#i literally don’t remember ever seeing this before today

[yea-baiyi]

If you like acespec Xie Lian I must recommend beesinspades's fics, they have a bunch of different ones (SFW and NSFW) and they're so good ! It's mostly ace Xie Lian but I think there's a couple of grey ace Xie Lian fics too. It's so cool to see these ace interpretations of Xie Lian talked about more. We need that kind of representation !!

xie lian is so incredibly a-spec it is so inspiring

thank u for the rec!!!

[twinklingwatermellon]

*

[gingersnapwolves]

So today I want to talk about puberty blockers for transgender kids, because despite being cisgender, this is a subject I’m actually well-versed in. Specifically, I want to talk about how far backwards things have gone.

This story starts almost 20 years ago, and it’s kind of long, but I think it’s important to give you the full history. At the time, I was working as an administrative assistant for a pediatric endocrinologist in a red state. Not a deep deep red state like Alabama, we had a little bit of a purple trend, but still very much red. (I don’t want to say the state at the risk of doxxing myself.) And I took a phone call from a woman who said, “My son is transgender. Does your doctor do hormone therapy?”

I said, “Good question! Let me find out.”

I went into the back and found the doctor playing Solitaire on his computer and said, “Do you do hormone therapy for transgender kids?” It had literally never come up before. He had opened his practice there in the early 2000s. This was roughly 2006, and the first time someone asked. Without looking up from his game of Solitaire, the doctor said, “I’ve never done it before, but I know how it works, so sure.”

I got back on the phone and told the mom, who was overjoyed, and scheduled an appointment for her son. He was the first transgender child we treated with puberty blockers. But not, by far, the first child we treated with puberty blockers, period. Because puberty blockers are used very commonly for children with precocious puberty (early-onset puberty). I would say about twenty percent of the kids our doctor treated were for precocious puberty and were on puberty blockers. They have been well studied and are widely used, safe, and effective.

Well. It turned out, the doctor I worked for was the only doctor in the state who was willing to do this. And word spread pretty fast in the tight-knit community of ‘parents of transgender children in a red state’. We started seeing more kids. A better drug came out. We saw some kids who were at the age where they were past puberty, and prescribed them estrogen or testosterone. Our doctor became, I’m fairly sure, a small folk hero to this community. 

Insurance coverage was a struggle. I remember copying articles and pages out of the Endocrine Society Manual to submit with prior authorization requests for the medications. Insurance coverage was a struggle for a lot of what we did, though. Growth hormone for kids with severe idiopathic short stature. Insulin pumps, which weren’t as common at the time, and then continuous glucose monitoring, when that came out. Insurance struggles were just part and parcel of the job.

I remember vividly when CVS Caremark, a pharmaceutical management company, changed their criteria and included gender dysphoria as a covered diagnosis for puberty blockers. I thought they had put the option on the questionnaire to trigger an automatic denial. But no - it triggered an approval. Medicaid started to cover it. I got so good at getting approvals with my by then tidy packet of articles and documentation that I actually had people in other states calling me to see what I was submitting (the pharmaceutical rep gave them my number because they wanted more people on their drug, which, shady, but sure. He did ask me if it was okay first).

And here’s the key point of this story:

At no point, during any of this, did it ever even occur to any of us that we might have to worry about whether or not what we were doing was legal.

It just never even came up. It was the medically recommended treatment so we did it. And seeing what’s happening in the UK and certain states in America is both terrifying and genuinely shocking to me, as someone who did this for almost fifteen years, without ever even wondering about the legality of it.

The doctor retired some years ago, at which point there were two other doctors in the state who were willing to prescribe the medications for transgender kids. I truly think that he would still be working if nobody else had been willing to take those kids on as patients. He was, by the way, a white cisgender heterosexual Boomer. I remember when he was introduced to the concept of ‘genderfluid’ because one of our patients on HRT wanted to go off. He said ‘that’s so interesting!’ and immediately went to Google to learn more about it. 

I watched these kids transform. I saw them come into the office the first time, sometimes anxious and uncertain, sometimes sullen and angry. I saw them come in the subsequent times, once they were on hormone therapy, how they gradually became happy and confident in themselves. I saw the smiles on their faces when I gave them a gender marker letter for the DMV. I heard them cheer when I called to tell them I’d gotten HRT approved by insurance and we were calling in a prescription. It was honestly amazing and I will always consider the work I did in that red state with those kids to be something I am incredibly proud of. I was honored to be a part of it.

When I see all this transgender backlash, it’s horrifying, because it was well on the way to become standard and accepted treatment. Insurances started to cover it. Other doctors were learning to prescribe it. And now … it’s fucking illegal? Like what the actual fuck. We have gone so far backwards that it makes me want to cry. I don’t know how to stop this slide. But I wrote this so people would understand exactly how steep the slide is.

[therealbeachfox]

Twenty years ago, February 15th, 2004, I got married for the first time.

It was twenty years earlier than I ever expected to.

To celebrate/comemorate the date, I'm sitting down to write out everything I remember as I remember it. No checking all the pictures I took or all the times I've written about this before. I'm not going to turn to my husband (of twenty years, how the f'ing hell) to remember a detail for me.

This is not a 100% accurate recounting of that first wild weekend in San Francisco. But it -is- a 100% accurate recounting of how I remember it today, twenty years after the fact.

Join me below, if you would.

2004 was an election year, and much like conservatives are whipping up anti-trans hysteria and anti-trans bills and propositions to drive out the vote today, in 2004 it was all anti-gay stuff. Specifically, preventing the evil scourge of same-sex marriage from destroying everything good and decent in the world.

Enter Gavin Newstrom. At the time, he was the newly elected mayor of San Francisco. Despite living next door to the city all my life, I hadn’t even heard of the man until Valentines Day 2004 when he announced that gay marriage was legal in San Francisco and started marrying people at city hall.

It was a political stunt. It was very obviously a political stunt. That shit was illegal, after all. But it was a very sweet political stunt. I still remember the front page photo of two ancient women hugging each other forehead to forehead and crying happy tears.

But it was only going to last for as long as it took for the California legal system to come in and make them knock it off.

The next day, we’re on the phone with an acquaintance, and she casually mentions that she’s surprised the two of us aren’t up at San Francisco getting married with everyone else.

“Everyone else?” Goes I, “I thought they would’ve shut that down already?”

“Oh no!” goes she, “The courts aren’t open until Tuesday. Presidents Day on Monday and all. They’re doing them all weekend long!”

We didn’t know because social media wasn’t a thing yet. I only knew as much about it as I’d read on CNN, and most of the blogs I was following were more focused on what bullshit President George W Bush was up to that day.

"Well shit", me and my man go, "do you wanna?" I mean, it’s a political stunt, it wont really mean anything, but we’re not going to get another chance like this for at least 20 years. Why not?

The next day, Sunday, we get up early. We drive north to the southern-most BART station. We load onto Bay Area Rapid Transit, and rattle back and forth all the way to the San Francisco City Hall stop.

We had slightly miscalculated.

Apparently, demand for marriages was far outstripping the staff they had on hand to process them. Who knew. Everyone who’d gotten turned away Saturday had been given tickets with times to show up Sunday to get their marriages done. My babe and I, we could either wait to see if there was a space that opened up, or come back the next day, Monday.

“Isn’t City Hall closed on Monday?” I asked. “It’s a holiday”

“Oh sure,” they reply, “but people are allowed to volunteer their time to come in and work on stuff anyways. And we have a lot of people who want to volunteer their time to have the marriage licensing offices open tomorrow.”

“Oh cool,” we go, “Backup.”

“Make sure you’re here if you do,” they say, “because the California Supreme Court is back in session Tuesday, and will be reviewing the motion that got filed to shut us down.”

And all this shit is super not-legal, so they’ll totally be shutting us down goes unsaid.

00000

We don’t get in Saturday. We wind up hanging out most of the day, though.

It’s… incredible. I can say, without hyperbole, that I have never experienced so much concentrated joy and happiness and celebration of others’ joy and happiness in all my life before or since. My face literally ached from grinning. Every other minute, a new couple was coming out of City Hall, waving their paperwork to the crowd and cheering and leaping and skipping. Two glorious Latina women in full Mariachi band outfits came out, one in the arms of another. A pair of Jewish boys with their families and Rabbi. One couple managed to get a Just Married convertible arranged complete with tin-cans tied to the bumper to drive off in. More than once I was giving some rice to throw at whoever was coming out next.

At some point in the mid-afternoon, there was a sudden wave of extra cheering from the several hundred of us gathered at the steps, even though no one was coming out. There was a group going up the steps to head inside, with some generic black-haired shiny guy at the front. My not-yet-husband nudged me, “That’s Newsom.” He said, because he knew I was hopeless about matching names and people.

Ooooooh, I go. That explains it. Then I joined in the cheers. He waved and ducked inside.

So dusk is starting to fall. It’s February, so it’s only six or so, but it’s getting dark.

“Should we just try getting in line for tomorrow -now-?” we ask.

“Yeah, I’m afraid that’s not going to be possible.” One of the volunteers tells us. “We’re not allowed to have people hang out overnight like this unless there are facilities for them and security. We’d need Porta-Poties for a thousand people and police patrols and the whole lot, and no one had time to get all that organized. Your best bet is to get home, sleep, and then catch the first BART train up at 5am and keep your fingers crossed.

Monday is the last day to do this, after all.

00000

So we go home. We crash out early. We wake up at 4:00. We drive an hour to hit the BART station. We get the first train up. We arrive at City Hall at 6:30AM.

The line stretches around the entirety of San Francisco City Hall. You could toss a can of Coke from the end of the line to the people who’re up to be first through the doors and not have to worry about cracking it open after.

“Uh.” We go. “What the fuck is -this-?”

So.

Remember why they weren’t going to be able to have people hang out overnight?

Turns out, enough SF cops were willing to volunteer unpaid time to do patrols to cover security. And some anonymous person delivered over a dozen Porta-Poties that’d gotten dropped off around 8 the night before.

It’s 6:30 am, there are almost a thousand people in front of us in line to get this literal once in a lifetime marriage, the last chance we expect to have for at least 15 more years (it was 2004, gay rights were getting shoved back on every front. It was not looking good. We were just happy we lived in California were we at least weren’t likely to loose job protections any time soon.).

Then it starts to rain.

We had not dressed for rain.

00000

Here is how the next six hours go.

We’re in line. Once the doors open at 7am, it will creep forward at a slow crawl. It’s around 7 when someone shows up with garbage bags for everyone. Cut holes for the head and arms and you’ve got a makeshift raincoat! So you’ve got hundreds of gays and lesbians decked out in the nicest shit they could get on short notice wearing trashbags over it.

Everyone is so happy.

Everyone is so nervous/scared/frantic that we wont be able to get through the doors before they close for the day.

People online start making delivery orders.

Coffee and bagels are ordered in bulk and delivered to City Hall for whoever needs it. We get pizza. We get roses. Random people come by who just want to give hugs to people in line because they’re just so happy for us. The tour busses make detours to go past the lines. Chinese tourists lean out with their cameras and shout GOOD LUCK while car horns honk.

A single sad man holding a Bible tries to talk people out of doing this, tells us all we’re sinning and to please don’t. He gives up after an hour. A nun replaces him with a small sign about how this is against God’s will. She leaves after it disintegrates in the rain.

The day before, when it was sunny, there had been a lot of protestors. Including a large Muslim group with their signs about how “Not even DOGS do such things!” Which… Yes they do.

A lot of snide words are said (by me) about how the fact that we’re willing to come out in the rain to do this while they’re not willing to come out in the rain to protest it proves who actually gives an actual shit about the topic.

Time passes. I measure it based on which side of City Hall we’re on. The doors face East. We start on Northside. Coffee and trashbags are delivered when we’re on the North Side. Pizza first starts showing up when we’re on Westside, which is also where I see Bible Man and Nun. Roses are delivered on Southside. And so forth.

00000

We have Line Neighbors.

Ahead of us are a gay couple a decade or two older than us. They’ve been together for eight years. The older one is a school teacher. He has his coat collar up and turns away from any news cameras that come near while we reposition ourselves between the lenses and him. He’s worried about the parents of one of his students seeing him on the news and getting him fired. The younger one will step away to get interviewed on his own later on. They drove down for the weekend once they heard what was going on. They’d started around the same time we did, coming from the Northeast, and are parked in a nearby garage.

The most perky energetic joyful woman I’ve ever met shows up right after we turned the corner to Southside to tackle the younger of the two into a hug. She’s their local friend who’d just gotten their message about what they’re doing and she will NOT be missing this. She is -so- happy for them. Her friends cry on her shoulders at her unconditional joy.

Behind us are a lesbian couple who’d been up in San Francisco to celebrate their 12th anniversary together. “We met here Valentines Day weekend! We live down in San Diego, now, but we like to come up for the weekend because it’s our first love city.”

“Then they announced -this-,” the other one says, “and we can’t leave until we get married. I called work Sunday and told them I calling in sick until Wednesday.”

“I told them why,” her partner says, “I don’t care if they want to give me trouble for it. This is worth it. Fuck them.”

My husband-to-be and I look at each other. We’ve been together for not even two years at this point. Less than two years. Is it right for us to be here? We’re potentially taking a spot from another couple that’d been together longer, who needed it more, who deserved it more.”

“Don’t you fucking dare.” Says the 40-something gay couple in front of us.

“This is as much for you as it is for us!” says the lesbian couple who’ve been together for over a decade behind us.

“You kids are too cute together,” says the gay couple’s friend. “you -have- to. Someday -you’re- going to be the old gay couple that’s been together for years and years, and you deserve to have been married by then.”

We stay in line.

It’s while we’re on the Southside of City Hall, just about to turn the corner to Eastside at long last that we pick up our own companions. A white woman who reminds me an awful lot of my aunt with a four year old black boy riding on her shoulders. “Can we say we’re with you? His uncles are already inside and they’re not letting anyone in who isn’t with a couple right there.” “Of course!” we say.

The kid is so very confused about what all the big deal is, but there’s free pizza and the busses keep driving by and honking, so he’s having a great time.

We pass by a statue of Lincoln with ‘Marriage for All!’ and "Gay Rights are Human Rights!" flags tucked in the crooks of his arms and hanging off his hat.

It’s about noon, noon-thirty when we finally make it through the doors and out of the rain.

They’ve promised that anyone who’s inside when the doors shut will get married. We made it. We’re safe.

We still have a -long- way to go.

00000

They’re trying to fit as many people into City Hall as possible. Partially to get people out of the rain, mostly to get as many people indoors as possible. The line now stretches down into the basement and up side stairs and through hallways I’m not entirely sure the public should ever be given access to. We crawl along slowly but surely.

It’s after we’ve gone through the low-ceiling basement hallways past offices and storage and back up another set of staircases and are going through a back hallway of low-ranked functionary offices that someone comes along handing out the paperwork. “It’s an hour or so until you hit the office, but take the time to fill these out so you don’t have to do it there!”

We spend our time filling out the paperwork against walls, against backs, on stone floors, on books.

We enter one of the public areas, filled with displays and photos of City Hall Demonstrations of years past.

I take pictures of the big black and white photo of the Abraham Lincoln statue holding banners and signs against segregation and for civil rights.

The four year old boy we helped get inside runs past us around this time, chased by a blond haired girl about his own age, both perused by an exhausted looking teenager helplessly begging them to stop running.

Everyone is wet and exhausted and vibrating with anticipation and the building-wide aura of happiness that infuses everything.

The line goes into the marriage office. A dozen people are at the desk, shoulder to shoulder, far more than it was built to have working it at once.

