate. She snapped at her men when they hesitated, cursed under her breath when the trail split, shoved her way through thorn and brush like the cuts didn’t matter.

She couldn’t let herself think about what they might find at the bottom.

She wouldn’t.

---

The crash through the undergrowth was deafening—boots pounding, rifles up, men shouting—but none of it touched you. Not until Zora dropped to her knees in the dirt beside you.

Her hands hovered over your chest, your face, like she couldn’t decide whether to check for injuries or just convince herself you were real. Her jaw was clenched, her eyes burning, but her voice—her voice cracked.

“You’re alive.”

You tried to answer, but she was already brushing dirt from your hair, fingertips trembling. Her throat worked like she had more to say, but it stuck there, choking her.

Behind her, the team shifted. One cleared his throat. “Zor'—we should move before—”

Zora’s head snapped around, eyes sharp enough to cut.

“Perimeter. Now.”

“Z, with respect—”

“Do not,” she hissed, every syllable lined with threat, “make me repeat myself.”

The men glanced at each other, then peeled back, fanning out through the trees. Reluctant, but gone.

Silence. Just you, her, and the hiss of your own uneven breaths.

Zora leaned in close again, forehead almost touching yours. For a second, you thought she’d finally let the anger spill—but instead it came out broken, wet around the edges:

“I thought I lost you.” Her hands tightened on your arms. “I thought you were gone. You don’t get to do that to me. You don’t.”

You opened your mouth—an apology, a reassurance, you weren’t sure which—but she cut you off with a kiss. Hard, frantic, desperate. Nothing like the control she’d shown before.

When she pulled back, her pupils were blown, her breath ragged. She grabbed your wrist, shoved your hand down against her stomach, lower, pressing.

“I need to know you’re actually here,” she rasped, voice all gravel and fear. “With me. Prove it.”

Zora’s kiss knocked the air out of you, but when she pulled back, the world spun again. The pounding in your skull reminded you just how hard you’d hit the ground.

“Wait—” You pressed a palm to your temple, wincing. “Zora, I—my head…”

Her eyes flicked over your face, frantic again. “You hit it?”

You nodded, slow. “Feels like a drum’s in there. I’m fine, just… dizzy.”

She cursed under her breath, tugging your chin side to side, checking your pupils like she’d done this a hundred times before. Her hands were rough, sure, but careful in a way that made your chest ache.

“Concussion, maybe. Nothing’s broken.” She exhaled sharp, almost a laugh. “Of course you’d scare the shit out of me and still manage to be stubborn about it.”

You tried for a smirk, but it came out weaker than you wanted. “Didn’t plan on falling.”

Her jaw clenched. She touched your cheek, finally letting her thumb brush the bruise blooming near your temple. For a second, she just looked at you—like she was cataloging every freckle, every scratch, committing you to memory in case she blinked and you were gone again.

That was when her voice cracked, low and raw:

“I thought you were dead.”

You swallowed hard. “I’m not.”

Her breath stuttered. She leaned in again, mouth ghosting yours, whispering like it cost her everything to admit it:

“Then show me. Prove it.”

Her hand slid yours lower, pressing it against the heat between her thighs—her excuse thin, her desperation anything but.

Her grip was iron around your wrist, shoving your hand harder against her. “Don’t make me say it three times now,” she rasped, eyes burning into yours.

You swallowed, pulse pounding. She was trembling—but not from fear. From restraint. From the thin thread she was holding herself together with.

“Zora—”

“Now.”

Her voice cracked halfway through the word, and that was all it took. You slid your hand beneath the waistband of her pants, and she gasped—sharp, needy, nothing like the unshakable commander she always pretended to be.

“Fuck,” she hissed, forehead pressing to yours. “That’s it. Right there. Don’t stop.”

Her nails dug into your shoulder as your fingers found her wet and aching. She bucked into your touch, breath ragged, muttering curses into the dirt-scented air.

You worked her steady, stroking slow at first, then harder when her thighs tensed around your wrist. She was already close—panic and adrenaline twisting into raw, frantic need.

“You don’t know what it did to me,” she whispered, voice breaking against your jaw. “Seeing you fall. Thinking you were gone. I can’t—”

Her words cut off in a moan as you curled your fingers inside her. She bit your neck to muffle the sound, teeth sharp enough to leave a mark.

“Quiet,” you breathed against her ear, echoing her own command from before.

That made her shudder.

Her hips rolled into your hand, desperate, relentless. She was clinging to you like if she let go for even a second, you’d vanish again.

“Prove it,” she begged, voice shaking now. “Prove you’re still here—make me—”

Her words dissolved into a broken cry as she came, hard, grinding into your fingers until her whole body shuddered. You held her through it, hand steady, chest pressed tight to hers.

