#...maybe if my brain is saying that shit to me i should go to sleep

[telesodalite]

Thinking about KrokFire...

Thinking about them sparring in the cargohold, because it's a long trip, and cabin fever is setting in, and Misfire is gonna pop a gasket if he doesn't do something about it soon, since flying in open space gets real boring real fast, and it's making everyone a little nervous, but Krok has time to kill, and maybe, quietly, he's also two steps away from doing something stupid just to feel alive again after cruising around pointlessly, mindlessly, endlessly, for so so long... (It's barely been a month)

And sure, Misfire is a terrible sparring partner. He has no technique, no concept of proper balance, or an inkling of how to use the weight of his own frame. He rushes headfirst like he's more bull than fighter jet, he talks too much, he spits, he bites, and he can't stand losing. But, in a roundabout way, it almost makes him the perfect partner in Krok's eyes.

Crankcase won't spar, "can't" he claims flatly, gesturing at the gaping hole in his helm, but Krok can respect his want for distance. That occasional flash of fear and frozen unease in Crankcase's visor in close combat doesn't go over his head. He knows that look. He gets it. He won't push.

Fulcrum... well, a streetlight might be a tougher fight, or at least it would stay up longer and complain less. So much for a once respectable officer of the empire. What was Deathsaurus' command thinking promoting anyone without any actual combat training? It would almost be pathetic if Fulcrum didn't find a way to put the vitriol of thrown fists into his words instead. Now there was some swears Krok hadn't heard in a couple millennia, it would be inspiring if it wasn't his own spark Fulcrum had been damning to the pits and back through a bloody nose.

Spinister? Now Spinister was a good fighter, a better fighter, Krok wasn't so prideful to deny that truth. He'd tasted the dust of the cargohold floor enough to know it was a definitive fact. But Spinister held back, he was careful, he matched Krok's pace, his movements, he held himself defensively, any attack was quick, simple, and merely restraining. It was less a fight, and more a waiting game until Krok finally gave up, and that... well, that did sting a bit.

But Misfire? Misfire was a different beast all together. Sure Krok could dance circles around the flier all day, but it wasn't totally effortless work, he had to stay sharp, Misfire was so predictably unpredictable, he kept him thinking, moving, on his toes, and maybe it felt good to sidestep another stupid headfirst charge, easily grabbing and swinging Misfire around by his arm, so unbalanced all Krok had to do was let him go, and the weight of his own frame would send him careening into the crates stacked around them.

Most days, Misfire would give up by then, pull himself off the pile of overturned cargo with no small amount of burning shame and frustration, as he avoided Krok's optics and stormed off into the bowels of the ship before Krok could say something to ease the sting of losing again and again. Misfire didn't want his apologies though, and even as a pang of guilt ate at him over it, Krok knew he'd be back eventually.

But today, too pent-up and bored to quit now, Misfire pushed himself back onto his feet and charged back in again, and again, and again.

And Krok moved with him again, and again, and again. It was almost repetitive, but lively enough that he could feel the energon pumping through his head, a thrumming beat in his audials that reminds him of deafening battlefields and roaring stadiums, and oh, he'd missed this feeling, the adrenaline, the movement, more so than he thought he did.

Maybe it's the overconfidence that gets him then, or the memories pulling him out of the present, but Misfire's fist suddenly comes slamming down into his mask, and for a moment everything becomes a blur, until he finds himself on the floor, clutching at the shattered metal falling from his face in disbelief.

Faintly he can feel the twinge of broken mesh, of pain pinching dully across scarred flickering sensors, and maybe it's the adrenaline that pulls a suprised and breathy laugh out of him as he stares down at the pieces in his hand.

Maybe it's also the disbelief, the sudden shock at being struck hard enough to break his mask, by Misfire of all mechs. Or maybe he's cracked his helm, finally snapping something important deep in his processor, some vital function that kept him sane all these years.

Either way, an old familiar buzz of heady energy fills his chest, loosening his joints and straightening his struts as he stands back up, brushing off the broken remains of his mask as he stares back at Misfire, barefaced and bleeding and amused as the flier's optics go bright and wide.

And all Misfire can do for a moment is stand there, wide-eyed and breathless, his own adrenaline filled frame and hammering processor still trying to make sense of the broken plating of his knuckles and the energon trickling down Krok's scarred lips.

But connections are made, and it's a panicked realization at first, a cold dread, a 'ohhhhh fuck oh primus I fucked up I'm dead I'm so fucking dead-!' sort of feeling, as Krok's marred face breaks into an energon stained grin. But then there's another feeling, growing somewhere underneath the panic, a sudden curl of heat in his chest, a flush of pride, conviction, a sort of frenzied joy at the sight of broken mesh and fresh energon, and another rush of hot anticipation as Krok began to move again, circling, waiting, an unspoken question in the air as he rolls his shoulders back and flexes his hands.

And Misfire answers eagerly, suprising himself almost as he charges foward again, wanting more of that feeling, wanting to win again.

It's not really sparring past this point, and somewhere in the back of their minds they both know that. Every strike, every kick, every punch, it's all thoughtless instinct, each clash of plating, and bite of denta, and scrape of fingertips, is part of a mad dash for victory in the gladiator pit of scrap and debris they've built around themselves.

Of course, it can't last forever. They're no real gladiators, no phase-sixers, no primes, and movements get sluggish, vents rattle and wheeze as coolant pumps reach their limits, and building condensation slides powerless punches right off of scuffed metal and mesh.

Even like this though, worn out and bleeding from more scrapes than he had half a mind to count, Krok is still better, and Misfire is still predictable, and it's no great feat to sweep his legs out from beneath him, landing him flat on the floor, wings spread out and chestplate heaving.

Overworked joints sharply protest as he goes to pin the flier down bodily, and finally Krok faces the fact he has to consider how to end this, so he might let his own beaten frame finally still for a moment to breathe.

But as Krok catches one flailing arm in his grip, scoffing at the desperation, still goading Misfire on even as he tries to end this, a hand stubbornly catches his throat, but stops before it can truly squeeze.

And once more they're not really moving, just staring, watching, but it's less wired and tense now, rather, its shaky, a little unfocused, as exhaustion filters out in heaving puffs of hot air between their frames.

Someone's plating is rattling, Krok isn't sure if it's his own or Misfire's, but the cost of adrenaline is painfully noticeable now. His grip loosens on Misfire's arms, and the idea of total victory is less sweet as his cables begin to ache throughout his inner-framework.

But Misfire's hand slides up to catch his jaw before he can lean back and relent to a truce, and he's pulling him closer, and Krok starts to push him off, call it quits before either of them breaks something past repair, but a flash of energon on Misfire lips catches his eye, and that hadn't been there a moment ago?

Before he can even begin to ask what that was supposed to mean, Misfire is pulling him down again, angling his helm upwards to feverishly meet his lips half-way.

Although the mesh of Misfire's face was throughly bruised and scuffed, Krok had frustratingly failed to return the favor of a busted lip. So, it had to be his own, smeared across Misfire's face at some point in the scuffle, it shouldn't have been interesting in the slightest, but Krok's processor was hazy, slow, and his optics trailed Misfire's glossa as he licked his lips and made an odd curious sound.

And maybe it was a stupid move to make so impulsively, one he'd regret making probably, but still too caught up in the waning heated high of the fight, Misfire figured he could worry about losing such a hard-earned battle later. Right now, this seemed far better than actually winning, and the taste of Krok's energon felt like a victory and reward nonetheless.

Bracing himself as Misfire wriggled his other hand free to splay out over his thigh, holding him desperately against his frame as he tried pulling him even closer, Krok considered the heat dispersion warnings flickering distractingly in his peripheral, and the very noticeable strain on his back and legs, even his arms.

It's not a great position to be in right now, after all they've done already. He'll regret it, he knows he will, his body will make sure of it, if Spinister doesn't first.

But then Misfire's glossa is sliding against the jagged edges of his teeth, and he's making hoarse little pathetic noises into Krok's mouth that stoke some sort of ego at having the flier so desperate beneath him, and Misfire's hands are warm and heavy over aching plating and seams, and really, on second thought, after weeks of boredom, why the hell not?

They've got nowhere to be.

[loverboybrightsideghost]

computer define underdog

[yieldtotemptation]

ANIMALS ft. Natty

natty x male reader smut

10k words

“All I’m saying is,” Natty starts, like she always does, with more unsolicited advice than you can handle at 2 AM, "for someone that complains so much about not having a sex life, you really don’t do much to fix it."

“And what, oh wise friend of mine, is your recommendation.”

“I don’t know. Get a haircut. Dress better. Try not being a massive pussy?” Natty shrugs. Or at least you think she does. Only so much you can tell over the phone.

You sigh. Bite back the urge to tell her to fuck off. But then, who else would talk you to sleep at this ungodly hour? So instead, you concede the point. “Noted.”

“Or, you know, if it’ll stop you from being such a little bitch,” and now she’s laughing, cackling really, and not once has that ever, ever meant anything good. "You could always just fuck me."

—

Two weeks and twelve hours post-Natty’s incredibly unhelpful suggestion that did absolutely nothing to alleviate you of your insomnia, and you’re back on the phone with her.

Only this time, there's video.

So, yay.

"Help me, please."

It’s a Friday and Natty's begging, again.

Because she knows she can count on you, knows that you’ve long since resigned yourself to your fate as Natty’s on-call ‘fixer’. There for everything from life-changing career decisions to helping her figure out what show to stream next.

And now, apparently, choosing her outfit for tonight.

“Help me, help me, help me, help me.”

God, this woman and her begging. Knowing full well that it’s your kryptonite.

"Okay, okay, okay," you're relenting, much earlier than usual. Mostly because as far as Natty’s petulant requests usually go this one’s a walk in the park. “But don’t you have people for this sort of thing? People who don’t, and I quote, ‘have a dogshit taste in style?’”

“It is dogshit!” Natty calls out, already turned around and leaving you (her phone) on the vanity, facing out to her bedroom and all its hideous pinkness. She disappears from the screen, diving deep into her closet for yet another pair of shorts that will most certainly hug way too close, or a top that dips way too low, or a pair of heels that scream—'hey, I have legs, would you like to spread them?' "But!"

Natty returns to the camera with a leather belt—oh no, that's a leather skirt—in hand; clad in nothing but a casual cotton bra/underwear combination that she’s filling out far too well for your sleep-deprived brain to handle.

She holds up the skirt against her waist for your consideration. Poses. It wouldn't cover a thing. Or maybe that's the point—again, you don't have any fashion sense, whatsoever.

“You’re a man, and I need a man’s opinion because I’m hoping to take one home tonight to fuck my brains out until I forget about this shit-storm of a week. So, you know—help a girl out?”

“As always, you have quite a way with words.”

Natty leans towards the camera, bending down to stare right at you. It makes entirely too much sense that she’s built an entire career around doing just this.

“It’s my third language, asshole.”

The insult lands softer than she likely intended, considering well, you’re a little too distracted to take it. It’s entirely her fault. The angle makes her tits look far too immaculate to pay any attention to her mouth.

Maybe she should consider going out just like this?

Yeah, that’d definitely get her fucked.

But, she frowns before you can make the suggestion, turning on her heels and sashaying back to her closet, leaving you to choke on air at the sight of her ass stretching out her favourite pair of panties. (The white pair with the pretty-pink bows. The one that rides up her ass when she stretches, bends, sneezes—basically any time she’s not standing perfectly still. And even then.)

Anyone else and this whole thing would be weird. Well, weirder than it already is.

See, you and Natty have this thing; this odd, cat and dog relationship that’s been going on since what feels like the dawn of time:

You’ve watched her shamelessly cycle through men faster than a teenager through a box of tissues, leaving a trail of broken hearts and broken cocks in her wake.

While she’s been forced to witness every time you’ve met ‘the one’, only to be there months later to help pick up the pieces when you’re burying your feelings in video games and alcohol and porn, wondering how it all went so wrong.

All this to say that seeing Natty bouncing around in her underwear with that laser-beam of a smile of hers; with all of her soft curves, thick thighs, her ridiculous ass and again, those immaculate fucking tits isn't that unusual.

In fact, it doesn't really do anything for you at all.

(Fucking liar.)

“Here, how about this.” Natty appears from the corner of the screen, having found a top that’s somehow made of even less material than the bra she’s already got on. The gall of her to ask, "Too much or not enough?"

You deadpan. “Does it come in adult sizes too?”

Natty grins, because she can read it right on your stupid face. She looks so, unbearably hot. Without even trying that hard. This bitch. “So just right, then.”

And then she twirls, leaving you to face her back, and before you even have time to blink, Natty’s bra has fallen down her shoulders; and you’re hating how you lean in to look because this damn app has no zoom feature to save your sorry eyesight.

Her fucking tits. Perfect, bouncy. Even through the pixels, even from behind, you can still see the way they spill.

She slips on her chosen top for the evening—a tiny, strappy number—and spins back around to face you in all her Natty glory. By the skin of your teeth, you’re looking away and leaning back, feigning nonchalance and leaving her none the wiser.

You think.

“You know,” Natty says, tilting to one side, hand on hip. Fuck, even that slightest movement makes them bounce. Utterly, utterly obscene. “You should just come tonight.”

You’re saying, “Fuck no,” before she’s even finished her sentence. ‘Coming tonight’ means ‘clubbing’, and ‘clubbing’ means being stuck listening to the shittiest music, surrounded by the worst people in all of Korea, drinking overpriced slop and watching Natty turn down a revolving door of douchebags on the dancefloor.

So, yeah.

If ‘fuck no’s’ were bricks, you’d be building the Great Wall of ‘Fuck No’, big enough for aliens on the other side of the galaxy to see with a fucking telescope and have their first contact with the human race be a giant ‘Fuck No’.

And that’s your polite way of turning her down.

Yet somehow, Natty’s hardly deterred.

“Come on, it’ll be fun,” Natty sing-songs, shuffling on her tiptoes, shifting her weight from foot to foot, making her entire body jiggle. It’s like she’s intentionally trying to sell you on the idea with every little movement. Make you believe that if you came with her, you’d be able to find someone who comes close to looking half as good as she does in that… whatever-the-fuck that is. Bralette? Crop top? Whatever. Fat chance. "Come on, come, come, come. Be my wingman please!"

You already have your second ‘fuck no’ queued up, but Natty just won’t stop fucking talking.

“Don’t you want to get laid? Don’t you think you need to have fun after what’s-her-name?” Natty continues, pouting at you through the screen.

And there it is, a study in how Natty usually gets her way—jutting out her bottom lip, digging her thumb into the waistband of her panties to expose just a smidge more skin, leaning just right to make her tits look like they’re about to pop out. It’s like she’s got a fucking manual.  

“Don’t tell me you’d rather stay at home with Handalf the Grey than come out with me and all my hot friends?”

“You mean having to clean up after all your ‘hot friends’ and their bullshit while you run off to score free drinks?” You retort, recalling all the other times when she managed to entice you out of your self-imposed isolation and into the deafening, sweaty hellhole known as a nightclub.

“Said hot friends that you’re too much of a pussy to hit on, mind you,” Natty chides, and then oh-so-casually decides to drop this nugget: "They all like you, you know, they'd be more than happy to break this dry spell of yours if you just asked. Don’t act like I haven’t seen the way you look at Julie."

You can feel your cheeks reddening. You’re not a teenager. You shouldn’t blush at this shit. But here you are, falling for Natty’s words and their magical abilities to needle at your insecurities and fill your head with thoughts of her friends and all their... well, incredibly positive attributes.

Natty pounces on your lapse in composure and gets closer to the camera, crouches. Drops down so she’s on her heels and all you can see in that tiny window of your phone is the red of her plush, plump lips.

“Come, you pussy—”

“Natty—”

“Do it pussy—”

“Natty, if you think that’s going to work—”

“Pussy, pussy, pussy—”

You’re yelling down the phone: “Fuck, fine!”

Natty’s victory dance is already in full swing before the words have even left your mouth. Bouncing around her room in pure joy at once again having ruined your evening. Dancing in that barely-there outfit, treating you to entirely sinful ripples across her curves and dips, pure sex on a pair of toned legs. Really makes you wonder how the fuck is she not illegal in at least fifty different countries.  

You hide your face in your hands, because there it is, the reason you’ve never really been able to deny her:

Her laughter, her energy, her fucking shameless glee whenever she manages to get her way (which, if you’re keeping count, is every single time).

She’s just so frustratingly adorable.

Somewhere in her celebrations, Natty finds exactly what she was looking for. Reaches down to the floor, picking up a belt—no, that’s another skirt—this one even tinier than the first.

“Oh, this is perfect,” she preens, holding it out to the camera (to you), before stepping right into it. She spins around, making it dance around her hips. It does wonders for her thighs. "How do I look?”

You swallow. “Like you’re going to get fucked tonight.”

The glint in Natty’s eyes. Like you’ve just served up the finest compliment on a silver platter. You feel sorry for whatever poor soul crosses her path tonight.

Natty winks. “Here’s to hoping.”

—

Guess what?

Turns out you were right: this is the worst place in the world.

Only, you’re the sole person here that seems to think that.

Hours have passed since you helped Natty look perfectly fuckable and you’re at the bar, trying and failing to get the attention of the bartender. Unfortunately, he, like every other male with a beating heart and a boner seems far more interested in Natty’s little dance routine than his thirsty clientele.

You can’t blame him, really. It’s built in how she moves.

Strobe lights cutting through the air like knives, slicing her into this series of absolutely pornographic snapshots as she dances. And she’s not alone, she has friends—beautiful, all of them, in their own ways. They spin and twirl around her; but Natty’s the sun here, the star that everything orbits.

(You included).

You see it play out—the Natty effect. Men, even women alike gravitate to her, drawn by that magnetic force that is Natty at her very best. Trying to get a dance, maybe whisper a line they stole from some movie in her ear, even dare to reach out to touch or press themselves up against her.

But she’s a black hole, a dark star. Can’t get too close.

One by one, they’re swallowed up by the void of Natty’s disinterest. The shoulders slump, the smiles falter, and the hope in their eyes dies as Natty, with a simple flick of her wrist sends them stumbling back into the crowd, forgotten almost immediately.

And the whole time she’s doing this, she’s got you in her line of sight. A wink here, a smile there, a dance on its own; and all you can do is nod and pretend like you’re okay with all this.

You inhale. Deeply.

Her outfit looks even tinier in person.

You turn away for just a moment, shaking off thoughts of Natty, of her hips and their sway and her winks and her smile; attempting (and failing) to flag down the bartender once more.

This fucking night.

But, when you look back, Natty’s no longer on the dancefloor.

She’s standing next to you. Arms looping around your neck.

“Natty—”

But she’s not listening. Her eyes are darting around the room, searching for something—or someone—that you can’t see. Your stomach clenches, because that look on Natty’s face? That’s not her usual I’m-about-to-make-some-poor-soul-my-bitch look. That’s something else entirely. That’s fear.

“Shut up, I need a favour,” she’s in your ear, yelling over the thrum of the bass that’s rattling your ribcage.

