#did this drawing with my screen filter on

[kittttycakes]

Oooh very interested by the 5. feeling their pulse one 👀 for Dreamling maybe?

Dreamling | 1k | G | Retired!Dream | Domestic Fluff | Established Relationship

It took Morpheus longer than it should have to notice that it was a pattern. 

He was, by then, intimately familiar with Hob’s hands and how they felt against his skin, the breadth of his palms and the length of his fingers as known to him as the back of his own hand. They had been the first feeling he had woken to in this, his new life, the weight of Hob’s hand holding his an anchor he had not previously known to search for. It was one he sought out regularly, now. There was a part of him that hoped, in the very back of his mind, that it might be the last feeling he felt, too, a very, very long time from then. 

This was all to say, of course, that he should have recognized the frequency with which Hob’s fingers found their way to his wrist, the way they lingered there, not pressing, but merely resting. It had not crossed his mind to wonder why; after all, did he not find himself touching Hob just as frequently? 

It had been a slow and drizzly day. Everything felt gray: the clouds in the sky, the light filtering through them, the long expanse of the hours before sleep with little to fill them. Morpheus still found it easy to become lost in the labyrinth of his own mind for minutes and often hours at a time. It was Hob’s self proclaimed job to draw him out of it, casting cups of tea and stacks of books and the low drone of the television in front of him to lead him out, a piecemeal version of Ariadne’s thread. 

He found himself in a familiar position: half curled on the sofa, his head in Hob’s lap, the rain lightly tapping at the window to the side of them. Hob’s arm was around him, and, in seeming deference to his comfort, he was not holding his hand, but held his wrist instead, allowing Morpheus to stay in exactly the position he preferred. With a languid stretch, he turned, looking up at Hob rather than the flickering screen of the television. Hob was much more interesting to look at, in any case, with his brow slightly furrowed in concentration as he read, his free hand holding his book open far too close to his face. He had neglected to put on his glasses, something Morpheus could poke at him for later.

Hob looked down at him and smiled, adjusting the position of his arm around him. Two fingers fell against his wrist again, as easily as anything, slipping into place. 

“Hob,” Morpheus said. It was not a question. Had he been sitting upright, his head would have been tilted in that curious way of his that he knew Hob found endearing, but that he somehow could not bring himself to stop doing, an innate gesture that had the added advantage of getting him exactly what he wanted when properly deployed. It was a shame he couldn’t achieve it then. 

“Yes?” Hob shifted the book in his hand, half closing it while his thumb kept his place.

“Why are you taking my pulse?” 

Hob opened his mouth, no doubt to form the words, “I’m not taking your pulse,” before snapping it shut and thinking better of it.  

Morpheus raised an eyebrow, waiting. Hob’s ears were turning pink. 

“I didn’t think you’d noticed,” he said, fingers still pressed against his pulse point, as if it hadn’t occurred to him to move them.

Morpheus considered this. He could picture, suddenly, all of the ways in which Hob had done exactly this before: Morpheus, pressed full length against Hob’s back, his arm around Hob’s waist and Hob’s arm over his own, Hob’s hand resting in just such a way that the tips of his fingers rested over Morpheus’s wrist; Hob, over and above him, not quite pinning his wrists above his head with the span of one hand, the tips of his fingers resting just against the thin skin of his wrist; Hob, taking his arms and arranging them to wrap around him, one hand still caught in his, and leading him in the steps of a dance that was the unholy bastard child of several much more structured steps, singing low in his ear, his thumb resting against the artery and tendon of his wrist. 

“I have noticed now,” he replied. 

“Old habit, by now,” Hob said, ears still pink. It was, Morpheus decided, flattering on him. He so rarely caught Hob visibly off-guard; it was a wonderful opportunity that had been afforded to him now, and he intended to enjoy it. 

“That is not an answer to my question,” Morpheus said, unable to stop the small smile that settled at the corners of his mouth. 

“No, I suppose not,” Hob relented, setting his book down over the arm of the sofa without any regard for the integrity of its spine. 

“It’s a reminder, I suppose,” he continued, looking down at Morpheus. “That you’re here, with me, right now.”

There was something in his voice, still, that Morpheus decided immediately to leave alone. They could return to it later, whatever it was that Hob was refusing to say. He only wanted to know, not to pry. They had all the time in the world, after all. 

He pushed himself into an upright position next to Hob, regrettably losing his hand on his wrist in the process, but remedying this loss by reaching for Hob himself, the palm of his hand cupping his jaw as he drew him closer. Hob went easily; he always did, never needing to be asked.  Morpheus pressed his lips to the underside of Hob’s jaw. For a moment, he thought he could feel it—the fluttering of his pulse against his lips. Perhaps Hob had something there, after all. There was something about it—the relentless pulse of alive alive alive just under his skin—that Morpheus could see himself returning to, again and again.

[yalibat]

kevin

[danielcalmdown]

there is not enough digging happening into kim's inner cringe which he definitely has, so i drew a stupid gay disco dream that he had at some point in martinaise B) it's a wip but i wanted to share it cause i really like it

[star-trekster]

Have you ever danced with the devil

In the pale moonlight?

[screwpinecaprice]

She woke up. 🐑🥀

I rewatched Bunnyfarm, and her screams is still so terrifying ajhsjskjabajwbdjjdb Ugh so good 😭🥰🥰

---

Brush used for the bloodstains!

I have made a couple of adjustments to this old work, it now looks a bit more readable? I realized I don't do well with dark backgrounds because I could not tell how dark it is, if it's to the point I could not see anything. 😅😅😅 Which sucks, there are so much ideas to work with dark scenes. 😓 I hope to improve on this faster, figuring out a technique so I don't have to make it a habit of going back on a supposed finished drawing just to make it clearer.

[unnamed-proxy]

Opening up art requests again since I don’t have a Kinito to draw tomorrow

Dca followers I am so sorry for starving you for like 2 months this is my repentance T-T

[fushitoru]

ranking types of hugs he'd be comfortable with another guy giving his gf! a gojo satoru fic/drabble

cw: gojo x reader, established relationship, fluff LOLLL, gojo being a pathetic loser for his gf, use of baby, babe, reader referred to as gf and wears makeup, gojo being jealous, crack, based off this (instagram link)

"Ranking types of hugs I'd be comfortable with another guy giving my girlfriend." Satoru squints at the scene, reading out the caption on the TikTok as he watches the guy on the screen, long ass spider legs laid out on the couch while waiting for you to get ready. Curiously, he clicks on the filter without fully watching the video and starts filming to generate the different types of hugs.

"A back hug." The curious smile on his face slowly fades away as a grimace takes place as he gains the thousand yard stare. "Nine. Okay, not at a good start so far—"

He groans, face scrunching in pain as he exhales out at what he sees on the screen: slow dance hug. Then, he imagines you, a man's hand on your waist and you smiling just like those stupid fucking drawings at someone who's not him—"Ten. Oh my fucking god."

Clutching the lower half of his face, he looks concentrated as he waits for the shuffler to give him some less painful option, groaning in pain once again, looking back at the scene, and then groaning again. "One armed hug," he strains out, blindly reaching for the lowest number he could rank it as.

The filter shuffles yet again, and he's almost in tears, groaning immediately on instinct but then doubling back at his screen. "Polite hug." He contemplates it. "Okay, a two, not so bad, not so—"

A pause. "A classic hug." He stares at the screen like it just betrayed him, until he decides it's not so bad. Reluctantly, he ranks it at three.

Then, he waits for the filter to give him another painful vision, and it delivers. "A slow catcher hug—oh my godddd." Satoru is shaking his head, eyes teary as he groans loudly at the though of you jumping up to another man, wrapping your legs around his waist and pulling him in for a hug. If someone was listening to him, it would seem like he was dying with the way he was covering his mouth, shaking his head, and exclaiming "what the fuck"'s as he stared at his phone screen in sheer shock.

Unfortunately for you, you were within earshot, blending in your blush and doing finishing touches as you heard Satoru's shrieks coming in from the living room. He seemed to be on the edge of tears, and worriedly, you set down your brush and rushed to where his sobs were coming from.

And there he was: in fetal position, phone on the floor as he shook his head as if in shock. "Baby," you hurried to him, grabbing his face so you could figure out what was making him so distressed.

He didn't seem to be injured as he meets your eyes, upset. "I can't do this bruh," he laments while turning to be on his back and rubbing his eyes. You just look at him confused.

"Do what?"

He turns, and pauses. Scans you in your champagne dress for the fancy place he was taking you and the way you did your makeup so sultry. It's just for him, but after the events of that Tiktok—that's now stopped filming—all he feels is petty jealousy because other guys can see you like this.

Out of nowhere, he declares, "I can fight."

You blink. "What?"

"I can fight," he repeats, nodding emphatically as if trying to convince himself. Then, after a beat: "Why do I have such a pretty girlfriend?" He groans again, throwing his arm over his eyes. "Baby, why do you look so good right now?"

While he does this, you inspect him for any signs of injuries or things that could've caused him this much distress. Finding none and used to his theatrics, you sigh and pat his cheek. "I’m going to finish getting ready," you say, deciding he’s not in mortal peril after all.

As you return to your vanity, Satoru calls after you, still sulking. "Just so you know, I ranked the polite hug at two. Because I love you. And I can fight."

"Good to know, Satoru."

a/n lowk spiderman!gojo coded. i love writing fluff i would lowk want to write this for nanami i feel like he would slowly grow more and more jealous LMAOAO

[bluebeads-art]

As the flash hits your eye, you feel something crashing into you from all directions. Below you is obvious, Bonbon situated themself to bump into you while the picture was taken. You look to your right, and Mirabelle’s cheek is pressed up to yours. On your left, Isabeau’s sheepishly hugged you to his side. There’s a hand in your hair, too, and it feels like Madame Odile. [...] “We need a souvenir of this trip,” Mirabelle adds. She rushes to the ground to pick up the picture and snort-laughs as she looks at it. “Oh no, Siffrin looks like we’re holding him hostage!” — Curtain Call, Chapter 9, by @openphrase123 (Link in the replies)

2024 October 22nd

Fanfic fanart fanfic fanart!! When I read the "hostage" line, it invoked such a clear image in my head of Siffrin tensed up like a startled prey animal that it got added to my list of things to maybe draw immediately.

Dooon't think about the words 'left' and 'right' in that quote too hard. I know how to read I prommy. :) (I did Not process those words and lost the coin flip in the composition phase...)

Close-up and ramblings about the cans of worms I unleashed upon myself under the cut

Time taken on this was [head in hands] 48 hours and 37 minutes.... That bloated number has two culprits:

1) I got a new tablet! My old one was 10 years old. Its plastic was melting and the electronics had ghosts in 'em, so it needed the sweet release of retirement. However, I had just gotten to the line art phase when the switch happened. Clumsily getting used to the new one during the most precise phase of the process did devastating things to my perfectionism.

2) I made a GRAVE mistake with how I chose to color this. I wanted to keep the grayscale layers for accuracy instead of just slapping a B&W filter over the colored version, so all the colors come from gradient maps, color balance layers, overlay layers, and raster layers clipped to other layers. Listen. I'm used to working with lots of layers. I like keeping things separate so I can edit them more easily. But this is the worst layer system I have ever created. Going from color to B&W requires toggling exactly 20 layers & folders on or off. There are 87 visible layers total. This file lags when you edit it. I've never wanted CSP v1.13 to have layer comps more in my life.

Not helping matters was Isabeau. I said he was the easiest to draw in my last post, but he took that as a challenge, apparently. It's a simple fist-on-hip pose, why was that so hard!?! His face gave me grief too.

Odile's lil' wave got added at the end of the line art phase. I've never added to a sketch that late in the game before, but I felt bad about how little screen area she got, haha. Girl, I tried, but this composition was not kind to you.

Giving Isa, Odile, and Siffrin skin colors felt cursed. Well... "color" is maybe a stretch for Sif. The pallor from being affection-jumpscared isn't helping. In the dev's nose reveal post, they said that Siffrin isn't white but is white-passing, so BOOM albinism headcanon. Like c'mon, they wear a big hat and have most of their skin covered because the sun is a deadly laser when you have little to no melanin and idk if sunblock exists in-universe. Heck, maybe most Islanders have it, their whole religion is about the night sky so maybe they're nocturnal. This makes perfect sense. :)

[pbaz7]

SOFT SPOT: CHAPTER 1

paige x azzi

word count: 7.1k

A/N: Not much to say about this one yet. It was a random idea I got and I decided to combine my two interests lol. Let me know what you think and if this is something you’d like to see play out more!

—————————————————————————

The Sparks were up by twenty-four. The starters pulled halfway through the third, and Azzi sat near the end of the bench, her legs were stretched and a towel was sitting around her neck as she casually sipped from her water bottle.

The energy in the arena had changed. The crowd was still loud but they started entertaining themselves with whatever the jumbotron fed them: dance cams, kiss cams, baby cams. Azzi’s body had cooled, but her mind still flickered with the movement on the court, tracing the plays, missed shots, moments that might’ve gone differently.

She only half-registered the familiar cadence of the courtside camera sweep. A ritual of sorts in a city like LA—celebrities shown on the jumbotron like saints. The crowd responded on cue: applause, laughter, a few cheers too loud to be genuine.

A few big house names and faces flashed across the screen—actors, influencers, former players—each one hamming it up for their moment. They didn’t pay for their court side seats for nothing.

Then the frame landed on someone who didn’t match the rest.

Blonde. A little stone-faced. She wore a cream Essentials sweatsuit, ankle resting over her knee, a few rings on her fingers, completely still.

She didn’t wave at the camera. Didn’t smile. Just stared at it like it had interrupted her thoughts—then looked right past it, completely disinterested.

Azzi blinked her eyebrows drawing together.

“…who is that?” she murmured, subtly nudging Rickea beside her.

Rickea followed her gaze and then smiled widely. “Oh that’s my Paigey wazy. She’s Cam’s god sister she’s always talking about.”

Azzi nodded. “She famous or anything?”

Rickea nodded. “She does MMA. Popular as hell in UFC right now. She’s...definitely different, I love her though.” Rickea said it and her tone was like a warning mixed with a compliment.

Azzi glanced back toward the baseline, toward the blonde who hadn’t moved since the camera left her. She didn’t fully blend in—but she didn’t look like she needed nor wanted to stand out. Unfortunately for her, the mere presence alone did the work.

When the final buzzer sounded players filtered off the court, their laughter started to echo through the tunnel, a chorus of their sneakers against the concrete. Azzi walked slowly, towel over her shoulder, thoughts already shifting to her recovery and film review.

She was halfway to the tunnel when an arm threw over her shoulder.

“Wait,” Cam said, grinning. “You’re the only one who hasn’t met her yet.”

Azzi blinked. “Met who?”

“My sister,” Cam said, casual, like it was obvious. “Well—god sister. But she’s basically blood so.”

Before Azzi could protest, Cam was already guiding her back toward the floor, past security and stragglers still lingering for selfies.

She was standing court wide on her phone, seemingly waiting for Cam. Same expressionless face. A storm sealed behind glass.

Cam stepped up beside her, nudging her gently with an elbow to get her attention. “Paige, this is Azzi I don’t think you guys have met.”

Paige looked up slowly.

Her gaze flicked over Azzi in a single sweep—measured, unreadable. No smile. No raised brow. Just a quiet recognition, like Azzi had been noted, filed, and shelved in the space of her brain.

“Hi,” Azzi offered politely, her voice warm but tempered by a slight curiosity. “Nice to meet you.”

A pause.

Then Paige gave a small nod. No handshake. No return greeting.

Just acknowledgment. As bare as it could be.

Azzi let her eyebrow raise slightly, a smile still tugging at the corner of her mouth. There was something oddly fascinating about someone so immune to her charm. Most people lit up in her presence—Paige barely flickered.

Cam chuckled, watching the exchange like it was perfectly on brand.

Then she turned back to Paige. “How was weigh-in this morning?”

Paige’s gaze didn’t change much. “Good. One thirty-five exactly.”

Cam grinned. “So you can eat again without whining about still being hungry.”

A breath of laughter left her, but Paige didn’t outwardly react—no smile, no eye roll. Just stillness. Cam barely noticed. She was used to it.

Undeterred, she kept talking, stuffing her hands into her hoodie pocket. “Some of the team’s coming to the fight tomorrow. We’re sitting in your section again.”

Then Cam turned to Azzi, face brightening. “You should come.”

Azzi blinked. “Me?”

“Yeah! I swear you haven’t really seen Paige until you’ve watched her fight.”

Azzi glanced at Paige again, intrigued. “Is that right?”

Cam nodded. “Totally different energy. You might actually see her blink. You’ll love it. Rae basically got a girl crush on her after seeing her fight the first time.”

Azzi laughed under her breath, surprised by how curious she suddenly felt. She didn’t know if she’d love it—but the idea of seeing what stirred beneath that quiet, unreadable exterior intrigued her.

Her smile returned, softly, her eyes returning to Paige. “Then I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Paige didn’t answer. She just nodded—precise, barely perceptible.

Cam rolled her eyes and mumbled something about Paige being a pain in the ass before she and Azzi walked toward the locker room.

…

The octagon was much bigger than Azzi expected. Not just physically—but in presence. Under the heavy lights, it felt enormous, like a coliseum dressed in modern steel. The energy inside the venue was a little unnerving, thousands of fans humming with anticipation, loud enough that it vibrated in her chest.

People packed every seat, most with eyes locked on the cage watching the current fight. Some wore merch, shouting names with beer-slicked voices. Others were dressed like they belonged on a runway, leaning into each other with glossy lips and barely hidden intentions—here less for the fights, more for whoever looked good throwing punches.

Azzi had never seen a crowd like this.

The Sparks players arrived late, just in time for the final card—Paige’s fight. Their seats gave them a clean view of the octagon, and even then, Azzi felt miles away from the quiet girl in the Essentials sweatsuit.

It didn’t feel like her world. Until it did.

The lights changed. The announcer’s voice boomed across the arena as he introduced the final card.

“Fighting out of the red corner—ten wins, three losses, three draws…”

A pulse of music filled the air. Loud and flashy. Her opponent stepped out, face painted with focus, arms raised as her corner hyped her up. The screen showed her highlight reel, knockout clips, quick hands. She worked the crowd like she was made for the attention.

Azzi watched, her arms folded, lips pressed together. She glanced at Cam. “She any good?”

Cam shrugged. “She’s fine. But she’s not Paige.”

The lights dimmed again, then roared back with Paige’s name.

“Fighting out of the blue corner—twelve wins, no losses…”

The crowd erupted. Louder than before. A different kind of loud—not hype, but reverence as fans screamed her name.

No dramatic song. No chest-thumping entourage. Just Paige.

Her bun was pulled back tight. Her expression as unreadable as ever. She didn’t play to the crowd. She didn’t acknowledge the noise. Her hands were wrapped, feet steady, and her eyes were locked straight ahead—already in the cage long before she stepped into it.

She hadn’t blinked. Not once.

Inside the cage, the difference in opponents was transparent.

Her opponent stood in the red corner, flanked by a full team—three cornermen barking last-minute instructions, one of them pounding their fist into a pad like they could transfer momentum through noise. She bounced on her toes, muscles twitching with anticipation, feeding off the crowd’s energy like it was oxygen.

Paige, by contrast, sat quietly in the blue corner with just two: her trainer crouched beside her, and a cut man leaned casually against the gate, hands folded, already knowing his night would likely be uneventful.

Her trainer murmured something low in her ear—brief. Paige didn’t respond. Just a slow nod.

No fire in her eyes. No bravado. Just a complete stillness that felt more dangerous than all the antics.

She tugged off her shirt, revealing a black UFC sports bra. Her frame was lean. She rolled her shoulders back, tilted her neck side to side until it cracked, took a steady breath then rose to her feet.

No theatrics. No psych-up routine.

Just the quiet poise of someone who already knew how this would end.

Azzi watched from the stands, her heart ticking a little faster in anticipation all of a sudden. She’d never seen someone so calm in the center of so much chaos.

The bell rang.

From the start Paige moved like water—never still, never rushed. Her stance was coiled. Calculated. From the opening seconds, it was clear she wasn’t pressing for control. She gave her opponent space, let her circle. Almost like there had been an agreement—an unspoken one—to make this last.

Azzi leaned closer, her eyebrows drawing in with confusion. “She’s…not even trying.”

“Not yet,” Cam said beside her, arms crossed tightly as she studied the blonde intently. “That’s just Paige. She reads. Waits.”

Inside the octagon, Paige’s eyes never left her opponent. Every jab that came her way was slipped or parried, her head moving just enough, her feet dancing just out of reach. Not a single clean hit landed.

Then, like a breath between beats, Paige struck.

A quick jab to the ribs and then another to the shoulder before sliding out of range like nothing had happened. Her opponent stumbled for a moment, surprised by the speed, the force.

Azzi sat forward a little in shock. “She’s fast.”

“Quicker than most,” Cam replied. “She’s still holding back. Hasn’t gotten the read she wants.”

It was strange, watching someone so calm in a cage built for violence. Paige moved with a quiet rhythm, not aggressive, not passive—just controlled. There was no adrenaline in her face. No fire. No nothing. Every attempt at a choke, every kick, punch, she slipped out of it with an ease.

The bell rang again for the start of the second round.

Paige returned to the center like nothing had changed—fluid, unhurried. The same measured steps. The same calculated distance. To anyone else, it looked like she hadn’t felt a thing in the first round. Like she still wasn’t interested in finishing the fight.

Azzi crossed her arms, shifting in her seat. “She’s still not pushing.”

“She will,” Cam said softly.

The two opponents moved around the cage. Paige throwing a few hits that landed clean, easing just out of distance every time her opponent tried to counter.

Then—snap. A right hook came quick out of nowhere and landed hard across Paige’s jaw.

The sound cracked above the crowd, a clean connection that rocked her head to the side.

The arena gasped and Cam sat up a little bit.

Azzi's breath caught. “Damn.”

Rickea leaned forward, wide-eyed. “Oh shit she’s about to be pissed.”

Paige didn’t go down. Didn’t even stagger. Her feet stayed planted, spine straight. Just the subtlest tightening in her jaw, a flicker of something in her eyes.

She stepped forward—not aggressively, but with intent. Her hands came up a little higher. She slipped a jab, ducked under a left cross, and countered with a shot to the ribs. Her opponent winced, retreating, but Paige followed—not rushing, just closing space.

Another hit—clean, to the ribs again. Then an uppercut with dominant hand that snapped her opponent’s chin up.

The crowd roared.

Azzi leaned in, almost transfixed now. Paige was still silent, still unreadable, but her body was speaking for her.

A left calf kick.

A right jab.

Then, when her opponent flinched Paige threw a final cross throw, hitting the side of her jaw like a switch being flipped.

She dropped.

The referee dove between them waving his hands.

It was over. The final card of the night meant for five rounds done in two.

The crowd exploded around her, but Paige didn’t move much. No celebration. Just a steady rise of her chest turning toward her corner, jaw set, breathing calm.

Azzi sat frozen in her seat, blinking like she’d just come out of a dream. The fight was still playing in her head—the jabs, the fluid movement—the stillness that followed.

Paige spit the slight blood from her mouth into the bucket beside her. She muttered something tight to her trainer—no emotion on her face, no victory or pride, just words exchanged, a formality.

Azzi could see it in her eyes. The flash of fire behind her cool blue orbs. A controlled anger. The flicker of frustration that didn’t quite make it to the surface.