When she finally stilled, breath ragged and uneven, she slumped against you. For once, Zora Bennett didn’t look untouchable. She looked wrecked. Human. Yours.

“Still here,” you whispered, brushing damp hair from her temple. “I’m not going anywhere.”

She laughed—hoarse, shaky, disbelieving. Then kissed you again, softer this time, like the promise wasn’t just yours to make.

Her breath was still shuddering against your mouth, body lax and trembling in your arms. You thought maybe—for once—that was it. That she’d let herself rest.

Then her hand shot out, fisting your shirt, dragging your gaze back to hers.

“Again.”

The word was hoarse. Raw. Not a request—an order.

Your brows knit. “Zora, you just—”

Her eyes flared, sharp even through the wreckage of her release. “I said again.”

She grabbed your wrist and shoved your hand back between her thighs, already slick, already pulsing with need. She was insatiable, unyielding, her desperation sharper now than her pride.

“Don’t stop,” she growled, though her voice cracked halfway through. “Not until I say. Not until I can feel you. All of you. Until I know you’re not going anywhere.”

Her hips ground down against your fingers like she was trying to erase the memory of losing you, overwrite it with this—your touch, your proof, your devotion.

And you gave it to her. Again. And again.

Each orgasm tore another ragged sound from her throat, each one more desperate than the last, until her legs shook and her grip on you was bruising. Still, when you tried to slow, she snapped:

“Don’t you dare. Again. Just one more time, baby, come on."

She was trembling now, sweat slicking her hair to her temple, thighs shaking around your hand.

But this time—you didn’t move right away.

Her brows furrowed, lips parted. “Did you not hear me?”

You caught her chin, forced her to meet your gaze. “No. Let me call the shots this time.”

Her eyes darkened, but the protest never made it past her throat—not when you slid your fingers back inside her slow, deliberate, curling just right. Her head dropped against your shoulder, a strangled sound ripping from her chest.

“God—”

“Shhh.” You dragged the pace, relentless but controlled, ignoring the way she bucked to chase more.

Her nails tore at your back, her breath hitched in short, wild bursts. Every time she tried to grind faster, you slowed, pulling her back from the edge just to watch her break.

“You hate this,” you whispered into her ear, curling your fingers deep until she gasped, “don’t you? Me being in charge for once.”

She shook her head violently, words slurred with need. “I don’t—I don’t hate it—fuck—”

You pressed your thumb to her clit, steady and merciless. “Then take it. One more for me. Please, Z.”

Her whole body arched, a ragged cry tearing loose as she shattered around you—louder, harder, more desperate than the ones before. She convulsed in your arms, hips jerking, thighs trembling until she finally collapsed against you, spent and gasping.

You held her tight, fingers easing out, lips brushing her damp hair. “That’s it. So pretty.”

For once, Zora didn’t answer with an order. Just a broken laugh, muffled against your neck. Her arms came around you, clinging, her voice raw and soft when she finally breathed:

“You're still here.”

For a long time, neither of you moved. Your chest heaved against hers, both of you fighting to breathe, the forest pressing in around the edges of the moment.

Zora’s forehead stayed pressed to yours, her hand still clutching the back of your neck like if she let go, you’d disappear again.

Slowly, her breaths steadied. Not calm, not yet—but closer.

You felt the brush of her mouth—once, twice, then again. Tiny kisses, messy and frantic, dotting across your lips, your cheek, the corner of your jaw. Like she couldn’t stop herself. Like every touch was another way to say you’re here. You’re mine.

Finally, she pulled back just far enough to look at you. Her eyes were still wild, but her voice was lower now, hoarse with something she wouldn’t name.

“Let’s get back with the team, hm?”

----------------------------------------

aye done did it

[ncsdlr]

hi i love your work!! can i request public teasing with billie? maybe at like a bar or someone’s house up to you

out tomorrow bb

[ncsdlr]

Hi! I have a request for Billie:

Billie x famous!reader

Both of them are used to the flashing cameras and loud fans whenever they step out into the public. One night, reader isn’t feeling too well. She’s starting come down with something, but doesn’t want to reschedule another date with Billie since this is the first time in a while that they’ve had a break to themselves. As they’re leaving the building, fans mob them and start yelling and the paparazzi’s camera flashes are continuous and blinding. As they keep walking down the street, reader starts to feel faint: her heart’s racing, her vision is becoming blurry, and her ears are starting to ring. She makes it a few more feet before she faints and collapses to the ground.

out tomorrow bb

[ncsdlr]

Please do a part 2 to you wanna know so badly where they are in the island. 🙌🏻

out later bb

[ncsdlr]

Hi, I am currently working my way through you're Zora Bennett x reader fanfics. They are phenomenal. You got Zora's characterization to a T. She's tough but so soft for the ones around her. The way you write her is just perfection. And she always has chemistry with every version of R you create.

