#but it's good to know those are out there

[frostbiteicebow]

Just gonna throw this into the mix, imagine that the experiments the GIW/Fentons put Damian through actually convert him into a halfa. Danny then, in the middle of being experimented on and trying to keep the existence of halfas secret, has to teach Damian how to control his instincts/powers while under duress. They basically speed run training when both of them are coherent enough to hide things.

By the time they get out it’s ingrained in both of them to hide their ghost half. When they meet/return to the bats they don’t even think to mention it. They don’t use their abilities either unless they’re positive they won’t be caught. The longer they hide it the more stressed they both get. The bats can’t tell why neither boy seems to really trust them.

Ooooh I just came up with an idea

You know all of this fics where Danny is an alternate universe version of like Bruce or Jason? What if it was with Damian

There could be some kind of ritual that sends Damian into Danny’s universe only they both get caught by the GIW and Everything Goes Wrong

By that I mean both of them get vivisected. And the Fentons should do at least some of it, and that Jack looks just like Bruce for extra ✨trauma✨

They both go on the Road Trip of Hell while escaping and Danny’s just working on building a temporary portal to the Ghost Zone/Damian’s home dimension.

I want Danny to lean out of a car with like a mcguivered bazooka or something to try and drive off the GIW for a while with some kind of crazy/stressed smile back at Damian.

I want little moments where they’re bonding/teaching each other how to fight (Because Damian knows formal fighting, and if we go with Danny knowing some self defense from his mom he’s not completely horrible at it, but Danny knows how to fight like a feral raccoon. It’s effective and Damian DOES like animals right?)

I want them to finally get to Damian’s dimension and when they finally finally gets to the bats and Bruce reaches out to help his son Damian flinches

And then I want it to get into the fluff/healing/trauma dumping part where the newly dubbed twins (who get along scarily well and everyone is pretty sure are trauma bonded) are healing while simultaneously causing the other bats to become more and more distressed (it may or may not be on purpose)

It would also be pretty cool if their habits and mannerisms rubbed off on one another, so they can be uncannily similar one moment then completely different the next

I also had the idea of them being literally the same soul- like, the soul that originally formed was completely identical when they were babies but diverged due to different experiences, so it’s literally a ‘same soul two bodies’ thing. I just think it would be neat, even if it’s not even really mentioned, but just like, Implied you know?

[yanderenightmare]

♡ TW: omegaverse, omega reader, careless alpha husband, marriage problems, poor communication

♡ GN reader

He’s a little reckless sometimes—not always paying attention to the feelings of those around him, but he means well, you’re sure of that.

He’s just a little high-strung, is all—doesn’t really have the time to think things through.

He’s always been like that—ready for just about anything and everything anyone would throw his way, and just sort of expecting everyone else to be onboard. He’s an Alpha, after all—it’s not in their nature to worry or look back.

All your life, he’s been the leader—all you others could do was chase after him and just hope on your life to keep up. And as an Omega, you were comfortable like that—with having someone to follow. It felt natural to you—safe and good and correct.

But when he started courting you, you admit being a bit skeptical—weren’t sure if it would work the same way, not sure if it even could. Being mates is different, after all. You’re supposed to be in tune with one another, and you weren’t sure if you’d be heard or just end up being bulldozed.

But you figured, since you weren’t too big on making decisions anyway, that you’d just go along with it, and it would be fine. You’d put your trust in him and follow his lead, and maybe that would be enough.

And it was. Everything worked out perfectly—for the most part. You married in the spring and moved into your new house the day after. He’s a good husband and nice man, deserving of the respect he garners, and he’s successful. A true Alpha. Perfect on all fronts.

What more could an Omega ask for?

Well… suppose it wouldn’t hurt if he listened sometimes. Or no, that’s not fair. You’d have to speak up first in order for him to listen. Still, you think… he should be able to tell without you saying anything. 

You don’t even know what you’re complaining about, really… It's not as if he’s done anything overtly bad. You just feel… well, you suppose you just feel a little left out. He’s so dominating in everything he does—you just end up being swept along in the process. He doesn’t ask for your input, nor do you give it. Things just happen the way he wants them to before you’ve even agreed. You don’t even think he recognizes it himself, how he makes decisions you’re supposed to be making together on your behalf.

He bought the house without telling you, for starters. But it was a wedding present and a nice surprise, so you’re not mad about it exactly. But given how big a step it was, it still feels strange to have been on the outside. Then he sprung that vacation on you and even called your boss to schedule your leave—only a month after your honeymoon, no less. Not to mention the wedding itself—how all the arrangements were already done before you’d even sat down with the wedding planner, of whom was his choice. In some ways, or in many ways, you felt as if you were just a part of the decor.

But it’s not as if you aren’t happy—because you are. And it’s not as if you don’t love him—because you do. It’s just well… You know it’s not exactly fair, but you’re beginning to feel a little taken advantage of… as if he doesn’t even care about you or your thoughts and feelings as long as you’re keeping him happy.

But you can’t keep feeling that way without telling him, you decide. You’re sure none of it is his intention. You’ve never taken an interest in decision-making, so why would he think you’d want to? For all his prowess, you can’t exactly expect him to read your mind, either.

So, tonight’s the night you’ll finally say something. You want to be included. If he’s hiring a new maid, you wish to be a part of it. If he’s buying a new TV, you want to help pick out which one. If he’s taking you out to dinner, you want to be informed, preferably beforehand. Even if all he’s doing is getting his hair cut, you want him to tell you about it.

“Hello, welcome home,” you greet once he staggers into the bedroom, looking tired yet no less neatly put together than always.

“Hello, my sweet,” he mirrors, voice gruff with the toils of the day as he marches over to plant a kiss on your cheek.

It’s late. You’ve already gotten dressed for bed, having been just about ready to cut your losses and postpone the talk for tomorrow.

He could have told you he was working after hours. No, he should have.

You were just about to switch off the night lamp and go to sleep—but find yourself feeling redetermined now.

This was just another one of those things you can bring up as an example, after all.

“I-”

“God, I missed you today. Felt like work took an eternity,” he groans, hurriedly removing his suit with sloppy movements, throwing his jacket on the floor, shirt quickly following before he’s back on you. “Give me those pretty lips—I’m starving.”

He takes your mouth with his, one hand steadying him against the bedframe while the other works on unbuckling his belt, hunching over where you lay.

You put your hands on his bare chest to distance him, asking, “Can it wait a bit?”

He drops his pants on the floor and climbs on top of you, face buried in your neck while muttering, “No, not really. Been waiting all day.”

“Well, I wanted to talk to you about something-” you try again, to no use.

“No talking tonight—none, except pillow talk.”

He says it with a smile. You feel it against your neck—his teeth and tongue and the heat of his voice.

You’re sure he means it playfully, and yet you freeze, feeling a little sick.

“But I really need to—”

“Omegas are supposed to obey their Alphas, you know.” 

His touch isn’t rough, but it’s not without force, but more than that it’s those words that make your heart jump and then stutter. 

You hold your breath, but it goes unnoticed by him or maybe ignored—you’re not sure which. It shocks you—scares you even, but then, following the original freight, your heart sinks, and you feel nothing but disheartened and disappointed.

And then, even a little angry.

“Oh…” you mumble, lying still beneath his onslaught. “I guess I thought I was yours ‘cause I wanted to be, but I see now…” Your brows cinch with many feelings between them. “I had it wrong.”

He halts then—struck with a sudden pang of guilt maybe, or perhaps just puzzled by your words. Whatever the case, the former rush he’d been in is gone, and he looks down at you—finally.

“What? What do you mea-”

“No, no, never mind. I was out of line,” you brush him off—harshly, and he blanches, going rigid. “Do what you want—you’re the Alpha, after all—so by all means.”

You turn your head to the side and lie still.

Eyes prickly and throat tight, you push the words out all stiff and hoarse, “I have no right to stop you, and even if I did, it’s not like I could. But who cares, right? Nothing I think matters.”

“Baby, you know that’s not what I mea–” he tries.

“Then what did you mean?” you all but bark, snapping to face him again. But however pointed your glare is, there’s no mistaking the now visible tears brimming in your eyes.

Seeing it, he stiffens even more, undaring to move. Trying to make his voice softer, “Don’t cry.”

But his acts of comfort are far from sufficient.

“Why? Does it make you uncomfortable?” 

Good, you think—it better. He made you uncomfortable when he ignored your wishes, so why shouldn’t you? And ignore him in turn?

“Funny that, isn't it?” you continue. “The only thing I have against you is a pesky few tears. Would you like me to turn around, maybe?” 

You know you’re guilt-tripping him—and you’re not sure why or if it’s the right thing to do, but even so, you couldn’t find it in you to stop either—no, not until you had punished him, for some reason.

“If you hide my face in a pillow, maybe you won’t hear it either–”

“Please stop,” he finally begs, bowing his head. “I’m sorry.”

You stop. You’re not sure if he even knows what he’s apologizing for. And though the thought of asking him to clarify strikes you, it doesn’t feel important. Those weren’t the words you wanted to hear.

You sigh then, trying to calm yourself down. “I don’t need you to be sorry. I need you to see me—to listen—I need you to respect me.”

He looks up again, this time with a deeply remorseful expression warping his face. “I do. I’m sorry-”

“Really?” you question. It's a little harsh, you admit, but it's what you need, “Then get off me and go sleep downstairs.”

He’s rigid under your admonishment. Shocked by your claims, yet begrudgingly ashamed by the truth in them. 

You were right. He wasn’t paying attention. And by the looks of it, he hasn’t been paying attention for a while.

 “Okay,” he ends up agreeing.

Sliding off the bed like a shunned dog, he walks back to the door he’d only just come through a moment ago.

Keeping a hand on the doorknob, he looks back—head still bowed.

“Good night.”

You feel a little bad about how it turned out, but you steal yourself. You wanted to be alone right now. In fact, you think it would do you both some good.

“We'll talk tomorrow. Good night.”

♡ BNHA – Bakugou, Hawks, Mirio ♡ JJK – Gojo ♡ HQ – Kuro, Bokuto, Miya twins ♡ BLLK – Reo, Rin, Sae, Yukimiya, Baro, Aiku ♡ DS – Akaza, Sanemi ♡ WB – Umemiya, Togame

♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist

[cutiefulism]

puppyboy!caleb who just wants to fuck a litter into u :((

cw — breeding (dadoy), use of gege, typical caleb activities except hes a germand shepard, pet names (baby, honey, wife but theyre not married). fluffy prequel here.

he thinks you should have known. all the signs were right there, practically jingling in your face.

“did you— mm . . really think i’d invite you over for somethin’ as harmless as a common cold?”

he knows you won’t respond verbally. can’t respond, he thinks, not when his hips are slamming against your juicy ass, cock filling you up to the brim after his fingers and mouth worked so hard to stretch you out.

and even that hadn’t been enough. he still had to go reaaaal slow, ease it into that filthy, drooling hole, and by then he was just so impatient that he couldn’t wait any longer! :p

caleb will be gentle next time, he promises.

saliva and tears dribble down your chin, rolling down your chest and onto his sheets, and he wishes he could lean forward to lap it all up with his tongue. instead, he nuzzles into the side of your tainted neck, pressing little loving pecks against reddened skin as if to make up for the brutal way he’s splitting you open.

“y-yer just so gullible, baby. always takin’ your gege’s word for fact.”

you attempt to shake your head, a few, rare pieces of coherent thought stringing together enough to actually speak. “ungh, ngh! n-no, ‘m not . . not dumb.”

look at you. stubborn as always, ready to defend yourself and your beliefs at a moment’s notice. it’s cute.

“of course you aren’t,” caleb coos with a breathy chuckle, and he takes your soft, warm skin into his mouth, sucking another bruise to join the others. “never said you were. you’re a smart girl. my smart girl, and that’s exactly why i have to breed you.”

he feels the way your velvety walls clamp down on his aching cock at his words, and he grins. he knows all of your little weak protests earlier were fake.

all those “but, caleb, i don’t think it’s a good idea, we’re not even married” and “i’m just not ready yet” and “we’re both so busy, how will we have time for the baby?”

that was all bullshit.

you want this. you know you do, and caleb definitely knows you do.

you’re just in denial. but don’t worry — he’ll fuck that out of you.

“it’s o-only right to— shit–” plap “spread my wife’s beauty and smarts–” plap “to the rest of the world, right?”

caleb slams forward, hips stilling for a moment as he whimpers against your bitten-up neck, and a desperate mewl leaves your own lips as the impact lunges you forward.

his weeping tip is smooching your cervix, ready to pump a load into your temporarily empty womb.

“say . . say you want it.”

you blink, brows drawing together as you try to focus through the drunken haze. “w-wha?”

“say you want my cum, say you wanna be a mommy f’me,” he groans, and despite the low roughness of his voice, you can hear that almost pathetic pleading underneath.

and how could you deny caleb like this?

your head bobs, throat dry. “i wan’ it. please, caleb. fill . . fill me up.”

that’s all he needs.

caleb’s thick tail gives a happy thump against the sheets as his hips start up again, this pace much more demanding than the previous. if you didn’t know any better, you’d think he’d be trying to fuck you into the mattress.

“thaaaat’s it,” he sighs, and all you can do is squeal as the bed creaks and rocks beneath you. “lemme stuff this pretty pussy full, honey.”

“i’ll . . f-fuck, ngh— give you as many pups as ya want. a whole . . a whole fucking football team—!” his words break off into a whine when you clamp down on him again, and he already knows what’s going to happen before you even try to say it.

this time, you really can’t speak. all you can do is moan and attempt silly, broken cries of his name, pleasure coiling to a fever pitch in your gut.

he knows you better than you know yourself, after all.

“mmf, a-ah, ‘m cumming— c-caleb!”

his name sounds so beautiful on your lips, like a siren’s call to his heavy, tightening balls and twitching dick.

within seconds of you gushing all over his cock, squirt spraying all over that dark, almost curly patch of pubic hair, his hips are stuttering, pretty violet eyes rolling back as he mumbles your name again and again like a damn prayer.

caleb dumps thick ropes of gooey seed into your warm, waiting womb and, oh, it is so much. much more than you expected, and it feels . . good.

a small bulge appears on your tummy where caleb has stuffed you to your limit, and you’re sure it’s going to leak out, make an even bigger mess all over your sheets.

the knot at the base of his girth swells, trapping his cum inside, and even if caleb had the traitorous thought of pulling out of you, he couldn’t.

even his basic biology knows that a single drop can’t and won’t go to waste.

he whines, hot, damp breath ghosting across your skin as he shoves his face into your neck again, that feral need mostly disappearing. you can feel his chest heaving in time with your own against your back, fluffy ears twitching.

“i’ll make up to you for rounds four and five, how about that?”

“l-let’s take a small break, okay? ‘m sorry for bein’ so rough on you, baby,” he mumbles, and your heart gives a helpless flutter at the genuine guilt in his tone.

you’ve never quite gotten used to his flips in personality.

doing gradients is actually hell on earth wtf

[madamechrissy]

Took you Like a Shot

Pairings- Rich Frat/fuckboi Toru x Preppy Sorority reader

Summary- One VERY drunk encounter between your greatest rival ever - on your last day of college- leads to you being knocked up. Satoru Gojo, a fuckboy, fratboy, rich little jerk, has been a rival of yours since you all met in College, every damn grade you fought for he got with ease. He crashed every Sorority party you threw. The two of you are so infamous in your rivalry, your friend groups were rivals, and for some reason, life is playing some damn joke on you both. Now... you have to tell him the news - but how Satoru takes it surprises you. Can you both raise a baby together!? And do you even really know each other?

Contents/Warnings- gonna be flashbacks to the rivalry/that night, nerdjo but make him a fratboy, enemies to kind of begrudging partners, but then as the pregnancy progresses, they fall in love hehe (gojo is an idiot) - fluffy and smutty, MDNI -will have explicit sex etc- 4 parts (I THINK) in this chap- flashbacks of explicit sex with dirty talk, weed smoking (Satoru and his boys aha) mentions of sex, lots of humor, enemies to loversss- WC- this chap- 8k- art in the banner by Yuana on X

Playlist (so far)- Comments and reblogs so appreciated if you enjoyy <3

Chapter One

It had been an absolutely filthy night, that led to your doctor coming in and informing you three months later-

'You're pregnant'

You came in for a normal checkup, you're on the pill and you have no sex life, aside from one encounter almost three months ago. A filthy, questionable ass encounter with what so happened to be your former 'bully' - rich boy, frat boy, pretty boy, pretentious boy- Satoru Gojo.

For years, the two of you were rivals, not just academic either, since you were both top of your class all through college, but at everything. He'd hold your notebooks high and laugh at you, he'd try to ruin and crash every sorority event he could. Known as the Queen and King of the campus, you ran the rivaling Sorority to his Fraternity. The amount of times you all had gone toe to toe was literally notorious, even your best friends hated each other on your behalf, starting an entire war between you all.

You have no clue how it happened, still, how the two of you had the best sex of your life at that damn party, fueled by drinks but also something you'd never admit- you've always wondered. Hearing those stories about his... skills, seeing his perfect body and the way his pretty lips smirked so cruelly in your direction, even after all these years- how it all led to this moment.

'Hah, sweets, ya finally admit I'm good at something?' Satoru had murmured in your ear, while he'd had you bent right over some bed at some party- both of you were seniors in college on your last and final party, finally you thought you'd be rid of him, of this ass of a man. He was going to live the rich life, working for his family, and you were moving on to a whole different career.

'One t-thing... that's it...' You had cried out when his cock had shoved in so deep, making you cum all over him, his fingers gripping your hips while he'd pumped deeper and deeper, impossibly until he'd been right on your cervix. 'F-fuck!'

'Fuck... you had a pussy like this and we've been fighting!?' Satoru is whispering, resting his snowy locks against your neck, biting it with sharp teeth as you milk his cock. 'So greedy, huh?'

'S-shut up, mnh- just... keep... there, there shit!' Satoru had slammed right against your cervix, feeling you pulsing around him, it had been too good, too tight, too fucking wet, he'd paused then, looking at your arched ass, your skirt shoved over your hips. 'Keep g-going, please...'

'M'gonna cum, tho-she's too tight- shit can I?' 

Your drunk ass had said- sure. You're precise on that pill, every day your alarm goes off in the morning, you take it. How could...

"Pregnant!?" You repeat. Unbelievable. No fucking way. You...

"Yes sweetie I suggest prenatal and an ultrasound, hmm?" The nurse says so sweetly, as you feel sick to your stomach, which your hand goes down to touch.

Pregnant. With rich, notorious fuckboy Satoru Gojo’s baby- now you would have to tell him!?

Shit.

You take the results in a shaky hand, mind swirling as the doctor goes on and on, some crazy distant humming in your head, there’s no way, it can’t be. You’re literally starting your journalism career, thinking you’d maybe gained a few pounds from stress and ramen, the interning was absolutely brutal, you’re never regular on your periods, hence the birth control in the first place.

Running coffees here and there, grabbing this and that for everyone above you, but you were now officially hired, and you were making good money for once, finally able to pay down some of your pesky student loans and get a nice car. You worked hard for it, for everything, despite many thinking leading a sorority meant you came from money, you were a scholarship girl.

That’s a huge reason you and Satoru always clashed, born with a silver spoon in his mouth, easily acing every test that you busted your ass for, things came easy to him, you worked for it. Achieving the highest you could in your graduating class, the little shit that came to school hungover grinned right next to you, like a goddamn plague, and you hoped that finally he was gone for good.

What bonded two people like you now?

Well…

“Do you need to go over your options, hunny?” One of the nurses says, touching your shoulder with a gentle smile, you shake your head then, clearing your throat.

“I just need to… think.”

You’re pacing back and forth in your apartment, feet padding gently along the hardwood floor, cell phone in your hand, staring at the phone number that just got sent to you by Shoko. She was Satoru’s friend and yours, which was rare given the ongoing student warfare zone you all created. You’d texted her a simple- hey do you have Gojo’s number- not going into details.

How do you even tell him?

What do you say!?

You psych yourself up, finally dialing it, when he picks up the phone after the second ring, murmuring - “Hello.” God, even him answering what he assumes is a stranger is snarky.

“Um, hey.” Gojo pauses at the sound of your voice, faltering just for a moment, as his friends bounce a basketball around a court outside, he sits down on the bench, vivid images filling his head. “It’s-”

“Think I don’t know your annoying voice by heart, sweetheart?” You roll your eyes, sighing and plopping down on your couch.

“Yeah, well… I got your number from Shoko.”

“Need a second round? Should have guessed.” He’s gesturing to Suguru and Sukuna, who roll their eyes at him, and he puts his voice down an octave. “I could be convinced.”

“Jesus christ, Gojo.” You almost hang up, feeling your tummy tighten then, almost nauseous, realizing you had to talk to him. “Are you, I don’t know, um… free for lunch or anything?” You despise the words falling from your lips.

“Asking me on a date, huh? So bold, I like it.” Satoru winks now at his friend’s shocked expressions, muting for a moment, telling them it was you.

“No fucking way.” Sukuna says, Suguru snorts in laughter and Satoru just grins, unmuting you again.

“I guess I could be convinced.” He purrs out those words, chuckling. “Hmm, we could go to that nice place on Hollywood ave hmm? Perfect Sushi.”

Your tummy growls, but then you frown, remembering that Sushi is on your damn list not to eat, you curse internally, peering at this list of everything you should never do or consume, and it specifically says raw fish right there. “Do they have cooked Sushi there?”

“Pshh, you’re such a prissy ass, can’t eat raw huh? Didn’t mind it raw from what I remember.” You hate this man.

“You know what never-”

“Shit, I was just kidding.” He panics, thinking you hung up, hearing your irritated sigh then. “Yeah I think they do. Why do you even wanna hang out, ya wanna nag me in person?” He spins his basketball effortlessly on his finger, acting all calm, as if he wasn’t dying to be buried in your perfect pussy again. “Miss being bitchy to me so bad?”

God he wanted to have you on his face, have you sucking him, he wanted for so much more than you all got to do, drunken fingers and your muted cries as he’d had a big hand tight over your mouth. His cock twitches under his basketball shorts just remembering how slick and hot you were, god how you fucking felt gripping him so damn tight.

Satoru had felt you pulsing around him as he reached his arm around you, pressing his fingertips to your clit in circles, as you’re crying out against his palm, practically drooling against him. ‘There you go, cumming so easy f’me huh?’ he taunts, as his own eyes roll back, feeling your pussy drool against his hand.

‘Mnh!’ was all you managed to murmur against his hand, as he feels your gummy walls spasm around his cock, his blue eyes roll back at how perfect you feel, how long he’s dreamed of this.

‘F-finally got you to shut up, hmm?’ He taunts you, normally you’d have something smart to say, but not as he’s overstimulating your little clit, pulling it away as you damn near collapse on the mattress, your thighs shaking, he wants to kiss you so bad, but you’re burying your face, arching your ass.

‘F-fuck you, Gojo- ah!’

The memories are so vivid Satoru can barely calm his thoughts, hearing you say his name in that irritated little voice, the one that drove him insane from day fucking one, the moment he’d met you. Prissy little thing with so much to prove, he thinks you still feel that way, which the biggest secret Satoru had for you had almost spilled on that last drunken night, the night he was inside you was…

He's always wanted you, not that he'd ever admit that however.

Ever.

“Is like three okay?” You're interrupting his thoughts now, as he clears his throat.

“Three rounds?”

You’re scowling at the phone as you question your life’s choices at this very moment. “Three o'clock, my god, for lunch.”

“Sounds good, it gives us time later, to… you know.” You glare at the phone, unbelievable, he’s ridiculous! 

“Time for what?” Satoru chuckles at your high pitched question.

“Don't be shy, sweets, no need to pretend. I remember it all in vivid detail, every little bit.” Your cheeks heat up, hand clutching the phone tightly, trying to calm yourself and focus.

“Just lunch, that’s all I’m asking you for. Sounds good?”

“Want me to pick you up in my-”

“No, I'll meet you. Okay um…. Bye.” You hang up, breath coming quickly, you couldn't just tell him on the damn phone, this needed to be in person.

The thought of his pretty yet annoying ass presence damn near makes your head spin… would he think it's all a joke? Some scam to get with him or get money?

You're fucking terrified, standing and staring in the mirror, rubbing your tummy and frowning as you do. A damn baby… Likely raising it alone, knowing Satoru all these years, partying, insane and so immature. Even on the phone, he’s so damn cocky and self sure, that this must absolutely be what you want, to have him, as if you are over here pining away.

The sex was amazing to put it lightly, and sure if he was a decent guy, and not a fucking ass of a man, you’d have done it again, but the walk of shame that morning had been the most embarrassing day of your life. His little smirk after you woke up, plump lips too damn glossy for his own good, yawning and stretching half naked, cock already hard as he’d tapped his lap.

‘Another round, sweets? Come to daddy.’

You scoff even at the memory, at the audacity of fuckboi Satoru Gojo, you had run out so quickly he hadn’t had a moment to speak, and you swore to yourself never, ever again. Who cared if his cock was so big it hit places you didn’t know existed, and who cared if you’ve never felt that way, fuck you wish he actually wasn’t as good at it as he was.

Perfect at everything, infuriatingly, even fucking.

You get a text from the guy you were currently at least flirting with a bit here and there, the one you suggested going on a date, and then it all starts to hit, you’re pregnant and quite likely going to be some single mom. You couldn’t just go on dates, everything is completely different, maybe forever truly.

“Twenty Two year old single mom.” You grumble, sighing a bit as you text him you’re busy.

Busy.

*****

Satoru waits nervously at the restaurant, he doesn’t really do dates, he usually spends his time in the bedroom with a girl then runs right off. Shit, he’s never even gone without a condom before you, but when you’d said hurry up and put it in, who the fuck was he to tell you no? Not only had it felt superb, he never wanted to leave that perfect pussy.

Of course you would have the most perfect pussy.

You had to be the best at everything, all the time, didn’t you? Always competing for that top spot, but Satoru always just barely got past you, that .01% of that GPA, winning every contest over you always by just a tiny bit. From the moment you glared up at him and crossed your arms, he knew it, he had to do everything he could to win against your cute little ass.

Here’s the thing… Satoru never hated you, but he loves to say he does, you both say you do, or… well, said. Considering you slept with him and didn’t say a single word after, it’s not like he’s hard to find, but each of you actively refused to add each other on socials, though Satoru will admit he stalks your IG, you’re too fucking pretty not to do so, not that he’d ever like a post.

Once he accidentally did, god he wanted to be like those pathetic simps in your comments, but he’s not that, he’s Satoru Gojo. Women come to him, women come easy too, you of course were never one to come near him in that way, no you’d look at him getting smacked in the face on campus with a grin, vowing to your friends that you’d never be one of his conquests.

That night, though, it was like he lost himself, the most stupid, corny shit Satoru could think of, that last night of his freedom before being forced to take over his family’s business. You and everyone probably thought he wanted to, but of course he fucking didn’t, he didn’t want a part of the Gojo corporation in any way, shape or form.

Satoru felt lost, honestly.

Self sure, confident, conceited clearly, talking far too much shit and laughing, picking on you every chance he got, showing up to all your sorority parties in various stages of undress to lure your friends to him. He’ll never forget him, Sukuna and Suguru crashing your ABC party, wearing nothing but cut open beer boxes, and you so happened to have some white claw box made bikini.

God you’d been sexy, but when he stole all the attention? Oh he’s never seen you more mad.

Well no, he has.

Gojo loved to make you mad, because you’re so damn cute when your nose scrunches up, when your pretty eyes narrow, there was nothing like your huffs as you would cross your arms and shift your hips just so. And if there was anything Gojo was absolutely perfect at, amongst well damn near everything, it was making you absolutely furious.

Finally Satoru sees you, dressed in this pretty blue summer dress that juts out just a bit at the waist, making his heart race for just a moment at how pretty you are. It’s not like he forgot… but god. Are your tits bigger he wonders, or is he just obsessed with them, as always, looking too hard. Your cheeks are this beautiful color, your eyes so bright, like… some damn glow about you.

How corny is he lately.

He puts on a smirk as he leans back, waving with his fingers to gesture you over, and you look at him so damn seriously, sitting across from him, hands entwined together in front of you on the table for a moment, as you eye him carefully. “Gojo, um… how are you?’

