#between wanting to be warm and wanting to wear nothing

[dragoneyelashart]

chef!billie headcanons ★⋆˙

smut/fluff ୨ৎ

au: chef! billie

chef!billie who wakes you up with the smell of fresh coffee and homemade pancakes, humming softly in the kitchen in nothing but a t-shirt and boxers

chef!billie who insists on feeding you while you sit on the counter, swinging your legs and smiling like an idiot because god she’s so hot when she’s focused

chef!billie who kisses you with flour-dusted fingers and then smears a little on your cheek just to laugh and lick it off

chef!billie who gets turned on when you moan a little too enthusiastically after tasting something she made, like full eye contact, tongue-out teasing turned-on

chef!billiewho pulls you into her lap in the kitchen chair, arms around your waist, tasting cinnamon from your lips while something sizzles on the stove

chef!billie who will finger you right there on the countertop, between bites of dessert she insists you try, murmuring “sweet like you” into your neck

chef!billie who uses honey on your inner thighs just to “try something new” and ends up making you come twice before dinner even hits the table

chef!billie who teases you for being “a messy little thing” but she’s the one licking you clean while kneeling on cold tile

chef!billie who gets cocky when she sees you wear her apron and nothing else; “oh, baby, you’re just begging to be fucked isn’t that right?”

chef!billie who loves aftercare, feeding you small bites, cuddling while you both snack, letting you wear her old culinary school hoodie and curl into her chest

chef!billie who meal preps for you without you asking, with little notes inside like “eat this when you miss me” or “made this with love :)”

chef!billie who slow dances with you in the kitchen late at night, the smell of warm butter and garlic still lingering, her hands low on your back, her lips on your forehead

chef!billie who always calls you her “taste tester” but really just likes watching you enjoy things she makes, especially when it’s her

chef!billie who ends every night kissing your shoulders in bed, whispering, “you’re the best thing i’ve ever made mine”

chef!billie who teaches her daughter how to crack eggs and whisk batter on the weekends while you sleep in, and they always bring you breakfast in bed like it’s tradition

chef!billie who melts when she hears her daughter say “mama made this with love” before handing you a cookie she helped roll out

chef!billie who gets turned on watching you be soft with her kid, helping with homework at the counter while she quietly kneads the dough for their pizza.

chef!billie who sneaks you into the pantry when the kid’s asleep, presses you against shelves, her hands up your shirt, whispering “shh, baby. quiet. she’s gonna hear…”

chef!billie who bites your neck and covers your mouth while you ride her in the kitchen chair, half-dressed in one of her shirts, both of you trying to be silent in case little feet come pattering down the hall

chef!billie who can’t help but smirk when she sees you flushed and trembling in the morning, because she knows you’re still sore from the night before when she bent you over the sink

chef!billie who makes cute little lunchbox notes for her daughter like “mama loves you so big” and for you like “i love when you moan my name” makes you double check you didn’t swap them

chef!billie who wears her hair up and an apron tied tight when she’s in mom-mode, but when the kid’s at a sleepover, she pulls you onto the kitchen counter and says, “my turn to be messy, yeah?”

chef!billie who lets her daughter decorate cupcakes while you sit on the floor sipping wine, watching them with a  little smile like “how did i get this lucky”

chef!billie who jokes that she’s making you both “a full-course meal with a side of domestic bliss,” and you say, “what’s for dessert?” and she murmurs “you” under her breath

chef!billie who wants one more baby someday, and sometimes she says it while she’s deep inside you, her voice rough and breathless like, “wanna make something else with you.”

chef!billie who always makes time for late night cooking just the two of you, dancing around the kitchen barefoot, slow kisses while pasta boils, her hand resting over your belly like she’s imagining something more

taglist:@amara-eilish @bilswifee @iamnicoke @jayjaywetforbils @bittersuitekim @bxllxebxtch @bitchesbrokenpromises @ijustlovemaths @ilovealiceosemann @bilssturns @peytonneilish @chrissv4mp @too-sapphic-to-function @thebluediner @aka-persephone @vijaxx @thinkshespretty | send an ask or comment if you want to be added to my taglist!

[maddie0101]

just friends

summary: you and dean are out at a bar grabbing drinks with friends like it’s any other night but dean’s close, almost too close and you’re not doing a damn thing about it.

warnings/ tags: smut (mdni), college!au, friends w benefits, no love confessions (sadly), fingering, some dirty talk, public smut, hidden relationship and feelings, sexual tension.

word count: 1.4k (pretty small for me, yes ik..but I’m a tad rusty)

note: I’m back bitches! :) enjoy!

It’s not supposed to be complicated.

That’s what you tell yourself every time you sneak out of Dean's bed before sunrise. Every time you redress in silence and slip past your sleeping friends with flushed skin and sore thighs—pretending that nothing happened.

Friends with benefits. That’s the deal.

No dates. No hand-holding. No stolen glances that mean too much. And it’s been working—for the most part.

Except nights like this.

You’re at your favorite spot downtown, some hole-in-the-wall bar with loud music and warm string lights tangled above the tables. You’re squished into a booth with the usual group, consisting of Jo, Benny, Charlie, and Cas. Everyone's talking over each other with drinks in hand, plates of fries already half-gone.

You’re wearing a dress. Short, soft, and comfortable. A little risky for October, but worth it. You saw Dean’s eyes drop to your legs the second you walked in. He hasn’t said a word about it, but you felt the shift in the air.

Now, you’re pressed shoulder-to-shoulder with him in the booth, thighs touching, your drink sweating in your palm as you try to pretend you’re listening to Charlie’s story about her lab partner. You’re nodding, even laughing but your body is stiff.

Not because you're stressed or anything—but because Dean’s hand is on your thigh.

It started off innocent, honestly. Just resting there, his fingers lightly curled, the way a friend might touch a friend.

But you both know better.

He’s been inching higher for the past ten minutes, casual as anything, like this isn’t dangerous.

No one can see, not from the angle or with the table pressed against your ribs and the flickering shadows hiding his movements. But you can feel him and he knows exactly what he’s doing.

His hand shifts slightly, fingers brushing up your thigh, warm and steady and your breath catches in your throat.

“You okay?” Jo asks, blinking at you.

You force a smile and nod quickly. “Yeah. Just a little warm in here.”

Dean doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t even react. Just keeps sipping his beer, his free hand wrapped lazily around the neck of the bottle while the other, his real focus is sliding slowly beneath the hem of your dress.

Your pulse thuds in your ears and your heartbeat speeds up.

He’s still not touching you where you want him to. He’s toying with you. Circling higher and closer but never quite where you want him. His knuckles brush the inside of your thigh and you shudder, trying to sit still. Trying to not squirm.

So you shoot him a warning glare. But when he finally meets your eyes—his are dark, amused, and possessive?

You swallow hard and shift your legs, trying to squeeze them together. Dean’s hand follows easily, caught between them now, palm pressed against the soft skin just inches from your center.

You lean in toward him, voice quiet and shaky. “Dean.” You warn.

He hums, barely audible. “Problem?”

“You need to stop.”

He grins without looking at you. “You don’t want me to stop.”

He's right...You think. But here? In front of your friends? That's a whole new level.

His touch and the fact that you're in public, surrounded by your friends, feeling Dean's hand has you soaked. There’s nothing between you but a pair of thin lace panties and whatever control you’ve got left—which is crumbling fast.

Dean shifts again, his hand sliding higher, fingers brushing just under the edge of your underwear now and your breath leaves you in a slow, shaking exhale and you grip your drink tighter, knuckles white.

You glance up to Charlie still talking, Cas asking Jo a random question, and Benny’s leaned back with a lazy grin, completely oblivious—you hope.

But then Dean’s hand slips beneath your panties, bringing you back to what is going on and you choke on your drink, causing eyes to quickly snap onto you with concern.

“Jesus, you okay?” Benny says, reaching for a napkin.

“Yeah,” you cough. “Wrong pipe.”

Dean doesn’t move. Not even when he presses two fingers right there—just enough pressure to make you see stars. Your hips twitch and you cross your legs tighter, trapping his hand in place, but it only makes it worse.

He curls his fingers ever so slightly and leans in, lips brushing your ear. “You wore this dress just for me, didn’t you?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. So he nudges your panties aside and the cold air hits your soaked heat in an instant. He groans softly, barely a sound but you hear it. “Fuck, you’re already wet.”

Your thighs shake and you stare at your glass, willing yourself to keep breathing while his fingers slide through your slick folds. He doesn’t push inside you just yet. He's teasing you. Still playing his game and you shift again, pressing your hips into his hand, silently begging.

Dean tuts softly. “Needy.”

You shoot him another glare but he only smirks before giving you what you want. His finger slips inside, slow and smooth, just one and your breath catches. He moves it slowly, curling upward, then pulls back and adds a second. You clamp your teeth around a whimper and dig your nails into the seat beneath you.

“Doing so good,” he murmurs. “Sittin’ still like that. What would they say if they knew, huh? That you’re dripping around my fingers while Cas talks about his psych exam?”

“Dean,” you gasp.

“Yeah, baby?”

Your thighs tremble and your skin feels too tight. Your eyes are glassy and you’re so close it’s painful.

Dean curls his fingers again, just the slightest motion, and your hips twitch involuntarily. You shouldn’t be like this—not here. Not in public. But your body doesn’t care. It’s reacting to him like it always does—instinctively, desperately, completely.

And he presses his palm against your clit, not rubbing, just pressing, grounding you with that solid weight.

Your vision blurs for half a second and your breath hitches in your throat. You grip the edge of the table so hard your knuckles ache.

He leans in, his mouth just barely brushing your ear. His voice is calm but dangerous. “Gonna come just like this?” he whispers. “In your little dress, right here at the table?”

You can’t answer. Can’t breathe. All you can do is hold on as Dean’s fingers fuck into you slow and deep, his palm now dragging tight circles against your clit.

He’s doing it on purpose. Drawing it out—keeping you right on the edge.

You whimper softly—barely audible, but he hears it.

“Quiet,” he says, lips still at your ear. “You make a sound and I stop.”

You nod frantically, digging your nails into your thigh and casting a quick glance to your friends still sitting around you.

Jo and Charlie are still deep in conversation. While Cas is arguing with Benny over whether Die Hard is a Christmas movie. But no one suspects a thing. Thank God—because no one sees how Dean has you right there—blushing, panting, thighs shaking while he works you from the inside out.

Your dress has ridden up just enough to let him move without resistance, his wrist shifting with each slow thrust of his fingers. You’re dripping around him, muscles fluttering, begging for release.

“Dean,” you breathe, “please—please—”

His hand slows for a second and your breath stutters. “No,” you gasp, shaking your head, eyes wide. “Don’t stop, Dean, I swear—”

He smiles against your skin. “Then come for me.”

That’s all it takes. Your legs seize around his hand, muscles clenching tight as heat rushes through you—white-hot and overwhelming. You bury your face in his shoulder to keep from crying out, your body trembling so hard the table rattles.

Dean holds you through it, fingers still moving, gentler now, coaxing you through the waves.

“Good girl,” he whispers.

It takes a full minute before you can breathe again. And before you realize your nails left crescents in the vinyl seat, that your drink is untouched--that the conversation has kept going without you, blissfully unaware. Dean finally withdraws his hand, slowly and slides your panties back into place, straightens the hem of your dress like a gentleman—like he didn’t just ruin you in the middle of a crowded bar.

You turn your face slightly, hiding your dazed, flushed expression behind the curtain of your hair and Dean licks his fingers while meeting your gaze.

You nearly whimper again at the sight and Dean slides his arm back across the booth, settling like nothing happened.

Like his fingers don’t still glisten faintly.

Like your heart isn’t trying to beat out of your chest.

And you reach for your drink with a shaky hand, trying to pretend your entire body isn’t still humming from the aftershock.

Dean glances at you once more—smug, satisfied, and already plotting what he’ll do to you when he gets you alone.

And God help you, you can’t wait.

author’s note:

hii guys! thank y’all so much for being patient with me during this time! I’ve finally managed to write this little one shot after almost a 2 month hiatus! 🫠 I’m definitely in the mood to write but now it’s about finding the time to 😅 (I barely even have time to eat lmfaoo)

I should have some more fics coming out but I can’t promise how often it will be. I am going to try to work on requests as well and hopefully get those out to you guys!

anywaaaays— I hope y’all enjoyed this one! ❤︎

taglist:

@freeluigihesbae @aylacavebear @supernotnatural2005 @bettystonewell @lieutenantchaos @bejeweledinterludes @ambiguous-avery @star-yawnznn @exansation @darkrose064 @megara0224 @saturnsooya @miss-marmalade @xo-zeze @kamisobsessed @megara0224 @cupidzbunny @imsiriuslyreal @jollyhunter @kimxwinchester @julsvdamxn @tinas111 @acesdiary @sapphic-destiel @callsign-ember @ladykitana90 @h8aaz @closetedangel @lunaleah @pieandflannel @soldiersgirl (lmk if I’ve missed anyone or if you’d like to be taken off of my taglist)

If you would like to be tagged please fill out THIS form and I will add you to the list! ❤︎

my works

© maddie0101 do not copy or repost my works without my permission

[ladsrlife2]

Sugar Daddy! Sylus - Part 2

Sylus x Reader

You thought Sylus was just your mysterious, well-dressed sugar daddy. Then you landed an internship - only to discover he’s the CEO.

tags: 18+ nsfw/smut, elevator blow-job, office-sex, sugar daddy sylus, bratty mc

With the love of many on ao3 and tumblr, I decided to write part 2!! Hope you guys enjoy this as much as the first <3

Part 1 💗

────── ❀•°❀°•❀ ──────

“Not too shabby for a CEO’s office.”

You say, walking into Sylus’s office, arms crossed like you own the place.

Sylus lifts his gaze from behind his sleek desk, amused. His crimson eyes glitter like garnets under the sunlight pouring in through the wall-sized window behind him, the skyline stretching wide - cold glass and mirrored steel.

He turns slowly in his chair as you strut past the leather sofas, running a finger along their edge.

“I’m glad it wins your approval.” His voice is rich and smooth, like wine served in crystal.

You ignore the compliment, scanning the office until your eyes land on the opaque glass wall at the entrance.

“So,” you say, turning back toward him. “Why did such an important man call a lowly intern into his office?”

His gaze doesn’t falter. “Because I supposed the intern had a lot to say.”

His eyes flick down to your figure and back up again, unmistakably pleased by your new formal look. You don’t blame him. You’re wearing your carefully chosen pencil skirt, silk blouse, black tights, and favorite heels.

“Let’s hear what the CEO has to say first.”

He gestures for you to come closer with his hand. You ignore it - and instead hop up onto the edge of his desk, your legs swinging idly.

He chuckles lowly, leaning forward to place a warm hand on your thigh.

“Things are… complicated,” he says, voice dipping lower.

You arch a brow. “That’s new. You, saying things are complicated?”

“It’s a personal mess. I didn’t want you to get involved in it.”

You tilt your head. “What, are you secretly married or something?”

Sylus scoffs, offended by the absurdity. “No. Of course not.”

You look down at his hand and slowly interlace your fingers with his. A calculated move. You bring it to your lips, place a kiss on his knuckles, and look up with wide, injured eyes.

“Even if you were, you know I would’ve understood,” you whisper. “I can’t believe you doubted me.”

He looks at you the way someone might look at a monkey riding a unicycle - a sight both entertaining and ridiculous.

Yet you continue.

“I’d go through thick and thin with you,” you begin solemnly, one hand to your chest. “And I would-”

“-go through thick and thin with my money,” he interrupts dryly.

You gasp, scandalized. “That is outrageous! Even if you were poor! And married! I’d still be by your side!”

You clutch his hand to your chest dramatically. “Feel it - the heartbreak!”

You flatten his palm against your breasts.

He raises a brow. “…All I feel is a healthy heartbeat.”

He gives a light squeeze. You swat his hand away.

“See?! That’s all you think about! What happened to dignity? And honor? And chivalry?”

“Alright, alright.” He waves you down like he’s swatting away an overly dramatic stage actress. “I should’ve told you sooner.”

You lean back on your palms, lips curving into something between amusement and triumph. “You should have.”

“I’m sorry, kitten.” His tone straddles that fine line between genuine remorse and theatrical sarcasm.

You cross your arms, wordlessly demanding more.

“I’m sorry I doubted you,” he continues, slow and deliberate. “Even though you’ve been so loyal to me.”

The way he lingers on loyal - you can’t tell if he’s teasing or trying to guilt you.

“What could I possibly do to make it up to you?”

Your heart skips a beat in thrill.

“I don’t know,” you say, coy. “Nothing could mend this broken heart.”

“Right. I should’ve known kitten is not a materialistic girl. Perhaps I can make it up to you with... sincere actions.”

Nonsense.

“On second thought, I think maybe the new Ferrari collection looks rather beautiful.”

Sylus chuckles, shaking his head at your shameless audacity. “Unbelievable,” he mutters - and sighs. “Fine.”

“Really?!” you gasp, and before he can change his mind, you climb into his lap with all the grace of a triumphant winner. You wrap your arms around his neck, beaming. “Oh, Daddy. I think I’m healed already.”

He lets out a low laugh that reverberates through his chest as he pulls you in tighter.

“Maybe I should’ve picked something more expensive,” you say, trailing kisses across his cheek.

“Your greed knows no bounds,” He murmurs into your neck, and takes a second to deeply inhale your scent. “But I’m always impressed by your efficiency.”

