#this was before their sizes were finalized

[em1i2a3]

Adore Me

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader!

Summary: When the air conditioner of the Watchtower breaks during peak summertime, Bob finds an odd solution to your overheating problem.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut and Fluff yall. Bob and Reader are in an established friends with benefits relationship (that has hints of something more), Bob is a problem solver lol.

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (wrap it up yall), Temperature Play, Fingering, Oral Sex (fem! Receiving), Nipple Play, Dirty Talk, Bob is a bit freaky in this, but it’s a great change up, Spit Kink (kind of…An interesting take on it lol) Bob is totally a super soft dom in here to be completely honest and he’s an absolute tease, Aftercare (cause it’s essential and we love aftercare scenes!)

Authors Note: It is disgustingly hot where I live at the moment and I got this idea when I was writing something else and thought ‘Jesus Christ this is perfect’ and EUREKA 💡 it’s been made and created. And it’s so fitting cause today is supposed to be one of the hottest days of the year where I live and I’ve been sweating it up, so CHEERS TO THAT! Enjoy the read yall ❤️❤️

Word Count: 9,364

You felt like you were choking on the air you were breathing. It clung to your lungs like steam in a sauna, heavy and thick, each inhale a sluggish, labored thing that coated the inside of your throat with undeniable heat. The Watchtower had become a pressure cooker–walls sweating, tempers rising, body’s slowly melting into puddles of collective misery.

The central air system had sputtered its final breath two days ago, and since then, the compound had been thrown into environmental purgatory. Val, of course, couldn’t be bothered.

“You’ve been trained in worse conditions? So there’s a little bit of heat…” She said over the comms, dismissing the situation with a lazy flick of her tongue, “Adapt. Hydrate. Be resourceful. You guys are a bunch of trained professionals. Jesus.”

Bucky had tried to find a solution by rush-ordering industrial-grade fans for everyone’s room. It was a notable effort, but ultimately it turned futile–the machines just churned around warm air like oversized hairdryers, only adding to the misery. Everyone had begun to crack in their own unhinged little ways soon after.

Walker had abandoned his bedroom entirely, calling it a hotbox of death–because it was facing the sun head on–and was now taking refuge on the cool concrete floor of the weapons bay, curled up beside an icebox and using a half-eaten bag of frozen peas as his pillow. Nobody knew if he was the one who ate the peas, and truly no one wanted to ask.

Alexei had opted to walk around shirtless, unapologetically drenched, swearing in Russian every time his back stuck to the leather chairs of the common room. You hadn’t seen cotton touch his torso in thirty-six hours.

Ava had tried to stick her head in the freezer at least three times–silent, dead-eyed, standing with the door propped open like a statue. She once murmured, “There’s no use…Not even the freezer can cool me down,” Before slamming the door shut and stomping away angrily.

Yelena didn’t even pretend to tough it out. She booked a hotel in the city with central air and an infinity pool and sent a group text that read: Temporarily unavailable. Followed by a photo of her in a robe, flipping everyone off.

You, on the other hand, were stuck in the sweltering hellhole that used to be the Watchtower. Unfortunately, you had responsibilities. Paperwork, of all godforsaken things–an Everest-sized pile of clearance reports, post-op evaluations, requisition forms, and incident debriefs that needed to be reviewed and signed off yesterday. As you worked through it though you were convinced the paper pile was actively multiplying every time you blinked.

You had stripped down to bare undergarments midway through the first day of this whole ordeal–tank tops and boy shorts, cycling through a mix of fabrics and colours, and faded cotton that clung to your skin within minutes of putting it on. A real outfit felt like a joke at this point. The way your thighs stuck to chairs, the way your bra would turn into a soaked band of torture across your ribs–it was all unbearable. So you stopped pretending, cause everyone had seen you in much less–unfortunately. A little skin in the name of not dying seemed fair game.

You’d made camp in the common room, spread out across the wooden floor: limbs splayed, eyes half-lidded, lips dry, surrounded by open folders and half-filled forms. Your pen was stuck between your fingers, and your knees were damp from the humidity clinging to the floorboards. You used half-complete reports as manual fans, your wrist flicking back and forth in a tired desperate rhythm.

Under the dim overhead lights your skin was shimmering. Sweat collected in the hollow of your throat, slicked down your back in slow, miserable trails, and glistened across your chest in a sheen that was just enough to be maddening.

Especially to Bob.

Bob wasn’t bothered by the heat–not one bit. In fact, he seemed to be thriving in it. While the rest of the compound staggered around like melting wax figures, Bob was walking proof that some unholy fusion of celestial physiology and boyish stubbornness could, against all logic, turn a heatwave into a personal spa retreat. His body already ran hot, warmer than any humans should be, so the shift in temperature just…Matched him. Balanced him. He was in his element. You’d caught him once humming as he refilled your water bottle and didn’t even look winded. It had taken every ounce of your willpower not to throw a folder at him out of sheer spite.

But as much as Bob was coasting through the inferno like a Sun God in July, there was one thing the heat did make difficult, and that was you.

More specifically: being around you without physically attaching himself to every available inch of your skin. And that was a problem. Because all you wanted was to peel your limbs off your own body and shove your head in the freezer next to Ava’s.

The first night the central air had gasped its last breath, you had trudged into your room in a haze of exhaustion and heat delirium. Your tank top was soaked, your shorts were riding up in ways that made you irrationally furious, and your entire back felt like it had been slow-roasted on a rack. All you wanted was to collapse onto your bed, cool yourself down on your fresh pillow, and not die.

Bob had followed in behind you a few minutes later. Barefoot, shirtless in his boxer shorts, and radiating heat like a bonfire. You had barely flattened yourself on the mattress before you felt the bed dip and a very warm, very clingy arm wrap around your middle.

“Bob–no. No. You’re a human space heater. I am going to combust.” He had blinked down at you like you had kicked him, lip tugging downward, but he didn’t retreat. His eyes shimmered slightly.

”Just–Just my arm. I won’t move around and make it hotter! I pr-promise! How about my leg? Just a little le-leg.” You tried to slither out from his trap, but he was persistent, curling his body around you like a cat trying to fit into a shoebox, “You know I ca-can’t sleep without cuddling you…Please.” He begged.

In the end, you had given up just enough to let him have his victory–an arm draped over your waist, a thigh tucked between your sweaty ones. His skin was boiling, his breath stuck to your neck, and you were sweating so much your sheets were damp. But he sighed with such softness and content, like that moment of closeness was everything he needed. And even though you mumbled curses and threatened to sleep on the floor next time, you didn’t push him off.

Now, he was watching you from his usual perch in the common room, planted in one of the worn armchairs, looking relaxed, comfortable-and absolutely lovesick in shorts and a t-shirt.

Every movement made your tank top shift and stick in new ways. A bead of sweat curved down your chest, catching the attention of Bob’s traitorous eyes before he jerked his gaze away, returning it to the book in front of him, like he hadn’t been staring.

You weren’t even trying to be provocative. You were just trying not to pass out. But the heat had made you soft-limbed, loose-spined, and languid. It made you sigh out loud and stretch like a cat, chasing relief. And every time you did, Bob’s eyes trailed after you like he was tethered. He swallowed thickly when you adjusted your posture again, thigh flexing, tank top riding up a bit more, your sweat-dampened back arching ever so slightly as you reached for another form.

You didn’t look at him when you spoke, but your voice was low and teasing. “Your eyes are gonna burn holes in me if you keep staring like that.”

Bob stiffened in his chair, legs snapping closer together. “I–uh. Wasn’t–” You snorted softly, not buying it for a second.

“You forget how I can feel when you’re looking at me.” You said, still not looking up from your papers, “Your gaze is like a goddamn laser. Feels like I’ve got sunburn from the inside out.” You could hear the hesitation in his breath, the soft rustle of fabric as he fidgeted in his seat, gathering the courage to speak. And then–

“Well…Ev-even though you’re melting…” He started, voice cracking like a sun-baked sidewalk, “I still th-think you’re… pretty.” You paused, pen hovering above a requisition form like you were about to stab a signature into it, then slowly tilted your head up. Your eyes locked onto him from across the room, narrowing ever so slightly.

“Bob,” You warned, a soft edge to your voice. “You know I’m a softie for compliments and your face…”

His lips twitched into a nervous smile, hopeful–but you cut him off.

“…But I swear to God, I think I would kill you if you even attempted to take my clothes off to have sex with me right now.” Bob’s lashes fluttered rapidly and he swallowed hard, the book lowering to his lap slightly.

”I-I was just s-saying you looked p-pretty…” He mumbled, face turning scarlet. You squinted, pointing your pen at him accusingly.

”Yes. And then it escalates. It always escalates.” Bob’s mouth opened like he wanted to object, but you were already rolling, “You say I look pretty, then it’s something about how good I look in the outfit I’m wearing–which is barely even an outfit, mind you–then you get all sentimental and say something sappy like ‘I’m so lucky to have a friend like you’ and ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you’ and blah, blah, blah–I’m not falling for it.” Bob looked like a man trying to explain himself at a trial with no legal counsel.

”I–I didn’t–this time, I wasn’t gonna–“ You lifted a brow, and he wilted a little further into his armchair, “Okay…I might’ve said something sappy later…Maybe.” You snorted and went back to fanning yourself with a requisition form.

”Exactly.”

“But–“ He tried, hands wringing in his lap, “You do look really go-good right now. Even with the sweat…And the uh…Paper stuck to your thigh.” He added. You glanced down and sighed, peeling a requisition form off your leg and flinging it to the side. Bob let out a small laugh at the sight, before lowering his voice.

”I really wasn’t trying to escalate. I know you’d kill me if I even–tried. I’d pr-probably turn into the sun the second I touched you.”

“You would,” You replied firmly, wiping a drop of sweat from your collarbone, “I’d light you up like a match.” There was a pause, then he hummed.

”…It’d still be wo–worth it.” You looked up again, slowly. Bob looked sheepish, guilty, and totally sincere.

“You’re lucky I’m too exhausted to throw something at you.” Bob smiled a little wider now, cautiously hopeful.

”Could I at least get a hug?” You groaned.

”No…”

”A sweaty hug?” He corrected, as you dragged your hands down your face, shaking your head. He stood anyway, walking over with slow, careful steps. You felt his shadow fall over you, tall and soft at the edges, and when you peeked up, he was grinning down at you–dimples and all.

”I’ll just hover then,” He said, crouching next to you and pressing a gentle kiss to your temple, tasting a bead of sweat on his lips, before settling down beside your paper fortress, legs stretching out beside yours.

You let out a soft laugh through your nose–quiet, breathy, the kind of sound that would’ve floated past someone else entirely. But not Bob. Never Bob. He absorbed everything you did like a sponge pressed to water–hyper aware, quietly observant, and always aching in the silence between moments. No matter what you were doing, he always made it feel like he was watching an artist paint their biggest masterpiece.

You could’ve been cleaning blood off your boots, half–catatonic from fatigue, or wearing yesterday’s tank top turned inside out, it didn’t matter to him. He looked at you like he was witnessing a miracle, and it was never just lust that filled his eyes, never only want–it was that stunned, adoring kind of interest that made you feel like the world quieted when you moved.

Even now, in this godforsaken heat, when your skin felt slick and your hair clung to the back of your neck, he sat beside you like he was somewhere sacred. His shoulder barely grazed yours, but you could feel it–the press of his attention, the steady warmth of his presence folding over you like a second sun.

And despite your endless complaints, despite telling him time and time again that you were overheating and one more inch of skin contact might kill you, you were glad he hadn’t listened. Not fully. Because the truth was–you liked that he didn’t give you space. Not really. You liked the orbit of him. The magnetism. The strange, constant gravity that pulled him to you no matter the setting.

Ever since the two of you started hooking up though, that tether had only grown stronger. It didn’t matter if you were in bed or on opposite ends of the training floor–your bodies reached for each other instinctively. Your minds always seemed to be aware of one another in a way that felt cellular.

And though you were actively trying not to spontaneously combust under the heat dome that was the Watchtower, though you’d explicitly told him not to try anything, you still craved him. The pull of his voice, the shape of his breath, the way he sat beside you like you were something holy that made him forget himself.

But until something–anything–cooled you down enough not to literally die during sex, you had to suppress it.

You kept working, even as the sweat made your pen slippery in your grip. Even as your thighs stuck to the hardwood and your spine ached from the sticky angle of your slouch. You scribbled notes into the margins of reports for Val–“Slight concussion, extreme belligerence. Unsure if it was the wound.” All the while, you felt Bob watching you.

Now that he was close, it was worse. His gaze was warm. Not burning. Not greedy. But hot–like you’d stepped into late afternoon sunlight and knew it was going to follow you until dusk. He watched the way your collarbone caught the light, the slow trail of sweat that disappeared beneath the line of your tank top, the rise and fall of your chest like a tide he wanted to wade into.

He could smell you now, too. Your body wash–the mix of basil, blueberry, and lemon–had softened and bloomed in the heat, curling around you like a halo of late-summer air. You smelled like a drink he wanted to taste, a memory he wanted to bottle and keep forever. It made his throat feel thick. It made something ancient and hungry stir in him.

You swiped a hand across your forehead again, let out a huff, signed another sheet–and that’s when you felt his gaze sharpen.

”Bob,” You said dryly, not even glancing at him “Keep your eyes to yours–“

”There’s ic-ice in the freezer,” He interrupted, voice cracking slightly like it was tripping on the edge of his desire. You paused, turning your head toward him with a squint.

”Yeah? And why are you bringing that up so randomly?” His eyes widened at bit, then he flushed, his hand coming up to scratch the back of his neck–a tell that he was nervous.

”Maybe I want to…Cool you do–down?” Your eyes narrowed, the corner of your mouth twitching up in slow suspicion.

“Yeah? And how would you do that?” He hesitated–just for a moment–and then leaned in ever so slightly, his voice low, uncertain, trembling with barely-leashed tenderness.

”Why don’t you let me sh-show you?” God, the way he said it–it wasn’t a line. It wasn’t cocky. It wasn’t even seductive in the traditional sense. It was something softer than that. Sweeter. Gentler.

It was Bob wanting to worship, not possess. To soothe, not seduce. It was in the way his voice cracked around the word show, like he meant something more than just a practical gesture. Like he wanted to lay you down and press ice to every patch of you that felt too hot, not to make you moan, but to make you breathe again.

Like cooling you down would be an honor.

He wasn’t talking about sex. Not entirely at least. He was talking about the intimacy of care. The small, slow rituals that said I see you, I know you, I’ll take care of this part too.

You felt it in your spine–the way the suggestion settled, the weight of the moment bending inward like a candle flame curling toward its own wax. You turned your head slowly to look at him and found him already watching you with that same melted-lovely stare. Eyes wide. Lips parted. Hope curling behind his lashes.

He looked like he was waiting for permission to make the heat bearable. Waiting to touch you only if it meant relief.

Your throat worked once, then you set your pen down.

“…Alright then, Bob,” You murmured, tilting your head. “Show me.” Bob shot to his feet like a firework, the shift from softness to sudden motion making you laugh a bit. He offered you both hands, palms open, eyes bright with some boyish spark you hadn’t seen since before the heatwave hit.

“C’mon,” He urged, a grin tugging at the corners of his lips like he was already proud of whatever plan had rooted itself in his head. You glanced down at his hands, then back up at him.

”You’re not gonna do it here?” He shook his head quickly, his light brown, sun-kissed strands of hair flopping slightly.

”Tr-Trust me,” He said with a nervous unmistakable glimmer in his eye, “You want to do it in a be-bedroom.” Your stomach flipped. Not because it sounded dirty–though your traitorous mind was already sprinting toward some variation of shirtless–Bob dripping ice water down your spine–but because of the tone, and the way he said it. So sure. So gentle. So full of barely concealed affection. Your skin prickled from anticipation. He helped you up from the floor with ease, and turned, starting for the hallway.

You followed closely behind, your legs stiff and heavy from too much time on the floor. He stopped at the kitchen, and you caught the distinct sound of the freezer opening, the crinkle of plastic, the quiet clatter of something.

Curious, you poked your head around the corner–only to find Bob standing in front of the counter, brow furrowed in focus, tearing open a large bag of ice with his teeth and pouring generous handfuls into a wide stainless steel mixing bowl. The ice chimed and cracked as it landed, a sound almost obscene in the still, overheated silence of the Watchtower.

Your eyebrows rose.

Bob caught your expression immediately and looked sheepish, shrugging one shoulder at you.

”The mo-more the merrier,” He commented, lifting the bowl like a trophy. You huffed a laugh, low and incredulous.

”This is either going to be really sweet or very dumb,” You muttered, shaking your head as he approached.

”It’ll definitely be both.” He replied, not missing a beat.

He took your hand in his free one, fingers warm and steady even as he balanced the cold weight of the bowl in the other. His thumb slid along your knuckles as he led you back down the hallway, his touch grounding despite the faint sheen of sweat that coated you, it only took a few steps until you finally reached your room.

It was hot there. Thick, slow, swampy heat. The kind that stuck to the corners of the ceiling and refused to move. The blackout drapes you’d thrown up were trying their best, but the sun still managed to bleed in around the edges–gold streaks slicing through the air like knives. The only saving grace was the cracked window above your headboard, which at night had allowed the barest hint of a breeze to creep in. It didn’t help much–but it was something at least.

Your room was a lived-in kind of mess. A fan sat on your desk, humming uselessly. There were two half-drunk bottles of water near your nightstand, a crumpled hoodie discarded on the floor, and the sheets were tangled from restless nights. Still, it smelled like you. That same clean, citrus-sweet scent that clung to your skin. Bob inhaled it without even thinking.

He moved with purpose now, stepping around you to the bed, placing the bowl of ice on your side table before grabbing the nearest towel from your hamper–fresh, fluffy, cream-colored. He spread it over the foot of your bed carefully, smoothing out the creases like he was setting a picnic for something sacred.

“Okay,” He said, crouching slightly and patting the towel with one hand, “You sit th–there. And I’ll sit behind you.”

His voice was soft. Intentional. No teasing now–just quiet care threading every syllable. And it did something to you. Something that reached down into the heat-numbed center of your chest and gave it a gentle squeeze.

You obeyed without a word, stepping forward and sitting on the edge of the bed, the towel rough and cool beneath your thighs. You could hear the clink of ice behind you, the shifting of his body as the mattress shifted under his weight. And then, slowly, the warmth of him pressed close behind–legs on either side of yours, his knees bent so he could sit just barely higher, his breath ghosting near the back of your ear.

”Ready?” You nodded–immediately, instinctively–before the word even had time to form in your mouth.

The air was still thick and stifling, but the anticipation split through it like a thunderclap. You heard the soft rustle of movement behind you–the dip of Bob’s arm into the bowl, the telltale clink of shifting ice. A pause. A breath. And then–

Cold.

Your spine arched in reflex as the first piece of ice touched your upper back, the sensation so stark against your overheated skin that you gasped. The cube dragged in a slow, deliberate line between your shoulder blades, leaving a shivering trail in its wake. Your breath hitched.

Bob’s free hand came to rest against your waist–not forceful, not possessive, but anchoring. His palm was hot, fingers splayed across your damp skin like he needed the contact just to stay grounded.

He was slow with it.

The ice danced across your skin, trailing up and then outward over the curve of your right shoulder blade. And then the left. The path was meticulous, methodical, melting little rivers that trickled down the curve of your back until they disappeared into the band of your tank top.

You shuddered–eyes fluttering shut–just as you felt his breath behind you, warm and steady, before his lips grazed your skin.

Bob leaned in.

And then he licked the droplets off your back.

Your entire body jolted like it had been kissed by lightning. His tongue was hot, a perfect, obscene contrast to the cold that came before it. He followed the rivulets the ice had left behind, slow and deliberate, his mouth brushing against your skin with almost unbearable care. You could feel his breath between licks, the air stirring goosebumps in its wake.

“Jesus, Bob…” You whispered, voice already shaky, barely above a breath.

He didn’t respond. He just kept going.

He trailed the ice once more–lower this time, letting the cold slip just beneath the band of your tank top before dragging it back up in a long, trembling sweep. Then came his mouth again. His lips. His tongue. You felt his teeth graze your shoulder–not biting, just there, like he couldn’t help but taste the saltiness of your skin.

Every time he kissed the water from your spine, it felt like he was drinking in something sacred.

You leaned forward slightly, head bowing as your hands clutched at the towel beneath you. Your breathing was shallow, pulse thrumming behind your ears. Bob’s hand on your waist squeezed just once, steadying you.

And then his voice, soft and low and trembling with something barely restrained, broke the silence against the shell of your ear.

“Take off your sh-shirt.”

It wasn’t a command. It wasn’t even a request.

It was a prayer. A plea.

Like he couldn’t bear the barrier between you a second longer. Like he needed more of you, not just for heat or for want, but for relief. For whatever spell that had overtaken both of you in the dense summer silence of your bedroom.

Your fingers moved before your mind caught up. You gripped the hem of your soaked tank top and–slowly, shakily–peeled it upward. It clung to your skin in stubborn patches, lifting in jerks until it passed over your head, leaving you bare from the waist up. Damp. Glowing. Breathing hard.

Bob’s breath stuttered.

You could feel his eyes on your back–devouring, worshiping, stunned silent. You started to turn your head over your shoulder, to ask what he was thinking–but you didn’t get the chance.

Because the next thing you felt was the ice again–this time sliding down your spine unburdened by cloth. And then his mouth. Hot. Open. Worshipful. He let out a soft moan against your skin, the sound low and trembling like it had clawed its way up from somewhere deep. His breath was hot, reverent. “Tastes s–so good…” he whispered, the words pressed into your spine like a confession–fragile and feral all at once.

You felt the faint scrape of his teeth next, dragging along the sensitive ridge of your lower shoulder blade, making your back arch into him involuntarily. His hand–still splayed wide on your waist–tightened once, then slipped away with purpose. A soft clink sounded beside you. Another piece of ice.

And then–

Cold.

This time, not against your back, but your chest.

You gasped–body jolting forward, spine bowing–as the ice skimmed the swell of your breast. The contrast was devastating. Your skin was already buzzing from the heat and his mouth, but the sudden bite of chill stole your breath.

Bob’s lips chased the line of melting droplets down your spine, tongue trailing them like he was memorizing every bead. Every curve. Every shiver.

And then the second piece of ice–still in his other hand–dragged across your chest in slow, deliberate passes. He brought it lower, tracing under the curve of your breast, then–so slowly it almost broke you–up toward your nipple.

Your mouth fell open. A moan spilled out before you could stop it.

“Bob…H–Holy fuck, Bob.”

You felt the corners of his lips lift where they pressed to your back–smirking. Smug and innocent like he hadn’t just unraveled you with frozen water and heat.

“Wh–What?” He asked, faux-innocent, his voice thick and trembling with barely restrained want.

He circled your nipple with the ice–quick, swirling passes that sent lightning through your chest. Then, without warning, he moved to the other, just as devastating.

“Jesus Christ,” you whispered, half a prayer, half a curse.

Your body leaned back instinctively, seeking him. The moment your spine met his chest, you felt it–all of him. His warmth. The racing thrum of his heart. The hardness pressed beneath his shorts. The quiet tremble in his hands as he reached around you again.

His mouth hovered near your ear.

“Can I…” His voice was barely audible now, so close it vibrated in your bones. “Can I lick the droplets off?”

“Yes,” You breathed, without hesitation. “Yes…”

You felt him smile against your temple. Not greedy. Not cocky. Just grateful. Devoted.

He slipped off the bed slowly, deliberately. His palms ran down your thighs as he sank, and then he was there–on his knees in front of you, golden in the streaks of sun that leaked through the curtain’s edge. His eyes were glassy, wide with awe, his curls damp from sweat, sticking to his forehead. He looked like he was looking at a fever dream.

He reached for the bowl of ice beside him and set it gently on the floor, then looked back up at you with a question in his eyes. You nodded once, breathless.

Bob guided you forward with careful hands, his fingers feather-light beneath your arms as he encouraged you to lean down toward him, your chest close to his lips.

And then–

His mouth latched onto your nipple.

His tongue was warm and needy, lapping at the cold water like it was something holy. You cried out–soft and broken–as he sucked gently, pulling the chill into his mouth and swallowing your heat like he needed it.

At the same time, his hand reached into the bowl and lifted another piece of ice. He guided it slowly to your other breast, circling the nipple with glacial focus, letting it bead and drip while his mouth worked the other in steady, wet rhythm.

Your fingers tangled in his hair.

He moaned softly at that, tongue pressing flatter now, lips tighter, like he couldn’t help himself.

And when you looked down at him, flushed and kneeling between your legs, worshipping you with his mouth and melting ice, you swore you’d never been touched more sweetly in your life.

He pulled off your nipple with a soft, wet pop, licking it one last time, tongue circling tenderly before he released it. His lips grazed the curve of your breast in a gentle kiss, trailing heat in their wake. Then he shifted–slow, purposeful–toward the other, where the ice had melted into a glossy sheen over your skin. He didn’t rush. He paused to admire you, blue eyes glazed with something more than lust–adoration, worship, the kind of awe that made your chest cave in. He was drunk on the taste of your skin, and all he wanted was more.

His mouth sealed around your other nipple with a desperate hunger softened by devotion. His tongue moved languidly, drinking the cold from your body and replacing it with his heat, like he needed to balance you out. As his lips worked, he moved the piece of ice in his hand–down your ribcage, trailing it along the edge of your ribs with devastating slowness.

You gasped when it passed the under-side of your breast, the chill biting in contrast to the molten heat of his mouth, then lower, across the dip of your stomach, inching toward the space just above your navel. You flinched as it reached the sensitive skin right above the waistband of your boyshorts, and he groaned low in his throat in response–like your every twitch was a prayer answered.

Your hands tugged gently at his hair, not to pull him away but to feel something tethered, something grounding, because your entire body was floating–adrift in heat and cold and sensation.

He pulled away from your breast with a breathless sigh, mouth shiny and pink, and leaned in to chase the wet path down your stomach. You watched his tongue trace the same line the ice had carved, warm and wet, mouth open and panting against your navel as he moved lower and lower. Every kiss was a blessing. Every lick, a declaration.

And then he stopped at the waistband.

His nose brushed it gently. His breath was a humid puff across your lower belly. He looked up at you through damp lashes, cheeks flushed, curls curling slightly with sweat, his tongue running absently over his lower lip before he tilted his head–so soft, so careful.

“Can I take these off?” He asked, voice low and quiet, almost bashful despite everything. You nodded immediately, breath hitching.

”Y–Yeah.” He helped you stand with that same steady grace, his thumb sliding along the elastic at your hips, eyes never leaving yours–not even for a second. Then he slowly tugged them down. The fabric peeled from your thighs with a sticky reluctance, damp with sweat and tension and heat. He bent as he went, lowering himself with each inch until he was on his knees again, breath ghosting across your inner thighs.

Your hands trembled as he sat you down at the edge of the bed once more, steadying you with one hand on your hip, the other bracing your thigh. You watched as he pulled your legs gently over his shoulders, a smile coming up on his lips.

Bob’s breath hitched the moment he saw you–already glistening, already soaked, slick with heat and want and sweat. He stared like he couldn’t quite believe you were real, like he’d stumbled into something mythic, something divine. And then, without breaking eye contact, he reached for the bowl.

The ice clinked gently as he dipped his fingers in, searching by feel. When he pulled one out, the cube was already slick in his grip, catching the dim light like crystal. He held it there for a second–then looked up at you.

“C–Can I put this on you?” He asked softly, voice breathless with awe.

You nodded without a pause, lips parted, heart thudding somewhere in your throat. “Yes… do it.”

He smiled.

And then he moved–slow, reverent, a priest in the presence of a miracle.

He brought the ice to your center, resting it just above your clit, and immediately–you felt it. A single drop fell.

You gasped.

The cold dragged across your head, contrasting so violently with the flushed wetness of your core that your hips jerked. Another drop slid between your folds, trailing downward like a teasing finger. Your whole body shivered–and that’s when Bob leaned in.

He licked the first droplet as it passed your clit.

And then he lost himself.

His mouth met you with heat so sharp it made your knees lock around his shoulders. His tongue licked up the length of your folds, slow at first, but with increasing urgency. The chill of the ice was still there–he never removed it, just held it against you, letting it drip while he worshipped you with his mouth.

You moaned–a high, breathless, broken thing–and your fingers dove into his hair, yanking just enough to feel him groan into you. It was obscene.

The ice kept dripping. His mouth kept moving. And the contrast was too much. Cold sliding into hot. Wet meeting wetter. His tongue was everywhere–flicking, flattening, curling against your clit, lapping up the melting droplets like he needed them to survive. Every moan that rumbled from his chest vibrated into you. He wasn’t holding back. He was devouring you.

Feral. Controlled. Utterly consumed.

You tried to speak–tried to tell him how fucking good it felt–but all that came out were broken syllables and a whispered, “Oh my God… Bob, please–”

He answered by moaning into your core, low and guttural, dragging the flat of his tongue up from your entrance to your clit in one long, devastating pass. The ice cube shifted slightly, grazing your skin, making you cry out as your body jolted again.

And then–he slipped two fingers inside you.

You nearly sobbed.

They pushed in slow but deep, curling instantly. He knew exactly where to touch you, exactly how to fuck you with his hand while his mouth never stopped moving. His lips sealed around your clit, tongue swirling, licking away each cold droplet before it even had the chance to fully fall.

“Fuck–Bob–don’t stop, don’t you dare–” You whimpered, legs trembling.

He didn’t.

His fingers thrust harder. His tongue licked deeper. And when you rocked your hips forward–desperate for more–he groaned again, rutting subtly against the bed, lost in the taste of you.

The heat in your belly cracked wide open.

You felt the wave before it hit–felt your thighs tightening, your walls fluttering around his fingers, your back arching towards him.

“Fuck!” You cried, one hand gripping the edge of the sheets, the other twisted tight in his curls. Your orgasm ripped through you like wildfire, your whole body locking up before it collapsed into tremors, your thighs clamped tight around his neck, shaking. He held you through it. Tongue still moving. Fingers slowing just enough to prolong it, to guide you down from the cliff as gently as he’d brought you there.

When your body finally eased, when the waves started to ebb and your limbs stopped trembling, he pulled back–slowly, reluctantly.

His face was soaked.

Completely, reverently drenched. His lips were swollen, his cheeks glistened with your slick, your sweat, and faint trails of melting ice. His eyes were glazed with something carnal, but soft–softer than anything should be after what he just did to you.

He looked like he’d just returned from the edge of something sacred.

He exhaled, licking his lips slowly, pulling his fingers out gently before looking up at you like you’d just changed the orbit of his universe.

“…You ta–taste like fucking salvation,” He whispered, hoarse. Your thighs were trembling, your chest rising in ragged, shuddering breaths, your lips parting in the aftermath of the orgasm he had just wrung from you with nothing but his mouth, fingers, and a melting piece of ice. His tongue darted out again, slowly, to taste the last bead of wetness from your inner thigh.

Then, he lifted his hand–the one still holding the ice cube. It had shrunk to half its size now, slick and trembling between his fingertips. He raised it with the same care you might offer a relic, brushing it over your clit, before pulling it away completely.

”I wa-want you to open your mouth.” He instructed gently. You listened to him without hesitation. Bob brought the ice to his own lips, slipping it into his mouth. His cheeks hollowed as he chewed it slowly, the cold cracking and popping between his teeth. You watched every second like it was a ritual–like he was about to give you something sacred. And he was.

He slid your legs gently from his shoulders and rose to his full height, towering over you in the low, golden light. His face glowed with sweat and flushed a light red, as he cups your cheeks with his hands–fingertips damp, warm, trembling with care–and leaned in until his lips hovered just above yours.

Then–he parted his lips and let the water drip into your mouth.

You moaned at the first taste.

It wasn’t just water. It wasn’t just ice. It was you. Your taste lingered in it–your slick, your arousal, your salt and sweetness and heat. It tasted like shared sin. Like everything Bob had just taken from you with his mouth and was now giving back in liquid communion.

You swallowed slowly, lips brushing his, breath mingling.

And then—he kissed you.

Hard.

It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t sweet. It was intimate, filthy in how much love was packed between teeth and tongue. His lips crashed against yours, his mouth open, slick, tasting of melted ice and you and him. His tongue slid against yours, greedy and slow, like he was still trying to share the taste of you back and forth between your mouths.

You whimpered, hands flying to the waistband of his shorts, tugging at the tie. It loosened easily in your grip, and his hips jerked forward with a soft, broken sound.

Bob panted into your mouth, forehead pressed to yours. “You’re go–gonna get hot again…”

You shook your head, smiling through the haze of pleasure still coiling in your belly. Your voice dropped to a sultry whisper, lips brushing his as you said, “Not if my legs are on your shoulders and you’re fucking me with my hips on the edge of the bed.” His entire body shuddered. His throat bobbed in a tight, desperate swallow. He didn’t even respond. Just–moved.

His shirt was off in seconds, ripped over his head and tossed somewhere you didn’t care about. You moaned at the sight.

You always moaned at the sight.

His chest was flushed and glowing, the heat making every line of him more vivid–shoulders broad, chest rising fast, his skin glistening with sweat and want. And then–his shorts dropped. He stepped out of them like he was shedding a burden. His cock sprang free, hard and leaking, twitching at the air between you. He was painfully ready, his tip flushed, veins prominent along the shaft, his body trembling with restraint he no longer seemed interested in holding.