With a final nod to her trainer, Paige stepped out of the cage, eyes forward, posture straight.

Azzi couldn’t look away for some reason.

The hallway leading to the back of the venue was buzzing—staff, security, the hum of celebration from other fighters and teams. But the air shifted the moment they rounded the corner and stepped into the private area Paige was assigned to.

Azzi heard it before she saw it—the sharp thump of fists slamming into leather, steady and forceful.

Paige stood in front of a heavy bag, wrapped hands pounding into it with methodical anger. Sweat clung to her skin, her jaw was clenched tight, and a faint bruise was already blooming across her jaw like a slow, dark sunrise.

Azzi slowed, instinctively when she felt the tenseness in the room. So did Rickea.

Only Cam kept walking like she didn’t feel the weight in the room.

“Hey,” she called out casually, stepping right into the storm.

Paige didn’t turn. Her punches came harder now. The bag jerked with every hit. The anger she never showed on her face bled through her fists instead.

“You know she’s lucky she landed that hit, right? You let her dance for a whole round and a half for the sake of entertainment and the contract.”

Still nothing.

“You pissed ‘cause she got that shot in, or ‘cause you gave her the space to?”

Another strike—harder. Paige’s shoulder tensed, her jaw tighter now.

Cam groaned, completely unfazed. “Okay, silent treatment. Classic.”

Azzi stayed near the wall, her arms crossed, gaze flicking between Cam and Paige.

Rickea leaned in and whispered, “This is how she decompresses. Last time she almost broke the damn bag.”

Azzi didn’t respond. She felt like she shouldn’t talk. Her eyes were fixed on the slow rise and fall of Paige’s chest, the focus in her face, the storm she carried so tightly under the surface.

She was beautiful, but in the way fire was beautiful—dangerous and controlled only by choice.

Azzi watched her hit the bag again, harder, sharper. Her body said what her mouth never would.

Cameron stepped closer, folding her arms as she watched Paige continue hammering the bag, knuckles snapping against leather like a ticking clock.

“You know,” Cam started, voice lighter than the atmosphere deserved, “one of these days you’re gonna hit the bag so hard it punches back.”

Paige still said nothing.

Thud.

Cam sighed. “You could at least pretend to listen. I brought people to watch you fight today.”

Thud.

“You don’t get to brood in a corner every time you get touched—”

CRACK.

The next punch landed louder, the bag swinging violently. Azzi flinched.

But Cam didn’t budge. “Seriously. It was one punch. And you won. With a knockout. Again. So let’s wrap this post-fight existential crisis up and go get a drink like normal people—”

THUD.

“Paige,” Cam said, sharper now.

Still, Paige didn’t stop.

So Cam grabbed her.

She stepped in close, hands catching Paige’s wrist mid-swing.

Paige whipped around. Her expression that was once unreadable, flared. Her jaw was clenched and her blue eyes seared through Cam like a fuse had finally been lit.

Azzi froze.

“Don’t touch me when I’m not ready Cameron,” Paige snapped.

For a moment, everything stood still but Cam held her ground not concerned by the anger.

Then, slowly, Paige pulled her wrist free, shoulders still tight, chest rising and falling with the restraint it took to pull the heat back in.

She looked away before mumbling, “Fine. I’m done.”

Cam raised her eyebrows, unfazed. “Wow. What a glowing yes.”

Paige didn’t answer. She turned and started taking off her gloves.

Cam glanced over her shoulder at Azzi and Rickea. “You see what I deal with?”

Azzi blinked, completely confused. Her gaze lingered on Paige as the blonde gathered herself, recentering.

Despite the snap in Paige’s voice, despite the way her jaw tightened when Cam grabbed her, Azzi hadn’t been afraid.

Because Cam hadn’t moved and Rickea didn’t react either.

It was clear that this wasn’t unfamiliar. Paige’s temper was a known storm. One that rumbled, but didn’t destroy the people she cared about.

Azzi found herself wanting to be the one who could calm it. Which, she admitted to herself, was probably the stupidest thought she could have. Still, the feeling settled in her chest.

Paige muttered something to Cam, the words too soft for Azzi to hear, but the way she shrugged out of her hoodie and grabbed a towel made the intention clear.

“Gonna shower.”

And just like that, she was gone, the door clicking shut behind her, the room finally exhaling.

Rickea immediately snorted, breaking the silence. “I swear, Cam…one day you’re really gonna piss that girl off.”

Cam rolled her eyes. “If she hasn’t snapped on me by now, she’s not gonna. I used to really push her buttons when I was in college.” She shrugged. “Besides, someone’s gotta rile her up a little bit here and there.”

She turned toward Azzi, a smile tugging at her lips. “Don’t let the glare scare you. She’s a softie. That’s just her version of agreeing to be social.”

Azzi laughed under her breath, the tension softening in her shoulders. Her gaze flicked toward the closed door again, curiosity twisting like thread around her thoughts.

Social. Sure.

The three of them talked a little longer, light conversation humming to fill the space as they waited for Paige. Azzi listened, but her mind kept circling the same question. She couldn’t quite let it go.

After a pause, she finally asked, “Why was she so upset?”

Cam’s mouth opened, but before the answer could come, the bathroom door creaked open.

Steam curled into the air, and Paige stepped out, hair damp, the fresh bruise harsh along her jaw. Her expression was blank—but her eyes landed on Cam.

“Stop talking about me, Cam,” she said, her voice even and clipped, not bothering to slow her pace as she crossed the room.

“I wouldn’t have to if you pulled the pole outta your ass.”

Rickea snorted again, laughing into the back of her hand.

Azzi blinked, but she couldn’t help the grin that slipped onto her face. Paige paused for the smallest second, like she registered it—then kept walking, grabbing her phone off the bench.

Cam just shook her head. “Anyway,” she said, picking up the thread like Paige hadn’t just tried to end the conversation, “She hates getting touched in a fight. Takes it personally. She doesn’t admit it, but she’s a little vain. Hates when they mess up her face.”

Rickea laughed, sitting in a nearby chair. “That bruise is already turning purple. You’re gonna be cranky about that for days.”

Across the room, Paige sat on the bench, towel draped around her neck. She didn’t even glance over. “You’re the one who said it looked good last time.”

“Yeah,” Rickea shrugged, “but that was a black eye. This one’s different. It’s got character.”

Paige finally looked up, her gaze sliding to Rickea first. “If you’re trying to butter me up, it’s not working.”

Rickea grinned. “I’m just saying. You still look pretty Paigey, don't worry.”

Paige snorted, quiet and barely audible—but it was there. A crack in the stone.

Azzi, still leaning against the wall, tilted her head slightly as she decided to chime in. “So it’s the face you’re protective of. Not the record?”

Those blue eyes shifted, landing on Azzi like they’d just remembered she was in the room. Her expression didn’t change, but there was something focused in the way she looked at her now.

“You ever get punched in the jaw in front of a screaming arena and ten cameras?” Paige asked.

Azzi’s smile curved. “I’ve taken elbows from girls twice my size. So maybe pretty close.”

A beat passed. Then Paige’s gaze drifted away again. “Then you kinda get it.”

Cam grinned like she’d just seen lightning hit dry land. “Wow. Full sentence and everything on the first day. That might be a record.”

Azzi laughed. “Do I get a prize?”

Paige reached for her phone, not looking up. “Don’t push your luck.”

Rickea leaned toward Azzi, whispering behind a not-so-subtle hand, “That’s basically a compliment from her.”

Azzi smiled, her eyes drifting back to Paige—who still wasn’t looking at her, but something in the quiet set of her shoulders said she was listening.

…

The restaurant had polished floors, beautiful wood tables, and a bar that stretched long under a wash of amber light. It wasn’t flashy, but perfectly familiar.

Azzi walked in followed by Cam and Rickea, all three of them caught in easy conversation. Her gaze drifted around, slowing as she caught sight of Paige already at the bar.

“How the hell did she beat us here?”

Cam didn’t bother looking. “Told you she would. She drives like a crazy person sometimes.”

Azzi felt it then—the same quiet pull she’d felt last night at the game.

They approached the bar together, Cam sliding in beside Paige with a light shoulder bump. “Look who actually showed up to be social,” she teased.

Paige didn’t look up. “Debatable.”

Rickea gave Paige a half-hug from behind that she didn’t react to before turning to Cam. “I think I saw someone James knows near the back. Come with me real quick?”

Cam looked over her shoulder, spotted what Rickea was talking about, then glanced back at Azzi. “You good here for a second?”

Azzi nodded, her eyes still on Paige. “Yeah.”

They disappeared into the crowd, leaving Azzi to ease into the empty seat beside her. Paige didn’t move, didn’t speak. Just tilted her head slightly, eyes flicking to her, then forward again.

Azzi took her time, letting the silence stretch as she rested her arms on the bar. Then softly, “You always this friendly?”

Paige’s lips barely moved. “You always this brave after watching someone knock somebody out?”

Azzi laughed—fullly, like it came from somewhere deeper than amusement. “So you do talk.”

“I thought we established that already,” Paige said, eyes still on the mirror behind the bar, watching the room without ever turning toward it.

Azzi’s gaze flicked to the bruise along Paige’s jaw. “Does it hurt?”

There was a pause. Paige glanced at her again, like she wasn’t used to being asked questions.

“You never really get used to being hit by someone who hits people for a living,” she said finally. Her voice was flat—but not dismissive.

Azzi winced sympathetically, then gave a small smile. “So no secret trick to making it hurt less? Ice, adrenaline, pride?”

Paige tilted her head just slightly. “Denial.”

Azzi laughed softly. “That tracks.”

There was a beat of silence as Azzi’s eyes lingered on her face—the bruising, the set of her mouth.

“So…no celebration? No smile? Not even a little shoulder shimmy like Steph?” Azzi teased gently.

Paige blinked at her once. “I don’t shimmy.”

“Everyone shimmies for something.”

“I don’t.”

Azzi grinned, leaning in a bit. “What about a smile? You got one of those, or are they pay-per-view only?”

Paige’s lips quirked—barely. It could’ve been amusement or irritation. “Expensive ticket,” she said dryly. “Most people don’t make it past the preview.”

Azzi laughed again. “You know, I think that was a joke. You might be more charming than you let on blondie.”

Before Azzi could push her luck further Rickea slid in beside Paige again with a smile as she looked at AZi. “If she’s talking to you, that’s like…step two in the Paige friendship program. Step three’s making her laugh, but I don’t think anyone’s ever made it that far.”

Paige took a sip of her drink, ignoring them. “Y’all alk too much.”

Cam grinned, dropping her bag on the bar. “Yeah, but admit it—you’d miss us if we stopped.”

Paige didn’t respond, but her silence felt a little lighter.

As time passed the bar had filled out fast, music pulsing beneath the chatter and clinking glasses. Paige sat quiet at the bar, still nursing the same drink. Azzi was leaned in, teasing something light out of her, when a sudden jolt rocked Rickea’s chair next to Paige.

A man, maybe late twenties, stumbled back with a grin, clearly not sorry. “Shit my bad,” he said with zero sincerity, eyes already scanning Rickea’s body. “Didn’t mean to bump into something so pretty.”

Rickea frowned. “Yeah, you’re good. Not interested, though.”

He leaned in closer anyway, undeterred. “That’s fine. I’m not asking for forever or nothing like that, just the rest of your night.”

Rickea once again made it clear she wasn’t interested but the man insisted.

“Damn I can’t even try the ride out? You like pussy or sum?”

Paige’s chair scraped back and she stood, calm in the way a storm is calm before it breaks open the sky.

“That’s not what she said,” Paige said, voice like gravel under pressure.

The guy turned, sizing her up—and then smirked when he caught the bruise along her jaw. “Jesus, you look like someone already handed you your ass tonight. You sure you wanna get in another round, pretty girl?”

Azzi and Rickea didn’t move, both a little terrified for the man—Paige’s jaw clenched tight enough to crack her teeth, knuckles ghosting over the edge of her seat.

Her voice was almost surgical. “You got three seconds to get the fuck outta my face before one of your friends is carrying you outside.”

She started to step forward when Cam was suddenly between them, hand braced flat against Paige’s ribs like it wasn’t the first time.

“Hey,” Cam said, firm but easy. “You don’t need another lawsuit tonight.”

Paige didn’t look at her. Her eyes stayed locked on the man’s. But she didn’t move forward either.

The guy gave a dry, uneasy laugh. “Whatever. Crazy bitches,” he muttered before melting back into the crowd.

Without saying anything, Paige picked up her glass and tossed back the last of it, ice clinking against her teeth. “I’m going home,” she muttered, already turning away. Her shoulders were stiff, her jaw tight, and the bruise on her face was darker under the bar lights. None of them tried to stop her.

Cam returned a few seconds later, sliding into the chair with a sigh and grabbing a fry from Rickea’s plate. She caught the way Azzi’s eyes lingered toward the door Paige had just walked through.

“Don’t worry.” Cam said, chewing. “That wasn’t bad she’s fine.”

Azzi raised an eyebrow.

Cam shrugged. “She’s always been like that. Bad temper—quiet until she’s not.”

“She ever actually do anything?” Azzi asked.

“Couple of things,” Cam replied dryly. “Mostly in high school. Nothing wild, but enough that my dads best friend—her dad—got her into fighting when she was fifteen. Said if she was gonna throw punches, she might as well learn to do it right.”

Azzi nodded slowly, the pieces falling into place.

Cam grinned. “She’s probably just going home to hit a bag. With the lights off and no music on. She’s real dramatic like that when she’s pissed.”

“Guess that explains why she left without saying bye.”

Cam laughed. “She always does. Paige doesn’t do long goodbyes. Or small talk. Or...people, really.”

Azzi tilted her glass thoughtfully. “But she’s close with you two.”

Cam shrugged. “We’re not people. We’re furniture at this point.”

Rickea laughed. “Background noise she tolerates.”

Azzi huffed out a quiet laugh, eyes lingering on the door Paige had walked through. “She ever crazy a smile?”

“Sure,” Cam said, then squinted. “Like...twice a year. Usually when she knocks someone out faster than she expected or when she’s had a few drinks and a stupid dog video shows up on her phone.”

Rickea added, “Besides us, the only person she even tolerates is probably DiJonai.”

“I wouldn’t even say tolerate—she loves that girl.”

Azzi glanced between them. “DiJonai Carrington? From the Wings?”

“Mmm,” Cam nodded. “No clue how or why, but she always has Paige laughing like it’s nothing. It’s kind of freaky.”

Azzi smiled. “So it’s possible.”

Rickea chuckled. “Barely.”

Cam leaned back, watching her. “Why? You planning something?”

Azzi’s smiles “Maybe. Maybe not.”

Cam laughed into her drink. “Good luck. Just try not to lose a tooth in the process.”

Azzi grinned. “No promises.”

…

A few days later the sun hung high over Beverly Hills, casting golden light on the modern homes lining the hills. Paige’s place sat a little higher—tucked back from the others, quiet and unbothered. It was sleek, clean lines and glass, concrete softened by manicured greenery.

Cam led the way through the side gate without knocking, as if she'd done it a thousand times. Azzi followed with Rickea close behind, the faint echo of music drawing them around to the backyard. There, offset from the house, was a sleek, glass-and-metal shed—if you could even call it that—more luxury gym than anything makeshift.

Cam pushed the door open and air rolled out to greet them—along with the rhythmic snap-snap-snap of a speed bag being worked over.

Paige didn’t look up right away.

Her skin gleamed with sweat, the muscles in her shoulders shifting constantly under the light, ponytail hanging down her back. She didn’t miss a beat when they stepped in. Just kept going.

Only when she hit her final strike, hand catching the swinging bag in its path, did she glance over. Her eyes flicked to them. Then she turned away to unstrap her gloves, breathing even, back rising and falling calmly like she hadn’t just been keeping the rhythm of the speed bag for the past 15 minutes.

“Didn’t know we were making this a group thing,” Paige said, voice indifferent, like it didn’t matter—but she definitely noticed.

Cam tossed her bag down. “You knew I was someone. The more the merrier, right?”

Paige wiped her face with a towel completely unimpressed. “That’s probably the most bullshit saying I’ve ever heard.”

She finally turned toward Rickea and Azzi, giving them a small nod in greeting. It wasn’t exactly a warm welcome, but it was something.

Rickea deciding to start the day of bothering Paige smiled, eyes running over Paige purposefully. “You know, you actually look kinda pretty without the bruise blondie.”

Paige blinked once, slowly, then shook her head as she turned back to the bag. “You spend way too much time with Cam.”

Rickea just laughed, dropping to the mat with Azzi and Cam to start stretching. “That’s not a thank you, by the way.”

“I didn’t hear a compliment back either,” Cam added, reaching overhead.

“Y’all are loud as hell for two people who can’t throw a punch,” Paige mumbled, already back at the bag. The sound of her fists striking the leather echoed in the gym rhythmically—despite her bare knuckles.

Cam crossed her arms. “Gloves, Madison.”

Without missing a beat, Paige shot back, “My bank account tells me it doesn’t matter.”

Cam scoffed. “That bank account’s not gonna matter when you break your hand being hard headed.”

“Then I’ll fight southpaw. Problem solved.”

She didn’t look at anyone as she spoke, didn’t even pause her movement, but Azzi’s eyes lingered on her. It was another glimpse of her personality—dry and quietly cocky. Her expression remained unreadable, but that hint of personality cut through.

Azzi found herself smiling, just a little.

Paige didn’t look in her direction—didn’t have to. Her hands moved faster on the speed bag, before she finally spoke. “I promise you won’t survive if you don’t stretch.”

Azzi arched her eyebrow, dropping into a lunge. “You threatening me?”

One last hit. Then Paige caught the bag mid-air. She turned—just slightly, just enough for their eyes to meet.

“Warning,” she said. “Threats usually come with follow-through.”

Her tone was dry, but something flickered there—amusement? A challenge? Whatever it was, it made Azzi’s smile grow.

“You really are a sweetheart,” Azzi said softly, voice filled with sarcasm.

“Thank you,” Paige said, tone just as dry. “I really do try.”

Azzi tilted her head, continuing the banter. “No, really. The warmest presence in the room. I felt it the second we walked in. Like sunshine.”

Paige exhaled through her nose. “That’s just the heat coming off the lights, but sure.”

Azzi laughed. “Do you wake up this grumpy or do you warm up to it?”

“Depends who’s talking to me before 9 a.m.,” Paige replied, catching the bag again after a few hits. She glanced at Azzi, that unreadable look still etched into her face.

Azzi pressed her some more, voice a little playful. “So I should text you at 8:59? Make sure you start the day right.”

Paige let the bag hang, tilted her head slightly. “You text me at 8:59, I’ll block you by nine.”

Azzi fake pouted saying, “Aww but I’ll miss you.”

That got a reaction—slight, but there. A dry chuckle slipped out of Paige’s mouth before she turned away like it didn’t happen. No smile. No change in expression. But it was something.

Azzi caught it. And she grinned. “Noted,” she said, more to herself than anyone else.

Rickea looked between them, her eyes squinted. “Did…did Paige Madison just laugh?”

Cam blinked, then grinned. “Swear I heard it too. Thought it was the ceiling creaking.”

Paige didn’t acknowledge them at first—just shook her head, grabbed her towel, and muttered, “Alright. I’m done.” She tossed it over her shoulder and jogged toward the door without another word, adding dryly as she passed them, “Keep up, or don’t bother.”

Cam laughed. “There’s the ray of sunshine we all love.”

Rickea snorted, grabbing her water bottle.

The three of them followed her out, the soft sound of their running shoes echoing through the gym as the door swung shut behind them.

The trail was quiet except for the rhythm of their sneakers hitting dirt and gravel, the cool morning air crisp against their hot skin as they ran. Paige led the group with a pace that wasn’t brutal—but definitely not gentle. No one spoke much, the silence broken only by the occasional breathless grunt or snap of twigs under their feet. After about a mile, she slowed, glanced back once, and wordlessly turned around, leading them back the way they came.

By the time they returned to the house, sweat clung to their clothes, and Paige didn’t waste a second getting them started on the workout.

The workout moved fast—jump rope intervals, rounds on the assault bike, steady sets on the rower. Paige moved through it effortlessly, only occasionally glancing over to make sure they were keeping up. No weights, no high-impact movements. Just conditioning.

Halfway through, Rickea groaned, flopping down dramatically beside the bike. “You’re evil for this. Like genuinely sick in the head.”

Paige didn’t even look at her. “Cardio builds character.”

“Fuck you,” Rickea shot back.

Without missing a beat, Paige mumbled, “James prolly wouldn’t fuck with that.”

Rickea blinked, caught off guard before bursting into laughter. Cam doubled over, wheezing. Even Azzi let out a surprised laugh, looking at Paige like she was discovering a new layer.

Paige barely reacted—just adjusted her ponytail, grabbed a towel, and moved on to the next station.

After the workout they settled on the turf just outside the gym, the morning sun higher in the sky now, burning off the last of the chill. Everyone was stretched out, legs extended or crossed, bottles of water in hand. The air was quiet in that satisfied, post-workout way—tired bodies, endorphins still buzzing.

Cam sat up a little straighter, eyeing Paige from across the turf. “When’s the next one?”

Paige reached for her water bottle, unscrewing the cap without looking up. “Month and a half.”

Cam blinked, clearly shocked. “That soon?”

Azzi glanced between them, eyebrows slightly raised at Cam’s tone.

“You just fought, like…two weeks ago,” Cam said, frowning now. “Why the hell are you getting back in the cage already?”

Paige took a long gulp of her water, then looked at her. “Someone challenged me.”

Cam threw her hands up. “So? You don’t have to accept every dumbass who thinks they can hang with you.”

Paige shrugged, wiping the sweat from her neck with the towel draped over her shoulder. “You know I’m not turning down a fight Cam.”

Cam shook her head, exasperated. “Jesus. One of these days, someone’s gonna call you out just to test that stubborn ass pride of yours.”

Paige didn’t flinch. “Well I’d hope they’re ready.”

Rickea, still sprawled on her back, let out a low sound. “You’re gonna give me anxiety before the playoffs.”

Azzi’s gaze lingered on Paige. “Who challenged you?”

Paige’s eyes flicked to her for a moment, then back to her water. “Some girl out of Houston. Up and comer. Had six fights—all KO or TKO apparently.”

That made Cam sit up fully, the tension tightening across her shoulders. “All six? And you still said yes?”

Paige didn’t answer, just took another sip.

“Paige,” Cam pressed, voice changing. “You can’t keep signing up for these reckless ass matchups just because someone talks shit.”

“She didn’t talk,” Paige said evenly. “She signed the contract.”

“That’s even worse,” Cam shot back. “You know how this goes. They line up someone with hype and a perfect record hoping to make a name off you. You know all they care about is the damn check.”

Paige’s jaw ticked slightly, but her voice stayed level. “Then she picked the wrong name.”

Cam blew out a breath clearly frustrated. “You act like you’re invincible—”

“I’m not,” Paige cut in, eyes lifting to meet Cam’s for the first time. Her voice didn’t rise. “I know exactly what I am. And I know exactly what I can take. So if you’re trying to talk me out of it, don’t. I’m fighting.”

The group went quiet for a moment, the air thick between them. Even Rickea wasn’t cracking a joke.

Azzi, still seated on the ground with one knee pulled up, studied Paige. Trying to figure out a fraction of what she was thinking.