You reply, voice quieter, like you’re whispering a naughty secret. “How about,” you say, locking eyes with him as your hand drifts lower to graze the outline of his cock, now hardening fast beneath your palm, “...I make up for my so-called greed… starting now.”

His crimson eyes flicker, darkening instantly.

You keep the gaze as you palm him harder, slow and steady. His cock stiffens beneath your fingers, straining against his pants.

Just as you start to unzip him, his hand closes around your wrist.

“As much as I’d like that, kitten.” His deep voice is full of restraint. “Unfortunately I’ve decided to keep my office sex-free. As CEO. Dignity, or whatever you were saying earlier.” .

You look at him, mouth open. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“I’m not.” Sylus says, mouth upturned into a smirk.

“You’re doing this just to get back at me, aren’t you?”

He raises a brow, voice calm. “Hardly. I made that rule when I founded the company. Years ago.”

“…and I respect that.”

Sylus laughs, amused by your forced diplomacy, and plants a kiss on your lips. “Why, thank you.”

Just then, the phone on his desk rings. You rise from his lap, smoothing your skirt, giving him space. As he reaches for the phone, his fingers brush your back in a quiet, lingering touch.

“I need to get back to work,” he murmurs. “Thomas will escort you back down.”

You pause at the door, glancing back. He’s already answering the call, voice level, posture straight, every trace of indulgence vanished. The tension in the room dissipates like smoke - replaced with cold, crisp professionalism.

It scratches something in you.

That he can switch off so easily, that you're left hot and bothered while he returns to work like nothing happened.

That kind of control is... infuriating. And sexy.

You follow the assistant down the hall, and step into the elevator and press the button.

As you watch the numbers decrease steadily, you begin to wonder:

What ever you should do to make sure Sylus breaks his precious little ‘rule’ that is oh, so unlike his character?

────── ❀•°❀°•❀ ──────

The opportunity presents itself.

It just so happens that Sylus doesn’t always use his exclusive elevator.

On your fourth day of work, you’re wrapping up a minor errand at a nearby bank around noon. You enter one of the three main elevators in the hall - only to find Sylus already inside, alone, head bowed over his business phone, texting.

Too immersed, he doesn’t notice you entering. You eye the buttons and see that only the top most floor - 53 - is lit. You don’t press 8, your floor.

Instead, you slowly walk towards him, slightly undoing the top most buttons of your silk blouse, heels clicking quietly on the floor. It’s only when you’re right in front of him, barely a hand’s width apart, when he looks up from his phone with a full look of caution.

His crimson eyes relax instantly when he realizes who you are.

“Oh, it’s you, kitten-”

His words taper off as his eyes fall to your cleavage, lush and spilling over your bra beneath the undone blouse.

His lips curl into a smirk.

“Hey, boss-man,” you say, voice low and slow. You raise a hand to his stomach and stroke down gently. “Busy day at work?”

“…Surely you didn’t walk into work like that.”

“And what if I did?”

He sighs, eyes briefly shutting as he rubs his temple, like he already knows you're about to test every limit he thought he had.

“Just button it up, before anyone walks in, please.”

The mirror behind him reflects floor 14.

“How about-” your hand trails lower to the waistband of his slacks.

With the way he jolts, you know he knows what you’re about to do. Before he can stop you, however, you slip past his hands and cup his balls, giving them a deliberate squeeze.

“-No.”

You know he loves it when you do that.

A sharp breath escapes his lips.

He catches your wrist, intent on stopping you - but as your fingers begin massaging his heavy sac, his grip slackens.

“Kitten.”

His voice is strained.

But despite his threatening words, his grip loosens like his body has lost all will to resist.

It’s been a week since he last had you. He’s as pent up as you’d expect.

You stroke him through his pants with your free hand, watching his dark, unreadable expression.

“You never said anything about no sex in the elevator,” you murmur.

Before he can respond, you unbutton and unzip him in one smooth, practiced motion.

The mirror now reflects floor 23.

And then you drop to your knees.

Before he can even utter a protest, his briefs are down and your lips wrap around his length. You take him all at once, warm and slick and deep into your throat.

A groan tears from his chest, and his hand flies to your hair, instinctive and desperate.

“Get off-”

You suck harder in answer.

His cock slides deeper into your throat, your nose buried against his pelvis, eyes glistening with the effort as you fight the urge to gag.

He curses low under his breath. His legs tremble.

Your throat tightens and releases in rhythm, massaging him in a way he can't resist. His grip loosens, turning from restraint to encouragement.

Floor 29.

You look past your wet, fluttering eyelashes and lock onto his dark, undone eyes.

You bob your head steadily, filthily, letting slick sounds echo against the mirrored walls.

His brows draw together, lips parting as he exhales through clenched teeth. There's amusement in his eyes now, despite the tension in his jaw, the tightness in his hips.

Of course he likes this. Who's he trying to fool?

Floor 35.

“Mmh-”

A soft moan escapes your lips, muffled by his cock, as he nudges you to go faster up and down his length.

You stroke the base with your hand, jerking him as your mouth works his length. The way his deep breaths border on groans, the way his hips buckle every time you suck, the way his balls feel hard as you massage it with your hand, you know he’s close.

Floor 45.

Just as he’s about to tip over, you pull off with a wet pop.

He gasps, blinking in disbelief, flushed and furious and painfully hard.

You stand smoothly, adjusting your blouse, fingers nimbly buttoning each undone hole.

His eyes blaze. His cock is still fully erect, standing against his stomach, flushed and leaking.

But the elevator begins to slow.

Floor 48.

He looks at you, about to speak - probably to curse you out - but you step in quickly, fixing his pants, zipping him up, tucking in his shirt like nothing happened.

The doors slide open.

A small group of employees stands outside. You walk out casually, slipping past them like a shadow.

“Sylus! We were just on our way to your office for the 3pm meeting! What a coincidence.” Chirps a perky female voice.

“Charmed,” he mutters back, tone flat.

You don’t turn around. But as the doors begin to close again, you risk taking a last minute glance. You jolt to find out he’s still watching you - crimson eyes burning with restrained fury, humiliation and… hunger.

The doors shut, and he disappears behind polished steel.

Serves him right, you think.

That’s what he gets for being pretentious.

…Or so you try to tell yourself.

You swallow hard, heart still racing.

You try to ignore his last minute, furious gaze from floating back to your mind.

Surely, he’s not that mad. Right?

────── ❀•°❀°•❀ ──────

“Sylus- Daddy- please, I’m sorry! Please, just stop- ”

You find yourself pleading for forgiveness in his office a few hours later.

You’re bent over his desk, the surface rattling beneath your body as he pounds into you, deep and ruthlessly from behind.

It’s been an hour. You lost count of how many times you came. How many times he came.

Your shredded black tights cling uselessly to your thighs, soaked in slick and cum, both yours and his, dripping down all the way down to your ankles.

Perhaps you should’ve known it would end up like this from the moment he ripped your tights apart and didn’t even bother to undress you nor himself before burying himself inside. “Isn’t this what you wanted so badly, kitten?”

He growls, punctuating every word with a brutal thrust.

Your legs tremble violently beneath you, your hands scrambling for purchase against the wood as he holds your hips in place, unrelenting.

“You’re right,” he mutters, almost to himself, breath ragged. “I should’ve known better.”

Your moans melt into the sound of flesh slapping flesh, echoing off the office walls.

“No-sex rule, my ass,” he huffs with a dark chuckle, angling his hips just so - hitting your g-spot with surgical cruelty. “Right?”

You cry out, body locking up as another orgasm crashes into you. Your legs give out, but he catches you easily, keeping himself buried to the hilt as you squirt down his cock, your body trembling uncontrollably in his arms.

“A-ah—!”

Your mind barely resets as you slump back into his chest. You reach for his forearms wrapped around your waist, clutching him like he’s the only thing keeping you anchored.

Tilting your head back, you look up into his yet insatiable crimson eyes, and ignore the occasional twitching of your limbs and murmur, “Please, Sylus. I’m sorry. I won’t- I won’t do it again.”

You jolt as you feel him starting to slowly grind his hips against yours, again.

“What was that?” He teases.

“No- wait.” You plead out, urgently. “Don’t you have work to do?!”

Sylus chuckles and answers, pleasantly. “I made sure to finish everything before calling you in.” He purrs. “Told all my assistants to call it a day, even.” He grinds into you, his cock dragging torturously along your oversensitive walls. “ We’re the only ones on this floor.”

You choke out a moan in disbelief. You’re about to open your mouth to plead some more, when he brings his mouth close to your ear, his hot breath fanning over your skin.

“Which means,” He whispers, “No one’s coming to save you, kitten.”

You vow to

Never.

Ever.

Tease him again.

────── ❀•°❀°•❀ ──────

You guys. When I write smut. It just flows to me so naturally. I never considered myself to be on the perverted side. I don't know if I should be happy or sad at my new hobby. Lol.

hope you enjoyed this :D

Likes and comments are life xx <3

[bratbarzal]

https://www.tumblr.com/bratbarzal/787273344525516800

Luke on his stupid bean bag I JUST WANT TO EAT HIS FACE who said that but like LUKEY BABEY PLEASE YOU HAVE TO KNOW WHAT YOURE DOJNG TO ME

I can't stop looking and zooming into the photo!! he looks so mushy and cozy and a little sleep swollen like he just woke up and they dragged him straight from bed onto that bean bag and hauled him out onto the water 😭 you're now the victim of an unsolicited teeny blurb bc I love that boy too much 🙂

“I don’t know what I was expecting from a text that just said come to boat,” you say as you’re close enough to see Luke sprawled back on a bean bag, taking up the majority of space on the deck of the small fishing vessel, “But weirdly enough it wasn’t this.”

“Hey baby,” his smile is soft as he watches you round the dock and come a little better into view, your body swallowed up in one of his hoodies to fight the slight nip in the evening air, and your arms wrapped around a bundle of blankets, “Did you bring the goods?”

His voice still has a slight rasp, something you thought this morning had been fresh from sleep, but he’s no doubt been yelling all day with the rest of the guys out on the water - not that you’re complaining. It’s deep and warm and the sound of it would send a visible shiver down your spine if you weren’t so already encased in the essence of him from wearing his stuff.

It’s the first you’ve seen of him since he was torn from your bed this morning, Jack delivering a very rude awakening with his head poking through the door, and a sharp call of, “Lukey put some clothes on we’re going fishing,” and a complete disregard for how you were promised a full day of doing nothing with the boy you love.

You’d groaned, clung onto your boyfriend for a few minutes longer, and then begrudgingly helped him manoeuvre himself into some warm clothes and a jacket - letting him press sweet kisses into your skin with the promise of making lost time up to you later.

They’d been out most of the day, and when you saw Jack return to the house, he’d said Luke was still hanging out with a couple of the guys - guys you were expecting to see when you approached the boat with the requested items in tow.

A thick blanket and a case of bud light, which you assumed he’d be working through with his friends - but he’s the only one around, jacket still zipped up to his chin like how he left you in the morning and his arm strapped to his torso.

“Of course I brought the goods,” you tell him, hauling yourself onto the boat with the items in hand, and perching yourself beside him to place the crate within reach of his good arm. “Do you want me to swaddle you like a little baby?” You coo at him, a mocking but sweet lilt to your voice as you reach up to push his hair back where it’s gone a little sticky beneath his cap.

“Want you to get in,” he chuckles as he scoots along the bean bag, making just enough room for you to squeeze in beside him - the sort of slot he always leaves for you where you’ll pretty much have to half sprawl over him to be comfortable. “Missed you today.”

And you’d usually probably huff and puff about the way you can see watery footprints on the floor, and you can smell something distinctly fishy and gross, but he looks so cute you can’t even muster up the objections.

Instead you just roll your eyes, working your way down - diligently avoiding the wet patches on the deck and resting on him more than you probably should - settling into his extended arm and curling up against his side, doing your best to drape the blanket over the two of you as you go.

“Missed you too,” you sigh as your body melts into his, one arm tucking between you and the other curling over his torso, eyes fluttering closed as you breathe him in - the slight damp smell of the freshwater infused in his jacket, but the musky scent of Luke still seeping through. “Did you have a good day with all the guys?”

He gives an affirmative hum as a response, almost a sigh of his own, the rumblings of which you feel travel through his chest.

He’s for sure growing tired of being a spectator to everyone else’s summer - watching all his friends play golf, and go fishing, and wake surf out on the lake - but you know deep down he’d rather be invited and watch than stay at home, as much as you’d do your best to keep him company there.

He doesn’t have that much longer left in his sling, and you could tell him that as reassurance, but there’s no point - he knows it better than anyone, and you’re probably the only person who lets him wallow in the misery of it a little instead of rubbing salt in the wound.

He’s cute when he’s pouty, and the easier it is for him to grump about it the less time he spends actually grumpy, weirdly enough. You’d like to think you have him all figured out by now.

“Did they at least let you hold a fish for instagram clout?”

He chuckles beside you, and you last about a second before you’re shuffling to look up at him, taking in the crooked tilt of his lips and the quick flash of teeth, genuine amusement flashing in his eyes - a smile so pretty it makes your heart thump dramatically in your chest.

“Duker let me hold his rod and everything,” he tells you, and you smile back with no hesitation.

“I always knew there was something going on between the two of you,” you scoff, “Gross what you’d get up to with your own dad on board.”

He pinches your side, where his hand rests up the back of the hoodie of his you’re wearing, and his fingers grasp at the bare flesh of your hip.

“You’ve got a one track mind,” he snorts.

“You’re the one talking about touching rods,” you smile, leaning back against him, “And here I thought you were trying to be cute luring me out to your damp, fishy boat to sneak a cuddle without your brothers interrupting.”

“So you think this is cute?” He asks, his arm tightening its hold around you as you press your cheek back to his chest.

“Never been wooed like this in my life.” The sarcasm is clear but the sentiment rings true - even something as small as this makes your heart swell to ten times its regular size when it comes to Luke.

“Wait until the sun sets and you can see the stars,” he hums, lips pressed to the crown of your head before he kissed the spot they were resting against, “Got it all figured out for you.”

“Smelly boat, stale beer, and the stars,”

“The three S’s,” he confirms behind you, like any of this was in any sort of plan before you arrived. He no doubt got to comfy on his bean bag and didn’t want to be alone out on the dock after his friends left.

But you don’t mind, getting comfy by his side and listening to the soft splash of the water against the hull as the boat rocks a little, the movement soothing you enough that you find yourself melting just that little bit extra.

Your plan for the day had initially been to do nothing with Luke, so ending it like this seems like enough to fill the hole that was torn into your original idea.

“Peak romance.” You sigh softly, less sarcastic and a little more sure, because all you really want to do anymore is spend time with him anyway, even if that’s on a beat up bean bag in the middle of a fishing boat you would otherwise never step foot on.

[mooningningg]

notes, a very fun request.

★ Roommate!Sukuna when the bottle lands on you.

You had one rule when you moved in with Ryomen Sukuna: don’t catch feelings.

Which was easy, actually. Super easy. Totally fine.

You only shared a bathroom, sometimes a bed, his hoodies, your fries, a few backhanded compliments, and like… a soul-level tension that felt like a lit cigarette between your teeth.

But feelings? Never.

That’s why you both ended up at Nobara’s party, obviously.

It started normal. Music blaring, drinks poured too strong, your feet already sore from standing too long in boots you had no business wearing. Sukuna was lounging on the arm of a couch, beer bottle in hand, all tattoos and tight jaw, pretending not to watch you dance like you weren’t the only thing he’d been looking at all night.

Then someone suggested spin the bottle.

Of course someone did.

You didn’t think much of it. Just dropped into the circle, laughing, feeling warm and light and stupid.

Sukuna didn’t join.

He leaned back against the wall with a red cup in hand, one brow cocked, looking every bit like a man above it all. Watching. Glowering. Bored.

Until some random guy spun.

The bottle clicked, clacked… and landed on you.

The crowd howled.

The guy smirked, already leaning forward.

That’s when Sukuna moved.

Fast.

Beer slammed onto the counter. Crowd split like the Red Sea. He strode through the circle, sneakers thudding, expression unreadable—but pissed.

“Back the fuck up,” Sukuna said coolly, staring the guy down.

Laughter died. Even the music seemed to quiet.

The guy blinked, confused. “Bro, it’s a party game—”

“She’s not kissing you.” Sukuna smiled without warmth. “Spin again. Or I spin your fuckin’ jaw.”

The guy looked at you, then at Sukuna, clearly re-evaluating all his life choices.

“Dude, what’s your problem?”

“You breathing near her,” Sukuna snapped. “That’s my fuckin’ problem.”

Someone from the back of the crowd muttered, “Damn…”

You stared up at him from the floor, eyes wide. “Sukuna—”

“What?” he barked, not looking at you. “You gonna kiss him? Go ahead. I’ll wait. Right here.”

The guy scrambled to his feet, muttering “not worth it” as he walked off.

Sukuna turned to you finally, jaw tight. “You good?”

You glared. “I was until you pulled a WWE entrance in the middle of a dumb party game.”

He didn’t budge. “If you wanted to kiss some mouth-breathing finance major named Brad or whatever, you could’ve stayed home and swiped right.”

You stood up, brushing yourself off. “It was just a game.”

He leaned in, just enough to make your heart thump. “Then spin the fuckin’ bottle and land on me next time.”

You blinked. “What?”

Sukuna stepped back. “Nothing. Game’s stupid anyway.”

Then he turned and walked off like he hadn’t just blown up the party and dropped a confession-bomb in the same breath.