You lean in, bend down to meet her, because, frankly, you’re worried. You’ve never seen Natty like this, wide eyed and shaky. Never seen her be anything but comfortable.

You’ve also never been this close to her. Felt her breath hot against your neck, felt her body press up against you, felt her softness, felt her—

Fuck, you should be asking her what’s wrong, but before you can even do that, the bartender's filling two shot glasses and sliding them over to Natty.

She takes one. You take the other. It tastes lethal.

Natty’s nails dig into the back of your neck, and she looks at you, intense. Words fast and frantic. “Just pretend we’re together, okay? For a bit. Until I can figure this out. Just—just keep playing along, yeah?”

You blink. The room blurs around you. You think you might’ve misheard. “What?”

“Be my boyfriend,” she says, taking a second shot before you can even digest the first. “I need you. There’s some creep and I need you. Now, please?”

You turn immediately, scanning the floor, but the lights and shadows make it near impossible to make out anything other than vague shapes and strobes of colour, let alone pinpoint a face. "Natty, where is he, I can—"

"No, no, no," she cuts you off with a shake of her head. “Focus on me.”

“Wait, why do I have to—”

“Oh, shit there he is—”

And then she’s kissing you.

Ending whatever argument you may have had, because she’s grabbing, pulling you in, and her lips are on yours and oh fuck, she’s really, really kissing you.

It’s a slap to the face, and you need to reel in from the sting. Because you’re already forgetting what you’re doing, forgetting how your limbs work, because Natty’s putting on the performance of a lifetime and you’re having trouble keeping up.

Her hands are in your hair, yours at the small of her back, and she’s pulling you close, squishing against you and the taste of her—sweet like candy and sharp like vodka—filling you all the way up.

Your tongue catches up, flicking against hers, licking inside of her mouth and she’s even convincing you—as if she’s the one that’s always been into the love at first sight bullshit and you’re the non-believer.

And it’s a problem, how right this feels. Because this isn’t what friends do—definitely not Natty and you. But still, you can feel her tension, her need for this to be believable; and you don’t dare to fuck it all up.

So you kiss her back, because that’s what you do for Natty.

You always do what she needs.

You’re about to pull away; this should be enough to have every single person here convinced that you’re hers and she’s yours. But Natty’s already sliding her tongue back in your mouth, pleading, “Keep going,” the moment a gap opens between your lips; and you’re diving back into the kiss without a second thought.

And then you hear it.

A flash of a camera.

A cheer.

A whistle.

Julie, Haneul, Belle—Natty’s friends, staring at you like proud fairy godmothers witnessing their own magic at work.

You break the kiss. You look down at Natty.

She giggles.

You feel like a fucking idiot.

"There is no creep, is there?"

Natty shrugs, looks up at you, and she actually looks—what is this? Shy? Embarrassed?

"There could’ve been," she says, her eyes wide and innocent, a mask. You see through her like you should have when she first wrapped her arms around your neck.  Oh sure, like she’s ever been innocent for a second in her entire life.

She’s far too smug for that.

You roll your eyes. You feel like every other idiot that’s ever fallen for a bat of her lashes and a peek at her tits. Hope is a hell of a drug, especially when Natty’s the dealer. And yet, despite yourself, the corner of your mouth quirks up. "You're fucking insane."

“Maybe.” There’s a long pause. She’s staring at your mouth. She presses a finger to your sternum. “But I had to do something.”

It takes a second. What?

What does that mean?

You stare at Natty, lick your lips. Her taste still lingers.

“Ask yourself the same question I’ve been asking myself for months now,” she says, louder this time, her voice cutting through the noise of the club and hitting your ears with a sobering clarity.

You know what she’s going to say—what she’s going to ask before she’s even opened her mouth. You’ve been asking yourself the same thing too.

So, swallow hard, try to ignore the way Natty’s friends have gone quiet. Try to ignore Natty’s hand still resting against your chest, her eyes burning a hole right through you.

“Why haven’t we had sex yet?”

The blood’s rushing to your cheeks; the music's too loud, the lights too bright, and the room's suddenly spinning around you like a carousel.

Fucking embarrassing.

But Natty doesn’t crack a smile. She just looks up at you. Hopeful. Searching you, searching your eyes for an actual answer; and you already know what it is.

“Because, Natty, we’re friends.” You offer up a weak smile, hoping against hope that she’ll buy it.

But she shakes her head. “Oh, please. Like that’s ever stopped anyone before. Besides, if you want to put a label on it, call it whatever the fuck you want. I just know what I need. Do you?”

You sigh. She gets closer. And closer.

Until your nose is brushing hers. Until her breath is hot on your face, until your heart is racing so fast you can feel it in your ears. Until her hand is sliding down, down, down, until it’s resting over your pants and oh, oh no, you’re straining.

You gasp. She smirks.

“See? You want it too. And I know you do, because, sweetie, your cock’s practically begging me to pull it out and shove it between my tits right here in front of everyone.”

She just throws it out there, so casually, so bluntly, she might as well be talking about the weather. And maybe, maybe it’s the alcohol, or maybe it’s just Natty being Natty, but fuck you can’t do anything but stay frozen still.

You’re letting her hand linger. You’re letting her touch you like she’s got every right in the world. You’re letting her because there’s a part of you—the part that’s growing by the second—that wants to see just how far she’ll take this.

“So, what is the real reason, ba-by?”

Because you’re in love with her. You’re in love with her, and you can’t just have casual sex with someone you’re in love with because it will ruin you.

But you don’t say that. Instead, you just tell her: “Timing.”

That makes her laugh. Has her closing what little gap remained between your bodies, until her tits are flush against your chest, and you’re coming to the conclusion that, yes, you did help her pick out the perfect outfit for tonight.

Perfectly, hopelessly, fuckable.

“Well,” she says, and she’s pulling you back down again and shutting you up with yet another kiss. “We’ve got all the time in the world now, don’t we?”

—

You’ve been here before.

Many, many times before.

You installed the showerhead and fixed all the cabinets yourself. Even secured the lock that you’re now unlocking with the digits that you coded.

But somehow, it feels like a first.

First time you’ve kissed her in the back of a car, pushed your hand up her skirt, felt the heat of her against your fingertips. First time you’ve pinned her against the wall of an elevator, made her feel just how desperate you were for her against her thigh, made her promise to be so good for you when you got to her door.

First time being pulled through the threshold, hands at your chest, tearing your shirt off you before you’ve even stepped foot in her apartment. Had her smiling against your mouth, because she’s won, again, and you can’t even bother to argue because you’ve lost to her so many times now that this shouldn’t be so surprising.

What is surprising though is how you’re naked first.

"Terrible, terrible taste." Natty's clicking her tongue as your shoes, your shirt, your pants are scattered along the floor behind you. “We’ll have to fix that.”

And then she’s moving on, hands clawing down your stomach to land at the waistband of your underwear, hooking her thumbs in and yanking down. You’re so obviously hard—you’ve barely made any effort to hide it from her—fuck, you pretty much flagged down the taxi with it.

"Holy fuck," is the first thing out of Natty's mouth when she takes a hold of you, feeling the naked weight of you in her palm. "You’re really not messing around, are you? I was expecting—"

"A sad, lonely little thing," you finish for her, because you've heard it before. "Yeah, you like to mention it a lot."

But Natty’s not laughing now.

She’s just staring. Almost reverently. She decides, her voice a little raspy, tinted with an apprehension that you never knew she was capable of mustering, "I like it. It's... massive."

You lean in, pressing your mouth against hers because if she’s going to say that, you’re going to kiss her, again and again, and there’s a strong possibility you're never going to stop.

She whimpers, gasps into your mouth, says your name for the first time—not some nickname, not a jab or an insult. Just your name, in your ears, like it’s something sacred.

You’re not a saint. You can’t ignore that.

Your cock jumps in her hand, and as if on instinct, she strokes you.

It's slow, purposeful. She's too good at this. Knows the right pressure, where to twist and wind her wrist. How to sweep her thumb over the tip, smear pre-cum over your skin, and this entire time she's staring down at your cock like she's discovered something new.

“This is going to ruin me, isn't it?” she whispers, and you nod, because your voice is lodged in your throat and she’s stealing the air from your lungs. “Going to fit so fucking nicely inside me. Fuck it’s going to stretch me.”

You groan, collapse your weight into Natty, press your lips against the column of her throat.

Both hands now, one underneath, toying with your balls, balancing them in her fingers, and the other doing its best to squeeze, to pump, to make you fall for her with every stroke.

“I can’t wait to ride this,” Natty kisses these words into your cheek, your jaw, leaves these marks all over your collarbone. “I wonder if I can fit it down my throat. God, can you imagine what it’ll look like between my tits?”

And that makes your cock throb.

Because face it, Natty has always had a way of getting into your head; is far too dangerous with her words, and she’s all too willing to abuse this power she has over you to get you do what she wants, which is now, apparently, fucking her senseless.

You let her, let her build and build this pressure, let it coil inside you, tighter and tighter. Until the need to feel her, all of her, is too much to handle.

Until you grab her, take her by the shoulders, push her—not hard, but firmly—against the nearest wall.

You’re not gentle about it, because Natty doesn’t want gentle. She wants rough, she wants passionate, she wants to be fucked and have her cunt worshipped by way of complete ruin.

She’s told you as much.

"That's more like it," Natty bites into your ear, grips your shoulders. She follows your eyes. "Let me guess, my tits?"

So, maybe she has caught you looking once or twice. Either way, you don’t care much for her top anymore, it’s served its purpose. You take a fistful of it and pull, ripping it right off her and tossing it to the floor with everything else that’s kept the two of you from tearing each other apart.

“Better?” Natty poses for you, puts her tits on display—and yeah, you were right all along. Fucking immaculate.

You take a hold of one, palm it; fill your hand with flesh, twinge those dark, plump nipples, because of course you’re going to. You’re going to pinch and squeeze and suck on them. You’re going to mark her like she’s already done to you. Mark them, with your teeth, with your tongue. Fuck, you’re going to make them yours.

But for now, you're just going to slap them, because you want to watch them jiggle up close.

You laugh. Natty does too.

"Much better."

And with that, you’re back on her. Kisses that are sloppy, wet, and filled with all the pent-up want that's been simmering for months. You don’t even know where to begin with Natty, but you start with her mouth. It’s a good place. It’s always a good place with Natty.

Her hand doesn’t stop moving, can’t, won’t. The friction is heaven; you just let her touch you, fuck her hand while you indulge in her tits. Get to know the weight of them, the balance, the softness.

A sigh into your ear as your tongue finally finds her breasts, deep and messy, sliding over her nipple—she’s already so sensitive, just a flick and she’s gasping. You’re not even trying to be precise anymore, not that Natty needs it, not that she needs anything but for you to enjoy yourself against her.

It all makes the room seem smaller, the walls close, surrounding you with the scent—cinnamon and sweat and something else that’s just her.

“See this is why fucking me is such a great idea,” she slurs against your shoulder, hand tightening, stroking you harder, faster.

You mumble an affirmative into her breast. It’s a miracle you can still stand upright.

“Isn’t this so much better than like everything else? Anyone else?” She sighs, breathy, sweet sounds, as she takes you by the wrist, guides your hand southwards.

Fingertips graze her stomach, trace around her belly button and lower; until you’re digging into her skirt and feeling the heat rise off her skin. She’s soaked right through her panties, dripping with it. Another place for your tongue to land.

“We can just be fucking honest with each other,” Natty’s explaining, eyes tearing when your finger pads her clit, pressing down just right. “You already told me all the things you hate. All the things your bitch exes never let you do.” And she smiles, wicked. “Never had the tits to give you.”

Christ.

“And I can get you to fuck me exactly how I want with this big, fucking cock,” Natty finishes. "We’re a perfect fucking match."

It’s at that moment you find the zipper of her skirt, tugging it down, watching it fall to the feet. Leaving Natty to step out of the tiny scrap of fabric she calls her panties; abandoning the sticky mess of cotton.

You take a step back, unlatch your lips from her tits, because you need to see it. Need to finally see her, see your Natty, see the Natty you've never allowed yourself to look at.

So, take your time, drink her in—because the way she’s standing there, the way she’s touching herself now; biting her lip, sighing your name. All but saying, ‘Look all you want, but don’t you dare look away’.

Look at the arch of her neck, the red you’ve left there, that trail you’ve burned down to her tits. Bruised and swollen from your tongue, your kisses, and yet still not marked enough. Follow the curve of her hips; how they flare out from her waist, the plush squish of her ass cheeks against the wall behind her.

You want to kiss her, from the tips of her toes to the top of head; all of her, every part of her, because now she’s going to finally let you.

Because now you're going to fuck her until all she knows is you, going to make her scream your name, going to make her beg for you to fill her with your cock and cum and never ever leave her cunt empty again.

That’s the plan, anyway.

But Natty’s got plans of her own.

“Didn’t you say,” Natty begins, sighing, circling her cunt in a rhythm that you’re dying to recreate. She licks her lips. “That your last ex refused to suck that lovely, magnificent cock of yours?

"Yeah," you stammer, at a loss for breath at just the sight of it all. “And weren’t you trying to find someone to fuck your brains out?”

Natty’s eyes light up; and there's that easy, charming grin that knocks you right off your feet. "You’ve always been such a good listener."

—

Natty's plotting to ruin you.

It's the only possible explanation for the way she's looking at you right now—on her knees, at the foot of her bed, flanked by walls painted an ugly shade of pastel pink and Natty's tits, sandwiching your cock.

You’d imagined it, thought about it when you shouldn’t have been thinking about it. Whenever she brought you to watch her perform, whenever she sent you pictures of her outfit of the day. But your eyes always went there. Straight to Natty’s tits, every time.

You knew they were big.

You’ve felt them, on accident (though they don’t seem like accidents anymore).

But now, to have them enveloping your cock, drowning your shaft in their softness, and to have her, staring at your face with so much fucking excitement as she gives you everything you’ve ever wanted—it’s surreal.

You’re dying to paint them white.

“Looks like you’re already about to fall apart, baby,” she teases, and it’s even worse now that she’s calling you these sweet names, saying them like she’s always wanted to, like she’s finally letting herself. “Couldn’t wait, could you?”

“Fuck, Natty—” you breathe out, your hands finding her hair, tightening, because that’s all you can manage to do when Natty’s in control. Like she’s always been.

“Mmhmm,” she hums, keeping her eyes on you, making sure you’re watching, making sure you see the exact moment her tongue flicks out to taste you. A slow, taunting lick to make you buck your hips, desperate to feel the suction of her lips. “You must have been dreaming about this, huh?”

You don’t bother lying. She already knows the answer. “Every. Fucking. Night.”

Natty’s smile spreads across her face, and she rewards you with a kiss, pressing her lips down onto the head of your cock; before sliding them lower, eyes fluttering shut with the first taste of you. “Well, what took you so long? All you needed to do was show me your cock and I’d have been happy to do it whenever you want me to. Happy for you to use my tits as your cum rag. You know that, right?”

She moves; and the sight of it alone—Natty’s tits wrapped around your cock, bobbing up and down, hypnotising you with the flicker of her nipples—up and down, up and down. It’s merciless, unrelenting, and she keeps talking, keeps kissing these sweet little words into your cock that makes your hips jerk, trying to fuck her tits faster, harder.

"Look at how perfect you look," Natty keeps going, "how your cock fits so snug."

The sounds she’s tearing from your throat as her tits take you, and she’s barely even started.

“But we can do better, can’t we?”

Her pace picks up, and with it, the tightness of your grip on her hair. She’s pushing the ample mounds together, squeezing, putting her whole body into it, into this new art she’s pioneering. Driving you insane with just her breasts, making you swell between them, throbbing as she works you over.

“So big," she’s panting from just the effort, the bounce, bounce, bounce of it all, "I can feel you getting so much bigger."

Everything’s going too fast, her tits are too soft, her lips on you too hot, and she’s drooling, her spit dripping down onto your cock. You want to tell her to stop, that you can’t take it, but Natty just keeps going.

"Fuck,” Natty mewls, pinching her own nipples, for you, for her. Pinching and rolling them, making them nice and stiff and swollen. “Let me just try and—”

She cranes her head, bends; takes your cock deeper into the warm, wet heat of her mouth. Her tongue darts out licks your cock, gets that sweet spot on the underside, makes you shake underneath her.

Natty holds you there, even as you groan, even as your hips rise; just licks, spits, sucks. Her mouth moving up and down on you, making a mess down your shaft, down her tits. Taking you deeper, deeper, until you’re fucking her face.

She moans around you as your hips buck and you push deep, desperate for it. Her eyes water, her cheeks hollow, and she’s got you. You’re in her mouth and she’s loving it. Loving the power she has over you, loving giving you what she wants, loving how you’re pulling her by the hair, desperate to feed her more of your cock into her throat.

Like your entire relationship has been building up to this moment—to Natty’s tits wrapped around you, her mouth all over you, her eyes on yours, watching as you fuck her face.

"Fuck, Natty," you grunt, your voice barely recognisable. "What the fuck—"

But Natty's just smiling, you’re fucking that smug little smile on her lips, and she’s taunting you. "Come on baby, keep going, keep going."

It’s utterly obscene—the smack of her lips around your cock, her slobbering all over you, her gagging, her moaning around you, looking up at you and asking, “Is that all you’ve got?”

You're so close, so fucking close, and she knows it. Moving her tits faster, faster, and you're about to blow your load all over Natty's pretty face, her chest.

But she keeps talking.

Even as you stuff her cheeks, even as you muffle her, “None of those other skinny bitches could do this, could they, could handle this big, fat cock?”

Even as you force her down, pull her by the hair, “You’ve been so obsessed with my body, so obsessed with my tits, haven’t you?”

Even as her tits slide off you and your cock smacks her across her cheek, “I always saw the way you looked at them, fuck I was showing them off for you, you just took too fucking long to notice.”

She won't stop fucking talking.

You finally snap. "God, are you ever going to stop?"

But Natty just laughs, bats her lashes. Slides her tongue from your base to your tip. "Maybe you should find something to gag me with."

Your hand wraps around her throat, squeezing just enough to make her eyes go wide, to make her mouth pop open. She rolls out her tongue for you, and you know what she expects you to do, what she expects you to fill her mouth with.

But you don’t—instead, you fill it with your kiss.

It's deep, it’s bruising, it’s saying ‘fuck you’ in the sweetest way possible, without uttering a single syllable. Natty laughs against your mouth, a ‘fuck you’ right back with her teeth, biting down on your lower lip. Not breaking skin—not yet—but the promise is there.

Her hand leaves your cock to wrap around your neck, pulling you closer to her, her mouth eager for yours, and you don’t even think twice before you hoist her up, her legs wrapping around your waist. Giggling again—another sound that’s going to be your undoing—before you’re both stumbling back onto her bed.

The mattress dips under the weight of your bodies falling back into it. Natty straddles you, presses her cunt down onto your thighs. So wet you can feel it on your thigh, leaving your skin sticky and stained with her. Your hands move to her hips, dragging her closer, so you can feel the friction grinding against your cock, making you ache.

She breaks your kiss, gasping for air. Her eyes are dark, pupils blown wide—seeing her pant like this, it’s not even fair. She’s just so fucking beautiful, like a painting you’re afraid to touch because you might smudge it.

