#am I taking this short too seriously

[ripplestitchskein]

I know it’s just a four minute short Stolas isn’t even in, but I think the now running theme of Blitz being “bad” at sex, at least oral, being somewhat confirmed, really ties into what I find most appealing about them. We see in The Circus that Stolas is the one who laughs at his jokes, it’s a running thing, Blitz being unfunny, we see it in flashbacks, in comments made by other characters, by the audience in Seeing Stars, with Stolas always being the notable exception. And Stolas is genuine in his laughter, he truly finds Blitz funny when at large he apparently isn’t. Blitz still presents himself as someone who is though, he sticks to the clown schtick, and despite the failures he keeps trying with increasing desperation, just like he kept trying with the balloon horse and the crystal. This contrast of everyone’s reaction vs Stolas’s is so important that one of the ways Blitz realizes Stolas is truly angry and means what he says is that Stolas didn’t laugh.

The bad at sex gag reads the exact same way to me. We have this idea that because of how Blitz presents himself, that he is considered generally attractive, that he is an asshole but he can throw down in the bedroom so people still give it a shot. But we have several comments that imply his dick game was not what was bringing them in. Verosika is the presenter of this information initially so it could just be from her perspective or even just spite based, at least that was true until we account for the new short which seems to confirm her statements. It is the same contrast of Blitz presenting himself one way, and even expressing that he can try harder if the other party is displeased, and us learning that the world at large is not into it but Stolas is. He like sings about it, he was excited about it, and that’s not down to experience or him not knowing better, he genuinely was into it. He derived pleasure from it and found it attractive. Even in Full Moon he blushes and hesitates when Blitz pushes his legs apart. Sex and humor are bimodal in the way that if you aren’t enjoying it you might give it a go a few more times before deciding it isn’t for you, or that you like some aspects and not others. Stolas is very clearly on the Blitz side for both of these. And he is an exception, if Verosika is the narrative proxy for the feelings of the Anti Blitz party attendees as a whole, which I think she is - stabbing his dick and saying no one wants it anyway - that this is a general opinion held by many, just like Blitz being not funny, that Stolas stands in contrast to.

The other thread tying them together in the narrative is Blitz’s performance anxiety itself. In the past for the humor we see him either failing completely in black and white flashbacks with no relief because Stolas wasn’t there, or we see him failing initially and Stolas reassuring him and giving him his confidence back by laughing. Now that we have additional information that Blitz is, on the whole, maybe not everyone’s cup of sexual tea It could be argued that Stolas’s over the top simping and outward showing of lust is the same as him laughing. Blitz certainly derived confidence from sexual performance when it came to Stolas, he had a lot of bravado about it and he put in a fuck ton of effort to the point where he thinks it’s all he has of value to him. Stolas expresses his appreciation loudly and outwardly. Blitz doesn’t trust it though, just as he doesn’t trust that Stolas is laughing at his jokes for real. Slowly over time Stolas stopped making those comments, and gave him outs on their arrangement. And then he stops laughing too. Blitz had no issue with the crystal when he was performing for Stolas but in Antarctica he freezes up and implies it’s been an ongoing off screen struggle. Just like he seemed to have no problem with performing oral when it was for Stolas. Millie tries to encourage him but Moxxie has to physically step in and show him. Blitz doesnt fix it himself. His confidence is still where it was when he was failing, they were just able to get home because Moxxie stepped in. Blitz has some new information but he didn’t suddenly develop confidence, not like he has in the past when Stolas was there to laugh or flirt. This really highlighted the consequences of what happens when Blitz doesn’t have Stolas to help his confidence both with sex and humor.

In summary I just love the idea that they are compatible on both of these levels in opposition to what seems to be mainstream opinion. That Blitz, the circus clown, has a captive and supportive audience in Stolas in all areas, his humor, his abilities, his business, and his sexual performance.

[affectionatecorpse]

I wonder if the reason Moriarty is so desperate and needy when it comes to attention is because he's lonely by design. Most people around him have company. The gnomes have their own communities in gardens, the toys have each other, even the gargoyles are housed with other gargoyles. But he sits alone on a van. He doesn't get the privilege of resting in a pretty lawn, or on a building with a great view. He just sits by himself on top of a van with nothing but his phone.

I don't think his isolation is the reason he's a killer. Watson himself said that "some are just manufactured evil". Moriarty was never going to be a good person, even if he was just another garden decoration. But the loneliness probably didn't help, and just ended up being a contribution to his attention seeking. There's a reason he's so obsessed with Sherlock; the guy gives him a TON of attention and never stops thinking about him, even if that comes from hate rather than care. Attention is attention, it doesn't matter where it comes from. Sherlock himself even calls Moriarty out on it, saying "you're very needy for a villain".

I'm not trying to invent a traumatic backstory that will excuse people justifying him, I love this little gay pie but he is NOT a good guy and I don't think he should be treated as such ascskfhjkl

[azurechicken]

I find it curious that people who end up disliking Anders usually list their reasoning as him being snappy. Well, yeah? He is snappy, he is loud, he is fiery, and he doesn't know how to stand down most of the time. If he was not the way he is, he would be another Circle Mage. But that is not really the point, is it? He does not start out as this fiery mage who cannot shut up about anything injustice. He starts out as this jokester even the fans always look back and say "I liked this Anders better". Between the jokester!Anders and fiery!Anders, is there really that big of a difference though? Don't get me wrong, I do see the way years changed him, as well as the merging of course. But who he was and who he is are just a reflection of how he reacts to the same problem he always faced; being unheard. This man spent his entire life trying to make points that never really reached their destination. At first he joked about them, and everybody waved him off. Then he got serious, and he was shut down or ignored. From the point that we meet him, between dead templers, he already looked like he lost the argument about having anyone just listen long ago. So he jokes about it. Now, Awakening!Anders is young, not yet faced the unending taint and darkspawns, he is just starting. He didn't yet see the mess Kirkwall is, didn't help anyone who needs it in a sewer selflessly until drained. Didn't have an ethereal being of justice push him towards righting the wrongs done to his kind. He still had Ser Pounce too, if that helps. And in a way, Karl, of course. But the Anders we see in Kirkwall has seen and done all that. He is now all that he suffered. He changed, he didn't have a choice against it. But one thing did not change; he continued to make his points, and he continued being unheard. And at this point, I think it is already a bit late to hear him out. Because he has been unheard for so long, he feels unheard. And feelings are louder than facts, always. And, yes, he is snappy. He snaps because who would hear if he didn't? He is fiery because he has people to stand up for. It is not just his voice anymore, it is of many more like him. So yes, he is loud, with many voices hidden behind his own. Yet, even then, 'he is just an abomination.'

[deltafruit]

izzy from crash my fav ao3 author

[bubacorn]

.

[spookieloop]

"I seem to have trusted you once, and it ruined me."

The Dark Urge having some flicker of a memory, begging the one person who mourned them to take their loss and the horror they're feeling at the removal of everything they once were seriously.

And Gortash is just so elated that they're back that he's having a manic episode and can't.

[lilcupio]

I watched the episode “Diggs” and I have thoughts

While enjoying The Simpsons completely legally and not through one of those endless Twitch streams, I came across this episode. In my country, more recent episodes (read “recent” as “from season 20 onwards”) are not often aired. So, this is the first time I've seen this episode which is now ten years old since its premiere. And, wow, this episode is gay, like GAY.

I can't find another word to describe it. It's impossible not to believe that Bart has feelings for this Harry Potter-voiced guy.

It's not the first time it's been hinted that Bart might be queer (jokes about it have been present in the series since its inception), but it's the first time it's been perceived as almost…. authentic? realistic? not just a superficial joke?

This episode exudes a strange vibe overall. I feel it more serious and melodramatic than the Bart-centric episodes and it tackles topics that are rarely explored in depth in his life. Usually Bart's serious episodes revolve around school issues, making amends for pranks, dealing with the guilt of his actions. Although there are exceptions, such as “Barthood” (one of the best in my opinion) and when he strikes up a friendship with that old lady. However, this episode focuses on the helplessness Bart feels at not being able to understand or help his new friend.

It is odd to see Bart take a more passive role in the plot. Normally he is the one who draws people in with his strong personality, but here he is pulled into someone else's world. He doesn't exercise leadership this time around; he simply follows Diggs.

Unlike other episodes where Bart is pushed or manipulated to act according to the convictions of others (as in the episode where he escapes from the prison with that girl who constantly beats him; or when he falls in love with the reverend's daughter; or the episode where he befriends Rafa, in which, at the end, Bart manages to regain control about halfway through the episode), here he is the one who chooses to follow Diggs.

The structure of the script is also peculiar. I wouldn't say it's bad, but one senses that the plot they wanted to develop required more time and they had to cut out many parts. The distribution of the scarce 20 minutes available was not good; the first part goes on too long and lacks a clear connection with the rest of the episode, leaving little room for the real development of the plot and the intention of the episode.

It was necessary for Bart to feel left out from the other kids, but I'm sure there were other ways to accomplish this. Also, the scene where Bart begs Homero (that's what it's called in the Latin dub, okay?) to donate to the church seemed out of character to me. I know Bart is not a bad kid and can be empathetic when he wants to be, but it just doesn't quite fit for me. Maybe it's just a me thing, so don't read too much into it.

Enough talk and let's get to the point: Bart seems to have a crush on Diggs.

While you might not interpret the relationship between these two romantically, it's inevitable to notice Bart's peculiar behavior in this episode.

Arguably, he's somewhat out of character, but this series has a very malleable continuity, adaptable to the specific needs of each episode, so this change isn't all that unusual.

Bart's behavior makes more sense if we assume he has feelings for this boy. At the time Bart meets Diggs, he was alone and about to be attacked by bullies. Diggs, a mysterious new boy, shows up to save him. Diggs shows Bart a side of the school isolated from the rest by introducing him to the falconry club. Bart enthusiastically joins, perhaps motivated by how cool falcons are or by the company of someone who doesn't reject him at the time, or perhaps for both reasons.

Diggs and Bart share a moment together at school late into the evening, watching the hawk fly, or rather, waiting for his return.

When Bart comes home late on taco day (Marge says Bart is never late for tacos) and his family asks him where he was, he replies:

"I met this kid, a little old, kinda strange. I don't think other people get him, but I just wanna hang out with him all the time."

Have you ever heard Bart refer to someone else that way? It sounds strange, especially coming from someone he just met.

What makes Diggs so different from the other guys Bart has befriended? Why does he only refer to him this way and not others?

Bart's sincerity in that sentence is remarkable, no sarcasm or irony, just honesty with his family and himself. He doesn't mention falconry or how he feels about it. Instead, he talks about Diggs and his desire to be with him all the time.

You can argue that it's bad writing (which I neither confirm nor discount at this point, hoy no me mojo el potito), but haven't you met someone older with a particular interest that you thought was amazing? Someone you'd want to emulate? It's a common thing, especially at the stage when you're searching for an identity of your own or getting to know yourself.

Later, we're shown a montage of small moments where these two share time together (including a walk on the beach and lounging on top of a tree in the woods while Diggs recites poetry). Bart seems fascinated in every instant, and we are never explicitly told why.

Although they use the hawk to perform pranks, Bart has done similar things before or could do them in other ways. We are not shown how much time they have actually spent together, nor is there a clear evolution. This scene exists solely to establish the friendship between them. It's not clear why Bart is so interested in falconry or spending time with Diggs. He just does it.

One could argue that Bart simply likes falconry, it wouldn't be the first time he's had an affinity for an animal or bird. But, the plot doesn't focus on Bart's relationship with the falcon or falconry itself, but rather the relationship between these two boys.

Falconry seems like an added element to highlight how quirky Diggs is compared to the other kids. It could have been any other sport or club, and the episode wouldn't have changed much. It's an extraneous element, as Bart's emotional attachment doesn't lie in that; it could be the starting point, but it has no bearing on the conclusion.

In the third act, after Diggs, you know, tries to fly in a moment of delirium and is taken to the hospital, Bart visits him and questions his behavior. Diggs' answers seem to disturb Bart, but he remains silent.

When Diggs is admitted to Twisted Meadows Psychiatric Hospital, Bart seeks information and asks permission to visit him the next day. Concerned, he continues to research “The Life of a Crazy Kid” (things Bart does, informing himself and reading). He wants to cure Diggs, but Lisa tells him it can't be done. Then he goes back to school with melancholy music playing in the background.

At the end, when they release all the hawks and it's time for Diggs to leave, Bart takes the bike to stop his friend. He asks him sadly when they will see each other again, to which Diggs does not respond. Instead, he hands Bart the presidency of the falconry club, thanks him for being his friend and disappears into the sunset. As the melancholy music plays again in the background, Bart sadly watches him walk away.

The story has no satisfying ending for Bart; he just stands there, getting no real goodbye and watching his new friend leave, never to return.

This looks like a fanfic. The whole story seems like a love story, especially the second act which has coming of age overtones. Bart seems to have developed romantic feelings for Diggs, but he is too young to understand or question these feelings.

I've always found it curious that it was Lisa who was confirmed as bisexual. I mean, this whole family is incredibly bi/pan, that's indisputable. But in my perception, I've always felt that Bart has been the character to whom the most same-gender tendencies or behaviors considered more “feminine” have been hinted at.

I remember when he taught Lisa to walk in heels, when even Homero came to think that Bart might be gay, or when he himself admitted to feeling some attraction for Milhouse (the only person in this family with good taste in men is Homero, you won't be able to convince me otherwise). Also, at the end of the episode where he befriends Nelson, his hugging his jacket tightly and how he caresses it also gave me pause.

I don't know, has Lisa ever had similar moments with any woman before confirming her bisexuality? At least not that I've noticed. But anyway, I'm not an expert on The Simpsons, much less the queer police. It's not for me to decide when someone qualifies to identify as part of the community.

Can you tell much that I need to read fanfics of these two? I searched like crazy and could only find one. I read it twice btw.

