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transformhim · 3 days ago

Text

Break Out

"Psst! Hey! Hey, Red!"

I tossed my ginger curls out of my face, looking up at the fellow detainee across from me. ‘Red...’ such a dumb fuckin’ line, everyone drops it thinking they’re the cleverest person in the room. I have red hair, hardy har, so people call me Red, tee hee, give me a break.

He’s short, maybe a hair over 5’6”, but a fireplug of a man. Sure, darker blonde, but a fireplug. Even in his baggy clothes, I could tell that he was pretty beefy, like in a got a little too into juicing after high school kind of way.

“What’ll it be, Yellow…” I mumbled back.

He shoots me a weird look. I mime at my hair. He narrows his eyes and shakes away the confusion.

"Give me 50 pounds!"

I shot him an even weirder look than he gave me, and he just gestured back and forth to me and himself excitedly, with both of his wrists tied together with the thick, industry standard zip ties that the pigs always carry around by the dozen at protests.

“What?”

“Jss—Fuckin’ give me 50! I’ll get us outta here!”

“… Pounds.”

“Yeah, c’mon!”

I scoffed, “You can eat 50 lbs of shit.”

“Dude, just—ARGH, just say it, man! Trust me! You can spare it, you’re a big dude! Look, I promise I’ll get us out of here.”

He wasn’t wrong, I probably weighed the same as him. Sure, on a frame easily half a hoot taller than him, but I’ve paid my dues at the alter of vain size building. Anything to at least minimize the amount of ginger jokes I had to endure in school. Thanks a lot, South Park… Wait, 50 lbs of…?

“50 lbs of what then?”

“You, dude! Muscle, size! C’mon dude, we gotta be quick!”

Great, stuck in holding, again, with another horny tweaker, again. It’s like I’m a magnet for this type of shit.

“You want 50 lbs of muscle from me, huh? What, you’re gonna Superman your way outta here?”

“W—I mean, kinda,” he chuckled and shrugged as I rolled my eyes with a grin. I had to admit, Yellow was charming, in a dorky, too much adrenaline kind of way. “And ‘our’ way outta here, man!… C’mon, I’ll give it right back! Trust me, like, we were at the same protest, we’re already on the same team?”

I chuckled behind my grin, “Even you gotta admit that turned into a little more than a protest.”

He shrugged again behind a smirk, “No justice, no peace.”

I outwardly laughed this time. I scratched my knee with my wrists bound together, feeling my forearm graze against the slight chub I was forming. This guy’s clearly got a few screws loose but his charisma was undeniable. Was it because he was built to exactly my type? Whatever, may as well play along, we were likely going to be spending the next few hours together in holding.

He caught me studying him, and opened his palms upwards and raised his eyebrows in a game show host imitation.

I snorted, “Fine, Yellow. You can have 50 lbs of my muscle. Now, how a—!”

My breath caught in my throat and my jaw shot open as I sucked a whooping gasp, my fists clenching and my shoulders tensing up, my abs knotted up and my hips thrusted forward like I was yanked by lasso.

The moment the words left my mouth, I was instantly, fully, throbbingly rock hard. My dick was pulling like an iron rod towards him, making my sweats tent in a way I didn’t know the fabric was capable of handling. In my dizzy, star-spangled vision, I could see the same was true for Yellow. He was similarly tensed and flexed, but smiling widely and dumbly with droopy orgasmic eyes and seemed to be experiencing it much more relaxed way than I was.

He panted quietly, “Don’t worry, dude, it’s just the connection being made, you’re gonna love th—HOOOOOO!!”

It must have hit him the same moment it hit me—it felt like a massive, pillowy, slobbering set of lips smooched down onto my mushroom head, tightly forced itself down the length of my shaft, and began thirstily sucking me off! I continued with my shuddering gasps as he gritted his teeth and hissed with his eyes pinched shut, shushing me as he did, so as to… what? Not alert the pigs making calls and typing up reports? I felt like I was going zero to ten in seconds, on the very verge of busting!

Then as I was gonna bust, the wildest sensation imaginable hit me. It felt like thick, oozing, orgasmic energy like mound after mound of warm, lubricated meat was being sucked directly out of my shaft. I looked down at the throbbing tent in my sweats to get an eye of what was happening, but I would only see my mushroom head flaring over and over again, catching an eye of Yellow’s doing the same through the fabric of his pants.

As the energy shot out of my shaft towards him, I could feel what could only be described as levitating. It felt like my body was becoming lighter and lighter and lighter, with pulse after orgasmic pulse. I rolled my eyes back with lustful, dumb laughter, feeling like I could float away. With each pulse, I could feel my clothes breathing gusts of air out around my neck, arms, waist, and feet as they settled loosely on my smaller frame. As I felt my height shrink considerably, I looked down with a dumb giggle as I watched my cock throb, then thin, throb, then shorten, throb, throb, throb, then—

I pinched my eyes shut and yelped involuntarily as finally came. And came. Shit, and came some more! I swear to god I’d never had an orgasm last as long as it did. Plus, judging by the warm soupy feeling in my boxer briefs, I shot more than I think I ever had!

Then—and at this point I knew I had to be going insane—because then? Yellow was… changing.

He kept his breaths heavy but his volume low as I watched his entire body pulse, and pulse. With each consecutive pulse, his stature stretched taller, his frame stretch wider, and—

“Hhuurrrrrnnnnngg…” he arched his back with a gurgling, euphoric growl, clearly also involuntary, since he’d been such a nag about our volume, as he continued to pulse like a giant heart, only this time his muscles appeared to be joining in on the action. They swelled thicker and broader under his increasingly tightening clothes, the ones that were seconds ago basically hanging on him like a tent, making them audibly stretch and become deliciously tighter. I heard the leather of his boots creak and I watched as they appeared to inflate from within as his thighs and claves rounded with size. He gurgled again as his torso, chest, and abs widened and grew and his throat thickened, making each button down his henley pop, pop… pop pop pop down to reveal his chiseled cleavage.

He seemed to hurry now, his breath quickening, as he rushed his bound hands down to his buckle. As he did, his job was made more difficult by his expanding, bulging arms, each snaking with angry chords of veiny muscle, as he frantically undid his belt. He threw his too-tight zipper down, quickly dug in, and liberated his throbbing boyfriend cock. Ah, so he clearly knew what was coming—the sexy fucker could’ve at least warned me.

“MMMPFF, MMPF, MMMNuuhh…” he lightly moaned behind tight lips as I watched his dick bloom outwards and upwards, encouraged by his bucking hips, lifting higher and thicker into the air like a flower searching for sun, until he—! He gasped in a quick breath as he leaned over, making his bench groan under his new weight, as he erupted thick squirting volleys of cum onto the floor adjacent to us.

Splat, splat, splat, splat, splat… Splat. I watched each load shoot out of him in disbelief. Both obviously at the quantity and also what had just been shared—or exchanged—between us in… Well shit, now that the haze from my orgasm was clearing, it couldn’t have been more than 10 seconds since those last words left my lips to now! Now we were both left in a panting fog, the room saturated with our stink, as he finally started to tuck away his fresh donkey dick.

He glanced over at the splatters on the floor he’d made, “Sorry about that,” he muttered, struggling to zip up his pants. “Didn’t want to… y’know, soak my shorts.” He nodded at my sweats—not overtly soaked themselves but threatening to start showing signs, if my overflowing briefs were any indication—and laughed a bit, wincing as he slowly forced his zipper up, doubtlessly strangling his now-sizable package.

I huffed out a laugh along with him, “What—..” I swallowed dryly, hearing the cracks in my voice. “What did you d—?”

“No time, we gotta bounce,” he grinned with a rich, cocky baritone.

He stood up. And up, and up, towering over his former stature. Yellow’s face pinched with effort as I watched his arms flex angrily.

“RRRNNnngg,” Yellow grunted with an animalistic huff. I swear I could hear his guns tightening like rope! With a sharp “NTCCHuuuh…” and an accompanying defeated *SNIP!* the industrial strength zip tie broke like it was made of cheap plastic. He looked down at where it’d landed and glanced back up at me with another cocky grin.

“Well shit,” I remarked with a chuckle, panting out the last of my exhaustion from my sudden transformation. He popped his firm pecs with that cocky grin as he kneeled towards me.

He sniffed as he leaned in, “Woof! You really made a mess didn’t you?” He grinned up at me, slipping a finger then two under my zip ties. I must’ve blushed a little at the comment, because he chuckled back up at me, “No sweat Red,” He tilted his head back to the creamy puddle on the floor. We both huffed a laugh.

My “cuffs” had loosened from the transformation quite a bit. Still not enough to slip out of, but enough for him to slip two of his thick fingers through. He grunted again and pulled until mine snapped too. He tossed mine to the floor with his and held out a hand to help me up from the bench. I accepted and he lifted me up, making me bounce on me feet a little once

I felt… Hell, I looked pretty sick actually! Had a little bit of the look I remember when I was going straight into undergrad! Minus the nubbier but wickedly more sensitive hog I was now sporting. Used to get laid constantly back then, at least way more than now. But now with gig jobs, keeping a steady gym schedule, taking care of my siblings for my deadbeat folks… Who’s got the time? But… fuck! Yellow had really worked his magic… on both of us!

“You just gonna stare?” He snapped me out of it, “Or should we get out of here?”

“Y-you lead, I guess,” holding up my sweats and briefs (being sure to clutch the briefs tightly so none of my spunk dribbled out, couldn’t handle more embarrassment) the with one hand.

He approached the door to our holding room, grateful that it was some cheap office door with a shitty lock, and quickly but forcefully pushed outwards with his boulder-like shoulders. He and I both huffed out a satisfied laugh as it gave with little of his effort, uttering only a small *crack* as the lock gave up its measly effort inside and swung open.

We hurried it to the end of the long corridor of other holding rooms until it T-intersected with another hallway, and we looked both ways. On one end of the connecting hallway, we could hear the click-clacking of keyboards, the cacophony of calls coming through too-old landlines, and the hubbub of the chatter coming from the station’s staff. On the other end, a fire exit door, with the trademark red illuminated EXIT sign over it with the machinery connected to the door that would set off the alarm once the door was opened.

He leaned in to whisper to me, “We’re gonna have to split up once that alarm goes off. You know Francisco’s?”

“The diner?” I replied back. Good old Francisco’s Diner, always there late at night when you need a ton of carbs after a night of binging. “Waaay too well, yeah I know it.”

“Let’s meet up there. 7 o’clock? Gives you about an hour to get more, uh, decent?” He chuckled back at me.

“Fuck you,” I laughed back, “Ain’t my fault I need to clean up.”

“HEY! What the hell you think you’re doing?!”

We both looked down the other end of the hall, where some fatass pig was moving towards us. Both of our hearts jumped.

“Remember, 7 o’clock, Francisco’s!” Yellow grabbed onto me and shoved me in the direction of the door. I stumbled forwards, making my way to the fire exit, looking back behind me to see Yellow give the pig a linebacker’s shove, forcing him to the floor and knocking the wind out of him, then turning to sprint the way I was going.

I pushed out of the fire exit door, momentarily blinded by the afternoon light and deafened by the accompanying ring of the alarm and bolting to the right, out of the parking lot. I only looked back once to see Yellow sprinting out of the building too, laughing out loud as he ran away from the three cops uselessly chasing after him, tripping over themselves. Thankfully with all of their attention on him, the last thing I saw before I turned the corner was him effortlessly hopping the stone fence on the other side of the parking lot.

I continued running—gliding honestly, the lighter size feeling totally abnormal but thrilling—block after block after block, until I made it to the courtyard of my building. What spunk hadn’t dried against my crotch had spilled out of my briefs and down the leg of my sweats creating a sticky, cool sensation. I checked the time on the ornate courtyard clock. 5:45. Still plenty of time to get cleaned up!

Cleaned up, plus a little exploration. Damn, I felt the same way looked: svelte and sexy as hell. My nubby cock was already greedily throbbing before I unlocked my apartment door.

———

The bell hanging above the door of Francisco’s Diner jingled as I walked in (a fashionable 20 minutes late—what the hell, I got, uhh, distracted). Of the things that would’ve fit me in my closet, I settled on a skate brand tank top I hadn’t worn since college and a pair of gym shorts, drawstring tied extra tight. All of it still hung off me, I must’ve looked emaciated.

“Ay, Red!” Yellow waved over at me from one of the booths along the window. He sported an undershirt and vest along with his own pair of gym shorts, except all of his looked way too tight, compared to my way too loose apparel. What a pair we made!

I slid into the booth, grinning and sighing, “Sorry I’m late, I—”

“Had to give it all a test run, huh?” He chuckled into his coffee mug. I shrugged with a grin. “Don’t sweat it! Meee too, man, me too. I only got here like 5 minutes ago.”

“That was crazy how you got us out of there, man. Any trouble?”

“None! Actually, once I was over the fence around the parking lot, they’d basically given up. You?”

“Not at all. Thankfully all of their attention was on you!”

“Not surprised! Can you imagine what a prize it would be for them if they caught all this? I’m lookin’ like fuckin Superman now.”

He punctuated his cocky brag with a tight flex of his guns, bursting with both his and my combined strength.

“Gotta say,” I shrugged, taking a sip of the coffee he’d ordered me. “Looks fucking good on you, dude.”

“Hey, yeah?” He raised an eyebrow with a grin, bouncing his pecs at me. “You’re looking pretty good yourself there, Red.”

We sat for a few moments sipping our mugs, the obvious horny mist between us simmering and the unspoken recognition of each of our hard-ons adding to our admiration of one another’s bodies. I had to admit, Yellow had one me over. Whether it was because of his charm, his solidarity, his magic, or his bod, the short time we’d come to know each other had caused some kind of spark to ignite.

At the moment I was going to quietly ask that we go somewhere more private, he piped up, stretching and arms and back behind him against the booth.

“Well, a promise is a promise. You ready to get your size back?”

I smiled, “That would be great... Wait, here??” I remembered the mess we made at the station. Surely a mom and pop diner like Francisco’s wouldn’t appreciate a display like that in their establishment.

“I think the bathroom might be a better option. After you,” he gestured his arm out of the booth.

I sauntered over to the bathroom located behind the counter of Francisco’s open kitchen, looking back to see if Yellow was following. He’d left a $10 on the table for our coffees plus a generous tip for the staff and was already close behind me. I opened the door to the single use bathroom, while he held the door, slapping my ass inside as we both chuckled.

I heard him click the lock of the door as I turned around, “So how are we gonna d—”

Yellow had me pinned against the sink before I could finish my question, his hard body pressed against me as his lips and tongue danced against mine, pausing only to shuck his vest off with his undershirt, as I lost my tank top. We grinded our bodies together, feeling our hard tools poking into each other’s hips as we made quick work of liberating them from our shorts. Once we were both completely of our clothes, we resumed our intense make out, each of our hands ravenously feeling up the others, gripping firm mounds of muscle here, sliding fingers down cascading backs there…

“I should thank you properly for helping us both out,” Yellow panted.

He forced me down onto the toilet seat by my shoulders, then slid his hands down my torso, then gingerly tugged at my raging nubby boner. I could see that his was a throbbing, eager railroad spike as he knelt down in front of me and leaned in to swirl his tongue around my mushroom head.

“Fucking hell, Yellow, where you been all my life?” I panted with an exhilarated gasp, running my hands through his stiff dirty blonde hair, feeling his head bob up and down on me.

He released me with a sucking *pop* and grinned up at me, “I’m Doug, by the way. Douglas, but call me Doug.” He continued his greedy assault on my cock while I gasped a few more orgasmic breaths.

“C-Curtis. I’m Curtis,” we both laughed, having only just exchanged names while his mouth was around my dick. His deep laughter reverberated splendidly inside of his mouth against my leaking glans, stuffing his mouth with my pre, without a doubt.

Releasing me once more, he looked up at me. “Hey?”

“Yeah what’s up?”

“You can have your 50 pounds back, Curtis,” he grinned then quickly buried his face back into my crotch.

It happened just as quickly and just as intensely as it did the first time. I felt the same electrifying jolt of energy shoot through me, making me groan and arch my back as I felt waves of pleasure crash into me. Now fully nude, I could see the transformation affect both of us with delicious clarity. I watched my perspective grow taller and taller, seeing and feeling my legs, arms, and torso stretch back to their normal size. “Fuuuuck yeeeeaaah,” I couldn’t help but moan as I watched my arms, legs, thighs, pecs, feet, hands, abs, fucking everywhere, throb and swell with dull, increasing pressure, flexing everything as my size returned to me. Then, feeling my balls pulse and sag, I dropped my hands to his head, gripping fistfuls of his hair, as I animalistically bucked into his mouth, feeling my meat throb, lengthen, throb, thicken, throb, lengthen, throb, thicken, deeper and deeper and deeper into Doug’s throat. He gripped my rounded, swelling ass as I gripped his head, finally feeling the dam burst as I flooded his guts with another massive serving of my seed, only causing him to gag just a few times, but still swallowing it all like a champ.

Both of us gasping with exhaustion, he stood up, his cock appearing to do some king of hiccuping motion as it shrank back. He was still shrinking in intermittent spurts, his arms deflating back to their respectable size, his pecs receding back to their typically sized mounds, his arms and legs dwindling back to their normality as he shook them out. His stature had diminished back to his short king height, and I could tell my the quickening of his cock’s hiccuping motions that the last part was coming. I reached out with both hands to tug his shrinking tool and massage his balls, hearing him whine/moan as his hips bucked with my motions. Very soon after, he erupted several copious volleys at me, splattering against my arms, my pecs, and my upper chest.

He collapsed onto me with exhaustion, his thick thighs and massive ass resting on top of my thighs, both of us panting in the orgasmic fog we’d created as he leaned his smaller self against my larger. His seed squished between our heaving, panting chests as he and I wrapped arms around each other to make out again.

Doug was unlike anyone I’d ever been with… Shit, by a long shot. And it’s crazy how much, though unspoken, he and I were both into this whole size play thing. Hell, I could spend way more time yo-yo’ing with him, seeing how big we could really make him. Creating a gym schedule with him so we could both add more mass to ourselves and go even crazier with this gift of his. Tricking assholes to loan him some of their size so he could turnaround and dump it all into me.

As we made out more in the bathroom of Francisco’s Diner, the whole room reeking of our sex and humid with our effort, I knew that our unlikely but fortuitous relationship was only just beginning.

#male transformation #male tf #muscle #cock growth #dick growth #male body swap #transformation #body swap tf #size change #muscle theft #muscle theft tf #male body transformation #male muscle growth #cock theft

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casssmalefantasy · 3 days ago

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LET ME TAKE CARE OF YOU

PAIGE BUECKERS X READER

| parings: paige bueckers x reader!

| synopsis: a physical game leaves you bruised and furious, and paige is the only one who can calm you down. back at the hotel, the tension that’s been simmering between you all season finally boils over.

| warnings: smut, fingering, oral f!receiving, praise kink, dominant!paige, tension, possessiveness, cursing, mentions of injury, game violence, and emotional intimacy,

| word count: 2.7k

| author’s note: yall wanted this one so here you go, also i wrote this like two months ago 😭.

──────────────────────

it’s been chippy all game.

it’s what you expect going against texas.

physical team, good shooters, shit refs. it’s the kind of combination that makes you want to put your fist through a locker.

they're ranked, scrappy and come to play.

and for some reason, their starting guard has had it out for you since tip-off.

the first couple plays, you let it slide. a shoulder here, a shove there. nothing new, but by the time you’re five minutes into the third quarter with a sore hip and a stinger in your arm, it’s personal.

still, you try to keep your head down. geno’s always on your ass about that, don’t lose your cool. don’t let them bait you.

but it’s hard. it’s so hard.

and when she bodies you again on a cut, this time full-on sending you to the floor, elbow to your ribs—you snap.

you’re on your feet before your ass even registers the hardwood.

"you got a fucking problem?" you bark, chest heaving.

she smirks like she’s been waiting for this moment all game.

"maybe i just don’t like how you play."

"yeah? how about i show you how i fight."

she steps forward, and you're stepping too, ready to shove her right back into the damn bleachers—

but arms are on you. pulling you back. not the ref, not your teammates—

"yo," a voice says low, right in your ear. “hey. chill. breathe.”

you glance back. it’s paige.

both arms wrapped tight around you from behind, holding you in place. her hands flat on your stomach, grounding you.

