his breath curls hot, fingers desperate to lodge into your soft hair. his nails skitter across your scalp, grabbing and bunching till your silky strands knot around every finger, melding around his thick digits.
“sit, mama, sit the fuck down,” he gasps, yanking at your hair till you lose your balance, till your pretty pussy hits his mouth in a suffocating, addicting weight, ass rippling in the strong hit. and he can’t help the greedy groan that drools against your pussy, tongue sloppy over you. with a cocky grin that melts against you, he mumbles, “please.”
your head rolls, throat arching in a heavy moan, arms reaching back to grab at his hands still threaded in your hair. and your hips roll, soft thighs squeezing at his pretty face till his eyes roll, till his poor cheeks bunch between the plushie fat that squeezes at them.
and then you bounce, bounce your sweet pussy over his mouth, shuddering when the tip of his narrow nose hits against your swollen little clit. jesus fuck, simon’s groaning, mouth open awaiting, and he cocks his chin up just to curl his tongue up in the air.
every time you bounce, every time you slide yourself back, his tongue dips into you, slips over your clit. his hands grab at your ass impatiently, fingers dimpling into the hot, doughy fat as he sits your puffy pussy against your mouth needily. and it’s heavy, no room for movement, holding you tight.
you can feel the way his head tilts, the way he suffocates himself beneath you, moaning and drooling like he couldn’t be anywhere better. and as simon’s eyes roll back, yeah, yeah he really couldn’t.
model!reader getting ate out to heaven and back ten times over by photographer!simon so your body flushes and your eyes go glassy in juuuust the way she likes for the stills she's trying to take. . .& she gets a little flustered seeing you, your gaze dark from under your lashes as you stare into the lens of her camera like you're looking right through it and into her eyes. . .yuuummm. . .
if you’re a lesbian then why do you read content with men… especially when you said you wouldn’t write anything with men… not meant to be malicious btw i’m genuinely curious as to how you operate
you guys are so quick to the chase, it’s a little amusing! as for your question, i think it’s a little silly when you really think about it. what, a dyke can’t get a little freaked out about fictional men every now and again? just because i can’t see myself in a relationship with a man doesn’t mean i can’t enjoy content of my favorite characters who happen to be men.
and besides, i’ve been looking through the he/him butch lens since i joined this fandom. . .although i try to avoid that for mutuals like kari. i just like their writing too much to view it with an unintended lens!
thank you for being curious, my baby. i love youu x
♡ྀི. 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒—you find yourself mesmerized of the way your lieutenant cleans his gun, a ritual he performs with an unnerving intimacy.
♡ྀི. 𝐂𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍—adult content, gun play, extreme power imbalance, danger kink, strong language, unprotected sex [use the rubber] praising, slight degradation.
♡ྀི. 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒—i need a military man soo bad, it’s not even funny anymore. preferably simon. anyway i hope you’re enjoying the kinktober fun!
the armory is quiet. it’s a rare state, usually filled with the loud clatter of gear and the boisterous shouts of soldiers. but now, late into the night, it’s just you and him. and the silence is heavier than any noise.
simon is sitting on a wooden crate, his mask on, as always. he’s field-stripped his pistol on a worn cloth, cleaning each component with a slow, methodical precision. it’s a ritual you’ve seen him perform a dozen times, but tonight, it feels different. more intimate. the way his gloved fingers handle each piece of deadly metal is almost reverent.
you’re leaning against a weapon rack, arms crossed, just watching. you should be in your bunk, sleeping. but you couldn’t. you were drawn here, to him.
he doesn’t look up, but you know he feels your eyes on him. “somethin’ you need?” he asks, his voice a low rumble that seems to vibrate through the concrete floor.
“no,” you say, your voice softer than you intended. “just… watching.”
he pauses his work, his hands stilling over the slide of his pistol. he looks up then, and the dark voids of his mask seem to pin you in place. he looks at you, then down at the gun parts laid out before him, then back at you. a long, eerie silence stretches between you. you see a thought flicker behind his eyes, a dark, dangerous idea taking root.
he begins to reassemble the pistol, the clicks of the metal components slotting together sounding unnaturally loud in the silence. when he’s done, he racks the slide with a sharp, definitive shk-shk, then slides in a new magazine and showing you it’s loaded. he engages the safety with an audible click.
“safety’s on, sweetheart,” he says, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. he stands up, the pistol held loosely in his hand. “wouldn’t want an accident.”
he walks towards you, and you find yourself unable to move, your back pressed against the cold steel of the gun rack. he stops right in front of you, his large frame blocking out the rest of the room. he’s so close you can smell the faint, sharp scent of gun oil and the clean, masculine scent that is uniquely his.
“like my weapon so much?” he murmurs, his face close to yours. “wanna get a closer look?”
before you can answer, he reaches out with his free hand and grabs the hem of your shirt, pulling it up and over your head in one swift motion. you gasp as the cool air of the armory hits your bare skin. he unhooks your bra with one hand, letting it fall to the floor.
his eyes, hidden behind the mask, rake over your exposed chest. he doesn’t touch you. not with his hands.
he lifts the gun. you flinch as the cold, hard steel of the barrel presses against your sternum. he slowly drags it downwards, the metal leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. he circles one of your nipples with the muzzle, and you let out a shaky breath, your nipple puckering instantly at the cold, strange touch.
“pretty,” he growls. “look at you. takin’ it so well.”
he moves lower, pressing the barrel against the waistband of your jeans. “get ‘em off.”
it’s a command, not a request. your fingers are clumsy, trembling as you fumble with the button and zipper. he drops to one knee, bringing himself level with your hips. the position is one of worship, but the look in his eyes is pure predator.
