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lovepotionsz · 1 day ago

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Mark & Mark Variants x Viltrumite GN!Reader (Mohawk-No Goggles) (Suggestive)

CW: Minor pet death (not caused by you, mark or variants) , dubious consent from reader on the variant parts.

WC: 2.9k

You were sent to earth by the Empire as a child, to gather intel and return to Viltrum when you hit 25 in human years. You did as you were told, you did your best to be this cold-hearted, brutal strong viltrumite, but you couldn’t be what they wanted in the end. Your family was so loving, your friends were too precious, you got to learn what compassion and empathy felt like. You cried, you smiled, you felt your heart drop to your stomach, you laughed with your friends drunk out of your minds near a 7/11 at 3 am, and laughed so hard you threw up. You felt your heart get torn to pieces when you saw your first crush kiss another person, you grieved when your family cat passed away, and you felt anger at the drunk driver that took your precious cat — no, friend.

You felt more alive than you ever could back in the Empire. You didn’t care about that selfish mission anymore, couldn’t give two shits about conquering and ruling, earth was amazing as is. Yes, it was full of corruption and suffering, but it also harbored love so undoing you never even thought to fight back. That’s why, when you were offered to protect the beauty of this world, you agreed instantly. Your parents were apprehensive, worried about you, but you convinced them after a heartful crying session on the family couch– the same couch that your parent had wrapped a bandage around your ankle so worriedly, not knowing your twisted ankle had already healed. You didn’t tell them that it did. Your canvas of this world was already full of colors of all the emotions you have lived through.

Though, somehow, the colors on the canvas shined brighter than any sun the day that you met him.

“Hey, name’s Invincible, let’s do some good together, yeah? God was that– was that too corny?,” he awkwardly rubbed at his neck, you could sense his body temperature rise up without skin contact – viltrumite genes – you had chuckled at his awkwardness, introduced yourself and you two hit it off that day. Your missions together always went well, your quick wit and strategies plus your durability complimented his agility and strength– dancing with you as defense and him as offense, a powerful, impenetrable waltz to any enemy.

You went to shitty fast food places after missions, ate melted ice creams at 3 am close to that same 7/11, he stayed at your place until sun rose up playing video games and reading comics – you learned he was a huge seance dog fan as well – you went to huge comic cons, helping each other get into cosplay.

He looked deep into your eyes as you applied a tiny bit of blush on his cheeks, he honestly looked stunning, however the eye contact wasn’t helping your fast beating heart, and you’re pretty sure he can hear it. You don’t know where his powers come from yet, but, you just know he can hear your heart leaping from your ribcage every time your eyes catch his.

“I know I’m gorgeous, but you’re staring, Grayson,” you managed to roll out with a sarcastic tone, you watched as he blinked himself out of a trance– did he even know he was staring that hard?

“I’m so– so sorry, I just- I uh,” his eyes going everywhere but your eyes now, caught and too embarrassed to admit he was staring.

“You can keep going, sorry uh– for the staring,” you chuckled softly at how red the tips of his ears had gotten, feeling a warm sensation envelop your whole being as you add the finishing touches to his makeup, you got your face closer to his so close that you saw how his eyes widened, and his pupils dilated just a bit– that made you smile softly, “you can look as much as you like, pretty boy,” you laughed despite yourself at how red his whole face was now despite the makeup, stopping yourself and apologizing softly as you heard him grumble. You teased him all day about it though, after all, the feelings you’ve harbored for months were not unrequited, for the first time since meeting him, you felt elated once again.

After that, he asked you out after a particular rough mission where your comms were broken, and you couldn’t talk to him for almost the entire mission– he couldn’t bear the thought of losing you to a freak accident on the job, and he really couldn’t lose you to his cowardice by not asking you out and watching you slip out of his hands. Your first date went as you’d expect– fighting a titan like being as you flirted with each other and stole a kiss or two in the air.

You both decided that you deserved a cheap, sugary and salty meal and grabbed food from burger mart, eating on the rooftop of a skyscraper, watching the sun set.

You laughed as he tried to stuff the fries into his mouth before they went cold and soggy, you let him have a sip of your soda– he drank from the same straw you used – your hands inching closer with each passing minute before they connected together with your lips, the sun was just setting, his mouth tasted like cheap burger and soggy fries, his lips soft and inviting as he followed your lead. The kiss was clumsy, filled with awkward chuckles and giggles, trying to angle yourselves properly, but it was yours. The moment, the kiss, each other's touch, it was all yours, he was all yours, the man that mad every hour of training and fighting villains worth it was finally yours.

Then he opened that stupid – pretty – mouth,

“I’ve been meaning to ask you this, but– are you a Viltrumite?”

You felt boiling water spill on your head, down to your whole body when your brain registered his words.

He knew! He knew and he–

“How– How do you even know that?”

Without realizing, your entire body went rigid, your eyes wide and your heart was beating so fast it threatened to burst Mark’s eardrums, “I… guessed? Your powers are so similar to mine, the way you use them, the way your body moves in battle– and uh a gut feeling, you could say,” his explanation only made you realize how sloppy you had gotten around him, something a Viltrumite should never be, it’s all your fault, they’re going to find you, you need to get away now.

You hadn’t realized how frantic your breathing had gotten, how much your body was shaking as your brain took a few seconds to realize you were being hugged and Mark was trying to talk to you. You took a breath and pushed him away, watching as his face contorted in worry, his eyes frantic as his mouth opened to say something, but you interrupted him,

“Are you going to take me to them? Why did you even let me kiss you if you knew– why did you let me so close if you knew? Oh god, I need to–”

“I’m a Viltrumite too!”

His voice rang in your ears, his words ricocheting around in your brain as you finally process them, and you look into his eyes, “You… are?” you saw his form relax, and he shifted his body closer to yours, taking your hands in his as gentle as he could– god he’s so warm – “yes, that’s why I wanted to know if you were one as well, I’m not going to tell anyone if you don’t want me to–” he exhaled a shaky breath, “I could never allow anything to hurt you, and if you think this information is dangerous I will take it to my grave,” he pulled your hand up to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles, “you’re safe with me, baby, always,” you couldn't form words, you could only let him hug you as your body shook with each sob escaping from you, his soft words and gentle touches comforting you as you feel the weight of the world release from your shoulders.

He knew, he didn’t care, he still loved you.

His face held such a gentle expression as he kissed you again, you felt like your body would shatter then and there.

Yet, your newly blossoming relationship wouldn’t have peace for long as they were here, the so-called Variants.

Mark warned you to hide, that surely they would target you. However, you had a family to protect, a lover to defend, you simply couldn’t stand still and do nothing.

You leaped through the air like a bullet, your sight zoning on the variant not far from you as you took a deep breath and leaped down.

Mohawk Mark

His cackle as he was stomping some guys head in got cut short with a pained groan as you your feet landed on his back, the momentum from your leap making the hit more affective.

You squinted as the dust and the debris hit you in the face, along with the variants blood, your face scrunched up in disgust as you leaped back when you felt him move. He grunted as he got up, you turned your eyes to your back for a second to confirm that civilians were being evacuated. Good. You could fight properly, then. Your attention snapped back to him as he exclaimed your name with an astounded shout.

“Holy shit! You’re on Earth!?”

When your expressions turned to a puzzled one, he sighed and put his hand on his hip– like you were the stupid one between the two of you.

“Y’know, you’re from the Empire, you never left, and you were sent to stop me but fell in love with me instead, duh!”

“What the fuck are you talking about, spiky?”

He barked a laugh at the nickname, “as foul-mouthed as always, aren’t you? Fuck, I missed that,”

You rolled your eyes, using the ground to gain momentum, bending your knees, forming an X with your arms in front of your face before leaping at him with full force. You both grunted in effort– well you did, his was from was pleasure unbeknownst to you – as you both went through the prison, concrete, debris, and the glass had you closing Yorubas to avoid damaging said organs, you really need them right now.

You coughed a few times while your eyes adjusted to your surroundings, breath ripping from your throat as you feel him kick you right on the stomach, which sends you violently flying through the building to the outside of it once again. You shake your head as you get up, it didn’t hurt as much as you thought it would, this fucker was holding back, he was underestimating you. Your eyes locked on his with as much anger and spite you could muster as he whistled with that damn fucking smirk on his face, taunting you.

“Damn, you look as hot as I remember when you get angry like that,”

You huffed, trying not to let his taunts get to you as he stepped closer, taking one, two as he sped up, and you blocked the incoming kick with your arms, hissing in pain as you got pushed onto your back to the ground, you planted your hands on the ground on the either side of your waist as you willed your body to get up, god your arms were burning– a gasp left you as the variant sat on your pelvis, planting himself there, unmoving even as your legs kicked.

You finally looked up at him, his cheeks were dusted the faintest shade of pink as he looked down at you, his breathing hard as his chest moved up and down, pupils blown as wide as they could while drinking up your expression and how your body was twisting and turning to get away from him– he pinned both of your arms above your head with one hand, making you finally look at him fully instead of around him to look for an escape.

Fuck, “you look so fucking hot like that, I could get off just like this, what do you think hm?”

He cackled when he felt your entire body go rigid, “what, you a virgin?” he joked as his gaze never left your eyes, when your expression turned to one of shock and embarrassment, he felt his cock throb inside the spandex suit, “shit, you are!” he cackled once again when you looked offended but didn’t retort. He was right.

His face got so close to yours, your lips a breath away, “well, that dumbass should’ve been faster, then,” your eyes widened as he closed what was left of the distance between you as his lips latched onto yours. This wasn’t sweet, soft, or gentle like your Mark, it was rough, it hurt, it felt like he was tearing you apart in the best ways when his fang nipped your bottom lip– you groaned in pain as you felt him licking the blood seeping from the injury he made, your lips moving on their own as the smell, presence, and voice of Mark enveloped your brain, put a curtain over your judgment as said brain turned off, and your body took over.

You exhaled a breath when you felt his tongue enter your mouth, your body arching closer to him as you felt his chest rumble with approval. Your teeth and lips crashing into each other as your legs still kick at him as much as they can, he groaned every time you managed to hit him, the fucker likes it.

He chuckled breathlessly at your stupidly cute expression when he broke the kiss, he didn’t need to breathe but feeling your lips on his again felt so cathartic he didn’t give two shits about what Angstorm wanted from him anymore. You were as submissive, pliable and adorable as he remembered, with a lot less rough edges, but he could never complain when it came to you.

He’s taking you home.

No Goggles Mark

He squeaked in surprise as he felt your kick, hissing in pleasure as soon as he smelled you, disappointed when you bounced off from his back and landed in front of him with that expression that looked so sexy on you– he hasn’t blinked yet and that’s freaking you the fuck out.

You watched in absolute confusion as he started giggling, biting down on his bottom lip so hard that it started bleeding, he didn’t seem to care about it though, getting up from the ground as those wild eyes never left yours. Okay, yeah, you were freaked out.

“Why the hell are you looking at me like–”

“How could I not? God, that was so fucking good, c’mon! Again! Again!”

You blinked a few times,

“You’re just gonna let me hit you–”

He groaned with impatience, “yes, yes I am! Fuck, come ooonnnn!”

Well, if that’s what he wants.

You ran up to him and landed a kick right on his chest, he didn’t even blink, just watching you with as much attention a living organism could muster. It went on like this for a good 5 minutes, you hit, he moaned – which, hearing Mark moan that whiny did something to you that you do not want to unpack right now – you punched he begged for more, god you just looked and felt so fucking good. Your hits hurt so much, you actually broke a bone or two and the noise of them made you cringe, but they just made his cock throb and leak even more pre-cum inside the spandex suit.

You finally stopped to catch your breath as your foot planted him to the ground, his chest heaving and his body trembling with pleasure when you press your foot down harder on his chest, arching his body to get closer to yours. He looked down right mad, his face was bloody – his own, per his request – his hands now holding onto your leg, trying to reach your thigh as he slid himself up to get away from your grasp, he wants something more than this, and he wants it now.

He yanks you down by the leg he was holding, – his heart rate spiking as he hears a sharp breath escape from your lungs – then, he does something that has your brain in alarm and your sex interested as he nuzzles your crotch with a groan. You try to push his head off of you, struggling to find words to make a retort or say something, as he pouts while looking up at you.

“Whaaat? Don’t I get a reward for letting you have your fun?”

His fingers went to your waist, his nails digging in as you hiss from the sting and see him smile with those wide eyes looking up at you–

“The you from my world always let me have my fun when they were done with me, so c’mon,”

You swallowed thickly as you bit down on your lip, thinking of anything to say as you heard him huff and bit down a scream of pain when he dug his nails in to your sides and rake them down so he could see you bleed as he went down on you–

“Hmm, your body was always more honest,” he giggled as you hissed in pain when he dug his nails in the freshly made – by him – scratches, as he lapped on the crotch of your spandex suit like a dog. His eyes never leaving yours, just like how you’re never leaving again. Angstorm could go fuck himself, he got what he wanted, he’s taking you back after this.

#invincible #invincible x reader #invincible x male reader #invincible x gn reader #mark grayson #mark grayson x reader #mark grayson x male reader #mark grayson x gn reader #invincible variants #invincible variants x reader #no goggles invincible #mohawk mark #mohawk mark x reader #no goggles mark #invincible smut

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lupinqs · 2 days ago

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CHAPTER SEVENTEEN ━━ All-Consuming

❀ ━ pairing: paige bueckers x oc (jo jacobson)

❀ ━ word count: 8.8K

❀ ━ warnings: minor injury, smut (oral, fingering)

❀ ━ links: my masterlist, nobody gets me masterlist

❀ ━ author’s note: so sorry for the long ass wait i hope it’s worth it

PAIGE SITS at the edge of the bench, her elbows on her knees, chin in her hands, watching warmups like she always does. Except today, something feels… different. Heavier. Shittier. She’s got her legs tucked up close, arms wrapped tight around them like it might somehow make her smaller, invisible. Which, obviously, it won’t. Especially not here. Especially not in fucking Knoxville.

The arena is loud. Like, obnoxiously loud. Tennessee fans are built different with their petty signs and cowbells and perfectly orchestrated chants. They’ve got nothing but time and resentment for UConn. Paige usually feeds off that. Normally, she lives for it. The noise, the hate, the pressure. It lights her up. Brings out that twisted little competitive streak in her that wants to drop thirty just to silence them. But she’s not lighting anything up today. She’s just sitting here. On the bench. Like she has been for what feels like her whole damn life now.

She’s in her warmup gear. Got the game day braids in. The slick, tight ones that Jo helped her do this morning, even though they both knew Paige wasn’t playing. It’s stupid, really. But the braids make her feel like she might be. Like if she looks the part, maybe she’ll feel the part. She doesn’t.

She hasn’t played in a Tennessee game since her freshman year. She sprained her ankle that night. Her sophomore year—busted knee. Now, junior year—busted ACL. It’s like the basketball gods personally circle this date on the calendar every season and go, not you, girl. And maybe that shouldn’t bother her as much as it does, because the players don’t really care about this rivalry like they used to—none of them were around for the Pat vs Geno era. They’re just here to hoop, not carry the burden of the past. But it does bother her. Because there’s still something about this game that stings extra when she’s on the sideline instead of the floor.

She swallows hard. Tries to blink fast enough to chase away the burn in her eyes, but the tears push their way through anyway.

Her knee feels like it’s mocking her, even when it’s behaving. Her fingers twitch with phantom plays—passes she’ll never throw, shots she won’t take. Her teammates are out there running drills, laughing, locking in. And Paige is just… not. She’s on the outside of her own life, watching someone else live it. It fucking sucks.

She sniffs quietly, looking down at the floor like that’ll hide the way her eyes are glassy and red. She wipes at her cheek with the sleeve of her shooting shirt, hating how it comes away wet. She’s sure some ESPN camera’s trained on her right now, too. She can already imagine Holly Rose narrating it: “Paige Bueckers, emotional on the sideline today. The UConn star still working her way back from injury.”

She rubs at her eyes harder, hoping maybe if she scrubs hard enough, the ache will go away too. It doesn’t.

Then—quietly, gently—Jo drops down on the chair beside her.

She doesn’t say anything at first. Just leans in close, knee bumping Paige’s. It only makes Paige’s throat tighten even more. Because Jo’s supposed to be warming up. She’s playing today. She shouldn’t be over here. But she is.

Jo’s pinky finds Paige’s without making it obvious, just a light brush where no cameras can see. Paige doesn’t move. Doesn’t look up. She can’t yet. But her heart softens immediately. She squeezes Jo’s pinky lightly with her own, quick and small, like she’s sorry for making her come over. Jo doesn’t let go.

“You okay?” Jo murmurs, barely audible under the roar of the arena. Her voice is low and sweet and careful in that way she always uses when Paige is pretending everything is fine.

Paige nods, a pathetic little dip of her chin, and then—just to betray herself—another tear slips out. She catches it with the back of her hand and lets out the tiniest laugh, all self-deprecating and bitter. “I’m just bein’ dramatic,” she mutters.

Jo’s already shaking her head. “No, you’re not,” she says, like it’s fact, not up for debate.

“I’m crying on the bench, Jo.”

“You’re crying because you love the game,” Jo says simply. “That’s not dramatic. That’s just… being human.”

Paige finally looks at her then, eyes stinging, throat thick. And Jo’s not teasing or smirking or trying to make her laugh, not yet. She’s just looking back at her like she sees everything Paige is trying to hide and she’s not scared of it. Paige swallows again, and it catches in her throat. She hates how raw she feels right now. Hates how easy Jo makes it for her to fall apart.

Jo bumps her knee again, softer this time. “You know,” she says, glancing casually toward the court, “I heard this team has a really cute assistant coach. Blonde. Kind of annoying. Always got her hair braided in a way that might make her go bald one day.”

Paige snorts, even though the wetness still clings to her lashes. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Real menace. Probably got a wicked crossover if she’d ever show it.”

Paige swipes at her cheek again, this time with a ghost of a smile. “I’ll look out for her.”

Jo grins. “You better. She’s hot. I’m trying to impress.”

Paige laughs and it feels like something breaks loose in her chest. Something heavy, something sharp. She exhales long and slow, the way Jo’s presence always makes her do. Jo gives her pinky one last squeeze before she stands back up to rejoin warmups.

By the time the game begins, Paige’s chest doesn’t feel quite so hollow. It starts off hot, fast-paced, high-scoring, kind of chippy. She’s leaned forward on the bench now, elbows digging into her thighs. Her knee bounces involuntarily every few seconds—nerves, adrenaline, phantom muscle memory. She can’t stop tracking every movement on the court like she’s still part of it. Still running, still cutting, still calling plays. Her brain is sprinting at full speed even if her body isn’t allowed to.

Jo’s hooping. Like, really hooping. Which isn’t surprising, since she’s been doing that all season.

She’s shooting lights out from three, and every made basket has the Tennessee fans shutting up a little more. Which Paige finds deeply satisfying. Every time Jo hits, steals, assists, Paige lets herself cheer a little louder, lets herself grin a little wider, even if her chest still aches some from earlier. Jo’s got that look tonight—laser-focused, completely locked in. That stupid wrist flick of hers is crisp, and every time the ball leaves her hands, Paige already knows it’s money.

Aaliyah’s dominating the paint, as per usual. Lou’s curling off screens and hitting daggers. Nika’s orchestrating it all, finding every pocket, every backdoor cutter, every mismatch. It’s beautiful basketball. And it’s theirs.

And Paige wants to be out there so bad it physically hurts.

But she’s happy, at least, that they’re winning. They’ve been leading basically the whole time—not by a massive margin, but enough that the pressure hasn’t really shifted back in Tennessee’s favor. The game’s exciting, but not panic-inducing. The kind where if they just keep doing their jobs, they’ll be fine. It’s that rare sweet spot between competition and control.

It’s the beginning of the fourth, and UConn’s up by ten. Jo comes flying off a pin-down, catches the ball on the wing, rises up, and—bang. Fifth three of the night. Paige whistles through her teeth, claps hard, smacks the padded bench emphatically. She’s about to turn to Ice to say something cocky when—

She sees it.

It’s small. Barely anything, really. Jo comes down and her right foot hits kind of… funky. Paige can’t tell at first if it’s a slip or a twist or just one of those weird stutters. But Jo’s face—only for a second—tightens. She winces a little, and she kind of hops out of it awkwardly before jogging back on defense.

