#definitely this show is “too woke” just now

[chunkitakii]

facesitting and “lux, it won’t fit 💔” with 3D lux 😋

In my mind i just turned into Junkrat and said “IVE GOT AN IDEA💡”

Lux/Mr. Ring-A-Ding NSFW *Face-sitting* HEADCANNON!!!

WARNING: this will contain facesitting, power imbalance, and Lux being the little asshole he is.

But omgggg, now that he’s HUGE and in 3D. I feel like face sitting would be a big YES for him.

Like when he had first turned 3D, and looked down at you for the first time. OH BOY, you could physically see a lightbulb on top of his head.

I wrote it out bcuz why not LOLOLOL.

Lux had made the mistake of accidentally bathing in the sun.

This all had happened when he fell asleep, after playing many rounds of chess with you, underneath an open window. When he fell asleep, it was nighttime. So him falling asleep in the moonlight occurred often. But today, it seemed like he was extra tired knowing that he fell asleep through his transformation.

He soon woke il feeling a little, different. Feeling a little bigger than usual, feeling a little more…3D.

(A/N: Ik Lux used the Doctors light to build a body, but idk how else Lux would have built one in this. So him bathing in sunlight was the only thing that popped up in my little head.)

You were currently organizing some film to Mr. Pyes request. The poor man hasn’t had any sleep in days, hopefully you can at least get some stuff off of his plate so he can take care of himself.

Lux was currently somewhere doing anything he can on his mind. Which even makes you wonder what he does for fun around here.

You simply shrugged it off and continued your work. Humming a soft tune to help with the quiet atmosphere around here.

“Oh~Sunshine!~”

Damn it…

“Yes, Lux?” You answered in the room, waiting for his answer across the hall. You wondered if he was going to bother you about the light again and how they were too dim, or maybe how he has been so bored lately, maybe he going to bother you about another game of Jacks.

“Can you be a lovely doll and come here? I just want to see my beautiful ray of sunshine! The light of my life! My firefly in the night-sky! My beloved!-”

“Okay-Okay, i’m coming!”

You let out an exaggerated sigh as you put down the film onto a nearby table. Ever since Lux showed up, you can’t get any work done. You didn’t know if it was a good thing or a bad thing.

You made your way our the room and into the theater itself. Giving out a light stretch before addressing the toon that craved your attention.

“Okie Dokie Lux, what do you- WHAT THE F-!”

“Surprise!~”

And there he was, in all of his monstrously huge glory. Standing on the stage of the theater room, if he reached his hands up, he could definitely reach the roof. Lux was roughly about 10+ feet taller than you.

Lux looked different but the same at the same time. Lux was so detailed, to the bottoms of his feet to the tips of his antennas. It freaked you out, very much so that you subconsciously started to step back away from him.

Lux saw this, of course. Yet he couldn’t help but feel worried or smug about this. He can tell his new form made you uneasy, but he couldn’t hell but feel a sense of pride in that. Lux didn’t want you to run away in feel of him.

Lux needed a way to make you feel comfortable with him.

Locking his eyes back to you, he finally realized how small you were in-front of him. Your small form slightly quivering before him, and oh how it was adorable…

…Bingo.

“Oh sweetheart, why don’tcha’ come down here to the stage…” Lux taunted, trying to get you to come closer to him.

You whimpered quietly as you saw him take a step forward towards you. If he was smaller, it would have been 4 or 5 steps. But since he’s bigger, all it took was one.

You took a couple of steps back. You weren’t stupid enough to not get what he was trying to do. Lux had something in mind, something you couldn’t quite figure out. And you didn’t know if you wanted to stay any longer to find out.

“N-no, I’m good here thanks…” You muttered out. You made the mistake of turning your head to lock eyes with the door to escape. As soon as you did, you heard loud and quick footsteps run towards you.

Seeing a huge, 3D Ring-A-Ding run towards you full speed and grab you like you were a stuffed tog was not on your bingo card today…

A large hand was wrapped around your body, its three fingers both held you steady and kept you from pushing away any further. They also had enough grip to you lift your shirt up just a little.

It was Lux’s enormous hand that kept you in place. Keeping you from wiggling and writhing away from him. Or, in better explanation, his mouth.

Lux sat back onto the theatre stage, lying back far enough to crane his neck upwards so you can be positioned just above his face.

His huge tongue licked and prodded at your lower half, licking and sucking you bare. And of course, Lux did it with the brightest smile on his face, like he was eating a full course meal.

Just seeing you, head tilted back with the most loveliest moans that rolled off of that sweet tongue of yours. Your face skewered in pleasure, and not a word formed out of your mouth other than many yes’s and please’s. And by the stars, how he loved every single bit of it.

The sight of your little body above his face, with those little cries of yours. He would simply parish right then and there. You were just so cute, wiggling in pleasure in his hand, pushing and pulling his fingers near you and away from you. Lux just wanted to crush you from how adorable you are…

He didn’t know how long he has been at it, but it didn’t matter. Just as long as he tasted your sweet nectar more than once, he can live a perfect life.

He too felt himself moans in delight at the taste of you. Never once in his existence has he tasted anything like yours, and Lux made sure he was going to savor every last bit of it.

You, however, couldn’t decide if you’re were uneasy with the situation, or loving it. Your instincts had told you to run and get away from Lux. Hovering above his mouth, it was like you were prey, ready to get devoured whole.

Yet your body betrayed you, feeling all sorts of pleasure coming from Lux quickly shut down those instincts real quick. And honestly, with how big Lux is and how small you were compared to him. It sort of pleased you in way. You didn’t know why, but you’ll focus more on that thought after Lux is done with you.

Now for the other bit, I’m not sure how to start it but I’m just going to throw in some little points of how it would be like. 😭

I feel like he would be so into it, taking you in this bigger form. But you are SO quick to tear it down.

This toon is over 10 feet tall, just imagine what he’s packing underneath. Let’s be real here, you’re going to rip in half.

Gonna write a little scene of it anyway…

“Lux, I don’t think we can do this...” You nervously chuckled out. Nervously glancing at Lux and his ‘joy stick’.

Lux currently still hand you in his grasp, but he laid you down onto a blanket that was laid on the stage floor. He was still lining you down nevertheless.

His regions, however, was literally the size of your leg if not more. You didn’t plan to die today, so you did not want to take that chance.

After a while of thinking, Lux just ended up grinding his shaft on your smaller form until he finished. And oh boy, you were covered in it.

So taking Lux in his huge ass 3D form, is a no. Because let’s be honest, no human can take more than 30 inches.

But the toon still has fun eating you to the bone. :))

[antlerqueensab]

nsfw travis headcanons?

oughhh i was planning on doing one of these

so first off, i think it takes a while for him to hype himself up for anything other than kissing. like, the first time he groped you, he immediately pulled back and apologized. which, obviously, you encouraged him to do whatever he felt like was right, so he tried it again after a few seconds, and he could not stop doing it for weeks after that

definitely looks to you for reassurance and - though he'd never admit this - he listens to whatever you say and just needs you to guide him through whatever you're doing. so, he'll try and act all confident and sure of what he's doing, but the second you say to do it a different way, he's mumbling an apology and fixing it immediately

pre-crash, travis is definitely all for praise and encouragement. since he's sort of still in that loser/insecure about his experience phase, when you tell him he's doing the right thing and making you feel good, he's instantly red in the face and nodding along to your words. (also, definitely cried after the first time you two had sex)

i also think he'd be really into giving/getting hickeys. he thinks it's an easier way of showing affection than telling you outright - he also doesn't want to fuck up what you have by sounding too possessive. so, he chooses to focus on how you started giving him hickeys and copied what you did. and once he learned the right way to do it, he cannot fucking stop. travis genuinely can't help himself and will leave them anywhere and everywhere.

in the wilderness, he starts learning more of what he likes and gets more confident and secure with your relationship. he'll start convincing you to go on hikes with him just so he can fuck you against a random tree. there'd been a few times he woke you up and you both snuck out of the cabin to go down to the lake just to get a quiet moment away from everyone.

around a year into the wilderness, he's confident and knows exactly what you like. he makes it a point to tease you so much, grabbing onto your hips when you both are with the other girls, walking past you and purposefully touching some part of you, making sure to fix things where you can see him (he's not fucking blind, he can tell how much you love his arms and how strong he'd gotten), whispering things to you. then, when you get alone, he's teasing you even more while laying you down on the makeshift bed, making sure you keep quiet for him so the other girls don't hear.

he prefers giving instead of receiving when it comes to head. really, it started out with him trying to rush through his turn when it happened because it seemed too complicated and hard to figure out the right way to do it. but once he did it a few more times and kept his eyes on you the entire time, he got perfect somehow.

now, he'll get you alone, make sure you're steady before tugging down whatever pants you're wearing and pushing his head as far between your thighs as he can. he's messy with it too, kissing and licking so sloppy and just doing everything he knows will get you to finish. when he doesn't use his fingers, which he doesn't like to unless you ask, his hands are either holding your legs apart or keeping your hips pinned down while he makes sure his nose bumps against your clit. occasionally, he'd throw an arm over your lower stomach to keep you down while his hand either held yours or pawed at your chest.

𓍊𓋼𓍊𓋼𓍊 lowk might make another one thats more brief and scattered but idk 😭

[dr-spencer-reids-queen]

The Stranger: Part One

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Female!Reader

Word Count: ~2.1k

Warnings: canon violence, canon language, canon talk of death, methods of kill

Summary: When an unsub is killing young women in San Diego, your team is called in before he can rack up the number of victims. He's targeting babysitters and it's your job to figure out why. Meanwhile, Frank ups the pressure on you and Spencer, something that will definitely put a wedge in your relationship.

Season Six Masterlist

Author’s Note: I do not own anything from Criminal Minds. All credit goes to their respective owners. If any warnings exceed the normal deaths/kills from the show, I will list them.

x

"Sometimes human places create inhuman monsters." - Stephen King

Spencer has his arm wrapped around your shoulders as you push the bar of the exit door to the theater. The movie is still playing but Penelope made everyone leave due to it being too gory.

"Unnecessary. There's too much blood and gore and eew," Penelope shudders.

"Garcia, it's a slasher film. How do you do a slasher film without violence?" Spencer laughs.

"You imply it."

"Baby, the movie is called 'Slice 6'. What were you expecting?"

"A refreshing beverage with a twist of comedy. I'm gonna have nightmares for a week."

"With everything that we do and see on a daily basis, that got to you?" Ashley asks.

"Listen, newb, you may be all Sigourney Weaver ass-kicking tough, which is awesome, but the mystical mavens of innocence like myself jump at things that go bump in the night."

"Why are you worried? I'm sure that Morgan will protect you," Spencer snickers. "As long as he's not jumping out of his chair like a prepubescent schoolgirl."

"The only reason I jumped is 'cause you guys woke me up," Derek defends himself.

"How could you sleep during that?"

"Easy. You drag me out after a twelve-hour workday for what? Are you telling me that the girl didn't know that the unsub was waiting for her upstairs? Come on, now."

"Villain," Spencer corrects.

"What?"

"In movies, unsubs are called villains."

"My bad," Derek rolls his eyes.

"You want to know why horror movies are so successful?"

"Tell 'em, baby," you grin.

"They prey on our instinctual need to survive. In tribal days, a woman's scream would signal danger and the men would return from hunting to protect their pack. That's why it's always the women and not the men who fall victim to the bogeyman."

"Count on you, Reid, to break a movie down to science," Penelope laughs.

"My favorite thing about horror movies is the suspense factor," Ashley says. "The helpless victim walks through the dark... Shadows reaching out to get her. A sudden noise draws her attention. Is someone there, or is it just in her head?"

"Still, it's totally unrealistic. No one should be walking through a dark alley by themselves at night."

"Ahem," Derek clears his throat. "Hello?"

"Sorry. No one should be walking through a dark alley without a Derek Morgan by their side," she grins and pulls him into her side.

"The best part of a horror movie... You never know when the end is gonna come."

"So, when is the wedding?" Penelope asks.

You and Spencer look at each other, and he smiles. "I don't know. We're really in no rush to get it done, and we just want it to be perfect. We are having it at a botanical garden. There's a beautiful one right here in Virginia so you don't have to travel far for it."

"Let me know if you want some pointers on the honeymoon," Derek grins.

"I'll be sure to come to you," Spencer laughs.

"Whenever you decide to do it, I'm planning your bachelorette party. I already told JJ I'm taking that one," Penelope says.

"Alright, it's yours," you grin.

In the morning, you arrive at work with Spencer and see Rossi on his way to the briefing room.

"How was your weekend?" he asks you two.

"We went to see 'Slice 6' with Derek, Penelope, and Ashley. Pen made us leave early. She claimed it was too gory."

"It was a good movie, and it's hard to find slasher movies that are good these days," Spencer says. "What we didn't see coming is the slicer's brother was in the closet."

"Frightening," Rossi chuckles.

"His betrayal consumed him and he sent his brother to his own private hell."

You pass by Hotch's office and see Strauss in there talking to him. Spencer and Rossi notice her, too, but you continue to the briefing room instead of hanging out outside the office.

"Speaking of horror," Rossi mutters.

"What is Strauss doing here?"

"Whatever it is, I cast my vote on 'not good'," Penelope says.

Seconds later, Hotch comes into the briefing room giving no indication on his face of what the meeting was about.

"Let's get started."

"Okay," Penelope clears her throat. "Monica Shanley, Natalie Wallace, and Amber Lasko were three college students who were killed in their off-campus apartments in the last five days. Two were going to San Diego Coastal University, and one was going to San Diego Tech."

Pictures of the three girls are put onto the screen, and you immediately notice a similarity between them.

"The unsub definitely has a type. They could all be related," you say.

"They're all in their early twenties, brunette, and majoring in education and/or child development."

"Is there any indication that they knew one another?" Ashley asks.

"As it stands right now, I'm coming up empty. Their apartments were spread throughout the city, and no fingerprints were at the crime scene. The unsub must have used gloves."

"He's organized."

"There was forced entry at all the apartments at the back door, patio door, and living room window. The homes were wrecked. That's a clear evidence of a struggle. He's creating a scene. He wants to inflict fear not only in his victim but in whoever finds the body."

"It could be a message to the local PD. 'Look what I can do.'"

"He's killed three women in under a week. In all likelihood, he's hunting for his fourth victim now. San Diego PD wants us on the scene as soon as possible."

You don't waste time in getting to the jet. As soon as everyone is on, the pilot takes off.

"Our unsub has a type and a temper. Amber was getting ready for her bath. It would have been an easy target for a sexual assault, but none came. That's highly unusual behavior for this kind of unsub."

"Extreme violence in physical aggression is in its nature sexual," Spencer explains.

"That's true, but as a substitution for the sex act. This guy could be impotent. He can't perform so that's why he goes all out for the kill."

"If he's targeting female college students, we need to make sure that campus officials are informed if they haven't been already. We also can't rule out other students and faculty," Hotch says.

"You know, San Diego's essentially one big college town, with an enrollment at SDCU of approximately sixty-five thousand students. San Diego County has nine universities, five private and four public. We add seven more if we're including trade schools," Spencer says.

"Each girl lived off-campus and was attacked in their apartment. That's pretty high risk. It's less risky if he's stalking them in advance like running layouts and routines."

"Between classes and part-time jobs, they'd be home sporadically at best which tells us they're not victims of opportunity. He targets them, then stalks them to know where they live and when they're gonna be alone."

"Morgan, you, Y/N, and Reid go to the last victim's apartment. Seaver, interview the roommate. Dave and I will go to the medical examiner's office."

All three victims have defensive wounds on their arms which means they put up a fight. With each new victim, the stab wounds increase. On Monica, the wounds show hesitation as if the unsub has never done this before or he felt remorse. She also had a fatal blow directly to the heart.

The unsub might have gotten lucky with her.

By the time he gets to the third kill, he's more experienced and he knows what he's doing. The cuts are more direct, and Amber died from massive blood loss. He made the struggle last longer with her because he wanted her to suffer.

Now, he's starting to enjoy it.

The only place to park for Amber's apartment is a parking garage behind the building, so Derek pulls into it as soon as you three left the airport. This place being unsecured means anyone with a car can access it. That doesn't narrow down your list of suspects. You three get out and start walking to her building.

"This isn't secure parking," Derek comments.

"I rode a bike when I was in college."

"Baby, you weren't old enough to drive," you chuckle.

"I could drive. It's just that the government wouldn't issue me a license until I was fourteen." He looks around the parking garage. "There's a lot of places for the unsub to hide out here."

"Yeah, he could have easily grabbed her when she passed through here."

"Yet she made it all the way to her apartment where she should feel safe, but then he took that from her." You walk inside her apartment and meet with the detective on the case. "Hi, I'm Agent Y/N and they are Agent Derek Morgan and Dr. Spencer Reid."

"I'm Detective Bryce Harding. Amber's roommate, Michelle, told us she was out of town visiting family when the attack occurred."

"The unsub must have known that. That's why he made his move last night."

"He jimmied the lock on the window," the detective says and shows you the broken window.

"I guess he needed the privacy to complete the torture."

"Well, most sadists like to kill on their own turf. This guy didn't risk taking her to a secondary location."

You stand in the corner of the room overlooking the rest of the apartment. You connect with her energy rather than the unsub's to paint you a pretty picture of what happened. When you open your eyes, you're brought to last night. The front door opens and Amber walks in, having just come from the gun. She looks sweaty and wearing workout clothes. She has headphones in, and you follow her to her bedroom which is connected to her bathroom.

She walks into her bathroom and turns the tub on to get the water to warm up while you assume she will start to undress for her bath or shower. While the tub is running, she walks back into her bedroom. Instead of watching her, you walk back into the living room to see the unsub already at the window. Much like you assume, he jimmies the lock before it breaks, and he slides the window up. He slips inside without alerting Amber, which you know she still has her headphones in.

You can't see what he looks like because he wears a stark white mask, hiding from people like you.

The unsub searches through her apartment first, not like he's looking for anything specific, just to see what she has. You walk back into the bedroom to see Amber just about to light a candle. That's when she notices the unsub's shadow on the ground through her open bedroom door. She walks slowly into the living room and screams when she sees the unsub. 

He takes off running toward her, and she books it back into her bedroom. She doesn't have time to close the bedroom door but she does try to close the bathroom door on him. You slip inside the bathroom right before she can close it so you're in the bathroom with her. The unsub tries pushing it open and reaching through the slit, but she's strong. She slams the bathroom door closed and locks it but it doesn't keep the unsub out. 

He busts the door open and she falls back into the bathtub in shock, taking the curtains down with her. He jumps on top of her and stabs her repeatedly. She tried to put up a fight. You have to give her that.

"Y/N?" You snap out of the trance and notice you've made your way into the bloody bathtub. You turn to see Derek and Spencer at the doorway. "Maybe something happened which makes the location of the kill significant. Look. That's something new. He's smearing blood on the walls, exhibiting more control and rage over his victims, taking pleasure in the kill."

"What's with the specific physical type?" Detective Harding asks.

"It looks like he's taking his anger out on women who represent someone he knows."

"Yeah, like Edmund Kemper," Spencer agrees. "He most likely can't confront his true target yet, so he's going after women who look like her until he can build up the confidence to complete his endgame."

Amber had a lot of friends who cared about her, especially her roommate who had been friends with her since the third grade. Amber wasn't the type of girl to go out. She loved spending time to herself inside the safety of her apartment. Michelle had a hard time trying to get her out because Amber worked her ass off. She didn't have time for trivial things like college parties.

She needed the money so she was working odd jobs like dog walking or horse sitting or proofreading. She'd get those odd jobs from coffee houses, Craiglist, or the student center. Anywhere that had a bulletin board people can post on. That means just about anyone could have noticed her and decided to stalk her.

x

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[kcdahippie]

Not this episode from 1967 quite literally having elements about needing to control the weather to keep ocean levels from rising but yeah. Doctor Who hasn't always been "progressive"

[ryker-writes]

Well, here we are! After my head cannons about giving them a rock, and it might be some way to propose to fae, I’m here to deliver!

Request rules and Masterlists

Accidentally proposing by giving him a rock (Malleus)

Being friends with fae is confusing sometimes. Of course, they’re great! But their culture is new to you, and you’re trying to learn. Of course there’s bound to be misunderstandings and mistakes every so often! It’s part of the learning process.

Well, this is probably the biggest misunderstanding that could’ve possibly happened.

You’d simply wanted to give Malleus a gift to help express how much you care about him. So when you found this nice smooth black rock with specks of gray and green, you thought it was perfect for him. Who doesn’t love rocks anyway? From what you’ve learned about fae, they’re very in tune and connected to nature. So surely Malleus would appreciate the rock!

So when you see him next, you told him had a gift for him. But when you held the rock out to him, he was…stunned to say the least. The ever so calm Malleus Draconia had wide eyes when he saw it, and he’d gone completely stiff and silent. In hindsight, that definitely should’ve told you something was wrong. But at the time, you naively thought he was just stunned you gave him a gift. You were well aware he hasn’t gotten to experience friendships like the average person first most of his life. So it made sense why he’d be surprised when you gave him a gift. He’s not used to receiving gifts.

“Child of man…do you truly mean this?”

You’d smiled at him, and nodded, “Of course. I wanted to give you something to show I care and how much I appreciate you. This rock reminded me of you with the spots of green on the black.”

Just like that, the biggest smile grew on his face. One of his hands moved and gently held onto the bottom of your own hand that held out the rock, and the other carefully picked it up. He held the stone close to his chest, and looked down at you with such softness.

“Words cannot properly express how grateful I am to receive such a gift from you. I am delighted to accept this treasure. Rest assured, I will keep it safe and make the proper preparations for everything.”

It was hard to question what he meant when he said he’d make preparations when he looked so happy and held onto the rock like it’s sacred. He probably meant that he’d set something up to protect the rock, like a place for it to sit on display or something. Yeah, that seems like something he’d do.

You thought it was odd when Sebek was at the door to Ramshackle the next morning. He seemed rather upset, and he woke Grim up with his shouting, but he insisted that it was his duty to stick around. In your freshly woken up state, you didn’t quite process everything he’d said. Something about the audacity of humans, how Malleus is so humble and kind, and that regardless he would fulfill his duty to Malleus at all costs. But all that was pretty normal talk for Sebek.

It was a lot easier to let Sebek just escort you to your first class than to try and argue about being able to get there on your own. It was a lot quieter after he left to go to his own classes. Grim actually fell asleep during class, claiming that he woke up too early from Sebek’s yelling.

Around lunch time, Lilia had stopped by your table (Scaring Ace in the process). He’d greeted you with a big smile, and arms outstretched.

“Congratulations! Young people sure do move fast. But I’m glad to see Malleus so happy. He told us all about it when he came back to Diasomnia yesterday. It seems Briar Valley’s future is looking rather interesting, and more accepting of humans.”

Okay, now you were very confused, and so was everyone else. Unfortunately, when Ace asked what was going on, Lilia just laughed.

“Ah, it is hard to keep up with younger folks sometimes. Anyway, I will be off. Much to do, things to help arrange.”

He disappeared before anyone could get another word in.

It’s safe to say you were now thoroughly confused. All you did was give Malleus a rock, and now you have Sebek acting like he had to escort you places, and Lilia congratulating you? Was the rock some magical item? It wouldn’t be the first time you accidentally came across something magical. Maybe it was Malleus just being protective? He did have a habit of going over the top a bit to protect those he cares about.

Either way, the only way to know what was really going on would be to ask Malleus himself. So after classes were over, you and Grim made your way over to Diasomnia to find Malleus.

You’d never seen Diasomnia so…scattered. Several students were moving around quickly, some even avoiding eye contact or going still as you walked past them. And sitting in the lounge was the dragon prince himself, Malleus, with a big smile on his face as he spoke with Lilia.

As soon as Malleus saw you approaching, his smile grew again, and he looked at you with such joy and affection.

“Ah, Child of man, how lovely it is for you to visit. Everything is going smoothly.”

You blinked up at him in confusion, “What’s going smoothly?”

At that, he seemed surprised for a moment before answering, “The preparations for our marriage of course.”

…

What.

Grim practically squeaked beside you at the revelation and began shouting, “Marriage?! Who said you could marry my hench-human? You didn’t even ask for permission to propose to my minion!”

Malleus laughed softly, “There was no need for me to seek your approval. Child of man proposed to me themself. It was quite the honor.”

The small direbeast looked quickly between you and Malleus in shock, and slight offense that you didn’t tell him. Malleus wasn’t a mage he wanted to provoke, but you were his hench-human! How could you propose to him without even consulting or telling him first?!

In the pause, Malleus continued, “I have taken great lengths to ensure the precious stone is safe. It is a symbol of our engagement, and will be a fine piece at our ceremony. Grandmother has already received word, and will be welcoming you to Briar Valley by my side.”

Oh great seven. The Queen of Briar Valley knows you somehow proposed to the Prince by giving him…a rock?? This must be some part of fae culture you’d yet to learn about. Courtship wasn’t exactly a priority when learning about their culture, so you hadn’t gotten there yet.

Snapping out of your shocked daze, you had to ask, “We’re…engaged??”

Malleus nodded, “Of course. Was that not the purpose of your gift of stone?”

Part of you wanted to clarify that proposing was very much not the intention, but he looked so happy and Lilia was giving you a look beside him. Malleus even told his grandma, made Sebek escort you this morning, and now all of Diasomnia is treating you like some sort of royalty. He was so excited about it. How could you tell him that you weren’t proposing when he was so excited? That might break his heart.

Unsure of what to say, you stayed silent for a moment. Lilia, ever the protector of Malleus’ feelings, laughed lightly, “Ah young love. Proposing and yet being so flustered about it. It’s relieving to see the future rulers of Briar Valley being oh so in love. Humans and fae coming together after so long.”

Malleus smiled again, and stepped by your side, “I am honored to be your chosen partner. Now, we must set up a time for you to meet Grandmother before the wedding.”

Oh yeah, you’re done for.

[youremyonlyhope]

There is a nonzero chance that I have COVID.

Yayyyyyyyy.

Let's hope it's just a cold...

[starryjake]

nightmares | s.j

in which you have a nightmare and seek comfort from your roommate.

pairing: jake x fem!reader

includes: nipple play, pussy eating, sleepy sex, unprotected sex (lmk if i missed anything).

it was childish, you knew: to be so afraid of a dumb nightmare that you had to go to your roommate for comfort.

but there you were, absolutely petrified. you laid flat on your back in your bed, not moving a muscle because you were so afraid. it didn’t help that it was storming outside either, the occasional cracks of thunder and lightning making you shiver.

when you checked the time on your phone, it read 2:19 a.m.

you briefly wondered if your roommate, jake, would be awake. it was dumb to even consider it because you knew he cherished his sleep, so he would definitely be passed out with it being that late.

even though you knew that, you still needed to be around another person. you were way too afraid to be by yourself right then.

you took a deep breath and pulled yourself out of bed. you leapt through your dark room and opened the door into the hallway. jake’s room was just across from yours.

his door was closed. you pressed your ear against it but couldn’t hear a thing. you were slightly frustrated that he was asleep, but it wasn’t like it was his job to stay awake for you just in case you had a nightmare.

slowly, you twisted open the door. his room was completely dark, but a flash of lightning illuminated his sleeping form for just a second. as you suspected, he was completely knocked out, buried under the covers in his bed.

you took a hesitant step inside, not entirely sure what you were doing by going into his room. you just needed company and the reassurance that your nightmare wasn’t real.

the door came to a close behind you, the sound of it shutting a little louder than you would’ve liked.

jake stirred, sitting up ever so slightly.

“y/n?” he mumbled, eyes squinted to look at you in the darkness.

“sorry i woke you,” you apologized, awkwardly standing by the end of his bed.

“what are you doing?” he asked. “what’s wrong?”

“i just…i had a nightmare,” you told him.

saying it out loud, you were embarrassed. you’d woken your roommate up like a child. you were selfish too for doing that. he worked hard and he was tired, thus he needed a full night of sleep.

“nightmare?” jake questioned.

“yeah,” you said. “i know, it’s dumb. i was just scared.”

“c’mere.”

your body filled with warmth and relief at the soft word from jake. he wasn’t mad, he was actually inviting you into his bed to provide you with the comfort you so desperately needed.

you crawled into his bed and slid under the covers with him. his bed was so warm and you immediately felt about a million times safer just being near him.

you laid on your side and he slid his arm around your waist, pressing his front side to your back.

you’d been roommates with jake for about a year, but you’d never once cuddled. you were friends—good friends, but you barely ever even touched. you never really hugged each other, never held hands, and especially never spooned in his bed before.

“d’you wanna talk about it?” he asked, his breath warm against your ear.

“no,” you said, not wanting to have to relive the awful nightmare. “i just couldn’t be alone.”

jake inhaled and all he could smell was the intoxicating scent of your shampoo. you were so warm and delicate in his embrace, he was definitely freaking out but trying his best not to show it.

“i’m here now,” he said. “nothing is gonna get you if i’m here.”

his words, for whatever reason, made your heart pound, made butterflies flutter in your tummy. to hear those sentences come from your incredibly attractive roommate made you…excited.

sunghoon was the reason you two knew each other. you were friends with sunghoon, jake was friends with sunghoon, and you all started hanging out in groups. you and jake coincidentally needed roommates at the same time, and then there you were.

you’d always thought he was hot and not only his physical appearance, but his personality too. he was sweet and caring and gentle, and you just really, really enjoyed him. his cute accent was a plus too.

“thank you,” you exhaled. “i knew you were sleeping and i really didn’t wanna wake you. i just—”

“hey, it’s okay,” he assured.

you suddenly felt the soft tingling sensation of his fingers grazing up and down your t-shirt clad back. you sighed in pleasure, letting your eyes flutter shut.

“feels so good,” you told him, your voice in a mumbled daze.

“yeah?” he replied. “want me to keep going?”

“mmm, yes please,” you hummed tiredly.

jake cooed at your sleepy state and continued running the tips of his fingertips up and down the length of your back.

he continued to do that until you were slowly lulled into a soft doze.

after a few minutes, jake spoke.

“can i lift your shirt?” he asked.

your eyes flew open, startled by his sudden voice in what was such a quiet room.