From behind you, Nobara whispered, “...Your roommate is unhinged.”

You stared at his back.

Yeah. Unhinged. And probably yours.

Eventually.

Taglist, @humeysaga @williamafton26 @aranisbaee @probablynotleahhhh @probablynotleahhhh. @beaniesayshi @levifiance @rinofcike @fushiguroooozzz @gojoscumslut @bellsoftheball @kunascutie. @after-laughter-come-tears

[pinkpurplesunrises]

Letters to No One - Chapter 5: The Almost Moment

Pairing: Alexia Putellas x Reader (wlw).

Theme: Ghostwriter x Athlete | Slow Burn | Angst | Emotional Intimacy | Happy Ending.

POV: 2nd person (you), emotion ally immersive.

Setting: Barcelona, Present Day.

Previous chapters: chapter 1, chapter 2, chapter 3, chapter 4

ACT: II

Writer's note: This is a scheduled upload. I hope you like where this series is going. Please let me know your thoughts!

It starts with thunder.

The kind that rolls low and steady like something ancient waking from sleep. Rain drums softly against the balcony glass. The city outside turning silver and blurred.

You’re sitting on the floor of Alexia’s living room again. Backs to the couch. A low lamp casting warm light between you. Notes are spread everywhere... old game footage, interview transcripts, a mess of your handwriting trailing across half-crumpled pages. She hates the chaos. You can tell. But she hasn’t said a word about it tonight.

Instead, she’s barefoot and distracted. Sipping slowly from a glass of Rioja while you argue with yourself over whether to keep a certain paragraph in.

You’ve been here for hours. The clock passed midnight quietly, but neither of you moved.

Outside: the storm.

Inside: the slow burn.

She’s wearing a hoodie that doesn’t quite cover the curve of one shoulder. Hair pulled up in a knot that’s threatening to fall. Her skin glows in the low light and you catch yourself glancing too long. Too often.

You clear your throat. Trying to focus. “So, this quote here...”

She turns her head toward you. Not fast, just curious.

And a single strand of hair falls across her face. Catching against the corner of her mouth.

You reach out before you think.

Just a small, automatic motion. Gentle. Unthinking. To brush it away.

Your fingers touch her cheek. Soft and unhurried. You tuck the hair behind her ear and pause there.

The silence shifts.

Suddenly, the air is full of it. Not tension exactly. But something close to it. Like the inhale before thunderclap. Like standing barefoot on the edge of something you know you’re not supposed to fall into.

She doesn’t move.

And you don’t pull your hand away.

She’s looking at you now. Really looking. Her breath shallow. Her lips parted. Her eyes darker than you’ve ever seen them.

You’re so close.

A single tilt forward and it would happen.

A single second of recklessness.

A single choice.

Your fingers twitch slightly against her skin.

And then... She whispers:

“Don’t.”

It’s not harsh. It’s not a warning. It’s just... small. Fractured.

Like it’s costing her something to say it.

You blink.

She closes her eyes. Inhales once. Sharp and quick. Aand shifts her weight. Gently pulling back just enough to break the moment.

You lower your hand.

There’s a strange heat still radiating between you.

You both stare ahead now. Like if you don’t acknowledge it, it might disappear. The storm outside deepens. Wind catching against the balcony like fingers scraping the glass.

You want to say something. But what?

“Sorry” feels wrong.

“I wasn’t going to” feels like a lie.

“You wanted to, too.” feels like a betrayal.

Instead, you say nothing.

She gets up first. Moving toward the kitchen with her glass.

You stay where you are. Jaw tight. Heart ringing in your ears.

From the kitchen, she says softly, “We should finish the transcript tomorrow.”

You nod. Even though she can’t see it. “Yeah. Okay.”

When she returns, the moment has passed. But the feeling hasn’t.

That night, your journal entry is shorter than usual.

I reached for her without thinking. She stopped me without anger. But also without hesitation.There’s something breaking open between us and neither of us is ready for what’s inside. I didn’t kiss her. I don’t think that matters anymore.

You don’t sleep much.

But you dream of the pause between breath and touch.

[meiplays]

🧨 “Whipped & Wrecked”

Pairing: Soldier Boy (Ben) x Reader

Rating: 💥 SFW (but spicy, lap grinding, thigh riding, hickeys, hair pulling, worship, possessive & feral Ben energy)

Word Count: ~2.8k

Warnings: Intense lap grinding, thigh riding, hair pulling, whimpering, kissing, marking/neck kisses/hickeys, teasing, possessive behavior, begging Ben (softly), whipped energy, reader in Ben’s shirt, praise, mutual obsession, canon Ben attitude

Summary:

All Ben wanted was to hold you in his lap. Just cuddle you for a while. But you knew exactly what you were doing the second you started grinding your hips over his thigh. Turns out, Soldier Boy isn’t as in control as he likes to act—especially not when you’ve got your fingers in his hair and your lips on his throat.

A/N: this is probably the spicest thing I've written (as what I'm comfortable with) first time writing soldier boy! Hope you enjoy xo

“C’mere, baby. Just wanna hold you for a while.”

That’s how it started.

You were curled up in bed, wearing nothing but one of Ben’s old shirts—soft, worn-in, and way too big. He was leaning against the headboard, dog tags still hanging against his chest, arms open, eyes soft in a way no one else ever got to see.

And you melted for it. Always did.

You crawled into his lap without hesitation, straddling his thick thighs, resting your body against his like it was the most natural thing in the world. His arms came around you instantly, solid and warm and possessive. He let out a quiet breath, one of those rare, content ones, like just having you there grounded him.

“Missed you,” he murmured, pressing his face into your neck. “Been thinkin’ about this all week.”

His voice was lower than usual, warm against your skin, and it made you shiver in his arms. You could feel his hands rubbing slow, lazy circles on your lower back, fingertips brushing just beneath the hem of the shirt. Nothing urgent—just comfort.

But you weren’t exactly behaving.

You shifted in his lap. Just a little. Enough to feel the way his muscles tightened beneath you. Enough to make him pause mid-breath.

“Careful,” he warned, but his grip on your hips got firmer. “You’re in dangerous territory, sweetheart.”

You smiled against his throat. “I’m just getting comfortable.”

Another shift. This time, you let your thighs tighten around his. The hem of the shirt slid higher as your body naturally moved over his lap, creating friction that neither of you could ignore.

Ben groaned, deep and low. His hands flew from gentle to gripping, fingers digging into your hips as his jaw clenched hard.

“Jesus,” he muttered, his voice rough now, “you tryin’ to kill me?”

You looked up at him through your lashes, playful. “What if I am?”

His eyes darkened.

“Don’t play with me, doll,” he rasped, rocking his hips just barely upward. “You know exactly what you’re doin’. You sit here, all sweet in my shirt, like you’re just here for cuddles—and then you start ridin’ my thigh like it’s an accident.”

“Maybe it is,” you whispered, grinding slow against the thick muscle beneath you. You could feel how hard he was breathing, how tense his hands had gotten. “Maybe I just like being close to you.”

“Bullshit,” Ben growled, dragging you closer. “You know how goddamn sensitive I am to you. You start movin’ like that, and I forget how to breathe.”

You rolled your hips again, this time firmer—grinding right against the curve of his thigh, where his muscles flexed under your heat. Ben’s head fell back against the headboard with a guttural sound.

“F**k, baby…”

His hands gripped your waist, guiding your movement before he even realized what he was doing.

“Keep goin’,” he muttered. “You’re gonna ruin me. Might as well finish the job.”

You leaned in, pressing your lips to his jaw, whispering sweet and sinful things in his ear as you rolled your hips over and over again, using the thick, strong muscle of his thigh like a toy built for you. His dog tags jangled softly between your chests as he tried to hold himself back.

“Takin’ my f***in’ breath away,” he groaned. “Look at you—makin’ a mess on my leg, actin’ all innocent. You know you’re the only one I’d ever let do this, right?”

You nodded, panting now, clutching his shoulders for leverage. “I know.”

His hands slipped under your shirt, up your spine, pulling you flush against him. His thigh tensed again—harder—and your body shivered in his lap.

Ben kissed you rough, possessive, like he was trying to remind you exactly who had you. When he pulled back, his eyes were blown wide with heat.

“You ride me like that again,” he muttered, “and I swear to God, I won’t be able to stop myself.”

You grinned, grinding once more. “That the plan.”

Ben let out a strangled noise—something between a growl and a prayer—and pulled you tighter against him, burying his face in your neck.

“Whipped,” he mumbled. “I’m f***in’ whipped for you.”

You stroked the back of his neck softly, kissing his cheek as you moved with him. “I know, baby. And I love it.”

You didn’t even realize how far you were pushing him.

Not until you tugged on his hair—and he whimpered.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic.

Just a soft, helpless sound that slipped from his lips the second your fingers tangled into that thick mess of his hair and gave it a firm pull.

Ben froze. His breath caught. Then his eyes rolled back just a little like he’d just been sucker-punched straight in the nerves.

You stilled in his lap, straddling his thigh in nothing but his shirt, lips parted in surprise. “Wait… you like that?”

Ben groaned—deep and rough like he hated how much he loved it.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he muttered, voice barely holding together. “You’re gonna break me.”

You tugged again, slower this time, watching his reaction.

Ben shivered. You felt it under your hands. He dropped his head back, his lips parted, a low sound catching in his throat.

“Oh my god,” you whispered, “you really do like your hair pulled.”

He didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

Instead, his hands snapped up to your hips and dragged you harder against his thigh—his grip bruising, jaw clenched, eyes wild with hunger.

“Baby…” His voice was gravel. “You keep doin’ that, I’m not gonna be able to stop.”

You rolled your hips slow, dragging the heat of your core over the thick muscle of his thigh again and again, your thighs clenching as he flexed beneath you.

“Then don’t,” you breathed. “Let go.”

That was it. That was the match to gasoline.

Ben’s mouth crashed against yours, hot and heavy, hands gripping like he needed you to stay there—like you’d disappear if he wasn’t touching every inch of you. His kisses were everywhere: your lips, your jaw, your neck—worshipping.

“You drive me f***in’ insane,” he growled between kisses. “You—this—this sweet little thing sittin’ in my lap like you don’t know what you’re doin’ to me.”

“I do,” you whispered, fingers in his hair again, pulling hard.

Ben gasped against your skin—and then whimpered again. Raw. Real. The kind of sound he’d never make for anyone else.

“You like that?” you asked, teasing against his ear. “You like being pulled around like a good boy?”

“F***,” he choked out, rutting his thigh upward under you so hard it nearly made you moan. “I’ll be whatever the hell you want me to be, baby. Just don’t stop.”

He started kissing down your neck again, slower now. Not rough—needy. His tongue flicked over your pulse, his lips suckling a spot just under your jaw until you gasped. Then he did it again. And again.

“Gonna mark you up,” he mumbled, dazed. “All over. So you never forget who you belong to.”

“You’re the one who’s whipped,” you panted, grinding shamelessly against his thigh. “You’re the one who begs when I pull your hair—”

“I do not beg—”

You yanked again. Harder.

Ben whimpered. Louder this time. His eyes squeezed shut. His hips jerked upward under you like he couldn’t stop.

“Okay,” he gasped. “Maybe I do.”

You laughed breathlessly, but he wasn’t done with you.

He flipped you gently—fast but controlled—until you were on your back and he was hovering over you, his thigh still wedged perfectly between yours. You tried to protest, but his lips were already on your neck again, his hands sliding under your shirt, skin on skin.

“You make me weak,” he whispered. “You hear me? You ruin me every time you climb into my lap like that, grind on me like you own me.”

“I do own you,” you teased, breathless.

Ben grinned against your collarbone, and you felt his teeth graze your skin right before he sucked another mark into you, just beneath the line of your throat.

“Damn right, you do,” he muttered. “So let me show you what being yours means.”

He trailed kisses down your chest, slow and heavy, tongue flicking, lips sucking, worshiping every inch of skin he could reach without going too far. You tugged his hair again just to feel him twitch. Just to hear that sound again—the little gasp he couldn’t hide.

“You’re evil,” he muttered against your ribs.

“You love it.”

“Damn right, I do.”

He came back up, kissing you breathless, tasting every inch of your lips like he needed them to live. His hands never stopped roaming—your waist, your thighs, your hips—everywhere he could hold you down and pull you close.

When he finally slowed, both of you were panting, chests heaving, still tangled together on the bed. Your shirt had ridden up high. His sweatpants hung dangerously low on his hips. But neither of you had crossed the line—yet.

“Ben?” you murmured, brushing his hair from his forehead.

His eyes cracked open, and for once, he looked… soft.

“Yeah, baby?”

You leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. “You know I’ve never seen you like this with anyone else. You’re not just mine. I’m yours, too.”

His throat worked like he was trying to swallow the lump in it. One of his hands slid up, curling around your face, thumb brushing your cheek.

“I don’t deserve you,” he rasped.

You kissed him again, slow and lingering. “Too late. You’ve got me.”

He pulled you into his chest, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other wrapping protectively around your waist as he held you like he was afraid the world would take you away.

And you laid there like that—on top of him, tangled, flushed, and ruined—while his fingers idly stroked your back, his lips pressing lazy kisses into your temple.

Every few seconds, you tugged his hair just to hear that helpless little whimper again.

And Ben?

He let you.

Because he was yours. Whipped, marked, and happy about it.

[dragoneyelashart]

teacher! sabrina and the classes she teaches

smut/fluff ୨ৎ

warnings: math 😖😖 a/n: some of these are meant to be silly🙏

french teacher! sabrina:

french teacher! sabrina who says everything with a sultry accent, even when she’s just asking for the attendance sheet, and you’re sitting there trying not to squirm

french teacher! sabrina who gives you private tutoring sessions after school, and sometimes you forget any french because she’s sitting too close, whispering “répète après moi, baby”

french teacher! sabrina who corrects your pronunciation by murmuring in your ear, her breath warm against your neck, her fingers brushing yours as she turns the page for you

french teacher! sabrina who wears sheer tights and button-up blouses and leans just a little too far over your desk, smirking when she catches your eyes drop

french teacher! sabrina who kisses down your spine and says “tu es à moi” in between each one, then fucks you slow and soft, calling you “ma chérie” the whole time

french teacher! sabrina who makes you croissants from scratch on the weekend and teaches you dirty phrases in bed just to hear you moan them with a terrible accent

french teacher! sabrina who gets off on being called “miss carpenter” even outside the classroom, especially when it’s while she’s pinning your wrists above your head

french teacher! sabrina fingers are inside you, slow and deep, whispering “dis-le encore, ma salope…”

french teacher! sabrina who edges you over her desk with your panties stuffed in your mouth so no one hears you moaning her name through the thin classroom walls

french teacher! sabrina who teaches a full lesson like nothing happened, while you sit in the front row still aching, thighs sticky, her lipstick smudged across your inner thigh

french teacher! sabrina who places on your her lap in her office chair, telling you how to conjugate words, rolling your hips so you can feel her strap.

french teacher! sabrina who comes home from a long day of teaching, throws her bag down, pulls you by the jaw and says, “on your knees. now.”

geography teacher! sabrina:

geography teacher! sabrina who has a huge wall map in her classroom and lets you put a pin in every place you say you want to go, then later, she kisses you breathless and whispers, “i’ll take you there someday”

geography teacher! sabrina who quizzes you by tracing lines down your arm, softly asking, “where’s the andes? where’s the danube?” like a game that always ends with her mouth between your thighs

geography teacher! sabrina who wears glasses and talks about gets excited when you ask her questions, you stop listening halfway through and just stare at her lips

geography teacher! sabrina who books a cabin in the woods for “field research” but you don’t bring anything except lingerie and snacks

geography teacher! sabrina who marks your body like a map, one bite for every place she wants to go with you, soft bruises along your collarbone like coordinates only she understands

geography teacher! sabrina who moans your name into the crook of your neck and says, “you’re my whole world, baby. every last inch of it.”

geography teacher! sabrina who spreads you out on her desk and says, “we’re doing hands-on learning today,” then traces your body with a ruler like it’s a topographic map

geography teacher! sabrina who makes you label different parts of her body while you kiss them, “this is the valley. this is the ridge. this is the peak. and this? mine.”

geography teacher! sabrina who keeps a globe in her bedroom and spins it, telling you to pick a place  “wherever you land, i’ll fuck you like we’re there.”

geography teacher! sabrina who fucks you in a car overlooking a canyon, one hand on your throat and the other up your skirt, saying “tell me where you want it, use your words.”

geography teacher! sabrina who marks bite-sized “landmarks” down your chest like a dotted path, following them with her tongue until you’re begging for her to reach the “final destination”

english teacher! sabrina:

english teacher! sabrina: who smells like coffee and old books and always has lipstick slightly smudged from sipping too fast between classes

english teacher! sabrina who teaches you to love poetry again, quoting sappho with a smirk and a wink like she knows exactly what she’s doing

english teacher! sabrina who invites you to her office to “go over your writing” and ends up bending you over her desk while the door stays half-open

english teacher! sabrinawho reads aloud in class, her voice low and slow, and every time she says “love” your stomach flips

english teacher! sabrina who annotates your body like it’s her favorite book, kisses down your thighs with whispered praises like “excellent use of imagery” and “10/10 climax”

english teacher! sabrina who gets possessive when she sees someone else quoting shakespeare at you, and later she punishes you by making you recite lines while you ride her

english teacher! sabrina who says “words matter” but still groans when you go speechless with your hands in her hair

english teacher! sabrina who ties your wrists with her scarves or ties and makes you read poetry out loud while she sits between your legs, tongue slow on your clit

english teacher! sabrina who calls it “oral analysis” and won’t let you come unless you quote your favorite line from a book while she has her mouth on you

english teacher! sabrina who makes you write an essay on how she makes you feel and reads it aloud while fingering you, breath hitching when you use words like “ruined” and “obsessed”

english teacher! sabrina who keeps a notebook of all the things you say when you’re begging, and calls it “your best writing to date”

math teacher! sabrina:

math teacher! sabrina who wears tight pencil skirts

math teacher! sabrina who gently taps your notebook with her red pen and leans down way too close to fix your mistake, and you can barely hear her over your heartbeat

math teacher! sabrina who texts you equations with flirty answers like “69 ÷ 3 = how many times i want you tonight”

math teacher! sabrina who gives you “extra credit” assignments that somehow always end with your legs shaking over her desk or in the supply closet

math teacher! sabrina who wipes your tears when you don’t understand a topic, quick to reassure you that she’s here the whole time to help

math teacher! sabrina who teaches you ratios by making you come in different positions and calling it “a balanced equation”

math teacher! sabrina who gets breathless whispering “fuck, baby, you do the math” when you ask how many times she’s already finished

math teacher! sabrina who pins a sticky note to your shirt after class that just says: “you + me = detention ;)”

math teacher! sabrina who makes you do mental math while riding her strap, every wrong answer gets you edged harder until your voice is cracking

math teacher! sabrina who says “you wanna count? count how many times i make you come before class ends” while your hands claw at her blouse and her thigh presses against your soaked core or while she leaves a vibrator in you while she lectures

math teacher! sabrina who uses her whiteboard marker to draw positions and says “you’re gonna demonstrate this next” then wipes it off with your shirt

math teacher! sabrina who fucks you with a ruler between your thighs, whispering “measuring progress, baby. stay still.”

math teacher! sabrina who won’t let you finish until you solve a word problem while she’s fingering you  “if i have two fingers inside you and a tongue on your clit, what’s your answer?”

taglist: @amara-eilish @bilswifee @iamnicoke @jayjaywetforbils @bittersuitekim @bxllxebxtch @bitchesbrokenpromises @ijustlovemaths @ilovealiceosemann @bilssturns @peytonneilish @chrissv4mp @too-sapphic-to-function @thebluediner @aka-persephone @vijaxx @thinkshespretty @emi-inspace @lilnini777 | send an ask or comment if you want to be added to my taglist!

