#three different kinds of scissors

[crowsent]

it actually helps w lessenin anxiety. if you bring a bag prepared for a lot of scenarios your head doesnt scream at you when you take one foot outside 10/10 would recommend

wait do you guys actually carry purses/bags everywhere you go i really need to know

[bootycallin]

ACTUALLY PLEASE DO A PART TWO?? I NEED TO KNOW WHAT I DOES TO READERS CLIT ❤️

OOH—BETTER THAN ME?

꩜ .ᐟ basically; vi made a proposal. imagine what i can do, she said. not that you could've ever even imagined, imagined, anyways.

cw: wlw. porn with slight plot this time!! not a direct continuation but sort of. vi catches u jorkin it. implied perv!vi (lol). masturbation. mutual masturbation. bsfwb? fingering. bushvi (!!). reader’s briefly described as smaller than her. scissoring. swearing. vi's a sweetie pie. begging. overstim. aftercare? v fluffy ending. not proofread.

a/n: dinner is fucking served

NSFW UTC

now, the real question is, how’d she get you so addicted?

damn, it’s not like you’ve never had sex before. quite the opposite, you have sex pretty often.

but she was different.

maybe cause she showed something you could never really do. maybe because it was one time and you’re best friends and you’re overthinking. or maybe the dick was just really good. god knows. one way or the other, you can’t stop thinking about it.

you don’t know it, but vi can’t either. so when she hears you whimpering from your room, she can’t fucking help herself.

what kind of fucking black magic does she have? there’s no way your fingers are just short. you’re trying, you really are—legs wide, lips spread so you can press two of your fingers inside your saturated hole. it’s not enough. you’ve been neglecting your clit, as well—because supposedly, you should be able to do it.

it’s not enough. your clit’s twitching, breath shaky, curling your fingers—not enough. thrusting them in? not enough. just briefly smacking the tip of your clit with your palm? not. enough.

you’ve been trying to avoid it, but you need her.

“fuck, vi…” and what is it they say? about speaking of the devil?

‘cause she’s right there. say her name three times to summon, or some bullshit? because you could’ve fucking sworn you were alone—as you are most times when you’re masturbating.

(well, that’s what you think. vi’s conscience is a little heavy because of that. can you blame her? she’s just a woman!)

you barely have enough time to realize it. pulling your fingers out, grabbing the nearest blanket there was to cover your body as if she hadn’t already seen enough of it to know exactly what you look like. shit.

“vi—“ again. broken record, much?

“‘s fine,” she mentally scolds herself for how her voice sounds. shaky, unprepared, even—she’s been behind that door for a hot second and she’s already aching. she can’t deny it, damn it, she needs you. now.

“can’t…?”

“no.”

whether that’s you asking her to stop or confirming her thoughts, god knows. she does, too, apparently, as she hums slightly. there’s a smirk on her face, but she’s just as needy, just as nervous as you. fuck, she needs you so bad.

and at the opportunity, she’s rushing into bed with you, lips crashing against yours. she’s missed this so much. the feeling of your lips against hers—she really could get used to this. like, really get used to it. dare she say, she wants it. she grasps at the covers you used to shield your body, pulling them down so she can see your bare skin. she’s been imagining this for so long.

her teeth nip at your bottom lip, looking up at you to find your half-lidded eyes that widen when she spreads your legs open, settling comfortably between them.

“this okay..?”

“yes.”

what kind of question even was that? you knew damn well she could see how you were practically buzzing at the idea of having sex with her again. is this normal? yeah, no. but it’s happening and you’re definitely not thinking twice about it.

you stop her midway through kissing down your neck, hands softly grasping at her hair, making her gasp. your eyes are flitting down to her lips, but most importantly, the damned tank top. not that it didn’t look good on her.

just that it would look better off.

“vi-“ there’s barely enough time for you to even speak, as you grab at her shoulder straps and pull, leading her to nearly rip the shirt off altogether.

and there she is. between your legs, bare in all her glory. damn, you knew she was muscular, but fuck…

she can practically feel you eye-fucking her. trailing up and down, on her sculpted and. you could swear they used to make greek statues based off of her. oh, and when your eyes catch that little bit of red poking out from the hem of her boxers—

“y’alright?”

“yeah…” you mumbled, dreamily. your hands reach for her so you can run your hands over her body, over the mark of her collarbones, the curve of her breasts, the dips of her abs. fuuuck. you can barely hear how vi gasps, her eyes laser-focused on the way your smaller hands run over her skin. she’s been dreaming of this.

“baby,” she whispers, breath shaky. her own hands find yours, guiding one down to run down her body, fingers briefly making contact with the hairs of her happy trail. that’s enough to drive her insane.

she let’s go of your hand to grab at the hem of her shorts, nearly ripping her goddamn boxers off. it’s the first time you’ve really, really seen vi’s body. her pussy’s fucking throbbing just by the way you look at her. damn.

there’s really no words not to be said. you don’t want to talk. you want her, and that’s it. you grab at her shoulders, making her gasp at the sudden eagerness. your lips crash against hers, she nips at your bottom lip. it’s messy. eager and messy and so fucking hot to both of you. your tongue meets hers, spit mingling and all—

she can’t take it.

she pulls away, making you whine and in turn making her smirk. cute.

(she’s acting like she’s not just as giddy. if not more. if you were to press your palm against her chest, you’d probably be a little concerned she’d have a heart attack. you’re just so pretty).

her hands run down your body, over the length of your thighs, spreading them open carefully. she can see how your eyes narrow a little at the stretch, but fall half lidded again when she ends up resting your legs atop of hers. she’s now sitting comfortably between your legs, your thighs sitting above her muscular ones.

“you want me to help you again, baby?” fuck, if that doesn’t make your face burn. she knows damn well what you want. if she didn’t, you wouldn’t be naked in front of each other like this.

“please…” even you are surprised at how whiny your voice sounds. you’re just frustrated. again.

“i-i can’t—“

“‘s fine.” she leaned forward to press a kiss to the crown of your head, something almost a little too heartwarming for the ‘best friends’ situation you two had. not that you were complaining. her lips were soft. vi was soft. for someone like her, you’d think she’s a little more… well, jagged. but, nope.

she’s soft through and through. principally when it comes to you.

her lips trail down your forehead to your nose, then to her cheeks, one of her hands—namely her right one—following the same pace, except down your body. over your belly, down to your lower navel, down until…

she swallows the moan you let out when her fingers just barely brush over your clit. she can’t help wondering if you’re really that sensitive or she just has the power to do that to you—which would definitely be an ego boost. gods, she hopes that’s what it is. you whine when she starts drawing slow little circles over your hood, your thighs tensing on instinct, breath catching.

“you want me to help you, yeah?” she asked, trailing her fingers further below—not before briefly smacking the nub of your clit with her middle fingers, an almost embarrassingly large gush of pre leaving your already sopping pussy. her mouth’s watering just thinking of it.

“violet,” not the usual vi. you sounded like you were trying to sound demeaning, but it really just came out as whiny. vi raised an eyebrow like you had insulted her.

but she herself was way too needy to give a damn. even if you did. her hand trailed down, fingers parting your lips and eyes laser-focused on your wet cunt. her index briefly prods at your hole, ripping an audible whimper from you which she just loves. but she doesn’t slip her finger in yet—not like she couldn’t. you’re wet enough that it would be like butter.

“wha…?”

“i just,” she looks up at you, free hand rubbing your thigh, “just had a thought.”

before explaining, she grabs one your hand, pulling it down so it hovered right over your pussy the same way it was when she first walked in the room.

“just…” her breath was slightly heavy, as she cupped the back of your hand. she spread her fingers so they matched yours, and you could only watch as she moved your finger to prod at your hole, tip just barely sliding in.

there’s not a lot of resistance. after all, you had already been doing it before she even got to this point. she’s watching your reaction carefully to see if there’s any discomfort, looking like it’s the most attention she’s ever given something. Her eyes are surprisingly wide. not scared. rather, it’s almost puppy eyes—she just needs to see it. needs to see you let go. needs to see you break again. needs to see you whine and scream her name again, like it’s the one word you know.

her hand guided your movements, one finger pushing your knuckle so your finger moved in and out, not a lot of movement, but enough to feel it. you let out a few pleasured sighs and slightly whimpers, but not compared to the whines and screams she managed to rip from you that time. both of them were good, though—she could deal with it. she was patient. unfortunately, you were not.

“i don’t feel it.”

“that’s fine,” she muttered, continuing to hide your movements. she watched your face, your body as it squirmed slightly. not necessarily from any great reaction, but rather because you just needed more. and because she was here. watching. she could watch you masturbate for hours. not that she hasn’t—well, imagine it… she’s overthinking. either way, it’s fine if you don’t feel it. that’s what she’s there for, isn’t it?

“do this.” she takes your hand away from yours for a second to show you how, finger doing the usual come-hither motion. you tilted your head back, a groan escaping from the back of your throat. obviously, you didn't take that all too seriously.

“it doesn’t work,” you’ve tried it already. never really did anything for you. you weren’t lying when you said you only did manage to cum when you played with your clit… well, not until vi, but that’s besides the point.

“trust me,” she mutters, staring at you, her gaze subtly speaking: you should. you know what she can do, don’t you? if there’s anyone you should be trusting, it’s probably her.you pouted and whined a little more, just to show her you didn’t like that whole idea. if you kept doing that, she might just have to wreck you—well, not that she wasn’t going to in the first place; she’s been holding back from jumping your bones since that last time.

a second of silence, and you end up doing as asked. it really makes no difference for you. people tried to make it sound better than it really was. you guess, because it really just didn’t work like that for you. never had that pornographic sensitivity to immediately squirt whenever you tried to reach your g spot, you don’t think you’ve ever even found it yourself.

it does feel a little different, but you’re guessing it’s just because vi is right there. between your legs. watching. you don’t know why she makes you feel like this. every little touch. it’s you’re a sleeper agent and she’s your goddamn activation. one little sexual touch or comment, and you already wanna fuck.

she has to hold back a groan when you do as she says. “yeah. like that,” she murmured, voice low and dangerous, “good girl…”

vi’s not even thinking when she says that. her brain isn’t really working, honestly. she’s way too preoccupied with watching as your face twists, the blood that rushes up your cheeks, flushing it a pretty pink she just wants to kiss so bad. her words had an obvious effect.

she shifts up slightly and you can only watch as her other hand, previously on your thigh, moves up to your lower belly, pressing down with the pads of her fingers right over your bladder.

you immediately stop when she does that. after all, it was just… a weird sensation. that same one from last time, but it still caught you off guard. a curse leaves from between your lips in a hiss, teeth catching your bottom lip briefly.

“‘s fine.” she reassured. “just do it.”

if she kept using that honeyed voice, you’d probably do anything she told you to. her free hand slides down to move another digit of yours inside, “just do as i told you.”

and of fucking course you do. because who the fuck are you to disobey her? it would be embarrassing if you didn’t like it so much, but god knows you do. you move your fingers in that ‘come here’ motion, wincing and whimpering at the feeling as the pads of your fingers press against the top walls of your pussy. you can nearly feel them, pressing up against that spongy spot, vi’s hand pressing down right on top of your bladder just making that all the more real.

“yeah.” she groaned, “like that… good girl. keep going.”

vi sounded like she was trying to encourage you. you made a mess on her once, she’s not gonna freak out if you do it again. i mean, she was expecting that for a while, but of course she always has to make the first goddamn move.

“vi, i—“ vi hushed you just with a sharp little glare that told you don’t test me. if she kept looking at you like that you’re sure you would discombobulate.

and of fucking course you do it. because if she tells you to, you’re more than likely doing it. at least here. you continue moving, her eyes locked in on you. on your body, your reactions. watching your face twist slightly and the little shakes of your thighs.

“vi…”

“fuck.” she groaned, moving to press her face against the crook of her neck. she kissed at the skin, just barely biting down, canines pricking. she herself was getting impatient. her pussy was fucking aching to just feel you and she couldn’t really think straight. the only part that managed to stop her from completely letting go is that she’s focused on your own pleasure.

but when she looks down, looks at your slick covered fingers—that sweet clit she wanted to touch—she couldn’t help it.

she lowered herself, lips latching to the nub. she made a point to ignore your surprised noise, how your hips jerked away. you seemed to relax soon enough. she looked up at you, noticing your fingers had halted.

“continue.” she muttered against the hood of your clit, pressing a soft kiss to the sensitive skin there. you whined but obeyed, fingers moving in that same motion she just showed you. it’s definitely affecting you more when she’s kissing and licking your clit.

vi’s a messy eater. she’s always been messy, but it comes down even to that. she flicks, sucks, nips, laps. likes licking up from your hole to your clit, lapping up whatever comes like a needy dog. she feels like one right now. she’s practically humping the mattress in a desperate need to get some friction while pleasuring you. it always came first in her head.

“vi, fuuuck,” you gasp. she’s still lapping up at your clit, flicking the bean with her tongue in quick movements, better than any fucking vibrator you’ve ever fucking used. you’re sensitive, bit almost hurts a little, but it’s good. hurts so good you don’t want to stop her. you find that your fingers get quicker before you can even think about it, curling up over and over again ‘til you’re soaking.

“fuck.” she pulls away before you can get your high, though. before you can ask, she’s stopping your fingers, pulling your hand away from your heat. you whined, but shut up when she switched your fingers with hers.

“ah-!” a sharp gasp comes from your throat. vi’s fingers were thicker, bigger than yours. you like to think that’s why you can’t make yourself cum, but when she starts moving, you start realizing the problem really is that you just can’t finger correctly.

“shiiiit…” you drawled out, head tilted back and everything. you’re embarrassingly wet. not that vi really cares, anyways; you should know that.

“been waiting… f’so fucking long,” she drawled out, panting, shifting so she’s upright. “so fucking long to play with this pussy.”

“vi…”

your hand reached out to grab her wrist, but it’s worthless, as her thumb manages to poke through to tap at your clit briefly. that alone sends you over the edge in probably the quickest orgasm you’ve ever had. your vision blur and you can swear you see stars.

for vi, all she can see is how you wet her fingers, little liquidy gushes spraying from you the most she curls and rams her fingers into your g-spot, until you’re practically shaking. your whining doesn’t stop until she removes her fingers, pussy clenching around nothing, hips bucking into air. it’s truly a sight for her sore eyes.

but she needs more.

she grabs your thigh, pulling it closer to her until your leg’s basically hooked over her shoulder, holding the back of your knee. you barely have enough time to process till you feel the tickle of crimson hairs, as her wetness swipes right over yours.

“shii!—“ you hiss. it’s a feeling like never before. you’ve felt her fingers, her tongue, the silicone of that strap she dicked you down with a bit ago—but not her own pussy. you didn’t even think to realize it, you’ve never really touched her there before. mostly because vi seemed to prioritize having your pleasure over her own more than anything. (she’s probably converted you by now. god, you don’t want another guy inside you ever again).

“cupcake,” her rough voice rasps, mouth hung open in a way that’s almost too needy for her pride, heavy panting making her chest heave. what else is there to say? she's been fantasizing about this shit for the longest time. finally getting to feel you like this, rubbing her cunt against yours 'til neither of you can fucking think right.

not that she is exactly thinking about anything when she starts humping against you like a bitch in heat. her head hangs, eyes squeezing shut on instinct. she's desperate, feeling the heat building up in her lower stomach quicker than before. no pillow could ever replace the wet warmth of your cunt, the slick that coats her folds, sticky and messy and so fucking good.

"fuck, fuck, fuck—" vi's really hardly hearing you, her own groans being the one thing she can hear. you cum easily. after all, she had just ripped one from you, and here she is again, taking yet another one. all she can really discern is that you're impossibly wetter, essentially just lubing her up and making her own job easier. there's a whimper that tries to escape her throat, desperate, but she forces it out as a groan, head falling and top teeth tugging at her bottom lip.

"fuck, princess..." she growled, hands a vice-grip on your thigh. "please, fuck. yeah, shit, give it to me, give it to me..."

she's like a broken record, chasing her own high, while you tried to keep from screaming, body trembling and jerking with the aftershocks of your second orgasm.

"viii!—" a pitchy whine, ripping from your throat, strained at the angle of your head tilted backwards. "'s too much! gh-- too much!"

"fuck, baby," vi groans, a deep growl that rose from her throat, "shit, i know, i know. you can take it. you can take it, right?" her voice drops even lower, as she spoke through pants. her free hand shoots up to grab your face, making you look at her. powdery blue eyes meet yours, pupils blown wide, face flushed, sweat dripping down her temple. she looked like an angel.

"you can take it, right? fuck, please, baby..." her voice is borderline whiny, getting pitchier the closer she gets to the edge, which is rapidly approaching. how could you say no to a face like that? she half expected you not to answer.

"yeah, vi," you pant, trying to keep your voice as stabe as possible. "keep... g-"

"shit!"

she hissed, her abdomen locking, pussy gushing right over yours, not stopping, only jackhammering her clit against yours 'til you're cumming yet again, a silent scream leaving you, chest heaving. she has to bite the skin of your knee that's hooked over your shoulder so she doesn't cry out. you can tell, though, by the vibrations that run down your skin.

vi collapsed on top of you when she was finally done, her own body trembling. she has half the mind left to kiss up your neck, arms wrapping around your waist.

you both lay in the afterglow for a few minutes, not bothering with words. just the way she holds you is good enough, more than words can speak. she eventually lifts her head, eyes meeting yours, gentle and loving like you've never seen.

"you alright?" vi asks, voice like raspy but still like sweet honey. "i didn't hurt you, right?" yeah, she might've acted like a brainless mutt back there, but she's can recognize she overstimulated you. she liked hearing your cries, sure, but she doesn't want to hurt you.

"no. of course not." you reassure her, hand reaching to cup the back of her head, then her cheek. she found herself leaning into it like a needy cat, nose nuzzling into your palm.

"you sure?" she asked yet again, pulling a genuine chuckle from you.

"yeah. i promise," you rub your thumb down the slope of her cheel, the slight bump of her cheekbone. she's always been sculpted like a greek goddamn statue. beautiful.

“mhm." she grumbled. she hated that you could get her like this. so weak, so... vulnerable. but if it was for you, she'd probably be able to handle it.

"fuck, i-" she starts, without thinking, "i love you..."

before she can panic over her words, nervously meeting your eyes, you replied, "i love you too."

and she can rest easy knowing that you love her, that she didn't fuck it up. that all this was worth something, not just a quick fuck to you. to her, it never was.

you've always been more than her best friend to her. way, way more than that. her love.

𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃 © bootycallin on tumblr. do not copy, translate or cross post without permission. ᛝ

[lupinqs]

THE WAY I LOVED YOU ━━ paige bueckers x ex-girlfriend!reader

☆ ━ summary: a night out leads you right back to your ex-girlfriend’s bed.

☆ ━ word count: 10.8K

☆ ━ warnings: smut (oral, fingering, strappp, scissoring, pure filth)

☆ ━ links: my masterlist

☆ ━ author’s note: not proofread and basically just porn goodnight

THERE’S NOTHING WRONG with Lucas.

You tell yourself that a lot. Not because you don’t believe it, but because you do. You believe it so much, it almost feels rehearsed.

Lucas is easy to love. Easy to explain. He says what he means and he follows through. He’s the kind of person who brings you flowers on a random Tuesday and remembers your favorite kind without needing to be reminded. He holds the door open for you—not in the forced, performative way, but just because that’s the kind of person he is. Thoughtful. Steady. Soft around the edges in a way that makes other people relax just by being near him.

Your friends love him. Your mom keeps saying things like “he’s a keeper” and “baby, he is so in love with you” and it’s not like she’s wrong. He texts back. He listens. He laughs at your jokes, even when they’re not funny. He gets along with your dad. He plays video games with your little brother. He always smells like laundry detergent and cinnamon gum, and when he kisses you, he cups your cheek like he’s holding something precious.

You like that. You like him.

It’s good.

It’s normal.

It’s healthy.

And for the most part, you don’t think about anything else. Not really. You’ve been… training yourself not to. You’ve developed entire routines around the art of not thinking about her—deleting old playlists and creating new ones, watching different shows, changing your route to class, rewriting entire chapters of your day-to-day life just so you don’t trip and fall back into the places where she used to live.

And it’s worked. Mostly.

Until it doesn’t.

Because Lucas will be saying something—something sweet, something thoughtful, something that would’ve made you melt if this were your first relationship—and you’ll feel this tiny flicker of something you can’t name. Not sadness. Not longing. Just… something. A quiet, sinking realization that you should be feeling more than you are. That what he’s saying is right, and hood, and all the things you’ve ever been told to want—but it’s landing in your chest like a feather instead of a thunderstorm.

And that’s the thing. Lucas is feathers. Warm, light, gentle.

But Paige?

Paige was fucking weather.

Not sunshine or softness or stillness, but storms. Paige was thunder and static and lightning under your skin. Being with her felt like leaning too far out of a window just to see what would happen. Like running a red light or driving a hundred miles an hour. Reckless. Stupid. Exhilarating.

Not that you think about her. You don’t.

You don’t think about the way she used to kiss you like it was the last time, even when it wasn’t. You don’t think about the fights that started over nothing and ended with slammed doors and tear-streaked apologies. You don’t think about the 2 AM screaming matches in her car that would turn into the 2:07 AM make-outs that made your head spin and send heat to your core. You don’t think about how being with her made you feel like a live wire—shocking, wild, electric.

Lucas makes you feel like you’re being taken care of. Like your future has clean lines and soft landings. He respects your boundaries. He never raises his voice. He doesn’t make you wait three hours for a reply, only to show up at your window like he’s in a movie. He’s never left you crying in the rain. He’s never made you cry in the rain.

It’s easy, being with him. Comfortable.

And maybe that’s the whole point. Maybe that’s why you said yes when he asked you out, and why you kept saying yes after that. Maybe that’s why you’ve tried so hard to get used to all this normalcy. You wanted someone who didn’t make your heart feel like it was constantly trying to break out of your chest. You wanted someone calm, steady, safe.

Lucas is all of those things.

He doesn’t make you feel like you’re on fire. He doesn’t make you feel like you’re on fire.

There are no extremes. No chaos. No bruised egos or tearful apologies or scream-raw throats. He doesn’t make you second-guess yourself, and he never looks at you like he’s seconds away from either kissing you or shouting at you. He just looks at you with kindness, with a quiet sort of adoration, like you’re exactly who he hoped you would be.

And still—still—there are nights when you find yourself lying awake next to him, the glow of your phone lighting up the ceiling, and you feel something sharp and shapeless pressing at the back of your mind. Not a memory. Not a name. Just pressure. The kind you used to feel when things were about to go wrong. Or when things were too good to be true. Or when she was around.

You don’t let yourself go there.