“yeah,” you told him.

he slowly pushed your t-shirt up your body, revealing your smooth back. he left your shirt bunched up around your chest and reattached his fingers to your back, using his nails to glide up and down.

you leaned back into his touch, sighing in pleasure. jake’s breathing got ever so slightly heavier by the sight of your pleasured reactions and your pliant body against his.

he eventually switched to using the palm of his hand to rub your back soothingly. he rubbed along your back before his hand started inching to your side, and he rubbed there too.

he gently pulled you down so you were laying on your back. with him still laying on his side, he had a height advantage over you. he looked down at your tired face, licking his lips.

neither of you even said anything and mutually started leaning in at the same time. the moment was already intimate from him rubbing your back, it just felt right and normal to kiss.

his warm lips were heavy against yours, kissing you slowly and deeply. his hand came up to cradle your face, caressing your warm blushing cheek with his thumb.

“you’re so pretty,” he mumbled against your lips.

if you were any more awake, you probably would’ve been squealing and jumping up and down.

he trailed his hand down from your face and to the side of your waist. your shirt was still raised slightly, revealing a sliver of your stomach.

jake pushed your shirt up and stopped just below your breasts.

“can i keep going?” he asked, pulling back and looking into your eyes.

you were so excited about where things were going, you would’ve been an idiot to say no.

“yeah,” you answered, grabbing the back of his neck and pulling him back down to your lips.

he smiled against your lips and inched his tongue inside your mouth. you responded immediately, rubbing the slippery tip of your tongue against his. the sound was purely lewd, all wet and kissing noises.

he pushed your shirt up until it was over your chest, revealing your tits to him for the first time. the cool air in the room immediately hardened your nipples.

jake cupped your breast in his hand and swiped his thumb over your nipple, making you gasp and arch into his touch. he pulled away from your lips for a second to wet the tip of his pointer finger. he then brought his finger down to your nipple and rubbed it in little circles.

you moaned against his lips, jutting your hips up because you were suddenly a lot more needy that you’d realized. with the way he was playing with your nipple, it was starting to get you worked up.

he departed from your lips, trailing kisses down your chin, your neck, your collarbones, and finally to your chest.

he circled his tongue around the bud before taking your nipple into his mouth and sucking on it gently. you moaned out, entangling your fingers in his thick hair.

he played with the other neglected nipple, massaging it between his thumb and index finger. you spread your legs and tugged on his hair softly, showing to him how good it felt.

“you like that, baby?” he asked, licking your nipple in circles again. “is it makin’ you feel better?”

“fuck,” you moaned. “yeah, i love it.”

“cute,” he chuckled, switching to suck on the other nipple.

you weren’t sure how long that went on for. you just knew it was long enough for your panties to be completely soaked by the time he pulled away.

he kissed down your bare stomach and stopped where the waistband of your sweatpants were.

“can i keep making you feel good, baby?” he asked, his hand coming to wrap around your thigh.

you needed him to make you feel good. your pussy was so sensitive from being so aroused and you just needed something.

“mmm, please,” you answered. “it’s sticky.”

“it’s sticky?” he repeated, peeling your sweatpants down your legs. “let me see.”

he spread your legs and found that your flimsy pair of panties were completely soaked through from your arousal. he gulped, bringing his finger up and dragging it down your clothed slit.

you whimpered, jutting your hips up to try and get more contact out of just his one finger. he pushed your hips down.

“poor thing,” he cooed. “you’re soaked. did you like getting your nipples sucked that much?”

“yeah,” you answered pathetically, embarrassed.

“sweet girl,” he said, pouting at you. “gonna take care of you, angel.”

your pussy clenched around nothing.

he was quick to hook his fingers into your panties and slide them down your legs, tossing them onto the floor with your sweatpants. you were bare in front of him then, your cunt dripping and eager.

he spread your legs as wide as they could go. you felt so vulnerable underneath him. you’d never even hugged the guy, yet now you were there with your glistening cunt twitching in front of his face.

he held your thighs as he leaned in and look a long lick from the bottom of your sopping pussy all the way up to your puffy clit. he moaned as the taste of you infiltrated his senses, taking over his head. he knew just from that one lick alone that he was addicted.

“oh my god…” you trailed off, your hand finding his hair again to hold on to.

he started flicking his tongue up and down your folds, pushing his face into your cunt as deep as he could. he wrapped his lips around your clit, making out with it and drooling all over it.

for a moment, he pulled back to just look at your pussy. spread your lips with his thumbs, watching your drooling hole convulse.

“fuck, baby,” he nearly growled.

he couldn’t stay away for long and his face was buried back into your pussy a second later. he swiped his tongue back and forth against your clit, his eyes fluttering closed at the taste and the feeling of it.

“mmm,” he hummed into your pussy. “so sweet, baby. tastes so good. could’ve been eating you out since the day we moved in together if i knew you were this sweet.”

you could barely process any of his words, so lost in the pleasure he was giving you. his tongue worked your pussy like magic, slurping up your arousal and nibbling on your clit and thrusting in and out of your leaking hole.

“jake,” you cried out, tugging on his hair. “‘m close, fuck. i’m so close.”

jake dug his fingers into your thighs, frowning slightly in concentration. his tongue continued to move rapidly on your hot, gushing cunt.

the knot in your stomach suddenly snapped and your entire body fell weak. your eyes rolled back into your head and you fucked your hips against his tongue to ride out your orgasm. he moaned against you as the taste of your cum dripped down his throat.

he left your pussy with a kiss before sitting up on his knees. staring down at you, so sleepy and fucked out, he wanted nothing more than to stuff his cock deep inside of you and just pound until you both went dumb.

jake rubbed your thigh, watching your eyelids grow heavier and heavier.

“can i fuck you, baby?” he asked, slightly nervous about what you’d say.

you were tired, clearly. he wasn’t sure if you’d want to.

“yeah, jakey,” you said sweetly.

his heart throbbed at the nickname, and the fact that you were going to let him fuck you. the idea of what your tight cunt would feel like wrapped around his cock made him lightheaded.

he was quick to rid himself of his clothes. he was hard from eating you out and only needed to jerk himself off for a second before he was ready to put it in.

he lined the pretty pink tip of his cock up with your slippery hole and eased his way inside, not wanting to hurt you. he watched your reactions closely.

you looked up at him, your jaw falling slack at the feeling of his cock slowly filling your pussy up. your legs shook as he pushed himself to the brim, the tip of his cock hitting the spongey spot deep inside of you.

“oh,” you whimpered. “feels so good. i’m so full.”

“yeah, baby?” he cooed. “you nice and full of my cock?”

you nodded rapidly, sitting yourself up slightly so you could see his cock slowly slide out of you before pushing back in. your walls fluttered around him.

your pussy was so warm, wet, tight, and absolutely intoxicating just like how he knew it would be.

“such a good pussy,” he moaned, holding onto your hips as he thrusted. “got my dick all wet in your sweet cum, baby.”

there was a creamy ring of your cum around the base of his dick, which made a lewd squelching sound every time he thrusted.

you just whimpered in response, turning your head to the side. he was fucking you so deeply, dragging every inch of his long length through your tight walls.

you held onto his biceps, digging your nails into his skin. he bit his lip, looking down at your pretty supple body and the way you just laid there and took it, letting him fuck you nice and good.

“‘m close, baby,” he told you, grabbing your chin and turning your head so you were looking up at him again. “where do you want me to cum?”

you were so sleepy and fucked out that you could still barely comprehend his words. you also were starting to feel your second orgasm brewing in your stomach which made it even harder to focus.

you just babbled some incoherent nonsense.

“words, honey,” he said, squeezing your thighs. “tell me where you want my cum.”

“inside,” you cried out, tightening your legs around his waist. “wanna be filled.”

“fuck,” jake hissed. “i’ll fill you up real good. i’ll make you nice and warm, yeah baby?”

“please!” you yelled. “please, i need it.”

your words sent him straight over the edge. he choked on a moan as ropes of his warm cum spilled inside of you, drenching your walls.

seeing him hit his orgasm sent you over the edge as well, and suddenly you were clenching around him, sucking him completely dry.

waves of sweat and pleasure and euphoria washed over the both of you. you swear he was sending you to another dimension where the only thing you knew was pleasure and jake’s addictive cock.

he slowly rocked his hips in and out of you, milking both of your orgasms until you were both done and spent.

by then, you were both exhausted. he slowly pulled out and collapsed next to you. the two of you laid on your backs, staring at the ceiling in shock at what you’d just done.

you went into his room with the expectation of a little bit of comfort after your awful nightmare, not to have been given two orgasms.

for a few minutes, neither of you said anything.

then, jake spoke up.

“so, did i get you to forget about your nightmare?” he asked, turning his head to the side to look at you.

at that point, you couldn’t even remember what the nightmare was about.

“i think you did,” you answered.

he pulled you into his chest and kissed the top of your head. within a few minutes, both of you were asleep in each others arms.

-

a/n long jake smut for 1k and bc im horny for him.

thank you for reading <3

[no-144444]

the oscars- o.piastri

꩜ summary: you bring your own oscar to the oscar's!

꩜ pairing: married! oscar piastri x actress! fem! reader

꩜ a/n: just realised i never posted this and it has been sitting in my drafts for over a month and a half ish lol

I want you to come with me. 

Those words had run through his head like a fucking jack-hammer for weeks. What did that even entail? Acquiring a tux, sure. He could do that. Learn all the names of the people he could potentially meet, any celebrities or old co-stars he’d probably met but didn’t remember. Again, he could do that. Sit beside you all night and let you be your wonderful self as he got a first class seat and bragging rights about the fact that he was yours, he did that all day everyday. 

So why did this feel so different? He’d been to award shows before. Not the award show, but motorsports ones. You’d come as his date. The world knew about you two. He’d gone to the BAFTAs with you one year. He should be fine. He knows he’s just there to hold your hand all night and make sure you don’t forget to eat something, but this just feels… different. This was the Oscars. The one night all of Hollywood steps out in their very best, hoping to get something back. And you were nominated in 3 categories. 

“Fix your bowtie,” Hattie fussed over him as he rolled his eyes. You’d even invited his whole family. You weren’t super close with yours and they hadn’t really supported your career, but the Piastri’s had. Nicole went to every premiere you offered her, sometimes flying last minute just to be there to support you. He remembered how touched you’d been when she showed up at your Cannes debut, you called him crying that night, not even knowing what to do with yourself because you thought it was just so nice. You were 14 then, but you were 24 now, and you weren’t just his girlfriend, you were his wife. You were officially part of the family, even though you had been from the moment he’d brought you home. He started playing with his ring, a nervous habit he’d picked up since getting married. 

“It is fixed,” he snapped back as she fiddled with it. “Mum said it looked fine-”

“I wasn’t looking at you when I said that!” she called from the other room. Oscar rolled his eyes again. 

“Your eyes are on swivels today,” Mae teased, looking up from her phone. Oscar fought back rolling them again, and instead went for a scoff. 

“I’m the only reason you guys are even coming,” he scoffed, Hattie still fixing his tie. Mae’s jaw dropped in offence. 

She gasped. “Excuse you! I think Y/n would still invite us even if you guys got a divorce.” 

A shiver went up his spine at that thought. Leaving you?  He couldn’t do it. He knew in his bones he’d adore you until he was old and grey, and probably a while after that too. 

“She definitely would,” Eddie added, walking in. “Plus, she’s dressed now, if you want to see her.”

Oscar tried to pull away from Hattie, but he just got choked by his bowtie, resulting in a fit of coughs and a gaggle of laughter from his sisters. 

He heard a chuckle he knew all too well and he turned his head. You were radiant. A burgundy formal gown, your hair exactly the way you loved it, and that wonderful look in your eyes. The one he saw when he woke up next to you. The one that made him blush no matter how long you’d been together. “You alright there?” you questioned.

He chuckled and Hattie finally finished with his bowtie, so he turned to you, wrapping his arms around your waist and pressing his lips to yours as he lifted you off the ground- just slightly. You grinned against his lips and he felt the panic that had been building completely subside. You pulled back as your feet reached the ground again, and chuckled. “Do I have lipstick?” he asked, a question he asked most days. You nodded, but Mae got up to take a photo, giggling at her brother with you. It didn’t bother him. You finally just wiped it off and smiled at him. 

“What do you think?” you asked, pulling back and giving him a spin. You showed off the low back and he knew he’d be ripping this dress off of you tonight. He swore the breath was knocked from his lungs every time you looked at him, but truly, you were breathtaking. 

“I think you’re the most beautiful woman in the entire world,” he whispered, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek.

“Oh yeah?” you smirked. He nodded. 

“Oh yeah.” 

The Red Carpet was as overwhelming as usual, but he enjoyed watching his sisters interact with the few fans of theirs that were there. He watched you with so much love and pride in his eyes, so much so that Tim had to nudge him to remember to walk on and not just stand in the back of your photos looking at you lovingly. When you finally finished up, you grabbed his hand as he led you into the auditorium. 

“You still have my speeches?’ you questioned. He tapped his chest, signalling that it was in his breast pocket. You smiled. “Thank you.”

“Always,” he smiled back. “Forever.” 

As soon as your moment began, it ended, because Nicole pulled you away to go talk to people and he fucked off to the dinner table. He watched as you worked the room, animatedly speaking to people as he watched on from his seat at the table, thoroughly enjoying his food. 

It was his dad who pulled him out of his daze, asking how he was feeling. 

“I’m fine,” he nodded, only slightly lying. 

Chris smiled. “She’s going to win ‘em, I bet you.” 

“She will,” Oscar nodded. “Her work has been incredible this year.”

“You’re telling me,” he chuckled. “I cried for three days over the Outrun.”

Oscar laughed out loud as his dad shook his head. “I know what you mean.”

Just then, Oscar caught your eye from the other side of the ballroom and you smiled at him, waving. He waved back. You were a vision in burgundy. He swore to go he was going to get heart palpitations from how beautiful you were. 

“Starting soon now,” Tim clapped his hands on Oscar’s shoulders. “Better be ready with those acceptance speeches.”

Chris smiled at Tim. “Took the words out of my mouth,” he chuckled. “Also have to practice your shocked face. Even though we all know she’s going to win every single one of them,” Chris tapped his leg. “Like how she pretends to be shocked when you win.” 

Oscar laughed, his cheeks going red. Why was he being embarrassed by his own father and step-father at the Oscars right now? He wanted you back, you could always calm them down, make them less… whatever they were. 

“Busy?” you asked, coming up to the table, your question directed at him. He stood up immediately. 

“Not at all,” he shook his head, the boys behind him chuckling like schoolgirls. He took your hand and you led him to the foot of the stage, squeezing his hand. 

“I’m so glad you’re here,” you whispered, leaning to his shoulder. “Thank you for coming.” 

“I'm so proud of you,” he smiled, his hand sneaking around your waist to pull you closer. He loved this. These quiet moments between all the hustle and bustle of your own lives. The room melted away behind you as you both stared at the stage you hoped you’d end up on tonight, but he knew you would. “I’ll always come.”

You chuckled. “You said cum.” 

He rolled his eyes, the soft moment between the two of you, now abruptly over due to his choice of words. He looked down at you and you laughed at his unimpressed stare. “I love you?” you offered, cupping his cheek. 

“I guess I love you too,” he leaned in and pressed his lips to yours gently, but quickly- as to not get lipstick all over his mouth. 

“And the nominees are; Anora, written by Sean Baker. The Brutalist, written by Brady Corbet, Mona Fastvold. A Real Pain, written by Jesse Eisenberg. , September 5, written by Moritz Binder, Tim Fehlbaum; co-written by Alex David. The Substance, written by Y/n Y/l/n,” the crowd cheered and he felt your hand squeeze his just a little tighter. “And the winner is… Anora, written by Sean Baker!” 

Despite the loss, you stood and clapped for him. Oscar joined you, though he thought you should’ve probably won. You both sat back down as his speech began and he took your hand again. “You alright?”

You nodded beside him, your eyes fixed to Sean and his speech. “There’s still like 4 hours left, don’t worry.”

He chuckled and pressed a soft kiss to your hand. Ever the positive person. 

“And the nominees are; Anora, Sean Baker. The Brutalist, David Jancso. Conclave, Nick Emerson. The Outrun, Y/n Y/l/n. Wicked, Myron Kerstein,” you tensed beside him. “And the winner is… Y/n Y/l/n, The Outrun!” 

And the room stood for you. He felt like he was in slow motion. You both stood up at the same time, a bright smile on your face (he was sure he looked ridiculous), and you turned to him and you hugged him. 

“Holy shit,” you whispered. He smiled back, nodding. 

“You fucking did it,” he cheered as he pulled the speech out of his pocket. “Go accept it.” 

You nodded and started your descent down the stairs. The entirety of Hollywood was on their feet for you. You’d been working in the industry since you were a kid. Everyone knew how wonderful you were. Only he got to see it everyday. He watched, pride practically spilling from every pore as you stood up on that stage, taking the award in your hand, the sheet of paper in your hand. You looked up, a teary smile on your lips. “Wow,” you breathed out, looking at the room, but your eyes immediately met Oscar’s, and you both smiled again. “Hello, and thank you,” you started. “Umm… alright, speech- yes!” you unfolded the piece of paper in your hand and took a deep breath. “Well�� first of all, I’d like to thank the academy, because this-” you held up your award. “Is incredible. And next, I’d like to thank my family. Nicole, Tim, Chris, Hattie, Eddie, Mae,” Oscar was already tearing up, and he was sure his mom was at the floodgates stage of it all. “You’ve been so incredibly kind to me over the past decade. You took me in when I was just a random 14 year old your son or brother was dating, and you gave me a family, and I'll always be grateful. Next, I’d like to thank my husband-” he felt a tear fall down his cheek and he knew there were about twenty cameras on him. There were a few cheers from the crowd. “- Oscar, you’ve made me insanely happy, and you’re my everything. But you’re also the only person I’ll ever let in my editing room. I love how curious you were at the start, and now, how effortlessly you help me. Truly, this is half yours-” you chuckled, and so did he. “No matter what. Whether you were coming in from a race weekend, totally exhausted, or just come back from a run, you’ll sit beside me in silence and help me make it all work. I don’t think you understand how much that means to me, so, thank you. I love you all, thank you!” you finished off, just wiping the small tear that had fallen away, as the crowd rose for you again. Oscar was a goner, tears falling freely as he tried to wipe them away. God, you were too kind. He adored you. 

The night ended at 3am, you walked away with two Oscar awards, and one Oscar. He was grinning the whole time, too. Couldn’t stop. You won Best Editing and Best Supporting Actress. His family were elated and you giggled on the way back tot he hotel as you watched videos of them react to you winning, since they weren't sitting beside you.

Both you and Oscar were exhausted, so you fell into bed, immediately tangling with each other and knocking out. 

He ran a hand through your hair as he lazily closed his eyes. "Y/n?"

You hummed against his skin, sign enough that you were slightly conscious.

"I adore you," he whispered, the silence of the room seeming even quieter in the dark. You looked up at him through tired eyes, a soft smile on your lips.

"I feel it," you smiled. "And I love you too."

Best night ever.

mclaren masterlist

navigation for my blog :)

[capslocked]

PARIS

male reader x sana minatozaki

30k words

"City's a shithole," you tell Sana, stepping out of a taxi. "Absolutely rotten."

"It is not a shithole."

"It is a shithole, Sana."

"You just got off the plane. Can we reserve judgement on Paris until we've seen the fucking place?"

(This is the one where you get over a fear of flying, of falling - and Sana's breeding kink goes a little further, gets a little more complicated - and neither of you give up much ground. It's an ordeal, that one. You really oughta stop surprising her in hotels.)

-

"Little known fact," Sana says to you near the beginning and looking for once a little less ethereally put-together, a bit more like she wants to go back to sleep. "St. Valentine was actually an incel who died in jail."

She's slumped onto your kitchen counter in a sweater several sizes too large - the one with your college crest, a hole in the armpit - and shorts, her long bare legs dangling above the tile.

"So, y'know."

And you haven't a fucking clue.

She shovels another spoonful of cereal into her mouth, "spending the holiday insufferably alone is something of an homage."

"What?"

"An homage," she crunches, happily.

Oh, you're charmed by her, have been for weeks now, and you chuckle despite yourself, pour her coffee while you're waiting for the toaster to finish. You've decided she's going to eat fruit today whether she wants to or not - it's barely breakfast if it's just a bowl of sugary carbs; and in a pair of fuzzy socks, a stolen crewneck, with last night's makeup still slightly smeared at the corners of her eyes and her hair mussed to shit, Sana makes you feel sorta responsible for her health. Your infatuation must be showing. 

She lifts her chin, blinks lazily.

"I guess that makes us both artists by extension, or something," you say.

"Incels?" Sana snorts.

"No." Your toast pops. "Homage-payers."

You watch her mouth quirk around her spoon. "I kinda like that," she allows.

This morning, for the record, is only different than others in terms of superficial details - today Sana woke up with your hand cupped over her cunt, three fingers sinking slowly into her heat - annoyingly slow, the way she likes it least and best, depending on what she gets out of the teasing: her morning orgasm, in this case - and it was different enough that she moaned high and pretty, back arching as she squirmed on your palm, the sheets, whispering a delirious good morning against your jaw when her wits finally cohered into something more linear, understandable.

It's your new normal, sure: sleeping together - and its odd, comedy-forged counterpart, waking-up together.

It's eating breakfast, it's Sana stealing your clothes, sitting on your counters like breaking convention is some sort of biological imperative.

It's her legs wrapping around your waist while she kisses you soft and open-mouthed, leaving it to you to decide how much morning breath you can tolerate - and maybe that's a routine worth indulging, for a bit. At any rate: it's February 7th, which means there's this sword of Damocles hanging over your head that a whole financial system has been built around monetizing, a day people probably buy chocolates and flowers and write sonnets over - except Sana is jetsetting next week and you'll be spending February 14th in your apartment, possibly taking a shower, definitely sleeping in until noon, not being in love.

She's a once-in-a-generation talent, a gorgeous face, a fantastic fuck - this is just what's in the cards for you.

"You're going to miss me," says Sana, flat-out declaring it, threading her fingers beneath your chin, hooking her ankles loosely in the small of your back.

The cereal bowl clatters as you set it in the sink. "I might," you say, noncommittal, enjoying the way it makes her press further into your body, clinging tighter. "How long did you say this trip was going to be, again?"

"Oh, forever, maybe," Sana breezes, waving her other hand.

"You're gonna change your mind about the whole concept of romance and think about texting me within five, ten minutes of dropping me off at the airport. But then you won't actually do it, because you'll figure that I'm busy, and then you'll spend the rest of my flight kicking yourself for not sending me, like, an emoji, or something, and that it could've been enough to bridge the gap, and instead I'll be off somewhere all dolled-up and glamorous, probably surrounded by hot models, and that's when I'll meet someone new. I mean, there'll probably be no comparison to well, y'know-" She palms your crotch, fingers skating across the fabric. You recoil, almost scowl, and she snickers. "-but that's what happens when you don't text me. We're not in contact for one week and I replace you with a French man named Pierre. Or Jean. Jean-Pierre, honestly. If I were you, I'd play it safe and shoot me a Valentine's text."

"Wow." You push your thumbs under the hem of her shorts. "You got it in one, I think."

She shrugs, faux-modest. "Naturally. Jean-Pierre knows what's up."

You slip your hands up further and her expression shifts as you meet skin under the heavy fabric: all suggestion, no pretense. Sana sighs contentedly, leaning back onto her wrists so that you have to chase her, tilt your head to follow the movement. This is natural. She takes your lip between her teeth and sucks, gently. The angle puts a crick in your neck. You let her get away with it anyway, press further in between her thighs, spread them wide - and then she bites harder, the flesh of your bottom lip giving under her canines.

There's a spark there, it makes you want to pull her hair, kiss her harder, dig your fingers into her hips and leave bruises that'll last through the next couple weeks of international press junkets and glitter-eyed meetings with like-minded, like-pretty strangers. You're starting to suspect she's psychic - because she slides a hand up your shirt, letting her fingers skate over your stomach, the dip of your hips, the places that make you tick.

You clock the twitch in your pants, growing, filling. You've slept with this girl an awful lot. It's a problem.

"Possessive," is Sana's assessment, with all of the derision of a tease.

"Cool it," you warn her, sliding your grip up from her legs to her hips, pinning her solidly to the countertop. "I've got a full enough schedule this morning without you making a mess of things."

"Mmm, you don't." She's petulant, kissing you again and letting the touch linger on your bottom lip. It's a strong argument.

"I do," you try.

"You really don't," she says, sing-song, breathless with expectation, anticipating rough treatment.

Her smile is syrup-sweet, oozing indulgence: the sight of her sprawled beneath you is a pure profligate pleasure. Like she's an apple you stole fresh from the orchard, red and shiny and dripping juice down your forearm, dribbling sticky on the grass, rotted with temptation. You wonder if she's always been this way - begging to be held down, fucked hard, edged beyond the realm of possibility - and recently her appetite for filth seems endless, like she's come into a taste for it. Sana Minatozaki doesn't often say no.

For all intents and purposes, your answer should be a given.

"Well," you drawl, thumbing the soft cotton of her shorts, that spot just above the waistband, where her inner thigh meets the crease of her pelvis and you can make her voice go to velvet. "Did you say he died in prison?" You pull away from her a bit, switching tactics, letting the subject slide from bedroom talk to regular breakfast chatter. "Of what, heartbreak?"

"You'd think," she says, almost curt, irritated at the prospect of edification and sorely lacking a good fuck. It's a pleasant mood to find her in - very manageable, easier if you slip your tongue between her legs, though still relatively straightforward. "It turns out the dude got beaten to death with clubs, then beheaded; hence the martyrdom bit, which I think is fair. Pretty metal death to warrant sainthood."

"Seems a little redundant."

"So does giving a holiday to people who are already, like, super in love or whatever, but." She gathers her hair off her neck - lets it fall, satisfied. "I guess romanticism and pragmatism are just mutually conclusive."

"Exclusive," you correct, lightly.

"What'd I say?"

You exchange looks: it's definitely something you've already joked about before. It's easy, like the rest of your dynamic. Sana smiles, slow-burn, and all you can do is try and one-up her: you shrug, sigh, like there's a lot to consider.

Her fingers work open one of the buttons on the front of your shirt, hover on the one beneath it - her patience is dwindling.

"Fine," you relent, rolling your eyes, feigning reluctance. "But we need to be quick about it. Fifteen minutes, twenty max. Then I absolutely need to leave and go sit silently in a room doing jackshit for eight hours."

Sana kicks you lightly in the shins. "Let me get on top, and we'll have time to cuddle, too."

"No dice," you tell her. The negotiations continue, as they always do. "Face-down-ass-up, princess. You can clean up the kitchen afterwards."

"Ugh. You're gross," she says, as you help her down from the countertop, maneuver her toward your room with one wrist tucked firmly in your palm, already rucking up her sweater to skim your fingertips along her ribs. Sana goes easy, her joints loose, willing to bend. "And annoying. And unaccommodating. You're totally wasting my last few days in town."

"I know. I'm sorry about it," you respond, stepping behind her up the stairs, her fingers gliding gently up the rail.

"Liar." She shoots you a half-smile, laughing with no bite behind it. You think, just a bit, that she'd let you get away with just about anything - that is to say, she'd get off on a great many things: you'd let go of your own guilt, just for a moment. For someone so hot and cold with her control, it'd be easy to slide the pendulum to the other side. Maybe she'd beg for it, and it'd sound real: a small part of you thinks she's close enough already. Sana tosses a smirk over her shoulder and your mouth goes dry. "But i'm sure you will be," she tells you, her gaze somehow already unfocused. You suppose all the daydreaming is beginning to affect her too. "In, like, four and a half minutes, give or take. Probably closer to four."

"Careful, Sana," you intone, pitching low; it's like warning a child not to touch an open stove. "Your ass gets red fast."

Sana wiggles her eyebrows in an endearingly ridiculous way - you can't believe this is the girl getting checks from all these designer brands - and twists your way for a second, pressing a soft kiss to the hollow of your neck.

"Promises, promises." She bats those unequivocally long lashes up at you. "You better know I'll hold you to 'em."

-

In any case, she was right: St. Valentine got fucking wrecked. It's the whole morning's lesson. Maybe there's something to be said for dying in a spectacular way, one so fantastically morbid that it has to have happened in another era.

Sana gets on top, sorta, in spite of any negotiations; Sana kisses you stupid; Sana talks nonsense while you eat her out; Sana cums when you get two fingers deep inside her ass and slam her cunt full of another, curling the tip of tongue right across her clit. She goes easily from her knees to bracing herself against the headboard; and you follow her up the mattress when she scoots forward so you can fuck her with her back flush against your chest, head tossed on your shoulder, throat arched so she can choke out sounds you've never heard from anyone, ever. She's not a screamer, but she makes these high, keening noises when she's close - when you're giving her just the right pace, the right rhythm, the right depth - and you lean back on your heels, slap her ass, pinch her hip, "make me cum, baby," and god, her pussy grips down on you greedily, hungrily, swallows every inch and fucks you back until the condom swells full, deep inside her heat.

"You." You say it like it's a half-formed threat, kissing her sweaty, satiny shoulder, nosing the bra strap barely clinging to her skin. "Are such an insufferable cocktease."

"That's me," she quips, out of breath, entirely too pleased. 

It's such a familiar refrain now, her elbow bent back, hand trailing your neck, head tipped - she sinks her fingers into your hair and holds you against her pulse where it jumps sporadically under her skin. You flip her around - somewhat elegantly, somewhat not - nestle her soft, creamy thighs over your hips, warm your cock inside of her as she falls back from the clouds, pressing your hand to the tightness of her waist - she wasn't exaggerating: there's time to spare, to kiss her like a movie ending, and to come up smiling.

It's not just all the risky, illicit sex and reckless abandon already in play: it's also the entire lexicon and etymology of fated ends, of doomed sentiment - each verb conjugated twice and three times and five times over. She's got the filthiest parts of your imagination reined in with that face alone, like you're drowning in divinity; this is a girl so pristine and peerless and utterly without vice, staring up at you from underneath mascara-dusted lashes, waiting for her own devastation - always daring you to indulge her.

"You think you're corrupting me," Sana laughs in your ear, serenely, almost self-aware. "Is that it?"

"Well," you start, and there's a self-reflection somewhere in there - your fingertips on her jaw, her heartbeat in the hollow of her throat. The skin's so impossibly soft. Fragile. "It's a thought."

She lifts a shoulder, smiles lazily. Her mouth has that permanent imprint of sin, somehow simultaneously a crime scene and a place of worship.

"Baby," she drawls, all sugar-sweet. "I'm sure that's a given. I was such a good girl before I met you."

"Yeah," you reply, nipping the hinge of her jaw. "Such a sweetheart. So well-behaved."

"I'll take it."

Sana rolls the condom off of you, sitting cross-legged on your bed as you fold a pillow in half and prop yourself up, watching her do her thing.