I know you are taking requests write now and I was wondering if you could write an established relationship Zora x Reader one shot where R is the one that falls during the Quetzalcoatlus scene. And instead of immediately being able to varify she is in fact alive like loomis did. For whatever reason she is unable to (maybe she hit her head or something) and Zora thinks she's dead for a stretch of time. She does not handle it well to say the least. She kind of loses her mind in a "I've just lost the love of my life" sort of way. And perhaps some emotional reunion smut.

If thats not your vibe it's totally okay. I am enjoying going through your masterlist. And will love whatever you write. Thank you for sharing your stories with us.

out later bb

[ncsdlr]

I gotta write some fluff y’all gimme requests

[ncsdlr]

Thank you for the fic! I loved it!

Go get yourself a treat, you deserve it❤️

Uhmmm ive been going to go get a treat🤩

[ncsdlr]

Do u do Wednesday or Jenna Ortega?

I only know Jenna from scream, so no, sorry😔

[ncsdlr]

Can you do instead of just female reader can you make the reader intersex?

It’s weird that I don’t remember, but I’m pretty sure I have fics with gip reader???? Man idk. You can go check my masterlist ❤️ but just for good measure I’ll make more of gip reader for ya

[ncsdlr]

Lil' Vacay With Mommy

Regina George x Reader

Anygays! I was wondering if i could place an order for 1 Regina x fem!reader fic, where r is going on summer vacation with Gina’s family. 💸💰🤑With a sprinkle of sugar mommy!regina, fluff 🥰and a side of smut😉😏😈(don’t worry about the spicy level, I love the heat). For the drink can i please have a large glass of Regina and r’s witty banter( I love how you write their dialogue). And for dessert surprise me😜

Smut

----------------------------------

The first thing you notice is that Regina’s family doesn’t do vacations — they do escapes. The kind with private drivers and luggage carts and someone whose entire job seems to be refilling the champagne flutes you didn’t realize you were holding.

You’re barely off the tarmac before Regina’s linking arms with you, sunglasses perched on her head like a crown, hair catching the sunlight so obnoxiously perfectly that you consider checking if she travels with her own lighting crew.

“I told you to pack light,” she says, glancing at your rolling suitcase like it personally insulted her.

“This is light,” you defend. “I only brought the essentials.”

Her smirk is instant, lethal. “Essentials? Baby, there’s a denim jacket in there. This is a beach trip, not a midwestern farmer’s market.”

You arch a brow at the two garment bags hanging from her perfectly manicured fingers. “And what exactly do you call that?”

“Options,” she replies simply, tossing her hair. “Also known as ten swimsuits, three cover-ups, and the dress you’re wearing to dinner tomorrow night. You’re welcome.”

“Tomorrow night?” you echo.

She slips her sunglasses down over her eyes. “Already booked the table. Don’t embarrass me by wearing H&M.”

You roll your eyes, but she doesn’t miss the way you’re fighting a smile.

By the time you reach the beach house, it’s like walking into a catalog. Floor-to-ceiling windows, soft linen everything, and a balcony that looks out over water so blue it almost hurts to look at. Regina drops her bags in the master suite — of course she claims the master suite — and then turns to you like she’s been waiting all morning for this moment.

“Strip,” she says casually.

You blink. “Excuse me?”

Her grin turns wicked. “I’m putting you in something less… tragic. We’re going shopping.”

--

The boutique smells like money — not in the tacky, cologne-heavy way, but in that understated “we don’t have price tags here” way. Everything is white walls, gold racks, and sales associates who look like they’ve been briefed that Regina George is not to be told “no.”

You barely have time to glance at a linen dress before Regina’s behind you, one arm hooking loosely around your waist.

“Cute,” she murmurs, lips brushing your ear. “But not cute enough.”

You glance at the tag — your stomach tightens. “Reg, this is—”

“—Exactly what I want you in,” she interrupts, plucking the hanger from your hands and passing it to the hovering saleswoman. “In your size. And bring the sandals in the window. Both colors.”

You stare at her. “You can’t just—”

She tilts her head, eyes glittering. “I can. And I am. Unless you want to wear your ‘essentials’ all week.”

You should say no. You really should. But when she’s looking at you like that, half-smirk, half-challenge, it’s impossible.

The next twenty minutes are a blur of silk, linen, and Regina perched on a velvet seat like some designer-dripping queen, legs crossed, assessing every outfit you try. She doesn’t just look — she decides.

“That one’s perfect for dinner.” “Turn around. Yeah, that’s the one for the yacht.” “Mmm, keep those shorts. I like how they ride up when you bend over.”

You step out in a soft white sundress, the kind you’d never splurge on for yourself. Regina’s lips curl into slow satisfaction.