Who the fuck is this girl in your body!?

You don’t nervously ask shit, you tell Gojo to fuck off, you glare or scowl while he smirks, what’s this… shy ass shit? He frowns a bit now, you exhale and slide off your purse, letting it sit on the seat next to you, he can’t stop staring at your lips, clearly bitten to fucking hell.

He tries to feign that he’s fine, that he hasn’t missed you, but it couldn’t be further from the truth. He missed your daily arguments on campus, he missed you being a total brat. He misses your scent, god that vanilla sugar body spray was haunting his very dream.

He acts as if he hadn’t died to hit you up, but he stopped himself. He couldn’t go that far, not with you, not with what you did to him, how you’ve damn near destroyed any game for himself any longer. That one night with you had sunk into him so deeply, he wishes it was just good pussy, and not whatever this was.

He’s jerked it off to you every fucking night since, to the point is damn dick doesn’t even work, he sure also wouldn’t admit that he can’t even fuck a girl because you were so good. Some evil witch that did something, it must be, he has at this point just given up trying, until whatever curse you gave him falls the fuck off.

But god you look good in front of him.

He should tell you, but instead he swipes a hand through his silky white locks and smirks right at you. “Missed me so badly, sweets?”

You roll your pretty eyes as the menu comes, smiling and thanking the hostess, a smile reserved for anyone in the world but him, even when he’d had you cumming all over him, you weren’t smiling. No, but you were drooling then.

‘Ah, look at you, so fuckin pathetic f’me, huh? Thought you hated me, sorority brat’ Satoru had huffed, as he’d fingered your cunt, curling inside of your slick walls, watching your pretty fucked out face. ‘Just from fingers?’

‘I do h-hate you- mnh!’ Your sparkly manicured nails dug into his broad shoulders as your tight walls convulsed around him, as he hit that spot that no man had ever found in a moment.

Perfect at everything, stupid Satoru.

‘Feel her, god she’s so desperate, huh?’

“Fuck you I- there, shit!’ you’d rolled your hips, grinding right on his hand, pussy drooling as you came from his fingers before he’d even put his cock inside you, and Satoru’s cock was leaking against his boxers, twitching as he pictures how perfect you’d felt around him. ‘Fuck you for being so g-good at that!’

‘Oh, I’ll fuck you, sweetheart.’ He’d turned you then, whispering a ‘bend over, just like that, gonna be a big stretch, hmm?’

Satoru struggles to calm his memory, focusing on that sexy mouth of yours moving, realizing words are coming out of them, blinking to focus.

“How are you doing, Gojo?” You ask softly, always Gojo, you never called him Satoru, and he always called you sweets, short stuff, your last name, also never your first.

But he wanted to call you a lot of things, one of them being-

Stop that Satoru.

“I’m doing great, of course, miss me so much?” He teases, winking at you and sipping on the sickeningly sweet Shirley temple he’d had them buy, you just grab a water, hand flitting to your tummy for a moment. “You’re not sick are you?”

“No, not sick just… yeah we needed to talk. Is that okay?”

Satoru leans forward, raising a thin white brow. “You seem weird, everything okay?”

“Well… shit. I guess I’ll just say this. Um…” You tuck your hair behind your ear, looking out the window at the bustling city for a moment, before looking back at him. “Remember that night?”

“Sweetheart, you don’t have to do all this to have a repeat.” His hand comes to your thigh, and that’s when you curse this pregnancy, because your nipples tighten, your cunt gets hot and wet from that.

Fuck hormones.

You take a breath, glaring as you always do at Satoru, the only time you never had was when he’s had your face with a slutty O for your mouth, your eyes rolled back, nails gripping those sheets. You shove his hand off, hoping he couldn’t feel your heat that quickly, as your body responds stupidly in a damn sushi restaurant.

“It’s not that, it’s important. Can you ever be serious in your life!?” You say quietly, and it’s his turn to glare, taking his hand back, sipping his drink again.

“Well just spit it out. What is all this, then?”

“It’s… I… You…” Shit, if ever you needed a drink it was now, and you damn sure wouldn’t have one for a good six months or more.

“It’s… I…. You…” He mocks, and you stand then, so furious your heart is racing, snatching up your purse.

“Never mind, I should have known you’re-”

“Shit, just sit. Sorry. Okay?” He grips your delicate wrist in his big hand, and even that is wrecking you, against your better judgement and everything you feel. “I’m sorry, it seems… serious. Just sit down and spit it out.”

You sit back down now, shifting as you both make your orders, a thankful distraction. As the waitress leaves, you sigh. “I don’t want anything from you, first off, so don’t think that.”

“What?” He blinks in confusion.

“I don’t need help, I can do it myself.”

“Do what!?”

“But you have to know… it’s the right thing to do, to tell you.” You look up at the ceiling, gathering your thoughts.

“Is this… are you in love with me, because of how good it was? Shit, that’s okay baby, everyone-”

“I’m pregnant.”

“What!?” You just sit there, seriously staring, as he blinks, looking at fuller breasts, your damn glow, thinking of every dumb thing he’s heard. “You’re… by who?” He whispers, and you flush then, shifting in your seat, sipping more of your water, condensation cool on your hot palm, your skin is burning, heart is racing.

“I was on the pill, religiously, I swear, I never missed one. Shit, until I found out I never missed… I… never would have done it like we did if I knew.” You feel sick as he gapes at you, his pretty blue eyes bulging out damn near, his mouth dropped open. “I expect no help, no involvement, we’re young. I just-”

“This a joke, right?” You take another breath, hand gripping the glass, eyeing those around you all, engulfed in conversations.

“It’s not a joke.” He’s laughing now, smacking his thigh, and your jaw tenses as he does.

“It’s you and your damn friends, someone recording!? Hah-”

“It’s not a joke.” You clear your throat now, leaning in your purse and pulling out the papers, with your name, the results, watching his expression shift, brows drawing low, his jaw tense. “It’s only been you, no one else for an entire year.”

“A whole year?” He eyes you again, and you flush under his gaze, as his hands shake, hands you’ve never seen shake, hands that dribble basketballs, that tossed footballs, all with ease.

Hands that…

Fuck, don’t think of it.

“I’m not… I was too busy.” Besting Gojo, competing with Gojo, you had no time for shit with him, your anger at him shone so brightly it was hard to think about men. “As I said, you don’t need to pay for anything, this isn’t that conversation, this is just me letting you know. I’m keeping it.”

Satoru continues to blink at you, staring open mouthed, at your face, then your body, then back to your face, over and over, while the waitress brings out the food, smiling curiously at the two of you. Satoru doesn’t make a move to touch his food, running his hand through his now messy white locks again, as his mind spins.

“I know you’re wealthy, I don’t want you thinking I want some piece of it. I’ll take care of them alone, please don’t worry.” You touch your tummy, the motion making Satoru fucking feral in some way he can’t put together, just continuing to stare at you in utter shock as the sushi sits in front of the two of you. “I can leave, now, we don’t have to do this.”

“Do what?” He murmurs finally, voice hoarse.

“Act like we are civil, act like we’re anything but college enemies, fucking rivals, not even friends. God I know you hate me, I know this was a mistake.”

“A mistake?” He whispers.

“Yes, for both of us. You don’t deserve your life uprooted, sure I can’t stand you, but this is my fuck up. I said those words…”

‘Cum in me, f-fucking cum in me, mnh…’ you’d arched your back, as his long fingers wrapped your throat, god he’d never felt anything like you.

‘Want me to fill your pussy s’good, huh lil brat?’ you just whine, muscles clenching on his cock, and he’d groaned in your ear then, shoving deep inside your drooly cunt. ‘Beg for it, then’

Oh, you had.

You hated him for it.

“It’s my fault, so don’t worry. But I wanted to be transparent, but I am… indeed, pregnant.”

“Pregnant, like, with a baby?” Satoru whispers, and You giggle then, for the first time since you found out, covering your mouth just a bit as he just stares.

“Yeah, a baby.”

“Mine…” His words send something through the both of you.

“Yours, but only if you want to be involved. I know it was a hate fuck, we’re young, we have lives-”

“You got a… like that scan shit set up?”

“Ultrasound?” He nods, nervously, hands clenching the table so hard you see the veins popping up through his thin skin. “I do, next week. I mean it is a couple months already, so I will see something, not like… the sex but…”

“Can I go?”

You blink in shock now. “You want to?”

“Yeah. I mean… why wouldn’t I?” He rubs the back of his neck, as the life he thought, the mundane one of following his damn family, of being a pawn in a bigger scheme, everything flashes.

It changes.

He’s scared shitless, but…

“I want to be involved. If you want me to be.” You blink back tears, but you fail, and if it’s one thing, Satoru Gojo has never seen his preppy ass Sorority rival cry, not fucking once.

He falters as those tears run down your cheeks, he leans over, hesitantly, the only physical contact aside from that fateful night was him shoving at you teasingly, or you smacking at him. Shit you all hadn’t hugged, you never even kissed aside from that night, sloppy and messy. But he doesn’t stop, until his thumb brushes your cheek, and you gasp.

“Shit I’m crying. Stupid hormones.” You huff now, swiping at your own eyes with shaky little hands. “You really wanna go?”

“Yeah if it’s cool?”

Satoru’s shocking you, the world tilts on its axis, like you’re having some insane dream. This can’t be real, can it? It’s fuckboi, frat boy Gojo, the man who goes through girls like they’re candy, the man who takes nothing serious, who has the world handed to him.

“Gojo, if you want to go of course you can, to any and all appointments, but you’re under no obligation, and please know I can cover the costs.”

“I know you’d never take my money, shit even if I offered, stubborn ass little brat that you are.” You manage a breathless giggle, the second one, realizing he is still brushing that thumb against your cheek, before he clears his throat. “So, tell me what day, I'll be there.”

“Yeah, are you sure? It will make it so… real, you know?”

“Yeah, I’m sure. Now eat your cooked sushi, aren’t you like eating for two or some shit?”

You take your chopsticks with a shaky hand, exhaling. “I was reading, I think they are like the size of a pea maybe. But, this is yummy looking.”

“Gonna be a huge ass baby, shit.”

“Oh god!” You eye his lanky body, and he’s grinning, Satoru is grinning!? Shocking you further.

Maybe you don’t know him like you think?

“Tits are gonna get so big.”

Never mind.

*****

“An ultrasound!? A baby? Fuck…” Suguru Geto inhales the blunt, sucking the smoke into his lungs as Satoru nervously paces Sukuna and Suguru’s apartment, Satoru chose to live in his own place, closer to work. But he frequently gets shitfaced and crashes out at their place.

“Sounds fucking insane, shit.” Sukuna chuckles, as he’s hitting a bong, inhaling and exhaling, broad shoulders shaking as he coughs. “You look like you could use a hit or something.

“Before the ultrasound? Shit I need more than weed. I’m freaking the fuck out right now.”

“Imagine you as a dad though hah!” Sukuna smacks his thigh, as Satoru glares now, stopping his pacing while the music plays, the same music Satoru remembers doing keg stands and playing beer pong in togas to, only to now have the possibility of being responsible for a whole human being.

“Can’t even keep a plant alive, shit.” Suguru says in between laughs, and Satoru raises a white brow at the two of them on the couch.

“You two are so supportive.”

“Well shit, she said you don’t have to be involved, you can always just like… send money and shit? Do you really want a whole kid?” Sukuna asks, and Satoru takes a breath, pacing once more as he runs hands through disheveled hair over and over.

“Do I want a whole kid, no, I never even… I mean I figured eventually, as the Gojo heir, blah blah blah.” Satoru slumps in a nearby recliner, as Suguru hands him the blunt, frowning a bit now.

“You do need a hit. You’re young, it’s not time to give your family fuckin’ heirs yet, is it?”

“They’d probably be delighted.” Satoru rolls those cerulean eyes, inhaling the smoke into his lungs and leaning back, staring up at the ceiling, as the black fans above them swirl, moving the puffy clouds of smoke all around. His nostrils fill with the scent of the Sativa, wishing he could make sense of his thoughts. “Not delighted that it’s out of wedlock and unplanned.”

“Imagine her marrying you.” Sukuna and Suguru laugh loudly again, as Satoru hits the blunt again, not passing it.

“The fucks that mean?”

“She hates you. God I think more than anyone.” Suguru says, and Satoru smirks just a bit.

“She sure didn’t hate this dick.”

“Oh!” He’s slapping hands with his friends as Sukuna and Suguru start to make the most obscene gestures, while you call, and he shushes them quickly, trying to compose himself.

“Hello?”

“Gojo, hey. Um, ultrasound is in an hour, I’m heading out soon if you want to meet up?”

“Why don’t I have my driver pick you up?” He asks, and Suguru and Sukuna continue the gestures, making Satoru snort in laughter, the weed starting to enter his bloodstream.

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, I just thought it would be more convenient in this traffic.” He shoots a wink at his friends.

“I mean… sure?” Satoru mouths yes, pumping his fist, clearing his throat now.

“It’ll be easier this way, alright send me your addy I’ll head out.”

“All right.” You just hang up, such a rude little thing. Satoru has changed your name to Sorority Brat in his phone for a good reason.

“What are you gonna do though, man?” Suguru murmurs thoughtfully, his dark violet eyes narrowed, clearly blitzed. “Gonna like… be with her?”

“Could cum in her whenever now.” Sukuna bursts out in laughter as Satoru glares at the two of them.

“Grow up…” They blink at him, then Satoru grins wide. “Nah, that would be a perk, because her pussy my god.”

They both scooch up, elbows on their thighs, avidly staring at Satoru now. “Details, man, it’s like the one girl you never told us about?” Sukuna asks.

“Because you’re in love.”

“Pshh, in love!?”

“Haven’t seen you with anyone since.” Suguru earns Satoru’s middle finger, as he puts out the blunt, stretching and earning their pouts.

“Bet she’s so good, though, all angry and shit, bet she’s a freak.” Satoru doesn’t even know if you’re a freak necessarily, but as Suguru agrees, he glares at them both, crossing his arms.

“This has been the worst pep talk in fucking history.”

“Shit, what’s your decision?” Suguru asks, and Satoru’s mind races, peeking at his watch now.

“I think I’ll make it when I like… see it?”

“Alright big Daddy, then if you decide to be involved we’ll be like… their uncles and shit.” Suguru says, and Satoru grimaces.

“God no, you’ll ruin my kid.”

“Fuck off now.” Sukuna starts hitting his blunt again, Satoru walks out away from them and spritzes cologne all along himself, he knows your prissy self never smoked weed, no you were a little goodie goodie. He thinks the only time he saw you drink was a little at parties, but never like that last night.

He remembers just looking at you asleep when he’d woken up, and the tenderness he felt when he had brushed your hair off your pretty face, and you’d stirred a bit. For a moment he felt his heart hammer in his chest, stone cold sober, seeing the bite marks he’d left on your delicate skin, feeling affection like he couldn’t describe, Satoru never felt that way.

He didn’t cuddle, he didn’t linger.

He ran out before they could wake up, he ran out like you did to him, perhaps he was a little nicer about it, though, you’d given no fucks when you darted out the damn door in a hurry. He had acted cocky though, full on hard just by the damn thought of your slick sticking to his cock, but instead of perhaps kissing you, he’d patted his lap and been a little shit.

He hated the recognition on your face, like he’d been a mistake, so he decided to shove you out of his brain, though he clearly failed.

Jogging down the stairs, he has his driver sent in your direction, and you get the text he’s there, stepping out in front of your little house, cute Satoru thinks, it’s small but it’s immaculate from the exterior. You have pink flowers and succulents all over the front of it when he steps out, eyeing your pretty dress, nerves starting to eat at him, but he puts on an easy smile.

“Ready to go see this little parasyte?’

“A what!?”

“Technically, it sort of is. Right, you’re like its host.” Your mouth is wide open, as you touch your tummy, and he curses. “Shit…”

“A parasyte, you’re calling our… I mean I guess my… the baby a-”

“I’m sure it’s a cute parasyte? It has a pretty host.” Satoru tries to put on the charm, the smolder, as you stare at him in shock.

Was it shocking, this was Gojo.

“Dear God.”

How’d you end up pregnant with this idiot’s baby?!

You slide into the car as you shake your head, and he covers his face, grimacing as he realizes he just told his… god what even were you, a baby mama!? That his baby was a… parasyte. Well, it is, and Satoru would typically just argue with you and let you know he’s correct and you’re wrong, but he keeps quiet, feeling you seething.

“Fire signs.” He mumbles, you look at him again.

“What?”

“You’re a fire sign, it’s why you’re so feisty. I am too, you know.” You relax just a bit, curiously.

“You believe in astrology?” You ask in shock, for as long as you’ve known Satoru Gojo, the two of you don’t really know each other.

“Baby I’m the most Saggitarius man there is.” You giggle again, fuck that’s three giggles Satgoru has counted, and how it lights up your already glowing makes him ache for you, suddenly realizing one of his long legs is brushing against you. Your warmth alone makes him throb, the vanilla sugar filling the space in the car.

“You certainly are the epitome of a Saggitarius. Don’t call me feisty, yuck.” You shove at him playfully almost, pausing a bit when you realize his body feels far too good against yours.

You may or may not have masturbated last night, and he may or may not have popped in your head, over and over. But, don’t worry, because Satoru has spent months jerking his thick length to the thought of you, not that either of you would admit that it may or may not have happened.

“This baby would be a fire sign.” You murmur then, letting your hand fall, and nervously fidgeting, Gojo’s long limbs take over so much of the car, as big as it is, Gojo’s always taken over everything, even apparently your senses.

“Would it?” He asks quietly, for once just a little serious it seems.

“Yeah, an Aries if it comes when it should.”

“So it’ll be a brat like you.”

“Psh, like you.” You roll your eyes, and the two of you fall into a bit of a silence, so much unspoken between you. “Do you know if…”

“That’s why I want to see. Make it real?”

You actually nod in understanding, surprising him then. “I get it.”

The ultrasound tech is rolling the wand over cold gel soon, as you’re embarrassingly propped up with your feet in stirrups, and Satoru stands to the side, glaring at the man who’s inserting this wand in you. He gets angry that he’s getting such a view, he doesn’t even think he saw you that much.

What he remembers…

Your pussy is very pretty.

You wince a bit as the doctor smiles up at you. “Tight muscles, huh?”

Satoru snorts in laughter, and you glare. “What!?”

“You are so tight.”

“Gojo!” You glare, and even the doctor laughs, also earning your scowl, which makes them both sober up.

“Sorry, Miss. Alright… relax, would you?” How do you relax as a doctor is shoving a wand in your coochie and your enemy, who got you pregnant somehow, is turning red holding in his lewd thoughts!? “Look at the screen.”

You and Satoru both look over now, your breath catches then, as does his, when the doctor begins to tap keys on the keyboard, and you hear it for the first time, this little… heartbeat. It’s a heartbeat.

“There it is, congratulations you two. About… ten weeks?” You’re enamored as you stare at the screen, and he moves the wand inside you. “Look there, that’s the little baby.”

Baby.

A baby.

It’s all real.

Satoru’s completely silent as tears fill your eyes, a myriad of emotions, some that you’re so connected already to a little peanut inside you, some that you don’t know how you’ll do this, some of your life. How will it alter, how will it go, what will people think… and what does the man next to you think? What will he do!?

But overwhelmingly as you feel yourself begin to cry, and the screen turns off, you feel warmth spread, touching your tummy in wonder, there’s a damn baby in your body. Your baby. Something you never considered or thought of, you figured much, much later in life, not now.

And you’d likely be…

Alone in this.

“I’ll go get a picture printed for you two.” The doctor smiles kindly, as you’re left alone, with a for once silent Satoru Gojo.

You hesitate to look at him, a stunned expression on his face as you sit up, closing your legs and biting your lower lip, he finally looks at you and exhales, seeing your tear streaked cheeks. A girl he never knew to cry or giggle has done both, and a man you never thought to be serious or quiet… was.

“Satoru um…”

“Satoru?” He asks quietly, and you flush.

“Sorry…”

“No, I don’t mind, just… crazy. This is crazy. There’s a whole life inside you!? And we made it?” You sigh, nodding then, and he shocks you as he leans down, as you’re sitting in the bed, coming so close to you, eyes swirling storms of emotions.

“You can back out now, it’s okay. I won’t put this on you, keeping it is an insane idea but… it feels right to me?” He tilts your chin up, leaning closer, to where you can taste the sweetness of his breath, as your heart pounds right in your chest. “But if you’re backing out, do it now, it will hurt… fuck it will hurt more if you get too involved, okay? Do it now.”

“I’m not backing out of shit.” You gasp, and he exhales, wiping your tears away. “We both did this. I’ll not live in some world knowing my baby is raised with no help of mine in any way, fuck that.”

“But you-”

“I get it, we… aren’t… together. But in this I will be.”

“Satoru, I think I may have a cardiac arrest  before I get this baby out.” You sniffle and he smirks a bit.

“So unbelievable that I’d want to?”

“Yes. The Gojo I know…”

“You may not know me as well as you think. And maybe I don’t know you that much… aside from I agree about that tight-”

“I swear!” You shove at him, as he snorts in laughter, still a little shit, as they bring in two pictures, and Satoru takes one thoughtfully.

“That’s it, huh?” He tilts his head curiously. “Looks like me.”

“It looks like nothing yet, what?” You’re taking tissue and cleaning up a bit, as they give you privacy to pull back on your panties, but Satoru gives you no privacy, just looking. “You could turn?”

“Why, that’s one benefit you know.”

“What?”

“Could fuck any time, cum inside whenever.”

“Oh you wish.” You shove at his chest, and he’s grinning and wiggling his brows, grabbing your waist, pulling you against him.

“Don’t act like you didn’t enjoy it.”

“Shut it.” Yes.

“Sex is good for pregnancy.”

“You’re so full of shit! I can’t with you. Rizzing me up at a gyno?”

“Perfect place, see that doctor, he wants a piece.”

“You’re so dumb, I swear.” You look at the picture then, thumb brushing against the baby’s… maybe it’s a face?

“Are we gonna live together?”

“I mean… what?” You eye him in shock.

“When the baby’s here.”

“No, we don’t have to do all that, we live close. Can you imagine us living together, we’d kill each other.” He envisions it, the fights surely but… the sex, and seeing you in the morning?

“Or fuck. Alot.”

“That’s how this happened.” You mumble, and soon you’re back home, and trying to ignore your body’s insane responses while he stands on your porch, looking far too fucking sexy. “Thank you for being there.”

“You thanking me? the world is ending.”

“Hush. I appreciate this, you standing by me. You don’t have to.”

“I… want to. Um, what will we say?”

You bite your lip more, until he gently takes it out from under your top row of teeth, brushing against the indentations. “We could say we’re together, if you don’t mind, dating I guess? My parents would trip if they knew it’s like…”

“Same. My parents would be happy for a Gojo heir though.” You hear it, the surprising resentment in his voice.

There’s a lot you don’t know.

“Well, I can act like I like you for them if you want.” You tease, and he leans against your doorway, so fucking tall, just looming over you, and you have to clench your hands not to give in to the temptation of touching him.

“Act like you like me- you?”

“I could! If you could act like you like me, in front of my family.”

“How will we explain the whole not living together thing?”

“It’s new, it’s 2025 Gojo, not 1810. We’ll be okay. You're so old school huh, gonna marry me?”

“You’d leave me at the altar.” You both laugh again, as he straightens up now. “Alright, so when should we tell them?”

“When you want to. So work on those acting skills. I’ll set up brunch with mine, you set up dinner with yours?”

“Sounds good. Alright don’t miss Daddy too much.” You snort and roll your eyes, turning away now.

“Daddy? Whatever.”

Satoru presses you against the door, wrapping an arm around your waist, pressing a hand gently on your tummy, splaying the expanse of it with long fingers, as your breath comes quicker and quicker. “Could swear you called me daddy when I beat up that pretty pussy hmm?”

You falter, whining softly, hating your body’s reaction, scowling right up at him, your hand on your doorknob, while this tall ass of a man makes your body light up. “Never called you daddy, no way.” Your voice is a pathetic whisper, why does he do this to you, you want to arch into his damn touch, press against his length, to the point you make yourself stiffen.

“Oh? Must have been the liquor.” He caresses your face, leaning so close you wildly think he’ll kiss you, and you know damn well you can’t handle that, not with your pussy soaking your damn panties just from this.

You hate Satoru Gojo, and he hates you.

This is… because you both are having a baby.

Right?

“It must have been.”

“Ah, I see. Good night, then sweetheart.” He leans his lips up, kissing the top of your head, a gesture so oddly sweet it doesn’t even fit him. “Text me the details, Sorority brat.”

“Sure will, Frat boy.” He sticks his tongue out as you do, walking in and leaning against the door, overwhelmed by the scent of his cologne, the feel of his hands, the memories that surfaced. You slide down it slowly, burying your face in your hands, as your body trembles with this insane need.

Shit. A baby with your enemy?

A baby with Frat Boy Gojo?

Faking that you like him, would it really be that fake?

Satoru’s leaning against it too, for just a moment, trying to compose himself… finally he’s in the back of the car again, as his driver looks  in the rearview mirror curiously, tired eyes focusing as Satoru looks at the picture again. The little peanut that’s apparently a…

A baby.

With his enemy.

An enemy he really wants to be inside again.

“Everything alright, Mr. Gojo?” Kiyotaka asks, Satoru runs a hand through his hair now, leaning back in his seat as he peers out the dark tinted windows.

“I’m having… a baby with a girl who hates me.”

“Why does she hate you?” Kiyotaka asks, driving off, as Satoru chuckles just a bit, remembering bits and pieces of college, out of order, out of sync.

“Because honestly, I was kind of a complete dick to her?”

“That’s… oddly self observant.”

“You saying I’m a dick to you?”

“No Mr. Gojo!”

“I’m kidding, relax.” Kiyotaka’s tense shoulders relax when Satoru leans forward, hand on his shoulder through the little divider that’s opened. “Do you know shit about kids at all?”

“I have nephews, they’re pretty good kids. But babies, not really.”

“I could ask my parents but they basically had nannies raise me.”

“Many nannies, I heard.”

“Well, I was a menace to be honest. Where do I learn about these… things?”

“Babies?”

“Mmhmm.”

“I think there are books?”

“Hmm.” Satoru pulls out his phone then.

Fratboy Gojo🙄(yes that’s his name in your phone now, no you’re not sorry): Should I order us baby books?

Sorority Brat💦😻(of course that’s your name in his phone): Yes, if you want to? That would be good. Thank you… for today.

Fratboy Gojo🙄: Two thank yous!? That baby is making you a mush.

Sorority Brat💦😻: Whatever!

Satoru snorts then, but when you’re in your bed later that night, nibbling on a bag of hot cheetos that have been screaming at you all day, how is that your first craving!? He writes to you again, and you pick your phone up with your clean hand, sans hot cheeto dust, rolling your eyes.

Fratboy Gojo🙄: Need some nudes for your spank bank?

You’re gonna kill him.

Sorority Brat 💦😻: Good night, Gojo.

Satoru frowns, because his dick is already in his hand, but for a moment you think about it, and would it be so bad to-

No, no no.

You aggressively eat those hot cheetos, wondering just what you were in for with that damn boy in your life now, shit forever.

“Fuck.” You’ll never drink again.

I say four parts but I feel like this is gonna be long aha, bc god Gojo is a lil shithead hehe (as I like him) this just a teensy bit similar to the Knocked Up movie premise so expect a LOT of humor here! <3

Taglist one- @jannythewriter-pt2 @gojosoups @lycoris-radiata-4-sale @cutiepi-iee @poisonousspiderlily @closerbutnevertogether @myahfig4 @shokosbunny @coq1myun @rinny27 @abibliolife @coq1myun @megumisthirdog @p4lli @turtlebangtan @webshooterrr9 @aldebrana @msqudo18 @s0ulsnatchaaa @ovela @midnaamethyste @nearlyfuckingwitches @shibataimu @msniks @missthatgirl @fantasy1nightmare0 @maddyhehehehhe @yourst3pm0mmy @haithamsbb @rentheannihilator @ilovebeansyay @lemonswirlz @dilfkentolover @evelynxxo @bkgnotsuma @suki91 @burntasian @nakiich @hyunjinsruinedpainting @miniv1x3n @minascasket @ihrtmack @contaminatedcupcake @girlwithn0j0b @tokyi999 @vamqyx @queenofthekill @verriees @vullzo @jkslaugh97

[cameronsprincess]

thinking about… rafe putting a remote control vibrator in your pussy then forcing you to go shopping with him.

