#running in circles running in circles running in circles !!!!!!!!!!

[starktonyx]

Sex pollen - Clark Kent x reader

Word count: 3.2k

Description: When Clark gets poisoned with sex pollen, he tries everything in his power to stay away from you. Until he ends up crashing into your living room, and you have a god on his knees, with your name in his mouth and your body at his will.

Tags/warnings: smut, established relationship, clark is sorry, he gets freaky with his powers, consent kink, breaks you and worships you at the same time, begging, praising, hovering (yes hovering👀), so much dirty talk (he’s feral but sweet), overstimulation.

Note: Guess who watched superman today and got a new man to obsess about🙂‍↕️ honestly I don’t even know what took over me when I wrote this but all I can say is go ahead, live your best life and enjoy the sweet filth 🫶🏼

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You wake up with a loud crash coming from your living room. You jolt upright from your bed as you hear glass shatter, sprinting toward the noise. You curse as your body, only covered by Clark’s giant shirt, gets hit with the crisp midnight air as wind gushed through your apartment like a hurricane just passed by.

A figure stood where your glass door used to be, leaning weakly on what was left of the frame. You turned on the lamp next to you, illuminating your boyfriend’s stumbling body.

“Clark!?” you exclaim, confused by his abrupt arrival.

He doesn’t look up, just stands there against the frame, chest heaving, fists clenched. Like he is barely holding himself together.

Worry washes your features, something must be really wrong. You start making way over to him, but as soon as you take a step forward he puts a warning hand in front of him.

“Stop! Don’t move,” his deep voice comes out strangled, like he’s been screaming for hours. “Don’t come closer… please. Just–just stay there.”

He keeps his hand up to stop you, panting heavily as he swallowed to try to soothe his dry throat. He slowly looks up, and groans when he meets your eyes. His pupils are blown wide, dry lips parted, his breath ragged like he’s been flying across the globe. His usually perfect wavy hair is now flat, messy, sticking to his sweaty forehead.

“I didn’t want to come here,” he whines. “I–I didn’t want you to see me like this.”

“What happened to you?” You ask from your spot, fighting the urge to run to his aid.

“I’ve been infected,” he chokes out, and your brows furrow more. “Some kind of … alien pollen. It hit me out there. I flew straight into it and fuck ... It’s messing with my head, my body, I…”

He suddenly turns away, pacing in small frantic circles on your balcony like he’s trying to shake something off. His hands tremble as he fights to not make eye contact, like just looking at you hurts.

“What do you need? D-do you have the antidote?” You ask, scared as hell. He never acts like this.

He just shakes his head first with a bitter laugh, only to nod frantically afterwards.

God, if only you knew.

“I tried to wait it out,” he groans, fists now in his hair. “I swear I did, my love, I locked myself away for hours … tried to fly as far as I could but I kept turning back because I could smell you.”

Your breath catches in your throat, somehow understanding what this was about.

“I can smell you, sweetheart. Even from across the city … I can hear you breathing … your heartbeat. I didn’t want to hurt you but right now I have you in front of me and I can see–dammit … I’m sorry–“

He stumbles backward like he’s ashamed of himself, like he can’t even look at you.

“You know can’t turn it off,” he whispers. “I never mean to look, I swear, but I can see you now. Everything.”

Of course you know what he means. You know he can see right past his giant shirt covering your body. And the guilt on his face is gutting. He looks like he’s trying to claw his own powers out of his skin.

“Clark… it’s okay. You don’t have to explain, ”you step forward, slowly, gently. “It’s not like we haven’t–“

“No you don’t get it!” He snaps, his voice booming through your walls so loud you were sure everyone on the block heard him. He instantly feels worse with the way you flinched to his volume. “S-sorry darling … you just don’t get it … you have no idea what it’s like to smell you and know how soft you are, how warm. My instincts are going crazy. I just need to be inside you … I need to touch you, mark you, fill you up until I can’t think straight,” he just rambles, eyes raking through your body.

You take a deep breath, his words making you clench your thighs together and he noticed. Of course you’ve had sex before. You know what he sounds like when he’s needy. But this? This is feral. You’ve never seen him like this.

But you’re willing to do anything to help him. Always.

“Clark… you don’t even have to ask,” you speak softly, your own eyes darkening with desire.

He shakes his head. You don’t even understand the amount of restraint he’s having right now.

“I do … I always do. Especially now. Because I’m not going to touch you like I should. I’m not going to make it about you. I’m going to use you. Because you’re the only one who can fix me … you are the antidote and I hate it. I hate that I can’t even think straight unless I’m inside you … I need you so bad, darling, I’m shaking–“ He cries, an actual tear comes out his desperate eyes.

You’re watching a god fall apart in front of you.

Because of you.

You finally cross the space left, and he doesn’t stop you this time. You grab his face between your hands, and kiss him without hesitation. His arms immediately cling to your frame, cold hands slipping under your shirt to roam every inch of your warm skin.

You moan into his lips, when you taste the salty tears on his face. His hands land on your ass, and he squeezes hard, bruising, making you squeal. He immediately pulls back, apologizing. Like he still can’t let himself go.

“I love you, I’m sorry–” he blurts out immediately, hands soothing the skin he pinched while he fought the urge to do it again, harder. “God I love you … and I would never hurt you. Never. I swore I’d never touch you like this. Unless you asked me to. Unless you wanted me to. So please … tell me you want this too. Say yes, or I’ll leave. I swear I will.”

He nods, frantically, like he’s trying to convince himself more than he’s trying to convince you.

“I’ll leave if you tell me to,” he breathes. “I’ll fly through a mountain. I’ll bury myself in the ocean. Just don’t say yes unless you want this. I’m barely holding on– if you say it, I won’t be able to stop.”

You want him. God you always want him.

The way he keeps asking makes you want him even more. Even if he’s not your Clark now. Even if he won’t take care of you like he always does. Even if you can’t breathe or move after. Because you love him too.

“I want it,” you whisper against his lips, nodding. “I want you. You need me? Use me. Take all you want … I can take it.”

It’s over.

The moment you say yes there’s no going back. He lunges forward, tightening his grip on you as he lifts you off the ground to fly you towards the wall, knocking the lamp when your back hit the wall, leaving you both in complete darkness. Only the moonlight left to shine over his hungry eyes.

His massive hand cradles the back of your head to protect it from the hit, while the other tears off your shirt like he needs your skin on his or he’ll die. Your panties don’t even last two seconds before they fly away too.

His lips hit yours. Tongue desperate, hands everywhere, so large, so shaky, everywhere at once. He groans into your mouth like a man dying of thirst finally tasting water.

“Thank you,” he gasps between kisses. “Thank you sweetheart … I’m so sorry I can’t help you first … but I need you … I need to feel you inside, please just let me…”

He knows it hurts you when he doesn’t prepare you properly, when he doesn’t make you cum at least twice on his fingers before he fucks you …but he can’t right now. Not when he can smell how soaked you are already, not when he swears it’s dripping on the carpet.

“Do it,” you pant, hungry for him. “Clark just do it … please.”

He doubts only for a second, and then without thinking he rips the suit. Literally tears it at the waist, tugging it to get rid of it completely. He’ll care about that later.

Right now he is just muscle in front of you.

His painful cock springs up, and he presses himself to you with a wet slap, your back hitting the wall again. Your pussy throbs at how impossibly huge he is over your stomach.

You’ve had him before. You’ve barely made it. You still want him to rearrange your guts.

“Feel that?” he groans. “That’s what you do to me, that’s what’s been driving me insane all day, darling.”

He’s not even pretending anymore, his cock is throbbing, massive, already leaking. He aligns himself between your soaked folds, rutting the tip against your pussy a few times like he’s lost control of his body entirely. You moan at the friction. Every nerve ending screaming.

You know he’s gonna wreck you. You weren’t ready. But at the same time you’ve never been more ready.

He grabs your thigh and lifts it against the wall, before whispering against your lips. “I’m sorry…”

He pushes his hips forward, and when he finally slides home with a snap … raw, hard, you let out a strangled scream.

One long, broken sound, high pitched and helpless, because he stretches you brutally, all at once, bottoming out with a growl. An actual growl. Like he finally felt some type of relief since he got hit with the pollen.

You fight back a cry, lunging forward to bite his shoulder. He starts fucking you into the wall as he whispers ‘I love you’ ‘thank you’ ‘sorry’ like some sort of chant. Like it’s the only thing keeping him rooted to the version of him that is still careful with you when you have sex.

Your breath leaves you in a gasp, your bare back against the cold plaster, legs around his waist, and arms clinging to his biceps for dear life. All you can do is moan as you get adjusted to his unfairly thick cock slamming in and out of you.

“Just like that … you’re taking me so well,” he pants. “You can do it, sweetheart … you’re doing so good … fuck, you were made for this … made for me.”

His hands grip your thighs. He fucks you like he’s possessed, no rhythm, no thought into it, just deep, hard thrusts that hit something devastating every time, shaking the wall with every slam of his hips.

And the whole time, he keeps whimpering into your neck.

“I love you … I’m sorry … I love you …I’m gonna ruin you …I need it…”

You think you’re about to white out when the room starts moving, but you quickly realize what’s happening.

He’s lifting your bodies off the ground.

Still fucking you.

Going up as much as your ceiling allowed him too. He pins you high on the wall when his head touches the roof, like gravity doesn’t apply anymore. It never does, not to you, not to him.

So now you’re fucking hovering. Literally. Unable to do anything but take it.

And you feel him like never before. A complete moaning mess. Nails dragging down his back, mouth open in shock as you look down to the floor. Your whole body is a live wire, and he’s fucking you like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.

His cock twitches inside you. He’s already close. Has been since he walked through that window. But he’s holding it, fighting it, because he needs to stay inside. Needs to keep taking. You can’t.

“Fuck Clark … I’m gonna–“

“Yes? do it … darling please, you’re doing so well. I’ve got you … cum all over this cock baby I got you.”

Your body breaks before you can breathe. Your first climax of the night hits hard, clenching down on him, while you pant into his chest. Your whole body goes limp and he feels it.

He fucks you through it. Rough thrusts with his hand stroking your back and the other wrapped under your thighs. He keeps thanking you as his cock splits you open over and over.

“I wanna give you everything,” he groans, voice cracking. “Fill you up, stuff you full of me … Can I? Please? Let me finish inside you …. let me have you–“

“Yes, yes, fill me up,” you blurt out, still seeing stars.

He slams in once more and chokes, hips locked, whole body shuddering as he comes with a moan so broken it feels like it came from his soul. He shakes as he fills you, mouth pressed to your neck.

He doesn’t pull out yet. He holds you there, trembling, pressed against the wall like he knows you’ll fall if he loosens his grip.

Even after the first wave passes, after the groans, the shaking, the desperate I love you’s, he holds you like you’re the only thing anchoring him to this planet.

“…Are you okay?”

You just nod, breathless, a blissed out smile in your face. He smiles too. And then, slowly, he lowers you back down to the floor.

But he’s not soft for long. He doesn’t even give you a minute to recover. He can’t. The second round starts before the first one even finishes sinking in.

You’re still trembling in his arms, leaking down your thighs, whimpering his name into the crook of his neck. And he’s still inside you. Still painfully hard.

Still needing you.

“One more, please. Just–just one more,” he begs. “Let me have you again. Please, darling I need it.”

“Take it Clark, take all you need,” you nod, absolutely wrecked.

But what’s a few more rounds with your unearthly strong boyfriend?

He melts.

You usually go multiple rounds, but he’s softer, he gives you downtime, even brings you water in between orgasms. But right now he can’t believe the way he fucked you and you still let him have more. But he needs more. The pollen is fogging his brain.

He finally pulls out, just to set you down on the floor. The second your back hits the rug, he’s on top of you again. And god he’s heavy. Solid. He doesn’t even hold his weight like he usually does because all he’s thinking about is fucking you senseless.

He buries himself deep again, groaning, cursing under his breath. You close your eyes, nails digging the carpet, back arching when you feel him deeper from this angle. You pant small whines from the feeling.

“Shhh … don’t–“ he coos, he wants to be slow, but he can’t. His hips snap hard without even thinking. “You’re doing so good, sweetheart … so good for me… just need one more.”

You know it’s not just one more. And he fucking knows that too.

None of you cares.

“You’re so wet … so perfect” he groans, the filthy sound gushing loudly every time he thrusted. “I didn’t even give you time to come down … didn’t even let you breathe and you still take me so well”

He praises. Worships. He looks down to where your bodies meet, and he sees right through your skin. He can see his huge cock filling you with every thrust. He can see your walls clenching around him. And he looses it.

You’re suddenly running out of air when he presses his chest to yours, pining you tighter to the floor with his body as he pushes harder. And you feel all of him. The broadness of his chest against your ribs. The strain of his thighs bracketing yours. His cock still buried deep, rock hard.

You hit his bicep with your hand first, but he’s not paying attention, he’s too caught up on the way your pussy takes him to notice.

It’s not smooth. Not rhythmic. Just sharp, ragged thrusts that hit you so hard your body jerks on impact, tits bouncing, nails clawing at his back as he crushes you into the floor with every rut of his hips.

Your head starts spinning.

“Clark,” you choke out, hitting his bicep again. “I can’t–can’t breathe…”

His head finally snaps at you, eyes going wide. He lifts up a bit, but he doesn’t pull out, he just … can’t.

You finally gasp for air as he shushes you softly, tucking away the hair sticking to your sweaty forehead.

“I’m sorry … I can’t … can’t stop. I tried, I swear I tried,” his forehead presses to yours, without crushing you alive this time.

His hips don’t stop moving. You pant between moans. You’re close again, you can feel it.

“It’s okay, you’re just … you’re so big …so heavy.”

“I’m sorry,” he breathes. “I’m sorry, I know. I just … I don’t want to let you go–”

“Don’t,” you whisper. “Don’t let me go.”

His expression breaks. Because he knows. And you know. He’s not really letting you go. Not all the way. He’s still pressing his weight into you, even as he tries not to. Because he needs to. Because letting go means losing you, even just for a second.

He doesn’t know what takes over him, he grabs your hands and pins them above your head. Watching you sob, moan, eyes rolling back, skin already bruising in multiple places by his grip. He’s not like this. He should be apologizing. Begging. But you just feel so damn good.

And you like it, god you love it.

“I–I love it when you fuck me like this,” you confess, voice barely above a whisper, dumb smile on your face as he hits that spot repeatedly. “I just- I can’t…”

“I know darling, I know … just a little more,” he groans. “One more please. You can take it …you’re doing so good.” He soothes, but he can’t slow down, not when you’re clenching him like that.

He picks up the pace.

“C-Clark … please, I’m gonna-“

“I’ve got you, darling …I’ve got you, let yourself go for me.”

You see white this time. You’re not even moaning anymore. Just gasping. Twitching. Letting him take what he needs because you want to. Because this is Clark, your Clark, and you’d give him your whole body a thousand times if he needed it.

And he does.

He fucks you like you’re his last breath.

Even after you’re wrecked, limp, twitching … he keeps going.

You don’t even remember the next time he finishes. Or the time after that. Or where it happened. Your body is a mess, trembling and raw and wet and full. Marked. Praised.

All while he keeps saying, “Just one more … just let me stay inside you a little longer… please sweetheart, I’m still hard I know you can take it … this is the last time I promise…”

Again and again. You’ve never heard him lie so much before.

Yet still, with your hair splayed, legs shaking, literal tears leaking from the corners of your eyes from the pleasure, the pain, the strain, the goddamn pollen he pumps into your body every time he comes…

You are having the time of your life being drunk on his cock.

“Fuck me harder.”

You beg, even when you can’t feel it anymore. Maybe that’s why you need it harder … deeper.

And because you knew that once he came back to normal he wouldn’t fuck you like this again. And he makes sure to let you know.

“I’m sorry… I’m sorry I’m hurting you. I just need you so fucking much … I love you I love you I love you—”

You just nod, because it hurts embarrassingly good.

You lose count of how many times he comes in total. How many times you come. You only know time’s passed when the sky starts to lighten outside your broken window, and Clark is rocking into you so slowly it’s more like he’s just holding you in place, his mouth pressed to your shoulder, whispering thank you with every lazy thrust.

By the time he finally slows down, finally wears the substance out of his body after dumping it all inside you … you can’t move. You’re limp in his arms, boneless and dripping and his.

Your bed feels incredibly soft in contrast to all the spots he fucked you on last night.

You’re draped across his chest, tracing the muscles under his bare skin. His fingers are in your hair. Barely moving, just tracing small patterns. Soothing you like he didn’t cause all the pain in your body.

