#i want to actually go through and highlight and make notes. but.

[3hks]

How to Write A DESPERATE (But NOT Annoying) Character

We all love a good yearning character. It's refreshing to see a person love someone else so much that it becomes a form of desperation or obsession. However, it's no secret that these kinds of characters can easily seem irritating when overdone.

So, in this post, I'll give you some advice on how to balance out that excessive desperation while still maintaining that trademark cute, loser-like (for lack of a better term) pining! I'm actually very excited for this, so let's get to it!

1. They Acknowledge Flaws

Have you ever seen a character who's so down-bad that they REFUSE to think that their crush is anything but perfect? That's not exactly a bad thing, but the truth is, their crush is not objectively perfect.

No matter how delusional your character is, if they can comfortably and openly admit that their loved one is flawed, it shows that they truly adore them--not an idealized image of them--no matter what.

They can think that their crush is perfect, but not because they're flawless, it's instead because of those flaws.

2. Actions Beyond Words

A character screaming their crush's name ("NEZUKO-CHAN!! NEZUKO-CHAN!!") does not do anything besides letting the world know how infatuated they are. We are better than that.

Many desperately-in-love characters are characterized by their often extreme and slightly unhinged dialogue. However, words are just words. If they truly love someone, they'll do much more than simply repeat it over and over.

It's imperative to also show their love through physical, caring actions that reveal how well they treat their loved one. This could be helping them clean up, offering them snacks, or simply lending an ear.

3. In Love with the Simple Things

When your character wants their crush, what do they want with them? Does your character want to hug them? Kiss them? Hold hands? Or is it something more?

It's only human to want those things. There's nothing wrong with that, but they should also cherish the smaller things. I'm talking about making breakfast for them in the morning. Going grocery shopping with them on a Wednesday. Picking them up from work.

The small moments are what makes up everyday life, not the big ones. If your character isn't looking forward to those minute things with their partner, can you say they love them?

4. A Priority, But Not Everything

For some of y'all, I might have to hold your hand when I say this: while your character's crush should be a priority of theirs, it shouldn't be everything.

If your character also has friends and family they care about, they can't discard all of that away for a crush. So yes, it's important that your character gives their hopefully-partner-to-be their attention, but that applies to all of their loved ones too.

5. Not A Pushover

Just because your character might be unhealthily infatuated with another, they shouldn't simply follow what the other says because they're that affected.

Communication is crucial in any relationship, so if your character can't speak up when they think their crush is making a bad decision, then their relationship is likely not going to work out. It's the same as not having a voice in making group choices.

Like I said in the first point, your character can't be so blinded by love that they ignore all the flaws, red flags, and mistakes.

Final Notes

Here's the thing: a desperate character often comes off as annoying because they lack complexity and depth. Desperation and obsession can be an all-consuming feeling, but that's not the only notable trait for your character.

Highlight other qualities. Don't forget that there are still people outside of their crush. Remember that yes, they're trying to woo their love, but they're also trying to prove that they'd make a good partner and that they are still an individual character.

Don't throw their reason and logic out of the window just because they're in love.

Hope this helped!

Happy writing~

3hks <3

[patchwork-crow-writes]

I am rotating transfemme Ralsei in my head now. I knew it was a thing but your post really made me SEE IT. I’ve also been reading through your poly fun gang works and that combined with Rouxls throuple comment made me write something myself (and start… two other longer fics because my god these three)

This is a very funny ask to receive, because up until very recently I have been what you might call "transfem Ralsei-agnostic" - I saw the interpretation, it made sense to me, but it didn't really call out to me the same way it did others. My main exposure to transfem Ralsei has been through the stellar @acaciapines and xir amazing Deltarune fics - I wholeheartedly recommend you read them just for how good they are!

I want to say that, before we begin, I am a cishet, gender-conforming male in my early 30s, so if I at any point come across as insensitive or I get something wrong, please do let me know and I will do my utmost to address it and improve as I move forward. Heaven knows trans folks have it hard enough right now without ignorant or ill-thought-out comments from well-meaning people salting their wounds.

Evidence has been steadily growing for the idea that Ralsei may end up transitioning mid-story, either as a way to better assert and express her growing self-identity, or as a giant middle-finger to the Prophecy which has controlled her life up to that point. It's started in tiny trickles - the word PRINCE being highlighted yellow when he first mentions it to Kris, indicating its plot importance; his reaction to the Spamton-mannequin dress, which it has been noted was the same dress worn by Mettaton, who is himself considered an allegory for transition; and the use of the track Lost Girl when it's discovered that Ralsei's room in the castle is completely empty, which prompts a discussion where he talks about developing his own opinions and personality.

All of these point to the possibility that Ralsei could very well become a princess before the story concludes, and considering the significance of the Prophecy foretelling all that is fated to happen, gains a new narrative significance as a way for her to escape the doom set before them. These combined make a compelling case, to be sure, and I would be very happy were that to actually occur in canon.

Now, I realise I must tread quite carefully here, because I don't want to give the impression that I think the transfem interpretation of Ralsei is in any way "lesser" to the current canon Ralsei. I adore Ralsei no matter what gender he or she will choose to identify with - if indeed he settles for one gender at all. I do feel that both interpretations of Ralsei have something valuable to say, however - Ralsei as a gender-non-conforming male who is nurturing, compassionate, wears dress-like clothing and partakes in traditionally "feminine" hobbies such as sewing and baking, works as a potential role-model for young males who wish to exhibit those behaviours but fear being judged for it. On the other hand, a transfem Ralsei who chooses that identity wholeheartedly and for her own selfish reasons is also an incredibly rousing idea that could be a huge boon for those who wish to follow in her footsteps.

Both are equally valid, of course, and I would be happy no matter what Toby has in store for Ralsei... my only concern is that these clues are hinting at this grand revelation only for it to amount to nothing, and I feel that people would find themselves VERY hard done by were that to be the case. I understand the need for Toby to hint at this development, especially if it does become plot-relevant as we've theorised... but the lack of more concrete foreshadowing and evidence has me slightly concerned. I suppose all we can do for now is wait and see.

OR! Maybe they could make Ralsei multigender/genderfluid as a way to express her shifting identity as he grapples with himself. Fitting that when faced with the idea of "your choices don't matter", Ralsei might go "But what if I DON'T choose? Check and mate, prophecy!"

And with that, I, Patchwork "cisgender male" Crow, shall take my leave, before I really DO overstep my bounds and wind up being pelted with tomatoes.

...

Agh, I got so caught up in the transfem Ralsei discussion I completely forgot about the 2nd half of this ask! I'm really pleased that you liked my poly Ralsei works, and that they inspired you to write your own! I'd love to read them when they're complete, so please send me a link whenever's convenient :D

[quercus-queer]

In case anyone was wondering about the Lilo and Stitch movie here’s the highlights from someone chronically online enough to have seen the movie through snippets lol

Nani does in fact give Lilo up to the government, ppl defend it by saying David’s mom is her foster mom now but Lilo is still in fact in the system and can easily be taken away from David’s mom if conditions are “unfit”… the exact same situation Nani was in before lol

Took away all of Nani’s support system that the original movie develops for her except for David/his mom

Had Nani treat Lilo like a burden for “realism”… anyway…

Lilo literally says “you’re so smart Nani, I think you should join the Marines”

Nani was deeply connected to her culture and family, that aspect of her just isn’t there at the end of the day (and part of that is because Sydney is not indigenous Hawaiian and it shows… in looks, actions, and line delivery) and the conclusion to her story being giving up her kid sister to the state and leaving her home for a “better” education and future is atrocious

They had her go to California to study marine biology. First of all, it was implied she was a pro surfer in the og movie no hint of marine biology. Not every persons dream is college and it doesn’t need to be part of everyone’s story… the choice of “putting yourself first” in order to get a better education is very #girlboss… Second of all, Hawaii has multiple universities with marine biology programs that would give far more money and benefits to a native Hawaiian than literally any Californian school let alone UCSD lmao

They changed their island from Kauai to Oahu… most obvious reason they did this was because that is the island their resort is on and overrun with tourists. However, with this location change and their wack ass narrative changes they also made going to California even more blatantly propaganda because that is where the University of Hawaii at Manoa is… ALSO, Oahu has major cities… you know how Sitch has to find new meaning for existence because he can’t do what he was programmed to do because he’s stuck on an island with no big cities… yeah…

On this note, pretty much removed all substantial tourism commentary

Jumba is the villain, he sounds like a whiny computer nerd and it’s miserable

Pleakley is lame, rip queen 🕊️

Lilo is pretty well adjusted and normal lol? No fights, no biting, no trying to curse her enemies etc… she’s literally a normal girl which… alright then???

There is no Gantu (rumor has it this is at its core because they don’t want to make law enforcement look bad)

CGI is literally so fucking bad like besides aesthetics the actors literally don’t point to where Stitch is and when they’re supposed to touch it they often miss lol

Editing is also terrible. Every scene lasts like 5 seconds and is jarring, so genuinely terrible I think shows like this are gonna further ruin kids attention spans lmfao

Nani misses Lilo’s actual performance instead of just being late to pick up Lilo from practice after getting into a fight…

Myrtle isn’t white #diversity win

No ugly duckling subplot

Bubbles is not the social worker and is working against the gang (again removing all of Nani’s support system, he literally shows up for every holiday with the fam in the og)

Changing the social worker role from an externally imposing black man with good intentions to a gentle woman has some undertones tbh considering this is the justification: “According to Camp, it was easy for audiences to believe that a towering man with a "Cobra" tattooed on his knuckles was a social worker in the animated movie​​​​​. However, that kind of exaggerated character design doesn't translate convincingly to live-action.”

The new social worker literally tells Nani that the right thing to do is to give up Lilo… very different from Bubbles doing his best to keep the sisters together. Keeping family together is a prime goal in social work btw…

[shadowbriar]

Bob Reynolds — Catalyst I

Pairing : Robert "Bob" Reynolds x (she/her) doctor!Reader Word Count : a lot, idk how many exactly cause I'm drafting this on my phone. Warning : Thunderbolts spoilers. Sets during Bob's Project Sentry era. Mentions of medical procedures. Not proofread cause I'm doing this on my phone. Synopsis : For once, he actually let himself grow comfortable in the gentleness of another. Notes : we love Bob, Bob deserves the world. I kinda want to make this a mini series but idk how the plot should go. I'm open for ideas if you have any suggestions! also, please donate to my kofi so I can get a new laptop and write properly cause drafting though phone is hell, i tell you.

"Breath in for me,"

Bob tries to control his breathing as her gloved hands sneak under his pyjamas. His eyes were everywhere, but her, trying to distract his mind from how the close proximity has made him able to get a whiff of her faint perfume, or see the pendant of her necklace dangling as she leans a little to put the stethoscope on his chest.

"Your heartbeat is peaking," she highlights as the heart monitor beeped a little louder "Are you feeling any pain?"

"No, I'm just startled from the cold metal," he lies through his teeth.

Her brows were still furrowed once she stepped away from him, making notes of his monitor on her pad, "It looks like you're having frequent rise of heartbeat, especially whenever I try to listen to your insides. Are you sure you're feeling okay, Bob?"

He nods, unable to say any word.

"No headaches? Heartburn? Pain anywhere?"

"No," he says in a tiny voice "I'm feeling great,"

"Okay, let me see your eyes then," she says before placing her hands to his jaws. Her thumbs pulling the skin under his eyes a little to see if there's any foul colour on it. Bob's fingers were now gripping the thin sheet of his bed tightly as he tried to calm his nerves. The heart monitor is once again betraying him as it beeps more frequently, erratic to the point that it worries her "Your heart is beating so fast, are you sure you're feeling okay, Bob?"

She places her hand on his chest, feeling the rapid beating of his heart. Her face was filled with worry now, as the beads of sweat on Bob's forehead started to fall. Colour was starting to fade from his face, as well. He was turning pale.

"I'm nervous," he confessed shyly, taking a small gulp.

"Of what?"

You, he wanted to say, but he knew that it would be too inappropriate to utter. He was one of the many patients she's taking care of, one of the many test subjects for the project, and though he wants to believe that she's treating him a little kinder than the others for the same sentiment he hoards for her, he knew that at the end of the day, she was only doing her job and what matters for her was the drugs' progression, not him as a person.

"What if it doesn't work? Will you kick me out of the lab?" Bob asks instead.

The corners of her lips curled upwards, smiling to him as she takes a seat on the edge of his bed, "Do you mind if I sit here?"

Bob shakes his head.

"You're my friend, Bob. Where ever these drugs would lead us to, I will always take care of you, I can promise you that," she reassures, giving the most gentle squeeze on his arm as she continues "I will never, ever, let anything bad happen to you, okay? You're my favourite person in this whole lab and I would never let anything hurt you. But in order to do that, you need to help me out a little. You need to tell me if you feel any pain or anything strange, really, so I can help you and stop it from happening again,"

"I'm not feeling any pain," he says with eyes glued on hers "I promise,"

Her eyes scanned for any trace of lies on his face before nodding, smiling in understanding, "Okay, then, let's get back to those beautiful blue eyes of yours. Try to relax, okay?"

Bob nodded like an obedient little kid. This time the heart monitor didn't beep as frequently when she places her hands back to his face. The grip he has on the sheet have loosened, and his breathing has gone more at eased. For once, he actually let himself grow comfortable in the gentleness of another.

"Your pupils are a little dilated," she noticed as they stare into each other's eyes "Perhaps because of your nerves, but we'll still put that in the chart for future references, okay?"

Bob nods, "So, everything else is good?"

"Yup, so far so good," she answers with a nod, putting her pad down "I'm not supposed to share this, but you're our strongest subject and I'd like to think that it's because you and I are more than just doctor and patient. We're friends,"

His smile grows, still timid but it's brighter than she's ever seen before.

"You look really cute when you smile. You should do it more often," she compliments.

The rouge on his cheeks bloom. Bob looks away, trying his best to hide his bashful face from her. The long strands of his hair falls to his eyes, but he knew that it wouldn't be enough to hide just how red his whole face is.

Noticing his embarrassed self, she smiles to herself and stood from his bed, "Well, I'll leave you to rest then,"

"Wait," Bob calls before she could leave the room "How much longer do I have to stay here?"

"I'm not sure, Bob. We're still monitoring everyone and you still have that rising heartbeat issue that we need to take care of," she notes, placing her hands in the pocket of her coat "Why, do you have anywhere else you need to be?"

"No, I just— I'd like to see the city," he answers, that very uncertainty returning to his voice again "I was wondering if you could show me around, cause I didn't have much time to wander before admitting to the lab,"

"Oh," she notes, a little surprised to hear his vulnerable reasoning. With silent steps, she walks closer to him again, smiling as she proposes, "Well, I haven't done much wander myself because we have a lot of things to do here, but.. Why don't we try to get you back in shape as soon as possible, and then we can start our little adventure throughout the city?"

Bob's heart swells in his chest. He was never this happy, never this optimistic about life, and the promise of having something to look forward to. He flew himself to South-East Asia to try on new drugs without a care of how it might affect him because truly, no one ever cared. His mission was just to see this new drug and try it himself, bonus point if he doesn't die in the process. But now that he's met her, now that he's felt how good it is to have someone who cares for him, Bob wonders if he should let himself hope for tomorrow.

"Bob?" she calls softly, snapping him out of his thoughts "Would you like that?"

He nods eagerly, grinning, "I'd love that, yes,"

"Okay, well, it's a date, then,"

—-

Being a doctor for a human test laboratory is certainly different than working for hospitals. Most days, she finds it hard to still call herself "human" after all the experiment she's seen before her very eyes. People would go to extreme lengths just to prove something, disposing of other innocent souls as a cost they're willing to pay.

She's considered to free herself from such occupation. Rebuild a life that is more mundane and ordinary, perhaps to move back to her hometown and build a small clinic there, but if she wasn't here, who would fight for a humane treatment for these poor subjects? Who would spare their own personal time to do research for the new batches of the serums, making and taking more samples before actually injecting them to human beings, if not for her?

"We lost subject SE-37 this morning," Dr. Houston says as they have their morning meeting "It's such a shame, because she was showing great progress up until yesterday,"

"Her name was Grace," she seethe on her seat "Stop calling these people with their serum labels, they have names,"

The rest of the doctors remained quiet, watching her with conflicted expression.

"This is our seventh loss this week," she continues with a heavy sigh, rubbing her temples from the stress "We have more casualty than progress, we have to stop the research for now,"

"But Valentina—,"

"I don't care what Valentina says. She's not here, alright?! She doesn't see these patients wither and die before her own eyes. We're the ones who do, and as much as all of you hate to admit it, I know that it's taking a toll on us. It would be unwise to continue this without a clear and steady head, so we're putting a halt to this project,"

"Until when?" one of them asked.

"Until we know exactly what it is that is failing our patients and found a way to fix it,"

The rest of the doctors shuffled away from the room as they figured their meeting has come to a bitter end. This wouldn't be the first sour argument they witnessed between Dr. Houston and her. She might be the smartest and most brilliant doctor OXE Group has ever employed, but her benevolence often times came first before her duty to the company. That's why Valentina appointed Dr. Houston as her co-chief of research. Houston might not be as smart, but he's experienced and she respects him just enough to not jeopardise the research whenever things went south.

Exactly like how things are looking like right now.

"You're a bright kid," Houston starts when it was just the two of them left in the room "You and Valentina can do great things together, but this compassion.. It's misplaced, right now,"

"Yeah, and who am I supposed to feel more sympathy for? Valentina, because she's lost billions of dollars from this research?" she scoffs "I don't think it's my compassion that is misplaced here—it's your loyalty. You're a doctor, you're sworn to protect your patients,"

"I'm a citizen of this planet first before a doctor, and what we need most now is a protector," Houston argues, his face stern and unwavering "If Project Sentry fails, then we've failed everyone on this planet, not just those we've lost during this research,"

She remained quiet, looking back at him with the same resolute expression.

"We'll take a week of break from taking new patients. Let the doctors calm down as you said, and then we'll start a whole new batch,"

"But—,"

"No buts, I'm trying to save all of our heads here, Kid," Houston cuts in "Now go do your rounds, I'm sure your patients are waiting,"

"Patient, I only have one left," she corrected bitterly.

Dr. Houston kept his silence as she walked out of the room. It was a hard sight for him as well, to see the light dimming out of her this way. Had she worked for a hospital or some ordinary vaccine lab, she would've thrived and helped so many people by now, but OXE Group needs her. If Project Sentry was to ever success, it would need her wit and cleverness, or else they wouldn't even stand a chance on developing anything before the threat comes terrorising the Earth.

—-

"Good morning," Bob greets as she enters his room, his smile wide and blinding "I was wondering where you were,"

"I'm sorry, we had a late running meeting for the doctors," she apologises, sitting on the edge of his bed with a smile that never seemed to reach her eyes "How are we feeling this morning?"

"Great. I've finished my breakfast and I'm feeling real good today," he answers with a beaming smile.

She nods in acknowledgement, starting her assessment with him, "That's good to hear. No more fast heartbeat, yes?"

"Nope, all good,"

Smiling to his respond, she puts down her pad and looks at him closely, "Bob, I need you to promise me something, okay? If you feel anything strange, anything at all, you push that assistance button there and alert me, okay? I don't care if it's 2AM in the morning or if it only feels like a persisting scratch on your back, you tell me right away, okay?"

Bob frowns, trying to digest her insistent words.

"Please, promise me, Bob," she begs, taking his hand to hers and squeezing them gently "You don't have to feel bad if you're not sure about it or if the timing feels a little odd, just alert me at once, okay? And I'll come right back here in an instant, I promise you,"

Bob nods fast, blinking rapidly as he's still fazed from her urgency, but agreed nonetheless, "Of course, I promise,"

"Thank you," she whispers, putting her head down and placing the back of his hand to her forehead "Thank you, Bob,"

Bob watched as her head rests on his hand now. His other hand was itching to pat on her head, maybe run his fingers through the loose strands of her hair that falls out of the hair tie, but he was too scared of over stepping it. He doesn't know what it is that's making her this distraught or how to help her calm down. He's never had anyone to show him how, and the last thing he'd like to do is to make it even worse for her, so he just stayed there, eyes glued to the back of her head and let her have her moment to calm down.