CW: 18+ only! use of a vibe in public, rafe is cocky, strong language, some making out in a dressing room.

note: i wrote this at 11:40pm, so don’t judge if it sucks just randomly thought of this lil concept and yeah, this came to be!

daydreams

“c’mon baby, it’ll be fun…”

those were the words rafe used to convince you to let him shove a small silicone vibrator up your pussy before the two of you went out to shop for the day.

at first you’d thought, ‘sure why not, it couldn’t be too bad.’

but now you’re eating your words as you try and keep your composure in front of the saleswoman who’s going through an abundance of dresses with you.

“i think this one matches your skin complexion, the color would just pop against your skin! it’s also got this sexy little slit the runs up mid-thigh—”

her words are cut short when you gasp loudly, squeezing your thighs together as you grip the dress rack.

the woman gives you a concerned look, asking if you’re okay. you nod your head before you slowly drag your gaze up from the floor, finding rafe sitting on a small couch pushed against a wall, his tongue pressed firmly against his cheek as he smirks back at you, clearly amused by the entire situation.

“i— oh, god.. i agree with you c-completely.” you stutter out, legs wobbling as another orgasm washes through you. your skin is on fire, a flush creeping up your chest and to your face. “i’ll go try this one on, thank you!”

you quickly grab the dress, stumbling toward the dressing room and leaving the poor saleswoman to stand confused by the rack of dresses.

once inside the safety of the dressing room, you drop onto the bench, pulling your skirt up to the tops of your thighs, sliding your thong to the side and going to remove the damned toy rafe put there.

you’re just about to pull it out when the vibration frequency is upped, a knock on your dressing room door making you jump. you know it’s rafe, the fucker probably wants to come in and tease you, probably tell you you’re not allowed to remove the toy, well fuck him.

you stand off the bench, letting your skirt fall back down before unlocking the door and swinging it open, finding a very amused rafe standing on the other side. he pushes you back into the room, stepping into the small space, shutting and locking the door before his tall frame towers you, backing you up against the mirror.

“and just what do you think you’re doing, huh?” he asks, his voice low and demanding, sending a shiver down your spine.

you shove at his chest, “i’m taking this stupid thing out. i’ve not been able to concentrate in one fucking store, rafe. not one! you’re.. god you’re so infuriating sometimes.”

rafe laughs, the sound deep and rich, sending butterflies erupting in your stomach. he reaches into the pocket of his jeans, pulling out his phone and stopping the vibrator. you sigh in relief at the loss of stimulation.

he grips the back of your neck, turning your head up so you’re forced to look him in the eyes. his head dips down, nose brushing against yours as he kisses the corners of your lips.

“you’re not taking it out, sweetheart. you’re gonna be a good girl, and keep that shit in the entire time we’re out,” he pauses, turning your head to the side so your neck is exposed to him. he leaves gentle, wet kisses along the side of your neck, his teeth nipping the front of your throat before he pulls back. “if you’re good, you’ll be rewarded for it when we get home, i promise.”

you’re panting, desperate to get this toy out of you but also desperate to be good for rafe, to be rewarded for listening and doing as you’re told. your lips part, a small squeal escaping you when rafe tightens his hold on the back of your neck, craning your head back and pressing his lips firmly against yours. his kiss is hard and possessive, hot and needy.

his tongue slips past the seam of your lips, tangling with yours as he presses the front of his body firmly against yours. you grip his hips, pressing him harder into you and moaning against his lips when you feel the outline of his hard cock pressing against your stomach. rafe deepens the kiss, one hand still firmly gripping the nape of your neck while the other makes purchase on your hip, squeezing tightly as he rubs himself against you.

small whimpers and whines escape you, rafe swallowing every single one of them as he continues to claim your mouth— licking, sucking, biting, claiming you.

he finally breaks away from you, breathing as heavily as you while his forehead rests against yours. his blue eyes search your face, a small smile tilting the corners of his lips before he leans in to press one more soft and gentle kiss to your lips.

finally releasing you, he steps back, adjusts himself then looks at the dress you have hanging on the hook in the dressing room. “i love that one, lets go pay for it and move on to the next store, i’m ready to get you home now.”

tagging some mooties: @quinnsbabygirl @yourlocalangeldoll @nemesyaaa @rafesheaven @rafesthroatbaby @maybejj @memoirofasparklemuff1n @rafesbabygirlx @rafescvntyclubgf @hauntedfawnn @dementedkittenribbon

[woollypoison]

Spiral

male reader x Giselle a/n: spoilers, but this story contains topics such as death and grief. Word count: 19k

You owe your life to Giselle. This is not an exaggeration. This is also not a metaphor. This is not even some poetic way she saved you—though it will end up that way too. No, this is fact.

-

There’s a loud, wet plop that reverberates from your attic bedroom, to the stairs below it, into the kitchen and finally stops near the front door as Giselle releases the head of your cock from her plump and peach colored lips, her cheeks hollowed out to make the noise reach every corner of the house it previously was never allowed to.

“I’ve always wanted to try that,“ Giselle giggles, her bright pink hair falling over one eye as she tilts and looks up at you with a gaze that claims this was somehow the most important task at hand and she just had an obligation to find out. It wasn't and she didn't.

If the promise you made was anything to go by, that honor would be bestowed upon studying for your midterms. And if it makes any difference, you did study at first, you really did. It started with you on your bed, reviewing your notes in between peeks at your girlfriend. Giselle at her desk—your desk, actually, but when she was here, it was hers, like everything you owned—lazily swiping a highlighter across her paper, making it very clear she had no interest at all in the economy of post-war Europe.

In your defense, you were still just on your bed. It was Giselle who was now lying between your legs, her hand softly clamping the base of your cock, resting her cheek against the inside of your thigh, looking up at you like you are the most interesting thing in the world.

You’re not.

You’re just some guy who told his parents he couldn’t come along on the Disneyland trip because he had to study. “You’re staring.” She interrupts your self-indulgent train of thought.

“I was just thinking about how I gave up Disneyland for this.”

She raises her eyebrows, feigned shock playing at her face before she stifles a grin you can’t help but catch. “Wow,” she lilts through a chuckle. Giselle has this way of making her eyes bigger than what you could possibly take in, and her mouth small and pouty which conjured a magnetic attraction that kept pulling you towards her in a way none of your physics books could explain whenever she was acting mock-offended. Mock-wounded, even.

A small gap between her lips allows hot breath to escape and hit you where it burns, and she has the audacity to let the grip she’s maintained on you soften, those eyes professing innocence and claiming she’s not currently casting a spell on you from which there is no escape.

“You gave up Disneyland for this?” she repeats, and her voice is all incredulous scandal and disbelief, making her out to be some second-rate plastic junk prize at a carnival and not the single greatest thing to ever happen to you.

You sigh, succumbing to her spell with an arm over your eyes. “Don’t act like you don’t know exactly why I stayed. It was your idea in the first place.”

“Oh, I know why you stayed,” she purrs, the weight of her chin pressing into your thigh as she makes herself comfortable, her soft hand squeezing a little tighter and then not anymore, “but I still want to hear you say it.”

“Do you?”

Her grip tightens, your life in her hands.

Your breath catches.

She smiles.

“Please?”

Fucking hell.

Your head drops back against the aptly named headboard, your eyes open peering at the love of your life from a tiny gap beneath your arm. “Because you’re here, and we can be as loud as we want.”

She hums, pleased, pressing a kiss against the very tip of your dick. “Good answer.”

She’s keeping you upright, slow kisses trailing their way down your shaft before you break the spell and foolishly interrupt her. “I still don’t get why you’d even pretend to be shocked.”

“Because it’s Disneyland.” she says in between kisses, like that explains anything. It only raises more questions she’s already giving an answer too, slowing the pace of your pleasure, which you now realise was a stupid mistake. “It’s Mickey Mouse, overpriced churros, dry turkey legs, pirates and ghosts and superheroes and some dumb mountain that everyone pretends is a real landmark.”

With a raised brow, “Space Mountain?”

“Splash Mountain.”

You snort. Admittedly, you wanted to be moaning (as loud as you want, mind you) right now, but this was your own doing and you might as well make the most out of it. “They closed it.”

Giselle gasps, not a shred of feign in her shock, genuinely scandalized, and for a moment, you forget she still has a hand wrapped tightly around your cock.

…Almost.

Because now she’s sitting up, straddling your thighs, planting her hands on your chest like she’s rock climbing and you’re her anchor, staring down at you with nothing short of betrayal in her eyes.

“They fucking what?”

“Yeah, they closed it,” you repeat, trying very, very hard to not be distracted by the fact that she’s fully naked, fully on top of you, and somehow infinitely more interested in Disneyland’s performative politics than your dick.

“For what?” she demands out of you, her nails digging into your flesh as if you made the call.

You laugh, partly because you can’t believe that it was Splash Mountain that cockblocked you, and partly because you’re helpless to do anything else in front of her. “I’m not sure, I think it was something about racism—”

“Oh, so now they care—”

See, when she’s getting all huffy and puffy, there is something about her waist that suddenly becomes irresistibly grabbable. So you do, and you flip her back onto the bed, changing places and slotting your head between her thighs, effectively shutting her up.

Or at least, for a second.

But Giselle is nothing if not a menace, and she immediately recovers, her hands finding their rightful place in your hair, her thighs pressing into your shoulders as she whispers “Does this mean we’re making our own splash mountain?”

This deserves a groan. “That is literally the worst thing you’ve ever fucking said.”

But you’re still beneath her, staring at her face—a little upset you’re not fucking it but more than happy to let her fuck yours—and when her tongue slightly protrudes between her lips, licking the top first and then the bottom with her eyes fluttering as if they’re spelling the Morse code for “Fuck me,” you can’t help but indulge.

You plant exactly one soft kiss on the inside of her thigh, no more and no less. Her whole body twitches under the contact.

Giselle is beaming.

It’s not the previously worn grin, not the giggly, mischievous, I-just-did-something-chaotic smile. No, this one is worse. This one is far, far worse for you. It’s all teeth, all dimples, all radiant, glowing, pure lovesick joy. It's hard to find a word other than the given, irresistible.

You’ve barely done anything yet, but her eyes are already glassy, her breaths loud and rhythmic, and she’s looking at you with so much goddamn love that it feels like standing too close to the fucking sun. And you give her the same look back, because how could you not?

“I can’t believe you,” she sighs, dreamy, high off of nothing but you.

She’s all yours, bucking her hips into you, surrendering to your touch. You just tighten your grip on her waist, locking her down. “I haven’t even done anything yet?”

“Oh, you know what you’re doing,” she accuses, and she meant to sound annoyed, but her breath halts and hitches halfway through her emphasis on the ‘know’, betraying her, because the truth is that she doesn’t mind at all. The beautiful truth is that she’s hopeless about you, and she knows you know it.

You can’t help it— her grin is infectious, and suddenly you’re beaming too. It’s true what they say about becoming more like each other once you love someone. With that pure lovesick joy, you lean down, letting your tongue barely graze her slit as it finds its mark. You place it right under her clit, and give one brazen swipe upwards before you pull back, making her whine—actually, physically whine—and the sound goes straight to your head like the cheap liquor you are bound to steal from your parents cabinet.

“I’ve always wanted to try that,” you speak softly, throwing her own words back at her, hot breath crashing into Giselle’s sensitivity causing her thighs to tense up against you.

She groans, she tugs on your hair—a punishment you know you deserve—and this time around, succeeds in addressing you as the most annoying person on planet Earth. “Oh my god, I hate you,” she grunts, pushing her hips up against your mouth like punctuation. 

“No, you don’t,” you say, without a shred of doubt, tightening your grip on her hips, keeping her exactly where you want her.

Before giving her another chance at a comeback, you dive back in, a lot less reserved this time, planting a slow kiss against her folds.

“No,” she agrees, her nails scraping against your scalp as they curl in your hair, tugging your closer. “I really, really don’t.”

Your tongue responded instinctively to her admission, flattening against her slick folds, slow strokes highlighting every sensitive treasure spot like it's your first time discovering her.

Giselle is intoxicating. A drug that dissolves on your tongue, a spell too sweet to break, a firework that you can’t tear your eyes away from. Her sweaty scent fogs up your head, her taste coating your tongue and lingering there, her hands clutching at you tighter in response to every filthy thing you do to her. Every sound, every twitch, every one of your senses—overwhelmed. She’s got you, and fuck, you’re letting her have you too.

You should be used to her by now. Built up some kind of immunity. But when you sink two fingers inside her dripping cunt, feel her slick against your knuckles, curling up against that perfect spot, and she moans your name—loud, like never before, unmuffled and unrestrained—it's the only sound that makes sense to you anymore.

You freeze.

It’s not hesitation—it’s pure awe.

Her voice is still dancing in your ears, unfiltered and full of affection, louder than either of you had ever allowed before. So used to stifling it with your hands or less savory appendages, but now basking in its unadulterated echoes. And fuck, it’s beautiful.

“Why’d you stop?” Giselle demands, as though you just committed a cardinal sin. You might as well have. Her fingers tangling into your hair, unrelenting, not yanking or guiding—staking her claim on you.

You blink, and you take it all in. Her cheeks, rosy from the blush. Her lips, peach colored and smeared from kissing your cock. Her pupils, wide and hungry, reflect the only thing she wants—you. Everything about her is so fucking beautiful it makes you sick.

“I just wanted to take a moment and appreciate the sounds you’re making.” You murmur, and smirk at the edge of your lips, much to her annoyance.

Her breath halts. Her gaze drops, and then— a scoff. That signature scoff of hers, the one she throws out so nonchalantly when she’s trying to pretend she’s not affected. She clearly is.

“Then you better start working that tongue again before I go mute,” she quips, but the rolling of her hips betrays her. It’s rhythmic, it’s needy, and it’s honest.

With a raised, cocky eyebrow. “Right, that’s why you’re still moving your hips like you’re begging for me to fuck my fingers deeper into you.”

Giselle doesn’t hesitate. She barely ever does. “I don’t beg.”

She’s a wonderful girlfriend, but a terrible liar.

“You do when I make you.”

And right when she’s about to throw something back—something sharp, something clever, something quintessentially Giselle—

Your tongue is on her again. Slow, hooking under her swollen clit, flicking up, before your lips seal around her.

It was that easy. The oncoming verbal onslaught? Gone. The battle of wits? Over.

She gasps—the sound ripping out of her like she wasn’t prepared for it. Her back arches off of the bed, forming a bridge to some goddamn nirvana.

She always has something to say. Something that dares you to keep up. But throughout it all, you love her voice the most when she has nothing at all—when the only thing she can say is your fucking name.

And so you drag it out of her, because fuck, you need to hear that again.

Your fingers fuck into her harder, curling just right, twisting, spreading, relentless. But your tongue? Slow. Cruel. Featherlight flicks. Teasing. Deliberate. The contradiction drives her insane. She chokes on a sound—somewhere between a moan and what she’d never admit is begging—and the way it breaks halfway through makes your cock ache.

“Don’t—” she heaves, pitch rising as she confuses how to beg with how to demand.

She swallows. Tries again.

“Don’t you fucking stop.”

There’s no way you could. Not even when she starts babbling—half words, half nonsense, another half your name, and all desperate for release. Not even when her thighs are quaking, trembling into the side of your head. Not even when her hands have abandoned your hair in favor of gripping the bed sheets, pulling like she means to tear, when her whole body arches off the bed as if trying to ascend towards the pleasure as she chases it.

You feel it.

She’s so fucking close.

It’s in the way she trembles like her legs will give out and the way her thighs clamp tight around your head. Her whole body claiming you in a desperate display of want.

“Oh fuck, fuck, fuck—” Her voice is all throaty, breathless desperation. "Don't stop. Don’t fucking stop—”

Your fingers drive into her harder, curling inside before pulling back out—”come on, baby, fall for me”—while your tongue twists around her clit, making her spiral out of control.

And she can’t help jerking her hips in response, riding against your face, mindless. She needs it, and she’ll have you give it to her.

“God, you—fuck, you love this, don’t you?” she gasps, desperate laughs, almost delirious, rolling her hips down faster and harder, grinding into your tongue. “Love me—love making me lose my fucking mind on your mouth—”

Yeah. Yeah, you fucking do.

“Look at you.” She’s throbbing at this point, panting rapidly, helpless, but somehow mustering a sharp-edged bite through her heavy-lidded stare. “So fucking desperate to make me cum. You like when I scream for you, huh?”

You groan into her flesh, your response vibrating against her clit, and her volume increases, if that was even possible.

“you—oh fuck—you’re so good—so fucking good— fuck, please—please—”

She’s begging now. Even she couldn’t deny it anymore.

“Say it,” you taunt, breaking away just long enough to look up at her and make her desperate, lips drenched in her. “Tell me how bad you need it, baby.”

“I—I can’t—”

You deliver a sharp, fast stroke with your tongue, lethal precision, just to make her sob.

“Say it.”

“Fuck, I need it—need you, need your tongue, your fucking fingers…I need to cum on your fucking face—”

You bring her over the edge. A heartbeat passes. And then she shatters.

A moan? No, a cry, pours out from deep inside her, high and sharp, louder than anyone has ever screamed on actual Splash Mountain. The walls shake with it. Her hands, aimless, uncontrollable, claw at anything they’re given. Your hair, her own skin, her bedsheets—your bedsheets actually, but we’ve been over this—while her body locks up tight, shakes, then crashes down in wave after wave after fucking wave of pleasure.

And through all of the filthy fucking obscenities she’s belting out—your name.

Fucking screamed.

It travels through you like new life, straight to your cock, straight to the part of your brain that wants to fuck it out of her again.

You don’t stop. You should, but you can’t. Keep attacking her, keep pushing her through it, keep drinking her in like she’s your life support.

She twitches, tries to close her legs—too sensitive, too overwhelmed—but you grip her thighs, keep them spread, keep going, keep her yours. Keep her here.

Until she lifts your head with trembling hands.

“Too much,” she exhales, exhausted, wrecked.

You look up at her, her face half hidden under the mounds of her tits, but clear as day. She’s ruined.

Flushed from chest to cheeks, skin sparkling with sweat against the sun dripping in from the window, lips parted, swollen from biting down. Panting. Her hair’s a beautiful mess, fanned on your pillow and tangled across it, pupils blown up with pleasure.

She looks like an angel.

Like she should have a halo, but you’re just too much of a sinner to see it.

But then—she opens her eyes, lazy, dark, and dangerous, and—

Yeah. No. No halo. She’s just as much a sinner as you.

She commands you with such a soft, saccharine sound, you’ve already agreed before hearing the demands. “You’re not allowed to ever do that to anyone else.”

“As long as I have you, that can be arranged,” you smile back.

She collapses. 

The bed creaks beneath her weight, and you can feel the way her whole body unwinds in your hands, still rooted firmly just above her hips. For a moment, it’s quiet. Just the sound of her breathing, getting slower and deeper, full of delicious content.

Giselle pushes her elbows underneath her, pushing her upwards. She hums a slow, peachy sound, as she works through her failing legs. And then, just as lazily, just as hungry—

She pushes you onto your back.

It’s not forceful. It doesn’t have to be.

You let her.

You go willingly.

And the second you hit the bed, she’s hanging over you.

She tilts her head, watching you like she’s debating her next step. Her face inches closer to your cock, her lips purse and then—

She kisses your hip bone instead.

Your breath catches. Another kiss, this time lower, but not yet where you’d die for it.

You resist the urge to buck your hips into her face. Barely, but you manage.

“You know,” she muses so sultry, tracing circles against your thighs with her thumbs. “I think I love you the most when you let me take what I want.”

Crawling over you, straddling your hips, pressing her nude, still-trembling body flush against your own. And fuck, you feel it—your heat against her heat, wetness dripping against your stomach, every inch of her soaked and sensitive and ready to devour.

But she doesn’t sink down onto you. Not yet.

Because she’s got plans for you. You made her beg, and she always returns the favor.

She whispers in your ear. “You’re shaking baby,” and you were so confident you had it under control. “You want it that bad?”

Her lips collide against yours, tongue invading your mouth, like she was hungry for a taste. Hers is like peach, and yours is like her.

When she pulls back, her smirk is heavy-lidded, predatory, wicked. A mixture of spit and her cum connects you two, growing heavy, splitting and falling on your bodies.

“My turn.”

Her hand wraps around the base of your cock. Her grip is firm, teasing, all smug satisfaction.

“You can hold out until I get to taste you, right?” She purrs, her voice dripping with playfulness.

You exhale, your eyes meeting her in a determined gaze, dragging your fingers slowly over the curvature of her hips. “You tell me.”

She hums a questioning tune, unimpressed. She takes her time to get her hand moving, stroking deliberate, unbearably slow, luring you out.

Your breath catches for a frame, and—fuck—you know she caught it.

Her lips curl. Smugness oozing off of her. “Right, I thought so.”

She leans in closer, nibbling softly on your ear, moving down, pressing a slow kiss to your throat that lingers. Then another. Working her way down, her free hand following suit over your stomach, fingers splayed and nails grazing your skin like she’s got all the time in the world to make you squirm.

You know exactly where this is going.

And so does she.

“Giselle.” Your voice is low, buckling.

She smiles against your skin, her teeth grazing your flesh, contemplating a bite. “Yes?”

You narrow your eyes, but she just blinks up at you, a quick flutter of those enchanting eyes, all innocence, like she isn’t also stroking you with a lazy, practiced, perfectly tuned in to you rhythm. Like she isn’t sinking lower and lower into depravity—right where you want her—with every passing second.

She has this glint in her eye. You know it all too well by now, she wants to be teased back, to have you push her buttons. Wants you to get impatient enough to forget how much you love her just enough to handle her a little rougher.

And you do. You let your fingers slip into her vibrantly colored hair, slow, dragging through the strands before coming together with just the slightest bit of force at the roots.

She exhales. Or rather, she pretends it’s just her exhaling.

With a soft, tiny little shudder that you most definitely felt, coupled with a moan she couldn’t help but keep in, your lips curl. “Oh?”

Giselle stops. Her fingers, mind you, still against and around your cock, her face perfectly blank, like you didn’t just catch her falling for you.

“Don’t.”

Your grin widens. “I think you just—”

She glares, her grip tightening in retaliation.

And just to shut you up, she ducks her head, dragging her tongue slow and warm from base to shaft to head of your cock, marking her territory with a line from base to tip.

All of your breath and sound tumbles out of you.

Giselle hums, smugness regained, lips glazing against the tip of your cock as she murmurs, “That’s cute.”

She wanted a little rougher out of you anyways, and you’d indulge, fingers flexing in her hair. Then—slowly, deliberately—you strengthen your grip, not enough to really hurt, but enough to tilt her head back, forcing her to meet your hungry gaze.

She gasps, and then her breath catches. Big eyes, asking you what you’ll do next.

You lean in, voice dripping low and quiet. “You love being my good girl, don’t you?”

And the way she shivers? Fuck.

Her lips part, her thighs squeezing together tight, but she’s too stubborn to say it outright. She won’t let up yet. Instead, she presses closer, hanging her tongue out of her mouth as she presses it against the back of your cock, breath warm and teasing, spit drops dripping down to your balls, one by one.

Your jaw clenches, as does your fist, keeping her in place.

She’s dragging this out on purpose.

You give her a quick yank back, and then push her back against your cock, and you mutter, “You know what I want, baby. Give it to me.”

Her eyes flicker. Sparkle, even.

She swallows, licks her lips, wetting them, and finally speaks softly. Her tone insinuates she already knows what your answer will be.

“Make me.”

And fuck—who could resist pushing her forward? Her mouth enveloping the head of your cock, her tongue swirling around and lapping against you. Her hand pressing down firmly against the base of your cock, and vibrations of her soft moans jolting through your dick.

She seems extra hungry today, leaning into her gagging and groaning, reveling in your fierceness, and right as you were about to test her limits even further—

The sound of metal rapidly vibrating against wood. Your phone on your nightstand. You roll your eyes, but Giselle gives you this look that you’d learned to intuit meant “It could be important?” You don’t let up on Giselle’s throat breaking previously set records, but you take a peek anyways.

It’s your aunt. She’s probably just checking up on you, something not important—not as important as fucking Giselle’s face— so you resolve you’ll call her back.

You put your phone back on your nightstand, and you heard it ring, again. 

Weird.

-

You haven’t cried yet since the news.

Giselle has barely stopped.

It’s morning—you think, it might also be noon, it’s all a blur—but the light creeping into your room unwanted through the window feels wrong. It’s too bright. Too harsh. Like it should’ve dimmed out of respect.

Your phone still lies on your nightstand where you put it yesterday, face down. Turning it over would mean seeing the missed calls, seeing the texts piling up. You can’t touch it. Just keep staring at it like that might change what’s already happened. Like that might stop the jumbled mess of words your brain can still remember, in your aunt’s voice looping over and over in your head, buried in sorrow, barely making sense through the sobs. “A drunk driver—”

“I’m so sorry, I don’t—”

“All—All passed away.”

And a thought you know you shouldn’t have creeps its way in with the others.

“Stay home from the trip, I’ll make it worth your while.”

You resent her for it, if only for a split second. You can’t think like that. But if she didn’t say that, you might have prevented this somehow. Or not have to feel this pain, being with them. Another split second. 

No. 

Stop.

Where is Giselle anyways? You turn around, and her warmth is missing. She’s not lying next to you. You close your eyes. Try to suppress the thoughts. It doesn’t help.

There’s footsteps outside your door. Slow, hesitant. Followed by a knock, barely more than a tap.

“Are you awake?”

Giselle. Thank God.

You want to answer, but the lump in your throat stops you. She pushes the door open anyway. She’s a fucking mess. Bloodshot eyes with bags to accompany them, and her hair done in a messy bun, loosely pulled together. She’s wearing one of your hoodies—too big for her, sleeves dark from moisture. She looks over at you, your eyes meet, they linger for a moment, and then drop solemnly.

“I made you something to eat,” she says. It sounds hoarse and strained.

You don’t respond. You wish you could.

She’s hesitating before stepping in. Like it would mean stepping into your grief too, and she isn’t sure if you’ll let her.

But she wants to.

She approaches and sits on the edge of the bed, turning towards you and shuffling the plate your direction. Toast and eggs. It smells like food. The smell of food doesn’t smell like something you can shove down your throat right now.

“You should eat,” she tries.

You bit down on the inside of your cheeks. Stare at the plate like it’s an endless tunnel.

Her eyes can’t seem to find yours, seeking the solace of the window instead. She sniffs once, catches herself, and rubs the tip of her nose with the sleeve of your hoodie before exhaling and speaking. “Just a little, okay? Just—just a bite.”

You take the plate, not out of hunger. It’s just the least you owed her after resenting her for a split second. You break off a piece of the toast and chew. It doesn’t even taste like food, and it’s not her fault. You force yourself to swallow anyways.

She’s trying. For you.

And you hate it.

The plate in your hands is too heavy. You put it away on the nightstand, pulling your knees up to your chest and locking them in place with crossed arms. Your lips tremble against your arm, speaking into your skin. The sound is wrecked and exhausted. Fragile, like—fuck, like what? Like life? “You don’t have to be here.”

Her eyes snap to yours, wide and wet.

“Don’t,” she ekes out, her voice breaking on the first vowel. Her lips press together tightly, trembling as they seal away her words. They part slightly as she shakes her head.“Please don’t do that to me.” She sounds raw. Small. Scared of whatever you might reply with it, if you even say anything. Like she thinks she might not survive this conversation.

Maybe you won’t either.

You drag in a breath, but it’s hard. Like the air itself can feel that you don’t really want it there. Like two metal plates pushing together inside your throat, forcing everything out when it needs to go in. Your body fighting against what you’re trying to make it do, like you suddenly got rewired and need to relearn how to breathe, and it’s so fucking frustrating how even breathing requires thinking right now.

