#but the MOMENT you're close enough it's over for them

[bluukive]

This is my first time actually making a request/ ask of any kind because I feel like such a pervert 🫣 but could you possibly write how the JJk guys would react to a reader who’s a surprise squriter? -🦎

!MDNI: Surprise? - JJK

an - I actually know nothing about sqwuirting so this might be unrealistic? Ty for the ask tho <3

ᡣ𐭩 G. Satoru

Starts crying

Like he's so dramatic about it, lower lip jutted out as he thinks 'Oh, shit. My girl's a supersoaker???', all whilst he's staring at your twitching body below him.

Tries giving you a high-five, ignoring the fact you're boneless right now. You can't really blame him, he's beyond excited. Probably just ends up slapping your thigh.

He's brought back into reality when your pussy refuses to let him go almost, gripping him like a vice.

Says he needs to see you do it again for 'scientific purposes' - he's got his phone out with the flash on, recording from all angles possible as his fingers slide in and out, curl up inside you with his face as close to your pussy as possible so that he can throw a cheeky wink at the camera.

Non-stop yapper after, like... worse than usual. He's laying on his belly in bed, legs swinging as he goes on and on about how flattered he is and how you must love him so much

ᡣ𐭩 G. Suguru

Quiet when it happens. He just stares for a while before exhaling and pulling his cock out of you. Suguru's head is tilted as he admired his still pulsing length. It as hard as ever, but the only difference now is that it's glistening with your release.

Slaps his cock against your clit, smirking when you curl in on yourself due to overstimulation. Will also whisper about how nasty of a slut you are, getting his dick wet like that

He restrains you (consensually ofc) with whatever he can. Suguru wants to see you frustrated, so he'll use anything to edge you, whether that be his tongue, fingers, toys. etc.

Dare I say when you finally orgasm and squirt again, he comes untouched too. He developed a fascination with edging just because it made that final release all the more satisfying for you both

All cuddles and praise after, but he's thinking of different ways to make you do it again

ᡣ𐭩 T. Fushiguro

Nearly stops completely, cursing as his hips falter. You've been folded in half when it happens, and the spurts of your release hit his aps, coating them in a glossy sheen that he's staring down at. Feels his heart thumping in his ears, Toji's that turned on

Smug as hell once he's recovered (acting like he didn't pull out and squeeze his cock slightly to prevent himself from cumming on the spot)

Runs his entire hand down both his abs and chest and makes you lick it all clean after staring at it. You swear it looked like he was rebooting, and you mentally log it in your head to tease him about it later.

Once that's all done, your knees are practically by your ears as he pushes your legs back even further (idek how that's possible, my fatass could never). Toji's swearing to wring you out like a damn towel, determined to make you do it again

You both end up overstimulated, Toji just couldn't stop himself from getting hard whenever he saw your pussy gush all over him

ᡣ𐭩 N. Kento

Mr. Short-circuit pt 2 yessir. Starts saying stuff like 'Did I do that to you?, 'Was that because of me?', and he knows damn well it was all him.

You squirt for the first time when he's eating you out, actually. His glasses are covered in stray drops of your orgasm, and he politely wipes them clean, all whilst taking a moment to smile privately. He's made you do that, no-one else. Nanami's face is a pretty pink throughout it all.

First makes sure you're okay. After all, your comfort is Nanami's priority above everything else. He wants verbal confirmation that you felt good, a nod isn't good enough.

Once you give him that shaky 'yes', something shifts in Nanami. He's borderline clinical with how he touches and inspects your pussy after. His glasses are off, and his eyes remain trained on your pussy whilst he's fucking into you.

A thumb stays on your clit throughout it all, and he's changing the pace of the focused digit. When Nanami feels like you're close to orgasm, he slows down. He's unintentionally edging you, but neither of you are complaining when your back arches off the bed for the nth time that night

Thanks you when you squirt, for trusting him this much

ᡣ𐭩 S. Ryomen

Pretends that it's an inconvenience when you accidentally squirt on him. He's actually hiding how obsessed he is with you at that moment

Grabs your face, practically snarling when he degrades you. Sukuna's hissing out commands, talking about how you've soiled him. It's apparently now your duty to squirt again with ONLY his permission

It's become a challenge for him to make you soak his body over and over, and he's dragging his tongue all over your cunt when it happens (even if that means he has to pull his cock/s out of you)

Calls you weak multiple times. Frankly doesn't care if you're crying, he'll just lick the tears right back up. Time to recover from an orgasm is practically non-existent

Develops a need to have you ride his thigh at least once a day whilst he's on his throne. It's a way for him to humiliate you, making you buck your hips like you're in heat until he can feel the wetness coat the thick muscle.

[lanadelspray02]

A BEAUTIFUL MISTAKE: CHAPTER 1

paige x azzi

warning: sexual content !!

hey guys! an anon on tumblr requested a friends with benefits series, so here it is. I will still be mainly focusing on hold me anyway, but i will every now and then release a chapter for this series. let me know what you think or if you even want me to continue it :) I honestly dont know how i feel about this.

crossposted ao3 here

masterlist here

wc: 7370

--------------------

The AC in Azzi’s dorm apartment had been broken for two weeks, but neither of them seemed to mind tonight. The windows were cracked just wide enough to let in a breeze that barely touched the edges of the room, fluttering the corner of a Kobe Bryant poster on the wall.

Azzi was sprawled across the couch in biker shorts and a too-big UConn shirt, one bare leg tucked beneath her and the other brushing against Paige’s thigh. Paige pretended not to notice — or maybe she just didn’t want to admit how badly she did.

The music playing was a mellow, late-night playlist Azzi had made on Spotify — mostly H.E.R. and SZA, with a little bit of Brent Faiyaz thrown in. It pulsed soft and low from a speaker on the windowsill, fading into the quiet hum of the room.

Paige leaned back against the armrest, one socked foot propped on the coffee table, an almost-empty can of spiked seltzer dangling from her fingertips. She looked relaxed, but Azzi could feel the shift in the air. The slow burn of eye contact that held too long, the laugh that stuck in her throat half a second after Paige’s smile.

This had been happening for weeks. Maybe longer. Paige wasn’t subtle when she flirted — and Azzi wasn’t stupid.

“You're actually insane if you think Bryson Tiller clears Summer Walker,” Azzi said, grinning around the lip of her glass as she took another sip.

Paige raised an eyebrow. “He’s literally heartbreak personified. She’s great, but you can’t tell me Exchange didn’t wreck you in 2017.”

“I was fourteen in 2017.”

“Exactly. Prime wreckable age.”

Azzi snorted, shaking her head as she leaned over to refill her drink. Her hair was pulled into a loose bun, a few curls sticking to the back of her neck. Paige’s gaze followed the movement of her arm, the dip of her shirt collar as she reached for the bottle. She didn't say anything. Just sipped her seltzer and tried to pretend she hadn’t noticed the way Azzi’s thigh pressed a little closer to hers when she sat back down.

“You’re quiet,” Azzi said after a beat, tilting her head toward her.

Paige shrugged, lips twitching at the corner. “Just taking it all in.”

“Oh yeah?” Azzi asked, amused. “What exactly is there to take in?”

“You,” Paige said, and her voice wasn’t teasing this time. It was low and easy, like it had just slipped out — honest without asking for anything in return.

Azzi blinked, her expression flickering for a moment into something unreadable. Then she gave a lazy smile, one brow arching as she leaned in just a little closer. “You trying to be smooth right now?”

“Do I have to try?”

That earned a laugh — soft, close to genuine — and then Azzi reached out and flicked Paige’s shoulder. “Cocky.”

Paige didn’t move away. “Confident.”

“Same thing.”

“Nope.” Paige leaned forward, bracing one arm on the back of the couch behind Azzi’s shoulders. “Confidence means I know what I want.”

Azzi’s smile faltered just enough to make the air between them shift again. Paige’s fingers brushed lightly against the back of Azzi’s neck — not quite a touch, more like a suggestion. The music dipped into a new song, something with a slow bass line and lyrics they weren’t really listening to anymore.

Azzi swallowed. “And what is it you want, exactly?”

Paige didn’t answer with words. She just reached down, slowly, and curled her fingers around Azzi’s waist — firm but careful — and pulled her into her lap.

Azzi made a quiet sound, surprised more than anything, her knees folding on either side of Paige’s hips as she adjusted her balance. She was warm. Solid. Close in a way that erased the space between flirting and something heavier.

“That’s bold,” Azzi murmured, but her voice had dropped half an octave.

Paige looked up at her, hands still resting low on her waist. “You gonna stop me?”

Azzi’s hands landed on Paige’s shoulders, fingers curling slightly in the fabric of her t-shirt. Her smile turned sharp. “I didn’t say that.”

The kiss happened like an exhale — slow at first, then deeper, more deliberate. Azzi shifted her weight forward, pressing Paige back into the couch as her hips settled into the space between Paige’s legs. Paige let out a soft sound that might’ve been a groan, her hands sliding up Azzi’s back and pulling her closer until there was nothing between them but heat and history and the kind of want that had been building for months.

Azzi’s hair brushed Paige’s cheek. Paige kissed her harder. Azzi answered without hesitation.

They didn’t say anything for a long time.

Only moved — lips and hands and the slight, rhythmic push of Azzi’s body against Paige’s lap as tension coiled tighter between them like something inevitable.

 --------------------

Azzi’s mouth was on hers again, open and wanting, all soft lips and sharp edges. Paige couldn’t remember the last time she’d been kissed like this — like someone had been waiting for permission. Azzi shifted her hips in Paige’s lap, slow at first, testing, and Paige exhaled hard, fingers digging into Azzi’s waist. Her t-shirt had ridden up just enough to bare skin, and Paige’s hands found it greedily — warm, smooth, real.

Azzi pulled back just enough to breathe, just enough to look down at her with something dangerous flickering in her eyes. “Still think you’re in control?” she asked, her voice low and uneven, her hands slipping up under Paige’s shirt, palms dragging over her ribs, thumbs brushing just under the swell of her chest.

Paige licked her lips, leaned forward until her mouth was at Azzi’s ear. “Not yet,” she murmured, and then stood.

Azzi yelped softly in surprise as Paige rose to her feet, her arms instinctively winding around Paige’s neck, legs still locked around her waist. Paige held her easily, one hand under her thighs, the other braced across her back, guiding them through the small dorm apartment like it was muscle memory. The hallway was short, but the tension between them stretched it long — every second taut with heat, with the way Azzi’s breath caught against Paige’s neck, with the way Paige pressed her a little tighter against the wall as they passed, just to feel the gasp that slipped out.

Paige’s mouth found Azzi’s jaw, her throat, the place just beneath her ear that made Azzi twitch in her arms. Her grip tightened, and Azzi let her head fall back, lips parted, fingers threading through Paige’s hair as her body arched toward the contact.

By the time they reached the bedroom, they were both flushed, breathing uneven, teeth flashing between kisses that turned rough in the way that only happened when restraint finally snapped.

Paige set Azzi down gently on the edge of the bed, but Azzi didn’t let go. She pulled Paige down with her, dragged her into the sheets with urgency, and their mouths found each other again like they were starving.

Paige kissed her again, then shifted downward, dragging her mouth along Azzi’s chest — slow and open-mouthed — until she caught one nipple between her lips. Azzi gasped, her back arching, fingers tightening in Paige’s hair. Paige swirled her tongue around it, then sucked hard, just to see how Azzi would react. She wasn’t disappointed.

“Fuck—Paige,” Azzi breathed, hips twitching upward as she tried to anchor herself to something. Paige moved to the other breast, repeating the same hungry attention, and Azzi whimpered beneath her, pulling at her shoulders, trying to get her closer, deeper, more.

Paige smiled against her skin. “You’re already so sensitive,” she murmured. “Bet you’ve been thinking about this, huh?”

Azzi opened her mouth to respond but couldn’t find anything but another moan as Paige’s hand slipped lower, past the curve of her waist, fingers teasing the waistband of her underwear.

“Say it,” Paige said, her lips ghosting against Azzi’s stomach now, moving lower. “Say you’ve been thinking about me.”

“I—” Azzi’s voice cracked, half a breath, half a confession. “I have.”

“Good,” Paige whispered.

She hooked her fingers in Azzi’s underwear and dragged them down, slow and deliberate, exposing her inch by inch. Azzi tried to close her thighs, overwhelmed, but Paige pressed a firm hand to the inside of one, pushing her open again. She kissed along the inside of her knee, then up, slow and hot and teasing, until she could feel the tremble in Azzi’s legs. Paige looked up — and Azzi was already watching her, eyes glazed over, lips parted.

“Don’t look away,” Paige said, and then lowered her mouth to her.

Azzi’s reaction was instant — a choked gasp, her hips jerking up into Paige’s face, one hand flying to the headboard, the other fisting in Paige’s hair. Paige groaned against her, tongue parting her folds and licking through them like she already knew every part. She was warm and wet and tasted like every fantasy Paige had tried not to let herself have.

Paige flattened her tongue, dragged it slow from bottom to top, then circled her clit — gentle at first, then faster, firmer, until Azzi was panting above her, thighs squeezing tight around her head. Paige moaned at the pressure, loving it, letting Azzi ride her face as she worked her tongue in tight, rhythmic circles.

Azzi’s voice broke on a curse. “Oh my God, don’t stop—”

She didn’t.

Paige reached up, slipping one hand beneath Azzi’s ass and lifting her just enough to keep her in place, the other hand slipping between Azzi’s thighs to tease her entrance. She pressed a single finger inside, slow and deep, and Azzi’s whole body arched like she’d been hit with electricity.

“Paige—” It came out broken. Begging.

Paige added a second finger and started moving — curling with every thrust, tongue never stopping on her clit. Azzi was losing it, gasping, cursing, her heels digging into the mattress as her body fought to keep up with how good it felt.

Her voice was ragged. “Gonna—fuck, Paige, I—”

“Let go,” Paige murmured, barely pulling back enough to speak. “I got you.”

That did it.

Azzi came hard, thighs trembling around Paige’s head, her whole body tensing, breath catching in her throat before breaking into a long, desperate moan. Paige didn’t stop — kept licking her through it, fingers working her slow and deep until Azzi was shaking, overstimulated, pleading softly through clenched teeth.

When Paige finally pulled back, her mouth and chin slick, she crawled back up Azzi’s body and kissed her. Azzi tasted herself on Paige’s lips, and groaned into her mouth, grabbing her face like she couldn’t stand to be any farther away.

“You’re fucking unreal,” Azzi whispered when they finally broke apart, voice hoarse.

Paige smirked, brushing sweat-damp curls away from her forehead. “Told you I knew what I wanted.”

Azzi pulled her in again, rolling them so Paige was beneath her this time, and kissed her until her legs started shaking again — until wanting turned into needing all over again.

Azzi kissed her like she was making up for all the time they'd spent pretending they didn’t want this — deep and dizzying, tongue sliding against Paige’s as her hand skimmed down her chest. Paige was still panting, the aftershocks of what she’d just done vibrating through her muscles, but she didn’t resist as Azzi shifted on top of her, dragging her leg over and straddling her waist.

Paige’s hands found Azzi’s hips, still trembling slightly, and Azzi grinned against her mouth. “You good?” she asked, but the glint in her eyes said she already knew the answer.

“I will be,” Paige rasped, “once you stop teasing.”

Azzi leaned down, her mouth trailing a path along Paige’s jaw, her throat, across the collarbone already marked by a few of Paige’s earlier bites. “Then shut up and let me focus.”

Her hands were everywhere — confident but reverent, like she was still wrapping her head around the fact that she was allowed to touch Paige like this. She cupped her breasts, brushed her thumbs across her nipples, then bent down to take one into her mouth, sucking just hard enough to make Paige gasp. Paige arched into her with a sharp inhale, her fingers digging into Azzi’s back.

Azzi moved slow at first — kissing down the center of her chest, then her stomach, tongue sliding along the ridges of muscle as Paige tensed beneath her. When she reached the waistband of Paige’s shorts, she hooked her fingers there and looked up.

“Can I?”

“Azzi,” Paige groaned, “if you don’t—”

That was all the permission she needed. She pulled them down quickly, underwear with them, then tossed them off the side of the bed. She paused for half a second to just look — at Paige laid out beneath her, lips kiss-swollen, chest rising fast, legs spread open and slick with arousal.

“You’re so fucking pretty,” Azzi whispered, more to herself than anything.

Paige opened her mouth to fire back something cocky — probably a joke, probably a tease — but then Azzi’s mouth was on her, and nothing clever came out.

She licked her slowly first, just to watch Paige react — the twitch in her thighs, the way her hand flew up to grip the sheets. Then she flattened her tongue and dragged it through her folds, savoring the taste, before closing her lips around her clit and sucking hard.

Paige cursed loud and bucked her hips, one hand reaching down to grab Azzi’s hair. “Holy fuck—”

Azzi smiled against her and kept going — her tongue worked in tight, steady circles, her hand sliding up to press down gently on Paige’s stomach, grounding her. Every now and then she’d back off just to tease, to flick her tongue lightly or drag it maddeningly slow, only to suck again harder when Paige started to whine.

When she felt Paige getting close — her hips rolling, her thighs starting to shake — she slipped a finger inside her. Paige choked on a moan, eyes flying open, head falling back against the pillow.

Azzi curled her finger, then added a second, pumping them in deep, slow thrusts while her mouth never let up. Paige was falling apart under her — cursing, gasping, hand tight in her curls as if she couldn’t stand the thought of Azzi stopping for even a second.

Azzi loved it — loved the sound of Paige breaking for her, the way she’d gone from cocky to wrecked in minutes. “That’s it,” she murmured against her, voice low and thick with arousal. “Come for me, Paige.”

And Paige did — hard. Her whole body tensed, her breath caught in her throat, her hips stuttered. She let out a broken sound, deep and raw, as she fell over the edge. Azzi kept her mouth on her until Paige physically tugged her up, dragging her in for a kiss with the little strength she had left.

They kissed for a long time, still half-naked, chests slick with sweat, legs tangled. Neither of them said anything for a while — not because there was nothing to say, but because whatever they’d just done wasn’t the kind of thing you could explain out loud.

--------------------

The room was quiet, save for the low hum of the fan spinning unevenly in the corner. Outside, campus had gone still — no more late-night stragglers, no more music bleeding through the walls. Just the soft sound of breathing and the occasional creak of the mattress when one of them shifted.

Paige lay on her back, arm curled under her head, eyes fixed on a faint crack in the ceiling she’d never noticed before. Azzi was on her side, the sheet tangled around her legs, her bare shoulder brushing Paige’s lightly. They hadn’t spoken in almost five minutes. The kind of silence that wasn’t just tired — it was loaded. Something was shifting between them. They both felt it.

Azzi cleared her throat, voice still hoarse from earlier. “So… are we gonna talk about it?”

Paige didn’t look at her. “Talk about what?”

Azzi rolled her eyes. “You know what.”

A pause. Then Paige exhaled and turned her head just enough to glance at her. “You mean the part where you came on my face and then pretended nothing happened?”

Azzi blinked, caught between a laugh and a glare. “Jesus.”

Paige smirked, just a little, but it faded quickly. “Fine. Yeah. We should talk.”

Azzi sat up, hugging her knees to her chest, hair a mess around her shoulders. Paige pushed herself upright more slowly, the sheet pooling at her hips. They didn’t look at each other at first.

“So what is this?” Azzi asked, voice quieter now.

Paige rubbed a hand over her face. “It was… good sex.”

Azzi shot her a look.

“What?” Paige asked. “It was. Really good. Possibly illegal in some states.”

Azzi snorted, but the laugh didn’t reach her eyes. “You’re deflecting.”

Paige looked at her for a long moment. “Okay. Yeah. I am.”

More silence. Not heavy. Not yet. Just cautious.

Azzi hesitated before saying, “I’m not looking for a relationship.”

Paige’s stomach twisted — not because she didn’t expect it, but because hearing it out loud still stung. She nodded slowly. “Me neither.”

Azzi raised a brow. “You sure?”

“I wouldn’t have pulled you onto my lap if I wasn’t.”

Azzi squinted at her. “That logic makes zero sense.”

Paige shrugged, voice dry. “Welcome to my brain.”

They stared at each other for a beat longer, then Azzi finally leaned back against the headboard. “So… rules?”

“Sure,” Paige said, though her chest already felt tight. “Rules are good. Rules are smart.”

Azzi started counting off on her fingers. “No catching feelings.”

Paige gave her a look. “Obvious, but okay.”

“No sleepovers.”

Paige gestured vaguely at the bed. “Failing spectacularly already.”

Azzi shrugged. “Exceptions can be made for post-orgasm comas.”

“Noted.”

They were both quiet for a moment, then Paige said, “No texting at weird hours.”

Azzi frowned. “Why?”

Paige glanced away. “Because 2 a.m. texts start to feel like something else.”

Azzi chewed on her bottom lip, nodding slowly. “Okay. No late-night texts unless it’s strictly logistical.”

Paige snorted. “What, like ‘meet me in ten, bring ice packs’?”

“Exactly.”

She was trying to make it funny. They both were. But the edges were too sharp, too close to something real. Paige shifted uncomfortably and added, “No telling the team.”

Azzi nodded. “God, no. You know they’d never shut up.”

“KK would start a countdown for how fast we’d catch feelings.”

“And Nika would have a betting pool by breakfast.”

They both smiled at that, a flicker of ease sliding into the space between them. But it didn’t last.

Azzi leaned her head back and stared at the ceiling. “What about… seeing other people?”

Paige froze.

Azzi looked at her. “Like… we can. Right?”

Paige forced her jaw to unclench. “Of course. Yeah. This isn’t exclusive.”

Azzi nodded quickly, like she was reassuring herself. “Right. Just sex. That’s it.”

“Exactly.” Paige laid back down again, staring at the ceiling. “Just stress relief. A mutual favor.”

Azzi laughed once. “You’re so bad at pretending you don’t care.”

Paige’s smile was tight. “So are you.”

Another silence. This one stretched.

Azzi laid back down beside her, not quite touching. “It doesn’t have to be complicated.”

“It already is,” Paige said quietly.

Neither of them said anything for a long time after that.

Eventually, Azzi rolled to her side and said, voice soft, “You’re still staying, though, right?”

Paige looked over. “Thought we weren’t doing sleepovers.”

Azzi shrugged, not meeting her eyes. “There’s an exception for post-orgasm comas, remember?”

Paige chuckled, but it didn’t quite reach her chest. “Right.”

She reached out under the sheets and found Azzi’s hand. Their fingers laced automatically.

No more words. Just that fragile, unspoken thing growing between them.

They fell asleep like that — not touching, but tethered.

And neither of them dreamed about anyone else.

--------------------

Azzi woke slowly, the way you do when your body wants more sleep but your mind has already decided it’s over. The light coming in through the blinds was soft and diluted, just enough to tint the room in a pale gray that made everything look quieter than it was. She blinked up at the ceiling, adjusting to the stillness, and only when she reached out on instinct did she realize Paige wasn’t there.