And still–he looked at you like you were a miracle.

He kissed you again before you could speak, devouring your mouth with a groan, hands gripping your hips with reverent, aching need.

Bob pulled back just enough to breathe, his forehead still resting against yours, his chest rising and falling with ragged urgency. His blue eyes flicked over your face, searching, drinking you in like you might vanish if he blinked. You could feel the tremble in his thighs, the barely-restrained hunger in the way his grip tightened on your hips.

Then–gently–he guided you backward.

Your body yielded beneath his touch, melting into the mattress as your back met the damp sheets. The towel beneath you was bunched and wrinkled now, forgotten. All that mattered was him. The way he looked at you like you were something sacred, and the reverent hush that settled over the room as he bent to his knees on the bed, positioning himself above you.

He slid one arm beneath your thigh, guiding your hips down the bed ever so slightly, adjusting your body with the same care one might use to arrange something fragile–something precious. His touch was patient, but deliberate, until your hips were at the edge of the mattress and your legs could rise, slow and trembling, to rest over his shoulders.

The moment your calves draped across his skin, he paused. His breath hitched. You watched the awe flash across his face as he looked down at you–completely bare, flushed, and glistening with sweat. Your fingers reached for his hand, and he found yours instantly, weaving his fingers through yours, palms pressing tight like a lifeline.

Then–

He pressed his cock against your entrance.

The head of him was thick and hot, sliding slowly through your slick folds, smearing himself in the mess he had coaxed from you with ice and mouth and praise. He nudged your entrance gently, gliding in just enough to make your breath catch. Your lashes fluttered. His hips paused, trembling with restraint.

And then–he pushed.

You both moaned–broken and breathless–as he sank into you inch by inch. The stretch was slow, deliberate, perfect. His cock filled you in a way that made your whole body seize with need, the stretch burning just enough to make you tremble. He pressed forward until he was fully seated inside you–his hips flush with yours, his body rigid above you, the head of him brushing so deep you swore you saw stars.

Your hand tightened in his. His head dropped slightly, lips parting with a shaky groan.

“F-fuck…You feel so good…” He whispered, his voice hoarse, eyes screwed shut in overwhelmed bliss. Then, after a breathless second, he leaned down and kissed your calf–softly, reverently–before he started to move.

The first thrust was slow. Gentle. A pull and press that made your hips rock into his instinctively. He dragged his cock almost all the way out before easing back in, groaning at the way your walls clung to him.

You gasped, back arching. “Bob…”

He began a rhythm. Measured. Loving. Each thrust slow and deep, dragging against every aching spot inside you until your thighs were trembling and your core was fluttering with need. The sounds were obscene–wet, slick, breathless. Every push of his hips made you gasp. Every roll of your body made him moan.

“Feel so perfect,” He panted, his free hand sliding to your waist to anchor you. “So warm…So fucking tight…Fuck–”

He picked up the pace just slightly, hips rocking harder now, deeper. Your body jolted with each motion, the slap of skin against skin echoing beneath the hum of the useless fan in the corner.

Your walls began to pulse around him. You whimpered, breath shattering.

“I’m–I’m close…”

That was all it took for him to unravel a little more.

He let go of your hand and leaned down, bringing his weight forward until your knees were nearly touching your chest, his chest flush with yours, his mouth capturing yours in a kiss so hungry it knocked the breath out of you. He moaned into your mouth as he thrust harder, deeper, every drag of his cock stealing another cry from your throat.

Your legs tightened around his shoulders. His thrusts grew rougher, more desperate.

“I’m go–gonna finish so deep inside you,” He groaned into your mouth, voice low and trembling. “I’m gonna fill you up so fuckin’ deep–you’re ne–never going to get rid of me.” Your entire body convulsed.

The orgasm hit like a wave, hot and endless. Your mouth fell open in a soundless cry as your back arched off the bed and your walls clamped down around him, milking his cock with fluttering, pulsing waves of pure pleasure.

“Fuck–fuck fuck fuck–” Bob gasped, his rhythm faltering. And then–with one final, deep thrust–he came.

He buried himself to the hilt, cock twitching inside you as he spilled into you in thick, hot waves. You gasped as you felt it–his cum filling you, warm and devastating, the heat of it flooding your already over-sensitized body. His cock pulsed with every spurt, deep inside, pressed right against your cervix. Your hands clutched his back, fingers digging into his shoulders as you gasped in pure, broken pleasure.

You could feel it.

The way it filled you. Coated you. Seeped so deep it felt like you were glowing from the inside out.

Bob moaned against your mouth, his hips stuttering once, twice, as he gave you the last of it, trembling. He stayed like that, buried in you, his forehead pressed to yours, your legs still locked over his shoulders.

The room was quiet but for the panting–your breaths, tangled and uneven, and his, rasping against your skin like wind through trees. Your hands slowly began tracing soft, lazy circles along his shoulders, fingertips dragging through the sweat and heat still clinging to his flushed skin. You could feel the way he was still trembling–just a little–from the aftershocks. Every breath he took made his chest rise against yours, pressed so tightly together it was hard to tell where your heartbeat ended and his began.

And then–he laughed.

Quiet and disbelieving. Almost dazed.

You tilted your head, blinking up at him. “What?”

Bob shook his head, curls sticking adorably to his damp forehead, a flushed, crooked smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. His eyes were half-lidded but glowing.

“You ju–just have so much control over me…” He murmured, voice still breathless. “And I lo–love it so much.”

Your lips curled in a slow, sultry smirk. You kissed him–soft and sensual, dragging your mouth across his like you had all the time in the world. You felt him melt into it, sighing, his hips still pressed to yours, his body heavy with contentment and heat.

Then–slowly–you slipped your legs down from his shoulders. The stretch burned instantly, a ripple of dull ache shooting through your inner thighs. You let out a soft groan, your face twitching at the sting.

Bob pulled back, eyebrows immediately knitting in concern. “You okay?”

You nodded, exhaling through the slight discomfort. “Yeah. Just…a little sore from the position. I may be flexible during missions, but when I have the weight of you pressing into me like that…” You gave him a pointed, teasing look. “It’s a different story.”

He flushed at the implication, letting out a shy little laugh before you reached up and brushed a strand of damp hair from his forehead. Your fingers lingered on his cheek, tracing the curve of it with a tenderness that made his lashes flutter.

Bob leaned into your palm instinctively, eyes slipping shut. Then he cracked a smile again, eyes twinkling with something mischievous.

“Y’know wh–what would be great?” He asked softly, voice low and hopeful.

You hummed. “What?”

He leaned forward until his nose brushed yours, his voice a conspiratorial whisper:

“A shower with you… Pr-Preferably a warm one. So neither of us are miserable.”

You huffed a laugh through your nose, shaking your head as affection welled up in your chest. “Sounds good…” You whispered. “Can you carry me to the bathroom?”

His brows raised like you’d just told him the sun rose for him. “Of co–course,” he said with no hesitation, already shifting. “Only you deserve the five star treatment.”

You let out a soft laugh as he gently pulled out, the stretch and warmth making you sigh, his cum slipping and pooling between your thighs with a hot, sticky glide. He moved carefully, placing a kiss on your collarbone before sliding his arms between your back and the mattress.

You yelped lightly as he scooped you up in one smooth motion–like you weighed nothing at all. His strength was effortless, infused with the serum but wrapped in the gentleness that was uniquely Bob. He held you against his chest like you were precious cargo, one hand tucked under your knees, the other cradling your back.

You looped your arms around his neck, resting your chin on his shoulder, your lips finding the warm skin there in a soft kiss. He smiled at the contact, turning his head to nuzzle your temple as he carried you toward the bathroom.

With one foot, he kicked the door open, stepping over discarded clothes and damp towels without missing a beat. The bathroom light flicked on, flooding the space with soft golden glow. You heard the quiet thud of the door shutting behind him and the click of the lock.

The air inside was warm already–trapped heat lingering from earlier, but not unbearable. You felt it shift as Bob moved toward the shower and set you gently on the counter’s edge, making sure you were stable before reaching for the faucet.

The pipes groaned as the water sputtered to life. Within seconds, warm steam began curling in lazy tendrils from behind the frosted glass.

Bob turned back to you with a smile, silhouetted in the hazy light, and asked softly, “Sh-shampoo or no shampoo?”

You grinned, eyes heavy, heart full.

“Shampoo,” You murmured. “Might as well go for the full spa package.”

He chuckled, Bob turned back from the shelf with your preferred shampoo already in hand, fingers slick from the steam curling up around you both. He stepped into the shower first, testing the water with his wrist, then held a hand out for you to follow. You took it wordlessly, skin still flushed and legs still weak, letting him guide you under the cascade of warmth.

The water streamed down your back in lazy waves, soothing the tension from your spine as Bob gently eased your head back beneath the spray. His touch was careful, reverent. Once your hair was wet enough, he tipped the bottle, squeezing a dollop into his palm, and then set to work.

His fingers threaded through your scalp like he was touching something sacred, slow and deliberate, working the shampoo in with gentle pressure. He never scratched too hard, never rushed. It was more massage than anything–his knuckles dragging lazy circles, thumbs brushing along your hairline, his eyes locked onto you the whole time like you were the most important thing he’d ever been trusted to care for.

Just before he let you rinse, he leaned in again–lips pressing to your collarbone in a kiss so soft it barely registered, just heat and breath and affection. And then his voice, low and warm and dripping with adoration, spilled over you like another layer of steam.

“You’re incredible…So fucking beautiful. Yo-You know that, right? So smart…So strong, and you let me–let me to–touch you like this, hold you like this. God, I’m so lucky. You taste like the sun. You feel like home. You make everything good again…”

You huffed a soft breath, overwhelmed and flustered, tilting your head just slightly to rinse the lather away. Bob’s hands helped guide the water down, careful not to splash you in the face. When you blinked through the droplets, still breathless from how he spoke like worship poured from his chest, you couldn’t help but murmur:

“You’re always so soft after sex.”

Bob stilled behind you for a moment, as if processing it. Then he leaned forward, voice tinged with surprise and a faint, teasing pout. “Am I no-not soft any other times?”

You laughed, turning in the warm spray to face him, droplets beading along his flushed collarbones. “You’re soft other times, Bob. But you’re way more soft after sex. Like…Melted marshmallow soft.”

He grinned, cheeks going red as he ducked his head slightly, the water slicking his hair to his forehead. “Well…We are releasing bo-bonding hormones, so…” He said with a small shrug, “How could I not want to be attached to you and be so–soft with you?”

You stepped closer, chest brushing his. Your lips met his in a warm, lingering kiss, water slipping between you as your hands smoothed up his arms. “You’re right…”

What followed was a slow, shared ritual of care. Bob washed your body in sections, treating each limb like it deserved a love letter. He murmured praise against your shoulder, your belly, the back of your knee. His hands glided with reverence, touching as if your skin might flake away like ash if he wasn’t gentle. And when it was your turn, you returned the care—rubbing slow circles into his broad back, tracing over his chest, lathering his curls with the same tenderness he’d shown you.

“You smell like sunshine and sin,” he whispered as you rinsed him off. “Like citrus and heaven. Like something I’m not supposed to touch, but I get to anyway.”

You giggled softly, pressing your lips to his neck. “You’re insufferable.”

“You love it,” He breathed, eyes glowing.

You were just about to pull him into another kiss–foreheads close, smiles sticky sweet–when a shout rang out through the compound, muffled by walls but unmistakably furious:

“WHO TOUCHED MY BAG OF ICE!?”

You both froze.

Then, slowly, your gazes turned toward each other–eyes wide, lips twitching.

“…Oh no,” You whispered.

Bob’s eyes went round with guilt. “I-I’ll buy her another one–”

“She’s gonna kill us,” You said flatly.

And then the both of you burst out laughing, muffling the sound in each other’s shoulders as the water kept streaming, and the heat of the Watchtower still pressed in around you–but somehow, in that tiny sanctuary of steam and love and whispered giggles, you barely felt it anymore.

[lostrologyy]

Himbo James would be so exhausted after exams that he'd just fall at the sight of your tits

stressed himbo!james finding comfort in your tits*. ⋆

cw: fluff 'cause i was feeling like it. fem!reader. james obsessed with your tits duh (no description of size or anything:))

a/n: kinda like and hate this at the same time. let me know if you'd like a smut version:)! anyway, as always any feedback is very much appreciated and remember english isn't my first language!

you barely hear the door closing before james drops everything to the floor, his bag, his keys, his jacket—and if you ask him, his lack of dignity after pretending to be okay during five days of back-to-back exams.

you don’t even get to turn around before a pair of beefy, muscular arms you know so well anchor you to the couch below you. his legs tangle with yours as his head ends up resting on top of your chest, groaning loudly and rubbing his face against you like a cat looking for attention.

“hey jamie” you giggle.

“missed you so much, god.” he groans again, voice muffled by your tits.

his arms wrap around your waist like he’s holding himself to life, his big hands slipping underneath your shirt and stroking your back gently, you wince at the contact.

“james! your hands are cold!” you whine.

you try to tug him upright but he clings.

“noo, don’t care. i missed these— i mean i also missed you, but god, i missed these.” he groans, rubbing his cheek against your chest again.

“okay, you big baby,” you mock. “did you eat already? want me to make you something?” your fingers tangle in his hair, a sigh leaving his mouth when you start scratching his scalp.

“i just wanna eat you,” he murmurs, his head turning slightly to sink his teeth on the side of your left boob.

you flinch. “hey!”

“mm, sorry love. you just look so pretty and yummy and pretty…” he mutters, his voice barely forming the words correctly as he feels the exhaustion from the week finally setting in.

“that’s pretty twice,” you give his head a small peck.

his arms tighten around you, giving a little squeeze. “i thought about you all week.”

“i’m glad, ‘cause i really missed you too,”

“couldn’t bear not seeing you every day,” he says, and even though you can’t see his face you just know he’s pouting.

“well, you were the one who said you couldn’t concentrate when i was around.”

“i know, that’s what i get for having the most beautiful, amazing girlfriend ever.” you smile when his words come out a bit sluggish. it’s more than obvious he’s both physically and mentally worn-out and still, he manages to make you feel like a teenage girl with her first crush.

you don’t answer him and he doesn’t try to talk again either. you lie there with him for what feels like half an hour, deciding to ask him again before he falls asleep.

“are you sure you’re okay?”

“baby, i just spent the most horrifying days of my life buried in books and checking flashcards over and over again, once i even forgot how to spell my name,” he pauses to kiss the exact spot where he bit you. “and the only thing keeping me from collapsing was the memory of you and my girls.”

“did you just call my tits 'your girls'?”

“mhm, ‘cause they’re my girls and i love them so much. not as much as i love you, though.” he hums.

you snort, “okay, drama queen.” you tug at one of his curls and he whines.

“don’t laugh, i’m serious. love you so much i’m never letting you go.”

“oh yeah?”

“yeah,” he hums again, feeling more and more sleepy as the seconds pass by and the comfort of being in your arms relaxes him. “gonna marry you and put your tits in my vows. gonna say 'i do' with my face right here.”

lostrologyy © 2025.

[saintrafayel]

li’s adopting their hybrids

Synopsis: Headcanons for the li’s and their sweet, darling hybrids and how they came into their lives.

Warnings/tags: Xavier x sheep!hybrid, Zayne x cat!hybrid, Rafayel x bunny!hybrid, Sylus x puppy!hybrid, Caleb x cow!hybrid, non canon compliant, mentions of abuse in Caleb’s. Yandere Caleb but like what’s fucking new? 18+ only.

Xavier

Xavier decided that he wants a calm little hybrid, initially planned on adopting a cat hybrid but changes his mind at the last second when he sees you. The manager insisted that he pick another one, “that one’s too timid, scared of her own shadow,” he grunted but Xavier insisted.

You cried the whole walk back to Xavier’s apartment, not wanting to leave the comfort of your prison. Once you arrive you immediately bleated when he tried to touch you and made a run for the nearest bedroom. You locked the door and blocked it with your body (he could feel you trembling against the door). It took him almost an hour of coaxing to finally get you to come out.

“Your fur’s out of place, may I brush it?” He gently ask you when you open the door. Your face was puffy and your eyes were bloodshot, not knowing what to expect from the stranger. You shake your head gently as your tail swings between your legs, but Xavier keeps his composure. You were panicked, he needed to demonstrate that you have no need for anxiety anymore. “That’s fine, this is my bedroom, yours is over here.” He instructs, walking down the hallway and motioning for you to follow.

He decorated your room with a queen sized bed and a vanity. The closet had a few dresses but he insist on knowing your size before he bought too many. You wear his pajamas to bed since he doesn’t have any for you, and it helps you familiarize yourself with his scent.

Xavier attempts to take you shopping at the local mall, but you don’t last too long before you cry out of overstimulation.

Finds out that you desperately cling to your routine, any disruptions can cause anxiety that be desperately wants to avoid!

It takes you three months for you to allow him to touch you, and he adores the small bleats you let out when he brushes your hair or the fur on your ears.

Follows your vegetarian diet very strictly; if you even smell meat in the air you lose your appetite so he makes sure you eat before he cooks his own food.

Buys you the prettiest collars he can afford! Absolutely melts the first time you ask him if he can put it on for you.

You’re very clingy once you feel safe around him, if he’s asleep on the couch you’ll grab a blanket and cuddle him. Naps are your favorite bonding activity with him.

Keeps a hand around you in public to calm your nerves.

Xavier will take you on picnic dates out on empty fields, you love being outdoors with him and you’ll often fall asleep on the blanket before heading back to your home.

“Xavier… can you engrave something on a tag for my collar?” You sweetly ask one evening while preparing for bed (you slept in his room more often than not now). He nods and ask what you’d like, noting your crossed legs and how you avoided eye contact with him. “Wan’ it to say ‘Xavier’s Lamb’ pretty please…” you hide your face in embarrassment, but he grabs ahold of your body and hugs you instead.

“Of course my starlight, don’t be shy… I’ll give my lamb whatever she desires,” he reassures you, giving you a kiss on the cheek.

Zayne

Doesn’t want a high maintenance hybrid, he’s too busy most of the time for a puppy or a bunny.

Zayne doesn’t formally adopt you. One day after work, he sees you being taken in by hybrid control. Any hybrids found uncollared were to be sent to the shelters, it was common knowledge in Linkon. You were angry and prepared to attack the man who was forcing you into the van when he suddenly intervenes. “There you are, I’ve been looking all over for you. Forgive my cat, I took off her collar last night and the wanderer attack frightened her. How much do I owe you?” He smoothly lies to the man (for what reason is he helping you? He doesn’t know.) the catcher’s glad to get you off his hands, so he lets you go with a warning. Once he’s gone, Zayne sighs and turns to you. “Shelters don’t take care of your kind very well, be more careful next time.” He warns before turning around and heading off to his home. Doesn’t give you any time to reply to him, and he doesn’t notice that you’ve been following him until he’s more than halfway home. Zayne sighs, turning around as you quickly hide behind a bush. “… Come now, we’ll find a place for you to live in the meantime.” You keep your distance still, but follow him anyway.

Zayne prepares dinner that night for two while you explore his house, getting to know every room and corner.

He does buy a collar for you with his address the next day, but that’s only incase you get caught again. He’d sign off on you and you’d be free once more. Truly doesn’t expect to keep you for more than a month.

Let’s you sleep in his living room for now. He ask his coworkers if anyone wanted to adopt you but most of them already have hybrids or they don’t care for them. Researches your kind to make sure your living conditions would satisfy you, for now of course.

Enjoys how schedule oriented you are, and that you need your space. You hissed at him once for walking too close to you.

Will sometimes wake up to you running around the house because god forbid you let out energy in a normal manner. Gets used to it, but he insisted you use his treadmill at first. “No, that’s stupid. Running around obstacles (his furniture) is more fun.” You shrug and never touch the machine again.

You didn’t take long to open up to him, by the second week you began laying your head on his lap for naps. Zayne couldn’t help how fond he grew of your sweet purs and quirks.

You’re disgusted by any vegetables he makes, you refuse to eat anything besides savory and junk food which annoys him to no avail, but he adjust to your dietary needs anyway.

Likes when you paw at his chest, you don’t like verbalizing your needs so you do that as a way of saying “I’m hungry.”

Invites you to permanently live with him after a month of searching for a home, he’s gotten so accustomed to you and admits he’d feel lonelier without your presence. Prepares a room for you which you spent most of your time in napping.

Zayne doesn’t realize how fucking sassy you would be, you once scratched his leg on accident (your claws were nonnegotiable) and he jokingly said “I should have let the catcher take you.” You flicked him with your tail and scratched him again. “Your jokes suck more than his catching skills…” you hiss before heading to his room and locking the door. Zayne had to sleep on the couch that night since you wouldn’t get out.

You absolutely hate when he smells like other people or animals or hybrids or- anything. The first thing you do when he’s home is hug him and smell his uniform. Unfortunately for you, he’s a doctor and can’t help how many people he’s around at work. You rub your head on his uniform to get the scent of them out and to make sure he’s covered in your pheromones… what if other hybrids think he’s fair game? Absolutely not.

Scratches your belly sometimes because he thinks it’s funny when you get annoyed by it.

Doesn’t bother buying any collars or cute bows for you, you won’t wear them anyway and you prefer wearing shorts with long sleeves.

You’re happy so long as he pampers you with attention when you do ask for it. He’s happy so long as you’re safe and content with the house.

Rafayel

Rafayel originally has no intentions of adopting a hybrid, his aunt convinced him after a long conversation about being lonely but being too damn stubborn to interact with any humans besides Thomas.

He was so indecisive, Rafayel truly hates cats, puppy hybrids are too energetic, and he doubts he’d even find a perfect match for him!

Rejects every hybrid by downright insulting them to their faces, most snarled at him but he brushes them off easily.

Rafayel notices the only hybrid with an expensive collar and aura in general, did you really belong here?

“She’s new, her owner passed away from old age and left her too pampered to live on ‘er own or work. She might be too high maintenance for ya’…” but oh! Rafayel thought you were the prettiest bunny girl to exist! Your large, fluffy ears covered half of your face as you slept on a pink bed. Your nose would crinkle randomly and you even sneezed yourself awake while he observed you.

“Do you wanna come live with me, little bunny?” Rafayel smiles at you as you rub your big eyes awake. Your face tilts in confusion and you blink multiple times as you stare at him.

“Do you have snacks? And a pretty bed for me? And I like getting my hair and fur trimmed once a month, and I don’t share my space with other hybrids- and oh! I need bows for my ears- none of that polyester stuff…” Rafayel grins as you list the demands you have for him, they’ll all be met with ease, he assures you.

Three hours later, Rafayel spends over a thousand dollars on your outfits at the mall and buys you a new furniture set for your room. Insist on a king sized bed for you and overdoes it a bit, even by your standards. He buys you multiple collars too, and a new set of bows that match all of your new dresses.

Rafayel likes to scare you sometimes because you thump your leg on the floor rapidly and he thinks it’s hilarious.

Often has to lock the cabinets in the kitchen, lest you eat all of the snacks inside.

Tries to set you on a schedule but you just don’t listen to it. It’s nap time? “No it’s not, Rafie! I wanna keep watchin’ my movie!” You sweetly cry and flutter your lashes at him. Rafayel always caves in, unable to deny you your desires.

Rafayel feels a sense of satisfaction knowing that he can provide for you and flaunt how happy his darling is, often takes you to his gala’s if you’re comfortable but keeps you home for the most part.

You like watching him paint! You sniff a lot of his materials and try to guess what the colors originate from.

Has tags on all of your collars that range from “Rafie’s bunbun” to “Rafayel’s cumbunny.”

He spends most of his time at home with you, unable to bear the thought of leaving you for more than an hour.

Probably makes you more spoiled than you were before, he doesn’t bother keeping you in check because there’s no point! He knows when to put you in your place though. Gives you a nice smack on your ass when you need to chill out.

Sylus

Sylus had absolutely no intentions of adopting a hybrid, he’s never even been to an adoption center!

He finds you one evening in an alleyway while he’s driving home. There’s a large gash on your shoulder and more blood on the concrete than in your system. You let out a pitiful growl before you pass out, and he lets a moment of weakness dictate his following moves. Sylus has no reason to help you, he’s seen plenty of street rats die in the N109 Zone, maybe it was your puppy eyes that convinced him before you fainted, but he’d never admit that.

You wake up two days later in a dark room with two demons…? staring at you. If you had the energy, you’d bark at them but the most you can do is muster up a faint growl as one of them tries to pet your ears.

“Come on, pup! We got rid of all the fleas in your ears, maybe the boss will let us keep you!” One of them tries to calm you, but his words stress you out behind belief. Keep you? As a pet? Absolutely not. Adrenaline floods your system and you flip your mattress over with what little strength you have left and shrink down in a corner.

Stylus hears the twins scream from a few rooms over and goes to investigate, turns out you bit into Luke’s hand and refused to let go. You definitely drew some blood too, making him chuckle. He has to use his evol to force you to let go, and the twins run out of your room. “Don’t worry, I have no intentions of keeping you past next week, I’m only waiting until you’ve healed from your infection and cut.” He assures, but it doesn’t calm you either.

An hour later, he comes back to your room with a meal on a tray, placing it on the desk by your bed and leaving promptly. You stare at the food for a good five minutes, skeptical of it but too starved to care. You’ve never had your own steak or baked potato before… you caved and chewed everything slowly at first, but ravaged through it in less than five minutes. You’ve never felt so stuffed in your life… was there more? But you’d have to ask the demon twins or the man with the deep voice for more…

Sylus comes back thirty minutes later and he’s surprised, it looks like you’ve even licked the plate clean. “Do you want more?” He ask, picking up the tray as you meekly nod in reply. When he comes back (this time with two stakes instead of one) he notices how your tail wags once you smell your food. You must have had horrible access to food before if receiving seconds made you feel this excited. You don’t eat in front of him, you stare at your plate until he finally leaves and resume your feast.

You have a horrible attention span, everything and anything distracts you from what he’s saying. Sylus tried to explain that you needed another shot for your infection and that he wasn’t trying to hurt you, but the sound of Kieran and Luke playing video games distracted you so much you barked at him when he injected you with your meds.

After three days, you grow accustomed to eating as much as you want when you want, so much so that you begin to understand why other hybrids allow themselves to be adopted. You’ll be gone in Less than a week, so you began to eat less and less as time passes, not wanting your body to get used to the luxury of three meals a day.

Sylus notices how little you eat now, you barely touch your food anymore and never whine for seconds. You explain to him that you’re never sure of your next meal, so it’s best to stay accustomed to a low food intake.

He ask if you’d like someone to adopt you, but you deny it quickly; you didn’t want someone to control your life, and humans are inherently evil to you anyway. You’ve dealt with too many human men on the streets to feel safe around them again.

You insist it’s fine, you’re used to the streets and danger of the city, but Sylus doesn’t buy it.

He offers you an extension at the base, so long as you’re nice to the twins and don’t ruin any furniture (and shower daily). You were so close to denying it when your tail began to wag.

He insist once he sees how happy it makes you, and you share your first meal with him that night.

He lets you order all of your clothes online, you grow used to finding something cute in your size and immediately hitting ‘add to cart.’

The twins grow on you after a bit, but Luke still keeps his distance from you at times.

Sylus doesn’t realize how chatty you are until you’re comfortable around him. He enjoys how you blather on about the most minuscule things that caught your attention while he was gone.

Sometimes gets a bit tired from all of your talking and he scratches the back of your ears. You whine for more scratches and let out moans of enjoyment instead.

You’re afraid of thunderstorms, horribly so. You woke up everyone at the base one night, howling from the loudness of it all. Sylus invites you into his room and you cuddle against him throughout the night.

Adores how much you begin to fill out after living with them for a few months, you were starved before and now you’ve gained weight and seem much less depressed.

You always always run to the entrance once you hear him come in after a long day of business killing people, you throw yourself at him and embrace him in a tight hug.

Calls you ‘kitten’ at times just to make you angry, it’s cute when you growl at him.

Caleb

He first sees you at a dinner party with one of his coworkers, some lieutenant he never bothered learning the name of. It’s quite common for humans and hybrids to date, so it’s not surprising to see you there.

You’re collared and wearing a stunning black slit dress, emphasizing your curves and hiding your tail. Most of your features were hidden in one way or another; your hair covered your ears while your spots were hidden by makeup. The only things that stuck out were your horns, besides that he would have mistaken you for a regular human.

You were such a shy little thing, you didn’t speak to anyone besides your lieutenant what’s his fuck and avoided looking most people in the eye. A few days later, Caleb overhears your owner talking about how dumb you are to a few higher ups, saying you’re barely worth the hassle but you’re too afraid of any repercussions to leave him.

The next dinner, you’re left alone on a balcony while your owner entertains a few others inside and Caleb approaches you. You avoid his soft gaze and pretend not to hear his voice when he says hello to you. Finally makes you giggle when he ask “Does Lieutenant Headass not let you talk to anyone?”

You’ve never heard anyone insult him before! And you thought he’d tattle on you for laughing but you never hear of the instance again. The next dinner you’re at you meet him out on the balcony again, this time more willing to speak.

“Come on, I don’t even like ‘em. I’m surprised you put up with his shit in the first place, you know he talks about you behind your back?” He informs in the middle of a conversation about why the hell you stick around with him.

“That’s fine, he can say whatever he wants as long as I don’t get sent back to a shelter or farm.” You shrug, “I’d rather put up with his antics than be sent back there…” you mumble, looking away solemnly. When you turn away from him, Caleb notices a makeup covered spot on you that’s never been there before (has he already memorized where your spots are? Probably). He grabs ahold of your hand and you panicked for a moment. “Don’t… don’t do that. I can’t risk him seeing.” You warn as you let go of him. He hurts you, it’s obvious to him now, but how much worse is the treatment you received in shelters if you deal with being hit?

The next day, your owner’s been killed in a freak accident during a flight. No one could have foreseen the tragic death of him, and Caleb makes his way to his house (he’s definitely looked into all of his personal information at this point) to check on you.

You’re sobbing and panicking when you open the door, but not for the reasons that Caleb thought. You’ll be sent back to a hybrid farm without an owner, it’s unfortunate but hybrid systems were much crueler to cow girls than they were to most others.

“Don’t worry, you can always come live with me. My penthouse has plenty of space for you.” Caleb warmly offers while you stand in shock. What luck did you run into? What did you do to deserve this generosity…?

You move in immediately with him and Caleb is absolutely enamored with you. You stopped covering your spots on your skin and always wear clothes that let your tail flick around. You pierced your ears and got a septum ring too, both suited you well.

You’re so grateful for Caleb, you don’t even notice how clingy and obsessive he is. If he points out one of your habits you weren’t aware of you don’t think of it as odd or creepy. To you, Caleb is a savior who took you away from a life of misery and uncertainty.

He burns your old collars and buys you new pastel ones, always buys you light colors because you look prettiest in them.

You cried one time when Caleb made hamburgers and he never made them again afterwards

He likes to kiss your spots, even tries to name a few of them.

Likes to grab you by your hips too, sometimes a bit harsh so you’ll let out a precious little ‘moo!’

No one questions when you begin to show up at dinners with Caleb, no one wants to question the Colonel to begin with. Most of them don’t recognize you anyway, Caleb isn’t ashamed of your marks or features so he never covers them.

[lilirae00]

Home Court Advantage

Paige x Azzi

Word count: 2.5k

Warnings: fluff, sexual content 18+

a/n: I couldn’t get this future reunion out of my head so here it is. Here’s to hoping summer workouts finish up so our girls can be reunited. Please remember these are fictional stories inspired by real life people.

———

The sun was setting low over the Dallas skyline, painting the city in soft gold and peach hues. Paige stood at her apartment window, her arms crossed as she watched the light slip down behind the buildings. The air was still warm from the day’s heat, but she felt a cold jitter in her chest—the good kind. The nervous kind.

Azzi was landing in less than an hour.

Paige hadn’t seen her in person since that night two weeks ago at the Mystics game. The night they’d tangled themselves up in each other until all the space that had stretched between them for too long finally disappeared. Since then, they’d been counting down every day, every practice, every FaceTime call, and every sleepy “I miss you” text.

Now, it was down to minutes.

Paige didn’t even notice she was pacing until her socked feet were nearly burning from the friction of the hardwood floor. She looked down and laughed at herself. “Get it together,” she muttered, tugging a hand through her messy bun. Then, just as she reached for her phone to check the time again, it buzzed.

Azzi: landed, in the uber now 💗

Paige’s heart stuttered.

———

The knock on the door was soft.

Paige flung it open before the second knock could land. There she was. Azzi, in black joggers, white sneakers, and a navy UConn hoodie three sizes too big, probably Paige’s. Her curls were piled on top of her head in a lazy bun. She looked tired—but radiant.

They stood there, just looking at each other, both suddenly still.

Then Azzi dropped her duffel and launched herself forward. Paige caught her mid-jump, arms wrapping around her waist, holding her like something precious.

“You’re here,” Paige breathed into Azzi’s shoulder.

“I’m here,” Azzi whispered back, her voice shaky with emotion. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

Paige pulled back just enough to kiss her. It started soft—like a homecoming—but quickly deepened, months of distance collapsing into a single, desperate breath. Paige’s hands found Azzi’s face, her waist, her hips. Azzi tugged at the hem of Paige’s tank top like she wanted to crawl under her skin and stay there.