With another squeeze, she finally puts his hand back down, "Alright, then, I'll let you back to rest,"

"I've done nothing but rest these past weeks, honestly," he answers bluntly "I don't think I can rest much more than I already did,"

She smiles, a soft chuckle escapes her lips and it felt like an earthquake to his heart. She looks down to her pad, scrolling through his charts and looking deep into it as if she's debating something in her head.

"You know what, you're right," she says as she puts the pad down "You've been in this bleak room for weeks without any sunlight. Why don't I try to talk with the other doctors to get you an hour or two permission outside of this room? Maybe we can stroll around the building? I hear there's this hawker place nearby that has really good food. Maybe we can go and try something there?"

Bob was unblinking now. Her proposal seems too good to be true, too fast to be offered. He's always thought about going out of this room, feeling the bustling road once again and seeing the people, but he didn't expect it to come this soon. He didn't expect that the date, though he knew it wouldn't be the kind of date he was hoping for, will happen in just mere days. Just how much luck has he scored eversince joining this drug test, honestly?

"I can't promise anything. I have to fight with the other doctors to give you this pass, but I will try," she continues "If you'd like, of course. If you think it's too fast—,"

"Please, I would love that," he says fast "I'd love to get out of this room with you,"

She smiles, this time a little more tender than the usual. She stares deeply into his eyes, looking at this bashful, yet charming man that has been the softest, most gentle soul she's ever come across. She watches as he fidgets a little from the gaze, undoubtedly feeling embarrassed again for no reason, yet she finds it hard to peel her eyes off of him. He was just too beautiful to not be admired at, too endearing for anyone to not fall in love with.

And Lord, she has fallen alright.

"Okay, I'll try and find Dr. Houston right away," she says softly.

Grabbing her pad and standing from her seat, she was about to walk away before Bob grabs her hand again, this time holding it gently and rubbing her skin with his thumb, "Thank you.. For everything,"

Turning her hand so that their fingers could interlock properly, she smiles at him and nods, "Thank you for everything too, Bob,"

—-

Having different style of work has made her and Houston have different labs on different floor of the building. She hardly ever visit his lab as she's the one who's done more progress and he's the one who needs to do the catching up, hence the more frequent visit of him to her lab, so tapping her ID to his now feels a little bizarre. She could still count with one hand the many times she's stepped foot on this floor over the years of them working in this building. She has never had any persisting matter to discuss with him until now, and seeing that the subject would certainly require a little back and forth argument, she reckons it would be best to just come to the old man's lab and bring the topic to his table.

Now that she's here, she observes the contrast difference of her lab compared to Houston's. Houston's lab is cleaned on the counter, stacked of papers placed neatly on the corners, while her's were more cluttered. The only messy part of the lab was Houston's work table, covered in leaves of papers and reports that she couldn't be more careless about.

Until one name caught her eyes: Robert Reynolds.

She picked up the report and began scanning the information. It looked similar to her reports, charts of his biometrics data, and progress through the experiment, but there's a strange folder on the back of this report, banded with a red clip.

"Confidential?" she whispers to herself, wondering why her reports were lacking of this document.

And that's how she found out. How none of the patients could survive the drug. How her samples, despite each success of previous tests, kept on failing on human subjects. How everyone seemed to be reaching their peak before succumbing the very next day with no prior symptoms.

Her serums were altered.

"I'm sorry, Kid," Houston says as he sneaked behind her and knocked her unconscious with a syringe of tranquilliser.

—-

"Good morn— You're not my doctor,"

The man steps closer to Bob's bed. His hand shoved deep in his coat pockets as he introduced himself, "My name is Dr. Houston, I will be taking care of you from now on, Robert,"

"Where is she?" Bob asks for her, calling her name "I don't want a new doctor, I want her,"

"She's.. Unavailable right now, but worry not, she's entrusted me to take care of you," Dr. Houston replies with a small smile "You have nothing to worry about, Robert. You will hardly feel her absence,"

Bob's brows furrow, obviously not welcoming this man, especially with his last words, but he has no other choice but to keep quiet this time, "When will she be back?"

Dr. Houston who was looking at his pad for Bob's charts stopped a little to look away, not meeting Bob's eyes as if he's trying to find the right answer before looking up with another smile, "Your charts are looking very great, Robert—"

"Bob," he cuts in "Just call me, Bob,"

"Bob," Dr. Houston repeats as if he's trying to see how the word lands on his tongue "You're looking very healthy from these charts, Bob. Are you ready for the next step?"

Bob raised an eyebrow, confused, "Next step? What next step?"

"Your exercises," Dr. Houston explains "We've stabilised you for the past weeks from the drug, and it looks like you're ready for our exercises,"

"What kind of exercises?"

"Well, you know, just basic physical exercises, like running, cycling, just the basic cardio for now. We don't want to push you too much, you're our most precious patient,"

Bob could hardly hear the next words Dr. Houston speaks of. The bitterness in his chest grew. He has so many questions, so much confusion as to why she would just leave him without a word, especially after promising to get him that pass to leave the building. He thought that she wanted to escape this room with him, even for just an hour or two. Whatever happened to that promise?

"Tomorrow, the nurse will help you to get to the gym. We'll monitor you throughout the exercise and after that, we'll do some blood test. We haven't done that in a while with you, have we?"

"No," Bob answers "Can I— Can I get out of the room after the blood test? She promised me she'd talk to the other doctors to give me some pass to go outside of this room, has there been any decision for that?"

"Oh, I didn't know we have that discussion, she didn't tell me anything," Dr. Houston says, making Bob's disappointment to grow even bigger "But let me see if I can do anything about that. For now, we just have to make sure that you'll pass the physical exercise tomorrow,"

Bob nods to himself, but his mind is evidently elsewhere. He stared at the wall as Dr. Houston excused himself. The voices in his head were loud now, much louder than they ever did before. The room suddenly feels more chilly, like it was void of life, and the gloomy storm was hovering above his head. He was drowning deeper and deeper into this dread until the glass of water by his side table suddenly broke, shattered to the ground with water pooling the floor.

He reached for the assistance bell. His thumb hesitated to press the button, wondering if he should just wait for the nurse to check in on the next hour to tell about the broken glass, or if he should just press and get it over with. See if she would really come running to him like she promised just the other day.

Everything was just fine, perfect, in fact, yesterday. One minute, she was here, holding his hands and making him feel like he mattered for once, and the next, she disappeared without a goodbye. A little voice in his heart told him that she must have a good reason for this abrupt farewell, but he's lived his whole life being left alone with no closure, no explanation as to why no one ever paid him any regard.

And so he closed his eyes and pressed the button. He kept his eyes shut until someone entered the room, hoping that when he opened them, he would see her standing by his bed and ease his mind like she always would.

"Yes, Bob?" Dr. Houston asked as he peeked in the room through the door "Anything wrong?"

"I— I broke the glass,"

"Ah," Dr. Houston says as he looked at the floor "We'll get someone to clean that up,"

Bob slumps back to his bed as Dr. Houston shuts the door. He pulled his knees close to his chest, hugging them as he felt the loneliness creeping right back up. The last few weeks with her have been so lovely, so full of warmth and love that he forgot how painful it is to be left alone once again. Or perhaps it was the fact that he never knew how it feels like to hope and be let down. He never had the privilege to hold any fraction of faith before. No one ever gave him a reason to have one until she came. Until she gave him the very desire to see the sun rise tomorrow. Until she gave him the very desire to leave this place alive. Until she gave him the very desire to have something more permanent in life.

And yet once again, Bob was left all alone.

↠ Part II

[grapejuicenharry]

Angel

Harry and Y/N are best friends— except they have feelings for each other (4k words)

warnings : smut 18+, fluff, kissing, grinding, jealous h

read part 2 of angel here

✶⋆.˚꩜ .ᐟ˙⋆ . ✶⋆.˚꩜ .ᐟ˙⋆✶. ⋆.˚꩜ .ᐟ˙⋆✶ ⋆.˚꩜ .ᐟ˙⋆✶

Harry really liked—no, loved—Y/N, but he would never admit it to her. She was his best friend, and he couldn’t imagine a day without her. She was like sunshine in his life, someone he could always rely on.

“Harry, my feet hurt,” Y/N whined beside him, her cheeks flushed and her eyes glassy from one too many drinks. They were walking back from a party thrown by one of Harry’s friends, Alex. It was his birthday, and even though Harry and Y/N hadn’t planned to attend, today had been their last exam of the semester. That called for celebratory drinks after all the hard work they’d put in. Sleepless, stressful nights spent preparing for exams, completing assignments, and submitting papers—it had all been overwhelming, and tonight felt like the ideal way to finally blow off some steam.

“Didn’t I warn you about those heels?” he asked, amusement lacing his voice as he raised an eyebrow. He knew those heels always gave her trouble and told her to wear something more comfortable, but Y/N, being Y/N, never listened.

“Yeah, but they make me look sexy, and I wanted to be tall enough to at least reach your neck,” she replied absentmindedly.

“Well, guess that means I’m carrying you the rest of the way,” Harry said, and before she could protest, he hoisted her up onto his shoulders.

“Harry, my dress is too short! I’m going to flash everyone,” Y/N laughed, though there was no real concern in her voice.

Harry chuckled, placing his hand carefully to keep her covered. Besides, the streets were almost empty at 2 a.m., and there was hardly anyone around to notice.

༘˚⋆𐙚｡⋆𖦹.✧˚

Y/N met Harry on the first day of college. She was nervous and eager to make friends. Hurrying to her seat, she noticed Harry sitting next to her. The first thing she saw was his mop of curly hair, and she thought he was incredibly cute. He looked so innocent and nerdy in his black-rimmed glasses. He was just too adorable.

He wore a white T-shirt that highlighted his bulging biceps, with tattoos peeking through. Suddenly, Y/N found herself wanting to see every tattoo that adorned his beautiful body. She was so curious and lost in her thoughts about him that she didn’t realize Harry was, in fact, looking at her.

Harry thought he was dreaming as he looked at Y/N. She seemed like an angel, a beautiful one at that. She wore a cute white hoodie adorned with pink bows, and her curly hair framed her lovely face perfectly. What captivated him the most were her eyes; they were alluring, radiant, and a luminous shade of dark brown. Next were her luscious pink lips, so full and plump that he suddenly wanted to kiss them and taste them. He wondered if they tasted like berries or cherries, secretly hoping they tasted like cherries, his favorite fruit.

“Do you have an extra pen?” Y/N asked in a hushed voice. “I forgot to bring my pouch,” she added with a little pout.

“Y-yeah, yeah,” Harry replied, fixing his glasses, clearing his throat, and answering in a hoarse voice. He couldn’t believe she was actually talking to him.

༘˚⋆𐙚｡⋆𖦹.✧˚

Later that day, they sat together at lunch, talking as if hours had passed. Y/N was so grateful to have found someone as kind as Harry, who listened to every word she said with such intent. They chatted about random topics, like their favorite TV shows and ice cream flavors. When Harry revealed that his favorite flavor was mint chocolate chip, Y/N made a weird face.

“Shut up—no, don’t you dare say it!” Harry exclaimed, amused.

“But it tastes like toothpaste!” Y/N whined playfully.

“No, it does not!” Harry shot back. Y/N made a mental note to convince Harry to try every other flavor until he grew to hate mint chocolate chip.

They soon became inseparable—best friends. Harry didn’t realize just how much he had started to like Y/N until it was almost too late. He thought frequently about confessing his true feelings, but there never seemed to be the right moment. He cherished the friendship they had, and the thought of losing her terrified him to his core. So he kept those feelings hidden, bottled up, and accepted her as his best friend.

༘˚⋆𐙚｡⋆𖦹.✧˚

Harry set Y/N down on the couch when they reached her apartment. He kneeled down to take off her heels. “Ouch, slowly please,” YN whined.

“I am never letting you wear these stupid shoes again. Your feet are all red and swollen,” Harry countered, looking genuinely concerned. He hated seeing Y/N in pain. He wanted to protect her from everything and keep her safe in his cocoon—just him and Y/N.

He then carefully carried a sleepy Y/N to her bedroom and started looking for a comfortable shirt for her to wear. After finding a suitable shirt, he went to the bathroom to grab her makeup wipes and returned to find half-asleep Y/N lying on the bed. “Sweetheart, this will only take two minutes, I promise.” He began wiping her face gently.

After getting Y/N all ready for bed, Harry changed his own clothes. Y/N had “borrowed” too many of his shirts, but honestly, he never minded it. In fact, he secretly liked when Y/N wore his clothes. She looked breathtaking in his oversized shirt paired with her tiny shorts, which made Harry lose his mind.

“Come to bed and cuddle me; I need to sleep,” Y/N grumbled, rubbing her tired eyes.

“Coming, sweetheart, just two minutes,” Harry replied with a smile. He knew how grumpy Y/N got when she was sleepy. He quickly climbed into bed, set his glasses on the side table, and pulled her to his side. Cuddled next to him, Harry didn’t mind being the big spoon. He loved having Y/N molded to his side—the sweet scent of her hair, which smelled like strawberries on a sunny day, and the soft skin that felt like vanilla sundae. He adored every inch of her. Whenever he was with her, he felt like he was on cloud nine. Everything around him was rainbows and sunshine; she made everything look like it was through rose-tinted glasses.

But Harry also loved being the little spoon. There were days when he just wanted to be held, and honestly, Y/N loved having him like that—clingy, needy, like a cute little puppy.

༘˚⋆𐙚｡⋆𖦹.✧˚

One day, Harry arrived at Y/N’s apartment looking extremely worn out. Y/N was lying on the bed, comfortably engrossed in her favorite novel. She grew concerned upon seeing Harry. 

“I am so exhausted, and my head hurts,” Harry exclaimed, throwing his bag on the floor. “I had to sit in Professor Martin’s class for two hours, plus I had a psychology presentation today,” he stated tiredly while rubbing his drowsy eyes behind his frames. 

“Oh no, I’m so sorry you had such a long day, baby. Come on, lie down, and I’ll massage your head,” Y/N replied, removing the blanket from her lap. Harry immediately climbed onto the bed and dropped his head in Y/N’s lap. She carefully removed his glasses and placed them on the side table before starting to massage his head.

She threaded her fingers in his curls, scratching his head lightly, rubbing, and applying just the right amount of pressure. Harry let out a soft moan as he could already feel the tension melting away, his body instinctively relaxing further into her lap.

 “Feels amazing,” he murmured, his voice slightly muffled against her legs. 

As her skilled fingers glided over his scalp, working their magic and easing the stress that had built up after a long week. 

Y/N smiled, enjoying the way he melted under her touch. She varied her movements, alternating between gentle rubs and firmer pressure, focusing on the areas where he seemed to carry the most stress. Her fingers danced through his hair, and she leaned forward slightly to whisper, “You deserve this. Just relax.”

After what seemed like hours of massaging, Y/N realized Harry had fallen soundly asleep on her lap. His face looked peaceful, with his eyes closed and soft snores slipping through his pretty pouty lips. He looked so adorable, and Y/N couldn’t help but wish she could freeze time to savor this moment longer.

Knowing Harry would probably complain about his back in the morning, she gently shifted him, lifting his head from her lap and placing it on a pillow. His brows furrowed slightly, so she soothingly rubbed his forehead, trying to smooth away any lingering tension. Half asleep, Harry instinctively moved closer, wrapping his arms around Y/N’s waist and nuzzling his face against her boobs. His personal pillow: He always has the best sleep whenever she holds him. Y/N smiled down at him. His curls tickled her jaw, and she couldn't resist leaning down to plant a soft kiss on his head.

“Goodnight, sleepyhead,” Y/N whispered, smiling at Harry, who had already drifted back into a peaceful slumber.

༘˚⋆𐙚｡⋆𖦹.✧˚

Harry was never the jealous type—at least, not until Y/N came into his life. but right now he cant help but a bitter sensation rises up his throat when he sees yn with Jacob. A total douchebag who flirts with every girl in the college, Standing next to Y/N, too closely according to harry. Harry had come to find Y/N so they could grab tacos at their favorite spot, but instead, he’s witnessing this. Does Y/N like him? Does she have a crush on him that he doesn’t know about? What if Y/N is interested in him and wants to end her friendship with Harry? Will she forget about him? All these questions overwhelm Harry’s mind at the sight. No, no—Y/N was only his. His best friend, his angel, his sweetheart. She would never do something like this. His chest suddenly started burning at such thoughts. 

Jacob says something which makes Y/N burst into laughter. His chest tightens at the sight. He wants to be the only person to make yn laugh like that. He curses inwardly that jacob gets to experience the sweet melody of her laughter, her laugh that can instantly brighten up the room with warmth and sunshine. He thinks to himself, Does Jacob know her eyes crinkle whenever she laughs? or how the mole under her right eye disappears when she laughs because of the fullness of her cheeks? 

“Oi, whatchu looking at?” Y/N snapped her fingers in front of Harry’s face. He hadn’t realized she had come over and was talking to him. “You look like you could kill someone,” she teased, giggling as she spoke to him. 

“Was that Jacob talking to you?” Harry asked, trying to sound casual even though he was fuming inside. “Yeah, he wanted my chemistry notes because apparently he spilled coffee on his,” Y/N replied, wrapping her arm around Harry's as they walked together. 

“Did you give them to him?” Harry asked, mentally cursing Jacob and hoping she hadn’t. 

“No, obviously I know he just wanted an excuse to hit on me. I’m not dumb,” Y/N exclaimed, rolling her eyes. “Besides, you know I don’t like sharing my notes with anyone except for you, because you know how to take care of them.” She chided and planted a kiss on Harry’s cheek. His face instantly heated. 

“Good,” Harry whispered quietly, fixing his glasses, looking at the ground, too embarrassed to hide the blush of his cheek and unable to suppress a smile at the thought of Y/N rejecting that jerk. 

༘˚⋆𐙚｡⋆𖦹.✧˚

Harry loves when Y/N gets touchy like this with him. When randomly she hugs him, kisses him on his cheek, forehead, or settles on his lap while watching a movie. Her spontaneous kisses leave a soft tingle on his skin, and he can’t help but smile every time she curls up in his lap. It’s in these moments he feels closest to her, as if every touch and every kiss is a silent confession of how much she means to him. His arm instinctively wraps around her waist, pulling her in a little tighter, enjoying the way she fits perfectly against him. The movie on the screen fades into the background; all he can focus on is the warmth of her body and the way she makes him feel—like he’s exactly where he’s supposed to be. It all feels so natural. And they never have those awkward moments because they both love these touches. Whenever yn touches him, he feels electricity buzzing through him, in a good way. His skin feels like jello and his heart is thumping loudly, His brain is all muddled with goo and sparkles. 

He wants to treasure those moments forever and constantly wishes for more and more. 

It was one of those rare evenings for Harry and Y/N, Where the world seemed to quiet down just for them. They had just finished with their midterms and needed this for the longest time. Dim yellow lights, a bottle of red wine sitting on the table, a soft record player playing in the background. Legs tangled under the blanket as Harry and Y/N sat closer to each other, just enjoying each other’s presence. The warmth of Yn’s body pressed against him felt like home.

Harry’s fingers absentmindedly played with a strand of Y/N’s hair, twirling it between his fingertips. His eyes traced over her face, taking in every detail — the curve of her lips, the soft rise and fall of her chest.

“You’re beautiful, you know that?” Harry whispered, his voice low and soft, his breath tickling her ear.

Y/N turned her head slightly, meeting his gaze with a soft smile and cheeks already flushed because of wine, changed into a deeper shade of red at his words. “You always say that.” Slurred her words lightly. 

“Because it’s true,” he murmured, leaning in closer, their faces just inches apart. His fingers gently tugging at her bottom lip, eyes flickering to her mouth. “And I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of telling you that.” 

For a moment, neither of them moved, the air between them thick with unspoken words and emotions. Y/N felt her heart race as Harry’s eyes locked onto hers, filled with something deeper than just affection.

Slowly, almost hesitantly, Y/N tilted her head, her lips brushing against Harry’s in the softest kiss, testing the waters. It was brief- just a featherlight kiss- but enough to send a shockwave through him. Harry let out a quiet sigh, his hand moving to cup her face as he deepened the kiss, slow and tender. As he leaned in closer, Y/N gently pushed his glasses up onto his forehead, making it easier for them to get lost in each other. Suddenly, he realized what he had done.