Her arm stretched across the mattress, fingers brushing the sheet, but the spot where Paige had been hours ago was already cold.

Azzi didn’t move for a moment. Her hand stayed there, resting against the empty space, and she stared up at the ceiling like maybe if she stayed still long enough, the world would shift backward. Just a little. Just to last night.

The room smelled like her shampoo and Paige’s deodorant. There was a sweatshirt on the floor that didn’t belong to her, one sleeve turned inside out like it had been taken off in a rush. Her nightstand drawer was half-open — she didn’t remember opening it. Her phone was face down. And on the chair by the closet, her clothes were folded neatly, but the edge of Paige’s t-shirt was gone.

No text. No note. Not even a missed call.

Azzi exhaled slowly, more habit than feeling, and rolled onto her back, dragging the sheet up to her chest like it might hold something together. It didn’t. Her body was still sore in places she hadn’t been touched in months — tender reminders of a night she wasn’t supposed to hold onto. But it was hard to forget. Her skin still buzzed with the shape of Paige’s hands, the echo of her mouth, the weight of how it felt to be wanted like that.

She closed her eyes for a second longer, pressing the heel of her hand gently against her sternum. It wasn’t heartbreak. It wasn’t even disappointment. It was just… that slow, empty pull. The reminder that she’d made the rules. That Paige was just following them.

Azzi finally sat up, legs swinging over the edge of the bed. Her bare feet hit the floor with a dull thud. The air was cooler than it had been last night. Her window was cracked open an inch, letting in the distant sound of someone on a skateboard and a few birds that wouldn’t shut up. She pulled her robe off the back of her desk chair, slipped it on, and padded into the kitchen without turning on the lights.

The apartment was still. Caroline and Ice were probably still asleep, their doors shut. Azzi moved on autopilot — kettle, mug, instant coffee, a splash of oat milk. Her hands moved like they were used to distraction, like they’d memorized the steps of pretending everything was normal.

She sat at the small dining table, one leg pulled up under her robe, cradling her mug with both hands. The first sip burned her tongue slightly. She didn’t care.

Her phone lit up on the counter — not a message from Paige. Just Caroline: “Brunch? I’m starving and bored.”

Azzi stared at the screen for a second, then typed back: “Sure. Let me shower.”

No mention of last night. No questions. No confessions.

She locked her phone, sipped her coffee, and kept her face blank as the mug warmed her fingers.

Just sex, she reminded herself.

She didn’t believe it either.

--------------------

The brunch spot was barely a five-minute walk off campus, one of those places that always smelled like cinnamon and espresso no matter what time of day it was. The windows were fogged slightly from the heat of the kitchen, and the patio seating was already half full of students in sweats and sunglasses nursing iced lattes like hangover remedies. Azzi spotted Caroline immediately — tucked in the far corner under an umbrella, one foot propped on the empty chair across from her, sunglasses perched in her hair and a nearly empty mimosa in her hand.

Azzi approached quietly, adjusting the strap of her crossbody bag across her chest. She’d tied her curls up into a high bun after her shower, loose strands escaping around her face. Oversized hoodie. Leggings. Big black sunglasses she hadn’t bothered to take off even though the sun wasn’t that bright.

Caroline looked up as she approached and dropped her foot from the chair with a grin. “There she is. I was about to order for you and pretend we were dating.”

Azzi huffed a soft laugh, sliding into the seat. “As if they’d believe you could land me.”

“Ouch,” Caroline said, clutching her chest. “See if I order you the good pancakes now.”

Azzi let herself smile — small, easy — and picked up the menu, even though she already knew what she wanted. Something about pretending to think helped slow the morning down.

“You look like shit,” Caroline added after a beat, not unkindly. “Rough night?”

Azzi’s eyes stayed on the menu. “Didn’t sleep much.”

Caroline hummed, stirring the last inch of her mimosa with the straw. “Doing what?”

Azzi looked up briefly, then back down. “Just… thinking. Trying to reset.”

“Sure,” Caroline said, tone casual but eyes sharp. “You know you ghosted me last night, right? Whole team was in the group chat. You just vanished.”

“I wasn’t feeling it.” Azzi folded the menu closed and placed it on the edge of the table. “Needed a quiet night.”

“You always need a quiet night,” Caroline said, but it wasn’t an accusation — just an observation. She leaned forward, rested her chin on her hand. “You weren’t alone, though.”

Azzi didn’t flinch, but she didn’t meet her eyes either.

Caroline watched her for another second, then leaned back as the server arrived to take their order. Azzi asked for a green smoothie and banana pancakes. Caroline ordered eggs and hashbrowns, another mimosa. The server smiled and left. The silence returned.

“I’m not trying to pry,” Caroline said finally. “Just… checking in.”

Azzi nodded once. “I appreciate that.”

“But also,” Caroline added, tapping her fingers lightly against her glass, “if you’re going to sneak around and act mysterious, at least let me pretend to be supportive.”

Azzi laughed under her breath, and this time, it sounded real. “There’s nothing to support. It’s not a thing.”

Caroline tilted her head. “Uh-huh.”

“I mean it.” Azzi picked up her water, took a sip. “It was just… whatever. Not a big deal.”

“You’re talking like I asked for a ring size.”

Azzi gave her a look.

Caroline held up her hands. “Okay. Not a big deal. Totally normal to disappear for a night and show up looking like you wrestled a fever dream.”

Azzi smirked. “You’re annoying.”

“And you’re deflecting.”

Their food arrived, giving Azzi a moment of reprieve. She busied herself with syrup, focusing a little too hard on pouring it evenly. Caroline didn’t push further, but the silence between them stretched in that familiar way — not uncomfortable, just heavy with what neither of them was saying.

Azzi stabbed a piece of pancake, chewed slowly, then asked, “What’s the group chat say this morning?”

Caroline shrugged. “Mostly nonsense. Nika wants to go out tonight. KK’s being KK. Someone made a joke about Mia again, which I still don’t understand.”

Azzi’s fork froze halfway to her mouth.

Caroline clocked it.

But Azzi just said, “Mia’s a freshman. Paige tutors her sometimes.”

“Interesting.”

“Not really,” Azzi muttered, setting her fork down. “She’s just loud.”

Caroline didn’t say anything else. She just picked at her eggs, let Azzi sit in her own quiet.

They finished the meal without circling back. But when the check came, Caroline paid for both of them without comment, and Azzi didn’t argue. As they stood to leave, Caroline bumped her shoulder lightly and said, “Just don’t shut me out, okay?”

Azzi adjusted her sunglasses and gave her a small nod. “I won’t.”

She already had.

--------------------

The gym was half-lit and echoing when Paige pushed through the back doors, a worn-out hoodie tugged over her tank top, earbuds already in. The playlist was old — one of her summer grind mixes — all bass-heavy and wordless enough to drown things out. She liked the gym this way, still waking up, not yet buzzing with team chatter or Coach’s whistle. It gave her space to move without thinking. Just repetition and sweat.

She dropped her bag, tied her shoes tight, and picked up a ball without stretching. The first few jumpers were lazy, loose-wristed, just enough arc to feel it again. The fourth clanged off the rim and bounced hard. She chased it down, jaw already tight. Fifth went in. Sixth rattled, but fell. Seventh — smooth.

It was muscle memory. The one thing she could trust to not get complicated.

She didn’t hear the door open, didn’t notice Nika until she was standing at half court, spinning a ball on one finger like she’d been there all morning.

“You work out in silence now?” Nika called out.

Paige popped her earbuds out. “I wasn’t expecting company.”

“You’re not that hard to find. Also, you missed breakfast.”

Paige caught the ball off a bounce and wiped her wrist across her forehead. “Didn’t feel like a crowd.”

Nika cocked her head. “You always feel like a crowd.”

Paige smirked. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

“Doesn’t have to. You get my point.”

They moved into a rhythm without really talking about it — Nika rebounding, Paige shooting, the kind of flow that came from years of knowing each other’s timing. But even with the ease of it, Nika was watching her. Paige could feel it. The too-long silences. The way Nika let her miss four shots in a row without a comment. That wasn’t normal.

After the next make, Paige said, “You’re being weird.”

“I’m being observant.”

“Same thing.”

Nika tossed her the ball, then crossed her arms. “You’ve been quiet lately. Like, Paige quiet. Which is worse than regular quiet because it means you’re either overthinking or actively self-destructing.”

Paige let the ball bounce once before catching it again. “I’m fine.”

Nika gave her a flat look. “You disappeared last night. Didn’t answer the group chat. And now you’re here at nine in the morning like it’s therapy hour.”

“I just needed to shoot.”

“Uh-huh.”

Paige took another jumper. Swish.

Nika walked closer, dropped the ball she was holding. “Look. I’m not asking for a diary entry, but you know you can tell me shit, right?”

Paige exhaled slowly. “I know.”

“Then tell me why you’re acting like you got hit by an emotional semi-truck.”

“I’m not.”

“You only dodge like this when there’s a girl involved.”

Paige hesitated — just for a second — and that was all Nika needed.

“Oh my god,” she said, eyes lighting up. “Who is she?”

“There’s no girl.”

“Lie better.”

“There’s no relationship.” Paige corrected, catching her own slip too late.

Nika’s eyebrows went up. “So there is a girl. And something happened.”

Paige shook her head, turned back toward the hoop. “It’s not a big deal.”

Nika folded her arms. “You know, I was gonna invite you to Ted’s tonight. Whole crew’s going.”

Paige hesitated again, then said, “I don’t know if I’m up for—”

“That’s exactly why you’re coming.”

Paige shot again. Missed.

Nika grinned like she’d just won a bet.

They didn’t say anything for a while. Just the rhythm of ball on hardwood, sneakers squeaking, the low hum of music still leaking from Paige’s phone speaker in her pocket. But then Nika pulled her own phone out and tapped into the group chat with a mischievous gleam in her eye.

“Just to let the people know,” she said.

--------------------

Group Chat – “UConn Fam”

9:04 AM

Nika:

Ted’s tonight. 9PM. I expect chaos. No excuses.

—

1:57 PM

Aaliyah:

I'm in. who’s trying to black out responsibly

Aubrey: 

Im 100% in

Ines:

Only if someone keeps KK away from the DJ booth this time

Ice:

Can’t promise anything

KK:

Is Paige even alive??? girl’s been dodging us like we’re taxes

Aaliyah:

Fr she’s been in stealth mode all week

KK:

She was probably with Mia again 👀👀

Caroline:

Who the hell is Mia???

Nika:

Freshman Paige tutors. loud. confident. definitely crushing.

KK:

Tutoring. suuure 😏

Ice:

Here we go again 💀

Paige is typing…

Paige is typing…

Paige is typing…

Nothing sent.

POV: Paige

She’d been lying on her bed, hair still damp from her post-gym shower, phone face up on her chest. She hadn’t opened the group chat when the first message came through that morning — just saw Nika’s Ted’s invite flash across her lock screen and ignored it. But this? She read through the thread three times.

Mia. Of course they brought her up.

Her thumbs hovered above the keyboard. She could’ve joked it off. Said something dumb. Given them the reaction they wanted.

But the idea of Azzi seeing her name tied to someone else made her stomach twist — not because of guilt. Because she didn’t want Azzi thinking it meant anything. Because it didn’t. Not even close.

She typed, “you’re all sick” — then deleted it. Locked the screen.

Let them think what they wanted.

POV: Azzi

Azzi had just gotten back from brunch and dumped her bag on the floor, hair still in a half-undone bun, hoodie sleeves pushed to her elbows. She wasn’t even hungry, but she’d eaten anyway. Smiled at the right times. Lied when it counted.

She hadn’t opened the group chat until the notifications stacked. Her eyes skimmed the thread. Then froze.

Paige was probably with Mia again 👀👀

The name hit harder than it should have. Azzi stared at it, thumb trembling just slightly over the screen. The kind of joke that wasn't really a joke. The kind of thing that clung.

Her jaw tensed. She exited the app. Turned her phone face-down on the windowsill.

She wouldn’t ask. She wouldn’t care. She wouldn’t let herself care.

But her chest still felt hollow.

--------------------

POV: Azzi

Azzi adjusted her crop top in the mirror for the third time, smoothing her palms over her ribs as if the fabric would magically shift into something more comfortable. It was tight — on purpose. The kind of top she usually reserved for nights she needed to feel in control of something. Paired with high-waisted jean shorts and the same black sneakers she always wore when she wanted to look casual but still hot, it was… a choice.

“You sure you don’t want to bring a hoodie?” Caroline called from the kitchen.

Azzi looked down at herself. “No.”

Caroline popped her head into the room and let out a low whistle. “Okay, damn. You’re showing up tonight.”

Azzi turned slightly, checking her profile in the mirror. “Too much?”

“For a regular night? Maybe. For seeing your almost-hookup-you’re-trying-not-to-have-feelings-for? Perfect.”

Azzi gave her a look. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Caroline said sweetly, already walking away.

Azzi sprayed perfume lightly over her neck and wrists, then pulled her curls over one shoulder. Her lip gloss was subtle. Her earrings matched the thin chain around her throat. She looked effortless.

She didn’t feel it.

Ice was already by the door in camo pants and a tiny halter top. “We going or what?”

Azzi grabbed her phone, glanced at the lock screen. Nothing.

She wasn’t expecting anything. That’s what they’d agreed.

Still, she lingered for a beat before answering. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

POV: Paige

The mirror above her desk was streaked at the edges, but Paige leaned in close anyway, swiping on a quick coat of mascara with practiced ease. It was the only thing she ever wore — just enough to make her eyes stand out without looking like she cared. Her hair was freshly straightened, parted down the middle and tucked behind her ears, still warm from the flat iron.

She pulled her oversized white tee over her head, the cotton soft and slouchy against her skin. The neckline hung a little loose, just wide enough to show the strap of her sports bra and a peek of her collarbone. She adjusted it without thinking, then grabbed her black cargo pants from the back of her desk chair and stepped into them, cinching the waist tight. They sat low on her hips and hung just right — baggy, but not shapeless. She checked herself in the mirror. Oversized shirt, cargos, fresh sneakers, silver cross chain glinting at her collarbone.

Casual. Comfortable. Still hot.

“You look like the kind of girl that ruins lives,” Nika said from the doorway, one brow raised.

Paige smirked. “That’s the goal.”

KK piped up from where she was sprawled on the futon, holding her phone over her head. “Mia’s gonna combust if she sees you in that.”

Paige rolled her eyes, grabbing her phone from the windowsill. “She’s not going.”

“You sure?” KK grinned. “Girl looked ready to fake an ID just to find you.”

“I’m not going for Mia,” Paige said, shoving her phone into her pocket.

“Didn’t say you were,” KK sing-songed. “But she’s definitely going for you.”

Nika gave Paige a look, but kept her mouth shut. Just handed her the hoodie Paige had left crumpled on the chair. “Take this. In case you want to hide your shame.”

“I don’t have any shame,” Paige said, pulling it on but leaving it unzipped.

KK cackled. “Lies. But she looks fine as hell.”

Paige didn’t respond. Just grabbed her keys and nodded toward the door. “Let’s go.”

But as they left the dorm, she tugged the hem of her shirt down once more, fingertips brushing her hips — like she was already thinking about who might be looking.

--------------------

POV Azzi

Ted’s was packed — low ceilings, sweaty walls, and music that hit harder than it had any right to on a Thursday. The bass rattled through her ribs, all synth and bassline and bodies packed too close together. Azzi stuck near the front with Caroline and Ice at first, drink in hand, eyes scanning through the blur of familiar heads and half-lit faces.

Then she saw her.

Paige.

Standing across the room near the back wall, just a little outside the crowd, lit by the dull red glow of the overhead lights. Oversized white tee, black cargos, silver chain catching the flicker from the DJ booth. Straight hair tucked behind her ears, her posture loose like she didn’t care — but Azzi knew that look. It was curated. Paige looked relaxed, cool, unfazed.

She looked hot.

Azzi took a slow sip of her drink, already half warm in her hand. She wasn’t going to stare. She wasn’t.

Paige turned at the same moment, eyes locking with hers like it was choreographed. Azzi didn’t look away. Neither did Paige. The corner of Paige’s mouth lifted — not a full smirk. Just enough to say yeah, I see you too.

Azzi’s stomach dipped.

Then someone stepped into Paige’s space. A girl. Shorter, brunette, loud in the way freshmen always were. She leaned in close, too close, her hand brushing Paige’s arm in a way that made Azzi blink.

Mia.

Of course it was Mia.

She said something that made Paige laugh, head ducking slightly. Azzi’s jaw clenched. She didn’t wait for more. Just turned, walking straight toward the bar without a word.

POV Paige

She felt Azzi’s eyes before she saw her.

Across the room, tight black crop top, denim shorts, thighs out, curls framing her face like it was personal. Her skin glowed under the lights — bronze and smooth and soft in a way Paige remembered way too well. She couldn’t stop looking. Wouldn’t. Azzi looked unreal. And Paige knew she was doing it on purpose.

Paige’s fingers curled into her pocket, trying to keep cool.

Then Mia appeared out of nowhere — all perfume and confidence, brushing against Paige’s arm like it was nothing.

“Didn’t expect to see you out tonight,” she said, already half shouting over the music.

Paige kept her tone casual. “Didn’t expect to be here.”

“You look good,” Mia said, eyes flicking down. “Dangerous. In a fun way.”

Paige forced a laugh, but it didn’t land. Her eyes drifted back across the room — only Azzi was gone. A flash of dark curls weaving through the crowd, headed toward the bar.

Something tugged in her chest. Harder than she wanted it to.

“Hey, you want a drink?” Mia asked, still touching her.

Paige stepped back a half-step. “I’m good. I gotta—yeah. One sec.”

She didn’t wait. Just moved — slow but direct — slipping through the crowd until she found Azzi leaning against the bar, waiting for the bartender, arms crossed under her chest like she was trying not to look annoyed.

“You ran off,” Paige said, sliding in beside her.

Azzi didn’t look at her right away. “Didn’t realize I owed you a debrief.”

Paige smirked. “You looked good tonight.”

Azzi finally turned to face her. “You looked busy.”

“That wasn’t—” Paige sighed. “I didn’t ask her to come up to me.”

“Didn’t stop her from touching you.”

Paige leaned in a little closer. Her voice dropped low, just for her. “I didn’t want her.”

Azzi’s brow arched. “And who do you want?”

Paige’s mouth hovered near her ear, breath warm. “When can I fuck you again?”

Azzi didn’t flinch. Just tilted her head slightly, lips brushing a smile against the rim of her glass. “Depends.”

“On what?”

“How tonight goes.”

Paige chuckled, low and quiet. “So I need to be on my best behavior?”

Azzi turned to face her fully now, her voice sweet but loaded. “No, Paige. You need to be interesting.”

The bartender arrived. Azzi ordered another vodka soda. Didn’t ask if Paige wanted one.

Then she turned and walked back into the crowd — leaving Paige standing there, smirking to herself, aroused and entirely off-balance.

--------------------

POV Paige

She watched Azzi disappear into the crowd, glass in hand, hips moving like she didn’t know she was being watched — or worse, like she did.

Paige stayed at the bar for another minute, pretending to care about nothing. Then she turned, rejoined Nika and KK near the edge of the dance floor, trying to act like her pulse wasn’t jackhammering in her throat.

The lights were low and hazy now, flickering between violet and red as the DJ dropped into something grimy and bass-heavy. Around her, everyone was moving. Laughing. Drunk.

Paige wasn’t.

She let KK shove a cup into her hand, took a sip without tasting it, eyes scanning through the blur of bodies. She found her fast.

Azzi was near the center of the floor now, surrounded by people but not with any of them — just dancing, head tipped back, curls sticking slightly to her neck. Her crop top rode high as her hands moved up, hair bouncing with the beat, the curve of her waist catching every flash of light like a fucking magnet.

Paige didn’t realize she’d stopped breathing until Nika nudged her. “You good?”

“Yeah,” Paige said, eyes still locked.

Nika grinned like she already knew. “You’re about to do something stupid, huh?”

“Very.”

And then she moved.

It wasn’t a rush. Just a slow weave through the crowd — casual, discreet, like the music pulled her in. She let herself get swallowed by the pulse of it, drifting close, close, until Azzi’s back was just inches away.

She didn’t speak. Didn’t give a warning.

She just slid a hand low on Azzi’s hip and pulled her gently back into her front.

Azzi didn’t flinch. Didn’t turn.

She leaned into it.

Pressed her ass into Paige’s pelvis with a slow grind that matched the beat — one hand lifting to rest lightly behind Paige’s neck, the other snaking back to guide Paige’s grip lower.

Paige’s mouth parted slightly, breath catching. She moved with her, bodies aligned, letting herself get lost in it. Her hand flattened against Azzi’s stomach, anchoring them together as they moved.

It was heat. Friction. Payback.

No one around them noticed — or if they did, no one would remember. Not in this crowd. Not in this chaos.

Azzi tilted her head back, mouth grazing the curve of Paige’s jaw.

Then, her lips at Paige’s ear, low and breathless:

“Let’s get out of here.”

Paige didn’t answer.

She just grabbed Azzi’s hand and led her through the crowd — fast, deliberate, like she already knew how the night was going to end.

[randominchident]

rain delay kisses

a max verstappen x reader imagine

The first drop hits your cheek just as the national anthem fades. One, then another. Within seconds the sky gives in. Rain descends upon the track before the drivers can even walk off their marks. Officials scramble, teams drag equipment under tarps, and the inevitable announcement echoes over the speakers:

“Start delayed due to weather conditions. Expected minimum 30 minute delay.”

You're standing just outside the garage, barely under the overhang. The rain is relentless now, soaking the pit lane—ricocheting droplets bouncing off the tarmac like steam. But you don't move. You’re waiting. Looking for him. Waiting for him. You know in moments like this, race weekends where time together is sparse and sacred, he will coming looking for you.

You hear him before you see him. Distinctive voice dancing in the air somewhere to the left of you. He’s talking to someone. GP probably—about new tire tactics. You don’t turn around, he’ll see you soon enough.

Finally, once some agreement has been made, he steps towards the garage, helmet tucked under one arm, race suit unzipped to his waist. He spots you instantly, a flicker of something soft crossing his features.

Without a word, he walks over, tugging a team umbrella you didn’t notice before open. It’s barely big enough for two, but he angles it anyway, pulling you close by the wrist.

“You didn’t wait inside?” he asks, his voice quieter than the rain, but warmer with a tender love that has encompassed your past few months with him. Max has a way of making every moment together feel warm.

You shake your head. “Didn’t want to miss you.”

That gets the smile—the real one. Not the PR smile he slaps on. The one he only ever gives you when the world isn’t watching. His fingers brush a strand of damp hair off your face, tucking it gently behind your ear. His fingertips linger there, brushing against your face so softly you can barely feel them.