[hyacinth-in-a-haze]

Thinking about a deadbeat cowboy.

Tw- mentions of noncon, deadbeat bastard of a man , abuse, mentions of violence

He only shows up once he's back from his jobs, horse kicking up dirt as he comes to your lonely homestead. Greeting you smelling like whisky and woodsmoke. Throwing his heavy coin pouch on your oak table with a grin as he presses you into his arms.

"Promised you I wouldn't drink all my earnings away," his boyish grin disguising the anticipation as he waits for a thank you.

You step on your tiptoes to press a kiss against his stubble, at least when he comes to your home he shaves. Your home, not his, this is only a stop to rest his wandering feet, a trough for his empty stomach, and a body to warm his bed. Returning to pin you down beneath him at night.

The first time he had you was nothing short of a nightmare. Ambushing you in the dirt , violent and quick with his hand tight around your throat. A farm dog bent over a bitch. He left you there, in the tall grass outside your home, once he took what he wanted. The only thing you could comfort yourself with was the thought it was over.

The next night he returned, you were too scared to do anything but allow him to violate you again. Fighting got you nothing but a black eye and bite marks, at least with your submission, you got something more. Someone to fix the worn floorboard and the hole in the roof. Someone who eventually stopped fucking you like he meant to only hurt you, placing an unnatural kiss on your forehead as he held you to sleep. When he left after three weeks, you knew the cycle would start again once he returned.

"I didn't know to expect you," you mumble, wringing your apron in your hands. "Didn't make much for dinner only a pie."

Still, he smiles at that. He's not picky when it comes to the temporary domesticity you give him to keep him happy. You've learnt the past year that he always returns to you in between his jobs. Sure, he will darken your door, reeking of whisky, but he won't go to the saloon so long as he sleeps in your bed. Not all women can say that. Or can say their man brings them a heavy purse, treats from cities or traders wagons, jewellery from a wealthy womans neck. So you've learnt to live with it, to not ask him questions about how he obtained his treatures unless you're obviously coy.

He wraps his arms over your shoulders. Asking if there's been any unwanted guests in his absence. Any stray dogs he needs to shoot from his property.

You're not stupid enough to find another man. It would only end up with a bullet hole in his head and one in your ankle. Or maybe your cowboy would put a knife to your sweet face, making sure no other man could ever find you pretty after being ruined at his hands.

"I tell the townsfolk I'm married that my husband rounds up cattle on the ranches. It's only half a lie." You say as you plate up the pie. "Maybe you can come with me to town one of these days so I can prove you exist." You speak too quickly, a sense of panic creeping in. The ring you wear is nothing more than a mirage of respectability, but you needed proof before everyone decided that you spread your legs for the first man to knock on your door. You need there to be proof of him. Before he next disappears. Before it's too late to change opinions.

He only smiles at that. Waiting for you to sit opposite him before he grabs your wrist so hard you nearly scream.

"You're hiding something from me lovely, and we aren't gonna eat until you spit it out. So I advise you to hurry up before the dinner gets cold." He shifts his fingers, and you can swear you hear your joint pop.

"I'm with child!" You announce hurriedly before he snaps your arm in two, the shock of the realisation making him freeze. "I'm not lying about this, I swear ." You're frantic as he stares through you, eyes narrowing at the thickness of your waist - your corset can only do so much to obscure you from someone who's seen you broken down to nothing before himself. You're barely able to breathe through the tension before he starts laughing.

"Well shit. Guess I got to settle down with you now? Can't be leaving you alone with my bastard now, can I?" The amusement in his voice is exasperated rather than malicious, but your hands still tremble at the thought of his permanence.

"Not if I don't want anyone sniffing round my girl trying to do any charity."

[4thelovabob]

Bob is touch starved part 6

Her room. She wants him in her room.

At first, Bob is too stunned to speak. Because he can’t believe what she just asked. That she wants him as badly as he wants her. Right now.

It steals his breath. His pulse thuds. His cock twitches again as he shifts his hips, discreetly presses one broad hand down in front of his bulge, between his baggy sweatpants-clad thighs.

"Is that ok?" Yelena says, pulling back a little to better focus on him. A shock of her short blonde hair - towel-dried and now mussed by their kissing - clings to her brow above her striking eyes. "I mean, too bold…?"

And Bob, without even thinking, blurts out at once, "Please."

Yelena's brows lift a little. Her mouth is slightly open, and he wants nothing more than to close in on those soft, unbearably delicious lips again. He's mentally cataloging all the sensory information he's learning about her now. She wears strawberry jam flavored lip balm. The sweet-tart taste of it lingers on his swollen, just-kissed mouth, and it's all he can do not to lick it off in front of her.

But his desperation for her remains apparent in the tremble of his voice.

"Please, yes," he repeats. "I want…I want to come to your room."

A smile quirks Yelena's mouth. She touches his blushing cheek, and the light contact alone shoots to his core. He briefly closes his eyes.

"You're really very cute when you’re flustered, Bob," she murmurs. And then her hand falls, slides over his. He responds to her touch instantly, fingers slowly lacing with hers as he lets out a breath. The sofa creaks as she rises to her feet, and he rises to meet her like a magnetic pull. She gives his hand a little squeeze. "Come on."

He doesn't need to be told, but damn, he loves that she does.

She treads lightly and slowly over the floorboards, holding his hand with a gentle guidance. He follows barefoot in her wake, weak in the knees and nearly floating, heart in his throat, body tingling all over like a live wire.

He can't believe this is happening. It feels like a dream. It feels thrilling, dangerous, naughty, sneaking off like this while everyone's asleep.

When they reach her bedroom, they slip through her door and close it behind them, and the silence that falls around them is blissful. Bob can't even pay attention to the room. All he sees is her.

Yelena is watching him closely, too. In the low and golden light, neither of them speak for a moment. They drink each other in, feel the weight of each other's presence, alone together.

They move toward each other at the same time, atoms colliding, an unstoppable force. As their lips meet, Bob's hands hover awkwardly around Yelena's hips, fingers flexing - where, where do I touch her first, where can I - until he decisively drops them to her lower back. Yelena angles her head to deepen the kiss and, emboldened by her enthusiasm, Bob glides his hands up her back, open-palmed against the silky, clingy robe. She reaches up, rakes her fingers through his curls as her tongue darts into his mouth. Wow…wow, that's a new feeling, Bob thinks frantically, pulling her in closer. Her petite, curvaceous, well-toned body slots just right into his embrace, a missing puzzle piece. Pressed up flush against him, he can feel so much of her under her thin slip, warm and soft and -

Yelena makes this noise against his lips, a feral little whine, and that does it. Bob's hands slide back down to clutch her hips, then grip her supple ass, lifting her off the ground. Holy shit, her body - that ass is unreal -

He's still getting used to this newfound strength, and the ease with which he scoops her up and lays her down on the bed behind them - oh good, that's where that is - makes him a little nervous. The last thing he wants is to hurt her.

Yelena pants, sprawled out underneath him, gorgeous as a painting, glowing and wide-eyed in the low light. Bob braces both hands on either side of her, hovering just above her, breath heavy, hair falling in his face. His deep blue eyes study her every feature, looking for the smallest signs of hesitation, of rejection. Heat radiates off him in waves.

"Bob," she says at last, and the shape of his name in her sultry voice melts him. She lets it hang there between them, almost a question. "You must be really hot under that sweater, huh?"

"Oh, uh, m-hm," he mumbles, too distracted by his need to kiss her again. He'd been ignoring it, but he's damp with sweat underneath his oversized sweatshirt.

"Can I…?" She asks. When he nods, Yelena sits up a little, hooks her thigh around the back of his, and smoothly flips him over. The maneuver sends another jolt of pleasure rolling through his stomach. She's straddling his abdomen, thighs pinning his sides, not quite low enough on his hips to feel how hard he is already.

Yelena grips the hem of his sweatshirt and deftly peels it up and over his torso until he's free, hair tousled, only his faded shirt clinging to him underneath.

He exhales through his teeth. Fuck. Rein it in, Bob. Tell her now.

"Yelena," he says in a rush, "I've really wanted to kiss you and - and touch you."

Yelena plants both her palms lightly on his chest. "Yeah?" The contact is grounding, and Bob sighs, eyelashes fluttering.

"Yeah. I'm actually not that…experienced with this. I mean, I've barely – the only times were for drugs. They were meaningless." The confession tumbles out of him as his hands come to rest on the front of her taut thighs. "Not like this. I feel…god, like we have something intense. Like, the opposite of the Void, like…"

"Light?" Yelena finishes knowingly, a soft smile spreading over her face. Bob loves the way she smiles. The corners of her eyes crinkling. The apples of her cheeks. She looks like a goddess on top of him.

He swallows, his gaze hungry for her. "You were right, it gets lighter. But with us it's like…like a fuckin' explosion of light," he swears softly, shaking his head. "Yelena. I think you are…the most meaningful experience in my life."

Yelena's expression shifts into something else. A strong indent forms between her knitted brows, her mouth falling open into a little 'o' shape, her hazel eyes blinking.

"I can't do this without telling you," Bob says softly. "I just. I need to know this isn't gonna be a one night stand. I mean, even in a few months knowing you, I’ve never felt this sure of anything else."

Yelena pauses as if letting his words sink in. She looks so serious, so disarmed. She sits completely still. When she speaks it's a whisper, so quiet and soft.

"Can I tell you something, too?" There's a subtle quivering note in her voice, pinpricks of moisture in her eyes. "Neither have I."

His throat bobs. It's hard to hide the shock in his tone, and his brow furrows. "Wow. Wow…you mean you never felt…? About anyone?"

Yelena shrugs. Like "hi, here I am." Bob smiles, so deeply endeared.

"I didn't mean to assume," he adds, eyes wide. "I just kinda thought…you're so beautiful, I thought…you could have anyone. It can't just be me."

Yelena dismounts his body, and Bob winces at the removal of contact. But it's only temporary, as she scoots her body parallel alongside his, facing him. Almost like she knows how much he needs to feel her close. Her eye contact is always strongly on him, too. Like she won't let him out of her sight.

"No, it is," she says, more seriously now than ever. "It is only you, Bob."

Bob rolls onto his side until they're face to face, foreheads almost touching. He reaches, slowly, for her hand. Cradling it in his, he places her palm on his chest. He's not sure what compelled him to – Yelena's usually the first one to take initiative, he still feels so shy – except that he just needed her to feel his heartbeat. Yelena responds in kind, spreading her fingers there.

"See, I do have experience," she explains, glancing up at him through her lashes. "But it was…training. The only times were for missions. So they were meaningless, too. I didn't know what wanting someone could feel like for real. Until you. Do you realize that, Bob?"

He chuckles a little, with that crooked self-conscious smile Yelena knows well now. "I guess I just couldn't imagine you could want someone like me."

Yelena gives him a pointed look.

"I knew when I woke up next to you in the vault," she said. "With your hand touching mine. I saw you…seeing me at my worst. You were scared, but not of me - for me. I could see it in your face. I could sense that you just…cared about me. And then I saw all of your dark places too. It's almost like we've already seen each other naked. You know?"

He feels the blush creeping over his face again. "Yeah," he says. "Yeah, I know exactly."

"You became my mission, Bob," she says, inching closer until their noses touch, until her breath tingles at his lips. All I wanted was to pull you out of the darkness and keep you safe. And I - I just want you like crazy - "

He crushes his mouth to hers, stealing her words. It's a messy, desperate kiss, passionate and breathless. He allows his tongue to slip along her bottom lip, exploring the sweet taste of her again. Their teeth bump and she gasps and grips the back of his head and he needs her, more of her –

The lightest brush of her thigh against his throbbing cock, and he nearly jumps out of his skin. "Sorry! Um," he chokes out. "There's, there's something else too." He worries all these interruptions are annoying her, cringing inwardly at himself. But then he glances at Yelena's face, and she's listening carefully. Watching him with pure love. "I, um…"

He shudders, drawing in a breath, looking at her helplessly. Heat rises all over him, sweat beading on his skin. A sticky spot of precum is pooling in his boxers.

Yelena reaches for him. Cards her fingers slowly through his brown curls, smoothing them back.

"It's okay, Bob," she soothes. "Take your time. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."

Her touch coaxes his deepest vulnerabilities into the open, once again. "I'm…my body is really…sensitive to your touch," he says. "So if we're gonna…it - it might be over fast. I don't want to disappoint you. I just don't think I can help myself around you."

"Good," Yelena says, firmly. "I don't want you to hold back. Ever."

Bob lets out another trembling breath, blinking at her.

"I'm not," Yelena repeats slowly, gently, "going anywhere. You can't disappoint me, Bob. You’re you. And besides…there can be a lot. A lot of times. I think I would like to have a lot of times with you."

"Oh." Bob thinks about his rapid recovery time between climaxes. A little fluttery chuckle escapes him. "I can...I can do a lot of times."

Yelena smirks, her hand skating down his defined abdomen, tracing the hard muscles there. She pauses at the waistband of his sweatpants, her fingertips lightly resting there. She notices how big he is for her, of course. She's noticed this whole time.

Bob squirms, beginning to lose all sense as his engorged cock strains against the fabric. So damn close. If she moves any lower, he might just grind against her hand.

"Yelena, I'm so," he whimpers, sucking in a breath, eyes squeezing shut and open again. "I'm so needy for you."

"Can I touch - "

"God, yes," he gasps, and Yelena just - does it.

She slips her hand underneath his balls first, cupping their fullness, and a strangled moan escapes him, cracks in his throat, shit, he’s like a teenage boy with her.

"Bob," she says, low, stroking him featherlight, just with her nails alone. "We can figure this out together. What we like. What it feels like to be touched right. There's no one I'd rather do this with."

"Y-yeah," he manages to get out. "Oh, please, yes."

"I'm gonna check in with you a lot, all right?" She assures him. "And you can tell me if it feels good."

"It - mnnf, that feels so good - " she wrests another moan from him, a sweet, broken keening that ends up muffled in the pillow under his head. "Yelena - Yelena, jesus, fuck - "

His untouched cock ruts involuntarily against nothing, needing her friction, beginning to spasm in his boxers -

Bob's fist thumps down, clings to the bedsheet, knuckles white. "Oh, oh, hold on," he nearly cries, pulling just out of her reach despite his every instinct to stay there, to finish right there in her hand. He lets out a long, sharp exhale through clenched teeth. "I just - just need a second."

Yelena bites her lip in anticipation, scanning Bob's face. His lashes blink as his eyes flash a vivid golden, before he gets his breathing under control.

"You first," he insists, eyes locked on her. "I wanna - can I just try something?"

Yelena nods as he scrambles to his feet.

"Um, can I just -" He stands at the end of the bed, and Yelena gasps as he reaches for her with his strong lean arms, gripping her by the hips. Carefully, he drags her down to the edge of the bed.

His hands slide down to her thighs, palms open, fingers parted. Without taking his eyes off her - with reverence - he kneels before her. Dips his head to her inner thigh. Nuzzles its softness tenderly, as if he's not about to completely devour her.

