megumimania

[megumimania]

FRENCH 75.

summary: wherein your girlfriends say “one more drink, baby,” and next thing you know, you’re being held open and fucked by both of them.

pairings: ftm!art donaldson x afab!reader x tashi duncan

warnings: 5.7k words. mature themes. strap-on use. oral sex (cunnilingus, face-sitting, throatfucking). threesome (f/f/f). rough sex. nipple/tit play. choking kink. degradation kink. praise kink. brat-taming. somnophilia-adjacent tones. manhandling. overstimulation. double stimulation (pussy, mouth). objectification. ownership kink. age gap. throat training. alcohol consumption. intoxicated sex. dubious consent. free use dynamics. read & consume responsibly.

note: this might be one of the horniest things i’ve ever written and kicking my feet like a little pervert. tbh i might’ve wrote this in my notes app while half-humping a pillow but you will literally never know that for sure ;) like i’m actually so jealous of reader. why do i wanna be sandwiched between two hot older women like a little slutty capri sun. like i don’t wanna be the writer anymore. i wanna be the drunk little cum toy they carry out of the bar and ruin til she cries. anyway thank you for reading 🥰 i love women

You never planned to be blackout drunk this weekend. “No way in hell. I won’t get drunk, promise,” you said - especially to them, especially when they told you the three of you were going to a jazz bar. Tashi said she needed to destress from work, and Art agreed too, saying the mood would be nice. They looked at you quickly when you sounded like you were against it. Just a little sound, not even real disagreement, but still, they raised their eyebrows at you. Not that it’s bad. You are not just used to a calm mood… chilling vibes when you drink. Maybe that’s where it shows - the difference in age between you and them.

Art didn’t stop trying to convince you, but not in an annoying way. She was like, “Come on, baby. It’ll be fun, okay?” You just shook your head. Said you weren’t in the mood. What made you say yes in the end was when Tashi said, “If she doesn’t want to come, let her. Go ahead. Stay in this house and act miserable.” Like she was trying to use reverse psychology on you. Or maybe not even trying. Maybe she just meant it.

So now here you are. Sandwiched up between the two of them in a booth. One of Art’s hands on your right thigh, and Tashi’s hand on your left - stroking your lace stockings, casually playing with the hem of your skirt. They just keep you between them with a French 75 that Tashi ordered for you and you’re sipping it while they talk about something you don’t even know. You nod along, hum like you’re following, even though your head’s a little fuzzy already and all you really feel is their hands.

You’re not even sure when you finished the drink. One second the glass was cold in your hand, the next your fingers were empty, and your head felt floaty - you’re giggly now. But not the embarrassing kind. They keep you in your place, hands always somewhere on your body. You never order anything yourself. It’s always Art or Tashi who stands up from the booth and tells the bartender what you’ll be drinking next. Their fingers feel like heat, steady and grounding, and you let your lashes flutter low, not quite ready to admit how drunk you are.

And the hem of your skirt keeps riding up, and no one’s fixing it while the three of you keep drinking. But maybe that’s because it can’t be seen - your legs are tucked under the table, half in shadow, half hidden by their bodies. You think maybe you should fix it yourself, tug it back down, cover the lace. But your hands feel slow. So you don’t. And when you shift a little in your seat, you realize your thighs are damp. You know they can feel it too. Their hands are already there, resting on your inner thighs, so close to your panties - too close not to notice.

You don’t say anything when they don’t move their hands. Your body hums- warm, slow, too tired to resist. You lean in without meaning to, cheek brushing Tashi’s collarbone, lips grazing her throat. She doesn’t stop you. Just exhale, hand heavier across your thigh. The booth feels too warm. Their voices are slow. You close your eyes- just for a second. Long enough to miss the way Art glances at Tashi. Long enough that when Tashi tilts your chin, your body doesn’t respond.

You don’t say anything when they don’t move their hands. Too comfortable with them. They're your girlfriends so you let them. Your body pliant- warm, slow, too tired to resist. You lean in without meaning to, cheek brushing Tashi’s collarbone, lips grazing her throat. She doesn’t stop you. Just exhale, hand heavier across your thigh, and squeeze the flesh. The booth feels too warm, too crowded for you even though it's just the three of you there. Their voices are slow. You close your eyes- just for a second. Long enough to miss the way Art glances at Tashi like she's saying something to her. It's long enough when Tashi tilts your chin, but your body doesn’t respond.

You don’t stir when they leave the bar and carry your body. Don’t feel Tashi adjust your skirt, or Art curl her arm beneath your knees. You sleep through the keys, purse, and the way to the stairs. But you know when you’re home. Softer sheets. Your shoes are gone. Your head sinks heavier than usual. Their voices drift nearby. Like you know they're talking but it's gibberish and just whispers to you. The room is dark. You should open your eyes. You don’t. You can't.

Art is the one who touches you first. Just a brush to your calf to test the waters. When you don’t move, she keeps going- fingers tracing lace, breath shaky. Her sweater slips down her arms. She rolls the lace down from your hips until it's off. Kisses your knees. Behind her, a zipper slides. A belt unbuckles and a tug on the floor when it drops there. Tashi moves in silence- shirt on, rings flashing. She pulls the strap from the drawer like a ritual. Art doesn’t look. She doesn’t need to.

Tashi walks towards the bed and steps in. Art is kneeling between your thighs, her hands more certain now. She parts you gently and yanks your skirt up. Stare at it before her breath hitches. Still wet. She hums. Then bends low to lick- once, slow, carefully before her lips touch the bud. A kiss to the altar before he slides a finger inside. Tashi undresses while staring at the both of you. Shirt lifted, strap now buckled, panties on, chest bare. Art doesn’t look. She already knows. When Tashi walks past, thumb grazing her jaw, Art shudders. “You’re not putting her to sleep,” Tashi murmurs. “You’re waking her up.” Art’s fingers still- then curl deeper. Your hips twitch. Your body remembers.

Art stays knelt-bent low at the bed’s edge, arm hooked under your thigh, mouth buried like scripture. She licks slowly, steadily. Her fingers curl patiently and wet. She doesn’t hear Tashi move- only feels her hand in her dress, tugging gently until she arches. Her panties slide down by Tashi. Feels the coldness of the air. Then Tashi’s warm hand. Then the strap- warm, thick, pressed between her folds but not in. Just grinding. Slow. Cruel. Art moans into you but doesn’t stop. She gives even as she’s taken. “Keep her open for me,” Tashi murmurs. “Or I’ll make you watch.” Art whimpers, kisses your clit goodbye, and leans in again- cheek to your thigh, back arched, ass offered, slick dripping down her legs. Tashi grinds against her, measuring. “You’re dripping,” she says, smiling. “Already?” Art bites your thigh to muffle her moan. Her fingers never stop. Then Tashi enters her- no thrust, no force. Just reading. Steady. Deep. Art shudders, forehead to your skin, mouth whispering sweet girl like a prayer. Still, her fingers curl inside you. Always. Still preparing you for Tashi.

Every motion is restrained. Calculated. Tashi moves slowly, deep- each thrust a drag meant to be felt. Her hands grip Art’s hips, using her like leverage, and Art takes it silently- moaning into your thigh, not the air. Mouth open. Breath caught. Your head turns in sleep. A soft breath escapes. Tashi stills. Art freezes. Then- softly- your body relaxes again, and Art resumes. Gentler. Softer. Like she’s thanking you. Tashi fucks her harder- when you go back to slumber but still quiet. Still careful. Art’s fingers move in tune with your breath. But Tashi’s hips threaten to undo her. The strap pushes deep, claiming her inch by inch. She bites your thigh... more like teething and grazing to the skin when it builds. Tashi knows. Of course she does. The tremble in Art’s knees. The arch of her spine. The grind of her clit. Every breath. Every tell.

Tashi fucks her just a little deeper. “Don’t stop,” she murmurs- not to Art, but to the rhythm of her finger between your thighs. Art comes like it hurts. No sound. No cry. Just a sharp shiver against your thigh, lips parted around a moan she never lets go. Her fingers don’t leave you, even as she jerks- slick pouring down her thighs. Her breath stutters. Her eyes flutter shut. She holds still. Tashi doesn’t move either- not yet. She just breathes with her. One palm gliding up her back. “You’re okay,” she says, rough and low. “You did good.” No pressure. Just a pause. Then they move- not to fuck. Not yet. But to touch. To see.

Art lifts her head. Kisses your thigh. Her hand slides out, fingers trembling, stroking once more like an apology. She rises, standing in front of the bed- undressing slowly. Her sweater dress. Her panties. Her bra. Stays in her thigh highs. Always does, like feeling fuzzy. Tashi kneels, tugging your skirt down. Art unbuttons your blouse after she undresses. Quiet. Careful. Her hands still shake. She kisses your ribs. Pushes your top aside. Your bra. Her thumbs trace under your breasts, lifting them free. You’re bare- except for the flush on your skin, the previous marks they left by their mouth, the glisten between your thighs.

Tashi exhales- clearly turned on by the sight. Her palms stroke your thighs- rougher than Art’s. More certain. She holds them open. Just to look. But she's dying to touch them. To open those lips. “She’s so wet already,” Art nods, humming before whispering. “She’s ready,” Tashi answers.

You are. Even in sleep. Blacked out drunk. Open. Soft in the way only trust allows. Tashi lifts your leg over her shoulder. Her thumb drags lazy circles through your slick slit. Not pressing in. Just spreading the line. Watching you twitch faintly, even now. “You’re soaking, baby,” she murmurs- not to wake you. It's more than just for herself. Art kneels beside you, naked. She kisses your breast- then the other. Soft. Careful. You stir. Barely. A shift. A breath. A furrow. Then stillness. She sucks gently at your nipple, tongue flicking slow, while Tashi slides the strap along your slit- gathering slick to make it wetter despite it just came from Art's cunt. Not in. Not yet. Just rocking. Your lips part. A sigh. Then, groggy, slurred: “…‘m not in the mood…”

Art stills, gasping. Her nose brushes your sternum. Her hands hesitate. But Tashi doesn’t pause. She only hums- low and amused. “You don’t want to help me and Art?” she murmurs, voice velveted and pitying. Like she knows how to get you. The strap drags again, pressing between your folds- a statement. “That doesn’t sound like our girl.” Art says nothing, but her grip tightens. Want. Agreement. Hunger.

“You’re so warm for us,” Tashi adds, lower now. “So wet, baby. I think you do want to help.” You whimper- maybe protest, maybe not. But your hips tilt. Reflex. Memory. Like your body remembering who you belong to. Tashi smiles. “That’s better.” Then she slides in. Still moving. Still inside you. Tashi watches her. Slow, like a hush. Her eyes flick down to your face- flushed, lips parted. Then back to Art who's already looking at her with those adorable eyes like she's begging for something. Something like... can I sit in her face? Yes, your face. Tashi smiles. Not kind. Not cruel. Just knowing. Then nods.

That’s all Art needs. She rises, wiping her mouth. Her sweater’s long gone- only the thigh highs remain. Her skin is flushed. Her breath was ragged. She climbs up and her hands are placed on the headboard. One hand slides under your head, tilting your face. Your hand that was placed on the headboard is now on your cheek just to steady herself. Then she swings her knee over and settles. Her cunt hovers above your lips- slick, flushed, needy. Tashi’s pace never falters. Hips rolling, strap dragging deep. “Go on,” she says, voice like velvet on smoke. “Sit on her mouth, sweetheart.” Art shudders. Then obeys.

You finally become conscious of the taste of Art. Not fully- just enough to whimper, a soft, muffled sound caught between her thighs as your lashes flutter open. Shock at the sudden weight and slickness on your lips and cheeks, basically on your face. Everything’s hazy. Wet. Warm. Your mouth parts instinctively beneath her, tongue twitching, and Art exhales- shaky, stunned- fingers tangling in your hair like she’s clinging to a dream. Behind you, Tashi doesn’t stop. Her grip on your hips is steady, strap rolling deep in that same punishing rhythm your body already knows. The rhythm that hits back on your walls. “There you are…” Art breathes, hips stuttering forward. “Hi, baby.” You whine again- more reflex than language- and Tashi laughs low behind you, a sound like silk splitting at the seams. “See?” she murmurs, snapping her hips hard enough to make your thighs jolt. “Didn’t even need to ask.”

Art rocks against you, gentle but desperate, her slick cunt grinding against your mouth as if it’s instinct, not choice. You lick like it’s the only thing you’ve ever been taught- slow, soft, open- and Art moans, broken and breathless, hips stammering forward in gratitude. Your eyes can't even fully open but you just lick, suck, and kiss her cunt. “She’s so good like this,” she gasps, her thighs trembling. “So soft. So- fuck- eager.” Tashi leans in, cock driving deeper as her voice spills low and cruel into your ear. “She’s ours. Even half-asleep, she knows what to do.” And you do. God, you do. Because your mouth stays open. Your tongue keeps working. You let them use you, take from you, fill you- because you’re theirs. You always have been.

The room hums with it, this rhythm, this reverence- slick sounds and shaky breath, the holy weight of bodies shifting above yours. You’re barely awake, but your mouth knows better than your mind, moving with that aching, learned hunger. Art trembles as your tongue curls, her breath catching in her chest. Her thighs tighten. It almost suffocated her and she crashed her head into those thighs. Her hips rock. She grinds like she can’t help it, seeking more. Tashi doesn’t let up- she drives into you steady, cock slick, hands firm as she spreads you open like something sacred. “That’s it,” she breathes, her mouth brushing your ear. “Taking cock like you’re supposed to. Don’t lie to me about being ‘not in the mood’ when your pussy’s this wet.”

You whimper into Art and she gasps, fingers flexing hard in your hair. “She’s right,” she pants, cunt grinding low and slick over your lips. “You woke up dripping, baby. You were dreaming about it, weren’t you?” Tashi grins- sharp, mean, proud- and thrusts again, harder now. “Dreaming about this cock splitting you open. Filling you up so good you forgot how to think.” You try to protest- moaning something soft and muffled- but your body gives you away. You’re wet. Open. Needy. They’re everywhere- inside you, around you, above you- and all you can do is take it.

“That’s it,” Art moans, voice cracking. “Tongue out, sweetheart. Keep it soft. She’s so good- Tash, fuck- she’s so good- ” Tashi’s eyes stay fixed on where she disappears inside you, voice rough with pride. “She’s our little pillow princess. Always ready. Always willing. Look at her- fucked dumb and still trying to please.” Art shudders above you, her thighs twitching as her hips chase the pleasure. “She’s licking me like she means it. Like she wants to be good for us.”

“She is,” Tashi growls. “She’s ours. She always will be.” She says it again, quieter this time- almost to herself. “Ours.” Art gasps, cunt grinding harder against your mouth as she starts to lose control. “Feel her tongue- she’s so soft- God, she’s licking like she’s starving- ” Art’s voice cracks, thighs shaking, caught on the edge of it. “She likes it messy,” Tashi says, thrusting deeper like a reward. “Don’t you, sweetheart?” You can’t answer. You just moan against Art’s cunt, licking harder, sloppier, like devotion made flesh. Like prayer. Tashi groans behind you, fucking you harder, cock dragging wet through your cunt as she claims every inch of you. “This pussy’s mine,” she says- not to Art, not to you, just to the room. A truth.

Art nods, breath ragged. “I know it is. Just look at her- she’s not even thinking. Just taking you. Sucking me.” Tashi leans in and spits between your shoulder blades- slow, deliberate- and you cry out against Art. Her thighs jump at the sound. “She’s not gonna come until I say,” Tashi says, drawing out until only the tip remains, then slamming back in. “But you can. Go on, baby. Use her. I know you want to.” Art gasps, stunned- but her hips move like instinct, like she’s waited for permission. “Can’t help it,” she whispers. “She’s so soft. I want to come all over her mouth, I want- ” “Then do it,” Tashi growls. “While I fuck her. She’s full and quiet and obedient. Let her feel how good she is.” And you do. You feel all of it- the heat, the weight, the praise. Their voices wrap around you like silk. Their bodies are like chains. You’re owned. You’re used. And you don’t say a word. You don’t need to.

It happens slowly. Not all at once- but in waves. A soft unraveling. Like your body already knows how to come for them. Like you’ve already given everything. Art breaks first. You feel it in the tremble of her thighs, the flutter of her breath, the sharp gasp that punches out when your tongue catches her just right. She doesn’t even mean to, maybe- doesn’t mean to grind so hard, to moan that loud- but she’s losing it, right above you, and there’s no hiding it now. “Oh- fuck,” she chokes, hips jerking. “I’m gonna- I’m- ” You moan into her, helpless, to give her more, just to feel her ear from the sound. Her body seizes; she clutches your head, rocks once more, then goes still, panting through her teeth as she gushes across your tongue.

“God,” she breathes, wrecked. “She made me come. Tash- fuck- she licked me until I came- ” It makes you ache, the way she says it like a confession, like she’s been made holy in your mouth. “I know, baby,” Tashi murmurs behind you, smug and fond in equal measure. “She’s perfect.” Her thrusts never falter- still steady and cruel, cock dragging through your soaked cunt with humiliating ease. You can’t move, can’t breathe; limp, boneless, fucked open and wet with everything. Your face still buried between Art’s thighs. Still licking- slow now, weak and sloppy, like it’s all you’ve got left. Tashi strokes your hair once. “You can come now,” she says. “Go on, sweetheart. Show her how good it feels to be used.”

You come like it’s been stolen from you. Not loud, not wild- just a breathless shudder that empties you out. Your breath stutters against Art’s cunt. Your thighs seize around Tashi’s waist. Everything goes white, hot, slick. You don’t cry out- you just whimper, soft and slurred, as your cunt flutters around the strap, dripping like you’re trying to prove you need it. “There she is,” Tashi groans, hips stuttering. “There’s our good girl.” Art’s shivering above you, fingers feathering your cheek. “She’s still licking,” she whispers. “She’s still trying.” And that- God, that- breaks something in you, or maybe builds something new, something sweetly wrong. You don’t know. You just know this: you’d die like this. Like a mouth that won’t close. A body broken open and shared. Something they both decided to keep. “She’s always trying,” Tashi says, slow and proud. “Even when she’s full. Even when she’s spent. That’s why she’s ours.”

They don’t move. Not yet. Just stay close, curled around you like you’re precious, like they’ve earned you. You lie there, dazed and leaking, lips slack against Art’s cunt, Tashi’s cock still buried deep. For a long, golden second, no one speaks. Just breathe. Just heat. Just that holy quiet in the space between three people undone. They let you have it- just a moment- before they begin again.

Your legs are trembling when Tashi pulls out. She does it slowly. Too slow. Her cock drags against your walls like it knows you’ll miss it, like it wants to leave an echo behind. Your cunt clenches on nothing, fluttering, aching open. You make a noise- soft and wounded- and Tashi watches the spill drip from you with a pleased groan. Her hand sweeps your back like she’s proud of the mess. “Aw, I know,” she murmurs, mock-sweet. “Empty now, huh?”

You can’t answer. Chest heaving. Jaw slack. Too far gone to think. But you feel it when she shifts- arms sliding under you, lifting you onto your back like you’re made of glass. You go pliant. Boneless. And then Art leans in to kiss you. Soft. Sweet. Devastating. Her mouth brushes yours even though she knows what’s coming. Even though your lips are already parting around the phantom shape of a cock. Her kiss tastes like her. Like you. Like hunger and ruin. “Good girl,” she breathes, just as your lashes flutter, just as Tashi kneels beside your head and brings the strap back to your mouth.

You see it- still slick from your cunt- swinging heavy above your chest as she spreads her knees and claims the pillow on either side of your head. That same lazy confidence she fucks with, like your body’s hers to perch on. It looms, flushed and thick, your throat tightening before it even touches you. Tashi strokes herself once, slowly, then angles it toward your lips. You’re still glossy with spit. Still parted from before. But when the cock presses close, your face flinches, breath hitching. Your eyes flicker up pleading, wary- and your voice barely crawls out. “…N-no,” you whisper. “Don’t want that.”

Tashi just stares. And smiles. “Mmm,” she hums. “Funny. You liked it inside you a second ago.” Her hand cups your cheek, unbearably tender, fingers cradling your jaw like something fragile. Her thumb strokes your mouth once- then presses in, slow and firm, easing the tip just barely past your lips. You whimper, turn away, and try to resist. She sighs, disappointed. “Stop pretending,” she murmurs. “I just fucked your cunt open with it. Don’t act shy now that it’s your mouth.” You shake your head, breath stuttering- but your body gives you away. Your hips twitch. Your thighs flex. That needy heat still pulses in your gut. And that’s when Art moves.

She’s already sliding between your legs, one thigh slotting between yours as she straddles you, palm braced flat on your stomach, grounding you while the other dips low to guide her hips into place. She starts slow- grinding down in a smooth, heavy roll- and moans softly when the slick of your pussy kisses hers. Her cunt catches on your own, your folds messy and warm where they slide together. “She’s doing that thing again,” Art murmurs, voice velvet and mean. “You know. Where she pretends she doesn’t want it. Just to see if you’ll make her.” Tashi growls. Her hand fists in your hair, yanking your head back into place. “Oh, I’m gonna make her,” she mutters darkly. You gasp, body arching, hands reaching weakly for her thighs like you’re trying to stop her, but it’s already too late- her cock is back at your lips, smeared with your own come, nudging insistently like it belongs there.

“Open,” she says, low and commanding. “Or I’ll make Art do it for me.” You whimper- fragile, desperate- lashes fluttering, lips trembling. But then you feel it: Art’s cunt grinding into yours, her clit dragging in slick circles as her hips start to move. Her moan breaks softly above you, the sound curling around your ears like silk. “Go on, sweetheart,” she purrs, teasing and cruel. “Be good. Or we’ll both get mean.” Your head shakes. But your mouth opens anyway- just enough, just for the tip- and Tashi groans, deep and low, when she feels it. “There it is,” she mutters, sliding in a little further, cock thick and steady. “Always so mouthy until there’s cock in it.”

She feeds it to you slowly. Not rough- not yet. Her hips roll gently, just enough to push deeper into your throat inch by inch, your lips stretching pink and wet around her, spit already starting to leak down your chin. Your throat flutters helplessly, instinctively. Art moans again- louder this time- grinding harder, her clit catching on yours as the friction builds. “God,” she gasps, voice trembling. “She’s fucking soaking.” Tashi stays slow, controlled, savoring every reaction. Her eyes flick down, sharp and hungry, as she watches your face twist around her cock. “You hear that, brat?” she murmurs, sliding in just a little deeper. “She’s using you. Just like I’m about to.”

Tashi doesn’t fuck your mouth. Not yet. She owns it. Train it. Makes it hers. The cock that ruined your cunt- still swollen, still slick- presses past your lips in a slow, deliberate stretch. Not thrusting. Not plunging. Just… resting. Like it belongs there. You gag. And she still doesn’t move. Just holds you there- deep, weighted, far too thick- anchoring you by your throat. Your breath stutters. Your nose flares. Your body goes rigid, desperate for air, for mercy. Your palms twitch, flail, press weakly against her thighs, trying to push, maybe hold, maybe just survive- but she doesn’t budge.

Her thighs are solid, caging your head, muscles flexing as she sinks a little deeper into the pillow beneath her. Her cock stays rooted. You slap at her- but it’s pitiful, barely even lands. “Don’t fight it,” she murmurs, thumb brushing the hinge of your jaw, her voice cruel and calm. “You’re gonna learn to live with it in your throat.” You sob around her. Eyes wet. Spine locked. One wild kick shoots out sloppy, desperate- and hits something soft. Art hisses, laughing. “Oh, she’s pissed,” she says breathlessly. “Baby kicked me.” Tashi smiles. She pulls out just far enough to let you breathe- a gasp of spit-slicked air- before sliding right back in, deeper, slower, crueler. Not fast. Just… corrective. Another warning. You gag again. She rests it there. Again.

And that’s how it goes. Pull out. Breathe. Push in. Gag. Rest. It’s a rhythm. A ritual. Your body stops resisting the way it once did- your fists still slap, still twitch, but there’s no force left in them. You’re stretched wide, gasping between thrusts, spit trailing from your chin to her cock to your chest. Every inch of you trembles. And then you try to kick again- worse this time, weaker- and Art catches your leg easily, pins it back down. “Don’t get bratty now,” she murmurs, mouth warm against your belly. “We’re being so gentle.” You don’t believe her. Not with your throat choked full and your cunt rubbed raw. But then she shifts- lower, hotter, wetter- and you feel the heat of her sex kiss yours again.

She grinds down slowly. Hungry. Her slick folds catch and drag on yours, her clit locking with yours in a perfect, filthy kiss. You whine. You can’t stop it. You’re gagging on cock and whining into it at the same time, the noise a wet, garbled mess in your throat. Your hips twitch- trying to pull back, trying to chase the friction- and Art just keeps going. Her hips roll with slow, steady intent, fucking you with obscene, velvet pressure. “She’s soaked,” Art moans, voice cracked. “Her clit’s throbbing. She’s kicking, but she’s loving it.” Tashi laughs low. Her hand tightens in your hair, angling your face better so she can watch every little twitch.

“Let her kick,” she says softly. “She always gives in.” Then she slides deeper, hips flexing with steady control. Your throat stretches. Your lips go glossy and red. You try to cry out, but it’s only a broken little choke, bubbling past the thick girth stuffed in your mouth. Your fists beat weakly at her thighs. Nothing changes. Her cock stays buried, heavy and pulsing against your tongue, coated in slick and spit and helplessness. Art moans again- louder, needier- her cunt grinding into yours, her clit dragging over yours in sloppy, filthy friction. Her nails bite your thigh. “God, she’s perfect like this,” she gasps. “All full and fucked and flailing.”

You twitch again- leg jerking, throat clenching- and grunt helplessly around the cock choking you. Even your protests sound like praise. Tashi groans low and starts the cycle over: pull out, gasp, push in, gag, rest. Your throat adjusts. Your cunt throbs. The fight drains from your limbs, replaced by tears streaking hot down your cheeks. “Good girl,” she murmurs, watching your lips stretch around her. “You’ll take it all. You always do.” Below, Art kisses your clit with hers- soft, sweet, merciless. And then suddenly, everything shifts. Tashi stills. Her cock stays buried. She growls- not playful. Not amused. Pissed.

She moves- fast, brutal. Her hips snap back, spit-webbed cock sliding wet from your throat, and before you can breathe, she slams back in. No warning. No mercy. You gag hard, whole body jolting. One hand clamps your jaw wide, the other grabs your breast, rough and possessive. “Oh, now you’re crying?” she snaps. “You had your chance to behave.” Her rhythm turns punishing- cock battering the back of your throat like your resistance is something to break. Each time you choke, her grip tightens on your tit.

Art doesn’t stop either. Her cunt stays pressed to yours, slick and frantic, rubbing harder now. Your clit screams, raw and twitching, but she keeps going, hips grinding like she’s chasing something she needs. “Fuck,” she pants, “she’s still soaking. She’s fucking dripping, Tash.” Tashi groans and drives deeper. Your eyes roll. A pitiful gurgle bubbles up, helpless. Art leans in, breath hot on your stomach. “You gonna come like this, sweetheart?” she whispers. “All full and crying?”

You can’t answer. Your body’s strung out, aching, soaked. Tashi pulls back only to slam deep again, nails digging into your breast as she growls, “You’ll fucking learn. You begged for this.” You twitch. Try to kick. But Art moans and grinds harder, her clit catching against yours with every roll. “She’s gonna break,” she gasps. Tashi doesn’t stop- fucking your throat with cruel rhythm, her hand mauling your chest like she wants bruises blooming there. You choke. You cry. You come.

It’s sudden. Violent. Like a snapped wire. Your hips jolt off the bed, thrashing under Art’s weight. Your throat tightens around Tashi’s cock as you try to scream- but nothing comes. Just broken gags and spit. Tashi groans, pulls out fast and wet. You collapse. Mouth open, sobbing, trembling. Spent. But Art keeps going, grinding her cunt against yours, clits dragging, friction brutal. “Can’t- fuck, can’t- ” you sob. “You can,” Tashi breathes, suddenly soft. “You will.” She leans in not to soothe, but to play. Her mouth closes over your tit, teeth sinking deep. Her hand grabs the other, thumb pinching until it peaks in her palm- and the cycle begins again.

You sob, shuddering beneath her. Art moans low- then she comes, folded tight against you, mouth to your belly, her cunt trembling where it grinds yours to ruin. Her nails dig into your thigh. Her whole body locks and shakes. “Fuck,” she gasps, rutting through it, “fuck, baby- ” but she doesn’t stop. She rides it out, clit throbbing, slick soaking into yours until the heat between you turns feverish, endless. Tashi hums against your breast, then sucks- slow, deep- like she’s drinking you in. Her other hand rolls your nipple between her fingers, soothing and claiming at once. You twitch. Cry out.

You don’t know if it’s a second orgasm or the first still cresting. It blooms again, sickly and sweet, like rot taking root. Your hips jerk, pussy spasming under Art’s grind, your body alight. Tashi pulls off with a pop and smiles, all teeth. “You’re twitching,” she says. “Such a good little mess.” Art slumps against you, her breath hot and ragged. You’re soaked. Wrecked. Still coming- or caught in it, helpless. You sob again, hoarse and shaking. Tashi leans in, fingers brushing your jaw, tilting your face to hers. Her eyes glint. “Good girl.”

Art stays pressed close, her thigh draped over yours, cunt still warm on your skin. The desperation has faded, replaced with something slower, hungrier. She lifts her head, finds your breast, and licks- not greedy, not rough. Reverent. Her tongue follows the bruises Tashi left- bite marks, flushed skin, fading indents. Like she’s jealous. Like she wants to taste what isn’t hers. Tashi watches, hand resting easily on your stomach. “Didn’t think you’d be the clingy one,” she murmurs. Art doesn’t answer. Just flicks her tongue over your nipple, slow and possessive.

“Oh, I see,” Tashi says, tilting her head. “Still catching your breath, but your mouth’s on my tit.” Art looks up, lips wet. “Yours?” she echoes, biting lightly. Tashi smiles, smug. “I fucked her mouth,” she says. “Seems fair.” Art glares. “Yeah? I fucked her too. So share.” You groan, breath thin and shaking. “Hello?” you rasp. “It’s my body. I just got fucked. And now you’re fighting over my tits?” Neither replies. They glance at you- briefly. Dismissively.

Then Tashi brushes your nipple again, slow and teasing, while Art sucks another mark into your chest. You sigh- loud, exhausted- but don’t stop them. Not really. You let your head fall back. Let them claim you again. This time it’s quieter. Slower. Not lust but aftermath. Not fucking but keeping. Tashi palms your other breast, thumbing it idly while Art traces what’s left. Her gaze stays on your face- tracking each flutter of your lashes like you might fall asleep beneath them. “She’ll knock out if we keep petting her,” Art murmurs. “Good,” Tashi replies. “She earned it.” Then softer- like a secret, like a prayer: “She’s perfect when she’s quiet.”

Your lip twitches. “Fuck both of you,” you whisper. Tashi smirks. Art licks again. And you stay there- naked, aching, soft beneath their mouths- as they settle in to touch what they just destroyed. Not to start again. Just to keep.

𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓© 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒𝐎𝐅𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍

𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝

[megumimania]

Hello!! I adore your Art fics and was wondering if you’d do one with top/dom!Art x Sub!reader and she has a really bad oral fixation throughout her normal day buts it’s especially bad when she’s upset, and she is, also if possible if you could somehow fit in NSFW themes I’d really appreciate it! Once again love love love your work!💕

Sorry if this is gibberish I suck at requesting stuff

SLURRED, SLIPPY, SHINY.

summary: It’s not new. You’ve always had a thing for using your mouth when your feelings get too big and you go quiet. And Art knows that silence, knows exactly what you need when it hits. He never makes you explain. Just cups the back of your head and tells you, “Breathe through it, baby.”

pairings: ceo!art donaldson x young girlfriend!reader

warning: 4.2k words. mature themes. oral fixation. age gap. power imbalance. oral sex (m!receiving). gagging / light choking. spit / drool / mess. aftercare. read responsibly.

note: this request has been sitting in my inbox since june 7 and i swear i wasn’t ignoring it :(! sorry … sighs. anyway, i saw “oral fixation when she’s upset” and i immediately felt exposed. why would you call me out like that. do you know how many things i’ve put in my mouth just to not cry?? like it was a coping mechanism. and surprise!!! it was!!! 🤪 and yep… we’re here now. she’s soft. she’s messy. she’s gagging a little. and she’s regulated by one (1) emotionally available dom named art donaldson. (I WANT SOFT DOM ART) To anon, i’m sorry it took me long. i love you. thank you for requesting this. 💗

You should’ve grown out of it. That’s what everyone said- quietly, politely, like it wasn’t a big deal. Like it’s just a phase. Just something you’d stop doing once your brain settled, but it’s not. As much as you want it to stop, it didn’t. It started when you’re young, with your thumb, then your shirt collar that you’re subtly putting between your mouth when you’re alone, hoodie strings chewed until they frayed. Note: Each one of your hoodies.

Teachers, doctors, and relatives offered solutions: rubber sticks, bracelets, soft pens. You tried. But nothing worked like having something in your mouth. It doesn’t work. You almost broke down when someone asked what it was when you left your bag open. It wasn’t just a habit. You know that. It was need- pressure, focus, quiet. It’s something. It’s yours. Something to help you feel safe. A comfort.

You learned to hide it as you got older. No more thumb sucking (when you’re at public), but your pens still had bite marks. You went through straws too fast. Got flattened and looks like it has been murdered. You pressed your fingers to your lips, mouthed your sleeves, and gnawed your cheeks. You thought it would fade. It didn’t. There’s a time you think it’s fading, not until it happened again, when something triggered you.

It’s worse when you are upset, more than the normal things you do. You didn’t cry or yell. You just went quiet. You bit down. Sucked your fingers raw. Let your sleeves stay wet. Full of drool. You hated how it looked. How did it make you feel small. It can be disgusting, but a good feeling at the same time. You tried to be better. Find solutions on your own when you get older. Therapy, coping tools, breathing tricks- you did it all. But your mouth always ended up full again. Again. And again.

It got harder to ignore around people, especially during sex. When your mouth was busy, your head was quiet. Not because you wanted to be good. Just because it helped. But it got messy- too much drool, too fast, too desperate. You look like you’re eager to suck them off or get fucked. You could always tell when they felt weird about it. They’d pull away. Wipe your chin as if it’s giving them problems. Give you a break you never asked for.

So you stopped letting anyone see it. Bit your cheek. Sometimes it’s too hard you can taste the metallic flavor from your blood. Swallowed the need. Tried to act normal. Masking it in front of other people. Tried to stay quiet without help. You didn’t want to explain. It’s too hard to do it anyway. You didn’t want to see that look- confused, a little uneasy, like they didn’t know what you were doing, or why it mattered.

And then you met him. A quiet gala. A borrowed bracelet. A drink you didn’t finish. He noticed you- not because you were young or pretty, but because you stirred your glass too long, because your fingers kept brushing your mouth like they didn’t know where else to go. The way you lick your lips too much to the point it’s making them dry. You didn’t even realize. But he did.

And for once, someone didn’t look confused. He just watched you more than he spoke. Noticed your jaw, your hands, the way your voice caught when your mouth was empty. But he never pointed it out. Never asked. He just made space. Let you sit closer. Let you speak less. Let you handle yourself. Let you do your mannerisms. Let you know it. And for the first time, you didn’t feel like you had to hide.

Now- now that you’re here, curled up on the floor of his penthouse, sleeves damp, fingers trembling, mouth aching for something to hold- he still doesn’t ask questions. Just let you stay there. Not really get you up because he knows your habits by now. And he’s in the middle of a meeting. Remote. Earbud in, laptop open, voice low. Even as he talks about projections and timelines and things you don’t understand but his other hand- his free hand- is resting gently on your face, two fingers pressed into your mouth like it’s second nature.

You keep his fingers warm inside your mouth. You’re curled against his thigh, knees tucked under you, breathing soft and shallow as you suck on them. Slow. Steady. Sloopy. Like it’s the only thing keeping you from falling apart. You’ve already soaked his skin. Spit clings to the knuckle and to your chin. Your jaw aches. Your lashes are wet. You don’t even know how long it’s been.

You haven’t spoken since you crawled across the floor and tugged on his sleeve. Soft and with the purpose of disturbing him in the middle of his meeting. Your chest is tight and your eyes are glassy, too full to say a word. You didn’t ask. You didn’t have to. He looked down once, watched your lip tremble, and slipped his fingers past your mouth like he was giving you medicine. Like he knows what you need. Like it’s your fix.

You’ve been like this ever since- mouthing and whimpering, drooling quietly while he keeps talking like there’s nothing unusual happening. Nothing at all. Just you. You’re on the floor. His fingers dig deep into you. “…no, we’ll review it again on Thursday,” he says, thumb brushing under your chin.

“I’ll send over the final numbers after this call.” You whine around his fingers- quiet, desperate- and he doesn’t even blink, just looking straight at this damn meeting. “Shh,” he quietly murmurs, barely audible. His pinky strokes your cheek. “You’re fine, baby. Just keep going.”

You try to behave. You really do. Keep going, he said. But the second he pulls his fingers free- spit, wet, and warm- your mouth feels too empty to breathe right. So you whimper again unintentionally, lips still parted, breath catching in your throat like you’re falling.

He doesn’t look down. Just wipes his hand on the thigh of his sweats and lifts the edge of the desk with his knee so you can crawl more between him. You do- immediately, silently, settling between his legs like you’ve done this before. (You do. Multiple times. Like you already trained for it.)

He’s seated in his office chair, laptop balanced in front of him, camera on. Framed from the chest up. Mic hot. Voice calm. Authoritative. Composed. “… No, we need to revise the it if the acquisition falls through. We can’t afford a delay.” You kneel more comfortably under the desk, hands light on his thighs, cheek pressed to his lap. Like a lap dog. But you didn’t do anything much, you just pressed it, just for closeness, just to feel him- but the second you catch the heat of him through the fabric, your lips part again. You mouthed at him through the cotton. Lips moving with intent. Soft. Unthinking. Your body leads before your brain can follow. A soft noise escapes your throat- barely anything- but enough to be heard.

There’s a pause. “…everything alright over there?” He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t shift. Doesn’t glance down. His voice doesn’t change. He’s acting like you’re not below him. Like you’re not needy. Like you don’t want more of him in your mouth.

“Yeah,” he says. Just a beat. “All good.”

His hand slips under the desk again, finds the back of your head, and presses down gently against his thigh. Then, without pausing the call or breaking eye contact with the screen, he pulls his cock out- slowly, one-handed- just tugging the waistband of his sweats low enough to let it rest heavy and flushed against his thigh.

“Come on,” he whispers to you, too quiet for the mic to catch. “Since you’re already shaking.” You lean in automatically, lips parted, spit already pooling, and wrap your mouth around the head with a soft sigh. You lick the tip like a lollipop. Tasting his pre cum under your tongue. He exhales through his nose, doesn’t react. “…we’ll circle back on Friday,” he says into the call, calm and smooth, while you suck him quietly under the desk.

He doesn’t know what upset you. Not yet. Not ever since you crawled underneath, since he’s already in the meeting when you did that. But he knew something was wrong the moment you knelt beside him- sleeves tugged over your hands, mouth trembling, silent. You hadn’t said anything. You didn’t need to. You just looked up with your glossy eyes, like you just came from crying and your mouth shining with spit. You touched his wrist, and he gave you his fingers like it was instinct.

Now your mouth is stretched around something thicker, deeper, and you’re curled between his legs, hands braced on his thighs, jaw working slowly. Your spit drips down your chin and onto your hands, but his voice doesn’t change. “…that’s fine. Just update them before it goes to legal,” he says evenly. You hum around him like you’re agreeing. Like you’re part of his little meeting. His hand flexes at the back of your head after you hum, must the vibrations of it have affected him. He holds it not for praise, not control. Just contact. You always need contact.

He glances down once. Just to see you like this- lips soaked, brows furrowed, throat working hard to take more than you should. He almost thrust so deep that you could be stuffed, but he didn’t. He doesn’t stop you. Doesn’t slow you down. He knows you’ll talk later, after your jaw stops aching and your head clears. Right now, this is the only way you know how to speak. But you’re struggling now- your lips stretched wide, eyes burning, spit messier by the second.

The harder you try to stay quiet, the worse it gets. The more noise threatening to escape your mouth. A whimper escapes, soft and broken, and he feels it. He’s aware of how you are acting below him. Still, he doesn’t pause the meeting. He just lifts one hand off the desk and presses his thumb into the corner of your mouth- not rough, not gentle, just there. Steady. Firm. Guiding.

He eases you off with slow pressure, lets your lips fall from his cock with a gasp. Then pushes his thumb over your tongue, wetting it, quieting you. Grounding you from breaking from it. He knows sometimes you can get overstimulated even if you've already stuffed your mouth.

He lets his cock rests hot against while his thumb plugs into mouth beside it like a stopper, keeping the sound in. “…yes, I’ll review the contract tonight,” he says calmly to the meeting. “No changes on my end.” You blink up at him, glassy-eyed, his thumb still resting against your tongue. You suck on it too, softly, rhythmically, just to keep yourself grounded. To stay in your body. To not cry.

And he lets you. Keeps you there- knees sore, chin sticky, heart pounding, mouth full of him- because this isn’t about making you feel better right now. It’s about keeping you still. Quiet. Held. Just content until the meeting concludes. He doesn’t stroke your hair. Doesn’t tell you you’re good. He just finished his work. Lets you stay where you are, sucking on him like it’s the only thing tethering you to the ground. When the meeting finally winds down- just wrap-up and sign-offs- he clicks once, flatly: “I’ll review everything by tomorrow. Thanks, everyone.” And then he ends the call.

Click. Silence. Like he’s so eager. The shift is instant. He exhales once, slow, and reaches under the desk to grab your wrist- not rough, just firm enough to say: you’re not staying down there. You don’t have time to react and you barely get your hands beneath you before he’s pulling, slow and steady, making you crawl out with your knees catching on the floor. You pout at him because it made you remove your mouth from him.

Your lips are swollen, eyes stinging, his spit and slick cock brushing your cheek as you move. You end up kneeling between his thighs, half slumped in his lap, fingers clutching at his sweats like you’re afraid he’ll take it all away again. But really? In this state? You’re afraid he’ll do it. His thumb shoved back inside your mouth, lazy and wet, soaking from how long you’ve had it before he pulled it out for a moment to get you underneath the desk.

He brushes your chin, glances at your face- pink, glossy, ruined... and pretty. “You gonna tell me what that was about?” he asks, voice low. You shake your head. Just enough. Too shy to say it. Not ready to talk about it. “No?” he repeats, brow twitching.

You pull off his thumb slowly, spit stretching from your lips, then whisper, “Don’t wanna talk...” It cracks your voice. He knows what it means. He knows what he needs to do. You sound shameful. Quiet. Like it hurts to admit. He looks at you for a long second, blank, unreadable- then leans back in his chair and spreads his thighs. “Alright,” he says. “Come get it.”

You’re already moving the moment he said that, dragging your palms up his legs, mouth open before he finishes speaking. You open your mouth wide enough to cater it. You take the head in first- soft, slow, then deeper. Just enough. Maybe the tip is almost kissing your throat. He doesn’t guide you. Doesn’t hold your head. Just watches. Admiring the way you take what you need. The way your lips wrap around it. The way you look.

When you moan around him, eyes slipping shut, he finally lets one hand drop into your hair. “There you go,” he murmurs. “Take what you need.” You press your palms to his knees and sink until your lips meet the base, breath catching, tears stinging your lashes. But you don’t gag, you move slowly, adjusting to it even though you’ve done it many times now. He doesn’t move. Just lets you fuck yourself on him- slow, sloppy, desperate- until your spit coats his thighs, dripping in strings from your chin. Your whole body trembles from the stretch, from how full you are, from how long you’ve been holding everything in.

Then he shifts. Just a little. He put his hand on your hair and grips your hair tightly, not in a way that hurts. He tilts his hips forward once, deep, slow, and the sound you make around him shudders straight up his spine. God, you sound so good, so he does it again. Then again. Three soft thrusts, lazy and controlled, just enough to hear you choke. Just enough to test you to see if you can take it much today. You flinch, but don’t pull away.

You moan- weak, ruined- and he groans softly. “Fuck. You’re really not gonna stop, huh?” Another push, deeper now, hitting your throat. “Not even gonna try.” You look up at him through wet lashes, mouth stretched, eyes pleading. He holds you halfway down, barely letting you breathe, cock throbbing on your tongue like it’s trying to get something out of you you haven’t said yet.

“You needed this bad, didn’t you?” he murmurs, brushing your cheek, wiping spit from your lip. “What happened, sweetheart? Hm? Who made you like this?” He asks. So filthy, making you squirm. Making you feel the tingling through your body because of the sound of his voice. And then, just to feel your throat a little panic, he thrusts again, rougher now, and you gag, tears spilling free.

He doesn’t stop. Just sighs, voice soft. “There you go. That’s better.” Even when your throat clamps, even when your nose presses tight to his skin and your jaw starts to shake, you don’t stop. You learn to love this, giving a head, because he makes it enjoyable. You make a noise- high, wet, almost hurt- but you take it, nails digging into his thighs, spit dripping down his cock like it’s what keeps you breathing.

He exhales again, heavier this time, brushing your hair back from your face. His thumb wipes your chin clean, then strokes your cheek, down to the corner of your mouth where you’re still twitching, still open, still aching. You let him caress your face while you rest there, and your mouth is still full, but he’s not moving yet. “You still with me?” he asks, voice quiet. You nod, slow at first, then again, more sure-eager, already needy.

“You want more?” he asks, voice warm, cock still heavy on your tongue. You whimper around it. He smiles. “Yeah? You want me to fuck your throat, baby?” Your eyes widen- shiny, breathless- and you pause like the weight of it just hit you. You know he’s asking for a consent, knowing that it can be overwhelming for you to do it... especially when he fucks your throat, considering he’s above average and thick too. Then you pull off with a wet gasp, gaze locked on his, and say it like a confession: “Yes. Please.” That’s all he needs. “Good girl.”

He gathers your hair in one hand, lifts your chin with the other, and slides back in with no resistance- just heat, just hunger, just you opening for him like it’s instinct. “Breathe through your nose,” he murmurs, guiding you like always. Reminding you of the same things even though you already know what to do.

“Tap my leg if you need me to stop.” And then he starts- slow, careful, one deep push forward until he meets the back of your throat. He holds there, steady. Not teasing. Just giving you time. Like he’s training you. His hand stays in your hair, grounding you while your body adjusts, while your breath learns to shape around him.

You’re already trembling. Not from fear- just from fullness. From the weight. From the leak. From quiet. Your lips tremble around the base, your fingers curl into the arms of his chair, and your eyes flutter shut as he begins again- a slow drag out, then deeper on the next thrust. His thumb strokes your cheek. “That’s it,” he says, calmly.

“Don’t rush.” You hum before you feel the gag, soft and shallow, then swallow around him, and he groans- not from need, but from how good you are. How willing. He moves again, never too deep, never rough- just enough to feel your throat clench. “You feel that?” he murmurs. “That’s your limit. We’re not going past it yet.”

Your jaw aches. Spit spills freely now. He lets you sit there, face pressed to the root of him, mouth stretched and wet, like you’re trying to breathe through need alone. “You’re doing so good,” he says, like it’s just the truth. “Making space.” Then he slides out, dragging slick along your tongue, and pushes back in deeper this time- firm, measured, until your nose brushes his stomach and your whole body gives out. You’re crying again- he can feel it in the way your throat tightens, then relaxes. In the shift of your breath, the way your hands go soft. The way you go quiet.

“That’s my girl,” he breathes, and this time he means it. He rocks forward again, deeper, surer now- committing. You don’t gag. Don’t flinch. Your lips are red and swollen, your throat open and warm, and you’re wrapped around him like you were made for it. He feels the moment you surrender- when your tongue goes lax, when your breath slows, when your whole body holds still like you’ve given up everything but him. And it hits him all at once- not restraint, but awe. The way you fall apart just to feel full. Just to be good for him.

He lets you breathe there a moment, thick in your mouth, thumb brushing under your jaw while your lashes flutter and your body twitches. Then he leans forward, voice low and too gentle for how he’s looking at you. “Can I go a little faster now?” he murmurs, thumb swiping your spit-slick bottom lip. “Only if you want it.” You blink up at him, tearful and eager, nodding before your brain even catches up. You try to say yes, but it comes out muffled around his cock- your throat flexing like your body’s already answering for you. He groans quietly, settling back in the chair with both hands in your hair, still gentle, still grounding. “That’s my girl,” he says softly. “You’re sure?” Another desperate hum from you. That’s all it takes.

He starts slow again, but this time there’s rhythm, pace, weight, and pressure. His hips roll deeper, steadier, his grip guiding you only slightly as your lips stretch around him. Not forced. Not rushed. Just deliberate. Just enough. You gag once, shallow and quick, then breathe through it, moaning as your spit runs down your chin. You’re making a mess, and he loves you like this- loves how badly you want it, how completely you give yourself up to stay full. “So fucking good for me,” he murmurs, breath catching. “Look at you.”

And then he starts fucking your throat- slow and controlled, rocking into you with more force now, just enough to give you what you asked for. Something to keep your mouth too full to cry. “You’re okay,” he says through gritted teeth. “You’re doing so good.” And you are. You take it all, steady, obedient, dripping, and let him use your throat like it’s the only thing you were built for. You fall apart quietly, trembling with each deep push, your whole world narrowed down to the pressure, the stretch, the weight of him keeping you still. You’re safe. You’re here. And your mouth is where it belongs.

He’s getting close. You feel it in the way his hips start to stutter, the way his breath catches, how his cock throbs a little harder with each thrust. He slows down, lets you breathe around it, and rests heavily on your tongue. “Gonna come soon,” he murmurs, voice low. “Can I do it in your mouth, baby?” You nod right away- messy, needy, already whimpering for it. You don’t pull back. You don’t even think. Just press closer, mouth slick and stretched and shaking, and he groans when he sees how much you want it. “Good girl. Don’t move.”

He doesn’t thrust. Just holds you there- deep, swollen around the base- as he comes in slow, warm pulses, filling your throat while you take it, tear-streaked and open and perfect. You don’t stop. You swallow around him like it’s all you’ve ever known how to do. His hand stays in your hair, thumb stroking your temple, like he’s holding you together while you shake. You stay like that even after he’s finished, mouth still parted like you’re not ready to let go.

He slides out slowly, wet and sensitive, and your breath hitches at the loss. His thumb catches what’s leaking from your mouth and tilts your face up, not rough, just enough to see you. Your eyes are red, your jaw still twitching, your lips parted like you don’t know how to close them yet. He says nothing. Just breathes out quietly and reaches for your wrist.

You’re still trembling when he pulls you into his lap, steady but gentle, guiding you into place like he’s done it before. The office chair isn’t built for this- not wide enough, not soft- but you climb in anyway, folding messy and small. One leg drapes across his, the other hanging off the edge, and you curl into him instinctively, arms around his neck, face buried against his shoulder like you’re trying to disappear.

He holds you close. One arm across your back, one hand in your hair, thumb stroking slow circles through your sweater. You don’t speak. You just breathe, quiet and uneven, body limp but safe. The crying hasn’t stopped completely- it’s softer now, more like the aftershock than the storm. Your knees shake. Your mouth aches. Your fingers curl into his shirt like you’re holding onto gravity.

He presses a kiss to the top of your head, voice low against your temple. “Shh. You did so good,” he whispers. “It’s over now.” You nod faintly. He asks if it hurt. You shake your head. “Good,” he says again, lips brushing your hair. “That’s all I care about.”

He doesn’t ask what upset you. Doesn’t press. Just holds you tighter, arms wrapped around your back like you’re something worth keeping still. You’ll tell him later- when your throat doesn’t burn and your heart isn’t stuck in your chest. Right now, he lets you stay soft.

You melt into him slowly. Floaty. Boneless. Barely blinking. Your hands relax in his shirt, breath slow against his neck, and when you nuzzle closer, he tilts his head, letting you burrow. Then the kisses start- quiet and light, scattered across his jaw, below his ear, the curve of his throat. Sleepy little thank yous. Not for effect. Just instinct. He smiles softly and curls his hand around your head. “You’re really sweet when you’re like this, baby.”

You hum in response, kissing his pulse once more. You don’t move. You don’t need to.

Then, quieter than anything: “Love you.”

It just slips out- muzzy and honest.

He stills. Just a beat.

Then sighs into your hair, arms holding you closer.

“I know,” he murmurs. “Love you too.”

𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓© 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒𝐎𝐅𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍

𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝

[megumimania]

─── SMOOTHIES ♡

♡ pairing: dilf!art x reader

♡ summary: art has… some trouble in the bedroom, and to help him out, you slip something in his morning smoothie.

♡ warnings / tags: smut, MDNI! piv, slipping viagra in his smoothie.

♡ author's note: i love the concept of ed art so <3 also yes i made a viagra divider just for this… 😭

ART DONALDSON MASTERLIST ♡ 5K MASTERLIST

sometimes, art had... trouble when it came to the bedroom. but you never blamed him, all too aware of how stressful the life of an athlete could be. during the times he couldn't perform, his head would end up between your thighs until your whole body was trembling.

but it had been four weeks since he'd last gotten hard, and all you wanted was to have him inside of you. sure, you had one of those homemade dildos in the shape of art's cock, and he'd use it on you, but you missed having him inside of you. not a silicone toy. art.

and you could tell that art was feeling self-conscious; he'd never gone that long without managing to get an erection. you'd heard him through the door while he was in the bathroom the other night, quietly talking to himself, beating himself up over it

no woman would want their man to feel bad about themselves, right?

that was what you told yourself as you poured the blue powder you'd just crushed up into the green smoothie you made art every morning. you could see the look of disappointment that fell on his face every time he failed to get hard, each 'i'm sorry…' he said practically making you cry… and it's not like you could ask him to take them, some men were fragile about these things.

you just wanted to help art regain his confidence. there was nothing wrong with that. right? it's not your fault that you didn't remember he had an important meeting that day…

he ended up having to cancel. because by the time you're on your fourth orgasm, art still has you pinned to the bed, still as hard as a rod, your poor pussy already starting to get sore while he continues to fuck into you.

"i... have... no idea... what's going... on..." art groans between each thrust, your bedroom filled with the lewd squelching noise of art's cock thrusting in and out of you, hitting that that sweet spot inside of you each time, "'m so sorry..." he mumbles, your hands twisted up in his blonde hair, tugging on the strands, your brain too fuzzy with pleasure, with stimulation to be able to even comfort him; to offer him those honey-sweet words that came so easy whenver he had difficulty getting hard.

all you could butter out was "so... good..." even as art kept fucking into you with no mercy, basically sliding into you from all the arousal leaking out of you.

but two, grueling, filled up hours later, art was finally soft, collapsing right next to you on the bed, covered in sweat and other fluids; and although you were sure your pussy was going to be sore for a week... you couldn't help but think of the next time you could slip something into his smoothie.

"you know…" art mumbled breathlessly, "my smoothie tasted a bit different this morning…"

you bit down on your lower lip, turning to look at him, both of you covered in sweat, "i might've added in a secret ingredient." you shrugged, making art laugh, bringing his hand to your cheek, tucking a sweaty strand of hair behind your ear.

"it didn't taste half bad."

taglist: @inbred-eater @h8aaz, @purpleplumpudding, @cinnamoncunt, @nonietosay, @ariieeesworld, @in-my-feels-probably, @harringtonsbowgirl, @lacelottie

click here to join the taglist! 💙

[megumimania]

FREE SNAKE, PICKUP ASAP! snake!sukuna x f!reader

synopsis: your cheating asshole of a boyfriend left his snake at your place after you kicked him to the curb. but it seems your new pet has a few feelings of his own when you try to give him away - and he might just have to fuck them into you

content: mdni, smut, porn with some plot, oral (m! receiving), snake!kuna transforms to a (mostly) human form to fuck your brains out (he's FERAL and a FREAK), size difference (a python perhaps ;p), manhandling, fingering, piv sex, mating press, condom breaking

you fucking hated snakes.

sneaky, slinking creatures that moved too fast, flicking that sharp tongue at you like they might bite when you least expect it. maybe that should've been the biggest red flag, a sign of what was to come when your (now ex) boyfriend brought one to your place.

promising that he'd feed it, and he'd take care of it, swearing that you wouldn't even know the snake was there.

like you were fucking blind enough to miss the huge ass terrarium facing your bed. or the dark pink scales that caught the light, glinting as he slithered around and threw his head into the glass when he was mad (so, all the time). sometimes, you'd find the locks holding the lid on unlatched, but the snake was always inside among the foliage, so you just assumed your imbecile of a boyfriend kept forgetting to secure it, despite you being the one to give him food and water nine times out of ten.

sukuna.

even its name was creepy.

the rest of him too, really, the way his beady eyes would follow you around the room, always watching you no matter whatever you were doing. honestly, it made you not even mind the dry patch of no sex the two of you were going through. you didn't think you could even get wet if that thing was staring at you the whole time.

but, uh, your boyfriend was apparently on a different page since he went and cheated on you. as if fucking another girl wasn't horrible enough, he fucked you over by leaving his stupid snake too.

the rest of his shit had ended up in the trash.

but what the fuck were you supposed to do with a live animal?

"I'm getting rid of his snake," you huffed into the phone, squatting down to squint through the glass at the haughty snake. he was huge, long tail coiled and his tongue sticking out at you in a hiss. "I put it up on Craigslist."

"for how much?" your friend giggled as you groaned, turning away from the terrarium to flop down on your bed, pulling your laptop closer to where the listing was still up, where the word FREE stood out above your phone number.

"I'm just giving him away to whoever wants-"

your phone was snatched from your hand.

something hard and heavy pressed against your back, pinning you in place before your phone was tossed on the nightstand. A tattooed hand reached over you, twice the size of your boyfriend's, thick and sturdy fingers swiping over the track pad to hit the delete button on the listing. then your laptop was being slammed shut, pushed off to the edge of the bed.

"free? seriously?" a gravelly voice scoffed in your ear, a dark rumble rolling through you. "that moron paid two grand for me."

and your survival skills surely weren't up to par, or perhaps the situation was so strange, since you found yourself wigging out and rolling over to stare at the intruder.

"don't tell me you don't recognize me, brat."

or your pet.

in the flesh rather than scales. his hair was the same color those had been, wild strands sticking up, thick brows furrowed together in a mean scowl. but his dark eyes felt the same, sliding over you slowly, his stare even more intense up close like this. and God, he was almost painfully attractive, rough around the edges, dangerous. he was covered in thick black tattoos, defined muscles, and nothing else. completely nude. and his hand wasn't the only thing twice the size of your boyfriend's.

you didn't know how exactly that ended up in your mouth.

just that somewhere from your first what the fuck to him ranting about his former owner being a braindead moron for sleeping with someone else when you were right there, he was ripping off your clothes and you were wrapping your fingers around his swollen cock, tracing the bulging veins in sloppy strokes. asking what the hell he was just for him to laugh at you, readjusting to climb over your chest, thick thighs straddling it and nearly knocking the breath out of you before he pinned both your wrists to the bed with one meaty palm while his other shoved his cock between your parted lips.

you were choking on it.

maybe this was all some sex-deprived dream. that you had actually snapped and lost your sanity over being stuck with this snake that you were imagining getting throat fucked by him in human form.

but no, his tip slammed into the back of your mouth and you gagged, airway cut off by the sheer size of it, and you were pretty fucking sure this was happening.

"like it when I feed you?" he mocked, and you surprised yourself by nodding.

veins throbbing against your tongue, your lashes fluttering closed as his grip on your wrist got tighter, nearly bruising and keeping you there for him to fuck your face.

"fuck, that's tight," he groaned, gritting his teeth and throwing his head back. "should've strangled that asshole in his sleep weeks ago and fucked you then."

you had a sneaking suspicion he actually would have when his other hand was tangled in your hair, holding you close enough that your nose was nuzzling against the rough patch of his pubic hair.

it was getting harder to breathe, knots in your stomach tangling tighter and need starving for oxygen in your stomach, smoldering and ready to be lit with just another touch, another grunt, another thrust.

"bet your cunt's even better," he hissed, pulling out, but not before letting pre-cum leak all over your lips, rubbing his tip against them like he was applying some crude lip gloss, chuckling at the way you were panting and blinking up at him with hungry eyes.

"w-wear a condom," you managed to stammer, like your jaw wasn't still aching from the stretch of accommodating him, nodding your head towards the nightstand.

could snakes transmit STDs? or would you be the first human to catch some kind of weird disease from giving him head?

he rolled his eyes, grumbling about being clean but still releasing your wrists to lean over and yank the drawer completely out of the nightstand on accident, ignoring your huff before ripping the tab off the still-unopened box of condoms and tear into one with his teeth.

it barely fit.

stretched thin around his cock, which was already bobbing in the air from the sheer weight of it as he abruptly slotted a thick finger inside your cunt just to see how soaked you were.

a cruel smirk tugged up on his lips before he laughed at you. "thought you wanted me gone?"

"that-that was before," you sputtered, struggling to keep yourself squirming at the intense pressure of him exploring with just a single finger, more experimental than anything, like your anatomy was new to him.

you'd probably have more questions if you didn't feel too full to even formulate more than a few whiny gasps.

he pulled his finger out, popping it in his mouth for a taste of you. you hoped it was better than the mice you'd been feeding him.

he hummed his approval before pushing your thighs up to your chest, forcing your body into a more flexible position, the pads of his fingers pressing down into your soft skin. lining himself up at your entrance, his thick tip prodding at it while you held your breath.

you figured it'd be slow.

but nope.

you blinked and you were being stuffed full, his cock bottoming out in a single brutal thrust. it burned. mind breaking while he tried to split you open, balls smacking against your skin when he pulled out just to push back in harder.

his lips were open, pink and pretty as sweat dripped down his forehead, brows scrunched together in focus as he pounded into you. there was extra friction with the condom, but your own slick was dripping down, probably soaking the sheets when every slam of his hips grinding down to fit every fucking inch of him inside you left you shuddering and squirming under his heavy body.