I guess I'll have to write it myself. Todo yo, todo yo.

Also, I really liked this screenshot c:

[watch-my-cosmic-death]

I was just filling out a self assessment for the company doing my autism testing, and it has been made very apparent to me that as a child I didn’t engage with anyone, and that all I wanted was to be alone with my imagination. BUT EVERYONE ELSE DECIDED TO COME IN AND GIVE ME TRAUMA!!!???!!!?! THE BOY JUST WANTED TO PRETEND THEY WERE A SHARK, HOW DEAR Y’ALL!!!!

[himblebo]

Today I wanted to: do laundry, tidy my bedroom, read, do some writing

Today I have: rotted on the couch because every time I try to move the brain zaps make me almost puke

[long-live-astronerd-ghost-king]

DPXDC prompt. Field trip.

Some people would call gothamites petty, but given that most of the USA population treated them as scum, they believed that their behavior was justified.

They didn't like tourists, to put it mildly. Therefore, after learning that in their city were people on a field trip from Amity Park who could not leave Gotham for several days due to weekly escape from Arkham, the news channel immediately decided that a short interview from the guests would definitely amuse the locals. The reaction of outsiders never ceases to be ridiculous.

Reporter: ~Good afternoon~ Gotham News! May I ask you to share what you liked most about our wonderful city?

Mr. Lancer*still in a cold sweat and looks at every passerby as a potential villain*: Uh, no, me..It's so unexpected. Well, first of all, people here are very…

Danny *is high after the tasting samples Dr. Crane gave him for free and is extremely eager to share his happiness with others*,* picks a microphone*.

Danny: Gotham is the best city in the world! Like seriously, damn, I'd like to die here. Although there are constant shootings somewhere, half the time people don't even shoot at me! I haven't been this relaxed since middle school! And in the evenings, there is often such a pleasant scent of fear and despair on the streets. This fear toxin of yours is a real miracle! It's sooo good!

Sam *decides to take the initiative in her own hands before Fenton says too much*: Personally, I am very pleased with the number of green spaces you have in your city. It's nice to see that here eco-activists are really being listened to. Also, the fact that most restaurants have a thoughtful menu for vegetarians left a very pleasant impression.

Dash in his favorite T-shirt "it's not gay if he's dead": Four words. Hips of Red Hood. The fact that it is not marked in the guidebook as the main attraction of the Crime Alley is a real crime. This dude clearly never skips leg days. My respect.

Tucker: What can I say? The speed of internet here, even during villains attacks, is absolutely  unbelievable. I don't want to leave this place.

Jazz: I love Gotham! Finally, I was able to buy all the works published by Dr. Harleen Quinzel. *girl picks up an impressive stack of books* For some reason, they are not available online.

The camera points at a red-haired guy with a twitching eye.

Wes: I'm 85% sure Bruce Wayne is Batman. I have a proof and I am ready to provide it.

A girl with a "Good Guess" pin from Riddler enters and takes camera away from conspiracy theorist.

Star: Sorry, he slipped out at night and went to look for problems. Again. Don't pay any attention to him. He's always like this when he drinks more than two energy drinks in a row.

[jungwnies]

f1 grid (1/2) | orange theory

୨ৎ : featuring : max verstappen, lewis hamilton, george russell, carlos sainz, charles leclerc, lando norris, oscar piastri (click here for part two) ୨ৎ : synopsis (requested by @holycastles) : quiet moments where love is tested through the smallest acts because sometimes, peeling an orange says more than 'i love you.'

୨ৎ : genre : fluff & romance ୨ৎ : word count : 1214

୨ৎ masterlist ୨ৎ

ᡣ𐭩 a/n : i love love love writing things based off of tik-tok trends, it's so sweet and cute >.< also i know these are super short but i think that it reallyyy captures their personalities :)

ʚ・max verstappen

you toss an orange at max during downtime and go, “peel this for me?”

he catches it mid-air, looks at you, deadpan. “what am i? your personal chef?”

you snort and walk away, not expecting anything. max doesn’t do sweet, right? not like that.

but a few minutes later, you find the orange sitting on the counter, peeled perfectly — skin discarded, slices arranged in a neat spiral.

you eye him across the room, arms folded. “did you peel this?” he shrugs without looking up from his phone. “was bored.”

you know better. max verstappen doesn’t get bored. he gets intentional.

the next day, he grabs one for himself — and another for you. doesn’t say a word. just peels both and hands one over like it’s routine.

when you try to thank him, he waves it off. “don’t get soft on me now.”

but when he catches you smiling, he smirks.

because of course he peeled it. of course he cares.

he just needs you to understand that his love isn’t loud — it’s in the quiet things. like protecting you from citrus juice and acting like it means nothing.

ʚ・lewis hamilton

you barely get the words out, “can you peel this for me?”

and lewis is already taking the orange from your hand.

“no problem, babe.”

he sits beside you, cross-legged on the couch, and starts peeling it with careful fingers, chatting about his day while he removes the white pith piece by piece.

then he gets up, walks to the kitchen, and returns with it sliced.

“i thought we’d elevate the citrus experience.”

you stare at him, wide-eyed. “lewis, it’s an orange.”

“exactly,” he grins. “you deserve your fruit with style.”

he kisses your forehead, then curls up beside you as if he didn’t just turn a tiktok test into an act of service so soft it made your heart melt.

he never calls attention to it, but he always peels your oranges after that. leaves them in little containers when you’re busy. packs them in your bag before flights.

you never have to ask again. and you know why.

because lewis isn’t just your boyfriend — he’s the kind of person who peels oranges like he’s caring for your soul.

ʚ・george russell

george blinks down at the orange you placed in his lap like it’s a bomb. “…you want me to peel this?”

“yup,” you grin. “no knife allowed.”

he stares at it, then at you. “this is a trick, isn’t it?”

“nope. just love language stuff.”

he huffs but you can see the gears turning. within two minutes, he’s looked up the most efficient orange peeling methods on his phone and begins carefully creating what can only be described as citrus origami.

“george, you’re taking this too seriously.”

“incorrect. i’m taking you seriously.”

he finishes with a perfectly spiraled peel, hands you the orange like a gift, and raises his brows. “well? did i pass your little test?”

you bite into a slice and nod, stunned. “you aced it. definitely best in class.”

he beams and mutters something about how he’d like that on the record.

you find out later that he’s now obsessed with fruit prep. pineapples. mangoes. grapefruits. the works.

all because you handed him a single orange.

and george russell doesn’t do anything halfway, especially not love.

ʚ・carlos sainz

you hand carlos an orange and say, “can you peel this for me?”

he blinks. “are your hands broken?”

you give him a look. he gives you one back.

he sighs. “you’re doing one of your tiktok psychology things again, aren’t you?”

you say nothing. just smile sweetly and leave the room.

a few minutes later, you hear him mumbling in spanish, something like “why do i always fall for this nonsense…”

but sure enough, the orange is peeled. slices separated. a napkin even folded beside it.

you grin. “i knew you loved me.”

he points a finger. “i only did it because i didn’t want you making a mess.”

“sure,” you say, popping a slice in your mouth. “that’s the reason.”

the next day, you find two oranges in your lunch bag. peeled. packed. one labeled “for mi amor” with a heart.

carlos acts like he has no idea how they got there.

but when you thank him with a kiss on the cheek, he just hums and goes, “well… i do spoil you.”

and you both know the truth: he always will.

ʚ・charles leclerc

when you ask charles to peel an orange for you, he doesn’t even blink. “okay.”

you expected teasing. maybe a confused “why?” or at least a sarcastic comment.

but no, he just quietly takes it and starts peeling like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

halfway through, he looks up. “…wait. is this a test?”

you nearly choke laughing.

“oh my god. it’s one of those tiktoks, isn’t it?”

you nod. “so? did you pass?”

he pauses, holding out the perfectly peeled fruit. “i mean… it’s in one piece. that’s worth at least a b+.”

you take a slice and smile. “a+ for effort.”

charles keeps stealing glances at you the rest of the day.

that night, he casually places another peeled orange on your nightstand before bed.

no words. just soft fingers brushing yours as he hands it over.

and in the quiet, you realize this man would do anything for you.

even pass little love tests without realizing he was taking them.

ʚ・lando norris

“peel it yourself,” lando says immediately when you hand him the orange.

you pout. “fine. i just thought you loved me.”

he groans like you just kicked his puppy. “oh come on.”

you walk away.

ten minutes later, you hear him cursing softly in the kitchen.

“why is this so hard?! this peel is evil.”

he returns with a mangled, chaotic-looking orange and dramatically sets it in front of you.

“it’s done. don’t say i never do anything for you.”

you try to bite into a slice and get hit with the bitterness of leftover peel.

“you suck at this,” you laugh.

he grins and kisses your temple. “yeah, but i tried. and that counts.”

the next day, he hands you a pre-peeled orange in a ziploc bag like he’s been training for it.

he also printed a label that says “from your emotionally available boyfriend.”

progress.

ʚ・oscar piastri

when you hand oscar an orange and ask him to peel it, he gives you the driest look imaginable. “…why?”

“just do it,” you say, kicking your feet on the couch. “please?”

he doesn’t ask questions. just takes the orange and gets to work.

two minutes later, he hands it back, peeled clean, slices stacked neatly like a pinterest tutorial.

you raise a brow. “…that was suspiciously fast.”

he shrugs. “it’s not that hard.”

“you didn’t even ask why i wanted it peeled.”

“didn’t need to. you wanted it, i did it. simple.”

your heart actually stumbles.

later that night, he places another orange in your hands, already peeled, in a container, lid snapped on.

he doesn’t say anything. just walks off like it’s no big deal.

but you’re left there holding the container like he just proposed.

because when oscar piastri quietly decides to care about you he really means it.

2021-2025 © jungwnies | All rights reserved. Do not repost, plagiarize, or translate

[botanicsoul]

Eyes Up Here

Aged up | Possessive!Bakugou Katsuki x (fem) Reader

-> This one’s for my bigger chested babes🍈🍈

𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ𖦹₊⊹ 𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ𖦹₊⊹ 𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ𖦹₊⊹ 𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ𖦹₊⊹ 𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ𖦹₊⊹

It’s sunny, warm, and perfect for walking hand in hand down the street with your boyfriend. You’re dressed for the heat—light denim shorts that hug your hips and a yellow low-cut tank top that gives just the right amount of bounce and peek.

You’d noticed his mood shift about three blocks ago.

He was quiet, more than usual, walking half a step behind you. But you knew Bakugou, and you could practically feel the heat of his glare every time someone else’s eyes lingered on you too long. His grip would tighten around your hip whenever that happened, thumb pressing into the waistband of your shorts.

So naturally, you played it up. A little extra sway in your hips, a stretch when you reached for your drink, a smug little smirk when you heard him grumble under his breath.

“Katsuki,” you sing-songed as you reached a patch of flowers blooming by a café wall. “We need a picture. The light is perfect.”

He snorted, lips curled. “Seriously?”

“Come on, plus you look hot today.” You dragged him in beside you and held your phone up. “Smile, babe. Just once. For me.”

You flipped to selfie mode, adjusting the angle. Your tank dipped low with the way your arm was lifted, giving the camera an unobstructed view of your cleavage. You looked damn good, and you knew it.

But before you could snap the picture—

A warm hand slapped over your chest. Then, in one swift, unapologetic tug, Bakugou yanked the hem of your tank up, covering the curve of your breasts with a grunt of pure annoyance.

“Katsuki!”

“You’re not fuckin’ posting that,” he growled into your ear, hand still fisted in your shirt, keeping it high.

You twisted to glare at him. “It wasn’t even that bad!”

“The hell it wasn’t,” he muttered, eyes scanning your face—then your chest—then the street, as if daring anyone to be looking. “You think I didn’t see that guy over there just now? Mouth open like he was starin’ at a damn dessert menu.”

You burst out laughing. “So what? I am dessert.”

He grumbled low in his throat. “Yeah, but you’re my fuckin’ dessert.”

“Oh my god, Katsuki—”

He leaned in, crowding close, hand still gripping your tank. “You’re walkin’ around with your tits half out like you want people lookin’. You tryin’ to start somethin’? Hm?”

“You’re so dramatic, it’s not my fault their big—”

“I’m serious.” His voice dropped lower, hotter, lips brushing your ear. “You don’t wanna know what I’d do if you actually posted that. let people see what’s mine.”

Your thighs pressed together instinctively at the tone, at the way his fingers lingered at the top of your shorts like he was one second away from slipping them in, right there on the sidewalk.

“You’re so possessive,” you whispered.

“You fuckin’ love it,” he replied, smirking when your breath hitched.

And the worst part? He was right.

He let go of your tank only when it stayed put, satisfied with the new, more “modest” arrangement. You snapped a photo anyway, catching the moment: your lips parted in shock, his hand mid-grab, his eyes narrowed like he’d just claimed territory—and dared anyone else to try.

“You’re insane,” you murmured, grinning as you looked down at the photo.

“Keep testin’ me,” he muttered, brushing a possessive kiss to your temple. “Next time I’m makin’ you take the picture with my hand down your shorts so they really know who the fuck you belong to.”

Your breath caught. “Katsuki—”

He shot you a wicked smirk. “Go on, post that, sweetheart.”

𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ𖦹₊⊹ 𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ𖦹₊⊹ 𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ𖦹₊⊹ 𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ𖦹₊⊹ 𖤐ᝰ.ᐟ𖦹₊⊹

[bueckets]

Office Hours

Pairing: student-athlete!Paige x tutor!reader

Genre: enemies to flirting to losing your mind, paige is a little shit, slow burn but not really, tension so thick it’s basically a third character, paige is failing bio and somehow it’s your problem, cocky athlete x academically unhinged girl, tutoring sessions turned emotional warfare, dirty shirley temples, smut incoming

Description: Paige Bueckers is failing biology, and you're the unlucky tutor assigned to drag her out of academic disaster. What should be a simple arrangement becomes anything but, thanks to her complete lack of focus, relentless flirtation, and the infuriating way she manages to get under your skin—and into your head.

