#I don’t CARE that they’re not from the same game

[lexiputellas]

The Real Victory

You’re horny. Like, dangerously horny.

Alexia is on the pitch, locked into the Champions League match against Manchester City. She lost the last game, and you know how badly she wants this one. You should be focused too. Supportive. Cheering.

But you're six months pregnant and your entire body is buzzing.

And all you can think about is her.

Not the game. Not the score.

Just her

The way her thighs flex when she sprints, thick and powerful. The way her brow furrows when she’s concentrating, that sharp little frown. The way her hands settle on her hips when something doesn’t go her way, fuck.That posture alone sends a direct electric shock to your clit, like a livewire.

It’s unbearable.

You can’t hear the crowd. You barely notice the plays. It’s just her, her, her.

“Oh, that ref is shit. He should’ve called that a foul,” Alba mutters beside you, snapping you out of your haze.

“What?” you blink.

“The ref,” she says, nodding at the pitch.

“Oh. Right. Yeah,” you say, pretending to care. She’s already turned back to the game.

But you? You’re dying.

This feeling is consuming you, melting you from the inside out. You feel like you’re going to burst. Your hands are clenched in your lap, trying to behave, but your legs keep pressing together. You're sweating under your dress, soaked through your underwear, every shift in your seat making you want to whimper.

You can't take it anymore.

You grab your phone and open Alexia’s contact, fingers trembling as you type:

— if after 30 minutes of the game you don’t fuck me and give me at least 2 orgasms i will expose you to the internet. i’m not joking. i’m feral.

You hit send.

She won’t read it now, obviously. But when she gets back to the locker room, when she finally checks her phone, you want her to know what she did to you.

You type again:

— i’m a mess. i’m so wet it’s probably running through my dress and dripping onto the fucking seats. this is 100% your fault.

You stare at the screen, your heart pounding harder than the crowd’s chants.

Final whistle.

Barça wins.

The stadium erupts. People are screaming, waving flags. Fireworks. Hugs. Applause.

You don't care.

Finale. They’re going to the goddamn finale.

And all you want is her.

All you want is home

All you want is to be touched.

You turn to Alba. “Let’s go.”

She glances at you, a little surprised. “Already?”

“Help me up.”

She does, and you wobble a bit, pregnant belly leading the way. You make your way to the VIP lounge and ask for a bottle of water. Your heart is racing like you played 90 minutes.

“You having dinner with us?” you ask Alba casually, your brain screaming please say no please say no please say no—

“I don’t think so, actually. I promised Julia I’d have dinner with her tonight. Been a while.”

YES.

“Oh, okay,” you say, masking the desperate joy clawing at your throat. “I just thought—”

“I’m sorry!” she smiles. “We can have dinner later this week.”

You nod, but your mind is elsewhere. All you can think is: Where the fuck is Alexia?

Why is she not here yet? Is she still giving interviews? Talking to people? Laughing with teammates while you’re over here throbbing?

Then, finally, she walks through the doors.

Oh.

Oh fuck.

Your entire body clenches. She looks so fucking good. Post-game glow, loose ponytail, jersey stuck to her skin, thighs still tense from running. She’s flushed. Confident. Unreal.

You bite your lip. Hard. Press your thighs together again.

You love her. You hate her. You want to murder her and climb her at the same time.

“Oi, bebé,” she murmurs, kissing your cheek, arms wrapping around you.

You give her a dry peck back, but your eyes are blazing. She hugs Alba next.

“Hey, you coming to dinner?”

“Oh, can’t. Was just waiting for you to show up. I’ve got plans.”

“Okay,” Alexia nods. Alba leaves.

“Dinner out or do you want to order in?” she asks, turning to you with that too-casual tone.

“Order,” you narrow your eyes. She was really about to take you to a restaurant like she didn’t just read those texts? Is she insane?

Then again, she is insane. She's mean. She's hot. She’s yours. So so yours.

“Okay, let’s go,” she says, grabbing your purse and holding out her hand.

You walk with her, past a few teammates. She says her goodbyes. Opens the car door for you. Puts her gear in the trunk. Starts the engine.

She’s humming along to the song on the radio. Calm. Collected.

You look at her. Really look.

What kind of monster leaves their pregnant, needy, drenched wife like this?

The way her fingers grip the wheel. The muscles in her forearms. The little furrow of concentration on her brow.

It’s criminal.

“What?” she says suddenly, catching your stare.

“You’re so mean,” you mutter, crossing your arms.

“What? How am I mean?”

“You read the messages. And you chose to ignore me. You ignored your pregnant, unholy, unsatisfied wife”

“I didn’t ignore you,” she smirks. “I just wanted to see when you’d break.”

“When I’d— WHAT KIND OF MONSTER SAYS THAT? I hate you!” you yell, dramatic and breathless.

“No, you don’t.”

“Yes I do! I hate you so much!”

She looks at you sideways, eyes dark and smug, and then slowly lets one hand slide off the wheel, straight to your thigh.

You gasp.

Her fingers press into your skin, spreading a little warmth, a little promise.

“You don’t hate me,” she says, low and certain.

And god help you, she’s right.

Her hand stays there hot, firm, steady on your thigh. Not moving. Just existing. Like a warning. Like a fucking claim.

And you're trembling.

“You don't hate me,” she says again, softer this time, almost teasing, like she already knows you're seconds from falling apart. “You’re just mad I made you wait.”

You twist toward her in your seat, glaring. “I wasn’t mad. I was dying. There’s a difference. You left me like that for ninety minutes. In public.”

“In a stadium,” she corrects, her thumb now rubbing slow, maddening circles over your skin. “While my team fought for the Champions League.”

“I fought for my life. ”

She laughs, actually laughs, and you nearly claw at her. “You think this is funny?”

“I think it’s adorable.”

“Adorable?” you nearly shriek. “I threatened you. I explicitly said two orgasms and you acted like I said two cappuccinos,”

“I saw that,” she says, grinning wider. “And the one after. The part about your dress. And the seats.”

Your mouth goes dry.

“And?” you snap, voice shaky.

She hums, dragging the tip of her fingernail up and down your thigh now. You shiver. “And I guess we’ll see if you were exaggerating.”

“I wasn’t.”

“I hope not.”

You make a noise that’s somewhere between a groan and a growl. Your hands are fisted in your lap again, trying not to beg her in traffic.

The city blurs outside the window, but all you see is her profile, focused, gorgeous, unfazed. Your whole body is throbbing and she’s just…driving. Calmly. Like you’re not about to crawl into her lap.

You glance down at her hand on your leg. Her thumb is drifting closer to the inside of your thigh now. Dangerous territory. Too close. You spread your legs slightly without thinking.

She doesn’t say anything. Just flicks her eyes toward you with a slow smirk.

You clench your fists tighter.

“You’re a menace,” you mutter.

“You married me.”

“I was tricked.”

She chuckles again, completely in control, and your pulse is in your ears. She's wearing that smug, satisfied post-match look, jersey still sticking to her skin, and all you can think about is how much you need her on you, in you, now now now.

“Alexia,” you whisper, desperate.

She exhales through her nose, leans forward to turn down the music, then returns her hand to your thighs, this time higher, much higher.

“Shhh, bebé. Almost home.”

Your hips twitch toward her.

“No, not shhh. I’m going to die,” you say breathlessly. “You’re going to have to explain to the paramedics that you edged your pregnant wife into a cardiac event.”

She grins. “I’ll just say it was hormones.”

You whimper. Actually whimper.

“You’re evil.”

“You’re so dramatic,” she says, but her voice is lower now, quieter, slipping into that tone you know means trouble.

Then she turns onto your street.

Your breathing stutters.

You’re seconds away from sobbing, from tearing the fabric of your dress apart, from climbing her while the engine’s still on. She parks the car and the moment it clicks into place, you undo your seatbelt and twist to her.

She hasn’t even opened her door yet.

You lean toward her, breath warm, hands shaking.

“I swear to God,” you whisper, “if you make me wait one more second,”

But she’s already moving. Turning to you. Hand slipping behind your neck and pulling you in for a deep, hot kiss. It hits you like fireneedy, claiming, hungry. Her tongue sweeps over yours and her fingers dig into your skin and just like that, you’re gone.

Your moan gets swallowed in her mouth.

She reaches down, pulls the lever, and shoves the driver’s seat all the way back.

Your breath catches.

“Come here,” she says, low.

“What?”

“You heard me. Come here.”

You scramble over the center console, breathless, messy, belly in the way, everything awkward and unhinged. But she helps you, strong arms around you, guiding you to straddle her lap. Her hands slide under your thighs, lifting you so you’re not too heavy, easing you down until you're sitting right against her.

The moment you're seated, your soaked center pressed against the firm muscle of her thigh, your arms around her neck, she kisses you.

Hard.

Messy.

Open-mouthed and fucking relentless.

You moan into her, rocking instinctively, already rolling your hips against her. Her hands slip up under your dress, grabbing the back of your thighs, your ass, your hips, tugging you closer until you're gasping into her mouth.

“Ale, fuck, I’m gonna explode”

She pulls back just enough to look at you, lips wet, eyes glassy.

Her hand slides between your legs. Straight under your underwear.

And when she feels how wet you are?

Her jaw clenches.

“You’re soaked.”

“I told you,” you gasp.

“Sit up,” she orders, and you barely register what she’s doing before she slides her fingers inside: slow, deep, no warning.

Your whole body jerks.

“FUCK”

Her other hand grips your hip, grounding you, holding you in place.

“You gonna ride me like you threatened to?” she breathes into your neck. “Or do I have to make you beg for it?”

You’re already moving. Hips grinding down, your belly tight against her chest, your thighs trembling with the effort.

“God, yes, yes, please, Alexia”

“You’re so desperate,” she whispers. “So messy. You wanted to come in my car so bad? Do it.”

Her fingers are already soaked, dripping, knuckles buried in your cunt as you grind against her like you’ve forgotten how to breathe. She’s letting you do the work, just watching, controlling the rhythm with the slow flex of her hand.

“You’re so fucking perfect like this,” she mutters, voice low, forehead pressed to yours. “Dripping all over me. Can you feel how wet you are?“

Your jaw drops. You moan, raw, desperate and she doesn't give you space to recover.

Her fingers curl inside you, deep and mean, rubbing against that swollen, electric spot that sends sparks flying up your spine. Her palm drags hard over your clit. Again and again and again.

You fall apart.

Your back arches, your belly tight and shaking, and then your cunt clenches down so hard on her fingers it hurts. You don’t just moan, you wail, the sound tearing from your throat like a sob. Your head tips back, body locking, thighs trembling uncontrollably.

She’s right there, whispering filth into your skin.

“That's it. Give it to me, bebé. Let me feel it. Let me feel all of it.”

You try to breathe, but your lungs won’t work. Your whole body is twitching, seized by the orgasm, soaking her wrist, her palm, the fucking seat. You’re gushing, crying, shaking in her lap like your body’s been possessed.

She holds you there through it gripping your ass with one hand, still inside you with the other, riding it out until you're limp and clinging to her.

When you finally collapse forward, she’s panting against your ear, voice rough with praise.

“Good girl,” she whispers. “You came so hard for me. Fuck.”

Your whole body buzzes. You’re not sure if you’re still crying or just breathless, but her jersey is wet with sweat, and your thighs are shaking.

“That’s one,” she says, slowly pulling her fingers out, wet, slick, obscene. She lifts them to her mouth and licks them clean while you just stare, wrecked and speechless.

Then, with a grin that’s all teeth:

“You still owe me another.”

“And I haven’t even ripped your fucking dress yet.”

[8-evil-annoying-catboys]

it’s absurd that this post is missing the real reason kids don’t play outside anymore, in america, if not other places. it’s not parental choice, really, and it’s not a culture shift towards caring more about kids’ safety. the mention of the death of community hits part of it, but the other major part that’s missing is that green spaces keep disappearing. and in places where green spaces were already scarce, kids are targeted for ‘loitering’ wherever kids used to play outside in concrete jungles. outside is incredibly hostile to everyone, but especially kids, these days.

it’s no wonder kids don’t play outside when outside is nothin but a ton of roads and 15 chain restaurants with no park or basketball court or playground within walking distance from their house, and kids with a backyard are lucky. can you blame them for staying home, and seeking out a community online to supplement their loneliness? i sure can’t. after the age of, like, 10, i was doing the same thing, and especially after i turned 13, and things weren’t as bad then as they are now.

it’s only been 11 years since i first became a teenager, and so much has changed even in that span of time, but because i was a teenager for most of that time, i saw it and i know now as an adult. i can’t blame older adults for not seeing it, if they were teens 20, 30, 40+ years ago, and they’ve been too busy with their jobs and homes and marriages to worry so much about where kids have room to play, but i’m telling you. it’s because outside is a hostile place now, throughout most of america. maybe rural kids still have green spaces to play in, but urban kids and even suburban kids don’t, really. if they do, it’s limited, and less kids play there than they did 10-20 years ago, probably due to the fact that all their other friends don’t have green spaces to play in, so they’re all playing video games online instead.

i went to my childhood neighbourhood last fall to show my boyfriend where i grew up, and i was stunned by how empty everything was. there was still the same amount of grass, most of the same trees, still a playground, but no kids. 15 years ago, on an october afternoon or even evening, there’d have been kids running around everywhere in small groups, some supervised by adults but mostly not. even at the playground, there was like, one family with ONE small child. when i was a kid, that playground ALWAYS had someone there during the day, and in the afternoons/evenings or on weekends there’d be several families and kids of all ages playing. when i was a preteen and even when i was a teenager, before moving from that neighbourhood, i’d sit on the swings with my friend and talk for hours, watching other kids run around. the place was DESERTED on a weekend afternoon last fall.

This is a legitimate and damaging cultural shift for all involved parties and it needs to be addressed.

[zyafics]

FULL THROTTLE (EXCERPT)

my submission to my lil' campaign, make rafe great again, if anyone wants to join! this is for a longer fic for biker!maybank!reader that i have yet to finish, but i love her attitude, so i fear i must share it <3

content: angst angst angst, tensionnnnn

Rafe’s trying to reach you.

He knows you’re back on the island, and for the past few days, you’ve been letting his calls go to voicemails and his texts on delivered. At this point, you should block him, but for some reason, you don’t. You tell yourself it’s because Rafe isn’t the extra effort, but you know, deep down, it’s because you don’t want to.

It’s an aggravating line to dance on.

Rafe hurt JJ. While they’ve previously had squabbles, this time, it’s different. Before, you weren’t sleeping with Rafe, weren’t spending time with him, and you didn’t care for him. Now, inexplicably, it feels like a complete betrayal of your trust.

You hate it.

Trying to keep your mind off the Kook, you wipe down the tables from the previous customers with complete vigor. It’s a slow day at the diner, and most customers have been attending to corner booths that are not in your jurisdiction. Perfect. This brevity of waitressing allows you to stew in your emotions with little interruption.

The bell chimes, and since you’re the closest to the door, you lift your head to welcome the customer. However, it came to be some sick cosmic joke because the one person you don’t want to see steps through the door.

Rafe’s holding a bouquet of flowers—your favorite, actually—and his eyes sweep across the small bistro. When his gaze catches yours, Rafe offers one of his charming smiles, taking a leisurely stroll to reach you.

“Hey,” Rafe greets. Upon arrival, you notice he has his own battle scars—spreads of yellow-and-blue bruising covering his cheekbones and jaw, a testimony to your brother’s blows.

Half of you is proud of JJ for managing to procure such vicious swings, but the other half—quieter, more empathetic—is concerned over Rafe’s injuries. A juxtaposition of emotions, you blame Rafe for putting you in this position. You blame him for letting it get this far.

Because it’s easier than admitting the truth.

“Do you need something?”

He raises a brow, not recognizing your indifference as resentment. “What’s up your ass? Bad tips?”

You shrug, not answering.

“I got a few ideas to cheer you up,” Rafe offers with a cocky grin, trailing down the length of your body in a suggestive manner. On any other day, you would reciprocate his flirt with a tease of your own—bantering and sharing sharp-witted comments as forms of foreplay. But today, you just want him out.

“No thanks,” you answer blankly, turning back to your cleaning.

Rafe bristles at your curtness, but he dismisses it as professionalism for your workplace. He understands that. Honestly, he shouldn’t be here in the first place but it’s been days since you returned to Kildare, and you haven’t returned any of his messages and as much as he refuses to admit it—he misses you.

He holds out the flowers. “I got you these.”

You don’t turn around to acknowledge them. “For what?”

“Heard you won some big competition in Charlotte; thought you might like a congratulations.”

You falter, slightly, slowing your sweeping circles. You almost turn around, to take a better look at the flowers, knowing they’re expensive, fresh, and exuding a pretty scent—but you stand your ground.

“I don’t like those flowers.”

Rafe’s taken aback by the comment. He was certain he remembered the right ones. “I’ll get you new ones.”

“I won’t like those either.”

He blinks, trying to figure out if you’re messing with him, as some sort of cat-and-mouse game. But with your back remaining, and your attention reduced to a clean spot that’s spotless, he realizes it’s something entirely different.

You’re distant. Cold. You refused to meet his gaze, nor spare an inch of your time, and Rafe is reminiscent of another period where you did the same thing.

“You’re mad,” Rafe concludes, lowering the flowers to this side, holding them by the plastic wrapping. You spritz another round of disinfectant on the already-cleaned surface. “I did something.”

Saying nothing, you head to the next set of tables, but Rafe matches your steps. Now recognizing your detachment, he’s also picking up the irritation radiating from your demeanor.

“Maybank,” he calls.

“Is that all you came here for?” You finally turn around, but Rafe doesn’t feel any gratification. Your eyes are sharp, your expression unreadable. “Because I need to get back to work.”

“I…” Rafe doesn’t even have the capacity to speak. All he can do is stare, taking in your indifference, and a curling sense of agitation is employed in his stomach. He hates being pushed into a corner.

“If you’re not ordering anything, I’m going to ask you to leave,” you point to the door. With no argument, Rafe hesitates before dropping your flowers on one of the tables and exits the establishment.

You pick up the bouquet and drop it to the nearest waste bin.

Afterwards, you finish the rest of your shift. It was difficult seeing Rafe in your place of work, but it’s over. When the diner comes to a close, and you’re locking up, you step out to discover Rafe waiting beside his motorcycle.

You forgot how stubborn he can be.

He pushes himself off the vehicle as you attempt to circumvent him, stepping between two cars parked beside each other.

“We need to talk,” Rafe declares.

“I thought we already did,” you say apathetically. Before you go far, he pins you against one of the cars, arms on either side of your head, and his hardened gaze settles on you. You settle your eyes on his, tilting your head to the side, giving him that slow, irritating sense of detachment. “Throwing a tantrum?”