"k-kuna," you moaned, nails clawing at the sheets while you leaned your head back against the bed. his lips practically latched onto your throat, teeth sinking into your skin like it was instinct. but instead of ripping your throat out, he was sucking hard, leaving hickey after hickey to mark your skin.

never, in the three months since you had him, had you ever bothered to say the name he came with from the pet store. and now you were crying it like it was the only thing holding you together.

he scoffed at you again, like he wasn't molding you to him, like every ridge and vein wasn't rubbing against you just right when he dragged his tip over your cervix just to remind you he could.

"not fucking getting rid of me now," he grunted, groaning when you clenched around him at the gravelly sound of his voice, all his muscles tensing.

he dragged a hand down your thighs, spreading them a little further so he could swipe over your sensitive clit, a mocking grin returning to his face at the way you jolted at the first touch.

"poor pet's been neglected, huh?" he taunted, drawing a messy circle over the bud knowing you wouldn't be able to protest being his pet.

your hands struggled to hold onto his shoulder blades, his skin too thick for you to rake your nails down, even when you were scratching and whimpering for even more friction, back arching just for his next thrust to push you down.

his still-forked tongue licked a clean stripe over your jaw, the unfamiliar sensation only making the tension in your own stomach pull tighter. he capture your lips in a kiss, long and hard and unlike anything else you experienced.

swallowing up your moans for dessert when his fingers sloppily rubbed over your clit, teasing you in hisses and whispers when you came undone for him, seeing pink instead of white. he buried his head against your neck when his cock stalled inside you, finishing with a rough growl of his own.

thick ropes of cum filling you up instead of the condom, the warmth leaking out when he pulled out to reveal only half the condom was still on with an annoyed hiss.

"maybe if your boyfriend had a bigger dick, it wouldn't have broke," he grunted, like it was somehow your fault you didn't have XXL condoms on hand.

"how the hell was I supposed to know you were, I dunno, whatever the fuck you are?" you gestured, still out-of-breath as you he distractedly pushed some of the cum back inside you.

what the fuck were you even supposed to get tested for now?

you tried to sit up, but he pushed you back flat on the bed with damp fingers.

"lay back down so I can get it out of you," he grunted, already spreading your thighs back apart.

you were just as gagged as you had been before, speechless as he just shoved his fingers inside you with that firm expression, focused solely on you.

for a brief second, you contemplated asking if he was going to turn back into a snake. but then, it struck you that either way, you were stuck with him now.

he pulled out the broken piece of the condom, tossing it into the small trashcan near your bed, your nightstand drawer still sitting on the ground from where he accidentally ripped it out earlier. he sharp eyes slid over to the rest of your room, the overflowing laundry basket and last night's glass of water still sitting on your dresser with a sigh.

"someone's gotta take care of you."

indie's pet shop

a/n: everyone say thank you @yenayaps

[megumimania]

looking at my drafts rn and all I can say it’s a good time to be a Spencer Reid fan in 2025

[megumimania]

CW: MDNI, NSFW

Dilf Coach!Art who feels like he should know better. You’re way too young, barely out of college, way too off limits. He’s friends with your dad for crying out loud.  But everytime you walk on the court in your tiny tennis skirt (he swears they get shorter every time he sees you) he starts to sweat and his palms feel itchy. 

Dilf Coach!Art who’s kind of a pushover. He can’t really say no to you. He tries but you manage to walk all over him easily. Five laps around the court turns into two. Twenty push ups turn into ten. The whole time he’s getting distracted. Fixated on your tits bouncing when you jog, or the little bit of cleavage that shows and the way your skirt rides up when you’re on your hands and knees for push ups.     

Dilf Coach!Art who gives in when you beg him for a ride home after practice. It’s started to rain and your parents are running late and he’s just trying to be nice. He does notice the way you squeeze your thighs together, the way your breathing picks up once the car door shuts.  

Dilf Coach!Art who tells himself it’s only gonna happen one time when you guide his hand between your thighs at the red light so he can feel how wet you are for him. When you crawl onto his lap after he pulls over behind the club parking lot. When he shivers as he sinks into your tight wet cunt. 

Dilf Coach!Art who loses it almost immediately when you get on top of him— you’re just too fucking pretty! He slides his hands up under your top to cup your tits as you ride him and suddenly he’s seizing up… begging and pleading with himself… “No no, please. Fuck… oh please no fuck fuck fuck…” and suddenly he’s painting inside your walls with so much cum, shame filled tears in his eyes. “Shit… shit I’m sorry.” An even more shameful whisper. “Are you on the pill?”

Dilf Coach! Art who makes it up to you by laying you out in the backseat. Fingers and mouth in your cunt, fucking you so good you end up soaking the leather of his fancy sports car. The one he bought after the divorce to make himself feel better. He’s gonna have to get it detailed. But at least it’s only the one time because he’s not gonna do it again. He’s really, really not. Really.

(Blah! Rumors of dilf coach!Art in my inbox. So here are some random head canons no one asked for to help me flesh him out. He won’t be here for a while.)

[megumimania]

nsfw: simon x his pretty gf with an oral fixation. it started off innocent enough. at first he would slowly begin to notice the abundance of gum and sweets you went through. sweet tooth is all, he'd think, brushing it off. then came your habit of absentmindedly biting, sucking on and nibbling on your thumb; it was cute, how a small furrow formed between your brows as you did so. however, his confusion came when you switched to him. during movies, if his hand was anywhere near your face, halfway through he'd feel your mouth encasing his thumb, looking down to find you nothing but unfazed, eyes still glued to the television.

but what brought it to light was when, lord forbid, he let you get a taste of his cock. it was like a dog with a bone!

"bloody - shit - fuckin' hell, love, calm down-"" his grunts and words of pleasure would fall on death ears as you knelt in front of him within the comfort of his office, sealed away from any prying eyes as you shamelessly went down on him, sloppy and nasty with drool forming at the corners of your mouth.

you had originally been visiting for lunch, sweetly brining him a container of warm, homemade food to deal with the stress of rounding up recruits the whole morning. but it wasn't your fault he looked so good in uniform!

and you were getting off on it too, moaning around his thick, jaw-locking shaft as one of your hands rubbed desperately at your aching pussy, panties pushed aside as you zeroed in on your clit. you looked so fucking pretty to him, eyes wet and focused on his face as you pleasured both him and yourself simultaneously, one of his big hands digging into your luscious hair. and the sight of his cock disappearing in and out of your lips was enough to make a lesser man blow a load right there.

"you like this, don't ya? like how i fuckin' feed ya..." simon would groan, as drunk on bliss as you were as he began to meet you half way, forcing his cock even deeper into your awaiting throat. his head thrown back, balaclava pulled up to give him more breathing as you slurped around his cock, brain on autopilot as you chased his pleasure, craving the feeling of swallowing his cum.

and even when all was said and done, and you were both panting from the bliss the aftermath of your orgasms offered, simon knew just from staring into those hazy eyes of yours, that he would spend the rest of his life satisfying that pretty little, hungry mouth of yours.

[megumimania]

did 2 fun things yesterday now i feel like im going to die

[megumimania]

Copper Changes Color - A.H

all you wanted was to stop your new kitchen from flooding. what you got was a crash course in home repair, body awareness, and what mr. hotchner looks like in a dripping dress shirt

pairings: aaron hotchner x intern!reader warnings: suggestive themes, mild accidental injury, clothing transparency, mentions of aging (el oh el), slow burn (with water damage), sexual tension but we r making it neighborly, age gap, home repair as foreplay, science girl flirts via plumbing vocabulary, ballcock failure (swear) wc: 1.9k

Water sluices through your shoes in persistent little pulses, seeping into your socks and establishing a semi-permanent colony in the crevices between your toes. You bend forward, clutching at the hem of your tank top like you might peel the cold from your skin if you just try hard enough. It doesn’t. Of course it doesn’t.

The fabric clings tighter instead, suctioned to your spine, a damp, vindictive second skin with a grudge. (Hydrophilic fibers. That’s why. Cotton loves water. An ironic choice, in retrospect, for someone who knows that cellulose absorbs up to 27 times its own weight.)

You’re mid-drip, mid-shiver, mid-existential reckoning over the catastrophic intersection between you and the American household plumbing system when the door swings open.

And there he is, framed in clean lines and afternoon light — your neighbor, your new neighbor, your prohibitively attractive, aggressively symmetrical new neighbor. His eyes flick down to you with the face of someone trying to determine if this is a cry for help or just your natural state of being.

You realize, belatedly, that you don’t even know which one you’d prefer him to believe.

“Hi! I — okay. This is probably the weirdest neighbor interaction you’ve had all month. Maybe all year. But my kitchen kind of exploded? Not exploded-exploded, there weren’t any flames or concussive blasts or flaming shards of sink shrapnel, just… water. A lot of it. From a valve? Under the sink? It’s called a ballcock, which sounds fake but it’s a real word, I checked. Anyway now there’s a geyser-level water pressure shooting into my ceiling and I didn’t know what else to do, so I came here. Not because I thought you could fix it, necessarily, unless you can? But mostly because I panicked. Which I don’t normally do.”

He regards you silently, expression closed off, a combination lock of features, and your brain immediately fumbles through every numeric permutation it can conjure.

“I can come take a look. And call a plumber.” He gestures for you to lead the way, falling in step behind you, or maybe beside you. It’s hard to tell. Spatial awareness takes a backseat the second his eyes dip toward the distressingly see-through state of your shirt. He jerks his eyes away, like his skin brushed unexpectedly against something searingly hot. Clearing his throat, he recovers, “Do you know if your water main’s outside or under the sink?”

You cross your arms, an attempted picture of casual confidence, though realistically more akin to frantic self-containment via strategically placed limbs.

“It’s under the sink, I think. I mean sixty percent of residential shutoff valves are installed there, though some new models route to an external main, especially in cold climates, but this house predates modular plumbing standards so — yeah. Probably the sink.”

He nods once, as if you had offered a completely ordinary and appropriate response. As if normal people regularly volley niche plumbing statistics at each other in casual conversation.

Most people — regular, socially adjusted humans — would’ve blinked. Or winced a little. Or at least made that polite, closed-mouth “ah” that universally signals, please, for the love of god, stop talking. But not Mr. Hotchner. He just steps into your house, either unfazed by you or polite enough to hide his confusion exceptionally well.

He crosses the kitchen in three measured strides, slacks neatly creased, white dress shirt still buttoned to the collar.

His posture practically screams executive burnout, like he spent his entire day navigating high-stakes conference calls and patiently explaining things to people he silently considered throttling.

You conclude swiftly and confidently that he must be some kind of CEO. Something complicated, lucrative, and mildly sinister. Finance, perhaps. Or no, something with a more predatory reputation. Venture capital? Private equity? Arms dealing? (Okay, not arms dealing.)

Whatever it is, you’re sure it involves quarterly earnings calls, shareholder appeasement, and an extensive collection of expensive ties.

But then again, he does live here. In this neighborhood, which is lovely, sure, all quiet and sun-dappled, all responsibly pruned hedges and tasteful porch lighting. You love it. You also could never have afforded it if the house hadn’t been, you know, inherited.

Still, it’s not exactly executive-suite-level real estate. 

Unless, of course, he’s one of those hyper-rational finance-blog devotees who preach aggressive saving strategies and believe visible wealth is for amateurs. You could picture that. Actually, it fits him perfectly. Or at least, it fits perfectly with the version of him your brain is assembling based on fifteen seconds of sidewalk interaction and your wildly unused behavioral science coursework.

You haven’t exactly been watching him, per se, but certain details lodge themselves in your pattern-attuned brain.

He leaves early. Returns late, consistently solo, and displays zero evidence of a cohabiting partner. There’s no second vehicle, no conspicuous brunch plans on weekends. His grocery trips result in single-serving bags and he waters that one sad potted plant but never waves at Mindi Daugherty across the street who strategically times her daily walks past his house in distinctly flattering activewear. 

He also runs every morning. You know this in the same way you know tides shift or birds migrate because he passes your porch at precisely 6:12 AM.

Same routine, same pace, same gray T-shirt darkened at the collar and clinging to upper-body definition. You’ve taken to waking up early under the noble guise of catching the sunrise before class, gaze angled vaguely toward the horizon, which just so happens to intersect with his jogging path.

But now, with him crouched at your sink, sleeves pushed past his forearms — which, by the way, are absolutely in the top percentile of forearm presentation — you confirm those jogs have a definitive purpose. Strong legs. Powerful quads capable of door-demolishing force. Not that you’ve considered that.

“Can you hand me that towel?”

You comply instantly, arm extending stiffly, acutely aware of the warmth radiating off him in slow, magnetic waves, like a space heater, or maybe a heat lamp, but one inexplicably gifted with superb genetics and bone structure.

He takes it, fingers brushing yours in an accidental collision. It’s negligible by most standards, and yet your entire sensory network lights up simultaneously.

Without a word, he resumes his investigation beneath the sink, using the towel as makeshift padding for one knee.

You shift your weight, then decide proximity is crucial for educational purposes, lowering yourself onto the tile, whose damp chill promptly seeps through your leggings. Not enough to dissuade you.

“What exactly are you looking for?” you ask, voice soft so it doesn’t bounce too loud in the small kitchen. 

“Fault point on the fill line. If it’s clean, it’s a seal issue. If it’s corroded, you’ll need a full replacement.”

“If it is corroded, is it something you can patch temporarily or is it full replacement only?”

He turns to respond, but his gaze slips past your eyes, dropping downward, and precisely then, his arm brushes the loosened valve with just enough force to dislodge it.

Water explodes in a vicious surge, hitting him squarely in the chest and smacking you on the cheek.

Before you can move or breathe or curse, he’s already between you and the line of fire, arm braced against the cabinet, deflecting the brunt of the stream. Water barrels into his side, soaking through his pristine shirt in seconds.

Amidst the roar of rushing spray, you hear the metallic groan, the protesting grind of something finally surrendering beneath the steady force of his hand, and at last, the deluge tapers.

He exhales and then turns to look at you, shirt molded to his pecs, sleeves dripping onto the tile.

“Sorry,” he says, voice low but not annoyed, if anything, it’s amused. 

You offer him a weak smile, still blinking through droplets. “No, it’s — this is my fault. I should be the one apologizing. I mean, I’m the one who dragged you into this mess.”

He huffs a laugh, and there’s a dimple, half-hidden beneath rain-slicked skin and a mouth pulling into something between wry and warm.

His hair drips across his forehead, coiling slightly now that it’s wet.

You’re still smiling, you think, though hopefully in a restrained, adult, totally-not-enamored-neighbor sort of way.

He tilts his head at the pipe, then looks back at you over one shoulder.

“Yeah, you’re going to need a full replacement.” He gestures vaguely at the sad, dripping underbelly of the sink. “I can shut it off from the main for now, but it needs to be looked at professionally.”

“Right.” You nod. “I’ll just add this to my ever-expanding list of adult learning experiences.” He moves toward the shutoff as you wipe water from your eyes with the edge of your tank top. “Seriously, though, thank you. I know this isn’t exactly a neighborly favor on the usual spectrum of things.”

“This was… not the worst emergency call I’ve had,” he says, almost smiling. 

You’re about to respond, standing from your spot, to ask what could possibly be worse than this, when your heel skids across the drenched floor.

Your arms flail instinctively, grabbing at the nearest available support, which, of course, is him. He moves quickly, to his credit, trying to stabilize you, but the momentum carries you both backward. You tumble gracelessly into a slippery, tangled heap.

He mostly succeeds in cushioning your fall, though the resulting thud against the floor elicits a sharp grunt from him. Your palms, meanwhile, end up planted squarely against his very wet, very muscular chest.

You freeze, trapped somewhere between outright panic and complete sensory overload. His hands rest firmly on your waist in a futile attempt to salvage the situation, but the situation is well beyond saving, you’re adhered to him, nipples peaked against a top that’s now suctioned to skin. He has to feel it. And worse, your hair is now stuck across his face, one curl draped over his temple like an attempt at decoration.

His face, you notice, is stupidly handsome this close up. You can see the exact shape of his jaw, the way his lashes cluster into tiny spikes, the faint suggestion of stubble shadowing his skin, a brow that ticks just briefly as your breath catches against his collarbone. 

“You okay?”

“I’m fine!” you blurt, immediately launching into what can only be described as an anxious, full-body scramble off him. “Are you okay? Because I landed right on your — well, your thoracic region, technically, which absorbs impact better than your lower back, but still, that was a lot of force and you’re older —” You stop. “— I mean, not older, I just mean relatively speaking, like, statistically, the male spine starts to degenerate past thirty-five and — okay, I’m going to stop talking now.”

He stands with a grunt, more from effort than pain, and offers you his hand.

“You know,” he says, clasping yours as he lifts you to your feet. “I didn’t realize I was old until you mentioned it.”

Your face goes hot. “I didn’t mean you specifically, it was a general observation about musculoskeletal aging and —” You cut yourself off with a wince. “Right. Not helping.”

He exhales, a laugh almost, then glances at the kitchen. “I’ll call a plumber I know. They should be able to come out tomorrow and I can come by and oversee it, if you want.”

“Oh. Really? You’d — yeah. Thank you. That’d be great.”

He gives a nod, and for a moment, it’s just the two of you standing in a ruin of your own making. Then he opens the door. “Try to get some rest.”

And you will. Probably. Eventually.

💌 masterlist taglist has been disbanded! if you want to get updates about my writings follow and turn notifications on for my account strictly for reblogging my works! @mariasreblogs

[megumimania]

OH BABY! — spencer reid

summary: spencer finds out why you’ve been so avoidant with him lately when it comes to having kids.

pairings: spencer reid x afab!reader

warnings/tags: mentions of pregnancy and children, spencer has baby fever, fluff, angst (somewhat), no use of y/n

a/n: tried something new with the layout dk how to feel about it, finally releasing another fic from the drafts!! the latter half of this fic was written at 5am so it’s not proofread—this was supposed to be lighthearted oops!

spencer’s dropping hints and you’re not so sure if you want to pick them up.

at first it was subtle, he’d send you videos of babies and kittens interacting—normal, typical right? then you noticed that look in his eyes when you played with henry and michael, preferring to enjoy the scene quietly with a cup of earl grey as he looked on contently.

you couldn’t miss the obvious way he looked at baby clothes with such fondness, talking about a future where’d he be chasing after a bunch of screaming, scraggling children instead of unsubs. your heart bloomed knowing that he saw you in his future, but that didn’t quell the slight anxiety in your stomach.

luckily life got in the way and the baby talk died down, with mentions of case files and paperwork taking up your nightly conversations over dinner and you were relieved, preferring to hear about spencer’s day or time in a different state for a case just like he enjoyed to hear about your day in return.

however you knew that eventually this conversation would come back into the fold.

“we never really finished our conversation,” he said one night, lazily tracing patterns on your thigh. you racked through your mind the topic you’d been skirting around for weeks was now being brought up and now there was no escaping it.

he doesn’t prod or rush, allowing you to lead the conversation—after all it was and is your choice. you put your laptop aside and sink into his touch, the quiet intimacy of it all allowing you to have the moment to think quietly for the first time in weeks.

“about having kids?” you respond, you voice a little more quiet, the gravity of the possible future finally weighing on you. spencer notices your change in tone and his gaze softens slightly, he feels like he’s struck a nerve and doesn’t know how to make you feel at ease.

he’s noticed you’ve been off lately. particularly when it comes to the subject of kids. the way you’d shut down and look uncomfortable when the topic is brought up. he spotted all of your tells (one of the perks of knowing you for so long) the slight change in pitch, the way you fidgeted with your fingers, the way you’d tense up as if your body was preparing for an attack.

yet he didn’t push, despite the voice in his head screaming for him to but he knew better than to push and prod, it wouldn’t yield any good results for either of you. so he chose to give you space. he tried to fill the uncomfortable silence here and there with a random piece of pop culture he learned from penelope or he’d send a link to an interesting article he’d read and thought you’d like.

the little acts like those that showed he still loved and supported you irregardless of what you were going through, is what helped calmed his own anxieties down a little but it still didn’t entirely erase them.

“im sorry, I’ve really scatterbrained as of late. work’s just ramped up a bit more ever since we had that department meeting a couple of weeks ago.” you tell him. which was partially the truth, spencer knew of how’d stressed you were about that meeting. he remembered how you were telling him about feeling a sense impending doom that he tried to talk you out of on the drive to work.

but that meeting had happened a couple of months ago, not in recent weeks.

he was incredibly concerned now but decided to come back to it later. he made mental notes to buy some vitamins and ensure you were eating and staying hydrated and if things got worse, he had your physician on speed dial.

“baby, are you okay?” he asks you, gently facing you towards him. you try to put on a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes as you try and calm him down, knowing that his mind was probably racing at a million miles per hour.

“i’m fine spence, just tired.” you yawn as you leaned against his shoulder, your body feeling heavy with exhaustion. spencer was not convinced at all, it was worrying him how evasive you were about everything as of late. he softly rubbed your back as he felt you finally relax for what seemed like the first time in days.

“you know you can tell me anything right, hm?” he murmurs in your ear softly as if the walls could hear him too. he felt your body move once more as you tried to make yourself more comfortable in his embrace and when you were, you finally spoke making eye contact with him.

“spence, you know i want to have kids with you more than anything—i mean you’re the only person who’d i want to do this with and i like talking about the hypotheticals but what happens when the kid is actually here? what will happen to us?”

and for the fifth time in his life spencer walter reid was stunned. the usual answer that he had ready in his back pocket could no longer be found. sure, he could rattle off studies about parental relationships post pregnancy or offer words of comfort to you but they weren’t that effective. it wouldn’t prepare either of you for the potential shift in your relationship that would occur once that baby would come into the picture.

“i don’t know.” he replied with a sigh as he affectionately squeezes your hand in his. “but what i do know is that we will make great parents together, you won’t be alone in this i promise. yeah we’ll fuck up at times or we’ll argue with each other but as long as we continue to love,cherish and respect one another and extend that same love to our future children, we’ll be okay.”

spencer’s words are reassuring, to say the least. the niggling doubts in the back of your mind threaten to dispel the sense of comfort you feel, reeling you back to your anxious state with the worst possible outcomes in mind. yet spencer’s words and subsequently his love for you is what you choose to cling onto in spite of all else because unlike the horrors and fears your mind conjured up for you like a sleeping draught, spencer’s love was real, it was tangible.

“what if we’re not talking about the hypothetical future…what if it’s real?” a voice that seems to be yours asks but it’s smaller, you hate how fragile you sound as if any single thing could shatter you into million pieces. spencer doesn’t look at you with judgment, he listens trying to follow your line of thought.

it takes him a split second to register what you were saying before he looks at you his eyes glittering with unshed tears. “you don’t mean that you’re…” he asks and you nod, the future that he’d talked about in length and thought about often was soon approaching and it was kinda surreal to think about.

and now everything made sense, the brain fog, the fatigue, the aversion to talking about kids, your lack of appetite when it came to certain foods or smells—it all made sense and he was even more annoyed that he failed to compute it all sooner, knowing how scared you must’ve felt about it all.

before he knows it hot tears stream down your face and he is at the ready, wiping them away with gentle loving words and kisses and you feel a sense of warmth flooding you. knowing that you picked no better person to love and raise your kid.it makes you, ever the skeptic, believe in fate somewhat. who knew a random coffee shop encounter on a rainy wednesday morning would lead to this down the line?

“i love you and im sorry for keeping this from you.” you sniffle as you try to gather yourself together but its no use as you break down again and spencer is ready to catch you. he feels awful seeing you cry like this.

“you don’t have to apologise.” he murmurs into your hair as he pulls you into his embrace, letting you cry into his shirt. he knows that it will be damp with tears and snot soon and he should probably give you a tissue to get everything out but it wasn’t the right time. now he was focusing on giving all the love and support you needed at that moment, to make up for the times he wasn’t there.

however later that night when you were asleep, he’d be up busy researching the best foods, hospitals, supplies, and mom and baby support groups so that these next nine months and the months that followed post partum would be less of a bumpy ride for the pair of you.

and he may have bought a quantum physics for babies book in his excitement but he couldn’t help it, even though this pregnancy came as a surprise he was ready to be the best partner to you and father to the baby that he could ever be.

[megumimania]

OH BABY! — spencer reid

summary: spencer finds out why you’ve been so avoidant with him lately when it comes to having kids.

pairings: spencer reid x afab!reader

warnings/tags: mentions of pregnancy and children, spencer has baby fever, fluff, angst (somewhat), no use of y/n

a/n: tried something new with the layout dk how to feel about it, finally releasing another fic from the drafts!! the latter half of this fic was written at 5am so it’s not proofread—this was supposed to be lighthearted oops!

spencer’s dropping hints and you’re not so sure if you want to pick them up.

at first it was subtle, he’d send you videos of babies and kittens interacting—normal, typical right? then you noticed that look in his eyes when you played with henry and michael, preferring to enjoy the scene quietly with a cup of earl grey as he looked on contently.

you couldn’t miss the obvious way he looked at baby clothes with such fondness, talking about a future where’d he be chasing after a bunch of screaming, scraggling children instead of unsubs. your heart bloomed knowing that he saw you in his future, but that didn’t quell the slight anxiety in your stomach.

luckily life got in the way and the baby talk died down, with mentions of case files and paperwork taking up your nightly conversations over dinner and you were relieved, preferring to hear about spencer’s day or time in a different state for a case just like he enjoyed to hear about your day in return.

however you knew that eventually this conversation would come back into the fold.

“we never really finished our conversation,” he said one night, lazily tracing patterns on your thigh. you racked through your mind the topic you’d been skirting around for weeks was now being brought up and now there was no escaping it.

he doesn’t prod or rush, allowing you to lead the conversation—after all it was and is your choice. you put your laptop aside and sink into his touch, the quiet intimacy of it all allowing you to have the moment to think quietly for the first time in weeks.

“about having kids?” you respond, you voice a little more quiet, the gravity of the possible future finally weighing on you. spencer notices your change in tone and his gaze softens slightly, he feels like he’s struck a nerve and doesn’t know how to make you feel at ease.

he’s noticed you’ve been off lately. particularly when it comes to the subject of kids. the way you’d shut down and look uncomfortable when the topic is brought up. he spotted all of your tells (one of the perks of knowing you for so long) the slight change in pitch, the way you fidgeted with your fingers, the way you’d tense up as if your body was preparing for an attack.

yet he didn’t push, despite the voice in his head screaming for him to but he knew better than to push and prod, it wouldn’t yield any good results for either of you. so he chose to give you space. he tried to fill the uncomfortable silence here and there with a random piece of pop culture he learned from penelope or he’d send a link to an interesting article he’d read and thought you’d like.

the little acts like those that showed he still loved and supported you irregardless of what you were going through, is what helped calmed his own anxieties down a little but it still didn’t entirely erase them.

“im sorry, I’ve really scatterbrained as of late. work’s just ramped up a bit more ever since we had that department meeting a couple of weeks ago.” you tell him. which was partially the truth, spencer knew of how’d stressed you were about that meeting. he remembered how you were telling him about feeling a sense impending doom that he tried to talk you out of on the drive to work.

but that meeting had happened a couple of months ago, not in recent weeks.

he was incredibly concerned now but decided to come back to it later. he made mental notes to buy some vitamins and ensure you were eating and staying hydrated and if things got worse, he had your physician on speed dial.

“baby, are you okay?” he asks you, gently facing you towards him. you try to put on a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes as you try and calm him down, knowing that his mind was probably racing at a million miles per hour.

“i’m fine spence, just tired.” you yawn as you leaned against his shoulder, your body feeling heavy with exhaustion. spencer was not convinced at all, it was worrying him how evasive you were about everything as of late. he softly rubbed your back as he felt you finally relax for what seemed like the first time in days.

“you know you can tell me anything right, hm?” he murmurs in your ear softly as if the walls could hear him too. he felt your body move once more as you tried to make yourself more comfortable in his embrace and when you were, you finally spoke making eye contact with him.

“spence, you know i want to have kids with you more than anything—i mean you’re the only person who’d i want to do this with and i like talking about the hypotheticals but what happens when the kid is actually here? what will happen to us?”

and for the fifth time in his life spencer walter reid was stunned. the usual answer that he had ready in his back pocket could no longer be found. sure, he could rattle off studies about parental relationships post pregnancy or offer words of comfort to you but they weren’t that effective. it wouldn’t prepare either of you for the potential shift in your relationship that would occur once that baby would come into the picture.

“i don’t know.” he replied with a sigh as he affectionately squeezes your hand in his. “but what i do know is that we will make great parents together, you won’t be alone in this i promise. yeah we’ll fuck up at times or we’ll argue with each other but as long as we continue to love,cherish and respect one another and extend that same love to our future children, we’ll be okay.”

spencer’s words are reassuring, to say the least. the niggling doubts in the back of your mind threaten to dispel the sense of comfort you feel, reeling you back to your anxious state with the worst possible outcomes in mind. yet spencer’s words and subsequently his love for you is what you choose to cling onto in spite of all else because unlike the horrors and fears your mind conjured up for you like a sleeping draught, spencer’s love was real, it was tangible.

“what if we’re not talking about the hypothetical future…what if it’s real?” a voice that seems to be yours asks but it’s smaller, you hate how fragile you sound as if any single thing could shatter you into million pieces. spencer doesn’t look at you with judgment, he listens trying to follow your line of thought.

it takes him a split second to register what you were saying before he looks at you his eyes glittering with unshed tears. “you don’t mean that you’re…” he asks and you nod, the future that he’d talked about in length and thought about often was soon approaching and it was kinda surreal to think about.

and now everything made sense, the brain fog, the fatigue, the aversion to talking about kids, your lack of appetite when it came to certain foods or smells—it all made sense and he was even more annoyed that he failed to compute it all sooner, knowing how scared you must’ve felt about it all.

before he knows it hot tears stream down your face and he is at the ready, wiping them away with gentle loving words and kisses and you feel a sense of warmth flooding you. knowing that you picked no better person to love and raise your kid.it makes you, ever the skeptic, believe in fate somewhat. who knew a random coffee shop encounter on a rainy wednesday morning would lead to this down the line?

“i love you and im sorry for keeping this from you.” you sniffle as you try to gather yourself together but its no use as you break down again and spencer is ready to catch you. he feels awful seeing you cry like this.

“you don’t have to apologise.” he murmurs into your hair as he pulls you into his embrace, letting you cry into his shirt. he knows that it will be damp with tears and snot soon and he should probably give you a tissue to get everything out but it wasn’t the right time. now he was focusing on giving all the love and support you needed at that moment, to make up for the times he wasn’t there.

however later that night when you were asleep, he’d be up busy researching the best foods, hospitals, supplies, and mom and baby support groups so that these next nine months and the months that followed post partum would be less of a bumpy ride for the pair of you.

and he may have bought a quantum physics for babies book in his excitement but he couldn’t help it, even though this pregnancy came as a surprise he was ready to be the best partner to you and father to the baby that he could ever be.

[megumimania]

THAT QUIET THING.

dilf!art donaldson x afab!reader

nsfw. age gap. vibrator use. voyeurism-adjacent. ♡

He doesn’t mean to fall asleep right after he finishes. Of course not. Not every time. He’s not that kind of asshole. But he still does it.