Your arms uncross, elbows against knees and hands rubbing into your face. Press the heel of your palm against your eyes until all you see is static, bursts of color mixed with black, a flickering distraction behind your lids. But it doesn’t do anything. Doesn’t shake it loose, doesn’t take away the building pressure you can feel behind your eyes.

Your family is dead.

And you’re still here.

You should say something

That you didn’t mean it. That you’re just—tired, or lost, or whatever the fuck this feeling is that’s twisting your stomach, making everything taste like nothing and the air feel impossible to muscle down. But the words don’t come, and Giselle is still looking at you like you just asked her to push a knife you held to your chest deeper to finish the job.

Her fingers tighten in the fabric of her hoodie—your hoodie, but who fucking cares at this point? You remember her saying she loved it, months ago, attributing it to how it smelled like you.

Now it probably just smells like salt.

“I wasn’t with them.”

Giselle stiffens.

The weight of what you just let out settles between you both. It’s thick, suffocating, harsh and pressing down on your ribs.

It’s impossible to look at her now.

There’s a breath. Not yours. It’s shaky, coming in three tiny bursts of being pulled into her lungs.

A small pause. Then: “No,” she whispers. “You weren’t.”

And it’s not comforting. You both know that. It's not meant to be.

Your family is dead.

You are alive.

Nothing can change that. Nothing can fix it. And maybe worst of all—you need someone to blame. Anybody to take it out on. It can’t even be that piece of shit drunk driver, he had the sense to take himself out with everyone else.

And you realise you owe your life to Giselle.

“If only you didn’t ask me to stay,” the words tumble out of your mouth before you figure out how to stop yourself, “I could have been with them.”

You’re not accusing her.

Not really.

But it still lands like one.

You don’t know how to take the words back, how to unmake the weight they carry, how to make it so you didn’t open your fucking mouth and let them spill out like venom.

But the feeling doesn’t fade. You should have been with them. If you’d just gone on the trip like you were supposed to, you wouldn’t have to feel this. You wouldn’t have to be here.

You wouldn’t have to be.

And once more, for a split second, for a horrible, fleeting split second, you resent her for it.

Because she asked you to stay.

Because she made you stay.

Because if it weren’t for Giselle, you wouldn’t be in this fucking bed, in this fucking house full of memories, swallowing down a piece of fucking toast that tastes like nothing, thinking about how to fucking breathe, while your whole fucking family—

You found someone to blame. And you hate yourself for it.

The thought is barely even there before you shove it down, bury it so deep inside yourself it might as well have never existed, as though if you push hard enough, you can convince yourself you never thought it at all.

But it’s too late.

Giselle sees it. And she’s looking at you like you just drove a jagged knife into her ribs. And maybe you fucking did. And she’d even let you.

She’s having trouble swallowing it all down, her lips parting, and for a second, you think she’s going to say something—but she doesn’t.

Because she doesn’t see you as wrong. She sees you as right. If only she didn’t ask you.

“It’s my fault.”

You can’t help but physically, viscerally recoil from the words.

No.

That’s not true. That’s not what you think, this isn’t that. That’s not what you meant. That’s not—

“If I just hadn’t—” But it’s interrupted by a sharp inhale, like there’s not enough air in the room to speak the words. Her eyes squeeze shut, maybe so she can’t cry, or so she doesn’t need to look at you, knuckles turning white from how hard she’s squeezing down. “If I just didn’t say anything, maybe they wouldn’t have left when they did. Maybe they wouldn’t have been on that road, at that time, in that moment—”

Her breath hitches again. Her hands unclench briefly, only to grasp at her face, fingers pressing down into her skin around her eyes, shaking.

You feel like throwing up. 

Because you’re not the only one with a brain that won’t shut up. With thoughts that won’t stop forming, poisoning, curling inside your skull like parasites burrowing into every action you take, every thought you think.

And for the first time since waking up, you turn to look at her.

Really look at her.

She’s a wreck.

Her face is swollen, but her eyes have it worse. They’re puffy, red-rimmed and drained. Her nose is pink, not from the way she likes to do her makeup, but from rubbing it too much with her sleeves, turning it raw, and her lips have bite marks from where she’s been biting down when she wants to say something, but doesn’t know what.

Giselle never looks like this.

She always carries herself with this effortless sort of self-possession, even when she’s being an absolute menace. But right now?

Right now, she looks like she’s barely staying afloat herself.

“Giselle—”

“I took you away from them.”

Her voice cracks.

You whip your head up so fast your vision starts to swim, like gravity itself is pulling you to the same place you’re trying to hide that wretched thought of yours, and fuck, she’s crying again. And she can’t look at you. Won’t meet your eyes. “You resent me.”

You knew she saw it. You knew she fucking felt it, even in that fucking split second before you buried it, before you even had the time to feel ashamed of yourself, that hate yourself, not her.

But hearing her say it out loud is worse.

“You should hate me,” you mutter.

Her eyes open slightly, and her gaze lands somewhere near you. Not ready yet for landing on you. “What?”

You inhale, sharp and shaky, then exhale just as fast, voice low and wrecked.

“You saved my life.”

You think you meant them, but they feel so, so wrong, because nothing about this feels like being saved. Nothing about this feels like anything but a burning car wreckage and shattered glass from every window it broke and the goddamn sound of your aunt’s voice on repeat, over and over, like a twisted song stuck in your head, one which your brain is desperately trying to make you forget the lyrics to.

And Giselle, she just—

She breaks.

Not like the way she’s been breaking since yesterday, tiny fractures, cracks forming, desperate moments but still holding on.

This time, it’s worse.

She makes this sound—this horrible sound—choked, gasping, sobbing like she wasn’t expecting her body to give in, like she’s hurting worse than what she’d thought was possible, like there was still more grief to pull from her that she was sure she locked away, and collapsing into herself, fingernails digging into her skin and you’re not sure if it’s to hurt herself or hold herself close, like she just needs to hold or be held right now before she breaks.

“I wanted you to stay.”

The admission rips out her, raw and violent and sobbing and so full of guilt it makes your heart feel like it turned to ash.

“I wanted you to stay and I’m sorry and you—” Another sob cuts through it all, her sleeve wiping across her face like she could take the feelings with it as well, the noise of her tears and shattering voice being muffled. But you still hear it, still feel it, and hate it, the way it destroys her.

And then, softer.

“I don’t know how I’d survive if you were in that car as well.”

The confession is small. It’s shaky. It’s honest.

“I think about it every second,” she rambles on, there’s no stopping the confession. “If I just had shut my fucking mouth, you could’ve done something, or been there, or at least not have felt like this.”

Her knuckles whiten from straining them too hard, disgust seeping in her voice as she speaks next. “But I’m glad I didn’t. Do you understand what that says about me? It means I can’t even tell if I’m allowed to be grateful that you’re here, because if I am, does that mean I’m glad your family is dead?”

She’s furious with herself, nails tearing at her own skin as if she wants to rid herself of it all, head shaking furiously. “That just makes me a fucking monster.”

And fuck, it’s suddenly so much worse than the weight of her earlier words, worse than it’s my fault, worse than you resent me, worse than the feeling of your own guilt pressing down on your ribs, because Giselle is—

She’s glad you’re here.

She’s glad you lived.

And she hates herself for it.

And you want to tell her—you really fucking do, if only the words would come out—you want to tell her it’s okay.

Or, that it’s not okay, but that she is. That she shouldn’t have to feel like that, that she doesn’t deserve it, that she has no reason or need to carry, she doesn’t have to bear this kind of weight, she didn’t do anything wrong, that she couldn’t have done anything, it’s not her fault, that she’s allowed to be relieved that she still has you because fuck, you’re relieved you still have her too, and it’s fucking selfish and ugly and it makes your stomach churn but you just can’t afford to lose her too, you can’t, you can’t, you fucking can’t—

But you don’t have the energy.

You wish you did. You don’t.

And it just adds another layer of self-loathing.

Because Giselle is falling apart, and you can’t do anything about it.

So you just sit there, motionless, watching her break, breaking with her.

Her sobs keep coming, louder and wrecked by the minute in this quiet room, and they won’t stop, like she can’t stop imagining what it would have been like if you did leave, like she’s trying to fill the space around you with something less suffocating, but it’s still there, under everything, pressing it’s full weight on you.

It makes your whole body feel heavy.

Like it would take too much effort to move. So you don’t.

You just let her cry.

And eventually, eventually, her breath evens out—just slightly, still ragged, still trembling, still fucking unbearable to listen to, but at least she’s not gasping for it anymore.

She sniffles, rubs the sleeve of your hoodie over her face again, sniffs again.

“I’m sorry.”

Like something just punched your heart.

“No,” you rasp, air you didn’t have being forced out. “Don’t be.”

Her hands disappear into her sleeves, clutching the fabric around her hands, her shoulders curl inward like she wants to sink as deep as possible as she can into your hoodie. Her hoodie? She considers it your hoodie. Makes it more special.

She moves. It’s sudden, but careful.

It’s slow and it’s hesitant. Shifting closer over the bed, closing the distance between you two. It’s careful, like she’s testing if it’s okay with you with every inch. As if she’s half-convinced you’ll push her away. It’s silly. You don’t.

It’s all filled with uncertainty. As if the routines and rituals you’ve built up have all vanished. Hesitating before making her way under the covers. Her arms making first contact and her whole body curling up behind them, trying to make herself small enough to fit against you without you noticing, like she’s trying to just be with you even if you can’t take it right now. Because she needs it, and she hopes you do too. Like she’s still afraid she’s not allowed to belong here.

And her face presses against your chest, somewhere you think your heart should be, her arms wrapping around your body, her breath hot and finally some capacity of steady brushing against your skin.

She doesn’t speak.

She doesn’t have to.

She just holds on.

And you let her. Your arms wrap around her.

Your eyes slip shut, and for a second, you just breathe her in.

But then you hear it.

A voice.

Not Giselle’s.

Not yours either.

His.

“You sure you won’t get too distracted if she stays over?”

Your whole body tenses.

Giselle stiffens slightly against you, feeling it.

Dad.

It’s a fucking disaster, and if you weren’t so desperate to hear his voice, you’d force this memory away in a heartbeat.

You were standing in the driveway as your parents were already packing everything for their trip. Your brother was already burning through his Switch battery on the backseat, letting the world move around him, and your mom was inside packing everything she was sure your dad was forgetting.

“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re up to, champ,” he’d said, clapping his giant hand on your shoulder with that booming voice of his barely avoiding leaving a ringing sound in your ears. ”Just make sure to actually get some studying done. If you fail your tests, you’re not even getting an invitation for the next family trip.”

You’d rolled your eyes. Smirked at him, full of confidence. “When have you ever known me to fail?”

His laugh had been loud, warm.

“Don’t act all too confident, we all know Giselle takes care of you.”

And then he’d grinned.

“But for what it’s worth?”

A pause.

A squeeze of your shoulder.

“I feel better knowing you’ll have her.”

You inhale, but it’s the kind that preludes tears.

Giselle presses closer.

And for the first time in twenty-four hours—

Your eyes burn.

-

You can’t tell how long it’s been since Giselle crawled into your arms.

If you were asked, you might even say it’s been forever.

There’s only her, warm and small, slotted in your arms, curled up against you and unrelenting in her grip, like she’s afraid you might cease to be if she lets go. Maybe she’s right. Maybe you would. Maybe she’s the only thing keeping you here, really here, and not slipping into some void you fear you might never escape from.

So your arms tighten around her. It’s instinct more than anything. It’s just, her body is so familiar, should be so comfortably familiar—but this time is different.

You’ve pulled her close a thousand times before. Grabbed her by her waist when she got all huffy and puffy, pinned her against a well or closed door or anything she’d let you, tugged her onto your lap, mouth on her neck, her laugh energizing you and spurring you on. It’s always been a pull with her, a want, a need.

This time, it’s a quiet, desperate hold.

And just like her, you grip tighter, arms holding her as close as space allows, so that you can’t loosen your grip even a little, lest she slip through your arms just like everything else.

She begins to inhale, preparing for something, breaking the quiet trance you’ve been slumbering in. Her warm breath burns against your collarbone.

“I was scared,” she whispers.

Your eyes close. “I’m sorry.”

Her body twists, nudging into you, softer, her grip loosening but not letting any space form through it. “Don’t be. I thought—” The words start spilling out, her eyes pointed upwards searching solace in your face before she regathers herself and tries again. “I really thought you were going to push me away.”

Hearing her voice those concerns makes the pit of your stomach turn upside down. “I need you. I couldn’t.”

“You didn’t,” she exhales, hesitation making the air come out in stutters. There’s not a lot of her signature confidence present, as if she’s scared that saying it out loud would jinx it. “But you—you barely even looked at me. And I—I Didn’t know. I didn’t know if you wanted me—wanted me here or if you just—” she shakes her against you feverishly. “I didn’t know.”

You can’t blame her. You haven’t been sure what you want yourself.

You did pull away. Told her she shouldn’t be here. What the fuck was that even about?

It wasn’t because you didn’t want her here. Not because you don’t need her.

It’s the fucking weight of all of this—the sheer, unbearable fucking weight of existing in a world without them—felt like it would be easier to carry alone. Or easier to escape if you were alone.

Deep breaths. Slow breaths. You press your lips to the top of her head.

“I love you,” you murmur.

She doesn’t respond, pausing. She probably doesn’t know what you want from her, again.

“I know you know that. But I need you to hear it. So you know.” Your hand presses onto the small of her back, and she gives in. It’s not rough, not hard, not tight, but just enough that she knows you mean it. “I love you. You’re the only one I have left that I can say that too.I can’t bear the fucking thought of losing you too.”

Her shoulders tremble and she pushes her away from your chest, just enough to be able to look in your eyes. “You won’t.”

You want to believe her. God, you want to believe her.

But you thought your parents were permanent, too. Or at least more permanent than this? Thought your little brother would be stealing your shit until you left the house, and then some. Thought there would always be another Christmas, another birthday, another vacation, another tomorrow.

Your fingers rest on the back of her head, pulling her closer back against her chest, against your heartbeat.

“I didn’t tell them I loved them.”

She stills, like a toy that ran out of batteries.

“My dad said it before they left. I didn’t say it back. Felt too embarrassed or something. I just shrugged it off and said I’ll see them later.”

Giselle doesn’t just move—she reaches for you.

Her hands don’t hesitate anymore. One finds your wrist, fingers curling around it gently, as if chaining the two of you together. The other wraps around you, presses against your back, firm, solid, unrelenting.

Her words are hoarse, muffled, being spoken directly into your chest. “They knew.”

You fall back into not responding. You want to believe they knew.

But it doesn’t fucking matter.

Because later didn’t happen, and later was taking for granted, but it was a fucking lie.

Because some drunk asshole that couldn’t even have the decency to just hit a tree and only punish himself for what he did stole ‘later’ from you.

And now? Your last words to your family weren’t love, weren’t warmth, weren’t anything that mattered.

Just a brush-off. Just something to replace the words you felt too cool to say.

Giselle shudders against, feels the twitch in your muscles as your thoughts go dark and darker. The warmth of her breath is arrhythmic, and you realize she’s crying for you.

Like she’s crawling underneath your shoulders, cracking, holding the weight with you, carrying it when you can’t. And it’s too much, even for her.

Her hands clutch desperately at you, twisting your shirt. “You have to know they knew,” she says, voice cracking every few words. “You have to know that.”

It’s still hard to respond, but she squeezes you tighter anyway. Like she’s forcing it into you.

For a moment, the room is nothing but shallow breaths and the same hum you hear every day of the world moving on outside these walls. It’s sickening.

Then, her voice, breaking the sounds:

“Do you want to talk about it?”

It takes a second to process the question.

Absolutely not. Your arms flex just at the thought of it.

“Like—” She wipes her nose after another sniff, sucks in a trembling breath. “Right now. When you think of them. What’s the first thing that comes to mind?”

Your mind stutters. Because how the fuck are you even supposed to pick one thing when a thousand are racing through the tunnels of your brain? How are you supposed to take an entire lifetime of support, annoyance, respect, frustration, love and compress it into a single moment?

Can you even answer that question?

“He laughed,” you mumble, voice rough like new tires.

Giselle listens. It’s all she does.

“When I asked if you could stay over while they were gone,” you continue, the words seemingly coming out on their own, eyes pointed upwards, the ceiling being the only thing you can stand to look at. “Said he knew I wasn’t actually gonna study. But he’d still feel better knowing you were taking care of me.”

The next sound Giselle let out surely was something new to her—soft, wet. It starts as a laugh from something unexpected, but not because something was funny, because it quickly gets overtaken by a sob.

It’s comforting. It might begin to feel like she really is taking on some of that weight. “He always did that—acted like he was onto me, like he had me all figured out. Said he was much the same when he was my age. Used to say he could read me like a book, cus he wrote the damn thing.” You swallow, not sure if it was even okay to say the next part out loud. “I used to think it was fucking annoying.”

She chuckles this time, and it’s not interrupted with a sob. That sound is a lot more comforting. It’s quiet, it’s breathy, and it’s pulling you back.

You’re shaking, but you wouldn’t have caught it if it wasn’t for Giselle holding onto you as though to hold you in place.

“I think you’re right,” you blow out the air through your nose. “They knew.”

Her fingers run over your back. “Yeah,” she whispers. “They did.”

This wasn’t enough to hold back the pain—not yet. But maybe someday it might become enough.

Giselle fits so perfectly into you, and you shift to allow her more room, for your faces to lay closer. She melts into it.

For the first time since waking up, the air doesn’t struggle to leave or enter your body. Your limbs don’t feel heavy with sorrow. Your brain doesn’t feel like drowning.

Floating.

Stagnant, but being held, and holding on.

Giselle’s body shifts, or twitches? You’re not sure. It feels like she’s about to move, is all. You don’t let her. Not yet.

“Just a little longer,” you murmur.

She shakes her head, forehead rubbing against your chest.

It’s absurd, makes you pull back, struggling to process. 

“No,” she says, firmer now. “Not just a little longer.”

She nudges her forehead into your chest, the way she’s done a thousand times before when you’ve said something that got on her nerves. “I’m not leaving. You don’t get to lose me. Ever.”

She snuggles into you, and she stays.

-

You’ve been drifting in and out of sleep long enough for the sun to hide, Giselle still close. Like she promised.

“Are you up?”

Your eyes peel open slowly. “Mhm.”

“We should go eat.” She says sleepily as her muscles push awake.

You don’t answer this one.

Giselle exhales through her nose, and it’s not the first time she’s said it today. Knowing her, it won’t be the last if you don’t agree. She shifts her weight onto her elbow, tilts her head up at you with pleading brows, and looks at you properly. like she’s measuring whether or not you can handle whatever she’s about to say.

She doesn’t waver though.  “We should go downstairs.”

Downstairs. You haven’t left your room yet, since. It’s fucking terrifying, as if stepping outside would only solidify what you already know. Like if stepping outside will make everything collapse. Like you’ll have to face the fact that nothing is waiting for you outside of it except a house full of ghosts.

Giselle must see the way your expression changes. She always has this sharp read on you. Her voice softens. “I know.” She exhales a heavy breath. “But we still have to go.”

We.

Not you.

We.

She stands before you can think of a way to ask her not to. Walks to the door before you can tell her no. Turns the knob and pulls it open, just enough for the familiar orange light to creep its unwelcome way inside. She pauses, waiting.

You really don’t want to go.

But she’s waiting.

And this—this is Giselle. She doesn’t ask for much. It’s for you.

So you move.

The door groans on it hinges like it’s screaming at you that you’re making a mistake. Stupid fucking door.

The hallways are colder than you remember. Colder than it has any right to be. Or maybe you’ve just gotten used to the heat of Giselle pressed against you. Or maybe it’s both.

She’s right behind you. Of course she is. Close enough that you feel her presence like a torch protecting you from the biting winds of winter. You take a step forward, then another, down the stairs that feel too long, too steeped in memory.

The house doesn’t smell like home.

Your feet hit the ground floor, and for a second, you hesitate.

Giselle doesn’t.

She’s right behind you, her fingertips ghosting your back, barely touching, barely there, letting you know she’s there. She’s here, and she’s not trying to push. And that’s enough. So you can keep moving.

The kitchen is dark.

You hesitate before flicking the switch. If you just keep the lights off, you might evade some of the memories. You flick it nonetheless, and the light is too sharp. Too bright. You glance at the fridge, at the magnets holding up old notes and things you can’t bear to take a second look at.

So you don’t.

Giselle steps around you, reaching for a glass. The sound of the cabinet opening, the slight clink of the glass on the counter, the rapid rush of water from the tap—It’s too loud.

“You should drink something,” she says, gentle, full of care, but firm, like she won’t take no for an answer.

You nod once, just to show you’re listening. She watches as you take the glass, lift it to your lips and drink. She nods back, approving, a soft curl in her lips for making progress.

She searches the fridge, the light beaming from inside, before her voice rebounds out from it. “Is there anything you want to eat?”

The answer is nothing, so you tell her exactly that.

She obviously doesn’t accept that. “Come on, just—something easy.”

Your shoulders slump before you answer. “I’m sorry, but I don’t care.”

“I know.” She continues rummaging. “But we have to eat something, right? We can’t just…not.”

So do you, you want to say. Giselle wouldn’t let you turn this around on her though. She never does.

She pulls out something. A leftover container of soup from the fridge—something your mom must have made. Something that feels too good to eat right now. But it won’t stay fresh forever. So might as well still enjoy it while you can. Giselle throws you a half smile upon seeing your reaction to the soup, dumps it into a pot, turning on the stove and heating it up for the both of you.

The smell of it is more than food. It smells like home. Or it used to? It’s all too confusing.

Giselle turns around and leans against the counter, her arms supporting her against it. Waiting for the soup to be ready, before snapping you both back to reality. “The wake is in three days.”

You give her a puzzled look, like you can’t understand how she knows that. You knew it had to happen at some point, but—

“Your aunt came by earlier this morning, when you were still sleeping. She told me to tell you. It’ll take place here.” she explains further, not letting you stew in it.

You haven’t thought about it yet. Not about the wake itself, Not about what it implies. How you’re supposed to stand there all day while people pile on, saying things that won’t matter and offer condolences you don’t want, and then—what?

Bury them?

That’s too much.

Giselle is quiet. She lets the silence go unpunished, the only sound present being the faint bubbling of the soup. And then she moves, grabbing two bowls from the cabinet, keeping her hands busy, keeping herself busy.

And you eat. And you swallow. And you try not to think about how this is the last time you’ll ever taste this soup again.

-

The house is full.

Not full of ghosts, or stale air or a silence you just can’t seem to break through no matter how hard you try. No. 

This is different.

It’s wrong, worse.

There’s too many people, all clad in black, superseding silence with their low murmurs and occasional pitiful glances at you when they think you’re not looking. There’s too many of them. Faces you recognize, but can’t quite place, it’s all too hazy. People that knew your family, come to console themselves by letting you know they feel bad for you. None of them can imagine what you’re feeling anyways. If it were up to you, you wouldn’t be here.

But you are.

And thank fuck, so is Giselle.

She’s hovering around you. Always close. Not yet touching, not yet saying anything. Just—watching. Monitoring. Worried.

You can’t blame her, she should be.

“I’m so sorry for your loss.”

Fuck. If the first time already makes you feel like you want to run, you might as well give up now.

It’s your father’s coworker. You recognize him now. You met him at a barbecue your dad hosted last year, the one where he burned some burgers but kept insisting they were fine, eating them himself. Your mom called him an overgrown child, and your brother almost vomited when he tried eating on himself.

That was only a year ago.

And now—

Now a remnant of that time is standing in front of you, alive and breathing and saying the same meaningless sentence you’re bound to hear a hundred times today.

His hand lands on your shoulder. Grasps it. Too firm. Too much.

He keeps talking, something about ever needing something, but you wouldn’t rely on your dad’s coworker for anything anyway.

And Giselle?

She moves.

Not a lot, mind you. Just a little. Shifting her weight towards you, the slightest brush of her sleeve against your arm, like she’s testing something. 

You nod at him. That’s all you can do.

You take a breather. Regain your composure.

Another.

“They were such wonderful people.”

One of your mom’s friends this time. She looks different. Maybe she just looks older. Maybe she’s been crying. Maybe you should care.

Her hands reach for yours, and you almost—almost—pull away.

You really don’t want them touching you like you’re some beacon of grief.

None of them should be touching you.

But you let her fingers wrap around yours, let her squeeze, let her eyes soften like she can even come close to understanding.

She doesn’t.

She can’t.

Your jaw locks. You bite down on the inside of your cheek, feel the skin break, the sharp sting of it preventing the cracks showing on the outside.

And Giselle moves again.

Another shift, another breath that sounds like it might be the start of a sentence, but—nothing. Just some warmth.

She’s hesitating.

She must be doubting if she should step in or not.

You haven’t been exactly clear on whether or not you want her to.

Because you don’t know.

“I can’t imagine what you’re going through.”

How fucked up is that? Way to rub it in.

You don’t even look up for this one.

Just nod. Another nod. That same fucking nod. Like you’re a puppet on string, but broken and only capable of doing one thing.

You don’t even know who just spoke to you and shook your hand. Some neighbor, maybe. Someone who used to wave at your mom in passing. Who smiled at you and your little brother at the grocery store. Someone who only knew your family in the way people know nice things in passing.

Not like you.

Giselle shifts again.

This time, you feel it more than you hear it, grazing the back of her hand against you, momentarily letting her index finger rub against the back of your hand. Like she just wants you to know that she’s there.

Another voice. Another fucking voice.

“They’re in a better place now.”

You exhale so hard it shakes.

You want to ask them where.

Where, exactly, is this better place you keep hearing about? Because they were supposed to be in Disneyland, and now they’re in a fucking coffin.

Your nails dig into your palms, but you just fucking nod again.

And Giselle notices.

You know she does.

Her head tilts slightly, like she’s asking what she needs to do, reading you like she always does, like she’s looking for something she can fix.

She won’t find it.

Another one.

“If you need anything, we’re here for you.”

You hesitate to answer.

Because what you want to say—what you wish you could say—is give them back.

But instead, you say what you don’t mean:

“Thank you.”

It tastes like poison in your mouth.

You wonder if you’d be able to choke and get away from this shit if you said it again.

Giselle’s finger’s twitch, but you pull away instinctively.

“Time heals all wounds.”

Does it? You can’t help but wonder.

Does it really?

Your mother is dead. Your father is dead. Your little brother is dead.

What part of that is supposed to heal? 

What part of that is supposed to be supplanted by scar tissue, become something these people don’t pry open? How long do you need to wait before this doesn’t feel like some twisted prank you keep hoping someone is going to reveal the joke to? You want to scream at them how you don’t even want it to heal. How it’ll feel like forgetting them.

“Stay strong.”

Oh, fuck off.

What the hell does that even mean? Stay strong? For what? So they don’t have to see what this is really doing to you? So you can keep nodding, keep shaking hands, keep standing in a room that is shrinking every second?

What if you don’t want to be strong?

What if—

Your breath comes in too fast.

Too shallow.

Like your lungs have forfeited the whole inhale-exhale thing and decided to just go, like a car with no brakes.

“They wouldn’t want you to be sad.”

Oh.

Oh, really?

You bite down so hard on the inside of your cheek you taste copper.

This one almost gets you.

Almost.

Because there’s nothing more insulting than some asshole trying to dictate how you’re supposed to grieve.

Your hands are shaking.

And Giselle moves.

She doesn’t wait for another nail to hit your coffin.

She just—

Her fingers curl tight around your wrist.

And she pulls.

It’s not gentle.

It’s not a question.

It’s not Can we go?

It’s We’re going.

You barely register the floor beneath your feet, barely register the voices still talking, still offering words you want them to keep for themselves, barely register the nod your aunt gives you as if to say “go, I got this,” and who has been running this farce as Giselle drags you through the hall and up the stairs like she’s rescuing you from a burning building.

And maybe she is. It feels like you were burning already, anyways.

She flies up the stairs, you in tow, frantic steps barely avoiding tumbling down, like she’s racing against the clock and when the countdown hits zero, you’ll explode. Her hand is solid around you, gripping your wrist, offering no escape.