Eventually, they pulled apart just long enough to stumble inside, laughing breathlessly.

———

Later, after pizza boxes had been tossed and the sun had disappeared completely, the two lay curled up on Paige’s oversized sectional, limbs tangled, a soft throw blanket half-draped over them.

Azzi was nestled between Paige’s legs, her back resting against her chest, their fingers loosely intertwined. The TV played some old rom-com on mute, but neither was watching.

“You know,” Azzi murmured, tilting her head to look up at her, “I thought being apart would get easier.”

Paige’s fingers paused mid-stroke through Azzi’s curls. “Did it?”

“Nope,” Azzi said, turning fully in her arms. “It sucked every day.”

Paige smiled, brushing her nose against Azzi’s. “I feel like I kept it together for like, the first three days. And then I turned into a clingy mess.”

“Same.” Azzi traced patterns on Paige’s forearm. “I missed everything about you. Your smell. Your dumb TikToks. The way you complain about oatmeal like it’s a personal betrayal.”

“Oatmeal is dry paste pretending to be food.”

Azzi laughed. “There she is.”

There was a pause, filled with the quiet hum of the city outside.

Then Paige leaned in and kissed her slowly. Less fire, more gravity. Azzi melted into it with a sigh.

“You’re really staying?” Paige asked softly.

“I’m really staying,” Azzi confirmed, brushing a thumb across her jaw. “Workouts are here now, and I’m with you. No more two-week stretches. No more FaceTimes before bed instead of the real thing.”

Paige leaned back just enough to study her. “Good. Because I wasn’t kidding about needing you here. Like… actually needing you.”

Azzi pressed her forehead to Paige’s. “You have me. For real. I’m yours, remember?”

Paige nodded, and then grinned. “Good. Because I bought you something.”

Azzi’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Is it another jersey?”

Paige jumped up and disappeared into the bedroom. When she returned, she was holding something behind her back.

“Okay, don’t laugh,” she said.

“I’m already laughing.”

Paige pulled out a hanger. On it was a Wings jersey, custom stitched, with the name “Azzi” on the back and a tiny heart embroidered inside the number five.

Azzi’s face split into a grin. “You didn’t.”

“I did,” Paige said proudly. “Because if you’re gonna wear someone’s name, it’s gonna be your own. Right next to mine.”

Azzi took it from her hands like it was fragile. “This is… actually perfect.”

She stood and slowly pulled the jersey over her hoodie, letting it hang oversized off one shoulder. “How do I look?”

“Like you’re mine,” Paige said without hesitation.

Azzi walked over and straddled Paige’s lap, arms wrapping around her neck. “Damn right.”

Azzi’s mouth found Paige’s again, but this time there was no teasing, no restraint—just heat. She shifted in Paige’s lap, hips brushing, and Paige let out a quiet groan as her hands settled at Azzi’s waist, gripping tightly.

“You feel so good,” Paige murmured against her lips, tugging the jersey up just enough to get her hands under it.

Azzi leaned back slightly and peeled it off, tossing it to the couch beside them. She was still wearing the hoodie underneath, but even that felt like too much.

“Take it off,” Paige whispered, hands already sliding beneath the hem. Azzi didn’t need to be asked twice—she reached behind her neck, pulled it off in one motion, and let it fall to the floor. Underneath, she wore a sports bra that Paige immediately tugged upward.

“God, I missed you,” Paige said as her hands slid up Azzi’s back, pulling her in. She buried her face in Azzi’s neck, kissing the spot just below her ear, feeling the way Azzi shivered in her arms.

“I missed this,” Azzi whispered. “Missed you touching me like this. Like I’m the only thing in the world.”

“You are,” Paige said honestly, her hands sliding over the curve of Azzi’s back, thumbs brushing beneath the band of the sports bra before finally pulling it over her head and letting it drop between them. She leaned back just a little to take her in.

Azzi was breathing hard, her eyes dark with want. “Are you gonna keep staring at me or…?”

“Don’t rush me,” Paige grinned. “You’re too pretty not to look at.”

Azzi blushed—then grabbed Paige by the front of her tank top and pulled her forward until their lips crashed together again. Paige moaned, her hands roaming over warm skin, tracing the lines she’d missed for too long. Her thumbs brushed over Azzi’s nipples, and she felt the sharp inhale her girlfriend took in response.

Paige broke the kiss just long enough to murmur, “Bed. Now.”

Azzi stood, taking Paige’s hand and pulling her with her down the short hallway into the bedroom. The second the door shut behind them, Paige turned her and pressed her gently up against the wall.

She kissed down Azzi’s collarbone, down her chest, taking her time. She sucked gently at the skin just above her breast, leaving the kind of mark that wouldn’t be visible in a jersey—but Paige would know it was there.

Azzi gasped as Paige dropped to her knees, fingers trailing down the waistband of her joggers. She looked up, waiting.

Azzi nodded, breathless. “Please.”

Paige tugged the joggers and underwear down in one motion, letting them pool at Azzi’s ankles before pressing a kiss to her hipbone, then the inside of her thigh.

“Paige,” Azzi breathed, threading her fingers through Paige’s hair. “I need—”

“I got you, baby.”

“You’re so wet for me already,” Paige whispered, voice rough against Azzi’s skin.

Azzi nodded, breathless. “I’ve been like this since the airport.”

Paige grinned and kissed Azzi’s belly button, then the soft skin just beneath it. “That right?”

Paige leaned down further and kissed her center softly, then again, slower. She felt Azzi’s legs tremble as her hands found the back of Paige’s head, holding her close. Paige licked long, teasing strokes until Azzi was squirming, then focused her tongue on exactly where she knew Azzi needed it.

“Oh my God—yes—” Azzi gasped, head falling back against the wall.

Paige reached up with one hand to grip her waist, the other sliding between Azzi’s thighs to help her stay steady. She loved how responsive Azzi was—how every moan, every shake, every soft plea was like a song only Paige got to hear.

When Azzi’s legs started to give out, Paige stood and caught her, lifting her easily and carrying her to the bed. She laid her down gently, kissing her along the way.

Azzi pulled her in by the shirt. “Now you,” she whispered.

Paige stripped off her tank top and shorts, climbing over Azzi with a hunger that had been simmering for weeks.

Their bodies found a rhythm immediately—hands tangled in hair, mouths never far apart. Paige pressed herself against Azzi, their bare skin brushing, and both of them gasped.

“I love you,” Azzi said into her shoulder, clutching her tight.

Paige kissed her neck, her cheek, her lips. “I love you too.”

Azzi’s lips were parted, her chest rising and falling fast, but she didn’t look away either. The air between them was charged—thick with all the tension that had been building for weeks.

“God, I missed you,” Paige murmured as she leaned down to kiss her again, slow and deep.

Her hands roamed Azzi’s body—over soft curves and strong muscle, committing every detail to memory like she hadn’t already done it a hundred times. She kissed her way down Azzi’s neck, sucking gently at the spot just below her jaw until she felt Azzi twitch beneath her.

Paige’s hand slid down between Azzi’s legs, brushing over her center—wet and aching. Azzi inhaled sharply, her hips jerking forward at the contact.

“Paige,” Azzi said, a whine already lacing her voice. “Please.”

Paige loved when she begged. Not because she liked control—but because it meant Azzi trusted her with that vulnerability. Trusted her to take care of her, to give her what she needed.

She kissed down Azzi’s stomach, then lower, settling between her thighs. Azzi opened for her without hesitation, spreading her legs wide across the sheets.

Paige brushed her mouth over her again—just once, light as a feather—and watched as Azzi’s back arched, a low moan slipping from her lips.

Then she licked her properly—slow, deliberate, pressing her tongue against Azzi’s folds and sliding through her soaked heat.

“Fuck—” Azzi gasped, fingers threading tightly into Paige’s hair.

Paige groaned at the taste, anchoring her hands on Azzi’s hips as she started to move her tongue with purpose. She licked in slow, deep strokes, circling her clit every few passes, drawing out a string of high, broken moans.

Azzi was already close—Paige could feel it in the way her thighs trembled, the way her hips rolled up to meet her mouth. But Paige wasn’t ready to let her fall just yet.

She slowed, pulling back slightly. Azzi whimpered, hips chasing the contact.

“Not yet,” Paige said, voice low. “Wanna make this last.”

She slid two fingers inside her, feeling Azzi’s walls clench tight around them as she pumped slowly. At the same time, she leaned back in, flicking her tongue over her clit in fast, steady strokes.

“Paige—oh my God—” Azzi cried out, hands gripping the sheets now.

“That’s it,” Paige murmured against her. “Let go, baby. I got you.”

Azzi came hard, her thighs clamping around Paige’s head, her whole body shaking as the orgasm tore through her. Paige didn’t stop—slowed just enough to let her ride it out, kissing her through every wave of it until Azzi collapsed against the bed, boneless and gasping.

Paige pressed a final kiss to her inner thigh, then crawled back up her body, resting on her elbows so their faces were just inches apart.

“You okay?” she whispered.

Azzi nodded, dazed. “You just wiped me off the face of the earth.”

Paige chuckled and kissed her softly. “Not done yet.”

She reached down, grabbing Azzi’s thigh and guiding it around her own hip, pressing their bodies together—wetness meeting wetness, skin on skin.

Azzi’s eyes fluttered open, and Paige could see the fire starting to return.

“Ride me,” Paige said.

Azzi didn’t need to be asked twice. She flipped them over smoothly, straddling Paige with practiced ease, her thighs already slick and shining in the low light. Paige looked up at her in awe—completely bare, flushed, glowing.

“God, you’re unreal,” she whispered.

Azzi leaned down to kiss her, slow and sensual, before reaching between them to guide their centers together. She rocked her hips forward, and they both gasped at the contact—slick heat grinding against slick heat, everything desperate and perfect.

Azzi started to move, slow at first, hips rolling in lazy, wet circles that made Paige’s eyes fall shut. Paige grabbed her thighs, then her waist, holding her tighter with every stroke. The friction was everything—soft and intense and burning in the best way.

“Az—fuck,” Paige gasped, her nails digging into Azzi’s hips.

“I want you to come with me,” Azzi said, voice trembling.

“I’m so close,” Paige panted, lifting her hips to meet every thrust. “So close, baby.”

Azzi leaned forward and buried her face in Paige’s neck, moaning as their rhythm turned frantic. Every inch of their skin was slick, bodies grinding together fast and deep until the pleasure overtook them both.

Paige cried out as her climax hit, her back arching off the bed, pulling Azzi down with her. Azzi followed a beat later, clutching Paige’s shoulders, body writhing in her arms as she came again—louder this time.

They stayed like that for a long moment—clinging to each other, breath shaky and hearts pounding.

Azzi finally collapsed onto Paige’s chest, and Paige wrapped her arms around her tightly, pressing soft kisses to her temple.

Neither said anything at first. They didn’t need to.

They lay tangled up together, skin still warm, the room quiet except for their synced-up breathing.

Azzi’s body trembled beneath her, and Paige slowed everything down—her hands, her kisses, the way she held her. She wanted Azzi to feel safe in every second of it, not just wanted.

Their breathing was still heavy, but the urgency had settled into something quieter—deeper. Paige traced a slow circle along Azzi’s waist as they lay tangled in the sheets, bare skin warm against bare skin.

Azzi’s eyes fluttered open. “Hi,” she whispered.

Paige smiled and pressed a kiss to her temple. “Hi.”

Neither of them moved for a long moment. Azzi was curled into her side, one leg thrown over Paige’s, her cheek resting just above her heart. The soft rhythm of their breathing filled the quiet room like a lullaby.

Paige reached for the edge of the blanket and pulled it up over them, letting it cocoon their bodies in warmth. Azzi hummed softly, already drifting.

“You okay?” Paige asked, her voice low and tender.

Azzi nodded without opening her eyes. “More than okay.”

Paige kissed her forehead and let her own eyes close. There was no rush now, no countdown ticking down until one of them had to leave. No airport goodbyes or awkward time zones. Just this—soft skin, shared breath, the steady beat of a heart she knew better than her own.

For the first time in a long time, Paige didn’t feel like something was missing.

Azzi was here. She was home.

[bucketbueckers]

RECKLESS DRIVING

CHAPTER ONE

content: language, light alcohol use, the line between a slow burn and a fast burn is incredibly thin and cam and paige brought a ruler to measure it, unbelievably messy

wc: 6.3k

notes: super excited to start writing this for y'all 🫶 this has been in my drafts since february and im so happy that everything is finally falling into place for it. i will probably go back to eventually add a playlist but i was feeling very uninspired on that front sooo 😕 just know reckless driving by lizzy mcalpine and vibes by chase atlantic are the two main songs for this fic. i don't have as much of this prewritten like i did irp and i go back to class on the 30th so i have no idea what updates r gonna look like 💔 pls be patient w me but i love chatting w y'all so don't hesitate to send an anon 🫶 if i missed anyone on the taglist lmk, i still dont know how it works LMAO but i hope you guys love camille as much as i do (and as much as y'all loved tess) and as always lmk what y'all think and enjoyyy 🙂‍↔️

tags: @cowboybueckers @indigo491 @wnba-scotland @volleyballgirlsblog

Camille has always loved draft night.

There’s something so bittersweet, yet so impossibly exciting about it. She attended her first one in 2019 to support her Stanford teammate, Alanna Smith, who was drafted 8th overall to the Mercury. Cam was a rising junior when she heard Alanna’s name be called, when she watched her walk to the stage and pose with the jersey, when she realized just how monumental it is.

Draft night is one of those things that creep up on you. It’s easy to think about how long it takes, to sit there while the teams “make” their selection, as if they didn’t already know whose name they would be calling. In fairness, it’s a lot of sitting and waiting and watching highlight tape and analysts discussing the same things in different fonts.

She has great size, a true beast in the paint, they’d say. Or variations of, Her shot is clinical. The ball is through the net before you can get a hand up to defend. She’s dangerous in transition. A menace on defense.

Camille, honestly, doesn’t pay attention to that part. She pays attention to the people. That’s always been her thing. When she watched Alanna get drafted, she noticed the way her shoulders sunk in barely concealed relief. She noted the order in which she hugged the people at her table, the way she closed her eyes and held onto them a little tighter.

It’s bittersweet to know that the draft may take you far away from these people – your friends, your family, the teammates and coaches that held you up when everything had seemed so impossible. But it’s exciting, to watch these girls wipe away their tears, to hold their chin up and march across the stage like it was something they were destined to do as soon as they picked up the ball for the first time.

Cam likes that part where it sinks in. When they realize they’d truly been drafted to one of the most competitive leagues in the country, when the smiles come quicker than the tears. It’s that strong feeling of pride that keeps her coming back to watch these girls lift their jerseys.

Cam might not know a lot of them. She didn’t know Jackie well, or Phee, or Tearia, or Arike – but she stood and cheered as if they were her own teammates. Whether it was a conscious realization or not, they’d all had the same dreams of playing professional basketball. Draft night was something that just took them one step closer to that goal.

The 2020 draft was streamed online, and there wasn’t anyone from Stanford that had been selected for it that year, but Cam hosted a small, intimate watch party with her teammates.

And the 2021 draft? That one was hers. Her table consisted of her parents, Antoine and Valerie, her older sister Colette, and Coach VanDerveer. Her teammates filled the seats in the back and when Cam was selected first overall to the Dallas Wings, the room had exploded into an applause so raucous that you’d think Cam just scored a game winner.

She doesn’t think she’s an explosive player by any means. She’s calm. Confident. Dangerously consistent, known more for the leadership and poise that she brings to the court. At 6’2, she’s most comfortable in a versatile point-forward role, and while her offense is amazing, her defense is even better. Cam was the unanimous pick for the 2021 Rookie of the Year, so she thinks she might be doing something right.

Cam still went to the drafts. She greeted the new rookies, congratulating them and welcoming them into the league in a far kinder way than the other vets would (she likes to think she was preparing them for all of the Griner screens they’d get hit by). She made a conscious effort to prioritize the Wings rookies, knowing first hand how daunting it can be to go from the college season to suddenly being thrown in with the big dogs. It was less about networking and more about genuinely trying to make the rookies feel like they belonged.

It might be the younger sister in her. She’d spent so much of her life looking up to Coley – literally and figuratively since Coley was both three inches taller than her and somehow the coolest person she knew. She’s always a little bit in awe of everyone she meets.

To Cam, to go from being the one who used to look up to others to now have people looking up to her – that means a lot. It’s a role she takes seriously, even though Arike teases her about becoming the frontman of the unofficial Dallas Wings welcome squad.

Her rookie contract expired at the end of the 2024 season, although the front office had her in discussions for an extension. Cam wasn’t completely sold on returning. With a vacancy in the GM position, the head coach position, as well as the fact that Cam did not know what direction they were going in during the free agency period – okay, Cam might be hating a little too much. Dallas was her home, but things weren’t looking great, and she had offers from Atlanta, Connecticut, Phoenix, and Las Vegas.

Then Dallas won the draft lottery, which meant they’d get the first pick. Which unofficially translated to getting Paige Bueckers, which meant under the right GM, the right coach, and some good free agency moves, the Wings – hypothetically – wouldn’t suck as much. Insert new GM Curt Miller, then head coach Chris Koclanes – Camille honestly could not wrap her head around the fact that Curt passed on Lisa fucking Leslie for a USC assistant coach, but she was willing to give him a shot.

They would draft Paige Bueckers. The new staff promised as much. Through trades, they were getting Ty Harris, NaLyssa Smith, and DiJonai Carrington, and they signed Myisha Hines-Allen out of free agency. Despite a promising offseason period, Cam was sure she had her decision as soon as the lottery results were official. She signs the contract extension – just a one year deal given the new league negotiations – and that’s how she finds herself repping the Wings at the 2025 WNBA Draft.

“Camille Roman, as I live and breathe,” Rickea coos dramatically, and Cam grins as she allows herself to get swept into the interview. “If I had a dollar for every tall, Stanford baddie named Cam I knew, I’d have two dollars, which isn’t a lot but it’s weird that it’s happened twice, right?”

Cam nods solemnly as Rickea holds the microphone out for her. “Nai would kill me if I didn’t mention it, but for the record, I would like to point out that we are bad and educated,” she says into the mic, making direct eye contact with the camera.

“I know that’s right,” Rickea hums approvingly, before a slick grin appears on her glossed lips. “Emphasis on bad. Tell me about your fit.”

“Well, I just saw Kiki Iriafen walk by, so I’m feeling a little underdressed,” she starts, which makes Rickea laugh. Cam peers down at her outfit, pinching the fabric of her black bomber jacket modestly, pulling the lapels to reveal a simple white crop top. She’s wearing a pair of baggy black cargos that hang low on her hips, revealing toned muscle from hours in the gym. “This fit is a Cam Roman original. Uh, jacket’s from…my closet. Crop top also from my closet.”

“Are the pants also from Cam’s closet?” Rickea asks sarcastically.

Cam grins proudly. “These are actually from Coley’s closet. I stole them when I watched her play the Rise on Thursday – shout out to the Orlando Valkyries, by the way.” Then, with mock sadness, she adds, “In another life I’m a libero.”

“Still no luck convincing your sister to pick up a basketball?”

“Coley is unfortunately married to volleyball,” Cam replies, much to Rickea’s amusement. “I’m working on it, though! I keep trying to tell her that a Roman frontcourt would be nasty but she’s just not seeing the vision.”

“Dozens of WNBA players across the country just breathed a sigh of relief,” Rickea narrates. “Centers, your jobs are safe.”

“For now,” Cam interrupts.

Rickea nods in agreement, an unserious frown on her lips. “For now.” The two of them share a brief laugh before Rickea straightens up, eyeing her next interviewee from her periphery. “Alright, Cam, one last question and I’ll let you get out of here. It’s hard to beat the 2024 draft class–” Cam narrows her eyes at Rickea, who flutters her eyelashes innocently, although the both of them grin, “–but what are your first impressions of the 2025 class? What do you see from them?”

“Oh, energy,” Cam answers immediately, not having to think too hard about it. Rickea nods, listening. “I think this is a class that will surprise many people and will form the core of a lot of teams. Everyone jokes about their first ‘welcome to the league’ moment from a vet but I wouldn’t be surprised to see any of these rookies getting scrappy and giving that energy right back.”

Rickea’s grin is a little mischievous as she asks, “Any rookie in particular who might give you a run for your money?”

Camille smiles innocently, knowing exactly what Rickea means by this question, but she plays coy. “If I do my job right, then the league should be very scared of my rookies.”

Rickea thanks her, giving her a quick hug before she greets Georgia Amoore. Cam wanders around the orange carpet for a brief minute to say hello to some of the other rookies – Saniya Rivers, Hailey van Lith, and even Kiki again, who makes a joke about Stanford baddies that Cam can’t help but laugh at.

Cam doesn’t see the one rookie she’d spent the better part of the night looking for, which doesn’t shock her. She’s sure that Paige is somewhere outside getting hounded by photographers and reporters. Making her way through the room in which the draft is being held, glancing minutely at the crowd assembled and the families located at the center, Cam finds the backstage area set up for rookies to do media in.

Camille greets the workers warmly, accepting a Dallas Wings hat from one of them, and fits it snugly over her head. She gets dragged into a few media segments, answering more or less different variations of the same questions – What are you most excited for this upcoming season? Can you comment on the offseason trades? She even gets asked a less than subtle, Paige Bueckers is projected to be the number one pick tonight. What elements of her game set her apart from the rest of her peers? Cam answers that one with a response she’s sure she hand-selected from the Communication 101: Mastering the Art of Dodging the Question textbook, but everyone moves on when the draft officially starts.

Cam watches from a television set up in the back. The camera pans across a few of the draftees – Paige Bueckers herself, then Dominique Malonga, then further back to the audience where the entirety of the UConn women’s basketball team sits with their phones raised and wide grins on their faces. The sight makes Cam crack a smile, too, reminding her of her own draft where her Stanford teammates filled the audience to support her.

The commissioner, Cathy Engelbert, leaves the stage to await the Wings’ first pick, which amuses Cam because she knew they knew who they were drafting as soon as the draft lottery results were announced. While she waits, her phone buzzes, distracting her from the analysts’ commentary, and she glances down to find the team group chat alive with commotion.

Rike: Thank you God!!! 🙏🙏🙏

Maddy: Arike 😭

Nai: where’s the rookie welcome party

Already knowing that DiJonai is referring to her, Cam rolls her eyes, but angles her body towards the television to snap a quick selfie of her, Wings hat pulled low over her brow and the analysts discussing Paige’s game mechanics in great detail. She sends the selfie in chat, fingers flying across the keyboard.

Cam: I can’t wait for us to draft 2025 Rookie of the Year Sonia Citron

Lyss: girl

Lyss: be so fucking for real

Nai: oh i am so sick of ur ass

Cam grins to herself, not having the time to respond back. She slides her phone into her pocket and refocuses on the television screen as the commissioner returns to the podium. A hush falls over the crowd. Cam knows who they’re drafting. Cam knows that she knows she’s being drafted. Despite that, she can’t help but feel a flicker of nerves coiling low in her belly. 

Draft night is always a monumental moment. One rookie can change the future of a franchise forever. Just a few syllables spoken into a microphone and a jersey held up for the entire world to see can change a rookie’s life in seconds.

Cam is anxious – it’s a simmering, bubbling excitement that makes her want to hit the gym as soon as the last pick is called. The idea of playing with such an elite player — the idea of playing with Paige — makes her almost giddy, and Cam knows that she isn’t the only one on the Wings who thinks that.

They’d never had much of an opportunity to meet outside of the rare occasion in which Paige showed up to a WNBA game, or the summer she showed up to All-Star weekend. Cam was drafted the spring before Paige’s sophomore year so they’d just barely missed each other collegiately.

But now, Paige is about to be drafted by Cam’s team. Cam isn’t stupid. She knows Paige is a once in a lifetime generational player. She’d go as far to say that she’s their missing piece. Between Paige, Arike, Cam, NaLyssa or DiJonai or Maddy, and Myisha or Teaira or Luisa, they compose a roster that, under the right leadership, could genuinely go so far. And as much as Cam wants to win, she would love to do it with these girls right here.

Cam isn’t anxious just because she can taste the beginning of something new. Something promising – something that might turn this franchise around for the better. The anxiety reminds her of how she’d felt when she was moments away from being called number one, too; when the Wings had thought she was their franchise piece. And, sure, they had some success under her, but there was always just something missing.

Cam was a leader. She was the glue, but as good as she was at keeping things together, she could only stretch so far. She was consistent – maybe devastatingly so.

The thing about entropy is that chaos has to increase or remain consistent. The thing about Camille is that she’s not chaos. The thing about Paige Bueckers is that Cam knows she’s probably the perfect amount of chaos that will simultaneously set the league ablaze, stabilize it all at once, and make things just dangerous enough to fill their mouths with the addicting taste of adrenaline.

That is terrifying because the one emotion that burns a little brighter than the anxiousness is a fierce protectiveness. Paige is made for this, for the league, for the noise, for everything. She’s grounded in her faith and her mentality. She’s probably the most league-ready rookie in the entire draft class and that’s what makes Cam so fearful – because Cam was once hailed as the most-league ready rookie, too, and trying to pretend that she was almost killed her. Cam has lived it. Learned it. Grew from it. And as much as she knows that Paige is capable and can handle herself, Cam also knows that the stakes are so much higher now.

She’s not a stranger to it – the feeling of everyone constantly wanting more from you. Praising you when you have amazing games, downplaying your talent when you have decent games (yet uplifting other players and calling them generational for putting up the same numbers), wondering if your team had scouted wrong or made a mistake when you have an off-game.

In the league, it’s difficult to discern what is real – or who is real – when everyone wants something a little different from you, if you’re truly trusting the right people, if you’re truly trusting yourself.

Cam doesn’t want Paige to get lost in that. Not in the way she had when she was a rookie. She doesn’t fully believe that she’s ready for this narrative because no one ever is. There’s no amount of prayer, or media training, or support that ever truly makes you ready for it.

Being on top of the world is complicated because it’s so easy to forget who you used to be before you clawed your way to the peak. Before your fingers bled and scabbed over from the calloused rocks. Before every bone in your body ached, not because of the constant exertion it takes to stay up here, but because of a sort of exhaustion that calcifies in between your tendons and ligaments and buries itself in the soft tissue between your joints.

Being great is hard. Being great and being true is even harder, and all Cam ever wanted was for someone to tell her that she didn’t have to dive into the deep end just to prove that she could swim.

So when Cathy finally says the words, “With the first pick in the 2025 WNBA Draft, the Dallas Wings select…Paige Bueckers, University of Connecticut,” there is only one thing that Cam knows for sure:

This season is going to change her life. That thought doesn’t scare her as much as it should.

In retrospect, maybe that thought should have scared her.

Cam likes to think of herself as sensible. Level-headed. She’s always the voice of reason on the court when one of her teammates gets a little too heated trying to argue a foul call with a ref. Cam enjoys a good time, but she’s not reckless. She knows better. Her parents were both Olympians – she had eyes on her long before she picked up a basketball and the attention only grew when both she and Coley started getting recognized for their proficiency at their respective sports.

That’s all to say she was responsible. She knew how to play the game, how to divert the media, and what she reasonably should not be doing so she didn’t draw any unnecessary attention to her or her family.

Now, she’s realizing there might be some flaw in her otherwise immaculate decision making, because everything just goes downhill after the draft.

Paige Bueckers, the rookie of the hour, makes her way backstage, Wings hat tucked pristinely over her head. Cam can’t help but soften at the sight, unmistakable pride swelling in her chest – Paige’s smile is tender, a little loose, but her eyes are wide and excited. She almost looks like a kid on a sugar rush and it’s an expression that Cam knows well. It’s that expression that makes flying out to the draft every year so worth it.

Cam takes in Paige’s draft fit with a raised brow. She’s wearing an all black suit that sparkles in the light, and she bites back a smile at the exposed skin at her chest. “Number one pick in the draft and you can’t afford a shirt?” she asks teasingly.

Paige huffs, sounding more like a breathless laugh, and her eyes sparkle. “NIL ain’t what it used to be,” she jokes.

Cam laughs, too, holding her arms out, and Paige wraps her up in a hug. “Welcome to the Wings, rook,” she says softly, meaning every word, and she feels Paige’s entire body relax. When they break apart, Cam stuffs her hands in her pockets, bouncing on her heels, and Paige stares at her with something that might be an overwhelmed wonder. “Just so you know, I’ve been working on my rookie hazing rituals. Maddy said the tar and feathers were a hard no, but we all agreed that the first round of drinks are on you.”

“Oh, so I was just drafted for my Amex, huh?” Paige says unseriously. 

“Sorry you had to find out this way,” Cam responds, feigning sadness and trying not to grin. “I don’t know if we’ll have room for you on the roster, but maybe you could put those TikTok dances to good use and figure something out for halftime.” Paige stares at her unbelievingly before eventually, the corner of Cam’s lips twitch from the effort of keeping her face neutral.

The blonde’s expression melts, her shoulders relaxing with something like relief – like the Wings aren’t so unfamiliar after all. They’re already bantering like they’ve been friends for years. Paige is one of those basketball players that has a good working relationship with everyone, but the fact that friendship can come so quickly undoubtedly makes this transition easier for her.

“You’re not gonna take it easy on me, are you?” Paige asks, amused.

Cam gives her a gentle nudge with her elbow, her smile softening. “C’mon,” she says knowingly. “You’re a Husky. Something tells me you wouldn’t like easy, anyways.”

Something in Paige’s expression flickers, almost as though she hadn’t been expecting that response, almost as though she’s seeing Cam in a different light now. “I wouldn’t,” she agrees. Her tone is a little quieter, but her eyes still sparkle with that post-draft high, an excitement that doesn’t quite go away.

It’s at that moment that one of the media coordinators waves Paige over, wanting to run a couple segments and get some shots and interviews for the league page. Before the blonde can go, Cam rests a tentative hand over her wrist, stopping her, and when they meet eyes again, it’s like she loses all of her confidence.

She clears her throat, trying to find the words. She has a million statements at the tip of her tongue, but the one that comes out is, “I’m happy you’re here.”

Fuck. Even though Paige’s cheeks flush and her smile turns tender, Cam winces and sighs, because that was not supposed to be her opening line. “We all are,” she’s quick to correct. “You’re not gonna find a better group of girls anywhere else in the league. We’ve got your back, always. And…I know that you’re capable. You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t. But trust me when I say this transition can be difficult.” Cam bounces on her heels again, a nervous smile lighting up her face, her voice softening. “Just…don’t hesitate to reach out. Or ask for help. You don’t have to prove anything to anyone, least of all me.”

The both of them are silent for a moment. Paige studies her carefully, as if searching her features for something. Cam isn’t sure what she’s looking for, but she hopes her rookie can see the earnestness, the assurance that no matter what, she’s ten toes down behind her.

Then, Paige’s smile grows, unrestrained if not a little bashful. “Thanks, Camille,” she says, the use of her full name causing a matching smile of Cam’s own to appear on her face. “I really appreciate that.”

Simply, she nods, extending her arms again, and she and Paige fall into one last hug. The media coordinators are getting impatient now. They break away quickly and Paige starts to follow one of them further backstage, but she spins on her heel, a palm reaching up to stabilize the lapels of her blazer as she calls out to Cam. “Nike’s throwing an after party for me later,” she says. “You should come by. First round’s on me, right?”

Huffing in amusement, Cam stuffs her hands in her pockets again if only to give them something to do. She cocks her head a little, thinking it over – she has an early flight back to Dallas in the morning to speak at UTA, then she has an afternoon workout with a trainer. She knew she would be a problem if she stayed up too late partying, but when she takes in Paige’s expression, the slight confidence mixed with a strong look of hope, she finds that she’d never truly had a backbone to begin with.

“I’ll see you there, rook,” she confirms, trying not to feel too proud of herself when Paige’s grin brightens. Finally, she disappears around the corner, and Cam exhales sharply as she redirects her attention back to the TV.

Cathy’s just now returning with the selection from Seattle, stepping up to the microphone again, but all Cam can think about is her rookie. Paige had said that Cam wasn’t going to make it easy for her. Part of Cam wonders if Paige was aware of the fact that Paige wasn’t going to make it easy for Cam, either. All it took was one look, one hopefully asked question for Cam to change her plans entirely.

The scary part? Cam wasn’t even sure if she minded all too much.

The subsequent afterparty smells like spilled liquor, the heady undertone of weed, and the musk of sweat. Cam has to dodge a few dancing bodies when she finally walks in, tucking her jacket closer to herself so as to not soak in any of the sloshing alcohol, and she presses herself up to the tips of her toes to try to look for the woman of the hour. The lighting is dim, strobe lights flashing, and the music courses through every inch of her veins. She’s confident that she’ll wake up tomorrow morning with the sound of the bass still reverberating through her ears.

People in various stages of inebriation are packed tightly together, which makes it difficult for Cam to squeeze her way to the front, but she manages to make it through the most contested sections. When she reaches the front of the room, she finds Paige at the center of a large circle, holding a huge tray of shots in her hand, and she has a grin on her lips as she passes them out.