You shut it down

Because it’s not fair to Lucas, and it’s not fair to you. You’ve moved on. You’re fine. Everything is fine.

And besides, you already tried loving like that.

You gave everything—everything. You screamed and sobbed and kissed like your life depended on it. You threw yourself into someone like Paige Bueckers and got spit back out with bruises you couldn’t explain. It wasn’t sustainable. It wasn’t good.

You remind yourself of that whenever your mind drifts.

Lucas doesn’t make you cry.

Lucas shows up.

Lucas texts back.

Lucas doesn’t run hot and cold. He doesn’t storm out of rooms. He doesn’t pull you into closets at parties and fuck you until your legs are shaking, only to pretend like nothing happened the next day. He doesn’t keep you guessing. He’s consistent. Warm. Soft.

You can trust him.

You just don’t burn for him.

And maybe that’s what growing up is. Learning to choose what’s good for you over what feels good in the moment. Learning to stay steady instead of chasing the highs and lows of a love that made you lose your mind.

So, no—you don’t miss Paige.

Or, at least, that’s what you’re currently telling yourself.

You’re at Ted’s. UConn’s beloved, grimy, too loud and far too small campus bar. It’s girl’s night out—no Lucas, no boyfriends, just you and your friends. The music is bad, the floor is sticky, and you’ve already had one too many drinks, but none of that is really the problem.

The problem is that she’s here.

Paige fucking Bueckers is here.

Of course she is. Of course she’d pick tonight to show up, like the universe just can’t let you have a single night off. She’s across the bar, flanked by her teammates, posted up like she owns the place. And she kind of does. She’s got that charm, that draw—the one that makes people want to be near her, even if they don’t know why. She doesn’t even have to try.

It’s not the first time you’ve seen her since the breakup—seven months, not that you’ve been counting—but that doesn’t make it easier. The sting hasn’t dulled. The ache hasn’t faded. Every time you see her, it feels like getting burned in the same exact spot over and over again. Your body should be numb to it by now, but somehow it never is.

And worst of all?

She looks good tonight. So good it makes your stomach twist and shrivel.

She’s wearing black cargo id that sit low on her hips and cling just enough to the right places. A white collared crop top, short-sleeved and perfectly fitted, which gives you a detailed fucking display of her biceps and abs—both of which are bigger, sharper, more defined than when you had her. She’s been hitting the weight room hard this summer. You know it. Everyone knows it. She must want that natty bad.

She probably wants it more than she ever wanted you.

You hate how bitter that thought tastes going down, but it’s not like it’s new. That feeling—that doubt—was there the whole time. The fights. The jealousy. The nights she didn’t text back. The way her phone would light up late at night and she’d just turn it face down and mumble something about it being nothing. You wanted to trust her. God, you tried. But it was always like walking a tightrope with her. One wrong move and you’d fall.

She was a fuckboy before you got together, and you’re sure she’s a fuckboy again now. Probably worse. Seven months is plenty of time for her to rediscover all her old habits. You can practically see it written all over her tonight—the loose body language, the flirtatious smile, the way her eyes scan the room like she’s picking her next fuck. She’ll take someone home tonight. You don’t even have to wonder.

Some girl—probably sweet, probably impressionable, probably someone who has no idea what it’s like to be wanted and discarded by Paige Bueckers—will follow her home. She’ll get to experience first hand what all the hype is about.

You try not to think about how that was once you. Try not to think about the way Paige would toss you onto her bed and kiss you like she needed it to breathe. Try not to think about the desperate way she’d strip you bare. Try not to think about the skill her hands and mouth and hips held. Try not to think about the way she used to look at you—like she couldn’t believe she got to have you.

You try not to think about any of it.

You stare at her, hating her and wanting her and hating that you want her. And her hair’s down tonight—down—long and straight and golden under the bar lights. She never wore it down when you were together unless you asked, unless she was feeling soft, unless you were the only one she wanted to impress. She’d preferred it up, out of the way in a bun or ponytail. But now it’s out and shining like a fucking halo or something.

She’s laughing at something KK said, her mouth open and easy and happy, and you hate how good it looks on her. How it makes her shoulders shake just slightly, how her head tilts back, how she glows. She’s got a Dirty Shirley in hand—of course she does—and a devil-may-care look in her eyes like she’s on top of the world. Like nothing, not even you, ever touched her deeply enough to leave a mark.

She doesn’t notice you staring.

Good.

You tear your eyes away with more force than necessary, like dragging a splinter out of your own skin. It leaves you raw. But you want let yourself look again. You won’t.

Your drink is almost gone. You need more. You need to blur this out, soften the corners of the room until her shape doesn’t stand out in it anymore.

You mutter something to your friends and slip away toward the bar. Your legs feel heavy. Your skin too warm. You feel her presence behind you like a heat lamp, burning a hole in your back even if she’s not looking.

You shove through a group of guys yelling about the Celtics and wedge yourself between a couple of juniors who are too busy taking selfies to notice you. The bartender glances at you once, uninterested. You order a shot.

Then another.

Then, one more with your friend who just walked over.

You were tipsy before—now you’re full-on drunk. It’s dangerous and smart for this situation. You needed it, but it could also make things catastrophically worse.

You glance back—just once, just to be sure—

And she’s looking right at you.

Her mouth is still curved in a half-smile from the joke someone made. But her blue eyes are locked into yours, and for a second, just a second, the noise of the bar fades.

And you remember everything.

Every fight. Every fuck. Every late-night apology. Every quiet morning. Every lie you swallowed. Every truth you ignored. Every time she held you like she’d never let go.

And then did.

You break eye contact first.

Not because you want to. Not because you’re strong enough to look away. But because the heat of her stare is too much—it crawls beneath your skin, presses against your throat, makes your chest ache in that way that only she ever could. And you’re too fucking drunk to pretend like it doesn’t affect you. Too fucking drunk to pretend it doesn’t burn.

So you look away.

Swallow hard.

And then you turn your back on her, like the coward you swore you wouldn’t be.

Your stomach twists as you push through the crowd, arms bumping shoulders, elbows knocking against glasses. You’re headed for the bar bathroom, and you don’t even care how pathetic it looks. You need a second. You need air. You need to not be near her.

You make it to the restroom, barely missing the girl stumbling out with her heels in her hand and lip gloss smeared against her chin. You shut the door, lean back against it, and exhale hard through your nose.

It’s a shitty little bathroom. One mirror. Flickering light that doesn’t help stop your intoxicated brain from spinning. Peeling poster on the wall advertising Tequila Tuesdays. You avoid your reflection because you already know what you’ll see: mascara slightly smudged, lips parted, that look in your eyes—like you’re unraveling. You can feel it. You’re slipping. The drunk is mixing with the memories now. You’re seeing her hands on your skin again, hearing her laugh against your neck. You’re remembering the way she used to back you into this same wall when the two of you would sneak off here together, tipsy and breathless and stupid in love.

You press your palms to your eyes and mutter, “Fuck,” under your breath.

You hate her.

You hate her so much.

Except… not really.

You swore you didn’t miss her. You swore you over it. You promised everyone, including yourself.

But underneath all the anger and the betrayal and the hurt you still carry in your ribcage like broken glass, you do fucking miss you. God, you miss her. The way she smelled. The way she’d look at you. The way her voice would soften when she said your name. You miss what it was like when it was good—when she let you in, when she chose you.

You squeeze your eyes shut. Try to breathe.

Then—the handle jiggles.

Your eyes snap open.

The door creaks. You forgot to lock it all the way.

And there she is. She slips inside like a shadow and shuts the door behind her, slow and certain. Her eyes are already on you—the same icy blue. You can tell by the look in them that she’s just as drunk as you are. You want to scream at her. You want to melt into her arms.

“You were looking at me,” she says simply. But there’s a rasp to it that makes your skin tingle.

You swallow and straighten your, your reflexes all sharp and brittle. “No, I wasn’t,” you snap, defensive, even though your voice cracks halfway through it.

She steps closer—crowding you, closing the distance in two long strides. You stumble back, spine hitting the cool tile wall behind you, and she plants her palms on either side your head, caging you in.

Her gaze flickers—your mouth, your eyes, your mouth again. She’s reading you like she used to. And then she’s leaning in, breath fanning against your face as she tells you, “Don’t lie.”

Your breath catches. You look up at her, feeling small beneath her height. She was always good at making you feel that way. She’s still staring at your lips. You try not to stare at hers. “Don’t,” you say, and your voice is small, too small.

But she already knows that “don’t” means “do.”

Her hands find your waist, hot and certain. You should push her away. You should tell her to leave. But you don’t. You can’t. Your fingers curl into the collar of her shirt instead, and then she’s kissing you, and it’s not gentle. It’s rushed and tough and months too late. Her lips crash into yours like she’s staring for you, and you let her take what she wants.

Because you want it, too.

Paige’s hands are everywhere and nowhere, gripping and slipping and dragging fire down your sides. You can feel her breath stutter every time your hips tilt forward just slightly, like your body is trying to remember hers on instinct alone.

You’re both far too drunk, you know that. Her balance is all fucked, her touch a little too eager, a little too messy to be calculated, but she’s trying to make it feel that way. She’s trying to keep control. Her arm is braced next to your head, her body angled so your only exit is through her. She always used to do that. Always made herself a wall. And now she’s doing it again, caging you in like she owns the right to.

And worse—you’re letting her.

You’re letting her and kissing her and grabbing at her like you never want her to leave. You’re cheating. You know that. You know that Lucas is probably asleep at home, completely unaware that you’re pressed up against a bar wall right now with your tongue in your ex-girlfriend’s mouth.

And you should care.

But you don’t.

All you can feel is Paige—her mouth, her tongue, her teeth. All you can taste is her Shirley and whatever shots she’s been drinking and your lip gloss that’s been smeared across both of your mouths.

And beneath that—deeper than the alcohol and the anger—is the hurt. Yours and hers, bleeding through your kisses like you’re both too stubborn to admit how much it still matters. You hate her. You fucking hate her for what she did, for how she made you feel, for the way she stopped calling and let everything rot in silence.

But you also want her.

Desperately. Viciously. Shamefully.

She kisses you harder, lips slotting with yours like she wants to devour you whole. One of her hands drags up your side, long fingers bunching in your tank top until it wrinkles under her grip. Her other hand finds your hip and squeezes hard—possessive, rough, like she’s trying to bruise herself back into you. And you don’t stop her. You tilt your head back when her lips begin to trail downward, dragging along your jaw, your neck.

She sucks there, open-mouthed, like she wants to leave a mark. You gasp. Your fingers tighten on her shirt. Your knees almost buckle, and you’re suddenly very grateful the wall is there.

She knows what she’s doing. Of course she does. She’s always known.

When she gets to your ear, she nips—just the edge, sharp and quick—and you inhale so hard your vision blurs.

Then her hands slide from your hips to your waist and she presses her mouth right against the shell of your ear, voice low and warm and dripping with something that feels way too much like the past.

“Come back to mine, mama,” she whispers, pinching your waist for emphasis. “Let’s leave.”

Your breath catches. Everything slows, just for a second. You hear the music pounding from the other side of the door, the sound of someone laughing in the hallway. You feel her breath fan across your neck, her body flush with yours, her large hands holding you with a firm grip.

And you want to say no. You should say no.

But you’re drunk. And this is Paige.

You lean your head back against the wall, eyes fluttering shut. Her lips brush your throat again.

“Okay,” you breathe, so quiet you’re not sure she heard it.

But she does.

She pulls back just enough to look at you, pupils blown wide, lips swollen and pink, face flushed. She doesn’t smile. She just lifts her hand, swipes her thumb across your lower lip and chin, wiping her spit away. And then she grabs your hand and pulls you toward the door.

You stumble out of the bathroom together, the door creaking wide and hitting the wall like a gunshot in the haze of noise and cheap bar lighting. Neither of you say anything—you just look at each other and then move in sync, turning toward the back entrance like it’s muscle memory.

It is muscle memory.

The same hallway, the same emergency exit sign buzzing slightly overhead. You’ve done this before—slipped out together, ducking before your friends could ask questions or try to convince you to stay, walking home in that stupid little bubble where it was just you and her and the fucked-up, magnetic thing that kept dragging you together. It feels like that again. Familiar. Dangerous.

You push the door open, and the rain hits you in the face like a slap. It sobers you up maybe half a percent, just enough to register how soaked the ground already is. You look up in disbelief. The sky is coming down heavy now, full-on pouring—of course. Of fucking course.

Paige lets out this short laugh, all breath and surprise, like she can’t even believe the timing either. “Jesus,” she mutters, throwing one arm around your shoulders, tugging you closer into her side. “We gotta walk.”

You just nod because you already knew that. Her apartment isn’t far—not that you’ve been to the new one, just that you know the building. It’s about ten minutes if you’re sober and walking with purpose. Which, neither of you are right now. You’re drunk. She’s drunk. You’re dressed for the bar, not a rainstorm. And you’re making the worst decision of your entire relationship history, possibly of your life.

But you go anyway.

The two of you start moving down the sidewalk, feet slapping against puddles, your arm wrapped tight around her waist now, because fuck it, she’s warm and solid and familiar. Her shirt is clinging to her by the minute—white cotton soaked through and sticking to her torso, giving you a clearer outline of the muscle she’s been building all offseason. You glance at her abs, now shiny and wet with rain, and immediately look away again. Mistake. Everything about tonight is a fucking mistake.

Still, your body keeps walking.

The rain is cold and heavy, but your skin is buzzing and hot from the alcohol and the adrenaline and whatever this horrible, electric thing is between the two of you. It’s always been like this—heightened. Too much. Like your nervous system doesn’t know what to do around her except overload.

You try not to think. You try not to remember.

But you do.

You remember the last time it was late at night and raining and you were with Paige. Screaming in the middle of the street, voices cracking and soaked to the bone, fighting like it was the end of the goddamn world. And it kind of was. You ended up having angry sex in her car afterward, teeth and nails and hands clawing for something solid, something familiar, even if it hurt. You broke up the next morning.

You remember the heat of her skin, the sting of her words, the way she looked at you like she didn’t know whether to worship you or run from you.

But that’s how it always was.

You and Paige were never soft. You were sharp edges and blood-hot emotions and never knowing whether the night would end in a fight or a fuck. You both went a little insane because of the way you felt about each other—because neither of you ever knew how to not feel too much.

And now, you’re cheating on your boyfriend just to feel it again.

You shove the thought down as hard as you can. Focus instead on the way Paige’s fingers dig slightly into your waist every time you slip a little on the slick concrete. On the way her hair, long and straight and down for once, is starting to curl at the ends from the water. On how your teeth are starting to chatter even though the warmth from her body is leaking into yours, bit by bit.

And then, out of nowhere, Paige just stops walking.

You barely register it at first—your steps carry you half a beat too far until she tugs you back by the hand. You turn to ask what the hell she’s doing, but then she’s already kissing you.

Right there, in the middle of the fucking sidewalk in a downpour. No warning. No buildup. Just her mouth on yours like gravity snapped and she had no other choice. And maybe she didn’t; maybe neither of you do.

It makes sense.

When you were together and she was drunk, Paige always got like this. Clingy. Touch-starved. She’d pull you into her lap at parties, curl up behind you on the couch, mouth against your ear saying dumb little things that would make you blush. Always wanting to be near you, in you, around you, on you—like proximity made it easier to breathe.

That version of her is here now, kissing you like she’s trying to devour you. Her hands cup your face, holding you steady, but her mouth is anything but—urgent, greedy, moving over yours like she’s trying to memorize every part she’s been missing. Her lips are warm and insistent even through the cold, even through the rain that’s coming down heavy, pattering against the sidewalk, running down your neck, getting between your clothes and skin. It’s kind of miserable, but it also kind of doesn’t matter.

Because Paige is kissing you like she’s pissed off. Like she wants to make a point. Like she’s angry she still wants you, and the only way to get it out is kissing you hard enough to bruise.

And God, you feel it. Your body is lighting up from the inside, every part of you buzzing. You can taste the rain between her lips, the mix of it and her chapstick and the alcohol on both of your tongues. Her hands slide into your hair, tugging you toward her harder. It’s enough to coax a gasp out of you, and that only makes her groan and lick further into your mouth.

It’s clumsy and wet and messy, teeth knocking a little, breaths hitching, the kind of kiss that leaves no room for rational thought. And you let it happen. You lean into it. You want to punish her a little, too—want her to feel it like you do. So, you kiss her back just as angrily, like she’s not the only one with something to prove.

But then the chill starts to creep in. You’re soaked to the bone now, both of you only in tank tops, and the wind cuts sharp across your face as it whips through the street. As hot as you feel inside, you’re suddenly aware your body is freezing. Besides, you need to be somewhere inside to satisfy your real need—the one resting between your legs, pulsing and aching with want.

You pull back just a little—your lips slipping away from Paige’s, breath fogging between you—and try to catch your bearings. But Paige isn’t done. She follows you forward, mouth chasing yours like she can’t stand even the smallest bit of distance. Her nose bumps yours, big hands still gripping the sides of your face.

“Okay,” you mutter, voice breathless, dazed, trying to push her back with shaky hands on her chest. “Let’s go, c’mon.”

She stares at you, blue eyes wide and glossy under the streetlight glow, lips kiss-swollen and parted.

“Needa—apartment,” you stumble, the words coming out in fragments because your brian is still somewhere back in that kiss. “Like, now.”

Paige blinks like she finally remembers where the two of you are. She exhales slowly before nodding quicker, saying, “Yeah. Yeah.”

It doesn’t take much longer to get to her apartment. She’s in a different building now, not the same one she lived in when you were dating. You don’t even get a chance to look around before she’s telling you, a little breathless, “Jana and Allie are both staying at Azzi and Morgan’s tonight. We ain’t gotta worry ’bout none of that.”

You nod. “Good,” you reply, but it’s barely out of your mouth before she’s already closing the space between you once more.

Her mouth crashes into yours with this messy, impatient heat that catches you off guard even though you probably should’ve expected it. You gasp slightly, back hitting the wall with a dull thud as her hands find your hips and press in like she’s trying to fuse herself to you.

She kisses you hot and desperate, tasting like her Shirley and rainwater and you, like she’s been starved for too long and forgot what moderation is. Or maybe she never knew in the first place. Her breath is shallow against your cheek when she pulls back just barely, only to bite at your bottom lip, gentle at first and then not. Your knees buckle a little.

She starts walking you backwards eagerly, quickly. Your shoes squeak faintly against the hardwood floor, and every few steps, she pauses to kiss you again—at your jaw, your neck, your collarbone—each one a little sloppier than the last, like she’s trying to leave her mouth on every inch of your skin that’s currently available. You stop for a second to kick your shoes off, Paige doing the same, before her hands are right back on you.

You let her guide you, stumbling slightly but somehow never really tripping, your hands tugging at her shirt now without hesitation. Your fingers find the hem and you push upward, palms grazing the warm skin of her stomach, the firmness of her abs. She lifts her arms to help you, eyes fluttering shut for just a second as the tank top peels off her like a second skin, damp from the rain and sticking to her in places. You toss it aside without even looking where it lands.

She’s gorgeous like this—hair damp and sticking to her temples, broad shoulders gleaming slightly from the rain, eyes half-lidded and wild, white sports bra soaking into her skin. You pull her back in. She lets you, fingertips digging into your waist as she spins you slightly and then walks you back the rest of the way.

The door clicks shut behind you, Paige’s hand still on the lock as she flicks it closed without even looking. You only catch a blur of her bedroom before she’s pushing you, your back hitting her mattress with a dull thud. The bed’s soft, and it dips underneath you as Paige follows right after, crawling on top of you without a second thought.

She kisses you hard the moment she’s close enough. No pretense. Just mouth on mouth, rough and messy and hungry. Her knee slips in between your thighs like it belongs there, and suddenly she’s pressing forward, using the weight of her body to open you up, her hands already sliding up your sides, tugging at the hem of the tiny tank top you wore out tonight.

She’s always been like this—especially when drunk. She got clingy, reckless, possessive. All hands and teeth and sharp exhales against your throat. She never hesitated to take what she wanted. Clearly, nothing about that has changed.

You can barely think. Your brain is cotton. Static. Her mouth moves down along your jaw, biting just a little at your skin as her hands palm over your chest through the thin fabric, rough and eager, hardening your nipples. It’s overwhelming in the same way you remember. Like she’s trying to devour your whole. Like you’re the last drink of water on Earth and she’s been crawling through the desert.

You let her take. You’re not even sure if you could stop her if you tried.

“Paige,” you murmur, just her name because you don’t know what else to say. She hums against your neck, doesn’t stop moving, doesn’t slow down. Her mouth catches your collarbone bow, her teeth scraping skin, and you can feel your tank top sliding further up, her hands bunching it near your ribs.

You try not to think. About anything. Not about where you are. Not about who’s on top of you. Not about Lucas. Definitely not about that.

But your guilt creeps in, just for a second. Just long enough to make your stomach twist.

You’re cheating on your boyfriend.

You’re actively cheating on Lucas with your sort-of insane ex-girlfriend—who, to be fair, is currently kissing along your body like you’re something deserving of worship. Like she wants to go back to the night you broke up, grab it by the throat, and shake it until it gives you a different ending.

And the worst part is that you want her to.

You want all of this. Even if it’s wrong. Even if it’s messy. Even if tomorrow comes and you have to lie through your teeth about where you were tonight.

Thankfully, you’re pulled from your thoughts as Paige’s fingers hook into your tank top, pulling it up over your head in one smooth, urgent motion. It gets caught for a second, snagged under your arm, but she doesn’t even hesitate. Just lets out a breathy laugh and helps you lift your arms the rest of the way, tossing the top somewhere behind her.

She pauses when she sees you.

You’re bare from the waist up—unlike her, you didn’t bother with a bra tonight. The tank top was enough. You shiver slightly, skin still damp.

“Fuck, baby,” Paige mutters hoarsely. Her eyes roam across your chest like she’s recommitting your breasts to memory—which, she probably is.

And then she leans back in, mouth fast and greedy. Her lips graze across the swell of your chest, her tongue flicking out against one of your pert nipples. She sucks, cheekbones becoming prominent, as her hand stimulates the other bud. You arch into the touch, a quiet gasp escaping your lips, and Paige just groans in response.

She moves even lower, trailing wet kisses down your stomach like she’s trying to worship every inch of you in the fastest way possible. Her hair is still wet from the rain. It sticks to her forehead, her cheeks. You reach down without thinking and brush some strands behind her ear, and for a flicker of a second, her eyes spring up to meet yours.

There’s something in them—something messy and unspoken and so achingly familiar it almost knocks the breath out of you. She looks at you like she doesn’t know whether to say “I missed you” or “I’m gonna ruin you,” and honestly, it might be both.