You’re still trembling a little. Just from… after. Your body’s still echoing with everything he gave you. Everything he took.

Worth it.

Clark kisses your temple. He hasn’t stopped kissing you every few minutes. It’s like he’s trying to apologize without saying it. Like he’s trying to prove that he’s still the man you love, the man who flinches when he bumps your head by accident, who picks you flowers and gets flustered when you kiss him in public. The one who always put you first in bed.

Not the one who just broke the sound barrier flying to your apartment because his cock told him to.

“…I broke your window,” he finally breaks the silence, a chuckle makes his chest vibrate against your ear.

“Clark … you broke a lot more than my window.”

You both start giggling … glowing. Your throat hurts, you’re sore, probably can’t even walk today or the whole week, and somehow, it feels like the safest place on Earth.

“I love you,” he whispers. “So much.”

“I know,” you whisper back. “You said it like 87 times while destroying me.”

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Feedback and sharing is always appreciated, thank you so much for reading <3

[sweetcalebb]

Teaching Caleb how to touch you !

wc: 2k

a/n: this was another request!! you know who you are <3 this might've dragged a bit. sorry. ALSO, i promise i'm working on all your requests! i have 45 and i'm working as fast as i can 🙏. but i hope this was okayy

content: inexperienced caleb, it's his first time time touching you, he's super nerviee, like really nervous, titty sucking, fingering, dry humping, soft sub caleb

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You’ve never seen him this shy—cheeks pink, fingers hesitantly tracing your body as he kisses you.

You smile against his lips when—finally, after a few long, breathless minutes of kissing—you feel one of his hands close around your waist. "Are you nervous?"

Caleb lets out a soft breath. "Of course I am."

He pulls back to look at you, his eyes half-lidded and soft as he scans your face like he's trying to memorize what you look like in this moment.

"I've wanted you for so long," he murmurs, hand trembling. "I don't.. I don't want to mess anything up."

You immediately soften. You bring your hand up to his face and rub soothing circles over his cheek. "You won't mess it up."

He swallows hard, his eyes darting down because looking at you too long right now makes him sweat. "But I don't know what I'm doing," he says, quiet and raspy. Almost as if he had to force the words out of him.

"I can help you."

Caleb looks at you again, uncertain.

"I just... I want it—this—to be perfect. I don't want to let you down.."

Your chest squeezes.

He's always been too sweet.

You slowly lean down pressing a soft kiss to his lips. "Anything with you is perfect, Caleb. I promise."

Caleb lets out a shaky breath. "Okay..." His other hand carefully finds your waist. "Is this okay?"

"Mhm."

His throat bobs painfully, his eyes darting down to watch his hands skim up your sides. And you just sit there. You don't rush or push. You just sit in his lap, watching the reverent look in his eyes.

Caleb pauses at the hem of your shirt and looks up again, his lips parting with a silent question.

You nod. "It's okay, Caleb."

Then slowly, he's slipping his hands underneath your shirt and running his hands up your stomach, edging toward the swell of your breasts but not quite touching them yet.

He shudders, almost instinctively digging his fingers into your ribcage. He doesn't mean to. He just can't help it. Years and years of pining after you and now he was finally touching you like this. It's hard not to be greedy. To not touch you everywhere—kiss everywhere.

"Can I go..." he pauses, exhaling shakily, "higher?"

"Yes."

Caleb slips his palms over your breast and his lips part on a quiet breath.

You fit into his hands so perfectly. For a second, he think his hands were meant for this and this alone. Holding you.

"You're so soft," Caleb awes, squeezing gently. Then, he swipes his thumbs over your pebbling nipples. "Pipsqueak..."

"Do you want to take my shirt off?" You swallow hard, your legs squeezing around his torso. Are you being too self-indulgent? You don't know. All you know is that this—teaching him, being the first girl he's ever touched—feels too good.

Caleb's breath hitches. "Do you want me to?"

When you nod, he shudders.

"Then yeah. I really.. I really wanna take your shirt off."

At his answer, you reach down and start pulling the fabric up. Caleb's hands slip away from your chest to help, trembling slightly.

When your shirt falls away, he can only stare.

"Fuck, you're so pretty.." He brings his hands back to your breast, squeezing once more.

He licks his lips, his eyes darting up to yours like a secret plea. "Can I... kiss you here?" His voice cracks with nerves.

"Yes," you breathe, your heart racing.

Then he leans forward, his lips brushing over your breast, so soft you barely feel it. "Does that feel okay?"

"You can put more pressure."

Caleb purses his lips against your chest in another kiss and you nod. "Yeah, just like that."

He continues, peppering your skin with little kisses before getting bolder, letting his tongue dart out between his lips to taste you and you arch into him, your hand twitching with the urge to tangle in his hair.

He kisses you through the fabric of your bra, the touch making your back tense.

Caleb looks up.

"Too much?"

You quickly shake your head. "No, no. That felt really nice." You hesitate for just a second before murmuring, "You can take off my bra, too."

"You sure?"

You bite your lip softly. "Yeah."

He reaches behind you, fumbling with your clip a few times before your straps slip off your shoulders before it's tossed to the side.

Caleb stares again, pupils blown wide, like he can't believe you're letting him see you like this. He dips his head down again, pressing a slow kiss directly against your nipple. "How's that?"

You sigh, slipping hands through his hair. "That feels good..."

Caleb hums before flicking his tongue against the achy nub and can't help the way your hips jerk against his at the touch.

He groans. "You really like that."

You can barely nod before he's wrapping his lips around your breast and sucking. You let out another staggered breath and hold him tight.

"Caleb..!"

Caleb whines at the sound of his name, his hips giving an instinctive roll. "'M'sorrry. I just... can't help it when you sound like that." he breathes against your skin.

But you shake your head. "It's fine. You're doing... really good!"

He rolls his hips up again. He really can't help it. Not when you're in his mouth and talking to him like that.

He keeps sucks and licking, sneaking in little nibbles that make you gasp and arch your back. And then he's switching breasts, making sure he gives the other one the same attention.

It's only when Caleb's jaw feels sore that he comes off with a soft pop, your chest littered and kisses and his saliva.

"You're... You're even better than I imagined," he huffs, leaning up to kiss your lips while running his hands down your thighs, then back up, stopping at your breasts again.

"Am I doing okay?"

"Yes, more than okay," you assure, your voice shakier than you expected it to be.

Caleb’s breath hitches. His thumbs skim under the waistband of your shorts, hesitating.

"Can I touch you here too?” he rasps, voice wrecked with nerves and want.

Your chest tightens. “Yes, Caleb.”

He nearly whimpers. “Show me how. Please."

You guide his hand down, your own hand over his. When his fingers press where you’re already wet, he groans softly, forehead dropping to your shoulder. “God, you feel so good…”

You bite your lip, trying to keep your hips still, but they grind into his hand anyway. "You.. hah.."

Caleb can't help it; he runs his fingers through your slick, his stomach clenching at warm it is. Was all this really for him?

"What do you need?" he breathes, putting a bit of pressure on your needy flesh. Not enough to push in, just enough to (accidentally) tease you. "Show me... how. Please.. I don't—I don't know—"

"Shh, it's okay. I'll show you," you whisper, guiding his hand over your sex. You lead two fingers to your clit and press firmly. "This is the spot right here."

Caleb shudders, his fingers nudging at you like he's trying to memorize what it feels like. "Yeah. Yeah, okay.."

Then, you start guiding him in slow circles. "A-and just rub... small circles, okay?"

Caleb nods, nervous, but eagerly taking over. He does exactly what you taught him, clumsy at first. But he gradually falls into a steady rhythm.

"Like this?"

"Yes..!" You grip his shoulder and tip your head back slightly. "Just like that, Caleb!"

Caleb moans in response, rubbing tighter, rougher circles.

Warmth blooms in your chest—makes everything feel fuzzy. If Caleb told you, right now, that this was his first time, you wouldn't believe him.

You whimper, the sound making him twitch in his jeans.

"Caleb! Please! Please, please..!"

He groans, bringing his free hand around your hip and tugging you closer as he continued working over.

Warmth pools between your legs, soaking through the fabric of your panties. Just when you start to feel that familiar pressure in your stomach, Caleb stops, his fingers sliding down to tease at your entrance.

"Hah..! Caleb?"

You look at him again, blinking through hazy eyes.

"I'm sorry," he instantly says, his chest heaving like your pleasure was his own. "I just wanted to see you like this a little more—I'm sorry—I can go back to—"

You shake your head. "No, that's really sweet." You take a moment to catch your breath before asking, "Do you want to feel inside?"

Caleb nods. "Yes. Yes, please."

"You can," you reply, your voice quiet.

Caleb glances down, watching his hand bulge from your panties as he carefully—very carefully—slides one finger past your tight ring of muscles.

"Hah! You—Oh God.. You're so warm, Pips," he gasps, slowly sinking his finger inch by inch, watching your reaction the whole time. When he's knuckle deep, he breathes out a shaky, "Are you okay?"

You nod, fighting the urge to start grinding down on his finger. "Mhmm.. It feels so good, Caleb."

He starts pumping slowly. Agonizingly slow. Like any faster might break you. But when he sees you squirming and holding back whines, he quickens his pace.

"You can add another."

Caleb doesn't hesitate. He slips another finger in with one, slick push. "Fuck."

That's all he can say. All he can muster.

And the sounds your body starts to make are filthy. Straight out of his fantasies. With a small, embarrassed sound you hide in the crook of his neck, your cheeks burning.

But Caleb whines, leaning his head against yours.

"Don't hide, Pips. Please... I wanna see you." His voice is trembling, like not getting to see what this does to you physically pains him.

So slowly, you lift your head back up and he looks completely wrecked. And you're right there with him—brows knit with pleasure, lips parted with your breathless moans.

He's panting now, your breath mingling with his as he gently rocks his hips up.

"Please. Go back—go back to my other spot. I—I need it. Need you."

Caleb groans. You need him.

"Okay."

He eases his fingers out of you, pressing them to the achy spot at the cleft of your sex again. "Fuck... Pips.. I don't.. I lost it."

"It's okay." You guide him to that spot again. "Right there. Right there please."

He starts rubbing firm circles again, using the same pace you taught him. "There?" He asks, voice wrecked.

"Yes! Yes!"

Caleb grunts, jostling you in his lap as his hips jerk underneath you. "Fuck, fuck—sorry."

You don't even notice it though. You're lost in the feeling of his fingers. "Are you close?" he pants.

A moan tears from your throat at the same time. "Y-yes. I'm close. I'm—" You dip your head against his, your eyes drifting down between your bodies.

You bite your lip. The way his hand disappears into your panties and his arm flexes as he continues to rub tiny circles shouldn't turn you on so much, but it does. It makes your head spin and your stomach clench.

"Caleb..!"

"Y-yeah?"

"I'm—Oh fuck. Caleb, I'm—Please!" you whine. "Please, please!"

He doesn't have time to speak before you're going rigid above him—hips jerking against his hand, choked moans spilling past your lips, and your grip on him becoming bruisingly tight. Then you're going limp.

Caleb gently draws his hand back, marveling at the mess on his fingers before holding you close. "Hey, are you okay?"

When you only hum against his shoulder he shakes you softly. "Pips, look at me."

You pull your head back to show him the blissed-out look on your face and he lets out a sigh of relief.

He swallows hard, his chest falling and rising too quickly. "You're so pretty."

You smile, your chest giving a little tug. "Stop it.."

"I can't help it," he murmurs, pressing lazy kisses to your cheeks and lips.

You smile, leaning into his little pecks.

His lips find your forehead as he breathes out, "Did I really make you feel that good?"

"You made me feel amazing."

Caleb sighs, pulling you in by your waist and burying his face in your shoulder. "Thank you for helping me."

"Of course."

You're silent for a beat, then gently, he rolls his hips up, a staggered breath slipping past his lips. "I'm—hahh—sorry.." Even then, he doesn't stop.

Instead, he slides his hands down your hips and guides you against him. "Can I please? You were amazing... But.. but you feel so..nng.. nice."

"Yes, baby," you coo, forcing yourself to see straight again as you follow his rhythm. "You did so good."

Caleb whimpers into your shoulder. "Say that again."

"You did soo good, Caleb."

Another whimper, his hips rolling faster now, more desperate. His breath stutters, and you can feel how hard he is beneath you—how badly he wants it.

"Please… Pips…” His voice is wrecked, trembling. “I—I don’t think I can—"

You press closer, giving his ear a tender nip. "It's okay. You were so sweet for me. Just enjoy yourself."

His next breath stutters out of him, hot against your skin.

Everything after that blurs. All he knows is that you feel too good to be true. That he wants to stay in this moment with you. Forever.

––

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[mrsfancyferrari]

Sleeping Medicine

Summary: Lando is known for sleeping in the paddock and other places and getting caught for it. You seem to increase those chances by being Lando's girlfriend and his pillow.

Song: Thinkin Bout You ‧ Frank Ocean

Author’s note: Please like, reblog and share this! 🫶

Word count: 2.6k

MASTERLIST - F1

The world knows Lando Norris. They know the infectious grin, the quick wit, the fearless talent on track, the playful 'Little Lando Norris' antics.

They know he's always tired, a running joke in the paddock, an endearing quirk. But what they don't know, what only you truly understand, is the sheer depth of slumber he can fall into the moment your fingers trace patterns on his scalp.

Everyone expects him to nod off, but with you, it’s not just nodding off. It’s an irreversible descent into a blissful, unshakeable sleep, from which he will not, cannot, wake up easily.

And when he finally does, the last thing he wants is to leave the warmth of your arms.

The Driver's Room

The air in the driver's room is a cacophony of muffled sounds: distant engine roars, the chatter of engineers, the low hum of air conditioning. It’s a temporary sanctuary, a place of brief respite amidst a whirlwind weekend.

You step inside, leaving the usual race day chaos behind, and find him exactly where you expected: slumped in his ergonomic chair, headphones still around his neck, eyes half-closed as he stares blankly at a monitor displaying telemetry data.

He’s been in and out of meetings, on and off track, fielding questions, pushing limits. Even for him, a perpetual motion machine, today has been draining.

"Hey, sleepyhead," you murmur, crossing the small space to stand behind him. He grunts in response, a low, tired sound, but doesn't open his eyes.

His shoulders are hunched, a testament to the tension that has built up over the day. You lean down, pressing a soft kiss to the top of his messy hair, which smells faintly of sweat and something uniquely 'race track'.

"Rough one?" you ask, your voice soft, understanding. He sighs, a deep, shuddering breath. "Quali was… a lot. My head feels like it's been through a washing machine."

You nod, sympathetic. You know the feeling, the mental exhaustion that comes with operating at such a high level of concentration.

Without a word, you lift your hands and gently thread your fingers through his soft, slightly damp hair. You start at his temples, massaging small circles, feeling the tension subtly begin to release under your touch.

His body, initially stiff, starts to relax, leaning ever so slightly back into your hands.

You move to the crown of his head, your nails lightly raking through his hair, then down to the nape of his neck, where the muscle knots are most prominent.

You can feel him melting, literally softening under your touch. The faint hum of the air conditioning, the distant sounds of the paddock, all seem to fade into the background, replaced by the gentle rhythm of your fingers, the quiet intake of his breath.

He leans his head back further, resting it against your stomach as you continue your work. His eyes, which were once half-open, are now fully closed.

His breathing deepens, slowly, steadily. You know this rhythm, you’ve memorized it. It’s the sound of Lando Norris, the racing driver, the public personality, shedding his armor and sinking into oblivion.

His hand reaches back, blindly finding yours, interlocking his fingers with yours, a silent plea for you to continue.

Minutes stretch into what feels like an hour. The telemetry data still flickers on the screen, forgotten. His body is completely relaxed, a dead weight in the chair.

You can feel the warmth emanating from him, the steady thump-thump of his heart against your palm.

He’s out. Truly out. Not just a nap, but a deep, restorative sleep born of utter exhaustion and the unique comfort only you seem to provide.

Just as you're wondering how long you can stay like this, a sharp rap comes at the door. "Lando? Five minutes to driver briefing!" It's Charlotte, his press officer, her voice carrying an edge of urgency.

You wince. The spell is broken. "Honey," you whisper, gently shaking his shoulder. "Lando, wake up. Briefing."

He groans, a sound of profound protest. His eyes flutter open, revealing bleary, unfocused pupils. He looks utterly disoriented, like a deep-sea diver suddenly pulled to the surface.