"she’s not worth it," she murmurs. "eyes on me. breathe, baby."

you do. barely.

the ref whistles again. offsetting techs. geno is pissed.

“you, out," he snaps, pointing to the bench. "cool off. paige you too. sub."

you don’t argue. not because you’re okay with it, but because paige is still holding your hand as she pulls you toward the bench with her.

"you good?" she whispers once you sit, leaning in close, hand covering her mouth like she’s telling you top-secret plays.

"i’m fine." your voice is clipped.

"don’t lie to me," she says. her gaze is soft, but locked on you like she can see everything you're trying not to show.

“they were calling everything until that," you mutter. "but when i get decked, it’s nothing until i stand up for myself?"

"i know," she says. “refs have been garbage since the jump, but don’t let it get in your head. you were cooking before that shit.”

you’re icing your arm. paige glances down at it.

“does it hurt bad?”

“i said i’m fine.”

she hums, unconvinced.

you both sit in silence. the energy between you is thick—electric, even in stillness. you look over at the same time. hold eye contact. her blue eyes are intense, like she’s still thinking about pulling you off that girl.

you look away first.

—

paige checks back in with three to play. you stay on the bench a little longer.

but you don’t miss it.

that girl—the same one who shoved you, says something as paige runs past her. paige doesn’t say much back. just a short sentence. firm. her jaw clenched.

you don’t know what she said, but whatever it was, it shut the girl up real fast.

and paige? she scores eight points straight after that.

—

uconn wins.

the bus ride back to the hotel is chaos. everyone’s talking shit, celebrating, arguing about calls.

but you’re quiet. sore. still buzzing from the adrenaline.

you almost don’t notice paige at your side until she nudges your arm gently.

"ice said she’d swap rooms tonight."

you blink at her.

"you wanna stay with me?"

"i want to check on you."

you nod. she doesn’t say anything else. she just grabs your bag for you and waits.

—

it’s quiet in the room, just the soft hum of the air conditioning and whatever random netflix show you landed on. something to fill the space.

you’re curled up with an ice pack again. paige is next to you, legs stretched out, close enough to touch, but not quite.

you haven’t said much since you got back. you’re still stuck in your head, still replaying the game, the fall, the look on her face when she held you back.

“hey," she says suddenly. “how’re you feeling?”

you glance over. her hair’s pulled into a loose bun. she’s still in her uconn hoodie.

"better," you say.

"you sure?"

"yeah."

she hums again like she still doesn’t believe you.

“you were good tonight,” she says after a second. “even when you were pissed. it was… kinda hot.”

you blink. then raise an eyebrow.

"hot?"

“what, i can’t say that?"

you glance at the tv, then back at her. "thought we weren’t talking about that shit anymore."

she shrugs. "maybe i changed my mind."

you smirk. “so now you think me nearly getting into a fight is sexy?"

"no," she says. “i think you standing your ground, playing through all that contact, being so in it, that was hot.”

you look at her. her gaze is locked on yours.

"you looked good out there," she adds, voice lower now. "like really good."

your breath catches.

"you looked good too."

she shifts a little closer. her knee brushes yours.

"yeah?"

"yeah."

you don’t know who moves first. maybe both of you.

but suddenly her mouth is on yours, and you’re kissing like you’ve wanted to for months. no hesitation. no pulling back.

it’s hungry. messy. real.

her hands slide up your thighs, under your hoodie, fingers splaying across your waist like she’s staking her claim.

"let me take care of you," she murmurs against your lips.

you nod. she pushes you back onto the bed, gentle but sure.

her mouth moves down your neck, sucking a mark just above your collarbone.

"still sore?" she asks, pulling your shorts down.

"a little."

"tell me if anything hurts."

you nod again, breath catching as her fingers trail over your inner thigh.

then her mouth is on your pussy.

slow at first, letting you feel every flick of her tongue, every kiss she places on sensitive skin.

you arch into her. she grips your hips, holding you steady.

"fuck, paige…"

"you sound so pretty when you say my name like that."

you’re writhing now, hand tangled in her hair.

"more," you beg.

she groans softly. "you want more?"

"please p."

she slides two fingers in, while her mouth keeps working.

you cum fast, body shaking, hips bucking up into her face.

she doesn’t stop until you’re whining from the sensitivity, pulling her up to kiss you again.

"jesus christ," you mumble, breathless.

"been wanting to do that since summer," she says, grinning.

you laugh, still catching your breath.

"what now?" you ask.

she leans in, kissing your jaw.

"now we sleep," she says. “and tomorrow, we do it again, just maybe without the fight this time.”

you smile.

"we’ll see."

—

you think you’re done. you should be done.

but paige doesn’t move.

she’s still lying between your legs, head resting on your thigh, arm draped across your waist. she’s tracing slow, featherlight circles over your bare stomach, and her breath is warm against your skin.

you glance down at her.

"what’re you doing?"

"thinking."

"about what?"

"how good you taste."

your entire body twitches.

"paige."

"mm?" she looks up at you, all sweet and innocent, but there’s nothing innocent about the way her fingers trail lower again.

"you already—i thought we were sleeping."

"i lied."

before you can argue, her mouth is on you again, slower this time, deliberate.

"fuck—"

you grab the sheets, back arching.

she hums like she’s enjoying a second course.

"can’t help it," she murmurs against you. “you’re too good like this."

you whimper when her tongue flicks a spot that makes you see white.

"shit, paige. it’s too much, i just—"

"no, you can take it."

her voice is soft, but firm.

"come on, baby. gimme one more."

you don’t know how she’s got you this wrecked this fast.

maybe it’s because you’ve been holding this in since summer. maybe it’s because she knows exactly what she’s doing. maybe it’s because she keeps talking to you like that.

“you’re shaking,” she says, dragging a finger through your wetness. “look at you, all fucked out already.”

you moan. it’s embarrassing how close you are again.

"i can’t—"

"yes, you can," she whispers, slipping her fingers back in, slow and deep. “be good for me.”

you cry out, thighs trembling.

"that’s it," she coos. "that’s my girl."

you cum again, this time harder, your whole body tightening under her as you moan her name like a prayer.

she doesn’t rush you. she kisses the inside of your thigh while you come down, rubbing soft circles over your hip, grounding you.

finally, when your breathing evens out, she crawls back up beside you, slipping an arm under your neck and pulling you close.

you don’t say anything for a minute. just lie there, curled against her, flushed and wrecked and warm.

"so," you mumble, voice scratchy, "you do this for all your teammates?"

“mmh yeah if they look like you.”

"you’re ridiculous."

"you’re welcome."

you pause.

"...i might not be able to walk at practice tomorrow."

"guess i’ll just have to carry you."

you look up at her.

"you’re insane."

"and you love it."

you try to glare at her. she kisses your forehead like she didn’t just make you see stars twice in a hotel bed.

"get some sleep," she whispers, already pulling the blanket over you both.

"only if you stay right here."

"wasn’t planning on going anywhere."

#paige bueckers #uconn wbb #uconn huskies #ncaa women’s basketball #paige bueckers x reader #paige bueckers smut #paige bueckers x oc #paige bueckers x black!reader

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idiotic-syndic · 2 days ago

Text

I ate them. That’s right. I ate the divorce papers, Charles. I ate them with ketchup. And they were good...goooood. You probably want me to get serious about our divorce. The thing is you always called our marriage a joke. So let’s use logic here: If A we never had a serious marriage then B we can’t have a serious divorce. No. We can’t. The whole thing’s a farce, Charles – a farce that tastes good with ketchup.

I mean, wasn’t it last week, your dad asked you the reason you walked down that aisle with me, and you said “for the exercise.” Ha, ha. That’s funny. You’re a funny guy, Charles. I’m laughing, not crying. Ha, ha. I’m laughing because you’re about to give up on a woman who is infinitely lovable.

For instance: Paul. He has loved me since the eighth grade. Sure, he’s a little creepy, but he reeeeally loves me. He’s made one hundred twenty seven passes at me, proposed forty seven times, and sent me over two hundred original love sonnets. He sees something in me, Charles. And he writes it down, in metered verse!

And that’s not something you just find everyday. Someone who really loves everything about who you are as a person. Paul may be insane, but I value his feelings for me.

I would never ask him to sign his name to a piece of paper promising to just turn off his feelings for me forever. But that’s what you’re asking me to do, for you. To sign away my right to...to that sweet voice Charles, those baby brown eyes, the way your hands feel through my hair before bed...

Those aren’t things I want to lose. In fact, I won’t lose them. I won’t lose you. I’ll woo you. I’ve written you a sonnet. “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day. Thou art more lovely and more temperate, rough winds do shake the darling buds of may and...” I’m not crying. I’m laughing. It’s all a big joke. It’s very funny, Charles. I keep waiting for you to say “April Fools.” Then I’ll rush into your arms and... But you’re not going to, are you? No. Of course not. It’s not April.

I, I didn’t really write that sonnet, you know. Paul did. I think it’s good.

You see, the truth...the truth is, Charles, I ate the divorce papers, I ate them, because I can’t stomach the thought of losing you.

divorce themed restaurant menu

dessert: CUSTARDy Battle

yeah that's all i've got so far sorry

#idc that this addition makes this post long and annoying #im right

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mostlysignssomeportents · 1 day ago

Text

Surveillance pricing lets corporations decide what your dollar is worth

I'm in the home stretch of my 24-city book tour for my new novel PICKS AND SHOVELS. Catch me in LONDON (July 1) with TRASHFUTURE'S RILEY QUINN and then a big finish in MANCHESTER on July 2.

Economists praise "price discrimination" as "efficient." That's when a company charges different customers different amounts based on inferences about their willingness to pay. But when a company sells you something for $2 that someone else can buy for $1, they're revaluing the dollars in your pocket at half the rate of the other guy's.

That's not how economists see it, of course. When a hotel sells you a room for $50 that someone else might get charged $500 for, that's efficient, provided that the hotelier is sure no $500 customers are likely to show up after you check in. The empty room makes them nothing, and $50 is more than nothing. There's a kind of metaphysics at work here, in which the room that is for sale at $500 is "a hotel room you book two weeks in advance and are sure will be waiting for you when you check in" while the $50 room is "a hotel room you can only get at the last minute, and if it's not available, you're sleeping in a chair at the Greyhound station."

But what if you show up at the hotel at 9pm and the hotelier can ask a credit bureau how much you can afford to pay for the room? What if they can find out that you're in chemotherapy, so you don't have the stamina to shop around for a cheaper room? What if they can tell that you have a 5AM flight and need to get to bed right now? What if they charge you more because they can see that your kids are exhausted and cranky and the hotel infers that you'll pay more to get the kids tucked into bed? What if they charge you more because there's a wildfire and there are plenty of other people who want the room?

The metaphysics of "room you booked two weeks ago" as a different product from "room you're trying to book right now" break down pretty quickly once you factor in the ability of sellers to figure out how desperate you are – or merely how distracted you are – and charge accordingly. "Surveillance pricing" is the practice of spying on you to figure out how much you're willing to spend – because you're wealthy, because you're desperate, because you're distracted, because it's payday – and charging you more:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/06/05/your-price-named/#privacy-first-again

For example, a McDonald's ventures portfolio company called Plexure offers drive-through restaurants the ability to raise the price of your regular order based on whether you've recently received your paycheck. They're just one of many "personalized pricing" companies that have attracted investor capital to figure out how to charge you more for the things you need, or merely for the small pleasures of life.

Personalized pricing (that is, "surveillance pricing") is part of the "pricing revolution" that is underway in the US and the world today. Another major element of this revolution are the "price clearinghouses" that charge firms within a sector to submit their prices to them, then "offer advice" on the optimum pricing. This advice – given to all the suppliers of a good or service – inevitably boils down to "everyone should raise their prices in unison." So long as everyone follows that advice, we poor suckers have nowhere else to go to get a better deal.

This is a pretty thin pretext. Price-fixing is illegal, after all. These companies pretend that when all the meat-packers in America send their pricing data to a "neutral" body like Agri-Stats, which then tells them all to jack up the price of meat, that this isn't a price-fixing conspiracy, since the actual conspiracy takes the form of strongly worded suggestions from an entity that isn't formally part of the industry:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/04/dont-let-your-meat-loaf/#meaty-beaty-big-and-bouncy

Same goes for when all the landlords in town send their rental data to a company like Realpage, which then offers "advice" about the optimum price, along with stern warnings not to rent below that price: apparently that's not price-fixing either:

https://popular.info/p/feds-raid-corporate-landlord-escalating

It's not just sellers who engage in this kind of price-fixing – it's also buyers. Specifically buyers of labor, AKA "bosses." Take contract nursing, where a cartel of three staffing apps have displaced the many small regional staffing agencies that historically served the sector. These companies buy nurses' credit history from the unregulated, Wild West data-brokerage sector. They're checking to see whether a nurse who's looking for a shift has a lot of credit-card debt, especially delinquent debt, because these nurses are facing economic hardship and will accept a lower wage than their better-off compatriots:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/12/18/loose-flapping-ends/#luigi-has-a-point

This is surveillance pricing for buyers, and as with the sell-side pricing revolution, buyers also make use of a third party as an accountability sink (a term coined by Dan Davies): the apps that they use to buy nursing labor are a convenient way for hospitals to pretend that they're not engaged in price-fixing for labor.

Veena Dubal calls this "algorithmic wage discrimination." Algorithmic wage discrimination doesn't need to use third-party surveillance data: Uber, who invented the tactic, use their own in-house data as a way to make inferences about drivers' desperation and thus their willingness to accept a lower wage. Drivers who are less picky about which rides they accept are treated as more desperate, and offered lower wages than their pickier colleagues:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/12/algorithmic-wage-discrimination/#fishers-of-men

But this gets much creepier and more powerful when combined with aggregated surveillance data. This is one of the real labor consequences of AI: not the hypothetical millions of people who will become technologically unemployed, numbers that AI bosses pull out of their asses and hand to dutiful stenographers in the tech press who help them extol the power of their products; but rather the millions of people whose wages are suppressed by algorithms that continuously recalculate how desperate a worker is apt to be and lower their wages accordingly.

This is as good a candidate for AI regulation as any, but it's also a very good reason to regulate data brokers, who operate with total impunity. Thankfully, Biden's Consumer Finance Protection Bureau passed a rule that made data brokers effectively illegal:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/06/10/getting-things-done/#deliverism

But then Trump got elected and his despicable minions killed that rule, giving data brokers carte blanche to spy on you and sell your data, effectively without restriction:

https://www.wired.com/story/cfpb-quietly-kills-rule-to-shield-americans-from-data-brokers/

(womp-womp)

Also, Biden's FTC was in the middle of an antitrust investigation into surveillance pricing on the eve of the election, a prelude to banning the practice in America:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/07/24/gouging-the-all-seeing-eye/#i-spy

But then Trump got elected and his despicable minions killed that investigation and instead created a snitch line where FTC employees could complain about colleagues who were "woke":

https://www.ftc.gov/system/files/ftc_gov/pdf/bedoya-statement-emergency-motion.pdf

(Womp.)

Naomi Klein's Doppelganger proposes a "mirror world" that the fever-swamp right lives in – a world where concern for children takes the form of Pizzagate conspiracies, while ignoring the starving babies in Gaza and the kids whose parents are being kidnapped by ICE:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/05/not-that-naomi/#if-the-naomi-be-klein-youre-doing-just-fine

The pricing revolution is a kind of mirror-world Marxism, grounded in "From each according to their ability to pay; to each according to their economic desperation":

https://pluralistic.net/2025/01/11/socialism-for-the-wealthy/#rugged-individualism-for-the-poor

A recent episode of the excellent Organized Money podcast featured an interview with Lee Hepner, an antitrust lawyer who is on the front lines of the pricing revolution (on the side of workers and buyers) (not bosses):

https://www.organizedmoney.fm/p/the-wild-world-of-surveillance-pricing

Hepner is the one who proposed the formulation that personalized pricing is a way for corporations to decide that your dollars are worth less than your neighbors' dollars – a form of economic discrimination that treats the poorest, most desperate, and most precarious among us as the people who should pay the most, because we are the people whose dollars are worth the least.

Now, this isn't always true. Earlier this month, Delta, United and American were caught charging more for single travelers than they charged pairs of groups:

https://thriftytraveler.com/news/airlines/airlines-charging-solo-travelers-higher-fares/

That's a way to charge business travelers extra – for valuing their dollars less than the dollars of families, not because business travelers are desperate, but because they are, on average, richer than holidaymakers (because their bosses are presumed to be buying their tickets). Sometimes, price discrimination really does charge richer people more to subsidize everyone else.

But here's the difference: when the news about the business-traveler's premium broke, its victims – powerful people with social capital and also regular capital – rose up in outrage, and the airlines reversed the policy:

https://thriftytraveler.com/news/airlines/delta-rethinks-higher-fares-solo-travelers/

If the airlines are still pursuing this kind of price discrimination, they'll do something sneakier, like buying our credit histories before showing us a price. This is something British Airways is already teeing up, by offering essentially zero reward miles to frequent travelers for partner airline tickets unless they're purchased from BA's own website:

https://onemileatatime.com/news/the-british-airways-club/

But BA operates in the UK, where most of the pre-Brexit, EU-based privacy regime is still intact, despite the best efforts of Keir Starmer to destroy it, something that neither Boris Johnson, nor Theresa May,nor Rishi Sunak, nor Liz Truss could manage:

https://www.openrightsgroup.org/press-releases/uk-privacy-erosion-sparks-eu-civil-society-call-to-review-adequacy-data-deal/

So for now, BA travelers might be safe from surveillance pricing, at least in the UK and EU. And that's the thing, America is pretty much cooked. It might be generations – centuries – before the USA emerges from its Trumpian decline and becomes a civilized democracy again. Americans have little hope of a future in which their government protects them from corporate predators, rather than serving them up on a toothpick, along with a little cocktail napkin.

The future of the fight against corporate power and oligarchy is something for the rest of the world to carry on, as the American hermit kingdom sinks into ever-deeper collapse:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/06/21/billionaires-eh/#galen-weston-is-a-rat

And as it happens, Canada's Competition Bureau, newly equipped with muscular enforcement powers thanks to a 2024 law, is seeking public comment on surveillance pricing and whether Canada should do something about it:

https://www.canada.ca/en/competition-bureau/news/2025/06/competition-bureau-seeks-feedback-on-algorithmic-pricing-and-competition.html

I'm writing comments for this one. If you're in Canada, or a Canadian abroad (like me), perhaps you could, too. If you're looking for an excellent Canadian perspective to crib from, check out this episode of The Globe and Mail's Lately podcast on the subject:

https://www.theglobeandmail.com/podcasts/lately/article-the-end-of-the-fixed-price/

Just because America jumped off the Empire State Building, that's no reason for Canada to jump off the CN Tower, after all.

(Eh?)

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2025/06/24/price-discrimination/#algorithmic-pricing

Image: Cryteria (modified) https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:HAL9000.svg

CC BY 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0/deed.en

#pluralistic #surveillance pricing #personalized pricing #cartels #monopolies #antitrust #unfair and deceptive methods of competition #luigi thought

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dakusan · 18 hours ago

Text

UNTOUCH-UP

Tattoo Artist!Lee Minho x Reader | Exes. Ink. Unfinished business. And nowhere left to run.

🔞synopsis: Tattoo Artist AU. You go in for a touch-up. He’s the one holding the machine. Your ex. The one who fucked you like he loved you—and left like he didn’t. Now he’s working on your skin again. And you’re both trying not to fall back in. Too late. You never stopped wanting him. He never stopped being yours. This time, he’s not letting go.

💌a/n: bro. BRO. i am ✨deceased✨ this fic nearly ate me alive. i was so lazy writing it my brain was just like . . . O.O static noise the ENTIRE time. BUT I DID IT. I DID IT. SHE’S DONE. Minho's demon dick: delivered. Tattoo angst: served. You: ruined. also not me having a day™️ — my cat knocked over a potted flower like she pays rent in this house?? broke the damn pot. soil everywhere. ON. THE. CARPET. and guess who was sitting in the mess like a chaotic forest gremlin? her. the criminal. not even sorry. anyway enjoy the filth I bled for <3 p.s. reblog for minho's sake. he worked very hard. p.p.s. if you read this and didn’t moan once, you're lying. p.p.p.s. minho said “mine” and I folded like a lawn chair in a hurricane.

