#sweating and shaking and muttering to myself

[youthereader]

I'm Yours

PAIRING: joel miller (the last of us) x fem!reader

SUMMARY: 1.7k words. Joel comes to you after he's injured. The next day he gets jealous. Part of the Hard Bargain series.

RATING: E. Rough sex. Blow job. Power dynamics. Dirty talk. Light D/s. Praise Kink. Jealousy. Possessiveness.

A/N: My week has sucked so far so I wrote myself a pick-me-up.

You’re almost asleep when you hear the knock.

Three times, sharp and controlled. Then silence.

You don’t bother asking who it is. You already know.

You open the door and Joel’s standing there, soaked in sweat, one hand braced on the frame. His shirt is dark with blood, stuck to his ribs in a way that says this isn’t new — it’s been bleeding a while. His jaw’s tight. His eyes aren’t glassy, but they’re close.

“Jesus,” you whisper. “What the fuck happened?”

“Didn’t go clean,” he mutters. “Didn’t go bad either.”

He stumbles forward and doesn’t wait for permission. You grab his arm and feel the heat coming off him like fire under skin. He doesn’t pull away. You kick the door shut behind him and steer him toward the cot.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you say. “You should be at-”

“I’m not goin’ to them.”

You stare.

His eyes flick to yours, hard and final.

“I came here.”

That lands heavier than it should. You say nothing, just nod. You help him sit down.

Joel breathes like every rib’s bruised. You tug his jacket off slowly. Then his shirt. It peels from his body with a sticky, wet sound; half-dried blood soaked through the fabric, torn just under the ribs.

He winces, not much, just a little. The wound isn’t deep but it’s ugly. You grab the bottle of antiseptic and a rag. Your hands shake. He watches.

“You gonna tell me what happened?”

“No.”

“Typical.”

You don’t look at him. You clean him in silence. You dab the rag along the bloodied edges, press into the cut just enough to make him hiss.

“Hold still,” you say.

He does, but his hand clamps around your wrist anyway. Not to stop you, not to guide you. Just to feel you there. You don’t pull away.

“You gonna sew it?” he asks.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“You don’t deserve it.”

That gets a huff, half a laugh.

“You gonna let me bleed out, sweetheart?”

“You’re not bleeding out. You’re just being a stubborn asshole.”

He doesn’t argue. You press a clean cloth against the wound, hard enough to make him grunt, and tape it down tight. You don’t ask what cut him, or who. Or why he came here, bleeding, instead of to one of the medics.

You already know the answer. He trusts them with stitches, but he trusts you with the rest.

Joel stands slow, ribs stiff. His chest is still bare. Scarred. Strong. His eyes linger on you longer than they should.

“You done?”

“For now.”

He nods once, then he leaves. No thank you, no explanation.

He leaves blood on your floor, and something in the way he looked at you that says this isn’t over.

- 

You feel him before you hear him. The weight of him in the stairwell. The heat of his stare at your back all day.

You knew he saw it. The way that smuggler - Kevin, or Kit, or whatever — leaned in a little too close when he dropped off the parcel. The way he laughed at something you said. The way his hand brushed your hip like he had the fucking right.

You didn’t laugh. You didn’t flirt. But you didn’t stop him fast enough.

Joel sees everything.

You lock the door that night but it doesn’t matter. Joel doesn’t knock.

He opens it with the spare key you didn’t know he had, steps inside like he belongs there, and shuts it behind him with the softest click you’ve ever heard.

You don’t even turn around. You just stand there, still and waiting.

“Wasn’t anything,” you say.

Silence.

“I didn’t touch him. Didn’t want to.”

Still nothing.

Then: his boots, heavy and slow as he crosses the floor until he’s behind you, close enough to feel the heat of his breath when he says:

“You let him look.”

You swallow. His hand comes up to your throat - not tight, not squeezing - just resting there, thumb stroking the hollow like he’s deciding if he’s going to crush it or kiss it.

“You wore that shirt on purpose,” he mutters. “You wanted the attention.”

“No,” you say quietly. “I wanted yours.”

That breaks something.

He grabs you - one hand in your hair, the other already shoving down your waistband. He bends you over the table, presses your cheek to the wood.

“No one touches you,” Joel growls. “No one fucking sees you.”

He rips your shirt up, bites down on your shoulder - teeth and heat and bruising pressure. You moan, long and loud.

He shoves two fingers into your cunt without warning. You’re soaked already. His fingers curl up and fuck into you hard, fast, brutal.

“Already wet?” he growls. “You like bein’ punished, that it?”

You gasp, legs shaking.

“Answer me.”

“Yes,” you choke.

His belt’s undone behind you. You hear the zipper. Feel the thick heat of him rubbing against your ass.

“You’re not a reward,” he hisses. “You’re mine.”

Then he slams into you. One long, brutal thrust that punches the air out of your lungs.

You don’t scream. You can’t. His hand is over your mouth now, fucking you deep and punishing, his breath hot against your neck.

You claw at the table, arching your back into him. Joel keeps going, keeps claiming.

“You let him look,” he grits. “So now I fuck it out of you.”

Joel doesn’t slow down.

His hips drive into you again and again, unforgiving, mean. Your nails dig into the wood, your cheek sticks to the table, breath fogging with every ragged exhale.

His hand stays over your mouth, not just to quiet you, but to own you. To remind you who’s in control.

“Could’ve stopped him,” he growls. “Could’ve told him no right off.”

You try to shake your head, to say you did, to say he meant nothing, but Joel just thrusts deeper, and your breath vanishes into his palm.

He leans in close, voice hot at your ear:

“But you didn’t.”

You moan. It’s muffled, wet.

He pulls his hand away just enough for you to breathe and speak.

“You’re the only one,” you gasp. “The only one who gets this.”

Joel grunts. His hand slides up to your throat again, tilting your head back.

“Say it better.”

Your thighs are shaking. You’re sopping wet. The table creaks under both of you.

“I’m yours,” you whisper.

His thrusts get rougher, faster.

“Louder.”

“I’m yours, Joel.”

“That’s right.”

He lets go of your neck just long enough to pull your wrists behind your back, pinning them with one big hand, and fucks into you like you asked for this. Like you begged for it.

“You think he could fuck you like this?” he snarls.

“No,” you whimper.

“You think he could make you this wet?”

“No—fuck—only you—”

You’re close, so fucking close. Joel knows it. He pulls out suddenly and you cry out, back arching, empty and aching. Then his hand is on your throat again, turning you, dragging you to the floor.

You land on your knees. He fists your hair, presses his cock to your tongue.

“Open.”

You do.

He pushes into your mouth with a groan, not slow this time, not careful. You taste yourself on him, feel him use your throat with the same pace he fucked your cunt.

“Take it,” he growls. “You’re mine to fuck. Mine to fill.”

You choke. Gasp. Drool spilling down your chin.

But you take it. Because it’s him. Because you want this. Because you’re his.

He comes with a snarl, cock buried in your throat, his come flooding your mouth in hot, pulsing waves. You swallow everything. He pulls out slowly, panting, wrecked.

When he looks at you - flushed, ruined, still on your knees - he doesn’t say a word.

He just tilts your chin up with one rough knuckle and nods.

Your breath won’t even out.

You’re on your knees, body slick with sweat and spit and everything he poured into you. Your wrists are sore from where he held them, your throat raw from how deep he took you, and your cunt still pulses with the aftershock of being filled and left empty.

Joel hasn’t moved, not far.

He’s crouched in front of you now, jeans undone, sweat cooling on his chest, eyes unreadable.

He lifts a hand to your face. You flinch before you mean to, just a twitch. A flicker of tension under your skin.

His fingers pause, then they move again, slower. He wipes the spit from your cheek, traces the line of your jaw.

“You alright?” he asks.

His voice is lower now, bare. Almost uncertain. You nod, slow and careful.

He huffs.Then he stands.

You expect him to walk away. You expect the sound of a belt buckle, the door, a muttered see you around.

Instead, he reaches for a rag from the crate in the corner. He runs it under what’s left of the clean water. He kneels again and wipes you down.

He starts at your chin. Then your lips, then lower. You stay still, watching him.

“You mad?” you ask, quietly.

“No.”

His voice is rough, like gravel.

“You sure?”

He doesn’t answer. He wraps your wrists next - not tight, not medical. Just covered, protected. Like he didn’t mean to mark them the way he did. Like he doesn’t want anyone else to see it.

When he’s done, he lets your hands rest in your lap.

Then he sits beside you on the floor, back against the wall. Close enough that your bare shoulder brushes his.

You don’t move.

“Didn’t like the way he looked at you,” Joel says finally.

You nod.

“I know.”

His jaw clenches. You can hear it in the silence.

“I don’t... have a lot,” he says. “Ain’t got much to offer.”

You turn your head, looking at him.

“You gave me everything.”

He looks back. His hand moves. He reaches, settling on your thigh.

“Just don’t wanna lose it,” he mutters.

You know he’s not just talking about your body. You cover his hand with yours, leting it stay there.

Neither of you speak. The silence isn’t empty anymore. It’s full. It’s heavy with everything he hasn’t said, and everything you finally understand.

When he eventually leans his head back against the wall, eyes closed, you let yours rest on his shoulder.

He doesn’t leave. And this time, you don’t want him to.

❤️

[girly-girlk]

Ok so Reader and Drew break things off, but she’s still really pregnant and goes into labor and he’s basically just an asshole the whole time

alone

drew starkey x pregnant!reader

summary: you and drew break up and you call him when your water breaks

a/n: so sorry that this one took a while, i’ve been super busy! hope you like it!!💕

you hadn’t seen drew in weeks.

not since the fight. not since the words that shattered whatever fragile peace you both were holding on to.

“you’re exhausting, you know that? it’s like this baby has made you impossible to be around.”

“then go. i’m not stopping you.”

“fine.”

and he did. no calls. no texts. not even a word from his friends.

you’d cried until your eyes felt hollow, until the baby kicked as if telling you to stop. so you did. for them.

now, at 37 weeks pregnant, your body was sore and swollen, and the last thing you expected at 2:14 a.m. was to wake up to a sudden, warm gush of fluid and a stabbing cramp that made you double over.

you were alone. terrified. but not stupid.

you called drew.

not because you forgave him. not because he deserved it.

because he was the father, and some small, stubborn part of you hoped—hoped—he’d be different when it really mattered.

the line rang once. then twice.

“yeah?” his voice was tired. irritated.

you inhaled shakily. “my water broke.”

silence. then: “okay… and?”

“and i’m alone,” you said, trying to keep the panic from your voice. “i don’t—i don’t want to do this by myself.”

more silence. a sharp breath from him. “jesus, okay. calm down. i’ll come get you.”

��

he showed up twenty minutes later, shirt wrinkled, eyes bloodshot. no urgency. no warmth.

“get in,” he said flatly, barely looking at you as you lowered yourself into the passenger seat, clutching your belly.

in the car, he didn’t say much. just kept tapping his fingers against the steering wheel like this whole thing was a chore.

“could you not do that?” you muttered through a contraction.

“what?” he snapped.

“tap. you’re making me anxious.”

he rolled his eyes. “everything makes you anxious lately.”

you looked away, biting the inside of your cheek so you wouldn’t cry.

⸻

at the hospital, the nurses were kind. you tried to focus on them, not on drew sitting in the corner on his phone, not offering your hand, not asking how you were doing.

when the pain grew worse, you whimpered through a contraction, reaching out blindly. drew didn’t move.

“could you—can you just hold my hand?” you asked, voice shaking.

he sighed. loudly. “you wanted me gone, remember?”

tears slid down your cheeks. “this isn’t about us.”

“it’s always about you,” he muttered.

one of the nurses gave him a sharp look. “maybe you should wait in the hall if you’re going to stress her out.”

he scoffed. “whatever.”

you watched him leave, a mix of pain and numbness filling the hollow part of your chest.

you didn’t want to need him. you didn’t want to miss him. but right now, it was just you, and your baby, and the breaking point of everything you’d once thought you’d have.

⸻

when the baby finally came—after hours of pain, sweat, and screaming—drew wasn’t there.

he missed the birth.

a nurse handed you your baby, and you cried harder than you ever had in your life. because despite everything, this little human was yours.

and in that moment, you didn’t need him.

not anymore.

[too-many-eels]

Inktober Day 16: Grungy

[littlegochu]

you can take more │ jjk 18+

“sit on my lap, we’re not done.”

pairing: idol jeon jungkook x reader(f)

genre: established couple

rating: 18+, smut

dominant!jungkook, post-concert tension, possessive energy, filthy teasing, pillow humping (he watches), begging kink, denial & overstimulation, thigh riding, oral, tit play & titty-fucking (heavy focus), multiple orgasms, desperate dirty talk, jerking off while watching, messy, controlling sex, teasing aftercare, nipple obsession, he worships you like he owns you

-

The concert’s over, but he looks like he’s still on stage.

Jungkook’s skin glows with sweat, black shirt plastered to his chest, damp hair pushed back from his temples. He’s barely said a word since stepping off the stage, but I can feel it in the way he looks at me—like he’s been wound tight for hours, like the adrenaline of performing wasn’t enough to drain the rest of what’s building inside him.

He doesn’t kiss me.

He just reaches for my wrist. Grabs. Pulls.

No patience.

My heart stumbles. My legs move on instinct. By the time the door to our apartment clicks shut, he’s already on me—pressing me against the wall, his body hot and vibrating with restraint.

“You wore that on purpose.” His voice is gravel low. “You smiled at me from the crowd like you didn’t know what you were doing.”

“I didn’t—”

“You did,” he says, stepping closer. “And now you’re going to feel everything I didn’t let myself give you back there.”

He walks me backward. No urgency in his steps—just heavy tension. I can feel it like static in the air, the kind that clings to your skin and makes your breath catch.

He grabs a pillow from the bed. Drops it on the floor.

“On your knees.”

“Jungkook…”

“You wanna be a tease?” His voice is velvet-dirty, low but sharp. “Then ride that for me. Let me watch what you look like when you’re the one doing all the work.”

The second my knees sink into the carpet, heat crawls up my chest.

The pillow is too soft. It’s not him. And I think that’s the point.

Still, I press my hips down, grinding slowly.

The friction is immediate—dull at first, then sharper, more focused as I angle forward and catch the edge just right. I press down harder. The pressure blooms like a tight ache under my skin. My thighs tense. I do it again.

Behind me, I hear him exhale.

When I glance up, his forearms are braced on his knees, veins sharp. His eyes are locked on my hips like they’re the only thing keeping him from losing it. His breathing is uneven.

“You’re soaked already,” he mutters.

My cheeks burn.

“Keep going.”

I roll my hips faster. The burn starts to spread—low and hot. My clit throbs against the cushion. It’s not enough and somehow too much. I need more friction, more pressure, more of him, but all I get is the edge of cotton and his eyes watching me unravel.

“Please,” I gasp. “Touch me.”

“No.”

“I can’t—”

“Yes, you can. You wanted to tease me? Then make yourself cum.”

The tension snaps.

My legs shake, thighs clenched around the pillow, and the orgasm hits sharp—ripping through my center like a wave that drags everything else with it. I gasp his name. My whole body curls forward as I come apart.

But there’s no release from the tension in the room.

Not yet.

He grabs me by the waist and lifts me like I weigh nothing, dragging me into his thigh feeling he’s already extremely hard and heavy under the fabric of his pants. His thigh flexes beneath me. I shudder as I land on him, still slick, still oversensitive.

“Again,” he whispers.

I grind down—slower this time, but the contact is deeper. His thigh is firm, unrelenting. Every shift of my hips makes the heat spike again.

Jungkook lets out a broken sound.

His hand drags lazily across his stomach, just brushing the waistband of his sweats. I don’t even have to look to know he’s hard.

“You’re doing so good,” he groans. “So fucking pretty like this. Look at how wrecked you get on just my thigh.”