"Yelena," he murmurs against her skin, breath fluttering at the hem of her silky slip. He lifts his head to make his intentions clear, eyes burning, his voice like a plea. "I wanna…wanna go nice and slow. So I can savor you."

(part 1) (part 2) (part 3) (part 4) (part 5)

(part 7 tba...)

[changingplumbob]

Second Round - Day Five (3PO) 1 of 2

@lostinsixam, @igglemouse, @simstagramsomeone, @daedriyth, @ashubii, @simscici - Sim creators and writers

Bright and early, the household wakes up. Room order was randomised with Jerrica and Lara getting the ground floor rooms. A wheel was spun for type of shower the contestants would have (opportunity for energised, flirty or inspired moodlet) and whether they would brush their teeth (possible confident moodlet). Once they are finished getting ready they're sent to breakfast. Autonomy is toggled on and room doors are locked.

The order the contestants arrive at breakfast matters a little. Deanna compliments each of them in the order they arrive. Those who are talked to early seem to have more chance of fitting in autonomous socials with Deanna. They might fit in a joke, flirt or gossip between her complimenting others.

Jerrica was first to breakfast today, she and Deanna deciding to share a hug before catching up.

Jerrica: How have you been?

Deanna: Busy. You all get days off but I don't. It's pretty non stop

Jerrica: Never underestimate the power of a good nap

Deanna: *chuckles* Oh Lara I keep meaning to say I love your jacket

Kennedy: It's real clever how it matches your hair

Lara: Aww, thanks you two. I do worry that I have a more limited wardrobe than some

Callie: You don't need a big wardrobe if you like what you have

Kay was last to breakfast, but she has some good moodlets on board!

Kay: Ohhh pancakes! Let me at em let me at em

Deanna: *chuckling* I hope they're alright. I figure you could probably make better

Abigail: Are pancakes baking or cooking?

*moment of silence*

Jerrica: My bisexual self says both is good

*laughter*

Kay: *while eating* Motion seconded

Lara: Do I have time for a quick swim before the challenge?

Deanna: *checks time* Yes, it's almost an hour and a half before they want us there

Abigail: You sure you can't tell us what the challenge is

Deanna: *hesitates* If I told you what it was you might leave

Abigail: *gloomily* That sounds so promising

Kay: It's alright Abby, it'll be an adventure

Kennedy: Did you pick this one?

Deanna: I did not. And I've not really done it myself

Kennedy: *gasps* Horse ridin'? Is it horse ridin'?

Kay: Horses are cute! Those ones at the shelter looked so sweet

Jerrica: If it was that surely it would have been an option for skill time

Kennedy: *sighs* You do have brains

Callie: Not necessarily. I mean we never got an option to work on our singing

Amidst the chatter Abby takes herself off to a mirror in the hall.

Abigail: Come on Abby, I know we woke up gloomy, but we can push through. Look how you did with karaoke. And you've already had your date so you don't need to stay positive all day... just the next few hours. Then we can come back and wallow in peace for a bit

Lara and Abby both return to the group at the same time. Lara feels refreshed from her swim while Abby has enough good moodlets now to quiet the negative ones. Callie had headed upstairs to play juice pong... although she didn't actually invite anyone so it came to nothing.

Kay: I love this movie

Deanna: Sorry Kay but they need us on set in ten. Time for a costume change

Abigail: Time for what now

Deanna: You'll have to put on your active wear

Jerrica: *sarcastically* Hooray

Kennedy: *quietly* Please be horse ridin'

Devin: Hello everyone and welcome to Tartosa Gym. Today's challenge was picked by our pa, who is a fitness fan. Each of you has been tasked with completing the beginners endurance challenge on the rock wall. Fastest time wins. Good luck everyone

Devin hands it over to Aaron who gives a brief tutorial on how the rock wall works. It operates like a vertical treadmill, ticking over as contestants get closer to the top. Aaron takes everyone through some pre climb stretching to warm up, we need to be safe after all.

Aaron: I've picked this challenge because love is a marathon, not a sprint. You have to keep putting in the work if you want it to thrive. I'm looking forward to seeing who wins

Devin directs everyone to the right walls and the cameras position themselves.

Aaron: Any guesses who might win this one?

Deanna: Most of the 3PO group are... how would you say it... indoor cats? I think Kennedy might have an advantage with her love of horse riding. She's probably the most athletic

Aaron: Care to tell me who you want to win?

Deanna: *smiling* Nice try, I'm not doing that pa

Jerrica: I'm willing to give it a try, but my lack of athleticism may not help me out much here.

Lara: Wow, that sounds awesome! I love a good adventure, but at the same time, I worry about the girls... Will they be okay with it? I bet some of them find the challenge a bit scary...

Abby: *gulp* ... I don't think my noodle arms are saving me from this one *nervous laughter*

Callie: I just hope I don't hurt myself!

Kennedy: Well, I climbed trees growin' up. How hard can rocks be?

Kay: *big wide eyes* Oh, uhm, well. I'm not the strongest here so this should be interesting.

The challenge is under way! Everyone starts off strong but the wall can be devious. Kay falls to the ground first, followed by Kennedy. Kennedy however sticks the landing. Next out of the running is Jerrica, who is surprised to land on her feet. Then lastly Lara falls on her butt, with a big oomph.

The only two who manage to complete the rock wall are gamer Abby and clumsy sim Callie. Abby completes hers in 23.87 seconds. Callie takes 25.15 seconds. Abby technically scoops the win but with a date under her belt we'll be giving her some bonus points. The date will be Callie's.

Kennedy: Rocks are NOT as easy to climb as trees...

Kay: I probably should work on my fitness skill...

Kennedy: We could go on some jogs on our days off

Kay: We could... or we could stay indoors and bake. I'd love to hear more about your horses and you can't exactly tell me if we're jogging

Kennedy: Fair enough

Lara: My hands and arms are a bit sore... I really wasn’t made for this sport, but it was fun anyway! 

Jerrica: Its nice to try new things even if i'm bad at them...

Lara: The falls reminded me of those funny videos online of people trying to climb and slipping with their hands, which made me laugh a few times during the challenge

Jerrica: ...now to go soak my hands in ice water for a year

Lara: There's a sauna downstairs. Maybe we can stay since we're not going on dates

Jerrica: I like that plan. I like that plan a lot

Villa renovation by @paracosmic-sims Gym build by @hashimasims

[paperbacksinner]

CHALLENGE! (If you want it) make a fic out of my top emojis rn 🤝🎉🫂🔥💀👀

Party Favors

A/N: challenge accepted :)) Luigi Mangione x reader, drunk party aftermath, friends to lovers, sexual tension → hookup, possessive Luigi

TW: 18+ smut (oral f!receiving, praise kink, possessive talk, cocky dirty talk), post-party chaos, you wore something slutty and he noticed 👀

———

You weren’t supposed to fall asleep in Luigi’s bed.

It wasn’t part of the plan. You were gonna stay for a bit after the party, maybe help clean, maybe steal a hoodie and walk home at sunrise. Not… curl up in his bed, half-drunk and warm and still wearing the little red dress that had him looking at you like he wanted to bite something.

But here you are.

Face buried in his pillow. Breath catching. And that familiar ache stirring in your stomach because he’s right there, behind you, broad chest to your back, palm splayed over your waist like he’s been holding you in his sleep.

And moving.

At first, you thought you were dreaming it. Just a twitch, a shift. But then his hand lingered. Fingertips tracing your ribs. Dipping down slowly, like he didn’t even realize he was doing it.

Then you hear his voice.

Low. Rough with sleep.

“You wore that little red dress on purpose, didn’t you?”

Your pulse stutters.

“What?” you croak.

“That thing had my name written all over it,” he mutters into your hair. “Fuckin’ knew I was gonna lose it the second you walked in. Every guy there looked like they wanted to put their hands on you.”

His palm tightens on your hip. “I had to step outside. Thought I was gonna do something stupid.”

You blink. The room is spinning slightly less now. You breathe in his scent — clean detergent, bourbon, and cologne.

“You think I wore it for them?” you ask.

He stiffens.

“…No?”

You shift so you’re facing him. Your knees brush. His eyes flick to your mouth.

“I wore it for you, Luigi.”

His gaze snaps to yours. Hard. Hungry.

“Say that again.”

You smile.

“I wore it for you, dumbass.”

And that’s it.

Like a match dropped on gasoline, he’s on you. (🔥)

His hand slides behind your neck, lips crashing into yours — hard, hungry, needy. Your back hits the bed as he kisses you like he’s waited years. Because he has.

“Jesus Christ,” he mumbles into your mouth. “You don’t even know what you do to me.”

You gasp as he presses against you, thigh sliding between yours. “You never—you never said anything.”

“You think I didn’t want to?” He kisses your jaw. “You think I didn’t jerk off to the thought of you wearin’ that thing just for me?”

“Lu—”

“Always walking around with those pretty fuckin’ eyes, laughing at my stupid jokes, hangin’ off my arm like we’re not already halfway in love—you knew.”

He kisses down your neck, dragging the red strap of your dress off your shoulder.

“You knew, baby. And I was so good. I didn’t touch. Didn’t stare too long. Didn’t grab your ass when you bent over.”

His hand slides under your dress now. Grips your thigh. “But you wanted me to.”

You nod. “Yes.” (💀)

He groans.

“Gonna fuckin’ ruin you.”

You let him peel the dress down. Toss it to the floor. You’re left in nothing but a red lace thong and his unhinged attention.

He sits back on his knees, staring down at you like he’s about to make a meal of you. Like he’s starving.

“Look at this fuckin’ body,” he growls. “You’re gonna let me have it now, huh?”

You nod again. Barely breathing.

“Been waitin’ for this,” he murmurs, kissing his way down your stomach. “Every time you walked into a room. Every time you called me Lu. Every time you hugged me goodbye and pressed those tits into my chest like you wanted me to snap.”

His mouth dips lower. “You wanted this.”

“I want you,” you whisper.

He groans again. Louder. “Say that again.”

“I want you.”

“Fuck, baby. You have me.” (👀)

He doesn’t tease. He hooks his fingers in your thong and slides it down, kissing the inside of your thighs like he’s been dreaming of this moment for years.

And then—

His tongue meets your cunt and you arch off the bed with a gasp.

“Shhh,” he soothes, voice low and raspy. “Let me taste it. I’ve earned this.”

He eats like it’s personal. Like he’s trying to prove something. Long, wet strokes. His fingers gripping your thighs. His groans muffled against your skin.

When you grab his hair and whimper, he practically purrs.

“That’s it, sweetheart. That’s what I wanted. Give it to me. Let me hear how fuckin’ good I make you feel.”

You pant his name. He slides a thick finger inside you—then a second—and works you open while his mouth keeps wrecking you.

You come like you’ve been waiting forever. (🎉)

You’re still shaking when he kisses his way back up your body. Mouth slick, eyes dark.

You blink at him, lips parted.

“…What the fuck just happened.”

Luigi grins.

“You fell into my bed dressed like a fantasy and confessed you’ve been secretly in love with me. And I finally got to touch the thing I’ve been dreamin’ about since the moment I met you.”

You shove him lightly. He grabs your wrist. Pulls it to his lips. (🫂)

He kisses your knuckles. Then your wrist. Then your mouth. Much slower now. Softer. Tender.

“Was that okay?” he murmurs, almost shy.

You nod. “Yeah. Better than okay.”

He lays back and pulls you on top of him. You melt into his chest like it’s where you were always meant to be.

You lay there for a while. Silent. Safe.

Then he mumbles:

“I’m gonna marry you.”

You snort. “Shut up.”

“No, I mean it,” he says, smug. “You’re mine now. That’s it.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You eat me out once and suddenly you’re planning a wedding?”

He grins. “Babe. That wasn’t even me trying.”

You groan into his chest.

But you don’t move.

You don’t want to. (🤝)

[ncsdlr]

Album-making and Tour with a Plus Side of Romance

Billie Eilish x Reader

------------------

[Pre-tour - Winter]

The first rule you learn about working with Billie Eilish: She hates being touched.

Like—visibly recoils if anyone gets too close without warning. Even Finneas, who's her brother, gets a look if he forgets to announce himself before handing her a water bottle.

But you?

Apparently you’re exempt.

Which is weird, because you don’t like being touched either. Hugs make you tense. Group photos are your nightmare. You’ve perfected the art of the polite, just-out-of-reach wave.

And yet here you are. Studio couch. Billie’s foot brushing yours. Neither of you moves.

Her foot is cold. She’s not wearing socks. You could mention it. You don’t.

Instead, you stretch slightly, fingers drumming a lazy beat on the notebook in your lap, and say, “You always this handsy with your collaborators?”

Billie glances at your foot, still nudging hers. Then at your face. “You started it.”

You hum. “Did I?”

She raises a brow. “You’re the one who sat down here.”

“You’re the one who spread out like this was your bed.”

“It’s my couch.”

“It’s Finneas’s couch.”

Finneas, across the room, lifts a hand. “I don’t want to be part of this.”

Neither of you look away from each other.

“Do you want me to move?” you ask finally, low and light.

Billie exhales through her nose. “No. Stay.”

You nod once. “Wasn't gonna move anyway.”

The silence that follows is deceptively casual. Except your heart is doing that thing where it acts like a traitor in your chest, and Billie’s tongue is pressed to the inside of her cheek like she’s trying not to smile too wide.

---

Billie steps out of the vocal booth, tugging one ear of her headphones off and letting the other dangle against her shoulder. Her voice is still warm in the room, caught in the echo of the track.

You’re leaned back in the chair by the board, spinning it slowly with your foot, arms crossed, watching her.

She catches the look you’re giving her and squints. “What.”

You tilt your head, feigning innocence. “Nothing.”

She walks closer. “No. You’re looking at me like you just thought something filthy.”

“I did,” you say, casually, like you’re commenting on the weather.

She blinks. “Jesus.”

You smile, slow. “What, you want me to lie?”

Billie laughs, high and sharp, hand pressing over her mouth as she stops in front of you. Her fingers curl over the top of the chair you’re in. She leans forward, just slightly.

“You always think like that when I sing?” she asks, voice low and sugar-slick.

You lift your chin, eyes dragging slowly down her throat and back up. “Only when you sound like that.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Sound like what?”

“Like you want me to feel you up halfway through the second verse.”

Billie sucks in a breath like you just slapped her.

And God, she looks good wrecked like that—even just from words. She glances over her shoulder quickly, checking that Finneas is still at the far end of the studio, pretending to fiddle with cables.

When she turns back, she’s smirking—but barely. Her eyes are darker now. She runs her tongue across her bottom lip, like she’s trying to bite back a thousand replies at once.

“You shouldn’t say shit like that,” she says.

You shrug, relaxed, confident. “Then stop singing like it’s foreplay.”

She stares at you. You stare back. The air stretches between you like a taut string.

“Seriously,” she murmurs. “You’re gonna fuck around and find out.”

You tilt your head. “You promise?”

She closes her eyes like she’s praying, then straightens, jaw tight. “I’m not doing this.”

“Doing what?”

“This. With you.”

You grin. “You’re already doing it, Billie.”

And she knows you’re right. You both do.

She turns away too quickly, muttering something under her breath that might be a curse or your name—same difference at this point.

You lean back in the chair, hands behind your head, smug as hell.

Behind you, Finneas sighs like he’s aged ten years in one session.

“Can you two either make out or finish the goddamn track,” he says flatly, “so I can go home and pretend I’m not a part of whatever’s happening in here?”

You and Billie say nothing.

But when she goes to sit across from you again, her knee presses against yours.

She doesn’t move.

Neither do you.

---

There’s a beat of almost-silence after Finneas calls you out—just the soft hum of equipment, Billie’s laptop fan buzzing, and the residual heat of her pressed against your knee.

She doesn't move. Neither do you. Neither says a word.

The tension has curved inward—less flirty now, more loaded. You know what she’s thinking. You know because it’s exactly what you’re thinking.

If we weren’t being watched. If I just leaned in. If she said one more thing in that voice.

But she doesn’t. Instead, she grabs the half-empty bag of pretzels from the floor, tosses a few into her mouth like her teeth aren’t clenched and her neck isn’t flushed pink.

You glance over lazily with a small smirk. “Careful. You bite too hard on those.”

She chokes slightly on a chuckle. “What the hell is that even supposed to mean?”

You shrug and laugh along with her.

She rolls her eyes to dismiss you, but lets herself laugh anyway.

And then—like the gods intervening—the door opens.

Maggie steps in, holding a coffee in each hand and the kind of look that says, I have news and you’re not gonna like it.

Billie immediately straightens up, the only time she’s ever moved away from you this fast.

“Hi, Mom,” she says. “Is that for me?”

Maggie hands her a coffee with a smile, then gives you the other. “And you. You both need caffeine. And a ten-foot barrier between you at all times.”

You blink, then smirk. “Is that the official tour policy?”

Billie freezes mid-sip. “Huh?”

Maggie sets her bag down, exhales like she’s been holding it in for hours. “Yeah, so, about that…”

You and Billie both look at her.

She pauses.

Then sighs.

“So. Your managers and I had a call this morning. It's confirmed. You’re touring together.”

Billie stares. “Like… a feature? A couple shows?”

Maggie grimaces. “No, honey. Like the full tour. Eleven months. All over. Headline's still yours, but she’s on everything. Name’s on the posters. Setlist’s already being restructured.”

You blink. “Wait, since when?”