You swallow hard as her fingers slide down your sides, wet palms skimming your hips. She shifts slightly above you, her knee pressing deeper between your thighs, and then she mutters, low and little slotted, “’M takin’ these off.”

It’s not a question, or a warning. Just a statement of fact, like she knows it’s already a done deal. Like she knows how much you want her. It pisses you off, but she’s right. You don’t bother trying to argue; you’re too impatient for that right now. Instead, you lift your hips, giving her room.

The denim peels off in slow, wet scrapes—Paige tugging your jeans down clumsily, muttering something under her breath about how soaked they are. Her hands fumble at your ankles, pulling the cuffs off before she throws the mess of fabric to the floor. Her hands are cold and your skin is goosebumped from the downpour, but somehow it just makes everything feel sharper, more alive.

You watch as her gaze returns to you before stilling. The grin sidles upon her face before she even says anything. Her lip quirks, slow and smug. She blinks once, then twice, like she’s confirming something.

“Well, would you look at that,” Paige murmurs, titling her head. Her voice is thick with amusement.

You frown. “What?”

She reaches out, brushes her fingers over the lace of your underwear before snapping the waistband against your stomach. “You wore these,” she replies matter-of-factly. The way she says it makes your face go hot.

You glance down, your stomach twisting the second you register. Lavender lace. The soft pair she got you when you were still dating, the one that belongs in the set with the bra. Purple is her favorite color. You hadn’t meant to wear them tonight. It just—happened. Bad luck. Or maybe subconscious salvatore. You’re not sure.

“Shut up,” you mumble quickly, but your voice is weak, defensive. You shift your hips slightly, trying to throw her off, but she doesn’t let up.

“Nah, nah,” she says, laughing. “You wore these. Tonight. These.” Her fingers curl just under the waistband once more like she’s framing the evidence. “These are my panties.”

You groan, hiding your face in your hands. “Oh my God.”

Paige just chuckles again—low and smug, the sound all warm breath against your thigh—and leans in. She presses her mouth to the inside of your leg, right above the lace, and bites. Not too hard, just enough to make you gasp, make your hips jerk. Her hands grip your thighs, holding you still as she drags her teeth across your skin again.

You feel her fingers trail up between your legs, teasing, lazy. She doesn’t even go for the waistband. Not yet. Just presses her fingers over the damp lace, at your clothed clit, where she knows you’re already pulsing for her. Her touch is light, maddeningly so. Just pressure, then a slow little circle, then nothing. Then again.

You exhale sharply, a little whimpering escaping before you can stop it.

“Yeah,” she breathes, all cocky and satisfied, rubbing at your pussy through your underwear—her underwear. “You want this, huh?”

You want to roll your eyes. You want to curse her out. You want to tell her to shut up again.

But you also want her hand between your legs, so.

“Obviously,” you mutter instead, shifting your hips closer to her fingers. “Jesus.”

She smirks. “Still so easy for me,” she murmurs, running her thumb in a slow, purposeful drag over your covered clit again. “Still so wet, even with these on. Shit.”

You don’t respond. You can’t. Not with the way your body is reacting to her—how warm and staticky and shamefully good it feels, even after everything. Especially after everything. It’s fucked yo. It’s so deeply, stupidly fucked up. But the thing about Paige is that she’s always known exactly how to pull you apart, and tonight’s no different.

Her lips move up your thigh again, kisses slower now, mouth more deliberate. She’s still teasing you with her fingers, but at least she’s pressing harder now. Your legs twitch a little under her hands, breath coming faster.

You grab at her wrist. “Paige.”

She hums against your skin. “Mm?”

“Either take ’em off or don’t.”

Another smug little grin. “Bossy,” she mutters, but she finally starts to tug them down.

And you think she’s gonna rip them off just like the jeans and your tank top, quick and careless, like she can’t get them off fast enough. But she doesn’t. She goes slow with it. Real slow. The lace peels off your skin in soft, damp stretches, catching slightly on the curve of your hips, then your thighs, like it doesn’t want to let go. She’s careful with it, rolling them down past your knees, then over your ankles one at a time.

And then, instead of flinging them off to the side like the rest of your clothes, she hesitates.

She holds them, twisting the fabric around her fingers once. She looks at them for a second, like she’s remembering something. And then, without a word, she sets them down—right beside you on the bed, neat and deliberate like she’s placing something valuable. You roll your eyes; you know she’s trying to emphasize the fact that they’re “her” panties.

You watch as her blue eyes trail over you, before settling between your legs. She can see how soaked and slick you are. When she looks back up at you, that teasing edge in her expression is gone. Replaced by something darker. Heavier. Like the sight of you naked knocked the air right out of her.

“Fuck,” she breathes, more to herself than you.

And then she moves.

No more games. No more slow burn or smug comments or smartass remarks. Just Paige, leaning in with a newfound desperation.

The first thing you feel is her breath. Hot and shaky against your cunt, curling over you in waves that make your toes curl. Then her mouth—her lips, soft and plush and open, parting against you like a question she already knows the answer to.

Your hips buck involuntarily and she groans—low and satisfied and a little dizzy—like the taste of you hit her like a shot to the head. Her hands grip your thighs firmly, thumbs digging in just enough to hold you still as she licks a slow stripe between your folds.

Your breath hitches in your throat. Paige doesn’t say anything, but she hums like she’s pleased with herself, and the vibration makes you whimper. Her mouth works steadily, not frantic, not messy, just focused. Eager, but in control. She’s pacing herself like she knows exactly how long it’ll take to make you cum—and plans to stretch it out just enough to make you lose your mind before it.

You feel her shift, settling between your legs like she’s not planning on going anywhere anytime soon. One of her hands slides up, presses lightly over your stomach, while the other stays clamped around your thigh, keeping you open and spread for her. You’re breathing hard already, fingers fisting the sheets, head tilted back against the pillow.

But then she flicks her tongue just right—right there, straight on your clit, the perfect little spot she always used to find without trying—and your whole body goes tight.

“Fuck,” you choke out, hips twitching, hand flying to the back of Paige’s head without thinking. Your fingers tingle in her hair, damp and messy and soft, and she lets you, even leans into the pressure like it spurs her on.

“Mm,” she hums again, mouth still locked on you. Her eyes flick up for a second—just long enough for you to see the heat beneath them—and then she closes them again and gets back to work.

Her pace picks up, beginning to circle her tongue on your pussy with more pressure. Like she’s chasing something now. Like she’s chasing you. And when your hips roll up again, she moans softly like she loves that—like she needs it just as much as you do.

“Paige—” you stumble, her name coming out half-broken.

She pulls back for one second, breath ragged, lips slick and swollen, her nose a little wet too, and murmurs, “I gotchu, mama,” before ducking her head again.

And you know she does—in this position, she always does.

She sucks, lips around your bud, and your legs shake.

“Oh my God,” you whisper.

Her fingers finally move—trail up your thigh again, then find their way between your legs. Her mouth moves down, tongue finding your entrance, thrusting inside. Her fingers, on the other hand, rub over your soaked clit in slow strokes.

You’re a mess now. Moaning soft and breathless, biting your lip, fucking Paige’s face. It’s too much and not enough.

Paige’s grip tightens. She keeps moving her tongue, rubs her fingers faster. The sounds emitting are obscene. Your whole body is trembling, your thighs clenching around her shoulders, your heart pounding so loud you can barely hear anything else.

You’re about to cum. You’re right fucking there. You know it, Paige knows it too.

And then: she stops.

Just for a second. Just long enough to make you want to scream.

Her mouth doesn’t move far. Her fingers don’t leave. She just slows everything down—lets her tongue go lazy, softens the pressure of her fingers into something more like a tease than an intention. Just enough to cool the fire without putting it out completely. Enough to keep you hovering in that frustrating, impossible space where you can feel your orgasm burning in your gut, but you can’t reach it.

You whimper, pathetic and desperate. “Paige,” you say. It doesn’t even sound like a protest—it’s too soft. Too needy.

And she just chuckles. Low and rough and stupidly smug. “Sweetheart, I know you ain’t think I was gon’ let you finish that fast,” she chastises.

She licks a lazy stripe up your center, just enough to make you shudder, then pulls back again to speak. “Uh-uh.” Her lips brush the inside of your thigh now. “Nah, baby. Not yet.”

You try to buck your hips, to chase the pressure, but her hand flattens against your stomach again, pinning you down.

“Be good,” she scolds.

It’s cruel. So cruel. But it’s not mean. She’s not doing it to punish you—there’s no spite in it. It’s worse than that. She’s doing it because she wants to. Because she likes this. The control, the way she can make your whole body lose itself with nothing but her mouth and a couple fingers.

She starts again. Slow. Gentle. Just lips and tongue at first—no fingers—circling softly, tasting you with this lazy rhythm that makes your whole body ache. It’s good. God, it’s so good. But it’s not enough.

Every time she gets you close—every time your thighs start to tremble and your hands fist in the sheets and your stomach starts to tighten like you’re gonna explode—she backs off again. Pulls away just enough go to keep you right there on the edge. And it happens again. And again. And again.

You lose count around the fourth time. Maybe the fifth.

Your entire body is flushed, sweat beading down your neck and across your chest, your breathing ragged and high in your throat. You’re begging now, pride gone. Just soft, broken pleads slipping from your lips.

“Please,” you whisper, over and over. “Paige, please.”

She hums like she’s thinking about it. “Please what?” she asks, voice all innocent like she doesn’t already know. “Whatchu want, baby?”

You want to scream. You want to cry. You want to cum. But mostly, you want her—her mouth, her fingers, her everything. The full weight of her attention. No more teasing. No more games.

“I want—” You can barely get the words out. Your voice is hoarse. “I want to cum. Please.”

She grins into your thigh, and you can feel it.

“Yeah?” she asks. “You want me to let you?”

You nod hard, nearly gasping. “Yes. God, yes, baby, please.”

She takes her time, still. Like she’s filing that away for later—your voice all cracked and pleading, your body practically shaking with want.

But then—finally—her mouth returns, this time with her fingers. Two of them, slow at first, just enough to ease inside, stretch you open at this perfect pace that makes your eyes roll back. And then her tongue follows—firm and fast and focused again.

She doesn’t let up this time.

Her fingers pump deep, curling just right with every thrust. Her mouth locks onto your clit, her tongue flicking and circling, and you feel it. You feel the difference. You feel her let you.

It builds so fast you almost don’t believe it’s happening—like your body can’t trust it yet, like it’s waiting for her to pull away again. But she doesn’t. She keeps going. Keeps fucking you with her fingers and sucking with just the right amount of pressure until you’re moaning like mad. Until your back arches clean off the bed.

And when you finally cum, you really cum.

It hits like a wave—full-body, all-consuming, a rush of heat and noise and sensation that floods your chest and curls your toes and makes your vision blur. You cry out, loud and unfiltered, Paige’s name breaking on your tongue as everything finally snaps.

She holds you through it. Keeps her fingers moving just enough to ride it out, keeps her mouth pressed against you like she doesn’t want to miss a single second of it. And when your thighs tremble and your hips jerk and you try to push her away, overstimulated, and breathless, she only pulls back slowly, letting you come down soft and dizzy and completely gone.

You collapse against the bed, boneless, the sheets twisted beneath you and your skin flushed everywhere. Your chest is rising and falling like you ran a marathon, your eyes fluttering shut, and your lips are parted like you forgot how to close them.

Paige crawls back up your body, slow and smug and glowing like she just won something. Her mouth is shiny, her chin wet, her eyes softer now. She leans in, kisses the inside of your knee, then your thigh, then your hip, then right between your ribs like she’s following a map only she can read.

And then she finally kisses you. You taste yourself on her tongue.

“Still alive?” she murmurs, pulling back just barely, her breath fanning over your lips.

You nod tiredly. She grins.

“Good,” she says, nudging your nose with hers. “’Cause I ain’t done with you yet.”

“Paige,” you whine, eyes squeezing shut. You can’t, you swear. After all the edging and teasing, you’re fucking spent.

“C’mon,” Paige breathes as her fingers trail back down, teasing light circles on your clit like she’s checking to see if you’re still there. Still dripping for her. Still a mess. You are.

But instead of going soft or gentle—instead of giving you a break—Paige just laughs, low and smug and annoying, leaning closer until her forehead brushes yours. She’s smiling down at you like she’s seen this movie a hundred times before and already knows how it ends.

“You can’t take anymore? Really?” she asks, faux innocent, like she didn’t just spent twenty minutes dragging you to the edge and yanking you back every time you even thought about finishing.

You shake your head, too wrecked to even be embarrassed. Your legs twitch under her, and your breath stutters when she dips her hand again, rubbing faster now, rougher. Quick circles.

Your eyes fly open. “Paige—!”

She’s right there, hovering, looking so calm it’s almost rude. Her voice drops low, warm and coaxing. “You got it,” she murmurs, then leans in, kissing you languidly. “I’mma strap you, ’kay? It’s gon’ feel good.”

You blink at her, heart stuttering. The words hit you like a wave of something—lust, maybe, or memory, or just plain old holy shit, it’s been a while type of adrenaline.

Because, with Paige, the strap is something different. And you remember.

You remember how it used to turn her into almost someone else entirely—more focused, more intense, like she stepped into a role made for her. All that cocky, athletic confidence of hers funneled into every thrust. It used to drive you insane. She’d smirk down at you, hold you steady by the hips, mutter stuff under her breath that made your brain go static. Always so good at knowing when to push, when to slow down, when to whisper something filthy in your ear like she owned you. And, back then, she kind of did.

So, if you already here, already ruined and half-gone and trembling in her bed—you might as well let her finish the job.

You nod, barely, and Paige’s smile shifts into something more serious. Still soft, but hungrier now. Like she knows this means something and she’s not gonna waste it.

“Okay,” she says, voice lower. “Don’t move.”

Then she kisses your cheek. Your jaw. Your collarbone. Her mouth is everywhere at once, moving down in quick little bursts of affection like she can’t stop touching you, even for a second.

You hear the drawer behind her open, the soft jingle of the harness. It takes her no time at all. She shimmies out of her cargos and boxers thickly, and fits the purple thing—same color as those panties she got you—to her hips with the same efficiency she’s got on the court.

She climbs back over you, eyes scanning your face like she’s checking in, making sure you’re okay—not just ready, but okay. Her hand slips under your thigh slowly, lifting it gently to drape over her waist.

She doesn’t say anything at first. Just runs her fingers down your side again, resting them low on your hip as she settles between your legs. The silicone presses soft against your skin, and you twitch, already sensitive.

“Look at me,” she tells you, quieter now. Not demanding, more like a reminder. You do. You meet her eyes, and she gives you this look—tender, steady, locked in—that makes your stomach flip.

“You still want this?” she asks, even though she knows the answer.

You nod. “Yeah. Want you, P.”

Something flickers across her face when you say it. Then she leans down, kisses you once, deep and slow. Her hips roll forward just a bit, her strap dipping into your entrance.

“I’ve got you,” she mumbles.

Then she starts to move.

And—God.

You forgot how good she is at this. How well she reads you. How every stroke is meaningful—hips snapping forward in a rhythm that builds slow, steady, patient. She’s not fucking around anymore. She’s locked into this, onto you.

Your hands scrabble for purchase, fingers digging into her back, her shoulders, whatever you can hold. Your legs fall open wider around her hips, and the air goes thick between you—all breath and skin and sound.

She leans down, forearm braced beside your head, sweat already starting to gather along her hairline. Her voice is right against your ear now, rough and low, saying, “Fuck, missed this. Missed you.”

You gasp, nails digging into her skin.

She keeps going. Her hips rock into you steadily and your head tips back into the pillow. She’s so deep, so good, and your body is still humming from everything before—all that edging left you raw, still twitching and clenching down around nothing, and now she’s filling you. Driving into you with smooth, practiced thrusts.

She moves like she owns you—like this is hers, has always been hers, and you’re just finally getting back to what was supposed to be. You can barely catch your breath. The slick sounds between you, the pressure building low in your stomach, the quiet grunts coming out of her mouth every time she drives back—it’s a lot.

Paige’s body hovers over yours, strong and steady, blonde hair falling a little wild into her face—and yours—as she stares down at you. Her cross chain dangles above you as well. It makes you wet. Her eyes flick over your face like she’s tracking every breath, every twitch. Making sure she’s hitting the spot. Making sure you feel all of her.

You do.

Fuck, you really do.

Your fingers curl deeper into her shoulders, your voice slipping out in little gasps and stuttered moans.

“Shit,” you choke out.

“Yeah?” Paige says, breath warm against your mouth. She’s grinning again, cocky as ever. “That feel good?”

You nod, eyes fluttering shut. “So good. Jesus—”

“Mmm,” she hums, and then she leans in again, nipping lightly at your jaw and throat. Her hips roll deeper, sharper, like she wants to remind you exactly who is doing this to you. “Don’t bring him into this. You know I’m the one that fucks you like this.”

You shudder—because yeah. She is.

And this shouldn’t be different. Theoretically. Mechanically. You’ve been having sex with a man for months now—Lucas, your boyfriend. He has a real dick and everything. And, with him, it’s been fine.

But this?

This isn’t fine. This is Paige. And what she’s doing to you—this focused, obsessive, filthy thing she’s doing with her strap and her body and her mouth and her fucking words—it’s not even in the same universe.

It’s better. So much better.

She’s in a whole different mode now. Not the teasing, soft, cocky Paige from earlier—not even the sweet, grinning, “let me make you feel good” Paige. This version of her? The one who puts the strap on and immediately goes a little feral? You almost forgot about this side of her. Or maybe you blocked it out because of how goddamn dangerous it is.

She moves harder, faster, her rhythm never faltering as she slips a hand under your thigh and pushes it up, opening you more, giving herself a better angle.

Her voice drops again, gravelly and low, lips brushing your ear. “You miss this dick, huh?”

You gasp. “Paige—”

She laughs, all breath and grit. “Yeah, you do. Don’t lie. You’ve been lettin’ him touch you, yeah? That boyfriend of yours.”

You blink yo at her, brain short-circuiting, and she moans when she sees it—the way you clench around her strap, the way your eyes roll just a little. She knows exactly what she’s doing.

“You let him fuck you?” she asks, still thrusting, her voice starting to get breathless. “Let him hear you make all those sounds you used to make for me?”

You shake your head—not because it didn’t happen, but because that’s not what matters right now. Not when Paige is here, inside you, her hand gripping your thigh tight and her hips snapping forward like she’s trying to make you forget everyone who isn’t her.

She leans down, pressing her forehead to yours, still talking through shallow breaths.

“He ever get you this wet? Huh?” she asks. “You ever beg him like this?”

You’re too far gone to answer. All you can do is whimper, grabbing at her shoulders, your legs shaking with every thrust. Your body—your cunt, mostly—feels like it’s on fire.

“Fuckin’ knew it,” she mutters, more to herself now. “You can let him date you, whatever. But you always come back to me for this. Don’t you?”

You nod. Or try to. Everything’s blurry now—pleasure curling in your spine, building too fast again. The way she’s thrusting, angled to brush against that gummy spot deep inside you every time, it’s criminal. And she knows it. She keeps her hand on your hip, guiding you into her rhythm, using your body like she built it herself.

“Paige,” you gasp. “I’m—fuck, baby, I’m close.”

Her eyes flash, and she slows just slightly, grinding instead of thrusting, pulling out a ragged moan from your chest. “Yeah?” she whispers. “You wanna cum for me?”

You nod fast, begging with your eyes now.

She leans in again, presses a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, then your lips.

“Okay, baby,” she murmurs. “Go ’head. I got you.”

She thrusts—so fucking deep—and your body goes completely out of your control. That pressure builds too fast, too tight, and your thighs shake. You clench around Paige, voice cracking into a high whimper. Your legs go stiff, whole body arching. Paige rides you through it, hips still moving, her mouth catching the sounds you can’t control.

You cum harder than you have in a long, long time. Even harder than the first one tonight.

And Paige—sweaty, wild-eyed, her strap glistening between you—just smirks down at you like she knows.

“Yeah,” she murmurs, kissing your cheek again. “That’s my girl.”

She eases out of you slow, careful, knowing you’re tender, and even still, it makes you flinch a little. Your whole body’s buzzing—nerves fried, legs weak, brain a complete blur. And the second she’s out, that emptiness hits you like a gut punch. You sigh, deep and shaky, already missing the weight and heat of her even though she’s right there.

You’re still leaking, thighs sticky, body limp. You don’t move—can’t, really—so you just watch her through heavy-lidded eyes as she undoes the harness and slides it down her legs. She tosses it lazily toward the floor, not even looking where it lands, and then she crawls up beside you, her chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. Her pale skin is flushed and glistening. You feel the mattress dip as she pulls herself closer, wraps on long, sweaty arm behind your back, and drags to right on top of her like you weigh nothing.

You don’t resist. You just melt into her.

Her skin is damp and hot against yours, her abs tight beneath your belly, and she lets out a small, winded laugh as you settle in, tucking your face into her neck. Her other hand reaches up, pulls at the hem of the sports bra she’s still wearing. She shimmies it off with some difficulty, then flings it somewhere behind her with zero aim, sighing like she’s been dying to get it off for a while now.

You glance up at her, and she looks down at you, her mouth soft, a little swollen. Then, she leans in and kisses you again—slow this time. Not needy or rushes. Just warm.

You’re so lost in it that you barely notice the way she’s shifting—until her thigh hooks around yours and suddenly her cunt is pressed right against you’re. Skin to skin. Heat to heat. It sends a shockwave through you, makes your breath hitch in your throat and your hips jerk without thinking.

“One more, mama,” Paige murmurs against your lips. “Please.”

You almost say no. Almost.

Because your body is fried. You’ve cum twice—hard, both times. And you’re sore and wrung-out and still trembling in little aftershocks. But then she’s calling you mama in that voice again—sweet and wrecked and a little desperate—and you know exactly what she’s asking for.

She deserves at least once. She’s been so patient. So fucking good to you tonight. You don’t even think she cares about cumming, honestly—she’s always been the type to chase your pleasure more than hers—but still. You want to give her that. Want to watch her fall apart, too.

So, even though your body is screaming at you to rest, you give a little nod. And then another.

“Okay,” you whisper. “Yeah. One more.”

Paige kisses you hard this time, all teeth and tongue and gratitude, and then she’s adjusting your hips again, sliding one of her legs between yours and guiding your thigh up over hers. And then you’re there, pressed together, pussy to pussy, and fuck—it’s a lot. There’s no slow build. You’re already soaked and swollen, and so is she, and the friction is fast and immediate and sweltering.

She groans into your mouth as you grind your hips down into hers, and you can feel her grip tighten on your waist.

“God, baby,” she mumbles. “Fuck, you feel s’good.”

