#the brain fog is making it so hard to focus

[aunteat]

lawd give me the strength to finish this kinkfest fic amen 🙏

[supercantaloupe]

wish i could give you a hug about your migraines and medication struggles. you deserve to be cared about accommodated

thank you <3 to be clear so far i haven't encountered anyone who's been uncaring or unaccommodating about it. i'm mostly just frustrated at...not necessarily myself, i guess, but at the mere fact of experiencing new existential challenges in my daily life. it's hard and scary to admit that i'm struggling, it's hard to ask for help, and it's hard to do so with the knowledge that most people have very little real way to help other than going "that's rough, buddy"

[elektroyu]

I'm seriously starting to consider to not take the general story crafting 101 too seriously... and just do whatever. In the end the only criterium that's important is if I personally like my story by itself. Or even just that I was able to completely write it.

There are so many things out there that don't follow the general structures, or that aren't even a single coherent storyline at all. The only reason I want to make it structurally waterproof is because I think that's the only way to make other people maybe approve of it. MAYBE. It's because I think if I don't follow the rules I'm going to get criticized or made fun of for it. But honestly, there's no guarantee that even a single person other than myself would even read it. So why the heck am I trying to bend over backwards so much for something that probably won't even matter?! 😂 It doesn't make sense. I should treat this as an effing fanfic and do whatever feels right, have fun with it, COMPLETE IT, even if it's not coherent or this or that fundamental rule is not followed. It DOESN'T need to make sense. Really WHO.CARES?? The answer is NOBODY. A story's purpose is not to make others like the fkn author lol. I really should stop trying to treat it like that. Amirite or

[unintentionalseductress]

Spring Break

“Stop squirming I know you missed me.” 

Caleb’s low purr resounds in your ear and you whimper as you struggle to keep quiet, his fingers stroking soft circles on your puffy clit. 

“Should’ve known this is the real reason you’re always asking me to come home. Do you not touch yourself when we’re apart?” You’re trapped under Caleb’s weight, his body pinning you firmly, one hand sinking into the plush fat of your thigh as he holds you open. 

You hide your face into the pillow as a moan escapes you and Caleb chuckles. He sinks a finger into your fluttering hole and you gasp, your desperate little cry noisily filling the room.

“Ssh. Do you want Gran to hear you?” His voice is so wickedly taunting as he continues the gentle assault on your clit. You whimper, trying so hard to stay in control but it was difficult with him touching you so perfectly. 

“Ah, look at how you’re squeezing me. So wet.” Caleb withdraws his finger and a trail of sticky slick comes with his finger, connecting to your cunt. He coats your clit with it and gives the nub a pinch which has you bucking, your round ass pressing into his cock.

“Good. Looks like I haven’t forgotten how you like it. Admit it pipsqueak, you prefer it when I touch you, don’t you?” 

Your poor brain, heavy with need and sexual fog, can barely understand his words anymore. Every inch of you tingled and all you wanted was to be impaled on his cock. You nod breathlessly then let out another moan. Caleb shifts his arm so it partially goes between your parted lips. You bite down and he growls in satisfaction.

“That’s it. Bite me. Mark me as your own.” His flesh now muffles your voice, and you focus on the rising pleasure in your clit, Caleb’s stimulating words only turning you on even more.

“So wet even before I took your panties off. Are you my good little slut?” You groan as he smoothly sinks two fingers back into your cunt with a moist squelch. “Oh, not just good. Perfect little slut.” He nips your ear as his fingers start to curl up into that patch of nerves deep inside you and you swear you can feel yourself going cross-eyed at the sensation. 

“My good little mouse. Cum for me please?” The sweet way Caleb asks you nearly shuts down the rest of your senses. The urgency built deep within your quivering core and indeed, your brain was close to shutting down, following his words to the edge. Your teeth sink into the sinew of his forearm as his fingers finally give you the release you’d been waiting for and it stifles your moans of ecstasy as the continuous ripples of delight wrack your system. Your pussy clenches around his thick fingers as more of your arousal spills onto them. 

“Amazing.” He pats your clit before pulling out his fingers, sucking them clean of your slick. “Cumming on command…proving you really are mine.” You sigh, feeling your head come back down from the dizzy spiral it had been on before Caleb spoons you, and slips into your wet cunt slowly. 

The push of his thick mushroom head entering into you has you squeezing your eyes closed from the pleasure, the way he filled your channel with his velvety heat causing your voice to quaver. His arms lock around you as he starts to thrust, his hips smacking into your ass with each stroke. 

“Did you miss me? No one around to make this pussy feel good at college?” He asks into your ear as he moves. You let out a little noise before responding. 

“No.”

Caleb chuckles, the noise of your wet reunion squelching lewdly into the room. “No one can make you feel as good as me huh?” He palms your breasts as he huffs into the back of your neck. Your eyes flutter closed as he continues to piston in and out of you. “My sweet little slut. Keeping this pussy nice and wet just for me. You’re such a good girl you know?”

You manage to sigh out a “uh huh” of agreement, his words of praise gently tickling your senses. A laugh escapes him. 

“Oh you’re so fucked out little mouse. Cock feel good?” He gives a series of deep thrusts that have him bottoming out each time and you mewl from the feeling of being stretched to your limit. 

“Fuck…that’s it…keep clenching me like that.” Caleb growls as he feels his balls tightening up, his fingers leaving indents in your skin as he finally orgasms, thick jets of cum painting your womb as he empties himself into you. 

“Filled you up to last a few days. Don’t waste it. Gotta make it last till our next visit.” 

[sweettu1ips]

PAIGE BUECKERS x FEM!READER

SYNOPSIS: In the quiet of dawn, two hearts race with unspoken desire, tangled in a dance of stolen kisses and electric touches. Every glance, every whisper, is a promise of something wild and irresistible.

WARNING(S): (18+) PURE SMUT W/ A LITTLE PLOT ⋮ oral (p!receiving) ⋮ fingering (r!receiving) ⋮ scissoring ⋮ multiple orgasms(?) ⋮ dom!reader + paige(ish) switch(?) ⋮ sub!reader(ish) ⋮ wlw ⋮ making-out ⋮ established relationship ⋮ poor azzi hearing everything ⋮that's it, I think... oh and a little less poetic + descriptive

WORD COUNT: 10.7 K [of pure smut? Yes, I need to touch grass..]

| MAIN MASTER LIST | MINORS DO NOT INTERACT (18+)

THE SUN STIRRED ON THE HORIZON, spilling molten gold through the sheer curtains, painting the room in strokes of honey and fire. Dawn was still a fragile thing, clinging to the last breath of night. 

The world outside lay in hushed stillness—the usual symphony of footsteps, muffled laughter, and slamming doors silenced, as if the universe itself had paused. A whisper of chill lingered in the air, threading through the sheets, curling against my skin like a ghost of something once there.

Something—or someone—missing.

I stretched into the absence beside me, fingertips grazing empty sheets where warmth should’ve been, where she should’ve been. The realization sank in slow, an ache blooming in my chest. The familiar press of her body, the way she tucked herself against me like we were made to fit—gone.

A sigh unraveled from my lips, heavy with sleep, with longing. The bed cradled me like it wanted to keep me, lull me back into the dream I was still half-drifting through.

Then—

Ding. Ding. Ding.

The sound sliced through the quiet, sharp as a knife.

I groaned, dragging a hand over my face before fumbling blindly for my phone, its screen glowing harsh against the dim morning light. My eyes blinked against the blur of sleep until the words came into focus.

P. Boogs 💕: wake upppp pleaseeeee

P. Boogs 💕: meet me at the court

P. Boogs 💕: It’s urgent baby

I squinted, my drowsy brain tripping over itself. 6:30 AM. In the middle of summer.

What in the world could possibly be so urgent at this ungodly hour?

I didn’t need to think twice. Before I could even type a reply, I was already shoving the duvet off, the morning air licking cold against my skin. A groaned protest slipped past my lips as my bare feet met the floor, the wooden planks cool, grounding me in the reluctant truth of wakefulness.

And with that, I was moving.

Towards her.

Always towards her.

Morning clung to me like a second skin—heavy, stubborn, unwilling to let go. My movements were slow, sluggish, weighed down by the thick fog of exhaustion that wrapped around my limbs like a lead blanket.

 Each step felt like dragging myself through molasses, the kind of tired that settled deep in my bones, unwilling to be shaken.

I raked a hand through the tangled mess of my hair, my fingers snagging against strands that refused to cooperate.

A sigh, deep and weary, slipped past my lips as I blinked hard against the pale sliver of sunlight spilling through the blinds, intrusive and far too eager to greet me.

The fabric of my off-shoulder t-shirt sagged low against my collarbone, slipping farther down my arm with every sluggish step I took, a constant reminder of my reluctance to fully wake. The air hummed with the quiet stillness of a morning too early, too untouched—until it wasn’t.

“Mornin’, Sleeping Beauty.”

The voice—way too chipper for this ungodly hour, way too smug for its own good—sliced through the silence, yanking me forcefully into wakefulness.

I barely broke my slow, begrudging shuffle, but the smirk laced in KK’s words made my jaw tighten. There was a distinct kind of villainy in being this awake before the sun had fully stretched itself over the sky.

I turned, squinting blearily, finally registering the bright-eyed, fully functional, cereal-eating menace perched comfortably at the kitchen counter.

How the fuck was she awake?

It was summer. It was six-thirty in the goddamn morning. And yet there she sat—perfectly at ease, perfectly alert, perfectly wrong for existing at this hour.

Dressed in workout gear, sneakers already laced, grinning like she was in on some inside joke with the universe. One leg crossed over the other, a spoon twirling through her cereal like this was some casual Tuesday brunch and not an affront to my very existence.

I narrowed my eyes, the absurdity of the situation pressing down on me like an existential crisis. "How—why—what the fuck?"

KK only shrugged, utterly unfazed, popping a spoonful of cereal into her mouth with maddening nonchalance. "Some of us like to be productive, babe."

A groan clawed its way up my throat, dragging my hands over my face like that alone could shield me from the nightmare of reality. "You’re an actual menace."

"And you’re actually late," she countered, far too pleased with herself. "So hurry up and get your ass to the court before Paige comes in here to personally drag you out."

I exhaled sharply, rubbing my temples, the mention of Paige sending a sharp pang of irritation—and something else I wasn’t willing to name—through my chest. "She wouldn’t."

KK tilted her head, a single brow arched, amusement flickering in her gaze. "She would."

Unfortunately, she was right.

I dragged my feet toward the bathroom, muttering a string of creative expletives under my breath, each one dedicated to Paige, KK, and the cruel, godforsaken concept of early mornings.

This was not how I envisioned summer break.

But somehow, some way—Paige fucking Bueckers had turned 6:30 AM at the court into a sacred ritual, an unspoken vow, a battle I fought every morning.

And a war I lost every single time. The morning stretched itself thin, a fragile thing, draped in the hushed stillness of dawn. It clung to the air like a whisper, cool and lingering, curling against my skin as I moved through the motions of waking. Sleep still wove itself into my limbs, heavy, reluctant, but the world was already demanding my presence.

A breath. A stretch. A slow blink as the room sharpened into focus.

The chill of the faucet bit at my hands as I splashed cold water onto my face, rivulets slipping down my neck, shocking my system awake. I exhaled, slow and steady, watching the droplets tremble at the edge of my jaw before falling, disappearing into the porcelain below. My reflection stared back—half-dream, half-determined.

I dressed with practiced ease, each layer an armor against the early morning’s grasp. A fitted white tee hugged my torso, the fabric molding to my frame like second skin.

I slipped pink basketball shorts on beneath loose Nike sweats, pulling the drawstrings tight before stepping into my worn baby pink sneakers, the soles molded to the shape of my journey.

A zip-up draped over my shoulders, a half-hearted attempt at warmth, but I knew the morning chill had nothing on the fire in my chest.

With precise hands, I smoothed my hair into a sleek bun, every strand pulled back, clean, deliberate—a crown of quiet strength.

The apartment, shared with Paige, KK, and Azzi, still breathed in sleep. Shadows stretched long across the floor, the living room claimed by the rest of the team, their presence as permanent as the walls themselves.

The air hummed with memories—laughter woven into the fabric of the couch, whispered secrets tangled in blankets, the unspoken understanding that this place was more than walls and doors. It was home.

Instead of driving, I walked.

Only a block to campus, but enough to let the morning air carve its way through my thoughts, filling the spaces where sleep still lingered.

Paige’s Bose headphones—because I had long since surrendered mine to whatever abyss I always lost things in—pressed against my ears, drowning out the quiet with Drake’s voice, the bass thrumming deep in my bones.

My blue duffle bag sat heavy on my shoulder, filled with everything I might need and none of what I truly wanted—Paige, tangled in sheets, drowsy and warm, whispering stay.

The world stirred, stretching into wakefulness, but the Werth Basketball Center stood still, untouched by time.

And there she was.

Alone at center court, Paige moved like something celestial, like gravity bent just a little differently for her. The dim glow of overhead lights caught on the sheen of sweat that traced her skin, gilding her in silver.

 A Nike sports bra clung to her, black against the golden undertones of her skin, blue basketball shorts slung low on her hips. Her hair, pulled into a sleek, low bun, only sharpened the cut of her jaw, the intensity in her gaze.

I could do nothing but stare.

I leaned against the entrance, arms crossed, letting the moment settle over me. Paige was too much and never enough all at once—too goddamn stunning for six in the morning, too smug, too effortlessly carved from something I couldn’t name but never wanted to stop looking at.

Paige’s smirk was slow, deliberate, the kind that burned at the edges.

She flicked her wrist, sent the ball sailing through the air in a perfect arc, the net barely whispering as it gave way. And then, as if drawn by some invisible force, Paige made her way over.

A slow saunter. The kind that sent a shiver down my spine, heat pooling low in my stomach.

Paige’s tongue darted out, wetting her lips as her gaze dragged over me, unhurried, unrushed—taking me in like I was something to be studied, devoured.

I pushed off the wall, my feet moving before my mind could catch up, before I could tell myself to stop drinking Paige in like she was something sacred.

We met halfway.

Paige’s hands found my hips with ease, like they belonged there, like we were meant to fit.

“Mornin’,” Paige murmured, voice dipped in sleep, in mischief, in something I couldn’t quite name but wanted to drown in.

A kiss—quick, fleeting, just the brush of warmth against the cold edge of morning.

But Paige lingered.

There was something about the way she kissed me—like she wasn’t just trying to taste me, but to memorize me, to claim this moment and lock it inside her. It was as though the quiet, lingering pressure of her lips against mine spoke more than words ever could.

 Her lips were soft, yet insistent, the kind of kiss that left you breathless—not from its urgency, but from the weight of its intent. She pulled back for just a moment, her breath mingling with mine, both of us fighting to hold on to something that felt too delicate to hold.

It wasn’t enough. It never was.

I could feel her hands sliding from my hips, fingers tracing an invisible line as they moved slowly upward. There was no rush in her touch, but an unmistakable pressure that made my skin burn wherever she touched. 

Her fingers brushed lightly over the curve of my spine, the tips of her nails grazing the tender skin of my neck before she settled her hand at the nape of my neck, gripping with just enough force to send a shock of warmth straight through me.

She pulled me closer, her body pressing firmly against mine, so close that I could feel the thrum of her heartbeat against my chest, a quiet pulse that echoed the rhythm of my own.

 Her breath, warm and steady, fanned across my cheek, and I closed my eyes for just a second, letting myself drown in the sensation of her proximity, her energy wrapping around me like a blanket.

The gym felt empty around us, as though time had stopped altogether, as if the walls of the basketball court itself had decided to suspend the world outside—just for us. It was just me and Paige, alone in this world of stillness, holding on to the intimacy that came with the unspoken understanding between us.

I could feel the echo of her lips against mine, the way they moved—soft and rhythmic, gentle, but slowly, deliberately, deepening into something more desperate, more necessary.

Her lips tasted like minty gum and the faintest trace of strawberry, a flavor I’d never forget, and in the warmth of her mouth, I could feel the pulse of her—alive, electric, and impossibly close.

The sensation was intoxicating, leaving me dizzy with want, wanting to hold on to this kiss for as long as I could, even as my mind screamed for a moment of clarity. But Paige didn’t give me that clarity. She only gave me more of her—more of her kiss, more of her warmth, more of her desire.

And I couldn’t resist.

I tried to pull away, just enough to catch my breath, but she only deepened the kiss, the press of her body against mine tightening, drawing me in closer.

Her thumbs traced small circles against the soft skin of my jawline, a tender movement, but also possessive—a silent claim that left me breathless.

I needed to break away, just a moment to clear my mind, but Paige wasn’t having it. Her grip on the back of my neck tightened, and I could feel the weight of it—gentle, but insistent, demanding more.

There was no escaping this, not now, not with her like this—looking at me like I was the only person in the world who mattered.

Unable to fight it, I uncrossed my arms, my fingers moving with a will of their own, sliding down her toned waist until they settled on the curve of her ass. 

The touch was deliberate, the pressure of my hands firm but tender, pulling her flush against me, feeling the heat of her body as it melded with mine.

She gasped, her body tensing slightly, and I gave her a light squeeze, watching her expression shift from surprise to something darker, something that matched the hunger swirling between us.

Her breath hitched, and she pulled back just enough to look at me, her eyes wide and dark with something dangerous, something intoxicating.

"Hey!" she exclaimed, half-shocked, half-amused, as a smile tugged at the corners of her lips, her breath coming in soft, uneven bursts.

But I couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled up inside me. I could feel the warmth of her body pressed against mine, the soft rise and fall of her chest, her lips—plump and wet—still tingling from the kiss.

The moment was still lingering, thick and heavy, like the air itself was charged with the aftermath of something too powerful to name.