But it’s not because he’s not interested, because he is very much so, it’s also not because he doesn’t care about your pleasure! He’s just… just because he’s exhausted. Between flights, matches, press, rehab, sponsors, events, and other things come with being a player, and the fact that his body doesn’t bounce back as it used to. So he gives you what he can. And most nights, that’s a few minutes of messy make-out, one hand between your thighs, a low groan against your neck, and the quiet relief of coming deep inside you before his body gives out.

He tells you it’s good, because it is. You feel good. You do. He enjoys it. So much. He says that you’re perfect. That he needs you.

And maybe he thinks that’s enough.

But you’re younger than him. You don’t say it, but you are. You are young enough to keep your hands busy when he feels still from tennis and everything he did for the day. Young enough that your body keeps hot long after his breathing evens out beside you. Young enough to start hiding a vibrator in your pouch when you realize this is just how it’s going to be… a quick, quiet, and over before you get close.

It’s not bitterness. Not at first. You are not mad at him. You understand it. You are aware of his career and his age. It just needs. Quiet and embarrassing and yours alone. So when he gets comfortable in wonderland each night, breathing deep and heavy with sleep, you slip out of bed, cross the hotel carpet barefoot and tiptoeing so you won’t wake him, and lock yourself in the bathroom with your face pressed to your forearm and your hips grinding into the tile.

The toy is small. Quiet. Sleek. Something you can bite your lip around. Something that doesn’t need electricity or heavy batteries. Something that is not heavy. Something that won’t get confiscated at airports. Something he doesn’t need to know about.

You don’t use it every night. Just the ones where it’s worse. Not worse worse. Maybe when you're really there, something is missing. Clue: your orgasm. Where you can still feel the ache of being full without the part where you fall apart. Where your panties stick wet to your thighs after he’s already asleep.

Tonight, it’s like that.

He came fast. Kissed your neck. Fell asleep face down with one arm slung over your waist and his breath slow against your shoulder. You lay there long enough to count it. Long enough to feel the minutes tick by while your body stayed bothered, and feel the itch that needs to be scratched. Long enough to know he wasn’t waking up anytime soon. Where you can be comfortable and get up from the bed.

So you left. Just like you always do.

Face down on the bathroom floor. Phone screen dim. Porn on low volume. Toy between your thighs, buzzing soft against your clit. One hand is placed on your mouth to shut you up. One hand wrapped around the end of the toy. Breathing hard into your arm like that might make it quieter. And then-

You hear the floorboard creak. Then the knock. It’s not even a knock- it’s just the click of the handle turning. The door opening.

The bathroom light spills into the hall as he opens the door. You look up too slowly. You feel your cheeks burning up. You can’t even hide it.

Art stands there, in nothing but his boxers, hair mussed, brow furrowed. His hand was still wrapped around the neck of a water bottle he didn’t even get to drink.

His eyes drop to the floor. The phone is still playing. To the tiny pink vibe glistening between your legs. To you. To your body. How ridiculous it looked how you are positioned. Frozen. Red-faced. Dripping.

His mouth doesn’t move. Not at first. He’s just quiet, calculated. He’s always like that. You couldn’t even figure him out sometimes. He just exhales slowly through his nose and leans against the doorframe like his body’s figuring out how to hold back every single thing he’s thinking.

Then, without looking away: “That for me, or for someone else?”

Your breath catches. You don’t answer. You can’t. The toy’s still on, though. It’s still buzzing between your clit. You’re still shaking.

And he doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t ask again. Just watches you for another beat- eyes trailing from your bitten wrist to the slick mess under you- and then says, “You do this every time I fall asleep?”

You shake your head, fast. Too nervous. “No- I mean, not- Art, I didn’t- ”

“You finish like this?” he cuts in. Calm. Flat. Too calm. Curious. Not mad. Just want to hear from you. “Face down on the floor while I’m sleeping ten feet away?” It’s worse because his words have a bite, but it’s not even meant.

You shut your eyes. You want to disappear. You want him to touch you. You want him to leave. But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t shout. Doesn’t even blink.

He steps forward slowly and kneels beside you. His hand reaches down, curls around your wrist, and presses the toy deeper- not fast, not cruel, just firm. He moves it up and down slowly and precisely, just to earn your reaction.

“Show me,” he says, voice low. “How do you do it?”

You blink up at him, stunned. He’s hard. You can see it now, through the thin fabric of his boxers, the way he breathes like he’s not proud of it, like it hurts him to be turned on by this.

But he doesn’t stop. “Continue until you come for me,” he says, voice rough. “Or for the fucking screen. I don’t care which. I just want to see.”

Your stomach flips. You nod once. And you grind down again- slow, shaky, face hot, mouth open as you start to unravel. You do it like the way you always do it. The difference this time is you are wetter because he’s here.

He holds the toy there, tight, watching every twitch, every sound, every breath you tried to bury for weeks.

And he's still staring when you finally fall apart- shaking, soaked, tears caught in your lashes. Still hard. Still mad. Still calm.

“Next time,” he says, letting go, “you don’t sneak around to get off.”

You nod again. “You wake me up and tell me about it.”

And then, after a long pause, one more: “You’re mine. That means I finish you, too.”

𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓© 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒𝐎𝐅𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍

𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝

[megumimania]

SO, ASL? p2

summary: it's a one-time thing, that’s what you tell yourself. you’ll exchange socials, but you won’t interact with him, you promised yourself that. It’s just a late-night chat, a faceless stranger, a bit of heat to kill the boredom. but you know you’re fooling yourself. now you’re spiraling. you're trying on outfits, reapplying perfume, and practicing your smile until it looks real. because he might be watching. and if he is… you want to be perfect.

pairings: rafe cameron x afab!reader

warnings: 28.2k words. mature themes. unprotected sex (p in v). substance use (alcohol, weed, cocaine). sex under the influence. intoxication. power imbalance. dubcon-adjacent tone. scent kink (perfume, lotion, pheromones). bimbofication. objectification. degradation kink. praise kink. body worship. implied body dysmorphia. compulsive grooming rituals. disordered self-perception. obsessive self-presentation. internalized emotional distress. read and engage responsibly. read & consume responsibly.

note: i literally don’t even know how to start this lol. i wasn’t planning on doing it for real. like i saw the requests and i was like haha that’s cute… and “no you guys don’t really mean it” but apparently you did because more people asked. so part two is here. 😭 you guys keep requesting some same idea though. i didn’t reply to any of the requests because i got shy and overwhelmed. also i chose not to reply to any of it and attach the part two there, i just separated it here. most of you suggested they fuck at a party too so yep. i wrote this slowly and keep changing ideas, keep overthinking it, i actually keep asking my friends if i should just drop it. it’s long. like unnecessarily long. i’m sorry. i don’t know why too… i just continued writing and not checking the word count until they are going to the “scene” and then i saw it’s already close to 20k, so i just let it happen. i honestly don’t even know if this is good. or coherent. or if anyone will make it to the end. i know it will be too much and exhausting to read but i hope u guys make it to the end. i just know that it made me feel things and it made me so embarrassed while writing it. like i had to stop from time to time to write this, it’s not in one sitting btw… thank you for reading. thank you for the reqs. i love you. i hope you’re okay and like this.

This is not so him. He knows he shouldn’t be bothered, but he does. He’s been thinking about you ever since you guys talked. Which is so fucking weird to him because most of the time he just ignores women. They’re the ones who always run to him. There’s just something about you. Sure you two sex texted over some anonymous site, but before you ride along his horny ass, you manage to make a decent and fun conversation about him. Not in such a way that you’ll just continue asking questions about him. No. Real conversation. Not the one you’ll feel you’re being interviewed or you’re interviewing the other.

You managed to find your way into the walls of his skull and made yourself at home. When you follow him on Instagram, he keeps checking your profile like a stalker. He is also waiting for you to message. Or to do the first move. But it’s always the same: silence. He’s so fucked out already it’s embarrassing and funny. He types out a message, feels so impatient, and reclines back into his bed like he can get comfortable when every muscle in his body is wired tight with something he can’t even tell what it is.

@rafe.cameron: Hey, cherry chopsticks

@rafe.cameron: You’re just going to follow me and not say anything?

He watches his message being sent individually and doesn’t stop right there.

@rafe.cameron: After everything you said last night? Damn.

@rafe.cameron: I was gonna be polite and wait for you to text first, but you’re killing me here.

Goddamn, of course you’re online. He knows you’re online. Your green dot is still lit up like a neon fuck you, and it’s making something coil up in his chest, which frustration of a man who’s already lost sleep over a girl he hasn’t even seen in person.

@rafe.cameron: Let me guess.

@rafe.cameron: You’re shy now?

@rafe.cameron: You didn’t sound shy when telling me where you wanted my hands.

His mouth curled up when you read his message, when he saw that “seen” below his message. He can’t help but imagine you reading his message and rolling your eyes at him. You don’t reply either. Not giving him anything. Just making him wait. He knows that he doesn’t even know you at all, but the memory of you being filthy just has him losing his mind over you.

@rafe.cameron: So that’s how it is?

@rafe.cameron: Are you just gonna ghost the guy who made you cum over chat?

@rafe.cameron: Kinda rude, don’t you think?

It’s been less than 24 hours since you followed him when he sent his username on that site. He remembers how he grinned when the notification showed on his phone. You didn’t even hesitate to follow him. You just did after a few seconds of knowing it. Didn’t wait a day to play it cool. Just followed him like it didn’t mean anything, and maybe it didn’t. But it felt like something. Like a shift. Maybe, despite everything, this anonymous mess of a night had stuck with you the same way it had carved its place into him. His free hand just sitting pretty on his stomach, caressing it into lazy circles while he stares at your screen, as if he’s a goddamn dog waiting for his owner.

Then, there’s this three-period sign in the message bubble, which means you’re typing. He licks his lips as he feels the switch flip. His pulse still, and maybe there’s a relief that his annoying ass will finally get something out of you.

you: Maybe I just wanted to see how thirsty you’d get

Your reply really made his mouth pull into a grin so fast after he read it. You’ve got him again, just like that. One message and he’s warm all over. (Which is kinda overacting for his taste) You don’t even wait for a reply before following it up.

you: Was kinda cute tbh

He huffs a laugh. Cute. Cute? That’s what you’re calling it? He just said some filthy words, and you literally came for him over nothing but words, and now you’re calling him cute like he didn’t do that other than being dirty. He rolls his neck back, eyes flicking to the ceiling like it holds the answers.

@rafe.cameron: Nah. Don’t pull that.

@rafe.cameron: You were dripping on the site last night, and now you’re playing shy?

you: I’m not shy. I’m just smart.

you: Besides. You didn’t even send a selfie. Or message me last night.

you: You expect me to keep sexting a faceless dick?

He laughs. The kind of unexpected one. Low and dangerous, almost bitter. You’ve got a mouth on you. You have ways to play with him. Always have. From the first message on that stupid anonymous site, you’ve been sharp, unbothered, and impossibly good at walking the line between flirtation and sarcasm. (Which he finds very hot because you have that kind of fire in you) Rafe settles deeper into his mattress, adjusting himself absently because fuck, it’s starting already.

@rafe.cameron: Where are you from anyway?

He didn’t know why he asked. He’s not really planning to meet you. Well, maybe. He’s not sure yet. He almost expects you not to answer, but then you’re typing again.

you: You ask all your sext partners that, or just the ones who ignore you after?

@rafe.cameron: Just the ones who ruin my night because they didn’t message me.

you: I’m flattered.

you: Near you, I presumed.

you: College town. Here for university.

Well, just made him stop for a moment. University for what...? Bachelor’s? Master’s? Doctoral? Law school? Med school? Jesus. Not that he’ll pry more about it, he’s just curious.

@rafe.cameron: Ah.

@rafe.cameron: Not a local then?

you: Lmao no.

you: I’d remember you.

You don’t really know why you said that, that’s for sure. But that one hits differently on his part because you said it so casually, like a joke, but something about that lingers. For sure, he would remember you, too. You look like someone who will leave a mark or make a big impression, and you already have him hooked. He’s never had anyone talk to him like this. Confident, dry, disarming. You’re not even trying, and he’s already undone. What more will happen if you do something?

@rafe.cameron: Are you always this careless?

you: You think so? Trusting some faceless dick online?

@rafe.cameron: You tell me, baby.

That made you freeze. Your eyes locked with the pet name. Why does he call you baby? You will understand if he called you that when you’re talking about something else, like last night, but at this moment? You can’t really figure out what it makes you feel. You don’t answer immediately. He imagines you looking at the message, biting your lip, or maybe smiling. Then-

you: What about you? Are you from here?

@rafe.cameron: Grew up near the water.

@rafe.cameron: Not here.

@rafe.cameron: But yeah. Live here now. Working.

you: Work? Like… job job?

@rafe.cameron: Yeah. Of course.

@rafe.cameron: I’m not one of those guys still “finding myself” at 25.

you: Wow.

you: A functioning adult, huh... hot.

He chuckles again, feeling fluttered by it. His body was going loose for the first time all day. It’s ridiculous how good it feels just to talk to you. He can’t really explain why he thinks like that. But you’re fast, filthy, funny, and now you’re real. On his screen. In his city. He’s not really expecting you to be that close. He thinks you’re probably on the other side of the world since many people use that site. But now? You’re probably lying in bed just like he is, cheeks blushing, legs tangled in sheets, waiting for the next move.

@rafe.cameron: You been stalking my account or what?

you: Only after you followed me back.

you: I didn’t expect the face to match the dick.

you: You know...

His eyes narrowed, his lips twitching again, and his eyebrow raised.

@rafe.cameron: Know what?

you: You look good.

you: You probably already know that, Rafe.

He lets that sit. Let the smirk build. Let his free hand slide lower. Fuck. Do you really say his name? That brings something to mind: what will you sound like when he finally hears you? He can’t help but imagine it. You must sound so good saying his name.

@rafe.cameron: You sound like a brat.

you: And you sound like a man who can’t handle one.

That sends a low throb through his stomach. He reads it twice, then once more, slower. Can’t handle one? Can’t handle one, really? He can hold you from back to front. He can and he will. He might woop that brattiness out of you if he must.

@rafe.cameron: Are you always this bold with strangers?

you: Only the ones who make me come.

His breath catches. You don’t have shame, do you? His cock pulses because of that. He’s not even touching it. Why is he getting worked up over some girl? It’s not fair. You type like you’ve got him wrapped around your fucking finger, and the worst part is you do.

@rafe.cameron: Didn’t know you were just from around here.

@rafe.cameron: Figured you were across the country or some shit.

you: Why? Scared?

He grins. Shakes his head as if you’re here and you can see him. He didn’t even know why he did that; maybe it was out of his habit. If you only knew how badly he wanted to find you now and meet with you, just to see your face, of course, nothing else. Yep. Just to see you.

@rafe.cameron: Nah.

@rafe.cameron: Just didn’t think the girl fingering herself to my texts lived ten miles away.

There’s a beat. He licked his lips while he typed that with all his confidence. Trying his luck and pushing it further because you’re already here, he wouldn’t like to waste the moment.

you: Wasn’t your text that got me off.

That one makes his jaw clench, his thumb frozen over the screen. He feels his chest tighten, but not in the way it hurts- it anticipates something, for knowing, for you.

@rafe.cameron: So what was it?

you: I don’t know...

you: Maybe the way you typed, like you already knew what you’d do to me.

you: Like you could picture it.

He swallows hard. He could picture it. Has. Does. Right now. Like, he is already picturing many things to do with you. Bend you. Lay you down. Take you. Hold you. Taste you.

@rafe.cameron: And what would I do?

you: Idk.

you: Pin me down, maybe.

you: Make me regret logging in that night.

you: But like… in a good way.

He groans, low and helpless. His palm dragging across his cock through the thin fabric of his boxers. Didn’t know he’s already doing that shit. He just know ue feel himself getting hard. You’re insane. You’re too much. You’re nearby.

@rafe.cameron: There’s a house party tomorrow. Outskirts. Lowkey.

@rafe.cameron: I’ll be there.

No pressure. No ask. Just an open door.

Read. He’s not going to invite you totally, but there’s an implication for it, for you to come- an implication that he wants to see you, that he needs to see you.

you: Is this you flirting, or you planning to corner me upstairs?

His head tips back. His hips shift. Maybe he planned to do that. Maybe his plan all along is just to get you upstairs with him. Maybe he intends to have you inside one of the rooms or the bathroom if both of you are not picky.

@rafe.cameron: You gonna let me?

You wait a beat. Think about whether you will leave him hanging or add to this craziness.

you: Depends on what room you catch me in.

His blood heats. Fuck. Shit. He can’t wait for that to happen. He wants you, he needs you, and he will get what he wants.

@rafe.cameron: Didn’t realize you were this close.

@rafe.cameron: Feels like fate or some shit.

you: Or just a bad idea with good timing.

He laughs- quietly, breathlessly. One hand on his phone. The other is slipping lower. He has already decided what to do for the rest of the night.

@rafe.cameron: Yeah. That too.

After that conversation, you just let it sit silently; you no longer message or reply. You go to sleep and rest. Said to yourself, you need your beauty sleep. Not because he invited you to a party, but because you want to. Not about him, never about him.

You told yourself about that. Out loud. Since last night. And you’ve been telling yourself that you’ve not been going since this morning more than once.

But it stops you from getting ready and from waking earlier than you planned to do. Your eyes are wide, your breath is already shallow, and your skin is already getting ready and preparing for something. Well, you didn’t exactly spiral. This is not a spiral. Right. It isn’t! It just so happened that you haven’t exfoliated in a while. That’s all. It’s just hygiene, and you want to be clean.

But the shower runs hot. The steam rises thick, making the mirror dreamy and blurry while you shave your body. Arms, legs, stomach. That smooth skin behind your knees. You don’t miss a thing. You rub your hands repeatedly on your skin after you shave the spot to check if it’s already hairless. And your thighs, too, yeah, you spend your time on those two, especially between your thighs. It’s like you’re scrubbing off what you did for the past few days and your hesitation. You’re scrubbing it off like he might put his face in between the layers, and you want him to feel the smooth skin and how you smell good.

You also shaved your mound with quiet precision. Like it’s a science project, you want to get a perfect grade. One of your legs is on the edge of the bathroom, where you always put your foot when you want to shave your lower body. The razor glides slowly, smoothly, and gently, and your eyes remain there while you slide it.

You exfoliate. Twice. You moisturize your body like it’s a matter of survival. You even turn your water cold in the end. That stupid tip from that stupid skincare TikTok about sealing your pores. Like anything could seal you up now.

Not that you’re going. Yeah. Of course, you’re not. Hell no... But here you are, already wrapping yourself in a towel and move through your room like it’s a freaking mall. You even set up many products you’ll use. Bottle after bottle lined up: essence, toner, glycolic serum, retinol, moisturizer, slug balm. An eye mask because your dark circles might look tragic under cheap party lights. A cooling roller to flatten every puff. A pore strip for your nose, even though you know they’re bad for your skin. You don’t care. You want to be pretty. You want to look good. You want to be beautiful. For yourself. Yep.

You put on a playlist. Not on purpose. Not because you want to hype yourself up and calm your nerves while you do the skin care. But it’s the pretty kind. The kind that plays in A24 films where the girl is halfway to her death and still reapplying lip balm. You put some things that will make you feel this insane skincare is everyday. Fine. Feminine. Tonight, you want to look untouched. Poreless. Expensive. Unreachable.

You double-cleanse. Then triple. Leave the mask on too long because the sting feels like penance. You don’t even know why you left it there. You just believe that no pain, no gain. Well, to take this kinda of beauty you have to endure something. You ice your face with spoons from the freezer. Your skin is burning, but glowing. You’re glowing. That should be how things work anyway.

You use your derma blade. Your gua sha. Your rose quartz wand. You run a metal comb over your scalp in tiny, painful strokes. It’s a little pleasurable if you gaslight yourself about it. It’s not really bad. But you don’t even know what it’s for. It just feels like control. Over something you don’t even. Know. You won't give in if you keep grooming yourself into submission. Not because of him. Not for him. You’re doing this for yourself. Obviously.

You pick out underwear. It’s soft, subtle, pale like a secret. Soft around the hips, flattering without being obvious. Not flashy. Not too much for your taste. It’s not... It’s comfortable even. But matching. The kind of pair that says low effort, even though you passed over three other sets to settle on this one. You tug them on with damp fingers, towel still wrapped around your body, another coiled around your head like a crown. You moisturize your thighs twice. You glide oil along your collarbones in case someone’s watching you walk up the stairs. You slick balm over your lips, wipe it off, and reapply. Then again. And again. You want it to be soft and kissable. You start fixing your hair before you even pick out an outfit. Your hands move fast. Too precise. Too careful.

It’s not for him. You don’t even know if you’re going. But if you did- if you did show up you’d look flawless. Effortless. Like what you want. That’s what you want. To be more presentable. First impression lasts, right? Of course, you’re not insane. It’s just... you’re conscious. Yep, as if you hadn’t been planning it all day. Like you hadn’t shaved your cunt with clinical precision and whispered don’t be weird to your reflection while massaging serum into your temples.

Your phone buzzes again.

@rafe.cameron: still thinking about you.

Of course he is. Who won’t be thinking about you? People always do because you make yourself memorable in their minds. Okay, that sounds like a narcissist, but you’re just confident in some way. You lock the screen. Don’t answer. Don’t need to.

Your skin is getting sensitive from heat and over-scrubbing. You smell like coconut and toner. Like it’s some shit you do to hypnotize other people. Like some desperate, pretty thing pretending you’re not waiting to be seen. You don’t. Not really. Well, you just want one person to notice you, not all of them.

You head back to your room, drop onto your bed, legs still bare and lotion-slicked, phone in one hand. You want to relax, unwind, and relax your body with the products you put there, but of course, you’re not done yet.

Pinterest opens before you know it. You scroll. You searched for things. Makeup looks first. Dewy skin. Smudged eyeliner. Cherry gloss with a bitten center. Highlight that makes your cheekbones look razor-sharp when a guy stands too close and you pretend not to notice. You click save. Then another. Then three more. The looks get bolder. You’re not doing full glam-not for some guy from goddamn site. But maybe something soft. Something casual but hot. Something that says Don’t touch me and Please ruin me in the same breath. But you don’t really know what you want, no?

You click over to outfit inspo. Not because you don’t know what to wear. You’re just curious. Exploring. Researching. You know how to style yourself, you do. You just need to look over some outfits because they’re comforting. After all, it’s satisfying. After all, you like using the app.

Little black dresses. Low back tops. Tank straps that fall just enough to make someone reach to fix them. Jeans so tight they should be illegal. Hmm... Looks good, but that’s not your mood for today. Bodycon skirts. Oversized jackets with nothing underneath.

Your legs fold tighter. You scroll faster. Slower. Your thumb hovers. You’re zooming in on every image. Picturing yourself in everyone. Picturing how you’d look to him. God, why would you do that? You don’t even know the guy. You tell yourself it’s just visual planning. Aesthetic things. You’re not dressing for him. You don’t even know if you’re going.

It’s for you. It’s all for you.

You scroll deeper. Outfits that match the fantasy. But you don’t know if you can wear that. Well, maybe. That matches the mood in his messages. That matches the kind of girl he probably imagines when he types you were dripping in my inbox last night. The kind of girl who walks into a room and makes a guy choke on his drink. You tap one pin and hit save. Then another. Another. It’s not for him.

But if he saw you? What if he does? If you walked in and his eyes found you first, would he look stunned? Frozen? A little breathless? God. That sounds good. You wouldn’t hate that. Your towel is starting to slip. Your thighs are still warm. Your face is still hot. Your phone is resting in your hand, the Pinterest board growing faster than you ever admit. You’re not going. You just want to have inspiration next time you go out. You’re just exploring your options. Obviously, you’re still not going. Never.

You’re half-naked now, towel unraveling on your floor, your hair finally removed from your towel, and you’re fixing it, you’re doing it for yourself and no one else. Your phone’s somewhere nearby, screen dimmed, but your Pinterest board is still open and blooming. You look over there from time to time. Outfit inspo, makeup looks, hair clips, strappy heels. The longer you stare, the more your chest tightens- want isn’t even the word for it. It’s not like. It’s a pull. Like you’re in some multiverse. Like, this is not real. Like it’s a dream. Like you’re already in motion and pretending you aren’t.

You move to the mirror. Turn sideways. Then back again. Admiring yourself. In your body. The more you stare, the more you get conscious. Well, you get confident, too. Like it’s in between. Still pretending you haven’t already decided.

You reach for lotion, not the normal one. Well, not the one you always use for everyday. This is something you saved for a special occasion. (The occasion in question: getting fucked) The good one. Thick. Rich. The one that leaves you glowing like you’ve been kissed across the chest by the sun. You pump too much into your hands and smooth it over your shoulders, collarbones, down the slopes of your arms. Your thighs get two coats. Three, maybe. You rub it in slowly, like your fingers are memorizing your body. Your skin drinks it up, warm and dewy. It’s like a plant being watered. You drag a hand over your hipbone and exhale. Yeah, it feels good. You are starting to get why other girls are obsessed with excessive skin and body care.

Then you reach for the little bottle you only use when you want to feel something. The pheromone perfume. It might be a bad decision to use it. But you are determined to do it. It’s the one that’s supposed to blend with your natural chemistry. The one that doesn’t smell like much in the bottle is the one people won’t buy if they smell it from there and don’t know what it is. But on you? When it’s in the human body. It hits. Subtle. Warm. Too intimate.

You spray it at the base of your throat. The sides of your neck. Then inside your wrists. Then, with a pause, between your breasts- one smooth spray of it, right where you hope someone’s face might land if they got close enough. Then lower. You hike your leg up onto the edge of the bed like you’re not thinking, like your body is acting without you. Two sprays for beneath the soft curve of your thighs, then another at the bend behind your knees. Jesus. That’s such a slut behavior, isn’t? You don’t even blink when you do that. Didn’t think it through.

It’s not like you are planning to get fucked. As if Rafe will be close enough to breathe there. As if he’ll have you folded in half and want him to remember how your legs smell. As if he’ll put them on his shoulders, and it will hit them while he thrusts in you. Which he won’t. Obviously.

You wait for the scent to settle before you layer something sweeter over it. The classic Victoria’s Secret, the kind that clings. Not your usual one. You just use it when you want people to get crazy about your smell. It's the deep one. Sugary, but slutty. The one you constantly tell yourself is “too much” for everyday wear. Tonight, it’s perfect. Perfect in a sense, he will press his face over your face and inhale you repeatedly because he can't get enough. You sprayed it over your neck. Behind your ears. Across your chest. Once between your thighs. Once more behind your knees. Then again, for no reason, on the inside of your ankle. The room smells like a perfume factory. Like skin. Like you.

Your phone buzzes behind you. You ignore it. You keep rubbing oil over your legs like you didn’t hear a thing. Move to your chest. Your sides. The backs of your knees. All the places he might touch if he got bold. All the places you’re pretending you’re not preparing. Then, finally, you check it through your notifications.

@rafe.cameron: You coming later, right?

Oh. Yeah. The way your stomach flips at his message is humiliating. He’s casual. You don't like that casual. You don't like the way he's asking, especially since he didn't bluntly invite you. Just told you he’ll be there. Who does that? He's too casual for your taste, like he didn’t burn up your inbox last night. Like, he doesn’t care if you say no. Like he didn't care if you wouldn't come at all, it pisses you off. Or maybe turns you on. Or maybe both. You don’t answer.

And then reach for your lip gloss. You start with full glam. Not because you’re going. Not because of him. Not because you’ve thought about his text from last night more times than you’re willing to admit. You start because you haven’t done this in a while. That’s what you tell yourself because you’re bored. Because you just felt like it. Because it’s fun. Because no one’s going to see it.

Your foundation goes on too perfectly. A full-coverage mask, blended to airbrush. You take your time with the bronzer, carve out the cheekbones you already have. Layer your blush, not for color but for shape. You dab it high across your face like the sun, or fire, or the right kind of attention has kissed you. Then highlight the cheekbones, the bridge of your nose, and the collarbones. Your whole face catching light in all the ways you hope someone notices, and no one points out.

Your eyes come next. Shimmer on the lid. A neutral smoked into the crease. A deeper brown to anchor it. You blend until your wrist hurts, until the shadow melts together like you were born with it. You draw your eyeliner sharp, clean wings that reach for the outer corners of your face like you’re trying to lift something. One side looks perfect. The other one doesn’t. Why does everything feel uneven? You try to even them. Then they’re both too thick. You grab a cotton pad. Wipe it off. Start again.

Round two, you’re softer with it. Skip the drama. Just a flick. Barely there. Then mascara, one coat, two, three-until your lashes tangle. You blink too hard, smear the corner. You clean it up, but now it looks like you tried too hard to fix it.

You go to your lips. Line them. Fill them. A nude first. Too flat. A gloss over the top. Now it’s too shiny. A red. Too much. Sheer pink. It makes your teeth look yellow and return to normal. You line them up again. Blend with your finger. Step back.

You can’t decide if you look pretty or just done. You can’t get satisfied with it, not really. You’re obsessed right now with perfection. You squint. The mascara looks clumpy. Not even bad, but your lashes aren’t fanned the way they usually are. You separate them with a pin. Blink. Something feels uneven.

You reapply the blush and then re-blend the contour. Now, the line under your cheek looks harsh, so you powder that down, too. But now the base is flat again. You reach for the highlight and add a little more.

Your eyebrows are too boxy. Looks bad. Making them look old, so you brush them out. They fray. You reshape the arch. The ends look like they can kill, but now one side is thinner than the other. Why the fuck it’s thinner? You sharpen the tail, and now it’s too long. You couldn’t just get it right, no. You keep fucking it up. You stare at yourself like it’s your reflection that made the mistake. You don’t sigh. You don’t say a word. You just fix. Your words won’t make them better anyway. So you’ll fix it until you’re satisfied with it. Until you feel pretty enough. Your lips are still wrong. You wipe them. Again. Start over. Different gloss. Different pencil. No pencil. Many products you pick and switch on. You dab the center with a shimmer shade to make them poutier. To make it look big. To make it look more kissable.

You tell yourself it’s just for fun because how can you reason out that you want it more to look attractive? You know it’s just something to do with your hands because you’re not going. This isn’t for anyone. You’re not redoing your makeup because you think you’ll see him. You’re redoing it because you’re a perfectionist and you love your image. You are careful with how you present yourself in front of others. You’re not hoping to look like someone he’d notice. You’re just experimenting. The way your fingers move doesn’t look like experimenting. It seems like a ritual and you’re in a fucking cult just take and takes from you.

You lean in closer. Tilt your chin. You can see the crease in your concealer. You didn’t set it enough. What if they look hard enough and notice it? They’ll call you cake bitch. You blend it out with a finger. But now your under-eyes look fucked. You tap in the powder. Add a touch of shimmer to the inner corner. You step back. Still not right. You’re not sure what’s wrong. You’re not going to say it’s your face because it isn’t. You’re fucking magnificent to be the problem is your face. You’re not going to say it’s the shape of your mouth, how your nose turns slightly when you smile, or how your right brow arches higher than your left. You’re just going to fix it. You’re going to be a Bob the Builder if you must. You’re going to keep fixing it until it looks like the version of you you swore you weren’t trying to be. Your phone buzzes behind you while spiraling, but you don’t check it. You pick up the lip gloss again. Just one more coat. Just in case.