And Paige can see it. It’s not dramatic—Jo doesn’t limp or fall or cry out. She wouldn’t anyways. Jo’s built out of grit and stubbornness and whatever else makes people keep going when they probably shouldn’t. She’s still moving. She’s in position, she’s talking on defense, playing through it. But she’s also shaking out her foot every couple seconds. She’s flexing her ankle just slightly when the ball isn’t near her, just enough for someone who’s really watching to notice.

And Paige is watching.

She sits up straighter. “Yo,” she mutters to no one in particular, eyes still glued onto the brunette. “She landed weird.”

Ice glances over at her. “Huh?”

“Jo. That last three. Her foot twisted or sum. She’s not moving the same.”

Geno glances over at Paige, having heard her observation. He gives her a look and she just nods toward Jo on the court. His gaze shifts back to the game, and Paige watches him squint. The blonde watches Jo again. She can tell it’s nothing major. Not a full-blown injury, probably not even a bad sprain. But Paige knows this girl. She knows her tells. And she knows that if someone doesn’t make her come out, she’s gonna push it until it does get bad.

When Aaliyah picks up a foul on Rickea Jackson, sending her to the line, Geno turns to the bench and waves at Ines. Ines stands, heads to the table, checks in.

Jo comes out.

Paige tracks the girl as she jogs toward the bench, and it’s—yeah. It’s more than clear now. That little limp in her gait, the slight hitch with every step. It’s not dramatic or anything, not a collapse-to-the-floor situation, but it’s there. Definitely there. She wears a half-smile as she walks, slapping palms with the girls down the bench. When she high fives Paige, the blonde wants to grab her and stop her, asking what exactly’s wrong. But she doesn’t. She lets her go to the end of the bench, where she reaches Janelle.

Paige watches as Jo leans in, says something low that Paige can’t hear from this far down the bench. But she sees Jo’s face. The way she scrunches her nose, nods slightly, like she’s trying to downplay it but also knows it’s enough of a thing to need attention. Janelle nods, wrapping an arm lightly around Jo’s back, guiding her behind the bench and toward the tunnel.

Paige lets out a long sigh, biting at the inside of her cheek. It’s not that she didn’t think Jo was hurting. She knew that. But there’s something so much worse about seeing her go back there. It’s probably the trauma—because this has been the story the whole season. Like a sick little cycle of setbacks. Injury after injury. Some minor. Some not. Aubrey’s back. Azzi’s knee. Caroline’s head. Dorka’s thumb. Nika’s concussion. Ice’s knee. And then there’s Paige, the original disaster from the summer with the torn ACL. It’s like the basketball gods are allergic to this team being fully healthy.

A few minutes pass. Paige tries to watch the game, but she finds herself glancing back at the tunnel more often than not. Thankfully, it’s not long before Jo and Janelle are coming back out. The aforementioned is walking slower than usual, but she’s walking. Her step isn’t as light as normal, and there’s still that noticeable limp as she makes her way toward the bench. The ankle’s wrapped now, a large bag of ice securely fastened to it.

Jo approaches the seat next to Paige, where Ines was sitting before checking in. As soon as the freshman is sat, Paige is already leaning in. Not too much—she’s trying not to look all dramatic and clingy about it, especially not with Holly Rowe lurking somewhere behind them and probably reporting every breath she takes—but just enough that their knees touch, and Paige can catch her expression.

Jo isn’t wincing, doesn’t really look all that uncomfortable, and Paige stares at her profile for a second longer than necessary, trying to scan her for signs. Pain. Frustration. Panic. But Jo just looks… fine.

“Hey,” Paige says softly, nudging her shoulder. “You good?”

Jo turns her head and smiles a little, like she already knew Paige would ask that the second her ass hit the bench. There’s something about her smile—lazy and a bit crooked, like she’s tired but trying to reassure her anyway—that actually works. Paige breathes out without realizing she was holding it in.

“Yeah,” Jo replies. “She thinks it’s just a minor sprain.”

Paige nods slowly, eyes dropping to Jo’s ankle, the wrap snug around it, tight but not panic-inducing. That’s ironic, she thinks. She sprained her ankle here her freshman year, too. Tennessee’s cursed for her personally, and now maybe for Jo, too. This court just has bad vibes, Paige decides.

“Does it hurt?” she asks, a little quieter this time, like if she lowers her voice enough, the answer might change.

Jo shrugs, the ice rustling against its wrap. “I’m okay, P,” she says.

And Paige wants to believe her. She really does. The logical part of her brain—the part that’s spent more time in trainers’ rooms and rehab facilities than on the court the past two years—tells her that if it were worse, Jo wouldn’t be out here. Janelle wouldn’t let her. She wouldn’t be smiling, or sitting next to Paige looking more at ease than not.

Paige leans back a little, rests her forearms on her thighs, and watches the game continue in front of them. Lou’s still hot, draining another corner three like she’s trying to set the arena on fire. Aaliyah’s muscling her way through the paint like a freight train. The bench goes wild. The fans boo. Paige doesn’t flinch. She’s still half in the game, sure, but she’s half in her head now too, hyper-aware of Jo next to her, the way her foot bounces slightly even with the ice on it, the way her fingers keep tugging at the hem of her jersey like she’s trying to shake off leftover adrenaline.

Paige wants to teach over. Grab her hand. Touch her knee. Something. Anything. But the cameras are always around, and so are the coaches, and their teammates. They’re not supposed to know about anything between the two of them, so Paige has to pretend like her entire world doesn’t shift when Jo’s hurt or limping or even just vaguely not okay.

“You sure?” Paige whispers, not looking at her this time. “You’re not, like… bullshitting me?”

Jo snorts. “When do I ever bullshit you?”

“Literally every time you say you’re fine,” Paige shoots back, side-eyeing her.

Jo laughs again, a breathy little thing that makes Paige’s stomach ease just slightly. “It’s just sore,” she says. “Janelle said I probably tweaked it when I landed weird, but there’s no real swelling. I’ll be alright.”

Paige nods again. Jo sounds sincere right now. She looks it, too.

The buzzer blares for a timeout and the team on the court jogs to the bench. Jo sits forward a bit, yelling out something at Lou, clapping hard with her free hand. Paige watches her carefully, the way she grits her teeth when she claps too hard and how she subtly tucks her foot under the chair, out of view.

Paige wants to drag her back to the locker room and wrap her in bubble wrap and make her sit still. She wants to ask Janelle again herself. She wants to ask Geno. She wants to do something because she’s feeling kind of helpless, and she’s really tired of that particular feeling lately. Watching games. Watching her girl—Jo limp. Watching, always watching. Never doing.

But Jo’s here, and she’s beside her. And Paige doesn’t miss the way Jo leans into her a little now, their shoulders pressed together, their knees already touching.

So Paige doesn’t say anything else. Just lets herself sit here, heart still uneasy, but warmed slightly by Jo’s closeness. It’s not ideal. None of this ever is. But it’s enough for now.

“IT DOESNT EVEN HURT. Chill, please,” Jo says, chuckling lightly, trying to brush off the overprotectiveness in Paige’s eyes. She shifts her ankle a bit, feeling the wrapped bandage around it. Yes, it’s sore. But she’s dealt with much worse. It’s just a minor tweak, nothing that’s going to stop her from playing or hurt her in the long run.

Paige has been acting like she broke it, though. Since the moment they got to the hotel—where Paige immediately switched key cards with Dorka, Jo’s real roommate who’s unfazed at this point—her eyes have been wide, her hands hovering nervously, like she’s about to jump up at any moment to get more ice or do something else to “help” that she thinks might make a difference. It’s cute, and Jo finds it endearing. But it’s gotten to a point.

Paige’s face softens, the concern still there but less sharp now. She takes a slow breath and finally shifts, sitting down on the edge of the bed, and Jo can see the indecision in her eyes. Paige’s always been the type to jump into action, always thinking of ways to fix things, but sometimes, all Jo needs is space to just be for a second. So she waits.

Finally, though, Paige lets out a little sigh, the kind that says fine, whatever, and slowly lays down beside her. She curls up next to Jo, her head finding its way to Jo’s neck, nuzzling into her warmth. For a moment, it’s like everything in the room fades out. It’s just them, in this quiet little bubble that’s theirs, and Jo finally feels herself exhale fully.

“I am chill,” Paige mutters into Jo’s neck, her voice barely above a whisper but still so Paige—a little stubborn, a little sweet, like she’s trying to convince herself as much as Jo. Jo can’t help but smile at the sound of it.

“Uh-huh, sure,” she teases softly, the words slipping easily from her lips. Her fingers reach up to gently brush through Paige’s ponytail, not in a hurry, just slowly tracing the strands as they settle in. Paige huffs out a small laugh, her breath warm against Jo’s skin.

“Shut up,” the blonde murmurs, though there’s not an ounce of bite to it. She’s relaxed, melting into Jo’s side, and Jo feels contentment wash over her. This—this is what she’s been wanting. Not for Paige to keep hovering and fussing, but for them to just be close. To just be together, even in silence.

Jo lets out a slow breath, the weight of the day finally starting to lift. The game, the ankle, the worry over whether she’ll be able to play Villanova on Sunday—it all fades when Paige’s hand drapes over her stomach. That small, steady pressure from Paige’s fingertips is enough to remind Jo that everything’s fine. It’ll all be fine.

And then the older girl shifts again, her body rearranging itself to settle against Jo more comfortably. A second later, Paige’s chin is resting on Jo’s chest, and she looks up at her, their faces mere inches apart. Jo’s breath hitches a little, caught between amusement and something deeper, something softer. Paige’s eyes are playful now, and then she grins—stupidly, the kind that always makes Jo blush.

“You’re pretty,” Paige says, the words simple but wrapped in so much warmth.

The way she says it, with that lazy smile and the softness in her voice, it feels like everything Jo wants to hear but still never quite expects. Jo feels heat crawl up her neck, a flush that spreads quickly, like wildfire. She almost doesn’t know how to react, so she does what feels natural—she pushes Paige’s face away lightly, but the movement is gentle, like she’s holding onto something delicate. “Shut up,” Jo mumbles, the words more out of embarrassment than anything else.

Paige, of course, isn’t fazed. She just shakes her head, her hair brushing against Jo’s skin as she does.

“Uh-uh,” she replies softly, almost a challenge, like she’s determined to get Jo to give in to whatever it is she’s thinking, whatever little game she’s playing right now. Before Jo can say anything else, Paige reaches for her head, grabbing it gently but insistently. She brings it up to her lips, pressing a light kiss to Jo’s knuckles. The feeling and the way the blue of Paige’s eyes roam Jo’s face sends something through the younger girl’s chest, something that feels both familiar and new at the same time.

Jo’s mouth goes dry. It’s stupid how much Paige affects her, how easy it is for her to forget about everything else when the blonde looks at her like this.

And then Paige is leaning up, her lips finding Jo’s. Jo exhales softly into it, a slow sigh escaping her lungs like relief. Her hands slide around Paige’s neck almost instinctively, fingers curing in the fabric of her t-shirt like she needs something to hold onto—like if she lets go, it might all vanish.

Paige’s weight settles more fully on top of her, slow and careful. She’s still being cautious, keeping her right side angled away so she doesn’t press against Jo’s ankle. One of Paige’s hands lifts up to cradle Jo’s jaw, thumb brushing her cheekbone. She leans in further, nose nudging Jo’s, slipping her tongue between the brunette’s lips. Jo’s heart is loud in her ears, thumping like it’s trying to break through her chest, and her lungs are full of Paige’s breath and her mouth is close as it can possibly get, and Jo sorta forgets how to function.

Then Paige makes a soft sound—a little sigh, a little hum—and Jo feels her stomach flip. She tightens her grip around Paige’s neck, pulling her in closer. A shared breath of want curls hotter between their mouths. Jo’s fingers thread into Paige’s ponytail, the soft strands sliding between them like water. Paige’s hands slide down her sides, fingers slipping under the hem of her hoodie, thumbs brushing skin.

Jo gasps, barely audible, and Paige kisses her again like she’s chasing that sound.

And Jo doesn’t really know how it turns into this—messier, hotter, hungrier. When it stopped being soft and started being the kind of thing that makes her pulse trip in her neck and her stomach tighten. She doesn’t even care, honestly. Paige is on her, pressed flush against her like she’s trying to crawl into her skin, and Jo would let her. Would unzip her whole body and say here, take it if that’s what Paige wanted. Her brain is continuously short-circuiting and her mouth is the only thing truly working right now, still chasing Paige’s like she can’t get enough. Because she can’t. Not even close.

It’s sloppy. All teeth and tongue and misaligned breathing. Paige tastes like toothpaste and something sharp that might be need, might be want. Her hands are everywhere. Raking up under Jo’s sweatshirt, dragging across her stomach like she owns it, fingers digging into Jo’s ribs. The younger girl doesn’t even try to keep still. She tugs at Paige’s ponytail with one hand, not hard, just enough to make tilt her head the way she likes. Paige groans into her mouth and Jo swears she feels it in her spine.

The heat crawls up Jo’s neck, under her ears, blooming like wildfire in her chest. She wants. She wants. More than she ever has. It’s like something broke open in her, some seal that’s been holding back the rawness of it. It’s not like this is new. They kiss. They sleep in the same bed. They’ve been toeing every line for months now, orbiting each other like idiots, letting their bodies say what they won’t let their mouths admit.

But they’d had limits. Unspoken, invisible boundaries they don’t cross. Like, for example, sex—and anything that comes close it. Because they’re best friends. Or more than best friends. Or something tangled in the middle that’s never made sense when Jo’s really let herself think about it.

But right now? Jo doesn’t want those limits. She wants to shatter them. Burn them down and pretend they never existed. Because Paige’s fingers are curling against her ribs and her mouth is warm and perfect and Jo feels like she’s going to lose it.

It’s then that Paige’s hand reaches for her hoodie, tugging just slightly—not enough to remove it, but enough to ask. Enough to test. Jo stills for half a second, kiss faltering, breath catching in her throat. Her heart’s thudding so loud it’s embarrassing.

Jo pulls away from Paige’s mouth, lips swollen and chest heaving. Her voice is so wrecked it barely sounds like her own when she says, almost in a whimper, “Fuck, take it off.”

There’s a beat. Just one. Paige blinks, and Jo can see the way it hits her—how her eyes flash and her mouth parts like she wasn’t expecting to hear it, like maybe she thought Jo would stop her. But Jo doesn’t backpedal. She just looks at her, breathless, and waits.

Paige doesn’t hesitate again.

Her hands are on the hem of Jo’s sweatshirt immediately, slipping back underneath, palms warm and steady as she pushes the fabric up and over. Jo lifts her arms, and then it’s gone, tossed somewhere off the side of the bed, forgotten. Paige sits up a little, hovering above her, eyes scanning slowly—not with hunger exactly, but with something closer to awe. Like Jo’s some sort of painting she’s never been allowed to stare at this long.

Jo swallows. Her skin prickles. She’s not wearing a bra. She feels exposed.

“Joey,” Paige breathes, like she forgot how her lungs work.

Jo exhales a laugh. Shaky. Nervous around the edges. “Stop looking at me like that,” she mumbles, grabbing at Paige’s shirt now too, tugging it. Paige just grins, and then takes the liberty of lifting her own arms and taking the shirt off, leaving her in just her sports bra. Jo exhales another shaky breath.

Paige leans back down, slotting her lips against Jo’s again. Her skin is warmer than Jo’s and the brunette shivers a little.

Maybe she’s a little nervous. Not like scared-scared, not in a bad way. But there’s a fluttery sort of tightness low in her stomach, like something big’s about to happen and she doesn’t really know how to brace for it. Like her whole body is buzzing with something like readiness.

And, yeah, it’s kind of scary. Because she’s done this before. Not this. Not with a girl. And not with Paige. Jo’s had sex before, of course. With Asher, who was always so familiar and known. And Paige is familiar, too—in every way except this one. But, Jo supposes, it’s about time.

And Paige is everywhere now. Not all at once, but in that slow, agonizing way that seems almost like she’s memorizing every inch of her, one kiss at a time. Her mouth moves from Jo’s lips to her jaw, trailing heat as she goes. Jo tilts her head back automatically, a soft sigh slipping past her lips. Paige’s tongue flicks out, ghosting along the edge of her skin like she’s tasting, not just kissing.

She continues down Jo’s throat, just under her jaw, then lower, letting her lips drag. She’s so deliberate about it, so unhurried, like she’s not trying to get anywhere quite yet. Like this is the destination.

And Jo just… lets her. Arms loose around Paige’s shoulders, her ankle forgotten, her brain melted. For once, she’s not overthinking. The only thing her mind can conjure up is now. The warmth of Paige’s breath. The gentle scrape of her teeth. How safe Jo feels under her.

When Paige mouths at her collarbone, Jo has to bite her lip to keep from gasping. It’s not even that’s intense—just a kiss, just lips, just Paige—but it still makes her hips shift, her core tighten. Paige feels it. Of course she does. She hums against Jo’s skin like she’s proud of herself.

“Okay?” Paige murmurs, lips brushing against the top of Jo’s chest now, hand sliding up Jo’s torso.

Jo’s voice comes out breathy and more higher-pitched than normal. “Yeah. Yeah, ‘M good.”

And it’s true. She is. She’s good. She’s more than good.

Because Paige is cupping her tit now, her thumb brushing across the skin like she’s trying to soothe Jo’s heartbeat, not rile it up. But it’s not working—Jo’s heart is slamming. And then Paige kisses over it, warm and open-mouthed, and Jo’s done.

She makes this tiny sound—somewhere between a breath and a moan—and she feels Paige smirk against her chest, the smug little shit. But Jo can’t even bring herself to be embarrassed. She just cards her fingers back through Paige’s ponytail, breathing through her mouth now.

The blonde’s mouth closes around one of Jo’s nipples, her tongue swirling. She palms at the other one slowly, rolling the bud between her fingers. Jo lets her eyes flutter shut, just feeling.

Paige keeps going, and Jo’s getting dizzy in that warm, liquidy way, like she’s not even in her body anymore, like her bones are soft and her skin is buzzing and her brain is just static and Paige. Paige, Paige, Paige.

Paige shifts a little. She kisses Jo’s sternum before ducking further. She trails her mouth down Jo’s ribs, across her stomach, slow, like she’s trying to dial everything down to just sweet and careful. And Jo knows it’s on purpose. She knows Paige is setting that pace for her. Because she gets like this sometimes—amped up, nervous, overthinking even when she’s dying to just feel something. And Paige knows that. She knows her. So, instead of rushing, she’s soft. She’s steady. She’s Paige.

Jo feels the bed shift under her as Paige scoots down, her hands dragging gently along Jo’s sides, not trying anything—yet—just touching, holding. Comforting. Her lips brush lower, ghosting the line of Jo’s hip, her breath warm and maddening right at the waistband of Jo’s pajama shorts.

Paige pauses. “D’you want—?” she starts, voice low and quiet and curious.

But Jo’s already nodding, already lifting her hips a little, like yes, God, yes, just do it. The words don’t come out, but she doesn’t have to say anything—Paige reads her face like it’s nothing. She lets out a soft laugh, not mocking, just amused, like okay, okay, I got you, and then she presses another kiss right above the shorts before hooking her fingers into the elastic.

Paige pulls them down slowly, like she’s unwrapping something delicate. Jo’s underwear comes with it, and—surprisingly—she doesn’t even really care about being fully naked. Not when it’s Paige. Not when Paige is being so fucking gentle about it, like every single part of Jo matters.

She tries to keep her breathing even, tries not to fidget or think too hard. Her ankle twinges a little when Paige moves the fabric past it, but Paige’s hands are immediately there, holding her calf, guiding her foot carefully out of the shirts. She doesn’t rush. Doesn’t forget. And once they’re off—tossed somewhere onto the floor—Paige leans down and presses the lightest kiss to Jo’s ankle.

Jo swallows hard. Her throat feels tight.

Paige continues kissing up her leg, slow again, lazy, like she’s got nowhere else to be—which, she doesn’t. Her lips are warm and soft and just a little wet. No feels them drag across her knee, specifically across the scar from her own ACL surgery, then the inside of her thigh, and her whole body shuddered. She bites her lip and grips the hotel sheets, just barely keeping herself grounded.

Paige’s mouth trails over the soft skin of Jo’s inner thigh, her hand resting on Jo’s other leg. The brunette can feel how careful she’s being—like she’s trying to make sure Jo never once feels unsafe or uncomfortable. And that matters—to Jo, it really, really does.

Jo breathes out, unsteady, one hand still tangled in the sheets, the other reaching down to run through Paige’s hair. She can feel the blonde’s breath on her aching and waiting pussy.

“P,” she whispers.