I can feel it coming again—tight and unbearably sharp. I brace both hands on his chest, gasping for breath.

“You’re gonna cum for me again, yeah?”

I nod—desperate, overwhelmed. My body feels like it’s on fire.

And when I do—when the orgasm hits again, smaller but more intense—I cry out softly against his shoulder.

“I need you.”

That’s all it takes.

He stands with me in his arms.

Carries me to the bed.

And fially, finally presses his mouth to mine.

The kiss is deep, hungry. Full of everything he held back for hours. When he pushes into me, the stretch makes me gasp. I’m already too sensitive, too full, too everything.

He pulls back. Slides in again—slower this time.

Every thrust fills me with more than just friction. It’s pressure, emotion, heat, praise—all wound into his voice when he groans against my throat.

“You feel so good. So warm. So tight, baby…”

My body arches.

And he doesn’t stop.

He flips me on my stomach, then back again—legs hooked over his shoulders, grinding deeper, harder, hitting places I didn’t know I could feel. His hips snap harder, hands gripping my thighs, dragging me to the edge.

“You wanted it like this,” he whispers. “You knew exactly what you were doing to me.”

When I cum again, it’s a blur. He follows with a low moan, body trembling as he releases inside me.

But even after, he doesn’t stop.

He lays down beside me, wraps an arm around my waist, and pulls me into his chest.

And his hand?

It finds my chest again.

His thumb drags softly over my nipple, again and again, until I squirm.

“Can’t help it,” he murmurs. “They’re too pretty.”

I laugh—wrecked, breathless.

He presses a kiss there, slow and teasing.

“I meant what I said,” he whispers.

“I’m not done yet.”

-

authors note: i have this queued so ngl its unedited asf and hella rushed

pls comment or lmk in my anonymous requests if ur into fluff, smut, multiple part stories or drabbles it would be a biggggggggggggg help

[fireinmoonshot]

first impressions | joaquín torres x fem!reader

READ PART TWO HERE Pairing: Joaquín Torres x Fem!Reader Summary: When Joaquín visits the Avengers Training Facility, he meets you for the first time and quite literally falls head over heels for you. Warnings: Mentions of fighting/combat/body slamming, Word Count: 1.5k A/N: I got this as a request and I just loved the idea so much. It's different than anything I've written for Joaquín before as none of my readers have been Avengers, so this was a fun challenge. I hope you enjoy!

“Wait, so this is a legit training facility for Avengers?” Joaquin asks, the awe clear in his voice as he and Sam walk side by side into the lobby, trying to take everything in all at once, even though there’s too much to see in one go.

Sam nods. “Yeah, that is why I invited you out here today,” he laughs a little. The kid is always so shocked when it comes to the world of the Avengers and ‘superheroes’. Sam likes it though – it’s like being around his nephews and getting to see the childlike wonder for the world again, just from a grown man instead.

The two men continue walking inside the facility. Sam points things out here and there, making note of important places like bathrooms and the kitchen, until they finally reach the actual training rooms. The second they walk in, Joaquin’s eyes are drawn to you.

You’re in the far left corner of the room, clearly in the middle of combat training. There’s someone else sparring against you but it’s clear that you have the upper hand. You take them down with ease. To Joaquin, it looks like you don’t even think about your moves before you make them. You sweep the legs out underneath your sparring partner and send them falling to the mat. They groan and then laugh as you offer a hand to them to help them stand up again.

Joaquin thinks it’s the most attractive thing he’s ever seen.

“Who is that?” He asks Sam.

Sam follows his gaze and settles on you across the room. He almost rolls his eyes. Of course you are the one that the kid is drawn to straight away. He tells Joaquin your name. “She trained in the Red Room, hence her effortless fighting style. Don’t even try to go up against her unless you want your ass kicked, Joaquin.”

“I sure would let her kick my ass.”

“Joaquin.”

He looks at Sam, a stupidly large grin on his face. “Introduce me? Wait, no. I should introduce myself. I don’t need Captain America to do it for me.”

Sam sighs, then shrugs. “Your funeral.”

Joaquin throws a look at Sam over his shoulder as he walks away from him, heading over towards your sparring mat where you’re now alone, your partner having left. You’re sitting down on the edge of the mat, dabbing away sweat with a towel.

“Hey,” he starts, “I’m Joaquin Torres, I’m the new Falcon.” He extends a hand to you, intending for you to shake it. He’s a classy guy, he thinks. A hand shake is a good place to start.

You surprise him by taking his hand, then moving to stand up. But instead of actually standing up, you pull on his arm and use your strength and technique to flip him over your shoulder and onto the mat. He lands on his back with a groan. 

Sam, still watching from the door of the room, almost bursts into laughter.

“Okay, ouch,” Joaquin mutters, pushing himself to sit up. He turns around to look at you only to find you standing up and smiling down at him. The look on your face instantly makes him blush. He’s known you all of five seconds and you’re already making him blush.

“Sorry, was that not what you were offering?” You smile, crossing your arms over your chest. “I mean… we’re in the training room, you’re walking up to me while I’m on a sparring mat… seems obvious to me.”

Joaquin stands, ignoring the pain in his back from the sudden landing. He’s annoyed by the fact that he finds the way you handled him so attractive. “I was actually just offering you a handshake and introducing myself,” he explains, a little sheepishly.

You look at him, amused. The man is cute, you can admit that. You knew full well he was just introducing himself before but you’d seen a chance to throw him off his game before he undoubtedly started flirting with you and it had clearly worked. The red in his cheeks was obvious and undeniably adorable.

“Oh, my bad,” you hum, extending a hand to him again and introducing yourself.

Joaquin looks down at your hand. “I dunno if I trust you enough to accept a handshake.”

You grin. “I promise I won’t do that again. I’m offering a real handshake.”

Tentatively, Joaquin takes your hand and shakes it. Thankfully, he doesn’t get thrown to the mat again. Sam, across the room, seems a little disappointed at the fact. “I, uh, I’m here with Sam– uh– Captain America,” he explains, stumbling over his words a little. Hell, is he nervous around you? Joaquin doesn’t get nervous. 

You glance over your shoulder and give Sam a little wave. You’ve met him several times in the past. He’s a good guy and the perfect person to take on the mantle of Captain America. And this good looking man in front of you is his choice to replace him as Falcon. Not bad, Sam, not bad.

“I figured,” you say. “I saw you two walk in together. And Cap and Falcon have always been inseparable, even when Sam was Falcon and Steve was still around. I’ve gotta say, Sam made a good choice in picking you just based on looks alone.”

Joaquin almost raises a hand to his cheeks, as if he’ll be able to tell if he’s blushing by touching his face. Now you’re out here complimenting his looks? Joaquin had not expected this from you… he hadn’t really had any expectations at all, but flirting and flattery was well and truly off the table until now.

He runs a hand through his hair and crosses his arms over his chest. “Oh, I know,” he says, fully aware he’s coming off as incredibly cocky. “My experience in the Air Force was also taken into consideration but my looks obviously came first.”

Ah,  you think, two can play at this game. 

“Clearly,” you mutter. “I mean, you can’t be an Avenger unless you’re attractive, right? I know we’re meant to save the world and stop the bad guys and all, but it doesn’t hurt for us to be nice to look at… both for the general public and each other.”

Joaquin is pretty sure he resembles a tomato at this point with how much he must be blushing. He can’t remember the last time he was complimented this much. And all from someone who had basically body slammed him as a way of greeting. 

He really shouldn’t find that as hot as he does.

He clears his throat and nods. “Uh, yeah– yeah, you are– you’re so right.” He rubs his palm on the side of his jeans, trying to remove the sweat from it. Sweaty palms, stuttering over his words… what kind of person are you making him into?

“Well, Joaquin Torres,” you say, taking a small step towards him. “I suppose I’ll be seeing you around more often since you’re officially an Avenger now, won’t I?” 

Joaquin nods, then remember he has to actually reply to you. “Yeah, if Sam lets me come back after embarrassing myself and making a pretty poor first impression on the only other Avenger I’ve ever met before,” he replies with a small laugh.

He’ll definitely be thinking about how embarrassing this whole situation has been for him for many, many days and nights to come. 

“Sam and I get along pretty well,” you shrug, “so I’m sure I’ll be able to convince him to let you come back around if he rescinds his invitation because of this first impression. And who’s to say it wasn’t a good one?”

Joaquin raises his eyebrows. “Being body slammed sounds like a bad first impression to me.”

“To me, the fact that you didn’t go running away like a puppy with its tail between its legs after I did that says that you’re willing to learn how to make sure that’ll never happen again,” you explain. “Now, I can’t make any promises that I won’t do that to you again… but, you know… lessons can be learnt.”

He lets out a small, breathy laugh. You can’t promise that you won’t body slam him again? Why does that make Joaquin feel so breathless and hot? Oh, he needs to get out of here before he makes an even bigger fool of himself.

“I’ll see you around, Joaquin Torres,” you grin, stepping back away from him and picking up your gym bag that’s on the ground. You sling it over your shoulder and turn away, walking towards the exit. As you walk past Sam, you fist bump each other.

Joaquin stands on the mat, staring after you. It’s only when Sam appears beside him that he snaps out of it. He meets Sam’s eyes. “She’s my favourite Avenger.” He means every word.

“I thought that was Ant-Man.”

Joaquin pauses. “Don’t tell him I said that,” he says. “Now… when can I come back here?”

[starkeysbunny]

something about you.

pairing - rafe cameron x kook!reader

summary - rafe and reader have been in a friends with benefits relationship for months now. it’s been slowly killing both of them, but they’re both too afraid to say anything. it gets to a point and rafe can’t take it anymore. he can’t stop thinking about you.

warnings - fluffy as hell literally throwing up it’s too sweet

my eyes were closed, my lips slightly parted as i let out a huff against my pillow. it was friday. rafe would usually text me on fridays. he’d ask me to come over, stressed out from work, a long week—whatever it was. i didn’t care.

he needed me.

it was friday, at eleven pm, radio silence. not a word from him. i felt a gnawing at my insides. this man had a grip on every fold of my brain. and we weren’t even together. it was pathetic. but i couldn’t stop.

if i couldn’t have more of him, i’d take this. being his for a couple hours a week. all his attention on me, like it was real. for a couple hours, i get to pretend it’s real.

i turn and stare at my ceiling, hoping i’ll hear my phone ping. i was getting tired. but if he texted, i’d go.

it’s pretty sad. i know. my friends have told me to get up, so many times. shake his hold. but i can’t. i’ll take any parts of him he’ll give me.

ping.

i practically fall over as i reach for my phone, frantically checking the notification.

rafe

hey.

hey? i huff, my head plopping against my pillow. another ping.

can you come over?

i stare at the message, taking a deep breath. it was nearly midnight. i should get up. i should say no. say i’m sick of the casual bullshit.

but soon, i find myself slipping my hoodie over my head, sliding into my uggs.

yeah.

is all i say. i didn’t need to say more. there was nothing more i could say. another ping.

i’ll pick you up. it’s late. don’t want you driving.

my eyebrows furrow. he’s gonna pick me up? he’s never done that.. it’s always the same routine. he texts me, i go over. and sometimes he makes me spend the night, whether i want to or not, because he doesn’t want me driving so late.

but he’s never picked me up.

i don’t say anything, heading to my living room and sitting on the couch in my empty apartment. i recently moved out of my parents, and i’d like to say it’s just a coincidence i moved into the complex only seven minutes from tannyhill.

it wasn’t.

my nails nervously pick at the hem of my hoodie as i wait. it was the longest seven minutes of my life. my mind kept racing. something about tonight felt different. he’s picking me up. and it’s so late. it’s usually never this late.

ping.

i’m here.

i swallow roughly and rub my eyes, standing up. i slide my phone into the pocket of my sleep shorts. the only sound in my quiet apartment is the shuffling of my slippers against the hardwood as i walk toward the door. i grab my keys and slide them into my other pocket, heading for the door. i lock it behind me and walk down the stairs, spotting the blaring headlights from rafe’s truck.

i walk towards it, shivering slightly from the cold air hitting my skin. i look up and see him get out, rounding the truck to the passenger side. he opens my door as i approach.

“hey.” i say softly.

he was in a hoodie and sweats, more relaxed from his usual appearance. which contained a white button up, usually unbuttoned by the time i see him, paired with some kind of dress pants.

“hey.” he whispers. his eyes drift down my appearance. “why’re you wearing shorts? it’s freezing, are you crazy?” he sighs, running a hand over his buzzed hair. his hand comes to the small of my back, not even allowing me to respond before he ushers me in his truck. he shuts the passenger door and rounds the vehicle again to his side.

he gets in, the engine humming as he starts it. he glances over at me and sighs, reaching his arm back to the backseat. he grabs a blanket, gently laying it out over my lap.

“nearly thirty fuckin’ degrees, and you’re sleepin’ in shorts.” he sighs, muttered under his breath.

i swallow roughly, looking down as his hands gently linger over the tops of my thighs as he lays down the blanket. “thanks.” i whisper.

“mhm.” he hums, his hands moving to grip the steering wheel as he peels out of the driveway.

the drive to his house was short, and quiet. the heater gently enveloped me, quickly changing my shivering form from earlier to warmth. my eyes stay looking out the window as i feel the occasional glances from rafe to my side. his eyes were like blades, puncturing into my skin at every glance with a sting.

i feel the truck come to a stop as we pull into the driveway. rafe had taken over tannyhill after his dad died, and sarah moved in with the pogues. so, it was always quiet here. sometimes i wonder if he brings anyone else over ever. or just me.

i watch as he gets out of the drivers seat, rounding the truck to my side. he sticks his hand out for me to grab as i step out of the truck. my hand fits in his warm palm, his hand cradling the small of my back as i step out.

i stand by his side as we walk up to the house. i look up at him, my eyes soft. “r-rafe..?”

“hm?” he hums as we approach the door, he fishes through his pockets for the keys.

“um.. are we…” i trail off.

he pauses as he finds the keys, his eyes flicking to me. his gaze runs over my face as he lets out a breath. “no.” he whispers.

so this was something else. i swallow roughly as i feel my stomach drop. was he ending things? i don’t say anything more and he opens the door, allowing me to walk in first

whenever i was in tannyhill, i felt out of place. it was a huge, beautiful mansion. but it carried a darkness to it. i could hardly imagine how rafe lived here alone. it would eat me up. just as i stand in the foyer, i feel small and inferior in the big space.

“hey.” he whispers. his voice snaps me out of my thoughts, his hand coming to the small of my back. i follow him as he guides me toward the living room. my eyes sift over the space and he guides us to a window seat, outfacing the backyard.

he sits and gestures his hand out for me to sit. i nervously pull my legs into my chest as i slip off my slippers.

“rafe.. why-why’d you text me?” i ask softly.

he leans back against the window with a soft sigh, his hand coming up to run over the stubble against his jaw. he chuckles softly, throwing his hands up. “been asking myself the same shit.” he sighs, looking over at me. he presses his lips together, his eyes wandering over me as he thinks. “i’ve been-“ he sighs. “i’ve been thinking.”

i furrow my eyebrows. “okay.. about..?” i ask softly.

he runs a hand over his face. “everything.” he whispers. “i-i’ve been really stressed.” he huffs. “cameron development, all that bullshit. i just have so much pressure on me, y’know?”

i nod gently. “yeah.” i whisper. “i-i get that. but rafe, you’re so much more than that.” sigh.

he chuckles, his tongue sticking to the inside of his cheek as he raises his eyebrows. he turns his gaze to look at me. “i appreciate that. you’re faith in me, i mean..” he trails off. “it’s nice. nobody else has it.”

my eyes narrow at him slightly. “well, i mean it, rafe.” i whisper softly, my hand gently coming to rest on his knee.

he looks down at my hand, letting out a sigh and leaning his head back against the window. he looks back at me, his gaze holding mine. but there’s something different about it this time. an intensity in his eyes i’d never seen before.

his hand comes to rest over my wrist, his thumb gently tracing in my skin. “y/n.. i-“ he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper.

my eyes blink up at him, my eyebrows knitted together softly. “yeah..?” i whisper.

he’s hesitant. like whatever he wants to say is stuck in a knot in his throat. he takes a deep breath, searching for the words. he swallows roughly. “look, i-i know i’m no good for you.” he whispers. “but there’s.. there’s somethin’ about you, just can’t fuckin’ get you outta my head.” he sighs and pauses before speaking his next words.