“There she is,” she says, almost to herself.

You tug at the hem. “It’s too much.”

She stands, closing the space between you until the air feels too warm. “No, baby. It’s exactly enough.” Her hand smooths over your hip before she pulls away, turning to the saleswoman. “We’ll take everything.”

You blink. “Everything?”

Regina just slides her card across the counter, not even glancing at the total. “I told you. I’m not letting you embarrass me.” Then, under her breath so only you hear: “Besides… I like dressing my toys.”

--

The sun is warm, the water glittering like something out of a movie, but your focus is entirely on Regina. She’s already arranged herself on the lounger, sunglasses perched on her nose, looking like she owns the beach — which, knowing her family, she might.

You set your towel beside hers without thinking, already glancing at the little table between you. “Do you want me to get you something to drink?”

One perfectly arched brow lifts over her lenses. “You’re sweet. Lemonade.”

You nod immediately, slipping off toward the cabana bar. When you come back, you hold the glass with both hands like it’s precious cargo, lowering it into hers carefully.

Her lips curl in a small, satisfied smile. “Good girl.”

Your cheeks warm. You settle on your lounger, but after a moment you glance over again. “Do you… want me to do your sunscreen?”

She doesn’t move, just tilts her head, considering you for a moment before turning onto her stomach. “If you insist.”

You kneel beside her, squeezing lotion into your palms and rubbing it gently into her back. She hums at your touch, and you’re so focused on making sure you get every spot — her shoulders, the delicate curve of her waist — that you don’t even notice her smirk.

“You’re very thorough,” she murmurs.

“I just want you to be comfortable,” you reply honestly, smoothing over her arms, careful not to tug at her bracelets.

Her head turns slightly, sunglasses hiding her eyes but not the warmth in her voice. “You’re so easy to spoil when you’re like this.”

Your chest does that little flutter it always does when she’s soft with you, and you’re about to thank her when she sits up just enough to pluck her tote from beside the lounger.

“Go get my card, baby.”

You blink. “For…?”

She smirks, like the answer should be obvious. “The shop by the pier. I saw a dress in the window that’s going to look obscene on you. And I don’t trust anyone else to bring it back in your size.”

Your instinct is to hesitate — it’s expensive, you know it is — but she’s already sliding the sleek black card into your hand, her fingers brushing yours deliberately.

“Go on,” she says, voice low but firm. “Don’t make me wait to see you in it.”

And just like that, you’re up, clutching her card like it’s a love letter, feeling her gaze follow you all the way down the boardwalk.

--

You step out of the fitting room, smoothing the dress over your hips, and Regina’s already leaning against the wall like she owns the place, phone in hand, pretending she’s not been waiting impatiently.

Her eyes drag up, slow, deliberate.

“Turn around.”

You do, the hem brushing your thighs, and when you face her again she’s smirking — that dangerous little curve of her lips that makes your pulse skip.

“Okay,” she says, standing and closing the space between you until the edge of the fitting room curtain brushes your back. “You have to make me come while you’re wearing that dress.”

Your breath catches. “Here?”

“Mhm.” She tilts her head, fingers ghosting over your jaw. “I just dropped two grand on it, baby. You’re going to make it worth it.”

-

The saleswoman has barely stepped away before Regina’s guiding you backward into the fitting room, one hand at the small of your back, the other pulling the curtain closed with a sharp swish. The space feels smaller instantly, thick with the scent of her perfume and the heat rolling off her body.

“Up,” she murmurs, tapping the little bench against the wall. You obey without thinking, sitting so the skirt of the dress rides up your thighs.

She takes a step back just to look at you — not the shy kind of looking, but the slow, claiming kind that makes your skin prickle.

“God, you’re perfect.” Her fingers hook in the hem, tugging it higher. “This dress was made for you.”

You open your mouth to thank her, but she leans in, lips brushing your ear. “I’m serious about what I said. You’re going to make me come while you’re wearing it.”

Your pulse jumps. “How?”

Regina smirks like she’s been waiting for you to ask. “However you want, baby. Just… make me feel it.”

You slide off the bench, dropping to your knees on the soft rug, your hands already pushing up her skirt. She makes no move to help, just leans back against the mirror, letting you undress her like it’s your privilege.

The second your mouth is on her, she exhales — a soft, spoiled sound — and sinks her fingers into your hair.

“That’s it,” she sighs, guiding you with just enough pressure to remind you she’s still the one in charge. “Good girl… don’t you dare stop until I say.”

The fitting room curtain sways slightly as she tilts her head back, her hips rocking in slow, deliberate rhythm, the hem of your new dress brushing against her legs with every movement.

You’re so lost in the heat of her voice, the taste of her, that you almost miss the low, breathless laugh she gives before coming undone.