She doesn’t even know what she’s trying to say with it Just hi. You. Me I’m here. I want this. I want you. All of it, unspoken, right there in her voice.

Paige looks up at her, her eyes so soft and blue and perfect that it makes Jo’s stomach clench. “Still okay?” she asks, quiet. It’s different—she’s always so loud.

Jo nods. Too fast, probably. “Yeah,” she says quickly. “Yeah, I just—” She trails off, because she doesn’t really know what she’s trying to say. She’s not scared. She’s just… overwhelmed. In a good way. Like her body is still catching up to what her heart already decided forever ago: this is safe. This is right.

Paige just smiles. A little smug, but mostly sweet. She kisses the inside of Jo’s thigh again, before trailing her mouth once more—to the final destination. Paige leans in and blows very lightly on Jo’s clit. A shaky breath escapes Jo’s nose as she bites the inside of her cheek. And then finally—finally—Paige’s lips make contact.

The blonde presses a kiss there before her tongue peeks out, sliding along Jo’s slit, between her folds. Jo’s fingers dig into the mattress and her thighs try to shut involuntarily but Paige just holds them open, getting into her rhythm. She hums a little against Jo, as if satisfied, her tongue moving up and down slowly, swirling around her clit and then flicking.

And Jo thinks she’s maybe going to actually lose her mind. Like, fully. Brain melting, spine liquefying, soul leaving the building. All because of Paige.

Because Paige is there, and she’s not being even remotely shy about it, all confidence and experience and Jo’s never felt anything like this. Not even close.

Sure, she’s had it done before. By Asher. Who… tried. Sort of. On good days. But it never felt like this. It never made her toes curl or her vision blue or her body tense the way it is right now. There was always this weird pressure with Asher, like she was supposed to be reacting more than she was. Or that she was reacting wrong. She never told him that. Didn’t want to deal with the awkwardness, because things were always supposed to be so perfect between them. But there were plenty of times where she just stared at the ceiling while he ate her out or fingered her or even fucked her and she would just think about her math homework or the her latest in-game turnover.

But this?

This is not that.

This is Paige knowing—despite never having done it with Jo—exactly where to touch her. Exactly how much pressure to use. Exactly what pace to go. Exactly when she should lean down and slip her tongue inside and thrust a couple times before pulling it back out and sliding the juices along Jo’s clit. It’s unfair, honestly, how good Paige is at this. Jo wants to laugh about it, but she can’t even breathe properly, so instead she just digs her fingers deeper into the sheets and lets her head fall back into the pillow.

The way Paige is holding her thighs, steady and secure and strong, like she’s not going anywhere—that alone is doing something feral to Jo’s brain. But the way she’s using her mouth, her tongue, her lips? Like she’s actually wants to be here? Like Jo tastes good and Paige can’t get enough of her?

It sends a jolt through Jo’s chest. Because it’s not just the physical part—it’s the feeling of it. The way Paige hums softly like she’s content. Like this isn’t a favor or a performance or a box to check off. It’s Paige being Paige. Careful. Patient. Stupidly hot in that way that makes Jo want to scream into a pillow and then, like, marry her or something, God.

She closes her eyes and tries not to think too hard. Which is difficult because she always thinks too hard. About everything. Especially this. Especially now.

Because it’s not just that Paige is eating her out like she’s her last meal, making her feel fucking incredible—it’s that she’s letting her feel that way. Letting her fall apart and not feel stupid or self-conscious or like she needs to perform in return. And Jo can just lie here, all shaking limbs and flushed skin and half-whispered gasps, and Paige is content to be the one in control. To be the one taking care of her.

And Jo—Jo loves being taken care of. She never says it out loud, but she does. She really does.

Especially by her.

She risks a glance down, her vision a little blurry from how hard she’s breathing, and she sees Paige looking up at her, eyes half-lidded, mouth glistening with her slick, hands still steady on her hips.

Jo thinks she could cry. Or cum. Or both.

“Oh, my God,” she mumbles, barely able to get the words out. Her voice is so wrecked she almost laughs at herself. “You’re… mhm, stupid good at this.”

Paige doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even flinch. But she does smile a little, and Jo feels the smirk against her cunt. It’s dumb and cocky and the exact kind of Paige she always pretends to roll her eyes at but secretly adores.

When Paige takes Jo’s clit into her mouth and sucks hard, Jo’s hand flies up on instinct, finding Paige’s hair again and tugging. Not too hard, just enough to say don’t stop. Please don’t stop.

Paige definitely gets the message. Because she sucks harder and then, all of a sudden, two of her long fingers are sliding inside Jo, stretching her out. Jo hips jerk upwards in response—sharp and uncoordinated, her breath catching in her throat like it’s trying to make up its mind between a loan and a full-body sigh.

Paige’s fingers pump in and out of Jo’s cunt, her tongue still messily sliding through Jo’s folds. Jo lolls her head to the side, eyes squeezing shut, and lets herself feel. The tension curling low in her stomach. The heat building between her thighs. The way her fingers twitch like they’re searching for something to hold onto that isn’t Paige’s hair or the sheets or her own sanity.

Paige pulls her mouth away, still thrusting her fingers, leaning her cheek against Jo’s thigh to watch. Jo watches as the blonde’s eyes flit between the way Jo’s cunt sucks up her fingers and up to Jo’s face.

“Hey,” Paige murmurs, voice low, warm. “You’re good, ‘kay? I gotchu.”

Jo nods, or at least she thinks she does. Her head twitches anyway. She’s not sure her body is even hers anymore. Everything feels hot and electric and floaty, and the pressure in her gut when Paige curls her fingers inside before slowly pulling them out and then thrusting them back in hard has Jo choking out the blonde’s name. She’s never felt like this before. It’s so different and so much better and she doesn’t know how she ever went without it.

“That’s it,” Paige says gently, encouraging. She presses a sloppy kiss to Jo’s thigh, lips still sticky and leaving a residue behind. “Doin’ so good for me. So pretty. C’mon, baby.”

And that—the word, the tone, the way Paige has never said that before but it still slips out like it’s the most natural thing in the world—unlocks something.

Jo lets out another whimper, thighs clenching tighter, hips bucking before she can stop them. Her entire body jolts in time with the pace of Paige’s fingers, and she feels the rush come crashing in, fast and unstoppable.

“Shit—Paige—fuck—” she gasps out.

Paige keeps going, faster, harder. She keeps missing the inside of Jo’s thigh, whispering something that Jo can’t even make out over the roaring in her ears. Paige curls her fingers one last time—and then it all snaps.

When it’s over—when her body finally goes lax, her arms flopping back into the bed like she’s just run a marathon—Jo lies there in stunned silence. Staring up at the ceiling, her chest still rising and falling too fast, her thighs feeling sticky, her cunt throbbing, her mouth parted but empty of words.

Paige rests her chin gently on Jo’s hip and looks up at her, hair messy, cheeks flushed, lips shining, eyes so soft and full of something Jo’s learning not to be so scared of.

“You okay?” she asks, lips curling up.

And Jo, still panting, still trying to make sense of everything, doesn’t answer. She doesn’t have words yet. Doesn’t even really have thoughts yet, not anything coherent. So instead of answering, she just reaches down and grabs at Paige.

The blonde, of course, goes with it. No hesitation. She crawls up the bed until they’re face to face, her body draped over Jo’s. Their lips meet again, slow for a second, just a soft press. Jo can taste herself on Paige, and it’s weird and good and makes her heart pound even faster. There’s something about it that flips a switch in her, ignites this new kind of fire in her chest that she didn’t even know she had the energy for.

And then she’s moving—fast. One sharp inhale and she’s flipping Paige onto her back, catching the surprised squeak out of her mouth mid-kiss. Jo ends up on top, straddling her with still-shaky limbs and adrenaline pumping through her blood. When she pulls back to look down at her, Paige is grinning.

That fully, gummy smile—the one she only does when she’s really happy. The one Jo adores.

Paige is staring up at her like she’s the best surprise she’s ever gotten.

Jo looks down at her, breath catching again, but this time for a totally different reason. Her body’s still trembling a little, but not really from her orgasm anymore, just from want.

“Why the fuck was I ever dating a boy?” she asks, genuinely baffled, blinking down at Paige. The thought of Asher now, who she’d been so obsessed with her entire life, seems just incredulous now. So dim compared to Paige.

Paige snorts, eyes crinkling, shaking er head. “Beats me.”

Jo lets out a laugh—one that might be a little too giddy—but then she’s already leaning down again, kissing Paige. This time, it’s not slow. Not careful. It’s fast and messy and full of new urgency.

Paige responds immediately—gripping Jo’s waist, then lower, hands landing firmly on Jo’s ass, squeezing. Jo grins against the older girl’s mouth, biting at her lower lip. Her hands roam across Paige’s stomach, feeling the firmness of her abs, before reaching up.

The brunette pulls back just enough to tug at the hem of Paige’s sports bra. “God,” she mutters, “take this off—”

Her hands are there, fumbling a little because she’s still shaky and a little overwhelmed, but Paige doesn’t laugh or tease. She just sits up a bit, helps her out, eyes never leaving Jo’s.

And when the bra’s finally off and Jo sees her—really sees her—she stares. And then leans down to reattach their lips again, telling Paige, “You’re so pretty.”

That seems to do something to her, and she pulls Jo against her harder, so their bare chests are flush against each other. Her tongue tangles with Jo’s and the brunette moans a little into her mouth.

At this point, Jo isn’t even really thinking anymore. Not in the way that counts. Her brain’s gone nicely quiet, like someone hit mute on all the noise she usually lives with. Right now, there’s only this: Paige, flushed and beautiful and real beneath her. Paige, who just made her feel fucking perfect. And Jo wants to make her feel that, too.

She wants to return the favor. Not because she feels like she has to. Not because it’s expected. Just because she wants to.

So, she reaches down, her fingers brushing along Paige’s lower stomach. Paige doesn’t even say anything, just meets Jo’s eyes and lifts her hips. She helps Jo slide her sweatpants and boxers off in one smooth motion. She doesn’t make it a big thing, doesn’t look nervous or self-conscious—just kicks them off with that stupid confidence that she somehow always has.

Once they’re off, Jo leans back down and kisses Paige hard. Their mouths crash together, open and desperate, all lips and tongue and shaky exhalations. It’s sloppy.

They kiss until Jo feels dizzy again. Until Paige is clutching at her back like she doesn’t want her to go anywhere, ever. Until Jo’s lungs feel like they’re caving in from how badly she wants to be closer.

Jo’s hand moves again, slower this time. Down Paige’s side. Over her ribs. Across her stomach, which is warm and tense and fluttering under her palm. And down. Just enough.

She pauses against Paige’s lips, heart pounding in her throat, and asks in a whisper, “Can I?”

Paige breaths hard against Jo’s mouth. She nods once, then says, completely breathlessly, “Only if you want to.”

And Jo does. She really fucking does.

So, she kisses Paige again and slowly slips her fingers between her thighs.

And she kind of has no idea what she’s doing.

Okay, that’s not totally true—she sort of knows. In theory. Like, she’s not walking in completely blind here. She’s fingered herself before. But this is different. This is Paige. This is the first time she’s ever done this with a girl. All she really has to rely on is instincts and the wild, overwhelming need to make Paige feel as good as she made her feel.

Jo keeps her hand steady, even though her brain is no longer quiet, back to doing backflips. Her fingertips are already slick, and the heat radiating off Paige’s body is unreal, almost feverish. Every tiny sound Paige makes—the hitched breath, the muffed moan, the soft, whispered “fuck” when Jo does something right—sends a jolt down Jo’s spine.

“Right there,” Paige says, breath ragged, voice cracking, when Jo presses her fingers deeper, hitting that gummy spot inside. “Just—yeah, like that.”

Jo nods, kissing the side of Paige’s throat. She shifts her hand slightly, curling her fingers the way Paige guided her, and—

That gets a reaction. Paige arches, hips twitching, and her hands scramble for something to hold onto—Jo’s shoulder, the sheets, whatever. Her fingers dig in.

Jo almost forgets how to breathe. Her heart is hammering in her chest. Not just because Paige is clearly into it—which, thank God—but because of how natural it feels. Not easy, necessarily, because she’s still very much learning, still kind of terrified of doing it wrong—but right. Right in that deeply weird way where something you’ve never done before just clicks into place.

It’s strange. Not in a bad way. Just… strange, realizing how different this is from anything she’s done before. With Asher, everything always felt so scripted. Rushed. Weirdly, kind of detached, too. Like she was there but not really there, going through the motions, wondering if it was supposed to feel better, if she should have enjoyed getting him off more than she did.

But Paige? Here, right now?

It’s all-consuming.

Jo stares—watches the way her sharp jaw clenches, the way her bare chest rises and falls unevenly, the little crease between her brows when Jo hits the right spot again. Paige is so in it, so present. Jo isn’t used to how much Paige is giving her right now—how vulnerable she looks, and how safe Jo feels holding her like this.

“You’re doin’ good,” Paige mumbles, breathless, her arm sliding around Jo’s back again, pulling her closer. Her short nails dig into Jo’s spine. “So good.”

Jo’s stomach flips. It’s stupid how much that means. How warm it makes her feel. She pumps her fingers, a little faster.

“Yeah?” she asks. She leans down, kisses along Paige’s collarbone because she needs something to do with her mouth.

Paige nods, palm pressing harder against Jo, head tilting back. “Mhm. Like, real good.”

Jo grins against her skin, a little proud and a lot relieved. Her fingers keep thrusting, falling into a rhythm that matched the stutter of Paige’s breath. It’s a little bit trial and error, but she’s getting the hang of it. And Paige is being so patient, so kind. Still giving her those little instructions when she needs them—a whispered “softer” here, a breathy “deeper” there. Not demanding, not condescending, just guiding.

And she’s so pretty like this. Skin flushed, lips parted, ponytail all messed up. Jo leans down and kisses her again and Paige kisses her back like she needs it, like kissing Jo is the only thing keeping her here. Her cunt tightens around Jo’s fingers, and Jo feels a thrill shoot through her when Paige moans into her mouth.

She can feel Paige getting close—the way her hips jerk, how her pussy pulses, her breath getting shallower. And Jo wants to see it. She pulls back just enough to look down at her, to take it all in.

Paige’s eyes flutter open. She looks up at Jo with blown pupils and eyes full of need. “Joey—fuck, don’t stop,” she groans, almost begging.

Jo doesn’t. Of course not.

She keeps her pace steady, watches every second of it—the way Paige’s back arches, the way her cunt swallows Jo’s fingers, the way her mouth falls open and the soft, broken sounds she makes as she gushes against Jo’s hand. It’s by far the most attractive thing Jo’s seen in her entire life.

Paige goes still for a moment, then slumps back against the mattress, blinking like she’s trying to remember how breathing works.

Jo pulls her fingers out gently. She wipes them on the edge of the blanket, not bothering to care about the mess. She just wants to look at her. At Paige. At her best friend, who’s actually a lot more than that.

Paige finally turns her head to look at her. She’s still catching her breath, cheeks red, lips kiss-bitten. “Shit,” she says, voice hoarse.

Jo lets out a short, breathless laugh. “Yeah.”

Paige shakes her head before tightening her grip on Jo’s back, saying, “C’mere.”

Jo goes, meeting Paige halfway, kissing her. It’s slow, lazy, lips dragging against each other like neither of them is in a rush to come back to reality. Jo’s hand rests on Paige’s side, fingers moving without thought, tracing the soft, warm dip of her waist. Paige’s skin is damp and flushed beneath her.

Jo feels really good. Like her whole body’s buzzing from the inside out. Like something just cracked open inside her and let in fresh air for the first time in a long time.

Paige’s mouth is at her jaw now, a quick nip of teeth before she kisses her way back to Jo’s lips. Jo smiles against her, dazed and stupidly content. She doesn’t want to move. She doesn’t want anything to change.

But then Paige is suddenly pulling back, jerking upright like she just remembered something extremely important. Jo blinks, caught off guard.

“What?” she asks, propping herself up on her elbows.

Paige’s eyes go wide. “Your ankle, bro!”

Jo stares at her, confused for half a second before it hits her—right. Her ankle. Her sprained ankle.

She rolls it, and yeah, it definitely twinges in a way that reminds her maybe throwing herself around the bed wasn’t the smartest decision she’s ever made.

“Oh,” she mutters, pressing her lips together. “Ow.”

Paige is already moving, gently pushing at Jo’s shoulder so she’ll lie back flat. “Joey,” she says, and her voice has this exasperated fondness in it that makes Jo want to grin and roll her eyes at the same time.

“I forgot!” Jo says, both defensive and sheepish. “You were—we were—I forgot!”

Paige shakes her head, but she’s still smiling. She’s not mad. Not even really worried, just Paige-level concerned, which usually means she’s about to fuss over Jo like someone’s grandma. “You’re so stupid,” she says, laughing under her breath.

Jo hits lightly at her arm, but doesn’t actually argue.

Paige leans down, pressing her lips to Jo’s forehead with this stupidly gentle kiss that makes Jo’s heart go inside inside her chest.

“I’mma go get more ice,” the blonde says, already halfway off the bed.

But just as her feet hit the ground, she stops like she forgot something, turning back around. She crawls back over and kisses Jo again, quick and sweet. Like a reflex. Like she needed to. And Jo’s not expecting it, so her breath catches for the smallest second—and then Paige is already up, grabbing at her clothes so she can go out in the hall.

Jo lies there for a second, dazed and blinking at the ceiling. Her whole body feels warm and worn-out and achy in a good way. The bed still smells like both of them, sweat and perfume and arousal.

She exhales slowly.

Yeah, she’s in so deep.

#paige bueckers #uconn wbb #paige bueckers fic #uconn huskies #wbb #dallas wings #wnba #paige bueckers series #paige bueckers x oc #paige bueckers x reader #paige bueckers fluff #paige bueckers smut #wnba x reader #wlw smut #wlw #nobody gets me

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figure-it-out7 · 2 days ago

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Stalker Simon Riley, who just by chance finds you out on his daily run one day, thinks you're the most beautiful thing he's ever seen, and follows you around (at a good distance of course) eventually following you back home.

Simon, who thinks you're oblivious and pretty (just the way he likes them) and goes into your apartment, (breaking in in simplemans terms) after watching you from a distance becomes not enough, and decides to bug your home.

Who doesn't know you're a total geek with a pretty facade, with skills that totally outweigh his in stalking and security (you've probably stalked others once or twice but no need for him to know that-)

Who doesn't know you've already clocked that he's trespassing, your hidden cameras catching him in every room he walks into (pretty much the whole apartment)

You, who at first wants to call the police, seeing his skull mask balaclava and big size, but decides against it because, who wouldn't want a 6 foot something, built like an Greek Olympian in their house? (Let's be reasonable here, I probably wouldn't, but for the plot-)

So instead, she watches him. How he tiptoes around her house, like a cautious cat, making sure to leave things where he sees them and not touching too much, just putting his 'hidden' cameras and audio devices up in places he thinks are best to hear and see you.

You who, when you get home, try very, (seriously, who puts a camera on an obvious spot on the bookshelf?) very hard not to go searching for the cameras, since he could be watching, and just continue with life as normal. What he doesn't know won't hurt him.

Him, who watches you, day in and day out, seemingly content in doing just that. Not knowing the day he walked through the door, you bugged his phone to find his location, and after that, when he was away on deployment, bugged his home (brother how do you live on the floor and only have the big tv you watch me on in your living room?) So technically it's not him watching you, it's you watching him, finding out who he is and how he lives.

The day he realizes it's the other way around, he's got Johnny and Gaz over, showing them the flat screen TV he's got with all your rooms on display.

Gaz finds it a bit revolting, thinks he should lighten up, and probably take down a few cameras (Really Simon? The hallway?) While Johnny cracks a joke, something along the lines of how Simon could get in trouble with you if you find out, and suddenly you..... laugh?

You, who realizing what you did, go stock still and try go about your business, hoping they didn't catch it, but they certainly did.

Simon, Johnny, and Gaz all sit there, confused, and don't understand why you laughed. How you laughed at that joke that Johnny made. You couldn't hear him.....could you?

Simon, who's now searching his house for bugs and cameras. Who finds at least a good dozen, all hidden in expert hiding spaces (girl, where'd you learn to do that?) And you, who's feeling more and more dread in the pit of your gut everytime he finds one of your hidden cameras.

(Getting this off my chest, whoever wants to continue this, you have my permission. This is meant to be a Stalker unknowingly being stalked type read, so you can keep along the lines.)