You tell her as much.

She blinks. Blushes.

Grins.

“You,” Natty breathes, her hand trailing down your chest, finding your heartbeat, resting there for a beat, two, “are so fucking in love with me.”

You don’t argue because she’s right.

Her hand slides up your arms, nails dig in and she’s got your wrists, pinning them over your head. You let her. Let her grind herself against your cock, feel the warm, wet heat of her cunt against the tip.

Taking her sweet time, melting herself into you. Pressing her tits into your chest, making you feel her heart race against yours.

She whispers. Low, reverent. “God, I’ve waited so fucking long for this.”

You can’t even form a coherent thought, so you just grunt.

“I’ve dreamt about this so much,” she continues, breathless words sending shivers down your spine. “Your cock, fuck, it’s just as perfect as I imagined. And now, it’s all mine.”

And then she does it—she sinks down onto you, slow and sweet, her pussy taking you in inch by glorious inch. You groan into her shoulder, your eyes shut as Natty’s tight heat surrounds you. Like nothing you’ve ever felt before. Sure there’s been others but something about Natty’s cunt is so intense it’s almost painful.

“So tight,” you grit out, the words torn from your chest like they’re made of glass. She just laughs, low, sultry, and starts to move.

It’s a dance, a rhythm that’s been building between the two of you for what feels like an eternity. She’s rocking her hips back and forth in this torturous grind. Fucking you like it’s the last thing she’ll ever do, like she needs to make the most of it. Like you’re going to vanish into thin air the second she lets you go.

“I knew you’d feel this good,” Natty sighs into your neck, already surrendering to your cock. “Fuck, I knew it—why did you keep this from me?”

You can’t answer, not really.

You’re too lost in the feel of her, too consumed by the way she’s moving on top of you. Every inch of her body is pressed against yours, and she’s so warm, so alive, that you can’t think of anything but how Natty’s finally letting you in. How she’s letting you make her whole.

But it’s too much. Natty’s cunt, tight and wet, fucking you so slow it’s a fucking crime. Pinning you down, a butterfly on a board spread out, displayed, unable to do anything but take her sweet, sweet punishment. And she’s whispering it in your ear, grinding down, rolling her hips, “Fuck you. Fuck you for keeping this from me,” with every stroke.

She’s doing it on purpose, you’re sure of it. Driving you crazy, making you beg, making you want it more than you’ve ever wanted anything in your life. Your hips jerk up to meet her, trying to speed things up, to get that friction you need, but Natty just pushes down on your shoulders, keeping you in place.

So you tell her, "This is fucking torture."

Natty just smirks, her hips never stilling. "Is it?" she asks, as if this all isn’t intentional. Like she doesn’t have some grand plan to ensure you never forget the things her cunt can do to you. "Do something about it then."

So, you do.

It takes more effort than you’ll ever admit, but you break her grip on your wrists, grab her hips, and flip her over, sending her sprawling onto the bed, face down.

The squeal from her. It’s music.

How her eyes go wide when you treat her like a ragdoll, how her tits juggle and bounce, smacking the mattress. And when you push down into her, slamming your hips into her ass, how she arches back into you, her back bowing like a fucking violin.

“Yes!” She cries, fucking cheers into the mattress, like she’s been waiting for this—for you to have had enough of her shit and take her without asking. “Yes, yes, yes—”

You hover over her, throb inside her. "Is this what you fucking wanted?"

Natty sighs into the bedsheets, urging her hips against you, begging without words, begging for you to do more.

“You want it rough, baby?”

“Yeah,” Natty says, pushing back against you again, nodding immediately. “If you can.”

Still with the provocations, unable to resist pressing at your buttons.

You grab her hair, yank it back so she’s staring at you, force her to look at you. And you fuck her hard. Fuck her like you’ve wanted to since the first time she walked into your life and decided to make it all about her.

You fill her with deep, long strokes, fill the room with the smacks of your hips colliding against her, of your cock thrusting into her cunt again and again.

She claws at the sheets, trying to find purchase, trying to push back against you. But you’re too strong, too desperate.

You pound into her, impale her with your cock, watch her face twist in pleasure, in pain. You’re fucking her like you’re trying to break her, like she asked. Trying to solve her—how hard can she take it, how deep, how fast.

But Natty won’t give you an answer, she just takes it all—every inch, ever pump into her sopping wet cunt. Just grins and takes every bit of your need, your frustration. A bottomless pit of pleasure, begging for more with every whine, every little noise she makes that’s not quite a scream but is so close that it rattles your brain.

And when you finally let go of her hair, Natty’s licking her lips, and without even a care for what it does to you, she coaxes, “You can do better.”

You don’t know how she can talk right now, how she can even think with your cock so deep inside her, but something about the way she says it makes you want to test the limits of her ability to stay coherent.

But first, there’s the problem of her ass.

“Let’s see about that,” you murmur, dragging your hand down her spine, feeling the dip of her waist, the swell of her hips, and coming to a stop at her perfectly rounded ass. It’s a masterpiece, a work of art, and you’ve always had a bit of an artist’s soul.

You do what comes naturally.

A spank against Natty’s ass. Hard, hard enough to make her yelp.

Again—another slap, another yelp, louder, better.

You keep fucking her, keep spanking her, keep watching red bloom across her cheeks and Natty squirm underneath you. The whines get louder, her cunt gets wetter, but it’s still not enough to dull that smug look on her face.

“Fuck yes,” Natty gasps, raises her ass, presenting it to you like a trophy for you to claim. “I always knew you had it in you.”

You grab her hips harder, your knuckles white, your hand a blur as it connects with her ass. It’s so explicit, the sound of it in the quiet of Natty’s apartment—each spank echoing through the room like a gunshot.

But Natty just takes it, her body jolting with each hit, her cunt tensing and tightening around you.

“God, don’t fucking stop,” Natty sputters, tears of pained pleasure leaking from the corners of her eyes. “You’re using me so good.”

You lean down, kissing hard against her neck, branding her shoulder. You want her to feel you, to remember you. To not be able to ever feel remotely good again without first thinking of you.

"It's your fucking fault, Natty," you growl into her ear. "You drive me mad."

And she laughs, the sound vibrating through her body and going straight to your cock. "Good," she answers, "Good. Be mad. Be angry."

But you’re beyond that now, beyond the point of no return. All that you know is Natty’s cunt, Natty’s ass, Natty’s moans, and Natty’s grin that you’re aching to wipe off her face.

"Fucking hate me if you want," she’s saying, and she can’t seem to stop, "just don’t stop fucking—ah!”

You nearly stop when you realise you’ve finally done it. Finally left Natty out of breath, lost for words. A fucking miracle, really—the kind that makes you feel like a fucking god.

It doesn’t stop her cunt clenching around you, tight as a vice, because even now, Natty’s got some kind of death grip pussy, and she’s using it to fucking kill you.

You whisper in her ear, “You like that?”

Her only response is a breathy, needy little whine, so you spank her again.

And again.

Her cunt tightens. She’s close, so close. You can feel it.

“You like it when I use you, Natty?”

She nods, her eyes screwed shut, her mouth crying into the mattress, a mess of hair and sweat and utter bliss.

“Say it,” you demand, slapping her ass once more, watching as the pain ripples through her. “Say it.”

And Natty does, because she’s a good little whore, because she’s yours now. “Yes, yes, I like it when you use me, when you fuck me like this, when it’s only about you, your cock, your needs, your pleasure—”

God, it feels good to hear her say it, but you still want more than just words. You want her to fucking scream it.

You make the bed shake, knock the headboard against her wall, it’s a competition of what’s going to break first—the frame or her.

“This cunt. Your cunt. I’m going to use it. Fuck it whenever I want.”

But Natty catches you off guard, because that’s what Natty does best. She opens her eyes, looks right into yours, and suddenly she has her voice again: “Whenever I want. You’re going to fucking move in with me.”

You freeze. Your hand mid-spank. Your cock mid-thrust. It throws you entirely off, because, what the fuck?

"You're going to be my boyfriend now," Natty says, wrenching back control, fucking her ass back into you. Stating not asking, leaving no room for argument. "Move in with me, your place sucks anyway."

"You're out of your fucking mind," you start to protest, but she cuts you off with another squeeze of her cunt around you, and now she’s the one fucking you, her hips rolling back and forth in this maddening, sinful way that has you biting down on your tongue to keep from shouting.

"Move in and just fuck me every day," she says, all light and airy, like it’s already been decided, like moments ago you didn’t have her dead to rights. "Morning to night. It would be so fucking nice."

This is real, you know that for sure. It’s not just something she’s saying to get off, not another way to get under your skin. You know it in her voice, she’s deadly serious and suddenly your mind’s racing.

"Come on," Natty purrs, punctuating each word with a slap of her ass against your waist, "You know you want it, why fucking wait?"

She’s not wrong. It makes too much fucking sense to deny. And yet, part of you still can't believe it. That Natty, the girl who's had countless men at her feet, could have any man at her feet, actually wants you. That Natty is underneath you now, eyes glossed over with need, mouth swollen from your kisses, ass cheeks flushed crimson from your palm.

"I'll take such good care of you, baby," she says, unaware that she’s already completely won, unaware that her cunt already has you bending to her will. "Every day, every night.”

You can't help but nod. You're too consumed in her to do anything else. You just let go of everything. The fears, the doubt, the fucking logic.

And Natty says it, the three words that seal your fate—"I'll love you," she cries out, "I'll fucking love you forever if you just keep giving me this fucking cock."

It's like the world stops, like everything you've ever wanted is right there in front of you, wrapped up in Natty's tight fucking body.

You're so close, so fucking close, that you can almost taste it—the sweet release of your orgasm; giving in to Natty’s unbelievably sensational cunt sleeving your cock, pulsing with each thrust, desperate to milk you dry.

There’s nothing left to do but give Natty wants. Fuck her, hammer into her so hard that you’re going to fuck a Natty-shaped hole into the mattress, fucking shatter her bedframe, and then keep drilling her straight through the floor.

And she’s crying out your name, forgetting about everything that isn’t you, isn’t your cock, isn’t the dream of your cum filling her to the brim and spilling out of her cunt every single day for the rest of your fucking lives.

“Are you close, baby? Are you going to cum for me? Please, give it to me, I need it so bad, I need it now, because I'm about to, about to, about to—"

And then it happens.

Fucking destroys her.

It hits. A crescendo that peaks as you bottom out inside her, shaking her to the core. Her cunt spasms about you, her body rises off the bed as if you’re performing a fucking exorcism, and she screams your name so loud it’s only a matter of time before the neighbours come banging on her door.

"Oh my fucking god you—"

Natty gushes around your cock, juices running down your shaft, your balls, and she’s squirting. Oh god, she’s squirting all over the fucking place.

Natty’s body goes rigid, her back arching so much it’s like she’s trying to fold in half, crying, sputtering these words that don't even make sense—until you realise she's speaking an entirely different fucking language.

Not that it matters, because you can tell what she's saying, read it in her body, in the way she's spurting and making a big fucking mess beneath your bodies. Whatever she’s saying sounds utterly depraved, filthy and so, so good to your ears.

It keeps going and going, until she has enough sense to speak your language again, needing to make sure you hear it when she says—"fucking fill me, baby," she whimpers. "Give me everything, all your fucking cum."

And it’s your turn to be hit—like a fucking freight train.

You're cumming, hard and fast and out of fucking nowhere. Your balls tighten, your cock throbs, and you’re flooding Natty’s cunt.

It’s biological, in every cell of your body—like your entire being is coming undone, and the only thing holding you together is Natty, Natty, Natty.

Her body shaking beneath you, her cunt contracting around your cock as wave after wave of cum fills her up.

She’s so fucking tight, so fucking perfect, that you can feel every pulse of your orgasm, every drop of your cum spurting into her. You're not sure how long it lasts, how much you give her, but it’s enough to make your muscles shake, enough to knock the architecture right out of your limbs.

"So fucking good, so fucking good," Natty coos. "Fucking finally, finally filling me up so good."

Her moans a lullaby, sending shockwaves of pleasure through your body with every syllable. You lean down, burying your face in the crook of her neck, your every inhale and exhale ragged as you try to catch your breath. Still twitching inside her, still releasing the last of your cum, and Natty’s just lying there, her body limp, her eyes closed, basking in it all.

"So perfect," she keeps repeating, right up until the very end, “So, so, perfect.”

You collapse on top of her, just lie there shivering together, your face next to hers. She’s got this look on her face, a victorious glow, and you just have to accept it. Yeah, she’s won again, in devastatingly convincing fashion.

For a second, you’re both just that—spent, exhausted, entirely drained. Like you’ve just run a marathon. Or been in a fight. Or both.

Then Natty’s got the nerve to stir, to kiss your cheek with the tenderness of a whisper. Lips softer than you thought possible, given how hard she’s just been fucking you. And that’s it, the moment your body decides it’s had enough of playing dead, enough of lying there like a sack of potatoes.

You roll over, bringing Natty with you, her body curling into yours like she’s been made to fit there. Her head rests on your chest, her legs entwined with yours, and for a moment, you just hold her close.

It feels fucking right.

"Tomorrow," Natty sighs contentedly, her cheek finding home atop your heartbeat.

You blink. "Tomorrow?"

"Yeah, you're moving in tomorrow." Natty’s deciding for you already, setting the dynamic for the rest of your future. Doing all this with her eyes still shut as she snuggles closer to you. "I'll hire the movers."

You sigh, the weight of the world and Natty's body both feeling surprisingly light. You think about the next few days, the weeks, the years even, with Natty. The idea is so ludicrous, so absurd, that it feels like a fever dream.

But as you hold her, feel her warmth, her unabashed, blatant satisfaction, something inside you shifts. A reframing of the concept of Natty that you hold in your head. The thought of her naked body in your bed, her laughter in your living room, her mess in your kitchen—it doesn’t feel like an intrusion, it feels like home.

"Are you sure?" you ask. A little shaky, a little hopeful.

Natty opens one eye to look at you, a laugh playing on her lips. "Oh, you know I'm going to be the worst fucking roommate ever."

"Yeah, I can see that. But as long as you keep being the best fucking everything else..." Your words trail off into a whisper, your hand tracing idle patterns on her back.

And then she says it again.

"You’re so fucking in love with me."

Natty kisses you hard, deep, her tongue sliding against yours. And you know, you fucking know, that she's right. You are desperately, entirely, so fucking in love with her, and you wouldn't have it any other way.

You laugh, the sound a little desperate, a little wild, and roll her again, pin her down again. A strange feeling rushes through your mind. Like you’re going to be repeating this exact same motion for the next hundred years. And somehow, that doesn’t sound like the worst thought in the world.

Natty squeals, cheers, moans when you settle between her legs.

"Fuck you, Natty."

"Oh, baby," Natty giggles, reaching down between your legs, squeezing you. Once. Twice. Until you're filling her hand once more. "That's what I'm here for."

[this-is-tiny-mia]

Sorry, wrong number (H.S. One Shot) Part 2.

General Masterlist THIS IS A PART 2 - YOU CAN FIND PART 1 HERE Summary: A wrong-number text leads to an unexpected connection between a you and a stranger. What starts as a playful exchange quickly becomes the highlight of their days, leaving you curious about the man behind the messages.

A/n: OKAY again, i wasn't expecting SO MUCH love to this One shot, i actually wasn't expecting anything tbh, I want to thank @eileenrry for giving me the last push to publish it, ily 🥹. Just a reminder, english is not my first language bare with me with grammar. and it's also my first One shot so be gentle 🥹. Andddd this isn’t the end there’s one more part coming. Anddd please let me know if I missed someone in the tag list, I’m trying to get used to tumblr again after a few years so everything it’s upside down for me.

Word count: 4.5k

Warnings: Use of y/n, slow burn but things catch up quickly at the end, a small vulnerable moment. (idk if it counts as angst, please let me now if i should add another warning)

You froze, gripping your cup as if it could somehow tether you to reality. Your mind raced—what were you supposed to do now? Walk over and say hi? Pretend you didn’t see him? Was he expecting you to make the first move? Or maybe you were just desperately hoping to wake up from this fever dream.

Before you could decide, he pushed off the wall and started walking toward you. Shit. Shit. Shit. Your heart pounded in your chest. Every step he took felt deafening, like the slow-motion build-up to a climactic movie scene.

By the time he reached your table, you were caught between bolting for the door or sinking into your seat to avoid collapsing altogether. You knew him, of course—who didn’t? A few years ago, you even considered going to one of his concerts but didn’t manage to get tickets. It wasn’t something that crushed you; you weren’t the kind of fan to cry yourself to sleep over it. Instead, you shrugged it off with an “Okay, maybe next time.”

What you didn’t know was that “next time” would turn out to be a one-on-one meeting with him in a café, while he tried (and failed) to stay incognito.

“Hi,” he said, sliding off his sunglasses. That voice—his voice—sent a shiver down your spine. And then came that signature, disarming smile. “Is this seat taken?” he asked as he sat down without waiting for an answer. Of course, it wasn’t taken.

You stared at him, frozen, your mouth slightly parted. Every movement he made was deliberate yet casual, like he was completely at ease in this moment. Meanwhile, your brain was still scrambling to process whether this was real life or a fever dream. Somehow, you managed to breathe out a shaky, “Hi.”

For a moment, the space between you was thick with silence, though not uncomfortable—just charged. He gave you a sheepish smile, scratching the back of his neck like he wasn’t entirely sure how to begin.

“I guess this is the part where the serial killer takes the victim,” he said, teasing to break the tension. “Lucky for you, I’m not one—as you can see.”

You blinked, finally finding your voice, though it was a little wobbly. “No, no, I clearly see you’re not a serial killer.” A nervous smile tugged at your lips, trying its best to outshine the chaos of emotions tumbling through you.

He chuckled softly, the sound warm and reassuring. “Yeah. Guess fate wanted me to see if you’re as interesting in person as you are over text.”

Your face flushed, your mind racing to keep up. You weren’t sure if it was from embarrassment, disbelief, or something else entirely—a weird kind of thrill that you couldn’t quite place.

“Well,” you said, fighting to steady your voice, “I guess this is where I admit I didn’t think you were real—or at least, not this real.”

“How not ‘this real’?” he asked, his head tilting slightly as curiosity glinted in his eyes. “I mean, I’m way too real right now.”

“Like… I thought I was texting a random Harry,” you said, stumbling through your words, trying to explain yourself without sounding completely ridiculous.

“I’m still a random Harry,” he replied with a small shrug, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

Well, he wasn’t exactly wrong. To himself, he was just Harry—not the Harry. You sat there for a moment, considering his words. In some strange way, nothing about him being this Harry changed what you’d already come to know. It didn’t undo the weeks of shared thoughts, the genuine conversations, the effortless way you clicked.

You thought about the little quirks you’d picked up from his texts—the way he used emojis just enough to be endearing but not overkill, the offhanded pictures of random things he’d shared, the teasing yet thoughtful tone that felt so easy to respond to. Famous or not, none of that felt fake.