“You know that’s not the problem,” he grits out.

“I don’t see a problem at all.”

“We need to talk,” he repeats, irritation spiked his tone at your dismissiveness.

“You can talk; I’m not listening.” You attempt to duck under his arm, but Rafe moves it, quickly containing you. With a sigh, you lean back against the cool car door, crossing your arms over your chest. “What?”

His dark blue eyes study you. “You’re pissed,”

“I’m perfectly fine,”

“And you’re a terrible liar,”

“And you know me well enough to say that?”

“I know you pretty well, Maybank,” he declares, his words slow, drawing out the tension. All he needs to do is push your buttons to snap. His lips curl with a smirk. “At least, physically.”

Your jaw locks, but you refuse to let him rile you. “Charming, Cameron. Perhaps you should use it on girls who give a damn.”

As much as your relationship is undefined, the thought of Rafe with another woman stirs an ugly emotion inside of you. But you refuse to let it be shown.

He scoffs at your deflection. “Maybe I should,”

You roll your eyes, wanting nothing more than to appear like you don’t care. Especially if he’s talking about fucking other women. Both of your hands plant against his chest, giving a hard shove, but he barely moves an inch. You forget how strong Rafe is, how he doesn’t move unless he allows himself to be.

“Let me go,”

“Not until you talk.” He insists.

“About what?”

Rafe lowers his head to your level, closing the distance until he’s right in front of your face. Your breath hitches, heart stuttering. His eyes scan through your hardened features, loosening by his closeness, and he asks lowly. “What did I do?”

His unyielding attempt unnerves you. “You’re well aware of what you did.”

“So I did do something,” he deduces.

You don’t answer, shimmering in your renowned anger, and you break contact to look elsewhere, studying the flickering fluorescent sign of the diner. You trace the curve, and Rafe’s jaw ticks at your lack of attention. He grabs your chin, forcing your gaze back on him.

“Talk to me.”

“Let me go,”

“No,”

“Asshole,” you scowl, and Rafe grins.

“There she is.”

“You’re fucking irritating, you know that?” You shove him again, and while he takes a step back, he still cages you in. Anger fuses through your veins at your inability to change it.

“Because you’re being vague and distant,” he snaps. “If I fucked up, tell me. Stop giving me this prissy act like you’re too good for me.”

“Maybe I am,” you challenge with a skyward tilt of your chin, matching his hard stare. “Maybe this was all I needed to remind myself I should do better than fuck a Kook.”

His eyes narrows. “Shut the fuck up,”

“You shut the fuck up,” you hiss.

He slams his fist against the car, the loud thump booms beside your ear, but you remain unflinching. “Tell me what I did wrong!”

“You punched JJ!”

Rafe whips back. It takes a second for him to process, studying your face to recognize this was some random excuse. It’s the truth. “That’s what this is about?” He questions quietly.

“Of course it is,” you huff. “He’s my brother.”

He scoffs, looking elsewhere. He can’t believe you’re becoming reclusive and defensive without talking to him first. “Did he tell you what happened?”

“I didn’t need details. You punched him,”

“And he punched me,” Rafe retorts, showing his profile. “What do you make of that?”

It looks uglier on close proximity, the magnifying damage heightens. But you can’t seem to conceal the bitterness from your tongue. “He should’ve hit you harder.”

“You’re a hypocrite,”

“I’m loyal,” you correct. “I thought you would respect me enough to not stir trouble, but I’m guessing your pride can never be replaced with some considerations for a fuck buddy.”

“It’s different,” he declares. “He was the one who snuck into Midsummer. We got into an argument. We fought. It’s a guy thing—stop making it a big deal.”

You huff at his pathetic argument. “That’s your excuse? It’s a guy thing?”

Rafe’s getting agitated by your lack of comprehension, your refusal to accept it at face value. But he doesn’t want to disclose the full story. “What do you want me to say? You want me to apologize?”

“Are you even capable of such a thing?”

He exhales through his nose. “You know what your problem is?” He says lowly. “You’re using this as some pathetic excuse to break it off because you’re afraid.”

“I’m afraid?” You repeat, but your throat goes dry.

“Yeah,” Rafe nods. “You’re a coward.”

“Have you ever considered that I have more loyalty to my blood than who I fuck?” You snap, pushing at his chest. “That Kooks may not think the same way, but for me, for Pogues, it’s different? If you hurt my family, you’re done.”

“So that’s it?” Rafe challenges. “I mean nothing? What does it mean for you when he hurts me?”

Eyes slowly sweeping over his scars, unwanted emotions bubble inside you regarding his injuries. But you steel your expression. “What about it?”

Rafe scoffs at your coldness. “You’re such a bitch.”

“And you’re an asshole, we’re done,” you shove him off the last time, and this time, he lets it pass. Staggering back two steps, you use the opportunity to escape, fastening your steps until you’re out of the parking lot.

Rafe’s left at the side of the diner, fuming. He watches your silhouette grow smaller and smaller in the distance, and decidedly, he wants to do one last thing.

“Should’ve known better than to fuck a Pogue!” Rafe yells after you, full of rage, hurt, and insecurity. He needed something to cut you as deep as you done him. But you don’t respond, don’t entertain an answer, and uncross your arms just enough to raise your middle finger.

[woollypoison]

Lia miniseries: The last time

Itzy Lia x m reader a/n: go stream gwbg Word count: 16.5k words

The music is loud, but not loud enough. This place smells like sweat and cheap alcohol, the exact same mixture you can find at any college party. People shout over each other, cups crinkle under people’s dancing feet, and everyone is touching everyone.

You should be enjoying yourself, but even the loudest distractions can’t prevent your eyes from being locked on to Lia.

She stands near the edge of the room, far away from the life of the party, arms crossed, tears swelling in the corners of her eyes but refusing to spill over. Her boyfriend—the eternal class act that he is—leans in close, probably spouting some bullshit. His expression is all smooth confidence, but hers is hurt. You don’t need to hear what he’s saying. You already know. You saw him, lips on another girl, bodies flush against each other like Lia never existed in the first place. And now, he’s feeding her some excuse, no doubt in his mind that she will just swallow it like she always does.

But something’s different this time. She’s not buying it, and she’s not giving in. And then, just like that, he sighs, throws up his hands, and walks away. No fight, no desperation. He just walks away from her like she was never worth the effort.

You don’t even hesitate. No time to. She’s your best friend after all. You move.

Lia barely reacts as you step in beside her, but when you nudge her arm, she exhales, already privy to your antics. “Not now.”

“If it’s up to you, it’s not ever,” you correct. You don’t wait for permission. You snag a bottle of whiskey from the counter next to her and pop the cap. “Drink with me!”

She hesitates. She’s reluctant. “I don’t feel like drinking.”

“And I don’t feel like letting you mope tonight.” You take a swig straight from the bottle and hand it to her. It burns, but it’s bright and distracting. “Come on. When was the last time you lived a little?”

She eyes you, then the bottle, then you again. Something shifts in her expression—anger, defiance, something that reminds her of memories long buried. She snatches the bottle from your grasp and takes a drink. It burns, and she coughs, but she doesn’t hand it back.

You grin. “That’s the spirit!”

She scoffs through the coughs, but the corner of her lips twitch. “Shut up.”

You’re already scanning the party, looking for something to pull her out of her own head. There’s a group playing beer pong, hyping each other up like they’re at the Olympics. Perfect.

You drag Lia along with you, as you approach the would-be champions. Without warning, you grab a ball off the table and line up a shot. The guy who was about to throw blinks at you. “Dude, what the hell?”

You ignore him and flick your wrist towards victory. The ball arcs, bounces once, and lands straight into a cup. The crowd reacts with a mix of cheers and protests, but you don’t care. You turn to Lia, smirking with satisfaction, and hand her the next ball. “Your turn.”

She stares at you. Her body is shrinking, and it looks like she might retreat into her shell. “You’re insane.”

“And you’re up.”

Lia glances at the crowd watching, the challenge hanging in the air. She looks at you, your smile going from one ear to the other encouraging her to partake. She takes a deep breath, takes the ball, straightens her shoulders, and throws. The ball drops into a cup flawlessly.

The room erupts. The guy whose game you interrupted throws his arms up in disbelief. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

Lia doesn’t gloat. She just picks up the cup, downs the beer inside, and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand like she’s been doing this her whole life. Then, she looks at you.

You whistle. “Damn.”

She smirks. “What can I say?”

You step in close, voice level adjusted to be just for her. “This is fun, isn’t it?”

She exhales, something loosening in her. “Yeah. It kind of is.”

But you’re not stopping here.

You scan the room for the next move. You spot it, your next target—an old speaker, unattended and inviting on a counter, playing the same overplayed pop song. With Lia in tow, you stride over and connect your phone. The music cuts off, and a few people groan, but you just open your library and hit play.

A completely different song blasts through the room. Something more obscure, something wilder.

People react immediately, some booing, others cheering. Lia’s eyes react instinctively. “Wait, this song—”

“You like this song,” you fall in, leaving no doubt about the reason for your choice.

She laughs, the sound light, unburdened but restrained. “I do.”

“So dance.”

She hesitates, but you grab her hand, spinning her once. She stumbles into you, laughing despite herself. The party moves on around you, but for a moment, it’s just the two of you, caught in your own little world.

You can see it on her face. For the first time tonight, Lia isn’t thinking about him.

But the moment shatters. Your efforts were beginning to bear fruit, but they were spoiled too soon.

From across the room, he approaches. Her boyfriend’s voice, loud and annoyed, pierces the carefully crafted atmosphere. “Lia, what the hell are you doing?”

You don’t even have to turn to see him pushing his way through the crowd, eyes locked on her, clenched fists like he was preparing for a fight. The fun, the freedom, it all fades from existence, from her face—hesitation, guilt trying to creep back in.

Not this time. You’ve seen it happen countless times before now.

You lean in close, voice out her boyfriend's reach. “Let’s get out of here.”

She looks at you, uncertain of it all.

Then, her boyfriend calls her name again, sharper this time, as if she’s making another mistake. But she knows better.

Lia grabs your wrist in her first act of defiance. “Let’s go.”

You don’t need to be told twice. You let her lead you outside the house, but once outside, the roles reverse. You don’t let her pause, let her stop here. Instead, you take her even further away from the party to the first and best thing your mind can think of.

The arcade is alive with flashing neon lights, the chaotic symphony of electronic jingles and mixed reactions filling the air. You shove a few bills into the token machine, spilling a handful into your palm before tossing a few to Lia. She catches them like it’s a practiced act, but her expression is skeptical.

“You seriously dragged me to an arcade?” she asks, raising an eyebrow at your great escape.

“You seriously gonna tell me you’re too cool for this?” You grin, nudging her towards the air hockey tables. “Come on, we’re settling this once and for all. Air hockey. I used to smoke you all the time. Loser gets a punishment.”

Lia chortles, but there’s a flicker of amusement behind her eyes. “You’re on.”

You pick your table, and from the second the puck drops, it’s war. Lia is fast, but her shots are wild. She misses easy blocks, fumbling the paddle once, but she’s so caught up in the fun she doesn’t notice how you start easing up, letting her slip goals past you. When she scores the final point, she throws her arms up, victorious.

“Destroying you has never felt better,” she teases, gloating as if she just settled a lifelong rivalry.

You roll your eyes in mock annoyance. “Alright, alright. Fair’s fair. What’s my punishment?”

She taps a finger against her chin before smirking. “Close your eyes.”

You sigh but comply. You’re not a sore loser, not after choosing to be one. A few moments later, she presses a cold can into your hands. You pop it open and take a sip—immediately regretting it. “What the hell is this?!”

Lia bursts into laughter. “Carbonated milk. Consider it payback.”

You sputter the concoction, wiping your mouth of its filth. “That’s foul.”

Her grin is as proud as it was mischievous. “Exactly.”

You shake your head, laughing despite yourself. You’ve missed this. Missed spending time with her. “Alright, let’s move on. I’m winning you something.”

You drag her to the claw machine, and she crosses her arms, unimpressed. “Please, these things are rigged.”

“Not when you’ve got my skills.” You crack your knuckles, putting on an exaggerated show of focus as you deftly maneuver the claw. Lia observes your performance, still skeptical, until the claw actually snags onto a small stuffed bear and holds on long enough to drop it into the chute.

You scoop it out and hand it to her, the bravado of a man who won a teddy bear ten times the size you just had. “Told you.”

She takes it, eyes softer than before. “I… didn’t think you’d actually get it.”

“Guess I’m full of surprises.”

She holds the bear against her chest for a moment before stuffing it into her bag. “Alright, I’ll admit. That was kind of sweet.”

“Kind of?”

She rolls her eyes in the same mock annoyance she must have learned from you. Or was it you who learned it from her? Either way, she doesn’t argue any further.

Eventually, you both step out of the arcade looking for your next distraction, the night air cool against your skin. Lia stretches her arms over her head, exhaling. “Alright, what’s next?”

You glance around, spotting a near-empty grocery store parking lot, an idea sparking in your mind. A childish smile spreads across your face. “I think I see our next challenge.”

Lia follows the direction of your gaze to an abandoned shopping cart and lets out an incredulous laugh. “No way.”

“Oh, come on. You trust me, right?” Your rebuttal is tempting, tempting enough to get her to hum as she considers it.

She shakes her head but, to your delight, climbs into the cart. “Alright. Just don’t kill me.”

You take a running start, the wheels rattling as you push her through the empty lot. Lia shrieks high pitched and filled with life, clutching the sides as you pick up speed, laughter bubbling past her lips. It’s reckless and stupid, but it feels good—feels free.

When you finally slow down, she’s breathless, her face suddenly inches from yours. She doesn’t move away. You don’t want to either.

The cool air becomes heavy, something new unraveling in the little distance between your eyes.

Before you can say something you didn’t stop to think about, Lia clears her throat and looks away. “We should—keep going. What’s next?”

You nod, shaking off the moment just as easily as it came. “Let’s go find something else to conquer.”

You end up outside a rundown photo booth near an old convenience store, its flickering sign barely hanging on. The joy on your face says everything Lia needs to know. She eyes it, then you. “Seriously?”

“Come on. Gotta commemorate the night somehow!”

She huffs, exhaling air through her nose in a quick burst but follows you inside. The cramped space forces you close, her shoulder pressing into yours as she scoots barely into frame. The first flash goes off as she makes a face, sticking her tongue out.You paint a big smile on your face for the picture, throwing an arm around her to pull her into the frame for the next one.

Then, right before the third flash, you can feel Lia’s body tense up against yours. She’s planning something. She looks at you, really looks at you, before smirking mischievously. You can’t help but wonder what prank she has planned to pull on you, but you’ll let it happen nonetheless. Cheering her up was worth it all.

And then, instead of some grand, over-the-top stunt, she does something quieter. She leans in, sliding deeper under your arm, her head resting against your shoulder. Her fingers interlock with yours, and she doesn’t let go.

The camera flashes.

You glance down at her, your chest squeezing tighter then when you were pushing her around in a cart. She doesn’t say anything, just stays there, close, warm. The playful air shifts—becomes something calm.

She doesn’t move away, doesn’t laugh it off. Just holds your hand a little tighter, waiting. You rub your thumb over hers. It’s soothing. You’re just friends. You had never even considered Lia as something else. But what if…?

The next flash of the camera captures the sudden stillness, the quiet storm brewing between and inside of you.

You let out a breath, finally looking away. “Come on,” you murmur, squeezing her hand once before standing. “I know where we can go next.”

As you step out into the night, Lia doesn’t let go of your hand right away. She lingers, thumb brushing against your skin before finally, hesitantly, letting it slip away. Neither of you comment further on it.

After a few moments of walking in silence, you glance at her. “You remember the old jungle gym?”

She blinks, then lets out a soft laugh. “From middle school? The one we used to sit at, talking about nothing for hours?”

“Exactly, that’s the one! Haven’t been there in years.”

Lia tilts her head, considering. Then she smiles, a green light signal to go ahead. “Let’s go.”

You climb to the top of the jungle gym together, the city humming in the distance, but here, beneath the stars, everything feels still.

Lia stretches out, staring up at the sky absentmindedly. “It’s weird. I can’t remember the last time I’ve done this.”

“What? We used to climb this thing all the time.”

She chuckles and shakes her head. “No, not that! Just… let go like this.”

You watch her, the way her hair falls against the worn metal, the way the moonlight catches in her eyes. “We used to do that too all the time,” you remind her. “Back when we had nothing better to do than waste time here.”

She smiles faintly. “Yeah. Before everything got… complicated.”

You don’t say anything, only offering a smile that reaches half of your lips. You just watch her as she rolls onto her side, propping herself on an elbow facing you. “Why are you doing this?” she asks suddenly, eyes searching yours as if they’ll provide the answer.

You blink, caught off-guard by the sudden question. “What do you mean?”

“This.” She gestures vaguely around her and towards you. “Dragging me around, making me forget about him.”

Your throat tightens. You think about saying something inflammatory about her boyfriend, but don’t even want to let a thought of him taint this place. “Because I hate seeing you like that.”

She studies you, her gaze flickering over your face. She looks down. Her smile is small but real. Like she’s happy she’s here now, but already mourning the fact that it won’t last. “You make it sound easy.”

“It’s easy when you’re with me.”

When you’re starving, and you have a bite, you only end up craving more. That same hunger is consuming Lia right now. She’s feasting on this moment, indulging in every reckless, fleeting moment like she's been starving for it. Watching her like this, so alive, enjoying each minute she has—you can’t help but feel the hunger too.

It quickly gets overtaken by quiet, only interrupted with the creaking hush of the metal under your combined weight and the cricket-thick dark all around. Then Lia speaks, softer still: “Do you think I made a mistake?”

You turn on your side so you’re facing her, knees drawn up, hands dangling in between them. “Yeah, I mean, you should have dumped that guy ages ago.”

She makes a face and you know you deserve it. “No, not that. Just—leaving like that. Walking out.” Her voice is directed away from you. She sounds ashamed to even be asking the question.

“Honestly?” You lean back against the cold rail, letting your head tip to watch the sky. It’s easier to be honest that way. “Nah. If anything, you should’ve gone harder. Made a scene. Gone full dramatic. Hell, even kiss someone else in front of him. Get even.”

“Yeah, because you know me as the type to kiss random dude at parties.” She’s grinning, a little, but she clearly thinks you’re ridiculous.

“Not random,” you say, and waggle your eyebrows. “I could’ve volunteered.”

She laughs, easy and bright, the sound running up your spine like a dare. “Oh, right,” she says, “Because that wouldn’t have made things weird between us?”

“Sure. It could have.” You nudge her with your shoulder. “Or you could have totally fallen for how good I am with my tongue.”