Finally, Cam leaned back again with a sigh. “You’re gonna give me gray hair.”

“You already got two,” Paige mumbled, tossing her towel over her shoulder again as she got up and turned toward the house.

Rickea snorted. “She’s not wrong.”

As Paige disappeared through the sliding doors back into the house, the three basketball players sat in a loose triangle on the turk, still catching their breath.

Cam ran a hand through her hair and exhaled hard. “That girl’s gonna get herself killed one day because of fuckin pride.”

Rickea leaned back on her palms, still slightly winded. “You still think she takes fights just because of pride?”

Cam nodded without hesitation. “Absolutely. Paige would say it’s about proving something, about staying sharp, whatever—but really? She hates the idea of someone thinking they can take her. It’s like a switch flips.”

Azzi’s brows drew together slightly as she stretched her legs out in front of her. “So she’s been like that since you met her?”

“She’s not always like this,” Cam said, softer now. “She’s just a little more intense around fight time. Gets short. Coiled up like a rubber band about to snap.”

Azzi rubbed her thumb over her ankle, as she thought. “But she’s not reckless like that in the ring.”

“No,” Cam agreed. “She’s calculated as hell. She’s just competitive to a fault. Wants to win everything.”

Rickea snorted. “Honestly, sounds familiar.”

Azzi tilted her head. “To who?”

Rickea smirked. “To you.”

Azzi gave her a look but didn’t argue, just rolled her eyes. After a second her eyes lingered on the house where Paige had disappeared.

The three of them sat there stretching for a few more minutes but as they started packing up, Cam stood and stretched, wincing a little. “Damn, I forgot to grab the protein bars I have in there. They're in the kitchen by the fridge—Az, can you grab 'em? If I go in there it’ll be World War III.”

Azzi glanced at her, then at the house. “Sure.”

She wiped her face with a towel and walked across the backyard, slipping inside the house. The interior was just as modern and minimal as she expected—clean lines, neutral tones, cool air against her skin. The kitchen was easy to spot, but what caught her attention first was Paige, standing at the sink with her back to the room, filling a glass with water.

Azzi paused not wanting to scare her before realizing how ridiculous that sounded. Instead she decided to announce her presence by speaking. “You always put people through hell and act like it doesn’t faze you?”

Paige didn’t look over. “Would’ve gone easier if you stretched more than you looked at me.”

Azzi tilted her head and smiled. “Maybe you’re interesting to look at.”

Paige drank from her glass, then set it down. “I have blonde hair and blue eyes. You can find that all over LA.”

“It’s more interesting when it comes with a side of asshole.”

That earned her a small huff—it was the closest thing to a laugh she’d gotten. Paige still didn’t smile.

Azzi crossed the kitchen, leaning against the counter directly across from her. “Do you purposefully not smile?”

Paige looked at her. “Yes.”

“So what’s that about?”

Paige held her gaze. “Every facial expression’s a tell in fighting. So I try to control em when I can.”

“I’m gonna get you to crack a smile eventually.”

Paige raised an eyebrow, finally giving her a full look. “Why?”

Azzi shrugged, the corners of her mouth tugging up. “Because I think it’d look good on you and I like looking at pretty women.”

Paige stared at her for a moment, unreadable as ever. Then she pushed off the counter and turned toward the hallway. “Tell my sister to lock the door on the way out.”

She didn’t wait for a response.

Azzi just smiled before finally grabbing what she came in there for.

[sc0tters]

Captains Orders | Quinn Hughes & Nico Hischier

summary: what happens when quinn learns he isn't the only captain you've been hooking up with?

request: yes/no

warnings: sexual themes, threesome, dismissive kink, dom!quinn, p in v (unprotected!), oral (m receiving!), masturbation, in general filthy smut.

word count: 6.77k

authors note: we have been in the thick of the threesomes recently but you won't hear me complain because this one i am pretty sure i lost my ability to have a filter so some of these points were simply the cause of my brain and of course @sweetestdesire who is back in the seat of helping with these threesomes so as always thank you to brynn for listening to the shit that comes out of my mouth while i plan these 💗 this was a version of threesomes i have never fully gone at before so lets hope the plot landed.

You really didn’t know how you ended up like this. 

Well, that was a lie. You knew exactly how you ended up chasing after the eldest Hughes boy in the lake house as you tried to apologise. Quinn had come down to see you standing in the kitchen as Nico recounted the days when you spent most evenings in his bed. As Jack’s best friend, your sex life shouldn’t have mattered to Quinn, especially the stuff that you did back when you lived with Jack as you got your degree. But Quinn did care; in fact, he cared so much because now that you resided in Vancouver, you were doing the same thing with him. Gone were the moments of feeling special, that you were the one who helped him feel better during the darker days within the season. Craving your company and your bed as your sweet sweet cunt was the best therapy he could have ever gotten. 

Because now he wasn’t special, Quinn was actually the second person you had been doing this with and he had seen the way that Nico had been looking at you all week. From the moment that the Swiss man walked into the house, his eyes seemed to settle on you for a little too long. So now knowing that there was something between you both, it all made sense to Quinn. He hadn’t bothered to ask before because he thought that he was just dreaming things up. But that sense of hope seemed to just bite him in the ass.

Quinn heard you walk into the room behind him “I didn’t think that you needed to know about a relationship that means nothing to me now.” You let out a sigh, watching him grab the tv remote before he started to flick through the channels “please Quinny.” You begged, wanting a response as you pulled your hoodie off of your head, leaving you in the little sundress that he loved so much. 

But still, he remained focused on the screen that stood behind you “fine.” You grumbled, dropping onto your knees without a second thought. You knew he was mad but there was only so much that he could ignore when it came to you. And you weren’t above crawling to him, so that was what you did. 

The dress you wore climbed up your ass revealing the white panties that you wore. Quinn’s eyes did break from the screen to you it but still, he didn’t talk and when you noticed him looking, his eyes went back to the screen. It took everything from him to not grunt. The sight of you on your knees was something he always loved “please Quinny I’m sorry.” You whined, letting your lips form a pout. 

His fingers dug into his hand as he stayed quiet wanting you to work for his attention “you want me to suck your cock huh?” Your fingers were delicate against his shorts. The sound of your freshly manicured nails against his waistband. 

He licked his lips when you pulled his shorts and boxers down to let his cock spring up against his pubic bone “god Quinn please just talk to me.” You begged, pumping his cock in your hand. 

His silence made you feel bad, as if your past relationship was something that could have been held against you. So you licked at his cock as if he was your lollipop, your tongue swirled around the head of his cock. Hoping, almost even praying that you’d draw out a response from him, when you weren’t even sure if you got a cut breath.

Quinn had done this before, ignored you until he thought that you had sucked his cock well enough to be spoken to again. So as you looked back up at him you set yourself the challenge of breaking him sooner than you ever had done before. 

You wrapped your lips around his cock, arching your back in a way that allowed you to take his cock much easier than normal. He felt your tongue run along the underside of his cock as your nostrils flared. His head rested against the cushion behind him while he gripped at the remote trying to not show you the effect that you really did have on him too early on. 

Your mouth felt like your cunt to him when he was desperate to just feel you so now when you were all methodical it was close to sending him over the edge especially as your eyes remained on him. When your hands reached down to massage his balls, he stopped you, one hand went on top of your as the other pressed on the back of your head forcing you to hit his pubic bone with your nose. 

Quinn loved the feeling and the soft effects as you gagged on his cunt and as he watched the replay of the tennis game on the tv in front of him he couldn’t help but begin to fuck your throat. The feeling your mouth gave him was addictive, like he had morphed you into his personal toy. 

The walls of your throat tightened around his cock but with how harshly he fucked your throat Quinn barely felt it. Even in his state of getting have your mouth at entirely his own mercy, he still noticed what happened around him. That is why he saw your free hand leave his thigh before travelling between your own legs. 

Your panties came down to your knees as your clit ached for attention. But you knew that you couldn’t give into yourself, not until you had earned it. The sounds of your own gags had you focusing on Quinn. You weren’t able to see his face with how he had positioned his hand on your head and you wondered if that was how he liked it. 

But Quinn was strong, even if he fucked your throat like it was the last thing on earth. You weren’t going to hear him even squeak, even if that meant he was gnawing his own lip off in the process. His throbbed as precum oozed into your throat, not giving you a chance to savour that taste of it. 

Your nails dug into the side of your thigh to keep you from rubbing at your clit, tears formed in your eyes because you wanted nothing more than to just make Quinn cum. At least then you’d get some kind of release, too. Your pleads came out muffled but even Quinn could make out that you were begging him to finally cum, it wasn’t going to be the last time of the night for him anyways.

He tugged at your hair when his thrusts became erratic. His thighs began to shake and he was dangerously close to cumming when he felt your tongue hit his balls. You wished you had a bigger mouth because then you would be able to take more of him. Quinn felt his jaw tense as you hollowed out your cheeks and shifted your legs back to let him thrust more freely. The boy watched in awe as the sounds of your whimpers and gags sent him over the edge. 

Quinn loved the feeling of cumming down your throat, but on days like this he preferred to not let his thrusts slow until he has finished painting your mouth and throat with his release. That way some of it ends up on your tongue and eventually your mouth feels so full that he can’t even fuck you with any easy anymore. 

He finally halted his movements to catch his breath as he let you have his cock comfortably in your mouth while he slightly turned your head to let breathe more comfortably. His eyes never trailed down to yours however, Quinn was far more entertained by the tennis on the screen, watching the players move with ease. 

But when he turned you, your jaw began to grow slack, almost wanting to rest for what you knew would be a long night. The captain could feel that his thighs were damp and he originally thought it was just your saliva pooling onto his shorts, but instead, it was your tears. 

At first, he worried that he had pushed you too far when he saw how your mascara was a goopy mess on your cheeks. Quinn was ready to pull you onto his lap and treat you like his princess for the rest of eternity if he had to. But as his cum slipped from your lips, Quinn watched how you caught it with your fingers. Trying to stealthily bring them back down to your cunt. 

His hands ran through your hair as he held back a laugh, Quinn should have felt relieved in that moment but deep down he just knew that you were his little slut. He knew you were only teasing your clit as you waited for him to start fucking your throat. 

So the captain decided to play nice as his cock felt hard again as he gripped at your hair, reforming your makeshift pony at the back of your head. Quinn wanted to smile feeling your free hand grip at his knee as you moved your head, causing his cock to throb at the feeling of your jaw tightening again.

His pace started off slow as he began to move his hips, still feeling a little bit sensitive from the first orgasm that he had. He watched your hand move making him wish that he could see how your fingers strummed against your clit. Sometimes, if there was a roadie when he desperately needed you, he’d get you on Facetime and make sure that your phone was set up so that he could see how your pretty face would react while you did a mix of rubbing at your clit and listening to his orders of how you needed to finger yourself. 

It was what he thought of while he listened to you whimper against his cock, carefully focusing that you continued to pay more attention to him than yourself. He chewed at his cheek, desperate to touch you, but still he had to keep himself restrained.

Quinn listened to how you brought your fingers into your cunt, it was two because he was the only one who went for three. Your jaw tightened around him as your palm brushed against your clit. 

You moaned again feeling how each of Quinn’s thrusts forced his cock past your uvula, somehow not causing you to gag. The room felt hot as you both settled into your own movements, each working towards your own orgasms. The captain made sure that he didn’t lift his hand from your head as he wanted to watch you, but you couldn’t know he was watching you. He imagined that it was his own hand getting you off as he let out the first grunt that was loud enough for you not to need to confirm it. You were finally breaking down his facade he out up that night, and you weren’t stopping there. You lapped at his dick, constantly making sure that he knew the sheer amount of work that you were putting in. Begging him without even having to say a word. 

Those movements continued on of you fucking your hand and turning his cock into your new favourite lollipop until Quinn felt his chest heave when you cried, whimpering around him as you came down from your own high and trigger his own with his hand now running through your hair.

You were left in a puddle of your own mess, desperate to look at Quinn and how you made him feel “poor schatz.” The words made you freeze, whereas Quinn laughed with his sense of cold that sent a shiver down your spine “probably isn’t even turned on with how neglected she is.” That made Quinn pull your head off of his cock. 

Strings of spit connected it to your mouth still “should we check your pretty fucking pussy to show him how you feel when I fuck your face like this?” Quinn smirked, watching you nod. To him, in that moment, you looked gorgeous with your ruined makeup, dishevelled hair, and that mix of saliva and cum on your chin. 

The Canucks captain leaned down to run his fingers through your folds as he kissed you. It was the first time that night that he had done so, and you savoured that. Quinn could taste his release on your tongue, and he had to remind himself that you two were not alone when you moaned feeling his fingers against your slit. Nico’s eyes watched how Quinn’s fingers glistened with your release “what were you saying about how she is feeling today?” Quinn asked as he smirked “since I am feeling generous.” He licked his lips, looking back at you. 

That blue dress that you wore was something Quinn wanted to rip off of you, but tonight he was going to play nice and show some self-restraint “why don’t you show Nico how well you suck cock now.” Quinn ran his fingers down your jaw before he turned your head to where Nico stood “schatz you don-” Nico went to tell you that you didn’t need to do what Quinn had said, but you were quicker than him. 

The smile that formed on your face was the same one that had Quinn thinking that you were a fucking minx, his fucking minx. How was there a reality where you were this innocent girl, but that look on your face always had him thinking otherwise? As you stood up, Quinn helped you out of your panties as they needed a final kick before they were left on his floor. You turned to face Nico again, but you couldn’t even get one step before Quinn had to remind you of his expectations “nuh-uh, baby. I didn't say you could walk, now did I? You know better than that.” There was this sense of disappointment in his voice that made you frown as you dropped back onto your knees “I’m sorry.” Your lips formed a pout looking back at Quinn, almost scared to go to the older captain if the Canucks one was irritated with you. 

But instead, he smiled “that’s okay, sweet girl.” He ran his fingers along your cheek making you lean into his touch “just go bring him over here, okay?” You looked eager as your eyes lit up when you acquired the task. Nico stood still, almost intimidated by the hold that Quinn had over you making it seem like you were some kind of prey that the boy had gotten as the American began to pump his cock with his hand watching how pretty your ass looked from this side of the dress. Your orgasm’s aftermath was present, glistening through your folds, making him lick his lips. Nico, on the other hand, watched you with a sense of curiosity; your days with him had him worshipping you, and it was not the other way round. He could see in your eyes that you were eager for him, for this. Your breasts were perfectly framed in the dress that Nico wondered if it was made for you “hi.” You smiled when you stopped at his feet. 

Nico was quick to give you his hand to help you back onto your feet “hey.” He ran his fingers through your hair as he looked at you almost trying to see what else had changed when your fingers ran over his cock. His boner was present through his shorts. He may not have agreed with what Quinn was doing to you, but he couldn’t deny that you were hot. The Swiss man felt his head fall forward at your touch “you gonna let me suck your cock?” The words were so vulgar from your mouth making him feel so dirty but somehow Nico felt his brain turn off as his cock took over the thinking. 

His hands were bigger than Quinn’s when he cupped your cheeks. You could taste his beer on his tongue, already comparing how it tasted to the one that Quinn preferred which was drier, Nico felt himself get carried away when he brought his one hand down your back; you had deepened the kiss so this felt natural. As his tongue fought with yours he let his hand continue down your back to your ass. He was purposeful with his touch, if he touched you, he wanted to feel all of you and that was how his hand ended up under your dress while he squeezed at your ass. 

It made you moan loud enough for Quinn to hear as the Swiss man fondled your skin in his hand “I don’t remember saying you could touch her.” Quinn’s words made Nico pull away from you with a smirk as his lower lip was caught between your teeth “careful, Hughes your jealousy is showing.” Nico looked to the American as you reached down to grab his hand. 

There was a look in your eyes that told him to keep calm and just let you lead the way. You stopped back at the couch, the simple two seater now felt tiny as Nico thought you were going to make him sit next to the Hughes boy in some sick kind of joke.  Luckily for him, you didn’t let Nico stew in his misery for long, as you ended up back on your knees but on the couch next to Quinn. The only difference was that you were facing Nico as you used the arm of the sofa to lean against “she doesn’t like waiting Hischier.” Quinn teased looking at him for only a moment before he let his eyes fall back to the hem of your dress, it was just too long as it covered your sweet pussy that he wanted to see so desperately “who says I am making her wait.” Nico spat as he undid the button of his shorts before he pulled them down with his boxers. 

You rubbed your thighs together as the thought of both boys fighting over you lit this fire in your pussy, the thoughts of them both fucking you made your mouth water as you didn’t know if you could even take both of them at once. But, boy, were you willing to try. Nico ran his hand over his cock, spreading his precum over the swollen head that was in front of your face “neeks let me.” Your voice was soft when you looked at him, bringing your hand over his before you brought your lips cock. 

Nico watched as you did these pathetic little kitten licks, almost taunting him in the process. His hands gripped at your hair while he sent you a glare until Quinn did the first thing that Nico could actually agree with that day “just because you aren’t sucking my cock baby don’t mean that you can go off acting like a brat.” Quinn warned as he pushed your dress over your ass so he could hit your ass. 

He lay a smack against your skin, making your eyes go wide as you moaned. Your body jolted, and as that happened, you took as much of Nico as you could in your mouth. Quinn smirked as he readjusted, letting his knees sit on the couch. He smirked as he watched your pussy flutter around nothing while his hand massaged your ass. He honestly thought that you were so cute doing this for him. 

Quinn knew that you had your ass like that so he could get the perfect view of your cunt “fucking hell.” He ran his thumb over your slit while he smiled hearing you moan around Nico’s cock.

You almost felt conflicted, wanting to stretch your body to both boys. You wanted Nico in your throat and Quinn to be against you too “you can fuck her face.” He pumped his cock in his hand, resting his one foot on the floor. 

Nico went to snap back but he was quickly stopped when Quinn slotted his cock into your cunt. Quickly bringing his hips against yours before you got a chance to adjust to his size. Your response was to tighten your throat around the head of Nico’s cock, digging your nails into his thighs. 

It knocked the breath out of him as his hands tugged at your hair. You breathed through your nostrils, using Quinn’s thrusts to force Nico’s cock deeper into your throat. Quinn’s lips turned upright when he settled into a good pace “sweet girl you seen how good you sucking his cock?” Quinn cooed running his fingers over your ass as his fingers gripped at your hips. 

Your cunt clenched around him as you looked up at Nico through your thick eyelashes. Nico ran his tongue over his lips feeling your tongue swirl around his cock before you let him hit deeper in your throat. The boy tried to pull away when you gagged but your fingers gripping at him was enough to stop him. 

The pain in his thighs made his stomach tighten “fuck you are perfect.” Nico grunted hearing how the squelches of your cunt mixed with the gags of your mouth “and you thought she wasn’t a slut.” Quinn laughed, bringing his hand around to brush at your clit. 

His cock throbbed against the slick walls of your cunt “she was waiting around for you to finally-” Quinn let out a moan watching how your back arched to get more of both cock “get unleashed by someone who could fuck her properly.” The American slapped your ass again making you whimper around Nico. 

Nico would never have admitted it, but Nico used to think that your mouth was good, but now it was heavenly. You hollowed your cheeks as if his cock was a straw and you were drinking out of it “you wanna let him cum?” Quinn could see the look Nico gave you, how his lips were attacked by his teeth. 

Swallowing his moans as he swore that you were going to make him cum harder than he ever had before. Tears streamed down your cheeks as you nodded, begging for Nico to cum on your tongue. For him to mark your throat, even if Quinn had already done that twice before “then I think he should let you hear how well you are making him feel.” Quinn brought his fingers from your clit to your boob. Taking your wetness to spread it around your nipple.

You whimpered as your body began to shake “she’s so responsive.” Quinn licked his lips “cause you love hearing how much of a cockslut you are don’t ya?” Your muffled whimpers echoed off of the walls as you nodded. 

Quinn stood back up straight bringing his hand back to your clit “didn’t think you used to be with such a rude boy before baby.” Quinn’s taunts finally broke Nico “don’t stop using your tongue like that.” Nico begged, letting his head fall back.

The Swissman was now relying on you and Quinn’s thrusts to allow him to fuck your throat. His stomach tightened as his hair threw slick with sweat “your perfect fucking mouth is bringing him close.” Quinn teased, forcing himself to control his thrusts, feeling that you were close. He was, too, but he wanted to watch Nico finish first. 

It was a total stroke to his ego watching Nico nod “just like that.” He encouraged you to continue hollowing your cheeks as your eyes didn’t leave his face. Studying his every reaction “think you should ask if you can make a mess in her mouth.” Your cunt clenched around Quinn feeling his calloused fingers against your clit, the roughness sending shivers through your body “you gonna let me cum in your pretty throat schatz?” You moaned hearing the question as your mind felt disconnected from the pleasure that you felt.

Your brain was foggy and Quinn knew that you were just desperate to cum too at that point “you’re asking the wrong person Neeks.” Quinn’s tone fucked with the boy, urging him to react. With one step out of line, Nico knew that it was all going to be over for him tonight “you think I’m going to ask you?” Nico laughed as he shook his head. 

But watching the younger captain remain quiet, the Devils captain realised he was serious “I’m not fucking-” Nico went to argue but Quinn was quick to cut him off “doll stop sucking his cock.” Even as you were focused on being used by both boys, Quinn’s order was something that you were almost hardwired to respond to. 

So you begun to pull away as you made your lips form an o shape “fuck Quinn please.” Nico looked at the younger boy “I just wanna cum.” You whimpered at the thought of him spraying his messy ropes of release down your throat. 

Quinn clicked his tongue “such a shame that it just isn’t good enough.” He sighed as he shrugged still letting your his hips hit the curve of your ass “try again.” The Hughes boy ordered holding his hand against your chest to remind Nico that he really could pull you off of him. 

Nico was getting frustrated, desperate to cum “sir.” Your words were muffled, but as Nico looked down at you, he could see that you were trying to say something. You let your tongue move so that you could speak even with his cock in your mouth “sir.” Quinn let out a dark chuckle, seeing that Nico had heard you properly this time. 

The Swissman thought about it as Quinn let you slowly move your mouth against his length, hoping to encourage him “I can pull her-” Quinn’s threat that came for a second time seemed to finally break the boy “fuck let me cum sir.” The words slipped from Nico’s tongue in a way that he almost didn’t even care about what he had just said.

Quinn nodded as he sucked at his teeth “sweet girl you can finish him off.” The Hughes boy cooed finally letting Nico cum. Nico would have cringed if he had been told that this is what he would be doing, but in that moment god he just wanted to cum “don’t stop yes!” Nico gasped, sticking your head against his pubic bone. 

The little bit of hair that he had tickled your nose as he forced his hips against you desperate to cum. Desire filled his sense as he squirmed, screwing his eyes shut so that he could imagine that he was the one in your cunt. 

It didn’t take him long to feel his hips jitter as his fingers dug into your scalp, the pain making you moan against his cock sending him over the edge. His grunts bounced off of the walls of the room, Quinn felt slightly grateful that his room was away from everyone else’s. It meant that nobody else was going to be interrupting you once Quinn got the Swiss man out of there. 

The older boys cum painted your throat “fuck schatz.” He ran his thumb over your cheek to wipe away your tears. You went to let his cock slip from between your lips but Quinn pressed his hand against your head, forcing you to have Nico’s cock right in the back of your throat “be a good little thing and keep his cock in your mouth while I destroy your pussy.” Your ears rang as you felt your stomach tighten while your cunt clenched around him. 