You swipe it on with too much pressure, to the point that the applicator bends. The gloss bleeds past the corner of your mouth. You wipe it with your finger, then with a tissue, a makeup wipe, and by the time you’re done, your lips are flushing and raw and worse than when you started. You exhale slowly, press them together, and reapply. A lighter hand this time. Shiny. Better. You tell yourself it’s better. You lean closer to the mirror. Smile. Too wide.

Your mouth looks strange when it’s stretched like that. Your eyes don’t match it. One of them is smaller than the other. Or maybe it’s the lashes. You glance down, pick up the spoolie, and comb through. One pulls tighter than the other. You fix it. Then fix it again. Then again. And again. You’re not fixing anything. You know that. But your hand won’t stop. You can’t just stop. You can’t figure out what’s wrong. You press your palm to your cheek. It’s hot. You look fine. You say it out loud. “I look fine.”

It sounds strange in the air, too echoey, like you said it, in a hallway instead of a mirror. You brush your hair. Just the front pieces to make your face stand out. To frame your face. Then a little more. The sides. The top. You brush it again. And again. Your hair isn’t the problem. It hasn’t been the problem for the last twenty minutes you’ve been brushing it. But your hand won’t stop.

The highlighter on your cheek is uneven. You fix that, too. Your powder is caking near your nose. You take a sponge to it. Now there’s a patch showing your skin. You blend. It spreads more than enough, so it looks uneven. You tap it down. The corner of your mouth twitches. You smile again, just to convince yourself about something. It doesn’t reach. You say it again. “I look fine.”

This time, your voice cracks. You look like you’re on the verge of crying. The smile stays, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. Your hand shakes a little when it goes for the brush. Like you’re so close to breaking down. You pull it through your hair again. Tuck it behind your ear. The same strand. You adjust it. Fix it. Pin it back. Take it back. You try so hard. It’s not even styled; you just put it behind it so your face will be seen more. You breathe in through your nose and try not to blink too hard. The tears are waiting for you, and so, so, so close to fall. But you’re not letting them win. You’re too prideful for that shit.

You pick up a tissue. Blot your lips. Re-gloss. You smear it. Wipe again. The gloss gets caught in the corner of your smile, and you try to clean it, but your finger drags red across your cheek, and now there’s a mark there- something not quite lipstick, not quite skin- and you just stare at it. Your reflection, holding that stupid smile, eyes glassy, mouth shaking, cheeks flushed, hair perfect, lip slightly smudged. You grab a makeup wipe. And drag it across your face. One hard pull from cheekbone to jaw.

The foundation lifts with it. So does the shimmer. You do it again. The other cheek. Across your forehead. Your nose. You wipe your lips last. Slow. Gentle this time. Now your face is bare. Your eyes sting. Your hands are still. You reach for your comb. Start brushing again. You smile into the mirror, raw and flushed and ruined. And say it one more time. “I look fine.” You sit still for a long time.

The mirror doesn’t blink. The lights are too hot. Your mouth feels heavy from the layers you’ve added, wiped, and added again. Your cheeks are flushed- not from blush anymore, but from friction. From all the fixing. From everything you tried to make work that just… didn’t. You don’t know what look you’re going for. Maybe you’re too focused on perfection. Too much of being a people pleaser. You stare at yourself. Your lashes are clumped with dried mascara. At the corners of your mouth, gloss pooling in lines. At the places where the highlighter clings to textures you swore you didn’t have.

Then, slowly, you reach for the wipe. Just one at first. Pulled soft from the pack. It’s cool. Damp. You press it to your cheek and hold it too long for a second, like you’re waiting for something- permission, maybe. Or a sign. Then you drag it across your skin. It catches. Streaks. Peels off the shimmer and blush in one long, uneven swipe. You don’t look away. You keep going.

Another wipe. Your other cheek. You wipe down your jawline across your forehead. The makeup comes off in patches- foundation and bronzer and effort- all sinking into soft white cloth like stains you’re not allowed to mourn. You press the edge under your eye. Gently. Mascara smudges black down your cheekbone. You wipe it up. But the more you touch it, the more it spreads. You wipe harder. Your eyes burn.

You move to your lips next. The gloss is sticky now, clinging to the corners and turning sour. You drag the wipe across your mouth. It catches, leaving the skin underneath showing your natural lips, slightly raw. You wipe again. And again, until your mouth feels empty, the stain is gone, and your face is bare.

You lean back, lips parted, your breath shaky and quiet. You look at the wipes- seven of them now, soaked, tinted, curled at the edges like they’ve wilted in your hands. Then you look back at yourself. Your face looks real. Flushed. Uneven. A little tired. But real. You blink once, slowly. Then you pick up the gloss again. Something sheer. Nothing special. The one you always use on a day when you are too lazy to get ready. You swipe it across your lips. Just once. Just enough to make them shine. You pick up the clear brow gel. Comb it through your brows softly, like touching something you’ve already hurt. No lashes. No blush. No eyeshadow. Just you. Just this. Just enough.

You’re still in your underwear. Gloss sticks to your lips. Brow gel clinging to its last bit of hold. The air in your room is warm, thick with pheromones from your skin, perfume, and everything else. Your floor looks like a war crime- fabric everywhere, bras you don’t remember owning, hangers stripped from their clothes. Your heart’s in your throat. Your reflection won’t stop looking at you.

“I just need something easy,” you say out loud, rummaging with both hands now. “Something chill. Something that doesn’t make me look like a fuckdoll in heat.” You hold up a skirt. Immediately drop it before you make that face, look of disgust that you own that one. “That makes me look like I bite pillows and sob.” You grab a top. Cute, cropped, pastel. Shit. Looks okay, but it’s ugly for today. That’s not so you. “No,” you whisper like it betrayed you. “You make me look like I tell guys I’m ‘so random’ and cry when I drink tequila.” You throw it.

You step into jeans. Pull them up. Zips them. Button bites. You look at the mirror. You turn to your side. You turn around and look over the mirror and check yourself over you should. “The hell,” you murmur before sitting on your bed's edge. Stand. Sit again. “Why do my thighs look like they’re mad at each other?” you mutter. You stand. You walk to the mirror and do everything you did earlier. Turn. Spin. Hate it. Jeans come off with a fury. You’re sweating now. “Okay,” you say to your drawer like it’s personally failed you. “I need something short. But like… not too short. Like… tasteful-slut. Like, hot, but I didn’t try.”

You pull out a black miniskirt. The words are already forming in your head the second you hold it up. “He could flip this up in half a second. Fuck me in a hallway.” You pause. Blink. Shakes your head. “Nope,” you hiss. “This is not for him. Not for him. Not. For. Him.” But your throat’s dry. And your hands are already reaching.

You toss the skirt on the bed anyway. You don’t need it. You want something that shows your legs. Something you can sit in, dance in, ride in. Not for him, obviously. Just in case. For you.

You try on another dress. It sags. Your boobs look sad. Like they’ve been told disappointing news. “Oh my god,” you whisper, looking at yourself. “Do I have the ugliest boobs on Earth? Are they upset with me?” You change. Again. And again.

You’re sweating. Your gloss is still on. You wipe it. Reapply. Wipe it again. You stand in front of your closet, hands on your hips, chest heaving, eyes wide, the edge of a scream building in your throat- And there it is. That red two-piece. Folded wrong. Half-hidden. Smug little fucker of an outfit. You stare. “You’re too much,” you mutter. You pick it up. “You’re a slut. You scream I need attention. You’re asking to be pinned to a fucking bathroom sink.”

You pull it on anyway. The skirt settles over your hips like it missed you. The top hugs just right- low, but not trashy. Tight, but not desperate. Your legs look long. Your waist looks soft. Your tits aren’t even mad anymore. You turn. Spin. He could pull this up in a second. He could fuck me in this without even taking it off. Your mouth twitches.

“Not for him,” you whisper to yourself. “This is not for him.” But your legs are already moving. Your lip gloss is already perfect. And your phone just buzzed again across the room. You reach for your phone like it’s nothing. Like you’re not glowing. Your thighs aren’t warm from lotion, the gloss is still wet on your lips, and that red skirt is hugging your hips like it has something to say.

You told yourself you wouldn’t check it, that you weren’t doing this for him. That this was just for you, just to feel pretty, to feel soft, to feel like your skin belonged to you again. Not to impress anyone. Not to be seen. Not to make anyone regret leaving your messages on read or waiting too long to say the right thing. But now you’re looking at yourself in the mirror.

Now your top is hugging your chest just right, dipping low enough to flirt, tight enough to make your ribs ache in the most perfect way. Your skirt’s hitched slightly from how you’ve been walking around your room, the hem kissing the tops of your thighs, swaying a little with every shift of your weight. The perfume has settled. The light’s just right. Your body hums like it’s waiting for applause.

You unlock the screen. Your messages open with his name before you can stop yourself. Still unread. You don’t open it. You don’t need to. You swipe over to the camera. Let it settle. The mirror catches you in full-glossy, dressed, and dangerous. But you want something filthier. More intimate. Less perfect. You want to look like you didn’t try. Like you’re not thinking about him while doing exactly what you’re doing. So you angle the phone down. You lift your skirt.

Just a little. Just enough to show the start of something he wasn’t supposed to see. The soft skin at the top of your thigh. The waistband of your panties. The way the hem rides up in your hand, like you might hike it higher if someone asked nicely. You keep your face out of the frame, phone over there. Not because you’re shy, but because the body says enough. The picture doesn’t ask. It fucking shows what he’s missing right now.

You take it. Look at it. You look exactly how you want to look. Warm and flushed. Kissable and smug. Lit like a fantasy. You think about what he’ll do when he sees it, and whether he’ll stop breathing if he zooms in. If he’ll pretend he’s not already hard just from the thought of you wearing it, with that lip gloss, with those thighs, and no warning at all. You attach the photo. You don’t even write a message. You don’t send a wink. You don’t do those teasing shit. You don’t say a single word. You just hit send. Delivered.

@rafe.cameron → photo

Then you drop the phone back into there like it’s boring. Like it’s routine. Like you didn’t just hand him a loaded weapon and smile while pulling the trigger. You don’t check to see if he’s opened it. You don’t wait for a reply. You already know what he’s going to do with it. And if he wasn’t planning on finding you tonight? He is now.

He’s already burning through his second drink, sweat prickling at the back of his neck, jaw grinding slowly as he leans against the kitchen counter and pretends he’s not watching the door like it owes him something. He’s half-listening to some guy ramble about classes, nodding just enough to look sane, while his eyes keep sliding sideways whenever someone walks in.

You said maybe. That was forever ago. He told himself he wouldn’t care- but that was before he’d done a line in the room where all the shit happens, before he’d started pacing, before the walls got too loud and the music too slow and the air too heavy.

Now the coke’s humming through his blood, jittery and sharp, sitting under his skin like a loaded wire, buzzing behind his teeth every time he clenches his jaw. His palms keep twitching. His spine won’t relax. He didn’t know if it was from coke or from waiting for you. His leg’s bouncing and he keeps checking his phone like it’s something he can’t look away from for too long or he’ll miss something he’ll regret for the rest of the night. Nothing. Still nothing. And then- It buzzes.

Just once. A tiny vibration. But it cuts straight through him. He pulls it out fast, a little too fast, already expecting nothing, already annoyed, already wound so tight he could snap in half if someone looked at him wrong- and then he sees it. Your name. A photo. No message. No anything. His thumb hits the screen before he can think. The image loads. And everything in his body just stops.

You’re standing in front of your mirror, that red skirt hitched high over your thighs, fingers resting in the hem like it slipped up accidentally, but didn’t. You’re not posing. You’re not teasing. You’re just there- body soft, panties barely visible, face out of frame, like you’re not even trying to ruin him. Fuck he wants to get that panties. He wants to squeeze those tits. There’s no caption. No explanation. No emojis. Just a picture of you looking like you were made to be fucked against the wall of this party.

It knocks the breath out of his chest. He wants you now. This is making him so horny. The coke had him buzzing already, but this- this short-circuits something. His body goes still, but it’s not calm. It’s locked. His heart hammers up into his throat, and he stares at the image like it might blink, like it might shift, like if he zooms in, he’ll smell your skin and taste that lip gloss on his tongue. He swipes up with one thumb, opens your thread, and starts typing before his mind even catches up.

@rafe.cameron: Come now

@rafe.cameron: Need to fuck you

His hands won’t stop. He just types what he’s thinking, and he doesn’t care if it’s unhinged or dirty for anyone’s taste. He know at the end of the day, his cock will be inside of you pussy.

@rafe.cameron: You can’t send me shit like that and not show up

@rafe.cameron: I’ll come find you. Swear to god

The texts look insane. He doesn’t care. His pulse is in his teeth. He’s hard, achingly, painfully, not in a cute way- in a I’ll-fuck-you-up-in-this-bathroom kind of way. He zooms in on the photo. Closer. Closer. The way your fingers are just barely tugging the fabric. The way your panties cut across your hips. The suggestion of your mouth in the mirror. He’s gripping the phone so hard it creaks in his hand.

@rafe.cameron: Don’t fucking tease me

He sends it. Doesn’t even blink. Doesn’t check if you’re typing. Doesn’t check if it was delivered. He just stares. At the door. At the screen. At the wall. At the cracks in his control. Because if you show up like that- if he sees that skirt, that gloss, that smug little look you always pretend you don’t wear- he’s not waiting. He’s not asking. He’s not interested in playing nice. And if he ruins something tonight, it’s not gonna be by accident.

Your heel slips on with a little tug. You’ve got one leg propped up on the edge of your bed, fingers curled around your ankle, calf flexing just slightly as you adjust the strap. The other heel is already on, already hugging your foot like it belongs. The mirror’s catching both- your legs, long and bare, that red skirt fluttering higher than it should every time you shift.

You feel too good. Too soft. Too dangerous. Your skin’s still warm from lotion, from heat, from the ritual you put yourself through to get here. The perfume you sprayed behind your knees is still blooming faintly in the air, sticky, sweet, and intimate. You’ve got gloss on, brows set, and your hair is behaving. You haven’t checked your phone since the photo. You told yourself you wouldn’t. You pick it up anyway. One glance at the lock screen and your pulse clicks in your throat. Five new messages. All from him. You don’t rush. You open them slowly, thumb dragging the notification down like you’re unwrapping something.

@rafe.cameron: Come now

@rafe.cameron: Need to fuck you

@rafe.cameron: You can’t send me shit like that and not show up

@rafe.cameron: I’ll come find you. Swear to god

@rafe.cameron: Don’t fucking tease me

You stare at them for a long time. No reaction at first. Just a stillness in your chest, a low, slight hum under your skin that makes your thighs press together before you can think. You shift your weight, smooth your hands over your skirt, and let the hem fall slightly lower before dragging it back up.

He’s waiting. Probably pacing. Probably red-faced and feral and sweating through that shirt he always wears when he wants to be noticed. Probably checking the door. The stairs. The time. You open the keyboard.

you: You’re dramatic

you: I’m just doing an outfit check 💋

You send it. Set the phone down like it didn’t even matter. Like you didn’t just pour gasoline over a man already begging to be set on fire. You pause. Then you grab your jacket- nothing fancy, just soft and familiar, something easy to slip over your shoulders before the chill sets in. Not because it’s cold outside. Not really. But because your legs feel a little too bare now. Your arms are a little too visible. Your skin is a little too loud. It’s not fear. Not shame. Just… quiet. Subtle. A whisper of maybe I’ll feel better with it on. You smooth the sleeves down. Pull it closed. Not all the way. Just enough. You take one last look in the mirror. Not to fix anything. Just to breathe.

Then you grab your keys and head for the door with that slow, steady calm that only shows up when you’re dressed like a fantasy but still carrying armor.

You don’t know exactly what you were expecting when you got here. It’s just a house. A party. Normal one. Like the typical party you’ll see in everyday life or in movies. People and music and the familiar stench of cheap weed, sticky alcohol, and cologne too thick in the air. The lights are low. The bass is thudding through the floor. Also, there’s the questionable music taste they have. Someone’s laughing too loudly in the kitchen. You catch the end of it as you walk in, warm air hitting your skin like it’s already trying to strip the nerves off your shoulders. It’s already hot inside, you don’t know why. Maybe the lack of AC, or there are many people inside. You step inside like you’re sure of something. You’re not. Your fingers tighten in the sleeves of your jacket. You’re wearing the red set. Yes, “The red set.”

That sweet little two-piece top and bottoms with the tiny white polka dots and the soft, swingy hem that flutters when you move. The top is cropped just enough, showing little skin on your stomach. The skirt sits just right on your thighs. You knew what you were doing when you picked it. Every inch of you says I look good. But you still pulled a jacket over it. You don’t know why. But it’s something soft. Safe. Nothing heavy- just enough to make the temperature stop biting at your arms. Just enough to pretend your body isn’t asking to be looked at. You don’t unzip it. Not yet. You’re already too warm. Your skin is buzzing. Your gloss is still perfect. Your thighs are still soft from the lotion you smoothed on thirty minutes ago with shaking hands.

People notice when you walk in. Of course they do. You’re new. They always see the new ones. You’re pretty, too. You look like a doll someone forgot to box up. The doll that will sell out immediately. Glossed and glowing, big-eyed, quiet. Your skirt flutters. Your hair’s behaving. You look like you might not know where you are, maybe like someone’s waiting for you. You don’t look like you belong here, if we're honest about it. You look like you’re waiting for someone, too. You don’t scan the room. You don’t need to. You’re not that desperate.

He’s somewhere here. You know that. You feel it in your stomach. In your throat. That weird little ache that’s not fear, not heat- just a kind of pressure, waiting to break. Someone says hi. Offers you a drink. You blink at them, smile softly, and shake your head. “Just visiting,” you say when they ask what school you go to. Your voice is light. A little quiet. Maybe even shy. But your lips are still wet, your skirt is still red, and your jacket’s still wrapped over your body like a secret you’re not ready to share yet. You drift to the edge of the room. Find a wall to lean against. Just observing the party, you don’t even know who these people are. Pretend you’re fine. You don’t check your phone. You don’t take the jacket off. Not yet. But you’re here. And that’s enough to shift the gravity in the whole house.

You don’t make it more than a few minutes before someone finds you. You look at them up and down, your eyelashes fluttering. A group of girls- maybe three, maybe four- sweeps toward you from the living room like they’ve already decided you belong to them. They’re loud. The typing female friendship you’ll see. They’re pretty. All glossed up and glowing, the kind of girls who move like they know every inch of this house by memory. One of them’s holding a half-full cup of pink something. Damn. Where did they get that? Another’s got sunglasses on inside. They look like trouble. Or someone you’ll influence you to live your life to the fullest because they believe that you only live once. As if you have nine lives of a cat to do crazy shits. Or at least like they’re never bored.

They spot you and light up, and then you are with them. They don’t give you a chance to say no before they take you under their wing for the night. The couch dips under you, and you fold into it easily- legs crossed, shoulders soft, cup warm in your hand. You still haven’t taken your jacket off. The sleeves are pushed up a little, fingers peeking out, your whole body dressed like you’re cold even though the heat’s been sitting low in your chest since the second you walked in. That red outfit you spent too long getting into still clings perfectly beneath it. The little top, the matching skirt. Bare skin where it matters. Soft, flirty, dangerous in the way you swore you weren’t trying to be.

The girls around you talk like they already know you. Or want to. Or don’t care either way and just like how you’re sitting, sweet, quiet, easy to talk over, pretty in a way that doesn’t threaten them yet. All of them are extroverted, well, or maybe because they already have alcohol in their system, so they feel like they can be friends with everyone. One of them is curled with her knees tucked against her chest, another lying sideways, one leg dangling off the edge of the couch like it’s her own. They look like they live here. Like they’ve done this before. They must have... right? Like they’re collecting you for fun. They ask you things between laughs and sips- where you’re from, what school, who you know here. You keep it simple and smooth. Just visiting. Out of town. Passing through. You’re dismissive. It shows, and they don’t press about the personal information because they know it will kill the vibe.

But when they ask how you got here, you say it when one of them hums and tilts her head with a bit of sparkle behind her lashes. “Rafe invited me.” You shrug. It’s almost nothing. You might subtly roll your eyes, and it’s already dark for them to notice it, or they do, but you don’t really care. But the moment it leaves your mouth, the shift is immediate.

A shared glance, a breathless little sound from one girl’s throat, the flick of someone’s eyebrows lifting just slightly before they drop again like they’re trying not to be obvious. They look at each other like they are judging what you just said, which makes you a little anxious, to be honest. Someone adjusts the strap of her top. Someone else sucks her teeth and smiles into her drink.

No one asks you to repeat it. They heard you. They just want to see how long you’ll hold it. One girl leans in, lashes heavy, tone syrupy with curiosity. “And are you fucking him?” Straight to the point. Like they are not playing around. Just curious. Just want information squeezed out of you. The question is soft, but it lands like a slap. Your chest goes tight. Your mouth opens. You blink.

“No,” you say, breathy and too fast. “I just… came to hang out.” You said like you’re just trying to get out of their question. They saw right through it. They’re women too. They’re not dumb. They can pick it up. They know what you mean even if you deny it.

There’s a moment of quiet. Then one of them laughs- low, delighted, full of something between pity and awe. “You show up in that set,” she says, gesturing lazily at your outfit, “looking like a literal cherry-flavored ice cream, and you’re gonna tell us you’re not trying to get dicked down?” she called you out where it hits. It hits deep where you feel shy, where you get flushed and blush.

“She’s playing shy,” someone else grins, clinking her cup against yours. “Babe, if Rafe even looked at me twice, I’d already be gargling him like mouthwash.” They don’t say it like they’re teasing. They say it like it’s a fact. Like it’s common knowledge. Rafe fucks. Rafe ghosts. Rafe doesn’t invite girls. He appears. He ruins. He vanishes. So the fact that you’re here- lipgloss on, legs bare, jacket clutched to your body like you’re not already sweating underneath it- means something. You can feel the weight of it building, slipping over your thighs like warmth you can’t shake.

“He wants you,” one of them says matter-of-factly, like she’s offering you water. “Otherwise, he wouldn’t have said shit. He wouldn’t have looked. He wouldn’t have sent the text.” You don’t know that, though. You don’t know him. You don’t know how he functions. You don’t know if he’s like this to other girls.

You try to laugh it off. “It wasn’t like that,” you said, brushing it off. Of course, you’ll say it wasn’t like that, as if you didn’t all do that ritual on your skin, like you don’t want to be pretty for him when he lays you down on some cheap bed in this house.

“It was,” another says gently. “You just haven’t figured out how bad yet.” Of course, you know how bad it is. They don’t know what he texted you before you left. They don’t know, he said, “Come now. Need to fuck you.” They don’t know, he said, “Don’t tease me.” They don’t know he’s probably already somewhere in the house, pacing, fidgeting, eyes blown wide, breath held. You sip your drink and pretend your thighs aren’t pressed tight. Pretend your pulse isn’t thudding under your gloss. Pretend you’re not warm for reasons that have nothing to do with the alcohol.

“You should do it,” someone says sweetly. “Seriously. Don’t waste it.” One of the girls said before smiling at you like it’s just a one time offer and you should fucking hit it back when you obviously have the chance. You look down. You smile. Your voice, when it comes, is sugar-coated. “We’ll see.”

You try not to squirm, even as the laughter fades and the space around you feels smaller. Your hands are sticky against the plastic of your cup. You feel it sweating along with the moisture of the cup. Your shoulders are too warm under your jacket. You smile like it’s fine. Like it’s still fun. Like your heart isn’t racing so hard, it makes your earrings tremble. One of the girls shifts beside you, arm brushing yours, head tilting like she’s studying something. Her head turned to the side, and she eyed you for a long time. “You know,” she murmurs, soft but pointed, “your skin is… glowing.” You blink at her. Smile, shy. You don’t deny it, but you just smile at her. You wait for what she’ll say next.

“I’m serious,” she says, voice amused but honest. “It’s giving… poreless like you prepared for it. Looks like you are getting ready to get laid. Hm. Dewy. That serum-wearing, body-oil-layered, about-to-get-railed kind of glow.” There’s a chorus of laughs around you, warm, sticky, and knowing. Their eyes are now back on you as if they’re trying to see the point of the girl who said that. “She smells like lotion and regret,” someone hums, and noss. “No, not even regret,” another cuts in, eyes flicking over your shoulder. “She smells like she planned to win.” Yeah. Win someone’s attention, they bet. You planned to win. There’s no lying about that.

“She smells like she shaved everything.” The first girl hums thoughtfully, narrowing her eyes at you. “Wait- what is that? It’s not just perfume. It’s like… deeper.” She leans in slightly, nostrils flaring as she breathes you in. And you try to stay still for it. You let her breathes and smell you while you’re blushing for fuck sake. “Oh my god,” she says suddenly, eyes going wide. “It’s fucking pheromones.”

You freeze. You shake your head, trying to deny it. A quiet little laugh slips from your throat, too tight, too high. “ I-I don’t know,” you say, but it’s weak. You bite your lip, and you almost pout. “Oh, she knows,” another grins. “That’s not Bath & Body Works, babe. That’s ’fuck me in the hallway’ in a bottle.”

“It’s behind-the-knee perfume,” someone teases. Before she put her hand on your knee, like she’s trying to prove a point. “That’s the slut zone.” More laughter. You know that, that’s why you sprayed it there. You’re dizzy with it now, heat curling low in your belly, skin too hot under your jacket, knees still pressed tight together. You don’t remember blinking. You’re smiling too widely.

“You did the whole ritual,” one of them says. “Skincare. Lotions. Pheromones. You probably glossed your lips six times and changed your underwear just in case.” They’re not wrong, though, besides the underwear, because you’ve decided which you’ll wear when you lay eyes on the set underneath your clothes.

“She waxed… or shaved,” someone adds, sipping her drink with a grin. “I’d bet money. Full prep. Clean girl gone filthy.”

It’s annoying how they are right again. Like they do that shit too, they don’t know how long you spent getting ready. Hours. Probably four or maybe five. They don’t know you double-cleansed your soul off in the shower, or that you sprayed that little glass bottle across your throat and thighs and wrists like it was protection, like it would make you smell less desperate. But somehow, they do because they’re also women like you. It’s bound to happen that once in your life, you’ll get crazy like this.

And still, somewhere beyond these walls, where the music is louder and the air thicker and your phone is still buried deep in your purse, he hasn’t seen you yet. He’s desperate to see you, though. To land his eyes on you for the first time. But they have, the girls have. And they already know what you’re here for. You don’t know how it starts. One minute you’re still blushing over the last thing they said- your gloss clinging to the rim of your cup, your thighs sticking to the couch- and the next? They’re spiraling. All of them. Telling stories like they’re trading war crimes.

“Okay, no, but I once used my roommate’s body butter and shaved my arms because a guy looked at me in Econ.”

“Girl. I shaved my pussy with body wash in a Target bathroom because I thought I was getting railed after brunch.”

You choke on your drink at their words like it’s the most absurd thing you’ve heard. “No, wait- what?”

The girl closest to you waves a hand like it’s nothing, like it’s a normal thing for them. Too normalized, actually. “He said ’you up’ at 11am. What was I supposed to do? Don’t believe in love?”

Another girl cackles. “I change my underwear once in a Starbucks just because this guy said he liked lace.”

You’re laughing too hard to speak at first. You press a hand over your face, shake your head. “You guys are actually insane.”

“Please. Like you’re any better,” someone shoots back. You blink, innocent, before you roll your eyes and raise your eyebrow at them. “What did I do?”

“You’re sitting here glowing like a slutty candle and pretending you didn’t scrub your body raw for Rafe Cameron.”

“I didn’t- ” You sit up, sputtering. “I was just exfoliating! That’s normal!”

“Sure, and the pheromone perfume?”

You open your mouth. Close it. Cover your face again. “Okay, shut up.”

They’re all howling now. One of them clinks her drink against yours. “It’s fine. We’ve all been pussy delusional.”

Another nods solemnly. “I once put on a matching bra and panty set to go over to a guy’s house who didn’t even have pillowcases.”

You gasp. “Noooo.”

“Yes. I lay on his mattress like a Victorian ghost.”

Someone pats your knee. “Honestly, I respect it.”

“Thank you,” the ghost replies. You smile so hard it hurts. Your cheeks are warm, your drink’s half-gone, and you haven’t checked your phone in ten minutes because you might explode if you see his name again. One of the girls leans in, eyes narrowed.

“So, you gonna let him hit or what?”

You cover your mouth like that’ll stop your brain from answering. “Can we not?? I haven’t even seen him yet.” Yeah, you only saw him on his picture, not in person, though, so you don’t know why you did all of that shit for a man you just met on some freaking site!

Someone hums. “You don’t need to. That outfit says you’re ready to be pinned.” Another lifts her brow. “You’re the kind of girl who packs emergency gloss and a hair tie just in case.”

You roll your eyes, grinning. “Okay, and what about it?” They all cheer. You are officially one of them. And across the house? He has no idea he’s already the main event.

The laughter softens into something golden- still bright, still messy, but looser now. Slower. Like it’s settling into your bones. You’ve lost track of how long you’ve been sitting here, your jacket still wrapped around your arms, and your cup magically refilling every time you set it down. You’ve stopped checking it. You’re just sipping. Sipping. Giggling. Breathing.

You’re not even sure what the last joke was. Something about waxing your asshole for a man who doesn’t believe in fitted sheets. You nearly choked when someone mimed it. “Okay, but wait,” the girl next to you says, leaning in with her chin on her palm. “I have a real question.”

You blink at her, still smiling. “Huh?”

“How do you even know Rafe?” The question lands softly and casually, but the entire couch shifts the second it’s out there. Everyone turns, subtly but definitely. They are waiting for your answer. Eyes flick to you. Brows lift. One girl’s lips parted like she hadn’t even realized she wanted to know until right now. You still go for half a second. Then you laugh, quiet and slightly stunned by your own answer.

“I met him through an anonymous chat site.” You said, no shame to that one. You smile, cheeks blushing. Your hand is on your thigh, while the other is on your cup. Someone gasps. Full, delighted.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Shut up.”

You hold your hand up in surrender. “I’m serious. I didn’t even know it was him. We were just talking. Sexting, really. Dirty. Like- filthy.”

“Oh my god.”

“I hate you. That’s so hot.”

“It was anonymous?” one of them asks, eyes wide. “Like, usernames and no pics?”

You nod. “Totally anonymous. I didn’t know who he was until the end of the chat. Then I followed him on Insta and he messaged me like- “so you’re just gonna follow me and not say anything?” that kind of bullshit! He did the first move.” They scream. One girl throws her head back. Another grabs your arm. They’re giggling as if they’re the ones who experienced it.

“I’m gonna throw up.”

“That’s so hot.”

“You’re literally the luckiest bitch alive.”

You giggle again, cheeks flushed, head a little floaty. You don’t realize how fast you’ve been drinking until you feel your words start to stick a little, liquid and glossy. You swirl the cup in your hand and take another sip anyway.

“He’s so fine,” one girl says reverently, like a prayer. “Like, I get it. I totally get it.”

Someone else nods, dreamily. “I’d let him break my heart and my lease.” Another sighs. “He doesn’t even have to text me. He could just show up, and I’d say, thank you for your service, sir.”

