#I don’t think I could focus between them either

[meiyokbf]

under your spell | megan x g!p!reader | part five

author's note: took me long enough but i’m backkk! got down with a flu + writers block but now i’m better than ever, lmk what you think & i hope you guys enjoy this one. :’)

warnings: mdni. stripper!megan x g!p!reader, slightly manon x lara. no smut, just megan being scared and reader trying their best. kind of a filler chapter but in the best intention possible. also, meet sophia!

word count: 4,2k

🏷️: katseye, megan x reader, megan skiendiel x reader, katseye x reader, katseye smut, megan smut, manon x lara, marz, sophia laforteza.

megan’s spotify playlist!

masterlist. | prev. I next.

you tell yourself you’re not going to text her.

and you say it out loud this time, a quiet promise to your ceiling fan, to the wrinkles in your sheets, to the ghost of her hand that still lingers somewhere near your ribs. you won’t do it. not again.

but, oh well. you open your phone anyway.

it’s muscle memory at this point: swipe, tap, check. still no new message. nothing since the one she sent at 2:17am.

megan: can’t sleep.

megan: thinking about the way you said my name.

you had read it twice. then again. then again until the words felt like they weren’t in english anymore. you didn’t know how to respond. or if she even wanted you to.

you think about replying now. type something. delete it. type again. delete.

(y/n): i didn’t sleep either

and leave it there.

it was wednesday now; three days since the last time you’ve seen her. but honestly, at this point, it kinda felt like three years. you couldn’t even focus on your uni work without thinking about her voice or her eyes, and the way she purposefully seemed to take hours to text you back was driving you insane. you needed to take a breather before going to class, in which you already knew you would doze off the entire lecture because you would much rather be around her instead.

so, you dress slowly. batman & robin tee, jacket, sneakers that squeak when you walk too fast. you grab your bag and ignore the pile of laundry in the corner, the coffee mug on your nightstand still full of yesterday’s tea. before leaving, you decided to grab something to eat on the way, already listening manon’s voice in your head about how you always forget to eat while studying and how your blood pressure is shit. so you decide to steal one of her granola bars. which, of course, had a heart-shaped post-it on it.

“these are technically for me, but i know your sad little raccoon hands will find them.

fine. take one.

ONE.

(ily though. please hydrate.)

- manz”

you laughed slightly and took one bar. this was your guys’ thing; you both knew that you could always talk to each other over text messages, but ever since you moved in together, post-its were the main mean of communication between you two. there were some things that could only be said on a paper, you thought. and you cherished that a lot.

you’ve got class in less than an hour, but your brain isn’t ready for structure. it feels like soup. or static.

you take the long way. the sun hasn’t fully committed to the sky yet and everything is washed in that early kind of light; soft and blue, like it doesn’t want to wake you up too quickly. birds chirp like they don’t know what day it is.

you pass three dogs, one crying baby, a couple making out against a bike rack. the world is still moving. it always is.

and then you think about her again.

the way she laughed back at her place last weekend. her hand pressed to your chest like she was checking for signs of life. the way she looked at you; half-there, half-running.

you stop by the café before class. it’s not your usual morning haunt, but you can’t sit still. you need something warm to hold.

you open the door. the smell of cinnamon and burnt espresso. the low hum of other people’s lives. this place always feels like a sigh.

you look up to the counter. you’ve seen her before —the barista with the glossy lips and flower name tag. sophia.

you’ve seen her smile at other people. never you. not because she’s mean. just because you’ve never given her a reason to.

you stand in line, staring at the drinks menu like it might give you a sign.

when it’s your turn, you step forward too fast, nearly bump into the display case. she glances up and smiles like she doesn’t notice your awkwardness. like she’s known you all along.

— hey. you’re usually here on fridays, right?

you blink. startled that she noticed. your mouth is slower than your brain.

— yeah, uh… i guess i just needed caffeine sooner this week.

she smiles, warm and easy.

— well, don’t we all? — she laughs. not mockingly. not like she’s uncomfortable. just warm. you look up at the menu like it might offer guidance. she tilts her head. — want me to surprise you?

— what would you recommend?

— hmm… maybe a dirty chai with oat milk and a side of emotional clarity.

you almost laugh. it comes out soft.

— can you do that?

— only the chai. emotional clarity’s a seasonal special. — she smiles to you like she just came out of a disney movie, then grabs a cup, scribbles something on the side.

you think you’ll leave it there; just a weird, slightly too-honest exchange with a stranger. but your chest is buzzing, and your mouth is tired of keeping secrets.

— can i tell you something insane?

she looks at you, curious. elbows on the counter, chin in her hand. she doesn’t look bored.

— always.

— i’m… losing my mind a little over this girl.

the words tumble out before you can pull them back.

— she… she did these things. and they’re not even big stuff. just… things that made me feel seen. and then she disappeared. not like, forever. for like a day or two. just enough to make me feel crazy. and then she’s back like nothing happened. it’s hot and then cold, you know?

you exhale. glance down. your fingers tap against the wood of the counter.

— and i believe i’ll keep letting her do it. because when she’s here, it’s… really good. and i think she’s trying. i want to believe she’s trying. but sometimes it feels like she’s just…

you don’t finish. sophia watches you for a second, then gently replies.

— you think she’s afraid?

you nod. a little too fast.

— yeah. i think she’s afraid of being loved.

— and you’re not?

— maybe. — you pause. — i think i’m more afraid of not trying.

she starts the espresso machine. the hiss and churn of it fills the silence between you.

— you know… — she says eventually. — when i was sixteen, i fell in love with someone who only called me when it rained.

you glance at her. — what?

— seriously. it would pour, and they’d text. every time. for almost a year. — she smiles, but there’s something sad behind it.

— i used to think it meant something. like maybe i reminded them of safety. or lightning. or the sound of thunder in someone else’s bed. — she shrugs. — turns out, they just didn’t like being alone when it stormed.

you don’t know what to say. so you say nothing. she hands you the drink. your name’s not on it; instead, she’s drawn a small sun and the words “this is a hug in a cup. :)”

— look, i don’t think your girl’s trying to hurt you. — she smiles at you sympathetically. — but sometimes people like that… they don’t know they’re pulling you under until you’ve already drowned.

your throat feels tight.

— yeah… i’m just terrified, you know?

— i know, truly. — she adds. — fear isn’t a stop sign. it’s just a sign you care.

you swallow hard. grip the cup. feel the warmth press against your palms like a second heartbeat. give her the money and don’t even bother about asking for the change. she definitely deserves it.

— thank you.

she nods, her smile making you believe for a second that she might be right. — i hope she figures it out.

you almost ask her name. then remember you already know it. so you leave the café with a little more silence in your body.

not emptiness, just space.

and of course, megan hasn’t texted back.

but you check anyway.

the studio walls on the velvet room’s backstage are mirror-lined and unforgiving. overhead, the lights buzz faintly, the kind of sound that feels like it’s echoing inside your teeth. the floor is a little sticky from last week’s sweat and glitter. it always is.

megan leans back against the barre, gum in her mouth, legs crossed at the ankle. she’s supposed to be warming up, stretching, something. instead, she watches lara in the mirror; ponytail sharp, eyeliner sharper, heels already on. lara looks like someone who bites when she loves you.

they’re rehearsing a shared number. or at least, they were supposed to be. it’s for friday’s late set: something femme fatale-coded, high energy, choreography that flirts with the edge of violence. lara had chosen the song. megan had said fine. she really didn’t care.

but her head’s not in it. not today.

she’s been messing up small things all afternoon; missing beats, forgetting transitions, zoning out mid-chorus. it’s pissing lara off. megan can feel it in the way she keeps clicking her nails against her thigh, like she’s trying not to scream.

— megan. — the indian scoffed, annoyed. — you’re two beats behind. again.

— i know.

— jesus christ, then fix it.

megan doesn’t move. she just shifts her jaw slightly, biting down harder on her gum, staring at her own reflection like it might offer her a better version of herself. it doesn’t.

lara exhales, sharp, just like her makeup.

— what the hell is going on with you today?

megan shrugs. doesn’t answer.

they’ve danced together a hundred times. shared sets, shared shots, shared nights curled into each other on lara’s couch when the world got too loud. this shouldn’t feel like a battle, but it does. today it does.

lara crosses the floor, heels clicking.

— i’m not going to babysit you through this, meg. if you can’t do the number-

— i can. — megan says it too fast. defensive. like she’s been caught bleeding.

— then act like it, god damn it. — lara counters.

— you’re off, you’re distracted, you’re… — she continues, then trails off, dragging her hands down her face. — is this about them?

silence. megan looks away. fixes her gaze on the smudge on the mirror near her hip. says nothing. lara sighs.

— okay, yeah. that’s what i thought.

megan still doesn’t speak. her throat is tight in a way she doesn’t like. lara softens, just slightly.

— you’ve been weird all week.

— no, i haven’t.

— megan.

that tone again; not angry, not pitying. worse. the one lara uses when she’s worried. and god knows how megan hates it.

she shrugs again. sits down on the floor, stretching her legs out, arms behind her for balance. her body feels too heavy. her chest even more so.

— i don’t know what i’m fucking doing. — she says, eventually.

— with them?

— with anything.

lara doesn’t laugh. doesn’t scoff. just sits next to her, their shoulders not quite touching.

— then do what you know.

megan chews her gum slower. the peppermint tastes like regret.

— it’s not that simple.

— yeah, it is.

they sit there in the silence for a beat. outside the studio, someone’s blasting music from the dressing rooms. something with too much bass, too much bravado. probably other girls who were rehearsing too. and the world keeps spinning. megan picks at her fishnets, nails chipping.

— it was supposed to be a hookup. — she says quietly. — that’s what i wanted. easy. clean. fun.

— and? — megan doesn’t answer. lara studies her, then sighs again. louder this time. more tired than angry. — ok, fine. do you wanna know what scares me?

— isn’t it, like, everything?

— cute. — lara smiled sarcastically. — but no. what scares me is watching you do what i did.

megan blinks, looking up. lara rarely goes here. not out loud. so, she paid attention.

— i felt something too, after that night with manon. — lara reluctantly said, almost swallowing her own words. — just for a second. one fucking second. like maybe i wasn’t alone in the world; maybe someone actually wanted me, not the performance. not dallas. then i ran. because that was easier. safer. and now? i keep thinking about the way she fucking caressed my hair when she thought i was asleep.

that’s the most she’s said about it since that night.

— you… really liked her? — megan stares.

— that’s not the point.

— it feels like the point.

— shut the fuck up, my point is… — she raised her voice for a second, then lowered it back again. — don’t do what i did. don’t pretend you don’t care just because you’re afraid they’ll stop.

— but what if they do?

— then at least you were honest. and you’ll survive it. like we always do.

— yeah, but that’s the point, lara. i don’t wanna survive it. — megan sighed. — i don’t know how to do it right. okay? i don’t know what they want from me. i don’t know if i can give it. i’m trying and i still fuck it up. i say something nice and then i hate myself for saying it. i feel soft and then i feel stupid. and they keep being… them. they’re so fucking kind it hurts. i hate it.

she buries her face in her hands.

— i fucking hate it.

lara watches her. eyes narrowed. something like protectiveness crests beneath her ribs, sharp and sudden.

— you don’t hate it. — she says.

megan doesn’t look up.

— you hate that it makes you want to be good.

megan scoffs. — fuck you.

— yeah, yeah.

they sit in it for a moment. the ruin of what megan isn’t saying. lara reaches into her bag, pulls out her phone.

— i’m putting something on. you’re going to breathe for five seconds and stop being a nightmare.

megan groans into her hands.

— don’t send me another thirst trap compilation.

— shut up, you love those.

— i don’t.

lara scrolls through her feed, thumb flicking fast. trying to find something dumb and distracting: a dog in pajamas, a couple falling off a paddleboard, something with sparkles. something easy.

but instead; there she is.

manon. on her screen. lips glossy, sunglasses pushed to the top of her head; the lighting is shit. but her voice is bright. and her smile’s too real. “thrift haul! let’s see how many gay crimes i can commit in one outfit!”

the screen shakes slightly as she flips the camera around. mirror shot. oversized leather trench coat. chain belt. cropped tee with a vintage graphic of the moon.

lara’s breath catches in her throat.

it’s stupid. it’s not even a hot video. she’s not dancing. not even trying.

but she looks so damn good. effortless. sharp and funny and alive. the way she talks to the camera like it’s an old friend. then lara’s hand freezes on the screen, her eyes trying their best not to roll.

— fuck.

megan glances over.

— what?

lara doesn’t answer. the video keeps playing. manon holds up a faux-fur coat with rhinestones on the collar and says “this is either a blessing or a curse and honestly i’m fine with both.”

megan snorts softly.

— you’re watching her tiktoks now?

lara swipes out of the app. shoves her phone face-down.

— it came up.

— sure.

— whatever.

megan leans back, grin small but alive now.

— do you miss her?

lara’s jaw flexes. — i miss not thinking about her.

— same.

a beat.

— so when you’re gonna tell her you left your favorite earring there?

— jesus christ, i don’t know.

— just saying. — megan shrugs, looking at the indian girl. — you’ve been debating this for three days.

— shut up. — megan just raises her brows. — i can’t just show up. it’ll look like i care.

— you do care.

— i don’t want to.

— doesn’t make it less true.

lara picks at her nail polish. chips it off in angry flakes.

— what would you do then, smart-ass?

— me?

— yeah. if it were you. if you left something in (y/n)’s bed and didn’t know how to go back for it without handing them your heart on a plate.

megan thinks for a moment. then shrugs.

— i’d probably pretend i came for the earring, then make some excuse about how i didn’t even like it that much. but really i’d just want to see them again.

lara goes still.

— well, that’s fucking stupid.

— it is.

— but also maybe i’ll do it. not like you, though. that shit’s way too emotional for me.

megan leans back on her palms. the sweat cooling on her collarbones.

— tomorrow?

— yeah. maybe.

— want me to come?

— no. — then, quieter. — i think i have to do it alone.

— well… — megan stands. brushes dust off her thighs. — you’ll be fine.

— you say that like you believe it.

— i don’t. but i say it anyway.

lara watches her stretch, watches the way her muscles flex and settle. she wonders if (y/n) notices that too. she bets they do.

this room doesn’t look like much from the outside, just a cracked glass door above a laundromat. the buzzer always broken, the hallway always smelling faintly of bleach and cheap incense. the kind of place you’d walk past unless you knew what it was.

but to megan, it’s one of the only places in the city that doesn’t ask her to be anything.

the studio is warm when she steps in. humid from bodies, from movement, from the echo of whatever song was just playing. the floor is a little warped near the mirrors. the ceiling fan clicks. someone’s sweatshirt is slung over the barre like it lives there.

there are ten, maybe twelve students tonight. all kinds: a bartender with a buzzcut, two nursing students who come on their off weeks, someone who teaches yoga and always wears too many bracelets. none of them look like the girls at the velvet room. no glitter. no lashes. no faking.

here, sweat is just sweat. not spectacle.

the instructor plays a low-tempo r&b track and starts calling out warmups, but it’s loose. no one’s here to impress anyone. just to move. to let their bodies be something besides currency.

megan sheds her hoodie and finds a spot near the corner. she ties her hair up in a quick knot and lets her shoulders roll back, the ache of the day bleeding slowly down her spine. there’s no choreography yet, just a long stretch of breath and flow. hips shifting, ankles loosening, torsos bending with the music. she lets herself get lost in it. or she tries to.

but her head’s still full of you.

still looping back to the texts, the silences between them. still thinking about the way you looked that first night in your apartment; nervous, knees bouncing, wearing that one jacket and trying to act like your heart wasn’t pounding. the way you listened. the way you didn’t run.

she hates that she keeps thinking about you like this. like she’s seventeen again and still thinks crushes are a kind of religion.

but she does. and it’s starting to show.

— hey, stranger. you’re late.

sophia’s voice breaks the loop. megan turns, and there she is: perched near the windows, stretching her legs in her usual half-graceful way, hair braided tight down her back, tank top tucked into carefully chosen leggings. she always looks like she walked out of a painting and into a dance class. megan hates how comforting that is.

— wouldn’t be me if i wasn’t.