She hums, draws little circles on the chipped paint with her finger. “Yeah, well, maybe I should have. But I’m warning you, you’re the one that would end up smitten with me, not the other way around.”

You chuckle in response, but you don’t think you can say much more without fully tipping your hand, and this night isn’t about you.

You let the silence settle again. Can’t keep yourself from looking at her in it, and the way she looks at you makes you think you should stop joking around and actually fall for her. Just give in.

She just sighs when you don’t. You’re not sure if it’s because you don’t or some other reason that has yet to reveal itself. “I’m hungry.” The likely answer is that she’s just hungry, then.

You slide down the bar so you’re parallel to her, feet dangling above the mulch. “Let’s get pancakes. I know a great diner, within a diner’s capacity to be great.”

She sighs again, this time with more drama. “I’m also exhausted. Like, terminally. What if I can’t make it to the diner? Will you leave me here to be eaten by raccoons?”

You give her a look, one eyebrow up. “Do you want me to carry you or something?”

Lia scrunches her nose. “That’s so childish.”

“You’re right,” you say solemnly. “Better to perish on the mulch.”

She smacks your arm, but she’s smiling. “You won’t make it a block.”

You position yourself in front of her, crouching, arms out. “Now I need to prove myself.”

She hesitates just long enough for you to think she’s going to refuse, but then she’s climbing onto your back, arms slung around your neck. She is lighter than you expect, which is nothing to start with, all angles and heat and the faint citrus of her shampoo. “Don’t drop me,” she says, but there’s laughter in her ear, right by yours.

“Only if you don’t give me a reason to,” you say, and start down the sidewalk, Lia’s breath hot against your cheek.

The first step makes her arms grip your neck so tight you nearly choke. You consider dropping her then, but you have a reputation to uphold. Eventually, you manage to start up a rhythm that allows air into your lungs despite Lia’s best attempts. Her thighs clamp around your hips, and you can’t help but think that the last time you carried Lia like this, she didn’t have tits pressing into your back. It’s distracting. Every few feet, Lia shifts to keep from sliding, and every time she does, her body presses tighter into yours.

“You’re struggling,” she teases, but it’s breathless.

“Having less issues with the carrying than I’m having with your bratty comments,” you shoot back, and she pinches your ribs hard enough to make you yelp.

It’s only a seven-minute walk, but you are both panting when you spill into the fluorescent refuge of the twenty-four-hour diner, giggling like absolute idiots. A bored waitress barely looks at the two of you as you enter and drop Lia onto a vinyl booth seat before climbing the seat across from her.

You try to stifle your body’s reaction to the feeling of her hips and chest now that it's in vision of her, as you focus on the menu. Lia’ is already tracing the patterns on the scarred tabletop, her mind drifting towards what to say.

“So,” you say, when the pancakes arrive. “Why did you stay with him this long?”

She stares at her pancakes, then the syrup bottle, then you. Her mouth twitches. “He made me feel wanted, I guess. Like, he paid attention to me. Like I was—” She shakes her head. “It’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid.” You’re gentler now, picking up her wrist and tracing the raised vein with your thumb. “But you’re still allowed to be pissed. Or sad. Or both.”

She shrugs, but she’s not pulling away. “He was hot. That was probably part of it. And he was so, I don’t know, confident? Like, he’d just do shit and not care what anyone thought. I always cared too much.”

You cock your head. “You ever think maybe you liked him because you wanted to be like that? Like, less afraid.”

She chews her lip. “I guess so. But his reason for not being afraid was because he didn’t care about anything. There’s a difference.”

You nod. “Yeah, you actually give a shit. Which is why you might be the only decent person left on the planet.”

She laughs, but then her eyes go soft and wet. “That’s so sappy. You’re sappy.”

You stick out your tongue and make a face, syrupy affection and all. "I am what you need me to be."

She chuckles, shakes her head with her eyes closed, and goes back to her pancakes. You do too.

For a second or two, and then you’re back to making sure she doesn’t get in her own head. You have a mission, after all. 

“C’mon,” you say, “you gotta give me something better than ‘he made me feel wanted.’ There had to be stuff you hated about him.”

She doesn’t answer right away. You watch her work through it, chewing each word. “Sometimes I felt like… a prop. Like, I fit into his world, but he didn’t really care what I was thinking. Or what I wanted.” She looks up, eyes somber and level. “You ever get that?”

You nod. “Yeah, with my parents. Or group projects. Or… you know, every time I’ve ever hooked up.” You regret it as soon as it’s out of your mouth. Lia’s eyes spark with curiosity. “Wait, you’ve hooked up? You don’t just—” she gestures at your outfit, at your face, “—go to your classes, eat lunch with your less attractive friends and then go home and read books?”

You snort. “Nah. I’m a total slut, actually. I just don’t tell you because you’d judge me.”

She leans in, elbows on the battered Formica. “I would be so proud of you if I weren’t jealous, actually.”

You swallow, hard. That’s a lot to process. “Good to know. But that’s not the point. The point is, you deserve more than being some guy’s prop.”

Her plate gets pushed aside, her chin now resting on her hand like a flower. “Can I ask you something embarrassing and you promise to not laugh?”

“Sure.”

“Does it make me pathetic that the thing I’m most mad about is that he never once went down on me?” She says it low, but not embarrassed. Just quietly furious.

You almost spit coffee over the table. “Wait, never?”

She shakes her head, hair falling in her face. “Not even once. But I gave him blowjobs all the time.” Her eyes flick to yours, and she’s smiling, but her teeth are bared. “I’m good at it, too.” She tacks it on so nonchalantly you’re not even sure what to think.

Shock is evident on your face, and you can’t help but think about it. It’s not even your fault. “How do you… know?”

She shrugs, taking a sip from her coffee before giving her answer. “No gag reflex. Plus, I did all my research.” 

You nearly choke on your coffee. "Okay, before I get a stiffy in a worn down diner with all your bragging, why did he never go down on you?"

She shrugs, and speaks matter of factly like it’s normal. “Said he didn’t want to. That it was gross.”

You don’t even have to ask if she’s fucking kidding you, it’s written all over your face. “Wow. Not even once? Was he, like, afraid he’d have trouble finding the clit?”

The edges of her mouth corner upwards, tilting, and she’s thinking if she should or shouldn’t say. “Maybe? Who knows. All I know is I’ve given more head than a guillotine and never once—”

You hold up both hands, surrendering to the image. “Okay, okay, point made. But, for the record, that’s insane. You should sue for emotional damages.”

She giggles, then sobers. “I know. But it’s not even about the sex, really. It’s the principle. Like, why is it only okay when it’s for him? Because you should have heard how whiney he gets if I tried telling him no.”

You click your tongue. “It isn’t okay? Fuck that noise, you deserve so much better. Like, at the very least, a guy who knows what a clit is, where to find it and how to spell it with his tongue.”

She laughs hard at that, but her eyes glint. “You volunteering again, manslut?”

You make your face very solemn, steeple your fingers like a cartoon therapist. “Lia, as your friend, it is my sworn duty to ensure that you, specifically, are not denied any life experience. I’d take one for the team.”

She stares at you, a little wide-eyed. Is she considering it? The tension is steeped in it, and you’re trying to balance on top of it. She grins, slow and dangerous. “You would not survive me reciprocating the favor. And I always reciprocate.”

You lean in, close enough to feel her breath on your chin. “Please. I’ve never cum from a blowjob before, I doubt even you and your boundless talent could change that.”

She eyes you, pupils blown wide, the tip of her tongue darting out to wet her lower lip. “That sounds like a challenge.”

You rest your elbows on the table, interlacing your fingers and staring her down. “It’s not, Lia. It’s literally impossible.”

She leans in until you’re nearly nose to nose. “You think you could still say that after experiencing someone without a gag reflex?”

The heat that shudders up your neck is involuntary. You force a grin, deflecting with bravado. “Maybe. I’m just saying, it’s not for lack of opportunity.”

She cocks her head, lashes low, voice a purr: “So you’re saying you’ve had chances, but no one could get you off?” Her hand is on the battered edge of the table, three inches from yours. There’s a beat where she just watches you, then she slides her pinkie across, hooks it in yours. “That’s really fucking sad,” she says, and you get the sense she means it. “But not as sad as me, never even getting head.“

“Tragic, really.” Your mouth is dry but you keep your tone light. “Honestly, I think we’re both lost causes at this point.”

She leans back, stretches with her arms above her head, arching her back forwards, and it’s on pure instinct you suddenly notice her breasts pressing against the thin cotton of her shirt. Something shifted.

Her eyes flick up to yours, and for a second, it’s all too hot in the booth. “You know, I really don’t like people doubting the skills I’m confident in.”

Your foot, under the table, finds her shin. You graze it, just lightly, and feel the need to press her buttons some more. She doesn’t move away. “Fine,” you say, “you want to prove your skills or something?”

She laughs way too confident, her hands already in motion, eye contact established and unbroken as her fingers pull her hair back into a messy ponytail, exposing her neckline. “Sure! You want to do this here?” she asks, incredulous but not like it bothers her. It’s painfully obvious this should be a bluff. It should be.

You, bravest of cowards, glance around the diner. The waitress is behind the counter, scrolling her phone. There’s a guy in a hoodie two booths down, asleep with a plate of fries at his chin. The world is asleep or indifferent. “Unless you’ve got a better idea?”

You nearly choke. “You wouldn’t.”

She arches a brow. “You don’t think I will?” You stare her down. “Not a chance.”

She slides out of the booth and stands, stretching like a cat in the sick diner light. Her gaze flicks to the denizens of the diner, and then back to you. “Bathroom. Five minutes. If you dare.”

You laugh, convinced there’s no way she doesn’t chicken out. “You’re bluffing.”

She shrugs like she’s already won, the fire in her eyes burning with something brave. “You really want to take that risk? This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”

You watch her saunter to the bathroom, legs crossing with each step, her hips swaying in a way she knows has you following her with your eyes. She doesn’t look back, but you can’t stop watching her go.

The first two minutes are spent waiting for her to return. The third minute is considering your possibilities. The fourth and fifth minute are spent realising you’re actually keeping track of the time. You slide out of the booth, your hands shaking inside the pockets you hide them in. This is a terrible fucking idea.

The optics aren’t great. Stepping in reveals two truths. One is that it is exactly as disgusting as you’d expect. Cracked tiles, a hand dryer that’s more sickly than anyone daring to touch it, and one overhead bulb casting a yellow light over it all.

The other is that Lia isn’t using the bathroom for its intended purposes, but was also checking her phone, waiting for you. She’s in front of the mirror. She meets your eyes in the reflection and she almost looks stressed that you did.

“You came,” she says, and instantly makes a face, regretting her choice of words.

You lean against the door, arms folded. “Yep. So, here we are.”

She spins to face you, hands bracing behind her on the sink. “Here we are,” she echoes, and the words hang between you, heavy with implication of what you’re both doing there

There’s a second—or a couple, or who knows how many—where you both wait for the other to chicken out, to call bullshit, to undo this and retreat to safety. Neither of you does though.

You clear your throat awkwardly, like this is your first time being in a tiny bathroom with your best friend you might have started developing feelings for when she’s about to prove to you she can make you cum from a blowjob. “You know, we don’t—”

She cuts you off, eyebrows raised at what she thought you would say. “Do you want me to?” She doesn’t look away from you though. She even forgets to blink, and that’s her tell. That’s how you know she’s shitting her pants, that’s she in way over her head, and that she’s hoping you’ll pull the plug so she doesn’t have to.

You think to oblige, a forced smile that is all too easy to read shows up on your face. “Don’t feel like you have to, you have nothing to prove to me. What do I know.”

She shrugs, digging the hole she’s stuck in a little deeper. “I want to.” She pushes herself up higher, sitting on the edge of the sink with more confidence than this kind of bathroom should allow, legs slightly apart, feet dangling off the edge. “Do you not want me to?”

Her cheeks are pink, even under the sickly yellow light. She’s not only messing with you—she’s also messing with herself. Testing if she can, testing if you would, the way she always does when she’s about to rationalize a mistake or say something she knows she shouldn’t. It’s a staple of hers at this point.

“I mean,” you say, “I don’t think I’d hate it? I’d probably like it. But I don’t think I’d cum from it.” Your voice is a little too honest, too floaty, and she catches it.

You get lost in looking at her for just a moment. Her knees slightly apart, the way her knuckles go white with how hard her hands grip the edge of the sink, the way her lips part every time she takes a breath.

You snap out of it and speak again. “Wait, Lia… are we really about to do this?”

She blinks, startled. For the first time since the challenge, the mask cracks and the real Lia steps out. Her face softens, small and vulnerable. “I—” She looks down, hands twisting together. “I don’t know. Are we?”

You exhale, relief and regret pouring out in equal measure. “I mean,” you say, “if somebody told me a week ago my best friend was going to try and deepthroat me in a public restroom, I would’ve called them a liar.”

She laughs, but the sound is threadbare. “Yeah. It’s kind of insane.”

You lean back against the cold cinderblock, arms crossed. “You don’t have to prove anything, you know?” The words feel stupidly sincere in the archipelago of dried vomit and mystery stains, but you say them anyway. “I mean it. If this is just… I don’t know, some kind of rebound performance review—”

She shakes her head, forceful. “It’s not. I just…” She trails off, and for a second she’s the same girl who used to triple-dog-dare you to eat glue, who overthought everything and then did it anyway. “I guess I wanted to see if I could be as spontaneous as you, for once.” She chews her lip, then lets out a nervous giggle. “But also, this bathroom is so gross I’m pretty sure I just caught tetanus from sitting on this sink.”

You hold up your hands, surrendering. “Yeah. Not like this. This is so—” You gesture around, taking in the cracked tiles and the ancient tampon machine stuck with a chewed wad of gum. “I mean, if we’re gonna do something dumb, shouldn’t we at least pretend it’s romantic?”

Her shoulders drop. She huffs a breath, then laughs. “Thank god. I thought you were gonna make me actually do it in here.” She rubs her palms over her jeans, eyes squinting in relief. “I was like, I will, but before we even kiss?”

You lean in. “For what it’s worth, if anyone was going to be the first to, uh, make me actually finish from that, I’d be honored if it were you.” You flick your gaze to her mouth, then back. “But not in a stinky diner bathroom, okay?”

She grins, genuinely this time, the tension breaking. “Deal. I’ll save the unwrapping of my talents for a more… prestigious venue.”

“Noted,” you say. You’re close enough now to see every fleck of gold in her irises, every ragged end of her ponytail. Something clicks into place in the air as you realise the implication of what you and what she just said. Technically, it could count as a confession. “But, uh. While we’re here—”

She doesn’t wait for you to finish. She grabs the front of your shirt and tugs you in, kisses you hard enough you nearly bruise your teeth on hers. It’s not romantic, not gentle; it’s hungry, desperate, tasting of syrup and coffee and the hours of wanting you both pretended didn’t exist. Her hands go straight to your hair, fingers tangling at the base of your skull, and your hands find her waist, yanking her off the sink until her legs wrap around you.

You barely have enough sense to lock the door behind you before her mouth is on yours again, hot and insistent, her breath loud in your ear. 

You both pull back in sync, breath staggered and eyes wild, twitching to find each other. It takes a moment to understand what you just did. She’s breathing hard, laughing against your throat, her arms still cinched around your neck like she’s afraid if she lets go she’ll wake up in her old life.

“You did say you’d volunteer,” she muses, slightly raw. She tries to sound like she’s joking, but it catches in the back of her throat.

You nuzzle her ear and whisper, “And I don’t regret saying it.”

She snorts, the sound dangerously close to a giggle. “You’re such a dork.”

“And you’re such a good kisser for someone who only ever dated selfish morons,” you say, still holding her, still feeling her pulse through your joined bodies.

You both collapse into laughter again, and then, like nothing happened, she’s smoothing her hair back into place and you’re straightening your shirt, already conspiring over the next thing to do. You slip out of the bathroom, Lia a half step behind you, and return to your booth. As you pass the counter, you catch the waitress’s knowing smirk, but you don’t care.

You slide into the booth. Lia joins you on your side this time, thigh pressed to yours, close enough that it’s basically an admission of intent. She grabs a strip of bacon from your plate and chews it like she’s mad at it, her leg drumming against yours under the table. You can’t stop touching: knees bumping, hands fiddling with the same syrup bottle, pinkies hooking and unhooking. If anyone saw you, they’d assume you were already together, some weirdly codependent pair of lovebirds, and you suddenly get why people always accused you of being “basically dating, but not admitting it.”

You’re texting under the table, a quick message to your friend with the backyard pool and the parents who are never home: “still cool to use your pool? need to impress a girl, promise no one will drown.” He replies fast: “go wild, just don’t get anything weird in the water or be too loud. neighbors know nobody is home so they might call cops.”

By the time you’ve finished that thread, Lia has finished your pancakes. She wipes her mouth and leans back, looking at you bright-eyed. “You got any plans for what’s next?”

You smirk, already one step ahead. “You ever broken into a pool before?”

She raises a brow. “Isn’t that illegal?”

You shrug. “Only if you get caught. Besides, I think it’s a rite of passage or something.”

She hesitates, chewing her lip, and you wonder if you’ve overplayed it. But then she squares her perfectly ninety degree shoulders, grabs your hand, and says, “Fuck it. Let’s do something stupid.”

You grin, adrenaline blooming. “That’s the spirit.”

The walk is long, and you’re both too keyed up to say much. Lia swings your hand, humming a song under her breath, and you realize you’ve never felt more alive than right now, running through the dark with her, doing something so aggressively pointless. The house is a monster in the darkness, all big windows and a backyard made for rich kids’ parties. The side gate is exactly where you said, the latch loose. 

You sneak in, and Lia—in a surge of confidence—leads to the pool.

“This is so illegal,” she whispers, giggling as she steps out of her shoes.

You glance around, the no lights on in any of the houses. “Keep it down and nobody will call the cops. And even if they do, we look way too good to be criminals.”

She rolls her eyes, but she’s already at the edge, and then she stops, frowning. “Wait,” she says. “We don’t have swimsuits.”

You look at her like you can’t believe it took her this long to realize. She takes you in, judging her a little, and then shrugs, defiant. “Fuck it. I didn’t walk all this way just to chicken out now.”

You agree, and this time, you take the lead. You start with your shirt, because, well, it’s easy. It only takes a second for it to be gone and be just the first of many fabrics strewn across the floor. The cold night air hits your skin, and you hope the pool’s heated.

Lia, meanwhile, is watching you. Her mouth is pressed into a firm line, arms folded over her chest like she’s caught between moving forwards and regressing.