“Now this,” she pants, pulling you up to kiss you without caring who might hear, “is how you earn designer.”

--

The restaurant is the kind of place where the menus don’t have prices, the wine list is longer than a novel, and every server seems to know Regina’s family by name. You’re seated at the head of a long table, the ocean visible through the open terrace doors, warm salt air drifting in.

You’re still in the dress. Regina made sure of it.

Her parents are mid-story about some investment property in Italy, her mom gesturing with her wine glass while her dad nods along, and you’re doing your best to follow — but every time you glance at Regina, she’s already looking at you.

That smirk.

That little curl at the corner of her mouth that says I’m remembering exactly how you looked on your knees two hours ago.

You shift in your seat, clearing your throat, but she just tilts her head innocently and cuts into her salmon.

“Everything okay, sweetheart?” her mom asks, glancing at you.

You nod quickly. “Yes, thank you. Everything’s… amazing.”

Regina’s hand slides under the tablecloth, her fingers brushing over your knee like it’s an accident. You shoot her a look, but she just sips her wine, her foot now nudging between yours.

“Baby,” she murmurs, low enough that only you can hear, “you’re blushing.”

You try to focus on her dad explaining the vintage of the wine, but Regina’s hand is moving higher under the table, the pads of her fingers pressing just enough to make your breath hitch.

She leans in, her lips grazing your ear without ever fully touching. “Good thing you’re wearing my dress, huh? Makes it easier to ruin you without anyone noticing.”

Your fork clinks against your plate, and she pulls away with that same serene smile she’s been wearing all night, as if she didn’t just light you on fire in the middle of a family dinner.

Dinner feels almost like a movie — the warm lighting, the soft clink of glasses, the low hum of conversation all blending into something cozy. You’re curled into your seat beside Regina, and she’s been playing with your hand under the table the entire time, tracing her thumb over your knuckles like she’s memorizing them.

You’re supposed to be listening to her mom talk about some art exhibit, but Regina leans over and whispers, “You’re so cute when you try to act serious.”

You bite back a smile, trying not to laugh out loud. “I am serious,” you whisper back.

“Mhm.” She grins, eyes sparkling. “That’s why your nose crinkles when you’re pretending to follow along.”

You giggle, trying to hide behind your water glass, but she tugs your chair just an inch closer to hers until your knees bump.

When dessert menus come around, she doesn’t even look at hers — just glances at you. “What do you want, baby?”

You hesitate. “Um… maybe the mousse?”

Regina waves the server over without missing a beat. “We’ll take the mousse. And the crème brûlée. And the gelato.” She looks back at you. “You can try them all. I want you to.”

You feel your cheeks warm. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” she says simply, squeezing your hand. “You make me happy, so I’m going to spoil you. That’s the deal.”

When the desserts arrive, she pulls the mousse toward you first, watching with this soft little smile as you take the first bite.

“Good?” she asks.

You nod, mouth too full to answer, and she actually laughs — a real, sweet laugh — before sliding the crème brûlée your way. “Try this one. I’ll finish whatever you don’t.”

It’s so easy, so warm, that you almost forget she’s Regina George — until she catches you looking at her and leans in to murmur, “God, I love it when you look at me like I hung the moon.”

You lean back, letting her words hang in the air for a beat, then smirk. "Wow… Regina George being nice? Should I call the news? Or is this one of those moments where you’ll deny it later and say I imagined it?"

Her eyes narrow just enough to warn you, but not enough to hide the twitch of a smile. "Keep talking and I’ll prove I wasn’t being nice."

You giggle, tilting your head. "Mmh, promise?"

---

The ocean is the first thing you hear when you wake. Soft, rhythmic, constant—like it’s been whispering to you all night. The sheets are warm, tangled, and they smell faintly of salt air and whatever Regina sprayed on her wrists before bed.

She’s already awake. You can tell by the way her leg is hooked over your hip, her body pressed against yours, robe loosened just enough that your hand could slip inside without resistance. She’s scrolling her phone lazily, but the moment she feels you stir, she tosses it onto the nightstand like it was never important.

“Morning, baby,” she murmurs, voice still thick with sleep. Her fingers find your jaw, tilting your face to hers. “You gonna be good for me?”

You hum something noncommittal, still half-dreaming, but then she shifts her hips and the silk of her robe parts against your skin, and you’re awake. Her lips curl—smug, knowing—and she runs her nails lightly over your chest.

“Everyone’s asleep,” she says softly, like it’s both an invitation and a dare. “No one’s gonna know… unless you make me too loud.”

Her robe slips open completely when you move over her, exposing warm skin that’s already flushed from the heat pooling between you. You press your lips to her collarbone, slow and lazy, and she exhales this content little sigh—the kind that says she’s used to being spoiled first thing in the morning.