“i-i want us to be.. more. than just this. i-i can’t stop thinking about you, y/n.”

my stomach drops. my eyes widen slightly and my lips part. “i- what..?” i whisper, stunned.

he presses his lips together and i see the nerves bubble in his eyes. “i-i know we agreed to be friends with benefits and nothin’ more but-“ he runs his hand over his buzzed head, a satire chuckle escaping his lips. “i can’t fuckin’ do this shit, okay? i-i can’t keep texting you just to fuck and pretending you don’t mean fuckin’ everything to me. i can’t stand the thought of you being with other people i-“ he huffs, leaning back.

“‘m fucking obsessed with you, alright?” he whispers.

my eyes blink slowly, my lips parting. i couldn’t believe it. he felt the same way i did? every time he’d hold me after we’d hook up, a part of me hurt inside. knowing it was temporary. knowing, that i’d never really have him.

and that whole time—he was thinking the same thing.

“rafe, i-i want that too.” i whisper.

his eyes snap over to me, they scan over my features. almost trying to see if i was telling the truth. “really?” he whispers.

“yeah.” i say breathlessly. “i-i’ve wanted so much more. i was just scared that you didn’t. and that if i said anything, i’d lose you completely. so i was just.. settling for what i could get.”

he swallows roughly, his lips parting. his hand comes up to my cheek, his thumb gently stroking the skin. “i wanna give you everything.” he whispers. “i-i don’t deserve you. i’m fucked up, and i get angry and i’m selfish. wanting you is probably the most selfish thing i’ve ever done. but i-i can’t get you out of my head.” he sighs softly, his hand gently cradling my face.

“i may be all of those things.” he whispers. “but i’m gonna work so damn hard to deserve you. i’m gonna be better, i wanna be better every time i’m near you, baby.”

i shake my head gently. “you don’t need to be better.”

he smiles softly. “this is what i’m talkin’ about. too sweet for your own good, baby.”

“so.. you wanna be.. real?” i ask softly, my voice cautious. “like.. official and exclusive?”

he grins, nodding softly. “mhm.” he hums. “want you to be my girl. just mine.”

i smile softly, my stomach swarming at his words. “yeah?”

he chuckles lowly. “yeah, sweetheart.”

i can’t help the grin that creeps up on my lips. i scoot closer, burying my face in his neck. “okay.” i whisper, my arms wrapping around his broad shoulders.

his beefy arms immediately encapsulate me, holding my close. “yeah? you my girl, sweetheart?”

i grin, my cheeks heating up this words. “yeah, ‘m your girl.”

he grins, chuckling lowly as he presses a gentle kiss to my jaw. “‘m sorry i didn’t say anything sooner. made you think i was stringing you along.”

“no..” i shake my head softly. “‘m just glad i have you now.” i whisper. “in every way.”

he smiles, tugging me impossibly closer. “in every way.” he promises.

-

sickeningly sweet 🙂‍↕️ i’m a sucker for fluff srryyyy

[sagesturns]

˖°. rolling - m.s ˖°.

contents: smut. pnv. softdom!matt. sex tape. stomach bulge. praising. +more

your legs are thrown over matt’s shoulders, lace-trimmed socks brushing his jaw as he rolls his hips into you, slow and mean. each thrust drags his cock deeper, the stretch brutal — your stomach tightens under the pressure, bulging obscenely where he hits.   “look at that,” he murmurs, voice like syruped venom, brushing your cheek with the back of his hand. “my pretty baby’s stuffed full. you feel that, huh? right there?”   he taps the swell in your lower belly and grins when you twitch.

you whimper, digging your nails into his biceps. he cages you in, elbows sinking into the mattress on either side of your head, sweat dripping from his temples.   his lips brush your ear. “hurts a little, doesn’t it?”   you nod, dizzy. “keep going.”   he groans, low and raw, and fucks deeper. your thighs shake. your tits bounce with every snap of his hips. your breath catches.

the red light on the camera blinks steadily at the edge of the bed. he set it up earlier, angled perfectly to capture every twitch, every arch of your spine, every filthy sound you make for him.

“gonna look so pretty on tape,” he mutters, running a palm down your thigh before grabbing it tighter. “gonna watch this every night, fuck myself to it. to you.”

you whimper, back arching as his cock bullies its way deeper, forcing a high, broken cry from your throat. your body’s trembling, clinging to him as he leans over you, pressing you into the sheets.

his eyes flicker down to your stomach, watching the bulge in awe. “look at that,” he whispers, thumbing the swell. “you feel that, baby? that’s all me.”

you nod frantically, words lost in your throat.

matt leans close, lips brushing your ear, voice low and dripping with possession. “say hi to the camera.”

“m-matt—”

he just chuckles, kisses your neck. “don’t be shy. you’re fuckin’ glowing for me.”

then he shifts, grabs under your back and lifts you up, holding you tight to his chest as he fucks into you like you’re his last breath. the angle hits something deep — too deep — and you cry out, gasping into his skin.

“say my name,” he whispers, “nice and loud. wanna hear it on playback.”

you moan it again and again.   he leans in and kisses you — slow, hungry, dirty — then pulls you into his lap without ever slipping out, your arms around his neck, thighs locked around his waist.

“gonna keep it just for us,” he pants. “only we get to see how good i wreck you.”

then he shifts, sitting up and dragging you into his lap, keeping you full of his dick the entire time. your arms wrap around his neck, and he bounces you on his cock like he’s addicted to the sound of you gasping.

the tape keeps rolling.

©sagesturns☆

a/n: neeeeeeeddddddd. wrote this on the 1 hour bus ride.... sigh.

[beloveds-embrace]

(non-sexual smell kink with simon riley 🙂‍↕️)

Simon wasn’t used to softness.

His life had been a long stretch of damp alleyways, stale cigarettes, and the kind of bars where the floor stuck to your boots if you stood still too long. Even the so-called clean places had a lingering scent of old beer and sweat, clinging to the air like a bad memory. He’d spent years thinking that was just how life smelled- musty, metallic, a little rotten around the edges.

Then you came along.

Simon never thought of himself as a man who cared much for scents, but you ruined him without even trying. It started with something small- your presence shifting the air in a room before he even saw you. A whisper of something clean and soft, clinging to your skin like an invisible halo.

You used body powder, he’d eventually learn, the kind that puffed into the air like smoke when you dusted it over your skin, leaving a faint, lingering trail wherever you went. He’d caught the scent of it the first time he stepped into your space, expecting the usual mix of cheap air fresheners or laundry detergent. Instead, he was hit with something warm, almost nostalgic, like fresh linens and a touch of vanilla.

It drove him mad in the best way.

Simon found himself leaning in when you passed by, subtle at first- just a slight tilt of his head when you moved close enough for your scent to brush against him. Then, less subtle- pulling you against his chest after long missions, face buried in your neck, inhaling deep enough to burn the memory of you into his lungs.

“You smell so good.” He muttered once, almost embarrassed by the admission.

You’d laughed, fingers brushing against the back of his head, free of the mask. “Yeah? What do I smell like?”

He hesitated, unsure how to explain it. Saying soft didn’t make sense. Neither did safe, even though that’s what it felt like. So he settled for: “Just… really good.”

You didn’t tease him for it. Just smiled, pressed a kiss to his jaw, and let him breathe you in.

And the first time Johnny met you, he almost had the same reaction.

Simon had warned him ahead of time- half because he wanted Johnny to behave and half because he wasn’t sure how his best mate would react to seeing Simon with someone so different from everything he’d ever known.

“Don’t be an idiot.” Simon had said.

Johnny had grinned at him. “Wouldd nae dream of it.”

You’d met at a quiet pub, one of the few places Simon could tolerate. Johnny had been his usual self, easygoing and full of charm especially for Simon’s missus, but the moment you’d leaned in to shake his hand, his expression shifted.

“Steamin’ Jesus…” Johnny blurted out, blinking at you.

Your brow furrowed in confusion, and your eyes shifted in hesitance towards Simon. “Uh. Nice to meet you too?”

Simon sighed, already knowing where this was going.

Johnny sniffed the air- actually sniffed- then gave Simon a look of utter betrayal. “You never told me she smelled this good.”

You let out a startled laugh. “What?”

Simon groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. “Don’t encourage him, lovie.”

Johnny, the bastard, ignored him completely. “I mean it, love, you smell incredible. It’s like-” He inhaled deeply again, thoughtful. “Powdered sugar. Or fresh sheets. Or- hell, I dunno. Just really, really nice.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Well, I do use a lot of body powder.”

“Where do you get it?” Johnny asked immediately.

Simon shot him a glare. “…Why?”

Johnny grinned, waggling his brows. “So I can get some for myself, obviously.”

Simon muttered something under his breath that made Johnny laugh, but he ignored them both, turning to you instead. “Sorry, love. Just didn’t expect my best mate to be walking around smelling like a bloody bakery all the time.”

You smiled at Simon, amused. “You didn’t tell him?”

Simon crossed his arms, feeling warm in a way that had nothing to do with the pub’s heating. You looked lovely. Content. Happy, leaning into him without fear. “Didn’t think it was relevant.”

Johnny scoffed. “Not relevant? if I had a lass smellin’ this nice, I’d be bragging all day.”

Simon just shook his head, reaching for his drink. But later that night, when it was just the two of you, he tucked you against him and pressed his face into your neck, breathing deep.

You smelled like home. Like warmth. Like the one thing in his life that had never felt dirty, no matter how much blood and grime he carried with him.

And he would never, ever get enough of it.

[ice-man-goes-bwoah]

Marked||Remmick x fem!reader

Mndi +18

Summary—Remmick’s obsessed with your skin. Dark, warm, alive. He can’t stop licking, biting, praising—marking—it. He needs everyone to know you’re his. He makes you ride him slow while he worships every inch, telling you you’re the only light he’s ever seen.

Warnings—possessive sex, praise kink, interracial dynamic, body worship, dirty talk

Word count—739

Remmick has always had a thing for your skin.

Not just the way it looks though he could write poetry about how the dark gleam of it glows like firelight in the dark, how it shimmers when you sweat, how it drinks the moon. But the way it tastes. The way it feels. Warm, velvet-soft, stretched over muscle and strength and everything he craves more than blood.

He has you straddling his lap now, the slow rock of your hips driving him half-mad with need. But he doesn’t buck up. He doesn’t rush. He just watches.

Watches your curves roll like honey. Watches the way you tilt your head back, lashes fluttering, mouth parting with a soft gasp when his hands slide up your waist. You’re riding him slow, steady, so deep it’s practically torture for you both.

His chain clinks against your stomach every time you drop your hips. His fingers flex against your thighs. You’re gonna be sore tomorrow, and the thought makes his cock twitch inside you.

But he can’t stop looking at your skin.

“Jesus Christ,” he rasps, voice rough with hunger, Southern drawl thick. “You don’t know what you do to me, do you?”

You smile, lazy, teasing. “Oh, I have some idea.”

That gets a growl out of him. His hands tighten, dragging you flush against him until your chest presses to his, your breath ghosting his throat. “So fuckin’ warm,” he mutters, kissing your collarbone. “Like sunlight. Like sin.”

He sinks his teeth into your shoulder not to feed, just to mark. A claim. And God, he’s got so many of them on you already. Your neck, your tits, your hips all bruised, kissed, sucked red and purple and gold. His fingerprints might never leave your thighs.

You whimper when he bites, nails digging into his shoulders. “Remmick—”

“That’s it, sugar. Let me hear you. Let me feel you.” He lifts his mouth, eyes burning gold now. “Wanna ruin you slow. Wanna see my marks all over you tomorrow when you look in the mirror. Wanna remind you you’re mine.”

“You already did.”

His grip falters. Just for a second. Like your words physically stunned him.

You don’t stop moving. You roll your hips again, deliberately slow, grinding your clit against his pelvis. “You think I’d let anyone else have this?” You tilt his chin up so he has to look you in the eye. “I belong to you.”

He groans wounded, almost and grabs your ass with both hands, driving you down harder. “Say it again.”

“I’m yours,” you breathe, letting your head fall to his. “I’m all yours, Remmick.”

“Fuck—fuck—you’re gonna break me,” he gasps, mouth hot on your throat. “Only light I’ve ever seen, baby. Only thing worth prayin’ to.”

His lips move lower. Over the swell of your breast, down the valley between. He licks, sucks, tongues your nipple until you arch for him.

“Dark skin like a goddamn altar,” he moans, voice gone reverent. “Want to worship. Want to bury myself in you and never fuckin’ leave.”

You grind down harder, faster now, chasing the high he’s whispering into existence. He meets your rhythm finally, hips snapping up just enough to make your thighs tremble.

“Can’t stop thinkin’ about how you look like this,” he mutters, dragging his tongue down your sternum. “Ridin’ me like you own me. Drippin’ warm all over my cock. Shit, baby. You were made for this.”

“Remmick, please—”

He tilts his head back, watching you. Sweaty. Gasping. Riding him like you were born to. “You close?”

You nod, eyes fluttering. “Need to—need you to—”

His thumb finds your clit, rubbing tight circles with expert precision. “Come on then. Give it to me. Show me who this pussy belongs to.”

You sob his name when you come. Body shaking, thighs clenching, muscles fluttering around his cock as he watches, memorizes it. And he keeps you moving through it, holding you steady while he spills inside you with a groan that sounds more like a prayer.

For a moment, there’s only panting. Skin against skin. His necklace cool against your chest. Your arms around his neck.

Then, quietly, reverently:

“Gonna keep you like this forever.”

You huff a laugh. “You’ll have to let me walk eventually.”

He grins against your neck. “Maybe. If I can still smell me on you after.”

He kisses a bite mark on your shoulder like an apology.

But it isn’t one. It’s a promise.

[differenteagletragedy]

What if you are married to Simon but you still have eyes and Price is right there, what then ↓

It's so hot. The sun is beating down outside, summer in full swing, but inside your house the heat is oppressive. It's suffocating.

"Simon, just call someone to fix it," you whine, walking around until you find your husband with his shirt off and sweat dripping down his back, reading something on his phone.

"Don't need anyone to fix it," he mutters, not looking up at you. "Can do it myself."

You groan, because it's painfully clear at this point that he in fact cannot fix it. It's been three days since the air conditioning went out, and three days of Simon trying everything he can think of to fix it. He's been flipping breakers, messing with the thermostat, taking tools to the unit outside, but nothing's worked, because Simon does not know what he's doing.

"I'm going to die," you tell him, sinking down onto the couch. "I'm going to perish and it's all going to be your fault."

You see him smirk, but he still doesn't look up. Instead, he tells you, "You're going to survive this, sweetheart. Going to have it up and running by tonight."

"Why won't you call an actual repairman? Why are you insisting on whatever this is?"

"Cute," he says, finally glancing up at you with a grin. "You're the one who married a stubborn bastard, what do you think?"

You think it's a mix of pride and sheer unwillingness to be outsmarted by a hunk of metal and parts, but you don't say that. Instead, you continue whining.

The next morning, Simon still hasn't figured it out. You tell him more directly, dramatics aside, that you're very uncomfortable and would just like to solve the problem in a normal, reasonable manner.

He makes a deal with you. He's not ready to completely give up and call in outside help just yet. But he will call Johnny.

"Does Johnny know how to repair a heating and cooling unit?" you ask, entirely unconvinced.

He answers, "Johnny knows a lot of things."