“Don’t look at me as I undress, you perv,” she warns. “I mean it. You get even remotely creepy and I will drown you. And then tell everyone you had a microdick.”

The threat is so perfectly Lia you have to fight down a grin. You stand with your back to her, taking off your jeans with exaggerated, cartoon modesty. “You’re the one who made this weird.”

She snorts. “Need I remind you that my truth is having a sexual history of one person?”

You hear the soft scuffle of fabric. And now you’re the one making it weird. Your mind does a dangerous trick, imagining the sound in freeze frame: her pale skin catching moonlight, the careful way she’d cross her arms to peel off her shirt, the way she’d maybe even blush, even if you weren’t looking. You keep your eyes laser-focused on the pool, but your entire brain is on fire with the idea of Lia, naked except for the confidence she’s wearing like a new suit.

You hear her step up behind you, breathless. You don’t look. “Okay,” she says. “Count to three?”

You both count off, but on “two” she shoves you, and you hit the water in a flailing, gasping mess. She follows not long after, so close to your landing zone that you feel her feet brush you as you go under.

The water is cold, but not as cold as the outside air. As you surface, (sputtering, thanks to Lia) you hear her treading water not far from you. She’s laughing so much she can be found through echolocation. You dog-paddle closer, the splash of the water still too alive to make anything out under the waves and she holds up a hand, palm out.

She slicks her hair back, shivering, but her eyes gleam, catching you getting closer with your eyes clearly open. “Hey, no. That’s not enough. You have to swim with your eyes closed. Like, the entire time.”

You shake your head. “That’s insane.”

“Trespassing into some random person's yard is insane,” she says, grinning now. “Eyes closed, or you’re getting your dick twisted off.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, then roll your them (behind closed lids), floating backwards on your back, arms splayed. “If I drown, it’s your fault.”

She huffs. “I’m an amazing lifeguard. I know how to perform mouth-to-mouth.”

You drift a little, keeping your limbs extended to try and not drift into any pool edges. You think you can feel her watching you, and you know you can hear her moving away. She’s got something planned.

“You’re not looking, right?” she calls.

“Only if you’re not either,” you shoot back, the words a little louder than they needed to be. You, good boy that you are, keep your eyes shut, but something tells you she’s smirking. You can taste it in the air.

“Eh, I don’t think I agreed to that rule,” she answers, and it’s enough to send a shiver down your spine, the way her voice is seeped in mischief. “Besides, you’re the one floating proudly with your dick above water like you’re trying to show off. I’m keeping everything nice and clean underwater.”

You blush, swearing at the way your body betrays you, heat blooming under your skin even though you’re half freezing. “You’re bluffing again, I know you wouldn’t look—”

“Wouldn’t look? Couldn’t help but look,” she nonchalantly intercepts, “I didn’t know you were packing. Isn’t it supposed to be tinier in cold water?” A beat passes where you’re lost for words. It’s still too generic, it’s a classic Lia bluff. “I half regret not taking care of that in the diner bathroom.”

You choke so hard on your own spit you almost dip under again. “You’re fucking with me.”

Her voice is lower now. “You wish I was. Also, you’re clean shaven. Didn’t expect that. Thought you were all hot and heavy for the vintage look.”

You open your eyes, protests be damned, and there she is, half-sprawled on the steps at the pool’s shallow end, arms propped behind her, legs out like she’s posing for a calendar. The moon catches on the water beading her skin, and for a second you’re sure you’re hallucinating her: you’ve never seen Lia look so open, so unguarded, so absolutely fucking beautiful.

She tilts her head. “I didn’t give you permission to look, pervert.” She stretches, toes pointed, and looks at you like you look at her. “But since you have, what do you think?”

You don’t have the words. You never have the words. You just swim closer, one hand out for balance, until you’re in front of her on the steps, knees bumping. “I think,” you say, “it’s taking everything I have to keep me from jumping on you.”

She rolls her eyes, but she’s shivering, and you can’t tell if it’s the night chill or something else. “You’re such a dork.”

You risk it all. “Yeah, but I’m a hung dork.”

That gets her. She bites her lip, eyes gone dark and wild. “You’re such a slut.”

You haul yourself up onto the steps, water sluicing down your back, and she laughs as you nearly slip. “Careful there,” she says, softer now. “It’d be a shame if you broke your neck before I broke your little head problem.”

You pause, kneeling between her legs, and she doesn’t flinch, doesn’t look away. You reach for her, she bites her lip, and it’s all culminating in skin touching and bodies trembling.

You look up. “You trust me?”

She laughs, but it’s honest and her gaze can’t keep up with yours. “Don’t fail me.”

Your hands slide up from her lower legs to her calves, cradling her hips, and the water makes it even easier to lift her. You stand, walking with the steps in the shallow end, carrying her above the water and she squeals right before you put her down on the edge of the pool. Perched on the concrete lip with her feet still in the water, and your head taking its place in between her thighs.

She’s clean shaven. She looks so fucking delicious and easy to devour you almost want to thank her boyfriend—or ex-boyfriend—for letting you be the first to get to taste this.

You rest your cheek against her thigh, and she goes very still.

You’re not expecting it to be so easy, how her legs melt open in invitation, how the scent and heat of her rolls over you like a sunrise. She’s blushing, hard, hands fidgeting on the concrete behind her, like she can’t believe you’re about to make her lose her mind.

You kiss the inside of her knee first, and her reaction is electric. She whimpers, softly, and it’s a promise of the sound she’ll make when you give her what she wants. You move up to her thigh, tasting chlorine and humid skin beneath it. Her eyes are wild, nervous with joy, unsure if she should stare at your eyes or your mouth.

She shudders with every touch, but her legs don’t close. Every inch you take, she parts them wider, pleading for you to continue, greedier to get her world rocked.

You glance up. “Stop me if you want.”

She shakes her head, breathless. “If you stop, I might cry.”

You slide higher up on her thighs, nudging her gently with your nose and lips, and her hands find their place in your hair where you wanted them all along. You let your tongue follow her horizon, and for a second, she goes so quiet you think you might have short circuited her. Maybe it’s internal water damage. But then she makes a soft, desperate sound, the kind of noise you can get addicted to.

So you do it again, and she does too. Then again, slower, letting your tongue linger at the place where her thighs meet her center, teasing the crevice where her legs meet her crotch with the tip of your tongue before finally letting yourself taste her for real.

She bucks up so hard you almost lose your grip. “Oh my fucking god,” Lia says, using her words for the first time since you started. “This is—shit, okay, fuck, okay, don’t—” she babbles, gasping, then giggling and going back to gasping again, like she can’t decide if this is so hot she should melt or so insane she can only laugh.

You break contact, looking up to her just to ask, “You good?” but she’s not having it, pushing your face back down like she’s needy for it, muttering, “Shut up, don’t please, you’re perfect, I’m just—”

You lap at her, soft at first, then harder, then you flatten your tongue and drag it in slow, deliberate circles around her clit, just to see what color she turns when she’s about to lose it. Her nails scratch at your hair, then her thighs, then the concrete. She’s so fucking unbelievable, shaded in the moonlight and the light coming from the pool. Her head is thrown back, her mouth wide open, Her tits peaking forwards, eyes squeezed shut towards the stars and her whole being is pink and wet and trembling.

You hum, sending a pulse up through her, and she shudders hard. “Are you—holy fuck, are you humming?” she asks, voice going all high and incredulous.

You pull back just enough to say, “Wouldn’t want to deprive you of the full experience,” then dive back in, tongue working faster, pushing her closer and closer to the brink.

She’s full on babbling now, none of her usual slick responses, her guard fully down. “fucking fuck fuck, that’s—yes, this feels so fucking, fuck, fuck, don’t stop, don’t you dare—” She’s stringing words, not making sentences, mewling and desperate.

You only hold on to the edge of the pool with one hand now, pushing two fingers inside her, and she makes a sound so high pitched you worry there’s more she’s yet to experience. Worry she might break.

“Do I feel that good?” you ask, the sound muffled against her skin.

She just nods, gasping, “The fucking best,” and you take it as motivation to draw this whole thing out.

You edge her, just a little, slowing down until she’s whining, then ramp up again, alternating fast and slow until she’s cursing at you, tears leaking out from the corners of her eyes. “You’re such an asshole,” she sobs, “just let me—”

You glance up, a wicked smirk on your lips. “You want to cum?”

“Please,” she whispers, voice gone small and desperate for air. “I’m not trying to become you, I need to—please—”

You look up. “What’s the magic word?”

She opens her eyes, glaring down at you through a curtain of messy hair. “I will actually murder you,” she says, but she’s grinning, and that’s all the permission you need.

You let her have it, then. Fingers, tongue, everything, all at once, relentless and hungry and absolutely shameless in how much you want to taste her finish. She’s not quiet, not even a little. The sound she makes when she finally comes is a full-body event, a yell that echoes off the water and the fence and probably into the neighbor’s bedroom. A small prayer goes out to not having them interrupt you.

She falls backwards, upper body limp as her legs shake so hard you keep them steady just to keep her from sliding into the pool. She lies there for what feels like longer than an orgasm could last, shivering and laughing and gasping, and you think about telling her she needs to be quiet. You could never.

When the air returns to her lungs in full, she pushes herself up by the elbows. Fully upright, and she cups your cheeks in her hands, pulling you up, but it’s more so you pushing yourself up. She kisses you, and you’re mixing her tastes in your mouth.

You keep yourself pushed like that until her pulse slows. Then she buries her face in your neck and whispers, “You have to do that again. Like, right now.”

You’re about to oblige when the neighbors backyard security light clicks on with a loud mechanical whine, flooding the deck with off-beat white-hot illumination. For a split second, you freeze, Lia’s body still limp on the concrete, both of you utterly exposed for every constellation above to take in.

She starts to laugh again, then clamps both hands over her mouth, eyes huge. “Oh my god, oh my god, we’re going to die—”

You grab the nearest towel, wrap it around her, and half-carry, half-drag her behind the pool shed. She’s not helping at all, still giggling uncontrollably, but you manage to get her sheltered, both of you pressed close, hearts pounding in sync.

For a minute, you don’t say anything. Just breathe together, trying to calm down. Then she whispers, “Best night of my life. Even if we get arrested.”

You kiss her on the forehead, no words, just hoping she gets the message to keep quiet. She doesn’t. “But like, let’s try not to?” she says, and you look at her like you’re trying, but she’s making it hard. “You know, cus I technically owe you a blowjob now.”

You’re stunned. It feels only minutes since you didn’t consider Lia a sexual being and now you’re whole beings on fire because of her. “You’re absolutely insane and insatiable,” you say, and her shoulders just rise and fall.

“What can I say? You liberated me. It’s your fault, with that damn mouth of yours.”

You peer out from behind the shed. The light is still on, but nobody’s come outside, so you motion for her to follow you back to the pool deck. You towel off, putting your boxers on backwards in your haste, and she does the same, wrapping her hair up in a makeshift bun.

You wait for the light to disappear, and when it does, she glances at the fence, then at you. “Should we go somewhere we won’t get a permanent record for if we get caught?”

You consider the options, then grin, because you already know where to go.

“Love hotel?” you suggest, the words a joke but also not.

She doesn’t miss a beat. “Only if you pay for the good room.”

You salute. “What, you think I don’t want the best room available for when I celebrate my first time finishing with a blowjob?”

You escape, and walk through the sleeping streets. Your hands are entangled, no longer shy about what they want. Your clothes are messy. Who cares, they’ll be on the floor again in no time.

When you finally reach the love hotel, buried under all its glorious neon signs, you can’t help but get a little nervous. It’s easier to do things for Lia, but sitting back and having her take care of you feels dangerous.

She doesn’t seem to think so. She jumps on the bed and flops back, arms and legs spread like she’s trying to take up as much space on the bed as possible and failing at it.

You find enough space to crawl up next to her, and she turns her head to look at you, full of giddy joy. “Can I tell you a secret?”

“Always.”

“I think I’ve wanted this for a while now,” she grins, shy and proud swirling into one. “I just didn’t know if I could get here.”

You nudge her with your shoulder, smiling back. “Really? You’ve wanted to fuck your best friend in a love hotel for a really long time?”

She socks your upper arm, hard enough to sting, and you yelp. “Asshole. You know what I meant.”

“Yeah,” you say, rubbing the spot, “but I like hearing you say it anyway.”

She makes a face, then rolls onto her side, hair fanning over the hotel’s surprisingly clean sheets. “Fine,” she says, voice gone soft and hoarse. “I want you.” She looks at your mouth, then your eyes, then back to your mouth. “And not just tonight. I want… all of it. The weird, the stupid, the you.” Her cheeks pink up, but she doesn’t blink. “I want to be yours. And I want to do all the stuff with you that I was too scared to even ask for before.”

You just pull her in and kiss her, soft at first, then harder, until she’s clutching at you like she’ll float away if she doesn’t anchor herself in your skin. When you break apart, she’s smiling, all half-moons with her eyes, the way she used to when you’d stay up too late and make each other laugh until you were delirious.

You nudge her, voice low: “So, what now?”

She grins, a new wickedness there. “Now?” She rolls onto her side, mouth at your ear. “Now, I want you to lie back and let me suck your dick until you cum like you’ve supposedly never done before, and then, when you’re still all shaky and ruined, I want you to use that tongue of yours to fuck my clit up until I’m a groveling mess. Once your cock is ready for another round, and only after you’ve begged for it, I’ll let you fuck me. Dealer’s choice of how.”

You blink.

You can’t help it. The way Lia is talking—direct, filthy, like she’s trying to say every single thing that would make your pulse snap—is so far removed from the Lia you know it’s almost like you’re talking to a different person. Or maybe, just maybe, this is the real Lia, the one who’s been stifled for years by her self-obsession with being the “good one.” The “steady, reliable one.” Blinking turns into staring, and she picks up on it instantly. She turns inwards.

“Too much?” she asks, voice suddenly small, a hiccup of uncertainty behind the wildness in her eyes. Maybe the real Lia is somewhere in between all that, and there’s no point in trying to categorize it. Maybe, you just need to experience it.

You shake your head so fast you nearly give yourself whiplash. “No, I just… wow. I’m impressed. Didn’t know you had it in you to talk like that.”

Her palm splays on your chest, like you just gave her permission to sink in, and in a way, you did. “You also still believe I don’t have it in me to make you cum with my mouth.” She glances up, searching your face for a response, a snarky remark, a stupid joke, but you miss the timing entirely. Too busy recalibrating your entire image of her.

You flop back onto the pillows, getting comfortable, stretching out in full anticipation. “Right. Do I need to beg for that too, or…?‘

She bites her lip with a smirk, shifting so she’s straddling your knees, and begins fully undressing herself. Even without the moonlight, she’s ethereal. “Don’t cum already,” she taunts, but if anyone could make you just from sight, it’s her. Then, she reaches for the edge where skin meets waistband of your underwear with both her hands.

She’s not slow about it at all. She yanks them down in one rough motion, laughing as it flies across the room. You help, taking off your shirt as well, both of you equally nude now. But only one of you is under attack. “God, it’s even bigger up close,” she crows, eyeing your dick up and down, and she’s such a loser about it that you want to bottle it forever.

She gets on her stomach, chin propped on your thigh, and looks up at you, resting her cheek on your hip. “You’re sure you want me to?”

You grab a pillow and stuff it behind your head, a throne for the king you’ve become. “If you don’t, I might actually die.”

“Noted,” she says, and then she wraps her hand around the base of your cock, squeezing lightly, and gives you a look that could set the room on fire. “Ready?”

You nod, speechless.

She starts at the bottom, tongue touching your balls, licking a stripe up the underside, eyes peering past your cock to yours, slow and deliberately showy, flicking her tongue as you realise how badly you underestimated her. She takes your head in her mouth. She won’t let you look away. Her hands are on your thighs, nails biting skin. She starts slow, then slides a little farther, lips tight and glossy around you.

She’s not kidding about the lack of gag reflex; she takes inch after inch until her nose is pressed against your stomach, then pulls back, hollowing her cheeks with a practiced, obscene pop. She repeats it, faster, then slower, then faster again, alternating pace like she’s reading a manual on your pleasure, waiting for you to flinch, to break, to do anything but bite your own knuckle and pray you don’t embarrass yourself.

It’s good—almost too good, actually. She’s not shy about it; there’s no over-the-top porn performance, just pure, unfiltered focus on the task at hand. You glance down, and you can see the pride in her eyes, the spark that says she’s not doing this for you, not really—she’s doing it for herself, to prove something about who she is on the other side of all that old inertia.

But after a minute, you notice she keeps pausing, glancing up, waiting for you to… what? Give her directions? Yell encouragement? It’s not what you expected at all.

She pulls off, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “Am I doing it wrong? You can… you can grab my head, if you want,” she says, a little breathless. “You’re allowed. I can handle it.”

You blink again, like she just suggested you recite the national anthem. “Why would I do that?”

She hesitates, uncertain. “Isn’t that what guys like? My ex always did that—like, he’d hold me down, or guide me. I figured you might want—”

You shake your head, reaching down to stroke her hair, gently, more to comfort than control. “Lia, you were going to make cum, weren’t you? I have no intention of using you to get myself to cum.”

She blinks, digesting this for a second, then lets out a tiny, nervous laugh. “Okay. That’s… weirdly nice. Not used to it.”

You smile, then, letting her see how much you mean it. “You’re in control. Seriously.”

She looks down, cheeks flushed, and then squares her shoulders. “Alright. But if you don’t cum, I’ll never forgive you.”

You have to laugh at that one, and try to make sure she does too.. “Balls are in your hands, sweetie.”

She does, and then goes straight back at it. There’s a silent confidence to it. Experimental rhythms, new techniques—twisting her tongue around, letting only her tongue linger until you’re about to lose your mind. She even tries humming, just to see what happens, and when you gasp, she grins around your cock, the vibration sending a pulse up your spine.

She doubles down, working your cock like she’s got something to prove to her universe (right now that would be you alone), and by the time she starts talking, you’re already lightheaded. 

“You’re so fucking hard,” she whispers, pulling off just enough to stroke you with her hand, tongue circling the tip like she’s painting it with precision. “God, I love how you taste. I want you to cum for me. Right in my mouth.” She breaks up the words with slow, deep sucks, gripping your thighs to pin you down when you start to squirm. “Bet you didn’t think you were going to blow your load in my throat tonight, did you?”

She moans, soft at first, then louder, so performative but fucking hot, not even a slightest hint of a gag. You moan too, can’t keep it in when she’s wrangling it out of you. Lia catches the sound, doubles down, then pops off with a wet, obscene slurp, catching her breath before diving back in.

You’re going to die. You’re going to die in a love hotel, and when they find your corpse, it will be smiling.