Between chaotic study sessions, surprise bar encounters, and more sexual tension than should legally exist between two people trying to discuss mitochondria, it’s clear that the real test isn’t the midterm. It’s whether you can make it through the semester without either making out with her—or killing her.

One thing’s for sure: Paige isn’t the only one getting schooled.

WC: 9.6k (and growing)

Notes: im back?

The library is way too quiet. The kind of quiet that makes your own breathing sound deafening, where every shuffle of paper or tap of a pen echoes like a gunshot. It’s the kind of silence that should be perfect for studying. Should be.

Except Paige Bueckers is sitting across from you, and Paige Bueckers doesn’t give a single shit about studying.

Instead, she’s leaned back in her chair like she’s lounging courtside instead of being one bad test score away from academic probation. She’s got her long legs stretched out beneath the table, sneakers tapping lazily against the floor. Her hoodie—way too oversized for someone whose entire existence is dedicated to agility and precision—is slouching off one shoulder, and she’s twirling a pen between her fingers like she’s dribbling down the court with a shot clock winding down. The sleeves are bunched up just enough to show her forearms, strong and lined with faint muscle from years of training, but the only thing working right now is her mouth.

Grinning. Smirking. Teasing. Doing everything but reading the goddamn textbook in front of her.

“Alright, Paige,” you sigh, pushing your notes toward her for what has to be the third time. “We need to focus. You will fail this class if you don’t start studying.”

Paige doesn’t even blink. Doesn’t move an inch beyond a lazy stretch that makes her hoodie ride up just slightly, flashing the waistband of her shorts. Her smirk deepens like she can feel you noticing.

“Yeah,” she drawls, tilting her head, “but then I’d have to take it again next semester. Which means more quality time with my favorite tutor.”

You stare at her. She stares back. The kind of look that feels like a staredown before tip-off except way less athletic and way more are you seriously this insufferable?

She holds the eye contact, easy as anything, while you struggle to remind yourself that she is only your student, not a professional flirt sent to ruin your life. Her eyes gleam in the dim library lighting, playful and sharp at the same time. Her lashes are unfairly long, brushing against her cheeks when she finally blinks.

Your heart rate picks up. Not from that. From the academic crisis happening right now. Obviously.

“You’re not failing on purpose, right?” You narrow your eyes suspiciously.

Paige tilts her head, pretending to ponder, lips pursing slightly. “Hmm. No, but if I did, would that be kinda cute?”

You groan dramatically, dragging a hand down your face. “I am this close to committing academic misconduct and just taking the test for you.”

Paige gasps. Actually gasps, pressing a hand to her chest in faux offense. “Wow. I knew med school was intense, but I didn’t realize you were out here ready to commit federal crimes for me.”

“That’s it,” you announce, pushing back from the table. “I’m done. I quit. Find someone else to teach you about mitochondria.”

You barely make it an inch before Paige reaches across the table and hooks two fingers around your wrist, tugging you back down like you weigh nothing. Her grip is firm, all strength and control—like she’s grabbing a rebound, like she’s got her hands on the game ball in overtime. Your pulse jumps again, this time definitely because of that.

Her fingers linger for a second longer than necessary before she releases you. But she’s still watching you, expression softening just slightly around the edges. “C’mon, stay,” she says, voice lower now, like a secret. “I promise I’ll actually pay attention this time.”

You cross your arms. “Oh? And what changed?”

She leans forward this time, elbows on the table, chin propped on one hand. The lighting catches the sharp angles of her cheekbones, the curve of her jaw. She’s smiling, but it’s something different now—something slower. 

“Figured out that if I fail,” she murmurs, eyes locked on yours, “I won’t have an excuse to see you anymore.”

Your brain does a full system reboot. Error. What the fuck did she just say?

“Wh—Paige.”

She just winks, sinking her teeth into her bottom lip for half a second before her grin spreads, slow and satisfied. “What? That was cute, right?”

You grab your pen and point it at her accusingly. “You are so goddamn lucky you’re good at basketball, because if you had to rely on your brain—”

“I’d still get by,” she interrupts smoothly, shooting finger guns at you. “People tend to go easy on the charming ones.”

Your mouth actually falls open. Not on purpose—just an involuntary reaction to the sheer, unbelievable audacity of this girl. She’s failing biology, hasn’t written down a single note, and still has the goddamn nerve of a mathlete coasting through an easy A.

You snap your jaw shut, you refuse to let her see how flustered you are. You refuse. “Okay, charming one, then explain the process of cellular respiration.”

Paige squints, lips pressing together as she sucks in a breath through her teeth, nose scrunching like she’s really trying to make something shake in that head of hers. “Uh… it’s when cells… respire?”

You pinch the bridge of your nose, inhaling slowly through your teeth. “We are so, so fucking doomed.”

She just laughs, kicking her feet out beneath the table, accidentally knocking her knee against yours. “Relax,” she says, her grin widening. “You love tutoring me.”

“Do I?”

“Yeah,” she nods, completely sure of herself. “You totally have a little crush on me.”

You let out a dry, incredulous laugh—one of those sharp, breathy ones, all eyebrows raised and head bobbing. “Yeah, sure.”

She shrugs, tapping a finger against the open page of her biology textbook like she might actually start paying attention. Then, without looking up—

“Nah, I know.”

You blink. Paige blinks back.

The air between you tightens like a taut shoelace, pulling, pulling—dangerously close to snapping. You could be the bigger person here. You could roll your eyes, let it go, return to the noble pursuit of keeping Paige Bueckers from academically imploding.

But something about the way she’s looking at you—too smug, too sure—strikes a competitive nerve in you. And you’re not about to lose anything to her. Not a game, not a staredown, and sure as hell not a battle of wits.

So you shift in your chair, tilting your head, letting your lips curl just slightly. “Oh, you know?”

Paige leans back again, arms crossed, shoulders loose. She’s cocky, sure, but there’s something anticipatory in her gaze—like she knows you’re about to challenge her and she’s thrilled about it.

“Mhm.” She nods, casual as ever. “Crystal clear.”

You hum, feigning thoughtfulness, tapping a finger against the open textbook. “Wow. Must be nice. I thought you struggled with retention, but here you are, remembering things that have literally never been said.”

She gasps. “Rude.”

“You’ll get over it,” you deadpan.

Paige, of course, does not let it go. She tips her chin up, meeting your gaze with something wicked and playful tangled in the blue of her eyes. “Okay, fine. You don’t have a little crush on me.”

You exhale, relieved.

“But you definitely think about me when I’m not around.”

Your breath catches. Paige sees it. Her grin stretches wider, knowing, smug.

Oh, you are not letting her have this.

You scoff, shifting back in your chair, fighting the warmth creeping up your spine. “Paige, you are in my life solely because you can’t pass basic biology. I think about you in the same way people think about a fire alarm that won’t stop beeping.”

“Ah, so constantly?”

You scowl. She beams.

“That’s fair,” Paige shrugs, stretching her arms over her head, and the movement makes her hoodie ride up again, flashing a sliver of tanned stomach. “I am pretty unforgettable. Even when I’m annoying.”

“Especially when you’re annoying,” you mutter.

Paige smirks, but then, as if sensing your growing frustration, she sighs dramatically, rolling her eyes and dragging her textbook closer. “Alright, fine. I’ll study.”

You narrow your eyes. “For real?”

She winks. “Scout’s honor.”

“Paige, you were never a scout.”

“Prove it.”

You sigh but relent, watching as she flips open the book and actually—miraculously—starts reading the page in front of her. You take a sip of your now-cold coffee, reveling in the small victory.

For a blissful forty-five seconds, Paige is silent. Then—

“So, like,” she starts, “mitochondria. That’s the powerhouse of the cell, right?”

You pause. Blink. Lower your coffee. “Yes?”

Paige throws her hands in the air. “Let’s gooo. I’m a genius.”

You groan, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Paige, you have three weeks until your exam. We need to cover way more than that.”

“Okay, okay,” she soothes, putting her hands up in surrender. “Next question.”

You flip to another page, glancing up briefly to make sure she’s paying attention.

She’s not. She’s looking at you.

You pause, caught off guard by the way she’s watching you—not with teasing amusement or lazy smugness, but with something softer. Warmer. Curious.

“Paige,” you warn, shifting uncomfortably.

She blinks, then grins again, but there’s something slightly less sharp about it now. “Nothing, nothing,” she mutters, shaking her head, flipping a page in her book. “Just thinking.”

You hesitate, unsure if you want to ask, what about? But you don’t.

Instead, you clear your throat, turning your attention back to the book. “Okay. Explain the process of osmosis.”

Paige tilts her head dramatically. “Is that, like, when you just chill through life and things come to you naturally?”

“Oh my god, no,” you deadpan.

She grins. “Damn. Thought I was onto something.”

You sigh, rubbing your temples. “We are so fucked.”

Paige just laughs, bright and easy. “Nah. You’d never let me fail.”

She says it like it’s a fact. Like she knows, without a doubt, that you’d never let hers fall behind. And the worst part is she’s most definitely right.

She twirls her pen between her fingers, spinning it effortlessly like a basketball rolling off the tips of her hands. It’s hypnotizing, actually—the smooth rotations, the lazy way her fingers flick with just enough control to keep it from dropping. She’s been doing this for the last ten minutes, and not once has she even pretended to read the page in front of her.

Meanwhile, you’re hunched over your notes, taking deep, steadying breaths. You tell yourself you won’t let her test your patience today. You won’t get dragged into her game. You won’t—

“Paige,” you say, voice strained.

“Hm?” she replies, still flipping her pen effortlessly.

“Please read.”

Paige hums noncommittally. Turns a page without reading it. You inhale through your nose, exhale through your mouth. “Paige.”

She finally looks up, resting her chin on her palm, eyes bright with amusement. “What? I’m absorbing information. Through osmosis.”

You close your eyes, count to three. Consider what your life would be like if you had literally any other tutoring assignment.

“You are so lucky you’re athletic,” you mutter, flipping the page back to where she was actually supposed to start reading. “C’mon. Photosynthesis. What do you know?”

Paige stretches her arms behind her head, her hoodie riding up slightly—distractingly—before she drops back down with a smirk, looking at you like she’s about to deliver the most groundbreaking scientific revelation of all time.

“Plants… make food?”

Your eyelid twitches.

“Correct,” you deadpan. “And they do that through—”

“The power of love,” Paige interrupts, placing a hand over her chest. “And sunlight.”

You grip the edge of the table. Consider flipping it over. “Yes. Because that’s what biology is. Disney magic and good vibes.”

Paige grins. “Exactly.”

You open your mouth—probably to unleash a scathing lecture about the sanctity of science—when a shadow hovers at the edge of the table. You glance up—because you always have to glance up when people stop by your study sessions with Paige—and find a girl, probably a freshman, clutching her phone like it’s a sacred artifact.

She shifts on her feet, looking like she’s debating whether she should even speak to Paige. You can already see where this is going.

“Uh, sorry to interrupt,” the girl says, eyes darting between you and Paige, before ultimately landing—unsurprisingly—on Paige. “Could I, um, get a picture? If that’s okay?”

Paige doesn’t miss a beat. She shifts effortlessly from Slacker Paige to Cool Superstar Paige, flashing an easy grin as she leans back in her chair like she expected this. Like this is as common as someone asking her to pass the salt at dinner.

“Of course,” she says, voice warm, inviting, polished. She stands smoothly, rolling her shoulders back, exuding that same relaxed confidence she has right before sinking a step-back three.

You, meanwhile, remain seated, taking a slow sip of your coffee, already resigned to your fate as Paige Bueckers’ unofficial designated library bodyguard.

It’s routine at this point. The public adoration, the excited stammering, the sheepish thank you so much before they rush off like they just met royalty. And then Paige slides back into her chair, knocking her knee against yours like she doesn’t have an entire fan club scattered across campus.

“Where were we?” she asks casually, flipping her pen again.

You don’t even blink. “You were pretending to study, and I was contemplating my life choices.”

Paige snorts. But before she can respond, another person approaches. You glance up again, already prepared, already so tired. This time, it’s a guy—tall, student-athlete vibes, definitely not looking at you.

“Hey, sorry,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck, clearly nervous despite the fact that Paige is already smiling at him like they’re old friends. “Could I get a picture real quick?”

Paige grins. “Yeah, of course.”

You take another sip of your coffee. Stare blankly into the abyss. Same process. Paige stands, poses, flashes her million-dollar smile. The guy stammers out a thanks and hurries off.

You exhale. Set your coffee down. “You done?”

Paige barely has time to smirk before two more people shuffle up, practically vibrating with excitement. She notices your unimpressed expression and loses it, biting her lip to keep from laughing. “Okay, now it’s funny,” she murmurs, just loud enough for you to hear.

“Now it’s funny?” you echo flatly.

She grins. “Yeah. You look miserable.”

You scowl. Paige beams. Another five minutes pass before the final wave of admirers disperse, and Paige—finally—sinks back into her chair, looking far too pleased with herself.

“I should start charging,” she jokes.

You arch a brow. “Should I start charging? I’m the one sitting here like an unpaid security detail.”

Paige grins, drumming her fingers against the table. “You could be my manager, you know. We’d be an iconic duo.”

You scoff. “We’re not even an iconic study group.”

“Yet,” she corrects.

You roll your eyes but, reluctantly, glance at the time. The session should go another thirty minutes, but between Paige’s inability to focus and her impromptu meet-and-greet, you’re pretty much out of patience.

“Fine,” you sigh, shutting your book. “We’ll pick this up next time.”

Paige fist-pumps like she just nailed a game-winner. “Let’s go.”

You raise a hand. “But—”

Paige groans.

“You actually have to study next time,” you warn, pointing a finger at her like a parent scolding a child. “No excuses. No distractions. No impromptu fan club meetings.”

Paige nods solemnly. “Of course. One hundred percent. Fully locked in.”