📌 Please read with caution. Scream into a pillow. Mop your floor. Apologize to your downstairs neighbors.

📍credits: dividers by @cafekitsune

🎧 » WANT — Taemin « 0:58 ─〇───── 3:29 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

BACKSTORY

You met Lee Minho back when he was still building himself. Not the man with a waitlist. Not the name clients whispered like prayer. Just a perfectionist with ink-stained fingers, a cigarette habit, and a sketchbook full of obsessions.

He only took blackwork clients. His designs were architectural. Cold. Brutally beautiful. Like cityscapes carved into skin. Like cathedrals swallowed by shadow. You used to tease him—“Do you ever draw anything soft?”

He never answered.

But he kissed you like his mouth was a vow.

You were chaos to his control. Bright to his brutalism. A fire escape on legs, always halfway out the window—but you stayed for him.

The first tattoo he gave you was on your ribcage. Fine lines. Intricate, dark, permanent. He said, “I’ve never done this for someone I care about before.”

You said, “Don’t make it perfect. Just make it ours.”

He made it perfect anyway.

But love wasn’t enough—not when his world narrowed to ink and reputation, and yours was spinning with needs he couldn’t name, let alone meet. He stopped coming home. You stopped trying to explain. The last fight was quiet. The kind of silence that ends things.

You left. He let you. Neither of you ever reached out again.

Seoul, South Korea. Wednesday, 4:03 PM

The bell over the door jingles.

It’s the same goddamn sound. That soft metallic chime, like a warning.

You step into NO SAINT INK and inhale the familiar scent—disinfectant, ink, citrus cleaner, and something darker beneath it. Nostalgia, maybe. Or just Minho’s ghost.

“Hi! Welcome to—”

Jisung’s voice cuts off the moment he looks up. Eyes widen. Blink. Blink. Jaw slightly drops. He’s behind the counter in a ripped vintage tee, one glove on, holding a paper cup of iced Americano like it’s mid-scene in a music video.

“...Holy shit.”

“Nice to see you too,” you deadpan, stepping up to the reception desk like it’s a confession booth.

From the back, Felix emerges, sliding in with a practiced spin on the rolling stool. His crop top says “NO SAINT, JUST HOT” and he’s chewing pink bubblegum like it’s personal.

He squints. “Wait. Waitwaitwait—no way.” He turns to Jisung. “That’s her, right?”

Jisung nods slowly, eyes still on you like you might disappear if he blinks. “Mm-hm. That’s her. The ribcage girl.”

You sigh, reaching for the clipboard. “Still the same greeting process, I see.”

Felix leans in over the counter, lashes weaponized. “So. What brings you back to the scene of the crime, gorgeous?”

“Tattoo,” you say simply, checking the box marked cover-up on the intake form.

Felix raises a brow. “Cover-up? On what?”

You give him a flat look. Then slowly, deliberately, tap your rib.

Jisung immediately chokes on his iced coffee. “Oh my god. You’re covering Minho’s piece?” he hisses.

“Don’t say it like that,” you mutter.

Felix gasps dramatically, grabbing your form. “Does he know? Does he know you’re here?”

“No.”

“Does he know you're gonna cover the sacred rib tattoo of doomed romance™?”

“Still no.”

Jisung is now whispering to himself in horror. “He’s gonna combust. He’s gonna short-circuit like a printer from 2003.”

Felix pats your hand. “You’re braver than the Marines.”

You slide the completed form back to them. “You gonna let me through, or you want me to relive the breakup right here?”

“Booth Three,” Jisung says instantly. “He’s in there right now. I’ll text him that a client is coming in.”

Felix grins like the devil. “We won’t say who. Surprise trauma!”

You exhale slowly as you make your way to Booth Three and pushing the door open.

Minho is inside, doesn't even look up. Of course he doesn't. He is seated at his workstation, black hoodie sleeves pushed up, long fingers flying over his iPad. The screen glows with precision: a mandala lattice interwoven with brutalist architecture, all angles and absence. It’s violently elegant. Just like him.

He’s got one AirPod in. The other rests on the desk, silent. His tattoo gun is prepped and sterilized beside it. Black gloves folded, still untouched.

You stay silent for a beat.

He’s changed, but not really. Hair darker now. Under-eye shadows deeper. Forearms inked in blackwork he used to say wasn’t “for him.” You recognize his neck tattoo—you designed that motif. He said he’d never use it. Guess he changed his mind.

You speak, voice even, soft.

“Hope you still remember how to do ribs.”

He freezes. Literally freezes mid-stroke, like someone hit pause on a film reel.

His eyes flick up.

And when they meet yours—his stylus drops.

“...No fucking way.”

You smile, tight-lipped. “Hi.”

Minho blinks. Once. Twice. Then leans back slowly in his chair, as if needing distance just to believe you're real. He doesn’t say anything at first. His eyes drag down you like a scan—lips, collarbones, arms. His gaze stops right where it used to rest: the dip beneath your ribs. “What the fuck are you doing here.” You shrug, like this isn’t a slow-burn emotional arson scene. “Cover-up.”

He exhales like he got sucker punched.

You don’t say it. You don’t have to. He knows which one. For a moment, neither of you move. The only sound is the quiet buzz of the fluorescent light, and your pulse hammering against silence.

Minho finally breaks it, voice lower now. Raspier. Rough around the edges.

“Sit.”

You walk forward. The vinyl of the chair squeaks as you lower yourself onto it.

Minho adjusts his stool with one foot, pulling closer—close enough that your knees nearly touch. He reaches for a fresh pair of gloves and pulls them on with a muted snap.

“You still flinch?” he asks, without looking up.

“Only when it matters.”

A breath leaves him like a short laugh, disbelieving and hollow. He nods at your ribs.

“Show me.”

You tug your top up slowly. The air is cool against your skin. But his gaze is colder.

The tattoo’s still there—his lines, his shape, the intimate architecture of a design he once called a cathedral just for you. You watch his eyes trace it like he’s reading a language he forgot he wrote.

He exhales through his nose, once. Then leans in. Not touching. But close.

“Still healed well,” he mutters. “Even after everything.”

He lets out a short sound—not quite a laugh. Not quite not.

Then turns to grab his iPad.

You watch him swipe past old sketches. Lines. Shapes. A few human figures, but mostly… structures. Always structures. Stained glass, brutal staircases, the shadows between pillars. And suddenly—one design with your face sketched into the edge of a crumbling spire flashes past.

You blink.

He quickly flips to a blank layer.

“What are you thinking?” he asks, stylus in hand.

You hesitate. Then: “Something clean. Cold. Geometric. No softness.”

He looks at you. Just looks. Then tilts his head. “So the opposite of what you used to want.”

You lift a brow. “People change.”

“Do they?” He doesn’t say it like a question.

Silence. Only the soft tick of the stylus moving. Drawing. Erasing. Redrawing.

You glance over.

The lines are sharp. Intricate. Interlocking shapes—architectural, yes, but still haunting. There’s depth beneath the harshness, shadows where light should be. He’s already building something brutal.

“You always sketch this fast for clients?” you ask.

He doesn’t look up. “Only the ones who know how to bleed for it.”

Your breath stutters. He notices.

After another beat, he holds the iPad out to you, jaw tense. “You want this? Final answer.”

You study it. And it’s beautiful. Devastatingly so. The kind of piece that erases history—not by covering it, but by burying it in monument.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “It’s perfect.”

He huffs softly. “It’s not.”

“Minho—”

“It’s not what I wanted to put here.”

The sentence hits like a quiet car crash. No screech, just impact. You say nothing. He turns away to print the stencil. You watch the lines appear on paper, black and cruel.

“This gonna take long?” you ask lightly, trying to breathe again.

“Yeah,” he says, voice low. “It’s big.”

“Good. I’ve got time.”

He turns. Looks at you—really looks. The gloves are still on. The stencil in hand. “You sure you can lie here for hours with me that close?”

“You sure you can touch me for that long and not fall apart?”

For one suspended moment, the room goes still.

Then Minho steps forward. “Let’s find out.”

He sets the stencil aside. Pulls out the prep tray. It’s methodical—his ritual. You remember it. He moves with that same detached precision: antiseptic wipe, alcohol spray, barrier film over his tray, black nitrile gloves pulled snug with that quiet snap that used to make your stomach twist.

The scent of alcohol hits first. Then the click of the spray bottle. Then his voice—low, close. “I’m cleaning the area.”

He waits. You nod.

And then his hand—gloved, cold—presses gently at your side, just under your ribs. The contact makes your breath hitch. He feels it. “Still ticklish,” he murmurs, but there’s no amusement in it. Just memory.

His fingers move across the old tattoo and you close your eyes as he presses the stencil on.

“Hold still,” he says softly. Too softly.

You feel the pressure of his palm, the warm slide of his knuckles against your waist, the careful tension as he positions the design.

Then he pulls back. Steps away. And you exhale.

“Mirror’s there,” he says, voice neutral.

You sit up, top still raised, and step to the full-length mirror near the booth’s edge.

The stencil is stark black. Clean. Brutal. It spans from just under your chest down to your hipbone—an interlocking spiral staircase, collapsing inward on itself, surrounded by broken geometry and cathedral archways. Inside the spiral, there’s a single vacant silhouette—like a missing piece in the shape of a person.

“It’s…” you begin. But you can’t find the word.

“Empty?” he offers.

“Yeah.”

Minho shrugs slightly, adjusting the height of the chair. “You wanted cold. Unsweet. Brutal.”

You nod. “I did.”

He doesn’t move until you return to the chair and settle in again. He leans down, pulls the stool closer—so close his knee brushes yours. “Ready?”

“No.”

A pause. Then: “Good. That’s honest.”

The machine buzzes to life. He dips the needle into the ink—pitch black—and presses the foot pedal. Then the first contact hits. The sting. The bite. The sound.

Your breath stutters. His hand is firm on your waist, grounding. “Still breathe like that,” he murmurs.

“Still touch like that.”

The buzz of the machine fills the booth like static between stations.

Minho works in silence. You breathe in silence. Time stretches. His gloved hand stays steady on your waist—anchoring, professional, unyielding. But every time his fingers shift to wipe the ink, every time his forearm brushes your side, you feel something buried rattle. Like bones under floorboards.

You focus on the ceiling tiles. Count them. Try not to flinch when he drags the line near your ribcage. He’s precise. Too precise. You feel every goddamn millimeter.

And still—he says nothing. It’s been maybe an hour. Then—quietly, like a thread being tugged:

“You finish school?”

Your eyes blink open. “Yeah. A while ago.”

“Thought so,” he murmurs. “You used to study here. In this chair.”

You huff. “I used to do a lot of things in this chair.”

He pauses. Then wipes your skin with slow, deliberate pressure. “Still mouthy.”

“Still quiet.”

“One of us had to be.”

The machine hums again. You both fall silent. But the air isn’t. It hums now—charged and heavy. After another few minutes, you speak, voice softer.

“You still living above the shop?”

Minho’s hand doesn’t pause, but you hear the answer in the way he exhales. “Yeah.”

“You ever fix the leak by the kitchen window?”

“Eventually. Felix slipped on the water and broke his assbone, so…”

“Justice.”

A faint smile ghosts across his lips. You catch it. Pretend not to. “What about you?” he asks. “Where are you now?”

You shrug. “Seoul. Still. I work freelance—mostly visual design, some concept art stuff. Clients suck. Pay’s decent.”

“Still draw?”

“Always.”

He nods, as if that explains something only he understands.

Another beat of quiet. Then: “You tattoo now too?”

That makes you pause. “A little. Not full-time.”

“Anyone ever ink your ribs like this again?”

You meet his eyes. “No one ever touched me here again.”

That silence? Not like before. This one cracks. Minho sets the machine down slowly. Wipes the needle. Re-inks. Doesn’t speak for a full thirty seconds.

Then: “Good.”

You shift, heart thudding. “Why?”

He glances up, and for once, doesn’t look away. “Because it’s not theirs to touch.” He says it like he didn’t just lay a claim. Like it’s fact. Like it’s law.

You don’t reply. You can’t. Your ribs ache—not from the needle, but from the breath you’ve been holding since he started this goddamn piece.

Minho presses the foot pedal again.

The machine whirs to life, slicing through the silence. The black ink spreads, sharp and deliberate, marking over what was once softness.

His hand settles against your waist again. Firmer now. Less technician—more… anchor. His fingers brush under the hem of your top again. Not on purpose.

But he doesn’t apologize.

“Gonna do the lower spiral now,” he murmurs. “I need to adjust your position.”

You nod. Try to keep your voice even. “Tell me what you want.”

His gaze flicks up. Something flashes in it—heat, recognition, regret. “Lift your arm. Stretch back.”

You obey. Your back arches slightly. The angle shifts. Your shirt slides up higher. And suddenly, his breath catches. Not visibly. Not loudly. But you feel it—in the tiny hesitation between glove and skin. He moves slower now. Drapes the barrier cloth gently over your chest. Focuses on the lower edge of the design.

His hand brushes the curve of your hip. “Still got the scar,” he mutters.

“From your old chair. That screw that stuck out.”

“I told you to stop climbing into my lap during sessions.”

“I told you to fix your fucking chair.”

Another small ghost of a smile. Another memory you didn’t mean to let through. The machine buzzes. The lines go deeper now. Bolder. You wince slightly—less from pain, more from the weight of his closeness. “Hurts?” he asks, quiet. “Not as much as losing you did.”

The machine goes silent. He sets it down. Slowly. His head tilts up, eyes dark, unreadable. “You think I didn’t lose you too?”

Before you can answer—knock knock knock.

The booth door creaks open an inch, and Jisung’s head pops in. “Hey, just checking—OH.” He blinks. Stares. Feels the temperature of the room. “Never mind.”

Another head appears behind him—Chan, black tee, clipboard in hand. Owner. OG. Quiet ringleader of this whole tattoo circus.

“Minho, did you review the—” He pauses mid-sentence. Eyes shift from Minho to you. To your lifted shirt. To the way Minho’s gloved hand is hovering just above your skin.

Chan arches a brow. “...So this is happening again.”

Minho doesn’t even flinch. “Out.”

Jisung salutes. “Godspeed, soldier.”

Chan just sighs. “Try not to punch holes in the wall this time.”

The door shuts. The lock clicks. Silence again.

You exhale. “They always this nosy?”

“You always this distracting?” His voice is low now. Tight.

You blink. “Minho—”

“Lie back.”

You obey. He pulls the stool closer. Closer than necessary. Then, gloved hands on your hip, he says—quiet, slow: “I’m finishing this. Every goddamn line.”

You nod. And the machine starts again.

You lose track of time somewhere around the fifth wipe.

The sky outside is darker now. The booth hums with that post-tattoo stillness—low light, blood buzz, the deep ache under your skin like something blooming and bruised.

Minho’s working slower now. Not out of fatigue. No—he’s dragging it out. You can feel it in the way he traces your skin. The pauses. The glances.

It’s 7:23 PM.

You know this because your phone buzzes uselessly on the counter and Minho glares at it like it’s an intruder. Then again—he hasn’t looked away from you much at all.

“You’re almost done?” you ask quietly, voice hoarse from the hours of not speaking.

“Final shading,” he says, shifting. “Then bandage.”

You nod, letting your head fall back against the chair. You close your eyes.

Until—click. The door opens again.

“You better not be tattooing her feelings back on,” Jisung says, peeking in once more.

“It’s after seven,” Chan adds, stepping in behind him. “We’re leaving. You can lock up.”

Minho doesn’t even glance at them. “Bye.”

“Damn,” Jisung mutters. “I missed when you were nice.”

Chan folds his arms. “He was never nice.”

Minho wipes your side again. “Do you two need something, or are you just doing walk-in commentary now?”

“We’re giving you the key,” Chan says patiently, tossing it toward the counter. It lands with a clatter. “And also warning you: no sex on the chair.”

“Especially not that chair,” Jisung adds. “That’s the holy one. Client blood and heartbreak juice only.”

You blink up at them. “You do know I can hear you, right?”

“Sweetheart, you’re like three moans away from a confessional,” Jisung grins.

Minho’s hand tenses on your hip.

Chan gives Jisung a sharp look. “Okay, that’s enough. Let the man finish tattooing his ex.”

Minho’s voice cuts in—low, flat, and dry: “I’m raising the booth rent if you two don’t leave.”

Jisung gasps. “You can’t evict my vibe.”

“Watch me.”

With one final laugh, Chan tips an invisible hat at you. “Pleasure seeing you again. Don’t break our boy, yeah?”

You don’t respond. You just hold Minho’s gaze.

The door closes. The lock clicks again. Alone. Again.

He exhales. “They never change.”

You hum. “Neither do you.”

“Not with you.”

His hand brushes your skin again, wiping the last bit of ink away. He doesn’t move it. Just leaves it there. Warm and steady.

“I’m done.”

You nod. Slow. Dazed. “Yeah,” you whisper. “Me too.”

But neither of you move.

The machine is off. The gloves are still on. His hand is still resting on your bare waist.

You watch his throat move as he swallows.

“I need to bandage it.”

You nod.

Minho finally pulls back. Peels off the gloves, slow. Tosses them into the bin with a soft crack. His hands are bare now—warmer, familiar, devastating. He reaches for the tattoo film. The kind that clings like a second skin.

“This part’ll be cold,” he murmurs.

“So were you.”

His hands pause.

Then, with infinite care, he presses the bandage to your ribs. The plastic clings, sealing the ink beneath. His fingertips ghost over your side. Flattening. Smoothing.

Too gentle.

His hand lingers a second too long on your hipbone. Then again on the edge of your waist, just under your breast. You don’t move. You don’t breathe.

Neither does he.

“You’re still warm here,” he murmurs. “Still soft.”

“I never stopped being yours here,” you whisper. “Even after you let me go.”

His hand freezes.

And then—

Minho exhales. Slow. Controlled. Devastated. “Fuck,” he says. “Don’t say shit like that unless you mean it.”

“I do mean it.”

He looks up at you, finally. Face unreadable. But his eyes? Wrecked.

“I didn’t stop wanting you,” you say, soft. “I just stopped begging.”

And that’s when something inside him cracks. Minho drops the rest of the bandage. One hand cups your jaw. The other pulls you forward by the waist. His lips crash into yours—not neat, not planned, not patient. Just real. Messy. Hot. Familiar. Like all the years you lost were just smoke.

He tastes the same. Regret and hunger.

You kiss him back. Desperate. Needy. Home.

When he pulls away, he’s breathless. “The shop’s closed,” he says hoarsely.

“I know.”

“You’re not leaving yet.”

“I know.”

But he can't stop kissing you and his kisses leave you gasping, lips parted, your ribs burning with fresh ink and something even hotter under your skin.

But Minho doesn’t move for your mouth again.

He just looks at you. And presses the last edge of the bandage into place. Palms flat on either side of your ribs, holding it there. Holding you there.

“You need to keep this clean,” he murmurs, voice wrecked. “Saniderm on for at least a day. No sweat. No friction. No heat.”

You smirk. “So I shouldn’t fuck my tattoo artist, huh?”

He closes his eyes like that physically hurts. Then opens them again, and they’re darker. Gone. “Fuck,” he mutters. “Come here.”

He grabs your face and kisses you again—harder this time. His mouth is warm, demanding. He tastes like ink and restraint and the last piece of something you thought you’d never get again.

You whimper into it, fingers fisting into his hoodie, tugging him closer. He moves fast now, pulling you upright, spinning you around so your back hits the wall behind the chair.

Your top rides up, exposing your waist. His hands drag along the un-tattooed side of your ribs, his touch finally hungry.

“Minho—”

“You still talk too much.”

His hand finds your thigh, fingers digging in as he lifts you onto the edge of the chair.

“Don’t you dare come undone on this chair unless you want your name carved into it,” he growls.

“Do it,” you whisper, breath hot. “Like old times.”

He groans. Hands gripping your hips, pulling you forward against the bulge in his jeans. But even now—he's careful. His fingers skirt around the bandage. His mouth trails everywhere but the fresh ink.

“I can’t touch there,” he pants. “But everywhere else? Mine.”

He leans in—bites at your neck. Licks under your jaw. You shudder. “Mine.”

You nod, breathless. “Yours.”

“Say it again.”

“Yours.”

He groans into your skin. One hand slips under your waistband—slow, deliberate, filthy. “Keep still. You move too much, I’ll stop.”