A Sister of Perpetual Indulgence is directing people to city officials the moment they open up. She’s done up in her nun getup with all her makeup on and her beard is fluffed and be-glittered and on point. “Oh, I was here yesterday getting married myself, but today I’m acting as your guide. Number 4 sweeties, and -Congradulatiooooons!-“

The guy behind the counter has been there since six. It’s now 1:30. He’s still giddy with joy. He counts our money. He takes our paperwork, reviews it, stamps it, sends off the parts he needs to, and hands the rest back to us. “Alright, go to the Rotunda, they’ll direct you to someone who’ll do the ceremony. Then, if you want the certificate, they’ll direct you to -that- line.” “Can’t you just mail it to us?” “Normally, yeah, but the moment the courts shut us down, we’re not going to be allowed to.”

We take our paperwork and join the line to the Rotunda.

If you’ve seen James Bond: A View to a Kill, you’ve seen the San Francisco City Hall Rotunda. There are literally a dozen spots set up along the balconies that overlook the open area where marriage officials and witnesses are gathered and are just processing people through as fast as they can.

That’s for the people who didn’t bring their own wedding officials.

There’s a Catholic-adjacent couple there who seem to have brought their entire families -and- the priest on the main steps. They’re doing the whole damn thing. There’s at least one more Rabbi at work, I can’t remember what else. Just that there was a -lot-.

We get directed to the second story, northside. The San Francisco City Treasurer is one of our two witnesses. Our marriage officient is some other elected official I cannot remember for the life of me (and I'm only writing down what I can actively remember, so I can't turn to my husband next to me and ask, but he'll have remembered because that's what he does.)

I have a wilting lily flower tucked into my shirt pocket. My pants have water stains up to the knees. My hair is still wet from the rain, I am blubbering, and I can’t get the ring on my husband’s finger. The picture is a treat, I tell you.

There really isn’t a word for the mix of emotions I had at that time. Complete disbelief that this was reality and was happening. Relief that we’d made it. Awe at how many dozens of people had personally cheered for us along the way and the hundreds to thousands who’d cheered for us generally.

Then we're married.

Then we get in line to get our license.

It’s another hour. This time, the line goes through the higher stories. Then snakes around and goes past the doorway to the mayor’s office.

Mayor Newsom is not in today. And will be having trouble getting into his office on Tuesday because of the absolute barricade of letters and flowers and folded up notes and stuffed animals and City Hall maps with black marked “THANK YOU!”s that have been piled up against it.

We make it to the marriage records office.

I take a picture of my now husband standing in front of a case of the marriage records for 1902-1912. Numerous kids are curled up in corners sleeping. My own memory is spotty. I just know we got the papers, and then we’re done with lines. We get out, we head to the front entrance, and we walk out onto the City Hall steps.

It's almost 3PM.

00000

There are cheers, there’s rice thrown at us, there are hundreds of people celebrating us with unconditional love and joy and I had never before felt the goodness that exists in humanity to such an extent. It’s no longer raining, just a light sprinkle, but there are still no protestors. There’s barely even any news vans.

We make our way through the gauntlet, we get hands shaked, people with signs reading ”Congratulations!” jump up and down for us. We hit the sidewalks, and we begin to limp our way back to the BART station.

I’m at the BART station, we’re waiting for our train back south, and I’m sitting on the ground leaning against a pillar and in danger of falling asleep when a nondescript young man stops in front of me and shuffles his feet nervously. “Hey. I just- I saw you guys, down at City Hall, and I just… I’m so happy for you. I’m so proud of what you could do. I’m- I’m just really glad, glad you could get to do this.”

He shakes my hand, clasps it with both of his and shakes it. I thank him and he smiles and then hurries away as fast as he can without running.

Our train arrives and the trip south passes in a semilucid blur.

We get back to our car and climb in.

It’s 4:30 and we are starving.

There’s a Carls Jr near the station that we stop off at and have our first official meal as a married couple. We sit by the window and watch people walking past and pick out others who are returning from San Francisco. We're all easy to pick out, what with the combination of giddiness and water damage.

We get home about 6-7. We take the dog out for a good long walk after being left alone for two days in a row. We shower. We bundle ourselves up. We bury ourselves in blankets and curl up and just sort of sit adrift in the surrealness of what we’d just done.

We wake up the next day, Tuesday, to read that the California State Supreme Court has rejected the petition to shut down the San Francisco weddings because the paperwork had a misplaced comma that made the meaning of one phrase unclear.

The State Supreme Court would proceed to play similar bureaucratic tricks to drag the process out for nearly a full month before they have nothing left and finally shut down Mayor Newsom’s marriages.

My parents had been out of state at the time at a convention. They were flying into SFO about the same moment we were walking out of City Hall. I apologized to them later for not waiting and my mom all but shook me by the shoulders. “No! No one knew that they’d go on for so long! You did what you needed to do! I’ll just be there for the next one!”

00000

It was just a piece of paper. Legally, it didn’t even hold any weight thirty days later. My philosophy at the time was “marriage really isn’t that important, aside from the legal benefits. It’s just confirming what you already have.”

But maybe it’s just societal weight, or ingrained culture, or something, but it was different after. The way I described it at the time, and I’ve never really come up with a better metaphor is, “It’s like we were both holding onto each other in the middle of the ocean in the middle of a storm. We were keeping each other above water, we were each other’s support. But then we got this piece of paper. And it was like the ground rose up to meet our feet. We were still in an ocean, still in the middle of a storm, but there was a solid foundation beneath our feet. We still supported each other, but there was this other thing that was also keeping our heads above the water.

It was different. It was better. It made things more solid and real.

I am forever grateful for all the forces and all the people who came together to make it possible. It’s been twenty years and we’re still together and still married.

We did a domestic partnership a year later to get the legal paperwork. We’d done a private ceremony with proper rings (not just ones grabbed out of the husband’s collection hours before) before then. And in 2008, we did a legal marriage again.

Rushed. In a hurry. Because there was Proposition 13 to be voted on which would make them all illegal again if it passed.

It did, but we were already married at that point, and they couldn’t negate it that time.

Another few years after that, the Supreme Court finally threw up their hands and said "Fine! It's been legal in places and nothing's caught on fire or been devoured by locusts. It's legal everywhere. Shut up about it!"

And that was that.

00000

When I was in highschool, in the late 90s, I didn’t expect to see legal gay marriage until I was in my 50s. I just couldn’t see how the American public as it was would ever be okay with it.

I never expected to be getting married within five years. I never expected it to be legal nationwide before I’d barely started by 30s. I never thought I’d be in my 40s and it’d be such a non-issue that the conservative rabble rousers would’ve had to move onto other wedge issues altogether.

I never thought that I could introduce another man as my husband and absolutely no one involved would so much as blink.

I never thought I’d live in this world.

And it’s twenty years later today. I wonder how our line buddies are doing. Those babies who were running around the wide open rooms playing tag will have graduated college by now. The kids whose parents the one line-buddy was worried would see him are probably married too now. Some of them to others of the same gender.

I don’t have some greater message to make with all this. Other then, culture can shift suddenly in ways you can’t predict. For good or ill. Mainly this is just me remembering the craziest fucking 36 hours of my life twenty years after the fact and sharing them with all of you.

The future we’re resigned to doesn’t have to be the one we live in. Society can shift faster than you think. The unimaginable of twenty years ago is the baseline reality of today.

And always remember that the people who want to get married will show up by the thousands in rain that none of those who’re against it will brave.

[jeo9n]

INSTAGRAM

you’ve been texting jungkook on instagram non stop ever since he opened his account as a joke. but what you didn’t expect was for him to actually text you back.

౨ৎ

pairing: jeon jungkook x reader

genre: fluff, slow burn, friends to lovers, future smut

warnings: none

wordcount: 2k

you get woken up by your alarm at exactly 6am. like everyday, you open your eyes and the first thing you do is check your phone. catching up with everything that happened while you were asleep. texting your friends back that live in a different time zone than you.

you’re tired but you get out of bed anyway. you have to get ready for work. even if your body is screaming for you to stay in bed.

the first thing you do is make your bed so it prevents from laying back down. you already took a shower yesterday night, which you thank yourself as it saves you time this morning. so all you have to do is brush your teeth and wash your face.

when you’re done with that you make yourself a coffee and start to get dressed. you keep your outfit simple with some baggy jeans and a black long sleeve top because you’d rather be comfortable than fashionable. you always make sure to never leave the house without spraying perfume everywhere on your body. you forgot to but some on one day as you were running late, only noticing when you were already at work and someone might say it’s stupid but you didn’t feel good that day, you didn’t feel like yourself without your sweet perfume. you love to smell good, you love getting compliments on your scent, you love people smelling you before they even see you.

ever since that you never forgot to put perfume on again, but carrying around a travel size bottle of your favorite perfume in your bag just in case.

you pet your cats goodbye one last time before you leave your apartment. you hate leaving them home alone but thankfully they have each other so they are not really "alone" but it still hurts you.

you’re already on the way to the small coffee shop that you work at , as you remember you haven’t texted your boyfriend (jungkook) a good morning text yet. so you pull your phone at your pocket and text him right away. the chat is filled with hundreds of your messages texting him random stuff about how your day was and occasionally sending him some memes and reels you thought were funny.

y/n: good morning jungkoookkk!!

y/n: i’m on my way to work.

y/n: you’re probably asleep but have a good day.

you smile to yourself as you double text him. your not texting him in hopes to get a text back, cause that would be crazy. i mean, that guys is crazy famous of course he’s not going to text me back. you just think it’s funny, although sometimes you think it’s actually kinda weird and you should probably stop, but you never actually do.

as you open the door to your workplace you’re instantly greeted with the delicious smell of coffee, which reminds you, you still have your empty cup of coffee in your hands which you forgot to throw away. your coworker greets you good morning as she looks up from behind the counter.

"good morning. leslie." you greet back as you throw your coffee away. "ugh i really don’t feel like working today." you tell her, while taking of your jacket. she laughs and agrees with you.

"girl, i literally stayed up all night binge watching true crime documentaries." she tells me. "look at my eye bags! i can’t even cover them up with makeup." she says as she lifts up her hand to show me her dark eye bags. "but i guess it’s my own fault. i knew i should’ve turned the tv off after the first episode." she says in frustration and it makes me laugh. i can totally relate to her. you tell yourself one more episode and suddenly the sun comes up and you finished the whole show, wondering where the time went.

happened to me one too many times.

"yea…" you say, tying your apron at you back. "been there, done that." and she smiles softly in response. "should i make you a coffee? cause you really look like you need one." you tell her as you point to your eye bags, mocking her.

she laughs and kicks you jokingly "yes please! make it extra strong."

"will do." you say in a laugh, already on your way to the coffee machine. it’s definitely gonna be a long day for leslie today.

you put the coffee down carefully, not trying to spill the hot coffee all over the counter. "here you go, extra strong for you, your highness. " you bow to her jokingly while laughing like an idiot.

"you’re so stupid." she laughs with you, bringing the coffee up to her lips, trying to take a sip.

you worked a little longer today as usual since it was busy. but you don’t mind. working extra hours means extra money and you would never complain about that.

you take you shoes off and wash your hands as soon as you get home. after that you change into more comfy close just some sweatpants and hoodie and you already feel way better. you walk to your kitchen to feed your cats, who are acting like you leave them out to starve and never feed them. after your done with that you wash your hands again and make yourself something to eat since you only had breakfast today. you decide for pizza today as it doesn’t take long to be ready. you shove it into the oven and while you wait you brows through your phone. you lean against the counter and watch some tiktok’s to make to the time go by faster.

the pizza is done in under 20 times. thankfully. you cannot wait longer or else your stomach is gonna start eating itself. you sit down on your couch with your pizza on your lap. you try to take a bite but it’s still too hot so start browsing through netflix instead to find something to watch while your eating. when you find something your pizza has cooled down already so you start eating.

after your done, you get up and do the dishes right away so you don’t have to worry about it later. after that you decide to take a bath since you haven’t done that in a while and after that hectic day today you really need it.

the warm water hugs your body as you lay down in your bathtub. you feel your body start to relax enjoying the temperature of the water. your eyes are closed as you hear the notification sound from your phone, but you ignore it. you feel so comfortable right now you don’t want to move. so you stay put, enjoying this bath maybe a little too much.

after like twenty minutes you start to get bored and the water has gone cold, so you decide it’s time to get out. you quickly wash your body and get out. you do you skincare and brush your teeth while your body dries, after that you put some vanilla bodylotion on, quickly change into your pyjamas and head to bed, your cats joining you seconds after. one sleeps on top the pillow next to you while the one sleeps between your legs.

you go to grab your phone from your nightstand, checking it one last time before you go to sleep. your just scrolling trough your notifications not thinking anything by it. you stop at one particular notification and your hearts starts to beat faster. sitting straight in your bed, rubbing your eyes to make sure your seeing correctly. you cannot believe what you’re seeing.

jeon jungkook has fucking texted you back.

not only once. he double texted you back.

is this really happening right now?

abcdefghi__lmnopqrstuvwxyz: woww! how long have you been texting me for ? there are like a thousand messages lol

abcdefghi__lmnopqrstuvwxyz: i hope you had good day at work! i just woke up.

abcdefghi__lmnopqrstuvwxyz: i saw your message and there are so many. i felt bad so i texted back. looked like your were talking to yourself haha.

wait. i cannot believes this. am i dreaming?

your hands shake and you’re not sure what to text back. should i even text back? would he text back again?

i take a deep breath. my head is going crazy right now.

after you collected yourself , you text back.

y/n: lol this is awkward.

y/n: i wasn’t thinking you would actually text back.🫣

y/n: i hope my message weren’t bothering you or anything.

you struggle sending the message back cause your hands won’t stop shaking. but can you blame me? the love of my life just texting me back and my stupid ass ignored it because of that stupid bath i took.

i bite on my nails nervously, my heart is beating so fast it might jump out of my chest at any minute.

i wait for an answer back, which is stupid, i know.

just because he texted me back one time doesn’t mean he’s going to do it again.

you know he won’t. but still, you wait.

you wait for like an hour until you realize he’s actually not responding anymore so you decide to go sleep. or try to go to sleep i should say, since your mind won’t stop thinking about what had just happened.

after a while you eventually fall asleep after what felt like hours.

the next morning you get woken up again by your alarm. this time you grab your phone a little faster than usual. scrolling through your notifications with tired but curious eyes.

you eyes widen as you find his notification again.

abcdefghi__lmnopqrstuvwxyz: haha no, you don’t bother me. i read through your messages last night.

abcdefghi__lmnopqrstuvwxyz: you’re funny haha.

abcdefghi__lmnopqrstuvwxyz: judging by the time i usually get the first message from you, i should get a message soon right?

you read the last text and it says sent an hour ago.

okay wait. he texted again? and he thinks i’m funny?

im definitely dreaming because there is no way that this is fucking happening.

your thumbs moves fast as you reply to him.

y/n: no way!!!

y/n: am i dreaming?? please tell me im not

y/n: is this really jungkook?

y/n: no, it can’t be

y/n: is someone playing with me?

someone definitely must be playing with you. because what do you mean jeon jungkook texted me back not one, but twice?

you actually cannot believe it yourself. this is crazy.

you wait a little bit to see if he’ll respond again. but nothing comes so you start getting ready for work.