A couple of hours later, Johnny comes over, his own tools in tow, and he's brought along a surprise -- Kyle.

You keep your groan to yourself this time and just bring the men drinks while they work. Or, well, while Johnny and Kyle nod while Simon tells them everything he's done that hasn't worked. It doesn't take them long to switch from water to beer, and at this point you're pretty sure you're actually going to die.

"You know," Kyle says at one point, carrying the latest round of empty bottles to the trash, "I think the captain had something like this happen a few years back. I seem to remember overhearing him talking to the missus about it in a call."

"Is that why she divorced him?" you ask. "He wouldn't call a repairman and kept telling her he could fix it himself?"

Simon gives you a look, and you give it right back -- you know you're being cheeky, but the heat really is miserable.

But Kyle only laughs and shakes his head, saying "No, I don't think that's what did it. He got it fixed, I believe, he's pretty handy with things like that."

It's your turn to shoot Simon at look. Your husband shakes his head, twisting the top off another beer, and says, "Absolutely not."

"Simon."

"Sweetheart."

"Please."

An hour or so later, John arrives. And, ever so slightly, the atmosphere shifts. Simon, Johnny and Kyle stand just a little bit straighter, their voices get the tiniest bit more business-like. They're not standing at attention now that the captain is here, it's not that notable, but now it's clear that someone is in charge.

It's cute, you think as you watch them. You smile softly, watching Simon as he gives John a debriefing on everything he's tried so far, and you don't notice that John's eyes linger on you just a fraction of a second longer than what might be considered acceptable.

The captain is the one who finally gets the air conditioning running again, but it's no small effort. From the window, you watch as Price tinkers with something within the unit, and you smile when you hear it kick on, a nearby vent starting the work of circulating cool air through the too-hot house.

"What did you do?" you ask John, a bit of wonder in your voice, when they all come back inside to make sure everything is in order. "Simon's been going at it for days and you got it in half an hour."

The older man gives you a small, tight smile, reaching out to tap Simon's shoulder lightly.

"Just a blown capacitor, love," he tells you. "Easy enough fix."

You return his smile like you always do -- you like John. Always have. It's something, you think, about how similar he can be to Simon. Both men are strong and solid, deeply masculine in a way that's natural, not forced. They both have deep, rumbling voices that you feel in your chest when they speak. And sometimes, though you don't know John as well as you know Simon, of course, you think that the captain has something wild in him, too. Some kind of ache that runs deep through him, one that he's muzzled and tamed long ago.

Your Simon struggles with it still, though less since you married him. It's why he still wears a mask on the job, and why he wrestles, on a base level, with the idea of being seen.

John, you think, wears a different kind of mask. You can see it when he comes over for dinner some evenings, in the way that even after a full meal, dessert and a glass of scotch, the tension stays in his shoulders. You've never seen the man relaxed, and from what Simon's said of him, he hasn't either. It's his tight grip on control, of himself and those around him. He clings to it.

"Is that thing really working?" Johnny asks, grabbing another beer. "It's still hot as hell in here."

"It'll take a while to cool down, but it's working," John answers.

He's as sweaty as the others, but he doesn't complain. Instead, he lifts the hem of his t-shirt up to wipe his face. You look down -- your eyes just tracking the motion, you tell yourself -- to see his belly bared, covered in a thick coating of dark hair and just the slightest bit soft.

When you pull your eyes back to his, he's giving you a grin, but if he caught you staring, he doesn't say anything.

"You wanna get Price a drink?" Simon asks, smirking at you. "For saving your life and all."

You nod, turning back to the kitchen, pulling out the scotch you keep just for him and trying to clear your head.

Sure, John is an attractive man. So is Kyle, so is Johnny. And for that matter, so is Simon. Your husband.

But still, when you return to the group of men gathered in your living room, your fingers brush against John's as you hand him the drink. And you can't help but think about what that beard would feel like against your cheek, between your thighs. How it would feel if, even for just a little while, you were the thing he felt that desperate, innate need to control.

[ficsbydemi]

SELF CARE

warnings: mdni, smut, 18+, praise, throwing up

pairing: lando norris x fem!reader

summary: no one likes being sick, but when you have someone who cares for you, it’s all the more better

It was well past 3am when Y/n felt a shaky hand on her shoulder - cold and clammy, followed by mix of a whimper and a groan.

“Y/n-,” there was a pause, “‘m think im’gonna be sick-,”

The sentence was shortly followed by retching as Y/n moved to her feet, rushing after her boyfriend as he knelt over the toilet, body shaking.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” she muttered, brushing his curls from his forehead as he shook.

Lando heaved, holding onto the bowl as he held it like it was the only thing grounding him.

Y/n stayed right beside him, one hand rubbing slow circles on his back while the other gently held his hair away from his face.

“You’re okay, baby,” she almost cooed, “I’m here, I’m here with you…shh, it’s okay,”

Her hand moved soothingly up and down his back, gliding across his burning skin, his skin sweaty as he heaved, huddled over the toilet bowl.

Lando coughed, his breathing heavy before he leaned his forehead against the cool porcelain.

“I’m - fuck - I’m such a shit boyfriend,” he croaked, voice hoarse from the strain, “waking you up for this,”

Y/n frowned, fingers combing through his curls in a way she knew comforted him. “Hey, don’t say that,” she murmured.

“You’re sick, Lan. I’d rather be here with you than asleep, anyway,”

“Liar,” he huffed a weak, humourless laugh.

She smiled, pressing a kiss to his temple despite the sweat on his skin. “No, really. This is top-tier quality time, we’re bonding,”

Lando rolled his eyes, accepting the water she’d cupped into her hand, and swirled it round his mouth.

Y/n’s hand never left his back as he spat it out, sighing.

Lando groaned, flopping back against her as she sat on the bathroom floor behind him, cradling him against her chest.

“Let’s get you to bed, yeah?” Y/n said after a minute, helping her boyfriend to his feet as he nodded, following her shakily into the room, steadied by her hand wrapped round his.

“Comfy?” Y/n sidled into the bed beside him, making sure the blankets weren’t too suffocating as he nodded.

“Good,” she whispered, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

“Mornin’,” Lando mumbled, his voice raspy as he turned onto his side, his eyes shining softly.

“Morning,” Y/n replied, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his lips, moving to rest her head on her arm, “how’re you feelin’?”.

Lando just groaned, burying his face into his arm.

“I had plans,” he said after a few seconds, “gym…training…the works,” he muttered.

“Definitely not doing any of that,” Y/n said firmly as Lando moved closer to her, his curls brushing her cheek as he nodded, showing no resistance to her words.

“What about…a little self care day?”

“A what?”

“Just some face masks…a warm bath…some films, you know,” Y/n said vaguely as Lando hummed.

“Doesn’t sound too bad, actually,” he moved to sit up, accepting her hand to steady himself, his curls sticking up here and there, but not too bad.

“Why don’t we start on that bath?” Lando said, even being sick, he still had that little smug smirk.

“Sure,” Y/n said, shaking her head at his antics.

With the help of Y/n, Lando managed to get to the bathroom, sitting himself down onto the toilet, his eyes never leaving Y/n as she reached up, pulling her t-shirt off over her head.

“C’mon, you need to undress too,” Y/n chided, her cheeks painted slightly red at the intensity of her boyfriend’s stare.

“Oh. Right,”

Y/n rolled her eyes, shaking her head as he tossed his shirt into a pile in the corner, followed by his joggers as he stood up, walking behind Y/n.

“So pretty,” he mumbled, pressing a kiss to her neck as she giggled, watching the water slowly rise.

“Heard dopamine’s good to make you feel better,” he mumbled, stepping into the water after Y/n, wriggling back so his back rested against her chest.

“Where did you hear that?” Y/n rolled her eyes as Lando grinned.

“Me, myself, and I,”

“Of course,”

The bath was relaxing - the warm water pooling round the pair of them as Y/n scrubbed at Lando’s scalp, her nails dragging smoothly through his hair as he groaned.

“F-Fuck…” Lando’s head fell back against her chest, “that’s the spot,”

“This isn’t a head massage, you muppet,” Y/n snickered, watching how his eyes fluttered, very nearly rolling back.

“You’re not stopping, though,”

“Whatever,”

“C’mon baby,” Y/n wriggled, running her hand over Lando’s bicep as he jolted, his eyes half-lidded as he looked up at her.

“Water’s cold,” she muttered, “and we have face masks and stuff to do,”

“Why didn’t we do them before the bath?” Lando mumbled as Y/n shrugged, helping him step out of the pool of water. “Didn’t think that far ahead,”

Lando snickered, accepting the towel round his waist, the other patting his curls softly.

“Thanks,” he wrapped the fluffiness around his body, blearily rubbing his eyes, “ma’am,”

“Anytime, sir,” Y/n played along, tying the two ropes softly, not too tight, and following the same on her own body.

“So…hydrating or-?” Y/n barely even got the sentence out of her mouth before Lando half-snatched the apple flavoured pouch from her hand, eyes wide.

“Scented it is,” she muttered, shaking her head as she praised the face mask from his hand, directing him to sit on the toilet.

“Feel like a ma…a massag…ist,” Lando muttered, closing his eyes as she tore open the packet.

“A masseuse,” she said, correcting him as he nodded, flinching at the cold feel of the paste across his skin.

“Don’t move, or it’ll get in your eye,” she warned, as Lando nodded, gulping and closing his mouth. Every time she scooped a new finger-ful of the stuff, he’d flinch, almost moving away.

“Lando,” Y/n groaned, as he moved for what felt like the hundredth time, her hand squeezing his face together and holding him still.

“Sorry,” Lando mumbled, his voice muffled by the position she had him in, finishing the face mask as blinked, staring at himself in the mirror.

With a few more swipes of the cold paste, she finally finished up, stepping back to admire her handiwork. 

“I look like Shrek,” Lando said, looking to the mirror as Y/n snorted. 

“I didn’t choose the toxic green, did I?” Y/n shot back almost immediately as Lando grumbled. “Yeah, yeah, shut it, you,” he squeezed her sides.

They both relaxed on the bed as their face masks worked their magic, before finally, Lando scrunched his nose.

“My nose is itchy,”

“‘Course it is,” Y/n stood up, grinning, “let’s wash them off,”

Lando took her hand instantly, rising to his feet as he followed her towards the bathroom, smearing water across his face.

“Shrek,” he muttered, jabbing her side again as she scowled.

“Look pretty,” he mumbled after a few seconds, as Y/n snickered.

“That’s a quick change from before,”

“Is it a crime to say my girl looks pretty?”

A flutter rushed through Y/n’s chest at the use of ‘my’, and she turned her head.

“Didn’t think so,” Lando smirked.

“Oh shut it,” Y/n said, though not pushing him away as he wrapped his arms round her waist.

“Don’t you protesting,” Lando snickered, his voice soft as he pulled her to his chest, her back warm against him.

Y/n said nothing, letting him sway her.

And then-

“Oh fuck, you’ve ruined the moment,” Y/n said after a while, moving forwards as Lando blushed.

“I can’t it! Your ass-,” he spluttered, trying to cover the bulge in his joggers as Y/n rolled her eyes.

“Whatever,” she muttered, “just c’mon,” he took her hand, tugging him towards the bedroom.

Lando blinked - a little confused when she pushed his chest, his back falling into the bed in the process, as Y/n thrusted her shirt off over her head.

“Well, hello,” Lando smirked, as Y/n climbed on top of him, straddling his waist as she pushed his joggers down.

“Quit talking,” Y/n muttered, “you were sick last night, now you’re horny?”

“It’s called being a man,” Lando shook his head, suppressing a laugh - which was quick to turn into a groan as Y/n sank down onto him, her velvet walls immediately enveloping his thick member.

“Fuckkkkk,” he groaned, head falling back at the feeling, propping himself up on his elbows.

“Fuckin’ gorgeous,” he muttered, voice hoarse as Y/n placed her hands on his shoulders, before bouncing softly.

Her cheeks were flushed red - as was Lando’s.

She moaned, the sound higher pitched and more of a whimper as Lando held her hips, steadying her on top of him.

“Lan…” she croaked, clutching his shoulders, her pace slowing and settling into an almost abysmally pathetic bounce.

“Hm?”

“Legs hurt,”

“Couldn’t even last being a dom for 5 minutes- ow! Okay, okay!” Lando rubbed his bicep where she’d punched him, wincing.

In a swift movement, he had Y/n in her back, legs thrown over his shoulders, his dick plunging into her.

“Remarkable stamina for someone who threw up last night,” Lando smirked, to which Y/n scoffed.

“Calm it, Norris,”

“I am calm,”

“You’re big headed,” Y/n corrected as Lando scoffed.

“Just shut up and take my dick,” he grunted, teeth clenched as he picked up pace, his tip slamming into her g-spot, causing her to cry out.

It took no less than 20 seconds for her legs to quiver, teeth sinking into the cushion of her lower lip as she moaned, her orgasm washing over her.

Lando didn’t stop, thrusting into her and prolonging her climax, her head falling to the mattress as Lando panted, his own quick to follow.

His hips snapped into hers, quick and sharp, stuttering, before he pulled out, his cum pooling onto her stomach.

“Jesus,”

“Agreed,” Lando mumbled, wiping a strand of hair from her face.

She said nothing, rolling onto Lando’s chest as he held her, arms clamped tightly but not too hard round her.

“Love you, nurse,” Lando snickered.

“Love you dickhead,” she mumbled as Lando smiled.

[jerryandersonsdaughterinlaw]

bestfriend!abby helping you through a breakup with a toxic partner ❀

word count: 5.6k

It was late afternoon when Abby caught it. She hadn’t meant to overhear. She was walking back to her dorm from the gym, cutting across the courtyard behind the student center, earbuds in, ponytail damp against the back of her neck. It was just chance— the way voices carried under the overhang of the art building, near where you had class. She only caught it because she paused to re-tie her shoelace.

“—You’re embarrassing when you act like this,” a girl’s voice snapped. “Do you even hear yourself?”

Abby’s hand stilled on her knee.

“I’m just trying to talk to you,” Your voice came, too soft, strained.

“I can’t keep doing this with you every time you get in your feelings. It’s exhausting.”

Abby stood up slowly, turning just enough to see around the edge of the building.

There they were, half-shielded by a column— your arms crossed tightly over your chest, face flushed and glassy-eyed. And her, standing too close, speaking with that low, patronizing tone Abby had come to hate even before this moment.

Abby didn’t move. She didn’t interrupt. But her stomach turned cold and hot at the same time, fists curling by her sides. Then she saw it, the moment I caught her looking. Our eyes met, and something like horror flickered through me. I stiffened. Somehow, being seen by Abby in that moment felt worse than the moment itself.

I turned away immediately, brushing past my girlfriend, muttering something she didn’t catch. She scoffed and didn’t follow.

Abby stepped aside as I passed her— but I didn’t stop.

“Hey—” Abby started gently.

But I shook my head fast, still walking. “Don’t.”

“Hey. Wait.” Abby fell into step beside me, trying to keep her voice steady. “You okay?”

“I said don’t.” There was something brittle in my tone. Defensive. Not angry, embarrassed. Ashamed.

Abby quieted, walking a few more steps with me. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

I didn’t look at her. My jaw was tight, eyes trained ahead. “It’s not your business, Abby.”

“I know,” Abby said softly. “Doesn’t mean I’m not worried.”

We stopped near the dorm entrance. I looked up at her finally, my expression guarded and hurt. Not at Abby, but at myself. “I don’t need you to fix it.”

“I know.”

“I don’t want pity.”

“I don’t pity you.”

A long pause. My eyes filled, and I blinked hard, shaking my head. “I didn’t want you to see that,” I said, voice breaking slightly.

“I know,” Abby murmured. “But I’m not gonna pretend I didn’t.”

Another pause. “Please don’t look at me like that.” I whispered.

“Like what?”

“Like I’m breakable.”