“spread y’legs f’me,” he orders.
you obey, your legs shaking. he brings the pistol between your thighs. he uses the tip of the barrel to part your folds, the cold, precise point nudging you open. he presses it against your clit, and you cry out, a sharp, shocked sound. the combination of cold metal and intense pressure is a sensory overload.
“shhh,” he soothes, though his voice holds no real comfort. “just gettin’ y’ready.”
the grip, thick and textured, is pointing at you. it’s meant to fit a man’s hand, solid and unforgiving.
“going to take this for me,” he says, his voice flat, matter-of-fact. “‘n yer going to show me how much y’wanna be mine.”
he pushes the barrel against your entrance, slick with your own arousal. it’s thick, blunt. he pushes, and you gasp at the feeling of being stretched, filled by something so alien, so wrong. he doesn’t stop until the entire barrel is buried inside you, the cold metal pressed against your pubic bone.
you’re impaled on his weapon, filled by the very symbol of his violent world.
“fuck,” he breathes out, looking at the sight. his gloved hand is still wrapped around the the grip, his other thumb coming to resting near your clit. “look at you. taking my gun like a good girl.”
he starts to move his hand, a slow, rocking motion that thrusts the gun deeper inside you. it’s not a natural feeling. it’s a hard, unyielding pressure that’s both painful and exquisitely pleasurable. his thumb starts rubbing your clit, a slow, steady circle that mirrors the movement of the gun.
“thas’ it,” he pants, his rhythm speeding up. “take it. take it all.”
you’re falling apart. the psychological weight of what’s happening, the sheer intensity of the sensations—it’s too much. you’re sobbing, your head thrown back, your hands gripping the gun rack behind you for support.
“come for me, swee’art,” he commands, his voice a rough growl. “show me you’re mine.”
his thumb presses down hard, and the world whites out. your orgasm is a violent, screaming thing, your body convulsing around the cold, hard shape inside you. you feel like you’re being torn apart and put back together all at once.
he holds you steady until the last shudder subsides, then slowly, carefully, pulls the barrel out of you. the feeling of emptiness is immediate and profound.
he stands up, setting it gently on a nearby table. without a word, he unzips his pants. he pushes you back against the rack, lifts one of your legs, and drives into you.
the feeling of his hot, hard cock after the cold metal is a relief so intense it makes you cry out again. he fucks you with messy and with desperation, that feels like he’s branding you from the inside out. he comes quickly, roaring your name into the cavernous space of the armory as he fills you, his seed overriding the cold steel that was there before.
menstruating right now and i’m going to make it simon’s problem.
what’s that you’re always saying? how a period doesn’t stop nothin’ but a sentence? get ready for your tall drink of motor oil to take that personally.
you’re whining higher than usual, practically mewling as she bullies two fingers into your aching, bloody cunt. she shushes you gently when you cry out at the sensation of her fingers curling, the painful squeeze in your lower belly loosening with every slow drag of her hand, in and out and back in again.
the idea of cumming somehow hurts too, moreso than you would have expected, but then she’s sliding out of you and you wail, clamping down hard around her despite the pinpricks of pain it sends buzzing down your spine.
and she has the nerve to laugh, her free hand massaging your lower back as she watches you writhe and twist your fingers into the sheets beside your head like some feral, dying animal. “oh, poor baby. this’s what you wanted, yeah? don’t get all whiny now.”
“hurts, it hurts–” you cry, even though the burn is a balm on your throbbing pussy.
“i know, sweet girl, i know,” she coos, leaning up to kiss the corner of your mouth. “jus’ breathe for me, okay? nice ‘n deep, tha’s it. . .”
with a pitiful whimper, you stutter through an orgasm that, for all you’d been crying and sniffling, comes lazily. it spreads over your nerves like butter, dulling you to the way everything feels so sharp and aware. the edges of your vision soften as you feel her thrusts gentle, your eyes sliding shut.
you can feel yourself drifting off, but two taps to your cheek have you blinking awake blearily. simon’s hovering over you, turning your face this way and that as she examines every inch of your expression.
“. . .y’ still with me, baby?”
you can only drawl out a quiet mhm, but today it seems like that’s enough for her. you’re faintly aware of her pulling out of you, and you glance up just in time to meet her eyes as she brings her blood - soaked fingers to her mouth and licks a long, slow line up each knuckle.
“oh my god.” your face burns as you twist away to the best of your ability, careful to keep your hips over the towel. somehow it’s even more embarrassing because you know that beyond just teasing you, she does things like this purely for her own enjoyment.
simon laughs, amused as she wipes her fingers on the towel and moves to kiss your forehead. “be more where that came from later. you just get some rest now, though.”
another mhm is pulled from you as she presses one more kiss to your temple, unconsciousness tugging at your eyelids before she’s even fully gotten off the bed.
Okay more about body-worshiper König cause it's stuck like honey in my brain.
He's unbelievably gentle for such a large man. His hands big enough to engulf most parts of you, no matter your size.
He cups your tits and squeezes ever so gently, almost as if he was afraid you'd break. His fingers toying with your pretty nipples, pulling a gasp from your lips.
"Ach so.. sensitive, ja?"
You can only nod in response, to enthralled with the way he touches you like it's prayer.
He teases you sometimes when you squirm more than normal. That's okay though, he'll sacrifice a hand to pin you down, large hand on your hip to press you into whatever surface he had you on today.
"Ah Schatz, you move too much, hm? Ruhig.. für mich, ja?"
He'd continue without complaint, his free hand now trailing along your body, leaving goosebumps in it's wake. He loved the way you responded, all those sweet sighs and little gasps.