“Minho—”

He kisses your collarbone. Soft now. “I never should’ve stopped touching you.” His voice is low, almost broken against your skin. And then his hand dips further—sliding past the waistband of your pants, then beneath your underwear. You flinch at the first brush of his fingers against your bare heat.

“Fuck,” he hisses. “Already soaked?”

You moan, soft and unfiltered. “You did this.”

“Damn right I did.”

He doesn’t dive in right away.

Minho’s fingers ghost along your folds, barely there—just the suggestion of touch. Teasing, cruel, worshipful. Like he wants to remember this. Every slick, desperate twitch.

“Still so fucking warm,” he murmurs. “Still react to me like this.”

“Because I never stopped needing you.”

That does something to him. His jaw tightens. His free hand grips your thigh harder.

His fingers stroke your clit now—slow and purposeful. He still hasn’t pushed in. Just teasing, rubbing, feeling every tremble in your core.

“You’re shaking,” he whispers. “All this time and I still ruin you like this.”

You whimper, hips bucking up—but he presses you down against the chair again.

“What did I say?” he growls. “Keep. Fucking. Still.”

You nod, gasping. “I’m trying—fuck—Minho, please—”

He slips one finger inside. Just one. It glides in so easily, so wet, he groans low into your neck.

“Still tight,” he pants. “Still perfect.”

You clench around him and he curses, fingers curling just slightly as he begins to move.

“Say it again,” he whispers, lips dragging over your ear.

“Say you’re mine.”

“I’m—fuck—Minho, I’m yours—”

His second finger joins the first. Scissoring. Filling. So slow it’s maddening. His thumb circles your clit in rhythm, expertly cruel. You’re grinding against him now, trying not to cry out.

But it’s no use.

“That’s it,” he growls. “Let me hear you. You think I forgot what you sound like?”

You moan—loud this time—and he smiles against your skin.

“There she is.”

His fingers curl again—deep, deliberate, cruel. You cry out, thighs trembling, body completely unhinged on his tattoo chair.

“Fuck, you’re clenching so hard,” he groans, dragging his fingers out almost entirely before plunging back in with a wet sound that makes you whimper. “You missed this, didn’t you?”

“Y-Yes,” you gasp.

“How much?”

You can barely breathe. “So much—Minho—fuck—”

“That’s not good enough.”

He pumps harder. Faster. His fingers scissor deep inside you, stretching you wide while his thumb circles your clit with just enough pressure to keep you right on the edge. His forehead presses to yours, breath ragged, jaw clenched like he's holding back a growl.

“Feel how fucking hard I am for you,” he grits, grabbing your free hand and dragging it down between you both.

Your fingers brush the bulge in his jeans and—fuck. He’s thick. Hard in a way that hurts even through the denim.

“All that from just your voice,” he rasps. “From your pussy sucking my fingers in like it still belongs to me.”

You whimper, hand tightening instinctively over his cock. He twitches under your grip.

“You’re gonna make me cum just from your fist at this rate,” he breathes, panting into your mouth. “And I haven’t even fucked you yet.”

Your hips roll against his hand, the wet slap of your cunt obscene now, the squelch of each pump making your eyes roll back.

“M-Minho—can’t—too much—”

He leans in, lips brushing your ear. “Take it. You used to take it so well.”

You cry out, grinding shamelessly against his hand, your wrist still caught against the outline of his cock. His fingers are relentless now—deep, punishing strokes that angle just right, hitting the spot that makes your back arch.

“That’s it, baby,” he whispers, voice hot and filthy. “You gonna cum for me?”

“Please—need to—”

“You think I’m letting you go home with anyone else’s cum in you again?” His hand grips tighter. “Nah. You’ll cum on my fingers. Then my tongue. Then my cock. One by one. Until you remember who you belong to.”

You sob into his shoulder, body locking up.

“Then cum,” he growls. “Let me feel you fucking fall apart.”

And you do. You shatter. Right there in his chair, cunt clenching around his fingers so hard he curses, hips bucking involuntarily, thighs shaking. The orgasm crashes through you like a wave that never breaks.

You’re still gasping, barely coming down, when he kisses you again—rough and breathless.

Then he pulls his hand out and brings his digits to his lips, licking his fingers clean with a sinful groan. “Still the sweetest fucking thing I’ve ever tasted.”

Minho leans in—presses a soft kiss just beneath your jaw. Then another. Then pulls back, his lips swollen and wet with you.

“Stay,” he says simply.

“Yes.”

“Upstairs.”

You nod again, dazed. He grabs a clean towel, wipes his fingers off, then flicks off the booth lights.

You stumble to your feet. He steadies you with a hand on your lower back—protective, but firm. The other hand? Already sliding down to cup the curve of your ass.

“Don’t test me,” he murmurs, voice rough. “Or I’ll take you right here. Front door be damned.”

You laugh breathlessly. “You always talk this much now?”

“Only when I’m starving.”

He steps out first. Walks to the front.

The shop’s dark now—just the glow of the neon sign outside, and the sound of him flipping the lock with a click. Pulling the blinds. Turning the CLOSED sign.

The only other sound is your breath. And the creak of stairs.

Minho turns back to you. Extends his hand. “Come home.”

And you do. You follow him up the stairs—your fingers tangled in his, your heart in your throat. He pulls you behind him, not once looking back.

The upstairs apartment is dim, clean, and familiar in a way that makes your chest ache.

His hoodie hits the floor first. Your shirt follows. Your bra is gone with one snap of his practiced fingers.

“Fuck,” he breathes, stepping in closer. “I’ve dreamed about this. Exactly this.”

“Then stop dreaming.”

“I’m not stopping anything tonight.”

He kisses you hard, mouths crashing, tongues tangled. His hands roam over every inch of skin he missed—the good side of your ribs, your back, your thighs. He lifts you. You wrap your legs around his waist.

Your back hits the hallway wall.

Your pants are yanked down, barely a memory. His belt clinks open, jeans shoved past his hips. You’re both gasping, biting, pulling, years of silence poured into filthy, reckless touch.

“I missed your body,” he mutters into your mouth. “Missed how you sound. How you taste. How you fucking feel.”

“Then take me.”

“You think I won’t?”

He kicks the bedroom door open with one foot, lays you down onto his bed, and finally—finally—he crawls over you like you’re something holy. You are.

Minho kisses you again, slower now, lips dragging down the column of your throat. Over your collarbone. Across the top of your chest. He palms your breast—squeezes, just enough to make you gasp—and then closes his mouth over your nipple.

You arch.

“Still so responsive,” he murmurs, flicking his tongue over the peak before sucking hard, slow. “Still so good for me.”

Your hands knot in his hair.

He kisses across to the other one—giving it the same attention, tongue lazy, mouth open and hot. Every sound you make fuels him.

Then lower.

His mouth trails down the center of your stomach—soft kisses, open-mouthed and hot, then bites just sharp enough to leave blooming heat behind. He kneels between your legs, hands parting your thighs.

You’re soaked again. Dripping. Panties long gone.

He growls low, eyes locked to your pussy like it’s fucking divine.

“You knew this was next,” he says, voice low, hands sliding under your thighs to lift your hips. “I told you.”

“Then shut up and—”

He doesn’t let you finish.

Minho licks one long stripe up your slit—slow and filthy—from the bottom of your entrance to your clit. And moans. Loud.

“Still taste like a fucking fever dream.”

Your hands shoot into his hair again. “Minho—fuck—”

He flattens his tongue against your clit, then circles it. Slow, heavy pressure. Just enough to make your thighs jerk around his head. “Keep them open,” he mutters, pulling back only to kiss your inner thigh, your hipbone, your mound. “Let me see all of you.”

And then he devours.

Tongue pressed deep. Lapping. Sucking. Flicking. He eats like he missed meals for years and this is how he survives now. Your moans go from soft to broken, gasps ragged, legs shaking around his head.

“Oh my—fuck—Minho—”

He groans into you, the vibration making your hips buck. His arms wrap tighter around your thighs, holding you down, keeping you right there as his tongue circles your clit in tight, ruthless rhythm.

He sucks your clit—harder now. Lips wrapped around your clit, tongue swirling in circles so precise it feels like he mapped this out. Every flick is a promise. Every kiss, a punishment.

“Minho—fuckfuck—please—”

Your thighs tremble against his shoulders, toes curling, head thrown back into his sheets. But he’s relentless. Focused. Cruel in the way only someone who knows your body this well can be.

Then—suddenly—his tongue dips lower again.

He licks into you—deep—pressing into your entrance, slow and wet and hot.

Minho—”

He moans into your cunt, arms flexing around your thighs, nose pressed into your mound like he never wants to come up for air. He tongue-fucks you harder, the slick sounds obscene now, spit and arousal dripping down his chin.

He pulls back just enough to suck your clit again, messy and loud—then goes back down, tongue fucking you like it’s a competition. Like it’s penance. Like he’s going to draw the second orgasm out of you with his mouth alone.

“You’re close again,” he pants. “I feel it. You gonna cum for me, baby? Gonna soak my face?”

“Yes—yes, please—don’t stop—”

He doesn’t. In fact, he doubles down—tongue driving in and out while he rubs tight, fast circles on your clit with his thumb. Your thighs snap around his head. You try to pull away, too sensitive, too much—

But Minho just growls, deep and possessive.

“Fucking take it.”

Fuck you do. You fucking do take it. How can you not. And you finally break apart on his face, legs locking, body spasming as that second orgasm rips through you harder, wetter, longer. He holds you through it, licking and sucking until your voice is nothing but choked whimpers and your body can’t stop twitching.

When he finally pulls away, his mouth is glossy, chin soaked.

He smirks—wild, satisfied, dark before kneeling up, grabbing a condom from the drawer, tearing it open with his teeth.

“Now I’m gonna ruin this pussy properly.”

You’re barely conscious of the way he tears the condom wrapper open—just the sound of it, sharp and needed in the haze of your wrecked body. He rolls it on quick, jaw clenched, hand pumping his cock once, twice, eyes locked on you like you’re prey he’s finally allowed to devour.

“Get on all fours.”

You try to move, limbs shaking, but he grabs your hips and flips you himself—effortless, firm, like muscle memory. You barely get your arms under you before he’s behind you, one hand gripping your ass, the other dragging along your spine.

“You remember how loud you used to get?” he mutters, voice thick. “Gonna make you scream into my fucking sheets again.”

He guides his cock to your entrance—rubbing the tip through your soaked folds, slow and teasing, soaking himself in your mess.

“Fuck—you’re dripping,” he groans. “You came so hard for my mouth, and you’re still ready for my cock?”

“Please—Minho—need it—need you—”

He sinks in. Deep. One smooth, devastating thrust that punches the air from your lungs.

“Oh my fuck—”

“That’s it,” he growls, bottoming out. “Tight as ever. Like your pussy never forgot me.”

You choke on a moan as he pulls out slow—just to slam back in, harder this time. Your arms buckle, face falling into the mattress as his hips snap against your ass with punishing rhythm.

“Minho—fuck—you’re so—deep—”

“Yeah? You missed this cock?” His voice is ragged, filthy. “Tell me. Tell me who fucks you like this.”

“Only you—fuck—only you, Minho—”

“Damn right.”

He grips your hair, pulling you up by the back of your neck, arching your body so your back curves into him. His mouth is by your ear now, panting, biting.

“No one touches you here,” he growls, fucking into you harder, deeper. “Not your mouth. Not your thighs. Not your pussy. All mine. Say it.”

“I’m yours—Minho—I’m fucking yours—”

“Louder.”

“I’m yours!”

He snarls into your neck and slams into you so deep you see stars. One of his hands slides down to your clit, rubbing fast, relentless circles while his cock drags against your g-spot.

“You gonna cum again?” he pants. “On my cock this time?”

“Yes—yes, please—don’t stop—”

“Let go for me, baby.”

You don’t even need to try.

His thumb circles your clit with such devastating precision, and his cock hits so deep, so right, you come apart again—body locking up, mouth falling open in a moan that barely sounds like your own.

Your orgasm slams into you like a wave, sharp and overwhelming, your pussy fluttering around him, gripping him, milking him like your body knows he’s supposed to stay there.

“Fuuuuck—Minho—!”

“That’s it,” he growls. “Cum on my cock like a good girl. So fucking wet—so tight—I can feel you pulsing, fuck—”

Your vision blurs. But he doesn’t stop. He keeps thrusting through it, relentless, dragging it out with brutal pace, your pussy so sensitive now you can barely breathe. His hand’s still on your clit, rubbing slow now—just enough to make you whimper.

“Minho—please—I can’t—”

“Yes you can.”

He leans over your back again, teeth dragging along your shoulder, breath hot and harsh. “You gonna take it, baby,” he pants. “You’re gonna be good and take it. All of it. Until I cum too.”

You cry out when he fucks you harder, cock slamming in deep, hips slapping skin, the sound so obscene it makes your whole body flush. You feel your own slick running down your thighs, pooling under you—and still he keeps going.

“You said you were mine,” he groans. “So act like it. Let me fuck you how you need.”

“Minho—f-fuck—it’s too—too much—”

“It’s never too much,” he hisses. “Not for my good girl.”

His fingers leave your clit, only to grip your throat—lightly, possessively, pulling you up so your back is flush to his chest. His cock drives into you deeper from this angle, the stretch unbearable, perfect.

“You feel this?” he whispers into your ear. “You feel how hard I still am inside you? I’m not even close, baby.”

“Oh my god—”

“You’re gonna take every fucking second of it.”

You moan, broken and needy, as he slams into you again and again. His hips are ruthless now, fucking you straight through your oversensitivity, chasing his own high while demanding you keep up.

“Gonna ruin you,” he groans. “Gonna fill you up and fuck you until you can’t even stand—until all you know is my name in your throat.”

“Please—Minho—yes—yes, please—”

You feel another orgasm building and he knows it. His hand snakes down again, fingers finding your clit, rubbing quick tight circles just as he starts fucking you even deeper, fucking into your sweet spot with perfect, punishing rhythm.

“Cum again,” he growls. “Do it. Show me how good your pussy gets when it’s mine.”

Your legs are trembling now, slick and spent, but Minho doesn’t let up.

“C’mon,” he pants, voice wrecked. “Give it to me again. You know you can.”

His fingers never leave your clit—tight, ruthless circles in time with the brutal rhythm of his thrusts. He’s fucking into you so deep you swear he’s carved out space inside you. Your body’s a live wire, too sensitive, too soaked, too close.

And then—

You break.

A cry tears out of you as your body convulses, squirting hard around him, wetness gushing as your vision whites out. He curses low and vicious, gripping your hips to ride it out, holding you through the aftershocks.

“Fuck—just like that, baby. Look at this mess. All for me.”

You’re limp, gasping, gone—and he’s still fucking you, chasing the edge with a growl in his throat. His rhythm stutters, hips snapping faster, deeper, until he finally buries himself to the hilt with a sharp gasp.

“Mine,” he groans. “Taking all of me—fuck—mine.”

You feel the shudder of him spilling into the condom, body tight, muscles locked, every filthy, pent-up second poured into you.

And then—

Silence.

Only breath. Sweat. Your heartbeat in your ears. He doesn’t pull out right away. Just stays there, chest pressed to yours, mouth by your ear and pressing soft kisses.

Then finally—slowly—he pulls out. You both shiver from the loss.

Minho moves carefully now, the storm in him simmered down to something softer, raw-edged but human. He slides off the condom, ties it off, discards it in the bin by the bed. Then he vanishes for a beat—into the bathroom maybe—but returns just as fast with a warm cloth, water, tissues.

“Easy,” he murmurs as he wipes between your legs, his touch gentle, reverent. “Let me take care of you.”

You wince slightly when the cloth brushes too close to your clit, overstimulated and twitchy. He notices immediately.

“Sorry,” he says quietly. “You okay?”

You nod. Too gone to speak yet, but he sees it—your blinking gratitude, the softness returning to your breath. He kisses the inside of your knee before tossing the cloth aside.

And then he climbs back into bed, arms open. You crawl into them without hesitation. He pulls the blanket over both of you, tucks your head beneath his chin. One hand rubs slow circles into your back; the other is tangled in your hair.

For a long time, neither of you say anything. Just breath. The muted thud of his heartbeat under your ear. The faint creak of the studio pipes somewhere above.

Until you finally whisper, “Why’d we stop talking?”

His fingers still for a moment. Then resume. Slower. “I was angry,” he says. “And stupid.”

You hum. “Me too.”

He sighs. “I hated that you left without saying goodbye.”

“I hated that you let me.”

A pause.

“You came back,” he says quietly.

“I never stopped thinking about you.”

Another beat of silence, heavier now. “I never moved on,” he admits.

You look up at him, eyes glassy. “Neither did I.”

His jaw flexes. His thumb brushes your cheek. And this time, when he kisses you—it’s slow. Deep. No lust. Just longing. A kiss built on what-ifs. On might-have-beens. On maybe-again.

He whispers against your lips, “Stay the night.”

You nod, barely breathing. “Okay.”

It’s been three weeks since that night. Since Minho locked the studio door, fucked you senseless, and told you—without words—that he never stopped wanting you.

Now?

Now, your toothbrush is in his bathroom. Your sketchbook’s on his kitchen counter. Your bra’s been living on his bedpost for four days and counting.

You’re upstairs more than not—first it was overnight visits, then a drawer, then a closet, then one morning he just grunted, “Your stuff’s already here. Might as well stop pretending.”

So you stayed.

Mornings are quiet. Shared coffee in oversized mugs, his hand on your thigh while he skims client bookings. Nights are louder—sometimes it’s just TV and takeout, sometimes it’s moaning into his mouth while he fucks you over the arm of the couch, one hand tangled in your hair and the other keeping your legs spread.

Rebuilding hasn’t been linear. You argue. You remember old fights. You see old wounds still healing. But you talk now. And when you don’t have the words, he kisses the silence out of you, palms framing your face like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he blinks too long.

One afternoon, Jisung barges in to drop off a delivery and freezes at the top of the stairs. You’re half-naked in one of Minho’s shirts. He’s behind you, tattoo gun still buzzing.

“Are you seriously tattooing her naked again?”

Minho doesn’t even flinch. “My apartment. My rules.”

Jisung groans. “I’m gonna start charging rent for the trauma.”

Minho just smirks, wiping your skin clean and pressing a kiss to your bare shoulder. “Close the door on your way out.”

You laugh into the sleeve of your shirt. You’re glowing. A little inked, a lot in love.

And Minho? He’s not going anywhere this time.

#stray kids #skz #skz x reader #skz smut #lee know #lee know x reader #lee minho smut #lee minho x reader #lee minho skz #tethered tuesday

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silkensago · 2 days ago

Text

contents ౨ৎ ⋆ jason todd x fem reader. fluff & comfort. ⭑ some people just can’t take a hint. your boyfriend (bodyguard) comes to your rescue.

“I have a boyfriend,” you say. For at least the fifteenth time. You’re getting tired of counting.

The guy who’s been hitting on you for the past ten minutes while you wait smirks. Gross.

“Bet he doesn’t treat you right.”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. As if. Just flat-out leaving the café right now sounds really, really tempting. But you also just paid for your drink, and you really, really don’t feel like abandoning it because some weirdo with no self-awareness can’t handle being rejected.

A voice cuts in, flat. Dangerous.

“She literally had pancakes in bed this morning. Talk to my girl again, and I’ll cut your tongue off.”

You bite your lip to hide the rush of relief that spreads through your chest.

Jason.

You forgot you were sharing your location with him. Of course he’d notice when your order took ten minutes instead of six.

You’re mentally doodling little hearts around his name as your beautiful, big, grumpy, scary dog of a boyfriend steps into place beside you like your personal bodyguard, hand sliding around your waist—warm and sure, grounding you.

It’s possessive, but not like the way strangers look at you. Not expectant or entitled. His touch says I’ve got you. Like he already knows your worth and never needed you to earn it. Never looked at you and thought prove it. He just sees you. All of you.

You’re not just someone pretty to look at, not just a face.

Someone he loves in all your quiet, tired, messiness. No less breathtaking when your hair’s unbrushed and your makeup's off, and your socks don’t match, and you say something incredibly nerdy that makes him roll his eyes fondly and you forget how to make eye contact.

Someone who stays in his chest long after you’ve walked away, leaving him for work with the ghost of your kiss and lip gloss on his cheek, needing to be on your tiptoes to even reach him, even in heels which he always teases you for.