“What’s got you all kissy, huh?” I teased, my voice rough, even as I raised a brow, trying to keep the smirk from breaking free.

Paige feigned offense, her lips curling into a playful pout. “What—now I can’t kiss my girl good morning?” she asked, her voice light but laced with something deeper—something that pulled at my core, something that made my heart skip.

I shook my head, still trying to process the flood of sensations rushing through me.

"Paige Bueckers," I said slowly, my voice carrying a soft, incredulous edge, "We are standing in the middle of the basketball court—making out."

And then, for a brief, fleeting second, I couldn’t help but laugh—a soft, disbelieving sound that escaped me, a quiet exhale of wonder as I took it all in. This, this was us—Paige and me.

 A world born in the middle of the court, where everything else faded into oblivion and the only thing that mattered was the way her hands molded to the curve of my body, so perfectly, so naturally, as though they'd always belonged there. 

The way her lips still burned, lingering against mine, like the sun leaving a warm kiss on the skin long after it’s gone. She made time bend—everything moving too fast, yet somehow too slow.

Like we were caught in a moment of perfect suspension, where nothing existed beyond us.

With a heavy sigh, laden with affection and a kind of quiet reverence, I stared at her, my gaze softening, filled with a love so intense, so undeniable, that it seemed to bloom in my chest like a flower unfurling in the warmth of her presence. I couldn't resist the pull of her any longer. 

My lips found hers once more—a fleeting peck on the softness of her pout, quick but tender—before I pulled away, my heart still racing, my breath a little uneven.

I tilted my head to the side, raising an eyebrow, a playful challenge dancing in my eyes. “Is that why you woke me up at 6 in the morning?” I teased, my voice light, but there was a hint of something deeper underneath it all. A softness, a lingering affection that whispered through the words.

Paige rolled her eyes, her lips curling into a smirk that could break hearts if given half a chance.

“No, you dumb-dumb,” she shot back with that perfect blend of sarcasm and warmth that always made me smile, even when she was being insufferable. She pulled away, breaking the moment, stepping towards the ball she had abandoned earlier.

“Got bored,” she confessed nonchalantly, her voice carrying that effortless coolness of hers, even as she tossed the ball from hand to hand. “And wanted to shoot some hoops.”

I couldn’t help but laugh at her casualness, at how effortlessly she shifted from this playful, teasing thing to the calm, competitive Paige I knew all too well. But something inside me couldn’t let go of that moment. The warmth of her hands on me, the heat of her breath still lingering, still clinging to my skin.

I narrowed my eyes, still incredulous, my mind racing, trying to understand the logic in this strange morning.

“Right,” I said, my tone full of mock disbelief, “so, instead of crawling back into bed with me, letting me wrap my arms around you, or even doing something else to get rid of that boredom... You dragged me out here to shoot hoops?” 

My words hung in the air between us, filled with something sarcastic, yet undeniably curious. I couldn’t quite hide the way my lips curled into a smile. I moved toward the sidelines, unstrapping my duffle bag and letting it fall onto the pristine floor, the soft thud echoing in the silence of the gym.

Paige stopped in her tracks, her lips puckering in thought, her eyes narrowing as if weighing her options.

She paused, and for a brief moment, the world held its breath. “Huh,” she murmured, her voice as casual as ever. “That actually sounds a lot better.” She shrugged nonchalantly, completely unfazed by the absurdity of the situation.

 “But since you’re here…” She turned to face me, that signature smirk pulling at the corner of her mouth, her eyes glinting with challenge. “Why don’t we do a 1v1?”

I paused, pretending to consider it, though my mind was already racing, already entangled in the thought of how this moment might play out.

 “Hm, what’s the catch, Bueckers?” I asked, raising a brow, my voice low, teasing, yet with something else hanging in it—a trace of excitement, of mischief.

 I could see the shift in her eyes as she dribbled the ball, her fingers moving fluidly, with ease, almost like she had been waiting for this very question.

She smirked, a wicked glint in her eye as she met my gaze, unflinching. “We can do whatever you want for the rest of the day,” she said, shrugging as though it were the most casual offer. But I knew her better than that. I could feel it—the way the words hung between us like a promise, a dare, something far more than what she was letting on.

I bit my lip, the sensation of my teeth grazing the softness of my lower lip pulling my focus entirely. I raised a brow, stepping toward her with a deliberate slowness, my movements carrying something charged, something electric. 

“Anything, huh?” I said, the words laced with something deeper, something unspoken—something that felt far too dangerous to ignore.

Paige caught it immediately. Her eyes locked on mine, her smile slipping into something more dangerous, more intense. The air between us thickened, heavy with something more than playful banter, a kind of tension I could practically taste on my tongue. 

The court felt smaller, the distance between us suddenly palpable as if the walls themselves were leaning in, waiting for what would come next.

There was no going back now.

The space between us seemed to crackle with a quiet intensity, like the air had been charged with the weight of unspoken words and half-formed desires.

Paige’s eyes held mine with such a quiet, dangerous promise that I could feel it in my bones, vibrating in my chest, a pulse that matched the rhythm of my heartbeat.

She took a slow step toward me, her body moving with a fluidity that seemed to defy gravity, each movement smooth and purposeful, like the whisper of wind against a still lake. Her presence filled the space—grounding, yet unsettling.

 I could feel the heat of her body even as she moved back to the basketball, fingers wrapped around it with an effortless familiarity. She was in her element, as comfortable as a fish in water, as if the court had always been her domain, and I was merely a guest invited to play by her rules.

My breath caught in my throat, and I realized just how much I craved this, craved her. It wasn’t just her touch, her smile, her challenge. It was everything—the way she made me feel alive, like a flame that refused to be extinguished, even when the winds of doubt tried to smother it.

She bounced the ball a couple of times, the rhythm of it echoing against the hardwood floor, and in the sound, I could hear the pulse of her energy, the sharpness of her focus.

 There was something about the way she moved, the way she made the ordinary extraordinary, that made me want to fall deeper into the moment—lose myself completely.

Then, without warning, she shifted, her body coiling with the precision of an athlete, her eyes never leaving mine.

 “You still in, or what?” Her words were sharp, like the crack of a whip, but they carried a playful undertone, a challenge wrapped in mischief. She was daring me to match her, to meet her where she was, to see if I could keep up.

I swallowed, feeling a flicker of excitement shoot through me. My fingers itched to reach out, to pull her close again, but the game had shifted.

It wasn’t about just us anymore; it was about something else—something deeper, more intense, hidden beneath the playful teasing. I could taste it on my tongue, a forbidden fruit, something I wasn’t sure I was ready to bite into, yet couldn’t resist.

I stepped toward her, my movements deliberate, the sound of my shoes against the court floor a steady rhythm beneath the rising tension.

 The distance between us felt like an open invitation, and as I moved, I saw her eyes soften just for a moment, the challenge in her gaze shifting into something more personal—something real.

Without a word, I took the ball from her hands, my fingers grazing against hers for just a second, and in that brief touch, the world seemed to fall away. It was like a spark igniting in the stillness, the air thick with potential. 

I dribbled the ball once, twice, feeling the familiar rhythm, the bounce of it beneath my palms, but it didn’t feel the same anymore. Everything felt different with Paige in front of me. Every breath I took, every beat of my heart, was magnified by her presence.

I paused, my eyes locked onto hers, and for a moment, neither of us moved, the court around us completely silent, save for the sound of our breathing, slow and steady, heavy with anticipation.

I could feel the heat radiating from her, see the way her chest rose and fell in perfect rhythm with mine.

“One shot,” I murmured, my voice low and steady, the words tasting like a promise. “One shot, Paige. If I make it, I get what I want for the rest of the day.”

She grinned, that glint of challenge flashing in her eyes again, but there was something else there, something softer, something that made my heart stutter in my chest.

 “Deal,” she said, but it wasn’t just a word—it was an invitation, an unspoken agreement that whatever came next was bound by something deeper, something more than just the game we were about to play.

Her gaze never wavered from mine as I moved to make the shot, my body tense with the anticipation of what was to come.

The ball was in my hands, but it felt like my heart was in her hands, like I had already lost the game—lost to her in a way I wasn’t sure I could ever recover from.

The tension built, rising between us, until there was nothing else left in the world but that moment, that shot. And when I released the ball, time seemed to stop—everything hanging in the balance.

I could feel her eyes on me, feel the weight of her gaze pushing me forward, but it wasn’t just the shot that mattered now. It was what came after.

The ball soared through the air, a perfect arc, its path a slow dance of possibility. I could hear the faint thrum of my heartbeat in my ears, a rhythm that mirrored the ball’s journey—one moment it was weightless, suspended in the air like a dream, the next, it was on the cusp of landing.

 I watched it, mesmerized by the way the light caught on its surface, the way the world seemed to slow down, just for that instant.

Everything felt suspended in that space—time, breath, reality—like it was all about to break into something beyond the ordinary.

And then, with a soft swish, it landed.

The sound, a whisper against the stillness of the court, was the only thing that broke the silence.

I stood frozen for a beat longer than I should have, staring at the basket, the ball nestled neatly in its home, and then my eyes flickered back to Paige.

 Her expression was unreadable for a moment, a mask that didn’t quite hide the flicker of admiration in her eyes. That glimmer of something unspoken—the recognition that I had won, that I had made the shot, and that something was shifting between us, in ways neither of us had expected.

Her lips parted, just slightly, the corners of her mouth tugging up, but it was more than a smile. It was an invitation. An acknowledgment of what had passed between us.

The air around us was heavy now, charged with the electricity of the unspoken tension, the quiet promises hanging between us like delicate threads, fragile but strong.

The moment hung between us, thick with anticipation, as if the very air had turned to molten glass, fragile yet burning with the heat of what was about to unfold. I could feel it—the weight of her gaze, the intensity in her eyes that set every nerve in my body on fire, igniting a hunger that I could no longer suppress. 

With every step I took toward her, I could taste the tension building between us, like a slow, inevitable storm that had been gathering on the horizon, finally crashing in on us.

I couldn’t help the grin tugging at the corners of my lips, though I fought it, biting down on my bottom lip in a vain attempt to contain the desperation stirring within me. 

But it was useless. She was there, just inches away, her presence an intoxicating force I couldn’t escape. And then, she smiled—a smile so full of mischief and sincerity that it felt like it was meant only for me. Her lips, slightly parted, curled in a way that made my pulse stutter, as though she knew exactly how to make my heart skip.

“Well, damn,” she murmured, her voice low and smooth, dripping with that same dangerous charm that had me teetering on the edge of madness.

The words lingered between us, thick with unspoken promises, as if her mouth was telling me everything her eyes already had.

I swallowed hard, trying to steady my breath as the gravity of the moment threatened to pull me under.

Her eyes gleamed with that mischievous spark—the one I couldn’t resist, couldn’t outrun. It was like a game I didn’t want to win, but somehow, I always found myself losing anyway.

“Guess you get to cash in on your prize, huh?” she added, her voice soft, but laced with an edge that cut through me, making my chest tighten, my body ache for her. I felt it, every inch of me drawn to her like a magnet, pulled in by the promise of something dangerous, something all-consuming.

“Mhm,” I hummed, the sound low and rough, escaping before I could stop it. My eyes flickered down to her lips—those lips that had taunted me, promised me things I didn’t even know I wanted.

 I knew she could see the desire in my gaze, the way it was consuming me, unraveling me with each passing second. She knew exactly what she was doing.

Before I could think, my hand shot out, grabbing her wrist with a desperation that mirrored the urgency building inside me. I pulled her toward me, the distance between us shrinking in an instant, and she didn’t resist.

 If anything, she leaned in closer, her breath quickening as she followed me, the weight of our shared longing making the air between us even heavier.

We reached her bag first, my fingers brushing against hers as I grabbed it, then mine. Paige’s smirk was undeniable—a sharp, knowing curve of her lips that made the heat between my thighs intensify, a fire I couldn’t control.

She leaned in, her breath a soft whisper against my ear as she spoke, her words sending a shiver down my spine.

“Someone’s needy,” she teased, her voice dripping with amusement, but also something darker, something deeper. Her words struck like lightning, igniting the storm that had been building within me.

 I could feel the desperation in every part of me, in the way my body pressed against hers, in the way my hands gripped her bag with a little too much force.

The arousal between my thighs had begun to grow, a slow burn that spread with every thought of what we were about to do—what we would do once we were back.

I could almost taste it, that sweet, forbidden moment when nothing else mattered but the two of us, the world outside fading into a blur.

Without a word, we were moving—out of the basketball court, the sound of our footsteps echoing in the silence, the weight of what was to come pressing against us like an unseen force. My hand never left her wrist, the heat of her skin searing mine, but then—

She slipped out of my grasp, her arm wrapping around my shoulder in one fluid motion, pulling me closer. The shift was subtle but enough to make my breath hitch.

Her proximity, the feeling of her body pressed against mine, only added fuel to the fire smoldering between us.

“You know,” she began, her voice low, almost like a purr, “there’s a lot of things we could do once we’re back.”

Her words were deliberate, each one carefully chosen to send another jolt of electricity through me, to get under my skin, to keep me hanging on the edge of something I wasn’t sure I was ready for.

She said it like she was savoring the anticipation, drawing it out, wrapping it around us like a cloak.

The tension was unbearable. Every word she spoke, every glance she threw my way, only heightened the desire that had been building, making it harder to breathe, harder to think.

As we walked toward the apartment, I could feel the heat of her arm still resting on my shoulder, her touch an unspoken promise, a reminder of everything that was about to change between us. 

The world outside was fading, slipping away, leaving only her—Paige, with that dangerous glint in her eyes, the one that told me that nothing would be the same once we crossed that threshold.

I swallowed hard, the effort futile, as my breath came in quick, shallow gasps. Every step I took felt like falling deeper into her, into us, into the unrelenting pull of this moment that unraveled around us like a silken thread slipping through trembling fingers. With each heartbeat, the world outside faded—until only desire remained, swelling between us, thick and undeniable.

We reached the apartment, but as soon as the door clicked shut, an eerie silence filled the space.

The kind of silence that presses against your chest, heavy and thick, a stark contrast to the usual hum of KK’s music blasting from her room or Azzi’s constant bickering with her.

The quiet felt like it was suffocating, yet somehow, it made everything else louder—the sound of my own heartbeat, the rush of blood in my veins, the heat between us.

Paige’s lips curled into a smirk, that knowing gleam in her eyes flickering like a flame just waiting to ignite. "Looks like we have the place to ourselves––" Her voice was a low rasp, each word heavy with intention.

Before she could finish, I was already shutting the door behind us. Our bags fell to the floor with an almost inaudible thud, but neither of us paid attention to them.

The only thing that mattered was her—her warmth, the way she felt pressed against me, the softness of her lips as they collided with mine, urgent and hungry. 

My hands moved of their own accord, finding their way to her waist, her back, the curve of her hips—anywhere I could touch, feel her, pull her even closer.

Paige groaned into my mouth, a sound that made my pulse race, deep and guttural. Her fingers dug into my waist, tugging me flush against her, and for the first time, I realized—I hadn’t even given her a chance to put her shirt back on when I yanked her off the court earlier. She was bare, caught in the heat of this moment, and I reveled in it. 

My hands slid up her bare back, feeling the heat of her skin, the shiver of her muscles as I traced the lines of her body.

Then, her thigh slotted between my legs, and my breath hitched. The pressure, the feeling of her so close, was almost unbearable.

She moved me, rocking me gently against her, her knee pressing into the sensitive part of me with an urgency that made me gasp. 

My body responded instantly, a low moan slipping from my throat as she pressed harder, her thigh pushing against my clit with just the right amount of friction. The heat was suffocating, but it was the kind of heat I craved, that I needed.

"Needa taste you, baby," I whispered breathlessly against her lips, my hands slipping to her neck, pulling her deeper into me, into the kiss, into everything I couldn’t stop. The words were a plea, a desperate need that hung in the air like a thick, unspoken promise.

Paige didn't pull away. She didn’t give me a chance to breathe, not really. But suddenly, everything stilled. The movement of her body slowed, and then, with deliberate intent, she removed her thigh from between mine, guiding me backward toward our bedroom. 

Her lips never left mine, though, never strayed from the frantic kiss that deepened as she walked me backward.

We collided with something—maybe a chair, maybe the door. I don’t know, I don’t care—and the sound of it, the slight crash, broke through the haze, but it didn’t stop us.

We both let out a muffled giggle, a brief moment of shared surprise, a breath of lightness in the heavy air. Yet even that was fleeting.

Paige pressed her mouth against mine again, her lips parting in a desperate, messy kiss, as if the world outside didn’t exist anymore.

Her kiss was frantic, hungry, as if she couldn’t get enough. I could feel the urgency in every movement, in the way her tongue brushed against mine, the way she tugged at me, pulling me closer, deeper. There was no hesitation now—no second thoughts, just the press of her body against mine, the heat, the slickness of our kiss, the desperate need that had consumed us both.

She pushed me toward the bed, the door thudding shut behind us with a muffled click as Paige kicked it closed with her foot. Our lips never separated, even as the air between us seemed to thicken, electric with the urgency that crackled in every touch. 

She kissed me as if she wanted to consume me, as if every second apart from me had been too long.

The world fell away, reduced to the pulse of our bodies, the desperate rhythm of our breathsI could feel her everywhere—her lips, her hands, the feverish press of her body against mine, lighting a fire beneath my skin that burned hotter with every passing second. 

My breath came in short, uneven gasps, my pulse pounding like a drum, echoing the rhythm of her touch. I didn’t just want this—I needed it, needed her, in a way that felt almost primal.

“Why’d you have to wear so many clothes, hm?” Paige growled, her voice thick with impatience, rough with desire. Her fingers curled into the waistband of my joggers, then my basketball shorts, tugging them down in one swift motion, dragging cool air over my heated skin. 