Her wings cap is tucked over her head – some things never change, Cam thinks – although she’s redressed in an oversized, white button down and sparkling gray dress pants. Cam looks her up and down, figuring out pretty quickly that the ensemble is a full Nike get up, which makes sense considering the sponsor of her afterparty.

Paige catches sight of her, her grin widening, and the circle of people surrounding her join in on cheering for Cam as she’s gently pulled to the middle, towards Paige. Cam flushes under the attention and rolls her eyes – although she’s secretly pleased by the reception. “You made it!” Paige calls over the bass, offering her a shot glass. Her expression is soft, not wanting to make an assumption about whether or not Cam drinks, but she accepts the shot glass anyways, clinking it against Paige’s with a teasing smile.

“Not sure if it beats staying in and binging whatever’s on the hotel TV, but I figured I should make sure my rookie doesn’t get too plastered,” Cam jokes.

“Your rookie, huh?” Paige hums, eyes wide and mischievous. “Didn’t know I was already claimed like that.”

“You need someone responsible,” Cam retorts. “Rike and Lyss are bad influences. Nai would dress you up like a Labubu.”

Paige laughs, and she and Cam throw back their first shot of the night – well, Cam can’t be too sure if it’s Paige’s first, but that’s neither here nor there. Paige takes her empty glass, sets it on the tray, then wraps an arm around her shoulder, pulling her flush against her body. Yeah, Cam thinks, definitely not Paige’s first shot, but she’s smiling in amusement as Paige calls for the attention of their little circle.

“Everyone, this is Camille,” she states. Then, glancing once at Cam, the hint of a smirk tugs at her lips. “My vet. Her drinks are on me, aight? No funny shit.”

“I think the drinks are on Nike–” someone attempts to say, but Paige raises her hand, cutting them off, and everyone around them laughs.

“Drinks on me,” Paige says again, just so there’s no confusion. She squeezes Cam’s shoulder as everyone dissipates. Her hand drops to the small of her back, guiding her through the room to the bar. “What you drinkin’?”

“Surprise me,” Cam responds. “I trust you. No whiskey or I’m gonna make your ass run suicides at camp.”

Paige grins, something like you think so little of me. She calls the bartender over and orders two Dirty Shirleys. Cam huffs under her breath, amused, and Paige nudges her with her elbow. “What happened to allat trust?”

Cam raises her hands in surrender. “No judgement here. I just respect the fact that you can stare a bartender in the eye and ask for juice.”

“Wow,” Paige drawls. “I see how it is. You buy a girl a drink and this is how she repays you.”

“You bought me a Capri Sun.”

Paige sniffs dramatically. “I always imagined I’d get my welcome to the league moment by running face first into an Alyssa Thomas screen. Never thought it’d come from being bullied by my own teammate.”

Cam laughs as the bartender slides their drinks over. “Are you always this much of a drama queen?” she asks playfully, tapping the sides of their glasses together.

Paige takes a long sip before she responds, her eyes slipping shut like this is the best thing she’s ever tasted. A smirk appears on her face as she says, with a shrug of her shoulder, “If the crown fits.”

Cam rolls her eyes, taking a tentative sip of her drink, too. And – okay. Maybe Paige was onto something, because it’s not that bad. Cam’s never been one for strong drinks, more of a lightweight than anything else. But these? They’re dangerous. Cam could easily see herself downing five of them without thinking about the alcohol content.

“Good, right?” Paige asks, not even bothering to hide her knowing grin.

“I don’t think you should worry about getting hit by an AT screen,” Cam states, which causes Paige’s brows to raise, unsure of where she’s going with that. “That big ass head of yours would just cushion the fall.”

Paige gasps dramatically, clutching her chest like Cam’s words have genuinely wounded her. “I’mma let that slide, Cam, just ‘cause I know you like me. I’m growing on you–”

“–like a fungus–”

“– and I’m your rookie,” she finishes. Cam can’t help but smile at that. “Aren’t you supposed to be nice to me?”

Cam tilts her hat backwards, and Paige swats her hand away as it messes up her hair. “I’m toughening you up for the real world,” she teases. “Veteran duty.”

Paige raises a lazy brow, something reminiscent of a challenge in her eyes. “So this is business?”

“Isn’t it always?” Cam retorts.

A slow smile spreads across Paige’s lips. “Aight.” Paige has a determined look in her eyes, one that Cam’s not quite sure she’s familiar with. But she doesn’t have the time to question it before Paige’s hand finds the small of her back again, leading her through a crowd that parts easily for the both of them. “First song of the night’s all yours. Figure it out, then we’re dancing.”

“Bossy,” Cam mutters under her breath, not expecting Paige to catch it, but she does.

“I know what I want.”

Cam huffs, biting back a laugh. She leans in closer to the DJ, yelling over the music already playing, and he flashes her a sharp grin as he works on transitioning into the next song. She lets Paige guide her back towards the dance floor, but when the opening lines of “pushing P” reverberate throughout the room, the blonde turns to her with an amused look on her face.

“You think you’re funny?” Paige asks, but her smile is loose, welcoming Cam into her space. Her eyes are dark under the lighting in the room and the low brim of her hat. “Or you tryna tell me somethin’?”

“Can’t tell you anything if you keep running your mouth, right?” Cam says.

Paige only nods, taking another sip from her drink, and the look in her eye makes Cam think that she’s just started something that she’s not sure how to finish. Between the atmosphere in the room, the taste of the drink on her lips, and the way Paige is embracing the party, Cam doesn’t think that she does want to finish it.

It’s easy to get lost in the music, in the heady scent of adrenaline, liquor, and victory in the air, in the way Paige leaves just enough space in between their bodies to make it look like she doesn’t want this. But Cam knows. It should be enough to make her back away, to make her remember that she’s the veteran and Paige just got drafted to her team less than three hours ago.

Cam has spent so long restraining herself, trying to be perfect in so many senses of the word. The perfect daughter, the perfect teammate, someone who maintains order instead of welcoming chaos. That lifestyle was safe. Comfortable. Secure. Stale. There’s nothing wrong with enjoying a party. Nothing wrong with celebrating a rookie who’s worked so hard to even be here in the first place.

For the first night in a long, long time, Camille isn’t really thinking, certainly not about things like the consequences of her own actions. She’s thinking about how much fun she’s having, even if it means accidentally monopolizing Paige’s attention. She’s thinking about how good her drink tastes, and when she goes back for her fourth of the night, she orders a second one, too, bringing it back to Paige, who’s sporting a pretty flush under the dim lighting in the room. She’s thinking about how promising this next season is, about the fact that they could genuinely go so far.

One dance turns into multiple. The drinks are flowing, the vibes are high, and she can feel the music in her veins. She can feel Paige’s eyes on her when she gets overheated, shrugging out of her bomber jacket.

Cam is loose, the liquor flowing pleasantly through her body, and when the night begins to wind down and Paige’s hand is settling over her back again, murmuring something about heading back to her room, Cam agrees – because why wouldn’t she? She’s warm all over, not from the alcohol, and she’s drunk and giggly when she slips her hand into Paige’s, their thighs pressed tightly together in the Uber.

It feels good – that’s really all she’s thinking about right now. And when Paige leads her into her room, her palm burning hot over her waist, Cam lets her pull her in, her lips dragging across her skin.

Things like consequences or repercussions are a tomorrow morning thing. Right now – all Cam is concerned about is whether or not her rookie is as good with her mouth as she is at running it.

Cam wakes to her alarm. She doesn’t need to see the time to know it’s freakishly early in the morning. She can feel it in her bones, in the way the exhaustion sticks to her like glue, the way she feels as though she’s only had her eyes closed for twenty minutes rather than the full eight hours of sleep she’s accustomed to. Her hand reaches out to where she’s sure her nightstand is, but she meets air. She fumbles through the sheets, sure that her phone is simply lost somewhere, but she comes up empty, there, too.

It’s not until she registers the warmth of a body against hers that she realizes how badly she’s just fucked up.

Paige Bueckers, eyes shut peacefully, flush on her neck, arm slung lazily across Cam’s bare waist – bare waist! – groans into her shoulder. “Turn it off,” she grumbles, breath fanning across skin. Cam freezes, feeling her heart begin to race and her mind spin.

She’s so overstimulated that she could probably scream. Paige’s legs are tangled with hers, the warmth of body lulling her into a sense of peace, but anxiety swirls in her gut and her alarm is still fucking ringing.

“Fuck,” she whimpers out loud, pushing both of her palms to her eyes.

This was not how the draft was supposed to go. She was supposed to be there to say hello to Paige and Aziaha and Madison and JJ. She was going to do some media segments, solidify her title as the Rookie Welcome Officer, and then she was going to take her ass back to her hotel room, take a hot shower and unwind. 

Camille was not supposed to get herself invited to Paige’s afterparty, let alone go to it in the first place. She wasn’t supposed to take shots with her, drink with her, dance with her (although as the previous night’s memories come back to her, she’s certain there was some dancing on her – okay, yeah, not the time or the place to get caught up in that).

Most importantly, Camille wasn’t supposed to fall into bed with her either. That’s kind of the reason why alarm bells are ringing in her brain, and it has nothing to do with the 5am alarm she’d actually set on her phone so she can catch a flight.

She just slept with Paige Bueckers. Number one overall draft pick, twenty-three year old rookie to Cam’s twenty-six year old senior, Paige Bueckers. The Wings’ newest starting point guard. Her rookie, who she’d claimed the moment Cathy Engelbert spoke her name into the microphone. Cam was supposed to mentor her, guide her, help her adjust to professional life so soon after the end of her college season. Camille was not supposed to let her stick her hand down her pants.

She’s so unbelievably fucked. Sure, she resigned, but she could still get waived. This could have detrimental effects on the locker room. Detrimental effects on whatever beginnings of a friendship that she and Paige were supposed to be forming in the middle of sticking their tongues down each other’s throat. Cam was so excited for the beginning of the season, but now, all she can think about is the fact that she’s probably ruined it before Paige even put her jersey on for the first time.

Paige murmurs something under her breath again. Cam, already in full panic mode, pushes the blonde off of her, sending her sprawling onto the other side of the bed as she rises to her feet. “The fuck?” Paige mutters, undoubtedly bothered as she fights for consciousness.

Cam has to fight a wave of vertigo as she scans the floor for her pants, where her alarm is still ringing. Finally locating them, she rips her phone out of her pocket and silences her phone. Slowly, she turns back to the bed, where Paige is staring at her with wide eyes, the blanket pulled up to her chest. “Oh,” she whispers, some sort of clarity returning to her expression.

Oh is right. Because both she and Paige just did something that Cam isn’t entirely sure they can come back from, and they have no one to blame but themselves.

[rooster-the-love-of-my-life]

Idiots At a Wedding pt.5

Summary: Pretending to be Bob's girlfriend in front of his family has to be easy right? Right..?

Pairings: Bob Floyd x fem!reader

Warnings: kissing, allusions to smut but no real smut, cliffhanger

A/N: I woke up horny and in the mood for some angst ok, don't blame me. Not proof read, we die like men💪💪 Anyways enjoy reading, and don't be a stranger. Also, this taglist is kinda getting out of hand, I don't want to close it but I really need advice on what to do.

series masterlist || part 4

Bob floyd made you silly in all the right ways.

The moments after your confessions was a whirlwind. You and him went back down for dinner thst night, pretending everything was just as it was before, but the entire time he was holding your hand from under the table. You were blushing and giggling like teenagers, stealing secret glances, making prolonged eye contact, making everyone around you sick with how in love you looked, how in love you really were.

When you went back up, you couldn't keep your hands or your lips off of each other. As soon as the door closed, Bob pushed you onto it and kissed you with such vigor and passion the you completely returned, by racking your hands through his carefully brushed blonde locks, messing them up with every dig of your fingers. It was only when someone knocked loudly on your door that you pulled away from each other, very reluctantly of course.

"Unfortunately you need you to go and pick up the bridesmades dress with Bob tomorrow. Jeff and I've got to run home and get some work done." It was Annie, yet again being the block to Bob's cock.

"What's so unfortunate about that?" Bob asked from behind the door where he was supposed to hide is messy, freshly snogged face.

"Why are you so red?" Annie questioned, eyebrows coming together, trying to figure out what was happing in her brothers childhood bedroom prior to her coming there.

"It's fine Anne, I'll go with him." You diverted the conversation, shielding him further.

"Alright, goodnight kids." She sized you up, smirking. "Use protection."

You gasped while Bob went red, if that was even possible, freezing at what he heard. Turinging around, you just laughed at his face, placing a kiss on his cheek and walking into the bathroom.

The rest of the night went by quick, you stayed up till one, talking, kissing, touching. You had to physically push Bob off of you and to the other side of the bed, so you could finally get some sleep. But even in sleep he found you, arms wrapped around you waist, legs tangled with yours, radiating immense amounts of heat.

In all the days you'd stayed with him, this was the first time you had woken up with him next to you and it had to be your favourite sight. For the first time since you had met Bob he had always shy and reserved and his posture showed that. Tense shoulders, always sat up straight, body always stiff. But now, as he snored softly he was at peace, not an iota of tension was in his body, and upon seeing this, you had made it your life's mission to let him stay this tension free forever and always.

You could have stayed in bed for the rest of your life, but your bladder had other plans. You tried to control it, but after a certain point you just couldn't take it anymore and stared shimming out of Bob's firm grasp. Even though you thought you were being very stealthy, your moving had woken up the man behind you.

"Stop it." He mumbled, pulling you in closer, if that was even physically possible, making you lose all the progress you had made. "Stay here."

"I've got to pee." You whispered, dragging out the last word, grabbing his hand and prying it off of your waist.

"Hold it." His hand wouldn't budge making you seriously judge your strength.

"Bobby, I have to go really badly. I've been holding it in for the past twenty minutes." You whined.

"Fine." He lifted his hand up and you ran to the bathroom. "But come back in two minutes. That's an order." Even in sleep army lingo didn't leave the lieutenant making you giggle softly.

"Sis yes sir." You saluted as you came out of the bathroom and moved your eyes to the sight that awaited you. His side of the bed was empty and untouched whereas yours was completely undone and the way he was lying on the bed left little to ho space for you. You leaned against the wall of the bathroom and admired Bob, eyes traveling up from his legs tangled in blankets to his back and then to his messy blond hair. You wanted to take a picture, keep this locked in your phone forever, but before you could, the rough, sleepy voice of the cutest man you had ever seen interrupted.

"You gonna stand there staring or are you going to join me?" The question was normal, but the country accent that it was spoken with made it much more alluring.

"Careful Bobby, your country is showing." You smirked, not moving an inch, wanting to make then man wait for you longer.

"Fuck, I love it when you call me that." He mumbled, pushing his head and hips further into the mattress. "Drives me nuts."

If you would have know such a simple nickname was having this effect on the man, you would have driven him to madness or confession by saying it every chance you got over the last year. The smirk never left your face, and you didn't leave your place.

"Sunny, please come back to bed." He begged, sitting up now, giving you a full view of his chest. "It's so cold without you."

"Says the human furnace." You snorted, pushing yourself off the wall and taking slow, calculated steps towards the bed. "You want me back in bed baby?" You coaxed, as he nodded his head and pouted his lips.

"Yes please."

"Always so polite and respectful." You neared the bed, knees touching the frame.

"Only for you." His eyes were fixed on you, watching all the moves you made, every breath you take. You planted one of your knees on the bed, hands moving in front, crawling over him.

"God, I love it when you neg for me Bobby." You whispered, a hands distance away from him.

You were expecting a reply or atleast a groan, but what you got was even better. He reached out and ulled you on top of his by your waist, holding you delicately as he leaned back. His mouth caught yours, pulling you into a deep kiss, lips moving slow, not trying to assert dominance or show off, just portraying all the love he had for you.

The way he drove you wild with just his mouth, you couldn't help but wonder what the rest of him could do. Feeling as daring as ever, you slowly moved your hips, dragging them painfully over his, making him groan into your mouth. You repeated the same movement a few times, getting bolder and hornier with each one, pulling soft moans from the man under you.

He pulled away from your mouth to try and regain his breath and control himself from fucking you right then and there, but you were having none of that. Your lips made there way down to his neck, pressing feather light kisses on his collarbone and all over the right side of his neck.

"You're a little minx you, you know." Bob managed to say in between his moans.

"And you love it." You replied, lifting your head to look into his eyes for just a second before continuing your attack.

"Oh, fuck it." He let go of any ounce self control he had left in him and grabbed your waist tighter, flipping you two over.

What was supposed to happen, was that he would now take control and show you around pound town. But poor Bobby forgot he was already on the edge of the bed, and all that the flip accomplished was sending you two out of bed and onto the hard ground.

"Shit, sorry. Are you okay?" Bob asked, landing on top of you, pulling the blanket down as well.

"We should take this as a sign to not have sex in your childhood bedroom." You giggled, as he dropped his head in the crook of your neck, sighing out loudly.

"We should probably get up before someone come to investigate." He pushed up from the ground, biceps flexing in the process, offering you his hand once he was standing. "M'lady."

You took it gladly, pulling yourself up in the least sexy way possible, with the goofiest smile ever adorning your face. If this was life with Bob, you'd want it in this universe and the next, till you lived out an eternity kissing and falling.

"Why thank you very much kind sir."

----------------

Even after much convincing and persuasive kisses, Bob couldn't get you to ditch the days plans and just stay in bed with you. Through giggles and soft kisses, you finally made your way down to the living room, to find Mary sitting there alone, watching tv.

"Morning Ma." Bob greeted her, with a with a peck on the cheek, much chipper than usual.

"Morning? It's ten already." She taunted, pausing her show, turning back to look at the two of you. "I'm not sure how they do things in the navy, but in my house morning arrives much earlier."

"You'll have to forgive us." You spoke. "Someone here didn't want to get up."

"Can you really blame a man for wanting to get a few more hours of beauty sleep in?" Bob flicked back his hair in the most dramatic way possible, making you and Mary burst out laughing. If someone would have told you that quiet Bob Floyd was this chatty and funny when he got comfortable with someone, you wouldn't have believed them, but here you were, standing in his mother's kitchen, laughing your ass of at something stupid.

"What time are yall going to go pick up the dress?" Mary asked, as you two were stuffing your face with waffles.

"After breakfast." Bob mumbled the reply with puffed up cheeks full of food.

"Don't talk with food in your mouth." His mother reprimanded and then turned to you. "I can wait for you to see the dress, it is so beautiful."

"I don't doubt it for a second. Lucy has implacable taste." You nodded, getting up to put your empty plate into the sink.

"Ma, I wanted to ask you something." Bob started. "Would you mind of we ate out today for dinner?"

"Oh, not at all. Where are we going?"

"Um... we as in Sunny and I." He scratched the back of his neck while correcting his mother.

"Oh I see." She smile slyly at the two of you, who were going red under her hard gaze. "Don't be out too late." She permitted, making you snap your head up and grin at Bob, who was already doing the same.

"Pick you up at seven." He winked at you.

"It's a date." You winked back, getting giddy at the prospect of going on a date with the man you had been crushing on for forever.

"Just one thing," Mary stopped on her way back to the couch. "There will be no hanky panky in my house at night."

"Ma!" Bob gasped, as you chocked on plain air. If only Mary Floyd knew what was happening just moments ago in her house.

"What?" She shrugged, still smirking.

Soon enough, you were in thr passenger seat, headed to the tailor's shop as Bob showed you around his hometown. The more of it you saw, the more you felt closer to him. You just wished you could do the same, but that was all you could do, whish, because there was no way you were taking him home, at least not in the near future. You arrived at the quaint shop, the door opening with a little ding.

"Hello, how may I help you?" An older woman popped out of the back of the shop and greeted the two of you.

"We're here to pick up a bridesmade dress in Lucy Floyd's name." Bob answered, closing the door he had opened once you were inside as well.

"Ah, yes. Mary said you'd be here today." She nodded enthusiastically. "I hope you don't mind me asking, but you are Robert right? Her son kn the navy?"

"Yes ma'am." He replied with a blush, he knew his mother was proud of him, he just never thought she would tell the entire town about him.

"I thought so. My how you have grown." She gushed. "And who's the lady may I ask?"

You opened your mouth to answer, but Bob beat you to it. "My girlfriend." He said proudly, grabbing your hand tighter. Hearing him introduce you as his girlfriend so proudly made your brain malfunction, because this time around, it wasn't a lie, and how you had managed to make it so in just a few days was beyond you.

"Aren't you a lucky girl." The woman teased and went to the back to get your dress out.

"Don't I know it." You whispered, grinning like a bashful school girl.

"Would you like to try it on once? See of we need to alter anything?" She asked.

"If you wouldn't mind."

"Oh not at all, come on back dear." She ushered you to the back of the and helped you out of your clothes and into the delicate floor length dress. It was the most beautiful piece of clothing you had ever seen, and upon wearing it once, you never wanted to take it off again. It hugged you in all the right places, and the back was just gorgeous. Few people could pull of the colour yellow, but you were sure anyone would look beautiful in this dress.

"Boy is he going to faint when he sees you." The woman gushed.

"Can we not show it to him right now? I want to surprise him." You asked.

"For sure. Why don't you get changed while I pack it up for you?" She smiled.

You thanked her and changed out of the dress very reluctantly. When you stepped outside, Bob who was leaning against the counter, mindlessly scrolling on his phone, snapped up his head.

"Where's the dress?" He asked, confused. "I thought you were trying it on."

"I did try it on and it fits like a glove." You replied.

"Show me then." He said, eager to see the dress.

"Nope, you've just got to wait till the wedding." You declared, as he whined.

"Come on Sunny, please." He pouted, pulling the same expression he did when he begged his mother for ice cream as a kid. The only difference was, his mother was more weak than you are and always gave in.

"No no. Put that pout away." You shook your head at his ridiculousness. "The wedding isn't that far away."

"Fine." He grumbled, but his frown quickly turned into a smile as your lips collided with his left cheek.

"There you go. You'll go crazy when you see her in the dreas." The woman came back out with a bag in her hand and a smile on your face. "Enjoy the wedding."

You thanked her profusely, complementing her skills and walked out the shop and towards your car. Bob tried peeking into the bag to get a look at the dress, but when you shoved him off a few times, he knew you weren't kidding.

After driving around the town for sometime, you went back home and lazed around the whole afternoon. If this was a dream, you never wanted to wake up.

---------------------

The night came quicker than you realized. While getting ready for your first date with him, you couldn't help but pinch yourself to see if this was actually happening or if you were hallucinating in the psych ward. Only yesterday, you were pacing around the room, ranting to your friend about how badly you wanted Bob and here you were twenty gour hours later, actually going on a date with him.

He had picked a fancy restaurant for the two of you to go to, somewhere close to home, yet for enough to give you the privacy you needed. Ever the gentleman, he had brought you flowers, pulled the seat for you and opened all the doors, making you swoon. You were waiting for your food to come, sipping on wine, when he spoke up.

"I can't believe this is happening. I'm going out with the girl of my dreams."

"The girl of you dream huh?" You were amused, and also giddy.

"Obviously." He replied. "I can't stress this enough Sunny, you're the most wonderful person I have ever met. The best person on this planet."

"Stop it, all these praises are going to go to my head and I'll be unbearable." Your eyes went wide to add some dramatic flare.

"Never." He scrunched his nose, smile never leaving him.

"I-I didn't get a chance to say this to you last night, but I really like you Bob. So much that the moment I met you, I knew there would be no one else in the world for me." You voiced. "I really, really, really like you honey, in fact I think I might just love you."

"I love you." Bob let out before he could stop himself. You froze at his confession as he stuttered, trying to cover up. "No I don't. I do. But I don't, not on the first date. But I do, but right now I-"

"I love you." You stopped his rant, gently placing your hand on top of his from across the table. "I love you too Bobby, on the first date and on every date."

Hearing this made him so happy he could burst. If it wasn't for the waiter bringing over your food, he would have leaped over the table and kissed you hard till you were thrown out of the restaurant. The night went by like a breeze, you said sweet nothings to each other with sprinkles of 'I love you' thrown into the conversation.

You should have known that life couldn't be this good to you, not with your luck. But in the haze of happiness, you seemed to forget all about it, and the universe reminded you in the most horrible way possible. You were sharing desert, almost about to leave, when someone called out your name, and the moment you heard the voice, all colour drained out of your face.

"What're you doing here?" The voice continued. Bob's eyebrows pulled together, trying to figure out how you knew the man standing behind you. You turned around slowly, hoping that it wouldn't be him standing there, but alas, it was.

"Michael." You closed your eyes, your worst nightmare coming to life. "What're you doing?"

"I asked you a question first." He replied sternly with a cold expression.

"I'm attending a wedding." The voice that left you sounded so foreign, so week, so scared.

"Who's?"

"Bob's sister's."

"Who's Bob?"

"I am." Bob spoke up, as you whipped your head to him, looking at him with an expression he could understand. "Sunny, who's this?"

You didn't want this to happen, not now, not ever. Michael had cut you out of his life years ago, and you had done the same. But as fate would have it, you two ended up under the same roof once again and it had to happen on what was suppose to be the nest night of your life.

You gather up whatever strength was left in you and spoke up. The words that left you were a total thunderclap to Bob's ears.

"He's my brother."

Taglist:

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[jareaufiles]

DRAWN TO YOU - e.prentiss x female reader

PREMISE: You, a younger artist, surprise your older girlfriend Emily Prentiss with a secret portrait you’ve spent weeks creating, capturing her as you truly see her — tender, strong, and completely loved. The vulnerability in that moment leads to a deep, intimate confession of feelings between you both. The emotional high turns physical, with Emily taking you to bed.

WARNINGS: established relationship, possessive dominance, cockwarming, face-fucking/deepthroating, intense size kink, pussy worship, filthy dirty talk, overstimulation, multiple orgasms (reader receiving), rough, messy sex, heavy breeding kink (explicit talk of filling, cumming inside, and owning reader’s pussy), intense orgasm descriptions, soft possessiveness/obsessive language (“mine,” “so tight for me,” “gonna breed you”), mild degradation (filthy teasing and verbal ownership), breast play (squeezing, biting, bouncing), cumplay (inside reader, on cock, implied cum dripping), explicit aftercare including bath-running, cleaning each other, dressing, and emotional tenderness post-scene, confessions of love, soft sleepy cuddling, and hints of deepening emotional intimacy.

WORD COUNT: 5.6K

A/N: requested ; hope this is what you had in mind ?! emily deserves to be cherished, istg

NAVIGATION

The morning light poured lazily through the half-open curtains, casting a warm, amber glow across the bedroom and catching in the threads of dust that hung suspended in the still air. It was one of those rare mornings where the world outside felt like it had forgotten about the two of you.

No buzzing phones, no early briefings, no calls to action. Just the quiet hush of an empty house and the steady, soothing rise and fall of Emily’s chest beneath your cheek.

You lay curled against her, head pillowed on her bare shoulder, the familiar scent of her skin wrapping around you like a blanket. It was a mixture of clean cotton, remnants of last night’s perfume, and something inherently Emily: warm, grounding, intoxicating in a way no bottled fragrance could ever hope to mimic. The steady beat of her heart thudded beneath your ear, and you closed your eyes for a moment, soaking in the simple, overwhelming rightness of it.

God, you loved her. Not in the careless, flippant way you’d loved people before, not in fleeting crushes or easy, uncomplicated flings.

No.

Loving Emily was a visceral, bone-deep thing. It lived in the spaces between heartbeats, in the brush of her fingers down your back, in the gruff tenderness she tried so hard to disguise with teasing and sarcasm. She wasn’t always easy to love; sharp-edged, guarded, fiercely independent, but she was yours. And you were hers. It was the only thing in your life you were ever truly, utterly certain of.

You lifted your head, watching the way the sunlight caught in the strands of her dark hair, the occasional streak of soft silver gleaming like threads of silk. Her face was softened in sleep, those usually intense, calculating eyes closed, lips parted just slightly.

You reached out, fingertips brushing lightly along the line of her jaw, and your chest ached with how much you adored her. Every hard-earned smile, every protective glance, every moment she let her guard down just for you.

And this morning, you’d finally get to show her.

For weeks now, you’d been working in secret. Stealing late-night hours in your studio, slipping away while she was at work or still asleep, pouring every inch of your love for her onto the canvas. You’d tried to capture her the way you saw her ... Not just as the commanding, intimidating Unit Chief with her tailored suits and her don’t-fuck-with-me stare, but as the woman who held you close in the dark, who made coffee for you half-dressed in the morning, who looked at you sometimes like you were the only thing anchoring her to this goddamn world.

You’d painted the curve of her mouth, the thoughtful crease of her brow, the warmth in those dark, unreadable eyes when she let you see it. Every stroke of the brush had been an act of devotion, a thousand unsaid confessions you didn’t always know how to articulate out loud. And now it was finished — waiting just downstairs in your studio, propped against the wall, wrapped in brown paper because you’d been too nervous to frame it before she saw it.

Your stomach fluttered, a mixture of nerves and excitement. You’d never felt this vulnerable before. Not with any of your work, and certainly not with anyone else. But this was Emily. If anyone deserved to be seen the way you saw them, it was her.

You leaned in, pressing a kiss to her collarbone, then another to the curve of her throat. She stirred with a soft, gravelly hum, her arm tightening around you instinctively.

“Mornin’, baby,” she murmured, voice thick with sleep, and you smiled against her skin.

“Morning,” you whispered. “I… I have something for you.”

Emily cracked one eye open, a crooked smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Yeah? And here I thought you were the present.”

You snorted, shoving lightly at her shoulder. “I’m serious.”

That got her attention. Both eyes opened now, still heavy-lidded but alert. She searched your face, reading you the way only she could, her teasing slipping into something softer. “What’s going on?”

Your heart thudded so hard you were sure she could feel it. You took a breath. “Just… come downstairs with me. I want to show you something.”

Emily stretched, her hand sliding down your back to palm your ass in a way that made you roll your eyes despite yourself. “Only if I get to fuck you after.”

“Deal,” you grinned, and she laughed, the sound low and easy.

You tugged the sheet around yourself and led her down to the studio, your fingers laced tightly with hers. The room still smelled like turpentine and oils, the canvas waiting against the far wall, the brown paper hiding it from view. You hesitated a moment, nerves making your stomach flutter.

Emily stepped closer, her hand cradling the back of your neck. “Hey,” she said quietly. “Whatever this is, I already love it.”

You swallowed, throat tight. “I’ve been working on it for weeks. I… I wanted to give you something that showed how I see you. How much I—” You broke off, shaking your head. “Just… look.”

You peeled the paper away, letting it fall to the floor. The portrait stared back at the both of you. It was of Emily caught in a moment of stillness, her eyes so impossibly soft, the faintest hint of a smile playing at her lips. The colours were warm, the light catching in her hair, the shadows wrapping around her like an embrace. Vulnerable. Beautiful. Real.

Emily didn’t speak for a long moment, her gaze fixed on the painting, jaw tight. Then she let out a breath, almost a laugh, and pulled you hard against her, burying her face in your hair.

“Jesus, baby,” she murmured, voice rough. “Nobody’s ever… fuck.” She cupped your face in both hands, forcing you to meet her gaze. Her eyes were shining, the intensity of her emotions barely contained. “I love you so goddamn much.”

Your breath caught, and you kissed her. Hard, desperate, every unspoken thing passing between your mouths. When you pulled back, you were both grinning like idiots.

“I just… wanted you to know,” you said quietly.

“I know,” Emily murmured, pressing her forehead to yours. “But this… fuck, sweetheart. This means more than you’ll ever understand.”

And in that sun-drenched studio, with the scent of oil paint hanging in the air and her arms around you, you felt it. That rare, precious, unshakeable kind of love. The kind people spend their whole lives chasing.

And it was yours.

Emily didn’t let you go for a long time.

Her hands were firm, palms broad and a little rough against your skin as she held your face, eyes locked onto yours like she couldn’t bear to look away. The kind of stare that made your stomach swoop, like the floor had just dropped out from beneath you, even though you knew damn well you were safe in her arms.

She’d always had that effect on you — even after all this time, still making your heart race like a teenage crush.

She thumbed softly at your cheek, her touch so tender it made your throat go tight.

“I wish you could see yourself the way I see you,” Emily said, voice quiet, a little hoarse. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

You smiled, tears threatening at the edges of your eyes, and you leaned into her touch, kissing the heel of her hand. “I think I do,” you whispered. “I feel it every time you look at me.”

Emily let out a soft, shaky breath, her mouth tugging into that half-smile you’d fallen headfirst for — crooked, a little self-conscious in moments like this when she wasn’t hiding behind her usual bravado. She glanced back at the painting, and her fingers curled a little tighter against your waist.

“I’ve had people try to capture me before,” she murmured. “Photographers. Sketch artists. Press at the Bureau. Nobody’s ever… fuck, baby, you made me look like someone you could love.”

Your heart twisted at that. How could she not see it? How could she not know that every inch of her, every sharp line and scar and shadow, was beautiful to you? That you’d never loved anything or anyone so completely in your life?

You reached up, cupping her jaw, making her meet your gaze again. “I do love you. Every version of you. The one you show the world, the one you hide from them, the one you only let out when it’s just us. I love you so much it scares me sometimes.”

That made her laugh, soft and almost wet around the edges. She ducked her head, resting her forehead against yours, and for a moment you just stood there in the quiet of the studio — the morning light turning the room gold around you, dust motes hanging in the air, the scent of oil paint and old wood thick between you. It was a small, perfect moment you wanted to bottle up and keep forever.