Abby’s chest tightened. She wanted to reach out, but didn’t. She knew I was already running hot with shame, and contact might tip me over. “You’re not breakable. But you are hurting. And you don’t have to do that alone.”

I looked away again and didn’t reply. But I lingered there, didn’t storm off. And that was something.

Later that night, when I sent Abby a text— just “I’m sorry,” she didn’t respond with words. She sent a photo of two steaming mugs on her desk, waiting. One was chipped. The other still had faint stains from the last time I stayed late.

── .✦

It was just past midnight when Abby heard the knock. Soft. Hesitant. A little too late to be casual. She was still awake, sitting at her desk in a loose t-shirt and sweats, half reading a textbook she wasn’t absorbing. The moment she heard it, she knew. Abby crossed the room and cracked the door open.

There I was— hoodie zipped all the way up, sleeves pulled past my wrists, eyes red-rimmed like I’d been trying not to cry for hours. I didn’t say anything right away, just stood there with my hands in my pockets, staring down at my shoes.

Abby didn’t ask what happened. She didn’t need to. Instead, she stepped back and opened the door wider. “Come in.”

I hesitated only a second before slipping past her, still quiet. I hovered by the edge of the bed, not sitting down. Just standing there like I didn’t know what to do with myself.

Abby closed the door gently, then moved over. Not too close, just close enough. “You okay?”

I let out a breath that caught halfway out of my chest, then shook my head.

Abby nodded once, her voice soft. “Did you walk over here?”

“Yeah.” My voice was hoarse.

“Do you want water?”

I nodded again.

Abby stepped away for a moment, came back with a glass and placed it on the desk. I didn’t move to take it yet. My hands were clenched at her sides, my shoulders wound tight.

“I shouldn’t have come,” I said suddenly. “I just— I didn’t want to be alone. And I couldn’t be with her either. So I didn’t know where else to go.”

Abby stepped forward. “I’m glad you came here.”

That made me look up. My eyes searched Abby’s face for signs of pity or judgment. There was none. Something in me cracked a little. “She said it was my fault, I’m always too sensitive. That I don’t make anything easy.”

Abby’s jaw clenched, but she kept her voice level. “She’s wrong.”

“I’m not easy to be around.”

“You are.”

“I’m a lot.”

Abby took a breath, carefully choosing her words. “No, you feel a lot. That’s not the same thing.”

My eyes welled again, and this time I didn’t try to blink it away. I felt so small in that moment, like I was exhausted from holding myself together.

Abby moved to sit on the bed and looked up at me. “Come here.”

I hesitated— then let myself go. I sat beside Abby, then leaned in like I’d been trying not to all night, my head pressing into her shoulder. My breath hitched once, then again, and then the dam broke. Quiet, shaking sobs bled out of me, muffled against Abby’s shirt.

Abby didn’t say anything. She just wrapped an arm around me and held on tightly, grounding me, rubbing slow, steady circles into my back.

“You don’t have to apologize,” she whispered, when I managed to choke out an “I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Abby let me cry as long as I needed. No rush. No discomfort. She just stayed there, warm and solid beside me, letting me unravel safely for the first time.

After a long while, I pulled back a little, eyes puffy and wet, but my breathing had evened out. Abby handed me the water. My fingers brushed hers, but I didn’t pull away right away. Neither did she. I took a sip, then looked down at the glass, quiet again. “Can I stay?” I asked softly.

Abby nodded. “Of course.”

She got up and pulled down the extra blanket from the shelf, draped it over the bed, and turned off the harsh overhead light, leaving only the warm desk lamp on. She didn’t ask questions. Didn’t push. Just moved naturally, like this was something we did all the time.

When I curled up under the blanket, I automatically shifted closer, seeking out her warmth again. Abby lay down beside me, letting our foreheads touch, a hand resting gently on my hip.

And in the quiet, I whispered, barely audible, “You always make me feel safe.”

Abby’s heart ached. She didn’t know how to say everything she felt in that moment. So she just leaned in and brushed her lips against my hair. “You are,” she said softly. “You’re safe here.”

── .✦

Abby quietly orbited my life with a kind of steadfast presence. She wouldn’t overstep, wouldn’t make a show of how she felt, but she’d be there, always there. Watching, waiting, hurting for me in silence.

It started the same way every time.

I knocked on Abby’s dorm door late at night. Sometimes I’m quiet, sometimes I’m crying. Sometimes I try to act normal, saying I “just needed air” or “couldn’t sleep,” but Abby always knows. Always reads the unspoken in my posture, the slump in my shoulders, the tension in my jaw.

She opens the door without saying anything. Steps aside so I can slip in, like she’s done a hundred times before. And she never asks questions, because I never offer answers, not right away.

Tonight, my mascara is smudged under my eyes. My sleeves are tugged down over my hands, and I’m holding my phone like it betrayed me.

Abby closes the door softly and says nothing. She grabs the blanket from her bed and wraps it around my shoulders, then sits beside me on the floor, knees brushing. The hum of the mini-fridge fills the silence.

“She called me selfish,” I murmur after a while. “Said I make everything about me.”

Abby doesn’t look at me. She stares at the floor, jaw tightening. “You’re not.”

“She said… I drain people. That I’m too much to handle.”

Abby exhales, slow and quiet. Her hands are curled into loose fists against her thighs. “You’re not too much,” she says, voice low. “She’s not enough.”

I don’t respond right away. I just stare ahead, like I’m half here and half somewhere else. “Why do I keep going back to her?”

Abby doesn’t answer that one. She knows it’s not a question that needs solving— not from her. You wouldn’t listen if she tried anyway, not yet. You’re not ready. But still, a small part of Abby aches with restraint. A quiet fury burns low in her chest, the kind that flares every time she sees another fresh crack in your spirit. Another hurt you didn’t deserve. And yet, she never says a word against her— not directly. She knows you would defend her. Knows it would only push you further away.

So instead, she just stays. She makes space on her bed, gives you the side near the wall, plugs your phone in for you without asking. She sits with you until your breathing slows and your hands unclench. And when you eventually curl toward her in the dark, head resting on Abby’s shoulder like a tired bird, Abby wraps an arm around your waist and holds you there.

She never sleeps well on those nights. Because she’s angry, so angry, and she doesn’t know where to put it. Not at you. But at the situation. At the way you can’t see that you deserve so much better. At the way Abby wants so badly to be that better for you. But she doesn’t say it. She never says it. She just holds you. And picks up the pieces, quietly, every time.

── .✦

The classroom was too bright.

Fluorescents hummed overhead, casting everything in a kind of sterile flatness that made even warm faces look cold. Abby sat near the back, half listening to the lecture, her pen tapping absently against the margin of her notes. The professor’s voice droned on about biomechanics, but her attention was somewhere else entirely.

Two rows down. Third seat from the left.

You.

You were slouched into your hoodie, arms tucked in tight like you were trying to disappear inside it. Your hand was barely moving across your notebook, and you hadn’t raised your head in twenty minutes. Abby couldn’t even tell if you were taking notes or just pretending to.

You looked… pale. Tired. Wrong.

And it wasn’t just that you looked sick, though you might’ve been. There was something heavy in your posture— the kind of weight that didn’t come from a cold or a fever. The kind of weight that sat in your bones and made everything feel harder. Slower. Too much.

Abby’s jaw tensed as she watched someone, a guy you used to sit with, lean toward you, trying to get your attention. You flinched before you even looked up. Just a flicker of movement, like you were bracing for something.

And then you smiled.

Abby hated that smile. Not because it wasn’t beautiful, it was. But because it wasn’t real. It was the smile she’d seen you give your girlfriend. The one that said ‘I’m fine’ when everything in your body said the opposite. Abby looked down at her notebook, pretending to write, but her eyes kept drifting back.

She remembered a night a few weeks ago, seeing you on the curb outside a party, mascara smudged and a tremble in your jaw, saying you were just tired, just overwhelmed. Abby had stayed with you the whole time. Never asked what happened. Just offered her hoodie, silence, and a ride home.

But afterward, when Abby had gone back inside and seen her, your girlfriend, laughing with her friends like nothing had happened— something inside her had burned.

Now, watching you sit there pretending to be okay again, Abby felt that same burn settle in her chest. Low. Controlled. But steady. She didn’t know if you saw how transparent it was. The way your hands shook when you thought no one was looking. The way your voice got small after a text came through. The way you avoided eye contact when you were scared.

Maybe she didn’t want to know.

Abby wanted to do something. Say something. Get up, leave, take you home. You don’t have to sit through this, you don’t owe anyone this version of yourself. But instead, she sat still, her hand clenched around her pen, heart thudding with frustration. Because it wasn’t her place— not yet. Abby was just the friend you came to after the fact. The cleanup crew. The one who made soup or walked you home in silence. Not the one you trusted with the storm as it was happening.

I felt her eyes on me from the back of the room—steady, patient, but not pushing. I kept my head down, scribbling notes like they mattered. But every now and then, my pen stalled mid sentence, my throat tight.

When class ended, I let everyone else shuffle out first. I didn’t want to talk. I just wanted to slip out the door and disappear. But just before I did, Abby brushed past, quietly falling into step beside me. She didn’t say anything. Didn’t ask. But she made sure I didn’t walk alone.

I didn’t protest when she matched my pace. I didn’t say ‘I’m okay’ or ‘You don’t have to,’ the way I sometimes did. I just walked with my head down and my hands shoved deep into my pockets, steps heavy like my legs were made of wet sand. Abby didn’t press. She never did.

Abby’s dorm was warm. A sweatshirt tossed over the back of her chair, a used coffee mug on the windowsill, a book lying open on her bed like she’d been halfway through it that morning. She dropped her bag near the door and turned on the lamp instead of the overhead light, casting the small room in a soft amber hue.

I stood awkwardly just inside, arms still crossed over my chest. My eyes were puffy, like I’d cried last night and then slept poorly. My voice was quiet when I finally spoke. “Is it okay if I just… stay here for a little?”

Abby nodded, already walking over to pull the blanket off her bed. “You don’t even have to ask.”

She didn’t say ‘you look like you need it,’ or ‘you seem off today.’ She just offered the comfort without making me explain why I needed it.

I peeled off my hoodie and shoes and climbed onto Abby’s bed without another word, curling onto my side and pulling the blanket up to my chin. Abby watched me for a moment— how small I looked there, how tired. My hair was messy, half fallen from the tie I’d used to secure it that morning, and I still wore the gold ring Abby had once helped me re-bend back into shape after it got stepped on.

Abby sat at the foot of the bed, not touching, just a quiet presence. She reached down, untying her boots, then leaned back against the wall with a sigh.

A long moment passed before my voice came again. Fragile, threadbare. “Sorry you had to see me like that.”

Abby looked down at me, frowning softly. “Like what?”

My eyes stayed closed. “Weak. Stupid. Still dealing with all this shit.”

“You’re not weak, or stupid,” Abby said firmly, too quickly. “You’re just—” She stopped, looking away for a moment, like she needed to choose her words carefully. “You’re just someone who deserves better than what you’ve been handed.”

I blinked slowly, tears threatening to form again but not quite falling. I rolled onto my back and stared up at the ceiling. “I hate that you saw it.”

“I don’t,” Abby said, voice quieter now. “I’d rather know. Even if you’re not ready to talk about it.”

That made my throat tighten. Not just from guilt, but from the strange safety I felt in that moment. Like Abby didn’t need an explanation to offer me care. Like it didn’t make her think less of me. I shifted again, lying on my side so I could look at Abby. My voice was barely a whisper. “Why are you always so good to me?”

Abby looked at me for a long second, then offered a small shrug, a crooked smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “You make it easy.”

My gaze flicked down to Abby’s hands— one resting on the edge of the mattress, the other in her lap, tapping lightly against her jeans. Without thinking, I reached out and gently touched my fingers to Abby’s. A quiet, uncertain contact.

Abby didn’t pull away. She stilled. Our eyes met.

And for a second, something passed between us— a quiet current neither of us had the words for yet. Not romance, not quite. But something just as real. Just as intimate.

“I might fall asleep,” I murmured, voice smaller now. “Just for a bit.”

Abby’s hand shifted beneath mine, palm turning up so our fingers could fold together more naturally. Like it had always meant to be there. “Sleep as long as you need,” she said, voice low.

She didn’t leave the bed. Didn’t pull away when my breathing slowed and deepened, my hand still cradled in Abby’s as I drifted off. And for the next hour, Abby didn’t move. Not because she felt obligated. But because she didn’t want to be anywhere else.

── .✦

It was raining again.

My hoodie was damp when I stepped inside Abby’s dorm, my eyes downcast, hands fidgeting with the sleeves. I didn’t say anything at first, just set my bag down and hovered by the door, like I wasn’t sure I was allowed to stay.

Abby was already getting up from her desk, tossing a sweatshirt aside to make room on the bed. She didn’t ask what happened. “You want tea?”

I shook my head. “I just… can I sit here for a second?”

Abby gave a soft nod. “Yeah. Of course.

I sat gingerly on the edge of the bed, hands in my lap. I was tired in a way that went deeper than sleep. My voice, when it came, was brittle. “She told me it’s my fault,” I whispered. “That I’m too sensitive. I always make things worse.”

Abby’s jaw tightened. She stayed quiet, walking over to the other side of the bed and sitting beside me, close enough to share space, not enough to crowd. Her fingers rested lightly on the mattress between us.

“She said I twist things,” I added, quieter. “That I remember things wrong.”

Abby swallowed. “You don’t have to stay with her,” she said, voice low and steady. “You know that, right?”

I closed my eyes. “I don’t know how to leave...”

Abby looked down, letting a long silence pass. When she finally spoke again, her voice was gentler, but firmer. “I hate the way she talks to you,” she admitted. “The way she looks at you like you’re always in the way.”

I blinked, startled by the directness.

Abby looked away, jaw shifting. “You’re not hard to love. You’re not too much. You’re not dramatic. You’re—” She cut herself off, then pushed the words out before she could stop herself. “You’re one of the best people I’ve ever known. And she treats you like you’re disposable.”

I turned toward her, quiet.

“I know it’s not my place,” Abby continued, a little more quietly now. “But it kills me, seeing you like this. Picking yourself apart for someone who doesn’t even try to understand you.”

My eyes filled, but I didn’t cry. I just looked at Abby, really looked at her— like something old and aching was breaking open. “You’ve never said anything before,” I murmured.

“I didn’t want to push you,” Abby said. “Didn’t want you to feel cornered. But I think about it all the time. Every time you show up hurting like this.” She finally met my gaze, something raw flickering behind her eyes. “I’d never make you feel small,” she said. “Not ever.”

I breathed in sharply, almost like it physically pained me, and whispered, “I know.”

For a long time, neither of us moved.

And then, barely a shift, I leaned my head against Abby’s shoulder. “I don’t want to go home tonight,” I said, my voice barely audible.

Abby reached for the blanket beside her and pulled it around my shoulders, anchoring me in place. “Then don’t.”

She didn’t ask any more questions. She just dimmed the desk lamp, tugged the blankets down, and gently guided me to lie back with her. It wasn’t the first time we’d shared a bed, but it felt different tonight. Heavier. Quieter.

I curled toward the wall, my back to Abby. I was silent for a while, so silent Abby thought I might’ve fallen asleep. But then I whispered, “I don’t know who I am when I’m not trying to make her happy.”

Abby’s chest ached. She didn’t try to fix it. Didn’t say anything like ‘you’ll figure it out’ or ‘you don’t need her.’ Instead, she slid a hand under the blanket and touched my back, just the curve of it, warm through the fabric of my hoodie. “You’re still you,” she said softly. “You’re still you.”

I turned slightly, just enough to be able to peek over my shoulder. “How do you always know exactly what I need? You always show up for me.”

Abby gave a quiet shrug, barely more than a breath. “Because you matter to me.”