Harry pulled back immediately, his eyes wide with surprise at his own action.

“Sorry,” he blurted out, his voice panicked. “I don’t know why I did that.”

Y/N blinked, her cheeks flushing, but there was no trace of anger or discomfort on her face. Instead, she smiled softly, a warmth blooming in her chest at his sudden vulnerability. “No, Harry… It’s okay.”

Harry’s brow furrowed. “Are you sure? I didn’t mean—”

“Harry,” Y/N interrupted gently, her voice barely a whisper as she moved closer, her hand resting on his cheek. “It’s okay, I want this, I promise.”

Harry couldn’t quite grasp what was happening—it all felt too surreal, like something straight out of his dreams. Yet, here it was, playing out in real time. In the blink of an eye, Y/N tossed the blanket aside and straddled his lap. Her hands slid up his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin through his shirt as she pressed closer to him, wanting to be as near as possible. Her fingers trailed up his chest, feeling the heat radiating through his shirt, before cradling his face. Without hesitation, she pulled him into a deep kiss.

Harry was still trying to make sense of it all, but instinctively, his hands found their place—one tangling in her hair, the other resting gently on her neck.

The kiss was slow, tender, and filled with all the emotions that had been simmering under the surface for so long. His lips were soft, and she could taste the faint hint of wine on them. Their lips molded perfectly, like it was meant to be. Time seemed to blur. It must have been five minutes, or five hours; neither of them knew. It was a heated blend of tongue, teeth, and lips. 

Y/N’s hand reached for the hem of his shirt, lifting it. Harry pulled back, catching his breath, resting his forehead against hers. His heart pounded, blood rushing south; he was so hard, making him ache beneath her. 

“Can I take off your top, baby?” He whispered, his breath warm against her jaw as he kissed and nipped at it.

“Yes, yes, please,” she murmured, and that was all the permission Harry needed. He swiftly pulled off her shirt—his shirt—and eagerly ran his hands over her smooth, soft skin. 

“So soft, your skin is so soft,” he murmured, his hands working behind her, unclasping her bra. 

Her tits were a piece of art—Round, so full and perfectly perky. His large hands cup them, gently rolling the nipple between his fingers. 

Now she sat only straddling him in her thin, barely there sleeping shorts; she could feel his hard cock beneath her, thick and throbbing, nudging her entrance. Her dampness was seeping through both of their shorts. A delicious remainder, how much she wanted him. He could feel her cunt fluttering around nothing, desperate for him. 

 Harry had to shut his eyes and  take  a few steady breaths as his chest rose and fell with anticipation. Slowly, he leaned forward, prepping light kisses along the curve of her breast. Y/N moaned softly, arching her back, giving him more access to her boobs. He latched onto her nipple, sucking lightly, while his free hand teased her other breast, tugging and rolling the sensitive nub. Y/N hips began to move instinctively, grinding against him, writhing on his cock couldn’t help but start grinding, writhing on his lap.  

"Feels good," she murmured, eyes closed as  she gently took his glasses from his head and placed them on the couch next to them, her fingers threaded through his messy curls. His cock twitched beneath her, nudging her clit, and she could feel her body growing even wetter, soaking through the fabric that separated them. Harry kept switching between her breasts, his mouth worshipping each one as he sucked harder, sending jolts of pleasure through her core.

Making her more drenched 

“Just like that, ride me Y/N” Harry growled, his voice low and demanding. His hands slid from her breast to her waist, guiding her movements. Making her move forward and backward, her clothed, dripping core dragged across his cock, making them both shiver with need. His tattoos peeked through as he finally tugged his shirt off, revealing his inked chest - abs flexing under the butterfly, the black ink stark against his flushed, heated skin.

Y/N's fingers trailed down, dragging her nails across his chest, loving the way his tattoos twisted beneath her touch. She leaned down, biting his neck, sucking hard enough to leave a bruise. Harry groaned, loving the possessiveness of it—her mark on him. He was hers. 

“You’re doing so good, Angel” he murmured, nipping her ear. Harry was a complete mess beneath her. His eyes glossy, pupils blown away with lust, hair sticking to his sweaty forehead, lips slick and swollen from their kisses. He looks so sexy, Y/N leaned forward, sucking his bottom lip into her mouth, swallowing each other’s  moans while increasing her pace. 

He could not believe Y/N was on top of him, grinding against his cock, her sweet little moans filling the air. He was sure he’d reached heaven. He glanced down between them, seeing the wet patch her arousal had left on his shorts, mixed with his own pre cum. 

As Y/N ground herself against him, her clit dragged over the thick length of his cock, and each upward motion had his tip grazing her entrance. The feeling made them both shiver. Her blunt nails dug into his shoulders as her eyes squeezed shut in bliss, her lip caught between her teeth, trying to hold back a whimper. 

Harry slid his hand down, rubbing her clit with his thumb in slow, tight circles, giving her that extra bit of pleasure she craved. “I want you to feel good, baby,” he whispered, his fingers working faster, determined to push her over the edge. His angel deserved to feel good. 

Y/N threw her head back, overwhelmed by the sensation. “I’m gonna cum,” she whimpered meekly, her voice shaking. Harry quickened his pace, his fingers pressing into her clit with just the right amount of pressure. “Cum for me, baby,” he urged, his voice thick and desperate.

Y/N cries out as her orgasm rips through her, the coil in her belly finally exploding, sending waves of pleasure through her entire body. She felt like she was floating—fireworks and butterflies all at once. 

She has never cum so hard in her life. Her fingers never did the job, and vibrators were too boring for her. 

Below her, she feels Harry twitching. He buries  his face in her neck, biting down a patch of her skin to stifle his own moan as he reached the brink. Both arms wrapped around her waist, his eyes shut, loud and desperate whimpers falling from his lips. 

“That’s it, honey,” Y/N cooed, her voice soft and soothing, threading her fingers through his damp curls as she continued to ride him. She could feel him shaking beneath her as his orgasm finally hit, releasing with a loud groan as his body went rigid. His vision blurred, ears ringing, as the bliss overwhelmed him completely. He felt like he was in paradise, his body melting into hers.

For a moment, they just stayed like that—foreheads pressed together, hearts beating in sync, both of them coming down from their highs. Still trying to make sense of what just happened. Harry let out a breathy laugh, looking for his glasses and placing them again on his face. He brushed a strand of hair from her face. “You’re amazing,” he whispered, still catching his breath.

Y/N smiled down at him, her fingers tracing the tattoos on his chest, loving how warm he felt under her touch. “And you’re a mess,” she teased softly, laughing with him. Harry grinned, pulling her closer.

"Yeah, but I’m your mess," he murmured, kissing her softly, the intimacy between them palpable.

They stayed like that, in each other’s arms, exchanging gentle kisses. “I want this with you, Y/N” Harry whispered, “I’m tired of pretending I don’t feel something for you. That I don’t feel this whenever I’m around you.”

Y/N’s heart skipped a beat, her eyes widening as his words hit her. She opened her mouth to respond, but no sound came out.

Harry pressed on, the confession spilling out of him like a flood. “I’ve been holding back because I didn’t want to ruin us. You’re my best friend, Y/N. The most important person in my life, and I was terrified of messing that up. But tonight... it just felt right. It always felt right with you.” 

The air hung heavy between them, the weight of his confession pulling her down, making her chest tighten. Y/N swallowed hard, her mind racing. She had always felt something too—always pushed it aside, too afraid of what it would mean for them and for their friendship. But now that it was out there, she couldn’t run from it anymore.

Harry’s eyes softened behind his glasses,  his heart racing a mile a minute. He had finally said it—the words he never thought he’d be able to voice, yet they spilled out of him because he couldn’t hold them in any longer. He had to tell Y/N everything. 

But he still didn’t know if she felt the same, if she liked—no, loved—him back. And though the thought of her rejecting him terrified him, he was ready for it. His heart would shatter into a million pieces, but he would respect her decision, even if it meant she wanted him out of her life completely. It would hurt—of course, it would—but the idea of staying by her side and making her uncomfortable hurt even more.

He braced himself for her response, never expecting what she would say next.

 “I love you, Harry. I think I’ve loved you for a long time... but I was too much of a coward to confess it,” Y/N murmured, her eyes glistening with tears. “All this time, I didn’t want to lose you, so I just... ignored it. But tonight? It meant everything. I want this with you too.”

She leaned forward, wrapping her arms around him, resting her head on his chest. She could hear his heart pounding beneath her ear. 

“I always thought you had a thing for Emma from our sociology class,” Y/N added with a teary giggle, realizing how silly it sounded now.

Harry’s brows furrowed in confusion. Emma? He had never thought of her as more than a classmate. His friends had mentioned once or twice that Emma might have a crush on him, but he’d never taken it seriously. His focus had always been on Y/N.

Before he could explain, Y/N cut him off. “But now I get it—you don’t like her. It was probably just my insecurities talking,” she said softly, her eyes dropping to her lap as she fidgeted with her fingers, a nervous habit of hers.

“Baby, Y/N, look at me,” Harry gently commanded. “I had no idea you were worrying about all of this. Emma? I’ve probably spoken to her five times at most, and I don’t like her that way at all. You have nothing to be insecure about.” He cupped her jaw tenderly, his thumb brushing her cheek. “You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen, my angel. The only girl I love and care about.”

Harry's thumb continued to stroke Y/N's cheek gently, his eyes soft and unwavering as he held her gaze. “You’re everything to me, Y/N. I’ve never even thought about anyone else the way I think about you. It’s always been you.”

Her breath hitched at his words, the insecurity that had weighed her down for so long now starting to lift. She opened her mouth to say something, but Harry wasn’t finished. His other hand slid down to cradle her waist, pulling her more closer if that was possible. They were basically molded together. 

“I love the way you say my name; I love how you play with my rings whenever you get nervous; I love the way you get excited over little things; I love the way you get grumpy whenever you are hungry; I love the way you look at me when you think I am not paying attention. And I love you; don’t ever want you to doubt that, okay?” 

Y/N felt warmth flood her chest as his words washed over her. She’d spent so long overthinking everything, never realizing that Harry had been feeling the same all along.

She blinked back the last of her tears, smiling up at him. “I don’t know why I thought otherwise,” she whispered, her voice shaky but full of emotion.

Harry pressed a soft kiss to her forehead, his lips lingering there. “Because you care so much,” he murmured against her skin. “And that’s one of the things I love about you.”

Y/N leaned into his embrace, feeling safe and cherished in his arms. the tension in her body melting away.

Harry resting his chin on the top of her head. “But now, no more hiding, yeah? No more overthinking or doubting. It’s just us now. I’m yours, and I’ve always been.”

Y/N tilted her head back to look at him, her smile widening as her fingers laced through his. “Just us,” she repeated softly.

Harry’s heart swelled as he brought her hand to his lips, kissing her knuckles softly. “Just us,” he echoed, his voice a gentle promise.

[babybl00s]

all i need

warnings: smut, kiss kiss fall in love, dry humping (hell yeah) mdni 18+, explicit language etc.

summary: you’ve been working as congressman barnes’ assistant since the start of his campaign. bob has had a thing for you since you showed up one night, giving barnes hell for leaving alpine at your door. he’s smitten, you’re kind of oblivious, and it all comes to a head when bucky has to head out for another mission. (f!reader)

author's note: this is my first smut fic go easy on me. may write a part two to this idk. crossposted on ao3!

update: part two here

It seems like the past few weeks have been filled with nothing but endless stacks of paperwork. You wagered that if you’d stack them all together it’d rival the size of the Empire State Building. You’re so delirious from lack of sleep one night that you almost attempt to test that theory. the thought of it toppling over and you having to reorganize it sobered you up pretty quick, though.

Regardless, it’s a lot. And if it’s not paperwork, it’s responding to emails, and if it’s not responding to emails, it’s warding off the press so your boss doesn’t stumble over his words. Again. He’s gotten better at it, actually, once you’ve given him a bare-bones script of how to give neutral responses that make it seem like he’s saying something of value. Typical politician jargon.

The soft hum of the office today is appreciated. You’d gotten through a bulk of your work last night, so you only have to sift through a couple of files today. Your cubicle is directly in front of Bucky’s office, the paneling high enough to give you some privacy but low enough that you can catch someone slacking off. Decorated with fairy lights and photos of your friends, your dog Ladybug, one of you and Bucky the day he got sworn in. A splash of color in this otherwise grey hellscape.

It’s busy, as it usually is, but not the type of busy that demands frequent coffee runs, or god forbid another all-nighter. The pace is steady, consistent. Your phone buzzes, and you take a quick peek at the screen - Bucky has a meeting in half an hour. You sigh, capping the end of your highlighter and neatly organizing the stack of papers before you. You’d hoped that you didn’t have to bring work home with you again, but that probably was asking too much. 

The file containing information about today’s meeting and Bucky’s talking points are stored securely in the bottom drawer of your desk, which you pull out. You stand, clutching the file to your chest, smoothing out the folds of your skirt and tugging it so it’s properly mid-thigh. You grab your purse and stuff it with the rest of the paperwork you’d been working on, careful not to crease anything. 

Bucky’s at his desk when you peer through the glass, preparing his own notes for the meeting. Two quick raps at the door gather his attention, and he motions for you to enter when he sees it’s you. 

“You have a meeting in 30,” you tell him as you hand the file over to him.

“Thanks,” he gruffs, flipping through the pages. A sense of pride swells within you. You keep the door open as he grabs his stuff, letting it shut behind you as he walks through the office. 

You peruse through his schedule as you follow him to the town car. “After that you have lunch with Congresswomanman Diaz; she’s nice, her wife’s a preschool teacher and they have three kids.”

He leans his head back against the headrest, eyes closed, but you know he’s still listening. You’ve been working for Bucky since the start of his campaign, which was just about a year ago now. You were fresh out of grad-school, desperate for a job. You’d stumbled on an ad online, not expecting much. Imagine your surprise when you went in for the interview and it was freakin’ James Buchanan Barnes in front of you. 

(You’d almost squealed like a schoolgirl in front of him, but you kept your cool. You didn’t want your potential boss to know you had a crush on him when you were younger).

You’d landed the job and you’re here, a year later, helping keep him afloat and bridging the gap between him and his constituents. He’s a chill boss, lets you take the day off whenever you want (although, he has to kinda force you to take those breaks). He actually cares about the people of Brooklyn, fights for them. Listens to your advice, comes to you with questions. Trusts you to keep an eye on his cat, Alpine, when he’s on missions.

It’s a pretty solid gig.

“We’re here,” you announce as the car comes to a stop. He’s the first to hop out of, opening your door for you before you can even unbuckle yourself. You thank him as you step out, smoothing your skirt as you shoulder your bag on. 

Thankfully, his meeting goes by pretty smoothly. He follows your talking points and you’re able to sit on the side and take a couple of notes on your laptop. 

He drops you off at the office before his lunch with Congresswoman Diaz. You take the time to have a quick bite yourself before diving back into work.

It’s the end of the workday and the sun is setting. Bucky never came back from his lunch but you’re not surprised; he tends to go home after he’s had a meeting anyways. Most of the office headed out a bit early too, having finished their work. The office is quieter now, but you’ve just wrapped up the final stack of paperwork so you can finally head home with a clear mind and probably a good night’s rest.

The bus ride to your apartment in Bushwick is uneventful. You see a couple of familiar faces and give them polite smiles, but otherwise mind your business until you reach your stop.

When you enter the lobby, you find that the elevator is busted for like, the millionth time this month. You sigh. It could be worse; you’re on the third floor, which isn’t too bad. But you’ve been wearing these heels all day and they’re starting to pinch your feet. You trek along anyways, wincing until you reach the final step.

Your phone buzzes in your hand. It’s Joaquin, the Falcon (!!!) himself asking if you could relay a message to Bucky. You’re halfway through your message when you see it, sitting at your front door.

Alpine’s carrier. With Alpine in it, meowing at you.

Oh, you could kill Bucky. 

You hit send on your message to Joaquin. Muttering under your breath as you unlock your front door, picking up Alpine as you step into your apartment. You set her on your couch, opening her carrier and watching as she steps out and gives a big stretch, scratching up your furniture like she owns the place. 

The soft sound of nails along your floorboard makes your ears perk up. You feel Ladybug’s form pressing along your thighs, her body wiggling in excitement.

“Hi, Lady,” you coo, turning to greet her appropriately. She pants, wagging her tail in excitement.

You’d adopted her from the shelter not long after you began working for Bucky. A tiny black puppy, shivering in fear in the corner of her kennel. Unusual for a Lab. She pulled at your heartstrings and although you swore you wouldn’t take in a puppy, she had won you over. She’s been thriving at your side ever since.

Luckily, she was still a puppy when you started cat-sitting for Bucky, so she loves the cat like her own. Alpine tolerates her, but you don’t blame her. Ladybug can be a lot sometimes.

Unluckily for Bucky, you were going to murder him. 

Cat sitting Alpine was supposed to have been a one-time deal. Months ago, he had dropped the cat off at your doorstep with a bag of her food and nothing else. No note, no text. Nothing. You hadn’t even known he was dropping her off in the first place. You’d grown up with cats, so you knew how to care for her. So it was fine, in that aspect. Ladybug was a quick learner, so that wasn’t a problem either. 

What you did not appreciate, however, was the lack of communication from Bucky.

So, after a long day of writing emails and drafting up speeches for him, you were fed up. You (stupidly) had left your apartment and drove all the way to Downtown Manhattan, to the Watchtower. Because if he wasn’t at his apartment in Brooklyn, this was the next best guess.

And there he was, lounged up on the sofa with the other members of The New Avengers. Watching a goddamn movie.

But you didn’t see that; you saw red. You had torn Bucky a new one, right there, in front of everyone. Telling him how irresponsible it was, leaving his cat unattended on your doorstep. You, a new grad, tearing into the Winter Soldier himself. When the anger faded you had been mortified, mentally preparing for the worst. Fired. Killed. You were so embarrassed, you’d hoped it was the latter.

Alexei, the Red Guardian, had broken the silence with his booming laughter. “Oh, Winter Soldier, you are so shaken. Like little kitten left out in the cold. Never seen you so scared.” He’d wiped a tear from his eye, body still shaking with laughter. “That was good.”

Bucky had explained to you he had a mission the next day, and didn’t have anyone to watch Alpine. It had slipped his mind. He promised to never do that again, and you kept your job (somehow). 

He hadn’t done it again. Until now.

You should probably let it go. Would, normally. But you’re running on fumes and obviously not thinking clearly because somehow you’ve found yourself at the Watchtower. Again.

You tap your foot impatiently as the elevator brings you to their common room. You can already see him now, sprawled out on the couch sipping on a beer. And if he wasn’t there then you’d march to his bedroom and give him a piece of your mind.

“Barnes,” you fumed as you step out, “what have I told you about -”

You pause. Bucky’s not here. But the figure on the couch jumps at your entrance and turns to you with wide eyes.

“H-hey. Hi,” Bob stutters out, “you’re - wow, um - you’re here.” He stands up and picks up the remote from somewhere on the couch and pauses the movie he’s watching.

Your shoulders drop, and a smile replaces the frown you’d been sporting. “Hey, Bob,” you greet sweetly. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you. I was…looking for Bucky. He left Alpine at my place. Without telling me. Again.”

Bob gives you a nod, understanding. He had been there the first time you blew up on Bucky. Kinda hard to forget. But you’d been so terrified afterwards that you didn’t really pay much attention to your surroundings. 

But then he was kinda always there, not that you minded. A little awkward, but always so kind to you. Cute, too, which was definitely a bonus. Had that nerdy white boy charm that you definitely fell victim to many times in your life. You’d climb him like a tree if he let you.

You haven’t spent that much one-on-one time with him, given your job. And him being a superhero-in-training, or whatever limbo he’s in right now. But the time you have spent with him showed you he was thoughtful, caring. Came to visit Bucky a few times, bringing snacks for him and the whole office. He’d always sneak in a couple more of your favorites, for you to take home and enjoy later, which you were ever so grateful for. 

Sometimes you’d come by the tower, to drop off Bucky’s dry cleaning or an important file he’d left on the desk that he’d need for tomorrow morning’s meeting. And Bob would be there, either in the kitchen whipping up something to eat or by the bookshelf by the floor-to-ceiling windows, sitting on a beanbag chair you’re sure Bucky had you buy. He’d always stop what he was doing, wave to you shyly and pair it with a ‘hi’.