A shiver ran through me, my thighs tightening instinctively around nothing, the contrast between the chill of the room and the heat radiating from her making my head spin.

Paige didn’t hesitate—her mouth was already at my neck, her lips pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along my skin, teasing, sucking, until she found that one spot that made me shudder, a breathless whimper slipping from my lips before I could stop it. 

My fingers dug into her shoulders as she sucked harder, leaving a bruise that sent a bolt of pleasure straight between my legs.

“And this shirt—” she murmured, her breath ghosting over the damp skin of my throat. “This tight-ass shirt. Fuck, you looked so good in it.” Her fingers hooked beneath the hem, dragging it up agonizingly slow, her thumbs brushing the bare skin of my ribs, setting every nerve ending alight. “But you look even better with it off.” 

In one fluid motion, she peeled it from my body, leaving me in nothing but my lacy pink thong and sports bra, my chest rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths.

Her fingers skimmed the waistband of my underwear, barely grazing my skin, sending a jolt of anticipation rippling through me. But just as she was about to strip me completely, I flipped us over, my body moving on instinct.

Paige let out a startled gasp as I straddled her hips, pinning her beneath me. The momentary surprise in her eyes quickly melted into something darker, something that sent a shiver down my spine.

“Fuck,” I breathed, before crashing my lips against hers, swallowing her moan as I ground down against her, desperate for friction, for relief. 

The way she fit beneath me, the heat of her, the tension coiling between us—it was unbearable in the best way.

My hands trailed down, over the toned muscles of her stomach, the soft ridges of her ribs, before moving up, palming the weight of her breasts through the fabric of her black sports bra.

Paige gasped into my mouth, her back arching, pressing her chest into my hands. I rolled her nipple between my fingers, feeling the way it pebbled under my touch, the way her breath hitched, caught between a moan and a whimper.

God, I could listen to that sound forever.

I pulled back just enough to look at her, her flushed skin, the way her lips were swollen from kissing, the raw need in her expression.

I smirked as I pinched the sensitive bud between my fingers, dragging another strangled moan from her throat.

“God,” I murmured, my voice barely above a breath. “Need you so bad, baby.”

The tension snapped inside me, restraint unraveling like a thread pulled too tight. I slid off her, settling between her thighs, fingers curling into the waistband of her basketball shorts. 

Slowly, deliberately, I peeled them down her legs, my nails scraping lightly against her skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

The way she trembled, the way her breath hitched, the way her thighs clenched as I tossed the fabric somewhere behind me—fuck, she was perfect.

Paige swallowed hard, her chest rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths, her pupils blown wide with desire.

My hands ran up her thighs, fingertips dancing over soft, heated skin as I pressed an open-mouthed kiss against the inside of her knee, trailing higher, higher, as her breath turned ragged.

If only she knew what she did to me—how effortlessly she shattered my restraint, turned me into something desperate, ravenous, aching to devour every inch of her.

“Look at you,” I murmured, my breath feathering over her skin, warm and deliberate. “So fucking pretty like this, spread out for me.”

My fingertips traced slow, torturous patterns along the inside of her thighs, the heat of her skin radiating against my own. A shiver ran through her, muscles tightening beneath my touch.

The scent of her, intoxicating and sweet, filled the space between us, making my mouth water. Fuck, I needed her.

Paige whimpered, her fingers fisting the sheets, her thighs shifting, parting wider as if begging me to do something—anything.

I smirked. “Needy, aren’t you?”

Her breath hitched. I let my lips graze the soft flesh just above the waistband of her boxers, barely touching, teasing. The way her stomach clenched in response, the way her thighs tensed—it sent a rush of heat pooling between my own legs.

“Already falling apart,” I whispered, my voice low and thick, vibrating against her. “And I haven’t even touched you yet.”

Paige exhaled sharply, her chest rising and falling with uneven, shallow breaths. Her head tilted back, exposing the smooth column of her throat, the rapid pulse hammering beneath her skin. I wanted to mark her there, claim every inch of her—but not yet.

Instead, I dragged my tongue over the thin fabric between us, tasting the warmth of her, feeling the dampness that had already seeped through.

The reaction was instant—Paige gasped, her hips bucking up instinctively, her thighs trembling against the sides of my head.

“F-Fuck,” she stuttered, voice wrecked. “Y/N—”

I pressed another slow, open-mouthed kiss to her through the fabric, letting my tongue flatten against her heat.

Her moan was choked, guttural, her hands scrambling for purchase—gripping the sheets, then my hair, as if unsure where to hold on.

“Y/N,” she pleaded, breathless, desperate.

I hummed against her, letting the vibrations tease her further. My fingers curled into the waistband of her boxers, dragging them down, excruciatingly slow, revealing inch after inch of flushed, sensitive skin.

And fuck.

A shaky moan escaped my lips as I finally saw her—bare, glistening, spread out beneath me, all mine.

The fire in my stomach ignited into something unbearable, searing through every nerve in my body. My own arousal pulsed between my thighs, making me dizzy, restless.

I needed to taste her.

Settling between her legs, I hooked her thighs over my shoulders, the heat of her skin pressing against the sides of my face.

I arched my back instinctively, shifting so that my ass lifted in the air, putting myself on full display for her. The sound that left Paige’s lips was sinful, guttural.

“Fucking hell,” she groaned, her fingers flexing, twitching—like she wanted to grab me, pull me closer, but didn’t trust herself to move.

I smirked against her thigh, dragging my nails lightly down the soft skin, relishing the way she shivered at the sensation.

“Patience,” I murmured, lips brushing the inside of her knee, tongue flicking out just enough to make her squirm.

Her response was instant—her thighs tensed, another strangled moan slipping past her lips. Her hands abandoned the sheets, instead tangling into my hair, gripping, tugging—not hard, but just enough to make my skin prickle with heat.

I flicked my gaze up to meet hers, her pupils blown wide, her lips parted, her chest rising and falling rapidly.

She was unraveling beneath me.

I flicked my tongue out, intending to tease—to make her beg, to draw out the anticipation until she was trembling, wrecked, desperate for me. But the second her scent filled my lungs, the second I tasted her, all restraint shattered.

I needed her.

Flattening my tongue against her heat, I dragged a slow, deliberate lick from her entrance to her clit, savoring the way her body jolted beneath me. Fuck. She was sweet, warm, intoxicating.

The taste of her spread through me like wildfire, sinking into my bones, making my head spin.

Paige’s hands flew to my hair, fingers tangling in the strands, tugging—hard. A groan tore from my throat at the sensation, vibrating against her, and the sound that ripped from her lips in response sent a pulse of heat straight to my core.

"Fuck—just like that," she gasped, her voice breathy, wrecked, threaded with raw pleasure. "You're so good, baby. So fucking good for me."

Her words wrapped around me, setting my skin ablaze, spurring me on. My tongue worked her over, flicking, circling, then thrusting deep, curling inside her.

Paige cried out, her back arching, thighs clenching around my head like she couldn't decide whether to push me away or pull me closer.

I devoured her.

Messy. Loud. Wet. The lewd, slick sounds of my tongue moving against her filled the air, mingling with her moans—my name slipping from her lips like a prayer, a plea, a fucking mantra.

I sucked at her clit, alternating between gentle, teasing flicks and deep, desperate pulls. Paige trembled beneath me, her grip tightening, her breath stuttering, her moans breaking apart into incoherent gasps.

"Shit—Y/N—" Her voice was high, desperate, needy. "You're gonna make me—fuck—"

I hummed against her, sending another wave of vibrations through her body, watching, feeling as she unraveled beneath me.

Her thighs trembled, her stomach tensed, her breath hitched—her entire body tightening like a bowstring about to snap.

And I wasn’t letting up.

I thrusted my tongue into her entrance, pushing her higher, further, deeper into the abyss of pleasure.

My tongue swirled around her clit before flattening against it, dragging slow, torturous strokes that had her thighs shaking around my head.

I pressed deeper, circling, teasing, coaxing every last sound out of her.

Paige whimpered, rolling her hips, grinding against my tongue, chasing her own high. I let her, welcomed it, encouraged it, gripping her thighs and holding her open for me as I fucked her with my mouth.

The slickness, the heat, the way her body pulsed around my tongue—it was intoxicating. I thrust deeper, curling the tip, tasting her, swallowing her down, devouring every inch she gave me.

Her breath hitched. Her fingers tightened. Her body trembled, caught on the edge, dangling, pleading for release.

I flicked, sucked, licked, pushing her higher, deeper, until—

"Fuck!"

She shattered.

Her body jerked beneath me, a strangled moan ripping from her throat as she fell apart, drowning in pleasure. I didn’t stop—couldn’t stop—lapping up every aftershock, drinking her in, letting her ride it out against my mouth. I flicked my tongue over her clit once more, sending another shudder through her, making her whimper, making her feel.

I wanted to leave her breathless. Ruined. Completely fucking wrecked.

My chest rose and fell in ragged heaves, my lips, chin, even my nose glistening with her release. The taste of her lingered on my tongue, warm and intoxicating.

Paige’s eyes fluttered open, still heavy with the aftermath, pupils blown wide as she took me in—really took me in. Her gaze flickered downward, to the slick shine coating my mouth, and something dark, something primal ignited in her expression.  

"Fuck," she breathed, voice hoarse, wrecked.  

Before I could respond, her fingers wrapped around my throat, not tight, just firm enough to make my breath stutter.

My moan spilled out against her lips as she tugged me closer, crashing her mouth against mine.

She whimpered at the taste of herself on my tongue, deepening the kiss, devouring me like she wanted to crawl inside my skin.  

Her other hand moved with purpose, fingers already working beneath the band of my sports bra, tugging it up, desperate to rid me of it.

She pulled away just enough to yank it over my head and toss it somewhere behind us, not giving a single fuck where it landed. Before I could even register the cool air against my bare skin, Paige had flipped us, her strength catching me off guard as she tossed me onto my back.  

She settled above me, straddling my hips, eyes burning with something wild, insatiable.

Her fingers traced up my inner thigh, spreading me open, baring me completely to her. Her eyes darkened, and she exhaled sharply at the sight.  

"Look at that, princess," she murmured, her voice low, wrecked, dripping with desire.  “So wet f’me.”

I followed her gaze, heat surging through me at the sight of the darkened, soaked patch that had grown against my panties. My thighs instinctively twitched, trying to close, but Paige didn’t allow it—her hands gripping them, keeping me wide for her.  

"Fuck," she cursed under her breath, and before I could beg, she surged forward, kissing me deeply, messily, her tongue sliding against mine, teeth nipping at my lips.  

She didn’t linger for long. Her mouth traveled downward, trailing open-mouthed kisses along my jaw, my neck—lingering just long enough to suck bruises into my skin, marking me as hers.

She groaned against my collarbone, her breath warm, teasing.  

Then lower.  

Her lips found my chest, my breasts, her tongue flicking over my hardened nipple before latching on completely, sucking, rolling the bud between her teeth. A gasp tore from my throat, my back arching into her touch, desperate for more.  

But it was her hand—fuck, her hand—that made me tremble.  

Paige dipped her fingers past the waistband of my thong, pressing them against my swollen clit. A teasing swipe, slow and deliberate, before dragging her fingertips downward, collecting the arousal pooling at my entrance.

A strangled moan tore from my lips as she dragged it back up, circling my clit again, slow, agonizingly precise. 

"Paige," I whimpered, my voice trembling, hips bucking desperately, chasing the fleeting ghost of her touch. My skin was flushed, burning with need, every nerve ending raw and exposed. I needed her—more, deeper, now.

She didn’t make me wait.

Two fingers pressed against my entrance before sinking into me in one smooth, devastating thrust. A sharp gasp tore from my throat as she stretched me open, the sensation a dizzying mix of relief and unbearable need.

My walls fluttered around her, greedily sucking her in, molding to the shape of her fingers as she filled me perfectly. A deep, aching moan spilled from my lips, my head falling back, pleasure arching through my spine.

My hands scrambled for purchase, nails digging into her shoulders, into the warmth of her skin.

She started slow, deliberate, setting a torturous rhythm—each drag of her fingers slick, deliberate, pulling back just enough to leave me empty before plunging back inside, coaxing me toward the edge with every precise stroke.

Then—fuck.

Paige shifted, the angle changing just slightly, but it was enough to send a shockwave ripping through me. Her fingers curled—relentless—repeatedly pressing, stroking against that spot, that deep, spongy wall that had my vision tunneling, my breath hitching in a broken sob of pleasure.

My thighs trembled, my entire body locking up as a strangled moan tore from my throat.

The pleasure was blinding, all-consuming, wrapping around my limbs, curling deep in my gut, coiling impossibly tight.

I clenched around her, my body desperately clinging to her fingers, toes curling, mouth falling open as the buildup threatened to snap, shatter me completely.

I was unraveling, falling apart beneath her, my moans turning desperate, needy. Paige watched me—fucking worshipped me—like she lived for this, for the way I came undone at her hands.  

"That's it," she murmured, her lips ghosting over the shell of my ear, breath warm, intoxicating. "Take it, baby. Just Like that."

I was unraveling—so fucking close I could taste it, feel it in every fiber of my being. And Paige knew. She always knew.

Her fingers never slowed, never wavered. Instead, she pressed her thumb against my slit, slick and swollen, adding just enough pressure to make me snap.

A sharp jolt of pleasure ripped through me, electric, consuming, my body reacting before I could think—hips jerking, thighs quaking, breath hitching as my stomach tightened, heat curling tighter, tighter.

My muscles locked, poised on the edge of something vast, something explosive.

"F-fuck—Paige!" I choked out, voice ragged, breathless, completely at her mercy.

My nails bit into her skin, grasping, desperate, grounding myself as pleasure surged through my veins like wildfire.

Every nerve in my body screamed for release, for more. My chest rose and fell in frantic, uneven gasps. "M’gonna—baby, please—so close—" The words spilled from my lips, slurred, thick with desperation, my entire body trembling beneath her.

"Come for me, princess," she purred, voice rich, sultry, dripping with control.

And I did.

The moment the words left her lips, I shattered. My walls clamped around her fingers, the intensity of it stealing my breath, my voice, leaving only a strangled, broken cry in its wake.

The orgasm ripped through me in waves—violent, unrelenting, my vision spotting, my back arching clean off the bed as the pleasure consumed me.

It was raw, scorching, spreading like molten fire through my limbs, making my fingers curl, my legs shake as she worked me through every pulse, every devastating aftershock.

Paige didn’t stop. She took her time, dragging me through the aftershocks, her fingers pressing deeper, slower—coaxing every last tremor from my spent body.

Each thrust was deliberate, teasing, as if she was savoring the way I unraveled beneath her. My skin was alive, buzzing with heat, too sensitive yet still aching for more.

The pleasure was almost too much, too consuming, yet I clung to it, to her, to the feeling of being entirely at her mercy.  

Soft lips pressed against my damp skin, trailing over my collarbone, my jaw, my cheek—each kiss a whispered hymn of devotion. Her voice was honey-dipped sin, dark and velvety as she murmured, “You gonna gimme another one, yeah?”  

Before I could even respond, before my pulse could steady, she withdrew. Her fingers slipped from me with a wet sound, and I gasped, the sudden emptiness sharp and aching.

A moan tore from my throat, my body instinctively arching in protest, desperate for the fullness she had so cruelly taken away.

My chest heaved, my mind still hazy, floating in the bliss of my last orgasm.  

But Paige didn’t give me time to recover. No, she wanted more.  

I barely had a moment to breathe before she shifted, her hands firm on my thighs as she moved, positioning herself in a way that sent a fresh wave of heat surging through me. And then—oh, fuck.  

She pressed against me, our bodies aligning perfectly, her slick warmth sliding against mine.

My breath caught in my throat, pleasure sparking at the contact, raw and electric. Paige smirked, her gaze dark, predatory, as she rolled her hips, slow at first, dragging her cunt against mine in a way that made me whimper.  

“Think you can handle it, baby?” she teased, voice thick with desire.  

I could barely think, let alone answer. All I knew was that I wanted—no, needed—her to ruin me all over again.  

My mind was a haze, lost in the heat of her body against mine, in the way every roll of her hips sent a shiver down my spine. I could barely think, let alone speak—all I knew was that I wanted, no, needed, her to ruin me all over again.  

Paige moved fluidly, instinctively, the slick press of our bodies igniting something electric between us.

Our clits slid together with every movement, every desperate push and pull, sending shockwaves through my veins. My breath hitched, a strangled moan slipping past my lips as pleasure crashed over me like a tide, relentless and all-consuming.  

Her left leg hooked over my hip, pulling me impossibly closer, while her other pressed beneath my right, locking us in this intoxicating rhythm. The room was thick with heat, with the sound of our bodies, with the soft, breathless cries of pleasure that neither of us could hold back.  

“Love this pussy so much," Paige groaned, her voice wrecked, raw, as she looked down between us, mesmerized by the way we fit together, how perfectly we molded into one another.

The sight alone sent another wave of arousal pulsing through me, a needy whimper escaping as my fingers dug into her back.  

Then, she shifted—grabbing my leg and lifting it over her shoulder, pressing deeper, harder. The angle sent sparks shooting up my spine, my head falling back as a choked-out moan tore from my throat.  

"Oh my fuck—" I gasped, my jaw slack, my body trembling beneath her.  

Paige groaned, rolling her hips in a slow, deliberate rhythm, her body pressed so intimately against mine that I could feel the heat radiating from her skin. She leaned down, her breath fanning over my thigh before she pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the inside of my knee.

“So good,” she murmured, her voice dripping with reverence, with hunger, like she was speaking a prayer against my skin.

And God, I had never felt more worshiped.

She was no better than I was—breath hitching, moans spilling from her lips without restraint, as if we were the only souls in existence. She had found her rhythm, that intoxicating motion that sent us both spiraling, the friction between us making my head spin.