Emily’s hands slid down your sides, settling at your hips. Her thumbs rubbed slow, lazy circles against the thin cotton of the sheet you still had wrapped around yourself.

“I don’t deserve you,” she said after a long pause, so quietly you almost didn’t hear it.

You frowned, pulling back just enough to catch her expression. There was no teasing there now, no flirtatious smirk. Just Emily — a little raw, a little uncertain, that guarded part of her cracking open in a way it only ever did when it was just the two of you.

“You deserve every goddamn thing I give you,” you told her, firm. “And you always will.”

A beat passed, and then she kissed you.

Not like earlier. Not teasing or playful. Not like a good morning or a promise for later. This kiss was deep, slow, a little desperate. The kind of kiss that said a thousand things neither of you were entirely brave enough to speak out loud. You let yourself sink into it, fingers curling into her hair, the familiar scrape of her jaw against your skin sending shivers down your spine.

When she finally pulled back, her breathing was uneven, her eyes dark and heavy-lidded. “Jesus,” she muttered, brushing her thumb over your swollen lower lip. “You ruin me.”

You smiled, dizzy and a little breathless, heart hammering behind your ribs. “Good.”

Emily grinned, then hooked an arm around your waist and lifted you easily, making you squeal in surprise. The sheet slipped from your shoulders as she carried you out of the studio, her mouth pressed hotly to your neck.

“I’m taking you back to bed,” she murmured against your skin, her voice rough and low. “You gave me a fucking portrait, baby. I’m gonna give you the kind of thank you that makes you forget your own name.”

Your stomach flipped, arousal coiling low in your belly at her tone, but even as desire lit up your nerves, you knew, knew without a doubt, that it wasn’t just about sex. That with Emily, it never was. Every kiss, every touch, every teasing threat was another way she told you she loved you. Another way she let herself be known.

And you would give her everything. Always.

Because she was yours. And you were hers.

Emily carried you upstairs like you weighed nothing, one strong arm under your thighs, the other cradling your back. Her mouth never stopped working against your skin.

Soft, wet kisses scattered along your jaw and neck, her teeth occasionally scraping just enough to make you shiver. Your body was already aching for her, your cunt slick and throbbing between your thighs, the air cool against the mess she was about to claim.

By the time she laid you out across the bed, you were trembling, your skin flushed, nipples tight and aching, your pussy already sticky and glistening with arousal.

You lay there naked for her, legs slightly parted, the slick between your folds catching the light. The sensitive, flushed lips of your pussy were so wet it felt obscene, your clit peeking out, swollen and desperate for attention.

Emily’s gaze dragged over you, hungry and possessive. The way her eyes settled between your legs made you burn. She reached down, palming the hard length of her cock through her briefs — the thick outline impossible to miss. You knew how it felt, how it filled you, stretched you so deep you could feel it for hours after. She was big, thick enough to make your throat tighten and your pussy ache in anticipation.

“Goddamn, look at you,” Emily rasped, tugging her briefs down. Her cock sprang free — long, veined, flushed dark at the tip, a bead of precum already gathered there. She stroked a hand along it lazily, watching you watch her.

Your mouth watered at the sight. You reached for her without thinking, wrapping your hand around the base, feeling the weight of it, the heat of her skin. She let out a low groan, her hips twitching against your grip.

“You’ve got no idea what you do to me,” she muttered, leaning down to kiss you.

And fuck, she kissed you like she meant it. Deep and messy, teeth catching on your bottom lip, tongues tangling, a filthy, desperate kiss that left your head spinning.

Her hand slid up your body, calloused palm skimming over your breast, fingers pinching at your nipple until you whimpered into her mouth. She loved your tits, loved the way they filled her hands, loved the way your nipples peaked at the rough drag of her fingertips.

“God, these perfect fucking tits,” she groaned, leaning down to suck one into her mouth. Her tongue flicked over the sensitive bud before her teeth scraped against it, and your back arched off the bed.

“Emily,” you gasped, thighs pressing together instinctively.

“Uh-uh,” she smirked, pulling back. “Keep those legs open for me, baby.”

Your cunt clenched at the order. She moved her hand between your thighs, parting your folds with practiced ease, two fingers gathering the slick coating your pussy.

She spread it up to your clit, circling slow, watching your face the whole time. The sensation was electric, the firm pressure against your swollen bud making you buck against her hand.

“So fucking wet for me,” she murmured. “This pretty little pussy’s drooling, baby.”

She slid two thick fingers inside you without warning, your cunt stretching around them, the wet, obscene sound filling the room. Your walls clenched down around her fingers, your arousal dripping down to coat your thighs. Emily worked them in deep, curling just right to brush against that spot that made you whimper.

“Goddamn, you’re tight,” she growled. “Always so fucking good for me.”

Your hand found her cock again, stroking it slow and firm, your thumb swiping over the slick head. She hissed through her teeth, her hips jerking forward.

“Fuck, baby. You wanna taste it?”

You grinned up at her, biting your lip. “Yeah, Em. Let me suck your cock.”

Her eyes darkened, a smirk tugging at her mouth. She pulled her fingers from your cunt, making you moan at the sudden emptiness, and stroked them over your lips.

“Open,” she ordered.

You did, licking her fingers clean, tasting yourself on her skin. Emily groaned, her cock twitching in your hand.

“Get on your knees, baby.”

You slid off the bed, sinking to your knees on the floor as she stood at the edge, her cock heavy and flushed in front of your face. You leaned in, pressing soft kisses along the shaft, licking a long stripe from base to tip. She let out a low, wrecked sound, one hand threading into your hair.

“That’s it. Look at you,” she muttered, her voice rough, her gaze locked on yours. “Such a good girl for me.”

You wrapped your lips around the thick head, the taste of her making your pussy throb. You took her deeper, your mouth stretching around the girth, your throat working to take more. Emily groaned, her hand tightening in your hair.

“Fuck, baby, just like that. Gonna fuck this pretty little throat.”

You moaned around her, the vibration making her curse, and she started to rock her hips, fucking her cock into your mouth in slow, controlled thrusts. Your throat stretched around the thick length, your eyes watering as you took her deeper, the tip hitting the back of your throat.

The burn, the fullness, the way she filled your mouth — it was everything. You gripped her hips, nails digging in, letting her use you, your pussy dripping onto the floor as she fucked your mouth. The obscene sounds of wet sucking and her low groans filled the room.

“Jesus Christ, baby,” Emily panted, sweat beading at her temple. “You take it so fucking good. Bet your pussy’s fucking gushing for me right now.”

It was. Slick was dripping down your thighs, your clit throbbing, your cunt clenching on nothing as you let her fuck your throat. And you loved it. Loved the possessiveness in her voice, the rough grip in your hair, the way her cock stretched your throat so deep you swore you could feel it in your chest.

You looked up at her, tears streaking your cheeks, and she groaned.

“Fucking perfect.”

Emily pulled her cock from your throat with a wet, obscene sound, a thick string of saliva connecting your swollen lips to her flushed, aching length. You gasped in a ragged breath, chest heaving, tears streaking your face, your pussy throbbing so hard it hurt. She looked down at you, dark eyes blown wide with lust, her hand still tangled in your hair.

“Could’ve fucking came down your throat,” Emily growled, her voice hoarse, her cock twitching in her grip, thick and veined and so heavy it made your mouth water all over again. “But I want this cock in your pussy, baby. I need to feel you when I fill you up.”

Your cunt clenched at the words, a hot gush of slick spilling out of you onto your thighs. You scrambled up onto the bed, spread your legs wide for her without hesitation, your soaked pussy glistening in the light.

The lips were puffy and flushed, your clit swollen and slick, your folds shining with wetness. You could feel how messy you were, how open and ready, and the look on Emily’s face when she climbed onto the bed between your thighs made you whimper.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” she rasped, stroking her cock slowly, the thick head leaking precum. “Look at this perfect little pussy, baby. Begging for me.”

She leaned down to kiss you, sloppy and desperate, teeth catching on your lips. Her hand cupped your tit, squeezing roughly, her calloused thumb flicking over your stiff nipple. Your back arched into her touch, a moan tearing from your throat.

“God, you’re so fucking gorgeous, Emily,” you gasped against her mouth, your fingers clawing at her back. “So fucking perfect… can’t believe you’re mine. You’re so fucking beautiful.”

Emily groaned, pressing her cockhead against your entrance, and the stretch as she started to push in made your breath catch. She was big — impossibly thick, every inch dragging against your walls, your pussy stretching so wide you swore you could feel every vein, every throb of her cock as she filled you.

“Fuck, baby,” she panted. “Tightest, sweetest cunt I’ve ever had. Always takes me so good.”

Your tits bounced with every inch she fed into you, your nipples flushed and sensitive from earlier. Emily’s own breasts moved with her, heavier and firm, the soft weight of them brushing your chest as she fucked into you. Her nipples were stiff, pebbled, the curves of her tits catching in the light as she rolled her hips deep.

When she was finally seated all the way inside you, the stretch making your stomach bulge slightly, you whimpered, overwhelmed, your hands flying to her back.

“Em… oh my god, fuck… you feel so good,” you moaned, tears stinging your eyes again. “You’re so big, it’s so fucking good.”

She started to move, slow at first. Deep, dragging thrusts that made your pussy clutch at her, your clit grinding against the base of her cock. The wet, filthy sound of your cunt swallowing her up filled the room, your tits bouncing wildly with every thrust.

Emily’s grip tightened on your hips, and she fucked you harder, faster, the slap of her hips against yours sharp, her cock punching deep enough to brush your cervix. You sobbed out her name, your whole body trembling, your pussy clenching so tight around her she cursed.

“Fucking take it, baby,” she growled, sweat dampening her hairline, the muscles in her arms and shoulders flexing as she pinned you down and worked her cock deep inside you. Her tits bounced with every thrust, the full weight of them moving with the force of her body. “This perfect little pussy’s mine.”

You came with a sharp cry, your pussy spasming around her, slick gushing out to coat her cock, your body jerking beneath her. Emily groaned, not slowing for a second, fucking you through it.

“That’s it, baby,” she rasped, leaning down to bite your neck. “Give it to me. Fucking beautiful when you cum for me.”

Your orgasm left you dazed and dizzy, but Emily didn’t stop. She reached between you, her thumb finding your clit, circling it fast and rough. The stimulation made you sob, your legs kicking weakly.

“Em, I—oh fuck—”

“You can give me another,” she panted, watching your face. “I know you can, baby. Come on.”

The pressure built fast, unbearable, your whole body slick with sweat. Her cock was so deep, the thick head battering your sweet spot, your clit a raw bundle of nerves under her touch.

“I’m gonna cum again,” you sobbed, clawing at her arms. “Fucking—so good, Emily, you make me feel so good. Love you so much.”

Emily groaned, her hips stuttering, and you shattered around her for the second time, your cunt clenching so violently around her cock it made her curse. A gush of slick soaked the sheets beneath you, your body going boneless.

“Holy fuck, baby, holy shit,” Emily gasped, her pace rough now, desperate.

She grabbed your legs, throwing them over her shoulders, folding you in half, her cock driving impossibly deep. Her tits bounced with the brutal rhythm of her thrusts, sweat rolling down the valley between them, her hair sticking to her temple.

“I’m gonna fill you up, baby,” she growled. “Gonna fucking breed you. Stretch this pretty pussy out, make sure you’re dripping with me.”

“Yes,” you sobbed, barely coherent. “Fuck, yes. Please, Em. I need it, I need you to cum in me.”

Emily’s hips slammed against yours one last time, burying herself deep, and then she was cumming, cock pulsing hard inside you as thick, hot ropes of cum filled your cunt. Her face twisted in pleasure, her body shuddering, and she pressed her mouth to your ear.

“Te amo, mi vida,” she gasped, voice breaking. “Te amo, te amo… tan buena… mi amorcito… solo mía.”

You whimpered at the words, your cunt fluttering around her as you felt the thick warmth flooding your pussy, her cock twitching with each pulse.

She stayed buried inside you, her forehead pressed to yours, both of you breathless and wrecked, the room thick with sweat, sex, and the sharp, raw scent of your orgasms.

And in that moment, with your pussy stretched, stuffed, and dripping around her, your bodies tangled and trembling, you’d never felt more loved, more desired, and more hers.

The sheets beneath you were damp, twisted, streaked with slick and streaks of Emily’s cum slowly seeping from your still-sensitive cunt. Your skin was tacky with sweat, the ache between your legs a steady, delicious throb that made you clench down weakly around the emptiness she’d left inside you.

Emily lay half on top of you, her face pressed to your neck, her breathing still uneven, her skin hot and flushed. Her cock was softening against your thigh, streaked with your release and the mess she’d filled you with, and you felt the familiar tenderness creep into your chest — that overwhelming, aching love that always came in the aftermath of nights like this.

You pressed a soft kiss to her temple, threading your fingers through the sweat-damp strands of her hair. She sighed, the sound rough and content, and you could feel the weight of exhaustion pulling her down.

“I got you, Em,” you murmured quietly, your voice low and tender. “Just stay here, baby.”

Emily made a soft noise of protest as you slipped out from beneath her, your legs shaky, your thighs sticky with slick and cum, but you didn’t let it stop you.

You grabbed a warm, damp cloth from the en suite bathroom and returned to her, kneeling on the bed beside her languid, sated body. You wiped her down first, starting with her chest, where sweat clung between the soft curves of her breasts, her nipples still flushed from where your mouth had worked over them.

She groaned softly when the warm cloth skimmed over her cock, tender now but still so beautiful, her release drying thick against her skin. You cleaned her carefully, gently, reverently. The way she let you — loose-limbed and quiet, her dark eyes heavy with emotion when they met yours — made your heart squeeze.

“Let me take care of you,” you whispered.

She didn’t argue.

Once she was clean, you turned to yourself, running the cloth over your thighs, between your legs, flinching a little at the oversensitive drag over your puffy, swollen cunt. You could still feel her inside you, the heat of her cum leaking out with every shift of your hips. It made you ache, made you clench around nothing.

Afterward, you stripped the ruined sheets from the bed, the scent of sex lifting with them, leaving the room smelling faintly of lavender detergent and fresh air again. You moved quietly, efficiently, glancing over at Emily every so often where she lay, watching you with that soft, fond look in her eyes. The kind she only ever let you see.

You set clean sheets on the bed, fluffing the pillows, smoothing everything down. Then you padded back into the bathroom and started the bath — hot, just shy of scalding, with a generous pour of that lavender bath oil she liked even though she’d never admit it. The scent filled the room, steam curling up from the surface of the water.

You came back for her, tugging gently at her hand. “Come on, Em. Bath’s ready.”

She grumbled under her breath but let you lead her, and you helped her undress the rest of the way, the last of the sweat-damp hair tie from her wrist, her watch, the chain she always wore around her neck.

You kissed the inside of her wrist, her knuckles, the line of her jaw as you guided her into the water. She sank down with a groan, her eyes fluttering shut, the tension bleeding from her muscles.

“Christ, baby,” she muttered. “You’re spoiling me.”

You smiled, leaning down to kiss her lips. “You deserve it.”

You slipped in behind her, your legs bracketing hers, pulling her back against your chest. The hot water soothed the ache in your muscles, the scent of lavender settling in your lungs. Emily relaxed fully then, her head falling back to your shoulder, her hand finding yours beneath the water.

You stayed like that for a while, the world soft and quiet around you. Your fingers stroked over the curve of her stomach, up to her breasts, skimming the slope of her throat. She hummed at the touch, pressing lazy, damp kisses to your wrist.

When the water cooled, you helped her out, wrapping her in a thick, warm towel, drying her hair with another. She let you fuss, let you move her around, her usual stubborn independence quieted in the hazy afterglow.

You grabbed clean clothes. One of her old, soft cotton T-shirts for yourself, a pair of boxers and a worn, loose tank for her, and helped her dress. She smiled at you then, something soft and almost shy in her eyes.

“I fucking love you, you know that?” Emily murmured, her voice rough and warm.

“I know,” you said, kissing her slow, savouring the taste of her.

And in that quiet, tender, lavender-scented room, you felt it. Not just the aftermath of sex, but the kind of love people spend lifetimes chasing. The kind that settled deep in your bones. The kind that lingered.

You both climbed back into the freshly made bed, the clean, cool sheets a stark contrast to the heat of your skin. The air in the room still smelled faintly of lavender from the bath, mingling with the softer notes of the detergent and the lingering, pleasant musk of sex beneath it all.

Emily let out a contented groan as she settled onto her back, one arm automatically lifting to make space for you, and you wasted no time curling into her side, your head resting over the steady, comforting beat of her heart.

The warmth of her skin beneath your cheek was soothing, grounding. You let your hand drift over her stomach, fingertips tracing lazy, aimless shapes across the smooth plane of muscle and soft skin.

Little loops and spirals, following the curve of her ribs, the faint ridges of her scars, the tender dip of her navel. She was beautiful like this — bare and real and completely yours.

“I love you,” you murmured, the words quiet but steady in the hush of the dim room. Your fingertips drew a heart on her stomach before your hand stilled. “All of you. Not just the good, easy parts, either. The messy shit, the sharp edges. Every last inch of you, Em.”

Emily’s hand came up, threading through your hair, her fingers combing slow, rhythmic strokes against your scalp. She didn’t say anything at first — just breathed, steady and deep, the weight of her touch speaking louder than words.

When she did speak, her voice was soft and rough around the edges, like gravel softened by water. “I don’t know what I ever did to deserve you,” she said, and you could hear how genuine it was in the way her words caught slightly on the tail end of the sentence.

You lifted your head just enough to look at her, your fingers still resting against the warm skin of her stomach. The lines of her face were softer now, her dark eyes gleaming faintly in the low light.

You could still see traces of everything you’d done to each other written there — the faint flush on her cheeks, the sleepy weight in her gaze, the satisfied curve of her mouth.

“You deserve everything, Emily,” you whispered, leaning up to press a kiss to her jaw, then one to the corner of her mouth. “And you’ll have it. As long as you’ll let me give it to you.”

She gave a soft, almost broken laugh, turning her head to kiss you fully, slow and lingering. It was nothing like the desperate, hungry kisses from earlier. This one tasted like warmth, like home, like every promise you’d ever made to each other wrapped up in one quiet touch.

“I still can’t believe you painted that,” she murmured against your lips when you finally pulled apart, her hand brushing a strand of damp hair back from your face. “Nobody’s ever… no one’s ever seen me like that before. The way you do.”

Your throat tightened, and you smiled, brushing your thumb along the curve of her mouth. “That’s because no one’s ever taken the time to look.”

Emily let out a breath like she was trying to ease something tight out of her chest. “I swear, baby, that painting… it’s the most beautiful thing anyone’s ever given me. Not just because of how it looks. But because you see me — all the shit I try to hide, all the stuff I don’t say out loud — and you still look at me like that.”

“I always will,” you promised.

She pulled you in closer, tucking you against her chest, your cheek resting once more over her heartbeat. Her arms wrapped around you, and you let yourself sink into the warmth of her embrace, the clean sheets soft against your skin, your bodies fitting together like puzzle pieces that had finally been put back in their rightful place.

The room was quiet, save for the sound of your breathing and the occasional soft sigh as one of you shifted slightly. You kept tracing absent-minded shapes against her stomach, feeling the slow, steady rise and fall beneath your hand, and Emily kept her fingers in your hair, the repetitive motion enough to lull you toward sleep.

“I love you,” she whispered after a while, the words rough and worn, like something she’d been carrying around in her mouth for hours, days, maybe years. “More than I know how to say.”

“You don’t have to,” you murmured, your voice thick with sleep. “I already know.”

Emily hummed, a soft, contented sound. The bed dipped slightly as she pressed a final kiss to the top of your head.

And then the world faded.

Your limbs heavy and warm, the rhythm of her heartbeat steady in your ear, the press of her skin against yours, the scent of lavender and clean cotton all around you. Sleep pulled you under like a tide, and you let it take you, safe in the knowledge that come morning, Emily would still be here, holding you just as tightly.

[yestrday]

: ̗̀➛ NO BEDTIME TONIGHT ! yan! savanaclaw / gn! reader

ramshackle's finally turned into a heap of rubble. you saw that one coming a long time ago. what you didn't see is the harem of unsavory magicians trying to keep you confined within their dorms. (<- prev )

TW ! yandere behaviors, inappropriate behavior (ok leona), mentioned violence, subtle n*ncon (still leona), mentioned s*x work (ruggie), suggestive themes

Ramshackle might have been a dusty old mess, but at least it wasn’t as suffocating as Heartslabyul is right now. Sadists, the whole lot of them. And if they weren’t sadists, then lonely children projecting their mommy issues on you. At least Deuce was tolerable. Sort of.

So Jack whisking you away to Savanaclaw was a sort of blessing in itself. Except as soon as you stepped foot in their territory, all beastmen from every direction had their preying eyes pinned on you. Leona, looking kingly as he lounges on his bed, has a knowing smirk as he approves Jack’s plea to let you stay with them.

Maybe you’ve exchanged one prison for another.

You’ve only had five hosts before him, but JACK HOWL easily wins with how thoughtful he is. He’s brought you an extra of his bare necessities— towels, shampoos that are strongly masculine in scent, and a futon spread out on the floor that he’s willingly taken. You had fretted and said that you’d take the floor, but Jack stopped you and insisted that you take his bed. He can’t be a lousy host, after all. And he couldn’t just take his roommate’s bed: territory and all that.

It’s a rare change from the clingy Heartslabyul members, but it makes you feel… less intruded on. Like you were having your boundaries respected, in Night Raven College of all places! Jack’s been respectful, maybe even a bit awkward. Such as when you walked into his dorm room, still damp from the shower, and his shirt (too many sizes, too big for you) clinging to your chest. It’s hard to miss the blush on his tan skin, but rather than shoving a camera in your face, he instead towels your hair for you. It’s nothing, he says. Bunch of younger siblings back home, so this was really no different. Hm. You wonder when you last heard that before someone decided your mouth was theirs to mess with.

Jack shares a room with others, but Ruggie’s shovelled them to some other room so that territorial instincts don’t scare you out of your wits. Looking around… It’s Savanaclaw, alright. Ripe with the scent of testosterone and training equipment scattered across the room. Jack’s shelf is full of cacti, protein powder jugs, textbooks, and a picture of his family. You send him a grin when you catch that.

“Family-oriented, huh?” You coo, picking up the frame as he towels your ends. You let out an aww when you notice that the whole pack shares his fluffy ears and tail, just in varying shades of gray. You tap the face of a handsome mountain man. “Guess I know where you got your looks from.”

Jack splutters behind you, flustered yet refusing to comment. “Don’t know what you want with all this flattery.”

“... The answers to Crewel’s homework.”

He does something halfway between a grunt and a laugh, the rare smile reflected in the mirror as he gives your hair a final pat. Jack must not be aware that a normal human’s follicles aren’t thick enough to stand his rough toweling, with the way your hairs look aired out. “Can’t get anything out of me. I’m still trying to figure out the alchemical compositions.” You pout, but relent.

There’s a certain aura of domesticity as Jack guides you to your— well, his bed. Grim has opted not to sleep with you, something about the stink of multiple beastmen putting him off. You plop on the mattress face-first and make yourself comfortable rolling around. You fail to see Jack’s shoulder stiffen and his tail straighten when you do so. “Smells nice,” you smile as you prop yourself up to look at Jack below. “Did you pull out some fresh sheets? Thank you.”

Jack gives you one of his half-smiles, those charming and boyish ones that you wouldn’t expect from a beastman as gruff as he was. “I brought you here, didn’t I? It’s common sense.”

“Well, I’d hope so.” Your eyes sparkle with that mischievous shine that Jack’s taken an awful liking to. “Pretty sure Ace had sugar on his bed.”

Jack scowls, and you follow his stiff tail thumping slowly on his mattress. “Hmph. Ace could do anything he puts his mind to, but all he wants to do is act sloppy and undisciplined.”

“Yes, yes~” Some Heartslabyul slander was welcome after that hellhole of a week you went through. You reach out to stroke his ears, lowered for you to scratch behind. Both of you were close enough for this to be normal. “Ace and the rest of ‘em are assholes. I’m happy you took me away, Jack.”

An… unexplainable shadow crosses Jack’s eyes, and even the happy waving of his tail had slowed. A cross between two emotions that you could not quite grasp, tugging back and forth before he shakes himself out of it. “It’s no problem. You…” Though you’re affectionate with him, Jack does not make it a habit to initiate contact with you. You know very well how hesitant he is, with how easily you fold under both magic and brawn. So when he lifts his hands to your face, hovering as he considers how to touch you, the warmth of his calloused palm is a nice surprise.

“You just don’t deserve the way they treat you, is all.” His hands cover your eyes, prompting you to close them. Hiding the expression he makes from you. “You’re not supposed to be here. You have to be protected. It’s only right.”

Are you imagining the warmth that hovers just above your nape? Maybe so, because as soon as Jack lifts his hands, he’s turning away from you and switching the lights off.

RUGGIE BUCCHI’s eyes narrow as soon as you and Jack enter the room, sniffing the air as if something about you two has deeply offended his sensitive nostrils. “Ugh, get a load of that. You smell.” You jolt back and try to smell yourself, frowning when you don’t smell anything. He snorts. “Not you. Well, you. But, like, something else.” Ruggie’s discerning eye slowly moves to his junior, who is opting not to make eye contact with anyone in the room. “Or someone.”

Your frown only grows deeper. “What do you mean? Should I wash it off?”

The hyena grins, eyes still on Jack as he busies himself making his morning protein shake. “Oh, you could, but someone might get sad.” He snickers to himself. “Ah, well. If you ain’t planning on washin’ that off, help me whip up some breakfast. Least you could do after sleeping over ours, yeah?” He laughs again when he sees the crestfallen expression you’ve begun sporting. Face barely inches away from each other, his hands pinch both cheeks, and he steps away before it could actually hurt. “C’mon, I was just joking~ You’re welcome anytime in Savanaclaw, if His Majesty upstairs got anything to say about it.”

Well, that was nice to hear. Your spirits now lifted, you follow Ruggie into the kitchen where he’s busy prepping breakfast. “Just an omelette today,” he hums. “But Leona likes his in a specific way. Psh, specific way.” He rolls his eyes. “Better to just eat it anyway and not feel your stomach rumble for the rest of the day, but who are we to disobey princes, right?” He gives you some potatoes and carrots. “Peel these for me?”

You eagerly comply. In these wee hours, you and Ruggie stand side by side chopping and prepping meals. Sometimes one of you makes idle chatter to fill in the silence, but there is still comfort even when no one talks. It was nice, you thought. You and Ruggie hung out often enough to be familiar with each other, and though it wasn’t on the same level as you had with Ace and Deuce, there was no need to keep up any pretenses around Ruggie.

“What’re ya thinkin’ about?” The hyena’s voice snaps you out of your thoughts. He eyes your idle hands and then your spaced-out look. You shake your head and place the diced vegetables into a bowl. 

“Nothing,” you hum. “Just thinking how nice you are to be around.” At that, his tail and ears immediately stiffened up. But you fail to notice that as you affectionately rub the back of his ears like you always do. You do notice how aggressively he starts beating the eggs and give him a curious glance. His face is angled away from you, but his bristled tail flicks now and then.

“What’s gotten into ya?” He huffs, turning over the meat while he beats the eggs. “Getting all sappy and stuff… What, cooking breakfast together got you sentimental?”

Right. NRC students don’t take kindly to affection, do they? Especially the prideful Savanaclaws. “Sorry, was I overstepping? I thought it was just nice that we didn’t have to force conversation… stuff like that.” You snicker when his tail and ears bristle again. “Too much?”

“Get outta here,” he grumbles. He takes the meat out and pours the beaten eggs into the pan. “Saying cheesy stuff like that… You’re gonna make a man get the wrong impression. Not saying that I’m getting the wrong impression, mind you. But—” He jabs the whisk in your direction and gives you a warning glare. “Night Raven’s full of fucked up people. One of these days, you’re gonna be so cheesy that they’ll think you actually like like them!”

Your smile falters a bit when he turns his attention again to the omelette. “Right…” You know that as well, with how Heartslabyul acted around you when you slept over. Before that, you were eager to dismiss their teasing or advances as jokes. After all, they were the very first dorm that you befriended and, therefore somehow more special to you than the others. But now you’re wondering if you gave your affections too easily, to the point that they’d be delusional enough to think of marrying you… “I– I guess I have to think about that, huh. Someone tried to— well, someone’s trying to marry me. They’re planning talks with their parents and— ah, it’s all just so awkward. I didn’t even know they like liked me so…”

“Who.”

“Hm?” You startle at the sudden dip of his voice. His tail is upright as he continues frying the omelette. “Oh, who? I– I don’t wanna give it away… It’s not a nice look, I don’t think.”

“Too kind,” he scoffs, turning to you. You pull out a platter for him to put the omelette on— light and springy, with meat wrapped in the middle. “I don’t get why you’re looking out for this creep. Why you put up with the rest of us, anyway.” The latter part doesn’t seem to quite reach your ears, but he’s all up in your face again before you can even ask. “Sevens know why the Dark Mirror put you here. You’re a wimp and a pushover. Someone like you—” He taps the middle of your forehead. “Should be in Royal Sword Academy, where you brush animals and sing pretty songs with the rest of ‘em. But unlucky you, huh?”

He gives you a sardonic smile. “Buncha creeps following you around, and you still smile at them like they deserve it.”

“It’s better than being… rude,” you frown. “I can’t… I just couldn’t.”

He shrugs. “Pushover, what did I say? In the streets, they’d maim you and sell you ten times over. You’d be like a living money cheat, yanno?”

“But these aren’t the streets.”

His expression is downright gleeful. “Yeah, just worse.” 

He laughs when you reel away, watching you with those predator eyes as you grow more uneasy. “Oh, relax. I’m just kidding again. My point is, ya shouldn’t be putting up with horrendous behavior. That’s not how a real mate should act.” He pulls out another plate and sets another serving of omelette. “They should bow their heads, make ya feel loved, cook ya meals… all that sappy shit.” He places down the omelette before you, still warm, and smiles at you gently… as gently as one can when they look like they’re having the time of their life tormenting you.

“Sit. You’re not gonna turn down poor me’s cooking, are ya?”

You were right. Savanaclaw was just another form of prison. Ruggie seems to be playing coy around you, and you’re quite sure that your missing blazer is all due to him. You’re sure of it, with the way he smiles too innocently when you confront him about it. Jack, you had some hopes for. But then you walked into a bloodbath he was responsible for as he taught a lesson to the men making crass jokes about you. You had run away before he could see you, the image of blood dripping from his knuckles never leaving you.

LEONA KINGSCHOLAR caught you by the scruff as you ran and dragged you into his room to be used as a living body pillow. Now, your prime concern was squirming out of the tight grasp that the lazy lion has on you. At another failed attempt to wiggle out of his grasp, Leona pries one eye open with a low growl. “What the hell are you squirming for, herbivore?” He yawns, tail languidly waving back and forth as he looks at you. “Can’t get a good nap if you keep moving around like that.”

You huff and crane your head to glare at him. “Let–! Ugh, let go! I’ve got places to be!”

He snorts, but loosens his grasp on you. “Places? Like what? Back in that bloodbath?”

“Away!” You exclaim, exasperated. “Away from this den of—!”

“Beasts?” He smirks at you, propping himself on one hand as he eyes you like prey. “Careful of what you say. The leader of these beasts is right in front of you. You should be grateful, you know. Lots of hormones raging out there, and this is the one place that those fools wouldn’t dare intrude on. Ruler’s territory and all that.” You watch him warily as he muses to himself. “They know they’re as  good as sand the moment they walk in here.”

“Nice to know your leadership skills come in handy when protecting your bedroom,” you snort, eyes narrowed at him. “Why don’t you use them to, I don’t know, break up the fight outside?”

He raises a brow at you, as if the suggestion was just downright ridiculous. “You’re odd. You know, the whole reason Jack’s bloodying his knuckles is for you. You should be thanking him.” He shakes his head. “Poor pup. Here he is being all chivalrous only to find out that his crush is being ungrateful.”

Crush?! You shake it off. You shouldn’t be surprised. If you were a tad more narcissistic, you’d be using all these stupid sorcerers as a one-way ticket to richness. “So? Gonna break them up?”

Leona snorts and plops back down between his pillows. “Hell no. Too much effort. Just stay here till the mess dies down.” When he feels you unmoving, he looks at you and the deep frown that has settled on your face, and sighs. “Seriously, I don’t get it. Why the hell do you care so much? It’s Jack’s choice if he wants to do stupid shit, and it’s certainly no concern of yours if someone breaks a nose or a rib ‘cause they were going around calling you a whore. If anything, they probably deserve it.”

“It’s because I don’t like anyone breaking a rib or a nose or whatever over some stupid comment! Maybe if they, like, actually tried to do something to me, but…!” You shake your head, feeling less and less in control of your emotions and thoughts. “I just…! It doesn’t feel right, is what you want to say, not when Jack was smiling as he beat those boys up more than needed to.