#call of duty #cod 141 #cod #simon cod #simon ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley #simon ghost riley #johnny soap mactavish #johnny mactavish #kyle gaz garrick #kyle garrick #tf 141 x reader #tf 141 #tf 141 headcanons

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writingbluerose · 2 days ago

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TWST DRABBLE #18

The distant jazz music could be heard from all around while you and the others walked on the pale-yellow cobbled streets. Admiring the traditional houses and gentle music, you were most grateful that Jade had invited you and Grim to this event ;

When he came personally to Ramshackle to invite you, you found it hard to say no, double hard since he was your boyfriend and all that. What you didn't expect was that he'd invited Rook, Riddle and even Malleus to come assist him. Didn't he say he only needed to fill Floyd's spot...? Well, you'd rather not ask him...

And that's how you ended up here. Jade was in the front, guiding you to the main spot of the wedding with the others behind him, you watching Grim and Malleus happily chatting “Ohh, a fish!” “Grim be careful...” But the cat did not hear you, he happily skipped after the fish not noticing the barrel that he soon ran into, “Ah look at that he went right into that barrel” Malleus' gentle voice had an amused tint to it, you sighed, “His fault for being a glutton all the time” “You should pay more attention to your surroundings Grim” Riddle's stern voice scolded him while he watched the cat sniff from the pain before taking a spot on your shoulders ; “I'm truly mesmerized by this place Jade, so did you truly grow up here?” The merman chucked “Here yes, but not on the surface, as you know I was born an eel so of course I had spent my childhood in the waters. But of course, me, Floyd and Azul were given a lot of training and lessons about how to live on land before we got our first transformation potion” “Is that so? — Malleus put a hand on his chin in wonder — to think you'd need to learn so much just for a potion...” Jade chuckled again before continuing his walk

After a while of walking, you finally arrived at the place. A beautifully decorated harbor with a wooden path heading to a boat decorated with a dozen of different white flower bouquets. At the beginning of the wooden path, a gate of the same material could be seen, decorated with beautiful pink roses accompanied by a white cloth that was slowly shifting in the wind. And of course, the main decoration couldn't be missed, a beautiful silk path with beautiful designs fit for the theme of the city you were now in “Jade this is amazing! I don't feel like I'm enough to go to this wedding, it's beautiful” Jade laughed and put his hand around your waist “Now don't be so modest my dear, I chose you to come with me for a reason after all” Jade gave you one of his soft smiles “Oh how nice, you're all here! I hope you didn't wait too long”

Suddenly, a smooth yet soft voice made its way to your ears, and turning around, you found standing behind you an amazing tall lady, dressed in a black dress with a hat that blocked the sun out of her face, a face that..., it looked oddly the same with Jade's... could it be—? “Ah yes, everyone, this is my mother” Of course! The resemblance is uncanny... “And who is this nice company Jade?” “These are my best friends from Night Raven Collage” Everyone's expressions quickly turned to surprised ones, since to be called a best friend by the Jade Leech? That was something else ( Malleus seemed quite happy at the title, his smile was quite giddy )

You laughed at his expression, not noticing Jade making his way to you. He gently took your hand and guided you to his mother : “And this, mother — he gestured to you with a smile — is my girlfriend” You blushed, embarrassed, before giving the woman a little wave, at which Jade chuckled once again “My, my, is this the little Shrimpy I've heard about from Floyd? He could never stop talking about how you have my son Jade over here wrapped around your fingers” Jade's eye twitched at hearing whatever his twin said to his mother, but kept his smile on anyway, “My name is Georgina Leech, it's wonderful to meet you dear” You gave her a small smile in return to hers “The pleasure is mine miss” The woman took your hands in hers and shaked them, making you laugh

This might be the best event you've been to yet

#✦ ~ 𝐚𝐳𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐬 !#ughhh i have sm Jade brainrot rn #my likeness for him crawling out of the ground #it is time #anyway here's some Coral Sea Event full bc why not?#prob gonna do more #for sure #twst #twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #jade leech #jade leech x reader

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sheriffaxolotl · 2 days ago

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Better (Abby Anderson x f!reader)

Warnings: Smut (18+ MDNI), cheating, use of words like cunt/pussy Wordcount: 8.4K A/N: This is my first time writing a smut between two characters. So, might be good, might be bad. Please let me know! Critique would be hugely appreciated !

Summary: She could be a better boyfriend than him.

The bass thumps through the house like a second heartbeat, a dull, relentless pulse that rattles the windows and your skull. You already regret coming. The lights are low and tinted too red, and the air smells like spilled beer and too much cologne. Solo cup in hand, you snake your way toward the kitchen, phone raised like a shield, pretending to text someone—anyone—just to avoid making eye contact with the half-drunk crowd grinding to music that hasn’t been cool since high school.

Your boyfriend is nowhere to be seen. Said he’d just stepped out for a second—over thirty minutes ago. Classic.

You lean back against the edge of the counter, shoulders tense, trying to melt into the cabinetry. You scroll through the same three notifications again, wondering if anyone would even notice if you slipped out the front door. Maybe you’d just Uber home. Maybe—

A hand brushes your wrist. Warm. Intentional. And somehow, electric.

You look up.

Abby Anderson.

She’s standing just a little too close. Leather jacket slung over a tight black tee that hugs her just right, jeans riding low on her hips, and that damn smirk tugging at her mouth like she already knows something you don’t. Her hair’s pulled back loose, a few strands falling forward like she couldn’t be bothered to fix them before walking into the party and still managed to make it look effortless. Movie-scene levels of hot.

You’ve known Abby for a while—same classes, mutual friends, occasional gym hangouts—but she’s never looked at you like this.

Like the whole party’s just noise and you’re the only clear thing in the room.

“I can’t believe we’re finally alone,” she murmurs, her voice low and rough, barely audible over the music.

You blink, caught off guard. “What?”

She chuckles under her breath, the sound low and rich. “You always show up to these things with him. I almost didn’t bother coming tonight.”

Your eyes flick toward the living room, where bodies move in a blur of shadows and bass. Still no sign of him. Of course.

Abby’s eyes don’t follow yours. They stay fixed on you. Watching. Waiting.

“What are the chances?” she says after a beat, taking half a step closer. “Everyone’s dancing, the house is packed, and yet... he’s not with you.”

You feel it then—deep in your stomach. That fluttering, unsettling spark. You’re not sure if it’s the alcohol or her voice or just the way she’s looking at you, like she’s trying to decide whether to kiss you or ruin your life. Maybe both.

You shrug, trying to deflect, suddenly too aware of the heat creeping up your neck. “You know how he is.”

Abby’s jaw tightens just slightly. “Yeah,” she says. “I know exactly how he is.”

Her gaze flicks down to your wrist again, to the spot where her fingers brushed you. She doesn’t touch you this time. Not yet. But her hand hovers, twitching, like she’s debating something.

You swallow hard, suddenly needing air that isn’t thick with perfume and tension. “You’re acting weird,” you say, half-laughing, trying to cut the tension before it chokes you.

“No,” Abby says, head tilting. Her voice drops, goes velvet-smooth. “I’m acting honest.”

You narrow your eyes slightly. “Honest?”

She steps in, just close enough that her breath brushes your cheek. You can smell the faintest trace of mint on her lips.

“I’ve been watching you,” she says, quiet but firm. “Every time you show up with him. Every time he disappears on you. Every time you pretend not to care.”

You don’t move. Can’t.

Her voice softens, almost like she’s afraid you’ll bolt. “I don’t know what he’s doing, walking away from someone like you. But I do know what I’d do if you were mine.”

Your heart skips. Then stumbles. “Abby—”

She cuts you off, not with words, but by gently—finally—sliding her fingers around your wrist again. It’s not forceful. Just there. Steady. Real.

“I could be a better boyfriend than him,” she says. No teasing this time. Just quiet conviction. “I’d show up. I’d stay. I’d make you feel seen.”

You exhale, the sound half a scoff, half an attempt to push down the sudden ache in your chest. “You’re drunk,” you say, but it sounds thin. Weak.

“I’m not,” she says, stepping even closer, crowding into your space, but not unwelcome. “I’m dead sober. And I’ve been thinking about stealing you from him since the moment I saw you tonight.”

Your heart skips.

“I could be such a gentleman,” she adds, her voice like velvet now. “Plus—” she grins— “all my clothes would fit.”

You shake your head, grinning despite yourself. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Maybe,” Abby shrugs, not letting go of your hand, “but I’m not wrong. You know I’m not.”

You should say something clever, something to shut her down or laugh it off. But instead, you glance down at your phone again—three unread texts from your boyfriend.

Where r u

Be right back, chill

Don’t start drama pls

You lock your phone and slide it into your pocket.

“I don’t need to tell you twice,” Abby says, reading your silence like a damn novel. “You know all the ways he falls short.”

She tilts her head, studying you with that steady, unreadable gaze that makes your stomach twist. “If I could give you some advice…” Her voice is soft now, like it’s meant only for you, cut off from the noise and heat around you.

You meet her eyes, hesitant. “Yeah?”

Her mouth quirks into a subtle smirk, but there’s something deeper behind it—something that feels like truth. “I’d leave with me. Tonight.”

Your heart lurches. Your lips part, some weak protest fumbling to the surface, but she cuts you off before it can form.

“Ladies first, baby,” she murmurs, her voice rough velvet. “I insist.”

You freeze—not because you’re unsure, but because everything in you is sure, and that’s the terrifying part. The confidence in her words, the closeness of her body, the way she’s just there, so solid and real—every inch of her feels like something you’ve been aching for without even realizing.

You look at her. Really look.

And all you can think is: Why the hell am I still waiting on someone who never looks at me like this?

Abby watches your face shift. Watches the storm behind your eyes and says nothing. Just steps closer, slow and patient, until there’s barely a breath between you.

“I never would’ve left you alone,” she says quietly, her words deliberate and low. “Not glued to your phone. Not standing in a corner like you’re invisible.”

It hits something deep in your chest.

The sounds of the party start to melt away—like someone’s slowly turning down the volume on everything except her voice, her presence. Abby’s hand finds yours again. Warm. Steady. She squeezes once, gentle. A question.

“Let me take you home,” she says.

You don’t respond. Not yet.

Instead, you stare at her lips. And she sees it—sees you falter forward an inch before stopping yourself. The air between you turns thick, charged with something neither of you says out loud.

Her eyes flick to your mouth, then back to your eyes. “Say it,” she whispers. “Or do it. But don’t run back to someone who keeps forgetting how lucky he is.”

You hesitate, just a breath longer.

Then you step in, heart hammering so loud you’re sure she can hear it. You reach up, fingers brushing the edge of her jacket—but you don’t kiss her. Not yet. You stop there, close enough to feel her breath against your skin.

She doesn’t move either. She waits. Eyes locked to yours. Letting you choose.

And you do.

You slide your hand up, curling your fingers into her lapel like a lifeline, and when you finally pull her in, it’s slow. Careful. Like the seconds are stretched out and folded in on themselves.

Your lips meet—tentative, testing—and the first touch is barely more than a breath, a question neither of you wants to ask too loudly. But then she leans in, and so do you, and suddenly you’re kissing her for real—deep, slow, and undeniable.

It’s not frantic. It’s not rushed.

It’s full of everything you haven’t let yourself feel. All the longing, all the frustration, all the what-ifs you’ve swallowed down night after night.

Abby’s hand comes up to your cheek, thumb brushing along your jaw with a kind of reverence, like she’s afraid to wake you from a dream. You let out a shaky breath into her mouth, your whole body leaning into her without even meaning to.

And then she’s moving.

Her other arm slips around your waist, anchoring you to her like she’s afraid you might still vanish—and maybe a part of you is afraid too. But her grip is real, grounding, and suddenly there’s no room left for doubt.

Abby reacts instantly, her hand gliding from your cheek to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair as she pulls you deeper into her. The kiss changes, sharpens. From a question to an answer. From want to need.

You feel the heat of her body press flush against yours, her chest against your own, the contact dizzying in its intensity. She tastes like mint and something more—something wild and reckless, like the edge of something dangerous, something you didn’t know you needed until right now.

The kiss turns urgent. Desperate. Like you’re both trying to make up for every second wasted pretending this wasn’t inevitable.

Abby backs you up until your spine meets the edge of the counter, the cold granite biting into your skin, a jarring contrast to the fire catching between your bodies. You moan softly into her mouth, the sound swallowed by her lips, and she groans in response—a low, rough sound that vibrates through your chest and straight down your spine.

Her hands slip lower, slow and deliberate, testing the edges of your waistband before settling on your hips. She pulls you against her with intent, with heat, grinding you into the shape of her body like she’s carving you there.

And in that moment, it doesn’t matter that you’re still in someone’s kitchen at a party you didn’t want to come to. It doesn’t matter who’s in the next room or what excuses are waiting on your phone.

All that matters is her.

“You’ve been wanting this, haven’t you?” Abby breathes against your lips, voice rough, thick with something primal.

You don’t deny it. You don’t want to.

You don’t answer, can’t answer, because she’s already slipping her hand underneath your shirt, her fingertips grazing the soft skin of your stomach, sending shivers through you. You arch into her touch, your mind clouded, your body responding to her in ways you hadn’t anticipated.

Her lips trail down your neck, kissing a path toward your collarbone, and you can’t help but moan softly, threading your fingers into her hair to guide her closer. Abby’s hands are everywhere—on your hips, your waist, your back—and you feel like you might just crumble under her touch, the intensity of it stealing your breath away.

But before you can get too lost in the moment, Abby pulls back slightly, her forehead resting against yours, her breath heavy.

“Are you sure?” she asks, her voice low, almost a growl, like a predator checking if its prey is willing.

You blink, struggling to clear the haze in your mind. The answer is there, pulsing in the back of your throat, but the question feels so out of place, considering how badly you want this.

“I’m done waiting,” you whisper, voice shaky but resolute.

Abby’s lips curve into a wicked grin, and she nods, her eyes dark and focused on you. She leans in to kiss you again, but this time, it’s more deliberate, more controlled. She wants to take her time with you, savoring every second.

As her lips crash against yours once more, you know there’s no turning back now. Whatever boundaries you had left, whatever morals or hesitation, have already melted away in the heat of this moment.

And just as you feel yourself sinking deeper into the world Abby is pulling you into, her hand slides to the hem of your shirt, tugging it up slowly, her fingertips leaving a trail of fire in their wake.

"Upstairs," she murmurs against your lips, voice thick with need. "Right now."

You don’t hesitate. Grabbing your jacket from the back of the counter, you take her hand.

Abby’s hand tightens around yours as she leads you through the sea of bodies, her grip steady and possessive, pulling you away from the kitchen and deeper into the maze of the house. The music pulses louder as you pass through rooms, the air thick with the mingling scents of alcohol, sweat, and cheap cologne, but none of it matters.

Not when she’s so close, her body brushing against yours with every step, every shared glance that makes your stomach flip.

You can feel her warmth, the steady rhythm of her breathing, and you’re so close now, your senses overwhelmed by her presence. As you reach a quieter hallway at the back of the house, Abby doesn’t slow down. She pulls you into a room at the end, one that’s been abandoned by the partygoers, a cozy little study filled with mismatched furniture and the dim glow of a single lamp in the corner.

The door shuts behind you with a soft thud, and the moment the latch clicks, Abby doesn’t waste any time. She spins you toward her, her lips capturing yours in a kiss so intense that it leaves you breathless. The quiet of the room is a stark contrast to the chaos outside, and every kiss, every touch between you both feels amplified in the stillness.

Abby’s hands roam freely now, sliding down your sides and over your hips as if she can’t get enough. She pulls you closer, her chest pressing against yours, and you feel the heat of her body in the way she holds you—firm, urgent, like she’s afraid you might slip away.

You respond with equal hunger, your hands finding their way to the back of her neck, fingers threading through her hair. She lets out a soft groan when you tug her closer, and you revel in the sound. The tension between you two is palpable, thick in the air like static before a storm, and you can’t think about anything else but her.

“You’ve got me all to yourself now,” Abby murmurs against your lips, her voice a low, husky whisper that sends a shiver down your spine.

You nod, your own words stuck in your throat. All that’s left is the pull of her, the heat that rises between you both like wildfire.

Without another word, Abby’s hands move to the hem of your shirt, tugging it upward with a slow, deliberate motion that has your heart racing. The cool air brushes against your skin, and you shiver in anticipation, watching her eyes darken with something raw and intense as she takes in every inch of you.

“God, you’re so beautiful,” she mutters, her voice thick with desire, and you can’t help the rush of heat that floods your cheeks at her words. You’ve never heard her sound like this before—this unguarded, this raw. It makes something inside you ache in a way you didn’t expect.

You step forward, closing the distance between you as you slide your hands under the edge of her jacket, lifting it off her shoulders and tossing it aside. The fabric of her shirt is soft under your fingertips, and you feel the heat of her skin as you press against her, feeling the outline of her muscles as your hands move lower, exploring.

Abby’s breath hitches when your hands graze over her waist, her lips finding yours again, hungry and frantic now. The kiss is full of promises you both don’t need to say out loud, the weight of everything unsaid hanging between you like a thread pulling tighter and tighter.

The urgency in the air heightens, and every touch, every movement feels like it’s pushing you both closer to the edge. She guides you toward the couch in the corner of the room, but you don’t quite make it before your hands are on her again, pushing her against the nearest wall.

“Abby,” you gasp, voice breaking with a mix of desire and need.

She smirks, her lips curling into something wicked as she presses herself against you again, this time with more force. “I’ve got you now,” she murmurs, her breath hot against your ear, “and I’m not letting you go.”

Before you can respond, Abby’s hands slide firmly around your thighs, and with a sudden, dizzying movement, she lifts you. Your legs instinctively wrap around her waist as she carries you with ease, like your weight is nothing—like she’s meant to hold you. Her grip is strong, steady, and the muscles in her arms flex with every step as she strides toward the couch across the room.

You cling to her, breath caught somewhere between a gasp and a laugh, your fingers tangling in the collar of her shirt. “Abby—”

She cuts you off with a kiss—slow at first, savoring it, like she wants to memorize the shape of your mouth, the taste of your skin, the sound you make when her lips graze yours just so. But it doesn’t stay slow for long.

By the time she lowers you to the couch, her body follows, pressing you down with a heat that makes your skin burn in the best way. Her mouth stays on yours, hungry now, claiming. Her tongue slips past your lips with a confident tilt of her head, and you moan into her before you even realize you’re doing it.

She swallows the sound like it’s a reward—grinning against your kiss as her hands trail down your sides, fingers mapping the curve of your waist with purpose. She presses her hips into yours, grinding slow and deep, and your back arches off the cushions in response, your breath catching in your throat.

Her hands roam lower, gripping your hips with firm purpose, then sliding up beneath your shirt again, this time with no hesitation. She breaks the kiss just long enough to tug it over your head and toss it somewhere over her shoulder. Her own comes off just as quick—revealing toned muscle and the kind of sculpted softness that makes your breath catch.

You stare for a beat, eyes raking over her, lips parted.

“Eyes up here,” she teases, breathless but grinning, and leans down to kiss along your jaw, down your neck, her hands anchoring your hips like she’s claiming them. “Or don’t. I kind of like the way you look at me.”

You barely manage to bite back a whimper as her teeth graze the sensitive spot beneath your ear, and your hands find the curve of her back, nails digging in when she grinds her hips down into yours.

“Abs…” you whisper, but there’s no question in your voice—just need.

Her voice is a low growl at your ear. “Tell me what you want.”

“You.”

She hums in approval, kissing down the slope of your collarbone. “Then lie back, baby,” she says, one hand already guiding you down again with firm, gentle pressure. “And let me take care of everything.”

And you do—because her weight between your thighs, her hands on your body, her mouth claiming yours over and over—it’s the first time you’ve felt wanted in so long.

And Abby doesn’t just want you.

She knows exactly what to do with you.

The push of her thigh between your legs has a moan coming from your mouth that is nothing but desperate. Clearly enough that it causes that wicked smirk to come back to her lips as she leans over you more, gently grinding the muscle against your core as you mutter a low ‘fuck’ as your brain short circuits from the small action.

Her smirk deepens as she watches the way your breath stutters, how your hips instinctively roll against her thigh. Abby leans in, her lips brushing your temple before trailing a slow, deliberate path back down to your neck. She presses a kiss just beneath your jaw, then another, softer one at the hollow of your throat. “You’re so responsive,” she murmurs, voice low and full of pride. “I barely touch you and you’re already trembling.”

You are, and there’s no point in denying it. Your body feels like it’s caught fire—heat blooming at every point where her skin touches yours.