For a moment, it’s quiet. The chaos blends into the background like white noise. Nothing exists but the two of you, just for this moment.

Then he leans in, slow and certain. His lips meet yours in a kiss that tastes like rain and adrenaline. It’s not rushed. Not desperate. Just right. Like he needs this—you—more than he needs the race right now. Faint drops of rain patter on your cheek.

When he pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours, his breath brushing your skin.

“I think I like rain delays,” he whispers, a hint of a grin in his voice.

You laugh softly, your hands still tangled in the front of his race suit. “I think I do too.”

His hand is still on your wrist. Warm and constant

“C’mon, it’s cold,” he says, arm moving to wrap around your waist and tracing circles into the dip there, “Let’s go inside and warm up.”

I imagine this in the ‘slim pickins’ world post them being together for a little bit…

[changbinniescurlyhair]

A Business Affair (Lee Minho)

Synopsis. You can't help but tease your boss, even when you're married... and so is he. There's something so addictive about the way he looks at you like he owns you, like vows mean nothing behind closed doors. It's wrong and filthy-but that only makes you want him even more. Pairing: CEO!Lee Minho x Secretary!reader Warnings: MINORS DNI. NSFW, explicit sex, Dom!Minho x sub!f!reader, cursing, unprotected sex (you know what I'm going to say here...), teasing, dirty talk, degradation kink, fingering, oral (f ), creampie, overstimulation, mention of jealousy, themes of infidelity (Minho and reader are both married). A/N: Y'all, I am almost done with my exams!!! I'm going to start working on requests next week and this has been in my drafts for forever, so hopefully this will tide you over until then :) Requests Masterlist

The bed was cold when you reached for him.

Empty.

You blinked awake to the soft hush of rain against the windows. The clock on your nightstand blinked 6:17 AM. He was already gone.

Your fingers brushed over the cooling sheets on his side, the faint indent where his body had been only hours ago. He hadn’t kissed you goodbye. No note. No whispered “I’ll see you tonight after work.” Only the lingering ache between your thighs from last night’s slow, punishing love and a bruise blooming on your hip in the shape of his hand.

Typical of him. Wake up. Fuck you senseless. Disappear before sunrise.

You rose from bed, your robe slinking over bare skin, and moved to the bathroom. Your reflection in the mirror looked kissed raw — lips swollen, a faint shadow of stubble burn along your jawline, eyes heavy with the kind of sleep that comes only after being thoroughly ruined.

You turned your head to look at the mark beneath your collarbone — a deep, angry red. Possessive.

Your hand grazed your silver wedding ring.

You chuckled darkly. Fucking bastard.

~~~~

You arrived at the office with a plan.

Your pencil skirt was high, the slit just a little too deep. Your blouse was sheer under your coat, and your lacy black bra peeked through if someone looked hard enough. And you wanted him to look. You needed him to look.

Let the whole building talk. Let them whisper that Mr. Lee's secretary was having an affair with her married boss. That she was betraying her husband with a man far too powerful, far too dangerous, and far too good in bed to resist.

You swiped into the private executive floor and took a breath.

His office door was open.

You walked in without knocking.

“Good morning,” you said softly, placing his coffee on the edge of the desk.

Minho didn’t look up immediately. “You’re late,” he muttered, eyes locked on his monitor.

“I didn’t sleep well.”

“Busy night?”

You smirked. “You could say that.”

Minho’s eyes finally flicked upward.

The moment he saw you, the temperature in the room changed.

His gaze dropped to your blouse, lingered on your chest, then traveled lower — slow, deliberate. “Did he keep you up?” he asked, voice cool and sharp. “Your husband?”

You stepped closer, your smile a quiet challenge. “He’s been… inattentive lately. Neglectful.”

Minho didn’t reply. Instead, his gaze flicked to your wedding band, and then slowly, almost deliberately, he slid his own cuff back to reveal his own wedding ring, the silver gleaming in the soft light.

You tilted your head, meeting his gaze. “How’s your wife doing?”

Minho’s expression darkened, just a fraction, but his eyes remained locked on yours. His lips curled into a tight smile. “She’s fine. Busy.” His voice was smooth, but there was an edge to it, as if he were guarding something.

You arched a brow, stepping even closer. “Busy, huh? Funny how we both seem so... neglected.”

He didn’t respond immediately. The air between you thickened, a palpable tension building.

“So you’re acting out?” he asked, voice low and almost teasing.

You leaned over the desk just enough for your breasts to brush the surface, your gaze fixed on him. “Maybe. Or maybe I just like the attention my boss gives me.”

“So what are you looking for, sweetheart?” he murmured. “Discipline? Validation? Or just a better fuck?”

You tilted your head. “Does it matter?”

His grip tightened.

“No. Because I’ll give you all of it.”

~~~~

He shoved you against the wall without warning. His mouth was on yours before you could gasp — claiming, devouring, punishing. His hands roamed over your waist, your ass, your thighs, gripping like he was memorizing the feel of you.

“You came in here dressed like that,” he growled, teeth scraping your neck, “knowing exactly what I’d do to you.”

You whimpered as he hiked your skirt up to your hips. “Wanted your attention.”

“You have it.”

He dropped to his knees, hooking your panties down so fast they nearly tore.

“Been thinking about this pussy all fucking morning,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your thigh. “Your husband doesn’t take care of it, does he?”

“No,” you breathed. “He doesn’t.”

Minho licked a slow stripe up your folds. “Then let me.”

His tongue was relentless — flicking over your clit, dipping inside you, groaning when you trembled against the wall. He gripped your thighs tightly, not letting you move. You cried out as he sucked your clit into his mouth, your legs shaking.

“You taste like mine,” he whispered, eyes locked on yours. “Like a dirty little wife who’s been cheating all week.”

Your nails scratched the wall. “I am… fuck— I’m cheating on him.”

“Say it louder.”

“I’m cheating on my husband,” you cried. “With my boss.”

Minho growled against your pussy, tongue working faster until your orgasm hit like lightning — sudden and blinding. Your body went slack, but he didn’t stop. He dragged another out of you, and then another, until you were begging.

“Please… Minho—”

He stood, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “On the desk.”

You stumbled forward and leaned over, breasts pressing into the cool wood.

He undid his belt, pants already straining. “Fucking skirt’s been driving me insane,” he muttered. “Do you know how many men looked at you today?”

You looked over your shoulder, dazed and needy. “Did it make you jealous?”

“I wanted to break every one of their fingers.”

He entered you in one deep, brutal thrust.

You moaned his name, nails dragging across the desk, hips arching back.

“God, this pussy was made for me,” he groaned, thrusting harder. “Your husband can’t fuck you like this. He doesn’t know how to ruin you.”

“No one fucks me like you,” you gasped. “No one—”

He slapped your ass. “Louder.”

“No one!” you cried.

The sound of skin slapping echoed through the office. He gripped your hair, pulling your head back as he fucked into you ruthlessly. Your body jolted with each thrust, your moans echoing into the glass, the city skyline watching.

“Gonna fill you up,” he growled into your ear. “Let you go home dripping with another man’s cum.”

“Do it,” you sobbed. “Make me his whore.”

His thrusts grew deeper, rougher, angling just right. Your fingers clawed at the desk as the pressure inside you snapped, your whole body locking up as your orgasm tore through you with a cry.

Minho cursed, hips jerking as he followed you over the edge, groaning low and feral as he emptied himself inside you, grinding his hips through the aftershocks. He held you close, your bodies trembling in sync, your breaths ragged and uneven.

You stayed like that for a beat—breathing, trembling, wrecked.

Then slowly, he pulled out, helping you steady yourself on shaking legs. He gently tugged your dress back down, smoothing the fabric with careful fingers. You adjusted your hair in the reflection of the nearby window, flushed and raw.

Minho tucked himself back into his trousers, then looked over at you with that crooked, devastating smile.

“Wanna grab brunch?” he asked casually, like he hadn’t just ruined you on his desk.

You gave a breathless little laugh. “After that? You’re insatiable.”

He stepped closer, brushing his thumb over your cheek before lifting your hand to his lips. He kissed the silver band on your finger.

“Well,” he murmured, “I do have a reputation to uphold, my love.”

You smiled despite yourself, amazed at the way he could be both filthy and soft in the same breath.

He grinned and wrapped his arm around your waist, kissing the top of your head softly “Can’t have people thinking I don’t take care of my wife, Mrs. Lee.”

***My works are not allowed for translation or reposting as your own without my permission***

Tags: @jehhskz @true-queen-of-mischief @necrozica ***Taglist is open.***

[mediumgayitalian]

Nico drops his keys, trying to slide them in the old, shitty lock.

He has to take a moment to breathe.

He can just -- pick them up. They are maybe three feet away, right there on the ground. On the cold, frigid doorstep. Right on a layer of powder snow, which has puffed and pillowed out on impact to flutter over the brass and aluminum and the beaded keychain Kayla made for him, years ago. They blur, the longer he stares, faded pinks and greens swirling with tarnished glinting silver and grey, dead white. It is stupid to be fighting back tears.

But unsurprising, with the day he has had.

He exhales quick and bullish and forced his stiff knees to crouch, his frigid hands to dig around until they close around his key loop, until the apartment key, icy, is clenched between his reddened fingers and shoved, creaking, into the garbage, stubborn lock, until he has yanked and twisted with enough desperation that it finally -- finally -- gives. The swollen door is stuck in the frame, because of course it is, but it feels good to shove, to punch the solid face of it with enough force to ram it open, groaning, slamming against the narrow walls of the front hallway.

There is blues, playing in the apartment. Patti Page.Nico works his boots off, exhausted, and smiles as his foot hits the floor and he hears Will singing, or humming, rather, loud enough that he can hear it over the oven fan, over the record player.

He is trying to be quiet, Nico can tell. Maybe listening. But the apartment is tiny, and he is incapable, besides.

He pads his way to the kitchen, leaning against the doorway, and watches his husband way his hips absentmindedly to muffled French horn, dull knife slicing along to the rhythm of old Oklahoma accent. His apron straps are tied wrong, too short on one side. He is wearing too-tight shorts and an old, oversized band shirt, and very little else. The heaviness along every dot of Nico's spine fades almost to nothing.

"Sorry I'm late," he murmurs, wrapping his arms around Will's waist. Will hums, not startled -- he was listening for him, then -- and leaning into his hold, into the chin Nico hooks over his shoulder. "Huge fuckin' -- mess, EZ Death Line had a -- stampede, or something, I couldn't piece together --" He stops, and sighs, curling into Will's warmth. Will drops a hand onto his frigid wrists and squeezes, turning to press a kiss to Nico's hair.

"Long day, huh."

"Long fuckin' week."

"Mm. You're cold, too."

Will squeezes, again, and then reaches back for the knife. Nico tries not to pout too obviously at the loss. At the teasing, rolled eyes he can feel from Will's direction, he doubts he is successful, but Will concedes to lean farther into him, even though it throws him off balance. So it cannot be too bad.

"I don't know how much it will help with the shitty week, sweetheart, but I guessed at the cold." He points his chin at the pot sitting neatly on the stained stovetop, wooden spoon balanced precariously off the half-bent lid. "I made -- well, I tried to make, don't get your hopes up -- pasta fasioi. Called Chiara about it."

He says it easy, nonchalantly, but Nico watches the grip he has around the knife's handle, and grins. Don't get your hopes up, he says. As if he didn't half-grow up in the back of a diner, as if he doesn't know his way around a spice rack.

Nico presses a kiss to his neck, grateful, and slides over to the stovetop, lifting the still-warm lid. It doesn't look like much -- the best food rarely does -- but it smells like old, old home, like salt and flour and the beans drying in the depths of Mamma's cantina. The music, too, is old enough that it almost sounds like home, like woodwinds and radio static and cold wind blowing through thin windows.

Nico dips the spoon in, bringing it to his lips. It would never be allowed, usually, but tonight Will is quiet, tonight he bumps his hips into Nico's and lets him close his eyes, exhaling, remembering the thick almost-graininess, the sweetness of the slight basil and sharpness of the cheese that is probably too expensive for them to be using. On a resident's salary, at least. But Will only smiles, when Nico curls into him, and brings his strong, warm hands up to the back of Nico's neck, roughly chopped vegetables forgotten on the wobbling counter.

"Thank you," Nico whispers, into his shirt. It smells like -- rainfall, almost. Summer showers.

Will presses his soft, sad smile into the line between Nico's hair and his forehead.

"Course, darlin'."

They sit to eat -- on the floor, because their one table is covered in one of Will's research projects -- and Nico even eats the salad Will shoves at him. It's good, too, but he complains about it, just to watch Will huff, just to watch his shoulder square and brow furrow as he lists, in alphabetical order, the twenty different ways each individual protein or whatever will fix his aching muscles. Will holds his hand, as they eat. Even though it makes eating more difficult, and he spills thick soup on the dead front of his goofy, ridiculous, cat-in-outer-space apron, and pouts when Nico cackles at him. There is a point as Nico is struggling to breathe again where he sets his near-empty bowl on his favorite tile (the chipped one, that he feels bad for) and turns to face Nico fully and watches with his cheek cupped in his free hand until Nico gets self-conscious.

"What," he says, shoulders raising, "did I get something on my face?"

But he didn't, and he knew he didn't, before he asked. Because he knows the look in Will's sky-black eyes, the shy, disbelieving pleasure of it: the gods, you're beautiful and I can't believe I have this and you are everything I prayed about. He knows, because Will says it, often, because he doesn't flinch from it the same way Nico does, from the…bubbling shame of it. Not from loving him, never from loving him, but from his witnessing of it, of the raw, endless pounding of his heart, unbelievably obvious. Not from his wanting to hide, but his incapability of doing so.

"Your head is spinning," Will comments, and it is. Nico wonders how he knows, so exactly. If he can see it. If there's a look in his face. "Get up."

Will pushes himself to his feet, and holds his hands out. Nico takes them, both of them, and when Will has pulled him up he lingers, still, brings Nico's knuckles up to his lips and kisses until Nico is flustered, squirming.

"There's no one here but us," Will reminds him, softly.

Nico shudders. "I know." He drops his shoulders, exhaling, expelling. "I know, I know. It just --" He shrugs. "I can feel it still, I guess. Everywhere but here."

It is not the first time he has said it and will not be the last. The Underworld doesn't bother him, not like it does Will; it is home, in many ways. His father is softer, now, and his step-mother almost tolerates him. He has friends in various gods and deities and satisfaction in his responsibilities.

But there is always, always someone watching. And after a while, it makes his skin crawl.

Will rubs his rough palms up and down his bare arms, expelling the feeling. The record pauses and they look up, the both of them, and when it starts again it starts with low, muffled trumpet, and Will perks up, and Nico groans, more teasing than anything, and lets himself be dragged, sighing, into what passes for a living room, and is really just the clearest corner of the one-bedroom. Will wastes no pretense and pulls him close, immediately, close enough that Nico can feel the rumble of his chest as he hums, low, too low for him, really, but Nico sighs into it anyway. Sighs into the arms Will tucks tightly against him, the cheek on his head, the breath lining up with his; this song is old, and sad, but it makes Will think of home and of summer and of campfire, and it makes Nico think of Will. So he doesn't mind, really.

"If I was her I woulda kicked my friend's ass," Nico murmurs, and Will laughs.

"I don't blame you," he says, quiet through the brass and piano solo. "I like that she loves them still, though. Both of them."

"They betrayed her."

"And yet, she sings softly about them."

Nico sighs, and mutters something about hopeless romantics. Will smiles, sweet, and draws him in closer, somehow, as if there is nothing separating them, no clothes, no air, no atoms. As if they are they same cloud of existence. Patti Page sings I remember the night, and the Tennessee Waltz and Will turns them, slowly, and sings back Now I know just how much I have lost. And his voice is light, soft like hers. Sacred and reverent. And Nico can't read his mind, not really, but he knows he is thinking about old friends, about love. About how things shift, and change, about how years ago, Will sang this song, along his brother's trumpet, and Nico's heart beat through his chest. About how four years ago, this June, Will sang this song again, and Nico waltzed with him, on an over-polished, slippery floor, in dress shoes that pinched.

"I love you," he says, over quiet, old tears and arpeggioing piano.

"I know," Will says, just as quiet. He ducks down and kisses Nico gently, lovingly. "I love you, too."

I know, Nico thinks of saying. It is in the bags under his eyes and the work on the table but the hours spent in the kitchen anyway. It is in the letters Nico keeps tucked in the bulging pocket of his favorite jacket and the mess of their shoes at the door, the six blankets on their double bed even though Will overheats every night. In the too-expensive espresso machine that he doesn't know how to use but lets take up space on their tiny counter anyway, in the pictures hung crooked on every square inch of wall space, in his hands, warm and searching, on the back of his hips, in the breaths pressed to his skin because he is cold still and tired and dancing.

Instead, he says quiet. Instead the Tennessee Waltz ends, and he says nothing as Will reaches over, arms long and straining, and pulls the needle back, slightly, right before strumming guitar over muffled brass. Instead he exhales, long, slow, total, and presses his nose to the crook of Will's neck, and memorizes the borrowed scent of petrichor and the constant scent of lavender, and the edge of his burn scars against his skin. And he waltzes, and waltzes, and melts in the arms of his loved one, away from the ice of the cold and the depths. Away from anything but sweet Southern summer's embrace, and gentle, warbling blues.

[ellewritesx]

liquid assets

(part five of the sugar, baby series)

Summary: You left the boxes, but you never really leave.

Warnings: sugardaddy arrangement, mentions of past sex, Harry's drunk, this isn't very smutty, sorry if that's what you're here for!

A/N: music has helped me tremendously while writing this part, especially ''the archer'' by taylor swift, which captures harry's inner turmoil perfectly, while ''my tears ricochet'' (also by taylor) represents y/n to a tee. both are a must-listen while reading this imo, i couldn't recommend it more!!! i hope you like it lovelies x

Word Count: 3,134

...

The city is still asleep when Harry stumbles out of the sleek black cab, the sky above him bleeding into a pale gray with the promise of morning and soul-crushing melancholy. The street lights flicker in sync with the pounding in his head, and his boots echo hollowly against the pavement as he makes his way toward his building.

He hadn't meant to stay out all night. Or drink that much. But lately, nothing felt intentional. Everything was senseless. Aimless. He hasn't slept in his bed since you left, not really, just collapsed onto the couch when the liquor dulled his mind enough to let him.

This morning, though, the ache is louder than usual. Maybe because the night before, he dreamt of you. Of your laugh. Your lips parting for him. The heat of your mouth. Your hands pulling him closer. Of the way you had looked at him when he'd told you to leave.

He nearly trips over the boxes on his doorstep.

At first he thinks they're deliveries. Something from his stylist, maybe, another line of designer clothes he won't wear. But then he sees the writing on the labels. You always write your ones with a little line at the bottom. Just weeks ago he'd jokingly called it pretentious and kissed your shoulder. Now, he just stared.

Two large boxes. One smaller. Taped shut, but not tightly. Like you couldn't care enough to secure them properly. Or like you couldn't bear to really seal them closed.

He stands there for a full minute, the back of his neck prickling with the sick, sinking understanding of what this means. You weren't just pulling away from him. This wasn't a temporary rough patch. You were returning everything. This was goodbye.

The elevator ride is unbearable. The boxes sit at his feet like the materialization of his guilt, heavy and silent. He drops his keys twice fumbling to get the door open, and when he finally does, he bumps the door open with his hips, carrying the boxes in, the weight similar to the one he's been carrying on his shoulders.

He drops the keys in the bowl, lets his coat slip from his shoulders, and shoves the largest box onto the floor in front of the coffee table. He sits down on the rug and starts cutting through the tape.

Perfume is the first thing that hits him. Your scent. Sweet and warm, a little citrusy. It blooms from the open cardboard like a ghost.

The top layer is fabric: folded, neatly arranged. A black silk nightgown he'd bought you at a boutique in Paris when you'd joked about needing something ''ridiculously fancy'' to sleep in. You wore it that night in the hotel, standing barefoot on the balcony while he held you from behind and the Eiffel Tower glittered before you, so close you giddily told him ''It's like I can touch it, Harry!''

Days before, when he'd first seen the excitement on your face at the prospect of going to Paris and seeing the Eiffel Tower sparkle, he had made some calls, voice hushed so as not to spoil the surprise, securing you two the hotel with the best view.

He remembers watching you and thinking he'd never seen anything so painfully beautiful, the golden lights reflecting in your eyes. You had no idea how much it wrecked him, how much he would sacrifice to just stay in that moment forever. He lifts the fabric to his nose and nearly flinches. It still smells like the expensive red wine you'd spilled on it when he had impulsively pressed your back against the balcony railing and kissed you, making you smile against his lips.

He puts the dress down like it can rid him of the reminiscence.

Next is a pair of Louboutins. Red soles barely scuffed. You'd worn them on his birthday, matching the red lipstick that would leave imprints on his skin when you worshipped him just hours later.

You'd complained for days leading up to it, insisting on throwing him a party. ''It's your birthday, Harry. You deserve to be celebrated,'' you'd said adamantly, wrapping your arms around his neck, a pout on your lips. He told you he wasn't ''a party person''. He didn't have the heart to tell you nobody would've showed up.

He swallows and sets the heels aside, gently, fragile like the memory of you in them. He works through the rest with methodical silence. Each item slices him open a little more.

The floral sundress he'd brought home after he saw you eyeing something similar in a magazine. You laughed when he surprised you with it and teased him relentlessly about ''knowing trends now.'' Which he didn't. He had asked his stylist for advice.

The bottle of your favorite perfume is on the bottom of the box, half-empty. He turns it over in his hand and stares at the gold label. He remembers sitting in a shop with you for over an hour while you sniffed sample after sample and asked for his opinion repeatedly, only to go back to the first one you'd tried. ''You like it, right?'' you'd asked, a little shy. He had, and he told you so. Now, the scent clings to everything in the box. His chest feels tight.

Then come the little things. A silk eye mask he got you for the flight to Tokyo. A tiny tub of lip balm in that ridiculous flavor you always used. Marshmallow. He always hungrily watched you dragging it across your lips, then leaning in and asking, "Wanna taste?" like you didn't already know the answer. He swears he can still taste your lips, even after all these days without your kisses.

His hoodie, one he didn't even realize was missing. He reaches out and curls the fabric in his fingers. You used to sleep in it when he was away. Once, he caught you wearing it with nothing underneath, strutting into the kitchen, legs bare, hair messy, eyes soft with sleep. It undid him. He'd fucked you until the sunset that day.

And then, in the smallest box, wrapped in tissue like you'd been afraid he'd shatter it like he did your heart: the necklace.

It was simple. A fine gold chain with a tiny charm, an enamel daisy. You'd told him one night daisies were your favorite because they always looked happy and reminded you of simpler times. ''Everything changes. Daisies don't. They're the same ones I used to pluck as a kid. It's like a time capsule,'' you'd whispered, absentmindedly drawing the flowers on his bare chest with your fingers.