The silence between us softened. I turned all the way around, facing Abby now. We were close— so close. Sharing one pillow, knees barely brushing beneath the blanket. My eyes searched Abby’s face in the dark, reading something there she didn’t have the words for yet. “I don’t think I’ve ever had someone mean that before,” I murmured. “When they said I mattered.”

“You do,” Abby said again, without flinching. “You always have.”

I didn’t speak again, but I shifted a little closer, tucking my face gently against Abby’s collarbone like it was the safest place I knew. Abby stayed very still at first, then exhaled slowly, letting her arm come around my back. She held me there, not too tight, just enough to let me know she was staying.

My breath slowed. Abby could feel it against her neck— warm and steady, grounding. There were no more words exchanged, but something passed between us in the quiet. Not romance, not yet. Just safety. Just presence.

Eventually, my hand found Abby’s under the blanket. I didn’t lace our fingers— just rested there, palm to palm.

And Abby, even in the dark, closed her eyes and allowed herself to feel it. That if you asked, she’d do this every night. As long as you needed. As long as you wanted.

── .✦

My knock on Abby’s door was frantic— not angry, not urgent, just shaken. It was late, too, past midnight. Abby had just gotten out of the shower, damp hair pushed back, hoodie thrown over sleep shorts. She padded barefoot to the door and opened it.

I stood there, hollow-eyed and soaked from the rain. My mascara had smudged beneath both eyes, enough to make it look like I’d been crying alone for a while and had finally run out of tissues. I wasn’t wearing a coat. Just a hoodie that clung to me from the rain and leggings with muddy ankles.

Abby’s expression barely flickered, just the faintest tension in her jaw, a quiet kind of knowing. “…Come in.”

I walked in wordlessly. Not trembling, exactly, but fragile in the way glass is right before it shatters. I stood in the middle of Abby’s small apartment, arms wrapped around myself, breathing uneven.

Abby gently closed the door behind me. “Did she—?”

“She’s been cheating on me,” I said, too fast, too flat, like I had to get the words out before I drowned in them. “Since the beginning.”

Abby stayed quiet. Her heart broke, but her face didn’t show it.

“I found so much stuff,” I went on, voice catching. “Messages. Pictures. I—I thought I was going crazy, I felt like something was wrong but she kept saying I was just being insecure, that I was making things up, and—God, Abby, I believed her.”

I wiped my face with the sleeve of my soaked hoodie. “I fucking defended her. When you were right the whole time.”

Abby stepped forward carefully, not reaching out yet. “Hey…”

“I broke up with her,” I said, like I couldn’t believe the words. “I actually did it this time. I didn’t wait for her to explain it all away again, or gaslight me until I apologized— I just… left.” Then, quieter, “I feel like my whole chest is caving in.”

That was all Abby needed. She stepped forward and pulled me into her arms— wet hoodie and all. She didn’t care. I collapsed into her without resistance, arms around Abby’s waist, face hidden in the curve of her neck like I was trying to disappear.

Abby didn’t try to tell me it was going to be okay. Not yet. She just held me— steady, warm, unmovable, as quiet, gutted sobs wracked my body. “I thought she loved me,” I whispered through tears. “I thought I mattered.”

Abby’s throat tightened. Her hand rubbed slow circles between my shoulder blades. “You do matter,” she said, quiet but firm. “She didn’t deserve you. She made you feel small, and I hate that. Fuck her.” Abby said lowly, like she’d been holding it back for weeks.

I cried harder at that. Not louder, but deeper. As if hearing someone finally say it out loud cracked something open that had been holding me together for too long.

Eventually, we sank to the couch. Abby kept an arm around my shoulders, and I curled into her side like a small, exhausted animal. No pretense, no holding back. Just grief. And comfort. And the start of something that, maybe, wouldn’t feel so impossible to believe in later.

Abby didn’t move much for the next hour.

She stayed still as I curled into her, letting me cry without pressure, letting the room stay quiet except for the occasional thunder and the soft sound of rain tapping the windowpane. Abby didn’t fill the silence— she knew some silences needed to breathe. She just stayed present. Solid. Her hand moved through my damp hair in steady, calming strokes.

Eventually, my sobs faded into tired hiccups. My body slackened a little under Abby’s touch, like I’d finally run out of strength, but felt safe enough to stop pretending I had any left.

Abby spoke first, quiet and low. “Have you eaten anything today?”

I shook my head against Abby’s chest.

“Alright,” Abby murmured. “Stay put.”

She moved carefully, laying me against a pillow on the couch. “I’m gonna make you something warm. You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to.”

I blinked slowly up at her, eyes puffy and lashes wet. “I don’t want to be alone.”

Abby nodded once. “Then I’ll stay close.”

She padded into the kitchenette and started heating a container of miso soup. Simple. Gentle. Something warm I could get down without effort. While it simmered, Abby pulled the thickest hoodie she owned from her closet and brought it over to me.

“Put this on, yeah?” she said, kneeling. “You’re freezing.”

I sat up slowly, hands trembling as I peeled off my wet hoodie. Abby turned away without a word to give me privacy, only glancing back to hand me the warm one. When she turned back, I had my legs tucked beneath me and was drowning in the sleeves. I looked smaller than usual. Raw.

Abby brought me the soup with a glass of water and sat beside me. “You don’t have to finish it,” Abby murmured. “Just try.”

“This is my favorite…” I mumbled, a sad smile tugging at my lips, moved that she remembered. I leaned my head against Abby’s shoulder as I took the first bite, and didn’t move again for a while. The soup was hot, and it was made by someone who cared. After a few minutes, I whispered, “You didn’t say ‘I told you so.’”

Abby exhaled, barely a hint of a wry smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “That wouldn’t have helped. You didn’t deserve what happened, no matter how long it took to leave.”

I blinked hard. “You really think that?”

“I know it.”

We sat there for a long time after that, watching the storm through the window. Abby eventually got up to grab a blanket and tucked it over us both, then settled in with me again, her arm slung loosely around my shoulders.

And then— softer, almost shyly, I whispered, “Can I stay tonight?”

Abby didn’t hesitate. “Of course.”

We ended up in bed, both fully clothed, both facing each other in the dark. My breath had evened out, but my hand clung to Abby’s sleeve like a lifeline. And Abby let me. She whispered, just before sleep took us, “You’re not alone, not anymore.”

I cracked, healing, but no longer bleeding alone. I didn’t answer, but the way I curled closer said everything.

The morning after, I lingered.

I woke up before Abby did— or maybe I was just watching Abby sleep, my eyes open but unfocused, barely blinking. The storm had passed. The room was dim and warm, gray morning light seeping in through the curtains. I could hear the hum of life outside; birds, the distant traffic, campus coming back to life.

I hadn’t meant to stay. I hadn’t expected to feel… safe. And even though I felt a little hollowed out, like something inside had cracked wide open and hadn’t quite settled yet, the quiet of Abby’s room wrapped around me like a protective shell. Like I didn’t need to be okay yet. I could just be.

Abby stirred next to me, eyes blinking open slowly. “You’re still here,” she murmured.

I nodded. “Yeah.”

Abby rubbed her face. “You sleep okay?”

“I did. Better than I thought I would.”

We didn’t talk about the night before much, neither of us quite ready to pick at the scab just yet. But from that morning on, things between us shifted.

Not dramatically. Not loudly. But in all the small, steady ways that start to mean something.

The shift came in glances. The way I would instinctively look for Abby when I walked into a room. The way Abby’s eyes tracked my body language in our classes— quietly attentive, like she was always taking inventory, always ready to notice if something was off.

It came in silence. The kind that didn’t feel awkward anymore. I could sit next to Abby on the couch, both of us doing separate things— reading, working, sipping coffee, and the silence between us would hum with warmth. A quiet tether.

It came in touch. Tentative at first. A hand brushing against a forearm when we passed each other. Me leaning my head on Abby’s shoulder while we watched something. The way Abby no longer hesitated to pull me in for a longer hug when we parted— lingering, arms around me like she didn’t quite want to let go.

We’d stay in the library reading to each other until it closed and they had to kick us out. My texts started arriving at night again, not always in distress, just little check-ins. “Made it back to my dorm. Thanks for walking me.” “Class was a mess today, I wanted to tell you about it.”

Abby always answered. Even if it was late. Even if it was short. She was consistent in the way that people who meant it always are.

One night a week or so later, I came over again. This time, I wasn’t crying. I was just tired, emotionally and physically drained. I let myself into Abby’s dorm with the spare key Abby had pressed into my hand a few days before, saying simply, “Just in case.”

Abby was at her desk studying. She turned around at the sound of the door, eyebrows lifting slightly when she saw me. “Hey.”

“Hi,” I said softly. “Sorry, I should’ve texted. I just…”

“You’re okay.” Abby stood and crossed the room in a few easy steps. “You wanna sit? Lay down?”

I nodded.

I curled up on Abby’s bed again, this time out of comfort, not collapse. Abby joined me a few minutes later, pulling the blanket up over both of us. My head found Abby’s shoulder like it belonged there. It did.

A few minutes passed before I whispered, “I think I’m finally angry. Not sad. Angry she wasted so much of my time.”

Abby’s jaw tensed slightly, but she kept her voice even. “You didn’t waste anything. You gave what you had. That’s not something to feel ashamed of.”

I blinked slowly, eyes prickling with emotion. “You really think I’m not stupid for staying so long?”

“I think you’re someone who wanted to believe in someone,” Abby said gently. “And I think that says more about your heart than your judgment.”

I paused for a moment. “You make me feel like I’m not broken. No one’s ever looked at me the way you do.” I murmured, pulling back to look at her, my throat going dry. “I think I was waiting for you, and I didn’t even know it.”

The words hung in the air like something too big to take back.

Abby froze, just for a second. Her hand stilled against my back, breath catching faintly, like she wasn’t sure if she was allowed to respond.

She didn’t say anything right away. Instead, she let the silence hold us both. Then, gently, she pressed her forehead to my temple. “You’re not broken,” Abby said softly. “Not even close.”

Her voice was steady, but there was a weight in it, like she meant more than she was letting herself say.

“And… if you were waiting,” she added, after a moment, “I’m really glad you found me. I’d wait as long as it takes. For you.”

Then she exhaled, carefully— like the air itself had gotten heavier. Never asking for more than I could give.

I turned my face into Abby’s shirt, a sound catching in my throat. Abby’s arms tightened around me without hesitation.

And from that night on, it wasn’t just a shift, it was a slow drift. Something unspoken beginning to build. Comfort. Trust. A steady rhythm of presence that neither of us wanted to interrupt.

We still didn’t name what was forming between us. Not yet. But it was there. And it was real.

[wordsofwhimsy]

Irresistible

Pairing: Shiesty!Mark Grayson x f!Reader

Warnings: Mannn, ol' buddy knocks your brain outcha head - you know what it is

Tags: Smut, not much else to say LMAO that's all you finna find here

Word Count: 1,006

Synopsis: It is LITERALLY just smut, i ain't lyin' to y'all. come get that good nuck nuck & leave me alone lmfaooo

The room smelled of sex, sweat, and the undeniable dominance of Mark as he fucked you into oblivion. You were pinned under him, legs spread wide and pinned back damn near to your chest, eyes barely open from the intensity of it all. Your body was on fire, drenched in sweat, and yet Mark was just so smooth, grinding into you with the kind of rhythm that made your mind feel like it was melting. He wasn’t even trying to hide it — he knew exactly what he was doing, and he was loving it.

“Yo, look at that,” Mark muttered to himself, glancing down between your bodies. “You see that? You feel that?” His voice was thick with pride and satisfaction. “I’m so deep in your stomach, I can see it. I can literally see myself in you. Damn, bae, you’re lucky you’re getting this.”

Your head was spinning, but his words — his cocky tone — was so goddamn arrogant, it was almost unbearable. You could barely think straight, but somehow, his voice kept cutting through the haze of pleasure. He slowed his pace just to drive you crazy, making sure you felt every single inch of him as he stared down at where your bodies met.

“Look at that shit,” Mark continued, a smug grin on his face as he shifted, angling himself deeper inside you. “I I know you see this.” He pounded into you harder, pushing you further up the bed. “I’m putting it down crazy. No one else could fuck you like this. I’m fuckin' you into the next level.”

You couldn’t even respond — couldn’t form a coherent thought if you tried. Your entire body was reacting to him, shaking with every brutal thrust, every harsh movement that made your body tremble and your walls clench around him.

Mark paused again, his hand slipping down to your stomach as he felt the way you were taking him, just so deep, just so fucking full. “Damn, I know you feel that,” he grinned. “Shit, I can feel it. I can feel every inch of me inside you. I’m all the way in there. You’re lucky I’m the one giving it to you like this.”

You barely managed to drag your eyes open, looking up at him — and all you could see was that cocky grin on his face, the sheer pride he had in his ability to fuck you so good. He didn’t even wait for a response because he knew. He knew you were his, completely lost in him, like you were made to take every last inch of him.

“Shit, I’m killing this shit, ain’t I?” Mark chuckled, fucking into you harder now. His confidence was almost too much, but damn if it didn’t make you want more. He didn’t care about anything other than how good he felt, how much control he had over you. “Look at you. Can barely keep your eyes open. You don’t even know what to say, huh? All you can do is feel me puttin’ it down.”

Your mind was spinning. Your thoughts were a jumbled mess. Mark’s cock was unreal, hitting all the right places, but it wasn’t just the sex — it was his arrogance, his self-assurance that made your heart race, your body ache for him even more. He was so sure of himself, so confident in his abilities that it made you crave him more.

“Gah damn, babe,” Mark said, his voice low and rough, his eyes locked on yours as he leaned down, his mouth next to your ear. “I’m fuckin’ you so good, you’re gonna feel this shit for days. Don’t even worry. You’re not gonna forget this. Nobody fucks you like I do.”

You moaned hard, the sound almost hurting your throat, but Mark wasn’t letting up. His cock was relentless, each thrust more powerful than the last. His hands were all over you, his fingers gripping your hips like he was about to break you apart.

“You’re about to cum on me, huh?” Mark grinned down at you, seeing the way your body was trembling, the way your chest was rising and falling with every breath you took. “Bet you didn’t think you’d be screaming my name tonight. Bet you didn’t think you’d be begging me for more. But here you are.”

You couldn’t even think of a response. You couldn’t even care to roll your eyes. Mark was just... too good. And he knew it. He didn’t need your affirmation. He was too absorbed in himself, too cocky, but it was that cockiness that made him irresistible.

“Tell me, baby,” Mark whispered, his lips brushing against your ear, his voice full of dark, confident amusement. “Tell me how good I’m making you feel. Say it. I wanna hear it. I wanna hear you admit it. I’m the best you’ve ever had. You’re never gonna forget this.”

You gasped, body shaking as you finally let go, your orgasm crashing over you so hard you saw stars. You couldn’t even form words, your body writhing, every inch of you tightening around him as he kept fucking you, pushing you through it, making sure you felt every damn second of it.

Mark’s cock twitched inside you, and with a final, forceful thrust, he came, filling you completely as he groaned, his body shuddering with the release. You felt him claiming you, and he didn’t stop until every last bit of him was empty inside you.

Breathing heavily, he pulled out, giving you a satisfied, almost arrogant look. “Told you I’d put it down crazy, didn’t I?” he said, a cocky grin spreading across his face as he watched you, still catching your breath. “You’re never gonna forget that. I just ruined you. You’re mine now.”

You were too far gone to say anything. Too exhausted, too high off what he just did to even bother with a response. But he didn’t need one — Mark Grayson knew exactly how he’d wrecked you, and the cocky bastard was pleased as hell with himself.

[custom-fic-studio]

Jason Todd x Female Reader

NSFW / 18+ ONLY

Mine, Even in Sleep

You told him he could have you anytime. And tonight, Jason takes your word.

…

Gotham was quiet for once. A rare pocket of calm.