The steady grind of her thigh is both grounding and electrifying, like a steady beat beneath the chaos. And Abby? She’s completely in control. Patient, confident, like she’s been waiting to have you like this and she’s going to take her time now that you’re here. One of her hands slips under you, sliding along the small of your back, the warmth of her palm sending a fresh ripple of sensation up your spine.

The other brushes up your side, fingers tracing the curve of your ribcage before splaying out across your chest, over your racing heart. She looks down at you like she’s taking a mental snapshot, something she wants to burn into her memory. “You’re beautiful like this,” she says softly, the heat in her eyes belying the gentleness of her voice.

Your fingers clutch at her shoulders, dragging her down for another kiss—messier now, fueled by everything swirling between you. Abby leans into it, one hand slipping down, finding the waistband of your jeans with practiced ease. She works the button open, her touch confident but unrushed, like she wants to savor every second.

The zipper gives with a soft sound, and she eases the denim down your hips, eyes never leaving yours as she does. Her gaze lingers, hungry and reverent all at once, like unwrapping a gift she’s waited too long to hold.

Abby doesn’t pause—doesn’t need to. The way your body reacts, the way your breath catches under her touch, is all the answer she needs. Her mouth finds yours again, deeper this time, less like a kiss and more like a claim. You melt into it, fingers threading through her hair as she presses closer, one hand keeping your bodies flush while the other explores every inch of skin she can reach.

“You drive me crazy,” she growls against your lips, her voice rough and low like it’s been dragged over gravel. “Been thinking about this—about you—way too long.”

You can feel it in the way her fingers grip your side, in how her lips move along your jaw, down your throat, like she’s trying to map every inch of you by memory. Every breath is heavier now, laced with tension that’s been building for far too long. The couch creaks beneath you as she shifts, her knee nudging yours apart just slightly, just enough to steal your breath.

Her mouth trails lower, leaving a trail of heat behind, and her hands never stop moving—firm, sure, and undeniably hers. You arch into her instinctively, your head tipping back with a quiet gasp as your hands tug her closer, needing more.

“Just like that,” Abby murmurs, a crooked grin tugging at her lips as she watches you fall apart beneath her touch. “Look at you.”

Your eyes flutter open just enough to catch the way she’s looking at you—like you’re something rare and burning, something she's wanted for longer than she’d ever admit. That look alone sends another shiver down your spine.

She leans down, lips brushing your ear, breath warm and wild. “I’m gonna ruin you for anyone else.”

And just like that, she’s slipping from your grasp—her hands sliding down, thumbs catching the edge of your underwear as she eases it away. Every movement is unhurried and deliberate. Her mouth doesn’t stop for a second—leaving soft, lingering kisses along your neck, across the curve of your chest, down your stomach. Each one lights a spark under your skin, and by the time she settles between your thighs, you’re already breathless.

Her eyes meet yours—dark, intense, unwavering. “Just like that, baby,” she murmurs, her voice all velvet and fire, “keep your eyes on me.”

The way she’s looking at you… it’s too much and not enough all at once. Like she’s reading every unspoken word etched into your bones, every need you’ve barely admitted to yourself. Her grip tightens on the backs of your thighs, anchoring you, steadying you, and when her breath fans across your weeping cunt, a shiver rocks through you. The sound that escapes your lips is a tangled mess of a gasp and a curse, and her fingers only press deeper, holding you in place.

Then she leans in, and the first press of her mouth to your pussy pulls a ragged cry from your throat. “F–fuck, Abs—” But she doesn’t relent. She doesn't even pause.

Her tongue moves with intention, slow and devastating, tasting every inch of you. Every glide, every flick, every swirl against your clit builds you higher, and there’s no room left in your chest for anything but the sounds she draws from you.

The low sound that rumbles from her throat when she sinks deeper sends another tremor through you. She presses closer, one strong arm sliding beneath you to keep you right where she wants you. You’re gasping now, hips jerking, chasing the rhythm she’s setting—your body flushed with heat, your legs starting to tremble.

And then she hums—just a little—and it sends a jolt through your cunt, right to the base of your spine. Your hands find her hair, fingers twisting tight, a plea caught in your breath as your eyes squeeze shut.

It’s happening so fast—and you feel it building, barreling toward something you can’t stop. And maybe you don’t want to.

Because it’s not just her mouth.

It’s what she sees.

It’s the way she shows up.

It’s the way she touches you like you matter, like your pleasure isn’t an obligation, but something she craves—something she’s been waiting to give you from the second you started settling for less.

Your boyfriend hasn’t looked at you like this in months. Hasn’t listened. Hasn’t asked what you need. And when he does touch you, it’s half-there, distracted, like he’s checking off a box, not trying to feel you. Not like this.

Not like Abby.

Abby, who’s on her knees for you like she worships at the altar of your body. Abby, who doesn’t need to be asked twice. Abby, who touches you like she’s making up for every lonely night, every unanswered message, every time you told yourself, “This is just what relationships are sometimes.”

Her lips seal tighter, tongue circling with a purpose that makes your toes curl. You gasp, broken and breathless. And then she slides a finger into you—slow and full and just right—and your back arches off the couch like a current’s shot through your spine.

“Abby, please,” you manage, voice barely a whisper, frayed and desperate. “I’m so close.”

She doesn’t stop. If anything, she doubles down. She knows your body like she’s memorized it in dreams, and now she’s playing every part like a symphony rising to its crescendo.

Your thighs tighten around her shoulders, your hands gripping her as you fall apart with her name on your lips, everything crashing through you in waves.

“I’m gonna cum—oh fuck, Abby—”

The first crest hits you and then everything else after that is lost in the chaos. You lose track of everything—where you are, what you are, who you are—you only exist as a bundle of nerve endings, every single one firing all at once and your entire world turns white.

Somewhere in the distance you hear Abby moan, a sound so filthy it might have pushed you over the edge all over again if your body wasn't already wrung out, your chest heaving, your lungs burning.

Your legs fall open, sliding off her shoulders, limp.

Abby wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and then crawls up next to you, wrapping you in her arms, a kiss pressed to your forehead. Your head falls back against the arm of the couch, your hands slipping from her hair as you try to remember how to breathe.

"Fuck," you sigh, your eyes still closed.

Her hand settles on your knee, thumb brushing along the line of your thigh. "I think that's the most I've heard you swear," she murmurs, the sound of her voice and the warmth of her palm against your skin making it impossible not to open your eyes.

"That's because it's the best I've ever had," you reply, a smirk tugging at your lips.

Abby doesn't even bother trying to hide her grin, preening at the sentence. But she also doesn't just let the energy between you settle. "Told you, I’m gonna ruin you for anyone else." She said, before one hand was wondering up your chest and the other one was lowering down your thigh again.

You can't help but shudder, the promise in her voice alone enough to get you riled up all over again. "You're really not wasting any time," you laugh, but when her fingertips slip between your folds again, you're the one who shudders.

"Not when I've been thinking about this for far too long," she replies, her fingers sliding deep, and you have no choice but to give yourself over to her.

Abby doesn't hold anything back. And you're more than willing to meet her head-on.

By the time she eases back, the room is thick with the sounds of you falling apart, the air hot and heavy. There's a faint sheen of sweat across her shoulders, and her lips are swollen, cheeks flushed.

"Fuck, you're gorgeous," the words fall from your lips without thought, and her answering grin is the most beautiful thing you've ever seen.

She leans in, and when her mouth covers yours, the taste of you lingering on her tongue, a shiver runs down your spine. "Not as gorgeous as you are," she whispers, before her mouth is moving down your neck, fingers tugging the cup of your bra down before latching around your left nipple.

"Oh fuck!" You hiss, her teeth sinking into the tender flesh, the sharp pain melting into pleasure.

She takes her time, alternating between rough bites and soothing licks, her hand sliding up and down your side, her thumb grazing the swell of your breast. Then her mouth is gone, her hand is also gone from you, wrapping around the back of your thigh, spreading you open.

"Look at you, so ready for me," Abby murmurs, her eyes drinking you in. "Really should have taken you out of here, bet you would look even better takin' my strap."

The mere thought of it is enough to make your thighs tremble, and her responding grin is sinful. "Oh, you like that idea, huh?"

"Yes," the word rushes out of you in a breathless rush, and her hand squeezes your thigh.

"Next time, baby," she promises, and then she's lowering herself back down, and her mouth is everywhere.

The slide of her tongue, the nip of her teeth, the warmth of her breath—it's intoxicating, and it's only a matter of moments before you're falling apart again, a hoarse cry slipping from your lips.

You don't even notice she's stopped until her hands slide down your thighs, soothing you. It takes a moment for you to regain the ability to speak, and by the time you've got your eyes open, she's leaning over you, her hair falling around her shoulders.

"Hey," her voice is gentle, a crooked smile curling her lips. "You with me?"

"Yeah," the word falls from you in a slow exhale, and her smile grows.

"Good," She mumbled, her eyes looking over your features. The sound of the party can be heard faintly through the door, but all you can do is look at her. Practically fully clothed besides that black sports bra clinging to her chest, Abby towers over you like a storm still crackling with lightning. Her jeans ride low on her hips, the muscles in her stomach flexing with each slow, controlled breath, and there’s something in her eyes that makes your pulse spike all over again—hunger, satisfaction, and just a hint of smugness.

Her braid’s messy now, strands of gold clinging to her flushed skin, and her chest glistens faintly with sweat. She’s never looked more raw, more dangerous, more real. Every inch of her is tense with heat and control, like she could devour you all over again if she wanted to—and God, you want her to.

Abby braces herself on either side of your head, arms trembling slightly from restraint. Her eyes flick over your face like she’s memorizing every expression you’ve made—every breathless whimper, every broken plea. She dips her head, brushing her lips along your jaw, the ghost of a smile curving into something darker.

“You’re a fucking dream like this,” she mutters, low and rough, voice rasping like it’s been dragged through fire. “Can’t believe I get to be the one to wreck you like that.”

You shift beneath her, hands gliding up her sides, mapping out the lean definition of her torso. Every breath she takes is steady, but you can feel the tension still thrumming in her body—like she’s barely holding herself together.

Then you move, catching her off-guard. With a quick twist and a shove, Abby lets out a low grunt as you flip her onto her back against the couch cushions, her braid falling across the armrest, her legs bent awkwardly before she relaxes into the plush seat with a laugh—surprised, breathless, and completely at your mercy.

You straddle her thighs, palms pressed to her chest, and lean in close, your lips brushing the shell of her ear.

“It’s my turn now.” You whisper, voice low and rough with want.

Abby’s smirk falters, just barely. Her eyes search yours, pupils blown wide, and she licks her lips, her chest rising faster beneath the cling of her sports bra. One of her hands grips your thigh, tight, anchoring herself as if she’s trying to brace for what’s next.

There’s still heat in her gaze—always—but now it’s tinged with anticipation, curiosity, a rare flicker of surrender.

You roll your hips forward slowly, deliberately, and her breath catches in her throat.

“I want to ruin you back,” you murmur, eyes locked on hers. “Want you to feel what I did. Every second.”

Her hand slides up your back, nails scraping lightly through the sweat-slicked skin. “Then take it,” she growls, low and eager. “I’m not going anywhere.”

She lifts her hips, pushing up to meet you, and you grind down into her with a low groan, pressing your body against hers. You bury your face against her throat, mouthing at the damp skin, and she tilts her head back, exposing her neck for you. You bite down, sucking at the soft spot beneath her ear, and she hisses through her teeth, hips rolling into yours, her breath growing ragged.

Your hands move up, tangling in her hair, and she gasps, fingers digging into your hip as you drag your mouth along the curve of her throat, biting, licking, marking her. Abby arches up into you, panting, and the feel of her chest heaving beneath yours is enough to make your toes curl, heat racing along your spine.

Your hands fall to her chest, and you drag the tip of one finger slowly across the edge of her bra. Abby bites her lip, groaning, her eyes fluttering shut.

You drag your palm over the curve of her breast, and she lets out a muffled curse, her other hand clamping down on your waist. Her nipples pebble under your touch, and she arches her back, straining against the fabric.

You smile against her throat.

Your fingers loop into the elastic of her bra, and without needing words she lifts her arms up as you pull it over her head. You toss her bra aside, barely catching the way Abby’s eyes darken as they rake over your face. Her chest rises and falls with each breath, bare now beneath your touch, her skin warm, flushed.

You lean in, kissing just above her heart, then lower still, your lips tracing the line between strength and softness. Her skin is flushed, damp, and hot beneath your mouth, every shift of your touch dragging another breathless sound from her lips.

Your hands move down, slipping past her ribs to the waistband of her jeans. The denim is stiff, rough against your fingers, but you pop the button with a slow flick, dragging the zipper down until it parts with a soft rasp. Abby lifts her hips without hesitation, wordless and eager, her eyes never leaving yours.

You ease the jeans down, the tight fabric clinging to her thighs, then her calves, and finally off her ankles. You toss them aside, and it’s then, as you settle back between her legs, that you see it.

Her underwear are soaked — a dark stain blooming at the center of the thin cotton, clear in the low light. A slick line gleams along the edge where the fabric meets her skin, proof of her arousal along the curve of her inner thigh.

Your thumb drags along the edge of the fabric, tracing the damp line, smearing the evidence of her desire. She smells like heat and sweat and something sweeter, and your mouth waters as your gaze drags up to meet hers.

“Fuck,” you murmur, rough and low.

Abby’s mouth curls into a smirk, flushed cheeks and bright eyes betraying the heat roiling just beneath. “Yeah,” she breathes, voice rough. “That’s for you.”

You kiss the edge of her hip, then move lower with intent. Her thighs tremble under your touch, fingers twisting in a couch pillow, breath catching as you lean close enough to drag your tongue over the front of her underwear, teasing and unhurried.

When your teeth graze her gently through the soaked fabric, she gasps—sharp and broken—and her hips rise into your mouth with instinctual urgency. You slide your hands up her muscular thighs, thumbs hooking into the elastic at her hips.

She lifts herself again, silent but begging, and you don’t keep her waiting. You pull her underwear down slowly, watching the wet fabric stretch before slipping free. The scent of her hits you — heady, sweet, and utterly intoxicating.

You press another kiss to her bare hip, then glance up. Abby’s eyes are half-lidded, chest heaving, lips parted with anticipation.

She swallows hard. “Come on, baby.”

Your breath fans hot against the inside of her thigh, and she shivers beneath you, the muscles there taut and twitching. You drag your mouth lower, tasting salt and skin and the slick heat she’s drenched in. Your thumbs press gently into the creases of her hips, holding her open, steady, as your tongue finally slips through the soft hair and glides over and dips into her waiting pussy.

Abby chokes on a breath—sharp and desperate—her hips jolting, one hand flying to your shoulder, the other still gripping the pillow in a white-knuckled clutch. You hum against her, slow and deep, the vibration making her gasp again, and you feel the flex of her abs under your hands as her body tries to curl toward your mouth.

“F-fuck,” she stammers, voice cracking, head tipping back into the cushion behind her. “Don’t stop.”

You don’t plan to. You flatten your tongue, licking a slow, deliberate stripe up through her slickness, then in steady, relentless circles, building her up with every flick, every press, every slow drag through the slick heat of her cunt. Abby’s legs tremble around your head, thighs twitching with every pulse of pleasure, and you hold her open, anchored by the grip of your hands at her hips, the flex of muscle under your fingers.

She’s soaked—utterly dripping—and you can feel it coating your mouth, your chin, the skin by her thighs now slick with it as she writhes beneath you. You moan into her, the sound low and full, and she lets out a cry that cuts off sharp as her back bows off the couch.

“God—” she gasps, breath hitched, eyes squeezed shut. “Your mouth—fuck, your mouth feels so good—”

You hum again, lapping at her with rougher strokes now, your pace no longer teasing but hungry. Abby’s hands are in your hair, gripping hard, hips grinding against your face, chasing every movement you make. When you suck her clit between your lips and flick it with your tongue, she lets out a strangled whimper, thighs clamping down for half a second before you press her open again.

You glance up, just to watch her fall apart. Her lips are parted, glistening with spit, her chest heaving, sweat gleaming along her collarbone and between her breasts. She looks wrecked—utterly undone—and you’ve never seen anything more beautiful.

“Please,” she pants, voice barely a whisper now. “Please don’t stop—don’t you fucking stop—”

You don’t.

You slide one hand from her hip, dragging your fingers down the trail of soft hair under her belly button, guiding over the hair between her thighs, circling lower until you find her entrance. She’s soaked, your fingers sliding in with ease, and she jerks with a sharp inhale, her whole body tightening. You curl your fingers just right, tongue and hand working in perfect rhythm, and the sound she makes is almost guttural.

“Jesus—fuck—!” Abby’s voice breaks, breathless and high, her hand slapping against the couch cushions as her other grips your arm like a lifeline. Her thighs are trembling violently now, her hips stuttering, bucking.

She’s so close.

You feel it in the way she clenches around your fingers, the way her moans lose all rhythm, the way her nails dig in as though she’s holding herself together by sheer force of will.

And when her whole body locks beneath you, when her moan turns strangled and her back arches off the couch—you want every second of it.

You press your fingers deeper, curling them just right, and suck harder, flicking your tongue in tight, ruthless circles. Abby lets out a sob of a sound, hips jerking up into your face, and you feel the pulse of her around your fingers—a deep, clenching rhythm that starts low in her belly and ripples outward like a wave crashing through her.

She’s coming. Hard.

Her thighs clamp around your head, trembling with every pulse. Her nails rake down your back, not gentle, not careful, but desperate—anchoring herself to something as her body breaks open around the pleasure. She gasps for breath, her voice caught somewhere between a moan and a curse, chest heaving like she can’t quite get enough air.

“F-fuck—oh my God—don’t stop, don’t fucking stop—”

You don’t. You keep going, pushing her through it, over and over, licking her like she’s everything you’ve ever wanted on your tongue. Her legs are shaking now, uncontrollably, her whole body trembling with aftershocks that just won’t quit, her hips twitching with every stroke of your tongue, every curl of your fingers still buried inside her.

And then—finally—she collapses.

Her body goes slack all at once, like the tension’s been wrung out of her completely. She sinks back into the cushions, chest rising and falling in shallow, stuttering breaths, one hand falling from your shoulder to rest limply on her stomach. Her skin glows, flushed and glistening with sweat, and there’s a dazed, bliss-drunk look in her eyes as she blinks down at you.

You slowly withdraw your fingers, licking them clean as she watches with parted lips, too wrecked to do anything but breathe.

You press soft kisses to her inner thighs, then climb up her body, your mouth tracing the path of her sweat-slick skin until you're hovering just above her. Her arms slide around your shoulders instinctively, pulling you close, and when your lips meet hers, she moans against your mouth.

“Jesus,” she breathes, still trembling, her voice barely a whisper, yet so full of raw honesty. You can feel the slight shudder that runs through her as she pulls you closer, her fingers threading into your hair, as though she never wants to let go.

You settle next to her, propped up on an elbow, and gently cradle her against your chest. She’s warm and pliant in your arms, skin still buzzing with the aftershocks of pleasure, her breathing gradually slowing as the moments stretch out in peaceful silence.

You press a kiss to her forehead, letting your lips linger there for a moment, then to the tip of her nose, and finally down to her lips, tasting the softness of her, savoring the sweetness of her kiss.

“Are you okay?” you murmur, brushing a strand of damp hair off her face. Your hand rests on her cheek, tender, as if afraid to disrupt the fragile quiet that’s settled between you.

She nods slowly, her eyes still half-closed, a soft smile playing at the corners of her lips. “Better than okay,” she whispers, her voice thick with satisfaction. “That was better than any dream I’ve had of you,” she says, eyes glowing with a mixture of exhaustion and satisfaction.

The words settle in your chest like a gentle weight, making your heart thump just a little harder than before. You press your lips to her forehead again, feeling the warmth of her skin under yours, the pulse of her heart still racing, but slowing.

“Glad I could make it better than anything you’ve imagined,” you murmur, your voice hushed with the quiet intimacy of the moment. You tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear, the gesture gentle, almost reverent, as though you don’t want to disturb the peace between you.

Abby lets out a small, contented sigh, curling into you just a little more, her fingers still stroking over your skin in a way that sends a pleasant shiver down your spine. “I didn’t know anything could be this... perfect.”

You chuckle softly, your chest vibrating with the sound. “We’ve got time to see if we can top it.” Your words are light, teasing, but there’s something in your voice that promises more — more time, more closeness, more moments like this.