— fair enough.

they fall into their usual rhythm, stretching near each other, no real pressure to talk, just syncing up. sophia’s already glancing at her in that quiet, knowing way, like she’s waiting for the admission she knows is coming.

megan stalls for a while. bends. breathes. watches her reflection in the mirror and tries not to think about whether you’d still look at her the same if you saw her here.

the instructor cues up a guided improv drill. everyone’s scattered around the room now, moving to the rhythm without mirrors, facing inward. it’s not about precision. it’s about emotion. presence. release.

megan dances like she’s trying to remember what her body is for. not performance. not seduction. not survival.

just hers.

soft shoulders. open arms. eyes half-closed. but she still feels off, even after her conversation with lara. like something’s humming wrong in her ribcage.

when the exercise ends, everyone collapses to the floor or leans on the barre. the lights are dimmed now. the window’s cracked, letting in the smell of street food and summer sweat.

she and sophia drift to the corner together. they sit, legs sprawled, water bottles pressed to their necks. and after a long pause, megan decided to, for once, take the first step.

— i met someone.

sophia doesn’t flinch. just raises a brow. megan fidgets with the label on her bottle, eyes on her fingers.

— i didn’t mean to. it was supposed to be… nothing. or fun. or whatever. but they’re… — she shakes her head. — they’re soft. and sharp. like, smart but quiet about it. and they made me feel like i mattered. not just… existed.

sophia watches her. not judging, never. just absorbing.

— well, that sounds terrifying. — she says, soft smile tugging at her lips.

— it is.

— and?

— and i don’t know what to do with it.

megan leans back on her elbows, the floor still warm beneath her. the ceiling above her spins gently. her voice drops.

— they’re a college student, sophia. good kid, the kind of person who plays those weird medieval games with dices on their mom’s basement. and i’m… me. a girl who strips three nights a week because her life didn’t turned out the way she planned.

megan stopped for a second; sophia just listened.

— and i keep thinking they’re gonna wake up and realize what this is. what i am. and they’ll go tell their friends “oh yeah, remember when i hooked up with that stripper?” — she scoffed. — like i’m gonna be their edgy college rebellion they survived.

after a couple of seconds, sophia said softly, the only way she knew how.

— you know, i met someone at work today. — she says, voice warm, then megan looks over.

— just a customer. we barely talked. i made them some chai, poor thing looked like they were carrying the weight of the world in a canvas tote bag. didn’t even realize how much they were spilling until they were halfway through their order. said something about someone being distant, magnetic and scary in a beautiful way.

megan goes still. then sophia smiles, small.

— i gave them this exact advice. so i’m giving it to you too. — sophia held megan’s hand and squeezed it slightly. — fear isn’t a stop sign. it’s just a sign you care. and if they care, they’ll stay. not because you made it easy. but because you were real.

megan exhales through her nose. the kind of breath that’s half-sob, half-surrender. — but what if i ruin it?

— then you learn. and try again. and live. — sophia said, as if the solution to this problem was simple and easy. — but maybe; just maybe, you don’t ruin it. maybe you get it right this time around.

megan doesn’t answer. she picks at her knee. there’s a scar there from rollerblading in sixth grade. her skin’s always trying to remind her of who she was. sophia speaks again, quieter now.

— i know you think being seen is dangerous. but maybe this time it’s just being loved.

megan feels something lodge in her throat. her heart hiccups. she bites the inside of her cheek.

— i keep waiting for them to change their mind.

— have they given you any reason to think they will?

— no.

— then stop making yourself suffer in advance. go a little easier on yourself, huh?

megan’s quiet for a long time. just the sound of music switching again in the background, bodies stretching, someone cracking their back.

— should i text them?

sophia gives her a look.

— you already know the answer, honey.

megan pulls out her phone. the screen glows too bright. your last text is still there, soft and patient.

(y/n): i didn’t sleep either

she stares at it like it might respond if she waits long enough.

— i want to see them. — she says, mostly to herself. sophia smiles, almost proudly.

— so ask them out.

megan types. deletes. types again. tries a hundred different combinations of words.

megan: wanna get food tomorrow?

megan: not a date. don’t be weird about it.

she shows sophia.

— pathetic?

— very. — sophia grins. — they’re gonna love it.

megan stares a moment longer. then hits send.

the message floats away like a dare.

she locks her phone. presses it to her chest. breathes deep.

— fuck, i’m gonna hate myself if this goes bad.

— no, you won’t.

— why?

— because this time you’re not disappearing first.

megan doesn’t answer. just stares at the ceiling, where the fan keeps spinning, and lets the soft ache of hope settle into her sternum like something earned.

[wosomikaela]

THE PASTRY OF LOVE

PART 3

TRIGGER WARNING: bad writing, kissing

(sorry it's so short)

I didn’t hear from Steph for maybe two weeks but who is really counting when a girl you have a crush on disappears after you make out against the kitchen counter. Some of the Arsenal girls who I recognise from the match are coming to the café almost every other day, but the brown-eyed girl was never with them.

But to my surprise after I went through Steph's instagram page I found out Calvin was indeed her dog. Which put my mind at ease after thinking she probably cheated on her boyfriend with me and that's why she ran away.

I wanted to give her space to think about everything and maybe come back but she never did so I took the matter into my own hands and next time I spotted Beth between the other girls I asked for Steph's address. I was pleasantly surprised that she and Steph actually lived together not only with them and Calvin but another dog named Mile.

So that is how I found myself on a cold Friday night standing on the steps in front of their apartment building, holding the raspberry croissants in one hand. It wasn’t the same ones obviously but I knew the way of love was through the stomach for everyone if we like it or not. And I wanted to make it up to her anyway.

I took a deep breath in and rang the bell next to the door, making sure I looked composed and not too nervous. I was prepared for Beth or Steph to open the door but when the door opened I was met with another woman who I had never seen before. She was tall and looked just as confused as I was.

“Hey, can I help you?” She had an accent so she totally wasn’t from around here: “I..um, I am here to see Steph?” I asked hoping that Beth didn’t give me some random address and now this woman is going to think I am weirdo.

“Oh yeah sorry, I just never seen you before you are y/n right? Come on in.” She let me into kind of a big apartment, as I took my shoes off and followed the tall woman further into the living area I couldn't help but notice all the photos on the walls. They all looked like memories from all around the world.

“Stephs room is right at the end of the hall.” She pointed towards the only door at the back.

I turned to her: “Thank you…” I looked at her hoping she would understand I was waiting for her to introduce herself.

“Oh yeah I am Viv, Beth's girlfriend.” I smiled and nodded, Beth mentioned she had a girlfriend but not that she lived in this apartment as well.

“It is nice to meet you, hopefully I’ll get to know you more.” I said, my feet already moving towards the bedroom.

“Yeah, me too. Go easy on her.” She said, making me frown. Oh so she knows knows

“I will don’t worry.” She smiled at me and suddenly I was in front of the door.

STEPH POV:

I was lying on my bed with Calvin, practically just staring at the ceiling. I missed y/n, but I didn’t know what to say to her. I knew running away from the best kiss of my life was stupid and as soon as I stepped outside I wanted to go back and kiss her once more. But is it possible to like a person this much after two days of knowing them? I could not tell you. Beth assured me that it was okay to like someone right away. She called it destiny or something about y/n putting a love spell into the pastry she makes.

My stomach growled as I thought about her baking skills. Back in the kitchen as I was watching her work and explaining things to me I couldn’t focus on anything other than her beautiful face, her perfectly toned arm muscles and her voice. God, her voice was like heaven to my ears. I never felt anything like this for a woman before, maybe it was because I was with my fiancee for too long to discover this part of myself.

A knock on the door broke me from my daydreaming and woke Calvin up too because he was immediately on his feet walking towards the door.

“Come in.” I thought it was either Beth or Viv asking if I wanted something to eat but I quickly sat up when I saw it was the baker who I had a hopeless crush on.

“Hey, um. I am not good at this thing, but I wanted to say I am sorry about the other day. I should push you that far and um…I baked you these so you could taste them when the first time wasn’t the best one.” I didn’t know why or what she was apologizing for.

I frowned as I stood up, closing the door behind her now standing completely in front of her: “I am not sure why you are apologizing when it should be me. I am sorry about disappearing. I freaked out and I…I need you to know I really like you and it’s okay if you don’t feel the same way, you know I will make sure I won’t step a foot into the café so it don’t need to be weird and-” I was cut of by y/n kissing me stopping me from rambling even more.

She pulled away, smiling softly at me: “Of course I like you too, and I hope you will come back into the café and maybe…go out with me? On a date?”

I smiled still nervous at her: “I…you want to take me out on a date? I have never been with a woman before. You have to know that and I don’t want to hurt you and just you know if it doesn't work out.” I stopped talking when she placed the paper bag she was holding on the bed, putting her hands carefully onto my hips: “Steph, I don't care if you've never been with a woman before, we can go as slow as you like. A date after a date. Kiss after a kiss. I won’t leave.”

I chuckled: “That was so corny.” She laughed as well and shrugged her shoulders: “What can I say, pretty girls do that to me.”

“You think I am pretty?” I whispered, pulling closer to her. She rested her forehead against mine. She looked me deep into eye: “I think you are beautiful." And she kissed me softly, slowly like we had all the time in the world.

A bark from Cavlin made us pull back from one and another, making us chuckle. Y/n crouched down in front of him as he licked her palm while she pet him: “What do you say Calvin can I take your mom on a date?”

Instead of answering he hopped onto the bed and put his face into the paper bag almost pulling out the pastry that was there.

“Oh no, boy. Those ones are not for you, but I will come up with some pastry for dogs, okay?” Y/n said as she pushed the now half open paper bag into my arms: “I want you to taste one.”

I smiled and sat down next to her on my bed, our legs hanging from the end. I took the red croissant out and took a big bite.

“Oh my god, they are amazing.” I nearly moaned as she laughed: “So is it true what they say?” I looked at her weirdly about what she was talking about.

“That love goes through the stomach.” She smirked but I shook my head: “No,you just make the pastry of love.”

THE END (for now)

[blanc-ci]

Kirk is wayyy too distracted to listen to them yap but I think he forgets they can tell exactly what he’s thinking

Mirror!Spock/Kirk/Spock sandwich (prompt from anon) plus my initial mirror Spock concept sketches

too lazy to make a nsfw right now but maybe in the future 😏

[peachesofteal]

Raspberry Girl Previous + masterlist + AO3 Simon Riley/female reader CW: 18+ mdni, Reader POV.

His name is Simon.  

He’s still stuck in your mind as Captain Riley, like it’s dug in there, claws unwilling to let go, and he says you don’t have to call him Simon if you don’t want to. Which is comforting, in its own strange way. 

Comforting just like his presence, the one that’s been at the bakery almost every day. You’ve been trying to keep to yourself, agonizing over the moment when it all comes crashing down, when he figures out how weird you are, but it’s not that easy.

He doesn’t let you hide. 

“What do you do when you’re not at work?” You resist the urge to wring your hands together, keeping your focus on the sidewalk, concentrating on the cracks, the leaves. 

You’re on a walk. With him. He asked you earlier when he came by as you were closing up, before you moved on to the rest of your work. 

“Take a break. Walk with me.” 

You couldn’t say no, though it took longer than it should have to get your “yes” out. 

He didn’t rush you. He never does. 

“Um,” You’re not much of a doer. You bake, you go home, you read, you watch the occasional tv show or movie, you work on recipes. You learned to embroider last year, and sometimes you add little flowers or such here and there to your work aprons but there’s nothing outside those things, no extracurriculars or exercise, no circle of friends to get a drink with on the weekends. Sometimes you hang out with Mara, who works the front at the bakery, but it’s rare. You’re not good with friendships usually. You keep to yourself, and that’s fine. Everything is easier that way. 

You guess Captain Riley could be considered a hobby. All the minutes you’ve spent holding your breath and watching the front door, waiting for him to walk through and make his way to the counter, all the times you’ve caught yourself staring at his hands, thick wrists and palms the size of dinner plates. He could probably crush a skull between them, crush you. It’s unhealthy, the way you think of him. The way you daydream about a man who’s probably old enough to be your father. The way you close your eyes in the middle of the day when it’s busy and you’re overwhelmed and the sound of the dishwasher is grating on you, just to picture his face, hear him calling you baby, feel his-

He says your name. Oh right. 

You shrug, trying to feign indifference, trying to brush it off. “I’m usually at home. Work takes it out of me.” That’s true. Work can be exhausting. Bending, scraping, kneading, lifting giant mixing bowls, pulling dough until you’re tired. Wrists, elbows, neck, all of them, ache. Price you pay for passion, you suppose. “I’m pretty boring.” 

“No you’re not. Just a bit nervous, yeah?” Your stomach twists. 

“I like to stick to the things I know, I guess.” 

“Less scary?” The truth is full of shame and you wrap your arms around yourself, trying to raise a shield that doesn’t exist. A smoke and mirror act that wouldn’t fool anyone. 

“Yeah, less scary.” He’s silent for a beat, and then turns to face you on the sidewalk, a finger under your chin, tipping your head back until your eyes are locked on his. 

“It’s okay, y’know?” Embarrassment floods, fire burning in your cheeks, and he tsks, wiping one of the tears trying to trickle down your skin. “None o’ that.” You smile, but it’s hollow. 

“Sorry.” 

“None of that either,” he bites out, and your spine straightens like a string has been pulled from your tailbone up through your neck. “There’s nothin’ wrong with it.” With what? With you? He’s joking. You almost snort, but the seriousness in his gaze stops you short. Steals your breath. 

You’ve made it around the block already, standing in the parking lot of the bakery, twilight purple and orange shining in the reflection of the big front window. Disappointment settles in your stomach like lead. He’s going to leave now, go back to wherever it is he goes, and you’ll be alone, elbows deep in cream and sugar, trying not to think about him for the hundredth, thousandth time. 

Might as well rip the band-aid off. “Well, um. Thanks f-for, uh…” if you say thanks for the walk, will you sound dumb? Does that make it sound like you’re a dog or something he took for a stroll? “The walk.” Yep. Dumb. 

“Goin’ back to work?” 

“Mhm. I’ve got this catering order for early pick up tomorrow.” 

“What’re you making?” 

“Meringue. Lemon. Pies.” You cringe, but he places a hand on your shoulder. It’s warm, warm like a blanket, a soft fuzzy thing you can curl up with in front of a fire. “Meringue is really the thing about the pies. The rest of it doesn’t really matter, that’s why I- ah… why I put it first.” The two of you drift towards the back door, more so you in his wake, and when he closes it behind the two of you, it’s natural, you don’t even question it. Him. 

“It’s science.” You place the bowl in front of where he’s sitting on a stool, and try not to look at the bulk of his thighs. He’s in some sort of uniform, but it’s more casual, less stiff. The fabric breathes and stretches across his body, his chest, his middle… the heaviness of his legs. The room is suddenly very hot, and you try to shake the distraction off. “All of baking is a science, actually. Cooking, you can salvage anything. Cooking is easy. Baking? Baking is chemistry.” You pull the cradle of eggs over, and roll one in your hand before cracking it, separating yolk from white. “Meringue is a perfect example. It only has four ingredients. How hard can it be?” You feel a little thrill roll through you, the kind of excitement you get when you’re just about to start turning a handful of ingredients into something, and the pressure builds up in your chest, muscles in your arms and neck going tight as you fight against an overzealous outburst. You tense so hard you shake for a second before you get a hold of yourself. “If the eggs aren’t the right temperature, if the bowl isn’t clean enough, if you add the sugar too fast, it all falls apart. The protein in the egg whites mix with the sugar and make the meringue stable, it's literally chemistry. That's the cool thing about it.” You look between him and the hand mixer, and everything dries up. You’re suddenly very aware you’ve been prattling on about how to make meringue like he cares, and you have to hold onto the edge of the butcher’s block to practically keep yourself up. The mortification is enormous and threatens to drown you in its viciousness, vile things playing on a loop inside your head as you grapple with what’s just happened. Stupid. 

He’s standing before you can blink. “What’s wrong?” 

“N-nothing, I- I just uh… I’m sorry.” Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry. 

“For what?” You shake your head, but he doesn’t let it go, just comes around to the side and covers your hand with his. Warm again. Safe. “Tell me what’s wrong sweetheart.” The gentle coax in his voice turns stern, and you find yourself obeying before you can stop it. 

“Meringue, it’s so… w-why would you care about meringue?” 

“I don’t know anything about meringue,” he rubs two knuckles against the apple of your cheek, “you were teaching me.” 

“Oh.” 

“Y’know you go somewhere else when you talk about baking?” 

“What? I do?” He nods. 

“You’re free from the scary bits. You’re excited and… weightless. It’s precious,” he cups your face, touch slow and careful, “like you, precious little girl.” The air in the room has vanished, and your knees go weak, struggling to support you as your pulse races, butterflies swarming in the pit of your stomach. 

“C-captain Riley- I-” He steps back, your heart free falls to the floor. He’s studying you like there’s a riddle to be solved, analytical and hungry, something razor sharp and rolling with darkness lurking behind it all. It’s so intense, too intense, but fleeting, and vanishes within a second. A light’s been snuffed out, leaving you in the cold and clueless. 