You’re aware of what he’s done. What he…is. A man with more power than the Avengers combined. The guy who made the entire island of Manhattan experience their worst nightmares on repeat. The Blackout.

But you look at him now, in his dark grey sweats and black oversized pullover and a messy head of brown curls and…you can’t see anyone else but Bob. Sweet, soft-spoken Bob.

“He’s not here. They, uh, left. Last minute mission. It’s - it’s just me.” His lips curl up into a smile, but he ducks his head down as if he’s afraid to look at you. You don’t blame him, you kinda stormed in like a bat out of hell.

You sigh, shifting on your feet. You ran all the way over here (lie, you drove here) to give Bucky hell and he’s not even here. And now you’re standing in front of Bob, in your work uniform, probably looking like a lunatic. Ugh. “Any chance he’s coming back soon enough for me to kick his ass?”

That gets a laugh out of him. “I dunno. Maybe. But he’s probably realized by now what he did, right? So he might not be back tonight if he knows that - that you’ll…kick his ass.” You laugh, bringing up a hand to cover your mouth. You don’t see the starry-eyed look Bob sends your way.

You glance down at the time on your watch. It’s getting pretty late. You can kick Bucky’s ass another time, right.

“I should -”

“Did you wanna - sorry, sorry,” he winces, “I didn’t mean to cut you off.”

You shake your head. “No, it’s - you’re fine. Go ahead.”

He takes a minute to respond, looking scared shitless. He wrings his hands together for a bit before he finally says something. “Did you, um, wanna…wanna watch a movie? With - with me?” 

You should probably say no, tell him you have to head back and watch Alpine (even though she’s so self-dependent, you doubt she really needs you) and Ladybug (who’s probably asleep). Tell him you have work to do (which you don’t). That you have work tomorrow (true, but you have a late start). 

This isn’t…appropriate. You think. He’s your boss’ friend. Slash coworker? Which makes him, like, your boss-in-law? Or your boss once-removed. Well, whatever he is, it has to be inappropriate, right? That whole don’t shit where you eat rule definitely has to apply here somewhere.

You take too long to respond, which causes him to back track. He rubs the back of his neck anxiously and adopts a pained expression. “Sorry. That’s - that’s probably weird. You can say no, I was just - I figured that if you came all - all this way, we could -”

“Yes,” you blurt out. He blinks rapidly at your response, unsure if he heard you right. “Yes, I’ll - we can watch. A movie. I don’t - it’s not weird.” Just probably illegal somehow, but you don’t tell him that. You felt bad, what were you supposed to do? Look him in his sad blue eyes and tell him no? You’re not a monster.

You walk over to the couch, your heels clicking softly on the floor. You settle in the spot next to him, on his right side, toeing off your heels as you make yourself comfortable. You almost cry in relief.

Bob sits back down, blanket in his lap as he quietly resumes the movie. The soft light of the TV casts flickering light around the room. Pulp Fiction; a classic. You’d seen it once or twice, enough to know the plot to a degree. Which helps, because your heart is beating out of your chest right now and if Bob were to ask your opinion on the movie you could choke out a believable response. 

Again, cute nerdy guy. Need you say more?

He’s so warm, you could feel his body heat radiating off of him from a foot away. You want to lean into it - lean into him. Your skin feels like it’s buzzing, itching. You shuffle a bit, which catches his attention. He wordlessly shifts in his seat, sitting just a hair closer to you so he can drape the blanket over your stocking covered legs. You feel your face heat up, but thank him regardless. You probably should’ve thrown on a change of clothes before coming here. 

You lean back against the cushions, glancing at him from your peripheral. He’s completely absorbed in the movie, eyes unblinking. You swear you see his eyes sparkle, so you’re glad he’s having a good time.

You think back to the last time you saw Bob. 

It was a couple of weeks ago, at a Gala thrown by Valentina. You were forced invited by Bucky to be his plus-one. It wasn’t exactly your forté, per say. You didn’t like parties all that much - at least, not the stiff, boring ones thrown by people with way too much money. You’d lost sight of Bucky halfway through, which left you alone. In a room full of people you didn’t know.

Fun. 

So you’d sat at a random table, far off from the crowd as you waited for the night to wrap up. Picking at your nails, trying to fight the urge to bite off your press-on’s. Then Bob showed up, in a fitted black and white suit. His hair gelled back, but a few stray curls lay perfectly on his forehead. He cleaned up nicely. 

He took a seat next to you, his lips quirking up into a shy grin. You return one to him, happy to have company. Happy it’s him sitting next to you. 

“You look pretty,” he muttered, rubbing his hands together nervously. You look down at your dress: a black, thin-strapped, square-neck bodice paired with an A-line skirt that brushes along the floor, even with your heels. You feel a rush of heat over your face, flustered.

“Thanks,” you whispered, chewing on your lip in thought. You nudge his knee with yours. “You look nice, too.”

He’d asked you to dance, which you said yes to. He was a pretty good dancer, to your surprise. Never stepped on your feet and kept his hand respectfully on your waist, never straying too high nor too low. It was…nice. Really nice.

And now you’re here, sitting next to him, wondering if he can hear your heart pounding, because you sure can. You can also feel a flutter in your stomach, which. Okay. Not like you’re nervous as it is already. You lean your head back on the couch, angling it so your head is tilted towards him

He chuckles at something that happens on screen and you copy him with one of your own, but it feels empty even to you. You steal another glance, surprised to see that he’s already looking at you.

“Hi,” you whisper softly.

“Hey,” he returns, just as quiet. He looks back at the TV, finding the remote to lower the volume a bit, then leans back on the couch, mirroring your position. He leans on his side, head propped up by the cushions. “I haven’t…haven’t seen you since the party.”

You trace along the pattern of the couch. “Yeah. It’s been a busy month. Lots of paperwork, trying to keep Bucky on track.”

His eyes flicker down to your lips, just for a second. It’s…probably just the reflection from the TV. You both hold each other’s gaze for a moment, the world around you turning to static. The conversation lulls into a tense silence, and you find your breath hitching in your throat. Bob’s expression shifts; his teeth catching his bottom lip. It’s your turn to stare now, blinking back up at him dumbly.

He shifts the tiniest bit more, his knee knocking against yours. 

“Sorry if - if the movie is boring you. I can change it,” but he makes no move for the remote. Keeps his eyes on yours. You trace the flush that develops across his cheeks, down his neck, across his ears. Cute.

You lick your bottom lip. He traces the movement with his eyes. Oh. Okay, so maybe not a trick of the light. You should…probably nip this in the bud. This has to be crossing some sort of professional boundary. Or something, you’re not sure. Bob moves in a little bit closer and it’s kind of hard to think clearly right now. The scent of bergamot overwhelms you.

He raises a hand hesitantly, cups the side of your face tenderly. Rubs your cheekbone with his rough, calloused thumb. Traces it along your cheek, down to your jaw. He cups the back of your neck, stroking your jaw gently. You’re sure he can feel the heat radiating off of your face by now. You bite your lower lip and he follows it again.

He hesitates for a moment, as if weighing his words carefully. “Can I,” he takes in a shuddering breath, “can I kiss you?”

“Yes,” you all but whine. 

He leans in, his lips brushing softly against yours. The kiss is tentative at first, the sudden rush of warmth making a gasp get stuck in your throat. His lips are soft, firm. His nose nudges against yours. 

You kiss him back, just as eagerly, lips moving against his. Your hand finds purchase on his side, your fingertips grazing along the fabric. You lean into him, the warmth of his lips igniting something within you. Your hand travels up and finds its way into the curls that lay nestled at the nape of his neck. He melts, groaning into your mouth, sliding his hand from your jaw to your waist, his pinky stroking your waist. He pulls you in closer, fingers pressing into your skin. Lips pressing harder against yours.

“You’re so pretty,” he whispers against your lips, “so so pretty.” He tilts his head, deepening the kiss. The softness gives way to a passionate, hungry intensity that makes you breathless.

“Bob,” you gasp, placing a hand on his chest. You’re starting to get a crick in your neck, but you don’t want to stop kissing him.

“Mm?” he muffles, reaching up to place a hand between your shoulder blades, urging you to fall into him. 

You push away from him, his lips chasing after yours. He breathes heavily, eyes searching yours.

“I’m - I’m sorry,” he stutters, “was that too much? I -” The words die in his throat as you climb onto his lap, your legs straddling his. The blanket tossed onto the ground. His large hands come up to your waist and steady you. 

You wrap both arms around his neck as you pull him in for another kiss, tilting his head back. You feel his lips moving against yours, with a need that mirrors your own. Your fingers find their way into his hair, and his grip on your waist tightens, pulling you even closer. 

He bites your lip and tugs on it, sucking on it. You open your mouth to let out a gasp, and he takes this as an opportunity to lick into your mouth. He groans at the taste of you, pulling you in closer. Heat starts to blossom in your belly. You feel your skirt riding up your thighs but you can’t be bothered to care right now.

The kiss becomes frantic, wild. His hands have traveled lower, one firmly on your thigh, his thumb rubbing the bit of skin that’s been exposed, while the other is at the junction where your hip meets your thigh. 

“Wanted you for so long,” he pulls away to leave a trail of wet kisses along your jaw, down to your neck. Your hands roam over his broad shoulders, your head leaning against his as you try to catch your breath. You don’t know where he’s gotten this confidence but you are not one to complain.

Bob pulls back and cups your face again, his thumb tracing along your kiss-swollen lips. You give his thumb a tiny peck and he groans, pulling you back in for another kiss. Your giggle morphs into a moan, which prompts him to kiss you with even more fervor.

The sound of the movie continues to play softly in the background, but you’re lost in your own world, blurring with every kiss. You can feel Bob’s hands exploring, tracing light patterns along your back as he pulls you even closer, your chest firmly against his. The heat in your belly is starting to simmer, travel; you can feel it all the way down to your fingertips.

You felt a surge of boldness take over. You press yourself against him, your hips meeting his. A playful teasing of your hips against his makes him whine, which you find that you like very much. Like, a lot. His hands grip the skin of your thighs, right where your stockings end. Right where he can feel the flesh of your thighs.

Bob feels like he’s fucking dreaming.

“Please,” he whimpers against your lips, his breathing uneven and desperate. You give another roll of your hips, relishing in the way he throws his head back against the couch and lets out a pained groan. You stamp wet, loving kisses along the side of his throat, biting down at the junction of his neck. His grip on your thighs tightens, bruising. Encourages your hips to continue that delicious rhythm against his. 

You can feel him, below you. Hard, straining against his sweats. Thick. It makes you gasp, stuttering in your movements. The ache between your thighs is becoming unbearable. You press down on him and Bob groans like you’ve killed him.

“Fuck, you’re killing me,” well, maybe you are. His eyes are squeezed shut, jaw clenched as he breathes harshly through his nose. You study his face for a bit; he’s got nice, long lashes. Fluttering against his cheeks. You roll your hips again.

You squeal as the world seems to turn on its axis, your back meeting the soft cushion of the couch. Feel Bob settle between your legs, your calves pressed against his hips. He’s leaning on his forearms, caging your head between them. Your eyes catch his and you watch in wonder as his irises seem to have a golden hue around them.

“Hi,” you giggle.

“Hey,” he parrots back. Brushes a strand of your hair out of your face. Leaves tiny pecks across your forehead, your cheeks, your lips. Pulls you into another kiss - sweeter, this time, but passionate all the same. You sigh, wrapping your arms around his neck.

He starts to grind against you, the head of his cock catching against your clit. You whine, your fingers digging into his shoulders. He buries his head into the crook of your neck, panting against your skin.

This is so risky. Too risky. Anyone could come back at any second. You could - you could lose your job over this. Maybe. Probably. Hooking up with your boss’ friend is grounds for termination, right? You’d die if Bucky saw you like this.

Bob circles his hips, his length dragging alongside your cunt. Whatever thoughts you were having disappear, too caught up in the pleasure. The friction of his sweatpants against your lacy boyshorts makes you gasp, has you wrapping your legs tighter around him, pulling him closer.

Your hand trails down, rubs along the small of his back. You push up the pullover, your fingers meeting his warm skin. His hips stutter, but continue grinding against you. The couch squeaks quietly beneath you. You can feel just how wet your underwear has gotten, sticky and cold against you. It’s filthy. He’s making a mess of you and you haven’t even taken your clothes off.

You trace along the skin of his defined back. Brush along the ridges of his abdomen, nails catching along his abs. Jesus, sleeper build much? The contact makes Bob moan, and he licks a strip up your neck, biting down and sucking at the skin.

“Bob,” you sob, scrunching your eyes in pleasure as he circles his hips just the right way, “fuck, please. Please.”

He whines, leaving a kiss where he’s left a mark on you and pulling you in for a desperate kiss. You feel his cock throb against your cunt.

“I’ll take care of you, baby, I promise,” his lips brush over yours. His hips jerk desperately, losing the steady pace. He’s becoming frantic. “Dreamt of this for so long. Dreamt of you,” he confesses. You whine, feeling yourself clench around nothing, your thighs trembling.

“Mmph, Bob, Bob,” your fingers weave against his curls, pulling tightly. You feel it building up, the pressure threatening to snap. He’s hard, aching. You’re sure he’s feeling it too. “Fuck. Fuck me, I’m -”

His cock catches on your clit again and you lose it. Your squeal is muffled by his lips smothering yours, your body shuddering as your orgasm wrecks through you. Your thighs clamp around him, your hips canting to help him reach his. He reaches under you and pushes you towards his cock, his hand on the small of your back. Soft, broken whines leave you as he grinds his hips faster against you. It’s - it’s almost too much. 

“You’re so perfect,” he pants. “Fuck,” he chokes out another groan, longer this time, and his hips start to slow down. Ducks his head into your neck and whimpers so loud you could come at the sound of it. You look down and - fuck, that’s so embarrassing. His sweatpants have a wet spot against him, courtesy of you. But you see a little wet spot where the head of his cock is and a sense of pride swells within you.

He presses his lips against you again, slower this time. Like he’s savoring it. He meets your lips again, pushes his tongue in, licking along the roof of your mouth. You moan, nails digging into his shoulders. You feel a bit of drool sliding down your face but he wipes it along your cheek. 

Fuck. He’s so hot it’s ridiculous. 

“M’sorry,” he says through kisses, “if it was, mmph, too - too much,” he sucks on your bottom lip again, making you whimper “did it - did it feel good?”

You could kill him. Here you are, trembling from the aftershocks of your orgasm and he’s asking you if it felt good? 

God. It makes you wanna kiss the shit out of him.

You nod against his lips, tugging his face closer to yours. “Mm-hm,” you add, sucking on his tongue. 

He looks like he’s just about ready to make a mess of you again when the elevator dings. He freezes, meeting your bewildered gaze. You spring away from each other, him wiping his face and finding a pillow to hide the mess on his lap, you pulling down your skirt and trying to make yourself look more presentable. But it's too late.

"Hey Bob, Valentina said to - OH MY GOD," Mel hollered, bringing up her clipboard to hide the scene before her. You know you look a mess, swollen lips and mussed up clothes. Bob is no better, face entirely red and refusing to look anyone in the eyes, staring at the TV like the movie didn't end a while ago. "This isn't happening, this isn't happening," you hear Mel mutter to herself. You'd laugh under different circumstances.

Well now you've got nothing to lose. You grab your heels off the floor and scurry to the elevator, apologizing to Mel as you pass her. You press the button that'll take you to the garage. Bob's eyes never leave yours, his hand in front of him like he'd tried to reach out and grab you. The doors close and you give him a pathetic wave, and you have just enough time to see him return it.

You lean against the railing of the elevator, heart racing and toes still tingling.

Fuck. What did you just do?

[izzih22]

u should write a fic abt a post practice/ post game pazzi facetime call

Yours No Matter the Distance

Note: I promised yall I would post today so here you go. Also this is not based off a real game or anything just an fyi

Azzi Fudd had the Wings game pulled up on her laptop the second tip-off happened.

It didn’t matter that she had training at eight the next morning. Didn’t matter that she had weights, film, and a whole to-do list of team responsibilities. It didn’t even matter that Paige had told her not to stress about it, to “get sleep, baby,” and “catch the highlights in the morning.”

Azzi wasn’t missing a second.

Not of Paige.

Not of her girl.

Not for the world.

She sat cross-legged in bed, oversized UConn hoodie on Paige’s, obviously and her phone on Do Not Disturb as she watched #5 lead Dallas with a kind of control and intensity that gave Azzi goosebumps. There were flashes of that same old swagger, that glimmer Paige always got when she locked in. Her jumper was clean, her dimes even cleaner. Azzi swore she could watch her play for hours and never get tired of it.

Even the commentators were gushing, talking about her vision, her IQ, how the Wings were starting to feel like Paige’s team.

Azzi just smiled and whispered under her breath, “Damn right it is.”

By the time the game ended, Dallas had won by twelve. Paige had finished with 17 points, 9 assists, and a couple of defensive stops that had Azzi actually yelling at her laptop like she was courtside. And now, with the post-game interview wrapped up, Azzi was waiting, phone in hand, the FaceTime already set to Paige’s name.

It rang once.

Twice.

And then—

The screen lit up with a familiar face, damp hair slicked back under a towel, cheeks flushed from the game.

“Hey you,” Paige said, voice a little hoarse but still teasing, that grin pulling wide as soon as she saw Azzi.

Azzi melted. “Hi. You look hot.”

Paige raised a brow and tugged at the towel draped over her neck. “I’m literally sweating through my shirt right now.”

“Exactly.” Azzi leaned her cheek into her palm and gave her a soft smile. “You were so good tonight, P. Like—really good. I’m so proud of you.”

Paige’s expression softened, her shoulders sagging slightly like the weight of the game had finally let go. “Thanks baby. Felt like I finally found my rhythm tonight. Took me long enough.”

“You’ve been so good, though. The stats are crazy. But more than that? The way you lead out there?” Azzi shook her head in awe. “It’s like you were born for this.”

Paige snorted, but it came out shy, like she couldn’t quite take the compliment. “Coming from you? That means everything.”

“Damn right it should.”

They shared a smile, the kind that lingered, the kind that said I miss you even if neither of them had said it yet.

Paige broke the silence first, shifting the phone to show more of the locker room behind her. “I’ve got like twenty minutes before they kick me out. I should shower but…I kinda just wanted to see your face first.”

Azzi curled tighter into the hoodie, which still smelled like Paige even after a few washes. “I was waiting the second the buzzer went off. Had my phone in my hand like a clingy girlfriend.”

“You are a clingy girlfriend.” Paige grinned wider. “Thank God.”

“Shut up,” Azzi laughed. “Like you’re not the one who texts me every two hours on game day for good luck.”

“That’s…different.”

“How?”

“Because I’m obsessed with you. Duh.”

Azzi buried her face in her hands, giggling like she was sixteen again and falling for Paige for the first time. “You’re the worst.”

“Yeah, but I’m your worst.”

They paused again, both smiling too hard to speak. Paige leaned back in her chair, towel still hanging around her neck, and gave Azzi a look so full of love it almost hurt.

“Wish you were here,” she murmured, quieter now. “It’s not the same when you’re not on the bench or waiting for me in the tunnel.”

Azzi’s throat tightened. “I know. I wish I was, too.”

“I swear, every time I make a big play, I look over like I’m gonna see you there. And then I remember…” Paige trailed off with a shrug.

“Paige…”

“I know, I know. It’s just hard. I miss you.”

Azzi blinked hard. “I miss you more.”

“I don’t think that’s possible.”

Azzi bit her lip, trying to keep her voice steady. “I watched the whole game in your hoodie. Had it on the second I got home.”

Paige smiled so wide it nearly broke her. “You’re actually gonna kill me.”

“You deserve it.”

They both laughed softly, and for a moment, the distance didn’t feel so heavy.

Paige tilted her head. “You doing okay, though? Like, really okay?”

Azzi hesitated, then nodded. “I am. It just…sucks, not being there. I wanna be the one running into your arms after games, not sitting here on my bed pretending like FaceTime is enough.”

“It’s not enough,” Paige agreed. “But it’s something. And you’re still the last person I see before I fall asleep. Even if it’s through a screen.”

Azzi smiled again, sad and full all at once. “You know I watch every game, right? Every single one.”