She’s got so much control like this - wringing the thick mess out into her palm, then sitting back onto her calves. With two fingers and her thumb, she pinches at it, lets it drip back down. A beat later, she makes another string, decides she's all for swallowing today. That's an art. And it's mesmerizing, the way she concentrates with delicate precision, tipping her chin up and staining her lips, her tongue diligently slipping through the spaces between her knuckles.

"You're really cute," you inform her, and she flushes while licking up the rest - you love it, the little contradictions. "But that is filthy."

“Could’ve been inside me instead,” she muses, casually. She’s just testing it out, rolling the syllables on her tongue.

You raise your eyebrows. “Maybe.”

“Maybe,” repeats Sana, quietly. She reaches forward, runs her thumb along your slit, a little lower - just a semi-circle of pressure. Yeah, you’re still achingly hard. She eyes you and her focus shifts; she seems to come to a conclusion, nods her head once; this girl, really, with all her unpredictable tempers. She takes the length of you in her hand, a loose, idle grip, more to be playful than sexy. It works both ways, apparently: your eyes roll up at her, and you suppress a gasp, grabbing hold of the pillow.

It's those dreamy, half-lidded eyes, glazed over and vapid - ah, the total and utter loss of any brain capacity. Something like a prelude to the sweet surrender; Sana does the drooling part for you.

“You wanna go again?” you ask her, and this is another bit: the whole I-say-one-thing-and-do-the-other game, the winding, unwinding tension. 

When she wants something, she talks to you like she'd burn a church down for you, then tuck her arm right into yours like the fire doesn't exist in the first place - Sana blinks prettily up at you, strikes the match behind her back. For her part, she doesn’t lie as often as she could, as often as you would expect her to; in the beginning, at least, you assumed she was a bad liar, a good flirt, that kind of contradiction.

If you didn't know better, you'd fall head over heels.

"Or are you just stroking me off because you like the way it feels in your hands?" you go on. You'd like to find out, actually.

Sana smirks, and slides her palm lower, gets a second hand involved, slow and steady - the friction is aching, fantastic. "Aren't you supposed to be working?” she asks, twisting both. You could cum again, but maybe you shouldn't. "Is this really how we spend all our time?"

“How conscientious of you,” you say, drily, and she laughs before tucking her hair behind her ear, kneeling on the sheets and bringing her lips to the end of you, letting her spit run down the head and catching it with her knuckles; just once, she licks. Then, twice. Okay, well - you could probably afford to stay away a while longer. In theory. Three times, four times - oh, her mouth is hot and silky and there's really no way around it. 

You grab your phone, shoot off an email or two, and slip your fingers into her hair.

-

Sana's someone you know from work, in a real roundabout sort of way. That's the whole sordid story.

You've got the cushy office job, the creative credentials, she's art, the product; and the optics surrounding that means you're supposed to never, ever lay a finger on her; oils mixing like they shouldn't - the finished, the half-baked, the polished to a gleam versus the raw unvarnished clay; but she'd wandered into the employee-only elevator and said good morning with that smart, sarcastic little voice and you'd turned around, thinking of some entitled manager in the process of haranguing you - only it wasn't a suit-and-tie corporate climber, oh, no, no-

"Hey," you said, too stunned for eloquence, too dumbstruck for wit.

Because here's a perfect, pouty-lipped princess, dressed like an angel and grinning like she's ready to rob a bank; like the moon landing and Shakespeare rolled into one, fantasy and classic literature and a pastel linen shirt, with what felt like half the buttons undone.

You blinked, remembered to breathe.

"Hi." She tipped her head and let a curtain of copper-spun hair slide off one shoulder. Took a slow, appraising sip of her iced-coffee. "You're new. Or - new to me, at least."

The doors shut, and suddenly there was no going back.

-

The signs are there. Four different conditioners on the bath rack, her lotion on the bathroom counter, her shaving cream next to the soap. She prefers peppermint to vanilla. And date night takes a turn from red wine to ramen; you'll end up on your couch watching crime documentaries because Sana will hook her fingers into the loops of your jeans, saying, can't we just, like, stay in?

This morning, too: her hand clings around your forearm a little longer when you kiss her goodbye and help her find the shoes she's wearing home, make her promise to return your sweatshirt soon.

But you know that if anyone asked, Sana'd shrug and laugh, say I dunno, it's not really anything at all. 

You're hooking up. You're being idiots - this whole thing, from the very start of it, was so off-the-rails, so questionable. You remind yourself she's never met anyone she didn't like. 

She doesn't think about consequences, and she certainly won't start with you. You figure things will fester, get murky and muddled and frustrating - and the worst part isn't how she's ruining you for anyone else; it's how you're going to miss the idea of her, the impossible promise. She's living the glamour, the ceaselessness, the adventure. It's all planned out. She'll keep living her life this way until she doesn't. It's an occupational hazard.

And she won't pay it any attention once some Jean-Pierre becomes her next hot, enigmatic, incomprehensible, asshole genius plaything - hypothetically speaking.

(Or maybe he'll be the first one to really, really figure her out, and that's the more disconcerting thought.)

So you're just...you don't even know what you are, frankly. Friends who text? Sure, whatever: that makes sense. You can cling to that. It's the most sensible explanation so far.

Sana: i was promised an apology text (´;︵;`)

Sana: the pregnant man emoji seems wildly inappropriate given the circumstances

You, at ten fifteen in the morning on February 8th: i'm in a staff meeting, first of all.

You've been getting nonsensical, arbitrary stuff since, like, October: grocery lists, links to memes, notes on things she remembers in the shower. Occasionally, it's horny stuff - a water droplet emoji, the wink, and the peach; then a photo of her skirt lifted in the mirror and her naked ass in a pair of heels - and occasionally, you oblige it.

You: second, I don't want this to come off as arrogant or anything, but I didn't realize you think about me the minute you wake up

Sana: um, soooo arrogant lol wtf

Sana: but also ur not wrong, im desperate for some relief <333

You: poor, pitiful baby 🙄

You: go find miyeon

Sana: she's ignoring my calls

Sana: just send something nasty please PLEASE 😭

Sana: tell me how hard i make you

You: i'm in a meeting, sana.

Sana: I WILL RIOT.

Sana: jk don't tell me. i'm just looking at pics of us rn and i'm going to die.

Sana: (send a dick pic u coward)

She sends you a heart. And an eggplant. Then the tongue. 

You: I'll see what I can do

She follows up with: thank u thank u god bless <3

-

Oh, it's dangerous, working in the same office, dealing in all that proximity - even with the floors between you.

You're constantly resisting the urge to slide by, to try and catch a glimpse, to find excuses to bump into her in the hallway, listen to her talk, say hi. So maybe you're a sucker for the devil, or maybe it's all just because she's Sana, and she's a vision in a pencil skirt, a beauty with her legs crossed and her chin tipped high; or it's worse: you'll catch her in yoga pants, hair mussed and shiny with sweat as she flits from practice room to practice room, to get water, to take a phone call, to rub chapstick over her mouth - the daydreams write themselves.

But it's not like you know any details of her job other than, 'singer' or 'professional tease' or the occasional tangential reference. She never really talks about work.

You walk through the halls, eyes flitting around every corner; there's a standing appointment, of sorts, and it has been for the past month, maybe longer - you've got your doubts that today will break the streak. You've never actually agreed to meet her; it's sorta an unspoken understanding, and you find her exactly where you thought you might, after you've made a loop around the seventh floor, wandered as slowly as humanly possible - as if stalling could stop you from inevitably descending the same stairwell you do every time. It's an awful, terrible descent and it's gonna get you both fired - or killed, if her manager finds you first. It's a miracle you're still here.

Sana's leaning against the railing, flipping through her phone; when she hears your approaching footsteps she looks up and meets your eyes. Smirks.

"Ms. Minatozaki," you say, like this is a high school and she's one of the tardies you can't stop calling out. 

It's the nth time this has happened, and you have to know she comes looking for you, too.

"So," she drawls, standing and sweeping all her hair up off her neck, clipping it like it's habitual, and the way her hands rest at your waist is a scandal in itself. The watch on her dainty pale wrist glitters in the fluorescent lights, slides down her forearm as she pushes her sleeves past her elbows. You're not really thinking about things like propriety, restraint; Sana's very good at convincing you to shed all pretense of ethics, morals. You're slave to the thousand-kilowatt smile, the short skirts and thigh-high boots and every calculated display of skin. This girl has her agenda written plain on the walls and you've made it known in ten different languages: it's one hell of a view, and it's impossible not to stare.

"You here to escort me somewhere?" asks Sana, in a way that sounds vaguely dirty - which it is. "Need to go looking for pens again?"

She takes a step closer, presses a palm flat to your chest; hums a low, delighted sound.

"Or you could bend me over the railing and stuff me right here." Sana tilts her chin and squints upwards, assessing the metalwork. She drops her gaze, presses her fingertips to the knot of your tie; and then, a show of pity or mercy, drags her eyes back to your face, pretty lashes blinking slow. "Wouldn't be complaining."

"I really wish you could hear yourself sometimes, sweetheart."

"Trust me, it's been on my mind all morning," she confesses, all soft, wicked intimacy. "Distracting me. I doubt you want me keeping it to myself, either."

"No," you admit. "You've got that right."

Her fingers toy with your top button, pop it open. You grab her wrist, stop her, gentle and warning. Her hand goes limp in your grasp, acquiescing easily; this is the part where she likes it, getting pulled back on the right side of polite. "You should kiss me," says Sana.

Like she has to. Like this girl, rich and famous and inexplicably out of your league, a glamorous songbird living high up in her nest, and still wanting for the little taste of heaven she thinks she can steal away from you in dark corners

"Where?" You're playing, and the moment you brush your mouth over hers, the second her breath meets your lips, you've gone and forgotten all your prior reservations about fucking her at work. You let go of her wrist, allow her hand to wander lower, unbuttoning, dipping past the waistband of your pants. She slides her palm beneath the material of your underwear, tugs them just low enough that her slim, small fingers can encircle the base of your cock.

"Anywhere," Sana decides, and kisses the answer into your mouth, sighing into it - enough to pull you under, to submerge and suffocate.

It's funny; she smiles like she's the heroine of your life story, like the storybook star on the cover of an epic, or an infallible leading lady - like someone to love, like someone to admire and aspire to. Or maybe it's a touch sinister: her eyes sparkle and your worldview snaps a little sideways, just to accommodate her; she could be the villain all the same - not your protégée, not the good girl, not an angel or a miracle. There's your poison, and it's in her blood - it's a flashpoint of pure greed, and Sana doesn't need a mirror. She knows every single sin.

You drop your hand from her hair, the pretense, and give in: the railing creaks a quiet noise of protest as she wrenches her ass against the unforgiving steel, and then she's arching into your body, sighing again; it's a sound you've committed to memory, ingrained it, the sweet taste, the sharpness of her exhale when your hand wanders high up the hem of her skirt.

"Anywhere?"

"Sure," breathes Sana, fingers spidering further into your open zipper. 

It's so incredibly risky, it's bad practice, not to mention illogical: the stairwell is a public, communal space, no escape, nowhere to hide - there's only seven floors to the building, seven opportunities for someone to stumble in, and none of these numbers are in your favor.

"I'll be quiet," she mutters, lips ghosting along your jaw. "I promise." She knows that's not what you're concerned with, but you appreciate the thoughtfulness; oh, who's fooling who? "We can just-" Her hips hitch up and press firm against yours. "-see where it goes."

And, well - you have the rest of your career to be responsible, probably. Professional, obedient and boring and ethical and so many other useless terms you could drag up and wave in the face of the fact Sana's fucking gorgeous. She's holding back from giving you the full-on pout, but just barely - you catch the shadow of it on her lips; the thinly concealed ache, the pretty agony. She kisses you like she's not gonna breathe until the second after you're inside her - then that's that, like some sorta ritual. A tradition, an instinct, it's a swan-song for every shred of decorum she's begging to burn up.

You hoist her, balance her on the railing. When your grip tightens, she shuffles forward, draws her legs up a little - that's the key, letting her settle just right: the end of the world could come now and she'd still feel fucking divine, pussy dripping through her underwear straight onto the crotch of your pants - there's a wet spot now, you can feel it on the side of your thigh where you've got a fistful of her skirt scrunched, rolled up above her thighs, all bare creamy skin, something to remember this by: her in the height of perfection, full of good intentions and eager to fall apart.

"Panties," you tell her, palm up, hand held out. 

"You're fucking crazy," she exhales, but she's fiddling with her waistband and shifting on her ass in seconds - they're tangled around her boots - you're a goner from the start, it's like your soul leaves your body with a wet little snick. "Get - get them off," and it sounds so sweet in her voice, whining, ragged - not that it was in any danger but her own breath renders her resolve for composure pointless.

"Your little cunt's dripping," you note, with your hand cupping it, two fingers teasing along her soaked slit; no part of the conversation has ever needed to go in circles with Sana, or anyone else. You just sort of lean into it. "Been wanting me since you got dressed, huh."

"Your fault," she tells you, nose sliding over yours, seeking affection. "Explicitly. Never got those pictures out of my head."

"Um," you say, slipping into another finger, because she's hot and slick and insatiable and the friction will melt her right to goo - you think Sana's orgasms might be getting a little violent, these days. You're more inclined to inspire them. "I didn't actually send you anything provocative."

"See?" She grins at you, breathless. "Here lies my problem."

"Such a hard life." You crook your fingers a little deeper; Sana collapses against you, a flower drooping from too much rainwater. "Such a burden, being you, hm?"

"So I'm the issue in this scenario," she mutters, pushing back into your hands, squeezing her thighs. "Causing problems, all by myself, sluttly-little-me."

"I never said that."

"You called me a fucking cocksleeve, the other night."

"Sana."

"Which is absolutely correct. Like. One hundred percent. But don't act like you don't get off on it."

"Well," you say, innocuous: stroke up inside of her, stretch, reach - crook - and there's a breathy moan in your ear. "So do you."

"Shut up," she says, "this is about your inability to compartmentalize," and her cunt is so slick that it makes a delicious, lewd squelching sound as your fingers dip and curl in further, the walls of her pussy clenched tight, suffocating your skin - every time you roll a condom over your cock and sink inside her you do have to wonder if it's really, genuinely necessary.

"Wanna cum?" you ask, deflecting a bit, and stroke her with intent, relishing the way her little pink mouth drops open to exhale.

"Gotta be better than getting psychoanalyzed by a guy who has my fucking panties in his pocket," she grits out, hips rolling to the tempo of your fingers, now scissoring apart. You're only touching her cunt and still she moves against you like you've been railing her for hours - you think she's so wet you might hear it down the hall, down the street. "Might be a good tradeoff. Maybe." Then, more resolutely: "Fuck. Yes. Please."

It's hard to take her seriously like this, with her pretty features drawn up, all the facets of a statue rendered beautifully human, transient, falling apart in the pleasure. In moments like these, Sana looks most ethereal; when your thumb's fast on her clit and you croon compliments and the sweetest-bittersweet filth in her ear until her whole body becomes liquid-fire, sloppy and hot, desperately keening.

"On my fingers?" you ask, because maybe you're a lot like Sana: an insufferable tease. 

You slip your fingers down to the next knuckle and curl it up against the slick heat, deep, until she's making soft, whimper-like sounds, brow furrowing in focus, straining for release, and Sana can't even look you in the eyes, too far gone already, lost in this. "Or," and here's the dangerous part - "I could get on my knees and eat this pussy until you can't see straight." You're dangerously close to taking the panties from your pocket and sliding the lace under her tongue just so you could see how pretty she looks like that, huffing, groaning, eyes flickering shut at the sensation - not the actual taste of herself, but just the way it's so undignified. 

She looks pretty at any angle, any moment - you wonder if you can fuck it into her so she'll always know it's true: the kind of egomaniacal narcissism Sana might get off on. It seems appropriate.

Sana just hums at this, arching a delicate brow, considering.

"How about you give me your mouth and watch me fuck the hell out of it, hm?"

"Mildly threatening, but okay." You take one hand, smooth over her ribs until it's cupping the slope of her jaw, and draw her gaze upward, until she's staring into your eyes. "You always taste like a godsend - could get addicted to it, probably, baby - would you wanna ruin my throat? Make me drool all over you? Turn it into a little fucking mess, just the way you like?"

The sound she makes then is unearthly, somewhere between a moan and a groan. A reverb.

You know it's out of hand because you've started using the same euphemisms she does - breeding her, ruining her tight little pussy, stretching it out nice and full. Getting a second opinion, then a third and a fourth. It's a little crass for your typical repertoire, but she makes the sweetest, most ruined noises at that. You're an equal opportunist, and her whiny submissiveness is just as good - maybe a little less effortless. More demanding: there's always the feeling she's lording it over you.

"No, really." You're stroking your fingers in solid, even thrusts as you speak: gentle, measured, nowhere near enough. "You're fucking soaked," you remark, the corner of your mouth tilted up. "Like you can't stand not having something inside you, huh?"

"Something big," she grits out.

You laugh a little, amused. She's practically leaking down the heel of your hand.

"The problem is," breathes Sana, swallowing once, twice, eyelashes flicking lower, her cheek pliable in your palm and her nails scraping gently against the hair at the nape of your neck - she's dissolving. She's all yours to own, consume, to make cum. She's drenched and warm and perfect and there's a whine threaded through every expletive. She always likes things better when you're nastier to her; it's probably fucked up. Everything is, and it's Sana - so that should go without saying. "Fuck - whatever - please. Just-"

You laugh again, and the noise twists a little meaner this time in Sana's ear.

"C'mon," you say. "Tell me about this - about my issues. Your ideas. How badly you're gonna, what was it, destroy my life, I think? Just talk while I go down on you. Might help take the sting out of it." You pause. "Or make it all the more worse, really."

Sana whimpers, broken, liking the sound of that, judging by the way her cunt drips, swollen and fluttering and you can feel her pulsing against your fingertips.

"I'll tell you if you start to go in the wrong direction," says Sana, petulant and lovely as ever. "How's that - how's? Oh, my fuck-"

Sana's words drop off. It's well-warranted. You're hungry for her, insatiable; you sink down to the floor, get your mouth on her pretty little aching cunt and that's sorta how this always starts.

She gasps out and tangles her fingers in your hair, fucks her cunt against your tongue and cries out like this isn't a scandal. 

You pray to god no one comes for a smoke, for the breeze to cool them off: because nobody needs to know how thoroughly you ruin the company's golden goose, their pristine girl-next-door, pop-sweet baby-princess. You pray because she's going to cum like the rest of your brain won't remember it tomorrow, like every teary-eyed scream won't stick to your lips like static. 

Your tongue moves, pressing harder to her clit; she rides your face. Grinds down your lips while your gaze remains rapt, transfixed.

You won't blink, won't look away for even a moment. Not when Sana's falling apart above you: a complete fucking mess, a spitfire and a divinity and a filthy-wet-dream in heels, panting so hard that you're gonna need an excuse. That everyone's gonna see you've done it, broken the perfect facade and left her absolutely mangled. It's fucking obscene the sounds she's making. High, aching whines, squelch, wettened suction; her fingers tearing through your scalp; those god damn lip-gloss-flavored moans - they echo on your neck and chest, run down and through your rib-cage. They land in your gut and rest heavy and stale, ruminant, too thick. Sweet and molasses and unbearable, all stuck inside your throat. Fuck, fuck. She cums; there's your paycheck in the line of her body, arched into an acute, cataclysmic peak, an upstretched needle to pierce the surface.

It's a moment in a crystal-clear shot, one you'll try and lock in the bank, the hallows, your mind.

She's beautiful, obviously: in the aftermath, ragged, inelegant - you figure it's the fact that the poor thing's so damned unused to being fucked, has gone on for all her teenage years, then her early adulthood, barely scraping a few fingers, a low buzz of some unremarkable toy; no - she's used to the admiration. The flattery. The rapture and praise.

But you doubt anyone's made a thorough wreck, a beautiful slobbering, sloppy mess - and who would? She's worshiped like she's an icon. Some half-baked notion of reverence, like she's holy. An angel in the wrong hands - oh, the imagery's much too flimsy. Fawning. Unending, untethered; you might be a sucker, but you wonder when you'll meet the next guy in her rotation, and, not wanting to spend much thought on him, wonder instead about Sana and her subterfuge. 

You've wondered on and off why the hell she chose you.

"You don't deserve that," says Sana, after, a little breathless but otherwise unfazed and smug, like it isn't a big fucking deal to talk back to you while your jaw is still covered in her slick.

"Pretty sure I do." You wipe at your mouth, come up closer to her again. "Seemed like it helped."

"I have a whole monologue prepared," says Sana, a touch irritated - ah, well, she might be spoiled after all. "It wasn't easy to put together. The idea of you fucking me is kind of distracting, just for the record."

"Sweet of you, baby."

"Oh, fuck off," says Sana, promptly.

You smile. It's charming and cheeky and Sana blushes, suddenly off her game. "I'm serious," she says, scrambling back to her point. "You deserve nothing for leaving me alone and miserable and not showing up for ages. You're so - I'm mad at you."

"Oh," you say, and raise an eyebrow, mock-horrified. You kiss her bare, sweat-sticky neck, trace a finger from her navel down past her hips. Sana shivers. "I had no idea."

It's just Sana's axiomatic response: all snark and sass and sly one-liners until you've got your finger against her clit, and then all at once she's begging, sobbing, falling to pieces, whining your name like it's a mantra. She doesn't give a damn about your apology now. The state of your relationship has hardly progressed - but it doesn't matter. It's only the sex, the endless hours spent with Sana's thighs bracketing your head, her lipstick imprinted on your throat, the red lines she paints over your shoulder blades. It's only that. Sana's cunt, clenching and raw from orgasm and soaked like you can never fill her up: dripping, drooling.

And, okay. Yeah, maybe you didn't show up when she asked you to, didn't listen. You admit it. She's needy every second, craves praise and your cock in equal measure - but you are guilty. 

(What's that she said earlier - that you didn't deserve it? Right.)

You aren't really in a position to say shit about being ignored either, so.

-

Sana has you pegged to her whims: she doesn't have to do a damn thing, she just breathes and has you around her finger.

Well - actually, she's very proactive. She likes making demands. Well, really: she wants things.

It's February 9th, for anyone keeping track - the shortest month of the year and the one with a few more grey days in the bank than the others, which makes sense since you're deep into the heart of winter by then. On December 28th you and Sana had spent nearly three hours on the phone discussing the latest installment of this netflix miniseries of very questionable quality. There were a lot of different points to be made, apparently: you think both of the leads are, objectively, fairly attractive, but Sana wouldn't admit she had a crush on the lead until you got to the third season.

Anyway, she was upset on her birthday because of it.

"Happy new year, by the way," you told her, somewhere in the middle of the call. Sana had to speak quietly so her parents wouldn't hear, but she sounded kind of moody. "How are you gonna celebrate?"

"My ex," Sana groaned, ignoring the question completely, "made fun of my taste in guys. Like, my type or whatever."

You cocked your head. "And what is your type?"

"Oh, you know," she said, dismissive. "Hot." You laughed, and then she said, "A little less old and a little more muscular," and that shut you up, quick. Sana hesitated.

"Shit," you said.

"Shit," she agreed. "I really, really like you, though." And then:

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

And you've been kinda done for ever since.

-

Right, okay. You get sidetracked, easily. It's a running gag. Sana gives you shit for it, but then again she gives you shit for a lot of things.

On February 9th, evening leaking through a skyline cracked open and gushing like an oil spill, and the stars dripping silver - auspicious, potentially, on Sana's side - she turns up at the door of your apartment, tapping snow from her boot-clad feet, mouth tight.

"It's fucking freezing," she snaps at you, as a greeting - the hello goes unsaid. You open the door wider and she sweeps past, takes a glance around like she owns the place. You should have known - in hindsight.

Work was fine but felt lengthy. Sana shot photos for some designer brand you'd never heard of and felt pretty proud of the day's accomplishments. She talks your ear off about it while you lean against the counter and nod attentively, put water on to boil and think about getting a fish, a dog, maybe a plant; you haven't quite figured it out. Sana might have opinions about it all.

You make tea for both of you. It's this rose hibiscus thing that supposedly soothes the mind. It was a gift from a coworker at some point. Or maybe it was going to be a gift to a coworker and you just never got around to sending it; either way, it had a bow and everything. At some point in time, when someone received it, there was a bow involved. You'll work out the details - at the very least, you'll say the explanation was very elaborate and poignant, and it'd get Sana smiling. She'd trace your hand, thumb skimming your knuckles. All of a sudden you'd be sitting across a small table, talking and talking as a stream of conversation ebbed and flowed; you'd think about the stars in the sky, like blood in water. You'd kiss her neck and tell her you're not tired, ask her if she'll stay the night - it would be easy.

"So he's a total prick," finishes Sana, chin in one of her palms, blowing over the lip of the mug, "but at least he's good with a camera. Otherwise, I swear I would've left the label years ago."

"Wow," you say. You weren't paying attention.

"Mhmm," she continues.

You blink at her, slightly disoriented.

"I was talking for like, twenty minutes. You should have noticed."

"Were you," you say mildly, "seriously? Shit. I'm sorry. I guess I tuned out, just - went somewhere else."

"Huh." Sana leans on her arm. There's a lacy white ribbon tied in her warm, amber hair. It suits her, matches the gauze-thin chiffon sleeves of her sweater, the floaty skirt she's wearing, dark gray tights adorning her legs - a cossack blouse, maybe, would describe it. She's so fashionable, all the time, like it comes from the tips of her fingers, unbidden and instinctive. It makes sense; Sana's a muse for the finer things in life, all light and lovely like gold. Like - rose quartz, the blush of dawn. It's an indescribable sort of attractiveness - the kind that is rooted in her mind, in her character.

You're glad she hasn't made you spell this sentimentality out.

"Do you have a secret girlfriend you need to be confessing to?"

"I ran into Momo earlier," you say instead, which - bad timing, maybe. Sana's bright-eyed, brow lifted, curious.

"Where?" she asks.

"That cafe place. The one by the second-hand shop she likes. Near the theater."

"I've never been to a movie with you," she remarks, instead of pointing out that your explanation could apply to like, twenty places around the city alone. "Is it because you'd rather die than be seen with me in public? Like, are you worried I'm ruining your reputation?"

She's playing. Obviously. The script here is flipped: you're the secret fling, the casual affair, the quick fuck that isn't meant to mean anything, no strings attached - but maybe the implication in Sana's question is that she'd consider it otherwise. She'd like to go to the movies, or out to dinner. Somewhere crowded. Not exactly an ideal date, but you could see it on her. You want to take her places. Maybe you already do, anyway.

You roll your eyes. "Right," you say.

"Does she know?" Sana taps her bottom lip. "About us."

"Yeah," you say, too quickly.

Sana makes a face. "How? When?"

"She's your roommate," you explain, kind of at a loss. "And - you talk to her. I figured. How could she not know?"

"Dude," says Sana.

"Is this gonna be one of those moments where you pretend to be way angrier about something than you actually are?"

"Obviously, yes." Sana tilts her mug toward you in accusation. "What'd she say?"

"She asked if we were dating."

"What'd you say?"

"No," you say. "And then she asked if I wanted to be, and then I ran into traffic, like, literally, to escape."

"Do you," begins Sana, in her best innocent voice. "Or don't you?"

She looks delighted. You stare at her flatly. "Ask Momo," you tell her, and she dissolves into that creased-eye smile that sends all your faculties reeling. The gorgeous little tri-tone of laughter and her fingers combing through the silky length of her hair - she's still teasing you. You've figured out the steps, memorized the way this game moves forward. It's an indulgence and it's an obsession - and it's the same thing for you as well, really. 

"Can't," she says, still laughing. "She'll lie on your behalf."

You have no clue what that means - but you guess that's just Sana.

-

So here's an inflection point, right before Valentine's day, because you have terrible timing - right before Sana ships out to Bruges, or Milan, or wherever the fuck it is for Fashion Week: you'll only catch a few days, maybe less, before she jets again for some other assignment. It's part of how her job works, and the situation's all roundabout, because she's probably spending the holiday eating French toast with a model and waiting in an airport, watching the world go by from the plane. So, sort of backwards. You should get the bouquets and heart-shaped boxes and share a plate of pasta, you suppose - but the main thing here is you'll only get a weekend. Then you won't even see her in person until the 28th.

Or not at all. Whatever the outcome - maybe she'll stand you up and have her revenge for you being so goddamn difficult and antagonistic in the first place. Who knows. Not you.

She's studying her reflection in your bathroom mirror, tying off an elaborately loose bun, pulling some curls free, working around the headband that she seems hell-bent on keeping in her hair, in case you should ever forget she's a total living doll. A pair of shorts reveals the creamy expanse of her thighs; she doesn't have a bra under her tank top. Your mind wanders.

"You look fine," you say, yawning, elbow to the sink's countertop.

The sound of the shower running is white noise in the background, droning away, and the door's cracked ajar so steam wafts into the hall. Sana doesn't spare you a glance, focused as she is on arranging herself back to magazine-cover perfection.

And it's not unreasonable: you've seen in her high heels and on runways, with cameras flashing, with a toned physique and carefully sculpted makeup and hair to match - but you think there's an authenticity here, the clothes she keeps in a bin above your dresser that have somehow mixed themselves in with a tube of mascara and a stick of deodorant, a set of bristled hairbrushes - the toiletry bag from her makeup case. If you were a more emotionally intelligent and honest man, perhaps you'd say something to the effect of, you look beautiful, or maybe, I'm going to miss you, you know, so if there were any big revelations that you might be having, if you might have something important you've neglected to bring up-

(Maybe it's not healthy - but you'll admit to some oddness, some habits: Sana sleeps better after she's been fucked senseless, her forehead pressing to yours; the sheets need washing more than once a week. It's a very regular development in her life and the fabric softener she prefers, the lavender and verbena, has started appearing in your cabinet; you're using that type now automatically. 

And that's not nothing. That's probably an invitation for some sort of talk. It's not - well, yeah. Anyway: no one will ever accuse you of being great at communicating.)

You wrap your hands around her waist, pushing the cotton of her shirt up, spreading your palms flat to trace her skin, feeling the tight muscles in her stomach flex and quiver - your touch skates to the valley of her cleavage and back, around her side, shoulders to collarbones and the front of her ribs, then her hipbones. She squirms a little bit; her skin pebbles where you're touching her. She's sensitive - ticklish, maybe. 

"Feels good, that," she admits, half into the sink.

And in the reflection, watching, you see her lean back, lean into you, without thought for herself; the familiarity of your touch. The easy intimacy of it.