“Will you teach me the rest?” 

“Um, yes?” It doesn’t sound like the human language. More like a mouse’s squeak, and you glance around, trying to get your bearings as he leans against the table with his arms crossed. 

It takes you a minute, or ten, to get back in the rhythm. You have to start over, which is fine, but you’re shivering a bit too much to handle the yolk separation, a different kind of anxiety rattling in your bones. It’s not until he palms the small of your back and tells you to take your time, that you settle and succeed. 

By the time it’s over, you’ve made ten pies for your order and one extra. 

“Do you want to try?” You hand him a fork. 

“Course.” You’re on the edge of your seat as he takes his first bite, watching his jaw move, his throat bobbing with each swallow. Then he takes another, and another, and another until half the pie is almost gone. You try to smother your giggle, but the effort is paltry, and he smiles at you in return. “Somethin’ funny?” Your teeth press into your bottom lip so hard it stings. 

“Nope, uh… do you like it?” 

“It’s delicious sweetheart. You’re really good at this.” Tingles of pride flush through you from fingers to toes, and you bounce on the balls of your feet a little bit. 

“I’ll send the rest home with you.” You slide the pie tin into a box and he shakes his head.

“You don’t have to do that.” 

“I want to!” You blurt, and then bite your tongue, looking down at peaks of meringue. “I w-want to, it’s my-” you snap ‘love language’ back before it manages to escape, horrified at yourself. “I like it, feeding you, um, feeding people.” You’re sweating. You can feel it starting to bead along your spine, the back of your neck, and you wonder if you’ll get hot enough to melt into the floor and disappear. 

“If you’re sure,” he murmurs as he forks another piece of the pie free. “You didn’t have any though.” 

“Oh,” it’s your factory setting response at this point. Oh. Can’t you think of anything else? “Th-that’s okay, I don’t always eat my own… stuff.” 

“Why’s that?” You’ve turned fully towards him now, and he’s still so close, close enough to see the ribbons of caramel in his irises. 

“It’s not for me, usually. I mean, I eat of course, and taste test, but I don’t do it for me. I do it as a job and for other people.” 

“Hmm. That’s a shame,” the bite is still sitting there, waiting, and you’re just about to ask him if he’s going to eat it when he lifts it to your lips. “Open.” 

It’s not a request. It’s an order, a directive, and your thighs squeeze into one another, riptide of confusing want, desire, dragging you out to sea. 

Your lips part- 

and then Captain Riley is feeding you. It’s a small bite, tart-sweet on your tongue. Lemon and sugar crusted clouds linger as you swallow, but nothing matters except for the man in front of you, pulling a fork from your mouth, his eyes never leaving yours- 

“Good girl.” Heaven. Hell. Words disappear like you never learned a single vowel. Your body becomes a never ending live wire. You’re out of your element, you don’t even have an element, not truly. Your element is here, in kitchen of the bakery, alone with flour and sugar and piping bags. Your element isn’t… it’s not this. Not this man, this older man, this brutally handsome man who towers over you, this man with his perfectly imperfect nose and scar on his cheek, with big hands and a voice you could drown in. Not this man standing in front of you, telling you you’re a good girl, staring like he wants to consume you. “How’s that?” 

“U-uh, um. It’s… it’s good.” You don’t recognize your voice. It’s high pitched and trembling, the waver it in matching the shaking of your limbs, your entire body. 

“Do you want another?” Yes. No. You don’t know. 

“I…” you’re flailing, but he instead of pushing you, instead of trying to fit a circle into a square, he merely thumbs your cheek, drags the calloused pad down to ghost across your bottom lip.  

“It’s okay baby, take your time. Do you want another bite?” There’s a hummingbird in your chest, trilling a million miles a minute, and you nod automatically. 

“Please.” You whisper, and he obliges. You don’t care to have another bite of pie, but you do want more of this. So much more of something you’re not sure you can have, something you definitely don’t understand. Some sort of dream that doesn’t happen for people like you. 

Your phone vibrates. It lights up on the other side of the table and your stomach pitches, first out of panic, and then out of dread. 

Spell broken. Fairytale over. 

“That’s my bedtime. My bedtime reminder, I mean.” You just told him you have a bedtime like you’re five. Nice. “I’m usually in bed… by now. I get up really early on some days for prep and other stuff, and I’m a ten hours of sleep a night kind of girl, so, uh, I try to stay consistent with my routines and stuff, but I’m pretty bad at it. That’s why I have the alarm…” Stop talking. 

“I’m sorry I kept you.” 

“No!” You reach for him and then think better of it, fisting your hand at your side instead. “N-no, I’m glad you’re here. I just have this early pick up tomorrow, but it’s no big deal, I’ll-” 

“go home and go to bed. Do you have anything else you need to do?” Stern again, like he's serious about enforcing your bedtime, like he cares about you getting enough sleep. 

“Not really, I just leave the dishes in the sink for tomorrow.” He tucks the pie box into his arm and motions to the back door. 

“I’ll wait for you to lock up.” 

He gives you his number and makes you promise to text him when you get home, which you do, dutifully, laying in bed, curled up beneath your blankets, typing out a hazy message with one eye open. 

>Home. In bed. Thanks for hanging out. 

The text back comes only a few minutes later. 

>Goodnight sweetheart. 

>Goodnight Captain Riley. 

[cathnospam]

“One kiss won’t hurt our friendship, right Katsuki?”

You ask him that at least once a week, for the past 4 months. At this point he’s not sure if it’s a joke anymore.

“Shut up and focus!”

It all started at your graduation party, everybody was having fun and kissing each other;

Mina with Kiri

Ochaco with Deku

Jirou with Denki

Even Sero managed to find somebody to make out with in a corner. It left you and Bakugo the only ones out of your friend group kissless during all of that you both just shared glances at them and each other before heading back up to your dorms for the evening, he didn’t care much to continue the celebration and you were just feeling a little awkward seeing everybody paired up.

Later that night Bakugo came to your door to grab an aspirin from you after 1 two many drinks, “Stupid ass music is still playing I’m about to blow the fucking speaker up.”

“Here. Also, eat. You haven’t eaten since this morning so your blood sugar is probably low too.”

He glared at you with an annoyed look of confusion, “Don’t observe me.”

He says as he takes the other half of your sandwhich, eventually he just stayed in your room, making himself comfortable splayed out on your bed as you were finishing packing to leave on Monday back to your parents, and that’s when a night of comfortable silence between you both turned into you making a joke about everybody hooking up in your class except you both.

“Yeah, even Robot legs got some pussy tonight i think.”

Which led you to making a joke about you stealing a kiss from each other, I mean you figured why not, you’re hot, he might have a mean mouth, but your blonde friend was hot too, it wouldn’t mean anything, but Bakugo immediately rolled his eyes and scoffed at you. It wasn’t mean either it was more of a, “Yeah right as if.” kind of thing.

It wasn’t a direct no though.

Since then you’ve had a continuous back and fourth of asking for a kiss, which again he never ends up saying no like any of the continuous fan girls he got during 2nd year.

Once the new semester of Uni started it became a routine and honestly you never thought you’d actually wear him down.

“It wouldn’t hurt our friendship y’know…it’d be something we do once and never speak about again.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“No I’m a good kisser.”

“Yeah right.”

“Yeah too, but you wouldn’t know because you won’t just come here and let me take your kiss virginity.”

You probably took it a little too far with that, because you’ve been friends with Bakugo long enough to know he is a drama. Queen.

“Who the hell said i never kissed anybody before?! I probably have!” His voice cracked, already a sign that he was lying. He definitely never kissed anybody. You knew, he probably knew you knew, but he refused to give you the satisfaction even IF his face became flushed.

He got up from his desk to sit in front of you on the bed, uncharacteristically so he cupped your cheeks, your phone long forgotten between your legs having to be forced to look into his irritated face.

You never noticed how sharp and soft some features of his face were.

And how clear his skin was.

And how pretty his eyes were even if they’re fiery and mad, “Close your damn eyes.”

“I’m not closing shit YOU close your eyes.”

You matched his energy by cupping his cheeks, they were nearly burning to your warm touch, thumb caressing his smooth skin. The tension was so thick between you both, you swore you could hear both your heart beats quickening. His lips were grazing yours as you pulled him closer, your stomach was actually doing backflips seeing as Bakugo had the choice to push you off, curse you out and never talk to you again, but

He didn’t and you didn’t stop either until you pressed your mouth against his. You could taste the mint gum he had in his mouth when you started to move yours, Bakugo’s sweaty hands took grip of your waist, partially holding onto you and also wiping it off on your shirt.

You were surprised when he still didn’t pull away, for an inexperienced kisser he got the hang of the way your tongue was dancing to be let inside, which he finally gave you access, but completely took charge and slid his tongue into your mouth instead.

What turned into an awkward still moment of passion transitioned into a wet, sloppy make out session which him getting lost from what he’d experienced as his first moment of pleasure ever. His hands pushed you on your back firm on top of his pillows, but not disconnecting from your mewls against him.

He tasted sweet and savory, his lips were average sized and hot, but managed to consume you. This was more than a kiss this was damn near foreplay.

Both of your bodies felt so connected though. It felt right, something so foreign felt…comforting. It suckling and moaning noises until the harsh knock on Bakugo’s door broke you both out of your cloud 9.

“Shit—Who is it?” He barked at the door, hovering over your panting body, his chain dangling over your face seeing his sharp jawline clench out of irritation,

“Hey man, we are heading to get some food y’wanna come?” It was Denki and Kiri oh so unknown to the view right behind his door, that if they wanted to barge in because the door was unlocked could see their hot headed friend on top of his own friend and in between her legs.

“No I’m fine. Leave me alone.”

“Wait I’m hungry—-“

“Shut.Up.” He covered your mouth, almost growling at you for speaking, the footsteps eventually fade off and he sits back up. Looking away.

“Well I’ll be damned you are a good kisser.”

“Shut— I know I am.”

“Well. I figured, because I sure as shit didn’t know what I was doing.”

He snapped his head at you, realizing you were lying about being an experienced kisser. He didn’t know whether to feel prideful or mad, “You—“

“Well you lied too. I know you never kissed anybody. Thanks for letting me take your lip virginity though.” You giggle wiping the lips gloss you left on the corner of his lip, you weren’t sure because he had some black joggers, but you tried to not mention the somewhat obvious growing erection from between his legs that made him more embarrassed.

“If you tell anybody I’ll—“

“You’ll what…kiss me again?”

The kiss didn’t ruin your friendship, but it started a new one.

[smiteswrites]

Okay, hear me out… Robby with a partner who has a hard time orgasming (because I need to feel seen, and hopefully y’all do too). MDNI 18+!!!

a/n: I know we all love a good smutty fic where the reader gets to cum like three times, but let’s be honest, that is not reality for most people. I need some representation for those of us who live the antidepressant lifestyle. I know I asked about Robby/Michael, but something about this felt like a 'Robby' fic (idk). Next time I write about this man we will go with Michael, pinky promise. Wrote this after working a 50 hour week and did not revise it. Also haven't written smut in literal years. You have been warned.

In recent years, getting yourself to orgasm has become a challenge. Sure, you can get there on your own with some patience and a trusty vibrator, but it takes time. And sometimes being with a partner, especially a new one, means you don’t really want them trying to get you there for forty fucking minutes. So, when you and Robby start seeing each other you don't exactly fake it, but you don’t let him focus his attention on you for long before you turn the tables and start pleasuring him. 

But Robby isn’t stupid, and he needs to know you’re enjoying yourself as much as he is. So, a handful of times into sleeping together, he finds himself in a familiar position: dressed in only his briefs, lying sprawled out on his stomach, head between your open legs, putting his mouth to good use. You’d be lying if you said it didn’t feel fucking amazing. His beard scratches at your inner thighs and below your entrance as he uses his tongue to steadily lap at your clit. The pressure and rhythm he's giving you is enough to make pleasure burn low in your pelvis; you can’t help but rock your hips into his face, using your grip in his hair as leverage to make sure he keeps his tongue right fucking there. 

Robby can feel the urgency in the way you’re pulling his face impossibly closer. He knows damn well that you haven’t cum for him in any of your previous times together, he’s had over thirty years of experience with women, not to mention he’s a fucking doctor, he knows what an orgasm looks like (and sounds and tastes and feels like). He can tell each time you give up and move the focus away from your own pleasure, trying to distract him. This time though, he isn’t stopping until he gets what he wants. He moves his hands from where they rest passively on your thighs, one going to grip your hip and anchor you to him, the other coming to rest flat and warm on your lower stomach. You let out a moan at the feeling of his palm on your stomach, the feeling in your pelvis has grown into something that feels more tangible. So much so, that your legs begin to shake with it and you think you might actually cum this time. Robby thinks so too, feeling your thighs trembling on either side of his head. He groans softly into you, and chooses this moment to push down on your belly. 

You jolt your head up in surprise, grip tightening on his head. “Fuck, Robby that feels good.” 

He moans again in response, and thanks to your more upright position you catch his hips rolling into the mattress. Dutiful as ever, he continues applying pressure with his palm and doubles down with his tongue, pushing himself to go faster, harder, anything to feel you cum on his face. 

You’ve moved to be fully sitting up now, one hand behind you for support and the other firmly anchored in his hair. You grind your hips almost frantically, sweat beginning to collect on your face and neck, chasing an orgasm that is so close you can taste it. 

“Oh,” you huff out followed by a hum that borders on whiny, “I think ‘m getting close.” Your teeth grit around the words, body tensing up in its pursuit of pleasure. 

Robby opens his eyes to peer up at you. Your head has lolled back, eyes squeezed shut, your mouth now hangs open on a silent moan. Your clit has gotten more swollen than he thought it could and he can feel you getting wetter by the second, it’s practically dripping off his chin. You are so close, so nearly there. 

And yet… 

“Fuck,” you whine out, and not in a good way. Your hips stop their movement, thighs no longer shaking with pleasure. Robby slows his ministrations and watches as you flop onto your back once more, arms coming to rest over your face, pout evident on your lips.

With a grunt, he pulls himself up and crawls to lay beside you. 

“Sweetheart, can you look at me?” He places a hand on one of your arms, tugging gently to remove it, only to be met with firm resistance. 

“No.” 

“Please?” 

You let out a sigh and allow him to move your arms off of your face. He pulls the one between you into his chest, interlacing your fingers with his. 

Still refusing to look at him, you stare straight ahead at the ceiling. This close, Robby can see the tears of frustration welling up in your eyes. Your face is flushed, now from a mixture of embarrassment and exertion. 

When you remain silent and continue to avoid his gaze Robby prompts you further. 

“You’re okay, nothing to be embarrassed about,” his thumb rubs soothingly along the back of your hand, “All I want is to make you feel good, sweetheart. But, I can’t do that if you don’t talk to me about what's going on.” 

Your eyes close tightly, tears finally spilling over and running down your cheeks as you nod in agreement. After a moment you open them again and finally turn to face him. 

“I’m sorry,” you whisper softly, eyes darting between his own. You elaborate a few moments later: “for not communicating.” 

“It’s okay, what’s important is we’re talking now. Yeah?” 

“Yeah,” you nod. 

Robby waits, prepared to begin asking you questions in a diagnostic manner if you don’t speak up, but is pleased when you begin without prodding. 

“I- uhm,” a pause, “It takes a lot for me to uh- finish, most of the time.” 

He hums in acknowledgment, scooting closer and pulling you into a quasi embrace, hand draped over your waist. 

“Can you tell me what ‘a lot’ looks like for you?” Your eyes meet his again, unsure. 

His voice is low, almost gravelly, “When you touch yourself, what do you like? How do you make yourself cum?”

He asks with genuine interest in learning how best to please you, but his manner of speaking makes you feel suddenly hot as your thighs squeezing together. Robby doesn’t miss it. 

“I use my fingers mostly… but I have a vibrator too that I like. Mostly it just takes a really long time.” 

“I need you to listen to me very carefully,” he waits for your nod of assent, “There is nothing I would rather do than take my time making you feel good.” 

Feeling at a loss for words, a small ‘okay’ escapes you. 

“Good. Now, how about we try again and you tell me what you need from me, and we’ll go for as long as you want to. I would happily go all night without getting off if it meant I got to see you cum for me.” 

A smile grows on his face as he speaks, the tone shifting from serious to playful once more. You mirror his energy, grinning as you respond, “That sounds really fucking nice.” 

-

Forty seven minutes later (after Robby had all but tackled you into the bed for a solid makeout sesh and used his mouth once more to warm you back up) you find yourself perched on his lap, cock snug inside you. Robby sits with his back against the headboard, hands on your hips to guide the steady rock of your hips into his own. You have a tight grip on one of his shoulders to steady yourself, and an even tighter grip on the vibrator that you had sheepishly produced from the bedside drawer. 