You swore that Quinn’s cock was bigger, hitting spots in your pussy you had never felt him hit before. So as the head of his cock brushed against your g-spot you couldn’t help but moan, watching Nico keep your head flush against his cock. 

Quinn hit your ass as he scoffed “be a good girl and stay fucking quiet okay?” His pace seemed to get even quicker as he turned animalistic, practically fucking you senseless. 

Nico and Quinn all of a sudden seemed to be on the same team with the Swiss man tugging at your hair each time you moaned which was usually followed by Quinn smacking your ass “someone is starting to be a good girl now.” You nodded, hearing Nico’s words as your thighs ached, burning while Quinn’s hands held you up “you’re lucky I’m feeling generous.” The Canucks captain gritted through his teeth. 

He was painfully close but he would never let them know that it was the reason why Quinn was going to let you cum “because now you get to see how fucking pretty this slut is when she cums on my cock.” The American patted your back as his hips drove into you. 

Your eyes rolled back in your head as your body spasmed, clenching around Quinn’s cock so hard you swore you could have broken it. He hissed feeling how your gummy walls cream around his dick, spurring on his own orgasm “holy fuck-” Quinn cut himself off when he shot his creamy load into your cunt. 

Quinn finally slowed down his thrusts, pulling out of you to see that Nico had already slipped his cock out of your mouth “how you feeling pretty girl?” Nico asked watching you rest on your arms as your ass was in the air “fucked.” A soft laugh left your lips when he ran his fingers through your hair. 

He nodded, slipping his cock back into his boxers and shorts before he looked between you and Quinn “think I’ll get this one to bed.” Quinn ran his fingers along your back, making you shiver. 

The Swiss man pursed his lips together “goodnight, you two.”Nico knew he had lost when he saw that you were so free “we will see you in the morning.” Quinn didn’t give two shits if Nico was taking this maturely and with grace, the Hughes boy wanted to have more of you and this time privately. 

Nico stood at the door looking at you both “and if when you come back to Jersey.” He let his lips form a smirk “make sure to bring her along too.” Nico shot you a wink before he finally walked out of the room.

The door shut behind him as you looked at Quinn “he really meant nothing.” You sighed sitting flat on your ass when Quinn joined you “I mean we fucked a few times while I was there but it was just when we both needed someone.” That confession made his nostrils flare because that was what you both currently boiled down to. 

After wins, defeats, lonely nights when he just didn’t want to be at his place, Quinn was at yours “you really mean that?” Quinn tucked your hair behind your ear as you nodded “and I haven’t spoken to him since I left because he had gotten a girlfriend.” Your words seemed to light a fire beneath him.

Did you really mean that if Nico didn’t have a girlfriend when you left, things would have been different? That you’d be in the Swissmans’ room as opposed to Quinns? Surely, you wanted Quinn the way he wanted you? Quinn shook his head as he kissed you, starting with your shoulder, slowly making his way up your jaw “Quinny.” You moaned, moving into his lap as if you were desperate to kiss him. 

Quinn smiled as he brought his hands up your sides “hey pretty girl.” He cooed, hooking his fingers in the straps of your dress. He sucked at his teeth pulling them down your arms to reveal your pretty perky tits that bounced as if they praised Quinn for releasing them. You felt your cheeks grow hot “not fair, you’re still in this.” You softly laughed as you ran your fingers along the hem of his shirt. 

He wasn’t going to argue; he didn’t want to argue with you, so he took his shirt off and as he did that, you pulled your dress off. Now you both sat there naked, but somehow you were feeling the most vulnerable that you had ever felt in front of someone “kissy?” You begged, running your fingers over his lips, making him smile. 

The boy took your jaw between your fingers so that he could kiss you. There was no lust driving this kiss, there was just a want to be close to one another. Quinn’s tongue and fought with yours, it was this fight of back and forth that ended as he squeezed your ass in his hand. 

A moan escaped from your lips as he smirked, his hands moved to your glutes so that he could pick you up. Your legs instantly wrapped around his hips when he stood, locking behind his back as if he was going to drop you since he focused on how your lips felt against his. He walked you back to the bed with such ease that if this was a Quinn, you didn’t know you would have been impressed. The boy dropped you onto the bed as if you were nothing more than his phone or wallet, watching how your breasts bounced when you landed on the soft mattress. Quinn smiled in awe, drinking in the sight of you naked and practically calling for him to come to you.

So the boy let his knees hit the bed, mattress dipping as you felt your mouth water “you gonna let me fuck this pussy again?” His words made you squirm as you forced your thighs together until his hand managed to get caught between them “can’t do that if you shut your legs on me, sweet girl.” Quinn made it seem so easy as his words turned you into putty, and with a deep breath, you let your thighs open again. 

Allowing the boy to be faced with your cunt that so glistened for him “please Quinn.” You whined, wanting some kind of friction or move from him “please what?” The captain knew what you wanted, but you were going to have to spell it out to him if you wanted any kind of success tonight. 

You chewed at your lip while your hands trailed over your nipples, which made him flick your thigh “use your words to ask me, or else I am gonna make sure you can’t touch anything.” His belt sat on the floor and you knew that Quinn wasn’t above using it and you weren’t in the mood to test him tonight “wanna watch you fuck me please.” Your works made him lick his lips, the offer was so inviting that he didn’t know how any sane person would turn it down. 

So the boy made light work of moving you so that he could sit between your legs “such a well mannered girl.” The boy complimented you as he ran his fingers across your stomach. Your breath hitched, watching him move his torso so that he hovered over you “kiss?” He asked, puckering his lips as he watched you crack a grin. You nodded and this time the kiss was soft, you could have sworn there was love in it even as you gasped at the feeling of his cock’s head lazily dragged over your clit. 

Quinn softly bit down on your lower lip when he let his cock sink into your cunt “fucking hell.” Your eyes screwed shut feeling how he felt letting your cunt cling to every inch of his dick “you feel so good.” Quinn confessed, kissing your forehead as he rolled his hips into yours. 

You opened your eyes to see him hovering over you “w-want more.” You begged, feeling like the world around you had been sucked into this room leaving you as the only two people that mattered “is that so?” He asked with a smirk, letting his pace pick back up to what it was when you were on the couch. 

In that moment you knew you sounded like a porn star but you didn’t even care. Gripping at your tits as you bounced with each thrust like he was going to fuck you into his bed “never gonna get over this perfect pussy.” Quinn let his head drop against your shoulder, his teeth grazing at your skin. 

It was clear that both of you were still sensitive from your previous orgasms of the night as a slew of incoherent curses came from your lips “fuck I want it forever.” The captain confessed letting his cock ram into your cunt while he picked up your leg to bring it over his shoulder “you gonna let me have it sweetheart?” Quinn teased letting himself fuck your cunt even deeper than he had before. 

Whimpers escaped from your lips as you nodded “please.” You mumbled feeling his one hand travel down to your slit. Pressing against your pelvis while his fingers toyed with that sensitive bud “what was that?” Quinn smirked, bringing his other hand up to your throat. 

Pressing his thumb and middle fingers against the sides of your neck, “couldn’t hear ya.” He brought his face down to yours as he nipped at your jaw. 

Softly sucking at your skin, it felt like a stark contrast to the abuse he was inflicting on your pussy “it’s yours Quinn.” You nodded and in that moment the American swore he was ready to cum and let his body give out from above you “fuck you are so dangerous.” He grunted letting out a hiss as your cunt clenched around him. 

The boy could see it in your eyes “you gonna cum?” Quinn asked speeding up his fingers against your clit. You couldn’t get out a solid response just a string of whimpers as you nodded “make a mess on my cock so I can fuck you full.” His eyes traveled to your breasts, which he thought about growing bigger. 

Neither one of you wanted kids at the moment, but that would be the truest act of staking his claim on you “go on.” He sucked at your ear lobe as your moans echoed against the walls of the room. 

You should have felt embarrassed thinking about what this room had seen tonight, but instead you were arching your back while your free leg pressed against his lower back keeping him close to you. You cried feeling yourself cum as white spots scattered across your eyelids when you screwed them shut. Quinn couldn’t last when you squirmed, feeling your cunt flutter around his cock “just like that.” He nodded, chatting out those words while his cum coated the walls of your cunt. 

Quinn moved his head so that he could kiss you as his thrusts came to a halt when you smiled “there you are pretty girl.” He mumbled pulling his cock out while he sat up to study you like a piece of art, his art. 

His eyes burned into your pussy making you push yourself onto your elbows “what?” You cocked your head seeing him smile “I need to clean you up but don’t want to ruin this just yet.” The boy huffed as he got up off of the bed. 

Before you could offer any kind of protest, he scooped you into his arms and brought you into his ensuite. 

It was a room you knew fairly well, but usually, you were sneaking back to your own one at this point “something on your mind?” He asked, feeling you staring at him as he ran the rag into the tap “like this side of you.” Your confession made your cheeks turn red as he smiled, turning to look at you. 

Quinn moved to be in between your legs as the warm cloth ran against your slit “think that you have one more in you?” The question was genuine, as he didn’t want to push you too far. 

But you nodded “what do you have in mind?” He held his hand out to pull you off of the counter. Quickly turned you around as you instinctively spread your legs for him “you wanna watch how your boy fucks this pussy?” Quinn smirked running his now hard again dick against your clit. 

Your head fell forward but still your eyes remained on him “fuck me like you mean it captain.” Oh, you were going to be the death of him, but he couldn’t have cared. 

In fact, Quinn was ready to dig his grave for you because this man was yours.

[awkward-walking-potato]

Do you write for charles xavier?? If so cloud we get a reader who just keeps bothering him while he is working cause they want his attention and every one else is busy? I hope you have a good day!

I hope you don't mind I wrote this Pre Wheels Charles

The afternoon sun filtered through the large windows of the Xavier Institute, casting warm, golden light across the vast room where Charles Xavier sat, surrounded by papers, books, and a holographic display projecting data from Cerebro. His brow was furrowed in concentration, his mind focused on the delicate task of tracking mutant activity across the globe. The mansion was unusually quiet, with the other X-Men off on various missions or training sessions. It was a rare moment of peace, one that Charles was determined to use to catch up on work.

And then, you appeared.

“Charles?” Your voice broke the silence, drawing his attention away from the screen.

“Yes?” He looked up, his expression patient but slightly distracted.

“What are you doing?” You leaned against the doorframe, eyes twinkling with mischief.

“Just some work,” he replied, hoping that would suffice as an explanation.

You nodded, stepping further into the room. “Looks important.”

“It is,” Charles confirmed, his eyes drifting back to the hologram. He tried to refocus, but he could feel your presence, still lingering, still watching.

“Everyone else is busy,” you continued, moving closer to his desk. “Scott, Jean, Logan—they’re all off doing something. I’m bored.”

Charles glanced up again, his lips quirking into a small smile. “And so you’ve come to bother me?”

“Pretty much,” you said with a grin, leaning on his desk now. “What’s that?” You pointed to the hologram.

“Mutant activity tracking. I’m trying to—”

“Sounds complicated,” you interrupted, picking up one of the pens on his desk and twirling it between your fingers.

“It is,” he said, still smiling despite himself. He could sense your playfulness, and though he knew he needed to focus, he couldn’t help but be charmed by your persistence.

You sighed dramatically, putting the pen down and plopping into the chair across from him. “Can I help?”

“I’m not sure this is something you’d find very interesting,” he said diplomatically, though the idea of you sifting through the data with him did amuse him.

You groaned and leaned back, staring at the ceiling. “Why is everyone always so busy? It’s like this whole saving-the-world thing never ends.”

Charles chuckled softly. “It does tend to keep us occupied.”

There was a pause, and for a moment, Charles thought you might have given up. He returned his attention to the hologram, his fingers hovering over the controls.

But then, you spoke again. “Charles?”

“Yes?”

“Do you ever just—” You hesitated, searching for the right words. “Do you ever just want to take a break from all this? From being the wise professor and the leader of the X-Men? Just…be Charles for a while?”

Charles looked at you, truly looked, and saw the sincerity in your eyes. It wasn’t just boredom driving you to seek him out; it was a desire for connection, for a moment of normalcy in a life that was anything but.

He sighed, leaning back in his chair, the work momentarily forgotten. “Yes, I do. More often than you might think.”

You smiled, a warm, understanding smile that made something in his chest loosen. “Then maybe you should take a break. Just for a little while. You deserve it.”

Charles regarded you thoughtfully. “And what would you have me do during this break?”

“Well,” you said, leaning forward with a conspiratorial grin, “I was thinking we could take a walk in the garden. Or, if you’re feeling adventurous, we could raid the kitchen for some of those cookies Hank made yesterday.”

Charles laughed, a genuine, light-hearted sound that echoed in the quiet room. “Cookies and a walk in the garden, you say?”

“Maybe even some tea,” you added with a playful wag of your eyebrows.

He shook his head, still smiling. “You’re very persuasive.”

“It’s one of my many talents,” you said, standing up and holding out your hand.

Charles looked at the work spread out before him, then back at you. The world could wait a little while longer. With a nod, he reached out and took your hand, letting you pull him to his feet.

“Alright,” he agreed, a hint of amusement in his voice. “Let’s go see about those cookies.”

As you led him out of the study, chatting animatedly about all the things you wanted to do, Charles couldn’t help but feel grateful for the interruption.

[insidekatmind]

HYDRA- BROCK RUMLOW

Wearning: +18,angst, smut.

Request: yes!

It was an ordinary day or at least it seemed that way. The sunlight filtered through the blinds in your room, drawing streaks of light on the floor. You stretched lazily, your body still wrapped in the warmth of the bed. Brock had kissed you goodbye quickly that morning, leaving with an excuse about an emergency at work.

“Don’t be late,” you had said, your voice still heavy with sleep.

“Promise, Y/N,” he replied, a smile he could never quite hide completely.

You never thought too much about the fact that he worked for S.H.I.E.L.D., even though his position was shrouded in secrecy. "Protocol," he would say whenever you asked about his work. And you, trusting him, never pushed too hard for answers. But that evening, everything changed.

You were in the living room, immersed in a book, when an unusual sound from Brock’s phone caught your attention. He had left it on the table before heading out, something he never did. The persistent vibration and the words “Operation Herald” flashing on the screen piqued your curiosity.

“Strange…” you thought.

Biting your lower lip, you hesitated between ignoring it and checking. Curiosity won out. Swiping the screen quickly, you found a cryptic message:

“Mission compromised. Eliminate Y/N if necessary.”

The blood froze in your veins. You must have read it wrong. You reread the message, hoping it was a mistake. But no, it was there, clear as day.

When Brock returned that evening, your heart was pounding. You tried to act normal, but he knew you too well.

“Everything okay?” he asked, tilting his head as he took off his jacket.

“Yeah, sure,” you lied.

But it wasn’t so easy to hide your nervousness. During dinner, he watched you in silence. Every now and then, his eyes seemed to scan you, as if searching for something. After clearing the dishes, you couldn’t hold back anymore.

“Brock,” you began, your voice tense, “what is Hydra?”

He froze. The spoon he was drying stopped mid-air. His eyes pierced through you, cold as ice.

“Why are you asking?” he replied slowly, with a forced calm that sent shivers down your spine.

“I found a message on your phone.” You were direct. There was no way to sugarcoat the truth.

The tension in the room became palpable. Brock set the spoon down and approached you slowly, as if afraid you might run.

“Y/N…” he murmured, his tone low and menacing. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

“Shouldn’t have done what? Found out you’ve been lying to me this whole time? Found out you’re… you’re one of them?”

His face twisted for a moment, then his demeanor changed. The mask fell, revealing a man you had never seen before.

“And if it’s true?” he asked, crossing his arms over his chest. “If I am Hydra, does it change anything? Am I not the same man you love?”

You stared at him in disbelief. “You have the nerve to ask me that? You’re a traitor, Brock! Everything we have… is it a lie?”

“Not everything,” he countered. “I love you, Y/N. That’s real. But there are bigger things at play. Hydra is the future. And I want you to be part of it.”

You shook your head, stepping back. “I can’t believe what you’re saying. I can’t…”

Brock stepped closer, his voice softer now, almost pleading. “Don’t make this harder, Y/N. Come with me. I’ll protect you. No one will hurt you.”

“Protect me?” you shouted, your voice cracking with emotion. “From the world or from you?”

The silence that followed was deafening. Brock stared at you, the conflict clear in his eyes. Finally, he sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

“Then you’ve made your decision,” he said, his voice icy. “What a shame. I would’ve liked to have you by my side.”

You didn’t wait for him to say more. With one last, pained look, you ran out the door, your heart shattered and only one certainty left: the man you loved was your worst enemy.

But you knew this wasn’t the end. Brock Rumlow would find you. And this time, you’d be ready.

---

Five months had passed since that event and you now lived alone in a small studio apartment.You walked into your apartment and placed your bag on the couch and felt like you were being watched.

Sitting in a darkened corner, a tall, built silhouette watched you intently, his eyes never leaving your form.His gaze burned through the shadows, observing your every move. He was like a statue, still and silent, but his presence was suffocating, filling the room with a tension that sent shivers down your spine.

Brock Rumlow had found you, just as you had expected. The question was, what would he do now?

You turn on the light and there's Brock sitting there. "What are you doing here?" You murmur without moving closer to him.

Brock doesn't move, just keeps looking at you intently, his icy gaze fixed on your form."Isn't it obvious?" he says in a low voice, tilting his head slightly, his eyes roaming over your face. "I had to find you."He stands up slowly, and only now it's clear how imposing he is. He's towering over you, his muscular frame like a wall of muscle, his presence suffocating.

He takes a step closer to you, his gaze never leaving your face.“You look good,” he says finally, his voice a low, almost growl. “I missed you.”The confession hangs in the room for a long moment, like a dagger pointed straight at your heart. But you don’t let the emotion show on your face, keeping your expression neutral, guarded.

He takes another step closer, almost closing the distance between you. His eyes roam over your body hungrily, taking in every inch of you.“You’re still wearing the necklace I gave you,” he says, his gaze suddenly fixing on the small charm that hangs around your neck. It’s a delicate silver heart, a silent reminder of happier times.

Instinctively you touch your necklace, averting your gaze and moving away a little.

He notices the gesture, and a smirk twitches on his lips.“Don’t pretend you didn’t miss me.”Brock follows you, closing the distance again in a few strides. He’s now standing so close that you can feel his body heat, his presence overwhelming.

He reaches out, his fingers tracing the curve of your neck.“I know you better than you know yourself, Y/N,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your skin. “I know how your body reacts when I touch you. Here…”His fingers trail down to your collarbone, caressing lightly. You shiver involuntarily under his touch.

“And here…”His hand moves to your waist, pulling you closer with an almost effortless strength. Your body responds without consent, your pulse quickening. You try to hold back, but it’s harder than you thought.

"What are you doing here Brock?" You whisper, looking at him.

“I told you,” he says, his voice a guttural whisper, his lips dangerously close to your ear. “I had to find you.”

Brock leans down, his forehead touching yours lightly, his hands still on your waist, holding you firmly. You can feel the heat radiating off his body, the scent of his aftershave so familiar it makes your heart ache.

"Why?" you try trying not to give in and hold him tight.

“Because I couldn’t let you go like that,” he responds, his voice filled with an odd mix of anger, hurt, and something else you can’t quite place.

Brock pulls you closer, his body nearly molding against yours. He’s holding you tight now, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go. His hands are on your back, his fingers pressing into your skin almost possessively.

You lean into his chest and sigh, closing your eyes for a second. "How did you find me?" You murmur into his chest.

He doesn’t answer immediately, instead nuzzling his face into your hair. He breathes in the scent of you, committing it to memory.“I have my ways,” he finally says, his voice rumbling in his chest. He pulls back slightly, looking down at you. “You can never hide from me, Y/N. You’re mine. Don’t forget that.”

His words send a chill down your spine, the possessive tone stirring up a mixture of emotions. You pull back a little, looking up at him.

“I’m not yours, Brock. Not anymore,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. “You made that choice when you lied to me, when you chose Hydra over me.”

His jaw clenches at your words, his eyes darkening.“You make it sound so simple,” he retorts, his voice taking on a harsher edge. “But it’s not, Y/N. It’s not simple at all.”

He steps back, running a frustrated hand through his hair. He’s clearly struggling, some inner conflict playing out on his face.“I never wanted to lie to you,” he says finally, his voice quieter than before. “I needed to protect you. I still do.”Brock looks at you with such intensity that it’s almost overwhelming. He’s silently pleading for understanding, for forgiveness, but you’re too hurt to give it easily.

You look at him biting your lip. “Did you kill anyone?”

He hesitates, his silence speaking volumes. When he finally answers, his voice is low, rough.“Yes,” he says simply, his gaze unwavering.

You can see the weight of his words hanging in the air, the reality of what he’s done sinking in.“Why?” you whisper, your voice cracking slightly. “How many?”

He doesn’t answer immediately, his eyes going distant as if remembering something. After a moment, he looks at you, his face hard.“Enough,” he says, his voice cold, emotionless.

His silence is maddening, each unanswered question hanging between you like a heavy cloud. This isn’t the man you knew, the man who held you close and whispered words of love and comfort. This is someone else, a stranger wearing the face of the love of your life.

"Would you kill me too if they asked you?" you ask, looking at him.

He flinches at your question, the hurt in your eyes cutting through his cold exterior.“No,” he says, his voice suddenly ragged, the coldness seeping away. “I couldn’t, Y/N. I wouldn’t.There’s a desperation in his voice, a frantic edge that betrays his inner struggle. He takes a step closer to you again, his hands coming up to cradle your face tenderly.

You lean into his touch, closing your eyes.He pulls you closer, his arms encircling you firmly. He buries his face in your hair, his breath coming out in ragged gasps.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters into your hair, his voice low and rough. “I’m sorry for everything, Y/N.” Brock repeats the words like a mantra, holding you tightly, as if afraid you’ll slip from his grasp.

You melt at his touch and his words and decide to forgive him. You hug him tighter and rub his back.

He lets out a deep sigh, his body relaxing as he melts into your embrace. He buries his face deeper into the crook of your neck, his breath warm against your skin.“I missed you so much,” he murmurs, his voice muffled. He pulls back slightly, just enough to look at you. There’s a vulnerability in his eyes that you haven’t seen before, the facade of the stoic field agent slipping.

“you too” you whisper.His eyes roam over your face, taking in every detail as if seeing you for the first time. Then, without warning, he claims your lips in a passionate kiss, crushing you against him.

He kisses you desperately, his tongue demanding entry into your mouth. He tastes like you remembered - a mix of cigarettes and coffee, a flavor that was once so familiar that you almost forgot it. His hands roams over your body, as if trying to remember the shape of you, the feel of you.

You kiss back, holding onto Brock as you kiss him more passionately.He moans into your mouth, the sound a low, guttural rumble. He backs you up until you hit a wall, pinning you there with his body. He’s everywhere - his hands, his mouth, his breath, the solid bulk of him pressing into you. The world outside seems to fall away, leaving just the two of you in a moment of raw, desperate passion.

His lips move down your neck, leaving a trail of hot kisses. His hands slide under your shirt, caressing your skin as he kisses down to the hollow of your collarbone. He’s everywhere, all around you, his touch sending electric shivers down your spine.