Your hands find her thighs, pushing them apart just enough to settle between them. Regina tilts her head back against the pillows, eyes hooded, mouth parted.

“Mm… you look so pretty down there,�� she murmurs, voice dripping with that soft smugness that makes you want to ruin her and worship her in the same breath.

You take your time—lazy morning, no rush—dragging your mouth over her stomach, kissing the inside of her thigh until she squirms. Her fingers slip into your hair, not pulling, just holding you there, guiding without pressure.

When you finally press your mouth to her, she gasps—sharp, quiet, but enough to make your chest heat. You work her with a slow, steady rhythm, letting her grind just slightly against your tongue.

“God, baby,” she whispers, breath hitching. “Don’t… stop…”

The ocean outside keeps rolling in and out, steady as your pace, but Regina’s starting to lose it. Her nails tighten in your hair, her other hand gripping the sheet. She’s biting her lip to keep from being too loud, and every time you glance up, she’s watching you with this dazed, almost worshipful expression that she’d never admit to having.

Then she lets out a breathy, broken, “Please—” before she catches herself, and you know you’ve got her.

Her thighs are shaking when she comes the first time—back arching, breath catching, head tipping back against the pillows. She’s still holding onto your hair, but her grip loosens like she’s barely aware of her own body, hips rolling up into your mouth until she’s twitching with oversensitivity.

You slow down, kissing her inner thigh, ready to let her rest. But then she’s tugging you back up, that spoiled gleam in her eyes returning.

“Mm… fuck it,” she pants, breathless but grinning. “Make me come again.”

It’s not a request—it’s a demand. And you obey without hesitation.

You start again, but this time she’s already hypersensitive, so every touch has her squirming, gasping. She tries to bite back the sounds at first—pressing her hand over her mouth, twisting her fingers in the sheets. But when the second wave starts building, it’s like her restraint just… snaps.

Her hand falls away from her lips, and she lets out this sharp, desperate moan that cuts through the sound of the waves. Her eyes flutter open, meeting yours, and she just shakes her head, grinning breathlessly.

“Okay, whatever—we’ll deal with it later,” she says, voice breaking into another whimper as you curl your fingers inside her. “Just—don’t stop, baby.”

And she doesn’t hold back anymore. Every sound that falls from her mouth is raw, needy, and loud. She’s clutching at you like she doesn’t care if the whole damn beach hears her, moaning your name over and over until she comes again, harder than before—hips jerking, thighs trembling around your head, chest heaving.

She’s still shaking when you kiss your way up her body, tasting salt and sweat and satisfaction on her skin. Regina’s breathing in uneven, shallow bursts, but the second your lips meet hers, she’s pulling you in with surprising strength—fingers curling in the back of your neck like she’s not letting you go.

Her kiss is messy, needy, nothing like the perfectly composed Regina the rest of the world gets. She tastes like surrender, but there’s still that sharp little edge in her smile when she finally pulls back just enough to speak.

“Mmm…” she hums, brushing her lips over yours again. “You’re too good at this, you know that?”

You’re about to answer when she hooks a leg over your hip again, robe falling completely open. Her nails trace lazily down your back, sending shivers through you.

“Round three,” she says simply, smirking through her exhaustion. “We’re already in trouble, so… might as well make it worth it.”

Her tone is teasing, but her body is already arching toward you, warm and slick and ready despite how wrecked she looks. The sunlight is spilling over her skin, turning every curve golden, and the sound of the waves outside is completely drowned out by the way she moans when you press into her again.

She’s not even trying to hide how needy she is now—hips tilting up to meet you before you’ve even settled between her thighs again. Her robe is somewhere on the floor, forgotten, her hair a wild halo against the pillow.

You dip down, mouth finding her clit again, and she lets out a long, unrestrained moan that makes your stomach flip. One of her hands tangles in your hair, the other gripping the sheets so hard you’re sure they’ll wrinkle beyond saving.

Your fingers slide into her easily, curling just right, and the combination has her gasping—sharp, broken little sounds spilling out faster than she can stop them. She’s completely undone now, no longer the polished, composed queen bee. Just Regina, panting and begging under you.

“Oh—fuck—” Her voice cracks as you suck harder, your fingers thrusting faster, the wet sounds between you obscene in the quiet morning air. “God, you—don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t—”

Her back arches off the bed, pressing into your touch like she’s chasing every ounce of pleasure you’re giving her. She’s gripping your hair so tightly it’s almost painful, but you don’t care—if anything, it just makes you go harder.

The waves outside crash in sync with her breathless, open-mouthed moans. She’s loud now, so loud, her head thrashing against the pillows as her thighs start to shake again.