You’re someone to come home to. Someone whole and infinite and more.

“Was wondering where you were.” Jason mutters. His voice is calm, but you can feel the tension humming under his skin, sharp as a drawn wire, as his hand settles firmly over your lower back—right where the guy’s eyes had been.

The creep mutters something and slinks off, at least he had the awareness to sense danger. He’s lucky Jason doesn’t even spare him a second glance.

His focus is on you.

You’re still standing too still. Your fingers locked too tight around the cup of your drink. You haven’t taken a single sip.

Jason tilts his head and lowers his voice. “You okay?”

He rubs slow, small circles on your back, and some of the pressure inside you finally starts to ease. Your shoulders sag a little more.

"Maybe I shouldn't have worn this today."

You glance down at your outfit, fidgeting with the hem. You had felt cute, when you put it on at least. Now you just feel small. Exposed.

Jason’s hand stills, then smooths down your spine with deliberate care.

"No," he says firmly. "You look beautiful. Don't ever let some asshole's behavior make you question that. You're not the problem, sweetheart—they are."

After all the stares that make you want to crawl out of your own skin, his hand feels like water over flame. Quiet. Steady. Like he’s cleansing you of every word, every glance, every inch of attention that never came with the kindness that you deserved.

You nod. Then shake your head. The laugh that slips out is small. Fragile.

“No matter how many times this happens,” you say, “I can never get used to it.”

Jason’s eyes soften.

His hand rises to your cheek, brushing along your jaw with careful fingers like he’s afraid to hurt you even by accident.

“Baby,” he murmurs. “Baby. You shouldn’t have to. Look at me."

You hesitate, then look up at him.

His eyes—a gorgeous clear, deep teal—meet yours, steady and soft. His gaze quiets the noise in your head. There’s no judgment there. No pressure. Just him, looking at you. Because you’re the most important thing in the room.

“This isn't your fault,” he says gently, thumb stroking your cheek.

Your lips twitch. “Mhm.”

Jason shakes his head a little, and leans in just enough for his forehead to almost touch yours.

“I want you to say it with me, sweetheart,” he says.

You take a shaky breath. Your voice is quiet, but there. “This isn't my fault.”

“That’s my girl.”

The corner of his lip quirks up in a proud little smile just for you.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here sooner,” he says.

“You’re here now,” you whisper.

Jason leans in and kisses your forehead.

“Damn right I am.”

He glances toward the door the guy vanished through, then back at you.

“If he even looks at you again,” he says, voice low, “he’s not walking. Like, ever.”

You huff a soft laugh, the first real one, and he smiles at the sound.

Jason wraps an arm around your shoulders this time—holding you close, not just guarding you, but keeping you warm. You bury your face in his chest and let his comforting scent wash over you. The smell of home.

He nudges you gently toward a table, like he’s steering a ship back to harbor.

“Come on, sit. Drink your sugary, overpriced caffeine. I’ll be right here the whole time."

You sit, finally, and Jason doesn’t let go. His thigh brushes yours under the table. His hand stays tucked around the back of your chair.

You sip your drink slowly. It's lukewarm by now, but somehow still tastes better than it would’ve without him next to you. His leg is pressed to yours under the table, solid and steady. Like an anchort, keeping you from drifting too far out.

Jason’s thumb brushes the back of your hand where it rests on the table, slow and absent like he’s not even thinking about it—but you know he is. Jason thinks about everything. Especially you.

“I like your socks,” he says after a while. Voice low, coaxing. “The little strawberries. That’s new.”

You glance down. Smile faintly. “Bought them last week.”

He hums, leaning in until his shoulder brushes yours. “You should’ve told me. I would’ve worn mine too.”

“You don’t have strawberry socks.”

“Don’t underestimate how far I’d go to match you.”

The laugh you let out comes from your chest this time. A real one. You lean your head against his shoulder, and he shifts just slightly to let you settle there.

When you finish your drink, Jason takes the empty cup from your hands and tosses it for you.

“You ready to go?”

You nod, still leaning into him. “Only if we can stop to get books at the library.”

His hand finds yours again. Squeezes. “I was just thinking the same thing.”

And for the first time that morning, you feel safe again.

#jason todd x reader #jason todd x you #jason todd fluff #jason todd imagine #jason todd x y/n #jason todd x fem!reader #red hood x reader #dc x reader #based off real events #except without jason </3 #im sorry to everyone thats ever had this happen to them ITS SO ANNOYING

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waitingandwishing · 19 hours ago

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Previous Chapter - Next Chapter

Word Count: 2k "𝖫𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝖽𝖺𝗋𝗄𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌, 𝖻𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗆𝖾 𝖻𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗇𝖾𝗌𝗌" ━━ Ever since you were a kid, all you wanted was to be cared for.

“Once they come off the stage, we’ll jump down for the attack, and these boys’ll be…” Rumi turned to the three of you to which you all said simultaneously, “Done, done, done…”

The four of you giggled as you climbed up the stage, watching from above as the show continued on. “That’s one flaming hot Jinu!” The host said as the black haired one, Jinu, popped the hot sauce bottle out of his mouth with a wheeze.

You rested your shaky hands on your knees. Jinu huh? You knew that name too… But it was a popular name in Korea, something that almost every person you knew had. That’s probably why it was familiar, because it was common!

Your left hand tightened around the handle of your whip while your right was twisting itself to warm up your wrists. You breathed in, watching the crowd before hearing the host start to wrap up the gameshow. You smiled internally, but tried to keep a neutral expression on your face.

“Then why say goodbye, when we have extra special guests coming up?” Jinu suddenly grabbed the microphone.

“What’s happening?” You snapped your head towards Rumi, who shrugged.

“Please welcome, Huntrix!” He gestured up towards the four of you and you quickly put away your weapon. You waved to the camera, a charismatic smile on your face as you tried to hide the horrible nervousness you were now feeling.

“I LOVE YOU HUNTRIX!” Someone in the crowd shouted.

“We just wanted to stop by and congratulate our hoobaes on their debut and-” Rumi started before being interrupted by Jinu.

“And of course, play games with us! Bring out the slides!” Jinu announced, and quickly a slide with four ways appeared in front of you.

“Oh, no…” Rumi chuckled awkwardly, “We couldn’t possibly…”

“In the balls, in the balls, in the balls!” The fans cheered for you. You sat on the slide, pausing for a moment before pushing yourself off.

You slid down easily, as this time you were wearing leather shorts so you simply lifted your legs up a little bit to slide down, but the rest of them… Not so much. You flopped into the ball pit, cringing at the weird sticky warmth that clung into the pit before seeing a hand in front of you.

You looked up to see Jinu smiling at you, a flash of yellow in his eyes. You stood, choosing to ignore his hand and help the rest of your girls up instead. Jinu’s face flickered with something along the lines of annoyance and bittersweetness, but you didn’t care to think anything of it.

“This was… So great!” You smiled sweetly, looking at the crowd as Rumi, Zoey, and Mira stood beside you.

“It was truly an honor to share the stage with you.” Jinu said, his hand placed on his chest, before bowing down with the rest of the Saja boys.

“Oh no, the honor is ours.” Rumi said, the four of you bowing down as well.

“No, it was ours.”

“It’s ours.”

“Ours.”

The curtains soon closed and the four of you got up from your bowing positions, turning your heads before following the Saja boys out the backstage.

The city was bathed in an almost green colored light, and you quickly turned your heads to see the Saja boys head into the bathhouse.

“Let’s go get these guys.” Rumi gritted her teeth. You and the others followed before Zoey gasped excitedly.

“We finally get to go to the bathhouse with Rumi!” She realized.

As you entered, the foggy nature made you slightly anxious though you summoned your weapon anyways. “Mens?” Rumi realized and the four of you groaned.

“Wow. Did you really follow us in here?” Jinu asked.

“Wow, did you really wait there to pose for us knowing we’d follow you?” You shot back, glaring daggers at him specifically.

“You think we’re just gonna let you steal our fans?” Rumi asked and as if on cue, the four of you all raised your weapons. “You’re gonna have to fight us for them.”

“Yeah, keep our hands off our Honmoon!” Zoey yelled.

Jinu chuckled, “We’re not here to fight.” The bathhouse water glowed a familiar pink, water demons rising from the rippling demonic energy. “They are.”

“Water demons?” You frowned.

“Oh great, my favorite.” Mira said sarcastically.

“Get rid of the Hunters.” Jinu said, his hand placed on the closest water demon near him, “Then you can eat all the souls you want.

As soon as you saw one lunge at you, your whip lashed out. The end snapped with a sonic crack, splitting a demon’s head in half before it could touch you.

You twisted, rolling under a clawed swing as Mira came over and sliced it in half. She gave you a nod, to which you nodded back with a slight smile before another lunged.

You pivoted, wrapping the whip around its wrist before yanking it hard and dragging the creature toward you. Using the demon’s momentum, you slammed your elbow into its face and kneed it in the chest.

You turned, seeing Rumi go after Jinu and the rest of the boyband members. What- What was she doing? You needed her to take care of all the demons!

Before you could call out her name, three more surged in. You sliced one across the chest then stepped back with a kick to knock down the second. You crouched and spun, executing a leg sweep that dropped the third to the floor. The whip cracked down onto the demon’s skull easily.

“What’s going on with the Honmoon?” Zoey asked as more demons tore through. “It’s getting worse!”

“We can’t hold them, we need RumI!” Mira said before launching forwards at another demon. You huffed, being thrown into the wall and causing it to crash on impact.

You let out a yell, eyes wide as you coughed. You quickly stood, seeing Jinu standing on the far left and Rumi standing in the middle with the side of her jacket ripped off. You widened your eyes, surging forward before your whip wrapped around Rumi’s waist and pulled her back into the smoke.

“Here!” You handed her a piece of cloth before turning and throwing your dagger at one of the demons that was attacking Zoey. “Hurry up and get back in!”

As you ran, you turned your head to see Jinu staring at you with wide eyes. You contemplated killing him but… No. Zoey and Mira needed you. There would always be next time. You ran forward, whip slicing one demon clean across the chest. Sparks flew as the whip’s edges tore through flesh and bone.

You landed in a crouch and rotated your torso, whip trailing into a reverse-U crack. The sharp recoil disarmed the next demon, slashing through the tendon of its reaching hand. It screeched, disappearing in a pink poof.

A demon lunged from behind. Without looking, you spun the whip, catching the creature’s leg and flipping it off-balance. In one fluid motion, you dragged and wrapped the whip, looping around its neck. You yanked it forward and a rolling head hit the ground. Hard.

You could hear your breath, the silence louder than ever, before an old man interrupted your quiet realization. “Hey! This is the man’s bathhouse. Get out of here!” He yelled. You all awkwardly filed out, your voices overlapping with apologies as you exited.

Jinu… The memory of you locking eyes with him replayed. Why did it feel like he knew you? Why did you even think he was anything but a stranger? Was he tied to those dreams you were having… Was your weird demon side of you now controlling your dreams?

You sighed. You should really get some sleep…

- - -

You bit into a persimmon, not just frowning at their bitterness but the fact that no… Memories or dreams had resurfaced because of it. You had hoped getting unripe ones would help with remembering but it seemed as though you had been wrong.

You huffed, throwing the half-eaten persimmon in the trash before seeing a flash of blue light out of the corner of your eye. Rumi? You watched as she walked down the street, looking behind her before running faster. What was she doing?