You moaned at his touch and kisses and gave him more space as you closed your eyes in pleasure.He grins against your skin at your noises. He’d always loved the sounds he could get out of you, and hearing them now only fueled his desire. His lips continued their path down your neck, nipping and sucking, leaving a trail of small, dark marks on your skin.

His hands were everywhere, roaming over your stomach, your sides, your back. He was rough, almost greedy, as if making up for lost time. He pushed your shirt out of the way, his mouth blazing a path down your chest, his breath hot against your skin.He pressed you more firmly against the wall, his body trapping you there. You felt vulnerable under his touch, exposed, but also desired in a way that only he could make you feel. He nipped and sucked at the soft skin of your chest, leaving more marks, his body pressing into you with a mixture of possessiveness and need.

Brock immediately takes off your jeans and did the same with his and then picked you up and carried you to your bedroom.He carries you with ease, his muscles rippling under his shirt. He pushes open the bedroom door and deposits you onto the bed before climbing over you, his body trapping you again. He looks down at you, his eyes burning with a mixture of desire and something else, something deeper, darker.

“Brock,” you murmur as you take off his shirt.He helps you undress him, his eyes never leaving yours. The sight of his bare chest sends a shiver down your spine, the taut muscles and tanned skin so familiar yet so new at the same time. He leans back down, his body pressing against yours, the heat of his skin against yours like fire.

He takes off his boxers and pulls down your thong to enter you. While doing this he kissed you passionately.He kisses you hungrily, as if trying to convey with his lips all the things he can’t say out loud. He’s rough, his hand gripping your hip possessively, but there’s also a tenderness in the way his lips caress yours. He pulls you closer, molding your body to his, as if he can’t get enough of you.

You moan through the kisses feeling his strong movements.He responds to your moans, his movements becoming more intense, more desperate. He’s holding nothing back, every thrust driven by a primal need to claim you as his. He’s lost in you.“I missed this,” he grits out, his voice ragged and low. “I missed you, missed being this close to you, missed the way you feel under me.”

You moan at his words and cling to him. “Me too Brock, I missed you so much” you whisper.He growls at your admission, his arms wrapping around you, holding you tight against him. “Say it again,” he demands, his voice a hoarse whisper against your ear. “Tell me you missed me.”

“I missed you so much” you say moaning feeling his thrusts get stronger.Brock groans, the sound deep and primal, as if he’s holding on by a thread. He kisses you, hard, his tongue tangling with yours. “You have no idea how much I need to hear that,” he mutters against your lips. “How long I’ve needed to hear you say it.”

He kisses you again, deeper, more hungrily, as if trying to consume you. His body is moving against yours in a primal rhythm, the raw need between you building with each passing second. “You’re mine,” he growls, his voice rough and possessive. “Say it.”

You moaned at his possessiveness and his thrusts that became more and more animalistic. "I'm yours, all yours Brock".The words seem to unleash something in him. He grips you tighter, his fingers digging into your skin almost possessively. “That’s right,” he mutters, his voice a low growl. “You’re mine, and I’m never letting you go again. Never.”

He starts to move faster, the pace more frantic, more desperate. He kisses you again, as if he can’t get enough of your mouth, of your taste. “Say it again,” he says, his voice ragged and low. “Tell me you’re mine.”

You moan at his thrusts and scratch his back. "Yours, only yours".His body tenses at your words, his muscles rippling under your hands. “Damn right you are,” he mutters, his voice thick with a mix of desire and something darker, something possessive. “You’re mine, and I’m gonna make sure you never forget it.”

He moves faster, more urgently, his hands roaming over your body, as if caressing every inch of you. He kisses, bites, and sucks at your skin, marking you as his, everywhere he can reach. “You’re mine,” he whispers, his voice thick and ragged. “No one else’s.”A sense of almost frenzied desperation seems to take over, fueled by months of separation and the weight of what he’s done. There’s an edge to his movements, a fierce need to claim you, body and soul. “Mine,” he repeats, a primal growl in his voice. “You’re all mine, Y/N.

Always.”You moan and hold onto him. "I'm coming".He moans, the sound coming from deep in his chest. “Come for me,” he mutters, his voice tight and ragged. “Come for me, and say my name. I need to hear you.”

His thrusts became harder and you screamed louder and louder. “Brock” you yelled as you came.He grunts, his body tensing as he responds to your release. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his breath hot and ragged against your skin. “Say it again,” he growls, his voice rough. “Say my name again.”

You screamed his name louder and louder as he came inside you.He groaned as he came, his body shuddering against yours. He buried his face in your hair, his breath coming out in ragged gasps. “Y/N,” he muttered, his voice rough and ragged. “I… I…”

He trails off, seemingly lost for words. The raw emotion in his voice is clear, a rare vulnerability showing through the gruff exterior. He stays there for a moment, his body still pressed against yours. He seems suddenly young, like the boy you fell in love with so many years ago.He pulls back slightly, looking down at you. His eyes are dark, still filled with need and desire, but there’s something more there now - a depth, a vulnerability. “I love you,” he says, his voice hoarse. “I’ve always loved you, Y/N. And I always will.”

You smile softly at his words and kiss his cheek. “I love you too and will always love you Brock” you say sweetly.His expression softens, something like relief flickering across his face. He cups your face in his hands, his thumbs rubbing tenderly over your skin. “Damn,” he mutters, his voice a rough whisper. “How did I get so lucky?”

You smile and stroke his hair.He brushes a strand of hair away from your face, his eyes roaming over you as if trying to memorize every feature. “I don’t deserve you,” he says quietly. “I never deserved you. But I’m never letting you go again. I need you too damn much.”

He pulls you closer, his arms wrapping around you possessively. “You’re mine, Y/N,” he murmurs, his voice suddenly fierce again. “Every part of you, completely mine.”

[hunnysahara]

˗ˏˋ 𝒲𝒽𝓎’𝒹 𝒴𝑜𝓊 𝒪𝓃𝓁𝓎 𝒞𝒶𝓁𝓁 𝑀𝑒 𝒲𝒽𝑒𝓃 𝒴𝑜𝓊’𝓇𝑒 𝐻𝒾𝑔𝒽? ˎˊ˗

Hamzah x fem!reader

It's harder and harder to get you to listen, more I get through the gears. Incapable of making alright decisions and having bad ideas.

Premise: Your ex friends with benefits calls you in the middle of the night and you know before you answer why he’s ringing you.

CW: cannabis usage / suggestive / crude + sexual language

WC: 2.6k

The soft glow of your phone screen fractures the darkness like a sliver of unwelcome light, casting long shadows across the room. It's the dead of night when the world holds its breath in a hush, yet here you are, wide-eyed, heart knocking gently against your ribs. You had been unpleasantly woken from your sleep by the sound of your phone vibrating itself off your bedside table.

Hamzah's name lingers on your screen. The messages spill one after another, frantic and garbled, like a stream you can't dam—misspelled words, scattered thoughts like he had thrown scrabble tiles together to form texts.

You aren't even able to fully read one message before it's replaced with another. You throw your phone down beside you on your bed, running your hands down your face and grumbling. It had been months since you heard from Hamzah.

The two of you had a very casual friend-with-benefits relationship though you took the initiative to end it when there was a landslide shift and the unceremonious hookups turned into mumbled confessions against your neck. It was too intimate, it breached the contract the two of you initially agreed on.

Though here he was, blowing up your phone like he would die without another word from you.

The phone buzzes again, his caller ID taking over the screen of your phone. You groan, your thumb hovering over the screen, debating whether to answer just to tell him to stop, to leave you alone. Maybe then, maybe if you hear the slur in his voice, the edge of something broken and far away, he'll finally understand that you're not his to call anymore.

The phone lights up again, and this time, you answer.

"Hamzah, stop."

"I knew you'd pick up," His words are thick like velvet, his voice groggy and coarse.

"Why are you calling me?" You ask, voice sharp like a bullet through skin.

"I just wanna hear your voice," On the other end, you can practically hear the smile in his voice. The way the words drowsily fall from his lips brings you to one conclusion.

"You're high?"

"Perchance," He takes a sharp inhale. After a moment of virtual silence, he giggles and coughs eventually settling down "Fine, you caught me. I'm very high."

"What do you want?"

"Why are you being so mean? I just wanted to say hi," There's a hint of playfulness in his voice and you can imagine him sprawled out in bed, hair a mess and glassy eyes half drawn.

Your head throbs as he jumps from one half-finished thought to another, rambling through memories like they're fresh scabs he needs to pick at, unravelling every thread you've tried so hard to tie up neatly. "Maybe I'm being mean because you called me at three AM."

"Yeah, that's kinda annoying," He laughs to himself. His voice filters through the phone, slick with an edge of playfulness that sends a ripple of irritation through you. "It's been too long since I've seen you," Hamzah says, drawing out the word in a lazy, teasing way that always used to make you laugh. But tonight, it feels grating like sand paper against your skull.

"Not long enough." You press the phone tighter to your ear, walking barefoot across the cold floor to the kitchen. The hardwood creaks under your steps, and the cool air feels sharp against your skin.

"Oh, how you hurt me," He adds a tinge of melodrama to his sarcasm.

"Hamzah," you sigh, but he barely gives you a second to speak.

"Did I wake you up?" He pauses to take a breath and you can hear the blunt crackling, and paper shuffling in the background.

"Yeah, you did."

"My bad, my bad-" He coughs again "What are you wearing? Is it that Grateful Dead shirt that hangs off your shoulder?"

You look down at your pyjamas, you were in fact wearing the Grateful Dead that hung off your shoulder and draped past your hips. "No." You lie through your teeth.

"Damn," He mutters before his brain hooks on another ramble "Remember that time—God, you were wearing that little white sundress, you remember?—and we went to that park with the swings? You kept pretending you were too good to be on a swing, but you ended up laughing like a kid when I pushed you too high."

You roll your eyes, frustration simmering beneath the surface. His tone is light, and flirtatious, like he's trying to conjure up a nostalgia that never quite sat right with you. The kitchen light flickers to life as you reach for a glass, the soft hum of the fridge barely audible over his rambling.

"Hamzah," you cut in, more firmly this time, holding the phone between your ear and shoulder as you twist the tap open. The sound of water hitting the glass is oddly soothing, something real and grounded amidst the chaos of his voice. "You're not making any sense."

"No, I think I'm making sense. You just don't wanna admit it." There's a slurred chuckle on the other end. "Come on, don't be like that. I know you're smiling right now. You miss this."

You can practically hear the smirk in his voice, and it makes your skin crawl. You take a sip of water, trying to quench the heat building in your chest. He always does this—twisting every conversation into something flirtatious, something playful.

"I'm not smiling, I’m frowning if anything," you reply flatly, setting the glass down with a little more force than necessary. "And you really need to stop calling me in the middle of the night. This isn't funny."

"But it's not the same during the day," he says with a laugh that feels too close, too familiar. "Night's that thing in that one song- made for saying things you can't say another day," He paraphrases poorly. His voice lowers, taking on that soft, honeyed tone he used to use when he wanted to get his way. 

Your jaw tightens as you lean against the counter, fingers tapping impatiently against the cold surface. He's pushing, and it's infuriating how easily he slips back into this—this game of his, like he can flirt his way out of the chaos he's caused.

"Hamzah, I don't have time for this. You're high. Again."

"And you're still talking to me, aren't you?" he teases, his voice laced with a kind of smug satisfaction. "You didn't have to answer. Y'know there's this magical button on your phone that makes it so I can't message you? I think that you want to talk to me."

The audacity in his tone sends a spark of anger through you, your fingers curling around the edge of the counter. He always knows how to toe the line, to keep you teetering between frustration and the pull of something that's sweet on your tongue but now feels like quicksand.

You take a deep breath, forcing yourself to stay calm. "Hamzah, I'm not doing this. You need to hang up and sleep this off."

There's a pause, and for a second, you think he's going to listen. But then he chuckles softly, voice dripping with mischief.

"You're so hot when you're mad at me."

You nearly groan aloud, the exhaustion catching up with you in waves. This is pointless. You've been here before, hearing the same lines, feeling the same tired tug of emotions you've long since buried. But there's a part of you—a small, quiet part—that almost misses this, misses the ease with which he used to reel you in. And that's what makes it worse.

"Hamzah," you start, your voice sharper now, "go to sleep. Seriously."

"What if I told you that I really missed you?" He adds like it sweetens the deal. 

"I would tell you that I don't care."

"When did you turn so cold on me?" 

You pause, the phone still pressed against your ear. "Hamzah," you mutter, exasperation thick in your voice. The glass of water in your hand feels heavy, like a tether pulling you back into his orbit, even as you stand there in the dim kitchen, staring out at the quiet darkness outside the window.

"Just hear me out," he says, voice too smooth for someone who's supposed to be slurring. "I think me and you should do something together."

You don't answer, your hand moving on autopilot as you rinse the glass and set it down in the sink. There was always a certain ease between you and Hamzah, but that was before it got complicated, before the lines blurred. You clench your jaw, stepping away from the kitchen and into the hall, eyes scanning the house for some chore to distract you, to keep your mind from wandering back to those nights.

"Come on," he continues, undeterred. "I know you heard me."

You sigh, frustration buzzing beneath your skin, but your feet carry you to the living room where a few stray magazines and an old blanket still sit crumpled on the couch. Might as well tidy up while he babbles. Maybe if you let him talk himself out, he'll fall asleep or something. You grab the blanket, folding it with quick, jerky movements as he keeps talking.

"Can I come over?" He asks abruptly.

"No?" You furrow your eyebrows "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Damn, I really thought that would work."

As you sit down at the kitchen table, leaning your head into your hand, you notice the faint hum of traffic coming through the phone—tires on wet pavement, the distant growl of an engine passing by. Your brow furrows and a flicker of concern sparks through your irritation.

"Where are you, Hamzah?" you ask, voice sharper than you intended. It's late, and the sound of traffic at this hour doesn't fit into the picture of him sprawled out in bed, half-asleep and rambling, like you'd assumed.

"Why do you want to know?"

"So you don't show up at my house."

He chuckles to himself "Why on earth would I do that?"

"Maybe because you're obsessed with me?"

"I'm not- no, yeah. I am obsessed with you." There it was, the confidence that he so lacked when he was sober. With the help of cannabis, his tongue was as loose as his morals.

You press your lips together, gaze flicking toward the window, though the night outside your house is still and quiet, completely unlike the soundscape on the other end of the line. You disregard his admission "So, where are you?"

"I'm... walking. Clearing my head or whatever."

Your chest tightens, frustration mixing with a flicker of something you wish wasn't there—worry. "Walking where?" you press, though part of you already knows he's not going to give you a straight answer.

"Just around. Nowhere dangerous, alright? You don't have to freak out." He tries to sound nonchalant, but there's an edge to his voice that betrays him. 

"Hamzah, you shouldn't be out right now. It's late, and you're—" You pause, choosing your words carefully. "You're not in the best headspace to be wandering around." You're caught between the urge to scream at him or call Martin to pick him up and haul him home.

"Yeah, yeah, I'll be fine," he cuts in, that cocky smile returning to his voice. "I'm always fine, babe. You worry too much."

You want to hang up, to cut the thread between you and the mess that is Hamzah, but the thought of him alone, on some random street at this hour, makes it hard to press the button. "Go home," you say softly, barely above a whisper.

"Stay on the phone with me a little longer, alright? I'm almost home anyway," Hamzah pleads, voice taking on that boyish, playful tone you've heard too many times.

You rub your temples, eyes drifting toward the clock on the wall. It's well into the night, and here you are, listening to him stumble through whatever story he's trying to spin. "You always say that," you mutter. "But somehow, you're always ten minutes from home."

"Hey, it's not my fault time slows down when I'm talking to you," he says with a sly grin you can practically hear. "Like, relativity or something. I saw that in the Spider-Verse movie."

You roll your eyes, walking back toward the kitchen to grab another glass of water, your mouth feeling particularly dry. "You would know."

"Didn't we see that together when it came out?" He asks to no answer. "We should watch it again."

"I don't think so," You lean against the counter, cradling your glass as his words wash over you.

"I want to see you, I like the way you laugh," He humbles "That's why I was such a goof around you. I didn't mind embarrassing myself because it made you smile and god- that smile..."

 "I don't really care what you want."

Hamzah lets out a low whistle "And yet, here you are," he shoots back quickly. "Still on the phone. Ah- I got you there."

You lean back against the counter, the weight of his words sinking in. He's right, of course. You're still here, still wrapped up in this bizarre late-night conversation, still listening as he spirals through his endless stream of nonsense. There's an odd comfort in the banter, as much as you hate yourself for it, there's safety in the familiarity.

"Yeah, yeah," you say finally, shaking your head. "You know how to run your mouth. That's about the only thing you're good at."

"Hey, don't forget I'm a man of many talents," Hamzah quips, the humour softening just a little. "And one of them is keeping you on the line way longer than you should be."

"Trust me, I'm very aware," you mutter, though there's a strange warmth behind your words now.

"Yeah, but you still picked up," he says, almost gently this time, his voice losing some of that playful edge. "That's gotta mean something, right?"

"I wouldn't bet on it."

"Do you miss me? Like at all?" He asks, the words falling from his lips with ease "You can be honest." 

You roll your eyes, though there's a slight warmth blooming in your chest despite your irritation. "Please, Hamzah," you deadpan, pacing slowly across the kitchen. "Do you ever stop?"

A knock sounds from your front door, sharp and unexpected. You freeze, turning toward the noise, the sound cutting through the warmth of your late-night banter like a cold breeze. Your heart skips a beat, the suddenness of the interruption making your stomach twist with an uneasy kind of tension. "Hang on," you mutter into the phone, already moving toward the door. "Someone's at my-"

You trail off, eyes narrowing as another knock echoes through the quiet house. Your pulse quickens, a strange feeling creeping up the back of your neck as you grip the phone a little tighter.

As you open the door, the cold air hits you first, followed by the sight of someone standing on your doorstep. Your breath catches for a moment when you see him. There, leaning casually against the doorframe with that signature lazy grin, is Hamzah.

"What the fuck," You draw out. 

"C'mon, don't be like that," Hamzah says, giving you a crooked grin. His phone is still pressed to his ear—well, it is until he lowers it slowly, that playful glint in his eyes growing even more mischievous as he hangs up, ending the call without a word. “So- are you gonna let me in?”

[th3mrskory]

Lessons in Desire- Part 2

Pairing: fem!Reader x Professor!Logan

Warning: 18+ MDNI, SMUT, explicit language.

Part 1

Summary: In the classroom, their power dynamics shift, drawing them closer to the edge of what’s acceptable. Caught between desire and the threat of scandal, they push past boundaries, each unable to deny the magnetic pull between them. But with stakes this high, the real question is: how much will they sacrifice for a forbidden passion they can’t control?

Word count: 7.8 k

A/N: Alright, folks, I hear you. Loud and clear. Consider this my formal apology for the emotional torment, the tension, and, yes, the blatant blue-balling of Part 1. I know some of you were ready to throw hands. But fear not—redemption is here. Enjoy.

© th3mrskory. don’t copy, translate, or use my works in any form with AI, ChatGPT or any other automated tools. I only share my stories here, so if you see them posted elsewhere, i’d appreciate it if you let me know.

The morning air was crisp, but the moment Y/N stepped into the lecture hall, a slow, suffocating heat curled around her skin.

She knew why.

Her fingers tightened around the strap of her bag as she moved toward her usual seat, keeping her movements smooth, unbothered. If she hesitated, even for a second, she knew he’d notice. And she refused to give him that satisfaction.

He was already there, of course he was, leaning against his desk, arms crossed in that effortlessly relaxed way of his, watching students filter in like he wasn’t waiting for someone specific.

Like he wasn’t waiting for her.

Y/N did not look at him.

Instead, she pulled out her laptop, her fingers poised over the keys, eyes on the screen as if she were already deep in thought. A buffer. A shield. A blatant avoidance.

She felt him smirk. Didn’t have to look to know it was there.

God, he was insufferable.

The noise in the room settled, conversations dying down as Logan finally straightened, stepping forward with the kind of slow, deliberate ease that had no right being so compelling.

“All right,” he began, voice low and steady, filling the room like it belonged to him. Because it did. “Power and consequence, a delicate balance—one often dictated by impulse rather than reason.”

Y/N exhaled sharply through her nose, already bracing herself.

“In every era, power dictates action. It shapes choices, defines relationships.” Logan’s hands slid into his pockets, his stance casual, his expression unreadable. But his voice—his voice was a loaded gun. “History is littered with stories of rulers and revolutionaries, leaders and subordinates. And in many cases—” his head tilted slightly, “—power is at its most dangerous when both sides refuse to admit what they want.”

A muscle in Y/N’s jaw ticked.

She didn’t shift in her seat. Didn’t move.

She knew what he was doing.

It was the same thing he’d done in their last encounter—teasing, testing, pushing.

He was talking about his syllabus. But he was also talking about them.

“Take Rome, for example.” Logan continued, walking along the front of the classroom, hands still in his pockets. “Julius Caesar consolidates power, and suddenly, the Senate is restless. They don’t trust him. Why?”

Silence.

Logan’s eyes flicked over the class, lingering—too long—when they landed on her.

Y/N refused to look up.

“Because they knew,” he continued, voice dipping slightly, “that once someone has a taste of power, they don’t let it go so easily.”

His words settled heavy in the air.

“And yet,” he went on, “some of the greatest conflicts in history weren’t about power itself.” His gaze swept the room. “They were about control.”

Y/N’s fingers curled into her palm, nails pressing into skin.

A few seats away, a student finally spoke up. “Didn’t power and control kind of go hand in hand?”

Logan’s lips twitched.

“Not always,” he said smoothly. “Power can be taken. Control has to be given.”

A shiver coiled down Y/N’s spine, heat pooling low in her stomach.

And Logan knew it.

His voice had dipped just enough to slip under her skin, just enough to force her to sit with the words—his words. And yet, he didn’t look at her. Not directly.

Instead, his eyes flickered across the room, casual, detached, as if he hadn’t just set fire to her nerve endings and left her to smother the flames on her own.

Another student, oblivious to the tension lacing the air, chimed in. “But doesn’t control imply restraint?”

Logan hummed, tapping his fingers idly against the desk.

“In some cases,” he admitted. “But true control—” he let the words hang for a moment, deliberate, sharp “—is knowing exactly how far you can go before you cross the line.”

Y/N exhaled slowly, her grip tightening around her pen.

 Because that? That wasn’t about Rome.

“Caesar, for example.” Logan pushed off the desk, his movements unhurried, purposeful. “He understood that power was fleeting. He took what he could, pushed where he had to, but in the end?” He paused, tilting his head. “Even he wasn’t immune to the consequences.”

A few students chuckled under their breath.

Y/N didn’t.

Because she knew Logan. Knew how he played these games.

This wasn’t just a history lesson.

It was a reminder.

A reminder of that night, of the way she had let herself slip—just for a moment. The way she had let him touch her, pull her under, take something she had never intended to give.

And now?

Now, she was here, pretending to be unaffected while he stood at the front of the room, speaking in riddles that only she could decipher.

Logan finally glanced her way, just for a second.

Not long enough for anyone else to notice.

But long enough for her to see the flicker of amusement in his eyes.

Long enough for her to realize that he was enjoying this.

Motherfucker

The discussion shifted, students bouncing theories back and forth about leadership, strategy, the fine line between control and collapse.

Y/N forced herself to focus, to stare at the screen of her laptop as though the glowing words of her notes were actually sinking in.

They weren’t.