“Come on baby, you’re doing so good for me, take whatever you need,” he encourages, voice rough with his own pleasure. 

“Feels really good, Robby,” you moan, resting your forehead against his as your hips pick up speed. 

Robby rolls his own up to meet yours, feeling you start to clench around him periodically. 

“I know it does, can feel you gettin’ all tight on me,” he laughs and all you can do is moan weakly in response. “Turn up the vibrator, you can take it sweetheart.” 

He feels you almost shake your head no to his request, before giving in and increasing the speed. 

“Oh- oh shit,” the effect is instant, your cunt feels so wet and warm as it grips him somehow tighter. Robby can feel his control starting to slip, and despite his earlier promise he knows he won’t last forever like this. Oh shit indeed.

“Feel so good around me. Tell me what you need, baby. Please,” He begs. 

“Talk to me? Please, Robby ‘m so close, just wanna know I’m being good for you.” 

“I got you baby, we’ll get you there. Me and that vibrator,” you both laugh at his comment, but Robby doesn’t lose focus for a second, using his grip to maintain your rhythm. “You’re doing so good, keep riding me just like this.” 

Nodding, you can feel the tell tale signs of your orgasm starting to creep in. The relentless buzzing at your clit coupled with Robby’s assistance in rolling your hips back and forth have you barreling towards the edge. 

“Yeah, that’s it. Just let it happen baby you’re right there, gripping me so fucking tight.” 

Your movements start to grow erratic, hips beginning to lock up. 

Robby reaches down and places his thumb over yours where it rests on the “up” button. 

“Gonna look so pretty coming on my cock, such a good girl,” he presses his thumb down. 

It comes on fast and strong. Your core is tightening as your back curves, your hips go dead still and lift ever so slightly as you shake on top of him. “Robby, please,” it comes out as a pitiful whine, begging him for something, anything, even as your orgasm is ripping through you. 

“Fuck,” he grits out, hips slamming up into you, continuing to use his one hand to make sure the vibrator stays on your clit. 

Robby can feel you still clenching around him as his own orgasm overtakes him, and he rides it out for as long as he can, groaning out incoherent praises as his hips begin to slow. 

He’s brought back into reality when you whine frantically and at your joined hands holding the vibrator, suddenly oversensitive. Even without the stimulation, the aftershocks are powerful as you quake above him. He does his best to pull you back flush with his hips, tucking you into his chest as you ride it out. 

After several minutes of holding you in his lap, Robby helps you to the bathroom, only teasing you for how bad your legs shake once. Once you’ve both cleaned up, you wind up back in bed. 

“Thank you for that, I think you’ve ruined me for all other men.” You say it jokingly, but there’s nothing but truth behind the words. 

“The pleasure was all mine.” He kisses the top of your head where it rests on your chest. 

Just as you're drifting off to sleep you hear him mumble, “Do I need to be jealous of that vibrator?”

[sleep-0-deprived]

What would it be like yandere bully vs yandere jock fighting over the nerd reader?

Yandere jock, bully fighting over nerd male reader head cannons~. ૮ ྀི◞ ⸝⸝ ◟ ྀིა

For the sake of this post I’ll call Yandere bully(Damian) and Yandere jock(Jake) <33

When Damian first started bullying you it was out of the obsession he had built on you over the summer. Jake first noticed you when he was in study hall and was assigned you as his tutor, the two of you became really close during the tutoring sessions so much that he’d invite you to his place just wanting to be around you as much as he could. Dumping his cheerleader girlfriend asking you to come to his games even trying to get you to wear his jacket insisting it was just him “wanting you to show team spirit for him”.

Damian hating how close you got with Jake turning into pure hatred for the jock, it starts with Damian being a little meaner to you trying to get your attention nearly tormenting you daily in hopes you’d just focus on him. Jake always pushing Damian away or making him go away whenever he’s around. The two ending up going at it figuring daily, the cameras Jake had installed in your bedroom whenever he was over suddenly getting hacked by Damian.

Jake who asks you out getting you to some how say he’s taking a video of him having you in the backseat of his truck with your legs held spread wide getting stretched out with your lips making an “O” shape whimpering out “J-ake~!” Over and over when he hits your bundle of nerves penetrating you. Jake showing the video to Damian whispering “think he likes me more Mr bully?” In a mocking tone just to rile him up into a fury nearly having a tantrum only making his obsession over you grow.

Damian who pulls you out of lunch just to fuck you bent over in the back of the library, his hand over your mouth huffing degrading words in your ear “if I knew you were such’a damn slut I woulda given you a good fucking so long ago” his hands harshly punching your hips “did that dumb jock fuck you like this hm? Did he thrusts like this pretty boy?” Jerking your hair wanting to be the only man to ruin your hole—to touch and grip your skin, not that jock.

Jake stalking you after school making sure Damian doesn’t get any free chances with you. Jake giving you rides having your head between his thighs sucking him off behind school in the back of his truck just taking pictures without you knowing bragging and mocking Damian saying “clearly he likes my cock more? Don’t ya think Damian?” He’d caption the photo he sent Damian just to further fight wanting it known you chose Jake.

You finally snapping at the two of them arguing you weren’t in the middle threatening to never speak to either of them, they didn’t seem to like that, them ending teamed up on you for the greater good of keeping you. Damian In front of you in the janitors closet face in your chest knocking your books aside with his cock deep inside your ass having Jake behind you his cock rubbing against Damian’s with his hands on your hips holding you up in place murmuring “he’s being so good for us ain’t he Damian” only earning grunts and a “yeah he is” from Damian. Both them deciding then and there you were theirs, no choice needed you’d be passed and shared by only them.

[minkieater]

when another member walks in on you ateez ot8 x fem!reader

silly little thing i wrote between clients today

smut below the cut! mdni ↓ dom/sub dynamics, exhibitionism, oral sex, p in v lol, lmk if i missed anything !!

hongjoong ☄️

“shut up slut, they’ll hear you. i bet you want that, don’t you?” he had your face buried in your mattress, drool slipping from your mouth, your ass up in the air where he was relentlessly drilling  into you. 

you moaned, you had stopped caring about your volume long ago, they would hear hongjoong’s thrusts before your moans anyhow. you clenched around him, only making him hiss out and reach over to push your head impossibly farther into the mattress. 

you pissed him off— you got a little too close to wooyoung, talked for a little too long and hongjoong was livid. 

“you want him to hear you, don’t you? want him to hear all the pretty sounds you make? showing off, huh? attention whore,” his words were venom, his lips inches from your ear with how he bent over you, foot planted on the mattress beside your shoulder. 

“are you guys oka— oh shit, i’m so sorry,” hongjoong lets go of your head only for the two of you to snap your faces up to the intruder, hongjoong stilling inside of you.

“what the fuck?” was all hongjoong could get out, a stunned wooyoung in the doorway, his jaw on the floor at the sight in front of him. “wooyoung! get out!” 

“it didn’t sound like you were fucking! i got scared,” you heard wooyoung yell as he closed the door behind him, leaving hongjoong to pick right back up where he left off. 

“don’t think i missed how you clenched around me, whore.”

seonghwa 🫧

seonghwa had you on your knees while he sat on the bed, leaned back on one arm with the other around your ponytail, guiding you up and down his length. 

in a black tank top and gray sweatpants he looked so fucking sexy in the living room, you couldn’t help but pull him into his bedroom for a minute alone — you needed to taste him, show him how much he affected you. 

“fuck, you’re so good at that,” his words were quiet, a low rasp to his voice as he tugged on your hair a little harder. your mouth slipped off of him with a pop, batting your eyelashes up at him with a knowingly coy smile.

he groaned, a little louder this time, his head falling back. “don’t look at me like that or your throat’s getting fucked.” 

you giggled, mouth attaching to him again, bobbing your head up and down a little faster now. he bucked his hips up little by little, using more force with each stroke and you took him proudly, small gags and noises of nasty wetness leaving your lips.

the door opened without either of you noticing, only catching a head of brown hair leaving seonghwa’s bedroom with a shriek of surprise. this wasn’t the first time yeosang had walked in on you, but it still made you laugh every damn time.

you looked up to seonghwa with a giggle on your lips after popping off him again, seonghwa wearing a smile himself.

“how many times do you think we’ll scar him before he stops coming in here?” seonghwa asks, letting go of your ponytail.

“if he was going to catch on, he would’ve by now,” you readjusted yourself on your knees during the pause, shaking your head before bringing your focus back on his delicious length before you. “you said something about fucking my throat right?”

yunho 🧍🏻‍♂️

you and yunho had been waiting for a day alone for weeks. for too long had you been silenced in the hours from one to three, his fingers clamped over your lips or stuffed between them in an attempt to keep you quiet. comeback season was busy, and when there was time off everyone lazed around the dorms and didn’t fucking leave. 

now, on your third consecutive day off, the dorms were empty and yunho took advantage. he had your hands pinned under your back with a belt he had just taken off, hips snapping into you so hard the sound was sure to be heard outside. 

“sloppy little cunt sucking me right the fuck in,” he hissed, hips cracking into your thighs, his fingers keeping you still.

you were wailing at this point, tears streaming down your face, begging for reprieve while also thinking if he stopped you’d die. 

“don’t stop,” you repeated, a mantra on your tongue, from your hips being slanted upward his cock was hitting that spongy spot in your walls that drove you fucking insane. 

you were so close, mere thrusts away from hitting your peak, and the door busted open, an out of breath mingi stood at the door.

“the rest of the guys are walking in right behind me,” mingi’s words were panicked in a warning, but yunho didn’t stop. he ignored his friend, knowing you were so close, wanting your high to crash over you so he could follow. 

you screamed — mingi couldn’t move. yunho fucked you through it, thrusts only quickening to meet his own end, until he doubled on top of you with two large hands landing right beside your head. 

yunho turned to look at mingi, a smirk playing on his lips with heaving breaths, “enjoyed the show?” 

yeosang 👥

everyday yeosang woke you up the same way: his fingers or his head between your thighs until you were creaming around him, then he replaced it with his cock. it wasn’t a good morning until you had at least one, if not two orgasms. 

this morning he was greedy— it seemed he didn’t want to let you go. you came on his face once, his fingers a second time, and he was working you up to a third on his lap. if yeosang could do anything it was last, his stamina was like no other, he could go for hours if you let him. 

you had your knees planted on the mattress beside his hips, his cock hitting your cervix continuously as you grind your hips back and forth against him, your nails clawing at his shoulders. his head was leaning against the headboard, leaving his throat open to you, where you licked and sucked pretty little bruises across the base of his neck, little whines leaving his throat.

“yes, baby, ‘m so close,” he croaked out, his voice raspy and deep, his abs clenching with every grind of your hips. 

“cum for me then yeo, fill me up,” your hand moved from his shoulder to wrap your fingers around his neck, pulling him towards you to connect your chest to his.

your mornings weren’t usually so filthy, never downright nasty, bringing your skin to touch his brought a sense of intimacy back to your morning. 

his head fell onto your shoulder with a groan, filling you up just as you told him to, thighs twitching beneath you. you moaned at the feeling, letting your head rest atop his, bringing your hands to tangle in his hair. 

“you guys awake yet?” seonghwa popped into your room, making you twist your body around to look at him, eyes wide.

“definitely awake,” he pulled his lips into a line, bidding you a singular nod before closing the door again. a huff of amusement left your lips as you looked back down to the boy laying on your shoulder, patting his head, giving him a moment to come back before you’d take your morning shower together.

san 🚪

san couldn’t wait. you were at your favorite club, both tipsy and horny, dancing to the beat of the song before san’s fingers dipped below your dress. you looked up to him with wide eyes, met with a filthy smirk and a pair of dimples that ushered you towards the men’s bathroom. 

“san, anyone could walk in,” you were uneasy, san was never so impatient that he needed you then and there. he’d never portrayed signs of exhibitionism before today, your sex life had always been private — you liked it that way, yet the hunger in his eyes and the spark left in the wake of his fingers on your skin made you excited. 

“let them see how good i fuck you then,” he hummed, fingers flipping up your dress, plunging into your core that was so wet he slipped in. the squelch of his fingers was deafening, you thanked god the bathroom was empty. 

he stuffed you into a stall, fingers still curling into you before he slipped your panties to the side, replacing his fingers with his cock. the pace he set was brutal, your hands bracing the wall above the toilet as he fucked into you from behind, hips slapping into your ass. 

you fought to keep your moans inside, pointless as the sound of skin slapping would overpower them anyway. san groaned, “knew you’d be wet, naughty girl. you were basically begging me to fuck you on the dance floor for everyone to see.” 

a whine escaped you, nails clawing against the tile of the wall. he slipped a hand around your hips, coming between your legs, rubbing your clit at a pace he knew would have you coming in seconds 

“fuck, san, harder please,” you breathed out, head dipping below your arms, hanging between them. 

he listened, quickening his pace, fucking you somehow harder than he was before. his fingers worked in a quick rhythm, making the pit in your stomach grow until you were overflowing on his dick.

“yeah, that’s it, baby. cum all over my cock,” he was drunk off your pussy, words slurring together, keeping his pace on your clit to ride you through it. 

when you were twitching from overstimulation he emptied himself inside you, head falling to the center of your spine. there was nothing but the sound of heavy breaths in the public restroom, you and san catching your breath and your sanity before he flipped your dress back down and zippered himself back up.

when you left the stall, jongho was washing his hands at the sink, barely giving you a glance as you stepped into view. 

“how long have you been in here?” san asked, a pink rising to his cheeks, looking like a completely different person than he had moments ago.

“unfortunately, long enough. broke the seal so i had no choice,” jongho shrugs as he grabs paper towels, drying off his palms. “make sure you two wash your hands.” 

mingi 🫶

the say my name stage always fucked you up, it never failed. being on stage period always fucked mingi up, that never failed either. it was safe to say that your post-show routine was always fucking backstage, it happened every stop, every show, you lost count of how many dressing rooms in foreign countries you’ve been fucked within an inch of your life in.

what was abnormal was mingi not waiting until the show was over. always professional, mingi waited until everyone was no longer sprinting around backstage with mini-fans and makeup brushes to touch up the eight boys before they had to head back out onstage. 

as he came off the stage, his walk was fast paced, precise. it would’ve scared you if you didn’t know what it meant. his fingers hooked around your arm, dragged you further backstage, and had you in a random closet in a stadium completely foreign to you. 

he was quick to split you open, granted say my name was within their first set so you were already dripping by the time he made it between your legs. 

“always so ready for me,” he mumbled out, zeroed in on your center but eyes still not fully clear. in his post performance haze he was always rougher, selfish, not a care in the world for you. it was your favorite. 

“put it in,” you barked out, hips bucking toward him and he was sheathed within seconds. giving you no time to get used to the stretch you wheezed, head lolling onto his shoulder, and he let loose. 

he fucked you stupid, you joined him in whatever haze his brain was under as he pounded into you, hips clapping into the silence of the dark storage room. you heard footsteps outside but mingi made no moves to halt his thrusts, only focused on one thing, getting the two of you off before he had to go back onstage. 

“are you fucking?” yunho’s voice wasn’t clear until he had the door open, light cascading into the storage room, yours and mingi’s necks snapping to look at the intruder.

he was smirking — he knew what he was walking into yet he did it anyway. you and mingi both smiled cheshire grins as yunho stepped inside the storage room, quickly slamming the door shut behind him. 

“why didn’t you invite me?”

wooyoung 🐈‍⬛

wooyoung had you splayed out on the bed, legs bent up with his head between them. eating you out was adjacent to your meditation time, as he calls it, it's his favorite way to wind down. after a long day, after a short day, during his day, it didn’t matter when. wooyoung was always down to eat you out, eager even — he is a man not above begging. 

your chin was shot back, eyes screwed tight, wooyoung had made you cum on his tongue twice so far and he was nowhere near finished. 

after eating you through your second orgasm his licks had slowed down, easing up his pressure, making his tongue soft and pliable instead of hard and pointed. 

soft moans left your lips, he knew by now how to work you through overstimulation, lazily licking at your clit until your moans turned to whines once more.

“taste so fucking good, could eat this pussy all night,” his eyes were fully closed, he was in a dream. between your legs was his happy place, he’d die there a happy man, he’d admitted it more than once. more than ten times, at least. 

when he noticed your breaths getting shorter and your moans shifting to a higher pitch he was sharp with his movements, picking up his pace, licking up your folds and sucking on your clit with swollen lips. 

hongjoong bounced through the door, “hey wooyo, you- jesus fucking christ!” 

your legs snapped shut, closing over wooyoung’s head and he pried himself out of your cage with painted fingertips, jumping up to face hongjoong at the door.