You laugh again, curling into yourself slightly. You feel soft. Sweet. Held in a way you didn’t expect. You are not even bothered by the words they say. You are not insecure or jealous in a way because you get it. He’s handsome. And all of you are just girls. And the weirdest part? It’s not even about him anymore. It’s about them. The way they let you in. The way they believed you. The way they’re all a little crazy, too. You’re still giggling when someone says, “Okay, but if he walks in right now? What are you gonna do?”

And you just blink. Smiling. Floating. Still not ready to answer. But he’s upstairs, but he hasn’t really been there. Not in any way that counts. The room is hot, thick with smoke and sweat, and someone’s music vibrates too low through the walls to make sense. Laughter rattles from the couch; a few guys are trading hits from a joint and passing a bottle back and forth like they’re part of the furniture. There’s a table pushed up against the wall, powdered and streaked and cluttered with bills and half-rolled twenties, and that’s the only thing Rafe’s paid attention to all night. He did a line almost thirty minutes ago- maybe two, maybe more- and it still hasn’t left his system. It’s not a high anymore. It’s something else. Like something he’s used to. Something tight and hot and restless. Something was crawling beneath the surface of his skin, making his jaw ache, his fists twitch, and his throat dry out between drinks.

He hasn’t spoken in a while. He hasn’t laughed, hasn’t chimed in, and hasn’t looked away from his phone. He’s just... dreaming. He knows he’s fucked up already. The screen keeps dimming. He keeps tapping it back to life. Over and over. Still nothing. Still that photo- your skirt hiked up, that filthy, slight hem just grazing the curve of your underwear- and no follow-up. No text. No, “I’m outside.” No “I’m here.” No “Where are you?” Just that one fucking image like a spark you dropped in his lap and walked away from.

He knows you’re here. He doesn’t need confirmation. It’s not instinct. It’s not luck. It’s just that he knows you’re somewhere here in this house. Even high. Even pissed. Even though he hasn’t look yet. Even vibrating through the seams of his fucking jeans, he knows when you’re close. He just doesn’t understand why you didn’t tell him.

He’s halfway to relapsing into another line when he hears it- laughter on the stairs, muffled voices trailing past the doorway like they don’t know who’s listening. Two guys. Loud. Loose. Drunk enough to think they can say anything and not choke on it. “You’ve seen that new girl downstairs?” one of them says. “Red skirt. Beautiful eyes. Laughing with the girls like she lives here.”

“Shit, yeah,” the other one answers, already laughing. “She’s bad. I might go say something. Bet she’ll fold easily.” Rafe doesn’t move at first. He just sits still inside the room. Doesn’t speak. But his body’s already tensing, already rising- slow, deliberate, the kind of stillness that means danger. His fingers curl around the chair’s armrest until the wood creaks, and when he stands, it’s like gravity shifts with him. And be heard one of the guys shouted his name but he ignored him.

He steps into the hallway. Walks right up behind them. “What the fuck did you just say?” The two guys stiffen. Look at Rafe like they already said the wrong thing, which is a bad thing, really. It makes something inside Rafe click. Or pushed.

One glances back. “Chill, bro, it was a joke-”

He shakes his head. “No,” Rafe snaps, stepping closer, heat rolling off him in waves, jaw locked so tight he can feel the ache in his molars. His hands are closed, ready to punch this guy’s face. To make his head separate from his body. “Say it again. Say that shit about her again. I fucking dare you.” They try to laugh it off. He stutters something like just messing around, like they don’t realize he’s two seconds from putting someone through drywall. He steps even closer- right into their space- and one of them flinches, eyes darting toward the nearest room like maybe someone will pull Rafe back. But no one does.

Then Rafe exhales. Just once. A low, sharp breath that cuts through the heat like a knife. He steps back. Not because he’s calm. Not because he’s changed his mind. But because you’re downstairs. Because while he’s up here wasting time with cowards, someone else might already be too close. Might already be looking. Might already think they have a chance. He shakes his head once. Scoffs like it burns in his throat.

“You’re lucky I’ve got somewhere better to be.” And then he turns- shoulders still tight, mouth still curled, fury packed in his spine like it’s waiting to detonate- and starts down the stairs without another word. He doesn’t care if they’re still watching. All he cares about now is finding you. And when he does? You’ll know exactly how much trouble you’re in. He spots you the second he hits the bottom step.

Tucked into the far end of the couch, knees drawn up slightly, your cup cupped between both hands. Jacket still on. Skirt riding high. Laughing. Giggling, really- head tipped back, gloss catching the light, hair falling soft around your face like it’s been waiting for him to see it.

He stops for half a breath. Just takes you in. The shape of you in his peripheral vision. The way you lean into the girls around you. The way you’re not looking for him. You didn’t just send him that photo and disappear; then, he moves. Not fast. Not aggressive. Just direct. Like there’s a thread tied from his chest to yours and he’s been pulling it all night.

You don’t even see him coming- not until the couch dips beside you. Not until you feel the heat of him pressing into your side. Then his arm drapes across the back of the couch. Slow. Lazy. Heavy. His fingers catch the curve of your shoulder, grazing over the fabric of your jacket like he’s testing the texture, like he’s reminding you it’s still on. He hasn’t said anything to you yet. Just let his hand settle, palm warm, thumb dragging absently back and forth over your clothed arm. Then, like he’s been there all along, like he belongs there, he glances at the girls you’ve been laughing with and says, voice low and slow and sharp at the edges:

“So,” he drawls, mouth crooked, jaw tight with something deeper than the smile, “what are we talkin’ about?” You don’t look at him right away. You feel him first- the couch dipping under his weight, the warmth of his thigh settling flush against yours, the press of his arm stretching across the press of his arm stretching across the back of the cushions.

His wrist grazes your hair. Gently, and it felt good. His fingers trail down the line of your jacket like they’re checking the fabric, like he’s deciding how much of you is his to touch. His fingers are curious, like he’s trying to figure you out. One of the girls glances up, but not for long. She looks him over once, then turns back to the group, her mouth pulling into a grin. Like she knows what’s about to happen once both of you leave that couch. It’s no surprise. Not awkwardness. It’s familiarity.

“Nails,” she says simply, like it’s the truth. Another girl nods, jumping in with a soft, agreeable hum. They are lying about what they just talked about, which is filthy and embarrassing. “Yeah. Top coats. Gel lifting. Whether press-ons are worth it.”

A third girl sighs dramatically and waves her hand. While looking at her nails, they are probably new sets. “Mine keeps breaking. I swear, the second I get anything cute, I open one drawer and they all snap off.”

The conversation picks up as if he never arrived. It is as if his hand isn’t already sliding down the side of your sleeve, as if he’s feeling your body and your shape under his hand. As if he didn’t just let his palm fall softly, warm and steady, against your bare thigh. Resting it there. He doesn’t squeeze. He doesn’t shift. Just places it there like he has every right, like no one in the room would dare to call it out even if they noticed. And they do notice. But none of them says a word, just let it sit there. It’s not like you don’t want it there, though, you do. It’s just a new feeling. Someone is entering a new place, and you’re getting used to that someone.

One girl smiles into her cup. Another curls her legs beneath her, tucking them under like you’re all still just lounging. The way you’ve gone perfectly still under his touch isn’t something she’s watching happen in real time. “I can never get the almond shape right,” someone says, showing her hand. “Mine always end up looking like little daggers.” You chuckle at that because you can see why she said that. You can see the vision.

“They’re supposed to be sharp,” another girl says. “It’s the drama.” Nails are expression and art, they’re something that can reflect you by the way you pick your design, the shape, and how you wear it on your fingers.

“And if they break?” a third girl adds. “Then you know the dick was worth it.” That one gets laughter. You even manage to laugh, breathy and half-distracted, lips parted as you glance down at the drink in your hand that’s suddenly harder to hold. Rafe’s thumb starts moving- barely. You shiver at the action, licking your lips, and you look quickly at him before looking away. You feel them back and forth. Slow little arcs, no pressure. Just presence. Just possession. None of them acknowledge it. They don’t tease. They don’t whisper. They don’t say his name again. They let it live there. On you. Between you. Like it’s part of the night now, they know how to read a room, that’s what’s good about these girls. They know you are shy. They don’t take advantage of it.

One of the girls tops off your drink without asking, nudging the bottle toward you with a wink. Another leans into your side, warm and loose, pulling up her phone and flashing you a screenshot of some ridiculous nail design- something neon, floral, and way too much. It looks ugly to your taste, but huge respect to those who will be able to wear them and still slay while wearing them. You laugh again, a little clearer this time, and nod like you’re still here, still listening, still present enough to care.

“You’d rock that,” she says. “Bet your hands look pretty when you’re- ” (holding his dick around your palms and nails just showing) She stops short, but the grin stays. You could already guess what she’s about to say. It’s not hard to figure out what it is. You hide yours behind the rim of your cup.

The couch adjusts slightly when Rafe shifts, spreading his legs a little wider, the side of his thigh pressing more into yours, his hand still unmoved but heavier now, warmer, thumb sliding higher in slow, lazy circles like it’s marking territory you didn’t agree to give up- but also didn’t fight. The girls know. And they don’t press.

They just keep talking, keep laughing, giving you the safety of their noise while your chest flutters and your pulse flickers, and Rafe leans just slightly closer, not touching your face, not saying a word, but letting the heat of him bleed across your shoulder like a brand. They know what they’re doing. And he knows that they know. But no one’s going to ruin it. Not yet. It starts soft.

The girls keep the conversation alive, voices looping around each other, light, fast, and easy to ride. They keep laughing, filling the space with something that feels safer than silence, like noise, might make it easier to breathe. You just listen to them while trying to entertain Rafe quietly by letting him hold your body. You keep sipping. Maybe too often. Maybe just enough. The drink’s stronger now- whatever they poured you lingers longer. You feel yourself getting buzzed little by little. Sweet on the tongue, but hot in your chest. It’s something that kicks in the end, but it tastes good. The kind that burns a little once it hits your stomach. Makes your shoulders drop. Makes your lips part just slightly when you breathe.

Rafe hasn’t moved. Not really. He hasn’t said much since he sat down, hasn’t joined the conversation, hasn’t taken his hand off your leg. He just listens to the girls. You noticed the way he’s a little off. Not off off. Off in a way he’s high. He just sits there like he’s always belonged in this circle, like he was always going to end up next to you, warm and high and carved from something a little too sharp to be soft. But thankfully, he’s not rushing it even though you both know where you’ll end up at the end of the night. His thumb moves slowly. Back and forth. Just the same few inches, low and easy, like he’s not even thinking about it. Like he knows you are. But he just let his thumb move out of instinct.

You laugh at something one of the girls says without meaning to. It comes out too loud, too suddenly. You blush because it’s kinda embarrassing. You catch yourself and cover your mouth, shaking your head, tipsy and sweet and already too warm from the heat blooming between your legs. They smile at you, soft, knowing. It’s actually close to smirking, but they have pretty lips and an obvious drunk smile on them. One girl bumps her knee against yours. Another raises her cup like a toast and leans back against the couch.

And that’s when it happens. You open your mouth and say something back. Just a comment. A half-tease. Something small, but you’re in it now. You continue the conversation with them. Your voice slides into the rhythm of their laughter, and no one stops you. Even Rafe. No one pauses. It just fits.

“Okay, but I’d wear that,” you say, gesturing to the girl beside you who’s holding up a screenshot of an outfit that’s part unhinged, part genius. “Like- if I was in a slutty mood, yeah. I’d do it.”

The girl grins. “Oh you’re in a slutty mood, babe.”

Another lifts a brow. “Look at you.”

You flush deeper. “I’m literally just sitting here- ”

“With him,” someone adds, nodding toward Rafe.

You roll your eyes, grinning now, soft and slow, your head tipping slightly toward him without thinking. Rafe smirks, doesn’t deny it. He feels his ego boosted by that. Too cocky for it. His hand shifts higher, just a little. A small drag. A little more thigh. Just enough to make your breath hitch and your knees press closer together. Still, no one calls it out. You keep talking anyway.

You don’t know if it’s the drink, touch, or how his fingers have started tracing the hem of your skirt now, but you stop flinching. You stop pretending you’re not enjoying it. Your legs relax. You might open your legs a little, just enough to fit his hand if he wants to slide it between them. Your posture softens. You laugh again, easier this time.

“So what’s the dumbest thing you’ve ever worn just to hook up with someone?” you ask, eyes gleaming.

The girls erupt. One immediately shouts, “Fishnets and a church hoodie,” and another says, “My ex’s jersey with no bra,” and someone else goes, “A fucking Halloween costume. The whole thing. I’m talking ears, tail, glitter, everything.”

You’re giggling so hard it makes your shoulders shake, head falling lightly to Rafe’s shoulder for half a second- just a second-and he doesn’t move. He doesn’t push you off. For a moment, you think he is even encouraging you to rest there. He’s still quiet. Still sitting there. Still listening. Still touching. And for a second, you forget what it felt like before his hand was on your skin. Before your legs were warm. Before this party felt good. Before you got here. The couch feels different now. It’s softer. Louder. Warmer.

The girls are in full swing- shoes kicked off, legs tucked under thighs, arms flung over the backrest like this is their living room and you’ve been part of it for years. They’re drunker than they were thirty minutes ago. You are, too. Not drunk drunk, but it feels good. Everything’s slow and pretty and swaying. You can’t stop smiling. Your cheeks ache from it.

Someone’s telling a story about a guy who thought clitoral was a shampoo brand. Another is bent over her phone, scrolling for a meme she has to show you. There’s a half-eaten bag of chips on someone’s lap. A speaker’s going somewhere in the other room, muffled but steady, bass vibrating in your ribs like it’s inside you.

You’re sunk deep into the cushions now, body loose and glowing. Gloss is still sticky. Jacket still on. Legs still bare. And Rafe? Rafe hasn’t moved. He’s right there, planted like he’s the girl in the conversation and this is a group of full men while you have your wife beside you, because that’s how it feels for a momen especially he’s just the one guy here, with long legs spread lazily and an arm draped behind you like it was stitched to the couch. His hand hasn’t left your thigh all night. He’s not being obvious. Not squeezing. Not tugging. Just resting it there- warm, steady, heavy. Like it’s his, and he’s patient. Like he’s not in a rush. Like he knows you’ll crack eventually.

You haven’t cracked yet. But you’re warm enough to melt. You laugh at something one of the girls says- something about a man in a snapback who called her “babe” before even getting her name- and your knee bumps Rafe’s without meaning to. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even glance your way. But his thumb starts moving again. Just a slow, lazy stroke over your skin. One pass. Then two. Like a reminder. You try not to react. Try.

You lift your cup and sip. Too fast. The sweetness hits your teeth before it burns your throat. You shift your legs, one over the other, and your skirt slides just a little higher without meaning to. One of the girls notices and shoots you a look- a soft, tipsy, knowing look. “You okay, babe?” she says, voice sugary, loud over the laughter. “You look all flushed.” And she’s right, you are getting there to the drunk state, but not much. You can still hear and understand clearly what they are saying; you can still pick them up.

“I’m good,” you lie, cheeks hotter than they’ve been all night. “Just the drink.”

She nods like she believes you. But you know she doesn’t. Then, you feel him lean in. His chest touches your side. Muscular. Too boyish. His body doesn’t move much. He just angles slightly, shoulder brushing yours, mouth dipping close to your ear. You could feel his hot breath, and it made you squirm and shiver down your spine. Close enough that you feel it before you hear it. His voice is low. Smooth. Barely a breath.

“If I put my fingers between your legs right now, would they come out wet?” You freeze. Not completely. Just enough. You close your eyes and can’t help but imagine the scenario he laid out in front of you. That would be disgusting and embarrassing for your taste, but it doesn’t stop you from feeling something.

Your legs press together so tightly you feel it in your stomach. You shift your hips like it’s nothing, but your fingers curl tighter around your cup, and you don’t look at him. You stare straight ahead. The girl across from you. At her earrings. At the table. Anywhere but him.

You pretend you didn’t hear it. He pretends he didn’t say it. His thumb keeps tracing soft, slow arcs across your thigh like nothing happened. Someone beside you starts talking about her last situationship and how he cried after sex. Another girl shouts, “No! Shut up!” like she can’t handle it, and the whole couch explodes in laughter.

You laugh too. You sound normal. But your knees stay locked, your face stays pink, and your chest feels like a drumline. He doesn’t say another word. He doesn’t have to. You’re soaked. And he knows it. You want hom now and it’s something you can’t admit out loud but your pussy is screaming for it. For the need and want.

The couch feels like it’s hugging you now. Warm and soft and far too easy to sink into. You’ve stopped keeping track of your drink- or how many times the girl beside you refilled it. The cup in your hand is sweeter than it should be, the ice long melted, and your gloss is half-worn off from all the laughing.

Everything around you is golden- spilled light, sticky heat, the kind of buzz that makes your thighs feel soft and heavy. God. You can’t wait to be upstairs with him. For your back to hit the bed or your chest. You are not picky; you can even take him to the bathroom if you can. The girls are still talking over each other, into their drinks, through mouthfuls of chips, inside jokes, and memories you weren’t there for but still find yourself smiling at.

You’ve been trying to play along. Trying to stay inside the moment. You really try but Rafe’s hand hasn’t left your thigh. It’s not moving much. Just resting. Just there. He knows what it’s doing to you, and he’s just letting it stay there intentionally, to make you lose your mind. Heavy and slow and warm, skin to skin, the weight of it dragging all your attention back to the space between your legs, no matter how many times you try to smile at someone else’s story. He’s still beside you all night. Like a storm waiting to snap.

And then- he shifts. Leans in, slow and quiet, so close his nose brushes your hairline, his lips grazing just behind your ear like they’ve been waiting for this moment the whole time. His voice doesn’t rise above the others. It doesn’t need to. “Let’s go upstairs.”

You barely breathe. You don’t look at him. Fuck. Here it is. The invitation you’ve been waiting for. You just blink once, and your chest stutters. There’s no follow-up. No persuasion. Just that. He knows, he knows that you want it too, he knows that you’re desperate for it too. Fucking shit. Yes, you are, yes, you’ll go upstairs with him. That low hum of suggestion, thick and slow, curling low in your stomach like a thread being tugged. You don’t answer. Not right away. But your body does. Your thighs twitch. Your fingers go still around your cup. You swallow like you’ve forgotten how to. Something inside you goes sharp, then molten. And you look up. Not at him. At her.

One of the girls, across the circle, lounging against the couch arm like she lives there, one strap of her top slipping down her shoulder, drink half gone, smile lazy and soft like she’s floating somewhere just left of sober. Her eyes meet yours, and something passes between you. Something quiet. No words. She sees your face. She knows. She raises one eyebrow, tilts her head like she’s asking Is it him?

You blink once. Then twice. You don’t nod. You don’t speak. But she sees it anyway. She knows you’re subtly telling her if you can go upstairs. Of course, you don’t want to get disrespectful to them and just leave after they entertained you the whole time. Her smile widens just a little. She lifts her glass- barely- and then winks. Not teasing. Not mocking. Just… approval. Permission. A quiet, drunk girl blessing wrapped in glitter and lip gloss.

And just like that, you move. You set your drink down like your hand isn’t trembling. You adjust your skirt. You stand. Rafe’s already up. He doesn’t take your hand, doesn’t say a word. Just waits. Turns slightly. Starts walking. And you follow.

Your drink stays behind- half full, still sweating on the side table like a version of you you don’t need anymore. The noise fades fast. Every step you take up the stairs pulls the night tighter around your ribs. Your heart’s a fist now, lodged somewhere between your throat and your stomach. Shit. He looks good even though he’s not facing you. You keep your eyes on his back and shoulders, and how his hand slides lazily over the banister makes it seem like he’s not walking toward something purposefully.

He doesn’t look back. But he knows you’re there. He knows you’re following him like a dog. You keep one hand at your side, brushing your skirt down out of habit. You’re hyper-aware of everything- your thighs, your breath, the edge of your jacket biting into the top of your chest. You smell like gloss and perfume and heat. Your lips feel too soft. Your panties are damp even though he doesn’t do anything yet. Shit. You’re unbelievable. You’re a slut. Yeah. You confirmed that already from the moment you get ready for him.

When you reach the second floor, it’s quieter than it should be. You hear faint voices behind closed doors- music leaking from the floor below- but the hallway ahead is empty. It’s a stretch of dim light, creaking floorboards, and silence. Thank God. You don’t know if you could survive anyone seeing you like this.

Rafe doesn’t slow down. Doesn’t check to make sure you’re still following. He knows. His walk is easy and casual, with one hand sliding into his pocket like this: just another room, just another party, just another girl. But you know better. You reach the end of the hall, and he stops outside a door- one of the last on the left. No noise from behind it. No movement. Just stillness.

He doesn’t open it right away. He glances over his shoulder, finally- eyes sliding to you, lazy and low, like he’s not surprised you’re here, but still satisfied you came. You still followed him even though he didn’t drag you upstairs, even though he wanted to. He just wants you to have some control for a moment, to decide if you really want it so he walks in front of you and doesn’t look back but here you are now. His gaze drops to your legs. Your mouth. The part of your jacket you’ve tugged down too far. He doesn’t say anything. He just stares for a second, long enough to make your stomach tighten, long enough to make your skin feel like a secret.

And then- He turns the knob. Pushes the door open. And steps inside. Doesn’t look back this time either. He just left the door open for you. Just disappears into the low light like this has been the plan all along. And you? You hover. One step behind the threshold, fingers twitching at your sides. You could go back. Downstairs. To the noise. To the girls. You could sit right back down and pretend this wasn’t happening. But it is. And when you step inside, the door closes behind you with a quiet click that feels louder than it should.

You’re alone now. Just you. And him. And every filthy thing he hasn’t said yet.

The sound of the door clicking shut behind you is soft. Too soft. It doesn’t echo, slam, or announce anything at all; still, your skin goes tight the second you hear it. You stay where you are. The jacket is still on, the heels are still clicking faintly against the hardwood, and your eyes adjust to the room’s low light that feels too still, quiet, and closed off. It’s probably some boy’s room. You don’t even know who owns it, but he certainly does.

“So... which room is this?” you ask, like an ice breaker. Just to lighten the mood. Just to get away from your own awkwardness. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t answer your question. He just turns, slow and deliberate, and looks at you like he’s not sure what you are yet- like he’s weighing it. Measuring. Deciding. You don’t know what to do with your hands.

You should say something again, right? Make a joke. Lighten the mood. But there’s no space for that now. There is no space for lightness, laughter, or anything else that might convince your body to stop pulsing so loudly under your skin. You look at him, and you’re still close to the door. He takes a step forward that makes you take a step back. Not fast. Not threatening. Just one step. Heavy enough to feel. “You always follow strangers- especially men you don’t know into bedrooms?” His voice is low. You don’t know if he’s judging you or what.

He’s quiet enough to make you strain to hear it, which only worsens it. You open your mouth to answer, but nothing comes out. Another step. “You don’t know me.” Well... You do. You know him. Sort of. Maybe. You want to say that. You want to say something like “I’m getting to know you, that’s why I am here,” kind of crazy. You want to tell him you’re not careless and that this wasn’t blind. You want to defend yourself, that you’re not stupid. But your throat’s dry. Your stomach’s tight. Your body knows what your mouth hasn’t admitted yet- He’s not wrong.

“You talked to me for one night on an anonymous site,” he says, gaze flicking lazily over you, pausing at the hem of your skirt, the line of your collarbone. You don’t know what he’s thinking. It’s embarrassing how he’s picturing the scenario right now. He’s making it sound like you’re easy. Of course you’re not, that’s what you tell yourself the whole time. “Saw my face for a day on Instagram.” He’s standing right in front of you now. Close enough that you can see the dilation in his pupils, the faint smudge of something under his nose. He’s high. Not sloppy- sharp. Alert. Burning slowly. You haven’t moved. Fuck, he’s so close he could just pin you right here, right now, and people wouldn’t care. Not when the music has been banging the whole house loudly.

“You don’t know whose room this is,” he says, quieter now. You know he has a point, of course, you know. You just don’t want to aknowledge the whole goddamn thing! “You didn’t ask. Didn’t check. Didn’t send your location. You didn’t even tell one person you were coming upstairs.” You do. You do. You told someone! That one girl from downstairs who’s probably drunk now. You blink. Fast. His hand comes but up not to touch your face, not to grab your throat, not to pin you. To tilt your chin. He makes you look at him. He’s observing your face closely. Gentle fingers against your jaw, slow and firm, like he’s making you look at him because you don’t have a choice.

“No one knows where you are.” It sinks deep. That sentence. Each word. It slides under your skin and curls there, hot, cold, and heavy. You hold your breath while you’re looking at him. You are overthinking everything right now because of what he said. You shouldn’t come. You shouldn’t. You’re so stupid. So dumb. Do you need that kind of attention, so you’re here? What if he’s a killer? What if he’s not here for you? What if he just wants to see how easy it is to make you come here and make fun of you? That kind of overthinking. Your breath catches. Your body doesn’t move. He doesn’t smile.

“What if I’m not here to fuck you?” he murmurs. Oh, he did not! How could he say that when he’s showing all these signs... right? You’re so close to crying right now, and you don’t even know if it’s obvious. “What if I locked this door and never let you out?” Your fingers twitch at your sides. He notices.

“What if I wasn’t who you thought I was?” he continues, voice like velvet stretched over something sharp. “What if I was catfishing you this whole time?”

You try to swallow, but it doesn’t go down right. “What if I didn’t want you on my lap?” he says, his thumb brushing against your bottom lip once before he made it part from your upper lip. Your breath shudders. “What if I wanted you in the trunk of my car instead?”

A sound stutters in your throat. Not a word. Not a cry. Just air. His mouth doesn’t touch you. But it’s close. You can see it in front of you, it’s so close. You look down at it. You feel it, no, he’s not kissing you, but his breath is warm, ghosting across your skin like a hand. “You scared?” The truth pools between your thighs before it ever makes it to your mouth.

You nod. Barely. Just enough. The smallest tilt of your chin. God. You want to kick him and slap him. You want to curse him out. You want to strangle him. Jesus, you want to do many things to him and it’s not just fucking. You hate that he’s making you feel this way. And he breathes in like it’s the answer he was hoping for. His hand doesn’t leave your face. Not right away. His thumb drags over your bottom lip, slow and deliberate, pressing just enough to feel how soft it is. How warm. His eyes flick to your mouth, then back to your eyes.

You don’t look away. Then, quietly, casually, his other hand lifts. It finds the edge of your zipper, right between your chest. And he pulls. Slow. It is so slow that you feel every inch of it. The metal teeth separate, one by one, all the way down your chest like a line drawn through your resolve. He doesn’t look at the jacket. He doesn’t look at his hands. He looks at you. He keeps staring at you. Your eyes. Your face. He let his eyes consume you while his hand just opened your jacket as if you were a gift he was trying to unwrap for himself. The way your breath skips as the fabric starts to fall open, exposing more skin, more heat, more of the body you swore you weren’t offering when you came upstairs- and now can’t seem to stop presenting.

You don’t stop him. You don’t say a word. You just let him. You feel there’s a rock in your throat while he’s doing it, though. When the zipper hits the bottom, he pushes the jacket back just enough to see. His fingers brush your shoulders. Slide the fabric down, baring you, your arms still caught inside the sleeves, but the front of you fully exposed. His gaze drops to your chest. To the top of your bra- whatever you wore under it, if you wore anything at all, he makes a sound in the back of his throat. Low. Pleased.

Then his hands come up. Both of them now. And he touches you. Not rough. Not greedy. But firm. Like he knows what he wants and he’ll get it. Focused. Like he’s been waiting for this and wants to remember exactly how you feel in his hands. He moves his hands down from your shoulders until they reach in front of your chest. You could feel his hand shaking when he touched it. He palms your tits slowly, his thumbs brushing the tops, dragging under. His fingers press in, squeeze, lift. Not to test you- just to feel you. To see if it’s a perfect fit between his hands. To weigh you. To own. And the whole time, He’s looking at your face like you both have some staring contest happening and he will win it.

He’s watching how your lips part. How your jaw trembles. Your eyes flutter low and then snap open again, trying to stay strong. Trying not to give him more than he already took, but you are failing the way he squeezes it. The way his thumb brushes over your hardened nipples as if he already knows it’s going to be sensitive. “You wore this for me?” he asks, voice too soft to be kind. You nod again. His thumb continues to graze your nipple through the fabric. You jolt- barely- but he feels it. He sees it.

“So fucking pretty,” he murmurs. “Didn’t even have to ask. You just walked right in wearing something I could tear off with my teeth.” Your breath stutters. Your head slowly nods, barely, but he sees it. His hands press in tighter. He leans in, mouth grazing your jaw, lips brushing that sensitive space just below your ear.

“But I won’t,” he whispers. “Not yet.” Then one hand leaves your chest. Slides down. Past your ribs. To your waist. To the hem of your skirt.

His hand lingers at the hem of your skirt, but he doesn’t move it. Doesn’t lift. Doesn’t slide. It just rests there- warm and deliberate- while his other hand cups your breast like it’s his, like it’s something he bought, like he has every right to press his thumb slowly across the swell of it and watch the way your breath catches.

Then he leans in. Not to kiss. To breathe. His nose brushes against your jaw. Then your throat. Then lower. He drags the shape of his mouth along your skin without opening it, not once. He just let it brush against your skin. He feels how your hair raises, how you shiver. He thinks that you’re holding back something. He just inhales. Deep. Hungry. You shudder, barely. He groans. Just a little. Like it hurts. “You smell fucking unreal,” he murmurs, voice so low it scrapes the base of your spine.

He does it again, breathing you in from your shoulder to your neck like oxygen. His hand at your chest presses harder, just slightly, as if the feel of your body under his hand isn’t enough and he needs more, more, more. “I smelled you the second I sat down,” he whispers, nose buried at the crook of your neck now. He’s like taking it all in and just wants to stay there forever. “That perfume. Shit what do you have? Whatever the fuck you put on your skin- I almost lost it.”

Your lips part open before you hear him ask what you put in your skin, and you just casually answer it, phemoromes like it doesn’t drive him nuts. Your thighs clench. His hand on your skirt tenses. “You didn’t even take off this fucking jacket,” he says, almost accusing, almost reverent. “Sat there zipped while your thighs were out for the whole room to stare at.” His voice is so deep it’s making something crazy inside of you. It’s making you wet.

You don’t speak. You can’t. His lips ghost up your neck again. Slow. Wet. Breathing against your pulse. “No one saw what you were wearing underneath,” he growls. “No one got to see this little fucking top. No one smelled your skin so close but me.”

His teeth drag gently along your jaw. “You kept all of this hidden. You brought your body into a room full of people and zipped it up like you were saving it.” You are saving it for him. You want to be pretty for him.

His hand finally moves- just a little. Just enough to brush under your skirt, palm resting against your thigh, fingertips barely grazing where your heat pools. “You were saving it for me, weren’t you?”

You don’t answer, you know to yourself that you do. But your legs part. Barely. Just enough. Like it’s the answer to his damn question, he exhales into your neck. Almost shaky. Like he’s holding something back and losing the battle. “You should’ve told me you were gonna smell like that,” he murmurs. “I would’ve fucked you on the couch.” Fuck. It’s so unfair, he couldn’t just say that. He knows what he’s doing and what he’s implying by saying that shit.