The bedroom was lit only by the amber flicker of the candle burning low on the windowsill. Rain painted shadows across the hardwood floor, and your body was sunk deep into the mattress, face turned into Jason’s pillow, legs soft and slightly spread from hours ago.

You were already asleep.

Jason wasn’t.

He was watching you—bare-chested, lying on his side, arm slung lazily across your back. You’d passed out on top of him earlier, after he’d taken you once already with his shirt on. His shirt.

And you had the nerve to sleep so soundly. So trusting. So soft and messy and perfect in his bed—still damp with sweat and his cum from earlier, legs parted just enough to tease him without trying.

It should’ve been innocent.

But Jason was aching. Hard and heavy beneath the sheets, jaw clenched as he tried to resist what every part of his body was screaming for.

You’d told him once—quietly, breathless, half-asleep after a particularly rough night:

“You don’t have to ask if I’m asleep. You can wake me… I trust you. I want you to.”

He had never forgotten those words.

Not once.

And now, staring down at the faint bruises on your thighs, the dried bite marks on your shoulder, the faint tremble of your breath…

Jason let out a low, broken groan.

“Fuck.”

He moved slow, careful, hovering over your body like a predator trying not to scare its prey. One hand slipped beneath your stomach to gently lift your hips. The other dragged the pillow down the bed and tucked it underneath you—tilting your ass up until you were perfectly presented for him.

The sight made him growl.

Your shirt was bunched at your waist. No panties. Still glistening between the thighs.

“You’re killing me, sweetheart,” he muttered, pressing a kiss to the small of your back. “You can’t lie here like this and expect me to behave.”

Your only response was a quiet sigh. Still asleep. Still soft.

He kissed his way lower—down your spine, over the curve of your ass. Then his hands parted your thighs gently, reverently, exposing your swollen folds. His breath hitched.

You were still wet. And not just from him.

Jason dipped his head and licked a slow, deep stripe through your folds, groaning when your hips twitched.

You whimpered.

Still asleep.

He smirked.

“That’s it, baby,” he whispered against your cunt, tongue dragging slow and filthy over your clit. “C’mon. Wake up for me.”

You stirred with a soft moan, hips jerking against his mouth. He held you down with one strong forearm, mouthing at your clit again—sucking now, gently but with purpose. His tongue flicked faster, sloppier. His stubble scraped your thighs.

Your breath caught. Eyes fluttered open.

“J—Jay?” you rasped, dazed, trying to lift your head. Your voice was wrecked. “Wha—?”

“Shh,” he murmured into your cunt. “You told me I could.”

Your thighs shook at the vibration in his voice.

“I missed you,” he groaned. “Missed this sweet little pussy. Couldn’t help myself.”

Then he dove in again.

No mercy.

No hesitation.

Tongue relentless. Lapping at your clit, pushing into your dripping hole, groaning like a man starved as your slick coated his chin. He was drunk on you—obsessed. He mouthed at you like it was the last thing he’d ever do.

You gasped, twisting in his grip, thighs trembling violently.

“I—I’m gonna—!”

Your warning was cut off by your own scream.

You came hard.

Your whole body seized up. Jason moaned against your clit, sucking harder through it as you writhed and sobbed into the sheets.

And then he kept going.

“Jas—Jason—wait—wait—” you cried, voice high and panicked.

“Nope,” he said, voice low and feral. “You’re not done.”

He spit on your cunt again—obscene, wet—and rubbed it in with two thick fingers before thrusting them inside. Your pussy clenched around him violently.

“You’re shaking,” he growled. “Look at you—fucking soaked. And it’s all for me.”

He curled his fingers just right—brushing your G-spot—then pumped them deep and fast, watching your slick leak over his knuckles. Your hips jerked, your cries cracking into helpless sobs.

And still, he didn’t stop.

Another orgasm crashed over you before you could catch your breath. Your legs kicked, toes curling, body twitching uncontrollably.

Jason’s voice was breathless now, wild with lust. “You look so fucking pretty like this—crying on my fingers. You can take one more, can’t you?”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

So he made the decision for you.

He pulled his fingers out, lined up behind you, and slid his cock inside in one brutal, perfectly aimed thrust. You screamed—truly screamed—as he filled you to the hilt, his hips flush against your ass.

“Fuck,” he snarled, head falling back. “You’re so goddamn tight. Gonna ruin you.”

And he did.

Jason fucked you rough, deep, possessive. His hands gripped your hips hard enough to bruise. Every thrust knocked the air from your lungs, driving you up the bed, into the pillows, into submission.

You were crying—tears rolling down your cheeks from the intensity, body overstimulated beyond what you thought was possible.

Jason leaned down, chest against your back, breath hot against your ear.

“You told me I could have you,” he whispered, voice ragged. “Any time. Remember that?”

You nodded weakly.

“Then take it,” he growled, biting down on your shoulder. “Take all of it.”

And you did.

You came again—violently, your body convulsing, vision going white as your pussy clamped down around him. Jason let out a strangled moan and shoved himself as deep as possible, hips grinding as he spilled himself inside you—hot, thick, endless.

He didn’t pull out.

He stayed like that. Buried. Possessive.

Panting into your neck.

…

You were gone.

Barely conscious, body twitching in his arms, tears still leaking from the corners of your eyes. He kissed them away.

“Hey,” he whispered, brushing sweaty hair from your forehead. “You okay?”

You whimpered a broken, “Mhm…”

He smiled and kissed your temple.

“Come on, baby. Let’s clean you up.”

He carried you to the bathroom—arms cradling you and ran a warm bath, easing you into the water with slow hands. You curled into his chest, dazed and boneless, and let him wash every inch of you.

Your thighs. Your hair. The bite marks. The dried tears.

He took his time. As rough as he’d been, he never stopped loving you.

When he carried you back to bed, he dressed you in a fresh shirt—his, again—and climbed in beside you. His arms wrapped around your waist. You were exhausted, but peaceful now.

Jason kissed your shoulder and murmured, “I’ll always take care of you.”

And this time—finally—he let you sleep.

…

If you enjoy my writing and want to support future stories, tips are always appreciated but never expected. Thank you for reading and being here—it means the world! 💛

[bbyg4rl]

୨୧ ─ when your car breaks down . . .

cw: REQUESTED / mechanic!jj x reader, angst -> fluff, protective!jj, yelling at reader, eventual fluff.

The second your car sputters to a dead stop, you know you’re screwed. Middle of nowhere. One bar of signal. And the last time JJ asked when you got an oil change, you said, “I dunno, like…last year?”

You call him anyway but he doesn’t answer. You call him again, he answers two rings later, sounds like he just sprinted across the shop. “Where are you?”

When you tell him, his voice drops. “Baby, that’s fourty minutes past town. Why the hell were you out there alone?” and then, before you can answer— “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” you say quickly. “Just stuck.”

There’s a pause. Then a muttered “fuck”, and he hangs up.

Twenty minutes later, JJ’s truck skids up behind yours. He doesn’t park properly—just throws it in neutral, door already swinging open. He storms up, t-shirt stained, jaw tight. “You haven’t gotten this thing checked since last year? Are you out of your mind?”

“I didn’t think it’d just stop—”

“Because you don’t fucking check!” he barks, walking around to pop the hood. “You think the engine just takes care of itself?”

You shrink back a little, arms crossed, watching him toss the hood up. His fingers are fast, rough, digging around, muttering, swearing under his breath.

And then he finds it—something that makes his whole expression darken. He throws a sharp look over his shoulder.

“Oil’s basically sludge,” he mutters. “Jesus, baby.”

You stay quiet. He pulls out something cracked. Glares again. Doesn’t even say it out loud this time. Just holds it up like, do you see this shit?

Every second, you feel smaller. He’s still talking but it’s short, clipped, angry. “You stall out on a freeway like this, you’re done. You know that? You could’ve been hit. Could’ve gotten stuck. Could’ve—fuck.”

You stand still. He doesn’t even look at you now. Just throws the broken parts in the back of his truck and mutters something else you can’t hear.

That’s what finally chokes you up. You step away quietly, to the back of your car, behind the trunk. Blink hard. Then harder. But your lip wobbles anyway. And the second you sniff, JJ’s head snaps up. You hear his footsteps first. Then his voice, soft and sudden and scared, “Hey—hey. Babe.”

You don’t answer. You just press your palm to your face, trying to hide. He’s there in a second. Arms around your waist, tugging you in, grease and sweat and panic all still clinging to him. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I didn’t mean to yell like that. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

You nod a little into his chest, still sniffling. He presses a kiss to the top of your head. “I was scared. You were out here all alone. If anything happened to you—fuck.”

“I didn’t know it was that bad,” you whisper.

“I know. I should’ve checked it for you myself. I’m the mechanic, right?” He breathes you in, voice quieter now. “Let me take care of it from now on. No more forgetting. I’ll just do it. Every month. No reminders.”

You sniffle softly into his shirt. “I’m sorry.”

JJ freezes. Then, pulls back just enough to see your face. His hands cup your jaw, “No, baby.” He shakes his head. “Don’t you dare say sorry. This isn’t on you. I was the one being an asshole. You didn’t deserve that.”

You sniff. “But I should’ve listened.”

“And I should’ve reminded you. I should’ve done it myself. I should’ve taken care of it before it ever got this bad.” He kisses your forehead, your cheek, every soft part of you he can reach. “Let me take care of you. Please.”

You nod. He holds you tighter, like he’s trying to keep your heartbeat steady with his own.

♡ requested by @highpope for ꒰ ⑅ ๑  𝟖𝟖𝟖 : : BALANCE ꒱

check out my — masterlist / 2k celebration ૮꒰•༝ •。꒱ა

[beaureveries]

ONE SHOT : YOU LET ME MISS YOU THIS BAD?

paige x azzi

trigger : mature content & very horny p

this is my first time writing smut… tell me what you guys think 🫣

(Imma throw myself off a cliff now, I CANNOT WRITE SMUT. )

- 5k words

——————————————————————————

P’s POV

The door clicked shut behind her, loud in the quiet, like the whole apartment had been holding its breath.

Paige dragged her hand down her face, skin sticky with sweat, shirt clinging in the worst places. Her body felt heavy. Shoulders tight. Mind worse. She hadn’t even played bad tonight, but it didn’t matter — nothing ever felt right anymore.

Not when Azzi wasn’t here.

The ache had been building for weeks. On the court, off it, everywhere in between. In the way she missed texts, the way she checked her phone at stupid hours. In the way she touched herself at night and didn’t finish because it just made it worse. She wanted her.

And then—

“Hey.”

Paige’s whole body jolted like someone had grabbed the back of her neck. Her head whipped around, heart tripping over itself.

There. Sitting sideways on her damn couch like she lived there. Azzi. Hoodie sleeves pushed up, legs folded, scrolling through something on her phone like she hadn’t just flipped Paige’s entire existence upside down.

Paige couldn’t breathe for a second. The weight of missing her knocked into her ribs like a punch, sharp and stupid and too much all at once.

“What the hell…” she managed, voice cracked, rough from not using it enough for things that mattered.

Azzi looked up with that damn smile — the soft deep dimpled one, a little tilted, like she knew exactly what she was doing to her.

Paige stared. Just stared. Like maybe she was asleep. Like maybe her brain was short-circuiting again, stuck between I’m going to cry and I’m going to ruin you.

“You let me miss you like that?” she finally said, stepping forward, jaw locked. “Like a fuckin’ idiot. Every night. Thinking about you. Wanting you so bad it hurts—and you’ve been here waiting for me?”

Azzi’s mouth did that small thing — biting her lip, lashes down, like she was innocent. Like she wasn’t lethal.

“Thought it’d be more fun this way.”

Paige laughed once, sharp and humorless, dragging her hand through her sweaty hair. She was shaking. She didn’t even notice until she was standing right over Azzi, fists curling at her sides like she was holding herself back from breaking.

And then Azzi looked up at her like that, and Paige folded.

Her hands moved before she told them to, cupping Azzi’s jaw, thumbs brushing over her cheeks like she’d forgotten what her skin felt like and was relearning it by heart. Slow. Fingers threading back into Azzi’s curls, pulling just slightly, just enough to make Azzi’s lips part with a breath.

“God, I missed you,” Paige muttered, dragging her thumbs across Azzi’s cheekbones like she was starving for her.

She leaned in, not even kissing her yet, just pressing their foreheads together, breathing the same air, like the moment before a storm.

Azzi’s hands slid up her sides, under the hem of her shirt, nails scratching lightly over bare skin. It felt like heaven and torture at the same time. Paige’s breath hitched.

“I missed you too,” Azzi whispered.

But Paige didn’t want whispers. She wanted everything. She wanted the weeks they’d lost, the nights spent restless, the soft little sounds she only ever got to hear when they were like this — close.

She dragged her hands down Azzi’s sides, slow, feeling every dip, every shiver under her palms. Her fingers brushed Azzi’s thighs, squeezing gently, just to feel her.

And still, she didn’t kiss her. Not yet.

“I’m mad at you,” Paige whispered against her mouth, the words breaking apart on the shape of Azzi’s lips. “You let me sit here going crazy for you. And you’re just gonna sit here—looking like that—acting cute?”

Azzi smiled, teeth showing now, playful and sharp at the same time. “What are you gonna do about it?”

Paige’s hands tightened around her thighs, like she might pull her apart right there.

“Everything,” she rasped, finally kissing her — slow first, hungry underneath, like she was tasting the weeks they’d lost in one breath. Her hands moved up, sliding under Azzi’s hoodie, palms against warm, soft skin, feeling every shiver she caused.

Azzi’s fingers tangled in her hair, nails scratching lightly at her scalp, pulling her closer.

“Paige,” she breathed against her mouth, and Paige swore she almost lost it right there just from the sound of it.

“I’m gonna make up for all of it,” Paige promised, voice rough, kissing down her jaw, slow trails of lips and teeth against soft skin. “You’re not leaving this couch until I’m finished with you.”

Azzi just leaned back, giving her everything.

She didn’t deserve to be nice about this. Not after what Azzi pulled. Not after letting her sit in this apartment for weeks like she wasn’t going insane thinking about her.

So Paige didn’t start soft. Didn’t give her the easy kiss Azzi probably thought she was gonna get. She bit it. Dragged her teeth across Azzi’s bottom lip and tugged until Azzi gasped, until she could feel her melt just a little under her hands.

“Oh, now you wanna act sweet?” Paige muttered against her mouth, voice rough, hips pressing forward just enough to feel Azzi’s thighs tense under her. “Nah. You don’t get sweet.”

Azzi’s nails curled into the back of Paige’s neck, sharp enough to make her hiss, but Paige just smiled. Good. She liked when Azzi got like this — bratty and soft at the same time, wanting to act tough but already starting to fall apart.

“You’ve been here—sitting here—waiting, knowing how bad I wanted you?” Paige slid one hand up, slow, dragging her knuckles across Azzi’s stomach under the hoodie, feeling goosebumps rise under her touch. “That’s rude, baby.”

Azzi’s breath caught. “You’re mad at me for coming to see you?”

“I’m mad at you for waiting” Paige said, low, biting again at the edge of her jaw, right under her ear, the place that always made her twitch. “Mad at you for letting me miss you like that. Like a loser. Thinking about you, every night, touching myself to nothing, ‘cause it didn’t work without you.”

Azzi whimpered — soft, involuntary, the exact sound Paige had been starving for. Paige smiled against her skin like this is all she’s been craving for.

“Oh, you like that?” she taunted, trailing her tongue behind her teeth along Azzi’s throat, then biting gently. “You should. ‘Cause you’re gonna sit here and take every second of it.”

Her hand slid lower, dragging across the waistband of Azzi’s shorts, not inside yet, just enough to tease, to make her hips twitch forward in frustration.

Paige didn’t give in.

“You don’t get to be bratty and get what you want,” Paige whispered darkly, dragging her teeth along Azzi’s collarbone, tasting her skin and sweat. “Not tonight.”