“what?” wooyoung asked, palm swiping at his chin.

“i’m scarred,” hongjoong muttered, voice horrified with hands covering his eyes. your hands fled for the blankets, pulling them over your body with a speed you weren’t expecting to have to use. 

“what do you want, joong?” wooyoung asked, rushed yet still casual, sitting on his knees. his abdomen was clenched, muscles on display as he twisted backward, you didn’t even care that hongjoong was in the room. 

“i was going to ask if you had a spare pair of headphones,” his voice was barely above a squeak, hands still covering his eyes.

“oh, yeah i do, here, they’re my sony 1000MX—”

“i don’t give a fuck wooyoung, give them to me so i can leave.”

jongho 🧸

you were hanging out with jongho in the dance practice room as he practiced the same routine again, the fifth time tonight.

he groaned in frustration after missing a step again, the same step he’s missed the past four times he’s gone through the routine. his hands cover his face, dragging down his cheeks.

you get up from your spot on the floor, making your way in front of him, grabbing his hands to hold in yours.

“why don’t you stop for the night?” you tilt your head, nothing but warmth in your eyes as you stare into his, cold and irritated. 

“i need to get this fucking right,” his lips are pursed, his eyebrows are knit together as he barks, “i need to clear my head.” 

within minutes he had you on your hands and knees atop the hardwood floor, bodies facing the mirror that spread across the wall, forcing you to watch yourself as he fucked you stupid. 

“see that?” he smirked at you through the mirror, fingers tight on your hips, “nothing but a cocksleeve whenever i want it, so willing for me.” 

his words were cool and calm, almost a threat on his lips as he abused your core. your eyebrows were tangled and your mouth hung open, knees and palms burning from the pressure against the harsh wood. 

“yes, just for you,” you manage to choke out between thrusts, body jolting forward with each thrust. 

“that’s right baby,” he nods, his smile turning villainous, only fucking into you harder as he spits, “such a fucking whore, letting me fuck you in public like this.” 

you nod, eyes screwed shut, “d-don’t fucking stop.” 

his chuckle is deep, his thrusts losing their rhythm, “you want it? want me to fill this filthy pussy up?” 

the door to the practice room opens, san strolls inside with a smile on his face before he sees the two of you — he shrieked. “what the fuck!?” 

jongho stilled, laying himself atop your body, trying to cover you as best he could. his words come out nervous, “get the fuck out!”

san slips back out of the door, then peeks his head back in, “wait, when are you gonna be done? i want to practice.” 

“san!” 

masterlist

[whisperedmeg]

LIBRARY RULES ⋆˚꩜｡ spencer reid x fem!reader

summary: you went to the library to escape the solitude of your apartment. but the last thing you were expecting was to spend the afternoon flirting over Foucault with a sweater vest-clad FBI agent who talks philosophy like it’s a love language.

genre: fluff | w/c: 1.2k

tags/warnings: none really! some light academic jargon and mentions of philosophical theory but you don’t need background on them for the story to make sense

a/n: went to the library and got inspired to write a quick little fluffy fic over the weekend 🤓 I chose the philosophy angle because I recently rewatched s4e8 ‘masterpiece’ where spencer mentions working on a philosophy BA. I dove into my old university notes while writing this, but my brain is a bit fuzzy on this stuff so pls excuse any inaccuracies lol. also specifically had season 2 glasses reid in mind (yet again). if glasses reid has no fans, I’m dead.

You only came to the library because your apartment is too loud. Or too quiet. One of those paradoxes you could never quite define — either way, you can’t focus, and you need to. So you packed up your laptop and headed for the only place where you could guarantee the atmosphere would match your mood: hushed, academic, and ever-so-slightly tense.

You love libraries. Especially the older buildings — all worn paper, polished floors, and endless mazes of shelves. There’s something sacred about it. But what you didn’t expect was for someone else to reach for the same book at the same time as you.

“Sorry—”

“I’m sorry—”

You freeze. So does he.

Your eyes meet.

He’s tall. Messy-haired. Wearing a sweater vest over a button-down and a pair of browline glasses that make him look like he walked straight out of a graduate seminar. His hand is still suspended halfway toward the spine of the book you’d both reached for — Foucault’s Discipline and Punish, of all things — and his mouth was already parting to apologize again when he seemed to realize you’re both staring at each other.

“You go ahead,” he says quickly, dropping his hand.

“No, really, you can take it,” you say. “Are you also writing an unhinged think piece on carceral theory and state surveillance?”

His mouth quirks at the corner. “Not currently. But now I’m intrigued.”

You tilt your head, feeling a little emboldened. “Do you think Foucault actually believed total surveillance was inevitable?”

He blinks, surprised. “I think he meant it more literally than people like to admit.”

“So, panopticism as a warning?”

“Or a prophecy. Depends on how generous you’re feeling.”

You laugh. “Are you always this philosophical in the library?”

He looks faintly bashful, like maybe he isn’t used to playful interrogation. “It’s, uh, kind of my default setting.”

You laugh again and glance at the book still between you. “So, are we sharing this, or arm-wrestling for it?”

“Actually,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck, “I was just hoping to reread the section on disciplinary power, but it’s not urgent. I can find something else if you—”

“We could share,” you offer, surprising yourself. “There’s a reading table over there. Neutral ground.”

He looks at you for a moment, something curious in his expression. Then he nods. “Alright. Neutral ground.”

You walk side by side to a tucked-away wooden table nestled between shelves, sit down next to each other, and open the book.

The silence is companionable at first. You each pull out notebooks. You reach for your fountain pen. He’d brought a mechanical pencil — you find that endearing.

He turns the book toward you and taps a paragraph. “This part always gets overlooked.”

You read it silently. Nod. Scribble something down.

Then pass it back.

He makes a soft noise of agreement and flips a few pages, skimming with an intensity and speed that makes you wonder how many times he’d read it before and just how many words per minute he could possibly absorb.

You lean over slightly. “That part, where Foucault describes power as diffused rather than centralized. That’s where the whole thing turns, don’t you think?”

He glances at you across the book’s spine. “Yes. That’s where it stops being about prisons.”

You smile. “And starts being about everything.”

He passes the book back and nods towards your padfolio. “You take good notes.”

“Thanks,” you say, warmth blooming behind your ribs.

For the next twenty minutes, you trade the book like it’s a conversation — passing it back and forth with soft commentary and under-the-breath questions. You don’t speak constantly, but there’s no awkwardness. Just the quiet rhythm of two people paying attention to the same thing at the same time.

You aren’t sure when your knee started brushing his under the table. Or when your hands began to linger slightly too long during each pass. You tell yourself it’s incidental. The table’s small, and the book is large. But still, you notice.

When your fingers brush his again — knuckles, this time — you hear his breath catch and look up to catch his eyes.

You could look away. Instead, you opt for a conversational angle.

“So what’s your background? You don’t seem like the political theory type.”

He tilts his head. “No?”

“You read too fast. And your notes are in shorthand.” You lean in, smiling. “You’re either a court reporter, an academic, or some sort of federal agent.”

His eyes sparkle with something between amusement and alarm. “I’d argue there are more possibilities than that.”

“You’d probably argue anything,” you say, grinning. “Which is why I’m betting on academic.”

He ducks his head. “I’ve spent a lot of time in academia, but nope. I’m with the FBI.”

You struggle to hide your shock, then study him a little closer. “You? No way.”

“Dr. Spencer Reid,” he says, offering a wave instead of a handshake. “Profiler with the Behavioral Analysis Unit.”

“Wait. I’ve heard of you.”

Spencer blinks. “You have?”

You smile. “It’s hard not to, if you work anywhere near federal law enforcement. You’re the one with, like, a million PhDs and a tendency to quote Enlightenment theorists in case briefings, right?”

His ears flush pink. “My reputation precedes me, I guess. But, uh, just three PhDs. Not a million.”

You laugh softly at his awkwardness and introduce yourself in return. “I work in federal program management. Mostly DOJ-funded prison reform initiatives. Sometimes I write about the surveillance state.”

His brow lifts. “Then you probably know more about this than I do.”

“Somehow I doubt that,” you chuckle.

He ducks his head. “Well, I’ve never done it professionally. I just read a lot.”

You study him for another moment — soft-spoken, serious, a tad awkward, earnest to a fault — and feel something warm pool in your chest.

“I like your brain,” you say casually.

That makes him choke on air.

You grin. “Too forward?”

“No, I just… don’t hear that often.”

You tilt your head, feigning surprise. “That seems criminal.”

He looks at you like he’s mentally thumbing through an index card catalog for the appropriate response. When he doesn’t find one, he does what you imagine he always does: he reaches for something safer. Facts.

“Foucault argued the panopticon wasn’t just architectural,” he says suddenly, voice steadier than his posture. “It was a metaphor for disciplinary power throughout society. He thought it turned surveillance into a subtle form of control.”

You gasp. “Oh no. Now you’re flirting with post-structuralist theory?”

He flushes. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be. That’s my love language.”

For a moment, the air between you shimmers — not quite silent, not quite static. You watch his fingers tap against the pages. He watches your smile soften.

You stand, closing your notebook. “I gotta head out. But would you want to do this again? Same time next week?”

His gaze lifts. “Same book?”

“Same table,” you say, shaking your head as you sling your bag over your shoulder. “Different philosopher. I want to see what you have to say about Nietzsche. I bet you have many opinions on eternal recurrence.”

Spencer huffs a quiet laugh, eyes still on you. “You have no idea.”

As you turn, notebook tucked under your arm, the air in the library seems to shift. The hush of pages and footsteps resumes around you, but it sounds different now. Warmer, maybe. Or maybe it’s just you.

At the end of the row, you glance back.

Spencer’s still watching, lopsided grin on his face. He pushes his glasses up his nose and looks away like a little kid caught peeping at his gifts on Christmas Eve.

You turn the corner smiling.

Library rules: always return what you borrow. But this time, maybe — just maybe — you’re hoping to keep what you’d found.

ᝰ.ᐟ

masterlist

PSA: likes do very little for promoting posts on tumblr! if you'd like to support a fic, please reblog!

[sab0dssey]

NewlyDad!Simon who is completely lost in panic and joy. When he first found out you were pregnant, right after he returned from a mission, it hit him like a wave. He was over the moon, but also overwhelmed. Simon had never been a man with many words; he was always terse, practical, and to the point. But this news? It was different. The moment he learned, his entire world shifted. His usually steady hands trembled as he looked at you, his eyes wide with disbelief and awe.

For a moment, he just stared, not knowing what to say, his mind racing. Then, before either of you could react, he pulled you into him—his arms wrapping around you so tightly, it was as if he never wanted to let go. His head buried itself in your neck, as though it was the only place he could find any grounding. It was so quiet between you both, just the sound of his breaths and the weight of the moment hanging in the air.

He stayed like that for what felt like eternity, unwilling to move. You could feel the warmth of his tears against your skin, but he didn’t pull away, didn’t make a sound. He knew you could feel the silent sobs, the emotion he didn’t want to let out in front of you, but he also knew you understood. He didn’t want you to see him like this—vulnerable and unsure. Not yet. But still, he couldn’t bring himself to let go, not even for a second.

NewlyDad!Simon never lets you do anything on your own. Never. You’re reaching for the remote, and it’s just a foot away? Don’t bother standing up—he’s already got it. You’re thinking about cooking? Forget it. He won’t let you. He’ll either cook for you himself or order your favorite meal—just so you don’t have to lift a finger.

NewlyDad!Simon is like a clingy little puppy—he just can’t keep his hands to himself. At home, he’s glued to you, constantly cuddling, wrapping himself around you like a human blanket. Outside, his hands always find their way to you—resting on your baby bump, the small of your back, or your waist. He just can’t help it.

Even when you’re relaxing in the tub, basking in the candlelit warmth, Simon refuses to let you have a moment alone. He pulls up a chair beside the tub, work files in hand, pretending to focus—but his hands betray him. One moment, they’re on your bump, the next, tracing lazy circles over your shoulder. He’s not letting go anytime soon. Not now, not ever

NewlyDad!Simon who loves to talk with his baby. His hands, large and gentle, find their way to your growing belly with a tenderness that surprises even him.

Every chance he gets, whether it’s in the quiet moments of the day or just before sleep, his hand rests there, as if the touch itself is a promise. He caresses your belly, his fingers lightly tracing the curve, his palm pressed against you like he’s trying to connect with the tiny life growing inside. It’s almost as though he can feel every tiny movement, even when it’s just a flutter.

He talks to the baby—quiet, low words that are almost a whisper, but they carry so much weight. His voice softens every time he speaks, and it’s a tone you’ve never heard before, one filled with a raw love that only a father could express. “Hey, little one,” he murmurs, his fingers rubbing slow circles against your skin, “can’t wait to see you, to hold you in my arms.” His eyes never leave your belly, his expression a mixture of awe and tenderness.

When he thinks you’re not looking, his lips brush against the top of your stomach, a soft kiss meant only for the baby. “I’ll protect you,” he says quietly, the words meant for both of you but carrying an unspoken promise to the child. “Daddy’s gonna make sure you’re safe, always.”

His hand stays there, lingering, as if he’s trying to convey everything he feels through the simple act of touching. Sometimes, he talks to the baby about what he hopes for their future—what he dreams they’ll be, but more often, it’s about how much he already loves them. How proud he is.

No matter where you are, he finds the time to remind you both of that, as if the baby can hear every word, every heartbeat, every promise. And each time he touches your belly, he’s not just caressing you—he’s speaking directly to the child, forming a bond that’s already so deep.

NewlyDad!Simon who had never been one for big gatherings or being the center of attention, but tonight, he was doing it—for you, and for the baby.

His teammates had insisted, as had your friends, that you both needed to get out. A little normalcy, they said. A dinner with the people who supported him through everything. But Simon? He was already on high alert the moment you stepped out the door. His hand was constantly on your back, gently guiding you, his eyes scanning the room, always aware of your every movement.

The restaurant was bustling, a little louder than usual, but Simon barely seemed to notice the chatter around him. His attention was split between you and the people he trusted—his team. His arm would sometimes drift to your waist, his fingers brushing against your bump, as if to reassure himself that everything was okay. He didn’t let you stray far, always within arm’s reach, his protective nature wrapped around you like a shield.

At the table, he was engaged, nodding along to conversations, but his focus was never fully on the group. When someone leaned in a little too close, his eyes would flicker to them, silently warning them to keep their distance. When Soap tried to crack a joke about fatherhood, Simon’s lips twitched upward in a brief smile, but the moment the laughter died down, his hand found its way to your stomach, his thumb brushing over it lightly.

He’d occasionally glance over at you, catching your eye, as if asking silently if you were okay, if you needed anything. He knew you could take care of yourself, but tonight? Tonight, he wasn’t letting his guard down for a second.

When dinner came, Simon was the first to help you with your plate, carefully cutting your food or offering you bites from his own. He made sure you were comfortable, always attentive, his eyes never straying too far from you. He wasn’t one to show weakness, but with you? And with the baby? His vulnerability showed in the way he constantly checked in, in the way he’d rather have his hand on your bump than anywhere else.

His teammates had known him as a man of few words, but tonight, they were learning a different side of Simon—one who would move mountains to keep his family safe and happy, even in a simple dinner setting. They could see it in the way he watched over you, in the little touches he gave you when he thought no one was looking. He may have been the strong, silent type to everyone else, but to you and the baby? He was all heart.

As the night wound down, Simon was already thinking about how soon he could get you home, make sure you were settled and safe. He never stopped being the protective husband, never stopped being the father-to-be, and he certainly never stopped being the man who would give up everything to keep you both safe.