“Since your manager pitched the collab album as a dual tour strategy, and Billie's team didn’t exactly say no.” Maggie’s tone is way too calm for the explosion she just set off. “It’s happening.”

Billie sets her coffee down too hard. “No offense,” she says to you quickly, “but I didn’t agree to that.”

Maggie shrugs. “Neither did she. Management made the call.”

You narrow your eyes. “They pitched me as a guest and forgot to mention I’m being stapled to her for a year?”

Maggie holds up both hands. “Look. You two are obsessed with each other’s music, the album’s stupid good, the internet is already convinced you’re secretly dating—”

“We’re not,” you and Billie say at the exact same time.

Maggie doesn’t even blink. “—so this is a marketing dream. And let’s be honest, you’re not gonna say no.”

She’s right. You both know she’s right.

But Billie’s frowning. “Do they even have room for her? Like, tour bus, hotels—”

“They’re figuring that out,” Maggie says. “You’re being squeezed in where possible. Your manager said you're flexible.”

You blink. “Squeezed in?”

Maggie points her stir stick at you like it’s a sword. “Hotel room might be a shared situation until something opens up. They didn’t want to split the teams across buildings.”

Billie laughs—laughs—like it’s the most cursed joke in the world. “Oh my God.”

You nod slowly. “So just to recap—I’m the last-minute feature, I’m now touring across the world on someone else’s bus, and I’m sharing a hotel room with Billie Eilish?”

Maggie claps her hands. “Exactly!”

You turn to Billie. “You good with that?”

Billie stares at you like you just asked her to strip.

Then mutters, “I’m gonna need noise-canceling headphones.”

You smirk. “You'll like it when I'm loud.”

Meanwhile, Finneas is still in his seat casually watching the exchange with a "tired of this" expression on his face.

Maggie shakes her head. “I’m scheduling a chaperone.”

Billie downs the rest of her coffee in one go. “Yeah, make sure they’re deaf.”

****

[During Tour - Winter]

The venue smells like dust and LED lights. You’ve been here less than ten minutes and you’re already sweating.

There are cords everywhere, a guy named Kyle keeps asking for your “IEM preferences” like you know what that means, and Billie’s been muttering “where’s my fucking hoodie” under her breath like a prayer for the past half hour.

Rehearsals are chaos. Always are. But touring with Billie Eilish means chaos with an audience—her entire team, who all have their shit together, and you and your PA, who are very much making it up as you go.

You’re on stage running harmonies for the second track when Billie walks by, trailing a tangle of mic wire, and brushes her shoulder against yours.

Not accidentally.

You glance over. She doesn’t even look at you, but you can see the smirk she’s biting back.

You lean into your mic, still mid-run, and murmur, “Touch me like that again and I’m filing an HR complaint.”

Billie doesn’t miss a beat. “You think we have HR?”

You pause. “Oh god. We don’t, do we?”

She finally looks at you—smirks, full and slow. “Nope. No rules.”

You blink. “Terrifying.”

She keeps walking. “Sexy.”

Finneas groans from the soundboard. “I swear to God. Can you two act normal for fifteen minutes?”

You and Billie: “Absolutely not.”

---

By the time soundcheck wraps, you’re on the floor behind the stage, half-lying across a crate of coiled cables, sipping from a bottle of water like it’s alcohol.

Billie drops beside you, dramatic as ever. Her t-shirt’s stuck to her spine and her eyeliner’s smudged like she meant to cry.

She takes your water. You let her.

“Your voice sounded like sin today,” she says, too casually.

You raise an eyebrow. “Yours sounded like you’ve been keeping secrets.”

“Oh?” she glances at you. “You wanna dig ‘em out?”

You tilt your head, eyes narrowed. “We doing innuendo again?”

“Again? Babe, I never stopped.”

You stare at her for a second too long. She’s flushed from the lights. Lips parted. Hands braced behind her to keep herself upright.

And then Maggie appears around the corner like a human fire extinguisher.

“There you two are,” she says, looking like she’s just barely holding onto patience. “Hotel assignments are in.”

You both sit up straighter.

Billie wipes her forehead with her sleeve. “Finally. I need a fucking shower.”

“Uh-huh,” Maggie says. “You’ll have to coordinate that with your roommate.”

Billie pauses. “Sorry, what?”

You don’t react. You knew this was coming. Your manager warned you. “They didn’t find me a separate room?”

Maggie shrugs. “Venue city’s small. Hotels are slammed. Your teams said it was fine since you worked together on the album.”

Billie’s jaw twitches. “Okay, but shared-shared? Like same room? Same bedroom?”

You look at Maggie. “One bed or two?”

Billie’s entire body turns toward you. “Why is that your first question?!”

You smile. “Because if it’s one, we’re gonna have to discuss what side of the bed you think you’re getting.”

“I’m not—” Billie blinks. “You think you’re getting a side?”

You stand, brushing dust off your jeans. “Well, I am the guest.”

“You’re the intruder.”

“I’m the feature.”

“You’re a menace.”

You shrug, smug. “Still the reason you’re not doing this tour solo.”

Billie opens her mouth to respond, then closes it like she’s thinking better of whatever was about to fall out.

Maggie sighs. “I’m giving the key to your PA. Figure it out before nightfall, or someone’s sleeping in the bathtub.”

She walks off.

You and Billie just stand there. Both pretending you’re fine. Both very much not fine.

Finally, Billie clears her throat. “So, uh. What do you wear to bed?”

You smirk. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Billie swallows hard.

And you walk away—slow, calm, victorious.

Behind you, you hear her mutter:

“Fuck.”

---

The hotel door clicks open with that cheap little beep. You shoulder it open with one hand, Billie behind you, dragging her suitcase like it personally insulted her.

“Bet it’s a shoebox,” she mutters.

You snort. “Bet it’s nicer than your attitude.”

The hallway light flickers once as you both step inside—and immediately freeze.

Two beds.

Two gloriously separate, freshly-made, blessedly individual beds.

You and Billie both let out the exact same sigh of relief.

And then:

“Damn,” you say, deadpan. “There goes my plan to spoon you until you give in.”

Billie scoffs, stepping past you. “Please. You’d fold the second I pushed a knee between your legs.”

You laugh, toss your bag onto the left bed, and glance over. “You’re awfully confident for someone who couldn’t even look at me during soundcheck.”

“I wasn’t looking away,” she lies.

“You were blushing.”

“I was sweating.”

“From me.”

She throws a pillow at your head. You catch it one-handed.

Then you both stand there for a moment too long, the space between you charged but not unfun. The kind of tension that keeps the corners of your mouth tilted up even when no one’s talking.

Billie flops back onto her bed with a dramatic exhale. Her hoodie rides up slightly, revealing a sliver of her stomach. She catches you looking. Doesn’t cover it.

“Stop staring,” she says.

“You wore that on purpose,” you reply easily.

She smirks. “You think I dress for you?”

You toe off your shoes, stretch your arms overhead like you know she’s watching. “I know you do.”

Billie groans and buries her face in her pillow. “You’re the worst.”

“Tallest, too,” you add.

She flips you off without lifting her head.

You glance around. “You want the bathroom first?”

Billie rolls over to face you. “Are you gonna take two hours like you’re prepping for the Met Gala?”

“I take exactly as long as it takes to look like this.” You gesture down your body. “You’re welcome.”

She laughs under her breath, and it’s real. Quiet. Honest.

“Okay,” she says, “go first. I need to text Finneas and tell him I survived a whole day without making out with you.”

You stop in the doorway and look back over your shoulder.

“Tell him tomorrow’s looking rough.”

She throws another pillow. You close the bathroom door with a smirk still stuck on your face.

---

When you come out—hair damp, teeth brushed, wearing a tank and shorts that definitely don’t leave enough to the imagination—Billie’s already curled up in bed, phone screen lighting her face.

She glances up and immediately does that thing where her eyes trail from your shoulders down to your thighs and then snap back to her phone too fast.

You don’t mention it.

She doesn’t stop blushing.

You pull back the covers of your bed and settle in, letting the quiet stretch between you. Not awkward. Just... full.

After a minute, Billie mumbles, “You snore?”

“Only when I’m being spooned wrong.”

“Jesus Christ.”

You smile into your pillow. “Goodnight, Billie.”

“Night,” she mutters, too soft.

You both lie there for a while.

Not sleeping.

Definitely thinking.

****

You don’t think you’ve ever been this wired on a performance day before.

It’s not nerves. Not the crowd. Not the fact that your name is now printed across the entire fucking LED wall behind Billie’s.

It’s her.

It’s Billie Eilish, standing at the edge of the stage during pre-show run-throughs, hair tied back, hoodie hanging off one shoulder, whisper-singing your lyrics back at you with a look like she’s got plans.

She mouths a line you wrote—“If I touch you, it’s over”—and then winks.

Right at you.

From behind her mic stand.

You aim your mic away from your face and mutter, “You wanna be careful doing that.”

Billie smirks. “Why?”

You flick your eyes down to her legs, then back up. “Might slip and fall.”

She laughs into her mic, loud enough the crew thinks it's part of the set. Your IEM crackles with Finneas groaning, “Oh my godddd, you two are insufferable.”

--

Onstage, the lights are blinding—but not enough to hide the looks you and Billie keep exchanging.

During her second verse, she circles you. You harmonize behind her, barely singing your part, watching the way her hands move like they’re talking too.

At one point, you brush past her on your way to the center riser. Your hand catches her wrist for half a second. Just long enough for her to inhale sharply.

She doesn’t miss her cue, but she does shoot you a look that could kill.

You smirk back. The crowd screams. Neither of you are acting.

---

Backstage, Billie’s peeling her performance hoodie off her shoulders, her skin flushed and glowing.

You lean against the green room doorway, sipping her water bottle just to annoy her.

“That part in 'Buried In Velvet’?” you say casually. “When you did the drop and spun? You know that was hot, right?”

She tosses a towel at your face. “Shut up.”

You catch it one-handed. “I’m just saying. Don’t start what you can’t finish.”

Billie narrows her eyes. “And what if I can finish?”

You tilt your head, grin slow. “Then you’re in trouble.”

She looks like she wants to punch you. Or climb you. Possibly both.

But instead, she just says, “We’re going out after. You coming?”

You arch a brow. “That a question or an invitation?”

She doesn't blink. “It’s a dare.”

---

Some vibey little local bar the crew found last-minute. Not loud enough to yell over, not quiet enough for comfort. The music hums in your chest. The drinks are sweet.

You’re both pressed into a booth with too many people. Billie ends up sitting beside you. Her thigh touches yours under the table. Neither of you moves.

At one point, she leans in to say something and her breath hits your ear. “You’re the reason I messed up that second chorus.”

You laugh. “You’re blaming me for forgetting your lyrics?”

“You kept looking at me like you wanted to kiss me mid-bridge.”

You sip your drink, don’t even blink. “Yeah, well. You kept singing like you’d let me.”

Billie blinks slowly. “You’re such a dick.”

You sip on your drink and mutter around the straw, “You'd like this dick though.”

She doesn't answer, merely hitting you over the head, thus causing you to choke and chuckle right on your drink.

---

Back at the hotel, it’s late. Everyone smells like stage sweat and vodka, but in that content, glowing kind of way.

You and Billie step into your room last—still laughing about something Finneas said about the sound tech’s haircut.

The door closes behind you.

Silence.

You both stand there for a beat. Still tipsy. Still buzzing.

You kick your boots off, flop face-down on your bed. “Can’t believe you forgot your own lyrics.”

Billie throws her jacket at your head. “Can’t believe you wore that onstage.”

You turn over to grin at her. “You mean the crop top that had you staring during your entire bridge?”

She unzips her boots like she’s pretending not to be affected. “No. I mean the pants that made your legs look seven feet long.”

You shrug. “They’re custom.”

She snorts. “You’re custom.”

You both go quiet.

Then you ask, voice low, “Is that a compliment?”

Billie looks at you from across the room. You’re still in your shirt, your hair messy, your mouth tilted up.

She hesitates. Then: “Yeah.”

You nod once. “Good.”

Neither of you moves toward your beds.

Not for a long, long minute.

Finally, Billie mutters, “I’m showering. Don’t steal my side.”

You roll onto your back, grinning at the ceiling. “I’ll just sleep on you instead.”

She freezes halfway to the bathroom. Then flips you off over her shoulder.

You wink at her retreating back. “You better lock that door.”

She doesn’t respond. She just disappears into the steam.

****

The bathroom door creaks open, steam curling out like smoke from something freshly ruined.

You’re half-asleep, phone in hand, barely blinking at the ceiling when Billie steps out—wearing nothing but a black tank top and a pair of sleep shorts that should be illegal for public hotel use.

Her hair’s damp. Her face is bare. There’s a towel slung over her shoulder and her legs go on for days—even if they’re not nearly as long as yours.

You glance at her once, then make a slow show of rolling onto your side, cheek pressed to your pillow.

“You done trying to kill me?”

Billie dries her hair with the towel, completely unfazed. “If I was trying, you’d be dead.”

You raise an eyebrow. “And yet I’m still breathing.”

She shoots you a look. “Not for long if you keep staring.”

You grin. “You walked out in that. I’m a victim.”

She laughs—quiet and real. Then walks over and drops into her bed with a sigh, back turned, one leg out of the blanket like she’s trying to cool down and tempt you at the same time.

You wait a beat.

Then: “You always sleep that close to the edge?”

Billie shifts to glance over her shoulder. “You always comment on my sleeping style?”

“Only when I can see your entire spine,” you say.

She throws a pillow at you, but her heart’s not in it. You both settle back down.

The room falls quiet.

Not awkward. Just... soft.

Somewhere between the buzz of the night and the crash of the silence after, it feels like something shifts.

You hear her exhale, slow and tired.

“You ever get scared you’re gonna mess this whole thing up?” she asks suddenly.

You look over. She’s still turned away. Her voice is low. Barely there.

“Mess what up?” you ask.

She doesn’t answer right away. Then: “All of it. Music. Life. This tour. Us.”

Us.

The word hangs in the air.

You shift onto your back, stare at the ceiling.

“All the time,” you admit. “But... if it’s gonna blow up, I want it to be because I let it. Not because I never touched the fuse.”

She hums softly. “Dangerous mindset.”

You glance at her again. “You scared?”

“Terrified.”

You smile, soft. “Good. That means we’re doing it right.”

Another beat of silence.

Then Billie says, “If you snore, I’m putting a sock in your mouth.”

You snort. “Kinky.”

“Go to sleep, you freak.”

You do.

Eventually.

****

Tour goes on.

City after city. Night after night. Each stage feels louder than the last—but nothing drowns out her.

You’ve got your banter down to an art now. She throws the setups, you deliver the punchlines. You stand too close during duets. You share one mic for no reason.

The crowd eats it up.

You eat each other alive with your eyes.

---

She sings “Velvet” like it’s a secret. You hit your verse like a confession. She walks past you mid-bridge and whispers “You sound like sin tonight” into your mic.

The crowd (s)creams.

You almost do too.

---

You’re supposed to stay on opposite sides of the stage during “Six Seconds.” You don’t.

You cross the space, stop directly in front of her, and keep singing like your mouth doesn’t want to be on her neck.

She doesn’t move back. Doesn’t blink.

She leans in.

Forehead to forehead.

You’re both still singing—barely—but no one’s listening to the lyrics anymore.

The entire arena holds its breath.

Billie looks at your mouth. Just for a second.

And then grins, tilts her head, and backs away like it was a joke.

The crowd screams like they’re being stabbed.

You walk back to your side of the stage.

Your heart? You'll look for it later.

---

You’re both flushed. Breathless.

Billie bumps into you in the green room, cups her hand over her mouth and says, “You were gonna kiss me.”

You raise your eyebrows. “You were gonna let me.”

She smirks. “You wanted to.”

You lean in, murmur, “You still want me to?”

She stares. Just for a beat.

Then tosses her mic pack at you. “Fuck off.”

You grin. “Say that louder. The crowd might believe you.”

---

You unlock the room first.

She walks in behind you, drops her bag, and then—without a word—flops face-down onto your bed.

You look over. “That’s not yours.”

“Mmm,” she mumbles into your pillow. “You’re not stopping me.”

You sigh. “Don’t tempt me.”

She flips onto her back, eyes closed, lips parted.

And smirks.

You cross the room.

Sit on her bed.

She opens one eye.

“You scared?” she asks.

You shake your head. “No.”

“Good,” she says. “That means we’re doing it right.”

****

The hotel room door slams shut behind you with a low, echoing thud. You’re laughing before it even clicks locked.

Billie stumbles in right after, hoodie falling off one shoulder, eyeliner smudged like she forgot how to wipe her face, and cheeks flushed in a way that has nothing to do with the cold outside.

She kicks her shoes off with a groan. “I’m, like, almost drunk.”

You raise an eyebrow, tossing your jacket over the chair. “Just almost?”

“I’m hanging on by a thread,” she says dramatically, then trips over your suitcase and catches herself on the edge of the desk. “A very frayed thread.”

You cross the room slowly, eyes locked on her. “Want me to cut it?”

She laughs—that laugh, the breathless one she only lets out when she’s tipsy and flustered and not thinking. “You are so full of shit.”

You’re in front of her now. Not touching. Not quite.

She’s half-sitting on the edge of the desk. You’re standing between her legs. Her breath hitches a little when you lean in.

You don’t say anything.

You just watch the way her pupils flicker—your mouth, your eyes, your mouth again. Her hands come up, light on your waist like she’s not even aware she’s holding you.

And then—without really meaning to—you lean forward.