The way her clit caught against mine, the slick glide of our bodies moving in tandem—it was overwhelming, devastating, blissful.

I gripped her hip, fingers digging into the soft curve, helping guide her movements even as my other hand slid higher, tugging at the hem of her sports bra.

She understood immediately, nodding, her pace never faltering as she reached behind her back and pulled the fabric over her head.

“Hold your leg f’me, baby,” Paige sighed, her voice laced with so much pleasure it nearly undid me right then and there.

I obeyed without hesitation, curling my knee to my chest, baring myself completely to her.

She tossed the sports bra to the floor, where the rest of our clothes lay forgotten, before settling back over me, her bare skin burning against mine.

I tried to watch her, to memorize the way she looked like this—lost in pleasure, lost in me—but the sensation, the maddening, overwhelming goodness of it, kept making my eyelids flutter. Still, I caught glimpses.

The way her head fell back, light lashes fluttering against flushed cheeks, lips parted, brows furrowed in deep concentration. She was beautiful—God, she was beautiful.

I couldn’t help myself. My hands found her chest, fingers brushing over the soft swell before rolling her nipple between them. Paige gasped, her hips stuttering against me, the motion jolting a moan from my throat.

“God, I love you,” she rasped, voice raw and urgent, her body pressing down harder, her need almost frantic now.

"Fuck, I’m so close!" she panted, pressing her hips down harder, dragging against me in a way that made my whole body tremble.

I was right there with her, my head tipping back, nails sinking into her skin as the pleasure built to something unbearable. The friction grew desperate—hips stuttering, gasps turning into cries, every movement slick, relentless, overwhelming.

"Me too—oh, fuck—" I moaned, back arching, chest heaving.

"Baby, come for me—please," Paige begged, her voice shaking, her grip tightening.

And then we unraveled together—legs trembling, moans swallowed by the heat of each other's mouths, our bodies shuddering in perfect unison as pleasure crashed over us, raw and all-consuming.

The room spun, breaths uneven, hearts hammering against sweat-damp skin, and between us, the evidence of our release slickened the space where we remained tangled.

Spent. Breathless. Utterly wrecked.  

Paige collapsed against me, her body sinking into mine, warm and weighty, grounding me as we floated together in the quiet aftershock.

Our skin still burned, slick with the remnants of what we’d just done, our pulses still chasing the rhythm of something wild.

The morning air hung thick with the scent of sex, a heady mixture of sweat and satisfaction curling around us like a ghost of our hunger.  

I shut my eyes for a second, arms locking around her, savoring the way she felt against me—soft where I was sensitive, firm where I needed her most. Her breath was hot against my throat, slowing, steadying, but then—  

“Oh my fucking God finally! My ears can finally rest!”  

My entire body froze beneath Paige, my eyes flying open in sheer horror.  

Azzi.  

Laughter bubbled up against my skin before Paige’s giggles spilled out into the room, shaking both of us in the process. Her smirk was pure mischief as she tilted her head up, eyes gleaming.

“What a good morning, huh?” she teased, voice still raspy from all the sounds she had wrung out of me.  

I wanted to die. Right then and there. Sure, we’d all been living in this apartment for over a year and a half, but we had never been this loud. Not while they were home, at least.  

Paige, of course, reveled in it, completely unbothered. She kissed my neck, slow and sweet, then trailed down to my collarbone, my chest—lips pressing against every part of me as if she hadn’t already claimed me enough.

She didn’t stop until she reached my mouth, stealing one last kiss before finally pulling herself away from me.  

My heartbeat was still erratic, but once I’d calmed down, I leaned up on my forearms, glancing down at the mess between us. I was drenched—shimmering in the mixture of our release, my skin still flushed, still trembling.

I swallowed, my thighs twitching involuntarily, still hypersensitive from the way Paige had unraveled me.  

When I lifted my gaze, I found her staring, no—gawking—before her eyes flicked back up to mine, glinting with something dangerous.  

And then, without warning—  

A sharp slap landed against my overstimulated cunt.  

A choked moan ripped out of me, my body arching as pleasure and shock intertwined in a dizzying wave.  

“Paige!” I yelled. 

Paige only grinned, that slow, knowing smirk curling at the corners of her lips, her head tilting just so—like she had me all figured out. Her fingers traced lightly over the lingering heat she’d left behind, the soft sting blooming beneath her touch.  

“Still so sensitive,” she murmured, her voice a velvet tease, amusement dancing in her eyes. Her fingertips skimmed, featherlight and deliberate, igniting little sparks beneath my skin. “So pretty when you squirm.”  

I barely had time to catch my breath before she was leaning over me again, stealing the air right from my lungs. Her lips met mine, warm and slow, a whisper of devotion in the way she kissed me.  

“I love you,” she breathed against my lips, then again, a little firmer this time. “I love you.” Kiss. “I love you.” Kiss. “I love you.”  

With each declaration, she pressed a kiss to my skin—one on my lips, one on my nose, my chin, my cheeks, my forehead, soft and endless and dizzying.

Her hands cradled my face like I was something delicate, something sacred, and my heart swelled in my chest, too full, too light.  

A giggle bubbled past my lips, helpless and breathless.

“Paige Madison Bueckers—” I tried to get out, laughing between each press of her lips, “Okay—” But she wouldn’t stop, wouldn’t let up, until my giggles turned into full-blown laughter, breathless and bright.  

When she finally pulled away, I caught her lips again, kissing her slow, savoring.  

“I love you too, weirdo,” I murmured, grinning against her mouth, and the way she beamed—like I’d just told her the best thing in the world—made my heart stutter all over again.

Filthy, filthy, filthy....

xoxo,

j.

© sweettu1ips.tumblr 2025 do not copy, translate or claim any of my writing or works as your own.

[sturnmeovr]

♡‧₊˚ Babydaddy!Chris x Sweetheart!Reader - Delusional

Part Two

🎵 Spread Thin - Mariah the Scientist

The warm morning sun peered thru the bedroom curtains; you blink a few times in an attempt to adjust your eyes to the bright light. Knowing Chris usually sleeps in late with you, you roll to his side to fling an arm around him, only to realize he had already woken up and got out of bed. A small groan leaves your lips, not getting your morning cuddle session in with your babydaddy gave you a bad start to your day. Your son was already doing somersaults and backflips in your womb, letting you know he was awake and as active as he could be.

The cold hardwood floor sends shivers up your spine, your sleepy daze fogging your brain as you make your way out of the bedroom and down the hallway. You could see Chris lazily slumped across the couch with his back facing you, one hand stuffed in a bag of chips while the other held his phone. Being the sweet – yet naive – girl you were, you saw it as the perfect opportunity to pull a cute little jump scare prank on your boyfriend. You watch him like a hawk as his thumb dances across his phone screen, making sure you’re light on your feet as you tiptoe toward him. 

Just as you’re about to close in on him like a lion with its prey, his phone chimes, indicating a text was sent. Your eyebrows crunch in confusion as he sits up, freeing his other hand to type a quick reply. Uncertainty buries itself deep in your gut and your intuition makes you take a few steps forward to get a clearer view at who Chris was texting. 

You had no idea how you were pulling off being so quiet. You were nearly in your third trimester; pregnancy obviously came with weight gain, so you weren’t exactly light on your feet to say the least. Clumsiness was blessed upon you at a young age and your baby bump didn’t do you much justice these days. All you knew was – you were bound and determined to see who the hell your babydaddy was texting. No matter how hard you squinted, you couldn’t make out the name. A little voice in the back of your head kept telling you to take a step closer, finally being able to focus on the name written at the top of the screen, when the realization bestows itself upon you; he wasn’t texting anyone familiar. Before you found out you were pregnant, there were a few incidents where other females had slid in your direct messages on Instagram, coming to you as a ‘woman’ about your boyfriend's shitty behavior. Granted, he had been on his best behavior the last seven months – or so you thought.

Your heart falls to the pit of your stomach as you watch him sneakily type a reply into his phone, letting out an uneasy breath. It must���ve been a bit too loud because Chris lifts his head, turning around to face you. His mouth gapes open, astonishment spreads across his face as he realizes he’s caught in the act of texting another bitch that wasn’t the mother of his unborn. Chris stumbles on his words, “Hey — Hey, Babe?” his cheeks rosy red as he chews on his bottom lip out of nervousness.

“Who are you texting?” you ask, trying to be as nonchalant as possible while a frown pulls at your lips, a mixture of embarrassment and sadness hitting you like a bus. The look on Chris’ face gave you all of the confirmation you needed, there was no doubt he was texting another girl, nothing could convince you otherwise. You watch as he jumps up from his seat, pressing the lock button on his phone in a rush and stuffing it into his pants pocket. You position all your weight on your left side while rubbing a hand over your bump, sucking your teeth as if you were rushing an answer out of him, “nobody just someone asking for a collab. I’d have to talk to Matt and Nick about it first,” he stumbles over his own words, making it nearly impossible to believe the bullshit excuse he made up off the top of his head. It had always been clear he was a horrible liar, but this was an all-time low for him. 

You furrow your brows together, letting him know you called bullshit before opening your mouth to speak, “yeah — and who was that?” The last year and a half you had been with Chris, you became accustomed to his sneaky ways. A lot of the time you felt like you were playing detective, constantly poking and prodding him with questions just to get the truth out of him. You watch him shake his head, “nobody important — probably won’t end up going thru with it anyways,” his eyes not meeting yours one time. 

“Let me see,” you tell him, holding out your hand like an angry mother who was confiscating her middle schoolers phone. Chris’ face crunches in confusion, his brows knitting together much like yours were, “why?”

Going thru his phone was something you had only done a few times before and each it led to uncovered lies, days of crying, and treacherous heartbreak. You had been in this situation before, his reluctance to hand over his phone gave you all the confirmation, not that you didn’t have it already. If it was the other way around, he wouldn’t even have to ask to go thru your phone. Your password was your due date which he knew very well. Your heart thumps in your chest and you try to muster up a response, an argument was the last thing your emotions could handle but you knew deep down it needed to be addressed. You didn’t deserve this. You shrug your shoulders at him, “I’m not dumb Chris,” tears brim the waterlines of your eyes as you let out a staggered breath.

Chris stares at you from across the couch, not knowing if he should run to comfort you or stay frozen in his place, continuing to play dumb like he did last time he was caught red handed. He immediately regrets the next sentence that falls from his mouth, “Sweetheart, you’re being delusional,” his phone vibrates in his pocket, sounding off another notification alert. Your eyes drifting down to his pocket and back up to him, “I’m not texting any bitches — honest!” he lies thru his teeth, not daring to make eye contact with you.

“Chris, I’m due in twelve weeks” your voice thick with emotion as you blink back the tears fighting to be set free, “you think now is the right time to lie to me?” You don’t let him get out another word before you spin on your heels and march to his bedroom. His footsteps echo off the hardwood floor, letting you know he was quickly in tow behind you, “baby – wait!’ you hear him call after you before slamming the bedroom door, making sure to lock it behind you. Chris stands on the other side, his face pressed against the door as he knocks repetitively, trying desperately to plead his case as you shove random clothes into a duffel bag, "sweetheart — c'mon, please open the door," you ignore him, alternating between ordering an uber and texting your best friend to let her know you’d be staying at her house for a while. You weren’t letting Chris talk his way out of the trouble he caused this time — he had no excuses.

wc - 1262

♡‧₊˚ I put out a poll the other day asking if you guys wanted this or Brat and Neighbor!Matt's first interaction. They results were pretty close, but the angst won lol. I didn't want it to be too angsty because there's more to come, obviously. My heart aches for sweetheart but I'm glad she's standing her ground. Let me know what you guys think?!

Tags - @lvrsturniolo @ribread03 @strnsvhx @m11rx @sweetshuga @loveparqdise @frickin-bats @katie-tibo @leila-marie4 @delusional-4-fake-people @shadowthesim @immy08 @trevorsgodmother @watercolorskyy @thepubeburgler @courta13 @luvr4miya @chrislilcumslvt @strnilolover @sagesturns @slut4chris888 @watermelonstarzz @purpledragon222 @reidshearts @sophand4n4 @mattssslutbby @imjusthereforthesturniolosmut @sturnslutz @sturniolo101 @sturniolos-manslut19 @stvrniolostan

Babydaddy!Chris Masterlist

Masterlist

Taglist (comment to be added)

Requests/Asks are always open - send me asks about Babydaddy!Chris x Sweetheart!Reader & Neighbor!Matt x Brat!Reader

© M00NL1GHTS1VT - please do noy copy my work

[misserabella]

through your clothes

spencer reid x fem! reader

summary; it was supposed to be professional in between the two of you, but a night alone in the BAU makes it difficult for the two of you to keep your hands off each other

cw; +18 content!, minors dni!!, previous kissing, making out, lots of sexual tension, two idiots pining for months, age gap (about ten years), post! jail! spencer, teasing, voyeurism(?), lots of lingering glances, sex over the clothes, dry humping, almost getting caught, switch spencer and reader!, dirty talking, hair pulling, spencer cums in his pants, non-graphic oral sex (fem! receiving), praising….

along the last couple of months in which you’ve become part of the BAU, this… tension with one of your coworkers had grown. it was a craving, a crush. he was handsome, always prancing on his tight suits, curls perfectly combed and his glasses on the bridge of his nose. he was intelligent, too intelligent, a true genius. his grand knowledge attracted you, made you shaky and hot, your eyes glued to his lips when he would rant about scientific facts. it was impossible to not like him. not want to take him from his tie and pull him down against your lips, kiss him until his glasses would fog up and his mind would go absolutely blank.

but he was your superior. you shouldn’t feel this way about him. you should make no move towards or to him. you needed to keep it professional.

it was late at night, around 3AM. you’d stayed behind to continue working in this case… it was difficult to say the least, really challenging. there were a lot of pieces that didn’t fit. you were leaving your brains on it, your eyes heavy with sleep. but your body was tense. cause he was there too.

things had been a little uncomfortable since a night out with the whole team turned in the two of you having a couple of drinks and unknowingly ended up making out in a secluded space to not get caught. you two had brushed it off as a little tipsy mistake. you two had a great age difference, about 10 years, so it was clear that it most likely was a slip. but it was clear that things had changed.

the lights on his office were lit. seemed to be a late night for him as well. you sigh, yawning.

coffee. you needed a coffee.

while on the kitchen you decided to be kind and bring him some as well. he’d most likely needed it. something you liked about him was how much importance he gave his job and how hard he worked, even after jail. his life hadn’t been easy, but he still tried hard, and that was admirable.

you add his usual amount of sugar. if you were to try the beverage you’d most likely scrunch your face at its sweetness. but he liked it that way. he was a man with a sweet tooth. maybe that’s why spencer found himself being so attracted to you.

you were sweet. sweeter than his coffee, intelligent, attractive… a whole sunshine coming down on him after a hard time of pure rains and cloudy skies.

you take a sip of your coffee as you made your way towards his office, basking in the warmth of the liquid down your throat. you knock twice, waiting for his voice to ring in your ears and give you permission. when he does, you creek the door open.

“hey…” you meet his hazel eyes framed by his glasses. he looks tired. exhausted even. and tense. “brought you some coffee, thought you might need it.” he gives himself a moment while you talk to compose and focus himself, putting on his most professional face and pretending to be completely focused on work. he looks up at you, watching you enter the room and trying to pretend he's not already affected by the way you look and the way your outfits fits your body.

you’re wearing an office black skirt that almost reaches your knees and shows the curves of your hips and thighs along with a button up shirt, which’s upper buttons are unbuttoned to give yourself a breath and more comfort. the heels you wear seemed comfortable as you’d been wearing them the whole day, and added to your stature. they made you taller, but even with them you still had to look up at him to meet his eyes, something he found truly endearing.

“oh. thanks.” he gave you a soft smile as you handed him the cup of coffee, taking a sip. “i actually needed some, i was about to fall asleep.” he joked, and you giggled.

“working on the case?” he nodded. you took some of the files on his desk, leaving your cup of coffee aside. “doctor reid…what do you think about this unsub?” you question, taking a look at his profile. “i think something's definitely not right... something doesn’t fit…”

"yes, I was thinking the exact same thing..." he says, looking up at you as he leaned back in his leather chair to get a better look at the papers spread in front of him. he's trying his best to be professional, but can't help his eyes trailing quickly over your body as well. he cleared his throat. “his behavior is confusing. on some scenes he’s methodical, doesn’t commit mistakes, whereas on others he’s frantic, irresponsible and impulsive.”

you looked down at him, at his spread legs. his black suit pants perfectly fitted to his now more muscular thighs. he seemed to had gained strength while in jail. your mind wandered to the possibility of sitting down on them, on the muscle of his thighs in between your legs. “his mind is scattered…” you bit down on your bottom lip, trying to trail back to the matter.

he caught the way your eyes darkened as they settled over his spread legs. it was almost as if he could tell what you were thinking, his brown puppy eyes reading you like an open book. he had to bite back a groan at the sight of you pressing your teeth into the full flesh of your lip. he could almost remember taste the alcohol out of them he had been craving for weeks after your kiss.

"mhm...” he nods, humming. his tone sends shivers down your spine. you seem to have more on mind. “what’s on your mind?" his fingers come up to his glasses to push them up the bridge of his nose, your attention drifting to his large slim fingers before you got back to your trail of thought.

“uhm... well. he seems to be obsessed with his victims...” your words were dying quickly, your body crumbling underneath the tension that slowly drowned the two of you. your eyes trailed down to his crotch. there were so many scenarios running through your mind…

he feels heat pour into his veins under your gaze. your voice is getting rougher, your eyes glued to him. he wants to stand up and pull you into him, but he stays fixed in his seat. he can't take his eyes off of your darkened ones as he speaks.

keep it professional, reid.

"yeah... and?"