It stuck with him. He found the charm a few weeks later in a shop in Notting Hill and had it made into a necklace. He didn't give it to you on a special occasion. No grand gesture. Just left it on your pillow with a note that said ''My daisy''. You wore it every day.

He holds it now like it might burn him. You gave this back. You gave this back. His gift to you.

Harry feels his throat close. He stands abruptly, needing air, needing to escape, and forces his feet to move to the kitchen. The overhead light is too bright, worsening his hangover, so he snaps it off and leans against the counter in the dimness, still holding the necklace. It feels so small in his hand. Useless. Pretty and pointless.

He should have known. Should've known from the moment he pulled back when you hugged him that night that it would come to this. But he thought, selfishly, naively, that maybe you'd keep the things he gave you. That maybe they had meant something.

That maybe he had meant something.

Apparently, not enough.

He wanders back into the living room. The boxes stare at him. The scent of you, faint and persistent, clung to the air, to his clothes, to his goddamn skin. It was like you were everywhere and nowhere at once. His apartment hadn't changed, but it felt hollow now. Like you'd taken something with you when you left that he couldn't name.

He sinks down onto the edge of the couch and lets the necklace dangle from his fingers. It spins gently, catching light from the streetlamp outside. He doesn't cry. Just lets the silence pile up in the room like snow, cold and heavy. The kind that buries things.

You returned everything.

But the cruelest part, the part he couldn't just box up and send away, is that his apartment still smells like you. Still looks like you'd just been there. Like you never left in the first place.

It hits him strongest in the bedroom, where the air is thick with warmth and ghosted memories. Even after opening every window, even after lighting a cigarette just to drown it out with something acrid and biting, it clings to him. Your perfume, like flowers pressed into the pages of a book, has settled into his sheets, the curtains, the collar of the hoodie he instinctively pulled over his head this morning, only to realize halfway through the sleeves that it's the one you wore to brunch a few days ago. Your scent is stitched into the seams now.

He moves through the space like a man haunted. Maybe he is. Maybe that's what you get when you open yourself to someone just enough to let them settle into the cracks.

The shower still holds your shampoo. A tall bottle with a pearly label and one of those unnecessarily complex French names you'd once made him pronounce, laughing when he butchered it. He'd picked up the pronunciation eventually, just to see you smile when he got it right. Now it stands like a monument in the corner of the tiled stall, half-full and untouched since the last time you used it. He should throw it away. It doesn't make sense to keep it. When he tried, his hand lingered over the bottle, then dropped to his side again.

On the floor next to his bed is one of your hair ties. Black, thin, stretched nearly to its breaking point. He'd found another one wrapped around the knob of the closet door. Another tucked into the pocket of his sweatpants. You were always losing them. Now he has a dozen, and not a single one matters.

In the living room, there's a single flower in a glass vase on the table by the window. He bought it on impulse. He'd seen it in a florist's window on the way home from an exhausting meeting and stepped inside before he could think twice, it was the last one. He'd watched her light up when she saw it, throwing her arms around him and accusing him of being soft, a romantic. He'd vehemently denied it, obviously. Helianthus. You'd taught him that word, too.

''Just call them sunflowers, baby,'' he'd said with a chuckle and a shake of his head. ''They're majestic, Harry. Helianthus suits them better,'' you'd argued passionately, face drop-dead serious, which only made his amusement grow. But he never referred to them as ''just sunflowers'' again.

The petals have started to curl in on themselves. Losing their brightness. He can't bring himself throw it out.

Your toothbrush is missing from the holder. The space where it used to sit is stark and empty. Your favorite mug is gone, the one with the cracked handle and a faded design of a dancing avocado. You must've taken it while he was at work.

The throw blanket is still draped over the couch from your last movie night. He drops into the cushions and buries his face in it, just for a second. Maybe longer than a second. Maybe long enough to feel pathetic and wallow in self-pity. Maybe long enough to remember how you looked wrapped up in it, curled into his side with your bare legs tangled in his lap and your voice low and sleepy.

There's a forgotten earring on the nightstand. A small hoop, nothing flashy, but he remembers watching you put them on in the mirror, remembers unhooking them with careful fingers before he laid you on the pillows. He doesn't know what to do with it.

His throat tightens with something sharp and sour. It's not just that you're gone. It's how thoroughly you were here.

You made this space feel like a home, like something more than walls and furniture and soft-close drawers. He let you in without meaning to, and now that you're out, he can't scrub you from the corners.

His phone buzzes on the table. He glances over, more out of instinct than anything else. Maybe delusional hope. Just a work notification. He throws it face-down and leans back into the couch.

He knows he should stop checking his phone. Knows you won't text, not first. Maybe not at all. But he can't help it.

Even silence feels loud now. It echoes. And in that silence, he hears you, your laughter bouncing off the walls, your bare feet padding across the floor in the morning, the sleepy hums you make when you stretch. The way you whispered his name sometimes, like it was a secret. Like you were afraid of breaking it.

He drags a hand through his hair. The strands are still damp from the light drizzle outside, and he catches a faint whiff of your shampoo again. Fuck.

He's not used to missing people. He doesn't make a habit of letting them stay long enough to be missed.

The couch dips under his weight as he sinks deeper into it. He drags a hand down his face, eyes gritty from the lack of sleep and too much thinking. He hasn't been out of his head in days. He's always done this. He shuts down, shuts out.

He's used to earning love by being quiet. That was the unspoken rule growing up. Don't speak unless spoken to. Don't cry unless you're bleeding. Don't ask for anything unless you're prepared to owe something in return. There was always a weight to every act of kindness in his childhood home, like affection came with a receipt. He learned early to stop wanting what he couldn't afford.

He remembers once, he must've been around nine or ten, when he'd won some regional spelling competition. For some reason, it was a big deal where he lived. The children winning those were referred to as ''the bright ones''. Their parents always seemed so proud, he'd seen their families hollering and cheering them on. He'd figured that if he won, maybe his family would be proud of him, too.

Every day leading up to the competition, he spent hours on end in the library, reading the dictionary and quizzing himself on words like ''fiduciary'' and ''eudaemonic'', which was way above the reading level of a nine-year-old, but he liked to be prepared. He always has.

And he'd won, impressing students and teachers alike, but he hadn't cared about any of them. He ran home, clutching the shiny laminated certificate with shaky fingers, beaming. His mum looked up from her laptop just long enough to say, "Put it on the fridge, if you want."

No one came to the ceremony. That was the last time he brought something home hoping to be praised for it.

He's always lived in transactions. Give this, get that. Be good, be useful, be what they want, and maybe you'll be wanted too.

He doesn't think about those years often, it's easier not to. The past feels like something heavy in the water, always threatening to drag him under if he swims too close. But now, alone in the apartment with the ghost of you, it all comes rushing back. The empty dinner table. The silence that rang louder than any argument. The way he used stay awake at night dreaming of growing up just so he could finally be in control of his own life.

He'd told you from the beginning; nothing was yours to keep. Every dress, every dinner, every luxury, bought by him, belonging to him. He built the arrangement around ownership. Around control.

He's turned into his parents. He's replicating the patterns that once hurt him, and calling it safety. Because if everything is defined, then nothing can be taken without warning.

You'll never be left disappointed, suffocating in the aching emptiness where something you once called yours used to be.

He slumps back into the couch, fingers pressed to his temples. And for a brief, unguarded second, he considers going to your apartment and dropping to his knees and confessing his feelings, even though he's not sure what they are exactly. But then it leaks in again.

The thing he still carries, this quiet, aching fear that love only stretches so far before it snaps.

When he got sick as a kid, he used to fake being better faster than he was. He didn't like how it made his mum sigh, how she'd move around the house more angrily when he was home from school. He'd lay there, feverish and aching, but tell her he felt fine, insisting on going to school with a tight-lipped smile. He didn't want to be a burden. Didn't want to be more than she could handle.

There were no bedtime stories. No tucking in. No gentle hands brushing hair off his forehead. Instead, there were closed doors and flickering hallway lights, his own small fingers tracing shapes into the walls, waiting for silence to settle enough that he could sleep. Love, in his house, was a presence you had to earn. It had to be invited in, performed for, clung to. Maybe that's why now, even grown, he keeps things transactional. It's what he knows. It's what he can control.

He reaches for his phone to shake off the feeling, his thumbs hovering above the screen. There's so much he wants to say to you. ''I'm sorry.'' ''I miss you.'' ''Please forgive me.''

For a moment, he thinks about deleting your number. Blocking it. Pretending none of this happened.

But the truth is, it did. And it's eating him alive, consuming his every waking thought, and, as of last night, his dreams. He stares down at his phone for a long time before he types. Are we done?

There's a long pause. Long enough for him to regret sending it, for his heart to drop to his stomach and his hand to wander toward the half-empty vodka bottle still on the coffee table.

But then your reply blinks onto the screen. Were we anything to begin with?

It knocks the breath out of him. If whatever the two of you were is already broken, what's left to protect?

What's left to lose?

...

thank you so much for reading! i appreciate any and all support so remember to like, comment and reblog. requests are open! 💕

sugar, baby series tag list

@indierockgirrl @prettygurl-2009 @cherryflavoredbyme @dipmeinhoneyh @haliastyless @drewrry @maddiesalvatore1839 @robinsue87 @zoraaasyd @sincerely-yours-marsbar @m0mmyfromtarget @maudie-duan @hoolabalooba @hisparentsgallerryy @txmhxllqnd @harringtonhundreds @freddyselmstreet @caynonmoondreams @matildasatellite @ilovezaynmalik08 @looney-goose @call1800coochie @nostalgiainmybones @billweasleyswife

general tag list

@2601-london @mads3502 @angeldavis777 @run-for-the-hills @postsexfistbump @hobireasns @madilee7802 @spinninc

...

[pricesprincess]

Back To You | j. price x fem reader

synopsis: Marriage wasn't as easy as you thought it was, now you're suffering the consequences of your actions that you began to think were in haste.

wc: 4.0k

tags: 18+ only explicit smut + breeding + some angst with happy ending + edited repost from my old blog + this is one of my most treasued pieces

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

You tried to jam pillows against your ears when the water made contact with the metal sink in your kitchen, which was a few feet from where you slept, the sound loud and more than annoying.

Since your bedroom is now shut off from the rest of the house because the windows are so drafty that winter makes it impossible to sleep in without freezing, you opted for the lumpy couch with mixmatched cushions and pillows you bought from tag sales.

Which only reminded you of John.

Ironically enough, it felt like everything was falling apart in the house the moment he moved out, leaving you with more than a broken heart.

Now you had leaky pipes to fix along with your life.

With it being two am, you knew John would still answer but when you called, you weren't expecting a woman to answer his phone.

Her sultry voice came over like a soft purr. You squeezed your eyes shut and tried not to let images become burned into your mind.

Immediately, you hung up and debated calling Kyle; he lived close and would help, no problem, and then your phone buzzed in your hand, hoping it was Gaz, maybe he knew you needed him?

Nope. Not, Kyle.

John was calling back.

"Hello? You okay, sweet'eart?" He asked like there was no rift between you two and he was still your concerned husband, the worry bright and clear under that thick British accent you missed so much,

Part of you wanted to ask who she was but refrained. "I'm sorry, John, but my sink won't stop dripping and it's keeping me awake. Can you come fix it, please?" You asked with a tight throat.

You swallowed the lump in your throat and tried to sink further into the couch, your duvet tucked around you to keep the cold air from penetrating under it and you wanted to stay warm.

There was some background chatter, then John came back speaking in that honey-dipped tone. "I'll be right over." He hung up, leaving you wondering who he was with and what he was doing with them.

Tucking the covers under your chin, you looked at your expenses, wondering if a hotel was out of the question. It would keep you warmer than here and the water would be a lot hotter than it is in your own home and you knew John would chastise you for not telling him.

He wasn't your husband anymore so that wasn't his business anymore; what either of you did or had going on was no longer something you should care about but John moving on hurt more than you wanted to admit, even though you were the one to ask for it.

But John deserved to be happy so when he used his key to let himself in, you didn't ask him about the woman but still greeted him from where you sat on the couch wrapped in a blanket. "Thank you."

"You're livin' in a damn icebox, love." He sighed and made his way over to you, stopping for a moment out of habit to kiss your head but he missed that step and walked straight into the kitchen to work on the sink, which caused him to let out a few colorful cuss words.

Once that was finished, John made his way to the furnace, getting it to start then he checked the vents, making sure hot air was being forced through them. His eyes shifted to the couch you lay on alone.

Silence filled the room as you met his gaze. "I know, the heat stopped working after you moved out and I don't have the money to fix that right now so I was getting by. Thanks again, John." You told him softly.

You only ever called him by his first name when you were irritated with him; during the whole relationship, his name was baby or honey and hearing you call him that made his heart shudder in his chest.

"Why didn't you just ask me?" His question made you prickle.

"Why do you think? You're not my husband anymore."

John took a step toward you, feeling the air become tenser. "Which means I have to stop carin' and lovin' you?" He shot back and sighed, fixing his bucket hat before pulling his keys from his pocket.

John's question left you speechless as he pulled his shoes back on, not wanting to fight with the person he cares about the most. "If you need anything else, let me know, sweet'eart."

Knowing that you were now safe and warm, John could leave and go back to Simon's.

That night you barely slept, tossing and turning, wishing you had asked him to stay the night, maybe for old times' sake but that would only further the crack in your heart and you didn't want to confuse it all, making the divorce harder than it needed to be, really.

The next morning you hardly could get off the couch; the squeaky springs dug into your back all night and it didn't help that the wind kept slamming the shutters against the house, creating so much noise and to make matters worse, you ran out of coffee beans.

John usually kept that stuff stocked.

Slapping a hand over your face, you scrubbed until you felt a little better and snatched something to wear from the tundra that is your bedroom; even with the heat on, it was still too chilly to sleep in.

Once dressed warmly, you set off to work, hoping that the office would be empty. It was a weekend, meaning that no one else should be there, and you could listen to music and crank the heat all the way up. Excitement sizzled through your veins as you drove.

It lasted all but a few minutes when you saw another car in the parking lot, your coworker Lucas, who has been super sweet to you ever since you started, and now that you don't wear your ring, he's bringing you coffee and flowers and lunch during the week.

He was cute and funny so it didn't bother you too much; perhaps you'd finally accept a date from him, seeing that John went on a date, or at least you thought it was because why did a woman answer his phone?

The thought made you clench your fists as you grabbed your bag from the backseat before scurrying inside to beat the chilly air that bit any exposed skin. "There she is. I was hoping you'd come in." Lucas beamed as he greeted you by the front double doors with a smile.

Lucas also held two coffee cups; one he gently thrust toward you. "I always do. I'm beginning to think you're coming in only because of me." You teased taking the cup with a grateful smile and nod.

He stepped in stride with you toward the cubicles where you answered phones, which got your bills barely paid but it was better than nothing and it helped you meet new people. "Is it snowing?"

"Thankfully no, but tonight I think it will start." The idea of having to spend your first winter alone hurts, and being cold isn't your only problem. Being with John for a decade and sharing everything left you stumbling after becoming a single woman after a long time.

The two of you chatted as you began the quick shift; it was something that helped cover the expense of other things you wanted, like the new vibrating clit toy that your friends all talked about.

It was a bit out of your price range but at this point, you'd pay it just to have an orgasm. After almost a year without a man's touch, you swore that if anyone got lucky enough to get you home, you'd hump their leg like a small dog.

"Are you doing anything to stay nice and warm? I could pick you up for dinner tonight." Lucas asked when it approached lunchtime, and you ended up in the break room for a moment to decompress.

Clearly, he was asking you on a date but was too shy to come out and say it outright like that. Being wanted stoked your ego and it had you nodding your head. "I'd love to, Lucas. How does six sound?"

The smile that pulled on his lips had you worried that he'd crack his cheek for a moment as he droned on about the details and how much fun you're going to have with a great man such as himself.

Your idea for a fun night took a dive with how he was bragging about himself. Once you accepted the date, it was like Lucas turned into another person but you didn't want to cancel on him just yet.

Thankfully the four hours ticked by and you were free of people screaming in your ear about getting a refund or how shitty of a person you are for not being able to help them the way they wanted.

You had a few hours to get ready before Lucas came, so you opted for a quick shower and to dive in your closet for something cute to wear. Since the divorce, you hadn't dressed up in such a long time, it felt like.

After applying some makeup and putting your hair in your favorite style, you looked in the mirror, running your hands over your curves that the dress you pulled on clung to and your tits looked good.

With a few sprays of perfume and some accessories on, you texted Lucas you were ready, followed by your address. Like magic, a few seconds later there was a knock on the door that startled you.

Lucas stood on your front porch with a bashful smile, holding a wilted bouquet of flowers that looked like he swiped them from a garbage can and they even smelled like it too, making you scrunch your nose.

"Wow, you're even sexier in a dress." His compliment made you sick to your stomach as he gazed at you like you were his last meal. The facade Lucas used at work was quickly crumbling, making you regret this. Perhaps if you call John, he could come and get you.

The thought was shoved away just as quickly as it came. He's probably on a date right now, and he's probably fucking her—no, you can't think about that or it will drive you insane all night.

You already said yes, Lucas was here and maybe he would cool his jets.

Taking the flowers, you placed them on the table next to the door, making a mental note to throw them away when you came home. Letting Lucas walk you to his car, you stayed a few feet away from him.

The idea of letting him touch you made your skin crawl.

It was painfully obvious he didn't know what to do on a date.

No opening the door, already asking if you could split the bill or at least get something cheap if he has to pay for it all and if he does, then you don't mind putting your mouth to work on the ride home.

You counted down the seconds until you were able to burst free from his car, where you barreled towards the front doors of the restaurant, ready to get this over and done and go home for the evening.

"There's no table available?" Lucas asked the host and then began to argue with the teenager, who seemed uncomfortable and out of his element, as you watched the scene unfold until you finally pulled Lucas back.

"It's okay; it's not that big of a deal. We can go somewhere else."

The angry mask he wore slipped for a moment as he smiled and took your hand to walk you back to his car. "I have a better idea in mind."

The better idea was driving by his ex-girlfriend's house, where she stood in the front window, heavily pregnant and dancing with someone. "That's her husband; she left me for him! Can you believe that?" he asked, white spittle forming at the corner of his lips.

Inside the cabin of the car was dark, making it difficult to see anything else but that or the way he gripped the steering wheel while you stayed silent, afraid to say anything that could set him off even more.

"Did your husband fuck around on you on his job? I couldn't be married while traveling to fuck other women." His voice was cold, void of any emotion at all and you felt your pulse race at his accusation.

You twisted your body to stare at him, your lip curling in disgust. "What the hell is wrong with you? John would never do anything like that and he didn't join the military to fuck around on his wife."

Your chest ached with the soft pulse of pain that never quite went away as you defended your ex-husband. Lucas's face contorted into something dark and dangerous as he pulled into your driveway.

"Sounds like you're still fucking him and I thought you two were over? Why call yourself his wife?" His voice teetered on possessiveness and something sinister as you reached for the door handle, desperate to leave his car and his space as fear took hold of you.

The moment you shoved your door open and stumbled out, you fell right into the chest of the very man you were defending; rough hands kept you upright as he peered into the dark car with a dead look.

John's eyes glazed over, something you've only seen twice since you met him. The first time was when he was talking about his missions and the other time was when a guy slapped your ass at the store.

You curled your fingers into his soft shirt as his scent wrapped you up like a bow on a pretty present. "John..." you whispered, getting his attention. His blue eyes shifted down, softening slowly.

Lucas watched the entire thing with a scoff as he rolled his eyes, not knowing what he just got himself into. John had already texted Simon his license plate and his name so later that night they could visit him.

John guided you into your old shared home. Passing under the threshold made you lean into the man you once promised to cherish and love for the rest of your life; a mistake was what it was, truthfully.

However, you couldn't say that out loud for fear that it was already over. Silence hung over you and John like an umbrella, keeping you two in a bubble of misunderstandings and unasked questions.

"That arseface has been after you ever since you started working there." John broke the silence as he stood by the front door with his arms crossed over his chest, putting you on the defensive.

Your eyes narrowed as you felt the bubble of irritation flare up. It's what the last year and a half of your marriage was like: one wrong move and you stepped on a landmine, and there was more fighting.

That's what did you in. When John wasn't home, it felt like you were single anyway and when he was home, he was more of your roommate. What hurt you the most is you weren't sure when it all started to fall apart at the cracks until it was finally broken.

"I had no idea because I wasn't worried about entertaining another man." You hummed and dropped your purse on the table where the rotted flowers lay, which John picked up, examining them with a grin.

He followed you into the kitchen, where you poured a glass of wine that John took for himself, taking a sip from it. "A man who gives a woman dead flowers wouldn't know how to properly romance her."

You wanted to make some sort of comment about him not knowing either but that was a lie. When you first met John during girls' night, he swept you off your feet and ever since, he has never let you walk.

To him you were his goddess; he worshiped the ground you walked on and there was nothing he wouldn't do for you nor was there any part of your body he hadn't kissed or touched and even though you no longer had the same name, he still felt that way and always would.

"He's unhinged to say the least, and since you're here, will you take a look at the windows in our," You cleared your throat and took the wine glass back from him with a huff to take a sip. "My bedroom, please?"

He leaned over the counter to wipe away the bead of wine on your lip before tasting it off his thumb, making your skin prickle with heat.

"Anything for my wife." With a wink, John headed toward the bedroom, feeling memories haunt him like a ghost attached to his back.

So many nights he carried you to the bed when you fell asleep on the couch waiting for him to get home, evenings you both spent curled up under the covers talking about everything and nothing.

You've seen him in dark times that he swore would take him under but you shooed away the dark, heavy clouds; your light, like the sun, parted them, providing him the warmth and love he needed to flourish.

A few moments later you joined him in the bedroom with two mugs of spiked hot chocolate, a silent apology for snapping at him when he's saved you again.

"I'm an asshole, huh?" You murmured and handed him his mug.

"At least you're a pretty one." He teased taking a drink of it, smearing the whipped cream on his beard that you kissed away without thinking the moment he sat next to you on the edge of the bed.

John stared at you for a moment, drinking in how the light caressed your features. It's been a year since you've been this close to him.

Setting both mugs down quickly, he leaned in to kiss you properly, like how a man should. His calloused palms cupped your cheeks to hold you still as his tongue parted your lips with a deep groan.

You held onto his arms with a whimper, gliding your tongue with his while moving to straddle him, your hands knocking off his bucket hat to grab a handful of his hair as you ground your clothed pussy against him.

It was a kiss that stole your breath as you molded yourself to John; he was the air you needed in your lungs to keep moving on.

He tasted you with desperate licks that made your clit throb with need as his hands trailed down to slowly peel your clothes off you as his mouth left open-mouthed kisses all over your shoulders and neck once they were bare for him; then he lay on his back to touch you.