"Well," you tease, "yeah, it's a bit of a problem for you lately."

The shower's still running. You kiss the side of her throat.

She smacks a hand down on your wrist - she's playful, though, teasing in her chide. "Get out," she says. "Unless you're getting in with me."

It's 11:34PM. You're already halfway to fucked-out; there was a particularly intense stretch, her thighs clenching and trembling on either side of you as she rode your face, hair falling and hitting her cheeks, her mouth parting open into the hottest sound you've ever heard, her shoulders arching; your palms braced tight against the soft skin of her hips, holding her just above your tongue as she whimpered please, more. She'd came on your face - like, all over - and then fell to your lap and was just so, so eager for a second helping. So you held her there, at the edge of your mattress as she took it so prettily; moaning and pleading until she'd sobbed through another and collapsed in a messy heap of satisfied flesh, slumped against you like the physical stress had stolen whatever architecture her bones had remaining. 

It's not an unusual turn of events - and now, there's the two of you. A routine; a domestic dance, almost. A morning-evening-afternoon affair.

"Nah," you say, pressing a kiss to her hairline, her jaw, the nape of her shoulder. "You could use some space, baby. Wouldn't wanna infringe."

"It'd be worth it," she says - not even flirtatious. Just blunt, honest.

You run your hand through your hair, intimate deep-in-thought.

"Oh, c'mon." Her reflection scoffs at you. "Momo doesn't call us a pair of sluts with a love story because you're the uncomplicated, mature one."

"So you did talk to her." She shoots you a glare through the glass - but no fire to it. She's relaxed in your grip, compliant. "And listen, maybe it's my character arc, honey, let me have it. I think I'm really coming into my own."

Sana flushes just a little at the pet name. There's a roll of her eyes, too. It's intentional, and you adore her for it. "Are you?" she snipes, but you're her favorite frustration and this is all just prelude; there's heat in her tone, an anticipation of wanting to be grabbed, to be slammed down into the pillows and fucked hard until her thighs can't tremble anymore. It's an indulgence in familiarity. You understand - but you don't quite give her what she's looking for.

"I hope so." You lean further, push deeper into her space. Your arms bracket her in. She's a beard-burn shy of looking completely debauched. It's tempting. "One of us has got to get their shit together, and you're obviously not taking any interest," you continue, all clandestine and shrewd and serious. Your free hand presses at her thigh. It doesn't matter which one.

Sana rolls her eyes again. "You bitch," she mumbles, shifts her weight - nudges you a bit with her elbow. She keeps you close, either way. "I'm being serious." 

You'd beg to differ, but the way she reaches her hand back into your hair and looks at your reflection is so loaded: lips plush, jaw smooth, a shadow resting across her shoulders. The honeyed quality of her hair. The rough shape of her collarbones, half-hidden beneath her loose cotton top, gray as gunmetal and baring her smooth, gorgeous shoulders. Sana is, above all, an attention-getter. It's hard not to fixate on the physicality. All parts of her - legs, ass, tits, hair, the swan's neck, the way she's just tall enough that you'd need her standing on tip-toe to kiss her, chin lifted, eyes down - that sweet little pout of a mouth - they're all an aesthetic intent; her waist has been grabbable since you've known her, and you would die to tug the ends of her hair free, ruffle the order and let them fall, a wavy-brown disaster, to her bare shoulders, frame her eyes with her eyelashes. That would make you soft, for sure. Or, anyway - more soft. As though you hadn't spent the past three months staring her down in the mornings, sneaking glances like she'd catch you at it, fixated and lust-ridden: Sana has all the elements to break you down.

You snap her waistband to make her flinch.

"You know what our problem is?" The water's still running - maybe she likes the sound of it, is trying to tune you out. "I always have to watch you for like five minutes before you kiss me," she chides, lifting her hair like she's fishing for compliments. "It's fucked up."

"A serious dilemma," you agree, without hesitation. Your thoughts are: 5'4", 120 pounds soaking wet, a perfect proclivity for being manhandled and made to feel cherished and worshipped and slutty as she needs. It's what you know of her, more or less. There are more things not on record. Things of consequence, weight. It would require context. "Truly."

"I mean, your mouth is never where it should be."

"Everyone's a critic."

Sana leans into you. Tips her head back. "Pay attention," she whispers, "be good," and lets her lips begin to part.

"Yeah?" your reflection replies, unkind.

She rolls her eyes again. Again again. There are many moments for this: the attitude, the incredulous stare, her naked body pressed to the marble walls of a bathroom she's becoming dangerously fond of - she sighs, like her heart's in it and it aches her. It's dramatic. "I'll teach you."

She spins away from the mirror and cups her hand around your mouth: another gentle touch, in contrast.

You think, all over again, of her thighs. Of the weight in her shoulders. The fine points of her wrists. She loosens the ribbon from her hair and places it on the counter. You don't know why that's so poetic. It feels like you've won something.

"Do I need to go get another condom?" you ask, dry, when your head goes south and your gaze gets low, right there - the cut of her clavicle, the way she'd probably like being handled rougher, hiked up on the bathroom counter, forced to submit like she's letting you do it.

Sana doesn't smile, but her lips twitch.

"Maybe," she says.

(You have an inkling, or two, or more.)

"Maybe you should take your clothes off before we talk logistics, huh?" she teases, and she does smile now. You laugh, despite your better judgment. "Don't look at me like that."

"I'm not looking at you like that."

"I swear," she mumbles - it's accusatory, the way she leans her weight against you. It's her signature move. "I think your new thing is just a dirty girl complex."

You stare down at her. "Oh, okay."

Her lips crease: disgusted. "Just a thought," she says. Her eyes are hooding, and it's what she does when she's letting herself slide. Her hands come down slow, so slow to your neck. You could bite her if you wanted to. There's plenty to mark, plenty of skin to bruise: she's at your mercy, and she loves it like that. She licks her lips and waits. "You're out of them, by the way. Like - the condoms. I grabbed the last one from your nightstand and - you know." She's shaking her head - something solemn about it. "No more. I'm telling you for your own benefit. So, um - yeah, that's your warning."

"My warning?" you repeat.

You take her jaw, watch her cheeks bloom pink - it's nice. Pretty. Very charming. Well, that's Sana - well, at least it fits.

"What I'm trying to say," she begins, slowly, uncharacteristically bashful, "is you could, like, do whatever you wanted, probably."

"Dirty girl," you repeat, quiet.

She blinks at you. A furrow forms, impervious, in her pretty brow.

"This isn't - I don't - listen, no one says that- they only do that shit in the movies."

You grin.

"But you're like, a guy in real life."

She swats at you.

"I can't believe I have to clarify the fact that-"

"You want me to fuck you raw," you interrupt, gently - and when Sana looks at you there's something guarded, and soft, and caught, and it's almost like-

Well, what's the word?

"I just mean I trust you," she mumbles.

You think: well, you could've led with that.

"Oh," you say, instead. "Oh - sweetheart," and then she blushes harder, but it's not because of you. She has a sudden and surprising sense of embarrassment, and you just blink at each other for a couple seconds - maybe you weren't expecting that from her, the sentimentality - and she doesn't want to apologize. "Listen-" you begin, and then cut yourself off. What is there to say? What did you just spend the better part of an evening trying to avoid mulling over?

(A fleeting, untoward notion. Some sort of unsolicited idea, illicitly tangible. As in: maybe you're both going a little insane.)

"I have a couple questions," you add, like an afterthought.

"I can't with you." Sana ducks her head, pulls on the bottom of her top. "Sorry, just," she starts, but lets the rest slip. "You don't need to make a thing of it."

"You seem - conflicted, is all." You catch her by the hip, guide her a little closer. There's a slow-simmering feeling stirring in your gut - something incessant, demanding of attention. "A little regretful. Look at me."

"I wasn't asking." She looks. It's a direct hit: she has a mean glare, one with the same capacity to bore through you, tear you limb by limb. She has the capacity for cruelty, is what you're getting at. "If you're that curious about the specifics, it was an expression of trust. Take it or leave it."

"Now you seem upset."

She arches an eyebrow: the normal one, the regular sardonic-you're-so-hot-I-hate-it eyebrow, not the sexy-sultry-dirty eyebrow.

"Five minutes," she huffs, without explanation. "Five whole minutes and I'm still not being kissed, like, why-"

Your laugh comes from somewhere in your chest; deep, surprised.

"There's no winning with you," she grumbles, but when she looks up you can already see it - it's in her eyes, she's not actually that upset. There's no stormy undertow, just the fondness lurking like a tidal wave underneath everything else. You feel the current a bit before it swallows her: there are hands tugging, winding, drawing the whole mess closer and closer. It's affection, an entire sea's worth of it, flooding and indiscernible. You can see all the stars that shimmer. It's just: her hips are so fucking grabbable, you know that already, that it's to the point of being inescapable, an absolute truth - and she wants to get off, she always wants to, but there's some greater, darker purpose to how her breath ghosts on your neck. How she blushes like it's the first time.

"I want," she breathes. It comes with intent.

(Yeah, a lot of fucking intent.)

"I know, baby," you tell her, low - and press a kiss to the juncture of her jaw, one hand lifting her top, palming her breast, the other sliding into her underwear. "You always want more," you murmur. Sana nods like a doll - you've reduced her, again, into a bundle of fussy limbs and breath and gasps, begging you to get inside her pussy. "I've got you," you coo, a bit darkly: and, well, Sana isn't wrong - it is a kind of dirty girl syndrome. At least for her. 

For you, it's more like a daily reacquaintance with your sins.

Your mouths meet, clumsy and off-kilter; Sana's tongue is heavy, languid in the wet heat of your mouth, and the kiss tastes like everything else: her hair like flowers, her makeup, the faded sweat, her cherry lip balm, the flat, glassy quality of the cum dried on her thighs, her underwear around your fist. There's a lingering scent to her sex that reminds you of how badly you wanna fuck her; your finger ghosts at her cunt and it's wet again, dripping-pink and sensitive, ready, open, a bruised thing.

"You," she breathes into your mouth, and her teeth skim your lip, "are so fucking hard." She's skated her palm down into your sweats, taken a rough hold of your cock, as though to prove something: and she's so right. She doesn't break the kiss. Her thumb smears a bit of your pre-cum over the slit, spreads it up and down your length. You're already aching-hot and throbbing for her. "Baby," she murmurs, sounding devious, feeling it, too. There's more to say, more of that floodgate left to open up:

"You're going to cum so much in me, aren't you?"

(It's rhetorical.)

You hoist her onto the counter, shove her shorts down, pull your cock out of your pants: it's just muscle memory, the way the rhythm works itself out - and if Sana was trying to push you, she's definitely succeeding.

"You should be careful what you wish for," you offer, half-nonsense, half the judicious side of an agreement. The devil on the shoulder's not exactly in the business of sticking to your promises: "I should probably pull out, you know," you go on, mindlessly - but she's got her arms around your neck, is rolling her hips impatient and insistent like the conversation isn't even important enough for her to properly listen to.

"Gonna cum on all over me instead?" she asks, too quiet. "Is that the plan?"

And it's the least combative you've heard her be in a hot minute. You slicken your fingers with her cum and rub your digits along the flushed, throbbing surface of her clit: the only way you know to deal with her filthy mouth.

"Right on my tummy, or all over my chest," she goes on, heedless, dragging her fingertips over her shirt like you need a demonstration. She's just spewing bullshit for the thrill of it. The grin accompanying that is sly, cheeky, like her whole self; she rubs her nose against yours. 

You gather her panties and let them ball up in your palm.

"Maybe a mess all over my ass?"

"Oh, definitely," you sigh, finally, and work her apart as the kisses fall out of line.

She looks up at you from beneath long, delicate lashes, fluttering like she knows the effect it's having on you: it's un-fucking-fair, the way she uses it, wields it like the weapon it is. A sigh slips from her, ragged, fucked: she's bracing herself, chasing the tip of your cock, leaning into the nudge. "Maybe you can push me onto my knees, shove your dick down my throat and gag me with it until I swallow every drop, yeah?"

"Sana," is your reply. "Of course." It's the conscientious, mature, adult thing to do.

She's batting her eyelashes. You should do something about it, maybe: you line your cock up against her entrance, holding steady, and slap your hand on the smooth expanse of her right thigh. "Spread," you snap at her, and then grin back. 

Her face scrunches: genuine exasperation, tight cunt, real feeling.

She huffs, opens her thighs wider, gives herself up to you - and that's another victory. Her fingers reach up and dance against the scruff on your jaw like it's a fond curiosity. You watch her search your face for affirmation like it'll fix everything. There's not much to do but to slip your arms around the waist, let her wrists cross over your shoulders like she needs the anchor to survive.

"So pull out then, mister-good-ideas-at-work," she taunts, nosing at your throat, the underside of your jaw, up to your ear: "Show me, if it's so easy."

You can barely breathe, it's so tense; the way she teases the shape of it, her cunt slick and open against you. She'll stretch like she was tailored for the fit, easy and familiar, taking, taking, taking - she's always such an angel, but she's halfway in hell already, legs spread out, slick pussy lips bumping against the blunt head of your cock, so wide, so vulnerable.

"Sana," you hear yourself say, voice like sandpaper, throat drying. Her smile twists her features to something more-knowing, all full-lipped and curving at the corners - she's a little more practiced in sinning, knows the game better. It's an act and it isn't, all at once.

"C'mon, I need it," she drawls, but the soft little plea comes back: "please."

Your hand drops from her mouth, smoothing over her chin, down the swell of her breasts, her ribs. You slip your cock inside her and can see the exact moment her face blanches - it's so sweet, so sharp: her eyes widen and her jaw goes slack, lips falling open as her brow furrows. She's so wet around you, taking you, swallowing up every inch like it's no work at all, her perfect pussy clenching just as it hits the base: like it's muscle memory, like she's been molding herself for it, opening for you. The very thought makes you want to fuck her even deeper: you tighten your hand at her hip, drag yourself out of the slick squeeze of her cunt.

"Oh," Sana breathes out, eyes half-lidded. "Holy- oh, you're-"

Your cock sinks deeper. The word gets lost in her moan; a crease forms on the bridge of her nose, between her brows, and she presses her fingers to your nape, clutching at the skin like she's unsure of the support. One of her palms strokes across your cheek: a wonder, a mercy, a favor, all of it. You'll ruin her, just like she wants, just like you promised. You're sure of it.

You have to fight the urge to ask if she's okay, because you know what kind of face she'd make: exasperated, disappointed, incredulous. Instead you snap your hips and drive yourself inside of her again.

All her thoughts and her confidence - the casual faux-command, the playful, arrogant tilt in the turn of her words - unspools, dissolves, crumples in her eyes, collapsing to dust around you: she can't even choke out her filthy demands, let alone the sugar-soaked slights and slander that came first. The innuendos, the bullshit, all those deliciously-subtle negotiations. She blinks, and the second you slide a couple inches back in and in and in, her eyes flicker shut and you both exhale into the same breath: an oh-my-fuck-Sana, and the answering whimper-moan that falls so effortlessly out of her mouth. Your palm burns against her hip bone, sinking deep, trying to press her tight against your cock, skin-to-skin and full-to-the-brim.

"How," Sana gasps out, sounding delirious, out-of-it, her brain rattled by nothing more than the full, perfect fit of your cock inside her. Her fingers lock behind your head, pulling you even closer. She gasps against your mouth, "-how does it- fuck, oh my god, fuck-"

You see what she's getting at.

There's nothing separating you, and it feels - well, her pussy is unbelievable. The realization is hitting you harder with each glide you sink inside her; just like everything else with Sana - charged, thrilling, slightly inappropriate and hotter for it.

And you'd tell her if you had the words - how fucking good she feels, the grip around your shaft as you hilt inside her, the exact feel, taste, texture of Sana's perfect, pretty, slick-squeezing cunt. Oh, you're slaking a kind thirst here they write stories about, the kind you die for: it'll never be sated, you'll always be seeking, and the deeper you go the further you drown.

"Yeah," is all you can say. "Fuck." The only explanation.

Her voice goes tighter with each stroke, her legs wrapping around your waist like rope. You're touching everything of Sana that can be touched: you kiss her hair, suck marks into her collarbone, cup her face and force her eyelashes open; you fill her up so deep you can feel her throat tremble when your name just brushes the roof of her mouth.

Oh, it's rough, messy, somehow incandescent; you're pounding her right there on the counter, against the sink. The showerhead's hissing just loud enough for you to miss the string of expletives you know she'd be spitting, the half-bitten curses. She keeps her ankles hooked like she's afraid you'll fall, afraid that you'd slip out of her, leave her empty, unoccupied, unfulfilled, wanting. 

"Fuck, baby," you hear, feel against you: her lips are near your ear. She shivers. "If I knew," a pause as Sana swallows, her hair clinging damply to her forehead. "If I knew- felt this good- you're going to- your fucking cock, I swear, ohmygod, I swear-"

You press your mouth right at her temple, harshening the rhythm and loving the way her fingernails dig hard, bright crescents into the skin of your back; there'll be marks there tomorrow, the perfect imprints of her grasping, coming apart, holding on. 

"God, Sana," you mutter, almost desperate. It's such a fucking disaster. She's wet on your skin, soaking everywhere. It's so fucking hot.

You want her cumming on your cock; you want her on her back, knees up, shaking; you want her a sweat-shining mess, breathless and glassy-eyed. You'd worship her body if you didn't have your hands clenching her ass so you could push her (one, two, three, four) times (five) against the tile, (six) against your skin.

It's more imperative than religion, really.

Three months later and you suppose there's been a lot of perfect, sopping-wet, begging-and-creaming, broken-off, rough-thrusting, sinful fucking, and sometimes it's in her apartment or in the backseat of her car or in your fucking kitchen, her braced up against the island countertop with her legs spread and you railing her in her pajamas. Sometimes it's when Sana whimpers in this awful way when she's kissing you, pressing a soft, barely audible "ruin me," into your mouth - it's then when she gets really, truly fucking filthy: you're actually going to fucking cum inside her, sobbing and stupid, if she doesn't fucking knock it off. If this doesn't just kill you both - and that's how it'll go: her legs locked so tight around your waist, hands white-knuckled around your shoulders, face-to-face and with the base of her cunt kissing your cock so sweetly.

Sana makes a weak, overwhelmed noise, like the same thought's gotten the best of her, too.

"My pussy," she says in this high, thin whisper. "It needs you. Like I fucking - oh, fuck - like I think I was made for your cock." Her words have gotten little manic, voice edging at hysterical: "It's a perfect fit. Just feels fucking-" A whine pitches in her throat and she grinds her clit against your lower stomach, her abs quivering like she's had three cups of coffee. 

You thrust once - no, you really, truly fuck her: you snap in and in and in - you hold her fast to the sink basin and bury your cock all the way to her deepest point, to where Sana clenches and her muscles ripple around you.

She's always so sensitive. Like in a smearing-lipstick, fucked-through-half-a-box-of-tissues, you-absolute-angel kind of way. 

But there's no tease, no falsified modesty to it - none of the push-and-pull from either of you; your expressions are blissed-out, stuck in awe, in reverence. Jaws dropped and punching out each hard, deep fuck into her, gasping for air. "Oh my god," she's saying, head lolling like there's no rigidity left to her spine, nails digging into the hard muscle of your back. She's saying other shit - and you're talking, too, talking a bit: it's the kind of delirium that strips language to the bone. "Holy fuck- I know- Yeah. Fuck, I know."

The nodding is excessive - but in your shared defense, so is the sensation of fucking each other raw. Who the fuck coulda guessed?

She's hot and tight and god-blessedly gorgeous - and you tell her that. From the first time you watched her stretch a condom over your cock, roll it down with her palm, and felt her pussy sink onto you inch by inch and the pressure was immediate and aching - "It feels so fucking good," she'd been saying - to the fifth, to the fiftieth. To her draining you dry, her moans winding you up and around her finger - even that first time in a filthy, nasty, cramped bathroom stall, drunk as all fuck, and then the next morning. "More, more, more," and now, too, all: "It's everything, please, fuck, keep going," all the other times where your tongues have turned to satin, curling into the place of your own destruction, where the warmth is licking out all sense. 

In the worst of moments, in the best - she's clung to you, body arched up, hips up, heels dug into you so hard you might be bruised under her.

All her moans are punched-out, high-pitched, shuddering with her exhales.

It's everything: "Don't stop." 

And that's really how the last shred of coherency slips past, disappears down the drain: her voice twists as you graze the spot inside her you want her to cry at, and you sink into a pleasure so intense, a release so in-tune, it's like it'd only be complete after you both sank to hell.

"Such a good girl," you kiss into her skin, sinking your fingers into the round fullness of her butt, spreading her apart so she knows, even better, exactly where her cunt ends and your cock begins. "The prettiest fucking girl; your fucking pussy is so tight; hot and soaking wet for me." Your voice sounds worse with each dirty little nothing: you've both been babbling for a while. Maybe ten seconds. Maybe since the beginning. "I think I could fuck you forever."

"Cocksleeve," she agrees, and tips her chin to the ceiling, blinking hard at nothing, trying not to lose it, but maybe also, in the same sense: "Literally could just - be my cunt. For the rest of time. Cocksleeve."

"Gorgeous," is what comes next out of your mouth; and, in some warped parallel to the truth, "All mine."

For her, too, really: she likes being tossed around, told how much you need to breed her, how slutty she is - but then you watch how her brain fries with the softer, sweeter stuff. Oh, you're making love to the thoughts she keeps trapped under a box in the back of her head, and all the things she'll only dare admit to under dim lamplight; when she thinks she can disguise how they might come across as anything at all besides absolutely fucking tragic. 

You could bottle her tears for how sentimental this shit is - well, you could do that anyway - the whole messy situation. You say her name once and she whimpers out your own. That's the state of affairs. Just one look at her face is all you need. It's an instant trigger, it's how the electricity rushes and buzzes through the wires.

"You're stunning," you say, totally earnest.

And the heat goes straight to her guts.

It's the transparency of it all, or the bordering bratty-tilt to it, or something, you're not a therapist - it's just what sends Sana toppling, fluttering like a heartbeat as her hips stutter into your own, legs spasming, pussy clenching - and right on the heel of that, with a strangled: "So fucking good to me, I swear, please-"

The moan barely passes the boundary of her lips as it breaks like dawn over her body, sending her spine arcing, chest heaving. It's a kettle-whistle pitch and you think your neighbors are sick of the screams, the late-night-to-early-morning, pounding rhythm against the thin walls, the laughter, the headboard beating like a drum. And they would have to be blind, to not look at her and see a sin they want to taste, too - she's divine like this, moans broken-off and falling into each other, a slur, a blur, her tits bouncing under the flimsy tank, rising higher with each stroke - the fat, firm weight of them; and this is when you know she's going to cum on your cock, the way her muscles go loose, pliant, willing, relaxed - it's all an afterglow in the waiting, she's wriggling into her death, in anticipation, arching up to meet you.

When you pull your hand out from under her ass to grab a fistful of her shirt, right at the center and pulling up to keep her back arched off the counter, her breasts spill from the loosened material and up, and up - they bounce higher, tighter; you're pounding her sopping-wet pussy harder than you have any right to.

There is no heaven to compare. 

You'll tell her, if you'll survive the sight of it: Sana is an absolute fucking wreck. Her jaw is slack, her lipstick has long smeared to obscurity and she is a vision in the sexiest, sluttiest sense. She is the kind of fucked that's worth staying dead for. Worth taking last breaths to witness, dying to witness. 

And, the moment her lips graze yours: your insides crackle and smolder.

Her hand hits the counter, knocking whatever's next to you onto the tile - the clatter would've been distracting, but you're balls-deep and you think it'd break her if you hit it any rougher-

"Ruin me," Sana pants into your mouth, barely audible. "Fucking ruin me, please, ruin me-"

"Sana," you manage through the hot clench of her around you, the near-painful crush of her arms tight at your waist.

"Need your cum," is what she sounds like. "Like fuck, do you feel that?" She's breathing into your ear. "God, fuck, your cock is right against my tummy, right here," she mewls, one slender hand slipping down to tap a knuckle right below her belly-button, "can feel it pressing up against me," and your mind's gone off, racing down every back-alley, all the old dirt-road streets: "You'd cum right up my little womb. You could. If you wanted, you could breed me up - pump me full, fuck me full. Give me- just - give me everything," and she has no idea - no idea what she's saying, what she's doing, how hard it is to think around a girl with such a perfect, pretty, slick-squeezing cunt-

"Sana," is all you can manage, warning and plea in one. "Careful." It's stupid: you have half a foot on her, outweighing her by more than the other direction, and yet Sana makes you weak. You're like clay for her to mold, bending beneath her fingertips and falling straight through, like the word please: a request. You don't know how she has you all figured out. It's no fun this way.

"Or else what?" Sana smirks, winning. "Gonna get me pregnant?"

You swear you see stars, that it's going to end embarrassingly fast for you, and the thought of you hilting right into Sana's tight cunt, knocking up against her insides, breeding her like your stupid fucking cock knows it wants, that's so, so fucking filthy - no, no, fuck no: that's not what this is, this is supposed to be innocuous, or some approximation of it - you're gonna put her on her knees, cum on her face, fuck a load across her tits, in the bowl of her cupped palms and watch her lap it up and lick clean her long fingers, maybe push the whole, aching head of your cock between the lips of her plush, pink, sweet-as-can-be mouth. Send the load directly down her throat, tugging those gorgeous tresses while her brown, liquid eyes peer up at you. A mess: a sopping, fucked-out, splayed-out, mess.

"Filthy fucking mouth," you deflect, because you can't keep on track with how pretty Sana's perfect cunt's clutching you like a fucking fist, her tiny frame somehow matching you, thrust for thrust.

"What about it," and Sana isn't even flinching.

"Gonna cum in it," you snap, a growl, and it's supposed to be a threat, but then it hits - right at the crease between her torso and legs, your favorite place to pound into her; you're fucking her like a toy, treating her like the easiest little hole you've ever had your hands on, and you'd never pull out, you'd never give this up and Sana knows it, too - you have to make sure to take the base of your cock and work your cum deeper into the bowels of her perfect, hot cunt.

"Yeah?" she hums resplendently.

Somehow, fucked-out and blissful, soaking your cock as you split her open, there's a note of tease in her voice - and an echo in the swell of her womb, clenching, just as willing; Sana's a genius, so she must have found all this shit out already - but it's the type of thing you have to admit, privately and to yourself, through gritted teeth, not within hearing-distance of a girl whose smile could undo every thread in the fabric of time: it's kind of really, ridiculously hot.

"Can you promise?"

"Yeah," you choke.

"Go on," breathes Sana, a dare and a request in one. "Love hearing you say it."

"On your knees," you try to swallow, "gonna pump your cute little throat full," you groan, a man unmade, "gonna have to fuck you like this again, baby. I'm going to make you-"

Make her what: a mother? A whore? A wife, a baby, something she'll be afraid to call out loud, but will say anyway-

"Yours," and that's Sana, fucking the thought out of your head, "so you could use me up, so you'd make me take it, give me everything - cum, cum in me, I need it- please," her voice climbing, crescendoing, "Cum in me," a broken record, all instinct. Sana and her tight, creamy little pussy, you pumping full, you flooding her insides and spilling out, the messier the better - it's how she gets off, her voice wavering until you can feel the shivering, the shaking, the quivering; that perfect moment of collapse, where you're there with her, just the same.

There's a certain kind of pure, self-destructive stupidity in trying to rationalize it, you know, but that's the fucked-up part.

"Oh," she breathes, deep and deliriously hot, and it's an aftershock of its own. 

There's no reasoning with how badly you're pounding into her, fucking your cum as deep as it'll go, letting her soft curves rut against your body, to meet her rhythm in turn, to fill her up to the brim and then just a bit over.

"Oh, I can feel it," and Sana sounds like you've done the unthinkable: as if you'd broken a prayer, a hymn, the key to heaven held beneath the wetness, the heat, the fluttering pulse, the tightness, the sex, this body of yours. Like she could die. Like she should die. "That's - oh, oh - your cum's filling up my pussy," and it doesn't register that she shouldn't say it, and you should be telling her to shut the fuck up, but it just doesn't cross your mind at all: "Oh, God. You're - it's so hot inside of me, can - feel it," and it's all true.

There's nothing like it, her silken, creamy, slushy warmth surrounding your softening cock, the way you fit so easily against her.

"I told you," is the first thing out of her gorgeous, swollen mouth. Her lips brush your jaw, your neck. Sana's breath tickles, light on your skin. "No shot you were pulling out."

"Shut up," is the best you've got - it makes her laugh, eyes creasing, throaty and sweet; oh, there's that quintessential Minatozaki charm. 

-

(That's it: she has your number; you watch her smile, watch the way her legs shake when you slip out of her, watch her warm brown eyes flit upwards. You can't let her leave. And she knows.

Sana's fingers graze the curves of your cheeks as she holds your lip between hers, tongue tasting, teasing. A long beat before she releases you, and her smile spreads over the line of your face, slow and steady, like a sunrise. She's impossibly gentle, all silk and sweetness. Unthinkingly soft as her palm smooths your hair out of your eyes - her skin on your skin. Sana's eyes are dreamy like this. The radiant gleam in her irises clashes with the moonlight on her lashes.

She's glitter, gold.)

-

The pharmacy. The one by your apartment that's open a little after 1 am on a Saturday.

And this should be your cue: walk on by, look forward, straight ahead. 

Walk, like you have somewhere to be. Toss some distractions into the basket, drain cleaner, detergent, a fifth, new, foreign bottle of conditioner; maybe some light beer, too, to fit the stereotype, to balance things out.

You tell yourself you have no place here, amidst boxes of birth control pills, gels and patches and syringes and capsules of every single kind. Don't dawdle - don't linger.

Sana's milling the aisles in pursuit of candy, or a bag of those heinous fucking Takis, probably. A bottle of gatorade, realistically; she likes the blue one, says it tastes like putting your tongue to a nine-volt. What an eloquent princess, you think, and find it hard to hide the smile, the simpering stupidity, the tenderness.

She's someone you text about shitty things, who complains to you about her coffee stuck in the vending machine, Mina's ongoing billionaire-affair and Nayeon's chattering over some boy she likes from way back when. Someone whose high ponytail can be found above a pair of comically large glasses, a paperback novel pressed between the bend in her arm and her ribs (bitch, of course there is, she'd said when you'd asked, there's smut in everything these days); whose laugh, tinkling and lilting and silver-bright, has no right to sound as rich or as deep or as richly deep as it does. 