Not when she could still feel Logan’s gaze grazing her skin like the edge of a blade, deliberate in its absence, cutting in the way he looked everywhere but at her.

A girl two seats down—Emily, maybe?—leaned forward, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. “So, Professor, would you say Caesar’s downfall was inevitable?”

Logan leaned against the desk, arms crossed, head tilting as if considering.

“Depends,” he mused. “Was it the betrayal that killed him?” A beat. “Or was it his arrogance?”

His words settled over the room, thoughtful. Almost careless.

But Y/N felt the weight of them like a hand at her throat.

Because that night had been arrogant.

She had known better. She had drawn her lines, kept her distance, resisted every damn pull he had on her. And yet, one moment—one misstep—had changed everything.

And now?

Now she was the one paying for it.

A quiet sigh escaped her lips as she tapped at her keyboard, forcing herself to take notes. She could feel her pulse in her throat, steady and insistent, but she pushed it down, locked it away.

She just had to make it through the next twenty minutes.

Then—mercifully—Logan moved on. The lesson drifted towards logistics, strategy, the mechanics of an empire’s rise and fall.

Y/N let herself breathe.

Until—

“Before we wrap up—” Logan straightened, flipping through a stack of papers before holding them up between two fingers. “Your midterms.”

A few groans rippled through the class. Some students slumped lower in their seats. Others sat up straighter, eyes flickering with expectation.

Y/N blinked, caught off guard. She hadn’t graded those.

Her stomach turned slightly.

She had spent the past few days avoiding him—on purpose. Dodging his glances, his emails, taking the long way around campus just to make sure she didn’t have to face him. She had expected him to push back, to try and catch her alone.

But this?

This was unexpected.

She frowned, shifting in her seat as Logan started handing them back, his expression unreadable.

She had aced that exam. She knew she had.

And yet, when Logan finally reached her desk, sliding the paper toward her with an infuriating ease, she felt something cold slither down her spine.

Red ink slashed across the top corner.

C

Her head snapped up.

Logan didn’t stop.

Didn’t look at her.

Didn’t acknowledge her at all as he moved past, handing the next paper to the student behind her.

Her fingers curled around the edges of her midterm, heart hammering against her ribs.

This wasn’t a mistake.

It was a message.

She scoffed, quiet but sharp, barely more than an exhale.

Very well.

This was not going to end here.

She could feel the heat creeping up her spine, pooling low in her stomach—not just from anger, but from something darker, something thrilling.

He wanted to play?

Fine.

She would play.

For the rest of class, Y/N barely moved, barely breathed, fingers gripping the edge of her desk, her jaw locked so tight it ached.

Logan, of course, was unbothered. Completely composed. He carried on as though nothing had happened, as though he hadn’t just tossed a match into an open field and walked away.

She didn’t react. Not then.

But when class ended, when the other students stood, stretching and gathering their things, when she heard Logan dismiss them with a low, even, “See you all next week,”—

She didn’t move.

Didn’t even pretend to pack up.

Instead, she sat perfectly still, one hand smoothing over the graded paper, staring down at the lie written in red ink.

She waited.

Listened.

And when the last of her classmates filtered out, when the door finally clicked shut behind them—

Only then did she rise.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

Logan was still at his desk, flipping through papers, pretending to be unaware of her presence.

She took a breath. Stepped forward.

And when she spoke, her voice was sweet. Too sweet.

“You’re awfully generous, Professor.”

Logan didn’t look up.

“Am I?”

She hummed, holding the exam between two fingers, twirling it slightly.

“I mean, a C?” A pause, tilting her head. “You could’ve at least failed me. That would’ve been more convincing.”

That got him.

The edge of Logan’s mouth twitched—just barely, just enough for her to see.

But he still didn’t look up.

“Maybe I went easy on you,” he mused, voice low, dragging as he flipped to another page in his papers. “Maybe I thought you deserved a little mercy.”

Y/N let out a soft, breathy laugh, stepping closer, just enough that she could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers twitched slightly against the desk.

“Mercy?” she echoed. “Is that what you call it?”

Then, because she couldn’t help herself—because he had started this—

She leaned in.

Not enough to touch.

But enough for her next words to slide between them like a blade.

“Seems a little desperate, Professor.”

That got his attention.

Logan’s head finally lifted, darkened eyes locking onto hers, sharp and unreadable.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

The air between them crackled.

“I don’t have time for this,” he said, flipping the page in front of him. “I have a meeting.”

Y/N blinked.

For a second, just a second, her breath caught in her throat.

Then, slowly, she smiled. Sharp. Cold.

“Of course you do.”

Y/N lifted her paper slightly, the red mark on it almost taunting.

Then, with a slow smirk, she pressed it against his chest.

“Enjoy your meeting,” she murmured.

And then—before he could say a thing—

She turned and walked out.

******

The restaurant hummed with warmth, a mix of clinking glasses, low conversation, and the occasional burst of laughter rising above the noise. The scent of charred steak, garlic butter, and freshly baked bread filled the air, making the already cozy space feel even richer.

At their table, tucked near the window, the girls were deep into their second—or was it third?—bottle of wine. Plates sat half-empty, dessert forks clinking as they passed around bites of Leah’s birthday cake.

“To another year of surviving this godforsaken institution,” Leah declared, lifting her glass high, eyes gleaming with amusement.

“And looking hot while doing it,” someone added.

“To Leah,” Y/N smirked, clinking her glass against hers.

“To all of us,” Leah corrected. “Because, honestly, we deserve it.”

Laughter rippled through the group. The drinks kept flowing, the conversation weaving between weekend plans, internship gossip, and the ever-evolving drama of their university’s social scene. It was easy, normal.

Y/N leaned into it, letting herself get lost in the rhythm of her friends’ voices, letting herself forget about—

“Oh, speaking of school,” one of the girls piped up, tipping her glass in Y/N’s direction. “How’s the TA life treating you?”

Y/N blinked, the shift in topic jolting her for half a second.

Leah turned to her, lips twitching. “Yeah, how is our dear Professor Howlett?”

Y/N kept her expression even, swirling her wine. “Fine.”

One of the other girls snorted, raising a brow. “That’s it?”

Y/N arched a brow back. “Would you like a full dissertation?”

“No, but I’d like a little more detail,” Leah cut in, leaning forward. “Because, from what I heard—” she paused, grinning like she had something good, “—you’ve fallen from grace.”

Y/N frowned, feigning nonchalance as she took a sip of her drink. “What are you talking about?”

“You tell me.” Leah smirked. “A month ago, you were his golden child. He actually smiled at you. Now?” She let out an exaggerated sigh. “He looks at you like you personally set his car on fire.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, but she could feel the way they were watching her.

“Oh my God, you totally pissed him off,” another girl cackled.

“I did not,” Y/N said smoothly.

“Uh-huh.”

“No, seriously, what did you do?” Leah pressed.

Y/N tapped her fingers against her wine glass, tilting her head. “Maybe he just finally realized he’s an asshole.”

A few of the girls laughed, but Leah just squinted at her, too perceptive for her own good.

Y/N held her gaze, unfazed.

“Whatever you did,” Leah drawled, sitting back, “he’s been pissed. He even started handing out graded exams himself.”

Y/N stilled, barely a flicker of reaction, but Leah caught it.

Bingo.

“Oh, so that’s what this is about.”

“Leah,” Y/N warned.

“No, no, no. Wait.” Leah grinned like she was piecing together the most delicious gossip of the year. “You’ve been helping him grade for months. And now, all of a sudden, you’re out of a job?” She let out a slow, dramatic gasp. “You did piss him off.”

Y/N rolled her eyes again, sitting back in her chair.

“Oh, babe,” Leah continued, her voice dripping with exaggerated sympathy. “Do you need a new professor to suck up to?”

Y/N smirked, unbothered. “No, but you might, considering your last paper was absolute shit.”

Leah gasped, clutching her chest in mock offense. “I am the victim here.”

“Oh, sure,” Y/N deadpanned.

The conversation carried on, laughter spilling over the table as Leah launched into a dramatic retelling of her latest attempt at flirting with her philosophy TA. Something about eye contact, Nietzsche, and an existential crisis mid-hookup.

Y/N smirked, sipping her drink, letting herself relax into the warmth of the evening. The wine hummed pleasantly in her veins, the weight of everything momentarily pushed to the edges of her mind.

Until Leah, still mid-rant, suddenly froze.

Her eyes flicked past Y/N’s shoulder, widening slightly before she smirked, slow and sharp.

“Well, well,” she murmured, swirling her drink. “Look what the cat dragged in.”

Y/N’s fingers tightened around the stem of her glass, the coolness of it grounding her, anchoring her in place. Logan.

Logan, leaning back like he had all the time in the world, one arm draped over the back of the booth, fingers absently rolling his whiskey glass. His body language was relaxed, easy. But his eyes?

His eyes were locked onto hers.

And he wasn’t alone.

The woman across from him was gorgeous, her red-painted lips curved into something lazy, knowing. She leaned in just enough to make a point, her hand brushing against Logan’s forearm as she whispered something in his ear.

Y/N didn’t hear Logan’s response.

She didn’t need to.

She saw the smirk that followed. The tilt of his head. The way his lips parted slightly, like he was amused.

Like he knew exactly what he was doing.

“Damn,” Maya murmured, her brows lifting as she took a sip of her drink. “Guess Mr. Howlett’s got a life outside of terrorizing students after all.”

Leah snorted. “And it looks like he’s got good taste.”

Y/N hummed, her expression unreadable, her blood thrumming with something sharp and tight and unbearable.

He was doing it on purpose.

Because, of course, he was.

Y/N refused to look away first.

If he wanted to play this game, fine.

She lifted her glass, taking a slow, deliberate sip, her lips curving into something that wasn’t quite a smirk. Then, just as Logan lifted his own glass in some silent, taunting toast—

She turned away.

Didn’t give him the satisfaction.

Leah exhaled, shaking her head. “Must be nice,” she muttered, tipping her glass toward Logan’s date. “Imagine being wined and dined by that.”

Y/N just smiled, feigning boredom, indifference.

But she could still feel his eyes on her.

Still feel the weight of his gaze, burning against the side of her face.

It was subtle—calculated. The way his deep, rough laugh suddenly cut through the restaurant’s hum, just loud enough for her to hear. The way his fingers traced absent circles against the table’s edge, slow, deliberate. The way he leaned in just a fraction closer to the woman across from him, speaking low, lips almost brushing her ear—

Almost.

She let her friends’ conversation wash over her, grounding herself in their presence, their laughter, their easy, carefree energy. She refused to let Logan pull her into whatever game he was playing.

It was almost amusing.

Almost.

Maya gestured to the waiter for another round of drinks, grinning. “Alright, I say we hit a club after this.”

Leah groaned. “I have a quiz tomorrow.”

“And?”

“And I’m not trying to fail.”

“God, you’re so responsible,” Maya sighed, rolling her eyes before turning back to Y/N. “What about you? You coming?”

Y/N took another sip of her drink, letting the question linger before answering, “Why not?”

Logan stiffened.

It was brief, nearly imperceptible. But she caught it.

And so did he.

Y/N turned, meeting his gaze head-on.

His jaw tightened.

Her lips twitched.

And then, as if he was nothing more than a fleeting thought, she rose from her seat, gathering her things.

“Alright,” she said to Maya, tossing a few bills onto the table for the check. “Let’s go.”

She didn’t look back.

She didn’t need to.

Because as she walked away, she felt it—the weight of his stare, the frustration rolling off him in waves, thick and heavy and burning with something he hadn’t quite tamed yet.

Good.

Let him simmer.

******

Logan was late.

A rare thing. An unacceptable thing.

And it was because of his damn car, which decided this morning—of all mornings—that it wasn’t going to start. He’d wasted fifteen minutes trying to fix it himself, another five debating if he should just put his fist through the hood, and another ten waiting for a uber to show up.

Annoyance curled hot in his chest, pressing against his ribs like a vice.

Fine.

It wasn’t the first time the universe threw obstacles in his way.

At least he had someone reliable to handle things.

So as he sat in the back of the uber, Logan pulled out his phone and sent a quick, no-nonsense text.

Tell them I’ll be late. Start the lecture.

Short. Clear. He didn’t need to say more. Y/N would handle it.

Except—

She didn’t.

The second he stepped into the lecture hall, his mood went from bad to worse.

The room was chaos. Conversations rang out unchecked, students still standing, still filing in, notebooks tossed onto desks with all the urgency of a lazy Sunday morning.

Logan’s gaze flicked toward her usual seat.

Empty.

His jaw tightened.

He let the pause stretch, let his frustration settle in his bones, before he strode down the steps to the front of the class.

When he spoke, his voice cut through the noise like a blade.

“Sit.”

The command landed with immediate effect. Conversations died. Chairs scraped against the floor.

A few students exchanged wary glances, picking up on the fact that their professor was in no mood for patience.

Logan set his bag down on the desk a little harder than necessary. The silence stretched, thick and expectant, but he didn’t give them anything—not yet.

Instead, he rolled up his sleeves with slow, deliberate movements, exhaling through his nose before finally speaking.

"Last class, we talked about power. About control.”

He turned to the whiteboard, uncapping a marker, and dragged the words across the surface in sharp, precise strokes.

“Today,” he continued, voice smooth, “we’re shifting to influence.”

Another slow line drawn beneath the word.

“How it’s used. How it’s abused. And—” his voice dipped lower, his gaze cutting through the room— “how those who think they have it often don’t.”

A beat of silence.

Logan let it linger, let the weight of his words settle over the students before he turned back to face them.

“Influence,” he went on, stepping forward, “isn’t about brute strength. It’s not about who yells the loudest or who has the biggest army.”

His hands slipped into his pockets as he paced.

“Real influence is quieter. Subtler. It’s knowing exactly what someone wants—” he tilted his head slightly, “—and deciding whether or not you’re going to give it to them.”

He caught a few students exchanging glances, intrigued.

They had no idea.

Because Logan wasn’t talking about history. Not really.

He was talking about something else entirely.

Something sharp. Something frustrating. Something that had the nerve to not show up today.

Y/N.

His fingers flexed at his sides.

She had never missed a class before. Not once. Not even when she had every reason to.

And yet—here he was, staring at an empty seat.

His grip on the marker tightened as he forced himself to keep going.

"History is full of people who thought they had influence,” he said, dragging his attention back to the class. “People who assumed their power was absolute. That they had control over those beneath them.”

A slow, measured breath.

“But control is a fickle thing.”

He turned back to the whiteboard, scrawling another word beneath Influence.

“Perception.”

“The truth is,” he continued, “most of history’s so-called ‘great leaders’ weren’t actually in control. They were at the mercy of perception. The illusion of power. And illusions—” he capped the marker with an audible click, “—can be shattered.”

A few students scribbled in their notebooks, nodding along. Others sat back, watching him with quiet focus.

But Logan wasn’t watching them.

He was watching the damn clock.

Waiting.

Expecting.

The door never opened.

She never walked in.

His jaw ticked.

Fine.

If she wanted to play games, she’d have to try harder than this.

Logan finished the lecture with practiced ease, but his patience had thinned to a knife’s edge. By the time class ended, he was done pretending.

As students packed up their things, Logan leaned back against his desk, arms crossed, gaze sharp as it swept over the room.

Then his eyes landed on her friend.

She was taking her time, slow in the way only someone deliberately avoiding something could be. Flipping through her notebook, adjusting the strap of her bag—stalling.

Logan wasn’t in the mood for patience.

“Where’s Y/N?”

It wasn’t a casual question, no matter how level his tone was.

The friend stilled for half a second before flicking her eyes up to him. A knowing look. Curious. Wary.

“She didn’t say much last night,” she said eventually, shutting her notebook. “We left the club, and then… she was gone.”

Logan’s jaw ticked.

Gone.

He didn’t like the sound of that.

Didn’t like that they hadn’t seen her after.

Didn’t like the way the friend was looking at him now, sharp and assessing, as if putting pieces together.

“I let her know I’d be late this morning.” His voice was calm, but the words had an edge. A reminder. A fact.

The friend tilted her head, considering him. Then, with something just shy of a smirk, she said, “Guess she had more important things to do.”

A slow exhale through his nose.

Logan held her gaze for a beat longer before pushing off the desk, his movements controlled, precise.

He didn’t respond.

Didn’t need to.

If she was trying to make a point—

Message fucking received.

******

Logan didn’t leave the classroom right away.

He lingered.

The students had cleared out, their chatter fading down the hall, but he stood by the desk, arms crossed, gaze fixed on the empty chair where she should have been.

She hadn’t shown up.

Not for class. Not for him.

His jaw ticked.

The room was still, save for the faint hum of the overhead lights. He exhaled sharply, reaching for his coffee. The cup was empty.

Great.

With a muttered curse, he grabbed his things and strode toward the door. The sound of his own footsteps echoed in the now-empty hallway, steady, controlled.

Controlled.

Power can be taken. Control has to be given.

The words from his own damn lecture slithered back to him, unwanted. He scowled, pushing through the building’s heavy front doors and stepping outside. The air had cooled, the lingering heat of the day fading into a crisp breeze.

He barely noticed.

His mind kept circling back to her absence, to the night before. To the moment she had downed her drink, barely even looking at him as she walked away.

She knew he saw her. She knew he was watching.

And yet she hadn’t given him the satisfaction of even a reaction.

His fingers tightened around the strap of his bag as he made his way across campus, past clusters of students, past the coffee cart where she sometimes stopped between classes.

The cup he usually found sitting on his desk—her order, slid across with an offhand comment about him needing it more than her—hadn’t been there today.

It was nothing.

So why the fuck did it feel like something?

By the time he reached his office, his patience was worn thin. The door swung shut behind him with a quiet thud, and he dropped his things onto the desk, rolling his shoulders back.

A heavy exhale.

He should be grading. Preparing for the next lecture.

Instead, he reached for his phone.

No messages.

Nothing.

His jaw clenched.

Fine.

He leaned back, rubbing a hand along his jaw before pulling out a test paper—the one she should’ve been helping him grade. The one he had deliberately marked lower than it deserved, just to watch her reaction.

Except there hadn’t been one.

He scoffed under his breath, tossing the paper aside.

This is ridiculous.

His gaze flickered to his laptop, fingers already moving before he fully decided.

If she wouldn’t come to him—

Maybe it was time he sent for her.

Logan wasn’t the type to chase.

Not students. Not women. Not anyone.

And yet—

His fingers hovered over the keyboard, the email cursor blinking like it was mocking him.

Subject: Need Your Assistance

Y/N,

I need help reviewing the material for next week’s class. See me in my office in an hour.

He stared at it, jaw tight, his other hand gripping the armrest of his chair.

It was a weak excuse. He knew it. She would know it.

But it was better than nothing.

With a quiet exhale, he hit send—and sat back, arms crossed, waiting.

One hour.

Two.

Nothing.

He scowled, checking his inbox again like the email would magically appear.

His hand moved to his phone before he could think better of it.

She had never ignored him before. Not really. Not like this.

He tapped her contact. Called.

No answer.

Logan exhaled through his nose, setting the phone down with more force than necessary.

Fuck this.

She wanted to play games?

He pushed back from his desk, grabbed his keys, and left without another thought.

Why did this bother him so much?

Was it the fact that she had ignored his email? His call?

Or was it the way she had walked out of that restaurant without a second glance—without giving him the satisfaction of a reaction?

His fingers curled around the steering wheel.

It didn’t matter.

What mattered was that he was done waiting.

******

The hallway was quiet, the fluorescent lights above buzzing faintly. Logan exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders back as he knocked. Once. Twice.

A pause. Then, soft footsteps on the other side of the door.

When it finally opened—

He didn’t know what he was expecting.

But it sure as hell wasn’t this.

Y/N stood there looking… put together.

Not sick. Not disheveled from a long night. Not the wreck he had pictured, curled up in bed nursing a hangover.

No.

She looked like she had just come from a class—not his, obviously, but somewhere.

Somewhere else.

His fingers curled slightly against his palm.

Her brows furrowed just a little, eyes flickering over his face. Like she wasn’t expecting him.

“…Professor?”

Logan exhaled sharply through his nose. “You didn’t show up.”

Y/N blinked, adjusting her bag strap. “I know.”

His jaw tightened. She wasn’t even offering an excuse. No flimsy I wasn’t feeling well, no Sorry, I lost track of time.

Just—I know.

He stared at her for a beat before tilting his head. “You’re my TA.”

She nodded. “I’m aware.”

Logan let a slow exhale drag through his teeth. “Then you should also be aware that skipping your job isn’t an option.”

Y/N’s expression remained infuriatingly unreadable. “I’ll make up the hours.”

He huffed a humorless laugh, shaking his head. “Not how it works, sweetheart.”

Something flickered in her eyes at that—something sharp—but she didn’t take the bait.

Instead, she lifted a brow, crossing her arms. “Would you like me to submit an official apology?”

Logan’s lips pressed into a thin line.

She was playing with him.

“I’d like you to do your damn job,” he said evenly.

Silence.

She held his gaze, unwavering.

Then, slowly, she leaned against the doorframe, tilting her head. “You’re upset.”

His fingers twitched. “I’m annoyed.”

“Because I missed class?”

His jaw clenched.

Yes. No. Maybe.

Logan inhaled deeply, steadying himself. “Because you didn’t even have the decency to let me know.”

Y/N’s expression remained infuriatingly calm. “I didn’t realize I had to report my every move to you.”

Logan stared at her, eyes dark.

That tone. That dismissive little tone.

Like he was just another professor. Like he was someone who could be ignored without consequence.

Like she hadn’t walked away from him last night without a second glance.

His grip on the doorframe tightened.

“Fine,” he said, voice low, smooth. “I’ll just make sure the department knows you’re too busy for this position.”

It was an empty threat. They both knew it.

Still—her brows lifted slightly, like she was finally paying attention.

She exhaled slowly, tilting her head. “I’ll be there next class.”

Logan held her gaze for a second longer.

“Make sure you are.”

They just stood there, neither moving, neither speaking.

Y/N’s fingers curled slightly around the edge of the doorframe, but her expression remained unreadable. Logan’s jaw was tight, his eyes dark, unmoving.

She should’ve closed the door. Should’ve ended this.

But she didn’t.

And neither did he.

The hallway was too quiet, the seconds stretching thin between them. Something unspoken hung in the air, thick and heavy, like a breath held just before a storm.

Then, slowly, Y/N exhaled, tilting her head.

“…Is there something else you wanna say?”

Logan didn’t blink.

Did he?

Maybe.

Maybe he wanted to ask if she had gone to that damn club just to make a point.

Maybe he wanted to say that she should never ignore his calls again.

Maybe he wanted to take a step forward, close the space between them, just to see if she would move.

But he did none of those things.

Instead, Y/N let out a quiet hum, eyes flickering over his face. “Or can we renegotiate my grade?”

Logan’s fingers twitched.

That smart mouth. That fucking attitude.

His lips pressed into a thin line. “Watch it.”

Y/N only lifted a brow.

And for a second, just a fraction of a second, his gaze dropped—to her mouth, to the curve of it, the way her lips almost parted like she had caught the motion and dared him to look again.

But Logan forced his eyes back up, breathing slow through his nose.

“I’ll see you next class,” she said smoothly.

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t nod. Didn’t move.Neither of them moved.

Y/N stood there, her chin tipped just slightly, the sharp glint in her eyes something between defiance and amusement. She knew exactly what she was doing. Exactly what kind of fire she was playing with.