Azzi whined softly, lifting her hips like she was begging without saying it, but Paige gripped her thighs harder, holding her down against the couch cushions.

“Nu-uh—don’t start,” Paige warned, lifting her head to glare at her. “If you wanna act up, I can play that game all night.”

Azzi’s mouth opened like she was gonna talk back, but Paige kissed her again, harder this time, all tongue and frustration and teeth, owning her mouth like she had a point to prove.

When she finally broke the kiss, Paige was breathing heavy, forehead against Azzi’s again, one hand tangled deep in those curls.

“Say you’re sorry,” Paige whispered, lips brushing hers, so soft it was almost cruel. “Tell me you’re sorry for being a brat.”

Azzi glared at her, stubborn, lips wet and red, cheeks flushed. “Make me.”

That was it. Paige laughed, sharp and dangerous, like she’d been hoping for that answer.

“God, I missed you,” she said, shaking her head. “You’re gonna regret that.”

And then her hand slid down — inside this time — fingers slipping under elastic, knuckles brushing soft curls, slow, so slow, torturously slow, until her middle finger barely parted her folds, just enough to feel how warm and wet she already was.

Paige groaned low in her throat.

“Already wet for me,” she murmured, biting at Azzi’s jaw again. “And you’re talking back? You don’t deserve it yet.”

And then — she pulled her hand back out. Just like that.

Azzi let out a noise, half frustration, half desperation, hips trying to chase her hand, but Paige held her down again, smirking.

“Paige…” Azzi whined.

“Uh-uh,” Paige taunted, brushing her hand along Azzi’s stomach, wet fingers trailing heat across her skin. “be good, or I’m gonna tease you until you actually beg me to fuck you Azzi.”

Azzi’s eyes fluttered shut, chest rising fast, already squirming under her.

Paige was gonna ruin her. Slow. Torturous. Exactly what she deserved.

“You’re gonna sit here,” Paige breathed, dragging Azzi into her lap like she belonged there, rough hands around her waist, pulling her down until she was straddling her thighs, right where Paige wanted her—needed her. “And you’re gonna earn it.”

Azzi’s nails dug into Paige’s shoulders, but her brat act was already cracking, breath stuttering every time Paige’s fingers even thought about slipping lower. “You’re such an asshole,” she whispered, like she wanted it to sound mean but it came out shaky instead.

Paige grinned, sharp and feral. “You’re just figuring that out now?”

She let her fingers dip low again, dragging through heat, just barely brushing her clit before pulling away, over and over, slow torture, keeping Azzi on the edge but never letting her fall over it.

“You’re already soaked,” Paige muttered, voice dark, almost to herself now. “And you’re gonna sit here acting tough? Cute.”

Azzi tried to roll her hips again, chasing friction, chasing anything, but Paige held her down, one strong arm around her waist like a damn vice, pressing her into her lap, into the couch cushions, nowhere to run.

“Be good,” Paige warned, kissing up under her jaw, soft lips against sensitive skin, sharp contrast to her rough grip. “Or I’ll stop. And we both know I can.”

Azzi whimpered, biting her lip, that bratty fire in her eyes flickering like it was trying to survive, but Paige was putting it out one slow, torturous circle at a time.

Finally—finally—Paige slid two fingers through her folds, slow and deliberate, letting the wet sound fill the space between them like it was proof of how bad Azzi wanted it.

“God, you’re so wet for me,” Paige whispered, kissing the corner of Azzi’s mouth but not giving her a real kiss. “All that attitude, and for what? Just to fall apart for me the second I touch you?”

Azzi’s chest was rising fast now, breaths coming short, like she was already starting to break. “Paige…”

“I know, baby,” Paige murmured, almost sweet. Almost. “I know what you want. Say you’re sorry.”

Azzi shook her head, teeth grit, still holding onto that last thread of stubbornness. “Make me.”

Paige laughed, deep in her chest. Dangerous. Excited.

“Oh, I’m going to.”

And then—finally—she pushed two fingers inside, slow but deep, curling just right, just to hear Azzi’s breath catch like she’d been punched.

“That’s it,” Paige whispered, curling her fingers again, dragging them against that soft, devastating spot, over and over, knowing exactly what she was doing. “You feel that? That’s mine.”

Azzi moaned, head tipping back, neck exposed, perfect, vulnerable.

Paige bit at her throat again, rougher this time, fingers moving deeper, curling slow, thumb pressing just barely at her clit like a threat.

“I could do this all night,” Paige murmured against her skin. “Keep you right here, shaking and begging, never letting you come until you say you’re sorry.”

Azzi whimpered, body trembling, thighs starting to shake under Paige’s hands.

And then Paige stopped moving her fingers. Stopped. Just like that. Fingers inside, but not moving, just sitting there like weight.

Azzi whined, frustrated, hips fighting to move but Paige was stronger, holding her exactly where she wanted.

“You wanna come?” Paige asked softly, almost sweet, like she wasn’t absolutely ruining her girlfriend. “Then beg.”

Azzi’s chest heaved, eyes fluttering open, glassy and burning, pride cracking.

“Say it,” Paige said again, curling her fingers just once, just to make Azzi moan through her teeth. “Say you’re sorry for being a brat. Tell me how much you missed me.”

Azzi’s voice broke. “I’m—I’m sorry. Fuck—Paige, I’m sorry.”

Paige smiled against her throat, biting down again. “Good girl.”

But she didn’t let up. Not yet. Saying sorry wasn’t enough — not after the way she’d been acting.

So Paige kept her fingers moving slow, almost lazy, curling inside Azzi just to keep her teetering on the edge, barely enough to satisfy, but not enough to tip her over.

Azzi let out a desperate whine, her thighs trembling around Paige’s hips now, hands scrabbling at her shoulders like she didn’t know what to do with herself anymore.

“Paige,” she gasped, hips twitching helplessly, needing more, chasing after it like it might save her. “Please…”

Paige hummed, like she was thinking about it, like she wasn’t already completely addicted to the sound of Azzi begging like that. “Mmm. I don’t know, baby. I like you like this.”

She pressed her thumb down against Azzi’s clit again, soft, slow circles, the kind that felt infuriating when you were right on the edge, needing more friction, faster, harder—but Paige wouldn’t give it to her yet.

“You’re gonna come when I say,” Paige whispered against Azzi’s mouth, teasing her with the ghost of a kiss, lips brushing, never giving her the real thing. “And not a second before.”

Azzi whined, high and broken. “I can’t—please—”

Paige’s grip around her waist tightened, grounding her, steadying her while she completely unraveled in her lap. “You can. You’re gonna be good for me now, yeah? Gonna show me how much you missed me?”

Azzi nodded frantically, breathless, lips parting like she was already falling apart just from the words alone.

“Words,” Paige said firmly, curling her fingers inside again, slow, deep, unrelenting. “Use them.”

“I missed you,” Azzi choked out, moaning through the words, thighs shaking harder now. “Fuck—I missed you so much.”

That broke something deep in Paige — the sound of it, the truth of it, both of them having missed each other so much it physically hurt. But Paige kept control, kept herself steady, because Azzi deserved to feel this. To know exactly what she did to her.

“That’s my girl,” Paige praised, finally letting her fingers speed up, dragging deep, relentless curls against that devastating spot that always made Azzi fall apart. “Go on, then. Come for me.”

Azzi gasped like she’d been hit, nails digging into Paige’s shoulders like claws, hips jolting helplessly now as Paige fucked her through it — harder, deeper, claiming every part of her, thumb working tight circles against her clit until Azzi was crying out, shattering in Paige’s lap, everything in her going tight and trembling before breaking.

“That’s it” Paige whispered darkly, almost reverently, holding her through the whole thing, fingers working her through every last tremor, not letting up until Azzi was shaking and gasping, totally spent, wrecked in the best possible way.

Finally, finally, Paige eased her touch, slipping her fingers out slow, stroking Azzi’s thighs gently, grounding her, kissing her softly now—finally giving her that sweet, real kiss she hadn’t earned until right now.

“Next time,” Paige murmured against her lips, smirking, “don’t make me work so hard for it.”

Azzi could only breathe, shaking her head with a broken laugh, ruined and glowing.

“Worth it,” she whispered back.

Paige grinned. “Yeah. You’re lucky you’re cute.”

Azzi was still catching her breath, slumped against Paige’s chest, hair clinging to damp skin, but there was something dangerous in her eyes now. A different kind of hunger.

And before Paige could say anything else, Azzi was already moving — sitting up straighter, fingers curling into the waistband of Paige’s sweatpants.

Paige blinked, breath catching. “What are you—”

“I missed you,” Azzi whispered, voice rough, tugging Paige’s sweatpants down slow, deliberate. “Wanna show you.”

Paige lifted her hips without thinking, letting Azzi pull them down, boxers with them, peeling them off like she was unwrapping something precious. And the whole time, her eyes never left Paige’s — like she wanted her to feel it, to see how desperate she was to give her this.

And then, once Paige was bare, Azzi was already sliding off her lap, sinking to her knees between Paige’s legs.

It knocked the breath out of Paige, seeing her like that—flushed, hair messy, lips still swollen from being ruined, and now on her knees, looking up, pupils blown wide, hungry in a way that made Paige’s thighs tense already.

Paige tried to speak, but her throat was dry. “Azzi—”

“I want to,” Azzi said firmly, soft but steady, leaning in to press slow, open-mouthed kisses along the inside of Paige’s thigh, dragging her lips up until Paige was trembling now.

Paige could feel the control slipping. Not all of it, but enough to make her burn for it. Enough to make her spread her legs wider without even thinking, giving Azzi more room, welcoming it.

“You gonna be good for me now?” Paige managed to grit out, fingers threading into Azzi’s curls, holding gently but with weight, not to guide, just to feel her. “You gonna take care of me?”

Azzi nodded, kissing up and up, until her lips were brushing right where Paige was aching the most. “I’m gonna be so good for you.”

And then she kissed her there — soft, open, tongue flicking just enough to make Paige swear under her breath, hips twitching without permission.

Azzi didn’t start fast. Didn’t start sloppy or wild. She started gentle, worshipful, teasing Paige the same way Paige had tortured her minutes ago — slow licks, soft kisses, building it up, dragging it out, making Paige feel it.

“God—Azzi” Paige moaned, tightening her grip in Azzi’s hair, hips jerking up, chasing more friction. “Stop teasing.”

Azzi smiled against her, fucking smiling, like Paige hadn’t just reduced her to a shaking mess on her lap, like this was her payback, sweet and slow.

“I thought you liked control,” Azzi murmured, lips brushing against sensitive, wet skin. “Thought you liked making me beg.”

Paige let out a helpless, breathless laugh, already falling apart. “You’re such a little shit.”

And then Azzi stopped teasing.

Tongue sliding in firm, deep, hot and wet, licking exactly how Paige needed it, like she knew her by heart, because she did. She fucking did.

Paige’s thighs tried to clamp around her head, but Azzi’s hands were already there, holding her open, keeping her right where she wanted her, working her tongue in slow, devastating patterns, flicking over her clit just right before dragging back down, again and again, until Paige was cursing, head thrown back, completely gone.

“Azzi—fuck—”

Azzi didn’t stop. Didn’t slow. She kept licking, sucking, worshiping, soft moans vibrating against Paige’s skin like she was turned on just by giving. Letting Paige use her mouth, letting herself be Paige’s, like she loved it.

And when Paige started shaking, thighs trembling, hips jerking up into her mouth, Azzi tightened her hold, pressed her tongue flatter, rougher, moaning softly into her until Paige was gone.

“Az—Azzi—oh my god—”

And Paige broke.

It hit her hard, sharp, the kind of orgasm that made her swear out loud, whole body curling forward, abs tightening, fingers tangled in Azzi’s hair like she might fall apart without her.

Azzi didn’t stop until Paige was shaking, until every twitch had slowed, until she could barely breathe. Only then did she finally pull back, lips wet, eyes soft and glowing, wrecked and smug.

Paige could only stare down at her, breathless, ruined, heart pounding out of her chest.

“You’re gonna kill me,” Paige whispered hoarsely, laughing, completely wrecked, completely in love.

Azzi climbed back up into her lap, curling into her chest like she hadn’t just destroyed her, kissing Paige’s jaw softly, gently.

“Nah,” Azzi whispered, smiling, finally sweet again. “Just missed you.”

Paige’s chest was still heaving, her skin flushed, damp with sweat, completely wrecked — but the moment Azzi curled into her, everything in Paige softened. The roughness melted into tenderness, the teasing faded into something deeper, heavier, like Paige’s whole heart had just cracked wide open.

She wrapped both arms around Azzi’s waist, pulling her close, gently brushing the damp curls off her forehead. “Jesus Christ,” Paige murmured softly, pressing a kiss to her temple, lingering there like she never wanted to move again. “You’re unbelievable.”

Azzi just hummed, breath still shaky, cheeks flushed but glowing, eyes closed like she was perfectly content right there, pressed into Paige’s chest.

Paige kissed her again, softer this time, right on the hairline, then down to her cheek, like she had to kiss every part of her face now. “C’mere,” she whispered, gently adjusting Azzi in her lap like she weighed nothing, like she was holding something precious.

And she was.

“Let’s get you cleaned up, yeah?” Paige murmured, brushing her knuckles along Azzi’s jaw. “My princess deserves to be taken care of.”

Azzi’s lashes fluttered, a sleepy smile tugging at her lips. “I like you like this.”

“Like what?” Paige teased gently, nuzzling her cheek.

“All… soft,” Azzi breathed, curling into her more. “Princess treatment.”

Paige laughed, low and warm, chest shaking with it. “You always get princess treatment.”

Azzi nodded against her neck, and that was all it took for Paige to shift, sliding her arms under Azzi’s thighs and back, lifting her right off the couch like it was nothing, holding her close.

“Say less,” Paige murmured, pressing another kiss to Azzi’s cheek, carrying her toward the bathroom. “I got you.”

Azzi let herself be carried, limp and smiling, arms lazily slung around Paige’s shoulders like she was royalty being escorted to her private suite.

Paige set her down carefully on the closed toilet seat, flicking on the bathroom light, warm and soft, before kneeling in front of her, grabbing a clean towel from under the sink and wetting it with warm water.

“Gonna take care of you first,” Paige said softly, thumb brushing Azzi’s knee. “Just sit there, pretty girl.”

Azzi watched her, eyes soft, completely gone for her, completely theirs in this moment.

Paige cleaned her up gently, slow swipes of the warm cloth between her thighs, careful, attentive, loving, like she wasn’t just cleaning her — she was worshiping her. Every pass of the cloth was followed by a kiss to her knee, or her thigh, or the back of her hand.

When she was done, Paige dropped the towel in the hamper, stood back up, and lifted Azzi again, bridal style, carrying her straight to the bedroom this time.

“Put me down,” Azzi giggled, even though she clearly didn’t mean it.

Paige just grinned. “Nope. Princesses don’t walk.”

Azzi rolled her eyes, but she was blushing, cheeks pink from something entirely different than before now.

Paige laid her down gently on the bed, pulling the covers back first, tucking her in like she was fragile even though they both knew she wasn’t. Then Paige slid in next to her, pulling her close, wrapping her up in both arms, one hand stroking Azzi’s hair while the other rubbed gentle circles into her lower back.

“You okay?” Paige murmured, voice so soft now it was almost a whisper. “You good?”

Azzi nodded into her shoulder. “Better than good.”

Paige kissed her hair. “Yeah. Same.”

For a long time, they just lay there, tangled together, breathing soft, hearts steadying, skin warm against skin. Whispering random topics they suddenly thought about and when Azzi finally started to drift off, Paige was still awake, still brushing her fingers through her curls, still kissing her temple every few minutes, like she couldn’t quite believe she was real.

“My girl” Paige whispered, so quiet Azzi might’ve been asleep already. “I love you Azzi.”

And she meant it.

Every single word.