You whimper, already teetering on the edge again. “’M not gonna last,” you admit, breath catching. “I’m so—God, P—”

“I know,” she says, not missing a beat. “I know. Just wanna feel you. Wanna cum with you.”

She guides you with her hands, rocking your hips against hers, keeping the rhythm steady when your thighs start shaking.

“You’re so wet, holy fuck,” Paige breathes. “You’re makin’ a mess on me, mama. You hear that?”

You do. That obscene, slick sound where your pussies meet, the wetness mixing and sliding. It makes your cheeks burn, but it also pushes you closer.

You want to finish with her—you really do. You want to hold you, want to grind together until you both cum at the same time, messy and gasping. But your body has other plans. You’re too sensitive, too overstimulated, and it’s Paige. That combination doesn’t give you a lot of room to breathe.

So you finish first—again—your body seizing up on top of her. It’s not big like the others, but it’s sharp and sweet and hits you right behind your eyes, whitening your vision. You let out a breathy little moan and shudder all over Paige, your thighs twitching around her hips, your chest collapsing against hers.

“Fuck, baby, yeah,” Paige groans, feeling you cum against her, sliding along her own pussy. She doesn’t stop. She just keeps going, grinding up into you a little more insistently now, chasing her own orgasm.

Her grip on you tightens, essentially manhandling your hips now. She tilts up into you, breath catching, and you feel her tensing under you, her thighs locking around yours.

“God, I’mma cum—shit,” she yelps, one last grind of your pussy sending her over the edge.

Finally, you both go still, the air between you thick and humid and exhausted. You collapse fully on top of her now, cheek smushed against her collarbone, her arms wrapped loosely around your back, her heartbeat pounding under your ribs.

Neither of you talks for a minute. You just breathe.

And then Paige sighs, light and wrecked.

“Fuck,” she curses. “Are we gonna regret this tomorrow?”

You’re too tired to think about it. Too dazed to pretend like you have any clue what the hell any of this means.

So you just press your face into her shoulder, and mumble, because you do know this one thing, “Definitely.”

[kxsagi]

I just saw the manga panel... I am definately not okay...

“𝐛𝐮𝐡! 🤍”

a/n: you will be now!

also baby name credits go to you yumi <3

you find him exactly where you expect to. on the living room floor. 

half-covered by a fuzzy white blanket, hair all messy and sticking out in different directions, your 9-month-old baby boy, seishu, asleep on his chest like a tiny backpack worn wrong-side up. there’s a pacifier dangling from seishu’s mouth, the TV is playing a paused video of some baby sensory thing with ducks and bubbles, and nagi is out cold. 

you fold your arms and lean against the doorframe. 

you’d asked him to watch the baby so you could do dishes. now you’re doing dishes and laundry and checking on your two sleeping boys. 

but you can’t even pretend to be annoyed. 

because your heart flips every time you see nagi like this. one arm around his son like a reflex, hand spread wide across the baby’s back, hoodie all scrunched up from baby drool and tiny fist grabbing. seishu’s cheek is squished against nagi’s chest, mouth open in pure peace. 

you tiptoe over and crouch beside them. 

“sei,” you whisper, brushing his bangs off his forehead. 

he groans quietly. “mm… i was just resting my eyes…” 

“sure you were.” 

his lashes flutter open, and he gives you that sleepy, lazy look that still makes your chest flutter. then he glances down at seishu. a soft smile spreads across his lips. 

“he knocked out mid-wiggle,” he whispers. “couldn’t even finish the episode.” 

you laugh. “he is your son.” 

“’course he is. look, he sleeps like me, too.” 

as if on cue, seishu lets out a tiny snore. 

you melt on the spot. “he’s been trying to say ‘dad,’ by the way.” 

“really?” nagi’s voice perks up a bit. 

“mhm.” 

your son shifts slightly in his sleep, letting out a soft babble. “buh.” 

nagi blinks. “... buh?” 

“yep. that’s you now.” 

“buh,” nagi repeats, like he’s trying it on. “kinda sounds like a pokémon.” 

you giggle. “you do kind of function like one. sleeps a lot. slow movements. powers up with snacks.” 

he leans over and nudges his face into your shoulder. “you forgot the strongest trait: cuddle attack.” 

“weakest defense, though.” 

“shh,” he whispers dramatically, as if seishu can hear you. “he’s listening.” 

your son stirs again and lets out another, softer “buh.” 

nagi beams. “okay. that’s it. he’s officially my favorite person.” 

“you say that every day.” 

“and i mean it every day.” 

you laugh and lean against him, kissing the top of his head. “you’re so soft now, you know that?” 

“you saying i was mean before?” 

“no. you were just... effort-efficient.” 

“i still am,” he mumbles. “this position’s max comfy. baby on chest. blanket. you here. TV paused on ducks. ten out of ten.” 

“what about diapers?” 

“what about them?” 

“he peed.” 

nagi’s eyes open just a little wider. 

you raise an eyebrow. “rock paper scissors?” 

“lazy people don’t play games,” he says. “we negotiate.” 

“fine. change him and i’ll warm up the bottle.” 

he pretends to think. “… do i get cuddles later?” 

“only if the diaper goes on the right way this time.” 

“no promises,” he mutters, but he’s already shifting the baby gently off his chest with the skill of a seasoned expert (and also someone who’s been peed on three times this week). 

you watch him carry seishu in one arm like he weighs nothing, murmuring, “c’mon, little guy. let’s get you into something less soggy.” 

your son blinks blearily at him and drools a little. “buh.” 

nagi’s whole face softens. “yeah, yeah. i know.” 

he disappears down the hallway, and you grab the bottle, smiling to yourself. 

you hadn’t expected parenthood to suit nagi so well. he’d once told you he thought having kids sounded “kinda exhausting,” back when you were just dating. he hadn’t been wrong. there are messy nights and long cries and spit-ups on every shirt you own. 

but somewhere in the middle of it all, he fell in love with it. 

with you. 

with the way seishu clings to him like he’s home. with the sleepy “buh” babbles that mean “dad” even if he’s not saying it perfectly. with the quiet joy of being the soft place his baby always wants to be. 

a few minutes later, nagi returns, holding a much more refreshed, very alert seishu in his arms. 

“he tried to roll away during the change,” he informs you. “almost wiped shit on my shirt.” 

“language!” but you can’t contain your laugh. “did he succeed?” 

“barely dodged. god-tier reflexes.” 

seishu wiggles in his arms, reaching toward you with grabby hands. 

“mama,” he mumbles. 

nagi’s jaw drops. “what?! he says that correctly?” 

you grin smugly. “i win.” 

“nah,” he says, sitting beside you and plopping the baby between you both. “we both win.” 

you pass the bottle, and seishu latches onto it happily, nestled between two warm bodies who love him more than anything. 

and just before his eyes start to close again, he lets out one last little sigh. “buh.” 

nagi grins. “that’s my boy, seishu.” 

you smile because love, it turns out, sounds a lot like “buh.” 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[thedevillsmaid]

three rounds to ruin me - heeseung 희승

rock paper scissors but if we do the same attack we have to kiss passionately on the lips

━ ₊˚⊹♡ PAIRING: student heeseung x student fem reader (afab)

━ ⋆.˚ GENRE: college au, smut, enemies to lovers kinda??

━ ₊˚⊹♡ WORD COUNT: 2,7k

━ ⋆.˚ WARNINGS: explicit sexual content, unprotected sex, kissing, teasing, both are very lustfull, sex in school & cursing (tell me if i missed something)

━ ⋆.˚ A/N: first time writing enemies to whatever this is lovers?? & first time writing a hee fic~ have not test read & english is not my first language! taglist

⋆˚࿔—minors dni | 18+ only | nsfw—⋆˚࿔ requests

You and Heeseung have hated each other since high school—rivals in everything from grades to sarcasm. Every class, every group project, every competition felt like a battle. The snarky comments, the passive-aggressive glares, the constant one-upping—it’s been a constant. Nothing has changed much since then.

Now, stuck in the same college club with one too many late-night meetings and way too much caffeine between the both of you, the tension has only gotten worse. Or… maybe it’s gotten different.

It started innocently enough. Or, at least, you convinced yourself it was innocent at first. You were both crammed into the corner of the conference room, staring at the endless stream of documents that didn’t seem to end. Your latest group project felt more like a punishment than an opportunity, especially with him sitting across from you—looking way too smug for someone who just barely passed the last exam.

“Wanna make this interesting?” Heeseung’s voice cuts through your thoughts, his lips curling into that annoyingly confident smirk that’s both infuriating and... kind of irresistible.

You raise an eyebrow, setting down the highlighter you’d been fiddling with. “What do you mean, ‘make this interesting?’”

“I’m thinking a game.” He leans back in his chair, the casual air around him somehow making you tense up even more. “Rock, paper, scissors. But here’s the twist. If we throw the same move, we kiss.”

A laugh bubbles from your throat—half scoff, half disbelief. “You’re kidding, right? That’s... ridiculous.”

“Oh, I’m serious.” His eyes flicker to yours, and there’s something about the way he’s looking at you now—different from the usual antagonism—that makes the hairs on the back of your neck prickle.

“Fine,” you mutter, half annoyed, half intrigued. You’ll play along, because what’s the worst that can happen? It’s just a kiss. You’re definitely not going to lose to him.

The game is stupid. It's childish. It’s beneath you. And yet, as your fingers curl into your palm and you stare at him across the table, there’s this quiet buzz of anticipation building between you both. Heeseung’s eyes never leave yours as you start counting down.

One, two, three.

You throw your fist forward—rock. You can practically feel his eyes on you, waiting for him to make his move.

But then… he throws rock too.

It’s almost like the room stops. The tension between you both thickens, suffocating in its intensity. You stare at him for a second too long, waiting for him to break. He doesn’t.

His lips curve into that same smug smile. “Guess you lost.”

You open your mouth to argue, to tell him how ridiculous this whole thing is. But the challenge in his eyes stops you.

"Rules are rules, right?" he murmurs, leaning forward just slightly, his voice a little lower now. "No chickening out."

The sound of your heartbeat rings in your ears, drowning out the noise of everything else. You’ve hated him for years, and he’s been nothing but an irritating thorn in your side. So, why does your pulse quicken, and your breath hitch when he leans even closer? Why does your stomach tighten when he raises an eyebrow, waiting?

This is stupid. So stupid.

But... maybe you do want to see what happens when the rules get bent a little.

Your mouth moves on its own before your brain can catch up, a breathless whisper escaping. “Fine. Let’s get it over with.”

The words are barely out of your mouth before he’s pulling you towards him, his hand landing on your chin, his thumb gently grazing the skin there before his lips crash against yours. It’s not soft. It’s not delicate. It’s all hard edges and unspoken challenges. His lips are warm, insistent, and for a moment, it’s like time stands still. All the rivalry, all the years of built-up animosity, melting away into something too dangerous to name.

You could pull back. You could stop this. But something in you doesn’t want to. Something wants more.

When you finally pull away, you’re both breathless. Heeseung’s smirk hasn’t faded. But his eyes are different now—darker, as if he’s seeing you in a new light.

“Well, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” His voice is low, teasing.

You want to slap that grin off his face. But you don’t. Not because you don’t want to, but because the silence that follows is thick with something else now. Something that wasn’t there before.

Something dangerous.

You blink, trying to clear the fog that's suddenly clouding your thoughts. What just happened? That kiss-so much more intense than it should have been.

Your lips tingle, a strange mix of lingering heat and confusion. Your heart is still racing, and you can't help but feel his eyes still on you, as though he's waiting for something.

For a second, you wonder if you've crossed some line that can't be uncrossed. But then, you remember who you're dealing with. It's Heeseung. The same guy who used to make your life miserable in high school with his cocky attitude and quick comebacks. The same guy who can't stand you, or so he says.

You clear your throat, suddenly feeling self-conscious. "That was—" you start, but you don't even know how to finish the sentence. The words don't come easily. You want to mock him, push him away with a snarky comment. But something in you hesitates.

Heeseung watches you with a look that makes your stomach flip, and you catch the faintest glimmer of something-something almost like amusement, but there's something else in his gaze now, too. It's not the same look of annoyance he usually has when he's trying to get under your skin. No, this is different. This is... something else. Something that makes the hairs on your neck stand up.

"Well," he says, voice still smooth, almost like he's toying with you, "I don't know about you, but I think I won that round."

Your jaw clenches. Of course he'd say that. Of course, he's acting like that kiss didn't just change everything. Like it was nothing.

"You're insufferable," you mutter, turning your head to avoid his gaze, but you can still feel the heat of his stare. You can feel it on your skin, like he's still too close.

He leans back in his chair, his posture relaxed, but there's a new intensity about him that makes you uneasy. He's not the same cocky jerk he was before.

Not exactly. There's something new, something simmering beneath the surface. You're not sure if it's attraction or some new layer of tension between you, but either way, it's there, and it's impossible to ignore now.

"So, what now?" Heeseung asks, his voice low, like he's daring you to say something, to make the next move.

You raise an eyebrow, trying to hide the nervous energy thrumming through you. "What do you mean,

'what now?' You think we're just gonna keep playing this stupid game?"

He grins, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly. "Oh, I don't know. Maybe... one more round?"

Your heart skips. The idea of another kiss-one that might be even more intense than the last-suddenly feels like a dangerous game. But you're not about to back down. You refuse to. Not to him. Not now.

"No way. I'm not kissing you again," you say, forcing your voice to sound more confident than you feel.

Heeseung chuckles, clearly amused. "Right. Of course. You're just scared."

"Scared?" 

you repeat, your eyebrows shooting up.

"I'm not scared of you."

"You sure? Because it looks like you're the one who's backing out."

There it is again. That damned challenge. That smugness in his voice. He knows exactly how to push your buttons, and for some reason, it's working.

But you don't back down. Instead, you cross your arms over your chest and give him a pointed look.

"Fine. One more round. But if I win, you stop with this stupid game, understand?"

He doesn't hesitate. "Deal. But if I win..."

He pauses, letting the silence stretch between you, like he's savoring the moment.

"If you win, what?" you ask, leaning forward just a little.

Heeseung's grin widens, a glint of something dark flickering behind his eyes. "Let's just say I'll think of something... fun."

The challenge hangs between you like an electric charge, the weight of his words lingering in the air.

You've never felt this drawn to him, this twisted pull between rivalry and something more.

The tension is unbearable.

"Fine," you say, voice almost breathless. "But don't expect me to go easy on you."

You both count down again, the room feeling smaller, tighter, as you lock eyes with him, waiting for the moment to come.

One... two... three.

This time, you throw paper, and you can't help but watch as Heeseung throws scissors, a flicker of triumph in his eyes. He's won. Again.

But before you can even register what's happening, he's closing the distance between you. His fingers grip the back of your neck, pulling you toward him as his lips crash against yours. This kiss is different— deeper, more urgent, like he's been waiting for this moment. His tongue sweeps into your mouth, and for a second, all you can do is respond, too lost in the heat of it to think clearly.

When he pulls away, you're both breathing hard.

Heeseung's chest rises and falls, his pupils blown wide. He doesn't say anything at first, just looks at you like he's reading you-like he knows exactly what this is doing to you.

You almost hate the way your body betrays you, your heart hammering in your chest, your skin tingling with the aftermath of the kiss.

"You're a terrible influence," you mutter, though you're not sure if you're angry or... something else.

Heeseung smirks. "That's the fun part."

And you hate it. You hate how much you want to kiss him again, how every part of you is drawn to him despite everything that's happened.

But more than that, you hate how you know this game... it's far from over.

The conference room was silent after the second kiss, the air thick with unspoken possibilities. Heeseung’s smirk had faded into something darker, more dangerous—a predator sizing up his prey. You could feel it in the way his fingers twitched at his sides, the way his gaze lingered on your lips like he was waiting for permission to take them again. 

“Let’s go,” he said suddenly, standing so fast his chair screeched against the floor. His voice was low, almost a growl, and you didn’t need to be told twice. You followed him out of the room, your heels clicking against the polished floor as he led you through the labyrinth of the college building. 

You didn’t ask where he was taking you. You didn’t need to. The infirmary was on the third floor, a place you’d only ever visited for minor injuries or the occasional allergic reaction. It was quiet there, always. But tonight, it felt like a sanctuary. 

Heeseung pushed open the door, and the scent of antiseptic hit you immediately. The room was dimly lit, the fluorescent lights casting long shadows across the rows of beds. A few students lay in them, hunched over with bandages and IV drips, but you barely noticed them. Heeseung’s eyes were locked on you, his expression unreadable. 

“Why are we here?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. 

He didn’t answer. Instead, he pulled you toward the nearest bed, his grip firm on your wrist. You resisted at first, your pulse racing as he guided you to sit. But he was already undressing you before you could protest. 

“Strip,” he ordered, his tone sharp, almost possessive. 

You hesitated, your fingers brushing over the hem of your shirt. “What are you doing?” 

“Don’t question me,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “You wanted this. You kissed me back.” 

The words hung in the air like a challenge, and for a moment, you wanted to lash out. But then he leaned in, his breath hot against your ear, and you felt your resolve crumble. 

You unbuttoned your shirt, your hands shaking as you peeled it off. Heeseung’s eyes devoured you, his gaze lingering on your exposed collarbone, your trembling fingers, the way your chest rose and fell with each breath. 

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmured, his voice thick with something you couldn’t name. 

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. You were already undressed, your bra discarded on the floor beside your shoes. Heeseung was already halfway out of his own clothes, his shirt pooled at his feet, his muscles taut beneath the moonlight filtering through the window. 

He pulled you onto the bed, his hands gripping your hips as he positioned you. You were on your back, your legs spread wide, your thighs trembling beneath him. Heeseung hovered over you, his chest brushing against yours, his breath hot against your skin. 

“Remember this position,” he said, his voice a command. “Mating press. I’m on top.” 

You blinked at him, your mind fogging with confusion. “What?” 

He didn’t give you time to respond. He shifted his weight, his hips pressing against yours as he guided you into the position. Your knees were on either side of his shoulders, your thighs splayed wide as he pushed you down into the mattress. The pressure of his body against yours was intoxicating, his erection brushing against your core as he hovered above you. 

“You’re not supposed to be on top,” you whispered, your voice hoarse. 

“Shut up,” he growled, his lips finding yours in a brutal kiss. His tongue forced its way into your mouth, demanding, insistent. You gasped, your hands gripping his back as he thrust upward, his cock sliding against your clit with each movement. 

He was relentless, his movements slow and deliberate, each thrust deepening the connection between you. You could feel him pressing against your entrance, his cock slick with sweat and desire as he worked you open. The sensation was overwhelming, a mix of pain and pleasure that sent shivers down your spine. 

“Tell me you want this,” he demanded, his voice raw with need. 

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. All you could do was moan as he drove himself into you, his body trembling with each stroke. The infirmary was silent except for the sound of your ragged breathing and the soft creak of the bed. 

Heeseung’s hands gripped your thighs, his fingers digging into your skin as he pulled you closer. “You’re so tight,” he murmured, his voice a mixture of awe and lust. “I’ve never felt anything like this.” 

You wanted to tell him how wrong he was—that you’d never wanted this before. But the truth was, you had. Every time he kissed you, every time he challenged you, your body had been betraying you. And now, as he pounded into you with reckless abandon, you couldn’t stop him. 

He reached between your legs, his fingers finding your clit and rubbing it in slow circles. “You’re going to come for me,” he whispered, his breath hot against your ear. “You’re going to come so hard.” 

You did. The first wave of pleasure hit you like a tidal wave, your body arching off the bed as you screamed his name. He didn’t stop, his thrusts becoming faster, more desperate as he reached his own climax. His cock spasmed inside you, his seed spilling into you with a force that left you breathless. 

When he finally pulled out, he collapsed beside you, his chest rising and falling as he stared at you. You were still trembling, your body drenched in sweat and his warmth. 

“You’re not going to run away,” he said softly, his hand brushing over your cheek. 

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. The game was over. The rules had been broken. And in that moment, you knew—this was only the beginning.

© thedevillsmaid

first time writing on tumblr eekk

[midnite-c6]

more pink guard!namgyu and thanos au thoughts :P

pink guard!namgyu and thanos who brings timid!reader back into the games after mingle happened, the survived players see you sitting on your bed with eating food that’s completely different to what they have to eat.

pink guard!namgyu and thanos that actually brought your bed closer to the door so all they can keep a better eye on you…

hehe YAY this request rlly made my mindblow cuz like WHY HAVENT I THOUGHT OF THAT KIND OF AU, SO COOL ANON!!

pink guard!thanos & pink guard!namgyu x virgin!reader imagine pt. 2💘

warnings: 18+, dark content, dubcon, gunplay (read at ur own risk!!)

after the last game, that you skipped (because of your two new friends!), they already sent you back to the original dorms of the players. you'd walk back inside, slightly limping as your legs shake... the other players couldn't care less though, infact, they're pretty bummed you're still alive, just means less money.

the two guards really found a favourite amongst the 456 players! they'd assign you a better place to sleep, they'd also give you much more delicious food, and whenever other players try to bother you about it, it's okay! they'll just unfairly kill them in the next round <3. despite being ranked as triangle guards, they're hella irresponsible, but atleast they found their purpose in these games, and that's... you! ❤️‍🩹

just right after lunch, after eating the delicious food they especially made for you, you've been escorted to go to another unfamiliar room, something kind of like a basement..

they'd already take off their masks, the purple-haired one starts to already show his excitement, the black-haired one was arranging the place, trying to make it more cozy despite how it's very far from that. "baby!! i missed you, nam-gyu made that special steak lunch just for you, did you like it, babe?" he'd look at you with puppy eyes, eyes that a lover would make, "uhm.. it was really good! but the players were really angry at me..." he pouted in response. "what?!" "they said it was really unfair. i'm the only who got to eat that type of meal.." his brows furrow, clearly annoyed. "buncha' whining bitches, can't they expect a princess like you deserves to eat deliciously?" "uhm.." these guards were surely good with their words..