how am i going get through work today, when all i can think about is him. you think to yourself.

~~~~

i hope you enjoy this chapter because im definitely excited about this fanficton ahhh

[sageshouldknowbetter]

It’s tempting to think that innies are just the outies at their core, right? That they’re what you get when you take a person and peel away all their past trauma until you get to their very soul. The true essence. The self free from expectations. “The you you are.”

But we have to remember: innies can’t be the “true” outies without the environmental influence to “mess them up,” because the severed floor is NOT a non-environment. This world that the innies are born into forms their every character trait and idiosyncrasy that isn’t already BURIED in the outie’s subconscious. So though it’s fun (and not completely wrong!) to say innies are outies without the baggage… they aren’t the outies in their “purest forms” either.

Take Mark, for example. On the surface, the Mark S we see at the beginning of season one is a hard-working, kind, and seemingly content yes-man. Mark Scout, meanwhile, is a depressed and sarcastic alcoholic who gets drunk at night and sobs in his car the next morning.

The apparent difference between them? Mark Scout remembers his wife dying in a car crash and Mark S… doesn’t. Therefore, Mark S must be basically like Mark Scout was before Gemma died. … Right???

Not exactly. Because Mark S still has a past. A short one, sure, and closed-off too — but still a past, and it highly affects his personality today.

It’s heavily implied that he didn’t start off as the corporate tool we see in early episodes. In fact, based on his account of threatening to kill Petey and extensive references to past torture (“bad soap,” “Milchick can’t always be nice like that,” and “It’s easier for you both if he knows which end to start from”), he could’ve been almost as rebellious as Helly. The difference is that where Mark Scout remembers being formed by a drunk father, screeching tires, and policemen at the door, Mark S remembers days on end in the Break Room, saying he was a blight on humanity until he believed it was true.

That’s a decent portion of why he comes across as a “sweet” yet timid bootlicker! Because he is built on trauma! Just new trauma! Different trauma! Trauma he remembers, but Mark Scout doesn’t! (His outie’s past still impacts his character, sure, but it’s not at the forefront of his mind the way his conscious memories are.) The fact that his bad experiences are novel, weird, and surface-level innocuous don’t make them any less potent or formative to the kind of person he is now.

In the same way, I don’t think it’s exactly right to call Helly “what Helena would’ve been like if she was free from Lumon and the pressure of being an Eagan.”

Yeah — in some ways, it’s true. Helly doesn’t have to worry about public opinion, the weight of her name, or what her father thinks. She can have friends and a surrogate dad and, well, baby goats. But the difference between Helly and Helena is more than just one remembering her Eagan upbringing and the other not. The severed floor is in NO way some controlled, pressure-free, unable-to-change-its-inhabitants environment.

Helly remembers cutting her arm in a smashed-open window under red glow, apologizing in the Break Room over a thousand times, and learning just how much she isn’t considered a person. But she also remembers three other people being her only allies, friends (and lover), and entire world — literally. Less than ten people, and always under horrific circumstances, are the only people she ever sees. This kind of life could NOT happen to anyone on the outside, including Helena — even if she wasn’t born an Eagan.

So what would Helena be like if she wasn’t an Eagan? The truth is… we don’t know. But the question isn’t what she would be like. It’s if, stripped of her heritage, it would even still be her in the first place.

Your brain is split in half. Is that still you? You are awakened, memories gone, born again into a whole different kind of world, and grow to fill it like water in cupped hands. Is it still you now? Are you the same “you” you were ten years ago? Ten months ago? This morning? Who ARE you? And what IS “you,” anyway?

That’s what Severance wants us to ponder. And whatever the relationship between innies and outies is (the same person, completely different people, Cain and Abel, you in another lifetime) (can you even call that “you”?), one thing’s for certain: innies aren’t just outies with the bad stuff wiped off. If anything, that’s what Lumon would like them to think.

[carbonfiction]

Ain't no shame

Summary: Riding frank for the first time proves a challenge, one that you thought yourself ready for. When it turns out you aren't, insecurity sparks up your spine. But its just your luck that Frank doesn't mind, infact, hes more than happy to help.. So long as you ask.

Masterlist. Words: 1.5k

Warnings?: as always 18+ MDNI, smut below the cutttt- piv sex, frank being a pleasure dom to the highest form, frank calls reader mama literally once (its hot. Sue me) plus lil mention of insecurity/ bad previous experiences.

Also spotted today i have a lil over 1,000 of you following me for my little ramblings and i am completely blown away. I have so much fun creating stuff for you all and have met some of the best people since creating this blog- long may it continue is all i can say. If you like, comment, reblog, send an ask or even just lurk here.. Thank you. <33

Now.. On with the smut ;)

"How’s that feelin hm? Good?" Frank breathes against your lips, one hand resting against your neck as the other sits anchored to your hips.

Bodies totally bare for the first time as you sit atop of him on the bed, franks back resting against the rickety headboard, cock nessled deep. Your plush thighs bracketing when you slid yourself down slowly. Breathing through the pleasure filled sting as you settled on his lap. Franks eyes filled with adoration as they meet yours, a rough groan passing his lips at the tight heat of your hole.

"Remember, you tell me if it gets too much alright?" he rasps, one hand moving from your hips to thumb over your shoulder soothingly before trailing down. Tongue wetting over his lips as he observes the join of your bodies, glossy slick shiney on your skin. "Don’t ever wanna hurt ya- or my gorgeous girl down here..

You whimper softly as his thumb brushes your clit, a gentle pressure as it prods at the split of your folds. Hips rocking forward just a fraction. "Wish you could see her right now.. all spread open n shiny for me, shit sweetheart, so fuckin tight too"

"S-so full frank.." you whisper, planting your hands against his pectorals as begin to lift up, dropping back down with a soft sigh. The feeling of him inside your walls comforting in a way you cant seem to explain, lip bitten as you watch each reaction to your movements.

With time comes more confident bounces, calculated rocks and grinds that push him deep and nuge against the spot that has you keening. But so too comes the creep of discomfort, tinged with pleasure but enough to fill your expression in a way you cant seem to hide. A wince here and a shuffle of your knees beside him there.

Franks observance doesnt miss this, as much as you pray he does. Gentle hands holding on as you shuffle again; this time not letting you continue without resistance.

"Hey.. There somethin' not feelin right pretty girl?" he murmers, head cocked slightly. His thumbs soothing little circles on your skin. Concern paints his features and you can feel the heat of shame overcome your bloodstream.

You'd begged for this, asked specifically to be on top and now? Now you feel like you cant live up to it and shit.. Shit it makes you embarrassed. Especially with the patience hes given you up until this point; those nights spent having sex with the lights off or with shirts still on, never deviating from missionary.

You'd wanted to try this; to give him- and yourself- something different.

So you do the thing you know best, you push through, because how could that earlier confidence fade so quickly? With a soft smile and unconvincing eyes you confirm, "M' okay, just getting comfortable" and gingerly resume the pace once more.

It feels good, neither of you can deny that. Franks length gliding so sloppily into you. Audible in the way it feeds those warm sparks of pleasure up your spine.

But frank really isn't a stupid man and he isnt blind neither. Theres an inconsistency within your movements, with the rise and falls you make against him. A forced tone to the sounds you let free. Its not feeling as good as it should for you, thats clear to see and for frank? For frank that is a fucking crime. Especially when it comes to his girls pleasure.

A large hand slips up your back, gentle and slow as if not wanting to spook you. Fingers offering a gentle squeeze to the base of you neck, just enough to gather your attention back to his face once again. You hadn't even noticed your gaze waver and lock to the chiseled planes of his chest.

"You got it or you need my help sweet girl?" he murmers, leaning up to press his lips to your forehead. "Know there ain’t no shame in askin, always gon' give you whatcha need."

Your throat bobs as you swallow, anxiety suddenly filling your gorgeous features. And its then your words break Franks heart. "D-dont want you to.. To be mad.. Said i could do it.."

Your lip wobbles and frank engulfs your form immediately, pressing you close to his chest. A shake of his head visible in your periphery as you rest against him. "Christ sweetheart, you listen to me" he says shifting your head up slightly to meet his gaze like your made of glass. "I am never gon be mad bout that. If s' too much then it's too much alright? Not your fault"

Frank watches you breathe in his words, brows creased just slightly when you nod. He doesn't know everything about your past, about the expectations of the few men you'd let touch you, but he can guess they were less than understanding. Enough to make you shrink in on yourself the way you have now anyway.

Your voice is soft when you speak up again, meek and still anxious. "You promise?.. Dont want you to.. To not enjoy it.."

Frank has to bite back the scoff threatening to dislodge from his throat. Him? Not enjoy it? While you're sat perfectly bare atop of him like this? Each gorgeous curve housed by plush flesh driving him wild, indents from his fingers littering your skin. Breasts covered with blooming bruises from his adoration filled attention alone.

What on earth had those clowns you'd been with before made you think?

"Course i promise babydoll. Enjoy just bein with you-" he rasps quietly, fingers tangling into your hair, large palm cupping your head as he rests you against his forehead. The usual crease that lives in his brows gone, replaced by something much softer. "-sittin on the couch watching tv or goin walkin how we do.. this is just a bonus, something extra. Now if you wanna stop sweetheart thats okay too-

"No!" you cut him off quickly, a flicker of fire back into your eyes, cunt clenching around him in your panic as you pull back. "No dont wanna stop, Please frank..dont stop"

He nods, wetting his lips with a gentle hush. "Alright, so how bout we try something else hm? Somethin that works for you" the hand in your hair drifts to your jaw, calloused thumb soothin over soft skin. "Aint gotta worry bout me, just gotta focus on you.. you tell me how you want it n I’ll get you there.. that sound good?"

It takes a second before you nod, the movement still a little sheepish as frank trails kisses over your features. Jaw, cheeks and forehead first, followed by a decent back down your nose to press against your lips, swallowing your words. "M-mhm, yeah.. But i.. I want you to.. to do it like this still.."

"Like this?" frank hums, adjusting you both until hes pressed flat, his feet down on the mattress just like his back. A large arm wraps around your shoulders, pushing gently between them as his head finds home the crook of your neck. Sheets bunching in your fists in preparation. "Sure this is what you want honey? Not too deep?"

"Want it like this." you confirm, pressing yourself down against his chest a little more, pushing him a little deeper, head turning to the side to nuzzle into his chest. "Fuck me frankie..please.."

And following your pleas, he does. His hips lift in a steady succession of thrusts, cock brushing your walls in a way that immediately feels better than before. A soft whimper filling franks ears as he repeats his thrusts over and over.

"shhhh, I know mama, I know." he pants, full balls a steady swat gainst you as you take every inch he has to give; pleasure blossoming quickly. "Doin so good like this, taking everything i got"

"Feels so.. Oh fuck frankie, s' good, gonna cum- gonna make me cum!" you sob out, blood pounding loudly through your ears, orgasm building in your belly as quick as his thrusts.

Franks hand presses harder into your back, the weight between your shoulder blades a comfort as it pushes you against him harder. "Yeah? Give it to me baby, yeah cmon, let me feel it" he groans roughly, lips against your temple.

That very plea is what sends you over the edge, orgasm bluring your vision as franks thrusts remain steady. Quick and sharp pounds as he fucks into your quivering form. Each movement making the squelch of your weeping cunt louder, a creamy ring forming around the base of Franks cock.

Its only a handful more bucks later that Frank's high crashes into him like lightning. Pulsing ropes of cum painting your insides until you feel physically full.

"Atta girl.. My beautiful fuckin girl" he pants against your skin, sweat soaked and spit stricken. "That what you wanted?"

Your head nods, lips sloppily finding his with a soft whine. hips unconsciously rocking backward, cum leaking out of your messy hole, still plugged by his sensitive cock.

[bucketbueckers]

MUTT

pairing: azzi fudd x fem!reader

content: decent bit of plot before literal filth. language, light weed usage, sub!azzi, freak asses being freak asses in public (just a lil tho), choking, oral, fingering, thigh riding, idk what else i should be tagging tbh

wc: 7.1k

synopsis: It wasn’t even Azzi’s draft night, yet she still managed to steal the show – and your attention. With nothing but time, you were counting down the hours until the end of the draft and the afterparty, wanting nothing more than to finally get your girlfriend alone.

notes: sorry im ovulating

If you had to be honest with yourself, you weren’t sure how you were supposed to make it through your draft night without combusting.

It started early in the morning. You were surrounded by your hair and makeup team in your hotel room, trying (and failing) to be patient as they meticulously styled you. Then, the FaceTime from your girlfriend came through and your heart all but fell out of your ass.

“Holy shit,” you remember saying, hardly able to take your eyes off your phone screen. Azzi was surrounded by her team, too, looking as beautiful as ever. She was in the process of getting her hair straightened and you were just able to see that glint of mischief in her eyes, the one that told you she knew exactly what she was doing to you and that she wasn’t planning on making it any easier for you. Her makeup was subtle, bringing out the contours of her face and the warm cocoa of her eyes, and if the two of you weren’t separated by a few hotel doors and a phone screen, you’re sure you’d be down on your knees to propose. Or something entirely different. “Azzi, you look – holy shit.”

Her warm laugh echoes through the speakers, sounding far too pleased with herself. Taking her in, you silently went through today’s itinerary. You had hair and makeup for another half hour, then Brittany – Azzi and Paige’s stylist, whom you’d hired for the draft since both of your teammates swore by her – would be by with your outfit. You might have a little time before you are supposed to head out for the orange carpet. You wondered if you’d be able to convince Azzi to sneak away with you, but the amusement reflected in her expression told you that she was fully intending to make you squirm tonight.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this speechless,” Azzi says to you, the tease in her tone betraying the faux concern on her face. “Are you okay?”

“No,” you say without hesitation. “You’re – Jesus Christ.” You reach up to rub a palm across your jaw in disbelief but your makeup artist swats your hand away, muttering about concealer, and Azzi’s tinkling laughter makes you feel just a little more unhinged – although you wonder if you’ve ever truly had hinges in the first place when it came to Azzi.

“You haven’t even seen my dress yet,” she reminds you.

You try to keep your increasingly inappropriate thoughts at bay, swallowing thickly. “When can I see it?” you ask, shifting slightly in your chair.

Then Azzi’s grinning at you, mischievous and evil and beautiful all at once. “Soon,” she promises, and she hangs up on you.

If you weren’t already keyed up by that point, then you’re sure you are when Brittany finally arrives with your outfit in hand. You’re wearing a custom, sleek, midnight blue Louis Vuitton pantsuit, so dark that it’s nearly black, with silver accents and embellishments reminiscent of stars. Your slacks hang low on your hips to barely reveal the waistband of your boxers – something Azzi had “innocently” suggested you do when you revealed you were interested in wearing a pantsuit for the draft, so you’re sure it’s more for her than it is for you. Your vest has a subtle crop, ending just a few inches above your belly button, and the matching blazer is snug. You’re adorned in jewelry to match the accents on your pantsuit – rings, layered necklaces, and the piercings you usually forgo when you’re on the court. God bless Brittany Hampton is what you think to yourself, and then your phone buzzes on the desk.

You glance at it. You almost collapse. It’s a selfie from Azzi, but it’s just from the chest up. She’s glowing, her dress a dark black and doing very little to cover much. You haven’t seen the whole thing but you’re sure you’ll die if you do. She texts you before you can even think about formulating a response, simply reading See you soon! with the black heart emoji.