“You’re right,” you said finally, a small smile breaking through your nervousness. “You’re still just Harry. The same Harry who asked for help picking nail polish colors like it wasn’t a BIG decision for a BIG brand” His laugh came easily, soft but genuine. “Hey, it wasn’t that big, i told you i already had those colors in mind.” He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table. “But honestly, I’m glad it was you on the other side of those texts.”

You swallowed hard, your pulse still racing, but his words—and the way he said them—settled something in you. Maybe this wasn’t as surreal as it seemed. Maybe it was just two people who happened to find each other, one text at a time. “Why glad?” you asked, frowning slightly, not quite understanding what he meant. He leaned back a little, a soft smile playing on his lips as he considered his response.

“Because,” he said after a moment, “it’s rare these days to have a conversation that feels real, you know? No filters, no pretense. Just… people being themselves. And with you, it felt like that from the start.”

You blinked, his words hitting a little deeper than you expected.

“I mean, I didn’t know I was texting someone who I needed filters for to begin with,” you joked, trying to lighten the moment. He laughed, the sound warm and easy, a sound that felt like it reached across the table and wrapped around you. “That’s the point,” he said.

You paused, taking in his words. It felt big, weighty, yet oddly simple at the same time. Like he was trying to say something beyond the words themselves, but without complicating it. Instead of overthinking it, you just nodded, letting out a small, genuine smile.  “Well,” you said softly, meeting his eyes, “I’m glad it was me, too.”

He didn’t have much time that day, just stopping for a coffee on his way to the studio. You secretly wished this was that rom-com moment because moments like this only existed in movies, right? After some light small talk about the coffee and an exchange of polite goodbyes, he stood up to leave. You stayed behind, frozen, letting it all sink in—this wasn’t a dream. You felt butterflies over a pop star. You’d been talking to him for more than a month without knowing. Suddenly, your boring, predictable life felt like it belonged to someone else. It didn’t even matter what would happen from now on—this was your story.

----

"Morning, Tulip 🌷. Today’s question: Favorite recent album of all time?"

You didn’t expect a text from him the morning after. You figured he’d need time to process the fact that you’d actually met in person. But no, there he was, texting you like nothing had changed, his chill demeanor so endearing it almost made your heart ache.

"Is this a trick question?" you replied, grinning at your phone. "Because I don’t want to hurt your feelings if I don’t say it’s one of your albums."

The thought was surreal—bantering and teasing Harry Styles over text? That was straight out of fanfic material. (A/n: Not me breaking the fourth wall in my first fic lol.)

"Don’t worry, I wasn’t expecting you to say one of my albums," he replied. Of course, he wasn’t.

"‘You’ by Larry Lovestein," you texted back after a moment of thought.

"Love that," he responded quickly.

How was anyone supposed to concentrate on mundane daily tasks after meeting Harry Styles in a café the day before? And not only that, but he was texting you like you were the most interesting person in the world. And—AND—he had a nickname for you! A nickname.

"Y/N?" Gwen’s voice jolted you back to reality. You blinked twice, trying to refocus. "Yes?"

"Coffee?" she asked, smirking knowingly as she handed you a cup. "What’s up with you?" she said, sitting down next to you. 

"Nothing… just… clients, emails," you said quickly, trying to act like your insides weren’t throwing a full-blown party.

"Clients and emails, huh?" Gwen raised a skeptical eyebrow. "I’ve never seen you smile like that over clients and emails."

You swallowed hard, thankful she wasn’t too nosy. You didn’t want to risk sharing too much, not when you were casually texting with Harry Styles. That thought lingered—Why did he trust you? He could’ve easily stayed anonymous. He could’ve walked away from the café and pretended it never happened. Instead, he chose to tell you. It was terrifying to imagine how vulnerable that decision must’ve been for him. What if you were the wrong person? Someone who’d plaster it all over social media the next day? The weight of his trust settled over you, and for the first time, you realized just how fragile this connection was—and how much you wanted to protect it.

You weren’t rushing into anything; neither of you were. It was easy, light, and fun—like reconnecting with a long-lost friend, only this friend was Harry Styles. Over the next month, the “question game” continued, but it evolved. There were more pictures, videos, and now… voice notes. Yes, voice notes. You couldn’t help but replay them at the end of the day, savoring the sound of his voice as if it were a melody written just for you.

The intimacy deepened as more pieces of your lives were shared. Selfies of him at the studio, casual and effortless—selfies meant only for you. These weren’t circulating on Twitter or stashed in some secret Reddit thread. They were yours alone. And you shared back: snapshots of your day-to-day life—your desk cluttered with coffee cups, a corner of your office bathed in sunlight, and even a shy selfie taken at the café table where you’d first met him.

You didn’t know if you could call it a real friendship just yet, but it certainly felt like one. There was a comfortable rhythm between you now, a bond that felt genuine and unforced.

He clearly didn’t have much free time to casually meet again, though you hadn’t asked. The idea of seeing him in person again was both thrilling and terrifying. It wasn’t just his fame—it was the weight of the connection you were building. Trust was a fragile thing, and you both seemed to understand that. Brick by brick, you were quietly constructing something that felt worth protecting.

“How’s THIS cold today??” you texted, attaching a selfie where only your eyes peeked out from beneath two bulky jackets, a beanie, and a scarf. The icy weather was relentless, and staying home had been the original plan, but of course, the two important files you needed were on your office computer.

“How are you OUT in THIS cold? That’s the question” he replied almost immediately

“I need some files I left at the office. Forgot to upload them yesterday”

“Don’t freeze out then”

“I’ll try.”

You smiled at the screen, tucking your phone back into your pocket. It was so easy—he was so easy to talk to. You didn’t feel the need to answer immediately, and you didn’t panic when he didn’t either. It was a natural back-and-forth, effortless and grounding. The way he interacted with you made you feel like he wasn’t someone crazy famous, like he was just Harry—your Harry, in a way. And you hadn’t told anyone yet. It wasn’t exactly a secret, but you hesitated to share it. How would people react? Would they even believe you? For now, you were content to keep it to yourself. It felt special this way, untouched by the opinions or expectations of others. Just you and him, chatting like old friends.

In your mind, it was going to be a quick trip—drive downtown, grab the files, and rush back home under a cozy blanket. In your mind. But life had other plans, didn’t it? 

Sliding into your car after uploading the files and rubbing your hands for warmth, you turned the key in the ignition. A rusty, choking sound filled the air, followed by... nothing. “I’m sorry??” you exclaimed, staring at the dashboard as though sheer willpower would coax it to life. “No, no, no, you can break down TOMORROW! Not now!” Your fingers fumbled to turn the key again, and again, each attempt more pathetic than the last.

With a defeated sigh, you slumped back against the seat, a puff of breath visible in the freezing air. Accepting your fate, you pulled out your phone and opened your insurance app to report the issue. Unsurprisingly, the weather had caused delays, and it would be a while before they could send a tow truck. You quickly snapped a screenshot of the insurance chat and sent it to Harry. 

“I don’t know if I can keep my promise of not freezing out.”

His reply came almost instantly. “What?? Your car broke down??”

“Yep. They say it’s going to be a while because of the weather” you texted back.

“Where you at?”

“Parked in front of my office,” you replied, your stomach doing a small flip at how fast he was responding.

“No, I mean the address” he sent back.

Your heart skipped a beat. Was he serious? You immediately typed back

“Don’t even try it, I’m fineeee,” 

You lied, knowing full well you weren’t fine at all. But it wasn’t the cold or the broken-down car that had your stomach in knots. It was the thought of Harry coming to “save you” that sent a swarm of butterflies into overdrive. Because it wouldn’t just mean Harry coming to help. It meant seeing him again—really seeing him—since the big reveal. No screen between you, no casual texts to ease the nerves. Just him, in person, showing up for you in a way that made it harder to ignore what was happening between you two.

And as much as that idea thrilled you, it scared you just the same.

“Please?”

That was all it took. How can a girl resist a please from Harry Styles? Go ahead, i’ll be here waiting if you find someone. You sighed, caved, and typed the address, pressing send without overthinking. He didn’t reply, but he didn’t need to—you both knew what was about to happen. No confirmation was necessary.

Twenty-six minutes later, you were bundled in your car, trying to stay warm and still, counting down the seconds until the surreal became reality. The street was eerily quiet—only a few brave souls trudging through the cold. Who in their right mind would be out in this weather? That’s when you saw it—a black car pulling up right in front of yours. Your breath hitched as you recognized him in the rearview mirror, his eyes catching yours for a fleeting moment. Then, your phone buzzed.

“Did you order an Uber?”

You let out a chuckle, a mix of nerves and amusement, and grabbed your purse. Stepping out into the biting cold. Sliding into the passenger seat, everything about this moment felt surreal. The warmth of the car, the subtle hum of the engine, and, most of all, him—Harry, sitting next to you like this was the most natural thing in the world. Your movements felt slower, deliberate, as though your body and mind were bracing themselves for what this meant. Sitting in the same car with Harry Styles wasn’t something you had ever imagined happening, not like this.

“Hi again” you said softly, your breath visible in the cold air.

“Hi” he replied, flashing that disarming smile. “Need a friendly lift? or should I just keep pretending I’m an Uber driver?” You laughed, the tension melting just a little. 

“Well, that depends…what’s your rating?”

“Solid five stars,” he said, easing the moment even further. And just like that, the butterflies in your stomach settled into something a little calmer, a little more certain.

“Sounds good then,” you replied, falling into a silence that was more reflective than awkward. Your mind was spinning with a million thoughts—what this meant, how this even happened, and whether you’d wake up any second now.

“So, where to?” he asked, breaking the silence with a soft smile.

“Oh! Right,” you snapped out of your daze, quickly explaining where you lived. It hit you how crazy this was—months ago, you’d been so cautious, terrified to even drop a vague hint about your location. And now? Now, Harry Styles was driving you to your apartment.

“You really didn’t have to,” you said, glancing at him.

“I know,” he replied, flashing a smile that made your heart stutter.

The drive was… nice. Surprisingly nice. The small talk flowed naturally—not forced, not the awkward kind you’d exchange in an elevator. It felt easy, even comforting. If you didn’t look at him for too long, you were almost able to suppress the butterflies fluttering in your stomach. Almost.

“Weren’t you busy? It’s a Thursday,” you asked, realizing the absurdity of the situation.

“You really think I know what day it is?” he replied, his tone light and sincere, not smug or pretentious—just endearingly innocent. You couldn’t help but laugh. 

“What, no color-coded calendar?”

He shook his head, grinning. “Nope. I’ve got the schedule of a 60-year-old retiree, not a nine-to-fiver. Days kind of blend together, you know?”

And there it was again—that disarming charm that made it all feel so normal. So easy. Like this wasn’t the most surreal thing that had ever happened to you.

“Yeah, I should’ve guessed,” you muttered with a small smile, trying to keep your voice steady.

The whole drive, your mind raced with scenarios. What would happen when you reached your apartment? Do you invite him in? Do you just thank him and say goodbye? And if—by some miracle—he did come in, did you even remember to pick up the clothes from the bathroom floor? But before you could spiral any further, his voice cut through your thoughts, casual and confident, like he already had the answers to all your questions.

“Can I invite myself over for a tea?” he asked, pulling into a parking spot in front of your building.

You blinked, caught off guard. “I was going to invite you,” you said quickly, defending yourself as you scrambled to regain composure.

“No, you weren’t,” he replied with a teasing grin, already stepping out of the car. And just like that, you knew the decision had been made for you. Butterflies? Gone. They’d evolved into full-blown fireworks. You shakily opened the door, praying the apartment was in some semblance of order. To your relief, aside from two glasses sitting on the kitchen counter, everything was in place.

“You can still blow me off if you’re busy,” he said, stepping inside and glancing around, taking in your space with quiet curiosity.

“It’s fine. Perks of being a freelancer,” you replied, heading to the kitchen and opening a cabinet to search for tea. “I don’t have many flavors, though,” you admitted, scanning the limited options.

“Well, it’s a good thing I like most,” he said with an easy grin. “I’ll have whatever you’re having.”

“Okay,” you said softly, smiling as you set the kettle on to boil. While waiting for the water to heat, you found yourself watching him. He wandered a bit, casually inspecting the books on the shelf, a framed photo on the wall, and the little details of your life.

It was surreal—a good surreal—watching Harry Styles in your apartment, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. Like how? How was this happening? And why did it feel so oddly natural, like a longtime friend had stopped by for a chat?

The sharp whistle of the kettle broke your trance. You quickly poured the tea, handing him one of the steaming mugs.

“Thanks,” he said, taking it with a small nod. Then, as if sensing your disbelief, he gave you a sly smile. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you lied, taking a sip of your tea to avoid answering further. Were you okay? Absolutely not.

He sat down on the couch, cradling the mug in his hands, and you followed, sitting on the armchair across from him. The silence wasn’t awkward—it was comfortable, filled with the sound of the occasional sip of tea and the faint hum of the heater working overtime against the cold.

“Nice place,” he said, his eyes scanning the room again before settling on you. “Feels very...you.”

You tilted your head, curious. “What does ‘me’ feel like?”

He chuckled softly. “Warm, cozy. A little bit of chaos in the details.” He nodded toward the stack of papers on your desk.

You groaned and put your head in your hands. “Okay, maybe I wasn’t fully prepared for company.”

“Nah, it’s perfect,” he said, grinning. “Makes it feel real.”

You smiled at that, the tension in your shoulders easing. “And your place? What’s it like?”

He leaned back, thinking for a moment. “Depends which one,” he teased, and you rolled your eyes dramatically. 

“Okay, fancy. You know what I mean. The one that feels most like home.”

His expression softened. “It’s quiet. Lots of books. A few random things I’ve collected over the years. Nothing too extravagant.”

“That’s not what I imagined,” you admitted honestly.

He raised an eyebrow. “What did you imagine?”

You hesitated, wondering if you should hold back or just say it. “I don’t know. Something...flashier? Like an MTV Cribs episode or something.” He laughed, a deep, genuine sound that filled the room.

“God, no. I’d hate living like that. Flashy isn’t my thing.”

The conversation flowed from there—effortless and natural. You talked about little things, like favorite movies and weird food combinations, and at some point, you stopped feeling like you had to pinch yourself. It just felt like two people enjoying tea on a cold day. Eventually, though, the tea mugs were empty, and the silence settled in again, this time heavier with unspoken thoughts.

“I should probably get going soon,” he said, breaking the stillness.

Your heart sank a little, but you nodded. “Right. Of course.”

He stood, stretching a bit, and you followed him to the door. He hesitated there, turning to look at you with a small, almost shy smile.

“Thanks for the tea,” he said, lingering. “And...for letting me pick you up.”

“Anytime,” you said softly, and you meant it.

As he stepped out into the cold, he glanced back one last time. “See you soon?”

“Yeah,” you said, watching him walk to his car, the promise of “soon” hanging in the air. You closed the door behind him, leaning against it as you exhaled a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. The room felt emptier now, even though he’d only been there for a short time. You glanced at the two empty mugs on the table, a small smile tugging at your lips.

For a moment, you let yourself replay everything in your mind—the way he casually fit into your space, the warmth in his voice, the way he lingered just a little before leaving. But then, your phone buzzed.

“Thanks again. Made the cold much more bearable.”

----

“Are you dating someone?” Gwen asked, her smile widening as she caught you grinning at your phone.

 “What? No, I would’ve told you,” you replied quickly, placing your phone face down on the table. Normally, that would’ve been true—you’d tell her about a new guy or someone interesting in your life without hesitation. But this wasn’t a normal situation. This was different. And as much as you tried to keep it hidden, clearly your expression was giving something away.

“Would you, though?” she teased, leaning in slightly, her tone playful but probing.

“Yes, I promise,” you said, hoping to sound convincing. Deep down, you felt a twinge of guilt. You’d apologize later for lying to her—she’d understand. At least, you hoped she would.

“What’s something you’ve never told anyone before?”

You hesitated, the weight of his question lingering in the air. “Something I’ve never told anyone?” you said to yourself, stalling, your mind racing. “Okay… when I was younger, I used to think I wasn’t enough for the things I really wanted. Like, I’d convince myself it was better not to try because failing would just prove it. I don’t think I’ve ever told anyone that before.”

You stared at the text, feeling vulnerable. Naked even. It wasn’t easy to admit things like that, not even to yourself. But somehow, with him, it didn’t feel as scary. The way he spoke, the way he made you feel like he’d never judge you, created a space that felt safe.

"I think wanting things, letting yourself want them, is the bravest part. Like… taking that first step, you know? Even if it’s scary. Besides, from what I can tell, you’re more than enough. Probably always have been. You just needed to catch up to it."

You read that, smiling softly at your screen. It was strange—how he could make you feel like all those nagging voices in your head didn’t stand a chance against his words. Like he had this way of dissolving your doubts faster than your therapist ever could. Maybe it was because you believed him so easily, the way he spoke like he knew something you didn’t, like he could see a future you hadn’t dared to imagine yet.

"Wow, how much you charge per therapy session?" you texted, hoping to lighten the moment without brushing it off. "Your turn," you added, nudging him back into the conversation.

The pause before his response wasn’t long, but it was enough to make you wonder what he might say next.

"Sometimes, I miss being no one. Just… Harry. Not Harry Styles. I love what I do, don’t get me wrong. But there’s a part of me that wishes I could walk into a room and not feel like I have to be something for everyone. It’s strange. How can you be surrounded by people all the time and still feel like no one really sees you?"

You read his words slowly, letting them settle in. And then it hit you—both of you knew the feeling. Both of you felt seen by each other in the way you both wanted to be seen. It didn’t need to be said out loud, but it was there, clear as water.

"I met you as Just Harry. And ‘Just Harry’ is pretty awesome to me 😉. I still see Just Harry"

His reply came almost instantly.

"Thanks, Tulip 🌷❤️."

You stared at the screen, your heart skipping a beat. The little red heart stood out in the conversation like a tiny, unspoken promise. It was the first one either of you had shared. And somehow, it felt like a beginning.

The day went on as usual, no more texts exchanged. Both of you were busy, focused on work, yet your mind kept wandering back to Harry. How everything between you was unfolding—it wasn’t painfully slow, but it wasn’t rushing either. It was just… perfect.

You couldn’t help but smile at the thought of him. Sometimes you even laughed, scrolling through the gossip and pictures of him on Twitter. THIS is the man you knew? The same man who shared something he hadn’t told anyone else? It felt surreal.

Millions of people thought they knew him, adored him, and claimed a piece of him for themselves. But you—you really knew him. In a way that was different. Special. Personal. It was crazy to think about, but somehow, it felt right.

You were scrolling through many tweets in bed when it came. Another text.

"I’ve been around the world and back, and I still find myself wanting to talk to you about everything. What does that mean?"