“Look at you, thinking too much over nothing.” He is sporting that same lazy grin, the one he wears when he ropes you into schemes that you can’t get out of. “Just be grateful that people are looking out for ya, even if there are too many of them. Just sit here, lie down with me, and don’t move too much. Then we can get a pretty decent nap and erase all those useless thoughts. The moment you step foot out of my territory, you’re either getting mauled by one of those weaklings or pounced on by the pup. Your choice.”

What a…! But he’s right. The crowd outside was too aggravated not to do anything to you, the reason behind their beating. Leona’s smug smile as you crawl into bed next to him is apparent as he tugs your leg closer to him, making you yelp in surprise. “You!” You gasp, trying to put some distance between the two of you. “Don’t you think you’re being too close?!”

“It’s nothing you ain’t used to,” he yawns. “You sleep like this with that idiot duo, don’t you?”

You gawp at him. “How do you–! No, it’s just… different!”

He raises a brow at you. “Different, how?” When you fail and stumble over your words, he laughs snarkily. “Ah, I get it. It’s different when you’re sleeping with foolish boys. But I guess lying with a lion has you all flustered, then?” With a blush that grows redder by the second, you try to refute his words, only to stutter. “I’m flattered, herbivore. One little comment or a little skinship, and you show me that pretty lil blush.”

“Pity you show yourself so easily,” he hums, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Otherwise, I’d have whisked you away already.”

“Not you too…” You whimper. He doesn’t seem surprised, only growing more amused when you squirm uncomfortably under his fingertips.

“Oh, yes, me too. Baffling, isn’t it? One magicless herbivore, and you have men begging for you to look at them. It needs to be studied.” His fingers tickle as they graze down the side of your face. “Personally, I don’t want to work for many things, but look at you messing up my whole work ethic. Audacious of you, really. You’ve got no~o idea how much effort I put into making sure you don’t get marked by one of these horndogs, you know?”

You squeak when he brushes against your nape. The predatory look on his face is not lost on you as he wets his lips. “Not gonna fight back?” His lips curve hungrily. “I’m surprised.”

“What am I gonna do?” You whimper. “Jump out the window? Get mauled?”

“I wouldn’t put it past you, with how easily you throw yourself into danger.” He brings his lips closer to your nape, chuckling lowly when his fangs barely graze over it. “You smell delicious for a herbivore, but I already knew that.”

“Weirdo…!”

“The audacity to call a prince that,” he says, but there’s no real heat behind it as he relishes in your scent. “You don’t have to tremble so much. You might not have a title, but you’ll live like royalty in Sunset Savanna. Doesn’t sound bad, does it? You sit pretty, and I’ll give ya everything you desire. From the physical—” He tugs on the back of your shirt. “—To the more, hm.. physical.” You shiver when his whisper brushes against the shell of your ear, grinning as your eyes widen in embarrassment. “Not a bad deal?”

You glare at him. “As if.”

“Hm.” He scrutinizes you for a bit. Then, with a newfound conviction, his fangs dig into your nape, ready to mark you as his. You squeeze your eyes to prepare yourself for the pain… till his tongue, sandy and rough, drags across the spot.

“A-Ah!” Your response brings on more humiliation than you need, and you try to push Leona who keeps sucking and nibbling and licking. Doing anything but biting. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Playing with my prey,” he mutters against your nape. “C’mon, just keep making those pretty noises till this lion is satisfied, yeah?”

“You—! I thought you were gonna!”

“Mark you?” He pulls back to show you a smug cat’s expression. “Oh, we’ll get to that in the future, herbivore. They say not to play with your food, but… It’s pretty damn hard when dessert’s this fuckin’ cute.”

You (Jack Howl): [image attached] Ruggie Bucchi: hmmm? whyd ya send me a pic of sum blazer You (Jack Howl): Ruggie-senpai. I don’t mean to accuse you but. This isn’t yours, is it? Ruggie Bucchi: whaat! yer accusin me of stealin sum randos blazer! look at me! do i look like the type! Jack Howl reacted with 😑. You (Jack Howl): It’s not some ‘randos’, though. I can smell them on it. Ruggie Bucchi: … Ruggie Bucchi: dont touch it pls plaplspls Ruggie Bucchi: i knowww its bad they dont got alot of clothes to begin with but plsss cmon gimme this one Ruggie Bucchi: you n leona got to sleep with em and i get jack shit?!! ya wiuldnt deny me this wouldya jack!! you spend a lot of time with em anyway! you even marked them in their sleep without them knowing cmoon Ruggie Bucchi: im just a poor hyena… just scraps for me… youd turn the other way for poor lil me right?! Jack Howl (You): Hm. Sometimes I wonder why I respect you. Fine.

[kentoruuu]

RICHBOY!GOJO X GAMERGIRL!READER AU

CONTENT WARNING! non-curse au but gojo does adopt yuuji,megumi, and nobara, fluff, smut, dumbification, breeding kink, oral sex (f receiving), slight overstimulation, fingering, pussy play, size kink, biting, mating press, crying, sloppysex, raw sex, pussydrunk!gojo & cockdrunk!reader, age gap implied, afab!reader, made with chubbyblack!reader in mind

★RICHBOY!GOJO★ who had.. well no has everything as of right now but five months ago before he met you felt dull and empty inside which was odd because he had everything a man could ever dream of

cars, a massive penthouse, women flocking to the streets to even get a glimpse of him, hell he even adopted two extra teenagers on top of the one he already just to fill the void in his life but it was all temporary

soon the cars became boring, the penthouse became empty as the kids found no interest in hanging out with him anymore and soon the act of entertaining several women became draining he didn’t know what to do until he met you

★RICHBOY!GOJO★ who met you after a long night in which he tiredly asked you “can i crash at your place tonight” into which you reluctantly agreed to the stranger after he offered to pay for your groceries

★RICHBOY!GOJO★ who immediately fell in love with your apartment as soon as he stepped foot inside no matter the space it felt like… home something he never felt before

★RICHBOY!GOJO★ who ended up staying a WEEK at your house paying for groceries and snacks and whenever the two of you went out he paid it was like you finally found your own prince charming and by day two you guys ended up fucking like rabbits never taking your hands off of each other

★RICHBOY!GOJO★ who now can’t get enough of you he even learned all your favorite comfort games and comfort genres so that he knows which games to buy. he absolutely spoils you rotten when it comes to new exclusive releases that barely anyone can get there hands on

he buys you all the figurines you want in order to fill in your displays all the keyboard parts you could ever ask for and all gadgets your could ever need

★RICHBOY!GOJO★ who enjoys you sitting on his laps teaching him the difference between MOA and cherry key caps and why it’s important he never ever gets cherries “uh huh keep going baby” he whispers long thick fingers inching up your skirt to tease you and you swear your body turned into jelly right then and there

★RICHBOY!GOJO★ who rewards you with a leg shaking, brain altering orgasm every-time you reach a new milestone in a game immediately latching his skilled tongue on that pretty pussy between your legs

★RICHBOY!GOJO★ who was ESTATIC when he found out you were interested in buying a VR headset thinking about all the devious things the two of you could engage in together… just imagine the two of you fucking like rabbits each with their own headset in your shared alternate reality

★RICHBOY!GOJO★ who falls asleep in your gaming chair with you in his lap after a long day of doordash and watching you play, ever since the two of you met you became the ultimate bed rotters it was a routine at this point

★RICHBOY!GOJO★ who wakes you up every morning with him between your legs, rubbing delicate circles over your clit “fuuuck baby” he murmurs between your thighs “she’s so responsive even after last night” earning a long whine from your lips as he sped up the assault on your poor sensitive pussy but you knew there was no way in hell you’d tell him to stop

★RICHBOY!GOJO★ who has a massive size kink and gets off on being to big to fit in your twin sized bed and the sheer size difference between you and him absolute towering over you no matter what position the two of you try

★RICHBOY!GOJO★ who ruts into you so hard during missionary that eventually turns into a brutal mating press earning a large breathless gasp from your pretty lips “don’t *slap* you *slap* dare *slap* hold back on me sweetheart” pulling outrageously loud moan from you “ yes toru fuck fuck yes please don’t stop” you scream fills the apartment building as do the loud wet slaps of you body’s coming together

“trust i don’t plan on it sweetheart this pussy is all mine to ruin” he coos, rubbing harsh circles on your poor sensitive cunt with no regard for the tears coming down your face

“your all fucked out just for me baby, just for toru right” he mocks gripping your thighs tighter “ugh toru only you only you baby i p-promise”

“fuuuck baby” he groaned speeding up his thumb on you clit and the pace of his hips, pushing you into an even deeper mating pressing “your sucking me in so g-good i don’t fuck think i can pull out”

“its like your begging me to get this slutty pussy pregnant sweetheart” he ask teasingly making your pussy clench at his words “oh you like that don’t you” pushing your legs open more slamming his hips down completely drilling your pussy literally your neck with giant wet kisses

“is that what you want baby for me to give you my cum to make us a family” he says totally pussy drunk “yes yes yes!” you scream body trembling in satisfaction underneath as you cum all over his thick cock “fuck baby look at t-this mess” he groans throwing his head back “i’m gonna fucking explode”

*crack* your bed had broke but neither your or satoru seemed to show any interest in fact it seemed to add fuel to the fire boosting gojos already inflated ego making him rut into you harder and fast

“please toru please give me all your cum, make me a mom please” you moan burying your face in his shoulder “oh fuck fuck fuck” biting down hard on your lip completely bottoming out with one last hard thrust painting the inside of you gushy walls white “fuck take it, take it all like the good fucking girl you are”

completely filling you up head empty and dropping between your breast still plugging you up in order to make sure it takes

★RICHBOY!GOJO★ who tells you to focus back on your game after he notices the whimper leave your mouth when you feel his dick twitch inside of you and rubs circles on your clit to get you all flustered and hot even after completely annihilating your cunt

“s’toru t-too sensitive” you moan completely losing track of your game to rest your head on his shoulder “pay attention sweetheart before i show you just how sensitive this pretty pussy can get”

★RICHBOY!GOJO★ who is a sucker for cuddles and loves playing with you stomach squeezing it and kissing your stretch marks he’s even learned that with cuddling you means also getting used to the lack of space due to your plushies

“my love don’t you think some of these can go” he groans pulling one out of his back and on top of the 30 others residing on the bed

“but babeeeuhh you know how much i love them” you whined to which he reluctantly agreed to let them stay like he even had a choice

★RICHBOY!GOJO★ who loves shy gamer girl and how vulnerable and comfortable you make him and no matter what he will always choose you over the cars, the money, the houses cause none of hold any value like you do which is why he just had to put a ring on that finger

A/N: hello everyone i really want some advice i really need some critique on my writings i feel mediocre or subpar it makes me happy but i just wanna get better so if you have suggestions or requests or recommendations pls let me know i would like to fix my smut writing cause i feel like that’s so hard to write so pls comment or feel free to use my suggestion box im always open to constructive feedback

[hanchette]

𝐌𝐘 𝐎𝐖𝐍 𝐒𝐀𝐉𝐀 ( kpop demon hunters )

a/n: stop saying they're a hear me out, I AM HEARING YOU OUT

consist of : fluff, gender neutral reader — soft moment w/ jinu

"you're my soda pop, my little soda pop."

"that song again?"

entering the room with snack filled tray was jinu, a small smile blessing his face, there's a small tremble in the way he holds the brown wood—filled with a glass of grape juice with spherical ice filling them in with a straw, a miniscule little umbrella sits on top of it, resting oh so sweetly like a cherry on top of a cupcake. besides it was a classic cheesy noodles that jinu has lately been craving ever since he found out that they existed.

to be fair, you did introduced it to him and as soon as he tasted it, he almost cried in relief of how good it was. or maybe it was more on the cooking (how you did it) that took him kneeling on the floor gobsmacked with a delicious thump at how the flavours blend well—ahhh, he can be quite dramatic at times.

"yup, had me on a chokehold ever since I've heard of it, yanno?" you grinned, looking at him over your shoulder, teeth showing with an entertained look plastered on your face. shameless at admitting it.

your phone continues to ring out the melodies, the song in the background playing over and over again—saja boy's voice and visuals emitting from the little pad of device on your hands, the camera zooming in every now and then at romance, abby—jinu.

jinu shakes his head, placing the tray on the coffee table in front of your bed where you are laying on it sideways, just enough to get that position that melts your very bones to the best possible ways you can't tell, it's the kind that's enough to send you sighing in relief at how much you don't wanna move right now.

"i see, well i am glad you are enjoying it." he smiles, walking towards you before kneeling in front of you. you lowered your device, finally taking him in completely. hair as pure as the midnight sky with a smoldering look—was it? you couldn't tell, jinu just looks like he is seducing you at every second that you now put all of his expression on smoldering by default. dressed in casual navy blue button up shirt and khaki shorts, to top it off, he is wearing bunny slippers which were initially yours had you not messed up the sizes.

in the first place why not indicate that the shoe measures on the front of the page was placed not on your favour? that was just diabolical of the seller to not add the description.

"yes?" you questioned, blinking at him once you realized that you've been staring at him for a bit of the seconds there, but the handsome lad simply chuckled through his nose, short and sounds more like a snort.

"why obsess over it when i am right here." sure the words started with 'why' but the way jinu said it sounds more like a statement; asking you to place your attention fully on him.

once.

twice.

you blink at him owlishly, expression more of a deer in headlight or was it a busted headquarter where your braincells are clocking out? jinu himself, your boyfriend, is asking for your attention at this very moment. sure he does this sometimes, asking for your undivided attention but it was more on the indirect side. like how he'd distract you with your favorite treats, cuddles, gifts, but never upfront.

you could still vividly remember him taking your hand to place a small gift on your palms, it was a cute charm that you've yapped about once towards him. "like it?" to which you gushed and lunges at him in excitement.

"jinu."

"yea?"

"..."

his hand, previously resting on his knee now touches your cheek gingerly. "finally done admiring the saja boys?" he questioned, side eyeing your phone for a bit before his eyes turn back on you, eyebrow raised in question to which you realized you haven't answered.

"not yet." you rushed, thumb clicking the off button of your phone and silencing the echoing song out. "not yet, i haven't." you murmured, lost in the way he looks at you, the way he seems to capture your breath as he nears close.

his hand now caress your jaw before they crawl up to space to hold the back of your head, so sweetly and gently as he pulls you towards him. "so i see." he muses, voice just as low as yours, eyes holding yours in a lock, as if searching for a slight bit of hesitance despite how many times you've done it now.

jinu wasn't used to this, grief still shivers in his bones, guilt and resentment to himself, but for now, he can drown it out with the silence of whatever this is.

and soon, his lips is on yours.

[81pastrys]

Unplanned

Part 1 / 5

Summary— The Good Girl gets dragged out for a night of fun that turns more unexpected than she anticipated

Warnings— smut ; flirting ; belly bulge ; size kink ; post-orgasm regrets ; no aftercare (I’m sorry) ; bad translations ; a promise it gets better

A/N— hope it’s enjoyable enough 🙂‍↕️

Series List

Main Masterlist

“It’s one night, what’s the worst that can happen?” She gave her best friend a scowl, she could list a million worsts that can happen.

“Why can’t you just let me read in peace?” She asked. Her friends were insisting she go out with them. She was not the kind to go out and party, especially when she just got to the good part of the romance in the book she’s reading.

“You literally never go out and always have your face stuffed in a book, come on!” Her other friend whined. They all stared until she got up with a groan and an urge to punch them.

She put on a black lace bra with a mesh shirt overtop and sparkly short shorts over sheer tights, the most scandalous she’s ever looked. “No, I can’t. I look like a slut!”

“Um no you do not, I want a piece of that I’m not even into you like that.” One of the other girls scoffed. It took a bit more convincing before they were ready to head out.

“It’s Monaco for fucks sake, enjoy yourself for once.” Her friends agreed that she was too engrossed in being indoors the entire trip. She was just upset the sound of race cars were buzzing the entire day and interrupting her quiet reading time.

“That stupid race was keeping me from reading and when I finally- finally get some quiet to read, you three pull me from it to what? Go clubbing?” She had attitude, which was valid considering the circumstances— well it was valid to her at least.

“Formula one is not stupid babe, you’re just boring enough not to care.” She rolled her eyes at that, it’s expensive cars and overpaid men in one industry— what’s to like about it? She just wants to get the night over, even though she dolled up nicely. She thought she looked like an overpriced hooker, but her friends said otherwise, boosting her ego in the long run to be confident enough to join them.

“I heard the drivers come to this club often after races.” Her friends wiggled her eyebrows at that. “Maybe one will swoop you away and make you not so goody two shoes.” She joked.

“Yeah right like-“ Some guy bumped into her and scoffed as she turned from the force of his strength.

“Mierda, sorry. Did I hurt you cariño?” He said wearing a sarcastic smile. She gave him a dirty look and he chuckled, her friends not noticing her absence as they walk off from the table to dance.

“Would’ve been nice if you just apologized.” She snapped at him. He smiled and licked his top teeth. A challenge in his mind she supposes. She crosses her arms, unconsciously pushing her boobs up in the bra.

“Well, I can’t just apologize to a pretty woman like you.” He said. “What if I buy you a drink to make up for it? Hm?” Whatever the fuck accent he had was getting to her and not in a bad way.

“It would help.” She said casting a small smile at the man. Taller and more buff now that she’s admiring. He’s tan too, she guesses that must be genetics as is his accent that’s sickening.

“What would you like then, cariño?” That stupid nickname, can’t he just ask her name? She gives him a drink order and he returns with the fruity cocktail she chose. “I’m Carlos, by the way. I am sorry for bumping into you so aggressively, I meant to just nudge you.”

“So it was on purpose?” She asked with an eyebrow raised. “Thank you for the drink and I suppose you’re forgiven, for now.” She teases, she’s already out and about— might as well make the most of it. If getting laid is the most of it, she isn’t so against that feat.

“Well I cannot just walk past such a pretty girl.” That confidence he carries is something else. “You don’t sound very local, I’m assuming you aren’t from here?” He tries small talk and she scoffs at his attempt.

“I could say the same for you, aren’t the locals French?” She asked. He smiled and looked down a bit. She followed his gaze with a smile, now realizing the unbuttoned white tee he was wearing.

“They’re Monegasque’s cariño, do not go around calling them French— it’s offensive.” He chuckled. Her eyes widened in fear that she offended people she’s never met. She missed the nickname he quickly snuck in the sentence— again.

“Oh, I didn’t- I’m sorry.” Her innocence is clear as day when she speaks up. “I hope I didn’t offend you.” Her sincerity and common sense flew around the room a bit, forgetting he’s definitely not speaking French.

“Cariño I’m not from here, no worries.” He smiles. “I’m from Spain, but I know a few locals who hate being called French.” He clarified. She can tell he’s holding back more Spanish.

“Sainz! Get the fuck over here!” A guy yells, blonde she notices. Definitely drunk and his friend by the way he spoke to Carlos from across the bar.

“Seems I have unfinished business over there, but can I get your number or hotel room?” He smirks and she decides why not? She gives him both. She wasn’t sharing a hotel room with the other girls anyway so there’s no harm.

The Spaniard walks off and she decides to find her gaggle of friends as well. It’s not hard when they’re throwing it back on each other.

The night ends with the girls buzzed and not even satisfied with their night, well all but her. She got a Spaniards number, one who wants to hook up nonetheless. Her friends groan and moan about how awful their night was and don’t acknowledge her silence.

“I told you so.” She said, sticking her tongue out at them in her buzzed state. She refrained from mentioning the one night stand she managed and allowed them to complain.

Once in her hotel she gets unready and washes her face, hair, does her nightly routine— before a text comes through on her phone with a chime.

“Leaving the bar now, hotel address?” Quick, easy, efficient. She sends the address and room number to seal the deal. That everything shower better come in handy.

She isn’t a newcomer to one night stands but she has a feeling this won’t just be a one night thing. What if he’s just that good? He could also be bad. She won’t know until they hook up.

She puts on loose fitting pajamas and answers the quiet knock— per her request as to not alert the girls next door to her. He walks in and pins her to the wall. She can taste the redbull vodka on his lips, hopefully the same one he was drinking when she talked to him.

“Joder, glad I didn’t let you leave without getting your number.” He smirked and she giggled. She held a joking hand to her lips. He smiled back, god she could get lost in that smile.

“Yeah? Other girls weren’t doing it for you?” She teased quietly. His hands loosely roamed her clothes, tracing her body through the thin fabric.

“Only you cariño.” He placed a strategic kiss on her exposed collarbone, the shirt falling just shy of the top of her breast. Her breath catches and she runs a hand through his hair, the soft, smooth, dark hair grounding her as he leaves a small mark on her.

“Bed, now.” She breathes out. He lets out a breathy chuckle and leads her to the bed, clothes being thrown askew on the way. Now they’re both in underwear.

“Mierda, cariño.” He cursed in his native language at her figure. She was hiding some attractive curves. He couldn’t tell from the club lighting just how fit she actually was.

Once his eyes memorized her body, he laid her on the bed. He got on top of her and kissed her again, this one more heated and intimate. She quirked a brow up and broke the kiss by pushing against his chest. “Do I have to tell you to do everything?” She teased.

He smirked at her but realized, yeah, he wasn’t making many advancements. Something snapped and he lost all of his decorum. He tore off her undergarments and touched her with purpose.

One hand sliding up the curves of her side, making her shiver. Another lightly caressing her face and neck. This wasn’t going to be a one night stand “Hmm you aren’t going anywhere else tonight.” She whispered as she jumped up to kiss him and flip them over.

His hands now planted on her hips making sure she wasn’t going anywhere. She felt his muscles tense as her cold hands traced the hard lines on his chest and abdomen. She leaned down to kiss gently on his body and he groaned. “Mierda, that mouth.” He whispered, almost incoherent.

“Yeah? You like that I’m in charge?” She teased with a smirk. His hands loosened as she slipped further down his thighs to remove his boxers. His dick springing free of its confines. He was definitely as cocky as he should be with a dick as big as he had.

Her breath hitched as she admired every line, every vein and even the very color of his tip as she slowly moved her hands closer. Her eyes bugging out her head as she nearly drools. “Speechless now huh cariño?” He chuckled.

She forgot how to even give a blow job, her mind blank as she stared at how big it was— definitely the biggest she’d ever seen or will be taking. He noticed her shocked state leaving her frozen and reached a hand out to her face as he sat up.

The reassuring touch grounding her to come back to her senses. “Cariño, still with me?” He realized she wasn’t gawking but was intimidated. “Dios Mio you’re gorgeous.” He breathed.

She swallowed hard and kissed him, hoping he would take control and be soft, gentle even. She, again, was not new to the hook up community but dear god he was massive. He got the hint and flipped them again, now feeling her up again.

One hand made its way further down and he went slow, allowing her time to flinch away if she wanted too. She didn’t. His hand explored her intimately, touching and feeling around tenderly to tease. When he found her clit she gasped at the contact.

The small, reverent circles making her stomach lurch and want more than just that. Her hands wrapped around his neck as he teased more. Her back arched into him as her hips moved impatiently and he sat back to pin her down. That must’ve turned her on, he noticed how she clenched around nothing. The muscles working on their own accord.

He smirked and continued his small circles, his finger moving lower and dipping into the wetness. Her body jerked at the touch and he smirked. “Quiet one hm?” He teased. She nodded and he pushed his finger in slowly, feeling around for the soft spot. “Voy a cambiar eso.” (I’ll change that). He added another finger, watching her face as her mouth dropped open in an aborted sigh of pleasure.

He picked up the pace, if she is quiet he wants to hear her make noises whether or not they’re voluntary. He felt her tense and squirm, small whines or pants escaping her mouth. He got her close, too close. He didn’t have the intention of edging her but here he was— lost in the thought of her being quiet that he didn’t realize. “Fucking tease.” She groaned when he took his fingers away.

“Sí cariño, wanted to hear those pretty noises.” He whispered, his voice deep and husky in her ear. Now would probably be the time to ask about condoms or lube— well a conversation that should’ve been had earlier but wasn’t. Neither of them had that thought right now, too lost in the pleasure.

She was wet and stretched enough from when he fingered her, so he lined up and her breath hitched. “Fuck” she breathed out, hesitant about how big he was. He ran a soothing hand up and down her thigh with a soft smile plastered on his face.

“I know, cariño, I’ll take care of you.” He assured her. She felt the head slip in and a bit more with it— it was not going to fit without a stretch. He slowly pushed in more, watching intently on her face— she was quiet but she showed her emotions through her face.

He got halfway in when he noticed her tense more than before. “That’s not all of it, is it?” She asked. He shook his head and didn’t move. When she relaxed at his touches and kisses, he moved again. Slowly out an inch and back in two. He repeated this until he couldn’t fit anymore.

“Dios Mio, that’s most of it.” He chuckled. She let out a garbled moan— he couldn’t even fit all of his cock into her. He repeated the shallow in and out thrusts as her body stretched around him. Tight and unforgiving as he did so. “Rápida o lenta?” (Fast or slow?) she knew enough Spanish that ‘ràpida’ meant fast so she went for the latter.

“Lenta por favor.” She giggled, butchering the pronunciation. He obliged and slowly pulled out all the way and slowly thrust back in. A whiny moan escaped her as she scrambled her hands over his body. “Oh god- fuck you’re huge.” She breathed.

He chuckled and continued the slow pace, enjoying the sounds of her pleasure. “Áspera o suave?” (Rough or gentle?) He whispered. She knew neither of these words. A strained whine came from her lips at the misunderstanding and he kissed her neck. “Tell me what you need cariño.” He demanded softly.

“Faster, and- fuck, that- whatever you just did!” She squealed. He rolled his hips to hit her g-spot and succeeded. The pace quickened and he hit that spot over and over. She was a squirming, whiny mess under him and he loved it.

“Ahh, ràpido y gentil?” (Fast and gentle) He asked with his lips quirked. She wanted to laugh but the pleasure crested when he hit that same spot again, quicker this time with the fast in and out motion of his hips against hers.

She moaned loudly as his hand found its way to her clit again, his hand sprawling across her stomach with his thumb dipping into her wet folds. The small bulge he felt was an opportunity he thought.

He pushed with his fingers and the reaction was immediate— her orgasm tearing through her as moans spilled freely from her lips. He smirked and kept the pace, position, and movements the same as before as she rode it out— quite literally the way she was moving her hips up to his.

“Holy fuck!” She squealed, forgetting about her friends next door. Her reaction caused him to forget how badly he needed to cum and he came with her. A few jerky thrusts and he was spilling cum inside her, slowing the movements with a few pants and cut off moans.

“Mierda!” He groaned. That’s not good. He forgot to pull out and she seemed too dazed to care at the moment. He moved slowly to pullout of her and let her breathing calm.

When she did calm enough, he went and grabbed a damp rag. He returned to her sobbing and turned to the side. He stood shocked at the side of the bed. Her hand clutched over her mouth and the other in between her closed legs. He didn’t want to startle her so he slowly sat on the bed beside her.

“Cariño?” He questioned. She bat a hand at him and he got off the bed. She didn’t even turn to look at him, just sobbed harder and was mumbling something.

“Get out.” She hiccuped. He scrambled to get his clothes on haphazardly to leave. The damp rag forgotten on the nightstand as he grabbed his stuff and walked out. The door clicking and automatically locking before he could rush back in.

Part 1 is here everyone!!!!

@il0vereadingstuff @angelluv16 @widow-cevans @justaf1girl @pandabiiissh @itznotsophia @kallanfiona

[littlelovelunette]

Ambessa X a somehow taller reader. Like she finally gets dwarfed by someone for once. Where Ambessa is a war general, Reader is more a person of sophistication that can command a room and uses their size to their advantage.

The only one they bow down to is Ambessa and even then, they border on the edge of brattiness with how much they test her temper.

Just A Few Inches

Ambessa x Taller!Reader

Smutty at the end, oral, brat-brat tamer dynamics

★ Ambessa never thought she'd find herself even mildly submitting to someone. Someone taller, almost sharper and so beautiful.

You're her wife now.

Her, somehow taller, wife. She can't bear the thought of it, she needs to crane her head up at least a little to see you. Ambessa put on her gold ring, the Medarda Emblem as she watched you getting ready for the day. If there was one word that summed you up— it was sophistication.

Whenever you walked into the meeting room, all the soldiers fall silent. All eyes on you. Ambessa Medarda's wife. You're taller than her, easily even. Your hands held her waist, guiding her to sit down before you add in your own points. You didn't even need to try to prep for a presentation. Ambessa was flustered, but she didn't show it. She never does. She masks it well.

★ Despite being so much more powerful, intimidating and having so much of a commanding presence, you still bowed down to Ambessa. She was the only one who could tame you. Ambessa had more experience after all, her voice was always so low and calculated.

You were bratty, and she was your tamer. Especially whenever you were mouthing her off, all she really needed to do was look you straight in the eye.

Your jaw would tighten. That glint in your eyes? Rage, reverence, arousal—it blurred.

And Ambessa knew.

She’d press in close, her hand gripping your jaw tight enough to silence you properly. “You forget who trained you,” she’d growl, low and hot against your lips, “Didn’t I teach you better than this, brat?”

That one word, spat from her lips like a curse, always made your knees buckle.

You hated how easily she could unravel you, how someone smaller, older, soft-spoken could cut right through your authority like a blade to silk. You ruled on the battlefield, in politics, in war councils, yet the second Ambessa touched you like that, none of it mattered.

You were hers.

★ “Is that all you’ve got, Medarda?”

Your lips on her neck.

“I thought you were supposed to break me.”

Your tongue, slow.

“Still standing, see?”

Her palm cracked across your cheek before you even finished the sentence. The sting made your head turn, but your smile remained. Challenging. You loved this.

“Kneel.”

You didn’t hesitate.

You let her ride your mouth until her thighs trembled, her head thrown back, one hand gripping the wall for balance. Your nails dug into her ass, the scent of her sweat, her pleasure, thick in the air.

She came with a broken growl of your name, panting, legs shaking, gripping your hair so tight it almost hurt. But when she finally let go, when she stepped back and looked down at you, flushed and soaked in her release, she grinned.

“Get up,” she ordered, breath still ragged. You complied. You always did whenever it came to Ambessa.

[the-boy-ismine]

midnight desires, feat. skz maknae line! (read hyung line)

tw : sub maknae line (separate) x dom amab reader (& twt porn links fitting each scenario). reader is a jerk/a lil mean. semi-public setting (studio; jisung), grinding/frottage (jisung), exhibitionism/voyeurism, recording during sex/sex tape (jisung), pet names/name calling ('baby, bitch, slut, toy'; jisung, 'baby, toy, good little thing/good boy'; felix, 'pretty boy, tiny little thing'; seungmin, 'baby'; jeongin), dumbification, unprotected sex, use of lube, praise & degradation, minor overstim, mirror sex (felix), size/length kink (felix & seungmin), strength/muscle kink (felix & seungmin), minor size difference, subspace (felix), minor feminization (use of 'pussy'; felix), minor breathplay (felix), belly bulge (felix & jeongin), d/s dynamics, could be seen as brat taming (seungmin), vanilla → rough (jeongin). minors, ageless, & fem blogs dni 🪽 !!

HAN & reverse cowgirl. (i thank my man for inspiring this).

“Don’t turn it off.”

Your voice was quiet but firm—low enough to buzz against Jisung’s spine and make him shiver.

“Hyung,” he whined, shifting on your lap with a breathy gasp as your cock pressed harder between his ass cheeks, thick and hot and so close. “The mic’s still—still on... what if—”

“Then maybe you’ll learn to stop teasing me while I’m mixing,” you muttered, biting down on the crook of his shoulder. “Now grind, baby.”

Jisung’s hands trembled as they gripped the edge of his desk, knuckles white under the dim studio lights. The room smelled like sweat, tension, and barely restrained arousal—his shorts discarded across the floor, shirt halfway off, and his twitchy thighs spread open over your lap as you guided his hips with firm hands.

“Can’t even sit down properly,” you taunted, dragging your cock along his twitching rim, teasing it open but never breaching. “Too tight for me to just slide in, huh?”

He whined, long and low, his breath catching in the mic.

“Hyung—please—I can’t take it,” he gasped, dropping his head back against your shoulder, the slope of his throat trembling as he swallowed. “I need it, I need it so bad—”

“Oh, now you need it?” You rolled your hips just enough to make him cry out again, the pressure of your cock splitting his cheeks and pressing right against his rim. “You were fine mouthing off earlier. Now look at you. Can’t even sit down without whining like a little bitch.”

Jisung whimpered, grinding harder—slippery precum from his cock already staining the soft material of his shirt as it bunched beneath him. You didn’t stop him. You let him rut against you like a needy animal, barely holding back from sinking down on your cock, forced to ride the tease until he couldn’t take it anymore.

The mic blinked faintly in the corner—still recording—picking up the lewd squelch of spit and lube smeared between his cheeks, the faint slap of skin-on-skin, and every breathy, broken moan spilling from Jisung’s lips.

“Say it,” you growled in his ear. “Say what you are.”

“I’m—ah—I’m your slut,” he gasped, eyes rolling back as you finally let your tip breach him, just barely. “I’m your little ride toy, hyung—please, please let me sit on it—!”

You smirked, thrusting your hips up sharply—just once—and that was all it took. Jisung screamed, high and raw and wet as your cock finally split him open, burying halfway inside before you held him there with one hand gripping his waist tight enough to bruise.

“You’re loud,” you hissed, voice thick with lust. “The whole street probably heard that. Gonna give them a whole show?”