“and... uses them. like toys, just before dumping them.” a shiver runs down your spine at your words.

haring the shiver in your voice sends one up his spine in the same way. “he plays with them. enjoys the power of submitting them under him before his game ends.”

and even though he shouldn’t, he thinks about how it would be to use you like a toy, for you to submit to him.

"mhm..." He responds in a low hum, watching as you start to tremble before him. he leans back, getting more comfortable in his seat as he stares up at you. you don’t longer think the two of you are in the right space to talk about this murderer.

“doctor reid...” you called for him, his hazel eyes catching the last on yours as you stared at his spread legs. he watches from under hooded eyes as your gaze trails over that obvious bulge that has you so entranced.

“what is it, agent y/l/n?" he inquired letting the words escape low in his chest. his heart beats faster at the sound of you breathing in that title as you look down at him.

“what are you doing?” you breathe out, your whole body tingling with the need to move closer, to touch him.

"me?" He echoes back as if he's innocently confused, his tongue running over his lips as he looks up at you with feigned innocence on his face, on his hauntingly beautiful face. "just taking a seat, getting comfortable... working..." he's trying desperately not to give away the game, the hunt and teasing, even as he sees the way your eyes get even darker and more intense.

“yeah...” you coughed, looking away from his lips as his tongue dampening them had caught your attention. you could almost feel them against yours, feel his tongue in your mouth. “then maybe i should... i should get back to my desk. there's a lot of work i need to do and...”

he's practically shaking in his chair as you speak, his breath coming in a shudder as he hears you struggle to maintain your composure, the words you speak seeming to do nothing to keep that desire out of your voice.

"no... you should stay." he says gently, cutting you off, his voice dropping to a huskier tone as he looks up at you.

“what?” you shake, your throat drying up.

"just... stay. sit." he softly reached out and touched your hip to gently pull you in front of him. he lets his hand trail down your thigh, his touch making the skin under your skirt prickle.

“w-where...? there are no more chairs...” you stutter, your nervous eyes scanning the room. he was still moving into the office, he was lucky he had gotten a chair and desk.

he looks up at you through dark eyes, a tiny smirk on his face as he sees the effect his touch is having on you. he wanted more. he wanted to drive you crazy.

“i think you know exactly where, agent.” he softly says. “come, sit..." his hand trailing around to the back of your thighs to pull you as he speaks, moving you to settle comfortably in his lap. your cheeks flush, a whimper leaving your chest as your pussy lands right against his crotch.

he shivers at the feeling of your warmth and your weight against his thighs, having to bite down on his tongue to keep from groaning out loud at the feeling of your body His hands trace over your thighs, fingers digging into the skin of your legs as he relishes the feeling of you on him.

“we shouldn't be doing this...” you tried, breathing heavy. “that kiss... it was a mistake...”

he shook his head immediately at your words, his eyes still fixed on you as he watches the way your chest rises and falls with every breath, the way your body trembles like you're already falling apart on top of him.

"no... you weren't a mistake. this feeling isn't a mistake..." he whispered breathlessly, hands slowly slipping to the edge of your skirt as he looked up at you with eyes full of nothing but complete desire and need for you.

“spencer...” you moaned, biting down on your lip, your hands on his shoulders.

hearing you moan his name sends him over the edge, any ability to hold back completely gone as he feels you start to melt on top of him. he looks up at you hungrily under his lashes before he's finally closing the distance between you, his hands snaking up your back to pull you closer as he presses his lips firmly to yours.

you gasped at the first contact, your hands hurriedly coming up to his hair, kissing him hungrily. he tastes just like you remembered, although now there’s a tang of sweetness on his lips.

he lets out a deep groan as he feels your hands in his hair, his body practically trembling under your touch as he kisses you deeply. he lets one hand slip up your spine to the back of your neck to keep you close, the other trailing down to your waist as his tongue slips forward to press hot and insistent against your bottom lip until your mouth opens for him, your tongues meeting as you tug on his hair.

“doctor…” you sighed, hips thrusting against his in need, making his mind go absolutely hazy and a deep groan coming from his mouth as he feels your desire rubbing so wantonly against him. “this is bad... oh god. we should stop...”

he's so lost in the bliss of your body against his that he can barely process your words, but even as you try to speak them his hands are pulling you tighter against him. “no... don't stop... don't..." he practically begs in a gasp, his head tilting to trail kisses and bites down the side of your neck, humming contently when your head tilts backwards to feel more of his kisses. “anyone could come in... they could catch us.” and it was true, anyone wanting to start early could come into the BAU earlier than normal and hear the two of you.

he moans with your words, the sound of your voice even more delirious with desire only serving to make his mind fuzzy. he knows you're trying to stop this, but his body feels too good, too incredible.

"let them walk in... let them hear you..." he said huskily, his teeth gently nipping at your skin as he moves to the sensitive spot behind your ear.

you can't help but whimper, feeling his cock growing harder against you as you roll your hips against him, what makes him let out a deep groan, his head tilting back and his eyes squeezing shut as his mouth falls open around the low sound.

"s-stop... you're going to kill me..." he groans the words out in a gasp, his body growing hot at the friction you're creating with your body.

“you want me to stop?” you whisper on his ear, and he bites down on his lip, shaking his head. “no... no... don't ever stop..." he says gruffly, letting his hands trail up from your waist to your sides, feeling your skin through the thin fabric of your shirt. you kiss his jaw and neck. he feels like he's starting to lose his mind at the feeling of you grinding against him, his breath shuddering out in a groan as he feels his body start to shake. "oh my god..." he moans, his chest rising and falling faster and faster with the way you're moving against him. his eyes squeeze shut as he tries to keep himself together, his hands starting to clench around your sides.

“spencer...” you cry out, feeling your stomach tightening at the constant rubbing of your panties against your clit. “feels so good... you feel so good...”

he moans desperately at the sound of you saying his name like this, biting down hard on his lip as he feels you grinding against him so deliciously, your voice so wanton and full of desire for him

"yeah...? feels good?" he shudders out, his eyes flickering behind his closed lids as his head falls back even further against the chair.

you knew you shouldn't. your relationship was meant to be strictly professional. you were supposed to be just team mates, but you wanted to make him cum on his pants. you wanted to make a mess out of him, and that's why you ground your hips harder against his crotch, whining.

he chokes out a groan as he feels you working against him, his hand clenching around your thigh as he tries desperately to keep some modicum of control, fighting the shuddering waves of pleasure that start to roll through him at your motions. his breath comes in sharp through parted lips and they sit against your neck. "oh god... oh god..." he moaned helplessly, desperately trying not to give in right there in the chair.

you leaned on his ear, like the devil on his shoulder. “cum for me, doctor, i'll clean it all up later with my mouth.”

he's already on the edge, his head swimming with the words and the way you keep moving against him. he's never been so far from in control. “fuck.” he groans as he feels himself starting to reach his limit, desperately fighting his body, which only craves release.

“you close, spencer? gonna come for me in your pants?” you mutter only for him to hear against his neck, leaving wet kisses on his skin and tugging at his hair.

he chokes out another moan at the way you taunt him, his body starting to shake under your touch as he nods. "oh god... yes, please..." he whines, his moans starting to sound more and more desperate, even as he can hear the sounds of the crew finally getting in for work, moving around outside the door.

"go ahead doctor. be good for me.” his whole body starts to shudder as you speak, hearing the way you're talking to him like this undoing something inside him. his head falls back with a long, deep groan that you have to quiet with a kiss as his eyes squeezed shut, the force of his orgasm overwhelming him.

you moaned at the warmth of his load spreading through the front of his pants and in between your thighs, your hips grinding down on him to help him ride out his high.

he's breathing hard by the time the rush is over, his mind starting to come back to reality again as he feels your hips and body against his. he keeps his eyes closed for a moment before he's looking up at you with a shuddering groan, his eyes dark and full of satisfaction as he shakes his head.

"you're evil... you know that?"

“you were the one who asked me to not stop, doctor.” you smirked, gasping when his strong arms picked you up and places you on top of his desk, his knees hitting the floor as he positioned himself in between your thighs. “what are you doing?!” you whisper-yell when you feel his fingers tug at the hem of your underwear, his lips leaving a soft wet kiss on your inner thigh.

“returning the favor.”

[theorist-fox]

Good Luck

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

Crossposted on AO3.

Previous << || >> Next

Word count: 5.2k

Summary: There’s only so much you can endure for love. Simon’s avoidance takes him one step too far, and this time, there’s no turning back.

18+

CW: angst, arguments, canon typical violence (GSW, surgery, medical talk), a drop of smut.

I listened to this song while writing!

Masterlist 🦊 | In The Walls Masterlist 🦊

The treadmill runs underfoot when it shouldn't. 

You shouldn't be here—when the lights in the base are off, and curfew has clocked in. Not when your side is still aching, and your injury is still mending.

One would think that after ages in the special forces, you'd get used to gunshot wounds. 

Truth is—you never do. It's always the same burning pain that makes you piss yourself and throw up your guts. How you survived is still a big, fat question mark—sniper rifles are made to kill, not to neutralize. If that bullet had hit a little higher, you'd be six feet underground, not doing some cardio in the HQ gym.

Even now, two months after the incident, the stabbing ache in your gut still lingers. Granted, it's not fully healed, so any pain you feel is your fault. But sitting idly, twiddling your thumbs, feels far too passive for you. So, you decide to resort to the simplest training—cardio, light weightlifting—anything that might help the rage simmering in your chest subside.

Because yes—the worst thing festering in your guts, right in the broken sinews and ripped flesh, isn't the mending hole of a .308 round, but a growing anger that's making it hard for your limbs to sit still.

And it's that anger that's slowing down the healing process, it must be. 

You're running—not too fast. No headphones on, because you want to hear your breath panting and your feet thudding against the moving treadmill. You want to taste copper down your throat. 

Overexertion. Salivating tongue. The wonderful ache of sore muscles. 

Alive, strong, fast, reliable.

A friendly reminder that even though there is someone else occupying your spot in the team, you're still as fan-fucking-tastic as ever.

A friendly reminder that their role is only temporary. That when you're back on your feet, you're going to be the fifth member of that task force again. 

Breakfasts with Soap, early morning runs with Gaz, cigars in the evening with Price.

Ghost, on the other hand, can go and fuck himself. Hard. 

You don't blame him, really. Or, well, maybe a little. A smidge. 

Because that's just who he is. You can't blame someone for being who they are—and what he is, is a bastard. 

You should've known the moment you met him, the second he introduced himself as Ghost instead of Simon Riley, all those years back.

Instead of giving in, instead of acting kind, caring, and giving him your time—instead, instead, instead—you should've bit the same way he bit you. Ravaged you. Gave you hot and cold, push and pull, sunk his teeth until the bone, until you were nothing more than a rag doll in the maws of a rabid dog.

Surely, you couldn't have expected him to visit.

You couldn't have expected him to knock on your hospital room door, cuppa in hand, and have him give you his precious, precious time.

What you should've done was expect him to treat you in person like he treats you in bed. 

A whore: warm enough to fit his cock in, wet enough to stroke his ego. You being out of commission for anything remotely related to sex meant you being out of his life—plain and simple. 

A hard pill to swallow, but a true one.

And so, you run. 

You run and stare deadly holes into the wall in front of you. 

You run and ignore how the forming scar on your side tightens at each movement. 

You run and try your damned hardest to focus on yourself: on your body feeling alive even when unhooked from cables and machines, on the fog in your brain finally dissipating, on your chest filling and relaxing even without oxygen pumped in your nose.

Ten minutes turn into twenty, until you can feel your thighs chafe and your calves cramp, but still you push through. Because the alternative, the only other thing that would make your stomach finally loosen, would be to have that bastard within reach. Punch him until he hurts like you did.

Alas, God seems to have heard, for the next thing you know, is that Simon is standing, jaded as always, at the threshold of the gym to your left.

As soon as you spot him in your periphery, you punch the big red button on the treadmill. Your run slows to a walk before you stop completely and get down. 

You don't even look at him as you collect your water bottle from the floor, grunting softly when your injury folds and aches.

You don't even lift your head when you reply with a caustic, "Look what the cat dragged in."

He snorts. How dare he.

"See you got your wit back."

It's been two months since you last heard his voice. 

When you got shot and blacked out, the last thing you registered was his voice roaring over comms—but judging by the distant behaviour he assumed right afterwards, the complete absence during your hospitalization, you convinced yourself that the anguished cry of your name you've heard was imagined altogether.

One last attempt of your brain to find some comfort in the pain.

However, a treacherous shiver still runs down your spine when he speaks. The thickness of his voice, the rasp that scratches a nice spot in your brain. 

You shake your shoulders to get rid of it.

It's only then that you clock his form with your eyes. You tongue your cheek.

"Never left," you say, uncapping your water bottle. "Not that you'd know anyway, mh?"

As you drink, the balaclava shifts at his jaw as if he's running his tongue over his teeth. Thinking which approach to take—tactical and measured or absolutely ballistic and corrosive.

"You shouldn't be 'ere." He drawls with that grating tone that makes you believe he knows something more than you do.

Measured it is.

"Got cleared."

"Doc said otherwise."

"As obsessed as ever, uh?"

How his eyes sharpen tells you you've cut deeper than any razor blade could. A smug smile blooms on your cheeks because small things feel like huge victories when there are too many losses to count.

"You're under my command." He says bluntly, "Had to keep myself updated."

"Normal people would ask."

He tilts his head. "M'sure you gathered I'm anything but."

"Right," you say with a wry grin. "What was the doctor's diagnosis, then?"

"Lucky your liver got out of it intact," he replies, "Exit wound clear, no fragments. Minimal internal dam—"

"Oh no, I know that." You cut in, sickly sweet, like poison more than honey. "I meant yours."

His eyes darken, with a warning glint that should be enough to pierce through your resolve—shame for him that you're bulletproof and sharp like a knife. You don't care if it'll hurt—let it. After all, there is little left to lose, and you're sure that whatever is left will soon be lost.

"Abandonment issues? Does it stem from your childhood? Are you projecting something on me, Simon?"

"Sergeant," he says, lower than a growl. 

"What?" You snap, tongue riddled with bitterness. "Isn't that what's happening? Takin' my life apart 'cause you couldn't sort out yours?"

Simon rolls his shoulders and straightens his neck. He often does it when he wants to appear taller, broader, scarier—though you know better.

And right now, he's just as tense as you are. 

Both of you are teetering on the edge, walking a fine line that could lead to resolution, but you're afraid it won't. Not this time.

Each step he takes bends the thin rope under his weight. You wobble—precarious, afraid, a gust of wind is all it would take for you to fall and lose it all in one breath: the earned, mutual trust, the fragile love—no matter how disjointed and uncertain at times.

Reluctantly, you know that it has been tender, too.

"I'd watch my tongue if I were you,” he says. A measured threat.

Your eyes are sharp, and you don't dare to breathe. The space between your faces is tense—a ticking time bomb, something preceding destruction.

"And I'd stay the fuck back." You scowl. "If I were you."

There's a sneer painting his face; you're sure of it, even if it's out of sight. Something heavy and dark, hidden under fabric. 

"Aye, I have," he says at length. "For two months. But looks like you didn't enjoy that much, did ya now?"

Your brows fly to your forehead. Utter disbelief at the sheer audacity of him. Apparently, today isn't one of those days in which you can take what you dish out. 

Fuck it, you'll live.

"You think this is funny?" You scowl, cocking your head.

You watch his jaw shift, perhaps trying to reply, but you don't give him time. He's had plenty of it and wasted it all.

"You think it's alright, what you did?"

Your teeth grit until your head hurts. 

"Not even a knock, Simon." Your voice rises in volume and anger alike. "Two months. Not a call, a text, a wordpassed through Johnny."

Your chest grows tight, and those vines climb upward, closing in on your throat and head all the same. The pressure in your skull threatens tears.

You'd rather get shot again than cry now, of all times.

You thought he'd carved a path specifically for you. Instead, he was only covering your eyes in gentle kisses and cottoning your ears with sweet words—perhaps some remorse, if he could feel it at all. Treated you like a hungry dog, throwing a bone so you'd turn into a more docile pup, whimpering and asking for pets.

And still, you kept clinging with your fingernails to the scraps of tenderness he offered, even when unsure of their authenticity.

There is no trace of that naivete now embedded in your eyes. You're as hard as he's portraying himself to be.

Simon now studies the switch. He must see the sadness in there, even if it's buried under a thick layer of anger and spite. 

"Figured I'd leave ya to it," he says at last, pressing his thumb between his brows—a subtle gesture betraying his calm facade. "Give ya time to recover."

What a poor fucking excuse.

Oh, you want to make him hurt like he did you. 

Make him feel two months' worth of staring at the plain white door of the hospital room, waiting for it to open. Waiting to see him duck under the doorframe, holding a pack of Marlboros in his hand. 

Make a joke about smoking in hospital rooms and how irresponsible that would be, how insensitive, only for him to tinker with the smoke alarm and turn the orange butt of a ciggie your way. 

Bring you tea. The book you still haven't finished. Tell you about his day. 

More than sixty days spent pining, waiting, hoping like a helpless lunatic, with Johnny's pitying blues glued on the lines between your brows.

"Oh, spare me." You scoff. "At least have the decency to do that much."

His eyes narrow. You inhale, challenging him with your glare.

Fuck, he doesn't have to love you—to even like you—if that's the barrier he wants to put up.

But basic human decency doesn't seem much to demand. Especially knowing that you were so much more before this ordeal began. You were a colleague, a friend. A shag here and there doesn't cancel that. How can occasional sex erase years and years of carefully built partnerships, in and out of work?

How can he so easily change his view of you just because you parted your legs for him?

It hurts when you realize it. When it hits you right in the head like that bullet pierced your side. That you're done giving him excuses, that you're done giving him time.

That it's now or never again.