He doesn’t ask. Doesn’t warn you. Just shifts forward- fast- and scoops you up like he’s done it a thousand times. One arm under your thighs, one at your back, like it’s instinct. Like your body weighs nothing to him. You make a slight sound- half gasp, half breathless “oh”- and then he’s carrying you.

Two long strides and you’re at the bed. He sits first, thighs spread wide, dragging you into his lap like you belong there. Like you were always supposed to end up here- glossy, wrecked, and trembling over him. The jacket’s still on. He slides his hands up the back of it. Slow. Palms smoothing over your spine. Then he grabs the collar and peels it down your arms, one sleeve, then the other, tugging until your skin’s bare and flushed and exposed. Then his mouth’s on yours. Sloppy. Desperate. Chemical.

He kisses like a man whose nerves are on fire- like he’s high on you and everything else in his system.

He kisses like he hasn’t eaten in three days, and there’s finally food in front of him, so he’s munching it down. Teeth clashing. Tongue deep. One hand gripping your thigh. The other is in your hair. He tastes heat in your mouth and wants to burn alive in it. It’s sloppy, and you don’t hate it. You love the way he’s not bothered by the gloss in your mouth. By the way, it’s smearing on his lips too. Your lip gloss is gone in seconds. Your breath? Useless. He groans against your mouth and says something low- something like, “fucking waited all night for this”, but it’s hard to tell with the way his tongue slips back between your lips like he’s trying to eat every soft sound you make.

And then, between kisses, his mouth drags lower. Over your jaw. Down your neck. His teeth graze your throat. He’s licking. He’s making your skin wet. He’s flattening his tongue in it and can smell and taste the product and salt you put in it. You arch without meaning to. He bites. It’s not sweet. Not tentative. It’s sharp- possessive- like he wants to mark you, to sink something deep enough into your skin that you’ll feel him when you leave. You whimper, hips jerking forward, and that’s all it takes. You start moving without realizing it- grinding down against the muscle of his thigh, slow and clumsy, your skirt already bunched up too high, your panties pressed tight where you need him most. You’re landed in front of his hardening dick in his pants.

His breath catches, mouth still hot on your neck. His hands move at the same time- one sliding up to your chest, covering your tits through the thin fabric of your top like he doesn’t need to be gentle, the other dipping low, right under your skirt, fingers spreading over the heat between your legs without hesitation.

He groans when he feels it. The damp cotton. The way you’re rutting into him like it’s not enough- like nothing will be. “Fuck,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. “Look at you.” His thumb presses in, rubbing through the soaked fabric, just slow enough to feel like a threat. Like a warning. His other hand works under your top now, dragging your bra up and out of the way so he can cup your bare tits properly, thumbs brushing over your nipples until they’re tight and aching under his palms.

You make a soft, broken noise in your throat and rock forward again- dragging your cunt across him, chasing the pressure, not even thinking anymore. He watches you for a moment. Just watches. He smirks but he can’t decide which part of you to get obsessed with first- the way your mouth falls open when his thumb circles just right, the way your breath hitches when he rolls your nipple between his fingers, the way your hips keep chasing friction like you’ll die if he stops giving it. It just feels so good.

“Greedy little thing,” he breathes. “Can’t sit still for one second, huh?” You shake your head. You can’t lie. Not when your body’s already giving you away. Not when you really want it. Not when you want to take it for yourself. Not when you want to fuck him. He kisses you again- messy, slow, full of tongue and teeth and heat- and the whole time, his fingers keep moving. Not enough to get you off. Not enough to let you fall. Just enough to make your stomach pull tighter with every stroke. Just enough to leave you clenching, grinding, whimpering into his mouth like a girl being teased out of her mind.

You’re not close. Not really. But you’re aching. Your panties are soaked. Your thighs are shaking. Every time his thumb drags too slow over your clit, you press harder into him and try not to moan. He knows what he’s doing. Of course he does. “You like that?” he murmurs into your mouth, voice so low it burns. He continues the movement as if he wants an answer, whether it’s verbal or physical.

“Like grinding all wet against me while I play with your tits? You gonna beg for more, or just keep humping like a brat?” You whine- helpless, half-gone. He kisses you harder. Rougher. Bites your bottom lip and tugs, then presses his mouth back over yours like he needs to feel you panting for him while you rock your soaked little cunt into his pants like you’ve got no shame.

But he still doesn’t let you come. Not yet. And you know he won’t. Because that’s not what this is. Not yet. He wants to have more fun with you. You can’t just let go that quickly. Nope. Nah. This isn’t the part where he lets you have what you want. This is the part where he edges you. This is the part where he allows you to grind and gasp and tremble- and keeps your panties on, where his hands stay exactly where they are, heavy on your tits and soaked between your legs, stroking and teasing and owning, while you start to fall apart for real. And you know, with the worst kind of clarity, that when he finally does take your panties off? You’ll already be too far gone to fake an ounce of dignity.

You kiss him again. Harder this time- hot, wet, open-mouthed, the kind of kiss that leaves your lip gloss on his skin and your breath caught somewhere between his teeth. His tongue presses in, messy and slow, curling against yours like it owns the space. Like it’s been waiting for your mouth all night.

You whimper against it. He groans into it. Your hips haven’t stopped moving. You’re still grinding down into his thigh, still chasing friction through the soaked fabric of your panties. Every drag of pressure makes your breath skip, your fingers tighten in his hair, your thighs squeeze tighter around his.

He breaks the kiss to breathe- just barely, just enough- and his mouth finds your jaw, your cheek, your throat. He licks. Bites. Sucks hard enough to bruise. You moan. Quiet. Raw. Your hands slide down- over his chest, under the hem of his shirt, greedy and slow. His skin is hot. Smooth. Tight with muscle. Your fingers skate over the edge of his waistband and then back up, dragging your nails lightly, just to hear the sound it pulls from him.

His hands are everywhere. One still kneads at your tits, heavy and rough, thumb circling your nipple until it’s so hard it aches. The other stays between your legs, fingers dragging lazy lines over your clit through your panties, rubbing in time with every slow roll of your hips.

You can’t stop, and you don’t want to. The friction is perfect- almost. You need more, need skin, need heat, need him, but your body is too lost in the rhythm.

You’re panting into his mouth, open and glossy, and your hands are sliding lower now, down his stomach, fingers trembling with it. Then you feel him. Hard. Thick. Straining under his jeans, pressed hot between you like it’s been waiting to be touched. You gasp, soft and sharp. Your hand presses over it without thinking. He growls- growls- into your neck, his hips jerking up into your palm like he didn’t mean to, like he’s already on edge just from the way you’re moving. You cup him fully. Slow. Curious. Testing its weight through the denim, rubbing just enough to feel how his breath catches.

Your hips don’t stop. Neither does his hand. You’re both grinding now- his thigh slick with you, your palm working over the thick ridge in his jeans, your tongues still messy, mouths still open, like you’re starving and don’t care who sees. “Fuck,” he mutters against your mouth, voice shot through with tension. “You’re gonna make me lose it.”

You just moan. You’re not trying to tease anymore. You’re not pretending it’s an accident. You’re humping his thigh with your soaked little panties, palming his cock like it’s yours, and every single part of you is flushed, trembling, begging without saying a word.

You kiss him again, messy, panting.

His hand presses harder between your legs. Yours rubs firmer over the bulge in his jeans. You’re both falling apart. And neither of you wants to stop. He kisses down your neck again.

Slower this time. Like he’s savoring it. Tongue first, then lips, then the graze of his teeth against the spot just below your jaw that’s still a little sticky with heat. He breathes you in deep- deep- right there, and fuck if it doesn’t make something in his throat break.

“What the fuck did you put on?” he asked again, dragging his mouth lower, words hot against your skin. “You smell so fucking good. Like sugar. Like skin.” He licks across your collarbone. Open-mouthed. Messy. The scent is strongest there, sweet and warm and sex-sharp. He groans, bites down. Not hard- just enough to leave his mark. Just enough to taste you.

Then he noses down, between your breasts. While his hands shove your jacket further off your shoulders, that still hangs there for an apparent reason, still half-on, sleeves tangled at your elbows like you were in too much of a rush to take it off all the way- and he doesn’t care. He just wants access. Wants you. He wants to feel you.

His tongue drags slowly across the top of your chest. Your top and bra are still on, but they’re not doing much. His mouth presses between the cups, right over your sternum- right where you sprayed that perfume, one last spritz like a fucking shimmer- and his whole body shudders. “You did that on purpose,” he mutters. Low. Hoarse before he groaned. “Put it right where I’d lick.”

He does it again. Slower. Eyes low. He's been eager to have you breathing in like you’re oxygen. Your thighs twitch. You roll your hips- still on his lap, still grinding- but now you’re shaking. Your panties are soaked. His jeans are stiff where you’ve been rutting against him. His hands are still between your legs, and your palms are still stroking the thick weight of him through his pants like you forgot what shame is. He mouths over your tit, kisses around the swell, tongue wet and lazy and hungry. He breathes you in again- loud this time. “Fucking… fuck. You’re not real.”

You don’t say anything. Just tilt your head back and let him take. Eyes closed while you’re letting him do his own thing. You’re still slick between your thighs. Still chasing pressure. Still pulsing with every stroke of his fingers. “You put that perfume on your thighs too, didn’t you,” he mutters, like it’s a fact, not a question. “Behind your knees. That little slut zone.” You hum at his statement, not denying any shit.

He grins when you squirm. His lips brush your cleavage again. “You think I won’t get down there?” His mouth is filthy against your skin. His voice is darker now. There’s more edge to it. He’s high and gone and starving, and you smell like the kind of girl who knew she was going to be fucked when she got dressed. And you know, you know how to pull the strings. You know how to play. Who sprayed herself like a promise. And he’s going to trace every fucking inch of where it lingers. It happens all at once.

He kisses down your throat, over your chest, mouth burning trails between the peaks of your bra- and then, suddenly, flips you onto your back. Not rough. But fast. He can’t stand not seeing you, like the mystery of your skin under that jacket was too much, and now he needs to look.

You gasp as your spine hits the bed- hair fanned out, legs still bent, skirt riding scandalously high over your hips. You look at him while your chest heaves. That little top’s already slipping- shoulder strap dangling, neckline dragged low, just enough to bare the top swell of your bra. The flush of your skin. The place he was mouthing like he wanted to sink his teeth into.

He doesn’t even look at your face. His eyes are locked lower. On your legs. On the hem of your skirt, and the way it barely covers anything now. His hands find your thighs. Smooth up the outside. Then in. Slow. Possessive. You don’t flinch when he curls his fingers around your panties. You watch him.

Watch the way his jaw ticks. The way his gaze goes dark and manic and almost reverent when he tugs the soaked fabric down your legs. He doesn’t toss them aside. He lifts them to his face. Sniffs. Fucking disgusting, but he enjoyed it. He even smirked. Then folds them once, tight, and stuffs them into his back pocket without breaking eye contact. Fuck. You’ll go home without any panties. You didn’t bring any extra.

“Mine,” he mutters. “This whole fuckin’ night? Mine.” You should laugh. But your breath’s already gone. And then- He drops. All the way down. His mouth lands on your shin. Then your calf. Then- lower. To the back of your knee. That place you sprayed.

That soft little secret crease, warm from your skin, still slick with lotion and perfume. Victoria’s Secret. Pheromones. The scent has settled now- bloomed- and when he breathes it in? He shudders. Actually, shudders. “Jesus,” he grits. “You put it here. Fucking here.”

You shift on the bed, legs still bent, thighs slightly open. You’re more angling yourself to give him more access to you. He’s crouched between them now, leaning in, one hand hooked under your knee to keep you tilted just right. The other sprawls over your thigh, holding you steady like he needs to steady himself, too.

His nose brushes the back of your knee. He inhales. And groans. Deep. Guttural. Like it hurts. You watch his eyes flutter. Watch his jaw clench, his hips twitch slightly like he’s reacting to a drug. And maybe he is. Because he nuzzles into that spot like a man obsessed- like it’s some sacred pulse point, like the heat there could tell him your whole story.

“You wanted me to smell it,” he mutters, voice rasped, lips dragging slowly over the inside of your knee now. “Wanted me to get low. Get here. Get fucking stupid.” You smile. Just a little. Just enough. “Did it work?” you whisper.

He lifts his head, eyes black with hunger. “You’re gonna regret asking that,” he says, then dips right back down. This time- open mouth. A kiss. A deep, wet suck to the soft spot behind your knee, tongue dragging, breath hot, scent dizzying him all over again. His hand on your thigh tightens. The one under your knee lifts your leg even higher, spreading you wider, opening you up. You arch on the bed. Not because he’s touching your pussy- he’s not. He’s kissing your fucking legs like they’re the center of the universe. Like this is enough. Like your body speaks in scents, and he’s trying to translate it with his mouth.

And you? You’re laid out. Skirt bunched. The top is falling off one shoulder. Chest heaving. One leg hooked over his shoulder now like an invitation. Your panties are gone. And he hasn’t even touched you where it counts. Yet. He’s gone. You can see it.

The way his lips stay parted as he nuzzles into the back of your knee like it’s got some kind of fucking spell on it. The way he breathes there- really breathes- mouth open, nose pressed deep, inhaling you like it’s all he’s capable of now. Like he’s trying to memorize it, drown in it. Live off it.

He kisses lower. Then higher. Then back again. Open mouth, then closed. Then teeth. Then the tongue. He’s making out with the back of your leg. And it should be ridiculous. It should make you laugh. But it doesn’t.

Because his other hand is between your thighs now, palm flat, fingers sliding between your folds like they’ve been there. Like he knows exactly how wet you are without needing to check, just feels it. No warning. No slow lead-up. Just his fingers slipping through your heat like it’s second nature.

You gasp. He groans. Not at your pussy- he’s not even watching what he’s doing.

He’s still buried at your knee. Nosing, kissing, rubbing his cheek along your skin like he’s cuddling it. Like it’s home. His tongue flicks out again. Drags. Then again. His mouth opens wider. Sucks.

And the fingers between your thighs? Start moving. Two of them now. Middle and ring. Slow at first. Just stroking- up and down, barely parting you. Then deeper. Dragging slick up to your clit. Circling. Pressing. Back down. Gathering more.

Your hips lift. You can’t help it. And still, he doesn’t look. He just ruts. You realize it suddenly- feel it- the subtle shift of the mattress, the soft sound of fabric grinding. His hips are moving. Barely. Just the tiniest forward thrusts against the edge of the bed, like he’s chasing friction, like his cock is too hard, too full, and he’s using the edge of the mattress to take the edge off.

His breath hitches. His mouth doesn’t leave your knee. You moan. Soft. High. A little choked. That gets him. His fingers twitch, then slide in.

One first. Then another. The stretch is sudden, not painful, but sharp. He presses deep, then curls. Finds your spot like he mapped it beforehand. Like he’s not guessing. Like he’s obsessed, and he is. You can see it.

His mouth stays locked to your skin- hot, messy, wet kisses over the same patch of flesh like he’s drunk on the scent of you. He groans again, louder this time, hips grinding harder into the bed now. It’s thoughtless. Instinctual. He’s getting off just from the smell of your skin and the way your cunt clenches around his fingers.

You can’t think. Can’t breathe. You twist against the bed, back arching, thighs trembling as his fingers thrust deeper- slower, harder, knuckles grazing with each pump, thumb sliding up occasionally to press against your clit just once before backing off. He’s not trying to make you come yet. He’s just playing. Feeding off it. And you? You’re glowing. Laid out, skirt pushed high, legs open, arms curled above your head. Your lip gloss is smudged. Your breath’s coming in tiny gasps. And he’s still sucking the back of your fucking knee like it’s sweeter than your mouth.

The rhythm of his fingers stutters for a second- he shifts his weight, hips pressing harder into the edge of the bed like he’s gonna fucking come from this. You moan again. He bites down. You gasp, spine jerking, the sting sending heat everywhere.

He lifts his mouth, just barely, lips still ghosting your skin. “Still smell you,” he mutters, voice wrecked. “Still fuckin’ wet with it.” You whimper. His fingers thrust deeper. And he presses a kiss to the spot he just bit- slow, soft, worshipping. You’re a mess. He’s worse.

And neither of you is close to done. You’re flushed everywhere. Cheeks, thighs, chest- flushed and hot and trembling, your skin glowing under his hands, your legs soft with ache. His fingers have been inside you for what feels like hours- slow, steady, dragging pressure like he’s trying to pull something out of you, like he’s searching for the part of you that breaks. And still, he hasn’t eaten.

Not really. He’s been buried behind your knee, mouthing the skin like it’s sacred. Sniffing, kissing, breathing you in like it’s keeping him alive. He presses his mouth there like you put the perfume on for him, which you did. Which he knows. You can feel him breathing it in, rutting gently against the edge of the bed for friction like his cock can’t take it either.

When he finally moves down- when he finally shifts his weight and ends up between your thighs- it’s not frantic. It’s not fast. It’s not relief. It’s just inevitable. He looks at you. Then lower.

Then presses his face in without warning- cheek dragging against your inner thigh, nose buried in the heat of you- and just… inhales like he’s starving. Like he’s high on the scent of you and needs to chase it to the source.

You twitch when his lips ghost across your clit. But he doesn’t open his mouth. Not fully. He presses a kiss. Closed-mouth. Too soft. Another. Right beside it. And then- finally- he flicks his tongue. Once. A little swipe, quick and deliberate, just enough to taste, just enough to make your hips buck against his hand. You let out a sound you didn’t mean to. He flicks again. Slower this time. Controlled. A pointed stroke that drags right across your clit and disappears like it was never there. And then again.

A third time- less of a lick, more of a sample. Like he’s collecting it. Like, he wants to catalog you. Then he pulls back. Mouth shiny. Chin damp. “Sweet,” he mutters, high and reverent, eyes glazed. “You fucking taste sweet.” You’re panting. Your body’s shaking. You try to chase him- desperate, delirious- but his hand on your thigh stops you cold. That’s all you get. He kisses you again. Not a lick. Just lips to clit. Soft. The kind of kiss you’d give someone before saying goodbye. It wrecks you.

“You want more?” he murmurs, voice muffled into your heat. “Want me to suck on it?” Your hips lift. He smiles. Doesn’t give in. “No.” He gives one last kiss, slower this time. Lingering. And then? Then he withdraws. Leans back just a little, lets the air touch your pussy, lets you feel the absence of him like a punishment. His fingers? Still inside. He crooks them. Your moan cracks.

The sound is raw- sharp at the edges, ripped out of you before you can catch it. Your hips twitch, thighs trying to close around his wrist, but he doesn’t let you move. His hand is rooted, firm, fucking into you with that relentless, devastating curve like he’s shaping you from the inside out.

He exhales hard through his nose. Then, without warning, his free hand leaves your leg, drags down his own chest, and starts tugging at the hem of his shirt. You feel it more than you see it. The shift. The way the fabric slides up his torso, how the muscles in his arms flex as he pulls it over his head in one clean motion, like he couldn’t take it anymore. Like your body under his hands got too hot, and he needed to burn something off.

He throws the shirt aside without looking. It lands somewhere off the bed with a dull thud. Then his hand finds your thigh again. Not to hold you down. To feel. You’re shaking under his fingers now, your skin hot against his palm, your chest rising fast. He watches you with his jaw clenched, face flushed, lips parted- his high crawling behind his eyes, behind his restraint, like something might break if you moan again.

His fingers drag out almost all the way. Then push back in. You gasp. He watches your face, your mouth, the way your eyes keep fluttering like you’re trying not to cry, and his tongue drags across his lower lip, lazy, and absent. Like instinct. “You feel that?” he murmurs. Voice gone. Just breath, teeth, and heat. “How soaked you are?” He pumps again, just once, curling deep. “Shit.” It’s more to himself than to you, like he wasn’t ready, like your body is doing something to him that he hadn’t accounted for.

He shifts on the bed. The motion makes the mattress dip- his knee pressing deeper between your legs, his cock rubbing up against the edge of the bed where he’s been grinding in slow, desperate pulses without realizing. You see, the moment he notices. The way he stills, then rocks once more. Just to feel it. Just to chase it. His head tips back. He groans. Low. Frustrated. Embarrassed in that raw, masculine kind of way that makes your stomach twist.

You watch him rut once more- slow and helpless- and then your voice cuts through the air like honey poured over glass: “Don’t you want to fuck my pussy instead of grinding against the bed?” His eyes snap down to yours. Like you slapped him. Or kissed him. Or ruined him. It’s all the same. You’re spread open under him, bare thighs trembling, his fingers still knuckle-deep inside you- and still, you say it like it’s casual. Like you’re bored of him fucking the mattress. Like you’re not soaked and swollen and ruined already, just waiting for him to crack.

His mouth twitches. Then it splits into a grin that isn’t really a grin at all. It means. It’s wild. It’s disbelief and heat, and oh, you think you’re cute? He pulls his fingers out slowly. Wet. Deliberate. The sound is filthy, and it echoes like sin between you. Then he brings them to his mouth. Licks. Sucks. Groans again, but this time it’s darker. “You keep talking like that,” he mutters, voice shredded, “and I’ll fuck you so hard you forget how to speak.”

And then he shifts. Gets up. Starts undoing his belt. His belt clinks, falls, and he doesn’t stop. Pants next. Boxers. Shoes were kicked somewhere in the corner. Everything drops in quick, practiced motions, like he’s too far gone to pretend this is slow anymore. His cock slaps against his stomach when it’s free- thick, flushed, already leaking. You can’t look away. But neither can he. His eyes are eating you alive.

You’re still on your back, your heels still strapped, and your calves flexed faintly where your legs shift. Your jacket’s long gone. Your top was discarded somewhere by the bed. Your chest is bare now, flushed and sensitive, nipples still wet from where he mouthed you earlier. Your hands move toward your skirt- He stops you. Fingers curled gently around your wrist. “Leave it,” he mutters, his voice rough and jaw clenched. “Skirt stays on.”

Then his eyes drop to your feet. “And the heels.” You blink up at him, stunned for half a beat. Then your mouth parts. Then you smile- slow, deliberate, almost cruel. And you let go of the fabric. You leave the skirt on. You push your bra down your arms, off your wrists, and toss it aside. Your heels stay on. The red ones. Tall, glossy, slutty. The ones that make your legs look too long and your hips tip up just enough. The ones he’s been eyeing all fucking night.

Rafe just stares. His jaw works like he’s trying not to say something stupid. “You gonna get on top,” you murmur, voice thick and syrupy, “or just keep watching?” He exhales once. Shaky. Then he climbs back onto the bed, hands braced beside your thighs, cock heavy and leaking and hanging between you both-

And you know the second he sees it. That flash of pink between your legs. Lace, slick, and skin. Skirt still on. Heels still on. And none of it for anyone but him. He’s moving like he’s trying to be good. Like he’s still got the reins in his hands, still in control. You watch him reach for his jeans, half-draped over the edge of the bed, mumbling something under his breath as he digs through a pocket with one hand, jaw tight, nostrils flaring like the search is physically hurting him.

Then he pauses. Frozen mid-movement. You tilt your head, watching the tension rise in his shoulders. You say it softly like it’s just a fact. “I’m clean,” you murmur, and his head jerks slightly. “And I’m on birth control.” There’s a pause. A flicker of stillness. Then his whole body locks.. You see it before he speaks- the way he straightens and his hand goes still, fisted in the denim like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

His eyes lift to yours. Wide. Dark. Blown-out and wrecked. “You’re what?” he says. But it’s not a question. It’s disbelief. It’s a warning. “I’m clean,” you say again, slower this time. “And I’m on the pill.” It’s quiet for a second. Just long enough for the words to settle in the air between you. And then he laughs. Sharp. Staggered. Like something inside him just cracked clean in half.

“Oh my God.” He exhales like he’s never needed to breathe until now. “You’re- fucking serious?” You don’t smile, not really. Just tilt your head, legs still spread, heels still strapped, red skirt still hitched around your waist like you’ve been waiting for him to come back and take you. “I wouldn’t lie about it,” you say softly.

His mouth opens like he wants to respond. But nothing comes out. His hand drops the jeans. His knees hit the mattress. And suddenly he’s there, back between your legs, cock heavy and flushed, dragging hot against the inside of your thigh. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters again, more to himself than you. “You don’t even know what you just did to me.”

You don’t move. You just stare at him, body open, mouth parted, still glowing with lotion and lip gloss and that smug little look you know he’s been dying to ruin. He presses in. No warning. No teasing. Just the thick, steady slide of his cock, bare and blazing, dragging through slick and heat until he bottoms out so deep you choke on a gasp and grab at his shoulders like they’re the only thing tethering you to the bed. His breath punches out in one broken groan. “Fuck- fuck me, I can feel all of it,” he gasps against your jaw. “You’re so- fuck- you’re so wet.” You smile, voice soft in his ear, teasing.

“I told you.” And then he starts moving. Slow at first. Dragging. Savoring. Like he can’t believe it’s real. Like your pussy’s carved just for him and the fact that there’s nothing between you is turning his already-coked-up brain into static. His hips stutter. He buries his face in your neck. “You let me fuck you raw,” he mumbles, like he still doesn’t believe it. “You wanted this.” And the way he says it- voice hoarse, fucked-out, reverent- you know it’s not a question. It’s a confession. And it’s only the beginning.

His hands start to move like they’ve just remembered they exist. Big, slow sweeps down your sides, over your thighs, gripping and petting and curling like he doesn’t know what part of you he wants most. Like he wants to feel everything at once. And he does- he needs to. You’re still folded under him, legs thrown high over his shoulders, heels gleaming under the dim light, skirt still on, his cock stuffed deep inside you- but it’s your skin that’s ruining him now. That slide. That heat.

He moans again. Voice cracked and slurred, drunk on coke and pussy and that fucking perfume you wore for him. His palm flattens against your stomach, then glides lower, sliding through sweat and lotion, dragging down the front of your body like it’s something precious. Like he’s savoring it. Like he’s convinced that if he slows down just enough, he can memorize it with his hands. “Fuck,” he breathes, shaky. “You’re so soft.”

He says it like it hurts. Like it’s not fair. Like you did this on purpose. His hand keeps drifting. Down. Slower now, like the drag of his palm is moving through molasses, like time’s stretching with every inch of skin he discovers bare. And then, he finds it. Your mound is smooth, warm, and perfect, and there is not a hair left. His whole body locks. He stares down at you, dazed, like he doesn’t know how you’re even real. “You- ” His voice is hoarse, too close to a whisper. “You fucking shaved for me?”

You swallow, blinking up at him. One hand digs into the sheets. The other claw lightly at his wrist. He’s still deep inside you, but you nod anyway. He groans. It rips straight from his throat, guttural and raw. “You’re high,” you whisper, like it explains something. Like it justifies the way he’s twitching inside you now, deeper than before, slower, heavier, obsessed. “No,” he pants, shaking his head, rutting forward once like his brain short-circuited. “No, you did this. You- fuck- you did this for me.”

His hand cups you there, just over your mound, over your clit, fingers pressing in light like he’s afraid to ruin it. He’s panting, sweating, and trembling now. One hand on your stomach. The other is sliding around the top of your thigh. He’s not even thrusting anymore- he’s sinking. Grinding slowly. Letting the heat of you swallow him. “You shaved your pussy,” he says, slurred and stunned, “so I could fuck it raw.”

You nod again. Barely. He’s twitching inside you like he might come just from that. “You- fucking- god, baby. You’re insane.” His hands are everywhere again. Not groping- worshiping. Touching every part of you, he missed. Rubbing his knuckles over your thighs, your waist, your chest. His fingers press into your hips, drag down the sides of your ass, gripping, spreading, petting like your skin is the only anchor keeping him from floating away.

He drops his face into your neck again, groaning raggedly, lips brushing your pulse. He nuzzles hard. Then again. Then again. “You smell like I should be on my knees,” he mumbles. “You smell like you were made for this.” And then he thrusts again- deep and sudden and greedy- and you moan like you’re unraveling from the inside out.

He doesn’t stop. Not anymore. You shaved. You glowed. You wore heels and slicked your thighs and let him pull your panties off like a prize. And now he’s high. And deep. And completely fucking lost in you. He’s breathing harder now. Hot against your throat, his mouth dragging sloppily beneath your ear like he can’t get close enough. His hips are moving again- slower this time, deeper, grinding up into you like he’s trying to bury something inside you he’ll never get back.

You’re still soft everywhere. Slick and shaved and folded beneath him like a fucking dream. Legs high, heels pressing into his back, your skirt still on. His high has shifted- warped. Whatever was burning behind his eyes earlier has melted down now, poured into his chest, his stomach, the base of his spine. Into you. And he twitches. You feel it- his cock pulsing deep inside. His whole body stutters.

“Fuck,” he chokes, voice raw. You blink up at him, lips parted, skin dewy. One heel digs in. He jerks. His hand slides down your thigh again. Slow. Reverent. “I’m not even high on the coke anymore,” he murmurs. “You- this- you’re what’s making me twitch like that.” You bite your lip. His eyes are glassy. Half-lidded. Locked on your mouth like it’s dripping honey.

“Swear to God,” he pants, grinding once more. “You got me higher than anything I’ve ever snorted.” Your breath catches. His hips stutter again. He groans- low, desperate, ruined. “Never felt this fucked,” he whispers, leaning in like a confession. “Not in my life.”He shifts one hand between your bodies, thumbing your clit now- slow, easy flicks in time with the lazy drag of his hips.

“You made me feel it,” he groans. “Every inch. Every twitch. I can’t even see straight.” And then he thrusts harder- once, deep, sharp enough to make your legs jolt on his shoulders. Your heel slips. He catches it and presses your ankle flat against his chest. Doesn’t even blink. “You did this,” he hisses, jaw clenched, sweat dripping. “You fucking did this to me.”

His thrusts speed up now, just slightly. Still deep. Still dragging. Still worshiping. But the edge is cracking. He’s losing it. Losing it on you. And all you can do is take it. Because right now? He’s never felt more alive. And you- shaved, soft, glowing, glossy- you’re the reason he can’t feel his own fucking name anymore.

Your moan cracks- split wide at the center, glossy and high, broken around the sudden fullness. One of your heels has slipped, dangling now by nothing but the arch of your foot, the strap loose, the tension gone. But his hand’s already there- fast, greedy- palming your ankle like he felt it before he saw it. Like the idea of you losing even one inch of that red-gloss fuck-me heel was unacceptable.

He doesn’t let it fall. No. He catches it mid-slip, fingers firm, pressing your leg flat against his chest like he’s claiming it. Like he’s pinning you in place with the weight of his body and the fever in his blood. You watch his eyes drop. The way he stares at your ankle, at the trembling line of your leg, at the shoe still clinging on like a promise. “Fuck,” he breathes, voice shot through with something ragged. “Look at you.”

His thrusts keep coming- slower now, but deeper, meaner. He’s hitting something sharp and soft and shattering, and it’s making your spine flex off the bed. The heel shifts with every push, teasing the edge of falling again. He groans- animal and cracked- and bows over your body, chest dragging over your knees, hand still braced around your ankle like he might snap.

“Feel like I’m fucking a goddamn stripper,” he mutters, and it’s not an insult- it’s reverent, ruined. He sounds worshipful. “Little heels shaking. Pretty pussy pulling me in. All glossed up like you wanna be ruined.” Your mouth falls open. You can’t speak. You’re too hot- too slick- too gone.