Someone who looked in your eyes and found it - that gaping hollowness, a vacancy in the marrow - and who laughed at that, too. She makes it worse. You might actually love her.

"You're like, really nervous," she tells you, not asking.

"Well," and that's when the wall between your mouth and your brain finally collapses: it all rushes through; no air left in the room. "Maybe I'm a fucking idiot."

"I've actually always known this." Sana looks at you, half a smirk. It's almost impossible to imagine the last time you were anything else. "But, like, aren't all men, really?"

"Yeah, yeah. A genius observation." You run a hand through your hair; her smile blooms wider.

"If you insist," and Sana tosses her head, exaggerated, before dumping a shit ton of Twizzlers into the cart. "They're for Tzuyu," she explains. "She's been fucked by her publicist more times this week than she's had hot meals."

"Y'know I actually caught wind of that," you say, moving one step forward in line. "It was neck and neck until she skipped a lunch. Although I don't think those count as like, substantial nutrition. It doesn't negate the other thing."

"Fuck, you're probably right. Gummy bears next time, then."

"Right. Better, slightly."

"That's the spirit," and she peels away, leaving you with her smoky sarcasm - a hand on your bicep as she saunters off to the parking lot. "Also: get some of the good Tylenol from behind the counter. You fucked my brains out and I think I'm coming down with a concussion."

"Jesus christ," you groan. "Again with the outdoor-voice, Sana."

She flashes you her megawatt-grin, flips you off, and the whole transaction at the register is over before you've made sense of it. It's an opportunity for some perspective, a chance to decide you've got it wrong. You should walk home, Sana should ask for a ride, or an Uber - neither of you should need a night-time pharmacy. You could change it if you tried. It's almost absurdly simple, but the way she takes your hand on the walk home is so soft. She's so close: her profile is elegant, poised in the streetlamp's sick, sulfur glow. 

You turn the key. There's her laughter again, echoing like windchimes through the city.

And, fuck. It's going to be harder to forget this than you think.

-

"The internet says it's best to use within twenty-four hours," is all Sana says about it. The tablet's small and green. She hands the plastic bottle to you to check it. Her hair's fallen over her shoulders like ribbons, soft as her eyes. "And the way Momo described it," she explains, almost playfully, "if I wait to take this tomorrow, I think we'd get an excuse to fool around some more."

The look she gives you then is somehow uncharged, despite the suggestion, and she has that habit, when she's laughing or when she's moaning, of chewing on the inside of her lip. She's sitting on top of your breakfast table and looking like starlight. She uncrosses her legs, tips her head.

"What do you think?" and it's everything, a complex trap in four syllables. She's caught you well and squarely. "Do we have a reason?"

"Hm," you say. Sana crosses her legs the other way.

"It's bona fide," she says, teasing you a little, running a finger along the tabletop, her eyes flicking up. She's impossible. It's terrible. "You can creampie me over and over. Can fill up every inch of my pussy - fill my guts right up, and breed me good."

"Huh." It's all you have left to deflect with, when she's laid it all out like that. "That's not what bona fide means, by the way."

Sana lifts a hand, cocks her head. "Means you can do whatever you want." She clicks her tongue, scandalized. There's not much point in refusing, and not even a chance.

"Carte blanche might be what you're after," you offer.

Her laugh is a little breathless, annoyed. "Yeah," and it's like she's flushing pink. "That's what I said. Are you gonna ask me if I know what creampie means too, smartass?"

"Princess," you say, grinning a little, setting the plastic down beside her. You're pretty sure it's rhetorical anyway. "If you read even another sentence from one of Momo's incognito tabs, you'd end up drooling on my sheets." You keep her gaze, eyes locked - well, at least one of you's taking this seriously, you think, as the corners of your lips curve, unbidden - fuck, she's always making you smile.

"Does this mean you're into me, or something?" You tilt your head, pretend to consider. Sana makes a show of scowling. "Or do you just have a thing for being a cumslut," you gesture vaguely, "like, generically?"

Sana leans in and kisses the underside of your chin.

Quick, easy; she snaps back into place like you'd somehow never notice. "A little of both," she says, as breezy as possible. "I'm surprised you're ruling out me taking pity on you." Her eyes have all the mirth you'd expect, and the warmth - the fondness. She looks up at you, and her smile's not as bright or sharp as it used to be. She just seems happy. "Wishful thinking, but whatever."

-

And maybe Sana's on to something: wishful thinking - but, then again, maybe you're getting close to the part where you've both got it all so, so wrong. You'll have to figure things out from there. Either way, you're at a place where you're genuinely taking medical advice from Hirai Momo.

So, it is what it is.

-

You don't exactly talk about it. Which is to say neither of you ever bring up how this whole arrangement came to be.

Because it's not romance, it's not sweet, it's not soft or sentimental - it's not even halfway serious: the way everything unfolds haphazardly and with no real, defined idea of what you're getting yourself into, other than a precautionary 'hey, we're not gonna know each other' rule that got broken almost instantly is all that you can divulge, for now. There's all these complexities, layered and tangled and difficult. It's all-consuming. It's an emotional quagmire. It's the kind of thing that'll take years to unpack, the kind that'll never really have an actual explanation; a mistake, probably, you think, one worth repeating, definitely.

"Look. You're leaking out of me," she murmurs from against your pillows, thighs parting - you glance at her cunt, exposed by her twisted panties, and sorta get stuck there. Sana laughs. "Wow," she says, watching you with that wide-open smile of hers, dark hair splayed across the pillows. "Your obsession's worse than I thought."

She's leaving town in the afternoon, so it's been this lazy, lingering fuck all morning, just to pass the time.

You're working from home in the most metaphorical way possible - taking advantage of the daylight streaming in the windows, playing with her hair, fucking her on and off until you get tired of having a mess of a stranger in your apartment. Right. That's the explanation you'll give, when anyone asks. It's a miracle you've slept at all - but then again, Sana gets blissfully and completely tuckered out, turns into putty in your arms, and this is the most dangerous thing of all, the sultry, doe-eyed beauty of her slack mouth in the dark. 

You fell asleep together the first time you shared a bed and now never seem to wake up on your own anymore.

She's lax on your mattress, and the blanket's riding low on her thighs, revealing the slopes of her perfect ass. Her little cunt's gaping. Leaking cum. There is no denying it. You think the devil would look a lot like this.

You place your reading glasses delicately on the nightstand, pretend you haven't heard her - or the squelch of her fucked out cunt as she slides a finger down, down, down-

"Oh. Am I distracting you?"

"You have a breeding kink," you say, once she's on a second bottle of water, when her skin's less flushed. You're rubbing between her shoulder blades - she's glowing in your sheets like she belongs there, all white satin and innocence, even with the sweat matted at the ends of her hair.

"Probably," sighs Sana, eyelashes fluttering. "Do I?"

"Definitely," you say, amused.

"Maybe," hums Sana, sounding winded still. You dig your fingers into the nape of her neck, and the next sound out of her mouth is not entirely uncontrolled. You have a point; you're both thinking it. You're just not going to make it. "What's your excuse?"

"Excuse?"

You're not asking her to clarify the question, you're simply buying time to scramble for an answer. Because- "I have no excuse." You shrug. "Just - biology." She rolls her eyes at the apparent insufficiency. "Something about filling up this perfect little body and ruining your whole" - you make a gesture toward her - "pristine-ness."

"Ah, there we go." Sana sits up, the sun casting golden streaks over the angles of her back as she goes. 

She stretches like it's an accident, reaches for the hair-tie on the nightstand, and it doesn't matter if you see her do it. "Well." She combs back her damp curls, piling it in an errant bun with practiced ease. It looks good. It's hot, actually. Your cock's still sensitive - but, well, so is Sana's everything. "We're fucked in the head. We get it out of our systems."

"Speak for yourself," you say. She raises a pointed, unmistakably Sana-ish brow. "I'm well-adjusted," you insist. "No baggage."

You watch her go through a moment of disbelief, trying to find some leeway before she snorts. She's climbing on top of you, apparently. Theoretically, you've been keeping an eye on the clock - counting down the minutes before she has to be checking bags and folding up a boarding pass into her purse - first class, because the company believes luxury begets beauty. You'd argue she was both regardless, but-

"That," she says, very matter-of-fact, and settles down so the curve of her ass is over your thigh. It's light pressure. Barely. "Is bullshit."

"I thought that's what you wanted, Ms. Corporate-wunderkind. A therapist type."

"Shut the fuck up." She smacks your chest, too hard to be playful, but a beat later and her hand's snaked back behind her, palm curved over your cock with a promise that makes the rest of the world seem sort of dull.

You shift beneath her, involuntary. Let your hands trail to the warm hollow of her hips, brushing your thumbs over the pink blush marks that blossom on her skin when you touch her for too long.

"Wanting, wanting," she muses, with a strangely alluring sense of casualness, "you've got one track mind - ah - don't even try to hide it." You're more interested in her fingers dragging over your tip, the graceful knuckles that go rigid as she finds your cockhead grazing over the pad of her palm. "For all you know I'll fuck another guy," she says, in a matter-of-fact, it doesn't matter anyway type tone. "Or, god, a dozen."

"Please." Your incredulity and chagrin slip out in equal measure. "Have pity."

Sana cocks her head, intrigued, and takes ahold of the base of your dick.

"No," she decides, "can't say that I can."

There's the stretch, the press. She sinks onto you with no resistance; she's all velvety and wet and you know you were the one who'd gotten her that way. You hiss - so does she. Then it's just quiet again, except for Sana shifting above you, her long legs tangling with yours, the heels of her palms pinning your thighs down to the mattress behind her. She gives a languid little swivel.

"Do you remember," you hear Sana saying, very dreamily, and that's what makes you think perhaps it isn't a serious inquiry and that your input isn't required. She goes, "there was that last day of scheduled rehearsals, that we had before the long winter break. And we got through the numbers in four hours, maybe? Tons of time to kill, and there was nowhere for me to be."

"You came over to my place," you mumble, a vague, wordless reminder of your role.

"Right." Another shift; you're still sensitive as fuck but Sana's weight feels good in your lap and the view of her tits is objectively excellent. "And I took a shower."

"Sure."

She squeezes and rises in tandem, sighing blissfully.

You sit up slightly, support yourself on one elbow and watch yourself disappear, reappear in the wet slit of Sana's pussy. "For a really long time."

"Like an hour," agrees Sana, almost humming, and snaps her hips forward. The jolt forces a groan out of you. She tilts her head up as she does it again, eyelashes fanned, and the reverberation of her movements shakes loose that damned piece of hair clinging to the arch of her temple. You watch a thin stripe of cum leaking out of her, too; that'd been inside her an hour ago. Maybe less. She's fucking you like it doesn't bother her, like she'll never grow tired.

She pulls at the long lock of her hair, seems to examine it contemplatively. She's so perfectly content in her self-aware, blasé, cat-like smugness, purring and untouchable and arching back. Then she says, "That was because I was fantasizing about getting filled with so much cum that I just started running down your shampoo bottle - that's, like, the ultimate breeding fantasy for me, honestly."

"What about that one time," you say, as though unhinged, as though half-conscious, as though every word has the consistency of molasses and there's a bright pulse of blood flooding your brain and rushing out your cock, "when we snuck out to the parking lot, and I made you sit on the hood of my car-"

"Shh, not the same," dismisses Sana, leaning into you, and you hold her there, lock your fingers into the swell of her ass to steady the desperate throbbing inside her pussy. Her tongue darts to the corner of her mouth, but her head lolls to the side, the gauzy curtain of her hair swaying at her waist.

"But," she concedes, an exhale, "that was good, yeah."

"You came really fast - like, so fast," you insist, thrusting up to the sound of her small groan. Her body, all lush skin and ample, unresisting curves, is flushed and gleaming. There's so much of her to take in: the inky fan of her lashes, the ridge of her ribs, the way her breasts hang heavy as she moves. This kind of debauched view feels exclusive, as if reserved just for you. "Remember that?"

"Did I?" She blinks owlishly.

"I'm remembering it for you." Your palm is heavy on her ass; it's what keeps you grounded, lets you get leverage. "What were you thinking about then?"

She bares her teeth in an indecent grin, tugs on the corner of her lip, as if reveling in the memory.

You watch her mouth open, close again.

It clicks: "Right," she answers, finally, and rides you all the harder. "Errant thought, but." She climbs up onto her feet, knees swung wide, her tiny soles balanced perilously atop the duvet - it's all slippery friction and she's so light you could flip her right over. It's all at your discretion. You lean up further. Your arm braces her back, low and hot. "Was imagining how you'd feel in my ass," Sana continues, carelessly, matter-of-fact, as if discussing dinner plans or a movie rental, and you don't expect a laugh from your lungs, but it comes out harshly, all surprise and hot delight, like a confession.

"This was a few years ago," Sana says.

She lifts off, teases your cockhead with the shallowest grip. Watches all the lines in your face start to wobble, and then sinks back down, all the way, burying your cock in her pussy again. Her lips move, you bottom out, you know she's going to ruin your next orgasm like that.

"Someone online posted some bullshit comment about me being - quote-unquote - easy," she tells you, turning her head to the side, to the window. You know the expression on her face: her mouth curved, eyes dark and so, so full of that amused contempt. "Just this thing that you see on the internet all the time. Everyone just doing the same thing - said I probably love it in the ass and - yeah. Can't recall. Fucked off right away."

"Really stuck with you, huh?" Your hips snap, and you swallow hard. "Brought that - image. Up. Didn't it."

"Guess it kind of did."

"Uh-huh."

She licks her lips. "I'd heard worse," she says, and hums, low.

Your grip on her back, her waist, her hip - they're steel-tight. "Felt like someone had put it in my head," Sana remarks, dreamily, then raises an eyebrow. "So y'know. Had a thought and let it take me there. Only made sense. Let myself. Daydream a little, take a long shower," and her smile goes lopsided, her eyes drift, "breathe hard against the bathroom tile, take two of my own fingers up there-"

And she drops, sinks, the lewd, sloshing sound of it resonant; your hands pull her to you by the roots of her hair and she gasps, heaves a small, faltering breath. She's so fucking wet.

"Baby," you groan, completely flat. "I'm gonna cum in you."

"Yeah." Sana looks like she's miles away. She could be. "I know."

She brushes the hair out of your face, holds her nose to your cheek, starts riding you fast, faster - and you do.

-

This is where the story actually starts - which, in retrospect, is kind of ironic, because everything was technically pre-written, already preordained:

You're in an airport, arriving late and harried, your hair a mess, Sana's luggage slipping from your shoulders. It's snowing biblically outside, the pavement frosted and dangerously slick with ice. The precipitation heavy and thick and white enough to obscure vision. You keep checking your phone, checking your texts, trying to stay grounded even though the forecasters specifically said the skies would clear by sundown.

Flying conditions: sub-optimal - but only barely. 

You think serendipity could be something of an old friend to the two of you - if only the pantheon of weather-adjacent gods didn't seem to like her just a little more.

She's calm and unruffled and preposterously cool, with one hand slipped into her coat pocket, her face tipped towards the window so she can survey the falling snow. She looks the part of the chic world-traveller, clad in leather gloves and a tweed peacoat, the collar popped high and stern.

In contrast, you feel like the embodiment of frazzled, clutching anxiously at the handle of her suitcase and turning frantically to ask her which direction to head in; you're not her manager, you didn't plan her flight, didn't schedule any car services for the ride to her hotel. In a few odd hours she'll be on a different continent, standing in a different hemisphere, and you don't really know what to do with your hands.

"When am I gonna see you again?" she asks, pointedly sidestepping all forms of goodbye, bypassing any polite small-talk about the state of the storm. 

She's done up in semi-dramatic makeup, a pair of gold earrings swinging when she tilts her head, fixes the edge of her fringe with her fingers: you watch her catch herself, relax - like a true work of art, you suppose, nothing to imply a separation.

There's the duality, you guess. You're looking at a profundity in motion.

And there will be a thousand cameras in her face when she touches down, vying for attention, swivelling and clicking, seeking shots that are just perfect enough - the internet is rabid and frothing at the mouth for a glimpse, some semblance of truth to satiate the rumor-mongers and their constant dissections of the arch of her spine, in the sway of her walk. She's got knee-high socks on and the fashion mags will be desperate to tear her apart at the seams, claim a sliver of all that profundity - they'll never know it's less of an aesthetic decision and more just a stopgap for the thumbprints blooming yellow-bruised in the curves of her calves.

Sana's watching you watch her; expectantly, eyes shining, big enough to fall into.

"Soon," you say, like you have a choice, and hope it sounds like reassurance, not resignation. "Hopefully soon." 

She lifts her carry-on to one shoulder, smiles.

The lens you have is quieter, subtler - that's all.

-

(You can feel Sana turn to look from the terminal, paused, hovering, her jaw catching on her silhouette; and she waits until you're gone before she strides confidently to the desk, brandishing documents and asking sweetly, charmingly, for the check-in. Her walk slows, stutter-stops. Her posture straightens.

She brushes back her hair and keeps going.)

-

"You better not be romanticizing your melancholic solitude," Momo says later, with a tray of food in her hands.

It's the next day - same time, probably - you'd gotten back from the airport, hailed a cab and stewed in something like self-reflection before deciding you'd bury yourself in your work. You've been letting Sana distract you too much recently - not that you particularly mind it - but if she's not here to drag you into a conference room and drop to her knees, you might as well start making some progress elsewhere.

You roll your pen around your fingers. "What exactly do you think I'm gonna get up to? Staying up until midnight writing shitty poetry and getting blackout drunk?" Momo snorts. "She'll be gone for two weeks, Momo, not ten years. I think I'm gonna manage okay."

"Don't go punching through glass windows just yet, buddy. It's been twenty-four hours, that's nowhere near enough time for your brain to bathe itself in all the wrong chemicals yet." She plops a bowl of instant udon down in front of you. You realize suddenly you haven't eaten in - well, quite some time. 

She wrinkles her nose. "God. So morose."

When you glance up, Momo's regarding you with one fist balled tight to her hip. You stare back at her. Her shirt is doing absolutely nothing to contain the top-half of her chest and your coworkers keep passing and rubbernecking. You get it. Her lanyard just goes right through the center of her cleavage; you sorta squint.

Some things never change.

"Um," she says, mock-scandalized. "Can you not?"

You lean back in your seat. "That was totally professional. I looked right at you."

"Yeah, like I'm a specimen." Momo pulls out the chair next to yours and takes a seat.

"I mean, you kind of are," you deadpan.

Momo chortles, pointing her chopsticks at you. "That was almost flattering, thank you." She slurps up the first noodle. "If you're nice to me, I won't tell Sana you're flirting with girls at the office while she's away. I think she'd come all the way back and wring our necks."

"And wouldn't we deserve it," you add. Your computer screen is frozen, blue-tinted with failure. Great. Momo sits down and the sky's falling within seconds. You assure her for the umpteenth time that she's not really your type anyway.

"Excuse you," Momo says, indignant, because that's a joke. 

See - Momo's everybody's type, if you had to peg the definitive example of universal attractiveness. She's everyone's favorite eye-candy whether they swing right, left, upside down or none-of-the-above; it's the ass, ostensibly. The big eyes, the gorgeous cheekbones too - her jet-black hair's cut short, practically the opposite of Sana, sleek and androgynous and hanging off her shoulders in the prettiest sort of way.

If they made dolls they'd be collectibles, wildly sought after as a pair, mint-in-box-worthy - the perfect, polished icons of feminine beauty: brains, bravery, strength. But also definitely the ass.

You blink. "Is there something you're here to harass me for, or is my total lack of interest in banging you just something you're interested in re-establishing?"

"I dunno," Momo says around a mouthful of noodles, "it's distracting. It feels weird when Sana isn't here. Things don't feel very funny. Or cute, y'know? I feel like a standup act missing the lead comic relief."

"Are you saying I'm not hilarious and entertaining?"

"I think you're funny, but." She munches happily on some spring onions. "Not intentionally, not usually."

"So why are you getting soup all over my desk?"

"You're pouty for one, all sad-like," Momo says, swallowing. "And you're supposed to be coming up with this advertising pitch and the only thing written in that word doc was 'hey guys'."

"First draft's the hardest," you recite automatically. "I'll figure it out."

"But not anytime soon," Momo drawls.

You slump your shoulders. "But not anytime soon, no."

"If you miss her, just call her," Momo urges, with all the delicacy of an elephant on stilts. "I'm sure she's bored and horny. Like, wicked horny."

Momo is both direct and filthy - there's another difference. Sana's a layer cake: whip it into shape, top it off in pink icing, drizzle white syrup on top; she looks good and acts good and you can swallow her whole, every inch of her tasting sugary, syrupy sweet. Momo doesn't hide that she's the filthiest mess in a five-mile radius; the complete opposite of Sana - well, sorta.

"I heard you dropped a load inside her, earlier." She laughs out loud, true to form. "What the fuck are you thinking? I mean, serious talk: that shit will also rewrite your brain-chemistry. And the farther Sana is from us, the more your neurons are going to start feeling like they're fucking dying, so don't give me your stupid bullshit and tell me you're 'fine' when you're like, a total wreck."

"Can you fucking keep it down?" You rub a hand over your face. "Also wasn't it you who called us 'all-or-nothing?'"

"That was like a month ago. The whole being-casual-and-making-it-work shtick seemed neat and I wanted in. Also it's February 14th, you jackass. I think you two skipped past normal the second you could get into each other's pants." Momo slurps the broth. "Totally unhealthy."

"Also not fucking true." You exhale. "What am I gonna do?"

She gives you an are you stupid? look. "Text her," she enunciates slowly, like you're hearing her wrong. "Call her, I dunno. Romance is all about grand gestures and unreliable narration. Or at least she reads enough trashy Nancy-Meyers-movies-adapted-into-books-style romance to try and extrapolate something. Go out, and find some flowers." The next bite of her noodles is overly enthusiastic. "Make the girl feel special or something."

"Right, she's gonna love that."

"That's what all the books say."

You purse your lips. "So basically all the books have lied, but Sana loves them anyway because they make her cum with how badly they're written, and now you want me to act like they're an instruction manual on fucking courtship. Am I missing any other steps? Like, does this take into account the fact that I'm also really not that romantically inclined-"

"I think you have to do something nice, put some effort in," Momo interrupts, sagely. "Y'know, the gesture's important. A little creative thought. Something better than you've got going on in that empty husk of an advertising pitch. She doesn't actually care about flowers, but it means you think of her."

You slide further into your seat. Momo grins at the glare you give her, too-friendly. The girl is the only person on the premises who can call you out on your bullshit with any actual weight and expect to get away with it. She doesn't technically even work with your department - has more or less established herself as some combination of A-lister, sex icon, social darling - all rolled into the body of a curvaceous woman barely dressed. And everyone's just sorta charmed by it.

If you were a slightly-less-rational person you'd probably try to date her, too.

"Did you know that St. Valentine was actually beaten to death with clubs before getting decapitated?"

It's an aside question, because the only thing worse than arguing a point with Momo is when she happens to be right.

"Where are you pulling this shit from?" Momo wonders, deadpan, wiping her chin. "Why would you tell me that?"

"Thought it might be relevant." You swirl a plastic spoon in the bowl. "Do you have anything else for me, O great and venerated sage of modern womankind?"

Momo snickers at the sarcasm. "Sure," she says. "Tell me your current thoughts on Paris."

You drag a breath through your teeth. "City's a shithole if you aren't rich, famous and absolutely beautiful. In which case, the city exists solely to bask and dote upon your presence. What was the question?"

"Stop checking the travel sites."

"I'm not."

"Are to."

"Don't."

"Do," Momo replies, primly, and waves her hand dismissively. You are very, very mature. This is your professional space. "Keep it simple." She adds, casually: "Or something."

-

Far, far away and farther still, a girl ducks into a hired car, takes her heels off and turns up the air conditioning, wiggling her toes in relief. 

She ends up slipping out of her clothes, taking a hot shower, changing into sweatpants. A private meal is offered to her; she turns down a glass of champagne, instead requesting iced coffee with an obscene amount of espresso shots - pours a ridiculous amount of milk in until the contents are a creamy beige, not even close to being a light-roast.

Later, much later, after a scented candle is extinguished and a notebook is closed shut, the night sky still dark and unchanging, the time zones shift, and then a single, glowing notification flashes across the screen - 4.42 am, her phone says. She's drifting in and out of sleep, dreaming in monochromatic pixels.

It's a mundane, totally insignificant message: nothing fancy, nothing new. A quick update - something along the lines of where are you, what are you doing, are you safe and happy, thinking of you. But it's punctuated with an exclamation point and followed by a pair of hearts - which is something new - like you're thirteen and she's just given you her home-room assignment list on a slip of paper and made you promise to exchange homework with her in the morning.

"How cute," she breathes, softly, and feels warm.

-

Here are the three rules about falling. Another anecdote; another wish-wash of creative editorializing, again: you really hate that you're quoting Momo on literally any of this, but unfortunately Momo has a lot of practical advice in the form of shitty armchair-psychology.

You know because you have a literal book full of the worst pithy maxims, delivered by her in varying states of drunkenness and hysteria and grudges borne of much heavier drama, all edited to her personal taste. It's a different thread, but also all part of the story: she and Sana are best friends. Take it or leave it.

Anyway: the rules,

1.) Grand gestures. Unreliable Narrations. Know that the idea is romantic, but the process is totally horrifying.

There aren't really any guidelines or requirements, not an exact science, anyway: there are softer, slower and easier ways to love than an impulse transcontinental flight; it comes in different forms, with much fewer headaches, far, far less red tape.

Try a knee nudge in a cab, a smoke-flavored kiss on the back porch, a text me when you get home, murmured in between yawns, the click of heels coming into the house after work - maybe, outside her apartment, making out against a wall of bricks like it's all you'll get, breathless and laughing under streetlights; if Sana were any less captivating (a loaded word if there ever was one) there'd be no good reason to think or to dwell on the semantics.

2.) Bending at the knees makes you less likely to get a concussion when you lose your balance. It's still risky, still a shot in the dark: in physics, there's a certain amount of grace under pressure - Sana's adored not by men, not by people, but by the universe itself. 

It feels like: she's too loved, too known. The number of followers she has is, frankly, abhorrent to your sensibilities.

3.) An object at rest remains at rest: it is up to someone else to try and change its trajectory.

For all practical intents, purpose and reasonable application: forget them.

The only lesson that counts is 4.) Fuck logic, and that goes in the book.

-

February 14th.

Presently, we're flying at an altitude of twenty-eight-thousand feet as we begin our descent into Charles de Gaulle Airport. I'd like to ask you to please fasten your seatbelts, place all tray-tables and upright seats in their fully-vertical positions and power off all personal electronic devices. The local temperature at the landing strip is eleven-degrees celsius or about fifty-two degrees Fahrenheit. The forecast for the rest of the afternoon predicts clear blue skies, and we would like to thank you for flying Air France. Please have your passports and immigration documents handy for quick and efficient processing.

Then the same message in French, you're guessing. Welcome then, to the City of Light.

-

Your cell service pings back to life as you navigate through customs. Her texts and voice-mails are short, clipped, inane: news bulletins of random things she's heard of, things that catch her attention, new designs, newly-founded associations, this gallery and that gallery, this statue, that museum - all without her own commentary or editorializing.

The deluge of information almost makes her seem impersonal, disconnected from her own thoughts, like you're getting everything secondhand. Like it's accidental.

9:00 AM - Sana: oh btw just saw the 80's hairdressing revival special in studio e. 7000 times worse than the 70's one. nothing. nada. not a single ounce of cool. not like, at ALL.

Sana: never in my life will I EVER, in the history of fashion, agree with it.

Sana: photo attached

The photo is honest-to-god terrible. You have no idea what she's referencing.

11:30 AM - Sana: idk how it happened or why, but there's this tennis match thing i guess i'm supposed to be at

Sana: im honestly too zoned-out to tell whether i actually like this game lol

Sana: how tf does everyone know the rules. what is for-de-all? is that just a made-up thing people scream when a serve bounces into the net???

Sana: we'll see how it ends

Sana: ok the pro in the white suit is kinda hot and like, sosososo talented

Sana: he hits hard and his returns are perfect

Sana: how have i gone so long without knowing how deep i could get into the sports of men in fitted shorts??

There are countless more: small-talk, casual banter, lighthearted teasing, all going at her own speed of 5000 centimeters per second. You skim through, not sure how to parse the implications: she seems at best half-focused, unengaged, probably tired - maybe high on local-jet-lag, more interested in telling you she misses you and that her hotel room bed feels massive than telling you about her afternoons wandering art museums in a designer dress; oh, the magazines are frothing over her.

For reasons you don't feel entirely ready or qualified to address, you're reading between the lines to all sorts of things.

3:00 PM - Sana: could i call you? it'd just be like 5 minutes, i'm not busy or anything but idk if youre busy. not sure if you'll reply to this right away.

Sana: sorry don't mean to disturb you (´;︵;`)

Sana: well tbh i actually kinda do mean to interrupt.

She sends an obnoxiously bright, cloyingly pink 'V-Day' Gif in place of the last text and then doesn't answer. And suddenly, in a way you hadn't considered before - you think you're losing your goddamn mind, trying to construct an actual picture from fragments, assembling all the puzzle-pieces back into a single, discernible whole. She hasn't so much as signed off her text, let alone give you anything concrete to follow up on; this whole chain reads like the equivalent of sending her a lunch break meme, asking what her day looks like.

Inconveniently: it's the 14th of February, and Sana is the kind of person you'd get chocolates for - would tear open a Valentine's Day card and sign the message and seal it off with a stamp. It'd be tacky, and overly sappy and gaudily, horribly romantic - like a suitor from the Renaissance. You've always suspected she was something like an antique, in this very modern kind of way. It's how she looks best, all draped in antique jewels, chiffon and damask, dripping pearl and lace and silver threads, all in expensive, cosmopolitan aesthetic that makes sense within itself: something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue.

The insanity is that it's making perfect sense right now. You have been ruined in ways unimaginable, and you have not, as Momo kindly warned you, even known.

You are not, in fact, alright - or casual about the situation.

You need flowers, urgently: this is a gift-giving crisis.

-

It's funny - this winter fling, as ill-fated as they come, a few months in: time seems to pass fast. Too fast, to the point where it starts to slip away in longer and longer increments, faster and faster, further and further intervals - like shadows stretching inexorably towards dusk.

There's no flowers, no cards, no nothing - and that is sort of the nature of it, the romance of the everyday.