“I know.” Paige’s voice got quieter. “It means everything.”

“I mean, I’d watch you do anything. Basketball just happens to be the sexiest option.”

Paige choked on a laugh. “Oh my god, Azzi.”

“What? You want me to lie?”

“You’re unreal.”

Azzi smirked. “And you’re lucky.”

“So lucky.”

They sat like that for a while Paige in the dim locker room, Azzi curled up in bed, their connection as strong as ever despite the miles between them.

Eventually, Paige let out a sigh. “Okay. I gotta shower. They’re giving me the side-eye already.”

Azzi pouted. “Fine. But FaceTime me again before bed?”

“You already know.” Paige looked right into the camera. “Love you, Az.”

Azzi felt her whole chest swell. “Love you more, P.”

“Not possible.”

“Wanna bet?”

Paige laughed, that raspy, tired sound that still somehow made Azzi’s heart skip. “I’ll call you in twenty, babe.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

They hung up.

Azzi leaned back in bed, still in Paige’s hoodie, screen dark, heart full. It wasn’t the same as being there in person. But it was theirs. And that was enough for now.

Because no matter how far apart they were, Azzi knew one thing for sure:

Paige was hers.

And she’d be watching every game until they were in the same place again.

Side by side. Where they belonged.

[woollypoison]

Spiral

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

You’re not.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you?”

Her grip tightens, your life in her hands.

Your breath catches.

She smiles.

“Please?”

Fucking hell.

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

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

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

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

With a raised brow, “Space Mountain?”

“Splash Mountain.”

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

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

…Almost.

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

“They fucking what?”

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

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

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

“Oh, so now they care—”

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

Or at least, for a second.

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

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

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

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

Giselle is beaming.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You freeze.

It’s not hesitation—it’s pure awe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You do when I make you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She swallows. Tries again.

“Don’t you fucking stop.”

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

You feel it.

She’s so fucking close.

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

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

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

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

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

Yeah. Yeah, you fucking do.

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

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

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

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

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

“I—I can’t—”

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

“Say it.”

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

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

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

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

Fucking screamed.

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

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

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

Until she lifts your head with trembling hands.

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

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

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

She looks like an angel.

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

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

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

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

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

She collapses. 

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

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

She pushes you onto your back.

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

You let her.

You go willingly.

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

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

She kisses your hip bone instead.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“My turn.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You know exactly where this is going.

And so does she.

“Giselle.” Your voice is low, buckling.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t.”

Your grin widens. “I think you just—”

She glares, her grip tightening in retaliation.

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

All of your breath and sound tumbles out of you.

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

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

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

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

And the way she shivers? Fuck.

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

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

She’s dragging this out on purpose.

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

Her eyes flicker. Sparkle, even.

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

“Make me.”

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

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

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

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

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

Weird.

-

You haven’t cried yet since the news.

Giselle has barely stopped.

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

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

“I’m so sorry, I don’t—”

“All—All passed away.”

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

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

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

No. 

Stop.

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

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

“Are you awake?”

Giselle. Thank God.

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

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

You don’t respond. You wish you could.

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

But she wants to.

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

“You should eat,” she tries.

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

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

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

She’s trying. For you.

And you hate it.

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

Her eyes snap to yours, wide and wet.

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

Maybe you won’t either.

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

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

Your family is dead.

And you’re still here.

You should say something

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

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

Now it probably just smells like salt.

“I wasn’t with them.”

Giselle stiffens.

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

It’s impossible to look at her now.

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

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

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

Your family is dead.

You are alive.

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

And you realise you owe your life to Giselle.

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

You’re not accusing her.

Not really.

But it still lands like one.

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

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

You wouldn’t have to be.

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

Because she asked you to stay.

Because she made you stay.

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

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

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

But it’s too late.

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

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

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

“It’s my fault.”

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

No.

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

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

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

You feel like throwing up. 

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

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

Really look at her.

She’s a wreck.

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

Giselle never looks like this.

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

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

“Giselle—”

“I took you away from them.”

Her voice cracks.

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

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

But hearing her say it out loud is worse.

“You should hate me,” you mutter.

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

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

“You saved my life.”

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

And Giselle, she just—

She breaks.

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

This time, it’s worse.

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

“I wanted you to stay.”

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

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

And then, softer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

She’s glad you’re here.

She’s glad you lived.

And she hates herself for it.

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

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

But you don’t have the energy.

You wish you did. You don’t.

And it just adds another layer of self-loathing.

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

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

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

It makes your whole body feel heavy.

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

You just let her cry.

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

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

“I’m sorry.”

Like something just punched your heart.

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

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

She moves. It’s sudden, but careful.

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

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

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

She doesn’t speak.

She doesn’t have to.

She just holds on.

And you let her. Your arms wrap around her.

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

But then you hear it.

A voice.

Not Giselle’s.

Not yours either.

His.

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

Your whole body tenses.

Giselle stiffens slightly against you, feeling it.

Dad.

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

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

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

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

His laugh had been loud, warm.

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

And then he’d grinned.

“But for what it’s worth?”

A pause.

A squeeze of your shoulder.

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

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

Giselle presses closer.

And for the first time in twenty-four hours—

Your eyes burn.

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I was scared,” she whispers.

Your eyes close. “I’m sorry.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I love you,” you murmur.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I didn’t tell them I loved them.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

But it doesn’t fucking matter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then, her voice, breaking the sounds:

“Do you want to talk about it?”

It takes a second to process the question.

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

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

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

Can you even answer that question?

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

Giselle listens. It’s all she does.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Floating.

Stagnant, but being held, and holding on.

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

“Just a little longer,” you murmur.

She shakes her head, forehead rubbing against your chest.

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

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

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

She snuggles into you, and she stays.

-

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

“Are you up?”

Your eyes peel open slowly. “Mhm.”

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

You don’t answer this one.

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

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

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

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

We.

Not you.

We.

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

You really don’t want to go.

But she’s waiting.

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

So you move.

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

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

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

The house doesn’t smell like home.

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

Giselle doesn’t.

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

The kitchen is dark.

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

So you don’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bury them?

That’s too much.

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

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

-

The house is full.

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

This is different.

It’s wrong, worse.

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

But you are.

And thank fuck, so is Giselle.

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

You can’t blame her, she should be.

“I’m so sorry for your loss.”

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

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

That was only a year ago.

And now—

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

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

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

And Giselle?

She moves.

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

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

You take a breather. Regain your composure.

Another.

“They were such wonderful people.”

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

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

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

None of them should be touching you.

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

She doesn’t.

She can’t.

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

And Giselle moves again.

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

She’s hesitating.

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

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

Because you don’t know.

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

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

You don’t even look up for this one.

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

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

Not like you.

Giselle shifts again.

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

Another voice. Another fucking voice.

“They’re in a better place now.”

You exhale so hard it shakes.

You want to ask them where.

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

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

And Giselle notices.

You know she does.

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

She won’t find it.

Another one.

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

You hesitate to answer.

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

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

“Thank you.”

It tastes like poison in your mouth.

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

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

“Time heals all wounds.”

Does it? You can’t help but wonder.

Does it really?

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

What part of that is supposed to heal? 

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

“Stay strong.”

Oh, fuck off.

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

What if you don’t want to be strong?

What if—

Your breath comes in too fast.

Too shallow.

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

“They wouldn’t want you to be sad.”

Oh.

Oh, really?

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

This one almost gets you.

Almost.

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

Your hands are shaking.

And Giselle moves.

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

She just—

Her fingers curl tight around your wrist.

And she pulls.

It’s not gentle.

It’s not a question.

It’s not Can we go?

It’s We’re going.

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

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

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

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

You can still hear them though.

You can still fucking hear them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And she moves.

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

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

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

And you peek at what’s underneath.

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

In this situation?

“Giselle—”

“I don’t know what else to do.”

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

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

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

She crashes into you.

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

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

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

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

She’s shaking.

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

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

Because she’s not just doing this for you.

She needs this, too.

Giselle needs you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Right at you. 

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

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

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

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

But you’re silent. Just, rotting.

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

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

Her head snaps back up.

She’s glowering.

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

“You fucking suck right now.”

Right, you suck right now. Wait. What?

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

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

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

“It’s not supposed to.”

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

She leans in, foreheads mere atoms apart.

“It’s supposed to make you mad.”

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

“I fucking love you!”

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

And how fucking dare she.

“That fucking hurt.”

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

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

“Excuse me?”

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

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

And Giselle pushes back. 

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

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

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

Messy, hot, urgent, familiar, undoubtedly Giselle.

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

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

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

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

Her dress.

You fucking ripped it.

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

“Oh,” she breathes out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fucking hell.

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

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

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

So fucking beautiful it still makes you sick.

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

“Only if you say please.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You had another up your sleeve.

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

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

And still, she continues fighting it.

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

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

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

But you don’t let her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I couldn’t possibly say no to you.”

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

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

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

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

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

You can’t help but grin. “Yeah? Cause you kind of suck right now.”

Her nostrils flare, and she rips the zipper down with enough force to nearly break the damn thing as well. Your slacks and boxers are shoved down, disposed of in one rough motion.

And then she freezes. Her hands glued to your thighs for support. Her breath hitches. Her eyes widen.

“...Okay, what the fuck.”

You blink. “What?”

She tilts her head, fingers wrapping around your cock, testing the weight, the firth, her thumb dragging over the tip before her grip tightens.

“No, like. Actually. Is it bigger than usual?”

A scoff, she can’t be fucking real. “Are you serious?”

“I’m dead fucking serious.” She strokes down your shaft, slow, like she’s gathering data, measuring it to what she remembers.

“Maybe it’s the angle.”

She clicks her tongue like that’s not quite it, tilting her head, still studying you like you’re some kind of science experiment. “Or maybe it’s a rage-induced growth spurt.”

“That is not a thing.”

“Seems like a thing,” she muses.

“It’s not a thing,” you keep asserting.

She circles the head of your dick with her thumb, wiping precum all over it, watching you twitch under her hand. “You seem pretty sure.” “Because I—Jesus, Giselle,” she interrupts you, a quick slide down your shaft sending a jolt up your spine, “because I am sure.”

“Well, I’m gonna pretend it is possible,” she hums, shifting her hips forwards, bucking against you, preparing the base of your cock against her soaking wet cunt, drowning it in her slick with every slow, deliberate and precise roll of her hips.

You feel every bit of it. How ready she is. How warm, how soft, how desperate, how shaky.

You can’t help but tighten your grip on her hips, fingers digging in hard, no intent of ever letting go.

And she’s such a slut for it, the feeling of riding against your dick while your digits dig into her makes her moan, high and breathy, but still contained only to this room.

You can’t let that go unpunished. “You’re still shaking.”

She huffs, daring you to shift your hands to her waist, but she’s gripping your shoulders. “And you’re still talking.”

Her nails make their way down, scratching your chest as she rolls her hips again, slow but insistent, pressing herself against your every inch, teasing, tormenting you both—

“So I guess I need to do a better job,” she puffs, face tilting downwards a little so she can look up at you with a pout. “Let’s see if you can still do the same when these tits you love so much are bouncing in your face.”

She smirks, satisfied, shifting forward, lining herself up above you, her cunt dripping against the tip of your cock, ready—

And then she pushes down.

She sinks on to you, rough and deep, deeper, deeper, until she’s seated in your lap, flush up against you, stuffed fucking full with rage-induced growth.

For a second, neither of you move.

You pulse inside her, feel the way her walls tighten, adjusting, flexing, gripping you like she never wants to let go. The sensation mixes with the way her eyes flutter, unfocused, her hands scratching and digging into your chest, harder and harder like she’s overwhelmed, like she’s processing every inch of you.

She swallows. Tenses her thighs. And she starts moving.

First, it's slow. Rolling. Experimenting what she can handle. She lifts herself up, just a little, and you feel her tremble before she sinks back down. Her and your moans weave into each other.

She does it again. A slow, shaky rhythm, taking you as deep as she fucking can.

And you resist the urge to grip her hips and hold her up, pounding into her until she cries your name to the heavens. For now. Because she’s trembling. Still weak.

She knows it too, but as long as you don’t intervene, she won’t be stopped. She leans in, a soft half-moan half-breath escapes her, her eyes obsessed with you.

“You love this, don’t you? Watching me put on a show for you.”

“Mhm,” you respond, low, throaty, just the way it gets her going.

She smirks, her hands flying into her hair as she lets it cascade over her back, giving you a perfect view of her neckline. “You always get like this when I’m on top. Can’t even pretend to play it cool when my tits are bouncing, can you?”

She’s not wrong. Her tits have a hypnotic quality to them.

Her body moves, slow and deliberate, dragging you back and forth inside her like she’s trying to make clear what you’ve got to lose if you try to play it nonchalantly.

“Just admit it, you’re weak—fuck—weak for my pu—”

She chokes on the last word, her confidence faltering mid sentence as she tries to lift herself, her legs twitching, shaking, muscles threatening to give out. She barely gets halfway up before her thighs tremble violently, still wrecked from her previous orgasm, forcing her to slam back down onto you, her whole body tensing up. It’s quick, and high-pitched. A surprised whimper escapes her throat involuntarily.

You pull back, a face that could only mean to ask her if she wants to find an excuse for that.

She glares up at you, face flushed red instead of its usual shades of pink, panting. “I—” she starts, but her voice shakes.

You help her along, like the loving boyfriend you are. “Having some trouble?” You’re clearly enjoying this, watching her fight against her own body.

And that only pisses her off. Her glare sharpens. “Shut up—” But her legs twitch again, this time not even managing halfway, forcing another stuttered moan out of her.

She’s struggling with the limitations of her own body, huffing in frustration, but not giving up. Her hands grasp your shoulders, and she tries to lift herself up again. In vain. She barely makes it off of you, more of a grinding act, before collapsing onto you with a sharp gasp, staying impaled on your thick cock.

She whimpers another fuck, as her walls clench and flex, forcing her body to do what she wants.

It’s adorable, a sight to revel in. Struggling, mustering all the power she still has left after having most of it fingered out of her. Your hands reaching for her thighs, sweat-slicked, feeling the little movements of muscle on your palm as she forces herself to rise. They tremble violently under her weight before giving out entirely, making her sink back down with a mewl.

Giselle’s cheeks flush an even deeper shade of red, equal parts arousal and humiliation. She bites her lip, warring with herself, considering her possible actions, before finally breaking.

“Fine! Will you please fucking help me already?” she yelps, neediness exemplified.

“There we go,” you crow, immensely satisfied. “Was that so hard?”

Your grip tightens around her hips, your whole body surging forward as you take control, flipping her in one swift, fluid motion, her breath leaving her in a sharp gasp as her back hits the mattress and you cage her beneath you.

Her legs are still wrapped around your waist, but you push them up, folding them into her, making sure she feels everything, making sure she knows exactly what she just asked for.

“This is what you wanted?” you challenge, hovering over her quivering body. “Needed me to manhandle you? To hold you down and use you?”

Giselle squirms in your grip, her pupils blow wide with lust and anticipation. “Fuck yes, I need your cock to stretch me open,” she whines, straining to grind her hips against yours.

She’s being so fucking messy right, and if she gets any louder, you are both running the risk of turning this catharsis into the most humiliating moment of your life. In a desperate attempt to shut her up, you lean down, capturing her lips in a needy kiss, tongue twisting into hers, swallowing all her moans directly into your throat. When you finally pull back, you hold still for a moment, giving her an intense stare matched by her expectant gaze.

“I love you,” you tell her, raw honesty shattering the moment. Her eyes blink in shock, clearly expecting something a lot more depraved to have come out of your mouth. “I fucking love you so much, Giselle. But if you don’t control your volume, you’re going to ruin this.”

Her eyes go wide, her eyebrows shoot up, the kind of look that says “excuse me?” but her body betrays her, leaning in instead of pulling back. “Fine,” she whispers fiercely, “I love you too.”

“Now stop being a sap and fuck me like you want to break me,” she purrs, swirling and bucking her hips into your throbbing girth invitingly. “I want you to have to carry me tomorrow. I want to be limping when you’re done.”

Lust overtakes your brain, painting your vision in the color pink that you can’t help but indulge in. You line yourself up anything but carefully, slamming in, hard, brutal, like you want to break her, burying your entire length in her tight and sloppy heat. Giselle throws her head back with force, walls clamping down on you, and you can see your name spelled on her lips, ready to be cried out. She somehow bites it back, only letting a strained moan escape her.

“Yes” and “fuck” and “oh my god” are chanted deliriously at a volume you’ve both painstakingly mastered to never get caught in the past as you set a punishing pace, pumping in and out of her cunt.

You pound and pound, grunting with exertion, eyes transfixed by the irresistible sight of her voluptuous tits bouncing wildly just past her thighs with each thrust. And she notices, because Giselle knows you. And knows you love watching her tits bounce. So she does the only reasonable thing, which is to arch her back and offer herself to you as much as her strength still allows.

“I know you like watching my tits while you rail me,” she taunts, kneading them together for your viewing pleasure. Giselle loves putting on a show. “Love seeing them shake from how hard you’re pounding me? Hmm, I bet you wanna cover them in cum already, mark them as yours.”

“Fuck, keep talking,” you strain out, angling your hips to hit that perfect spot inside her that makes her see stars. 

Giselle’s eyes roll back in bliss as you pound into her g-spot, absolutely no mercy, no remorse, just brutal fucking with relentless precision. Filthy praise spills from her lips between muted cries of ecstasy. 

She looks at you for a second, hazy eyes starting to roll back as she obediently continues. “Next time, I want you to bend me over that desk and take me from behind while I struggle to stand. Spank my ass until it’s raw and pull my hair while you fuck me stupid. Leave me shaking so bad I forget my own.”

Your rhythm stutters, a guttural groan and risk of drool tearing from you at the deliciously dirty image she construed. Giselle, consistent as she is, notices immediately and grins impishly, emboldened.

“Or maybe you’d rather I ride you in front of the mirror, let you watch my ass bounce on your dick? Let you play with my tits and see how perfect we look together?”

She finds some strength again, meeting your rhythm on a one fourth beat, rolling her hips in sync with your thrusts. “I love how sexy you make me feel. Love when you look at me like you want to devour me, love being your perfect little fucktoy.”

“Keep going,” you growl through your teeth like a desperate animal, picking up the pace, getting lost in her fervor, fucking into her harder, deeper. “Tell me everything.”

“I didn’t forget that I owe you a blowjob, but how about you fuck my face and we call it even?” Giselle continues, shameless and needy not strong enough words to describe her. “Want to choke on your big cock, let you use my throat and paint my face with runny mascara and cum.”

You’re pounding into her with wild abandon, the obscene slap of flesh on flesh echoing through the room, thank fuck for your thick door. Her words inflame your lust to never before seen heights, dipping your head to latch onto one rosy nipple, sucking the sensitive bud atop her heights into your mouth.

“Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck,” she drools out, punctuation getting forgotten as she grows incoherent with pleasure. “That feels so fucking good. They’re so fucking sensitive for you, please bite them, leave your marks all over me. Shit, I could cum just from you playing with my tits…”

And what are you, if not a loving boyfriend, obliging her filthy request, nipping and suckling at her flesh, determined to cover her mounds in hickeys and teeth marks. Cover her in you.  Never relenting your pace, drilling into her squelching pussy like a man possessed by a pink haired goddess. Some kind of Aphrodite.

Her cunt is practically gushing everytime you move your cock, soaking your thighs with her arousal.

“Close, I’m so fucking close,” she slurs, but not in the way that would get a themepark to close a faux landmark. “Don’t stop, don’t you dare fucking stop—please, I fucking need it—cum for me too, paint my fucking cervix white, breed me, fuck, knock me up, shit shit shit, I’m gonna—”

Her filthy pleas are your undoing, destructive, a siren’s call drowning you from head to hilt. The sound that escapes from you is feral as you slam into her one last time, burying yourself as deep as is physically possible and then some. Your core tightens, your hands push her thighs flat against her body in way that will leave her sore in more ways than one, as the worst idea you’ve had yet doesn’t take time to consider itself, just throbbing straight through your cock, pulsing and erupting inside her, thick spurts of cum painting her insides filling her up.

Something about being too caught up in the moment.