When you’re ushered out of the hotel room to get into the van to go to the draft, you swear you see a glimpse of Azzi, but the door closes before your brain can catch up with you. You fumble with your phone to text her. You’re still on Delivered by the time you make it to the venue and all you can think about is finding your tease of a girlfriend.

You pose for pictures. Smile politely for reporters who ask you the same question in different ways. You sign a jersey or two and throw up peace signs for fan photos until you’re led inside towards the orange carpet. More photos – you adjust your poses, making sure to flaunt the clutch at your side for sponsorship purposes. The camera flashes are almost numbing but you just remind yourself you have to make it through a few more hours until you get to sit at the table and listen to your name be called.

Then, from the corner of your eye as you’re sitting through the interview with Hannah and Rickea, you finally spot Azzi, and you’re sure your heart starts beating all together. Your jaw hits the floor, which probably ruins the whole private, not a secret thing you have going on, because holy fucking shit. Her hair is straightened, cascading down her chest beautifully, her make-up done to the nines, but her fucking dress? It’s backless, swooping layers at the front with a plunging neckline, and the skirt is transparent, revealing her long, toned legs. She catches your eye from across the room, her lips curling into a satisfied smirk, and Rickea nudges you gently with an amused smile to remind you that you’re still very much on camera, live.

“What are you looking at?” Hannah asks, none the wiser, and you clear your throat.

“Sorry,” you say smoothly, adjusting the lapels of your blazer. “I just saw someone puke in a plant.”

Rickea snorts, hiding her face in her free hand, and Hannah perks up again. “Azzi Fudd is here!” she announces, turning back to the camera. “Here to support her teammates, I’m sure. UConn has four seniors ready to hear their name called.”

You smile knowingly as Hannah ushers Azzi into frame. She smiles at you, the meaning of it not lost on you as she slides up next to you. You throw a platonic arm over her shoulder, your fingers tightening on her shoulder – not hard enough to hurt or to bruise, but just enough to let Azzi know that as soon as the draft and the afterparty wraps up, she’s yours. You catch the way her smile sharpens as she glances at you out of the corner of her eye. 

You barely make it through the rest of the interview in one piece, distracted by the floral scent of her perfume and the rich, smoothness of her voice. The both of you are dragged back onto the orange carpet for photos together. You know you’re being obvious, but you really don’t care. You take photos with the rest of the team – Paige, KK, Ice, Nika, and countless others, before you and the other three seniors are drawn away for more media.

Eventually, you make it back to your table, finding Azzi waiting for you. You knew that having Azzi at your table meant something. She was seated next to your parents and your younger sibling, smiling as they talked, and you were very aware of the fact that you could have had anyone else at the table with you. Paige had dibs on Coach, but you knew CD wouldn’t have hesitated if you asked. Or Jamelle. But Azzi? Your girlfriend-but-not-quite-publically-official girlfriend? That means something.

You tap your younger sister on the shoulder, immediately raising a brow at her. “Move,” you tell her, wanting to sit next to Azzi.

“Bruh,” she says, but she scoots one chair over and you happily take a seat next to your girlfriend.

“You’re so mean to her,” Azzi murmurs jokingly, her hand brushing against your thigh momentarily before retracting innocently.

“Me?” you echo, a disbelieving gasp building in your throat as you lower your voice so the rest of your family can’t hear your conversation. “You’ve been teasing me all day. The FaceTime, the picture–” you pinch the fabric of her dress in between your index finger and thumb, “–this fucking dress?”

Azzi smiles, swatting your hand away, but she can’t do much to deter your gaze. “Behave,” she whispers, motioning subtly to the cameras that are most definitely picking up on how wrecked your expression is.

You exhale, leaning back in your chair, having to fight all of your baser instincts to keep your eyes off of Azzi before you drag her off to a bathroom somewhere. You could make it through a few more hours. You just had to wait to hear your name called, then you’d be distracted by media, then you’d be back in time to hear Kaitlyn and Aubrey’s names called, too, because they would be getting drafted, too, damn it, and then you’d have to make it through a socially appropriate amount of the afterparty before you could take your girlfriend back to the hotel. The way she’s looking at you – she knows just how much you’re struggling, but she’s intent on breaking you down and making you work for it. You wouldn’t expect anything less from Azzi Fudd, but you know that she’s not the one in charge tonight.

It takes a while, but the draft starts. You and Azzi are on your feet, clapping and cheering when Paige is drafted first overall – as if anyone had any doubts. You clap for Dominique to the Storm, then Sonia and Kiki to the Mystics, and then the Valkyries are on the clock. You’d been projected to go top ten, most likely to the Sun or the Sky, which is why you’re not prepared to hear your name called fifth overall to the Valkyries.

You blink, almost confused, the cheer of the crowd nearly deafening. Someone at your table is yelling at you to get up – probably your sister – so you push yourself to your feet, your chest relaxing with relief and gratitude. Your parents are rising, and your sister is jumping up and down, but the only person you stare at is Azzi, whose eyes shine a little brighter as she stands, too. You hug her first. You know what the headlines will say, but you can’t find it within yourself, especially not when she tells you that she loves you. Heart in your throat, you hug your parents. You do your handshake with your little sister, grinning all the while, and then you make your way up the stairs to pose with the Valkyries jersey.

The subsequent media is a blur. You don’t think you’ve ever taken so many pictures before in your life. You get your hat. You speak with Natalie Nakase on the phone and you tell her you’re ready to get to work. You’re out for the remnants of the second round, settling back into your seat, returning Azzi’s proud smile as she squeezes your hand.

And when Kaitlyn is drafted 30th overall to the Valkyries, you’re sure that your entire world implodes. You’re the loudest one in the room, you’re sure, and when the room explodes for the fourth time that night when Aubrey’s drafted to the Lynx, you couldn’t be any prouder of your teammates. 

Part of you doesn’t even want to go to the afterparty, still thinking about getting Azzi alone to celebrate with her, but your teammates – granted, you and Kaitlyn are Golden State Valkyries right now, but your girls will always be your teammates – don’t let you get too far away. You leave your blazer with your younger sister. As if you weren’t running on need and pure want and desire, Azzi’s outfit change is almost enough for you to drop to your knees right then and there.

Somehow, you manage to keep it together, but before you and your teammates walk into the afterparty venue, you catch her by the elbow, pressing your lips to her ear to whisper, “You have one hour and then we’re leaving.”

She smiles at you like she’d been expecting that response. Azzi trails her ringed fingers across your abdomen, pulling the waistband of your boxers and letting it snap against your skin soundly. “We’ll go when I’m ready,” she murmurs to you. “Behave.”

You don’t behave – not that anyone’s really surprised. You’re not sure how Azzi expects you to act right when she’s been teasing you all day. Her afterparty dress isn’t helping you, either. It’s snug, somehow revealing a whole lot more than the draft dress did, the straps on her shoulders thin and all you can really think about is getting her out of it. But you have to be tactful.

You start slow. Fleeting touches that would otherwise be uncordial if the lights were any darker, your fingers firm against her waist as you pull her into you as you dance. You unbutton your vest, claiming that it’s too hot, the material being held together by a bare minimum single button. You had Azzi’s attention now – you just had to finish the job, so you go ahead and call an Uber because you know she’ll be eating out of the palm of your hands before the night’s over.

Azzi’s nursing her drink at the private booth when you slide in next to her. You don’t let her get a word out before you say, “Look what I have.”

She raises a brow when you reveal the blunt between your fingers. You can tell she’s still trying to act like she’s in control, but you can see the flicker of curiosity in her eyes, the barely masked desire because she knows what you’re planning on. “You want?” you ask, goading, your voice low.

In lieu of a response, she plucks the blunt from your fingers, her free hand reaching up to trace your bottom lip, her gaze dark and seeking. Her index finger taps your cheek and you hardly think as you open your mouth for her. She places the blunt between your teeth, reaching for the lighter held in your hand, and ignites it for you.

Already throbbing, your first drag is slow, methodical, your body relaxing as you inhale. You reach for Azzi’s jaw, your eyes locked on hers, and her lips part when you lean in, shotgunning the smoke directly into her waiting mouth. Her fingers thread through your hair, her grip tightening as she sighs against you. When you pull back, her pupils are blown wide, eyes glossy, and you smirk to yourself when you watch her thighs press together.

“Want another?” you ask teasingly, not really wanting to get fucked up tonight, but she nods. You bring the blunt back to your lips, inhaling again, and her fingers tighten around your waist as you pull her in. This time, she inhales more than you exhale, like she’s truly trying to breathe the air from your very lungs. It makes you ache all over, wanting nothing more than to crawl under the table and throw her legs over your shoulders, but you remind yourself to be patient. You were close to making her crack – you could feel it.

When the smoke is gone, she sighs against you softly. You press your lips to hers – slow, not meant to lead anywhere, but to work her up and make her desperate for it. But when Azzi fucking whimpers, you know you’re gone. You lean in again, your kiss more insistent this time – needy. It’s sloppy, led by pure desire and the ache that’s been building in your core all day, wet when you brush your tongue against her lips and she lets you in immediately. It makes you lightheaded, moreso when she reaches for your free hand and guides it to her waist. You groan into the kiss as you feel her, your hand dragging across the definition in her abs, down to her thigh, slipping your fingers under the skirt of her dress, your head spinning when you press against the damp spot at the apex of her thighs.

She pauses, breathing heavily like it was a secret you weren’t supposed to know about, and you grin at her, because you’ve won. “Oh, Azzi,” you coo, your voice dripping with faux concern.

“Don’t even–”

“You’re soaked,” you murmur, relishing in the way her breath hitches when you drag your fingers across her again. She curses under her breath, her head lolling, and you waste no time before you’re leaning in and pressing your lips to her neck. You nip at her skin, your touch dangerously featherlight against her, only meant to tease. “You were just gonna sit here all night, dripping down your fucking legs, acting like you don’t need me? Like you’re not bothered?”

“‘M – fuck – not,” she argues weakly, her breath catching when you draw her skin between your teeth, enjoying the way her skim blooms.

You laugh a little. Your fingers drag against her a little harder and her hips buck. “So, you wouldn’t mind it at all if I stopped?” To punctuate your point, you retract your hand from her thighs. She whines, bratty and displeased as you adjust her skirt, acting as though nothing was wrong. “Since you’re so unbothered, right? I’m getting a little thirsty, too. I think I’m gonna go up to the bar, say hi to Paige, make sure she’s not dead.”

Azzi whimpers, your name falling from her lips. It sends heat straight down to your core. Before either of you can say anything, KK slides into the booth next to the both of you, drink in hand. “Hey, y’all!” she chirps happily, blissfully unaware of what she’s just interrupted. You can feel Azzi burning next to you – you are, too, but after what she’s put you through today, she can sit through it a little longer.

“You seen Paige?” you ask KK nonchalantly, raising your fingers to your mouth, sucking the remnants of Azzi’s arousal off in a show of checking for something in your teeth. Azzi’s breath catches in her throat, her expression beyond wrecked.

“Mmm,” KK hums around her straw, glancing over her shoulder. “Think P Boogs was tryna get everyone drunk last I saw. Big ass crowd around the DJ.”

You laugh, rolling your eyes slightly. “Sounds like her.”

Then, before KK can say anything else, Azzi groans, pressing her palms to her forehead.

“Damn, you good?” KK asks, concerned.

“I don’t feel great,” Azzi mutters. You have to hold back your laughter, but KK buys it – hook, line, and sinker.

KK presses her hand to Azzi’s temple. “You’re burning up,” she states. “Maybe you caught a lil cold.”

You rub your hand across her back. Her skin is warm but her posture is tense. You’ve won. You know it. “Lemme take her back to the hotel so she doesn’t throw up everywhere,” you say to KK, trying for a concerned expression as the both of you stand. “Make sure Paige doesn’t get too lit, okay?”

KK offers a two-fingered salute. You reach for both yours and Azzi’s bags, saying your final goodbyes to KK, and you lead Azzi through the crowd. “You’re so fucking evil,” Azzi says, lengthening her strides.

“Just playing the game, baby,” you retort, squeezing her hip possessively.

The Uber ride back to the hotel is tense, but not with hostility. You rest your hand over Azzi’s thigh, who trembles with unrestrained need, but you’re content to tease her. She hasn’t admitted it yet although you know you have her right where you want her. When you make it to the hotel, you make sure to thank the driver, and you guide Azzi through the hotel lobby.

As soon as the elevator doors close, she’s on you, her hands around your neck as she pulls you down to her level. Your kiss is desperate, pure heat and desire, pent up frustration from being teased all day. You want her as bad as she wants you, so you sink into her, wrapping an arm around her waist and your free hand trailing under her skirt again to grip her thigh. Sliding a knee between her legs, she grinds down on you, and all you can do is swallow her moan as you drag her across your leg.

The chime of the elevator barely cuts through the haze between the two of you. Azzi drags you along with a purpose and presses her lips to your neck while you’re fumbling through your wallet for the keycard. Once it finally registers, you push open the door and you have her pressed against it before it even clicks shut. Her heels fall off, her legs tightening around your waist as you hold her up, your hands firm under her ass. Azzi’s fingers tangle in your hair, lessening the space between the two of you.

Slowly and blindly, you navigate through the darkness in the hotel room until your knees hit the bed. You lay her down on the pillows, not stopping the drag of your lips until you’re aching and breathless. Your fingers reach for the remaining button on your cropped vest while Azzi’s fumble with your belt buckle, both your vest and your pants coming off with ease. Left in just your boxers, Azzi’s hands reach for the waistband, too, and you let her pull it off you.

Her pupils are wide with want, her eyes dragging across every inch of your body. You let her touch you, her hands sliding across your hips, cupping your breasts and tweaking your nipples with a sort of reverence that you’re too wound up to fully appreciate. You gather her hands in yours, pressing them over her head as you lean down to kiss her soundly.

It’s pure filth, pure desire, the way she keens into you, her hips bucking up for the slightest contact or friction. The knowledge that she wants you makes you throb. You press her hips into the mattress with one of your hands, and with the other, you drag your fingers across her chest, as if trying to memorize her body.

“Don’t tease me,” she pleads, her doe eyes wide and gone, still slightly rimmed with red from the smoke you’d exhaled directly into her lungs.

You smile down at her, sharp, unyielding, ruined in your own right. Azzi Fudd is beneath you, laid out and begging for you to touch her, and it’s almost disastrous when you realize that you’re the only person in the world with the power to deny her a little longer, to make her work and beg for what she wants from you. You smooth your hand across her chest again, feeling the cool metal of the necklace she’s wearing, until you inch up slightly to rest your palm against her throat. You can feel her pulse hammering – you don’t apply any pressure, just letting her feel the weight of you, teasing her with the possibility of what’s coming. “You’ll take what I give you,” you murmur, listening to her soft sigh. “Been together how long and you don’t think I know you? Know what you need, how to give it to you? Don’t be silly, Az.”

You lean down, brushing your lips against hers again, featherlight and barely there. She chases after you when you pull away but freezes when you apply pressure to her throat, squeezing the sides lightly – not enough to cut off her air flow, but enough to warn her. She keens, hips shifting, and truthfully – a part of you feels a little bad. You want to give it to her – everything, if you could, but she’d left you wet and wanting for the better part of the day, too. “Be good,” you whisper, and she nods emphatically, tears pooling in her eyes from how badly she wants this.