[bootycallin]

uhhhh i saw something and i. cw: fingering and that’s it. basically backshots but no dick or strap just her fingers. cursing?? idk. not proofread my clitoris did the thinking and i just put it on a spreadsheet.

a/n: ughhh i know that im supposed to write for jinx but i cant stop thinking abt this mf. wasian masc save me

just thinking about riding mizu’s fingers. so fucking long, slender, but reaching the deepest places inside you with such ease. it’s easy for her to slam her fingers in, width accommodating comfortably inside you while her fingertips nearly kiss your cervix.

mizu never did understand your fixation for her hands. frankly, you didn’t either. they’re just hands—something she thought was quite unattractive in herself, actually. scarred and calloused from years of sword fighting and working with metals, she believed you hated the rough texture on the pads of her palm, the slightly raspy feeling of her fingertips from so many years or wielding a katana, eating at the layers of skin.

though, you don’t even have to tell her—she knows you love her fingers. maybe even more than her strap no matter how big and how deep she reaches. her self-confidence has gone up significantly because of you, because of moments like this. and quickly, her favorite thing has become watching you bounce back against her hand as she fingers you.

blue eyes watch with laser-focus, fixated on the back of your head. you can practically hear her gears churning, every calculated curl of her fingers inside your heat, seeking to make you cry out and send your eyes rolling to the back of your head. like a dumb slut, and nothing else. her dumb slut.

you can feel her so deep. her fingers are longer than yours are, by a long shot—not even you can masturbate and make yourself feel this good. the way the pads of her fingers press into that little spongy spot you always seem to miss on yourself, forcing the slightest pressure on your bladder, whimpers snd cries filled from your throat like taking candy from a baby. slamming in restlessly, her hands don’t tire, skillful from hears of her craft like she’d studied exactly this.

in fact, she has. she has studied you. and she knows what makes you tick—read; cum.

“does that feel good?” it’s a rhetorical question from the woman behind you. you know she knows, and she knows you know she knows. she’s not expecting an answer, just the same strangled noise signaling your pleasure.

“mizu,” you moan, jaw hanging slack from the constant noise of ‘ah, aah’ and begging and whatever else comes from you, noises completely involuntary. she’s not even doing a lot of work. your hips move on their on as she just curls them in and out, thrusting cloyingly gently into you into you. in return, you thrust back against her, back arched similarly to a cat’s, seeking more of the stimulation she provided.

“easy,” she mutters. she can feel you getting desperate, clenching together against her fingers with each trust, each press into your g-spot. your shoulders are trembling, head hanging low, moans growing more and more whiny by the second. your bouncing on her fingers just gets more desperate, and she barely even does anything. just lets you ride her fingers like a toy.

“easy. there you go,” her free hand is on your waist, gently steadying you. she doesn’t try to control your movements or anything, as much as she aches to prolong your orgasm just to see you cry and beg. she’s mean, but she’s not cruel. and she can be nice.

“good. so good, that’s it,” praised mizu, tenderly, thumb brushing patterns against the soft flesh of your back. she was leaning forward so she almost hugged you from behind, peppering kissed down your spine between your shoulder blades.

“that’s it. good girl. go on.”

the words that spilled from her lips only urged you to continue, quicker, though your legs quivered and your lungs burned from panting. you were almost there, you could feel it, the edge of the cliff just waiting for you to fall off. but, the journey to said edge just grows more and more frustrating and overwhelming. you can feel it, but your body is giving out.

“no, no— please, shit, mizu—“ you begged.

“language.” a short smack sounds in the (mostly) quiet room, resulted from her softly spanking your ass at your words. it just makes you cry louder. big baby, she thinks. not that she’s complaining. it’s cute, seeing you get so desperate.

“don’t tell me you’re getting tired,” teasingly sweet, nearly condescending. the amusement’s tangible in her voice that reverberates down your spine and you know where else too.

“you haven’t even cum yet baby,” punctuated by a particularly mean curl of her fingers, your back arched, fingers desperately clawing at the bedsheets to try and stabilize yourself. desperately chasing the high that vets closer and closer, knot in your stomach tightening exponentially—but your thighs are trembling, body shaking.

"please, mizu!" you cried. you couldn't anymore— overstimulated yet not enough to cum, tired and dumb and sensitive. you can practically feel the smile on her lips as she hums, kissing the back of your neck.

"what is it, baby?" the honeyed voice behind you asks, "you need some help, hm?"

"yes!"

your thighs give out under you before you can even finish. you're barely holding yourself up. hot tears running down your red cheeks, screwed shut while you clench uselessly around her.

"please, please, please— so close, please, mizu, fuck me, please—"

and, oh, how can she deny such a sweet thing?

mizu's calloused palm finds itself between your shoulder blades, pushing you down into the bed. she sits up on her haunces right behind you, hand in the same position her strap would be—as if she needed that. no warning, but precedented; because why wouldn't she? she slams her fingers into your cunt, barely even giving you time to adjust as she takes a relentless pace, fingertips pushing into your cervix with each thrust. she relishes in your needy moans and cries, the way you bury your face into the bed to try and quiet yourself. your poor, abused cunt clamping tightly around her digits, warm walls saturated with the evidence of the incoming wave of pleasure right about to hit.

"good girl," she praised, saccharine words bringing you closer and closer and closer to your orgasm. good girl. good girl. that's it, that's it, just let go for me, baby. that's it. good—

it's just one of those nights.

𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃 © bootycallin on tumblr. do not copy, translate or cross post without permission. ᛝ

[bitters-n-sweets]

green-eyed — michael "robby" robinavitch x fem!reader Robby thinks the newest transfer, Dr. Chase, is flirting with you. Things get a bit complicated.

warnings: jealous and insecure trope, robby says something mean, hurt/comfort, dr. chase from house md cameo, not too angsty, happy end—yes, I'm a sucker for it. a/n: I think we can acknowledge that robby is slightly toxic. I mean, he’s emotionally constipated and still hasn’t gone to therapy, I would assume his behavior at work is similar to how he is with relationships—which is probably why he and Collins broke up—so even though this fic could be resolved so easily with good communication, said good communication is sadly something our dear robby and reader don’t have mastered yet. enjoy! masterlist

Robby thinks it’s been a while since he’s seen you laugh like that. Throwing your head back, tears in your eyes, covering your mouth because that’s a thing you do. And he’s gutted that he’s not the one in front of you being the reason for your laughs. He used to make you laugh like that all the time.

It’s Chase, the new hot-shot transfer doctor. Who has an Australian accent. Who could blame you? He’s young, blonde, blue-eyed, toned—a real life Ken. He’s a damn good doctor, too. The nurses call him Dr. Hemsworth behind his back. Wonderful. Robby hates how easily people gravitate to him. And now it’s your turn.

Robby stands across the ER, jaw tight, eyes flicking between Chase—leaning in to show you something on his phone—and the rest of the room, like maybe he can find something else to focus on. Out of habit, his hand drifts to the back of his neck. Your shoulders are practically touching. A few nurses glance over and giggle. One of them mutters something he doesn’t catch—but whatever it is, it makes his stomach twist.

Robby’s hands curl into fists inside his pockets. It’s stupid. He knows it’s stupid. He trusts you, but some ugly part of him starts whispering things he can’t silence.

She should be with someone her age.

Someone who doesn’t feel like a goddamn relic when she’s in a room full of twenty or thirty-somethings.

His lips press into a thin line hidden under his beard as he storms your way. He doesn’t even realize his legs are moving until he’s about half-way.

“Quit flirting at work. Both of you,” he snaps.

You look up, startled.

Chase lifts his eyebrows, all amused charm. “Just showing her a video, mate.”

Robby doesn’t even look at him. “Go do your job, then.” It comes out sharper than intended, but he doesn’t take it back.

The room goes still for a beat. Chase gives you an apologetic shrug and steps away, but you’re already turning toward Robby, brow furrowed.

“Was that necessary?” You chase after him, keeping up with his big steps.

He doesn’t answer.

“Hey. Robby. What’s going on?” You manage to stop him by the stairwell.

“Nothing.”

“Come on,” you press, softer now. “Talk to me. Please.”

He halts, jaw tight, eyes not quite meeting yours. “Something funny happen during rounds?”

“What?”

“Just… looked like you were having a real good time.” He doesn’t say it mean, exactly.

You blink. “With Chase?”

He shrugs like it’s nothing. Like your laughter a few minutes ago didn’t go straight to his chest and start twisting. “You tell me.”

You step in front of him, blocking his path. “Robby… are you jealous?”

“I’m just saying,” he mutters, crossing his arms, “I’m not young, or charming, or built like a damn Marvel character. Sorry if I don’t love watching people act like you two were—”

You stare at him, stunned. “You think I was flirting with him?”

“I think everyone sure thought you were.”

There it is. Not quite an accusation. Not quite a confession. Not quite fair, either. But honest in a way Robby can’t seem to help right now.

“It looked like you actually wanted to be there,” Robby says. “With someone who suits you better.”

That breaks something open inside you. “What the hell does that mean?”

“It means this”—he gestures vaguely, bitterly, between you—“was a mistake.”

And that stings, even if you know he’s only saying that because he wants it to hurt you. “Really, Robby? You can tell that we’re a mistake because Chase was talking to me?”

“It’s not about him,” Robby snaps. “It’s about you eventually realizing I’m too old, too tired, too fucking cynical for you. And when that happens, I’ll be the one left picking up the pieces, wondering why I ever thought I could be enough.”

And then you realize. This is not jealousy. This is insecurity. Now you see the desperation in his eyes, but his shoulders are still so high and tense it masks it. You see the way he shuffles around, can’t seem to quiet down his own thoughts.

“You’re wrong.” You say.

“You can’t know that.”

“I do. Because I’ve already chosen you.”

Robby looks at you, and for a second, something flickers behind his eyes—hope, maybe—but he kills it quickly, walls going back up.

“I need to get back to work.”

You reach for his hand. “Robby—”

He pulls away. “Don’t.”

That single word makes you stop. And then he’s gone, out the stairwell door and back into the ER, leaving you in silence.

Robby knows he messed up. He knows you didn’t deserve that. But his heart’s pounding like he just ran a mile, and he can’t stop the thought looping over and over: that you’ll realize he’s right sooner or later. And then eventually, you’ll just leave like everyone else does.

So Robby does what Robby does best. He runs. He buries it deep, distracts himself just enough to keep from falling apart. Lets it all pile up behind a steady face, hoping it won’t spill over. And if it does? That’s a mess for later.

You decide to give Robby some space—after multiple attempts to approach him and him avoiding you, and finally find him at the end of your shift, standing at the exit, hands in his pockets. You know he’s waiting for you, and he always will, even when he’s doubting himself, even when his world is crashing down. Because that’s who Robby is. He shows up for people even when he’s hurting. It’s what makes you love him so much, and it’s killing you that he’d do this to himself.

You stand next to him. “You ready to talk?”

His head lifts to look at you slowly. He sighs, rubs his hands down his face. “No, not really. But I have a feeling we’re doing this anyway.”

“You don’t get to say all of that and just walk away, Robby.”

He shakes his head. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Yes, you did.” You cut in, soft but firm. “That was preemptive damage control. You meant to hurt me before I could hurt you.”

His lips twitch, but he doesn't say anything, just looks down because he knows you're right.

You sigh softly, reaching for his hand. This time, he doesn’t pull away.

“You think you’re too old for me? That I’d leave you for someone else? God, Robby—” You squeeze, cupping his jaw so he’ll look at you, and his own doubt in himself kills you. “I love you. I want you. You, who listens to me when I don’t even know what I need. Who calms me down with one look. Who knows me better than myself.”

He’s staring at you now, eyes locked on yours, holding his breath because he’s afraid to hope.

“I don’t care if people think we don’t ‘match.’ I don’t care if you have lines on your face or if your knees make that weird sound when you stand up. I love you. Even when you push me away because you don’t believe you’re enough—but you are, Robby. You’re more than enough.”

“I never once looked at you and wished for someone else. I look at you, and I thank God it’s you.”

His eyes are red, doubt and exhaustion evident, and he keeps staring down at your intertwined fingers—like if he lets go, he’ll lose something he can’t live without.

“Okay?” you whisper, nudging him gently.

Robby doesn't say anything at first. His eyes are glassy, the corners red, and he swallows hard like the lump in his throat might choke him if he tries to speak. He's looking at you like he doesn't know what he ever did to deserve you.

His lips part. Nothing comes out.

He tries again, and still—nothing. Not because he doesn't have anything to say, but because there's too much he wants to say. Because you just shattered every wall he’s built with so much certainty and care, and now all that’s left of him is the raw truth of how deeply and desperately he loves you.

So he just nods, a little breathless, and pulls you into his arms. He hugs you tight in front of the ER, deciding that he doesn’t care—no, fuck it, he wants everyone to see. To see that he has you now. That he has someone he cares about. Someone he loves.

“Okay,” he says, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

You finally let out a breath of relief, sinking into him, your arms tightening around his waist. “Still think this was a mistake?”

He exhales slowly, resting his chin on your head. “No. But I think I’m going to need a lot of reminding.”

You hum, lips brushing the nearest patch of skin you can reach. “I’ve got time.”

[azzibuckets]

i wanna see you [pazzi]

paige bueckers x azzi fudd

summary: lil oneshot bc i can’t stop thinking about paige singing for azzi to open the door

masterlist

“I wanna see you.” Paige’s loud, sing-songy voice penetrates through Azzi’s supposedly soundproof Bose earbuds, and Azzi resists the urge to slam her head against her desk.

“Paige, don’t piss me off right now,” she calls out, trying to focus on the words swimming around on her laptop screen.

She’s been working on her paper for what seems like hours, with Paige curled to her side for the first bit. At first, she’d tried to make it work. Brainstorming was easy enough, and she jotted down thoughts floating through her head as she’d structured her outline. But then Paige had rolled over, insisting on lying her head on Azzi’s chest, which inevitably came with the full weight of her 6’0 self pinning Azzi’s arm down. See, the thing about Paige Bueckers is that physical touch is her love language, so of course that meant that with her, there was no such thing as just a simple head on chest. Paige found every opportunity for maximum skin to skin contact, which meant her entire body was slumped over Azzi’s - a habit Azzi usually found endearing, but not when her paper was due in three hours.

With a sigh, Azzi had relented to her fate of only typing with one hand. But after five minutes of only being able to write a single painstakingly slow sentence, her right hand started to cramp and her left arm started falling asleep with pins and needles. “Paige,” she’d said gently. “Can you get up please? I really need to finish this.”

With a huff, Paige had dramatically flung herself to the other end of the bed. “My girl hates me,” she’d goaded under her breath, which Azzi had pretended not to hear for both of their sakes. Thankfully, with a couple of feet of space between them and full range of her hands, Azzi was able to finish the first draft of her introduction.

Some steady progress was finally being made until she felt a socked toe start rubbing the inner part of her calf. Looking up, she was met with hooded blue eyes and a smirk. “You look sexy right now, mami, working so hard.” The blonde has always been a little bit more down bad for Azzi whenever she wore her glasses, which the younger girl always gave her shit for but secretly loved.

On Azzi’s end, it certainly didn’t help that Paige was fresh from the shower, her hair down for once with blonde strands spilling over her shoulders. Her sweater had ridden up to show the outline of her abs, and her sweatpants were hanging on so low to her hips that Azzi could see her v-line. It had taken everything in Azzi not to throw away her laptop and kiss the other girl.

“Paige,” she reprimanded, masking her desire with irritatation. “No talking, okay? I really need to lock in.”

Pouting, Paige had shut up and resorted to scrolling mindlessly on Tiktok, thankfully with her volume down. But soon enough, she started laughing to herself, quietly. Azzi closed her eyes briefly, waiting for her to finish so she could write in peace, but Paige seemed to find each video funnier than the one before, her soft giggles turning into full on belly laughs. Azzi couldn’t take it anymore. “What could possibly be this fucking funny?”

Paige froze, eyes flicking up from her phone. “Ummm. It’s a drawing of us. Wanna see? You look hella goofy.” She eagerly turned her phone around, scooting closer to show Azzi, but Azzi pushed her hand away.

“Paige. Seriously. This is important, and I can’t focus.” She nudged her shoulder. “You gotta go.”

“Are you for real?” Paige’s mouth dropped a little. “You kicking me out of my own room?”

“Either you leave or I go back to my room and there will be no sleepover tonight.” Azzi’s voice was firm, leaving no room for an answer.

“This is fucked up,” Paige groaned, getting up from the bed to collect her things. “What am I supposed to do?”

“The exact same thing you’re doing here - but there.” Azzi pointed towards the door. “I’m sure the other girls are doing something fun. Go join them.”

“My own room. My own bed. My headphones,” Paige grumbled, choosing to ignore her girlfriend’s suggestions. “You might as well just break up with me.”

That had been a brief 20 minutes ago, and Azzi had thoroughly enjoyed the brief period of peace until she’d heard a thud, presumably of Paige slumping on the floor on the other side of the door. “Let me in,” Paige began singing. “I wanna see your face.”

Azzi grits her teeth.

“Please open the dooooor,” Paige continues. “I need you to open the door.”

Azzi turns up the volume of her music, but to no avail.

“Just one kiss,” Paige moans from outside. She hears amother thud, this time from her girlfriend’s head hitting the door. “One kiss and I’ll goooo.”

When Azzi opens the door, Paige stumbles forward into her, surprised. Azzi grabs the collar of the older girl’s shirt, pulling her in to press a firm kiss to her mouth. Paige responds eagerly, tongue swiping at her bottom lip as she tries to deepen the kiss, but Azzi gently pushes her away before it can get too far. “Satisfied?”