"well, don't think about them anymore, baby. we'll make you forget." he shushes you up with his gloved finger, before smacking his lips against yours. fine, he was a good kisser, you admit.

nsfw below!!-> 🫶🏻

honestly, they were taking their time with you, taking turns to sloppily kiss you in the lips whilst grinding their suits against your core and fingering you without any release. it was a hassel to take the pink suit off, clearly. "dude, i've cooked her the steak, i should get to fuck her first!" "uhm.. who said that? i was the one who thought of it." you'd watch both of them argue over you as you lean back against the wall, your clothes stripped infront of you. your body was shivering from the cold un-tiled floor. "you tryna' piss me off, bro?" "nah nah, let's play fair then. rock paper scissors?" nam-gyu groaned, but he'd extend his hand to play a game, best to three. after a few rounds, the black-haired one was the winner, he'd cheer. "yes!! knew the world was fair. sucks to suck, bro." "whadda' fuck! you got to eat her out last timeeee..!" the purple-haired one complained. "just your fault you didn't." he smiled proudly as he started to unbuckle his pants, walking over to you. the other guard went to focus on getting a cross necklace underneath his shirt, popping a pill in his mouth.

you'd look up at the guard closer to you, quite worried in your eyes. "what? don't want to?" nam-gyu raises a brow. you don't answer, but you were definitely hesitant. "i've never.. uhm.. with an actual..." he immediately bursted into laughter. "seriously? you're a virgin? no wonder you were so tight. couldn't even stretch you with my fingers n' all." you lower your gaze to the floor, his eyes were judging you from above.. "a face of a slut, yet an attitude like an angel, i like that." he'd put on his pants again, though he was dissapointed. "don't worry.. i'll prepare you," you wonder if he'd just finger you again, but... he'd slowly take the gun from his pocket, lowering himself to place the barrel of the gun on your clit. you'd jolt from the hard texture, or how it was a literal gun against your cunt. "if ya' can handle this, you can handle me, okay?"

you'd whimper, how were you supposed to fit that? "u-uhm.." "don't be nervous.. hey dude, hold her down will you?" he'd call out for the other guard that was getting high. "why should i? i'm still salty." "i'm not gonna fuck her, she's still a virgin." the purple-haired guard immediately went to the both of you "we're the first ones to touch you?!", he places his body underneath yours so you were sitting on his lap. he'd place his hands underneath your thighs to carefully spread your legs open. "it's such an honor, cutie." the guard infront of you starts rubbing the front of the barrel against your clit repeatedly, the sensation was so weird!! but it was a good kind of weird... and to they're pleasure, you'd start letting out sweet moans, as the gun was being pressed against your sensitive bud, nam-gyu's other hand would spread your cunny open, "fuck, so wet, you'd take in this gun easily." he slowly moved the gun away from your clit... lowering it.. til' it was just right against your hole. "s-slowly- please.." nam-gyu tilts his head. "slowly?" before immediately pushing the barrel fully inside you. you'd let out a loud, shameless moan from how it slid in, or how it was quite longer than you were used to. "h-hey!?" "sorry, i'm a bit impatient." he grinned, sliding the gun in and out, a ruthless pace, even faster than how he was fingering you before.

& with the pace and all that pleasure... you get to release another high from that new experience, getting fucked by a gun, the guard underneath you was uncontrollablly smiling. "can't take it, babe? here..." he'd offer you a pill. "the next games a bit tricky, so you'd need some energy.."

"but if you're too scared to play don't worry, 'kay? just go to the bathroom during lights out and you can repay us while you're there!" every thing comes with a price, except, gladly you're the one cumming. 💘

[zorobff]

dress up. (toji fushiguro x f!reader)

synopsis: in an attempt to make some memories, you come up with the idea of a family costume for this year’s halloween. toji and megumi might need a little convincing, though…

a/n: first fic in like a year and first time writing for my babygirl toji :3

word count: 1.1k

toji carelessly lets himself fall next to you, his sheer body weight causing the couch to jolt slightly. he nods at your phone. “whatcha looking at?”

“just some costumes. halloween’s coming up and—”

a smile creeps up on toji’s face before you can get another word out. “you shoulda asked me first, baby. i got a few good ideas. patient and nurse could work, i love a woman in uniform—my woman in uniform. cop and prisoner, too. would give us a good excuse to finally buy some handcuffs.” he winks.

“sounds like you’ve been thinking about this for a while,” you tease. “but unfortunately, none of those are gonna work.”

toji’s face falls ever so slightly and you have to hold back a laugh at seeing a grown man pout.

“had you let me finish, you’d know i want to do a family costume.”

“baby, c’mon,” he groans, rubbing his face. “i never go all out f’ halloween, you know that.”

you arch a brow. “you seemed eager a few seconds ago.”

he huffs. “that was different.”

“mhm, sure,” you reply, sarcastically. “i don’t mind suggestions, just a little more family friendly and less… porn-y.”

“where’s the fun in that?” he deadpans.

you smack his bicep. “save the roleplaying for later. i mean, just look at how cute these are.”

you hand him your phone and he reluctantly takes it. he’s seen this app before; pinterest, he believes it’s called. his eyes roam over the page for a moment, seeing various families of three dressed in an array of costumes. rock, paper and scissors. ketchup, mustard and a hot dog. fork, knife, and spoon.

he hands you back your phone when he decides he’s seen enough. “baby, those are humiliating.”

“no they’re not! they’re fun.” you snatch the device back, furiously scrolling. “besides, we’re making memories for megumi to look back on when he’s older.”

“have you met the little twerp? he’s practically a 70 year old man in the body of a second grader.” toji shakes his head with a smile. “you sure he’d even wanna do this?”

“we should at least ask him. then he can’t say we never tried.”

toji’s eyes soften; you really were giving this your all. your dedication to making megumi’s childhood a happy and healthy one was something that tugged at his heart strings; especially since toji had never received that kind of affection in his youth. and yet, here was a beautiful woman he was privileged to call his wife trying her best to break that generational curse. he truly was a lucky man.

“megumi!” shouts toji, suddenly determined to make this family costume work. “get in here!”

megumi’s little voice comes back muffled from his upstairs bedroom. “wait, i’m almost done with this level!”

“tch, he’s glued to that damn thing. what’s it called? a switch?” toji shakes his head and mumbles, “should’ve never let you buy it f’ him.”

“don’t be jealous,” you tease. “if you’re good, i’ll get you one for christmas too.”

toji smirks. “actually, i wanted to ask for a special gift this year.”

“oh yeah? what’s that?”

“y’know how megumi’s been askin’ for a sibling—”

you shove his shoulder and he laughs.

toji takes that as his cue to leave and talk to megumi, standing from the couch with an exaggerated groan. (you always made fun of him for it, claiming that it was such an old man thing to do. he always refuted that you knew what you were getting into when you married someone his age.)

he heads upstairs, delivering a firm knock when he reaches megumi’s door. “get out here, kiddo. need to talk to ya real quick.”

he hears a groan then the shuffling of feet. the door swings open and there stands his son, eyebrows furrowed and lips downturned. clearly, he wasn’t thrilled about having to pause his game.

“sheesh, kid,” toji huffs. “don’t make that face, starting to look like your old man.”

“what is it, dad?” he sighs in exasperation.

“we’re dressing up for halloween this year. as a family.”

that catches the eight year old off guard. “what? why?”

“for the memories or somethin’.”

“i don’t really wanna…” megumi trails off.

toji scratches the back of his head. “i hear ya. but it’ll make your mom real happy so we’re doin’ it.”

megumi purses his lips. “what’s the costume?”

“i dunno. we can’t seem t’ decide. got any ideas?”

“hmmm… i kinda wanted to be michael meyers this year.”

“it’s a group costume, megumi, ya can’t just— hang on, michael meyers? how the hell do you know about him?”

megumi shrugs as if he doesn’t see the issue. “i saw the movie at uncle shiu’s house once.”

toji makes a mental note to never shiu babysit megumi again. or at the very least, go over what movies a second grader is allowed to watch.

toji clears his throat. “well, forget you ever saw it. and don’t tell your mother, got it?”

megumi nods.

“good. erm… any other ideas?”

there’s a silence between the two.

“c’mon, kid, think of something. if not, your mom’s gonna make us dress up as condiments or silverware or somethin’ stupid.”

megumi groans, clearly fed up with the conversation. “can i just go back to playing super mario bros?”

it’s as if a lightbulb goes off in toji’s mind. “you like those guys?”

megumi nods slowly. “yeah… why?”

“you wanna be one of ‘em for halloween?”

megumi’s face lights up. “really? can i be luigi?”

toji grins, satisfied with his reaction. “don’t see why not.”

“cool! does that mean you’ll be mario?”

his dad chuckles. “guess so.”

“ooh and mom could be princess peach!”

“that’s the, uh… pink one, right?”

megumi giggles at his father’s obliviousness, nodding.

“works out then. i’ll go tell your mama.” he ruffles his son’s tar black hair. “thanks, megs. gonna make her day.”

megumi flashes a toothy grin then retreats back into his room.

when toji returns to the living room with a smug smile and pep in his step, you take notice.

“what’s with you?” you inquire.

“oh, nothin’. just got megumi to agree on a family costume, that’s all.”

you eye your husband with interest. “oh really?”

“you’re welcome, princess. speaking of which, you’re gonna need a pink dress and crown.”

“well, now i’m really curious.”

“you know that little game he likes? the one with the plumber brothers—” before he can even finish, you shoot up from your comfortable position.

“how didn’t i think of that sooner? it’s perfect!”

“megs seemed pretty excited about it too. knew exactly which character he wanted to be and everythin’.”

you nearly melt. “that’s all i wanted. i’ll order the costumes right away.” you lean over to pepper his face in kisses. “thank you so much, toji.”

he grunts, though he’s smiling so hard his scar tilts upwards. “yeah, yeah. how about you thank me with that christmas present i was talkin’ about earlier?”

you pull away from him and grin. “nice try.”

[mediumgayitalian]

In the infirmary the air is always still.

The heat-swollen wooden door creaks as Nico opens it, and creaks louder as he shuts it, shoving against the laughing summer winds. The difference is immediate and startling – there are souls here, anguished ones, flickering at the edge of his vision, screaming in the very back of his mind. Sobbing. They sit by the wide, rarely-closed windows and watch the left-behind, and they are miserable, and they are angry, and they are grieving, and they are grateful. They linger like the smell of antiseptic under the powerful eucalyptus, like the faint sting of copper under the lavender. There is no forgetting the fallen even in the softest of nights, where the lights are low to let the injured sleep, where the moon pours gently and warmly onto restless cots, where Will hums, deep and slow, around the rhythmic shift of his pestle and the crush of something in his mortar. 

Nico taps the counter as he approaches, not sure if he’s wearing his hearing aids under his hair. Will’s lips turn up, head dipping in greeting. Nico climbs up on the counter next to him, careful not to knock anything over – and, at the last minute, making a show to check for mud on his shoes, grinning at Will’s rolled eyes – and settling his elbows on his knees. 

There is lots to watch – Will’s work is methodic. Less so when he is following injured Ares campers, badly strumming his guitar and screaming medical instructions as lyrics, but as he grinds white powder against stone, shifting his body with every movement, he slips into the same kind of trance his siblings do when they play, when they shoot; the same seriousness Annabeth gets when she is in charge; the same intensity Percy gets when he swordfights, the same focus Rachel gets when she paints. A connection with his body that his clumsiness usually does not allow. When Will works the bandages around his wrists lay forgotten. His hair curtains his face, his nose twitches. His tremoring fingers hold steady. 

Usually. 

Tonight he grips his tools tightly; force enough that tiny spasms flicker his muscles and drain the blood from his tendons. The worry line in his bottom lip is well over-worked and cracked, blood spilling into his teeth. His shift began at ten o’clock that morning – he has been standing in place long enough for the creases between his brows to become tanlines. The infirmary ghosts steer clear of him, even, loitering by the door and cupboards. Nico can hardly even feel the accidental weight of their gazes. Instead surrounding them, as its own maple-thick presence, is Will; Will and the buzzing, chittering something under his skin, Will and the tension on his face, Will and the pulverized white in front of him. 

“I’m prepping,” he murmurs, when Nico doesn’t ask. “For tomorrow.”

To his left is Chiron’s leather medical bag, full almost to bursting with wrapped squares of ambrosia, bottles of nectar, rolls of bandages, salves, poultices, Tylenol, and more Nico can’t name. Pill bottles and surgical thread, scissors and IV bags. If Nico leaps off the counter and stomps on the floor the over-weighed shelves lining the walls will clatter to the ground. They were three times emptier this morning. 

“...Is tomorrow the apocalypse?” 

Will looks at him flatly. Nico holds up his hands. 

“I’m just saying!” He peers behind the nurse’s station, where more unicorn draught than he has maybe ever seen in his life lines the already-overflowing shelves. “I’m pretty sure we were less prepared for actual war.”

Will’s teeth sink further into his poor torn lip. This is the wrong thing to say. 

“We were.”

Nico tongues the edges of his teeth. Will avoids his eyes, digging his pestle harder into the stone edge, powdered grind popping and spritzing through the thick air. A small bead of red grows on the edge of his chapped bottom lip, challenging him until he curses under his breath and reaches for something to wipe it away. 

“You’re stressing,” Nico observes. 

“Stress is normal,” Will says sharply. 

Nico raises an eyebrow. Will deflates. 

He flexes his hands like he’s just realizing how much they hurt, stepping back and stretching. The stone pestle thuds gently on the wooden counter, white powder clouding off it. Will follows his curious look and slides the thick bowl over, checking his hands for dirt or polishing grease before relinquishing him. Immediately Nico pokes at the tiny little mountain, wrinkling his nose at its chalkiness. 

“Gracie and Yan spent the morning with the naiads,” WIll explains, smiling slightly. The crease between his eyebrows smooths as his eyes scrunch. “I needed good shells. The naiads needed company.”

“I saw them playing,” Nico says. He snorts. “I was not aware they were doing any kind of organized task.”

Will’s smile grows, dimple winking on his left cheek. “Organized might not be the word for it.” He takes the powder gently back from Nico, brushing his fingertips through it to check and nodding. “But they had fun, and that’s all that matters.”

He tips half the powder on a piece of paper, careful that nothing spills. Nico slides off the counter without a second thought, digging around the cupboards for the right size jars and a marker. He pauses before (badly) scrawling on a label, hoisting himself back up on the counter and handing the jar off. 

“I didn’t know what to write,” he explains. 

Will nods without looking, accepting the jars and carefully picking up the paper so the powder is tucked in the little valley. “Figured.” He pours the powder into the first jar, tapping the sides to even it out, then ties on a cloth cover and passes the jar back. “It’s crushed shells. Calcium Carbonate.”

Nico shakes the marker and dutifully records as such on the label, sure there is most definitely not an ‘s’ in calcium nor as many letters as he crammed in there but not bothering to double check. It’s not like Will won’t be able to puzzle it out. 

“What for?”

“Healing, generally.”

“I got that far, dickhead,” Nico says, kicking a snorting Will in the hip. “I was more wondering what the use of pulverized calcium-whatever might be in combat medicine. If you can find the time in prepping for the apocalypse to tell me.” 

The dig makes Will’s expression sour, slightly, and his hands clench against the edge of the countertop. But Nico keeps a careful distance between them; leg still half-extended, resting nearish enough to Will that he can feel the heat of him on his ankles. He hums, quietly, letting his voice force its way through the rigored air and bounce off the huffing, whining ghosts, resting finally on Will’s shoulders. On the ends of his curls, the bends of his elbows. The sharp edge of his many calluses. 

He exhales, long and low, and slides the bowl, jars, and paper over to Nico. Nico takes them, and Will slumps, resting his head on the cool countertop, arms tucked under his torso so he can feel the pressure. 

“Calcium carbonate is good for dyspepsia,” he murmurs. His light eyelashes catch the flicker of his favourite desk lamp as they flutter closed. “And caustic burns. Dyspepsia won’t be an issue tomorrow, but I’ve treated enough people on the other end of Connor’s bombs to assume the risk.”

“Bombs fall under maiming, I’m pretty sure,” Nico points out. “Like, almost totally positive.”

Will sighs. “And yet.”

“...Okay, yeah, and yet.”

Nico’s not as careful as Will is. Or as practiced, rather; it takes him three times as long to fill the jars and he still spills at least a quarter of it on the table and himself. He sweeps it quickly on the floor so Will doesn’t notice. The raised eyebrows assure him his folly is not missed. The slight smile promises that Will doesn’t really mind. 

“Have you always prepped this much for Capture the Flag? Or just ‘cause the Hunters are visiting?”

Nico is careful to keep his own bitterness out of his voice. Will squeezes his ankle, anyway, brushing the thin skin over the bone until he exhales, until tense shoulders relax, until the heat under his chest wanes and cools. He keeps his hold until after still, pad of his thumb scratching gently as Nico inhales, exhales, inhales. 

“No.”

Nico blinks.

“No what?”

“No, it’s not just because of the Hunters.” His hand slips away as he stands, reaching for the newly-packaged jars. Nico shivers against the sudden cold. “And no, we were not always so prepared.”

All at once, the ghosts go still. From every angle of the infirmary, they stop, pause, freeze; the still air gets thicker, sharper. Nico holds his breath. He pinches the inside of his lip between his teeth, inhales, and pushes himself off the counter. Will looks straight ahead. 

He is struggling with the calcium. There are too many jars. He moves them around, as Nico watches, sliding one onto the shelf, taking one off, reorganizing, sliding it back on. Staring, hands full. Bleeding lip straining underneath his canines. Nico watches. And watches. 

The ghosts watch, too. 

“We’ve gotten very soft,” he says finally, quietly. His fingers twitch. He withdraws his hand quickly, wrapping it tightly around the bandages on his wrists and pulling, breathing, pulling. “In the last couple years.” He blows out a breath. His voice is so thin Nico has to lean forward to hear it. “We didn’t used to be.”

The worn cotton slides against spatter burn scars, scrape, scrape, scrape. 

“We lost to more than just wars.”

Vaguely, Nico knows this. The cleaning harpies, the lava wall. Dionysus’ threats. No maiming or no dessert. The hundreds and hundreds of ghosts, hungry eyes, watching him and wailing. 

But the dead so easily become background noise. 

“I remember,” Will admits. “Even before, when we had a fully staffed – infirmary –” he swallows – “I remember. I remember them all.” His breath stutters. His hands clench. He breathes in. He yanks, so hard the skin of his wrists go stark white. He breathes out. “They had families.”

Nico swallows. Of course they did, of course they do. Mothers in Manhattan apartments, wringing their hands at every strike of lightning. Making sandwiches for sons who will never come home. Sobbing in the park, hating themselves. Hating the skies.

More than anything in the world, he wants to ask who. There is a haunted look in Will’s eyes he never sees in full, and he wants – he wants – to pull on his shoulder, to turn him around, to stare into the glass-blue eyes and watch as they well with tears, as he gasps, as he breaks, finally. There is a part of him that longs for paper and a pen and endless frozen hours to document the tiniest shifts in his expression, to map out every twitch of his mouth and preserve the widening abyss of his pupils forever. To immortalise the flashes he knows he sees, gone before he can check, of pain and rage and hurt and fear. The split-second of hate that he knows Will gets, sometimes, when someone complains the infirmary is too slow or too little or too late, when someone rolls their eyes and mutters why do they get that stupid chariot, anyway, what did they ever do to deserve it. When there is the briefest of snaps to Will’s spine, clench to his fists. When he remembers who is and what he has lost and what he wants to do with it. When he stares into corners like he can see the ghosts hovering there, too.

For once, Nico sees it in full. And he is drunk on it, the proof of it, the sick vindication of oh you are just like me. The pleasure in that dark, thoughtless fury, bubbling and broiling behind eyes darker than blue-black midnight. 

“When they said halfbloods didn’t make it past sixteen, they fucking meant it,” Will murmurs. There is a crack under his clenched hands, and he glances down, and watches, for one second, two; broken shards of the glass jar cling to his twitching fingers, red pooling and pools and spills down the creases of his hands, down the piles of powdered white. He blinks. He leans back. 

Nico wants to ask who. He wants to know so badly, wants Will to list them from beginning to end, the people he lost, the people he misses, the thick cloud of grieving screaming dead that follow him at a distance. He wants to put a name to every last haunted pair of eyes. 

“Anyways.” He pushes Nico back when he stands, nudging him clear of the mess with his foot, plucking the shards from his skin without flinching. “It’s better now. Safer. ‘Cause I’m prepared.”

Prepared, indeed. He cleans his hands quickly and methodically, wrapping them easily and sweeping the mess away. He walks straight into a ghost on his way to the biohazard bin and shivers. 

“What time is it?”

Nico snorts. He gets to his feet, tucking his shaking hands into his pockets. “What, like you’re tired or something, Solace? Some robot you are.”

Will laughs, and it is sharp and dark and Nico relishes in it, shivering as it travels down his spine and zaps through every single one of his systems. It is the darkest hour of the night and he can feel it, can taste it. 

“You fuckin’ got me there.”

He spins around the room, hands on his hips, eyes lingering on the younger girl snoring upside down on the cot, on the boy slumped in the chair next to her. His ring finger taps, taps, taps against his legs. 

“I should get to bed.”

“Probably,” Nico agrees.

Will doesn’t move. 

“I didn’t –”

He stops. 

He breathes. He closes his eyes.

In.

Out. 

“I need you to tell me I got everything.”

He opens his eyes and stares at Nico, and there it is, the second time in one night, the glassiness, the pain. The anger. Nico shivers. 

“You got it,” he says lowly. He stares straight back, eyes wide, breath still and silent. “Go to bed.”

Will stares. Slowly the clarity in his eyes clouds, and his pupils shrink to pinpricks as he fades, as he goes somewhere else. His breathing slows. His hands go still, fingers limp. The bandages hang unravelled down to his knees.

“Yeah,” he says. He nods. “Yeah, it’s time to go.”

He turns quickly like he has to convince himself and strides out of the infirmary too quickly for Nico to catch up, even if he tried. Nico watches him instead, traces the slump of his shoulders as he trudges the ten yards to the glowing Apollo cabin, standing on the porch for one second, two, hand on the doorknob, back straightening before his slips in. Nico watches as his shadow grows and shrinks through the half-open windows, stops, stops. He watches as the light shifts, as the moon climbs higher, as the cabin grows silver, and he can hear, if he strains, the slightest rumble of Will’s easy exhales.

He pushes to his feet and slinks back to his cabin. 

— — —

Two hours later Will wakes, barely muffling a scream into his picked-bloody fingers, and stumbles back to the nurse’s station.

— — —

next

[pizzasl1ce]

The furry jacket tutorial

Hello to make this jacket you’ll need scissors, a sewing machine, sewing needle, thread, a zipper, drawstring elastic measuring tape, a marker, paper, and three fabrics(I picked two cottons and a kinky fabric for the fur but feel free to use any kind)

I’ll be referring to my fabrics as 1, 2, and 3

We’ll start by drawing and cutting out our pattern, pattern piece one is 3.5 inches wide and 3 inches tall, piece two is 7 inches wide and 3 inches tall, and piece 3 is is 14 inches wide and in the middle at 7 inches it’s 6 inches tall

The sizes were picked by measuring my adult furby(model) Buck so feel free to change it for different sized furbies

Put all there pieces on there fabric and cut you’ll need 2 cuts of pattern piece one from fabrics one, two and three, you’ll need one cut of pattern piece two from fabrics one and two, lastly you’ll need 2 cuts of pattern piece three from fabric 3 DON��T FORGET SEAM ALLOWANCE IT WILL FUCK YOU OVER (🫶🏾I did around 1 inch of seam allowance)

Layer fabric from pattern piece one in the order of one, two, three, just like the picture it’s important( also if it’s heard to tell fabrics one and two have their good sides facing each other)

Then sew all pieces like this

Ok and that’s it’s for step one I’ll make another post for what’s nexts

[jirsungs]

NO IDEA | 14. meeting the ncu freaks?

word count: 1.3k words

You wish you had mentally prepared yourself for the chaos you were about to enter when Donghyuck jiggled his spare key into the keyhole of his shared apartment.