PART 3

--- Taglist: @jackiehollanderr @proudravenclawbird @hopeyoustaythenight @maryjahps @obsessiveenthusiast @liiit44 @loveheart-123 @harrystyleshotwife @harryscherries28 @addiemb8332 @cumuluscranium @gguksfilter @alemunson42069 @sarah22194 @summertime-pills @hescrush @cosmomento @harrys-wifeyy

[deadhands69]

Laundry Detergent

MDNI

loser!Shigaraki x reader

One last fic for the year! Happy New Years!! Contains: gn reader/maybe afab if you squint, cussing, pacifying loser/sub!shigaraki by sitting on his lap/teasing him, light choking, male orgasm. [quick read; wc: 1k]

Shigaraki has been in a mood lately, which means the whole league is miserable. After the last failed mission, he’s been taking it out on everyone and everything for a week now. Between his snide comments and sulking, you’ve all had enough of it.

It was all your fault, really. Or so he decided. If you hadn’t worn that scent he liked, it would have been fine. You know, the one he would kill for. The one that makes him want to drop down on his knees for you and beg you to touch him. 

‘My laundry detergent?’ you once asked. 

Yeah, that. Or whatever. In any case, it drives him crazy and it’s definitely your fault the mission wasn't going as planned.

The idea was easy, or it should have been if he didn’t have a massive erection stealing the blood from his brain the entire time. All he had to do was decay four city blocks. He only made it through two before running off and ducking away somewhere private to deal with something. Leaving the rest of you to handle his task and your own.

He wouldn’t admit that part in front of everyone else (or to you) but the passive aggression continued to linger through the week.

After the last meeting abruptly ends with him rage quitting, you’re left in a room of your coworkers (if you could call them that.) They all stare at you.

“What the fuck am I supposed to do,” you assert, “he’s the one who blew the mission now he’s pissed at all of us.”

“I don’t know, fix it,” Dabi snaps before walking out.

Everyone shuffles back to their own spaces, in varying levels of anger. On top of this, no one has been sleeping well lately because Tomura keeps you up all night barking at his video game and slamming the controller on his desk every time he dies. Which is often. 

It really has been getting to you all.

Later that evening, you’re walking past his room. The muffled sound of him grumbling at his most recent death radiates through the wall. And, like clockwork you hear the controller crack as he quits for the next five minutes to pace around his room in anger.

This has gone on for too long, you need to fix this.

“Shigaraki?” you try knocking.

No answer. Of course.

“Tomura,” you shove the door open, slamming it behind you. 

“What the fuck, [y/n] get out of my room.”

“Not until you calm down, you’re making everyone miserable.”

It’s true and he knows it. He doesn’t have anything to say in defense so he settles for dropping back onto his chair, crossing his arms, and glaring at you. 

Even when he’s like this, you get the feeling he would do anything you say.

“Do you want to tell me why you’re still in such a shit mood?” you ask, bridging the gap between the two of you to where your knees nearly touch his as you stand above him.

“No,” he grumbles, eyes shifted down. He adjusts his sweatpants in a way he thinks is inconspicuous, but of course you notice it. 

In response, you slide your hoodie off. Lightly grabbing the hem with both hands while you slowly tease it over your head and throw it on his bed. The fresh laundered scent drifting towards his face. 

“What are you doing?” he asks, looking increasingly flustered.

Leaning forward, you whisper in his ear, “keep your hands on the armrests.” 

“Huh?” He stares up at you, eyes filled with confusion and nerves.

The same eyes widen immediately when you sit on his lap. Twisting your torso to press his face into your chest. 

You feel the drool of his lips as he gasps into the skin above your low-cut tank top. His chin nestled lower while he takes huge breaths. Inhaling the scent of you. His erection pressing into your ass as he tries desperately to hold his hips still. He’s not even trying to hide it anymore.

He could probably cum right now, but you have ulterior motives. You pull back and watch as his pretty lips quiver at the loss.

“Are you going to be a good boy and calm down?” you ask, index finger and thumb pinching his chin to force his face up towards you.

“Uhnhuuh,” he moans.

“You sure?”

“Yes,” he chokes out, “yeah. Anything.”

“Good,” you reply. “I’m not fucking you,” you say, then more quietly whisper, “at least not today.”

“Wait, you w- aahhhh”, he moans as you slide your hips back into the painfully hard bulge he tucked into his waistband. 

Your hand slides down his chin to the soft skin on his neck. Grabbing tighter than polite, but you know he loves it by the way he squirms under you. His hips jutting up into your ass involuntarily. 

Licking your lips, you twist your face to his. Mouth only millimeters from his and there’s nothing he can do but whimper.

Shifting your weight, you rub against him again. This time he gasps and grips his chair so tight you worry he might decay it. While he catches his breath under you, you watch the wet stain creep through his thin t-shirt. 

That was fast.

Smoothly, you climb off his lap and head for the door with one last glance over your shoulder to admire the mess you made. Shigaraki is so fucked out his eyes struggle to stay open. Hands still dangling over the edge of the armrest. You did good, you think as you head back to your room to lay in bed. The whole place is quiet. Everyone in the league really owes you for that one.

Ten minutes later, your eyes shoot open.

Fuck, you forgot your favorite hoodie.

m.list

[setmeatopthepyre]

Since you asked:

BT - Having their hair washed by the other 😘

okay so. I didn't actually get to the hair washing but. it is mentioned? oops. set post-8x15 in some nebulous near-future after Buck gets injured (how? who knows. who cares!) so heads up for spoilers and references to events in 8x11 and 8x15.

[bucktommy | 1043 words | spoilers for 8x11 and 8x15]

-

“My hair feels gross,” Evan groans, wincing as he runs the fingers of his left hand through his - definitely greasy - curls.

“Good morning to you, too,” Tommy deadpans, turning back to-- whatever he’d been doing when Evan had walked in, sleep-rumpled and scowling and fidgeting with his sling, his shirt, his hair.

Fruit. Right. He’d been cutting up fruit. He takes a deep, steadying breath, trying not to think of the last time they’d been here, in this kitchen, with Tommy making breakfast. Right after they’d hooked up. Right before Evan had told him he didn’t have feelings for him.

Evan is silent for a while. Tommy can’t help but glance up. Their eyes meet, and something open and vulnerable and complicated looks back at him. His voice is soft, still a little gravelly with sleep when he finally speaks. “Thank you.”

“Hm?”

Evan steps closer, hesitant. “For being here,” he clarifies. “For me.”

It isn’t a question, and there is no pretending he’s doing this it for someone else, for Howie, this time. Not like back in the helicopter, before he’d admitted to it anyway, before Bobby--

Tommy clears his throat. Nods. “Of course.” He puts down the knife, rinses and dries his hands. Immediately regrets not having something to do with his hands anymore.

“I could help,” he offers, and Evan blinks at him. “With your hair. I could--” he glances around the kitchen, “-- could move a chair in here, have you sit by the sink, wash your hair like that? Since, you know, your arm--”

Shit, was he overstepping? Had Evan mentioned it because he wanted help, or was he just making an observation? Maybe Evan was perfectly fine in the shower using just his left arm, maybe he wasn’t as full-body sore as he thought he would be, maybe--

“You’ve seen me naked before,” Evan says, head tipped to the side a little.

“That was different,” he replies.

“Was it?” The look in his eyes is a little daring, a little dangerous.

“Wasn’t it?” Tommy retorts, arms crossing across his chest.

“You’re here,” Evan says, like that should be answer enough.

“To help you.”

“You always do.”

Yes, Tommy wants to say, because I’m crazy about you, but that’s my problem, not yours. He doesn’t. Instead, he says, “I could leave, if you don’t want me to.”

“I don’t want you to,” Evan says, and Tommy is distantly surprised to find his heart is still capable of cracking a little more. Evan’s eyes widen. “Uh--” he says. “Leave,” he adds.

Tommy uncrosses his arms, flexes his hands, pats his pockets for his keys-wallet-phone. “I don’t-- I don’t want you to leave.” Evan stumbles over his words, steps closer with sure steps, winces at the movement. “Tommy.”

He’s close now, big blue eyes searching, and Tommy feels his resolve crumble again. Jesus, he really is gone for this kid. It's going to be the death of him, one of these days. He's sure of it.

He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, tries to locate his spine somewhere in the meantime. When his eyes open again, Evan is still looking at him, eyes wide and pleading.

“Please,” Evan says.

“Ok,” Tommy’s mouth replies before his brain can catch up. “Ok, but, Evan--” he reaches out on auto-pilot, catches himself in time, drops his hand again, Evan’s eyes tracking his every movement. “I want to help you. But if this doesn’t mean anything to you--” he forces himself to say, “-- then I don’t think I-- I can’t--” his mouth is too dry all of a sudden, his eyes too wet.

He doesn’t realize he’s looked away until Evan lets out a pained hiss and plants one big, warm hand on Tommy’s elbow at the same time. “What-- What do you mean?” he asks.

Tommy feels like an idiot, feels like he’s ripping open his chest and painting a big red bullseye on his heart, but he’s started this and so he has to see it through. He thinks of Bobby. Thinks of Evan in that hallway. He breathes in, meets Evan’s gaze. Tries to feel brave. Doesn’t. Decides to act like it anyway.

“I love you,” he says, feeling like someone’s gripping his vocal chords and squeezing tight. “I know you don’t, uh, have feelings for everyone you sleep with, but I do. Have feelings for you. I love you, Evan. I want--” He forces air into his lungs and out again. “I want to help you, I want to be there for you, but if you don’t-- if you--”

Evan is staring at him, his mouth open just a little bit. It should look dumb. It does, kind of. But it’s Evan.

Tommy’s not sure what words he’s said and hasn’t said, feels like they’re all sticking to the roof of his mouth, desperately wants a glass of water but can’t look away. He tries for another breath instead. “You know I can’t say no to you,” he says, voice cracking a little pathetically. “So please don’t ask me to.”

Evan is still staring. His eyes sparkle like a galaxy has just blinked into existence inside of them. Tommy’s hands itch. Evan’s hand has fallen away from his elbow.

He should probably leave.

“You’re not running,” Evan says faintly.

Tommy doesn’t know what to say to that, feels caught.

“You’re still here,” Evan says, the corners of his mouth curling up. God, he’s beautiful. “Y-You said all that, and you’re still here.”

“I… am?” He’s not sure he means it as a question, can’t really think about it with how Evan is looking at him. Beaming at him. Something hopeful carefully unfurls in his chest. It should hurt more than it does.

“You’re here. A-and you love me. Me.”

Tommy searches Evan’s face, tries to find anything, any little hint that he’s about to get his heart dashed against the rocks again. He doesn’t find it. He nods. “I am.” His throat feels rough. “I do.”

Evan reaches out, suddenly, winces again but that wide, wide grin is right back on his face in a heartbeat as he takes Tommy’s hand in his uninjured one. “Tommy,” he says. “Help me wash my hair?”

Tommy swallows.

“Of course,” he says.

-

[now on ao3]

[wendichester]

Hii can I please request a Dean x reader where they go to a bar and reader gets really drunk and starts acting really clingy with Sam and Dean and acts really stupid and almost goes home with some random creepy guy and Dean and Sam have to babysit her?.

⋆𐙚 ₊ ° ⊹ babysitting duty,

summary. you've had one too many and dean and sam has to babysit you

pairing. dean winchester x reader ft. sam winchester

wordcount. 619

notes. obsessed with this concept for ever and ever !!! thanks for requesting 🩷

The night starts off fine. Just a few drinks, a little music, and the comforting haze of neon lights casting everything in a warm glow. Dean doesn’t think much of it when you throw back your first shot, or your second, or even your third.

But by the time you’re giggling into your whiskey glass, swaying in your seat and batting your lashes at both him and Sam like they hung the damn moon, he realizes—oh, shit.

“You guys are, like, really hot,” you declare, slurring slightly, pointing a wobbly finger between them. “Like, stupid hot. How is that fair?”

Dean chokes on his beer, glancing at Sam, who just sighs, long-suffering. “Alright, maybe that’s enough—”

“Pfft,” you wave him off, almost knocking over your drink in the process. “I’m fine.”

Dean’s not so sure about that, especially when you reach across the table to squeeze Sam’s bicep, your fingers barely closing around it.

“Holy crap, Sammy,” you murmur, eyes wide with drunken awe. “Have you always been this huge?”

Dean bursts out laughing as Sam stiffens, looking wildly uncomfortable. “Okay, that’s new,” Dean muses, raising a brow at his brother. “Usually, she’s all over me.”

“I am all over you,” you whine, reaching for Dean next, draping yourself over his arm. “I love you, Dean.” Your voice goes dramatically soft, eyes glassy. “You’re the best.”

Dean grins, tipping his bottle toward you. “I know, sweetheart.”

You nuzzle into his shoulder, sighing. “You smell good.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “This is getting out of hand.”

“I am out of hand,” you say proudly, then suddenly gasp, as if you’ve had the most brilliant idea ever. “Oh my God. I should dance.”

Dean and Sam exchange a look.

“You should not dance,” Sam says firmly.

But you’re already slipping off the stool, a little too wobbly on your feet, and before they can stop you, you’re in the crowd, swaying dramatically like you’re in a music video that only exists in your head.

Dean scrubs a hand over his face. “I knew this was a bad idea.”

Then he sees him.

Some random dude—greasy, leering—zeroing in on you like a vulture circling roadkill.

Dean’s moving before his brain even catches up, Sam right behind him.

By the time he reaches you, the guy’s got a hand on your waist, murmuring something in your ear. You blink up at him, all dazed and soft, clearly not registering the red flags all over the situation.

Dean doesn’t even hesitate.

He yanks you back, pressing you against his chest protectively. “She’s not going anywhere with you,” he growls.

The guy raises his hands like he’s innocent, but his smirk says otherwise. “Relax, man. She’s a big girl.”

“She’s our problem,” Sam says, voice low, stepping up beside Dean.

Dean doesn’t bother saying anything else—just glares daggers until the guy slinks off, disappearing into the crowd.

You blink up at them, confused. “Wha—?”

Dean sighs, looping an arm around your waist. “Time to go, sweetheart.”

“But I was having fun,” you pout, but you don’t resist when he starts leading you toward the door.

Sam sighs heavily. “This is exactly why I said she shouldn’t drink that much.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, Dad, we get it.”

You, however, are completely unbothered, wrapping your arms around Dean’s waist and practically climbing him as they step outside. “You’re warm,” you mumble into his chest. “M’gonna sleep on you.”

Dean snorts, tightening his grip. “Yeah, I don’t think so.”

Sam shakes his head, following behind, resigned. “Never again.”

Dean smirks. “We both know that’s a lie.”

You hum happily against him, completely oblivious.

Dean just sighs.

He’s never letting you out of his sight again.

ꔛ. navigation 𓂃˖ ࣪ all drabbles ; compatibility readings ; support my work .ᐟ

want be part of the taglist.ᐣ ⋆.˚ ★— @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing ⋆ @deans-daydream ⋆ @taurus0queenie33 ⋆ @ambiguous-avery ⋆ @krabog ⋆ @itsdearapril ⋆ @nymphet-quenn ⋆ @bluemerakis ⋆ @titsout4jackles ⋆ @lyarr24 ⋆ @hauntedrose555 ⋆ @chevroletdean ⋆ @dulcescorderitas ⋆ @blackmarketfruitrollups ⋆ @impala67rollingthroughtown ⋆ @rulesareshadesofgrey ⋆ @nervoussystems ⋆ @daryls-luvrr ⋆ @sunnyteume ⋆ @drakelover78 ⋆ @angelblqde ⋆ @mostlymarvelgirl ⋆ @whisperingdaze ⋆ @funkenniffler ⋆ @bossyblondie ⋆ @lieutenantchaos ⋆ @iluvnewtie ⋆ @dyhsversion ⋆ @lovewolfspirit ⋆ @kayleighwinchester ⋆ @s0urw00lf ⋆ @cursednevermore ⋆ @onelonelybitch ⋆ @americanvenom13 ⋆ @iluvdeanwinchester ⋆ @idk6505 ⋆ @devilslittlehelper ⋆ @cloverleaf20 ⋆ @giggles1026 ⋆ @idontwannabehere7 ⋆ @beakaleak32 ⋆ @ocelotlist51 ⋆ @lelapine ⋆ @pwin098 ⋆ @lacysretribution ⋆ @globetrotter28 ⋆ @i-love-gvf ⋆ @lemonswinchester ⋆ @4k1vrr ⋆ @bejeweledinterludes ( continues in the comments )

[wbbpls]

Platonic Plus One

Chapter 9

Word count: 3k y'all better be back in my inbox happy as can be. I decided to try out not having a specific POV now that we have the background from both of the girls. anon that has avoided reading chap 7 and 8 due to heartache this is one dedicated to you

Paige opened her eyes to sunlight and soft rubs up and down her back. When she turned, she met big brown eyes smiling down at her. 

“Morning, Paigey!”

“Mornin’, Az.” Paige rubs her eyes, trying to wake up.

“Look, Paige, I need to leave soon, but I can’t wait another minute.” Azzi sits up, wrapping her arms around her legs. 

“What’s going on?”

“I love you.”

“Uh, I love you too, Azzi, but what's wrong?”

“No, Paige. I love you. Like I am in love with you, and it’s killing me.”

Paige whispers, trying to believe it, “You love me?”

“Yes, baby, and I’m so sorry for not seeing it sooner. Seeing you sooner.” 

Paige’s brain is in overdrive until she notices the insecurity Azzi displays while waiting for Paige to respond. Words have never been Paige’s forte, so she speaks in actions. Paige lunges forward, grabs Azzi’s face, and dips her head to connect their lips. 

Finally, their lips touch. And then? Then, Paige wakes up from her dream to an empty bed. 

====================================

Earlier that morning...

Azzi woke up before her alarm, Paige still wrapped around her. She looked so peaceful and content, but she needed to prepare for all the wedding party activities. 

“Paigey, I gotta get up.”

“Mmm, no. I’m comfy.”

“I know, baby, but I have to go do all this bridesmaids stuff.” It slipped without a thought. For a moment, Azzi froze, worried Paige would notice she called her baby. Instead, Paige nuzzled herself further into Azzi’s neck, with her lips ghosting her skin. 

“Can’t we just cuddle today?” Paige mumbles. 

Azzi learned a long time ago that if Paige isn’t ready to wake up, she won’t. Azzi kissed her on the forehead, a promise to talk things out later, and slipped out of bed. 

Azzi made her way downstairs and already felt herself longing for Paige. How much time can you spend with someone and still need more time with them? She shoots Paige a quick text.

Princess 💗: morning paigey! I miss you already 

Azzi walks around the corner to see the other bridesmaids. “Azzi! You’re here!” Jessica yells, welcoming her in for a hug, and whispers, “Nice hickey, by the way.” She pulls away and winks. Shit. Azzi totally forgot to check her neck after last night and apply a cover-up. 

“Okay, so the plan for today is a final dress fitting, just in case, nails, and remember to text your partners to join us at 4 PM for dance lessons! We’ll have a break before then, too.”

The girls make their way to the dress fittings and change into their dresses. “Ladies, you are all absolutely stunning.” 

Azzi smiles at her cousin lovingly. “Thanks, Jess, you picked beautiful dresses!” 

One of the other bridesmaids chimed in, “Girl, just wait until Paige sees you in that. She’s gonna lose it.” 

“True. She already can’t keep her hands off of you if your neck says anything about it!” 