A song meant just for him.
A song no one else would get to hear, not if he had any say.
hey. hey. hey. i have a gift for you ok? butchfemme butcher!simon x lamb!reader with matching “giver” and “takes it like a taker” shirts ok?
(i have another idea but that’s too freaky even for this blog…mayhaps i’ll write the drabble myself and send it to you……)
from your favorite cherry cola girl x
my darling ruby! what a beautiful gift; you know just what i like.
butcher!simon with her forearm bearing down on the back of a trembling neck, keeping lamb!reader's face pressed into the cool rust of the counter. . .and who says the handle of her butcher knife can't double as her cock? you've always liked how innovative she is, and she just didn't have the patience to pull you all the way into her bedroom. . .
ahem. i will be eagerly awaiting, and pondering my own doe!reader musings. i hope to hear from you soon, my baby xx
Just König holding your face, squeezing your cheeks and plants kisses all over
And you're tryna not smack his face because you've got stuff to do but your hubby needs his daily dose of kissing to function throughout the entire day
And the thing you do with your cats where you just plant your face on their fur before giving a huge whiff?
That's him; holding each side of your head, planting his face onto your hair before inhaling— slowly and deeply, trying to make sure he gets a lungful of you.
Then he'd pull back, looking entranced while muttering how he fucking loves you.
You’re in ghosts phone as “DO NOT FUCKING ANSWER” and he’s in yours as “DO NOT CALL EVER” and everyone assumes it’s because you’re messy exes that keep falling back into each other’s toxic orbits but the truth is that like every time you call ghost while he’s deployed you end up crying about how you miss him and it totally breaks his heart and makes him sulk for the rest of the mission because he wants to go home so bad. So every time he’s home you’re like “okay I promise I won’t call anymore” and he’s like “I promise I won’t pick up if you do” but guess who keeps calling and guess who keeps fucking picking up anyways
itty bitty thang for @rubyfrankenstein my love, but. . .butch(er) simon riley. . . 🤤
you're a nice girl. polite, quiet, a little young. . .and definitely too curious for your own good. a soft laugh, although simon's got no clue why in the world you're laughing in a place like her shop, where the counter's tucked aaaaall the way in the back and the only feature you can make out through the cast shadows and the harsh light are two dark eyes, watching as you drift through the selections.
but your curiosity knows no bounds, of course, and so you venture closer. warm and tucked into yourself, you bring with you something like frangipani and goat's milk, watching a little too intently as her arms flex with the effort of hauling down a slab of pork.
simon notices. of course she does. maybe she catches your eye as she slams her cleaver through bone, fingers curled around the handle in a way that makes your mouth go dry. maybe that makes the sharp glint in her eyes catch the fluorescence a little brighter.
one day, you finally pipe up with a question outside of the usual employee-and-customer dialogue.
"you make it look so easy."
simon stills, watching you like a hunter would watch a hare in the brush. you don't budge, your smile sweet and a little disarming. she huffs out what you can almost trick yourself into believing is the tail end of a laugh, crossing those delicious arms as she stares down at you.
"'s not."
you tilt your head, an exhale from laughing. you can be mysterious too, you think. "i know. that's why i like watching you."
she's quiet; then, a full laugh. . .or, as much of a laugh as as a deep sigh can be. "y' got strange tastes, girl."
"and you don't?"
simon turns to face you from where she's begun to lift the knife again, the mean glint of it sending a pinprick of something curling in your lower belly.
"you lookin' t' find out?"
"s– simon, fuck, oh fuc– oh my god–"
and now she's laughing, low and a little mean as she bullies two fingers into your weeping cunt. "yeah? wha's th' matter, baby? begged so nicely for it earlier w' those big eyes, and now y' can't even tell me what y' want?"
you cry out, nails pinching into the cushions of simon's beat-up leather couch as she works her wrist in that way that makes you see stars. the butt of her palm is bumping against your clit with each pass, and god–
"please," you mewl, thighs struggling to clamp around her thick torso. "oh my fucking– mm–"
simon brings her free hand up, patting your cheek with her fingers to get you to open her eyes.
"words, sweet thing."
fuck, you feel like you could sob. "please, please, simon– h– haah– harder, harder, oh my god ohmygod–"
another laugh barks up from simon's throat as she obliges, fucking her fingers into you with reckless abandon. "that it, baby? just listen t' you. . .harder, harder, pleaaaase—god, y'r so fucking whiny."
you hiccup around a moan, your back twitching as it bows up and off the couch. you can barely form words, too overwhelmed by the orgasms she's tugging out of you one by one. her teeth descend on your throat, sinking into your skin like you're a piece of meat she wants a cut of.
"yeah, honey, keep whining f' me. . .won't be able to make a sound when 'm done w' you."
eases into you, one big hand kneading your ass and teeth grazing your shoulder as she groans about how tight and wet you are for her like she can actually feel it. pulls out occasionally to drag the soaked toy over the cleft of your ass, the small of your spine, even with how you whimper for her to get back inside of you—pushes into you and you swear you hear her mutter a prayer under her breath.
she's slow in her thrusts, almost methodical, but the way she's taking her time like she's trying to take mental notes on every reaction has you writhing and begging around her fingers hooked in your mouth for her to fuck you faster. chuckles lowly when she feels your hips pushing futilely against her hands, gripping you until you whine.
"none o' that, babydoll," she croons as she presses deep, going so far into you that you have to let out a high squeal. "y' get this dick when i say you get it, understand?"
she's never been one for dirty talk, but god, the way you clamp around the silicone hard enough to draw her in deeper—she's going to go insane. the way you're moaning isn't helping either, panting and groaning like the night hasn't only just begun.