You squint at her. “You’re lying to my face.”

She grins. “Yeah. But I did it really well.”

You let out a slow breath, collecting your things, already knowing that next time will be just as chaotic. But, somehow, you don’t hate the idea.

You barely make it two steps out of the library before Paige falls into step beside you, hands tucked into the front pocket of her hoodie, head tilted toward you like she’s waiting for something. You don’t say anything. Neither does she. But she’s still there, walking at your exact pace, still spinning that damn pen between her fingers like she’s making it her personal mission to erode the last of your patience.

After half a block of this nonsense, you finally huff. “Why are you still here?”

Paige smirks, eyes twinkling. “Wow. I thought we were friends, and you hit me with why are you still here? I think I need to sit down. That was devastating.”

You resist the urge to shove her into a trash can. “You should sit down. With a biology textbook.”

“That,” she sighs dramatically, “sounds like a you problem.”

You groan, but the corners of your lips twitch—just slightly. She glances at you again, side-eyeing, like she’s waiting for you to say something else. You don’t. So, instead, she nudges your arm with her elbow. “You heading back to your dorm?”

“Yep,” you say, adjusting the strap of your bag. “Where some people go to actually study.”

Paige grins. “Fun. I was gonna hit the gym.”

You pretend to be shocked. “No way. The gym? You? Unheard of.”

She chuckles. “Yeah, yeah. Crazy concept. Gotta keep these knees in top shape so I can keep playing dumb for you in the library.”

You roll your eyes, but your lips do twitch again. When you reach the intersection where you usually part ways, Paige hesitates—just slightly. Her foot taps against the pavement, and she glances at you, like there’s something she wants to say but doesn’t.

But then the crosswalk light changes, and she just flashes her usual grin. “Alright, I’ll see you next time. Can’t wait to waste more of your valuable time.”

You shake your head, already walking away. “You are a waste of my valuable time.”

Paige calls after you, voice dripping with smug amusement. “Admit it! You’d be bored as hell without me!” You don’t respond. Maybe, just maybe, she has a point.

You barely manage to kick the door shut behind you before dropping your bag to the floor, the weight of the entire goddamn week peeling off your shoulders like an old sticker. Your body feels wrecked—like you just played all four quarters of a game you weren’t even supposed to be in. Midterms, tutoring, the endless cycle of pretending you have your shit together when in reality, you’re two missed assignments away from a full-on breakdown.

Your roommate’s bed is empty, the perfectly made sheets an immediate giveaway that she’s already at her boyfriend’s place for the night. Which means the dorm is yours. Finally. A rare and precious occurrence, like a solar eclipse or a professor canceling class with a two-minute email. You grab your laptop from the desk, already knowing exactly how you’re gonna spend the next five hours: Desperate Housewives. Your guilty pleasure. Your lifeline. Your emotional support chaotic suburban drama. You settle onto your bed, wrapping yourself in a blanket cocoon, cracking your knuckles in preparation for an evening of zero responsibilities—when your phone rings.

You groan dramatically, not even bothering to check the screen before answering. “No.”

There’s a pause, then Jordan’s voice comes through, unimpressed. “Bitch, you don’t even know what I was gonna say.”

“Yes, I do,” you sigh, rolling onto your back. “And the answer is no.”

“You’re being difficult,” she complains. “Come out with me.”

“No.”

“C’mon. It’s Friday night. You have no excuses.”

“I have the best excuse. I’m too fucking tired.”

Jordan makes an exaggerated scoffing noise. “Tired from what? Sitting across from your little basketball girlfriend and watching her pretend she doesn’t know how to read?”

You freeze. “She’s not my—”

“Uh-huh.”

You close your eyes, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Jordan.”

“[Redacted],” she mimics in a deep, mocking tone. “Come out. I’ll buy your first drink.”

“You say that like you’re doing me a favor. It’s literally one drink.”

“Okay, and? You’re broke.”

She’s got you there.

“I have plans,” you try again.

“What plans? Watching white women commit crimes in wedge heels?”

You frown. “That’s oddly specific.”

“Because I know you.”

You press your lips together, because yeah. She does.

Jordan senses weakness and pounces. “You never go out anymore,” she whines. “It’s tragic. I’m watching my best friend turn into a sad little academic goblin. When’s the last time you flirted with someone for fun?”

“I—” You pause. And that’s enough for Jordan.

“Oh my god.”

“I don’t need to flirt with random people, Jordan,” you argue.

“Okay, then come to keep me company. Emily’s bringing her crypto bro boyfriend and I need a buffer. You owe me.”

“For what?”

“For being my best friend, dumbass.”

You let out a long, slow exhale. Your bed is so soft. Your show is right there. Your roommate isn’t gonna be back till morning, which means you could fall asleep watching hot moms commit felony-level fraud and no one would judge you. But Jordan is relentless. And also, maybe, just maybe, she’s right.

“Ugh, okay, fine, one drink,” you say finally.

She screeches. “I’LL BE THERE IN TWENTY.”

“Wait, what the— twenty?!”

“You don’t get time to back out, babe. Love you! Bye!”

The call disconnects. You stare at your ceiling for a long moment before groaning into your pillow. Guess you’re going out. You sit on the edge of your bed, staring at your closet like it personally wronged you.

Twenty minutes. Less than that now. Jordan is on time when it comes to dragging you out of your self-imposed hibernation, so you don’t have the luxury of procrastinating. You run a hand through your hair, sighing as you debate your options.

Jeans? Safe. A dress? Too much effort. Skirt? Trying too hard. 

You pull open a drawer, fingers brushing over the usual suspects: black tank, oversized tee, hoodie. The same exact shit you wear every day. You tug at the hem of your pajama shirt instead, already debating if you could get away with staying in. Jordan would literally break into your dorm if she had to.

You settle on something in the middle—black jeans that just hug your waist enough to be flattering without suffocating you, a tight long-sleeve that makes your arms look good, and sneakers. Cute but low effort.

Your reflection stares back at you from the mirror above your desk, and your mind does that thing. That thing where you start thinking in spirals, words layering on top of each other like a too-thick coat of paint. Jordan always looks good when you go out. The hot friend, effortlessly wanted. Guys slip her their numbers, girls compliment her makeup, and you? You’re there. Background noise. The best friend, the safe choice, the one people never approach first.

Your hands move on autopilot, pulling your hair into something presentable, smoothing out wrinkles in your shirt. Your brain moves just as fast, thoughts piling up. When’s the last time someone wanted you? Really, genuinely wanted you?

Not for help on an assignment. Not for a favor. Not as a buffer against some awkward third wheel situation. Your fingers tighten around the mascara wand as you swipe it over your lashes, the thought hitting heavier than it should.

And then there’s her. Paige. Paige, who everyone wants. Paige, whose name alone makes people light up, whose smile makes the world lean in closer. Paige, who has the kind of effortless pull that shouldn’t be real, the kind that isn’t real, except it is—because it’s her.

You imagine what it must be like. To be wanted by everyone. To have people go out of their way just to see you. To be loved by an entire fucking world that doesn’t even know you. To have that kind of pull. You shake your head, dabbing concealer under your eyes, fixing nothing. Paige doesn’t have to think about this. About being ignored. About whether or not someone is really interested or if they just need her for something else. Paige is easy to love.

Your hands are steady as you apply lip gloss, but your thoughts aren’t. Because you know what’s worse? Worse than not being wanted? Feeling like you could be—if only you were someone else. A sharp knock-knock-knock at your door makes you jump, snapping you out of whatever existential spiral you were just sinking into.

You check the time. 7:59. Jordan, always on time when it comes to dragging your ass out of the house.

“Bitch, open up,” she calls through the door, impatience already seeping through her voice. “I know you’re in there, don’t make me break in.”

You roll your eyes, grabbing your phone off the bed before opening the door. Jordan doesn’t even wait for an invitation. She just steps in like she owns the place, eyes immediately scanning you up and down.

“Oh, thank god,” she exhales dramatically, throwing herself onto your bed like she just finished a marathon. “For a second, I was scared you were gonna pull some bullshit and answer in sweats.”

“I was considering it.”

“And I would’ve dragged you outside as is.”

She props herself up on her elbows, eyes narrowing slightly. “You look good, though. Like, sexy but nonchalant. Very ‘I don’t try but I still eat men alive.’”

You snort, sitting on the edge of the bed to pull your sneakers on. “That’s exactly what I was going for.”

Jordan flips onto her back, legs kicking lazily. “Hot girl vibes activated. I’m proud.”

You ignore the way that your brain still insists on running her words through some dumb internal filter. Hot but? Sexy but? There’s always a but. Still, you appreciate the compliment.

Jordan rolls onto her side, propping her head up with her hand. “Okay, so what’s our game plan?”

You raise a brow. “Game plan?”

She grins. “Are we flirting for fun tonight? Making out with strangers? Taking free drinks and saying thanks but no thanks?”

You scoff, standing to grab your jacket. “You’re doing all of that. I’m drinking one drink, pretending I enjoy being in public, and then leaving.”

Jordan makes a dramatic gagging noise. “You’re so lame, it physically hurts me.”

“Yeah, yeah.” You throw on your jacket, checking yourself one last time in the mirror before turning back to her. “Let’s just get this over with.”

Jordan squints. “You know, for someone who never goes out, you could at least try to fake some excitement.”

You sigh, grabbing your phone. “Fine.” You flash her your most half-assed smile. “Yay. Alcohol.”

Jordan stares at you for a long beat. Then she cackles.

“I hate you,” she wheezes, hopping off the bed and slinging an arm around your shoulders. “C’mon, grumpy girl. Let’s get you drunk.”

You let her steer you out the door, already bracing for whatever the night has in store.

The bar hums with low conversation, the steady pulse of bass from the speakers vibrating against your ribs. The air is thick—spilled beer, cheap whiskey, the faintest trace of cologne as someone brushes past you. It’s crowded, bodies pressing in too close, the kind of warmth that clings to your skin, dampens the edges of your sleeves.

You plant your elbows on the bar, exhaling slow. Jordan’s already disappeared into the crowd, her voice lilting somewhere behind you, laughing too loud at something she probably doesn’t even find funny. You don’t bother looking back. You just need a drink, something cold in your hand, something to make this whole night feel less like a mistake.

The bartender moves in front of you, nodding once in acknowledgment, and you order—automatic, easy, something you don’t have to think about. While you wait, you glance around, taking in the room.

It’s packed, but that’s expected. The usual Friday night chaos—people gathered in clusters, leaning into one another to be heard over the music. A group near the dartboard erupts in laughter, a guy raises his arms in exaggerated victory, another flips him off good-naturedly. At the other end of the bar, a girl tugs her friend closer, whispering something into her ear, their giggles swallowed by the noise.

And then— a flash of blue. You don’t think anything of it at first. Just a hoodie, nothing more. But then there’s another. And another. A guy walks past, a UConn logo stretched across his chest, the lettering cracked and faded from too many washes. At a nearby table, someone’s peeling the label off their beer bottle, the cuff of their UConn crewneck pushed up to their elbows. A girl at the bar turns her head, revealing the unmistakable emblem stitched into the side of her cap.

Your drink lands in front of you with a soft clink. You reach for it, fingers curling around the condensation-slicked glass, but your eyes are still moving, scanning. Near the pool table, someone slams a cue stick down, shaking their head. “Bro, that was insane.”

“I told you,” another guy laughs, taking a swig of his beer. “They were fucking unstoppable.”

A bartender walks by carrying a tray of shots, and someone calls out, voice sharp with excitement—

“To the Huskies!”

A cheer rises, loud and immediate, glasses raised, grins splitting across faces. Your fingers tighten around your drink. Another voice cuts through—closer, rough around the edges like it’s been shouting for hours. “Bueckers was on fire.”

Your stomach tenses. A television flickers in your periphery, mounted above the bar, the broadcast running highlights on a loop. A flash of white jerseys, a blur of movement, the unmistakable arc of a three-pointer sinking clean through the net.

Your gaze catches on the name emblazoned across the back.

BUECKERS. 5.

Your drink sits untouched in your hand. A hand lands on your shoulder, nails cool against your skin. Jordan’s voice cuts through the hum of conversation, bright, energized.

“There you are,” she says, leaning in so you can hear her. Her breath is warm against your ear, smelling faintly of whatever sugary drink she got roped into first. “Why do you always ditch me the second we get here?”

You lift your glass, taking a slow sip before responding. “I didn’t ditch you. You ran off.”

Jordan grins, squeezing your shoulder before letting go. “Details.”

She slides onto the stool beside you, propping her elbows on the bar, the sheer confidence in her posture making it clear that she’s already in her element. You can tell from the way her shoulders are loose, from the easy way she scans the room—she’s here to enjoy herself. She tugs at the collar of her cropped tank, a calculated movement, and you don’t miss the way a pair of eyes flicker toward her from across the bar.

Of course. It never takes long. The girl is pretty—high cheekbones, sharp jaw, hair spilling in soft waves over her shoulders. She’s nursing a drink in one hand, the other tracing idle patterns into the wood of the bar. She’s been looking, you realize. Long enough for it to mean something. Long enough for it to be deliberate.

And Jordan? She notices. She always notices. You watch as she tilts her head slightly, lips curling at the edges, all slow-building amusement. Not an invitation. Not yet. Just an acknowledgment. I see you seeing me. And just like that, the girl moves.

She slides closer, just one seat between her and Jordan now, her presence a hum of subtle perfume and confidence. You feel the shift immediately, the way the space around them tightens, charged with something unspoken. You take another sip of your drink, eyes flicking between them. Jordan doesn’t look over right away. She lets it build, that delicious tension she thrives on, makes the girl wait for it. And when she finally turns her head—slow, purposeful—it’s a hook.

“Hey,” the girl says, voice smooth, honeyed.

Jordan’s lips part slightly, amused. “Hey yourself.”