Azzi can feel the heat coming up her neck, thinking about how the hickey got there in the first place. Then she looks at the dress in the mirror, imagining Paige’s hands moving across her hips. “Mmm, yeah, I hope so.” 

“I totally get that it's my wedding, but I just have to say, I love to see you in love, Az. Paige is one lucky gal.” 

Azzi sighs, indulging in the thought of being in love with Paige. “I’m the lucky one.”  

====================================

After sleeping in late, Paige checks her phone and opens all the texts from Azzi. Maybe she should have gone to Azzi and talked to her about it all, but there are just too many emotions Paige doesn’t understand. Azzi is going to think she’s crazy for being so upset about her having sex with a guy in high school. But why didn’t she tell her? 

Paige decided to decompress and spend the day playing basketball at the pool. She threw on black shorts, white and black nikes, and a white t-shirt with the RHUDE logo. She put her hair up in a ponytail, leaving the front strands to frame her face. 

Paige enjoyed listening to music and casually shooting baskets. After a while, she went to the pool bar, waiting for someone she could order a drink from. In the meantime, she looked down at her phone, trying to figure out how to respond to Azzi. 

“Well, well, look who it is. No girlfriend attached to you today?”

Bailey wraps around the corner. Of course, she is the one working today. Paige just wants to avoid confrontation. She has enough to think about.

“Uh, hey, I just was tryna get some water.” 

“Hm, sure thing, cutie.”

Bailey comes back with a glass of water for her. “Look, I know I came off strong the other day, I guess I was just caught off guard and got defensive. I’m sorry to you and u-uh, your girlfriend.”

“Thanks, man, I really appreciate that.” 

“You are really hot, though, so...”

“Appreciate it, but I’m good with Azzi.”

“Hm, Azzi, pretty name. How’d you guys meet?” Paige looks up at Bailey, trying to figure out if this is a trick. “I get it. You’re a taken girl, but that doesn’t mean we can’t chat.”

“We, uh, we met playing basketball for Team USA in high school.”

“Wait, like an Olympic-type thing? She plays too?”

“Yeah, she’s a baller. Best in the nation.”

“Impressive...you guys are like a power couple and high school sweethearts? No wonder she wasn’t trying to share. Gotta respect a girl who knows what she has while she still has it.” Yeah, tell Azzi that.

“Yeah, I’m lucky.”

Paige and Bailey keep talking, finding out how much they have in common. Bailey backs off from flirting with Paige for the most part and genuinely seems interested in being friends. It’s not like there’s anything else to do until Azzi needs her for dance lessons. 

====================================

As soon as the bridesmaids finished getting their nails done, Azzi checked her phone for any sign of Paige. Still, no text. There’s no way she’s still asleep. 

Princess 💗: you doin okay p?

Princess 💗: we are doing massages next and then ill come find you

It’s not like Paige not to respond to her, so she’s starting to get nervous. Jessica must have noticed. 

“You okay, cuz?” 

“Y-yeah, just Paige hasn’t texted me at all today, which, I now realize saying this out loud, I sound like a crazy clingy girlfriend, but it's not like her. That’s all.”

“You’re not a crazy girlfriend Azzi, you just miss your girl. I get that way with Brandom sometimes, too.” 

“Yeah, sorry I’m making this about me. Let me see your nails!”

Once all the girls gather in the lobby, they make their way to the spa. Azzi could really use a deep tissue massage after all of this. She checks her phone and reaches out to Paige one last time before lying down.

Princess 💗: i can’t wait to see you

She tries to relax; she really does. But all she can think about is how to talk to Paige about her feelings. What will Paige say? What if she doesn’t feel the same way? Everyone assumed they were dating for a reason, so something must be there. 

“Sweetie, you’re so tense! Try to think about something you love that relaxes you.” The issue is that normally, Paige is both of those things. She takes a deep breath to reset and imagines that the hands on her back belong to Paige. 

After she tore her ACL, Paige was by her side, doing everything to promote Azzi’s healing, including massages. Paige would straddle her waist and rub deeply into her back. It felt so charged each time, but Azzi pushed any inappropriate thoughts down. Paige only did it because it helped. Azzi convinced herself she would do that for any teammate. But she didn’t do it for anyone but Azzi. The thought of Paige’s strong hands being made only for her lulled her to sleep, letting her enjoy the rest of the massage. 

Before she knew it, Azzi’s massage ended, and she lazily woke up. Azzi brought a change of clothes, knowing she’d be tired after a full day. She put on flip flops, pink sweatpants, and a cropped tank top.

The girls gathered to say their goodbyes before dance lessons in a few hours. The second Azzi could see her phone, she rushed to see if Paige had responded. Still nothing. Now, Azzi is really starting to worry. 

Princess 💗: im done. wya?

Azzi tried to be patient for a response but soon remembered she could check Paige’s find my friends. She can see her icon at the pool and makes her way there. Once she arrives, Azzi immediately clocks Paige’s bright blonde hair at the pool bar...talking to Bailey? Of all people for her to be with right now, why on earth would she be with her? Azzi takes a deep breath and makes her way over. She gently puts her hand low on Paige’s back. 

“Hi, baby.” Paige turns, surprised to see Azzi. Maybe if she checked her phone, she wouldn’t be so shocked. 

“Oh, Az, hey! W-what are you doing here?” Is she serious right now?

“Uh, to be with you? We have a break before dance lessons, so I figured we could do something.” Azzi hears an annoying fake cough to her right. Bailey looks at Paige expectantly, as if she isn’t here with Azzi. 

“Oh right, right, Az, you remember Bailey, yeah?”

“Mhm.” Azzi keeps her lips tight and focused on Paige. “Why haven’t you answered my texts?”

“Oh shit, sorry Az, I haven’t checked my phone.” Paige pats her shorts, trying to find her phone, and pulls it out to a bunch of missed texts. 

“That’s probably my fault. I’ve been distracting her. Right, Paigey?” Bailey smirks proudly. 

“Oh, is that right, Paigey?” Azzi is pissed. And now, with her mouth wide open, Paige suddenly lost all ability to speak. 

Azzi rolls her eyes at the blonde and grumbles, “Let’s go, P.” She grips Paige’s hand, pulling her to stand up. Paige grabs her stuff, and they start walking towards their room. The silence is loud.

“Look, I’m really sorry, Azzi. I should have texted you.” Azzi keeps walking silently.

“Az?” Still nothing. 

“Azzi, c’mon, is this about Bailey?” Azzi glares at Paige as she unlocks their door. 

“Dude, it’s not that deep. You were too busy talking to Jonathon last night to care about me anyway, so how is this any different?”

Azzi stops suddenly and turns to truly look at Paige for the first time since they said hi at the pool bar. “Are you fucking serious right now, Paige?”

“I mean, I’m not wrong! You didn’t even notice I fuckin’ left.”

“So in return you spent the day with the girl that’s been trying to fuck you since we got here? Isn’t that right, Paigey?”

“Yeah, and? At least she wanted to be with me. What does it matter to you anyway?”

“Paige, I tried to go with you last night! I kept texting you last night and all day today. How does that translate to not wanting to be with you?”

Paige sighed and sat at the edge of the bed, dropping her face into her hands. 

“Paige, c’mon, you can’t be serious right now that I didn’t care about you. Is that what this is all about?” Paige shakes her head in her hands, still not speaking. Azzi knows Paige can get frustrated easily but sometimes needs help slowing down. 

Azzi sat down next to Paige and gently rubbed her back. “P...talk to me.”

“Why didn’t you tell me, Az?” She whispers, almost inaudibly. 

“I don’t know.”

Finally, Paige looked up at her. “That’s it? You don’t know?”

“I just, I g-guess I got scared.”

“Scared? Of me?” Fear and hurt began to cloud Paige’s beautiful blue eyes. 

“No! Paige, that’s not what I me—” Paige burst into tears, breaking Azzi’s heart into a million pieces. 

“I thought we were best friends. I thought we told each other everything.”

“We do! P, I’m sorry! I can explain, I promise.”

“I’m so fucking stupid.” Azzi grabs Paige’s face, forcing them to make eye contact. 

“No. You’re not stupid. You’re Paige Bueckers. You’re my best friend.” You’re the love of my life.

Paige searches in Azzi’s eyes, trying to trust her and understand where it all went wrong. Finally, Paige broke, melting into Azzi and letting her tears flow. All the emotions, confusion, and pressure fall out with her tears.

“Shh, it’s okay, baby. I’ve got you.” She let Paige cry. Let her hold onto Azzi for her dear life. 

“I’m sorry, Az, I j-just I don’t k-know, I th-thought you were mad at me.” Azzi pulls her face from her neck and wipes the tears off Paige’s face. 

“Paige, I’m not mad at you, okay, baby? I messed up and should have told you. Honestly, I regretted doing anything with him, and I was embarrassed.” Azzi gently moved the strands hanging in Paige’s face out of the way. “I’m sorry, P.”

Paige placed her hand on Azzi’s wrists, using her thumb to rub the inside of her wrist. “I’m sorry too. I guess I started to panic that I don’t mean to you what you mean to me.” Neither girl moved, looking deeply into each other’s eyes. Another tear fell down Paige’s face, and Azzi leaned forward to kiss the tear with so much tenderness it took Paige’s breath away. She continued to pepper Paige’s cheeks gently with kisses. 

Azzi pulls back slightly to look into Paige’s eyes and whispers, “You mean everything to me.” Without a second thought, Azzi moved forward to kiss Paige. At first, Paige didn’t respond, but then Azzi could feel her tension release. She pulled back to look at Paige, scared of what she would say, but then Paige surged forward, kissing Azzi back with an intensity that could only replace the words Paige didn’t know how to say. 

Paige grabbed the back of Azzi’s neck, swiping her tongue against her bottom lip, asking for permission to enter. Azzi gladly invited her in, opening her mouth, moaning when their tongues touched. She gripped Paige’s shirt, desperately pulling her closer. In response, Paige pushed them both down on the bed, leaning over Azzi, but it wasn’t enough. Azzi pulled at the back of her leg, making Paige straddle her completely. 

Azzi grabs her neck, turning her head to kiss her as deeply as possible. She grips Paige’s hair at the back of her head and pulls, causing Paige to moan into her mouth. Noted. Azzi reacted to the sound of Paige moaning by rolling her hips upwards, trying to create friction. Paige rolled down even harder, biting Azzi’s bottom lip and pulling it hard. 

Azzi’s eyes rolled to the back of her head as her chest arched at the feeling. Paige took it as an invitation to move down to her neck, right back to where she had left a mark last night. Proof of what they’ve yet to acknowledge. 

Azzi grabbed Paige’s hips, encouraging her to grind into her. “Mmm, Paige, please.”

“Whatchu want, princess?” Fuck. She’s never going to be able to hear that nickname in a PG way ever again.  

“You, more, please.” Paige had imagined moments like this so many countless nights, desperate for a release. 

Paige responds, her voice low and raspy, “I gotchu, baby.” Paige moved her leg to slide in between Azzi’s and pushed into her, kissing her again. Paige moved her hands to Azzi’s stomach, running her hand up until she met the bottom of her crop top. Paige began to move her hand under Azzi’s shirt an—KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK. 

Startled by the loud knocks, Paige jumped off Azzi, falling onto the floor and scrambling to get up. Azzi burst out laughing. Watching Paige, with swollen lips, desperately trying to catch up with reality was both entertaining and endearing. 

Paige jumped up, walking towards the door. “Coming!”

Azzi snorts, “You wish.” Paiged glared at her and whisper-yelled, “Shut up,” before opening the door to find Jake on the other side. 

“Oh, uh, Jake? What’s up?”

“Hey, sorry to interrupt, but dance lessons are starting right now, and Azzi wasn’t answering her phone.”

Azzi joins Paige at the door. “Oh, no, I’m so sorry, it was on do not disturb, and we lost track of time!”

The girls grab their phones and head downstairs with Jake. There’s a charged tension lingering in the air from their kiss. Since they rushed downstairs, they had no time to talk about what almost happened. 

Both girls' heart rates are still through the roof, trying to come down from the height of their want for each other. The issue is that now they had to dance...closely. 

“Paige, put your hand on her back and pull her close. You’re leading, but you’re together in this.”

“Right. Yeah. Okay.” Paige awkwardly put her hand high on Azzi’s lower back. How was she so hot and confident not even 10 minutes ago? The instructor moved her hand down lower, and Paige visibly gulped. Azzi is pretty happy to see she’s not the only one affected by what just went down between them. 

After more instruction, the music started, and the girls found their groove. The instructor’s goal for today was to get everyone successfully through the song one time, but he gave up on Paige and Azzi. About halfway through, Paige pulled Azzi in even closer, and they rested their foreheads against each other. At this point, they kind of forgot the choreography and began swaying, holding each other close. Azzi moved her hands to wrap around Paige’s shoulders. 

Their noses brushed against each other as they took in this feeling. The feeling that everything might be okay.

[charlotte-84]

Sleeping

The shrill sound of the alarm shattered the quiet, dragging you reluctantly from the depths of sleep. Your mind barely registered the noise, eyes still glued shut as your hand shot out instinctively to turn off the offending clock. You reached across the bed without thinking, fumbling blindly until your fingers found the cool surface of the wooden nightstand. The alarm clicked off, and in your half-conscious state, you shifted back, seeking the familiar comfort of your pillow.

Except… it wasn’t a pillow. It was firm, warm, and breathing. For a brief second, your brain—still marinating in sleep—didn’t fully process the anomaly. You sank deeper into it, the rhythm of steady breaths under your cheek oddly lulling. Then it hit you.

Oh, shit.

Your eyes snapped open as you froze, a prickle of awareness crawling down your spine. Your cheek was pressed against a shoulder, arm draped lazily across a torso like you had every right to be there. You closed your eyes. You didn’t move. Not right away. Maybe if you stayed perfectly still, nobody wouldn’t notice. Maybe if you pretended to still be asleep, this whole situation would just disappear.

Except Levi wasn’t an idiot.

“You done?” His voice was gravelly, low with the remnants of sleep, but there was a distinct edge of amusement lacing his words. “Or do you want a few more minutes of drooling on me?”

Your lips parted, words fighting to catch up with your thoughts. “I was not drooling.” You glared, voice scratchy but firm, and before he could add anything else, you rolled away, turning to the opposite side of the bed. The cool air of the morning hit your back, and you tried to mentally reset, eyes squeezing shut like you could will yourself back to sleep and pretend this never happened.

Levi didn’t let you off that easily. “You’ve got an early shift,” he pointed out, voice muffled as he shifted behind you. “Might want to get moving before you’re late. Again.”

“Double. Should be fun.”

“Take a break in between.” It wasn’t a request.

“I’ll survive,” you muttered, but the look Levi gave you made it clear that surviving wasn’t what he was worried about.

“Fine,” you added, rolling your eyes for good measure. “I’ll take a break. Happy?”

“Ecstatic.” His deadpan delivery would’ve been convincing if it weren’t for the way his gaze lingered a beat too long.

Your eyes stayed closed, but your lips quirked in a tired smirk. “You staying there all day, or are you going to get up?”

He gave you that blank stare that spoke volumes without saying a word. “I was up before you drooled on me.”

“I didn’t—”

“You did.” His tone was final.

You sighed, sitting up fully and swinging your legs off the bed, the cold floor biting against your bare feet. Your body protested the movement, every muscle reminding you of the lack of proper sleep. “This is your fault,” you muttered under your breath, stretching out the stiffness in your back. “You invited yourself in, remember?”

“And yet,” Levi drawled behind you, “I’m the one who woke up with a human leech attached to my side.”

You threw a glance over your shoulder, smirking despite yourself. “Don’t flatter yourself, Ackerman.”

His eyes narrowed, but you caught the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth, so subtle most wouldn’t notice. “Hurry up. You’re going to make me late.”

“Oh, now you have a schedule to keep?” you quipped, standing up with a stretch, feeling the pull of tight muscles.

Levi didn’t respond, but as you moved around the room, gathering your things. You didn’t miss the way Levi’s eyes tracked your movement, his gaze lingered just a second longer than usual. You didn’t comment. Neither did he. And somehow, the silence felt just as loud. Of course, he didn’t say anything, didn’t give himself away beyond the way his head tilted ever so slightly in your direction. You ignored it, pretending to be entirely focused on pulling a clean shirt from the small chest of drawers tucked neatly against the wall.

The morning light filtering through the window was soft, barely warming the chilly air that seeped through the thin walls of your room. Your body protested every movement, but duty called.

“Oi,” Levi’s voice cut through the quiet again, sharper this time. “You plan on standing there all day, or do I need to dress you myself?”

You snorted softly, tossing the shirt over your shoulder as you grabbed a fresh pair of trousers. “You wish,” you muttered, half under your breath, but loud enough for him to catch.

“Excuse me?” His tone was flat, but the slight arch of his brow when you glanced over your shoulder gave him away. Levi didn’t say anything, but you could feel his gaze following you as you moved. You grabbed socks from the chest, heading toward the screen in the corner. “You’re really gonna change behind that thing?”

You stepped behind the screen. “If you want a show, you’re gonna have to buy a ticket,” your lips curved into a lazy smirk, tossing his own words back at him without hesitation.

“Tch.” You could practically hear the eye roll, but there was a warmth in his tone that hadn’t been there before.

As you peeled off your shirt and swapped it for a clean one, your mind wandered—again. You shouldn’t have been this comfortable with him.

Not with Levi. Not with someone who had built walls so high even titans couldn’t scale them. And yet, here you were. Waking up tangled in his warmth, trading dry remarks like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“What’s natural isn’t dirty,” you called out casually, the phrase rolling off your tongue with practiced ease. You’d said it enough times over the years that it had practically become your motto.

Levi’s scoff was immediate, a low, unimpressed sound from the other side of the screen. “Tch. And what’s unnatural?”

“Repressing basic human needs,” you shot back without missing a beat, pulling the fresh shirt over your head. The fabric was cool against your skin, a welcome contrast to the lingering warmth from sleep.

“Didn’t realize you were such a philosopher first thing in the morning,” Levi muttered, his voice closer now. You could practically feel him standing just outside the screen, probably leaning against the wall with his arms crossed.

“Did you know,” you began, a hint of your usual sarcasm returning, “that stress can weaken the immune system? Makes people more vulnerable to infections, and slows down healing. Basically, if you keep running yourself into the ground, you’re making my job a lot harder.”

Silence followed, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was thoughtful. Heavy with something unspoken. “Huh.” Levi’s voice was quieter now, more reflective. “Didn’t realize I was such a burden.”

You stepped out from behind the screen, adjusting your collar as you met his gaze head-on.

“You’re not a burden.” The words slipped out before you could stop them, but once they were out, you didn’t regret them.

Levi’s eyes met yours, something unreadable flickering beneath the surface. “Good.” His tone was flat, but the weight behind that single word was anything but.

“Suit yourself.” You emerged fully, adjusting your collar and brushing off imaginary lint from your sleeve. His gaze swept over you briefly, clinically, before settling back on your face. For someone who spent so much time avoiding emotional entanglements, Levi had an uncanny knack for noticing the tiniest details.