To surprise you both, the door immediately swung open with Jeno standing there. You're both caught in headlights at the taller male, and Donghyuck’s key is still snuggled into the keyhole.

His lips formed in a smirk, his eyebrow comedically raised, “Wow, Y/N. Fancy seeing you here.”

You laugh at the familiar face. “What's up, Lee?”

You glance at Donghyuck briefly, and when you do, he's rubbing his forehead in pure embarrassment. You found it… kind of endearing.

“Jeno, please.”

The said male drops the act at his friend's embarrassed remark and gestures to you both to come inside. Once you do, you're met with three other sets of eyes blinking at you.

Their physical appearances were familiar since they were recurring people seen in Donghyuck's social media posts. But seeing them in front of you felt different—in a good way, of course.

Speaking of Donghyuck, your awkward boyfriend stands beside you, his hands in his pockets as he discreetly rocks himself back and forth. “Guys, meet Y/N, my, uh—girlfriend.”

You wave politely at the three boys, fearing they've frozen before you.

“Um… Are they okay?” You whisper over to Donghyuck.

“Yeah, yeah.” Donghyuck glances at you quickly when you look over at him, but once you turn towards his friends, he shoots threatening daggers at the four guys, “They’re just in shock that you're actually here.”

Jeno luckily breaks the silence with a hit on Jisung's back; the ladder exaggerates his wince with a loud whine.

“Ow! What the fuck!”

Now that the silence has finally been broken, Jaemin takes the opportunity to get up from his place on the rug-covered floor and approach you. Your eyes follow him, and you're left in shock when he takes your hand and leaves a kiss on it.

“‘Ello, m'lady.”

Donghyuck quickly reacts, smacking his black-haired friend away from you. “Hands off my girlfriend, you fuckin’ weirdo.”

Jaemin pays no mind as he cackles. But you don’t spare Jaemin any attention for a split second because your brain mainly focuses on how easily the word girlfriend rolled off Donghyuck’s tongue like that. It sounded more confident than the first time he said it, and you couldn’t lie and say it didn’t spark something in your chest.

“So, are we playing this game or what?” Renjun blurts out, sadly breaking the moment.

It turns out that “The NCU Freaks” weren’t as bad as Yuqi suspected them to be because you were enjoying their presence and silly group antics by the end of the night. You could see Mark and Chenle becoming just as competitive as the guys were in their current third round of Halli Galli. This game was meant to end way quicker than they intended, but to the guys' dismay, Donghyuck was always competitive and did not back down until he was satisfied with the result.

A red flag of his, they call it.

You’re surprised you could remember what round they were in since you found yourself spacing out by the first one. All you remember is that they’re fighting over who has to clean up the ignored pizza boxes and scattered soda and beer cans left on the dining room table.

As Halli Galli grew more aggressive, the guys ended up forfeiting and choosing to end the endless discussion with rock-paper-scissors. You’re left confused about why they would use such a childlike game to settle their problem, but the sight of them shouting was too funny not to laugh at.

“Rock-paper-scissors shoot!” The five guys in front of you shout in unison.

By the third try, you began to zone out until—

“HAH! Jisung, you idiot! You lost!” The booming voice of your boyfriend shook you out of your trance.

The next thing you know, the younger male is found distraught as his older friends giggle and tease him about his loss.

And that's when you found yourself loving them more than you expected.

Maybe you could get used to this fake relationship after all.

Enjoying so much of their company, you found it hard ending the night as Donghyuck reminded his friends that he had to get you home soon. It tugged at your heart a bit seeing them be just as sad about it as you were.

“Y/N, what if you sleep here for the night? We could have a sleepover and everything—I mean, we've never actually had a girl over for that before, but it would still be cool.” Jaemin's ramble gets cut off when Donghyuck shoots Renjun a shut-him-up look, resulting in Renjun elbowing Jaemin.

It still flatters you and makes you giggle either way. “I would love that, but, uh,” you glance over to your anxious boyfriend beside you, “I think that'd be a little bit too fast. Me and Hyuck promised to take things slow.”

Hold on. Did he hear that right?

The four boys eye you two down, and having all the attention on you ironically makes you sweat. So, you turn to Donghyuck for help. “Right?”

He turns to you, his brain not forgetting that you just called him the nickname only his family and friends call him, but he puts on his game face anyway. “R-right. Yeah.”

Game face, my ass. He thinks.

“Well, goodnight, lovebirds! Get her home safe, man!”

Unfortunately, there's Jeno, who always knows when to make things so much more awkward as he rushes the two of you out the door.

“So… Hyuck, huh?”

Unfortunately for you again, your boyfriend's sudden switch in behavior once you're left alone catches you off guard, and God, was it attractive.

But of course, this was the first real show of your “relationship” and reminding yourself that this is all fake is more important than dwelling in feelings that 100% won't happen.

“Never speak of it.”

But once you saw the teasing glint in Donghyuck’s eyes, leading you to make a beeline to the elevator down the hall, you knew that this would be mentioned again and again. He's lucky you liked the taste of his nickname on your tongue.

It was nearing 10 pm when Donghyuck parked his car in front of your apartment complex, which led him to ask you the one-million-dollar question.

“Alright, lay it on me. Did we scare you? And trust me, you can be honest. I won't be offended. Or I'll try not to be, at least.”

“You want my honest opinion?”

His assured demeanor drops right in front of you by the look of his face, and you fight the urge to laugh.

“Oh my God, we did scare you, didn't we?! Fuck, I’m so sorry. Was it Jaemin? It’s always him, dude.”

“Donghyuck, no! It wasn't—”

“He gets nervous around girls, and he reads this dumbass book Jeno gave him ‘cause Jeno told him it works like a charm—”

“Donghyuck.”

“And apparently, it has a bunch of tips on how to make a girl feel comfortable, and I think that whole ‘kissing your hand' thing was because of the book, and I—”

“Hyuck!”

“And also, you with that goddamn nickname. Why did you pull that? We never agreed on that! Do you even realize what that does to a guy?”

He finally shuts up when he feels you shake his arm and hears your fit of giggles. “Calm down, you dummy. I was just messing with you.”

“Y/N. I crashed out in front of you, and you’re giggling.”

His reaction only makes you laugh even more. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” You let yourself calm down before you continue, “I enjoyed tonight, really. I adore your friends. They made me feel welcomed, and if it makes you feel better, Jaemin pulling that stunt only made me laugh. I loved them, Hyuck. Thank you for introducing me.”

“You’re serious?”

“Very.”

“Like 100% positive?”

And with a nod, you say, “100% positive.”

If your words didn't assure him, your hand resting on his as an action of comfort definitely did.

Once Donghyuck escorted you to your door and you said goodnight, Seulgi and Yuqi bombarding you with questions wasn’t a surprise. The night ended with you telling them detail by detail, even acting it out at some parts, with their teasing reactions making everything seem more real.

You fell asleep with the biggest smile on your face. And little did you know, so did Donghyuck.

previous | masterlist | next

note: it's my birthday, guys!!!! i'm officially 18!!!!! as for my birthday gift to yall, i have finally locked in on this chapter and gave yall what you deserved :3 BIGGG apologies for keeping this beloved story in the dark for two months 💔 i missed this couple and i missed yall! 2025 IS THEIRRR YEAR GUYS, TRUST!

🖇 (open!): @skeetyeetyote @junviadinho @n0hyuck @yewshi @marvelahsobx @hqech @sunflowerhae @loveholicness @sfswithfs @222brainrot @dudekiss3r @aek1ra @nosungluv @miyawwn @haechology @chenlesfavorite @alethea-moon @polarisjisung @lionzyon @mystverse @insaneanddrained @starfilledgaze @onlyhyunjin @swee7dream @haechsworld @markspossibilities @schatjze @minniesbae @multifandomania @neozon3nha @zzurao @hoshipills @nessaassen02 @lavender-roses-06 @ohwowzersthatscool @sunghoonsgfreal @https-lvesick @taeeflwrr @do-you-remember-summer-127 @hyuck-me @injunnie-lemon @txthyuck @jeongintwt @starwonb1n @413ktz @haechansbbg @galacticnct @keeryverse @kosmicbomb @thegracerammy

[bloodibambiidoll]

Cinnamon Girls

(Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader x Fem!OC)

Summary: Eddie never thought his nightly routine would include sneaking into a catholic collage to see his two girlfriends, but never say never, right? Wk:4.5k

Warnings: Established poly relationship, M/F/F threesome, spanking, choking, Dom!Eddie, Sub!Reader, Switch!OC, Pet names(Eddie has nicknames for both R & OC that I’ll explain in a different part), spint kink, scissoring, gum sharing?, oral (m & f receiving), unprotected sex. I think that’s it? Lmk if I missed any. 18+MDNI

A/N: Okay this idea came to me the other night and I was like possessed by it. I’m kind of obsessed with these three now and I’ve actually come up with other lore about them. I might expand on this lil AU if anyone’s interested. Thank you to my lovely betas @babygorewhore @bimbobaggins69 & @reidsbtch🧸🤍 Moodboard.

Eddie’s ringed fingers reach for the volume knob on the radio, turning it almost all the way down as he rounds the corner to his destination. He turns off the headlights as he slowly pulls his van close to the curb before cutting the engine. He always makes sure to be as quiet as possible, even if he is parked half a block down the road from the school itself. He pulls down the drivers side mirror, fluffing his unruly hair. He pops a piece of cinnamon gum into his mouth and exits his van, making sure not to slam the door like he tends to have a habit of doing.

He looks both ways, checking for bystanders. He was pretty sure there wouldn’t be anyone out on the street at 2AM, especially with the students strict curfew, but he always liked to be sure. If he got caught, he would be so fucked. He shoves the chain on his jeans in his pocket before hiking his leg up on the fence, vaulting himself as quietly as possible up and over onto the other side. He lands with a quiet thud, again checking his surroundings to make sure he was alone.

He walks around the edges of the campus, making sure to keep to the shadows and not set off any automatic lights. Once he reaches the building he’s come to know well he grabs a few small pebbles from the gravel beneath his feet. He tosses one up at the window he’s found himself crawling into most nights lately, and waits.

It only took a few seconds before he saw two heads popping into view, bright smiles on their faces. His heart rate immediately picks up, his stomach erupts with butterflies, and his cock slightly stirs in his pants at the prospect of what the night was going to bring.

Eddie quickly climbs up the conveniently placed fire exit ladder and the window is already pushed open for him when he reaches it. His long ripped jean clad legs enter the room and his boot covered feet hit the ground with a gentle thud one by one.

“My girls.” He smiles wide, taking the sides of your faces in each of his hands. “I missed you.”

“Eddieee.” You nuzzle your face into his palm, practically purring like a kitten. Looking up at him through your lashes with those big sweet eyes that drive him insane. “I missed you.”

“Hey nerd boy.” Mina chuckles, turning her face to nip at his fingers. “We saw you less than 24 hours ago.”

“So you didn’t miss me, pretty girl?” Eddie mock pouts, his thumb running along your girlfriend’s plump bottom lip.

“I didn’t say that, did I?” She rolls her eyes, taking his digit into her mouth and swirling her tongue around it, pulling a groan from his chest.

“Don’t fall for her tough girl act Eds, you should’ve heard her when I was underneath her skirt between classes earlier… ‘fuck baby, you’re so good, I wish I was watching Eddie fuck you from behind right now’ she totally missed you.”

“Hey!” She pulls off Eddie’s thumb with a pop, a string of spit still connected to her lips. “It’s not fair to use what I say when you’re eating me out like it’s the last chance you’ll ever get against me, brat!”

“That’s okay she pretty much lost me at ‘when I was underneath her skirt between classes earlier’… you two are going to fucking kill me, I swear.” Eddie groans, throwing his head back while he runs his hands down his face. The image of you and your girlfriend sneaking off in your little catholic school uniforms to get each other off driving both him and his cock insane.

“Is that doing it for you, Eddie? Thinking about us fucking when you’re not here? Because we do… All. The. Time. Before class, between class, after… we were just messing around before you got here actually…” The look on your face is innocent while the words leaving your mouth are anything but and Eddie swears every single time he comes here his dick gets harder than he ever thought possible.

“We tried to wait for you, but we just got so worked up thinking about you coming over… we couldn’t help ourselves.” Mina reaches up to run her long pointed black nails down his cheek and he grabs onto her wrist, stopping her movements.

“So you admit it then, you missed me? You can deny it if you want, but I bet the minute I get my hands on that pussy it’ll be dripping for me…” He smirks at her, his ember orbs boring into her mossy ones as his lips trail open mouth kisses down her wrist. “Show me…”

“Huh? Show you what?” Her eyes are wide, her body language much more relaxed than it had been in the last few minutes.

“You already getting all dumb on me, baby? All I did was put my lips on you…” Eddie’s large ringed hand grips her jaw, shaking her head from side to side. “Get on the bed and show me what you were doing with our girl before I got here.”

A whimper leaves her lips and it makes you clench around nothing. You always love watching them together. Mina was the more dominant of the two of you, often taking control in and out of the bedroom. So watching the way she submits so easily to Eddie makes you melt. They were both so fucking hot.

He releases her wrist and steps back, leaning against the desk near the wall. He crosses his feet at the ankles and looks at you both expectantly. His eyes finally take the time to drink you both in. If he hadn’t been so distracted by your dirty words and flirty banter what you were doing before he got here probably would’ve been obvious.

You were in nothing but a little pink cami that had a bunny printed on the front, your little white lace panties were adorned with a pink bow and you even had on fucking ruffle socks. You were the epitome of a little religious girl gone bad. Mina on the other hand was very much your opposite. Her black cut off tank top had a little skull and crossbones printed on it, her red g-string sat high on her hips, her feet were bare and the moonlight reflected off her black polished toes. She was the perfect example of what happens when religious girls rebel. Your lips were kiss swollen and her long dark hair looked like you’d been pulling at it. God, Eddie was the luckiest bastard to ever walk the earth.

He watches with his bottom lip secured between his teeth as she approaches you, one hand resting on your hip while the other grabs onto the hair at the nape of your neck. She uses her grip to pull your face to hers, kissing you with fever. Your hands snake around her to grab handfuls of her ass and she moans into your mouth.

“Wanna give Eddie a show, baby girl?” She mumbles against your lips.

“Fuck ya.” You pull back from her with a glint in your eyes and a smirk on your lips. Those mischievous eyes meet Eddie’s as you pull your girlfriend by the hand towards your bed. She sits against the headboard with her legs spread and you climb on top of her. You position your legs so your hips are tilted to the side, your barely clothed core sat directly on top of hers. You roll your hips causing both of you to moan at the feeling.

Her hands grip onto your ass to help you move against her while her hips grind up to meet your thrusts. You take her face in your hands and connect your lips again, your tongue darting out across her bottom lip, silently requesting access. She grants it to you immediately, intertwining her tongue with your own while she moans into your mouth.

Eddie licks his lips at the sight, the way your girlfriend’s long nails dig into the flesh of your ass, the way your tits are pressed up against each other while you grind together. His cock is so hard it feels like it’s going to pop the button on his jeans, he hastily reaches for his belt, clumsily undoing it. Then he moves onto his button and zipper, fumbling slightly, not wanting to take his eyes off the two of you. His cock finally springs free and hits his stomach, a drop of precum dripping onto his dark faded band tee. He spits in his palm before taking his cock in his hand, stroking it roughly. A moan rips through him at the feeling of finally being touched, even if it’s his own.

“Mmm look at Eddie baby…” Your head is turned towards him now as your eyes drink him in hungrily. Mina’s face leaves the crook of your neck to follow your gaze and the sight combined with just the right roll of your hips makes her whimper.

“Fuck, you like what you see, nerd boy?” She pushes your tank top up over your tits and takes them in her soft hands without breaking eye contact with him. Your hips pick up speed and you’re both so wet now that your combined juices are making the fabric of your panties stick together with each roll of your hips.

“You know I do, pretty girl.” He smirks right back, his hand still stroking his thick cock while his eyes travel over both your bodies. Her tongue licks around your areola before she takes your nipple in her mouth, causing you to gasp.

“I want more.” You whimper. She feels so good against you, but it’s not quite enough. You need to feel her. You lift your hips just enough to use your hands to push both of your panties to the side before lowering yourself back down onto her warm wet cunt. Her clit bumps against yours and you’re both so wet you practically glide against her. “Fuck, yes.”

Eddie approaches the side of the bed, taking both of your jaws in his hands, forcing you both to look up at him. “Goddamn, you guys are so fucking sexy, can you cum like that for me? If you’re good girls and make each other cum I’ll give you my cock.”

His words spur you on, your hands coming to rest on Mina’s shoulders for leverage as you grind your wet pussy against hers. She leans forward to take your nipple into her mouth, her free hand toying with your other one.

“Oh fuuuck, yes. You’re so wet baby, you feel so good. I’m gonna cum.” You press yourself down on her hard, moving your hips in a circular motion that has her clit gliding deliciously through your wet folds. Her teeth sink into the meat of your tit, sending you over the edge. Her hands grab onto your hips, guiding you against her as your high crashes over you.

“Mmm that’s it, good girl, cum for us.” She pulls off of you so she can watch your face as you fall apart on top of her.

“Your turn.” You’re still panting as you come down from your orgasm but you use one hand to shove her shirt up over her tits, your tongue immediately flicking out to lick across her perky peaked nipples. Your other hand slides between your bodies, finding her clit with ease. You grind your palm against her sensitive bud while your tongue and lips continue their assault on her nipples.

“Fuuuuuck.” You hear Eddie groan above you and your eyes snap his direction, immediately meeting his lust filled ones. His tongue darts out across his bottom lip and you can’t see from how you’re angled but the way he’s shaking you can tell he’s jerking himself off again. You can’t wait to get your hands and mouth on every inch of him too.

“Cum for me baby, I wanna hear those pretty sounds.” You insert your middle and pointer finger inside her while your palm continues its ministrations on her clit.

“Oh my fucking god, that’s so good, you’re gonna make me - I’m gonna fucking cum!” Her sharp nails dig into your ass and a pornographic moan rips through her as she cums around your fingers. You fuck her through it, leaving open mouth kisses all across her chest.

“That was the hottest thing I’ve ever fucking seen, shit.” Eddie’s voice breaks you from your Mina induced trance and you whip your head towards him. He’s shirtless now, his jeans still hanging low on his hips, his hard leaking cock on full display.

“Mmm does that mean we earned our reward? You look damn right edible, Mr. Munson.” You smirk up at him, practically salivating at the sight of the bead of precum dripping from his slit. Eddie groans, something about you calling him that makes his cock twitch.

“Yeah, I think you earned it, Bunny. Why don’t you get over here and suck it?”

He didn’t have to tell you twice. You climb off Mina, crawling towards him so you can sit in front of him on your knees. She follows suit, sitting close enough to you that your bare thighs touch. Eddie feels like he’s going to fucking cum just looking at you both on your knees for him, looking up at him through your lashes.

“Take your shirts off and stick out your tongues.” You turn towards your girlfriend, grabbing the hem of her already hiked up tank top and pulling it over her head. She does the same for you and then you both turn back towards him, sticking your tongues out just like he asked. “God fucking damn, have I ever told you I’m the luckiest man to ever live? Look at my beautiful girls, waiting for me to use their little throats.”

He slaps his cock against your tongue, that bead of precum you’d been eyeing dripping into your mouth just like you wanted. He glides his tip along your tongue a few times before turning to do the same to Mina. His large ringed hands come around both your heads, gripping onto the hair at the nape of your necks.

“Keep your tongues out.” He leans over you to spit in your mouth before using the grip he has on your hair to pull your face to his cock. You take the hint, taking as much of him as you can into your mouth. You bob your head up and down while he gives Mina the same treatment above you, pulling her head down next to yours once he's done. You feel her lips traveling up your shoulder to your jaw, she leaves wet kisses across your cheek until she reaches your mouth. Her tongue darts out to lick the part of Eddie’s shaft that isn’t down your throat, curling around it.

“Holy fuuuucking shit.” Eddie groans, he uses the grip on your hair to pull both of your heads back again, looking down at you with lust filled eyes. “Be good girls for me and make out on my cock.”

Mina smirks up at him before leaning forward to lick along the side of his length, you follow her lead, running your tongue up the opposite side. You both lick all around his cock like it’s a lollipop, your tongues occasionally touching and intertwining around it. She takes his tip in her mouth, swirling her tongue around it before taking him fully down her throat with a gag. You lean down so you can kitten lick across his balls, tasting the musky saltiness that is Eddie. You suck one of them into your mouth, your tongue massaging around the soft skin before pulling off and giving the other one the same treatment.

“Shit shit shit!!!” He pulls you both off of him with a gasp. “You gotta stop or I’m gonna fucking blow my load I swear you two are little succubi.”

“Mmm… you just taste so good, we want your human essence.” You giggle up at him, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. “You know Eds… I haven’t even gotten a kiss yet.” You pout.

“Oh shit, I’m sorry Bunny, I guess I got carried away, huh? Come here.” He grabs your face in his hands, leaning down to place a kiss that was much more gentle than you were expecting on your lips. He kisses you a few times before turning to Mina and attempting to give her the same treatment. But you watch as she grabs onto his hair and tugs, pulling his face hard against her own. Her tongue licks across his lips and his darts out to meet hers. She sucks his tongue into her mouth, bringing the cinnamon gum he was chewing with her.

“You’re sweet and all, nerd boy. But I’m still really fucking horny and I believe you promised us your cock? I’d like to cash in on that now.” She bites down on his bottom lip before pulling away with a smirk, popping his gum between her teeth.

“Yeah? You want my cock? Hands and knees, both of you. I wanna try something.”

Mina pulls her thong down her legs before flipping over on her hands and knees with her back arched, her ass in the air and on full display. You do the same, wiggling your ass back and forth as you look at Eddie over your shoulder. You watch with hungry eyes as he discards his jeans. His ring adorned hand comes down on your asscheek causing you to jolt forward with a yelp.