"yeah, tha's it," she mutters into your shoulder, hand settling on your side and kneading the soft flesh as she begins to pick up the pace. "make that noise again, pretty girl. talk t' me nice 'n i'll give you what y' want."
synopsis: people tend to think paige is in charge. azzi views it differently.
cw: pwp, obsession, control dynamics, intense power play, blurred boundaries, overstimulation, orgasm denial, strap-ons, messy sex, slight gender moments, dirty talk, bdsm dynamics, dom!azzi, sub!paige, humiliation kink, slight co-dependence, azzi being a little evil as one should, paige needing that, a clear case of everyone needing some sort of therapy, mommy kink.
disclaimer: this is part of my dark romance series for october–november. this au explores obsessive, intense, psychologically charged dynamics that are not meant to reflect the healthiest relationships. it’s dark, it’s messy, it’s exactly what it says on the tin. reader discretion is strongly advised.
notes: i have nothing to say for myself. hopefully, you still love me. or at least whatever is wrong with me.
we all know paige runs a tight ship. that’s all that had been said.
the joke had come from kk, thoughtless, and azzi responded with a light smile that appeared to twitch at the edges. the shake was spared attention but would’ve been discovered if one looked closely. paige laughed, full-bodied and radiant, said something stupid that settled harshly in the pit of azzi’s stomach, warmth mutated. her lips pressed together, glossed red, tight with the discomfort, a pout like a cut swelling against salt.
they’re at a restaurant, taking dinner in seclusion, spice and the slick of butter suspended somewhere in the belly of dallas, the earth bloodied with the last efforts of a failing sun. for a moment, azzi let paige handle the performance of socializing—always so easy for her—and turned her gaze outward, restless.
and there she was.
a woman, small in stature, wrapped daintily in a white, eyelet dress that seemed as though it could snag on every edge of the city, all alone at a table for two. she was clearly in wait, one leg jittering underneath the table, and the other crossed primly beneath it. she’d ordered nothing. instead, azzi observed as she reached into her clutch—a dizzying neon green complete with a diamond clasp—and re-emerged with an apple.
azzi watched the bite. it was too much of one, the mouth distending awkwardly around the bulk of the fruit, and azzi could almost hear the teeth crack as juice ran from the pulp of it and threatened to stain her all over. the skin split and shone, body crushed, sugared blood running down, the threat suddenly more aggressive, earnest to fall across all that white fabric.
ungraceful, greedy.
yes, azzi thought, that’s how a woman eats.
as if the thought had traveled, the woman lifted her head. conjured, their eyes caught, a small collision. azzi, eyes as dark as a burial; the stranger’s, startled, flushing, mouth wet and newly embarrassed with a blush the color of berries crushed. azzi took it in, how she was so bright with panic, so pinked with shame.
they both held, absurdly intimate, but then azzi saw the slight waver. she couldn’t resist.
carefully, she lifted a long finger to tap at her own lips. a deliberate instruction. here she was, signalling this woman’s blemish, the bit of apple skewed across her lower lip.
paige hated it when she embarrassed other people. well, it was more that paige hated when she degraded anyone else.
the woman fumbled, dabbing, smearing, and grew frantic with the effort to erase the evidence of her hunger. azzi smiled when she finally succeeded. a stretch so thin, cold, companionable, as if they were girlfriends on a smoke break, watching each other’s backs. then azzi turned, just as easily, laughed high and bright at a joke she hadn’t heard, her attention already gone.
paige was watching her. always watching, that one. within minutes, her phone was turned on, pushed into a flat blue glow. paige, unable to leave it the fuck alone.
you okay?
for a moment, azzi did nothing, said nothing, teeth working at her inner cheek. she stared down at the pink heart next to the end of her girlfriend’s name, radiating. you love whatever is wrong with me, she thought. you live for it. you’d crawl inside of me if i allowed it.
finally, she typed:
yeah, babe. i’m fine!
she looked up, puffed out her cheeks, raised her brows in a cartoonish little face that made paige laugh across the table. safe again. warm again.
azzi gave it to her, that safety. she always did.
her gaze slipped back to the apple. nearly gone. a man had taken the empty chair across from the woman, the fruit stripped down to its core between them.
shame.
contact was the first crisis. azzi had always known this. so, she took it away.
and it pleased her, sometimes, to pretend at anger. anger was another form of intimacy. another way of putting your teeth around someone's throat and never biting down.
it was fun, she had to admit. especially with paige.
they were a perfect match, said by many, but no one had ever truly asked why. azzi agreed. they were perfect, ideal. and the reason was very simple: paige let herself be undone. paige craved the edge. paige was eternally eager to please.
azzi had never been one to defer; she found "people-pleasing" to be an endless stretch of victimhood.
choose, she often chided paige. you already know what you want. paige made her best decisions only when azzi urged her.
so, azzi urged her.
it began with minute disturbances, nothing strong enough to immediately sound an alarm. a good avalanche needed the foundation of a steady build before it buried. things were changing, but quietly. small pushes that furthered paige's stumble in the dark.
okay to ok to k. all of this instead of a sentence. to follow, a delay of three hours, where once her replies came quickly, seamless, too eager. paige noticed—she always did, the girl was near an addict for attention—but azzi noted the refusal to name it. instead, paige called. once, then twice. a third time. azzi let it ring until paige's voice sounded hollow and tinny through the speaker,
hey, baby, it's me, call me back when you can—silence.
the silence was the real play.