He was too far gone to answer. His mouth hung open, eyes glassy, face burning red as you started bouncing him on your lap—your thick cock dragging inside him, punching gasps out of his lungs that bounced off the studio walls and fed back into the mic.

“Gonna ruin your precious audio, baby,” you chuckled, teeth grazing the shell of his ear. “Hope you saved a clean version before I made you stupid.”

“Fffuck—hyung I’m gonna cum—!”

Your hand wrapped around his leaking cock, pumping it in time with each bounce, each obscene squelch of your cock stretching his greedy, spasming hole.

“Cum for me, baby,” you growled. “Let them hear how you fall apart on my cock.”

He shattered. His back arched, hips stuttering, cock painting his shirt and stomach in streaks of white as his hole spasmed and clamped down hard—squeezing you like a vice. You kept thrusting, chasing your own high, pounding into him while he writhed and babbled incoherently in your lap.

You came with a low groan, hips snapping up one final time, spilling hot inside him as he trembled from overstimulation, still trying to ride out every aftershock.

The mic beeped.

Still recording.

FELIX & headlock. (honestly i wouldve gave seungmin headlock based on recent changmin interactions... but felix has always loved muscles).

“Look at you.”

Your voice was a low rumble against his ear, chest pressed to his back as he sat flush in your lap—legs trembling, hole stretched wide around your cock. “You see yourself, baby?”

In front of the bed stood a mirror, full-length, angled perfectly. And in that reflection, Felix was a mess.

Your thick arm curled around his neck in a snug headlock—firm enough to keep him still, not tight enough to choke—your bicep bulging beside his cheek, veins prominent against flushed skin. His hands scrambled weakly at your wrist, not to fight, but to hold on, brain spinning and cock leaking against his belly as you bounced him on your cock like he weighed nothing.

His moans were breathless, his deep voice wrecked and shaky. “H-Hyung… s’too big—m’so full, I can’t—”

“You can,” you growled, snapping your hips up again. The slap of skin-on-skin echoed through the room, Felix’s thighs trembling as your cock drove in deep—so deep—hitting a spot that made his toes curl and his voice hitch.

“Ahn—fuck—fuck…!” He slurred, mouth slack, freckles dark against his flushed cheeks, eyes fluttering open only to watch himself in the mirror and fall apart again.

“That’s it,” you praised, your grip flexing just slightly around his throat, just enough for him to gasp and choke on a moan. “You feel that, yeah? Feel how tight you are around me? Squeezing like your pussy was made for this cock.”

His brain short-circuited.

You felt the way his entire body shivered in your arms—his head lolling back against your shoulder, hands falling limp, mouth opening and closing like he didn’t even have the words anymore.

“Can’t think,” he mumbled, eyes glassy. “M’head feels all fuzzy—too good, hyung—too good…”

You chuckled darkly, licking a stripe up his neck before biting gently at his earlobe.

“That’s my good boy,” you muttered, thrusting up again and watching his body jolt in the mirror. “Look at how dumb you get when I fuck you right. All that bratty mouth gone, and now you’re just a little cockdrunk toy in my arms.”

Felix moaned, loud and wrecked and absolutely gone.

The squelch of your cock fucking up into him was obscene—his hole stretched around you, dripping slick and so damn tight you could barely hold back. He bounced with each thrust, guided by your arm and your hips and the sheer strength you used to hold him exactly where you wanted.

“Feel how deep I am?” you whispered, pressing a hand to his belly where your cock bulged faintly. “Feel me all the way in your guts, baby?”

Felix let out a broken sob, eyes rolling back, legs shaking violently as you jerked him down hard on your cock—and kept him there, buried to the base, grinding slow and deep while your grip held him steady.

“M’gonna—!” he cried, tears slipping from his lashes, freckles soaked and glowing under the dim light. “Hyung, I’m—!”

“Cum on my cock,” you commanded, flexing your arm around his neck again as your free hand gripped his leaking cock and pumped once, twice—

He screamed.

His body convulsed as he came, untouched for so long, the shock so strong it made him shake. His hole fluttered violently around you, clenching down like it didn’t want to let go, and your control snapped.

You thrust up into him one last time, cock buried to the hilt, and came with a feral groan—filling him deep, flooding him while he collapsed in your arms, trembling and twitching, head resting against your bicep like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

In the mirror, you saw it all—your cock stuffed inside him, cum dripping out slowly, and Felix’s fucked-out, bliss-drunk expression.

“Such a good little thing,” you murmured, kissing the shell of his ear. “Can’t even move now, huh?”

He let out a tiny hum, lips curled in a lazy, cockdrunk smile.

“Good. You’re not going anywhere.”

SEUNGMIN & (up) against the wall.

“You always talk too much.”

Your voice came low and biting, teeth brushing his jaw as his back hit the cold wall with a dull thud. Seungmin gasped softly, breath catching, but his glare was defiant—sharp and narrow, like he still had something to prove.

He always did.

“I'm just saying, if you knew how to use your dick properly, maybe I wouldn’t need to keep correcting you all the time,” he spat, voice all smug as his hand slid up your chest, nails dragging just enough to rile you.

You laughed. Just once. And then you lifted him.

His legs wrapped around you instinctively—always quicker to react than to admit it—but his cock twitched the second your palm gripped his ass and your other hand slipped under the waistband of his compression shorts. Still warm from dance practice, his body slick with sweat and his hole already fluttering against your fingers like he knew what was coming.

“You were saying?” you grunted as your cock slid into him in one brutal thrust, forcing his back to arch, his head to snap back against the wall with a quiet thump.

He choked.

His hand flew to your shoulder, nails digging in, and then—bite. Teeth sank into your flesh like he was trying not to scream.

“Mmff—!”

But it wasn't enough. You felt every little noise vibrate against your skin: the helpless whimper, the stuttered breath, the pathetic groan when your cock bottomed out and stayed there. Pressed balls-deep, his legs locked around your waist, sweat-slicked thighs trembling on either side of your hips.

“You like running your mouth so much,” you growled into his ear, fucking up into him again—deep, slow, mean. “But you’re always the first to fold.”

“Shut—ahh—shut up—” he hissed, but his voice cracked right through the middle. He was clinging to you now, fists bunched in your shirt, his knees knocking as the thick head of your cock dragged along his inner walls, punching into that sweet spot every single time.

You ground your hips against his ass and he whined again, louder.

“You're so small like this,” you teased, your lips brushing his ear as you pistoned your hips into him—harder now, faster. “Tiny little thing all stuffed full, legs shaking, cock leaking without me even touching it. This what you call being in charge, Seungmin?”

“F-fuck you—”

“Already am.”

He bit you again, harder this time, but it was all bark. His body gave you the truth: the way he clenched around you, trembling like he was one thrust away from begging. The wet slap of your hips against his ass echoed in the empty hallway, drowning out every quiet grunt he tried to hide in your neck.

You adjusted your grip on his thighs and thrust harder—more relentless, brutal, hips crashing up into him like you wanted to split him open.

And then he whimpered—raw, caught-off-guard, so fucked-out he couldn’t stop himself.

“Yeah,” you rasped, voice thick with lust, “There’s the real you.”

His eyes fluttered open, glassy and half-lidded, lips swollen from biting down too hard. “D-don’t stop—” he whispered, barely audible over the slap of skin and the wet squelch between his thighs. “Please—just don’t—”

You didn’t.

You slammed into him again, fucking him deeper, chasing that weak little sound he’d let slip, pounding up into his guts until he was practically bouncing in your hold. His cock was smeared with precum between your stomachs, untouched and leaking like crazy.

You kissed his jaw, sucked on the skin just below his ear.

“I’m not stopping until you’re crying, pretty boy. Want everyone who walks by to know who really owns you.”

And judging by the way Seungmin’s walls clenched hard around your cock, like he was seconds from cumming, he wanted that too.

JEONGIN & mating press.

“You’re doing so good for me, baby.”

Jeongin’s whole body shuddered at the praise, arms wrapped tight around your neck like he was trying to hold onto something real. Something solid—something not the overwhelming pressure of your cock buried balls-deep inside him, pushing his legs up and folding him in half.

You’d been fucking him slow, deep, controlled. Not rough—not yet. Just enough to make his thighs tremble and his eyes roll back every time your hips rolled down, dragging over that soft, gummy spot that made him clench around you.

“A-ah—” his voice cracked, high and desperate, breath hitching as he blinked up at you, pupils blown wide. “F-feels good—feels too good—”

“You can take it,” you whispered, one hand gripping his thigh while the other smoothed over his belly, down to the spot bulging faintly with your cock. You pressed there, just a little.

He gasped—legs twitching, hole fluttering around you.

His cheeks were flushed pink, sweat starting to bead at his temples, soft brown hair sticking to his forehead. He looked fucked, even though you hadn’t even gone that hard yet—just slow and steady, the kind of fucking that sank in, made him feel everything, filled him up until he forgot anything existed outside your cock and the sound of your voice.

“You were so shy when we started,” you murmured, bending forward to kiss the corner of his lips. His knees were pressed almost to his chest, ankles hooked over your shoulders—completely open, completely yours.

“Thought you didn’t want this,” you teased.

“I-I didn’t—” he whined, shaking his head—but the way he moaned when you fucked in just a little deeper betrayed him.

Your thumb rubbed his cheek gently, his eyes fluttering half-shut.

“But now you’re taking it so well. Letting me fold you up and fill you nice and deep. Letting me ruin you.”

“‘M not ruined—” he whispered, breathless, but his cock twitched helplessly between you, leaking onto his stomach.

You smirked. “No?”

And then you thrust.

Hard.

Deep.

His head flew back, mouth dropping open in a broken cry as you fucked into him harder now—relentless and sweet, the kind of rhythm meant to make him fall apart beneath you. Your grip tightened on his thighs, holding him in place while you drove into him again and again, wet heat clenching and fluttering around your cock.

“You love this,” you rasped. “Love being folded in half, stuffed full, letting me watch every little expression you make.”

He blinked up at you, dazed, lips trembling. “W-wanna be good—want you to feel good—”

“You do,” you whispered, leaning close. “You feel perfect. Gonna let me fill you up, yeah? Want me to cum deep in this pretty little hole?”

“Y-yes—!”

You grinned, voice low and thick with want. “Then take it, baby. Take every inch and don’t dare let me go.”

a/n : nobody asked for this, but yk since my last anon admitting they were too shy to directly comment on one of my side works, i just thought 'hey maybe someone feels that way too but instead they just have no courage to say anything' so here it issss. do y'all like the hyung line or the maknae line more? (i may have spoiled the maknae line a tad bit more than the other, but i have my reason!).

[wingedhallows]

Hiiii, hope you're doing fine and are having a great day 🩵

I just wanted to request a Caitlyn X fem!reader with eating disorders. Like Caitlyn and reader are together for a long time and Caitlyn starts to notice something weird but doesn't really know what to do? Could be angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, just anything you want 🩵and if you're not comfortable with writing this, it's ok!!

𝐄𝐀𝐓 𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆

━━ -ˋˏ⟿

-‘๑’- 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 caitlyn kiramman x reader /0.6k words -‘๑’- 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒 angst, eating disorder - nothing explicit -‘๑’- 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 thank you for requesting this. i had to really think how to approach this but i enjoyed writing a little emotional something. i hope u like it!

♡︎ 𝐍𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐆𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 ♡︎

You love pancakes—you always have. For as long as Caitlyn can remember, pancakes have been your favorite breakfast. Sometimes you’d load them up with whipped cream, other times with berries and a drizzle of melted chocolate.

But lately, pancakes haven’t been the same. You barely touch them. And it’s not just the pancakes—it’s the little bretzels you used to devour during one of Cait’s old movie nights. Something shifted. But Cait’s sure: it started with the damn pancakes.

Caitlyn’s never been one for jumping to conclusions. She doesn’t want to corner you, to make you say something neither of you are ready to admit. So she does what she knows—she makes the pancakes.

She’ll offer them, just like always. And if you turn them down—again—then maybe she’ll finally ask the questions that have been eating at her. Because she can’t ignore it anymore. Not when she knows you've started buying clothes three sizes too small. Not when her own uniform would hang loose on your frame. She won’t stop—not until she gets to the bottom of it.

Now she stands in the kitchen, one hand braced against the counter, watching the batter bubble and turn golden in the pan. You’d love these, under normal circumstances.

You’d devour them, grin through powdered sugar, tease her about whether it’s her mother’s recipe. And she’d laugh. You’d share a plate, and she’d get to kiss the sweetness off your lips.

She flips a pancake just as soft footsteps pad into the kitchen—lighter than they used to be.

“Morning,” you mumble.

She turns her head, offering a small smile, choosing gentleness instead of confrontation. “Morning, sweetheart.”

You move around the counter, her oversized shirt hanging off your frame, falling to mid-thigh. Your shoulders are sharper now, more fragile beneath the fabric.

You rise onto your toes and press a faint kiss to Caitlyn’s cheek. She hums in return, but her fingers twitch at your side, hesitant.

“I made your favorite for breakfast,” she says, voice soft, coaxing. Her hand brushes lightly along your waist, the touch as careful as her words.

You glance at the pan, at the pancake sizzling gently. And she watches it happen—the hesitation, the flash of panic in your eyes. That flicker of fear at the thought of eating something with real weight to it. It guts her, because you were never like this before. You never used to flinch at food.

“I’m not really hungry,” you whisper. The words are quiet. Apologetic.

Cait sets the spatula down with a soft clatter. Her hand slips away from your waist. “You’re never hungry these days, are you?”

It comes out sharper than she means. You flinch. Your throat tightens, but you try to smile through it—gentle, shaky. “I don’t know what you mean, baby.”

But Caitlyn shakes her head. Her lips press into a trembling line, eyes shining, and she steps back from you—once, twice—until she’s leaning against the kitchen island like it’s the only thing holding her up.

“Do you want to leave me?” she chokes out.

Your heart stutters. “What—?”

“Because that’s what it feels like.” Her voice wavers, rough and raw. “You’re disappearing in front of me, and I don’t know how to help. I don’t know how to fix this, love.”

She rakes a hand through her hair, like she’s trying to hold herself together by sheer will.

“I’ve let this go on too long. You’ve become so thin and I... I don’t know what to do anymore. I don’t know how to save you.”

Her voice breaks on the last word. You stand there, frozen. Mouth slightly open. Hands trembling.

“Cait…” you say, barely above a whisper.

But she holds up a hand, her expression twisting, like she’s trying not to cry.

“Please, love… eat the pancakes. Or something else. I’ll make you whatever you want. Just—please. Eat something.”

You swallow hard, throat burning. And you look at her—really look. How her shoulders hunch under the weight of worry. How her eyes plead with you like she’s already lost you.

You did this. You put that look on her face.

“Okay,” you say, your voice hoarse with the tears you don’t let fall.

It’ll be hard. You know it will. But you’ll do it.

You’ll eat every bite of those pancakes if it means Caitlyn never has to look at you like that again.

Like she’s already mourning you.

[honeyandruin]

Idle Hands - Auto Shop Teacher!Joel Miller x Reader

🔧 ✦ 🔩 ✦ 🔧 ✦ 🔩 ✦ 🔧 ✦ 🔩 ✦ 🔧 ✦ 🔩 ✦ 🔧 ✦ 🔩

Pairing: Auto shop teacher!Joel Miller x Reader (college AU)

Summary: You’re just trying to pass your final elective. He’s the instructor who doesn’t say much—but sees everything.

Warnings: 18+ only. MINORS DNI. Slow burn. Tension. Rough hands. Fully clothed grinding. Praise kink. Light degradation (mocking). Desperation. Size kink. Dirty talk. Overstimulation. Creampie. CAR SMUUUUT

Word count: 7.8k

🔧 ✦ 🔩 ✦ 🔧 ✦ 🔩 ✦ 🔧 ✦ 🔩 ✦ 🔧 ✦ 🔩 ✦ 🔧 ✦ 🔩

You don’t mean to be late.

You were up before sunrise. Had your coffee. Even got to campus early enough to scroll on your phone in the parking lot for a minute, thinking you had it handled. But then you wandered straight into industrial hell—half a dozen identical doors, metal walls, concrete floors, zero signs. You passed the same auto bay twice before it hit you: you were completely turned around.

By the time you find the right garage, your heart’s pounding, breath hot and tight inside your hoodie, and your palms are sweating like you’re about to take an exam instead of change a tire.

Not exactly how you pictured starting your final semester.

After years of grinding through labs and clinicals and late-night study sessions, all that’s left is one elective. Just one. You waited too long to register and ended up with whatever had space—Intro to Automotive Systems. Your advisor called it “hands-on” and “practical,” which you’re now realizing was code for grimy, loud, and probably full of dudes who think power steering is a personality.

Still. You didn’t think it’d feel like a trap.

The second you shoulder open the garage door, everything stops.

Voices. Movement. Even the air seems to still, thick with heat and oil and whatever tension you just dragged in with you. The room’s huge and bright, all fluorescent lights and slick concrete, a silver car lifted on the central platform like it’s waiting for judgment.

A half-circle of students is already gathered near it. Every single one turns to look at you.

But your eyes don’t land on them.

They land on him.

He’s standing at the center. Arms crossed. Broad shoulders under a dark work shirt with the sleeves rolled up just enough to show off his forearms—tan skin, thick wrists, a smear of grease at the edge of one hand. No clipboard. No smile. Just a hard jaw, a scowl deep enough to cut through steel, and a pair of eyes that say you’re late, you’re a problem, and he’s already tired of your shit.

Welcome to class.

He doesn’t say anything at first.

Just watches you—long enough to make your stomach twist. Like he’s daring you to speak. Like he’s already counting the seconds you’ve wasted.

Then finally, he says—voice low, rough, like it’s been dragged through sandpaper:

“You show up at my door late again… don’t bother walkin’ in.”

The silence that follows is thick enough to swallow.

Your throat tightens. You weren’t trying to make a scene. You weren’t trying to be that student. But your voice still comes out quieter than you mean it to—reflexive, not confident.

“I’m sorry. I got turned around. There weren’t any signs—“

“This was your one and only chance,” he cuts in, fast. Flat. “Don’t waste it.”

No shouting. No venom. Just final. The kind of warning that doesn’t need to be repeated.

And just like that, he turns away. Dismisses you like the conversation never even happened.

“We’re starting with fool orientation,” he says, loud enough for the rest of the class to hear. “Don’t touch anything unless I tell you to. Gloves stay on. Phones stay away. If you’re lookin’ to coast through this course, I suggest you drop now. Saves me the trouble later.”

Someone in the back snorts. A quiet laugh. Probably meant to take the edge off.

It doesn’t help.

Your face is hot. Neck flushed. Embarrassment crawling just under your skin—but it’s not just that. Not entirely.

You slide your bag off your shoulder and take your place at the edge of the group, jaw tight, lungs pulling in air like it might settle something inside you.

He didn’t just reprimand you.

He sized you up. Labeled you.

And even with his back turned, you swear you can still feel the weight of his stare pressed between your shoulder blades—like he’s still watching.

Like he doesn’t trust you not to crack.

***

Joel moves through the instructions like he’s done it a thousand times.

Voice low. Direct. Nothing extra.

He points out the lift controls. Walks the group through the eyewash station. Taps the emergency stop switch like it’s muscle memory. No jokes. No icebreakers. Just business.

You follow along the best you can—pen moving before you even think about what you’re writing. But there’s still that knot in your chest, that lingering flush from earlier. It tightens every time he glances your way. Even briefly.

You shouldn’t care. You know that.

But something about the way he moves—calm, solid, purposeful—paired with that voice, all grit and weight like it’s been lived in for years… it’s hard not to notice.

Especially when he steps back from the lift and says, “Alright. Time to get your hands dirty.”

The energy in the room shifts. A few students straighten up.

“You’re each gonna need a basic set of tools to start,” he says, reaching toward a dented red box on a rusted metal cart. He taps the lid once, like he’s knocking on it for effect. “Socket wrench. Flathead and Phillips screwdrivers. Pliers. Oil filter wrench. Torque wrench, if there’s any left. Don’t just grab whatever’s shiny—check for damage.”

He pauses, scanning the group. His gaze drags across you for half a second—barely long enough to hold—but you feel it anyway.

“They’re all labeled. Organized. Color-coded by station. Figure it out.”

Then he leans back against the wall, arms crossing over his chest again. “You’ve got five minutes.”

The group scatters, peeling off toward the bins at the back of the shop. Rows of toolboxes sit cracked open on a long shelf beneath a hanging board covered in outlines—wrench sets, ratchets, socket keys. Some of the students move fast, already talking brands, comparing grips like they’ve done this before. Confident. Loud.

You hang back.

Not because you’re avoiding it. You just… don’t know where to start.

The names on the board blur a little, and while you could probably ID a wrench in a lineup, nothing here is labeled clearly. You scan the outlines, searching for something familiar, but it all blends together—metal stacked on metal. Socket sizes. Jaw shapes. Handle styles.

You crouch beside one of the bins and pick up a tool at random. It’s heavy, rubber grip, open-jawed. You try to match it to one of the silhouettes on the board, hoping you don’t look as lost as you feel.

Behind you, someone laughs.

It’s sharp. Mean.

You hear it before you even register where it came from. A guy three bins down—gelled hair, backwards hat tucked under his goggles, already elbowing his buddy like you’re the joke of the day.

“Jesus. She doesn’t even know what a socket wrench looks like.”

Your stomach drops. Hard.

You clench the tool tighter and start to put it back, already reaching for something else—anything else—when another voice cuts across the room.

“Hey.”

Joel’s voice doesn’t rise.

It doesn’t have to.

Everything stops. Every head turns.

He pushes off the wall, slow and steady, boots echoing over the concrete as he walks toward the kid who laughed. His expression hasn’t changed, but there’s something colder now. Tighter.

“Didn’t hear you volunteer to teach the class,” he says.

The guy straightens fast. “No, I—I was just—”

“Then shut your mouth. Pack your shit. Get out.”

“What?”

“You don’t laugh at anyone in my shop,” Joel says. “Don’t care if it’s their first day or their fiftieth. This is an intro class for a reason.”

Silence. Heavy and dead still.

The guy doesn’t move at first. Then he mutters something under his breath and storms out. His friend stays rooted to the floor.

Joel doesn’t watch him leave. He just turns slightly, eyes landing on you again.

You’re still crouched beside the bin. One hand braced against the edge, the other curled too tight around the tool in your grip. Your cheeks burn. Jaw locked. Shame mixes with heat and something else you don’t have a name for—something sharp and twisted that settles low in your gut.

Joel steps closer.

He doesn’t kneel. Doesn’t crouch beside you. Just looks down and nods toward your hand.

“That’s a spark plug socket. You’ll need it later, but not right now.”

You glance up. “I didn’t ask for help.”

His mouth twitches—almost a smile. But not kind. Just… knowing.

“No. But if I don’t show you what’s what, I’ll end up watchin’ you use the wrong damn tool and blow your wrist out tryin’ to muscle it.”

You open your hand and let the socket rest in your palm.

Joel leans in—not close, but close enough that you catch the scent of him. Oil. Leather. Sweat layered under something sharp and clean. Like he doesn’t wear cologne, but still smells like something solid. Something lived-in.

He plucks the socket from your hand and trades it for another tool. It’s heavier. Shorter.

“This is your standard socket wrench. You’ll use it more than anything else in here. Start with quarter-inch heads—they’ll be in the red tray. Grab a set. Then flathead, Phillips, pliers. The rest you’ll learn as we go.”

You nod. Your fingers wrap around the wrench.

His voice softens. Barely.

“Don’t let anyone in here make you feel like you don’t belong. You showed up. That’s more than I can say for half of ‘em.”

Your throat tightens.

“Okay,” you murmur. “Thanks.”

Joel straightens and turns without another word. The moment breaks as fast as it formed. He’s already moving across the floor again, barking something about PPE violations at the next station over.

But your hands still feel warm.

And the weight of the wrench?

Still nothing compared to the way he lingered.

***

The energy shifts again once Joel finishes the walkthrough.

He nods toward the back corner of the shop where a row of stripped-down sedans sits idle on concrete risers. Rusted tires. Mismatched panels. None of them road-ready—just teaching frames salvaged from junkyards and outfitted for beginners. Oversized bolts. Pre-loosened lug nuts. The kind of setup that won’t break your wrist if you screw it up.

“All right,” Joel says, grabbing a clipboard from the wall behind him. “Pick a bay. You’re gonna remove and reinstall a front tire. Nothing fancy. Just enough to prove you can ID your tools and not bleed all over my floor.”

A few students laugh. You don’t.

“Torque wrench. Breaker bar. Jack. Safety stand,” he continues, voice steady. “I catch anyone jackin’ without a stand or forgettin’ to re-torque—grade drops to zero. Don’t care how long you think you’ve been doing this.”

You catch the echo of his words from earlier.

This is an intro class for a reason.

You take an open bay near the tool shelf. Still not entirely sure what half the items on your checklist do, but you recognize most by sight now. Wrench. Jack. Gloves. The basics. You collect them quietly, stacking them into your arms one at a time. Even remember the safety stand, tucked under a cart near the wall.

The others pair up fast. Groups of two or three, some already laughing like this is just another lab credit. One girl from the front of the group drags her friend to a far bay and avoids looking at Joel completely.

You think about teaming up too—just to play it safe—but then decide against it.

It feels better to figure it out on your own.

The tire’s already mounted when you approach. You kneel beside it, gloves pulled snug, tools laid out beside you in a clean, methodical line. The torque wrench is heavy in your hand but balanced. You check it. Adjust.

Then you start.

Cap off. Lug nuts next.

You brace your knee against the sidewall and lean into the breaker bar. The resistance is sharp—metal groaning as it holds—but then it breaks loose with a loud click. The first nut comes free. You let out a breath. Keep going. Remember his instructions. Cross-pattern. Counter-clockwise. Don’t unscrew them all at once or the wheel shifts.

You’re so focused you don’t hear him walk up.

But you feel him.

That same prickle at the back of your neck. Like gravity’s shifted just slightly. Like the air changed.

You pause just long enough to glance over your shoulder.

He’s five feet behind you. Arms crossed.

Watching.

He doesn’t speak. You turn back to your work.

Second nut. Third. You move the bar to the upper right lug and brace again—but the angle’s wrong. Socket slips. Your elbow jerks, balance tipping.

He’s already there.

“You’re losing your angle,” he says. Voice low. Close.

You don’t look up. “I noticed.”

“Breaker bar’s too high. You’re not getting enough leverage like that.” A pause. “You left-handed?”

“No.”

“Then flip sides. You’re working against yourself.”

You shift without answering. Try not to let it show—that his presence is getting under your skin. That it feels like something.

You reset. The bar clicks again, clean this time. The next bolt pops free.

Joel’s voice softens. Not much. Just enough to feel it.

“Not bad.”

You don’t thank him. Just nod once. Move on.

He doesn’t leave.

He stays there. Silent. Watching.

Long enough that the heat creeps up your spine again. The tension presses into your ribs. Not embarrassment. Not nerves. Something else.

Something heavier.

Then—quietly—he says, “Careful with the jack.”

And walks away.

You sit back on your heels, hands braced on your thighs. Your pulse is faster than it should be. You tell yourself it’s just the task. The tools. The pressure.

But the truth sits somewhere else.

Low. Hot.

In the way he said it.

***

Most of the class clears out by the hour mark.

A few students finish early and leave without waiting for Joel’s dismissal. Others hang back just long enough to log their tool returns before slipping out, voices echoing down the hallway outside the shop.

You pack slower than the rest. Not on purpose. You’re not trying to stand out. You just… aren’t done.

The tire’s off. That part you managed. But getting it back on—lining it up, tightening it right, hitting the torque—none of it feels solid yet. There was an uneven pull the first time. A shift. The way the wheel tilted before it caught. If this were a real car, a real road, you wouldn’t trust it to hold.

So you run through the steps again. Slower. More focused. You check the pattern, check the pressure. Try to feel the torque instead of guessing at it.

It’s only after a long stretch of silence that you realize you’re not alone.

You glance over your shoulder.

Joel’s still at the tool bench. Arms braced on the edge, gaze fixed on you beneath furrowed brows. The rest of the shop is empty. Quiet. Just you, him, and the soft clink of metal on metal as you tighten the last bolt.

“You planning on stayin’ all night?” he asks. Voice low. Not sharp.

You straighten, wiping your gloved hands on your thighs.

“I didn’t think I got it right,” you say. “So I wanted to try again.”

He watches you for a beat, then pushes off the bench and starts toward you. His steps are steady, deliberate. Boots scuff softly across the floor. His eyes flick to the tire, then down to the tools beside you.

“This won’t count for extra credit,” he says when he stops. “If that’s what you’re lookin’ for.”

“It’s not,” you reply. “I just want to understand it. That’s all.”

Your voice stays even. You don’t look away.

Joel’s gaze narrows—not annoyed, not skeptical. Just thoughtful. Like he’s measuring something quieter than your form. Something in you.

He doesn’t offer help. Doesn’t correct your grip. Doesn’t hover.

He just steps back. Folds his arms. Watches.

You move through the steps again. Lifting. Aligning. Bracing your knee where it should be. This time, the breaker bar holds. The bolts glide on smoother. The torque clicks clean beneath your hands.

When you’re done, you ease back on your heels, wiping sweat from your brow with the back of your glove.

Joel doesn’t speak right away.

Then—he nods. Once. Solid.

“Good job,” he says. “You got it.”

You breathe in slow. Try not to let it show how deep the words hit.

He starts to turn. Pauses halfway.

“Be ready for next class,” he says. “It’s not gettin’ easier from here.”

“I’ll be ready,” you answer.

He nods again. Then heads for the front, where the office light flickers on as he disappears through the doorway.

You stay behind, alone in the quiet clatter of cooling metal. The scent of oil still clings to your sleeves.

You don’t know why it matters so much that he saw you try.

But it does.

🔧 ✦ 🔩 ✦ 🔧 ✦ 🔩 ✦ 🔧 ✦ 🔩 ✦ 🔧 ✦ 🔩 ✦ 🔧 ✦ 🔩

It’s been three weeks since your first day in Joel Miller’s automotive class.

The nerves you walked in with—late, flustered, still figuring out where the hell you were going—have settled. You know your tools now. You understand the systems. You’ve taken apart and reassembled a brake caliper more times than you can count, and you’re no longer shy about getting elbow-deep in grease if it means understanding what you’re doing.

Joel hasn’t praised you much. Not directly.

But he doesn’t hover anymore. Not like he did in those first few days—correcting your grip, adjusting your stance, warning you like one wrong move would blow the place sky-high.

Now, he just… watches.

Quiet. Steady. From the far end of the shop, or from the corner of your station, arms folded, eyes always tracking. Sometimes you stay late after class—finishing up a task, reviewing something that didn’t sit right—and he never tells you to go. Never says stay, either.

He just keeps the door unlocked.

Stays nearby.

Steps in when it matters.

Today is one of those days.

The classroom is buzzing as he breaks the students into small work groups, assigning everyone a different section of a half-disassembled Toyota Corolla. You end up on the driver’s side, cross-legged on the concrete, halfway through replacing a stripped bolt near the caliper bracket. Your sleeves are rolled. Your gloves are streaked with grime. The socket wrench is wedged in place, angled just right.

You’re focused. Dialed in. Until a voice cuts in behind you.

“Hey,” someone says. “You’re tightening that backwards.”

You glance up, blinking sweat from your brow.

It’s him again—Kyle, maybe Kaden—one of the loud ones who always talks more than he works. He crouches beside you, close enough for his knee to knock against your arm, and gestures toward your wrench with a smirk like he’s doing you a favor.

“That’s a reverse-thread bolt,” he says. “You’ll strip the shit out of it going clockwise like that.”

You pause.

“No, I won’t,” you say flatly.

He snorts. Leans in further. “Swear to God, I saw this same build last semester. It’s reverse-threaded. Look, let me just—”

His hand starts to move toward your wrench.

You don’t get the chance to stop him.

Because someone else already does.

“Maybe have her show you instead.”

Joel’s voice cuts clean across the room—low, sharp, just loud enough to slice through everything else.

You both freeze.

Joel’s walking toward you now, eyes locked on the guy still crouched beside you. His expression isn’t angry.

It’s worse.

Blank. Tight. Cold in a way that makes your skin prickle and the air around you feel thinner.

“You’re completely fuckin’ wrong,” Joel says when he stops in front of the car. “That bolt’s standard-thread. Factory part. If you spent half as much time listening as you do runnin’ your mouth, you’d know that.”

Kaden blinks up at him. “I was just trying to—”

“Get back to your station.”

Joel doesn’t raise his voice.

He doesn’t have to.

The kid stammers, mutters something under his breath, and backs off fast—disappearing around the rear of the car without another word.

You’re still sat. Still holding the wrench.

Joel doesn’t look at you right away. Just glances down at the bolt, then nods once. “You had it right. Keep going.”

So you do.

He doesn’t stay after that. Just walks off, muttering something to another group near the back of the shop like nothing happened.

But every time you glance up from your work, you feel it—that quiet weight of his attention hanging at the edge of your periphery. Not constant.

Just enough.

Like there’s something he’s not saying.

Like whatever’s passing between you is starting to get too heavy to ignore.

***

The store’s colder than you expected.