Paige grins dopily. Azzi plants another kiss on her lips before releasing her shirt. “Okay. Go chill out.” With a roll of her eyes, Paige finally gives up, ambling over to the couch to join KK’s live.

Two hours later, Azzi is finally done. She slams her laptop shut, her eyes bleary as she wanders out of the room. KK is on the couch, playing Fortnite. “Where’d Paige go?”

“I think she went to your room. Said she was gonna take a nap,” KK responded, not looking away from the TV.

When Azzi opens the door, Paige is slumped in her bed and cocooned in her favorite purple blanket, snores coming out of her parted lips. Azzi climbs onto the bed, hand wrapping around the older girl’s waist and face nuzzling into the nape of her shoulders. Paige stirs slowly before blinking awake. “You finished your essay?” she asks groggily, flipping around so they’re eye to eye.

Azzi nods, slinging a leg across the other girl’s hips. “Tired?”

“Mm.” Paige closes her eyes, almost falling back asleep in Azzi’s arms before realizing she’s still supposed to be mad. Eyes twitching, she crosses her arms, angling herself away from the younger girl’s body.

“You mad at me?” Azzi kisses her cheek, watching closely for her reaction. Paige’s hands stay folded across her chest, but her fingers twitch with restraint. Azzi notices and bites back a smile. “I’m sorry, honey.” She bites at her ear, capturing the soft flesh of her lobe between her teeth and tugging gently, but Paige remains stiff. “I had to focus.” She rolls over directly on top of Paige, smoothing back her blonde hair away from her face with both hands and rubbing her thumbs across her cheeks. “Let me make it up to you?”

“Lock me out of my own room again and we’re gonna have problems,” Paige threatens, trying to sound as scary as possible. She knows she’s failed when Azzi’s dimples appeared.

“Never again,” her girlfriend promises, beginning a trail of sweet, open mouthed kisses down Paige’s shoulder. This time, Paige responds, hips pressing up into her as one hand finds the back of her head, guiding her motions. “You’re a big baby, you know that?” Azzi teases, smiling fondly down at the blonde, who shakes her head indignantly. “But you’re my big baby.” She smothers Paige’s face in more kisses until the older girl can no longer fight back her smile.

“You finish your paper?” Paige asks.

“Yes. But remind me to never try and do homework with you ever again.” Azzi dips her head against Paige’s forehead.

“That’s offensive,” Paige complains. “I can lock in.”

“Don’t even try me,” Azzi argues back. “And don’t get me started on your fuck ass singing. You’re so obsessed with me.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever been able to stay away from you,” Paige admits. “Not since I was sixteen.” And she’s not wrong. Paige has never been able to stay away: not when they were kids on a plane, heading home after winning a gold medal. Not when they were in upperclassmen in high school, facetiming each other after every game into the hours of the morning. Not when Paige was a freshman, sending Azzi highlight reels and talking about the day they’d win a national championship together. Not even now, when they see each other every day, but Paige still falls a little bit more in love the more she knows every little thing about Azzi.

But Azzi hasn’t ever been able to stay away, either. Admitting that, though? She can save that for another day.

[luvoooenha]

Lucky charm!

Pairing- Boyfriend! Jake x Girlfriend! Y/N

Summary- Jake, the top soccer player at UNI, always relied on Y/N’s support—until a huge argument left him distracted before a big game. Without her in the stands, he struggled to play, missing shots and worrying his team. Realizing how much he needed her, a teammate called Y/N, who debated but ultimately showed up, looking her best. The moment Jake saw her, his focus returned, and he played like himself again. After the game, they made up, proving that Y/N was truly his lucky charm.

Warnings- FLUFF, FLUFF, FLUFF, anger, angst, arguments, happy couple… (jokes! Not really)

Word count- 1.8k

plsplsplsplsplspls dont copyyy my work!

“You don’t get it, Y/N!” Jake’s voice was sharp, frustration thick in every word.

“Then explain it to me, Jake! Because right now, it feels like I’m the only one trying.” Y/N’s arms were crossed tightly over her chest, her voice shaking between anger and hurt.

Jake let out a humorless laugh, running a hand through his hair. “You think I don’t care? That I don’t appreciate you?”

Y/N exhaled sharply. “Jake, I’ve been to every single game, every late-night practice, every stupid press conference where they ask you the same questions. And not once have I ever complained.” Her voice broke slightly, but she pushed on. “But the second I bring up how I feel, I’m the bad guy?”

He opened his mouth, but no words came out. The look in her eyes—raw and filled with unshed tears—made his chest tighten.

“I can’t keep doing this if you don’t want me here, Jake.”

His stomach twisted. That wasn’t what he wanted at all. But his stupid pride got in the way, and instead of telling her the truth—that he needed her more than anything—he muttered, “Maybe it’s better that way.”

The second the words left his lips, he wanted to take them back.

Y/N’s face fell, her jaw tightening as she nodded slowly. “Okay.”

And just like that, she turned and walked away.

Jake stood frozen, watching her disappear into the night.

He had just made the biggest mistake of his life.

-

The silence between them was louder than anything Jake had ever experienced.

Y/N hadn’t texted. Hadn’t called. Hadn’t shown up to practice.

Jake told himself he was fine. That he could focus better without distractions. But when game day rolled around, it hit him like a freight train.

He jogged onto the field, scanning the stands on instinct. But the seat where she always sat—third row, left side, just behind the team bench—was empty.

His stomach clenched.

He tried to shake it off as the game started, but his body wouldn’t cooperate. His passes were off. His speed felt sluggish. Every shot he took either hit the post, went wide, or was blocked by the keeper.

The frustration built with every mistake, weighing him down like lead.

The final whistle blew, and UNI had lost. Jake barely heard the post-game speech from his coach, too busy replaying every missed opportunity in his head.

When he got back to the locker room, he didn’t even bother taking off his cleats right away. He just sat there, elbows resting on his knees, staring at the floor.

Jay, his closest teammate, nudged him. “Dude. What’s going on?”

Jake exhaled slowly. “Nothing. Just an off day.”

Jay scoffed. “Nah, man. This is more than that. I’ve never seen you play like this.” He paused. “It’s Y/N, isn’t it?”

Jake didn’t answer.

Jay sighed. “Look, I don’t know what happened, but it’s obvious you’re a wreck without her.”

Jake clenched his jaw. “She’s probably better off.”

Jay rolled his eyes. “Yeah? Then why do you keep looking for her in the stands?”

Jake said nothing.

Jay grabbed his phone. “I’m texting her.”

Jake should’ve stopped him. Should’ve told him to leave it alone.

But he didn’t.

Y/N sat on her bed, knees pulled to her chest, as she mindlessly scrolled through her camera roll. Each swipe brought a new memory, a new reminder of everything she and Jake had been before it all fell apart.

There was a photo of him grinning at her during one of their late-night study sessions, his notes forgotten as he balanced a pencil between his nose and upper lip, trying to make her laugh. She had rolled her eyes at the time, but she could still remember the way her stomach had fluttered when he looked at her like she was the best part of his world.

Another picture—Jake, covered in sweat but grinning like a fool after a big win, his arm slung lazily around her shoulders. She had been laughing, caught mid-cheer, his jersey draped over her like a second skin. She had been so proud of him. She always was.

And then, one of her favorites—a candid shot of them from a lazy Sunday morning. Jake, shirtless and half-asleep, stealing bites of her breakfast as she swatted at his hand, laughing at his shamelessness. His hair had been a mess, his eyes still heavy with sleep, but he had looked at her like she was the only thing that mattered.

Y/N’s chest ached.

She missed him. More than she wanted to admit.

Her fingers hovered over his contact, the familiar urge to text him creeping in. But then, like a cruel reminder, his words echoed in her head.

"Maybe it’s better that way."

She swallowed the lump in her throat, locking her phone. If that was what he wanted, then fine. She wouldn’t be the one to break first.

But then, as if the universe was laughing at her stubbornness, her phone buzzed.

Jay: Jake’s a mess. He needs you. Badly.

Her heart clenched.

She should ignore it. He was the one who pushed her away. He was the one who made her feel like she didn’t matter.

But… if that were true, why was he struggling so much?

Y/N exhaled slowly, staring at her reflection in the mirror. Her expression was unreadable, but her eyes betrayed her, filled with something she wasn’t ready to name yet.

She could walk away. Let Jake figure this out on his own. Prove to herself that she didn’t need him as much as he needed her.

But that was a lie.

Because no matter how angry or hurt she was… she still loved him.

And she wasn’t sure she ever wouldn’t.

With a resigned sigh, she grabbed her jacket and touched up her makeup.

If she was going, she was going to make an entrance.

She headed out the door, her heart pounding.

Jake needed her.

And whether she liked it or not… she needed him too.

-

Jake jogged onto the field, his mind clouded with doubt.

His body felt heavy, his nerves shot. The last few games had been a disaster, and the weight of failure clung to him like a storm he couldn’t outrun. He tried to shake it off, stretching his arms and bouncing on his feet, but nothing felt right.

Then, instinctively, he looked toward the stands.

And everything stopped.

His breath hitched. His heart stuttered.

Y/N was there.

Sitting in her usual spot—third row, left side, just behind the team bench.

Jake blinked, half-convinced he was imagining it. But no, it was real. She was real.

And damn, she looked good.

Her hair was styled just the way he liked, her makeup subtle but stunning. She wore his favorite shade, the one he always said made her eyes stand out, and even from across the field, he could see the way her lips curved in something between challenge and amusement.

She came.

A rush of energy shot through his veins, the kind he hadn’t felt since before she left. His pulse pounded, but this time, it wasn’t from nerves—it was from something deeper, something electric.

His lucky charm had returned.

And just like that, everything clicked back into place.

The whistle blew, and Jake was unstoppable.

Every pass was precise, every shot powerful. He weaved through defenders with the confidence he’d been missing, his movements sharp and deliberate. The frustration that had been drowning him for days melted away, replaced by pure instinct.

And every time he scored, he didn’t look at the scoreboard. He didn’t look at his teammates.

He looked at her.

Y/N sat there, arms crossed, trying to look unimpressed. But he saw the way her lips twitched, the way her fingers tapped against her thigh. She was proud of him—he knew it.

By the final whistle, UNI had secured the win. The crowd erupted in cheers, his teammates swarming him with congratulations, but Jake barely acknowledged any of it.

His eyes were locked on her.

Without a second thought, he sprinted toward the stands, pushing past the crowd. Y/N had already started making her way down toward the field, and when she stopped in front of him, they just stood there, staring at each other.

For the first time in days, Jake could breathe again.

“I was an idiot.” His voice was breathless, raw. “I didn’t mean any of it, Y/N. I was just—” He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his sweat-damp hair. “I was scared. Of how much I need you.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow, arms still crossed. “Yeah? I figured, considering how hard you flopped without me.”

Jake huffed out a laugh, shaking his head. “I deserved that.”

“Damn right, you did.”

A small smile tugged at her lips, but Jake didn’t miss the way her tough exterior wavered, the way her eyes softened just slightly.

He took a step closer. “Y/N, I mean it. I never should’ve pushed you away.” His voice dropped to something quieter, more vulnerable. “You’re everything to me.”

She sighed, finally uncrossing her arms. “Jake… you can’t shut me out when things get hard. That’s not how this works.”

“I know,” he admitted, his gaze never leaving hers. “And I won’t. Ever again.”

Y/N studied him for a long moment, and then, finally, she sighed in defeat. “You’re lucky I like you, Sim.”

Relief crashed over him, and before she could say anything else, he closed the distance, wrapping his arms arowund her and pulling her in tight.

She hesitated for half a second before melting into him, her arms circling his waist.

Jake buried his face in her hair, inhaling the familiar scent of her perfume, and everything felt right again. “I missed you,” he murmured.

“I know,” she teased, voice muffled against his jersey. “I could tell from your embarrassing game stats.”

He chuckled, pulling back just enough to look at her. “Guess I need you to keep me in check.”

“Clearly.”

Jake reached up, brushing his thumb over her cheek, his voice softer now. “So… does this mean you’ll be at the next game?”

Y/N smirked. “As long as you keep winning.”

He grinned, pressing a kiss to her forehead before whispering, “Then I guess I have no choice.”

Because she wasn’t just his biggest supporter.

She was his lucky charm.

-

OMG TYSM FOR 500 NOTES! (I didn't even think this was good...)

isa note! - lallalala first story!!! lalalall so excited! lalalalalla

taglist~ @firstclassjaylee

if wanted to be tag plspslplspsls let me know! 💗

© luvoooenha on tumblr 2024-2025. please don’t copy, repost, or translate my works! feedback and reblogs are appreciated :)

[7spaceace7]

Steve, pacing back and forth at the vet’s office, anxious as hell as he waits for the doctor to come back with his cat who decided to eat something Not Good

Eddie, casually reading a magazine as he waits for the vet to do a look over on the most recent stray he found, but he can’t focus on the words anymore because this guy next to him won’t stop pacing

“Hey man, you good?”

“Yeah. Yeah. Fine. Mhm.”

And Eddie’s about to ask if he’s sure, but the guy cuts in—

“It’s just my cat, he hates vets, hates leaving the house really, and I’m not sure if that’s my fault for not taking him out more or what, but he’s also really dumb and ate god-knows-what out of the trash, and I should have thrown the trash out sooner, and I’ve got no idea what he needs or if he’s deathly sick or what and—”

“Whoa, whoa, okay, slow down. Breathe, dude. You look half a step out from either charging back there or collapsing on the floor,” Eddie says quickly, kindly, and the guy surprisingly hinges on his every word, “I’m sure he’ll be okay. You wanna..sit next to me while we wait?”

The guy chews his bottom lip, then nods and slumps in the chair next to him.

“I just have a million scenarios running around my head, and none of them are good,” The guy cringes and rubs a hand over his face, “God, I sound like Robin..”

“Anxiety’s a bitch, man, I get it,” The metalhead nods. He wants to reach over and, like, give him a hug or something, but that’s not what you do to a stranger. Even if the stranger looks totally freaked. And totally attractive, but that’s not relevant. “If it helps though, um. My uncle and I come to this place a lot. Find a lot of strays around the trailer park, so we pick ‘em up and drop ‘em here. Your little guy’s in good hands.”

The man looks up from his slumped position and takes Eddie’s words in. “You think so?”

“Definitely. If he’s got someone who cares about him half as much as you seem to, I’m sure of it.”

His shoulders relax a little. He cracks a less-terrified smile. It’s almost sad. And adorable. Sadorable.

“Thanks. Um…”

“Eddie.”

“Thanks, Eddie. I’m Steve. By the way.”

“No problem, Steve,” Eddie tries to offer a smile of his own.

They get to talking for a little while, and it seems to quell enough of Steve’s anxieties for the time being, until Eddie gets told by the doctor that the stray mutt he brought in today is alright enough to get sent to the nearest shelter. He’s free to go.

But he looks back and Steve is still sitting in the chair next to where Eddie was, leg bouncing as he picks at his arm. He could just wish him well, leave, and go home like a normal person. But now he’s invested in Steve and his silly cat, and dragging his feet out the door is a fate he’s not sure he can muster anymore.

Eddie drops himself back down beside Steve. It earns him a confused frown.

“I thought you were free to leave.”

“I am. Fido in there’s gonna have a decent place to sleep now,” He leans his arm on the arm of the chair between them and tilts his head lopsidedly at Steve, “But I don’t have anywhere to be, and you’ve got me hooked, Steve. I don’t think I’d be able to sleep unless I knew Teddy made it home okay.”

Something about his bold sincerity causes Steve to blush a bit. He smiles, an actual one this time, and nods at Eddie. “Yeah. Me neither.”

Eddie keeps to his word and stays as long as Steve needs.

[lowkeyerror]

Ours Together pt 2

Agatha Harkness x Rio Vidal x Reader

Word count: 3.6k

Notes: Graphic depictions of violence, could be described as slight gore, more hurt/comfort, fluff, hopeful ending (i think), protective Rio and Agatha

Summary: With the three of you on the same page, walking the road should've been a cake walk. However things take a turn, when you end up with your own trial.

An: Yall asked for a part 2 so you know I had to deliver 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

Part 1 | Part 3 | Masterlist

Waking up in between Rio and Agatha brought a small smile to your face. It’s a luxury that you thought was long forgotten. You were careful to rise without waking them. Your back cracked as you stretched, the ground of the road was not comfortable in the slightest.

“So you’re a familiar?” Lilia speaks, staring cautiously.

The way your eyes cut over to her is soft. It’s softer than you want it to be. You look at the ground and then the sky, deciding not to look at the witch.