He blinks, then blinks again, slowly registering your face above him. A slow smile stretches across his lips, but it's the smile of someone desperately unwilling to let go of their dream.

"No," he mumbles, his voice thick with sleep, already reaching for you, his arms wrapping around your waist, pulling you down until your cheek is pressed against his head.

"Stay. Just five more minutes. Ten. An hour." He buries his face into your side, his grip tightening.

He's an anchor, and you're the ship, firmly rooted.

"Lando, Charlotte's waiting. You have to go." You try to gently extricate yourself, but he holds on with surprising strength.

"Don't wanna go," he whines, his voice muffled by your clothes. "It's warm here. And you smell nice. And my head doesn't hurt anymore."

You sigh, a small laugh escaping your lips. "I know, love, but you have to. You're Lando Norris, you have a race to win."

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his beautiful eyes still clouded with sleep, but a mischievous glint starting to emerge. "Only if you promise more head rubs later. A lot of them. And maybe we can just miss the briefing and cuddle instead?"

You kiss his forehead. "Get up, you big baby. After the briefing, after dinner, after everything. All the head rubs you want. Now go." With a final, reluctant groan, he finally unwound himself from you, pushing himself upright, running a hand through his now even messier hair.

But before he left, he leaned in for one last quick, sleepy kiss, a silent promise in his eyes. He might be leaving, but he wasn't really letting you go.

His Parents' House

The scent of roasting chicken and freshly baked bread hangs in the air, mingling with the comfortable, lived-in aroma of the Norris family home.

You're visiting for a quiet weekend, a much-needed break from the relentless F1 schedule.

Lando, surprisingly, had been relatively awake for most of the morning, helping his mum in the kitchen, teasing his siblings, and even engaging in a lively debate with his dad about a recent rugby match.

But the afternoon, as always, proved to be his undoing. You're curled up on the plush sofa in the living room, a half-finished cup of tea on the coffee table, a book resting unread on your lap.

Lando, initially engaged in a video game with Cisca, had slowly migrated towards you. He'd started by resting his head on your shoulder, then gradually slid down until his head was in your lap, his long legs draped across the cushions.

You’d instinctively begun to run your fingers through his hair. It’s softer here, less stressed than at the track, clean and fluffy. You trace the natural part, then gently massage the scalp above his ears.

He sighs, a soft sound of contentment that resonates through you. The game controller, forgotten, clatters to the floor.

Cisca glances over, rolls her eyes playfully, and then goes back to her own device, used to her brother's spontaneous naps.

The rhythm of your touch is slow, deliberate. You feel the subtle shift in his breathing, the way his body seems to melt into the cushions beneath him. His eyelids, initially fluttering, come to a complete rest.

You can see the faint blue veins beneath the thin skin of his eyelids, the dark lashes fanning out against his cheeks.

He looks so young, so peaceful, entirely different from the focused, intense competitor the world sees.

You continue the light strokes, occasionally adding a gentle scratch with your nails just behind his ears, a spot you discovered he particularly loved.

He whimpers slightly in his sleep, a tiny, happy sound, and shifts, burrowing his face deeper into your lap, his arm blindly coming up to wrap around your waist, pulling you closer.

The weight of his head is comforting, the warmth of his body seeping into your legs.

A soft, content smile plays on your lips. This is your Lando, vulnerable and entirely yours, lost in a dream.

"Dinner's ready, kids!" Cisca’s cheerful voice rings out from the kitchen, followed by a clatter of plates. "Lando! Cisca! Come and get it before it gets cold!"

Cisca immediately bolts upright. "Coming, Mum!"

You, however, have a more challenging task. "Lando," you whisper, gently stroking his cheek. "Dinner. Your mum's calling."

He makes a sound that's somewhere between a growl and a purr, tightening his grip on you. He doesn’t even stir beyond that. The call of food, usually irresistible to him, falls on deaf ears.

"Lando, come on. Chicken and roast potatoes. Your favourite." You try a little more firmness, nudging his shoulder.

He stirs, but it's not a wake-up. It's a deeper burrow. His head presses harder into your lap, and his hand, still clutching your waist, bunches the fabric of your shirt, pulling you down.

"Five more minutes," he murmurs, his voice slurred with sleep. "Just five. Don't move."

You hear Cisca's footsteps approaching. "Everything alright in here? Lando, did you hear me?"

You give her an apologetic look over Lando’s prone form. "He's, uh, pretty comfortable, Cisca."

She clucks, a familiar exasperated-but-fond sound. She sees him, a mass of limbs and messy hair, utterly unconscious in your lap.

"Oh, for goodness sake! Always the same. You've got him properly snoozing, haven't you, love?" A twinkle enters her eye. "You're his secret weapon for a good night's sleep, apparently."

"Apparently," you agree, smiling down at his peaceful face. "He won't budge."

Cisca laughs. "Let me try." She kneels down, her voice firm but gentle. "Lando Oscar Norris! Get up! Dinner!"

He doesn't even twitch. Not a muscle. You suppress a giggle.

"Told you," you whisper.

Cisca shakes her head. "Right. Well, we'll eat, and you can keep him company for a bit longer. He clearly needs it." She pats your arm. "Just try not to starve, darling."

You thank her, and she retreats, leaving you alone with the sleeping pile of McLaren’s star driver. You look down at him, utterly trapped, but not minding one bit.

His grip on you is still firm, his breathing a steady rhythm. You know that if you managed to drag him to the table, he'd be halfway back to sleep before the starter was even served.

So you settle back, resuming your gentle head rubs, content to be his personal sedative, his favorite blanket, his anchor in the quiet, comforting world of sleep.

Dinner could wait. Lando wasn't going anywhere.

Vacation with Friends

The villa echoes with laughter, music, and the splash of water from the infinity pool. The air is warm and smells of sunscreen and something grilling on the barbecue.

You're on a much-anticipated vacation, a week of sun, good food, and great company, with Lando and a handful of his closest friends. Everyone is in high spirits, unwinding after a long, intense season.

You'd spent the day by the pool, playing silly games, and now the late afternoon sun was beginning to dip, casting long shadows across the patio.

The energy was still buzzing, but Lando, never one to pace himself, was starting to flag. You’d noticed him leaning against a poolside pillar, his eyes a little glazed, his usual quick quips replaced by slow blinks.

"You alright there, sleepy Eeyore?" you’d teased, nudging him gently.

He'd just grunted, a multi-syllabic expression of profound weariness. "Just… absorbing the sun. It's strenuous."

You knew what that meant. He was on the verge. "Come on," you’d said, taking his hand. "Let's find somewhere quieter. Before you faceplant into the pool."

You led him away from the main hubbub, past the outdoor kitchen, to a secluded, shaded daybed nestled amongst some vibrant bougainvillea.

It was a perfect escape, far enough from the noise to be peaceful, but still close enough to feel part of the group.

He dropped onto the plush cushions with a sigh of absolute relief, stretching out his long limbs. You sat beside him, and without a word, he rolled onto his side, resting his head in your lap, his legs tangled with yours.

The slight breeze rustled the leaves above, and the distant sound of his friends' laughter became a soft, pleasant hum.

Your fingers found their customary place in his hair. Here, it was still damp from the pool, cool against your skin. You worked your way from his forehead, tracing the line of his eyebrows, then circling his temples with light pressure.

He melted instantly, a low moan of pure bliss escaping his lips. His breathing evened out almost immediately, deep and rhythmic. You felt the subtle tremor of his body as he relaxed, every muscle giving way to the soft embrace of sleep.

You continued, running your hands through the cool, damp strands, lifting them and letting them fall back down, scratching gently at his scalp. He was completely out, an island of profound peace in a sea of holiday merriment.

You watched the rise and fall of his chest, the relaxed curve of his lips, the way the last rays of sun dappled through the leaves and painted patterns on his face.

You were utterly content, holding this peaceful, sleeping man who, despite all his energy and zest for life, could be felled by a few minutes of your touch.

"Oy! Lando! Dinner's ready! Fresh fish!" It was Max, his voice booming across the patio.

You winced. Here we go. You tried gentle persuasion first. "Lando, honey, dinner. Max is calling."

Not a flicker. He was dead to the world, buried deep in Dreamland.

"Lando!" Oscar’s voice this time, closer, as they clearly started a search party. "Mate, don't tell me he's asleep again."

You looked up to see Max and Oscar approaching, grins on their faces. They took one look at Lando, completely passed out in your lap, and burst into laughter.

"Unbelievable," Max groaned, shaking his head. "He’s like a tired toddler. You've got him completely incapacitated, haven't you?"

"It's the head rubs," you explained, trying to sound innocent. "He just… succumbs."

"More like you brainwash him into ultimate relaxation," Oscar quipped, nudging Lando's foot with his own. "Wake up, you old man! There's food! And maybe a few drinks later!"

Lando stirred, a deep, frustrated groan rumbling in his chest. His eyes squinted open, struggling to focus.

He blinked, a slow, drugged process, then registered his friends looming over him.

"No," he mumbled, his voice thick and barely audible. He didn't even try to sit up.

Instead, he just tightened his grip on your leg, pulling you closer, nuzzling deeper into your lap. "Stay. Just five more minutes. Don't wanna move."

"Mate, come on," Max said, trying to pull his arm. "There's grilled prawns!"

Lando just mumbled something incoherent and buried his face deeper, clinging to you like a limpet. "Can't… move… too comfy… with her."

Oscar burst out laughing. "He's completely useless when she gets her hands on him! You've got him trained, you know that?"

You smiled, running a gentle hand over his still-damp hair. "He's not trained; he's just happy."

"Happy and completely comatose!" Max retorted, eventually giving up and just chuckling. "Alright, we'll save you some fish, you big baby. But you're missing out on the good banter."

They ambled back to the main group, still laughing and teasing. You listened to their voices fade, then looked down at Lando, who was already drifting back to sleep, his breathing evening out once more.

He had a faint, content smile on his lips. He was clearly missing out on the party, on the food, on the friends.

But he was utterly unwilling to give up this moment with you.

You knew, deep down, that you wouldn't trade it for anything either. Let the world have the fast, witty, energetic Lando Norris.

You had the one who found his deepest peace and most profound sleep in the simple, loving touch of your hands, making him utterly unwilling to leave your side.

It was a trade-off you were more than happy to make, every single time. . . .

[merricatte]

I feel like it's the opposite tbh, I've met some individuals in my time that is just *improbably* lucky or unlucky. One person I knew in the UK had the worst luck of anyone I've ever met, and they didn't do anything to cause it, it was just maths gone wrong. You'd think at one point it would be confirmation bias, like we think they're unlucky so we notice all the unlucky things that happen, but no. One summer all their flights and holiday plans were cancelled day off due to something going wrong, there were like six of them, and they joked that "well at least they got to be somewhere nice for their cousins wedding.", they didn't, they ended up fracturing their shoulder and ended up in the hospital the day before. They have been in five car crashes that I know of, they don't drive. Their life is (or was, I don't really stay in touch with them much) a series of small misfortunes and there is no earthly reason as to why and has through sheer force of watching them exist made me believe in luck as a force in the universe.

Hi! Sorry if this is a silly question/you’ve answered it before, but do you consider luck to be real or is it in the same vein as magic?

You know I've never really thought about how real luck might be. I think it's less real than magic. Magic isn't real but there are actions you can perform that are flagged as magic by observers. Luck has no material or social instrumentality.

[sixeyesonathiel]

an apple a day (won’t keep you away)

being married to a doctor means learning to share him—with his patients, his charts, his endless emergencies. and tonight? tonight, you're not feeling particularly generous. thankfully, there's a bowl of apples, a well-timed grudge, and just enough spite to make a point.

(aka: in which you attempt to keep gojo satoru away using apples, mild emotional warfare, and maybe a little love.)

wc — 3.7k ✦ tags -> modern au, domestic fluff, established relationship, married life, petty!reader, soft satoru gojo, satoru deserves to suffer a little, affectionate banter, cuddling & snuggling

they say an apple a day keeps the doctor away, but apparently it takes seventeen apples to keep one particularly annoying white-haired doctor from hovering around your kitchen island like a lovesick ghost.

you’re on apple number four when satoru finally works up the courage to speak. he’s been lingering by the doorway for the past twenty minutes, those ridiculous reading glasses perched on his nose—the ones with the slightly bent left arm from when he fell asleep reading case files on the couch last month. you’d been the one to gently extract them from his face that night, folding them carefully on the coffee table while he mumbled your name in his sleep. now they’re fogged from his nervous breathing, and you can see him shifting his weight from foot to foot, case files forgotten in his hands as he watches you methodically demolish your way through the fruit bowl with the dedication of someone preparing for war.

“sweetheart,” he starts, voice pitched in that careful, testing-the-waters tone he uses when he knows he’s stepped in it. his fingers tighten around the manila folders, and you catch the slight tremor in his hands. good. let him shake. let him remember what it feels like to be uncertain.

“nope.” you bite into apple number five with perhaps more aggression than necessary, and there’s something deeply satisfying about the way he flinches at the sound. the juice runs down your chin, and you wipe it away with the back of your hand—a gesture that would normally have him reaching for a napkin, fussing over you like you’re made of spun glass. instead, he just stands there, watching you with those impossible eyes that remind you of winter mornings and the way light hits hospital corridors at dawn. “i’m busy.”

“busy... eating apples?” his hair catches the overhead light, and you hate how it makes him look ethereal, like something stepped out of a dream. he’s always been too beautiful for his own good, all sharp angles and soft edges in places that don’t make sense. the way his collarbones peek out from his partially unbuttoned shirt, the slight stubble along his jaw that speaks of a man who’s been too tired to shave properly.

“busy keeping doctors away.” you don’t look at him directly, but you can feel the way he deflates a little, shoulders sagging like a marionette with cut strings. it’s a small cruelty, but you’ve earned it. you’ve earned the right to watch him squirm.

what he’s done, technically speaking, isn’t even that terrible. he’d simply gotten so absorbed in a particularly challenging case that he’d forgotten—completely forgotten—about your dinner reservation. the reservation you’d made three weeks ago, circled on the calendar in red ink, mentioned casually over morning coffee no fewer than six times. the reservation at that tiny italian place you’d been dying to try, the one with the hand-painted tiles and the owner who looked like he’d stepped out of a cooking show. the reservation you’d gotten dressed up for, sitting pretty in the living room in your blue dress—the one with the pearl buttons that he’d fastened for you that morning, his fingers gentle against your spine as he pressed a kiss to your shoulder.

you’d waited an hour. sixty full minutes of checking your phone, adjusting your jewelry, watching the clock tick past eight, then eight-thirty, then nine. the restaurant had called twice to confirm, their polite concern making your cheeks burn with secondhand embarrassment.

it’s not the missed dinner that has you eating apples like they’ve personally offended your entire bloodline. it’s the way he’d walked through the door at midnight, takeout bag in hand, hospital scrubs wrinkled and hair mussed, and asked if you wanted to share his hospital cafeteria sandwich. as if you were some kind of raccoon who’d be satisfied with his medical facility scraps. as if you hadn’t spent forty minutes perfecting your eyeliner only to wash it off with angry tears.

apple number six meets its demise, and you can feel the way your jaw is starting to ache from the aggressive chewing. there’s something primal about it, something that speaks to the part of you that wants to throw things and scream and make him understand exactly how small he’d made you feel.

“honey,” satoru tries again, and this time he actually steps into the kitchen, his sock-clad feet silent against the tiles. his reading glasses are slightly fogged, probably from the nervous breathing he’s been doing for the past half hour. normally, you’d reach over and clean them for him without thinking, a small gesture so automatic it’s practically muscle memory. you’d learned early in your marriage that he never remembers to do it himself, too focused on whatever medical journal or patient file has captured his attention.

today, you let them stay foggy. let him see the world through the blurry lens of his own poor life choices. there’s a coffee stain on his shirt—right above the pocket where he keeps his favorite pen, the one you bought him for your first anniversary. he probably doesn’t even realize it’s there, too caught up in his own guilt to notice the small details that usually anchor him.

“you’re going to make yourself sick,” he says, which is rich coming from someone who once ate convenience store ramen for six days straight during his residency. you remember that week, how you’d found him passed out over a stack of textbooks, chopsticks still clutched in his hand and his hair falling into his eyes like spilled moonlight.