paige was used to azzi's mercurial moods, but she wasn't used to absence. she was wired to the rhythm of azzi's at-times overwhelming need, her necessity: the voice notes in the middle of the night, the half-ironic good morning texts, the photos sent from bathrooms, locker rooms, lecture halls. azzi provided contact like oxygen, she spoiled her, and now she retracted it.
azzi thought of her most recent notes:
"when the lungs are deprived of air, the body launches into a cascade of increasingly desperate responses. the lungs themselves are passive structures that are unable to perform well without airflow, but the brain's respiratory center immediately detects the oxygen shortage and carbon dioxide buildup, triggering more forceful breathing attempts and ramping up heart rate to circulate whatever oxygen remains in the bloodstream. […] the brain, being extremely sensitive to oxygen loss, begins malfunctioning within minutes, followed by other organs in order of their oxygen dependence. […] permanent brain damage typically occurs after just 4-6 minutes, making air deprivation one of the fastest ways the body can reach a critical state."
azzi squinted at the memory.
days accrued this way. paige sat with her phone clutched in her hand, fingers curling hesitantly like a body on an oxygen tank. she felt like a relic. her teammates made easy jokes about how often she checked it, her restlessness, how sharp her body was now. she laughed with them, but the muscle of it ached, like she was grinning over broken teeth.
when azzi answered, the tone was different. sentences continually clipped down to their bones, punctuation missing, nothing soft to catch the edge. busy. practice. ttyl.
i love you, was missing. gone. i love you.
love you.
love you, love you, love you.
loveyouloveyouloveyouloveyouloveyouloveoyulove—
paige called during her limited downtime, half-snapped and frantic, the sound of her voice already pitched toward apology.
az, hey. hi, baby. just—just wanted to check in. know you're busy, know—i know—i just… yeah. um, call me when you get a chance, okay?
the messages piled up. azzi listened to them all. she never responded.
instead, one mundane evening, she posted a photo to instagram: her face, made up beyond belief, relentlessly beautiful as she pretended to kiss a '335' sign in black and white. the caption was nothing but a black heart. paige saw it immediately, felt it lodge under her breastbone like shrapnel.
she scrolled through the comments, saw one that said “u really love her, don’t u?”
saw azzi’s, “yeah, i really do.”
the shrapnel loosened.
azzi watched her type and re-type and never send. she smiled, teeth gleaming in the dark. she knew it drove paige insane, the posturing.
and that was the point, really.
the point wasn't the photo. the point was that paige knew. knew it was a performance, understood that it was meant to be seen. understood that it wasn't hers to interpret, only hers to endure.
by the end of the week, paige was brittle with the ache. she tried strategy, soft words, harsher ones, and silence in return. nothing worked. azzi had her in a chokehold of distance, and paige was the one gasping. but she always did like a hand around the throat.
"…just 4-6 minutes, making air deprivation one of the fastest ways the body can reach a critical state."
she dreamed of azzi constantly: her hands, her eyes, azzi's voice withholding. she woke up sweating, the name carved into her teeth.
paige was adrift, frantic, directionless.
azzi, steadied somewhere in connecticut, smiled at her phone and put it face down.
she should probably be concerned with the fact that she was acting this way. there was no explanation, though she'd searched since she was young. she sat, small and still, touching her breasts, thumbing at her sore nipples. her mouth twisted, then she slid a hand down to the small of her back where a small sun of pain was beginning to radiate.
further down went the reach, then she was into herself. her face twisted further as she mapped the flesh, then she pulled her hand back up. in the light, it glistened, damp and bright red.
second day. less agony.
this was not why.
and life went on.
paige should not have driven the whole way up from dallas. that’s what she told herself, over and over, mile marker after mile marker, the drone of the highway pushing into her skull until she could barely hear anything but her own self-recrimination.
she was ridiculous. she was weak. she was her father’s daughter, impulsive, unable to hold a line—his favorite. but then there was azzi, who had been nothing but removed for the past two weeks, who glanced at the shallow pump of paige’s heart in her palm and then punctured it as if it was entertainment, as if she was testing how long it would take to make paige claw at her own throat.
the thing was, paige knew she was being tested. understood this with the kind of animal clarity that came from living too close to someone so unapologetically wrong. it had been years of this by now. and she needed it. so still—she drove.
because azzi was good for her. this was why azzi was good for her. azzi was able to hold a line. she could reach into that soft, open part of paige and force her to the extremes paige was wanted to test. she could hold her down and reveal a truth paige had been unaware of living. just…right there. this whole time.
by the time she pulled up to uconn’s campus, everything felt bleached out: the sky, the dorm facades, even the cheap vinyl shine of her rental car.
she hadn’t even driven her own car.
paige had been avidly rehearsing anger on the way, the fantasy growing a body of its own the further she made it into the drive: how she’d storm in, how she’d take azzi by the wrist and make her listen.
but anger was fragile when carried too far. it collapsed under its own weight, turned into desperation, then apology.
by the time paige turned off the car, the fantasy’s bones had been broken twice over, and she was shaking with the need, with the nature of it. with the knowledge that azzi was above somewhere, counting on her to prove how much this meant to her.
the off-campus apartment was tucked into one of those narrow two-story houses that always smelled faintly of mildew and fryer oil. she didn’t miss this. paige climbed the stairs two or three at a time, heart in her throat, hand balled into a fist before she even knocked. and when she did—when the door creaked open—azzi was already there.
sitting.
waiting.
a black tank, clinging to her shoulders. low-rise panties that framed her hips, emphasized how her ass was a perfect bubble. bare feet tucked under her on the mattress like she was posing for some obscene, accidental portrait. she didn’t look startled, not in the slightest. she didn’t even flinch. instead, azzi tilted her chin, studied paige the way someone might study the weather: mild interest, no urgency. a half-finished glass of wine glowed on the nightstand, red so dark it could pass for blood.