Giselle is soon to follow, orgasm crashing over her, this one harder than before, triggered by the new sensation of your scalding seed flooding her clenching cunt. Her eyes roll back once more, the start of your name up to the first vowel breaking through her throat, shockwaves of pleasure tearing through her quivering body.

You recognize the danger, quickly clamping a hand over her mouth, half falling into her before catching you back up with your other hand, muffling her debauched cries, Giselle being too far gone to stay quiet on her own. Her lips are wet against your palm, breath heating you up as she bucks and writhes beneath you, impaled on you making her overflow, being equally guilty with how she milks for you every last drop you have.

The world shrinks and vision narrows to just you and Giselle, overcome and lost to feeling. Feeling her, feeling yourself, feeling… alive. Your hips piston in short, sharp thrusts on instinct, working your release as deep into her trembling body as possible, driven by some naturalistic part of yourself you’ve newly reacquired, a need to claim her and fill her to the brim with your essence.

And she takes it all with desperate enthusiasm, greedily and eagerly accepting everything you give her like you’ve done this a hundred times before. You haven’t, not even once.

Her life-giving eyes are squeezed shut, cheeks flushed the same pink as her favorite brand of peach colored lipstick, features slack with untainted pleasure. She looks utterly defiled, fucked silly, like the very picture of a perfect girlfriend and her wanton debauchery.

Your cum is leaking out around your shaft, dripping down between you, staining her bedsheets—still yours, but if she’s dripping on them, it’s her problem. Knowing her, she will make an argument it’s your fault because it’s your cum. 

She’s never looked more beautiful, like an angel meant to absorb all your sins.

The aftershocks of her second crash ebb away, leaving you both panting, your hand sliding off of her mouth. Exhaustion hits all at once, causing a collapse on top of her and only bracing for a fraction of the impact on your forearms so as not to crush her. Pillowy tits caught most of the impact anyways, welcoming you gladly, trembling limbs following up and clinging to your sweat-slicked back.

“Holy shit,” she whispers, her voice hoarse but soothingly contented. “You’re carrying me tomorrow. No fucking choice. I can’t feel my legs anymore.”

You chuckle, actually chuckle, or maybe it’s better described as a snicker turning into a chuckle, reintroducing Giselle to a sound she thought she lost. She immediately surges up to capture your lips, tasting the sweetness of the laughter on your mouth with sloppy abandon, all tongue and spit and residual passion. She’s grinning dopily up at you as you break apart, and it does something to you. 

She sighs, twitching beneath you. “Tch. After everything I let you do to me, all the places I said you could have made a mess of…” Her smug smirk makes an entrance as she tilts her chin down. “You just had to fill me up instead. Nice and dangerous.” Your pulse is still hammering, the implications of what you just did barely catching up to you before she derails it completely. She tilts her head, mock contemplation, but her smile is pure smug, a deadly taunt, hammering away at you. “And here I thought you wanted to see how pretty I’d look, tits covered in cum, dripping down my stomach.” Your jaw clenches, but she’s not done yet. “Or maybe,” she continues, “you wanted me on my knees, tongue out, looking up at you while I begged for it. Feel how messy I’d get swallowing everything that drips out.” She exhales, all faux-disappointment, licking her lips like she’s tasting the mere thought of you. “I get it though.” She grins, utterly fucking depraved. “It felt fucking amazing. I would have picked this too.”

“You’re insane.”

And so are you. For her. Staying like that for a moment, longer than a mere moment, just existing in the intimacy. Eventually, you pull out of her, a wet squelch announcing your physical separation.

The mixture of your combined fluids immediately starts to drip out of Giselle’s thoroughly fucked pussy as you pull out, a lewd concoction of her arousal and your thick cum. She whimpers, one eye closed, at the loss of your cock stretching her open, the sensation of your release seeping from her folds making her shiver.

There’s a sparkle of mischief in your eye, the glint indicative of the kind of challenges you and Giselle always throw at each other, and she characteristically notices, but just observes. You swipe two fingers through the mess between her thighs, coating them liberally in a layer of your shared passion.

She follows your digits through hooded lids, chest still heaving, a smirk turning into a surprised moan as you raise your slick fingers to her lips, painting them with you and her before pushing inside. Her eyes flutter shut in bliss as she eagerly accepts the offering, tongue swirling around the digits, lapping up every drop of your combined taste.

“Mmm, we taste so good together, you know?” she purrs sultrily once you withdraw your fingers with a signature Giselle pop. She opens her mouth, presenting the elixir on her tongue. “Want a taste?” You hadn’t considered it before, but half of what was in there was hers, and with a shrug of your shoulders, you dive in, kissing her haphazardly, tongue pressing against hers and swirling into a helix, tasting how good you two really come together. You pull back, and she swallows your cocktail down, proudly presenting an empty mouth.

“You do know a quick swipe isn’t enough to keep me from getting knocked up though, right stud?” She punctuates her words by clenching her walls, more of your release dripping out to pool on the sheets. “I can still feel so much of your cum inside me. We’re definitely getting plan B tomorrow, and you’re paying.”

Your cock twitches between your legs, as though being called to action. “If you keep spewing filth, I’m going to get hard again.”

“Promises, promises,” Giselle singsongs, grinning at you. She looks thoroughly well-fucked, hair a wild and pink tangle, skin covered in sweat you wouldn’t mind getting a taste of, your marks littering her breasts, throat and rearranged insides.

This is satisfaction. 

You collapse next to her on the bed, one arm slipping under her and the other over her, gathering her up into you. She comes willingly, a little joyous squeal escaping, tangling your legs together, uncaring of the sticky mess. Exertion turns into exhaustion as you listen to your racing heartbeats gradually slow and even out.

This was exactly what you needed to take your mind off of things for once, but as the high fades, reality sets back in. It feels different, something unspoken that settles over the both of you, settling into the spaces in the room where grief and love have spent the last few days battling for dominance.

Your forehead rests against hers at its most comfortable, close enough you can hear every breath as it keeps her here. Her fingers brush over your back softly, fingertips gliding idly, starkly in contrast with the frantic clawings she left earlier.

Silence falls between you, but it isn’t the kind you want to chase away. It’s the one that says it all. Not oppressive or suffocating anymore. Just… full.

You shift slightly, not because you want to leave her, something simple, the feeling of your arm starting to fall asleep, and Giselle groans. “You are not allowed to move yet.”

“Says who?”

“Says me,” she mutters. “Stay.”

It’s a simple request you never had any intention to ignore. But it’s the way she says it—soft, drowsy, fragile—that turns it into an impossible request to ignore.

Your face buries into the crook of her neck, planting soft kisses against her flesh, the scent of sex and sweat wrapping around you.

“I love you,” she whispers, and it's so damn near silent that you’re not sure if she said it for you to hear or for herself.

You close your eyes, settle into her and answer back anyways. “I know.”

She exhales, a snicker preluding her. “You’re supposed to say it back, asshole.”

Your lips curl into a smirk, tugging at your lips, but there’s not a trace of teasing in your voice when you respond to her a little too quickly. “I love you too.”

Her body relaxes, and yours follows suit. More silence follows, More warmth. More of just simply being.

Then, Giselle huffs and puffs, your hands automatically on her waist. “You know we’re stuck here until everybody has left, right?”

You grunt, but you don’t even bother to lift your head. “What?”

“My dress is currently in several pieces on the floor,” she remarks, no question about who the accusatory tone was meant for. “And while I am thrilled by the feral caveman display of strength, it does leave me exactly with zero options for leaving this room.”

You snort, shifting just enough to glance at the shredded fabric scattered across the floor like some ruined jigsaw puzzle. “That sounds like a you problem.”

Her gasp is clearly exaggerated, and the weak shove she gives your shoulder is a dead giveaway. “Excuse me? You did this!”

“Mm,” you hum, unconcerned with her accusation. Truth be told, you’d take any excuse to be stuck here with her forever. Still, a comeback felt deserved. “I clearly remember you telling me to ‘tear you apart’”

“That’s unfair, that was in the heat of the moment!”

“Almost everything we just did was in the heat of the moment.”

She opens her mouth faster than she can think of a clever comeback, and you can see the gears spinning in her head but not coming up with anything useful. Her mouth snaps shut, her eyes glare at you in betrayal. “I hate you.”

A familiar song and dance. “No, you don’t.”

“No,” she agrees, her shoulders dropping and releasing tension, as she nudges closer to you. “I really, really don’t.”

And you don’t feel like you’re spiraling anymore. Like the world is collapsing around you and you’d just let it. Like a husk of a man, just keeping the body alive while the mind is drifting further and further away into oblivion.

You feel… at home with her.

Her hand lifts, fingers brushing against the side of your face, undoubtedly noticing the weirdly optimistic crestfallen expression you carried. “What?” she murmurs.

Your throat tightens in its familiar constriction, but you manage to speak anyway. “My dad said something before they left.”

Giselle’s fingers still against your skin, as if bracing for impact. “Yeah?”

You swallow, inhaling like it might make this easier, but nothing can. “He said he felt better knowing I’ll have you.”

The words hang between you. Giselle stares, blinks once, and lips part slightly at their center, but nothing comes out. Not even air. Clueless on what to say to something like that, something that raw.

You sigh, resigned, but with a tinge of optimism that some might confuse for naivety in your tone. “Guess he knew what he was talking about.”

The muscles in her face loosen, and she responds with her body first. Not hesitant, not afraid, a sense of certainty and clarity guiding her.

Her fingers find familiar footing in your hair, another hand palming your jaw, warming it up and comforting you. She’s taking you in—and yesterday it would have been because she’s worried, but today it’s because she isn’t. Like she knows you, down to your very bones, exactly who you are and she’s waiting for you to realize it too.

“Right,” she breathes with ease. “You still have me.”

The words are like a magic spell, settling somewhere into the ache in your ribs, into the spaces grief left raw and you tried to dispose of, a stitch pulling on the raw flesh of an open wound, preparing it to heal.

You don’t know what to say to that. You don’t think there’s anything you can say to that.

You hang loose in her touch. She lets you. Lets you take your time. Because she knows.

You’re not okay.

Not yet.

But Giselle makes it feel like maybe that’s okay too.

That maybe it’s enough for now to know that you’re still here with her, that she’s saved your life twice now. And tomorrow you can take her up on all the filthy promises she’s made, but if you need to just be in her arms today, that’s fine too.

Because you still have her.

[barcapix]

hello! is it possible you do a soft launch for lando norris? i see you write for him and it would make my day ml🤍

can it be based off a post race gesture he gives to y/n in the audience, then with the interview after they spot a bracelet on his wrist ( and maybe her initial on his helmet too?)

but whilst the interview is going on, she’s standing a fair distance away but lando can still see her from his interview and he can’t stop smiling??

sorry if it’s long 🤍

✮ Publicly Devoted - Lando Norris

Lando Norris x Fem!Reader

SY: during a race in a podium win, he soft launches your relationship after a few subtle hints.

A/N: he actually needs to win a race soon to make this realistic (😔) let’s just say for this fic that y/n’s name is 3 letters long bcus…

Warnings: zero.

masterlist

This was your third public appearance of being Lando’s new girlfriend, although hidden. You both agreed to keep it a secret for the time being, actually enjoying the peaceful company whilst it lasted.

You were flooded with fans nearby, unsuspiciously blending in with their antics, as you appeared to be one of their own.

Fans were soon going to latch onto the secrecy, but your mind never wandered to when that would be.

Unexpectedly, it being today.

The cacophony of the crowd reached a deafening fever as Lando pulled his car into parc fermé, his second-place finish well earned after a nail-biting final stint.

As the drivers emerged one by one, the cameras captured the usual post-race celebrations, but something about Lando’s demeanor seemed different. He pulled off his helmet, his hair tousled and damp with sweat, and scanned the sea of faces gathered by the barriers.

And then he saw you.

Standing near the front of the crowd, you were burying your number 4 jersey underneath a black leather jacket, which also happened to be his.

You waved with an understated and permanent smile that only he would notice, seemingly standing tall above all others that he was facing.

A flicker of recognition crossed his face, and before he could think twice, Lando raised his hand in a subtle, three-finger wave — a gesture that passed unnoticed by most, except you.

The corners of your lips twitched up, a private response to his unspoken hello.

After the crowd dispersed from the stands, you took your instructions from your friend, to watch your boyfriend give his thoughts on his win.

Yeah sure, he would tell you all about it later but you wanted to capture the raw emotion he was feeling. The adrenaline, the rush.

He deserved every part of this. Longingly.

You patiently passed through the audience at the back, setting yourself to stand just behind the fabric lining to get the an outlook of Lando speaking his mind away.

Pulling your cap lower to your eyes, the shutter clicks and flashes from the cameras erupted hysterically, as you moved your attention to the brunette walking up to the report station.

Lando waltzed in, and by the looks, slightly drunk and dazzled with champagne head-to-toe. The alcohol was drizzling from his curls, the droplets highlighting his face in a silky glow.

He nervously set his helmet down on the table beside him, a fresh initial, *y* etched delicately near the visor hinge. A personal touch from you: a small burgundy lipstick mark was dotted next to it, shining luminously in contrast to the neon yellow colouring.

Although it wasn’t necessarily huge, sharp-eyed fans would surely take note of it later, but for now, it was just another detail in the tapestry of speculation for your McLaren boyfriend.

“What a great result for you today, Lando,” the reporter began, her smile genuine. “Second podium in a row! You must be feeling pretty good about the car and your performance out there.”

He nodded, fidgeting with the mic wire as he spoke. “Yeah, really happy with the team’s progress. The car felt great, and I think we managed the strategy perfectly. Overall, just a solid race weekend.”

The interviewer’s eyes dropped for a second before raising an eyebrow. “And I have to ask—nice bracelet. New?”

Lando glanced down at his wrist, where a sleek, braided bracelet rested snugly. It was adorned with both of your eye colours: aqua blue and a crispy brown.

A small silver charm dangled from the band, just visible enough to catch the light. His response came quickly, though the faintest blush betrayed his inncoence. “Oh, uh, yeah. It was…a gift.”

His slight slur raised questions, his eyes wildly intoxicated.

The reporter smiled knowingly but didn’t press any further. Instead, she followed his gaze, which had shifted just slightly over her shoulder. Lando’s eyes lingered on a shadow standing at a distance, tucked near the edge of the paddock gates.

You.

Despite your heart swirling and throbbing against your chest, you kept composed, arms crossed, in attempt to keep your thrill at below social level.

Your eyes met his, adminst the craze for the briefest moment. Even if it was for a second, the pure affection in your gaze made Lando’s smile grew wider, softer, the sort of smile that felt too personal for television.

Something was captured in the glimpse of his eyes too. Something special. Something devoted.

“Someone special cheering you on today?” the reporter ventured, testing the waters.

Lando chuckled, shaking his head as if brushing the question aside, but the grin on his face gave him away. “Let’s just say I had some good motivation.”

His composed mask had slipped, his complete devotion for someone, now open for the world to see.

Caught in the act.

As the interview wrapped up, Lando stepped away, his helmet in hand. “C’mere man!” Oscar gestures as Zak also urging him back over.

Team principal, Andrea, hollered him over too, a much needed debrief of the race not long ago.

Nonetheless, he kept a steady and lustful lock on you, eachother mirroring the same lovesick beam that brought you two so close.

But before he walked toward the team, he earned a way to dedicate this to you — this time, his three-finger wave was subtler, hidden behind the helmet’s curve.

You almost imperceptibly nod, your lips curving into the kind of smile meant only for him. He passes a genuine wink your way, making you shake your head and laugh into the palms of your hand.

The shutter of clicks grew louder, more intense and apparently aiming your way.

As always, the camera’s captured it all.

tags: @n0vazsq @ficloversblog

[syluxs]

weekend heat

pairing: sylus/reader

summary: you and sylus have always been just friends--flirty friends, sure, but still just friends. that is, until you "accidentally" text him a request for a sexy picture.

notes: the banner used below is from starmocha

1: a moment of boldness

it was late, and you were feeling extremely bold.

sylus had always been your favorite person to flirt with--effortlessly charming, sharp-witted, and just cocky enough to make it fun. but tonight, for reasons you’d blame on exhaustion (or maybe just boredom), you decided to take things a step further.

so you sent the text.

y/n: send me something sexy :)

you stared at your phone, heart pounding. you could still unsend it. you could say it was a joke. or--

ding.

sylus: Did you mean to send this to me?

you bit your lip as you tried to suppress a smile, trying to decide how to play it off. before you could type a reply, another message popped up.

sylus: Should I be honored?

oh, he may be enjoying this.

y/n: oops. my bad. wrong person.

a lie. a stupid, dumb lie. but maybe it would save you from complete embarrassment, the feeling of regret and shame suddenly starting to bubble up in you.

sylus: Shame. I was just about to take my shirt off too.

you stared. he was definitely messing with you.

y/n: oh don't let me stop you.

sylus: Oh? but it wasnt meant for me

y/n: i mean, if you really wanna send one, i won’t stop you.

y/n: this is actually strictly for scientific purposes

you could already imagine the smirk on his face through the screen. sylus loved teasing you, and this was prime, excellent material. you pictured him leaning back, phone in hand, eyebrow raised as he typed out his next message.

sylus: Oh, so this is about science?

y/n: yep. purely educational.

sylus: Interesting. what exactly are we studying here?

y/n: so the effects of good lighting on abs

a pause.

then--

sylus: You know, if you wanted to see me shirtless, all you had to do was ask.

your face was burning. he was having way too much fun with this.

sylus was ridiculously attractive--something you’d been painfully aware of since the moment you met him.

but that didn’t mean you were about to let him have the upper hand.

y/n: no way

y/n: ok fine. it's whatever, if u wanna show off then go ahead

y/n: i’m asking

another pause. you stared at the typing indicator, your heart doing somersaults. then--

ding.

a photo.

you clicked it open, and--oh.

the lighting was almost too good, casting sharp shadows and highlighting every inch of his defined muscles. sylus was sprawled across his bed, one arm propped behind his head, the other was holding his phone at just the right angle. his shirt was completely gone, probably tossed aside somewhere out of frame, leaving his toned chest and sculpted abs completely exposed.

if this was someone else, you would've immediately blocked their cringey and sleazy ass. heck, you won't even bother sending them a message in the first place.

but this is sylus. and sylus is... sylus.

his skin was golden, the warm light accentuating the dips and curves of his lean, athletic build. every ridge of his stomach was sharp, his v-line disappearing beneath the waistband of his... boxers? honestly, you weren't sure as you've never seen him wearing sweatpants or the likes. jeans were the most casual piece of bottoms you've ever seen him wore. anyway, whatever it was, it hung just low enough to make your mouth go dry.

his hair was tousled, just messy enough to look effortlessly perfect, like he had just run his fingers through it. strands fell across his forehead, making him look even more attractive.

but it was his expression that sent a rush of heat through you.

he wasn’t just smirking. he also has this half-lidded gaze, sharp yet lazy, look in his eyes, like he knew exactly what effect this was going to have on you. one side of his lips was curled upward, his jaw sharp enough to cut, and his entire posture screamed unbothered confidence.

it was a picture sent to ruin you. and it was working.

your brain short-circuited, hand flying to cover your mouth.

honestly, why does he keep indulging you?

sylus: Scientific enough for you?

you swallowed. you could play this cool. you had to play this cool. you need to play this cool.

y/n: hmmm

y/n: needs further study

sylus: Oh? So you need more evidence?

y/n: obviously.

sylus: youre insatiable.

y/n: and you love it hhha

sylus: I do.

your breath hitched. why did he not say something snarky? his reply felt like… more than just flirting.

before you could overthink it, another message popped up.

sylus: So… Still just friends?

your breath was caught in your throat. it wasn’t the first time he’d said something like this--little comments, teasing remarks that almost sounded serious.

sylus had always flirted like it was a game, but sometimes, just sometimes, it felt like there was more to it. like he was waiting for you to pick up on something you kept ignoring, 'cause why the hell would sylus want anything more with you? what would he even get out of this? he's sylus--gorgeous, tall, rich, he has everything. you were just… well, not to sound insecure, you.

so you did what you always did. you brushed it off.

besides, if he wanted something more, he will need to be more direct as you're not the type to just assume things.

y/n: friends who do scientific research together!! :DD

the typing bubble appeared. then disappeared.

you stared.

was he actually thinking hard about what to reply? sylus never hesitated. he always had a response ready, always knew exactly what to say to keep the conversation rolling, to keep you flustered.

but this time, he was pausing.

when the typing bubble popped up again, your heart pounded.

then--

sylus: Hm okay think I like this study group.

your stomach is aching.

y/n: yeah….... me too.

you exhaled, staring at the screen a second longer than necessary. this was just how you and sylus were--pushing, teasing, toeing a line neither of you acknowledged. and yet, something about this felt different. seriously, you asking, and him sending a topless picture? is that still playing around?

this time, sylus didn’t reply right away. a full minute passed. then another.

you were overthinking, just because he always never lets you be the "last chat".

your phone buzzed. not a text.

a call.

sylus.

you felt your heart drop to your stomach.

you hovered over the answer button, heart racing. shit, your hands were even trembling a bit. from excitement? from nervousness? who knows.

then, before you could stop yourself, you picked up.