“Yep,” a rough sigh comes out with the simple word.

“It typical that familiars have a second form. A pet or a-"

“Do they look like pet owners to you?”

The others begin to stir, before the conversation can go any further. You’re grateful for the interruption. You were not here to dig in to your past. Well, not any more than reigniting your relationship with Rio and Agatha.

“Look alive, witches. Let’s get this show on the road,” Agatha yawns as the words leave her mouth.

Though you’d rather do anything else, you prepare yourself for the journey.

“What’s wrong?” Rio falls into step with you as you begin to walk the road.

“I still don't want to be here,” you admit kicking some of the dirt up with your heel.

Rio takes your hand in hers, “We can leave whenever you want.”

You dismiss the thought with exasperation, “I’m not abandoning Agatha.”

Rio squeezes your hand, “I don’t want to leave her either, but I don’t want you to be burdened by whatever this is.”

“Woah,” Alice’s voice, makes you look away from Rio.

The other witches also stop, most with their mouths agape. The sight before them unfathomable. This was drastic change from the other trial they had come in contact with.

Instead of a house, there was large mansion. The building was purely white with gold accents. The pillars that stood on each side of the building seemed to go all the way.

The color leaves your face staring at the building. You drop to the ground and begin to scramble away from the building. You shake your head vigorously. Your eyes wide in horror, you try to find the breath in your lungs but you struggle.

“No, no, no, no,” you begin to mutter under your breath.

Agatha and Rio are by your side at a moments notice. Agatha’s hands rest on your face and you can feel Rio’s arm wrap around you.

“Breathe baby,” Rio whispers in your ear.

You search Agatha’s face frantically, “Agatha, I can’t… I can’t. I’m not even a witch, I’m not in the coven. Why?”

“It’s not real, sweetheart. We know it’s not real,” she whispers for only you and Rio to hear.

You close your eyes and begin nodding your head. You swallow hard, trying to focus on the feelings of their hands on you.

“I’m guessing this is her trial,” Jen says, breaking the moment between the three of you.

Agatha glares at the witch, “She’s not going in there.”

Teen interrupts, “I don’t think that’s how the road works.”

The scowl on her face only deepens, “Then make it work Teen. She’s not a witch, she’s not in the coven, she shouldn’t have a trial.”

Alice interferes, “Is it possible it’s not her trial? The three of you are close.. could it be Rio’s or Agatha’s.”

“It would be mine, if not hers,” Rio offers up.

Lilia interrupts, “We have to go into this trial.”

“NO!” Your voice didn’t boom when you yelled, instead it cracked in desperation.

The conversation dies there, but not because of your outburst. You feel the energy shift all around you.

“The seven are coming,” Agatha mumbles under her breath.

“Nope,” Jen immediately turns to run into the building.

Lilia goes in after Jen. Alice and Teen hesitate, but they follow the other two women forward.

You can hear the seven getting closer.

“My love, we must move forward,” Agatha tries to hide her panic, but you see through it.

“We will protect you,” Rio helps you to your feet.

You look behind you, the seven quickly approaching. You look at the building once more, before rushing ahead inside.

Agatha looks at Rio, “Take her out if things get too much.”

Rio shakes her head, “We do not know the repercussions of leaving in the middle of a trial.”

“We both know what happens in there Rio. I can’t bare to see it.”

Rio grabs Agatha’s hand as they rush towards the building together, “She is stronger than we give her credit for.”

As they enter the building a bright light almost blinds them. They see the coven members dressed in all white. Most of them having full halos. Agatha looks similar. Rio however is dawning an all black hooded cloak. If it weren’t for your distress, she would’ve laughed.

The clothes felt wrong against your skin. There wasn’t much around. The walls were painted with clouds. The only other thing in the mansion was staircase in the middle of the room. It looked like it led nowhere, but you knew better.

“Where’s the trial? Do we just get to leave?” Teen says focusing on the stairs.

You try to keep your breathing normal, “Just give me a minute. I know what we have to do.”

“What is this place?” Alice looks around.

Lilia’s eyes sparkle, “I think this is Heaven.”

The coven turns their attention to you.

“Are you-”

Agatha interferes, “We’re already in the trial, save your questions to the end.”

Rio adds on, “Or better yet, don't ask any questions.”

“Let’s get this over with,” you wipe your hands on the white pants.

You stand at the bottom of the stairs. Agatha stand on the left and Rio on your right. The link their arms through yours.

“Up we go,” Agatha directs the coven.

When you get to the top, you can see an abyss waiting for you at the bottom. You can’t see the bottom, and you know what you have to do.

“It’s easier if you don’t look,” you turn your back to the abyss.

“Are you seriously just going to-”

Before Jen finishes her question you are leaning back first into the abyss. Your lovers at your side trusting you completely. The rest of the coven is hesitant, but they eventually all jump into the hole.

It's like you’re being pulled down. It feels like it’s never going to stop. When it does, it’s abrupt. You’re expecting flames and heat, but instead there’s only dirt around you.

The space is shaped like a cylinder. There’s a gracious amount of space. The floors and walls were both constructed of dirt. You looked at the ceiling and it too seemed to be dirt. It was like you all were buried alive.

“Take me back upstairs,” Lilia says looking around the dark and dirt filled hole.

“So, Y/n what now?” They turn to you, looking for guidance.

You use your hands to dig into the ground. You pull out a scroll.

“How did you-”

“Where else would it have been?” You snap at the Teen.

Rio peers over your shoulder, “Fly free with your clipped wings or submit to the sin of the earth.”

The dirt begins to rise as Rio finishes reading the paper. You look up again, this time being able to catch a glimpse of the white room where you had come from.

“Taking us down, to go right back up. How clever,” Agatha says.

“So is now the time we ask the questions?”

“Stand back,” you ignore the question, hoping to get this over with quickly.

The group listens to you. With much discomfort you pushed out the muscles on your back. There were a few loud pops and cracks. You bit your tongue to mask the pain. Your wings popped out and everyone in the room gawked.

“They’re-”

“White?” Rio says with confusion.

You wrapped them around your body, surprised to see white wings sprouting from your back.

“Questions later, fly up,” Agatha says and you do as she instructs.

You begin to flap your wings, dirt flying about in the space. You shoot up to the exit in less than 5 seconds. Instead of freedom you find yourself smacking hard against a piece of glass. You pound on it, hoping to break it.

“I can’t break it,” you call back down.

“Then we’re missing something,” Jen calls out.

The dirt begins to rise in the room at a faster pace.

“Start digging, maybe we’ll find something else,” Teen starts digging, the rest follows.

“Shit,” you hear Agatha cry out.

You decide to fly back down. You land close to her. “What is it?”

She pulls a pair of scissors out of the ground. Her palm bleeding from the cut on her hands.

You scramble back again.

“Didn’t it say something about clipped wings?” Alice recalls.

“That’s why they’re white,” Agatha connects the dots.

“Fuck no,” Rio stands in front of you. “I’m not letting you clip her wings.”

“We’re going to die,” Teen argues with the Death.

Agatha shares a look with Rio, “Get her out of here.”

You shake your head, “No, I’m not leaving you here. Give me the scissors.”

“Y/n, you don’t have to do this,” Rio tries to reason with you.

“Just heal the wounds when it’s over,” you say to her softly.

Agatha still has the scissors in hand, “I won’t let you.”

You get close to her. Your hand reaching for the scissors as you lean in. You can see her squeezing them firmly in her grip, deepening the cut in her hand.

“It’s not real,” you whisper to her just like she had done with you outside.

Her grip loosens just enough for you to pull the scissors from her hand. The dirt is piled at the mid thigh level now.

You once again fold your wings over your body. You turn your head to get a good look at your back. Your eyes follow the seam of where your back is lined with your wings.

Your hand shakes as you open the scissors, opting to use them like a letter opener. The nerves are piling up inside you. Your eyes close and you get a glimpse of your past. You see yourself kneeled over in pain with your back covered in blood.

“We’re running out of time,” Lilia says, as the dirt begins to climb higher.

You scream as you cut off your wing in one swift motion. The pain makes you want to fall to your knees , but its impossible with the dirt surrounding you. Tears fall rapidly as blood pours from your back. Snot drips from your nose as you sob at the pain.

You’re in too much pain to notice, but the dirt begins to rise at a slower pace. No one is happy, or joyful as they look at you in agony.

“Fuck,” you mutter as your body shakes violently at the pain.

The scissors had slipped from your hand at the sheer force you made the cut with.

“Rio,” it comes out of your mouth through gritted teeth. She’s close to you, and you know she carries a blade. “I- you have to do the other one.”

Rio’s eyes widen, “ I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Please, my love. I- I can’t die like this. Please, I just got you back, please.”

Your pleading breaks Rio’s heart. This didn’t feel fake, it was real. The wound pouring from your back, the tears in your eyes. The panicked look in Agatha’s face as she watched this unfold. The suffering felt real.

Rio pulls her dagger out, wading through the sand to get right behind you. It was hard, with the sand covering most of her torso. The sand burned as it pressed into your open wound.

Rio’s hard was cool and soft as it touched the bottom of your wing. She felt through the sand to find the seam of the wings. Once she found it she took a deep breath.

“Forgive me, my love,” her cut was much more swift than yours.

You fell forward as the yelled ripped through you throat. It burned your esophagus. You folded forward, Rio’s arms try to hold you from underneath your stomach, not wishing to touch your back.

The wings lay in the dirt beside you. The dirt that had covered everyone started to sink down back into the ground. Once it was all gone, one side of the wall began to open up. Stairs appeared, indicating the trial was over.

Rio is quick to carry you out of the trial and back on to the road. She hopes that bringing you back to the road will erase the injuries. However as she feels the blood coating her clothes, she knows they are here to stay.

She lays you on your stomach and you groan. She straddles the back of your legs. The weight of her is lost on you, all you can feel is the burning from where your wings were supposed to be. You squirm under her when her tongue connects with your back.

She licks the brutal cuts on your back, the taste of your blood clouds her thoughts, but she doesn’t dwell on it. Her own tears gather as she waits for the wounds to heal.

Agatha rushes to her side, “Is she going to be ok?”

Rio holds her breath, but as she sees the wounds slowly closing she nods, “She’s going to be ok.”

Agatha pulls Rio into a chaste kiss, “Are you ok?”

Rio’s forehead rest against Agatha’s, “No, I’m not.”

The rest of the coven watches the scene unfold with intrigue.

“So your familiar is an angel?” Teen can’t help, but ask.

You whine under Rio as you feel a new pain simmer in your back.

“Off,” you mutter, and Rio gets off of you.

You stay laying as you feel a well-known ache spread through your body. You dig your palms into the ground and let out a huff of irritation. In the spots that Rio had just healed, a set of wings popped out.

This time, they were black like tar. It hurt just as much as before. You prop yourself on your knee before standing to your full height. Just like when your voice had echoed, your eyes were purely black.

“I was an angel,” your voice vibrates through the road.

“What happened?” Jen asks, mesmerized by your wings.

Agatha and Rio are seconds away from forbidding the coven from asking questions. You use your wings to bring them into your sides.

“I fell in love. The higher ups, said it was… impure. Which was a falsehood; there had been nothing in my life or after that was as pure as this love. They wanted to have me banished to hell. I was ungrateful, wasting my eternal happiness by fraternizing with… Rio.”

“Why not Agatha?” Alice questions.

You look at Rio, who gives you a nod, “They didn't like my relationship with Agatha much either, if I’m being honest. Rio was different, forbidden because she is Lady Death.”

The coven members all look to Rio, their eyes wide in shock. Rio simply waves her up, wiggling her fingers in response, “Guilty.”

Lilia speaks next, “But if you’re her familiar, why would your relationship be an issue?”

“I wasn’t her familiar then,” you explain. “I became Agatha’s and Rio’s familiar because Rio interfered during my banishment ceremony. These ceremonies were somewhat of a public shaming. My wings had been forcefully yanked out of my back. Brute strength just ripped them right out of my back. They were in the middle of speaking when she appeared. I’ve never seen her so furious, yelling at Life and God and the other angels. She made an offer for my soul.”

Rio clicks her tongue a few times, “No, no I made a threat. They were going to give me your soul or I would take every soul that passed to hell. There would’ve been no more angels. A demon uprising would've been imminent. They didn't really have a choice.”

“Wait, I know this story. An angel who was swayed by darkness due for banishment, but saved by Death itself. You’re the first fallen angel,” Teen speaks enthusiastically.

You chuckle, “Not exactly the first, there’s one before me, but I am the first with this look. The black wings, dark eyes, echoing voice.”

“So what happened after you threatened them?” Jen is extremely invested.

“She took me to Agatha. I was powerless without my wings. They were trying to figure out what to do. When Rio went to heal the wounds they left on me, we didn't expect new wings to sprout, but they did. The power was different, stronger. They helped me navigate it.”

“It took us some time to realize what the agreement meant for her. They did not believe in our relationship, which is why they made her our familiar. It was a punishment,” Agatha adds some more context.

“How is that a punishment?” Teen’s confusion shines through.

“It burns to be away from them. Literally boils my insides,” your wings fold back into your back.

“Ok, kids, question time is over. We’re setting up camp for the night,” Agatha claps her hands together.

You can see them want to protest, but an eyebrow raise from Rio quiets them all. They begin to set up a camp similar to the night before.

“Come with us,” Rio tugs at your arm.

You follow her and Agatha away from the rest of the coven.

When you feel like you’re far enough from the rest. Your shoulders slump and your body trembles, getting the last of the aches out.

The two witches stop both worried for you.

“I’m fine,” you say softly.

Agatha can’t help but pull you into her, “You’re not, neither of you are. I think it’s time you left the road.”

Your head rests on her shoulder. Your lips press a gentle kiss against her neck, “I don't want to spend any time apart. Especially now.”

Rio is careful as she presses her front against your back, wrapping her arms around you. You grab her arms pulling her flush against you. The warmth of the two women, soothes the aches in your body.

“Baby,” Rio tries.

“Just hold me for a few minutes, please,” you beg the both of them.

The both tighten their grip.

“We’re not going anywhere sweetheart,” Agatha kisses the top of your head.

“Not ever,” Rio doubles down.

You breathe them in. Finding comfort in their presence. Agatha’s hand find a place in your hair, rubbing the tension away. You lay your hands over Rio’s keeping them against your skin.

“Aggie what do you need from this place?” You whisper against her skin.

“My purple.”

You raise your head to stare at her, “I can get them to blast you. Then we can all go home, together.”

“I tried that already, sweetheart. They know about my powers,” she admits to you.

“What if there's nothing at the end of this? We don't know what this is?” Rio tries to reason.

Agatha meets Rio’s gaze, “I do know what this is, you know too. We all know that the road isn’t real. Yet, here we are standing on it, going through trials. This magic is familiar to me, the sigil prevents it, but I know who that boy is. He’s just like his mother.”

“We can find another coven,” you suggest.

Agatha lets out a humorless laugh, “My reputation proceeds me, sweetheart. There are no more witches who wish to gather with me. Lilia, I trust her divination. This is the only way.”

“Then we have to stay,” you turn around to look at Rio.

Rio averts her gaze, “We must go after the next trial.”

You steel your gaze, “Why?”

The Green Witch looks to Agatha for help.

“Sweetheart, it’s not safe here. You just had to clip your own wings. Rio has work to do, and she can’t do it in here. Go with her and I will see you when this is over.”

“Agatha, I-"

She kisses you, softly, “I will come back to you. I won’t be going anywhere. It will be us three, I promise.”

“One more trial don’t say goodbye yet,” you say against her lips.

“I’m never going to say goodbye again, ok? It’s just a promise to meet later.”

You look at Rio, “And we’re staying together, right.”

Rio’s hand reach to cup your face. Her eyes are serious when they look into yours, “I’m never leaving you again.”

You press your lips hers, need seeping through your kiss. When you break the kiss, you find yourself between the two women again.

“Let’s get back to the camp, and rest. I’m sure you’re exhausted, sweetheart.”

“Carry me?” You ask.

Agatha rolls her eyes but scoops you up anyway . You hang on to her like a koala causing Rio to laugh.

“You have wings,” Agatha grumbles.

You nuzzle deeper into her, “They’re not as comfortable as your arms.”

“She got you there, my love,” Rio moves in closer to walk shoulder to shoulder with Agatha.

“You’re carrying her next time.”

The three of you share a laugh. A nice moment to end a chaotic couple of hours. The stress of the road ahead not lost on you, just pushed aside for a moment. There had been enough pain for the day. You didn’t want to dwell on the near future, opting instead to think of the moment it was over. When you’d finally get to have Rio and Agatha to yourself.