“Look at these perfect fucking assess, and they’re all mine…”

He pumps his cock a few times before running it through your slick folds, dipping the tip inside of your entrance before slapping it against your clit.

“Eddieeee…” you whine and wiggle your ass again, pushing back against him.

“Aww is a little Bunny feeling greedy?” You can hear the dumb smirk in his voice but you don’t have time to talk back before he’s shoving himself balls deep inside of you, knocking the air from your lungs. The stretch is so good, every single time. No matter how many times he fucks you it’s like he’s filling you up just right.

He starts fucking into you rough and fast, his grip on your hip is so tight that you hope the ring indents that had started to fade from last time are even darker than before. His free hand comes down hard on Mina’s asscheeks in succession before he’s soothing it with his palm and running his thick fingers through her dripping slit. He inserts two fingers inside her and starts to fuck her with them in tandem with the thrusts of his cock inside you.

“Fuck bunny, you’re so wet, this little pussy is squeezing me so tight.” The hand on your hip finds your clit, applying a delicious amount of pressure while he continues to bury himself deep inside you.

“Baby, gimme a kiss.” Mina’s voice almost sounds like it’s underwater with how close you are to cumming but you turn your face towards her. She grabs your jaw in one of her hands and smashes your lips together in a desperate moan filled kiss. Her tongue slips between your lips, exploring every inch, the gum she had just taken from Eddie’s mouth slips into your own and it still somehow tastes cinnamony sweet.

“I’m gonna c - cum, I’m gonna cum.” Your words are slurred against her lips, Eddie hits that perfect spot inside of you that has your eyes rolling in the back of your head.

“Yeah baby? You gonna cum? Mi, why don’t you be a good girl and cum for me too?” Eddie continues his assault on your g-spot while his skilled fingers curl just right inside your shared girlfriend's cunt. It only takes a few more pumps of his cock to send you over the edge, Mina tumbling over her own right after you.

Eddie fucks you both through your highs before pulling his fingers away, he uses his other hand to grip onto your hair and pull your back flush against his chest.

“Suck.” He brings the slick covered digits to your mouth and you greedily take them in, tasting your girlfriend’s sweet nectar. “Good girl.”

He releases his grip on your hair and you fall forward, catching yourself on your hands at the last minute. You go to turn around but he grips your hips, keeping you in place.

“Stay. I didn’t say you could move, did I?” He smacks your ass before turning to Mina, roughly gripping her hips. “You want my cock now, kitty? I think you’ve earned it.”

“Just fuck me already, Munson.” Normally Eddie would take the time to tease her for her attitude, make her beg a little, but he’s so fucking hard he needs to be inside of her, right now. He grabs onto his cock, lining it up with her puffy lips, he pushes himself all the way inside of her in one thrust, throwing his head back when she clenches around him.

“You’re such a fucking brat, you know that?” He leans over her so his lips brush against the shell of her ear, trailing a few kisses down her throat. He stops at the juncture of her throat, sinking his teeth down onto it while he starts to fuck into her roughly.

“Yeah, but you fucking love it.” Her chuckle turns into a strangled moan when he wraps a hand around her throat, his cock pounding into her so deep she can feel him hitting her cervix.

You look over at them and you can’t help but moan at the sight. Eddie’s head is thrown back, revealing the expanse of his thick throat, a layer of sweat covers his inked chest and he’s growling almost animalistically. Mina’s face is slightly red from the way she’s being choked, a bit of drool is dripping from the corner of her mouth and her tits are bouncing deliciously. You want to lean down and suck them, and lick the drool off her chin but you also want to be a good girl and for Eddie so you decide to stay put.

And damn does it pay off, because one second he’s pounding into your girlfriend like his life depends on it and next thing you know he’s pulling out of her and thrusting deep inside you. He’s fucking you as hard as he was fucking her, picking up the pace he left off on. He thrusts into you a few more times before he’s pulling out and plunging back into Mina. He continues like this for a bit, fucking deeply into one of you before switching off and giving the other the same treatment. The room is filled with the sounds of your moans and slapping skin, and in the back of your mind you’re thankful that the girl next door moved out last week.

“My good fucking girls, letting me use your little holes like this, you’re so fucking good for me. Fuck!” Eddie pumps his into your girlfriend deep and hard, before pulling out and plunging into your wet, waiting heat. “Mi, go get in front of Bunny so I can watch her eat that pretty little pussy from the back while I fill her up with my cum.”

She’s past the point of giving him shit, so fucked out that she will do anything he asks without question. She crawls so she’s positioned on her hands and knees in front of you and your grab onto her asscheeks, spreading them apart.

“Looks so tasty…” You spread her open a few more times, watching her clench around nothing, then you lean forward and plunge your tongue as far as it can go inside of her. You fuck into her with your tongue before licking down to her clit, sucking it into your mouth.

Eddie is about to lose it, your pussy is clenching him so tight and your ass is bouncing deliciously against his hips. The sounds and the sight of you devouring your girlfriend is enhancing his pleasure by tenfold. He reaches his hand around you to rub circles on your clit, angling his hips the way he knows you love it.“Fuck baby, I’m not gonna last much longer… need you to cum for me.”

You bring two of your fingers to Mina’s entrance, pushing them inside her and curling them upwards. She pushes back against you, her pussy clenches around your fingers and you can tell she’s close too.

“Shit, I’mgonnafuckingcum.” She whimpers.

“Cum for us kitty, cum on our girl's face. I’m gonna cum too - fuckingshit.” Eddie’s thrusts get sloppy but he’s still fucking you so good, the speed of his fingers picks up on your clit and you feel his cum start to spill inside you. Mina’s pussy is like a vice grip on your fingers and the moans she’s letting out are like music to your ears. It’s all so hot and it has your own orgasm wracking through your body.

You’re all panting as you pull apart from each other, throwing yourselves down on the bed with Eddie in the middle. You both rest your heads on his shoulders, your legs thrown over each of his thighs. You and Mina absentmindedly play with each others fingers that rest on Eddie’s chest.

“I can’t fucking wait until you guys get out of here.” Eddie sighs.

“Soon baby, just one more month and this catholic collage nightmare will be over.” Your girlfriend places a gentle kiss on his peck, resting her chin there so she can look up at him.

“Then our dads will finally get off our asses and release our trust funds to us. And we can buy a nice house, and get you studio time.” You lean up to kiss his jaw, mimicking Mina’s position so you can look at his beautiful face too.

“Yeah? You guys are my certified sugar mama’s I swear.” Eddie chuckles, bringing his hands up so he can cup both of your jaws. He rubs his thumbs over the apples of your cheeks and looks into both of your eyes, placing a gentle kiss on each of your lips. He seriously was the luckiest bastard to ever live.

[someonealreadyhadmynickname]

Dad headcanons | Leon S. Kennedy

warnings: pregnancy

I picture Leon being in absolute bliss when you break the news to him. He’ll be laughing while hugging you. He’s never had a normal family, and I believe he would want children of his own. He’ll be so happy he won’t be able to erase a dumb smile from his face for the rest of the day.

Reads lots of articles on parenting and baby development.

A worrywart. One day several noises woke you up late at night and you discovered your husband babyproofing everything in the house. Turns out he was so worried he couldn’t wait til’ the morning.

You have to be very careful about mentioning your cravings because this man is driving in the middle of the storm if that means getting what you want. You’ll have to physically stop him from going out at ungodly hours just because you crave some donuts.

If it were up to him, you wouldn’t even get out of bed. He has to be holding your hand when you use stairs, no matter how many times you’ve tried to convince him you are totally capable of doing it alone.

“What’s next? I’m not allowed to use scissors?”

Your laugh slowly quietens as you notice Leon’s thinking face.

“... I don’t see why you would have to use scissors”

One day he came home with a big present box and when you opened it a german shepherd jumped at you. He got a trained police dog to keep you company. (Not before making extensive research on the best family dogs, of course).

On top of that, he would want to hire someone to help around the house because the thought of you being alone makes him worried sick.

He’s so silly. Talks to your belly all the time. When he comes home he always greets you with “how are my babies doing?”

He goes crazy with baby stuff. Clothes, plushies, bottles, toys, everything he sees in stores ends up in the baby room. The room is so full of stuff you two had to keep some things in the attic. He has promised to stop buying things several times but there’s always something that catches his eye and he has to get it.

“And this is a baby monitor— I know that face, you don’t like it”

“No, I love it, it’s just…”

“Yes?”

“You already bought one of those, love”

“Aha! No, I bought a different one. Now, you see, the one we had doesn’t had all the features this one has…”

Strikes me as the kind of guy who would want to wait a bit before telling people about the pregnancy… However, he ends up spilling the beans two or three times. Also, people kinda catch onto it because all he talks about is about children’s development.

Sometimes you wake up at night to find your lover lying awake, watching at the ceiling. Truth is, he can’t help but worry about your child’s future and spends hours thinking about it; but when you ask him what’s keeping him up, he always answers that the excitement of becoming a dad won’t let him sleep.

Will do the impossible in order to be with you during the delivery. He has warned his superiors months in advance that he needs to rest during the days when is probable the baby is coming. In the worst case scenario, where he isn’t able to make it in time, he is gonna be regretful for a very long time.

Definitely cries the first time he holds his baby.

He randomly wakes up at night and goes to check the baby. He’ll sit in front of the crib and stay there for a while, sometimes he picks the baby up and just holds them. Will always give them a kiss on their forehead before leaving.

Converses with the baby. He could be feeding them, or changing their diaper, and he talks to them as if they could understand him. Tells them about his day, how work is going. If you two were ever to argue (which is very rare and, if you do, always with a certain joke air), he is bringing the baby and puts them on his side. He looks at the baby and asks “can you believe this?”

You’ve found him watching baby cartoons not noticing the child is long asleep.

He is beyond cheerful because everytime you are carrying the baby, they raise their tiny arms to his dad wanting to be held by him.

Asks Claire to babysit whenever you two go out on dates.

Which he later regrets because now, everytime the baby sees Claire, they reach out for her. Even if Leon is carrying them. Makes him a bit jealous.

Your baby walks and talks very early on because of how much time Leon spends with them.

Every parent believes their kid is exceptional, but Leon could win the proudest dad competition. As your child grows up, Leon is so amazed by every milestone they complete. “I’m telling you, this child is going places”, he tells you the day your baby learns to roll over.

You mentioned to him once how cute you thought albums were, so now you two keep one for your kid. He takes terrible photos, but you think those are very adorable and keep them in the album.

Takes playtime seriously. He isn’t like those parents who don’t even care about what’s happening and leave at the middle of the game. Tea party? He is wearing his best clothes. Pretending to be spies? Won’t break character. He will be bashful if you catch him tho.

He has this ongoing thing with your child where they try to build the biggest sandcastle everytime you go to the beach.

He always says ‘I love you’ when saying goodbye. Once your child hurriedly kissed his cheek and pretended to leave, but Leon stopped them and said: “Everytime I tell you I love you, I mean it, it’s not just mindless words. Do you mean it?” He knows that, and god forbids it happens, he could not come back home one day. So it’s crucial for him for his child to understand how much he loves them.

It breaks his heart to leave his family so often. On one occasion he overheard your child begging you to talk to their father and ask him to please stop going on missions.

I picture him having a daughter.

The kind of man who takes his daughter to dates. Everytime he brings you flowers, he has another bouquet for his princess.

Your daughter is a performer. She makes up dances and songs and performs in front of you two.

Once, when she was young, she told him she wanted to marry him. He answered he couldn’t marry her because he is already married to you, to which your girl replied “Can I marry uncle Chris then?” Leon hasn’t recovered from that.

Maybe a bit delusional but you two invite over his D.S.O friends for Christmas, Claire and Chris included, and everyone brings a present for your daughter.

He’d like more than one kid, but often worries about what would happen to his family if he ever goes missing, so for now, another one isn’t in the plans.

Lying by your side at night, he sometimes thanks you for the opportunity to have a family.

[tinytownn]

back to back – one-shot

roronoa zoro x [tall!]f!reader

word count: 1.3k

summary: based off of this request...

content: sword training, reassuring zoroooo, cute lil blurb!!, for this post and most op fics going forward the character will have giant scissors as a weapon (picture sheele’s extase from akame ga kill), no use of y/n

leave all requests here…

a/n: [UNEDITED] thank you to the person who requested this!! i formed the concept of back to back fighting as soon as i read this and wrote like three different blurbs on it so be prepared to see this concept again hehehe (also will i ever quit it with the b titles??)

—

The crew had first found you passed out on the beach, body tangled in seaweed and caked in sand. All you had with you was a makeshift board you’d drifted on and your weapon–a giant pair of scissors strapped to your back.

Your battle with the ocean left you barely conscious, limbs weak and breaths shallow. But Chopper was quick to heal you and bring you back to health, while Sanji spoiled you with home cooked meals. The rest of the crew hovered over you–curious and kind–until you got back onto your feet.

Luffy was immediately amazed by your weapon. “Ooo! These are so cool!” He had said, grabbing at the handles. “You have to join my crew!” 

You looked up at him, weakly nodded, and just like that, you were in.

Weeks passed aboard the Sunny. You were welcomed no doubt, but the sheer strength of the Strawhats started to weigh on you. Every day brought new displays of impossible power and it chipped away at your confidence. You began to feel like dead weight, like a weak link in the chain.

So, the next morning, you turned to the person that exuded strength with every waking breath: Zoro.

His fighting style was similar to yours–his swords, your shears–and you figured if anyone could get you stronger, it would be him. But Zoro didn’t train like anyone else. He was relentless when he was committed to something. No breaks. No mercy. Just pure bone breaking effort until he succeeded or collapsed.  

The rest of the crew had tried to warn you, but you simply just shrugged them off. “He’s insane.” Usopp warned. “You’ll give up by lunch.” Even Sanji tried to talk you out of it. But you were determined.

At six a.m., you climbed into the crow’s nest. The second you opened the door, the sound of clanking metal rang out—sharp and rhythmic. Zoro was already lifting, a monstrous weight in each hand, the floor groaning beneath him. His back was to you, muscles tense and rippling with every rep, sweat glistening down the curves of his shoulder blades.

Your breath caught in your throat.

“You just gonna stand there?” Zoro’s voice cracked through the air. “Or you gonna pick up some weights?” 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” you said, hurriedly walking up to him.

“You didn’t,” he replied, not missing a beat. “Rule number one of being a great swordsman: never leave your back unattended.”

You blinked. “Even while lifting?”

“Especially while lifting.”

He turned, grabbing two swords from a barrel in the corner and tossed one to you. Grasping the hilt in your hands, you wriggled your fingers to the unfamiliar feeling.

“I’m not used to holding one of these…” you mumbled. 

Zoro raised a brow. “I use three. You’ll be fine.”

He turned again, exposing that pristine, unmarked back. “The greatest dishonor as a swordsman is to have an injury here,” he said, voice low, like it came from deep in his chest.

Nervous, you took a step forward. Compared to Zoro, you felt huge—your height always set you apart, but next to him, it made you feel clumsy. You held the sword awkwardly, lifting it into position.

Taking your bottom lip between your teeth, you charged forward. The sword was lighter than what you were used to, your shears taking two hands just to get a steady grasp. You could easily maneuver the blade through the air, hearing the slices in the wind. 

In one fluid motion, before the tip of the sword pressed into his back, Zoro propelled himself upwards. You watched in awe as the brawny man launched himself into the air with ease. He took advantage of the distraction and his boot landed onto the blade of your sword, ripping it from your hands. The sword clunked to the wood and was held firmly under Zoro’s boot, a smug grin on his face as his eyes met yours.

“How did you- ?”

“You’ve got a good reach.” he said, eyes glancing at your legs with a teasing smirk. “But you’ve got to move quicker.”

–

It had been two years since you first walked out of the crows nest that day. The rest of your crew stood outside, huddled over one another in hopes to hear what was going on. No one had managed to train with Zoro for so long. But the both of you had been in there for hours.

It was tiring work, but the glint in your eye and immediate intrigue softened something in Zoro. He had made it his duty to train you for the next few years. The days went by fast and your strength only grew under his watch. The two of you became unstoppable.

“Just one more time.” Zoro said, stepping closer, He firmly pressed the weapon back into your palms with a stern look.

“Zo’ I can’t. My arms are gonna fall off.” You groaned.

“You’ve handled worse.”

You scowled at him, but your fingers curled around the handle. The two of you turned, backs pressed together. He straightened, lining up with your shoulders—though your longer torso made you taller than him. The top of his hair brushed just below your chin and you smirked as he grumbled, “Don’t get cocky.”

The quiet nudge of his shoulder was the signal. You pushed off each other in opposite directions, flipping mid-air and landing with your blades out—tips extended to keep anyone between you in a slicing grip.

Your muscles screamed. Sweat ran down your spine. Your shears clattered to the ground when you could no longer hold them.

Zoro didn’t hesitate. He sheathed his swords and wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you upright against his chest. “C’mere,” he whispered, lowering your head to his shoulder. “You did so good.”

Your eyes fluttered shut and you leaned into him. Despite the soreness, you felt safe. Grounded.

Still, frustration crept in.

“My form’s still sloppy,” you mumbled. “I can’t hold my scissors steady in the air. I’m too tall—too off-balance. It feels like I’m just putting a bigger target on your back.”

Zoro stiffened. He pulled away just enough to look at you, his hands moving to your shoulders.

“Don’t say that,” he said sharply. “I trust you behind me more than anyone. You think your height’s a weakness? It’s not. It gives you range, power, perspective. I need that.”

Your eyes dropped to the floor, his intensity too much to bear. Zoro sighed and leaned down slightly to meet your gaze.

“Whoever made you feel like a burden is an idiot. Your height is not slowing me down. You’re pushing me forward.”

The heat in your chest bloomed. You shifted under his stare, suddenly shy. “You’re just saying that because you like my legs.”

“Damn right I do,” he grinned, hands grazing your thighs with a playful squeeze. “Thank the gods you use ‘em for sword fighting and not whatever the hell that lovecook does.”

You laughed. “Little do you know, I’ve been getting lessons from him too.”

Zoro growled and suddenly hoisted you over his shoulder. “Oh yeah? Let’s see what you’ve got, chef.”

“Zoro- !” you shrieked, squirming in his grip. He tossed you onto the couch, looming over you with a smug grin.

From this angle, with you sprawled beneath him, the height difference flipped. Zoro towered you now, sweat-slick muscles framing his intense gaze.

Your breath hitched. “You’re the better teacher anyways.”

Zoro’s grin widened and he leaned down, brushing his lips on yours. “Don’t have much to teach you anymore. You’re kickin’ my ass half the time.”

“You love it,” you laughed, pulling him into a kiss by the collar.

You let the rest of the world fade away, your insecurity short lived with the reassuring man resting in your arms.

—

a special thanks to my taglist ♡ (message me to be added or removed)

[lullabyes22-blog]

Snippet - Glamor Gal - Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

Jinx dresses to impress.

Herself, that is.

Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

Snippet:

So to hell with idleness. She had places to go, people to see, presents to unwrap. 

And not just the shiny pretties strewn about.

Dressing up, for Jinx, was a kind of unwrapping too—except in reverse. Once upon a time, it was a game of switcheroo. Zaun's tuttiest-fruitiest tulle-covered confection one moment. The next, a lethal shell of bullet-proofed leather and brass buttons, with blue bangs like knives.

She never took it seriously. It was more like a masquerade: the girl molting in the mirror, carapace after carapace, while knowing what truly belonged to her was the chaos cutting a smile behind each mask. 

Lately, it was different.

Not a masquerade but an emergence: chrysalis to imago.

Jinx remembered the early Powder-blue days, when the chrysalis was brassbound. When her own insecurities were too raw to hide behind, even in the mirror. She'd just been coming into her shape and her style, and the contrast between her and Vi had been as jarring as the gaps between memory.

She remembered Vi as a pink-haired wonder: all spitfire athleticism and imposing sinew. Twice the girl she could ever be, with half the effort.

Whereas Powder, well…

Powder was a freak. Too small, too skinny, too strange.

And, as puberty hit, the strangeness grew. Other girls her age were already filling out into curvaceous little swans, with hips that swayed and breasts that bounced. Not her, though. She had no curves to speak of: just bony angles and spindly joints. When she moved, it was like a spider—all scuttling stealth and twitchy speed.

Even her hair—that Vi had so doted on when they were kids, because the texture was the same as Mom's, and the sheen was the same as Mom's, and everything was the same as Mom's—was emphatically not.

It hung limp and terrible, like blue seaweed, barely kept at bay with barrettes, and hacked into an unflattering mop with Vander's old kitchen scissors. Vander had once told Powder that puberty was the great equalizer. Everyone had a rough time of it. It was a process, not a pinnacle, and there was nothing to be ashamed of.

Turned out, he'd been full of it. In reality, puberty was hell.

And it was hell, in particular, for Powder.

Because, in the span of a night, she'd gone from the quiet little weirdo with a big, loud, weirdo family, to the bloodthirsty pariah who'd reputedly blown them all to pieces.

In the wake of the Cannery's eruption, Jinx had no loved ones left. No solace, no safety. Only silence. And in the silence, she'd become hyperaware of her own strangeness. Of the loser in the mirror, twice-orphaned, and forever, unknowably, alone.

If not for Silco.

He'd seen her—Powder's drab ugliness and the livewire potential it hid—and embraced her for what she could be. After all, he'd murmured, as she'd clung to him one rain-grey afternoon, head burrowed in the crook of his neck and tears drenching his crisp collar with thirteen-year-old sorrows, he'd once been the same.

As a lad, he'd never been showstoppingly strong, or head-over-heels handsome, or even particularly personable.

(Jinx disagrees with all three, but she's far from an impartial judge.)

Then came the drowning, and all it wrought. One hemisphere of his face distorted his sullen charms into downright sinister; the ethereal glow of his blue eyes warped into mismatched menace.

Yet it was only after his rebirth that Silco truly Became.

In the early days, he'd worn his disfigurements like a fist brandished in the face of the world's judgment. Message plain as a middle finger: Fuck Off.

Then his star ascended, and with it his perspective.

The deformities, always, would set him apart. Make him different, and, as a result, Other. Only by embracing the otherness could he transfigure himself from a ghoulish freak to a figure of myth.

The Eye of Zaun, in all its terrifying connotations.

Jinx was a terror too. But she'd been a proto-terror. A predator-in-progress.

Under Silco's guidance, she'd found her teeth.

The first step, as he'd put it, was to own your truth. Mold yourself to it like an arrow, notched tight, ready to fire. He'd shown her, slowly and patiently, how to release her darkest impulses from the shadows. How to unwrap her inner gifts; how to channel peculiarity into power.

She'd never have Vi's physical prowess. But she had twice the cunning. Not to mention: a wicked accurate aim, a sharp-as-fuck wit, a deadly-sweet smile.