You're in the metro so you can't even use your data, can't send her a quick selfie of your charming visage, with the background blurring like you're getting real poetic about it. No moon, no stars, no gaslight illuminating the dark. Just plain-ass subway tracks, a near-soviet expression of concrete, and some stupid ads for full-body waxes. The trains clear the station at 8:57 PM local time. That's Paris's time, Paris's city, her backdrop. The frame of this portrait.

So, in other words: you are not poetic, at all. You've probably got nothing in your hair except dust, dirt, and a bit of airfare grime. You've still got yesterday's cologne and nothing worth sending her except an afterthought.

No photos, no video, no cards, no ring; no pearls or lace, no gold and silk - and this is total luck, by the way; serendipity must still like her more - you look across the platform and watch the lights of another train arrive: the girl stepping off is stunning. 

And even further in terms of non-comparisons: she's the type who laughs too hard at your jokes and wipes away the smeared tears on her cheeks afterwards, who will drop a dirty joke at every moment, who lets you see her mouth open in a perfect, dripping-wet gape, who will sink into the mattress after a good, rough fuck, the headboard creaking; a girl who will tell you your coffee is too bitter and when you ask, sweet enough? - she'll still say no; not yet; no; don't; harder, don't you dare stop - that type of girl, is the one inching off the metro, glancing down at the watch on her slender wrist.

The trains start again and the girl is left standing on her own. In another five seconds, someone will probably say, mademoiselle? - which, also: there's a class on language you have not passed; you'll pay that back later - and in response, she'll sigh deeply, stretch her arms out. Tilt her head upwards for some fresh air.

You blink once, twice: and no - that really is her, on the other end. Sana Minatozaki - somehow inexplicably, for no reason you're privy to - has materialized as though she just decided on a whim to visit her home planet again.

You call out across the chasm, like a man possessed, and it is incredibly loud, incredibly embarrassing, incredibly out of character. You hardly notice.

Your voice catches on the draft of the tunnels; it must've echoed. She spins around to see who's calling her.

When she spots you, her face glows.

-

"Holy fuck," she rasps, trying to catch her breath, putting her forehead to your shoulder. "Jesus christ. What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"We were in the same city," you respond, hoarse and almost panting, palms flat against her skin. Your muscles have that third-rail electricity running through the tendons and straight on through, too; Sana feels like pure tension, just burning off. There's something vaguely buzz-high about you. "Couldn't resist. I was gonna call eventually-"

She hits your shoulder like she's mad, but her face has more or less melted in pleasure, her mouth parted into a wide smile, all sharp edges and incisors. Her hair's almost a disaster: you can see the barrette slipping out, the edges of it, the glittery accents; you think about getting your hand all knotted up in the up-do and pulling - just to watch her spill off the end of the spool, tightly wound, twining around you like ribbon, sinking in and refusing to leave.

The doorman tried to ask for your coats before you fell on each other - in the middle of the lobby, if that's possible - and it's not like he even really saw anything, you were sure: just saw her smile when you pressed the tip of your fingers up under her chin, just your thumb grazing her lip before you bent your mouth to hers and didn't come up for air.

The doors of the elevator up shut close, and suddenly there's nowhere left for you to go: no further to climb, to hide, to disappear.

"You," she begins, biting off the end of the sentence in exasperation, settling instead for letting the word trail away. Her lips ghost across the hollow of your throat, the curve of your jaw, the little dip between the column and your ear, pressing hard and insistent - marking her territory.

"Do you just, y'know, pop up in fucking New York once in a while, too, for like a spot of breakfast and then, yeah, I'm good." Her voice sounds tired, worn. It's kinda cute. "No plans to stay, nothing booked, just passing through, huh?" She taps your shoulder, pulling away to run her fingers through your hair. "Idiot," she breathes, in that saccharine way of hers, smiling; you are helpless; you are done for, fully done-for: she can take as many digs at you as she wants. "Also what the fuck, you didn't answer my texts," her face crumples a little when you grab her, haul her against you - holding on, tight. It's an intoxicating rush, seeing Sana falter like that. 

She's as stunning off-kilter as she is put together: more real than any human being should be allowed.

"Well," you say, not apologetic at all. "It's a holiday."

"You're making it really hard to be angry right now," she replies, lifting herself in her pumps and slotting her lips over yours. This time, the kiss lingers. It is the point of departure, a threshold of arrival: who knows whether or not she can feel you melting beneath the heat of her fingertips. You want her to take as many soft, easy-going kisses as possible - a stack, a row, a wall. If she keeps leaning into you like that, you'll do just about anything. "Not just to make a boner joke, either," Sana whispers, fingers gripping onto your shoulders for balance. "I wanna go slow for once. Real gentle."

"Say that again?" You hum, unable to leave well enough alone.

"Something slow?" She lilts.

"A boner joke."

"God," she groans. "Would it kill you, you massive fucking prick, to have a modicum of compassion and not act like you're five?"

And look - there's not enough elevator for the whole story, let alone the novel it would be to properly explain everything there is to know about Sana; how the sky goes dusky-hued when the streetlights come on; how she always fiddles with her hands in her pockets when she's bored, the impatient flex of fingers, pulling at the loose threads. How you'd kiss her knuckles to calm her - how she was annoyed that she let you in the first place.

The story of the two of you would take, well - it'd take a few months.

"Actually," you counter, "it would. Probably kill me dead. Obituary, a single photo of a smirking ass in a dress suit. Very sad."

"Christ. I've put up with way too many assholes today," she huffs, shaking her head, "for you to be the way that you are."

"Oh, trust me. It's not my favorite either." You lean back, can't quite help it: she's not at all ruffled - only curious, only teasing. You pull her hips tighter towards you. She kisses you, sighs a little: her neck smells like orange-blossoms. You had no idea that could be as sensual as it is. "You'll just have to deal," you murmur.

"Like always," she complains.

"It is pretty rough."

Sana meets your grin. Her hand cups your face - it feels oddly tender.

"How," she says, slowly, the words very carefully enunciated - "the hell did you think this would turn out?"

You open your mouth: this is what you are capable of.

-

Sana never actually gets around to telling you the things she meant to say: the confession of a valentine, all sappy and serious, almost candid, with gravitas - a five-paragraph essay, four pages long.

It's a messy affair - you've got a fistful of hair and the other's shoved down the front of her skirt. She's been wanting to be here all day, it seems - you've seen the text-book spread of supermodels and old-money socialites and she's wanted a moment's escape from them all, has been pining for someone, anyone (most certainly you); waiting in her pretty dress and her high heels, a set of pearl earrings, the starlet curls of her hair - the clutch she left on the floor by the door because you shoved your hand underneath the fabric, said: I'll eat you out right fucking here.

So there's a common thread, if nothing else: you and Sana are verifiably incapable of having anything resembling a serious conversation. There isn't a single point of departure: the entire thing starts out casual and remains, firmly, casual.

You are deeply unserious people; this is just how it is. So clear from your head the ideas of saviours, soulmates.

You stumble together into the sitting room of her hotel suite - the luxury is appalling, almost, the floor-to-ceiling windows opening onto a gorgeous balcony and overlooking the Seine - "It's fashion week,"  is her excuse, "all the good penthouses have been booked since last November," she apologizes, which you can't really wrap your mind around anyway. You nod like that's reasonable, the right answer, pull at her lip with your teeth, and she melts right into the open palm of your other hand - oh, she'll fit well here. It's where she belongs: soft, sweet, yielding to you.

"Don't need your pity," she pants, breaking the contact to speak, to drag her tongue up your collar and up to the hinge of your jaw, grinding her hips down so that you hiss and close your fist tighter in her hair, give her that sudden tug, that sweet little rush: that thing she doesn't need, wants anyway.

Her expression flicks something in you - the eyes, the mouth; the trademark Sana-sneer. And suddenly you need to pin her to the wall, the floor, hold her still for the taste. You look up to get your bearings and find the world gone monochrome: night, cold, grey, grey-on-grey, black, dark - and that's fitting somehow. Sana tilts her head away to observe you back - you have a feeling she's observing how fucked-up you are over her already, and for some reason, you can't give her the satisfaction, not quite yet: can't admit the defeat of how you can't ever take your eyes off her, the thick swell of her legs and the smooth curves of her calves. Can't lay out what you'll do to her.

Though that's about when the storybook romance vanishes, and in its place - a more familiar arrangement; the reality you'd built with her over the past half year, the awful, easy rhythm you're going to settle back into with little ceremony: all playful affection, no sentiment. Zero pressure to pretend - or to pretend anything differently.

(Which brings you to this.)

"Sana," you drawl, grabbing her chin, making her twist in the direction of your touch. "Is that your dildo stuck to the coffee table?"

Because in the middle of all this, that's what she left lying out in plain sight: a some-odd inch silicon cock, unabashedly translucent, obscenely clear; with a ridiculously realistic head, veined shaft, balls - she had gotten her vibrator out of one suitcase and forgot the rest. It's literally sitting right next to the complimentary drinks; so obviously out-of-place, it's impossible that someone could mistake it for anything.

"Oh god," is the only reply, mortified. "Please, dont. I didn't think I'd be-"

"Should I be offended?" You are doing a truly appalling job at sounding seductive. You are, in fact, kind of choking down a laugh.

Sana takes a hand through her half-disassembled hair. Tosses the bobby-pin holding up her bangs: there. Full dishevelment - the effect is startling. You can almost trace the silhouette of a girl so very badly kept together; frayed ends, straying strands, half-gossamer and half-permanent dye.

"It's a toy," Sana explains, like you hadn't pieced together that much. She shrugs off a strap of her dress, the other. "It's just plastic and stuff." She looks at it. You can see the wheels turning, trying to figure out if it's worth salvaging. Then: "Here, c'mon - don't think. Don't," she tries, unconvincingly: "think too much about this."

You raise an eyebrow.

"I was planning to fuck myself senseless, maybe because somebody wasn't answering their texts," she adds, glibly. It is absolutely stunning, watching Sana Minatozaki shamefaced, pouting - trying and failing, failing miserably - to look even a little apologetic. "Just lemme - if you're into it, y'know, we could. Use. It. Or something."

"Or something." 

It's too late: you're cracking up.

"This is really what you use on your off hours? On yourself?" You pick it up: it's heavier than you expect, mostly because the thing is made of clear jelly, probably some kind of latex-powdery-water concoction - just the sheer thought is bizarre, foreign to you. The base suction cups to...any surface, you suppose, to provide stability. It's not altogether very practical, now that you're getting a closer look. "Is this," and you hush conspiratorially, "Is this Jean-Pierre?"

Sana smacks the side of your arm, flushing. "Shut the fuck up," she responds, laughing. A beat later, her lips tilt. "His name's Woody."

"That sounds like a conversation starter."

"I shouldn't have to explain the reference."

"You're sure it's a he?"

"It's got testicles don't it?"

"Oh yeah," you say, weighing the toy in your hand. "Look at that."

"Would you just, like," Sana coughs delicately, looks around the room for something interesting. "-put it somewhere."

"Phrasing," you can't help but point out. "Jesus you moved the mirror in here, too."

And you'd caught the moment originally, when the blush had filled her cheeks, her forehead, her nose, all the way on to her ears. She had known. "Maybe you really did corrupt me," she counters, turning her head pointedly away. "Wiped away the good girl veneer and turned me into a degenerate pervert."

"Which is basically how you started," you remind her - and you catch her in your arms. She relaxes almost instantly; you sink a palm down the small of her back to rest in the dip of her spine. You've learned a little: Sana prefers closeness, intimacy, touch. No questions, no fanfare, no gimmicks, just the simple offer of body warmth. She'll curl into your chest and stay quiet, almost content; an ineffable smile leaking up the back of her throat as your nose tickles the side of her neck, mouth open and warm and pressed into her skin.

Her eyes crease. She feels more real, a little less ethereally divine.

"How could you?" she asks, faux-affronted. You can feel how she breaks character, the laughter reverberating against your fingertips. "I'm, like, so fucking demure."

It takes everything to resist kissing her until she moans: which is the danger. You do anyway, but at least the damage has already been done.

She locks her wrists loosely behind your neck. Kisses you slow. Heavy. Giggling - you've been demoted to giggles in the end, it seems, a slip from seductress back to child-like delight. "Seriously," Sana sighs, rolling her shoulders out and circling her hips slowly. Your heart drops. Your entire face turns hot; you're really fucking gone for this girl. "Wanna watch me ride it?"

-

The thing is, a bed-time story would have paper-hearts, and candles, and maybe a field of birds; an open space, a plush meadow, a wide, beautiful, clean canvas for this little romance to run wild across, uncontained.

Sana instead, reaches for a bottle of personal-lubricant, glances back with a smile; your breath catches - you think it's a momentary trip, a chemical reaction.

You realize it's the lighting instead, the frame of this moment. The simple concept of art, how the hues of the dark deepen, saturate into something a shade off - purples and blues; something to capture and press into paper, inked forever.

She holds the bottle above the end of the toy, pours generously. As you can already tell - no lack of initiative, imagination: she takes both her legs to the edge of the table, stretches them outward - makes a pretty little show of herself, arches her back off the glossy wood - and sets the tip just against the inner junction of her thighs. Sana pushes, tilts: gasps aloud, sharply inhaling, watching you watch her with heavy-lidded eyes. Her shoulders relax and the rest of her muscles follow the tension - easing in a slow, languid circle, hips grinding down. She sighs at the cool feel of it, before pulling it back to rest the edge just in-between her lips, a teasing movement, right where you would reach - two fingers inside, hook up and outwards and open, stretch her wide to fill.

The girl looks like sin, looks like decadence; near-saintly: holy and sacrosanct. You think they've beatified less.

Sana reaches with her free hand for the front of your shirt.

"You," she whispers, and your hands flex involuntarily.

"Yeah," you reply, soft, even-keeled. "Me."

(Romance me, she'd said, only half-sarcastic. Sweep me off my feet and ruin me. Then I'll show you just how obsessed I am with you.)

-

There's always the itch, the impulse: to undo and dismantle everything around her, take everything to pieces; reduce her to tears until all she knows is your hands and your voice. To stop treating her like a masterwork and treat her more like something you're carving out of a block of stone. Maybe she'd lose that divine edge; she'd fall from that angelic grace into something mortal, and it wouldn't be anyone's fault. Not really.

Well - until now; because this is all you.

"Oh, Sana," you murmur, watching her tear up like it's killing her. "God, look at you."

You’ve got your fingers running through her honey-blonde tresses, got her wet lips slipping down the length of your cock, got the cutest little whimpers coming from her chest when you push a little too far, force yourself a little too deep - got the prettiest girl on her knees, working your cock to the back of her throat and letting her hips grind a few more inches of silicon inside her. The visual isn’t even in competition, in comparison - her huge amber eyes all innocent and glassy, those flawlessly plush red lips - you really shouldn't do it; if she hates something it's being mussed up, but here she is, anyway, because if there's anything she hates more, it's not getting a full serving of exactly what she wants - and she's swallowing your dick down her tight little throat without asking anything in return.

"You love this, don't you, baby," and when she bobs up - sinks back down - your next breath drags through your teeth.

The mirror's behind her; you don't need the nod for confirmation. 

You can see it clear as day: her pussy creaming, glistening as she takes it even deeper, leaving a white, glistening trail from the base to the tip of the silicon shaft - how far she's gone; how far she'll still go.

"You love having my cock down your throat," you keep talking, and you curl your fingers gently in her hair, not enough to guide or press, but Sana - bless her - takes it like an indication and does the work for you; she nods anyway.

The waterline of her big doe-eyes is swimming, nearly spilling over - and if this doesn't prove it, then nothing will, certainly not anything she could say herself.

But, really - you can't get over her face, and she must know that. 

Prada, Fendi, Chanel, Dior - they've got similar ideas, sure; straight to the gutter, only if they could see how you're replicating their vision - her eyes: too huge, too shimmery, too imploring; her hair spills from your fists in loose, glossy coils; that magazine-cover-ready look all flushed, mascara-thick lashes wet from the strain, jaw a little slack to accommodate the size of you - you're not too much easier to take than the dildo stretching her cunt wide right now, either. 

Oh, she's filled up on both accounts.

"Mmnhph," is how Sana hums around you, tongue working obscenely over the head. Her mouth feels velvety-tight on the upstroke.

It doesn't take much to forget her mouth's playing second-fiddle to the work her cunt's doing, and her free hand's curling tight around your thigh, a steadying mechanism - which, isn't that the very root of the matter: the first time you'd cum in her tight little pussy, hadn't it been just like that, where all the pieces slotted right back into place, a certain order to the chaos? The desperate cling of her pretty-fingernailed hand. 

Eyes wet and blinking: trust, don't let me down.

And you'll indulge her like tomorrow's the end of the world. Work her through it; watch her fine eyebrows pinch tight together; note how her high-strung breathing sounds muffled in her nose. How she lets you slide to the edge of the chair to fuck her face, lifting your hips and knocking into the slightest gag-reflex possible. She gets progressively filthier, tongue lathing the underside of you, sucking the head with the tight seam of her lips whenever you pull back to give her a second to breathe. 

"Jesus." Your fingers loosen in her hair, combing her wild bangs from her flushed face. It's suddenly delicate. Gentle. Doting. Sana's pretty little forehead deserves a kiss for how fast, how deep, she's taking your cock in the softest part of her throat.

"There we go - just relax, sweetheart," you tell her, the very same girl who is making herself cum in the full-length mirror: pussy stretched and pulsing wet around the toy. "Catch your breath."

She doesn't even flinch when you touch your thumb to her cheekbone, carefully pulling her face back, feeling the wet press of her tongue at the crown. But her lips pull into a pout like she's sad you're stopping her. "No more?"

You inhale, deeply, and try not to laugh out loud. Her cheeks have flushed this adorable rose color. "Baby," your voice trails off with a click, and it's entirely your fault for teasing her; you might not get out of this room for the rest of the night, after all. So much for red wine and valentine's on the Seine - the perfect, the picturesque-

"I can't help it," Sana cuts in. She doesn't even hesitate. If anyone can redefine perfection, well. She's wearing that look: her mouth an utterly sinful pucker and her tongue skimming pink up the wet mess her throat's made of you. Her big, heavy-lashed eyes gazing at at you, and her pupils - well, that's no doubt what happens when something hits too hard, and it's the last thing you should notice, really, in this moment.

Her tongue is flat, stuck out. Very pink. She slaps your cock against it. Jesus christ, you think.

But: who can blame you, when the gorgeous, nude, marble-perfect woman on her knees is riding her toy with no qualms whatsoever, gazing straight into your soul?

"The faces you're making are really fucking hot and it's valentines day and you, like, taste and smell so fucking good-"

"Okay." You're twitching in her hands, and it's making her give you the most awful bedroom eyes in the world. "Okay, baby, slow down-"

She doesn't, but she can't do much worse; Sana presses her plush, swollen bottom lip to the crown of your cock, makes a show of licking the precum beading from your slit - licks her lips like it's a present, like she'd flown halfway around the world just for that, and it's an ambrosia she'd rather savor than spill.

"Sana," and your laughter falls out in a gasp, because, fuck - she's got a tight grip on your thigh and the most selfish desire for your orgasm you've ever seen; her other hand is already set, too, the one rubbing away at her own dripping pussy, wrist working just underneath her, catching her clit. "You're going to make me cum like that."

"Okay," she tells you, all round-eyes and wet-mouth; she's so fucking insatiable. "Then cum."

You're not sure how a goddess who worships your cock ends up like this: propped up the hotel-furniture, sinking down a thick, gleaming dildo and the slightest hitch in her breath a fucking non-sequitur. "Fucking hell," you gasp. "Princess-"

And, well - it's not like you really protest; her mouth's already at the tip of you and she's working it there, in and out, with a teasing wetness.

She sighs, heavy, but also blissful; sinks lower in one, rolling agonizing movement; meets your eyes when you go heavy-lidded and biting your lip - like it's a competition for who can end up the worse wreck. She swallows, slowly, so slowly. Lets her nails lightly dig into the sensitive skin behind your balls, drags them back up with her tongue and her throat constricting.

It's her expert mouth, that's the thing. You close your eyes because you think you might cum right then; right down the back of her pretty, porcelain throat. You can hear her humming like she's enjoying it more than you - can hear the clicking sound in her throat when she bobs her head, fucks herself deeper. Can hear the slick, filthy slaps of her pussy taking the cock fastened to the coffee table under her. And, you think, opening your eyes just a crack: when your girl's making a mess of the expensive hardwood with the cream spilling from her needy cunt - that's worth giving into. That's an image so good and perfect and god-damned filthy that you'd bet, when you cum, all the devil will want is a deal for a replica, for a pact to possess every woman out there who fits the mold: this one's yours.

You're fucking her mouth so hard, she's drooling.

"Jesus- ah, fuck. I'm going to fucking cum, Sana," and, not that she listens, “down your fucking throat, honey- I'm, oh," - not that she cares, really - you've just managed to grit your teeth - to arch your back up like that could pull you out from the sensation: it doesn't.

She does moan around you, then. Pulls the vibration deep and uses her tongue, works the pink, slender muscle right down to where you're half-gagging her, making her eyes water.

It's easy to knot your fingers back in the locks of her hair, pull tight. 

Easier still, her face is framed with your thighs and the effect's immediate - it feels as hot and wet and tight as a vice and your voice shakes along with the rest of your neurons, firing, collapsing, keening - and, of course: when your hand fisted in her hair tries to pull her hot mouth off your cock, well.

There's a few more inches of sloppy-wet friction and slippery-tight drag you hadn't really budgeted for.

You're cumming all over her face, not that you had much of a choice - it's just one wave and another, your thighs tensing and the breath going out of you in stilted, long, stuttering moans - Sana looks up, when your brain has unscrambled enough to register her name and the light of the world and the absolutely perverted expression she's got: there's a shot of cum that streaks across her closed eyelid and another string making a sticky-white mess out of her button-nose and, god-

You don't mean to cum in her hair, but-

"Fuck," your teeth clatter around a biting-gasp, "Sana, oh fuck," but - as expected, she does have your cock gripped tight at the base, her lashes clumped with the mess, her cheeks sticky-messy. 

Sana's looking up with the innocent sort of mischief only she could ever get away with, you figure, cum-covered and beautiful: the good girl with her good girl mouth, all the evil inside of her.

She lets your cock fall out of her hand, down, with an obscene, wet thud, right where she can press it against her face - press it against those sharp cheekbones - and those doe-eyes, and those lips: the ones she draws across the dripping tip, pulls at them with a sultry sort of sigh. Sinking the curve of her nose down the belly side of your cock as you paint her, gasping for air; and it gets worse - when her tongue catches between your balls, when her lips are pouting right around the soft skin there and her soft moans make you pump the white-hot ropes of cum until it's a mess in her hairline, in the silky locks that fall to the crests of her ears and down to where they rest over her tits, hiding the flush of her hard, puffy nipples, her tiny little pink clit-

"Messy," Sana croons, without much of an inflection; one eyelid flutters open and a milky-stream runs down the curve of her cheek; the other seems hopelessly stuck.

Oh, she's usually such a wet blanket about getting anything in her hair (which is more often just an excuse to ride you brainless on the shower bench, but it doesn't come without her grumbling on the way), and even then she's lifting up off her heels and resting her chin on your thigh to make sure you can watch when she spreads the mess along her slender throat and back behind her ear, almost shy, drawing strands of cum into her mouth with her long-lashed eyes locked onto yours.

"It really hasn't been that long," and she says it with some exasperation, with a bubbly little bout of laughter that has the same weight as her pecking kisses along the muscles of your abs, cleaning her cum-hand against the patchy wetness across the flat plane. "Geez - you must've been so pent up -" and she stops for breath, for another suckle to your shaft; your cock twitches in her grip, the sensation too much, but it makes Sana give the most self-satisfied smile. It'd be unbearably irritating if she wasn't your entire universe - she is, so you try not to move as she steadies herself on your thighs; presses her messy face into the side of your throat and mewls. "All mine," Sana decides, sounding quite content about it. "Do you need a few minutes?"

She asks this like she isn't pumping you still, using her delicate fist to keep you upright for her while she speaks into the line of your jaw.

"Um," you say, before anything else. Before thinking about her clinging, wet heat around you. Before anything else: "yeah."

She purses her lips. Presses her free hand to your chest with a needy arch of her body. Pants for you, lashes falling shut - and, there's the problem, she's so much more fuckable like that. She's painted red from her cheeks all the way down her tits and you're just realizing how much drool fell off her chin, how much of a mess is between her tits, how much she revels in it - getting her face-fucked until neither of you can survive the fallout.

"How about," she huffs against you, all breath and the curve of a whine, "I clean this up," her hand's still tight at the base, where your nerves are singing with all sorts of new sensory input - "and god, your heart," she whispers, and her chin hooks over your thigh. She's looking up at you, ruined, flushed and dewy. "-is beating so fast for me -" she says, almost wistful.

That's the point, probably. It's the entire problem: she has a few ideas of how beautiful she is, the kind of destruction she wreaks.

Her breath catches in her chest when her hips shift back and that thick, fake cock pops out of her cunt; it sounds fucking filthy, and the softest of keening moans escapes her - it has the weight of your existence and she probably knows it; her amber gaze fluttering shut as she doesn't move for a second.

You don't either, can't really; Sana sliding up your body as graceful as ever, even naked and used-looking, leaves you barely functional and running on over-stim. "I mean," she starts, like the two words just tumbled out of her cunt with the rest of the mess and that's a great explanation; Sana's moving around in your lap anyway, dropping that nice, hard dildo on the seat beside you, still dripping. "I can't let you cum in my pussy," she says, all gentle matter-of-fact, while her mouth opens across the arch of your jaw and she gets cum down her wrist. "Well," she amends, "-not yet anyway, not right now," and she does look guilty, for some reason.

It makes your smile twist wry and unattractive, probably. "I'm good at controlling myself," you manage.

"Liar," says Sana, which is a reasonable reply. You'd laugh, but her cunt's wet and hot against you, already sinking, settling, just an inch deep into her cunt. It's easy to take in hand - you grip her hips, thumb her little pink clit.

Sana's response is to rut against it, rubbing all over where the swollen head of your cock rests between her thighs. Her smile goes a little blissed out, dreamy.

"There's another place," she's saying, while her hair spills down your arm, between you, sticking in the space between her tits, "that would be a perfect home for this thick, gorgeous cock."

"I think you should let Woody and I sort that out," and, shit, that doesn't make her stop moving, dragging her soaked slit over your shaft. "Maybe he'll be your valentine after all, huh, babe?"

Sana narrows her eyes, tilting her head forward in her best attempt at threatening. It's cute, almost, if your dick wasn't trapped between the wet heat of her body and your belly. You pick her up so, so easily. And that's hot, you think: your strength, her whole lithe-waisted petite-tits everything.

"Hey," her lips part against yours, a protest there - until you move her by the hips, pushing up and watching her spread for it.

And if that doesn't go straight to your ego.

Sana huffs, playing aloof, petulant - a character you draw out when she's really hoping and praying you'll fold her up and show her what the good parts of worship mean. "You think you can share?" she's asking you, voice already growing rough. She's trying to fuck back, take her hips again, but you still her with your palms, fingers sinking tighter and her ass spilling out between your knuckles.

"Get your knees back on the table for me, pretty girl," and you lift her as she squirms; set her down, until her body is arched forward, tits pressed punishingly to the hardwood. 

You think you're maybe spending next-century's savings on a wet-dream made real; maybe being too rough, too mean about your hand twisting through that mess of golden-strawberry curls at the base of her spine and making her spine curve deep as she breathes out a heavy, messy curse.

"Give me what I deserve, then," and she can't reach under her body and tug at your cock, but she gets the words out. The order. "I'm aching, it's sore and empty and, it's so fucking tight," and that's not a demand but a whine. She wants you, that's the real point. "You know, I want," and she doesn't finish that, but: 

She's blinking at her reflection in the glass, watching it. You really fucked up that pretty painting, and she's appraising the art, tilting her chin just a bit to appreciate the effort: how she's made to be wrecked. 

You grab Woody, attach it to the table without thinking; the weight's warm, solid; he's hard-used and wet enough from her body that it's not an issue; there's enough lube leftover to slide your palm once or twice over and drag it wet across Sana's ass, around your length, even over Sana's pink cunt, wet and swollen and bunched with the toy she'd used, stretched deep as you'd seen. She whimpers out the softest sound, then, and you think: what a miracle, and maybe she does too because her hips arch into it like she's begging for praise, for your touch, anything; there's a few seconds of pressure, just enough time for you both to realize what's happened.

"This'll get messy, you know," you tell her, which isn't fair. "It won't feel the same in there," because your baby needs her explanations.

"Want to feel you both in my guts," is what she offers instead, and- yeah, it's so not fair for her to say stuff like that either.

You touch the silicone head to her puffy folds, ease him up and down - just how you would for her, only taking care to feel where she's pinkest. Where's the pressure on your fingers? There, probably, but there, too. Where does she gasp the softest when she's full and tensing in anticipation? Oh.

Her cunt is so slicked she sinks on it, opening fast and beautiful and dirty.

The sound Sana makes is unreal; no way to measure her reaction otherwise. You don't know whether it's good or bad; all you see is the way her reflection dips into nothing, into pain, but: her head jerks up in time to watch and she moans like she's begging - loud and pretty and shocked, eyes fluttering. Her hair falls like curtains around her face, a wildfire behind her. She's stunning; of course you think it.

"See that," she says, through clenched teeth, "the pretty way it pushes out of me-"

"Makes room for me," because yeah, fuck, okay. You know it too.

She's perfect for this: a body like she's the centerfold in a dirty magazine and then a disposition that says yes, you do want me like that. Or, she's asking for a pounding. That's the least you can do - straddle the surface with her, line your cockhead up, push just barely to the resistance - force Sana's hips down until Woody's bottomed and her legs shake for the first time.

"You good, baby?"

"You can," and-

Oh, man. "Let me do it," you tell her, sliding your hand up her back to grab her hair, winding it between the thick of your knuckles. "I'll take care of you, I promise-"

That's another shot in your veins: her lips bitten red, her expression ruined; the way her face falls for you like she's meeting you in that elevator for the very first time, the straw of her iced coffee between her lips, her nose wrinkling for the cliché.

She blinks at you again, nods and keens and oh-

Your cock works in that next fraction of an inch, just the head spreading Sana open.

"Holy-" but she chokes it back, so you'll keep doing this, making her think, fuck- "oh my-fuck-okay," is what she gives you, breathing in pants; what her expression tells you, the lines cutting over her brows and between her nose.

"Sana," is as far as you get, and Sana's grinding, gasping. She'll sob. She'll get loud. You can see from your angle; just feel how much it burns, the way Woody's working inside her, splitting her to the core.