"I'm sorry John, for letting our marriage come to this." You whispered, your voice teetering between the rush of emotions and the honesty.

With you straddling him, it was difficult to get him naked, and you missed seeing him. He's a bear of a man with thick, dark hair all over his body that softened with age but was still rough around the edges.

His hands roamed your body missing the feel of you after so fucking long. "Stop apologizin' darlin', I'm right where I want to be."

Despite him lying down, you still got him half naked, enough for you to rub your face against his chest with a sigh as he caressed your back with his fingertips and then popped your ass when you licked his nipple with a soft giggle before peppering his face in kisses.

"We should've had a baby." John whispered into the darkness as one hand cupped your cheek with your heart beating in tandem as you stared at him, feeling a rush of warmth wash over you.

It was something you thought about a lot but with him missing so much of it, you let it simmer on the back burner but now your womb was clenching. "Then no man will ask me on a date because I have my husband home waiting for me. No more, John, please, just come back."

Your soft pleas felt like a ton of bricks on his chest as tears matted his hair while you sobbed in his arms, breaking down. John shushed you gently with kisses and rolled you to your back to spread your legs.

He took his sweet time in kissing his way down to your glistening pussy that ached to be stretched out by John. You whined when his tongue finally glided across your sweet and slick cunt, making your back arch off the bed as he devoured you messily.

With slow and measured strokes of his tongue, your ex-husband had you gasping, your fingers curled in the sheets as you humped his mouth.

John slid his hands around your thighs to keep them open as he ate you out like you were made of the sweetest candy that would leave him with aching teeth but that didn't matter when your moans matched just how you tasted.

Everything was covered in diamonds from the sheer amount of pleasure that was pumping through your veins, like liquid desire making your pussy drool as you humped John's mouth.

It's been so long since you've felt his touch and now it was all you could feel; pressure built up the more his tongue swirled and stroked over your aching and puffy clit before he was kissing your cunt.

Then he slid two thick fingers inside you with a wet squelch, hearing you squeal and moan brokenly. "John, give me a fucking baby already."

He chuckled against you and pulled away with a glistening beard. "Being a bit bossy, are we? You're the one who went on a date; steppin' out on me deserves a punishment." He hummed quietly.

Your blood ran hot, making it feel like you were experiencing the worst hot flash of your life. "I only accepted it because you went on one!"

John now laughed as he kneeled between your legs, watching as you propped yourself up on your elbows, your eyes shifting down to his one hand that worked on his belt and then his pants to free his cock.

It sprang free, warm, fat, and heavy. It was thick too and just the right amount of hair covered his pubic bone; a few veins ran up on either side and a bigger one ran from the deep red, engorged head to his heavy and hairy sack that smelled like all John, potent male.

You wrapped your fingers around the base, unable to let the tips meet, and then slowly you jerked him off from the shaft to the tip before wrapping your legs around him.

"When that woman answered my phone, she thought it was hers. I was with my mates, sweetheart."

The sting of jealousy faded to embarrassment. "You never dated?"

"No, lovey, how could I date anyone when I was still married to you?"

You cried out and hugged his neck, pulling him further down to kiss him with passion as he rutted his hips against you blindly, trying to thrust in from the excitement of having you like this again.

When he speared you open on his dick, your mouth went slack, feeling the sweet sting of the stretch. "Keep it slow, John, you're the last person I slept with..." you admitted in between breathy kisses.

John rocked against you with slow strokes that kept you dizzy while you clung to him as he made sweet love to you, his hand cradling your head as he kissed you back with equal fire. Clearly, he missed you just as much as you missed him, and it was shown in hi

His smug grin not only riled you up but also made you want to sit your pussy on his face to give his mouth something to do and dear lord, did you need an orgasm from him? He's the only man who knew your body so well and could make you cry so sweetly for him.

[brokenmenswhore]

HEAR ME OUT.

sirius black, with a fisting AND praise kink

(Plz...im begging...)

all five | sirius black

pairing: sirius black x fem!reader

warnings: not proofread, smut (MDNI 18+), fingering, fisting

a/n: i’m running out of dorian gray gifs y’all are about to learn how bad i wanna fuck billy russo

────── ☾ ──────

The first time Sirius touched you, you could have sworn you saw whatever version of god there might be.

The music was blasting, Remus and Sirius's collection of muggle vinyl records spinning round and round as the holiday home bumped with the energy of almost every single student in your year drunk dancing like it was their last night alive.

You downed another one of your cups, your seat atop Sirius's lap growing more and more uncomfortable as his jeans pushed further and further into your legs.

You shifted to get comfortable, but had trouble, and apparently it went on too long for Sirius.

"Stop fuckin' squirming, you're making me hard," he whispered in your ear, gripping your hips to still you in place.

You giggled. "Am I supposed to feel bad about that?" you whispered in return.

Sirius grinned darkly. "Don't fuckin' play with me. You don't know me very well if you don't think I'll fuck you right here in front of everybody."

You met his eyes for a moment, and you could see his lust clouding them. You sat in anticipation for a moment, teasing him without doing a single thing, before you turned back to the group, saying, "I'll be right back."

Sirius watched you, his breathing slightly heavy, as you marched off to the downstairs restroom.

It took mere minutes for Sirius to follow you. He swung open the door without a care in the world.

You had wanted him to follow you, obviously, as you leaned against the sink counter with your arms crossed. "You need something, Black?"

Sirius stepped closer and closer to you until your bodies were nearly touching. "I'd say."

Sirius gripped your hips and roughly spun your body, pressing the front of your hips against the sink counter. He slapped your ass hard and said, "smartass."

"You'd be bored otherwise," you smiled.

"Get your fucking leg up," Sirius said frantically, lifting your leg until you had one knee propped up on the counter, your leg off to the side, while your other leg kept you standing.

Your skirt was short enough that it rolled up to your waist with the movement of your body, leaving your underwear exposed to Sirius.

He ran a finger along your clothed center, eliciting a breathy moan from your lips.

“Lock the door, Siri."

"Or what, hm?" he teased, pulling your underwear to the side and running a finger between your folds, causing you to throw your head back in pleasure, "everyone'll hear you in a minute either way."

"What are you doing?" you asked as he began to circle your clit with his fingers.

"I'm touching you, baby. Gonna make you come all over my fingers, hm?"

"Fuck, Siri, that's so good," you whined when he picked up the pace.

"Yeah? You like it when I touch you?"

He moved his fingers even lower, circling your entrance before inserting a finger into you. "How about this, hm?"

You just moaned in response, pressing your torso down onto the sink counter.

"Up," Sirius said, pulling your hair so that your back arched and you had no choice but to watch him in the mirror.

He made eye contact with you in the mirror, saying, "tell me how good it feels."

You blushed in embarrassment, opening your mouth to try to force the words out, but you were unable.

Sirius slowly added another finger, and said again, “tell me how good it feels.”

Whining through the words, you said, "fuck, Siri, so fucking good."

The moment you were done, Sirius picked up the pace, fucking his fingers into you quicker and quicker as you fought to keep your eyes open in the mirror.

Sirius slightly curled his fingers, causing you to cry out at the pleasure of the spot he was now hitting. "Shit, you're so fucking good at this," you gasped.

Sirius pressed his body as close to yours as he could, his arm the only thing between your bodies. He met your gaze in the mirror, and you grew even wetter as you saw the look in his eyes.

He continued to move in and out of you, your back slightly arching as your core squeezed Sirius's fingers.

"Yes, fuck, right there," you moaned, and Sirius began to move his hand even faster.

The look in his eyes darkened, and the lust was filled with determination and neediness. Every time you praised him, he got hotter and hotter. He clearly liked it.

"Siri, you're so fucking good at this, I'm gonna come," you moaned, trying to sound as seductive as you could.

"Yeah? You gonna come already?"

Feeling how hot and vigorous he became from just a little praise was pulling you closer and closer to the edge. "Can't help it," you whimpered, "so fucking good."

Sirius started to hit your sweet spot, causing whines and moans to fall from your lips uncontrollably.

"That's it, baby, let me hear you."

You nearly screamed as you came. Despite Sirius's attempts to pleasure you to the point of moaning loud enough that everyone heard you, but the music and dialogue was loud enough that you doubted anyone heard you.

Sirius pulled his fingers out of you, guiding your leg back down to the floor slowly and gently. He continued to stare at you in the mirror as he put his fingers in his mouth, tasting you and humming in satisfaction.

"You're sweet," Sirius said, turning your head to kiss you, "gonna need to taste you again soon."

────── ☾ ──────

Despite your heated bathroom fingering, you and Sirius only fucked once or twice the rest of holiday, and returned to Hogwarts with the rest of the group. Though Sirius didn’t care if people were around, you did, and it was hard to be hot and heavy when your friends were always around.

Your friends, specifically.

Because Sirius didn’t care if people you didn’t know were around.

Horny and desperate from the lack of sex, Sirius decided that he had enough of waiting until you were alone.

“What’re you doing?” you whispered, leaning into Sirius as his hands toyed with the hem of your house-colored skirt.

He shushed you, turning back to your professor, “pay attention, we’re in class, damn.”

“But-“

Your breath caught in your throat when he fully dipped his fingers beneath your underwear, his hand and wrist disappearing beneath your skirt.

“Sirius-“

“Sh! Big exam coming up.”

“I’m gonna slap that smirk off of your face-“

You shut up quickly when Sirius plunged a finger into you without warning, hiding your emotions behind a cough.

Sirius’s smirk only grew at your reaction.

He began to pump his finger in and out, curling to add to the pleasure as you tried your best not to make a noise, or squirm in your seat and draw attention to the pair of you. You were failing miserably.

“Sit still,” Sirius whispered, his tone serious and demanding.

“In case you didn’t notice, you’re currently fingering me,” you snapped back.

“Barely,” Sirius sighed, nonchalant as ever as he added another finger, “now I’m fingering you.”

You nearly jolted off of the stool, but quickly recovered. The stool slid against the ground quickly, causing a harsh noise to echo through the otherwise somewhat quiet classroom.

“Everything okay, Y/L/N?” Your professor called out, the attention of the room turning toward you.

“Yes, perfectly fine, sorry,” you said, straining your voice to sound normal.

Sirius leaned in and whispered in your ear, “pretty fucking wet, didn’t even have to prep you. You like this, hm? You like it when I fuck you with my fingers where anyone can see? All they’d have to do is look close enough.”

“Siri-“

Sirius turned his attention back to the front of the room, completely ignoring any plea or attitude-filled look you gave him as he continued to finger you.

He was pulling you closer and closer to the edge, and closer and closer into an addiction of the feeling of his fingers inside of you.

────── ☾ ──────

The moment you had gotten back to the dorms, Sirius threw you onto his mattress, crawling over you like a predator and pressing his hips against yours.

"Decency! Decency!" James yelled, covering his eyes as if he had seen something grotesque.

Sirius didn't seem to care about his friends, since he completely ignored James and started licking and sucking at your neck.

"Sirius," you hummed, trying to get his attention, "Sirius, literally everyone is looking."

Sirius tilted his head backward, and he saw James, Peter, and Remus all looking directly at the pair of you.

"Something' interesting?" Sirius asked.

"I mean, yeah," Remus shrugged, gesturing toward you two, "what's the plan, Pads, you just fuckin' her in front of us now?"

Sirius smiled. "I'd leave the room if I were you."

"It's our dorm too-"

"Peter, seriously, leave the room."

Remus started laughing. "C'mon, Peter, he'll only be like ten minutes," he teased.

Sirius threw a pillow at Remus as the boys left the room.

"You can't just kick everyone out!" you giggled.

"Oh, yes I can," he said, kissing you before moving lower and lower, taking residence nuzzled in your neck.

You tilted your head back to give him easier access to your skin, sighing in pleasure as he grinded against you.

In between kisses, and so low it was nearly a mumble, Sirius spoke into your ear, "can I touch you, sweetness?"

You smiled. "Isn't it time I return the favor?"

Sirius shot upward, looking into your eyes. He was deadly serious as he said, "no."

"But-"

"I don't want you to return the favor, I want you to scream my name and come around my fingers. I want to make you feel good, baby, please let me."

Your breath hitched in your throat. "I feel bad."

Sirius dipped his head and sighed. "Trust me, telling me you feel good is enough for me right now, yeah?"

With that, Sirius pushed your skirt high, pressing two fingers on your folds through the cloth of your undergarments.

You nodded your head yes for consent, and Sirius teased you over the fabric, running a finger between your folds and soaking up your growing wetness.

“Siri, please,” you gasped.

“I’m just not sure you want it.”

“Please touch me, Sirius, I want it so bad,” you begged.

“I just don’t know. I’m not convinced.”

You sighed in frustration at his teasing. “Please, Siri, I need you to make me come.”

“Atta girl,” he said, pulling your undergarments to the side and circling your clit softly. You let out a heavy breath that you weren’t aware you were holding in, relishing in the pleasure of Sirius’s touch.

He continued to suck on your neck as he inserted two fingers inside of you right off the bat. You moaned loudly, and Sirius grinned wickedly as he watched your face contort.

“Not expecting so much, hm?” he taunted.

“Fuck,” was all you could say as you threw your head back and ground your hips, pushing his fingers even deeper within you as you clenched around them.

“That’s it, baby, pull ‘em back in to you,” he said, “you need a little more?”

Your eyes widened. “I- don’t know if I can fit more.”

Sirius smiled. “I could fit all five if you asked, baby.”

You cocked your head to the side. “Yeah, right.”

Sirius didn’t remove his fingers from you, but stilled them. “Was that sarcasm I heard?”

You smiled, pushing some sweat-slicked hair from your face and adjusting against the pillow as you said, “you do not have small hands, Siri, I appreciate your faith in me, but there’s no way in hell you could possibly fit all five in me.”

Sirius tilted his head like a puppy. “You wanna bet?”

“You can’t be serious.”

“My fist can’t possibly stretch you out more than my cock does.”

You playfully smacked his arm. “You’re filthy.”

“Is that a no?”

“No.”

“Is that a yes?”

You stayed silent in nervousness.

“Baby, I’m not gonna do anything you don’t want. Our little bickering dynamic aside, if you don’t wanna try, then we don’t try. No big deal. I have a vivid imagination for a reason- I’ll be fine. I won’t be mad.”

You smirked. “You puttin’ words in my mouth now, Black?”

Sirius raised his eyebrows.

You shifted your hips to try to get any sense of friction, but Sirius wasn’t giving in. He tsked, meeting your eyes with intent. “What am I doin’, baby.” It wasn’t a question, but more an invitation to say yes or no.

“You wanna fuck me with all five, then do it. A girl can’t lay here forever.”

Sirius smiled. “Just gimme a solid yes first.”

“Yes, Merlin’s sake, Sirius, do it, please.”

Sirius resumed his movements, curling his fingers slightly before moving them in and out again.

His face close to yours, he watched your reaction as he very slowly added a third finger.

“Fuckin’ hell, you’re wet enough for this already, huh?” he teased.

“Mhm,” you moaned, “all for you.”

Sirius groaned as he leaned down to kiss you, the muscles in his arm flexing as he fucked you with his fingers.

You pulled away briefly to whisper, “more.”

Sirius moaned at the word, your back arching and his eyes on you as he stilled, then slowly inserted a fourth finger into you.

Your brows furrowed as you held your breath, waiting until you felt him stagnant to cry out at the stretching.

Moving slowly, Sirius said, “y’know, when I had you all spread open at that party, watchin’ how you felt when I added another finger, I thought fuck, she’d fucking love some more. Now, here you are, beggin’ me for it. Knew you’d look so pretty with my fist inside of you.”

You grabbed his hair and pulled him closer to you, pressing your lips against his for an extra layer of intimacy as he continued to stay slow, letting you adjust to nearly his entire hand. He had moved quickly, and now was giving you time to get used to it.

Your moans became higher and higher pitched, your eyes fighting to open as your body completely gave herself over to Sirius’s mercy.

You began to grind your hips in slow, tight circles, moaning even louder at the extra pleasure it gave you.

“Merlin, Sirius, you feel so fucking good,” you moaned, “so fucking good.”

“Yeah? You want more?” Sirius breathed out.

“Please, please,” you whimpered, “need more, please.”

“Open wider for me, angel.”

You hadn’t even realized you were pressing your legs against his arm as you pried your legs apart, spreading them as far as you comfortably could.

Both you and Sirius looked between your bodies to where he inserted the last finger, your head slamming back against the pillow as you tried to catch your breath.

“Fuck,” Sirius said, eyes trained to the site.

“Holy shit,” you gasped.

Sirius growled. “I fucking love being right.”

You couldn’t help but giggle. “Shut the fuck up.”

“Not very nice,” he pouted, moving his fist inside of you ever so slightly and then stopping again.

“Not fair,” you breathed through shudders.

“Tell me how it feels,” he demanded.

“Full,” you admitted.

“Yeah? You like it when I touch you and fill you up?”

You nodded your head, your chest rising and falling less and less as you caught your breath.

“Move, Siri, please,” you said, and Sirius started off slowly again, giving you time to adjust to a pace before quickening it.

“Yes, fuck, right there,” you moaned, and Sirius moved slightly faster.

The transparency of his need to be told he was doing a good job was dangerously hot.

“Good boy,” you whimpered.

Sirius dipped his head and took a deep breath like he couldn’t believe what you just said, his fist instinctively fucking you even faster in appreciation.

“You’re making me feel so good, Siri.”

He couldn’t help it. He moved even faster.

You cried out at the pace, your hands holding onto Sirius’s arm as his muscles flexed in a consistent rhythm.

“Keep talking,” Sirius pleaded, pressing his hips against the side of your thigh and bucking, chasing his own high.

“I love the way you touch me, Sirius, please don’t stop.”

Sirius moved even faster, pushing as deep into you as he could possibly go.

“You’re gonna make me come if you keep doing that,” you said, moans so loud you were nearly screaming.

“Yeah? You admit I was right?”

Your back arched into his touch. “Yes, fuck, you were right, Sirius, you were right, you feel so good.”

Sirius was rubbing himself against your leg desperately, his hips moving in tandem with his hand, which was moving expertly fast.

“Shit, shit, Siri,” you gripped his bicep, unable to control yourself or your movements as you squirmed beneath him.

“That’s it, that’s it,” he egged you on, feeling you squeeze around him.

You kissed him to keep your moans at bay as you came, Sirius quickly pulling his fist out of you so that he could see the arousal leak out of you.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he said, looking at his hand, which glistening with your juices.

Sirius quickly reached inside of his trousers, using the hand that was inside you moments ago to touch himself to completion in a matter of seconds.

You giggled. “You must really be into me, huh?”

Sirius, out of breath and sweaty as well, said “you’re gonna be the death of me.”

[lovesickhughes]

💌 lovebug girldad!jack <3

a/n: thank you for requesting! it's a day late, but what better than to post for mother’s day 💞 i hope you like this! (not edited!)

warnings: mentions of pregnancy!

When you found out you were pregnant, you were beyond ecstatic, it was the best gift you could have ever been given. You couldn't wait to receive ultrasound pictures of the little one growing inside you, or pick out furniture for the nursery Jack and you would soon spend endless hours in, and even though you hadn't met the little bean growing inside you- you were already obsessed.

But, Jack took you by surprise. From the moment you shared the news with him through a thoughtful and wholesome pregnancy announcement, his entire world shifted to being revolved around you.

Whether it was pampering you as your body began to adjust to the growing little one from within, or making your life as easy as possible in unnecessary ways you only scolded Jack for; he had one thing in mind and that was to love you and his child that you were carrying.

So when May came around, Jack's birthday slowly but surely approaching, you slowly began hinting at the fact and trying to see what he wanted as gifts. By this time, you were just past the sixth month mark of your journey carrying your little bean, and the effects of your pregnancy were in full force.

There were times where your head would spin, leaving you disoriented or when your cravings for food felt endless, your hunger being insatiable and what got you the most; the body aches. The added weight of your growing bean weighing stress on your body to limits you thought were non-existent.

But despite all, Jack was your rock. He was the one that grounded you, eased you— supported you in ways you only wish you could repay him for.

The Mother's Day weekend consisted of time being spent in Michigan alongside the Hughes family. Luke spending time with his college friends, Quinn beginning his summer conditioning and training, all the while Jack stayed glued to your side.

You had entered the lake house with Jack's hand never leaving the small of your back or your hip. He was hot on your tail and every chance he could take, he'd be tending to you to ensure you were at maximum comfort.

"Jack, baby, just relax for the night, 'kay? I'm all good." You assured as you ran your hand through his brown curls, pushing them away from his forehead.

Jack leaned down to place a kiss to your temple, throwing an arm across the back of the couch to rest behind your frame before shifting in his spot to become more comfortable.

"I know, I know. Just wanna make sure you're comfortable."

It was a rainy evening, which meant the night would be spent indoors watching movies with the fireplace on while the sound of the rain hitting the glass window echoed through the house.

You were spread along the length of the couch, tucked into Jack's side with a soft, fluffy blanket rested over your legs to give you the extra warmth. Jack's other hand— not around your shoulder— found its way to your bump, slipping his fingers underneath the fabric of your shirt and drew endless shapes with his fingertips along your skin.

It was his way of talking to his little girl, who didn't know it yet, but absolutely rocked his world.

When you found out the baby was going to be a girl— celebrated with a group of close friends and family— the memory of Jack screaming of joy and immediately enveloping you into his embrace would forever be etched into your mind.

The feeling of Jack's hands against your bump sent shivers through your system. It was enough to excite you while also relax you and lull you into a trance that you never wanted to leave.

The movie played lowly on the TV planted on the wall, all the while you felt your eyes begin to grow heavy, the warmth being emitted between Jack's and your bodies causing you to feel sleep creeping upon you.

Suddenly, as if a lightbulb had switched in your mind, you turned your head to look at Jack, his eyes meeting yours as you shifted against him— sitting straighter.

"What do you want for your birthday? I know you've been kinda brushing it off, but I wanna do something for you." You urged, your hand reaching to rest on his forearm of the arm that was rested against your stomach.

He shook his head, closing his eyes and sliding his hand to the side of your torso, caressing the skin. "Baby, I told you, I don't need anything. I'm perfectly content just spending the day with you."

You groan, rolling your eyes playfully, "You're such a sweetheart, but c'mon. You've been doing so much for me lately, I wanna return the favour— pay you back." You press, trying to urge your favourite brunette to hint at some of the things he'd want for his special day.

As if it were instinct, his hand reached to cup your jaw, pulling you into a sweet, warm and slow kiss, his hand pushing to interlock between the strands of your hair.

When he pulled away, he only softly smiled, eyes tired and cheeks rosy with warmth. He then looked down to your bump that separated you from being chest to chest against him, his smile growing wider as he pushed the fabric of your top away to expose the soft skin of your belly where your little bean resided.

"Y/n, you carrying my daughter— my first-born daughter— is all I could ever wish for for my birthday. You being our little bean's mother is what I want." He admitted, looking up at you through his eyelashes.