You don’t even bother fighting it, how could you? You can barely control the airflow from and to your lungs, it’s much easier to just go along, much easier than listening to yet another person you haven’t seen since who knows when hammering in the reality of it all.

You can still hear them though.

You can still fucking hear them.

Claw at your ears, but you can still hear them, even as Giselle throws open your bedroom door and pulls you inside, you can still feel their words pressing down on you and—she slams the door shut behind you. The sound explodes, it breaks all thought, it locks you up in the four walls of your room, it shuts everything up.

But it’s only for a second. Because there is now a silence that is threatening to become the norm looming over you.

She locks the door. No more intruders allowed. Nobody gets to invade your head anymore.

Your muscles aren’t responding anymore. Locked in place, cut off from your brain by some invisible scissor.

Held hostage inside your own crumbling body. Standing there, on the precipice of destruction, something brewing in the core of your body that you can’t even begin to know how to stop.

And Giselle—Giselle is watching you, looking for the same answer you’re searching for. Her own chest struggling to keep up with everything. With herself, with you, how to prevent what’s happening to you.

And she moves.

You can’t stop it. Her hands find you, clutching at your chest, palms connecting with your shoulders, pushing, struggling, forcing you back, down onto the bed, second guessing herself every inch but still going forward like she’s being driven by nothing but instinct.

She’s still struggling to breathe. Your muscles are barely listening to you again. You’re both unsure of what’s happening. You’ve been pushed down onto the bed, just barely supporting your upper body on your elbows to meet Giselle.

She straddles your lap like she used to do all the time. Hands no longer pushing but bundling up the fabric of your dress shirt at the shoulders, the fabric of her own black dress hitching up around her thighs.

And you peek at what’s underneath.

It’s reflexive. And you can’t believe yourself.

In this situation?

“Giselle—”

“I don’t know what else to do.”

It’s in the process of breaking. It’s desperate. It’s a plea to forgive her that she doesn’t have the perfect answer. It’s fucking honest, accentuated by the swelling of her tears in the corners of her eyes, but held back enough to refuse falling.

It feels like it took away a small part of the blockade in your throat preventing you from breathing. 

Carved a little tunnel in there that allowed you to do what you know your body should be able to, even at diminished efficiency.

She crashes into you.

Her full body leaning against you, being supported by you, your lips attaching to each other for the first time in what feels like years. There’s nothing soft about it, nothing careful. It’s desperate, she’s desperate, messy. It’s fucking shattering. Teeth clumsily tapping, your breath mixing, her hands nearly tearing the fabric near your shoulders, yours clutching at your bedsheets—or were they hers now? Doesn’t matter, clutching as though bracing for impact.

Your mouths disconnect, and Giselle drops her head, hiding. Her whole body shifts in your lap, hips pressing closer with each desperate roll—and fuck, it’s like you’re being resuscitated, air forcefully fed into your lungs you didn’t know you desperately needed.

Your hands leave the bed as you straighten your back, grounding yourself in the skin of her hips, tightening, letting her know you’re there.

And her head shoots up, your eyes interlocking as she gasps when you realize—

She’s shaking.

Not much. Just a little. So small, you’re surprised you picked it up. Just barely enough to feel it. But you felt it. Only you know her well enough to pick up on it.

And that’s the final breath of air you needed pushed into your lungs.

Because she’s not just doing this for you.

She needs this, too.

Giselle needs you.

This is the same Giselle who owns everything you own, who teases you, taunts you, makes you flip the script on her because she’s just so desperate for your attention.

This is the same Giselle who you’ve touched before, held hands with before, kissed before, fell asleep with while watching a movie before, fucked before.

Her heat is undeniable, burning against you and you can feel it—fucking flooding your mind with thoughts of every time you plunged your cock deep inside her. She’s grinding against you, her eyes searching for clues on your face to tell her if it feels good. But she doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t restrain herself, she wants you, doesn’t ask if this is okay. She has no choice. Because it has to be.

Because if she can’t even do this, if her putting her whole body on the line doesn’t let her reach you—then what?

You wince, your body reacting to her. “Giselle, I—”

“This is all I could think to do.” It cuts you off. She responds too fast, like she’s afraid to hear what you would say, too fast, just to keep some kind of control over the situation. “You looked so in pain, like you were about to do something you’d regret, I just—” The words tumbled out, even faster, stumbling over themselves, her eyes darting from left to right, searching for something, anything. And then she looks at you. 

Right at you. 

Deep inhale. Shaky exhale. Her forehead pressing against yours as her eyes close. “I need you to be here.”

“I am—” You begin to claim, but before you even have the chance to convince yourself, let alone her, she interjects again.

“I love you.” Her hands loosen their grip on your shirt, only to grip even tighter onto the flesh of your shoulders. “I know you think you know. But I need you to hear it. Really hear it. I need to know that you know. That I love you.”

And you’re at the precipice. All you need to do to just feel a bit of comfort is respond to her. Just tell her that you know, or that you love her too, and maybe cry in her arms, and you’ll feel just a little bit better, it should be that easy. 

But you’re silent. Just, rotting.

As if taking this final step is too much. It’s easier to just rot. If you let her in any more, it will just hurt even more when she’s taken away from you.

Her grip falters. The strength in her fingers fades, barely lingering on your shoulders before her hands slip down entirely. She exhales sharply, her face dropping for a second, and you hear it—fabric shifting, the quiet rustle of her sleeve dragging against her cheek. Wiping away tears? You don’t look. You don’t want to know.

Her head snaps back up.

She’s glowering.

Not the desperate, pleading look you were expecting. Not soft, not sad. Her whole body is trembling.

“You fucking suck right now.”

Right, you suck right now. Wait. What?

It makes you blink. Your head jolts back, and two more blinks follow it.

Your eyebrows pull together, and she sees it—the first real fucking sign of life from you since this whole thing began.

“You know,” You begin, a scoff interrupting you. “Pointing out that I suck doesn’t make me feel any better.”

“It’s not supposed to.”

Her response is quick, instinctive, decisive as to not let you cypher these emotions away again.

She leans in, foreheads mere atoms apart.

“It’s supposed to make you mad.”

Her head pulls back again, but in the blink of an eye smashes it back against your forehead, a clumsy headbutt, the surprise more shocking than the pain but it—

“I fucking love you!”

And you finally got mad. Like the pain had pierced through any fog your head had built up inside, and you could finally see color again. As if your brain was set to the wrong TV settings, showing every channel in monochrome, but a good smack to the side fixed it and you could finally drink in the vibrancy on display. So you could look at Giselle. Really, look at her. Her bright pink hair, the color slightly faded from washing it with her shitty shampoo—your shampoo actually, hers was specifically made to not let the color of her hair dye fade. Her kiss-swollen lips, peach-colored with little dents in them from where she bit down too hard. Her eyes colored like afternoon sunlight shining through a glass of whiskey you were sure to have stolen from your parents cabinet, looking at you with such frustration that you almost expected her to headbutt you again.

And how fucking dare she.

“That fucking hurt.”

Giselle’s palm presses against her forehead, rotating and rubbing against it with her eyes squeezed tight, a grunt escaping her as she replies. “Yeah? Well, it hurt me too, you idiot.” 

She removes her hand and checks for blood, staring you down and tilting her head, assessing you. “Should’ve hit you harder.”

“Excuse me?”

She leans in, her hot breath pushing into you. “If that’s what it took to get you out of your own fucking head, I should’ve put my whole back into it.”

Your hands fly up, grabbing onto her hips, holding her down against you, body reacting before your mind can catch up, as if she has to pay for what she did. As if she owes you some kind of apology for not letting you sit under your own self-imposed ceiling of sorrow. As if you just fucking need her.

And Giselle pushes back. 

Teeth catching your lower lip, stinging, sharp and sweet, filled with promise. She pulls as far as you’re willing to give, not enough to hurt, but enough to make you feel it, enough to make you want her lips, enough to make your pulse beat in your neck when she finally lets go—

She doesn’t even give you a chance to recover.

Because the second she releases you, her lips claim yours.

Messy, hot, urgent, familiar, undoubtedly Giselle.

“There you are,” she breathes into your mouth.

“Shut the fuck up,” is all the verbal response you give her, your hands grasping at the fabric of her dress with an intense fervor you were sure to have lost, pushing, pulling, twisting, anything to make it be less on her. 

“Jesus,” she recoils, but she takes no steps to stop you. Instead, she pushes back, her own hands having a similar battle with the front of your shirt, desperately fumbling with the buttons.

And you don’t even realize the force you're putting out until you hear the sharp sound of fabric tearing.

Her dress.

You fucking ripped it.

Her eyes go wide, her hands stop fumbling with your buttons, and she sucks in a sharp breath.

“Oh,” she breathes out.

Your grip tightens. You feel bad about it, or at least you know you should, but right now, you’re barely holding back from ripping the full fucking thing off her.

“You will be buying me a new one.” She glares at you, hands curled into the torn fabric at her side. She watches you wince, but there’s no sympathy in her face. It’s more like she’s processing—realizing at the exact same time you are just how much this is turning her on. “So don’t stop now,” she tells you, “tear me apart.”

The sound it makes is thrilling. The fabric gives, but not without putting up a fight, resisting enough that when it finally gives way, it’s a violent thing. The rip reverberates in the room, splitting apart from her side. The dress ceases to be a dress—just a mess of torn fabric clinging uselessly to her skin before sliding down, slipping away.

And Giselle fucking melts into you, reduced to nothing but matching black underwear, forearms pressing up into your chest, her hips sliding, rolling down, coating your bulge with her wet through her panties like she’s desperate to let you ruin her. She is as much a mess as you are, failing at letting you control the pace, just as desperate to feel all of you. 

It’s exhilarating. You might have to start investing in cheap, flimsy dresses for Giselle, just so you have an excuse to rip them off of her again. Because the effect it’s having on you, let alone her, is something you’d let ruin you financially.

“All that whining about your dress,” you taunt, that hint of bite returning to your voice, “but you’re dripping onto my pants like you want me to rip those off too.”

“I can’t help it’s fucking hot,” she mumbles.

Her head tilts, looking up at you, fast and desperate, like she needs to get her mouth on you before you even know what she’s doing. Her hands, still shaking with adrenaline, grip onto your shirt and keep you close, using it as leverage as she pulls herself up and crashes her lips against the curve of your neck.

You flinch, your muscles tensing up against her assault, and she feels it, her arms refusing to give even an inch, doubling down. Lips parting, tongue taking first contact just to tease before retreating, sucking hard on your skin, like she’s educating you on what the punishment is and will be for torn dresses. The pressure is immediate, bruising, and you lean into it, her breath hot against your skin as she works at you. 

Pain melts into pleasure, sharp stings of heat spurring you, your hands finding refuge on her supple ass, kneading and grasping, in turn spurring her on even more.

She moans against you—soft, drawn out, almost involuntary, like she wasn’t expecting this to turn her on so much. It’s impossible to ignore, vibrating into your skin, traveling directly up your spinal cord and sucker punching all of your neurons simultaneously with the sheer fucking audacity of her.

She pulls back slightly, just to admire her work, panting breaths exhaling against the wet, oversensitive mark of her territory left behind. Her tongue grazes the spot again, teasing, curving upwards against the fresh bruise she just made, before a single hum delivers the haymaker—smug, pleased and starving for more.

“You are so fucking impatient,” you stammer out pushing her away from your neck, hands firmly on her shoulders to keep her where she’s forced to look at you.

And she looks like she’s going to break any minute, her eyes big and pleading, already a prelude to her next attack. “What, you’re not going to make me say please, are you?”

Fucking hell.

You allow yourself one incredulous chuckle before advancing, one hand curving around her back, pinching the hook and eye clasp of her bra together before releasing it, causing it to drop into her lap still tangled around her arms, where your other hand already reached cupping her where she’s wet, palm pressing against the skin above her cunt, fingers hovering over her sensitives.

She gasps, submitting to your touch, putting up no fight at all. And she stops. And so do you. Her pupils, wide and hungry, reflecting the only thing she needs—you, again. Her heat begging you to envelop your cock. And her fucking tits—bare, soft, perfect. Her nipples are stiff, whether from cool air or sheer anticipation—you’d bet on the latter— begging to be touched, sucked, bitten, made yours. She arches her back ever so slightly, like she’s offering them to you without the indignity of pleading. Because she knows she would if you asked. It’s better to just give in already. 

She is a fucking vision, the kind you could only experience at moments that blur the line between reality and fiction. The kind that demands you act before it vanishes. 

So fucking beautiful it still makes you sick.

“You’re looking at me like you just realized you’re about to fuck me,” she says, her voice shaking but a smirk letting her keep some semblance of control.

“Only if you say please.”

 She doesn’t hesitate. She pouts. Her eyes pull you in.

“Please fuck me?” she pleads, incriminating herself in your little trap willingly.

She’s brazen, enthusiastic and about to be rewarded for it. Breaking eye-contact from this point onwards would be considered taboo, as your fingers slide the last barrier between you and her velvety heat to the side for access, letting the rest of her panties unmoved, hugging and squeezing her hips. 

At the same time, she tugs the remaining straps of her bra down her arms, letting the fabric fall away entirely, leaving her completely exposed above you. Giselle was never embarrassed, never even a little bit shy. No, even now, even like this, she keeps that fucking fire burning on alcohol in her eyes, daring you to take what’s yours.

You slip into her soaked heat, and—fuck—she’s already so wet. So fucking ready for you. No teasing, no hesitation, just yours for the taking.

Giselle gasps, her whole body stretching and flexing as two fingers push inside her, stretching her open for you, pressing into the cunt she’s been grinding against you with no shame. Fuck giving her time to adjust. You curl your fingers, rolling them into her, against the spot that makes her shake, makes her lose her fucking mind.

“Oh—”

It’s the oboe playing the A note before the symphony she’s about to perform. But you don’t give her time for the tuning of all the other instruments.

She sways forward, her body being pulled into yours without her permission, a slave to her instincts. Her hands fly to the buttons of your shirt, but the poor girl is shaking too much to do anything useful. “Fucking—” She struggles, losing coordination, head swaying and eyes squinting to focus to no avail. “Get this—fucking thing—off—”

There’s a pop and a dink. A button flies off, bouncing against the floor. She doesn’t flinch, neither do you. Another one soon follows.

“Jesus, you’re ruining my shirt,” you taunt, but you don’t stop her. If anything, this color of desperation looks nice on her.

“You ruined my—fuck—my dress first,” she protests. “If you’ve got—”

She’s not wrong, but you’re not about to let her be right. You flick your thumb over her clit, slow and precise, just the way she loves it, just to feel her pulse against you.

She opens her mouth to retry what she was snapping back despite your little trick, but—

You had another up your sleeve.

Your other hand asserts itself on her tits, fingers spreading their domain over the soft flesh of her breast before closing in, pinching at her nipple, tugging just enough to get her to forget. Just enough to see her reaction.

Her back arches into your touch, lips parting wider with disbelief, breath coming in bursts that sting. Her face is a masterpiece of desperation, eyebrows pooling at the center, eyes wide and pleading, her whole body craving what you’re giving.

And still, she continues fighting it.

“Just you—oh my god—” she manages, but you’re sure it would have been more coherent if she wasn’t  bucking her hips into you trying to fuck herself faster on your fingers.

“You can either finish that sentence,” you interject, thumb circling her clit slowly, “or you can come. But you’ve gotta pick one.”

She’s gasping, faltering, having vocabulary erased from her lexicon with each thrust and curl, head falling back but she’s still got this defiant look in her eyes. Like she’s about to hit you with a comeback so good you’ll only find an appropriate response three days later when stepping out of the shower.

But you don’t let her.

“Come on,” you whisper, tone softer now, coaxing her, a stark contrast to the ruthless way your fingers are working her. “Be a good girl for me.”

It’s her favorite thing, and the ace up your sleeve. She snaps without resistance.

Her body locks up, a sharp rendition of your name sings from her lips to your ears, her walls pulsing around your two digits as her orgasm ramps up. She clings to you like someone cast out at sea clings to a lifebuoy, nails ripping what remains of your shirt, mouth open, gasping, unwilling to do anything but surrender, take everything you’re pushing into her.

You don’t stop until she’s a trembling mess, until you’re sure you’ve felt every little muscle spasm, until the aftershocks are making her twitch against you, until she’s nothing but a gasping, pink chaos in your arms.

It’s only then you slow your movements, retreating to her hips, letting her breathe, letting her catch herself where your hands failed.

But she’d be a fool if she thought this was anything but the warm-up.

“Think you’re ready to get your insides stirred now?”

She barely lifts her head, eyes heavy-and-half-lidded, still dazed. Giselle always needs recovery time, and you’ve usually been graceful enough to grant it, but she has that smirk, that little bit of fight, that spark in her eyes left in her.

“I couldn’t possibly say no to you.”

Your grip tightens on her hips. “That’s my good girl,” you hiss.

Her hands fumble at your belt, too clumsy and too shaky to get proper progress like she usually would. Her fingers aren’t the focused and precise instruments they usually are, but that doesn’t stop her from trying. She yanks at the buckle again, flexing her fingers as though that might help.

And you’re just watching. Leaning back. Enjoying the fucking spectacle of her trying and failing to get your cock out. Your fingers tangle into her messy hair, pulling just enough to make her tilt her face up.

Low. Taunting. “Do you need some help?”

Her eyebrows twitch in annoyance, her glare hazy but defiant. “Shut up. I know how to get my boyfriend’s dick out.”

You can’t help but grin. “Yeah? Cause you kind of suck right now.”

Her nostrils flare, and she rips the zipper down with enough force to nearly break the damn thing as well. Your slacks and boxers are shoved down, disposed of in one rough motion.

And then she freezes. Her hands glued to your thighs for support. Her breath hitches. Her eyes widen.

“...Okay, what the fuck.”

You blink. “What?”

She tilts her head, fingers wrapping around your cock, testing the weight, the firth, her thumb dragging over the tip before her grip tightens.

“No, like. Actually. Is it bigger than usual?”

A scoff, she can’t be fucking real. “Are you serious?”

“I’m dead fucking serious.” She strokes down your shaft, slow, like she’s gathering data, measuring it to what she remembers.

“Maybe it’s the angle.”

She clicks her tongue like that’s not quite it, tilting her head, still studying you like you’re some kind of science experiment. “Or maybe it’s a rage-induced growth spurt.”

“That is not a thing.”

“Seems like a thing,” she muses.

“It’s not a thing,” you keep asserting.

She circles the head of your dick with her thumb, wiping precum all over it, watching you twitch under her hand. “You seem pretty sure.” “Because I—Jesus, Giselle,” she interrupts you, a quick slide down your shaft sending a jolt up your spine, “because I am sure.”

“Well, I’m gonna pretend it is possible,” she hums, shifting her hips forwards, bucking against you, preparing the base of your cock against her soaking wet cunt, drowning it in her slick with every slow, deliberate and precise roll of her hips.

You feel every bit of it. How ready she is. How warm, how soft, how desperate, how shaky.

You can’t help but tighten your grip on her hips, fingers digging in hard, no intent of ever letting go.

And she’s such a slut for it, the feeling of riding against your dick while your digits dig into her makes her moan, high and breathy, but still contained only to this room.

You can’t let that go unpunished. “You’re still shaking.”

She huffs, daring you to shift your hands to her waist, but she’s gripping your shoulders. “And you’re still talking.”

Her nails make their way down, scratching your chest as she rolls her hips again, slow but insistent, pressing herself against your every inch, teasing, tormenting you both—

“So I guess I need to do a better job,” she puffs, face tilting downwards a little so she can look up at you with a pout. “Let’s see if you can still do the same when these tits you love so much are bouncing in your face.”

She smirks, satisfied, shifting forward, lining herself up above you, her cunt dripping against the tip of your cock, ready—

And then she pushes down.

She sinks on to you, rough and deep, deeper, deeper, until she’s seated in your lap, flush up against you, stuffed fucking full with rage-induced growth.

For a second, neither of you move.

You pulse inside her, feel the way her walls tighten, adjusting, flexing, gripping you like she never wants to let go. The sensation mixes with the way her eyes flutter, unfocused, her hands scratching and digging into your chest, harder and harder like she’s overwhelmed, like she’s processing every inch of you.

She swallows. Tenses her thighs. And she starts moving.

First, it's slow. Rolling. Experimenting what she can handle. She lifts herself up, just a little, and you feel her tremble before she sinks back down. Her and your moans weave into each other.

She does it again. A slow, shaky rhythm, taking you as deep as she fucking can.

And you resist the urge to grip her hips and hold her up, pounding into her until she cries your name to the heavens. For now. Because she’s trembling. Still weak.

She knows it too, but as long as you don’t intervene, she won’t be stopped. She leans in, a soft half-moan half-breath escapes her, her eyes obsessed with you.

“You love this, don’t you? Watching me put on a show for you.”

“Mhm,” you respond, low, throaty, just the way it gets her going.

She smirks, her hands flying into her hair as she lets it cascade over her back, giving you a perfect view of her neckline. “You always get like this when I’m on top. Can’t even pretend to play it cool when my tits are bouncing, can you?”

She’s not wrong. Her tits have a hypnotic quality to them.

Her body moves, slow and deliberate, dragging you back and forth inside her like she’s trying to make clear what you’ve got to lose if you try to play it nonchalantly.

“Just admit it, you’re weak—fuck—weak for my pu—”

She chokes on the last word, her confidence faltering mid sentence as she tries to lift herself, her legs twitching, shaking, muscles threatening to give out. She barely gets halfway up before her thighs tremble violently, still wrecked from her previous orgasm, forcing her to slam back down onto you, her whole body tensing up. It’s quick, and high-pitched. A surprised whimper escapes her throat involuntarily.

You pull back, a face that could only mean to ask her if she wants to find an excuse for that.

She glares up at you, face flushed red instead of its usual shades of pink, panting. “I—” she starts, but her voice shakes.

You help her along, like the loving boyfriend you are. “Having some trouble?” You’re clearly enjoying this, watching her fight against her own body.

And that only pisses her off. Her glare sharpens. “Shut up—” But her legs twitch again, this time not even managing halfway, forcing another stuttered moan out of her.

She’s struggling with the limitations of her own body, huffing in frustration, but not giving up. Her hands grasp your shoulders, and she tries to lift herself up again. In vain. She barely makes it off of you, more of a grinding act, before collapsing onto you with a sharp gasp, staying impaled on your thick cock.

She whimpers another fuck, as her walls clench and flex, forcing her body to do what she wants.

It’s adorable, a sight to revel in. Struggling, mustering all the power she still has left after having most of it fingered out of her. Your hands reaching for her thighs, sweat-slicked, feeling the little movements of muscle on your palm as she forces herself to rise. They tremble violently under her weight before giving out entirely, making her sink back down with a mewl.

Giselle’s cheeks flush an even deeper shade of red, equal parts arousal and humiliation. She bites her lip, warring with herself, considering her possible actions, before finally breaking.

“Fine! Will you please fucking help me already?” she yelps, neediness exemplified.

“There we go,” you crow, immensely satisfied. “Was that so hard?”

Your grip tightens around her hips, your whole body surging forward as you take control, flipping her in one swift, fluid motion, her breath leaving her in a sharp gasp as her back hits the mattress and you cage her beneath you.

Her legs are still wrapped around your waist, but you push them up, folding them into her, making sure she feels everything, making sure she knows exactly what she just asked for.

“This is what you wanted?” you challenge, hovering over her quivering body. “Needed me to manhandle you? To hold you down and use you?”

Giselle squirms in your grip, her pupils blow wide with lust and anticipation. “Fuck yes, I need your cock to stretch me open,” she whines, straining to grind her hips against yours.

She’s being so fucking messy right, and if she gets any louder, you are both running the risk of turning this catharsis into the most humiliating moment of your life. In a desperate attempt to shut her up, you lean down, capturing her lips in a needy kiss, tongue twisting into hers, swallowing all her moans directly into your throat. When you finally pull back, you hold still for a moment, giving her an intense stare matched by her expectant gaze.

“I love you,” you tell her, raw honesty shattering the moment. Her eyes blink in shock, clearly expecting something a lot more depraved to have come out of your mouth. “I fucking love you so much, Giselle. But if you don’t control your volume, you’re going to ruin this.”

Her eyes go wide, her eyebrows shoot up, the kind of look that says “excuse me?” but her body betrays her, leaning in instead of pulling back. “Fine,” she whispers fiercely, “I love you too.”

“Now stop being a sap and fuck me like you want to break me,” she purrs, swirling and bucking her hips into your throbbing girth invitingly. “I want you to have to carry me tomorrow. I want to be limping when you’re done.”

Lust overtakes your brain, painting your vision in the color pink that you can’t help but indulge in. You line yourself up anything but carefully, slamming in, hard, brutal, like you want to break her, burying your entire length in her tight and sloppy heat. Giselle throws her head back with force, walls clamping down on you, and you can see your name spelled on her lips, ready to be cried out. She somehow bites it back, only letting a strained moan escape her.

“Yes” and “fuck” and “oh my god” are chanted deliriously at a volume you’ve both painstakingly mastered to never get caught in the past as you set a punishing pace, pumping in and out of her cunt.

You pound and pound, grunting with exertion, eyes transfixed by the irresistible sight of her voluptuous tits bouncing wildly just past her thighs with each thrust. And she notices, because Giselle knows you. And knows you love watching her tits bounce. So she does the only reasonable thing, which is to arch her back and offer herself to you as much as her strength still allows.

“I know you like watching my tits while you rail me,” she taunts, kneading them together for your viewing pleasure. Giselle loves putting on a show. “Love seeing them shake from how hard you’re pounding me? Hmm, I bet you wanna cover them in cum already, mark them as yours.”

“Fuck, keep talking,” you strain out, angling your hips to hit that perfect spot inside her that makes her see stars. 

Giselle’s eyes roll back in bliss as you pound into her g-spot, absolutely no mercy, no remorse, just brutal fucking with relentless precision. Filthy praise spills from her lips between muted cries of ecstasy. 

She looks at you for a second, hazy eyes starting to roll back as she obediently continues. “Next time, I want you to bend me over that desk and take me from behind while I struggle to stand. Spank my ass until it’s raw and pull my hair while you fuck me stupid. Leave me shaking so bad I forget my own.”

Your rhythm stutters, a guttural groan and risk of drool tearing from you at the deliciously dirty image she construed. Giselle, consistent as she is, notices immediately and grins impishly, emboldened.

“Or maybe you’d rather I ride you in front of the mirror, let you watch my ass bounce on your dick? Let you play with my tits and see how perfect we look together?”

She finds some strength again, meeting your rhythm on a one fourth beat, rolling her hips in sync with your thrusts. “I love how sexy you make me feel. Love when you look at me like you want to devour me, love being your perfect little fucktoy.”

“Keep going,” you growl through your teeth like a desperate animal, picking up the pace, getting lost in her fervor, fucking into her harder, deeper. “Tell me everything.”

“I didn’t forget that I owe you a blowjob, but how about you fuck my face and we call it even?” Giselle continues, shameless and needy not strong enough words to describe her. “Want to choke on your big cock, let you use my throat and paint my face with runny mascara and cum.”

You’re pounding into her with wild abandon, the obscene slap of flesh on flesh echoing through the room, thank fuck for your thick door. Her words inflame your lust to never before seen heights, dipping your head to latch onto one rosy nipple, sucking the sensitive bud atop her heights into your mouth.

“Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck,” she drools out, punctuation getting forgotten as she grows incoherent with pleasure. “That feels so fucking good. They’re so fucking sensitive for you, please bite them, leave your marks all over me. Shit, I could cum just from you playing with my tits…”

And what are you, if not a loving boyfriend, obliging her filthy request, nipping and suckling at her flesh, determined to cover her mounds in hickeys and teeth marks. Cover her in you.  Never relenting your pace, drilling into her squelching pussy like a man possessed by a pink haired goddess. Some kind of Aphrodite.

Her cunt is practically gushing everytime you move your cock, soaking your thighs with her arousal.