And then she’s there—coming hard, clenching around your fingers, a cry tearing from her throat that echoes off the walls of the beach house. You feel every shudder, every twitch, riding her through it until she’s collapsing back against the bed, chest heaving, skin flushed.

When you finally pull back, she looks at you through heavy, half-lidded eyes, lips curved into the most satisfied, wrecked little smile.

“Mm,” she breathes, voice low and wrecked. “Hope they heard every second.”

You barely have time to catch your breath before Regina is tugging you back up the bed, her fingers curling under your chin. She’s still flushed and glistening, hair a beautiful mess, but her eyes—God—her eyes are sharp again.

“Mm, no, baby…” she says, voice low and deliberate, brushing her thumb over your lower lip. “You’re not done. I want one more. And this time? You’re gonna listen to me.”

It’s not a request. It’s a command.

She guides you back between her thighs, legs spreading in a slow, deliberate motion. One hand sinks into your hair again, the other resting on your cheek to keep your eyes on her.

“Right there,” she says as soon as your mouth finds her, her tone firm. “Yes—just like that. Don’t rush me. I want to feel everything.”

Her voice is wrecked but steady, a constant stream of instructions and praise. “Curl your fingers—mm, yeah, like that.” “God, you feel so good in me.” “Don’t stop sucking. You stop, you start over.”

Every word sends heat through your veins, every moan between them making you hungrier to give her exactly what she wants. She rocks her hips against your face, perfectly timed with the thrust of your fingers, and you can feel her getting closer with every desperate shift.

“Look at me,” she orders, tugging your hair just enough to make you tilt your head up. Her pupils are blown wide, her chest heaving. “I want you to watch me when I come.”

Her breathing quickens, her thighs trembling harder around your head. “Faster—god, yes, just like that—” She gasps, voice cracking into something raw. “Baby, I’m so close, don’t you dare stop now—”

And then she breaks—throwing her head back, mouth open in a loud, unrestrained moan that echoes through the entire beach house. Her hips jerk, hands tightening in your hair as she comes hard, her body quaking with it.

She keeps you there through every wave, coaching you through her own orgasm—“Just a little more, oh my god, yes—fuck, that’s it, that’s it—”—until she’s finally collapsing back, spent and utterly satisfied.

Her hand slips from your hair to cup your cheek, guiding you up for a slow, lingering kiss.

“Good girl,” she murmurs, tasting herself on your lips. “Remind me to tell you to go get my card later.”

--

By the time you and Regina finally make it downstairs, the dining table is a crime scene of half-eaten pancakes, empty coffee mugs, and her mother giving you both the look.

“Sleep well?” her mom asks, sweet but suspicious.

Regina, without missing a beat, smiles like she’s in a toothpaste commercial. “Oh, yeah. Best sleep of my life.” She takes a sip of her mimosa. “Woke up so relaxed.”

You almost choke on your orange juice.

Her dad’s buried in a newspaper, oblivious, but her younger cousin is staring between the two of you with narrowed eyes, like they’ve just discovered the world’s most scandalous secret.

When everyone’s attention drifts elsewhere, Regina leans over to you, voice low enough for only you to hear. “You’ve got… something right—” She brushes her thumb over your jaw, smirking. “There. Totally inconspicuous.”

You glare. “You left that on purpose.”

“Mhm.” She takes another drink, looking you dead in the eye. “And I’m not sorry.”

You stab a piece of fruit with your fork. “You’re impossible.”

She leans in again, lips brushing your ear. “And you’re blushing. Again.”

You roll your eyes, but she just laughs under her breath, the sound smug and satisfied. “Careful, baby,” she murmurs. “Keep giving me those eyes, baby, and I’ll buy out the whole boutique in town just to make you fuck me in the changing room.”

Your fork freezes midair.

She sits back like she didn’t just drop a nuclear-level threat, sipping her mimosa with perfect composure. Across the table, her mother is talking about sailboat rentals like nothing’s wrong, and you’re left trying to remember how to breathe.

When you finally manage to swallow, Regina glances at you again—smirk sharp, eyes glittering—and mouths, careful.

--

You reach for the butter, but Regina’s hand is already there, holding the dish just out of your reach. “Were you…?” She tilts her head innocently. “Oh, sorry. I forgot we were sharing.”

“You’re impossible,” you mutter, making another grab for it.

She slides it further away. “Impossible? Baby, I’m a delight. Ask anyone.”

“Mm, pretty sure your cousin would disagree.”

Regina leans back, smirking. “Yeah, but my cousin thinks Crocs are a personality trait, so…”

You almost spit out your coffee.

She finally pushes the butter toward you, all gracious like she’s just granted a royal favor. “You’re welcome.”

“I didn’t say thank you.”

“You didn’t have to. I felt it in your aura.”

You snort. “Your aura is smug.”

Her smile widens. “And yours is lucky I like you enough to let you sit at my table.”