“hey, baby,” azzi said. nothing more.
and paige was undone.
because this wasn’t a reunion, it was a staging. the whole apartment was a fucking stage, and azzi was directing it with the elegance of someone who had never doubted her role. paige felt sweat stick at her collar, felt the grime of the drive still under her fingernails, and azzi looked as though she’d been waiting for her all night. lounging, unbothered, queen of the ruin.
“azzi,” paige said, sharp, too sharply. she tried again, softer, but it faltered. this strain of tenderness would not take. “you’ve been ignoring me.”
azzi shrugged, a movement so minimal it was almost cruel. “i’ve been busy.”
busy. paige laughed, high and too loud. off. “busy? you couldn’t answer one call? you couldn’t—”
azzi cut her off with a glance. a long, slow rake of her eyes up paige’s body, as if to catalogue the mess of her, and then back down again. paige flushed hot, hated herself for it.
“paige,” azzi said finally, voice languid, stretched thin with the ease of command. “you came all this way.”
that was it. no explanation. never an apology. just the fact of paige’s arrival, laid bare, was proof that azzi had already won.
paige took a step forward, then another, until she was close enough to smell azzi’s perfume: iris, fig, musk, a deep, deadly amber. azzi didn’t move, didn’t yield. that was never an option. she let paige hover at the edge of the bed like a supplicant.
“why are you doing this?” paige asked. it came out far too real, far too small. “why are you—”
azzi smiled, thin and knowing, her gaze hardening. “always asking the wrong question. why do you allow it?”
paige exhaled, trembled with it. her brain felt ill-fitting, unstructured.
“cause—’m—”
azzi leaned back on her hands, palms pressing down into the duvet with a precision that spoke to her own desires, tank riding up just enough to expose a hard, flat brown line of stomach. she stretched her legs out, crossed them at the ankle, the posture of someone who had never been afraid of losing anything.
and paige realized it—thought back. the thing she’d been trying not to understand: we all know paige runs a tight ship.
she realized—what should have been said, what azzi had desired at the time: no. azzi decides. she knows when the silence begins and when it ends.
“you don’t get it,” paige whispers, almost begging. “i can’t—”
“you can,” azzi interrupted, quieter this time, diamond-edged. “you can and you will. you’re such a smart girl, baby. it’s why i love you.”
it’s why i love you. the words dangled, and paige felt a sob rising. it’s why i love you.
azzi leaned forward. “why do you allow it, paige?”
paige felt it form like a lake iced over. “because it feels good.”
there it was. the blood azzi had been after like a shark in the water, a hook in the mouth. and paige, for all her discipline, for all her fury, felt her own trapping and let the reel bring her in.
azzi tapped the space beside her, slowly, tenderly. an invitation, or maybe a command; it was impossible to tell the difference. paige hesitated, but only for a second. then she sat.
the silence was a pressure of its own.
azzi came close, not touching, just near enough for paige to feel the heat. “next time,” she murmured, “maybe i won’t pick up at all.”
paige shut her eyes. she hated her. she needed her.
liar.
she loved her. she wanted her. she would kill for her.
truth.
and azzi knew it. knew it, and used it, and smiled.
paige reached to the side, clutched at azzi’s thigh.
“need you to fucking touch me,” she sobbed.
“oh, baby,” azzi cooed. “all you had to do was ask.”
one of the best things about paige was how pretty she was. and everywhere, too; her pussy was no exception.
she was so fucking pink, body flushing, blood coming running to fortify the heat. her slit was tight, lips slightly swollen with arousal, clit engorged. true to her nature, she could keep nothing in, which meant that azzi could see the glaze of her arousal growing sticky and sweet as she got wet, then wetter. azzi shifted from where she was sitting between paige’s legs, two fingers coming to spread her open. she watched hungrily as paige’s pussy dribbled over them, down her wrist, the whimper that paige released in perfect timing with its clench.
she looked up, took her in. paige was spread-eagled, blonde hair sanctifying her as it pooled underneath her head, tits perfect and full, nipples hard and straining. she was pink there too. azzi’s eyes trailed down to her stomach, where her abs were carved—rigid with the force of her breath—and then lower, back to her cunt.
she knew if she turned paige over, she’d find her as she left her: ass red, palm prints all over the skin, blood at the surface, and paige drooling as she struck her into cumming.
azzi’s fingers didn’t stop. not a second. they simply slid into what was always waiting for her. paige’s pussy was slick, hot, quivering under the patience of her touch, and azzi traced every ridge, every sensitive curve like she was memorizing it all over again. paige gasped, hips jerking, arching into the pressure, eyes rolling back, but azzi held her just there, balanced on the razor’s edge of release.
“you feel so good, baby,” azzi murmured, voice low, velvet-dark, licking over each word like she was softening it, wetting it enough to get paige to swallow. “so fucking good. so wet for me. i love it when you want me. when you need me.”
paige’s breath hitched, hiccupping already, hands clawing at the sheets, heels digging into the mattress as azzi leaned closer, pressing her mouth near paige’s ear.
“you’re dripping for me,” she said. fingers spreading her open again, circling her clit with relentless, exquisite precision. “look at you. my clingy, needy girlfriend. always taking it, no questions asked.”
paige’s head fell back further, hair fanning like pale fire, tears glimmering at the edges of her lashes. she tried to hit back, tried to protest, but it came out as a mewl, a choked, “azzi, please,” and azzi giggled, dark and delighted, knowing exactly how much more she could make her girlfriend take.
she glanced down, clicking the vibrator on, for what must’ve been at least the sixth time. the bullet buzzed against paige’s clit—as pink and bright as the rest of her—whining high and insistent, and azzi leaned over, pressing her mouth to paige’s, tasting her own power, feeling her girl shiver against her lips.
one finger, then two, then teasingly three, stretched paige’s body further, worked to keep her open and gaping, just shy of the edge. over and fucking over, teasing, denying, forcing: the tremble, the hiccup, the harsh sob into azzi’s neck.