“Close, I’m so fucking close,” she slurs, but not in the way that would get a themepark to close a faux landmark. “Don’t stop, don’t you dare fucking stop—please, I fucking need it—cum for me too, paint my fucking cervix white, breed me, fuck, knock me up, shit shit shit, I’m gonna—”

Her filthy pleas are your undoing, destructive, a siren’s call drowning you from head to hilt. The sound that escapes from you is feral as you slam into her one last time, burying yourself as deep as is physically possible and then some. Your core tightens, your hands push her thighs flat against her body in way that will leave her sore in more ways than one, as the worst idea you’ve had yet doesn’t take time to consider itself, just throbbing straight through your cock, pulsing and erupting inside her, thick spurts of cum painting her insides filling her up.

Something about being too caught up in the moment.

Giselle is soon to follow, orgasm crashing over her, this one harder than before, triggered by the new sensation of your scalding seed flooding her clenching cunt. Her eyes roll back once more, the start of your name up to the first vowel breaking through her throat, shockwaves of pleasure tearing through her quivering body.

You recognize the danger, quickly clamping a hand over her mouth, half falling into her before catching you back up with your other hand, muffling her debauched cries, Giselle being too far gone to stay quiet on her own. Her lips are wet against your palm, breath heating you up as she bucks and writhes beneath you, impaled on you making her overflow, being equally guilty with how she milks for you every last drop you have.

The world shrinks and vision narrows to just you and Giselle, overcome and lost to feeling. Feeling her, feeling yourself, feeling… alive. Your hips piston in short, sharp thrusts on instinct, working your release as deep into her trembling body as possible, driven by some naturalistic part of yourself you’ve newly reacquired, a need to claim her and fill her to the brim with your essence.

And she takes it all with desperate enthusiasm, greedily and eagerly accepting everything you give her like you’ve done this a hundred times before. You haven’t, not even once.

Her life-giving eyes are squeezed shut, cheeks flushed the same pink as her favorite brand of peach colored lipstick, features slack with untainted pleasure. She looks utterly defiled, fucked silly, like the very picture of a perfect girlfriend and her wanton debauchery.

Your cum is leaking out around your shaft, dripping down between you, staining her bedsheets—still yours, but if she’s dripping on them, it’s her problem. Knowing her, she will make an argument it’s your fault because it’s your cum. 

She’s never looked more beautiful, like an angel meant to absorb all your sins.

The aftershocks of her second crash ebb away, leaving you both panting, your hand sliding off of her mouth. Exhaustion hits all at once, causing a collapse on top of her and only bracing for a fraction of the impact on your forearms so as not to crush her. Pillowy tits caught most of the impact anyways, welcoming you gladly, trembling limbs following up and clinging to your sweat-slicked back.

“Holy shit,” she whispers, her voice hoarse but soothingly contented. “You’re carrying me tomorrow. No fucking choice. I can’t feel my legs anymore.”

You chuckle, actually chuckle, or maybe it’s better described as a snicker turning into a chuckle, reintroducing Giselle to a sound she thought she lost. She immediately surges up to capture your lips, tasting the sweetness of the laughter on your mouth with sloppy abandon, all tongue and spit and residual passion. She’s grinning dopily up at you as you break apart, and it does something to you. 

She sighs, twitching beneath you. “Tch. After everything I let you do to me, all the places I said you could have made a mess of…” Her smug smirk makes an entrance as she tilts her chin down. “You just had to fill me up instead. Nice and dangerous.” Your pulse is still hammering, the implications of what you just did barely catching up to you before she derails it completely. She tilts her head, mock contemplation, but her smile is pure smug, a deadly taunt, hammering away at you. “And here I thought you wanted to see how pretty I’d look, tits covered in cum, dripping down my stomach.” Your jaw clenches, but she’s not done yet. “Or maybe,” she continues, “you wanted me on my knees, tongue out, looking up at you while I begged for it. Feel how messy I’d get swallowing everything that drips out.” She exhales, all faux-disappointment, licking her lips like she’s tasting the mere thought of you. “I get it though.” She grins, utterly fucking depraved. “It felt fucking amazing. I would have picked this too.”

“You’re insane.”

And so are you. For her. Staying like that for a moment, longer than a mere moment, just existing in the intimacy. Eventually, you pull out of her, a wet squelch announcing your physical separation.

The mixture of your combined fluids immediately starts to drip out of Giselle’s thoroughly fucked pussy as you pull out, a lewd concoction of her arousal and your thick cum. She whimpers, one eye closed, at the loss of your cock stretching her open, the sensation of your release seeping from her folds making her shiver.

There’s a sparkle of mischief in your eye, the glint indicative of the kind of challenges you and Giselle always throw at each other, and she characteristically notices, but just observes. You swipe two fingers through the mess between her thighs, coating them liberally in a layer of your shared passion.

She follows your digits through hooded lids, chest still heaving, a smirk turning into a surprised moan as you raise your slick fingers to her lips, painting them with you and her before pushing inside. Her eyes flutter shut in bliss as she eagerly accepts the offering, tongue swirling around the digits, lapping up every drop of your combined taste.

“Mmm, we taste so good together, you know?” she purrs sultrily once you withdraw your fingers with a signature Giselle pop. She opens her mouth, presenting the elixir on her tongue. “Want a taste?” You hadn’t considered it before, but half of what was in there was hers, and with a shrug of your shoulders, you dive in, kissing her haphazardly, tongue pressing against hers and swirling into a helix, tasting how good you two really come together. You pull back, and she swallows your cocktail down, proudly presenting an empty mouth.

“You do know a quick swipe isn’t enough to keep me from getting knocked up though, right stud?” She punctuates her words by clenching her walls, more of your release dripping out to pool on the sheets. “I can still feel so much of your cum inside me. We’re definitely getting plan B tomorrow, and you’re paying.”

Your cock twitches between your legs, as though being called to action. “If you keep spewing filth, I’m going to get hard again.”

“Promises, promises,” Giselle singsongs, grinning at you. She looks thoroughly well-fucked, hair a wild and pink tangle, skin covered in sweat you wouldn’t mind getting a taste of, your marks littering her breasts, throat and rearranged insides.

This is satisfaction. 

You collapse next to her on the bed, one arm slipping under her and the other over her, gathering her up into you. She comes willingly, a little joyous squeal escaping, tangling your legs together, uncaring of the sticky mess. Exertion turns into exhaustion as you listen to your racing heartbeats gradually slow and even out.

This was exactly what you needed to take your mind off of things for once, but as the high fades, reality sets back in. It feels different, something unspoken that settles over the both of you, settling into the spaces in the room where grief and love have spent the last few days battling for dominance.

Your forehead rests against hers at its most comfortable, close enough you can hear every breath as it keeps her here. Her fingers brush over your back softly, fingertips gliding idly, starkly in contrast with the frantic clawings she left earlier.

Silence falls between you, but it isn’t the kind you want to chase away. It’s the one that says it all. Not oppressive or suffocating anymore. Just… full.

You shift slightly, not because you want to leave her, something simple, the feeling of your arm starting to fall asleep, and Giselle groans. “You are not allowed to move yet.”

“Says who?”

“Says me,” she mutters. “Stay.”

It’s a simple request you never had any intention to ignore. But it’s the way she says it—soft, drowsy, fragile—that turns it into an impossible request to ignore.

Your face buries into the crook of her neck, planting soft kisses against her flesh, the scent of sex and sweat wrapping around you.

“I love you,” she whispers, and it's so damn near silent that you’re not sure if she said it for you to hear or for herself.

You close your eyes, settle into her and answer back anyways. “I know.”

She exhales, a snicker preluding her. “You’re supposed to say it back, asshole.”

Your lips curl into a smirk, tugging at your lips, but there’s not a trace of teasing in your voice when you respond to her a little too quickly. “I love you too.”

Her body relaxes, and yours follows suit. More silence follows, More warmth. More of just simply being.

Then, Giselle huffs and puffs, your hands automatically on her waist. “You know we’re stuck here until everybody has left, right?”

You grunt, but you don’t even bother to lift your head. “What?”

“My dress is currently in several pieces on the floor,” she remarks, no question about who the accusatory tone was meant for. “And while I am thrilled by the feral caveman display of strength, it does leave me exactly with zero options for leaving this room.”

You snort, shifting just enough to glance at the shredded fabric scattered across the floor like some ruined jigsaw puzzle. “That sounds like a you problem.”

Her gasp is clearly exaggerated, and the weak shove she gives your shoulder is a dead giveaway. “Excuse me? You did this!”

“Mm,” you hum, unconcerned with her accusation. Truth be told, you’d take any excuse to be stuck here with her forever. Still, a comeback felt deserved. “I clearly remember you telling me to ‘tear you apart’”

“That’s unfair, that was in the heat of the moment!”

“Almost everything we just did was in the heat of the moment.”

She opens her mouth faster than she can think of a clever comeback, and you can see the gears spinning in her head but not coming up with anything useful. Her mouth snaps shut, her eyes glare at you in betrayal. “I hate you.”

A familiar song and dance. “No, you don’t.”

“No,” she agrees, her shoulders dropping and releasing tension, as she nudges closer to you. “I really, really don’t.”

And you don’t feel like you’re spiraling anymore. Like the world is collapsing around you and you’d just let it. Like a husk of a man, just keeping the body alive while the mind is drifting further and further away into oblivion.

You feel… at home with her.

Her hand lifts, fingers brushing against the side of your face, undoubtedly noticing the weirdly optimistic crestfallen expression you carried. “What?” she murmurs.

Your throat tightens in its familiar constriction, but you manage to speak anyway. “My dad said something before they left.”

Giselle’s fingers still against your skin, as if bracing for impact. “Yeah?”

You swallow, inhaling like it might make this easier, but nothing can. “He said he felt better knowing I’ll have you.”

The words hang between you. Giselle stares, blinks once, and lips part slightly at their center, but nothing comes out. Not even air. Clueless on what to say to something like that, something that raw.

You sigh, resigned, but with a tinge of optimism that some might confuse for naivety in your tone. “Guess he knew what he was talking about.”

The muscles in her face loosen, and she responds with her body first. Not hesitant, not afraid, a sense of certainty and clarity guiding her.

Her fingers find familiar footing in your hair, another hand palming your jaw, warming it up and comforting you. She’s taking you in—and yesterday it would have been because she’s worried, but today it’s because she isn’t. Like she knows you, down to your very bones, exactly who you are and she’s waiting for you to realize it too.

“Right,” she breathes with ease. “You still have me.”

The words are like a magic spell, settling somewhere into the ache in your ribs, into the spaces grief left raw and you tried to dispose of, a stitch pulling on the raw flesh of an open wound, preparing it to heal.

You don’t know what to say to that. You don’t think there’s anything you can say to that.

You hang loose in her touch. She lets you. Lets you take your time. Because she knows.

You’re not okay.

Not yet.

But Giselle makes it feel like maybe that’s okay too.

That maybe it’s enough for now to know that you’re still here with her, that she’s saved your life twice now. And tomorrow you can take her up on all the filthy promises she’s made, but if you need to just be in her arms today, that’s fine too.

Because you still have her.

[vamptizm]

hotel — p. bueckers

pairing : paige bueckers x notre dame! reader (+ slight olivia miles x reader)

synopsis : after a win against uconn, you find yourself caught in a tug-of-war between your on and off ex and one of your biggest rivals, who you simply can’t stay away from no matter how hard you try.

warnings : do NOT read or interact with this if uncomfortable, i beg that u just block me. smut with a sprinkle of plot. oral r!receiving. strap r!receiving. praise. hint of size kink. slight breeding kink. squirting. toxic reader x paige. toxic reader x olivia. hannah hidalgo. allusions to homophobia. lmk if i forgot anything.

word count : 8k

note : this wasn’t meant to be a 1k special butttt since i hit that yesterday, why not? (thank u sm btw ily) this is probably the filthiest and most time consuming shit i’ve ever written and some parts are a bit messy so i apologize. i’m VERYYY new to writing smut pls go easy on me.

The fourth quarter was winding down, and the air inside Joyce Center was electric. The roar of the home crowd thundered in your ears as you felt your pulse quicken. Notre Dame was already ahead, the scoreboard a glaring reminder of the 10 point deficit UConn couldn't seem to close. But even with victory all but secured, there was no room to let up. Not now. 

You dribbled upcourt after catching the rebound Sonia passed your way, only to feel the clumsy pressure of UConn's freshman, Sarah, on your hip. Her hands reached in too aggressively, and the sharp sound of the whistle sliced through the tension. A foul. 

The crowd erupted in cheers, and you couldn't help but grin, though you kept your expression controlled. As you stepped up to the free-throw line, the weight of the moment settled on your shoulders. This was your chance to widen the gap and put the game even further out of reach. 

You bounced the ball twice, breathing in deeply to steady yourself. But as you readied for the shot, you felt it—those piercing blue eyes on you, unwavering, cutting through the noise like a laser. You didn't have to look to know who they belonged to. Paige Bueckers. She was watching you the way a hawk watches its prey, and though you refused to meet her gaze, you could feel the intensity of it prickling at your skin. 

The ball left your hands in a smooth arc, and the net snapped satisfyingly as it dropped through. One down. You bounced the ball again, shaking off the weight of her stare. When the second shot swished cleanly, the crowd's roar grew louder, and your team swarmed you with high-fives. 

But you didn't let yourself celebrate. Not yet. There were still minutes left on the clock, and even with the lead, you knew better than to relax. 

The game pressed on. Sarah missed a three-point attempt on UConn's next possession, and Olivia held the ball at the top of the arc, scanning the court with her signature calculating gaze. You hovered near the left wing, your focus trained on her movements, when Paige sidled up next to you, just close enough that her voice could cut through the noise. 

"Bet you feel real good about yourself, huh?" she murmured, her tone sharp enough to slice through the roaring crowd. 

You didn't flinch, didn't even look at her. Instead, you let a small, sarcastic smile curve your lips, keeping your eyes on the ball as Olivia dribbled. "For beating your ass? Guess so. Not that big of an accomplishment." 

Paige scoffed, the sound low and unimpressed. "Cute." Her grin mirrored yours, though hers was sharper, more cutting. You could feel her ego bruising beneath the surface, but she hid it well. 

It was a moment of mutual irritation, of subtle jabs disguised as casual banter, and you could feel the tension humming between you like a live wire. It wasn't new, this rivalry, this constant push-and-pull. Paige had a way of getting under your skin, but you weren't about to let her know that. Not tonight. 

Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed Olivia's gaze snapping to the two of you. Her brown eyes were narrowed, her jaw tight as she watched the interaction unfold. She didn't like it. She didn't like Paige standing so close to you, speaking to you like that, her body angled in a way that felt too familiar, too charged. 

Paige noticed it too. Of course, she did. Her smirk deepened as she leaned in just slightly, her voice dropping to a murmur that only you could hear. "Your girl doesn't look too happy about me talking to you. Think she's scared I'll fuck you better again?" 

Your breath caught, and your head snapped toward her instinctively, your eyes locking with hers. That smirk—infuriating and self-assured—was still plastered across her face. It was as if she was daring you to react, to say something that would prove she'd struck a nerve. 

The brief glance you gave Paige was all it took for Olivia to lose focus. Her frustration boiled over, visible in the way her movements became jerky and imprecise. When she shifted her weight to drive toward the basket, the ref's whistle blew again—this time for a travel. 

The ball left Olivia's hands too late, sailing toward the rim and missing entirely, and the crowd erupted in jeers. She looked furious, her glare bouncing between you and Paige as if you were both to blame. 

Paige chuckled softly, shaking her head. "Guess she's not handling the pressure too well." Her voice was smug, dripping with satisfaction. 

You wanted to fire back, to wipe that cocky grin off her face, but the tension in Olivia's eyes stopped you. There was too much at stake—on the court, off the court. So, you swallowed your retort, turning your attention back to the game. 

But even as play resumed, you couldn't shake the weight of Paige's words or the way her presence lingered like an itch you couldn't scratch. She might have been your rival, but in moments like those, she felt like so much more. 

And that was a problem. 

The ball was in play again, and UConn wasn't ready to give up just yet, even as the seconds dwindled down. Sarah got the inbound pass, quickly tossing it over to Kaitlyn, who barely held on under the Irish defense. Kaitlyn, in turn, sent the ball to Paige. 

You watched as Paige, ever-calculated, tried to weave through defenders with her signature finesse. Her focus was sharp, every movement deliberate, but as she went up for the shot, Olivia was there, her body colliding with Paige's in a hard foul. The whistle blew, sharp and decisive. 

Paige stumbled slightly but steadied herself, exhaling through her nose as she stepped toward the free-throw line. And that's when Olivia brushed past her, her voice low but unmistakably venomous. "Back off." 

It wasn't clear if the ref heard it, but Paige definitely did. Her lips twitched, almost forming a smile, but she kept her composure, though you could tell she was simmering beneath the surface. She wanted to laugh—mockingly, sharply, just enough to dig under Olivia's skin—but instead, she shook her head in amusement, her voice calm and cutting as she shot back, "Not my fault she loves it over here." 

The words were quiet, not loud enough to be picked up by the cameras or refs, but the way Olivia's shoulders stiffened told you she heard them loud and clear. You could see her jaw clench, though she kept her expression neutral, refusing to let Paige's jab get the best of her. 

As Paige prepared for her free throws, Olivia was already trying to argue with the ref, gesturing in frustration. You rolled your eyes subtly, but the irritation was clear. This wasn't new—Olivia's inability to let things go, her need to control every little aspect of the game (and sometimes, your life). 

Paige took a deep breath, her hands steady as she dribbled the ball once, twice. She exhaled and let the first shot fly, the ball swishing cleanly through the net. Despite her calm exterior, you could tell the frustration and disappointment of the impending loss were bubbling under her surface. She glanced at you out of her peripheral vision for a split second before refocusing. 

The second shot wasn't as lucky. It bounced off the rim, and before anyone else could react, Hannah Hidalgo snagged the rebound. She dribbled it out for the remaining 15 seconds, much to your annoyance. 

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes again, but Hannah had a way of getting to you that no one else did. Ever since she joined the team, the 5'6 sophomore had been too loud, too comfortable in her narrow-minded opinions. It was no secret that the two of you didn't get along—especially after a handful of snide comments she'd made about your relationship with Olivia. Comments that weren't just about your incompatibility as a couple but targeted your sexuality with thinly veiled bigotry. 

The buzzer sounded, and the tension in your chest released in a wave of satisfaction. You'd won. The Irish had defeated UConn, and the victory felt as sweet as ever. The team quickly swarmed each other, exchanging high-fives and celebratory shouts, but Olivia went straight to you, pulling you into your usual post-game hug. 

This time, though, it was different. Her grip was tighter, her touch lingering in a way that felt less like a celebration and more like a claim. Her hand slid lower down your back than you were comfortable with, her gaze locking with Paige's as if daring her to look away. 

It was possessive. It was unnecessary. And it was far too public. 

You stiffened, your eyes narrowing as you subtly pulled away. "Don't do that in public again," you said firmly, your voice low enough that only she could hear. "Especially not now." 

Olivia's jaw tensed, but she didn't argue. She let you go, and you moved to join the line as the teams lined up to shake hands. 

The tension was palpable as Olivia and Paige met briefly in the line, their glares sharp and unyielding. No words were exchanged, but the animosity between them was unmistakable. 

And then it was your turn. As you reached Paige, you could see the loss weighing on her. For all her bravado, it was clear she hated this, hated losing, hated being on the other side of your rivalry tonight. Her pride was bruised, but she held herself together. 

"Good game," you said, forcing yourself to set aside your rivalry for the briefest moment. 

Paige's lips quirked into a small, almost condescending smirk. "Yeah, good game, princess." Her tone was laced with her usual sharpness, but something in her eyes softened, just for a second. 

The brief contact as you moved past each other sent a shiver down your spine, your skin buzzing at the memory of her hands on you the last time you'd hooked up. It shouldn't have affected you—not now, not here—but it did. 

And as you walked off the court, you couldn't help but wonder if she felt it too.

A few hours had passed since the game, but the adrenaline still thrummed in your veins, mixing with the exhaustion that clung to your limbs. You had showered, changed into something comfortable, and spent the last hour staring at the ceiling, hoping sleep would come and erase the memory of what had happened earlier.

The fight with Olivia had been brief but sharp—words exchanged in hushed yet heated tones, the air between you tense with something unresolved. She had wanted to try again. You had told her you weren't sure and needed time to think, and she hadn't taken it well. It wasn't a screaming match, but it didn't need to be. The weight of it was enough to settle over your chest, pressing down like a brick.

So now, you lay on your bed, eyes closed, willing yourself into unconsciousness. But your mind wouldn't shut off.

Then, a sharp ding shattered the silence.

You sighed, exhaling through your nose as you reached for your phone, internally scolding yourself for not turning on Do Not Disturb. The glow of the screen cast light across your face as you blinked down at the notification.

Paige Bueckers: u sleeping?

Your heart stuttered for half a second. You had told yourself a while ago that you'd block her. That you should block her. But you never did. Something—something—always held you back.

Your thumbs hovered over the keyboard before you typed out a response.

You: no. can’t sleep.

You could've left it at a simple ‘no’, but you didn't.

Another ding. You barely had time to lock your phone before the next message popped up.

Paige Bueckers: i can help u with that mama

You inhaled sharply. Your grip on your phone tightened, hesitating for a second longer than you should have. You knew better. You always knew better. Getting involved with Paige—hooking up with Paige—was never a good idea.

And yet, your fingers moved before your brain could stop them.

You: send the address.

As soon as the message sent, you were up, already throwing a hoodie over your head and stepping into sweatpants. Your shoes went on next as you grabbed your keys.

You made it to the door before a voice broke the silence.

"Where are you going?"

You turned to see your roommate peering at you from her bed, brows furrowed in mild curiosity.

Your grip tightened around the doorknob. You thought for a second, then shrugged.

"I'ma go get laid. Don't wait up."

The car ride to the hotel was short. Too short for your taste.

Too short for you to think, to reason, to talk yourself out of this. Maybe if the drive had been longer, if you had even ten more minutes, you would have turned around. You would have gone back to your dorm, maybe even knocked on Olivia's door, tried to fix things in the morning like a rational person. But you didn't.

Instead, you found yourself standing in the elevator, your reflection staring back at you in the polished steel doors, wearing an expression you barely recognized.

Regret? Anticipation? Something in between?

It didn't matter. The damage was done.

You could still feel the receptionist's eyes on you as you'd walked through the lobby, her polite yet knowing smile burning into the back of your mind. It had been awkward, like she had somehow pieced together your entire life story just from the way you carried yourself. The way you had hesitated. The way your smile had felt forced, almost shameful.

Now, as you stood in front of the hotel room door—room 69, because of course Paige would pick that—you didn't find the irony so funny anymore.

You lifted your fist, knocked lightly against the wood, and took a slow inhale.

The door swung open almost instantly, as if she had been waiting right on the other side.

Paige stood before you, every inch of her revealed in slow, agonizing detail the wider the door opened.

Her blonde hair was down, slightly wavy from air-drying after her shower. You rarely saw it like this—only in pictures that would randomly pop up on your feed, a rare sight that always made you pause longer than you should. The game-day braids were gone, leaving her looking softer than usual. But there was nothing soft about the way she stood there now, leaning against the doorframe, her sharp blue eyes scanning you like she already knew what was going through your mind.

She was in a black Nike sports bra, her toned stomach on full display, a pair of loose gray UConn sweatpants slung low on her hips. Just low enough to reveal the waistband of her Calvin Klein boxers.

You swallowed.

The glasses were new. Purple frames perched on the bridge of her nose, somehow making her look even more unfairly attractive. You hated that about her. How effortless it all was. How she made every single thing—every little detail about herself—feel like it existed solely to mess with you.

"Hey, pretty girl."

Her voice was silky smooth, quiet, edged with something that made your skin prickle.

You inhaled sharply, forcing yourself to look at anything but the infuriating smirk tugging at her lips. The way she stood there, relaxed, confident, like she knew you had already lost this battle before it even started.

And maybe you had.

You weren't sure what came over you. One second, you were standing in the doorway, debating every decision that had led you here. The next, you were walking inside, wordless, your body moving before your mind could stop it.

Paige stepped aside instinctively, closing the door behind you, and that was when it truly hit you.

The reality of what you were doing.

What you were about to do.

A shaky exhale left your lips. You tilted your head back for a second, staring at the ceiling, as if praying for something—anything—to pull you out of this. To stop you from ruining whatever restraint you had left.

But then you looked back at her.

At Paige, who was standing there, watching you with those eyes that had already picked you apart, dissected every thought racing through your head.

And just like that, you broke.

The space between you disappeared in an instant. You grabbed her, pulled her in, crashing your lips against hers like you had something to prove—like you were trying to drown out the part of yourself that was still screaming for you to stop.

Paige reacted immediately. Her hands were already on you, already pulling you in closer, as if she had been waiting for this, as if she had known all along that you would give in.

Her arms wrapped around your waist, strong and unyielding. Yours found their way around her neck, your fingers tangling into the soft waves of her hair, gripping onto something—anything—to keep yourself from completely losing control.

You were already lost.

And maybe you had been from the very start.

Paige's arms tightened around your waist, her grip firm, possessive. The warmth of her hands seeped through your sweatshirt, but it wasn't enough for her. She wanted more. Slowly, deliberately, she pushed the fabric upward, just enough to slide her hands underneath.

The difference was instant—her skin against yours, her palms warm and steady as they roamed over your sides. It sent a shiver up your spine, one she undoubtedly felt but didn't acknowledge. Instead, she just pulled you in closer, deepening the kiss, letting the taste of whatever candy she had been eating linger on your tongue.

What started out controlled, yet purposeful, quickly turned into something else.

Hotter. Messier.

Neither of you had moved from the door. There was no rush—just the slow, torturous unraveling of restraint with every passing second. Paige kissed you like she had something to prove, like she wanted to pull every last ounce of hesitation from your body and leave you with nothing but her.

It wasn't until your lungs burned for air that she finally pulled back, her lips slick and parted, her breathing uneven. Her hands never left your skin, but something about the way she looked at you made your stomach tighten.

You barely had time to process it before she reached up, pulling her glasses off and tossing them onto the couch nearby. Carelessly. Effortlessly. She never took her eyes off you, not even once.

And just as quickly as she had pulled away, she was dragging you back in.

Her hands gripped your waist as she kissed you harder, rougher, her body guiding yours backward without breaking contact. She moved with purpose, leading you step by step until the back of your knees hit the bed.

You gasped softly as you lost your balance, falling backward onto the mattress. Paige didn't waste time. The second you were down, she was on you, hands sliding to your sides, fingers pressing into your ribcage. With barely any effort, she lifted you, manhandling you further up the bed until your head nearly hit the pillows.

Your breath hitched. 

You hadn't expected her to be this eager, this physical. But she was careful—controlled, even in her hunger. 

Paige climbed onto the bed, hovering over you with that sharp, unrelenting gaze. 

Her hands found the hem of your sweatshirt again, tugging at it slightly. "Can I take this off?" she asked, her voice even lower than before. 

You nodded, surprised that she had even bothered to ask. Normally, she wouldn't need to. One look was all it ever took. 

The blonde didn't waste time. In one swift motion, she pulled the sweatshirt up, dragging it over your head and arms as you arched your back to help. The cool air prickled against your heated skin, but the sensation barely registered before Paige was on you again. 

Her lips found your neck, hot and open-mouthed, each kiss deliberate, each drag of her teeth enough to make your breath stutter. 

Then she spoke. 

"Does y'girl know you're here?" 

The question sent a sharp, electric jolt through you. 

Not because she cared. 

Because she didn't.

You took a shaky breath, trying to ground yourself, trying to find your voice. "Not my girl," you managed to say. "And no." 

Paige smirked against your skin, the curl of her lips sending a fresh wave of heat through you. 

"She'll know by the time I'm done with you, mama." 

Before you could even think of a response, before you could argue or deny the implication behind her words, she was back on you—biting, sucking, marking, until you were sure she had already made good on that promise.

Paige's lips never left your skin, moving lower, trailing slow, open-mouthed kisses along the curve of your neck and down to your collarbones. Each press of her lips was deliberate, her tongue flicking out to soothe where she had nipped, her breath warm against your skin. 

But it wasn't just her lips. 