You watch the line of her back work, tense, clench - where it's just that simple and base and human. 

And the mirror's got the full story: it all comes up with the same obscene details - Sana's mouth a deep open pink, her eyes rolling closed as she swallows thickly - as she's wetting the air down and relaxing her whole body for it: her toes curling. She sinks another inch onto the toy, you figure, and she makes this fucked-up mewling noise, half-cry, half-begging. Your cum is tacky all over her front, drying sweaty; her makeup's runny. She's a disaster and so pornographically stunning.

You sink deeper, and she bucks, takes her time riding. "Feels- fucking incredible, doll, I'm going to start fucking you, ok?" and you groan; you are. You pull back, seeing where her cunt is creamed out and ruined, where there's the ghostly wet lube smeared on your cock, all sticky like her.

Sana nods, looking back - she finds your face, doesn't falter; she'll see her tits spilling against the table; the dark shade of her nipples. Her cunt's sliding over the toy in a rush; she's shimmying her whole body, impatient. You let go of her hair and touch between her shoulder blades to the base of her spine, marvel in the stretch of it, the pretty flush you're fucking into over and over.

"It feels-" Sana's talking, her forehead bowed against the table, her mouth hanging loose, "feels-good. Good. Amazing. Feels-" and she can't breathe, you know, but fuck, neither can you- "so. Full. Full."

You nod; know. She knows.

She's saying it for herself, in a slur, the words on the edge of a gasp: "I'm-holy-"

Your fingers pinch her ass, just gentle; enough to spread her, catch a view of her stretched asshole. Her teeth knock together - she's trembling for this. She'll cum.

"Trying to kill me," you tease, but fuck- it's good; so fucking good. 

You've been brushing your cock to the back of this girl's throat and it's still the hottest thing you think you'll ever see; her personal toy buried to the hilt beneath you, just the tight little opening of her pussy fucked-out and slicked-up, raw and red and utterly ruined-

"Shh, sweetheart," you manage, burying yourself in as far as possible, leaning over. You move the hair falling into Sana's face and trace her features with the tip of your index finger, smudging a fingerprint of eyeliner. You're kissing her hair, her skin, tasting salt, sweat, cum: "Such a slut, taking that big fat toy all in you, opening you up-" and the last you get out isn't her name, it's a murmur- "look what a whore you're being," and her cunt is fucking throbbing-

You lean back, catch a sight of it; her thighs trembling and pinkish and oh, fuck, no. She's got one of her hands worked back and on her clit, stroking it feverishly-

"Baby-"

"I need you," is what she cries out; not an explanation. "So," and it's something mangled- "God, please. Come on."

She tells you twice; she can't help herself. Sana's ass is unbelievably tight. So pretty; so the little fucked-out cocksleeve you always needed. All her eyeliner's fucked to hell and her hair's still a knotted disaster; you've got all your inches inside her, she's pressing the heel of her hand to her clit and drawing patterns over her face with her fingers like she can't remember-

"My pussy, jesus-fucking-christ." Her mouth is falling slack again. "God. God. Harder, it feels too good, don't stop-"

"Such a good fucking girl," and there's this picture-perfect moment-

She cums. You're all up in her guts, spilling to the tight space, that she's fucked beyond the stretch and that's got to burn, paradoxically making her go all crazy with this feeling. Your cock's making space - you'd hate not fucking her until she's overfull and all those slick muscles are clenched and bruised-

"Does my princess need something?" you ask her, while your palm teases the flare of her hips. It's teasing; she won't stop; she'll cum again. You're pounding her ass and that toy's still there, buried to her cervix, her pussy's a mess and it's almost an itchy pleasure, too much stimulation, too sensitive; she's slick, sodden.

Sana is nodding furiously. One hand's doing it again, and the other's got the thumb trapped in her mouth; she's trying for silence; it won't last. Her throat's loud and filthy and you've always probably known, since the very beginning, that Sana loves taking you in whatever gorgeous, wet, tight hole she can.

"Please," she manages. Her hand's moving quicker- "Let me. Let me." And she's grinding against you, taking in every inch you have for her, arching her back; her clit is raw and throbbing and she's a fucking genius. A natural at begging. She deserves the win. She's being good. She's letting you fill her with cum.

You're not even fucking her into particularly fast, particularly deep, just grinding, using the tight ring of muscle, the heavy, bruising press.

"Tell me," and she can't focus- "Tell me when you're going to cum, princess. Can't wait to feel you-".

Oh. And, then-

You want it to last.

Her feet are tapping, toes curling into the hardwood, and it's over: she's tightening her grip against the table and making sure to keep the vibrations direct, her cheek pressed to the wood, drool drenching the corner of her lips. You've seen enough dirty shit, done enough kinky stuff. This - this might actually have you dumbfounded: watching her convulse; watching her bring her hand away, just touching. Her cunt's all milky and soft.

"Stay still, sweetheart," you're saying; as if she can move. You're holding her steady by her hips. You're massaging lightly; taking all the rest you can. "That's it, come here, you're so-" and your cock's easing its way out- "fucking."

She gasps when you slip all the way free; your cum slides back down. Sana's languid and fluid, skin sweating, hair everywhere. She's not crying, but it's the closest she's been in ages; the closest, most pure you can get a girl: your cum spilling out and all over you, and you're telling her it's alright, telling her she's gorgeous; saying it's okay she's already stretched herself so thin, exhaustion pooling, seeping out of her mouth, the line of her thighs and-

"Thank you." It's that genuine, melodic cadence, the honesty - it's that the first time she's looking down and she's blinking tears- "Want you to- right here," and she's moving forward, slowly.

You're cupping Sana's thighs before you can even think; lifting, bending them to her chest, her lips bitten, kiss-swollen. Her tongue darts to the corner of her mouth: Sana knows where this is going.

You can taste her. You can taste your own sins - the vanity, the hubris, the glutton, the greed - taste how wet, how flushed. She's putting that expert mouth to good use and keeping quiet again: a pant, a whine, an ahhhh, a whimpered half-curse. Her chest is flushed the prettiest, sweetest, lightest shade of red.

It's too intimate. You could lie in it, keep her warm like this until the very earth rotted. All the rough, dirty things you could do to her; it's almost sacrilegious that this is what brings the closest feeling of bliss, peace.

You don't realize how still everything is, all stilled, until Sana's small, quivering legs hook your shoulders; until the end of her toe brushes the shell of your ear, presses. Her spine arches into your mouth and the scent of her cunt - the taste. You could stay here, in your hands, and take, and - and give it right back: take, take, and take.

You eat her cunt until her voice is wrecked raw, your tongue dragging across her ass, over your lower lip, smearing her slickness, tasting her from your fingertips. She doesn't beg and she doesn't tell you what to do, she just spreads her pussy and rides her clit against your lips, moaning unashamedly as she rocks herself on your face, coming on your tongue in two, three hard, heavy pulses.

"Good fucking-"

"-God," you finish for her, and it's all the most sacred kind of silent. Your face buried back in between her thighs, just breathing. Just loving her, and holding her steady, because aftercare's a bigger part of the game than either of you let on, and you know she's ready and safe in your arms by now.

Sana pants and heaves, eyes shut. Bites her lips red as she smiles. 

The lines of her face relax as if you're soothing her, tucking her in: good job, I've got you. When she isn't such a tender wreck, it'll happen all over again.

-

"You know," you say conversationally to Sana, who's lying in the fetal position at the foot of the bed, "you look cute right now."

It's another day, same time-zone, different house, same game. You've never stopped in your pursuit of what exactly a muse looks like: perfect, empty, caught in the bright white exposure of her hotel room lamp; all hard black-and-white, tonal range; in the scratch of the pen and the haze of the film developing, on the translucent material of the photo you'll print. There's the image, there's her breathing-

(There's all the ones you don't even know you'll find: her belly growing large, skin smoothing with child, a birth, a growth, a transformation; the dreams.)

-she's told you as much, but you can never know for certain if she really, truly- 

"I'm dying," she grumbles. "You fucked me to death."

"You're bad for my ego." You plop down next to her and rub a hand between her shoulder blades. The curve of her back makes your fingers ache and your throat close up. "How do you feel, really."

Sana takes a moment before she replies.

"Hurt," she finally murmurs, quietly. You hum back a soothing noise. "But good. The best. Everything I've always wanted." She pauses. "Also: dead."

"You said that already." You're rolling your eyes, fondly.

She doesn't reply, just pushes herself up, legs crossing, one hip propped up. She's in a hotel bathrobe and she's supposed to be at a runway in an hour. "Hey."

"Yeah?" you're already tilting your head. She's sitting in the middle of the bed now, legs crossed under her; this is definitely a hotel robe, you've never been around her this long. "What's up?"

Sana just tucks her hair back, bares her shoulders and moves the fabric down the curve of her side.

"I told you," she starts, and her teeth snag on her bottom lip, "I think you're good," and she's suddenly shy: this little fuck-off of yours, of yours. "For me."

"You-" you start, and there's a way that things are and you have the gut instinct, the conviction of it, but-

(Then again, a girl with hair the color of a caramel confection and eyes you could be lost in for eons told you the other day without having to say it, eyes widening in the haze and light and gloss, that she could love you forever.)

"Yes," she answers, because it's your question, that slow smile making her features draw inward, the wrinkle of her nose: yes, it's your decision. That she's telling you the truth. "Exactly."

-

Actually, to frame this right, you probably ought to have started with her, at the girl with idyllic, copper-spun hair and a thousand-watt smile. It reads main-character energy from fifty feet away: you should've pulled the curtain back and simply said, meet Minatozaki Sana.

Your significant other, sorta - few people on earth know that, for a lot of reasons, and depending on the day, you can't be entirely sure if she wants it that way or if she'd rather scream it from the rooftops; Sana is - well, it's tricky. She's beautiful in a way you never got to conceptualize before, that nobody probably does. She's magnetic. It's effortless. It's gravity, and it's only natural that you'd always want to pull yourself back to her, to orbit her; she'd ask and you'd die, right? 

She assumes you'll ask to marry her, someday - you're starting to suspect she's probably right.

And there's a pattern of nuance to how you know her, all the definitions of her - you bring her fresh-cut flowers, you call her princess, you fuck her until she begs, you hold her while she rinses her hair in the shower. You run your mouth, you eat her cunt until she can't walk straight. It's a big role, a broad palette to capture.

Sana, in the morning for example: 

Can't drink her coffee black; steals sugar packets from cafes and slips them into her pocket; sleeps so still and so quietly that sometimes it almost scares you, worrying that she’s slipped off into a coma. She likes being doted on, likes getting compliments, likes melting under someone’s full attention as if she's waited for that from you her whole life. She says it directly: listen, okay, don't laugh at me, I get needy.

Or, beneath starlight:

Flitting across hotel balconies, grabbing you by the arm and pulling you into open bars.

She'll buy you a drink and loves when you buy her another, her glass never half-empty. She climbs on top of you and presses her mouth to your ear, sings the song in her head for the next five minutes, hips jolting when she sways a bit too far - a light bulb over a diner counter. Tips the waiter extravagantly, rolls her eyes when you lecture her for spending your money. Smiles at you anyway and takes your hand in hers on the way out the door.

Sana Minatozaki, on herself:

A nightmare. I don’t even know. Seriously. An absolute mess. Completely nuts. (You said you were a 'total fucking catch.') Oh, yeah. I guess that's true too.

-

(Or maybe, Sana, on you:

Well, when you ask on the flight out, she says something sweetly innocuous. When you press her again, she blushes. When she might be feeling especially adoring, she'll look at you and say, with utmost certainty and uncharacteristic lack of sarcasm, 'I mean, it's you. What more can I say?')

[gf2bellamy]

I just want to say that I love all of your fics! They are so sweet and cute and 🥰🥰🥰🥰

Can I please request reader meeting Penelope at like a pottery club or art class or cafe or something and the two of them hit it off and become really good friends and reader mentions that her boyfriend is coming to pick her up and just gushes about how sweet he is and how much she loves him. And then Spencer shows up and Penelope is like “oh my god!!!”

coffee — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: nothing i think a/n: absolutely loved this idea tysm for ur request ! <3

You took the last sip of your coffee, laughing loudly at the story Penelope had just told you.

“I cannot believe you actually said that,” you said, shaking your head in disbelief, still grinning.

Penelope simply shrugged, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Someone had to say it,” she quipped, smirking as she took another sip of her now nearly empty cup.

You had met Penelope purely by accident—a mix-up at the coffee shop when the barista had mistakenly switched your orders. You could have just exchanged cups and gone on with your day, but somehow, the two of you ended up talking. And talking.

One thing led to another, and suddenly, you were sitting together at the same table like old friends.

Now, as you noticed her cup was empty too, you felt reluctant to let the moment end.

“We should do this again,” you said, tilting your head at her.

Penelope’s eyes lit up instantly. “Yes. Yes. Most definitely yes,” she nodded enthusiastically, already reaching across the table for your phone before you could even offer it.

“I’m going out tonight with some friends from work,” she explained as she tapped her number into your contacts. “They’re wonderful people, and we’d have so much fun. You should totally come with.”

She handed your phone back, her enthusiasm contagious. You smiled, appreciating the offer, but you shook your head apologetically as you glanced at your screen.

“Can’t,” you said. “My boyfriend’s picking me up and we're grabbing dinner together.”

At that, Penelope’s brows arched with intrigue. “Boyfriend?” she echoed, her smirk returning.

You nodded, feeling warmth creep into your cheeks. “Yeah.”

Her grin widened as she leaned in slightly. “And? Tell me about this mystery man.”

You laughed softly at her curiosity, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Well… he’s kind of the sweetest person I know,” you admitted, a soft smile tugging at your lips. “Like, the kind of person who remembers all the little things—my favorite snacks, the way I take my coffee, even the books I say I want to read but never get around to.”

Penelope let out a dreamy sigh. “Okay, I love this already. Keep going.”

You chuckled, shaking your head. “He’s ridiculously smart, but he doesn’t act like he knows everything. He’s just… thoughtful, in a way that sneaks up on you.” You glanced at your phone again, checking the time. “Like, this morning, he woke me up with pancakes. He burned the edges a little, but he still insisted on making them.”

Penelope gasped dramatically. “Okay, I’m officially obsessed with him. He sounds like a dream.”

You laughed, nodding. “He really is.”

Before Penelope could press for more details, your phone buzzed in your hand. You glanced down at the screen, your heart skipping a beat at the name flashing across it. “That’s him,” you said with a grin, slipping your phone into your pocket.

Penelope’s smirk grew as she crossed her arms. “Well, now I have to meet this perfect man of yours.”

You huffed a small laugh. “Yeah,” you admitted, checking the time. “He should be outside right about now.”

And with that, the two of you stood up, walking out of the coffee shop together.

There he was—Spencer—standing just outside with his back to you, hands casually tucked into his pockets. The familiar sight of him sent a warm flutter through your chest.

“Spencer,” you called softly, excitement bubbling in your voice as you walked toward him, a wide smile spreading across your face.

He turned at the sound of your voice, his own smile instinctive—warm, genuine. But then, just as quickly as it appeared, his expression faltered. His shoulders stiffened, his smile slipping away.

Your steps slowed. “What?” you asked, brow furrowing, your arms—once ready to wrap around him—now hanging uselessly at your sides.

His gaze wasn’t on you. It was locked onto Penelope.

The two of them stood there, staring at each other, and the atmosphere shifted dramatically. Spencer wore a shocked and worried expression, while Penelope’s face was a mask of smug satisfaction.

“Uh…” you said, glancing back and forth between them, trying to decipher the sudden tension. “Spencer, this is Penelope. I met her at the coffee shop today. And Penelope, this is Spencer, my boyfriend.” You lightly touched his arm, hoping to draw his attention back to you.

And then—

“Oh my god,” Penelope suddenly squealed, her eyes practically glowing with excitement.

You turned to her, utterly bewildered.

“Spencer Reid,” she announced dramatically, planting her hands on her hips. “How dare you hide this from me?”

Spencer, whose face had somehow turned even redder, mumbled something under his breath that you didn’t quite catch.

Penelope, however, was having none of it. She spun toward you, pointing at him. “This?! This is your boyfriend?”

“…Yes?” you said slowly, the confusion growing.

She gasped, clutching her chest as if she had just heard the most scandalous news. “The Spencer Reid you’ve been gushing about? The one who makes you pancakes and remembers every single detail about you ?”

Your mouth opened slightly as realization dawned. “Wait. You know Spencer?”

“Oh, honey.” Penelope let out an exaggerated sigh. “Know him? I work with him. He is my Spencer.”

You blinked. “Your Spencer?”

Spencer finally let out a groan, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Garcia…”

“Reid,” she shot back with a gleeful grin.

You took a step back, looking between them, still processing. “Wait, you’re Garcia?”

Penelope gasped again, looking mock-offended. “He didn’t tell you my name? I thought we were friends now!”

Spencer rubbed his temple. “I didn’t think—”

“You didn’t think?” she interrupted, feigning shock. “Did you not think I would love her?”

He sighed, defeated.

You, meanwhile, had fully shifted from confusion to amusement, the situation far funnier now that you understood. “In his defense, I only knew you as ‘Garcia.’”

“Well, that changes now!” Penelope declared, looping her arm through yours as if you had been best friends for years. “Come on, we have so much to talk about.”

Spencer sighed again, but there was a small, fond smile pulling at his lips as he watched you two.

[gravegoer]

sevika, grayson and ambessa cuddling hcs 🥹🥹 i love them

Cuddling the butches -`✮´-

thank you for the ask, anon. heres some sevika , grayson , and ambessa because the last fic a while ago got a lot of love (rightfully so) <3 !!!

more of them , masterlist

Ambessa loves being the big spoon, pressed up behind you with one of her thick arms under your head, the other grabbing at your torso.

It's calming for you both when you trace over the scars on her arm under your head, leaving small kisses trailing after your fingers. She shows her appreciation by returning the favor and running her hands under your shirt to trail up your stomach.

If you grew ticklish at your touch, she would reluctantly stop, punctuating her actions with a kiss to the shell of your ear.

Sometimes, you would roll over to lay on her chest, her back now against the bed and her arm over your shoulders.

This way, she could see your face and admire your features with a smirk. Loving the way you look up at her with sleepy eyes and a smile gracing your lips.

Her chest was thick and comfortable to lay on, hearing her heavy heartbeat in your ear. This was one of your favorite sounds, and did its job at lulling you to sleep.

These were just your activities before you fell asleep, but once you do thats when the fun begins..

She was unusually hot when she slept (not just temperature wise). Sometimes, you'd have to throw the blankets off you both in the middle of the night just for some freedom.

And the fact that she is as close as possible to you doesn't help either. But on cold nights, you appreciated it, snuggling your face closer into her arms to feel the heat.

Her snores were deep and loud. That woman is always in a deep DEEP sleep. Sometimes, it woke you up, but you didn't mind. It just gave you more time to relish being in her arms.

Sevika is just a big softie, she wont admit it in words, but she loves being little spoon.

You definitely have to stretch your limbs a bit to wrap around her frame, but it's okay. it's for her. Usually, you can wrap your legs around her waist and hold her shoulders. She feels safe.

Sometimes she will turn around and put her face in your chest so that she doesnt have to face the world (just your tits).

She likes to inhale your scent and hear your heartbeat, and it makes it easier for you to stroke her hair and hum to her.

In that position she has her thick arm wrapped around your waist, holding you to the bed. (God knows she only needs one thats why she was nerfed)

She doesn't wear her mechanical arm to bed most of the time in fear of hurting you or crushing you with it.

But sometimes she will be lazy and just throw a pillow around her metal arm so that she can hold you still.

If you had a bad day, she insists you lay in her lap, face in her stomach while she smokes a cigarillo.

To add to that, have you seen her thighs? You fall asleep instantly due to comfort. And shes not complaining.

And if you are really sleepy, she will carry you around the house with one arm whilst doing her daily tasks. (Have you seen her wrangle isha with one arm?)

If she needs to step away for a second, she sits you on the counter, leaving you to huff at her absence before immediately picking you back up again.

Grayson is definitely the type of person to like the weight of someone's body on top of hers.

Just lay on her, legs on both sides of her hips and arms around her neck. She doesn't need a weighted blanket while you're sleeping over.

It's also easy to plant kisses on her neck and jaw, soothing her to sleep.

She also has a bunch of pillows, and you both wake up with them all over the floor (you might also be on the floor)

She is tossing in turning in her sleep every night. She was born this way, and if you do it too then you might be kick boxing eachother in your sleep.

Also, she will let you sit on her back while she lies on her stomach, pressing at her tense muscles and running your fingers through the hair at the nape of her neck.

When you are having a hard time falling asleep, she will soothe you with her husky/gravelly voice right in your ear. You can feel her hot breath on the side of your face while she whispers sweet nothings to you.

I know she's a dream to wake up to, her hair sprawled out all over the pillow and skin illuminated by the sun rise (NEED THAT).

When you wear her clothes to sleep, beware because you might not be sleeping for the next hour (that probably goes for everyone on this list..)

And her gun is always at her bedside. She is strapped and ready to protect you.

i know i said im on hiatus but shh...im posting drafts... i swear

[etherealmelodys]

Kang Dae-Ho

NSFW ALPHABET

A - Aftercare (What they’re like after sex)

Have yall seen how this man acted in the show? He’d definitely be a master at aftercare. Thanking you for allowing yourself to be at your most vulnerable with him, making sure you’re not in any pain, hot bath, whatever you wanted this man would do it for you asap. And trust when he’s done making sure you’re okay? Immediate cuddles and praise.

B - Body Part (Their favorite body part on you and themselves)

I feel like for Dae-Ho, his arms or hands would be his favorite body part. The arms he uses to cradle you in your most intimate and vulnerable moments, keeping you safe at all times. His hands are so much bigger than yours as well, always making you feel so so good. For his partner, I don’t think he’d have a specific body part he likes about you more than the others. Everything about you is perfect, so why should he have to choose one thing?

C - Cum (Anything to do with cum)

He’s definitely a big fan of cumming inside you. He sees it as a way to be more intimate and closer to you. If you’re not a fan of that, he’s always down to cum on your stomach and thighs. The way the milky substance coats your abdomen and thighs really gets him going.

D - Dirty Secret ( Self-explanatory)

He’s really into you taking the more dominant role in the bed room. It’s not that he himself doesn’t like to, but the thought of you bossing him around and using him for your pleasure really gets him hard.

E - Experience (How experienced are they?)

I think he’s relatively experienced, not as experienced as someone like Thanos, but he knows what he has to do to get you to cum as much as he’d like.

F - Favorite Position (What positions do they like the most?)

He’s definitely the type to love any position that gives him a good view of all of you, and welcomes as much eye contact as he can get. The best for these would be missionary, rocking horse, or the happy scissor.

G - Goofy (How serious are they in the moment? Do they tease you?)

Dae-Ho would try to be as serious as possible during the act. He sees it as one of the most intimate acts you can have with another person, and he wouldn’t want you to think he doesn’t take it seriously, or you serious. Now if his partner is more playful during the act? He’s all for it.

H - Hair (What’s the hair situation down there)

This might be me being bias, but I think he has quite a bit of hair down there. Now it’s not a jungle mind you, but he just doesn’t feel the need to go bald when nobody’s complained about it before. For his partner he does not care at all. You could be as bald as a Siamese or as hairy as a rainforest, he still gon eat!

I - intimacy (How romantic are they in the moment?)

I feel like regardless of his mood, he’s always going to bring that romantic energy. Whispering praises in your ear while he slowly thrusts up into you, holding you so close to him to the point you can feel each other’s heart beats.

J - Jack Off (How often do they touch themselves?)

If he’s with somebody, he definitely jacks off more than he would if he was single. Just the thought of you gets him so hard and whiny, he never feels the need to jerk off to porn or anything like that when he has you.

K - Kinks (What are their kinks?)

He definitely doesn’t have any crazy kinks, he’s pretty vanilla. Praise, overstimulation, and hair pulling, while be it lightly, are his major ones, he’s not a fan of anything that could harm you in any aspect.

L - Location (Where do they prefer to have sex?)

He’s not into anywhere public, he’s too nervous about potentially getting caught, most importantly anyone seeing you that vulnerable. The bedroom is where he’s the most comfortable at, but anywhere ranging the shower or couch is fair game too.

M - Motivation (What turns them on?)

Just seeing you in general gets him going. Whether you just got off of work, sweaty and exhausted from the days events, or if you just woke up in the morning, bed head and all groggy. He thinks you look sexy no matter what state you’re in.

N - No (What are some things they’ll never do?)

He would never do anything to intentionally hurt or degrade you. Being raised with sisters really instilled his respect for women. Degrading, choking, anything similar to that is out of the question.

O - Oral (How do they feel about oral? Do they prefer giving or receiving?)

He definitely prefers giving to receiving. While he loves the sight of you on your knees gagging on his dick, what he loves even more is the sight of your arched back and fucked out face as he licks and sucks at your clit for hours. He’s definitely a service top, putting your pleasure above his own.

P - Pace (How fast/slow are they?)

He definitely prefers a slow and sensual pace compared to a faster one. He just loves the face you make, one of pure bliss feeling him slowly fill you up and pull himself back out again, the way you look at him as if he hung the stars in the sky, and the way you thank him for making you feel so good.

Q - Quickie (How do they feel about quickies?)

He’s not the biggest fan of quickies, he prefers to take his time with you and wants to make sure you feel good to the fullest potential. But if you’re desperate and beg him for it? Who is he to deny you.

R - Risk (How willing are they to experiment? Do they take any risks?)

Like I said before, he’s not a big fan of taking risks, or anything that might get you caught. He is however game to experiment in the bed room, but he’ll never initiate it himself, you’ll have to do that.

S - Stamina (How many rounds can they do? How long can they go for?)

Due to him being an ex-marine, I think his stamina would be extremely good, at least above average. Expect him to do at most 2-3 rounds before he starts to get tired. But before he does, it’s always his top priority to make you cum as many times as you can handle.

T - Toys (Do they have any toys? Are they willing to use any?)

I don’t think he has any of his own toys, but he’d always be down to experiment with the ones you have. He wouldn’t go out of his way to purchase any, especially for himself seeing that he has you already, so what’s the point?

U - Unfair (Do they tease you? How unfair are they in the bedroom?)

Just a tad bit, he loves you too much to do it excessively, but that doesn’t mean he won’t do it at all. Just when you guys are in a more playful mood does he really get into the role of teasing.

V - Volume (How loud are they?)

He’s fairly loud, he doesn’t do a lot of grunting, mainly whining and moaning. He’s always encouraging you to be as loud as you want as well, telling you the sounds you make are so pretty, telling you how it makes him wanna fuck you for even longer just to hear more of you.

W - Weird Fact (Self-explanatory)

He’d definitely want to try pegging, just once to see if he really is into it. But only with a partner he’s been with for quite a while.

X - X Ray (What’s it looking like in those pants.)

Dae-Ho is around 5’11-6’0 tall, and he’s quite beefy. He’s definitely above average, but he’s not huge. I’d say he’s around 6.5 inches, considering the average size in Korea is 5.3 inches. His tip is definitely a reddish pink color, about #EE9B9D, with a slight curve to the left. He had a few veins running along his shaft, noticeably a thicker one on the underside of it.

Y - Yearning (How high is their sex drive? How often do they have sex?)

He doesn’t have a super high drive, it’s about average, about every other day. He’d prefer doing other intimate acts with you, such as cuddling, watching a movie together, or just being around you in general in a non-sexual context

Z - Zzz (How fast do they fall asleep after sex?)

He usually falls asleep after a little bit of pillow talk, and of course making sure you’re comfortable and content with his performance in bed. He’d only be able to rest after making sure you’re fulfilled

(Thank you guys sm for waiting on this, I lwk fell asleep due to being sick half way through but I pulled through! This will be my first fic on this app so enjoy😼)

[koyagifs]

𝓶𝓮 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓶𝔂 𝔀𝓲𝓯𝓮

pairing: mingi x reader au: idol | established relationship| genre: fluff word count: 1.3 k synopsis: yn this. yn that. my wife, yn. it’s all mingi can say since your wedding warning(s): fluff, sweet tooth rotting - literally will get cavities. suggestive content.

Mingi’s love for Yn is absolutely infectious! He wears his wedding ring like a badge of honor, never hesitating to show it off. During interviews, the second someone even vaguely mentions Yn, he lights up like the sun, his words spilling out in a stream of affectionate praise and stories.

Valentine's Day was just around the corner, and for Mingi, it wasn’t a source of stress but pure excitement. He had everything planned down to the tiniest detail, ready to make your first Valentine’s Day as husband and wife unforgettable.

Mingi’s smile widened as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes, his heart already melting at the sight of you. There you were, balancing a tray of food, his shirt hanging loosely off your figure, the fabric far too big but somehow looking perfect on you.

You moved with deliberate slowness, your hips swaying with each step, a playful glint in your eyes as you approached. The way you walked—like a mischievous cat, graceful yet undeniably teasing—had Mingi’s attention locked on you.

“Good morning, Mr. Song,” you purred, your tone light and flirtatious as you placed the tray down on the bedside table.

Mingi chuckled, his voice deep and warm, still laced with the remnants of sleep. “Good morning, Mrs. Song. You trying to kill me this early?”

You smirked, leaning closer until your face was just inches from his, your hair brushing against his cheek. “Just wanted to make sure you woke up properly.”

Mingi reached out, his large hands finding your waist and pulling you onto the bed in one smooth motion. You let out a surprised laugh as you landed beside him, the tray momentarily forgotten as his arms wrapped around you.

“Well, good job,” he murmured, his voice dropping an octave as his gaze met yours. “I’m definitely awake now.”

You smiled, leaning in and placing your lips onto Mingi’s, the warmth of the kiss spreading through both of you like a soft, glowing fire. His hands tightened slightly on your waist, pulling you even closer as he deepened the kiss, savoring every second of it.

The breakfast was long forgotten as the moment grew more intense, the playful teasing from earlier replaced with a slow, burning passion. Mingi’s hands roamed over your back, his touch firm yet gentle, as if he couldn’t get enough of you.

With a soft tug, he lifted his shirt off you, letting it slip away as his eyes took in every inch of you. His gaze was filled with a mix of awe and affection, and he let out a breathy laugh. “You’re stunning, you know that?”

Your cheeks flushed under his intense gaze, but before you could respond, he pulled you back into him, his lips finding yours again, more fervent this time. His hands trailed over your skin, igniting sparks wherever they touched, and you couldn’t help but get lost in him.

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” he whispered against your lips, his voice low and full of emotion, as if those three words carried everything he couldn’t quite express.