There it is. The shift, the moment the conversation has already decided what it’s going to be. The girl twirls the stem of her glass between two fingers, considering. “You’re a little hard to miss.”

Jordan lifts a brow. “Yeah?”

The girl nods, a smile playing at her lips. “Saw you the second I walked in.”

You huff a quiet laugh into your drink. Jordan flicks you a glance, but she doesn’t look away for long. She’s locked in now, her full attention settling on the girl beside her.

“That so?” she murmurs.

The girl leans forward slightly, just enough that Jordan can smell whatever floral-citrus perfume she’s wearing. “Mhm.”

Jordan takes her time responding, letting the moment stretch, her fingers tapping lazily against the bar. “And what’d you think?”

The girl laughs, low and knowing. “I think I liked it.”

Jesus. You shake your head, resisting the urge to roll your eyes. This is Jordan’s playground, and she’s barely even started. Before she can respond, a familiar voice cuts in.

“There you are, finally.”

Emily. And, by default, her crypto bro. You turn just in time to see her sliding in beside you, her expression teetering between fond exasperation and mild relief, like she was worried you wouldn’t actually show. Her boyfriend—god, what’s his name again?—is hovering a step behind her, already half into whatever overpriced IPA he’s nursing.

“Thought you were gonna bail,” Emily says, bumping your arm.

You shake your head. “Almost did.”

She laughs. “Would’ve sent Jordan to physically drag you out of bed.”

“She already threatened to.”

Jordan, not even looking at you, raises a hand and flicks her wrist. “And I would’ve done it with love.”

Emily grins before turning to Jordan, about to say something else—until she sees the girl. And immediately, her expression shifts.

“Oh,” she says, blinking once. Then, lips curving slightly, she leans in, dropping her voice just enough for you to hear. “She’s hot.”

Jordan doesn’t turn her head, but her smirk deepens. “I know.”

The girl doesn’t flinch, unfazed by the blatant cockiness, the sheer Jordan-ness of it all. If anything, she looks more intrigued.

“God, you’re unbearable,” Emily mutters, sipping her drink.

Jordan, at this point, is fully ignoring all of you. She’s gone, deep in the slow back-and-forth of a conversation that’s teetering right on the edge of something. You watch, mildly entertained, as the girl tucks her hair behind her ear, as Jordan lets her gaze flick lower, just for a moment, before meeting her eyes again.

Classic. You’re about to tune them out entirely, return your focus to the drink in your hand, when—

The door swings open.

And just like that, the energy shifts. You don’t see them at first. You feel them. A ripple through the crowd, a flicker of awareness in the way people turn their heads, in the subtle glances exchanged between strangers. The volume dips for half a second—not silence, just a shift, a momentary lapse before everything surges back up again.

Your eyes track toward the entrance—toward the new arrivals pushing through the threshold, stepping into the bar with the ease of people who know they’ll be noticed. White sneakers. Loose sweatpants. Jackets slung over shoulders. And that unmistakable color.

UConn blue.

Jordan is still locked in, her conversation with the pretty girl unfolding in the slow, deliberate way that only happens when both people know exactly what they’re doing. It’s all prolonged eye contact, subtle shifts in body language, the kind of flirting that exists in the pauses as much as in the words. Emily is barely paying attention, absorbed in some argument with her boyfriend about blockchain or whatever the hell it is he does. You’ve stopped listening.

Which means you’re just… there. Third-wheeling at a bar, drink half-finished, barely contributing to the conversation. The worst part is, no one even notices. Jordan, obviously, is in her own world, and Emily is too preoccupied with rolling her eyes at her boyfriend to remember you exist. You take another sip of your drink, letting your eyes wander.

The UConn girls have spread through the bar now, weaving into the crowd like they belong there. You recognize a few faces—players you’ve seen on highlight reels, names you don’t know but should. There’s a looseness to them, an ease, the kind of relaxation that only comes after a win.

You wonder, absently, if Paige is here. Not that it matters. The thought makes you shift slightly, pushing down something vague and uncomfortable. You finish off the last sip of your drink and set the glass down a little too hard, the soft clink barely audible over the noise.

“I need to piss,” you mutter, mostly to no one.

Jordan doesn’t react, too busy letting the girl touch her arm in that slow, lingering way that means she’s definitely coming home with her later. Emily gives a halfhearted wave, her focus still locked on her boyfriend, who is currently explaining something with way too much hand movement.

You slip into the crowd, navigating the maze of bodies with the kind of single-minded determination usually reserved for final exams and finding your phone when it’s on silent. The bass from the speakers vibrates through the floor, thrumming up through your sneakers, settling somewhere in your chest. Every step feels like walking through molasses—people shifting, swaying, arms brushing against yours in that careless way that comes with alcohol and too many bodies packed into one space.

You make it to the hallway leading to the bathrooms and nearly sigh in relief. It’s quieter here—not quiet, but enough that you can hear yourself think. The walls are still pulsing faintly with the music, the distant echo of a chorus threading through the air, but it’s a reprieve from the chaos of the main bar.

And then you see the door. Locked.

Holy fuck, you’re about to piss yourself. You try the handle anyway because maybe the universe will be kind, but no—solid, unmoving. Leaning against the opposite wall, you exhale sharply, blowing a strand of hair out of your face. Fine. You’ll wait. Not a big deal.

Except time starts dragging. You shift your weight from one foot to the other, tapping your fingers against your thigh. One minute passes. Two. You check your phone, even though you just checked your phone.

Okay. You can handle this.

Except—five minutes in, it’s not just uncomfortable. It’s annoying. Who the fuck is in there? Writing a novel? Performing a one-act play? Curing a disease?

You knock once, firm but not aggressive. Just enough to remind whoever is inside that there’s a whole world out here.

No response. Another minute passes. You cross your arms, shifting again, foot tapping against the floor. Seven minutes.

You knock again. Harder this time. “Yo.”

Nothing. Oh, come on. You glance toward the men’s bathroom. It’s right there. Completely open. No line. Just an empty doorway leading to salvation. Wouldn’t be the first time. But before you can talk yourself into it, you knock again. Hard. Impatient. At this point, you’re not even polite about it—you just hit the door. “Hurry up, Jesus Christ.”

The lock clicks. A second later, the door swings open, and out stumbles a couple—disheveled, flushed, and absolutely not here to use the bathroom for its intended purpose. The girl giggles into her boyfriend’s neck, her lipstick half-smeared, while his hands are still gripping her hips like they’re considering going back in for round two.

You don’t even react. You just shove past them, slam the door shut, and finally—finally—relieve yourself. Blessed silence, aside from the muffled bass still thumping through the walls. You take a moment to breathe, running your hands through your hair, shaking off the weird tension that’s been clinging to you all night. You’re fine. It’s fine.

When you step back out, the hallway’s busier—more people filing in, laughing too loud, waiting their turn. You navigate through them, dodging the wobbly, half-drunk girl clinging to her friend’s arm, sidestepping the guy trying way too hard to look casual against the wall. You’re almost back to the main floor when—

A hand catches your wrist. Firm, deliberate. Enough pressure to stop you, but not enough to hurt. Your breath stutters—not from fear, not exactly, but from the sheer certainty in that grip. Like whoever’s holding you already knew they would.

You turn your head. And there she is.

Paige fucking Bueckers.

Loose hoodie, sleeves pushed up, exposing the lean muscle in her forearms. A chain glinting under the dim bar lights, catching for half a second on the sharp line of her collarbone before disappearing beneath fabric. Her hair is a little messier than usual, like she’s run a hand through it one too many times. And her expression?

Smug. Smug as hell.

“Well, well, well,” she drawls, her grip on your wrist still firm, thumb brushing once over your pulse before she finally—leisurely—lets go. “Fancy seeing you here, tutor.”

Her voice is low, teasing. The kind of tone that makes you want to roll your eyes and press your thighs together at the same damn time.

You exhale sharply. “Oh, fuck me.”

Her grin widens instantly, wolfish. “I mean, if you insist—”

You smack her arm, and she laughs. Not just a chuckle, but a full-bodied, head-tilted-back, entirely too pleased with herself kind of laugh. It’s obnoxious. It’s attractive. It’s exactly why you need to get out of this conversation immediately.

But Paige has other plans. She steps closer—just enough that you feel the heat of her body, just enough that the crowd shifts around you, forcing you to stay exactly where you are. Her gaze drops, just for a second, flickering down your outfit before dragging back up, slow, deliberate.

“You clean up nice,” she muses. “Didn’t know you owned anything other than oversized sweatshirts.”

You narrow your eyes. “Didn’t know you left the gym.”

She hums, tapping her chin like she’s considering. “True. But, you know, when you drop thirty-six points in a game, you kinda have to celebrate.”

Of course she dropped thirty-six.

“And yet,” you deadpan, “here you are. Bothering me.”

Paige grins, shifting on her feet so she’s even closer, close enough that you can smell her cologne—something crisp, clean, expensive. Unfair.

“C’mon, don’t act so surprised,” she murmurs. “You knew we’d run into each other eventually.”

You raise a brow. “Did I?”

She tilts her head, amused. “Yeah. ‘Cause you’ve been avoiding me all week.”

Your pulse skips. “I have not—”

“Oh, you definitely have,” Paige interrupts, smirking. “Don’t think I didn’t notice you switching up your usual schedule. Skipping our tutoring session on Tuesday.” She clicks her tongue, shaking her head. “Tragic. Really had me wondering if I did something to offend you.”

God, she’s insufferable. And yet—

“Like you care,” you shoot back.

Her eyes glint, sharp, knowing. “Oh, I do.”

Something thickens in the air between you. Something tangible, humming just beneath the surface of her cocky smirk, her unwavering stare. Her fingers twitch at her side, like she’s considering reaching for you again. You see it happen, the micro-movement, the shift of her weight like she’s deliberating. And then, just as quickly, she exhales, straightening to her full height.

“Well,” she says, her voice dipping into something smoother, softer, “if you’re not avoiding me, then I guess you wouldn’t mind grabbing a drink with me, huh?”

You blink. “What.”

She jerks her chin toward the bar. “Drink. You. Me.”

You hesitate. That same pressure returns, that feeling of everyone wants her, but somehow, right now, she’s locked onto you. Paige watches you, the ghost of a grin tugging at her lips. “What’s wrong, tutor? Afraid you might enjoy my company?”

Your jaw tightens. “I tolerate your company.”

She smirks. “Then come tolerate me at the bar.”

Your mistake wasn’t stopping when she grabbed your wrist. Your mistake was letting her talk. Because now Paige fucking Bueckers is smirking at you like she’s already won something, head tilted, hands shoved in the pockets of her hoodie like she’s lounging through this entire interaction. You can already feel yourself being pulled into her orbit, and she knows it.

“A drink?” you echo, squinting at her. “You? Drinking?”

Her smirk grows. “Shocking, I know.”

“Lemme guess,” you deadpan. “Protein powder with a splash of vodka? Maybe a nice gatorade-infused tequila?”

Paige gasps—actually gasps, pressing a hand to her chest like you just accused her of a heinous crime. “Wow. You think so little of me.”

“I think exactly the right amount of you.”

She exhales dramatically, shaking her head. “Tragic. Here I am, just a small-town basketball star trying to enjoy a simple, wholesome night out, and my own tutor is out here slandering my good name.”

You raise a brow. “Your good name?”

She nods solemnly. “That’s right. I am, at heart, a simple girl with simple pleasures.” Then, as if to punctuate the absolute bullshit she just said, she throws an arm around your shoulder, leaning in until her lips are a breath away from your ear. “Like dirty Shirley Temples.”

You choke. On nothing. Paige pulls back, just enough to see your reaction, the sharp glint of amusement in her gaze practically sparkling.

“No fucking way,” you manage. “You drink dirty Shirley Temples?”

She grins. “Religiously.”

“That’s—” You blink, at a complete fucking loss. “That’s the most unserious drink you could have possibly chosen.”

Paige winks. “And yet? It goes down smooth.”

“Oh, I bet it does.”

She laughs, full and warm, tilting her head like she’s considering something. “Y’know,” she muses, “I like this side of you.”

You narrow your eyes. “What side?”

Paige drops her voice, lowers it into something silkier, something that slides down your spine in a way that should be illegal. “The one that flirts with me back.”

Your brain short-circuits. “Excuse me?”

“Oh, don’t play dumb now,” she murmurs, fingers tapping lazily against the side of your arm like she’s keeping count of your heartbeat. “You’re usually so good at keeping up.”

You hate that she’s right. You take a slow breath, forcing yourself to regain some composure. “You are so full of shit.”

Paige hums. “Maybe. But you seem to love it.” And then she winks. A full, obnoxious, Paige Bueckers-grade wink.

Oh, you are not going out like this. You lean in, just barely, watching the way her smirk twitches, the way her fingers still on your arm. “Tell you what,” you say, keeping your voice light, casual, like you’re not insanely aware of how close she is. “I’ll let you buy me a drink—”

Paige perks up. “Yeah?”

“If,” you continue, “you admit that I’ve been absolutely kicking your ass in our tutoring sessions.”

Her lips part. “Oh, hell no.”

You grin. “What’s wrong? Afraid of the truth?”

She clicks her tongue, shaking her head like she’s personally offended. “No fucking way. That’s extortion.”

“That’s accountability.”

She squints at you. “You are so lucky you’re hot.”

Your breath catches. For a split second, you completely malfunction, and Paige fucking sees it. 

She grins—huge, like she just sank a game-winner at the buzzer. “Ohhh, that got you, huh?”

You snap back immediately. “Did not.”

“Uh-huh.” She crosses her arms, rocking back on her heels. “You were fully thrown off just now.”

You roll your eyes, trying to pretend like you didn’t just combust internally. “You gonna buy me that drink or what?”

Paige sighs like you’ve personally exhausted her. “Fine,” she relents. “But I’m getting you my favorite.”

You smirk. “A dirty Shirley?”

She grins. “Exactly.”