Her hands roamed freely, gliding over every inch of exposed skin, her fingers tracing lazy, feather-light patterns against your sides. The contrast of her large, veined hands against your body sent a shiver through you, anticipation curling in your stomach. 

She knew exactly what she was doing. 

Her mouth traveled further, ghosting over the tops of your breasts, the thin fabric of your cropped tank offering little protection from the heat of her lips. She didn't rush, didn't hurry—she took her time, dragging her teeth against sensitive skin, biting just enough to leave her mark before soothing it with her tongue. 

A sharp inhale escaped you, followed by a soft, airy whimper that you tried—and failed—to bite back. 

Paige only smirked against your skin. 

Her fingers slipped lower, brushing over the waistband of your sweatpants, teasing, testing. Your breath hitched when she hooked her fingers inside, tugging just slightly—just enough to make your pulse race. 

She kept her eyes on you as she kissed down, lower, lower, her lips brushing over your stomach, your body tensing under her touch. Each kiss stole more of your breath, her movements painfully slow, torturous in their precision. 

She was in complete control. And the worst part? 

You wanted her to be.

The moment your sweatpants hit the ground, it became real. Her lips trailed down further, torturously slow and calculated until her path was blocked by the waistband of your panties. But did that stop Paige? No. Instead of ridding you of them like she had done with your pants mere minutes ago, she continued her actions, now placing kisses over the thin material.

Other than the sounds of shuffling on bedsheets and your breathing that started to turn into quiet pants, it was a cathedral of silence. Her lips halted right above your core, her eyes searching yours before placing another kiss over your clothed cunt, the growing wet patch impossible to miss. A small whine escaped your lips at not only that, but the sight of her altogether. The way her lips were already slightly glossed by you.

"Already wet for me, baby?" She teased, mouth hovering over your core as if she was speaking directly to it instead of you. And that familiar, infuriating smirk made you wanna roll your eyes at her.

"Shut up." You mumbled, not due to embarrassment — nor were you shy — but it was all you could muster thanks to the growing desperation for her. More specifically, for her mouth on you.

Paige simply chuckled. It was deep and irritating, but more than anything, it only fuelled the desire for her. Her finger's hooked into your panties, pulling them down and tossing them to the floor in swift motions, before her arms curled around your thighs, pulling you closer.

You barely had been given the time to process what was happening, because as soon as you felt the cool air against your exposed core, your legs were already thrown over Paige's shoulders and her mouth was on you. As much as the blonde wanted to torture you, she couldn't hold herself back.

Her tongue connected to your drooling pussy and you mewled. Paige licked a fat stripe up your folds, a choked moan tearing from your throat as she tasted you. "Even sweeter than I remembered."

Your head fell back against the soft mattress, hand flying down to tangle itself in her hair as she spat on your pussy. Her eyes were glued onto you for a moment, admiring the way her saliva mixed with your slick before diving right in.

"Fuck, please don't stop." You near to whined in pleasure while she continued her attack on your cunt, tongue flicking over your clit with just enough pressure to drive you insane and cheeks hollowing whenever she sucked on it, lips closing around your throbbing bud. She had no intentions of stopping. Not when tasting you was the same as miraculously stumbling across a source of water in the desert.

Once the tip of Paige's tongue began to circle your entrance, you were a goner. Airy and high pitched whimpers fell from your lips while you white-knuckled her hair — using it as an anchor — and the blonde was absolutely sure that, that had to be her favorite sound in the world.

Your back arched off the bed ever so slightly when her tongue prodded into you, plunging in and out with acute precision. The sight of it had her quietly chuckling against you, sending vibrations through your core.

"Damn, mama. Got you feeling that good just by eating your pretty pussy?" Paige pulled back just enough to be able to speak, the pride and her ego all too evident in her voice. She had you right where she wanted. "Your girl not fucking you right?"

You wanted to say something, anything to shut her up. To wipe that stupid smirk — that you couldn't see but were fully aware of — off her stupidly pretty face. But you couldn't. She had already corrupted your mind and robbed you of your own ego and pride. "No. Not like you." Those were the words slipping from your lips and you had no desire to take them back.

That's all it took for Paige to delve back in between your legs, tongue fucking into you and arms holding you down. You didn't even realize how your hips bucked into Paige's mouth, grinding yourself against the girl.

A low, approving hum rumbled in Paige's chest as your hips bucked against her mouth, "Just like that, baby. Ride my face just like that," Paige encouraged, her voice muffled.

Your moans grew louder, more frantic as you instinctively tried to close your legs, squeezing her head with your thighs.

Paige's hands were quick to spread you open again, one leg slipping off her shoulder but she only saw that as an opportunity, tilting her head sideways for more access. Her tongue left your entrance, running it back and forth over your clit and shaking her head from side to side. Gluttony adorned Paige as she devoured you.

She didn't slow down when you warned her that you were about to cum, didn't stop when your orgasm crashed over you while her name fell from you repeatedly. Only when your hand in her hair started pushing her head back, she finally pulled away. Paige's gaze fixated on your cunt, wetness dripping from your hole as you clenched around nothing.

Your wetness coated her lips and chin as she looked back up at you and the sight of it all had a grin tugging at the corners of her mouth— One that was hidden by her wiping her chin with the back of her hand.

As she was moving to hover over you again, you felt a digit dip back in between your folds and suddenly it was right in front of you lips. "Open up," her voice was firm and her words clear.

Without breaking eye contact, your lips wrapped around her middle finger, tasting yourself. It wasn't anything you hadn't already done before, but the way she spoke, her tone and her eyes boring into yours had you flustered.

"Good girl. Tastes like heaven, hm?" She continued and all you could do was mindlessly nod and hope that the warmth creeping up on your cheeks wasn't noticeable. Normally you'd cringe at those first two words, it was never something that you thought you'd enjoy being called. But coming from Paige? It had you turning into her ditzy little bitch.

The tips of her fingers were barely brushing against your lips, a featherlight touch that sent shivers down your spine. She took her time, her blue eyes studying you with an intensity that made your breath hitch. Your lips were swollen, your hair slightly messy, cheeks flushed with warmth, and your eyes still glistening as you tried to steady yourself. Everything about you held her captive, and she didn't bother to hide it.

"You look so fucking perfect like this," she murmured, her voice low, almost reverent.

You held her gaze, your chest still rising and falling as you came down from it, lost in the moment, in her.

After a beat, Paige pulled away, climbing off of you with a quiet exhale. She was still fully clothed as she strode toward her bag, the absence of her warmth already making you stir. You watched as she crouched down, digging through her things before pulling something out. The moment your eyes landed on the strap, you inhaled deeply, thighs instinctively pressing together.

Paige turned back toward you, her smirk slow and knowing as she studied your reaction, her gaze sweeping over you with deliberate slowness. She took her time walking back to the bed, tilting her head slightly as if contemplating something before finally speaking.

"What's wrong, mama?" she taunted, her voice teasing yet edged with something heavier. "Scared you can't take it?"

You inhaled sharply, fingers twitching against the sheets. Shaking your head, you swallowed hard, willing your voice to come out steady. "No. I can take it."

Paige didn't reply. She only let out a quiet chuckle, the sound low and rich as she hooked her fingers into the waistband of her sweatpants. In one smooth motion, she rid herself of them, standing there in nothing but her sports bra and the black harness she was now securing around her hips and thighs.

The sight of her like this—self-assured, composed, and devastatingly attractive—made something deep in your stomach twist. Your fingers curled into the fabric beneath you, anticipation buzzing through your veins as Paige settled her gaze back on you.

She smirked again, rolling her shoulders back, completely in control.

"That's what I thought," she murmured.

You blinked and suddenly felt the mattress dip, the blonde already climbing back onto the other side of the bed and resting her back against the pillows and bed's headboard. "C'mere." She demanded, patting her lap in such a cocky, infuriating way that had you wanting to roll your eyes and put your clothes back on.

But you didn't. Instead, you listened and your legs were already thrown over her thighs. You watched as spat in her hand, using it as lubricant to stroke her silicone strap while she eyed you up and down. The way your hardened nipples poked at your thin tank top and the way your cunt continued to drip on her bare thigh.

"As much as I wanna see you ride my thigh, I'd rather watch you take this dick right now." Her words were clear and direct, tainted with desire in a way that sent shivers down your spine.

Upon not getting a response from you, her hands reached out to grip your waist, pulling further up on her lap. That's all it took for you to prop yourself up on your knees—as wobbly as they felt— pussy hovering over her strap before you replaced her hand with yours, positioning the tip towards your entrance and slowly sinking down on it.

A chocked gasp fell from you, lips parting at the sheer size and girth of it. It had been a while since you took anything more than a couple digits and the switch was overwhelming to say the least.

Paige's gazes was glued onto the scene, watching the way your pussy swallowed her whole with a faint smirk—slowly but surely. Inch by inch. Her palms caressed all over your torso in order to help you feel more comfortable.

It didn't take long for you to get accustomed to the intrusion, your hips grinding back and forth. You could barely look at her, the way her hungry eyes focused you like a hunter it's prey, tongue darting out to lick her lips and occasionally biting the bottom one. It drove you insane and you couldn't think straight, your head tipped back.

"You can do better than that, baby. C'mon, ride me with the same energy you had on that court today." She spoke again, her tone encouraging, yet taunting. It almost made you chuckle. Of course she was still stuck on that, she'd always been a sore loser.

Taking a deep breath, you began to bounce up and down on her, small moans coming from you every time it hit that certain spot. You hadn't realized just how close her face was to yours until you looked down at her again, her blue eyes so dark and sharp that tore a whimper from you.

Her hands snaked up to your tank top, pushing the material up until your breasts sprung free. Her smirk grew wider and her hands slid down to your hips, her grip tightening as she watched your bounce so close to her face, before fully riding you of the material.

Paige breathed, leaning down to press open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone and up the column of your throat. She took a moment to admire the sight of your tits, her gaze hungry and appreciative. "Fuck, baby... Look at you," she murmured, leaning down to take one hardened nipple into her mouth. She swirled her tongue around the sensitive bud, sucking and grazing it with her teeth

The muscles in your thighs were starting to tighten and burn, but you tried to ignore it. The pleasure was far greater than a little pain that you could easily handle.

Paige's blunt nails were digging into your skin as she looked up at your face now, admiring the way your brows furrowed, eyes fluttering shut and lips parted as you panted. The knot in your abdomen was starting to tighten and you had no intentions of losing it.

Next thing you knew, you were being lifted off of her and thrown back onto the mattress stomach down. It only took her a couple seconds to lift your hips up and kneel behind you. In the blink of an eye, she slid herself back inside of you, her hips already back to snapping into you. A mix of 'wait's and 'slow down's came from you, but she was already in too deep.

"Said y'could take it, right? Fucking take it then. You know the safeword."

Her pace was quick and relentless, every need to prove herself to you suddenly making a grand return. Paige knew that by the end of the night, you'd be her's, one way or another. With every movement from the blonde, you were being pushed further up the bed, face pressed into the mattress with one of her hands pushing down against your shoulder and your cries muffled. Even the simplest touch of her hands and the way her fingertips dug into your hips was enough to have you a mess.

"Fuck, Paige. S' good." You managed to cry out, words muffled due to the position you were in. In all honesty, if you could've stopped yourself from praising her, you would've. But it was impossible to keep your pride alive when she was killing you from the back.

A smug smile curled at her lips and her chest filled with pride. "Yeah? Just like old times, hm?" Her voice honeyed up, cooing at you.

Of course she would say that— remind you that it wasn't the first time she's had you like this. Face down and ass up while she claimed you as hers for as long as she could. Until the post nut clarity would eventually hit you like a truck.

But until then, you were all hers.

It was clear that you were still holding back, biting your lip or burying your face into the sheets to drown out the sounds you were making. Paige wasn't having any of it.

"Lemme hear you, mama." Her tone sounded almost demanding, hands tightening their grip around your hips as she pulled you closer against her, filling you to the brim. "God— sucking my cock in, hm?"

You couldn't help but let out a loud cry, your own hands gripping the bedsheets like they were a lifeline and the sloppy sounds of Paige driving into you at full force were nothing shy of pornographic.

It didn't take long for the knot in your stomach to tighten and for the familiar warmth to pool in your pit. You didn't have to say anything—didn't want to say anything further. With the way you were clenching around her, she swore that she could almost feel it as if it were her own cock, and she knew you were close.

"Paige—"

She was quick to interrupt you. "I know. Cum for me, mama." Her tone was almost comforting, urging you to let go.

You didn't have to be told twice. The wave of pleasure washed over you, sinful and pornographic sounds escaping you— not that you had the energy to hold them back this time.

Paige's grip loosened and instead her palms were gently rubbing your lower back, soothing the areas she had held onto too tightly. The blonde carefully slipped out of you, giving you a few moments to catch your breath while she bent forward to place feather light kisses on your skin.

You were still in the same position. Face down, ass up and softly panting for much needed air. Her eyes were now on your cunt, admiring the way your own cum leaked out of you and she couldn't help but lower herself until she face facing it. Her tongue darted out to lick a stripe up your folds, just to have another quick taste, she told herself.

"Sorry. Couldn't stop myself." She chuckled lightly in response to you whining at the sensation.

Paige moved without warning, her strength effortless as she flipped you onto your back, the mattress dipping beneath you. Your breath hitched, chest rising and falling as you looked up at her, doe-eyed.

She hovered over you, her gaze dark and unreadable, a slow, deliberate heat simmering beneath the surface. Her hands—rough, calloused from years of playing—traced the curve of your waist, fingertips skimming your ribs before sliding down to your stomach in a slow, teasing glide.

She wasn't rushing. She was waiting.

Waiting for you to catch your breath, to meet her eyes, to let her know you were still right there with her.

"Think you can give me one more?" Her knuckles brushed over your abdomen, up and down and just that was enough to leave you wanting even more.

You nodded your head, taking a deep breath through your nose and letting it rest inside your lungs for a couple seconds before releasing it.

Paige grinned faintly, eyes still dark and clouded with just as much lust as the second she opened the door for you. "I'ma be softer this time, don't worry, baby." You both knew she was lying.

Eventually she was positioned between your legs, tip of her strap gliding back and forth over your soaked cunt. She paused for a moment, just long enough to admire, but the whine that ripped out of you brought her back to earth.

"Just put it in." You couldn't stand the way she was teasing you. Not when everything in you was screaming for her. The desire you felt towards Paige was like wanting her to live inside your rib cage— impossibly close.

"You want it that bad?" Her brows raised ever so slightly, no doubt taunting you for her own enjoyment.

But by this point, you'd given up. No more holding back, you'd let her have you in whatever way and every way. "Need it so bad. Please, baby."

A feral, triumphant grin spread across Paige's face at your desperate, needy pleas. With a swift, gentle thrust of her hips, Paige sheathed her thick, girthy strap deep into your dripping, eager hole.

Paige exhaled at the sight, starting to roll her hips in a steady, deep rhythm. The way you were gripping her 'dick' like a vice, coating it so beautifully had her head spinning.

She hooked your knees over her elbows, nearly folding you in half as she loomed over you, consuming you completely. "Y’need it, huh? It's mine? Pussy all mine?" Paige punctuated her words with sharp, rough snaps of her hips, forcing her cock deeper in than you thought possible, filling you to the brim.

Your eyes squeezed shut, lips parted as you tried to speak. "Yours." It came out airy, too quiet for Paige's liking.

"What was that?" She near to mocked, pressing your thighs closer against your chest so she could hit at a deeper angle. "Speak up or I'm gonna stop."

You didn't let the 'threat' linger in the air, your mind instantly scrambling to spew out somewhat coherent rambles. "Yes— yes it's yours. All fucking yours, Paige."

"There you go. Wasn't so hard." Leaning down, Paige captured your lips in a filthy, dominating kiss, all tongue and teeth as she fucked into her harder and faster. The lewd sound of skin slapping against skin and the noises you both made filling the room.

She panted at the strength in which she was fucking you. Paige knew she was hitting your cervix with every thrust, stirring up your guts, but she couldn't stop. Not until she'd ruined you for everybody else.

All you could do was whimper against Paige's lips, nodding your head at every word even if you couldn't fully process all of them. All you could think of was the feeling of the blonde on top of you, gripping and touching, the tip continuously abusing that one spot

Your moans filled the room and you prayed there would be no noise complaint with how loud the two of you were being, not that either of you truly cared. Not in that moment at least.

"Slower, please," you managed to choke out, wanting to savour it for as long as possible. Wanted to be closer to her. You could swear that you felt Paige all up in your guts— maybe even your chest— tight pussy clenching over the blonde's strap.

"Mmm, you want me to slow down, baby? Want me to fuck you nice and gentle?" She purred, her voice a seductive rasp.

Paige began to roll her hips in a slower, more deliberate rhythm, grinding her thick strap against your g-spot with each thrust.

"Can feel it in my guts." You slurred your words slightly, mind blank— fucked dumb by her cock as Paige usually liked to call it.

The blonde let out her throaty, signature chuckle. "That's because I am," she nodded her head down and your gaze followed, eyes widening and breath hitching in your throat.

You could actually see her inside of you, the bulge in your belly an indicator of just how deep she was inside of you. You rasped out a deep "fuck" at the sinful sight.

"Would knock you up if I could, pretty girl," she smirked as you clenched around her. "Yeah? Y'like the sound of that? Y'wanna have my babies, mama?"

The sight of it mixed with the idea—the vision of her breeding you, her cum dripping out of you—was pushing you towards the edge. You nodded your head frantically, nails digging into the skin of her biceps as you gripped them.

Your whimpers and moans grew more high pitched the closer you got to your orgasm, mouth agape as you tried to keep somewhat quiet. You couldn't help but hold your breath occasionally, too lost in the pleasure to breathe evenly.

Paige's hand came up to grip your jaw, squeezing your cheeks slightly and forcing you to look at her. "You wanna cum on my dick? Gotta ask for it first."

"Yes, please. Please, Paige, Please, please, please," you repeated over and over, begging for it like a whore. It felt like you couldn't even think, let alone speak coherently.

She continued to thrust into you with slow and deep strokes, coaxing your release out of you. And once again, the pit inside ur tummy started to burn, tightening until you felt like you couldn't hold it anymore. In all honesty, you can no idea whether you were about to cum or if you were about to utterly embarrass yourself.

"Go ahead, baby. Let go f’me."

You didn't have to be told twice, eyes staring into hers and jaw falling slack as it crashed over you, barely any sound escaping you as you came. Paige could feel you soaking not only her thighs, but the bedsheets as well as her eyes trained on the way you gushed all over her in awe.

It took you a few moments to come back down from it and one glance down had your hands flying up to cover your face. You groaned into your palms in embarrassment. To be fair, you had no idea that you were even capable of squirting.

"God, that was so fucking hot. Sexiest thing I've ever seen." She breathed out a faint chuckle, "Hey, look at me."

And for some reason, you complied— letting your hands fall from your face and glancing up at her.

"You're fucking perfect, yeah? Nothing to be embarrassed of." And the way she said those words, so soft and clear, told you that she was being genuine.

Paige pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead before carefully sliding out of you and slipping away, the warmth of her body leaving yours as she padded toward the bathroom. You listened to the sound of running water, your breath still steadying as you lay there, staring at the ceiling.

When she returned, she had a damp towel in hand, her expression softened as she knelt beside you. There was no arrogance in her touch now—just quiet care, her hands moving with gentle precision. The sight of it tugged at something deep in your chest.

Maybe Paige wasn't as bad as you'd thought. Maybe there was more to her than the cocky, womanizing basketball star.

You couldn't stop watching her, admiring the way her brows knit slightly in concentration, the way the dim light caught the sharp lines of her face. This time, you were the one staring in awe.

"What?" Paige asked, a small smile pulling at her lips, catching the way you were looking at her.

"You're just so beautiful." The words left you before you could think better of them, but you meant them. Every single one.

A hint of color dusted her pale cheeks, and before you could take in the sight of it for too long, Paige leaned back in, pressing another kiss to your lips—this time slower, as if she was savoring it.

When she pulled away, her voice was light but laced with something genuine. "So... you gon give me a chance or what?" It was a joke, but there was something behind it, something almost hopeful.

You held her gaze for a moment before giving the subtlest of nods, your smile faint but real. "Sure. Why not."

Paige exhaled a soft laugh, but you could feel it—the way her heart was racing just as much as yours.

taglist (mostly ppl who asked weeks ago lol i’m so sorry) @brenwritesss @bueckersbitch @starlighttsv @ekisokay @st4rrzynight @ohmybueckers @pboogerswbb @yailtsv @omg-imtumbling @xxloveralways14 @cowboylikeavaa @prettygirl-gabi @itsstavy13 @kaelaheartsyou @jnkbueckers @shootingstarrrrr @melpthatsme

[5sospenguinqueen]

Toy Cars | Fernando Alonso x Mum! Reader

Summary: Fernando boasts about his step-sons to anyone who will listen. So, when you realise you want more, he's confused why your little family is no longer enough.

Warnings: angst, slight age gap. i pictured reader about 35

Requested: no

just a short one compared to the others

F1 Masterlist

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fernandoalo_official just posted

liked by astonmartinf1, aussiegrit and others

fernandoalo_official not been an easy weekend so far but it’s made easier when one of my favourite people is in the paddock

14,114 comments

jensonbutton but i’m not working this weekend?

→ lance_stroll we all know i’m his other favourite person

→ fernandoalo_official no, the twins are

→ user1 step dad nando has my whole heart

→ yn_ln mine too! 

user2 a hug from fernando would heal me

→ user3 a hug from y/n would heal me

yn_ln weekends where i get to see you are my favourite

→ user4 i will never be normal about these two 

→ user5 it’s the fact that he watches the f2 races because it gives him an excuse to hang out with y/n 

astonmartinf1 our favourite couple 

user6 need fernando to win now that he’s had his good luck hug 

yn_ln just posted

liked by jensonbutton, lance_stroll and others

yn_ln back on track for the twins. both my boys did a wonderful job with high position finishes… oh and they were visited by an enthusiastic fan 😉

5,343 comments

fernandoalo_official i’ll be getting you in one of those karts next 

→ yn_ln that’s going to take a lot of convincing, nando 

→ fernandoalo_official i can think of a few ways, mi vida

→ landonorris ew

→ user7 mi vida!! i will never be normal about these two 

aussiegrit how’d he get his hair that tall 

→ astonmartinf1 it’s so full of secrets 

fa_alonsokart calling the boss an enthusiastic fan is such a power move

→ user8 the fact that he let her and didn’t comment on it tho 

lance_stroll they'll be taking his seat soon enough

user9 love how supportive fernando is of his step-sons

→ user10 he literally started a karting school so that he could help their karting careers

→ user11 the dad that stepped up

user1 what’s your favourite fa14 fact? mine is that he fell in love with y/n l/n, realised she had twins and immediately started enacting project alonso 

→ user2 no because the twins were 11 when he met them and now they’re 15 and looking at f3 seats 

user3 this is what i’ve been saying. fernando doesn’t just love y/n, he loves her children just as much, if not more

user4 fernando alonso puts all other step-dads to shame because he is always there for them, no matter how busy his life is

user5 i really need fernando to hurry up and propose because that is his family

→ user6 yes! he needs to make project alonso official by giving them all his last name

→ user7 and then more babies!  

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comments 

user8 why was this the cutest thing said by anyone ever. like those are his boys 

user9 wait, so does this mean he doesn’t want kids?

user10 the way he cut that interviewer off because that his family whether they share blood or not

→ user11 i read it as he didn’t want to talk about it any more because he doesn’t want more kids and maybe he and y/n haven’t talked about it yet 

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yn_ln just posted

liked by kellypiquet, alexandrasaintmleux and others 

yn_ln an empty house for the week makes me realise that i miss hearing about cars 

2,343 comments

user1 aw are the flowers from fernando?

kellypiquet max keeps trying to convince me to get another cat. don’t let him see this

→ maxverstappen1 too late 

user2 wait, why isn’t she spending summer break with nando?

→ user3 because he’s on holiday 

→ user2 without her? 

→ user4 they don’t have to spend every minute together. he’s allowed to have a break 

user5 guys, y/n and fernando don’t follow each other anymore?

→ user6 i thought you were lying but then i checked and it’s true :( 

→ user7 oh that captions hit extra hard

user8 no because her entire life is racing and now that it’s not there, she realises she misses it

→ user9 she misses him

user10 i’m so confused. they were so in love like two weeks ago. what happened?

user11 no because i can’t imagine seeing fernando without y/n

user12 is he still going to support the twins? 

user13 but you were supposed to get married to fernando and have lots of little alonso’s

→ user14 maybe one of them didn’t want that 

→ user15 can’t imagine it being alonso, he thinks the world of the twins

→ user16 true. he does mention them in almost every interview 

user1 when i remembered f2 were racing this weekend, i was so happy because that meant yn and nando content and then i remembered they’d broken up

→ user2 all the tweets on here are tearing my heart out as well 

user3 they’ve not spoken to each other once today

user4 yes she walked straight past him but there’s clips of her entire face crumpling as soon as she’s past him

→ user5 yes! i saw that. her colleague had to usher her into the garage before she started crying 

user6 the fact that fernando spent the entire time watching her though

→ user7 even when people were talking to him, he was full on staring at her

→ user8 brokenhearted lover boy made no attempts to hide it 

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Baby Fever Angst Series

Love that I mentioned request for Esteban once and I already have 5 requests 😂 I didn't realise there was that much love for Ocon considering I can never find any fics for him

tag list

[drgnflyteabox]

daddy cool, side B ⋆˙⟡

simon riley x fem!reader (background price x reader) summary: you make a movie with simon. ↪or, john produces. tags/warnings: making a porno, rough sex (p in v), oral (f + m), please forgive my dialogue i'm trying my best, degradation / slut shaming, squirting, a little dubcon, size kink, a little pain, unnegotiated kink, john is mostly in the background but he's there

“Alright honey, move a little to the right.”

“Like this?”

“Just like that, sweetheart. Spread those legs a little.”

John had been your fluffer earlier, licked you until you were rarin’ to go, wet and soft and needy. He can probably still taste you on his mustache.

You’re taking photos now, leaning back on the bed, bare wet pussy spread for John and the camera. Your two fingers create a perfect V, showing him your winking hole, your pert clit.

He really wasn’t lying about producing– you hadn’t deeply suspected him, but there was a niggling little thought there that he was maybe putting it on to get you in bed. It had worked either way, but nice to know he’s honest.

Ghost, the masked man. Cheesy, but popular with women, John says. They like the mystery.

“Touch yourself a little,” John shifts the camera as you do, lightly petting your clit with two fingers, “that’s good, that’s real good.”

You dip two fingers into your hole, wet from John’s earlier attention, biting your lip in what you hope is a seductive manner for the camera. John chuckles low in his chest, cock pushing against his tight pants. The view makes your mouth water, but you aren’t here for John today.

You’re here for the giant of a man that walks through the doorway, wearing scuffed blue jeans and big black boots. The mask isn’t what you’d imagined, but it fits over the tight white t-shirt he’s wearing. A skull.

“Ah, Simon,” John turns to greet him, “there you are.”

Simon’s cock is already chubbed up in his jeans, long and thick against his leg. For a perverse moment you imagine what it would look like for he and John to push their bulges against each other, groaning, pec squeezed against pec, and your pussy clenches.

You wish John would perform, if only just to tag team you with this meaty specimen of a man.

Add it to the spankbank.

“John,” Simon greets him back, stepping into the room. He’s not even looking at you, which is hot for some reason you don’t care to parse. He lifts a boot and steps onto John’s stool, “fresh meat?”

John laughs, which seems to be the only answer Simon needs before he turns towards you finally and pins you to the bed with his gaze. 

Your fingers pause, still dipped halfway inside, clit pulsing against the heel of your palm.

“Pretty,” he says, and just as you’re about to say thank you, “nice, Cap,” a pause, “picked a ripe one.”

He walks until his shins hit the bed, looking down at you and your spread legs, where your hand is still and your pussy drips onto the sheets. His eyelashes are pale, ghostly, strangely beautiful against his brown eyes. 

You wish you could see his face, his expression, but John was right– they do like the mystery.