Finally pulling yourselves away from the warmth of the bed, you headed to the shower, leaving Mingi to get dressed. He stretched lazily, still grinning to himself as the events of the morning replayed in his mind.

Once dressed, Mingi quietly made his way to the closet, where he had carefully stashed your Valentine’s Day gifts. He opened the door with a soft creak, revealing the neatly wrapped presents and a bouquet of your favorite flowers. He smiled to himself, proud of the effort he’d put into making this day special.

Carrying everything to the dining room table, he arranged the gifts thoughtfully, making sure they looked just right. The bouquet took center stage, set in a vase he’d picked out especially for the occasion, while the gifts were placed around it like a little display of his love for you.

As he stepped back to admire his work, Mingi couldn’t help but imagine your reaction. Would you laugh? Cry? Either way, he hoped you’d feel just how much he adored you.

Hearing the water turn off in the bathroom, Mingi quickly made his way to the kitchen to prepare some drinks to go with breakfast. He wanted everything to be perfect when you walked in, fresh from your shower, to see the surprise he’d put together.

When you stepped into the dining room, your smile was already wide as you spotted Mingi, but it only grew when you saw the effort he had put into the display. The bouquet of your favorite flowers, the carefully wrapped gifts, and the thoughtful arrangement on the table made your heart flutter.

A soft gasp escaped your lips as you took it all in, your eyes flicking back to Mingi, who was watching you with an almost boyish grin. “Mingi,” you breathed, stepping closer, “this is beautiful.”

He shrugged casually, but the proud sparkle in his eyes gave him away. “I just wanted to make our first Valentine’s Day as husband and wife special. Do you like it?”

“Like it?” you repeated, laughing softly as you moved to hug him, still holding your gift behind your back. “I love it. You always outdo yourself, you know that?”

Mingi wrapped his arms around you, holding you close for a moment before pulling back slightly, his curiosity piqued. “What are you hiding back there?”

You smirked, taking a step back and slowly revealing the gift you had tucked behind you. “This is for you,” you said, handing him the neatly wrapped box.

Mingi’s eyes widened with surprise and excitement as he took the gift from your hands. “You didn’t have to—”

“Of course I did,” you interrupted, playfully tapping his chest. “Now, go ahead and open it!”

Mingi took the bag with trembling hands, settling into a chair at the table as he carefully removed the tissue paper. His movements slowed when his fingers brushed against the soft fabric inside. Pulling it out, he revealed a tiny onesie.

His eyes immediately filled with tears, his gaze darting between the tiny outfit and you, as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. His lips parted, but no words came out—just a sharp, shaky breath as he tried to process the moment.

"Are you serious?" Mingi asked, his voice cracking slightly, a mix of disbelief and joy flooding through him.

You nodded your head, a soft smile on your lips as you gently reached for his hand. Placing it carefully on your stomach, you watched his reaction closely, feeling your heart swell as his fingers brushed the soft fabric of your clothes, realizing the truth for himself.

Mingi froze for a moment, his hand trembling against your belly. He looked up at you, his eyes wide, as if searching for confirmation. “You’re really…?”

Without warning, Mingi scooped you up in his arms, his face lighting up with joy as he spun you around the room, laughing in disbelief. Your laughter echoed through the room, a mixture of pure joy and excitement, as he twirled you effortlessly, his happiness radiating with every movement.

“Oh my god!” he exclaimed between laughs, holding you tight. “This is happening! We’re going to be parents!”

You clung to him, still laughing, feeling your heart swell as his joy became infectious. “We’re going to be a family, Mingi,” you said, breathless from the spin.

He set you down gently, his hands still resting on your waist as he gazed down at you with a look of pure adoration. His voice was thick with emotion, barely above a whisper. “I can’t believe it. I can’t believe we’re going to have a little one. I’m going to be a dad. You’re going to be the mom of our baby. I’m… so happy.”

You smiled, your eyes misting over as you cupped his face. “And we’ll be amazing parents together. I know it.”

Mingi’s smile softened, his eyes tender as he kissed your forehead. “I promise you, we will be. I’ll give everything to make sure they know how loved they are… just like you are.”

And in that moment, as you both stood there in each other's arms, enjoying each others presences.

[hufflezki]

summary: remus thinks you're way out of his league. but, to his own surprise, you're here to prove him wrong.

-> remus lupin x gn!reader, just remus yearning & pining, swearing (because, cmon, its remus), inspired by role model's song (with the same name), word count: 1,503

Remus first met you during one of his Herbology classes. Where you helped him with his trouble with the Venomous Tentacula plants. The teethy little bastards annoyed him to no extent—his words—but you had come to his aid and stunned them every time they tried to bite him. He really wanted to make it up to you then, but you insisted. And you never really crossed paths again.

Until James barged into their common room, with you following behind him. Remus noticed you immediately and his breath caught. Turns out James knew you, he had for a while. Ever since he was paired with you for a Charms homework. And you have apparently taught him how to make a flower crown. Which was why James traveled from the courtyard to his common room, just to show his friends the ones you both made.

Remus didn't exactly know how they got you to start hanging out with them. One day you just sat next to them during lunch, and now they’re adding you to every weekend plans that they have. Remus’ friends accepted your addition to the group as if it was just any other day. But for him, it felt quite a lot.

Not to sound like he doesn't like you, it's actually quite the opposite.

Remus could go on with a list about why you're the sweetest person he has ever met. But that’d be never ending, which is probably why he’s in his bed right now, moping to himself about why you just have to be so out of his league. And this was purely coming from after he saw you interacting with Amos Diggory. Even though he probably just asked you a question. Remus shivers at the thought, embarrassed by his own jealousy. He was barely even eating the chocolate you’d given him this morning, having lost the appetite.

Merlin, how did you get him to act like this? He wasn't even supposed to be this miserable so early in the month. And yet here he was curled up in his bed, hiding himself under his blanket, as he let his guilt eat him up. You did look comfortable talking to Amos, though. He wonders if you ever looked at him that way too. If you feel comfortable talking to him at all.

A whine emits from the back of his throat, as he buries his face on his pillows. He was fucked, definitely fucked. You’re too good for him, you deserve someone better. But then he didn't like the image of seeing you with somebody else. So what the fuck is wrong with him?

“Remus? Hey, Moons.” He hears James’ voice as he comes in, closing the door behind him. The curly haired boy comes into Remus’ view with a wide smile, which falters when he sees his friend looking like.. shit. “Woah, what’s gotten into you?” James sits down next to him, eyebrows furrowed, worried. Remus sighs, his mood completely shifted now that James is here. After all, it's hard to wallow in your self-pity when you’ve got company.

“Nothing, I just woke up. What’d you need?”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, James, I am quite certain.” Remus presses on, and James lifts his hands up in mock surrender. So, he starts talking about how he’s playing a board game with Sirius and Peter downstairs, and asks Remus if he wants to join. Which he originally said no to, but then James mentioned you’re also downstairs. So, now Remus is making his way down to the common room, following James’ steps.

Did he just spend the last couple of minutes crying about you? Yes.

Was he about to miss an opportunity to be with you? No.

Is he pathetic and a coward? Yes. Abso-fucking-lutely.

And turns out, the only way out of his miserable, depressing, and guilty state is you. You and the sweater you're wearing, that looks oddly similar to his. “Hi, Remus.” You smile once you see him—and it's so bright you might as well put the sun into shame—and he sits down next to you on the sofa.

You must’ve sensed that something's up with him, as you immediately rest your head on his shoulder. And he welcomes it, completely melting once you’re in near proximity. You don’t talk, you don't ask him any questions, you just sit there and offer him your comfort—silently. And maybe that’s just what Remus needs. A moment where he could turn his mind off, and don't let his thoughts consume him.

In a span of an hour, you managed to convince Remus to walk outside. And maybe it's just him trying to distract himself, but he’s pretty sure you might have Legilimency. Because why else would you take him to the Black Lake to see the sunset? If you didn’t know, he felt absolutely horrible? But, on a more serious note, you’ve always been spontaneous. And he likes that about you. Especially, when you pay attention to him so much that you know when things start to feel off.

Things like this, it makes him think if he really does have a chance with you or not.

“This is yours, by the way.” You admit, pulling on his sweater that you’re wearing while looking up at him, expectantly. And his eyes widened. “How?” He seems much more amused than you expected. “I was cold earlier, and this was the first thing Sirius gave me.” Remus raises his brow at the mention of Sirius’ name. “I asked him where he got it, and he said you let him borrow it.” Then you let out a laugh, finding it ridiculous. “Which I was suspicious about, but I didn’t ask him again.”

Fuck, Remus knew exactly why Sirius gave his sweater specifically to you.

“Looks like I have to talk to him about stealing my things.” You smile, glancing up at him and then down on the ground. He watches you kick a few pebbles to the lake, as a comfortable silence falls into you both. Then you say his name, and he hums, meeting your gaze once again.

“If you ever need someone to talk to, I’m here.” It's sudden, and he doesn't exactly know where it came from, but Remus appreciates your sentiment. More than so, when he finds your hand inching closer to his. And he’s never been brave enough to initiate the first move, yet here is, intertwining his hand with yours.

“Is this alright?” Remus whispers, voice coated with uncertainty. He’s already bracing himself to pull away, expecting the worst. But you tighten your hold, pulling him closer to you. “More than alright.” You assure him, lifting the weight off his shoulders. And he thinks this is the most convinced he’s been that he might have a chance with you. Because, all this time—as pathetic as it sounded—he would only wish for something to happen.

So, what if he did sneak into the Divination classroom, and tried to look into a crystal ball to see if there’s a future with the both of you together? He was desperate! Okay? He wouldn't have done it if it wasn't for the nagging voice inside his mind.

But it seems that he no longer has to come up with such desperate measures. As the universe presents with something more interesting. “Can I tell you something, Remus?” You ask, and he nods his head in response.

“I’ve liked you for so long. And this isn't exactly how I imagined I’d tell you–”

“You like me?”

He didn't really mean to interrupt you, but his mind may have short circuited the moment he heard the words ‘I like you’ . You look at him, baffled as to why he’s acting like this is a new discovery. Which it is, for him.

“Wait. You didn't know?” He shakes his head, and you cover your mouth in surprise. “How come? I thought I’d made it so obvious?” You really did think so. I mean, you’re wearing his sweater for Merlin’s sake! But, typical Remus, he’d rather assume the worst than ever think you had the same intentions as him.

“There might’ve been, uhm, some slight issues with the transmission, perhaps?”

“You mean you really didn't have a clue?” He nods his head, and you can't help the sudden laugh that comes out of you. “Did you tell James or Sirius?” Remus asks, and you nod your head. “I told both of them.” He gawks at you, before looking away to run a hand through his hair, currently in distress.

“Is that bad? That I only found out about it now?” You shake your head, things were already going the different direction, anyway.

“No, not at all.”

Maybe this isn't how the both of you expected for things to go. Remus thought you’d never like him back, but here he is pulling you closer after you just told him otherwise. And he felt the strong urge to really make it up to you this time.

marauders era masterlist ꩜ .ᐟ

[gojosatoruhumper]

Don’t leave me behind | Yeon Si-eun x reader

Summary: what if Y/n was the one that got hit by the truck instead of Si-eun?

Warnings: kind of angsty, comforting fluff

WC:1.7k

Notes: I think it is a little rushed, but I already got a better idea in mind, ill try to upload it as soon as I can

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

You and Yeon Si-eun have been friends for a little while now. You are Su-ho’s sister, always been close with him. Although you were only a year younger than them, Su-ho always tagged you along with Si-eun and Beom-seok.

You were shy around them at first but grew close to them, especially Si-eun. You could see right through him - he really needed a hug and someone that cares about him.

Su-ho would always tease Si-eun about you, telling him to not hurt you and always take care of you, even calling him brother in law to piss him off even further.

At first he hated the constant teasing, but soon realised maybe he did care a lot more about you than he should have.

At first it started with lingering stares that lasted a little too long, then studying sessions with him when you couldn’t understand certain subjects because Su-ho wouldn’t been much help.

He didn’t show it directly but he really did like helping you, quiet time together and you two being so close together when he explained the questions.

Sometimes when his dad wasn’t home you would cook him food as a thank you, inviting Su-ho from time to time.

And sometimes when he was focused on his own work he would suddenly hear your breathing change - you would fall asleep. At moments like these he would gently tuck you into his own bed, texting your brother you fell asleep and would be staying the night. He wouldn���t admit it to himself, but he would definitely crack a smile at the sight of you, peacefully sleeping in his bed.

You always felt bad when you would wake up in his comfy and warm bed while he slept on the couch.

You would always scold them for getting into fights, helping them with the wounds, cuts and bruises. You would always feel sorry for them. But never Beom-seok. As well as you could see right through Si-eun, you always had a gut feeling Beom-seok wasn’t as nice.

And after the incident, you broke. After you heard what happened to Su-ho you ran straight to the hospital.

You opened the door, tears already falling down your cheeks. Si-eun was already sitting there, you could see how broken he was.

He almost thought you were gonna be mad at him, for not coming to him in time. But how could you be mad at him?

He stood up, now fully facing you as you walked over to him, sobbing.

“Y/n” he said just above a whisper “I’m sorry” he felt his eyes watering, a hot tear streaming down his cheek.

You looked up at him, “Si-eun why are you sorry?” “None of this is your fault” you continued crying, suddenly feeling warm hands around you. “He’s going to be okay” he tried to reassure you, not even sure himself if his friend will really be okay.

You both stayed the night at the hospital, you falling asleep on Si-eun, staining his shirt with your tears. He woke up before you, slowly getting up and putting his blazer on you. Even with your eyes closed he could see how swollen and puffy they were from crying.

As he stood beside you, he gently brushed your hair out of your face with his delicate fingers, observing you. He always has been an observer.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

And well after him beating up Woo-young and Beom-seok, he needed to move to Eunjang high school. In his mind he did that for Su-ho and you. You cried in his arms once again. And he let you.

Eunjang was further away from your current school, which is closer to Si-eun’s old one. But that didn’t stop you from visiting him as often as you could. Sometimes even taking a taxi to his home late at night when he couldn’t fall asleep.

The sleeping pills didn’t work, but you sleeping next to him did. You started seeing him more than a friend a while ago, but never saying anything since you didn’t want to ruin the friendship you had.

You could see that Si-eun was still having a hard time in school, getting into fights again. You would always patch him up, like you used to.

His mom didn’t mind having you around, she could see you had a good impact on her son. When Si-eun’s friends spotted you two together walking home, the teasing started all over again.

Si-eun never stopped blaming himself for what happened, but you always reassured him it was most certainly not his fault.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

It was late already and you were heading home, worried about Si-eun. He told you what has been happening in school and it made you so anxious. You felt your phone buzz, picking it up.

“Hello, is this Y/n, Ahn Su-ho’s sister?” you were confused for a second. “Yes?” you answered, eager to get home faster so you could go check up on Si-eun.

“Im calling from Sungang University hospital, i couldn’t reach anyone else but you, your brother is in critical condition, is there anyone who could come right away?” You stood in the middle of the crosswalk, frozen.

You felt tears swelling up “..huh?” you said, still frozen in shock as you look up to a truck driving. Everything went black.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

Si-eun got the heart wrenching phone call. You were in the hospital, Su-ho in critical condition. He dropped everything he was doing, not waisting any time, running as fast as his legs could go. He couldn’t lose you as well. He wouldn’t ever forgive himself.

As he stepped into your room, machines connected to your body, he was fuming with anger. Angry with himself, if he was there, with you this wouldn’t have happened.

He checked up on you and Su-ho, and finding out Su-ho was doing better he went back to your room. He stayed there by your side till morning, falling asleep to the beeping sounds.

You were moved to another room in the morning, only an oxygen mask and a heart monitor connected now. Hu-min, Hyun-tak, Jun-tae as well as your grandmother came in to check on you during the day. Si-eun needed to go back to deal with Beak-jin but he couldn’t bring himself to leave you like this.

The sun started to go down and he was still worried as ever. His eyes were on you, all day and night.

He was now alone with his thoughts, thinking about all the times you were there for him. He couldn’t thank you enough for that. He felt guilty for putting you through so much worry, you always checking up on him, always coming over to cheer him up the best you could.

He felt you shift on the bed, hand reaching for the mask on your face, trying to take it off. Your eyes landed on Si-eun, not even thinking you started smiling to yourself, he really cares about you, doesn’t he? He stood up.

Suddenly your smile dropped as a sat up, stinging pain appearing in your head. You whined at the pain. “Y/n, lay down” he said, but you didn’t move. “Is he okay..?” you asked with furred eyebrows, eyes looking at Si-eun with concern. “He’s okay now, don’t worry” he somewhat smiled at you.

You loved it when he smiled at you, it showed how he cared about you. And right now he looked so cute with messy hair, standing and looking at you.

But suddenly you can see tears prickling at the corner of his eyes as he watched you. “huh, Si-eun is everything okay?” you asked. “Y/n I can’t lose you, not after what happened to Su-ho” he sat down, looking at your expression.

You didn’t want him to worry about you, he already worried about enough things, you couldn’t make it even harder for him than it already is.

“Si-eun” you spoke, throat dry. “Hm?” he replied, raising and eyebrow. “Come here” you said, moving more to the edge so there was somewhat space in this small bed.

He stood there for a second. “I said come here, please?” you asked. He slowly got in bed with you, looking at your delicate face. “Si-eun I’m fine, nothing will happen to me” you explained, knowing he probably was blaming himself for what happened to you.

Your faces so close you could hear his light breathing. You reached your hand to his face, brushing his bangs from his eyes. “Si-eun did you know how pretty you are” you say, barely awake, whole body aching, your hand going back to your side.

He stiffened in shock, not knowing what to do, he never really knew what to say in situations like these. He didn’t know what to say, but he knew what to do. His hand was on your cheek, caressing it, slowly bringing his face to yours, just millimetres away.

Your heart was beating now faster, the beeping on the screen going faster, making you a bit embarrassed. He closed the gap, his chapped lips coming in contact with yours.

You both broke the kiss, him surprised at his actions. You smiled at him, bringing him closer, hugging him and resting your head on his chest. “Can you please stay with me for tonight?” you asked, now eyes closed.

He relaxed a bit, not replying. “Y/n..” he said, looking up at the ceiling, bringing his hand over your torso, hugging you lightly. “Hm?” you hummed, listening to his heart beat.

“I think.. I think I’m in love with you” he said, cracking the smallest smile, you couldn’t see it, but you could tell by the way he said it.

You stiffened up, but relaxing seconds later, hugging him harder. “I love you too, Si-eun” you replied, almost in a whisper. “Please never scare me like this again” he asked, closing his eyes and bringing you even closer to him, hugging you harder, like he never wanted to let go and protect you from all the horrors in this world.

[coldilikeit]

Isekai reader x Batfam (Neglected au)

Female reader

Prologue- Dead mom

______________________________

You woke up as a baby, daughter of a waitress and some unknown guy, your grandmother (mom's mom) kept telling you that you were weighing her daughter's life down, whatever, that old hag died a few months after you were born

It was bad enough that you were born poor, it's the fact that you were born poor in GOTHAM

Fake Mom was a waitress and she worked with a catering job, at one of her jobs, at a charity gala with some rich people, she had sex with a rich dude there, she didn't know she was pregnant and you were a surprise

But it didn't matter, you were hers and she loved you, she didn't have much to give you because you were poor, but what little thing she had, she gave to you

That meant nothing to you, she wasn't your actual mom, your real mom had a nice crib for you to sleep in, not some moldy probably a 4th hand one, your real mom took time off her work to properly take care of you, not put you in a baby carrier and bring you to jobs like cashier, janitress and other stuff

She wasn't your actual mom.

You didn't care, you're not supposed to care.

You were merely 6 months old, at your crib, you were trying to sleep, key word. Try, but your fake mom's cries were too loud, you didn't understand her anguish, it was just a fever, you've had fevers before, why is your fake mom freaking out about your fever now

"I'm so sorry my baby... Mommy can't afford to buy the medicine-" she stops as she hears your heavy breathing, you are struggling to breathe "mommy is very selfish... If I gave you to your dad, he could get you the medicine, maybe you wouldn't get sick at all- but that would mean you are away from mommy- I'm really sorry baby.... I'll work harder"

She took a wet cloth and placed it on your forehead, she hung her head low and cried

You thought she was being dramatic, all this crying for a fever?

______________________________

Now you're 6, you don't know if fake mommy is stupid or what but there's no light and the electric fan stopped spinning, there was only one fan in your apartment, did she forget to pay the electric bill or... Did you guys not have enough money, you can't ask her that because fake mommy is at work, who leaves a 6 year old at home!?

If fake mommy can't pay, you'll do something about it, you were not going to spend a hot night without a fan, you go to explore and you grab some wild flowers off the streets and tie them with long leaves, then you sell

You forgot to leave a note.

When you get home, there's cops, your fake mom is crying and she sees you, she runs to hug "God! (Name) Where did- did you go, I- was so worried!" She cried and sobbed, the cops went away after some time

You hand her 12 dollars "I sold flowers, 2 dollars a bouquet, the lights went out, so I sold, we don't have any money to pay right?"

Your fake mom smiles at you, "my thoughtful baby... Mommy just forgot to pay because... Mommy enrolled you in school!" She said excitedly,You raised your eyebrows "how much money do we have? Won't we go bankrupt?"

But your fake mom is crazy because she just laughs and hugs you

You hated being poor, being poor means you get bullied, it means you can't buy the stuff you want, it means using stuff someone else already used, it means your lunch would also be your dinner

You hated it

Because it also meant being looked down on, being the smartest kid in class (ofc) means nothing if your school bag had holes and patched up, it meant sometimes you'll see other kids your age buy something you wanted

It didn't matter, you could make do, you avoided being bullied and actually became popular by showing off, you landed bottle flips, you could do a handstand, needless to say, you were definitely invited to birthday parties, plus you were smart and well-behaved, parents and teachers love you, it didn't matter if you brought a present or not, all that matters is your presence

And when your birthday rolled around, the kids got used to the fact you were too poor to hold a birthday party, that didn't matter to them, to those kids and parents, you were the kindest person they've ever met, so they gave you presents, at first you tried to refuse (because you were ashamed you couldn't give them anything that's not handmade to their parties) but they insisted

Your fake mom was always busy, with so many jobs, she couldn't attend all award ceremonies and PTC's

You just won for the best science project in the fair (despite having the least resources), you were fine with fake mom not being able to attend the award ceremony, she was out cleaning someone's house after all

"where is her mom?"

"I don't know, but that poor kid, she's so sweet and smart, I feel bad that she has a mother like that"

"I heard (Name)'s mother got pregnant with (Name) while she was at college, thank God that (Name) won't end up like her, how could such a talented girl end up with a mother like that? She couldn't even attend her own daughter's award ceremony"

"the mom is probably off somewhere sucking someone's dick, if she gets pregnant again, I hope the kid takes after (Name)"

"(Name)! Sweetheart! Mommy's here! Oh sorry I'm late, I was at work" you fake mom smiles as she runs at you, she looks at your blue ribbon and hugs you "You're so smart baby! Mommy is so proud"

______________________________

You're 8 and you earn 5 dollars for every lawn you cut grass for, some of the people even give you snacks! You're already an entrepreneur! You smile to yourself, you weren't going to be like your fake mom, you were going to be rich, so maybe you and fake mom can get out of the cockroach infested house and fake mom won't work for an awful manager who hits on her and she won't clean toilets just so the both of you have something to eat

You come home with 40 dollars, you plan to give 30 to your fake mom for the bills and you keep 10 as a reward, but when you open the door your met with a bang

A bang from a party popper "Happy birthday my sweetheart!" Fake mom says

You look at the cake and decorations, you sigh, the money out in this could have been used for groceries

Your fake mom seemed to read your mind "Oh hush my baby, it's only once a year! Plus this is nothing to what you do for my birthday!"

That's a lie, your fake mommy is lying, your birthday decorations for her were handmade by you and her cake was just a muffin because you couldn't afford something more expensive, your birthdays were much more grander than hers

You give her the 30 dollars, you try to give her, but it seemed to make her sad, he smile wore off

Did you do something? Shouldn't she be happy? You were providing and helping!

"I'm sorry you think you have to do this my baby... You should be playing outside- not- not working, I want you to be a kid! Don't work anymore okay?"

But you're not a kid okay! You're reincarnated! And your previous life was much better than now!

So your fake mom should just let you help! Because you're trying to make things easier for her, why won't she let you help!?

But you keep it all to yourself and you and your fake mommy celebrate your fake birthday

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You're 10, and your fake mom seems... Weaker?? Is that how you put it? Her eye bags seem darker and her skin looks paler, you don't like this look from her, your fake mom is a pretty woman, who would have married good if it weren't for you, nevermind

You don't want your fake mom getting ugly, so every 9:00 pm you crash into her work place and you don't care if she still needs to keep on working and her shift ends at 9:30, your fake mom needs sleep! Someone else can cover for her

It's her birthday when she starts coughing, she starts coughing bad. The sounds were coarse and harsh, it hurt to even hear the coughs, you didn't want to know how it felt like

She grabs a tissue and coughs into it, you're sure you saw blood

Usually you're a master of minding their own business, but this time you rummage, you rummage through your mom's fake mom's room, and you find it, doctor appointments, medical certificates (when did she even go to the hospital!?), fake mom is sick, really sick, why didn't she tell you???

When your fake mom gets home, you show her what you found, instead of confronting you she acts like it's nothing, you get mad, of course you do, why wouldn't you?

"Mom are you crazy? Why didn't you tell me? The bill is huge? And why would you keep on working!? Did you forget what a sick person does? They rest!" You cry yell

She just smiled at you??? Is this woman crazy? "What was I supposed to do? Sweetheart, these things are for me okay? Don't worry about it, I'll be fine... Did you do your homework? If you haven't I can help you"

"I did... Mom?"

"Yes?"

"I want you to pull me out of school" you say

"what why? Are you being bullied? You can tell me"

"No I'm not! If you pull me out of school, instead of worrying about my tuition, you could just pay for your medical bills and actually buy yourself some medicine and get better!"

Fake mom turns silent "You don't have to do that"

"it's the only way! We can't afford both my school and your hospital bills! Mom! Your health is much more important than some certificates! And while I'm out of school I can work as well, even though I get paid a little, money is still money I can give to you-"

"NO! A mother's job is to provide for their kids and your my kid! You don't have to go to work, you don't have to stop going to school, you don't have to think about whether you'll be able to eat tommorow and the day after that, you're a kid! You're my baby! Stop worrying about me and instead, worry about boys you like or girls you like, worry about— I want you to be a kid"

You clench your fists "How can I be!?!? You think I don't hear you!? You come home when I'm supposedly asleep so you can cry about not being able to give a better life, I can hear you! I hear everything! You hate that your manager flirts with you! You hate that the mother's at school talks about you! You hate that I'm the only kid in school who can't afford a birthday party!, I'm trying to help! I can bring in money! I tutor, I babysit, I mow lawns, I can do more if I'm out of school!" At this point you're crying

Fake mom has never yelled at you, never. Whenever you get mad she hugs you and kisses you forehead, why is she yelling at you, you just want what's best for her

______________________________

You didn't care, after school you took on more jobs, you even started doing your classmate's homework and homework from higher and lower grades for money

Fake mom's medicine... It was expensive, that didn't matter, you'll work harder, you were so tired

You started selling bread for a family bakery who felt bad for you, that kind of money doesn't come up in thin air

But you were going to try

And you did, you really did, you did whatever you could

You and fake mom had another argument when you found out she got life insurance and placed you as the sole beneficiary

Fake mom's illness got so bad that she had to quit her jobs because she didn't have the strength to even walk, the amount of blood that comes out every time she coughs kept increasing

You stopped going to school to work more, you started to sweep and mop up for local grocery stores, the owner being a dad of one of your classmates

You knew your mom wouldn't approve, so you fed her with fake science fairs, fake school plays you had to practice for so she wouldn't get suspicious why you returned home late

"Don't stay out so late sweetheart, the riddler just escaped Arkham" your fake mom would warn you with a hint of love in her voice

If you could just make it work, even for half of the money you need, maybe you could put a down payment, and they'd give you the medicine and you'll pay them back later

So why wasn't your fake mom waking up?

You got home, after grueling hours of painting fences, you plan to tell your fake mom that you were just painting some backdrops for a school play

"Mommy?" You call out, you expect your fake mom to be either watching on a broken down TV or probably sewing some of your clothes with holes on them

It's eerie quiet, a quiet you don't like "Mama?" You see her in a chair, asleep and eyes closed

Is she that tired? "Mommy, do you want noodles? I'll make some?"

....

.........

"Mommy?"

You shake her body trying to wake her

Nothing.

"Mommy?"

Your heart drops "No... No. No. No. No. No. No... No!" You keep shaking and shaking her but nothing, it was then you notice her lips have gone horrifyingly pale

"no.. this- this- help! Someone help us please!" You yell trying to call your neighbors, someone, anyone!

______________________________

"I'm sorry kid, Your mom's gone, we'll try to find any other relatives you have" the police officer looks at you with pity

"I don't have any relatives left" you say

You're not going to cry, why would you? She wasn't your real mom, she- she....

Fuck, now you're crying, you're doing what you said you wouldn't do

The officer knelt to you and hugged you "We'll find you another loving family, one that will buy you toys and-"

"I don't want another loving family! I want my mommy! I want my mom" you cry

"it's okay... Everything is going to be okay" he pats your back

After a few days at the orphanage, the news came, everyone was shocked, a few staff who got attached to you were happy you'll be with someone who could provide, a few staff who also got attached to you angry that he abandoned such a sweet girl, a DNA match to the one and only Bruce Wayne, that man is your father.

You stand In front of doors a hundred times bigger than you, you see him- no you see them.

The infamous Wayne family, all in their glory

"Father, will it stay with us permanently" Damian asks

Dick the older one laughed and responded "Unfortunately for her, she will stay here"

Holy shit, you think

Holy shit.

Is this? No it can't be...

You refuse to believe you reincarnated in a Batfam x neglected reader story- surely not-

Welcome Reader! To the Neglected AU!

Prologue: dead mom- finished

Progress:100%

Chapter 1: "I wished I stayed at the orphanage"- start!

Progress: 0%

The screen appears In front of you

"Fuck" you whisper

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Alr so technically this is the prologue, "yes" won Soo...

Also goodbye mom

My ass wrote this with a fever, while playing chess with my cousin, I'm built diff like that

Also I won, if you want pics of the chessboard and the thermometer I'll provide🔥