"Jack—” You tried to protest, only to be interrupted.

"I know you think I'm going overboard, but I just want things to be as easy as they can for you. I can only imagine what it's like for you, to be caring our child. You're my only birthday wish because you're gifting me with the greatest thing to ever happen to us," He said, gesturing to your stomach, his hand splaying across the expanse of your stomach.

As if on queue, the fluttering feeling you had started to notice not long ago, sparked again and you watched as your stomach moved against Jack's hand. Your little bean letting both of you know she could hear you.

Immediately, Jack's gaze lightened, his eyes widened, mouth slowly agape as he inhaled sharply at the sensation.

"Did you feel that?" Jack asked eagerly, sliding his hand across your skin to search for more areas where he could feel bean kicking.

You let out a chuckle, your own hand reaching to cup Jack's jaw, "Yes, honey, I did." You smiled sweetly.

Jack kissed you feverishly, his excitement radiating off of his bones.

"That's our little girl in there." He said softly as he pulled away from your lips. He squirmed against your body, shifting so that he was laying across the cushion of the couch to have his face opposite your stomach.

He peppered kisses against your torso as you watched him intently, so enamoured with the way he treated you and bean.

"If you can hear me, bean— you are the best thing that's ever happened to me," He whispered against your skin, his voice vibrating the surface of your skin.

You lightly tapped his head, silently shunning him, "That, and your mom are the best things."

[starmaidengarden]

Hiiii! I just finished reading your works and it melt my heart!!! Can i ask for fluff how Heartslabyul guys spend rainy days together with s/o ;;w;;; Tyty <33

𝐑𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐲 𝐃𝐚𝐲

— Riddle : Ace : Deuce : Cater : Trey : x gn!reader. no cw/tw. established relationship. TikTok mentioned, idk what they use for TikTok. Pic: Leo08ph on twt, dividers: uzmacchiato.

note : wait you read all of them!!!ヽ(°〇°)ﾉ that means so much to me! I'm so glad you enjoyed them!!❤️ sorry that this took so long, I have been so busy as of late.

Riddle Rosehearts ༉⋆｡˚

Activity: Reading together under a blanket, sipping tea

Riddle takes rainy days as an opportunity to slow down. He prepares a warm cup of tea and settles in with a book. He offers to read aloud to you, his voice calm and precise. If you get sleepy and doze off, he gently places a blanket over you and keeps reading in a softer tone.

Tea and book club for two — Riddle selects a book and offers to read aloud. He pauses to explain parts he finds important or to ask your opinion. When you chime in, he listens intently, clearly pleased you're engaging with him.

Gentle conversation — With the constant pressure of dormleader, Riddle opens up more. You might hear quiet stories of his childhood, his mother’s strict teachings, or his fears about not being “good enough.” If you offer comfort, he’s flustered — but grateful.

Studying or journaling together — If you're working on something, Riddle will sit beside you and study too, just to be close. He likes the peacefulness. Sometimes he sneaks glances at you, a small smile tugging at his lips.

Raindrops tapped against the window, creating a soothing background noise. The scent of rose tea fills the air. You settle into the comfy armchair next to him, Riddle’s voice cuts through the silence, smooth and clear, as he starts reading. Each word floats around you like a warm embrace, bringing the story to life and taking you to another world. Outside, the rain keeps pouring, and you can feel your eyelids getting heavier. The combination of Riddle’s soothing narration and the rhythmic patter of the rain creates a cozy lullaby, making it easy to drift off. It doesn’t take long before your eyes start to blur over the pages.

Ace Trappola ༉⋆｡˚

Activity: Playing video game, and scrolling

Rainy days to Ace are prime slacking off the weather. Classes? Who cares. Studying? He’ll get to it later. Right now, all he wants is to spend the day wrapped up in warmth with you. He turns a rainy day into a playful challenge. He’ll break out his favorite games or cards and drag you into a marathon. He’s competitive but more interested in making you laugh—throwing jokes and playful jabs your way until you’re both laughing too hard to keep score.

Video Game Marathons — He’ll hand you a controller with a cocky smirk and trash-talk you, even if you're not very good. If you somehow manage to beat him, he’ll act dramatically betrayed and demand a rematch.

Couch Cuddling and Movie Roasts — While watching a random horror movie, he makes sarcastic comments the entire time. If you get scared, he pulls you closer and teases you about it, but it's just an excuse to hold you tight.

Card Tricks and Magic Pranks — He tries to teach you one of his sleight-of-hand tricks, but it quickly turns into a flirtation. “Oops, how did this flower end up behind your ear?” he grins, and although you roll your eyes, you secretly love it.

Snacks scattered across the coffee table, a game console blinking in sleep mode, and rain tapping against the window in a soothing rhythm, completing the soft music that floated gently through the air. The room is cluttered but it cozy. A thick blanket draped over the two of you. he scrolls through social media, laughter bubbling up unexpectedly. "This is literally you," the screen shows a meme that reminded him of inside jokes or a quirky moment you two shared. The corners of your lips curled into a smile each time, even as you rolled your eyes playfully.

Deuce Spade ༉⋆｡˚

Activity: Cooking simple comfort food together

Deuce sees the rain as a chance to practice his baking with you. He’s earnest and a bit clumsy, so expect a few spills and a lot of laughter. He’ll get super flustered if you compliment his cooking, but it makes his day.

Cooking — He’ll invite you to the kitchen and earnestly ask if you want to make some food. Every move is a learning opportunity, and Deuce might end up getting flour on his face or dropping an egg. The two of you laugh through the mishaps, but he still makes sure everything is perfect for you. He’ll turn red at the small moments of physical affection.

Simple movie date — he’ll suggest watching a movie, but no one’s really watching it. He’ll get distracted by you—the way you smile at certain scenes or curl up beside him. He might even steal little glances at you when you’re not paying attention, wondering how you got so perfect.

Chill and Cuddles (He Tries to Play It Cool)— Once you’re curled up on the couch or bed, Deuce is both awkward and incredibly sweet. He awkwardly flops down beside you, his gangly limbs seeming to tangle endearingly, yet his gentle nature radiates warmth. With a shy tilt, he looks up at you with big eyes, as if seeking permission to inch closer.

Rain pours outside, adding to the cozy atmosphere. Flour spills everywhere when Deuce, focused on mixing, accidentally knocks over the bag. It dusts the counter, the floor, and both of you. “Oh no, no, no! I didn’t mean to—” You both burst out laughing as flour clouds the air. Deuce grins mischievously and flings a handful of flour your way. “Gotcha!” he exclaims, his cheeks flushed. You smear some flour on his cheek, and soon you're in the middle of an impromptu flour fight, giggling uncontrollably. As the laughter fades, you both catch your breath, covered in flour. Deuce wipes his hands on his apron, and for a moment, you lock your eyes. His gaze softens, and he gently brushes flour off your cheek. “You look really cute like this,” he says softly, the playfulness shifting to something more intimate.

Cater Diamond ༉⋆｡˚

Activity: TikToks, selfies, and aesthetic chill

Cater goes full “rainy day” mode—candles, soft lighting, chill music playlists. You take selfies wrapped in blankets, film cute videos, and maybe try couple-themed filters.

Spa Day — Cater brings the spa experience to you with face masks, nail painting, and refreshing cucumber water. He’s all about self-care and spreading good vibes, especially when the weather is gloomy outside.

Dance Challenges — When the rain pours down, Cater turns up the music and invites you to join in on the latest dance trends or even create your own. Expect to share some silly bloopers along the way!

Rainy Day Playlist — Cater would curate a dreamy lo-fi playlist to match the rainy mood—and then he’d make one for you based on your vibe. You can listen together while watching the rain fall outside your window.

The room was bright and lively, filled with the sweet scent of lemon balm and cucumber water. Cater Diamond burst in with a grin, bringing goodies like face masks and pastel nail polish. You found yourself in a cool green mask while Cater lounged beside you. Once the music shifted to an upbeat mix, “Spa time’s done, now it’s dance break time!” Cater said as he grabbed your hand, and you both attempted the latest dance challenge, bursting into laughter as you stumbled and tripped. Flopping back onto the bed, you watched the hilarious bloopers. “We’re posting this!”

Trey Clover ༉⋆｡˚

Activity: Baking together and sharing warm snacks

Trey uses the gloomy weather to bake something delicious. He invites you to join him in the kitchen, showing you how to knead dough or decorate cookies. You end up with a tray of sweet pastries, a warm oven, and him casually brushing flour off your cheek with a smile.

Baking together — probably something seasonal, like apple tarts or lemon scones. He’s patient while you help, letting you stir, decorate, or sneak tastes of the batter.

Tea and Quiet Conversation — Trey brews a pot of tea. You both sit near the window, listening to the rain while talking softly about dreams.

Quiet Walk Under an Umbrella — If the rain isn’t too heavy, he might ask if you want to take a walk anyway—sharing an umbrella, boots splashing in puddles, the whole “romantic slice-of-life” vibe. Trey likes balance, and a bit of fresh air—even in the rain—helps clear the mind.

The scent of vanilla and butter filled the cozy kitchen as light rain pattered against the windows. You stood next to Trey, with flour dusting your fingertips. “Here,” he said with a smile, handing you a bowl of strawberry syrup. He nudged a spoon toward you, encouraging you to taste the filling. You dipped it in, savoring the sweet burst of flavor and wiping syrup from your mouth. Trey chuckled, his amber eyes sparkling. “I knew you’d love it.”

[errorcode-33]

Pretty pt. 2

Choso x reader

NSFW fem!hot!reader // choso

pt. 1

warnings; choso is bad at feelings, slightly less clueless choso, handjob, reader is hot, kinda long-ish but mostly just smut.

Note; might make this into a series? possibly

Enjoy~

It has been about a week since your 'experience' with Choso, if you could even call it that considering that it didn't last very long and wasn't that eventful.

For you at least, for Choso it was very eventful, though I digress. Ever since then it almost seems as if you've made it your life mission to get even closer to him, not even bothering to try to hide your attraction anymore, openly hitting on him, even in public which you didn't really do before.

Well, to him it seems like it, though in reality he just started noticing more and being able to actually understand what you were trying to get out of your comments.

Which was to apparently fluster him, most of the time, which you happened to be very good at.

It almost starts to annoy him, not because he doesn't like the attention, he really likes the attention, but because often your comments and actions would cause certain reactions from his body that made it kinda awkward to do or think of anything other than that.

It seems that now that you've gotten more comfortable around him, it's not rare for you to get more touchy too. Nothing extreme of course, just casual light touches here and there, but even they seem to drive Choso absolutely insane and he doesn't know what to do with himself.

Take for example right now, after a mission (that he obviously accompanied you on), you're celebrating with the other sorcerers as usual except this time as you're sat beside him on the other side of the table from them, your hand was casually resting on his thigh as you spoke. Nothing extreme, it wasn't even close to anything, having been positioned lower on his thigh more towards his knee, but god he wished it was elsewhere.

Despite how minimal the touch seemed to be, it mixed with the way you were smiling (and laughing, which was a whole other issue), and wow just like that his hard on is pressing up against the fabric of his pants and he has no way of fixing it in the moment, so he's left to just sit and endure the torture of hearing you're voice while you sit so close to him, literally touching him.

Naturally, it doesn't take long for him to get a bit squirmy. It starts with some mild shifting, trying to find a more comfortable position to at least relieve some tension, which he finds completely pointless because no matter what position he shifts into he can still feel it, and that is what bothers him the most. It doesn't matter if he feels it less in some positions, it's still there so what's the point?

So he gives up and just sits there, enduring the way heat shoots downwards every time your voice goes even remotely close to the tone it had when you spoke to him that one time, and the way he feels it twitch when you meet his gaze and ask if he's ok, getting what could be mistaken as a calm 'mhm' if not for the way his whole body seemed to be so tense (which only you had the honour of seeing because only you were close enough to him to notice), and the way he seemed a bit flushed despite not drinking anything with alcohol, which, once again only you noticed because only you cared enough about him to notice what he was drinking.

So you took that as your cue to wrap things up, telling the group they did a good job in the mission and that it was nice catching up, but it's getting late and you should probably head off. When you turn to Choso and nudge him to get up, you're acutely aware of the way his adams apple bobs as he swallows before shifting up and leading the both of you out of the venue as you wave everyone goodbye.

It doesn't take long for Choso to realise that all that torture he endured at the restaurant was all worth it if it meant you'd be all over him when the two of you got home. How could he even think of being annoyed when you're on his lap, in his bed, lips pressing to his in sloppy movements, tongue sliding against his and sending sparks through him. He was anything but annoyed, his heartbeat speeding up slightly and he found himself increasingly grateful that you were nice enough to not start this in the hallway otherwise he was sure his legs would've failed him.

He's so lost in you, hands gripping your waist and keeping you close to him as his lips move against yours in an attempt to mimic their movements, occasionally letting out soft noises that he fails to hide. Not that it bothers him when he does begin to get a bit more vocal, it's not like he's been conditioned by society to think he should be quiet or whatever bullshit most guys seem to believe, which is all the better for you since his voice is just so hot.

The small groans he makes against your lips only seem to encourage you to continue, sliding your hands over his shoulders and down his clothed chest, earning you a small shudder from him.

After a few more moments you pull away from his lips, gaze flicking over his face to take in the way your lipgloss is smeared over his lips, giving them a slightly sticky appearance, and the way his eyes dart over your face in return, flicking down to your lips every now and then as he catches his breath.

All it took was some making out, and he was already such a mess, which excites you to no end.

Moving your arms to wrap loosely around his neck as you lean onto him, chests pressed together and lips just barely hovering over his as you look at him. So close to him, yet not close enough. You make sure not to press against him just yet, choosing to instead keep some distance between your hips.

"Choso~" your voice is a low purr, sending another barely noticeable shudder down his body "you're so easily riled up, how have you even survived so long?"

"I- I've never-"

You don't let him finish, pressing your lips against his again and he whines, closing his eyes as his brows furrow slightly, fingers tightening their grip on your waist.

Of course, you knew that you were the reason for all of this. You've seen how he is around other people, it's clear that it's not women he's after, it's you.

And that makes it just feel so much better for you.

When you pull away once again, he follows your lips, clearly not wanting to stop just yet but you've got different plans.

"Choso, sweetie, want me to make it better again?"

His eyes widen slightly and he has to force himself to swallow so that his throat doesn't go completely dry.

"like last time..?"

You hum, shifting back slightly to rest your ass against your ankle.

"hm... not quite, I was thinking something a bit... different this time"

"different?"

"mhm~" you purr, sliding your hands down his torso "y'know, like with my hand"

"ok"

You open your mouth to say something but he quickly cuts you off, having noticed the way your brows rose slightly, as if surprised by his lack of hesitation.

"I mean- anything you do feels good, so I don't see why your hand would be any different..."

He trails off, looking off to the side slightly bashfully, yet you don't fail to notice how his hips slightly shift in an attempt to get some friction, even if it's just from the fabric of his pants.

You almost feel a bit bad, he's so obviously worked up, and he's been like this for a while, but he doesn't know what exactly to ask for. You'd wager that he's not even sure what you mean by 'using your hand', he's probably just going along blindly trusting that you know what your doing, which lucky for him, you very much do.

You smile slightly, leaning in to press your lips to the edge of his jaw, revelling in the way he draws in a breath at the action, hands gripping the fabric of your top ever so slightly tighter.

"I'll take care of you"

The way you say it makes him almost melt on the spot, the warmth in his body spreading into his chest from the way you're being so sweet to him, almost overpowering the throbbing going on between his legs.

You notice the way the corners of his mouth twitch upwards slightly, and that gives you the confirmation you need, carefully moving your hand downwards to rub gently over the outline of the bulge straining against the fabric of his pants.

Choso lets out a slightly strangled gasp, throwing his head back against the headboard, clearly in a whole other headspace at the moment, and you continue tracing him through his pants, fingers wrapping around as much as they can with the fabric in the way. Sure you've felt him before, but that was with your ass, now you actually get to feel him out almost properly, which is exciting for some reason.

Noticing the way his breathing gets a bit heavier, you decide that he's endured enough of your teasing.

"mind getting your pants off for me?" you lift your other hand up to the side of his face, tilting it slightly so that he faces you, "and boxers too"

His eyes shoot open and before he can even register it he's fumbling to get his clothes down, thumbs hooking under both waistbands to shift them midway down his thighs.

Noticing the way his erection springs free and stands up makes his face heat up, and the way it's already dripping slightly doesn't seem to help.

You choose not to give him the time to get too embarrassed or nervous about his reaction, moving your hand to wrap around the base and giving him a few small strokes, avoiding getting too close to the tip.

Choso let's out a whine, dick twitching slightly in your hand as his hands move to hold him up against the bed, breathing speeding up the longer your hand remains around him.

"all good?"

He answers with a small 'mhm' before swallowing thickly and letting out a shuddered breath. You take it as a go ahead, moving your hand up his length, thumb brushing over the tip, smearing the slickness over your fingers and allowing them to glide over him better, beginning to properly stroke him base to tip, flicking your wrist around the head.

Choso's whines and whimpers mix with the occasional moans, getting slightly louder as you continue your movements, hand seemingly working magic on him. He's never felt this before, even when you were on his lap it didn't feel nearly as good, this was just so much more intense than anything he's ever experienced, and it overwhelmed him slightly.

He did not want this to stop.

And neither did you.

His voice was making you never want to stop. The way his breathing would hitch and he would let out strangled groans every time you'd bring focus back to the tip, swiping your palm over it in circular motions making him feel like he would burst right then and there.

It's when he lets out a breathless plea of your name that something in you snaps, hand tightening slightly around him and giving him a particularly harsh jerk that makes it impossible for him not to finish, ropes of white shooting over your hand as his head is thrown back hard enough against the headboard to make a thump, which goes completely unnoticed by the both of you.

Something about the way he said your name made you want to keep doing this, even if just to hear him say it again. You're brought out of your trance when he finally speaks up.

"sorry- about... that"

You blink at him in confusion for a moment before looking down at your hand, noticing what he meant.

"oh, don't worry about it, I don't mind"

You hum, shifting up to reach over to grab some tissues, wiping your hands and passing him a few to clean up his softening dick, noticing the way his cheeks redden slightly as he mumbles a small 'thanks'.

"and no need to be so awkward about it" you lean in, pressing your lips to his cheek, before getting off the bed to go toss the tissues, though not getting far as his hand finds your wrist, keeping you from walking away.

"no- I- don't leave-"

His panicked expression sends a pang through your heart, and you let yourself shift back down onto the edge of the bed, leaning in to gently press your lips to his.

"I'm not, I'll be back in a second"

He pauses, sighing before letting go of your hand, giving you the chance to pick up all the tissues and hurry out to go toss them out and wash your hands before coming right back and into his bed once more, where you spent the rest of the night

Masterlist.

Requests are open!

[magicalrocketships]

Rivers of Light || Max/Daniel || part 10 ||

(reminder that this in its entirety contains mpreg, reference to giving birth, Max Verstappen's bad dad, past abuse, and on-track accidents.) Cyril's hot wife remains made up (I mean, she may be hot in real life but I don't even know for certain if she exists, therefore this version of his hot wife remains made up).

All previous parts can be found in the masterpost here. This chapter is on AO3 here.

Max hasn't had many people be kind to him since he crashed out of Formula 1. He'd forgotten how it had felt.

Part 10

Bastiaan falls asleep in Cyril's arms after dinner. One minute he's frowning up at him, and the next, his little eyes are closing and he's falling asleep right where he's tucked up against Cyril's chest.

Max contains his jealousy well. Bastiaan's never fallen asleep anywhere other than with him. This whole trip has been full of new experiences for his baby, and he must be very tired. Max would like to fall asleep too, but he hasn't slept through the night in a long time. He's used to it by now, but even being used to it doesn't mean he doesn't wish it was different sometimes. 

That he could, just for once, put the weight down. 

He and Daniel don't stay long after Bastiaan falls asleep. It's late anyway, but his baby stays mostly asleep through having his little hat and sleeping bag put on him, and his mittens tucked down over his hands. He stirs as he's put down in the carrycot, but he's asleep again after Max has shushed him, moved the pram back and forth to rock him a little as Daniel says goodnight to Cyril and Sephine before they turn their attention to Max. He gets kissed on the cheek by both of them. Cyril says he will call when Max is back home, and Sephine says they'll have to have Max and Bastiaan to stay when Max is next in Paris. It's nice. It's kind. It's a lot. Max hasn't had many people be kind to him since he crashed out of Formula 1. He'd forgotten how it had felt. 

It almost makes him want to cry. 

He doesn't. 

He's not sure he can anymore. 

&&&

Bastiaan wakes up an hour after they get back to the hotel, which is about half an hour after Max has passed out in the big bed with the carrycot next to him. When he'd gone to sleep, Daniel was still awake, scrolling through his phone with the lamp on by the little bed under the window. He had refused to let Max sleep there. But when Bastiaan starts to cry, the lamps are off, and Max tries to keep it that way in case Daniel can somehow sleep through his tiny, tearful baby making his feelings known. 

He's not a happy baby. Max cycles through the things he knows to do: nappy change, trying for a feed, nappy check again, a little playtime with his giraffe and his rattle, but Bastiaan doesn't want or need any of it. He's miserable and fierce about it, red cheeked and angry, little cries that tear Max's chest in half. He sadly accepts a feed after about half an hour, and that keeps him quiet for a while, but the moment Max tries to put him back down in his carrycot he's crying again, the saddest baby that anyone has ever seen. Max wants to cry too. He's so, so tired. He hates Bastiaan being so unhappy and not being able to tell Max what he needs. He hopes babies don't get nightmares. Bad dreams are awful enough when you're old enough to understand them. Max kisses his little flushed cheeks. 

"I'm sorry, little baby," Max says, over Bastiaan's exhausted sobs. "I know we're not at home. You've met all these new people today and I think everything smells funny and you don't know where you are. You've been very brave and now you don't want to be anymore, do you? You just want to be asleep but you don't know that you have to stop crying to get that, because you're only little. Such a little baby, my baby Bastiaan." He kisses his hair. Cradles him close. "We're not alone like normal, my baby, and it's not just me you're keeping awake. You made a new friend today, didn't you? And I think he'd like to go back to sleep now. Can we let him? Can we just go to sleep, baby?"

"It's okay," Daniel says finally. "You can put the lamp on. I'm awake."

"I'm sorry," Max says. He sounds desperate because he is. He's so tired. "I don't know why he's so upset. I can't make him stop."

"He's a baby, I think," Daniel says. He switches the lamp on. Sits up and swings his legs out of bed. He's in a t-shirt and his boxers. He'd still been dressed when Max had fallen asleep.

Max is topless because he'd fed Bastiaan, and part of him wants to cover up. He wants to shut that voice down inside of his head that's his dad, that's telling him to be ashamed of feeding his baby, but he's too tired to fight it. He cradles Bastiaan to his chest instead. Kisses his head. 