“fuck,” paige gasped, voice cleaving in two, nails indenting the thin skin of azzi’s shoulders, dragging, cutting—everything. “fuuuuuuck. please—’m—i can’t, baby, i—”
“shh,” azzi whispered, fingers relentless, thumb brushing impossibly soft against the most hypersensitive point. “you can, baby. you always can. look at you. so tight. so wet. so fucking accepting of me.”
and paige’s body betrayed her entirely, the overstimulation overwhelming her senses, collapsing her into a borderline delirious mess. just like azzi wanted. the edges blurred, the pleasure unbearable, and paige couldn’t think, could never think, only fuck down on azzi’s fingers, on the toy, knowing that this was how it should always be.
“look at you,” azzi murmured, teeth grazing the shell of paige’s ear as she smiled. “you like this, don’t you? you love being stretched like this for me.”
“mmhmm,” paige moaned.
her hips bucked, trying to escape, only to be pressed back down, held, broken further. every flick of azzi’s thumb, every glide of her fingers across the glistening folds of paige’s pussy, brought her closer to the edge.
azzi hummed with faux-sympathy, face dipping so that her tongue could lap languidly at paige’s cunt. paige gasped then, throat constricting. azzi slid a hand up her stomach to clutch at her throat. she pulled back.
“you need a little more, baby?”
“yeah—please, mommy. mmhmm, need more, need—,” paige cut herself off, back bowing as azzi fucked into her again. her legs trembled, thighs quivering, hips lifting involuntarily. “oh, fuckkk, azzi.”
the words were barely that, more of a statement threatening a scream.
azzi paused for a heartbeat, just long enough for paige to catch her breath. or at least think she could. eyes dark and calculating, azzi rose slightly, leaning to the side, hand outstretched for the strap-on on the nightstand. the silicone glistened, cherry red and slick with lube, a harbinger.
paige gazed on deliriously, watching as her girlfriend adjusted it, sliding it snug, feeling the cold buckle press against her hips.
“it’s okay, baby. i got you. it’s your turn, now,” azzi murmured, voice almost rhythmic, nearly maternal, but her tone carried that edge paige had long learned to obey without question.
paige nodded, fumbling slightly as she tried to assist with the harness, a hand slick with her own arousal, the other grasping the edge of the mattress. azzi leaned in, guiding her, then taking over, pressing tenderly along paige’s hips, making sure the straps were cinched securely, aligned.
there it was—no deus ex machina—paige was slotting herself in under azzi’s exacting control. and she, delirious with sensation, thought for a fleeting second that this could actually be her. that this—this fullness, this ridiculous, intense arousal, the way her pussy kept spilling all over, the way azzi’s fingers still refused to leave her—was hers to wield, hers to bear.
she had never felt so powerless, so thoroughly held by someone else.
“good girl, baby. you’re doing so well for me,” azzi assured her.
paige let her head drop, eyes fluttering until azzi tapped her on the cheek with gentle insistence. she looked back at her, found her paused just long enough to make sure paige could see the bulging outline of her cock pressing against her entrance, teasing her anticipation.
fingers lingered on paige’s hips, thumb brushing over the slick folds of her pussy as paige jerked slightly with anticipation.
with rapt attention, paige watched her girlfriend bear down until the head of the dildo began to split her open. she watched as azzi fucking blossomed, pink peeking through full brown lips before fully exposing itself. she watched azzi’s pussy seize as it began to feel the girth of the intrusion, and paige couldn’t help it, couldn’t help the little buck of her hips she did to push it through.
it was worth it regardless because there was that slick ‘pop’ of her fucking winning, of her stuffing the tight pocket of azzi’s cunt until it gave. paige swore to god that she could fucking feel it. she could fucking feel it. she could—
azzi shifted inward, lips brushing paige’s collarbone, teeth grazing her shoulder. her mouth had fallen open, control momentarily relinquished in the face of this pressure. nothing could ever challenge just how full paige made her. her eyes closed, and with it went her memory of the vibrator she still had buzzing against paige’s clit, merciless, cruel, and—
“azzi,” paige rasped, mind unmoored, body uncontrollable. her hands clawed at azzi’s hips, then the sheets, then suck into her own hair, trying to hold herself together, trying to make sense of the fire. the intrusion, the press into azzi’s tight cunt, the band drawing thin in her stomach—it all blurred together, and for a fleeting second, she almost believed it was real.
that it was her dick inside her girlfriend, capable of fucking her into the reality of having a mini-me, a mini-them. the thought made her jerk again, fucking further up into azzi, who squealed in surprise, tits bouncing.
azzi laughed slightly, as intoxicated as she always got when caught on paige’s cock, teeth glinting, and finally moved, pushing herself up over paige’s tip, then down again.
again, paige could fucking feel it. maybe it was just the strength of the overstimulation, but she would swear on anything that it was real. she’d tell anyone right now that she was in that shit.
azzi was gummy around her cock, paige groaned as azzi sank back over the tip. up, then down again, then up. paige bent her head back, mind split into two as she tried to process anything over this push and pull.
but then azzi remembered. remembered what she had been doing before, and it was as though she’d never once stopped, never once faltered, thumb circling, dragging paige closer, denying. fucking denying.
paige started crying, pussy spasming over the drag of azzi’s fingers, over the strap, over herself; she couldn’t tell where she ended and azzi began.