And Logan—Logan was this close to forgetting every goddamn rule.

His fingers flexed at his sides, jaw tight, breath slow and measured. The logical part of his mind, the one that still had a grip on reality, told him to leave. Turn around, walk back down that hallway, pretend this conversation had never happened.

But the other part—the part that had spent the last week stewing in frustration, in her absence, in the way she had looked right through him at the restaurant and walked away like he was nothing—wasn’t listening.

His eyes dragged over her, slow, deliberate.

She looked perfect. Effortless. Put together. Like she hadn’t ignored his calls, his emails. Like she hadn’t left him waiting.

That got under his skin more than it should have.

“I’ll see you next class,” she repeated, voice smooth, tilting her head like she was dismissing him.

Logan didn’t fucking move.

Something in the air shifted.

Tension thickened, curling, twisting, stretching taut like a wire about to snap.

She didn’t step back. Didn’t shut the door.

And Logan—Logan didn’t walk away.

Instead, he took a slow step forward.

Just one.

Her breath hitched. Not much. Just a fraction of a second. But he caught it.

His head tilted, studying her.

Waiting.

Daring.

Logan exhaled, slow and steady.

He should go. He should.

His lips parted, but whatever he meant to say—whatever line he still thought he could hold—

It disappeared.

Because Y/N took a step too.

Closer.

Not much, but enough.

Enough that he could smell her perfume, light but intoxicating. Enough that the heat of her skin seemed to seep into him. Enough that her lips—soft, parted, waiting—were just there.

And Logan—Logan wasn’t a man of patience.

Not when it came to her.

His hand moved before he could stop it.

Fingers curling around her wrist, tugging—just slightly, just enough.

And Y/N—Y/N didn’t pull away.

Didn’t protest.

Didn’t do a goddamn thing except look at him, pulse fluttering under his grip, her lips parting as her breath caught—

And that was it.

That was all it took.

His mouth was on hers in a second, rough, desperate, furious, like he had been holding himself back for too long and finally let the dam break.

And fuck, she kissed him back.

She met him, matched him, fingers threading into his hair as she tugged, mouth opening under his like she had been waiting for this just as much as he had.

The heat of her burned.

Logan pressed her back against the doorframe, fingers digging into her waist, tasting the sharp bite of her earlier smirk on his tongue.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t soft.

It was frustration and tension and a week’s worth of unspoken words spilling between them in gasps and teeth and heat.

And fuck, she wanted.

He could feel it in the way her hands clenched in his shirt, the way her hips tilted toward him without thinking, the way she let out the smallest, breathiest sound against his lips—

A sound that almost made him lose it.

Logan’s mouth crashed against hers like he was done holding back, done pretending this didn’t matter. His hands were already on her, fingers gripping her waist, sliding beneath her sweater to touch bare skin, hot and possessive.

Y/N gasped against his lips, but she didn’t stop him—wouldn’t stop him. Not when she had wanted this just as much.

Not when she had spent nights replaying every look, every touch, every moment he had gotten too close and then pulled away.

Not this time.

Her fingers tangled in his shirt, fisting the fabric as she yanked him closer, drinking in the low, needy sound he made in the back of his throat. His body pressed into hers, hard and unyielding, like he wanted to cage her in completely, like he wanted to remind her exactly who had been in control this whole time.

But she wasn’t about to make this easy for him.

She tugged at his lower lip with her teeth, just enough to make him groan, just enough to push him further, and fuck, she felt the way his fingers dug into her hips in response.

She had never seen him like this.

Never seen him lose control.

And it was intoxicating.

"Shit," Logan growled against her mouth before his lips left hers, dragging hot, open-mouthed kisses along her jaw, down the column of her throat. His teeth grazed the delicate skin there, and Y/N sucked in a sharp breath, nails raking over his shoulders.

“You just gonna stand there, professor?” she murmured, breathless, teasing. “Or are you actually gonna—”

Logan lifted her.

Just—effortless, like she weighed nothing, like he was done listening to her mouth. Her back hit the door, her legs wrapping around his waist as his hands slid beneath her thighs, fingers flexing against bare skin.

“I warned you to watch it,” he muttered, voice rough, barely restrained.

Y/N smirked, dragging her fingers up into his hair, tugging just enough to make his jaw clench. “Or what?”

Logan growled.

And then he tore her sweater off.

Just—over her head, tossed somewhere behind them, forgotten the second his hands were back on her, mouth covering every inch of exposed skin.

And Y/N—

Fuck.

She was gone.

She barely had the presence of mind to kick the door shut behind them before Logan was moving, walking them deeper into the room without ever letting her go.

It was desperate. Messy. Clothes lost between touches, gasps swallowed between kisses that grew rougher, hungrier.

By the time they hit the bed, she was already his.

And neither of them had any intention of stopping.

Logan wasn’t gentle.

Didn’t ease into it.

Didn’t give her time to think, to second-guess, to do anything but feel.

Because fuck, he had held back for too long.

His mouth was on her again before she could catch her breath, rough hands roaming, sliding over bare skin like he was starving—like he wanted to commit every inch of her to memory.

Y/N arched beneath him, body humming with something raw and electric as his lips dragged down, down, teeth scraping, tongue soothing—leaving a trail of heat in his wake.

“Logan,” she breathed, fingers fisting in his hair, nails scraping against his scalp.

He groaned, deep and rough, his grip tightening on her hips as he pressed her deeper into the mattress.

She felt him everywhere.

Overpowering. Unyielding. A fucking force of nature.

Her breath hitched when he slid lower, lips teasing, testing, eyes flicking up to meet hers—dark, hungry, wild.

Then he smirked.

And ruined her.

Logan was all rough edges and raw hunger.

No hesitation. No pretense. Just heat.

His mouth was everywhere—dragging down the column of her throat, teeth grazing, lips soothing, hands gripping like he owned her. Like he’d finally snapped that last thread of restraint and was making up for lost time.

Y/N gasped as he pushed her back against the mattress, his weight pressing into her, solid and hot and relentless.

Her shirt was gone before she could blink.

So were his.

He wasn’t gentle when he kissed her—didn’t take his time, didn’t tease. He kissed her like he was trying to consume her, like he wanted to taste every breath she took.

His hands were rough, calloused, dragging over soft skin, fingers tracing, kneading, gripping as he slid lower.

“Fuck,” he muttered against her skin, voice gravelly, thick with something dark and needy.

Y/N barely had time to breathe before his mouth was on her again, trailing down, teeth scraping, tongue flicking—until she was whimpering, fingers tugging at his hair, thighs trembling around his shoulders.

Then he groaned, deep and guttural, hands tightening on her hips as he dragged her closer, mouth hot and wet and sinful against her skin.

“Logan—” Her voice broke, back arching, pleasure coiling tight in her stomach, dizzying and overwhelming.

He didn’t slow down.

Didn’t let up.

Didn’t stop until she was shattering, nails digging into his shoulders, gasping his name like it was the only word she knew.

And when she finally collapsed against the sheets, chest rising and falling in uneven breaths—

He smirked.

“Not so mouthy now, are you?”

Y/N blinked up at him, dazed, lips swollen, body still buzzing.

Then—slowly—she smirked back.

“Oh, I’m just getting started.”

Logan’s eyes darkened.

“Fuckin’ hell.”

And then he was kissing her again—hungry, desperate—like he wasn’t done with her yet.

Because he wasn’t.

Not even close.

Logan didn’t take his time.

Didn’t waste a second.

The moment Y/N smirked up at him, all challenge and temptation, he was on her again—his mouth claiming hers, his hands gripping, sliding, possessive.

She gasped when he flipped them, her thighs straddling his hips, hands braced against his chest. His skin was hot under her fingertips, muscles shifting, tensing—barely restrained strength, coiled and waiting to snap.

She felt the hard press of him against her, thick and heavy through his jeans, and fuck—the way he was looking at her, all dark eyes and barely controlled hunger, like he was going to ruin her—

Her breath hitched.

“You gonna sit there all night?” Logan drawled, voice low, rough. His hands settled on her hips, fingers digging in just enough to make her feel it. “Or are you finally done playin’ games?”

Y/N tilted her head, nails dragging down his chest, slow and teasing.

“You’re the one who showed up at my door, Professor.”

Logan exhaled sharply through his nose, something dangerous flashing in his gaze.

“Yeah,” he muttered, flipping them again until she was under him, caged in, no escape. “And look where that got us.”

Then his mouth was on her throat, her collarbone, the swell of her breast, tongue flicking over a peaked nipple, teeth grazing just enough to make her gasp.

Her fingers tangled in his hair, tugging, nails scraping, and he groaned, pressing his hips into hers, letting her feel exactly what she was doing to him.

“Logan—”

Her voice broke, pleasure coiling tight, anticipation thrumming under her skin.

Logan lifted his head, gaze locking onto hers—dark, heavy, unreadable.

“Tell me you want this.” His voice was low, rough, but his grip on her waist gentled, thumbs stroking slow circles against her skin. “Tell me to stop, and I will.”

Y/N stared up at him, heart hammering.

She should say no.

Should tell him this was a mistake.

That this could never happen.

But then he rolled his hips against hers, slow, deliberate—

And she broke.

“Don’t stop.”

Logan cursed under his breath, something in his expression cracking—then he was moving, shedding the last barriers between them, pressing her into the mattress as he lined himself up, the thick head of him teasing her entrance.

Y/N gasped, nails digging into his shoulders, aching for more.

And Logan—

Logan just grinned, sharp and wicked.

“Hope you know what you’re askin’ for, sweetheart.”

Logan buried himself deep, a guttural sound ripping from his throat as Y/N arched beneath him, fingers clawing at his back. Heat coiled tight, sharp and electric, every nerve in her body lighting up as he set a ruthless pace—one that left no room for hesitation, no space for second thoughts.

She gasped, nails biting into his shoulders, but Logan only groaned in response, dragging his teeth over the curve of her throat, sucking a mark into her skin like he wanted to brand himself into her.

“Fuck,” he muttered, voice raw, strained. His hands slid beneath her thighs, hitching them higher around his waist, and the shift had her choking on a moan, her body bowing into him.

The smirk that curled his lips was devastating. “That good, huh?”

Y/N barely had the presence of mind to glare. “Shut up.”

Logan fucked her like he was making up for every moment he’d held back. Like he was claiming something that had always been his, something he’d spent too long pretending he didn’t want.

And Y/N—she let him.

Let him grip her thighs, spread her open, thrust deep until she couldn’t do anything but take it, body writhing under him, breath stolen from her lungs.

“Logan—” His name slipped out like a prayer, like a plea, her fingers fisting in his hair, dragging, desperate.

Logan chuckled—dark, low, smug as hell. But the amusement didn’t last. Not when she clenched around him, not when she rolled her hips just enough to have his breath stuttering against her skin. His grip on her tightened, bruising, grounding.

Then he was moving again, relentless, dragging her right to the edge and keeping her there, teasing, playing, testing just how much she could take before she broke.

Y/N’s head tipped back against the pillows, lips parted, breath shaky. “You’re—” She swallowed hard, a moan slipping out before she could stop it. “You’re such an asshole.”

Logan huffed out a laugh, pressing his forehead to hers, breath warm against her lips. “Yeah?” His hips snapped forward, hitting just right, and she gasped, hands fisting in his hair.

The cocky bastard smiled. “Say that again.”

She would’ve. Really. But then his fingers slid between them, pressing against that sweet spot, circling, teasing, relentless—

Y/N shattered.

It tore through her like wildfire, pleasure rolling through her in waves so intense her vision blurred, her body shuddering, nails biting into his back as she clenched around him.

Logan groaned deep in his chest, a curse slipping from his lips as he followed her down, thrusting once, twice—then stilling, his entire body going taut as he came with a sharp, wrecked gasp against her skin.

For a long moment, neither of them moved, the only sound in the room their uneven breaths, the heavy pound of their heartbeats still echoing between them.

Then—slowly, carefully—Logan shifted, rolling onto his side and pulling her with him, his arm heavy around her waist, grounding her.

Y/N swallowed, still catching her breath, and when she glanced up, Logan was already watching her—eyes dark, unreadable.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t smirk, didn’t gloat, didn’t try to fill the silence with something meaningless.

And maybe that was worse.

Because it left room for reality to settle.

For the weight of what they’d done to creep in.

For the dangerous, quiet truth to curl between them, thick as smoke.

Neither of them had any regrets.

And that?

That was fucking dangerous.

© th3mrskory 2025 — all rights reserved.

[severedfromthesource]

Androids and Electric Sheep

Ren is experiencing an unusual bug. Features F resus, M rescuer, CPR, stething, mouth to mouth, internal defibs, sex leading to cardiac arrest, sex acts both with consent and a person who cannot consent. I got too invested in the preamble so I highlighted the moment resus actually starts if you want to skip it.

No matter how advanced technology gets, it’ll only ever be used to fulfill man’s most base desires. Case in point- RN-34678. Or Ren, when the barcodes make my eyes glaze over and I get sick of calling them the number slurry X Tech names absolutely everything. Ren is as sophisticated as they come. Actual artificial intelligence. She makes the predictive text and ‘can’t even draw fingers’ image generating 21st century jokes people passed off as AI look like even more of a waste of time than they had been in those days. They might as well have been Speak n Spells. The collective power of every single basement dwelling crypto whizz kid with miles of wires and burnt up processors and bricked up video cards dedicated to their etherium farms pale in comparison to the computing power it takes to run Ren’s brain for an hour. She understands nearly 6,000 languages. She learns and retains information, consuming nearly 160 TB of memory every 8 hours. The bio-organic lace that makes up the net of her brain is a miracle, with the possibility of infinite memory. She is perfect in every sense of the word.

She is a glorified fuck toy.

The second the first android became commercially available, one of the first markets they hit was sex work. If nothing about late stage capitalism drove you crazy, that would have. Fuck curing cancer, or making androids for the dangerous, back breaking work people wreck their bodies to do, X Tech decided people needed a sex doll with a 100k price tag. The world’s most expensive cum sock. And yeah, alright, maybe I’m just bitter, partially because there’s no way in hell I could ever afford one, even as an android technician. But what a waste. She sits on my examination table, dutifully unzipping her black leather catsuit. Her managers always manage to stick her in something stupid looking, so overblown and sexualized they stop even being sexy at a certain point.

She looks up at me with lilac eyes. Last time they’d been blue. I like this shade better, I think, though I could do without the electric blue bob they have her wearing today. ”Your crash reports say you’ve been throwing error codes whenever a stream donation comes in over 2k,” I say. Which, for a bot like Ren, is quite a lot of her donations. “It’s probably just a bug in payment processing.” I look again over her diagnostics, floating on the screen at my desk. “Any complaints I wouldn’t find in the debug menu?”

”My heart has been feeling strange,” she says. I pause and look at her over the top of my glasses. “Well, firstly, it’s not your heart. An aether pump does not a heart make. Secondly, it shouldn’t feel like anything. You’re supposed to ignore the inner workings, it’s all background programs, runs without you thinking about it.” She shrugs. Her shoulders are pale as she rolls down the catsuit and pulls her arms from the sleeves, bunching up the tight leather around her midriff. Her breasts are small and round, standing upright as pretty as a Botticelli painting. I’d noticed the small bumps on either side of her nipples (Christ, did the things ever go soft? Or were they just always cutting glass?) but didn’t register until I saw them now that her managers had pierced them sometime since our last checkup. Little silver bars were stuck through the pink nubs, with winking silver balls on either end. Alright, cool, chill.

I clear my throat and pull up my rolling stool. “Well, let’s just take a look then.” I shift once I’m seated to alleviate the pressure of my stiffening cock. Listen, I’m not a technophile, honest to God. I go out of my way to filter out androids when I’m scrolling through porn sites because, despite the leaps and bounds we’ve made in technology, the uncanny valley is still a thing. It feels weird getting off to bots. But then there’s Ren. And fuck me if she isn’t the most attractive thing I’ve ever seen. I put a hand on the back of her neck, my thumb resting at the diagnostic mode button hidden just under the edge of her jaw. I feel the soft bump that sinks in when I press. Her lilac eyes flash black with snatches of white text, then roll back to lilac. Damn, she smells like a new car.

I glance back at the monitor, and as I suspected, nothing comes up about the aether pump. It seems in perfect working order. Still, I dig around my box of scrap wires and spare tubing until I find my mostly neglected stethoscope. I don’t often have to use it, but I feel a trill of excitement go up from my stomach to think I get to use it on Ren. I plug up my ears and put a hand on her shoulder, taking the bell of the steth in my other hand. Her breasts rise and fall with the rhythm of her breathing, set to mimic human intervals. The real purpose is to cool down her insides and keep her from overheating, but just like the aether pump and its auditory cues, its designed to mimic humans as closely as possible. After a guy fucks something like Ren, he gets the added benefit of being able to lay next to her and listen to her breathing. Feel her heart beat. Doesn’t matter what the purpose of the design is for, it matters so he doesn’t feel like he’s fucking a 100k fleshlight with arms and legs. I press the steth to a spot above her breast and it sinks into her pillowy soft skin like it was real. Cool it, Christ, you can’t get so hot and bothered over everything. Heel, boy.

But my thumb makes a slight imprint against her tit, and it’s hard to think of anything else. Same thing happens when I press the steth against a space under her breast, and it lays warmly against the back of my hand. The pump, like the fake lungs, is designed to look and act and even sound like a heart, pumping coolant through her body. I tell her it’s not a heart out of some petty, pedantic need to distance myself and my unique humanity, but truth is, the thing is a heart. She could die if something went really wrong with it, and a lot of bots have. Sudden cardiac arrest was one of the main bugs in the 2.3 rollout. It got so bad, tons of models in the service industry had to be recalled, because mechanical line cooks and servers were dropping if the ovens got too hot. My hand still on her neck, I pull her forward and press the bell to her back. Her forehead brushes against my shoulder, her gaudy blue wig draping against the side of my neck and jaw. I tilt my head just enough my nose brushes her hair. Fuck, she really does smell good.

“Well, I don’t hear any irregularities,” I tell her, because I don’t. The thing is pumping liquid aether around her body at around 70 bpm, like it should. She draws up from my shoulder, glancing at me sideways. “It only seems to happen with clients,” she says, drying out my throat in an instant. “Clients?” “Mhm. Whenever one of them climaxes. If they do it inside me, my heart starts going very fast. I get foggy and I can’t think afterwards.” I swallow. “Right,” I say, “I mean… I can’t exactly test that, Ren.” She touches my wrist. “It’s rather frightening, Doc. I worry…” She pauses, and I try very hard not to say out loud what I’m thinking. You shouldn’t be frightened of anything, Ren. You’re not supposed to feel any of this. She sits back, bringing her hand up, her fingers curling against where her pump lies in her chest, half covering her nudity.

She doesn’t want to get recalled. I wince in spite of myself. If she has the same defect others in her rollout had, she’s going right back to X Tech. I push the steth around my neck, scooping back hair from my face. “It’s a pretty fatal system flaw. It… I could… Well, I-“ I can’t look at her. Fuck, I really can’t look at her. My face feels hot. This is the plot of like, 90% of bot R34 on the internet. I might as well be a pizza delivery guy and she a lonely housewife who’s a few bucks short on a large sausage. She ‘breathes’. Her chest goes up and down, the lights winking off her pierced nipples. She’s so goddamn gorgeous.

“Doc?” “Thinking,” I huff. I spare a glance around the other cubicles bordering mine. Big glass offices, designed for this exact stupid fucking thing I’m about to do. The first guy who got caught with his dick in a bot ruined it for everyone, so now my coworkers and I are subjected to rat lab cubicles where we can look in on each other at any given moment. People around us testing reflexes, repairing cosmetic damage, quashing bugs. What I was about to do was also technically debugging, but there was no way in hell my boss was gonna see it that way if he saw my flat ass pumping in and out of a bot worth more than I make in a year on the other side of plexiglass. Alright, cool, chill. I scoop up my backpack with my work laptop and sling it over my shoulder. “Bathroom,” I whisper.

Cut to Ren and I, locked in the women’s bathroom. We have three women in the office, and their cubes are on the other side of the building, closer to another bathroom. This one is usually empty. Cut to her, awkwardly standing in front of a toilet. Me, on the verge of being the Most Fired Man Who Ever Lived. For extra security, I’d stuffed us both into a stall, locking it behind me too. It's cramped, which adds to the feeling this is absolutely not what I'm supposed to be doing. But hey, it's my job, isn't it?

I awkwardly maneuver around her and sit on the toilet lid, hastily undoing my pants. God, this is shameful. And weirdly hot? I can't tell if it's just Ren or the dozen or so corporate regulations and general laws I'm breaking doing this, but I can feel the pulse in my cock, pressing up against the inseam of my jeans. Those lavender eyes flick from my face to the swollen, flushed skin, and the outer rim of her pupils flash with color. I help her roll down the leather catsuit and then, holy shit, Jesus, Mary and Joseph, I’m inside her. She feels real. My hands on her back, my face buried in her tits, her thighs on mine, she feels realer than any woman I had ever known. My breath warms her artificial skin, and the barbell through her nipple is cold, the contrast making me shiver whenever the hot skin of my cheek touches the metal. My fingers slide up her stomach, her hips bucking and pumping me in and out of her. She’s tight. Really fuckin tight. I can feel her aether pump, the artificial heart, throbbing in her inner walls, harder than any real heart I’d ever felt. It adds to every stroke, a thumping sensation that’s nearly making me come after a couple thrusts. Christ, I might as well be sticking my dick right against the chambers of her fake heart.

The job. Right, I’m doing a job. Fuck, I’ve never loved my job so much. “Lemme- ngh, God, fuck- lemme see i-ins-side your ch-est, R-Ren.” She’s straddling my lap, panting like a porn star, her bob swinging back and forth, and she nods. The synthetic skin goes translucent, a dull blue glow that starts at her collarbone and down to the bottom of her ribcage. I spare only a brief chuckle, Man, we never could get rid of those stupid gamer lights, before I try to focus my attention on her inner workings. The aether heart is basically a simplified human one, drawing hot fluid in one side and squeezing out coolant through the other in an eternal ebb and flow. And right now, it’s going insane. The valves are snapping open and closed rapidly, the thing shuddering instead of really beating. There’s a little display window pinned under her collarbone, and it’s clocking her at 150 bpm, the green spikes of her heartbeat saw toothing across the round display port. Not totally dangerous, but as I pump inside of her and she bounces on my thighs to match my quickening pace, it keeps climbing.

Alright. As much as I want to be stuck in here forever, with a beautiful woman bouncing on my dick in a way I’ve only ever dreamed of, I have to figure out what’s wrong. I wrap my arms around her body, pulling her flush against my chest. “Hold onto me, ‘kay?” I breathe against her ear. Her arms slid around me, nails brushing briefly against my shoulder blades. I take in her scent. Focus on the sensations of her body, the sharp cold of her piercings, breasts pressed against my chest, her warm, throbbing cunt. It doesn’t take long. I start to lose the rhythm as my breath shortens, my strokes shortening too, until finally I can take it no more. I come, hot seed filling her up, bathing my cock, spilling out from between our sexes. Her back arches, a cry ripping from her throat of the most exquisite ecstasy.

Then she dies.