“You always talk this much in the morning?”

“Depends.” You finally lifted your head, propping yourself up on one elbow to meet his gaze. His eyes were half-lidded, the usual sharpness dulled by the lingering haze of sleep. It was a rare sight, one that most people never got to witness, and for a moment, you forgot to breathe.

“On what?” he asked, his tone quieter now, more curious than anything else.

“On whether or not I wake up on top of someone.” Your lips curved into a smirk, but it was softer this time, more teasing than sharp. Levi’s expression didn’t change, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes—something that made your stomach twist in a way that was becoming far too familiar.

“Then you should probably stop making a habit of it.”

“Funny,” you drawled, running a hand through your hair, trying to shake off the last remnants of sleep. “I was going to say the same to you.”

Levi didn’t respond, but his silence spoke volumes. He didn’t move to get up, didn’t make any effort to put distance between you. Instead, he stayed there, watching you with that quiet intensity that made your skin prickle.

“Your shift’s in twenty minutes,” he reminded you, though there was no urgency in his tone.

“I know.” You grabbed your boots, sitting on the edge of the bed to pull them on. The leather was stiff, and your fingers worked through the laces with practiced efficiency. Levi hadn’t moved, still watching you with that same quiet intensity. “You staying in bed all day?” you asked without looking up, your tone deliberately casual, though you were acutely aware of his presence.

“Why? You worried I’ll make a mess of your room?”

“Please.” You snorted softly, tugging the laces tight before standing. “You’re too much of a clean freak to leave so much as a hair out of place.”

“Damn right.”

You turned to grab your jacket, but Levi’s voice stopped you mid-motion.

“You didn’t sleep much.” It wasn’t a question.

Your hand paused on the fabric, and for a split second, you considered brushing it off. But you didn’t. “Neither did you,” you murmured, the words quieter than you intended. Levi didn’t respond immediately, but you didn’t need him to. The weight of the previous night still hung between you both, unspoken but ever-present. His nightmares, the weight of the lives he carried, the vulnerability he had shown by coming to you instead of suffering through it alone.

“I’ll manage,” he said finally, but there was no conviction in his tone.

“So will I,” you echoed softly, your eyes meeting his for a brief moment before you turned away, shrugging into your jacket.

As you adjusted the collar, you felt his gaze linger. It wasn’t the piercing, assessing stare he usually gave when he was scrutinizing something out of place. This was… different. “You’re going to be late,” he murmured, but his voice lacked its usual bite.

“And you’re going to steal half my blankets next time I let you stay over again,” you shot back, though the corners of your mouth tugged upward despite yourself.

“Next time?” The two words hung in the air, heavier than they had any right to be.

You paused, glancing at him over your shoulder, and for a moment, you weren’t quite sure what you were expecting. “Don’t make a habit of it, Ackerman.” You turned before you could see his reaction, but the faintest trace of something that might have been amusement lingered in the quiet that followed.

“Same goes for you.” His voice was softer now, barely above a murmur.

You didn’t reply. You didn’t need to. The unspoken understanding between you spoke louder than any words ever could. And as you stepped out the door, leaving Levi behind, you couldn’t quite shake the feeling that something had shifted. Something subtle, something quiet. But it was there. And for now, that was enough.

Masterlist !¡

[monstersflashlight]

Patreon Commission for Vamp

A/N: You can find all the other Ambrose stories here (now in order).

Nightime activities

Minotaur (Ambrose) x chubby fem!reader || exhibitionism, masturbation, UST, voyeurism

You’d hung out a few times already. Enough times for him to feel like he was losing his mind every time you showed up. But at the same time, it made him feel amazing to be near you, to get to know you at your own pace. He knew he should say something, everyone urged him to, but he didn’t want to pressure you. He wasn’t even sure you liked him that way.

But you slowly became friends, really good friends, so it was only logical that you would spend more time together, alone or with other people. And everything with you felt so easy and so unproblematic (if you ignored is blue balls)...

That’s why, when he invited you to watch a movie and have dinner at his place, he wasn’t expecting it to be as hard as it is. You smell amazing, sweet and aroused and everything he ever dreamed of. Your scent is permeating everything in his space, and it only makes his brain short-circuit even more. By the time the movie’s credits are rolling and you smell content and tired, his own body is jittery with nerves.

Just friends, he reminds himself.

You yawn two times in a row, making him chuckle as he gets up and brings the blankets and pillows out of the closet in the hallway.

“Do you need something else?” He asks, eager to please you any way he can. “Are you sure you don’t want to take my bed? I’ll take the couch,” he offers again. You already argued (but not really) about it before.

And as well as before, you answer: “I’m not taking your bed. You sleep there, this couch is not big enough for you.” Your voice’s amused, and he has to fight the blush he can feel creeping up his cheeks.

He can’t stop his mouth from saying: “But I can…”

“No. Stop it. You sleep in your bed and I sleep on the sofa, it’s okay.” You turn to him with a raised finger and looking so cute he has to bite the inside of his cheek until he tastes blood not to coo.

“Okay, sunshine.” There’s irony in his tone, but deep down he knows the pet name is so much more.

So he deflects the butterflies in his stomach trying to be a good guest. “Can I offer you some more blankets or another pillow or…”

You are rummaging through your bag when you let out a distressed sound. “Uh-oh.”

His instincts are on alert instantly: “What’s wrong?”

“I… I kind of forgot my pajamas. Shit,” you curse. He almost laughs, but the amusement dies when you continue talking: “Could you… Could you maybe let me borrow a shirt or something?” You ask, the blush on your cheeks so endearing he loses track of thought for a second before he can fully process.

“Ye- yes. Okay. I’ll do that. I’ll be right back,” he knows he’s stuttering, but his brain’s barely running at the thought of you wearing one of his shirts.

He doesn’t even know how he’s still standing as all the blood in his body rushed to his dick as he stumbles back to his room to look a shirt that isn’t going to look like a dress on you. After looking around, he realizes there’s nothing you could wear that wouldn’t pool around your short frame. Fuck.

After very little deliberation, he takes one of his most used shirts, trying not to overthink it too much, and ignoring why he grabs one of the shirts that smells of him the most. He can’t get into it. He won’t. So he walks back to the living room, where you are sitting on the couch, texting someone furiously.

“I hope this is okay,” he says, more nervous than before, handling you the shirt and bouncing on his hooves awkwardly.

“This will do, thank you!” The second you get up and cross the distance between the two of you, grabbing the shirt and hugging his middle, he forgets how the world works, how his brain is supposed to feel something that’s not just pure elation at his mate pressing against him.

And then he realizes he has another problem, a growing problem to be exact, a big growing problem that you are about to feel against your chest if he doesn’t get away fast enough. So he gently pushes you back, trying not to feel bad about the puppy dog eyes you are sending his way, as he blinks slowly and turns around before you can anything.

“I’m going to shower, good night!” He basically runs to the bathroom, closing the door behind himself and realizing a second later that he forgot his clothes in his room, but now it’s too late to go back for them. Guess he’s going to walk back to his room with just a towel.

But as soon as his (very cold) shower is over, he realizes his mistake. Because when he steps out in the hallway, he can hear faint noises coming from the living-room.

He doesn’t fully process them until he’s right at the entrance of the living-room, the door slightly open, just enough for him to see inside. Just enough to see your body moving under the blankets as you bite down on the pillow he gave you. But even then, the fabric can’t hold your tiny whimpers and moans as he realizes a second too late what you are doing.

You are masturbating, on his living room, with his shirt on and his scent all around you.

Oh, fuck.

Oh, fuck.

He needs to leave, he needs to go back to his room and leave you to it. It wouldn’t be okay to stay there, right? That would be an invasion of your privacy or something. But he can’t seem to move, his hooves are glued to the floor and his eyes are glued to the way the blankets are moving as you finger fuck yourself. Even from there, he can hear how wet you are, how fucking sinful your fingers sound as you play with what he knows is a perfect pussy.

Fuck. His dick is so hard he fears it’s going to tear through the towel around his waist. Without realizing (or more like without trying to stop it), his hand releases the knot on the side of the towel, leaving him naked in his hallway.

His hand finds his dick instantly, achingly hard, squeezing the base of his shaft as he bites down on his tongue not to let out the moan threatening to erupt. You have no qualms about it, though, your tiny moans ringing in his ears as if they were thunder, sending lighting down his spine as he stares.

You push the blankets off, and he can see the way his shirt is riding up and it’s resting against your belly, your hand inside black panties that look lacy and he has the urge to rip away so he can see everything. But because he can’t exactly do that, he only puts his hand on his mouth and bites down to avoid crying out as his hand starts moving at the pace your hand does. Your head is thrown back, and your knees are far apart, almost exposing what he wants to see the most.

You are whimpering, your tiny teeth biting your lower lip as you try and fail to keep quiet. He’s losing his mind, he can smell your arousal, so thick in the air and so mixed with his that it’s almost suffocating. But so good he would die happy if it came to it.

His hand is currently playing with his balls as your wrist moves from side to side, your tiny fingers probably rubbing over your little pearl that he’s salivating to taste. Your other hand joins the first, slipping down your panties until he’s panting and his own hand is back on his shaft.

But he doesn’t jerk himself off, not exactly, his hips bulk against his hand as he imagines he’s the one fucking your tight pussy and not your fingers. He’s not even sure he could fit, but damn if he doesn’t want to try, if he doesn’t need to see your tiny human pussy take his minotaur dick until you are crying with the stretch, screaming his name until you are a mess around him.

His eyes never leave your moving form on the couch, his hand squeezing rhythmically around the base to stop the orgasm threatening to arrive too soon. But the second you whisper his name as your hips start moving erratically, he loses it.

His groan muffled by his hand as he covers the tip of his dick to catch most of the mess. You are breathing hard on the couch, your fingers lazily rubbing over what he’s sure a mess of juices that he aches to taste, but that only turns him on more.

His hand’s rubbing his seed over his shaft as he uses it to jerk himself off languidly, oversensitiveness sending sparks of pleasure and pain to his brain and making his knees go weak under him. He falls to his knees the same way he would fall in front of you if you asked, the thud alerting you and making you look his way.

He knows there’s no way you see him, but the spark of intensity in your eyes before you close them is enough to make his breath catch. Fuck. He waits there, not moving a muscle, his hand holding his half-hard dick as you relax on the cushions, until your breathing evens out and you fall fast asleep.

Only then, he cleans his hand on the towel on the floor and carries it back to his room. His body is languid as he falls back onto his bed, his knees still weak. He closes his eyes and breathes in the scent that’s still burned inside his brain: the mix of you and him.

He falls asleep with a spent dick and images to last him forever, but also with the realization that he might be more screwed than he thought. And he’s not sure he cares.

[gilverrwrites]

Im back on my supernatural shit, can you please do TFW + Gabe and anyone else you wanna do reacting to finding out the reader had a dirty dream about them?

Author note: Me too Boo, me too. I added lucifer, just cause I wanted too. Hope you enjoy! I also switched things up with gifs for each instead of one image for everyone. Lemme know which one you guys prefer.

Rating: M/18+

Please remember: that it is enough to exist as you are.

Dean

You’ve never seen a bigger shit-eating grin in all your life; he looks like he hit the jackpot.

No matter how much or how little you tell him, he won’t stop making jokes or bragging how bad you want it.

Dean I need you t- “Yeah you do.” Stop it! “Bet you weren’t saying that in your dreams last night.” *Gesturing at something even remotely suggestive* “Hey hey hey, did we do that?”

He promises to stop if you give him the full run down.

And when you do, he’s like Christmas came early.

All wide eyes and dopy smiles, occasional blushing.

He’s got a million and one questions throughout, but the final and most is obviously: “You wanna go at the real thing?”

Sam

Immediate shuts down for like 5 minutes. His brain has to comprehend and then reboot.

He won’t joke or make fun of you, at least not in front of other people.

But as soon as you’re alone, he’s got questions, lots of detail-oriented questions.

He’s not outright asking what your dream was, just teasing you with meticulously detailed fantasies of his own posed as questions.

“Did I make you beg for it? Did you make me beg?” “Were you completely naked, stretched out underneath me? Were my hands around your throat?” “What did I say? Did I tell you I would ruin you? That you deserved it? Did you want me to?”

Castiel

Angels don’t dream. Primarily because they don’t sleep.

So, he’s not really sure what to make of this confession at first.

Queue the signature furrowed brow and head tilt.

“Why?” I don’t know, I didn’t do it on purpose! “That’s true. I suppose this is your mind’s subconscious way of informing you that you are sexually attracted to me."

Boy, he doesn’t beat around bushes.

He would need time to stew on it from there.

It could be hours, days, maybe weeks before he brings it up again.

“I am curious about your dream.” What dr- oh right. “I am flattered. Should you be willing, I would like to discuss this more. For example, which of us…”  

Gabriel

You can sense the raised brows and the satisfied smirk before he even does it.

“Reeeeeally?”

Gabe’s reaction is very similar to Deans, just like a Trickster in a candy store.

Only he’ll wait to get you alone before he starts bombarding you.

If you won’t tell him outright, he’ll keep guessing.

And every new guess is accompanied by a costume and/or scenery change.

“Maybe we filmed the newest instalment of casa erotica?” “No? Maybe you paid Dr Sexy a visit?” “Mile high club?” “No? Kinkier? You into a little BDSM?”

I’ll let you fill in the visual blanks. 😉

Lucifer

His reaction is a lot more subdued. 

That doesn’t make it any less dubious. You can feel the smugness radiating off of him.

He’ll ask earnestly enough to start out.

“Do you want to tell me about it?”

When you refuse, he doesn’t push. Doesn’t joke, or tease.

But the smile he keeps giving you.

The way he watches you, totally engrossed but poised, is enough to drive you crazy.

When he finally asks again, later on, in that low, relaxed tone:

“Are you sure you don’t want to tell me all about your dirty little fantasies?”

Temptation really is his game.

[casuallyanidiot]

Omg your yandere coworker *chef's kiss*

I imagine he's just frustrated and angry because he can't believe he's fallen for a loser like reader. Like they are such a mess all the time. So soft and easy to tire. They look so out of place in this workplace environment.

But over time it starts to click that all he was to do is take them away and keep them at home. Reader shouldn't even be at work! Reader should be sitting pretty at home like the good little spouse he knows they are all that they are good for!

Man he'll have to come up with a plan to make that happen wouldn't he?

Thanks! He's awful! :)

I think the worst part about Yan coworker is that he believes he's actually a good person. Maybe if he just acknowledged how scummy he was, he wouldn't be half as bad.

He he's had enough of you stumbling all over yourself like an idiot. Yandere Coworker pulls you aside one day into a storage closet. He's trying so hard not to snap and fuck you stupid against some half empty shelves, so instead he settles for gripping your arms. Isn't he a gentleman? Anyways, he lays it out for you.

"You need to quit," He says simply. His voice is gruff and firm, and you blink in surprise. "What?" You stammer out. He's tall, intimidatingly so, and you tremble as he holds you. "No, no I'm not- I can't quit! This is my job! I know you don't really like me, but that's out of line," You hiss out and squirm away from him.

Yandere coworker realizes you really are very, very dumb. There's nothing in that stupid little head of yours, is there? You can't even tell how much he's looking out for you. You're crumbling under the weight of this job, and he can't stand seeing you so unhappy.

But he makes enough money for the two of you. He can handle this while you can't. In fact, the more he thinks about it, he can't figure out just what in the world you would be good at. He tries to picture you as successful at anything and comes up blank. Huh... You really are good for nothing. Except,,, you would probably do well if you didn't have to do anything at all.

Yandere coworker starts to think about how much prettier you would be if you got proper sleep. He likes the way you look in corporate attire (That is on the rare occasions where you don't look like a hot mess), but he bets you'd like to be in expensive and revealing loungewear even more. The only thing you would have to do is keep your house tidy, and keep yourself nice and presentable for whoever provided for you. Yeah, you'd be perfect for that. And guess what? He could give you that.

Yandere coworker knows that you're far too stubborn for your own good. He begins to actively sabotage your work. He inserts spelling errors into your reports, changes the numbers of any potential client before you have the chance to make a sale. He allows himself to be more officially promoted, and with the new power he has, he assigns you increasingly difficult tasks.

You try and report him for essentially bullying you, but the complaint is thrown out with little care. He's one of the best employees the company had ever seen, and you were just some bumbling broad who couldn't even spell their own name right on official documents.

Before long, you're fired. Yandere Coworker uses his position in the company and many connections he has to essentially black list you.

You can't get a decent job in your field anymore. Plus you begin to get behind on rent and bills. Your life is going to shit, yet you still refuse to take him up on his many offers. It's infuriating, and he just wants to put you in a place that he knows you'll be safe and happy in.

Yandere Coworker just thinks your too dumb to realize how kind he's being. He hopes that you're smart enough to recognize how nice the trunk of a luxury car is. After all, you're going to be there for a while until he can get you to his home where you'll never have to use that useless brain of yours again.

[radioactivatedspider]

Don't Look at Me Like That

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Pairings; Dean Winchester x reader

Genre; Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Supernatural Canon Divergence.

Warnings; Physical injury (accidental), emotional distress, Mark of Cain-related rage, guilt.

Summary: Dean accidentally hurts Y/N during a Mark of Cain-fueled outburst. Horrified, he breaks down, but Y/N stays—reminding him he's still worth saving.

685 words

The first thing Dean sees is red.

The second thing is her blood on his hands.

It happens too fast to stop it.

They were just arguing—about something stupid, something normal. Dishes? A lead that went nowhere? Maybe how he hadn't been sleeping? He doesn’t even remember. All he knows is that her voice rose, and his followed, and the Mark burned—burned—like it always does when he’s too tired to fight it.

He didn’t mean to shove her. Hell, he wasn’t even sure he touched her—until she hit the floor.

Hard.

And now Y/N’s on the ground, lip split, head tilted sideways like her brain hasn't quite caught up with what the hell just happened.

“Y/N?” Dean rasps, his voice dry with panic. “Shit—baby, I didn’t—I didn’t mean—”

He crouches down, reaching for her, but she flinches.

Flinches.

It’s like a knife twisting in his gut.

“I’m okay,” she says, lying through her teeth. There’s a tremble in her voice she’s trying to hide, but Dean hears it. Feels it in his bones.

“No, you’re not,” he whispers, eyes raking over the scrape on her cheek, the bruising already blooming along her collarbone. “I didn’t mean to touch you. I swear, I didn’t mean—”

Her eyes finally meet his, and that’s when it hits him full force.

Fear.

She’s looking at him like he’s a stranger. Like she doesn’t know the man in front of her. And maybe she’s right. Maybe Dean doesn’t know him either—not with the Mark crawling through his veins like poison, whispering for blood every time his pulse kicks up.

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” he says, backing up, hands raised like she’s holding a gun. “I swear to God, I’d never—Y/N, please.”

Her lip trembles. She swallows hard and nods like she believes him, but she doesn’t move.

Dean wants to run, or scream, or crawl out of his skin. Instead, he just… drops. Kneels there on the bunker floor like a man at the altar, head bowed, breathing hard.