Not all the way.

Just close enough to see the way her lashes flutter.

Your hands find the desk on either side of her hips. Your nose brushes hers.

One inch closer and she’d be kissing you.

She blinks, slow. “You’re doing that thing again.”

“What thing?”

She swallows. “The thing where you look like you’re gonna ruin me.”

You grin. “Is that a request?”

She rolls her eyes, but it’s weak. Flirty. Her lips part. Your mouth is right there.

Then—just when the moment goes too still, too heavy—she bites her lip and ducks her head into your shoulder, giggling.

“You’re such a fucking tease,” she says into your collarbone.

You laugh, hands still caging her in. “Me? You’re the one who let me this close.”

“You did not need permission.”

You pull back, just enough to see her face again—still flushed, still grinning. There’s no sadness here. Just heat. Fun. Want.

Your forehead rests against hers, and she lets it.

You whisper, “You know we’re gonna actually do it someday, right?”

Billie closes her eyes like she’s praying.

And smiles.

“I know.”

---

You’re already awake by the time Billie stirs—barely—face half-smashed into her pillow, hoodie tangled around her waist, hair a disaster and one sock somehow hanging off the bottom of the bed like it gave up during the night.

You’re sitting cross-legged on your own bed, coffee in hand, scrolling through fan posts and pretending not to laugh every time someone tweets:

“OKAY BUT DID THEY ALMOST KISS ONSTAGE OR AM I DELULU??”

You hear Billie groan softly.

Then:

“Ugh... murder me.”

You glance over. “Was that an actual request or just general morning vibes?”

She flips onto her back, eyes still closed. “Both.”

You take a sip of your coffee. “You alive?”

“Barely. How are you vertical right now?”

You shrug. “Discipline. Strength. Raw sexual energy. I dunno.”

She throws her arm over her face. “Don’t talk to me about raw anything before noon.”

You smirk, toss a pack of gum at her. “Hydrate your soul, Eilish. You were drunk-flirty as hell last night.”

She groans again, but this time it’s the fake-dramatic kind. “Oh god. What did I do?”

You lean back against the wall. “You backed into a wall, let me stand all up on you forehead-to-forehead, gripped my hips, and told me I was gonna ruin you.”

Billie’s hand shoots off her face. “I did not.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You did. Then you nuzzled my neck and giggled. Like a flirtatious possum.”

She sits up slowly, hair sticking out in twelve directions. “Okay but like… I was cute about it, right?”

You grin. “You were criminally adorable.”

Billie narrows her eyes. “You’re only saying that ‘cause I didn’t kiss you.”

You shrug. “I mean. Yeah. That would’ve made it a felony.”

She throws a pillow at your head. “Shut up.”

You catch it with one hand—again.

She stares at you. “Why are you so coordinated before coffee?”

You sip your mug. “Because I’m taller than you.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“Neither does the way you looked at me after shot number three, but we’re letting that slide too.”

Billie throws herself backward onto the bed with a groan. “God, last night was lit.”

You grin, stretching. “Yeah. ‘Ayeeee last night though!’”

Billie wheezes a laugh into the mattress. “Stop.”

“I’m just saying.” You pause for dramatic effect. “I can’t believe we didn’t make out.”

Billie lifts her head just enough to look at you, eyes squinting. “I can. We’re still on tour, remember? You’re dangerous.”

You smirk. “I’m not dangerous. I’m just effective.”

She rolls back onto her stomach, mumbling into the sheets. “So effective I’m considering a restraining order.”

You finish your coffee. “Make sure it has a kiss clause.”

****

[During Tour - Spring - Tour Bus]

The first night on the bus, Billie refuses to admit she’s carsick. She lies down on the little couch near the mini-fridge, hoodie drawn over her head like a disgruntled gremlin, and grumbles “I’m fine” every time you glance her way.

You’re curled up across from her, knees pulled to your chest, nursing a bottle of ginger ale like a cocktail.

“I will vomit on your bed,” she says dramatically, not lifting her hood.

You sip. “Technically, it’s also your bed. I saw the bunk list.”

Billie peeks out, eyes squinting. “Don’t even play with me.”

You grin. “Top bunk. Same side. Across from me.”

She groans, flops back. “Kill me.”

You laugh. “You’re obsessed with me.”

She mumbles something into the cushion. You don’t catch it. You don’t have to.

---

[Philadelphia]

You and Billie climb up the venue fire escape at 2AM for no reason except that she said “I dare you.”

You sit on the edge of the roof, legs swinging. She sits beside you, hood pulled up, chewing on a piece of gum like it’s keeping her sane.

“Why’s it always feel better when we’re up here?” she asks.

You glance at her. “Because you like pretending the whole city’s your fan club.”

She shrugs. “Or maybe I like being alone with you in places no one can follow.”

You blink. Billie’s still chewing her gum like she didn’t just say something raw as hell.

You bump her shoulder. “You’re soft.”

She bumps you back. “You’re annoying.”

---

[Tour Bus]

You’re watching a movie neither of you care about. Billie’s legs are stretched across your lap. You’re drawing shapes on her shin without thinking about it.

She shifts. Doesn’t stop you.

You say, “You’re kind of clingy when you’re tired.”

She mutters, “You’re kind of hot when you’re not talking.”

You raise an eyebrow. “So... always?”

She groans. “See? There it is.”

But she doesn’t move.

Not for hours.

---

[Nashville]

You’re sharing a dressing room. Billie’s on the floor in front of the mirror, touching up her mascara. You’re half-dressed in your stage fit, shirt slung over your shoulder.

She looks up. Sees your reflection.

And says, “Can you not be hot for five seconds?”

You walk over, lean down beside her ear. “Not while you’re watching.”

She flicks her brush at you. It leaves a streak of black on your cheek.

You grin.

She doesn’t wipe it off. And neither do you. The little streak was on your face during the performance.

---

[Tour Bus]

It’s raining outside. The road hums under the wheels.

You and Billie are in your bunks, across from each other, separated by a stupid, thin little curtain.

You hear her whisper: “You awake?”

You whisper back: “No.”

She laughs.

Then silence.

Then—

“You ever think about it?” she says.

You blink into the dark. “About what?”

“You know.”

You know.

You swallow. “Yeah. Sometimes.”

Silence again.

And then:

“Me too.”

Nothing happens. No one moves. But the bus keeps rolling forward. And so do you.

---

[Tour Bus]

It starts with the rain.

Soft at first. Then louder. Then louder—pelting the roof of the bus like it’s trying to punch through.

You’re lying in your bunk, staring at the ceiling two inches from your face, counting the seconds between lightning and thunder like it’s gonna make a difference.

Billie’s across from you. Her curtain’s drawn. You can tell she’s awake because she cleared her throat twenty minutes ago and then went suspiciously quiet.

Another crack of thunder splits the night.

And that’s it. You’re done.

You shove your curtain open, lean out, and tap on hers.

“Billie.”

No answer.

“Billie.”

Still nothing.

So you slide it open yourself.

She’s curled up like a cat, hoodie hood up, earbuds dangling around her neck like she gave up halfway through pretending to sleep.

Her eyes blink open. “No.”

You blink. “I didn’t say anything yet.”

She deadpans, “Whatever it is, no.”

You climb in anyway.

“Jesus—” she hisses, shifting fast. “Your knees are like weapons—”

“Shut up,” you whisper, squirming to fit. “I’m bored.”

“You’re huge.”

“You love it.”

Billie groans as your arm presses along her side. “There’s no room—”

You both freeze when the bus lurches slightly. Thunder crashes again.

You’re close enough now to count her lashes. To feel her breath on your collarbone.

“Comfortable?” she mutters.

You grin. “Actually, yeah.”

“You’re annoying.”

“You’re warm.”

Billie sighs. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t push you out. Her hand shifts just slightly—ends up resting on your hip.

Not intentional.

Maybe.

“Still scared of storms?” you whisper.

She scoffs. “Please. I’m just not used to them on wheels.”

You nod. “Sure.”

“You don’t get scared?”

You shake your head, cheek brushing her temple. “Nope.”

She’s quiet a moment. Then: “Liar.”

You laugh into her hair. “Busted.”

The bunk is too quiet after that. Her fingers still resting against your waist. Yours brushing her thigh without meaning to—or maybe meaning to a little.

Then, so soft you barely hear it:

“Thanks for climbing in.”

You nuzzle her slightly. Just a second. Just long enough to feel her lean into it.

“Anytime.”

The thunder cracks again.

But neither of you flinch.

****

You don’t notice she’s wearing it at first.

You're too busy warming up backstage, bouncing on your heels and running scales while someone double-checks your mic pack. The air is sticky with August heat. Sweat already beads at your temples before you even hit the stage.

Then Billie walks past you.

And you stop.

Because that hoodie? The navy blue one with the frayed sleeve and the little bleach stain near the pocket? That’s yours.

That’s your hoodie.

You blink. “Hey—”

She turns around slowly. “Hmm?”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re wearing my clothes.”

She shrugs. “You left it on the couch.”

You walk over. “That doesn’t mean it’s free real estate.”

Billie pulls the hem slightly. “It’s oversized. Looks better on me.”

You bite your smile back. “You’re out of control.”

She leans up a little, close enough for only you to hear. “And you’re not gonna do anything about it.”

---

Onstage, it’s chaos.

The heat. The lights. The sound of thousands screaming back your own lyrics like a dare.

Halfway through “Dead End Devotion,” Billie crosses to your side of the stage for a little call-and-response.

She holds the mic between you both, mouths “I know you want to.”

You lean in so close your noses brush. You smirk, don’t kiss her, and sing your line with your mouth a whisper from hers.

The crowd absolutely loses it.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you realize: They know. They see the hoodie. They see the way her fingers trail across your back when you turn. They see the way you look at each other like the world is a little quieter when you’re close.

---

After the show, someone from Billie’s team corners you in the hallway, arms crossed, face unreadable.

“You two together?”

You blink. “What?”

“You and Billie,” they say, tilting their head. “Everyone’s asking. The internet is—well.” They pull out their phone, flip it around.

There’s a still from the show. Billie, grinning mid-verse. You, two inches from her. The hoodie’s clearly not hers.

The caption reads:

“Billie Eilish wearing HER hoodie and smiling like that? be serious rn.”

You laugh. Loud. A little fake.

“Nah,” you say casually. “We’re just... performers.”

The team member nods slowly. “Right. Just performers.”

You walk off. Smirking.

Ten steps later, Billie falls into step beside you, face damp from her post-show towel.

“You lie good,” she murmurs.

You glance over. “You wore my hoodie onstage.”

She shrugs. “You didn’t stop me.”

You bump her shoulder. “You liked the attention.”

She grins. “So did you.”

---

You notice it first thing in the morning.

Billie’s curled up on the lounge couch of the bus, one leg tucked under her, face lit up by her phone screen.

And she’s wearing your hoodie again.

Like full-on sleeves-past-her-fingers, hood-up, slept-in-it-for-hours wearing it.

You pause in the hallway, toothbrush in one hand, squinting.

“That mine?”

She glances up, totally unfazed. “Mmhm.”

“You wore it yesterday.”

“Smells like you.”

You blink. “That’s not a reason—”

“Sure it is,” she says, and stretches like a cat. “Smells hot.”

You make a face. “What does that even mean?”

She grins. “You’re the musician. Write a song about it.”

---

She wears it the next night too. To dinner with the crew. To soundcheck. To bed. To your side of the bus just to “see what you’re doing.” (No one believes that.)

Every time you try to comment on it, she just goes, “It’s not a crime.” Like she didn’t just climb into your entire identity.

And then.

Then.

It happens.

---

You’re backstage. Sweaty, laughing, still high from the show. Billie’s got her hand on your chest, pushing you gently into the wall like she’s trying to stop you from making her laugh again.

You're grinning. “You’re obsessed with me.”

She huffs. “I barely tolerate you.”

But she’s close.

You’re close.

Too close.

She doesn’t pull away. Her fingers are still fisted in the front of your hoodie—her hoodie now, apparently—and she’s looking at your mouth like it’s a melody she knows too well.

Your hands slide to her waist.

She tilts her head.

And that’s when—

“Ayo!?”

You both flinch like you’ve been caught robbing a bank.

Finneas. Wide-eyed. Smirking. Holding a half-eaten granola bar like a weapon.

He stares.

Then grins.

“Oh my GOD,” he says, pointing between you two. “Are we—did I just interrupt a moment?”

Billie groans, stepping back so fast she nearly trips.

You rub your face. “Jesus Christ—”

“Oh no no no,” Finneas says, already fishing his phone out. “No one’s ever living this down.”

Billie tries to swipe it. “Don’t you dare—”

He skips away, laughing like a man possessed.

“HEY GUYS,” he yells into the hallway, “They were about to kiss—tell the security to evacuate the tension!”

Billie shouts after him while you're halfway down the wall, doubled over in wheezing laughter, “You're a menace!”

He shouts back, “You're in love with my sister!”

****

[During Tour - Autumn - Final Three Shows]

You're scheduled for three interviews today.

The first is solo. Second is with Billie. Third—back-to-back one-on-ones again, right across the hall.

You and Billie haven’t kissed. Haven’t said anything real. But somehow you’re still orbiting each other like gravity isn’t even pretending to be subtle.

---

The host grins. “You’ve been touring all year with Billie Eilish. What’s that like?”

You smile, casual. “It’s fun. Loud. Slightly chaotic.”

“Just slightly?”

“The woman is stealing my closet.”

The interviewer perks up. “Wait, really?”

You laugh, slow and knowing. “You’ll see.”

---

You’re both on the couch, Billie in that hoodie again—yours, stretched and worn and soft enough now to count as property damage.

The host notices instantly. “Is that—wait, Billie, is that the hoodie?”

Billie looks down like she forgot what she was wearing. Shrugs.

“Uh-huh.”

The host looks between you. “It’s theirs, right?”

You smile into your water bottle.

Billie doesn’t even flinch. “Yeah,” she says simply. “It’s theirs.”

No explanation. No attempt to make it a joke.

Just… acknowledgement.

You blink. Okay, then.

---

The rest of the interview is worse.

She touches your knee once. You say something stupid and she laughs so hard she leans fully into your shoulder. At one point you compliment her stage presence and she blushes.

Like visibly. On camera.

---

You watch from the hallway as she sits across from a different host. You’re sipping tea, trying not to stare.

It’s not working.

The host asks: “People are convinced that there’s something going on between you and Y/N Y/L/N. Anything you wanna clear up?”

Billie shrugs. Casual. Controlled.

Then says: “They’re my favorite person.”

You nearly choke on your tea.

The host goes, “Favorite how?”

Billie grins. “Let people wonder.”

---

Later, in the car, she nudges your thigh with hers.

“You good?”

You blink. “You called me your favorite person.”

She shrugs again. “You are 'cause you're hot.”

You deadpan at her, feigning unimpressed.

She chuckles and looks out the window.

Leaves fall outside. Gold and red and slow.

You could fall too. If you haven't already.

---

The venue is bigger tonight. Open roof. Packed crowd. That kind of restless electric in the air that only happens near endings.

You’re backstage, stretching your hands, trying to stay calm. This is show #87. There are three left.

You should be used to her by now.

You’re not.

Billie walks up behind you, gently bumps your shoulder with hers. “Ready to give them a heart attack?”

You glance at her. “That’s your job.”

She’s already wearing your hoodie again. Cropped under her stage jacket. No shame. Just claiming.

The lights shift.

The stage calls.

---

You hit the stage side by side. The roar of the crowd drowns everything for a moment.

And then: The music starts. And it’s just the two of you again.

---

Second verse.

You’re at your mic. Billie’s across the stage, singing her heart out like she’s never looked at anyone else the way she looks at you.

You hold eye contact.

Too long.

Your cue comes and you almost miss it.

You catch yourself just in time, smirking as you step forward. She bites her lip mid-lyric to stop herself from laughing.

The crowd screams.

---

You’re supposed to walk toward each other. Just a choreo note, nothing serious.

But something’s different tonight.

You don’t stop walking.

Neither does she.

You’re chest-to-chest, sharing one mic between you, harmonizing like the world’s closing in.

Her hand finds your jaw for just a second. Just enough.

You swear the fans collectively forget how to breathe.

---

Final chorus.

She’s behind you now. You’re singing the last line.

And Billie leans in—barely, subtly—and sings it with you.

Right into your ear.

You close your eyes.

It’s too much.

And not enough.

---

After the show.

You're dripping sweat, vibrating with adrenaline, half convinced you're hallucinating.

Billie’s beside you again, this time backstage, breathless and laughing.

She says, “You almost forgot your cue.”

You shrug. “You looked hot.”

She grins. “You sound jealous.”

“Of myself?”

She shrugs. “You’ve got range.”

You shake your head, smirking.

Then she reaches out, tugs lightly at your sleeve.

“Two more,” she says.

You nod. “Two more.”

And then what?

She doesn’t say.

You don’t ask.

But both of you are thinking it.

---

It’s 11:47 PM when you get back to the room.

Billie throws her jacket onto the armchair and kicks her shoes off like they personally offended her.

You flop onto your bed with a dramatic groan, face down, limbs spread like a crime scene victim. She snorts.

"You good?"

You groan louder.

“That was a lot.”

You lift your head just enough to look at her. She’s peeling off the hoodie—your hoodie—and tossing it on the bed before flopping onto her own mattress, hair messy and skin flushed from the stage lights.

You mutter, “You grinded on me during the bridge.”

Billie smirks at the ceiling. “And?”