No, seriously, the bot quits all at once. I’m there, still trying to enjoy the feeling of my load making her even tighter and full, when she goes completely limp. Her arms slide down from my back, and the artificial pulse I feel in her cunt just stops all at once. She’s dead weight on top of me. “Fuck,” I spit, trying to readjust her, but she’s goddamn heavy. “Ren? Hey, Ren- man, what the fuck-”

I look up at her sternum to see the aether pump has stopped. The little internal monitor is reading a flatline. I fumble to unlatch the bathroom door, my other hand cradling her back, as I awkwardly shift to try and swing it open. Both of us end up in a heap on the floor when I try to pick her up. I'm apologizing to her slack and lifeless face as I disentangle myself and hastily zip up, then lay her flat on her back. Her perfect round breasts sit in the open air, her still heart glowing between them. I set my laptop beside her and hook up a USB into the command port hidden behind her ear.

There was no tip off in her crash reports, but looking now, I can see the absolute mess of code in the last few lines she ran before arresting. I clean up some of the irregularities, get rid of the redundancies, and hit reboot. Two small circular nodes glow within her chest, then snap against the chambers of her heart. Basically built in defib units. Her body jerks, hand twitching in against her cheek, her back arching slightly. Her naked shoulder blades slap against the tile floor as she falls back, limp again. But she doesn't move. Her pump is still. I glance at the monitor and see FATAL SYSTEM ERROR flash across the screen. Fuck, am I going to have to do this manually?

Growling in frustration, I throw my hands against her sternum. It's easy to get the right position when I can see her heart lying beneath a few layers of synthetic skin. Squaring my shoulders, I push down hard. Unlike with real CPR on a real person, depth doesn't matter, nor the risk of breaking ribs. She's basically Wolverine. A hydraulic crusher couldn't break her ribs. They yield though, and bow in against her spine as I rhythmically pump her heart. The force ripples through her whole body. Her stomach pops up, her shoulders shrug in, her head rolls back and forth. I look from her face down to her tits. I can't help it, they're swaying with each compression, the light catching her piercings. I can feel the cool metal rest against my fingers. The position my hands are in leaves my fingertip pressing against her nipple, still standing upright from our exercise. A shiver runs through me. Am I seriously getting hard again? It's hard not to. My eyes drink in her still body, the remnants of our session dribbling down her thigh, her breasts bouncing like they had when she was riding me.

I can almost see the corner of the screen light up with “Kink Unlocked: Reviving Dead Girls”. I glance at the monitor and see the reboot option has lit up again. When I take my hands away from her chest, I see her aether pump jerking as if trying to start again. Once more I charge the internal defibrillators. While they hum to life, I partake in a ritual that isn't strictly necessary. The hero always gets to indulge in mouth to mouth with the downed heroine. She doesn't actually need air, but her lips are slack, full and inviting. I press mine over hers, breathing air she doesn't need into her mouth. I can feel her cheeks puff, and I'm surprised but excited to see her chest rises too. I give her a few quick bursts of oxygen. Her chest jerks up and I only allow it to fall part way before I give her another, making her chest rise and fall in short hyperventilations. My hand finds itself running up her stomach to feel the motion of my breaths, up over her breast again. It fills my palm as I breathe a long, slow draft into her throat, and I roll her nipple between my fingers. She sighs out recycled air against my face when I break the seal of our lips.

Man, how do EMTs not cum when they resuscitate hot girls? The whole tableau is so erotic, I can feel my pulse once more jerk in my cock. The defibs once more slap the chambers of her artificial heart and she thrashes under the current. Her breasts sway and she again falls limp to the tiles.

“Come on, Ren,” I say under my breath, watching her aether pump swelling at uneven intervals. The chambers aren't beating right still, snapping open and closed out of sync with one another. I again check her code on my laptop, using one hand to tap through my options. The other I lay against her sternum. It occurs to me I really don't know what the fuck I'm doing. Whatever feels like it helps, I guess. Or whatever feels good. I grind my heel in against her heart in slow, rhythmic compressions with one hand. “Come on, work with me here. Breathe for me. Do something, at least let me know you're not completely bricked.” The idea that she might be makes me swallow hard. I like Ren. I don't want to ship her off to the junkyard as much as she doesn't want to be shipped.

When her heart goes still again I lace my fingers together and start pumping her chest anew. I forget my laptop entirely- this isn't a software issue, it's the hardware in her chest acting up. If I can just get the damn thing to reset. Swinging my leg over her supple thighs, I straddle her so I can use my whole body. Like this, I can feel the motion my work creates in her otherwise still body. Each powerful thrust against her pump rolls the kinetic force through her whole body. Her feet swing back and forth. The force rolls from her chest, down her stomach, even rippling her thighs. Each compression makes her stomach roll out, only now I can feel it between my legs.

Fuck it, I'm already fired. These life saving efforts have got me hard all over again, something I would have thought impossible. I unzip and thrust into her almost in one motion. It's next to impossible to actually pump into her while I'm working her heart, so I mostly settle for letting her body rock into me while I do CPR. Only when the prompt for the defibrillator pops up again do I allow myself to roll my hips into her while it charges. The thing whines quietly as I brace my hand against her chest, driving my cock deep inside her. It slaps her heart again and she arches her back, filling my hand against her sternum. Her inner walls clench with the electricity and I groan as I roll in and out of her. That's when she draws in a breath and moans all at once. Her eyes flutter open and she instinctively begins to grind her hips in rhythm with me. Before long I'm filling her up all over again and I collapse on top of her. She's back. The thought strikes me as I look down and see her aether pump snapping out a normal, if elevated rhythm. I roll off onto the welcome chill of the tile floors, my arm still slung around her.

“You okay?” I pant, my eyes half lidded as I look at her. Ren nods, smiling weakly in return. Then she’s wrapping her arms around me, burying her face in my shoulder. I hesitate, the shame of what I had done to her when she was basically dead starting to creep up now that the high is waning. But eventually I slide my arms around her in return, drawing her close to my body. “Thank you, doc,” she whispers.

“Don't mention it.” Seriously, don't mention any of this.

[foxybrownsugababe]

𝐖𝐞𝐥𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐁𝐚𝐬𝐤𝐞𝐭

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 - Franklin Saint x Black!OC

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 - A new couple moves into the neighborhood, drawing the curiosity of a longtime resident. What starts as a simple introduction carries undercurrents of tension, unspoken intentions, and a hint of something more beneath the surface. 𝐈𝐧𝐟𝐞𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐭𝐚 𝐁𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐚.

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 - slight age gap, tension, few curse words,

𝐉𝐚𝐳𝐳𝐢𝐞’𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 - Those recent pictures of Damson just did something to me, I had to do something about it. Maybe I can fill the void this fine man has on this app with my slightly filtered nonsense that some people tend to like.

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 - 3,606

★𝐆𝐞𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐚, 𝟏𝟗𝟗𝟒

The moving truck pulled up just past noon, its heavy tires crunching against the pavement as it slowed in front of the empty house next door. The sun hung high in the Atlanta sky, drenching the neighborhood in heat, and making the air thick and slow. A young woman sat on the porch swing, one leg tucked under the other, a half-read book resting open on her lap as she slowly rocked. In truth, her eyes had barely skimmed a full sentence since the first black Benz pulled in behind the truck, its windows dark, the body sleek and polished.

She wasn’t much for neighborhood gossip, but new faces on this side of town were a bit rare—especially ones that rolled up in expensive cars.

New neighbors weren’t unheard of, but folks around here tended to stay put. The house next door had been empty for months, so whoever was moving in had money—enough to buy a place outright or at least make a deal before it ever hit the market. And if the car wasn’t proof enough, the man stepping out of the driver’s seat sealed it.

She looked to her left and watched as the driver’s side door opened, and out stepped a man. Tall. Brown-skinned. Neatly lined-up hair. Sharp, even from a distance. He was dressed in a simple white tee and dark jeans, a thin gold chain peeking from his collar. He had the kind of presence that made people look twice—not loud or flashy, but controlled like he knew exactly where he stood in the world. He moved with an ease that didn’t quite match the setting—like a man used to watching his surroundings without looking like he was watching.

Kimora flipped the page in her book without reading a single word.

Then, the passenger door opened. Another figure stepped out. A woman this time.

She was tall, statuesque, dressed in a fitted cream blazer and matching slacks, the kind of outfit too crisp for a move-in day. She had sleek dark hair, sharp features, and a presence that felt… expensive. The way she slid on her sunglasses before surveying the neighborhood said she was used to places nicer than this.

A couple. The observant young woman thought.

As if to confirm it, the woman reached for the man’s hand, slipping hers against his palm like it was second nature. He let her, but something about the movement felt… practiced. A habit more than a desire.

From inside the house, the screen door creaked open. “Well look at that. The mysterious new neighbors. Are finally here.” The familiar voice of her older brother chimed in before he hummed.

“Yup.” The young woman on the porch swing hummed, not taking her eyes off the couple as the man began carrying boxes into the home while the woman trailed behind him in all her chic glory.

“That was fast,” Mason said, leaning against the door, glancing around his neighborhood that stepped into the afternoon. He was fresh off work, still in his uniform, arms crossed over his chest.

“Yeah, and it’s barely been three months since the Nantucket’s moved away. I don’t even think the house hit the market yet.” The girl said, glancing over at the man in the door before her eyes minced back to glancing between her book and the new couple. “But they were able to do renovations and all.” She hummed.

Mason looked down at the back of the girl's head, an amused smile on his face. “Kimora, you are so nosy. How do you even know that?” He asked.

Kimora snapped her head over to him, her stare hard. “I am not nosy!” She said. “Lexie and I were just checking the papers and none there was t a listing for it anywhere.” She explained with a small shrug. “And the websites aren’t always accurate.” She said before turning back to focus on her “book”.

Mason blinked at the back of her head. “So you and Lexie are both nosy as hell.” He reiterated. Kimora only smacked her lips, throwing a glare his way before looking back over at her new neighbors. It was something for a moment then, the pair subtly watching as only the man moved between the truck and the home with box after box.

“So are we just gonna watch?” Mason questioned, his voice trailing off in confusion. Kimora cut her eyes to him, becoming irritated with the man’s presence. “Are you gonna go help or something? Some you move boxes for a living and all. Because can’t you see I’m trying to read here?” She questioned, gesturing to her book. Mason just scoffed. “No, you are not, you’re being nosy and watching the people move in.” He said.

“Yeah, reading,” Kimora stated, glancing between the pages of her book and the move-in truck.

“Mmhm. Mama’s gon’ send you over there anyway. You know she don’t like folks moving in without a proper welcome.”

Kimora sighed, snapping her book shut. As irritating as he was, he wasn’t wrong, about her being nosy and the welcoming she knew she was going to do. Their mother, a firm believer in good Southern hospitality, had already been in the kitchen before they pulled up. And it took her no time to pull together a welcome basket like they lived in some Hallmark movie.

“Fine.” She said, standing. “But if he’s a weird creep, I’m blaming y’all.”

Mason laughed, stepping aside as she disappeared into the house.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

About 45 minutes later, Kimora found herself standing in front of the new neighbor’s door, balancing a basket that held some slices of lemon poundcake, peach preserves, a few different scent candles, a few chocolates, a nice bottle of wine, and some fresh jars of lemonade. She had walked to the place by cutting through their yard while hoping she didn’t look suspicious and no one had seen her. Even though she was trying to be neighborly, she wasn’t about to walk down her pathway and up his just to leave a basket.

The house was nice—a little far from modest but no mega mansion. It was like the rest of the neighborhoods but with a few clear upgrades. The porch had already been redone, the windows spotless. Even the grass had been trimmed like he’d had someone tending to it before he even moved in. Something he probably missed after those long days on campus.

She raised a hand to knock, but before she could, the door opened.

The man from earlier filled the doorway, his frame casting a shadow against the light spilling from inside. Up close, he was even sharper than she expected—neatly shaped-up hair, deep brown eyes, and moisturized skin that left his even tone a rich color in the waning sun.

Kimora straightened at the unexpected appearance, though it looked like he was heading back out to the truck to grab more boxes. “Uh, hi. I’m Kimora.” He said. “Cunningham. I live right next door.” She smiled as she gestured over to the home to her left. She then lifted the basket in her right hand slightly. “My mama sent this over as a welcome to the neighborhood. Wanted you all to have this.” She explained, trying not to get distracted and stutter under the man's intense gaze and his patchouli scent.

Franklin’s gaze flickered to the basket before settling back on her, and then—smooth as ever—he smiled.

“How nice.” He said, voice slow and deep, with the kind of warmth that made it easy to forget he was a stranger. He stepped back, opening the door a little wider. “Uh, come on in.” He said, gesturing to her inside.

Kimora hesitated with a quick blink. Her Mama always said not to go stepping into a man’s house alone, she knew better. But it wasn’t like she was some kid anymore. And the man didn’t give an off-putting vibe in any way.

So, she stepped inside. The air was noticeably cooler than the thick Georgia heat outside. The house smelled new—not like fresh paint or sawdust, but like it had been scrubbed down from top to bottom before anyone stepped foot inside and then prayed some freshener to make it feel more homey. Everything about the place was pristine, from the dark hardwood floors and the white walls to the dark leather furniture and the floor-length curtains framing the wide windows.

If she didn’t want to seem rude, she probably would’ve whistled at the sight.

Franklin shut the door behind her, the quiet click pulling her attention back to him.

“You said your name was Kimora, right?” His voice was smooth, even, but there was something about the way he said it. And the look he gave her—the slight squint of his eyes like he was turning it over in his head, measuring it.

She nodded, shifting the basket in her arms. “Yeah, I live right next door.” She relayed for some reason as she gave him a polite smile. She tried her best to hide the slight self-consciousness she felt now that she was in his home, standing in nothing but a pair of denim shorts, her red converse, and a Spelman sweatshirt. She knew she should’ve listened to her mother and changed.

“Franklin.” He said, mating her polite grin as he held out his hand. She went to shake his with her free hand before he suddenly remembered the weight she was carrying as his eye caught the basket in her hands. “Oh, let me take that.” He said with a small laugh, taking the basket from her hands, the tips of his fingers brushing her’s in their traction. Once he held the offerings, he nodded his head into another room. “Follow me.” He said before he turned on his heel and led them to the kitchen.

Kimora followed after him, her hands moving to clasp themselves behind her back. A dining area was next to the foyer, and she watched as she placed the basket on the wooden table before he turned back to face her. “Sorry about that.” He lightly laughed, which he assumed was to brush off the potentially awkward situation, before holding out his hand again. “As I was saying, Franklin Saint.”

“Kimora Cunningham.” She repeated as she placed her hand in his, his long fingers encompassing hers. Kimora felt the warmth of his palm against hers, his grip firm but not overpowering. The contact lingered just a second longer than necessary, but she wasn’t sure if she imagined it or if he simply wasn’t in a rush to let go.

“Nice to meet you, Kimora,” Franklin said, his voice slow and smooth, like molasses in the summer heat.

She nodded, retracting her hand and slipping it into the pocket of her shorts, feeling suddenly aware of herself—her posture, her presence in his home, the fact that she had no real reason to stay past the drop-off.

Franklin, on the other hand, seemed perfectly at ease. He glanced down at the basket, running a finger along the rim before flicking his eyes back to her. “Your mama put all this together?”

“Yeah,” Kimora said, clearing her throat lightly. “She’s real big on welcoming folks to the neighborhood and honestly, just being nice. Says it’s only right to start off on a good note.”

Franklin smiled, tilting his head slightly. “Sounds like a good woman.”

“She is.” Kimora shifted her weight, glancing at the basket before looking back at him. “She’ll probably be by herself at some point. She likes to make sure new people feel at home. Might even offer you to have dinner with us, she likes getting to the pick before anyone else can.” The girl shrugged. “So, fair warning.” She said with a small grin.

“Well, I’ll be ready for her,” Franklin said with a small chuckle, his arms folding across his chest as he leaned against the edge of the table. His chain caught the light, just barely visible against his collarbone.

Kimora nodded, rocking on her heels. Silence settled between them—not uncomfortable, but thick enough that she could feel it. Franklin seemed to be studying her, and despite herself, she held his gaze for only a few seconds.

She then looked away, glancing around the peers of his home that she could see. “This is a beautiful home you have here.” She said before her eyes made their way back to his. “You did the upgrades yourself or had an expert opinion?” She questioned with a small tilting of her head. Franklin blinked before tilting his head at her in question. “How do you know it was renovated?” He asked.

“I’ve lived next door my entire life. I’ve seen eight families in my twenty-two years of living and last month was my first time seeing contractors on that porch out there.“ She explained, moving to cross her arms.

Franklin hummed, nodding at the information she was giving him as he looked at her. “Well, if you count that expert opinion being the future Mrs. then yes to both of those questions.” He said.

Kimora nodded at that, remembering the beautiful woman she had t seen since they pulled in. “You said you’ve been living here your entire life?” He asked before a silence could occur.

“All my life.” She answered. “Born and raised.”

He hummed like that piece of information meant something to him. “Good neighborhood?”

She shrugged. “I’d say so. It’s changing a little, though. I see a lot more white folks than I used to. Market’s shifting, you know?”

Franklin nodded like he understood more than he let on. “Yeah. I’ve been noticing that in a lot of places.”

Kimora tilted her head. “You from around here?” She asked.

Franklin paused for just a second before answering, “Nah. I'm from LA.” He responded. Kimora’s eyes widened a bit at that, though that seemed to explain a lot—the way he carried himself, the quiet confidence, the kind of awareness that wasn’t from just anywhere.

“Wow, long way from home. What made you pick Atlanta?” She asked. And Franklin gave her a small, knowing smirk. “Business.” That was all he said.

Kimora’s eyebrow twitched in question but she didn’t push.

“Anyway.” He said, pushing off the table. “I appreciate this, really. You didn’t have to come all the way over here.”

Kimora smirked. “Technically, I just cut through the yard.” She admitted. “I’d rather I tell you than you find out from security cameras or something, especially since I know you got your grass cut yesterday and everything.” She explained with an awkward grin.

Franklin chuckled, shaking his head. “Even still. It’s real neighborly of you.”

Kimora hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah, well… we look out for our own around here.” She stated.

Franklin’s eyes lingered on her for a moment, something unreadable behind them. Then, he smiled again, slower this time. “Good to know.”He nodded as his eyes held her. Deep brown and like the warm earth after rain, and they made her feel like he was seeing more than she was saying.

“Well, isn’t this sweet?” A voice chimed in from behind them. Kimora turned to see the woman from earlier—Franklin’s fiancée.

She was coming through the doorway, arms crossed, and a small, unreadable smile on her face. Up close, she was even more striking, with high cheekbones, sharp white nails, and a kind of effortless confidence that made it clear she was used to being the most put-together woman in the room. “Lucia.” She said as she held out her hand, and that’s when Kimora just took notice of the slight accent the woman had, something of a Spanish region.

“Kimora.” She said, placing her hand in Lucia’s ever-polished one that was decked out in dainty jewelry. Well besides the rock she had in her ring finger. She was suddenly feeling a little too aware of how she was dressed—nothing fancy compared to the woman before her. Her hair wasn’t even as stylish, her curls framing her like a lion's mane.

Lucia strode forward, heels clicking against the floor as she eyed the basket. “This is really thoughtful. You said your mother made this?” She questioned, and Kimora tried her best to hide it, but she knew she just caught the woman. Lucia wasn’t in the room when she said any of that, granted Kimora wasn’t sure where she was in the home and there’s no telling what she could’ve heard, but still. Why was she pretending she didn’t hear anything else but the detail of the basket?

Kimora simply let it roll off her shoulders, nodding her head. “Yeah, she makes things like this all the time.” She stated. “She believes in being neighborly.” She repeated.

Lucia hummed, that small smile still lingering as she positioned herself next to her fiancé. “How very Southern of her.” Her voice was smooth, tinged with something that sounded like curiosity. Or maybe amusement.

Something about the way she said it made Kimora straighten her shoulders. She wasn’t sure if Lucia was genuinely appreciative or if there was something else under that polished exterior. Either way, she wasn’t about to let some Manhattan-type woman make her feel small in her own neighborhood.

Kimora nodded again. Well,” She said, forcing herself to relax, “If y’all need anything, we’re just next door.”

Franklin, who had been quiet, finally spoke again. “We appreciate that.”

Something about the way he said it made Kimora glance at him. His voice was warm but measured like he was careful with every word. His eyes were on her, studying—not in a way that felt wrong, but in a way that made her wonder what exactly he was thinking.

Lucia, on the other hand, smoothly stepped closer to Franklin, resting a hand on his arm. “I’m sure with your help, we’ll settle in just fine.” She smiled.

Kimora simply forced a polite smile. “Well, welcome to the neighborhood.” He said before beginning to turn around. Before she could make it far, Franklin spoke up.

“Oh, let me walk you to the door.” He said, and he rounded her fire in no time, stepping in front of her to get the door. Kimora followed him, stepping onto the porch and letting the warm air wrap around her again, a stark contrast to the coolness inside.

“Tell your mama I said thank you,” Franklin said, leaning against the doorway.

“I will.” She replied. And with that, she turned and walked away, feeling Franklin’s eyes on her until the door clicked shut behind her.

Lucia watched the door for a long moment after Kimora left, her expression unreadable. Then, with a small hum, she watched as Franklin turned around to face her. “Well.” She said, smoothing the front of her blouse, “She was nice.”

Franklin exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah.”

Lucia hummed, stepping further into the room, her heels soft against the hardwood. “She asks a lot of questions.” She said with an arched brow, crossing her arms.

Franklin didn’t respond right away. Instead, he let his head tip back slightly, staring up at the ceiling before rolling his shoulders. He already knew where this was going.

“That’s not good for us, Saint.”

His jaw ticked slightly at the way she said his name. “Lucia.” He started, keeping his tone level, “She was just being neighborly. It’s the South. That’s what they do.” He stated, trying to keep calm with the woman.

Lucia stepped forward, her heels clicking against the hardwood. “We’re here to keep a low profile.” She hissed at him with narrowed eyes.

“No,” Franklin corrected, his voice even but firm, “We’re here to blend in. To look like a well-put-together couple. We have to talk to people, make connections, or else we look even more suspicious.” He stressed, tired of repeating the same thing over and over again to her since their decision to move here. Since everything.

But Lucia didn’t look convinced. Her lips were pressed together and her eyes sharp as she looked at him. “That girl next door is too curious. She barely knows you and was practically interrogating you in your own home. That’s not just ‘being neighborly,’ Franklin. That’s someone paying attention.”

Franklin’s smirk was slow, almost amused as he shook his head. “You’re being paranoid.” He said, walking closer to her and looking down at the woman. “You have got to stop thinking about what happened in Jersey.” He said softly, placing his large hands on either side of her arms as he gazed down at the woman.

Lucia’s jaw clenched. “Paranoia keeps people like us alive.”

He exhaled through his nose before lowering his voice. “Calm down. We just got here. They don’t know shit.”

Lucia tilted her head slightly, studying him. “People like that? They notice the details. If she’s watched this house long enough to know about the renovations, what else has she seen? What else will she see?” Lucia held his gaze for a moment before glancing toward the door again. “She’s observant.”

“I caught that,” Franklin murmured, his thoughts drifting back to Kimora, the way her eyes had scanned the house, the way she had held his gaze just long enough to make him notice.

Lucia studied him, then exhaled, adjusting the ring on her finger. “So? What’s the plan?”

Franklin’s eyes lingered on her for a beat before he let go of her, rolling his shoulders like he was shaking off a thought with his jaw flexing slightly.

“Let me handle it.”

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