"so," his voice came through the speaker, smooth, amused, but lower than usual. "do you need a minute, or are you done losing your mind over me?"

your stomach flipped violently.

no, you were not gonna let him have the upper hand.

"w-what?" you stammered, cursing yourself immediately. and hung up.

but you were too flustered to speak with him right now.

sylus had always been a gentleman--not in an obvious, in-your-face way, but in the way that mattered. he never pushed, never demanded, never made you feel like you owed him anything. you never said it out loud, but you always appreciated that about him. it was one of the main reasons you even entertained this back-and-forth in the first place. you weren’t the type to flirt for fun unless there was at least something there. and with sylus? yeah, there was definitely something.

and even now, after sending you that picture, he wasn’t asking for anything in return. no sly requests, no hints that you should even the score. nothing.

maybe he just wasn’t interested like that. maybe this was just another game to him.

sylus was a lot of things--cocky, annoying, too smooth for his own good--but he was also a big consent king. if he wanted more, he’d want you to say it first.

he didn't even hint that you should return the favor.

but now, you were thinking about doing it anyway.

your fingers twitched. would it really be that crazy?

he’d been teasing you all night, knowing exactly what he was doing. but what if, you turned the tables on him?

what if you made him flustered?

[kokokoula]

sypnosis & tag: you see tsukishima's childhood room for the first time. established relationship. it's fluff.

a/n: i really wanted to go back to my roots because i refuse to show that i've been overtaken by horniness. i blame it on the depression. i had this fic rotting in the drafts since last year, and i'm so happy to finally be done with it and share it with you guys.

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡

you step into the small world that was kei's encompassed by four walls, gaping at everything around you.

"it's just my room, don't make it such a big deal." tsukishima remarks, his ears red.

"hush, let me admire in peace."

the first thing you notice is the number of dinosaur figures neatly displayed on the shelf on the wall. you know a few facts about each type now, thanks to tsukishima's rants. like how the stegosaurus actually had a tiny brain, and that the parasaurolophus used its crest to help with communication.

although you never did have an interest in the extinct reptiles, you can listen to him go on about them for hours. how could you not, with that glint in his eyes and the slight upward curve of his mouth? you giggle, thinking of how the cool and 'indifferent' tsukishima kei is secretly a nerd at heart. a nerd who you ultimately fall for.

you shifted your attention to his organised desk, with books propped up on the table supported by a book stand holder. you run your fingers through the spines. natsume soseki, osamu dazai, murasaki shikibu...

"you really liked the classics, huh?"

there are a few books on paleontology and dinosaurs, too. expected.

"they were alright. some of them were for literature class in school." tsukishima answers, resting his weight on the table. you take one of the books out from the stand and flip through its yellowing pages. words are highlighted and underlined, and notes written in what you recognise as his ever-so-neat handwriting on sticky notes pasted onto the pages. you're about to close the book until something catches your eye.

"did you just call the character a loser?" you laugh, bringing the book closer to your eyes to properly examine it. tsukishima tips the book down to see it for himself.

"oh, right. and i still stand by my case."

you shake your head before putting the book back to where it was.

his older pictures are framed on the wall, like the many others hung around the house. the oldest photograph in the room, you assume, shows akiteru teaching a much smaller kei volleyball. he has that same focused and determined eyes during a match now, just that with childlike wonder. the photo instantly becomes one of your favourites of him. you immediately unlock your phone to access the camera.

"i didn't say pictures were allowed." your boyfriend plucks the device out of your hands. you groan.

"please? just one? i already missed out on the small and innocent version of you."

"it's a no." tsukishima pockets your phone in his jeans pocket. "if it's with you, it's bound to be exposed to the public."

"whatever, i can ask akiteru to send a picture to me." you huff.

"i'll kill him if he does so."

you eventually reach to the last framed photograph, with tsukishima in his karasuno jersey, gathering around with his teammates for the shot. first year tsukishima is lankier with thicker framed glasses, and without the bangs. he still has that resting bitch face though, another thing that has never seemed to change. tsukishima gave you a death look when you pointed that out to him.

your imagination starts to run, picturing a younger kei with his shorter haircut, how he's studying at his desk, or reading one of those books you saw. you think of your counterpart, maybe pouring over homework beside him, or more likely, pestering him as he does so. you smile to yourself at the thought of it.

"do you think we would still end up together if we met in high school?" you wonder aloud.

"who knows?" tsukishima shrugs as he sits on his old bed. he takes your hand and pulls you into him, away from the photos. "it doesn't matter anyways."

you meet his soft gaze, the kind he only gives to you. you hope that among all the things about him that stays the same, the way he looks at you will be one of them. he really is yours, you think, all of him. the boy who is fascinated by dinosaurs, the boy who disses on people (both real and fictional), the boy who will never stop loving volleyball... he glances at your lips, subconsciously licking his own, and you don't hesitate to close the gap between you two.

kei is right. it doesn't matter if you'd ended up together earlier, because you get to have him for yourself in the end.

----

the both of you continue lounging on his bed until his mother calls.

"lunch is ready! come eat while it's still hot!"

"coming, ma'am!" you answer. you instantly got up and tug on his arm to follow suit.

"what, are you that hungry?" he says but complies.

"no, i just don't want to keep your parents waiting." he can tell by the look on your face that you're still nervous about having them like you. it's kinda nice, that you genuinely want to be close to his family. he sighs and flicks your forehead.

"you'll be fine." in any case, his parents were excited to meet you before you came, constantly on his back about bringing you over. they'll no doubt accept you with open arms.

tsukishima shuts the door to his old room as you pull him along out to join his family; he steps out of the past, and follows his future.

[kxsagi]

Heyyyy!!!! I have another request

So isagi or nagi (you can choose) want their girlfriend attention cause there studying for too many hours (they payed attention to them a hours ago) and they need 'break' really is just them wanting attention

Thanm you before hand!!!!!<3

“𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝟏𝟎𝟏”

a/n: anything for you princess 💓 includes both nagi seishiro & isagi yoichi! 

“𝐩𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐦𝐞”

you sit at your desk, surrounded by open textbooks, half-finished notes, and a blinking cursor on your laptop screen. the air smells like coffee and highlighters, and the only sound is the clacking of your laptop keyboard. you’re in the zone, your mind a well-running academic machine. 

then a voice breaks through your focus. 

“hey," nagi drawls, leaning against your chair, controller still in hand. "you've been at it for hours. maybe take a little break?" 

you barely glance at him. "i’m fine." 

he sighs dramatically, plopping onto your bed with a loud thump. "c’mon, you always say that. but what if this time, your brain actually needs a break?" his voice dips into something persuasive, something teasing. "what if your boyfriend needs your attention?" 

your fingers pause over the keyboard. "you’re just trying to get me away from my work." 

he grins, unbothered. "nooo, i’m trying to make sure my incredibly smart, incredibly hardworking girlfriend doesn’t burn out." he stretches, tilting his head at you. "and, okay, maybe i do miss you a little. can’t a guy be needy?" 

you sigh, rubbing your temples. he’s relentless. always hovering, always looking for ways to pull you away, under the guise of self-care, of course. but you also know him well enough to see through the act. 

“you don’t actually care about me resting," you say, turning in your chair to look at him fully. "you just want me to pay attention to you." 

his eyes gleam. "you say that like it’s a crime." 

you shake your head, exasperated but… amused. he looks so smug, sprawled across your bed, watching you like you’re the final boss he’s determined to beat. and, really, what’s a short break going to hurt? 

with a sigh, you close your laptop. nagi’s face immediately lights up. 

“there we go!" he grabs your hand, pulling you onto the bed beside him. "welcome back to real life, babe. we missed you." 

you roll your eyes, but when he loops an arm around your waist and presses a quick, satisfied kiss to your temple, you think, maybe, just maybe, a little attention isn’t the worst thing. 

“𝐞𝐱𝐭𝐫𝐚 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞”

you're sitting at your desk, posture perfect, pen gliding across the page as you annotate yet another chapter. your planner is color-coded, your notes immaculate, everything in its rightful place. the world beyond your studies is irrelevant. 

well, almost. 

because there’s isagi. 

your boyfriend, a soccer star and a golden retriever in human form, currently flopped across your floor like he’s been defeated in battle. 

"i’m dying," he groans, dramatically draping an arm over his face. "i ran, like, a thousand miles at practice today. my legs are jello. my coach is a monster." 

you hum, unimpressed, as you flip to the next page of your textbook. "sounds like you should be resting, then." 

"i am resting," he says, rolling onto his stomach, chin propped up by his hands as he stares at you. "but it’d be better if my girlfriend cared about my suffering." 

"i do care," you reply without looking up. "i just have an exam in two days, and you being clingy isn’t going to change that." 

"clingy?" he gasps, placing a hand over his heart like you've wounded him. "that’s crazy. i’m just a guy who wants five minutes of attention from the love of his life. is that a crime?" 

you finally glance at him. he’s pouting, eyes big and pleading, the way he gets when he wants something. the worst part? you know exactly what he’s doing, and it still works. 

"i just sat down," you say, though your resolve is weakening. 

"you sat down nearly three hours ago, and you’ll be sitting all night if i don’t intervene." he pushes himself up and stretches, wincing dramatically. "look, babe, i’m a broken man. i need help." 

you raise a brow. "help with what?" 

he grins. "massage my leg." 

you snort. "absolutely not." 

“pleaseee," he whines, inching toward you. "i’ll never walk again if you don’t." 

you shake your head, but before you can protest further, he suddenly collapses into your lap, stretching across you with an exaggerated groan. 

“ah," he sighs, dramatically. "i see the light. this is the end for me." 

“you’re the most annoying person i’ve ever met," you deadpan, but your fingers are already brushing through his hair, his favorite kind of attention. 

his smirk is instant. "oh? then why are you petting me like i’m your favorite?" 

you freeze, but he just tilts his head, pressing closer. 

“don’t worry," he murmurs. "i won’t tell anyone that the academic weapon has a soft spot for her dumb soccer boyfriend." 

you roll your eyes, but you don’t push him away. your textbook is still open, your highlighters untouched, but somehow, you think, maybe, this is the kind of break you don’t mind taking.

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[littlelovelunette]

hii! i was wondering if you could write about sevika as a college professor and vi as kinda a bully in the classroom? like she always makes fun of the reader when she gets a question wrong. To put a stop to the bullying in the classroom sevika acts the two of them to stay after class to talk things through ... i'm not super creative in this part i just know i want it to be super dirty maybe some teasing and rough sex?? sorry 😔 ALSO I LOVE YOUR SMUTS <3 🩷🩷🩷

Improving Percentages (AU)

Thank you babyyy

contains bullying, smut, threesome (?), oral, ass licking, degradation, clit play, overstimulation, squirting, pussy slapping, fingering

it was maths class, you were seated with your legs crossed under the table, scribbling down on a piece of paper while you waited for the other students to join in.

sevika was also waiting behind a computer as she adjusted her glasses every now and then only to highlight how annoyed she was that a few students were always late to class— vi's friend group in general sense.

they were late to pretty much everything, and you weren't surprised that she was driving up on your professor's last nerves right now.

"any idea where violet is at?" sevika asked turning to you and you shook your head. sevika sighed at that, twirling her pen in hand as her foot tapped on the ground impatiently.

"let's start the class anyway—" just then the door swung open and vi walked in, eyes glued to her phone screen as she filed in the classroom followed by a few guys who were all jocked up and shit.

you couldn't help rolling your eyes at the scenario, looking at the professor, "you were saying?"

"let's began, im gonna hand out some worksheets, pass them will you?" sevika said with an uncharacteristically gentle tone making you wonder how hard the woman had been trying to restraint her anger towards the delinquent.

you started passing the worksheets around the classroom, walking over to vi's desk to pass the worksheets to her, "nice tits, mamas," vi winked your way

"violet," sevika said in a warning tone before you could retort to the indecent comment, you glanced at the professor with a grateful look as vi rolled her eyes at the both of you.

"just a friendly banter, teach." vi mumbled under her breath as she wrote her name at the top of the worksheet. you left to your seat and sat down, taking a deep breaths as you went through the questions.

the questions seemed difficult. if that wasn't enough, you could feel vi's gaze burning into your back. after a while you finally mustered the courage to raise a hand timidly.

"yes?" sevika responded without having to look back at your hand, she was typing away on her computer the stern gaze on her face never faltering. the reading glasses over her eyes only added to her sharp features

"could you, maybe... explain how to go through the first question?" you asked, voice wavering a little that sevika did note. she looked at you with a rare expression of understanding before she nodded and reached for her copy of the worksheet.

"pfft! the first one's easy!" vi said with a laugh, "doll if you can't solve the first question, you should back done a few grades!" vi laughed as did the rest of the class making your cheeks and ear turn red.

mathematics was your weakness and now being bullied about it, it made you feel like you'd never excel in the subject. your gripped the edge of the desk, pen clutched tightly in your hand as you quietly attempted the first question on your own.

sevika got up at her towering height walking upto vi's desk, she glared down at vi removing her glasses from her dark grey eyes, "one more comment from you miss violet..." she let the threat hang before she put her glasses back and walked to the board to break down the question number one for you. professor was always sweet to you because you, unlike most others in the classroom, actually were trying to learn

as sevika finished writing it on the board she sat down and let you all copy it down before she proceeded to help you understand it better through a summary of what she did.

vi audibly yawned loudly as if to mock the all amount of time sevika was spending behind your own inquiry. "violet, stay back after class," sevika said simply and turned to you fixing you with a very small smile, "you too."

Class ended eventually and the other students filed out leaving you, Vi and Sevika. Sevika got off her chair walking towards the pair of you two, closing the door, clicking it satisfyingly as she twisted the key in the lock.

"Now... As you both know, I've finished grading the mock exam papers." Sevika said and leaned against her desk, "Both of you did badly."

You stared at Sevika, you weren't completely sure if you believed her but Vi? Well, she didn't exactly seem like she didn't care until Sevika added, "And due to that Vi, you won't be able to continue basketba—"

"You can't do that!" Vi said infuriated

"I can, well unless," Sevika gestured you to walk towards her and within the flash of an eye she as you bent over the table, butt pushed up to the gaze of the two women, "You fuck her. Right here. Right now."

"What...?"

"You can't be serious," Vi said with a scoff.

"Oh, I am very serious," Sevika said as she walked up behind the desk, sitting down and crossing her arms, legs manspreading.

Hesitantly, Vi approached your body, grabbing your waist with surprising gentleness. "A-are you really—"

"Yes."

This was the first time you were hearing Vi stutter and you couldn't deny it was hot how both the incredibly muscular women were... Here... Dominating you.

Vi reluctantly hooked her fingers around the fabric of your underwear and pulled it down, pushing your skirt up to expose your lower body to herself. Her cheeks flushed a little seeing how wet you were at the mere thought of her touching you.

"You've been naughty haven't you?" Sevika smirked at the sight of you, your face inches away from hers.

You blushed, "I-i..."

Vi grabbed your ass cheeks, spreading them so she could get a clear view of both of your holes. She leant down and knelt on one knee as she stuck her face straight in your wet pussy, tongue slurping in and lapping at your cunt hungrily.

"F-f-" you were about to curse but cut yourself off midway seeing the look Sevika was giving you. The professor watched you moaning and whimpering as Vi continued her oral assaulting your poor sensitive cunt.

Vi started flicking her tongue over your clit making you gasp and whine even more than before, "People are gonna hear you, you don't want that now do you?" Sevika tutted before shoving two fingers down your throat, muffling out your lewd sounds, "Mmph..."

She continued fucking your throat, easing her fingers in and out making you drool around her digits as you sucked them. This felt so natural. Like you were made for this. Made to be used like a fuck toy for both these hot women.

Sevika's fingers never relented, shoving in and out of your mouth with a slow pace, making your drool sloppily spill out and onto the wooden desk on which you were bent over currently.

Vi's tongue was flicking, lapping and slurping down onto every last drop of your pussy juices, torturing your clit beyond imagination. You mumbled something around Sevika's fingers, "C-cuh...mwin..." You said incoherently and Sevika laughed, taking her fingers out of your mouth and wiping them hastily on your cheek.

Your juices spilled out, Vi drank them down, sucking on your pussy for a while longer before looking up at Sevika with something you've never expected from Vi before— puppy eyes.

Sevika laughed, the voice harsh in her throat. "We're nowhere done yet."

"B-but..." You began but Sevika didn't really listen. She knew you were enjoying this deep inside.

She pulled you up in her strong arms making you feel itty bitty tiny. Sevika placed you on her chair, grabbing your legs and spreading them easily as she secured them over the armrests of the chair.

Vi looked at her silently questioning her. Sevika smirked, "Now this time, eat her ass out." Vi, flushing redder than before, nodded and silently inched closer so she was on her knees in front of the chair.

Vi's tongue licked over the puckered hole of your ass, squeezing her eyes shut as she delved her tongue inside, slurping and sucking on the tight bundle of nerves. "O-Oh, g-g-gosh," you stuttered out and threw your head back, if that wasn't enough, Sevika started rubbing your pussy lips, spreading them and watched the arousal dripping out of your hole and down onto your asshole and Vi's nose.

"What a dirty little slut, getting off on your bully eating your ass out. Or do you simply enjoy your professor watching you through it all?" Sevika taunted as she brought a thick thumb over your clit, rubbing it in tight circles. Your hips jerked off the chair at the suddenness of her actions but you couldn't help let a loud moan rip through making Sevika's eyes widen and Vi stop her actions.

"Are you trying to get us caught?" Sevika slapped your pussy making you whimper a little, biting your bottom lip as tears prickled the corners of your eyes. Your pussy stung with the pressure of the slap.

"I'm sorry..." You mumbled and then Vi resumed her sucking, she seemed like she was enjoying it, her nose nudging your folds as she sucked and probed your asshole using her expert tongue. Sevika, on the other hand, resumed rubbing your cunt up and down, collecting the liquids on her fingers and smearing them all over your inner thighs before she suddenly shoved three thick fingers knuckles deep in your hole, a wet squelching sounds eliciting from your body making you blush and whine.

"G-goodness, please, please, please..."

"Yeah? You like that?" Sevika smirked and her fingers started pumping fast in your pussy, Vi's tongue didn't relent also continuing it's ministrations on your clenching asshole. "You're tensing up, are you close?" Sevika asked and then without warning you grabbed onto Sevika's clothes burying your face in them as you squirted all over the place, drenching Vi's face, floor and the chair.

Sevika, now amused, let out a small laugh as she took her fingers out this time gesturing Vi to suck them instead. Vi looked up with those submissive blue eyes before she wrapped her scarred lips around Sevika's fingers and sucked your juices off of them, moaning a little at the mere taste of it.

"Never bully her ever again," Sevika said with a hint of a warning in her tone, "Understood?" Vi nodded a little. You were exhausted, spread open on the armchair and covered in sweat from the intense pleasure you had just received.

Vi and Sevika cleaned up the whole place because, well, you weren't in a state to even walk at this point. Sevika looked at the both of you, "If anyone questions why both of you were in my classroom after class hours what'll you say?" She didn't sound anxious or paranoid, simply asking as if testing the both of you.

Vi, without wasting a beat, answered, "That we were helping you tidy up the classroom." Sevika nodded, "Excellent. Carry her home she looks like she's about to collapse." Sevika gestured to you and Vi chuckled before nodding and picking you up bridal style.

"I'm fine..." You mumbled before reluctantly wrapping your arms around Vi's neck, Vi surprisingly didn't seem to mind. But then again she wasn't supposed to anyone. She had her face in your cunt and ass.