Daniel looks at him. "Max," he says. "Come on. Take a break. Why don't you give him to me for a few minutes. Go and wash your face or have a shower or something. You look wrecked."

"He's crying," Max says, trying to shush his distraught, exhausted baby, but Max is so, so tired. "I can't leave him."

"You can," Daniel says. "I'm assuming you don't have help in the middle of the night normally. Just let me help this time. Take a break. Go on. Have a shower or something."

"I don't want a shower," Max says. He wants his baby to go to sleep. 

"Honestly," Daniel says. "Give him here. Just for a few minutes."

Max finds himself holding out his baby for Daniel to take. He doesn't want to trust anyone with Bastiaan, but he needs to pee and it would be nice to do that just once without holding a baby in the middle of the night. A shower would be nice too, but it's not shower time. He lets out a ragged, desperate breath.

"Take a shower," Daniel says, as he rocks a crying Bastiaan, cradling him close. "Go on. I'll call if I need you."

"I'll be two minutes," Max says, staring longingly at the bathroom. Back at his tearful baby.

"Take five," Daniel says. "Push the boat out."

Max takes four. He comes out with his underwear pulled back on with a fresh pad inside, and a towel around his waist. His hair's wet and Daniel had been right, it had been good to stand under the hot spray for a minute. Breathe. Bastiaan's still crying but it's not as urgent as it had been before. He sounds so, so tired. Such a tired little baby. 

Daniel's got his phone in one hand and Bastiaan in his other. He's playing a soft little video of baby lullabies and water sounds with a slow animation of little twinkling stars accompanying it. He looks over at Max and winks. Bastiaan's eyes are starting to droop, but he's still crying. He's trying to chew on his fist. 

"Does that mean he's hungry?" Daniel asks. 

Max nods. He holds his hands out, but Daniel shakes his head.

"It's okay. Get into bed and then I'll hand him to you. Do you need anything?"

Max has his water bottle by the bed. He's okay. He drops the towel on the floor and gets into bed. He beckons Daniel over with his baby. 

Daniel tucks Bastiaan carefully into Max's arms, then makes a big show of getting the pillows from the other side of the bed and putting them behind Max to prop him up. It is more comfortable, but it's okay. Max was coping. Bastiaan doesn't need much help latching on, and for a moment there's quiet except for the soft sound of Daniel's lullaby video and Bastiaan's sleepy little sucks. 

"I'll leave it on," Daniel says quietly. "I think it helped."

Max nods. He's so, so tired. 

Daniel takes Max's water bottle and goes to refill it in the bathroom. He brings it back, then goes back into the bathroom to pee. When he comes back out, he sits on the end of Max's bed, by Max's feet. 

"You okay?" Daniel asks. 

Max doesn't shake his head. He hasn't been okay for a very long time, but he's holding on. He's holding on so tight it's making his fingers bleed. 

"I'm fine," Max says. He doesn't look away, not until Daniel does. 

"Think he'll fall asleep?" 

Bastiaan's eyes are already drooping. Max strokes his cheek. His lovely little baby. 

"Yeah," he says. "At some point."

"You're doing great, you know. He's perfect."

Max has been lying for such a long time. One more won't hurt. 

"Everything is good," he says. "Go back to bed."

"In a minute," Daniel says. "When he's sleeping."

They sit there, quiet in the middle of the night, until Bastiaan falls asleep. 

Max looks away first. 

[delopsia]

yawn | bob reynolds x reader

Word Count 6,400 Read on AO3 Warnings/Notes 18+ MDNI, AFAB!Reader. Slice of life, thunderstorms, cuddling, accidental superpower usage, lazy sex, just a lot of fluff, really. This was my sleepy version of a character study that managed to evolve itself into a proper oneshot. Synopsis As the storm rages on, you wrap yourselves in each other.

A white flash lights up the room. Lightning crackles in its footsteps, seeking vengeance for giving you a whole winter away from its blinding wrath. Thunder shakes the ground, the bed seeming to momentarily buzz around you. 

The bottle of melatonin on the bedside table is beginning to look like a better and better option by the minute. If you hadn't psyched yourself into a mind over matter agenda and tried to go without them, then maybe you would be sound asleep right now, wrapped up in a blissful, vivid dream.

But no. The clock reads 1:39 AM, and here you are rolling over for the umpteenth time, letting your eyes scan across the dark silhouettes of your bedroom decor, mind running rampant with thoughts of monsters and mythical cryptids. 

The pile of clothes in the corner is actually a stranger who has broken in and is waiting till the moment you look away to attack. That light reflecting off your mirror is the eyes of a monster never once witnessed by human eyes. Lightning flickers. The figure standing in the hallway is a trained assassin sent to—

"Holy—!"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" The dark silhouette jumps, raising its palms to the ceiling. "I'm sorry!"

"Jesus Christ, Robert!" Somehow, you've wound up with your back pressed against the headboard, heart caught in your throat. How long has he been standing there? Why did you not hear him come in? 

"I'll...I'm sorry. I'll leave," his figure shrinks deeper into the hall, one hesitant foot after the other. 

"No," it comes out sharper than you intended, bordering something embarrassingly desperate. "Don't. Come back here." 

Like a fish, Bob reels back in, slowly creeping through the threshold. The room lights up once more, two, three, four, five flashes one after the other. It's there and gone in a matter of seconds, but you've already caught sight of the dark circles lingering beneath his eyes, messy hair poking in every which way. 

Sliding back down into the bed, you peel back the sheets, arms wide open for him. His feet quicken, audibly padding across the hardwood floor, and then he's falling into you. No grace or effort to be slow about it, too eager to wedge himself into you, tucking his head under your chin.

Your fingers comb through his hair, dragging your nails against his scalp. "Do you want to talk about it?"

His head shakes, squirming a little bit closer. A vicious boom sends something crashing down in the hallway. Bob grumbles. One of his legs slots between yours, coiling an arm around your waist, as if to try and meld himself into you. 

"I tried to call," he's so close that his voice vibrates up your neck. "I promise I did."

"Don't apologize for that," you pause, just long enough to press a kiss to his forehead. Instantaneously, his lips find your collar, always keen on returning them. "Just...say something before you start looming in my doorway like a damn ghost."

"Sorry," his mouth breaks away from you with a giggle. "I didn't realize you were awake until you jumped."

Lightning strikes something outside the window. An ear-splitting crack tears through the room. 

Bob jumps. 

Frankly, so do you. And maybe that's why he started squeezing you tighter, because that's exactly what you're doing, too, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and squirming the slightest bit closer. As if that will save you in the event lightning chooses your bed as its next, unfortunate target.

Morning arrives in the form of raindrops pattering against the window. Gloomy hues of gray serve as their backdrop, thick clouds masking the sunlight so seamlessly that you can't tell what time it is. It could be early morning, or the afternoon could be coming to a close; it all looks the same.

You've rolled over at some point and time, but Bob's arm still rests around you, his forehead nestled into your shoulder. He's so warm, damn near drawing you back into bed before you've clambered out of it, but the overwhelming desire for something to drink triumphs above all else. 

It was a picture frame that fell off the wall last night. Face down on the living room floor, in a pile of shattered glass that a future version of you will have to clean up.

That future version of you arrives within the next few minutes. You can only stare at it for so long before you're inclined to clean it up while the kettle boils. If you don't do it now, then you won't do it until either the end of the day or when Bob inevitably steps on it and cuts his foot wide open.  

You still don't know what time it is. Your phone sits on the counter, right where you left it, the little notification light blinking like a ticking time bomb, ready to explode if it receives one more text. 

And frankly, that's why you don't want to pick it up. 

A scratchy chin settles onto your shoulder, familiar arms once again coiling around you. "You left me."

"Only for a few minutes," you hum. It's like leaning into your own sentient blanket, one that squeezes you a little bit tighter and tilts his head to press a kiss into your cheek.

A shrill whistle dissolves the moment before you've had a chance to soak it in, the boiling water squealing with rage until you pour it into a tacky little mug. Hot chocolate mix rises to the surface, stubbornly refusing to mix until you stir it with the spoon.

"What did Yelena ever do with the rest of these?" You still don't understand what possessed her to buy that giant, hundred-dollar mystery box at the thrift store. Something something, 'you never know what you'll find!' only for her to cut the tape and unveil a museum of many, many ugly mugs.

It's hard even to remember them all. Tacky vacation souvenirs, bad jokes. Some had odd, novelty shapes, others changed colors at different temperatures, a few belonged to movies and TV shows that you've never heard of. There was even one from a 2007 art class hidden in there, a rough but valiant attempt at creating a cat. 

"Kept some for the kitchen, stashed the rest in Bucky's briefcase," Bob's laughter breaks through his yawn. "We crammed so many in there that we could hardly get it closed." He doesn't say anything, but you can feel his eyes follow your hand into the bag of mini marshmallows, watching as you drop a handful of them into the hot chocolate.

"Is Bucky aware of this?" Lifting a marshmallow to your shoulder. 

"Not yet," his lips brush your fingertips, and the spongy little treat is gone. You offer another. It suffers the same fate. 

You fully intend to step out of his arms for a moment; you're only heading toward the fridge, but Bob waddles along with you as if he's been permanently bound to you. Two ice cubes are all you're after, the final, necessary touch to keep him from burning his mouth again. 

For all intents and purposes, he should know this is for him; he only takes his hot chocolate one way. And yet his eyes go round when you offer it to him.

"For me?" As if the 'I heart Bob' cup could be for anyone else.

"Yes, for you," lifting it a little bit higher, insistent. 

You're convinced that the mug shrinks the moment he takes it from you. There's no other explanation for it, the damn thing is microscopic in his oversized hand, a thick, bulging vein sprawling up the back of it and into his forearm.

...you've got to quit staring. 

"Have you taken your medicine yet?" It's the first question that pops into mind. You should have asked this anyway.

He shakes his head, lifting the mug to his mouth. One sip is all it takes for the melted marshmallow to coat his upper lip. A twinge of gold colors the inside of his iris when he finds what he likes, there and gone in the blink of an eye.

Two pill organizers sit right next to the marshmallows, decorated with stickers and faces drawn in Sharpie, courtesy of a long, drawn-out power outage that lasted longer than your phone batteries could. The pale green one is his, emptier than you remember it being and definitely in need of a trip back to his apartment for a refill, but there's enough for today. 

"Three in the morning?" You think it was three. There are three in here, but his prescriptions are constantly changing, still trying to find the perfect concoction of medications that will work for him. 

"Two. I'm taking the green one at night now," his sleepy, lopsided grin is blinding. "Taking it during the day makes it feel like there's a tiny little man in my head who tasers my brain every few seconds." 

The gears in your head start turning, working to conjure a mental image of that evil little man he speaks of. 

Bob's grin drops into something meek. "That...doesn't make much sense, does it?"

With a hum, you drop the two pills into his empty palm, leaning in to kiss his cheek. "It was a great analogy." You just need a moment to process what he's said. 

Heading back to bed is tempting, but the potential hot chocolate spill risk is what ultimately lures the two of you into the living room, curled into the corner of the couch like a pair of otters floating aimlessly in the sea. Except your sea is composed of all the blankets Bob can get his hands on, topped off with a dalmatian plushie who, conveniently, is also named Bob.

Rain still patters against the windows, with tiny little 'tap tap tap's that merge into a lullaby of sorts, drawing your eyes to a close against their will. Bob isn't doing much better, his head settles onto your shoulder mere seconds after you hear his mug settle onto the coffee table. Half empty. 

Always half empty. 

Give it some time, and he'll mosey back to it, wrinkling his nose when he finds that his hot chocolate has had the utmost audacity to go cold on him. He'll pop it into the microwave and stand there, watching it spin around on the glass tray until four seconds are left on the timer, take it out, chug the rest, and then delicately place his mug into the back left corner of the sink.

"I can hear you thinking," he murmurs. Outside, lightning cackles, as if to agree wth him.

"I thought you weren't using your superpowers?" It's the same deflection every time.

But he lets you get away with it, too kind and too sleepy to press you on what is going through your mind right now. Instead, he nuzzles further into you, hiking a leg over your hip. "Is being able to read someone's face supposed to be a superpower?"

"If it is, then it's definitely in your arsenal," like a moth to a flame, your hand wanders into his hair, already beginning to toy with a curl.

"Millions of dollars and decades of research," a yawn wracks through him. "All to create a guy with the magical ability to know when his partner is thinking really hard about something."

And now you're yawning, too. "It's a scientific miracle."

The pitter-patter of the rain is what whisks you away once more. The soft rumble of thunder and distant, howling wind blends into a comforting white noise, only interrupted by the slightly louder purr of Bob's snoring. You no longer know where you begin and Bob ends; you've simply melted into a puddle, the cocoon of blankets is the only thing to keep you from spilling out and onto the floor below.

But a cozy nap doesn't prevent a storm from rolling in, and for the umpteenth time, your eyes open to the sound of lightning, striking something nearby. It's darker now, the living room cast into dark hues of gray and black, broken apart by the occasional blitz of light from outside. Your phone buzzes on the counter, either a phone call or an emergency alert, neither of which is worth picking it up.

What's the point of a cellphone when the only person worth talking to is blinking up at you with sleepy blue eyes?

"I'm gonna take a shower," you announce, after a long moment. Might as well get one in, just in case a power outage revokes the luxury of hot water.

Bob blinks, visibly processing what you've just said to him. A moment passes, and then, a thought comes to him. "Can I come?"

You nod, but nothing happens. You're not moving. He's not moving. Time has either stopped and let your consciousness reap the terror of being trapped in a frozen body, or you really just don't want to move. 

When your feet finally hit the floor, you're not sure, but at some point, you find yourself being greeted by a steady stream of warm water that nearly melts you on the spot. Like your shadow, Bob follows close behind, and you've never been more thankful to be blessed with this walk-in shower, because frankly, you don't think this would work if you were squeezing into a tub together. 

Not with those broad shoulders, that is. Composed of thick muscle that flex and collect tiny rivers that flow down the freckled expanse of his back, past the three circular scars along his spine. Experiment souvenirs. They're not very big, you can perfectly fit your fingertips into them like buttons, but in comparison to the sheer size of his body, they might as well be microscopic.

"Watcha looking at?" He's peeking over his shoulder, eyes sparkling. 

You've been caught. 

...might as well commit to it. 

"Nothing," coy as can be, you grab a handful of his ass. 

His mouth pops open, the tips of his ears twinging with pink, then red. But as quickly as the shock sprang onto his handsome face, it melts into something bashful, suddenly unable to meet your gaze anymore. The only thing that doesn't change is the soap bubbling in his hair, slowly but surely making its way down the back of his neck. 

He turns toward you, tilting his head back into the steady stream of water. There's only so much the water alone can do, and you're sure that he fully intends to do it himself, but you find yourself reaching for the shower wand, bringing it closer to help you and your one remaining hand to wash the soap from his hair.

"'s nice," he hums, his hands settling on your hips. "Are you washing all of me?"

"Washing you and myself?" Feigning shock. 

"Well, I can help with that," he blindly reaches out, first stealing away your wash cloth, and then feeling about for your body wash.

...you wonder if he knows that he's floating the damn bottle toward himself. Surely if he knew, he wouldn't still be patting around, looking for the shape until—

It lands in his hand. 

Yeah, he doesn't have a clue. He's so preoccupied with getting soap on your chest that he can't possibly be thinking of anything else, rubbing it into your skin in loose, lazy circles. For something so simplistic, it's shockingly difficult. Your arms keep bumping into his, he's trying to get a part of your back, but pulling you forward only ends in you accidentally spraying him in the face. 

"Hey!" Bob squeals, as if he didn't directly cause this by himself.

"Your fault!" Dodging an attack to the chin from the soapy cloth. 

Your wet hand futilely smacks him in the chest. He gets you on the belly. You tilt the wand to spray water at the nape of his neck. A glob of soap gets you in the cheek, you can only gather it so fast, but he already knows your game plan, dodging before you can get it on his nose. And then—

There are lips on yours. Soft and fleeting, there and gone within milliseconds, appearing again on your cheek, the bridge of your nose, and your forehead. You can't possibly keep up with them; Bob has gotten in two more attacks in the time it takes for you to retaliate.

"Bo!" Yelping, pawing at his chin. No dice. Nothing is getting between him and his vicious attack. "Damnit, Sentry!" 

"Don't 'Sentry' me!" His giggle is so loud that it echoes, ringing incessantly in your ears, so damn distracting that you fall victim to his finishing move. A proper kiss. It hits you so hard, so easily that you nearly fall backward with it, only held up by his big, steady hands. 

This is what you've been missing. 

Every shred of tension melts from your body, washing away, swirling down the drain, and into the abyss. You're nothing but a limp mess in his arms, collapsing into his chest, helpless to do anything but chase the sweetness of his lips, molding against you so wonderfully that it borders on unfair. 

He steps forward, and your back finds the bathroom tile. Cool against your skin, a stark contrast to the warm body that closes the gap between you. Hands nudge at your thighs, pressing into the fat of them until you get the hint and jump. His hips slot between your legs with such ease that it nearly causes you to short-circuit. 

Kissing Robert Reynolds, frankly, is an otherworldly experience that ought to bring out the sun and banish every dark cloud from the sky. Perfection exists, and it's this. The delicate way that his kiss draws you into him, lips tangled in a dance that you're far from mastering, taking the wrong steps, yet somehow managing to avoid stepping on the other's feet.

Your hand rises to his jaw, feeling the subtle flex of the muscle there, far too innocent for how he grabs a handful of your ass. Payback, you suppose.

"Robert," you don't mean to sound so desperate, you really don't, but it's too late, you're mewling like a cat in heat. 

"Bedroom?"

"Uhuh."

You're either developing a memory loss problem, or Bob is tapping into another unknown super power, because you don't remember what happens from there. One moment you're up against the wall, the next, you're being greeted by the familiar comfort of the bed, curving perfectly to your frame.

Bob's forearms brace themselves on either side of your head, caging you in as his warm body slots against yours once more. You haven't the slightest clue how much time has passed. Don't really care, either. It's hard to give a damn about anything when the tip of Bob's nose traces along the side of your cheek, guiding himself back to your mouth.

The storm protests with a vicious cackle, the bedside lamp flickering with a wordless threat to plunge you into permanent darkness. Wind squeals around the corners of the apartment, shrieking a threat that you don't care to listen to. The whole building could collapse for all you care, so long as this doesn't end. 

Bob's hips tilt forward, his heavy cock rubbing against the inside of your thigh, "this is still okay?"

"I would have told you if it wasn't," and if that's not convincing enough, your legs wrap around his waist, clinging to him like it's the only thing you know how to do.

And oh, does he let you. If anything, he's ushering himself closer, his firm belly flattening against yours, erasing every bit of space that dares put itself between you. One of his hands are cradling your face, and your fingers are in his wet hair, and—

The kiss breaks with a mutual gasp. 

Again, he rocks his hips forward, thick cock slipping between your folds and rubbing against your clit. How you didn't feel him lazily rutting between your legs, you have no idea, but you are so not complaining. 

"I've missed this," he blurts, speaking against your lips. 

It takes a moment to find your voice, one of the many controls lost to the mindboggling distraction that is him grinding into you. "It's been like a week," and it sounds like it's been a week since you've had anything to drink, too.

"A week too long," Bob nips at your bottom lip. You don't respond. He nips again, whining at you like an expectant puppy, eager for something you can't deny him any longer. Lips part. Tongues meet in an instant. 

It's a losing battle before the fight has even started; he's already licking into your mouth, swallowing the whine he draws out of you. So unfair. You didn't even stand a chance, helpless to do anything but follow his lead. On their own, your hips twitch, and pleasure shatters the kiss once more. 

In its place, appear kisses on your cheek, trailing along the side of your jaw, and to your neck. They linger in the space behind your ear, gently sucking on the skin there, enough for you to feel the pressure of it, but never bruising. If someone were to catch sight of a hickey on you, he might spontaneously combust. 

"Robert," you don't know why you're whispering his name, lifting from your tongue like a sacred prayer. 

He hums, peering up at you through his lashes, working his way down the side of your neck. One kiss after the other, his wet tongue leaving a faint trail in his wake. There's nothing you can do but cling to his shoulders, fighting to stay still as he kisses along your chest. 

"Tickle?" He knows the answer to that question, grinning like a cat who got the cream. 

A breath strangles out of you. "No."

"You're squirming," and he's got the audacity to laugh while he says it, like he's not also reaching to cup your breast, swiping his thumb over a soft nipple. 

You've got no response to that, quietly watching him lean in and swirl his tongue around it. The warmth of his mouth is more than welcome, drawing your back up off the bed, chasing his touch, but...there's something else that you want a whole lot more.

Your hand darts to the bedside table, where the lube rests on the nearest corner. The tips of your fingers brush against the plastic tube, gaining traction, only for it to scoot beyond your reach entirely. 

The bottle jumps into your hand. Suddenly sentient.

Bob stiffens. "Oops." 

"I thought you weren't using your powers?" You're trying to sound serious about it, but you lose this battle, too, your own laughter causing you to struggle to even open the cap.

"I didn't mean to, I—!" The color drains from his face by the second, shocked as can be. "I wished it would go to you and it just...did!" He sits up, looking at his hands as if he thinks the Void is already taking over.

But he remains unchanged, just like any other time that he's subconsciously done this, whether he's realized it or not. Leaving you ample time to pour a generous amount of lubriant into your palm, so much that it nearly spills through your fingers as you reach down and wrap your hand around his flushed, pink cock. 

"Ah—!"

Aside from his hair, this is the darkest part of his body, cock head flushed a deep crimson that contrasts so beautifully against the rest of him. Precum spills, swiftly collected by your thumb, spreading it and the lube across his length in one, practiced motion. You know you're doing it right when he tries to chase your retreating hand. 

A pout etches itself onto his face, "mean." 

"Would you rather stick to just a handjob?" It's a genuine question laced into your best, teasing tone. 

"No, no, no," Bob is already on top of you again, before you can begin to take your playful suggestion seriously. "I'm just...being..." His brow furrows, something self-deprecating visibly forming in his head.

"Being cute?" You fill in the blank before he can, reaching to squish his cheek with your clean hand. 

There he goes. Smiling at you like the world's sweetest fool, borderline shy about returning to the task at hand, guiding himself between your legs. The wet tip of his cock dips between your folds, brushing past your clit, and then—

Familiar pressure greets you. It's all you can do to keep from impatiently pushing yourself onto him, hanging onto what little self-control you have left while he takes his time, slowly pushing in like it's the first all over again. But this time, he slips in much, much easier. 

Lord, have mercy, you've already forgotten about the sheer width of him. You should have known from the start that those doe eyes were compensating for something, but how the hell could you have predicted...

You shouldn't have looked. 

Now you can't tear your eyes away.

There's something mesmerizing about the sight of Bob's cock gradually disappearing inside of you, your pussy visibly stretching to accommodate him and his obnoxious girth. Bob follows your line of sight, hips stuttering when he finds what has your attention. 