She alternates between deep, slow bobs that have you seeing stars and quick, greedy flicks of her tongue that make your whole body arch up off the bed. She’s methodical about it, as if there is some secret, sacred geometry to the way she works her hand and mouth in tandem. You watch her, rapt, as she salivates over you, hair falling out of its ponytail and sticking to her cheeks, her eyes darting up to check your expression every few seconds. It’s obvious she’s cataloging your every reaction and making little mental notes. Every time you twitch or gasp or say her name, she smirks just a little and doubles down.

You want to hold out, to prove you have some measure of control, but she’s relentless. You bite your forearm to keep from moaning loud enough for the whole building to hear, but she just laughs around your cock, wicked. You can feel the vibration all the way down your legs.

“Fuck,” you gasp, “I—if you keep doing that—”

She pulls off, making a mess of your lap, then kisses the tip lightly, eyes huge and wet and so fucking hungry. “What? You’re gonna cum?” she whispers. “That’s the whole point.”

Her throat makes you feel like you’re drowning in sweet honey.

She already knows you won. You’re not as unbreakable as you proclaimed. She’s just taking victory laps now. Losing track of the amount of times she brings you to the brink of painting her white and then backing off, her tongue ghosting and taunting you as she lets you calm down before she starts again.

Every tease lowers the time she has to pull back. She finally holds you there, right on the brink, and then—as the throbbing begins to signal the end—she pulls off, eyes never having left yours. Her lips are slick with spit, parted, and her tongue flicks delicately over the tip, collecting the drop of precum that’s already there.

“Do it,” she whispers, and then she takes you all the way in, nose pressed to your skin, hands gripping your thighs so you can’t move. You’re helpless to stop it; you groan, involuntary, loud enough to scare the birds off the roof.

You cum—hard, so hard it’s embarrassing, and the first spurt catches her off-guard, but she laughs and swallows, eyes crinkling into half-moons again, this time with victory. She powers through the second, the third, but by the fourth one she’s not ready, and it spills out over the corner of her mouth, streaming down your cock, pooling on your stomach. She keeps you in her mouth until you soften, then finally pulls off, licking her lips with a devilish little smile.

She pulls off, coughing a little, then wipes her chin with her palm, grinning like a champion. “Holy shit,” she says, “I did not know you could cum that much. Is that, like, normal for you?” Another string of cum ropes onto her wrist as she laughs, and with obscene showmanship, she licks it off, slow and deliberate. “You realize if you actually shot that up me, I’d probably be pregnant with triplets?”

You stare at her, still slightly dazed. “No, that was—fucking insane. You’re a goddess.” You’re still trying to recover, but she’s trying to prevent you from it. She’s busy leaning down, and her tongue tips out, licking your abs clean, not missing a single drop. And if that wasn’t enough, she takes your softened cock back into her mouth, sucking soft pressure on it, like she’s determined to get every hidden drop. When you beg, and you do, she sits up, opens her mouth wide, and vocalizes to show you how empty it is.

You stare, awed. “That was the best blowjob of my life. By, like, a factor of ten. I might have to marry you now.”

Surprisingly, that’s the point she finally breaks eye contact, pink-cheeked, and it's clear how little she expected that, even if she plays it off.

You reach for her, but she stops you with a palm to the chest as she ducks, suddenly bashful. “Wait—hold on.”

You frown. “Why? What’s wrong?”

She covers her mouth and looks at you like you’re an idiot for not getting it. “I’ll probably taste like, you know… you.”

Now it’s your turn to look back at her like she’s an idiot for not getting any of it. “And?”

She looks at you, then away, then back again, sheepish but not ashamed. “I mean, guys think that that’s gross, right?”

You blink. “Gross?”

She stares at her hands, twists the comforter between her fingers. “You know. Kissing after—” Her voice drops. “After giving a blowjob. My ex always said it was a turn-off. He wouldn’t let me kiss him, after.”

You sit up, propped on your elbows, and the look you give her is so incredulous it’s almost cartoonish. “That is, with all due respect which is none, the dumbest fucking thing I’ve ever heard. I want to kiss you more than I want to breathe right now, I don’t give a shit if you taste a little like me.”

Her face turns bright red at the admission, and laughs, but a little shaky. Cute, but shaky. “That’s new. My ex used to make me go brush my teeth. Or at least rinse. Otherwise he’d, like, dodge me. Like kissing me after was…” She trails off, eyes shining. “You actually mean it?”

You grin, and pull her in, and she lets you. The kiss is messy, a little salty, a lot desperate, and as you taste yourself on her tongue you can’t help but think she tastes good no matter what. She opens to you, greedy, and you let her climb into your lap, hands in her hair, your own still trembling from the aftershock of her mouth.

She’s not even subtle about what she wants to happen next. In her defense, she did spell it out for you. She’s grinding down on your thigh like she’s asking you to feel how wet she is. Her lips are on yours, desperate, insistent, tongue chasing every last taste of you. She’s moaning into your mouth, open and honest in a way that makes you want to ruin her, or maybe just worship her, or figure out a way to do both. You realize she’s been holding back for hours, maybe years, and now it’s all coming out in the fevered way her hands are clawing at your back.

You break the kiss, just to breathe, and she chases your mouth, gasping, “Please don’t make me beg. Please?” and then devolves into a fit of giggles because even at the edge of a nervous breakdown, Lia is still Lia. Still the girl who’d dare you to eat glue, then do it herself just to one-up you. Only now, she’s out of glue and onto something infinitely more addictive: you.

You slide your hands down her back, over the curve of her ass, and she arches against you, body curving like she’s trying to become a permanent part of you. She’s still laughing, but it’s all breath and need, the sound a little unhinged. “What’s so funny?” you ask, voice low, half teasing.

She pants, “I just can’t believe we’re—” but then you’re kissing her again, and she forgets her sentence halfway through, hips jerking forward in search of more.

She’s so wet, you can feel it through your thigh, hot and slick and spreading, and every time you flex your quad it makes her gasp. “Oh my god,” she says, “I’m such a slut,” but she’s smiling when she says it, proud and wild and alive.

“Jesus,” you murmur, mouth at her ear. “How long have you been this wet?”

She rolls her hips into you, grinding shamelessly. “Since the diner,” she admits, breathless. “You kept talking about making me cum and I—fuck, I couldn’t stop thinking about it.”

You don’t want to tease this out any more than she does. You flip her, rolling her onto her back so fast the sheets threaten to tangle her up, and she shrieks in delight, hair fanning out behind her on the pillow like a halo. There’s a second where she just looks at you, all reverence and disbelief, and then she grabs your shoulders and pulls you down to her chest, wrapping her legs around your hips, locking you in.

She’s so open, so ready, it makes your head spin. You kiss down her neck, tasting the salt and heat, then down between her breasts, which she arches up for you like an offering. You take your time here, letting your tongue circle one nipple, then the other, and she’s whimpering, writhing, her hands never still as they alternate between your hair and your shoulders and her own mouth, like she can’t decide what she wants more: to pull you closer, or to muffle her own noises.

You work your way lower, kissing down her stomach, nuzzling your nose in the soft flesh just above her hipbone. She’s trembling now, and when you slide down between her legs, she whimpers, puppy-like, knees falling apart on either side of your head. This time, you don’t tease. You dive straight into the main course, finding her previously established weak spot, and making sure she gets all the rounds she needs.

It’s almost impossible how sensitive she still is, every lick causing her thighs to shudder against the sides of your head. But you want her ruined—so fuckign addicted to getting head that nothing else matters to her anymore—so you don’t let up, alternating between the blunt, relentless pressure of your mouth and soft, delicate circles with the very tip of your tongue. This time, too, you add a finger into the mix. She’s boneless the second you curve it.

You’re stealing her tricks like she stole yours. Eyes trying to find hers, but hers are rolled back, her mouth hanging slack. You want them on you, so you click your tongue and insert another finger, curl it inside her. Her eyes shoot open and lock onto yours like you just stole the last piece of pizza and she just can’t believe you got away with it.

She tries saying your name a couple of times, but all that amounts to are wet, choked gasps. She doesn’t let that stop her though. She’s losing control like you’ve never seen before, and she’s dragging you into that rhythm.

She tightens, and it happens faster than at the pool. She cums, hard, her whole body locking again, shaking so hard you’ve got to pin her down, and her back arches off the bed. But only for a moment. You never stopped, not as she squirms from overstimulation, not when she begs you not to.

As her back finishes it’s bow and she goes flaccid, you give her a minute, just to catch her breath. Just to start again. Don’t even let her ask you to, there’s no room for jinxes or invading neighbors now.

At first, she giggles, thinking you’re just returning the favor she performed on your limp cock. But when your tongue circles her still-throbbing clit,her whole body buckles for you. Hyper-sensitive and desperate, but you know what her hands in your hair are telling you.

You keep going. You don’t know how to stop. The taste of her is a current that runs straight to your skull and shorts out the last vestiges of your self-control, the raw, aching want to see her undone all you can think about.

And she continues to impress, sweat glimmering at her hairline, two perfect tears tracking down her cheek. She tries to say something coherent, but it never arrives. Might have been your name. You think a curse could also be an option. Doesn’t matter. Her tongue flattens against her teeth and the sound transforms as the next wave hits her.

You revel in her clenching and spasming, hips smashing into you and arching away, her own body unsure of where to go or what it needs in the most beautiful dance you’ve ever seen.

You don’t let up. Three is not enough. You ease your fingers out of her, making a direct connection between the nerves feeling her every twitch and your brain stem as her body seems to rewire itself with yours. She’s so sensitive now, every touch igniting some kind of fuse.

And you’re greedy to see her burn.

You kiss her clit, just once, and she yelps, a raw, startled noise. “Wait—” she gasps, but you don’t. Can’t. Not yet, anyway. “I’m gonna, I—” she gasps, but then you suck her clit between your lips and play with it with your tongue and she’s too deep, spiraling into another orgasm she didn’t know she could handle.

 This time, she sobs your name. And it doesn’t sound like desperation, not exactly. More like surrender. Like relief.

And that’s your cue. You ease up, mouth and chin slick with her juices, and take it in. There’s not a hard muscle at work there, arms and legs trembling on instinct, spread out wide, chest rising and falling again in frantic, uneven tempo. Her eyes are glassy, staring upwards with hooded lids that could close every second. She’s gone, ascended somewhere, and for a second you think you’ve overplayed it. But she returns with a laugh—just a single one, mind you, scraping breath in deep after it, filled with disbelief, delight and the undertones of a new addiction.

“I eh, I can’t—” she breathes out, voice strained from all the muffling, and she grabs a pillow, hugging it close to her chest, just to have something to bury her face in. “Holy shit,” she curses in full now. “My legs won’t stop fucking shakin, you prick.”

You move up, slide in next to Lia, careful not to cause any more explosions. Her face still glows with the aftershock as she’s clutching the pillow like it’s some kind of stuffed animal you won for her at a carnival. You make a mental note to add that to a bucket list.

You reach over to the nightstand, pour a glass of water from the pitcher provided, and push the glass gently against Lia’s lips. “Drink,” you say, and she does with a big smile, tipping her head back and gulping like her life depended on it. She splutters the last mouthful, wipes her mouth on the pillow, and collapses again.

You stroke her head, slow, patient. “You’re a fucking rockstar, you know that? Not just for being so free tonight, but… man, the way you cum? You’re a miracle.”

She groans into the pillow, mortified. “Shut up. You’re being such a loser right now.”

“Ouch,” you say, cheeky, “And here I was thinking we had something special.”

You lie there, sticky and messy and sweaty, just appreciating the way you fit into each other. A minute drifts by, two. Then she cracks open an eye and grins. "Kind of unfair of you, by the way."

You blink. "What is?"

She reaches over, wraps her hand around your cock who is valiantly refusing to give up the dream, and gives it a languid, teasing pump. "That you’re literally hard as a rock again. I mean, you just ruined me. My legs still don’t work. And you’re just… ready to go."

You can’t deny it’s what you want, but she looks like she might evaporate if you try anything on her. “Oh, you don’t have to—”

She stops that thought before it’s fully formed, squeezing your hilt enough to silence you. “You’re fucking kidding me, right? I’m not doing anything because I have to, it’s because I want to. And that’s thanks to you. You don’t really think I’m going to let you walk out of this place without actually fucking me?”

You open your mouth, but she slides her thumb over your slit, slow, and your brain disconnects from your body for a second. "Lia, you need to recover—"

She cuts you off with a glare. “If you don’t fuck me right now, one of us will die. But—” She holds up a finger, doing her best to get her breathing under control. “Condom. I know you’re a cum fountain, and I am not going to be that cliché.”

She leans over to the nightstand, rummages through the basket of “romantic amenities” and yanks out a foil packet. She tosses it at your chest. “Pick your position,” she says, rolling onto her back and spreading her arms in a gesture of reckless generosity. “Dealer’s choice, remember? But if you do missionary, I swear to god—”

You catch the foil packet with a smirk, weighing it in your palm. The options tumble through your head, a dirty montage: you could go classic, split her open missionary just to see the look on her face and violate her threat; you could get her on her stomach, ass up, push her down and rut her until she’s drooling into the motel comforter; you could even force her into lotus, making her do some of the work and test out her jellied legs some more. All tempting, all hot, but you hesitate. Something about the way she’s looking at you—equal parts challenge and naked trust—makes you want to ask.

“What do you want? I can’t decide,” you say, tearing the foil but waiting.

Lia props herself up on her elbows, squinting like the question is a trick. “What do you mean?”

You shrug. “I mean, if you could pick anything. Any position. What’s your fantasy, Lia?”

She opens her mouth, then shuts it instantly with a glare, very aware that you’re the type to use this against her. She’s not wrong. She considers her options, bites the inside of her cheek, and acts against her better judgement. “Well,” she starts, “You fucked my legs out of commission, so I can’t be riding you.” She pauses briefly. “But, honestly? That thing you did earlier. Piggyback ride. I don’t know why, but it was… really fucking hot. How easy it was for you to hold me. I’m still thinking about it. Like, you, holding me up while you do what you want to me.”

You blink, surprised, but so fucking down. “You’re telling me you want to get fucked without your feet touching the ground?”

She shrugs. If you’re going to use it against her, she might as well mix some defiance into her guilt. “Maybe.”

You slip away from her, standing upright, towering over her with that cock she thinks is so unfair. She doesn’t back down. Her breathing is fast, and she’s waiting to see if you’ll indulge or if you’ll run from the challenge.

Obviously, the only right answer is to hook your hands under her knees, dragging her to the edge of the bed. You move fast, but there’s no roughness. You scoop her up, hands cradling her ass and thighs, hoisting her into your lap like she belongs there. Her arms find your shoulders in an instant, hooking around your neck, legs bracketing around your waist. For a second, you gloat, just holding her, proud of how easy she makes it. Chest to chest, you stare into her eyes, and she blinks, caught off guard by how tender you’re approaching this.

You push her up against the wall, one hand under her ass, the other working together with her hand to tear the condom wrapper. She helps putting it on, fingers trembling as she rolls it down your length.

Her legs clamp tight around your hips, grinding down until she’s got herself just so with the head of your cock pressed in between you. You pull back, line up, then sink in very slowly. You want to savor the way she stretches and molds around you. She’s so fucking tight.

“Holy fuck,” she groans out, eyes pleading, “You’re fucking huge, I don’t know if I— I can’t—”

You keep pushing, not rough but insistent, sliding in and she nearly claws a chunk out of your shoulder for it. “You can,” you whisper back, “you feel so fucking good, Lia, and you’re taking all of me.”

Her hips shift to let you in easier, back arching against the wall, and you take the hint, finally entering fully. She’s panting in your ear for it, but she settles into you.

She twitches every time you throb, the slow and grinding rhythm overtaking her. You’re not rough with her. Maybe next time. Tonight, you want to take her in a way that makes her fall in love with you forever.

“Okay—Okay, it feels good,” she pants, and you believe her, because she’s looking at you like you have light in your eyes. You can’t stop looking at her. “I’m fucking yours,” she somehow manages to push out between her moans. “Don’t fucking stop, it feels so fucking good.”

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck—” is all she can mumble now, and it’s more fucks than you’ve heard from her before this night combined. You grip her ass, holding her steady, and fuck up into her until she shakes, her head dropping onto your shoulder as she cums again, harder than before.

This time, she doesn’t stop. She keeps moving, rocking against you even as you piston in and out, her body greedy for more. She’s a mess—hair wild, mascara running, sweat beading on every inch of her—but she’s never looked better. You kiss her, deep and dirty, and she moans into your mouth.

Even as your hips jackhammer into her, she’s clawing at your back, nails biting in time with your thrusts, leaving raised red gouges like she wants to sign her name in your skin. She’s a machine of noise—every time you bottom out, she yelps, a cracked mewl that might be pain or pleasure or both. You can’t tell the difference anymore.

“Fuck,” she gasps, “fuck, fuck, fuck, you—” Her head thuds against the wall, her hands locked like a vice behind your neck. “I can’t believe you fit,” she cries, “I can’t believe—holy shit, you’re going to break me.”

 Her head lolls, hair fanning over her eyes, but she doesn’t let go. Every time you drive in, she squeezes with her legs, trying to take you even deeper, her cunt milking you so greedily you almost lose it right there. You hold on, wanting to keep this going as long as possible.

“Fuck, Lia—” you grunt, and the way she’s still looking at you, with her lips saying more than her words ever could, make you want to fuck her until she’s sobbing your name and can’t remember hers.

She bites your shoulder, hard, and then whimpers, “I want this every day. I want you to fuck me so stupid I can’t even think. Please, please, stay with me—” She’s babbling, words slurring into each other, punctuated by the wet slap of your bodies colliding. There’s nothing left of the old, careful Lia; she’s a mess, running on pure animal need, and you love her for it.

You slow down, just to tease, and she claws at your back. “Don’t—don’t stop, I need you, please—” Her voice is high and shaking, every syllable a desperate plea. You push her harder into the wall, cock grinding up against her cervix, and she comes again, a high shriek that starts in her chest and ends in your mouth as you kiss her through it. She’s sobbing, laughing, cursing you out, and you’re right there with her, barely holding on.

“Inside—inside, please,” she gasps, “please, I want to feel it pulse, want to made I made you—fuck, fuck, fuck, cum in me—” She’s so far gone she doesn’t even care about her own orgasm anymore. Just begging for yours, spasming around you, aftershock after aftershock.

“God, you’re a mess,” you groan, but you love it, love every ruined, wanton inch of her.

“Yours,” she pants, “I’m your mess, I’m fucking yours, so fill me, please, please—”

Your control snaps. You pin her to the wall, driving in with a force that rattles the whole room, and she shrieks, both hands grabbing your face to keep from floating away. You feel it start low, a static charge building in your spine, then sparking outward, white-hot and blinding.