“i’m building immunity,” you inform him primly, selecting apple number seven with the care of someone choosing a weapon. the fruit is cold against your palm, still slightly damp from when you’d washed the entire bowl earlier in a fit of productive rage. “very important for married life, apparently.”

the married life comment hits him right in the chest, and you can see the way his breath catches. he does that thing where he pushes his glasses up his nose—a nervous habit that’s become more pronounced over the years—and looks like a kicked puppy. a very tall, very gorgeous kicked puppy with eyes the color of shallow ocean water and a mouth that’s currently doing something complicated with guilt and longing.

you hate how much you love him. you hate how even when you’re furious, part of you wants to smooth down his ridiculous hair and kiss the worried crease between his eyebrows. you hate how he’s standing there in his wrinkled button-down, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows in that way that makes your stomach do stupid things, and your traitorous heart still does little flips. there’s a small scar on his left hand from when he’d tried to fix the garbage disposal last spring, and you can see him flexing his fingers—another nervous tell that he’s probably not even aware of.

“i’m sorry,” he says, and his voice cracks slightly on the words. there’s something raw in his expression, a vulnerability that makes your chest tighten despite your best efforts to stay angry. “i’m really, really sorry. i got caught up in this case and—”

“and forgot you had a wife.” apple number eight doesn’t stand a chance, and you can taste the tartness on your tongue, sharp and unforgiving. “happens to the best of us, i’m sure.”

“that’s not—” he runs a hand through his hair, making it stick up in twelve different directions. it’s gotten longer recently, curling slightly at the ends in a way that makes him look younger, more vulnerable. you’d been planning to trim it for him this weekend, the way you always do, sitting him down in the bathroom while he closes his eyes and leans into your touch like a cat seeking warmth. “you’re the most important thing in my life. you know that.”

“do i?” you finally look at him properly, and oh, that’s a mistake. because he looks absolutely miserable, and there are dark circles under his eyes that speak of too many sleepless nights and too much coffee. his glasses are sliding down his nose again, and you can see the small indentations they leave on the bridge—a mark of the long hours he spends hunched over medical charts. you’re not quite ready to stop being mad yet, but looking at him makes your resolve waver like a candle in the wind. “because your patient charts seem to think otherwise.”

“that’s not fair.” his voice is barely above a whisper, and you can see the way his hands are trembling slightly. there’s something broken in his posture, the way he’s holding himself like he’s afraid you might disappear if he moves too quickly.

“neither is sitting in a restaurant alone for an hour, but here we are.” you gesture vaguely with apple number nine, and you can feel the sticky residue of juice on your fingers. the kitchen smells like fruit and frustration, and you can see your reflection in the window—hair slightly mussed, eyes bright with unshed tears and righteous anger. “at least these apples showed up when expected.”

satoru’s face crumples a little more, and you can see him struggling with something. his mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water, and there’s a flush creeping up his neck that makes the pale column of his throat look almost translucent. he’s always been expressive, wearing his emotions like weather patterns across his features, but this is different. this is the look of a man who’s realized he’s broken something precious.

“i dreamed about you last night,” he says finally, and his voice is so soft you almost miss it. the words hit you like a physical blow, unexpected and devastating in their quiet honesty. “even when i was sleeping at the hospital. i dreamed we were at that restaurant, and you were wearing that blue dress—the one with the little buttons—and you were laughing at something i said. and when i woke up, i realized i’d never actually seen you laugh in that dress because i’m an idiot who can’t manage his own calendar.”

you’re still holding apple number nine, but you’ve stopped eating. your fingers are sticky with juice, and you can feel the way your heart is doing something complicated in your chest. this is new territory—satoru’s usually more of a grand gesture guy, all expensive flowers and dramatic declarations. this quiet honesty is almost worse because it’s sliding right past your defenses like water through a sieve.

“you noticed the dress,” you say, and you hate how soft your voice sounds, how the anger is already starting to leak out of it like air from a punctured balloon.

“i always notice.” he takes a step closer, then stops, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed. his feet are bare, and you can see the way his toes curl slightly against the cold tiles. “i notice everything about you. how you tap your fingers when you’re thinking.” his eyes drop to your hands, and you realize you’re doing it now—drumming against the counter in a rhythm that matches your heartbeat. “how you scrunch your nose when you’re concentrating.” you can feel yourself doing it, the unconscious gesture that he’s catalogued like a scientist studying his favorite specimen. “how you always, always clean my glasses for me even when i don’t ask.”

you glance at his fogged lenses and feel your resolve wavering like a house of cards in a strong wind. this is emotional warfare, and he’s not even trying. he’s just standing there, looking at you like you’re the answer to a question he’s been carrying his whole life.

“i brought you something,” he says, and pulls a small container from his pocket. his movements are careful, deliberate, like he’s afraid of spooking you. “from that italian place. i went there this morning and explained to the owner what happened. told him my wife was too good for me and i needed to grovel properly.”

despite yourself, you’re curious. there’s something about the way he’s holding the container, like it’s made of glass and dreams. “what did you get?”

“their tiramisu.” he sets it on the counter between you like a peace offering, and you can see the way his hands shake slightly as he releases it. “the owner said his wife threw a shoe at him once for missing their anniversary, and that dessert was the only thing that saved him.”

you stare at the container, and you can feel the way your anger is transforming into something else, something softer and more dangerous. it’s a small thing, really—just takeout tiramisu from a restaurant you’ll probably never get to eat at properly. but it’s something. an acknowledgment. an effort. you can imagine him standing in that little restaurant, probably still in his scrubs, explaining to a stranger how he’d failed you. the mental image makes your throat tight.

“i’m still mad,” you tell him, but you’re already reaching for a spoon, and you can see the way hope flickers across his features like sunlight through leaves.

“i know.” he watches you take a bite, and his whole face lights up when you make a small sound of appreciation. it’s embarrassing how good it is, how the rich sweetness seems to melt some of the hardness you’ve been carrying in your chest. “is it good?”

“it’s...” you take another bite, considering. you can feel the way he’s watching you, cataloguing every micro-expression like he’s studying for the most important test of his life. “it’s pretty good.”

“good enough to maybe consider reducing the apple consumption? i’m starting to worry about the local orchard supply.” there’s a tentative smile playing at the corners of his mouth, and you can see the way his eyes crinkle at the edges. it’s the same smile he’d given you on your first date, nervous and hopeful and completely devastating.

that startles a laugh out of you, which you immediately try to cover with a cough. but satoru’s too perceptive, has always been able to read you like his favorite book, and his eyes crinkle with hope.

“was that almost a smile?” he asks, taking another careful step closer. you can smell his cologne now—something clean and expensive that you bought him last christmas. there’s something else too, something that’s purely him. coffee and antiseptic and the faint scent of the lavender detergent you use on his scrubs.

“no,” you lie, but you’re fighting a losing battle now. the tiramisu is really good, and he’s standing there looking rumpled and sorry, and you’re remembering why you married this disaster of a man in the first place. how he’d proposed to you in this very kitchen, getting down on one knee next to the refrigerator because he couldn’t wait another second. how he’d cried when you said yes, happy tears that made his eyes look like sea glass.

“i have an idea,” he says, and before you can protest, he’s pulling his phone out. his fingers are moving quickly across the screen, and you can see the way his tongue darts out to wet his lips—a nervous habit that’s become endearing over the years. “new rule. from now on, all my important dates go in a shared calendar. you get alerts. i get alerts. my secretary gets alerts. hell, we’ll alert the entire hospital if we have to.”

“satoru—” you start, but he’s already warming to his theme, the way he does when he gets an idea stuck in his head.

“and,” he continues, his voice gaining strength, “i’m taking next weekend off. completely off. no hospital, no emergencies, no nothing. just me and you and whatever restaurant you want to try.”

you want to stay mad. you really do. but he’s looking at you with those stupid eyes that remind you of winter sky and promises, and his glasses are still fogged, and you’re only human. there’s something about the way he’s standing there, all nervous energy and desperate hope, that makes your chest feel too small for your heart.

“your glasses are dirty,” you say finally, and you can hear the surrender in your own voice.

his whole face transforms, hope blooming across his features like flowers in spring. “are they?”

“very dirty. you probably can’t see anything.” you’re already reaching for them, and you can feel the way he’s trying not to grin and failing spectacularly.

“now that you mention it, everything is quite blurry.” he’s practically vibrating with joy as you carefully clean his lenses with the hem of your shirt, the same ritual you’ve performed a thousand times before. “if only someone could help me with that.”

“i suppose i could assist. just this once.” your fingers are gentle as you clean the glass, and you can feel the way he’s watching you, like you’re performing some kind of miracle.

“just this once,” he agrees solemnly, but he’s practically bouncing on his toes as you slide them back onto his face. 

when the glasses settle into place, his eyes are bright and clear and so full of love it makes your chest tight. you can see yourself reflected in the lenses, and there’s something intimate about it, like you’re the only thing in his field of vision that matters.

“better?” you ask, and your voice comes out softer than you intended.

“much better.” his hands find your waist, tentative and careful, like he’s afraid you might bolt. “hi.”

“hi yourself.” you glance at the counter, where approximately ten apples remain, and then back at his hopeful face. he’s already bracing himself, probably preparing for apple-induced martyrdom, and there’s something so endearing about his willingness to suffer for you that it makes your heart do that fluttery thing again.

“i think i’ve punished you enough for one night,” you say finally, and you can feel the way the words change everything between you.

satoru, already bracing for apple number ten, blinks in surprise. “really? i mean, i’m prepared to die by fruit if that’s what it takes, but—”

“come here.” you open your arms, and it’s like watching a dam break.

his whole face crumples in the softest way, and then he’s crossing the kitchen in two strides, practically folding himself into your chest like a tired puppy. his reading glasses bump against your collarbone as he burrows closer, and you can feel the tension leaving his shoulders like a physical thing. he’s warm and solid and slightly trembling, and you can feel the way he’s trying to get as close as possible, like he’s afraid you might change your mind.

you both sink onto the couch, a tangle of limbs and forgiveness. he drapes himself over you like a weighted blanket with abandonment issues, his long frame somehow managing to curl around you completely. his head finds its way to your chest, and you can feel the way his breathing starts to even out as you run your fingers through his hair.

“you smell like apples,” he mumbles against your throat, and you can feel the curve of his smile against your skin. “and spite.”

“you deserve both.” your fingers find the spots he likes best, the places that make him melt like ice cream in summer.

“i do.” his voice is muffled, but you can hear the contentment in it, the way he’s finally starting to relax.

you end up tangled under a throw blanket, legs intertwined like puzzle pieces that have finally found their match. his cold nose is tucked into your neck, and you can feel the way he’s breathing you in like you’re his favorite scent. your fingers card through his hair absently, and you can feel the way he shivers slightly at the touch.

“i missed you,” he whispers against your throat, and his voice is so small it makes your heart ache.

“i know. me too.” the admission feels like stepping into sunlight after a long winter.

he kisses your collarbone, a soft press of lips that makes your skin tingle. then your jaw, your temple, the tip of your ear. each kiss is different, some apologetic, some grateful, some tinged with the promise of more. it’s like he’s apologizing in a language only your skin understands, each press of his lips a small plea for forgiveness.

you murmur something about the tiramisu still sitting on the counter, and he groans dramatically, the sound vibrating against your chest.

“it can wait. i’m too full of regret and love.” his arm tightens around you, and you can feel the way he’s trying to memorize this moment.

“you’re so dramatic.” but there’s fondness in your voice, the kind that comes from years of loving someone’s quirks.

“you married me.” he pulls back slightly to look at you, and his hair is sticking up in odd directions from your fingers. his glasses are slightly askew, and there’s a soft smile playing at his lips.

“unfortunately.” you reach up to fix his glasses, and he leans into the touch like a cat seeking warmth.

“you adore me.” it’s not a question, and the confidence in his voice makes you want to kiss him and strangle him in equal measure.

you do. painfully, irrevocably, in ways that terrify and exhilarate you. so you pull the blanket tighter around both of you and let him cling like a vine, whispering stupid nothings into your hair about how he’s going to buy you a whole italian restaurant if that’s what it takes, how he’s going to quit medicine and become a professional dinner-rememberer, how you’re too good for him and he’s the luckiest bastard alive.

his voice is getting sleepier, the words slurring together as exhaustion finally catches up with him. you can feel the way his breathing is starting to even out, how his grip on you is loosening just slightly. there’s something peaceful about it, the way he trusts you enough to let his guard down completely.

because satoru gojo may miss dinner reservations, but he always comes back to you like gravity, like tide to shore, like everything inevitable and right in the world. and tonight, wrapped in his ridiculous apologies and the lingering taste of tiramisu, that’s enough.

[daisybvck]

Nasty Bucky

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Summary: Bucky eats you out and he’s nasty about it

Warning: ABSOLUTE FILTH, Bucky eating your pussy, smut smut smuttt, cum eating, pussy spanking 

Word count: 1k+

Nasty!Bucky who spits on your pussy while eating you out just to watch it slide down your puffy folds until it dips to your entrance. shoving his tongue inside your hole and fucking his saliva deeper inside, chuckling against you when he feels you clench around his hot tongue. “you like that, sweetheart?” words hot and thick against your sticky cunt. 

Bucky gets impatient with not having an answer and pulls away just to spank your pussy, using his metal hand. “asked you a question,” he says sternly, catching your attention. you immediately squeal, voice breaking with a “y-yes! oh god, i love it, Bucky!” you can barely make out a muffled, “good girl, just needa use your words f’me” before he’s spreading your folds open wide, watching as you blossom pink and flushed for him before licking up your slit and sucking your clit directly into his mouth.

Nasty!Bucky who lets his tongue wander when he’s going down on you, slipping inside your ass and feeling your pussy clench around his metal fingers that are still stuffing your cunt full. “quit squirmin’, doll,” he pulls his fingers out, coated in your slick, just to meanly slap your pussy, again, twice before spreading your thighs further.

His tongue licking around your puckered hole, “gonna let me fuck you? want me to fill you up the way no man ever has?” his voice deep and rough, eyes flaring with something possessive, getting off on corrupting you.

Nasty!Bucky who fucks you hard just to see you squirt all over him. his thrusts are nothing short of cruel, swollen tip pushing against your abused g-spot over and over again. you feel the pressure building, your thighs threatening to close from the intense feeling but Bucky won’t have it.

His strong palms are shoving your legs apart and driving his hips even harder into the same spot. you try to warn him, voice wavering with each rough crash of his pelvis against your ass, but he only presses his hand down on your lower stomach, amplifying the sensation until you finally spray.

His chest is glistening from your gushing pussy and you feel a wave of embarrassment knowing you’re the direct cause for the sheen on his abs. Before you can think too much about it, Bucky’s pulling out and diving face first into your cunt. “Hey hey, it’s okay sweet girl, you just needed a good fucking huh?”

He licks at your folds, thumb rubbing harsh circles into your clit as your juices continue to flood his face despite you trying your hardest to make it stop. he runs his face back and forth across your silky skin and groans hoarsely, basking in your taste as he shoves his tongue inside your pussy.

“James!! s’ too much—fuck!” you cry out, muscles giving out as you try to push his head away. he pulls his head back only to spit on your pussy, giving her two more rushed licks before sitting up on his knees once more, stroking his cock and fucking you right back in the same rhythm, a dirty combination of slick and squirt decorating the lower half of his face, coating his lips and that damn smirk you love so much.

Nasty!Bucky who fucks you in missionary just to watch you cry. the way he rams his cock into you is nothing short of mean, his eyes half lidded in lust and his fingers intertwined with your own as he holds them above your head. you’re rendered helpless, forced to take every rough thrust of his hips even when it’s too much. your cunt begins clenching around him too tight, the slight pain that the stretch of his fat cock gives you growing more intense with each relentless thrust.

You can’t even help the big tears welling up in your lash line or your bottom lip quivering as you begin to pout at him. “B-Buck, it’s too deep. fuck, you’re too deep!” you begin to whine out, head turning back and forth against the plush pillow, body being run for all its worth and feeling the twitches throughout your frame in an unfamiliar pattern—you’re at your limit. and he’s still not through.

“just gotta make sure i get all of it, you know this, doll,” his nose is dragging along the column of your throat, his balls slapping wetly against your ass as he ensures every inch of his cock is snug inside your overstimulated pussy. your eyes shut and the tears begin to fall, your heels digging into the dip of his spine to pull him even deeper, body conflicting itself and somehow still begging for more.

“there she is, that’s—fuck sakes—that’s my good girl,” he praises once he feels you pulling him in even closer, head pulling back to look you in the eyes before flattening his tongue against your jaw, licking all the way up your cheek and savoring the salty taste of your tears.