Regina’s still looking unbearably pleased with herself when you set your coffee cup down.

“Your aura is smug,” you tell her.

“And yours is lucky I like you enough to let you sit at my table,” she fires back without missing a beat.

You lean in slightly, eyebrow raised. “Your table? Baby, I’m your girlfriend.” You pause just long enough for her to smirk before adding, “Well… sugar baby, but same thing.”

Regina actually laughs—sharp and amused. “Mmm, you’re lucky I find that cute and not insubordinate.”

“Oh no,” you deadpan, “don’t revoke my butter privileges.”

She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling, that soft little curve she only gets when you’ve won a tiny point in your back-and-forth. “You’re impossible,” she murmurs, sipping her mimosa again. “And you’re mine.”

---

You’re walking down the sunny little row of beach boutiques, holding Regina’s hand while she’s already carrying two shopping bags—both yours.

“Baby,” you laugh, tugging at her arm, “I literally don’t need another sundress.”

She gives you a look. “You also didn’t need that overpriced candle you picked out, but now it’s sitting in my bag, so clearly that’s not the point.”

You snort, trying to hide your grin. “You just like spoiling me.”

Regina squeezes your hand. “Mm, no, I like seeing your face when you realize you’re getting what you want.”

You laugh again, leaning into her side. “God, you’re dangerous.”

“And you’re dramatic,” she says, already steering you toward the next store. “Come on. Let’s find you something in silk.”

You roll your eyes but follow anyway, the bell above the boutique door chiming as you enter. She’s already drifting toward a rack, plucking out dresses with that same laser focus she uses when she’s plotting something.

“Regina—”

She turns, holding up a dress against you, ignoring your protest entirely. “We’re getting this.”

You grin, shaking your head. “What if I say no?”

She smiles, slow and smug. “Then I’ll get it for myself and make you borrow it.”

You laugh so hard you almost drop your bag. “You’re impossible.”

“And you,” she says, pressing the dress into your hands, “are wearing this to dinner tonight. End of discussion.”

--

The sales associate whisks you toward the changing rooms, but Regina follows like she owns the place—because, honestly, she probably could.

She sits down on the little bench outside your stall, crossing her legs, shopping bags lined up neatly beside her. “Alright, baby. Show me.”

You roll your eyes from behind the curtain. “You haven’t even let me try it on yet.”

“Mhm, well, I already know it’s going to look good. This is just for my entertainment.”

You tug the dress over your head, smoothing it down. “And what if it doesn’t fit?”

“Then,” she says without missing a beat, “I’ll pay them to tailor it while you drink something with a stupid umbrella in it.”

You bite back a laugh, pulling the curtain open just enough to peek your head out. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re stalling,” she says, leaning forward like she’s about to drag you out herself. “Come on, baby. Let me see you.”

You step out fully, and her eyes do a slow, deliberate sweep from head to toe. Her smirk spreads. “Mm. Told you. Worth every penny.”

“You haven’t even looked at the price tag.”

Regina leans back, smug as ever. “Sweetheart, if I cared about the price, you wouldn’t be here.”

You shake your head, trying not to grin as you turn back toward the mirror. “You’re impossible.”

“Keep saying that, baby,” she says, eyes on your reflection. “And I’ll keep proving you right.”

--

You’re still a little dizzy from the boutique’s air conditioning and the champagne Regina insisted they serve you while you tried things on. She’s walking ahead of you now, hands full with half a dozen shopping bags—all yours.

“You know,” she says over her shoulder, smirking, “sugar babies are supposed to be grateful, not greedy.”

You catch up to her with a little giggle, looping your arm through hers. “Baby, I’m your greedy.”

She doesn’t slow down, doesn’t answer—just kisses you right there in the middle of the sunny boardwalk like she owns the whole damn town. People glance, but Regina’s too wrapped up in you to notice.

When you finally part, you spot something sparkling in the window of a jewelry store. You barely even open your mouth before she’s already pushing the door open.

“Regina, you don’t have to—”

She cuts you off with a glance over her shoulder, eyes sharp and soft all at once. “I’m your sugar mommy. My job is to make sure you never have to want for anything—except me.”

By the time you’ve stopped grinning long enough to answer, she’s already taken your hand, the newest little bag swinging from her other arm.

---------------------------------------

@rigby-oconnell aye

[ncsdlr]

i live for your ayes at the end of every fic 😻

Aye man🙏❤️

[ncsdlr]

RENEÉ RAPP Cosmopolitan Magazine, June 2025 (1/2)

[ncsdlr]

Also all the pending requests are coming y’all i promise it’s just a really hectic week😮‍💨

[ncsdlr]

Guys my busy ass is thinking about starting a 10-part gp!billie Eilish x reader fic😬