Once you’re sure you’ve earned her submission fully, you reach for the straps of her dress. Gingerly, as if unwrapping a present, you tug them down her shoulders; she raises her arms to help you, and you throb with desire, your eyes taking in every inch of caramel skin revealed to you. The slope of her collarbones, the dusty brown of her nipples, her soft sigh when you can’t help but take one into your mouth, your hand reaching up to brush against the other one – it all makes you ache. You alternate motions, listening to her delicate moans, kissing her once more on the lips before you draw back to continue pulling the dress off of her.

The knowledge that you’re the only person who gets to see her like this makes your head spin. Azzi is so beautiful, so pliant beneath you, so willing. You could never get enough of her.

You discard the dress at the foot of the bed, spreading her legs a little wider and slotting yourself in between them. Cupping her cheeks, you press your lips to hers again, hardly needing to ask before she’s opening her mouth, her tongue meeting yours, swallowing her soft sighs and the sounds of need.

“How do you want me?” you ask, your lips trailing across her jaw. She tilts her head to give you more space to work with, soft whimpers building in her throat as you nip and suck, soothing the sting your teeth leave behind with your tongue. You’ve hardly done anything but she’s wrecked, already teetering on the edge of being fucked out that you take your time with her, letting her try – and fail – to gather her thoughts.

You lick the salt off her skin, deciding to have mercy on her. “You want my mouth?” You kiss the sensitive spot under her ear, smirking when her breath comes out in a shudder. “My fingers?” Your hand drags against her navel, dipping dangerously low and feeling the heat radiate off of her body.

“Both,” she begs, hands reaching for yours for stabilization, like she’s afraid she’s going to melt away completely.

“Both?” you echo, teasing, kissing her lips again when a blush rises on her cheeks.

“Please?” she tries – anything to get you to stop torturing her and to get on with it. Her lip trembles, a tear slipping out, and her breath comes in increasingly fast bursts that makes you think you’ve dragged this on for too long. Azzi’s needy, desperate, wet for you – what kind of monster would deny her for so long?

So, you don’t. You descend, marking your path with soft kisses and nips to her skin, energized by the soft gasps falling from her lips. “I got you, baby,” you promise, your hands massaging the tension out of her thighs. “Breathe for me, okay? I got you.” Azzi nods, her fingers tangling in the sheets if only to have something tangible to hold onto.

You rest one arm over her hips to keep her in place, already knowing that your girl has the inability to sit still, but before you press your lips to her, you reach up and twist your Valkyries cap over your head so it faces backwards. The sight of you above her, the self-satisfied smirk, the backwards hat, the strength in your arms makes her eyes glaze over, her gaze heated, needy, already ruined.

You kiss her thighs gently, easing her into the feeling, listening to the change in her breathing as she tries to calm herself. With her other hand, you spread her folds, groaning in appreciation for the sheer amount of wetness you find waiting for you. The duvet beneath her is damp. Knowing that you can’t keep her waiting anymore, you lean in, dragging the flat of your tongue across her, relishing in the long, drawn out, deep moan that spills from her lips. 

You’re everywhere, her wetness spreading across your cheeks, your nose brushing against her clit with every up and down and back and forth motion of your head. Your free hand wraps around her strong thigh, trying to keep yourself rooted – Azzi tastes fucking divine, unlike anything else you’ve ever experienced. Ever since you cut down the net nearly a week ago, you’ve been on a perpetual victory tour. Getting drafted was a new high, but right here, right now, with your girlfriend trembling for you, it feels like winning all over again.

You alternate between short, quick flicks of your tongue to her clit and long, slow, broad strokes against her. You delve inside, drinking directly from the source, groaning when her nails scratch across your shoulders. The bite of pain keeps you from getting too lost in her, in her taste, in the cries spilling from her throat.

“Please,” she gasps, her body trembling, seizing up, shaking with pleasure. “More.”

“Breathe, Azzi,” you remind her, rubbing her navel, and when she does, you oblige. You quicken your pace, the intensity. Your jaw aches, but her soft cries and whimpers do nothing but motivate you. You suck her clit into your mouth, releasing it with a pop, continuing to work her until her thighs shake. For good measure, you trace the letters of your name over her, just to remind her who’s doing this. She gasps, realizing what you’re doing, her body melting into the mattress. When you glance up just to check on her, your pace falters, a groan spilling from your lips when you realize she’s squeezing her chest to keep herself grounded, her thumbs tweaking her nipples.

Unable to resist, you reach up to cup one of her breasts, taking over for her. Her hand wraps around your wrist just to hold on. You can hear the shift in her breathing, the way her breaths transform into gasping moans, and you can tell she’s close. You double down, focusing your attention to her sensitive clit, and abandoning her breast to tangle your fingers together. 

“I’m close,” she warns you, her voice pitchy, squeezing your hand.

“Breathe,” you say one more time. You don’t have to look up to see her nodding, listening to her whimpers as you work her closer to the edge. You can tell when she gets there, the way her hand tightens in yours, the way her cries increase in volume. And when it finally hits her, you’re almost not ready for the intensity of her orgasm, but you ease her through it, keeping up your motions and slowing down until her hands push your head away.

You can’t help but grin, pressing one last kiss to the inside of her thigh as she breathes heavily, coming down from her high. You rub her stomach soothingly, adjusting until you’re hovering over her fully, and with your free hand, you wipe the tears off of her cheeks, the smudged mascara. “You good?” you ask softly, brushing a strand of her hair out of her face, the gentleness of your voice a stark contrast from the heat of the moment prior.

“Mhm,” she hums, her voice sounding a little wrecked, and you can’t help the smug smile that appears on your face. You press a firm kiss to her lips, deepening it as soon as she lets you, relishing in the moan she lets out once she tastes herself. You pull back to kiss her cheek, your thumb gentle on her skin.

“You’re not done yet, are you?” you coo, your fingers trailing down her chest, brushing against her ribcage. She glances up at you, her gaze ruinous, pliable, soft. “Know you’ve got another one in you, baby. One more for me?” Her response is instant, emphatic nods as her hand reaches for yours. You smile, pulling the cap off of your head and settling it over hers, enjoying the sight of her in Valkyries gear far too much. That was your team now. Your girl. It makes you suddenly aware of the ache between your legs, the throbbing need you’d ignored until Azzi felt good.

You drag your hand down her torso, feeling the warmth of her skin, the sweat pooling in the ridges of her abs. She’s quivering like she wants more, like no matter what, she’ll take it as long as you’re the one giving it to her. Your fingers find the dampness between her thighs, brushing up and down to coat them, and your eyes find hers as you reach to rub featherlight circles against her clit. It makes her hips jump up, her breath catching, but she hurries to keep her body in place, knowing exactly what you expect of her.

It makes you smile, your free hand reaching up to cup her breast again, thumb brushing against her nipple. “So good for me,” you murmur, pressing your lips to her neck as you keep up with the barely there motions that make her tremble. You suck another dark spot against her neck, uncaring of who might be able to see – let them. A plea falls from her lips, her brows drawn up and tight, and the sight makes you ache, still working her with your fingers. “You want more?” you ask. But she nods, so you press a little firmer against her, just to get her attention. “Words, baby. Let me hear you.”

“More, please,” she whispers, her voice small, begging, gone.

You smile to yourself, tapping her chest directly over her heart – a reminder. She understands instantly, breathing in and out deeply. Your fingers dip down to brush against her entrance, just teasing, before you sink one finger in her. She’s so soaked that you push to your knuckle without any resistance, her jaw falling slack, face contorting with a silent moan. You pull out, then push in again, feeling her walls squeeze your finger.

Suddenly aware of your own ache now, ready to combust purely from the feeling of being inside her, the sounds she’s making, and she way her face twists with pleasure, you shift, your knees pressing into the mattress as your legs bracket one of her thighs. Slowly, you sink yourself down, groaning when your clit brushes against the firm muscle of her thighs. Azzi chokes on her breath, her eyes flying open when she feels you – just as wet, as wanting, as desperate as she is. With the hand not inside her, you tangle your fingers together, resting your joined hands over her navel.

You recognize the needy expression on her face, so you add in a second finger, murmuring nonsense to soothe her when she breathes a little heavier. You sync your motions, rutting against her thigh in tandem with every push and pull of your fingers. She’s dripping everywhere, her slick cascading down your wrist and onto the duvet, and she whines, babbling a whole lot of words that are more like sounds than they are like sentences.

“Fuck,” she pants, her voice cracking a little. “More? Please, I–”

“I got you,” you whisper, your voice low, hungry, wrecked, your hips still seeking out your orgasm. “Relax for me, Az. So good for me, you know that, baby?” You adjust the angle of your fingers, your thumb pressing against her clit, rubbing slow, methodical, firm circles, gazing down at her reverently when she cries out. “You’re so beautiful Az. You hear me?”

She nods, eyes slipping shut, but you press down on her stomach with your joined hands, gaining her attention as she gasps from the feeling. “Eyes on me, baby. Let me see you.” She nods again, a whimper falling from her lips as her gaze finds yours. Her eyes are glassy, tears pooling at her waterline again from the sheer amount of pleasure, and you grin. “There we go. Perfect girl, just taking it all, aren’t you? You want more?”

Azzi hums again, her fingers tightening around yours over her navel. “Please,” she begs, “wanna feel you.”

“Whatever you want,” you agree breathlessly, dizzy from the pleasure of rutting against her thigh and from the sight of her jaw falling open as you squeeze in a third finger. Her walls clench around you, a moan spilling from her lips, and before you know it, her hips are bucking up to meet your thrusts. Watching Azzi chase her pleasure makes you feel a little weak, so all you can truly do is let her ride it out, trying to maximize the feeling as best as possible.

It doesn’t take much. She’s still sensitive from her previous orgasm and you’ve been wound up all day, so you sigh raggedly, releasing her hand to drag your palm up her torso, brushing across her chest until it comes to rest over her throat. You don’t apply any pressure – not yet – but the way she gazes up at you, her brown eyes full of tears and trust, makes your hips stutter although you try to keep your fingers and your thumb moving consistently for her.

“‘M close,” she murmurs, rocking against you, her slick soaking your fingers. Her body glows with a light sheen of sweat, her chest rising and falling erratically, her face contorted and desperate as she breathes for you.

You tighten your grip around her throat, applying just enough pressure to make her light-headed, and her hands reach up to hold onto your arm for stability. You’re not one to usually deny Azzi, but you do like to delay – to draw her pleasure out until she’s trembling and a breath away from slipping off of the edge completely. You press your thumb a little firmer against her clit, circling it, although the amount of slick gathered there makes you fumble, and you order, “Hold it.”

Her eyes find yours, a bit of desperation reflected in her gaze as you speed up both your hips and your fingers. “Fuck,” she whimpers, “I can’t, baby, please.”

“You can,” you press, your stomach burning with your rapidly approaching climax, your wrist cramping from how consistently you’ve been splitting her open. Her pulse hammers against her ribcage and you can feel it in her neck. “You will. You’re so good for me, I know you can.”

Azzi nods, like she’s believing it too, and her body all but melts into the mattress as she takes it, her face screwing up with the willpower it takes to hold back. Her thighs start trembling again, legs shaking, and her grip on your arm tightens ever so slightly. Her eyes meet yours, a single tear streaking down her cheek, pupils blown wide, her gaze needy and trusting, letting you make that choice for her.

You can’t deny her for much longer. “Let go for me, baby,” you instruct, body burning at the whimper that spills from her lips. Azzi is fucking ruinous. Her mind, her body, her heart – every bit of Azzi makes you unravel at the edges, makes your composure slip until you’re nothing but a vessel for want, love, desire. You gaze at her with sharp, desperate eyes, determined to watch her fall apart beneath you, to sear the image on your eyelids for as long as you’ll live, to replay this very scene every time you close your eyes to sleep.

She clenches around you, gasps falling from her lips, and it’s then that you finally release your hold on her throat, watching her suck air in as she unravels completely, soaking your hand and the bed below her with her release. It’s enough to push you over the edge too, spilling over her thigh as you move your hips and your hand in tandem to ride out the aftershocks.

The pleasure gives way to overstimulation and she taps on your wrist. Gingerly, you remove your fingers – you shudder when you take in just how wet they are and Azzi sighs, almost as though she misses the stretch – and you wipe them against the duvet, figuring that it’s already destroyed enough.

Your legs feel a little weak when you crawl off of Azzi’s thigh, collapsing onto your side next to her, taking in her expression with a mix of smugness and mild concern. “You okay?” you whisper, brushing your clean hand through the hair sticking to her forehead, cupping her jaw gently.

“I think you just destroyed me,” she says, voice hoarse, and you laugh a little as you press an affectionate kiss to her cheek.

“I’m not that lucky,” you retort, watching the smile light up her face.

The both of you lay in silence for a while, nothing but the sound of your breathing and the hotel air conditioner to be heard in the room. Then, Azzi shifts, meeting your gaze. Her eyes are a little brighter, a mix of exhaustion and love in her pupils. “You got drafted tonight,” she reminds you.

You were too swept up with her to consciously think about it, but in the quiet of the room with Azzi breathing next to you, the realization begins to creep in. It hasn’t set in fully yet – you’ll probably truly realize you’ve been drafted when you and Kaitlyn board the plane tomorrow morning to go visit the Bay, or when you sign the lease for your new apartment.

For now, though, you’re content with the simple understanding, to get lost in this moment together with Azzi, where the time doesn’t feel like it’s moving as fast anymore.

“I did,” you agree.

“To GSV,” she continues. “California.”

You search her eyes, knowing where she’s going with this. You’ve had this conversation numerous times before, knowing that there was a chance the draft would take you away from her. “You think a couple miles can keep me from annoying you? Try again, baby.”

Azzi quirks a small smile. “Try three thousand.”

You cup her cheek, angling her face so she’s looking you directly in the eyes. “I love you,” you promise. Her features brighten at your admission. “That’s all we need. No matter how far away we are, I’m yours. And our schedules aren’t that bad. You can come see me during the offseason. And I’ll be at every single one of your games. Coach thought he got rid of me but he’s wrong. I’m gonna be sitting courtside yelling about how you’ve literally never fouled anyone in your life.”

She laughs, a relieved sort of sound, and you press your lips to hers, soft and lingering – a vow. “I love you,” she whispers back. “And I’m so proud of you.”

You smile mischievously at her. “Think you love me enough for a third round?”

Azzi rolls her eyes, faux-annoyance in her expression – but your smile widens when she throws a leg over your hip to straddle your waist, kissing you in a way that makes you think about how nice forever sounds with her.

[lexiputellas]

Pillow Talk

It’s your first day back at work.

You stretched your maternity leave as far as humanly possible, used every single vacation day, and worked from home until you ran out of excuses—but today, there was no escaping it. You had to go back. At least your office has a daycare. If it didn’t, you’re pretty sure you would’ve quit on the spot.

Now, finally home, you don’t think you’ve ever been happier to see Alexia. Not only did she get back before you, but she also brought dinner. You could’ve kissed her right then and there—actually, you did. You love her, truly, but if she had waited for you to cook—or, God forbid, asked you to help—you might have had a breakdown.

Dinner was great, dishes were ignored, Alice fell asleep peacefully, and now you’re both getting ready for bed. It’s your favorite part of the night—when everything slows down, and you can just be. Alexia already talked about her day, and now it’s your turn. Normally, this would be when you two discuss important things, but Nicole unloaded so much gossip at work today that you have to let it out before your brain explodes.

You’re fluffing the pillows as you talk, and Alexia, already lying on her side under the covers, is nodding along like a very patient woman.

“Nicole told me Amanda from Compliance is literally faking a relationship online.”

Alexia blinks, lifting her head slightly. “How?”

“I don’t know yet! I’m getting more details tomorrow,” you say, putting in your bruxism mouth guard. “I don’t even get why she’d lie, she doesn’t need to.”