“taste so sweet. you’re cryin’ for it. My baby’s poor little pussy can’t get enough even with all your whinin’,” his words are punctuated with a soft chuckle before he begins lapping at the opposite side of your face. his wet tongue moves slowly across your skin, the humiliation causing soft sobs to fall from your swollen lips but his hips never stop moving. his leaky tip rams against your cervix with each thrust while he presses a wet kiss to the corner of your eye. “so pretty when you cry, we both know how much you want this, how much you need it.”

Nasty!Bucky who can't help himself from eating his own cum out of your pussy. he'd long since lost count of how many times he felt your cunt flutter around him, coming over and over from his insatiable desire to fuck you for all he's worth. he didn't give you time to recover after an orgasm, and if you're honest, you can't be sure you can tell the difference between one ending and the next one washing over your overstimulated body.

Bucky had inhumane stamina, the super serum obviously had its perks, and the bedroom happened to be one of the places it showcases the best. He can go for hours, never getting tired of your broken moans ringing through his ears or that frothy ring of your cum that coats the base of his cock. but when he does finally come, it doesn't mean he's anywhere close to being done with you. He could never get tired of you.

Nasty!Bucky who fills you with so much of his cum that it can't possibly all fit inside of your pussy. it spills out even with him still driving his hips forward to push it deeper, making a mess of your thighs, and his heavy balls as it overflows. The soft silk sheets beneath you now soaking with a mix of your cum. Bucky simply doesn't care and groans out in a raspy tone as he feels his orgasm last longer than normal, his cock somehow still filling you with more of his hot, sticky load.

When he eventually pulls out, he's immediately dropping to his stomach and pushing the backs of your thighs towards your chest. you've never looked so messy before, he's sure of it, as he licks up the thick stream of white pouring out of your sloppy folds. his eyes shut as he revels in the taste of your combined cum, bumping your clit with his nose while his tongue laps at your quivering entrance as he cleans up the mess he made of you. 

He humps the sheets with messy thrusts, “open those eyes for me angel.” You open your eyes and Bucky groans against your cunt, he sucks and bites your clit and it has you whimpering. The look in his eyes is so soft in comparison to how he’s wrecking you. He kisses your clit and moans loudly, his cum spilling all over the sheets but his eyes never left yours. 

[j3llyc4kes]

you’re on your knees, spine curved just right, and satoru’s behind you.

big hands gripping your hips so tightly. his cock drags slow and deep, loooong strokes that make your toes curl, his chest pressed to your back as he leans in to kiss your shoulder, voice warm and breathy against your skin.

“feels good, yeah?” he murmurs, brushing your hair aside so he can mouth at your neck. “you take me so well, baby. so fuckin’ pretty like this…”

you gasp out a soft, needy “harder…”—barely more than a whisper—he freezes. for half a second. because oh fuck, that tone? the way your voice wavers? asking him to go harder?

his hips snap forward before he can stop himself.

“shiiiit,” he groans, dropping his forehead to your back as he rolls his hips in deeper, rougher now, but still holding you like you’re something delicate. like he’d fall apart if he hurt you.

“you like that, huh? my sweet girl wants it harder?”

his hand slides down, fingers brushing your clit in slow circles while his cock fucks you into the mattress, pace picking up but still so controlled. so satoru.

he’s groaning now, breath stuttering in time with his thrusts, and you can feel how hard he’s trying to hold on just for you.

“keep talkin’ to me, baby,” he pants, lips brushing your ear. “wanna hear it again… wanna hear that pretty little voice say it…”

you moan it again—“harder, toru, please”—and that’s all it takes for him absolutely lose it.

he wraps an arm around your waist, pulls you up, flush to him, and fucks you through it, sweet nothings spilling from his mouth in between ragged breaths. praises, kisses, promises to make you come again and again.

he loves it when you ask him to go harder.

and satoru gojo never, ever runs out of stamina to prove he can give you exactly what you want.

© j3llyc4kes

:3 please check out my other works! here’s the master list! <3

[st4rofeden]

making out w phainon in the library's depths

He kisses you like the air's about to run out.

there's no warning, only the sharp inhale— and then Phainon is on you, his mouth devouring yours in a kiss that feels like a confession and a coronation all at once. his hand slips beneath your jaw, thumb brushing your cheekbone reverently— like he's memorizing you by touch alone.

and you? You don't dare breathe.

not when his other hand finds your waist, dragging you up against him, chest to chest, heart to trembling heart.

"Shameless" you whisper against his lips, dizzy with the heat building between you.

"devoted" he corrects, voice rough. "that I restrained myself this long."

you let out an 'mmph' as he walks you backward, never breaking the kiss, rather, presses his lips harder against yours, tongue sliding in— until your spine meets one of the tall library shelves with a muted thud. scrolls rustle beside you, precariously unbothered. somewhere in the loft, a candle flickers in warning.

he presses in closer, caging you in with his arms. one of his legs slides between yours, pressing the heat between your thighs, deliberate.

"I smell the risk of someone walking in" you murmur, dazed.

"only if you're loud. don't worry, I'll just swallow it all" and you choke on a laugh— only for it to turn breathless when his mouth moves from yours to your jaw, your throat.

his lips trail slowly — too slowly— nipping down to the base of your neck, then lower. one hand slips under the fabric your shirt, splayed warm against bare skin.

he glances up.

"Permission, dawnlight?"

you nod.

his hand explores upward, fingertips reverent, tracing lines like poetry on skin. he kisses your collarbone. then your shoulder. then a spot just under your ear that makes your knees buckle slightly.

he holds you up, the corner of his lips quirks up, looks down at your flustered cheeks. "always so sensitive. though I should remind you, the shelves are judgmental."

you gasp when his warm hands dips down, caressing your hips, thumb circling a spot that makes you arch just barely.

"we're in a library."

"and this is a lesson in anatomy. would you prefer I use diagrams?"

your hands fist in his shirt, dragging him back into another kiss — deeper now, open-mouthed, sloppy and aching. His hips press forward instinctively, grinding just enough to make you shudder. His breath catches, and he lets out a low, broken sound that makes your toes curl.

"You're dangerous" you whisper against his lips.

he grins— flushed, unrepentant, eyes dark and gleaming.

"dangerous? I was merely indulging your sinful act." he says, voice rough against your mouth that made you shiver. "weren't you the one tempting me to take you right here, darling?"

your muffled moans are audible as he presses against you. you kiss him again, and this time you both forget what silence is.

somewhere, a scroll falls. neither of you notices.

[thebestandworstdayofjune]

Oh my goooodness your Clark Kent 💕 thank you so much, I could read about them forever (but I'd also settle for a little blurb?) 😘 thanks for writing!

oh my goodness, you are so sweet, thank you so much! this is a little blurb I based on an All-Star Superman panel. i hope you enjoy, lovely <3 feel free to send any requests my way

“I’m so, so sorry.” It wasn’t an uncommon sight, your boyfriend stood outside of your apartment door, shoulders hunched and a bouquet of your favorite flowers held tightly in one hand. 

You stood to the side, motioning him in. You shut the door gently, turning to face him while leaning back against it. “You don’t have to say you’re sorry, Clark. I know that you are.” 

He was rifling through the cabinets above your stove, and you were doing your best not to be envious of how easy it was for him to reach. “I am sorry. I know it upset you.” 

Clark’d had to cancel date night for the third time this month due to another monster crushing it’s way through the arts district. Was it your favorite side effect of dating a superhero? No. But it wasn’t unexpected. “I wasn’t upset.” You pushed off against the door, arms crossing over your chest. 

“Honey,” he paused from where he was filling the vase. “We promised no more lies.” More accurately, he’d promised no more lies, vehemently and repeatedly, after you had gently confronted him about his caped crusade. You’d agreed instantly, while insisting that you understood why the lie was necessary in the first place. 

“I wasn’t angry with you.” 

“I could hear you crying from five miles away.” Your heart stuttered. 

“What do you mean?” your voice was small, and you did your best to push the words past the lump in your throat. He froze, vase in hand as if he was realizing for the first time what he said. “I know you said you have super hearing, but it’s hard to believe its…” you paused, struggling for the proper phrasing. “That, um, super.” You finished, scrunching up your nose at the inelegant choice of words. 

Clark took a deep breath, setting the flowers down on the counter and running his hands through his messy mop of curls. “It’s usually not.” Clark’s cheeks were quickly turning pink, and you were certain if he didn’t look so flustered he would have heard the way your heart stuttered at the sight and given you grief for it. 

“Okay, spaceman,” you took a tentative step towards him, and when he opened his arms for you, you quickly found your way into his arms. You leaned your cheek against his chest, your right hand tracing circles on his side. “Care to fill me in?” 

“I worry.” 

You couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled up. The little crinkles in between his eyebrows were making an appearance, and you were so grateful that you were finally together, and therefore had leeway to smooth them out with your thumb. Clark let you for a few moments, before taking your hand in his own and placing a kiss against your knuckles. “I might’ve trained myself to make sure I can hear you from across the city.” 

All you could do was blink up at him. You had heard a lot of crazy things since acquiring an alien boyfriend, but this was another level. “You are going to have to expand on that one.” 

“I want to make sure that I can get to you, if something were to happen.” Oh no, the laugh was back, and so were Clark’s worry lines. “No, Clark, it’s so sweet. It also just happens to be insane.” 

“It’s not insane!” his voice cracked halfway through, and your laughter grew. “It’s not!” He looked so grumpy, you couldn’t help it. Your hands found his shoulders and you hauled yourself up on your tiptoes, kissing the frown off his face. You felt his frown quickly turn to a smile as his arms wrapped tightly around your waist, pressing you impossibly closer. 

You pulled back just far enough to meet his eyes. “It’s a little insane.” 

“More or less insane that I have done the same for Jimmy, just in case?” 

You threw your head back and cackled. It was far and beyond his favorite sound.

[hoodzgyal]

yea miss girl imma need you to elaborate on the post about jay’s freak ass loving a bitch who runs from the big dick she was begging for

jason “don’t run from the dick” todd LOVES runners.

he thinks it’s the most precious thing in the world, the way you beg and plead and whine for him to fuck you, only for you to gasp and writhe attempting to close your legs because the pleasure is overwhelming.

it’s funny, to him at least, because he hasn’t even started going as fast as he wants yet, but you’re already running from that third leg of his.

“nah, nah nah,” he’ll chide, a cocky smile blooming across his lips as he grasps for your hips, “ain’t this what you ask for, mama? don’t run from it.”

he’ll push your legs back open, humming as you huff and whine, barely able to get a word out. his thumb finds your clit, gently rubbing circles over it as you moan. “see, i just wanna make you feel good, baby. you’ll let me do that for ya, hm?”

and you’re nodding, pathetically babbling the word “yes” over and over as his hips rock into yours at a punishing pace.

[softaestluv]

Turning Page

You work at the library Simon and his daughter frequent.

single dad! alpha Simon Riley x librarian! omega reader

tags | alpha! Simon Riley, Omega! Reader, a/b/o dynamics, mentions of mating bonds, heat, scenting, fluff, angst

chapter 8 | masterlist | ao3

──────────────

Story time turns into lunch breaks spent with him and Clementine. Coffee or Ice cream— Mint’s personal favorite.

The weekends turn into date night. Breakfast at your place, cooking dinner with Clementine at his.

Dinner turns into bedtime for Clementine, which turns into Simon pressing you into his couch cushions, teeth grazing skin, fingers dimpling flesh, nose buried in your scent gland.

He has to stop himself every time he starts to rut into your clothed cunt like some dog, lapping at your neck desperately. Every time you begin to whimper in his ear, baring your neck for him so prettily, the plea for him to sink his teeth into your skin dying on your tongue.

It’s a routine, until it isn’t.

100-degree fever is the culprit.

He woke up to his sweet Mint sniffling with tears in the corners of her eyes, skin pale as ever.

“Papa, I don’t feel good.” She had barely managed to croak quietly to him.

“Oh, baby girl.” He cooed, placing the back of his hand on her already sweaty forehead, “Think you got a fever.”

He scoops her into his arms, her little mermaid pajamas damp where his palm and forearm press, “What hurts, baby? Your head?”

She snuggles into the crook of his neck, tiny nose pressed to his scent gland for comfort with a small nod.

“Yeah? Poor girl,” He murmurs, rubbing circles into her back soothingly, “Daddy’s gonna give you some medicine, okay?”

She shakes her head in protest, whining weakly against his skin.

“I know, pup, but it’s the cherry one. You like that one, remember?”

It takes a few sips, several dramatic grimaces, multiple gulps of water, and an abundance of negotiation on Simon’s part to get her to finish the medicine, but she eventually does. His brave girl.

He gives her a bath after, washing away the sweat clinging to her skin. She holds on to him the entire time, eyes fluttering and falling heavy with each passing second. By the time he lifts her out of the bath and changes her into a new set of pajamas she’s snuggling into his hold, pale skin turned rosy from the warm water.

He lays her across his chest after, lying out on the couch before putting on her favorite cartoon. It’s her favorite spot; it’s his favorite spot. His pup curled up on his chest, tucked into his arms— safe.

Except, now his Clementine is in pain, tiny brows furrowed, prominent pout on her lips, and small paws fisting his shirt. There's already a streak of sweat forming on her forehead again, but her little body is shivering like she’s freezing.

He rubs her back, runs his fingers through her blonde curls, and presses kisses into her scalp as he projects his scent, trying his best to soothe her with his alpha pheromones. She presses deeper into him when he does, searching for the comfort only he can provide.

He sees the moment the medicine kicks in, the moment her eyes finally shut and she falls asleep in her safe space.

The first time his pup got sick she was just a baby, smaller than his forearm, and he thought his world was crashing around him. He was useless at the time, didn’t know what his baby girl needed to feel better. He had trembled at the sight of her pouting and afraid.

Now, he’s a better father, replaced the calluses on his palm with smoother skin. Learned how to soothe her, nurse her back to health instead of slaughtering those who faced the barrel of his gun.

Clementine wakes up just as he’s finishing making her soup. He doubts her stomach will hold it down, but she hasn’t had anything to eat since the night before.

She patters into the kitchen, fat tears rolling down her chubby cheeks, “Daddy!”

“What’s wrong?” He asks, brows furrowing with worry.

She balls her fists at her side, her tears collecting at the collar of her shirt, “Story time! Daddy, we missed story time!”

“Mint, you’re sick.” He exhales a chuckle of relief. “We couldn’t have gone.”

Clementine isn’t pleased with this answer because she starts to sob harder, choking on her breaths in seconds. He pulls her into his arms at that, shushing her softly as he carries her to the couch and sets her in his lap.

“Hey, pup, look at daddy.” He cups her face, wiping the tears away with his thumb, voice dipped lower, comforting. She’s trying her best to speak, blubbering through her tears. “I know, baby. I know you’re sad. It’s okay, you’re okay.”

He holds her tiny hand to his chest, taking deep breaths with her until she’s able to breathe without hiccuping.

“There we go, pup. Good job.” He praises, alpha rumbling in his chest, “We can go next week when you feel better. But you want to know how we can do that?”

Clementine nods, bottom lip wobbling. His sweet girl.

“You gotta eat your soup, take your medicine, and get lots of sleep. You think you can do that?” He asks, tapping on her chest with each reason.

She nods again, climbing off his lap to her bowl of soup.

By the time she’s finished her soup and he’s managed to feed her some more medicine she’s ready for bed. He lets her sleep in his bed for the night instead of squishing both of them onto her much smaller bed.

He doesn’t nest, it’s not in his instincts, but he lays her favorite stuffies and blankets around the bed the best he can manage. Corduroy hugged tightly to her chest, her head snug to his arm and shoulder.

He’s so concerned with Clementine’s health, that he almost misses the message that pings his phone.

‘Didn’t see you and Clementine at story time today. Hope everything is well!’ —and there’s that damn heart you always use at the end of your message.

Clementine barely moves when the doorbell rings the following day, but when she sees you, books in arms, she jumps up from the couch.

“Miss Librarian! What are you doing?”

You smile at him in greeting before bending down to her height. “Well, I heard that you were sick and weren’t able to come to story time this week.”

Clementine nods. “But I took medicine like daddy said.”

“I'm glad you are. Gotta get healthy to come to story time again, right?” You agree, “But, in the meantime, I’ve brought the book we read yesterday. Do you want to read it with me?”

Simon practically sees stars in Clementine’s eyes, gasping as she nods her head eagerly.

“Yes! Yes!” She’s already dragging you to her bedroom before you finish your sentence.

You examine her room, eyes stopping on her makeshift library, “Wow, you’ve got your own mini library, don’t you?”

“Yep, but it’s not as big as yours.” She pats the empty spot next to her on her bed.