She kisses you this time, and you’re coming, hard, groaning into her mouth as you burst everything you have and fill the condom inside her.

You somehow stay standing, keeping Lia’s body squished between yours and the wall, a sweaty mess. She bites your bottom limp, then slumps back, limp and boneless. “Oh my god,” she sighs, “I can’t decide if I like the feeling of your cock or your tongue more.”

You stagger back to the bed, collapsing with her still wrapped around you. She clings to you. Even as you lie, she doesn’t let go. You just enjoy the breathing, the returning to life, the existing.

Eventually, she breaks the spell. “So,” she says, “are we dating now, or what?”

You look down at her, and she’s biting her lip, trying not to laugh.

You kiss her, soft and slow. “Yeah,” you say. “We’re dating.” You twist around, finally removing the condom and tossing it in the trash, and collapse back next to her, where she’s waiting for you.

She turns onto her side, snuggling in. “I still have to tell him we broke up,” she says. “He’s probably going to be so pissed.”

“Think he’ll try to win you back?” you ask, rubbing lazy circles into her shoulder.

She groans. “He always does. He’ll probably try to make me feel like I’m the one overreacting, saying he loves me so much, tell me to stop being dramatic and to not throw away what we had.” She pauses, rolls her eyes and continues. “He’s probably blowing up my phone already, like, ‘Where are are, let’s talk about this, it’s not a big deal.’”

You reach for her phone, unlocked and abandoned on the nightstand, and sure enough: seven notifications, all his name, as if he could will her back through volume alone. She silences her phone just as easily, and tosses it on the nightstand.

Almost as if spurred on by an extra need for vengeance, she smiles. “Hey,” she asks, “you got anything left in you?”

You blink, then glance down at your thoroughly spent cock, and laugh, embarrassed. “As much as I want to, I think I’m drained.”

She grins, baring her teeth, and leans down to kiss your chest, then your stomach, then lower, tongue trailing lazy circles. “You sure? Because I could probably get one more out of you if I tried.”

You squirm, half-ticklish, half-hopeful, but after a few minutes of her best efforts, all you manage is a halfhearted salute and a dizzy giggle. “Sorry,” you say, “system rebooting. Please come back when my balls aren’t thoroughly drained.”

You lie there, entwined, for as long as you can get away with. The hotel clock ticks over every excruciating minute, reminding you that you’re on the clock, that this freedom is paid for by the hour and will end as soon as your wallets or bodies run dry. You don’t care. You let the minutes drain from you, marking time by the lengthening pattern of Lia’s fingers tracing the line of your ribs.

Eventually, you both get up, shower off, and put yourselves back together. You’re still trembling a little, a pleasant aftershock, as you walk into the dead of night. The world looks different, like the universe has been rerouted through your joined hands.

She’s got her hair in a messy bun, your hoodie over her shirt, and she’s still not wearing a bra. You follow her down the block, back toward campus, the old world waiting where you left it. You’re halfway there, Lia chattering about nothing, when you hear a voice behind you—loud, sharp, the vocal equivalent of a car alarm.

“Lia! What the fuck?”

You turn. There he is: the ex who doesn’t know it yet, still looking the same as he did when he kissed that girl at that party, like he missed a couple of seasons of Lia.

Lia flinches at the raised volume, some vestiges of his control. You squeeze her hand, once, a silent reminder that you’re here as well. She stands, just a little behind your shoulder, but her chin is up, her spine straight.

He’s got it all loaded: the hurt, the entitlement, the performative anger. “Wow, Lia,” he spits, loud and rattling the air. “This what you do now? Run off with some fucking loser? Real mature. Real classy.”

You brace for impact, for the flinch and the apology and the slow-motion collapse, but Lia just shrugs, all slow confidence. “You don’t get to be mad,” she says, voice steady as a rifle shot. “Not after you did what you did.”

He tries again, louder. “You’re making a fucking scene. You want this guy to see what a goddamn psycho you are?”

And you’re about to step in, to body-block or at least escalate with some well-timed sarcasm, but Lia beats you to it. Her voice is steel and glitter: “Eat shit, asshole.”

She turns to you, and just as he draws a breath to retort, Lia kisses you with a force that feels like it could break your teeth. It’s not gentle, not even a little; her hands are in your hair, her mouth insistent, hungry, and you can feel her ex’s ego shriveling up and dying at the sight.

He stands there, a monument to every mediocre boyfriend in history, jaw working, hands twitching. You almost feel bad for him, but then Lia pulls back, breathless, and you see the look in her eyes and you know the only person in this story worth rooting for is her.

Lia wraps herself around your arm, tucking in like it’s her natural place, and for once you see the boyfriend—ex, you realize now, it’s official—deflate. He opens his mouth, then closes it, then shakes his head, half-laughing and half about to lose it. “You’re a fucking joke, Lia,” he says, voice cracking, “I hope you’re happy together.”

She doesn’t even look at him. She just leans into you, hand spread wide over your stomach, and says, “I am, actually.” She glances back, a parting shot gleaming in her eye, and adds, “He knows how to make me cum. You could learn a thing or two.”

His face goes blotchy-red, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water, and for a second you think he might take a swing at you. But then he just shakes his head, mutters the word “sluts,” and shoves his way past, storming off down the block.

You and Lia stand there, your laughter coming out in hiccups, barely able to breathe.

“Holy shit, did you see his face?” She clutches your shirt. “I thought he was going to try and hit you.”

You both laugh at how ridiculous it was, how she revels in her victory. She scrunches up her nose, looks at you with all the love she can give, and there’s no grief.

When you finally reach her dorm building, she hesitates at the door. She turns to you and asks, “So, I’ll see you tomorrow morning then? Promise?”

You nod. “I’ll be here.”

She grins, then pokes your chest, hard. “And not just because I’m the only one that knows how to suck your dick?”

You salute, dead serious. “It helps, but the fact that you’re my favorite person was established before I found your hidden talents.”

Her lips form a tight line, she staggers a bit as she ducks inside and waves over her shoulder, and then the door closes. It takes a minute for you to start walking away.

You eventually make it back to your place, and the clock reads past 4 a.m. as you let yourself into your room, flop face-first onto the bed, and become dead asleep in seconds.

You wake up to a dozen of texts from Lia, all time stamped between 8 a.m. and the current 9 a.m., each more unhinged than the last:

“my thighs are bruised and whose fault is that? yours. youre officially an abuser…”

“jk they’re good bruises”

“remember when i said i wanted u i was serious don’t be a dick about it”

“fuck i can’t stop thinking about your mouth”

“are you awake. please be awake. i want to see you right now. but i also want to sleep for 1000 years. what do i do”

“hey my legs are working again”

“nvm im on the floor SEND HELP”

“my roommates are gone till 5 btw just saying”

“so have you got any juice back in those balls of yours?”

“i havent washed my face yet and i desperately need you here to give me a reason to”

Then there’s a picture. Lia’s on her dorm floor, hair everywhere, face grinning up at the camera, eyes soft with sleep but lit with mischief. Her shirt is one of those oversized, thin things that’s only oversized if you’ve never actually tried to contain anything with it—her nipples show through, and the neckline is so wide it’s sliding off one shoulder, hinting at the curve of her collarbone and the warm, pliant skin below. You can’t tell if she’s wearing anything under it, but that’s probably the point.

“im trying so hard to look good for you so youll finally get the hint and come over to fuck me (multiple holes ready for use btw)“

“just imagine how much better id look if you were here with your cock in my mouth… like??“

You text back: “just woke up. im there in 10. youll look even hotter after i rip those clothes off of you.”

The little typing bubble appears, and three seconds later: “run. i needed you inside me like an hour ago already.”

[stillalivebydemand893]

Ex's & Oh's...?

18+

One plan to ruin an ex spirals and turns into a wildfire of lust and late-night moaning.

“PLEASE, I’M GETTING ON MY FUCKING KNEES, OKAY? JUST THIS ONCE!” Erik shouted across the living room like it was a telenovela.

“FUCK OFF! I’M NOT DOING IT!” you yelled back, already halfway to chain-smoking a full pack and faking your own death. Not even Marlboros could fix the migraine you got just from existing today.

Erik looked five seconds away from spontaneous combustion. “Why not?! Jesus fucking Christ-one thing, Peach. Just one. Don’t make me bring up the Denver trip.”

You shot up off Julia’s couch like your soul had been yanked out of your spine. “DON’T YOU FUCKING DARE, CAMPBELL.”

You stormed toward him, eyes blazing, trying to intimidate him. He didn’t budge. Didn’t blink. Arms crossed, mouth cocked into a smirk like he was ready to end this fight with fists, fire, or a fake engagement ring.

Julia strolled down the stairs, coffee in hand, face bored. “What’s happening? It smells like unresolved sexual tension and broken dreams in here.”

“It’s just rage and bullshit,” you snapped. “Tell your brother he’s a dumbass.”

“Oh, he knows,” she chirped. “Doctors said it’s irreversible. We even tried holy water. He just got wet.”

“Why are you fighting, anyway?” she added, sipping.

“Because she can’t do one damn thing for this friendship,” Erik growled, stepping closer. “At this point, I don’t even know why we’re still friends. She’s fucking useless.”

You were toe to toe now. Close enough to feel the heat of his breath on your lips. You didn’t know if you wanted to slap him or shove your tongue down his throat. Probably both.

“Fuck you, okay?” you hissed. “Just because we’ve known each other since the fucking Black Plague doesn’t mean I’m going to help you win your ex back. Go on Tinder. Bumble. Fucking Grindr. I don’t care. Pick someone else.”

“Oooh,” Julia purred, eyes wide. “So that’s what this is. Sophia’s coming back to town and Erik’s playing ‘Get My Ex Back: The Remix.’”

You groaned. “I hate her. Last time we were in the same room, she almost bit my head off.”

“That’s because you nearly set her hair on fire,” Erik reminded.

“She wore half a can of hairspray to a Christmas party! I was lighting a candle, not plotting murder!”

“Exactly!” he exclaimed, eyes wild. “She hates you. Which means she’ll do anything to get me back, just to piss you off.”

He threw his arms up like a dramatic Real Housewife.

“Oh babe…” Julia grinned like the devil. “Guess who Sophia’s dating now?”

“I don’t give a single fu-”

“Alex.”

You froze.

“My Alex?”

“Your ex Alex,” she said sweetly.

The Alex. High school heartbreak. Gaslighting king. Prince of “You’re just not popular enough,” which actually meant not hot enough. It took four months, three therapy sessions, and one egging of his house to get over him.

(Erik bought the eggs.)

“Oh. We’re doing this,” you said coldly.

“See?” Erik grabbed your shoulders, eyes blazing. “Come on, Peach. We have to do this. For honor. For vengeance. For-”

“For making Sophia combust and watching Alex implode?” you asked, all sugar and venom.

“Exactly.”

He looked too smug. And maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t just about Sophia. Maybe he liked the idea of calling you his. Maybe he wanted the fantasy to bleed into reality.

But he’d never say that out loud.

Julia clapped her hands like a game show host. “So, babes. What’s it gonna be?”

You grabbed Erik by the collar, yanking him so close your breath tangled. “We’re getting married,” you growled. “Mark my fucking words. Those two don’t know who they’re messing with.”

“HELL YES, baby!” Erik shouted, spinning you around like a coked-up Patrick Swayze.

Julia cackled. “I cannot wait for tonight.”

He set you down gently, hands still resting on your waist. Too warm. Too steady. Too dangerous.

You winked. “Game time, baby.”

Then stomped upstairs.

“Julia, we’ve got a makeover to do!”

“YES MA’AM!” she yelled, nearly tripping over herself to follow.

Downstairs, Erik stood alone, grinning like a man on the edge.

“God help me,” he whispered. “I’m so fucked.”

“Ready, Peach?” Erik waited downstairs.

You strutted in, wrapped in war paint and vengeance,short skirt, red-hot top, hair cascading like you just stepped out of a shampoo commercial and a bar fight.

He whistled, low and dangerous.

“Hot,” he whispered, taking your hand. Just that one word sent shivers down your spine.

“You sure? I feel kinda slutty,” you teased, fully aware it would only fuel him.

His eyes darkened. “Flaunt those lashes at me again and we’re not making it to the damn party, sweetheart.”

There was always something between you. Heat. Hunger. History. Maybe it was the adrenaline. Maybe you were ovulating. Maybe you just wanted to climb him like a jungle gym and let him ruin your entire existence.

“Game time,” you said as you walked into the house.

It was packed. You and Erik stuck close, fingers laced, the picture of toxic bliss. And then you saw her. Blonde bitch, perfect blowout, standing next to your ex.

You stiffened. Erik’s grip tightened.

“Come on, Peach,” he murmured, dragging you toward the couch in the center of the room.

“What’s the plan, Campbell? Make out in front of everyone?” you snorted.

He pulled you onto his lap in one swift motion.

“Not my style,” he smirked, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. You were blushing like hell, unsure whether to bury yourself in his chest or crawl under the coffee table.

“Let’s make some motherfuckers jealous, baby.”

You leaned in, hand on the back of his neck. Skin on skin. Fire in your blood.

He slid his hand up your thigh. “Easy, tiger.” Then kissed your neck like he was starving. You gasped as he squeezed your thigh and bit your collarbone.

“You’re killing me,” you whispered, dizzy with lust.

“That was the plan from the start,” he growled, lips brushing your ear.

You couldn’t take it. You grabbed his lower lip between your teeth and tugged.

“Let’s get the hell out of here.”

“Well, well,” Sophia appeared like the Ghost of Christmas Bitches.

“Hey, Sophia,” you said brightly, hand resting on Erik’s chest. He didn’t even look at her. Eyes locked on yours.

“So... you two finally dating? I knew you were always after him-”

Before she could finish, Erik pulled you off his lap and dragged you outside.

“Sorry, we’re leaving,” he called, not even glancing back.

“Erik, what the hell-” you started as you reached the parking lot.

Then he kissed you.

Hard.

No warning. Just mouth on mouth, heat exploding, tongues colliding in chaos.

“Peach, let’s go home,” he whispered against your lips.

“Best idea you’ve ever had,” you breathed, climbing into the passenger seat of his Dodge Charger.

The whole drive was silent-except for your gasps every time his hand inched higher on your thigh.

Julia called. You answered with your voice ragged.

“Yeah, we’re good. Just... caught a cold. See you tomorrow.” You moaned as he pressed against you.

“We’re so fucked,” Erik muttered, turning into your apartment lot.

“We’ll deal with that tomorrow.” You were already halfway out of your clothes.

The door barely shut before he slammed you against the wall, lips on your neck like you were dessert.

“Don’t tease, oh god-” you whined, fingers tangled in his hair.

“I’ve waited too long for this, Peach.” He yanked off your top, kissed you like salvation, stripped you down to bra and skirt.

You moaned, helpless under his touch.

“Me too.”

He hoisted you up, legs wrapped around his waist, carried you to the kitchen counter, the cold marble sending a shock through your burning core.

“There’s no turning back now,” you whispered.

“No turning back,” he rasped, taking off your bra as you tore off his shirt.

Mouth on mouth, chest to chest, heartbeats in sync like war drums.

His hands cupped your breasts, mouth devouring each one like they held secrets, like they were his to worship.

“Fuck, Erik-”

Your moan echoed through the kitchen like sin wrapped in velvet.

Erik's hands gripped your thighs, strong and possessive, as he lifted you just a little higher onto the edge of the counter. His mouth was back on your neck, nipping and sucking like he was trying to brand you.

"You taste better than I ever fucking imagined," he growled into your skin.

Your breath hitched, fingers dragging through his hair as he pushed between your legs, grinding into your soaked core through your underwear like it was killing him to go slow.

You couldn’t think. You couldn’t breathe. You could only feel.

“Erik-"

He pulled back just enough to look at you, lips parted, pupils blown, hair messy in that way that screamed you did this. His hands slipped down your back, teasing along the hem of your skirt.

“Turn around,” he said, voice low, dark, and cracked with restraint.

You obeyed, almost mindless, hands bracing against the counter as he spun you with one swift movement. His chest pressed flush to your back, and you gasped as he leaned in, lips brushing your ear.

"I've dreamed of fucking you just like this," he whispered, every word dripping into your bloodstream like liquid fire. “Bent over, shaking, begging-”

You let out a breathless whimper, thighs clenching.

And then,you felt it. Hard. Hot. Pressed against you. But something else too.

A jolt lit your nerves on fire.

“Is that...?”

He smirked against your shoulder. “Pierced.”

You nearly lost your balance.

“Holy shit.”

“Exactly,” he rasped, sliding his hand between your thighs. “And it’s all for you, baby.”

Your knees buckled as he ground into you, slow and devastating, like he was showing you just a taste of what that piercing could do.

“I want to ruin you,” he growled, voice strained, hips moving in slow, torturous rolls. “Wreck you so good you forget every asshole that ever looked at you.”

You pushed back into him, desperate, feral.

"Then do it," you gasped. "Make me forget everything."

His hand tangled in your hair, pulling your head back gently so his lips could ghost along your neck again.

“You’re mine tonight, Peach. And tomorrow... we’ll see if I give you back.”

One hand fisted in your hair, yanking it into a rough ponytail. The other slid under your skirt, slow and deliberate, fingers slipping between your thighs,right where you needed him most.

“All this wet for me, Peach?” he growled against your shoulder, his voice pure gravel and sin. “You knew I’d wreck you tonight, didn’t you?”

Your breath hitched. The smirk you gave him was pure defiance. “Took you long enough to notice me, jerk.”

You knew exactly what you were doing. The brat in you wanted to push. You wanted the consequences.

He didn’t take the bait lightly.

“No, Peach. I’ve been noticing you forever,” he murmured, voice low and dangerous. “You put me through hell with that ass of yours. And now?” His breath burned against your neck. “Now I’ve reached my limit.”

Then: “Get on your knees.”

Your heart thrashed in your chest. Blood raced. Adrenaline licked every nerve ending like fire.

You dropped, no hesitation, the air thick between you.

His belt hit the floor like thunder.

You looked up,and damn. He was beautiful, hard, thick, pierced, and proud. Your lips parted before you even realized.

“Open that pretty mouth, sweets,” he said, thumb brushing your bottom lip. “Maybe this’ll finally shut you up.”

Your breath came shaky as you obeyed, your eyes still locked on his. You wanted to ruin him. And he knew it.

He hissed as your lips wrapped around him. His hand stayed knotted in your hair, the other braced on the counter behind him, head tilted back in restraint.

“Fuck, Peach…” he moaned, and it shot straight through your core. His voice, thick and trembling, was sweeter than any praise.