“shhh. such a good girl. and you’re all mine,” azzi whispered. “you feel so fucking good, princess. can you feel it? can you feel yourcock in me? hmm? i know you can. know you’re trying your hardest to fill me up. such a good fucking girl.”
paige couldn’t answer. she was giving up. words dissolved into nothingness, into something hard to reach, tears pricking the edges of her lashes. she felt dizzy, brain dead, suspended in a space where pleasure and obsession intertwined, where her body blurred and her mind whispered, this is mine, this is real, i’m fucking her, i’m in her, she’s letting me in. fuckfuckfuckkkk.
azzi tracked it all, noting her every reaction like a pulse, feeding off it, reveling in it, gorging on her ecstasy. paige arched back, mouth open, hips risen, utterly lost, aware of every glide, every bounce, every deliberate, piece of perfect pain azzi pressed into her.
and in this heat, paige understood a fundamental truth: she was never at risk, could go under completely, because azzi’s need would always mirror her own. they were ideal: mutual, vicious, and absolutely consuming.
azzi shifted, riding earnestly now, tits threatening to smother as she slanted slightly forward, thighs flexing as she fucked herself down. it was about getting off now, using paige as nothing but a life-sized toy. her mouth grazed paige’s shoulder and neck, murmuring hungrily, provoking paige. always finding the wound.
“oh, fuck, paige. you’re so wet, baby, jesus. i can feel you, and i’m not even inside. you’re so fucking good at this, princess, always know what i need.” paige twitched, mouth slack, drool shining at the edges. “you gotta finish it, baby—shit, mmm, fuckk—gonna let go for me, right? gonna give it all up f’me.”
paige moaned, tears brimming, voice ragged: “i—i’m gonna—oh shit, azzi—” her voice went high. “imma make you dirty, az. ’m sorry—i can’t help it. can’t fucking help it.”
azzi’s laugh was weak, throaty, stretched thin with need.
“promise i won’t hold it against you, baby. not for a second. you can make me anything you want. i know it’s hard. i know you’re just that fucking easy for me. a real fucking slut—just—” she found the ability to cup the side of paige’s face, slowing her pace until the grind of her hips was nasty enough to take paige just over the edge. “it’s okay. you’re okay, princess. just let go for me. give mommy what she wants.”
and paige did.
white-hot, spilling, her body convulsing, legs shuddering into a wide spread as she pressed against the mattress, erupting. everything went out. there was nothing but azzi—"cumming on this dick, baby”—and every muscle in paige’s body beating in time, mouth open, brain wiped clean and rewired to take in nothing but raw, unbearable sensation. she felt herself squirt, warm and wild, every nerve singing, mind fractured into a thousand shards of visceral pleasure.
azzi leaned down, mouth covering paige’s, tasting and sucking at her tongue, grounding, whispering:
“mine. all mine. that’s my girl, look at you. shhh, so good, baby. such a pretty leaking pussy.”
paige’s eyes rolled back, breath coming in fast, breaking here and there into wet whimpers. her body finally slumped, limp and utterly spent. almost all of her was red with exertion; she was beautiful. azzi gingerly slipped off the dildo and unbuckled the harness, pulling paige close.
she clung to her, full body wrapping around her, letting paige feel the warmth, the solidity, the love that was seeded through every thought and action.
they stayed like that, bodies crushed together, breath layering, hearts pulsing out a code. azzi brushed damp hair from paige’s face, kissed her temple, murmured soft reassurances:
“you did so well, baby. so perfect. the most perfect girl in the world. you’re safe now, princess. just breathe. take what you need.”
paige curled further into her, coming down, voice nearly gone. “sorry, az. ‘bout the—you know. got it all over you.”
azzi hummed softly, gently drawing a hand over paige’s back, lips tracing her cheek.
“don’t worry about it, baby. i don’t care. i love all of it, all of you. every messy, desperate part of you.”
paige was half-asleep now, only coming back into lucidity when she felt azzi untangle them. she only relaxed when she realized azzi was getting a warm cloth to clean them up. she began to drift off again, hips twisting in slight discomfort as azzi wiped her down.
“grateful for you,” she muttered. “you know how to pull me open.”
azzi gazed at her from underneath her lashes, eyes unfathomably dark.
“and you know how to shut me up.”she looked away, a smile playing at her mouth. “that’s why you’re mine.”
“perfect,” paige slurred out. “perfect f’me.”
azzi settled back at her side, rolling paige until she was shielding her, big spoon over little.
“yeah, baby,” azzi said, almost urgently. “you are. jesus, baby, you’re so fucking perfect.”
you know p runs a tight ship. it’s said again, but by another this time.
and this time—this time, paige glanced at her briefly, before shrugging.
“kinda,” she murmured, voice dipping with humor. “sometimes, we switch.”
azzi didn’t move. she let the silence hold, eyes dark, still, calculating, stretching it taut like a violin string until paige’s thigh tightened. then, the corner of her mouth lifted.
“yeah,” she said finally. “yeah, we do.”
with permission, laughter broke. it was brief, but it cut clean. warm. like a private rite. paige’s eyes caught hers, bright and beautiful and blue, and for the smallest, sharpest instant, it was as if the world hinged on the wire between them, vibrating, electric, and able to hold.
azzi tilted her head, a small motion, almost imperceptible. her voice was low, nearly undetectable.
“‘cause i want you just as much.”
paige’s chest lifted, heartbeat leaping, and the world expanded. azzi resisted the urge to kiss her palm, settled for squeezing it instead.