You chuckle at that, “Well, maybe one day you can have your very own library even bigger than mine.”

A Bad Case Of The Stripes.

It’s a bit fitting considering Mint’s health.

She sits in your lap as you read to her, tiny feet wiggling as she focuses on the pictures on each page, gasping at each new design on the little girl as Simon stands in the entryway.

He’s a little scared to walk in, sit on the bed with the two of you that definitely doesn’t have enough space for the three of you, so he admires from the door. He watches Mint read with you every week, but now it’s in her room, curled in your lap.

You underestimate his Mint, just a bit— ‘Do you want to try reading with me or are you not feeling up to it?’

Mint makes you read it with her four more times until she’s tuckered out, rubbing her eyes with a small yawn, and turning around in your lap to snuggle into your hold.

“Miss. Librarian?”

“Yes?”

“Are you my new mom?”

Simon watches your mouth part, eyes flickering over her face to find the right words, voice soft as you answer.

“I’m whatever you want me to be, sweetheart.”

──────────────

@succulambb @casualhel @weeping-treee @lumilily @tessakate @shitaaba @lucienofthelakes @nocturnal-nyx @aphinthestars @muraaaaaa @night-shadowblood-writes2 @whos-fran @thetastewassweeter @eremika104 @animegamerfox @oaksgrove @dawnnightshade666 @chaieanne @trulovekay @appalachianecho @grossitsluca @noonespecial2347 @spidersuneee @ihe4rtme @lunamoonbby @iaozuyiling @aggiesramble @novthewolf @irondreamerface @chaos-on-stand-bi @callsignpxnguin @flowerluvr @whatdoyxumean @sleepybunnygirly @cd-mr @cod-bin @crackheadwithtoes @diasnohibng @bookies16 @amberbalcom14 @vajjaa

[jihyoruri]

❚ ❚ ❚ ❚ ❚ ❚ ❚ ❚ MAKE YOU MINE kazuha nakamura x reader

♬ I wanna make you mine…

❀ ͘ ⴰ up next | ⭢ miss possessive

↳ warnings yn is apart of aespa and the definition of nepotism , kazuha is down bad and doesn’t care about anything but yn, fluff, tension, desperation

kazuha was a quiet girl. she kept to herself most of the time, focused on her own world. she was never the type to step outside the comfort of her group, and honestly, she liked it that way. the calm, the routine, the. predictability, it suited her. she liked that she could stay in her lane, not worry about anyone but herself and her members.

that was until her.

her, as in yn.

of course kazuha knew aespa. she would’ve had to be living under a rock not to. the amount of times her members had interacted with theirs made it impossible not to be aware. 

but yn? everyone knew yn. not just as a member of aespa, but as yn.

they had never been formally introduced. not a handshake, not even a shared word, but kazuha knew who she was. how could she not?

her dad’s side were money people, manhattan apartments, art galleries, and weekend getaways to europe. and her mom’s side? let’s just say she has two aunts named jessica and krystal jung. nepotism? absolutely . but yn carried herself like she didn’t owe anyone an explanation for it. and somehow, that made kazuha notice her even more.

but it wasn’t until one night, when kazuha was laid up in bed, phone dimmed to night mode, that it really hit her. she came across a video of aespa’s youngest on a radio show with the rest of her group. and even through the screen, even surrounded by older members, yn’s confidence was loud. not obnoxious, just magnetic. like she knew she didn’t need to try.

kazuha blinked, then tapped on the tag under the video #yn. she scrolled. and scrolled. and scrolled.

forty minutes later, she was still at it.

yeah. she was down bad.

it was only when her thumb paused on a fancam compilation that she really registered what was happening. this wasn’t just casual admiration. this wasn’t just “oh she’s pretty.” this was full blown celebrity crush territory. 

and the weirdest part? they weren’t even that far apart. same industry, same circles. technically, kazuha could run into her. technically, she had a chance.

she tried to tell herself she’d stop after one more video. then another. and another. until one clip made her freeze.

it was a fan filmed moment, yn and yunjin laughing together at an event.

kazuha sat up.

yunjin.

“you’re interested in yn?” yunjin asked the next morning, looking at kazuha like she’d just confessed a felony. “like… yn from aespa?”

kazuha nodded, a bright smile on her face, eyes practically glowing. she felt different—like something inside her had shifted overnight. who knew a crush could flip your entire vibe like this?

“kazuha…” yunjin said slowly, narrowing her eyes like she was trying to read the younger girl’s soul. “sit down.”

kazuha obediently took a seat, still smiling, waiting for whatever serious revelation yunjin clearly thought she needed to hear.

“I’m gonna tell you something about your new little fixation,” yunjin said, folding her arms. “her ex girlfriend is wonyoung.”

if it had been anyone else, kazuha might’ve gasped, blinked in shock, maybe even reconsidered. but instead, she just tilted her head, unfazed, still waiting because so what? wonyoung or not, she didn’t care. that wasn’t enough to make her back off.

yunjin sighed, like she already knew this was a bad idea.

“look, apparently everyone thinks they’re gonna get back together one day. like, even though they’re broken up, there’s still this… thing between them. it’s like wonyoung still has this unspoken claim on her, you know? no one really tries to go after yn. they just don’t.”

kazuha didn’t flinch.

girls like kazuha, the ones that keep to themselves, who don’t really interact much with others, seem to have a certain drive when they want things, and who knew a girl over everything would cause kazuha to act like this.

yunjin started at the girl in shock, “oh so you’re serious?”

“yep.”

who would've thought that this was what it would take to light a fire under kazuha?

yunjin stared at her, still trying to process the shift.

“oh,” she said slowly, eyebrows raised. “so you’re actually serious?”

kazuha nodded, completely calm. “yep.”

no hesitation. no second thoughts.

kazuha leaned casually against the hallway wall, nodding politely at idols who passed by. usually, she’d be tucked away in her group’s dressing room, avoiding unnecessary interaction but not today. today, she was on a mission.

her eyes scanned the crowd with quiet focus, searching for one face.

she was just about to give up and head back when she finally saw her.

yn stood in front of the vending machine, a half-eaten pretzel stick lazily hanging from her lips as she squinted at the snack options. completely unbothered, completely in her own world.

kazuha’s body moved before her brain could catch up feet already carrying her across the hallway like muscle memory. she stopped just behind yn, taking a brief second to admire her up close. flawless skin, sharp jaw, that effortless energy that pulled people in without trying.

she cleared her throat gently.

yn turned, pretzel still in her mouth, eyebrows raising slightly in surprise.

“need a suggestion?” kazuha asked, a soft smile tugging at her lips.

yn glanced over her shoulder, one brow raised in mild curiosity, but after a beat, she gave a small nod.

“I  like the peach milkis,” kazuha offered, eyes flicking to the vending machine, then back to the girl in front of her. “it’s kind of underrated.”

yn hummed, scanning the options again before slipping some coins into the machine. 

“thanks,” she said casually, pressing the button. the can dropped with a clunk.

she turned back, a hint of amusement in her eyes. “kazuha, right?”

kazuha’s smile widened just a little. “yeah.”

and just like that, her name sounded different coming from yn’s mouth. warmer. familiar

“I’m yn,” she said, lifting the can to her lips, eyes locked on kazuha’s like she was trying to read her.

kazuha felt the weight of that gaze, but didn’t flinch. “I know,” she replied before immediately catching herself. “I mean, sorry, nice to meet you.”

yn’s lips curled slightly around the rim of the can, clearly amused.

“you’re friends with yunjin unnie, right?” kazuha added, hoping to recover some of her composure.

yn nodded slowly, still watching her. “something like that.”

a brief silence settled between them, not awkward, but thick with something unsaid. kazuha could feel her own pulse in her ears, her usually calm demeanor just barely holding steady under yn’s gaze.

she cleared her throat, grasping for anything to say. “uh… so, is the drink good?”

yn took another sip, slow and deliberate, eyes never once leaving kazuha’s face. she finally pulled the can away, lips curving into a small, knowing smirk.

“yeah,” she said, voice smooth. “good taste.”

kazuha felt a flutter in her chest, something ridiculous for a simple compliment, but yn had that effect made the most mundane words feel like they were wrapped in something electric.

“you always hang around vending machines giving drink advice?” yn added, tilting her head slightly, playful now.

kazuha smiled, a little shy but still holding her ground. “only when a pretty girl is having trouble finding a drink.”

yn blinked, caught off guard just for a second before laughing under her breath, shaking her head like she hadn’t expected that from her.

“cute,” she murmured, lifting the drink again. “I’ll see you around, kazuha.”

and just like that, she turned and walked off down the hallway, leaving kazuha standing there heart racing, smile threatening to break across her face.

kazuha was curled up in bed, phone resting on her chest, when her bedroom door flew open with a loud thud.

“wonyoung’s ex? really, kazuha?” chaewon barked as she stormed in, arms crossed and eyebrows raised so high they nearly disappeared into her hairline.

yunjin followed right behind her, looking visibly panicked, eyes darting between the two like she was preparing to mediate a full blown crisis.

kazuha blinked, barely sitting up, groggy and confused. “what, wait, how did you—?”

“don’t act innocent,” chaewon snapped, pacing at the foot of the bed. “you leave the room for ten minutes and suddenly you’re planning your wedding with the one girl who comes with a warning label written in bold red letters “‘wonyoung’s ex.’”

kazuha rubbed her eyes and groaned, muttering, “seriously,how did you know?”

yunjin held up her hands, breathless. “I might’ve… mentioned it… hypothetically.”

chaewon spun around, eyes wide in disbelief. “oh my god, you are actually insane, kazuha. have you ever even heard of girl code?”

kazuha sat up straighter, arms crossed over her chest, clearly unbothered. “I don’t even talk to wonyoung.”

chaewon scoffed. “that’s not the point! it’s an unspoken rule. you don’t go near someone who’s had history with a girl like wonyoung especially not that kind of history.”

“what kind of history?” kazuha asked, feigning innocence but fully aware of the storm she was stirring.

yunjin buried her face in her hands. “oh no, she’s gone. we’ve lost her.”

“do you know how bad this is gonna be for me if you and yn actually start something?” chaewon exclaimed, throwing her hands up. “like, seriously?”

“calm down,” kazuha said, trying to sound rational even though her heart was anything but. “it was just one conversation. seriously. she probably forgot about it already.”

“she called you cute,” yunjin muttered, almost too quietly like she regretted it the second the words left her mouth.

kazuha’s eyes snapped toward her, a sharp are you serious? glare shooting across the room.

“she called you cute?!” chaewon practically shrieked, eyes bulging. “oh my god. we’re all doomed.”

“can you guys relax?” kazuha huffed, running a hand through her hair. “so what if they dated? that has nothing to do with me.”

“no, that’s the problem,” chaewon snapped, stepping closer. “wonyoung’s been planning to get back together with yn for months.”

kazuha blinked, momentarily thrown.

“it doesn’t matter if they broke up,” chaewon continued, voice rising. “in her mind, yn is still hers. and everyone knows it.”

“except yn, apparently,” kazuha muttered under her breath.

yunjin winced. “you’re playing a dangerous game, zuha.”

kazuha didn’t know what had gotten into her lately, but one thing about her: when she wanted something, she didn’t hesitate. she wasn’t the type to chase after people but if she wanted yn, she was going to take her shot.

the next time she saw her, though, it wasn’t something she planned. it wasn’t a hallway run in or a carefully timed interaction.

it just happened.

kode.

a concept pretty simple, two strangers from the entertainment industry exchange messages without knowing who the other is.

kazuha didn’t expect much when she accepted the invite. maybe a harmless back and forth, something fun for the fans.

but when her first message popped up on screen and she read the response, something in her stomach flipped.

witty. bold. effortless.

and god, it sounded just like yn.

kazuha watches the messages come in, her phone lighting up with each new notification from her anonymous partner. but it doesn’t feel anonymous for long.

the way she types quick, a little chaotic, like she’s thinking faster than her fingers can keep up. the sarcasm laced with just the right amount of charm. the lock screen, a blurry photo of someone, nobody in their right mind would be able to figure out who it was because of the angle, but…

kazuha stares at the screen longer than she probably should.

she already knows.

there’s no real reason to be sure, but deep down, she is. it’s yn. she’d bet on it.

but she doesn’t say anything.

instead, she plays along. teases back. sends her own home screen an empty ballet studio at dusk, soft lighting, a little lonely. yn or rather, the stranger replies, “figures you'd be dramatic with aesthetics.”

kazuha grins.

definitely yn.

and still, she stays quiet. because half the fun is watching herself fall for her all over again without even realizing it.

when the reveal finally came, kazuha let out a dramatic, exaggerated gasp hand to her chest, eyes wide like she hadn’t already pieced it together ten messages ago.

yn, on the other hand, blinked in surprise, eyes widening the second she saw who was standing in front of her. “wait… you?” she said, eyebrows lifting in disbelief before turning to the camera with a grin. “ I seriously thought it was that one member from triples.”

she let out a soft laugh, shaking her head as if trying to make sense of it all.

kazuha smiled, stepping a little closer, calm and collected as ever. “ I had a feeling it was you,” she said, voice smooth

that was a lie.

she didn’t think it was yn, she knew. from the first message, her whole cadence.

“the blurry photo looked like someone from aespa,” she added, casually, like she hadn’t stared at that photo for a solid five minutes trying not to smile.

yn gave her a knowing look, like she was already catching on. kazuha just tilted her head, still pretending to be surprised just enough to keep things interesting.

as the shoot wrapped, both girls stepped off set, only to be met with a flurry of movement staff rushing in with water bottles, touch up kits, and half a dozen voices talking at once.

but yn held up a hand, subtly signaling her team to give her a moment. kazuha caught the gesture and mirrored it, giving a quick nod to her own staff to hold back.

just for a second, it was quiet again.

“that was fun,” yn said, her tone light but her gaze unwavering as it met kazuha’s. “you were… really fun to talk to.”

there was something in the way she said it, not just polite, not for the cameras. something real, something curious.

kazuha smiled, soft and a little smug. “yeah?”

yn nodded slowly, eyes still locked on hers. “yeah.”

“we should definitely hang out,” yn said, the words casual, but her eyes told a different story focused, searching kazuha’s face like she was trying to solve a puzzle only she could see.

for a split second, kazuha forgot how to breathe.

it felt like the universe had just tilted in her favor. like every quiet move she’d made, every risk she didn’t even admit to taking, had led to this moment. yn’s words weren’t just an invitation they were the key. the green light.

the jackpot.

kazuha managed to keep her expression calm, but inside, she felt like she’d just won the lottery. all of it, worth it.

still, kazuha kept her cool, nodding once, lips tugging into that soft, composed smile she always wore. “yeah,” she said. “I’d like that.”

and she meant it more than she’d meant anything in a long time.

yn smiled back slight, but real and for a moment, neither of them said anything.

they didn’t have to.

because something had started. and both of them felt it.

kazuha sat cross legged on yn’s bed, fingers lightly brushing over the soft duvet as she watched the girl rummage through her closet, pulling out pieces her dad had sent from new york.

“he goes overboard,” yn said, holding up a vintage bomber jacket and tossing it onto the growing pile on the bed. “thinks I live in snow.”

it was kazuha’s second time in the aespa dorms more specifically, yn’s room and thankfully, this time felt a little less like a fever dream.

the first time? an absolute disaster.

kazuha had walked in like she’d forgotten how to function. she’d barely spoken, barely blinked. 

all she could do was stare at the posters on the wall, the perfume bottles lined up on the dresser, the way yn sat cross legged on her own bed like she wasn’t driving kazuha slowly insane. she had spent the entire visit mentally screaming this can’t be real. she was in yn’s room. yn’s.

and none of the cool, carefully crafted persona she had maintained during their hangouts showed up that day.

all the charm, the quiet confidence, the perfectly timed shyness paired with playful flirtation it evaporated the second she stepped inside.

but this time? this time was different.

she was still nervous, sure. but it was manageable. she could speak in full sentences. she could joke. 

she could smile without her heart trying to punch through her chest. yn made it easier, like always laughing, chatting, tossing jackets at her for approval like they’d done this a hundred times.

and for the first time, kazuha wasn’t just trying to be around yn.

she was letting herself enjoy it.

chaewon wasn’t happy with her. yunjin listened patiently to all her little stories about yn, but there was always that pause that flicker of hesitation every time she nodded along. sakura kept giving her looks like she’d completely lost her mind. and eunchae? eunchae was just thrilled that kazuha was finally leaving the house for something other than practice.

chaewon and sakura especially they weren’t subtle about it. kazuha understood. she really did. from the outside, it looked reckless. messy. like she was walking into a storm with her eyes wide open.

but even knowing all that, she couldn’t bring herself to care.

not when yn was standing in front of her like this barefoot, wearing nothing but an oversized chrome hearts t shirt and pajama shorts, her hair slightly tousled, her tone casual like this wasn’t affecting kazuha in a dozen impossible ways.

she looked like some sort of girlfriend. like this was routine.