"I can feel you clenching, baby," he mutters, breaking you from your hypnosis. 

Yeah, that might be why he's moving so slowly. But just because you're telling your body to relax, doesn't mean it's going to mindlessly obey. Not this part of you, at least, stubbornly clamping down around his fat cock like you're trying to catch him in some kind of obscene chokehold. 

Fingertips trail up your sides. Featherlight kisses work their way up your chest and into your neck, tickling. You're giggling before you know what's going on, pawing at his hands as he all but lays his weight on top of you. 

Heat races up your belly, the side of his cock rubbing against sensitive nerves. Oh, and the stretch of him aches, but you can't...you can't focus on anything other than how full you feel. It's all that you can think about, how he sinks into you bit by bit, gradually opening you up around him. 

A fragile gasp breaks through the air; he's bottomed out. 

"Bo..." You don't know why you're using that silly little nickname, mindlessly speaking everything that comes to mind. 

Bob's nose nuzzles into your temple. "Are you okay?" 

"More than okay," you breathe. 

Thunder booms, and you're sure that the lightning is putting on her greatest show yet, but she doesn't have an ounce of your attention. No, that's all reserved for this. 

Experimental, Robert begins to move. 

Slow. Not in any rush to pull out of you, once again taking his time as he gradually pushes himself back in. It's easier this time, a wet little noise punctuating the meet of your bodies. There's nothing heated about it; you've got no reason for it to be. It's just you and your ridiculously superpowered boyfriend, taking all of the time in the world. 

"There," sparkles light up behind your eyes. "Oh my god, right there."

Shit, how is he already rubbing into those nerves? Usually, it takes him a minute to find them, but today—

"Right there?" Only Robert Reynolds can manage to sound so innocent when he's fucking you, like a damn earnest puppy looking for his treat. But he's doing exactly what you've asked of him, and if you had a treat, you'd give it to him.

Your arms loop around his shoulders, pulling him even closer, noses bumping. Gold laces his irises, washing over their usual blue, there and gone with a simple blink of his eye, but you know what you saw.

"I love you," he mewls, and you can practically see the hearts in his eyes. 

Mouths collide like two galaxies, stars and planets exploding behind your eyelids like fireworks. A once-in-a-lifetime showing, and you've got front row tickets. The universe itself ceases to exist. There is nothing else, only you and Bob Reynolds himself, tangled so deeply that eternity herself can never hope to unravel you. 

"I love you, too," you can't hear yourself over the incessant thump of your heart, loud in your ears, as if it doesn't have a designated place to be. 

But you wouldn't be shocked if Bob's fat cock was so big that it entirely rearranged you, because that's certainly what it feels like. There's no other word for it, other than full. Stretched to your limit, your cunt struggling to even flutter around him as he sinks into you. 

That so-called little noise of your bodies meeting is growing louder. Fuck, its so unfair, he's so big that he hits everything and you're absolutely soaked. The very sound of it is far too obscene for the moment, so loud that the neighbors can probably hear your pussy practically weeping around his damn cock. 

Bob's hand tucks beneath your thigh, pushing it up to your belly, opening you even more and—

"Oh my god!" You wail. He's hitting it. Oh god, oh god, oh god, oh. "Fuck, Robert—!"

He sucks in a sharp breath of air, his head almost tipping back at the sensation of you clenching around him. The rhythm he so carefully built is dissolving by the second, and frankly, so are you, unraveling like a loose thread.

"Keep squeezing my cock like that, shit," Bob's groaning, irises flickering with gold, just like the lightning in the window. "Your pussy feels so good."

What's louder, the raging wind or the two of you panting, like dogs in the hot sun? You don't have the answer. You're too busy focusing on pressing your fingertips to your swollen clit, massaging it in a tune that definitely does not match the sway of Robert's body. 

But it doesn't matter. The heat is already coiling in your lower belly, burning into your thighs and winding you impossibly tighter around Bob's length. Your back is trying to rise up off the bed again, and your hand has somehow gotten in his hair, and he's kissing you again.

"I'm gonna cum," he blurts. Ragged. 

Your lips are moving. Nothing comes out. All you can do is nod.

"Please cum on my cock," Bob all but collapses into you. Whispering into your ear. Begging. Pleading. "Please, can we come together? Please? Oh my god, please."

A noise blurts out of you. Close. You're so close. Hanging onto him for dear life, his blunt tip keeps kissing that spot over and over and over and

"Oh my god, cum for me please, please—!" Bob cries out. The final snap of his hips shoves you up the bed, pulsing with an orgasm so intense that you can feel him twitch with it, and...you're cumming with him.

It washes through you in one big wave, beginning with a delicate twitch down in your toes, rolling up into your thighs, up your belly, and following your spine, swirling in your head. The world itself is a distant memory. All you can comprehend is the pleasure of cumming around him, fuel poured into an already raging fire. 

Reality flowers in the form of cool air, rushing in from the vent like a medic, here to valiantly chase away the beads of sweat that have collected on your skin. But nothing is quite as warm and grounding as the big, burning body on top of yours. Robert, with his messy hair and pink cheeks, snuggled on you like you're his personal pillow.

"Hi," he chirps, with a yawn. 

"Hi," you're yawning too, now. Must be contagious. 

He does, ultimately, roll off of you at some point, though you're not sure how much time passes before that happens. The sheets are beyond saving; the valiant efforts of a wash cloth can't remedy this, only the washing machine and its humble sidekick, the dryer, can save the day now. You've practically slept the day away, you should have energy to get up and deal with it, but...

Bob's arms are distracting. 

So are his hands, for that matter, absently wandering up and down your skin, going as far as he can comfortably reach. In return, you trace the hard lines of his belly, following the grooves of his abdomen like a maze, with his veins functioning as a shortcut to his chest and lower belly, stopping just shy of his soft, oversensitive length.

But then, he freezes.

"Bo?" Did the air conditioning cause him to turn into ice? 

"I forgot to feed the cats," he says it in such a way that it sounds like he's committed a federal crime. Which, as far as the kitties themselves are concerned, may be valid.

"The stray cats who live outside of the Avengers building?" You know which ones he's talking about. The small but humble colony of kitties who fuss at local reporters while they're on the air, determined to get their side of the story on television. 

You're beginning to suspect that the silver tabby is nothing but a gossip. She has crashed at least five news networks by now.

"They're not strays, they're official employees." There's no way he isn't making this up on the spot, just to get a laugh out of you. 

And it works. You're giggling about it even when you're standing in the living room, trying to squeeze your shoes on without untying them first. Official employees. Representatives of the company. Paid interns. Soon enough, the New Avengers will be fully feline run.

"What made you start feeding these guys, anyhow?" You ask, watching him lift the forgotten mug to his mouth. 

His nose wrinkles. The hot chocolate has once again dared to become cold. "I accidentally dropped a box of leftovers and watched three of them run out to steal everything that spilled out."

The story continues as he walks away, heading for the kitchen. "They still looked hungry, but I couldn't, you know, feed them a half-eaten burger and some fries, so I went and got them their own kibble." Three beeps. The microwave begins to hum. "Now I can't stop, because they expect it from me."

You don't need to see what happens next. The microwave stops, chased by a moment of silence. The water runs, and then, the cup audibly settles inside the sink. Back left corner. 

Night has already fallen on the outside world, washing the city in hues of black and blue, broken apart by headlights and stubborn, LED signs that all clamour for your attention. They don't know that their competition is Robert Reynolds, world's most distracting man, who uses his thumb to rub circles into the back of your hand. 

A small swarm of felines resides in the alleyway outside of the tower, adorable, screaming balls of damp fur and rage. Most of them are friendly, trotting at Bob's heels and meandering between your feet, but others dart further down the sidewalk or dodge behind a dumpster, looking for any good spot to hide from your prying eyes. 

Bob only leaves you for a moment, returning with plastic bowls and a bag of cat food that he nearly spills on top of a particularly bold, orange cat. Why wait for the bowl to be filled when you can shove your head right into the stream of kibble? 

The final bowl is placed, and...

Silence. No more meowing or endless screaming, only the soft crunches of tiny jaws chowing down on dinner. 

The orange cat, despite being first to his bowl, moves on to the next as soon as he's run out. There is a reason why he's beginning to look closer to a bowling ball than a feline, the fuzzy glutton. His deadly sin runs another cat off from the bowl, a calico who is content to rub herself against your leg, rather than fight over a meal. 

"Oh," Bob has wandered away from you, standing over by the dumpster now. "Oh!" 

"What?" You squint, but you can't see what he's picking up. 

Whatever it is, he's using both hands to cradle it under his chin, a precious little thing that he's found. "It's a baby!" 

You can't see it until he's right in front of you. A tiny, bite-sized ball of fluff, marked with even tinier stripes, another tabby, this time in the smallest form possible. Its mouth opens with a faint, but mighty "mew!" 

And then promptly bites Bob's finger. Ferocious.

Oh god.

Oh god, there are big, expectant eyes looking at you now. He's already pouting; you know what he's about to ask, and he knows what your reply is. He can't keep it in the tower; the chances of someone leaving a door open and it getting out onto the streets are astronomical. 

But that little kitten is another mouth to feed. A very expensive, tiny mouth at that. There's no way that little bitty thing can eat hard food, its eyes aren't even open! And the cost of buying kitten formula? In this city?

Lightning silently flickers, casting a strange, monstrous shadow. 

...

It's last night all over again. The ongoing storm. A creepy, unexpected sight created by a momentary burst of light. Robert and his pleading eyes, with his new kitten tucked against his neck, if not identical to how he fit himself beneath your chin. 

The last-ditch effort begins, scanning each and every cat, looking for a recently pregnant momma who might have left her baby unattended for a meal. No kittens, no dice. The closest thing to pregnant is that damn orange one. 

"Do you think we can—"

"Yes." 

There's something else you plan to say, something about custody rights and who is feeding it and when, but the thought dies before it gets to your mouth. You can feel something...

Oh. Now, why did you go and wear the gray sweats? They're already showing off every rain drop they've absorbed, and now...

"Come on," you're taking Bob by the arm, careful not to jostle the tiny thing from his hand as you pull him along. "We're finding a bathroom, and then we're off to the pet store."

He tilts his head. "Why the bathroom?"

Now that you've felt it, you can't unfeel it. Why must there be consequences to your actions? "Because I've got your cum running down my leg."

"Oh!" He squeaks. Then, lowering his voice. "Well, I can help...with that...?" Bold, until he loses momentum mid-sentence.

"Not with a child in your hands, you're not." 

The kitten mews. It's starting to sound like Bob already. 

[elliespassagerprincess]

OR UUST LIKE THE FIRST TIME THEY DO IT SHES SO GENTLE

Headcannons: professor!ellie williams x reader

masterlist

professor ellie / first time (currently reading) / nsfw headcannons / more headcannons

warning: NSFW content! MDNI 18+

☆ Ellie’s stares linger — too long, too intense. She’s studied every detail of your face, from the way your lashes lower when you're flustered to how your lips twitch when you’re nervous.

☆ Even before anything happens, she’s gently possessive. Walking you to your car. Checking if you’ve eaten. Leaving you notes like: “Don’t skip meals. Your brain’s too pretty to starve.”

☆ Study sessions blur into deep, aching conversations. Ellie leans close, hand brushing yours “accidentally” more often, and when your knees touch, she doesn’t pull away.

☆ She tests the waters. A hand on your thigh during a shared laugh. Fingers brushing your lower back as she moves past you. Every time, she watches your reaction like it’s data.

☆ Ellie never rushes. She peels back your fears and walls with quiet intimacy — until you're exposed emotionally long before you are physically.

☆ She thinks about you constantly, but she buries the filthier thoughts — for now. She wants the first time to be something you remember forever. Something clean. Almost holy.

☆ It finally happens when you fall asleep in her office during a rainstorm. You’re curled up in her chair, cheeks soft, lips parted. She presses her hand to her heart and mutters, “Fuck, I love you.”

☆ Ellie is slow, deliberate. She asks, “Are you sure?” more than once. Not because she doubts you — but because she can’t believe she finally gets to have you like this.

☆ She doesn’t rush. Every kiss feels like a poem. Every touch is a sentence. She wants to memorize you.

☆ Ellie never stops looking at you. Her voice drops to a whisper, “Let me see you,” and every time your eyes flutter shut, she kisses them open.

☆ She undresses you like she’s unwrapping something sacred. Fingers trembling, voice low: “You’re so beautiful… God, you’re unreal.”

☆ She trails kisses down your neck, your chest, your stomach — pausing to breathe you in like she’s trying to brand the memory into her bones.

☆ She can’t shut up. “You’re perfect,” “You feel like heaven,” “I’ve waited so long for this.” Every word from her lips is soaked in reverence.

☆ She touches you with unbearable care — slow, attentive, gentle enough to make you cry. She whispers, “Tell me what feels good. I want to do it right.”

☆ She nearly tears up when you moan her name for the first time. “Don’t say it like that,” she chokes, “I’m gonna lose it.”

☆ She lets you undress her too — biting her lip as your hands explore. She’s shy, almost bashful, but you can tell how much it affects her.

☆ Between kisses, she leans her forehead against yours. “I’ve never wanted someone like this,” she murmurs, brushing her thumb over your cheek.

☆ There’s no teasing, no performance. It’s raw and honest — Ellie letting herself be soft and human in a way she never shows anyone else.

☆ She keeps whispering your name, like it’s a lifeline. “You’re mine, aren’t you?” she asks, not possessively — but like she’s in awe that it’s real.

☆ She laces your fingers together while inside you. It grounds her. Anchors her to the moment. “Don’t let go,” she says. “Please.”

☆ She wraps you in her arms after — tucks the blanket over you, tucks herself behind you, hand splayed across your stomach like she’s protecting something precious.

☆ She mumbles things in your hair. “You feel like home,” “I’ve wanted this for so long,” “You’re everything.” Half-asleep, full of emotion.

☆ In her mind, she promises: This is only the beginning. I’ll learn every inch of her body. I’ll make her fall apart in a thousand new ways.

☆ After that first time, Ellie starts asking questions. “Do you like it when I hold your wrists?” “What if I got rougher next time?”

☆ You catch glimpses — how her eyes darken when you whimper, how she clenches her jaw when you say please.

☆ She gently pins your hands one night — just to see how you react. When you moan? Her whole body shudders.

☆ The next time, she kisses you harder. Her voice gains weight. She starts giving soft orders. “Spread your legs. Good girl.”

☆ Ellie realizes she loves having control — not to dominate, but to cherish and undo you. Her obsession becomes deeper, darker.

☆ She brings it out a toy nervously, checking your expression. “We don’t have to—” but when you nod, the switch flips. She grins like she’s been waiting for this.

☆ She’s addicted to every reaction you give. The soft gasps. The bitten lip. The trust. She knows she could break you — and the only reason she doesn’t is because she loves you too much.

[angelltheninth]

Snowed In Together With Oliver Aiku

Pairing: Oliver Aiku x Fem!Reader

Tags: fluff, enemies to lovers, snowed in, only one bed, cuddling, teasing, warming up, neck kissing, sexual tension

Prompt: They hate each other. Of course they do. But now they’re snowed in at the same remote cabin. One bed. No signal. Nowhere to run from each other or their feelings. - List

Ko-Fi | Rules | Fandoms and Characters | Commissions

A/N: Saw these cute romance prompts and I wanted to write one for Oliver! Enjoy, comment, reblog, all that good stuff!

"Damn, it's still storming out there, doesn't look like it's stopping any time soon either." You looked out the window of the small, yet cozy cabin you found yourself stuck in. Actually this wouldn't be so bad if you weren't stuck with the most annoying man alive, Oliver Aiku. He wasn't annoying most of the time but today, in this situation? Yes, he was annoying. "Can't you call one of your teammates and at least let them know we're here?"

Oliver was completely calm, as opposed to you, he took many things as they came, he learned to. "I would but the blizzard is getting in the way of my signal. Either way someone will come looking for us by tomorrow. And the snow storm should settle." He smirked as he discarded his fluffy jacket onto the chair.

He wasn't panicking about this at all. How? You were supposed to meet up with everyone else further up the mountain, at the resort. Instead you got caught in an untimely snow storm and were forced to park the car and take shelter together. Good thing the power was still one, and if not there was enough wood to keep you warm for the night.

That wasn't your biggest problem. The biggest problem was that there was only one bed in the cabin. Barely big enough for two, and only one blanket. No sleeping bag or extra clothes.

"Do you really hate being stuck with me that badly? You're not my favorite person either you know, Miss Manager." Oliver poked you in your lower back, causing you to flinch at his touch. "Weren't you supposed to watch for the forecast today?" You blushed from the embarrassment of his words, it was true. 'So this is actually your fault. Unless this was all part of your plan to me alone with you?"

Before you could deny that absurd claim Oliver was already getting into bed. When did he take his shirt off?!

"What? You think I'm gonna stay up all night waiting, hoping for this to pass? I'm on vacation, I'm gonna sleep through all of this. Feel free to join me or don't?" He lifted the covers and waited for a few moments. When you didn't approach, just glared at him he rolled his eyes and turned to his side. "Okay, fine."

You went over your options, of which there weren't many. You could stay up all night and leave as soon as morning breaks, you could take the somewhat comfy armchair close to the fireplace, or you could get into bed with Oliver.

The last one was something you swore you would never do.

You were his team manager, it would look bad, for both of you. But... it was bound to get colder in here. Just for tonight you could take a hit to your pride.

After taking off most of your clothes, leaving only your underwear on, being in the same state of undress as Oliver, you lifted the covers and got under them quickly.

"Changed your mind, Miss Manager?" You could hear the confidence in his voice, dripping like sweet honey. "God, you have some soft boobs."

You were blushing again but for an entirely different reason that wasn't anger. "Is that all you can think about?"

"Well no but kind of hard not to when they're pressed right against my back." That back flexed just for you. You couldn't sleep like this, so you turned your back to him, hogging some of the blanket as you did. "Fine, I'll be the big spoon."

His arm draped itself over your middle and pulled you against his body, your legs tangling together. "Your feet are cold."

"Mhm, I'll get warmed up in no time." You glanced behind briefly, his mismatched green and black eyes slightly hooded, accompanied by a lazy smirk. "If you're so worried you could give me a hand."

"Keep talking and I'll kick you out of this cabin." The perv, the nerve of him to even suggest...!

"I don't think you will." That confidence was back full force as you felt his stubble scratching the back of your neck. "You know Miss Manager... if I'm stuck here for the night I'm glad it was with you. You're good good company like this."

"Good company?" You asked, not quite sure what he meant by that.

"Yup. Nice to cuddle with an all that. I prefer a pretty woman in my bed than one of my teammates. You're much better company." A shiver bolted through your body when Oliver's lips pressed against the back of your neck, then at the side of it, then your shoulder, then the strap of your bra.

You gulped, tensing at the sensation his kisses sent through your body. "You're such a womanizer, Oliver."

"You don't seem to hate it right now. But I won't overstep, just keep you warm, deal?" He asked as he backed away slightly, his warm breath tickling the now wet patches of your skin.

"Y-Yeah." You didn't want to turn around and let him see how much you were blushing. He might be annoying sometimes but in this moment he cared about you, so you let him.

Even though you fell asleep with your back turned to him you still woke up snuggled up against him, your face close to his neck. "Well, morning." Oliver beamed, his face framed with the morning Sun shining through the window, no sign of a snow storm. "Care to give me a hand now?"

It took you a few moments to understand, or rather feel what he meant by that. "Pervert! Get your grabby hands off!" You pushed yourself away from him and fell off the bed, head down, legs dangling over the edge. Slightly spread. "Ow."

"That's quite the open invitation, very forward of you, Miss Manager." Oliver reached out and traced his finger across your thigh.

"Oh, shut up." You gathered yourself, your clothes and what was left of your dignity and stormed outside. "If you're not outside in 5 minutes I'm leaving without you!"

Oliver sighed but kept on smiling, "Gotta make this one quick then."

[moodient]

imagine!sevika going to reader's first performance as a performer. she waited impatiently to see her baby girl especially because you had something special just for her. she taps her foot and has her arms crossed as she waited, closing her eyes until she heard your name or your stage name.

"and what you've all been waiting for, our newest baby, cherry pop!" the announcer said, filling the audience with excitement and hype. sevika finally opens her eyes to see you walking out, a deep red dress that hugged every hip and curve that you had, your chest was bedazzled with red gemstones.

you smiled at the audience, secretly looking for sevika but not making it noticable when you found her, your smile just got deeper when you did. the music began to play, as did you. your body moves as if the music controlled your every step. hips slithering like a snake, they were a siren telling them to come to the sea and fall in love with you.

money started piling up at the edge of the stage as you continued to dance. sevika's eyes and mouth were constantly open, not even having a moment to shut or gain the moisture back. you used the environment around to make you appear more sexier, more hungry, more desirable. you swung around poles, grinding against walls, even crawling on the ground.

cheers and whistles filled the crowd as you made your way over, teasing people with a flick of your finger or a dirty whisper in their ears, playful but not meaningful.

you went around until you got your beautiful girlfriend, sevika who was eyeing you the whole time. you grabbed her by the shirt and brought her to the stage, making her sit on a chair. you got on top of her, putting her hands all of your body, kissing her neck and leaving small hickeys. she grunts but tries to control it as you continue to leave marks on her skin.

you got off of her to take off your dress, and it reveals the unbelievable. you were a black lingerie set with your chest completely exposed, the only thing that was covered were your nipples with cherry pasties.

sevika's entire demeanor changes, at first she was nervous or more excited about what you were going to do and now she's absolutely horny now, eyes filled with lust and desire. hands starting to linger on your body, even groping. she didn't even give a damn about the audience anymore, she needed you terribly bad.

but the song was over, cheers and loud clapping filled the audience as you bowed as thank you and you lifted sevika up from the chair and led her back to her seat, giving her a big kiss on the lips to let everyone know that she's all yours and you're all hers.

the show officially ended and you ran towards sevika with your bag and still wearing your red dress. she gives you a kiss on the head while you were smiling up at her.

"well.. what did you think?" you asked her, excited and happy. sevika thought of the proper words to truly express how proud she was of you, but no words came out.

you looked confused and concerned at the same time, this was the first time you've ever seen her like.. no words but full of expression. you assumed that she didn't like it because she didn't like it, you frowned a bit and rubbed her shoulder.

"if you didn't like it, that's fine baby." you said, trying to feel better about it but sevika quickly snapped out of it and kissed you. oddly enough, that kiss was all you needed to feel confirmed that you did an amazing job.

"i'm sorry baby, i absolutely loved your performance.. and actually i would love an encore back at home." she said whispering in your ear, giving it a little bit.

and oh you were absolutely going to give her an encore and more.

a//n: low-key wanna do another fic with stripper(performer) reader and sevika but you know better. LMAOO hope you enjoyed!