You sit up. “Billie. You sang into my mouth.”

She turns her head slowly, meets your eyes with that lazy, wicked grin.

“I felt like projecting.”

You blink. “You’re gonna give people an aneurysm.”

She shrugs, one leg bent, one arm behind her head. “Let 'em suffer.”

There’s a moment.

Just a beat of silence.

And then:

“You stared at my mouth again,” she says softly.

You freeze.

She doesn’t let up. “You always do that after the third chorus. Like clockwork.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You keep track of when I look at your mouth?”

She shrugs again, grinning like she won. “You make it obvious.”

You sit back, arms crossed. “You’re literally always touching me.”

“That’s called stage chemistry, babe.”

“Stage chemistry doesn’t involve hand-holding between songs.”

“You looked nervous.”

“You winked at me while singing the line about taking someone home.”

Billie bites her lip. “I said what I said.”

You glare.

She smiles.

You toss a pillow at her. She catches it one-handed and hugs it to her chest.

There’s a pause.

Then, quieter:

“You gonna keep staring or what?”

You blink.

Your voice comes out low. “You gonna stop letting me?”

Another pause.

Billie breathes out a laugh. “God, we’re insufferable.”

You nod. “It’s honestly impressive how long we’ve lasted without making out.”

She nods back. “A miracle, really.”

More silence.

You both stare at the ceiling like it’ll give you a sign.

Then, without looking at you, Billie whispers, “You want your hoodie back?”

You glance over.

She’s holding it out with one hand.

You take it slowly.

But she doesn’t let go right away.

Your fingers brush.

It’s not much.

But it’s too much.

You both look away.

Nothing happens.

But everything almost does.

---

It’s the second-to-last show.

Your blood is loud in your ears. Your lungs are full of heat. Every nerve in your body is buzzing with Billie. The stage. The crowd. The countdown.

She’s been testing you all night.

Walking too close.

Singing too soft.

Touching your back between verses.

And then the last song starts.

The one where you always walk toward each other, meet center-stage, faces close. A moment. A tease.

But this time?

This time, something’s different.

---

You're mid-line, stepping forward, voice raw.

Billie steps up too—closer than usual.

Closer than ever.

You swear her mouth brushes your jaw when she sings her part, the crowd roaring so loud your heart stutters.

And then?

No one moves.

The music plays on.

But you don’t.

You just look at her. And she looks at you. And something in both of you snaps.

You almost drop your mic the same way she almost drops hers.

And then your hands are in her hair and her mouth’s on yours and she kisses you like she’s been starving since spring.

It’s not soft. It’s not sweet.

It’s months of wanting and waiting and breaking onstage in real time.

The crowd screams.

Like a collective gasp followed by stadium-shaking chaos.

Your name trends before the song even ends.

---

Backstage. No one says a word.

The team parts like the sea when you pass.

Finneas opens his mouth to say something and someone—bless them—shoves a mic pack in his hands to shut him up.

You and Billie walk in silence.

Not touching.

Not looking.

Just... thinking.

Still tasting.

---

You close the door behind you. Click.

Billie stands in the middle of the room like she forgot how to sit down.

You lean against the door. “Wanna talk about it?”

She runs a hand through her hair. “Do you?”

“Nope.”

She turns to look at you. “Good.”

You both stand there, two feet apart, staring.

Then, softer:

“You kissed me.”

You scoff. “You kissed me.”

Her eyes narrow. “You had your hand down my jacket.”

You throw up your arms. “I blacked out from horniness, Billie!”

She laughs.

Like really laughs.

You grin, breathless. “Jesus Christ.”

She’s still laughing when she crosses the room, grabs your collar, and pulls you in again—fast and full and this time with no crowd, no stage, no cameras.

Just you. Just her. Just the kiss that should’ve happened months ago.

You pull back barely an inch, lips brushing hers.

“So… we’re talking now?”

She nods. “Eventually.”

Then kisses you again.

---

It’s the day after the kiss.

Tour’s almost done, but tonight? No shows. No rehearsals. No interviews.

Just dinner.

You didn’t plan anything fancy. Billie didn’t want that. She texted you from her hotel bed:

“u hungry or in denial”

You replied:

“both but i could eat”

She sent back a pin to a quiet diner just two blocks from the hotel.

---

The diner’s nearly empty.

Dim lighting. Warm air. One sleepy waiter in the corner pretending not to watch them. You sit across from Billie in a red vinyl booth that squeaks every time either of you move. There’s sugar in the ketchup bottle. The jukebox is broken.

It’s perfect.

Billie looks half-asleep, hair tied up in some lazy knot, face clean of makeup. Your hoodie’s drowning her shoulders. She hasn’t even opened her menu.

“You gonna order?” you ask, eyes flicking up over the rim of your milkshake.

She shrugs. “Already know what I want.”

You roll your eyes. “How mysterious.”

“Right?” she smirks. “I’m so cool.”

You laugh, leaning back into the booth, socked foot nudging hers under the table. “So humble, too.”

She kicks you lightly in retaliation, then sits back and exhales like she’s been holding it in for years.

“...This is weird,” she says after a second.

“What, being somewhere normal?”

Billie nods slowly. “No stage. No bus. No crew. Just… this.”

You glance at the table between you, then back at her. “It’s kinda nice.”

She hums. “Yeah.”

A quiet minute passes. You both let the silence stretch.

Then she says it.

“So... that happened.”

Your heart kicks. But your smile stays easy. “Yeah.”

There’s a long beat.

Billie’s gaze flicks up from the table. Her voice is soft—serious in a way she doesn’t do often. “Do you regret it?”

Your fingers tap your glass. You glance at her, eyebrow raised.

“Would you do it again?”

She doesn’t flinch.

You pause. Let your mouth tilt into something crooked. “No regrets.”

She doesn’t blink.

“Ten out of ten,” you say, “would do again.”

She chuckles as her shoulders drop the tiniest bit, like she’s been bracing for something. You feel it in your own chest too, that nervous flutter, the almost-fear that this could’ve been a one-time thing. A glitch.

But now she knows.

You meant it.

“I like you,” she says then. Soft, but steady. “Like… a lot.”

You almost smile, but there’s something in your throat. Something warm and sharp and real.

Billie goes on before you can answer. “I know we’ve been doing this thing—flirting, pretending it’s for fun. But I’m tired of being weird about it.”

You breathe in. Exhale through your nose.

“I like you too,” you say, finally. “A stupid amount.”

She smiles, nose scrunching slightly. “Stupid?”

“Yeah.” You rest your elbow on the table, lean in. “You’re dramatic. And demanding. You take my hoodies without asking.”

“You leave them in reach,” she argues.

“Because I live with you on a bus, Billie!”

“That’s a you problem.”

You laugh—sharp, bright, totally yours.

Then softer, as you settle again: “I’d do the last eleven months over again just to get here.”

She looks at you for a long time. You let her.

Then she asks, “So… we’re doing this?”

You nod. “Yeah. We are.”

Billie’s eyes flick to your mouth, then back up. “Cool.”

You grin. “Cool.”

She smirks a little. “You gonna kiss me again or what?”

You blink. “We’re in public.”

She shrugs. “Pussy.”

You scoff, then lean across the table and kiss her anyway—slow, sure, and right there, beside the salt and pepper shakers.

It tastes like milkshake. And freedom. And finally.

****

[During Tour - Autumn - Final Show]

You feel it in your chest the second you step on stage.

This one’s different.

You’ve played eighty-eight shows together. Cities blurring. Airports forgotten. Dressing rooms, green rooms, soundcheck jokes and half-missed cues. But this?

This is the last one.

And this time, Billie reaches for your hand without thinking.

Fingers linked. Palms warm. The crowd roars.

You glance at her.

She’s already looking at you.

---

The show is everything.

Lights brighter. Crowd louder. Setlist tighter. Even the air feels thicker, golden and buzzing.

Billie dances like she’s weightless.

You sing like the words were born on your tongue.

And somewhere in the second verse of “Bleed Into You,” when she backs up against you and your hands find her waist automatically—

You realize the crowd already knows.

They’ve always known.

But tonight? You’re not pretending anymore.

---

The last song comes.

You hear the opening notes and your chest tightens in the best way.

The crowd’s already screaming. They know this part. They wait for it.

You walk toward center stage.

Billie walks toward you.

You meet.

Just like always.

But now… there’s no pause. No hesitation.

Billie looks at you and smiles like you’re the only thing she’s ever wanted.

And you—

You lean in.

Hands on her jaw.

And this time?

You kiss her.

Not rushed. Not stolen. Not hidden behind fog machines or chaos.

You kiss her like you mean it. Because you do.

And she kisses you back with both hands in your hair and a soft little sound in her throat that makes your knees weak.

The crowd is screaming. Crying. Filming. You don’t care.

The music plays on behind you.

And she whispers, right against your lips:

“Finally.”

You pull back, just enough to see her face. She’s glowing.

You grin, dizzy and sure. “Took us long enough.”

She laces your fingers again and turns you both toward the crowd.

You raise your hands.

They cheer like you just announced the second coming.

Billie tugs you close one more time and kisses your cheek, then murmurs against your temple:

“Let them look.”

You nod. “They’ve been watching the whole time.”

--------------------

Ayee

[noctiva]

Toby’s the type of guy to casually finger uou while watching a movie

key word: casually

toby’s very touchy. he has his hands or mouth on your pretty much at all times. a hand around your waist, fingers slipping under the hem of your shirt. slipped into your back pocket so he can feel the curve of your ass under his palm. lazily twirling your hair around his fingers, absentmindedly nibbling on your shoulders or earlobe just because he can

and that’s in PUBLIC. so in private….

I’m not gonna say free use… but I’m not gonna NOT say free use skskfklsls

he’s got the libido of a horny teenager and he’s incapable of keeping his hands to himself. he just can’t help it, he loves touching you. feeling the smoothness of your skin, the texture of the goosebumps that pebble it as you fight to keep yourself in check. likes feeling you heat up. skin growing flushed and clammy as he kneads your flesh under his fingers

your body is like his fidget toy - his brain just going blissfully blank as he lies next to you and toys with your tits. squeezing and kneading them just to make you whine. pinching and tugging at your nipples through your shirt to feel them perk up so beautifully.

half the time he’s not even trying to fuck you, he just wants to touch.

so, fingering you while watching a movie? yeah.

snuggled up under a blanket with him, wearing comfy pyjamas as you rest your head against his shoulder. your eyes are glued to the screen, you’re the one who picked out this movie after all (some cheesy romcom you’ve seen a million times before), but Toby’s attention span isn’t as admirable.

he’s focused on the film for maybe 15 minutes before his gaze is drifting, settling on you. on how pretty you look, all curled up next to him. how the television reflects in your eyes, how you’re so engrossed even though you know the plot like the back of your hand.

you’ve seen it so many times, he’s sure you wouldn’t mind it if he distracted you a little.

so his hands start to wander, his gaze flicking back to the TV while he creeps towards the waistband of the soft cotton shorts you were wearing. skimming over your tummy, feeling your muscles tense up.

seeing you out of the corner of his eye - your head snapping to look over at him as his fingers slip under your panties.

“K-Keep watchin’ your movie, baby.” as he slips the digits between your thighs, roaming the pads of his fingers across every dip and fold. sinking his teeth into his bottom lip to suppress a grin when he rolls his thumb against your clit and tugs a gasp from your lungs.

working you up so torturously as you fight to focus like he had told you to, your vision going hazy as your breathing quickens. slick pooling against his fingers, that he rubs into your folds before he’s finally plunging a digit into that velvety warmth.

he’s so nonchalant it almost pisses you off. his face betraying nothing, the only sign of his actions being the way his arms jerks and tenses up every time he thrusts his finger back in. nice and slow, really drawing it out. swiping and curling it inside you - not because he didn’t think you could take another one, but because he was just having the time of his life feeling every nook and cranny of your pretty little body

by the time he’s sinking another finger in, your practically melting into the couch cushions. thighs falling open wider under the blankets, your legs twitching and trembling as he plays with you. plays. that’s exactly what he’s doing. there’s no end goal, no quota he’s trying to hit. he’s just playing. you’re just so warm, and tight, and the way you squeeze around his fingers - the way you stretch around them when he scissors you open. he could do this for hours. days. until his damn wrist locked up.

“Toby-“ You’re gasping against his shoulder, drool wetting the fabric of his hoodie. eyelids fluttering, all focus on the movie completely gone out the window.

“Keep you-your eyes open.” He’s murmuring back to you, lazily rolling your clit with his thumb as his fingers pump into you. “This is your f-favourite part, isn’t it? You’re gonna miss it.”

he’d keep you that way for the entire duration of the movie. maybe you should’ve picked a shorter one lol

[potato-lord-but-not]

i love your newest yellow malevolent post as the leader of the Yellow Was Justified If Not Innocent club but i have to say there first panel threw me for a loop because john was wearing a proper shirt and i straight up did not recognize him because of it for a moment. i’m sure you have have drawn him wearing a proper shirt for his era many times but i just can’t picture it. man whore to ME 💚

Look it was cold out he needed his cute little coat otherwise he would’ve been miserable- if he could he would go shirtless all day but alas

[psuejo]

❥ ceo!nanami’s camgirl gone corporate!

prequel.

you got him good, he’ll admit. hiding your face, occasionally wearing wigs on stream like you’ve dyed your hair, not often bringing up your personal life unless it’s silly, menial anecdotes.

kento would’ve never known it was his pretty little secretary fucking herself on live twice a week and not some random girl who looked similar, had he not ran his annual background check and found your email linked to that porn account.

a rookie mistake, truly.

“dirty girl,” he grunts, one thick hand pressing right into the small of your back, keeping your squirming form bent over his desk. “having a side job like that...”

your already-short skirt is rucked up and over your ass, the fabric of your pantyhose and black panties torn to shreds as kento bullies his cock into you.

and, god, you’re just as soft and warm and tight as he imagined, walls clamping down on him and sucking him in like a black hole. no matter how many times you’ve fucked yourself on your fingers or dildos, it’s nothing in comparison to the feeling of your boss stuffing you full.

just big and girthy — a monster of a cock on a man that you’d thought was average. it stretches you out, forces your insides to mold to the perfect shape of him and leaves you keening, nails biting into the wood of the desk.

“do i not pay enough?” kento delivers a swat to your tender cheek, and you jolt, another glob of slick gushing around his length. “is the work i give you too demanding? are you thinking about quitting?”

as if he’d ever let you do that.

you frantically shake your head, a moan crumbling in your throat with a particularly hard thrust. “n-no, ungh!”

he frowns, tilting his head to the side, and those thin wire glasses slip down the high bridge of his nose. “so what—” smack! “could’ve possibly provoked you—” smack! “to fuck yourself on camera for others to see, hm?” smack!

a sob claws its way free, and every harsh spank against your ass sends a delicious tingle to your messy cunt, one that has your eyes sliding all the way back in your skull.

how can your boss, someone so reserved and cordial, be so... cruel?

but, fuck, if it doesn’t get you soaking wet, and kento knows that too, can hear every lewd, wailing squelch of your pussy. sounds even better in person, he thinks.

“mmngh, i— i’m sorry!” an apology you both know is halfhearted. “pleaseee, sir!”

... sir?

oh, that makes his cock throb, and you can feel every pulse like it’s in time with his heartbeat. that honorific has always sounded so sweet coming from you normally, but now? with your voice hoarse and breathy and whiny?

it’s fucking heaven.

(but he doesn’t miss how you avoided the question.)

kento ups his pace to something brutal, a relentless in-out, in-out, in-out that snatches the air from your lungs and the sense from your mind.

“y-you’ve been fucking with me,” he snarls, low and mean. “acting like some simple corporate girl by day just to slut yourself out online at night. comin’ in here with short skirts that barely pass the dress code a-and low-cut blouses. hah— if i didn’t know any better, darling, i’d say you wanted me to... to find out.”

maybe you did. maybe you knew who anonworkaholic was all along, maybe you used that specific email to make your account on purpose, maybe you came just a little harder during streams because you knew kento was watching, was fisting that heavy cock and cumming right along with you.

so what?

it worked, right?

your lack of a proper response (moans and pants don’t count, after all) tells kento everything he needs to know, along with the helpful noises from your weak hole.

“o-oh, i know she did,” kento coos, and it takes you far too long to realize he’s not talking to you. “know she wanted me to see her on camera, rubbing that needy clit—” his hand slips between the two of you and does just that, swirling quick, decimating circles, “— and whining like she was, mm, in heat.”

your orgasm sneaks up on you, blinding and beautiful, every nerve in your body on fire. your sloppy pussy spasms around his girth, a broken mewl of his name leaving your open, drooling mouth as you drench his desk and whatever paperwork that’s been pushed to the floor.

“f-fuck, nanami!”

his pupils are blown, pitch-black practically engulfing all of that typical soft brown as he watches your body tremble. you sound so pretty, look so pretty, are so pretty.

it’s a miracle kento pulls out in time to spurt thick ropes of cum all over your back with a long groan, lashes fluttering while his balls empty themselves. this is the hardest he’s cum in a while, but it’s like they say: nothing compares to the real thing.

everything in his office is a mess — documents ruined, desk slick and marked by your nails, chair knocked onto the ground, paperweight shattered. yet he grabs some tissues and cleans you up, wiping his seed from your skin and smoothing your skirt back down before he leans into your ear.

“invite me on your stream next time, mm? won’t tell a soul.”

after all, that’s both of your dirty secrets now.