There’s a little hint of a scar that pokes up from his cheekbone, pulling the skin of his bottom lid a little, but there’s no time to examine him in detail.

“Right then,” John interrupts, “let’s take a few pictures.”

The first pose he puts you in is on Simon’s lap, explicitly directing you to press your pussy against his jeanclad thigh and make a little wet spot for us, will you, love?

It’s honestly humiliating, but you’re so tuned up that the heat of your embarrassment only adds to the tension.

“That’s good, that’s real good,” John murmurs, instructing Simon to put a heavy hand on your lower back, pressing you further into his leg.

Your clit drags against the fabric, and the camera snaps your open mouthed gasp.

“Pull her shirt down,” and Simon does; pulling your tanktop down until your tits fall out, soft and peaked, pressed against the worn fabric of his shirt.

You’re looking over your shoulder, hazy, bottom lip between your teeth. John snaps a few more before he places you in the next position.

All you can stare at is the dark patch on Simon’s jeans.

“This one’s for the cover,” he says, getting Simon to lay down and pull his jeans a little down– showing off the line of hair leading to the biggest tease; the beginnings of his bush, trapped under just his jeans.

He’s gone commando. All you can see is the little pudge of his pubis as it’s squished by his waistband, a tasty little tenderloin you want to bite.

You’re next; standing over Simon, legs wide open, looking down at him with your tits out and your thighs wet. It’s a movie-esque kind of pose, and in another universe maybe you’re decked out in cheap sci-fi costumes for a blockbuster.

Then he’s ready, and you have to re-dress. Tanktop goes back on, shorts get slid right back up your legs, and he puts you on top of the covers.

Simon prowls like a panther, graceful in his movements despite the sheer size of him. You’re leaned back, elbows on the bed, breathing harder the closer he gets.

“Felt that wet little pussy,” he says, voice low, “she’s more than ready for me, isn’t she? Probably soaking those slutty shorts.”

“Uh huh,” you murmur, legs outstretched and straight before him. 

John had told you a little bit of the ‘script’ beforehand, a loose skeleton to follow outside of improv, so you aren’t shocked when he pulls the button open on your shorts and pulls them down in one fell swoop.

“Look’it that,” his lips move under the mask. You wonder if he’s licking his lips, looking at your pussy like that.

He takes you by the ankle, dragging you across the mattress until you’re flat on your back and looking up at him.

“Haven’t even seen my cock yet,” he laughs meanly, his other hand reaching to take a big squeeze of his cock through his jeans, “and look’it that. Slag if I’ve ever seen one.”

Your face burns, breath stuttering. This wasn’t a part of the little warning John had given you, but you’re not that mad about it. Hot, humiliated– but not opposed.

Simon looks at you for barely another second before he’s crawled up to your face, knees on either side of your head.

Oh.

“Gimme a kiss.”

You lean forward, lips pressing against his rough jeans. He smells good, a little like cigarettes but there’s that musk you love so much. You mouthe against him until he pulls your head back to the mattress by your hair.

He pulls down his jeans, freeing a mostly plump cock that flops onto your cheek. Oh man, it’s weighty. The nestle of curls at the base of it is like a magnet for your eyes, too.

“I can take it all the way,” you look up into those inscrutable eyes.

“Yeah? Prove it.”

You take the tip first, licking it lewdly, turning to the camera every so often like John had told you to– just let them see those eyes, honey. Show them how much you like it.

So you do. You give big, wide eyes as Simon gets impatient and starts tunnelling down your throat, shoulders trapped beneath his heavy thighs.

When you gag, he laughs lowly, keeping you there. He runs a rough thumb over the taut stretch of your upper lip, down to your lower lip, palm cradling your jaw.

“That’s a good girl,” he slides backwards, jeans scraping your nipples through your tanktop, hardly giving you but a moment before he's pushing back in. Rinse and repeat.

It’s like with John, only Simon’s cock is a little different. Longer, and curved where John’s is thicker. The tip pokes you in the back of the throat, sometimes at the roof of your mouth from the awkward angle.

You feel crushed underneath him despite your entire lower half being free, legs coming up and thighs squeezing together as the camera pans towards them and John murmurs, “show me that pussy, honey.”

So you spread your legs, humiliated at the gluk-gluk-gluk sound coming from your throat but gushing impossibly more under the camera’s lens.

“That’s a pretty picture,” Simon grunts, sliding out of your mouth to tap the head against your lips, letting you stick your tongue out and drool drip down your chin, “yeah. Keep your mouth open.”

This is mostly for the camera, the way he rubs himself on your face, the way you lay there and keep your mouth open. You don’t have to fake the desperation, but still.

Simon’s a pro.

He leans back, fingers finding your bare cunt and sliding a finger along your slit. Slippery, swollen, the contact is like drinking water in the desert. Like the satisfying pleasure-pain of pressing down a bruise.

His finger slides up and down shallowly, never stopping where you need it while you kiss the underside of his cock.

“This cock-hungry pussy’s soakin’ my fingers,” his eyes squint, like he’s grinning under the mask, “reckon I could solve a drought with this,” he lifts his finger to your mouth, slipping them in for you to taste yourself.

Where the fuck did John find this guy?

You play along, face burning, sucking his fingers with a soft moan.

After a moment, he leans back and gets off you, pulling your tanktop down as he does so your tits bounce back out. Hello again, ladies.

There’s a small moment of stalling where John sets the camera up on a tripod near the end of the bed and Simon drags you so your head is towards the headboard, and then it’s 3 2 1 action again.

“Hands on the headboard,” Simon gruffs, then slides onto his belly and presses his mask to your cunt. Your hands fly to the headboard, hanging on for dear life as he inhales through the fabric.

Jesus. He rubs the knit on your swollen pussy, up and down, spreading you open with his covered chin and then pressing his nose to your clit.

You don’t have to exaggerate your sounds. They come naturally, rising in pitch when he pushes his mask up just enough to see his pink, scarred lips wrap around your engorged clit.

He’s greedy, eating more to taste you than to please you.

When he lifts his head, mouth wet and tongue poking out to lick the remnants of your slick, stopping at the cusp of your orgasm, you give the camera at the end of the bed your best wounded animal look.

Simon doesn’t take his jeans off when he gets back up to his knees, shuffling to kneel between your legs.

You notice all too late that he hasn’t fingered you, not even a little dip. He’s licked you, sucked on your clit until you were keening, but there’s a deadly focus in his eyes as he puts the fat head of his cock against your hole that tells you you’re in trouble.

“Got a good look at this?,” he grunts, tilted towards the camera, “this is the best part.”

Oh fuck, he pushes in and it feels like a hydraulic press; crushing pressure, a sting, stretching taught around him as you gasp–

“Pinching me,” he curls his lip, abdomen tensing, “Jesus.”

“Oh god, fuck,” you shiver, trying to keep your knees spread, wincing and gasping in deep breaths for air as he carves a space inside you for himself.

“Relax,” he squeezes in further. Stretching, painful, intensely delicious, “relax that cunt for me, sweetheart. Let her get what she needs. ”

You try, only noticing John as he palms his bulge, watching your pussy struggling to take Simon’s cock.

It takes a few see-sawing movements of his hips before you finally loosen a little around him and he really lets loose. Doesn’t let you take a breath, just starts pounding like he’s getting a bonus for it and you shout with surprise.

A vision of an adventuring viking comes to mind, beaten and lashed by storm, the only respite to hang onto the mast in the middle of a ship… that’s the headboard for you.

He fucks like animal, but it’s still as graceful as the way he moved when he first entered the room. How can a man that looks so rough, is so big, roll his spine and slap his hips into yours in such a dancerly way? His pace is inhuman.

His cock spears into you like he’s digging for gold, tilted just so that you’re loud with how good it feels and almost wincing every time he pokes a little too deep.

You think maybe it’s on purpose, what with the way he stares down at you, big hands coming to hold your midsection and dig his fingers into your skin. 

Yeouch, that feels good.

“There she is,” he fucks you deep, unrelenting, groaning when he feels your hole start to squeeze, “doesn’t even need a hand, then,” he laughs.

He’s right. You don’t. Your abdomen squeezes, orgasm building, the first of its kind– without any kind of contact on your clit, that is.

You try to hold back for as long as possible, try to make eyes at the camera again, but you’re lost to the feeling of getting fucked so good and so deep. The feeling builds and builds and steamrolls you, legs shaking where they’re spread, ears going deaf with the blood rushing in them.

A scream bursts forth from your throat at the same time as you literally spray, slick soaking Simon’s jeans and the bottom of his t-shirt. 

There’s no time to be embarrassed with the hard, punitive thrusts he gives you as he rides his orgasm out behind yours, filling you up with hot come.

You’re boneless, after. Laying nice and still for John to get closeups of your creampie’d pussy, for Simon to rest his spent cock between your pussylips and grin under his mask, tucking himself back into his soiled jeans as John dismisses him.

He’s damp everywhere, but he strolls over to John’s little minibar area and pours himself a whiskey like it doesn’t bother him.

John doesn’t give you a break, either. He pans the camera to the mess on the bed, the wet spot you’d caused by squirting all over Simon’s cock.

John grins at you from behind the camera.

“You’re a natural, honey.”

[morganbritton132]

(Same universe as this, this, this, and this)

Wayne is at the stove.

The skillet sizzling. The air is thick. He’s got the window up and the screen door propped open, and he can hear those boys out there fussing under the hood of Steve’s car.

It’s a good day. One that they needed.

“One of yous boys get in here and set the table,” He calls out. “Supper’s almost ready.”

“Steve’s doing it!”

Heavy footsteps follow and when Wayne looks over, Steve’s tromping into the house fiddling with his hearing aid. He looks at Wayne and gestures at the door behind him, “Unfair advantage.”

He starts moving, washing his hands and grabbing the dishes before adding, “Eddie didn’t like, force me to help. I wanted to.”

“Didn’t think he did.”

“Right.”

“Have a seat when you’re done,” Wayne says and then calls Eddie in to scrub up. He gets an ‘lemme finish’ back and knows it’s a loss cause to do anything else so he goes back in and plates the food.

He sits his plate down, then Eddie’s, and then hands Steve his, but it’s not Steve’s hand that grabs it.

“What are you doing?” Eddie asks, taking the plate. “He can’t eat that. He’s allergic to fish.”

Wayne shoots Steve a betrayed look, “He brought the fish.”

“Technically Hopper gave it to me,” Steve cuts in. When he gets hit with two Munson stares, he adds sheepishly, “It’s a mild allergy.”

[h8aaz]

❝ 𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐧 𝐝𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐲 .ᐟ ❞

SUMMARY .ᐟ . . . soldier boy absolutely ruining you simply bc he can!! but also because he loves you :3

WARNINGS .ᐟ . . . f!reader . piv unprotected . drooling . slight dacryphilia . choking . slapping . rough sex . degrading + praise . swearing bc duh obviously what . overstimulation + mention of past orgasms . name calling (whore, slut, crybaby, bitch) + petnames (baby, sweetheart, honey) . probably some other stuff that i forgot so lmk ab those please !

GABS YAPS .ᐟ . . . i'm working on the first 'chapter' for sweetgirl!reader + my reader for soldier boy, which this isn't a part of btw!! so please bare with me as i work on that stuff lol. but i do have more standalone smut ideas so look out for those! likes, comments, + reblogs are very appreciated!!

"ugh- mmn- fuck!" you groaned as drool dribbled down your chin. ben rammed into you relentlessly, both hands on your ass, grabbing and pulling you back into him. he smacked the soft jiggling flesh until all was left were red handprints.

"yeah, you like that, huh? my pretty little slut." he teased. he reached a hand over to your mouth, letting out a primal groan at the touch of your wet face. "fuck. you're a drooling mess, aren't you, you fuckin' whore." he slapped you, gaining a whine full of pain and pleasure.

his cum-coated cock hit into your sweet, spongy spot once again. you screamed out multiple profanities as your orgasm slowly began to climb up again. he slipped in and out of you with ease due to the pure slick from your cunt.

he pistoned into you at an unruly pace, abusing your insides as they wrapped around him snugly, practically morphing into the perfect shape for only his dick. your hands frantically gripped into the sheets as your eyes rolled back, mouth agape with pornagraphic mewls, moans, and whines spewing out freely.

ben's hand striked your face once more before wrapping tightly around your throat. you whimpered at the pain before biting your lip, letting go as he had slapped you again. "don't. i wanna hear you scream while i ruin your tight little pussy." he demanded, earning a whine and nod in return.

he tighted his grip on your throat, "words, baby. now." he ordered. "ngh- yes- yes, sir- hah- oh, fuck, ben! yes, yes!" you managed to scream out as his hips quickened, his balls slapping against your swollen clit, making the sensitive pearl send your nerves into overdrive.

you were absolutely ruined; your makeup was smudged, hair messy, drool and tears covered your face, ass so red and bruised you knew you won't be able to sit properly— let alone walk after this, hickeys littered your body from your neck to your thighs, there was no way to cover them. but it's all worth it for this, for him.

ben's hands spread your ass open, drilling even further into your cunt. the sound of wet skin slamming together filled the room amongst the mixed noises from you both. you had came for what felt like the millionth time that night, the creamy ring at his base becoming whiter. he groaned before pulling out completely, making you whine at the loss of him.

he lifted you up and slid under you, making you straddle him. he slipped his cock back inside you and gave your ass a motivational smack after bottoming out. your legs shook profusely as you began to move up, mewls spewing from your mouth.

the overstimulation was beginning to get at you. "please," you sobbed as tears flowed down your face, "god, ben, please!" you begged. you didn't know if you were begging for more or for it to stop, all you knew was that he got off on your absolutely wrecked state.

the sight of your visible crying made him twitch inside you. "fuckin' crybaby." he spat, "gonna sob and whine all over my cock? that's fuckin' pathetic. take my dick like the good little bitch you are." he said before grabbing your hips and bucking his own into you, roughly.

"fuck!" you cried as you fell to his chest, your hands holding his broad shoulders. "c'mon, sweetheart, you can take it. yeah, yeah that's it, baby. take my fucking cock. oh fuck." he moaned as you slowly moved your hips to try and match his fast pace.

his fingers dug into your flesh as your final orgasm rained down onto him. you wept and moaned due to the overstimulation. ben's hips began to stutter as he got closer, his speed completely faltering as he came. the mixed cum spilled out from you, covering where the two of you were connected.

he rubbed his calloused fingers over the soft, sweaty skin of your back, soothing your shaking form. "did so good f'me, honey. so fucking good." he sighed blissfully before lifting you head and kissing your wet, panting mouth.

tags: @soldiersgirl @j2archives @sunsbaby @bejeweledinterludes @starzify @immodestly-marina @legalmente-loca @dulcescorderitas @ultravi0lence14 @cowboysandcigarettes @angelicjackles @mystic-writings @deansbeer @sunsettsam @vmiina @bluemerakis @figthoughts

[theivorybilledwoodpecker]

And look, some will point out that they are happy and their husband is a good man. Great for them. I'm not denying there are some people happy in that life and some people who marry genuinely good people.

But that is not the case for everyone. And when blogs and Instagrams glamorize the tradwife life, they leave out the stuff like:

Scrubbing toilets and other basic household tasks that don't look as fun as making food off pintrest. And yeah, everyone, tradwife or not, needs to do those things. But it's that blogs and social media leaves anything that doesn't look fun or pretty out that's a problem.

Having to find a job with no work experience if their husband dies

Not being able to afford bills if their husband loses their job

Finding out that their now jobless husband still doesn't feel obligated to help with choreds and the kids

Coming to a point where they firmly disagree with their husband...and having their husband ignore what they want. Then needing to find a way to deal with the realization that what they want doesn't matter, and trying to justify their husband's actions to themselves because the wife has no job and no funds, and if they have a support system, the support system has a stand-by-your-man mentality.

And if a person is okay with all of that, fine. I don't understand it, but fine. But they should know that being a tradwife isn't all pink dresses and baking cookies.

Found this on pinterest had to put it here

Tradwives need to realize the seriousness of the shit they are getting themselves into.

The society isn't all that kind to women.

[moonstruckme]

my queen of comfort 🙇🏻‍♀️

can i pls request a marauders with reader who has seasonal depression and it gets bad especially during the winters??? thank u 🫶

Thanks for being patient with me lovely <3

cw: depression, no harmful thoughts but general apathy and lethargy

Sirius Black x fem!reader ♡ 995 words

It’s warm in your bed. Almost too warm. The backs of your knees and the place where your arm is folded against your side feel uncomfortably heated. But Sirius kisses the back of your neck when he wakes, and you wouldn’t move for anything. 

“Let’s go to the farmer’s market today,” he says, voice sticky with sleep.

You look out the crack in the curtains covering your bedroom window. “It’s so cold out, though.” 

“So we’ll bundle up. You can put your hands in my pockets if you don’t feel like wearing your gloves.” His nose bumps your nape as he kisses you again. “It’ll be very romantic. The woman who sells the apple tarts said she’d be back this week, remember?” 

“Oh, yeah. I’m okay.” 

“You won’t let me get my girl a sweet? I thought you really liked those.” 

“I do, just.” Just. It feels like it’s all you say lately, like all you do is make excuses. Just, just, just. “It doesn’t seem worth it. It’s really gross outside.” 

Sirius’ arm comes around your waist. He doesn’t contradict you. It’s dreary and gray out your window, drizzling rain that bites like ice when it lands on your skin. You’d rather lose track of the day lying here with him, let it slip through your fingers and not think very hard about what it means that you have. Sirius’ fingers playing with yours make this all the more appealing. 

“What if we went to the cinema?” he asks. “That comedy film is showing this weekend.” 

“Didn’t James want to see that one?” 

“Think so, yeah.” 

“You should take him.” 

“I don’t want to take James.” Your joined hands press to your hip, a gentle request for you to turn around. But you don’t want to look at him, and Sirius doesn’t make you. He squeezes your fingers instead. “I want to take you.” 

That’s the important bit. Sirius doesn’t care about the farmer’s market, or even really about the film. You know he only wants you to get up, to go anywhere and do anything at all, and you feel like shit for resisting him. You shouldn’t, either. You know how sadness can sink its talons in the longer it holds you. 

“I’m sorry. Yeah, let’s go.” 

“Don’t be sorry, lovely girl,” he chides fondly. “We don’t have to go if you won’t enjoy it. What do you want to do?” 

You try to muster something for him, you really do, but after a handful of hapless moments you can only be honest. 

“I don’t think I want anything.” 

“That’s okay.” Sirius drops a kiss on your shoulder. “Hey, could you look at me? Please?” 

You roll over, miserable and made more miserable by the aching tenderness in your boyfriend’s expression. This new spot on the bed is colder than where you’d been, but Sirius’ knee bumps against yours, his palm slipping beneath your head on the pillow. He doesn’t hesitate to touch you. Doesn't treat you like you’re breakable or wrong or contagious. His hand flattens under your cheek and warms your skin like he can bleed goodness into you. 

“It’s okay,” he says again, softly. 

“I’m sorry.” 

Sirius tsks. “Now what for?” 

“Making things so hard,” you murmur. You’re trying not to disturb his palm with your mouth movements. 

“Sweetheart, nothing’s hard when I’m with you. I just want to be with you. We can just sit here and talk all day if you want.” 

“I don’t think I’m very nice to talk to right now.” 

“What does that matter? I know I’m awful to talk to half the time. We can be morbid bellyachers together.” 

With some effort, you lift one corner of your mouth. Sirius kisses it rewardingly. 

“You are a delight to talk to, by the way. Always.” 

“A delight?” you whisper. 

“Mhm.” 

There’s a piece of his hair that’s arching over his face, all sprightly and mussed about by the pillowcase. You’re close enough that it moves when you breathe. You blow, and it tickles Sirius’ nose. He smiles. 

“I don’t think I want to talk,” you admit. 

“That’s okay.” 

“I know I’m not fun to be around right now. I’m sorry, I don’t mean to make everything miserable.” You look at the dip of his cupid’s bow rather than his eyes. “I love you.” 

It feels important to say. Even when you’re dropping it in his lap awkwardly, like a plea. 

Sirius tilts his head until his eyes meet yours. Dark lashes and silver pools, like moonlight glancing off water. “I love you,” he says, so sincere it burns. “I have another idea.” 

You hum. 

“We watch a film here instead. Or a show, whatever. But first, you tell me how to make french toast so we can have some for breakfast.” 

“You don’t want me to make it?” You don’t want to, but you’d try for him. 

“I want to do something for you.” He kisses you, soft and sweet. He tastes like sleep. “But you’re allowed to help if you like.” 

Allowed amuses you, though you don’t smile. Sirius’ eyes glint like he can tell just the same. 

“You do lots of things for me,” you say. 

“Good. I’d like to continue adding to the tally; it’s how I keep my edge.” 

You look at Sirius, thinking of how much you must love him for it to ache this deeply. Thinking of how he loves you, and how unfair it seems. He keeps doing it even when you give him every reason not to. 

Sirius can tell you’ve slipped away. He strokes his thumb over your cheek. “So, what do you say, gorgeous?” 

You don’t really want to eat french toast. You think you’d swallow battery acid if he made it for you, though. “It sounds nice.” 

“Yeah?” He grins. “Okay, let’s go then, yeah? I’m starving.” 

You give Sirius your hands when he reaches for them, and you let him pull you up.

[egophiliac]

once again, don't think I'm not still obsessing over 7-12

(eventually I will get back to being less scribbly, whoops)

[hinamie]

in spite of everything, I had fun <3

[ariaste]

So I was nodding along almost the whole way through, I was saying "Yeah!" and "Oof, I feel that, I can relate," until I got to:

"be forceful, if you have to, and learn to distinguish real discomfort from the terrified reflex of self-denial" and "you must insist upon her [...] because she may still not yet know how".

And... yeah, no, kinda lost me there. Now, don't get me wrong! It is perfectly valid if you're doing those things essentially as kink (or not-really-kink-but-kinda-uses-the-same-tools-and-skillset) -- that is, you and your beloved have sat down and talked about her discomfort and her difficulties, and the difference between actual discomfort and cognitive dissonance at the concept of having nice things for herself, and how SHE wants you to recognize the distinction (and what signals SHE can give to provide cues in cases of ambiguity), and she's given you express permission to do the Being Forceful thing in pursuit of doing nice things for her and insisting or persuading her into accepting them -- AND y'all have talked about how she can communicate effectively when your insistence and persuasion isn't just not landing right for some reason or when it's actually starting to cross a line. If you've done all that: great, godspeed, I love your love. Make her accept all the compliments and adoration and the nice things she deserves! Your crusade to love her properly is righteous and just!

However. The vast majority of us across the spectrum of transness have experienced people crossing our boundaries, infantilizing and condescending to us, assuming that they know better than us about what we want, and ignoring our quiet, hesitant attempts to push back in small ways as we try to establish a foothold and figure out how much space we're allowed to take up. So... idk, putting "be forceful" and "insist because she may not yet know how" right next to solid, sound advice for all situations like "be patient, be generous" as if they are equivalent in meaning and impact and importance just... rubs me the wrong way. I think OP is absolutely speaking coming from a place of love and positivity, but... this needs caveats.

Because man-oh-man I have personally experienced this kind of thing from both sides: Just because you know that something is going to be good for someone doesn't mean they're going to appreciate having it forced on them. Just because you're absolutely sure that someone will be delighted by something doesn't mean that you're always going to be right.

Suppose the nice thing that someone (let's call them Tye) is doing for their partner (let's call her Mia) is... taking her out to her favorite Italian restaurant. Suppose Tye does this every week without fail, and they feel great about it because Mia loves this restaurant and she deserves to be treated like a princess. But what happens if one week she's bored of it, or not in the mood for Italian food? What happens if she says, "Hey, maybe we don't have to go today... I don't really need all this, what if we just eat toast and eggs--" and Tye says, "NO NO. NO, I LOVE YOU AND WE'RE GOING! YOU DESERVE IT!!!" Y'know what I'm saying??? That's not actually about loving Mia anymore, that's more about Tye getting off on their own heroism. And Mia is once again having to shut up and make herself small.

If the goal is to love your person and give her space to grow confident enough to accept and embrace all the love and wonderful things she deserves, the strategy of forcefulness and insistence COULD actually end up being counter-intuitively DISempowering if it is not explicitly consensual: It is removing opportunities for her to practice communicating her own needs, choosing happiness, and valuing herself where other people can see. It is reinforcing the lesson she has already learned from the rest of society, which is that her self-knowledge and boundaries are inferior to the wants and goals of the people around her.

Having a partner who is so passionate about loving us that they INSIST on giving us the things we secretly long for even when we're scared and shy of accepting them ourselves (and that they always telepathically know exactly what is going to be the perfect thing even before we know it ourselves, and they never once make a mistake in reading our mood when we come home tired from work, and they're always able to seamlessly adjust their plans to accommodate our whim)... It is a lovely fantasy. I will not deny that it is a very lovely fantasy and that I too would like to go to there. That sounds FANTASTIC.

But at the end of the day you are loving an adult human being and "no means no" must remain true even if you think you perceive a glint of longing in her eye (unless modified rules of consent have been established and ratified between you prior to this). Absolutely be patient, be generous, be loving, be attentive and proactive. But also you also gotta be okay with backing the hell off sometimes. You gotta be humble enough to acknowledge that sometimes you might be projecting your own past self's longings, rather than looking at the person in front of you with clear eyes. Create a space where it's safe for her to come out of her protective shell instead of dragging her out of it before she's ready. Encourage her to set her own boundaries, and express appreciation when she does so, especially when the boundaries are ones you disagree with or are personally inconvenienced by.

You cannot force a person to move faster along their journey of loving themself. Having someone insist on giving you love (and I'm once again speaking from experience here, as someone who has been on both sides) can sometimes end up making the beloved feel more guilty, more self-conscious, and more aware of their own "failures" and "deficiencies". To the person trying to do that style of love, it probably IS purely in good faith, but to the person receiving it, it can sometimes come across as a constant implicit reminder of, "I'm not doing it right, I'm still not doing it right, and everyone can tell. No matter how hard I try I still can't do it right, I hate myself even more now."

OP absolutely hit the nail on the head with everything about, "I had to stop [negative self-thoughts], I had to start [taking care of myself], I had to learn [those skills], but more than that I had to learn to ask[...]. it was agony, but courage is a muscle you can train." 100% cosigned. That is exactly it -- training muscles. You can be someone's spotter and cheerleader, but you can't lift the weights for them, and forcing them to lift more than they're ready for often hurts more than it helps. Communicate! Establish a culture of consent even outside the bedroom! And continue to be patient even when it turns out that progress is not a straight line without any stumbles!

so many of the transfems i know spent their time pre-transition performing a kind of lifelong exercise in self-deprivation, the goal of which was to find out exactly how little a person needed to live. they starved themselves, dressed carelessly, shunned friends, and hollowed themselves out so as not to be burdens on anyone but themselves.

i see it now, too, in the girls around me. i'll ask if they want care – a home-cooked meal, relaxed company, sex without the expectation of reciprocation – and they say no, no, thank you, i don't need it; what would you like, what do you want, because in their head they're still doing that awful calculus, still training themselves to disappear in the eyes of the people around them.

i don't think i'd have died without transition – not in the conventional sense, at least – but to take that leap, i had to stop thinking of myself as a human experiment in fuel-efficient living and start nurturing the anemic, atrophied flame of desire in my heart. i had to learn to eat well, to exercise, to style myself beautiful, but harder than that, i had to learn to ask the people around me to work on my behalf in order to enrich my life and give me the things i wanted.

and i did it; i learned. and it was agony, but courage is a muscle you can train, and every day i get better at accepting gifts with the hungry gratitude i never learned in my years and years as a sad, scared, lonely boy.

so be patient with the trans girls in your life. better than that: be proactive, attentive, generous; be forceful, if you have to, and learn to distinguish real discomfort from the terrified reflex of self-denial that so many of us once learned to rely on.

and if you are so lucky as to love a trans girl, you must insist upon her. you must insist upon her happiness, her comfort, her pleasure, and her rest, because she may still not yet know how to make those demands for herself. if you can devote any amount of energy to becoming an engine that nurtures the flame of even a single tgirl then there is a place for you in trans heaven, which as far as i'm concerned is the only one worth going to