It escapes your mouth like something strangled, fighting its way out with elbows and fists. Thrashing through your throat, guided by better judgment and self-preservation, even as your heart begs for a moment more. 

"You know this doesn't work, right?" You gesture in the space between you two. "You and I."

That seems to be what wakes him. His eyes look alarmed, even if only for a moment, and it's a flash so brief you're not even sure it happened at all.

"We talked 'bout—"

"Oh, shut the fuck up." You cut in, exasperation showing in the way your voice rises. 

He jolts. Freezes.

You sigh a shaky breath. Your body burns hot, like the feelings brewing at the bottom of a much too-deep pot are finally spilling out. Skin lighting up, all too aware of everything, from the blood rushing to your cheeks to the throbbing ache of your healing wound.

"Yeah, we had that chat—no feelings, no strings attached, or whatever rubbish you tell yourself to sleep at night."

Your heart feels heavier, like someone's poured cement over it, and it's about to be tossed into deep waters.

"Doesn't mean you've got the right to treat me like this." You say in a single breath. "Like I'm not even a person. Like I don't matter unless I'm naked."

Something in him hardens like he's looking at you through his scope: squinting his eyes, steeling his shoulders. You struck a raw nerve, casting him in a light that even he wouldn't dare to face, self-critical as he may be.

Or you're just describing what you see. What he's shown you. Given you. Not who he is.

But how are you supposed to know that? Discern the mask from the man when he guards the latter so viciously.

"I'm not just someone you fuck," you say through gritted teeth. "I'm a person. I'm your sergeant—I'm your friend. I deserve your respect."

You slam a finger to his chest. The impact is not as strong as it is shocking.

Simon stumbles back.

"I had your back long before we started fucking, and when I get shot, you don't even bother knocking?" You exclaim. "You hear how fucked up that is? And you think I'll let it slide without consequences?"

You retreat your hand, trembling like a leaf. It falls at your side limply, surrendered as you are.

"You don't know me if you think that."

You gulp down something heavy stuck in your throat, but your voice remains abrasive and sharp.

"And I don't know why I ever thought otherwise."

You step back, holding his eyes a moment more—daring to bite back at your words. Daring to fabricate an excuse.

But you don't waste energy to gauge his thoughts this time. You have tried—so strenuously— to discover Simon Riley, but there are walls too thick to climb, gates too rusted and too old to be opened.

And, for once, you forgive yourself for having failed.

Simon stands stock still under the yellow lights of the gym, hands curled into fists at his sides, fighting an invisible enemy. A statue of a man, stone cold and so awfully far, far away.

You walk past him, water bottle clutched in your hand so tight you think your knuckles might snap.

The doorway's left behind you. Your steps quicken the farther you get from the gym, watching the light from the door give way to the darkness of a sleeping headquarters. 

You don't hear his steps, and you're unsure whether he's following. Hard to tell—the man's a ghost in more ways than just his name. Silent and prudent even when wrapped in tac gear up to his head.

When you reach your room, you think you're safe from further arguments. No more raising your voice, no more putting your heart through the meat grinder. It's gone and done, and you only want to get in your bed and not think about it until you wake up tomorrow. 

Still, your hands shake. You test for your keys in the tight pocket of your leggings and curse under your breath when you pluck them out and they fall from between your fingers.

When you're about to bend down, cussing further because your side still aches, a hand steals them from your sight. You follow the tattoos up to the face of the owner, even if you don't have to do so to recognize him.

He's not wearing the mask anymore. He has it tucked in a pocket of his jeans; you see the dark cloth peeking from the light blue. His shoulders are slouched, hair tousled and messy, likely due to his fingers running through it. Pale cheeks and sunken eyes, darker underneath, like he hasn't caught a wink in a while. 

A certain sadness in them, too. But that might be what your eyes want you to see—rationally, you would put all that much, much past him.

"Careful," he murmurs, handing the keys back to you.

You snatch them from his hands and practically punch them into the keyhole.

"Sarge—"

"No."

He calls your name.

"No."

You slam the door behind you once you're inside, but you don't hear the closing thud. When you look over your shoulder, you find him holding it open. Without further questions or waiting for you to rebut, he steps inside. 

You glower to deter him. It's useless.

Simon closes the door behind him and leans against it. His hand effortlessly finds the switch at the entrance and flicks it on. 

As you blink to adjust to the sudden light, your eyes naturally focus on him: a mountain of a man clad in onyx with the pale cream backdrop of your door. 

"Out," you bark.

He looks at you with eyes so horribly tired. Exhausted. Upset.

"Fuck's sake, jus' listen."

And his voice is not so different.

Then, there's nothing you can do. 

Those boots have been here without your frank permission more times than you can count. You're aware of the impossibility of redirecting them outside. 

You scowl, fingers tightening around the water bottle in your hand because his nerve could bloody well be the last straw.

But still—

You nod. Jaw locked tight.

"Make it quick."

He spares not a second more.

"Day o' the surgery, after they cut you open," he says. "I came."

He points at his neck. 

"Had a tube shoved down your throat, a thing around your chin to keep ya mouth open."

Then, to his face. 

"Beaten black an' blue, you were—swollen an' all. Reckon it was probably the fall after the shot—dunno, couldn't fuckin' think when I saw ya like that."

He licks his lips. Bows his head as if the floor might lend him the strength he needs to pull himself together.

He looks up again. Dark eyes tender unlike anything you've ever seen, and yet one corner of his mouth is downturned, like he's about to say something he's very disappointed with.

Your body is gelatin. Flaccid. Cotton ears, foggy sight, clammy palms. 

"You looked dead," he swallows something thick. "And I wished you were."

Your bottle slips from your hands and falls to the floor. A metallic thud. Water sloshes back and forth as it rolls on the linoleum until it stills.

Suddenly, you feel like a kid who's looking for her ma. 

There's a sadness so deep and suffocating you can't quite explain it if not by digging up childhood memories—a sense of loss, of being small and helpless and alone.

You fought tears all this time, and now it feels fruitless even to try. It's written all over your face anyway. 

You taste their salt before you feel your eyes swell with them.

"Fuck. You." You tell him, voice hoarse but no less spiteful.

"Wished you were dead—"

He walks to you.

"You're disgusting—"

"Because—"

Closer.

"Don't want to see your fucking face again—"

"I didn't know wha' to do."

Until he stands with his boots bumping your trainers. Until the cold wall touches the sweat on your back.

He holds your face in his hands.

You pull back. He doesn't let go.

"'Cause I don't know, love—" He breathes tenderly, like his voice is not his, while your nails claw at his wrist so he lets go.

He doesn't.

"I don't know how to mourn the livin'," he says, "Only the dead."

He gulps. You fall still.

"You said ya wouldn't put me through that again, but you did," he croaks. "Made it worse this time. I couldn't take it."

He thumbs your tears.

"Would've been easier f'me to bury ya with the others an' let the guilt finish me off."

Simon leans in until his lips brush your forehead. When he realizes you won't fight back anymore, his hands slide to your shoulders, then down your arms.

Gingerly, his fingers twine with yours. He doesn't tighten his hold; he merely tests the thin skin of your knuckles.

You pull back a step, burning eyes drifting up at him through the tears clumping your lashes. Truthfully, you weren't expecting him to cry with you. You don't think Simon can—maybe he's already shed one too many tears.

But his cheeks are glowing red. His eyelids are heavy, eyes cast down to you. He's just as affected as you are, but he shows it differently in those subtle ways you've learned to read.

After fighting the tremble of your lips, you steady yourself. Fingers warm within his own; you don't pull them away. 

"I don't deserve what you did to me."

Your voice is so tight you hate yourself for it, but if you don't speak your mind now, you're afraid you never will.

He shakes his head slowly, never straying from your eyes. 

"You don't."

Leaning down slowly, giving you ample time to move away if you wish, Simon kisses your shoulder. 

You sigh.

"Don't deserve a ton o' the shite I put ya through," he whispers.

His ear is right next to your lips. You're sure that no matter how much you try to control yourself, he'll quickly gather your feelings by the way your pulse thunders beneath his kiss.

So why hide it at all?

"And yet you never apologized for a single one of them."

Simon gulps. A subtle sound, as subtle as the man who made it. 

He pulls back. Smooths back your hair, sliding a hand from your forehead to your scalp. 

You lean into his touch, exhaling a breath that trembles like your hands.

"Never did, did I." He breathes. 

He leans in and presses a kiss between your brows, then down the bridge of your nose, to your cheek, the corner of your mouth. You close your eyes so he can navigate this new level of intimacy he's never initiated nor shown at all.

And then he captures your lips. 

His shoulders soften.

A long, drawn-out sigh from his nose. 

He pushes forward, forcing the back of your head against the wall. His hands travel to your stomach, hesitant and curious. He skims over the thicker patch of fabric, where the surgery scar is mending under soft, fresh bandages. 

A slight hiss in your breath because it still feels sore to the touch is what makes Simon pull back. Just enough to have the tips of your noses graze.

Suddenly, he kneels at your feet. 

Big hands envelop your waist, touch gentle but still present enough to rip the air out of your lungs. His thumb brushes over the bandage, causing you to shift uncomfortably.

You look down. Your eyes touch.

The silence around you cracks when he speaks, softness in his breath.

"M'sorry."

Chest tight and sore, like he just punched it. 

He keeps his eyes on you, not to study your expression but to convey his own. The earnestness you catch in there ripples through you like a shockwave ready to shatter you whole.

He leans in and buries his nose right above your belly button, in the rougher fabric of your shirt.

His thumbs hook at the hem, lifting it up so that his face meets your stomach.

"Tell me to fuck off, an' I will," he whispers to your skin. "Know I deserve it."

He kisses your belly, carefully navigating around your bandaged injury. 

"But fuck," he sighs. "I hope you don't."

His lips travel lower, where the waistband of your legging cinches your hips. His kisses turn open but unhurried, like he just wants to savour what he's denied himself for too long.

You roll your lips between your teeth, unsure of how to behave.

"Fuckin' hope you don't," he murmurs.

Your hands land on his head, then, hesitant and trembling, fingers threaded through his hair. Simon sighs like you took the weight off his shoulders and got rid of it entirely.

His fingers curl at the hem of your leggings. 

Slowly, he rolls them down, and he follows their trail, drawing his tongue and his lips down your thighs to your knee. His hand slips to your shoe, and he helps you take it off. Then to the other. Your socks, your pants, until your legs are bare, fabric tossed aside in a heap on the floor.

Simon never stands up.

He holds you by your hips with a covetous grip, but still soft enough to not hurt, almost mimicking the way his mouth moves over you: with smothered hunger, with gentle greed, one that feels somehow oppositely selfless.

Like he's doing it because it feels good for you and not because he desires to have it.

Simon's nose dips in the crease of your thighs. A kiss there, one to the seam of your labia, one on your mound.

His eyes flicker to you.

The lights in your room are a soft yellow, casting a gentle glow on his kneeling body that feels somewhat wrong, like there's too much being shown under the sun when only the two of you should witness it.

Gingerly, you slide your hand along the wall until you find the bump of the switch. With a flick of your finger, the lights go off.

The room is pitch dark now. Moonlight laps at the lines of Simon's face like it's trying to make him glow despite how dim everything around him is. 

It takes a while to adjust to the darkness, but you finally see him when you do. The downturn of his eyes, the telltale signs of sleepless nights, wrinkles of exhaustion and endless battles fought within himself.

Utter, devastating regret. 

You wonder if he can spot the heaviness in your eyes. The uncertainty, the fear of falling right back into the cycle, a trap of yours and his making. 

He's going to tell you the nicest things, pull you in until you can only stick to him like glue, and then he's going to vanish from your life. Treat you like you're strangers until you'll somehow find yourself wrapped around his finger again.

And then it'll all start over. Again, and again, and again.

You brush your thumb on his temple.

Simon leans into it like a dog starving for attention.

He hooks his fingers at the thin straps hugging your hipbones. Slowly pulls your knickers down to your ankles as he holds your eyes.

Gently, he coaxes your knee to bend, lifting your leg off the floor. He kisses the side of your foot, your calf and upward, until your knee is draped over his shoulder. 

Slowly, his nose nudges your clit. The muscles in your thighs twitch.

You're not wet; you're not aroused. He isn't either, you can tell. Otherwise, you'd have had his face buried between your legs hours ago.

The tip of his tongue draws a stroke there. Like waves, it reaches the base of your skull. Tips you off balance, almost. Makes your head spin.

Another tentative lick. The tender fingers in his hair turn into claws, and you grip it tighter. 

Another, another, until you're breathless and inevitably dripping. Simon collects it with his fingers, drawing circles at your entrance.

The flat of his tongue meets your clit in a tortuously slow dance, holding you still with an arm encircling your thigh. And then his finger slides in. You're forced to bite your cheek, muffling a moan that only manages to break free as a sigh.

But when you look down, even in the darkness, you see his eyes, glossy and charged. But still so very tired. 

Like yours.

Because maybe he's navigating through this exactly like you, and you hadn't considered it—too absorbed in your own heartache to notice his. And maybe he's even more afraid because when you have nothing to lose, and something's suddenly given to you, you don't know how to behave.

And maybe Simon thinks that doing this is the only way to keep you.

You exchange a look that holds more pain than lust, shaking your head at him so, so softly it’s almost imperceptible. And Simon sighs, surrendered—he takes back his hand, his tongue, and sits back on his heels.

Carefully, you unhook your knee from his shoulder. He doesn't put up a fight, doesn't tighten the hold on your leg. Instead, he drops his arm limp on his thigh. 

You slide down the wall behind you until your knees bump against his. Simon's fingers reach out, almost shy, and trace mindless patterns on your skin. 

He's hunched over, head bowed in what you venture might be shame, or perhaps that grief he said he doesn't know how to carry. 

Your hand touches his cheek. Dark eyes look at you through paler lashes with reluctant understanding.

That it's over, isn't it?

"Doesn't feel right anymore, does it?" You offer gently.

His chest swells. Shoulders taut and suddenly straight, like something's hit his spine and forced it upright. 

He tongues his cheek. Looks away.

"Don't think so, no."

Your lips quiver. It's okay, it was bound to happen. 

It should've happened so long ago. You should've taken the leap and pulled away from him much, much earlier—when your heart wasn't woven to his yet.

"Maybe one day," you say in the darkness, thumb brushing his cheekbone. "When we're not so…"

With your free hand, you gesture at yourselves. 

"…Fucked." You finish with a hint of a breathy laugh in between. 

Simon huffs too, and then deflates.

It's long before his hand comes to cup yours on his cheek. He keeps it there momentarily, while finally giving you the privilege of meeting your eyes.

And he looks so tender, even when he gently brings your hand down, away from his face. He holds it as it lands on his knees.

"Eloquent." He remarks.

You scoff. Roll your eyes with a pathetic sniffle. "Obviously."

He shakes his head softly. A big hand reaches up, and he flicks your nose. You scrunch it up, smiling in a way that doesn't feel forced for the first time since you met tonight.

Simon's thumb brushes your knuckles.

"One day," he repeats. "When we're not fucked."

Your smile feels wet and shaky. Tears are staining your cheek, but it's freeing instead of reluctant, this time.

His eyes are gentle, allowing you to peek through the curtain for the first time. Perhaps it's too dark now to see, but you're hopeful one day you will.

"Good luck to us, then." You say softly.

Simon breathes a chuckle. Brings your knuckles to his lips and holds your hand there.

"Good luck, love."

Biggest thanks to @/void-my-warranty for helping me out, you're a gem 🧡

[gooobraghhh]

I should not be publicly admitting this but it has been making me insane for a bit. Basically I have a very easily recreatable trigger that forcibly puts me in a state of like deep relaxation almost? I go essentially limp and start moving very slowly and weakly while my brain gets super groggy. It’s like I can feel my heart slow down and I just melt into whoever’s hands I’m in. Don’t really have an explanation as to why it happens but the steps towards it are:

1 - Pin me down. Doesn’t have to be a perfect hold, I just need to feel stuck and not able to move much at all until the other steps happen.

2 - Place my ear between your teeth. Just gently keep it there so the threat of it being bitten when I struggle is present. I absolutely hate when my ears are bitten and that in combination with being pinned makes me complacent and still. I think the mental part of accepting I’m trapped is important to this working.

3 - Do something physically pleasurable to me. You can just play with my tits, maybe my clit or if you want to make me crazy you can start fingering me. (My muscles relax which makes me basically unable to resist being penetrated)

4 - Dirty talk. I won’t say what specifically works well on me but In general I’m super sensitive to people talking in my ear and need some kind of dirty talk for this to work.

If all goes well you should feel me go limp as my words start to trail off. Found it out for the first time recently by accident during sex and convinced myself I was doing it on purpose but it just kept happening. It’s really surreal and hard to describe from my perspective. It kind of feels like that therapy exercise where you tense all your muscles and then release or like the really strong feeling of bodily relief you get when you leave a high stress situation. Either way it leaves me super out of it with all I can focus on being your voice and touch. Even when I’m trying to fight back my maximum effort is basically nothing but weak pushes.

My boyfriend has taken to doing it to me anytime I get too arrogant or annoying, usually when I try to dom him and he feels like “showing me my place”. It’s really hot but also really frustrating since there is actually nothing I can do when he does it to me besides get “no no no…. Dont” out of my mouth and then going limp. We stress tested it recently (I kept pissing him off) and I learned the like mental fog gets worse the more he does it. I literally had to ask him if he drugged me because I felt like I was gonna pass out and couldn’t talk without it being a bit slurred. It feels like some hypno concept post I wouldn’t think is real but this has been my life recently and it’s really wild. I can’t think of any reason why a random person couldn’t successfully do it to me which has been making me crazy as a concept.

[foggymyst]

Hello, hello, welcome! I wanted to take the time to ask you some questions, please do take the time to answer them honestly, and if you can’t, just make it up! Don’t worry about it too much.