And with that, she grabs your hand—just for a second, just to tug you toward the bar, just long enough to make your pulse spike before she lets go.

The bar is packed. Bodies pressed together, voices overlapping, the occasional burst of laughter breaking through the thumping bass. Paige moves through it like she owns the place—shoulders loose, hoodie slouched just right, that damn chain flashing under the dim lights. You follow, pretending your eyes aren’t tracking the way her sweatpants sit just low enough on her hips to be distracting.

She leans against the bar, elbow propped up, and tilts her head at you like she’s studying something.

You squint. “What.”

Her lips twitch. “Nothing. Just trying to figure you out.”

“You’ve had months to do that.”

“Yeah, but you keep surprising me.” She drums her fingers against the counter, slow and rhythmic. “Like, for example, I knew you had some bite to you, but tonight? You’re really showing your teeth.”

You cross your arms. “Maybe I’m just extra annoyed by you today.”

Paige hums, tilting her head like she’s considering. Then, before you can react, she leans in—close, warm, too close—and brushes her lips just against the shell of your ear.

“Nah,” she murmurs, voice dipping low. “You like it.”

A slow, rolling shiver spreads down your spine.

Paige pulls back, just far enough to meet your eyes, her smirk lazy and so fucking smug. She knows exactly what she just did. You hate that she’s right. Before you can retaliate, the bartender appears. Paige turns, all casual ease, and grins.

“Two dirty Shirleys,” she says.

The bartender raises a brow but nods, moving to make the drinks. You stare at Paige. She shrugs. “Hey, a deal’s a deal.”

“You actually meant it?”

“Duh,” she says. “What, you think I just flirt for fun?”

Your lips part, because yes, obviously, that’s exactly what you think. Paige sees the way your expression shifts, and her grin deepens. “Aw, babe, don’t tell me you thought I was playing with you.”

You blink. “I—”

She tuts, shaking her head. “See, now I really need you to drink this, ‘cause you need to loosen up.”

The bartender slides the drinks over. Paige pushes one toward you, watching expectantly. You hesitate. Paige lifts hers and clinks the rim of her glass against yours. “C’mon, tutor. Don’t be scared.”

Scared? Oh, that does it. You grab the glass and take a sip, the sweet bite of grenadine and vodka coating your tongue. Paige watches the way your throat moves when you swallow, her lips parting just slightly.

Just like that, the game shifts. You lower the glass, eyes locking with hers.

“Not bad,” you murmur. Then, mirroring her move from earlier, you step in just enough to make her breath hitch, tilting your head slightly like you’re about to say something important—something deep, something meaningful.

And then— you drag your tongue slowly over your bottom lip and the blonde’s eyes darken. You almost laugh, but her hand suddenly brushes against your waist, just a whisper of contact, the heat of her palm radiating through your thin shirt. It’s brief—so brief you could almost pretend it didn’t happen—but the way your skin burns says otherwise.

“Shit,” Paige mutters under her breath, just for you to hear.

You smirk. “Something wrong?”

Her jaw tightens. “Not at all.”

She takes a sip of her own drink, eyes never leaving yours, throat bobbing as she swallows. The moment stretches. Then—Paige exhales sharply, like she’s shaking something off, and grins. “Alright, alright, you win this round,” she admits, nudging your arm with hers. “Didn’t know you had that in you.”

You tilt your head. “Guess you’ll just have to keep figuring me out.”

She chuckles, shaking her head. “God, you’re fun.”

Then, so casually, she hooks a finger into your belt loop and tugs. It’s playful. It’s barely anything. But it’s also everything. Because she doesn’t let go. You swallow. Hard.

Her voice is softer now, but the teasing edge is still there. “I like this side of you.”

You clear your throat, trying desperately to focus on something other than the warmth of her touch. “You said that already.”

Paige smirks. “Yeah. But I really like it.”

Paige is cocky. Too cocky. The kind of cocky that drips off her like it’s stitched into her damn DNA, like she was born knowing how to get under people’s skin, into their heads. And right now, she’s looking at you like she’s already inside yours, like she’s set up shop in the most dangerous corners of your mind and made herself comfortable. She still has her finger hooked in your belt loop. Just resting there, like she belongs there.

“You’re staring,” she murmurs, sipping her drink, tongue flicking out to catch a stray drop of grenadine before it can slide past her lip.

Your jaw clenches. You look down at her grip on your jeans, then back up. Blatantly.

She smirks. “What, this?” She tugs. Not hard. Just enough to make the fabric of your jeans pull against your hip, just enough to remind you she’s right there.

You don’t move. “Let go.”

She hums, tilting her head. “Nah.”

Your fingers twitch around your glass. “Paige.”

She exhales, all mock exasperation, finally—finally—releasing her hold. But before you can celebrate your very minor victory, she leans in, voice dropping to something dangerously smooth. “Relax. You can touch me if you want.”

Your breath catches.

She laughs, tipping her drink toward you in mock salute. “You’re so fun to mess with.”

You narrow your eyes, pulse still skittering from the low, teasing way she said touch me. “You’re insufferable.”

Paige hums. “Maybe, you like it.”

And there it is. The line. The one she’s been waiting to say, the one she’s been circling since the second she grabbed your wrist.

You roll your shoulders, schooling your expression into something neutral. “You’re alright.”

Her brows lift. “‘Alright’? Wow.”

You sip your drink, unfazed. “I mean, you are failing bio.”

Paige scoffs. “Unnecessary.”

“Just saying. I don’t think geniuses need tutors.”

Paige smirks. “Nah, but they do need entertainment. And you, babe—” she tips her chin toward you, eyes gleaming, “—are so fucking entertaining.”

The casual babe nearly stops your brain completely.

You grip your glass tighter. “I should charge you extra.”

“For what? Intellectual stimulation?”

“For being exhausting.”

Paige’s grin widens. “Yet, here you are. Still talking to me.” She takes another slow sip of her drink, eyes locked onto yours over the rim of her glass. Watching you. Like she’s waiting for something.

You shift your weight, feeling entirely too seen, entirely too open under that gaze. Paige notices. Of course she does. Her lips part, her tongue pressing against the inside of her cheek like she’s considering something.

Then—before you can react—she leans in.

Your body locks up.

She gets close. Not teasingly close, not almost close—actual close. The kind of close that makes your heart trip over itself, the kind of close that makes your breath catch in the back of your throat.

Her lips hover right there, her breath warm against your jaw. Then, quietly, smugly—obnoxiously:

“Wanna make out?”

You freeze.

She grins. “What? You look like I just asked you to solve a physics problem.”

“Are you serious?”

Paige tilts her head. “Nah, I just like watching you panic.”

She’s so fucking unbearable. You set your glass down with a sharp clink. “You think you’re funny.”

“I know I’m funny.”

“You’re a menace.”

She beams. “You don’t seem to mind it.”

Maybe it’s the alcohol, or the heat of the bar, or the way Paige is looking at you like she wants something—like she’s daring you—but suddenly, your patience snaps.

You grip the front of her hoodie and pull. She barely has a second to react before your lips crash into hers. Paige groans. A low, gravelly sound that vibrates against your mouth, sending heat shooting straight to your stomach. And fuck, she kisses back.

All cocky, eager pressure, her hands already gripping your waist, her fingers slipping just beneath the hem of your shirt like she wants to feel more.

The bar melts away. The noise, the people, everything—all of it fades because Paige is right here, kissing you like she’s been waiting for you to do this since day one.

You tilt your head, chasing the taste of vodka and cherry on her tongue, and Paige makes this obscene little noise before she presses in, deeper, her teeth grazing just enough to make your knees buckle. You gasp, and she smirks into the kiss, like she knows, like she’s already winning again.

Asshole.

You yank at the waistband of her sweatpants, a little revenge, a little fuck you, and Paige laughs—low, breathless—before biting gently at your bottom lip, sending a full-body shiver down your spine. Your grip on her tightens.

She hums, pleased. “Knew you wanted me.”

You pull back, just barely, panting. “Shut the fuck up.”

Paige grins, lips swollen, eyes gleaming. “Make me.”

[mwphisto]

I’m not worth it - Rafayel

Rafayel is genuinely appalled when you tell him that he could find a partner so much more worthy of his love. Not only is he appalled that those words left your lips, he’s utterly appalled that you said them with 100% sincerity.

Better than you? Better than the woman he waited 800 years for? Better than the woman he gave up his entire world for? Better than the woman who owns his heart? Seriously? Do you even hear yourself when you talk?

The anger that flashes across Rafayel’s face has you shrinking back, heart pounding because you realize you are in a world of trouble for saying such a thing. Not just because of the fear, but because he is responding so fiercely to your self deprecating proclamation.

“What?” It’s nothing short of a hiss, a look of genuine disgust on his face. Not at you, but at the heinous idea you dared to utter. “I said I—“ but he cuts you off, a noise of pure anger leaving the artist’s lips.

“I heard you the first time, and I most definitely do not want to hear those words again.”

Then, he’s moving towards you, lithe hands coming up to cup your heated cheeks. The intensity in his gaze urging you to break eye contact but you don’t dare to. “Who do I have to kill?” And you blink, unsure of how to proceed.

“Who do I need to kill?” Again, leaving you lost. “WHO put those god awful thoughts in your pretty little head, cutie? WHO do I need to kill for ever making you doubt your worth of my love and affection.”

And your throat is drying up, because if you give him the honest answer he’d have to kill— “m-me.”

“You?” Rafayel is holding you a little tighter, heart thumping in agony that the creature who could conjure up such evil ideas was none other than yourself.

“What have I done to make you feel like this?” Because clearly he’s done something wrong along the way. Was he too bratty? Too dramatic? Did he make one too many sarcastic comments? Did he act some sort of way that made you question his feelings? He’s spiraling.

“You did nothing! God no, Raf. You’ve done nothing it’s just… me I guess. Self conscious. I-imposter syndrome even! Just… got too lost in my own head and…”

You’re spiraling too, and he can see it just as you picked up on the way he began to lose it. And you still have the audacity to think he wouldn’t burn the world for you? To be able to pick up so easily on his derailing train of thought.

“My love, my entire heart…” he’s coming down, coaching himself mentally to take deep breathes because nothing will get solved if he loses it like he usually does. “… I would destroy the entire world if it meant keeping you happy.”

“I would do whatever you asked me too with no hesitation. You mean everything to me, more than everything. Why would you ever deem yourself unworthy of my love?”

Tears leaked down your cheeks now, not because of your own insecurities but because of how fiercely he was loving you. The way he always had, maybe that was part of the reason you had begun to feel so unsure.

“I think I just…” you sniffle, leaning into Rafayel’s touch as he thumbed away the tears on your cheeks. “…I guess I got so overwhelmed with your love. That… part of me felt undeserving. You’re so handsome, talented, you have a kind soul even though you try to hide it. I’m just… me.”

“Exactly. You’re just you. Perfect in every way. So beautiful, so strong, brave, equally as talented.” His eyes search yours before continuing. “You’re equal amounts of loving and sweet. You put up with my antics like nobody else, you have time for me when nobody ever has.”

“I may not be the easiest lover. I may be dramatic, I may carry my own emotional baggage that I struggle to open up about. But there is one thing I am certain about, one thing I will proudly proclaim with my whole heart. And it’s the fact that I love you more than anything. More than my art, more than my career, more than Lemuira.”

You’re crying hard now, hands holding his wrists. The warmth seeping into his skin as your tears leak down and collect on his palms. He hasn’t let go of your face, he doesn’t think he’ll be able to either. “Please, cutie. My love, my heart, my beautiful girl… the next time you’re feeling like this. Tell me before it becomes unbearable.”

You can only manage a nod, hiccuping as he tugs you close to place kisses all over your face. “I would lay down my life and die for you, so don’t you ever think that you are unworthy of my love. You’re perfect for me, the only woman I could ever want. I waited 800 years for you to return to me, and now that you have, I’m never letting go.”

[asapeveryday]

ALL NIGHT -P.B

one night. one apartment. two people. enhanced stamina.

warnings: fingering, oral sex, strap-on sex, vibrator use, face riding, degradation, dirty talk, slight food play, overstimulation, slight/unintentional somno, drug use

tldr: you guys take drugs and then fuck like rabbits. like, seriously it’s kinda cray

PLEASE READ: i honestly know nothing about honey packs or ANY libido enhancer. from my research honey packs only work on men(?) but for the sake of this fic they work on women too.

i have no idea what it feels like to be on an aphrodisiac/performance enhancing drug or how it affects anything so please go into this knowing i am utterly freeballing in hopes of pleasing the anon who requested this as best as i can.

11pm

rain pitter-patters the floor to ceiling glass window of your apartment as a movie plays in your living room. The tv screen paints your light-lacking home with faint colour. Aside from the rain, soft moans ring out all through the air.

Her arm is slung over your shoulder, her body warm and pressed against you. She shivers as your finger tips dance between the hem of her hoodie and the skin of her toned stomach, you try not squeak when she tugs at your hair in return.

Nights like these are the best, snuggled under blankets and dim lights in front of the tv, Netflix on full volume, Paige by your side.

“You picked the horniest movie possible.” Paige snorts, her words buzz in your ear since your head is on her chest.

“I knew there were sex scenes…just not this many.” You sigh, biting a lip as the main character moans loudly again as the main love interest smacks her ass. “What is this, the third one?”

“Second. But this one is long,” Paige tuts, clicking her tongue as the fucking on screen gets more aggressive, “goddamn, how does he have the stamina for that?”

“I know!” You laugh. “And look, it’s getting light outside.” You point to the tv, where one of the windows in the movie shows the changing time. “When they started it was dark.”

“Went all night, huh.” Paige whistles. “Lucky guy.”

“Lucky?” You sit up, turning to face her. She immediately raises both her hands in surrender, eyes wide.

“Not because of her,” she groans, talking about the main character, “but they’re going for hours like it’s no problem.”

“You’d think as an athlete you’d have the stamina.” You laugh, though it’s cut short when her brow raises in that challenging way that always pisses you off. Her mouth opens, then closes.