“I should’ve walked away,” he mutters. “I felt it coming. The rage. The way it builds up and doesn’t let go.” He finally looks at her, eyes rimmed red. “But I stayed. I stayed, and now you’re bleeding.”

Y/N finally sits up, one hand braced against the wall. She winces, but she’s calm. Too calm. The kind of calm that means she’s trying not to fall apart.

“Dean,” she says quietly, “this isn’t you.”

“No,” he growls, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. “It is. This is me now.”

She crawls closer, slowly, like approaching a wounded animal. Her fingers graze his, and Dean recoils at first—but she doesn’t let go.

“You are not your worst moment,” she whispers.

Dean shakes his head. “I hurt you.”

“And you hated yourself the second it happened.”

He can’t stop staring at the blood on her lip. It's drying now, crusting over, but he swears it’s still fresh in his mind. That sound she made when she hit the floor—it won’t leave him.

“I don’t know how to stop this,” he says hoarsely. “I thought I could control it. That maybe, with you, it’d be different. But it’s not. It’s worse.”

Y/N reaches for his face, gently forcing him to look at her. “Then let me help. We’ll find a way. We always do.”

“I should stay away from you.”

“No,” she says firmly. “You should fight for yourself. You should fight for us. I’m not afraid of you, Dean. I’m afraid of losing you to this.”

He closes his eyes. For a second, he lets himself feel the warmth of her hand on his cheek, the steadiness of her voice. And maybe it’s selfish. Maybe it’s wrong. But he leans into her touch like a dying man, because in that moment, she’s the only thing anchoring him to whatever’s left of the man he used to be.

“I don’t deserve you,” he whispers.

She leans her forehead to his. “Maybe not. But you still have me.”

And Dean holds onto her like she’s the last pure thing he’s allowed to touch.

Taglist: @star-yawnznn

[count-on-mi]

Twice Interactive Story Part 11 Shhh... She's next door (Nayeon, Jihyo)

'How about we back home now, I want you.' Nayeon whispers in your ear, but she is too shy so she blushes, looking at the ceiling and waiting for your response.

"Jihyo’s going to be there Nayeon. I don't want to make her uncomfortable. What if we got a hotel room for tonight?"

'No babe, I want to do it on our bed. We try it before when Dahyun and Chaeyoung are there too, don't you remember?' Nayeon grabs your hand and stands up, 'let's go, babe.'

'Pump a baby in me, I will born a baby for you if you want.' Nayeon whispers in your ear.

As we get in the car, I force Nayeon on top of me so she can feel my erection. I have her grind against me as I tell her "I'll make sure to pump a baby in you."

Nayeon grinds on your lap and say 'Imagining you bumping all your seed in me already make me wet, let's back home babe. Fuck me until I can’t leave the bed.' You let her back to her seat and drive back home.

You two start making out once you enter the living room, and then head to your bedroom directly, but you didn't notice Jihyo is in the kitchen, watching what you do from moving from the entrance to your bedroom.

I close the door behind me as I start to strip Nayeon of her clothing. She does the same to me and at the point where we're both naked I start kissing her body.

You push Nayeon onto the bed after you two are completely naked, you two make out again, and then you slowly go down your head, planting hickeys on her neck and playing with her tits.

Nayeon is turned on, she grabs your head and pushes it toward her body, wanting you to kiss her deeper. 'Make me yours, babe. Love me now.'

I keep moving my head down until I reach her private parts where i start to finger her.

You start licking and fingering Nayeon's pussy at the same time, Nayeon just can't stop moaning your name and push your head deeper. 'Ah, Y/N, deeper, it feels so good.'

'OH, Y/N, I am cumming, I am cumming.' Nayeon splash all her cum on you, but still holding your head towards her clit

I keep eating her out and fingering her. Tell her I want more between breathes.

Nayeon bend down and kisses you, ' You want more? So do I.' Then she climbs over you and starts to ride you. Nayeon did not hesitate to reach the deepest, she keeps riding you fiercely.

You just laying on your bed and enjoying Nayeon's service, sweat dripping from her hair, and the way she moans your name makes you excited. You thrust your hip to suit her rhythm, you also go on playing with her tits, seeing her tits bouncing, you remember what Mina said this morning,' Imagine how Jihyo's tits bounce when she is riding you.' You start to think about Jihyo's big breast.

'OH, babe, I can feel your dick become larger, so full.' Nayeon moans louder as she feels your dick becomes bigger.

You shake your head, try to clear your mind, but when you open your eye again, you see the one who riding you is Jihyo, 'Y/N, I'm cumming, you are so much better than Daniel, cum with me, fill me up!'

'Shit, Jihyo.' You moan Jihyo's name instantly by imagining Jihyo is riding you, lucky Nayeon did not hear her name as she is approaching her orgasm.

I hold onto Nayeon's waist as I cum in her. "Fuck Nayeon, that was great." I continue to grind myself against her. "Can you keep going? Or do you want to rest?"

Nayeon grind your, wanted to milk all of your cum, 'I am not going to sleep tonight babe, I will drain you until you can't go to work tomorrow.'

Nayeon stands up from you, and the cum instantly leaks from her pussy, she gets some and tastes it, 'Always tastes so good. I am a bit tired, maybe you should on top this time.' Nayeon says while kneels in opposition, caressing her ass cheek, seducing you to fuck her one more time.

You stand and get in the position, ready for the next round, but you hear Jihyo's moaning in your brain again. 'Fuck me, Y/N. Daniel is just a trash while comparing with you, he never made me cum.'

I try to clear my head and just tell myself to not moan any names. I start thrusting into Nayeon, making deep and powerful moves. Anytime the image of Jihyo pops into my mind I quickly swat it away and internally call out Nayeon's name.

'OH, Nayeon you are so tight, it feels so good inside. Nayeon ah...' You keep moaning Nayeon's name while you are thrusting, hoping to concentrate on her.

But Nayeon suddenly stops moaning while you are still fucking her. 'How could she be dazed while I am fucking her.' You then thrust her harder, wanting to wake her up. You thrust harder, and she starts moaning again.

Your mind starts to go wild again as you are near orgasm again, this time not only Jihyo, but you also hear more woman moaning, your girlfriend Momo, your secretary Mina, Your cum slut Sana and Your step sister Chaeyoung. Their moaning is like stereo, surrounding you, and you can see Jihyo's tits bouncing in front of you again.

'Cum in Me, make me yours.' You hear all the girls say this at the same time.

I bite my lip to keep from saying anything and cum in Nayeon again. After I pull out put on some shorts and go to the bathroom to wash my face to get a better hold of myself.

You release all of your cum in Nayeon before you pull out, you plant a kiss on her forehead before you leave. ' Have some rest babe, I guess it's enough for today.'

You then go to bathroom to calm yourself down, but you did not notice the the floor outside your room is wet. You wash your face while thinking about what just happen, maybe Mina's word this morning triggers your horny towards Jihyo today, but why would you thinking about other girls that have relationships with you.

You feel yourself are calmed, then you leave the bathroom and ready to sleep with Nayeon. You walk pst Jihyo's room and find that the door is slightly opened, you want to close the door. Once you approach, you see Jihyo is mastrubing when she is moaning your name. 'Oh, Y/N, you are so big. Deeper, deeper!'

You want to leave pretending you don't know anything, but you accidently kick the door, and the noise alarm Jihyo, she saw you.

'Oh, Y/N, shit, no, don't look at me.' But Jihyo just moving her fingers faster and soon she reached the orgasm. 'Shit, Y/N, I am cumming.'

I close the door and sit in the kitchen for a minute. Looking at Jihyo’s door, I decide to knock on it. Asking if she's alright, and saying that she shouldn't be embarrassed.

You wait a while before you head back to Jihyo's room, you knock the room and then ask' Are you ok, Jihyo? You don't need to be embarrassed, I understand.'

Jihyo opens the door and let you in, she wears her pajamas again and sitting on the bed, while you are sitting on the chair. You cock is semi-harden, as it is still hyper from the naked body of Jihyo you just see.

'I'm sorry, Y/N. I did not mean to peek you and your girlfriend, umm, but she is moaning a bit loud and I do not have sex for a long time, so... I am really sorry about that.'

"There's no need to worry Jihyo, I understand. You have needs too, you're human, you're a woman." I sit there awkwardly for a moment not sure of what else to say. "Um, I heard you say my name. Were you thinking of me?"

Jihyo blushes after hearing your question, trying to hide her face from her hands, 'It's embarrassing, but yes, I am sorry. I am imagining the one you are fucking is me not your girlfriend while I am masturbating. I now understand why you have to find friends of benefit beside your girlfriend.'

'Can I take a look of your cock closer, you are largest one that I have seen.' Jihyo points to your still hardened bulge shyly.

"Jihyo if I'm being honest, you popped into my head while I was fucking her." I pull down my pants to reveal my cock to Jihyo. I get closer to her. "If you'd like you can touch it."

"Really? you really want my body? I know you are staring at my breast this morning, your secretary too. Oh, you cock is so hard, so hot' Jihyo get closer, and slowly stroking it, some of the remaining cum leaks from your tip and she licks it, your body shivers from the sensation.

'Oh, Jihyo, it feels good.'

I feel myself get completely hard in Jihyo’s hands. "Jihyo, I want you." I tell her as I try to keep myself from taking her at that moment.

'I can feel it, Y/N.' Jihyo smirks as she start stroking you faster, the sensation makes your legs weak and you are now sitting on the bed.

You can see lust burning in Jihyo's eyes, she starts fingering herself. " I want you too, Y/N. But your girlfriend is just sleeping next door. I can't promise I won't make any noise.' Jihyo starts rubbing you tip.

'Just like this, Jihyo, keep going.' You enjoy the pleasures and just keep your head up.

After a second of enjoying the Jihyo continue, I move away and close the door, locking it too. "If you can't stay quiet, I'll keep you quiet." I say as I tilt her head back and kiss her. "Jihyo, I want you." I tell her again.

Jihyo passionately replies to your kiss and you two just fall on the bed and keep rolling, you strip down Jihyo's pajamas and then start playing with her tits, while Jihyo is still stroking your cock.

You head goes down and start to suck her nipples, you never had a girl with such big breasts, you are just addicted. Jihyo feels your cock become larger, she strokes you faster and ask ' Do you like Mommy's tits, such harder Y/N.'

I suck harder while groping her ass. "You're so beautiful Jihyo." I tell her quickly before going back to her tits.

Jihyo uses her hands to cover her mouth, not wanting to moan too loud. But she could not stop moaning as you are bitting her nipple, 'Y/n, be gentle' You apologize and start kiss her again.

You two exchange the saliva while you start to fuck Jihyo's pussy, Jihyo breaks the kiss and start moan again, 'It's too big, wait Y/N, hold on.' You just keep kiss her to make sure she is not making any noise that would alert Nayeon.

As I wait for her to get comfortable I play with her tits and caress her body.

Jihyo is slowly adopting your length as you caress her body,' I am ok now, Fuck me Y/N.' Hearing what she said, you start fuck her deeper and harder, not forgetting to play with her tits.

However, Jihyo starts to moan again, this time not because of pain, but pleasure. You kiss her again to shut her mouth.

Soon Jihyo reaches her orgasm as your feel her walls become tighter, you hold the feeling that you want to cum and thrust harder, wanting to leave her a memorable first time with you. You are still kissing her so she could just moan in your mouth.

I break the kiss to tell her that I'm going to cum and ask her where she wants it. While I wait for her response I look at her body, focusing on her bouncing tits.

You look at her bouncing tit while waiting for her answer, 'Cum in me, Y/N, make me yours.' Jihyo breaths heavily and crosses her legs on your waist, forcing you to cum inside her.

'OH, Y/N, it's so good, I' m cumming!' Jihyo moans loudly while she cums, you want to kiss her to stop her, but she hugs your head tightly to her chest, you could only suck her nipples, which turns out she moans louder.

I force my head away and kiss Jihyo, while I impale her with my last thrust. I start filling her pussy with my cum.

You two keep kissing while you release your seed in her, you can feel her walls milking you, you two only stop the kiss only you are out of air, you keep playing Jihyo's tits while she is resting, still breathing heavily.

'I only understand why would your friend with benefits is addicted to you now, it's totally different when having sex with you, I guess I am addicted too.'

I laugh a little "This was fun but I should go back to bed. Maybe we can have sex again another time." I kiss Jihyo’s forehead. And start pulling out.

Jihyo pulls you down for one more kiss before starting to clean your shaft 'Don't leave yet, let me clean you first.'

'I'm glad that you like my body so much, will you still think of me when you fuck your girlfriend next time, huh?'

"I'll be thinking of you a lot more Jihyo." I say as I let her clean up my cock. I take in the feeling of her tongue lapping at my cock and when she's done a feel a little sad, but I know I have to go back.

Jihyo kiss your tip for the last time before sending you out, 'Maybe we can have more fun next time, Goodnight, Y/N, you too buddy.'

You grab Jihyo's tits one more time before you left the room. You go to the bathroom and wash your face again, pretend you have taken a shower so you spend a long time outside.

You back to your room again, Nayeon is already sleeping. You caress her cheek, thinking about what you have just done.

I feel very tired and fall asleep quickly, while holding onto Nayeon.

[mayasaurusss]

A touch of summer.

Contents: established relastionship, fluff, sfw breastfeeding, blurb (700 words). A/N: I wanted to desperatley write a somthing based on the lake scene in the lastest episode, so I made a poll and asked you guys what genre you would have liked the most, and the results were pretty telling: while 70% of voters decided on a fluff version, 30% wanted to see angst, so I resolved into making both! This is the fluff version: you can find the pool here and the angst version here. Enjoy!!

The gentle lull of the waves rocks her body left and right, so calm and soothing that sleep comes easy to her. Shauna hasn't had a moment for herself in months, and letting the lake cradle her feels appropriate somehow. The weather is warm, the sky is blue and her heart is finally free from the sadness winter brought to it.

She spent so long in the cold that she didn't remember what summer used to feel like.

Her ears pick up on the sounds beneath her: bubbles of oxygen rising to the surface, currents that collide with each other, and in the distance, an infant's laughs. Her body moves before her brain can process the sound, eyes drawn to the shore, frantically searching for him. She finds him under the sun, merely visible from the middle of the lake, looking like a little fat bundle of you as he absolutely laughs his ass off at your peek-a-boos.

She can see his little arms reaching for your face, stopping as you hide your face behind your hands, then clapping his as you reappear once again.

How old is he by now? Several months, at least, but not old enough for him to walk on his own. Something Shauna has always thought, since he was born, is that if they ever come back, she will never know his birthday.

A warmth that she didn't think she'd ever felt fills Shauna's heart: she can't imagine a world in which he's not by her side. And you, so simple and gentle, so patient with her, so lovely, raising her boy at her side.

Back on the shore, you see Shauna swimming towards you and you stand up from your position, but the pain of spending several minutes crouched on the flat stone where you the boy down his too much for your legs to bear, and you fall comically to the ground, his laugh a soundtrack for your embarrassment.

"Hey! Don't laugh, kid!" you hush him down, going for tickling his little belly.

"You've already got all of your mom's attention, just let me get some!".

"What do you want?" A shiver runs down your spine at the familiar voice, following it to see Shauna smiling at you with a hint of smugness behind her lips. Her locks fall to the sides of her neck, darkened by water.

Shit, she got you.

"N-nothing! Here you go!" you take him in your arms, handling him to Shauna as if he was a bag of potatoes.

In her arms, he looks like the most perfect thing in the world. You can only describe the way Shauna's eyes look at her baby as simple, true and pure love. There has never been a love so deep on this earth.

There is something so simply natural in the way she exposes her chest and angles his neck up so her can drink from her. A summer ago, you would have probably made a snarky comment, would have been weirded out by all of this, crunching your nose in disgust; but as you watch her feed her son with such love that it could make you cry, nothing like that crosses your mind.

But the stillness doesn't last long, and just as she tucks her breast back in the dress, she looks at you, a mixture of interest and smugness in her eyes.

"So, you want my attention?"; when she says that, you feel like a total jerk. What possessed you to say such a thing out loud, right to her baby?

But you do: you do want her attention. You want her to look at you, to kiss you as she did before, to have her as she had you during the winter. Maybe you should tell her, what danger could that be?

"No. It was stupid of me to say that. He's your son, he has to be your top priority" you find yourself staring at the burnt yellow grass below, avoiding Shauna's gaze. How fucking embarrassing... But before your brain can spiral into self-hating, Shauna presses her lips on your skin, between your nose and your cheek. She stops briefly to look you in the eyes, so dark you can see your reflection in the summer's sunlight.

"You're mine" she says, bringing her lips to your cheek now, holding her baby close to her heart, "You are both mine".

[returnsandreturns]

started writing foggy gently bro domming matt platonically and i'm goddamn feral over it

“Matt,” Foggy says, gently, shaking his shoulder. “Hey, you fell asleep in the library again. You need to get up so people don’t start thinking I’m neglecting my sacred roommate duties--or that I'm kicking you out because of all the casual sex I'm having. Actually, it might be cool for people to think that. Still, wake the fuck up."

“Shit, sorry,” Matt sighs, sitting up, hair a mess from where his forehead was resting on the table. “I just need to finish this assignment and I’ll be done.”

Foggy looks down and sighs, saying, “That is not due for a damn week, you lunatic. Get up.”

“But if I finish it now, I can get a head start on next week,” Matt says, in the strained tone of someone that knows he’s pushing both of their limits.

“And if you get some beauty sleep, the fully horizontal kind with a pillow—maybe even two, I’ll share—you’ll keep those good looks of yours,” Foggy says, plucking at the sleeve of his t-shirt. It’s a little too tight because Matt’s been going to the gym a lot. Foggy has absolutely no thoughts on this.

“Thank you for the concern for my face,” Matt says, dryly, but with a tiny tired smile that makes it seem genuine, “but I just need one more hour—maybe two. I’ll come back after that.”

“Matt,” Foggy snaps, not completely sure where it comes from. He’s not exactly annoyed that Matt isn’t doing what he says, he’s annoyed that Matt isn’t taking of himself—and, maybe, further back in his head, even further than the part of his brain that sounds like his mom—that he won’t let Foggy do it, either.

Matt raises his head, eyes just a little bigger, glasses forgotten haphazardly on the table.

Foggy should apologize. But Matt’s definitely listening now.

His voice only wavers a little when he says, “Up.”

Matt’s face goes from surprised to a little slack and he almost immediately nods and gets up slowly, not stopping Foggy when he packs his backup up for him while he stretches out.

“My bones,” Matt moans, soft, a little pathetic.

“I know, buddy,” Foggy says, hefting Matt’s backpack on and gently taking his arm. “Come on. We’re getting dinner and then you’re gonna sleep, alright? Multiple hours.”

“Wait, my bag—” Matt says, starting to turn back.

“I’ve got it,” Foggy says. “No worries.”

“You’re carrying my bag for me?” Matt asks, amused.

“I'm a gentleman,” Foggy says, guiding him toward the door before he can protest. “I’ll pay for your dinner, too. The finest dining hall my meal plan can afford.”

“Romantic,” Matt says, yawning.