Her lips curl into a soft grin, a small, playful spark returning to her eyes despite the exhaustion hanging on her. “I’ll hold you to that,” she whispers, her hand drifting back to your side, tracing the curve of your ribs, the feeling of her touch so familiar now, like a rhythm you’ve always known.

As the quiet settles between you, Abby’s fingers continue their slow exploration of your skin, the touch soothing, grounding. But then, after a beat, she pulls back just slightly, tilting her head to meet your gaze. There’s a shift in her eyes, something that’s been building in the subtle movements, in the way she watches you like you’re both caught in a secret, shared between the two of you.

She clears her throat, her voice now low but filled with a quiet, vulnerable intensity. “I’ve been thinking…” she starts, her words softer, but heavier, like she’s working her way up to something important.

You lift an eyebrow, your heart picking up a beat at the change in her tone. You sit up slightly, giving her your full attention. “Yeah?” you mumble gently, a part of you already knowing where this is going.

Abby takes a breath, her gaze flicking from your eyes to your lips, then back again. “I don’t think you should stay with him,�� she says, her words deliberate but filled with raw honesty. “Not when you could be with me.”

Her words hang in the air for a moment, thick and charged with an unspoken promise. You stare at her, the weight of the moment slowly sinking in. She doesn’t say it in an angry or demanding way — there’s no rush, no pressure in her voice. She just sounds... sure. So sure, like she’s been thinking about this for a while, and she wants you to hear her, really hear her.

“Abby…” you start, but she holds up a hand, stopping you before you can say more.

“Don’t,” she whispers, her voice tender but full of longing. “I’m not asking you to drop everything overnight. But I think you deserve better than what you have right now. I think you deserve someone who’s gonna make you feel like you’re the only one in the world. And... I want that to be me.”

You feel your breath catch, her words slowly winding through your chest, tightening with every beat. You can see it in her eyes — the vulnerability, the hope, the desire — and you realize, in this moment, she’s asking for something more than just this night. She’s asking for you, all of you, not as an option, but as someone who could choose her, choose this.

“I think I could be happy with you, Abby,” you finally say, your voice steady but full of emotion. Your heart is pounding, the reality of it all settling in as you look at her, knowing she’s speaking the truth. There’s no denying the chemistry, the pull between you — it’s been there from the start, only now, it’s deeper, more real.

Abby smiles softly, her eyes lighting up with a mix of relief and hope, like she’s been holding her breath, waiting for you to finally say it. “So…” she trails off, her fingers brushing over your cheek, a playful glint in her eyes. “Will you break up with your boyfriend? And be mine, officially?”

The question lingers in the air, sweet and simple, but it feels like the start of something new. The kind of thing you can’t take back — and for the first time, you realize you don’t want to.

You smile back at her, heart full, the weight of the world suddenly feeling lighter. “I think I already am,” you whisper, your hand reaching out to cup her face, drawing her closer.

And as your lips meet again, slow and tender this time, you know without a doubt — this is just the beginning. Notes:

A/N: This is my first time writing a smut between two characters. Critique would be hugely appreciated ! Literally based off the song 'Boyfriend' by Dove Cameron

#abby anderson x female reader #abby anderson x reader #Abby Anderson x reader smut #abby anderson smut

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lazy-ahh · 3 days ago

Note

Hi, Lazy-ahh! Can I ask for main Mark x AMAB reader? In another universe, reader lost his Mark. He somehow travels to main Mark’s universe. Out of desperation, reader murders the other version of himself to take his place and have a second chance with his boyfriend. But it’s only a matter of time before Mark finds out.

REPLACEABLE

pairing mark grayson x (alternate dimension) AMAB reader

in another dimension, you lost mark. now, you'll destroy anything—even yourself—to get him back. but when mark starts noticing the blood under your nails, you realize: some ghosts can't be buried. and some loves aren't yours to keep.

taglist @hhoneylemon , @queermaeda , @yujensstuff , @thebatsgreatestfailure , @roryroro

you miss him.

it’s a hollow, gnawing thing, chewing through your ribs like a starving animal, leaving behind nothing but an ache so deep you swear it’s carved into your bones. you miss the way he laughed, loud and unguarded, the way his nose scrunched when he teased you, the way his fingers tangled in yours like he never wanted to let go—like you were something precious, something worth holding onto.

but your mark is gone.

you don’t remember much about how it happened, the memory too traumatic to remember yet too painful to forget—just screaming, the metallic tang of blood in the air, the way his body hit the ground too hard, too still, the sickening crack of impact that still echoes in your nightmares. you remember clutching his face, your fingers smearing red across his cheeks, begging him to wake up, to breathe, but his eyes stayed empty, staring past you into nothing.

you weren’t fast enough. you weren’t strong enough.

and then, somehow, you weren’t in your world anymore.

you weren’t even given the chance to grieve yet, to mourn, to scream into the void until your voice gave out. one second, you were kneeling in the wreckage of your life, and the next, you were standing on a sidewalk under a sun that felt too bright, too cruel.

this universe is almost the same. the same streets, the same sky, the same stupid posters of omni-man and the guardians of the globe plastered on bus stops, their smug faces grinning down at you like some sick joke. but then you see him—mark, your mark, alive and whole and laughing, his voice ringing through the air like a punch to the chest. your breath stutters, your chest cracks open, and suddenly you’re drowning all over again.

he’s right there.

you watch him for days, a ghost haunting the edges of his life. he goes to class, he texts his friends, he flies off to fight bad guys like nothing’s wrong, like the world hasn’t ended. it seems like he had just recently gotten his superpowers, his movements still a little unsteady mid-air, nothing like the effortless grace of your mark. your mark had gained his while he was trying to save you during a villain attack, his body slamming into yours as he shielded you from debris, his eyes wide with panic and determination as his powers finally sparked to life. you’d been walking toward a comic store to buy the latest issue of seance dog, his hand warm in yours, his voice teasing as he argued about which volume was better—as cliché and romantic as the scenario was, it was yours. but this mark wasn’t your mark. he didn’t have the memories you two shared, the inside jokes, the quiet nights pressed together under the glow of his laptop screen. he just lived his life happily and heroically, like he didn’t die in your arms. like you didn’t lose everything.

and then you see him. no—not him. you.

the other version of you in this dimension. it seemed like you didn’t get superpowers, didn’t go through the intense training that carved your body into something sharper, something meant to survive. you were... normal. soft in a way you hadn’t been in years. this version of you didn’t get to go on dates where you and mark just flew through the vast, endless night sky, the air cold and biting as you clung to him, the world below reduced to scattered lights while above you, the cosmos sprawled out in all its glory—endless stars, streaks of auroras painting the dark in rippling greens and purples, depending on where the two of you decided to go that night. you didn’t get to fight side by side, didn’t get to know the rush of battle, the way mark’s laughter would cut through the chaos as the two of you pulled off some stupid, reckless stunt, the way he’d press his forehead to yours after, breathless and bleeding, whispering, we make a good team.

but this you—this soft, powerless, ordinary you—was the one who still got to hold mark’s hand. who still got to kiss him goodnight. who still got to exist in a world where he was alive.

it’s not fair.

you don’t plan it. at least, you don’t think you do. but when you see them together—mark’s arm slung around his shoulders, his smile so bright it hurts, like looking directly into the sun—something inside you snaps. something dark and cruel and selfish, something that’s been festering deep inside you, rotting you from the core, finally consumes you whole.

he was walking home alone. it’s easy. he was normal. you were not.

you remember not even letting him scream. every time the memory comes crashing back, it’s like watching a scene play out from somewhere outside your body—like you’re floating in the back of your own mind, numb and detached, as the darkness in your veins pulls your strings, as your hands move without your permission. you let it happen. you let yourself drown.

you had gracefully landed behind them, silent as a shadow. your reflection in the dim streetlights would’ve been horrifying if they’d turned around fast enough to see it—your eyes sunken, bruised with exhaustion, your lips chapped from biting back screams, your hair a mess from nights spent clawing at your own scalp just to feel something. you looked like a ghost. like something already dead.

you remember the way they turned around, playful and fond, expecting it to be mark, only for their expression to twist into surprise. then—wonder? awe? you remember feeling perplexed, watching as this other version of you lit up, rambling in passionate excitement about how cool it was to see another version of himself. you had explained, briefly, that you were a superhero in your dimension, that you fought alongside mark, and their face had glowed with admiration, with playful jealousy, with this aching, innocent want—god, i wish i could do that. i wish i could be out there with him.

then, you remember telling them, voice hollow, that your mark died. because you were too weak. too slow. too human to save him.

and their expression—it falls. their smile shatters like glass, their eyes widening in something like grief, like understanding, because they love mark too, and the thought of losing him—

you watch the exact moment realization creeps in. their breath hitches. their fingers twitch, like they want to reach for you, or maybe run. their lips part—wait—

but you’re already moving.

"but... don’t worry," you whisper, and your voice doesn’t even sound like yours anymore. "you’ll be able to fight alongside him too. it’s just... it wouldn’t be you." your hand brushes their cheek, almost tender. "but then again, we are the same person anyway, right...?"

their face twists in horror.

you don’t let them scream.

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

mark notices something's off.

not at first. at first, you're perfect—maybe too perfect. you know all his favorite foods (the way he likes his burgers slightly pink in the middle, how he picks the mushrooms out of his pasta but will eat them if they're chopped small enough). you remember every stupid inside joke, every embarrassing childhood story his mom told you that one thanksgiving. your hands find all the right places—the spot behind his ear that makes him shiver, the way his shoulders tense after patrol that requires just the right amount of pressure to melt away. you curl into him on the couch like a dying star collapsing inward, pressing your face into the warm hollow of his neck, breathing him in like he's oxygen and you've been drowning for months.

maybe he is. maybe he's the only thing keeping you from dissolving completely.

"you've been clingy lately," he murmurs one night, fingers tracing idle circles along the knobs of your spine. you've lost weight. his voice is fond but there's something else there now—a question. "not that i'm complaining."

you tighten your arms around him like he might vanish if you loosen your grip. "just missed you."

he laughs, soft and warm, but it doesn't reach his eyes the way it used to. "i was gone for, like, two hours."

you press closer instead of answering, your fingers twisting in the fabric of his shirt.

silence stretches. then his hand stills on your back. "...y/n?"

"mhm?"

"look at me."

you don't want to. but you do.

his brows are furrowed, thumb brushing under your eye where the shadows have grown darker, more permanent. "you look like shit." it's supposed to be a joke but his voice cracks. "when was the last time you slept? actually slept?"

you try to smile. it feels like tearing open a wound. "'m fine."

"bullshit." his hands frame your face, calloused and warm and so painfully familiar it makes your chest ache. "you're shaking. you've been—i don't know, jumpy? like you're expecting something to—" he cuts himself off, swallows hard. "talk to me. please."

the concern in his voice is worse than anger would've been. you want to laugh. you want to scream. you want to tell him everything—how you wake up choking on his name, how every time he leaves the room you're half-convinced he won't come back, how sometimes you still smell blood when there's none there.

instead, you press your forehead to his and whisper, "bad dreams."

it's not entirely a lie.

mark exhales, long and slow, his breath warm against your lips. "okay," he murmurs, like he doesn't believe you but won't push. not yet. "okay. but you gotta eat something, alright? and sleep. actual sleep. i'll be right here." his arms tighten around you. "not going anywhere."

you close your eyes.

(you don't tell him that's what your mark said too.)

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

it's the little things that give you away.

the way you flinch when a car backfires two blocks away—too loud, too sudden, too much like that day. how you forget cecil's name during dinner when mark mentions him, even though the other you had known him since freshman year. the way you sometimes stare at mark across the room like he's a miracle, like he's already gone, your fingers twitching with the need to touch him just to prove he's real.

and then there are the nightmares.

you wake up screaming more often than not, sheets tangled around your thrashing limbs, your throat raw like you've been swallowing glass. the images never fade—blood on your hands, mark's vacant eyes, the way his body had felt so heavy when you cradled him. you scrub your skin raw in the shower until it's pink and stinging, but the phantom stains remain. you see them in the dark, in the flicker of streetlights through the blinds, in the rust-colored water swirling down the drain.

mark always wakes when you do.

his arms are around you before you can choke out another sob, pulling you against his chest where you can feel his heartbeat—steady, alive, here. "hey," he murmurs into your hair, voice thick with sleep but achingly tender, "it's okay. i've got you." his lips press against your damp temple, your forehead, the corner of your eye where tears still cling. "breathe, baby. just breathe."

you want to sob harder at the pet name. the other you had loved it too.

your fingers clutch at his shirt like a lifeline, nails digging into the fabric as you try to anchor yourself in the present. mark doesn't complain, just holds you tighter, one hand rubbing slow circles between your shoulder blades. "was it the same dream?" he asks softly.

you nod against his collarbone, unable to speak past the guilt lodged in your throat.

"wanna talk about it?"

you shake your head.

he doesn't push. just shifts until he can tuck you under his chin, your ear pressed over his pulse point. "listen to that," he whispers. "i'm right here. not going anywhere." his fingers card through your sweat-damp hair, gentle and sure. "you're stuck with me, y'know?"

a wet laugh escapes you, half-hysterical. if only he knew.

when you finally drift off again, it's to the rhythm of his breathing and the warmth of his hand still tangled in yours—like he's afraid you'll disappear if he lets go.

(you wish you could tell him he's holding a ghost.)

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

he finds out on a thursday.

you don't know how. maybe he followed you when you slipped out before dawn to scrub blood from under your nails in a gas station bathroom. maybe he found the shallow grave you dug behind the abandoned church, the dirt still loose after three weeks of rain. maybe the other you's friends noticed their texts going unanswered, their calls ignored, the way you'd flinch whenever someone said their name.

but when you push open the bedroom door—still smiling, still pretending, still holding the takeout bag from mark's favorite burger place—he's standing in the middle of the room. the blinds are closed. the lights are too bright. his face is pale as milkglass.

"where's y/n?" he asks. his voice is too quiet, too careful, like he's holding back a hurricane.

your stomach drops through the floor. the bag slips from your fingers, greasy fries scattering across the hardwood. "i'm right here."

"no." his hands are shaking now, clenched at his sides like he wants to hit something. or you. "the real y/n. where are they?"

you open your mouth. nothing comes out but a thin, wounded sound.

mark's eyes drag over you—the too-sharp angles of your face that don't quite match the photos on the fridge, the way your fingers twitch toward your pockets where bloodstained gloves are hidden, the defensive hunch of your shoulders like you're waiting for the world to end. again. his breath hitches. "oh my god." his voice cracks down the middle. "you—you're not them. what did you do?"

the grief in his voice is a knife between your ribs. you can feel yourself splitting open at the seams.

"i had to," you whisper. your voice sounds shattered, like you've been screaming for years. "i couldn't—i couldn't lose you again."

"again?" his face twists like he's tasting something rotten. "what the fuck are you talking about?"

"you died." the words pour out of you like pus from an infected wound, thick and putrid with guilt. "in my world, you died in my arms—your blood soaking through my clothes, your eyes going blank while i begged you to stay—and i—" your voice fractures, "i wasn't fast enough, i wasn't strong enough, and then i was here and you were alive but you weren't mine and i just—" your knees hit the floor with a sickening crack, but you don't feel the pain. "i just wanted you back."

mark stumbles back like you've physically struck him, his shoulders hitting the wall with a dull thud. his hands fly up to clutch at his hair, fingers twisting in the dark strands until his knuckles bleach white. "so you killed him?" his voice is barely recognizable—raw and shattered. "you killed yourself just to—to what? replace him? wear his face like some fucked-up mask?!"

"i didn't want to be alone!" you scream so hard your throat tears, the taste of copper flooding your mouth. "you don't understand—you're alive here, breathing and whole and—" your voice breaks into a whimper, "and i couldn't—i couldn't keep waking up to a world where you don't exist—"

mark's crying. really crying—the kind of sobs that wrack his entire body, tears streaming down his face in hot, silent rivers. you've never seen him cry before, not even when he broke his arm during a fight, not even when his dad disappointed him for the hundredth time. his breath comes in ragged, wet gasps as he slides down the wall, his legs giving out beneath him.

"you're a monster," he chokes out, the words barely audible but cutting deeper than any blade. his red-rimmed eyes meet yours, and the look in them—horror, grief, betrayal—makes your stomach twist violently.

you collapse forward, your forehead pressing against the cold floor as your body convulses with silent sobs. the weight of what you've done crushes you into nothingness, until you're not sure you even exist anymore. the last thing you hear before darkness swallows you whole is mark's broken whisper:

"i loved him."

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

he doesn't turn you in.

you don't know why. maybe he pities you—sees the hollows under your eyes, the way your hands never stop shaking, and thinks you've suffered enough. maybe he's too horrified to think straight, his mind still reeling from the blood under the floorboards, the missing person posters plastered across town. or maybe, in some terrible, twisted way, he understands. because he's lost people too—nearly lost himself a dozen times over—and that kind of grief does things to a person. makes them desperate. makes them dangerous. especially if that person was the love of your life. your soulmate. your heart. your everything.

but he doesn't look at you the same.

he doesn't touch you—no more casual brushes of fingers, no more sleepy cuddles on the couch, no more pressing kisses to your scars like they're something precious. doesn't smile at your stupid jokes, doesn't light up when you walk into the room. doesn't say your name like it means something, just avoids it entirely, like the syllables burn his tongue.

you broke him.

(and you wonder, with a sick sort of clarity, if this is how your mark felt when you died in your world. if he'd screamed himself raw, if he'd begged some higher power for a second chance, if he'd have done something just as monstrous to get you back. the thought makes you nauseous. you understand now. you wish you didn't.)

you leave before he can.

you don't belong here. you never did.

the last thing you see is mark's face—angry, grieving, alive—his mouth forming words you'll never hear, his hands reaching out like some part of him still wants to catch you. then the portal swallows you whole, and there's nothing but static and the phantom feeling of his fingers slipping through yours.

(you hope, wherever you end up, that there's a version of him who still loves you. but you know, deep down, you don't deserve it.)

3.1k words and I CAN'T DO THIS ANYMOREEEE WHY DO I KEEP DOING THIS TO MYSELFFFFFF AHHHHHHH thank you so much to the lovely anon who requested this! <33 hopefully you didn't cry as hard as i did when you read this...

#lazy-ahh #invincible #mark grayson #amab reader #male reader #invincible x reader #invincible x amab reader #mark grayson x reader #mark grayson x amab reader #like why do i even enjoy angst??#why do i keep making each sentence sadder than the last????#i literally can't anymore #watch me write another angst one-shot the next day-#NEED THAT INVINCIDIH #but i actually need to comfort and console him first #and reader too #cause i would never recover if i lost fine shyt like mark-#are you sure?

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manmuncher777 · 2 days ago

Text

Taken in tension

✧༺ Roommate toji x reader

✧༺ trigger warnings

✧༺ a/n - roommate tonji is my fucking favourite trope ever. Hi, impregnate me sir. Enjoy sexies xx

You didn’t see a lot of Toji.

That was half the reason why this whole roommate situation worked.

You both had your own lives, your own schedules. He was usually out — at the gym, running errands, disappearing for hours without a word — and you were busy enough your own things that you rarely crossed paths except in passing.

When you did, it was… easy. Surprisingly easy.

You were actually greatful you got landed with a roommate like Toji, he was there when you needed him, always fixing whatever you had broken, or helping you with heavy lifting. And you were quite happy to repay him in your own ways. You cooked dinner for the both of you most nights, and on the nights you couldn’t be bothered you would grab takeout.

He wasn’t messy — not enough to piss you off — and when he was, you didn’t mind picking up after him because he always noticed, always threw you a grateful look or a lazy, gruff thanks, sweetheart that made your stomach stupidly flutter.

Besides, he pulled his weight in other ways.

Fixing the broken sink without you having to ask. Carrying all the groceries up in one go without a complaint. Reaching things off the highest shelves, half-laughing when you glared at him for making it look too easy.

You got along well.

It was chill. It was safe.

Still…

Sometimes, you caught yourself noticing things you shouldn’t.

Like the way Toji would drag his shirt off after a run, tossing it over his shoulder, his body glistening faintly with sweat — thick arms flexing, abs hard and cut deep, the waistband of his shorts hanging low enough to reveal the sliver of a v-line that made you bite your lip and look away fast.

Or the way his voice sounded in the mornings — rough and low, rumbling out of his chest when he mumbled a half-asleep ‘mornin’ and shuffled into the kitchen in nothing but sweats.

Or the way he sometimes smelled — fresh soap and something deep, earthy and masculine that clung to the air long after he left the room, leaving you dizzy if you stayed too long.