Alexia hums, settling back in and you keep going.

“And you won’t believe this—the sitter at daycare said Alice was the easiest baby to deal with. She barely even cried! Which, like, I knew our baby was perfect, but now it’s confirmed by an expert.”

Alexia hums again. This time, it sounds more like sleepy agreement than actual interest, but you’re on a roll now.

“And remember that guy from the party last year? The one who told you he was a Real Madrid fan?”

Alexia makes a vague noise of acknowledgment.

“Not that he was special or anything,” you continue, “but he invited Nicole out.”

That gets a reaction. Alexia forces one eye open. “That guy?”

“That guy.”

“She said yes?”

“She said yes. And if she’d asked me first, I would’ve told her absolutely not.”

Alexia exhales, long and slow, adjusting the blanket. “Baby, I love you so much, and I want to hear all of this… tomorrow. We have to wake up early.”

Which you think is fair. She was the one running around after a ball, going to the gym, lifting weights—you mostly just fought with spreadsheets, tried not to cry when Alice waved goodbye way too enthusiastically at daycare, and dodged an email from HR that felt suspiciously passive-aggressive.

“I know,” you say, climbing under the covers. “I love you too. But can I just finish really quick? I swear, I’m almost done.”

She hums again. That’s permission.

“So, turns out the guy? He was dating someone else the whole time. Poor Nicole, bless her heart, but maybe a little stalking would’ve helped her.”

Silence.

You glance over. Alexia’s eyes are closed, her face relaxed, her breathing slow and even.

“Oh,” you whisper. “You’re already asleep.”

You sigh, amused, and watch her for a moment. The way her eyelashes rest against her cheeks, the way her hair falls across the pillow, the faintest hint of a smile still lingering on her lips—it makes your chest ache in the best way.

She looks warm, soft, safe. Like home.

Carefully, you scoot closer, pressing a gentle kiss to her shoulder.

“Good night, baby,” you murmur, even though she’s already lost in dreams.

Then, finally, you close your eyes.

[riddlesrizzler]

Not Affectionate, My Ass

summary: The bunny theory is debunked! characters: bunny! reader, slytherin boys warnings: none! just clingy bunny reader with her bf word count: 699

The Slytherin common room was relatively peaceful for once. A rare thing, considering the usual chaos that surrounded the boys like a storm cloud. But today, there was no bickering, no arguments over whose turn it was to copy Theo’s homework, and no Blaise sighing in disappointment at the sheer idiocy of his friends.

Instead, the only sound was the soft scratch of Enzo flipping through a book, Theo absentmindedly shuffling his deck of exploding snap cards, and Mattheo lounging on the couch-his head tilted back against the cushions, hand lazily stroking the tiny, fluffy bunny curled up on his chest.

Bunny, in her animagus form, was completely melted against him, her small body rising and falling with each of his breaths. If she moved at all, it was just to burrow deeper into Mattheo’s hoodie, as if trying to merge into him entirely.

“Hey,” Enzo suddenly snorted, breaking the silence. “This book says rabbits aren’t that affectionate.”

Theo, barely looking up from his cards, hummed. “What?”

Enzo tapped the page. “Says here that rabbits don’t like being held too much. They prefer their own space, aren’t clingy, and don’t need constant attention.”

There was a beat of silence before Mattheo let out the loudest, most unamused scoff.

“That’s bullshit.”

Enzo blinked up at him. “Mate, I’m literally reading it from a book-”

Mattheo gestured aggressively to the tiny ball of fur plastered against his chest like a heat-seeking missile.

“Does this look like an animal that ‘prefers their own space’ to you?”

As if to further prove his point, Bunny shifted, stretching her little paws before snuggling even deeper into Mattheo’s hoodie, her tiny nose twitching against the fabric.

Draco, amused, finally put his book down. “To be fair, she is kind of obsessed with you.”

Mattheo smirked, scratching behind her ears like it was second nature. “Damn right she is.”

Theo chuckled. “Face it, Enzo. Bunny’s an exception to every rule. That, or she imprinted on Mattheo like a baby duck.”

Blaise raised a brow. “Honestly, we should be more concerned about how often she’s with him. I can’t remember the last time I saw them apart.”

Enzo frowned. “Wait… yeah. When has she ever not been stuck to him?”

Draco smirked, leaning forward. “You should see them in class. Bunny always sits next to him. Always.”

Theo laughed. “That’s nothing. You should see her at meals-she eats off his plate more than her own.”

Enzo’s eyes widened. “Wait, I thought she just did that to annoy him?”

Mattheo snorted. “She steals my food. Every single time. And I let her.”

Blaise nodded. “Yeah, that’s love, mate.”

“Oh, oh!” Theo grinned. “What about how she clings to his arm when we’re walking? If he stops moving, she just stumbles into him because she refuses to let go.”

Enzo laughed. “And when she’s not holding onto him, she’s following behind him like a shadow.”

Mattheo rolled his eyes, though the fond smirk on his lips betrayed him. “Yeah, and when I disappear for more than five minutes, she comes looking for me.”

“She actually did that last week,” Draco added. “You left the common room, and she got up after two minutes, like, ‘Where’s Mattheo?’”

Blaise smirked. “And if she’s not in her human form, she’s in his hoodie as a bunny.”

At this, everyone turned to look at the tiny ball of fluff currently nestled against Mattheo’s chest.

“Case in point,” Theo said, gesturing.

Enzo scoffed. “How does that not annoy you?”

Mattheo just shrugged, still stroking Bunny’s fur. “It’s warm. I think she likes hearing my heartbeat or something.”

Draco let out a chuckle. “Honestly, I don’t know how you deal with it.”

Mattheo’s smirk widened as he scratched behind Bunny’s ears, watching as she gave a sleepy twitch. “I don’t deal with it. I enjoy it.”

Theo and Enzo groaned.

Blaise rolled his eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”

Mattheo just smirked. “You’re all just jealous.”

Enzo huffed. “I’m not jealous-I just don’t understand how a bunny can be this clingy.”

Theo smirked. “That means the whole ‘rabbits aren’t affectionate’ thing is officially debunked.”

Mattheo just smirked, running a gentle hand down Bunny’s back. “Not affectionate, my ass.”

[inseobts]

If it's not too much to ask but could you please do a story of only one of the Monster trio like Luffy or Zoro or Sanji? (Or the whole straw hat crew) with a reader whose birthday it is on the same day as a holiday like valentine's day (even though we've already went past it, or it could be any other holiday that you think?) But only her best friend (one of the crew members) remembers her birthday and now the others feel bad, so they decide to throw an "apology birthday party" to make up for it?

Apology Birthday Party

zoro x gn ! strawhat ! reader

a/n: I hope this is what you wantedddd, let me know if you want it different tho (づ￣ 3￣)づ

words count: 1.3k

tags: sfw, romance, soft zoro, nico robin bff

masterlist || ko-fi

The Sunny is draped in pink and red decorations, hearts scattered across the deck like confetti. Sanji is running around serving chocolates and heart-shaped treats, Nami is counting stacks of berries won from lovestruck islanders, and Luffy is eating whatever he can get his hands on.

It’s Valentine’s Day. And it’s also your birthday.

But no one seems to remember that last part.

You don’t say anything, of course. It’s not like you expect them to throw a big celebration or anything, but a simple “Happy Birthday” would have been nice. Yet, with everyone wrapped up in the holiday of love, your special day is completely overlooked.

Well, almost everyone.

“Here” Robin says, appearing beside you with a small, neatly wrapped box in her hands. She smiles, that knowing glint in her eyes as she hands it over “Happy Birthday.”

Your heart warms “Robin…”

“I know how it feels to be forgotten” she says gently “But you’re not.”

You unwrap the gift to find a delicate bookmark pressed with dried blue forget-me-not flowers. It’s beautiful. And, fitting.

Before you can properly thank her, a loud, boisterous laugh fills the air “Oi, Robin, what’s that? Love letter for y/n?” Luffy grins, oblivious as ever. That, of course, draws the attention of the rest of the crew. Sanji practically skids over, hearts in his eyes.

“A love letter?! From who?! I’ll destroy them—”

Robin sighs, sipping her wine “It’s her birthday present.”

Silence.

Utter, dead silence.

The entire crew stares at you, then at Robin, then back at you again. The color drains from Sanji’s face. Franky’s jaw quite literally drops. Usopp nearly chokes on his own spit. Nami’s eyes widen, and Chopper gasps in horror. Even Luffy, who usually doesn’t have a care in the world, looks like someone just told him there’s no more meat on the ship.

But the worst reaction? Zoro’s.

His eye snap to yours, and you see something flicker behind them, something that looks suspiciously like guilt.

“Wait,” Usopp wheezes, gripping his head like it physically hurts “Today’s your birthday? Like, right now?”

“…Yeah.”

A chorus of expletives follows.

“We’re horrible!” Chopper wails, flopping dramatically onto the deck.

“How could I forget such an important day?!” Sanji cries, dropping to his knees like he’s been personally betrayed.

Robin chuckles into her drink “At least you all realized it before the day ended.”

That kicks everyone into action. Nami immediately starts planning an emergency “Apology Birthday Party” barking orders while Franky dashes off to set up decorations. Luffy insists on getting you the biggest cake possible, while Sanji declares he will cook a full birthday feast worthy of redemption. Usopp starts crafting a birthday gift at lightning speed, while Chopper is still crying about how bad of a friend he is.

In the middle of all the chaos, you catch Zoro watching you. His arms are crossed, his expression unreadable, but there’s tension in his stance. And then, without a word, he turns and disappears below deck.

You don’t see him for the next hour.

By the time he returns, the impromptu party is already in full swing. The crew has somehow managed to pull together a spectacular celebration, with streamers, food, and a birthday banner that is only slightly lopsided. You’re seated at the center, laughing as Luffy shoves an unreasonable amount of cake into his mouth.

Then Zoro drops something onto the table in front of you.

You blink. It’s a small box, wrapped haphazardly, almost like he struggled with it. When you glance up at him, his face is turned away, slightly pink at the tips of his ears.

“Tch. Don’t make a big deal out of it” he mutters, arms crossed.

Curious, you open it and your breath catches.

It’s a charm. A small, silver sword pendant attached to a simple chain. The craftsmanship is rough, but undeniably his.

“…Did you make this?”

Zoro shrugs, still not looking at you “Had some spare materials lying around.”

Your fingers curl around the charm, warmth blooming in your chest “I love it.”

“…Good.” His voice is gruff, but you catch the corner of his lips twitching, just slightly.

The rest of the crew watches with barely concealed interest “Oi, oi, does this mean Zoro is getting all romantic now?” Usopp teases, wiggling his eyebrows.

Zoro immediately glares, hand twitching toward his swords “Say that again and you won’t live to see tomorrow.”

The laughter that follows is the best sound you’ve heard all day.

Maybe your birthday started off forgotten, but as you sit among your chaotic, wonderful crew, a handmade gift resting in your palm, you can’t help but think this turned out to be the best one yet.

The party goes on for hours. Sanji serves an extravagant feast, each dish crafted with your favorites in mind. Luffy challenges you to an eating contest, one you gracefully decline, knowing it’s a lost cause. Nami surprises you with a beautiful set of earrings, and Usopp proudly presents a handcrafted figurine of you in an exaggerated heroic pose.

Franky insists on a dance party, much to your amusement, and even Robin joins in. Chopper, still sniffling, clings to you, vowing to never forget your birthday again.

Through it all, Zoro remains close, never one for loud festivities, but always within reach. Eventually, when the night winds down, you find him on the ship’s upper deck, gazing at the stars.

“Thanks for the necklace” you say, leaning beside him.

He grunts, but doesn’t move away “Yeah.”

A comfortable silence settles between you. The ocean breeze is cool, but standing next to him, you feel warm.

After a moment, he exhales “…Sorry for forgetting.”

You glance at him, surprised by the quiet sincerity in his tone. Smiling, you shake your head “You made up for it.”

He finally looks at you then, and in the soft moonlight, his expression is softer than usual “Good.”

Zoro stays silent for a while, avoiding your gaze, and then adds, "Actually... I had prepared it for Valentine's Day."

For a moment, you remain impassive, smiling at the sea in front of you, but then your brain connects what he said.

You suddenly turn to him and gasp, "Wait, wh...what do you mean?"

He continues to avoid your gaze, trying to look indifferent, but the redness in his ears betrays him "I admit I forgot your birthday, but I didn’t forget Valentine's Day" he says.

You, even more flustered, reply "So it’s true what Luffy told me earlier, that you worked on the necklace for more than a week??"

Zoro shifts uncomfortably, scratching the back of his neck. He looks away, clearly embarrassed but trying to act nonchalant "I... I just wanted it to be perfect" he mutters, his voice barely above a whisper.

You blink, still processing the confession. It’s hard to believe this is the same person who usually brushes off any sort of emotional display "Zoro," you start, your voice soft, "You really made all of that... for me?"

He finally looks at you, and for the first time, his usual tough exterior seems to crack. His eyes are slightly hesitant, but there's a genuine warmth there, almost like he’s afraid of your reaction "Yeah, I did. It’s... not much, but I thought you’d like it."

You take a deep breath, your heart racing as everything sinks in. You can’t help but smile "I love it," you say, stepping a little closer "And I... I love that you cared enough to do this."

Zoro looks almost startled by your words, his cheeks turning a deeper shade of red. He clears his throat awkwardly "Well, don’t go getting any ideas... It's not like I’m suddenly a romantic or something."

You laugh, the sound light and genuine "I never said you were. But this is pretty damn romantic, Zoro."

He grumbles but there's a soft smile tugging at the corners of his mouth "Don’t get used to it."

You both stand there for a moment, the sound of the waves crashing against the shore filling the space between you. It’s not the most conventional confession, but somehow, in that moment, it feels just right.

And just like that, your birthday, and even Valentine's day, is perfect.

[seumyo]

BAKUGOU KATSUKI ✰ 3:58

No amount of hectic schedules, exhausting patrols, rowdy villains, and never-ending legal paperwork could ever keep Bakugou from attending his daughters’ extracurricular activities—because he’d literally go through literal hell and back than to ever see a disheartened pout along with the silent treatment after he gets home from work.

You think he’ll ever miss any of his daughters’ milestones? Fuck no!

Bakugou insists on being at every event, his phone—and even an actual camera during a good day—in hand, his heart swelling with pride and unconditional love that makes his chest figuratively hurt; it might as well be a medical problem at some point. 

Because, if anything, Bakugou Katsuki is a father first and a hero second.

“Shit, ‘m late. Have they started yet?”

He’s sweating as if he just used his explosions to propel himself in the air to get to you quicker, but, in truth, he sort of had to just run since the traffic on the highway today would’ve only angered and slowed him down. He left patrol to Halfie, who offered to take his shift, knowing how many times Bakugou covered for him when he was in his son’s piano recital.

“They just started doing warmups,” you answer. “Did you run? You’re drenched to the bone; you’re going to catch a cold if you don’t get changed into some dry clothes.”

“Hah, doubt it.” He snorts, though he does appreciate the thought of you bringing him a spare shirt for just-in-case purposes.

You're always the one who thinks ahead, aren't you? Bakugou knows he’s a very lucky man to have such a doting, caring wife that humbles him whenever he gets too focused on his pride. The balance that he didn’t know he needed!

Ignoring the gawking stares of the other parents—because it’s not everyday you see the Pro Hero Dynamight in mundane activities such as watching his kid take gymnastics’ lessons—he looks through the glass in search of his little princess.

Just as he saw her, his lips curled to that oh-so genuine smile, one that just said, “That’s my daughter, right there! Look at how awesome she is!” 

Bakugou remembers how his parents were the same and how they were very supportive of his interests and hobbies, no matter how odd they may be for a five-year-old. How often do you see someone learning to take on both hiking and archery at the age of five? Bakugou was sure he learned most skills during his childhood that made him a firm hero in the field today.

“She has a bit of trouble with tumbling because of her tummy.”

“Yeah? And does that have somethin’ to do with my awesome cooking?” Bakugou replied smugly. “Besides, ‘ts just baby fat, and I’d prefer to see her like this than to see her thin but often sick.”

“Mhm, and she makes up for the cutest ending pose.”

“And her effortless splits. Have the coaches seen her do that?”

You shook your head. “Not yet,” you say, “but I think they’re about to do it—oh! Look, look!”

And he does; his phone’s camera is already recording his youngest daughter doing a perfect vertical split, while the other girls somewhat struggle to maintain a consistent posture. 

“She’s a natural, hun.”

“She is,” you chuckle, “just like her Daddy to a certain extent.”

“Damn right, she is.”