Your tongue worked him slowly, expertly,dragging over the piercing just enough to make him twitch.

He looked down at you, eyes dark, jaw locked. “If you keep looking at me like that, I swear to God you won’t be able to walk tomorrow.”

He dragged you back up by your hair gently, but possessively,your chest pressed to his, breath mingling.

He grabbed your chin, thumb sliding along your bottom lip.

“Open up, Peach.”

You did.

He slid his thumb inside your mouth, and you sucked on it obediently, tongue swirling like you were starving for him. His pupils blew wide, his chest rising and falling like he’d run a marathon.

“Who knew you were such a slut for me,” he said with a wicked grin.

You bit down gently on his thumb.

His smirk turned dangerous. “Brat,” he hissed.

And then he crushed his mouth to yours.

It was chaos.

Teeth. Tongues. Desperation. His hands everywhere, yours tangled in his shirt like you needed him to hold you up,or you’d drop to the floor, ruined.

You didn’t know what was happening next.

Only that you wanted all of it.

You were dizzy. Drunk on him.

And when he pulled back, just barely, voice low and trembling?

“If we don’t move to the bedroom now, I’m fucking you right here against the counter.”

Your smile was dangerous.

That was all it took.

He gripped your waist like he’d been waiting his whole life to, lifting you up and carrying you with that effortless strength like you weighed nothing. Your back hit the mattress, soft but charged—your chest rising fast, your pulse louder than the room itself.

He stood at the edge of the bed, looking at you like you were something sacred and savage all at once. Completely bare, except for that skirt still hanging low around your hips, clinging on like it didn’t want to miss the show.

Erik groaned, deep and rough. “Now that’s a fucking sight.”

Then he was over you,arms caging you in, body heavy with need, muscles taut, eyes locked on yours. You could feel the burn of his stare tracing every inch of skin he hadn’t touched yet.

“Say the words, Peach,” he whispered against your neck, lips brushing your skin, sending a shiver straight through your spine. “And I’m yours. All of me.”

You looked up at him, eyes wild and soft all at once. He hovered there like he didn’t dare move until you called him home.

“You’ve always been mine, dumbass,” you breathed, voice thick with something between want and love.

Then you pulled him in,fingers tight on his shoulder, lips meeting his in a kiss that was slow, deep, and dangerous. One of those kisses that said don’t you dare stop touching me. One that made time stutter.

You pulled back just barely, eyes still locked on his, your arms looped around his neck like a vow.

“Fuck me, Erik.”

And that was it.

His restraint shattered.

He slammed into you with a growl that sounded like it came from somewhere deeper than his chest. You gasped, the force of him knocking the air from your lungs,and your mind.

His piercing dragged over every sensitive inch of you, igniting sparks that made your vision blur.

“God, Peach,” he groaned, forehead pressed to yours, both of you gasping like you were drowning in each other. “You feel-fuck,you feel unreal.”

You clenched around him, nails digging into his back as he moved with pure purpose. It wasn’t just sex,it was claiming, consuming, years of tension finally set on fire.

The rhythm was relentless. His name spilled from your lips like a prayer and a curse all at once.

He was everywhere,his hands on your hips, his breath in your ear, his teeth scraping along your jaw like he wanted to devour every inch of you.

“This what you wanted?” he growled, voice wrecked. “Me losing my mind for you?”

You barely managed a nod before he shifted, thrust deeper, harder, making your body arch beneath him.

You couldn’t speak.

You didn’t need to.

Because the look in your eyes screamed it: I want you to ruin me. I want you to stay.

And he would.

Every second, every touch, every ragged moan said the same thing back.

He already was.

The sunlight hit your face like karma.

You groaned, shifting under the sheets,but you couldn’t move far. There was a whole wall of muscle and menace wrapped around you.

Erik.

His arm was thrown over your waist like a human seatbelt, chest pressed to your back, legs tangled. And dear god,he was still warm. Still solid. Still smug in his sleep.

And still very naked.

You blinked at the ceiling, brain slowly rebooting from what could only be described as the Mount Vesuvius of orgasms.

“Jesus Christ,” you whispered to yourself. “I think he rearranged my spine.”

From behind you, Erik let out a sleepy groan, nuzzling into your shoulder. His morning voice was pure filth,low, gravelly, and half a threat.

“You talkin’ shit, Peach?”

“I’m talking facts,” you muttered. “I’m not sure I can walk. My knees still think I’m on the kitchen floor.”

He laughed, a deep rumble that vibrated against your back.

“You were asking for it.”

You rolled over to face him,and regretted it instantly because his smile was too smug, too hot, and he was definitely still packing a lethal weapon between his thighs. That damn piercing should come with a warning label.

“I wasn’t asking for you to put me in a chokehold with your thighs and rail me into another dimension.”

He smirked. “You say that, but you also said ‘harder’ like… ten times.”

“That’s not legally admissible in court.”

“Oh no?” He leaned in, lips brushing your neck, voice a seductive threat. “What about when you begged me to bite your-”

“ERIK.”

You both froze as Julia’s voice rang through the apartment.

“IF YOU BROKE THE BED, I SWEAR TO GOD-”

Your eyes went wide. Erik slapped a hand over your mouth to stop your giggle. His expression screamed do not move she’s like a damn T-Rex.

“I KNOW YOU’RE IN THERE, PEACH.”

You whispered against his hand, muffled: “She’s gonna murder us.”

“She’s gonna throw holy water on me,” he whispered back. “Again.”

Julia’s footsteps got closer.

“I MADE COFFEE. AND PANCAKES. AND I NEED TO KNOW IF THIS IS A ONE-NIGHT STAND OR IF I SHOULD START PINNING WEDDING CENTERPIECES ON PINTEREST.”

Erik groaned, burying his face in your neck. “I hate her. I love her. But I hate her.”

You were dying. Physically dying from trying not to laugh.

Still, you grabbed the sheet, wrapped it around yourself like a toga, and tiptoed to the door.

Julia stood there. Holding a coffee. Looking entirely too smug.

“Well, well, well,” she said. *“If it isn’t ‘I hate his guts’ and ‘we’re just best friends.’”

You took the coffee. Sipped it. “It’s complicated.”

Behind you, Erik called out, “She begged.”

You turned and yelled, “I will end you, Campbell!”

Julia just raised her eyebrows. “So… you staying for breakfast or just coming for dessert?”

You turned beet red. Erik groaned from the bed. Julia cackled like a witch.

Welcome to hell. Population: You, your enemy-with-benefits, and your chaos-loving best friend.

And you wouldn't change a thing.

You went back to the Campbells house .Erik was in his sweatpants, no shirt, hair still a disaster from the night before. You were in his hoodie,that damn skirt of your and leftover sin.

You sat at the breakfast bar, sipping coffee like you hadn’t just gotten railed into next week.

Julia? Across from you. Staring. Judging. Plotting.

“So…” she said, too casually. “You two finally fucked. Loudly.”

You choked on your pancake.

“Julia.”

“Don’t ‘Julia’ me, Peach. You butt dialled me and I heard you yelling ‘wreck me, Erik.’ Like, honey, I left the apartment.”

Erik didn’t even flinch. “She said it. Multiple times. I have witnesses.”

“Shut up,” you hissed, elbowing him in the ribs. He grinned and bit into his pancake like he hadn’t just shattered your spine six hours ago.

Julia narrowed her eyes.

“So is this... a thing now? Or are we pretending you didn’t just dry hump each other into the afterlife in front of my Christmas candle?”

You and Erik exchanged a glance.

And then,because the devil owns your soul,he looked right at you, smirking, and said:

“She’s mine.”

Your heart didn’t just flutter. It sucker-punched you.

Julia blinked. “Oh, we’re doing the possessive era now. Good. I’ll get matching sweatshirts printed.”

You were about to throw a waffle at her when there was a knock on the door.

Julia frowned. “Who the hell...?”

She opened it.

And you saw her.

Sophia.

Looking airbrushed, iced-out, and suspiciously smug. Next to her?

Alex.

Oh hell no.

You straightened in your chair. Erik’s jaw tightened so fast you could hear it.

“Well, this is awkward,” Sophia said sweetly, glancing at you like she was checking for damage. “We were in the neighborhood. Thought we’d stop by.”

Julia stepped aside slowly, eyes wide. “This is about to be so good.”

You stood.

“Hi, Alex,” you said coolly, sipping your coffee like it was champagne. “Didn’t expect to see you. Or your… shadow.”

Sophia gave a fake laugh. “Oh Peach, still spicy. Cute.”

Erik stood behind you, one hand resting lightly on your waist, thumb brushing under the hem of his hoodie like it was instinct.

Alex’s eyes followed it. You saw it.

So did Sophia.

“So,” Erik said, casually dominant, voice low enough to sound like a warning. “You here to start drama, or are you just lost?”

“We just wanted to catch up,” Alex said. His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “It’s been a while. Thought you were still single.”

You didn’t miss that.

Neither did Erik.

He leaned down, kissed your cheek, then whispered near your ear,just loud enough.

“You wore me out last night, Peach. Still sore?”

You nearly dropped dead from the power.

Julia straight-up wheezed.

Sophia’s mouth tightened like Botox on a budget.

“Well,” she snapped, “this was fun.”

“Thrilling,” you said. “Next time, send a postcard.”

They left, tension trailing behind them like glitter and bad perfume.

As soon as the door shut, Julia collapsed on the floor.

“YOU GUYS. I AM LIVING FOR THIS. I NEED A REALITY SHOW. I NEED A CAMERA CREW. I NEED YOU TO FUCK ONCE PER EPISODE AND THEN DESTROY EVERY EX WHO CROSSES YOUR PATH.”

You dropped into Erik’s lap, chest heaving from all the drama. He wrapped his arms around you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“So,” he said against your shoulder, “round three after brunch?”

You smiled, slow and wicked.

“Only if you say please.”

He smirked.

“Brat.”

[thejolteonmastertj]

Nobody else has the courage to maintag it, so you know what? Fine. I’ll take one for the team.

I won’t deny that there might have been some serious issues with LU fans policing non-LU creators in the past, I wasn’t around for most of it—as such my knowledge mostly extends to how non-LU linkshippers were impacted & that’s about it. But I’m aware I’ve only been here for like 2-3 years so I won’t claim to know everything.

What I do know, however, is that a vast majority of what’s been going on right now stems from gatekeeping.

I’ve blotted out usernames & pfps to minimize unwanted attention toward affected parties, but y’all need to understand how wildly uncalled for the current wave of anti-LU discourse is, because far as I can tell, this is what triggered it.

It must be noted that those “Thank you, that’s cool to know!” Tags came from the same person who’d initially asked the question in the first place.

I don’t care how many works get misstagged or whatever happened 5 years ago, all the misstagging in the world wouldn’t warrant the reaction we got from ovega & her followers. What’s particularly crazy is it was her own follower that brought up LU; we didn’t even do anything this time, they’re just lashing out over a random newbie simply not knowing. Which, there’s literally no other way to describe it: that’s gatekeeping.

They’re not even trying to hide it anymore either, all this bs about how LU fans “don’t even play the games,”? That’s first of all, straight up absurd, & second of all, especially considering LU tends to be a gateway into the LOZ fandom these days, it’s elitism. Because god forbid some new ppl join a 40+ year old fandom from a tumblr comic or AO3 fic I guess? & maybe that’s precisely the issue.

It’s elitism, & I refuse to pretend it’s anything else by this point. If you’ve been watching all this go down & felt lost & confused or like you’ve gone crazy—you’re not. This has been building for a while & folks’ve just been afraid to say anything publicly till now. I want to emphasize the fact that you are why I made this post. You did nothing wrong by being late to a—quite frankly—ancient & one of the most convoluted fandoms out there.

It’s fine to not know things, it’s fine to have “only” played 3 games (holy shit! That’s a lot! These games are huge!), it’s fine to have only played the new games, it’s also fine if you never intend to play any of the games for whatever reason. You don’t owe anyone any sort of proof that you ‘belong’ here.

More importantly I promise you most LOZ creators & Linkmeet creators are way more chill than some of the more vocal discoursers may lead you to believe. What’s going on right now isn’t fair to anyone involved. Newbies nor creators.

[i-love-zelda-16]

dear precious lu fandom, this post is for you <3

I LOVE YOU ALL DEARLY! you are all super cool, amazing, and incredibly talented!!!!!!! no, not someone else, you 🫵. <3

but um. i’m not mad at all, i’m just trying to maybe help calm this fandom down a bit. can we please stop the fanon vs. canon arguing?? or dissing others because they ‘haven’t played the games’?

i’ve tried to stay out of this. but when i search #linked universe, it pains me to see my dear fandom and fellow friends upset. this has been weighing on me. i’m not usually this serious, as those who know me probably recognize.

heacanons are amazing. headcanons are cool. i want to be able to headcanon that Hyrule is a sweet lil bean and Wind is a chaotic lil sailor pirate boy without being flamed, but recently we’ve been dissing each others’ headcanons. just because you disagree with someone’s headcanon does not mean you can ‘correct’ them or tell them it’s a bad headcanon. they love the blorbos too. in the nicest way possible, mind your own business please.

second, let’s not diss people for ‘not playing the games’. for example, i haven’t beaten Link’s Awakening. does that mean i can’t write Legend/Marin angst? no, of course i can write Legend/Marin angst, i love writing that! or even simpler, i’ve seen just straight up teasing, bullying, or saying someone’s ‘not a true fan’ because they haven’t beaten all the games. again, in the nicest way possible, this is ridiculous; not everyone can afford to beat all the games and not everyone has the time to beat all the games. from what i’ve seen, it seems almost like some people won’t be satisfied until the person they’re conversing with has 100%ed all the games— again, a crazy expectation. i personally don’t care if you’ve played all 21 canon games or none at all and you barely know anything about Zelda; i will treat you with kindness and respect, and i really hope others would do the same. shouldn’t we be trying to be kind and encourage new fans to enter the fandom?

everyone, please consider this your wakeup call. and please stop arguing. <3

again, i love you all dearly, and this fandom is the best thing that has ever happened to me. but please consider what i have to say <3

THANK YOU SINCERELY IF YOU READ THIS FAR!!!!!! <3

[kiwisandpearls]

so I saw this post being critical about the whole “traumatized character starts to heal from their trauma but ends up dying for shock value” trope and while I agree with it I saw someone tag that post in the notes with mami tomoe and tbh it’s kind of like…well yes, but actually no. I’d argue Mami Tomoe is an example of that trope executed well, and Madoka Magica’s story just wouldn’t work the way it does without Mami’s death occurring the way it did. And I’m not saying that because it was shocking.

the thing about Mami’s death is that while it’s shocking at first when you sit and think about it is deeply tragic. Mami deserved a much better ending than this but she would’ve never got it. She doesn’t make a contract with Kyubey and dies in the car crash or she makes a contract and gets to live but ends up living alone with no one to turn to. And even if/when she is able to survive charlotte she ends up dying either way, either—for example—by Madoka’s hand or by Walpurgisnacht.

the other thing about Mami’s death is that saying its shock value is implying that it had no reason to be in the story when it truly did. Firstly, it showed a good example that being a magical girl in Madoka Magica is not all fun and games. That isn’t to say it wasn’t made out that way. Mami herself warns Madoka and Sayaka that if they choose to become magical girls they’re going to have to risk their lives to fight witches, but we never see an actual examples of witches posing any serious harm against Mami or the other magical girls. Mami’s death was a good example that her words that actual weight to them, that being a magical girl could get you killed.

not only that but her death had a deep effect on both sayaka and madoka. Before Mami’s death Madoka was sure about making a contract, which gets thrown out of the window the moment she sees mami die. And it’s clear her death sticks with her long after it happens, she constantly worried about sayaka after she makes her contract, and even snaps at homura, telling her to not talk about her that way, after she makes passing comment about mami when madoka asks her to try working with sayaka.

And while Sayaka doesn’t seem to be as traumatized by Mami’s death as Madoka was, her death still had an effect on Sayaka, especially in how she views Mami. If Mami had survived Charlotte’s attack she probably would’ve explained to Sayaka the same things she explained to Madoka, that she felt alone and had no one to turn to. But she never got the chance to, and while I’m not criticizing Madoka for this, Madoka probably didn’t tell Sayaka what Mami told her. So along with turning Mami into a sort of martyr, she also continues to put Mami on this pedestal. Saying that Mami wasn’t like other magical girls like Kyoko and Homura, that Mami was one of the “good ones”, one of the “good” magical girls who were selfless and cared more about being defending justice and saving lives than collecting grief seeds. Causing her to spiral a bit about homura and kyoko, seeing them as being actively malicious, just as evil as witches (which…to be fair to her, kyoko was acting a little malicious in her picking fights with a new magical girl��twice. While for Homura Sayaka doesn’t have the context to understand why Homura is All That). While I do think Sayaka probably would’ve still idolized Mami (which also makes sense as she’s a senior magical girl, she would look up to her), I don’t think she would’ve idolized her as much if she didn’t die.

TL;DR: Mami’s death is actually a well written take on the “traumatized character dies in the end” trope because it wasn’t purely for shock value and had an actual purpose in the narrative.

[babymorte]

i think what sucks about this entire situation is i though they were different. i know i bitch and moan about my relationships whether friends romantic or familial but i don’t know they were different. for the first time i felt like i made a legitimate friend. one that actually cared. all i wanted was not to be lied to anymore. it was never about them not being good enough or not giving me enough clarity or how often we spoke i never cared about any of that. it was where it counted that mattered. the lies, the half truths, throwing others under the bus to protect themselves from the lies they couldn’t keep from telling and i was always left with silence or their projection of their own insecurities and you know what? i was okay with that because i saw through it all and i didn’t care. we had already gone through so much and came out fine so why can’t someone make simple promise of not lying. i saw the person inside and i wanted to protect them because i know what it’s like to go through what they have i mean hell even now our situations are exactly the same. it was just nice to have someone that i thought was on the same page. i never expected any of this.

i never wanted any of this.

i’m okay with being the villain though. if someone has to do mental gymnastics to make me the problem when they can’t face their own emotions and feelings and consequences that is fine do what you have to. it’s not desperation to want what’s best for those you care about or to fight to hold onto them and you’re not a bad person for holding your friends accountable that’s the bare minimum of friendship what’s respect without accountability?

people want to change but are too scared of taking the risks and it’s unfortunate.

they say i’m crazy but they never tell me im wrong and i don’t think people want to be seen for who they are because they can’t fathom being fully accepted mess and all.

and i refuse to believe all of this was a game or manipulation. i think it absolutely delved into that but it was all protection and that is what’s unfortunate.

i won’t stop caring and i won’t stop rooting for their success and happiness and i hope that they can heal and stop with the bullshit because they really do deserve happiness and love and care and understanding from the people they actually want it from instead of just having to settle with what they’re presented with that’s easy.

all i want is for the people i care about to be happy and be the best versions of themselves but im learning that some people no matter how much they say it don’t actually want help or at least not from you which is fine i just wish we could start being more honest with ourselves and the people we claim to care about

[wiseatom]

when you ask for byclair prompts and you see the words “someone’s hands in someone else’s pockets” and also “letterman jacket” this is the result. thank you @astrobei for saying those words 😙

“I don’t know,” Will is saying as Lucas bends down to tie his sneaker, pulling the laces taught before crossing them over each other and creating his first knot. “You don’t think this is— I don’t know, a little corny?”