Not that you thought about it.

Not that you let yourself think about it.

Because this arrangement was comfortable, and you weren’t about to screw it up just because your stupid brain couldn’t help but drool over your hot, sometimes-shirtless, way-too-casual roommate.

No.

You had self-control.

You were fine.

Totally fine.

But you werent always aware that you werent the only one finding this arrangement a little… testing.

I mean you couldn’t always blame him, the apartment wasnt massive, so sometime it was hard for him not to notice you creeping towards your room from the bathroom in only a towel, or strutting past him while he was watching tv, shouting a quick goodbye with your tiny little dress on, something about a girls night. He wasnt listening in that moment.

And it took everything in him not to pocket those little panties of your he finds when sorting the washing, all outs of images flashing into his mind of you wearing nothing else but those little panties, waiting for home to get home.

Of course he did his best to remain respectful, only letting his eyes linger ling enough you wouldn’t notice.

One rule that you both kept in the apartment was no partners are allowed over, one night stands of girlfriends were a strict no no on both sides. You didn’t want to be disturbed by that, and well you were single as fuck so he didnt really have to worry. The walls were thin and the last thing you needed was some girl keeping you up all night.

Only issue for you with the thins walls is that if you ever want some ‘personal time’ you have to wait until you know Toji would be out. You would be mortified if he ever heard you like that, so you keep very discreet. Just you and your little box of toys.

The box of toys that you were currently rummaging through because he had finally left, popping out to grab some cigarette or something, then he’d just hop back on his Xbox or something. You had just got home from work, and needed a moment to destress, he would be 20 minutes, surely thats enough time.

Work clothes off, T-shirt and panties on. Candles lit and you were finally ready for a relaxing evening

Your box of toys that was open, despite you not touching it recently, the box that was left rather visible under your bed when you usually have it tucked away. And the one toy you wanted, that you would be finished fast with, was now missing its batteries. The slip of plastic to place the batteries in was left visibly opened with no batteries in there.

Where the fuck were the batteries?

You knew you had left them in there.

Tucked right inside your little velvet pouch — with your trusty toy buried safely beneath sweaters and old scarves — reserved for nights like tonight.

Nights when the sexual frustration got so bad it made you antsy, desperate for even a tiny bit of release.

Single. Stressed. Stupidly horny.

It wasn’t much to ask, was it?

Apparently, the universe — or more specifically, your goddamn roommate — had other plans.

You searched everywhere, in your desk, in drawers, not a single triple a battery to be found. And on such perfect timing, Toji was back.

Fucking great, looks like you were getting nothing tonight. ON all the days this could have happened.

You stared at the opened box, jaw ticking, the empty slot where the batteries once sat practically mocking you.

There was only one person who could’ve done this.

Your mind finally clicking, you live with one other person, and your certainly didn’t just throw away those batteries

One muscle-headed, thoughtless, lazy bastard who would rather loot your private stash than walk ten feet to the store.

You stormed down the hall, chest tight with irritation.

It was petty — objectively — but you didn’t care.

Because now you were still horny and now also pissed off, which was a dangerous combination.

Without even knocking, you shoved open Toji’s bedroom door.

He barely glanced up from his spot on the bed — legs spread wide, controller in hand, headset slung around his neck as he mashed buttons aggressively.

Casual. Relaxed. Like he hadn’t just committed the ultimate betrayal.

You crossed your arms and glared at him.

He finally looked up, pausing his game.

One dark brow lifted lazily.

“Problem, sweetheart?”

You wanted to punch him.

You also wanted to climb him like a tree. Eyes glancing over him fully now, only just registering the fact he was shirtless, grey sweats hanging slutily low on his hips, enough to make a woman drool.

Neither urge was helpful right now.

“You stole my batteries,” you said flatly.

Toji gave a slow, exaggerated blink.

Then — fucking smirked.

“Needed ’em,” he said, shrugging, like that excused everything. “Controller was dead. Emergency.”

“Emergency?” you hissed, stepping further into the room. “Emergency? I needed them! Toji, you went through my shit! That was private”

His eyes flicked over you — lingering for a second too long on your flushed cheeks, the way your chest was rising and falling a little too fast.

It was obvious, wasn’t it?

What you had been about to do before he ruined it.

Obvious in the way your thighs pressed together, your arms crossed like you were trying to physically contain yourself.

Toji’s smirk widened.

“Ohh,” he drawled, voice low and amused. “That kind of emergency.”

You wanted to die.

You also wanted to hit him.

You also maybe wanted to straddle him and shut him the fuck up.

Instead, you ground out, “I want them back. Now.”

He set the controller down beside him, stretching like he had all the time in the world — the way his muscles flexed beneath the dim light of his room should’ve been illegal — and then patted the space next to him on the bed.

“An emergency?” you scoff, already frustrated beyond belief. “The hell do you need my batteries for? Your fucking remote? Seriously, I’ve been looking for those—”

He interrupts you with a lazy shrug. “Yeah, my controller died.” He repeated casually “You weren’t gonna use ‘em anyway, right?”

You stop mid-sentence, the realization dawning on you, but it doesn’t stop the heat rising in your cheeks. “I—I was going to,” you mumble, fuming. “I was going to use them, but now they’re gone because of you. You went through my stuff, Toji. Personal shit.”

Toji slowly rises from the bed, a calculated glint in his eyes. He’s still half-smirking, clearly enjoying the way your irritation is building. He walks toward you, the tension thickening with every step he takes. His large frame seems to fill the room as he stops just a few inches away, his presence overwhelming.

“You really need to chill, ma,” he says lowly, his voice like honey, but there’s a subtle hint of mockery in it. His hand reaches up, brushing past you as he grabs your chin, forcing you to meet his eyes. “Seems to me like you were relying on some pretty weak shit to get off.”

The words hit you like a slap, but it’s his tone—condescending, taunting—that gets to you. Your lips part as you try to retort, but the heat in his gaze leaves you speechless for a moment

“I mean, really,” he continues, stepping in closer, his breath warm against your skin. “That plastic shit really get you off? Don’t you need something a bit more real?”

You grit your teeth, trying to hold your ground, but the tension between you is palpable. “I was fine before you came in and took everything,” you snap, although the desperation you feel is practically dripping from your words.

Toji smirks at your reaction, clearly reveling in the power he has over you. “Yeah? I don’t think so,” he says, leaning in a little closer. “I think you were getting a little too used to that weak little thing. You were probably so frustrated you didn’t know what to do with yourself.”

Your heart races, and you can barely focus on what he’s saying because of the raw, intoxicating way he’s looking at you. You hate how much you want to shove him up against the wall and take control, but you’re pinned under his gaze, unable to move.

Toji’s hand moves down your arm slowly, teasing, not quite touching, just enough to make you tingle with need. His voice lowers even more. “Now, I think I could give you something much more satisfying… if you let me.”

You open your mouth, but words fail you. Instead, you let out a frustrated sigh, your hands trembling as they fall to your sides.

Toji chuckles softly, sensing your growing desperation. “You still upset about the batteries, baby? Or do you need something else?

“Come get ’em,” he said, grin turning absolutely devilish. “Might even help you out, if you ask real nice.”

Your mouth went dry.

Your whole body heated.

Because suddenly you weren’t sure if you were mad anymore — or just aching for something else entirely.

You stayed planted near the door, arms crossed so tight it hurt, glaring daggers at him — but he only lounged back further against the headboard, hands resting behind his head, looking like he didn’t have a goddamn care in the world.

He tilted his head at you, that cocky little smirk pulling at his mouth.

“Poor girl,” he drawled, voice thick and mocking. “So flustered. Bet you were all set up too, huh? Lights off, blanket pulled up real nice… fingers already creeping down your stomach—”

“Shut the fuck up, Toji,” you snapped, face burning.

His eyes glinted — dark and full of something downright wicked.

“Ooh. Touchy,” he teased. “What’s the matter? Mad ’cause you couldn’t get yourself off? Or mad because you haven’t had a proper fuck in too long?”

You hated him.

You hated how well he knew you, how easy you were to read. You hated how he was right.

You hated how good he looked, sprawled out like that — broad shoulders, abs flexing, that slutty v-line, messy dark hair falling into his eyes, those big thighs spread wide like an invitation.

He smelled like bodywash and something sharp and masculine underneath, and it was doing terrible, terrible things to your self-control.

Your nails dug into your arms.

“I needed the fucking batteries,” you bit out. “Not some — some asshole with no respect for personal property.”

Toji chuckled — actually laughed at you — low and rumbly in his chest.

“You’re real cute when you’re mad, y’know that?”

He shifted slightly — not enough to stand, but enough that the mattress dipped under his weight.

He was closer now, lazy but predatory. Like a tiger deciding whether or not it wanted to play with its food.

“And real fuckin’ cute when you’re needy, too.”

Your heart was beating so loud you could barely hear yourself think.

You needed to leave.

You needed to keep your pride.

You needed to not imagine what it would feel like to march over there and straddle him and grind the attitude out of him.

But then Toji gave you a slow once-over — lingering, heavy, filthy — and your body betrayed you.

You shifted your weight from foot to foot, thighs pressing together instinctively.

He caught it immediately.

“Aw, baby,” he cooed mockingly. “Don’t go shy on me now.”

He patted his thigh, slow and deliberate.

Like he was inviting a fucking pet into his lap.

“C’mere. If you ask real pretty, might even let you put that mouth to good use first.”

You sucked in a shaky breath — the edges of your anger bleeding into raw, desperate want.

“You’re disgusting,” you said — but your voice wobbled. Trembled.

His smirk sharpened.

“You want disgusting, sweetheart?”

He leaned forward, voice dropping low, gravelly, dangerous. “I’ll show you disgusting. I’ll have you makin’ sounds you didn’t even know you could make. Have you crying on my cock, beggin’ me not to stop.”

Your knees almost buckled.

Your mind was screaming at you to turn around, to hold onto some shred of dignity — but your body had already decided.

You were burning. Frustrated.

So damn needy it hurt.

And Toji — he was right fucking there.

Arrogant and filthy and perfect.

You licked your dry lips, fists clenching at your sides.

“I’m not begging,” you muttered — trying and failing to sound strong.

Toji’s grin widened into something positively sinful.

“Not yet, you’re not.”

He patted his thigh again — slow, taunting. “Now. Be a good girl and get over here. Before I make you.”

You glared at him for a second longer — daring him to back down — but Toji just smirked, the arrogant bastard, and patted his thigh again.

Fine.

If he wanted to play?

You could play.

Jaw set, you crossed the room in a few stiff steps and planted yourself right on his thigh — hands braced on his shoulders, the heat of his body seeping through the thin fabric of his sweats.

For a moment, you felt smug — victorious even — but then—

Toji’s hands landed on your waist, big and heavy, fingers flexing lightly against your sides.

And he didn’t grab you.

Didn’t drag you down and grind you where you wanted.

No — he just let them sit there.

Warm. Teasing.

Promising.

You tried to shift your hips, chasing friction — and that’s when he bounced his thigh once, slow and deliberate.

The jolt ran through you like a live wire.

You gasped — clutched at his shoulders — and he laughed.

“Ohhhh,” he cooed, voice dripping with mockery. “There she is, theres my needy girl.”

You scowled, but it melted into a breathless sound when he bounced his thigh again, just slightly, making you rub against him.

“Go on, then,” he murmured, voice dropping low and mean. “Use it.

You wanted this so bad, right?

Your cheeks burned.

You couldn’t believe this — couldn’t believe you were actually — actually—

But your clit throbbed insistently between your thighs, the frustration and humiliation and desperation all bleeding together until you were moving — slow little rocks of your hips, dragging yourself along the hard muscle of his thigh.

Toji leaned back against the headboard, arms folding behind his head again like he didn’t have a damn care in the world — like he wasn’t sitting there letting you humiliate yourself on him.

“You’re so fuckin’ cute,” he drawled lazily, watching you.

“Look at you. So desperate you’re ridin’ my fuckin’ thigh like some lil’ bitch in heat.”

You whimpered — hated yourself for it — hated the way it made him chuckle, deep and low in his chest.

His hands slid up — finally — trailing slow and lazy under the hem of your shirt, skimming your waist, teasing along the curve of your tits without really touching where you wanted him to.

You ground down harder, chasing the friction, dizzy with need.

“Toji~” the broken whine leaving your throat, a beg. A need for something more.

“Nuh-uh,” Toji tutted, voice smug. “Not gonna help you, sweetheart. You wanna cum? Gotta work for it.”

He bounced his thigh a little harder — just once — and you cried out, grabbing his shoulders tighter for balance.

“Yeahhh,” he rasped, voice dark and gleeful. “That’s it. Use me, baby. Grind that pretty lil’ pussy on my thigh like you fuckin’ mean it.” You were beyond embarrassed now — little gasps and whines spilling from your lips as you rode him harder, chasing the sharp little sparks of pleasure building in your gut.

“Feelin’ good, huh?” Toji teased, voice thick with amusement. “Bet you’re so fuckin’ wet. Bet I could slide my fingers right in without even tryin’.”The thought made you moan brokenly — hips stuttering — and Toji’s grin widened like he could feel you getting closer.

“Come on,” he coaxed — voice low and rough and cruel. “Cum for me, baby. Show me how pathetic you are. Show me how bad you needed it.” It was too much — the filthy words, the heat of him under you, the cruel bounce of his thigh grinding against your clit just right—

You cried out, breaking apart with a full-body shudder, clutching him desperately as you came — hips jerking against his thigh in messy, helpless little rolls.

Toji laughed — laughed — one hand finally smoothing down your back as you trembled and gasped against him. The feeling soothing you as rode out your high, grounding you to the presence of the man beneath you.

“There she is,” he murmured mockingly, patting your ass like he was proud. “Good girl.”

You were still catching your breath, slumped against him, when you felt it —

the heavy, deliberate grip of Toji’s hands sliding down to your hips. The sensation buzzing against your already prickled skin, waves of pleasure still flowing through you from that much needed orgasm. The tension inside of you now nothing but a distant memory, now replaced with something needier

“Aw, poor thing,” he murmured, voice dark with mock sympathy. “Thought that was enough for you?”

You barely had time to register the teasing before he hauled you up — manhandling you like you weighed nothing — turning you around and bending you over the edge of the bed.

Your hands scrabbled for purchase on the comforter, your mind slow and syrupy with the aftershocks of your orgasm. You felt drunk — high — boneless and pliant under his rough touch.

“Still so fuckin’ needy,” Toji rasped behind you, thumbs hooking into your shorts and yanking them down your thighs in one swift, ruthless motion.

The cool air hit your slick folds and you whimpered — humiliated at how wet you still were, how badly you wanted him. Being so vulnerable in front of him despite moments ago using his thigh to get off.

He leaned over you, big and overwhelming, and you felt the thick press of him, heavy and hot against your bare ass. You swallow thickly, he was bigger than your toys, and you were sure he knew it.

“Don’t worry,” he whispered, lips brushing your ear. “I’ll take care of you, baby.”

You gasped when you felt his fingers between your thighs — thick and calloused, slipping through your slick with an obscene wet sound.

“So fuckin’ wet already,” Toji grunted approvingly.

“Messy little thing. Bet I could slide right in.”

You whined — hips arching back into him without thinking — and Toji just chuckled low in his throat. “Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, almost fondly.

“I know, baby. I’ll give you what you need.”

Wasting not a second more to give you what you wanted, what he wanted. He slides his joggers just far enough down to free his throbbing cock. His tip a pretty shade of pink, adorned with small pearls of pre.

You felt the blunt, thick head of his cock nudge at your entrance, stretching you wider than any toy — and then he was pushing in, slow and devastating, splitting you open with a low, gravelly groan from his chest.

You gasped, frozen against the bed as you felt him sink into you so sinfully, it was so much better than your toys. His thick cock gliding into your welcoming walls. Mouth hanging open at the feeling of his pressing so deep inside you

“Better than your toys huh?” A chuckle sounds out from behind you and you curse your fucked out brain for speaking out loud. You werent lying however,

You gasped — tried to rock back against him — but Toji grabbed your hips in a bruising grip, holding you still.

“Uh-uh,” he hissed, sinking deeper. “Take it. Let me fuckin’ stretch you out.”

It was too much — the overwhelming stretch, the filthy, sticky heat between your thighs, the way your body just took him greedily, still trembling from your first orgasm.Toji bottomed out with a heavy, satisfied grunt — hips flush against your ass — and for a moment, he just stayed there, savoring the way you clung to him.

“Fuck,” he breathed, voice thick and ragged.“You feel so good. Better than I imagined. Fuckin’ made for me, huh?”

Your fucked out brain couldn’t even process what he was saying, imagined? Had he thought about this too?

You nodded helplessly, whining when he gave a shallow thrust — hips grinding into you slow and deep, dragging the thick length of him against your fluttering walls.He fucked you lazily at first — deep, heavy strokes that made you sob into the mattress — placing all of his weight behind his merciless strokes, rocking into you slow and sharp. Relishing in the feeling of your tight cunt wrapped around him.

He was so deep you were sure you could feel him in your throat, you could feel every ridge, every vein, Like you were moulded to him.

But his patience didn’t last for long

Soon he was pounding into you, rough and relentless, your hips slapping against his with every brutal thrust.

“Good fuckin’ girl,” Toji growled, watching the way your body shook under him.“Take it. Take it all.”

You babbled something incoherent — something desperate — but Toji just laughed and grabbed a fistful of your hair, yanking your head back so he could murmur filth into your ear.

“What’s that, baby?” he teased, voice all syrupy condescension. “Can’t even talk, huh? Fucked you stupid already?”

You whined, blinking up at him, lips parted — brain mushy and overloaded.

“That’s alright,” Toji rasped, fucking you harder, crueler. “You don’t gotta think. Just gotta cum for me.”

And you did — with a wrecked cry, clenching around him so hard he cursed under his breath, hips stuttering as he chased his own release.

You felt it when he came — the hot pulse of it inside you, the low, guttural groan he let out against your shoulder — and then he collapsed over you, still buried deep, his body trembling from the force of it.

For a long moment, the room was silent except for the sound of your ragged breathing — the sticky, filthy aftermath of it hanging heavy in the air.

Finally, Toji nuzzled against your neck, pressing a lazy kiss there, voice rough and low:

“Y’still mad about the batteries, princess?”

#jjk #jjk x reader #jjk smut #jjk x you #jjk fanfic #toji fushiguro smut #toji x you #toji smut #jujutsu toji #jjk toji #jujutsu kaisen toji #toji zenin #toji fushiguro #fushiguro toji #toji x reader #toji zenin smut

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tokkiwrites · 16 hours ago

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ㅤ⠀ ˚̣̣ ᵕ̣̣̣̣̣̣⠀⠀⠀⠀토키⠀⠀⎯⎯⠀⠀( ✿ . )⠀⠀⠀⠀† ꯭ ⎯⎯

꒰ ꪆ୧ ꒱ SUℳM𝛢RY ⌢ ꒰੭. You always thought things would change after high school. College was supposed to be your escape. But things don't change. You drop out and move back into your small home town, where you are still invisible, still too soft, still too dumb. Then people start dying. People who hurt you. People who laughed at you. People who touched you when they shouldn’t have. It feels like fate. Like someone’s watching out for you. And when you finally meet him it doesn’t feel like fear. It feels like being chosen.

˖˙ ᰋ ── 𝖙ags ˚ DARK JOEL MILLER FIC, killer! joel miller x fem! reader, afab reader, no outbreak au, mentions of murder, mentions of blood, violence, mention of bullying, slow descent into obsession, delusional reader, outcast reader, age gap (mentioned once), morally grey characters, made up characters and places, semi public sex, rough p in v (unprotected), creampie, knife play, marking/branding, cum eating, degradation, dumbification of reader, choking, slight size kink, slight breeding kink.

𝓁𝒾𝓉𝓉𝓁𝑒﹙ʚɞ˚﹚ 𝖓ote: hey...how yall doin...? im sooo sorry i disappeared on you guys :( uni has been kicking my ass but i promise i will be more active from now on!!! had a chance to write for some of the requests so those will be coming soon! here's a small spring gift for you all :p i hope you enjoy it! 🎀🌟🐇

You thought it would feel different, leaving.

You thought that when high school ended, you’d find something different waiting for you. You imagined a new beginning, a fresh start, maybe something exciting—something where you wouldn’t fade into the background. But the reality was far from that.

You were always too soft. Too nice. You never knew how to be anything else, even when everyone around you told you to toughen up, to stop being so stupid.