“You wear this shit for fun,” he pants, rocking into you again. “Or you practice? Get all dressed up in your room like a slut onstage and ride your own hand thinking about me?” You choke on it. The image. The implication. The truth in it.

“You like being watched, huh?” he hisses against your shin, nuzzling the line just above your knee like he might bite. “You like looking like this. Your heel is hanging off. Your skirt is still on. Like a fucking routine.” You whimper- gutted by the pace now, the weight of his hips, the way he uses your legs to drag you down onto his cock over and over like you’re the one moving, like your body’s working for him.

“You gonna tip me next?” he spits out, teeth grazing your calf. “Or just come like a good little bitch on my dick?” Your hips jolt- fucked from every direction. His mouth. His hands. His words. Your heel slips again. This time? He lets it fall. And then he slams back in.

He thrusts again- deep, sharp, slow enough to feel in your ribs. Your legs jolt where they hang over his shoulders, and one of your heels slips off. It drops to the floor with a soft clack, but you barely register it. Not when he catches your ankle, presses it flat against his chest, keeps it there like he wants to feel the drag of your foot on his skin while he fucks you.

His hips keep moving. But his mouth? His mouth is buried in your neck again. Sniffing. Inhaling. And you knew. Of course, you knew. The second one of those girls mentioned he’d been upstairs for too long- fidgeting, zoning out, pacing between rooms like he could hear colors- you knew. You knew what he was on. You knew what kind of high he’d be riding when you walked up those stairs.

But you came anyway. You knew he’d be hungry. Twitchy. Barely holding on. You wanted him like this. “Fuck,” he groans, slurred and wrecked, “that smell- fuck, I can’t get enough of it- ” His nose presses harder to your skin like he’s trying to snort you. His whole body trembles with it. His thrusts start to falter- not from weakness, but from overload.

“Put it on every inch of you, didn’t you?” he mutters, dizzy. “Sprayed it where you knew I’d end up- fuck, baby, it’s in my head now- ” His nose drags along your collarbone. Then lower. Across your chest. The curve of your breast. You arched for him minutes ago- moaned, opened, took everything he gave- and now he’s barely thrusting, just rocking into you while his mouth nuzzles between your tits.

You bite your lip. He’s sniffing you. “You wore that shit on purpose,” he mutters. His voice is hoarse. Dazed. “You knew what it would do to me.” You hum softly, glossy mouth parted, eyes half-lidded. “Yeah,” you whisper. “I knew.” His hips stutter. He moans- low, desperate- and you feel it. That twitch inside you. That snap of overstimulation and hunger all tangled together.

“I’m- ” He grinds into you, harder. “I’m not even high anymore.” You blink slowly. Smile faintly. “Yeah, you are.” He groans again, louder this time. His fingers grip your thighs like he’s bracing himself, like he’s trying not to say something feral. Then he dips his face lower, over your ribs, down your stomach. Just to breathe. Just to smell you. The perfume. The gloss. The lotion. The sweat. All of it- layered, warmed, sweet.

“You smell better than the coke,” he mutters. Your smile sharpens. “Tastes better too, I bet.” He chokes on a sound. Thrusts again, harder. You yelp. Your back arches off the bed, your second heel slipping off, legs bare now, spread wide with your skirt still on and his cock grinding deep inside you. “You did this on purpose,” he breathes. “You- fucking- designed this.”

You don’t deny it. His hands slide over your hips. Your waist. Your thighs. Everywhere you’re soft. Everywhere you’re glowing. He’s not fucking anymore- he’s scenting. He’s worshipping. His mouth pressed under your jaw like it’s a drug. “You gonna let me keep you?” he whispers, voice wrecked. “You gonna let me fuck you again tomorrow?” You smile, open-mouthed now. “You gonna remember this?”And he just groans. Loud. Broken.

“Not if I keep sniffing your skin like this,” he rasps. “Fuck. You make me feel higher.” You wrap your arms around his shoulders. Anchor him in. Let him lose it right there against your throat. He’s coked out. Pussy-drunk. Fucked to hell. And the worst part? You like him better this way. You don’t even know what the fuck this is anymore. It’s not sex. It’s not even fucking.

It’s some feral, brainrotted meltdown of two overstimulated strangers huffing each other like they’re made of gasoline and haven’t lit a cigarette in weeks. He’s buried inside you. Slick to the base. Rocking slow and deep- like every thrust is calculated, like he’s carving your shape into his cock for later. Your skirt’s still on. One heel’s still strapped. The other’s god knows where. He’s got your ankle pinned to his chest, and he’s not even fucking looking at you anymore.

He’s scenting you. He’s nose-deep in your neck, groaning every time he inhales like he’s chasing a high he already burned through ten minutes ago. And the worst part? You did this. You did all of it. Shaved your whole body. Spent hours on your skin. Lotions, oils, the pheromones- behind your knees, between your tits, inside your fucking thighs. You scrubbed yourself raw like prep for a fucking exorcism. Like your pussy needed to smell like heaven and hell at once.

And now look at him. Coked out and feral, grinding into you like his dick’s chasing a signal from god. He pants into your skin. Mouth open. Nose dragging across your chest. “Fucking… fuck- you reek of sex,” he slurs, “your whole fucking body’s dripping in it- I can’t- ” His voice breaks.

He licks up the center of your sternum like he’s tasting the air. And he doesn’t even realize he’s moaning while he does it. “Smell like pussy and perfume and fuckin’ filth,” he mumbles into your skin. “It’s- fuck- it’s like you bottled up every wet dream I’ve ever had and marinated yourself in it.”

You laugh. Or try to. It comes out broken, wet. Your thighs twitch where they’re hooked over his shoulders, his cock dragging your guts with every slow thrust like he’s memorizing the inside of you. “I did,” you whisper. “You think this is an accident?” He grunts. You dig your nails into his back. “I made myself for this. Every inch.”

“You- fuck- fuck- ” he stutters, hips jackknifing forward, desperate now. “You don’t get it. You don’t get what you’ve done.” You do. He’s gone. He’s drenched in it. In sweat and slick, and your scent all over his mouth and chest. His body’s twitching like his nervous system is buffering. He’s mumbling into your skin, grinding deeper, making pathetic, strung-out noises like his dick is connected to his brainstem.

You can feel it- how fucked he is. How fucking high. How obsessed. “You’re worse than coke,” he gasps, pressing his face into your neck again, rutting into you like a fucking animal. “I’m still hard- I’m still high- I don’t even need another bump, baby, just let me keep fucking this perfect pussy- ” You moan. Loud. Legs shaking now. “You want me forever?” you pant, breath ragged. “You gonna edge yourself to this for the rest of your life?”

“Yes,” he groans, voice cracked. “Fucking yes, I’ll ruin myself on you. I’ll keep your panties in my mouth, I’ll sniff your sheets- anything- just don’t fucking stop- ” His thrusts stutter. He’s close. You know it by the way his mouth goes slack, by the way his hands tighten like he needs to mark you to make sure it’s real. Like he’s trying to fuck the proof of you into his bloodstream. “You’re not even a girl,” he moans, drunk and glassy. “You’re a drug. You’re porn. You’re filth. You’re- fuck- you’re everything I’ve ever jerked off to, and now you’re fucking real- ”

You let him spiral. You wrap your legs tighter. Let the heel scrape against his back. Let him go down, sloppy and strung-out, leaking down your thighs while he twitches inside you and buries his nose back into your neck like he’d rather die there than ever leave.

You don’t even feel human anymore. Just slick skin and parted lips, all holes and heat and desperation. Gloss long gone. Hair wrecked. Skirt bunched at your waist like a ribbon on a gift he hasn’t finished opening. You’re still on your back, thighs sticky, your bare feet dragging along the sheets with every snap of his hips.

Your brain? Gone. You burned it off hours ago- in the shower, in the mirror, on your knees in front of that Pinterest board like it was porn. You shaved until your skin felt holy. You exfoliated like a sinner. Lotioned like you were begging to be fingered. Drenched yourself in pheromones and pressed perfume behind your knees just in case he noticed.

And he noticed. He fucking noticed. His mouth is on your neck again, groaning into your skin like it’s soaked in something addictive, like you’re the drug that’s eating his brain. “You like how I smell?” you whisper, dazed, pretty, and rotted. “You like what I did for you?”

His hips stutter. You moan like you’ve been trained to. Head thrown back. Voice is high, fake, and filthy. Your mouth is still wet, your cheeks pink, and your chest flushed all the way down. “I got ready just to get ruined,” you babble, fingers digging into the sheets. “I shaved everything. Everything. I fucking lotioned my ankles- who does that?”

He growls. You giggle. “I’m so fucking soft,” you whimper. “So smooth. So ready. Please- fuck me like I’m nothing. Like I spent hours getting ready just to be your mess.” He thrusts harder. You squeal. “Please,” you gasp, “please- I want your cum on my thighs. I want it in my fucking belly. I want it to ruin the lotion, the serum- I want you to fuck me until I’m ugly- ”

He’s losing it. He’s gripping your thighs like he’ll keep them when this is over. Biting your shoulder like it’s candy-coated. Still fucking you like he’s trying to reach your throat. “You did this for me?” he mutters, high and gone the fuck out.

You nod so fast it’s pathetic. “Yes. Yes. Please.” It sounds wrecked already, whined straight through your open mouth like it’s the only thing you’ve ever been sure of. Your thighs are shaking where they wrap around his waist, hips arching into every thrust, even though your body’s already gone soft with overstimulation, glittering with sweat and gloss and lotion you’d rubbed in with shaking hands hours ago.

His breath catches- then he laughs. Low. Disbelieving. Like the high is still peaking, and you just knocked it sideways. “Shit,” he says, right into your mouth. “You’re sicker than I thought.” He presses his palm to your cheek and turns your face toward him. His pupils are blown wide, his nose still a little raw, lips bitten. He looks like he could come just from looking at you like this- ruined, glowing, glossy with spit and sweat and effort. All of it just for him.

“Know what I want now?” he murmurs, breath ghosting your mouth. His hips are still moving, slow and deep, like he’s fucking every word into you. “Next time I see you- I want you high.” Your whole body tightens. “Yeah,” he breathes, “I want you all the way gone for me. Dumb as hell. Pretty little thing in this same skirt, makeup all fucked, drooling on my cock while I ask you if you even remember how to speak.”

You moan without meaning to, sharp, cracked, soaking straight through the next thrust. “Fuck,” he groans, “that’s it. That’s what I want. You are all slippery, sweet, and brainless, smelling like lotion and begging me to use you. I’ll lay you out right here, heels still on, dumb smile on your face, and fuck you until you cry.”

You gasp. Arch. Whimper. “And you’d let me, wouldn’t you?” he whispers, eyes locked on your mouth. “You’d show up high. Glazed out and glowing. You’d let me feed it to you, so that you could fall apart in my lap.” You nod, again, too fast, too desperate.

“I’d pet you the whole time,” he keeps going, breath hot against your jaw, hips grinding deeper, slower now, like he’s savoring every inch. “Tell you how pretty you are while you shake. Tell you I’m proud while you whimper around my cock and forget what day it is.” You’re not even blinking.

“You’d look so good like that,” he says, almost dreamily now. “So soft. So perfect. Just mine. Just something I get to keep.” You make a sound. Choked. Shattering. And he groans. Deep, guttural, like your body just drugged him harder than anything he snorted upstairs.

“I’m not even high anymore,” he pants, thrusts harder, sharper, lips dragging over your collarbone. “You’re doing more to me than the coke did. You’re- fuck, baby, you’re better than anything I’ve ever tasted.” You don’t even answer. You don’t need to.

Because when he fucks back in again, when he chokes on your name and grabs your hips like he can’t bear to pull out- you snap. Right there. Legs twitching, skirt hiked up, chest gleaming, mouth open in something that isn’t even a word. And he keeps going. Keeps moving.

Keeps pressing his face to your throat like he’s trying to brand you with the scent of yourself. Because in this room, right now, with your thighs shaking and your voice gone? You’re the high. And he’s not planning on coming down.

Fingers splayed like he’s trying to feel the shape of himself through your skin, like he needs proof that he’s that deep. Each thrust sends another ripple through your body- your back arches, your cunt pulses, your hands scrabble for something to hold that isn’t his sweat-slicked shoulders. He’s panting against your throat now, lips open, nose buried in your skin like he can’t stop smelling you.

“You feel that?” he mutters- voice rough, breath shallow, still twitching inside you. “That’s me. That’s my dick, baby. Right there in your guts.” You moan, cracked and glossy, head thrown back into the pillow. You can feel everything- his cock dragging against every swollen nerve, the heat of his palm on your stomach, the mess building between your legs. It’s wet. It’s filthy. The room smells like sex and lotion and Victoria’s Secret and him.

He rocks forward again- deeper this time, like he’s pushing for your lungs. “You fucking did this,” he says, dragging his mouth down your jaw. “You showed up dripping. Soft. Waxed. Smelling like I’m supposed to own you.” You whimper. It’s pathetic. It’s perfect.

“I wanted to,” you breathe. “I wanted you to see it. Smell it. Lose your fucking mind.” He groans- shattered and low, mouth grazing your collarbone like he’s trying to keep himself upright by scent alone. “You shaved your whole pussy for me,” he mutters. “Lotioned every inch. Put that fuck-me perfume on your knees like you knew I’d be here.” You nodded to every word. “I did,” you whisper. “I knew.”

“You made yourself into a fucktoy and walked in like a fantasy.” His cock twitches inside you. Your body clenches. His breath stutters. “I almost came just smelling you,” he says, delirious now. “You smell better than coke. Sweeter. Dirtier. I swear to God I could shoot a load just from licking your skin.”

You’re soaking him. You know it. He knows it. His thighs are slick from it, and your cunt is sucking him back in every time he pulls out like your body can’t fucking bear to let go. “Can I keep you?” he rasps. “Keep you around? Fuck you like this every time I need it?”

You don’t answer- your mouth is too slack, your brain too soft. All you can do is moan, a helpless, high-pitched sound, and grind your hips up into his cock like you’re trying to make it stay. He grins, manic and gone, and rocks forward hard, deep enough that your legs jolt on either side of his body. “I’ll text you,” he breathes. “I’ll text you and you’ll come running. Pretty and shaved and soaked and smelling like this.”

You moan again. You nod. You’d say yes if you had words left. “You’re gonna ruin me,” he groans. “Gonna make me start jerking off to the memory of your thighs.” His hand slips lower, finds your clit, rubs slow and wet and mean.

“I want to see you high next time,” he mutters, voice wrecked. “Want you gooned out for me. Mouth open, legs spread, dumb and desperate. Want to fuck you when you can’t even blink straight.” You gasp- sharp, broken. Your thighs shake. Your nails claw down his back.

“I want you like this every fucking time,” he says, fingers still working, cock still driving into you like he owns it. “Wet and dumb and pretty. Giggling for me. Slick all over. Fucking perfect.” You clench once, tight, hard, and you break.

Your body seizes around him, cunt spasming, eyes fluttering as the orgasm rips through you hard enough to make you sob. Your hands fist the sheets. Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. He groans- long, raw, low- and fucks through it, hard and fast and shallow now, chasing his own. Then he’s spilling inside you.

It hits hot- thick and messy, deep in your cunt, his hips pressing flush to yours as he keeps grinding, keeps moaning, keeps breathing like you’re the air keeping him alive. His body shudders above you. His mouth finds your neck again. “You’re fucking addictive,” he breathes. “I’m not gonna be able to quit this.”

𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓© 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒𝐎𝐅𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍

𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝

[megumimania]

shoko suguru and satoru were all in love with each other go argue with the wall

[megumimania]

spoil my girl

who? penelope garcia x rich girl!reader summary: you can't help but spoil a sweet girl like penelope, and this time, she's adamant about repaying your generosity content warnings: smut, masturbation, fingering, sex toys, implied sugar relationship, no use of y/n, nsfw, 18+ only, minors dni word count: 2.1k author's note: thanks to @minswriting for giving me a great premise, and rihanna's 'loud' album for getting me through this fic, as well as this playlist by meg to help me get into the right headspace. dividers by @saradika-graphics happy pride xx

You knew you had to have her the second you laid your eyes on her; this beautiful woman with blonde curls, blue fading on the tips of her hair, adorned with a large flower clipped to the side, chunky rings adorning manicured fingers, a dark dress bespeckled with splashes of colour, hugging her curves.

The amount of things in her hand is a disaster in the making — her bright yellow thermos, her keys, her wallet and her phone, a large purse dangling from the crook of her elbow — and she isn’t looking as she tries to put her wallet back in her purse without dropping anything, and it’s as if you knew what was going to happen before it happened.

Her phone buzzed, startling her, then block heels stumbled on a chair, the thermos close to overturning when you rushed to brace her, which kept her from falling, but not from her iced frappe spilling all over her dress. “Shit!” she cried out, staring at herself, ice cold liquid and whipped cream staining her dress.

You can feel the other patrons staring at the both of you and you huffed internally — people really had nothing better to do than watch a girl’s misfortune. The woman’s close to tears as she dropped everything on the table you were standing at, grabbing at paper napkins to clean herself up. “Why don’t we head to the bathroom?” you asked, your voice soft and kind and she nodded, fighting back tears. You scooped up all your things as well as hers, guiding her to the public bathroom, leaving it on the side while the woman grabbed rolls of paper towels to clean herself up.

“God, this just had to happen the day I’m running late,” the woman muttered, wiping herself dry while you fought the urge to stare, counting bathroom tiles instead.

“Murphy’s Law, right?” you asked dryly. “Everything that can go wrong will go wrong.”

“You sound like one of my co-workers,” the woman huffed, glancing at you, and actually took you in — sharply dressed, simple but expensive… “I’m Penelope,” she said, watching you smile warmly.

“Well, Penelope, I hate to see a dress that vibrant ruined,” you said, your voice as soft as silk. “So, how about we get you a new dress, and I can get that dry-cleaned for you?”

“Oh.” She flushed. Adorable. “That’s nice. You’re nice, like really nice, but I’m running super late—”

“It happens,” you countered, tilting your head to look at her. “And I’m sure your boss would rather you come into work without wearing your coffee. Let them know you’re running late, and I’ll take care of the rest. I’ll be waiting out front.”

You deliver your promise in a way that exceeds expectations, driving her home in a sparkling Mercedes that has her internally squealing and also stressing about spoiling the seat, and a fresh frappe in her hand, cutting through lanes to avoid traffic with the radio on. Once at her apartment, you entertain all her caffeine-powered rambling with a small, amused smile as she changed behind a screen, throwing on an entirely new colour-coordinated outfit, and you take the coffee-stained dress in the paper bag she gives you.

A few days later, Penelope came back to her apartment to find her dress dry-cleaned in an outfit bag, and a card with your number on it, laid on her bed by a neighbour who kept a spare key. She sent you a text, thanking you, before settling on her bed and stalking you, her curiosity getting the better of her, and once she figures out your net worth, she slammed her laptop shut, eyes wide.

Her phone buzzed, with a text from you.

You: You’re very welcome.

Penelope swallowed, staring at the text from quite possibly the wealthiest person she knew.

Penelope: How can I make it up to you?

She tried not to think of the last bank account statement she’d been sent, watching the text bubble from you.

You: How about dinner with me? Friday, 7pm?

It hadn’t been done on purpose, and Penelope was in no way using you for your money — in fact, you had been the one to insist on the little gifts. Bracelets that reminded you of her, prescription sunglasses after a vague mention that she was missing a pair in a specific colour, getting more expensive the longer the relationship blossomed. It graduated from little trinkets and flowers to branded bags and precious jewellery, and had finally hit the peak when Penelope had a brand new Mac desktop sent to her office, with a note written in your loopy handwriting — ‘So you don’t have to crane your neck.’

Penelope tried to bring up in conversation at a dinner, but you had simply charmed her out of her discomfort, delicate hands on her hips. “Why have the money if I can’t spoil my favourite girl?” you’d asked, with that stunning smile that made her heart stutter. It always felt like Penelope was floating on cloud nine around you, especially when you brought her gorgeous lingerie in exactly her size, lacy little numbers that made her curves pop and nightrobes that made her feel like a princess in your silk sheets.

She’d never felt more taken care of, and yet all Penelope wanted to do was find a way to return the favour, no matter how many times you assured her that you weren’t doing any favours. It came to her when you were out of town on business, a networking thing for your advertising firm, on the same night she wasn’t working her cute butt off in the BAU.

That was definitely all it was, she told herself, putting on a Rihanna CD and preparing to take an everything shower with candles. Not that she missed the way you touched her like she was something fragile, or the way your eyes tracked every curve of her body as if it was her possession. But no amount of delusion could stop her imagining they way you’d unmake her, gently taking her jewellery off and placing it in the hot pink organiser you’d bought for her, or your slender hands taking the pins and clips out of her blonde curls and running through them, gently untangling knots with care. Brushing it aside to place soft kisses on plush skin, slowly unzipping the back of her dress, like it was something precious. That’s why she sends you that first video, making you almost choke on the champagne at the networking party, instantly lowering the brightness on your phone. To repay the favour.

Penelope: Miss you so much tonight <3

You closed your eyes, sighing, torn between telling her off and disappearing out the nearest exit and back to her hotel suite.

You: Are you trying to get me fired?? You: I can’t believe you wear that pretty a bra to work.

Penelope bit her lower lip, grinning as she ran her bath, one hand checking the water temperature, the other holding her phone, wearing a silk kimono.

Penelope: You know you’re the only one who gets to see it ;) You: God, I wish you were here tonight. You: The things I’d do to you in my hotel room… Penelope: Well, in your absence, I’ll just have to make do with what I have.

You groaned at the message, having to put your phone away for a moment and drain another glass of champagne. Meanwhile, Penelope was busy filming another little video of herself, involving bubbles, candles, rose petals, and a vibrator, laying back in your bathtub, the phone set up on a wall-mount.

She started by touching herself to the R&B music, closing her eyes and imagining your touch, how you’d let her rest her back against yours, and caressed her neck, down her collarbone to her heavy breasts. Her breath grew shallower as she squeezed one, fingers brushing over her nipple, the other starting to rub her thigh.

If she opened her eyes, she could see the disheveled mess she was becoming, with heaving breaths and lidded eyes, flower petals sticking to her glistening body. She desperately wanted you here, eliciting breathy gasps with your lips against her shoulder, touching her exactly the way she was, murmuring sweet endearments that she could only echo in her head.

She started running her perfectly manicured hand through her folds, enveloped in hot bubbly water, her thighs sticking out, a foot against the edge of the tub. She let out a low moan as she slid her fingers over her sensitive nub, aching for you. It was only a couple of days ago that your head was between her thighs, gripping her legs wide as your tongue swirled in that magic way that sent rivulets of cum dripping between your lips. Her fingers couldn’t do you justice, but it did the job, Penelope’s first orgasm leaving her half-sated, like warm honey-like relief releasing the coil that had been building. She took a few moments to catch her breath, drying her hands and sitting up to crop the end of the video and sending it to you.

All it took was the thumbnail of Penelope in the bath that forced you to leave the party early, faking sick to cut across a few blocks and into a hotel, and sitting at a table as you watched the whole thing. The funny thing was how your hips automatically started rutting against the chair to the video, watching your girlfriend get off.

You: Christ, you look gorgeous. My gorgeous, gorgeous girl. You: I want to touch you so bad…

Just sending those two messages had taken every ounce of cognition you had left, but one look at Penelope’s beautiful curves had sent you over the edge, rocking against the plush edge of the chair.

While you were still on the way to your first orgasm, replaying Penelope’s video, your girlfriend had moved on to her toys, recording herself as she dipped her finger into her dripping hole, both from her first orgasm and the bathwater, sliding it in with a soft gasp. It was an intoxicating sight, her perfect plush lips splitting apart, where you would have slid your fingers in, or kissed her, as her finger probed at her g-spot, then curled, just about as slow as you would have gone.

The next finger slid in after that, Penelope’s free hand gripping the edge of the bathtub as her hole stretched to accommodate her fingers. She kept stroking, curling her fingers against that sweet spot, groaning and shifting her hips in water that was growing cooler by the second, incentivising her to finish quicker, crying out your name, until her hand couldn’t work without cramping.

Which meant she was twisting in the tub to reach for her toys, a beautifully long pink dildo that had served her well in the past, that she slowly slid inside her, sinking lower into the water with a groan, hitting just the right spot. The best grip she could maintain was the edge of the tub, instead of your hips, or your hands, as she moved the toy in a slow easy rhythm.

She missed you so much as she touched herself, trying to get back that initial pressure to peak. She missed the way you’d play with her hair, crooning soft things in her ear, about how pretty she was, how you could touch her all day, all while pumping a strap-on inside her, turning her into a soaked, speechless, whining, writhing mess. And so she’s muttering profanities and moaning, the bubbles starting to dissipate as she came for a second time, her toes curling, hips arching uselessly as she thrust the dildo against her g-spot, letting slip a ‘Jesus fucking Christ’ as she pulled it out.

She waited to catch her breath, sliding back in the thumb, the cool water soothing against her over-heated body, slick with water and a little sweat on her brow, before eventually drying off and draining the tub.

Penelope finally lay back in your silk sheets, wearing a feathery pink robe, and all tucked up in your champagne coloured duvet, trimming her ‘short film’ before sending it.

Penelope: Something for you to dream about <3

By the time you got the message, you’d taken a hot shower and settling into bed in your own simple cotton pyjamas.

You: Jesus Christ, woman, do not make me hop on a red-eye and come find you.

Penelope’s grinning at your text, curled up in bed like a lovesick teenager.

Penelope: Is that a promise? You: A fantasy. But you’re definitely coming more than twice when I get you alone. You: That’s a promise.

The anticipation of your return leaves a flutter in her chest, as she inhales the scent of your perfume on the pillows.

Penelope: I’m holding you to that.

And with that, she clicked her phone off, setting the bejewelled device aside (with a brand new cover paid by yours truly), turned out the light, and closed her eyes, wondering if you would dream of her like she was bound to.

comments and reblogs appreciated xx

[megumimania]

SKYLINE TO

synopsis: finding a random dvd sends you spiralling down memory lane

vi’s notes: i just finished high school and wrote this so yeah! inspired by this song!

you stumble across it when you’re done packing up the rest of your dorm room.

you notice that the writing is scratchy and illegible, it must be shoko’s handwriting you think to yourself, admiring the fact that she’s already succumbed to the terrible fate of doctors handwriting already despite her just being in her second year of med school.

the dvd cover is blank and you’re intrigued, excited to see what you are about to uncover. you blow the dust off the cd, slotting the dvd into the dvd player. in minutes the screen illuminates and the familiar building you know all too well appears.

jujutsu tech is draped in banners and balloons and you can faintly make out the wording on the banner. ‘congratulations class of 2007!’ it reads, before the camera moves and zooms in on a familiar duo. gojo and geto fixing each other's caps before breaking into their usual playfight, making you groan.

your initial feelings of laughter subsides as the immense amount of dread settles in your stomach. now through much older and perceptive eyes, you finally look at him and you nearly want to kick yourself. he was wasting away in front of your eyes and you were too caught up to know.

geto looks more gaunt, his cheeks looking razor sharp. the life in his eyes replaced by a sullen expression that he tries to hide behind the smiles that never reach his eyes. his hair though in his signature man bun is more messy, lacking the meticuluousness that it once had.

as if the camera knows of your upset, there is a cut to one of the classrooms in jujutsu tech. you're all asked one by one what you're gonna do once leaving the college whilst you all know deep down that you'll end up serving the jujutsu world in one way or another, you pretend.

pretend that you have the whole world ready to explore at your fingertips like the biggest issues you all face is what universities you're attending and not the issue trying to fight a rising amount of curses unbeknownst to the rest of humanity, for the betterment of the greater good.

shoko speaks up first. "when i leave this place, im going straight to med school to become a doctor." this is met with some whoops and clapping mainly by the two idiots beside you.

"shoko can i get free healthcare?" gojo butts in, to which geto responds "you literally have your own private family doctor asshole. how greedy can you get satoru?" he slaps the upside of satoru's head with rolled up newspaper. the softness in his voice creeping in with the use of gojo's first name.

then the camera then cuts to you. your cap is slightly tilted and your hair peeks out from your cap, you look radiant as ever with your sunkissed skin and your glossy lips. a sight for sore eyes.

"when i leave this place, im going to the university of tokyo." you answer confidently. nanami who is behind the camera asks "what are you going to study?" his question stemming from pure genuine intrigue rather than with disdain from the higher ups, makes you feel less defensive about your choice. "psychology." you reply with a slight smile.

"sweet, so we get our own personal doctor and a shrink!" gojo enthuses, snacking on some sweets that he fishes out from his pockets. geto rolls his eyes at gojo and you throw a book at gojo that doesn't hit him because of his stupid infinity. "watch your mouth." you warn but it's more teasing, more playful.

gojo goes next and surprises everyone with what he wants to do when he leaves jujutsu tech. "a teacher?" shoko splutters, mild surprise evident on her usual impassive face. "when did you suddenly turn into mother theresa?"

geto who is currently occupied making origami cranes using scrap paper adds, "you were always so tight about helping others. i mean instead of helping ijichi to become a better sorcerer you literally told him to quit." gojo shrugs, "i saved his life and he knows that deep down. if no one told him to quit, he'd be toast by now."

gojo's tirade on his future, is sped up a little bit and you smile figuring that he probably went on a rant about digimon and it's future, which was what he did his final english examination on. even though his topic strayed from the recommended list of topics the examination board provided he still got an A, which you remember pissed shoko and geto off for weeks.

speaking of geto, his dulcet rich voice is what draws you out of your brief nostalgia trip. "i'm going on a gap year." this piques the interest of you all, who grow quiet at first before running over to annoy him. "don't die on us okay! we can't deal with gojo on our own!" you and shoko wail out as you pull him every which way.

the camera picks up on gojo sulking in the corner with nanami's giggles being heard in the back. "quit being a baby, satoru." he says after breaking free from you and shoko's grasp. "you'll be able to live without me just fine."

the video abruptly ends there because a ball that was meant to hit shoko ends up hitting the camera instead, tilting it off the window ledge. gojo got that camera as a gift from his parents for doing his exams. "my mom is so gonna kill me." is the last words the camera picks up before it descends into darkness.

it is then followed by a three minute montage of pictures accumulated from the three years that you spent at the college. looking back at your round faced wide eyed selves grow into the individuals you are today, hardened by the tough conditions you grew up in is quite bittersweet.

tears brim your eyes as you stare at the black tv screen now, faced with a reflection of yourself that is now older, more wiser.

you pull out the crumpled piece of paper from the couch. you smoothen out the piece of paper, looking at him. it's a dated picture but you assume he looks the same, the haggard hair, the oversized clothing, his eyes that are now dark pools of hatred.

"some people go on gap years to find themselves and you wound up a mass murderering cult leader on the run." you let out a hollow laugh, unsure if its one of anger or despair. the bold red letters of death warrant written in bold above his head glare at you.

you kept the dvd and the glimpse of suguru in box marked as fragile.

fitting it seemed, the way you were still touchy about his defection said it all. you weren’t ready to let go of who suguru was and embrace who he is now.

but maybe one day you could.

[megumimania]