You looked at Mira and Zoey, who were knocked out on the couch with a movie playing, before pulling up your hoodie and exiting out the tower. You wanted to follow her.

~~~

Rumi landed on one of the rooftops, unsheathing her sword to go in for the kill. After this, her secret would be safe and the Saja boys would be one less member for the other girls to kill. She ran forward, raising her sword before slicing the head of the demon easily. Only for the head to be… A mannequin?

“What?” She widened her eyes.

“Wow. I wasn’t expecting a hug but-” Rumi turned, her sword raised once again as she swung angrily at Jinu. “Jeez, jeez, okay! Calm down. I thought the mannequin was gonna be a fun icebreaker! But I see I was wrong.”

He jumped away again, dodging Rumi’s sword as she lunged at him once again. “Whoa, whoa!” He said, jumping up onto another rooftop, “Hey! I just wanna talk.”

“Talk?” Rumi furrowed her brows, pausing her movements.

“About your patterns?” Jinu offered, raising his arms up before adding, “And where’s your friend? I thought she would’ve followed you by now?”

“Stay away from my friends!” Rumi said, swinging her sword rather chaotically.

“Whoa! I could’ve told your friends what you are.” Jinu said, dissipating into a puff of pink smoke just as Rumi’s sword was about to slice through him and appearing behind her instead. “But I didn’t, did I? Because… They don’t know.”

Rumi’s breath hitched, but she didn’t falter. The two of them circled each other on the roof, waiting for the other person to strike. “Ah… I did guess right.” He smirked smugly, “Demon girls. But also Hunters.”

“Girls?” Rumi muttered to herself before tightening her grip on her sword, “How’d you know about Y/N’s markings?”

“Y/N.” Jinu repeated, his eyes glazing over just for a moment before turning his attention back to Rumi. “Let’s just say… It was a hunch. That you both were demons.”

“Just Hunter, not demon.” Rumi said, still circling Jinu.

“Then how’d you get the patterns?” Jinu asked, his voice growing more impatient.

“That’s none of your business.”

“Huh…” Jinu furrowed his brows before looking back up at Rumi, “I know what it feels like to have them.”

“Feel?” Rumi repeated. The thought made her almost laugh, “You’re a demon. Demons don’t feel anything.”

“Is that what you think?” Jinu asked, his voice rising higher as he paused his walking, “That’s all demons do. Feel. Feel our shame. Feel our misery. It’s how Gwi-Ma controls us. Do you not hear him in your ear?”

“What are you talking about?” Rumi asked.

“Huh. You’re lucky.” Jinu stated, turning away and looking at his hands. “I’ll never forget the first time I heard him. That was 400 years ago.”

“My family was extremely poor and miserable. I had a single possession to my name, an old bipa. So I busked the streets, but it didn’t get me anywhere. I was desperate. We were starving.” He said, his voice full of sadness and misery. “Then, I heard him. ‘You can’t do anything for your family. You’re not good enough for them. But I can help you be good enough’.”

“Overnight, my fate was changed. My voice was praised, even by the king himself.” Jinu smiled bittersweetly, “My family and I lived on the palace grounds. Our bellies were finally full, our clothes clean. We were happy.”

“My lover was happy.” Jinu reached into his pocket, pulling out a necklace with a small bead. He lifted it to the moonlight, watching as the tiny shards of mother-of-pearl practically glow in the moonlight. "What the court would cast aside, she wore over her heart…”

Rumi widened her eyes. Jinu, a demon, once had a spouse? She couldn’t believe it…

“But the patterns, they kept spreading until they consumed me.” Jinu tucked the necklace back into his pocket, “And I was condemned to the demon world, prisoner of Gwi-Ma for all eternity… My family lost everything. My lover was beaten and expelled from the palace for loving a bipa player. They were even worse off than before… Every day since, I’ve been haunted by the memory of failing them.”

“These are a constant reminder of my shame. A shame I can never escape.” Jinu turned to Rumi, walking towards her. He paused, raising his arm before a snap caught his wrist.

Rumi and Jinu turned to the source of light, only for the demon to be pulled away and slammed onto the ground. “Rumi!” You shouted, landing beside her, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah… I just…” Rumi caught your hand as you went down to attack Jinu. You blinked, confusion laced with annoyance in your eyes.

“Rumi?” You looked at her. She swallowed before letting go of your wrist, though you didn’t make any moves to go after Jinu. Rumi was more important than a stupid boy band demon. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

You placed a hand on her shoulder, causing her markings to glow underneath her turtle neck. You recoiled, hand markings also glowing underneath your gloves as well.

“Yeah…” Rumi placed her hand on yours with a slight smile, “Yeah I’m fine.”

#fanfiction #fanfic #x reader #jinu x reader #rumi x reader #rimu #jinu #zoey #mira #saja boys #kpdh #kdh #kpop demon hunters #kpdh x reader #kdh x reader #kpop demon hunters x reader

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wbb-fan92 · 2 days ago

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How The Night Ends

A/n: I just felt like writing this since yesterday’s jersey debacle was such a big day. I don’t write much, so this isn’t perfect but hope you enjoy.

Word count: 3.1k

Warnings: sexual content, 18+ only

Paige was on the court warming up for what was going to be a tough battle against the Washington Mystics. She was feeling good but undoubtedly a little overwhelmed with the constant comparisons between herself and the rookies on the opposing team. But today was a good day because Azzi was coming to the game, and any day that she got to see her girlfriend’s beautiful face in person was a good day.

Warmups were winding down, and Paige and her teammate, Arike, were going through their warmup ritual. It wasn’t anything important, but they liked to have a little fun back and forth before each game.

That’s when Azzi arrived and walked across the court and sat courtside, right in front of where Paige and Arike were passing the ball. Paige couldn’t help but get distracted by the way Azzi commanded the room. It’s almost like she was the star on the court tonight, not the other way around.

Azzi was wearing a pair of Paige’s jeans and a cropped white t-shirt that showed the faintest amount of skin—but enough for Paige’s mouth to water at the sight.

“You good?” Arike asked with a hint of laughter.

“What?” Paige said as she focused her attention back on her teammate, almost missing the ball that Arike threw at her. “Yeah, all good.”

As Paige and Arike continued their warmup tradition, Paige watched as a player from the opposing team, Georgia Amoore, walked up to Azzi and handed her a bright red Washington Mystics jersey.

Without hesitation, Azzi slipped the jersey over her carefully curled hair and over her white cropped t-shirt.

Paige watched as Azzi slipped the jersey on and caught Georgia as she coyly walked away from the scene of the crime.

“Hey, that’s cold. You know that, right?” Paige shouted as Georgia walked away.

Georgia glanced back over her shoulder and gave Paige a wink as she walked off the court.

Paige couldn’t do anything but shake her head in disbelief. Georgia was a friend of hers and Azzi’s—she knew that. And she also knew that Azzi was a DMV native and had always supported the Mystics.

It wasn’t the sight of the red jersey that flared something in Paige; it was the sight of another girl’s number across her girlfriend’s chest.

Paige looked over at Azzi. “Are you really gonna wear that?”

“Yeah, why?” Azzi asked with a teasing tone in her voice.

Arike watched the interaction and couldn’t do anything but laugh. She walked over to Azzi and dabbed her up while laughing. “You gonna pay for that, just wait.”

Azzi didn’t respond. She just smiled wide and kept her eyes on Paige the entire time.

Paige shook her head as the lights in the arena dimmed, signaling that warmups were over. She made her way to the tunnel toward the locker room as she caught one last glance at Azzi in another girl’s jersey as she walked away.

——

The game was a tough battle between two teams that wanted the win badly. Even after a clutch 3-pointer to send the game into overtime, Paige and the entire Wings team couldn’t secure the victory.

Paige was disappointed as she made her way to the locker room to change out of her jersey.

She didn’t even think about the game or what she would have done differently. No. All Paige could think about was how her girlfriend looked in that red jersey.

Paige knew that Azzi was just messing with her, but she couldn’t deny the fact that seeing Azzi in that jersey every time she glanced to the sidelines messed with her head during the game.

Paige had never been super territorial in their relationship, but she was feeling a little more today due to the fact that Azzi had just hard-launched their relationship the day before. That was her girl, and she didn’t want to see someone else’s name across her well-defined back.

Paige shook the thoughts out of her head and finished tying her ponytail up into a messy bun. She put on her sweatsuit while grabbing her bags to head out to the court to say hello to the friends and family that came to see her play. She was excited that her dad, and the two other adults who were like second parents to her, were in the arena tonight.

She walked out and saw Azzi standing with her parents, Katie and Tim. Paige smiled, seeing Katie in a blue Wings #5 jersey.

“Hey,” Paige shouted. “At least someone here still has a little loyalty.” Paige walked up and wrapped her arms around Katie.

“You did good, kid. We’re so proud of you,” Katie said as she hugged the girl tight.

Paige pulled back from the hug and stood in front of Azzi. She watched as Azzi opened her arms, waiting for Paige to melt into her like she typically did after every game.

“If you think I’m hugging you in that jersey, you’re crazy,” Paige said as she stared at her girlfriend.

Azzi giggled and reached her hands down to grab the bottom of the jersey and pulled it over her head.

When Azzi tossed the jersey back to Georgia, who was standing off to the side, Paige smiled and immediately lunged forward and crashed into her girlfriend’s embrace.

Breathing in deeply to take in the smell of her girlfriend’s perfume, she squeezed tighter while turning her head into Azzi’s neck.

“What was that?” Paige mumbled into Azzi’s neck, still not letting go.

“Huh?” Azzi replied nonchalantly, even though she knew exactly what Paige was referring to.

Paige pulled back from the hug to look her girlfriend right in the eyes. She squinted at her, almost disapprovingly.

“You wearing some other girl’s number now?”

Azzi smiled at Paige and reached up to put her hand on her bicep. “You mad?”

“Mhmmm,” Paige replied quietly.

“Don’t be. At least not here,” Azzi said, lowering her voice.

Paige swallowed heavily and nodded while she continued to make her way around the group to say hello and goodbye to everyone there.

She grabbed her bag and followed Azzi out the arena doors.

——

Walking into the hotel room, Azzi could feel the tension. She had decided to come back with Paige to the team hotel and stay the night, knowing she’d have to get up at the crack of dawn to drive back to Storrs in time for summer workouts tomorrow afternoon.

But one more night with Paige was worth all of the tired workouts she’d endure tomorrow and the next day.

“I’m gonna hop in the shower,” Paige said after dropping her bags onto the hotel room floor.

“Mmkay, I’ll be here,” Azzi said sweetly as she watched Paige saunter into the bathroom.

Azzi knew that wearing the Georgia Amoore jersey would turn some heads, but she thought most people would understand given the fact that she grew up here in the DMV.

She also knew that Paige would probably turn an eye up at seeing her in another girl’s jersey—and maybe she was sort of hoping it would elicit some kind of response.

Azzi loved Paige more than anything. She had even hard-launched their relationship via a phone case the day before. Being apart for so long these last few months had been torture for the both of them.

So yeah, maybe Azzi was intentionally trying to get a rise out of Paige so they could show each other just how much they really loved one another.

Azzi had changed out of her clothes and into a pair of shorts and a tank top. She climbed on top of the bed and picked up her phone and began to scroll, seeing all of the photos and think pieces of her in the jersey.

Paige walked out of the steamy bathroom wearing a pair of boxer shorts and a tank top. Her wet hair, now curled along the edges, lay below her shoulders.

Azzi looked up at her and immediately threw her phone to the nightstand. She noticed her girlfriend had decided not to wear a bra, nipples poking through the fabric of the tank top she was wearing.

“Come here,” Azzi said as she stared at Paige.

Paige slowly walked over toward the bed, climbing onto it and making sure she slowly crawled up Azzi’s body as she did.

Azzi shifted to the side so their bodies were pressed together, but neither was carrying the full weight of the other.

Azzi wrapped her arms around Paige’s stomach and buried her head into her shoulder.

“Are you mad at me?” Azzi mumbled.

Paige pulled back so she could look her girlfriend in the eyes. She brushed a dark curl out of Azzi’s face.

“I’m not mad. I could never be mad at you,” Paige responded. “I just really didn’t like feeling like someone else was claiming you in front of me.”

Azzi pulled Paige closer. “Baby, I’m yours. No one gets to claim me but you.”

Paige leaned in and forced Azzi’s chin up toward her. She placed a soft kiss to her lips and sighed.

“You are mine, and I don’t like everyone thinking you’re not,” Paige whispered.

Azzi giggled. “I’m pretty sure everyone knows after I posted that Instagram story yesterday.”

“Yeah, the team gave me hell about that,” Paige said shyly.

Azzi laughed and turned onto her back, bending an arm back behind her head.

As she did, her tank top rose up above her belly button and exposed the dark, soft skin that was beneath.

Paige immediately shifted her gaze down to look and instinctively reached out her hand to rest it onto Azzi’s stomach.

“So, you’re not mad?” Azzi asked, her breath becoming more unsteady.

Paige glanced at Azzi, who was looking at her with heavy eyelids.

“Do you want me to be?” she asked as she moved her palm, which was resting on Azzi’s lower stomach, further up under her tank top.

Azzi didn’t respond right away, because Paige’s touch was a little distracting.

Paige softly palmed Azzi’s breasts into one of her hands. “Baby, I said, do you want me to be mad?”

“I just—” Azzi started before sucking in a breath. “I just wanna feel you.”

“You want me to show you that you’re mine?” Paige whispered as she leaned in to kiss the soft spot beneath Azzi’s jaw.

Paige began sucking the dark skin of Azzi’s neck, soothing it with soft kisses each time.

“Tell me what you want, Az,” she said as she leaned up to lightly nibble the other girl’s earlobe.

“I want you to touch me,” Azzi said, breathless.

Paige turned her head and kissed Azzi hard. Their mouths opened up and both of them gasped when their tongues touched. They continued kissing while Paige reached down to tug at the waistband of Azzi’s night shorts.

“Lift up, baby,” Paige said as she pulled the shorts down around Azzi’s muscular thighs.

Azzi was desperate for her touch. As Paige backed away to remove her shorts, Azzi reached back up to try and pull her closer, not wanting to lose the closeness.

“It’s okay, baby. I got you,” Paige said as she leaned back down into Azzi’s space, lightly kissing her thighs as she did.

Azzi reached down and threaded her fingers through damp blonde curls as Paige continued licking and kissing her thighs.

“Please, Paige,” Azzi whined.

Paige tilted her head and glanced up, looking at the desperation on her girlfriend’s face. Paige almost lost her train of thought at seeing how beautiful her girl was laid beneath her. Suddenly she had a thought.

She leaned up further and kissed Azzi’s stomach. “Take this off for me,” she said to Azzi.

Azzi quickly reached down to remove her tank top and hurriedly threw it down off the bed. Paige laughed at her quickness.

Seeing Azzi bare beneath her felt like heaven. Paige leaned down and started a trail of kisses, starting at Azzi’s neck. She made her way down to her breasts, kissing and sucking each of them as she passed.

She continued to kiss down Azzi’s stomach, stopping briefly to swirl the girl’s belly button ring around her tongue.

She leaned back, taking in the sight below her. She pushed off the bed and stood up.

Azzi’s eyes snapped open as she felt the weight of the bed disappear. “What—where are you going?”

Paige grinned and walked over to the bag that she had dropped on the floor when they walked in.

She bent her knees to crouch down and dig through, smiling when she found what she was looking for.

She stood up, blue jersey in hand. She walked back over to the bed and crawled back up to Azzi.

“Sit up,” Paige said sternly.

Azzi’s eyes opened wider at the girl’s tone. She sat up in the bed, arms leaning behind her to hold herself up.

Paige reached forward with the jersey and pulled it over Azzi’s head. She pulled down the bottom over Azzi’s breasts and stomach.

“See this?” Paige said as she hungrily took in the girl in front of her. “This means you’re mine.”

Azzi nodded. “I’ve always been yours.”

At that, Paige tugged on Azzi’s thighs, making her top half fall back onto the bed. Paige leaned down and breathed in the scent of her girlfriend, already wet and glistening below her.

Paige leaned in and placed a kiss to both thighs before putting her mouth where Azzi needed her the most.

She licked a long line up Azzi’s center as the girl moaned beneath her.

“God, yes baby, keep going,” Azzi said breathlessly.

Feeling the hand in her hair, Paige continued to lick and suck on the wet folds, making sure to pay careful attention to the places she knew her girl loved the most.

Paige could live and die in this position, loving every second of hearing Azzi moan her name beneath her. For all the time they’d been together, she knew exactly what made Azzi cave.

Paige reached down and dipped a finger into Azzi’s folds to gather the wetness.

“Damn baby, you are so wet,” Paige said as she stuck a finger in her own mouth to taste.

Azzi didn’t respond, only moaned and lifted her hips to signal to Paige that she needed more.

“I got you, baby, just relax,” Paige said, knowing that Azzi sometimes tenses up when she’s really needy.

Paige pushed two fingers into Azzi and watched as the girl’s face contorted into one of pleasure. As she continued to thrust into her, curling her fingers as she went in, she watched Azzi wriggle and moan beneath her. She grinned, looking down at the #5 across the girl’s chest.

“Say that you’re mine,” Paige said as she pushed deeper, feeling Azzi’s walls begin to pulse.

“Fuck, Paige—I’m yours, only yours,” Azzi struggled to say coherently. “I’m so close, P.”

Hearing Azzi say she was close, Paige just needed to feel all of her. She removed her fingers and adjusted her position so she was sitting criss-cross applesauce on the bed.

She pulled Azzi’s bottom half on top of her lap. “Come here, baby,” she motioned for Azzi to lean up.

Azzi, dazed and confused, leaned up and wrapped her arms around Paige’s neck as Paige pulled her in closer, Azzi’s legs wrapping around Paige’s waist.

Azzi looked her right in the eyes, and Paige almost melted right then and there.

“Hey baby,” she said as she kissed Azzi’s lips softly.

Paige reached back down, feeling the wetness that was pouring out of Azzi onto her lap now.

With one hand around her waist and the other in Azzi’s pussy, Paige worked her fingers in and out, making sure to rub her thumb across Azzi’s clit at each thrust.

Azzi was meeting her thrusts as she leaned her forehead onto Paige’s shoulder for leverage.

“Yes, Paige, don’t stop,” Azzi said as hot breath continued to fill the small space between them.

“Good girl, I got you, baby,” Paige said as she continued her movements and leaned her mouth up to suck on Azzi’s neck as the girl fell apart.

Paige used her hand around Azzi’s waist to pull her in closer as her other hand continued to meet Azzi’s body as it shook.

“Yes, P, god—you feel so good,” Azzi moaned as her body felt the much-needed release.

Paige slowed her movements as she felt Azzi’s body relax.

Azzi breathed out heavily and collapsed against Paige. “Fuck—that was—” not able to finish her thought.

Paige chuckled and lifted the girl off her lap and laid her down gently on the bed. She hopped off the bed, hearing Azzi whine beneath her.

“Hold on, baby. I’ll be right back,” Paige kissed her softly before walking toward the bathroom.

Azzi could hear the water running, but she was still pretty dazed from her release. She felt the bed dip, signaling that Paige was back.

Paige lightly tapped her thighs. “Spread ’em for me, baby.”

Azzi let her legs fall open on instinct, and Paige took the warm washcloth and began wiping Azzi’s folds clean, making sure to clean up the area on her thighs that were now sticky and wet.

When she was done, she tossed the washcloth onto the floor and climbed up next to Azzi and snuggled close.

She rubbed the hair away from Azzi’s forehead. “Baby, you okay?” Paige asked as she kissed her temple.

“Oh yeah, feel great,” Azzi began to mumble. “Just can’t move my body.”

Paige chuckled and pulled her closer. “I would say you can take off my jersey now, but I think maybe I’ll leave it on.”

Azzi turned toward Paige and brought her hand up to her cheek. “You know I love you, right?”

Paige grinned. “Of course I know.”

Azzi leaned in to kiss her softly. “No really, like I’m so in love with you. No one else ever crosses my mind,” Azzi took a breath as she started to say more.

“I need you to know that I’m yours, and I’m always gonna be only yours, no matter what jersey I have on,” Azzi said sternly to make sure Paige understood.

Paige felt so many emotions that all she could do was lean forward to kiss her girlfriend as they lay there tangled up in each other.

“I know, don’t worry. And I’m not mad, I was just playin’,” Paige said as she caressed Azzi’s face.

“I ain’t saying I like seeing you in another girl’s jersey, but I’m not worried about who gets to do this to you and who doesn’t,” she said as she motioned between them.

Azzi laughed as she kissed Paige’s lips.

Paige sighed into the kiss. “I’ma miss you tomorrow when you leave, baby.”

Azzi nodded in understanding. “I know, I always miss you. Two more weeks, okay? I’ll be down in Dallas with you soon.”

Paige looked at her, eyes squinted. “And you’re only gonna wear my jersey from now on, right?”

Azzi grinned and carefully chose her next words. “Not if the night ends the way this one did.”

#paige bueckers #paige and azzi #pazzi #azzi fudd #paige x azzi

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brainfuzz · 2 days ago

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Also, I'd like to point out that nearly all* of these people think what they are doing is morally justified, correct, legal, and the right thing to do to protect "us." Some of them may believe that deep down to their core, and some be convince themselves they believe it because they really need a job. Everyone is fully capable of being convinced and/or convincing themselves that something wrong is being done for the "right" reasons. Once you get surrounded by other people who are convinced about something, you become part of the echo chamber. The best way I've ever seen it put is in Goodfellas, by the main character's wife who wasn't raised in the mob:

After awhile, it got to be all normal. None of it seemed like crime. It was more like Henry was enterprising, and that he and the guys were making a few bucks hustling, while all the other guys were sitting on their asses, waiting for handouts. Our husbands weren't brain surgeons, they were blue-collar guys. The only way they could make extra money, real extra money, was to go out and cut a few corners.

So yeah, nearly everyone in the SS, and in ICE, are just normal people doing normal people things, and thinking that the atrocities they're committing aren't atrocities, but justifiable actions done to protect the "right" people from the "wrong" people. The logic they use to explain and justify is sound, the difference is they're starting point includes a willingness to do anything and consider the ends justify the means in all cases. The other fundamental difference is that they see a group of people and not individuals. Once you see Jose, who's been here without proper documentation for 30 years, works as a janitor and has raised 3 kids all of whom are college graduates is not just "that Mexican immigrant who's been here illegally and taken jobs from real citizens while collecting handouts from the government" then you start having to treat people like a person and not a caricature or stereotype. And its a hell of a lot easier to subjugate people than it is a person.

I don't know how to combat this. I don't know how you get someone to equate "those people" with Jose down the street. In my experience, people who agree with ICE assume that Jose down the street will be left alone because he's not causing any problems and has been a model citizen; its the rest of them (aka those I don't know) who need to be rounded up and deported. If someone knows how to do fix this, please let me know.

*A small percentage of them are truly evil people, who know what they are doing is morally wrong and don't care, but that's only because those types of people exist in every space, and they're going to gravitate to positions where they can feed that side of themselves.

Someone was asking in a thread what kind of people could work for ICE right now.

I think it's a good time to remember that the image above are the people who put children into gas chambers.

When I was little, I asked what kind of person could work at a concentration camp.

The answer to both questions I think is "normal people who have accepted the dehumanization of another group of people."

#i don't want to live in interesting times #i want to live in a couple of decades that get glossed over in the history books

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authorchariot · 13 hours ago

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> ENTRY: ITS_ALWAYS_THE_QUIET_ONES

RATING: explicit

CATEGORY: top gun: maverick (2022)

PAIRING: bob floyd x afab!reader (mc's call sign is 'pez'.)

EST. READING TIME: 37m 0s

INDEX TAGS: (not actually) unrequited love, cock-warming, friends to lovers, love confessions, masturbation, not beta read, oral sex, pov second person, size difference, size kink, vaginal sex

SUMMARY: after the mission with mav, you find bob drunk at the resulting party at the hard deck. as a designated driver, you take it upon yourself to get him home and into bed safely but staying composed proves harder than expected

ACCESS MATERIAL ON AO3 OR BELOW

The Hard Deck is louder than it's been in weeks. Rooster and Hangman are fighting over the jukebox. Payback's halfway into a dramatic retelling of the mission to a captivated circle of admirers, punctuated with exaggerated hand gestures and Maverick's quiet chuckling. Fanboy's mixing questionable liquors together like he's auditioning for a bartending job no one asked for. It's celebration in full swing. The mission's done. Everyone's alive. Everyone made it home.