Bakugou tries to hold back his laughter when your daughter once again attempts a forward roll with the guidance of the staff. Her tummy somewhat makes it a bit difficult for her to do so. The way she hesitates but then does the forward roll, albeit a little lopsided with a smile that shows her adorable tooth gap—it was safe to say that your daughter was over the moon with her gymnastics lessons.

It’s all too much for him to take.

And when all is over, he greets his daughter by picking her up and blowing raspberries on her neck that have her squealing in laughter before he insists that he’ll be the one to talk to the coaches about the upcoming schedules and the progress your daughter has made. 

“Mr. Bakugou, she’s a good listener, and I believe that she’ll be moving onto the next class with the older children in no time,” they told him. “Has she received prior training before this one?”

“She’s also taking ballet lessons,” he answers, “but gymnastics is what she really likes. Ballet was just a compromise since your services weren’t available in our area at that time.”

“That’s wonderful to hear. It’s a joy to have her in class. I’ve already sent Dr. [Last Name] the schedules we offered, and we are looking forward to having your daughter in the upcoming lessons.”

The walk back to your car was light and quiet for a change. Your youngest daughter, Kusami, was out like a light in Bakugou’s arms, having worn herself out with socializing, rolling, doing splits, and whatnot the gymnastics’ instructors told her to do. And Bakugou was just letting the simple moment sink in because this is what he considers the most rewarding part of his day. 

Time spent with his family.

Bakugou also warmed up to the thought of having to interact with other parents. He chatted with a single father earlier, whose daughter was the oldest in Kusami’s class. It was nice to converse with equally enthusiastic and supportive parents that you meet through your children's extracurricular activities.

“Let’s go through a drive-through; get Katsumi her usual order,” Bakugou murmurs, remembering how his oldest daughter, Katsumi, would’ve probably woken up from her nap by now and was probably anticipating her family’s return. 

“Alright,” you nod. “Katsumi and Kusami have swimming lessons tomorrow at five in the afternoon, too. Do you think you’d get home that early?”

“Of course,” he answers. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

SEUMYO © 2024, PLEASE DO NOT REPOST, PLAGIARIZE, MODIFY OR TRANSLATE.

[igotanidea]

My level of messy: Jason Todd x reader

„What are you doing?”

A simple question dictated by unusual circumstances.

Any other Saturday morning, Y/N would be all over the place, huffing and puffing, cleaning the dust, vacuuming and doing all the things that usually came with weekly cleaning up the place.

That day, however, she was sitting on the couch, with something in her hands, looking –

Well it was hard to put it into words.

So he didn’t, instead plopping next to her, sending her a few inches up due to the impact.

“I’m re-reading my old journal.”

“Ok.” Jason nodded. The silence that fell after that acknowledgment was his attempt at giving her a chance to elaborate. “Aaaaaand? Why are you crying?”

“I’m not crying!”

“Mhm. Same accusation, same answer every time.”

“I am not-“

“Y/n/n, we’ve been through it a million times before.” He rolled his eyes “save us both some time sweetheart, and explain it, so I can make it better for ya, huh?”

“You’re gonna laugh-“

“Mh. Yeah. Sure. I’m gonna laugh at my soon-to-be-fiancé watering her eyes out. This is how big she thinks of me. That’s just effing great!”

“Stop being dramatic and – wait. Whoa, whoa. Hold back. Rewind. Soon-to-be-fiancé?”

“Not the point. Why are you crying?”

“I’m not-“

“Ah!” Jason groaned and before she realized what was happening she was being held down on the couch, with him hovering over her like a freaking predator with dangerously glistening eyes, tickling her side.

“Jason!”

“Talk or I’ll hold you captive forever.” His fingers were mercilessly rubbing her side making her giggle.

“But I am literally not crying now!”

“Talk!”

“Will you let go first?”

“No.”

“But-“

“Talk!”

“God!” she groaned, trying to wriggle and make herself a little more comfortable

“I mean it, princess, talk or-“

“You do realize your threats have no effect on – AAH! Ah! Stop! Fine! Fine, I’ll talk, just stop tickling!”

“Good girl. Now – what is the reason behind you trying to make yourself unhappy huh?” he brushed away tears from her cheeks, helping her sit up, now having made sure she won’t deflect anymore.

“It’s just – “ she sighed “do you ever feel like hugging your younger self?”

“Hugging my-“

“Don’t look so shocked. Do you? Actually, you know what, do not answer that question, it’s stupid-“

“Yeah.” He cut her off with one word, letting himself be vulnerable for a moment.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I do feel like – well – maybe not hugging but at least saying some nice shit to that rascal.”

“Right…”

“I see a piece of my past self in every kid I stumble upon in the Crime Alley.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Big bad red hood getting all emotional. See what you did to me?”

“Well, for the record, it’s your fault. We were talking about me and then you just hijacked the conversation, acting like you’re a victim or something – “

“You’re so selfish, did I tell you that?”

“Not today, no.”

“Well, you’re selfish princess.”

“I am but a lady in distress and you refuse to help a lady in distress with offering a strong arm.”

“I’m not prince charming, Y/n/n. I am Red Hood.”

“You could be a red prince charming?”

“If you’re hinting at Deadpool, then let me tell you not a benchmark when it comes to Disney princes.”

She laughed softly, her mood becoming a little better, just by this banter, any outside would deem mean and harsh on both of their parts.

“Fine. Fine, have it your way” he raised hands in surrender. “What were you crying about – oh, wait, you call me inconsiderate but I think I actually did ask you that before-“

“I can’t remember.” She chuckled.

“You can’t remember why you were crying?” Jason frowned a little, sensing some sort of trap

“Yes.”

“Um… no?”

“Um… is this one of those situations when you pretend to have temporary sclerosis and then remind me of the tiny mistake I made a year ago on Monday, at 11.25?

“No!” she chuckled again “No, I’m being serious, I can’t remember. Wanna know why?”

“Because every time I feel down and like I’m a mess you come around and – “

“- prove to you that there’s a whole other level of being a mess?”

“NO!” she patted his chest in mock offense “will you let me finish the sentence!”

“Stop this domestic violence at once, young lady.” Her wrist ended up in his grip and away from any possibility of him getting abused again.

“- you come around and you prove to me that all you need in life is a person who matches  your kind of messy and crazy.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s called a partner in crime-“

“Ugh! You’re so dense! This is a whole different thing!” she opposed, becoming a little agitated, missing the obvious point that Jason was just messing with her in sheer selfish pleasure of seeing her eyes sparkle with mirth and her cheeks flushing.

“Y/N.”

“Why can’t you just understand that I’m trying to say—”

“I get it”

“No, no you don’t!” she wriggled against his hold

“Hey! Hey, stop it! Stop! Look at me!” his hands moved from her wrist to cupping her face. “I get it. Really. I know what you’re saying and I think –“

“Yeah?” she looked deep into his eyes.

“I think you’re my kind of mess too. And I think we match.”

“Like on Tinder?” she grinned pushing her luck

“God you’re impossible!!”

Yeah. So maybe it truly was about finding and keeping the person who was on the same level of craziness. The one who would understand that sometimes, healing trauma was about laughing at it and finding a way to move on with that laughter on the lips.  

[darlingdaisyfarm]

𝑯𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒚 𝑽𝒂𝒍𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒆'𝒔 𝑫𝒂𝒚

a/n: happy valentine’s day, my beloveds!!! i love all of you so, so much. like, so much. if i could, i’d send you all glitter-covered valentine’s cards and the biggest, warmest hugs. i hope today is kind to you, whether you’re spending it with someone, treating yourself or just chilling. you deserve all the love in the world. Bill’s and Fiddleford’s parts are coming bit later, but in the meantime, i hope you enjoy Stan and Ford. take care of yourselves, and remember: you are so, so loved 💖

𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒏𝒍𝒆𝒚

the first thing Stan does on valentine’s day is complain. “ugh,” he groans as he gets out of bed, rubbing his back. “it’s valentines and i wake up feeling like i got hit by a bus.”

you raise an eyebrow when you see him coming downstairs to the kitchen. “you say that every morning, Stan”

“yeah, but today it’s worse. i swear.”

you tilt your head, thinking. “i could give you a massage?”

just one simple innocent offer and Stanley Pines, full-grown conman, ex-criminal, self-proclaimed tough guy, goes absolutely red. “uh—what? no, i don’t need—” he coughs, turning away. “not like—i mean—“

you smirk. ”so that’s a yes?”

“that's a no!” he grumbles, turning away and heading out of the room, all red and embarrassed.

later, after hours of pacing, making frustrated noises and trying to convince himself that this is a stupid holiday and why does he even care, while also trying to figure out how to ask you on a date without looking like a complete idiot. . .

Mabel is busy hanging out with Candy and Grenda, so he turns to Dipper, which is a mistake.

Dipper, who was in the middle of reading Stanford's journal, looks up at him. “so, essentially, grunkle Stan, what you need is a multi-step plan.”

Stan is horrified. “a what?”

“a plan,” Dipper continues, flipping to a fresh page. “a strategic approach. first, we gather data. then, we make a list of optimal date locations. i’m thinking greasy’s diner, because statistically—“

Stanley just groans, dragging a hand down his face and that's when he realises something. he’s overthinking this. he’s sitting here, talking to his nerd nephew, listening to plans and lists, when he’s never needed a damn plan before in his life. what the hell is he doing??

“okay, nope, nevermind. kid, i’m just gonna take ‘em to a diner.”

“wait, what?” Dipper frowns. ”but you need a PLAN!”

”the plan is the diner.”

“wait, grunkle Stan! i was getting to the part about psychological profiling!“

so that’s how Stanley Pines ends up standing in front of you, very awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck. “uh. you, uh. wanna go to greasy’s with me. for a date. or whatever.” the moment the words leave his mouth, he wants to die.

and now he wants to die much more because you just smiled at his words and nodded. “yeah. . . yeah, i’d love to!”

the date is going great, which means Stan wants to run. you are too beautiful. it’s pissing him off. especially when light catches your face, when you laugh, when you keep tilting your head while listening to him ramble about whatever, even though he’s pretty sure he’s not making sense.

his heart is pounding. “soo, uh, you, uh. you ever been arrested?”

in response he gets a full-on, unattractive, choke-on-your-own-spit kind of snort from you, what makes him look so proud of himself.

“okay, ice broken,” he thinks. “we’re doin’ great. yeah.”

Stanley hates himself for it but you are too beautiful and funny. and it is ruining his life. he’s sweating. literally sweating. he tries to make small talk and immediately forgets how to speak like a human being.

he’s gonna run.

he's gonna find some dumb excuse, say he left the stove on, pretend to trip and fall out the window. but what he doesn't know is that he's not the only one who's nervous, you’re both so awkward it’s ridiculous. Stan keeps tugging at his collar. you keep fidgeting with your hands, stuttering and avoiding eye contact

suddenly, even to yourself, you stand up. “non specific excuse!!” after announcing that, you flip the entire damn table over and run out of the diner.

Stan watches this happen in slow motion and, without thinking, he jumps up, pointing at you.

“now that’s my kind of person!" he yells to people at the diner as he runs after you.

you’re both running through the empty gravity falls streets, laughing so hard you can barely breathe. when he finally catches up, you both collapse against a wall, panting.

“i can’t believe you just did that, wow!” Stan wheezes.

“well, i can’t believe you chased me,” you shoot back.

you’re both just grinning at each other like idiots. Stan looks at you and damn, he’s so in love it’s stupid.

𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒏𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒅

there’s glitter in your hair and Ford notices this first, because there’s glitter everywhere, on the floor, on the couch, on him.

“Mabel,” he says slowly, lifting a sleeve coated in shimmering specks. “what exactly have you done?”

Mabel, who is sitting across from you, shrugs, completely unbothered. “we're making valentine’s day masterpieces, obviously.”

you grin, lifting a small, glittery pink heart with messy writing scrawled across it. “see? Mabel’s making some for her friends. im just helping her!”

oh, damn, that adorable smile of yours. . . Ford clears his throat, though his ears turning noticeably pink. “oh. well. that’s very sweet of you.”

before you can say anything, he disappears into the kitchen, leaving you and Mabel alone together.

some time pass and what started with nail polish, somehow escalated to homemade friendship bracelets with Mabel telling you about all boys she met in Gravity Falls, avoiding Gideon's name, you smile at her because that girl looks so cute cutting out ridiculous little shapes with her tongue sticking out.

“you think waddles would like a card?” Mabel asks, tapping her chin. “or do you think pigs don’t understand the concept of romance?”

“i think waddles would eat the card,” you reply, flicking a bit of glitter at her.

“you are so right!”

suddenly, you hear very familiar voice from the kitchen. “no— waddles!! no! bad pig! shoo! go away!”

Mabel screeches so loud your eardrums nearly rupture. “Ford and Waddles interaction?! i need to see this!”

you dont even have time to react as she launches herself across the room, screaming your name over and over in excitement.

“off the counter! off the counter now!”

you're a curious person, so when you finally peek in you see Ford half-bent over the kitchen table, trying desperately to shield something from Waddles, who is aggressively attempting to munch on a piece of paper.

“uncle Ford!” Mabel yells, “why are you yelling at my baby??”

Ford jerks up. “i—i. . .”

Mabel’s eyes catch sight of the now slobber-covered valentine’s day card and she gasps again, so loud you cover your ears.

“OH. MY. GOSH.” she whips back toward you, pointing dramatically. “go. go away. go to the living room and act like nothing happened!”

you want to stay here longer, trying to see what is going on there, but Mabel keeps pushing you. “do not question me, just go!”

Ford looks mortified. you, very confused, decide to listen to Mabel and back out. when you sit down on the glitter-covered floor, you still hear their voices, because Mabel just doesn't know what does “talking quiet” means.

“oh my gosh, uncle Ford!” from the kitchen comes the unmistakable sound of a chair scraping across the tile, a very panicked grunt, and what is possibly the sound of an envelope being hastily shoved under something. “i knew it! you were making a valentine’s day card!! oh my GOSH, i knew it!! i knew you had a crush on—“

“MABEL!!”

“i can’t believe this, holy llama socks, you’re actually doing something romantic!”

“shh!! keep your voice down!! what if—“

“what color was the glitter? tell me right now. was it pink? was it gold?! it was gold, wasn’t it?!”

there’s a very long pause. then, Ford mutters, “. . .it was gold.”

Mabel squeals. ”uncle Ford, you have to give it to them, please please please!”

“i can’t do that!”

“ughh, why not?!”

Ford sounds so exasperated you can picture him running both hands down his face. “because that is embarrassing! i. . . Mabel, i can't do that.”

”but you wrote them something sweet, didn’t you? DIDN’T YOU??”

“Mabel, sweetie, please.”

“you are so lucky i have a strong sense of mystery, uncle Ford, i would never, ever reveal your deepest secrets. no matter how much they might want to know. even if they asked very nicely. even if they bribed me with candy. even if they looked so, so beautiful today!”

and god, Mabel acts so suspicious for hours. she side-eyes you at dinner, she hums conspicuously when Ford walks past, she does wiggly eyebrows. it’s a whole thing! but she doesn’t tell you why, and by the time the day winds down, you nearly forget. . .

until later that night, when the house is quiet, you find a folded pink valentine’s day card tucked neatly beside your pillow.

the front has a little hand-drawn equation that you don’t totally understand, but something about it makes you smile.

the inside reads, in Ford’s impeccable cursive handwriting:

“of all the possible realities, i’m grateful to exist in this one with you ♡ ”

and underneath, a little scrawled postscript “p.s. please ignore the bite mark on the corner. i had to fight for my life against a pig today.”

[lipglossanon]

Star In My Eyes

Best friend!Leon S. Kennedy x fem!reader

A Little More Savory tier commission from @porcelainseashore 💜 💜 thank you!! 😭

Word Count: 2658 🫣

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, bf!leon, next door neighbor!leon, pining, lots of feels happening, Leon POV, jealousy, possessiveness, “just friends” 🤭, kissing, dirty talk, unprotected sex, creampie

proofread ✍️

↺ ◁◁͏͏ ll ▷▷ ⋮≡

Things have settled back into their regular routine. Leon hasn’t brought up that illicit window scene—even if it has lived rent free in his head since—and you definitely haven’t brought it up. He kind of wishes you would; he wants to know if it meant anything or really was just the one-off it seems to be. But, you’re his best friend, the girl next door he’s had in his corner from the beginning. He’d be stupid to mess that up. 