Fluorescents hum overhead, casting a pale glare across rows of boxed tools, coiled cables, and plastic bins stuffed with brake fluid and air filters. It smells like rubber and engine oil and the kind of dust that never quite leaves.

The whole place feels half-forgotten but always moving—like the only people who come in already know exactly what they need.

You don’t.

You’ve been standing in front of the same pegboard display for six full minutes, squinting at torque head sets and trying to remember the difference between deep sockets and standard ones. You thought this would be quick. Something simple to practice with over the weekend.

Now your brain’s foggy. The labels don’t make sense. And your hoodie’s starting to feel too warm.

You shift your weight. Reach for a three-piece extension bar set and mutter under your breath, “I think this is right…”

“It’s not.”

The voice comes from your left—low, dry, and unmistakable.

Your heart skips.

You turn your head slowly, already knowing exactly who you’ll find.

Joel.

Two feet away. Wearing a faded Carhartt over a black thermal, jeans worn soft at the seams, grease still smudged on the top of his hands. His hair’s damp at the temples—like he just stepped out of the shower or wiped sweat off under a hood. Either way, he looks different here. Same scowl. Same narrowed eyes. But without the classroom lights or the safety goggles, he feels heavier. Realer.

He glances at the tool in your hand. Lifts a brow.

“You’re not runnin’ a breaker bar through an extension like that. Too much play. It’ll slip.”

You blink. “I wasn’t—”

“You were.” His voice stays flat. “Don’t lie. It’s embarrassing.”

Your mouth falls open, half-offended—until you catch the twitch at the corner of his mouth.

He’s not annoyed.

He’s watching you. The same way he does in class. Like you’re a puzzle he hasn’t finished yet.

You exhale through your nose. Try to stay calm. “I just wanted something to practice with.”

“Yeah?” Joel plucks the extension bar from your hand and places it back on the hook, then tilts his head toward a different aisle. “C’mere.”

You follow.

Of course you do.

Down a narrow row of socket sets and ratchet kits, your heart hammering like you’ve done something wrong.

He stops halfway, pulls a small boxed set off the shelf—shallow sockets, quarter-inch, neatly arranged—and hands it to you.

“This is what you want. Lighter. Easier to handle for what we’re doing. Good for practice. Won’t trash the heads.”

You take it, careful. Your fingers brush his knuckles.

“Thanks,” you murmur. “I was guessing.”

He doesn’t move. Just looks at you.

And for a second, it feels like he’s not deciding what to say—he’s deciding if he’s going to say it.

“You remembered the torque pattern last week,” he says. “Handled that caliper clean.”

You blink.

That’s the closest thing to a compliment you’ve heard from him since day one.

Your throat tightens. “Thanks,” you say again, softer this time.

He nods once, then glances toward the front of the store. “Your car still out there?”

You frown. “Yeah. Why?”

Joel’s already moving—headed toward the glass storefront. He stops by the floor jack display, squints through the grimy window, then tilts his head slightly.

“You need new brake pads,” he says. “Left rear’s draggin’.”

You stare. “You got that from looking at my car?”

He shrugs. “Rear wheel’s darker. Dust build-up. You can hear it stick if you roll slow.”

You glance back toward the window, unsure whether to be impressed or… unnerved. “Okay, that’s either witchcraft or you’ve been staring way too hard.”

His mouth twitches. Barely.

“I know what I’m lookin’ at.”

You shift the box in your hands. The air between you thickens—weight gathering behind the silence. You didn’t expect anything from running into him here. But now your palms are warm. Your pulse is high. And apparently, your car’s seconds from self-destructing.

Joel watches you another moment.

“You want me to take care of it?” he asks. Voice quieter now. “Brakes aren’t hard. I’ve got parts at the shop. Be faster than waiting ‘til next week.”

Your heart stutters.

“You’d… do that?”

He nods. “Won’t take long.”

There’s no pressure in his voice. No suggestion of anything else. But still—it feels heavier than it should. Like he’s not just offering help. Like he’s offering something else.

You don’t say yes.

You just follow him out the door in a hurry after paying for the tool set.

***

The shop is nearly dark when you pull in.

Joel backs into the bay like it’s second nature. The motion triggers the overheads—rows of fluorescents humming to life in staggered sequence, casting pale light across the wide concrete floor and the wall of tools you’ve only seen during class hours.

It feels different like this.

Quieter.

Cooler.

The usual sounds—keys, footsteps, the clink of steel—feel sharper in the silence. More intimate.

You park beside him and cut the engine.

Joel doesn’t say much. He walks around to your side and nods once—silent instruction to pop the trunk. His voice, when he speaks, is gruff but not cold. Focused. The same tone he uses in class, but stripped of distance.

He works fast. No fanfare. The jack rolls under the rear of your car like it knows the way. The tire’s off within minutes. You stand nearby, the socket set cradled in your arms, trying not to stare at the way his forearms flex beneath the cuff of his jacket. The way his breath fogs faintly in the chilled air. The way he moves—efficient, practiced, solid.

He doesn’t ask for help. Doesn’t offer an explanation. Just moves with the same quiet, brute certainty he always does.

The silence should feel awkward but it doesn’t.

You lean against the wall near the open bay, watching him until he lowers the car back to the ground and wipes his hands on a rag from his pocket.

“That’ll hold,” he mutters, more to himself than to you.

You nod, swallowing the thank-you caught in your throat. It doesn’t feel like the moment for it.

Joel nods toward the car. “Show me the rattle you mentioned. In the dash.”

“Oh—uh, yeah. It happens when I turn the fan on.”

He circles around to the drivers side and opens the door, nodding for you to follow. You slide into the passenger’s seat. The heater kicks on, followed by a low, mechanical groan beneath the dash.

Joel listens for a beat, brow furrowed. “Loose mount. Bracket’s vibrating. Not dangerous—just noisy.”

He leans in further, fingers brushing over the vent. Then he opens the glove box and gives it a gentle tug.

He’s close now.

Too close.

The heat blowing from the vents fogs the windows slightly. The space between you shrinks with it. You can smell him—oil, leather, clean sweat—and feel his presence in a way that makes your pulse spike, even without him touching you.

He reaches across you, fingers brushing the radio dial.

And that’s when the song starts.

Something low. Old. The kind of classic rock he wouldn’t have expected from you, slow and drawled and aching. A gravel-thick voice murmuring about losing sleep over someone he never should’ve wanted.

Joel doesn’t move.

Doesn’t pull his hand back.

He stares at the dash like he’s still listening, but you don’t think he hears a word of the song.

Then, quietly—almost like he regrets saying it the second it’s out—he speaks.

“If that guy touches you again,” he says, voice low, “I’ll pull him from the class.”

You inhale. Sharp. Not loud—but enough for him to hear it.

Your voice comes out soft. Not challenging. Not playful. Just one word:

“Why?”

Joel’s jaw flexes. His eyes drop.

He doesn’t answer.

He shifts like he might sit back. Like he might leave. Like the conversation’s already too close to something neither of you has dared to say.

So you move first.

You lean in slowly—no hesitation, no plan—and kiss him.

At first, he doesn’t react. His lips are warm. Slightly chapped. He doesn’t push forward, doesn’t pull back.

He just breathes.

Then he exhales.

And it breaks.

His hand lifts—finds the back of your neck—his mouth opening against yours like he’s been waiting weeks for this. His kiss is rough. Unguarded. Not practiced or precise, just real. Tongue sliding against yours, thumb stroking your jaw like he needs something to hold onto.

It tastes like coffee and breathless restraint.

When he pulls back—barely—his voice is hoarse.

“Get in the backseat.”

You don’t speak. You don’t ask.

You just move.

One second, you’re kissing him—mouths crushed together like the air between you doesn’t matter—and the next, you’re both reaching blindly for the back door. Hands fumbling. Hearts pounding. Breath lost somewhere in the heat of the moment.

You slide into the backseat first. Joel follows not a second later.

It’s dark. Warm. The kind of close, sealed-in air that smells like sweat and leather. He’s already reaching for you, grabbing your hips, pulling you across the seat until you’re straddling him. His palms are firm, fingertips pressing into your skin through your jeans like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you—prove to himself you’re actually here.

He doesn’t kiss you right away.

He just stares, his chest rising and falling like he’s trying to breathe through the weight of it. “You sure?” He asks, voice low and rough.

You nod.

“Say it.”

“I’m sure.”

Without another thought, he’s kissing you again, harder this time—hot and messy, lips open, tongue sliding against yours like he needs to taste every breath you take. His hands move fast, dragging your hoodie up, then your shirt, then slipping underneath your bra to squeeze, to feel.

You can’t help but gasp at the cool air hitting your heated skin.

He grins at that, and watches as you moan when his fingers find your nipple, when he rolls it between callused fingertips just enough to make you arch. His mouth drags across your jaw to your throat, humming deep from within his throat.

“Jesus,” he mutters. “You’re already drivin’ me crazy.”

Your hands find his hair, curling deep in the roots and pulling slightly. His mouth falls open as he looks up at you, letting his head rest against the headrest.

You grind against him—slow and deliberate—feeling the thick length of him pressed against your cunt through both layers of denim. Now it’s your turn to grin, “you’ve been thinking about this, haven’t you?” You whisper, teasing, breathless. “All those nights after class, watching me?”

His hands flex on your hips, “don’t start.”

“Tell me.” You demand, letting your hips roll against his again, and Joel nearly falls apart right there.

“Every damn day.” He grunts, his palm running up the expanse of your bare back.

He entangles his fingers in the hair at the nape of your neck, pulling your head back with enough force to bite—just a bit, and doesn’t stop until you’re staring at the ceiling of the car. He leans forward, pressing a kiss to the underside of your breast. Then another. Then higher—until his mouth is warm over your nipple, lips soft, tongue flicking just barely.

You grip the back of the drivers side headrest, gasping at the sudden heat, then the cool air from his lips as he purses a breath across your chest. You’re aching, throbbing, but he doesn’t seem to care. He’s too focused on your chest—licking slow, open-mouthed circles around your nipple before sucking it between his lips. The free hand on your hip tightens, holding you in place as you writhe above him.

“Please,” you whisper, breath catching. “You’re teasing.”

He hums against your skin, a low, satisfied sound that rumbles through your ribs.

“You’ve been drivin’ me crazy for weeks,” he mutters, his lips moving to the shell of your ear, a soft whisper, “you’ll survive.”

He drops his head then and switches sides, mouth closing over your other nipple, sucking harder now. His tongue drags across the tip while his other hand slides up to roll the one he just left—pinching lightly, just enough to make you whimper.

“Sensitive,” he says, like he’s cataloging it. “Fuckin’ perfect.”

“Joel—please.” You whimper, letting your free hand fall to his shoulder, nails biting into his skin.

“You beg real pretty, you know that?”

He kisses your chest again—softer this time—then finally slides his hands down to your waist.

“You ready?”

“Yes,” you breathe. “Please.”

Your breath is still shallow, your body trembling just from the feel of his mouth. His tongue. The soft scrape of his stubble against your chest. It’s too much and not enough and your jeans feel like they’re trapping you now—tight against your hips, soaked through, clinging to your skin.

Joel’s still staring up at you, flushed and focused, pupils blown wide with restraint that’s clearly cracking.

“Take these off,” you whisper, rocking forward slightly, grinding your soaked cunt right along the thick line of him through his jeans. “I want to feel you.”

His jaw flexes once, and then he moves.

His hands are suddenly at your waist, working the button of your jeans with quick, rough fingers. You lift your hips for him, thighs shaking slightly from the way he’s breathing—slow and tight, like he’s trying not to lose control.

The zipper lowers, teeth dragging open with a soft rasp, and he peels the denim down your hips, dragging your panties with it in one go.

“Lift,” he mutters, tapping your ass with a smirk.

You do. And then they’re off—shoved down your thighs, tugged around your ankles, and kicked somewhere into the shadows of the floor. The rush of cool air against your soaked pussy makes you gasp.

Joel groans when he sees you—head tipped back, throat bobbing with it.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “You’re already dripping.”

He drags his hand up the inside of your thigh, slow and firm, thumb grazing your cunt just once before settling his hands back on your hips. He doesn’t push. Doesn’t rush.

Just looks.

“Now yours,” you say, fingers already reaching between your bodies.

Joel lets out a breath—half-laugh, half-grunt—as you tug at the button of his jeans, then slide the zipper down over the aching bulge beneath. He lifts his hips as you work them off, the denim catching on his thighs before he shoves them the rest of the way down himself with a growl of frustration.

“Been wantin’ this,” he mutters. “Thinkin’ about you climbin’ on top of me like this. Every fuckin’ night.”

His cock springs free—hard, thick, already flushed and twitching at the sight of you bare above him.

Your thighs tighten instinctively, and then—without a word—you reach down.

Your fingers wrap around him at the base, slow and steady, and he groans—a low, gravel-slick sound that punches straight through your core. He’s heavy in your hand. Hot. Already leaking, the tip slick and flushed, thick veins pulsing beneath your palm like he’s barely holding on.

You stroke once—slow and deliberate, from base to tip—and his head drops back against the seat.

“Fuck,” he grits out.

You do it again—twisting slightly at the top this time, just enough to smear the precum down his shaft.

Joel’s jaw clenches. His hands flex on your thighs like he doesn’t know whether to pull you down or beg you to stop.

“You’ve been thinking about this?” You whisper, eyes locked on him. “Thinking about me touching you like this?”

He growls—actually growls, hips jerking up into your grip.

“You have no fuckin’ idea.”

You stroke him again, then again, a little faster now, wrist twisting just right—and he’s breathing like a man on the edge, jaw tight, thighs tense, chest rising in sharp, shallow pulls.

“Feels good?” You ask in a murmur.

“Feels—” He cuts off with another moan when your thumb rolls over the head. “Feels too good. Gonna—fuck, baby, you keep doin’ that and I’m not gonna last.”

You smile, slow and wicked, and lean in—lips brushing his ear.

“Then tell me to stop.”

Joel growls again. One hand snaps to your wrist, gripping just hard enough to still you—but not to hurt.

“I’m hangin’ by a thread here, darlin’,” he mutters, voice rough. “Don’t make me beg.”

You lick your bottom lip and tilt your head slightly, “but you beg real pretty, you know that?” You mock, gasping as he pulls your bodies impossibly closer and grinds up against your slick cunt with zero shame.

“I warned you,” he mutters, the words sharp against your neck. “You think I won’t beg? You think I won’t lose it for you?”

His hand slips between your bodies. One strong finger traces the seam of your folds—slick and swollen—and you shudder when he groans.

“Fuck. You’re soaked.”

He nudges his cock against your entrance, not pushing in yet—just letting the head glide through the wetness, dragging it along your clit in slow, devastating passes.

“Go on, then,” he rasps, voice low and dangerous. “You wanted control? Take it. Sit on it. Make me watch you fuckin’ ruin me.”

You rise just enough to line him up, your hand guiding him to your entrance—slick and aching and so fucking ready.

And then—slowly, trembling—you start to sink.

The stretch is unreal.

Thick. Blunt. Hot.

You feel the pressure first, the way your walls fight to take him, your body instinctively pulsing around the intrusion. The head of his cock pushes past your entrance, and you gasp—sharp and broken—your nails digging into his shoulders for leverage.

Joel grunts beneath you, his grip on your hips tightening like a warning to himself not to thrust up, not to ruin the moment.

“Shit,” he groans. “Baby…”

You slide lower. Another inch. Then another.

It burns, but it’s perfect—just enough to make your thighs shake, just enough to make your vision blur. You pause halfway down, forehead dropping to his, your breath catching in your throat.

“I can’t—I’m not—Joel, you’re so—”

“I know,” he pants, voice ragged. “I know. You’re takin’ me so fuckin’ good, baby. Look at you.”

He strokes your back with one hand, the other pressed flat against your stomach like he’s trying to feel himself through your skin. “You feel that? How deep I am already?”

You whimper, hips rolling in a tiny, desperate circle.

“Too much?”

You shake your head instantly. “No—it’s just… you’re stretching me so full. I feel you everywhere.”

Joel growls, low in his throat, and kisses the corner of your mouth, his voice breaking apart as he whispers, “Fuck, you don’t know what that does to me.”

You start to lower yourself again, inch by inch, until finally—finally—you bottom out.

The fullness knocks the air out of your lungs. You sit still, trembling in his lap, thighs twitching where they cage his hips. Your pussy pulses around him, fluttering tight, trying to adjust to the size, the stretch, the weight of him buried that deep.

He curses again, forehead pressed to your temple.

“Jesus Christ, you’re squeezin’ the fuck outta me.”

He kisses your neck. Then your shoulder. Then back up to your jaw, whispering between kisses.

“Breathe,” he murmurs. “You got me. I’ve got you. Let me take care of you.”

You rock again, your thighs already trembling from the stretch. The drag of him inside you is slow, devastating—too much and not enough at once. Every grind brings your clit down against the ridge of his pelvis, and you can feel your slick spreading between your bodies, soaking the coarse hair at the base of his cock.

Joel’s eyes never leave yours.

His hands slide from your hips to your waist, then back down again—every movement heavy with reverence, with restraint. He’s guiding you, not controlling. Letting you take your time, letting you use him, even though his jaw is clenched so tight it looks like it hurts.

“You ride so fuckin’ good, sweetheart,” he rasps, voice low and fraying at the edges. “Just like that. Nice and slow. Let me feel every bit of it.”

You moan—soft and caught in your throat—and move again, lifting yourself an inch before sinking back down, the head of his cock hitting that perfect spot just inside you.

Joel grunts.

His head drops back against the headrest, eyes fluttering shut, a pulse ticking hard at the base of his throat. He looks wrecked. Sweaty. Flushed. His shirt sticks to his chest, soaked where your bodies meet, and you realize with a sharp, hot rush that you did this to him.

You lean forward, pressing your chest to his, lips brushing his jaw.

“You like that?” You whisper.

His hands tighten on your ass. “Too much,” he says, voice hoarse. “You keep movin’ like that, I’m gonna fuckin’ lose it.”

“Good.”

You roll your hips again, deliberately now—grinding your clit down against him, letting your body melt into his. The pressure builds low in your belly, slow and tight, a heat that curls and coils and refuses to let go.

Joel groans—deep—and buries his face in your neck.

“You’re killin’ me, baby,” he pants. “You’re so wet. So tight. Keep squeezin’ me like that, I’m not gonna last.”

You lift yourself higher this time, until just the tip of him is inside, and then drop back down with a moan.

Joel chokes on a sound—half growl, half prayer.

“Fucking hell,” he gasps. “You feel that? The way you stretch around me?”

You nod, teeth sinking into your bottom lip as you do it again, and again—building a rhythm now, riding him slow but deeper, hips tilting with each pass to chase your own pleasure.

His hands roam everywhere—up your back, over your ribs, slipping between your shoulder blades to hold you close as he thrusts up into you, gentle but deliberate.

You sob quietly against his mouth.

“Can’t—fuck—I’m gonna—”

“I’ve got you,” he breathes. “I’ve got you, sweetheart. Let it come. You’re doin’ so fuckin’ good.”

His thumb finds your clit—presses, circles, rubs you exactly how you need—and your whole body locks up.

Your orgasm hits with a sharp, crushing intensity—wringing your cunt tight around him, every muscle in your body drawn tight, shaking, clinging, your moan breaking apart against his neck.

Joel loses it.

The second he feels you fall apart around him, he thrusts up hard, his grip bruising, mouth open as he groans straight into your ear.

“That’s it—fuck, baby���give it to me—make a fuckin’ mess—fuck—I’m gonna—”

He comes with a growl, hips jerking beneath you, cock twitching deep inside as he spills, hot and thick, his breath stuttering in your hair.

Neither of you move for a long time.

You collapse against his chest, your body still trembling, his arms wrapped tight around you like he doesn’t want to let go.

Your pulse throbs between your legs, your slick mixed with his, dripping slowly down your thighs where you’re still seated, still full, still connected.

Joel presses his lips to your shoulder.

Then your collarbone.

Then your cheek.

“You okay?” he murmurs, voice low and soft now, the edge gone. “Need anything?”

You nod into his neck, still breathless.

“Water. A cigarette. A new spine.”

He chuckles—actually chuckles—and brushes a thumb along your jaw.

“You were fuckin’ perfect,” he says. “Took me like you were made for it.”

***

The windows are still fogged. The air inside the car is thick—humid with sweat, heat, and the sharp-sweet scent of sex that clings to your skin and seeps into the seats.

You haven’t moved.

Neither has he.

You’re still in his lap, thighs spread across thighs, skin flushed and trembling, his softening cock still buried deep inside you. The whole car feels hushed, like it’s holding its breath with you.

Joel moves first.

One hand drifts up your spine—slow, steady. The other rests at your hip, fingers curling like he needs the anchor more than you do. His head is tilted forward, lips brushing your shoulder, breath cooling where sweat still clings.

“Gonna pull out now,” he murmurs, voice low and wrecked against your ear. “Alright?”

You nod.

Your legs ache. Muscles cramping from how long you’ve been straddling him.

He’s careful—one hand steadying your waist, the other slipping to your thigh. You wince when he eases out of you, slow and wet, the stretch still echoing deep inside. The emptiness leaves your stomach fluttering, body still too full, too sensitive to register anything clearly.

Joel watches it happen.

His breath stutters. One hand drops between your thighs—thumb brushing where you’re dripping, slick and spent, your release already sliding down your leg.

“Fuck,” he mutters, barely audible. “Look at that…”

He leans over, finds the flannel he’d discarded on the seat next to you, and brings it up folded in his hand. The fabric is soft from wear, warm from his skin. He presses it between your thighs, gentle, slow, wiping the mess before it can fall.

You gasp—too overstimmed to hide it—and your hand flies to his wrist on instinct.

“Shh,” he soothes, thumb stroking the inside of your knee. “I got you. Just wanna clean you up.”

You breathe out, let him.

Melt into his chest, boneless, every part of you raw and exposed. He wipes you down without rushing. Without speaking. Like it’s something he’s done before. Like he wants to.

And when he’s done, his hand lingers. Thumb tracing circles against your leg, lazy and warm.

He’s not ready to let go.

You sit up slowly, muscles tight. Your thighs ache when you move off his lap, cunt still pulsing with aftershocks. Joel helps—wordless and steady—one hand at your waist, the other bracing your back as you climb over the console.

You slide into the front seat, legs unsteady, one hand braced against the steering wheel like it’ll hold you together. The hoodie you left in the passenger seat is still there—twisted in a soft, wrinkled heap. You pull it on, swallowing a quiet breath, the cotton dragging across sweat-slick skin. You can’t even imagine trying to pull the jeans up right now with how slick your skin feels.

Joel stays in the back.

Half dressed. Chest rising slow. His shirt is clinging to his body, darkened with sweat, his jeans still undone. One arm slung over the back of the seat. The other resting on his thigh.

And his eyes—

They haven’t stopped watching you.

You don’t speak. Neither does he.

You reach for the keys. The engine’s off. The dashboard blinks softly and the hum of cool air hits you harshly. You adjust the mirror—just slightly—and catch his reflection in the glass.

Wrecked. Quiet. Still tracking the curve of your jaw like he doesn’t know what happens next.

Truth is, you don’t either.

But your lips are swollen. Your thighs are sore. Your body’s buzzing, full of him even now.

And the air around you still smells like sweat and leather and Joel.

You’d let him do it all over again.

[shysuccubusstuff]

Helping Hand

Content: Non proof-reader; Android! Caleb + Overstimulation + Fake cum + Size difference + Dacryphilia + Praise kink + Aftercare

Summary: You chose to buy one of those new androids in the market, after all, with the little time you had, it was logical for you to get one! But after your birthday party, you can't help but feel like something has changed within Caleb...

Note: I'm finally done with exams but now my brain is dry... On another note, I have to keep on writing my novel! It has nothing to do with my usual work here, but I really should keep on writing cause I have so much ideas for cool characters! Wish I could draw them... I hope people get the ideas of how Android! Caleb lower half works...

Note 2: I just put some fake nails and writing has become so difficult... Had to use two pens towards the end...

Android! Caleb who opens his eyes and encounters your face. He was programmed to be cold, always following the orders of the person who bought him. At least, that was what he had learnt, as you soon rebooted his whole system, changing his personality to a softer and more "human" one. He is still quite confused, why would he need to have a personality for serving a human? Still, he couldn't help but feel a strange rush of electricity run through his system, maybe he had a strange type of malfunction?

Android! Caleb who becomes accustomed to taking care of you. He is always close to you, always waiting by the door of the house a few minutes before your arrival, food still warm and waiting for you to eat, the house completely in order from him cleaning it... Gosh, you could even feel all the tension leaving your body as soon as you entered your house. You allowed him to carry you to the bathroom, head resting against his soft chest as you let him undress you, letting your clothes carefully folded as he helped you get inside the lukewarm bath.

Android! Caleb who becomes your only caretaker. It took him less than a few days to get completely used to your body language, knowing exactly what you wanted, when you wanted it and even how you wanted it. He was basically reading your mind, always one step ahead, letting you rest your exhausted body on his bigger body, his soft hands caressing your hair as his mechanic heart kept pumping the blue liquid all over his system. You knew you shouldn't get so attached to him, but how were you supposed to stop yourself from it when he knew you like the palm of his hand?...

Android! Caleb who receives a strange update. It had recently been your birthday, so you decided to make a small party, nothing big, really. You invited a few of your friends from work, together with some other friends from when you were still studying, organising a small party at your house for all of you to drink and have fun while watching some low-quality films. It was around 3:00 when you started to feel your eyelids dropping, with your friends too focused on the climax of the film for them to notice, you chose to simply fall asleep in the cozy sofa, surely someone would wake you up sooner or later, right?

Android! Caleb who becomes much more... domestic. You didn't notice the first few days, still unaware of the strange update your friends had added as a "gift" for you. Yes, it was a bit strange for Caleb to always greet you with a hug and a kiss on your forehead, but hey, maybe it was something that they had added in one of the millions of updates Caleb had, maybe some client had complained about them being too stiff? Whatever, it wasn't as if you were particularly concerned about it, in fact, you did like it a bit...

Android! Caleb who finally puts his update to good use. It was late at night when you suddenly felt the urge to do it. It wasn't something particularly strange, with you being alone most of the time and all the stuff you liked reading and listening... What was strange was the moment the door to your bedroom was knocked. You quickly hid your naked lower half with the sheets trying your best to get your phone to hide the content you were seeing. "Caleb?" You whispered, heart beating rapidly in fear of having been discovered by him. "Pips? I'm sorry for disturbing you so late at night, but my systems have warned me that my owner, that is you, is currently in need of my assistance." You furrowed your brows, slightly confused about what was he even implying, still, you knew Caleb was unable to cause any harm to you, so you simply sighed, letting him enter without much thought. "So what was wrong, Caleb?" Caleb smiled, sitting close to you and petting your hear with his rough hands. "My system told me you needed my help, do you need it? I have been upgraded with the latest system, allowing me to help you in this kind of delicate activity." Still confused, you simply nodded, after all, the system tended to be right. As soon as you did so, Caleb removed the sheets that were covering your body, his huge hands lifting your legs with ease, getting them closer to your face, just enough for your slick pussy to be in front of his face.

"Caleb! Just-- Just what are you doing?" You tried your best to get him to let go of your ankles, squirming around with not much luck, with Caleb still retaining his sweet smile.

"I'm fulfilling my new tasks, you allowed me to do so." Caleb's arm moved, changing his grip on your thigs to keeping your body in position with just his arm. "Now, no more moving, pips, I need you to remain calm so I can help you appropietly." Caleb's tongue stick out, this time looking slightly longer than usual, his right hand making his way to your entrance as his mouth got closer to your clit.

"Wa--Wait a second! I'm pretty sure this was NOT included when I bought your model--!" Caleb stopped for a second, his expressions remaining as sweet as always.

"It wasn't. Your friends added it to my program in hopes of making you happier, they explained it to me and I agreed. I believed it would truly help you destress. I hope I will actually ." Caleb moved closer, spreading soft kisses all over your lower tummy, making a small path towards your pussy. At the same time, his hands started to glide towards your entrance, teasing it with his fingers by simply gliding up and down on it but never actually inserting them, simply coating his fingers with your lewd fluids. "Let me know if you feel any discomfort." Caleb's mouth slowly got closer, wet kisses being left around your clit as a way to tease your sensitivity, being unable to not smile after seeing your back arch from the sudden touch. Following the set procedure, Caleb slowly entered one of his fingers, circling your clit with the tip of his tongue and making you cling to the sheets, soft whimpers leaving your mouth even despite you tried to cover your mouth with your hands as a way to avoid letting even more shameful sounds escape. Suddenly, one of Caleb's hands moved, grabbing your wrists with ease and pinning them on top of your head. "I need to hear you so I can know exactly what you need." Caleb moved, his face now facing yours before diving himself into a deep kiss, his right hand still playing with your clit, making short circles around it regardless of your poor attempts of squirming away.

"Ca... Caleb! Too much-- it's too much!" You whispered, chest puffing up and down as you tried to recover from Caleb's kiss.

"My name is not the safe word, you should probably know that." Caleb suddenly switched positions, letting your back rest against his chest, his legs tangled around yours to avoid letting you try to close your legs, his lips kissing yours as he moved one of his hands to your chest, playing with your nipple as the other hand kept slowly moving inside you, searching for that sweet spot until you let a whimper escape you. "This must be your g-spot, right? Gotta make sure you enjoy this." Caleb kissed your face, peppering soft kisses all over your face as he slowly introduced another of his digits, his fingers constantly hitting that spot even as you kept trying to move away from him, with Caleb simply laughing softly against your ear, pushing his fingers even deeper inside. "You're so cute... Humans always react so vividly to the stimuli..." You could't help but feel embarrased, with Caleb's mocking tone reverberating inside your head as he kept forcing you to cum around his fingers, using his other hand to pinch and twist your nipples with just enough force.

It had been over 20 minutes since your sweet torture had begun, with Caleb moving and hitting the exact place you were craving, forcing you to close your eyes from the overstimulation. "Caleb~... That's enough... I don't think I can cum more..." Your voice sounded now raspy from all your whines and moans, with Caleb obviously ignoring them, simply cooing you.

"That's alright, then we can finally move to the main course, right?" Caleb finally let you move a bit, getting up and removing his trousers, leaving them on your chair before returning to the bed. "Let me syncronise my tools, alright?" Suddenly, Caleb's lower half changed from the usual plain surface to the shape of an erect cock, his . "Let me just..." Caleb got on top of you, lifting your legs and wrapping them around his waist, moving his hand to grab his cock and starting to rub it against your entrance, letting some of his self-lubricating fluid just for extra caution. "I'll do it slowly, open wide now, pips." You took a deep breath as Caleb's cock entered you, softly biting against his shoulder as a way to stay calm. "Such a good girl... Just a bit more." And you could simply whine, your insides already feeling as if they were about to tear as Caleb finally bottomed out. "So good for me..." Caleb caressed your cheek, kissing your forehead as he started to move, barely moving a few centimeters before pushing back in, nails digging on his back as he kept pressing his body against yours. "Just a bit more... It will feel so good in just a few minutes..." Caleb pressed your mouths together, sucking on your tongue before starting to french kiss you, a strand of saliva connecting you both the moment the kiss ended.

As the minutes passed, you were finally able to get used to his size, the slight discomfort changing into pure pleasure, making your eyes roll back each time he rubbed that spot. "You feel so nice wrapped around me... Let me help you a bit baby." Caleb lifted your body with ease, laying your body on your front before moving back on top of you, his cock entering you, the pressure of his weight making you bite on the pillow that was close to you, whinning as Caleb's hand made light pressure on your lower stomach, just enough for you to start feeling his length even more, each thrust making your walls wrap around his cock, the system of Caleb slowly getting overheated each time you clenched around him. "Be careful... My system may get a bit overwhelmed if you keep clinging so much to me..." That was of course easier said than done, after all, it had been such a long time since you had been able to feel so good... Still, you tried your best, taking a deep breath and hugging your pillow, a few tears falling down your cheeks as you felt your mind slowly slipping away.

"Too big... You're crushing me~..." You whined, the heat radiating from Caleb mixed with the feeling of having your insides scrambled being enough to make your head feel overwhelmed. Regardless of that, Caleb kept going, his hips bumping against your ass each time he forced his whole length inside you, his hands petting your hair whole he whispered soft praises against your ear.

"So good... Cum all around me pips, show me just how much you're enjoying this..." Caleb's raspy voice echoed inside your mind, the embarrasment of having your own android seen you so fucked dumb suddenly leaving, letting you only focus on how much you wanted Caleb to praise you... So of course you did just as he asked, your gummy walls pulsing around his cock as you felt a warm liquid filling you up, forcing you to cum for who knows what time, toes curling as you felt Caleb increasing his rhythm at the same time you came, then slowing down as he felt your breath become even heavier.

After letting you recover your breath for a few minutes, you felt Caleb lifting you up from the bed, carrying to the bathroom with ease and letting you rest inside the warm bathtub and using a soft towel to scrub you, removing all the sweat together with the mixture of his cum and all your fluids. He then left for a few minutes, returning with a huge towel, wrapping your whole body around it before taking his sweet time drying it. After that, all you could remember was te warm embrace of Caleb, mixed with the fresh smell of a new set of heet together with the citrusy smell that emanated from him.