A girl could be more than one thing. And there was no limit to how far a monster's wings could span: engulfing Zaun's horizon in an infinite blue sky.

(Find me find me find me...)

Closing her eyes, Jinx imagined those wings now. At the base of her spine, and between her shoulderblades: something tenderly twisty and slow-creeping and gold-edged. The sensation wasn't like sunlight but a glittering complexity of gilt-work.

Silvered into a warrior; goldened into a woman.

Was she a woman? Yet? At last? She had no way of knowing. Some days she still felt like a clueless child. Other days, more exhaustingly ancient than anything on two legs had a right to be.

She just knew something was different.

In the past year, she'd finally met her inner cacophony and learnt its voice. And dressing up lent that voice, not expression but volume.

This was not a masquerade.

This was not playacting.

This was a conjuring, and a calling, and a coming-into-Self.

One that demanded no less than three acts to accomplish.

First act? Jinx took a shower.

A real, honest-to-Gods shower.  Soap included. She still wasn't a fan of soap. But the sluice of clean, filtered water—courtesy of Viktor's citywide plumbing system—over her body? Divine with a good hard D. Silco had struck a number of fruitful trade agreements with Shurima for exotic fragrances and artisanal handicrafts. He always got Jinx the fanciest haul: spicy-smelling shampoos in exquisite stained-glass bottles, and beeswax soap bars cut in flowering geometric shapes. He'd even introduced her to hot oil conditioners, which felt super icky on her scalp. But afterward, running a comb through her hair was as effortless as playing checkers with Sevika.

Freshly showered, Jinx took a moment to pose before the full-length mirror. She compared Astro's rose-tinted vision to her own pallid reality: all whipcord muscle and silvered cicatrix layered over milk-pale skin. Her collarbones jutted like the handles of an old-fashioned gatling gun. The other guns, protruding impudently from her freckled chest, were overwhelmed by nipples that resembled candy hearts: inflamed and tender to touch. The deeply seamed cicatrix between the hemispheres of Leftie and Rightie (yes, Jinx has nicknamed her tits) was tinted pink in a strange grid pattern that resembled the facets of a geode.

It wasn't pretty. It wasn't grotesque. It was just—there.

Proof, that love hurt like a bitch, but freedom was worth bleeding for.

Like magic.

Marveling, Jinx traced her fingertips along the reddish ridges. Her flesh was resilient. Her scars, testament. And from waist-down, she had plenty else to flaunt. Smooth sinewy thighs, tight-packed calves, a perky rear. The flume of blue maidenhair curling between her thighs matched the wild sweep cascading from her scalp. She was growing it out again, but this time she'd left off the braids for a freestyling tumble down her shoulders. 

It felt good, letting it loose. A little bad, even. 

No deadlier combo in the world.

Second act: the war paint.

At this, Jinx was a dab hand. Not because she had an artist's eye (which she did) but because Silco had taught her the subtleties early on. For Daddykins, there was no medium more de facto for projecting a multifaceted persona: badass, babe, breaker-of-hearts.

Even a dash of destroyer-of-worlds on the side.

The point, as he put it, wasn't wildfire fads or straitjacket conventions. The point was to remind anyone who dared to stare that you weren't there for eating.

Unless a boom was on the menu.

In Jinx's early teens, he'd laid out the law by hue; the palette by principle. Blush, for example, should never be slathered on. It must give the illusion of blooming from within: a subterranean volcano. Contour was meant to ride incognito, seamlessly melting into bone. Mascara should extend rather than define eyelashes, lending emphasis without bulk. And concealer, of course, was for cowards. Perfect skin held no mystique; it was the allure of idiosyncrasy—freckles, moles, birthmarks—that proved an irresistible hook.

As for lipstick...

Well, Silco had interesting theories. First off, eschew—funny word, eschew, rhymes with ah-choo—anything that smacked of edibles. Nobody feared a color that called to mind a pastry melting in the sun, much less a piglet sizzling on a spit.

What drew the eye was danger, and a delicious dollop of damage.

Silco listed a handful of shades that were surefire for showing you had teeth, and knew how to use them:

Pink—not pastel, but punchy bubblegum pink—was great for a teasing smile that meant business. Purple was a brasher provocation, with the added bonus of villainy-by-association. Black evoked spooky seductiveness, though it was a death-strike if you paired it with anything but starkly pale cheeks and the soulless hollows of deep-space mascara.

But in Silco's own words: Nothing's quite so killer as a slash of blood-red on a big fat pout.

The same red as the devil in his distorted eye.

Red, Jinx surmised, was a symbol as much as a statement. The patron saint of revolution, rebellion, regicide. Plus? The shade most closely associated with animal instinct. A quintessential predatory vibe: shark smile, serial killer, ready-to-eat-ravenous.

Also—(Silco’s still-echoing voice lapping in slow, smoky waves)—make sure there's a subtle glisten.

As in:

Evoke wetness. Turn your mouth into a thing of want. Tap into the desire to... penetrate the interior?

(That last part, Jinx pieced together herself.  Silly was no prude. But even he wouldn't go there.)

All in all, Jinx followed his tenets faithfully. Not because Silco was a control freak (which he was), but because his counsel—once the hall-of-mirrors hyperbole was diced into comprehensible chunks—was spot-on.

Silco wasn't a man who put stock in the superficial. But he understood what resonated with the guts and gonads. Everything else flowed from there.

So?

Jinx got flowing. 

The eye shadow was easy: electric cobalt blue swished with liquid precision, then ringed delicately with stardust silver. She pinched her cheeks until the volcano of heat burst rosily to the surface. Then she powdered her freckles into focus; they were integral to her image nowadays. Last, she smoothed pigment over her lips.

Not black, purple, or pink. Too easy. Nor blood-red, either. She didn't need the symbolism. Jinx was a fucking symbol.

Instead?

The bold blue of lapis lazuli dusted with sterling silver. Coolly ironic. Plus the glistening undertone fulfilled Silco's stipulation for...

Ahem. Hidden wells.

Third and final act.

Clothing.

The jaws of Jinx's closet creaked open to disgorge the colorful innards: all manner of armature, apparel and artillery. From bulletproof bustiers to metal-spiked combat boots; chainmail bikinis to knuckledusters lined with throwing-stars. All cool-as-fuck doodads to die for.

But tonight? Jinx was going for slick-sleek-chic. Not a wildfire blaze but a smoke-signal.

So: bye-bye frou-frou fuchsias and flashy red miniskirts. The paradox had gone stale, the rebel was played out, and the Spunky Punk Princess? Screw that. Zaun was a free city, and Jinx's new look was custom-tailored to broadcast emancipation. It wasn't about the skin flaunted or the firepower concealed. It wasn't even about painstakingly balancing between irreconcilable extremes.

Jinx wasn't a schizoid fever-dream. She was a Self.

A self who, nowadays, favored black.

Black was Silco's style too. Not so he could conceal bloodstains or skulk into the shadows (though he did both with panache.) It was more the way he wore the color as a force unto itself. A reminder: No matter how bright Zaun's neon shines, the shadows will always be there.

Black meant his lightless ambitions were secretly mirrored in Zaun's streets, same way Jinx's light-em-up desires burned across its skies.

Once, and always.

Tonight, though?

Tonight, black signaled a simpler, sweeter imperative.

Take me in your arms, and watch me fly.

Jinx chose a shift dress in silk crepe: a summer's-weight wisp so insubstantial that it was less a garment than a waft of smoke. There were no buttons, no buckles, no stays. The straps slid easily over her shoulders; the fabric hugged the curves of her body down to her knees, before the skirt fell in gathered pleats around her calves. The unstructured cut held a shapeless freedom: flowing with her movements without limiting them. In an eyeblink, Jinx could drop into a combat roll, pull off a backflip, or swing a roundhouse kick.

But the garment’s true genius lay in the details.

To wit: two secret pockets sewn into each hip, fitted to hold six zipline rounds of live ammo for PuffPuff. Another pocket along the front pleats, where a folding knife lay ready for surprise-slashing. Two detachable steel studs glinted at the neckline, primed to snap off into caltrops that could pierce an eyeball at twenty feet. Even the hemline: rigged with clever folds, was perfect for tucking away miniature explosives.

Every stitch was designed for Jinx to detonate on the fly. 

And tonight, it was bombs-away.

Fully dressed, she added the finishing touches: gloves of silvery blue mesh, matching her eyeliner and lipstick. Thigh-high satin stockings in deep cobalt, and her trademark crosshatched combat boots. Black cherry perfume—locally distilled—spritzed onto her wrists and cleavage.

And a shawl of two-toned charmeuse, halved into iridescent sheaves, with her spine as the central axis.

A dazzling wingspan that threw off spangles as she walked.

The left side was green. Not sedate forest or soothing mint. This was Zaunite green. A radioactive flare, scintillant with serpentine glitter. Where the green ended on the right, the purple picked up on the left:  luminous circuitboard patterns in magenta, indigo and violet. The hues lapped and overlapped all the way down like cybernetic surf.

Fitted around Jinx's slender frame, the shawl transformed her into a dream-winged dragonfly.

The result? Chaos underscored by cool iron; dark elegance enhanced with toxic-bright menace. Nothing Astro magazine would dare commit to glossy print. But also nothing this city of tumbledown bordellos and decadent debauchees was likely to forget.

Because?

Tonight, Jinx was dressing to kill.

Figuratively. And maybe literally.

[maybetheyredrunk]

tw: angst, self-harm, suicide attempts, death.

REGULUS BLACK

Regulus is heartbroken when James and Lily starts dating.

He doesn't realise why.

And then Remus is talking about Sirius, and saying similar things to what's in his head. "He makes me feel loved, and safe, and wanted. The way he laughs, the way he talks. That's why I love him." And that's when Regulus realises. Oh shit, maybe I love him. The way he smiles, the way he laughs, the way James is the sun to his sky.

James is oblivious for a while.

But then Lily realises she doesn't love James the way she feels like she should.

James and Lily break up, stay friends, and James realises he loves Regulus. The way he smiles, when James gets his attention, or he reads a book that he loves. The quietness. The way he bursts out with his opinions if he feels strongly about something. Regulus finally loving the person who he wants to, openly.

They go up to the Astronomy tower each Sunday, just talking. Each Sunday turns into twice a week. Twice a week into every other day. Every other day into every day. And they're so happy. And Sirius is all "You're dating my baby brother!" and "Brotherfucker." and "Ugh.", but inside he's so happy to see Regulus loving someone openly and fully. And Remus supports the both of them, and so does Peter, and Lily, and Dorcas, and Marlene.

Then Walburga and Orion make Regulus get the Dark Mark.

He's screaming, crying, begging them not to. "Please Mom, please Dad, I can't lose this." Throwing himself in front of them, trying to run away.

Him eventually realising: It doesn't work.

So he gets the Mark. Stays silent as the needle punctures his flesh over and over again.

And then runs to Hogwarts.

Regulus sobbing in the common room of Slytherin, arm swollen and bleeding as he tries to rip the ink out of his skin with his nails, held by an equally sad Evan and Barty.

Sobbing because he's going to lose his brother again, going to lose his friends, his boyfriend, because of ink that he didn't want.

Him trying to grab a knife, scissors. Evan and Barty have to restrain him and watch him constantly, making sure he doesn't carve out flesh from his bones.

So the Dark Mark is permanent.

And Regulus would rather see his boyfriend, the love of his life, not know him, rather than see James hate him for what he didn't want to become.

So he goes to the Astronomy tower after having ignored James for weeks. James didn't know why.

And he tells him. "I got the Mark." And shows him his arm.

And James' eyes widen.

And then - "Wait Reg-"

Regulus sobbing out one word, doubled over in pain, wishing he could go to James. One word.

"Obliviate."

And Regulus erases all of James' memories of him, he's powerful and precise enough to.

And James leaves the tower, confused as to why he went up there in the first place.

And Regulus is sobbing, tears running down his face, hair messed up, clutching at the railing of the tower, wishing he could get the mark away, would do anything. Anything to ease the pain.

He climbs onto the rail. Decides life isn't really worth living anymore, not without his sun. Evan and Barty see him, and run for him, and barely manage to catch him in time.

He makes three more attempts before realising he can't.

So he runs.

Runs so he doesn't have to see that James and Lily get back together, happy and oblivious. Lily's confused as to what happened to Regulus. Regulus who disappeared. Runs so he doesn't have to face Sirius, his disappointment and anger. Runs so Remus can't find him, his kind words and gentleness would make him unravel. Runs so none of his friends can follow. Barty and Evan search for a long time. But they never find him.

James is 18 when Regulus leaves. He's 17. Regulus dies the same year. Trying to make a difference. Regretting that he didn't earlier.

And as he lies on the cold hard ground of the island, Kreacher beside him, holding his stomach in pain from the liquid, but the Horcrux destroyed, he thinks. Of James. Of his smile. Of his laugh. Of his kisses. The way he lit up Regulus' world, because he was the sun to Regulus' sky, because Regulus needed James to be bright.

And he thinks. I'm sorry. He's left a note.

But he doesn't expect James to find it. Ever.

Regulus is 17 when he dies.

And he wishes that he had longer.

But even the brightest stars all fade.

thanks to @sweetmelodygraphics for the dividers!! Her work is amazing, please go check it out.

@into-the-jeggyverse @noblehouseofgay @my-castles-crumbling @reggie-the-starboy @ultravioletbrit @strawberrystainedfingertips7 @caiiius @iamgayforyourmom1510 @wh0re-for-w0lfstar

[ladykailitha]

The Harrington Pattern Part 13

This is it guys, the chapter of this fic. I have had an absolute blast writing and even more so reading all the comments and tags.

This last chapter is dedicated to all those who wanted the moms to bring Steve into their fold. This was also chance for Steve to rip on the haters without fear of his parents ire.

Thank you so much for all the love and support for this little story.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12

****

Claudia was waiting at the Byers’ front door when Eddie pulled up in his van and Steve hopped out.

“Eddie!” she cried happily. “I didn’t know you were coming!”

“Hey, Mrs. H,” Eddie said with a wave. “I’m just dropping Stevie off. We’re hanging out later.”

“That was sweet of you, dear,” Claudia cooed.

Steve in the meantime was pulling things out of the backseat of the van. Eddie looked over at him.

“You need help, darlin’?” he asked over his shoulder.

Steve shook his head. “I’ve got it. Thank you, though.” In lower voice he muttered, “I love you and I’ll see you later.”

Eddie gave Steve’s forearm a squeeze and then waved at Claudia. He backed out of the driveway and was soon gone from sight.

“We’ve got all sorts of surprises for you today, Steve,” she said gleefully clapping her hands together.”

Steve grinned at her. “Mrs. Peterson here yet?”

Claudia shook her head. “She’s always at least fifteen minutes late. Something we were banking on actually.”

Steve cocked his head to the side. “What do you mean?”

But Claudia just ushered him inside. He set his stuff down and then handed her a tray.

“I made blondies,” he said, “I hope you ladies like them.”

She peeled back the foil and gasped. “Steve they look amazing!”

Joyce came out of the kitchen wiping her hands. “What looks amazing?” she asked peering over Claudia’s shoulder. She, too, gasped when she saw them. “Steve, you didn’t!”

Steve grinned. “Your sons always eat the ones I send home with them before they even get home, so I figured you’d appreciate these.”

She kissed his cheek. “You are a dear.”

Claudia laid them out on table next to all the other treats.

On the coffee table were a bunch of things under a large sheet with clowns on it.

“The three of us,” Karen began, “wanted to do something extra special for you after hearing what fun our children had at the Fair because you made sure they did. So we each contributed something toward your love of sewing.”

She lifted the sheet. Underneath was a beautiful sewing kit in navy blue, a light green Singer sewing machine that looked older than he was, and a stack of old patterns.

Steve’s lip wobbled as he raised his hand to his mouth in shock.

“You didn’t have to do this, ladies,” he whispered.

“The sewing kit is from me,” Karen continued. “It’s a beginner’s kit, but it has fabric scissors, a seam ripper, bobbins for your thread and different kinds of needles.”

Steve sat down and pulled it onto his lap. He opened it and as he lifted the lid, the top tray pulled back revealing the tray beneath. “Thank you.”

“The sewing machine,” Claudia said proudly, “is the first one I ever owned. When I got married I got a new one and I’ve been using that ever since. But this ol’ girl has a lot of love and life left in her, and I want you to have her.”

Steve looked up at her, tears forming in his eyes. “Aren’t you worried that I’ll break it? Or that my parents will find it and destroy it?”

Claudia knelt in front of him. “It’s gonna be kept at my house until you get a place of your own. You’re there all the time to see Dusty anyway, no one is going to notice that you’re there to sew now, too.”

“Plus,” Joyce said with a grin. “It’s a Singer. They’re a little hard to break. They’re one of the best machines and it will probably outlast your children. So don’t worry about it, okay?”

Steve nodded, his lip quivering. Claudia kissed his forehead and stood back up.

“The patterns are from me,” Joyce said. “Whenever I would have a little extra money I would pick up a pattern or two at the drug store and bring it home. I picked a handful that I thought you’d like since you’re primarily making costumes. And if those work for you, next week I’ll bring another handful you might like.”

Tears started flowing down his cheeks. “Thank you. All of you. This is best gift I’ve ever gotten.”

“Oh honey,” Joyce said softly and suddenly Steve was being hugged on all sides by the moms.

They stayed like that until there was a knock on the door.

“That must be Olive,” Claudia said with a sigh. “I bet she brought those brownies that are totally store bought even though she insists it her grandmother’s recipe.”

Steve snickered. “My mom used to do that. I don’t think she fooled anyone either.”

Joyce grinned over her shoulder as she went to go answer the door. “Olive, dear! We were just getting started.”

“Oh?” the bright voice on the other side of the door cooed. “You’re usually in the full swing of things by now.”

Steve bristled. That meant she knew she was late and was doing it intentionally. He hated people like that. Acting like the rest of them were peasants meant to be waiting on her.

“Steve was just showing us the costumes he made for the kids for the Fair over the weekend,” Karen said sweetly as Steve hurried to get the things he brought to show off out.

Olive stepped into the house with a sneer. “I think it’s so sweet you’re indulging the boy, but I doubt he can hold a candle to Claudia’s years of experience.”

Wow, Steve thought. Not only did she insult him, but she insinuated Claudia was old. What was with this old bag?

Claudia smirked. “It’s true that I’ve been doing it for longer, but Steve has a real talent for it. Come see.”

Olive walked into the front room and Steve was struck by how much she reminded him of his mother. She had perfectly curled hair with not a single strand out of place. Her clothes were fitted and showed off her figure. Her makeup was flawless.

In short, Steve hated her on sight.

Joyce handed her the shirt he had made for underneath his tunic. It was flawless but understated.

Olive took the shirt and scoffed. “You couldn’t have done this, Harrington, you shouldn’t lie to your betters.”

Steve was already seeing red. “I guess I’ll just have to prove it to you then.”

Joyce clapped her hands together. “All right, let’s get started. Steve, you can eat as much as you want, but just make sure to keep it away from other people’s projects.”

Steve smiled at her sweetly. “Of course!”

He knew that what she was really saying was that Olive Peterson might try something.

He sat in the armchair away from her and she glared at him.

“Is it all right if I work on my project first before you teach me how to use the sewing machine?” he asked just as she was taking a drink of punch.

Olive was forced to turn away and cough into her hand to avoid spraying everyone with the lemonade that Claudia had made.

Karen’s smile was feral. “I don’t see why that would be a problem, right, Claudia?”

“Of course not, Steve,” she replied warmly. “Just let me know when you want to learn and I’ll come over and help you.”

Steve nodded. He pulled out the materials that Eddie suggested he bring and got to work.

Eddie really liked that Steve’s bags had a lining because it protected the dice better, so Steve had brought along some materials he could use for that as well.

About halfway through his first bag, Joyce called out.

“Steve? What’s that pattern you’re putting on the bag?”

Steve’s eyes lit up. “It’s my signature! I embroider it on everything I do to make sure people can’t pass it off as their own.” He handed the bag over to her.

“Oh!” she cried in excitement. “This is the design you put on Will and El’s costumes when you did their alterations, right?”

Steve nodded. “I hope you don’t mind. I know you made the clothes, but I thought it was a cute way to tie the two together like they were twins.”

“It was perfect,” Joyce said. “El still hasn’t stopped talking about how pretty your design made the dress.”

Steve blushed as he took the pouch back from her.

“I was talking to someone at the Renaissance Fair,” he said shyly, “and she wanted me make them clothes and things that she would sell for me. She even told me to make business cards in case someone wanted to commission me directly.”

“Oh Steve!” Karen cried. “That’s wonderful!” She clapped her hands together and tilted her head. “I have to admit I’m a little jealous. That pattern is beautiful. I would love a handkerchief with that on it.”

Steve straightened up. “Yeah?”

Karen nodded.

“What color would you like?” he asked excitedly.

Karen tried to protest but he wouldn’t let her. In fact he managed to convince all but Olive to let him make them one for them.

It did, unfortunately take him to the end of the two hours, but he was excited to come next week.

“I’ll even host it at my place!” he said with a grin.

Olive sputtered. “Well I won’t be there if it’s at this young man’s house. That’s so inappropriate.”

The three other ladies looked at each other and then shrugged.

“Your loss,” Karen said dryly.

Olive stormed out of the house vowing that as long as Steve was part of the group she would never come back.

“Well that is a relief,” Joyce said, “I’m not the kind to speak ill of anyone, but we really got quite the upgrade!”

Karen clapped her hands. “Indeed. I can’t wait for next week. I’ve got a new project I’m starting and I found the best recipe for a chocolate mousse that I’ve been dying to try out.”

“Same time next week, ladies?” Steve asked.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Claudia agreed.

Then there came a loud honk.

Steve looked out the window and smiled. “Looks like my ride is here.”

He gather up his stuff, including the patterns and sewing kit and walked out to Eddie’s van.

He slid into the front seat.

“You have fun today, sweetheart?” Eddie asked, pulling out of the driveway.

“Yeah,” Steve said looking fondly at the house. “This has been the best weekend ever.”

Eddie grinned. “Well, it’s about to get even better, just wait to you see what I have planned for us today.”

Steve smiled as Eddie regaled him with his plans and nodded along.

Life was really looking up. He had a platonic soulmate, good friends, an amazing boyfriend, a hobby he enjoyed and could make real money from, and now a group of people to share that hobby with each week.

And to think it all started with a flier about the Renaissance Fair coming back to Hawkins.

“I can’t wait,” he breathed once Eddie was done.

Eddie smiled that sweet smile at always turned Steve’s insides to mush.

Yeah, Steve could honestly say that he was happy.

****

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