“What?”

“Nothing.” She shakes her head, but her face says otherwise.

“What is it!” You hiss. “Tell me.”

“It’s not me who doesn’t have the stamina.” She says, expression a mixture of superiority and guilt. “You can take like, two rounds max before passing the hell out.”

“Oh, what the fuck.” You frown. “Since when have you wanted to go for longer? What, do I go to bed and you’re just laying awake at night horny?”

“Psh, no.” She rolls her eyes. “I’m fine with two. Two is good, it’s enough.” She reassures you, hand on your waist. “But if you’d ever ask to keep going…”

“You’d have it in you.” You finish, understanding it’s no fault of your own. “I’d like to try, but honestly after cumming twice I’m tired.”

“I know, baby.” Paige shrugs. “S’not a big deal, I was just thinking. I can go for a while, but I dunno about all night anyways.”

“Yeah.” You settle, though sometimes tugs at your mind as you focus back on the movie. You watch as the girl is flipped from position to position, location to location, sexy music over the scene.

Paige shifts in her seat. You tense as it gets kinkier by the minute. And then the scene is over, and they’re laying in bed as morning sun fills the room.

And you suddenly have an idea.

“Where are you going?” Paige asks, eyes following you closely as you move her hand from your body and slip off the couch.

“Wait here.” You mumble, sending her a coy smile as you walk out of the living room. You know she’s watching your ass as you walk away like she always does. She loves the pyjama shorts you’re wearing, says they do you justice.

After rummaging through the back of the closet in your bedroom, you finally reach a large shoebox. You’d bought a really sexy pair of heels for Paige’s first wnba after-party a while back, and kept the box to commemorate that…as well as a few other things related to you and Paige.

When she sees you walk back into the living room, shoebox in hand, she immediately straightens. Paige recognizes it, of course. She’s practically been a Pavlovian experiment, you can see it as she licks her lips with eager flourish as you stand in front of the couch, tossing the lid of the box off to the side.

“What’re we doing?” She says, smile evident in her tone. She even takes the blanket off of her, and you almost laugh and how ready she’s willing to be.

“Chill.” You hum. You take out the the few dildos you have, leather components for the strap, and a huge bottle of lube that’s half empty, before tipping the box upside down and watching as the contents spill all over the coffee table in front of the couch.

Dental dams, ripped fishnets, mints that make you salivate like crazy, fuzzy handcuffs, the batteries you use for your toys, and a lot of little plastic packets.

Paige just takes everything in for a moment, brows slightly taught in uncertainty. Her eyes catch on the plastic packets, and she picks one up for inspection just as you’d hoped.

“The fuck is this?” She murmurs, squinting to read the small text on the plastic. “Oh, shit.” She adds, meeting your gaze.

You simply smile. “Well?”

“Where’d you even get these?”

“A few weeks back when me n’ the girls went clubbing. The place was handing them out, and I decided to keep them for later.” You admit.

“Oh, so you’ve been plotting, huh.” She quirks a brow, clearly amused.

“Not really!” You whine. “I was just curious, I guess. I heard they give you crazy stamina….and like, uhm…”

Her stare is heavy on you, head cocked, grinning sly as a fox. “And what?”

“They make you like, super horny.” You finish, unable to hold her gaze. “And stuff.”

“Right.” She nods, attempting to hide her smile beneath her hand. She rubs her mouth in thought as she reads the packet again. “This is so sketchy.” She murmurs. “But if it works, we could probably go all night.”

“Probably.” You nod.

Her eyes meet yours again. “Would you…wanna?”

You take a packet for yourself, attempting to mull over the small text written over the plastic. It sounds like gibberish, but it’s late and she’s already looking at you with sheer excitement, so your answer is obvious.

“Yeah.” You nod. “Let’s try.”

-★彡

What started as making out on the couch turned into you leading her to your room by the hand, not even bothering to close the door before she’s on you again.

There’s no urgency, no burst of energy like what you expected. It’s fairly normal, slow and sweet as she dips her head opposite yours to kiss you.

Her hands swim under the crewneck you wear, settling firmly on the crook of your waist with warm, rubbing thumbs grazing over your skin. Meanwhile you make quick work of her mouth, your tongue darting in to meet hers, tasting her.

You stumble around the room stuck to her like glue before your legs hit the foot of your bed and you topple over back-first, giggling as she follows.

Her legs cage yours in, hands arms settle on either side of you, and her mouth trails sweet kisses all over your face, jaw and neck. It’s loving and gentle, even when one hand leaves your side and carefully tugs your pyjamas pants down. You lift your hips to help her as she takes them off, before spreading your legs a little wider for her on the bed.

“Thank you, baby.” She mumbles against your skin, sucking pretty bruises onto your neck as her fingers pull your panties to the side, and tentatively slide between your folds.

“You’re so wet already.” Paige chirps, and you feel her teeth bared in a smile with a shiver. “How do I know it’s not the packets?” She adds.

“It’s not.” You hum, sliding your hands under her hoodie to feel at her abdomen. “Just you.”

She’s satisfied with that answer, because her fingers go from teasing your entrance to actually being inside you. One finger at first, before she realizes you’re loose enough for another.

You let your breath hitch as she pumps in and out of you, a gentle rhythm of pleasure humming through your body with every thrust of her hand. She whispers sweet nothings, pretty baby’s and so good’s until you’re squirming against her.

You kiss her again, half to shut her up and half to keep any whimpers from spilling out—because those will only feed her ego. Her pace quickens, her kisses turn sloppy, and your stomach tightens as your high begins and ends. She doesn’t let up, not until you’re panting too much to kiss back, and with a jolt you cum all over her fingers.

You feel her start to pull back from you before you grab her hand, holding it inside of you. “Don’t stop.” You plead, not thinking in the slightest.

Paige falters. “You sure? You just-“

“I know.” You whine, spreading your legs. You did cum, but you just weren’t done, the buzz wasn’t enough, you wanted it to keep going. “Just, please.”

“Okay.” She kisses your face. “You’re spoiled, you know that?” Paige grins, though her fingers start pumping again and you can’t help but genuinely flinch at the sensation, it’s unlike before.

Your stomach is tight again, your core is tingling. The stimulation is too much, too soon, but you need it. Even when you struggle to hold your legs open, when you beg her to do it for you. She obliges, wedging her knee between your thighs so she can keep going, lips bitten as she watches her fingers disappear and reappear by the second.

When you cum again it’s drawn out, fingers clenching the sheets of your bed as you finish.

“Whoa.” Paige hums. “That was- that was good.”

“Mhm.” You mumble, pulling her back in for another kiss by the fabric of her hoodie. You came for the second time, but instead of feeling ready to pass out, you’re surprisingly energized.

She pulls away, still close to your face. You watch her eyes as they dart from your clenched fists around her clothes to your lips.

And you feel yourself twitch down there again.

In a burst of energy you roll over, taking her with you. The positions are reversed now, you on top and her caged in against the ruffled sheets of your bed. You make quick work of straddling her torso, and when your already swollen clit brushes against her shorts you let out a little sigh.

This sensitivity is definitely new.

Paige is watching your every move, licking her lips as you throw the remainder of your clothes off and onto the ground.

And then you slide off of her.

“Take everything off.” You hum, crawling towards the nightstand by your bed.

“Or what?” Paige teases.

You don’t respond, simply opening the drawer of your nightstand and taking out your favourite vibrator wand.

The minute she catches sight of it her amused smile drops. You haven’t used this one on her—you haven’t used any on her at all.

“You don’t wanna?” You ask, shrugging.

She frowns, clearly unhappy at your false disinterest, but she holds your eyes as she slips her shorts off of her legs, her underwear with it.

“And the hoodie.” You add, gleefully at that. “And lay down.”

Paige grunts, but pulls her hoodie over her head regardless. She’s not wearing a bra, to your delight.

“Good.” You purr. You crawl over to her, swinging your leg over her head so that your pussy is hovering over her face. Her hands grab at your ass, already knowing what to do.

You shiver when she forces you down, her tongue licking an agonizingly slow strip across your folds. Before she can get too frantic, you lean forward enough to place the vibrator between her parted legs, turning it on once it’s settled correctly.

The whimper she udders at the start of the machine vibrates through your body.

She struggles to find routine at first, jolting as you toy around with the settings of the vibrator, but before you know it she’s holding your pussy down like she depends on it, lapping and panting against your ultra-sensitive skin.

The stimulation is one thing, but the sound of her breathy moans from beneath you rile you up on an entirely new level. You’re absolutely buzzing with sensation, grinding frantically against her parted mouth trying to chase that high.

“You’re so good, baby.” You mew, rocking your hips on her face. “So good Paige.” You add, upping the intensity on the vibrator as a reward for her. She lets out a strangled moan at that, hands gripping the skin of your ass hard enough to leave fingernail indents. You try to rise a little, unsure if it’s too much for her, but she forces you right back down, her tongue swirling around your clit and nuzzling into you with feverish energy.

Her legs are squeezing tight now, soaking wet at the core thanks to the wand wedged between them. You feel it too, practically shaking atop her. Before you know it, a huge feeling of release washes over you in big, sobering waves. You can’t help but cry out as you cum, the feeling of her mouth lapping it up engulfing you wholly. In turn she starts grinding against the vibrator, and then she cums too.

You turn the vibrator off and lazily crawl off of her, collapsing by her side and into her open arms. You’re both hard-breathing, flushed messes, eyes half-lidded and pupils blown wide.

“Holy shit.” Is all Paige can utter, her face glistening with what’s left of you. You can’t help but laugh, and she starts to laugh too, kissing your nose, forehead and lips with a smile.

Then the both of you are grinning and kissing, tumbling all over the bed like frantic teenagers. You thought you were exhausted till her teeth playfully pulled at your lip, and that burning spark in your gut came right back.

“Jesus,” you hum, sighing as her lips suck dark marks into your collarbone. “I could keep going.”

“So let’s keep going.” Paige murmurs.

“Mmh, seriously?” You sigh.

Her hands find your breasts, the calloused pads of her fingers brushing over your nipples. “We could go all night?” Paige smiles, eyes dangerously bright, full of energy again. “If you want.”

You hold her gaze as her mouth latches onto your chest, kissing all over the skin of your breasts in worship.

All night doesn’t sound too bad.

-★彡

1am

The next hour or so is filled with mindless making out, limbs tangled and shoulders bumping you suck every possible crevice of her face. It’s a break, in a sense, but a distracting one none the less. You’re both so incredibly sensitive, even the brush of her knee between your thighs sends waves of feeling through your body.

Paige’s lips struggle to part from you even when you both leave your room, stumbling around your apartment in an intimately naked scene, like she’s so obsessed that everything else has faded away. Even when she parts to grab another packet and the strap from the coffee table, her pinky finger stays lovingly entwined in yours.

You fasten it on her, adjusting every aspect with rigorous intent and bubbling excitement. Then you’re both stumbling through the place again, lips entwined with more ferocity.

It’s all in Paige’s control now, not that you mind. She’s leading with her tongue, her hands are groping whatever skin she can reach till you feel your back hit the surface of your kitchen counter. She lifts you up like you’re a doll, sitting you on the marble and pushing you to lie back against the cold material.

“What’re you doing?” You laugh, back arched to avoid the chill of your skin against the counter.

“Watch.” She orders.

She’s standing between your dangling legs as she rips the packet open with her teeth, drizzling the drugged-honey from your navel all the way to the valley between your breasts before tossing the plastic away.

You watch in excitement as her hands settle on either side of you, as she leans in and licks a clean stripe across your body, following the line of honey she drew till it’s all gone. The hairs on your arms stand up straight, goosebumps covering the expanse of your skin as her tongue cleans up the mess. Then she kisses you, and you taste it on her before she pulls away.

“Paige,” you whine, parting your legs, “please, please just fuck me.”

“I hear you, ma.” She rasps, fondling the silicone attached to her till the tip is grazing your slit. “You’re so fucking wet, I can tell you want it.”

“I want it so bad.” You nod vigorously. “C’mon.”

She pushes in, not nearly enough, then pulls back again. Then her hands are on your waist, pulling you forward and lifting your pelvis up just enough so that she can push into you at a better angle. You suck in a breath when she bottoms out, then bite out a whimper after the first thrust.

Then she sets her pace.

“Fuck,” you moan, “fuck, oh, Paige.” You cry out, hands trying to grip for anything you can on the flat surface of the counter. Slapping noises fill the room as her hips snap back and forth, lip bitten and eyes stark on the way you look splayed out on the kitchen counter like a meal. Your tits bounce with every shift of your body as she rocks against you.

“Just last week you could barely handle round two.” She grunts out. “Now look at you, moaning all over my dick. How many times are you gonna cum for me tonight, huh?”

The feeling of her filling you up makes you even more turned on. You can hear the noises of your slick against the silicon, the proof of your pleasure. It just feels so mindlessly good.

You reach for something, anything, but all you end up doing is knocking shit over. The sound of steel hitting the ground reverbs throughout the kitchen as an empty bowl and some cutlery fly off of the counter. You wince at the volume, but Paige leans in to grip your face.

“You’re a slut, you know that?” She bites, fully bottomed out, fingers around your face.

“Don’t stop.” You whine, shifting your hips. “Please, p.”

“You’re making a big fucking mess, moaning so damn loud and pushing things off the table.” Paige hisses, shoving your face slightly as she starts thrusting again. “Like a slut.”

“Maybe I am.” You choke out, feeling your core tense with every word. “I just need you so bad, need you to fill me up.”

“You don’t deserve it.” Paige grunts, grasping your skin so tight as her hips stutter agains you. “But I give you whatever you want, right? You just wanna get fucked.”

“Please, baby.” You moan, once again gripping nothing in attempt to smooth the pleasure. “Paige, please.”

She pulls your legs fully off of the counter now, roughly flipping you around and bending you over the cold expanse of the counter.