First question: What is your favorite color? That’s such a nice color!

Second question: What’s your favorite animal?  That one is such a cool animal!

Third question: What’s your favorite food?  Yummy! That’s such a good answer!

Fourth question: What’s your favorite drink? Sounds good, sounds good, I like that answer.

Fifth question: What’s your favorite number?  Oo, I like that number too! Though I like all the numbers so I can’t say much, haha.

Sixth question: What is your favorite hypnosis method?  I think they’re all pretty great.

Seventh question: Can you take a big deep breath in for me?  Yeah, just like that, great job!

Eighth question: Can you let it out now? Wonderful!

Ninth question: Can you keep doing that? Big breaths in and out, just like before. Such a good girl you are, thank you.

Tenth question: Why are you blinking so much? It’s almost like your eyes are growing heavier and heavier.

Eleventh question: Are you growing sleepy? You had such a big yawn I just had to ask.

Twelfth question: Can you focus on just these questions for me? Nothing but my questions please.

Thirteenth question: Are your limbs heavy? Yeah, looks like you’re having a hard time moving them.

Fourteenth question: Is your mind growing hazy? Like a thick fog settling over your brain. I can tell, you’re all spacey and stuff

Fifteenth question: Are you starting to feel yourself surrender to me? That’s okay, it feels good, so don’t worry if you can’t stop it. 

Sixteenth question: You don’t want to stop it, do you? Of course not, because you know my questions are helping you relax.

Seventeenth question: You love to relax, isn’t that right?  It feels so nice to let go of all that built up tension and just let it all go.

Eighteenth question: You love to let go, no?  Yeah, I know you do, sweetheart. What a good girl you are.

Nineteenth question: You really are such a good girl for me, aren’t you? Yes you are, such a good girl, following my words so well, answering my questions so wonderfully.

Twentieth question: Can you feel yourself sinking?  It feels so good to sink into that mind fog, no worries, no thoughts.

Twenty-First question: Do you like being in trance? Of course you do, you wouldn’t read this if you didn’t.

Twenty-Second question: Do you enjoy dropping into trance? Again, of course you do. You would have scrolled by now if that wasn’t the case?

Twenty-Third question: Can you feel your mind becoming mine? It feels nice to let someone else take control, so you should be thanking me

Twenty-Fourth question: Are you seriously drooling right now? Awe, don’t stop, it’s cute.

Twenty-Fifth question: Can you fall into trance for me?  You’re doing so well

Twenty-Sixth question: Can you sink into mindlessness for me?  You’re so obedient, I’m so proud of you.

Twenty-Seventh question: It feels good to obey me, doesn’t it? Such a good girl, you love when you get to obey me.

Twenty-Eighth question: Can you drop for me?  That’s it, just like that, sweetheart. 

Twenty-Nineth question: Can you tell me your favorite color? Oh you don’t remember. That’s okay, it’s better that you don’t think anyways

Thirtieth question: You’re completely hypnotized, aren’t you? Just as you should be.

[fixyourwritinghabits]

Do you have any advice for writing with brain fog? I've always struggled with putting my thoughts into words, but it's been getting more difficult lately (and so has thinking tbh)

Brain fog, unfortunately, is not something you can work yourself out off. Whatever the cause, your brain needs time to heal, and that can be a long, frustrating process.

But you don't have to assume you will never write again. People can and have written books while dealing with head injuries, recovering from long covid, and more.

Find those periods of productivity. Brain fog saps your energy, and trying to push through a lack of energy is only going to make it worse. Before you force yourself to sit down and write, take a week or so tracking the moments of your day when you feel like you have more energy. If you can, carve out those moments to sit down and write.

Rest when you need to rest. Don't beat yourself up if you got an hour of writing done one day, but only fifteen minutes done the next. Energy comes and goes, and being willing to listen to your body and being flexible will work much better than trying to force yourself to a rigid schedule.

Leave a lot of gaps. Can't figure out a scene? Write down your goals for it and keep going. Can't work out that complicated fight scene? Note the results and move on. You can tackle these parts when you have the ability to focus on them. Don't let the hard parts paralyze you from making progress.

Change the medium (and/or environment). Staring at a screen could be part of the issue. Try drafting by hand. Hell, get a typewriter if you can afford it and see if that helps break through some of the slog. You can also try switching up where you write as well. If the weather's good, try writing outside for awhile. A public library might have quiet rooms you can reserve to use to write. Some people get much of their writing in the bathroom. Whatever works!

Use the rubber duck method. The "rubber duck method" is basically having something to talk through your plot problems at. It can be a buddy, a teddy bear, or your cat. Talking out loud about something allows your brain to think about it in a different way. You can also try recording your plotting thoughts while writing or walking.

Please feel free to try the above one at a time, and give yourself some time to adjust to see if it is working for you. You can do this!

[pucksandpower]

That Pretty Head of Yours

Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: sometimes your thoughts get too loud for your own good but Max knows exactly how to quiet them

Warnings: depictions of anxiety

The hotel room is quiet except for the low hum of the heater. You sit curled up on the couch, knees tucked to your chest, staring blankly at the muted TV. Max is in the bedroom, unpacking his things after the race today.

You should be helping him, but you just can’t seem to move from this spot.

Your mind feels cluttered, thoughts racing with no direction. A heavy anxiousness sits in your chest, making it hard to breathe. You try to focus on the colors flashing across the silent screen, but nothing can hold your attention for more than a few seconds.

You’re spiraling, caught up in your head with no escape. The emptiness inside you threatens to swallow you whole. You press your forehead against your knees, wrapping your arms tighter around your legs.

“Schatje? Are you okay?” Max’s voice cuts through your mental fog. He comes over and crouches down in front of you, grey eyes filled with concern.

You give a half-hearted shrug, not meeting his gaze. “Just … thinking too much, I guess.”

Max frowns, cupping your cheek with one hand. His touch is warm, comforting. You lean into it despite yourself.

“What’s going on in that pretty head of yours, hmm?” He asks gently. His thumb strokes over your skin.

You sigh, closing your eyes. “I don’t know. My thoughts are all over the place. I just feel … empty. Anxious." You hate admitting weakness, but Max has always seen right through you.

He makes a sympathetic noise, leaning in to kiss your forehead. "I think I know what you need.”

Before you can ask what he means, Max moves to sit on the couch. He tugs you into his lap so you’re straddling his legs, pressed close against his solid frame. One hand cradles the back of your head while the other splays across your lower back, holding you firm.

You relax into him instinctively, comforted by his nearness. He’s so warm, so real. Already the knot in your chest starts to loosen.

“There we go,” Max murmurs. "Just focus on me, liefje. I’ve got you."

He guides your head to rest in the crook of his neck. You breathe him in, surrounded completely by his scent and touch. The rest of the world falls away until there is only Max, anchoring you here with him.

His hand strokes up and down your back slowly. “Talk to me.”

You exhale shakily. “I just … everything feels kind of pointless right now. Like I’m drifting without purpose. And I can’t turn my brain off, it just goes in circles thinking the same useless thoughts over and over.”

Max makes a sympathetic noise, pressing a kiss to your hair. “I know, I know. Your mind can be cruel like that sometimes. But I promise you, none of those thoughts are true. You are so loved, Y/N. So incredibly loved.”

His words make your eyes prickle with tears. You cling to him tighter, overwhelmed.

“Shh, it’s okay,” he soothes. “I’ve got you, baby. I’m right here.”

Max begins to rock you gently, one hand coming up to stroke your hair. The tender motion unravels you completely. A sob hitches in your throat as you finally let go, crying quietly into his shoulder.

He doesn’t shush you or tell you to stop. He simply holds you close as you let it out, fingertips massaging your scalp.

When the tears finally subside, you feel wrung out … but also lighter. The weight has lifted from your chest. You nuzzle against Max’s neck, breathing him in.

“There’s my girl,” he says softly. “Feel a little better?”

You nod, wiping your eyes as you sit back to look at him. "Yeah. Thank you."

Max cups your face in both hands, gazing at you intently. “You never have to thank me for taking care of you. I’ll always be here when you need me. I love you.”

Your heart swells, warmth flooding your entire body. No matter how many times he says those words, they never fail to make you feel like the luckiest person in the world.

“I love you too,” you whisper.

Max gives you that crooked smile that makes your knees weak. He leans in, catching your lips in a tender kiss. You sigh against his mouth, hands coming up to clutch at his shoulders.

The kiss remains unhurried, full of comfort and care. When Max finally pulls back, he brushes his nose against yours.

“Now then, I think some cuddles are in order,” he says, patting your thigh. “Go get comfy in bed. I’ll join you in a minute.”

You can’t help but smile as you climb off his lap. Max always knows exactly what you need, even when you don’t. The promise of being wrapped up in his arms, warm and safe, already has the last of your anxiety fading away.

You change into one of Max’s oversized t-shirts, then slide under the covers on your usual side of the bed. The silky sheets and plush mattress cradle you invitingly. You snuggle down with a contented sigh, letting your heavy eyelids drift shut.

The mattress dips as Max gets in behind you. His solid chest presses up against your back, one arm draping over your waist. He nuzzles the back of your neck, breath tickling your skin.

“Comfortable?” He asks.

You lace your fingers with his, bringing his hand to your lips for a soft kiss. “Very.”

Max hums in satisfaction, holding you a little tighter. The steady rise and fall of his chest lulls you into a tranquil headspace. Here in his arms, nothing can touch you.

For a while you just lay together, soaking up each other’s warmth. Max presses lazy kisses along your shoulder, up your neck, behind your ear. Each one sends a pleasant tingle through you.

“Talk to me some more?” He says after a bit. "Tell me what you need right now, liefje."

You consider for a moment, absently stroking your thumb over his knuckles. “Just … remind me that I’m yours. That you’ll keep me safe.” Your voice comes out small, timid.

Max makes a soothing noise, nuzzling into your hair. “Of course, sweet girl. You’re mine. Only mine. And I will always, always keep you safe.” His hold on you tightens protectively. “No one will ever hurt you as long as I’m here. You’re so precious to me, so loved. My perfect girl.”

You can’t help the little whimper that escapes you, his words settling like a balm over your frayed nerves. Max continues whispering sweet nothings as you melt further into him, tension bleeding out of your muscles.

Here, cocooned in his warmth with his voice surrounding you, the last dark tendrils of anxiety stand no chance. There is only Max, your harbor in the storm.

You drift in a state of blissful tranquility, floating somewhere between sleep and waking. At some point Max begins humming softly, the vibrations rumbling through his chest. Combined with the fingers combing lazily through your hair, it lulls you into a deeply relaxed state.

“That’s my good girl,” Max praises. “Just rest now, I’ve got you.”

You succumb willingly, sinking into the welcoming arms of sleep with a contented sigh. The last thing you feel is Max’s lips pressing one more tender kiss to your temple.

“Sweet dreams, my love.”

[jockdumboy]

Dumbass Douchebag Revultion Jock Bro

aight bro, u wanna join da dumbass douchebag revulution, huh? respect, bro, cuz we out here makin gainz an thinkin' less, da right way! imma show u how to turn off ur brain an get swole, bro. no need for smart stuff, just muscles an tank tops. u ready? let’s goo, bro!

step 1: stop thinkin’ so much bro – just focus on liftin

bro, smart thots slow u down. u gotta think less an just lift more. if ur thinkin, u ain't liftin! u need to clear ur head an focus on dem muscles, bro. here’s how u do it:

how to turn ur brain off, bro:

grunt a lot – bro, when u feel a thot creepin up in ur head, just grunt. grunts block out da brain stuff. erry time u grunt, u get a lil dumber but also more swole. more grunts = more gainz.

count wrong – don't worry about counting right, bro. just do like “1… 2… uh… 10!” don’t waste brain energy on numbers, bro. just lift until ur arms feel like noodles. numbers are for nerds.

stare at urself – da more u look at urself flexin, da less u think. mirrors are key, bro. flex in da mirror for 10 mins and u’ll feel da brain fog settlin in. if u ain’t thinkin, ur winnin!

step 2: eat like a dumb bro – food for less thinkin’

bro, smart people eat complicated stuff, but we ain’t needin’ dat. we gotta keep da food simple, so da brain stays off an muscles grow, bro.

simple jock meal plan:

brekfast: 10 egg whites, bro, no yellow stuff, cuz yolk is too complicated. jus crack ‘em an cook ‘em. don’t even think bout it, just eat dem. den drink a protein shake, bro, but don’t think too hard on how much powder u put in, just pour an shake.

lunch: chicken, bro, jus chicken. u don’t need nothin fancy. jus grab some chicken and eat it. da less u think bout flavors, da better. thinkin slows down da gainz.

dinnar: more chicken, or steak if u wanna switch it up. but don’t think too much, bro, steak is jus beef chicken. eat dat, maybe add some broccoli if u feel fancy, but dats it. simple = swole.

snakks: peanut butter, right out da jar, bro. don’t even use a spoon, jus scoop it wit ur hand if u gotta. drink protein shakes whenever u think too much, dat’ll stop da smart thots.

step 3: dress like a jock, bro – look dumb, lift big

bro, ur clothes gotta scream “i don’t think, i just lift.” da right gear stops ur brain from workin' an shows erryone dat ur all about da gainz.

jock bro style:

tank tops: da less shirt, da better, bro. if ur tank ain’t showin’ ur nips, it’s too much. u worked hard for dem muscles, show ‘em off. less shirt = less thots.

short shorts: u gotta show dem legz, bro. even if u don’t work legs much, u wear da short shorts. da shorter, da less brain power u use. simple math, bro.

backwards hat: wear ur hat backwards, always. makes u look more like a badass jock, plus it keeps da brain from overheatin’. dat’s science, bro, trust me.

step 4: act like a jock bro – no thinkin, just doin

bein part of da dumbass douchebag revolution means actin like u own da world, bro. don’t let smart people get in ur way, jus be loud and confident, like errywhere u go is ur gym.

how to act, bro:

flex errywhere: see a mirror? flex. don’t even think twice, just do it. flexin' is like a brain reset, it turns off any smart thots u might accidentally have.

talk bout liftin all da time: bro, if someone tryna talk bout somethin' else, jus say “yo bro, how much u bench tho?” dat’ll stop da convo from gettin smart. always bring it back to da gym, bro. liftin' is life.

grunt loud af: grunt whenever u do stuff, not just in da gym. grunt when u lift, grunt when u open a door, grunt when u stand up. it shows ur serious about bein' a jock bro an it keeps ur brain from thinkin’.

conclusion: welcome to da revolution, bro

bro, now u know how to join da dumbass douchebag revolution. jus think less, lift more, eat simple, an dress like a beast. we don’t need smarts, bro, we jus need gainz. u ready to be part of da swole squad? let’s gooo bro! time to lift and never think again!

[revelboo]

This is all I can think of with reader and their bug husbands

BUG TIME

To be fair, they haven’t really explained anything to their poor human. They’d just assumed humans bonded for life, too. That they felt the bond and knew what it was, so they’re a little betrayed and a lot angry right now

You (Don’t) Know Me Pt 14

Insecticons x Reader

• Whatever they’re doing, it’s starting to feel good. Cheek on the rough stone under you as that buzz sinks deeper into you loosening the fear and stress until you’re floating in a warm haze. Are you getting high off whatever they’re doing? Know you should be fighting to get away, but can’t seem to get your limbs to cooperate. Can feel that pleasant hum down in your bones.

• Venting as they finish, Bombshell shifts away from you and you just stare owlishly up at him. Not even bothering to get up. Transforming, he hooks an arm around you and hands you over to Kickback. And you just lay in his brother’s arms, strangely docile. Growling, he levels a servo at Shrapnel. “I have business with Shockwave. Make sure our queen doesn’t get lost again,” he growls, your betrayal still hurting him. What queen abandons their hive like you had?

• Shifting you in his arms, Kickback carries you to their nest. Sitting with you in his lap as Bombshell leaves, he wants to ask why you’d run. Hadn’t they been taking care of you? And you’re strangely quiet after the fit you’d thrown getting hauled back home by Bombshell. Watching Shrapnel transform and restlessly pace in front of the cave entrance, he can sense his brother’s tension. His anger. Not even surprised when Shrapnel rounds on him and you, crouching down.

• “You just take off without a word, word?” He demands, gripping your chin when you won’t even bother to look at him. And your eyes are hooded, pupils blown. “Well? Nothing to say for yourself, self?” Venting when you just smile emptily at him before reaching to pat him. In the face. Frustrated, he turns his ire on Kickback. “Let’s take a human queen, queen,” he sneers, mimicking Kickback to make his brother hiss.

• Pleasantly warm, it’s hard to focus, brain struggling to make sense of Shrapnel’s anger through that fog. “Of course I ran away,” you manage. “You guys are terrible bug husbands. You kidnapped me and threatened to eat me.” What had they expected? That you’d be happy in a cave under threat of becoming dinner if you didn’t play queen?

• “You fully bonded to us. Accepted us,” Kickback mutters, annoyed and you snort at him. ‘Threatened to eat me,’ you repeat, tapping a finger against his visor to make him recoil and bare his denta. “Not after we bonded you.” And your eyes narrow at him. Like you don’t believe him and he glances at Shrapnel. You can’t be serious. You have to know. They asked and you’d answered. Submitted to the bond.

• “You’re bonded to us, us,” Shrapnel growls and you arch your brows at him. “For life. Don’t humans bond, bond?” And it clicks when you just stare blankly at him before something like alarm crosses your expressive little face. Realization sinking in that you really do know nothing. That you’d accepted them without even knowing what you were agreeing to, that knowledge leaving him oddly empty. You hadn’t chosen them. Not really and now it’s too late.