Lucas glances up to see Will deliberating in front of the school-issued mirror hanging next to his school-issued wardrobe, shrugging his shoulders and turning this way and that as he considers his reflection from every angle. The jeans and pull-over he’s wearing are classic Will outfit staples, as are his novelty socks and well-worn but well-cared-for sneakers, which means he’s referring to the one piece of his outfit that’s not part of his normal rotation: the Lucas-issued school-issued letterman jacket.

“Corny,” Lucas repeats, frowning up at him as he loops and swoops his laces and finishes off his knot.

“Yes, corny,” Will says, exasperated, as he turns his back on his reflection to face Lucas, who has switched knees to work on his other shoe. He opens his mouth to say something else, but all that comes out is an annoyed exhale as his eyes drop to Lucas’ hands tying his second knot. “I still don’t get how you do that,” he mumbles, tapping the toe of Lucas’ shoe with his own.

“I still don’t get what you don’t get about it,” Lucas replies, standing up. Will crosses his arms, scowling as Lucas takes a step towards him, crowding into his space. “What nineteen year old doesn’t know how to tie his shoes?”

“I’m not nineteen for another two weeks,” Will points out. “And I know how to tie my shoes.”

“Right,” Lucas says, nodding seriously as he lifts one arm and leans against his wardrobe, his other hand on his hip. Will watches him do it, and Lucas watches Will’s eyes flit to his bicep, distracted. “You still use bunny ears,” he continues, biting back a smile, “and you’re worried that wearing my letterman jacket is what’s corny.”

Will shoves at his chest, but not hard enough to make Lucas budge, even a little. “Shut up,” he says over Lucas’ laugh, twisting his hands into Lucas’ shirt and using it as leverage to try and shake him. Even though Will’s not using enough force to actually move him, Lucas lets himself be jostled a little, back and forth and back and forth until Will’s had his fill of it, until he’s laughing, too. “You’re so annoying.”

“And you look good in my jacket,” Lucas says. The hand that he’s got propped on his own hip migrates towards Will — as it so often does, these days — and he hooks his pointer finger into one of Will’s belt loops, tugging him closer. “I don’t think that it’s corny at all.”

“I think you’re biased,” Will tells him with an eye roll. All the same, his hands slide up Lucas’ chest and up to his neck, where his fingers link together at his nape.

“I think you were the one who said you were cold,” Lucas says slowly, “and you were the one who asked me for a jacket,” he continues, tugging on the hem of the aforementioned jacket pointedly before he’s slipping his hand past it, coming to settle on the dip in the small of Will’s back. “I also think it was very generous of me to give you one.”

Will hums in agreement. “I think that you have other jackets.”

“This is true,” Lucas says, “considering you’ve already stolen half of them.” Will does not deny the accusation, because it’s completely true, and Will doesn’t lie unless he’s playing a board game, in which case he very much lies. They’re not playing a board game, though, so he doesn’t say anything and lets Lucas continue instead. “But I also think that when you asked, that’s the one you wanted.”

Will has had a flush in his cheeks since the moment Lucas first stepped into his space, but now he turns bright red, which means Lucas is right on the money. “Shut up,” he says again, but he’s smiling, tugging on Lucas’ neck and bringing him closer. “It’s still corny.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Lucas says, and as much as he likes looking at Will in his jacket, seeing his own name embroidered right over Will’s heart, he likes kissing Will even more — so he does. Will sighs into his mouth the moment their lips touch, a happy, content noise, and Lucas lets the arm holding him up against the closet door fall so that he can have both of his hands on Will’s waist, use them to pull Will closer. Will lets him, both arms coming up to rest on Lucas’ shoulders and drape over his back, and this is his favorite part — he likes that Will’s a little taller than him, that he goes a little boneless when Lucas is kissing him, that he falls into Lucas and trusts that Lucas will keep him from hitting the ground. He likes that he knows these things, that they get to do this, that they have been for a few months, now, ever since Will showed up at his dorm on their first day back from winter break with a 2-litre bottle of Coke in one hand and a pint of rum poorly concealed beneath his sweater in the other, courtesy of Jonathan. They’d each managed to mix two half-assed drinks before they abandoned the soda entirely and just started passing the pint back and forth, drinking it straight and making faces after every sip. Lucas remembers how fixated he’d become on Will’s mouth every time he had brought the bottle to his lips, how he’d been hyperaware of it still when he’d take his own drink once Will had finished, how he’d pretended that the spit they shared on the rim was almost like kissing until they were kissing and he didn’t need to pretend anymore.

Not pretending has been awesome. Not pretending means he’s had a lot of practice, practice means he knows what Will likes and what Will doesn’t like, and Lucas also knows that he likes the sound Will makes any time Lucas slips his hands into his back pockets, which means he does it as much as possible.

Like right now.

“Okay,” Will breathes out after humming into Lucas’ mouth, and his lips are still buzzing with the vibration of it, even as Will breaks the kiss, pressing their foreheads together. “Okay, okay, okay,” Will says again, then his lips are right back where they were — messily, this time. Eager. “Maybe we should just skip dinner,” he suggests when they part again, kissing Lucas a third time the second the last syllable falls from his lips. “Maybe we stay here instead?”

“You can stay here,” Lucas tells him, dodging Will’s attempt to kiss him again by turning his face, letting it land on his cheek instead. He does the same back when he pulls his hands from Will’s pockets and starts gently pushing him away, feeling a little bad once they’re apart enough for him to see the look on Will’s face at the separation. He pats Will’s hip apologetically, hoping it suffices. “I will be participating in pasta bar night at the dining hall.”

It does not suffice. “Oh, come on,” Will complains, making a face. He tries to turn them around, switch places and back Lucas into the mirror, but before he can pin him there Lucas is spinning out of his reach easily, stepping away from Will entirely and towards the door instead. Will stares at him, clearly not amused. “Dude,” he says, and it’s a testament to just how miffed he is that that’s the word he landed on, because Lucas doesn’t think he’s ever heard Will say dude in the entire time he’s known him.

“Pasta bar night, Will,” he repeats sagely. “I have a game tomorrow — I need the carbs.”

Will stares at him some more. When Lucas does not say gotcha! or sike! and continues to stand by the door, still out of his reach and evidently serious about this whole pasta bar thing — which Will should have known, since Lucas has always made it very clear, even prior to becoming an athlete, that pasta takes priority to almost anything— he frowns harder. “You’re so annoying,” he tries, but it’s clear he knows he’s not going to win this one.

“And you already said that,” Lucas points out with a shrug. He grabs his keyring from its spot on his desk and opens the door, turning towards Will expectantly. “Come on,” he says, gesturing through the doorway. “I know you want buttered noodles.”

Will huffs, shoving his hands into the pockets of his borrowed, corny jacket. “I do want buttered noodles,” he grumbles, pushing past Lucas and out the door. Lucas claps him on the shoulder as he passes by, the same way he might do if it was one of his teammates.

“Atta boy,” Lucas says.

“Corny,” Will calls out as he trudges ahead down the hallway, not looking back.

Lucas rolls his eyes, laughing as he pulls the door shut and locks it behind him. “Give it back, then,” he replies loudly, trailing after him at a leisurely pace.

The jacket’s a little big on Will — an oversized fit by design, and probably a size bigger than he would order if he were buying it for himself — so the sleeves are longer on him than they are on Lucas, the cuff covering half of his hand. It’s kind of cute, Lucas thinks, even if it is corny. He likes seeing Will in his clothes, that the inch he has on Lucas doesn’t make up for the broadness Lucas has on him, that, unless Will starts hitting the gym, it’s always going to be that way.

The jacket’s a little big, and the sleeves are a little long, but not so long that they conceal the middle finger Will is throwing back at him, clear as day.

“No,” Will says, as if the bird wasn’t enough.

“Thought so,” Lucas says, and jogs to catch up with him.

[themasqueraderwrites]

Beloved, Bound, Bought

Lakan x reader

(Part 4) (Part 3) (2/2 of Part 2) (1/2 of Part 2) (Part 1)

Picture not mine

A match without witnesses.

No attendants. No curious eyes. No stray courtesans stumbling out of rooms after their clients. No watchful gaze from the old madam.

This time, he uses his authority to request my presence at his estate. Just me. My eyes remain on the view outside the carriage. We’re getting close—I can tell by how beautiful the scenery is becoming.

If I play my cards right, this will be my home. I must play my cards right.

The scent in the air is different than in the pleasure district, where I grew up. Here, there’s no stench of the ill, no syphilitic walkers, no feeling of unease as I look around. The landscape is breathtaking, as if taken from a painting. This is the kind of place my mother once wished to slave away in—not that wretched district where, night after night, my father would come back smelling of another woman. Courtesan or not, it could’ve been anyone he picked up off the street. I have no idea.

All I know is my mother wasted away—and he didn’t even come to the funeral.

That’s right. Love is fleeting. I am no one’s beloved. Especially not that man’s beloved.

Suddenly, the scenery,though it didn’t change, turns sour. A lump forms in my throat. I lower my gaze to my lap. But if I stay interesting to him for long enough, I might just slither my way into a comfortable life.

I pull a mirror from my robes—a gift from him. Made of glass. Beautiful and breakable. It’s held in a delicate frame, perhaps to ensure it doesn’t graze my skin. Its price is likely higher than any bid I’ll receive from anyone who isn’t Kan Lakan. I look into it carefully, not daring to drop it.

My hair is down, my robes light and unlayered—the way someone dresses only when they’re prepared to walk a fine line between danger and desire. I’d never wear such a thing in the pleasure district. There, I’d let the client undress my heavy robes, let them struggle, and watch as the pins fell from my hair, loosening each careful twist as the night wore on.

The carriage stops in front of an intricately historic building—beautiful enough to be a museum, yet with the quiet comfort of a home. I expected nothing less. He’s waiting inside.

The scent of incense is strong—familiar, almost comforting, as if chosen specifically to make me lower my guard. But I won’t. Not until this estate is as much mine as it is his.

Not until waking up in silk sheets washed by maids—rather than by me—is no longer foreign.

Not until I eat food too rare for the pleasure district.

Not until ice in the heat of summer is normal.

A maid leads me to him. His hair is loosely tied, eyes glittering in the lamplight, following every move I’ve made since I stepped into the room.

The same tension that’s followed us since our first match coils between us now.

“You’re here,” he says softly.

“You called, did you not?”

He motions toward the Go board, already set. And just like that—it begins again.

The game starts quiet, methodical. But underneath, it’s coiled and sharp, every move a question neither of us dares to ask aloud.

He’s not holding back tonight—truly not. It shows. These aren’t the moves of someone merely responding to his opponent’s offense. He plays like he’s already imagined five ways to beat me before I even lift a hand.

And for the first time, against him, in this game—I’m losing.

I glance up once, and he’s already looking at me.

Not with amusement.

Not with triumph.

But with something deeper.

Hunger.

When the final stone falls, I lean back in my seat, my heart pounding.

“Well,” I begin, “I suppose I lose.”

As I shift to get more comfortable, he leans forward. His eyes trace me—slowly. From my hair, to my eyes, down to my hands. They rest, calm and obedient, in my lap. He will find no defiance in me.

When he realizes this, he rises. His seat topples behind him with a loud thud. I see shadows stir just beyond the doors—the guards flinch—but they don’t enter.

I narrow my eyes toward the doorway. What if their master were in danger? I could maim this man and they still wouldn’t step in. That must be their order.

He steps in front of me and lifts his hand to my face, moving me however he pleases. I let him—though my gaze lingers on the door just a second longer before returning to him.

Our eyes meet. Mine drop to his lips, then rise again. Somehow, he gets closer. Now, our noses touch. I can feel his breath—warm, steady. The incense clings to him.

His hands are still on my face, but they set fire in my belly and a shiver down my spine.

His gaze flicks to my lips. Then back to my eyes.

I close the distance.

And finally—finally—our lips meet. My eyes closed and let the feeling take over me.

It’s not gentle.

I feel him kneel before me, our mouths still connected, and pulls me down to the floor with him. His hands move from my face to my neck, then down my sides, and settles on my waist.

My hands slip into his hair. My nails graze his scalp, before tugging softly.

And he let out a sound that can only be described as absolutely sinful, but to hear it again would bring me to heaven.

The kiss isn’t rough. It isn’t rushed.

But it is devastating.

I fear for myself. If this is just a taste, what will I become when he wants more?

He kissed me like he’d been denied any form of pleasure his entire life— and feared that whatever kept him away before, would come back to pull us apart now.

When he finally pulls back, our foreheads touch. His voice is hoarse.

“Now,” he says, “we’re even.”

Even?

I gave him not even a taste, and he gave me tenfold in return.

My eyes open and linger on his lips. My hands fall from his hair to his robes—not to undress him. Not yet.

But to hold him.

I pull him back against me.

And our lips meet again.

[maumausie]

Me holding Roach x Ramirez in my hands. I care so much about them.

[tinmate]

The upperclassmen should keep calling Andrew’s crew “The Monsters”, not out of malice or disgust but out of genuine affection. Like yeah they’re beasts on the court and utter menaces off it, they’re little gremlins, absolutely feral, they’re the collective little brothers to the upperclassmen and no one else is ever allowed to make fun of them ever except maybe Jean who called them bastards but in the same tone with the same look in his eyes as the upperclassmen so he gets a pass

[otiksimr]

I’m trying out Genshin again.

Ugh.

[shadowglens]

i do still think datv feels very … disconnected from the previous trilogy, and that parts of it don’t really Feel like dragon age to me. that being said, i’m still having a fun time

[moonyspetwolf]

Okay so I’ve seen like 20 videos on tiktok of people saying they have no idea how exy is played so I’m gonna make a post about how I understand the rules. I’m not really an athlete but I know a bit about sports and I also coincidentally went to the same school that PSU is based on

(I haven’t read the books in like 5 years so if I’m wrong about something feel free to correct me)

First thing, exy is played inside, not outside. The game can’t work in an outdoor stadium and I’ll explain why in a minute. The stadium is like a combination basketball court and hockey rink. Wood flooring and plexiglass walls surrounding the court. There are two goals on each end.

Okay so the lineup. From what I remember there’s 4 positions you can play on an exy team: dealer, backliner, striker, and goalie.

Backliner is pretty straightforward just classic defense. They protect the goal and focus on the other team’s strikers. I think it’s similar to basketball where they’re assigned a mark (opposing striker) who they have to cover during the game. That doesn’t mean they’re not free to move or check other strikers either, but basically they try to stop the other team from scoring any goals. I’m not sure if it’s against the rules for them to make an attempt on a goal or not.

Strikers are similarly straightforward. They’re straight offense. Their job is to get as many goals as possible. They work against the opposing team’s backliner and shoot at the goal

The dealer is the most confusing position but I think they basically control possession of the ball, so I think their job is to get the ball from the other team and make sure it gets to their strikers. At the start of the game or after any breaks they’re the ones who deal the ball and try to pass to their teammates. Idk if they operate similar to backliners or not, like checking, tackling, etc.

The goalie is the same as any other sport- their job is to protect the goal. Goalies have special racket that are bigger and heavier than other players. They also wear special padding to protect them since they’re constantly getting exy balls chucked at them and often have to use parts of their body to block them.

(Side note: if exy balls are anything like lacrosse balls they seriously hurt to get hit with. They’re dense and heavy, when they work up enough speed it feels like getting hit by a slightly bouncy cannon ball)

From what I can remember, at any given time there are two backliners, two strikers, one dealer, and one goalie on the court for each team. Players are subbed in and out as needed (I might be remembering the numbers wrong, maybe they have 3 backliners at a time idk)

Exy is a high contact sport similar to lacrosse, so players are free to use physical force against each other. They can check, tackle, and basically do whatever it takes to get the ball. Just like in hockey, players often get into fights. Excessive use of violence can get them flagged by referees, but it’s by no means a gentle sport. Players go into it with the expectation of getting thrown around and bruised.

Players wear padding and helmets to protect themselves, but bruises, sprains, concussions, and broken bones aren’t uncommon within the sport.

There are some basic rules for how the game is played. Exy is kinda like lacrosse in that players pass the ball back and forth with their raquets. I don’t know a lot about all the rules of lacrosse but I know exy has a rule about possession that’s similar to basketball. In basketball a player has to dribble the ball while they’re moving, if they hold it in their hands without dribbling for too many steps it’s called traveling and it’s a foul. Exy is the same, a player can only be in possession of the ball for 10 (?) steps before they have to pass it. If they carry it farther than that it’s traveling (idk if there’s a special term for it in exy speak). There are ways for players to get around this. They can either pass the ball to a teammate after they’ve taken their 10 steps OR they can rebound it off a wall, catch it in their racquet, and keep moving. This is the reason exy has to be played inside and not outside, so that the players can use the walls. If it’s played outside they can’t rebound the ball and they have to rely strictly on passing back and forth, which isn’t always possible especially if a player is being heavily guarded. I’m not positive if this possession rule applies to all players or only strikers, but it would make sense for it to be all players.

I can’t remember if the books say anything about who is allowed to shoot at the goal. Obviously strikers can but I can’t remember if there are any rules saying backliners, dealers, and goalies can’t score points

The game is played in 2 halves, a total of 4 quarters. I’m not sure if the book ever says how long each quarter is but it’s probably safe to assume each is 15 minutes, so a total of 1 hour playing time. However with timeouts, breaks, penalty time and other interruptions games usually last far longer.

The foxes are a unique team because they’re much smaller than pretty much any other team in the league. They only have 9 players by the end of the year, so they can’t sub players in and out as easily. Most teams have upwards of 18 people so the players are usually on court for a much shorter time and have more time to rest between playing time. In the foxes vs. Trojans game, USC decided to play with the same size roster as the foxes meaning they rarely got to sub out players, which is why they were so exhausted by the end. Throwing yourself around a huge court at top speed for an hour is tiring.

That’s all I can think of at the moment, I’m not an expert and it’s been a while since I’ve read the books but I think exy is a pretty cool sport :)