In high school, they made sure you knew how weak you were. How easy it was to push you aside. You were a target for the mean girls, the ones with sharp smiles and even sharper tongues. They loved to mock you, but you didn’t have the heart to fight back. Instead, you retreated into yourself, hoping that one day, they’d stop.

You thought maybe things would change when you went off to college. It wasn’t like you had high expectations—it was just supposed to be a chance for something different. You imagined that the people there wouldn’t see you the same way. But it wasn’t different. It was the same. It felt like rot.

College was just high school in a bigger building. Louder rooms. Longer halls. The same laughter behind your back.

Your professors barely knew your name. The other students walked past you like you were invisible. And no matter how hard you tried, no matter how much you smiled or how polite you were, it was always the same. You thought that maybe it was just a phase. That things would get better after a few months. But after three years, it just felt like you were fading. You didn’t belong anywhere. You didn’t even recognize yourself anymore. You didn’t feel like you were living.

That’s when you decided to come home.

Your parents didn’t question you at first. They asked once, maybe twice, but after a few months, the questions stopped. They stopped expecting anything from you. And so did you.

Now you live in a small apartment above an old antique store in Northridge, a place where no one expects anything from you. It’s quiet except of the floors that creak beneath your feet, and the window by your bed is stuck halfway open, even when you beg it not to. You don’t even bother trying to fix it anymore. It’s just easier this way.

You work at Sloan’s Bakery, a quiet little shop that smells like cinnamon and fresh bread. It’s nothing glamorous, but it’s safe. You like the routine. You like the silence. Now, you don’t mind being unnoticed.

Today isn’t supposed to be different. You’re just doing your usual thing, putting the price tags on the pastries like you always do. The oven hums in the back, the cash register dings every so often as customers come and go. You feel like you’re in a bubble, watching the world outside through the small window at the counter. Nothing remarkable. Everything in its place.

And then, the bell above the door rings too loudly. You glance up, expecting some sleepy regular—maybe Mr. Hanley, or that tired-looking woman who orders oat milk but forgets every time that you don’t carry it.

But you were never the luckiest person.

It’s Macy King. Her heels click too sharply against the floor, and for a second, it feels like you're back in high-school. You haven’t seen her since then. You don’t know why, but the second you see her, you freeze. You’ve never forgotten her face.

“Oh my god,” she says, too loud, too fake. “It’s you.” She laughs. That same high-pitched laugh you remember from the cafeteria. It scrapes something raw inside you. You don’t know what to say. You feel like you’ve been caught in something. “I haven’t seen you in, like… forever.” She giggles like it’s funny, but you know it’s not. She’s looking at you with that same old smugness, that always made you feel small. It funny really, she's at the same level since high-school yet she still believes everyone is beneath her.

“Didn’t you go to college or something? I thought you’d be, like, doing something by now.” You can’t find your voice. You nod slowly, trying to force the words out, but your mouth feels dry. “IㅡYeah… for a while.”

She doesn’t ask why you’re back. She doesn’t care.

“So this is what you’re doing now?” Her eyes sweep across the bakery. She’s sizing you up, like she’s inspecting the life you’ve built. “Wow, that’s… cute. Really, though, I didn’t expect you to end up here.” She doesn’t say it mean. But that’s the trick with Macy. She never said it mean. Not directly. Just enough to make you feel like dirt on the floor.

You don’t answer. You can’t. You want to scream, but it’s like your throat’s closed up, and the words aren’t coming. She steps closer, running her fingers over the glass of the pastry case like she owns the place.

“Oh my god, do you still make those little cookies?” she asks, peering into the display case. “The ones with the filling in the middle? What are they called? The jelly blobs?”

“Thumbprints,” you say softly.

“Yeah, whatever. I’ll try one.” You give it to her, unsure of what to expect. She bites into it immediately, but her face twists in distaste.

“Ew,” she spits out, loud enough for the whole bakery to hear. “This is disgusting. Too sweet.”

You don’t move. You just watch as she drops the half-eaten cookie on the floor, the soft thud of it making your stomach turn. “Oh, wait. Let me try that one,” she says, pointing at a different pastry. You give it to her. She bites into it and immediately frowns, dropping it to the ground too.

“Ugh, all of these are gross,” she says, shaking her head like you’re the one at fault. She turns her back on you like she’s bored, her eyes scanning the other pastries, dismissing them with a flick of her wrist. “Do you ever get anything right?” she adds, but it’s not a question. It’s just another jab.

You bend down to clean up the mess she’s made, your hands shaking as you gather the pieces of pastry from the floor. The crumbs stick to your skin, like a reminder of how small and invisible you are.

She doesn’t say goodbye when she leaves. She just walks out, her footsteps echoing in the silence she leaves behind.

It’s hours later and it's finally time for you to close up. You don’t know why you turn the radio on, but you do. It’s the static hum of the local station, the voice on the other end dull and distant.

“…Body discovered behind the Valero gas station early this morning. Authorities have confirmed it’s a local man in his twenties…” Your heart skips a beat and you sit up straight, the words striking you harder than they should.

“…Multiple stab wounds to the chest. Police are investigating but no suspects have been identified. More details to come as the investigation unfolds.” You don’t know why it strikes you so hard, but you can’t shake it. The voice continues, but you’re already lost in your own thoughts.

Its not long until the whole town starts talking. Brandon Haynes. You remember him. He was just like everyone else. He touched you. Too much, too harsh. More than enough to make you feel small. To make you feel like nothing.

You don’t know why it’s so strange. Why it feels like you’re holding your breath. It doesn’t matter.

You don’t feel anything for him. But you feel something for the moment. For the chance that maybe something’s shifting. Something is moving. And in that quiet, empty way, you realize that maybe you’re not the only one who’s been pushed aside.

A few days later and it is close up time again. As always the radio voice drones on as you wipe the counters. “Macy King found dead this morningㅡ”

You don’t need to hear more. You already know.

Macy is dead too. How is this even possible? Was it all a dream, or was it the karma they couldn't escape from? You don’t feel sorry for her. You don’t feel sorry for Brandon either. But something’s stirring deep inside you. Something darker. Something that’s been waiting for a long time. It feels liberating. Maybe it makes you broken. But you don’t care.

Because some quiet part of you smiles.

You never said it out loud, but you hated them. For how they made you feel. For how they touched you, laughed at you, stepped on you. And now they’re gone. You tell yourself it’s not coincidence. How could it be? What if someone saw you? What if someone knows?

What if someone did it… for you?

The thought makes your breath catch. Makes your cheeks flush. It’s stupid. Delusional. But it feels like the first real thing you’ve had in months. Maybe longer.

Someone out there, somewhere in this cruel, gray little town, might’ve done what you’ve never had the courage to. And that makes you feel seen. Wanted. It doesn’t scare you. It makes your chest flutter.

So you hope, quietly, selfishly, shamefully, that whoever it is, does it again. For you.

Days later, the radio talks about Macy's death like it’s a warning. Like the whole town should be afraid. They now know the crimes were done by the same person. A man. But you’re not afraid. You’re captivated.

You walk home that day in a daze, the cold air biting at your cheeks, and for the first time in so long, you feel like someone is walking with you. Not beside you, but behind you. Somewhere. Watching. At least thats how it seems, or that's what you hope for.

And that thought that maybe someone sees you, maybe someone is thinking of you, it makes you ache. It makes your chest feel full. Like you matter. Like you’re real again.

So the next morning, you get up early. You shower longer than usual. You put on perfume, the one you wore back in college when you thought someone might notice you. You do your hair, just a little lipstick, and put on that soft sweater that hugs you just right. You don’t know why you’re doing it.

Except you do.

Because maybe he is out there. Maybe he's watching. Maybe you’ll catch a glimpse of him one day— maybe at work, across the street, reflected in the bakery window. Maybe he’ll come in and ask for a loaf of rye bread. And you’ll know. It’s stupid. But you don’t stop.

You start waking up earlier. Dressing softer. Smiling, just in case. The town is still cold and gray, but inside you, something is blooming.

A few weeks pass. You’ve stopped keeping track of the days. Everything just folds together now—sugar, flour, radio static, names whispered on the news.

The third victim throws you for a loop. Julian Moore.

He wasn’t like Macy or Brandon. He never laughed in your face, never whispered about your thighs or stole things from your locker. He wasn’t cruel.

But he stood by. That's your reasoning.

He was there, every time you were shoved into a locker or had your tray flipped in the cafeteria. He saw you crying in the girls’ bathroom after gym, after someone stole your clothes. He saw everything. And he never said a word. So when they find Julian’s body slumped behind the old church parking lot, throat cut clean through, something inside you hums. Not with guilt. Not even with relief.

But with a kind of satisfaction.

'You see me', you think. 'You’re doing this for me'. You’re too far gone now. You know it. But it’s like slipping into warm water. Soft and quiet and too easy to sink.

You don’t pray to God anymore. You pray to him.

Whoever he is.

Some nights, you whisper your thoughts aloud. Just in case he can hear you. You tell him about the people you hated, the ones that ruined you, the ones that still smile like they got away with it. You tell him about your dreams. About how sometimes you think you feel him just outside your apartment, under your window, in the creak of the floorboards that shouldn’t creak. You leave your curtain open a crack at night.

Just in case.

More days pass. The sky is bruised purple and gold, streetlights humming like quiet thoughts, the pavement still sticky with sun. You smell like sugar, yeast and a little vanilla, your apron folded neatly in your bag, your perfume still clinging to your collarbones. And you feel good.

It’s not something you admit often. But tonight, the wind is soft. Your chest feels light. And there’s that quiet, persistent buzz in your stomach that maybe—just maybe, he’s proud of you.

You walk slower than usual. You want to be seen. You smile at the window reflections. At your shoes. At nothing.

And then it shifts. At first it’s subtle. There's a sound that doesn’t belong. A presence you can’t place. But it thickens around you slowly, like fog, until you know you’re not alone. There’s someone behind you.

It's ot a feeling anymore. Not a maybe.

Someone is there. Slowly, your steps falter. You stop, you turn. And he’s there.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Older. He’s standing under the glow of a flickering lamppost like it’s a spotlight and he is the misunderstood actor, with shadows cutting across his face. His hair is dark and slightly curled, his jawline sharp, mouth neutral. He doesn’t move.

But he’s looking at you. Your heart slams up into your ribs. He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t speak. Just watches. You don’t know him. Or maybe you do. Maybe you’ve seen him before, in your dreams, in your prayers, behind your eyes when you’re alone in bed with nothing but wanting. Maybe he’s always been there.

The street is silent. The street lights glow faint behind you. Somewhere far off, a dog barks. And you— God, you don’t run.

You take a step forward. And he doesn’t move. Not until his hand shifts just a little and you see something glint. A blade. Maybe. Or maybe your mind wants it to be. You gasp, but it’s soft, almost reverent. You don’t feel fear. You feel certain.

You open your mouth, voice trembling but real. “I am not afraid o-of you…” He laughs. It’s a quiet sound. Deep and low and almost surprised. “Oh?”

But you mean it. You’re not afraid. You’ve wanted this—him, whatever this is, for so long, you’re not sure there’s any room left inside you for fear.

For months you’ve been dreaming of this. Not of murder or blood, but of him. Of being seen. Of being chosen.

And now he’s here. You don’t blink. Don’t breathe. “Stupid girl…” he mutters. His fingers brush the knife at his belt. And you? You smile.

He steps closer. You don’t move. Can’t. Your mouth is dry, breath catching somewhere between your chest and your throat, your heart trying to crawl up your neck. He’s beautiful. Not in any way you’ve ever known. He’s rough, a scar curling just near his temple, his face carved from something too human and too wild at once. His eyes are dark, unreadable. His mouth is stern, unmoved. You feel heat flush up your neck and to your cold cheeks. He’s right in front of you.

Close enough to see the shadow of stubble on his jaw, the way his eyes linger on your face for just a second longer than they should. “I—I know what you did,” you whisper, voice trembling, breathless.

He raises an eyebrow. You swallow hard. “Those people… Brandon. Macy. Julian. They hurt me. Back then. You—you knew, didn’t you? You did it for m-me…”

He doesn’t say anything. Just watches.

And that silence, it pulls more out of you. “I mean, it makes sense. Doesn’t it?” You laugh, soft and shaky, hands trembling at your sides. “No one ever remembered me. No one ever noticed me. But you—you saw me. You must’ve. That’s why you…” You trail off. You can’t bring yourself to say killed. Not out loud.

His expression shifts. A little. One corner of his mouth twitches. And then he laughs. It’s sudden and deep and rough, like it bursts straight from his chest.

You flinch, but not away. Never away.

“You’re a real sweet thing, aren’t you?” he drawls low, the faintest southern rasp brushing the words. You don’t know what to say. You just stare up at him, cheeks burning, stomach a mess of tangled knots. Then he leans closer. Close enough that you can smell leather and smoke and something more darker. Close enough that his voice grazes your ear when he speaks again. “I might just keep you longer.”

The words burn. You feel them everywhere. Your legs tremble. You’re too warm. Too soft. You feel like you could fall straight into him and vanish.

And still, he doesn’t touch you. He just watches the way you unravel—eyes wide, lips parted, breath shallow, as if it’s his favorite pastime. As if he likes watching you break.

The space between you is so tight it feels like you have been touched. Brushed. You wonder what his hand would feel like on your throat. You shouldn't want that. “I…” you whisper, barely audible. “Can I know y-our name?" He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even blink but you see his jaw tighten. Just a little. Like maybe something in him twitches when he looks at you too long.

“Why me?” you ask, stupidly, helplessly, hopelessly. His eyes flick down to your mouth, then back up. And he smiles. Barely. “You talk too much,” he mutters. He leans in again “I liked you better when you were just starin’.” You feel heat bloom low in your stomach.

“You ever wonder what it’d feel like,” he murmurs, his voice a low drag in your ear, “if I just took you right here?” Your breath stops.

Right here. This alley. The air thick and sticky with heat, the only light coming from the weak glow of the streetlamp at the corner, flickering like it’s about to die too. He pulls back just enough to look at you.

“No one can see you out here. No one can hear you.” His hand trails down slowly, fingers dragging across your arm, your waist, until it rests low on your hip.

“What if I held you up against this wall,” he continues, voice crueler, “fucked you until you beg for me to stop, and then put a knife in your gut?” You should run. You should scream. But your breath comes out shuddered, and your eyes go wide, not in fear, but something closer to desire.

You want it. You want him.

He sees it. He feels it. Your body leaning closer, your thighs shifting, the way your lips part and tremble. And he stills. For a second. A long one.

“…Jesus Christ,” he mutters. “You like that?” You nod. He stares at you. Quiet. Like he’s trying to figure out whether you’re the dumbest girl he’s ever met or the most dangerous. Maybe both.

He shoves you back against the alley wall and kisses you like a punishment, like he hates that he wants you, like he wants to see how deep the rabbit hole goes.

You moan. Loud. Needy. And that’s all it takes. His hands are everywhere—on your hips, your ass, your throat. One knee forces your legs apart and he grinds against you through your clothes, a low, guttural sound in his throat when he feels how soaked you are already. “You’re fuckin’ filthy,” he growls. “Gettin’ wet from me talkin’ about killin’ you. You sick little thing.”

You nod again, whispering a barely-there, “please—” And then it happens. Just like you have dreaming of. His mouth was on your neck, his breath in your ear, his body pressing you into the wall like he’s carving your shape into it. He quickly takes off his pants, leaving you no time to react to the sheer size of him. He forces the head inside of you, leaving you mewling under his touch. “Look at you, lettin’ a killer fuck you in a goddamn alley like a whore.” In no time he was in your guts, each stroke sending you further into oblivion. Your fingernails dig into his skin and he growls, rough hands wrapping around your throat as he whispered dirty nothings into your hair. “This little cunt’s never been touched, has it? Feels too fuckin’ tight to beㅡ shit!" He uses you like he owns you, like you’re a soft and stupid doll made just for him. “Don’t stop, please don’t stop—feels so good…”

“I could kill you right now, and you’d still thank me for it, wouldn’t you?” he gloats, each snap of his hips hitting deeper into your cunt. Your tear stained cheeks press agains his hard chest, sobs muffled and eyes blurry from crying. Your head is spinning, brain melting into nothing but thoughts of him. “You’re gonna remember this every time you sit down, darlin’. Gonnaㅡ fuck, feel me for days.”

You hiccup, head bobbing up and down, as he hastily chases his high. He groans low into your neck, voice cracking like gravel, rough fingers digging into your hips as he jerks once, twice, then stills as he spills his cum inside of your ruined insides.

“Fuck… that’s it, girl. Take it. Take all of it, you stupid thing.” He stays inside, breathing heavy against your cheek, his hand slipping down to hold your belly like he’s wanting to feel how deep in he still is. “Maybe it’ll stick. God knows you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

You nod, dazed, breathless. You don’t even know what you’re agreeing to. But you're full. Of him. Of this moment. Of something filthy and real and unforgettable. It’s dripping out of you already and you shudder as it drops onto your newly bought underwear.

Your thighs still trembling, your skin still burning where he touched you. “I hope it does…” you whisper, blinking up at him, lips swollen, brain a haze of sugar and sin. “I really hope it sticks…” And he just laughs, sharp and cruel. He is entertained. “You're so fuckin’ pathetic.” But he doesn’t pull out. Not yet. The words sting. But not in the way they should. Not in the way a normal girl would cry over.

There's that filthy slickness between your thighs, and his rough hand moves down, slow, before dragging fingers through the mess he's left inside of you. You gasp.

He brings his fingers back up, slick and warm, and pushes them against your lips. "Open," he commads. And you do. You part your lips like it’s holy, like it’s something good, something earned. You wrap your mouth around his fingers and taste salt, heat and him. He watches you, slow and dark, chest rising. “ God dammit...”

Your eyes flutter shut as you suck, as if this will anchor him to you. As if this will mean something. And when he finally pulls his fingers away, wiping them on your cheek with something like contempt, you're still there, ruined, breathless, glowing in it.

He pulls away from you slowly, lazily, like he’s in no rush to care. His belt’s already half-fastened, knuckles grazed from the rough press of brick and skin. You’re still trembling, ruined and bare and aching in places you never knew could ache.

He pulls out like it means nothing. Like you mean nothing. The air cools around you instantly, and so does he. Zipping his jeans, flexing his jaw, his gaze flickers down at you once more, lazy and cold.

Then he turns. One step. Another.

It shouldn’t hurt this bad. But it does. Your voice cracks before you even know what you’re saying. “Please don’t leave—please—I’ll be good, I swear!" You’re shaking. Still sore. Still wet. Still his, in some awful, ruined way.

“Don’t go fallin’ in love, dumb girl. I ain’t your savior. I’m the reason people like you go missin’.” His eyes are sharp, unreadable.You're on your knees, legs trembling, underwear pushed to the side and forgotten, dress wrinkled and twisted halfway around your thighs. Your elbows ache from where you caught yourself against the brick, and your lips are raw from biting down too hard. There’s a stream of his come between your legs and bruises blooming along your skin. The alley smells like him. You do too.

Your heartbeat is still stuttering, off-kilter, your body stuck somewhere between shame and a high you never want to come down from. You blink up at him through damp lashes. “That’s all you wanted, huh? Someone to fuck the stupid outta you. Thought you’d get a happily ever after?”

It feels like you're begging without even saying a word. He should leave. He said he would. But he's still here, isn’t he? He just stares. Something in his brain ticks. And then, slowly, he pulls the knife from his belt. The steel hits the streetlight close to him and you freeze. He doesn’t say a word as he shifts closer. One knee between your legs again. Hand under your chin, tilting your face up to his. Finally, the blade touches your skin. “Stay still,” he mutters.

The metal is cold when it drags along your collarbone, slow. You whimper, but don’t pull away. It’s not deep. Just enough to hurt a bit. Just enough to bleed a little. When he leans back, satisfied, there’s a rough little 'J' carved just above your heart.

“Now you’re mine,” he murmurs, more to himself than you. Then louder “ So don’t go forgettin’ who you belong to, girl.”

You don’t say anything. You’re too out of it. Your fingers come back red as you touch the small mark.

He tucks the knife away. “I’ll find you again. Same spot. Don't make me come lookin' for you." And then he’s gone. Just like that.

You stay there, knees scraped, heart pounding, sticky, aching and marked. You should be afraid. Instead, your fingers ghost over the wound, and all you can think is he’s coming back.

You walk home with your head light and your lips smiling. So stupid. So giddy. You’ll clean yourself up, cover the mark with something soft and cottony. And maybe tomorrow, you’ll wear something nicer to work. Just in case he’s watching.

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