Meeting you for lunch isn’t anything new; it’s literally a muscle memory for him to walk over to the campus cafeteria and meet up with you for a bite to eat. Today, he catches you already seated at a table and waves to you. You smile brightly and wave back before pointing at the seat across from you. A warm, fluttery feeling trills in his stomach like a songbird. Queuing in line to grab something from the menu, he can’t help but think that ever since that afternoon, Leon hasn’t been out on any dates. 

And he’s not upset about it either. You’ve been spending your free time with him too—talking about buying a new controller interface to produce better mixes for your beats. It all flies over his head, but you light up like the Fourth of July when chatting about it, and Leon’s happy enough to bask in that glow. 

After paying for his food, he’s so lost in his thoughts, he doesn’t even realize someone has occupied the seat next to you until he’s sitting down across from you. 

The guy has the audacity to smile at Leon. “Hey, man.”

“Hey.” 

He flicks his eyes from this interloper over to you. You’re not even paying attention to Leon; your body’s angled towards this stranger with a smile on your face.

“Don’t lose my number now,” the guy winks. 

Does he think that lame-ass pickup line will work? Leon scoffs mentally, but his eyes cut back to you, and you’re still smiling at that guy. There’s no way you would give that loser the time of day—right?

“Uh huh, I’ll think about it.” You wave him off with a laugh, and the idiot finally leaves. 

Leon’s blood pressure skyrockets. That asshole gave you his number, and you took it? You don’t even know this guy; he could be a total douchebag. 

“Who was that?” He pins you in place with his stare. 

You shrug, like Leon’s not losing his mind right now.

“Some guy. I think we have a class together,” you pause before shaking your head. “Either way, he wanted to see if I was free this weekend.”

“For what?”

You laugh, “What do you think? He asked me out on a date.”

Leon’s stomach clenches uncomfortably. “And?”

“And I told him I had plans.” Your brows raise in concern. “Are you okay? I told you yesterday that I had to run some errands for my dad on Saturday, and we’re hanging on Sunday.”

He forces his shoulders to relax. “Yeah, I just thought—never mind. You coming over today?”

You smile, confusion hovering over your features. “Of course. You sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine.”

Things were not fine. He enjoys the rest of lunch with you, talking about classes and upcoming assignments, but in the back of his mind, he can’t stop thinking about how casually that guy hit on you. How you just sat there, smiling, instead of telling him to piss off. Leon’s literally sitting right in front of you—your best friend—so there’s no need for some loser to come barging in.

After splitting up for different classes, Leon’s thoughts run in a constant loop. He gets why that guy hit on you; the why isn’t the issue. He just hates that you even entertained that Neanderthal. How many times have you complained to him about a terrible date? Countless times. Leon can’t even remember all the horrible details of each one—only that once it’s all said and done, you come to him for comfort.

And after all, why not? He’s your shoulder to cry on, the one person who’s been by you through thick and thin. Which, of course, goes both ways, but he can’t help but feel protective of you. You’re too sweet and trusting; a prime example being that dickweed at lunch. Leon is so in his thoughts that he doesn’t even take notes for any of his lectures, just sitting in his seat for each one and thinking about you. 

How often does that kind of thing happen? Especially when he’s not even around. How many guys have hit on you, and you’ve never thought to even mention it to him? Glaring at random guys he sees around campus, Leon stews in his emotions—possessive jealousy and frustration coursing through him and sending his thoughts on a downward spiral.

By the time Leon leaves campus, he’s decided on a new course of action. He’s really going to show you he’s the only one for you. Running through ideas on the drive home, he thinks back on all the things he’s done that had you acting overly affectionate toward him.  It’s guaranteed to happen when he helps you out with something—like the last time he changed the oil in your car without asking him to or fixing your old radio.

Not seeing your car parked out by your house, Leon decides to just hang around the garage, maybe tinker with some little projects he’s got on the side. You brought over a busted speaker the other day, and since he has the free time, he might as well work on it. Plus, it’ll help with his plans as well as take his mind off of things.

Losing track of time, he doesn’t lift his head away from his workbench until you’re clearing your throat behind him. 

“Whatcha working on?”

He stands and stretches, rubbing his neck to work a kink out. “Think your speaker is almost fixed up. Wanna solder a few things before testing it.”

“Oh nice! Thanks, Leon!” You smile, peering around him to look at the mess on the tabletop. “That saves me so much money, you don’t even know. You’re the best.”

Pride suffuses his chest, your praise lighting up his brain.

“Eh, just glad to help.”

Leon watches you walk over to the couch and relax onto the cushions. After stretching a bit more, he walks over and rolls the garage door shut before joining you. He sinks down into the soft material, legs splayed out in front of him. Drumming his fingers on his thighs, his eyes shooting over to the pack of smokes on his workbench.

“You should cut back,” you tease, kicking your shoes off and tucking your feet under his thigh.

“I don’t even smoke that much.” He rolls his eyes, a grin tugging at his lips. “Besides, you’re not my boss.”

“You’re right. I’d fire you for insubordination.” You tease, and he shakes his head with a chuckle.

Lapsing into silence, Leon’s thoughts circle back to earlier at lunch. It can’t hurt anything to feel you out, see what you really think about that guy.

“You gonna call that dude who gave you his number?” His fingertips tap a nonsensical beat on the top of your foot.

You wiggle your toes against his thigh. “Eh, I don’t think so. Honestly, it’s been so long since I’ve even been on a date I’ve probably forgotten how,” you laugh. 

Leon doesn’t know what possesses him, but he blurts out the first thought that crosses his mind. 

“We could practice.”

He doesn’t know why he says it; it was just a word vomit moment. There’s no way—

“S-sure,” you look away shyly. “Just a friend helping a friend, right?”

He nods so fast his fringe moves with the motion. “Right! Nothing weird about wanting to help out a friend. And we’re best friends, so it only makes sense for me to help you.”

You finally look back over at him, plush bottom lip tucked between your teeth. Leon wants to sink his own teeth into that lip.

“Okay. Um, so where do we start?” You straighten up in your seat and smooth your hands down your shirt.

“Well, what’s making you nervous?” His own heart races in anticipation.

“Well, if things lead to more, I’m not sure what I’d do,” you pull your feet away to move closer to him.

“Yeah?” Arousal pools hot and fast in his gut. “Want me to take the lead?”

“Please,” you murmur, eyes drifting to his lips. Your hand reaches up to brush his fringe from his eyes. 

“It’s just helping out a friend.” The words are quiet, like you’re trying to convince yourself. Leon, not wanting to lose this chance, rubs his palms down your sides. 

“Of course.” He nods, helping you straddle his lap, brain buzzing with so many thoughts it’s all noise. “It’s just practice.”

“Uh-huh,” your eyes droop, sinking your weight against him, hands resting on his chest. “Just pretend.”

“Okay,” he murmurs, bringing one hand up to cup the back of your neck. 

He pulls you down as he tilts his head, slotting your mouths together like puzzle pieces. His cock stiffens in his jeans when you gasp and melt against his body. Your kisses are soft and hesitant—your mouth parting immediately when Leon swipes his tongue across the seam of your lips.

It’s easy to get lost in this slow, sensual makeout. Leon’s hands grip onto your hips, thumbs pressing right into your hip bones. Your fingers are tangled in his hair, making his cock twitch every time your nails scratch against his scalp. He’s so lucky that you trust him with something like this—that you’re willing to be this vulnerable with him. 

His feelings are all over the place, but the one thing that definitely stands out is the bone-deep satisfaction in knowing you're all his, at least for now. You rock your hips down against his bulge, and he groans against your mouth.

“It’s been a while since I’ve done anything like this.” You pull away, lips kiss swollen and dilated gaze locked onto his. 

His fingers encircle your wrists where your hands rest on his chest, keeping his eyes on yours. “Oh?”

“Mm hmm,” you offer him a fond smile, his favorite kind; it reaches your eyes and makes them soft. 

He drops kisses to your jaw, the apples of your cheeks, then your parted lips. A surge of want so heady it makes him dizzy has him kissing you deeply.

So that’s how one thing leads to another—hot, sloppy kisses to dirtily grinding your damp, panty-clad cunt against the bulge in his briefs—and now you’re both naked, with Leon pressing you down into the couch cushions while he drags his cock across your sensitive clit.

“We’re best friends, right?” He murmurs, taking your hands in his and pressing them above your head.

You nod, eyes glassy. “Of course, Leon. Best friends.”

He rubs his thumb over the pulse point in your wrist before reaching one hand down to grip the base of his dick. Slapping his cock down onto your wet cunt, he notches the tip at your drippy hole. His heartbeat’s in his throat. 

“This okay?”

Whining, you cant your hips toward him. “Yes, please, wanna feel you.”

Groaning from deep in his chest, Leon rocks forward, sinking inch by inch into your snug cunt. He hopes to god he can hold out. You feel way too good. His eyes slip shut, and he pants heavily, one hand gripping your hip while the other still grips your wrists. 

“Fucking hell,” he grunts, finally opening his eyes to stare down at you. “Such a tight cunt.”

He watches your lashes flutter as your pussy grips his cock like a vice. He groans, pulling out to fuck back in just as deep. Letting go of your wrists, he slides his other hand down across your body, groping your breasts before gripping your hip.

“God, you showing me these gorgeous tits the other night—can’t stop thinkin’ about ‘em,” he dips his head down and bites at your stiff peaks, tongue swiping across each hard nipple. “Teasing me in the window like that? Got me so hard.”

Your cunt squeezes down on his cock, and he groans.

“Leon,” your hands move to grab onto his broad shoulders, making his muscles flex under your hands. “Fuck, your mouth feels so good.”

“Yeah?” He grunts, pulling out halfway before rutting his cock back inside your snug pussy, his fingers digging into the fat of your hips.

“Your soft wet pussy feels good, too,” he whispers against the shell of your ear. “Your pretty perfect pussy, and it’s all mine.”

“All yours,” you whine, hole pulsing and sucking his cock in further.

You gasp out, lips brushing against his, “Have you ever felt this good with anyone else?” 

“No, never. You’re so good, so good for me,” he pants, mouthing and biting at your breasts.

He raises up, grabbing for your hands until he can lace your fingers together, pressing your clasped hands down against the couch cushions. Now, Leon’s face to face with you, watching the pleasure twist your features erotically. 

“You drive me crazy,” he tells you, voice gentle even as his hips thrust roughly against yours. “Just wanna keep you all to myself.”

“Leon,” you whimper, wrapping your legs around his waist. “I feel the same way.”

He presses your lips together, licking into your mouth with a moan. He can’t get enough of the way you taste, sucking on your tongue greedily. Thrusting faster, his cock pounds into your sopping wet cunt harder and harder—the sound of skin slapping together sounding loud in the garage. Letting go of your hand, he slips his fingers between your bodies and begins strumming against your puffy clit. 

It’s like a live wire runs through your body, muscles tightening and twitching while your pussy walls flutter around his cock.

“Gonna cum,” you whimper against his lips, and he kisses you heatedly, swallowing your moans and whines to keep stowed away for when he’s alone in the dark of the night. 

“Do it,” he murmurs, pulling back until he can lock eyes with you. “Cum for me, show me how good you feel, baby.”

Whining, your head arches back, legs clamping down around his waist as you cry out softly. Leon can feel the difference; your pussy milking his cock with your inner muscles until he’s groaning and burying himself balls deep. Belatedly he realizes he’s cumming inside you raw, a hot spike of arousal driving him to rut deeper into your cunt, hot ropes of cum spurting thick and sticky inside your hole.

Giving you a few minutes until your legs drop away from his body, Leon eases out of your pussy, eyes glued to your puffy cunt as you leak his cum onto the ugly green cushions. You stretch and raise up with a moan, reaching for your clothes strewn in the back of the couch. 

Dressing quietly, Leon’s unsure what to do or say next. A line was crossed, whether or not either of you admits it out loud, and he only hopes you’re both crossing over into the same direction. 

“Shit!”

Leon’s pulled from his musings at your urgent tone. 

“I told mom I’d stop by the store on my way home and totally forgot. Fuck,” you mutter under your breath. 

Tossing on your jacket, you stand up, patting your pockets until you find your keys. 

“Talk later, okay?” You drop a quick kiss onto Leon’s lips before walking over to the garage door and rolling it open enough to slip under. 

You shoot him a smile and a little wink before letting the door drop closed. Leon sits there dumbfounded, brain oddly quiet as he processes what just happened. Maybe you’re both more on the same page than he thought. 

[nativegirltapes]

when wag!reader tells basketballplayer!drew that she's going out, he wants to see her outfit, which quickly turns into more than just a quick showing . . . . .

warnings/notes: mutual masturbation kinda, phone sex, lots of teasing, drew being controlling ?, this is moreso the build up of it all, rather than the actual mutual masturbation (the build up is so much hotter imo ...) and kind of cut off at the end srryyy buuuuut hope you enjoy <3 ALSO i’m trying out something new, where i add tumblr links to show !readers’ outfit, pls lmk if you like <3

you told drew you were going out tonight, the first thing he said to that was ‘facetime me.’ via imessage. you thought maybe he outgrew his possessive phase of the relationship, but you were slowly learning that it was just a part of him. even though he told you to facetime him, he beat you to it. “jesus christ.” you mumbled to yourself before hitting ‘join call’.

“you’re still doing this?” you set your phone down on your vanity, taking a few steps back so drew could see your whole outfit, despite complaining you still complied. part of you grew hot and heavy over drew getting so possessive.

drew noticed the small things about your outfit. not the details a normal guy would; the intentional picking of your earrings or necklace, or how some nights you’d wear sluttier outfits if you and him argued a few days before. “what’s with the big jacket?” he questioned. “what? you don’t like it? you bought it for me.” you looked at yourself through the facetime call, possibly second guessing your fashion choices.

“no it’s cute. just wonderin’. spin.” drew demanded. the way he was staring so intently at the screen made you a little scared, like you might be getting in trouble for what he’s about to see. “what the fuck y/n. why is your whole ass out? jesus christ.” he snatched his phone from wherever it was stood up, you assumed he must have had his teammates around him. you rolled your eyes. “when is it not out?”

“yeah but it’s like really out today.” you watched drew get up from wherever he was sat. and wherever he went he closed the door behind him. “i’m in the bathroom.” he whispered. “okay?” you said confused, but also knowing exactly what direction this facetime was headed. “do a lil spin for me again.” drew smirked at the screen.

“are you fucking serious?” you held back a giggle. “cmonnn, don’t tease me.” drew pleaded with you. you gave in because he looked so fucking good. his basketball hat and mustache just calling your name through the screen.

you did as drew said, giving a him a lil spin, and even forcing your jean skirt up ever higher, which honestly didn’t seem possible given how high it already was. “fuck baby. you’re so fucking fine.” drew’s head fell back. you really didn’t know what you did to him, you had no idea actually, and he didn’t think that lightly. “what panties you wearin’?” drew touched over the growing bulge in his pants.

“the ones you bought me.” you said, referring to the black and pink thong he bought you just a week before. “lemme see baby.” god he was going fucking crazy. facetiming his girl in his teammates house about to jerk his shit to the mere look of you in your outfit? this might have been a new low for him.

you bent over for drew, giving your ass a little shake for him. you giggled to yourself before grabbing your phone off your vanity and running over to your bed and saying “okay my turn! bicep time!”

“really?” drew chuckled, he never understood why you liked his biceps so much, but nonetheless he flexed his arms for you in the bathroom mirror. you were lucky because today he was even willing to take off his shirt, you got to see it all; his big arms, his beefy shoulders, and his toned stomach. god, you wish you could just ride his stomach. but unfortunately you remembered you were literally on the phone. “you’re so fucking hot. wanna ride your stomach and grab your big arms.” you moaned out, not even realizing that your hand was on your clit, rubbing circles.

“yeah? what else baby?” drew groaned. you both got too lost in moment to realize you were talking each other through it … on the phone.

after you both came (in every sense of the word) to your senses, you both got kind of quiet. “okay well. bye.” you started reading for the red button. “change your out-” you cut drew off before he could finish.