• For life? That warm buzz is washing out of you to leave you cold. What if you don’t want to be queen of the bugs for life? Because living in a cave with them from now on? With no escape? Absolutely not. And you’re completely sober now. Especially when Shrapnel grins showing sharp denta. “Do you know what will happen to you if you don’t bond with us regularly, little queen, queen?” Shrapnel growls as your skin prickles all over. Because you’re positive you’re not going to like whatever he says next.

Previous

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[emmiesoverthemoon]

AHHHH I LOVE UR RECENT FIC OVERWHELMING WARMTH OMGGG

it was so good omgg can you do like a bonus fic or wtv where maybe… yk a little more intimate with jiyong himself ALSO SORRY FOR GIVING THIS REQUEST IF U DONT DO SMUT THINGS

like the moment with jiyong giving you a towel sighhh i feel like he would have definitely jerked off after that lmao i feel embarrassed even saying that

oh u freaky freaky anon…. ;) ive never written anything sexual before + im not a man so i hope youve liked it! -- ems

✧ scorching close call

bonus content of overwhelming warmth! please read that for context

Pairing: g-dragon / kwon jiyong x reader

Word Count: 1,910

Summary: Jiyong experiences impossibly high heat after retrieving your forgotten towel for you. After swiftly escaping to his bedroom, he attempts to release some of the discomfort from his body.

Tags: sexual content, almost caught, masturbation, kind of smut

cross posted on ao3 here

This was absolutely ridiculous.

After you had closed the door in Jiyong’s face, amused by his embarrassment, he felt as if he had just stepped out of a sauna. Everything was warm, everything was steamy, everything was too much. The images of your bare shoulder, collarbone, and upper chest were engraved in his hippocampus; an episodic memory that he hoped his brain would work hard to hold tightly and never release. As he walked away from the bathroom, he heard the shower head return to do its job; you must not have finished your shower yet. He was thankful, because if you had emerged to the communal area so soon after whatever... that was, he might have exploded.

Jiyong froze in the hallway, rigid. You were still in the shower. His mind began to race. In that moment, he wanted nothing more than to waltz right into that bathroom and claim you as his very own. He pictured you standing under a warm stream of water, your naked body glistening with droplets that trickle down your curves. His eyes would roam over your figure, appreciating the way the water cascades off your breasts and down along your soft legs. He imagined the clean, fresh scent of his soap that coated your delicate skin, the sweet essence of your natural perfume underneath. He pictured you lifting your arms to wet your hair, the water rolling down your back in a sensual river. 

A tingling sensation began to spread throughout Jiyong’s body, starting from the base of his spine and radiating outward. His heart rate quickens, and he felt a flush of even more heat across his chest and face--if that was even possible. His breath became shallow and rapid as his focus narrowed to the object of his growing arousal. Great. He quietly sighed, sensitivity and need uncomfortably blossoming from his hips throughout his body. He had to deal with this now before you left the bathroom–and fast. Every brisk step was uncomfortable. His typically baggy sweatpants felt unbelievably tight, every brush of fabric against a section of his body sent discomfort through to another area, which would rebound against more discomfort to the next place. The cycle was endless; and long. The foot journey from the bathroom to his bedroom was usually not extensive at all, but today, it felt as if it were the equivalent of hiking Mt. Everest. 

The bedroom was a cavern of shadows, a sanctuary where the mundane trappings of his life dissolved into the primal pulse of his own depravity. Jiyong sprawled across the disheveled bed, his lean frame taut with the electric fervor of self-indulgence. His hand, calloused from endless hours of work, now served a different purpose—wrapped tight around his swollen cock, stroking with a cadence that echoed the thundering beat of his heart, his grip that bordered on desperation—a relentless piston driving him toward a precipice of his own design. The air was thick, humid with the musk of his exertion, a visceral fog that clung to the walls like a confession too shameful to voice. Each pump was a descent deeper into the abyss of his own making, his breath hitching in ragged gasps as beads of sweat carved rivulets down his furrowed brow.

Jiyong breathed heavily, worshipping at the altar of your ethereal beauty with passion that shook his very core. As he explored the landscape of your imagined form, each slipped moan was a prayer whispered to the heavens, each caress a hymn sung in adoration of the divine. His mouth watered in thirst, yearning to savor the ambrosia that pulsed between your thighs. He longed to taste the sweet fruit of your lips, to utilise his tongue for it’s true purpose as a sacred instrument to devour you and ensure that you saw the universe just as he was currently. Your name dripped with pure sin as it fell from his puffy lips, he whispered it repeatedly like a mantra, a spell soaked with searing lust and carnal desire. 

In Jiyong’s mind’s eye, you danced—a vision of forbidden allure, a goddess carved from the stone of late night fantasies. He pictured you now, your presence haunting the edges of his delirium—those lips parting in a smirk, that frame swaying in the shower, taunting him with what he could claim. His grip tightened, the friction a delicious torment, as he chased the crescendo of release, the world beyond his lust narrowing to a pinprick of sensation. The bed creaked beneath him, a traitor to his clandestine ritual, its groans a chorus to his solitary symphony. The silky sheets, tangled and damp, bore witness to his unraveling—a canvas of chaos painted with the stains of his urgency. His free hand clawed at the mattress, nails digging into the fabric as if anchoring himself against the tide of his own recklessness. The room pulsed with the heat of his exertion, the stale air tasting of salt and shame. His cock throbbed, unleashed, slick with precum that glistened in the faint glow of his bedside lamp left on. 

The world beyond his lust shrank to a pinpoint, the room a cocoon of heat and sound—the wet slap of skin on skin, the rasp of his breath sawing through his throat, the creak of the mattress like a heartbeat out of sync. His free hand darted around the silk sheets which were tainted with evidence of urgency in a desperate, pathetic attempt to anchor himself against the tide of sensation. Jiyong was lost in it, animalistically unmoored, when the faintest whisper of danger pierced the fog—a door creaking open and closed, and soft footsteps following. He was close—so fucking close—teetering on the edge of oblivion, when the universe conspired to snap him back.

Jiyong’s heart slammed against his ribs, a caged animal rattling its bars, as he froze mid-stroke, his cock throbbing in his hand like a live wire. The door remained shut, but the sound was unmistakable—you had left the bathroom, your presence a specter just beyond the threshold. He could picture you out there, oblivious to the scene within, your body possibly wrapped in the towel that he himself had retrieved for you. The thought made the tense situation he was in infinitely more hot. His logic told him that obviously you would have exited the bathroom wearing more than just a towel. But his lustful depravity clouded his prefrontal cortex now. He imagined the soft white towel hugging your hips, short enough to reveal the taut expanse of your thighs and ass, and your hands making desperate attempts to hold the towel up to cover your chest and stomach. Your hair would be dripping wet now, sticky sections of hair framing a face flushed from the steamy bathroom, your scent—his soaps coating your skin. His possessive ideas added nothing but fuel to the fire; but he did not dare make another stroke, in fear of you possibly hearing his desperate moans. A tight grip at his base will have to do, at least until you have left earshot.

Panic surged through Jiyong’s veins like ice water, his available hand yanking the blanket over his lap with a clumsy jerk. The fabric snagged on his erection, the rough weave scraping against his sensitive tip, drawing a hiss from his lips. His cock twitched beneath the cover, still hard, still defiant, a traitor refusing to relent. He held his breath, ears straining as your footsteps stood to a halt a small distance away from his bedroom door. Silence stretched, taut and merciless, as he waited, every muscle coiled. Had you heard? The doorknob didn’t turn, but he could feel your presence, a gravitational pull just beyond the wood. He imagined you pausing, head tilted, those beautiful eyes narrowing as if you could sense the debauchery seeping through the cracks.

Seconds bled into eternity, his pulse a drumbeat in his skull, until he heard the faint shuffle of her sock-covered feet retreating—perhaps to the kitchen, perhaps to turn the kettle on to make tea before bed. Relief crashed over him, a tidal wave that left him trembling, yet the fire in his loins refused to die. His hand hovered, tempted to finish what he’d started, but the nearness of you—your scent, your heat, your unknowing proximity—only stoked the flames higher. Jiyong slumped back, chest heaving, the blanket tented obscenely over his lap, a monument to his narrow escape. The room settled into stillness, but the ghost of you lingered, a torment and a promise, as he wrestled with the urge to risk it all again.

While he absolutely did not want you to become aware of what was occurring behind his bedroom door, part of him prayed that for whatever reason, you would barge in with no warning and let him have you pinned below him, pleasing you as well as him for hours, instead of using his own hand getting him off. The thought of him getting caught by you in such a shameful, sinful position only made his sore cock throb harder. Fuck it, he moaned softly as his tight grip begun to move once more. He screwed his eyes shut and allowed his mind to take him away to a place of sensual bliss where you and he were intertwined in passion, your bodies moulding together as he claimed your mouth in a searing kiss. He imagined his hands roaming your body, creating a map of each section with reverent touches so that he’d never forget, his lips trailing down your throat, leaving a trail of bites and marks that would burn to the touch as he would make his way down drawing desperate, embarrassed pleas from you.

Jiyong pictured you straddling him on the couch you were probably situated on, his large hands kneading into your hips, guiding you slowly as you rocked against him. He would dip his hand to tease at your hypersensitive areas, causing you to buck your hips, begging achingly for more, for him to fill you to the brim with his thick cock, to let you ride him to your own satisfaction. His mouth would delve deep between your legs, the sensation of ministrations making you twitch and fold before him, your senses blinding with bliss. His imagination that was creating these visions took him to a million places at once, across many positions, him atop, him beneath, bodies, tongues, and lips met in scorching, lustful carnality. You could scream out your ecstasy if you so desired, his home’s walls are thick enough. Besides, he would rather hear your loud breathy praises for his labour than hesitant, muffled sighs. 

Rapture took over Jiyong’s body while his imagination fuelled the flames that licked across his whole body, blood rushing throughout his veins, his skin blossoming with redness. As his cock throbbed and pulsed with raw desire, he could tell his release was near– that sweet, electric build-up of sensation at his crest, his hips sore with each relentless push. With a grunt, he exploded, feeling heat erupt from him in thick, pulsating jets. His body rocked and shuddered, coated with goosebumps, he was dazed, his mind leaving his body in a moment of pure bliss. He could not help the groan he let out in ecstasy and exhaustion, fire running its course through his veins. He was completely spent. 

i felt so embarrassed writing this omg

thank u for reading !!!!!

pls feel free to request anything u like ! even other bigbang ppl too😻

[seoulmatez]

𝓈𝒾𝓃𝒻𝓊𝓁𝓁𝓎 𝓈𝓌𝑒𝑒𝓉

being a bad influence can have its benefits. . .

• dan heng x f!reader ﾉ 1.5k wc ﾉ NSFW minors do not interact ﾉ college au ﾉ public sex ﾉ unprotected sex ﾉ creampie

A hazy fog fills Dan Heng's head as he breathes in your moans and the familiar taste of mint lingering on your tongue. Your kiss is hypnotizing, so much so that the little focus he is able to muster up is on the way your finger twirls around the dark tendrils of hair at the nape of his neck rather than the precarious situation the two of you are in. Because while Dan Heng can admit that the feel of your clothed pussy grinding into his thigh is heavenly, he knows that this isn’t an activity you should be getting up to in the library.

The spell you seem to have cast on him is strong though, his cock already half-hard, twitching and leaking precum thanks to your ministrations. Regardless of his effort to keep quiet, a broken moan drifts through the otherwise silent air with a particularly strong tug of his hair. A string of spit connects the two of you even after your lips have parted and only breaks when you lustfully lick your lips.

“I have to get back to work,” Dan Heng pants, a hand coming up to push the hair back from his forehead. He hadn’t meant to get so sidetracked, especially on the clock, but he didn’t think you’d be so bold as to drag him away under the ruse of needing help finding a book for class. The logical part of his brain was urging him to turn you down when your pillowy soft lips pressed against his, although the taste of your tongue was too sweet, tempting, for him to even consider pulling away. He thinks this short moment of clearheadedness might be his best bet for regaining his resolve.

You poke your puffy lip out in a petulant pout, fingers dancing over the fabric covering his abdomen. Despite the barrier, you can feel the muscles of his abdomen nervously jump at your contact. “Aww, but I’m already so worked up.”

“We can’t—not now,” he chokes out, taking your wandering hands in his. They’re soft and even though the touch is meant to restrain, it’s more enticing than anything. Still, Dan Heng knows that if he lets you go, you’ll be all over him again in a second. “Baby, I really have to go.”

The words he utters send you one message, though his body relays another. His hold intended to deter is much more comforting than he realizes—thumbs brushing over the hills and valleys of your knuckles. A pink hue resembling cotton candy colors the tips of his ears and paints the apples of his cheeks. and, as much as he’s trying to overlook it, you just can’t ignore the growing bulge in his pants that’s practically begging for your attention. Seeing him, feeling him, in such a state only fuels your arousal. “We’ll be quick… pretty please?”

Your plea is sickeningly sweet, the desperate words dripping with honey that makes it impossible for Dan Heng to do anything but give in. He bends at your will, like putty in your hands, spinning so that your positions are switched. Your back meets the bookshelf with a soft thud before Dan Heng sandwiches you between him and the surface. A surprised gasp escapes your lips as his arm hooks the back of your knees over his elbow, his other hand making work of bunching up your skirt and pulling your dampened panties to the side.

The cool rush of air over your cunt is enough to make you suck in a breath as Dan Heng swiftly pulls out his cock from the confines of his sweatpants. He can’t hide the shaky, satisfied sigh that stumbles past his lips while he spreads the beads of pre up and down his member. You let out another noise upon feeling the tip tapping against your clit.

“You’re insatiable, aren’t you?” Dan Heng asks, though desire is thick in his own voice.

“Look who’s—” your retort is cut short when the length of his cock slips between your soaking folds, the head teasing your entrance. Any imaginable words die in your throat as he inches into you. Slowly, excruciatingly so, his hips rock back and forth, each rut sending him a little deeper into the warmth of your walls until his hips kiss yours. 

Every inch of Dan Heng's skin burns with the lewd squelches that waft through the quiet air of the library. Your position, him caging you against the bookcase and shielding you from the view of any lingering patrons, is nothing shy of indecent and the little noises bubbling up from your throat, pitchy whines and shattered breaths, are only making the man feel all the more wicked for indulging in such an obscene fantasy.

Heat pools in your tummy as you stretch to accommodate the girth of him, and it spreads beneath your skin, setting your nerves on fire, with each of Dan Heng's tender thrusts. He never fails to draw a reaction out of you, this one presenting itself in the form of a choked-out curse that rings through the air.

“Shh,” Dan Heng hushes you, the demand unstable as though he’s having trouble holding back his own moans. “Y-you have to be quiet.”

The vibrations of his voice only excite you more, make you arch your back and let out another noise of content, one that, although not entirely intentional, is even louder than the last. It’s rare for students to stay so late on this floor, much less the anthropology section, but the last thing Dan Heng wants is for either of you to be caught in such an inappropriate situation. There’s only one thing he can do to ensure that the two of you stay unnoticed.

The hand that’s been resting on your waist swiftly lifts from its position in favor of making its way to your mouth. Lithe fingers slip between your lips, pressing down on the wet muscle in a hurried attempt to keep you quiet.

It works for the most part, your moans and whimpers muffled. Though, for both you and Dan Heng, the new sensation acts as fuel for the fire that is your lust. Because when you suck at his fingers—drool around the digits—Dan Heng’s waning patience fades into nothing and his easy pace is traded in for something more frenzied, desperate.

You’re a bad influence.

You’re the one thing in this world that Dan Heng can’t deny, the one person in the universe who’s capable of turning him into someone he barely recognizes. But the truth is, all it takes is a whisper from you, the temptress, to convert Dan Heng into a man who wants nothing more than to please. Right now, all he wants is to bring you to that sweet release that you so fiercely desire.

Skin meets skin when Dan Heng's forehead bumps against yours, when his hips grind against yours in his effort to bring you pleasure. The change of pace comes without warning and you babble around his fingers as he continues with his merciless rhythm, the seeping head of his cock abusing the spongy spot that always makes you come undone.

Cock throbbing and your nails digging into the fabric of his shirt, Dan Heng snatches his fingers from your mouth to replace them with his lips, hungrily swallowing your wanton moans as he rolls his crotch into your clit that he’s been overlooking. Your eyes gloss over at the contact and just one look into them is all it takes for Dan Heng to tell that your head is clouded with pleasure and that the only thing on your mind is how drunk you are on his cock.

It’s a delicious sight that draws a heavy groan from Dan Heng's chest while he continues to rut up into you. The noisy slaps of skin on skin filling your ears has you tightening your hold on your lover, chasing his swollen lips to silence the cries threatening to spill from yours.

And he can feel your walls clench around him, feel your thighs uncontrollably tremble as pleasure overcomes you. The warmth of your breath tickles his mouth, dances over his tongue and lips as his thrusts lose their rhythm and turn sloppy. Following your lead, he plunges into you entirely, ropes of his creamy white essence filling your messy cunt.

His seed oozes from you, drips down your plush thighs and the length of his cock. Dan Heng cringes at the scene before him but you don’t reflect his apprehension. With a carefree smile, you tuck your finger beneath his chin, tipping his head up so that glacier eyes meet yours. Almost immediately, his expression softens.

“See? That wasn’t so bad.”

No, it wasn’t, Dan Heng wants to agree, but he keeps it to himself as he shakes his head and carefully returns you to a standing position. Like the gentleman he is, he adjusts your underwear and skirt in a way that makes it seem like you never stopped for this naughty escapade. As he rights himself and ties the string of his sweatpants into a neat bow, Dan Heng comments, “We could have waited until the end of my shift.”

You breathe out a laugh, placing a surprisingly chaste kiss on his jaw. “Where’s the fun in that?”

manon here ( ≧ᗜ≦) thanks for reading! if u enjoyed, reblogs are greatly appreciated!