You’re breathless as one of her hands holds your back down while the other slaps your ass. Then she enters you again, slowly building up to the same rigorous pace as before.

The noises are louder now as your ass claps against her strap. You’re pushed forward against the counter with every thrust, your face smushed against the marble, lips choking out broken cries of satisfaction as she fucks you.

“Take it.” She mumbles, “You take my cock so good, baby.”

You cum with a full-body shiver, feeling the way it spills at she pulls out of you, the emptiness apparent.

It’s only a moments rest before you’re kissing her again, your back now meeting the wall before she picks you up. Her hands settle on your ass as you wrap her legs around her, and before you know it she’s fucking you all over again.

-★彡

3am

“Baby,” She moans, “Oh fuck, slow down.”

You can’t, or more accurately you won’t. You’re on a high, tits pressed against her back as her own are flush against the glass of your floor to ceiling windows. Rain hammers on one side of the glass as you fuck her against the other, skin sticky with sweat and arousal.

You can feel her legs shaking, you can see how her palms press against the window, or occasionally clench when you roll your hips just right. You rarely had the energy to use the strap on her, but thanks to your drug-induced heat, having the instrument was a blessing.

“Or what?” You breath against her neck, licking the spot where you left a hickey a few moments earlier, relishing how her shoulders raise in sensitivity. “Gonna cum like a little bitch?” You grin. The high of talking dirty felt good, you understood why she was so prone to it now.

“Yes.” Paige whines, voice raspy. “Fuck, yes.”

“You were calling me a slut earlier.” You bite, whispering into the shell of her ear. “But look at you now. What would happen to you if someone in the building across saw? Imagine the headlines.“

You grip her hips hard, forcing her into you, using her for your gain. She can’t even fathom your words, too drunk off of the sensations to formulate an answer.

“See? You don’t care.” You hum. “That’s why you’re not gonna cum yet.”

“What?” She finally snaps out of her daze, head whipping to meet your gaze as you slip out of her.

“No…” she bites her lip. “Wait, don’t stop.”

“Don’t be a baby.” You scoff, loosening the strap and stepping out of it. “Get on the floor. Legs spread.”

She’s a little confused, peeling herself off of the glass and stumbling around a bit, before you literally guide her to the hardwood and pry her legs apart with your hands.

The gasp Paige lets out when you lay down, lips against her pussy, is like music to your ears.

She’s already soaked from your strap, you can taste it as you press your tongue flat against her, sloppily kissing the mess between her legs as she throws her head back, hands gripping the hair on your head.

“Oh, god.” She whines.

“Shut up.” You snap, gripping the soft skin of her thighs. Her fingers tug at strands of your hair as you nuzzle into her heat, tongue swirling around her clit.

She’s grinding against your face, thighs shaking from the earlier denied orgasm and now your face between her legs. It’s almost too much when two of your fingers slip inside, tentatively pumping before they curl inside her.

“Shit.” She whines again, voice breathy. “Let me cum.”

You stop at that demand, smiling against her skin, fingers unmoving, and she groans in dissatisfaction.

“Beg for it.” You hum. “If you want it so bad.”

“Fuck, no.” She snaps, lips pouty as she looks at you. “Just—just keep going.”

You just raise a brow, slipping your fingers out of her.

“Beg.” You repeat, and you watch her mull the idea over. She’s never begged in her life, you can tell. Sex is easy currency for someone so sought after. “C’mon, begging never hurt anyone.” You add, licking a circle around her clit, to which she instantly screws her eyes shut in response to.

“Just beg for me, Paige.” You grin, kissing between her thighs. “Beg.” You tease her slit with your fingertips.

You can see her breaking, you can see it in the way her chest heaves, how her lip wobbles.

“Please.” She finally mumbles. “Please, baby. Please fuck me, please let me cum.” She moans pathetically.

Who are you to deny someone who asks so nicely?

-★彡

5am

You’re not sure what happened between ruining Paige on the floor of your living room to now, but you wake up groggy on your bed, sheets half off the mattress, legs tangled with hers.

You’re sticky between your legs, covered in sweat and god knows what else in general, hair totally a mess, lips swollen, ass sore—presumably from her hands getting a little too aggressive. She’s beside you, back pressed to your chest, her body rising and falling in shallow breaths of light sleep.

It’s still dark out. You cant’ve be asleep for long.

It takes great effort to untangle yourself from her and slip out of the bedroom. A hot shower is much needed, and the moment that steaming water hits your skin it’s like you’ve been regifted all of your energy.

You let your fingers dance all over the skin Paige had marked hours earlier, hickeys and bite marks tattering the expanse of your thighs, breasts, chest and neck. You think back to the start of the night—and everything that happened afterwards, and to your surprise, still have it in you to be turned on.

“What the hell is in those packets.” You mumble to yourself, letting your fingertips trail from your tits to your stomach, then lower, to the pulse between your legs.

Carefully, you let your fingers pull the hood of your clit back, rubbing the sensitive bud in slow circles. It feels good—not as good as Paige—but good enough. You can’t tell if you’re wet from the shower water or your own arousal, but it doesn’t matter. You speed up your hands anyways.

Soon enough your soft mewls fill the bathroom. You assume the sound of the shower covers them up a bit, now aggressively rubbing your clit in a pathetic chase for what must be your 5th orgasm that night.

And then you hear the click of the bathroom door, and you stop.

There’s a few quaint steps, they pause in front of the shower, and then continue. When the fogged-over shower door opens, you’re met with a freshly awoken Paige.

“Move.” She grumbles, stepping in with you. You oblige.

She’s covered in marks too, you can see it now that she’s showing off in front of you, wetting her hair and closing her eyes as her hands run over her tits, her stomach, the beginning of her thighs. Her neck is littered with pink and red hickeys, and her muscular back has long marks from your nails.

Her body is perfect. Breasts that fit in your hands like you were made for them, abs firm enough to ride on, legs strong and sturdy. Her back ripples as she runs her fingers through her hair. Her hands are personally your favourite, with her long fingers and veins.

You can’t help but slide behind her, running your hands all over her, gripping her ass and giving it a little playful smack.

“You’re so needy.” She scoffs, turning around and grabbing your hands, stopping you from touching her. “Calm down.”

“I can’t.” You frown. “You interrupted me. Now you have to deal with it.”

“Fucking whore.” She shakes her head, leaning in to kiss you. It’s aggressive, teeth clashing and lips bitten. Her hands grip your face, turning you to move against her the way she wants. “You jus cleaned off, now you wanna be dirty again.”

“You wanted all night.” You smile against her lips, letting your hands trail down to her pussy. “So I’m just giving what you asked for.”

“Don’t act like this is all for me.” She snorts, one hand leaving your face to graze your folds. “You’re selfish.”

“You’ve orgasmed more than I have.” You challenge, fingers toying with her.

“That’s such a fucking lie!” Paige groans, slipping a finger in you with ease.

“Maybe we’re even.” You shrug, biting your lip as she starts to pump in and out of you. Similarly, her lips part as you do the same.

“So—“ she murmurs, breathless already, “we keeping it even?”

“Yeah.” You nod vigorously, looking down to watch as your fingers disappear inside her—and as hers disappear inside you.

“Shit.” She sighs, watching the sight herself. “S’good.”

“Mhm.” You huff, throwing your head back. You can feel your stomach tensing already, skin hot and buzzing from her hands and the hot water. She adds another finger, you do the same. In no time you’re both heavy breathing messes, hands cramped and mouths entwined. She cums a little before you, but you keep going till you follow soon after.

She opens the shower door in a hurry, practically stumbling out with you alongside her.

The bathroom is full of fog, so you manage to turn the fan on before she tugs you out by the hand, right back into the bedroom.

Then you’re kissing again, slower, mumbling unintelligible words between breaths, parting to catch each other staring. Her eyes can barely stay open, and at one point you’re not sure if you’re kissing back. The ache in your gut, the one that’s been saying more, more, is dulling. You’re reduced to an exhausted hum, brain as foggy as your bathroom.

“M’ so fucking tired.” Paige whispers between little kisses on your face, hands holding you loosely against her.

You catch a glimpse of your bedroom window, and you’re surprised to see the beginning of morning, red hues mixing with the dark leftovers of the night.

She notices too, you meet her eyes as they part from the sky. She kisses you again, closed mouth, hands wandering.

“Good morning.” You mumble, lazily laughing.

“Good fucking morning.” She huffs back, holding you close. “That was something.”

You nod. “What is even in those packets?”

“Don’t wanna know.” Paige mumbles. You’re not sure if she says anything else, because your eyes shut right after.

That sleep in her arms is the best you’ve ever had in your life.

[rafescherie]

✮⋆˙ becoming super needy and clingy during ovulation with rafe.

warnings — 18+. MDNI. cunnilingus (f. oral receiving), mentions of ovulation + being extremely 'needy', fingering, overstimulation.

cherie's note — ily c:

you'd been following him around the house like a shadow all afternoon — fingers brushing over his lap, soft whines slipping past your lips, pressing your body up against him at every opportunity. he hadn't said anything about it at first, just watched you with that curious little tilt of his head, that crooked grin plastered across his face. but after the third time you wrapped your arms around him from behind, nuzzling your cheek into the firm muscle of his back like a clingy little kitten, he couldn't find it in himself to ignore it anymore.

there was something wrong — seriously, wrong.

"baby," he muttered, blinking down at you. "what the fuck's going on with you?"

you shrugged, cheeks hot. you couldn't explain it — you just needed. every nerve in your body felt like it was under your skin and screaming for his. you rubbed your thighs together unconsciously, letting out soft whines and frustrated sighs.

you were too warm. too tight. too empty.

so you climbed into his lap without a word, straddling him like you were supposed to be there — like your entire body was aching for the drag of his cock against your cunt and you couldn't stand another second without it. you ground against the bulge in his sweats with a breathy, helpless moan.

you blinked down at him, pupils blown wide, lips wet from where you'd been biting them. "what do you mean?" you asked, like your aching cunt wasn't already soaking through your sleep shorts.

"you've been acting weird all day," he said, trying — failing — not to look down at where your tank top had slipped off your shoulder, showing the swell of your chest. he tried his best to ignore the way your nipples seemed to pebble under the fabric the further his hands moved against your hips, reacting dangerously to his touch. "horny as fuck. all over me."

you just blinked again, lips parting slightly, then leaned in close and dragged your tongue up the side of his throat like you were trying to mark him.

"you smell so good," you whispered, voice shaky. "i can't help it…"

he jerked back slightly, brows drawn tight. "okay, what?"

but you didn't answer. your mouth was already moving again — lips brushing his neck, teeth dragging down to his collarbone. you rolled your hips into him again, slow and filthy, a broken little moan slipping out as the pressure caught your swollen clit just right.

"i've been aching all fucking day, rafe." you breathed. "i can't stop thinking about your fingers in me. your tongue. i need it — i need you so bad."

his whole body went still, cock hardening instantly under you.

"jesus christ," he muttered, half-stunned, half-turned on. "you've been walking around the house like a cockdrunk little slut all day, and this is why?"

"feel how warm i am, baby," you whined, taking his hand and dragging it between your trembling legs. you pressed his palm against your soaked pussy, the thin fabric clinging to your folds. "i'm so fucking wet for you. i'd let you fuck me raw right now — i don't even care."

something in him snapped.

"you wanna act like a bitch in heat?" he challenged, rough hands dragging your shorts down your thighs. "i'll treat you like one"

you whimpered as the fabric peeled away from your soaked core, the cool air hitting your slick skin and making you tremble. his gaze dropped immediately — the mess you had made of yourself only inches from his wet mouth.

he yanked down your panties without warning, the fabric stuck between your folds, clinging from how wet you were, and he groaned as he pulled them off.

"jesus, baby," he laughed teasingly. you couldn't help it — your hips rocked up toward him, needy and instinctive, your plush thighs falling open wide like your body was begging to be used. your cunt was glistening, flushed and swollen, twitching under his stare. "you're dripping."

you were already so fucking close.

rafe's hands slid under your thighs, fingers curling in a firm, possessive grip as he dragged you to the edge of the couch. he didn't say anything at first — just stared.

"gonna ruin you," he muttered.

rafe buried his face between your soft thighs. he didn't start gentle. didn't tease. just buried his tongue between your slick folds and licked like he'd been starving for it — long, slow drags that sent jolts of heat down your spine, your body jerking in response. arousal dripped from you, messy and obscene, and he groaned into your cunt like he loved it.

and the sounds — oh god, the sounds were disgusting. wet and obscene, the kind of sucking and slurping that made your face go hot with shame, even as your body arched up into him.

your thighs twitched around his head, but he didn't let up — shoved them open wider and held them there like a punishment, tongue circling your clit in slow, cruel strokes.

and then his fingers — two of them — slipped inside of your soaked hole, and you whined.

"god, rafe—! please—"

"this what you wanted?" he rasped, voice muffled between your thighs. "walkin' around the house actin' like a needy little fuckdoll? you want me to stuff you full, baby? fill up this messy little cunt?"

you nodded frantically, face flushed, tears threatening behind your lashes. "y-yeah — fuck! please—"

he grinned against you.

"cum for me, sweet girl."

he didn't give you a choice. his mouth sealed over your clit, tongue lashing fast and precise while his fingers fucked into you deep and hard, curling just right, just right—

the sound of your moans bounce off all four walls, body shaking, thighs clamping tight around his head as you gushed around his fingers. your head dropped back, mouth falling open in a silent sob, whole body locking up as you rode it out.

and still, he didn't stop.

"rafe—rafe—too much!"

he growled into your cunt, "you said you didn't care, remember? begged me to fuck you raw. don't act shy now."

your second orgasm hit before the first had even finished — more intense, more desperate, blinding — your slick dripping down to the cushion below you, your body convulsing as each of your limbs twitched.

"gonna give you one more," he murmured against your clit, voice wrecked. "just one. want you cryin' when i finally fuck you."