"Also," Sevika called just as Vi had stepped out of the classroom, "Mock results." Sevika gave two papers to you since Vi's hands were full carrying you bridal style. You checked them. One was 78/100 that was Vi's and yours was 93/100.

"You son of a—" Vi began but Sevika shut the classroom door.

"Goodness." You laughed a little and leant against Vi's chest, your body was aching. Vi who was fuming a moment before felt the anger just melt away.

"Well...? I guess, she tricked us." Vi said with a sigh before she started walking out of the building, "But I wouldn't have it any other way. You're... Kind of okay." She added at the end after she realised she was about to compliment you.

"You're just a raw, pure idiot." You laughed before letting out a content sigh.

[formulaonecrumbs]

you was there before the fancy cars 🏎️

Lando Norris x hair-stylist!reader

summary: Lando Norris and his hair stylist have a close bond built over six years of working together. Over time, they realize there’s more between them.

warnings: consider it a halfway situationship (neither of them know it’s one)

A/N: yes, u read correctly. the title IS the mac miller lyric… this fic isnt based off that but the line was just TOOOO perfect not to use. hope u like this 😋😋 i’m getting a lot more comfy with writing actual fics which is nice. i was thinking i’d maybe make this a series about certain parts of his career where reader was there for him leading up to when they start dating, lemme know what y’all want. anyways, love you babies, as always ❤️

She’d been with him from the start.

Back when he was still baby-faced, barely twenty, and fidgeting like a kid in the salon chair. Lando Norris had walked in with a mop of curls and an even messier kind of nervous energy. She’d tamed both. And for six years since, she’d been doing the same — brushing through curls and calming whatever storm he brought in with him.

She wasn’t like the others. The other clients had entourages, airs, and money that dripped off them like perfume. Lando had always been different. Still rich, obviously, but he’d never worn it like armor. He wore bad jokes and overgrown hair. He wore his heart when he wasn’t supposed to. He made her laugh when no one else could.

There was one race weekend — 2021, Monaco — he had finished on the podium. Instead of going to a party, he showed up at her place with takeaway and made her watch the highlights with him, just to see her reaction. “You looked at me like I’d won the whole damn championship,” he said that night, grinning.

She had. Because she’d been there through the mess-ups too. The crashes. The P15s. The media pressure. The times he didn’t say a word when he sat in her chair, just let her fingers run through his curls, eyes closed like he needed a break from the whole world.

And maybe she needed him too. After days of dealing with demanding celebrities and influencer egos, Lando was like a breath of slightly chaotic, but comforting, fresh air. He’d talk about anything — video games, the track, the fans — and always asked how her day was, even if he was the one under pressure. He noticed things. Like when she cut her hair or wore a new pair of earrings. Like when she was quiet and needed silence more than conversation.

Then there were the little things. The way he’d wait outside her studio with coffee when her schedule was packed. The way he texted her bad puns during press conferences. How he once flew her out early for a race weekend because she said she needed a break — no words, just a flight confirmation and a note: You need this. Also, my hair is a mess. Help.

She should’ve known. Maybe she did.

And maybe he did too — that there was something sitting between them, soft and constant, something they never named.

They weren’t dating. They weren’t anything. But there was a moment — in the backroom of a garage, she was fixing the curls sticking out of his helmet after qualifying — he looked up at her, really looked, and whispered, “You’ve always been the one who gets me. I think… I only ever wanted it to be you.”

Her hand stilled in his hair. Their eyes met.

No kiss. No dramatic music. Just realization.

She smiled, small and soft. “It’s always been you too.”

And that was enough for now.

They weren’t something. Not yet.

But they could be.

[citrustan]

slipping through my fingers [5] (myg)

title: the storm-ish 1.0

pairing: min yoongi x reader

genre: dilf!yoongi, exes and co-parents au, angst!, fluff, smut

summary: you meet yoongi's fiancée for the first time and... don't care to get a good read on her. yoongi keeps upsetting surprising you.

warnings: [other parts should be read before this one] this one's frustrating, there's not much improvement regarding oc and yoongi, it gets worse actually. aand it's a teensy tinsy bit unedited bec j don't have access to my laptop rn.

"Here's the dining area!" Taehyung fakes excitement as he leads the party further into your home, "I set the table."

You crouch down, catching your daughter in a tight hug, “Hi, baby,” you whisper into Nao’s hair.

For a second, you could pretend everything was normal. Just you and your kid. No pink hair highlights.

But then you stood up and saw Yoongi standing awkwardly behind Naomi.

“Hey...” Yoongi greeted you softly. His eyes briefly met yours before flicking back to Nao, “Hyejin wanted to meet you, and, uh… she brought dinner.”

You forced a small, tight-lipped smile.

Dinner. She brought dinner. As if that made any of this easier. Still, you nodded once, knowing you had no choice but to go through with this.

Hyejin had walked into your kitchen by now, snooping around with curious eyes. She wants to know you so bad. Picking up a random iron skillet from the drying rack, she observes the room intensely.

She eyes the colour scheme you picked out for your whole house. It's plain but not bland, she notes. White. A little... woody. Vintage. Yet very colourful and so full of personality.

A lot of well-executed DIY projects, most likely done with your daughter--- a windchime, stained glass paintings, miniature clay figurines, jars of seashells, hanging jellyfish lamps, personalized ceramic plates and mugs with designs painted and characters sculpted onto them.

Hyejin finds you fascinating.

She noticed a bunch of crocheted tapestries. Similar to the ones in Yoongi's room. She had always found it an odd design choice in his home. But, it makes perfect sense in yours. And obviously, she finally understood where he got it from.

And she can't wait to finally get to know the woman who had her soon to be husband wrapped around her finger for years.

Yoongi never told her why you broke up but she intends to get that information out of the two of you today.

Suddenly snapping out of it, you speak stiffly, “Oh, um, thank you,” gesturing at the bags of food place on the coffee table.

Your eyes dart towards Hyejin, who was already gliding back to you sporting a bright, effortless smile.

“It’s so nice to finally meet you, _____,” Hyejin smiled warmly, "Your home is lovely. You really are a true creative."

Whatever that means.

“I hope it’s okay I tagged along. I’ve been wanting to meet you for a while now. Yoongi never talks about you."

Oh!

That definitely didn't hurt.

You smile, not knowing what to say. Simply nodding, “Thank you. And sure, it’s fine.”

But it wasn’t fine.

You still felt disrespected.

Taehyung’s brows raised slightly, but he didn’t comment either. Instead, he offered you a supportive smile from behind Hyejin and mouthed, 'You’ll be okay.'

You can only hope you would.

Yoongi knew how fragile you were, and how hard it was for you to see them together, but he had let this happen anyway.

Yet, you understood Hyejin too.

It isn't really her fault. You'd have felt better about it had this been your decision.

"Mimi, go wash up for dinner." Yoongi instructs his daughter.

Then Hyejin chimes in, "But remember not to get your hair wet! _____, do you have a shower cap she can borrow?"

Your mouth drops open a little and your ears start to heat up.

Who does this woman think she is? She's talking to you as if you're not Nao's MOTHER.

What the hell does she mean 'Do you have a shower cap she can borrow?'

That's your kid, not hers.

Not realising you were glaring at Hyejin, you forced out yet another smile. This time it was glaringly obvious.

"She has one. She knows where to find it. Don't you, Nao?" You smiled down at her fakely.

Your daughter grabbed at your dress, "Yeah. But it's okay if I don't use it. My school doesn't allow colourful hair. We'd get into trouble." She directed the last half to Yoongi's fiancée.

Oh, thank goodness it wasn't permanent dye. You breathe a sigh of relief.

Hyejin's smile drops a little but she recovers almost instantly. "Oh, wouldn't you want to twin with me though?"

Is this lady emotionally manipulating your kid?

You don't give Nao a chance to respond because you knew she'd never want to hurt anyone's feelings and you hate that she's pushed in a corner now. "Wash your hair, honey," you smile down at her sweetly, "Use mommy's shampoo if you need to."

Yoongi finally decides to intervene. "Or we could let Mimi make her own choice. She knows the consequences, and is smart enough to decide what's better for her."

And unsurprisingly, ever the diplomat (which is odd because he's literally a lawyer by trade), he won't take sides.

Sadly, he's wrong this time.

Your squint your eyes at him as if you can't understand him, "What consequences? There's a consequence. Just the one. And she already stated it. We'll get in trouble with her school."

Your anger is a bit misdirected when you demand your daughter to clean up, "Go wash your hair, Naomi. I don't want to see even hint of colour that's not natural."

Nao's eyes widen before she runs off pouting. She knew you hadn't meant to scold her but it still upset her.

This is exactly what you were worried about.

You look at Taehyung pleadingly, prompting him to check on Nao. He immediately complies and chases after her.

You weren't ready to deal with Yoongi's new life now because you knew you wouldn't be able to digest it. You did not want Nao taking the heat for something that isn't her fault. But you suppose that's inevitable because you still haven't learnt to process your feelings and emotions about Yoongi.

Also, in all honesty, you could've dealt with the school. It wasn't that serious of an issue. They aren't too strict on the appearance discipline, especially hair.

You're on a roll now though.

"And what the hell are you doing altering my daughter's appearance without consulting me anyway?" You don't know who you squeaked it at but it was definitely warranted for.

"She's my daughter too, _____." Yoongi speaks cooly yet firmly.

"Exactly. She's yours and mine. And I need to be part of every decision making process," you scoff frustrated, "I mean, how would you feel if Taehyung and I decided to chop her hair off? What if the three of us get... I don't know, bowl cuts?" You're on the verge of yelling.

Yoongi looks bewildered, "You wouldn't do that."

You record the time. This is the moment you think Yoongi finally understands you.

"That's the point, Yoongi!" You exclaim. "Of course I wouldn't because I'm not fucking stupid!" You place emphasis on 'stupid', "-and I respect you!"

The jab wasn't subtle.

"What are you implying? That Hyejin is? That I am? That we don't respect you?"

"Oh, am I wrong?" You raise a brow.

"It's just some hair dye."

"That's not the issue here," you suddenly point at his fiancée, "And why are you calling my kid Nao?"

Hyejin's eyes widen at the sudden attention. She looks to Yoongi for help.

Taehyung reemerges from Nao's room when he hears arguing.

He observes Yoongi's stance and his explosion radar goes off, "O-okay, why don't we just-" but before he could even try to diffuse the situation, Yoongi loses it on you.

"God, _____, what the hell is wrong with you?!"

A sharp pang hit your chest, it felt as if the air had been sucked out of the room.

He's never yelled at you before. He's yelled with you, around you, maybe even about you but never at you.

Moreover, he did not deserve to scream at you.

You wish you could just pout and run away into your room like your daughter had.

Instead you stand your ground and stare at Yoongi's face, challengingly.

Hyejin just stood back, a little bewildered. She's surprised Yoongi had it in him to scream this loudly. And he's the least angry, most stable person she knows. Though, she doesn't know how to feel about him treating you like this.

On one hand, she's elated that he's speaking in her defence. And on the other, she's worried she'd be on your bad side after this. And that you'd keep Nao from her. If she didn't have a relationship with Nao, she can't possibly continue being with Yoongi.

For a while, nobody said anything. Taehyung was too afraid to even breathe let alone say anything.

The two of you were like a pressure cooker.

And let's not get into what Yoongi said--- 'What's wrong with you?'

You'd like to know. Clearly, something must be wrong because you don't know why he'd marry a woman after months of dating but not you even after years of being together and even having a child with.

You watch as Yoongi's fiancée grasps his hand to calm him down.

There have been very few moments when you've wished you had one of your classic cream pies to smash in someone's face.

Now is one such instance.

And then it happens.

Your vision begins to blur.

Not wasting any time, you wrap your arms around yourself in a soothing manner and storm off into your room, refusing to break down in front of a stranger.

You wanted to make a good impression so badly but it was just too soon.

Yoongi swiftly shook Hyejin off of him to follow you but was pulled back by a strong arm. Taehyung.

He glares at the taller man before yanking his arm back, continuing after you.

Before you could slam and lock your door like a petulant child, Yoongi blocks it with his foot, "Stop."

"I don't want to talk to you." You assert.

"Then don't. Just listen to me." He suggests. More like demands. His face was stoic as ever with maybe a hint of discomfort and remorse now.

"Please?"

Outside, in the living room, Heyjin and Taehyung awkwardly lingered.

Taehyung breaks the silence, "You just had to do this now, didn't you?"

Hyejin doesn't reply but gives him a pointed look.

As much as she trusts Yoongi, she doesn't trust you and Yoongi locked in a room together. She noticed way too much passion for two people who've broken up.

Unfortunately having crossed way too many boundaries already, she can't help but just wait.

₊˚.🎧 ✩｡ rose blood by mazzy star ₊˚.🎧 ✩｡

note: fuck tumblr for posting my half-baked chapter im literally so fucking annoyed i had to redo all the changes but it's whatever!

exhales

and i am still sorry for the delay! please let me know what you think; love it, hate it, can't stand it, can't live without it? tell me! bec i wanna hear all about it

(anf did you catch a subtle Gilmore girls reference 😋)

[paddockletters]

study session | charles leclerc

summary: charles misses you (not that he’d admit it), but when studying keeps you too distracted, he finds a way to steal your attention. request: yessss! thank you hope y’all like it

Charles has always been needy when it comes to you. He won’t admit it, of course, but the evidence is clear.

Like now—where he’s supposedly at your apartment to “keep you company” while you study, but in reality, he’s just here to be a menace.

You’re sitting cross-legged on the floor, textbooks and notes spread around you, highlighter tucked between your fingers as you try to focus. Charles, meanwhile, is sprawled across your bed, bored out of his mind.

"Are you done yet?"

You don’t even look up. "No, Charles."

A beat of silence.

"How about now?"

You sigh, highlighting another sentence. "No."

Another pause. Then, he groans dramatically. "This is torture. I came all this way just to be ignored?"

"You came here on your own," you remind him, flipping a page.

"You should be grateful,” he mutters. “Most people would kill for my presence.”

"Lucky me." You snort.

You don’t have to look up to know he’s pouting. And then—silence.

Suspicious silence.

You finally glance up, only to choke on air.

Charles is standing in the middle of your room, pulling his shirt over his head.

“Go on, doctor,” Charles smirks, stretching as he leans back on his hands. "Start your examination."

You refuse to look at him. Absolutely not. You have textbooks to read, notes to review, an exam to pass.

“Charles,” you grit through clenched teeth, gripping your pen just a little too hard. “Put your shirt back on.”

“What?” He blinks, feigning innocence. "You need a realistic study session, no?"

You groan, slamming your textbook shut and covering your face with it. “You’re impossible.”

Charles just laughs and that makes your stomach flip. He’s doing this on purpose.

You peek over your book, only to find him watching you, amused. His entire posture is relaxed, like he has all the time in the world to mess with you. And he does—he always does this when he’s bored, finding new ways to distract you, tease you, get under your skin.

“So where’s my most important bone?” he teases, tilting his head as if he’s actually being helpful.

Your brain malfunctions.

“W-What?”

“My most important bone,” Charles repeats, eyes sparkling with mischief. “I assume you know where it is, no?”

Your eyes widen, and Charles’ smirk only grows as he watches your mind go straight to hell.

“You are—” you huff, trying to shove him away, but he catches your wrist, grinning.

“Careful, doctor.” He tuts playfully. “You wouldn’t want to hurt your patient, would you?”

Your patience is hanging by a thread.

“You are not my patient,” you mutter.

Charles hums, pretending to think. “But I could be. Imagine, I come in with an injury, and you have to take care of me. You’d be so gentle, no?”

You swallow hard. “You’re so annoying.”

Charles leans in way too close, looking entirely too smug for someone who’s supposed to be helping you study. “I just like being a good student. Ask me anything.”

You sigh. “Fine. What’s the largest bone in the body?”

Charles opens his mouth, then closes it. “Uhhhh—”

You smirk. “You don’t know, do you?”

“I do,” he says defensively. “It’s… the leg one.”

You roll your eyes. “The femur, dumbass.”

Charles gasps dramatically. “You’re such a mean doctor.”

“I’d be a lot nicer if you actually let me study.”

Charles grins, but before he can retort, your phone vibrates with a text.

You glance at Charles, only to find him reading over your shoulder, his eyes narrowing at the texts.

“Who’s texting you?” he asks, far too casual.

You lock your phone. “No one.”

Charles squints at you. “No one?”

“No one,” you repeat firmly.

A pause. Then—

“Is it that med student you always talk about?”

Your head snaps up. “What?”

“That guy,” Charles says, crossing his arms. “The one you’re always studying with.”

You blink. “You mean Liam?”

“Oh, so his name is Liam.”

“Charles,” you say slowly, biting back a laugh. “Are you jealous?”

Charles scoffs. “No.”

You grin. “You totally are.”

“I’m not,” he insists, jaw clenching.

You lean in slightly, smirking. “Charles, you’re jealous.”

Charles avoids your gaze, muttering something in French under his breath. He’s 100% jealous.

You tilt your head playfully. “Would it make you feel better if I told you I don’t even like Liam like that?”

Charles perks up immediately. “You don’t?”

“No,” you laugh.

Charles nods once, clearly pleased. Then, without missing a beat—

“So I’m your favorite?”

You stare. “That’s not what I said.”

“But it’s what you meant.”

“Oh my God.”

He grins. “Just admit it, doctor. I’m your favorite patient.”

You groan, shoving him off the bed.

Charles lands with a thud, laughing as he sprawls out on your bedroom floor like he doesn’t have a care in the world. You, however, are one exasperated breath away from throwing your textbook at his stupidly perfect face.

“I’m trying to study,” you remind him, pointing at your notes as if that’ll make him take you seriously.

Charles, still lying on your floor, stretches his arms above his head, shamelessly showing off the definition in his abs. “And I’m trying to help.”

“You’re being a menace.” You roll your eyes, refusing to look.

“I like that you think I’m distracting.” He smirks.

You groan. “You’re insufferable.”

Charles props himself up on his elbows, watching you. “Come on, just admit it.”

“Admit what?”

“That I’m your favorite.”

You don’t answer.

Because the problem isn’t that he’s wrong.

The problem is that he’s absolutely right.

Charles has been your favorite for a long, long time. But admitting that? Giving him the satisfaction? Not happening.

“I’m not answering that,” you mumble, flipping through your notes as if your entire body isn’t burning up from his gaze.

Charles smirks, sensing your hesitation.

“Okay,” he says, getting up and stretching once more—because apparently, he needs to remind you how ridiculously good-looking he is. Then, before you can react, he plops down beside you again, way too close, his bare shoulder brushing yours.

Your breath catches.

“Let’s do a test,” Charles says suddenly, his voice dipping slightly.

You blink. “What?”

“A test,” he repeats, his eyes glinting with something dangerous, something that makes your heart speed up. “I’ll quiz you. If you get it wrong, you admit I’m your favorite.”

You narrow your eyes. “And if I get it right?”

Charles smirks. “Then I’ll put my shirt back on.”

Your mouth opens, then closes. It’s a trap.

Because either way, you lose.

Still, your competitive streak won’t let you back down. “Fine.”

Charles grins, shifting even closer. “Alright, doctor,” he muses. “What’s the smallest bone in the human body?”

You exhale sharply, relieved. He chose an easy one.

“The stapes,” you answer confidently.

Charles tilts his head, eyes flickering with amusement. “And where is it?”

“In the middle ear.”

“Are you sure?”

You give him a pointed look. “Yes, Charles. I’m sure.”

He laughs, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “Fine, fine. You win this round.”

You smirk. “Shirt. On. Now.”

Charles grabs his shirt… but doesn’t move to put it on. Instead, he leans in, his voice dropping into something softer, something dangerous.

“Last chance,” he murmurs. “Are you sure you don’t want to lose?”

Your brain short-circuits.

Your entire body betrays you—the way your breath hitches, the way your fingers tighten around your notes, the way you can’t seem to tear your eyes away from his mouth.

And Charles? He sees it all.

He knows.

You clear your throat, forcing yourself to look back at your textbook. “I think we’re done here.”

Charles chuckles, finally pulling his shirt over his head. “For now.”

He leans back on your bed, clearly satisfied with himself.

And you?

You pretend like you’re not thinking about his lips.