“I’ve been begging him to look into these isabel marants for me, and he finally did,” yn said, holding up the shoe with a triumphant grin. “he’s a big fashion guy, you know?”

kazuha barely registered the designer name. all she could focus on was the way yn looked in the soft lighting, how she spoke with her whole body like every story needed her hands, her expressions, her presence.

and kazuha knew, chaewon could lecture, sakura could glare, yunjin could hesitate but nothing they said was going to change her mind.

because yn wasn’t just a crush anymore.

she was a choice kazuha had already made.

“they’re cute,” kazuha replied, though her eyes weren’t on the shoes at all. they were on yn, on the way her face lit up when she talked about her dad, how animated her hands got, how her voice softened when she said he finally did it.

“he’s a good guy, huh?” kazuha added, her tone gentler now, more honest.

yn glanced over, smile lingering. “my dad? yeah… he’s amazing. I miss him and my mom sometimes. a lot, actually. I mean, I’m grateful for my aunts, they’ve been through the industry, they get it, but it’s still different, you know?”

she paused, eyes meeting kazuha’s. “you understand, right? being away from home. not just physically, but… away.”

kazuha’s breath caught for a moment. not many people asked her things like that. they asked about ballet, about discipline, about how long she trained but never about that. the ache of distance. the strange weight of leaving everything familiar behind.

she nodded slowly, her voice quieter than before. “yeah. I get it.”

and for the first time, it felt like yn wasn’t just someone she admired from afar she was someone who saw her. really saw her.

kazuha didn’t know exactly how it happened or when.

one moment, they were just talking. about deep things, about stupid things. laughing, teasing, slipping into that easy comfort that only seemed to exist when it was just the two of them, tucked away in yn’s room like the rest of the world didn’t exist.

yn had been digging through her closet, pulling out random pieces with stories behind each one. kazuha was listening half distracted by yn’s voice, half distracted by the way she moved around the room like it was hers and kazuha belonged in it, too.

and then it happened.

yn pulled out a pink beanie, soft and fuzzy, with a cheetah print pattern almost identical to the one she wore too often to be accidental. she held it up with a grin, eyes dancing.

“this suits you,” she said. “you should have it.”

before kazuha could respond, yn was already walking over, stepping between kazuha’s legs where she sat on the edge of the bed. 

she slipped the beanie over kazuha’s head, adjusting it gently, fingers brushing her temples as she tilted her head this way and that.

“cute,” yn murmured, smiling with a soft satisfaction like she’d just finished a masterpiece.

kazuha didn’t know where the confidence came from maybe it was the way yn was so close, her hands still lingering near her face, her eyes warm and focused. maybe it was the way her heart had been beating out of rhythm for the last thirty minutes. or maybe it was the way everything yn did made her feel like she wasn’t just wanted, but seen.

so she let her hand rise, slow but sure, fingers catching the loose neck line of yn’s oversized shirt.

and without overthinking it without giving herself a chance to doubt she pulled.

just enough to close the space.

just enough to press their lips together.

they pulled away slowly, breathless, the air between them charged and humming like static.

kazuha’s hand was still gently curled in the fabric of yn’s shirt, her chest rising and falling a little too fast. she looked up, eyes wide, uncertain like she wasn’t sure if she’d just crossed a line or stepped into something entirely new.

“what… what does this make us?” she asked softly, her voice barely above a whisper, like the words might break if she said them too loud.

yn didn’t look away. not for a second.

her gaze held kazuha’s, steady and sure, like she’d already made up her mind long before the kiss ever happened.

“I think you already know,” she said, voice low, calm like a promise wrapped in certainty.

[dontrllycaretbh]

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Title: Crosscourt

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Azzi Fudd

Warnings:Head injury / concussion, disorientation / confusion, non-consensual or ambiguous sexual situations (due to memory loss), psychological tension and manipulation, power imbalance and control dynamics, intense emotional and sexual obsession, body autonomy questions, identity and reality confusion, mature and explicit sexual content (18+), themes of vulnerability and trust violations.

Summary:Azzi has spent her life obsessed with beating Paige—her greatest rival. But after a brutal practice injury, she wakes up in a strange bed with Paige, tangled in sheets and acting like they’re a couple. Disoriented and terrified, Azzi must face a world where rivalry and intimacy collide, and nothing is as it seems.

Notes: idk if imma continue this but pls interact tho <3

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Azzi Fudd was not built for second place.

She didn’t just want greatness—she was raised in it. Trained for it. Groomed for it. Since she was a child, people whispered her name like it meant something. A promise. A prophecy. A future No. 1 pick.

And she delivered.

Every damn time.

Gatorade Player of the Year. National Champion in high school. Signed to Steph Curry’s brand, handpicked as its first-ever female athlete. She was everywhere—Nike commercials, Team USA camps, college highlight reels.

But none of it mattered unless she beat Paige Bueckers.

Paige: UConn’s golden girl. The white-blonde legacy player who made no-look passes look like ballet. She’d been crowned before she even stepped onto a college court. She didn’t just play basketball—she owned it.

And the world loved her for it.

Azzi didn’t.

To her, Paige was a mirror she wanted to shatter. Every move Paige made, Azzi studied. Not to admire—but to surpass. She didn’t want to be her. She wanted to erase her.

They’d played together once—Team USA—back when things were simpler. But even then, the tension was there.

Now? Paige was UConn.

Azzi was UCLA.

Coasts apart, philosophies apart, but always circling each other like gravity didn’t know who to pull harder.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

And yet, Paige wasn’t the only name in the game.

Caitlin Clark was rewriting shooting records every other week at Iowa. A flamethrower in sneakers.

Lauren Betts—Stanford transfer, towering presence, soft-spoken killer in the paint.

JuJu Watkins, the USC phenom, making defenders look like cones.

Hailey Van Lith, mean with the handle and sharper with her words.

Women’s basketball had leveled up. It was a golden era.

But Azzi didn’t care.

Her eyes stayed on Paige.

Not because Paige was better. She wasn’t. Not anymore.

But because Paige represented something Azzi hadn’t beaten yet.

She hated that.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

Practice that day at UCLA was suffocating in the best way.

August heat seeped through the gym walls like sweat. The team was in full grind mode—sprints, drills, scrimmages, weight sessions. Coaches barked, and no one dared slack.

Azzi was locked in.

Tightly wound.

Every cut was sharp.

Every pass exact.

Every jumper was net.

She didn’t laugh with teammates. She didn’t flirt with the trainers or crack jokes during water breaks. That wasn’t her style. Paige could be soft. Azzi couldn’t afford to be.

“You ever relax, Fudd?” one of the freshmen joked as they ran drills.

Azzi didn’t answer. She didn’t even smile.

She just wiped her face, reset her feet behind the arc, and let the next shot fly.

Swish.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

They were running the same offensive set for the sixth time when it happened.

Azzi called for the screen, cut right, turned—

—and didn’t see the pass coming.

The ball slammed directly into the side of her head.

A sharp, blunt crack of leather on skull.

Her legs buckled. The court tilted.

She hit the floor with a dull, final thud.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧

There was shouting. She heard it underwater.

She tried to open her eyes. Couldn’t.

Someone touched her shoulder.

“Azzi?”

Was that Coach?

Her heart raced. Her limbs went cold.

The lights above her swirled into streaks. Then—nothing.

Black.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

Azzi came back to consciousness slow and painful, like surfacing through cement.

Her head pounded. Every nerve felt raw. She winced, squeezing her eyes shut tighter before forcing them open.

She was lying in a bed. Not hers.

The sheets were soft. Clean. Smelled like fabric softener and sweat.

And there was an arm slung heavily over her waist.

A voice, raspy with sleep, mumbled at her neck.

“Mmm… Az… too early…”

Azzi froze.

Slowly, her gaze darted sideways.

Blonde hair spilled across the pillow in messy tangles. Blue eyes blinked open blearily.

Paige Bueckers.

Azzi’s heart jackhammered.

What the fuck.

Paige was naked.

And so was she.

Azzi yanked the covers just enough to confirm it—and felt nausea roll through her when she saw the state of them. Her skin was covered in faint purple-red marks—Paige’s mouth had been there. Paige’s shoulder and collarbone were bitten.

Her pulse went sickeningly loud in her ears.

Paige, meanwhile, just grinned sleepily. “You okay? You hit your head so bad yesterday at practice. You don’t usually pass out after, but I guess you earned it…”

Azzi tried to speak, but nothing came out.

Paige’s fingers traced circles over her stomach like it was normal.

Like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Azzi felt like she was going to throw up.

She shoved Paige’s arm away and sat bolt upright. Paige blinked, confusion dawning.

“Azzi?”

Azzi scrambled off the bed, her legs tangling in the sheet, almost falling.

“Azzi, wait—baby—”

But she was already grabbing the first clothes she could find off the floor. Loose UConn sweats that weren’t hers, a black practice tee with a Husky logo. She didn’t even care. She just needed space.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

She stumbled out of the bedroom barefoot and into a cramped living room.

There were posters of UConn championships on the walls. A cheap gray couch. A half-eaten pizza on the coffee table next to scattered textbooks and a whiteboard scrawled with practice times and plays.

Two people were sitting on the floor laughing over a game controller.

Caroline Ducharme and KK Arnold.

Caroline saw Azzi first. Her mouth split in a teasing grin.

“Well look who’s finally awake. Thought you two were gonna sleep all day after last night.”

KK cackled. “Yeah, for real, the way y’all were screaming had me wanting earplugs.”

Azzi stared. Words didn’t work.

Caroline tilted her head, hair falling into her face. “You good, Z? You look like you saw a ghost.”

Azzi’s lips parted, then snapped shut.

She forced a swallow.

“Yeah,” she managed hoarsely. “Yeah, I’m…fine.”

She wasn’t fine.

She was so far from fine she couldn’t even see it on the horizon.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

Caroline snorted, leaning back on her hands. “Paige still in bed?”

Azzi didn’t answer.

KK grinned. “Better get back in there before she notices you’re gone. You know how she gets.”

Azzi blinked at them.

KK kept going, oblivious. “Remember the first day you showed up? I asked Paige who the hell you were and she goes ‘oh that’s my sister.’ Cause all she do is lie.”

Caroline laughed. “God, she was so obvious. She was so in love with you it was pathetic. What’s it been, what, two years? Three?”

Azzi’s throat worked. “How long…”

They both stopped laughing.

KK blinked. “What?”

Azzi’s voice shook. “How long have I been at UConn?”

Caroline and KK exchanged a weird glance.

KK shrugged slowly. “Since…day one? I mean…you committed next year Paige did. You guys were the package deal. Everybody knew that.”

Azzi’s stomach dropped to her feet.

She managed another question, voice strangled. “And…me and Paige…how long…like this?”

KK laughed again, though softer now, a bit confused. “Bro. Since day one, really. I remember—she literally told the whole team you were her ‘sister’ at first, but like, no one believed that shit. She was obsessed. Still is.”

Caroline snickered. “Yeah, seriously. Maybe go back to bed before P gets up and crashes out that you’re not there. You know how crazy she gets over you.”

Azzi felt cold all over.

She swallowed. Hard.

“Yeah. No. I’m…good.”

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

She turned on shaky legs and went back to the bedroom. Paige was sitting up now, eyes red like she’d been crying, shirt tugged over her head.

“Azzi, please,” Paige whispered. “Talk to me. You’re scaring me.”

Azzi ignored her. She grabbed her laptop from the cluttered desk in the corner. Paige’s eyes followed her the whole time.

She left without another word.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

She ended up in a quiet corner of the student lounge. It was late enough that no one was around. Her hands shook as she opened the laptop, biting her lip so hard it hurt.

She typed in her own name.

Azzi Fudd UConn.

Google exploded with results.

Her UConn stats. Her recruitment story. Her comeback story.

Photos of her in the navy and white jersey, standing next to Paige, laughing.

Instagram posts of them at practice, at parties, leaning into each other.

The worst were the edits.

“PAZZI 💙🏀”

Video clips of them hugging after wins. Holding hands on the bench. Paige tucking hair behind Azzi’s ear.

But there was no official confirmation.

Every interview dodged the question.

Paige would smirk and say “We’re close.”

Azzi would laugh it off.

But the internet didn’t care. It believed.

She scrolled until her eyes blurred.

Photos. Memes. Headlines:

“Azzi Fudd and Paige Bueckers: The Dynamic Duo UConn Needed”

“PAZZI: Inside UConn’s Best-Kept Secret”

Azzi clicked a video.

Paige’s voice played, soft and quiet in an interview.

“Azzi’s…she’s everything to me. On and off the court.”

Azzi slammed the laptop shut so hard it rattled the table.

She didn’t know where she was.

But it wasn’t home.

And it sure as hell wasn’t her life.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

Azzi sat there for a full minute, palms pressed to the closed laptop. Her heart was pounding so hard she felt it in her ears.

Outside, campus was quiet. Blue dusk light poured in through the windows. She could see the UConn practice facility lights in the distance, glowing like an accusation.

Her phone buzzed against the table.

Once.

Twice.

Again.

She flinched.

It was Paige.

📱 Messages

11:54 PM

paige💗

paige💗 baby please talk to me

paige💗 please

paige💗 you’re scaring me

paige💗 where did you go

paige💗 answer me

paige💗 azzi

The screen lit up over and over.

She wanted to throw the thing against the wall.

Instead she just locked it, pressing it so hard in her hand her knuckles went white.

Two seconds of silence.

Then it started again.

📱 Messages

11:54 PM

paige💗

paige💗 please just tell me where you are

paige💗 i’ll come get you

paige💗 i’m sorry if i did something

paige💗 please i love you

Azzi swallowed bile.

Then Caroline chimed in.

📱 Messages

11:57PM

caroline✂️

caroline ✂️hey z you good?

caroline ✂️p is spiraling

📱 Messages

12:00 PM

KK

kk: yo answer ur girl

kk: she bout to have a meltdown

Her hand shook. She let the phone drop to the table with a dull clack.

She wanted to scream.

To disappear.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

She forced herself to reopen the laptop.

Google. Again.

She clicked on articles. Watched interview clips with a weird dissociated horror.

Paige had called her “the other half of my heart.”

Azzi had…smiled.

But it wasn’t her. Not this her.

She scrubbed a hand over her face.

Then the phone lit up again, this time with a new kind of dread.

PAIGE IS SHARING YOUR LOCATION

Her chest went cold.

She stared at it.

She knows where I am.

A second later—

📱 Messages

11:57PM

Paige 💗: I know you’re at the lounge. Please just let me come.

Azzi felt the world tilt.

No.

No no no.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

She heard footsteps in the hall before she saw her.

Paige burst through the door, face blotchy with crying, hair a mess. She looked wrecked.

“Azzi!”

Azzi jumped to her feet so hard the chair fell over.

“Get out.”

Paige froze, lip trembling. “Azzi please—”

“Get. OUT.”

Paige shook her head, tears spilling. “I can’t. I can’t leave you like this. I don’t know what’s going on, you’re acting like you don’t even know me—”

“I don’t know you,” Azzi hissed, voice cracking.

Paige blinked. Like she’d been slapped.

Azzi’s voice dropped, ragged and low.

“You’re tracking me? You know where I am at all times?”

Paige’s mouth opened, shut.

“It’s—it’s not like that. You shared it with me, Azzi. You said you wanted me to always know you were safe—”

Azzi felt like she might vomit.

Paige took a step closer, hand out. “Please. Just come home. We’ll figure it out together. Please, Azzi, I love you so much—”

“Don’t,” Azzi choked. “Don’t say that to me.”

Paige’s shoulders crumpled.

Azzi’s vision swam. She felt herself shaking all over.

“Just…leave. Please.”

Paige’s face collapsed in grief. But she listened. She turned and stumbled out, muffling sobs with her sleeve.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

Azzi stood there, chest heaving.

Silence filled the room like water drowning her.

Her phone buzzed again.

📱 Messages

1:35PM

KK : yo p is losing it u gotta answer

📱 Messages

1:37PM

Caroline✂️: seriously z just talk to her she’s literally crying in the hallway

Azzi powered the phone off completely.

She sat back down.