And Bob — quiet, dependable, sweet, baby-faced Bob Floyd — is drunk.

He doesn't look it at first. But you can see it in the tilt of his shoulders, the soft pink in his cheeks, the vague squint he gives the bottles behind the counter like he's trying to read through a fog.

You spot it from across the room. You've been watching him on and off all night. Not in a creepy way— At least, you hope not. Just in a way that's...careful. Curious. Quiet. Like you always are with Bob. Because if you let yourself feel it too hard — the pull, the fondness, the way he talks with his hands when he's excited — you might never stop.

You've had a drink; just the one. You're a designated driver tonight. That and watching Bob lose his balance trying to sit on a barstool has very effectively sobered you up. You finish your water, nod to Phoenix and move across the bar like the world isn't tilting just a little because he's looking at you now.

Why?

Because you've had a thing for Bob Floyd since the first day you saw him fiddling with the collar of his flight suit, too quiet for the room but, damn, if he didn't hold his own in the air. Because he always remembers how you like your coffee. Because he asked how your dog was doing after his surgery, even two weeks later. Because he makes you feel seen.

"Hey." You say gently, sliding into the space next to him. "You good?" He blinks at you. Then his face lights up; not like a flash but a slow dawn that warms everything it touches.

"Pez." He says, soft and too fond for how casual he tries to sound. "You're here." You smile.

"Been here the whole time, Bob." He looks at his drink like it's betrayed him.

"Oh. Yeah. Right."

You glance him over. His collar is a little crooked and his glasses are ever-so-slightly askew. His usually neat hair is slightly mussed and there's a half-moon mark on his palm where he's been gripping his glass too hard. He's not swaying. But he's definitely drifting. You rest a hand lightly on the edge of the bar.

"How many have you had?" He frowns.

"Three. No— Wait. Hangman said the one he gave me didn't count 'cause it was pink."

"That doesn't sound right." Bob leans closer and squints at you.

"You smell like mint."

"That'd be the gum I've been chewing instead of drinking." You reply, amused. "Come on. Let's get you out of here." He straightens. Sort of.

"I'm fine."

"You're adorable." You correct. "But also definitely tipsy and I'd rather you didn't fall asleep like last time."

"I didn't fall asleep, I—"

"You nodded off against the jukebox for twenty-three minutes." He considers this.

"It was playing Fleetwood Mac." You arch a brow.

"That's your excuse?" He almost looks offended.

"I like Fleetwood Mac." He mumbles. You can't help it; you laugh. And, across the bar, the other Dagger Squad pilots exhale in collective relief like finally. It goes unnoticed by you.

You help Bob off his stool, a drink forgotten in his hand, and he goes to steady himself on the edge of the bar but misjudges the distance. In trying to recover, the remnants of his last beer spill all over his uniform shirt, making it cling to him like a second skin.

"Woah!" You grab onto his shoulders. "You okay?" He stumbles slightly as he tries to catch himself, hands reflexively reaching out to hold onto your arms for support. His cheeks turn a bright shade of pink as he feels the cold beer seeping into his shirt, looking down at the mess with embarrassment.

"Sorry..." He murmurs and you haul him upright.

"Don't apologise." You glance across to see Phoenix chuckling and shaking her head. "I think I need to take you home though." He laughs nervously, pushes his hair out of his eyes and tries to straighten his glasses.

"Yeah... Yeah, that might be a good idea." He leans against you for support as you start helping him to the door. You yell over your shoulder that you're taking him home, wishing the rest of them a good night. Some of the Dagger Squad murmur something you don't quite hear as you reach the door, pushing it open and stepping out into the cool sea breeze.

He takes a deep breath, trying to clear his head, as you help him out to the parking lot. You open the passenger-side door for him and he near-collapses onto the car seat. "Thanks for doing this." He says softly, looking up at you with those sweet, grateful eyes. You watch him fumble with his hands as he tries to buckle himself in.

"Stop being so damn polite." You smile, shutting the door and rounding the hood to get in the driver's seat.

The drive to his is short but pleasant. Well, if it wasn't for the scent of beer slowly sinking into his shirt and your car seat. The windows are rolled down and you can feel the wind on your face. Neither of you talk but it's a nice silence, like the two of you are just content in each other's company. You like it that way. Like you don't have to fill the silence to be comfortable; you can just co-exist.

You like the relationship you have with Bob; it's easy and natural. You just feel...at home with him, like you don't have to pretend to be social or talkative. But there's always that warmth that buzzes just below the surface when he catches your eye or when he smiles. Or when he laughs. Or when he fiddles with his glasses. Or when he does literally anything.

Safe to say, you like him a whole lot; pretty much since you were brought on board for the Dagger Squad.

But you don't want to say anything because what if it makes things weird between you? What if he's not into it and everything just gets awkward? What if you accidentally gush about how gorgeous he looks in his uniform and he thinks you're an absolute creep for admiring the way his shirt stretches across his broad shoulders and the way his pants hug his ass perfectly? He probably already knows and just pretends not to for exactly the same reasons. He probably knows and has also made up his mind that you're not really the one for him. He would've said something by now if he was into you but he hasn't so he probably isn't. It's not something you like thinking about.

Finally, you pull up to his house and park outside. You get out, open his door and stand there, just in case he needs the support again.

"I'm fine. I'm good." He starts to protest before immediately losing his balance and grabbing onto your arm. "Actually..." Rolling your eyes, you hang onto him and close the door.

"C'mon, let's get you inside, mister." He leans against you as you walk up to his house. He's so warm and he smells good, despite the spilt beer. He's wearing that aftershave his mom got him for Christmas again. It's citrusy and sweet but still masculine and fresh. He smells amazing.

When you haul him up the short flight of stairs and reach the front door, he digs his hand into his pocket and struggles to get his keys out for a moment. He must try to insert the key into the lock a good three times, each time stabbing the door just shy of the lock.

"Can't seem to..." He mumbles and you gently place your hand over his, guiding the key into the lock with a satisfying click, turning it and opening the door.

"There we go." You smile warmly and he stares at you for a moment, swallowing hard, before grabbing onto the door frame and stepping inside.

Once inside, you turn the light on and close the door behind you. He kicks off his shoes and pats down his chest. His uniform shirt is still clinging to him, now sticky from the spilt beer. His nose crinkles as you unlace your shoes and place them on the rack.

"Gotta shower..." He slurs softly. By the time you stand up to look at him, he's already halfway done unbuttoning his shirt. Your eyes flick down over the angles of his collarbone and, before you can look further, you avert your eyes.

"Okay, which way's the bathroom?" You ask a little too quickly.

"Upstairs, first door on the left." He points vaguely towards the stairs before continuing to unbutton his shirt, shrugging it off and pulling off his undershirt. He's always so conservative with his clothes; never wearing anything too revealing. Hell, even at the beach, he wears a shirt when the rest of the squad is more than happy to run around half-naked. You look back from the stairs to find him shirtless and it's almost impossible to look away.

God, he's gorgeous, almost to the point where it's at odds with his sweet, boyish smile. Strong shoulders, perfect biceps, broad chest, narrow hips; he could be carved out of granite and you wouldn't even be able to tell the difference— You shake the thought from your head before it can take root.

He tosses his shirt on the floor and yawns. "You don't have to wait for me or anything." He says and you bring yourself back to the present, your eyes flicking back up to his face. You just pray, in his inebriated state, that he didn't just catch you eyeballing his bare chest.

"No, I don't need to go to the bathroom, Bob. I'm taking you up because I don't trust you on the stairs." You tell him and he protests weakly but you help him up anyway.

When you reach the bathroom, he leans against the sink for support and you have to look away as you notice the veins in his arms and hands become more pronounced from the pressure. Maybe that one drink you had was a little stronger than you thought. God, what would those fingers feel like in your mouth? Or in your— "You gonna be okay in the shower?" You ask him and he runs a hand through his hair.

"Mhm. I'm not that drunk." He assures you. "You can go watch TV or something." He reaches down to unbuckle his belt and you pin your gaze to the floor.

"I-I'll stand outside the door just in case, alright?" You manage and he gives you that wonderful, lopsided smile that makes the tips of your fingers tingle.

"Alright." He reaches down for his belt and you almost slam the door shut, stepping back to lean against the opposite wall. You let out a slow exhale. You're heart's going a mile a minute.

Distraction. You need a distraction; something — anything — to get your mind off what it would feel like to have your lips on his or your tongue on his neck or your hands on his chest... Heat pools in the pit of your stomach; a desperate, deep-seated ache. You pull out your phone and start flicking through your socials, trying to find something else to focus on but it's no use.

You hear the shower hiss to life and you can't help but think about what he'd look like if you poked your head in for just a moment; shiny from the water, dripping with soap suds and wreathed in steam. Goddamn... But you couldn't breach his privacy, betray his trust, like that, especially while he's drunk and vulnerable. Even thinking about it feels like a betrayal but you can't get the thought out of your head and the aching between your legs only grows stronger.

Maybe you should've let someone else bring him home.

Eventually, the shower turns off and the bathroom door opens, letting out a cloud of steam as Bob steps out, a towel wrapped around his waist as he uses another to dry his hair. His skin gleams in the low light of the hallway, flushed pink from the hot water, damp hair falling in front of his face. He's being unknowingly, impossibly cruel.

"Better?" You manage, somewhat breathless.

"Yeah. So much better." Thankfully, he doesn't seem capable of noticing your — very obvious — attraction to him right now. He positions his glasses back on the bridge of his nose as you push off the wall and onto your feet, your own knees slightly weak.

"C'mon, let's get you to bed, yeah?"

"You don't have to baby me, Pez. I'm sobering up now." He responds softly but lets you guide him anyway, his hand dwarfing your own. He's still a little unsteady on his feet as you reach his bedroom.

You stand by the door, leaning against the doorframe, looking over his bedroom. There are certificates lining the walls and pictures of him and his parents at birthdays and holidays. It makes your chest feel tight. He walks over to the dresser and pulls open a drawer, rifling through to pick out a pair of loose sweatpants. As he pulls out a pair, the towel comes undone from around his waist and pools on the floor. Your eyes go wide and you jerk your head away but not before getting a perfect view of his round, peachy ass. This is cruel and unusual punishment but you're too weak to complain.

Once he's pulled on the sweatpants and slid into bed, his hair still damp against the pillow, he takes off his glasses, folds them up and places them on the nightstand before looking at you as you linger in the doorway, looking awkward and out-of-place. "C'mon." He mumbles sleepily. "It's late and you're tired too." He weakly pulls back the covers on the other side of the bed; a silent invitation. One you want to jump at. But you can't.

He's drunk and not thinking straight and you don't trust yourself. Not that you'd touch him; never that. But you're devastatingly wet and you already know you need to take care of that and you can't do it next to him. To take your mind off that thought, you grab a glass and fill it with water from the bathroom sink before placing it on the nightstand.

"I'll sleep downstairs. Just yell if you need anything, okay?" You tell him and he nods, a flicker of disappointment flashing across his face.

"Okay... Thanks for taking care of me." A smile curves at your lips as you brush a couple of damp locks out of his face. It brings you some modicum of relief, just that little bit of tender skin-to-skin contact.

"No problem." You sigh longingly, almost ruefully. "Night, Bob." You turn on your heel to leave the room and he catches your wrist with a hand, making you stop in your tracks.

"Hey, could you stay?" He asks, voice small. You turn back to look at him over your shoulder. "Just until I fall asleep?" Your heart melts in your chest as you turn back toward him.

"Sure." You sit on the edge of the bed, holding his hand and brushing your thumb over his knuckles. He looks up at you, eyes lidded with exhaustion. His fingers tighten around yours slightly and you feel your pulse racing.

Finally, his fingers loosen on yours as his eyes drop shut. You let out a soft sigh, releasing his hand and rising from the bed. You watch him for a moment, considering, before leaning down to brush a kiss to his forehead. "Sleep tight, Bobby."

You turn off all the lights and head back downstairs. You set up a little bed for yourself on the couch and slip out of your uniform, laying back against the couch cushions in your t-shirt and underwear.

After a moment, you find your hand drifting down between your thighs, pressing your fingertips against the gusset of your panties. It's absolutely sodden. You sigh in defeat, sling one leg over the back of the sofa and push the gusset of your panties to one side, sliding your fingers inside yourself with a sigh, pressing your thumb to the hood of your clit and working in slow circles. With your free hand, you grab a pillow and press it over your mouth to muffle the soft moans that fall from your lips despite knowing that Bob is probably dead to the world right now.

You finish yourself off quickly; imagining it's his fingers buried inside you, his tongue drawing slow, languid circles around your clit. The only sound is the buzzing of the fridge in the kitchen and the soft whines you try to drown out behind the pillow pressed against your face.

As soon as you're done, you pull your underwear back on properly and collapse onto your side, huddling into the blankets, cheeks flaming with heat. You're a mess for him but he can't know that, even if the rest of the Dagger Squad does.

Finally, the sun rises and you pack up the blankets and pillows you'd used before pulling on your pants from the day before. You yawn and stretch before heading into the kitchen to turn on the coffee pot. Your stomach rumbles. After all, you haven't eaten since before the party last night.

Looking up, you check the clock above the fridge. About 10 am. Not too bad.

While rummaging around for the creamer, you stumble across a carton of eggs and a packet of bacon about to go out of date. Pulling them out, you grab a skillet from a nearby rack and set out to make some breakfast.

Upstairs, Bob rubs the sleep from his eyes and replaces his glasses, the glass of water from the night before thoroughly drained throughout the night. He pulls back the covers, swings his legs over the side and pulls on a t-shirt before heading to the bathroom. When he comes back out, he pads down the stairs, drawn toward the scent of bacon and eggs wafting from the kitchen.

You hum to yourself as you flip the bacon over, the eggs growing crispy around the edges but the centre staying soft and jammy. You notice Bob leaning against the doorframe out of the corner of your eye, staying quiet as he watches you work. It's domestic, comforting and you find yourself wishing you could do this for him every morning. Finally, you turn to face him and he smiles warmly. Thankfully, he doesn't seem hungover.

"Morning." He says softly, voice a little lower and scratchier from sleep.

"Morning. How'd you sleep?"

"Like a brick." He responds with a small smile, pushing away from the doorframe and walking further into the small kitchen. His voice drops to a more serious tone "Thanks for taking care of me last night. And for making breakfast." He pauses by the counter, looking at you appreciatively. "You didn't have to do all this."

"I know." You reply simply. He pauses before he quickly looks away, grabbing some plates and cutlery from the cupboards and drawers.

"Need any help?" He asks gruffly, setting the plates next to the stove.

"No, I'm nearly finished here." You turn off the heat and plate up the bacon and eggs before setting the empty skillet on the cool side of the stove. "Order up."

You carry the plates over to the small table in the corner of the kitchen. Bob digs in eagerly, making appreciative noises between bites. The food is simple but perfect; exactly what he needs after shifting a good amount of alcohol the night prior. You set a couple of mugs down on the table and pour the coffee before sitting down to tuck into your own breakfast, humming in satisfaction.

You eat in relative silence, stealing glances at each other over the rims of your coffee cups and between forkfuls of bacon and eggs. The morning light filtering through the window casts a warm glow over his features. He looks peaceful — content, even — sitting across from you, like this is something you do on the regular. You wish it was regular. You want these quiet mornings with him; sharing coffee in comforting silence, surrounded by the scent of fried eggs, the silence only broken by the soft chirping of birds outside.

"Thanks." He says again. "For everything."

"Really, it's fine." You laugh softly, clearing your plate and setting it to one side with your cutlery. He does the same, leaning back in his chair and taking a long sip of coffee.

"Y'know, you're really good at this." He murmurs, the words half-muffled by his coffee cup. "Taking care of people, I mean."

"I try my best. Especially when I know it's someone who deserves it." You reply easily as if it's just common knowledge. Perhaps you said too much but it's early and the atmosphere is cloying; peaceful and almost romantic as it is. He stares at you for a moment before taking another sip of his coffee and sliding his plate under yours, putting his cutlery on top. "Bobby, you're a really good guy." You say, staring down into your coffee.

"You think so?" He asks and you nod. There's a pause before he clears his throat. "Would you— Can I— Can I tell you something?" You nod again, lifting your gaze to meet his as he mutters something under his breath. "Okay..." He takes a deep breath, steeling himself. "I think you're amazing. And not just because of how you were on the mission or taking care of me last night or making breakfast..." He sets his coffee cup down, hands tapping restlessly on the side of the table. "I just think you're amazing. Just...as a person." You just stare at him for a moment before heat creeps along your cheeks and you smile widely.

"I think you're amazing too." He relaxes slightly, scrubbing a hand along his face, as you get up to take the dishes to the sink. When you cross the kitchen again, he's worrying his bottom lip between his teeth.

"So... Hypothetically..." He starts, not daring to look up at you as he picks at a loose thread on his t-shirt. "If a guy hypothetically really liked you — like really, really liked you — what would he need to do?" You turn around to lean against the table, looking pensive.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean..." He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. "If he wanted to be with you, like, properly. Not just friends or whatever... What would he need to do to make you notice him? To make you...want him?" He asks, voice wavering slightly. There's a flutter in your chest as you stiffen slightly. Oh, God. Oh, fuck. Don't fumble this—

"Well, he'd have to be smart and kind and compassionate and have a good sense of humour." You press your lips into a thin line as you think. "He'd have to be...a little awkward and be kind of bad at dancing but great at literally everything else." You pause and he moves forward slightly.

"And...what else?" He asks and you turn your head to look at him. He looks so open and vulnerable but not in the way he was last night. This is open and honest and completely aware. Suddenly, it dawns on you; he wants this just as much as you do.

"He'd have to be a WSO, he'd have to wear the dorkiest glasses I've ever seen in my life and...he'd have to be called Bob Floyd." His breath catches. "And if he wanted me to notice him, to want him, he'd just have to be himself and I'd be all his." He just stares at you owlishly as if he's finally come to the same realisation that you did just a few seconds before. You reach out to brush a couple of stray hairs out of his face. When he doesn't pull away you turn to face him fully before leaning down to press your lips to his in a gentle kiss.

The second you kiss him, he's done. Finished. Over. His heart is completely yours and he never wants it back. Your lips are soft and warm, just like your smile, and he parts his lips slightly, inviting you to deepen the kiss. You take it; slowly inching your tongue into his mouth and tasting the bitterness of the coffee, moaning softly. God. You can't make that sound. His brain short-circuits. That one small, needy sound from you against his mouth has blood rushing south and he stands up, wrapping his arms around your waist to pull you closer.

He lifts you onto the dining table and you loop your arms around his neck, fingers playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. "Bobby..."

"Shh..." He whispers against your mouth, warm hands roaming your body, touching you like he's dreamed of doing a million times. He pulls back just long enough to take off his glasses and set them aside. Then he's kissing you again, deeper this time. It takes you by surprise. You never thought he could be this...passionate. You always figured, if you ever got this far, you'd be coaxing it out of him, bit by bit, encouraging him with little kisses and your fingers in his hair.

Instead, his hands are firm on your waist, tugging up your shirt just a little to feel the warmth and softness of your skin, as he kisses you like it's all he's ever wanted to do. It steals the breath from your lungs and it has confessions falling from your lips between deep, hungry kisses.

"You don't know...what last night...did to me..." You murmur breathlessly against his mouth and he groans, hands sliding under your shirt.

"Tell me." He's pushing your shirt up further and further, exposing more and more of your body to the golden sunlight gliding in through the open blinds.

"When you took off your shirt and...when you cam out of the shower and... And I saw so much of you... And I wanted all of it..." You manage. He's panting hard and you swear you can hear his heart hammering against his ribs.

"You wanted me?" He asks and you nod, running your hand down the centre of his chest, feeling the quick rise and fall of his breath.

"Mhmm... Once you fell asleep I had to... Had to come downstairs and...take care of myself..." You admit, heat rushing up your neck to spread across your cheeks. He stops for a moment before tugging your shirt off completely and sliding a hand into your hair, kissing you fiercely. You mirror the movement, clinging to him, as you kiss him back with a familiar hunger that roots itself between your legs.

He's losing his mind, control slipping. He steps between your legs, pressing closer, and you can feel him through his sweatpants. He feels perfect; pressing against your thigh desperately. "Bobby..." You move to whisper in his ear. "I need my mouth on you."

"Jesus." It comes out as a soft hiss. "You want to..."

"Please."

You— You don't have to..." He breathes but he's already reaching for the tie of his sweatpants. He wants you to. He wants you to want to.

You push him back gently so you can push off the table, guiding him back into his chair.

"I know I don't have to." You kneel on the worn linoleum between his feet, rubbing your hands along his thighs. He's straining desperately against the front of his sweatpants. "I want to." You tug at the tie of his sweatpants before curling your fingers into the waistband and tugging them down. He lifts his hips and you pull them down and off but, when you sit back to look at him—

Holy Mother of God.

"Wh-What...?" You just stare at him owlishly because, God, if that isn't the biggest cock you've ever seen in your life. Thick, throbbing, leaking... And you thought his body was slightly at odds with the personality of sweet, shy, wallflower Bob Floyd but this? This takes the cake.

"You never told me you had a..." You trail off, reaching up, struggling to wrap your fingers around the girth of the thing. It twitches, precum beading at the slit at even the slightest touch and rolling down the shaft.

"A what?" He asks hoarsely. He looks self-conscious but he has no reason to be. Your mouth waters as you feel him pulsing against your palm.

"Just...big..." Words fail you. His cheeks heat up and he swallows hard.

"You like it?" He asks tentatively and you nod slowly before rising higher on your knees.

"God, yes." No more words. You need to taste him.

You run the flat of your tongue from root to tip and a sharp intake of breath stutters in his throat.

"Ohh, my God..." His hands instinctively grab onto your hair but he doesn't pull, just resting there, as you lick along the underside of his shaft. When you reach the top, you swirl your tongue languidly around the head before taking it into your mouth. "Sh-Shit..." His head falls back against the chair with a soft thud.

He can't believe this is happening. He's jerked off a hundred times to the thought of you doing this but the reality is so much better; you, knelt between his legs, in his kitchen, sucking him off like you were born to do it.

You take more of him into your mouth, tentatively testing how much you can take. He groans lowly at the sensation of your tongue sliding along the underside, watching you with lidded eyes as his thick cock disappears between your lips. You press your head down until you feel the tip touch the back of your throat and you gag slightly before pulling away. You're panting, lips wet with saliva, and just watching you sends a shiver down his spine, toes curling against the lino. "Do that again... Please..." It's almost a beg and you can't deny him or yourself.

You lean back in, sliding down until it hits the back of your throat. Now you know how far you can take him, you cover the rest of his shaft with your hand, easing the slide with more spit as you work him over. His fingers tighten slightly in your hair, only to keep him tethered to the moment. He can feel every inch being worshipped by your greedy mouth and talented hands and his hips start to thrust upward involuntarily. "God, just like that..."

You fall into a steady rhythm, peering up at him through your lashes, and you feel another spurt of pre hit your tongue as he meets your gaze, completely mesmerised. It's almost embarrassingly clear how much you love having him in your mouth; his cock hot and thick and pulsing on your tongue. The wet sounds of your mouth and the sight of his cock sliding between your lips are driving him wild and he can feel that familiar feeling deep in his core. He gives your hair a gentle tug. "Hey..." You pull away, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.

"Mhm?"

"I'm...getting real close." He warns you, his voice strained with effort. "If you don't want me to...finish in your mouth, you should probably stop now." Still, his hips are flexing, desperately trying to fuck your hand. You take a moment to decide before flicking your tongue over the head and his hands fly to curl around the seat of his chair, nails digging into the wood. "God...! I mean it... I'm...really close..." He gives you one last warning.

"Do it." You tell him, dragging your tongue along the cleft at the underside of the head, still stroking along his shaft, your fingers slick and shining with a mix of precum and saliva.

That's all it takes.

With a deep groan that rumbles from deep in his diaphragm, he cums hard, his hips jerking uncontrollably as his eyes roll. You lean back to watch with satisfaction as thick shots of white spurt from his cock, making your hand slicker as you stroke him through his climax. "That's it, Bobby." You encourage him softly as he unloads onto your hands and his stomach. He's panting heavily, his body shaking, as the last few shots of cum ooze down his shaft. Your gentle praise and the feeling of your spit-slick hand only intensify the pleasure.

When he opens his eyes, he sees your face pressed against his inner thigh as you gently squeeze the base of his cock, gazing up at him adoringly. He runs a shaky hand through your hair, still trying to blink away the white spots dancing in front of his eyes. "That was... Holy shit... I..." You smile and press a kiss to his hipbone, nuzzling his thigh, as he tries to find words in the jumbled mess of his orgasm-addled brain. "You... Bedroom... Yes, bedroom." He manages breathily and you nod, getting up from the floor and letting him tug on his sweatpants again before you eagerly pull him upstairs.

On the way up to his bedroom, you pull off your jeans and underwear before collapsing onto his bed with an excited giggle. Bob quickly joins you; pulling off his shirt and stained sweatpants, his body hovering over yours. You bite your lip, running your hands appreciatively over his body as you sit up slightly to kiss him, finding warm, firm muscle under your palms. He deepens the kiss, parting your lips with his tongue and exploring your mouth hungrily. But, before he can get too lost in the moment, he pulls back, heavy breaths making his chest heave.

"Wait—"

"Mhm...?" He looks sheepish.

"I don't do this often so I— I-I don't really have condoms?" Your heart melts. "Do you still want me to..."

"I still want you to." You glance down to find him already hard again, running a fingertip down his abdomen and watching his cock throb eagerly. "I trust you to pull out." You tell him and he nods quickly.

"I'll pull out." He tells you, kissing you again before leaning back on his toes. "I promise, I'll pull out."

Large hands find your thighs, lifting them until your toes touch the headboard, essentially folding you in half and leaving you completely exposed to him. "God, you're so perfect..." He whispers under his breath, holding you in place as he lines himself up, his cock sliding deliciously against your aching, swollen pussy. "Look at me. Look at me." He urges and you lay your head back against the pillows as he slowly pushes in. He feels absolutely massive but it's not painful; just this pleasant, warm ache that seeps through your body as you stretch around him. You grab onto his biceps for support as his fingers wrap around your ankles, holding your legs up. You're so tight around him, it's almost unbearable. He can feel every swell and curve of your inner walls squeezing around him. Your brows knit as he sinks in deeper, your fingers squeezing his arms.

"B-Bobby!"

"God, it's so good..." His eyes drift shut as he tosses his head back, starting to move slowly, deliberately rocking his hips against yours. The position is just perfect; hitting all the right spots all at once with every deep, purposeful stroke.

Strong fingers dig into your ankles as he slowly starts to pick up the pace. "You like this?" He asks, sweat beading on his brow as he looks down at you. You open your mouth to speak but all that comes out is a breathless whine. "Fuck, you're so tight..." He huffs through his nose as he targets that sweet spot inside you over and over, drawing these adorable, breathy whimpers from you. Your back arches, hands moving to claw at his broad shoulders.

"Please... Feel good... Feels so fucking good..." You pant out and he nods, his hips snapping forward. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room as he pounds into you, rutting against you desperately.

"I... I didn't know you'd be into..." He murmurs.

"Wh-What...?" "I didn't know you'd...like my... My dick so much..." He leans down, spreading your legs a little wider, as he kisses along your neck. His skin is warm and damp with sweat as he presses against you., his breath hot on your skin. You grin lopsidedly as tears of pleasure prick the corners of your eyes.

"I-I like them big..." You manage and that draws a low, near-animalistic sound from him as he drives into you with renewed vigour. The headboard bangs against the wall with each thrust.

"You like them big..." He repeats and you nod, whining as he hammers your sweet spot with pinpoint accuracy.

"Mmhmmm... I didn't...think you'd be so...big... O-Ohhh... It's so fucking good, Bobby..." You manage and he wraps your legs around his waist, coiling his arms under the small of your back, hugging you against him. His thrusts turn shallow but stay deep, your bodies pushed together from shoulder to hip. You hook your arms over his shoulders, nails raking red lines up his back.

Who would've thought that Bob Floyd — sweet, kind, nerdy, adorable Bobby Floyd — would fuck like an animal? You never expected it but, Christ, does it feel right.

You nuzzle his hair, breathing in the scent of him; yesterday's aftershave lingering on his skin, sweat breaking out all across his body. "Love having you like this..." You murmur in his ear and he nods.

"Mhmm... I love it too..." His thrusts grow slower but no less deep; each movement designed to draw out the pleasure, make it last. He stretches you out and fills you up perfectly, holding you through all of it, eagerly soaking up every moan, plea and whimper you give him. He's rubbing up against the deepest part of you now, the crown of his cock sliding perfectly against the swell of your cervix.

"B-Bobby... You can't...cum inside... You'll...knock me up..." You remind him and his arms tighten around you but he doesn't stop.

"I know... I'll pull out, promise..." But, even as he says it, he feels the heat mounting and he desperately wants to finish inside you. His hips keep rolling against yours in a deep, steady rhythm. You drag your nails across his shoulder blades, your body clenching down around him, throbbing around him rhythmically because, deep down, you'd love if he could cum inside you, leave his mark. But you can't take that risk.

He gives you a few more slow deep thrusts before pulling back to look at you. His hair is plastered to his forehead, face flushed. "Gonna pull out now, okay?" He pants out and you nod as he pulls out just in time, sandwiching his cock into the crook of your thigh and grinding against it until he cums, decorating your body with slick, white ribbons that ooze across your skin. You run your fingers through his hair as his orgasm hits, his arms clenching around you, hanging onto you for dear life.

Finally, his body goes slack. He's panting heavily, tilting his head up to claim your lips again in a soft, slow, lazy kiss. He rolls over onto his back, pulling you with him so you're lying on top of him. He's still semi-hard against your thigh but he's given you all he can for now so you sit up and sink back down onto him before curling up on top of him, enjoying the feeling of having his huge, softening cock nestled inside you. He lets out a low groan, gathering you up in his arms, fingers drawing idle patterns along the small of your back. "Gonna keep it in?" He asks softly and you look up at him.

"Is that okay?"

"More than okay." He presses a kiss to your forehead. "Makes me feel close to you... Comfortable?" You nod and rub your nose against his.

"Mhm. You?"

"Perfect."

A soft silence settles over the room, almost jarring after the slamming and slapping and moaning from just a few moments ago. But you aren't complaining.

You card your fingers through his sweat-damp hair, pushing it away from his face.

"You wanna talk about what just happened?" You laugh softly before sobering. "And where we go from here?"

"Mhm." He hums thoughtfully. "You mean like the 'was this a one-time thing' talk? Or the 'do you regret it' talk?" His thumbs rub the small of your back soothingly.

"Both." He takes a breath and you feel his chest rise beneath you.

"It wasn't just a one-time thing for me." He says softly, his eyes searching yours. "I don't do this kind of thing lightly, y'know? I wanted you and I still want you. But, if you're not on the same page, that okay too. We can still just be...friends, if you want." God, he's too sweet for his own good sometimes.

"And you don't regret it?"

"God, no." He answers, arms tightening around you possessively. "Best sex of my life. No regrets here." He lifts a hand to play with your hair nervously. "Can I be honest?" You nod and he sighs heavily. "I think about you a lot. More than I should. Like you're in my head, under my skin. And I... I want to do this again. With you. Only you." He swallows hard, finally meeting your eyes again. "So where does that leave us?"

"Like friends with benefits or...?" You trail off and he makes a noncommittal sound.

"I mean, we could do that." He says slowly. "But, if I'm being completely honest, I don't want it to be just that? Friends with benefits implies casual and what we just did? It didn't feel casual to me." You cup his face and run your thumb along his cheekbone. "I like you. A lot." He turns his head to press a kiss to your palm. "But if that scares you off, I understand." Without a word, you lean forward, licking your way into his mouth, kissing him slow and lazy. When you break apart, you're both breathless.

"Honey, I've been wanting to ask you out for months. I just didn't know where to start." You admit and his eyes widen.

"Really?" A huge grin spreads across his face. "Why didn't you?" He laughs softly, pressing another quick kiss to your lips. You find yourself laughing with him.

"According to the rest of the squad, I've been dropping hints left, right and centre and not even subtle ones at that!"

"In my defence, I thought you were just being friendly." He replies and you laugh softly against his lips. "So... Can we date? Please say yes."

"I'd like that a lot."

"Thank God." His arms squeeze tight around you. "Should I take you out properly sometime? Coffee, dinner, all that stuff?" He traces your bottom lip with his thumb.

"It'd be nice, yeah." You reply and he gives you that sweet, beaming, boyish grin.

"Then it's a date. How about tomorrow night? We can grab some dinner and maybe catch a movie if you're up for it?" You nod and ruffle his hair lightly.

"That sounds perfect. But first..." You roll your hips against his, a gentle reminder that he's been inside you for the better half of ten minutes. "Can we do that again?" He wets his lips and rolls you back over onto your back, leaning down to press kisses to your neck.

"Mhm. As many times as you want."

Bob's call sign may be just 'Bob' but, in your head, it's 'Tripod'. Sweet, shy Bobby 'Tripod' Floyd.

TAGLIST: @ingoldthewizard @judeval @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @starwarskawaii

#lewis pullman #afab!reader #bob floyd #bob floyd x reader #top gun maverick

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saetiate · 13 hours ago

Text

call it what it is. (or, the five times sae and you are "just friends". and the one time it stops being possible to deny what this really is.)

itoshi sae x f!reader fluff. friends to lovers, first kiss, how love happens, reader goes by she/her pronouns and has some personality (sorry, i couldn't get around it bc of The Plot but i kept it as minimal as possible). personality mentions are as follows: career-focused, likes sweet things, drinks alcohol sometimes, little regard for self care especially when busy, doesn't like to be touched by people they don't know, is alone often. word count: 2.3k author's note: you both have a whole dinner date, go to events together, take care of each other, and then get surprised when people think you're dating??? okay so the sound of fireworks are less obvious than whatever yall have going on

Bitterness churns at the back of your throat. Is it from the roasted beans of the coffee you've been slamming into your system for the last few days, or from the lack of sleep?

Not that it matters. You've worked OT, both your team and your clients are unhappy, and according to your Excel worksheet, you're on your 85th job application. So really, it doesn't get worse than —

The doorbell rings.

Who the actual —

You breathe out the biggest sigh at the pretty face standing before you. It's definitely the lack of sleep, isn't it? Either you really should've checked the peephole and put on something a little more flattering, or he's a hallucination.

Let's hope it's the latter. You move to close the door, and his hand reaches out lightning-quick, holding it still. In a spark of annoying rebellion, you press all of your body weight against the door, and it doesn't budge an inch.

Right. Athletes and their stupid, stupid strength.

"You didn't answer my calls."

They say sighing is a necessary part of your lungs, that one of the struggles of artificial lungs was getting them to sigh. You wonder if it meant this many times in a day. "Sae, I'm busy. Wait, I didn't answer your calls? You don't answer my texts 90% of the time."

Then he's in your entryway, because of course you can't argue where your neighbors can hear, that's rude. But then he's in your kitchen, washing his hands, opening your fridge.

"There's nothing in here. When's the last time you took a shower?"

"You come here just to insult me?"

A towel hits your face with an oof before it falls into your arms.

"Sae," you try again, as the towel slides down your cheek, "You can't just barge in here and —"

20 minutes later, there's two steaming bowls of katsu curry rice on your now-clean desk. Sae opens up the little ziplock of togarashi, leans it against your bento box with more care than you'd expect.

"Itakadimasu."

It's the strangest thing, walking into your place only for someone to already be in there. How the noise cuts through, something unbelonging but welcomed.

"You know, giving you the key wasn't so you could just walk in here whenever you want. It was for emergencies only."

The only answer you get is the smell of onions being caramelized, crackled sparks of savory in the air.

"I answered your call," you continue, undressing behind a half-open door. "So this can't be an emergency. And you have a much nicer place than this."

Sae barely glances at you as your head peeks into the kitchen. "You could stay there."

"What, with you? Like we're roommates? Nah, you'd see what a mess I am."

"I'm already seeing it."

A spatula waves in little circles around the pan,

What are you doing here, Sae?

Like he's already braced for the question, the refrigerator light beacons out into the descending night. Your favorite wine passes from his hand to yours.

"Got gifted it," he responds before you can even ask. You could've caught him looking at you, but the gold label glints with stars in your eyes.

"How'd you get gifted icewine? You've never talked about it in an interview."

He doesn't tell you he asked his manager for recommendations, that he knows they let it slip to someone looking for a brand deal with him. Instead, he watches as you struggle to pop the cork open, the xylophone clink of ice into twin wine glasses.

"So you do like sweet things," you comment as the nectared drink meets your tongue with a smile. There's a reverence to it: how he watches you chop the vegetables before sliding them into the pan, how the last remnants of today's sunlight filter through the window and past your hair.

Sweet things. He supposes he does like something like that.

"This event, is it a big deal?"

He vaguely hears a ruffle of clothing behind the half-shut bathroom door, lightstream swept across the floor. He offered you what he knows his teammates get their wives for these events — stylist, makeup artists — but he watched you stand in his bathroom layering on eyeshadow for yourself anyways.

I don't trust anyone else to touch me. A simple statement made stark.

"Sorry, Sae. Could you help zip me up please?"

Maybe it's that implication, that hidden trust you place in him, that makes his exhale a little shaky as one of his hands wraps around your waist to hold the dress down, the other carefully pulling up metal piece up.

You've often thought athletes would naturally be aggressive. You've seen Sae make a fast pass across the entire field without breaking a sweat. But when his hands are on you, they're always light. You think of the falling of snow, its soft and silent touch that comes unexpected, the easy descent it makes before it melts into the ground.

Love is a little like that, maybe.

It's a common feeling, to feel as if you're completely alone in this world. Easy to get into your own head, to see only yourself within four walls again and again and forget that there is a whole world outside. It's logical, well-researched, known. It's because of that that you can factor out the feelings when it hits you.

The four walls has never felt as striking as now, coughing into the hollow quiet. The morbid thought strikes that if you died here, no one would know. They'd find your body days later, after the smell starts to waft out.

But you chose this. To move and to fight and to create a life worth living. You, with your ambitions and heavy heart and endless survival faith that makes you somehow believe you can still make it. Sometimes you have to force a door close before wrenching another one open with nothing but your bare hands. Sometimes you have to swallow all your pride and roll up your sleeves and pray to no higher gods you worship that the decision you made is worth it.

You think you hear something click as your mind fogs back and forth into sleep. You hope whoever's burgling you will at least leave you alone and only take what they need. You hear your name, and then a shuffle, and god this is really the worst time to have a stalker.

The back of a hand over your forehead is cool to the touch, the night's breeze still pressed between the molecules.

"You're sick."

Thank you, intruder, for pointing out the obvious is what you want to say. But instead, your head lulls heavily to the side. "I just need to rest for a bit."

"You need a hospital."

"I'm fine. I'm just- being dramatic. But I'm fine."

Your world tips on its axis, warmth blooming into your side. He lifts you into his arms soundlessly. You almost envy how effortless it is for him; the weight you carry is so heavy when you're carrying it yourself.

It's only halfway towards his car that you find yourself processing, finally speaking, "Thank you, Sae."

There's a sharp intake of breath from him, the hard line of his body protecting you from the night's chilled-sweet air. His heartbeat against your ear is as steady as the shore, the way it waits for the kiss of the tide.

"Just call me next time."

Sae's not sure how he feels about this.

It's his first time being late when he's meant to be taking you to this event. He moves fast through the crowd, searches with keen eyes. Chandeliers flicker and crystal-light dances —

Only to find you propped up against the wall, Rin leaning down close.

Sae might be less confused if Rin didn't look — for what might be the first time at an event ever — like he actually wanted to be there. He's listening to you with all his attention, has no problem being in your space.

Sae only approaches once you've been whisked away by Bachira.

"Why were you talking to her?"

Rin whips around, and instead of looking guilty, he's in wide-eyed shock, and then narrow-eyed annoyance. "Ha? She's your girlfriend, isn't she?"

Sae blinks. Did he say that? He would've remembered, wouldn't he?

"You good-for-nothing older brother," Rin's voice is a grunt, nothing like the sweetness he gave you. "You didn't even introduce me. I had to fucking find out through Isagi."

"How does Isagi know?"

"Oliver."

"How does Oliver know?"

Rin gives him an begrudged, deadpan look. "He's your teammate?"

That explains nothing. Actually, Sae is even more confused. He has about a dozen more questions.

"She's nice." Rin mumbles low, playing with the stem of his wine glass, watches as it almost tips before swooping it back up.

"You like her?"

"I think she's nice." Rin grits, and Sae really doesn't know how Rin gets away with faux passes on the field when his reactions are this obvious, because he watches how his eyes grow with realization as another thought passes through his brain. "You don't like her?"

"I like her." Sae accepts quickly.

"Ha??? Then what are you asking me for?!"

If Sae's being honest, he knows he has more than enough. He wonders what this thing is that he's had since he was born, never satiated even as he reaches the top. He thinks about how Bachira describes his 'monster', a childlike wonder, whether this is his own version of something like that.

But even the blackhole-depths of his greed doesn't anticipate wanting you. Like remembering the sea upon the drink of an oyster. A second breath, heart soaked with knowing.

What am I doing, sleeping in his bed? The night grows darker with every step, so the invite was innocuous enough. You sink into the mattress and the blanket of night muffles the fear, the thought that love is never so easy. There will be complications and contracts —

You turn to him and all the braveheart strength seeps out of you. Maybe you can put it down here, just for a moment.

He looks at you love-first, in a thousand colors, something he can't find with anyone else. He brushes the hair from your face so delicately, you find yourself stuck between watching his relaxed expression and fluttering your eyes shut to absorb the feeling. The back of his fingers caress your cheek, a butterfly's wing.

"Are you happy? Satisfied?"

Sae is not abstract. It's a vague but concrete question. You understand him at first glance.

"Not yet," you exhale honestly. "I have more to do. I'm gonna get there."

I'm gonna be the person I want to be. And by that time, I'll also be —

I'll also be the kind of girl you'd consider worth dating.

"Just wanna be worth it," you smile weakly instead.

He looks at you with a tenderness that feels dangerous. You think of a bird's first flight, the swoop of the fall. The crackle of a flame before it eats the firewood.

"People are worth something the moment they're born," he recites with no inflections.

"I know that."

"You're the one who said that." It's not accusatory, it's a reminder: your own truth, a perception of love you've been made the exception of. It's too heavy with degradation for him to feel comfortable focusing on, so instead he asks something he knows.

"If you had everything you want now, would it be enough?"

You sit up, his eyes following you. Your body heat no longer pressed against his feels like a loss, something he's sure to correct.

"No. You know that's not how it works." You should know, better than anyone.

He does know. That greed is a bottomless abyss, ambition an infinite sky. There is no amount of good enough that could ever make it all feel worth it.

His hand circles around your wrist, pulls you in on top of him until you're chest to chest.

Love is not your right. Shattered somethings cradle your heart. Trees can grow around items. You wonder if your heart is the same — muscle grown strong around fractured glass, a whisper of a cutting edge with every beat.

If you're always going to want more, be better, go further —

Could you have a little something in the now?

He's so close to you now that it fills your mind completely. He's not naked but he feels so bare under you, your hands framing his cheeks, soft skin brushing against your fingertips. One of his hands skates up your back, the other slides up your jaw, cups the back of your neck.

You wonder when you started letting him touch you like that.

He treats you so gently, so unlike the overwhelming emotion that crashes into you. Both lightweight and heavy, you feel swept under, you just want to anchor onto something —

His lips touch yours and everything falls into place.

"How'd you know about her?"

Oliver could make it easy for him. He won't, because getting a reaction out of Sae is much more fun. Instead, he tries and fails to feign ignorance. "Who?"

"My girlfriend."

Oliver leans his head back against the wall, a playful smile over his face. "So she is your girlfriend. Loyal too."

Sae narrows his eyes.

"Relax. I just talked to her at one of those events you brought her to."

"You talked to her?"

Oliver gets the sense that Sae is trying to make it sound like a normal question, but all it sounds is exactly how annoyed he feels.

"She just said she's waiting for you."

notes: unbelonging is not a word, i used it anyways on purpose to strengthen the idea of something not belonging. nectared and lightstream are also not real words, but i like them. twin wine glasses is kind of a reference to twin flames, though i do think you and sae are actually soulmates. i wonder if people can be both. "the weight you carry is so heavy when you're carrying it yourself" is a double meaning, not just your body weight but everything else you carry too.

call it what it is: / a love created, hand-sculpted to fit. / a silent reprieve, / to be seen, / constellations bursting at the seams. / unfounded heart, / a tepid start,/ an easy, soft-sweet thing. / say what this really is. / place it on the justice scales of the abyss. / what you're meant to be / versus what you choose / you can decide you have a right to this.

#which is to say this is selfship coded. my apologies ; i write reader best when i know her feelings #sae x reader #itoshi sae x reader #sae itoshi x reader #itoshi sae x you #itoshi sae x y/n #sae x you #what else am i supposed to tag it i forgot #blue lock x reader #okay is that good?#fragments of memories #fragments of memories: fic #fragments: bllk #x reader #fragments: bllk: sae #forgot to put MY OWN TAGS LMAO

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