She forced herself to open the laptop one more time.

She typed:

Azzi Fudd UConn Paige Bueckers relationship

Thousands of results.

Fan-cam edits labeled “PAZZI” in sparkly fonts.

Tumblr meta posts dissecting every glance.

Clips of them hugging. Slow-dancing at team events.

Articles calling them “the heart of UConn basketball.”

But no confirmations.

No statement.

Just rumors that felt too intimate to be fake.

She scrolled until her eyes burned.

Azzi closed the laptop with shaking hands.

She didn’t know who she was here.

But she was starting to know who Paige was.

And that terrified her most of all.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

Azzi’s mind was unraveling.

It wasn’t just Paige. It was everything.

She’d woken up naked in a bed that wasn’t hers.

She was living a life she didn’t remember.

She had bruises on her skin that shouldn’t be there.

Now…

She wasn’t even sure if her family was real.

The thought struck her like a cold slap.

Her parents—her childhood memories—her brothers—were they just in her head?

Were they hers at all?

Her chest tightened, breath hitching.

Her hands trembled as she pulled out her phone.

She dialed her mom.

“Mom?”

Her voice cracked on the first syllable.

Katie Fudd’s warm voice came through, “Azzi! Honey, what’s wrong?”

Azzi’s throat closed. The dam broke.

“I… I don’t know what’s happening.”

Her voice was ragged, the years of pressure, doubt, and confusion bubbling over.

“I woke up at UConn… with Paige. And it’s like I don’t even know what’s real anymore. I’m scared, Mom. What if my family isn’t even my family here? What if none of this is real?”

There was silence on the other end. Then Katie said softly, “Baby, what are you talking about?”

Azzi’s fingers dug into the phone as she forced herself to explain.

“How did I end up here? How did Paige and I go from rivals to… this? When did I decide to come to UConn? I don’t remember any of it.”

“I don’t understand it either,” Azzi sobbed. “We met during the USA team, right? But then we became… inseparable? And everyone acts like it’s always been like that.”

Katie’s voice was gentle but firm.

“Azzi, that’s true. You and Paige met on the USA team. You clicked immediately—both fiercely competitive but somehow… it just worked. You decided to commit to UConn after high school, a joint package deal really, and you two became the heart of the team.”

Azzi’s mind raced.

“But Mom… I don’t feel like myself. I feel lost.”

Katie sighed, steady and unwavering.

“Baby, this is your senior year. You’re still the Azzi I know—the player who’s worked so hard, who’s earned every accolade. You need to calm down. Focus. You’ve got the draft coming. You need to keep your head in the game.”

Azzi nodded, tears streaming down her face.

“Okay, Mom. I’m trying.”

Katie smiled through the phone.

“I know you are. And I believe in you.”

Azzi took a shaky breath and wiped her eyes.

For a moment, the chaos inside her still raged.

But her mom’s voice—her reality—was the one solid thing she could hold onto.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

Azzi sat there for what felt like hours.

The dorm common room was silent except for the hum of the fridge.

Her phone had finally gone quiet.

She’d powered it off.

But the last thing she saw before the screen went black was Paige’s message:

i love you too much

Azzi wiped her face with both hands, smearing the dried tears.

Her mind was a tangle of panic, rage, grief, and something she didn’t even want to name.

Because the worst part was—

It felt real.

Those photos.

Those videos.

The way Paige had looked at her, utterly wrecked, refusing to leave.

Azzi pressed her palms to her eyes until she saw sparks.

She had always been good at studying tape.

Finding patterns.

Building a plan.

She had to do that now.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

You’re Azzi Fudd.

Senior year.

Projected top pick.

Steph Curry brand athlete.

USA Basketball.

UConn’s golden girl.

She wasn’t going to let this be the reason she fell apart.

She had too much at stake.

She forced herself to her feet.

Her knees ached.

Her head pounded.

She felt like she hadn’t slept in days even though it had only been hours.

She walked to the mirror by the door.

She barely recognized the girl staring back.

Eyes red.

Hair a mess.

Marks on her neck that weren’t hers, but apparently were.

She sucked in a breath.

You can’t let them see you break.

Not Paige.

Not the team.

Not the scouts.

Not anyone.

So she decided.

She’d play the role.

Paige’s devoted girlfriend.

The other half of UConn’s unstoppable duo.

The smiling, grateful star.

She’d buy herself time.

Time to figure out how she got here.

Time to decide if she even wanted to stay.

But for now?

She needed everyone to think everything was fine.

She practiced the smile once.

It looked wrong.

She tried again.

it looked… good enough, she grabbed her bag.

She picked up her phone and turned it back on.

Instantly:

28 new messages.

She didn’t read them all.

Just one.

📱 Messages

4:56PM

Paige💗: i’m at our room. please come home. please. i’ll do anything.

Azzi’s chest twisted.

She inhaled.

Exhaled.

She typed slowly, deliberately.

AZZI: omw

She let the phone drop in her pocket.

Squared her shoulders.

She didn’t know this Azzi Fudd.

This UConn version.

This Paige’s girlfriend version.

But she was about to be her.

At least until she could figure out how the hell to get out.

Or if she even wanted to.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

Azzi didn’t even remember walking across campus.

She just remembered the sound of her own heart in her ears.

You’re Paige’s girlfriend.

You’re UConn’s star.

Act like it.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

She reached the door to their dorm.

Her fingers shook on the handle.

She forced herself to pause, take one breath.

Then she pushed it open.

The first thing she heard was Paige crying.

Ugly, chest-wracking sobs that made Azzi’s heart drop into her stomach.

Paige was curled up on the couch, face buried in Caroline’s shoulder, hands fisted in the front of Caroline’s hoodie like a kid.

Caroline was rocking her slightly, whispering something.

KK was standing near them, arms crossed, jaw tight.

All three of them whipped around when the door clicked shut behind Azzi.

Paige lifted her head.

Her eyes were red, cheeks blotchy, hair a tangled mess.

She looked at Azzi like a drowning person spotting a lifeboat.

“Azzi—”

Her voice cracked.

She made to get up, but Caroline kept a gentle hand on her shoulder, shushing her softly.

｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆

KK’s eyes narrowed.

She took one step toward Azzi.

“The fuck is going on?”

Azzi swallowed.

Her tongue felt like lead in her mouth.

“I—”

Her eyes flicked to Paige.

Paige was shaking all over, mouth opening and closing like she didn’t even know what to say.

“Azzi, please,” Paige rasped. “Please don’t leave again. Please just talk to me.”

Azzi’s heart twisted painfully.

She fought to keep her voice even.

“I’m here.”

KK’s arms flew up.

“You’re here now? After ghosting her all day? After scaring the shit out of everyone? What the hell was that?!”

Azzi’s fingers dug into the strap of her bag.

She forced her face to stay calm.

“I just… needed to clear my head.”

KK scoffed.

“Clear your head? She was literally screaming your name ten minutes ago. She can’t breathe without you, bro. You can’t just dip like that.”

Caroline shot KK a sharp look.

“KK. Enough.”

Then she looked at Azzi, eyes softer but no less searching.

“Z… are you okay?”

Azzi’s throat tightened.

She tried for a smile. It felt brittle.

“Yeah. I’m fine.”

Caroline didn’t look convinced.

Paige looked straight at her.

“You’re… you’re not gonna leave again, right?”

Azzi’s breath hitched.

She forced herself to step forward.

She dropped her bag on the floor.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Paige made a strangled sound and surged forward, practically falling off the couch to wrap her arms around Azzi’s waist.

Azzi stiffened for a second.

Then remembered her plan.

Act normal.

Be her girlfriend.

She let out a slow breath and let her arms come up around Paige’s shoulders.

Paige sobbed into her chest.

“I’m sorry,” Paige gasped. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. I didn’t know what I did wrong. Please don’t leave me. Please.”

Azzi swallowed.

She felt Caroline watching.

Felt KK glaring.

Felt Paige clutching her like a lifeline.

She smoothed a shaking hand over Paige’s hair.

“It’s okay,” she whispered. “I’m here. I’m not leaving.”

｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆

KK made a frustrated noise and stomped into the kitchen, muttering under her breath.

Caroline slowly stood, giving them space, eyes still fixed on Azzi with wary concern.

Paige just clung tighter.

Azzi kept petting her hair like she was trying to soothe a child.

Her eyes drifted shut.

She tried not to cry.

She had to figure this out.

But for now…

She had to pretend.

｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆

The dorm fell quiet.

KK slammed a cabinet door in the kitchen so hard it rattled the walls.

Caroline gave Azzi one last searching look.

She opened her mouth—like she wanted to say something—but closed it with a sigh and squeezed Paige’s shoulder instead.

Then she headed for the door.

“Text me if you need anything,” she murmured, eyes still flicking to Azzi with a clear warning.

Azzi nodded stiffly.

The door shut.

It was just the two of them.

Paige didn’t let go right away.

She was still pressed against Azzi, face buried in her chest, arms tight enough to bruise.

Azzi’s muscles ached.

She felt like she was being crushed.

She kept stroking Paige’s hair anyway.

Because that’s what she was supposed to do.

Finally Paige pulled back just enough to look at her.

Her eyes were so red. So swollen.

Tear tracks dried and cracked on her cheeks.

“Please talk to me,” she whispered.

Azzi swallowed.

Her mouth was dry as sand.

“I’m here.”

Paige flinched like it hurt.

“Yeah, but where were you? Azzi you just… left. You didn’t even answer me. You blocked me. I didn’t know if you were okay or if you—”

Her voice broke.

She dropped her forehead onto Azzi’s collarbone and sobbed again.

⋆ ୨୧˚

Azzi’s own eyes burned.

She forced them shut.

Say something.

“I just… needed to clear my head,” she said softly.

Paige shook her head hard against her.

“That’s not enough. That’s not you. Talk to me. Please. Tell me what’s going on.”

Azzi’s heart twisted.

She knew she should tell her the truth.

But the truth would ruin everything.

⋆ ˚｡⋆

She swallowed hard.

“It’s just stress,” she whispered.

Paige froze.

“Stress?”

Azzi tried to keep her voice steady.

“Yeah. Senior year. The draft. Expectations. Everyone’s watching me. I just… broke a little.”

She forced a dry laugh.

“I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Paige pulled back fully, staring at her with wet, wide eyes.

Azzi tried to hold her gaze.

Paige’s lip trembled.

“Don’t do that to me,” she choked. “Don’t ever shut me out like that again. I thought I lost you.”

Azzi’s throat closed.

“I won’t,” she lied.

Paige’s face crumpled.

She surged forward and kissed her.

Azzi went stiff for a split second—then forced herself to respond.

Her mouth moved mechanically, trying to match Paige’s desperate energy.

She told herself over and over:

This is what she wants. This is what they expect. This is what you have to do.

When Paige finally pulled back, she was panting.

Her forehead pressed to Azzi’s.

“I love you so much,” she whispered.

Azzi’s stomach twisted so hard she thought she might puke.

She forced the words out.

“I love you too.”

Paige let out a wet laugh.

“You promise you’re not leaving?”

Azzi wiped her thumb under Paige’s eye.

“Promise.”

Paige let out a shaking breath.

“Good. Because I can’t do this without you.”

Azzi swallowed the lump in her throat.

She didn’t say anything.

She just kissed Paige’s temple.

Inside, she felt like she was dying.

But outside?

She was perfect.

UConn’s golden girl.

Paige’s perfect girlfriend.

The other half of college basketball’s favorite couple.

For now.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

[bearloonz]

the character. From my mind.

[pillbaby]

camboy!choso who's your absolute favorite camboy. you didn't even know it was him, not really. he was always masked, a thing about privacy, which honestly just made him hotter.

camboy!choso who's livestreams you never miss. seriously, you've got notifications on, and your phone's practically glued to your hand just for him. there’s nothing quite like watching him work himself over, those big, calloused hands expertly pumping his thick cock. you live for it.

camboy!choso who you always time your release with. you can tell he’s getting close when his breaths start getting ragged, and that tattoo on his chest rises and falls all unevenly. the moment he cums, ropes of white splattering over his hands and thighs, you follow, leaving you with that familiar sticky mess on your fingers and sheets.

camboy!choso who moves into your apartment a few weeks later. you’d put up a flyer about the empty room, and he just showed up. turns out, he’s a great roommate. never brings over loud people, always cleans up his messes in the kitchen. his room is down the hall, and he mostly keeps to himself, pretty quiet.

camboy!choso who you don’t really talk to much (which is a real shame, honestly), but you totally think he’s cute. he’s always kind when you do interact, and it leaves you with butterflies every single time. somewhere along the way, you just stop getting off to that person on your screen. your thoughts start drifting to your roommate instead, and you just let them.

camboy!choso who you totally run into as he’s stepping out of the shower. he’s just got a towel hanging low on his hips, his v-line perfectly exposed. his hair’s still damp, and you can see a few beads of water trickling down his abs, and you swear you might just drop dead. you blurt out some awkward apology, practically forcing your eyes away.

camboy!choso who has that tattoo near his collarbone, the one you immediately recognize.

camboy!choso who you now know is your camboy. you’re not sure if you should even tell him, if that’s just invading his space. but then, is it really just his space if he’s putting it out there for the whole world to see? it’s a messed up thought, but it’s there.

camboy!choso who's newer videos you’re rewatching, trying to confirm if it’s really him. you keep telling yourself that plenty of people could have that same ink. then you notice the space he’s recording in looks different from a month ago. the lighting and background hide things, but the way he moves, that gentle, calm way he has; that’s what really gives it away.

camboy!choso who startles you by knocking on your doorframe, because you thought he was still out. you frantically try to hide your laptop, but it’s a second too slow, and his gaze locks right onto the screen.

camboy!choso who's chuckling, like this is all just some big joke, and you’re not currently wishing the floor would swallow you whole. you haven’t seen him smile for more than two seconds at a time, and now he’s got this wide grin.

camboy!choso who has you bent in a cruel mating press less than five minutes later. you can’t even remember your own name, let alone how you ended up like this. he’s just so perfect in person, and you knew he was big, but every time he kisses your cervix, it’s a brutal reminder.

camboy!choso who's back you’re digging your nails into, desperate not to clench around him, trying to take all of him in. when you finally do, he praises you, pressing soft kisses to your forehead. his fingers press deep into the soft curve of your hips, his breath hitches, and then his lips crash down onto yours.

camboy!choso who pulls orgasm after orgasm out of you, like it’s his actual job. he completely exhausts you, then lets you fall asleep right on top of him. when you wake up, it’s completely dark outside, and as you open your laptop to check the time, you're hit with his camshow tab. there’s a red circle for new notifications, and you click his profile.

camboy!choso who's latest post was three hours ago: fucked my favorite pretty fan.

[kedreeva]

One of the things that upsets me with mouse care is the amount of powdered chow at the bottom of a big 50# bag of chow. A normal bag from Kent or Kalmbach leaves me with around 5-10lbs of powder. That's a huge loss that the mice won't eat in this form.

Some of the slightly bigger chunks, like that one on the bottom right, I could probably sift out. I do my best to run the powder through a wire that catches MOST of the lumps that won't just pass through the holes in their food hoppers. But at the end of the day, I'm still left with a huge amount of powder that's perfectly edible and yet will not be eaten.

I started saving it at the end of last year, to make into biscuits for the mice. I put a couple pounds into a big mixing bowl, and cover it with water to soak for about 15 minutes. Then I mix that all together. It should be wet enough it mostly clings together, but is still dry enough it crumbles. Then I add some kind of mix-in: honey, maple syrup, applesauce, peanut butter, fruit juice, some kind of puree of vegetables/fruits they can have, herbs, dried mealworms, ground graham crackers, seeds, chopped nuts... it's been a lot of things over the last year.

once that's thoroughly combined, I add water a little at a time until the mixture is the consistency of a loose bread dough- wet enough to cling together and be shaped, not so wet that it slumps into a puddle if not touched.

I use a biscuit cutter to cut little flat circles, maybe 2 inches across. I put them on trays in the dehydrator, and leave them to dry for a couple days.

These have ALL been a great hit, every flavor. They're also a little harder than normal pellet chow, they don't crumble apart to the same degree, so they make a great feed for the mice that chew a little more than others, if left unflavored or lightly flavored. It's also a good way to give them a little variety! I can make several flavors even in one batch, I just separate into different bowls.

This time, I dimpled the tops of the biscuits, and added some homemade, low-sugar strawberry jam. It should dry out as well, to the consistency of fruit leather, which I think they'll like.

The jam has gotten tacky, so not too much longer I think.